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May 21, 2026
It's hard for Andrei not to blame himself.
No, he's not the one with a minus-four on the game, and he's not the one that let in five goals—not that he's willing to put any blame on Slavo or Freddie, this was a group effort and they all fucking dropped it. This is all of them. They all fucked up spectacularly.
But it's hard. The first goal, at least, is his fault. His stick was feet off the ice, leaving a passing lane wide open for the Habs to pot one. And that one turned into two turned into fucking six.
Nobody thought that they were going to win the Cup in sixteen games. None of them thought that they were going to sweep the Canadiens. But Andrei hadn't expected to sweep the Senators or the Flyers, either. But there's a dark cloud over the entire locker room, that the first loss, which they had to suffer sooner or later, happened in Game One of the Eastern Conference Final.
He's tired. The loss stings. Andrei just wants to go home.
May 9, 2019
The locker room is always quiet after a loss. That's the first thing that Andrei learned back in October. It's loud and exciting after a win, massive blowouts and close overtime thrillers alike, but it's like every sound is muffled and muted when they lose. People are still talking, to the trainers, to the equipment people, to each other, but they're in whispers and undertones. Not like after a win, when there's shouting to be heard over music blasting and wordless cheers for everything.
It's easy to cheer, when it feels like everything has gone right.
Nothing went right, today.
It's hard for Andrei not to blame himself.
Marty's spent most of the season trying to help him with that. We only scored one, Svechy, he'd pointed out, after that first loss in Long Island. Twenty of us on the ice, nineteen of us didn't score. He's young, he's new. He should consider himself lucky, to be drafted to a team so low in the standings last year that they got to select the second-overall and still make it this far in his first ever season. This season and postseason are a gift. A chance to learn.
Andrei still has so much to learn.
But he is the second overall. He should be better. What he lacks in experience, he should make up for in raw talent.
Marty, in the stall beside him, leans in and whispers something. The words feel like they're scrabbling for purchase in Andrei's brain.
His English is usually fine—he's spent enough time in North America by now, had spent more time trying to learn the language ahead of time because he knew that this is where he was always going to end up, but something in his head is keeping him from understanding any of it.
I don't understand, he wants to say, but he can't even figure out how to put я не понимаю into English.
Thankfully, across the locker room, Zykov seems to see that there's a communication issue. He makes his way over and says something to Marty, something that Andrei still doesn't quite catch. A moment of listening, and then, "He is asking if you would like to have ice cream, when we are back at hotel."
Leave it to Marty to offer sneaking away to grab junk food to lessen the pain of a loss they probably shouldn't have taken.
Definitely shouldn't have taken. They're better than this.
Andrei is better than this.
He can at least remember how to say, "No. Thank you."
He's tired. The loss stings. Andrei just wants to go home.
Marty nods, pats his knee twice in the way he does when he wants to remind him that he's here for him without feeling overbearing about it.
"It is not your fault," Zykov translates for him, but these words, too, Andrei knows by heart.
May 16, 2019
Andrei has never heard the crowd at PNC Arena so quiet.
But what is there to cheer for, when the team you paid so much money to see, the team you've been cheering for for so long, can't even manage to score a goal in an elimination game.
They couldn't even fucking score.
It's hard for Andrei not to blame himself.
The ringing of some of those posts are going to haunt him. The lost edge right before what could have been a solid scoring chance off a breakaway is going to a recurring nightmare. He knows these things to be true, because they already kind of are. He could have had a hat trick if his accuracy had been just a little better. If he was a slightly better skater.
If he was better.
This entire series could have had a happier ending, if Andrei had managed to live up to the promise of a 2OA. But he hadn't, and now the season is over.
"Just think of all the shitty junk food you're allowed to eat now," Marty says, with such fake lightness that it almost makes Andrei feel sick. Almost as sick as the idea of eating anything at all, especially something sugary or greasy or both.
Americans do so love to deep fry things and then cover them in sugar.
"I will be lucky to eat plain…" The word drifts away from him. "Крекеры."
Marty nods; the word is either similar in both languages, or else the sentiment is clear even without the specifics. "I know," he says, but Andrei isn't sure that he does. He loves Marty—it's impossible not to—but for everything that he brings to this team, he's not a power forward. He's not young and fast and springy, the way that Andrei is. He wasn't added to the roster with the expectation that he can have a massive multi-goal game whenever it's needed.
