Chapter Text
It was early evening when Ilya pulled up to Shane’s, and decided to tell Shane about his new career he’d been thinking about over the afternoon. They were going to have a nice dinner together, before Ilya drove back to Ottawa tomorrow night.
"I have decided on my new career," Ilya announced as he got to the front door, pulling his shoes off and leaving them lying on top of Shane’s sneakers on purpose. Shane was just plating up the chicken he’d cooked for dinner onto a bed of lettuce and other very very boring vegetables, like sprouts and carrots.
Luckily, Ilya had gone through a drive thru and had some fries before he got to Shane's, because he knew that Shane would only offer boring chicken salad with dressing optional. “It will be more important than my hockey one.”
Ilya sat down in front of an empty plate. "Are you retiring?” Shane asked, putting Chicken Boring Salad in front of him and sitting down opposite Ilya. “Can I let Hayden know? He'll organise your retirement party."
“No,” said Ilya. “My new career is that… drumroll, please, Shane?”
Shane stared at him. “...I am not doing a drumroll, Ilya.”
Ilya took a deep breath. Of course Shane wasn’t going to do a drumroll. He’d probably never done one in his life, anyway. “...I am now going to be a professional matchmaker.”
Shane didn’t seem too fussed to hear this. "...Right." said Shane, handing him tongs to use to get the food out the bowl. "Except you've done this a few times already. You're a professional anyway."
It was true. He’d managed to get three players on the Centaurs to be with their current girlfriends. Evan was due to marry Caitlin soon after he got them together using his matchmaking techniques (like telling each of them hints about the other until they were brave enough to hold a conversation). In fact, in their supporting staff, he’d introduced the team doctor to someone at Monk's last week who was also a doctor and they were going on a date soon. He hadn't even been trying that time, which he felt said something about his natural talent.
"There is a new player coming to my team," Ilya said. “I’m sure he is single. I will use my magic on him.”
“Who?”
“Troy Barrett.”
Shane looked at him weirdly. “Barrett? From the Guardians?”
“Yeah, that fuck from Toronto,” Ilya began putting more chicken than lettuce on his plate. He wasn’t sure how this new player fiasco was going to pan out. “Remember when he hit Kent and it went viral online last month? Their friendship must be over. Turns out they needed to get him off the team to protect its reputation, and Kent’s the better player, so Barrett needed to go.”
“Why not Kent? Was he the one that did all that?” asked Shane. “You know… the assault?”
“No idea. I’d rather not have Barrett on the team,” Ilya stopped to eat for a few seconds, chewed, then swallowed. “It ruins the dynamic we have.”
"Dynamic?" Shane repeated. "You're always losing. Barrett’s better than Tanner Dillon. That’s why you lost last week to San Jose.”
Ilya opened his mouth, then closed it. "That's why they brought him in," he said finally, remembering each one of Tanner’s screw ups from that game. “Barrett’s better statistically than Tanner."
"How do you know he's single anyway?” asked Shane.
“I get… What do you call it? A single vibe from him, always,” said Ilya. “Also, there’s nothing on the internet about him having a relationship.”
“There’s nothing on the internet about your relationships, either.”
“Nothing on Twitter either,” said Ilya, ignoring Shane’s jab. “I love my little Twitter gang. They searched high and low for me for Barrett, but unfortunately, came up with nothing.”
Under a fake name online, Ilya had infiltrated lots of little gossipy hockey gangs who were able to deconstruct and analyse anything hockey related. According to Twitter, Ilya was a 29-year-old woman who was extremely invested in trade rumours and the personal (but boring) lives of hockey players. He had 340 followers and a pinned tweet about a recent power play that had gotten seventeen retweets and fifty likes. He was very proud of it.
“What about your other matchmaking project? What’s his name? The one who brings in sliced apples for intermission?”
Ilya lit up. “Ah! Harris! The supercute one.”
Shane gave him a look. “Cute?”
