Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There was a lake just at the edge of Moscow where Ilya Rozanov could fly. He watched the weather forecast religiously, with an eye out for any time when the temperature was low enough and the skies clear, and begged his mother to take him there. He begged harder if it was the weekend. His father said it was a waste of time, especially when he was barely passing all his courses in school, but he also said Irina was too soft on him. She always relented, that morning included, so Ilya had stuffed his old skates into a backpack and was now holding her hand on the train.

He would outgrow these skates soon and then who knew when, if ever, he'd get Grigori to buy him new ones.

Irina was staring off into the distance, which she often did (daydreaming, she said), so Ilya watched out for the right stop, and then lead her to the lonely park. Sometimes, she brought a thermos full of steaming tea, or hot chocolate, or coffee, or just hot water, so she could stay warmer while Ilya skated from one end of the lake to the other. When he did something really cool, he would skate over to her bench and find her green-blue eyes looking off into the distance. But sometimes she was watching him and she clapped and patted his head when he skated over to her.

His brother Alexei used to come with them, but he was almost twelve now. Practically a man. And he'd never liked skating much. It made him dizzy. He’d rather go to one of the drab clubhouses owned by the Moscow Police with their father and play cards with the other sons and grandsons of policemen. Alexei said he was very good at cards, which seemed to make him proud. He’d tried teaching Ilya to play, but Ilya found it extremely boring to sit around making bets and inhaling cigarette smoke. He would rather be with Irina.

Alexei said Ilya was Irina's favorite, but she swore she loved them equally. Her little scholar (Alexei) and her little knight (Ilya). Alexei got good grades in school so his pet name made sense, but Ilya mostly tried to stay out of everyone's way. He fought, sure, but because the other boys seemed to sense a weakness in him. Maybe they smelled it. It didn't matter how many fights Ilya won; they kept coming back for more.

There were very few people on the park that day and no other skaters on the lake because it was so cold. But the sky was a clear, sunny blue, making the bright red notice at the farthest edge of the lake area cleared for skating visible. Ilya tried to skate faster than he ever had, hoping to bring a real smile to Irina’s face, if she was watching. She always used to, but Ilya guessed she’d grown tired of the ice, like Alexei had. He tapped his stopwatch and went off, enjoying how the frigid wind bit his face. There was a little bump on the ice, but it didn't matter, served only to add a little spike of fear to the rush of flying. He shaved two seconds off his best time.

His mother was not looking at him, but not because she was daydreaming. Not this time.

This time, she was talking to a tall man in a dark coat. Or a tall man was talking to her. Ilya skated towards her, heart pounding, and slowed only when he spotted a short figure with a storm of dark reddish curls trying to escape a fluffy hat. It was a girl dressed in a pink coat next to the man. She made eye contact with Ilya as he came to a stop near to Irina, who immediately took a step closer and laid a gloved hand on his shoulder. The man was asking who they were and Irina was trying to stutter out vague answers.

Ilya decided to take over. “I’m Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov and this is my mother. We’re waiting for our father to come pick us up. He’s a police officer.” That was a lie—not the police officer part, but Grigori was not going to pick them up.

“Ilya, is it?” The man turned clear green eyes towards him. He was tall and had the broadest shoulders Ilya had ever seen. He dressed like he should be on TV, exiting a car after a servant opened the door for him.

“Yes, sir,” said Ilya, stepping off the ice and waddling towards the bench, where his boots were laid out.

“You are a very talented skater,” said the man.

“Thank you, sir,” said Irina, “but we should be on our way.”

“Of course.” The man nodded. He didn't point out that what Ilya had said about Grigori. “Safe travels, Mrs. Rozanova.”

“I want to race him,” the girl said. Her eyes were as clear as the surface of the pond at the height of summer.

Ilya wanted to race as well, but he could sense that Irina wanted to be away from these people. It was a shame. The girl had longer legs than Ilya; she might be a challenge. She sat down on the bench and took out a pair of pink skates her bag. Ilya waved mournfully at her when Irina took a hold of his hand and hurried away.

