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“Who is on baby watch?” Ilya demanded, smacking each of his teammates on the back as they filtered into the bar. Mentally, he counted them. Boodram, one. Hayes, two. Barrett, three. Young, four. Holmberg, five. Ticking upward, higher and higher. At the end of the night, he’ll count backwards as they peel away from the group and into Ubers and WAG cars, keeping track of home safes and made it backs in the group chat until the number was a neat zero. Then, when he is sure everyone is where they need to be, Ilya will let himself relax. Head home, maybe finish off the pint of ice cream that’s in the freezer before Shane gets in tomorrow morning and scolds him for having it.
“No, no, I am serious,” he continued when there was a chorus of complaints. Ilya placed one broad hand on Luca’s head, hugging and pinning the rookie to his chest as he squirmed half-heartedly. “You want leave our babies unattended? You want someone to take them? Because this is how our babies get stolen. We turn our eyes away for one second and, oh no! Montreal Metros have stolen our golden youth. I did it last time, fuckers, whose turn is it?”
“I don’t-“ Luca started to protest, just for Boodram to lift a hand in amused resignation.
“I got ‘em this week, Cap.”
“Good man, good man! You all be good for papa, yes, rook? Don’t cause any trouble. I love you.” He pressed a wet kiss to Luca’s temple, falling back dramatically into Barrett’s waiting arms when he was unceremoniously shoved away.
“They grow up so fast,” he sighed.
“You’re a mess, you know that?” Troy grasped him under the armpits, grateful that Roz has the wherewithal to keep most of his weight balanced on his heels as he leaned backwards; it’s an easy task to heft him back up. It’s even easier to lean into his side, where Ilya was warm and still a bit damp from his after game shower.
There’s a lingering smell to his clothes that Troy has come to associate with the man before him. On the ice, Ilya smells like sweat and blue Gatorade. In his daily life, in his neat designer clothes, dark tight pants and a silken shirt with a thick jacket overtop, he smelled like evergreen deodorant, clean laundry, and the faintest trace of coconut oil.
Good for hair and skin, boys, Rozanov had jeered. You try it sometime, maybe you will be half as beautiful as I am, some day.
Troy had no particular interest in that - he liked his routine, had it down to a science by now, but he’s come to associate the smell with Rozanov. Cool and clean and comforting.
“Okay?” Ilya asked, his hand at the nape of Troy’s neck, jostling and tugging him closer as his free hand pulled open the door. He’s so bright, even in the dimly lit bar, white teeth glimmering as he grinned down on him. Bright eyes and bright teeth, loose blonde curls spilling over his forehead against the hold of gel.
Victory looked good on all the Centaurs; it looked even better on Ilya, who seemed to Troy the sort of man who could reshape the world, if he felt like it. He wanted them to win, so they did. He wanted them to have a good time, so they would.
“Get the hell off me, man,” Troy said, instead of I never thought I’d get to have this again. It’s all because of you, and god if I know what to do about that. “You stink.”
The night unwound.
There’s another game in a few days, one they’ll need to leave home for, so nobody goes too crazy even with the win under their belts. It’s a good night anyway. Ilya bought them rounds of shots, then made them follow it up with short, squat glasses of water. He swiped his card a ridiculous amount of times at the electronic jukebox. If there’d been plans to stay out later, they were pretty much ruined when Ilya found out you could pay to skip your song choices to the front of the queue.
“Cultural exchange,” he shouted, and promptly shelled out ten Canadian dollars to blast them instantly with some high-synth electronic music that made Troy feel like the walls were pressing in on him. They took his wallet after twenty minutes. Ilya then played several rounds of wailing country music with nothing but Apple Pay and his ability to convince a few women at the bar to give him cash in exchange for drinks on his open tab.
Each time one of their teammates left, he’d walk them to the door. “I love you,” he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world, and clasped them on the shoulder.
It was almost too much to watch.
“You heading home?” Troy asked, when the gathering had dwindled down to just the two of them. Ilya shrugged lazily, waving away a bartender’s attempt to pick up a mostly empty glass.
“Is this mine?” He asked Troy, then downed the remnants anyway. It was clear the booze was hitting Ilya pretty hard; he’d begun to blink with enough force to scrunch his entire face, as if trying to bring the world back into focus. Twice already, Troy had caught Ilya stabbing at his phone with just the fingertips, chicken pecking away at some text message thread before sliding his phone back into his pocket with slightly trembling hands.
“Maybe some water? And don’t drink - hey, are you good?”
