Archive of Our Own

* 🐈‍⬛ *

Ilya moves into his new dorm room promptly.

He doesn’t care to spend more time than he has to in Russia, with his judgmental father and jealous brother. It’s not very sophomore-like of him — his teammates asked if he wanted to room with them off campus — but it’s undeniably convenient. With his scholarship covering everything, he doesn’t have to worry about silly things like monthly rent or utility bills. The dining hall is also a good ten minutes away for when he’s too lazy to reheat or cook things in the air fryer he may or may be allowed to have.

(He’s pretty sure it’s okay. It’s those tricky toasters you have to be careful with.)

When it’s time to roll out of bed to head to class, he doesn’t have to worry about taking the bus or trying to find parking either. Honestly, he’s not sure why more students don’t try to do this all four years. He signed up early enough to get his own private room too, though he’ll have to cross his fingers that the guy he’s sharing the bathroom with isn’t disgusting like the last one.

If he ends up hating it, he’s not particularly concerned. He’s got all his ducks lined up in a row. Perfect class schedule, perfect dorm, perfect fuckbuddy arrangement.

He’s pretty positive that his “getting along” with Shane Hollander wasn’t Coach Wiebe instructing them to really get along — carnally, one could say — but that’s what happened. And he hasn’t so much as considered hooking up with anyone else since.

Their sexual chemistry is peak and the sneaking around, while sometimes irritating, adds an exciting element to their dalliances that none of his other hookups could replicate. Safe to say, Ilya is addicted and he’s looking forward to getting his next hit.

This year Hollander is paying for an overpriced studio apartment off campus which is just icing on the cake.

They’ll still have to be careful in the locker room around the other boys, but now Hollander has a place of his own where they can be as loud as they want. Last year, Hollander was so uptight about disturbing their roommates. Ilya thought if they wanted to listen, let them listen. They always made sure to put on a good show.

Ilya texted him already, hoping they can see each other before classes begin. Hollander hasn’t answered though. Last time Ilya checked, it looked like Hollander had just packed up his car and was getting ready to drive. It’s a ten hour drive from Ottawa, assuming perfect traffic conditions. Hollander’s story went up fifteen hours ago — not that he’s keeping track.

His memory is just good like that.

It’s not like he’s insulted. He’ll probably get a text back tomorrow with an apology.

Sorry, I was tired from the drive.

Sorry, I got caught up in unpacking my things.

Sorry, of course I want to see you, when are you free?

Ilya smiles to himself. Yeah, this year is going to be good.

Last year was a bit of a nervous experiment. He came in a bit too chaotic, unsure whether he wanted to make a big impression or he wanted a cool, unbothered appearance. He didn’t want to be buddy buddy with the boys. At least, not on the level that they’d ask him about his parents or what his life in Russia was like.

Some of the guys like Marlow and Hammy got it, but others — in nicer words — took it as Ilya being a self-protective asshole.

Admittedly, that description isn’t wrong, per say. Although Wiebe was probably nicer about it than he had to be when he said it. Ilya doesn’t remember exactly how that meeting went anymore.

Ilya and Hollander were granted the A’s toward the end of their freshman season. As far as Ilya heard, Hollander was told he needed to look more alive, have more fun. 

And, well, Ilya needed to stop putting on an act and be real with his teammates.

He made no promises, but he’s certainly hoping that locking down his FWB arrangement with Hollander will help take the edge off. He knows, with a smugness, that getting laid certainly helps Hollander chill out.

Despite his complaints about Ilya leaving hickies in too obvious of locations, he always played a bit better the day after getting laid.

So it’s an arrangement that surely benefits the both of them.

If only Hollander would answer his damn text message.

Oh, well. Ilya looks at the clock. He has so much time to burn. Maybe he shouldn’t have returned back to campus so early, after all.

He texts Hollander again.

Back yet?

Let’s hang out tomorrow night

We can watch scary movie and I can protect you 😏

Ilya sighs. Hollander hasn’t so much as looked at their chat since they last talked. Which, fair, he supposes. Ilya knows he’s handsome and all, and most people would love a good Netflix and chill with him, but he’d much prefer that Hollander gets back to Michigan without wrapping his mom SUV around a pole.

A small positive: the gym is probably open.

If he can’t burn off some of his energy with Hollander, the treadmill will have to suffice.

*

The rest of the weekend passes. Classes have started. Ilya doesn’t hear a peep back from Hollander, which isn’t like him.

Hollander isn’t the type to be glued to his phone but he’s certainly not the type to ignore people for days either. Even when the team’s group chat comes back alive, there’s nothing. Ilya tries to tamp down the concern. He considers asking Hollander’s old roommate Pike if he’s heard anything, but decides against it.

If things really come down to Ilya needing to do a wellness check, he could. Hollander may not have gotten around to divulging his specific apartment number, but Ilya has a general idea where he lives.

He plays with the idea in his head for a long moment.

It’s such a wild idea that it might just get him results.

Ilya shoves his feet into a pair of shoes. He’s one foot out the student housing building when he stops.

He doesn’t have a car, let alone an American driver’s license. Even if he wanted to hunt down Hollander, he’s very limited on his way to get there. He could walk, but if he succeeded in his mission, he might be opening himself up to looking crazy.

He’s not crazy. He’s just never had a hookup — let alone a teammate — ghost him like this before. That’s it! The unusual rejection is what’s throwing Ilya off his game.

The door shuts behind him.

Exhausted, Ilya drags a hand down his face.

He shouldn’t be doing this.

As he makes to turn around, something brushes against his ankles. Ilya jumps. At his feet, a black cat peers up at him. It tries to rub up against him again. Hesitantly, Ilya leans down. The cat allows Ilya to pet him. Ilya even thinks he hears the thing purr.

“So soft,” Ilya coos. “Good kitty.”

The cat enjoys the praise.

With Ilya squatting, the cat is able to prop its front paws up on Ilya’s shoulders, using him as a way to stretch.

Ilya chuckles. He drags his hand down the cat’s back all the way down to his featherduster tail. “What a big kitty.”

The cat doesn’t like that as much. It seems to glower at him, even.

He tilts his head at the cat in curiosity. Briefly, the black cat reminds him of Hollander. It has that look.

“Sorry, you are so small. I almost did not see you,” Ilya apologizes. He rubs between the cat’s ears softly, then tries to grab its face on purpose to be playful.

The cat rears back on its hind legs and swats at him.