“He is cute,” Ilya defended himself. He reached over and poked Shane under his eye. “He’s got little apple cheeks.”
“You said you were trying to find someone for him too,” Shane said, his mouth then going around Ilya's fingers and sucking them slightly.
"Hmm," said Ilya. "You see, this is the thing. I have to search far and wide for him. These gays aren't at Monk's, unfortunately. I can't just walk into a gay bar in Ottawa," He paused and took his fingers out of Shane’s mouth. "Or… I could? Next time Scott Hunter’s in town I’ll go in so he can distract everyone while I infiltrate.”
“Maybe ask Barrett?” asked Shane, with a joking grin on his face.
“Hmm,” he took a sip of his drink. “Okay.”
The real reason why Ilya’s new career was being a Professional Matchmaker™ was so that Shane could feel comfortable with others if he ever came out (which outdo be probably never at this point). So far he’d only helped out one LGBT couple as a matchmaker, which was helping Admiral’s ex-goalie Eric Bennett and that blond teenager bartender Kyle, after Ilya teased Eric relentlessly from when he saw him twist at his wedding ring when he stuttered and talked to him.
Ilya searched far and wide for LGBT players; he found a million of them in the women's leagues. Wyatt had accidentally let slip when he joined the Centaurs about Ryan Price and his boyfriend Fabian too (no surprise there, Ilya had seen the Grindr logo on his phone once when they played together for the Cup years ago), so he made sure that Ryan joined the hockey camps just so Shane could get to know him better.
Now, Ilya’s father, Grigori Rozanov, before his dementia diagnosis and passing, was an extremely perceptive man. He was a police officer who had been inspired by the Sherlock Holmes novels that had been popular in the Soviet Union during his youth. Holmes practiced what he called the Science of Deduction, which was quoted as: "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
To be honest, it probably worked well in the police force when no CCTV was present and being corrupt was a fun pastime.
Grigori had passed on what he could to Ilya and Andrei - which was how to read a person from the details they never thought to hide. These were things such as looking at chipped nails, the texture and tan lines of their hands, old scabs, and the way people held themselves. He could tell if a person was left or right handed from their watch placement or graphite or ink smudges near their pinkie, or their age approximately from their smallpox scar on their upper left arm.
Ilya liked knowing that he could tell which person walking down the street came from a country with left handed traffic, seeing who was on a diet by judging the contents of their shopping cart, and who was a smoker of rolled up cigarettes (yellow filter lines on nails) or roll-ups (thumb/forefinger brushing together habit when talking to someone).
Shane had called him nosy after a fight they'd had when Ilya accused him of going out to the cottage without saying anything - all because of mud on his shoes that hadn't been there the day before. Yes, that's what Ilya was. Nosy.
And he fucking loved being nosy too.
Harris and Ilya became friends three seasons ago when they attended orientation at the training rink together and Ilya had pretended the entire time that Harris was very obviously going to be a player on the team. Harris thought it was hilarious and ended up getting drunk at Ilya’s new place that very night.
Ilya had been attempting to help matchmake for Harris, who was not doing very well in the dating scene.
He’d seen Harris’s disaster dates over the years: married men who lied and said they were single, ones who dumped him because they didn’t like hockey, or ones that dumped him because they liked hockey too much and were jealous, men who said they were nice guys but weren’t, and then a memorable one, which was last month, a guy who spent the night crying on Harris’s shoulder because Ilya gave him his autograph.
“Hey, stud,” Harris flopped down next to Ilya. Harris often visited him in the locker room because he was good at distracting himself from his actual job, and also because he had a thing for men in hockey gear. He looked happy to be in the locker room as usual. “What’s on your mind?”
“Something in Russian,” Ilya lied. “You look excited.”
Harris grinned and rubbed his hands together. “You know my friend Hannah?”
Of course Ilya didn't know Hannah. Harris did. Because he knew everyone.