Ilya hauled himself to his feet, the tall barstool skittering out from underneath him. “Bathroom,” he said, shortly. “Back soon. Tab, okay? My tab?” He made a motion with his hands towards Troy; most likely miming signing the check, but maybe it was just a strange new way to politely ask him to go fuck himself. Rozanov turned away, pushing through the crowd on slightly unsteady feet.
Troy got the tab and closed them both out. He tipped well, and asked for a couple of waters. The two beers he’d polished off an hour ago sat heavy and bubbling in his gut. Something felt off, though Troy couldn’t say what. He looked at the neat line of glasses as they were whisked away. The team had mostly stuck to beer, tall frosted mugs and bottles now gone warm.
Ilya’s lone lowball glass stared back at him, accusingly.
Troy got up, stomach twisting in knots as he pushed his way towards the back of the bar.
The men’s room was small, with only three stalls and a lone sink below a cracked mirror. From the doorway, he could see Ilya’s legs from where he was sprawled on the floor, half in the handicap stall, half out. He had his phone in his hand, pressed against his chest with his eyes closed. “Rozanov,” Troy breathed. “Fuck, Ilya.”
“Pakapaka,” Ilya said, for some fucking reason. Opened his eyes to look at Troy. Looked at his phone and smashed at the screen with his thumbs before hauling himself to sit upright. “Pakapaka.”
He squinted up at Troy. “Barrett,” Ilya said, as if surprised to see him. “I don’t feel well.”
Troy squatted beside him, trying to ruffle Ilya’s curls the way he’d seen him do to the rookies. It always seemed to calm them down; instead, Ilya’s head just lolled on his shoulders, as if he were a ragdoll. A hand came up to swat at Troy, but fell back as Ilya almost slipped down against the floor. “I don’t feel well,” he repeated, as if that wasn’t obvious. As if Troy wasn’t watching the strongest man he knew try to remember how to stand the hell up, and fail miserably at it.
He thought of the abandoned drink, and a bar full of people they didn’t know, and felt his chest go tight. The urge to punch something, or yell, was on the tip of his tongue. He felt it in his bones. The old instinct to lash out before being lashed, to take his frustration and project it outward until it was everyone’s problem Troy’s life was falling apart.
He held that thought for a moment. Then, he let it go. A tantrum wouldn’t save him. Losing his cool wouldn’t fix this mess.
Ilya Rozanov was Troy Barrett’s best friend and one of the few people left in the world who still believed in him. Troy wouldn’t let him down. Even if he didn’t believe in second chances, even if he didn’t believe he’d deserve one if such a thing did exist, he was going to rise to the occasion. He wouldn’t - couldn’t - let himself do anything else, no matter how big a part of him wanted to kick and stomp and shout. “That’s okay. I got you, big guy,” he said, in a way that he hoped was soothing but mostly sounded gruff. “C’mon, up, up.”
His body was limp under Troy’s hands. Malleable. Ilya dutifully raised his arms when Troy slid his hands under his armpits, hauling him up and sending the contents of Ilya’s lap onto the floor. His phone went skittering across the bathroom tile with a soft “ope!” from Ilya. It was almost comical, if it wasn’t immediately frustrating. Troy went to scoop it up, balancing his captain on his hip, and found the screen totally destroyed; cracked with multicolored lines running through it. No way to unlock it, or tell what was happening, beyond an insistent buzz that Troy couldn’t stop, even after a few desperate seconds of mashing where he thought buttons might be.
“Sole e nees go,” Ilya said, mournfully.
“Yeah, buddy, cellphone go. It’s okay. You can use mine once we’re out of here.”
Part of him knew the logical thing was to go out there and raise hell. Find the bartender, the manager, the bouncer. Call the police, maybe an ambulance, and let them take Roz from there. Maybe pull up the cameras, see if the sick fuck who dropped something in his captain’s drink is still lingering around, waiting for Ilya to stumble out of the bathroom, waiting to-
Fuck. Okay. Focus.
Troy wasn’t the kind to trust easy; you learn not to be, when the man who was supposed to love you more than anyone else regularly kicked the shit out of you. After that, you learn pretty quick there’s no one really in the world who's truly safe.
He didn’t like the idea of depending on strangers' goodwill to keep them safe. He wanted Roz out of here, far away from any possible prying eyes or cameras or wandering hands. He wanted them both somewhere safe, where Troy could think of what to do next. Maybe call Harris.
For some sudden, inexplicable reason, he suddenly missed Harris like a limb. He hadn’t come out tonight, needing to finish some chore or another, but he was a light sleeper. If Troy called, he’d answer. That was one thing he was certain of.