Part of Ilya wishes he could scoop the cat up in his arms and take him inside. He’s never considered him to be much of a cat person, but he supposes he’s never really taken the time to play with one before now.

Ilya brushes the dirt off his knees.

“Bye bye,” he tells the cat with a little wave. Ilya scans his keycard to open the door. The cat butts his head against Ilya’s ankle. “No, no. Just me.”

The cat makes a chattering noise at him. 

Ilya just gently pushes his foot against the cat’s chest, preventing it from darting forward. It’s a shame he doesn’t speak cat. It would probably come in handy for a time like this.

Through the glass, Ilya tries not to be affected by seeing the cat continue to watch him. It even puts a tiny paw on the glass, as if begging to be let inside.

Ilya picks at a finger nail.

If he sees the cat again tomorrow, he’ll leave some food outside for it. A college campus is no place for a cat to survive outside. He thinks some of the other students in his building might have service animals, but he surely thought most of them would be dogs.

He takes a few steps away, then looks back. The cat is sprawled out in front of the door. It flops in the other direction realizing Ilya has no intent to let it inside.

Ilya looks at his phone. No new notifications.

Disappointed in the progression of events, Ilya orders takeout to be delivered as a pick me up. When he goes back downstairs to retrieve the food, the cat is gone.

*

Helloooooo Hollander

Are you alive?

Ilya drops his phone harder face down onto the table without meaning to. Sitting across from him, Marlow fixes him with a look.

“You wanna talk about it?” Marlow asks.

Ilya stuffs a french fry in his mouth.

“What? A girl not text you back or something?” Marly jokes, not realizing he hit the nail on the head. He steals a fry from Ilya’s plate. He freezes. “Wait. Did a girl not text you back?”

“No,” Ilya denies with a huff.

“So what’s the sulking for?”

“You. You are asking too many questions.” Ilya kicks Marlow underneath the table childishly. 

Marlow flinches. “Ouch, asshole. Just call her if you’re so torn up about it.”

“I cannot,” Ilya admits before he can stop himself. Ilya kicks Marlow again, watching his friend’s expression go from amused to manic. “Do not say anything.”

“I’m not!” Marly tries to swing his legs back under his seat where Ilya can’t reach as easily. “Good for you, man. Found a girl who can keep your attention. Maybe she can keep you on a leash too.”

Ilya scowls. “I cannot be leashed.”

Marlow shrugs. “You sorta look like if she said jump, you’d ask her how high. For real, just call her. Girls like when you reach out to them first.”

“I already did,” Ilya grits out.

“And she didn’t pick up?”

Ilya’s shoulders slump. “Well. It was technically a text. Many.”

“Ouch.” Marlow winces. “She’s leaving you on read?”

“Delivered.”

“That’s not good.” Marly pauses. “You do something to piss her off?”

“Why do you think I did something?” Ilya narrows his eyes.

Marlow holds up both his hands to show his innocence. “Just asking. Also, you have a pretty good track record at pissing girls off. They don’t usually like to hear you brag about your roster.”

“I do not have a roster,” Ilya replies. Anymore.

Marlow whistles. “Wow. You really like her then.”

Beside Marlow, Hammersmith knocks their shoulders together. “Whipped,” he sings, teasingly.

“Not whipped,” Ilya corrects instantly. “Concerned. She usually does not ignore me.”

“Oh so that’s it,” Marlow says, as if that solves the problem. “You’re just not on the end of being ghosted and it’s driving you nuts.”

“If she’s got him this hooked, maybe we should help get her back,” Hammy adds.

“You think she’ll talk to us?” Marlow asks. 

“It’s worth a shot if she’s driving him this crazy.” Hammersmith shrugs.

“I am still here,” Ilya asserts. He reaches across the table and waves his hand between their faces.

“Yeah, we know,” the two of them say together.

“We’re strategizing how to wingman you.”

“We’re trying to help get your girl back.”

“Unless,” Marlow says sadly, “she really is done with his ass.”

“How did she sound the last time you guys talked?”

Ilya thinks. “She did not seem mad at me.”

“Maybe she’s just busy,” Pike chimes in suddenly.

“Who asked you?” Ilya snarks.

“We were all told to come here for a team meeting. I literally was invited,” Pike replies, rolling his eyes.

Beside Pike, Boiziau pats his friend’s shoulder. “Mon ami, you know he just likes to get under your skin.”

Pike stabs his lunch with a fork. His face says he knows, but his lips twitch like he wants to argue.

“You should surprise her with a grand romantic gesture,” Hunter, the team captain, suggests from the head of the table. Ilya swears the only reason he’s captain is because he’s the oldest. A dinosaur, basically, compared to the rest of the team.

“She does not like big, flashy things,” Ilya still replies.

Hunter taps his fork against his plate. Beside him, his boyfriend — the only person not on the team — gives him a look. When they’re done communicating with their eyes, Hunter turns back to Ilya. “A grand romantic gesture doesn’t have to be flashy, it just has to be meaningful.”

“We do not have that kind of relationship,” Ilya admits. He had been planning on addressing it. Eventually.

To do so during their first time reuniting would have come off too sudden. He and Hollander do not have serious conversations and Ilya, after not having seen Hollander for months, obviously had other priorities in mind. Another time, then, of course, was the plan. He would get Hollander comfortable, woo him a bit romantically in addition to sexually, then fish to see if Hollander would be interested in something explicitly exclusive, at least.

Ilya can’t say he wants Hollander to be his boyfriend, but admittedly the thought of Hollander being intimate with other people brings out the ugly green monster inside Ilya.

Hollander is such a picky person. The idea that he would find other people worthy of his time in addition to Ilya is frankly concerning. Insulting, even. 

Would that mean Hollander was settling from the start? That Ilya was not enough?

He doesn’t let himself try to get to the bottom of the feeling. He knows, whatever it is, it will feel like too much.

“Seems like you want to,” Hammy comments.

Coach Wiebe appears, face scrunched as he takes a headcount. “Where’s Hollander?”

The entire team pauses.

“Oh, yeah, where is Holly?”

“Pike, Hollander didn’t come with you?”

“No, I actually haven’t heard from him.”

“Has anyone heard from him?”

Wiebe pinches the bridge of his nose. When he’s composed himself, he looks at both tables the team has taken up. “No one has heard from Hollander?”

For some reason, the news makes Ilya feel smug. So he’s not the only person that Hollander has been dodging. Then it sinks in. How has no one heard from Hollander? The situation may have changed from personal to concerning.

