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To be honest, Hayden’s at a bit of a loss.
Like went through all five stages of grief and is now sitting in some fugue confused acceptance on a barstool at Shane’s counter, drawing his finger through and disturbing the concentric circles of his beer’s condensation kind of loss. Shane always gives him a coaster.
There’s a stray droplet in the distance between the glass and himself, and he presses the tip of his thumb into it. He knew Shane was gay; he’d come out to him before the start of the season, and it wasn’t a complete surprise because there’s only so many times your single buddy can turn down double dates with women Hayden would consider smokin’ hot if he wasn’t married to the ultimate babe and mother of his children, without raising some suspicion.
And it’s fine — Hayden really couldn’t care less which way his friend swings. What he’s caught up on though is the specific who his friend is swinging for. Okay, not the right word, he thinks to himself.
He rubs his thumb dry on his pant leg and downs the rest of his drink in a single swallow.
Rozanov.
It makes sense in a weird way, and that’s a startling revelation in of itself that he wonders if he did get hit harder than he thought in that shit show of a game.
Of course he’d would find his match in the only other person who could rival him on the ice. Shane has never done a thing in his life by halves.
Hayden tosses the glass bottle into the pull-out recycling bin and tears a paper towel off the roll while he’s up to take care of the residue left behind; he wasn’t raised in a barn after all. Rozanov’s glass sits empty at the counter’s edge, but he decides to leave it be. He might want more to drink after he leaves — Hayden knows he probably would if roles were reversed.
He hears Rozanov before he sees him, padding down the hall with a small duffle over his now-bare shoulder. “This should be everything,” he says, then hands it to Hayden.
It’s heavier than he’s expecting and there’s a navy bundle preventing the zipper from being closed all the way. Shane’s Metros sweatshirt, if he had to guess. “What the hell is in here?”
The Russian shrugs. “Toothbrush, toothpaste, other toiletries, change of clothes. Also his glasses and the book he was reading in case the hospital is boring.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
“No, it’s better than I would’ve packed for him.”
Rozanov raises a brow.
“Okay, you don’t need to say it.”
“Say what? I say nothing.”
“Well the obviously is written all over your face.” The tone of his voice is prickly even to his own ears. Maybe he’s rounded back to the anger stage all over again. Why the hell didn’t Shane tell him?
Hayden tugs the bag over his shoulder and passes by Ilya on his way to the door, then stops dead in his tracks when he realizes what this looks like.
“I’m not mad,” he says facing the door still.
“Okay.”
“I mean,” he pivots back. “I’m surprised as hell, but the more I think about it, the more it somehow makes sense? I don’t know.”
“Pike,” Ilya cuts into his spiral of words. “Why are you telling me this?”
His hands swing out to his sides as if to ask, what, isn’t it obvious? “I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me, that’s all. God forbid I want my best friend’s, what, boyfriend?”
Rozanov nods.
Hayden swallows. “Okay, yeah, god forbid I want my best friend’s boyfriend to think I hate him or something.” Then he quickly adds, “Off the ice.”
“Of course. I can still dislike you as hockey player and tolerate you as person.”
He feels his cheeks warm in frustration before he realizes Rozanov is just trying to get a rise out of him—
—and succeeding.
“Right,” he chokes the word out.
“What will you tell Shane?” Rozanov has his hands clasped in front now, swaying awkwardly.
It’s a good question, he’ll give him that. Hayden’s not sure he’s thought that far ahead yet. “I doubt I’m going to see him tonight. I’ll probably leave his bag at the nurses’ station or with Mr. and Mrs. H if they’re there.”
“Okay.”
“Listen, man.” He’s not sure what’s compelling him forward. Maybe it’s the post-game exhaustion hitting him so hard that his inhibitions are far out of reach, or an attempt to alleviate himself of some subconscious guilt of outing Rozanov, and Shane in a way too. “I know you have his parents’ contact, but would you want me to text you when I get there? If there’s any updates?”
Ilya looks skeptical of the olive branch, but pads into the kitchen for his phone that he left on the counter for Hayden to put his number in.
He sends himself a text from the Russian’s phone — the devil emoji with the Russian flag, and the one of a dark-haired guy with his head down that’s always reminded him of Shane — then replies on his own with the 100 and a hockey stick. “Now you have my number too. You know, in case you need anything.”