“Get home, call Harris,” Troy told himself. It’s a plan. Simple. Two steps. “Get home, call Harris.”
Ilya’s body started to slump forward, his feet dragging listlessly against the tile. When Troy looked at him, his eyes were far away and hazy. “Hey,” Troy said. “Rozanov. Look at me for a second, okay? You gonna throw up?”
“Tired,” Ilya said. “Not going to…throw. Myashane?”
“That’s good, cap,” Troy reassured him. “You’re doing good. Hey, can you help me out a bit? Go ahead and get your arm around me, man. That’s it.”
He shifted them both, until Ilya was leaning heavily against Troy’s back. It took a bit of prodding, but he finally got the message and hefted his bulk up higher on Troy’s waist. Ilya’s thighs wrapped around his hips with Troy’s hands holding him under the knees. A fireman’s carry might have been simpler, but he had this horrible thought of Ilya throwing up while upside down and choking to death.
Besides, the car wasn’t far. Ilya always brought his when they went out, always parked close by; he liked a fast getaway.
He ignored the burning in his thighs as he hauled 220 pounds of man through the crowd and out the front door. Nobody tried to stop them; maybe they assumed a real attacker would be more discreet. Maybe they just didn’t care. Both possibilities sat heavily in Troy’s gut. He resolved to think about it later, when it was safe.
When they were safe.
The cold night air hit his face, refreshing after the warmth of the bar. He inhaled deep, jostling Ilya on his back and prompting a low groan. “You still with me, man? Where are your keys?”
There was no answer but the smack of Ilya’s lips, a heavy sigh.
The plan, all two steps of it, was beginning to unravel in Troy’s mind already. Was it normal for Ilya to be so still? Was he supposed to be breathing like that, so slow it seemed like a physical effort? Rozanov, who once tried to reset his own shoulder rather than miss time on the ice, wouldn’t appreciate Troy dragging him to the hospital but maybe that was okay. Troy could ask for forgiveness when Ilya was actually capable of talking.
Troy was fumbling one hand backward to dig into the pocket of Ilya’s tight leather jacket for the keys to the Porsche when he heard the crunch of footsteps behind them.
“Hey,” a voice said. “What’s, uh. Hey.”
He craned his neck to look back, blinking when he saw Shane Hollander standing under the beam of a streetlight. He was staring at Troy, hands held in loose fists at his side. For some bizarre reason, his shoes didn’t match.
Troy had met Shane Hollander before.
Of course he had. Several of their older reactions still filled him with shame to this day. But rarely had they ever been face to face off the ice and never in social situations that didn’t involve the League.
He was shorter than Troy remembered, and broader than he expected. He’d always had the idle thought that half of Hollander’s bulk was padding from his gear. The width of his chest and arms surprised him, though not as much as his sudden appearance did. Troy jerked his chin in acknowledgement as Ilya twitched against his shoulder, like a bug caught on its back. “Hey.” Troy cleared his throat, hoping he sounded more steady than he felt. “Hey, Hollander. Just taking him home.”
“He looks rough.” The tone in his voice was odd. Shane stepped forward once, paused, then took two more quick steps towards them, until they were close enough that Troy could have reached out and touched him. “What happened, Barrett?”
“Just a rough night,” Troy began, just for Shane to cut in, echo -
“Just a rough night. Wow.”
Troy stared at him. Shane stared back, clenching and unclenching his fists. His jaw was set. Hollander looked, Troy thought, like he wanted to hit him. The expression was gone as soon as he registered it, his handsome face blank and smooth once more. Troy took a step back. Hollander took a step forward. “Maybe I should help,” Hollander said, evenly. “Get him home, I mean. I don’t mind.”
Dread bubbled in Troy’s gut. Things were clicking together and not in a way he particularly liked. “I got it,” he insisted. “Really, man, go enjoy your night.”
“It’s fine. I want to. He looks heavy. Here, let me help.”
“Stop,” Troy said, as Hollander’s arms went up. His grip tightened on his captain’s legs. Ilya’s bulk, which minutes ago felt like an unfathomable burden, now seemed negligible. It was the most important thing in the world that Troy was carrying him. It was the most important thing in the world that Troy kept carrying him.
“Barrett.”
“Why are you here, Hollander? Montreal is two hours away from Ottawa. It’s the middle of the night. So what the fuck are you doing here?”
“Give him to me, Barrett,” Hollander said, instead of answering Troy’s question. “I’ll make sure he gets home safe.”