All the way home, Irina trembled like a leaf. Ilya didn't know why—the man in the dark coat had let them go without making a fuss—but he didn't waste any time asking. He put Irina to bed, brought her a cup of tea so she could take her medicine and sleep, and promised to make food so that Grigori wouldn't get mad later.

“You’re my little knight, Ilya,” Irina said. Her blue eyes were gleaming, hopefully not with tears. “Never stop being so kind.”

“Yes, Mama,” he said, accepting the gentle kiss she placed on his forehead.

Pretty soon, Ilya forgot all about the man in the dark coat, and even the pretty girl with him. He had a math test coming up on Thursday that he was almost guaranteed to fail. Irina had been looking pretty shaky and Grigori more impatient than ever. He looked at Ilya and Alexei with glinting blue eyes every time either of them set the table and served food for dinner. He'd been quiet at least. Mostly.

But Ilya knew that would change if he didn't manage to squeak by on his stupid math test. Grigori would say that it was Irina’s fault, that instead of doing her job as wife and mother, she had made her sons act as a maids.

As it turned out, worrying was not the same as studying, so Ilya did fail the stupid test. His teacher, a stout woman who said he was too soft because he cried in front of her once (Grigori hated it when his sons didn't do well in school), had barely glanced at at him when she deposited the marked up test on his desk. Ilya was proud that he didn't cry this time, but that didn't change the failing mark on the paper. Apply yourself! was written in red ink right under the failing grade.

Maybe Ilya could run away for a bit. He’d have to go home eventually, of course, but then Grigori might be so relieved to see him that he wouldn’t care about the math test? Ilya laughed to himself and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He’d been hiding under some bleachers in the playground for so long that it’d started to snow. Maybe he’d freeze to death. Probably, he wouldn't. Maybe the other boys would want to play with him tomorrow. He felt like a snowball fight and off skates, he was not too much faster than them.

Alexei found him soon enough. His brother slid under the bleachers and sat down next to him, turning exasperated blue eyes on him. “What happened this time?”

Ilya reached for the test, which he’d crumpled and stuffed into another pocket. He handed it to Alexei.

“You’re so dumb, Ilyusha,” said Alexei. “Fractions are not even hard.”

Ilya didn't say anything. He was too busy blinking away tears.

“But Papa will blame Mama for this,” said Alexei.

Ilya’s felt his cheeks getting wet and buried his head in his elbow so Alexei didn't see. He heard Alexei sighing and ruffling through his own backpack. If Ilya could stop himself from making any noise, than maybe Alexei wouldn't make fun of him for being a crybaby.

“Here,” said Alexei, nudging his shoulder.

Reluctantly, Ilya raised his head. Alexei was handing him the test. Up in the corner, he had forged a passing grade.

“If you get caught and tell anyone I helped you,” said Alexei, “I swear I’ll smother you in your sleep.”

“I won’t get caught; I promise,” said Ilya, wiping his eyes. He knew Alexei would have no trouble following through. They shared a room after all.

They headed home together, happy as they ever were. Ilya let himself hope that Irina had gotten better and made dinner tonight, which would give him time to at least try to study. All thoughts of that left him when he and Alexei entered their apartment and found a strange man sitting across from Grigori at their dining table.

Wait, not a strange man. Ilya recognized him when Grigori motioned him forward. It was the man from the park, the one who had scared Irina. He was even larger than Ilya remembered, taller than his father and broader at the shoulders. His face was smooth even through his blond beard was streaked with gray hairs.

“Ilya,” said Grigori, wrapping his hand over Ilya’s upper arm. “You’ve met Mr. Vetrov.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ilya. “At the park.” He glanced back to Alexei, who watched from the threshold to the room that doubled as their dining and living room.

“What’s going on?” asked Alexei. “Where’s Mama?”

“Go to your room, Alexei,” ordered Grigori.

Alexei managed only a brief—very brief—scowl before walking past the dining table and disappearing into the bedroom he shared with Ilya.

“Ilya,” said Grigori. “Mr. Vetrov is an accomplished athlete. He has a question for you.”