Wiebe pulls his phone out of his pocket. Then he’s putting it up against his ear, presumably calling Hollander. It must ring, and ring, and ring if Wiebe tapping his foot on the floor is any indication. He doesn’t look happy when looks at his screen next. Wiebe dials a second number.

Surprisingly, the team stays quiet.

“Hi, Mrs. Hollander. Brandon Wiebe here. I was calling because it seems that none of the boys have heard from Shane and he didn’t show up to our team lunch either,” Wiebe says. He takes one last glance at their table then walks a few steps away for privacy.

It’s sort of a moot point though. The team has never been so quiet before. Everyone is trying to eavesdrop.

“The last time I saw him. . . well, I haven’t seen Shane in person since last season ended. I don’t think any of the boys have seen him since the semester started, no. Oh. What was that? Oh. Okay, well, tell David I hope his brother gets better soon. Yes. That’s alright. I understand. Next time, just tell Shane to let me know. Okay. Bye, Yuna.”

Slightly dazed, Wiebe stands with both hands on his hips as he digests the conversation. He turns back to the team to see everyone scramble to look as though they hadn’t all been staring.

“Well, it seems Hollander had a family emergency. He’ll try to make it back for the start of training camp later this month,” Wiebe reports, though he doesn’t seem totally convinced.

Carmichael nudges at Pike. “You didn’t know?”

“I already said I haven’t heard from him,” Pike repeats.

Ilya rubs his own arm, as if getting rid of a chill. He looks at everyone’s faces. It seems everyone is equally confused in addition to having been frozen out of whatever Hollander decided to rush back to Ottawa for.

“Alright, everyone, just — if I hear something from the Hollanders that’s appropriate to share, I’ll let you guys know. Enjoy lunch and don’t forget to pick up a schedule on the way out. It will be emailed as well, but I don’t wanna hear that someone changed their email or you sent me to spam. Take a paper copy and initial the sign in sheet that you got it.”

In somber unison, everyone confirms their understanding with a, “Yes, coach.”

*

Following lunch, Marlow and Hammersmith insist on going back to Ilya’s dorm to check it out. For Marlow, a junior, and Hammy, a senior, it’s been some time since either one of them have had to visit the Quad.

“I miss having vending machines,” Hammersmith laments.

“I actually sort of miss the lounge. I took so many solid naps on those couches,” Marlow agrees.

Ilya walks an extra step ahead of his friends, pretending to be exasperated when in truth he’s fond.

He’s about to let the three of them in with his keycard when something winds around his ankles, nearly sending him face first into the door. He manages to catch himself, although not before he shocks another student who had just walked inside with the sound of his almost-faceplant. They shoot Ilya a confused glare, before continuing on their way.

The imprint of the tip of his nose and his two hands, fingers spread out wildly, are left on the door.

“Oh, hey, a cat,” Marlow points out dumbly. Immediately, he squats down, trying to pet the animal.

Perhaps sensing something strange about his best friend — Ilya wouldn’t necessarily disagree — it tries to hide behind Ilya’s legs. 

“Awe, c’mon. Cats usually love me,” Marly complains with a whine.

Ilya tries to extricate the cat from beneath his feet. “You almost tripped me,” he accuses it.

Hammersmith stands back and laughs.

“C’mere, kitty,” Marlow attempts again.

The cat tries to climb up Ilya’s sweatpants leg.

“Oh wow, it must really like you, Roz,” Hammersmith observes, impressed. He laughs harder watching Ilya try to pull the stray cat off. It’s a struggle since the cat’s claws are out and the soft material of his sweatpants apparently make it easy for the creature to climb him like a tree.

“You know this cat?” Marlow asks, like they’re talking about a person, not a thing.

Ilya, somewhat against his will, pats the cat on the head. He gave up easily. The cat seemed less inclined to stab its claws into Ilya’s delicate flesh when he stopped protesting.

“I pet it a few times, but I do not know this cat,” Ilya answers.

The cat nuzzles against Ilya’s chin, purring.

“Well, it really likes you,” Marlow says, jealous.

“You’ve been cat distribution systemed,” Hammersmith decides, impressed. He not so discretely raises his phone just enough to snap a picture.

“Hey!” Ilya protests, trying to smack the phone away. The cat digs its claws back into Ilya’s chest for the jostling. “Ow. Blyat!”

“Don’t scare him,” Marlow chides.

Ilya finds himself petting the cat anyway. “I was not trying to.”

Another student exits the building, forcing the trio to separate momentarily.

Putting the clingy cat back down is apparently easier said than done. It simply refuses to let Ilya part ways. His favorite outfit, he’s pretty sure, now has holes in it.

“Maybe we should’ve let him inside with us,” Hammersmith says, frowning. 

From the other side of the door, the cat is staring at them. Its eyes look impossibly big and vaguely pitiful. A dangerous combination.

“I cannot take care of a cat,” Ilya insists. “You take it home if you want it.”

“Don’t call him an it. He’s a boy. . . I think.” Hammy takes another look at the cat.

Ilya starts to leave his friends behind in the lobby.

“You actually want to take the cat home with us?” Marlow asks.

“I guess not. Maybe we could just leave some food for it outside when we leave. Hey, Roz, what food do you have in your dorm?”

On the way out, Marlow and Hammersmith leave out a paper plate with a can of tuna and a few cheetos on it. They’re both pretty sure if the cat is still in the area, the cat will get to it before the ants do. Or the campus squirrels.

Belatedly they realize the cat might have to fight off the squirrels.

The campus squirrels are intimidating, but Ilya is fairly confident that their new cat friend’s claws are a sufficient enough defense.

Come nighttime, Ilya takes a stroll down to the lobby to stretch his legs. If he also uses it as an opportunity to make sure there are no animal casualties near the front door, it’s only because that sort of thing would be gross to discover as a surprise tomorrow morning. It’s not, like, because he’s concerned about the cat or anything.

*

Ilya is waiting in line for his coffee order when the cat returns.

Its fluffy tail weaves its way around Ilya’s ankle as it sits directly on top of his foot. Ilya looks down at the animal, displeased. For something that probably weighs only 10 pounds, it certainly feels heavier than that.

Ilya takes a quick glance around. As much as instinctually he could kick his foot and hope for the best, he doesn’t think kicking a small animal will go over well with witnesses.

He could swear the cat smirks at him.

“You want up?” Ilya asks with a sigh.

