Chapter Text
Svetlana checked her messages for the umpteenth time, her acrylic nails clicking against the glass face. No new message notifications. She opened the pinned thread with Ilyushka, staring at the read receipt from hours ago.
Out of habit, she scrolled up, noticing that for every four text messages she sent she got back a single emoji. Ilya had never been a great communicator (he’s a man, and a hockey player) but he’d never turned down her “I’m coming over to watch the game and fuck” messages. This wasn’t even a rejection, it was total silence.
It wasn’t that Ilya was being cruel to her, but this entire season he'd felt… distant. Hard to reach (literally and figuratively). There were weeks with no contact but when she was in Boston, she expected them fall back into their rhythm. Clubbing, fucking, hockey games, sleepovers (she knew for a fact she was the only one who got to spend the night), maybe a new car. She ignored the nagging thought that it had been months since they’d had sex, she had to go all the way back to American Christmas and he wasn’t himself. He was surly and distracted, much less effort than what she was used to.
She put that down to the grind of the season; her father was a hockey player and a goalie at that. His moods swung between jubilation and suicidal, often in the same week. Sveta grew up watching her mother use her considerable beauty and withering charm to manage her father’s emotions – she knew just how to push and pull him to her advantage.
And it was through her mom’s steely reserve Sveta saw what it took to be a hockey wife. A real hockey wife, not the Millennial social media moms who wore their husbands’ numbers on matching jackets and participated in TikTok dances. That was for the wives of the third liners, the ones who are just happy to be in the building. And it spoke nothing of what being a hockey wife was really like; dealing with constant injuries, pain meds that tipped from useful to necessary, and single motherhood 10 months out of the year. And that was the easy part.
There was the constant, incessant, totally expected infidelity that really crushed most women. The lucky ones were married to husbands who had a modicum of shame and kept a few steady girls in a couple of frequently visited cities. Maybe an ex they kept on the line (if they didn’t marry their middle school sweetheart) or a few influencers on Instagram. Respectable family men.
Then there were the disasters – guys who went clubbing after games, hooked up with any piece of ass who looked their way, had Snapchat accounts and got too obliterated to care. Embarrassing their wives at every stop, from Seattle to Tampa Bay.
To Sveta, these women were not victims. Not at all. They were fools for holding gods to the rules of men. These men could (and did) have an endless buffet of options, at least while they played professionally. It was provincial to want, to expect, their fidelity. It was childish. And Sveta had never been a child, not really.
Every time a young-sounding woman rang the house hysterically crying for Viktor, sputtering and screaming and trying to break her mother’s resolve, Sveta learned about the sacrifices needed to live amongst true greatness. She saw it every time her mother slipped on a new Cartier bracelet or smiled beautifully at the Maybach with the big red bow in the driveway. Her father drifted but he never really floated away from her mother’s anchor.
That’s why Sveta never, ever worried about Ilya. As a child, she saw his greatness, how much better he was than everyone else. Special in a way only she understood. That only she understands now. She knew it when she watched him play at 12, at 14, at 16 when there was talk of him moving to the US (which is when she decided to put her US passport to use). And even though she hated Boston (too small, weird accents, terrible fashion) she knew that being in the same city allowed him to have space in his first few years, but not so much distance he would forget her.
There were moments she seethed, of course. She’s only human. She had to endure bringing in friends to watch his eyes light up, to stand back while he circled the tacky club rats in Moscow who saw not just an American passport but a professional athlete (better than winning the lottery!) and she delicately balance her tall tales of suitors, just enough to let him know she had options. But like the MHL draft, he was her number one pick.
It had worked, for years. A coordinated, very slow dance kept them entangled without Ily really noticing how intertwined she was in his life. Sveta was sure, she was certain, that when he slowed down she would be the natural choice. It wasn’t just Russia that bound them, not just hockey (which frankly bored her half the time)- it was that she understood him. She would never ask him for faithfulness or attention or time or even money; she wouldn’t have to ask because like him, it would be hers.
Until the summer of 2014. That was when she first noticed small changes. He was starting to roll his eyes at things that used to delight him and spent more time in the club on his Blackberry than at the bar. He turned down a threesome with a redhead she knew he liked and that same summer, a foursome (Sveta could admit to herself that had been a little desperate). Out of ideas, she coaxed Sasha back to Russia, hoping to rope them into a nostalgic into a hedonistic night with old friends. Ilya had simply rolled his eyes and didn’t even come to the club that night, ignoring four of Sveta’s messages. She pushed that tinge of humiliation down, very deep, knowing it wouldn’t serve her long game. But it stung. She could admit that, if only to herself.
But always an optimist, she looked at the bright side: he was fucking less randoms. Soon he would turn to her and realize that his best friend was the best choice. And she would be ready for him.
So she waited… and waited. Through 2015… they still talked hockey and occasionally fucked but he seemed distracted, never quite initiating. She could barely get him to put his Blackberry down on the nightstand for long enough to ride him. Stealing glances (and one time, while he slept, sneaking away with his phone only to run out of password attempts trying multiple versions of 81 did “Jane” ping her radar.
Here’s what Sveta knew: Jane was uptight (her answers were short and clipped, never any photos), she lived in Montreal (which was great, because there was no way in hell Ilya would ever end up in Montreal) and whatever they had been going on for years. She was the only woman, besides Sveta, who held Ilya’s attention for more than a few fucks.
But Sveta wasn’t worried, not at all.