“You’re a friendslut,” said Ilya. “You know too many people and have too many friends. Which Hannah is this?”
Harris pulled out his phone and went through the contact list. Ilya leaned over to view one thousand contacts, arranging from at least fifty DO NOT ANSWER contacts to Green Shirt Nose Ring (Sandra?) to Hookup Lifeguard #5.
“Uh… Hannah Dog Handler with Brown Hair,” Harris read out loud.
“Are you sure she has brown hair?”
Harris frowned. “Might have been red? Anyway, you know how she’s a dog handler?”
“That’s been established, yes,” said Ilya. “By the fact that her contact name is Hannah Dog Handler with Brown Hair. Does she have any dogs available for us?”
They'd both been scheming for a while to get the perfect team mascot. Both Ilya and Harris loved dogs, and had been on the lookout for the perfect one for the team for ages.
Harris looked excited. “One has just turned up that we could possibly steal for the Centaurs!”
Ilya stood up and looked down at Harris, hands on hips. “Let’s go steal it.”
Okay, they definitely weren't going to steal this one. Okay maybe. Not sure. Anyway, it turns out the other day, Harris had scrolled pretty far down on Facebook to find that The Glebe Service Dog Academy had just posted a photo with a supercute puppy and they were asking for ideas for names.
“I said they should call it Chiron, after the Centaur,” he said. “And she said yes and then picked it! It’s a match made in heaven. Let’s go visit him! And also, having you, the Captain there demanding this new puppy will be our mascot? Hannah won’t say no!”
She did say no.
“No.”
The puppy licked all over Ilya’s face in absolute happiness in meeting a new human. They were at the nearby training facility which also acted as a doggy daycare, surrounded by lots of little Chirons. There were so many dogs.
Sobaki!
Ilya got out his wallet, holding Chiron in one hand, wallet in the other. “I can pay you for Chiron to be our mascot?” He opened his wallet to find he had no cash on him, as usual.
Hannah looked in with an amused smile on her face. “I’ll take the whole wallet?”
He pulled out a few stamp cards. “This one has two stamps left for Dunkin’ Donuts?”
Hannah stared at him. “There’s no Dunkin’ Donuts in Canada.”
“Is there not?” Ilya hadn't realised that. He pressed the card into her hand. “...In case you take a holiday?”
He went through his remaining cards. There was a VIP card for a nightclub that had closed down in 2014, an All Access card to Boston for their training rink which he didn’t give back, and a gift card with fifty thousand dollars on it.
He handed her the gift card. “Well?”
Harris burst out laughing. Chiron licked the card.
She handed the cards back, except for the Dunkin’ one. Ilya placed Chiron on the floor where he wiggled around on the lino happily. “He can be an official team dog for a while,” she said. “But he’s being assessed to see if he is good enough to work in therapy. If he is, he’ll be doing that instead.”
Chiron flopped on the floor. “He likes belly rubs. You can take him for a while, but he needs to come back here.”
There were a few yips, and his siblings came bounding over, and Chiron took off with them in a hurry to get to the new tennis balls another volunteer had given out in the next room over.
They arranged for Chiron to come around the next day, and by that time, Ilya had to go back to the rink. He was supposed to get a lift with Harris, but had to take a taxi back because Harris got chatty and then more people turned up to talk to him.
What a friendslut he was.
Ilya had had such a good hour hanging out with so many little Chirons that he believed he was cured of all his mental health issues, and forgot that Troy Barrett was going to be joining his team tomorrow.
“You’re not a dog.”
Troy Barrett frowned. “What?”
Ilya walked straight past him.
“Ignore him,” said Wyatt, who’d brought Troy into the locker room. “There’s a puppy coming today.”
“Our new mascot,” Ilya continued, poking his head through the locker room to the hallway. No Harris. “Where the hell is Harris?”
“I thought the mascot was a beaver?”
“Supposed to be,” said Wyatt cheerfully. “Or a Centaur. We’re not actually sure.”
