Archive of Our Own

It’s a late Thursday evening when Ilya joins him at the kitchen table for the first time in the gathering dark. His Adidas hoodie is a little too big on him, his curls unruly and falling into his face, and there’s a faint rosy tint high on his cheekbones when he settles into the chair across from David. With his long legs out of view and his broad shoulders swallowed by thick cotton, he looks like a boy the same way Shane does when he’s curled up on his parents’ sofa or sneakily eating beef stew straight out of the Dutch oven. 

“Can’t sleep?” David asks, glancing at the clock. Shane is probably on his way back to the hotel now, after having scored a hat-trick against Detroit. He’ll call Ilya once he’s alone, David knows, but that might take a while — he took a bad hit tonight that’ll surely result in an extra hour spent with a physical therapist. 

Ilya shrugs, avoiding David’s eyes. Instead, he gazes down at the jigsaw puzzle laid out on the table. “You do this to relax?” 

“Yes, sometimes. It makes me tired,” David says. “Want to help?” 

Ilya leans in with his arms crossed and his elbows on the wooden tabletop. His eyes flick to the carton to take in the scene — a traffic jam on Venice’s Grand Canal, painted by a local artist —, then back to the pieces. He reaches out to pluck one of them off the table, and connects it to a part David has already built. 

“My father used to drink to relax.” 

David hums, not looking up from the piece between his fingers. As far as he knows, Ilya doesn’t often share memories of his family with anyone other than Shane, and even that’s rare. There is not a lot David knows about Ilya’s family except that his father passed away last year and his mother has been dead for long enough that the years of her absence must have collected like a thick dust in Ilya’s heart.

“What do you do?” David asks. 

“To relax?” Despite the dimmed lighting, Ilya’s eyes are a vibrant blue-green. At David’s nod, he says, “Drink. I am my father’s son.” 

“I can’t imagine that’s all you do,” David says calmly. “You’re also my son’s boyfriend.” 

Ilya’s eyes grow wide. 

“That is not what I meant,” David rushes to clarify, holding up a hand. “I just can’t see Shane letting you drink all the time. He’d get angry.” 

Ilya sorts through the pieces still in the box. “Yes, but he is not around most of the time. I am not a— How do you say? Alcoholic?” At David’s nod, he continues, “I am a professional athlete.”

“Your father wasn’t.” 

“No, he was police,” Ilya says. “But he had a friend, Sergei Vetrov. You know him? Famous Soviet goalie. He introduced me to hockey.” 

David knows of Sergei Vetrov. He also knows of his daughter, who, as Yuna found out after learning of Ilya’s bisexuality, is a close friend of Ilya’s. He’s not proud of the research, of wondering just how close they are to each other, but Ilya being attracted to women as well as men means that there is a possibility he might choose the easier way — the one that won’t jeopardize his career — at some point. 

David can’t help himself. “He has a daughter, right?”

“Yes. Svetlana,” Ilya says, rubbing a hand over his face. “She is my best friend.” 

“Does she live in Moscow?” 

“Boston, mostly, but she goes back to Russia often. She has a boyfriend there.” 

David raises his eyes only to find Ilya already looking at him, and he can tell from the tense line of Ilya’s mouth and his sharpened expression that he’s been caught. 

“I know that I have a reputation,” Ilya says slowly, carefully, “but Shane is special to me. I think of him and my heart—“ He stops himself to wave both of his hands in front him in a gesture that makes no sense at all and total sense at the same time, and the rosy tint on his cheeks deepens into pink. 

“I’m sorry,” David says, watching Ilya’s brows raise at once. “I didn’t mean to insinuate that you weren’t serious about Shane, but… It’d be easier to be with a woman. Shane doesn’t have that option.” 

Ilya stares down at the puzzle. He rolls a piece between his thumb and index finger, running his finger pads over the edges. “But he could decide to be with another man. It is not just you, I think, who would prefer to see him with a nice man from Montreal. More… um, palatable.” 

A sudden pang of guilt jolts through David at the sound of his own words thrown back at him. Ilya is in town to sign the purchase agreement for a multi-million dollar mid-century modern. Next season, he’ll step onto the ice wearing the Centaurs’ colors. He’s upending the life he has built and moving to Ottawa, a decision that will conveniently focus all of Shane’s closest people into his hometown and leave Ilya, once again, alone in a foreign country. 

David leans back in his chair and regards Ilya intently; his clenched jaw, the downturned curve of his mouth and the way his eyes flicker across the assembled parts of the puzzle between them but never up at David. 

Ilya is right, of course; it’d still be scandalous for Shane to come out as gay, especially considering his standing in the league, but people would likely have an easier time accepting his sexuality if he was dating a paediatrician or a personal trainer or anyone else other than the guy he’s been pitted against ever since both of their drafts nearly ten years ago. 

Shane doesn’t divide minds like Ilya does. He’s humble and likeable, scores more goals than anyone else without ever being smug about it — at least not in public —, never lets himself get baited into fights, and keeps his name out of the tabloids. In contrast, Ilya’s just as impressive highlight reel is not only made up of goals, but also taunts and bloody fists and mocking smiles. 

Yet, for all the clamour, noise and circus around Ilya, all the people who adore him or for all the people who find fault with his cocky, tempestuous ways, David thinks that in the eye of the storm things are pretty normal.

“I don’t think I know Shane as well as I thought I did,” David admits, the words coming out slowly. “Well, maybe I do now, or at least I’m beginning to, but I definitely didn’t when I said that. I can’t see him with anyone else now that I’ve seen what he’s like with you.” 