Immediately, the cat launches into his arms. Ilya isn’t sure how it managed that. To make the situation worse, the cat starts to purr.

“Spoiled,” Ilya comments under his breath.

With some difficulty, Ilya manages to ignore all the stares — all the ooh’s and aah’s — around them. As soon as he’s able, he snatches his coffee and leaves.

“You cannot come to class with me,” Ilya tells the cat, trying to be firm. The cat only burrows closer against Ilya’s chest. “Cats are not allowed in lecture halls,” he says, though he supposes he’s not actually sure whether that’s a rule or common sense no one’s challenged yet to make it become a rule.

Perhaps a bit mean, but it feels like fair payback, to attempt to deposit the cat safely into one of the bushes outside his classroom building. The cat, of course, does not like this plan. It yells at Ilya and thrashes. Damn it. Ilya really should have put his coffee down first.

“You cannot come with me!” Ilya repeats.

The cat lands on its feet. It hisses at Ilya before swatting at his ankles. Ilya manages to mostly dodge it.

Surely this means the cat is tired of him, Ilya foolishly thinks. He lets his guard down while he turns to walk into the building, not noticing the tiny creature following behind. It doesn’t sit with him during his lecture. Instead, it waits outside the lecture hall, in the nice AC instead of the hot outside.

When Ilya emerges an hour later, unable to jump into his arms due to the sea of students trying to change classes, he ends up with a stowaway in his partially unzipped backpack.

Cats really must be liquid. He doesn’t understand how it found room to fit.

He feels the extra weight instantly, but can’t stop walking. He almost does, but a student behind him bumps into him, leaving him with no choice but to walk just long enough to separate himself from the crowd.

“Get out,” he orders the cat.

It looks up at him, pretending to be sweet.

“Wow.” Ilya looks to see Hammersmith standing in front of him. “I was just joking about the cat distribution system thing, but apparently that shit’s real.”

“What does that mean?” Ilya asks, feeling nearly defeated by fuzz and claws.

“Means in America, cat chooses you,” Hammersmith says cheesily. He clears his throat, realizing Ilya doesn’t get the joke. “It means instead of you going to adopt a cat, the cat just adopts the human it wants.”

“I do not want to be adopted,” Ilya says. He lays his backpack flat on the ground, hoping to coax the cat out so he doesn’t have to dump all his things out instead.

“Well, it sort of looks like you have.” Hammy shrugs. He glances at his watch. “I should probably keep walking to class. Good luck with. . . whatever you end up doing, I guess.”

“Are you going to get out?” Ilya genuinely asks the cat.

The cat does not respond. Instead, it lays down inside Ilya’s backpack and starts to groom itself instead.

Most likely Ilya does actually have other choices, but he chooses the easiest one. He accepts that this — at least for the time being — is his cat now.

As gentle as he can, he lifts the backpack up and puts both straps on his shoulders. He doesn’t have another class for a few hours. Originally he had planned on getting lunch and loitering there until it was time for his next lecture. The cat changes things.

Keeping his eyes forward, Ilya enters the dining hall with confidence. He doesn’t stop to make idle chatter like he usually might. He hopes the cat is behaving. The whispering behind him stopped so he’s assuming that the cat no longer has its head poking out from the opening. No one tries to tell him he’s not allowed to have a cat around the food either.

He takes his lunch to go.

By the time he gets back to his building, he can tell his back is sweating. Carrying around extra weight will do that. He can’t wait to turn the AC down to a ridiculous number to cool off.

Almost forgetting about his stowaway, Ilya leans back then forces himself to fall into the corner. The cat makes a tiny sound from his backpack. Not one of pain or irritation, just a reminder.

“Sorry,” Ilya mutters. He pats the bottom of his bag in apology.

The doors of the elevator almost slide shut, but a female student manages to delay their closing. Ilya looks away when she smiles at him, small and awkward.

It’ll be a short ride, but he pulls out his phone anyway, as is custom. He doesn’t want to seem weird or dazed for staring off into space nor does he want the girl to get the impression that he’s trying to get a glance at her.

“Oh.”

Ugh. Conversation. He hopes not for him.

“Your cat is really cute,” the girl says.

Ilya forces a tight smile. “Thank you.”

“Is she friendly?”

On one hand, the cat has clung to Ilya and purred loudly like a motorboat. On the other hand, the cat has also tried to maim him.

“Yes,” he says, though the shrug that accompanies his statement gives off a conflicted impression.

“Oh,” the girl says again. She reaches out her hand cautiously, allowing the cat to sniff at her finger. “She’s cute, like her owner.”

Abruptly, the cat hisses. It tries to swat at the girl, but misses, acting slower than usual since the backpack is an unusual barrier.

“Sorry,” Ilya apologizes. He takes one of the backpack straps off his shoulder and swings the pack and the cat far away from the girl.

“That’s okay. My cat at home doesn’t like strangers either,” the girl says, accepting the apology with grace. Oddly, she takes a step closer to him. “Maybe we could hang out some time. Then I wouldn’t be a stranger anymore.”

The cat makes a noise of protest, no longer sitting calm and patient in Ilya’s bag.

“Maybe not,” Ilya responds. 

Thankfully, the elevator doors open. It’s Ilya’s stop. He gets off before the girl can say anything else.

Ilya makes a beeline for his dorm. Once he has the door shut to his room, he drops his bag on the bed and rips it open. He looks at the cat who seems content, flopping around, mussing up his things. 

“That was embarrassing,” Ilya hisses at the cat.

The cat reaches out, pawing at Ilya’s nose. It makes a chattering noise.

“No, you cannot look cute now,” Ilya insists.

The cat rolls onto its back, showing Ilya its belly.

“Only good kitties get pets.” He pushes the cat’s paw away. The cat flops its little limbs around. If Ilya weren’t a bit mad, he’d think it was cute. “We are eating lunch then you are going back outside.”

It seems like the cat rolls its eyes at Ilya. Ilya tries not to look at it that way. 

Ilya unpacks his sandwich, feeding the cat a few scraps of chicken at a time. Google said it was okay. He thinks it was cooked mostly unseasoned. It looks bland and typically he avoids the little chicken bits that are offered at the salad bar for that reason. So it’s probably safe.

He’s probably not poisoning a wild animal accidentally.

The cat seems to be in much better spirits. It likes being hand fed, although a few times Ilya tries to leave the pieces on the desk. The cat merely noses it back against Ilya’s fingers. He relents, since it’s easier than getting tiny cat fangs digging into his hand.

