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[December 9th, 2017. Boston, MA.]
It was early December in Boston, and while the busy city around him was caught in the rush that always followed Thanksgiving break, Ilya Rozanov sat in his black Maserati Ghibli, still parked in the garage beneath TD Garden.
The Raiders had just won their home game against New York with a solid 3:1, two of which had been Ilya’s goals, and he had had a grand old time riling up Hunter. Ilya chuckled to himself. It was easy to chirp at Hunter, make him scowl with animosity. He shook his head… if only Hunter knew how much he had affected Ilya’s life, how the best thing in Ilya’s existence, being boring Shane Hollanders’ real, official boyfriend, had only happened because Hunter had been brave enough to kiss his partner on live TV after his Stanley Cup win last season. Maybe he would tell Hunter sometime, maybe he should send him a fruit basket or some kind of gift.
Ilya shook his head again, checking the time on his phone. Their game had started at 7:00 pm and lasted just over two and a half hours. After the team’s post-game breakdown, press and a quick shower, it was now nearing midnight.
Most of the other guys had left by now. Although they had won tonight, most were exhausted, and the prospect of a four-day break with their wives and families had called them home. Some of the younger guys had gone out together, even invited Ilya along to go to a new bar in Southie, a place with cocktails.
Ilya had said “thanks, but no thanks,” a turn of phrase he had grown to love and added “got other plans tonight.”
And when two of the baby-faced rookies, one of them already missing an incisor, had wiggled their eyebrows and whistled suggestively, he had pretended to growl and be annoyed, before a small smile had broken though and he had butted their heads together and chased them out of the locker room, laughing loudly.
Now, sitting in his car, in the garage, he heard the Green Line screech to a halt one story below him and finally felt his phone vibrate, the signal he had been waiting for.
From Jane:
Just touched down. Will meet you at the pickup next to the ride share spaces.
Ilya typed quickly.
To Jane:
Can’t wait, see u soon
He started up his car, felt the engine come to life, and backed out of his spot. Making the drive to the airport was a surprisingly quick trip. Even with all the jokes about Boston being an hour away from Boston, it would take him just about ten minutes to get there. Down Causeway Street, past the big public entry of his home arena, and then down Callahan tunnel, straight to the parking garage in front of terminal A.
There, he parked in one of the spots next to the ride share pickups, with a view of the big glass windows that allowed him to watch the people inside come and go, each having their own lives, having planes to catch and Ubers to take. Although the airport was emptying out nearing midnight, Ilya stayed behind the tinted windows of his Maserati, not wanting to draw more attention than necessary. He had already taken the least shrill of his cars. If someone saw him... he shook his head.
Caught up in his own thoughts, Ilya was startled by a knock on his passenger side window and, seeing Shane, quickly unlocked the doors, letting him in.
Shane looked at him with furrowed brows, his mouth drawn into a tight, displeased pout.
“I’m standing in the parking lot like an idiot…” – he left the latter part of the sentence hanging in the air.
Ilya felt suddenly reminded of all the times Shane had come into his hotel rooms with a similar expression, often scowling about the time it took Ilya to let him in, only remedied by quick kisses to his mouth, his nose, his belly button… He looked at Shane fondly and smiled, leaning across the center console to press a kiss to his boyfriend’s lips.
“I missed you, Moja ljubov’”
Shane’s frustration melted away visibly, his features relaxing as he kissed Ilya. Not hurriedly, not hungrily, just as tender as he had when Ilya had first woken up next to him at the cottage, whispering that he liked Shane.
“I missed you, too.” Shane mumbled against Ilya’s lips and closed his eyes. He leaned against Ilya, forehead to forehead and sighed.
“I’m so tired.” Shane pulled back and yawned, leaning back into his seat but still holding Ilya’s hand tightly in his own.
Ilya was about to tease him, chirp at Shane about his loss against Edmonton earlier this evening, maybe tell him that he couldn’t be that tired – he had only scored one goal after all – when he noticed Shane’s closed eyes, and his slow, steady breaths. He shook his head and smiled softly, sure that he probably looked like the biggest, most lovesick fool in the world, and drew Shane’s hand in, pressing a kiss to his pulse as he whispered:
“Let’s go home, baby.”