Ilya ignored Troy, who was hovering near him, looking as if he was needing courage to ask questions. “Harris will be late,” said Wyatt, turning back towards Ilya. How dare Harris be late. “He was talking to someone outside when I went to get Troy.”
“He’s always talking to someone outside.” Ilya flopped back down on the bench, feeling annoyed. Seeing Chiron was far more important than a new player any day.
“Did they have brown hair?” asked Ilya. “That’s the dog handler.”
“Yes.”
The door opened and Harris came in, beaming and held up Chiron like he was Rafiki holding Simba from the Lion King. “I got him!”
The entire team aww’ed and ahh’ed as they basically crowded around the puppy as he was placed carefully on the floor. Chiron soaked up all the attention immediately and rolled around in happiness as he was belly rubbed to death by several large men.
“I am the captain,” said Ilya, moving everyone out the way. “So I get first dibs.”
Ilya felt at home with his soft lovely fur, and scratched under his chin. Chiron’s tongue lolled out, completely overjoyed to be the centre of attention. “What are you supposed to be anyway, Chiron?” he asked the dog. “You look like a St Bernard, but without the droopy eyes.”
“He’s a St Bernard Pyrenees Mix,” said Harris.
The room went silent.
“Harris,” said Ilya, looking up at him with a sort of horrified look on his face. “Jesus fucking Christ. Chiron won’t even fit in the arena.”
“Yeah,” said Harris. “He’s going to be a Clifford dog.”
“What’s that?’
“Like… big. Clifford the Big Red Dog is an old kids show.”
“So it’ll be instead something like Chiron the Big Brown-Black-White Dog?” Wyatt suggested.
“Yep.”
Chiron was rolling happily on the floor, drinking up the attention and belly rubs. After many complaints from the others, that Ilya was a Chiron hog, Ilya finally moved away from his team and let the others go for him.
The puppy broke free of player attention soon after and happily bounded over to Troy, whom out of all people Ilya forgot existed. He was the only one who wasn’t fazed by the new puppy and had turned away from the others, putting his practice jersey on. Ilya watched as Chiron pulled Troy’s new glove off the bench and started chewing it.
Troy stepped back as if he didn’t like dogs. Harris went over and took the glove out of Chiron’s mouth. “That’s not a toy! Chiron, you’re such a goof. They’re expensive!”
“If he’s going to be our mascot,” Ilya pointed out. “he can have a glove.”
“I’m planning to make him a full team dog outfit,” said Harris. “I know some good sewers. They’ll whip out an adjustable outfit for him in no time.”
“You know everyone.”
Harris then turned to Troy, who stared coldly back at him, “Don’t worry about Chiron. He’s super young. We can get you some new gloves. I’m Harris.” He held out his hand.
Troy had been in the locker room for ten minutes and this was the most attention he’d gotten from anyone in there. Ilya felt a little bad bbbuuuuuttt there was a puppy in here, so whatever. Instead of shaking Harris's hand, Troy kept looking at the pins on Harris's jacket, which were many and varied and included at least two that Ilya didn't fully understand. At least Harris was trying to engage Troy in conversation, unlike anyone else in the room because they were too busy fawning over Chiron.
But then Ilya was shocked to see an actual frown on Harris’s face as their conversation did not go well at all. Chiron ended up back in Harris’s arms, and Harris and Troy stared at each other for several seconds as if they were lining up for a face off.
Shit. Troy did not look comfortable at all. And he'd never seen Harris frown before either.
…Was Troy frowning at the dog or Harris?
Probably Harris.
“Stop hogging Chiron,” said Ilya, coming towards them and taking Chiron out of Harris’s arms. Troy stepped back and turned away to finish putting the rest of his practice gear on.
The other players then had an argument with Ilya about Chiron hogging - with Harris ending up telling Ilya to get his own damn dog, with the others telling him to go and find another Chiron sibling to take home since he clearly loved this one so much already.