Ilya glances up at him through his lashes, then stares back down at the puzzle. He reaches into the carton and, a short beat later, another piece finds its place where it belongs. 

“You’re very accepting of all this.” 

“Well, we did have our suspicions about Shane,” David says. “There’s only so many times you can steal glances at boys without your parents noticing. Would your parents not have been?” 

Ilya breathes out on a laugh. “My father, no. My mother…” Ilya drifts off, the tips of his fingers pressed to the gold cross pendant suspended from the chain around his neck. “Maybe. I think.” 

“Maybe?” 

“Probably she would’ve wanted something different for me. A wife and children. If my father was also still around in this scenario, he— I wouldn’t have a father any longer. She wouldn’t have fought him on this. My father… He was intimidating,” Ilya says, stumbling over his words a little but giving a one-shouldered shrug like none of this is of any real consequence.

David’s heart clenches. He doesn’t say fathers shouldn’t be intimidating, because he is pretty sure Ilya knows that, and he doesn’t say parents should love their children no matter what, because he hopes Ilya knows that, too. He wants to ask about the things he doesn’t understand — what it’s like growing up in Russia, living through a mother’s suicide and a father’s sickness and a brother’s contempt, burned senseless by other people’s demands, all while making it to the top of a high-performance sport —, but Ilya’s propped his chin up on the heel of his hand and is absentmindedly sorting through the puzzle pieces in the box, so David lets it go. 

“You know,” David says, “I go on hikes a lot, when I don’t feel like puzzling. Sometimes Yuna joins — and Shane, when he’s around — but mostly it’s just me. You’re welcome to tag along anytime.” 

“And be hunted by bears and wolves?” 

“If we’re lucky,” David says. “It could be loons.”  

Ilya snorts. “I am mad Shane told you about that.” 

Right on cue, Ilya’s phone screen lights up with an incoming call. Jane, it says on the display. He glances at David, who smiles at him and raps his knuckles against the table lightly. 

“Well, I’m getting tired,” David says, getting up from his chair. “Thanks for keeping me company tonight, Ilya.” 

Ilya nods, watching David with an unreadable expression on his face, his phone already in his hand and halfway to his ear. 

On his way to the door, David gently squeezes Ilya’s shoulder in passing — the way he would Shane’s — and closes the door behind himself. Before the lock clicks shut, though, Ilya’s voice travels to the hallway, soft and warm. 

“Shane,” he says on an exhale, like Shane’s name has been rising up inside of him all evening and finally burst. He falls silent for a beat, listening, then continues, “I know, it’s fine. I puzzled with your dad. It was almost as boring as sitting by the fire with you.” There is another bout of silence before Ilya huffs a laugh and mumbles words that are too quiet to follow David up the stairs. 

***

For the rest of the season, David and Yuna make sure to not only watch Montreal’s games but also Boston’s. 

Ilya is incredible, of course. His positioning and playmaking aren’t as good as Shane’s and he doesn’t defend as much as Shane does, but his high physicality, raw power, aggressive speed and precise scoring ability more than make up for it. He is an intimidating presence on the ice, especially when he’s effortlessly skating past opposing defensemen with a mocking smile on his face or easily checking someone into the boards while remaining perfectly balanced himself. 

There’s a reason Boston — with their gritty, tough, dominating game style — couldn’t wait to get their hands on him all those years ago. 

“The more I think about it,” Yuna muses one night while they’re watching Boston absolutely humiliate Detroit, “the more sense it makes.” 

David glances at her. “The two of them together?” 

Hundreds of miles away, Ilya scores his third goal of the night and his fifth hat trick of the season. There’s a closeup of him on the TV, all white teeth and glittering eyes, before he disappears under a pile of celebrating teammates.

“Hockey is all Shane has ever cared about,” Yuna continues. David thinks of all the instances Shane has pointed out other players’ weaknesses and rolled his eyes at passes that didn’t connect or clenched his jaw when one of his linemates failed to send the puck into the back of the net instead of just passing to Shane, who would’ve made the goal. Shane, for all of his amiability and professionalism, has always been eaten up by his intense desire to win. “Who else would he respect other than the one guy who can keep up with him?”

David’s attention shifts back to the TV just as the third period ends. Rozanov skates off the ice with one last wink into the camera. 

***

Ilya moves into his new house as March runs into sunny April. It’s beautiful, airy and modern, similar to the one he owned in Boston. He gives Yuna and David a tour of the entire property: tucked in an exclusive pocket of Ottawa, its interiors strike the perfect balance of high-ceilinged luxury and cozy warmth. There’s expensive furniture, a fireplace, a custom kitchen with oak cabinetry and an oversized island that blends seamlessly with the living room and the neatly kept outdoor spaces. 

Shane drives to Ottawa once the movers have left to help Ilya settle in until he has to go back to Montreal five days later. 

The following Tuesday, David watches through the picture window in his living room as a yellow Porsche pulls into his driveway. 

“Didn’t sell all of your sports cars, eh?” David asks, closing the front door behind himself. The gravel scrunches beneath his soles.

Ilya grins, twirling his car keys around his index finger. He’s wearing a pair of black running shorts, a black tee and, thankfully, hiking shoes. His curls are hidden under a cap that he wears backwards. “My contract doesn’t say I have to be boring now that I live in Canada. I sold the Ferrari, though.” He makes a face. “And the Aston Martin.” 