Frankly, Ilya would much rather the thing be on the floor eating, but who is he kidding. The cat seems clean enough and it’s not like Ilya is afraid of animal germs.

With the sun coming in through the window, the cat flops around again, sunning itself. Ilya hates to admit that it is cute. It peers over at Ilya, looking somehow a different kind of adorable. Somehow more cat than usual, cartoonish even, with how round its little face seems to be.

Slowly, he pulls out his phone to take a picture. Graciously, the cat allows it.

I’m actually thinking about keeping it, Ilya realizes. He pushes away from his desk.

Before he can overthink it, he opens up his sad text thread with Hollander. He sends Hollander the picture.

Look at what you’re missing)))

Your replacement

Predictably, Hollander doesn’t respond.

When it’s time for him to leave for class again, the cat becomes uncooperative again. It doesn’t want to get back into Ilya’s backpack. It hisses and tries to climb up where Ilya can’t reach — only, Ilya can reach so it tries to dart underneath Ilya’s bed instead. Ilya gives it a few good tries. The bed isn’t that low to the ground so he can fit his body underneath, but he feels ridiculous doing it. Not to mention, the cat sticks itself in the far corner, lashing out every time Ilya tries to reach for it.

The cat gets him good enough to draw a tiny bit of blood and that’s when Ilya gives up.

“Fine. You win. Happy?”

The cat does, indeed, look happy. It licks Ilya’s blood — not really, but he imagines so — off its claw in victory.

“I will be back in a few hours.”

The cat curls up into a ball, yawning. Maiming Ilya must’ve tired him out, poor thing. 

“Do not cause trouble.”

Yeah, yeah, the cat seems to say. It closes its eyes. Ilya has been dismissed.

The next few days go like that. Ilya brings home extra food from the dining hall to feed the cat, goes to class, and comes back. Training camp — and eventually hockey season — will change that, but for now it’s a nice routine.

Sometimes, if the cat is in a good mood, it’ll let Ilya put it in his backpack. 

Through the team group chat, the boys are oddly thrilled to hear Ilya has a new roommate, albeit a furry one. He finds them seeking him out on campus more often, roping him into casual conversations as Ilya walks back to his dorm. Whereas in the past they’d part ways — Ilya for home, his teammate for the parking lot — they now follow Ilya the entire way.

Everyone gets a turn seeing the cat.

Appalled, they also pitch in to get Ilya cat supplies. He hadn’t given much thought to toys or actual cat food but he was honestly wondering where the cat was doing its business. He was sort of assuming that the cat took care of whatever it had to on the brief excursions outside. He doesn’t trust the cat in the lecture hall with him, not after the elevator confrontation, but whenever Ilya is done, the cat is there waiting for him.

The cat looks at the litterbox for the first time like it’s offensive.

Every once and a while from its expressions to the moments it chooses to vocalize at Ilya, it seems not quite animal, but not yet human either. He chalks it up to people saying that cats are intelligent creatures.

A week to the day since Ilya first met the cat, Ilya stumbles across a semi-familiar face on campus. It’s late. Like, 10 PM. The only people on campus are the people who live on campus. But here an adult-shaped shadow is, peering into bushes with a giant animal carrier on the ground.

Even more odd and familiar is Pike standing off to the side with a guest. They’re both equal parts intrigued and confused.

“Mrs. Hollander?”

Hollander’s mom straightens. She looks to her right to see Pike and his friend and to her left to see Ilya.

“Oh, evening boys,” she says diplomatically.

“What’re you doing here?” Pike asks cautiously.

“Oh just —” she says, voice trailing off as she fails to come up with a reason.

“Are you here for Shane?”

Ilya peeks into the bushes himself. There’s nothing there. He considers minding his own business, but it’s too late. He’s been spotted and it would be rude to continue to walk by. He’s hungry though. He had run into the dining hall last minute to get a plate of whatever they would have left over.

“Something like that!” Mrs. Hollander agrees. Vague. Weird. “What are you kids doing out so late?”

“Rose had a rehearsal. I’m walking her back to her car. She parked in a different lot than Jackie,” Pike says. He, too, tries to look into the bushes.

“Oh, that’s nice!” Mrs. Hollander replies. She looks at Ilya.

Shit. “I was picking up dinner,” he says sheepishly. Perhaps because he’s never had to look at one of his hookup’s parents in their face before.

“Oh, well, I wouldn’t want to keep you kids.” Mrs. Hollander picks up the seemingly empty pet carrier. “Have a good night boys!”

She departs quickly, heading toward the center of campus. 

Ilya and Pike share a look. They don’t often make friendly chit chat but what the fuck was that?

“That was weird,” Pike states the obvious.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, “very.”

“Maybe this means you’ll hear back from Shane finally.”

Ilya’s attention snaps to the girl. She’s pretty, he supposes, with reddish hair and a petite frame. He wonders why she would know — or even care — to mention Shane.

“Maybe. Sorry, I had no idea that he was gonna flake on you.” Pike rubs the back of his head.

“That’s okay. Blind dates are awkward, and I mean, if he had to take care of a family thing, that’s more important.”

Ilya bristles.

This is the first time he’s hearing of this.

“I guess,” Pike concedes. “I’m still gonna kill him. If he wasn’t gonna show up, he should’ve said something. He hasn’t returned any of my texts or calls either. I’ve been going straight to voice mail lately too.”

“Maybe whatever his family is dealing with is just really serious,” Rose says.

Ilya stays rooted still.

“But his mom is here so that has to mean things can’t be too bad, right?”

“I don’t know. . . that was sort of weird. What was she doing with that animal carrier?”

“Hey, Roz,” Pike says, getting his attention. “You good, man? You’re sorta just, I don’t know, standing there.”

“Yes, am fine.” Ilya looks the other way, at nothing. He resumes walking to his dorm. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight?” Pike parrots, taken aback by the politeness.

Ilya passes the pair and takes a right on the path. His fingers itch to check his phone. It’s more than likely that nothing has changed. If Hollander and Pike are best friends and even Pike hasn’t gotten a response yet, there’s no way that Hollander would get back to Ilya first.

The cat is lounging like a king on Ilya’s bed when he returns. 

It looks at him, meowing a cute greeting. Ilya pets the animal on the head, feeling himself become calmer with the motion.

The cat begins to purr.

“I should name you,” Ilya thinks out loud.

The cat meows again.

Despite now having cans of proper cat food, the cat much prefers human food. After opening one can, Ilya gets it.

