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2017 - December
It hadn’t been a terrible loss. Vancouver had beaten Boston 3-2 in overtime, but Ilya Rozanov still felt the icy sting of that last goal deep in his chest. He’d been in a rotten mood before the game started. During warm-ups, a restless energy prickled under his skin, and he was looking for an excuse to throw a punch.
He’d been sleeping like shit for months. Ever since he kissed Shane Hollander senseless, croaked out a barely audible goodbye, and forced himself out of that boring Jeep Cherokee parked in a dark corner of the airport garage.
When he pulled his roller duffel out of the back and slammed the hatch, a part of him unraveled. A thread remained attached to Shane, tugging at him every day, reminding him he wasn’t alone anymore.
But he was.
After weeks of waking up tangled together in Shane’s bed at the cottage, Ilya ached when he reached across the mattress and found it cold and empty. But this morning, waking up in Vancouver, the extra distance pulled on him even harder.
The three-hour time difference between the East and West Coasts was getting to him more than usual.
At least that was what he was telling himself now, slouched in a booth at a grimy club surrounded by his teammates. Loud, drunk women buzzed around them, and hypnotic EDM pulsed through the room. He rotated his beer glass between his hands, staring into it.
His plan after the game had been to go back to his hotel room, take a long, hot shower, have disturbingly hot phone sex with Shane, and pass out.
However, when he messaged his boyfriend, that wonderful word still foreign in his mind, Shane texted back that he was having dinner at the Pike’s until late.
So Ilya collapsed onto the edge of the hotel mattress and sulked. He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat there, his mind spiraling, his fingers tracing the intricate patterns on the duvet, before he was pulled out of it by a knock on the door.
It was Cliff Marlow, cocky as ever, somehow sensing Ilya had been left alone with his thoughts for too long.
Ilya shifted over as Cliff escorted a pair of women to the table, his arm wrapped around one of their waists. The vinyl creaked as he scooted, sticky with the regrets of nights long past, and it made Ilya gag slightly. He hadn’t been going out as much this season, and nights like this reminded him how much being with Shane had changed him.
Marlow waggled his eyebrows at Ilya as he guided a plain-looking blonde into the booth. Her short skirt rode up at the back, revealing smooth, tanned thighs. The vinyl stuck to her legs as she brushed against Ilya’s shoulder, making room for Marlow to sit beside her. A year ago, Ilya might have taken the bait, but if Cliff knew who Ilya actually wanted to be wrapped around tonight, he would lose his shit.
“Hi,” the blonde said, leaning into his ear. “I’m Sabrina.”
Ilya smiled thinly, raising his hand to his chest. “Ilya.”
“Oh, I know,” she crooned, taking a sip of the drink she’d brought with her.
She started babbling at him. He didn’t give a fuck what she was saying, given her drunkenness, the loud music, and how English was slippery when he was exhausted. She was almost impossible to understand.
There had been a time when that had been a benefit to sleeping around. What was conversation good for? It only delayed the sex.
He nodded at her, finished his beer in one gulp, and raised his glass to a passing waitress, signaling he wanted another.
As he waited for his drink, Sabrina’s voice slurring in his ear, his eyes drifted over the dance floor.
Connors was dancing with a short-haired brunette, his hands groping her ass beneath the low-cut back of her sparkly dress. Another teammate was hanging on to a tall woman who towered over him in her high heels. He kissed her cleavage as they swayed. At the bar, Hammersmith and Carmichael chatted up a couple of women who could have been twins but were probably just college roommates. Colorful lights swirled around them as one girl wrapped a finger around Carmichael’s belt loop, pulling him closer.
Ilya felt that familiar tug again.
The waitress plopped a beer on the table in front of him, splashing amber liquid down the glass. It pooled around the base, soaking into the tattered paper coaster. He leaned over and sucked at the foam on the rim as it frothed over.
Sabrina was pressing into him now. He tried to shift closer to the wall on his other side, but she didn’t take the hint, instead planting a hand on his knee.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and his heart gave an embarrassing leap. Ilya placed his hand over Sabrina's, politely returning it to her lap. He pulled out his phone.
It was the team’s travel coordinator.
Bob: @all Flight delay. Lobby at noon tomorrow.