David tilts his head to hide his amusement. “And what sensible everyday car are you buying?” 

“A Mercedes, I think,” Ilya says, already fishing his phone out of his pocket. A beat later, he hands it over to David to show him the car he’s picked out — a black SUV that probably costs at least one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Well, David supposes a less flashy Subaru would look slightly out of place in the garage of the ten million dollar home Ilya bought. The Mercedes has all wheel drive at least. 

David steers them in the direction of the woods. Spring floats through the air, basking the world in tentative sunshine and the scent of blooming flowers. Ilya gazes up at the blue sky, shielding his eyes from the sun with a hand held above his face instead of just turning his cap around. 

“I was surprised you called,” he admits twenty minutes into their hike. The path leads them uphill already, but Ilya — despite the smoking he’s still trying to quit — breathes easily. He is a professional athlete. “Shane said you played tennis on Wednesdays.” 

“Yeah, but my partner Eric is sick, so I had to cancel tennis today.” 

Ilya hums. “You play doubles?” 

“Yes. Used to play singles but my knee’s shot from an old hockey injury. I’m getting old.” 

Ilya snorts, but says nothing. David likes that about him, how comfortable he is with silence. Ordinarily he’d prefer to go hiking on his own, with no one around to talk his ears off while he sits on a log as motionless as the tree it once was, until the birds skip about unconcerned. But Ilya, far away from the ice rinks of the world, is a quiet man. 

“Have you settled in yet?” 

“A little. Is a nice house, I just—” Ilya pauses, giving a one-shouldered shrug. “Shane was just here and now he’s gone.”

David looks at him, at this handsome twenty-six year old boy who’s so in love with his son he moved to a different country just to be a few hours closer to him. Or maybe not just; when you love someone, every minute you can spend together is precious. Waiting weeks just to touch, counting days until you can hide away together in a hotel room, calling each other late at night when you’re supposed to be sleeping because you can’t bear another month of solitude… David gets it. He’s relieved Shane has found someone who loves him this selflessly, because Shane — self-denying, stubborn, always ruthless-with-himself Shane — could’ve very well gone his entire life repressing the part of him that likes men, that, in his opinion, is imperfect and complicated and a problem, and never learned what it’s like to have something to run towards instead of away from it. 

If it weren’t for Ilya, maybe Shane would have never met himself, and so David and Yuna would’ve died someday, never really knowing their own son. 

Ilya’s voice jolts David out of his thoughts. “We made dinners together and swam in the pool and he got me a plant for my kitchen.” He shakes his head, frowning. “I’m probably going to kill it by accident.” 

“Or maybe you won’t,” David says simply, because borrowing grief from the future is never a good idea and Ilya carries so much of it already. “And you’ll play Shane in three weeks, right? You won’t have to wait too long to see him again.”

Ilya glances at him with his lips pressed together and his eyes very green and very blue, and David reaches out to squeeze his shoulder, thinking of something to say to soothe the burn. Ilya beats him to it. 

“When did you know Yuna was the one for you?” 

This David doesn’t have to think about. “May 2nd, 1986.” 

Ilya doesn’t look surprised or derisive; David wonders if it’s because his own answer to that same question about Shane would be just as quick and definitive. Probably; he did correct Shane at the dinner table last summer, when Shane came out to them and introduced Ilya as his boyfriend. Is not true. Summer before. 

“We met at university. A mutual friend set us up,” David says, feeling the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile the way they usually do when he talks about his wife. He loves her now, and he loved her back then, twenty-one years old, witty and sharp and focused in a way that spoke of demanding parents. “I’d noticed her before because she came to a lot of my hockey games, but I was too scared to ask her out. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. Eventually our friend took pity on me and… well, we got married three years later and two years after that, we had Shane.” 

“What was he like?” 

“As a child?” At Ilya’s nod, David continues, “Sweet, mostly. Curious. Very well-behaved until he lost at something — tag, hide-and-seek, board games, hockey. He wasn’t as graceful in defeat as he is now.”

Ilya snorts, dodging a low-hanging branch. “Or he got better at hiding it.” 

“Yeah, probably that,” David agrees. He glances at Ilya, trying to imagine him as a four-year-old. His brain fails to muster up a version of him that’s not six feet tall, broad-shouldered and mouthy. “What were you like?” 

David watches the question drip through Ilya’s nerves. Two hundred more meters, and they’ll reach the log he likes to sit on. He steps over an exposed root and makes sure Ilya does, too. 

“Quiet, I think,” Ilya says finally, his brows furrowed. “I don’t know. Depends on who you ask.” 

They sit down on the log next to the wild pear tree and David watches as Ilya stretches his legs out in front of him. The sun has left a light reddish tint on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose; for some reason, David is surprised to find his skin is that sensitive. His mother must’ve spread sunscreen on his face with gentle fingers, the way Yuna used to whenever Shane went outside. Or maybe Ilya’s mother was too tired, too sad, her eyes filled with too much water to see her son burning up. 

“I’m asking you.” 

Ilya glances at him, just for a second, before his eyes return to the dewy grass at his feet. “I wanted to impress my father and be loved by my mother.” 

This, David’s brain has no problem imagining; a seven year old Ilya walking on eggshells. 

“It must’ve been difficult for you,” David says carefully, “being at home.” 

Ilya stares at something to his right. He’s tense. 

Above them, the sun starts to tip aside, casting shadows, but it’s March and the days have begun to lengthen. They’ll head back home soon, and the sun will still be up by the time they get there.  