“Hungry?” he asks.

The cat rushes over to the spot on Ilya’s desk where he’s been feeding it. Ilya laughs.

It’s messy, but Ilya is in a mood, so they eat in his bed instead. The cat noses around the sheets afterward, presumably searching for the crumbs.

*

“Hey, Ilya, got a second?”

Ilya straightens seeing his RA coming his way. By all means his RA Ryan Price is fine. So far he’s done all the typical RA things — trying to arrange events for the floor, posting up signs to keep the community areas clean — and he stays out of the way, which is nice. 

Until now.

“Sorry, I have to ask.” Ryan stops in front of him, reluctant. “Are you hiding a cat in your dorm?”

“What?” Ilya sputters.

“It’s just that — some of the other residents told me that they might’ve seen you sneak in an animal. Others showed me pictures of you on campus with a cat. Residents aren’t allowed pets unless it’s a service animal, but you still have to report it to me so I can let the school know.”

“They seen me?” Ilya asks stupidly.

Ryan shrugs. “Not inside here, but in general. I’m not sure if feeding a stray cat is a good idea either. You don’t know if it has. . . diseases. And if it ends up getting too comfortable? More cats could come, it could get pregnant, then there would be baby kittens all over.” He stops before he can spiral further, sighing. “So you see how it could be an issue either way?”

“I will not feed the stray cat,” Ilya promises. And it’s true.

The cat is inside his dorm room right now. It’s not a stray anymore.

“Okay, well, I still sort of have to take a look inside your dorm real quick,” Ryan adds.

Ilya tries not to blanche. “Of course.”

“I promise I won’t poke around, I just have to look,” Ryan reassures.

Ilya braces himself anyway.

His dorm room looks basically the way he left it. Some clothes on the floor, his bed half-made, the chair still pulled out from the desk. There is one major difference, however.

The cat’s litterbox — just some cheap, plastic tub — has a small pile of laundry on top of it, concealing what’s underneath. The cat itself is also distinctly missing. The small, empty Tidy Cats litter jug he thankfully tossed into the dumpster himself yesterday. He hasn’t bothered to get a second one.

Ryan walks to the other side of the room, glancing at everything casually.

“Everything looks good,” Ryan says, pleased. He pats Ilya on the shoulder. “Be careful.”

Ilya doesn’t ask with what. He sort of takes it as a discreet blessing.

“Have a nice night. Oh, and remember, I’m trying to host a big movie night for the building. Don’t forget to vote which movie you wanna watch,” Ryan reminds. He glances down at Ilya’s clothing pile, then back at Ilya. “Right now The Exorcist is winning. Please vote for something else. If you want! I’m good with horror movies.”

Ryan leaves Ilya with an awkward laugh that says I do not want to watch that movie, help.

Regardless of what his schedule ends up being, Ilya doesn’t see himself going, but for this, he’ll vote next time he passes by the giant billboard in the lobby.

Ilya collapses onto the ground, his back against the door. His lump of laundry moves.

Pleased with itself, the cat meows, butting up against Ilya’s leg. Ilya pulls the creature into his lap.

“You hear us coming?”

The cat chatters away at him.

“Such a smart kitty,” Ilya coos.

The cat slips off Ilya’s lap, nosing around Ilya’s backpack. It finds the banana Ilya had been saving for later in one of the open side pockets. Grabbing it by the stem, the cat runs off.

Homework ends up being oddly pleasant. There isn’t much, only a few readings. His coursework isn’t very hard, especially since he’s still knocking out some of his general classes. After that, he’s not entirely sure what the plan is. He doesn’t think getting a degree would hurt, but making sure he plays hockey is the priority. If he doesn’t finish, he’s in a mild state of: so be it.

He may miss some of the boys though, which was always an inevitability. 

College hockey is fine. It’s good. But the NHL is where he’d much rather be.

Lost in his thoughts slightly, Ilya realizes he’s been petting the cat harder than intended.

“Sorry, Pushok,” Ilya says. He kisses the top of the cat’s head. The cat shakes, brushing off Ilya’s hand. “You are good cat.”

The cat leaves to sit on Ilya’s pillow.

Ilya groans. This has been his life. Class, his cat, his friends, no hockey, gym, repeat. He can’t wait to be busy again. He contemplates burning off steam with someone not Hollander, but it feels like a betrayal even if Hollander had seemingly been willing to be set up on a blind date.

Not that Ilya ever outright asked — like, how would he even do that? — he thought Hollander was gay.

Hollander never took part in any locker room conversations about girls, never tagged along on group dates or paid puckbunnies any mind. Ilya never saw a guy catch Hollander’s eye either but surely Hollander had to be willing to walk on the Kinsey scale if he were to mess around with Ilya — which he did. He even has the text messages and some racy Snaps to prove it.

The only comfort Ilya has at the moment is the fact that Hollander apparently no called, no showed his little date whereas towards Ilya. . . he just never replied at all.

Or even looked at his message.

Ilya presses his face against the cat’s soft belly, contemplating suffocation.

What Hollander did to him is actually not much better than what he did to Rose Landry, drama major. 

(He did, he caved. He looked up Rose Landry and it was quite easy to find her. It was really only a matter of looking up Pike’s girlfriend Jackie so it’s not as though Ilya has been obsessing in his free time but rather that the vast, free internet is so easy to use and even easier to find someone with the right amount of curiosity and a privacy screen.)

Above him, the cat drags its scratchy tongue along Ilya’s forehead, grooming him.

“Thank you,” Ilya groans into the cat’s belly.

Pushok, the cat, of course, says nothing.

*

At 6:30 AM sharp Ilya starts to wake up. He has to, otherwise Pushok will stand on his chest until he’s awake. If Ilya is especially slow, Pushok has taken to nipping at his nose, since it discovered that it’s quite an effective way of getting Ilya motivated.

If that somehow doesn’t work, well, knocking item after item after item off Ilya’s desk until the noise is impossible to ignore does the trick. Ilya’s phone screen has managed to stay intact although a mug he got from the dollar store for his tea ended up in pieces. Ilya wasn’t even home to upset Pushok! Unless it had something to do with Ilya running a few minutes behind schedule with dinner.

It must have had to do with Ilya being late with the cat’s dinner.

In such a short period of time, Pushok has trained him well.

“Okay, okay, I am getting up,” Ilya protests. He pats his own chest a few times, pausing. Typically, there would be a cat there.