Disappointed, Ilya started stuffing the phone back into his pocket.
“Hey!”
Ilya’s head shot up as a new woman stomped drunkenly toward the table, tripped over her high heels, whacking her arm hard as she tumbled to the floor. The table lurched as half-empty glasses rattled against each other. Sabrina recoiled as Ilya’s mostly full beer toppled over, spilling onto her lap.
Everyone at the table scattered. The woman who’d had her tongue down Marlow’s throat knelt to help her friend to her feet. Ilya slid between the table and the wall.
“What the fuck, Jenny!” the beer-soaked woman shrieked.
Marlow briefly met Ilya’s gaze, pleading for help, but Ilya shook his head, indicating with two fingers to his lips that he was going out for a cigarette.
***
The freezing December air rushed into his face as Ilya shoved through the club’s velvet-covered double doors. He hadn’t bothered to put his coat on. He draped it over his arm and looked around for a place to smoke. There was a cordoned-off area the club had set up outside, but it was too crowded.
Fuck it.
He wasn’t planning to go back inside anyway. Marly could cover his bill. Ilya would walk back to the hotel and have a cigarette on the way.
Something in his beer-addled brain convinced him that the hotel was only a few blocks from the club. He’d spent the taxi ride staring out the window, watching shuttered storefronts and neon bar signs reflected in the slushy puddles along the street. Hopefully, he could recognize landmarks as he walked. The cold air would do him some good, he told himself as he lit a cigarette and started walking in what he was fairly certain was the right direction.
He drew the first inhale into his lungs and released it slowly, relishing the soothing rush of nicotine into his bloodstream. His shoulders relaxed, and his head cleared. The second filled him with regret. He knew he shouldn’t be smoking. Shane made sure Ilya was painfully aware of how bad it was for him.
He waited for a taxi to turn the corner, then stepped off the curb onto a frozen puddle, the paper-thin ice cracking beneath his boots.
Ilya had always made bad decisions because they made him feel more alive for five fucking minutes.
Bad decisions, like letting Cliff Marlow haul him out of his dark hotel room tonight.
He took another hit from the smoldering cancer stick and turned a corner, leaving a trail of smoke and icy breath behind him. It hung in the air like a ghost of those bad decisions, haunting him.
Bad decisions, like fucking an uncountable number of women since he was 14. Like sneaking around with a boring fucking Canadian, his rival, for 7 years, finally admitting to himself how much he loved him. Like being too afraid to shout from every rooftop how much he meant to him, to announce it so loudly that he would never have to hide again.
It was only December, and this was going to be the longest season of his life. He always hated these periods of limbo, when he’d worked on a plan and then had to hurry up and wait. Being stuck in this purgatory was torture when all he wanted was to move on.
Now!
He took the last drag of his cigarette, ground the glowing cherry against the pavement, shoved his hands into his pockets, and rolled the butt mindlessly between his fingers. He continued walking down the vacant sidewalk.
He was moving to Ottawa next year to play for the Centaurs. Shane had come up with that plan, and it was brilliant. They’d be able to see each other all the time, not just on those rare occasions when their teams played. They could really make a life together, in the same country, living only two hours apart.
Ilya couldn’t wait. It sometimes made his skin crawl. He would tremble with nervous energy at the thought of it. The possibility of spending the rest of his life with Shane Hollander devoured him.
God, he missed him.
Ilya waited at a large intersection beneath a blinking DO NOT WALK sign. Bass from a car stopped at the light vibrated the sidewalk.
He wondered why Shane hadn’t texted him yet. He must have gotten home from Hayden’s hours ago.
He reached into the pocket of his coat, which he didn’t even remember putting on.
Nothing.
Frowning, he searched the other pocket. His fingers probed the folds, double, triple-checking. He patted his chest and the pockets of his jeans, front and back. He spun in a frantic circle, scanning the ground.
Where the fuck was his phone?
Calm down, he commanded himself. His hand unconsciously reached for the hard shape of the crucifix hanging from the chain around his neck.
Maybe he dropped it somewhere between here and the club. He turned back the way he’d come, but that didn’t look familiar. Had he crossed the street already? He couldn’t remember.
He peered down each of the four streets, lined with cold stone buildings and fluorescent street lamps, stretched out into the distance. Each of them was identical.