“It wasn’t… It was okay,” Ilya says, his vivid blue-green eyes flickering to meet David’s as he sits up a little, gathering himself. “Worse after my mother died, but my father never— he wasn’t violent or anything. He was nice when I was good. And Alexei… my father was hard on him, too.”

“As hard as he was on you?”

“There were different expectations,” Ilya says, squinting against the sun. “My father expected my brother to… I don’t know. Be like him. Get married, have children, make friends with important people. That kind of thing.” A shrug. “I was supposed to play hockey, and make Russia proud. Be better than anyone, so father could brag about me.” 

“That’s a lot to ask of your sons,” David says slowly. Ilya shrugs again; it makes the delicate chain around his neck glisten as it catches the light. “Have you talked to your brother since the funeral?” 

“No,” Ilya snorts. “That’s— No. I don’t want to. I don’t think he wants to talk to me either. He never liked me.” 

David tries to suppress his surprise but he’s sure it shows on his face anyway. “He doesn’t like you?”

“Our mother…” Ilya starts, stops himself. His gaze flickers to David uncertainly, like he’s debating whether or not he should go on, but whatever he finds in David’s face seems to dissolve his hesitation because a short beat later, he stiffly says, “She always spent more time with me. I was… easier. More obedient. I wanted to make my parents proud, but Alexei… he always got into fights with our father. He talked back, even as a child. I never did that.” Ilya waves a hand, shrugging. “I’m the younger brother. I was six years old and getting private hockey lessons from a former KHL player because everyone at the rink said I had so much talent. People always liked the way I looked, even the girls Alexei liked, and I… I liked that. I liked that I was better than him, that our mother preferred me, that it was me our father bragged to his friends about even when he got angry at me behind closed doors, that I could sleep with Alexei’s girlfriend when he started calling me a faggot because she thought I was hot.” 

David stares ahead as, for a long moment, the only noise is the rustle of wind through freshly green leaves.

“I love my mother,” Ilya says quickly, blinking, his face red, “but I think… I think she was too young when she was pregnant with Alexei, and then she saw my father in him, and she didn’t like that. And I think that, near the end, my father saw my mother in me, and—” Ilya rubs a hand over his face. “He didn’t even remember Alexei. He called me all the time, asking where I was, freaking out over the meds he had to take. He never called Alexei. Not once.” 

David nods, studying Ilya, the rise and fall of his chest and the muscle clenched in his jaw. His breathing has picked up, but he keeps his gaze lowered. He looks exhausted. And, David realizes, ashamed. 

“Ilya.” He leans closer, puts his hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “Listen. That is not your fault. None of this is your fault.” 

Ilya huffs a laugh, rubbing at his jaw and turning his head away. “But I’m not—” 

“No, listen to me. It is not your fault,” David says. Without thinking, he lets his hand run across Ilya’s back until he’s got his arm wrapped around him, and tightens his hold. He’s unsure what to say — unsure how much he’s allowed to say about both of Ilya’s parents — but the longer he lets the silence drag on, the more oppressive it becomes. Just… what do you say to a boy who’s been neglected and traumatized by everyone who should’ve protected him? Ilya will never escape his childhood, even if it’s long since passed. He wears his mother’s chain around his neck maybe because it’s all of her that he has left or maybe he wants to feel like she’s around when he’s winning trophies and earning millions of dollars and when he’s with his boyfriend so he can pretend she’s gotten to know Shane and deems him a good match for her son. He is always on time because his military father had instilled punctuality into him. He misses Shane when they’re not together because he hasn’t had anyone to miss in a long time; he’s never had anyone to belong to, maybe ever.

“You would’ve liked me before my mother died.” 

David’s skin buzzes uncomfortably. He presses his fingertips into the muscle of Ilya’s shoulder. “I like you now.” The words come out firm even as his brow wrinkles with all the emotions swirling inside of David. “I like you for Shane, too.” 

And David finds, once again, that he does. He likes Ilya. He likes who he sees when he’s with Shane, and — maybe even more than that — he likes seeing who Shane is now that they’re together. He likes seeing his son free of the constant pressure to perform on the ice or for cameras, and he likes hearing Shane’s joyous laughter and his snide remarks and the softness in his voice when he lowers it to say words only meant for Ilya’s ears. Even if he wishes things could be different, that they could be easier and kinder for men who like other men, David likes knowing that the two of them have fought for each other within themselves, from the very beginning. 

Ilya shoots him a look. “You do?” 

Honestly, David thought that was clear. He’d have kicked Ilya out of his house all those months ago if he didn’t, and he wouldn’t have offered him to stay with them when Ilya went house hunting in Ottawa. Yuna wouldn’t have offered to go over his new house’s purchase contract with him. She wouldn’t have gone out to buy him groceries when he first moved in and had nothing in his fridge. David certainly wouldn’t have invited Ilya to join him on his hike today.

Then again, apart from Shane, most of Ilya’s relationships seemed to have been transactional. Be a good son and I’ll pay attention to you. Send money home to your family like good Russian boys with high salaries do. Do not talk about your feelings because men don’t do that. Score more goals than anyone and I’ll be proud of you. Ilya listened, and even when he didn’t stay in Moscow, he always returned. David tries not to think about what it means that Ilya let his family treat him so poorly; more specifically, he tries not to think about what that means for Ilya’s relationship with Shane, what he’d be willing to let Shane get away with. 