It was needed, and where was all of Andrei's bluster and bravado? Where was his fucking skill?
"But, hey. This isn't the end forever, okay? There's always next year." Marty grins, and it feels a little less fake. "Train hard. Get happy with your game again. But don't forget that we're having fun here, too, yeah?"
Fun. Andrei doesn't know what's supposed to be fun about this, about being outscored 17-5 across four games, about sweeping their second round and then turning around and being swept immediately following. He hasn't had fun in a week.
"That is what I have you for, yes?" he says, instead of pointing out any of that. "To remind me of this."
Marty leans in and pulls him in close, hugging him so tight that Andrei feels ribs crack. "Come 'round tomorrow? Me and Courtney make a hell of a post-season breakfast."
It's a better offer than something tonight. Something tonight, Andrei wouldn't feel especially up for.
He's tired. The loss stings. He just wants to go home.
"I do not know I will be eat much," he warns, because his stomach still rolls at the thought of food. "But I will come, yes."
As Marty pats his back and lets him go, Andrei resolves that he's never going to let this team get swept again. They'll get one.
Next time.
May 19, 2023
It's hard for Andrei not to blame himself.
Everybody else has long since gone to bed, left him sprawled on the sofa as the game dragged on and on and on and on and on.
He's never seen a game go in fourth overtime before. But nobody scores, and nobody scores, and nobody scores, and the game continues and continues and continues, until somebody does.
Matthew Tkachuk. Carolina loses.
Four years after Boston swept them in the Conference Final, and Andrei has to watch his team lose their first ECF game without him.
His knee hurts in a way that he can't tell means the painkillers are wearing off, or if it's just reminding him that he's supposed to be there and can't be, because he couldn't keep himself healthy for just a couple more months.
What a fucking joke he is.
I should be there
Petya's response is instant.
You should be asleep, stupid
I wanted to watch
He'd wanted to watch them win, of course. But they didn't, and Andrei can't help but wonder if they would have if only he'd been there.
Might have even been in regulation.
maybe they should have played you
It wouldn't have fixed everything—honestly, as much as Andrei loves his best friend, it probably wouldn't have gone into one overtime, much less four. Petya is no Bobrovsky. But games are much more entertaining, when Petya is in net.
tell this to Paul (((
Andrei certainly will not be doing that. He's not stupid enough to tell the coaches how to do their jobs. And certainly not the goalie coach, when he's not even a goalie.
tomorrow
tonight you sleep
locker room is very quiet. everyone else will sleep also.
no reason for you to be awake now.
He is tired. Even from here, the loss stings. But now that he's home, Andrei just wants to be surrounded by the rest of them, to soak in the misery together.
He wants to be at the rink, so that he can want to go home.
May 24, 2023
Andrei wants to say that he can't believe this, but after the second home game had ended in another overtime loss, he'd started preparing himself to sit on his sofa and watch his team get swept away without him.
Sure enough, here he is, on his sofa, watching the Florida Panthers celebrate while they wait for the Prince of Wales trophy to be brought out onto the ice.
It's hard for Andrei not to blame himself.
It feels like a kick in the teeth, if he's being completely honest with himself. Like he'd tempted fate when he'd resolved to himself, in the home locker room, that he wouldn't let his team get swept again. Like the hockey gods or whoever had heard him and said, Well, fine then. They'll get swept without you.
Like he could have stopped it from happening, if he'd only been there.
"I am going to bed," he announces, hauling himself up off the sofa. His family surrounds him, flown in for the playoffs in an effort to help him feel a little less alone.
Mama frowns at him, clearly able to see how the devastation has so fully set into his shoulders, settled into his bones. But she doesn't offer up any empty words of comfort—he'll get over it. Once he's recovered enough to hit the ice again, he will, and it'll be better next time.
He'll be better next time.
And, besides, it's not like it matters all that much, anyway. Would Andrei really want his name on the Stanley Cup this year, when he didn't play any playoff games and he spent the last month of the regular season at home?
(Of course he would; he still helped get his team to the playoffs, he still deserves it.)
His phone buzzes at him as he steps into his bedroom, letting the door snap closed behind him. Marty, and he doesn't know why he's surprised. Marty's always been able to just know when Andrei's feeling like this. Even at times like this, when they aren't even both in the locker room together.
You doing ok svechy?