Ilya stared up at the man’s intense eyes.

“Do you remember what I said to you last Saturday, Ilya?” said Mr. Vetrov.

Ilya nodded. With a glance at his father, he said “That I am a talented skater.”

“And what do you know of ice hockey?” asked the man.

“It’s a sport, sir,” said Ilya. It was the best sport in the world, the only one Ilya liked to watch on TV. He would give anything for a chance to play, but his school didn't have a hockey team. Even if they did, Ilya could not try out since he kept not doing homework and failing tests.

“Would you like to play?” asked the man.

That was easy. Ilya knew what Grigori would want him to say. “No, sir. I have to focus on my studies.”

Grigori’s grip on his arm tightened, not quite to the point of pain. “Tell the truth, Ilya.”

“. . . Yes, I would like to play, sir,” said Ilya, feeling his lip tremble. No fair. He already cried today.

“I see,” said Mr. Vetrov.

Grigori let go of Ilya’s arm and sent him to his room. Ilya disobeyed long enough to go and confirm that Irina was sleeping. He was so relieved to find her safe that he started forgetting the strange moment in the living room. This Vetrov man was probably someone Grigori was trying to do business with. His father was always looking for a scheme that would make him rich somehow. Or at least well off enough that he could quit being a street cop.

That was not so far from the truth, as it turned out. It just had more to do Ilya than he ever would have dreamed. From that moment forward, hockey would be the epicenter of Ilya’s life.

Grigori transferred Ilya to a private school on the opposite side of Moscow—the rich side of Moscow. The very rich side of Moscow. Ilya couldn't go to the park with his Mama that Saturday because his Papa—Grigori himself—took him to a store that sold fancy uniforms.

“I can’t believe this is fucking happening,” said Alexei, who Grigori brought along even though he didn't have to change schools.

“Me neither,” said Ilya, watching as Grigori bargained with a bored looking lady at the counter. “Papa says buying clothes is for women.”

“No, you idiot,” said Alexei. “I can’t believe you get to go to the Malkin Academy because Sergei Vetrov saw you skating at the park.”

That wasn't Ilya's fault so he didn't see why Alexei sounded so mad. He hadn't meant to cause problems. He never did, certainly not by skating. He’d considered telling Grigori that he didn't want to change schools since Irina didn't want him to. She'd had an argument about it with Grigori and since their apartment was so small, Ilya and Alexei had heard the entire thing.

“Hockey is dangerous!” Irina had cried. “And like you keep saying, Ilya is soft. The other boys will give him a hard time.”

“You only want the brat around so you can coddle him more,” had been Grigori’s answer.

“Grigori, please,” Irina’s voice had taken a frantic edge. “You saw the photos of this Malkin place; it’s where oligarchs send their brats. We can’t afford to send our baby there.”

“I told you, he’s been offered a scholarship,” Grigori had said. “This is an incredible opportunity for him, Irina, and I won’t let you ruin it. If I catch you in bed, sleeping off your pills while he does the dishes instead of his homework, I swear I’ll ship him off to my sister in Blagoveshchenk.”

So there was no point in fighting about it. Grigori had already made up his mind. And. . . well, Ilya did hate his current school. The kids were okay, but his awful math teacher? Ilya wouldn’t mind never seeing her again. That was before the part where he was going to a school to play hockey.

“Sir,” Alexei said a bit later, after Grigori had herded them to the backseat of his old car. Up front, there was a large bag with a bunch of fancy uniforms for Ilya. “I’m just wondering about all this. Are we forgetting that Ilya is slow? Papa, he can barely read.”

“I can read,” mumbled Ilya. He had his phone open to a shounen manga translation and he was reading it just fine.

“I haven’t forgotten,” said Grigori. “We’ve been indulgent about your brother’s laziness, but that ends now. I’ve told your mother that she will not be allowed to foist housework on him anymore. You will be helping him with his homework.”

“But sir!”

“Do not interrupt me!” snapped Grigori.

Ilya had to suppress a flinch even though he wasn't the one trying to argue.