Shane is not anything like that, of course. He was raised with too much care and love, by two parents who had bought three hundred dollars worth of baby clothes the day they found out Yuna was pregnant. David will never forget heading to the garage that same night to start building a crib for which Yuna, two weeks later, had made a mobile with sheep and clouds and stars hanging from it. They hadn’t written a name on Shane’s crib back then, still hoping for a second child sometime in the future, and even if that hadn’t been in the cards for them, they had decided to keep the crib to hand down to Shane some day. They could still do that, David thinks at the same time as he realizes that he doesn’t even know if Shane wants children at all, or if Ilya does. Or someone else, if things don’t work out between them — yet, when David pictures an older Shane, there is only ever Ilya standing by his side. 

“I do,” David confirms. “I really, really do, Ilya.” 

The hike back is quieter, but not uncomfortably so. Ilya talks a little about his new practice schedule now that he’s playing for Ottawa, and his next door neighbors who’ve given him a homemade cake as a housewarming gift that Shane half-jokingly told him not to eat in case they’re secretly Boston fans and put poison in it. 

“It’s the sugar,” Ilya quips, bluish green eyes sparkling with mischief again. “That is the poison Shane is really worried about.” 

An hour later, they’re back at Hollanders’ house. 

David stops Ilya on his way to his car with a gentle hand on his arm. He is a little sunburned. “Listen, Ilya. Our house is always open. I mean it. There are no keys in the doors. Come by whenever you want to.” 

Ilya looks at him for a long moment before he finally nods, gets into his car and drives home. 

***

Ilya drops by a few nights later. He’s lost his first game as Ottawa’s star center, which means he’s in a bad mood, but relaxes when David guides him to the dining room table where this week’s puzzle awaits them. Yuna makes them tea and ruffles Ilya’s curls, then goes to read on the couch. 

The Metros win their game. Shane scores two goals.

***

David drives by the same restaurant every day on his way to work. It’s a small house with such an unassuming facade that, should you walk too quickly, you might miss it. The only reason David spots it at all is the Cyrillic lettering on the awning out front and once he does take notice of it, he can’t stop glancing at it every time he goes past it. 

One Wednesday, when it’s 7 p.m. and he’s still stuck at the office, he calls Ilya. 

“Have you ever been to — ah, shit, I’m going to butcher the pronunciation — Matryoshka? It’s a little Russian restaurant on Elgin.” 

“No,” Ilya says, dragging the word out slightly. 

“Would you like to?” David asks. “The reviews say it’s good. I don’t know how many of them are from people who know what Russian food is supposed to taste like, but I figured it’s worth a try.” 

There’s a bout of silence during which David watches the sweep hand on the clock sitting next to his computer jump from one tiny black line to the next, but then Ilya agrees to meet him at the restaurant in an hour. 

Matryoshka is as small as it looks from the outside, and channels the warmth of the true Eastern European hospitality David has seen portrayed in documentaries. It smells like fragrant beef stew and herbs and garlic. On the bar, there is a set of seven colorful Russian nesting dolls — handmade and well-loved, based on their condition. A short grey-haired woman greets them in heavily accented English. 

“Hello,” David says. “Do you have a table for two?” 

She does. There’s no one else here. 

She leads them to a small table made of mahogany. When they sit, she gazes at Ilya with sharp eyes that flit from his face to the cross pendant attached to the gold chain around his neck. “Russian?” 

“Da,” Ilya says, looking up at her. 

Her face softens. “Marina,” she says, and points at herself. Still in English, she adds, “You want vodka?” 

“Just one. We’re both driving.” 

She nods, hands them the menus, then heads back to the bar. 

“You can speak Russian with her,” David says, opening his menu. He doesn’t know a single dish besides pumpernickel bread, caviar and smoked salmon. “I don’t mind. Do you like lamb cutlets?” 

Ilya drags his eyes away from the beaded curtains and folds his arms on top of the table. “Yes. Do you want an appetizer? I’ll order pelmeni.” 

Marina returns with a tray holding two glasses of vodka and two glasses of something else. “Have some sparkling wine from the Krasnodar region,” she says. “Is very good. Not a lot of alcohol.” 

Ilya responds in Russian, and Marina smiles at him warmly. They’re engrossed in conversation while David sits back and listens. His English grammar has improved so much he rarely makes mistakes anymore, but he still sounds different speaking his mother tongue — there are no uncertain pauses he uses to think of a word, his voice doesn’t go up the way it does whenever he’s unsure he’s making sense, and there’s a melodic flow to the way the words fall from his lips that transforms the Russian David thought he knew into something softer. 

Ilya orders for both of them — way too much judging by Marina’s raised eyebrows — and he’s smiling, telling David about the blinis his grandmother used to make him as a child, and laughing when David grimaces at the mention of a traditional salad called Herring Under A Fur Coat. 

“My mother liked it,” Ilya says. “It’s better than its name. You’ll see.” 

“You ordered it?” 

Ilya gives him a lopsided grin. “Yes! We’re in a Russian restaurant. I could’ve made it for you but it probably wouldn’t look as pretty. But in the summer, when Shane’s here, I’ll grill shashlik for you.” 

The food is incredible. Rich, hearty, and not nearly as fancy as any of the dishes served by the restaurants David usually frequents. It feels like he’s in on a secret, especially when he sees the relaxed line of Ilya’s shoulders and how genuinely excited he gets over the food.

Despite David’s protesting, Ilya insists on paying for dinner and leaves Marina a more than generous tip. 

On their way out, they stop at the bar; Marina beams when Ilya compliments her cooking and tells her he’ll be back, and touches his arm with as much fondness as you would a favorite grandson.  