Shane shuffled forward, arms outstretched and Troy was thinking about Dallas. Thinking about his smiling face and bright eyes and the way the same money that bought Troy’s beer and dive bar fries bought radio fucking silence, after…after everything. They’d been assholes together, yeah. That had never been in question. But he’d never expected violence from Dallas. Not the sort of violence they didn’t get paid for. It was an open wound to this day, how Troy had looked into that friendly face near daily and never knew what he was truly capable of.
He’s looking at Shane Hollander now, his thin mouth set in a thinner line, and wondering if anyone knew what he was capable of, really. Troy was thinking about Canada’s wunderkind turned regular goddamn wunder or whatever the fuck. How it made sense, in a twisted way. All the pamphlets and victim advocacy statements Troy had read said so. It’s not really about sex, it’s about power, you don’t need to be gay to want…to want to do the sort of things he imagined Shane Hollander might want to do to an unconscious and vulnerable Ilya Rozanov.
Over what, he thought, feeling insane. That stupid rivalry? Over the Centaurs finally managing to eke out a victory over the Metros last week? It made about as much sense as anything else in the world.
He could Ilya’s breath on the nape of his neck; his mouth was open against Troy’s skin, panting. He slurred something out, then exhaled slowly, like it was difficult to breathe. It put Troy’s hackles back up, shoulders almost to his ears as he shook his head. It didn’t matter why. It only mattered that it wouldn’t. Not while Troy was around. Not again.
“Go fuck yourself, Hollander. Whatever you want, it can wait until morning.”
Shane Hollander was a statue, staring at Troy without unblinking. His jaw worked quietly, like he was chewing on something with his empty mouth. His eyes were dark, and quiet. For a moment, they just stared at each other. “Give him to me, Barrett,” Shane said finally, low and cold. “I won’t ask again.”
“Fuck,” Troy said, “you.”
And he turned on his heel, breaking into a jog. Ilya was fucking heavy, but Troy wasn’t a slouch. He’d spent years making his body strong, training it to be something capable of doing what he wanted it to do, when he needed it to.
He’d spent even longer running from trouble. He was good at that; running away might have been the only thing in this world Troy was really, truly good at.
His hands were looped under Ilya’s massive thighs, thumb jabbed through the keyring. He turned, shoving Ilya against the car, pinning him between the obnoxious orange paint job and Troy’s back so he could brace, one hand unwinding to thumb at the fob buttons until the car came to life with a cheerful sound, a flash of headlights. The same free hand fumbled at the car door, his eyes falling shut with a relieved groan when he managed to yank it open. He squatted and Ilya fell back unceremoniously into the back seat, long legs now sprawling over Troy’s shoulders. He made a soft, pained sound. “Barrett?” He asked, blinking.
“Yeah, Cap, it’s me. It’s Troy. I got you man, don’t worry, it’s alright. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, okay? Just try to relax.” The words spilled out of him, even as Ilya’s eyes closed again, his head dropping to the seat.
“Shawn-yah,” he said. “Moy…loo…bee…me.”
“Sure, Cap, loop those fucking bees, you got it.” He carefully folded Ilya’s legs, shutting the door once he was sure he wasn’t accidentally going to break the man’s million dollar feet. He took a second, still squatting, to press his face to his knees. His back ached, his arms ached; his collar was dusted with drool, and he was pretty sure he stank of fear, sweat, and beer. “Be a man,” he whispered to himself. “Up, come on, you can do it. Up.”
He got up.
Then immediately went down as Shane fucking Hollander’s hands found his wrists, trying to wrench the keys from his hand. They both hit the ground hard; his hands on Troy and Troy’s knee in his belly.
Troy clenched down harder, the metal biting into the meat of his palm as rough, calloused fingers dug into his. Blood roared in his ears. The look on Hollander’s face was crazed; blood had pooled in his cheeks, making him look starkly white and flushed all at the same time. “I’ll fucking kill you,” Shane said, wildly.
He pulled Troy’s wrist to his mouth; snapped his teeth as if trying to bite into his clenched fist like an apple. Troy’s other hand found Hollander’s face and tried to shove him back, bracing his feet on the asphalt and scrambling for purchase. Fighting was always different on land than on the ice. Like an astronaut relearning how to walk, Troy had to dig on his childhood memories; remembering how to push and shove at someone stronger than you, how to jab at the soft spots. He didn’t need to win, he knew that. He just needed to get away.
“You piece of shit; he said you changed,” Hollander continued.