“Alexei, I will hold you personally responsible if your brother fails another test,” said Grigori.

“Yes, sir,” said Alexei, shooting Ilya an angry look.

Fucking hell. Alexei would kill him before this was all over. Sooner rather than later.

Malkin Academy was okay, if a little lonely. The other kids smelled 'poor kid' on Ilya the very first day, but the teachers did not tolerate fighting. All they could really do was pretend Ilya didn't exist when he tried to talk to them, which was easy to deal with by simply not talking to them. Not like they were so awesome. If anything, being ignored by them was making Ilya's life a little easier. He passed the time at school by listening to the teachers and trying to do his work.

Ilya was actually learning, enough so that he didn't have to bother Alexei too much with his homework.

Even if it was all terrible and he was fighting daily, Ilya would be happy. The hockey team was amazing. He got to skate so much, and around adults who praised his efforts. The rink was huge, always smooth, and the team was provided with skates so amazing that Ilya couldn't believe they were real. He figured skates were skates, but it looked like rich kids got special ones.

The puck was an added thrill, as he had been sure it would be. Ilya was one of the smallest boys in the team, but it didn't matter. He was one of the fastest, and he loved figuring out how to pass, when to move, how to dodge a check, and take a shot. The only position he hated playing was goaltender.

"How old are you?" one of the coaches asked him a few months after his transfer to Malkin. He was a new guy with a funny red beard who spoke Russian with an odd accent. According to one of the older boys, he had moved from France.

"I'm eight, sir," said Ilya.

"Vetrov's son?"

"No," said Ilya, a little alarmed. "I'm Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov. Mr. Vetrov knows my father."

He didn't get a chance to dwell on the strange exchange because Irina didn't come to pick him up that evening. The guard at the gate ignored him when he asked for permission to leave on his own, forcing him to rush back to Malkin for a different option. In the meantime, he texted Alexei.

Alexei Rozanov

Ilya Rozanov
Mama didn't come get me
what's happening

Alexei Rozanov
just get here
I need help

Ilya Rozanov
I can't just leave
you know that
how is Mama?

Alexei Rozanov
same as always
you can be clever when you need to be
just get here before Papa does

Goddamn it!

Irina would hate if she knew that he was using God's name like this, even in the privacy of his own mind, but fuck. Ilya slid into the boy's bathroom, rushed to a stall, and forced himself to take deep breaths. It was a school full of dumb rich kids who liked to pretend he was invisible. They talked around him like he was dumb, deaf, and blind. So he knew how they sneaked out to buy cigarettes.

Ilya rushed outside, to the fields behind the Malkin's main building. Spring was coming, leaving the air less frigid than it would normally be this late. Almost everyone had gone home already and the areas was deserted, so it was simple enough to go behind the little greenhouse where smart kids worked with plants. The stone fence was oldest here, with cracks that could be climbed--yes! The older kids had been on to something.

Ilya made it to the top of the fence without issue. He celebration lasted until he looked down and realized that he'd never done something like this before. Not even with trees. Ilya was a runner and a skater, not a climber. But it didn't matter. He closed his eyes, said a short prayer his Mama had taught him, and looked for whatever nook the older kids used to climb down.

He made it, and only a little scrape on his left palm from a second where he almost fell on his ass. There was minimal blood. Ilya hoped it wouldn't bother him when he was holding his stick and pulled out his phone to check Maps. If he ran to the station, he could make it home before Papa. He had to.

He did and found Alexei at their kitchen, working on dinner. "Is everything good?"

“No, moron,” said Alexei. “Mama is having another episode.”

Ilya sighed, a little relieved. An episode was fine. They could handle an episode. In fact, they had more time than usual to handle an episode since Grigori usually went out to drink with his fellow police officers on Fridays. With any luck, they might be able to handle everything so well that Grigori wouldn't even notice anything amiss.