He cracks his eyes open slowly. There’s still a partial weight on his body, mostly across his legs. Instead of it being Pushok, a bare, human foot is almost in his face and it's connected to the suspiciously disappeared Shane Hollander.

Ilya closes his eyes again.

He must be dreaming.

He opens them again.

Nope, Hollander is still there, naked as the day he was born, cradling Ilya’s shin against his cheek like a pillow.

Ilya rubs the remainder of sleep away from his eyes.

“Hollander,” Ilya says, voice raspy. Instead of waking up, Hollander drools. “Hollander,” he repeats more firmly.

Ilya lets his head fall back on the pillow. His heart feels like it could beat out of his chest.

The leg Hollander isn’t laying on top of shakes with anxiety. How loud should he get trying to wake Hollander up? How long should he try before accepting that his cat is seemingly gone and Hollander is in its place?

“Hollander,” he tries again. He pushes Hollander’s foot further away from his head, wrapping his hand around his ankle.

This time, Hollander stirs slightly.

For some reason, this doesn’t calm Ilya. Maybe it isn’t too late to go back to sleep and pretend this didn’t happen.

He has questions. So many questions. If Hollander woke up now, Ilya wouldn’t be sure where to start.

It’s possible, despite sounding crazy, that Hollander was just in such a rush to see Ilya again that he broke into Ilya’s dorm room in the middle of the night. To explain the nakedness? Well, maybe he was so excited at the prospect of them fucking like bunnies that he stripped down before he fell asleep to make sure that they could get a jump on things as soon as Ilya woke up in the morning.

As for why Hollander’s feet are in Ilya’s face and he isn’t sleeping on the bed with Ilya like a normal person? Well, Ilya isn’t a mind reader. He doesn’t know all the answers in the world. At this point, if he’s willing to suspend his disbelief this much, it could be entirely possible that Hollander found the idea of curling up at Ilya’s feet as a way of switching things up.

Maybe in Hollander’s long disappearance he started having issues sleeping and now this is the only way that he can get a good night’s rest now.

Yes, that’s it.

It’s no more or less crazy than the potential truth that Hollander was a cat. The cat Pushok was — is — Hollander.

Just when he gave the furry creature a name too.

Hollander smacks his lips together in his sleep. Then, to stop the bouncing that had been disturbing his sleep, he rolls over and puts his weight on top of the leg Ilya had been moving. Sighing in contentment, Hollander settles back down, curling his legs tighter to his body. 

Like a curled up cat.

Ilya looks at the time on his phone.

6:45 AM.

Great, he’s been panicking for a good fifteen minutes.

“Hollander.”

Taking the pillow from underneath his head, he figures this is now or never. Might as well deal with the awkwardness now rather than panic about it all day. He hits Hollander with his pillow.

Hollander jolts — of course. With a yelp and a kick to Ilya’s balls, Hollander nearly scoots off the foot of the bed in surprise.

Ilya rolls onto his side in pain. His eyes must be watering.

“Blyat!” he curses into the mattress.

“Oh, shit.” Hollander moves off the bed. “Oh, fuck.” Ilya manages to come back from the pain to see Hollander frantically looking around the room for clothes. “Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. I’m sorry.” His hands reach out to Ilya as if to help — with what, Ilya isn’t sure — but then he recedes. “I kicked you, I’m sorry.”

Later, when Ilya can be sure that his testicles are still outside his body like they’re supposed to be, he’ll chirp Hollander for raiding his drawers for clean clothes.

“I’m sorry, I can — shit, what day is it?” Hollander asks. He doesn’t allow Ilya the time to respond. He picks up Ilya’s phone, watching it light up. His eyes go to the top of the screen where the date is. He tosses Ilya’s phone back onto the bed. “Fuck! I’m sorry. I have to go. I have to call my mom. I have — I can explain later. I’m sorry.”

Dressed in too long sweatpants and a Rozanov t-shirt, Hollander slides Ilya’s Crocs onto his feet, sockless, and bolts out the door.

Ilya flops back onto the bed like a starfish.

What. The. Fuck.

Regardless, he falls back asleep for another two hours. When he wakes back up, he still has no messages from Hollander, but he can finally, finally see that Hollander has opened their text thread.

*

“You probably have questions.”

Hollander sits politely across from Ilya, hands folded neatly on the table.

Ilya had wanted to meet at Hollander’s apartment or his dorm — anywhere, someplace private — but Hollander insisted he missed too many lectures. After calling his parents, his existence has been at the library only, holed up in a private back corner, most likely because the light flickers, there are no outlets, and the table wobbles.

“I have so many questions.”

“Should I just explain. . . or do you want to, like, ask questions first?”

“Explain first, that might be easier,” Ilya admits.

Hollander chews on his lip for a moment, taking in a deep breath. “It’s, like, this hockey curse. Whenever I get really stressed out I turn into a cat.”

Silence fills the air between them.

Ilya blinks.

Hollander looks up at Ilya then down at his hands.

“That’s it?”

“I mean, I guess there’s more, but I sorta figured you’d wanna get the whole cat thing out of the way first,” Hollander replies.

“And that is it? You get stressed so bad you turn into cat?” Ilya asks.

“Basically.” Hollander attempts to laugh to lighten the mood. “It takes a lot of stress. And when I guess I don’t feel stressed anymore, I turn back.”

“How many times has this happened?” Ilya studies Hollander carefully. He imagines Hollander sprouting cat ears and a tail. He wonders how that would’ve looked.

“This is the second time. The first time was a few years ago,” Hollander confesses. He rubs the back of his neck. “When I made the National Junior Team. They, uh, apparently were familiar with the concept. They helped my parents turn me back. Coach was just happy I didn’t turn into anything crazy like a tiger.”

“Canadians do that? Turn into tigers when stress is too much?” Ilya can’t think of a single instance where a teammate of his in Russia disappeared for weeks because he turned into an eagle or something of the like.

“Sometimes. Like I said, it takes a lot of stress. Most guys I guess learn how to stop it before it happens,” Hollander says, sounding disappointed in himself.

Ilya leans back in his chair. “So?”

“So what?”

“So, what had you so stressed you could not handle being human anymore?” Ilya tilts his head.

Hollander hesitates. “Well, you know.” He shifts in his chair. Ilya gestures at him to go on. “This year will probably be the last season Scott plays with us. If he doesn’t get into the NHL, he’s definitely graduating. Which means Wiebe will need to find a replacement captain. You and I were A’s last year, so we’d probably be top contenders but only one of us can get the spot. Then there’s this girl.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Rose Landry.”