“I have a niece,” she says with a meaningful glance down at his hand. More specifically, his ring finger. “Natalya. Very pretty. Almost a lawyer.” 

Ilya laughs, leaning against the bar. “You’d trust me with your niece?” 

Marina’s smile widens. “Good Russian boy like you?” She points at his chest, where the cross pendant glints against the backdrop of his dark blue long sleeve, then waves the receipt on which Ilya’d written the tip amount. 

“Ah,” Ilya says, tilting his head coyly. “Unfortunately, someone else has already seen me for the catch I am, but I am sure Natalya isn’t hard up for admirers.” 

Marina looks appropriately disappointed even as she reaches out to squeeze Ilya’s arm. She says something in Russian that makes Ilya grin from ear to ear, and adds, in English, “You’re still welcome here anytime, Дорогой мой.” 

***

True to his word, Ilya grills shashlik for all of them in May, when he and Shane have a few days off and decide to spend them at Shane’s cottage. The meat is tender and well-seasoned, and the onions and bell peppers also on the skewers are fresh and just crisp enough. He’s made both sauerkraut salad and garlic butter potatoes to go with it. 

Neither Shane nor Ilya are big on public displays of affection — probably because they’re so unused to them being allowed —, so Shane blushes a little when he reaches for Ilya’s hand on the table but still continues to hold it until Yuna eventually decides it’s time to put an end to the peaceful dinner by suggesting they play cards. Ilya cheats, mostly just to annoy Shane if his sparkling eyes and the lopsided grin flashing across his face every time Shane curses at him are anything to go by, but Yuna beats them all anyway.

Close to midnight, Ilya goes to retrieve a new bottle of wine from the kitchen when he notices Yuna’s empty glass, and Shane almost immediately follows after him with a quick glance at his parents. They’re back at the table within two minutes, but Shane’s flushed and Ilya’s smiling wider than he has in weeks. 

“Thank you, honey,” Yuna says when Ilya fills her glass. 

She and David leave an hour later. Before they’re out of the door, Yuna pulls both Shane and Ilya into her arms, kisses their cheeks, and says, “Sleep well. I love you.” 

***

“Dad,” Shane’s voice is tinny over the phone. “My veal is dry.”  

David blinks. “Your what?”

“My veal,” Shane says flatly. “I’m cooking. Trying to, anyway.” Then, there’s a sharp hiss. “Fuck, ouch.” 

David had no idea veal was part of Shane’s meticulous diet. It is lean meat, though. “You’re making veal for yourself?” 

“Well, kind of. Ilya’s coming over tonight and I wanted to surprise him with dinner.” 

Right. They have a game against each other tomorrow; Ilya mentioned driving over to Montreal a day earlier than the rest of his team to get more time with Shane. 

“He’s been cooking for me, so I want to return the favor, I guess,” Shane says. “And he’s good at it.” His voice takes on an edge. He might as well have added, So I need to be better. Leave it to his son to get competitive over food. 

“Cooking is meant to be fun,” David admonishes gently. It’s what the Italian chef on YouTube says in every single cooking video David watches of his. “If the veal is dry there’s not much you can do about it. Chop it up and use it in a stir-fry.” 

Shane groans. 

“What? You like stir-fries.” 

“Yeah, but I had a different plan. I wanted to try this Russian dish so he’d… I don’t know. He hasn’t been in Russia in a year. He never said he missed it, but… It is his home country. So, uh, yeah.” 

David smiles. He leans against the doorframe and puts his phone on speaker. If he remembers correctly, there was this dish on Matryoshka’s menu… A quick Google search later, he sends Shane the recipe for lamb plov. It’s not veal, but it might work. 

Later that night, Shane texts him three yellow heart emojis. 

***

The frame should’ve been the first clue — a dark red 97 inch Wilson racquet from a few years ago. There’s orange sand between the graphite and the grommets, and scratches on the bumper. 

David is a solid tennis player with four decades of practice under his belt, but he is sixty, and the many years he spent on hard, unforgiving ice have caught up with his body. But Ilya is less than half his age, competitive to a fault and, if his flawless technique is anything to go by, not a novice. 

They win 6-2, 6-1. 

After, when they’ve changed and thrown their tennis bags into the trunk of Ilya’s new Mercedes, David turns to him with raised eyebrows. 

Ilya grins as, behind him, the tailgate closes automatically. “Tennis is big in Russia.”

“So is ballet. Can you do that, too?” David asks, following Ilya to the front of the car. When he gets in, the black leather seats are cool against his back. 

“My mother used to play,” Ilya explains, “so I took lessons until hockey became too time-consuming. I still play every now and then. Or, well, I did, back in Moscow.”

He starts the car and pulls out of the private tennis court’s parking lot, leaving behind tall birches and meticulously planted rhododendrons. 

“Is she who you got your athleticism from?” David asks. 

Ilya shrugs and merges into traffic. When he answers, he makes a face like the words he’s saying taste rotten in his mouth, “My father was really good at boxing, but better at cozying up to politicians. There was nothing he liked more than power.” 

Dementia is awful no matter who it affects, but David imagines it must be jarring watching a father, who has always been an intimidatingly authoritarian presence, succumb to an illness that rendered him helpless and weak. He looks at Ilya, at the sharp contours of his blank face and the chain around his neck and his controlled breathing, and wonders, once again, what parts of his family still linger. Dead parents and a broken relationship with a sibling that should’ve been longer than any other connection in his life, but here Ilya was, in yet another foreign country to be closer to his secret boyfriend. 