Troy had slipped out the locker room without anyone noticing.
“I can’t believe it,” said Ilya excitedly when he called up Shane that afternoon. Shane had just finished off his game in Los Angeles and had a few hours before they had to take the plane back to Montreal. “He’s so cute. Licked my face. I gave him so many belly rubs-”
“Are we talking about Troy Barrett here?”
“Yes, Shane, of course,” said Ilya sarcastically. “He has floppy ears and is covered in fur.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
Ilya sighed. “I’m talking about the puppy.” Of course Shane didn’t care about the puppy. Shane wanted to know what the new player on his team was like. He'd probably never been that excited about a puppy in his life. And anyway, Shane wanted to know what the new player on his team was like, because he was very boring and responsible and always thinking about hockey. “Troy was quiet. Didn’t really say anything. Remember how he used to have a mouth on him? I don’t think he’s said ten words today. But then again if I was moved to another team against my wishes, I’d be pissed off too.”
“Give him a chance, Ilya.”
"I am giving him a chance. I let him exist in the same locker room as Chiron, didn't I?"
"He also didn't like Harris," Ilya added, which he felt was more damning than anything else. "Or the dog. I'm not sure which."
"Like I said, you need to give him a chance."
"Ugh. Fine."
It had been a week since Troy had come to the Centaurs. He clearly wasn’t having a good time. So far Ilya discovered:
Troy was left handed but shot right handed (wore his watch on his right wrist, the way he walked through a door with his left shoulder first), had a big nail-biting problem, (sign of anxiety) was always the first on the ice and the last to leave (which showed Ilya that Troy didn’t have a life or any hobbies, boooorrring). He also said sorry a hell of a lot, sometimes twice in the same sentence, which was exhausting to listen to.
Ilya figured out he was originally from the west because he called the parking garage a parkade before correcting himself the other day (then said sorry for saying parkade too).
He'd also been in Toronto for a while because he had a slight twang to his voice that was only there in certain words and sentences. He also used moisturizer in the morning because Ilya could see where it stopped just by his hairline temple. He was very self-conscious of his face - he never had hair out of place, and Ilya saw no stray eyebrow hairs. He seemed to always be jogging from one place to another as if standing made him uncomfortable and didn't seem to slow down. At one point, when Troy managed to stay put for more than thirty seconds somewhere, Ilya thought he had a stoop but no he just always was looking at the floor.
But what was easy to figure out was that Troy was damn fucking miserable about being put on the Centaurs. They weren’t that bad of a team, just never able to get to the Playoffs stage ever, and anyone ever traded to Ottawa usually weren’t that upset about it for more than a few hours.
So there was something else, maybe, that was making him miserable as well, Ilya figured out.
Maybe Troy was dealing with a broken heart? He had to move from Toronto to Ottawa, after all, so he might have had to leave someone precious to him behind, like a girlfriend, or a cat.
Ilya had seventy different theories to these, which he’d explained to Shane who fell asleep during Ilya’s discussion about theory #40.
He knew if he’d asked Troy about it he’d probably snap fuck off, none of your business to him so Ilya decided to not get answers out of him, but accidentally got some of them out of Troy’s father, out of all people.
It happened in Vancouver, where Ilya accidentally met Troy's father in the hotel lobby in the morning. Shane made him go to one of Rose Landry’s many residences to pick up some clothes she left last time she was there. Her place happened to be next door to the hotel they were staying at anyway in one of the big high rises.
Rose texted her roommate and let him know he was coming, apparently.
But said roommate did not look pleased to see Ilya turn up.
He came face to face with the actor who had starred alongside her in that superhero show Harris was obsessed with. He took one look at Ilya and attempted to kick him out. “Why is the captain of the Centaurs at my place? He sent you here, didn't he?”
Technically that was a yes, as Shane did ask for Rose. “Rose needs things picked up. I said I would do it. Check your phone.”