It sounded like a mockery, the way Hollander said it. Like it wasn’t all Troy wanted, to be someone different than who he was. As if it hadn’t been a fucking revelation, for Ilya to hold his shoulder and tell Troy he could be any sort of man that he wanted to be.
“Fuck you,” Troy said, no longer afraid, suddenly wildly furious. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. I’m getting him to a hospital, Hollander, and you and the fucking Metros can die mad about it.” He kicked out hard, bucked his hips as he rolled onto his side, and sent Hollander skidding halfway across the sidewalk. There were bitemarks over his knuckles, his wrist, where Hollander had tried to pry Troy’s fist open with his teeth, but the key was still his. He hadn’t lost yet.
Hollander scrambled up, aimed for the car this time instead of Troy, bracing against the passenger door. “You’re taking him to the hospital?” He demanded. Emphasis on you and him and hospital. They were both heaving for breath, staring at each other, rumpled and now a bit bloody. He’d gotten Hollander good across the mouth; Hollander had chewed on Troy like he was trying to bite through them.
“Yes, damn it, that’s what I’m trying to do! Have you seen him? Someone must have…have slipped him something, when I wasn’t looking. He needs a hospital.” Troy’s voice broke, blinking hard against the sting of almost tears. “Fuck, Hollander, he really needs a hospital. And I can’t…I need to make sure he’s okay. God. Fuck. Fuck.” He kicked wildly at the tire, for lack of anything better to do with his body.
“Barrett,” Hollander said, his own voice dropping, and suddenly they were both fucking crying, staring at each other in bewilderment as if seeing the other for the first time. “You’re not trying to hurt him?”
Troy reared back. Nausea hit him like a wave; or maybe it was the delayed effect of their impromptu wrestling session, flooding back now without adrenaline to kill the pain. “No. He’s my friend. He’s my best fucking friend, I just want him to be alright.” He paused, watching Hollander’s chest heave, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “You’re not trying to hurt him?”
Hollander laughed once, a bitter, angry sound. He wiped at his face with the backs of his palms like a child. “No,” he said. “He’s my best friend. I just want him to be okay.”
Neither of them could fully trust the other even after that. They settled for locking the doors again, each of them taking point at their respective sides; Shane standing with his hand ready to open the passenger, Troy ready to slide into the driver’s seat. Like a face off, they both ducked for the car the second it was unlocked, neither willing to let the other be alone with Ilya for even a second.
Rozanov was not quite sleeping in the backseat; he’d rolled himself onto his back in their absence, eyes half-open and breathing slow. Hollander let out a desperate, punched out sound when he saw him, twisting in his seat before Troy could even turn the car on. Hollander leaned over the center console to pet Ilya’s cheek, forcing a smile despite the obvious tremble in his bottom lip. “Oh,” he whispered. “Ilya, baby. God.”
He began to cry in earnest as Ilya’s hand came up to brush sluggishly against Shane’s. Rather than push him away, Ilya seemed to lean into the touch, eyes falling shut. “Mm,” he said. “Mish. Mya mish.”
“Yeah, baby. I’m here. You did so good, calling me. Thank you.”
“Mhm,” he said, again, more emphatically.
“I know you’re tired, baby. That’s okay.” Shane fumbled for the seatbelt, dragging it over Ilya’s slumped body until it clicked into place. Troy caught Shane’s face from the corner of his eye as he continued to pet and murmur soothingly, a string of “shh, it’s alright. It’s okay. Your friend is here. Your boyfriend is here. You’re good here.”
“Boyfriend?” Troy couldn’t help but ask. The car thrummed to life with a twist of the key. He tried not to let his hands shake, tried not to be nervous as he gently put his foot on the gas of a million dollar machine, his best friend half unconscious in the backseat and the man he’d just tried to murder with his bare hands cooing at him sweetly from the passenger side.
Hollander didn’t bother to turn around. Just ducked his head and said in a strange voice, “yes, I know so. Absolutely.”
“Right,” Troy said. “Right, that makes sense.”
“Boyfriend. And best friend,” he added, a bit coolly. “Earlier, you said he was your best friend. That’s fine. But you should know I’m his best friend.”
“Jesus,” Troy said. “Got it, man. No problem.”
“Good.”
They sat in silence, the road beneath them swallowed and spit out by Ilya’s European tires and chrome rims. “He talks about you a lot,” Shane said, quietly, when the lights of Ottawa General finally began to shine into the dark car, illuminating the dark interior.
“Yeah?” Troy asked, tentative.
“Yeah. He says you’re a good guy.”