Andrei scoffs. He knows that Marty means well—Marty always means well—but how the hell is he supposed to answer? That he's fine? That he just watched his team lose four games in a row, again, the second they managed to make it back to the Conference Final?
All the announcers could talk about, this entire game, is the fact that the Hurricanes have made it to the Eastern Conference Final three times since 2006, and they are now 0-12.
getting better every day
You know that isn't what I meant
It had been worth a shot, at least.
I don't know what you want me to say
I know. I'm just worried about you
We're flying in tonight. Want to join us for breakfast tomorrow?
Courtney and her famous post-season breakfast again. Andrei always wants to turn it down, because the idea of eating so much food still turns his stomach, but he always feels at least a little lighter at the end of it, surrounded by his team. His friends.
just let me know when
Andrei sets his phone down so that he can get ready for bed. He allows himself to be at least a little grateful that he doesn't have to stay awake long enough to board a plane, doesn't have to wake up again in a handful of hours to get himself home.
It's late. The loss stings. If he was in Sunrise, Andrei would just want to go home.
Next time, he resolves to himself. Next time, he'll be there. They won't get swept. Next time, they're going to win.
May 20, 2025
Andrei knows this one's not his fault. He walked out of a 5-2 loss with a positive plus-minus, he'd clearly done the best he could.
It's still hard not to blame himself.
It had sucked, last year, getting knocked out in the second round, but they'd at least won a couple games on their way out. And sure, it's one game, he can't act like they've already lost the series when there's so much of the series left.
But fuck, it's so hard.
He can't get the announcers from two years out of his head, talking about how this team hasn't managed to win a game in the Conference Finals since the Cup win. Andrei doesn't get it. He doesn't understand. This team can do it, he knows they can do it.
He knows that he can do it. So he doesn't understand why he can't.
A goalie glove hits him in the knee and falls to the floor with a thump. Andrei stares down at it, too beaten down to react.
After a few seconds, Petya's blocker joins his glove on the ground. "Look at me, stupid," Petya calls, from his stall on the other side of the locker room. "I'm out of things that are good to throw at you."
"There are more gloves," Andrei points out, but he does look up at Petya anyway.
Immediately, he wishes that he hadn't. Petya's worried about him. Of course he is—why shouldn't he be?—but Andrei doesn't need to see that look in his eyes. It's why he's bee avoiding looking up at Marty, too. At anybody.
"You are telling me to throw every glove in room at you?" Petya's face takes on a familiar teasing tilt, but it doesn't chase out the concern still in his eyes. Pretending. Following Andrei's lead. "Fine, then. Give yours to me."
Orly, three stalls down from Petya, hands his gloves over without pausing in the conversationt hat he's having with Jarvy and KK. One hits Andrei in the face, the other gets him in the shoulder.
It lightens the rest of the room, at least; a handful of guys are even bold enough to laugh out loud. But then Marty's knee nudges Andrei's, and Andrei feels distinctly ganged-up-on.
He's not in the mood for this. He's not in the mood for media, or for holding it together even for as long as it takes him to get out of the arena.
It's late. The loss stings. Andrei just wants to go home.
"You gonna take that, Svechy?" Marty asks, voice low. "On three, we get him together."
He gets the feeling, at least, that it will make Marty feel better, if it doesn't help him.
"No, wait!" Petya calls. "You said to, you told me—"
It does help him, actually. Andrei even manages to smile.
May 26, 2025
The locker room is electric.
They're still down by two games. They're still on the verge of being eliminated. But, critically, they weren't fucking swept.
Andrei even has a point! It's an assist on an empty net goal, which isn't much and certainly doesn't live up to what he knows that he's capable of, but it's better than the last couple games have been.
(Shutout at home. 6-2 loss when they tried putting Petya in for a game instead.)
The season isn't over yet. That's the important thing.
It's not impossible. They won one, they can win two. Three. Maybe, if they're smart, if they keep their heads about them, they can even win four.
It's late. The victory makes Andrei feel light.
He can't wait to bring it home.
May 28, 2025
They didn't win two. They won't get the chance to win three, and certainly not four.
Andrei's starting to wonder if maybe, in the online fan spaces where he tries not to go but they sometimes bleed into his own little bubble, the things they say are true. Maybe this team is cursed. Maybe it's time to allow himself to believe in such things.