Grigori liked fish for Fridays and roasted potatoes were easy enough to make. Ilya left Alexei working alone for a bit longer and rushed to his parents’ bedroom to check on Irina. She was huddled on the bed with a heavy blanket over her. Her small button-like nose scrunched in distaste when Ilya lifted the cover, so she hadn't taken too much of her medication. Papa hated it when she did that, and Ilya had to admit that he didn't like it either. But he would never yell at her for it.

He went back to the kitchen to ask Alexei if he needed anything.

“Yeah, tidy up while I do this,” said Alexei as he scaled the fish.

“Got it,” said Ilya.

Grigori liked his house clean and orderly, which it mostly was, but if he so much as scented that something was off, he might explode because one of the living room pillows was crooked. So Ilya went through all the rooms to organize any clutter, then made sure to do a quick dust sweep of all the flat surfaces, confirmed that there was no dirty laundry (or unfolded laundered clothes), and then lit a scented candle. By the time he returned to the kitchen, the fish was in the oven and the potatoes were boiling.

“Get the bell peppers, and onion, and the cauliflower in the fridge,” said Alexei. “Start chopping while I make the sauce.”

Ilya nodded and got started. As he chopped, he wondered what, if anything, happened to set Irina off. He didn't bother asking. He hadn't been around enough to cause any problems, so there was nothing he needed to change or fix. Could fix or change.

“Six months this time,” said Alexei, startling Ilya.

“Hm?”

“Six months between episodes,” said Alexei, as the savory scent of his sauce filled the apartment. “Since you started at Malkin.”

“That’s not too bad,” said Ilya, trying to believe it. He could’ve sworn Irina had been doing better. She’d sure been listening to Ilya ramble about hockey drills and encouraging him every time he complained about how he wished the coaches would just let him skate in peace sometimes.

“You haven’t done anything stupid, have you?” asked Alexei, his blue eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“No!” Ilya made sure to hold his gaze because Grigori said people who have nothing to hide should be able to hold their heads high. “What could I even do?”

“Failed a test, got into a fight, stayed out past recess to build a fucking snowman—”

“—I only did that one time!” snapped Ilya.

“Are the coaches happy with you?” asked Alexei.

“I guess,” said Ilya. He did all the drills and he was catching up with all the other kids in stick handling, passing, and shooting. The only guys who were faster than him were older boys who were much taller than him. “They get mad when I don’t pay attention sometimes.”

“Typical,” said Alexei. “But Papa hasn’t said anything, so I don’t think this has anything to do with you.”

Everything was ready and perfect by the time Grigori arrived, but Ilya could tell by the way he scanned the dining table that they hadn't fooled him. He ate the meal, though, and in complete silence. He didn't even ask after Irina and Ilya hated him for it a little bit. Why did he not care when his wife got sick?

Irina was still feeling sick next morning so Ilya went off to Malkin alone and shrugged when the security guard at the front gate asked where his mother was. “She had a thing so he dropped me off at the station today.”

“Right, you’re a charity case,” said the guard, waving him inside.

Ilya would argue about that, but he was too relieved to have been let in without a fuzz. Besides, it was true. All the other hockey players said so, and at first Ilya had been a little confused. He was not the only boy in the team who was on a scholarship, after all.

Then, he’d talked to some of those kids and realized that all of them had been training for as long as they could remember. Their parents had fancy job titles with the word “executive” in front of them, or they were doctors and such. Ilya was the only kid in the entire school who didn't speak at least a little bit of English. He might really be the stupidest boy at Malkin. It wasn't something that bothered him much. He kept on doing his best.

By the grace of God, Irina didn't have any other episodes that year.

There were a couple when Ilya was nine, the worst of which had her leaving him at a department store near the center of Moscow. Ilya had looked for her for over an hour before admitting defeat and calling Alexei.

"Mama's in her room praying," Alexei had said. "Where the fuck are you? I thought you were at Malkin's for more training."

"Yeah, that's where I am," Ilya said.

"Ilya, I can a hear a crowd in the background."

"Never mind, I'm heading back."

Alexei gave him a dirty look when he stumbled into their apartment, but didn't ask where he'd been. "Just tidy up the place before Papa gets home."