The actor glared at him for a few seconds, before taking his phone from his pocket and reading the message. “Okay. Right. What is it she wants? I’m busy.”
The actor didn’t look very busy. He looked like he’d just fumbled out of bed. “I have a list of dresses she needs for an event in Montreal,” said Ilya. “They should all be in garment bags?”
“Do you have the list?”
He got out his phone and read the brands out loud while Rose’s roommate went into the large walk in wardrobe and combed through the rack.
Ilya sat down on the large couch and looked around. It didn't look that much lived in. He’d seen plenty of these places for people that basically lived on the road and used their apartments as expensive storage units.
“She uses this place as a dumping ground, I swear,” the guy said, emerging with the bags. It was only then Ilya recognised him. He'd read about him online a few weeks ago, engaged to a famous director. Adrian something. His large diamond ring glinted in the sunlight of the floor-to-ceiling window. He handed him five separate black bags with labels on them. “She's never here.”
"I know," said Ilya. "It's not the first residence I've been to pick something up for her." She basically used Shane and Ilya as a two-man collection service across various cities in North America, which neither of them had ever formally agreed to, but somehow kept doing anyway.
"Still," said Adrian. He seemed quite snotty. "Next time her PAs should be getting her things. Not you. No offence."
“None taken.”
Adrian kicked him out after that. Ilya went back into the hotel next door with the garment bags over his arm, thinking about getting a coffee, when he was stopped by a businessman waiting by the elevators.
He introduced himself as Troy's father, and Ilya could see immediately the hair transplant (hairline slightly too forward and clean), the once a day cigarette habit (lining of box in pocket but no cigarette smoke), and the fact he was cheating on his new wife (judging by the loose and recently cleaned wedding ring).
“Troy is probably in a shit mood for having to be traded,” said Curtis, putting his chin up in an attempt to make himself look bigger and more important than Ilya. “He’s not good at switching up his routines. Never has been.”
Ilya nodded. That made sense. Maybe that’s why he was so gloomy. Wasn’t used to a different routine. “Okay.”
Curtis sighed dramatically. “I tried calling him this morning, and he didn’t respond.”
Well, Ilya saw Troy with a brown paper bag at the elevators last night, in a shape of an Absolut Vodka bottle, so he was probably hungover right now. But then his father started going on about the women he’s probably got in his room right now, hence why he couldn’t get to his phone, and so Ilya tried to think of a quick excuse to leave.
“He’s just like me in my old days at WHL,” said Curtis. He grinned as if this was important, and Ilya was reminded of Dallas Kent. “Let him know I’m waiting for him downstairs would you? I got some people I want to introduce to him.”
Ilya said goodbye and went to find Troy, who was upset and yes, hungover, with the exact bottle Ilya predicted he had sitting by his nightstand. It was sad really, because he was obviously trying not to cry in front of Ilya.
Troy seemed to be someone who was very miserable and covered his feelings up with alcohol. Ilya occasionally used to do the same but with more rare vodka and cigarettes but now he attempted something called ‘therapy’ which was going alright so far.
There must be something else for him to get wasted like that besides being put into Ottawa.
Troy kept looking out the window as Ilya tried to talk to him, but in the end he gave him a Gatorade and then told him that his personal life was his own business off the ice.
In conclusion, Ilya the snoop/meddler decided that Troy was probably a very boring person who turned to drink to cope with having to change his routine. Hopefully Ilya would never catch him hungover again.
He was so boring in fact, that why would Ilya bother anyway being a matchmaker? Any girlfriend he’d have would have to put up with that existence. But maybe that’s what Troy needed. A nice lady friend to share a bottle of wine and cheer up with.
“He’s going to settle,” said Ilya that night to Shane on the phone. “Then I’m going to find him someone.”
There was a long pause on Shane's end, which sounded to Ilya like he was giving up attempting to stop his boyfriend from both meddling and matchmaking. "...Sure.”