Painfully aware that he would have to let go of Shane’s hand at some point, to steer, or some overrated bullshit like that, Ilya pulled out of the parking lot, merging quickly onto the Massachusetts Pike section of I-90, and towards Ted Williams tunnel. As Shane slept soundly in his passenger seat, Ilya thought about Boston itself, the way it felt so instinctual to take the tunnel back to his Seaport condo, the way the view of Boston’s skyline felt so much like home… and he would give it all up for Shane. He was already in talks with his own management and the staff in Ottawa – this would be his last season in Boston. Who knew how many more times he would get to admire the view at the Aquarium, or go jogging down the harbor walk… He looked at Shane again. Soft snores leaving his partially open mouth, thanks to his slightly awkward position in the low riding sportscar.
Ilya ran his fingers down the back of Shane’s hand again as he left the Interstate and crossed Congress Street. Finally, the dark water came into view between two buildings, lights from the Boston World Trade Center and the old wharf dancing on the surface. Three more turns and he steered the Maserati into his building’s parking garage. When he and Shane had first started… whatever they were doing back then, Ilya had still lived in a different apartment, closer to TD Garden itself, but as soon as he had heard about the new plans for the Seaport… he had bought his place at 22nd Liberty Drive off of the view alone. He hadn’t told Shane yet, still making his mind up about the particularities, really… but he thought he might keep this place, even after moving to Ottawa. Having to give up his apartment in Moscow was one thing, he wasn’t going to go back there in this lifetime anyways but – Boston had grown on him over the years.
He turned off the car’s engine and closed his door softly, not wanting to wake Shane. Crossing over to the passenger side, Ilya first put on Shane’s backpack, before he carefully tried to lift his boyfriend out of the car. His own bag of sweaty clothes could wait in the trunk until tomorrow, he decided.
He huffed with annoyance, this would certainly be easier with Shane’s boring, stupid, practical Range Rover. Shaking his head again he tried to lift Shane from his seat, his head only narrowly missing the car frame.
“Shane, Moja ljubov’,” Ilya tried “You are making this hard on purpose, yes?”
He laughed as Shane sleepily giggled into Ilya’s chest. Kicking the car door close behind him, Ilya lifted up Shane, now clinging to him, and carried him to the elevator. This would be much easier if his boyfriend wasn’t also a 200-pound-muscle hockey player (He wouldn’t change it for the world though, he thought, and held on tighter).
“I can walk by myself, you know?” Shane said quietly, not attempting to change anything about their position.
Ilya pressed another soft kiss to Shane’s head, “Yes, I know, Moj kotjenok.”
When the elevator finally pinged, Ilya did have to let him go to enter his door code, and Shane leaned against him with most of his body weight. He was tired from his own game earlier that day, from the travel to Boston, and pacified by the quiet and safety provided by his boyfriend.
As they entered Ilya’s condo and closed the door behind them, shutting the world out, a weird semblance of routine came over them, having developed only in the few months that they had been official, still new and fragile. Whereas a few years ago, both of them younger and considerably wilder, Shane would’ve dropped to his knees by now – or Ilya would’ve thrown Shane on the nearest soft surface to rid him of his pants, they now quietly left their shoes by the door. Their jackets were hung up right above (well, Shane’s anyway. Ilya had discarded his on the little bench next to the door, ready to be picked up and worn again later, he would say if asked) and they kissed softly, before making their way to the bathroom.
There, Shane washed away the awful feeling of disgusting airport hands with an organic lemon-goat milk soap he had gifted Ilya a few weeks prior. They both undressed unhurriedly, brushed their teeth – quietly but somehow anchored in their shared comfort, and fell into Ilya’s bed at 00:22, exhausted from the day but happy to be in each other’s presence.
Now, as Shane’s head laid on Ilya’s chest, Ilya finally felt at peace. Looking back, this was what he hadn’t even allowed himself to dream about years ago. Shane Hollander was in his bed. They would wake up together tomorrow. Maybe they would even go out to get breakfast. And he could finally hold him, finally be with him. He sighed contently.
Shane must’ve heard Ilya’s thoughts, or so he figured, as a final and very sleepy “I love you, Ilya,” was mumbled into his chest, followed by a slow, warm peck to his sternum.
“Ya ljubliju tebja, Shane. I love you too.” Then, Ilya fell asleep.