“Yeah, Rose,” Hollander agrees. “Wait — how do you know Rose?”

“We met briefly,” Ilya explains in brief. He refuses to elaborate.

“O-kay, well, the Rose thing. Hayden was trying to be nice by setting me up on a blind date. I tried to say no, but he was pretty insistent. I figured I’d go, tell her I had a nice time but I’m not looking for anything serious or we didn’t click. I’m not usually. . . compatible with girls so it wouldn’t have been a lie.”

“You could not just tell Pike to fuck off?” Ilya scoffs.

“I tried!” Hollander says, defensive. “I guess I could’ve tried to be firmer, but Hayden wasn’t taking a simple no for an answer. I wanted to — I almost told him — but I didn’t know if it was worth telling him,” Hollander breaks off his train of thought.

“You are having conversation with yourself, Hollander. What are you talking about?” Ilya questions. He wonders if having hope in this moment will be worth it.

“You know!” Hollander hisses, not out of frustration but because this is a library and of course someone chooses now to look in the section that’s basically abandoned.

“I do not know anything, that is why we are talking now,” Ilya hisses back. He leans in, lowering his voice.

Hollander makes a noise of protest though his eyes seem to agree. “I didn’t know if. . . if I could tell Hayden about us. Not, like, us specifically. But, like. I knew I couldn’t tell Hayden, oh sorry I can’t go out with your girlfriend’s hot friend because I have a fuckbuddy. Oh who’s my fuckbuddy? Never mind! Plus — I mean — the nice part about having fuckbuddies is that it’s nothing serious. If you suddenly wanted to go out and get a girlfriend or something, it’s not like I’d have any right to stop you.”

“So why didn’t you?” Ilya quirks a brow. “Why didn’t you go out and get yourself a pretty girlfriend?”

“I’m gay, for one,” Hollander shares. “And I guess, for two, I didn’t know if you wanted to. . . if you were open to talking about maybe not being fuckbuddies anymore.”

“You do not want to fool around anymore?” Ilya asks. He tries not to be hurt.

Hollander shakes his head. Ilya almost misses it. “Actually, I was hoping you might be open to us being more than that.”

“Like what?” Ilya has to hear him say it.

“Like boyfriends or something.”

“Or something,” he says to tease.

“Or just the boyfriends thing,” Hollander huffs.

“Will you turn into a cat again on me?”

“Only if you drive me crazy,” Hollander answers quickly.

Ilya makes a noise of acknowledgement. “I guess I will have to try to not do that.”

“Yeah, right. Wait — what do you mean by that?” Hollander’s cheeks flush pink. Eyes wide, he looks at Ilya.

“So long as I am your boyfriend I will try not to stress you out,” Ilya says slowly.

“We’re boyfriends now? Just like that?”

“Did you want a cake, Hollander?”

“I don’t think a good boyfriend would call me by my last name,” Hollander says with a hint of a pout.

Ilya licks his lips. “Okay, Shane, you like this better?”

“Yeah I do, asshole,” Hollander laughs.

“Why can you call me asshole, but I cannot call you Hollander?”

“I meant it affectionately!” Hollander protests.

Beneath the table, Ilya hooks his ankles around the back of Shane’s legs, pulling him closer. He leans across the top of the table, propped up by his elbows.

“Is okay. You have special boyfriend privileges. You can call me asshole,” Ilya says.

“Is this you flirting with me?” Shane asks. He unfolds his hands. His knuckles crack, stiff from how tense he had been holding himself. Curious, he puts his hand over Ilya’s.

“Oh good, you notice finally. I have been trying to flirt with you for months. But every time you think I’m giving you hockey chirps.” Ilya pretends to be exasperated and faint.

“Well we got here in the end, anyway, didn’t we?” 

Ilya sighs fondly. “We did, kotik.”

“Ko-tick. What does that mean?” Shane asks.

“Is my cute couple's pet name for you,” Ilya replies.

“Fine,” Shane says, pulling his hand back, “don’t tell me.”

Ilya tries to pull Shane back in. “Shane.”

“Ilya.”

He shivers. “Say again,” he requests.

“Ilya,” Shane says patiently, “I missed almost three weeks of coursework. I need to catch up now or I’ll turn back into a cat again.”

“You were cute as kitten,” Ilya says, shrugging.

“Later,” Shane promises. “My mom did the best she could but there’s still stuff I need to catch up on.”

“I saw her while you were kitten,” he shares. Reaching out, he traces a finger along Shane’s face the same way he would pet Pushok. “I think now she was looking for you. But you were already with me.”

“She mentioned that. She said it was a little weird.” Shane chuckles. “You know, being a cat made my memories really fuzzy. I remember moving my stuff into my apartment, wanting to see you. Hayden was texting me about Rose and my mom was trying to call me to ask if I got in okay. I think that’s when it happened,” Shane recalls. “The last human thing I remember was taking the trash out. I think I transformed then and something about cat me tracked you down.”

“You did find me and refuse to leave,” Ilya adds.

“I think I remember really liking your laundry.”

Ilya barks out a laugh. “Think?”

“I’m pretty sure! Cat thoughts are a lot simpler,” Shane says “It helped a lot that all I really had to do was lounge around. You fed me, took me to class a few times. I wasn’t responsible for anything else.”

“Well, now you have handsome boyfriend. I am here. I will take some of your stress. Next season, I will take captaincy so you do not have to worry about that either,” Ilya says. He grabs Shane’s hand, threading their fingers together.

“You can have it,” Shane says. He tilts his head, looking up at Ilya through his lashes. Ilya wonders where Shane learned that. Who taught him that. “You can have it because I’ll be in the NHL.”

Short and sweet, he pecks Ilya on the lips, then turns back to his textbook as if nothing happened, a grin stretched across his lips. For being so daring, Ilya can’t even be mad.

*

On the first day of training camp the rest of the boys are disappointed to hear that Pushok the cat is no more. Being that Ilya almost got caught having an animal in his dorm, he had to rehome it. Generously, the Hollanders volunteered.

Acting as if they must arrange a funeral — “He didn’t die. He’s with my parents in Ottawa!” — Hammersmith shows the team a slideshow of all the pictures he accumulated within the short amount of Pushok’s time, complete with screenshots of stories other students posted.

Shane turns a shade of red bright enough to match a Red Wing’s jersey.

“Also, Pushok isn’t fat. He’s fluffy!”