It’s alright. He thought. You can just look up the directions on your…
Fuck!
There was a bench across the street. He jogged over and dropped onto it, already pulling another cigarette from the pack. This time, the nicotine barely settled his nerves.
Think, Rozanov. Think.
It’s no big deal. Ask directions.
To where?
The hotel.
Which hotel?
Honestly, he didn’t even try to remember hotel names anymore. He stayed in a different one at least 12 times a month. It was easier to get off a bus, get into a room, sleep, and then get on a bus again.
Who cared what it was called?
He always had that information on… He lifted his eyes to the murky Vancouver sky, holding the cigarette between his lips as he raked his hands through his hair… on his phone.
He pushed himself against the back of the bench, resting a hand on each knee.
Okay, he wasn’t going to sit on this freezing bench all night.
Move, Rozanov. This isn’t that big a deal. You can figure this out.
But he didn’t move. He stared into the middle distance, running hellish scenarios through his mind until the forgotten cigarette burned his index finger. He swore, flicked the butt to the ground, and stood.
He made his way back to the crosswalk and examined the streets again.
There, off in the distance, he could see lights a little brighter down a hill. Maybe there was a bar or store there he could go into and ask to borrow their phone.
He was shivering. He zipped his coat up to his neck, burrowing his nose and mouth into the collar, and pulled up the hood. He went through his pockets one last time, buried his hands deep into them, and set off.
***
He breathed a sigh of relief when he reached the top of the hill and, a little further down, spotted a gas station. It wasn’t a very big one, with two or three pumps under a massive canopy, its lights so bright they glowed against the clouds.
He hurried down the sidewalk, rehearsing what he was going to say in English.
The light changed before he reached the next intersection. A door slammed in the distance, and a man shouted angrily, his voice echoing between the buildings.
Ilya bounced on the balls of his feet impatiently. His toes were getting cold.
He was basically fluent these days, but once in a while, especially when he was tired, drunk, or anxious, he had difficulty forming words. During these times, it was as if he hadn’t spent tireless hours studying grammar exercises, drilling vocabulary, racking up Duolingo streaks, or leaving pronunciation reminders in his notes app.
He passed a row of overflowing dumpsters and black garbage bags piled against a chain-link fence. Some of them were torn open, their contents strewn along the sidewalk. Ilya tried to sidestep a McDonald’s cup, but still managed to splash stale soda across his boot.
Blech.
Why the hell did he have to lose his phone?
I’ve lost my phone. Do you have one I can borrow? I’ve lost my phone. Do you have one I can borrow? He repeated under his breath as he marched into the parking lot.
Away from the buildings, there was no shelter from the wind. Ilya breathed warm air into his hands and finished crossing the lot.
Through the brightly lit windows, he could see a man, really a kid, maybe 18, perched on a stool behind a counter, reading a magazine. His chin was propped in one hand, his head bobbing slightly.
I’ve lost my phone. Do you have one I can borrow?
Then what?
What if the kid had follow-up questions? What if Ilya had to repeat himself three times?
What if he had a fucking Quebecois accent?
Ilya sometimes struggled to understand French Canadians if they spoke too quickly.
What if the guy thought he was drunk and crazy?
Ilya, he said to himself. Get a grip. You are freaking out.
He imagined a sport headline: INTERNATIONAL HOCKEY SUPERSTAR ILYA ROZANOV TOO EMBARRASSED TO ASK CASHIER TO BORROW PHONE
Even though he’d lived in North America for seven years, he sometimes forgot how much his English had improved. He was glad something like this hadn’t happened in his first year or two with the Bears.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the window. His eyes were bloodshot, and his nose was running. Through the glass, the kid flipped a page in the magazine. Ilya’s breath fogged the window, blurring his reflection.
Ask for help, his inner voice demanded.
Fine!
He yanked the door open.
The cashier didn’t raise his head when the bell rang, and Ilya stepped inside, walking past the organized aisles of potato chips and beef jerky. He made his way to the counter slowly, leaned his hip against it, crossed his arms over his chest, and tried to act as cool and confident as he felt exhausted and worried.
“Hi,” he said, almost robotically. “I lost my phone. Do you have one I can borrow?”