Ilya’s tenth birthday came and went. Irina baked a honey cake from scratch and Grigori bought him new skates. They were of lower quality than the ones he got during training, but Ilya didn't care. He was too deliriously happy that Grigori used his actual money to buy him skates. Alexei tried to say he didn’t get anything, but Mama said he’d helped with the cake. Then, she’d had them all dress in their best clothes and taken them to a photographer in the city for a professional family portrait. Besides an awkward moment when the photographer confused Grigori for Irina's father, it was a great day.

Ilya got a handful of .jpegs that he saved on his phone and the cloud. There was a serious shot of all four of them staring at the camera, another one of them smiling, a third one with Irina grinning and Grigori looking fondly exasperated because Alexei had him in a mock choke hold. Ilya chose the last one as his phone screen and also asked the photographer to print him a physical copy to slip into the back of his phone case.

It was his favorite present ever.

The coaches were talking about taking Ilya on the road with the rest of the hockey team even though he was only a backup player. More like a backup backup player, since he was the youngest member of the team and still smaller than everyone. Grigori thought it was a great sign, but he was concerned about the cost that Coach had quoted him for the trip. His latest business scheme must have failed, which Ilya and Alexei had guessed from his short temper over the last couple of weeks.

Irina did not want Ilya to go. She'd been adamant about it. Ilya was too young, just recently turned twelve, and this was apparently a sensitive age for boys. Ilya had asked Alexei, who was fifteen, what she meant by that. His only answer had been an exasperated eye roll.

"I'm sorry if you're disappointed, baby," she said, kissing Ilya's forehead as he put on his jacket. Today, he would deliver Papa's 'no' response to Coach. "Maybe next year, after you've grown a bit."

"I'm not disappointed," said Ilya. Being stuck with his annoying teammates on a bus for hours and hours didn't sound fun.

He ended up going anyway. Ilya didn't know where Grigori got the money, or why he chose to spend it on a field trip for Ilya, but he'd done it. His parents had a huge fight about it the night before Ilya had to go.

"Don't you watch the news, Grigori?" Irina had cried. "These wealthy demons torture children and drink their blood to stay young and strong!"

Ilya didn't know where Irina got these ideas. But when they came to her, an episode was not far behind. He knew it, Alexei knew it, and even Papa knew it. It was the worst time for Ilya to leave Alexei alone.

"I could pick a fight," Ilya said to Alexei before heading out that morning. "Jump one of my teammates next time they chirp at me. Coach would punish me by not letting me play a few games."

"No," said Alexei, mouth twisted into a grimace. "We need you to do well at this school, Ilyusha, to get into the MLH in five years. I'll handle Mama."

"Ale--"

"--you'll just make her worse anyway!" his brother snapped. He hadn't gotten much taller, unlike Ilya, but at fifteen he was broader at the shoulders and had sprouted a beard. Ilya still felt minuscule next to him. "You'll nod along to her stupid bullshit and tell her you'll protect her from her demons, and where will that get us?"

"Where does yelling at her and calling her crazy get us?"

"Just get the fuck out, Ilya," said Alexei, with a disgusted noise. "Go and enjoy your fucking trip."

He did not enjoy his fucking trip. Ilya tried texting Irina, but she kept sending him bible quotes and promising to fast and pray until God brought him back home. If Ilya begged her to stop, she called him crying because, surely, only the Devil would suggest such a thing. The Devil had taken her baby from her. Within hours, Alexei texted him that he'd taken Irina's phone.

I told you to fuck off. You're making her worse.

Fuck you.

Alexei did not respond.

Ilya considered picking a fight, but what would be the point? They were too far away from home so at most, his punishment would be to stay at the hotel while his team played. He had no option besides pushing through.

The Kommandos--Malkin's hockey team--won. Ilya was miserable the entire time, even though one of the older center forwards a stomach bug and Ilya got to play. He scored his first goal in a real game, but the memory Ilya took home was of the fight he picked with an opposing player. Or maybe the other kid picked the fight; it didn't really matter. Ilya got to punch and punch him, until the referee pulled him off the guy. Then he settled for spitting and yelling obscenities.

