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Ilya thought he was hiding his broken heart fairly well, thank you very much, considering he had never had one before and therefore had no idea how to deal with it.
At first it hadn’t felt so bad. After Shane left Ilya’s house and didn't come back after their game that night and didn't text, Ilya’s first thought was, well it was fun while it lasted. He did not think that he would miss Shane Hollander, a person he only ever saw a few times a season for a few hours at a time. He definitely did not expect to see Hollander’s picture all over the Internet, holding the hand of a pretty, petite redhead. He did not think, for even one second, that thinking about Shane being with someone else would cause him physical pain. But a few days after the afternoon he had planned with such precision only for it to go absolutely sideways without warning, he found that every time he thought about Shane fucking Hollander, it was like a hole had opened up in the middle of his chest.
Maybe he could have borne the pain if that was the only symptom. He was a hockey player after all, he was no stranger to physical pain. But it wasn’t only the chest ache. It was also the lack of sleep and the photos and the way Ilya couldn't even tell anyone that the Rose Landry/Shane Hollander thing was fake. It had to be fake. Ilya knew what Hollander liked and it was not pretty, petite women.
It's not that he stopped sleeping altogether. He fell asleep okay most nights, either exhausted from practice or stone drunk after a game. It was the middle of the night when insomnia woke him, making him toss and turn until he reluctantly got out of bed and turned on the television to watch late night infomercials. He skipped optional practices whenever he could, trying to catch up on the precious sleep that he missed. After games he went out and got very drunk, too drunk in fact to even pick someone up and take her home. He thinks that must be what tipped his teammates off that something was wrong.
Because here they were, uninvited but somehow standing in his house anyway, three of them looking concerned and also vaguely nervous: Marlow, Connors, and St. Simon. His three best friends in Boston probably. In the world maybe, if he didn't count Svetlana. She was a different story anyway, and not to mention currently too far away to see how much he was struggling. She would come back into town in a week or two and he would have to figure out a way to avoid her until he looked half normal again.
St. Simon (Vicky, they called him, or Saint Vicky sometimes because was so Catholic and good and solid. It was annoying really) cleared his throat. Ilya figured this little stunt was his idea. Marlow and Connors were sweet but they weren't big thinkers. Vicky at least had attended a couple years of college before he went pro. “Rozy,” Vicky said. Ilya raised his eyebrows in answer. “Can we come in?”
Ilya sighed and stood back so the three of them could walk all the way into the house. They arranged themselves on the couch like it was a regular visit, like they were about to play video games and demand Ilya order pizza and raid his fridge looking for beer. Marly looked up at him with big, sad eyes, which was alarming at best. Connors, on the other hand, looked everywhere but at Ilya’s face, taking in the half-opened pizza boxes and the empty bottle of good vodka on the coffee table. Saint Vicky arranged himself for Serious Talk, poised with his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped between them. “Sit down, Rozy,” he said gently.
Ilya rolled his eyes but sat in the oversized armchair positioned next to his couch. He tried to fix his face so it looked normal. Maybe he could convince them that whatever they were worried about was not a big deal and they would leave. “What is wrong?” he asked plainly. “You have come to take my C away for a couple of missed practices?”
Marly looked like someone had smacked him in the face. “What? No, Cap, Jesus–”
Vicky rested a hand on Marly’s arm, quieting him. At least temporarily. “We’re here because something’s wrong. And we just want to help.”
Ilya wanted to roll his eyes again or laugh dismissively but instead he found his traitorous eyes start to burn and leak. Fuck. He did not make it a habit to cry in front of people, especially not teammate people. The last time anyone had seen him cry, he was holding the Stanley Cup above his head and screaming in Russian. No one could blame him for crying then. These tears were humiliating.
He spent a minute trying to compose himself, breathing deeply through his nose, which only made him think of Hollander and his stupid yoga routine. He laughed then, mirthlessly, which must have made a horrible sound because Marly was flinching again. Connors had managed to finally look Ilya in the eye at least, though his expression was deeply alarmed. Only Saint Vicky seemed calm and unphased.
Finally, Ilya managed to speak. “Is nothing,” he said quietly.
“Roz–” Marly started but didn’t continue, clearly at a loss. He tried again. “It’s obviously something, just–is it your family?” Ilya shook his head, grimacing. He hated his fucking family, hadn’t he ever told them that? Probably not; it was kind of a psychotic thing to say to people who had loving siblings and living mothers. “Is it… is it the Montreal girl?”