If they were something special, Jane would be living in Boston. No woman would expect a professional hockey player to move for her or maintain a long distance relationship. No, the WAGs who survived were the ones who could pick up and move at a moment's notice. Packing up a house, changing schools and moving across the country with no notice? That was the bare minimum. If Jane couldn’t handle the move from Montreal to Boston after all those years was a cool comfort.
That was until the fall of 2016 when Ilya called her, for once (they barely spoke on the phone lately) and initiated contact, for once (he barely reached out anymore). First it was mostly hockey stuff, then an invite to stay over the US holiday break, which Sveta of course offered to extend to Orthodox Christmas, pissing off her father to no end. When the engagement was announced, she knew it would make up for it.
The calendar flipped to 2017, and he would soon need to renegotiate his rookie contract. Of course Boston wanted to keep and of course he wanted stay, she'd need to review his no-trade clause. There would be deeper roots in Boston, their de facto hometown. And this is the moment of acceleration Sveta needed. He couldn’t be a Peter Pan captain forever.
As the leader, it was his job to host events, something he’d been able to pawn off until now because he was WAG-less. But hockey players married young – at 26, Ilya was an outlier. Even though Sveta didn’t enjoy hosting, and certainly wouldn’t have anything in common with the bottle-blonde WAGs who grew up in buttfuck Ontario, or buttfuck Michigan, or buttfuck Finland, she knew she would be expected to lead the Basic Bitch Brigade off ice, just as her husband was expected to lead those slow Neanderthals on the ice. This was the price of playing for American prizes.
Except any time she brought up the negotiation to him, he palmed her off. She knew well enough not to push – Ilya hated to be backed into a corner – so she called his agent in Russia, a gruff dinosaur who still thought the Red Wall was standing.
He took her call because of her father, no one ever declined a Vetrova, especially not in the hockey world. But he was useless, telling her that Ilya had been avoiding his calls. Grigory was a zombie and Alexei was a cunt so Sveta really had no intel to go on. She had a few contacts at the Bears, but not deep enough to poke around about a star player’s contract negotiations, that would too easily get back to Ilya.
On the night of Orthodox New Year, the Bears defeated Philadelphia 6-3 so they had double reason to celebrate. It was the perfect time to broach the next step in Ilya’s plan – traveling with him to official events. Not to games of course, no players brought their wife and kids on roadies unless it was a Stanley Cup final. It was unheard of and the last thing she wanted to be was a clingy puck bunny.
The All-Star game in Tampa was different. Many players brought their families for the break and it was the best of the best (or at least the most popular); it was an event built on peacocking. What better way to announce her arrival to the NHL? Start in February and cement her spot at the NHL Awards in July, Ilya a Stanley Cup winner with his new (old) girlfriend on his arm.
After they toasted to the New Year, burning wishes into ash to drink in champagne, Ilya begged off sex, claiming he felt a twinge in his knee from the game. Sveta put the highlights on and climbed into bed, pouting. “It’s fucking freezing, I’m so sick of this shit weather.” Ilya hummed noncommittally, sucking on his third cigarette of the night. “I need a vacation somewhere warm.” He was quiet tonight, sullenly watching the Metros thump Columbus.
“I can’t stand the jet lag or I’d go to the Bahamas. I want somewhere closer. Are you going anywhere?” she asked. “Where the fuck am I going?” Ilya said, “I’m going to Buffalo. Is beautiful all year round” he grumbled as he stubbed out his cigarette.
“What about the west coast? Or somewhere beachy? Isn’t All Stars in Tampa this year?
“Hmmm, yes” he said, rubbing his eyes. He was pretending to be tired, Sveta thought. A twinge of panic hit her chest. He’s trying to get rid of me.
“Well you get your own room, right? I could come meet you.”
He said nothing. His expression didn’t even change.
“Mmmm I don’t think so. Is busy weekend for me, lots of press and events. Would be boring for you.”
She tried for an airy giggle, but it got caught in her throat. “A big suite and the beach and warm weather, what else do I need?” Ilya shifted slightly and cleared his throat. This was not going as she planned, at all.
“And we could meet some new talent, get away from these same faces in Boston. I’m getting bored of fucking New Englanders. They have flat faces.”
“I’m not sure, I’d have to tell the travel coordinator. I don’t know.” Ilya said.
She stilled as the icy panic rose in her chest. This was not like her Ilya. Not at all.
As if sensing the mood shift, he unceremoniously rolled over and pretended to fall asleep and she followed, pulling up the covers. Why would he not want her with him at the All-Star game, which was the NHL equivalent of a school talent show? It was highly social with the players spending more time drinking and eating and talking shit than playing hockey. She had attended with her father as a child and she was artful in these social situations– she could wear his jersey in the stands and corral dozens of vodka shots at the bar. She had proven herself, time and again, to be the perfect companion. So why the fuck was he treating her like an annoying fan?
Something was wrong. Very wrong. Usually Ilya’s sadness was something she could use to her advantage, it made him needy for home and comfort. But this was… not right. It wasn’t just sadness but a specific pain in his eyes, his downturned lips, his limp fingers.
If she didn’t know better, Sveta would think he was heartbroken. But how could that be? Ilya would never lose himself to a woman who didn’t even live in the same country as him. There wouldn’t be time, between the season and his summers in Moscow. Jane wasn’t visiting him at home (a woman always leaves evidence behind, a hair tie on the nightstand or tampons in the bathroom cupboard).
Staring at the dark ceiling, Sveta rolled over these thoughts in her mind before abruptly stopping herself. It doesn’t matter, she thought. None of this matters. The feelings don’t matter, the action does. Which is why Sveta decided it was enough coddling, of her feelings and Ilya’s. It was time for action. And her first order of business was getting rid of Jane, once and for all.