David exhales. 

***

On Christmas, Shane and Ilya have a fight. They arrive at David and Yuna’s house in pissy moods, which ebb and flow as the evening progresses. Shane freaks out about it on the phone with Yuna days later, after Ilya cut his visit short by kicking him out of his house. 

Yuna stares down at her phone for several minutes after they’ve hung up. 

“Everything okay again?” David asks, walking into the kitchen and filling two cups with fresh peppermint tea. 

“Shane is worried Ilya will break up with him,” Yuna says. She smiles when David passes her one of the cups, her hands wrapping around it on the table.

David frowns. He’s lost count of the amount of times he and Yuna got into arguments over the course of the past thirty years — difficult in-laws, an incessantly crying baby that robbed them both of sleep for months, financial decisions that were harder to make when they weren’t just two twenty-somethings but new parents who needed to be smart and responsible, a car David loved and Yuna hated because it was too small to fit both a baby seat and a stroller inside, dealing with a pubescent teenager who’d just broken up with his first girlfriend and made Yuna angry at being a little too flippant about the whole thing… The list is endless, yet David still looks to the family portrait sitting on his work desk any time he’s stressed, touches his wedding band whenever one of them drives off in their car, and calls Yuna any time he’s making an important choice. 

But this is Shane’s first real relationship, with someone he actually loves; someone he’s scared to lose. 

“What makes him think that?” 

Yuna waves a hand. “Ilya’s here, alone, playing for a team that hasn’t made the playoffs in ten years when he’s won the Stanley Cup with Boston. Shane’s worried he was selfish.” She pauses to take a sip of the tea, and David reaches out to gently brush his thumb over the little wrinkle between her eyebrows when she puts her cup back down. “I don’t think they’re communicating well.” 

“Probably not,” David agrees, frowning. “But Ilya likes it here, right? He said that.” 

Yuna nods. “Yes, well. The constant losing must be weighing on him, but he likes his team, and it’s not like they lack potential. It’s just… they’re in the middle of a rebuild. Ilya’s new to the team, and they’re still figuring out who to put on a line with him. Not Dillon, that’s for sure,” she snorts. “Anyway, I’m just saying, it’s a big change for everyone.” 

“They’ll figure it out.” 

“Yes,” she says firmly. “They will.” 

***

Ilya’s house, when David comes over one day, feels different. Quieter, but lacking any of its usual tranquility.

The kitchen is pristine in a way that suggests it hasn’t been used at all since the cleaner’s last visit — the only thing out of place is a bottle of expensive imported vodka that’s left on the kitchen island, half-empty. David stares at it for a few long beats before he makes his way further into the house, his skin prickling. 

Ilya’s words echo in his mind: I’m my father’s son.

It’s half past four in the afternoon and most of the blinds are drawn. The TV is off, but Ilya is sprawled out on his living room couch with his eyes closed and his arms crossed over his chest. His skin, usually golden, is pallid and dehydrated. On the coffee table, David spots a pack of cigarettes.

“Ilya,” David says hastily, taking two long strides toward the couch. His heartbeat quickens. With clammy hands, he reaches out and—

Ilya’s chest falls even as his eyes remain shut. So he is awake; David doesn’t know if that’s a relief or ground for more concern. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, and sits on the edge of the cushion; not touching but close. “You okay, son?”

“Yeah,” Ilya mumbles. “Tired.”

A horrible thought crosses David’s mind: is Ilya on drugs? Is that why he won’t look at David? Does he have pinprick pupils and doesn’t want David to see? Has Ilya ever done drugs? David hasn’t been around for most of Shane’s adult life, but he knows Shane would never. Ilya, on the other hand… He’s pretty sure there were lines of coke in the background of several of the photos that tabloids had published over the years — Ilya with a top model on his arm, a drink in his hand, an arm wrapped around an obviously hammered teammate, a hand shielding his face on his way out of a luxury nightclub. 

Then again, professional athletes are tested regularly. It’d be stupid to risk his career like this, especially considering how hard he’s been working to keep it safe. It’s not only being in a gay relationship that could cost him his visa, after all. 

Dull eyes stare up at David for a beat, then flicker around the living room. Ilya sits up suddenly, and runs a hand over his tousled hair.

“I have a day off,” Ilya explains.

“I know,” David says slowly. “That’s why I’m here.” 

Ilya cuts his gaze to David. “Why? Did Shane—”

“No, I haven’t heard from him for a few days. Are you sure you’re all right?” 

“Yeah.” 

It’s not very convincing, but David isn’t going to argue; it doesn’t look like Ilya has the energy for it anyway. Instead, David gives a single slow nod, gets up from the couch, and grabs the remote to open the blinds. He walks into the kitchen and looks for anything edible. There’s protein powder, bell peppers, potatoes, eggs, yoghurt, steak and some butterhead lettuce, so David gets started on the salad by cutting up some vegetables and searing the steak. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Ilya hovering by the kitchen island. His cheeks are blotchy. 

“You can boil the eggs,” David suggests.

Ilya doesn’t respond, but he opens the drawer that holds all of his pots, and produces one of the smaller ones out of it. Then, there’s the spray of water and, after that, Ilya placing the pot on the stove.

“It’s sunny,” David remarks. Ilya’s skin could use some vitamin D. “Want to have lunch on the patio?” 

“Okay.” 