The kid, Benjamin, according to his name tag, slowly looked up from his magazine and tilted his head toward Ilya. When their eyes met, the kid’s jaw dropped slightly. His face began to turn pink.
“Are you Ilya Rozanov?” Benjamin whispered.
Ilya put on his biggest, friendliest smile. The one for the cameras and the fans.
“That’s me.”
Benjamin’s eyes widened as his hand disappeared beneath the counter and produced a yellowed plastic telephone. A landline cord trailed from the base. He set it on the counter and pushed it toward Ilya.
Ilya looked down at the phone, then back at Benjamin. This ancient piece of technology might be older than both of them. The spiral cord twisted between the receiver and the base, stretched thin in places, like something that refused to let go.
Ilya placed his hands on the counter and tapped a nervous rhythm with his thumbs. Benjamin kept staring at him.
“Uh, thanks,” Ilya said, pulling the phone closer and lifting the receiver.
So, what now? Call your phone first, he guessed. See if anyone would answer.
He dialed his number and let it ring until it went to voicemail. “Hi, this is Ilya. I will never—”
He pressed the switch hook to hang up and dialed again.
“Hi, this is Ilya—”
Dammit.
He hoped someone would have picked up his phone somewhere and could bring it to him.
He forced himself to set the receiver back down slowly. He was overheating now. He lowered the hood of his coat and unzipped it slightly.
Benjamin was still staring at him like a weirdo. Ilya gave him an awkward, closed-lip smile.
This was probably the most action this kid had ever seen.
Ilya was at a loss now.
Who would be up and able to help him at whatever hour it was? He didn’t even wear a watch anymore. He always just looked at his phone.
He was realizing how attached he was to the damned thing. If he ever got it back, he swore he’d never use it again.
He wished Shane were here. He always had a plan.
Shane.
Something lodged in Ilya’s throat, and he swallowed. He knew who to call. Whose number he had memorized.
He grabbed the receiver and dialed the number.
***
On the fourth try, Shane finally answered, his voice groggy and irritated on the other end of the line.
“Hello?”
The sound of Shane's voice washed over him, soothing all the tension he’d been holding.
“Hey,” he whispered, as if Ilya were standing by Shane’s bed, waking him up. He stopped himself from saying his name.
Benjamin was pretending to flip through his magazine. Ilya used his forearm to push the phone further down the counter and turned his back on Benjamin, cupping his hand around the mouthpiece.
“Who is this?” Shane asked. He could hear the sheets rustling through the phone as he rolled over.
“Ilya.”
“Ilya?” Shane's voice trailed away, then, “Ilya!?” Ilya imagined him sitting straight up in bed. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Whose number is this?” Shane paused. “Are you calling me from jail?”
Ilya scoffed. “No, I’m not in jail, asshole.”
Ilya smirked to himself. He couldn’t help it. There was something deeply satisfying about Shane panicking over him.
“I’m fine,” he said, abandoning any attempt to seem cool and collected now. “I lost my phone.”
“What? Where is it?” Shane demanded.
Ilya clenched his eyes shut, replying through gritted teeth. “Well, if I knew that, I wouldn’t be calling from gas station in middle of Vancouver, would I?”
The bell over the door rang. Ilya turned to see a woman stride in, wearing a puffy jacket over scrubs and Crocs. She handed Benjamin her debit card and pointed out the window at a pump.
Ilya wound a finger around the coiled telephone cord.
“No, yeah, I know. Sorry,” Shane said, “I’m just waking up. Where were you? When was the last time you remembered having it?”
Ilya relaxed against the counter a little. This was something he could work with. “I went to a club with Marlow,” Ilya said. “I think I got a text from Bob? Then the girl next to me was covered in beer.”
“The girl next to you?” Shane couldn’t disguise the jealousy in his voice.
Ilya ignored it. He didn’t care to talk about any of that right now. “Yeah, her friend fell down and spilled beer everywhere.” He fell silent for a second. “Maybe I left it in a booth at the club. I went outside after to have a—”
“To have a…” Shane said, prompting Ilya to continue dryly.
“Don’t make me say it,” Ilya pleaded. “I’m having a rough night, alright? I missed you. You were at Hay—dinner all night. I went out for a few drinks. To relax.” He was aware of how pathetic he sounded. “And maybe I smoked a little.”