It had been so close. The game had been going well. And then, as things tend to, this close to the top…
It got away from them.
It's hard for Andrei not to blame himself.
Fishy and Jarvy both managed multi-point showings. Hell, Fishy had managed a multi-goal showing. So why does Andrei have to walk away from his last game of this season with one paltry assist?
God, why can't he fucking do anything when they get here? What the fuck is wrong with him?
It all feels so…routine. Familiar. Repetitive. They fight so hard, all year, all postseason, and then things just get away from them. Right here. Right at the end. Right before the series that actually matters.
"Breakfast tomorrow?" Marty asks, dropping down next to Andrei and grinning like his own season isn't over, too. It does not, Andrei notes, touch his eyes.
It never does, when the season ends.
But he always finds it in himself to pretend.
"I don't understand," Andrei mumbles. But then Marty starts looking around, and it takes almost too long for him to realize that he's looking for someone. Orly, probably. "No," he corrects. "No, I mean…How do you act like it does not bother you?" It does, he knows it does. It has to.
It bothers them all. Andrei can see it in the slumped shoulders, the hushed tones.
Marty gives up the smile. His face doesn't look quite right without it. "Would you feel better?" he asks quietly. "If I was despondent like everybody expects us all to be?"
Andrei loves Marty for a lot of reasons, but his habit of using words that Andrei can only understand on a very specific kind of good day is not one of them. "Do you feel better?" he counters. "Pretending things are good?"
Marty shrugs. "I feel better knowing I'm helping you kids. In some way." He sighs, and Andrei realizes that he's been trying to keep his shoulders from slumping like everybody else's. "How's your Greek mythology?"
Andrei blinks stupidly at him. "What?"
Marty nudges him with his foot. "There's a guy in Greek mythology named Sisyphus. He has to roll a boulder up a hill forever because he pissed off one of the gods. But every day, right when he gets to the top, he loses his grip on the boulder and it rolls back down the hill." That sure sounds familiar. "It sucks, Svechy. I hate that we can't do this. I know that we should be able to. We've got a great team, here. We just can't fucking figure it out. But I don't think that we're going to if we just let go of the boulder every time we feel it start to slip."
Andrei, inexplicably, looks down at his own hands. There's a nasty bruise on his knuckles from a slash that wasn't called two games ago, but other than that…they're just his hands.
It's late. The loss stings. Andrei just wants to go home.
"Breakfast tomorrow," he says.
Marty's smile still doesn't quite reach his eyes, but it settles into his face like it belongs there just the same.
Next year, Andrei resolves. Next year, they're going to get that boulder to the fucking top.
May 23, 2026
Andrei looks down at his hands, right before he puts his gloves on.
The boulder is slipping. He'd felt it when Caulfield had scored a minute into the game, off of a pass that Andrei was perfectly positioned to stop except that his stick had inexplicably been at hip height. They'd studied the game tape for hours, yesterday, he knows exactly everything that they'd all done wrong.
They let the boulder slip.
But there's still plenty of hockey left to play. All Andrei has to do—all they all have to do—is readjust their grip, and keep pushing.
May 29, 2026
Andrei smiles so wide it threatens to split his face in two when he takes the hat he's handed, with the team logo and Eastern Conference Champions '26 on the front. He's completely lost track of who's already smothered him in bone-crushing hugs and who still needs a turn. Pretty good odds that at least a couple guys have gotten him more than once, because they're all just turning to whoever's closest and celebrating with everybody at once. Even Freddie, after everything, is letting himself be swept in.
It's not over, of course. That was always the point: this was never meant to be their final series. And Andrei's not writing Vegas off as an easy opponent, he knows that there's still a lot of fight left to give before it's time to go home.
But this, this mountain that's haunted the team for so long, has been traversed.
"Hey, Marty!" Andrei calls, as they're corralled away as the rugs are brought out for a photo with the Prince of Wales trophy.
Marty's eyes shine with the weight that they've all felt lifted away. "Yeah, Svechy?" he asks, coming over and shaking him so hard Andrei's head rattles.
"I don't think I can get breakfast with you tomorrow."
Marty slaps him in the back so hard it knocks him forward. "I think we'll manage without you, just this once."
It's late, and it's only getting later. But Andrei feels like his blood's been replaced with popping candy and those energy drinks that Jarvy's always drinking.
The job's not finished, but Andrei feels like this team can do anything.