David nods, reaching out to squeeze Ilya’s shoulder absentmindedly. “Good. I’ll finish up here. You go grab some water, son.” 

Ilya doesn’t leave. For a long moment, he doesn’t seem move at all, until he eventually turns on his heel and heads out into the backyard.

Eight minutes later, David joins him. He slides one of the two salad bowls across the table and glances at Ilya as he sits on one of the chairs, the large, empty several-million dollar home at his back.

Ilya stares down at the salad — lean meat, boiled eggs, fresh vegetables, acidic dressing. Lots of protein and vitamins. 

“Shane won yesterday,” Ilya says out of the blue. 

“You’ve talked to him?” 

Ilya shakes his head. “Called him, but he was busy.” 

David looks at him as he reaches for the bottle of water he’d brought outside, and unscrews the cap. He sets it down in front of Ilya, and leans forward a little. “Shane had a few girlfriends growing up.” 

Ilya pauses with his hand mid-air, but quickly recovers and brings the bottle up to his mouth. 

“Not many. Just… I think two. Two he told us about, at least,” David says. “I don’t remember when we first thought he might be gay, but back then, we had no idea, so we figured this must be what he’s like when he’s in love. I mean, Shane was never really much of a talker, but he’s not shy, right? But around girls, he was. Just… quieter, and unsure of himself.” 

Ilya frowns. David knows none of this description matches what Shane is like with Ilya around, even with his parents present as well. Shane chirps and laughs and blushes and teases and, sometimes, when he’s in an especially good mood, kisses Ilya on the mouth. 

“Now we know why that might’ve been, of course. I don’t know how Shane felt to bring someone home and pretend to be in love because it’s just what’s expected when you introduce a girl to your parents, but I imagine it must’ve been… difficult. He’s always been so conscious of the way he’s perceived, but not normally at home, around us. Ever since,” David waves his hand in Ilya’s direction, “Yuna and I have really been struggling with… everything. Not you, and not you and him. Just… the fact that we’ve allowed to let our house turn into a place where Shane felt like he needed to play a part, you know? Where he couldn’t be truly himself.”

Ilya bites the inside of his cheek, hard. He blinks, looks away, then looks back. 

“But you— Ilya, he’s so different around you. So… free. The way he used to be when he was younger and didn’t have all that pressure weighing down on him, but he’s also… different. Or, well, I guess now we just get to see a side of him that we haven’t seen before, and seeing Shane be in love… I’m glad that he gets to play hockey for a living, because I know he loves it, and it’s nice to get to be proud of your child, you know? But more than that, I’m glad that he’s found you and proud of him for fighting for it. I won’t pretend to know what it’s like for the two of you, but I know you’re going to find a way to make it work.” 

Ilya doesn’t say anything. Just swallows, nods, and shovels a piece of steak into his mouth. His throat works even though he’s still chewing. Then, suddenly, he lifts his hands and drops his face into his palms.  

Not just his father’s son, but also his mother’s. 

***

“I’m seeing a therapist,” Ilya tells David a few weeks later during a hike. Ilya joins him on those whenever he can now, and he always brings Anya, the dog he adopted. David can’t for the life of him remember why he’d ever preferred going on hikes on his own.  

He wraps an arm around Ilya’s shoulders and squeezes.

***

That spring, a few days after the plane incident, Shane and Ilya drop by Yuna and David’s house when they’re out walking Anya, and Yuna’s eyes immediately snag on Ilya’s necklace. 

“Oh, yeah,” Shane says when he notices, a self-satisfied grin on his face, “Ilya and I are getting married in July.” 

Yuna laughs. There are tears in her eyes when she pulls him in. “Oh! My God. Shane. Oh, wow. Come here.” 

David drags his gaze away from the soft look on Shane’s face as he’s being embraced and turns to Ilya, who’s smiling at… well, his fiancé and future mother-in-law. He seems to notice David’s attention shifting to him because he flicks his eyes up to meet David’s and straightens, only to immediately relax again when David hugs him. 

“Come on, Ilya,” David snorts, and Ilya’s arm tighten around him. “What did you think I was going to do? We’re way past the shovel talk, aren’t we?” 

Ilya nods into his shoulder. “It’s just… marriage, you know?” 

“Yeah, I know. I’m happy for you both,” David says quietly. “And I’m glad it’s you.” 

Ilya pulls away, and the smile is back even before Yuna can congratulate him. 

David turns to Shane next, and hugs him just as tight. He puts his hand on the back of Shane’s head and holds him close. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too, dad.” Shane sniffs. “Thank you.” 

***

Shane comes home on Friday. He shoots both of his parents a quick smile as he crosses the kitchen, but heads straight into the living room, where Ilya’s lying on the couch texting his teammates.

Immediately upon seeing him, Shane lets himself flop down on Ilya. He pushes his arms under Ilya’s neck, jostling him, and cradles his head. 

“I’m not a pillow, Hollander,” Ilya mumbles, but he cheers up all the same.

“Then get off the couch,” Shane says, snuggling up to him and making a settled little noise of approval when Ilya drops his phone to run his hands up and down Shane’s back. 

“Just say you missed me.” 

“It’s been three weeks,” Shane says. “I can survive without you for three weeks.” 

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t miss me.” 

Shane very clearly fights the urge to roll his eyes, but his mouth twitches. “Okay, now that that’s sorted…” He leans in and tilts his head up, asking for a kiss, and Ilya meets him halfway — two small kisses right on Shane’s waiting lips. 

“I missed you,” Ilya says quietly, and lets himself be held.