For the first time that night, a real wicked grin grows across Rozanov’s face. It’s the kind of expression Hayden’s more accustomed to seeing on him.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing,” he says, making an effort to tamper his face.
“You’re not allowed to text me about hockey,” Hayden says. “Unless it’s something to do with Shane.”
“Is that so?”
“I deal with enough of your chirps in passing on the ice, I don’t need you to funnel them through a direct line.”
Ilya raises his hands, then extends his right out to Hayden. “You have my word.”
A handshake feels oddly formal for the occasion. A hug is probably too friendly for where they’re at, but Hayden doesn’t put much mind to it when he pulls Rozanov in. Pressing Rozanov’s shoulder into his cheekbone is a sore reminder that his face does in fact still hurt, and he wonders absently how much the bruise has developed since he looked in the mirror last.
“Thank you for being good friend to Shane.”
He says it into Hayden’s ear, and when he pulls away he claps a hand to Rozanov’s shoulder. “Of course, man. You don’t need to thank me for that.”
He lets his mind drift on the ride to Montreal General. The swelling in his cheek makes his eye feel a little funny as he drives, but he can see out of it fine.
“Hey Siri, call Jackie.”
“Calling Jackie Pike (ICE).”
The line rings only once before she picks up. The truth of the night sits like a stone in his throat. Usually he confides everything in Jackie, but this is something else.
“Hayd, is everything okay?” She asks.
“Yeah, sorry,” he says when he realizes he hasn’t spoken a word yet.
“How’s Shane doing?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m maybe fifteen out from the hospital.”
“Oh, okay.”
“I just wanted to hear your voice again.” Hayden takes his left hand off the wheel and uses it to brace his head against the door. A perk of driving this late at night is that the highways are more clear. Cars are out, but there’s no traffic. “How are the kiddos?”
“Arthur and Amber have been out like lights since seven,” she says. “Ruby and Emma wanted to stay up for the game but ended up passing out on the couch before the end of first period.”
“So they didn’t see?”
“No.”
“That’s good,” Hayden sighs. His family and hockey are his two favorite things, and in that order. It’s nights like these where he wishes they could exist separately, that somehow the connections that feel otherwise intrinsic between them could be severed and he could worry about playing good hockey with his good buddy Shane for the sake of the sport, instead of worrying about playing good hockey with his good buddy Uncle Shane for the sake of the sport and not getting brutally injured while his family watches.
“I’m sorry about the game,” Jackie says.
“It’s fine,” he says. “We got them last time, and we’ll get them next time. At least it was a home game. It would suck exponentially worse if we were stuck in fucking Dallas.”
“Very true.”
“Not just because it’s Dallas, but because I get to come home to you,” he adds.
“Also very true.” He can hear the smile forming around her words. “And also swear jar. Don’t think I didn’t catch that.”
The hurt that’s been weighing on his chest cracks open with that; He loves her so much. “Can I ask your advice on something?”
“Of course, what’s going on?”
“Say you accidentally found something out about someone that they didn’t have the chance to tell you themselves — and it’s a really big deal. Like really big,” he adds because he doesn’t want to undersell it. “What would you do?”
“Is it a life or death, this person is in imminent mortal danger kind of thing?”
Hayden feels the joke at the tip of his tongue. Yes, because my best friend probably needs to get his head checked out, but it dissolves before he can muster the humor to say it. “No, no, nothing like that.”
“Is anyone else in danger?”
For the first time, it occurs to him that there could be an element of danger to this. Not for Shane, but for Rozanov. It’s not like Hayden lives under a rock; word about Russia has been gaining more momentum.
Other Russian players who go back and forth for the summer have had enough of a problem returning to North America for pre-season training with how their country is navigating international relations, or lack thereof. He didn’t play for Team Canada in Sochi, but he remembers the controversy a few years back about the Russian Federation banning the Pride House in the Olympic village.
But Rozanov hasn’t gone back to Russia since he played for Boston — so maybe he scored a magic visa in Ottawa and is working towards citizenship?
“Hayden, are you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Is someone else in danger?”
He puts his left hand back at ten on the wheel and merges over to the center lane for no real reason other than to remind himself he’s still driving. “I don’t know exactly.”