Shane didn’t say anything. Ilya listened to his breathing through the phone, and after a few exhales, matched it with his own.
“Did you try calling your phone?” Shane asked, his tone evenly calm.
More of Ilya’s nerves slipped away. “Yes,” he said. “Before I called you. Is stupid. I don’t know any phone numbers.”
Shane let out a small laugh. “Me neither. If I lost my phone, I could maybe call my mom? Don’t worry about it. It’s fine. I’m flattered.” Ilya could feel Shane grinning at him from his bedroom in Montreal.
“Wait,” Shane said suddenly.
“What?
“What’s on your phone? What if someone finds it?”
In his panic, Ilya hadn’t considered that! His grip tightened around the handset as he took a mental inventory of their text conversations from the day. He didn’t think there was anything too damaging.
They had promised each other to delete anything that might give them away, in case this exact scenario happened, but Ilya wasn’t as diligent about it as Shane was. There might have been a few of his favorite messages and pictures hidden in a folder deep in his phone's memory.
“I don’t know. Maybe a few things,” Ilya admitted, begrudgingly. He absent-mindedly rearranged the display of lighters that sat on the counter beside him, pulling each one out and snapping it back into the tray.
Shane sighed loudly enough that Ilya had to take the receiver away from his ear.
“Okay,” Shane said, taking command, “Give me the address where you are. We’ll figure this out.”
Ilya nodded sharply. Shane Hollander: Man with a plan. Ilya grinned and turned to Benjamin.
***
Cliff Marlow closed the hotel room door behind him and was halfway out of his thick winter jacket when the extra phone in his pocket started to buzz. Rozanov’s phone. He pulled it out and looked at the caller ID.
Jane.
Rozanov’s Montreal girl.
He tossed the phone onto the bed, hung up his coat and kicked his shoes off. Roz can deal with her in the morning. He went into the bathroom to take a piss. When he finished, the phone was ringing again. Still Jane.
Cliff sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, contemplating whether he had enough energy left to deal with this tonight. Getting those girls into a taxi had been more of a chore than they were worth. Clearly, because he was back in the hotel by himself, definitely not getting laid.
He swiped the phone off the bed and hurried out of the room in his socks, giving three firm knocks on Roz’s door. “Wake up, brother,” he shouted, but not too loudly. “I’ve got your phone.” He waited, listening for any movement in the room, then knocked again.
No answer.
The phone started ringing a third time. Jane again. Cliff frowned. Roz probably wasn’t back yet. Duh, because he didn’t have his phone. Maybe this broad was actually trying to help.
Cliff turned to go back to his room and answered the call.
“Yeah,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Uh—” the voice on the phone said. “Who’s this?”
It was a dude’s voice. For half a second, Marlow wondered if Rozanov had been murdered by some girl’s angry husband.
“It’s Cliff Marlow.” The line was quiet for so long that he pulled the phone away from his ear to see if the call was still connected. “Hello?”
“Oh, um…” the voice stammered. “Rozanov needs your help. Can you go get him?”
Cliff gave his head a confused shake as he tapped his keycard to open his door.
“You know where he is?” he asked, slipping his shoes back on.
“He’s at a gas station, he thinks, not too far from the club you were at.”
“Yeah. Okay,” Cliff said.
The guy sounded relieved.
“Thanks. I can text you an address.”
***
Cliff leaned his head against the cool glass of the taxi window and closed his eyes, the light from passing street lamps streaking across his face. He was replaying the strange phone call he’d just had in his head. He had a weird feeling that he’d heard that voice before, but he couldn’t place it.
Ilya’s phone had buzzed with a text message by the time he reached the hotel lobby. It was a Google Maps link of a small gas station, many blocks from the club, along with a message that read, “Thanks for looking out.”
Rozanov had been messaging this girl as long as Cliff had known him. He got off on giving him shit about it whenever they were on their way to Montreal.
You should hook up with this chick before games, brother. She puts you in a great mood.
But Jane isn't a chick.
The fuck?
Cliff smacked his face on each side as he let out a long yawn. Oncoming headlights illuminated the inside of the taxi. Traffic was pretty thin at this time of night.
Maybe they're good friends.
Cliff shook that idea away.