"Your mother is the whore!" Ilya screamed once he accepted that he was too small to pull away from the referee holding him.

He got sent to the penalty box for trying to fight the referee, but it was close to the end of the game. They still won. Coach told him he had to work on his temper, but there were no other consequences. Ilya got the message. Win, and you have the right to defend yourself.

Irina was deteriorating fast. Alarmingly so, and all of them knew it, especially her. Last night, after hearing someone slam the front door shut, Ilya rushed to his parents bedroom and found her kneeling by the bed, praying, the collar of her sleeping gown ripped. When he tried to laying a hand on her shoulder, she whirled on him and stifled a shriek. Her eyes had been wide as saucers. She made the sign of the cross at Ilya and rushed out a chant to ward demons.

Ilya had help Alexei with breakfast that morning just in case, though they both knew Grigori wouldn't return until the evening at the earliest. They'd both been quiet and avoided each other's gazes. Ilya had gone to check on Irina while Alexei worked on something for school. At some point during the night, she'd crawled into bed and fallen asleep. With the help of pills, no doubt. Ilya hadn't been able to wake her for a second, but she'd been breathing fine.

Training had gone well, which Ilya guessed was a good thing. It'd helped him forget, something he couldn't do as easily as Alexei. Sergei Vetrov had been very clear with Grigori that Ilya was not allowed to take drugs. They damaged the body and reflexes, and the only thing Vetrov was interested in was Ilya's body and reflexes. So Ilya couldn't take a break like Alexei did--by stealing some of Grigori's vodka and knocking himself out.

"Did you hear?" one of the other boys said in the locker room, to another kid. "Vetrov's mongrel daughter is back from the USA. She'll start at Malkin this semester."

"Mongrel or not, she's gotten hot," said another boy. "Hey, Rozanov! You know her? Vetrov's daughter?"

"No," said Ilya.

"Really?"

"Yes." Ilya had seen her a couple of times while training with Vetrov's private coaches at the man's personal rink, tucked away behind his mansion about thirty minutes away from Moscow proper. They'd even made eye contact. But she had ignored Ilya the one time he'd waved at her.

"Charity case, don't ignore me when I'm talking to you!"

Someone tried to grab Ilya's shoulder. He whirled on them and threw a punch without checking who it was and pounced before the other guys could get a hold of him. It took three to tear him away from whoever the fuck had spoken.

"You're lucky you're Vetrov's bitch," he spat at Ilya moments later, after the other guys managed to separate them.

"You're the bitch," sneered Ilya. "Afraid to defend yourself just because of big, bad Sergei Vetrov."

The boy snarled and launched himself towards Ilya. One of the D-man teens got in front of him and a second pushed Ilya out of the locker room. He left his backpack in there, but he didn't give a shit. Ilya wanted to go home. Or maybe not home, but somewhere away. He wiped at his mouth, rushed to his locker to pick up his coat, then headed to the back of the school. It was probably too early to try and sneak out, but Ilya didn't care.

He waited a bit until a group of older teens made the climb, heart still racing. God, if only practice would've lasted longer. He still had so much energy to burn. But he still made sure to climb carefully.

Last month, one of the forwards had slipped on ice trying to sneak out to buy cigarettes. Or drugs. Not only had he fucked up his ankle, but he'd had to admit that he'd been planning to buy the drugs and/or cigarettes. The coaches had been furious. Vetrov did not want drug addled hockey players out of the junior team he was funding. Papa and Alexei seemed happy, though. Since the kid was out, that meant that the team would have to use Ilya more often.

Ilya made it up and down the fence without issue. His heart started to calm the instant his feet touched the ground outside of Malkin and he sighed softly to himself, beginning to walk away. When he was about to turn the corner, he heard a startled cry. Followed by worried mumbling coming from a girl.

Sighing with much less relief, Ilya turned around.

Two girls from Malkin had climbed the stone fence after him and a blonde one may have twisted her ankle. The other one was Svetlana Vetrova.