“You’re going to need to elaborate, honey.”
“If this thing went public, I think some people could stand to get hurt. But for right now, everything is okay, I think.”
“Is Shane some people?”
He nods, forgetting that she can’t see him.
“Hypothetically, let’s say yes,” she answers for him. “You’ve known Shane for a long time.”
“Yeah. Over ten years now.”
“So you know how he can be about opening up about things. Hell Hayden, you know him better than I do, and even I know that.”
“Swear jar,” he says.
“That’s my daily freebie,” she counters.
“Where’s mine then?”
“You played a game tonight. You are so far beyond your freebie.”
He groans because she’s knows him too well.
“Do you remember when Emma aced her last book report all by herself, and Mrs. Selinsky called to tell us before Em got her grade back?”
“Yeah?”
“And how ecstatic she was when she got to tell us on her own time, without us overwhelming her about it?”
It’s a hard thing to forget, Emma had been struggling with her reading comprehension in the first few weeks of the school year until a switch flipped, and her stress about English homework evolved into a love for reading. (She even got her own library card recently — it was a big day for her.)
“Yeah,” he echoes himself.
“Let Shane tell you about his book report.”
Hayden finds Yuna and David sitting in the waiting area of the surgical floor. She’s wide awake and scrolling on her phone while he’s nodded off on her shoulder. Fatigue is hanging at his own periphery, harder to ignore now the closer it gets to midnight.
“Mrs. H?”
She looks up, and it’s like he can see the puzzle pieces coming together in her head. Hayden. Shane’s duffle. Hayden was at Shane’s apartment, and someone else was also at Shane’s apartment. Two plus two equals four, and she knows that he knows about Shane and Rozanov.
“Hayden,” she says. David stirs as she stands, but settles with his head propped up by the wall instead of his wife. Yuna pulls him in for a hug, but it feels careful. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course, Mrs. H.”
“Yuna, please. I think we’ve known each other long enough now.”
He tries to smile, but he’s afraid it looks more like a grimace. “Are there any updates on how he’s doing?”
“The surgery is done already,” she tells him. “They just have him in the ICU until he comes out from under the anesthesia.”
“That’s good. It went good, right?”
“It did. Doctors say he can be back on the ice in as early as four weeks, non-contact, of course. Another four to six after that and he should be cleared to return to full play.”
“Just in time for the end of the season,” Hayden does the math in his head. “Hopefully playoffs too, if we make it.”
“I’m sure you all will rally.”
He sets the duffle on the seat next to Yuna’s. “I brought some of his stuff. I’m not sure how long they’re planning to keep him, but his phone charger is in there and some changes of clothes I think. I don’t know exactly, I didn’t pack it.”
Yuna keeps her composure scarily well. It’s only because he knows how to read Shane so well that he can detect a slight quiver of discomfort by his mere glance at the big, red, Russian elephant in the room. “I’m sure he’ll be glad you brought it.”
“Oh, uh,” he begins very eloquently. “I’m not planning on staying, and you don’t need to tell him that it was me.”
Her resolve flattens, and his own words hit his ears. That didn’t come out how he meant it.
“No, god no, not because of anything Mrs. H, I promise. I’m just beat. Literally.”
“I can see that.”
“Whatever he wants to tell me, whenever he wants to tell me, that’s up to him,” he says. “You guys can take credit for the bag, or he can, it does’t matter to me.”
She casts her eyes down to the bag, then back up to him.
“I need to go home to my wife and scrub that game, actually, this whole night out of my mind,” Hayden lets his shoulders relax. “If he’s still admitted in the morning, I’ll come back during visiting hours before practice.”
“He should still be. I don’t think they’ll discharge him until the evening just to be safe,” she says. “It’ll be important for him to not get stressed out in his recovery.”
The implication is clear. “Of course,” he answers. It’s funny how the truth has literally become baggage. “But I mean, it’s Shane we’re talking about. He’s going to be stressed about missing hockey.”
😈🇷🇺🙇🏻
🏒💯
He’s out of surgery.
👍🏻
Three days later, after MTL loses 1-4 against the Admirals:
you were out on ice a lot tonight
what was your toi
23 mins
Why?
wow
lot of time to do so little
I’m blocking your number.
😘