Nah, not the way Roz acted about it. Hiding his phone if he thought anyone was looking over his shoulder. Getting all pissed off if anyone asked about her.
Him.
The taxi turned onto another deserted street. The driver had the heat on full blast, and Cliff was burning up. He lowered the window an inch.
Something had been off about Roz all season. He was moodier than usual. Picking fights, then disappearing to be alone for hours. But when they played against Montreal?
Fucker nearly skipped onto the ice.
Cliff snorted a little to himself when a ridiculous thought popped into his mind.
No, couldn’t be.
Tonight had been one of the first nights Cliff had gotten Rozanov into a club in months. Dude barely even posted in the hookups group chat anymore. He opened the chat and scrolled up automatically. Roz's last message was in the spring.
Around the time his dad died.
Cliff swallowed, closing his phone.
They were stopped at a red light, and the driver turned up the radio. A sports caster was announcing game times for tomorrow. Cliff watched a drunk stumble up the road.
“…round the league tomorrow. Boston wraps up its road trip in Vancouver, heading back to host Ottawa. Detroit plays at home against Montreal…”
Cliff's mind was working again.
Montreal.
Spring.
Cliff had put Shane Hollander in the fucking hospital then.
Roz went to visit him.
Cliff sat up a little in the back seat.
No god-damned way.
That’s where he’d heard that voice.
Recently, Roz had been dropping hints about some charity he was starting with Shane Hollander. Everyone thought he was crazy. Those guys had hated each other since their rookie season.
How were they going to run a hockey camp together?
The taxi turned into the parking lot of a tiny gas station. The tires popped over the curve, shaking Cliff back and forth.
Besides Montreal games, this stupid camp was the only time Cliff remembered Rozanov smiling this season.
He spotted Rozanov sitting on the curb, his shoulders hunched against the cold, a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
Huh…
The taxi came to a stop, and Cliff rolled down the rest of the window.
“Hey, asshole!” he called, shooting Rozanov a shit-eating grin. “I got a call there was a drunk fucking Russian wandering around in the cold. You seen him?
Ilya leaped to his feet, brushing dirt from his backside as he hurried to the taxi.
“Go fuck yourself, Marley.”
***
Lily: I’m in the taxi back to the hotel. Marlow got me. I’ll call you when I’m in my room.
Ilya slid the phone into the inside pocket of his coat and pinned it against his side with his arm. He let out a jaw-cracking yawn and slumped into the seat. He glanced at the time on the dashboard. 3:27. After six in the morning Boston time.
Cliff had wedged himself into the corner of the backseat opposite him, his arms wrapped tightly across his chest, his head down. Ilya stared out the window, his eyes unfocused on the gray line of the curb as it whizzed by.
Ilya was wrestling with what to say. Should he even bother saying anything?
A knot twisted deep in Ilya’s stomach. Marlow was probably his closest friend in Boston these days. He hated the thought of this changing that.
Maybe they could talk about it tomorrow. Maybe they could just pretend none of this had happened.
Ilya shook his head and reached over to poke Cliff in the shoulder with his index finger. Marlow opened one eye.
“Thanks,” Ilya said. He meant for all of it. For everything.
Cliff nodded his head, understanding, and gave a weary grin. “Yeah, brother. Any time. I’m your wingman.”
Ilya looked down at his boots. The tightness in his stomach loosened slightly.
They sat in silence as the taxi pulled up to the hotel. They got out, deflated and exhausted, shuffling toward the elevator. They rode up to their floor, each staring into a separate corner, trying to avoid eye contact in the mirrored box.
Ilya made it to his door and unlocked it with his key card, his hand on the lever, when Cliff said, “Roz.”
Ilya turned his head to look at him down the hall.
“Tell Shane I said thanks for looking out.”
Ilya’s jaw dropped. “I—uh—”
Marlow winked at him and disappeared into his room.
Ilya stared down the hall until the whir of the locking door brought him back. He fumbled with his keycard again, then pushed into his room, leaning against the door as it clicked shut.
He let out a long, almost desperate groan, letting his head settle against the wood. He looked around, taking in the empty, quiet space, and something inside him eased.
A slow smile tugged at his face.
In his pocket, tucked safely against his chest, his phone buzzed.