Ilya thought about denying it at first. He knew he had a (deserved) reputation with women; it would be easy enough to say the Montreal thing wasn’t a big deal, that something else was bothering him. But that would be too much lying. Not only was the Montreal girl not a girl at all, he did matter. He mattered way too fucking much, apparently. “Is a long story,” he finally said, in place of an actual answer. He didn’t know what else to say.
Vicky leaned back against the couch and considered his captain. “We got time.”
If he had only gotten a decent night’s sleep at some point in the past month, Ilya thought. If he had only showed up to one optional skate recently and made jokes and not gotten so drunk at the bar the other night that Marly almost carried him out. If only he had hidden his misery a little better, he wouldn’t be about to spew his most closely guarded secrets to these three men. But he was so unbearably tired. So tired that he found himself admitting, “Not a girl. A… man. In Montreal.”
A part of him hoped they would leave after he said the words out loud. If they got up and left right now, Ilya wouldn’t blame them. In fact, later, when he’d gotten himself together, he would tell them he was only fucking around, that he was fine, that the looks on their faces were too funny, ha ha ha.
It was Connors who surprised him. “Something happened with him, then?” he asked, as if the change in pronoun wasn’t earth-shattering news. Ilya could count on one hand the only other people who knew about his sexuality before this moment and two of them were currently in Moscow.
“You are not…” he waved his hand around, looking for the appropriate English word. Exhaustion made his English into a slippery creature. “Freaked out?”
Marly laughed. “Come on, Roz. We know bisexual people exist. It’s 2016, man, not the dark ages.”
Ilya stared at Marlow and then at the other two, who wore identical blank expressions. “You don’t care?”
All three shook their heads. Saint Vicky had the nerve to say, “Love is love, man. We’re more worried about what the fuck is going on with you.” He hesitated a moment. “Is that it? You were afraid to tell us you’re bi or whatever?”
Ilya laughed again, this time with a little more humor in his voice. Had he been afraid of his teammates’ reaction to his identity? No, of course not. He wasn’t ashamed of his sexuality. He was a little ashamed of his country and how it would take the news but even that seemed like a far away problem at the moment. “Not afraid, no, I just…” He didn’t know how to end the sentence so he let it trail off before taking a deep breath and answering the original question from Marly. “The Montreal guy and I are not seeing each other anymore.”
“Oh-kaaaay,” Connors said slowly, looking at the other two men on the couch. “You got dumped?”
Ilya shook his head. “More like he just stopped talking to me.”
“Ghosted,” Marlow said, nodding sagely. “That sucks, man.”
“That’s why you’ve been such a wreck, Roz? Cause of a guy?” Connors still looked befuddled. Marly and Vicky smacked him from both sides. “Ow! I didn’t mean it like that, I just–you’re always picking up women, Rozy. I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”
Ilya shook his head again. “Not my boyfriend.” He huffed. “Clearly.” He stood and walked toward his refrigerator. “Drink?” He did not wait for a response. He pulled a bottle of vodka out of the freezer along with four shot glasses from the cabinet and made his way back to sit on the floor in front of the chair he had occupied. He tried not to think about what had happened on the couch a few weeks prior that had led to all his misery. He would not be telling that story to anyone. He lined up the four glasses on the coffee table and filled them before setting the bottle gently on the coffee table. He lifted a glass and nodded to the men on the couch, who followed suit. They toasted silently and tossed back their shots.
“You want to talk about it?” Vicky asked. “Connors will keep his trap shut, right Connie?”
Connors rolled his eyes. “I said I don’t care, I just have questions! Like, who is the guy who made Ilya Rozanov look like he’s been run over by a truck?”
Marly snorted. “Based on the women he pulls, I have to imagine someone really fucking hot.” Vicky, Connors, and Ilya stared at him. “What? Am I wrong, Roz? This gir–this guy has been around since forever. Obviously he's someone… special. Right?”
Ilya poured another round of shots. He sighed. “I thought so, maybe. He is seeing someone else now.”
“Fuck him then,” Connors said. Vicky and Marlow nodded, picking up their shots. “He doesn’t deserve you, Rozy.”
Ilya managed an almost real laugh then, though he appreciated his friends being so kind to him. They were wrong, though. Hollander deserved someone better than Ilya, he was sure. He just didn’t care because he was falling in love with the guy, it turned out. He had been trying to keep him, against his better judgement. And look where it had gotten him.
“Celeste and I broke up once,” Vicky said suddenly. “For a couple of weeks. I was being an asshole–not that you did anything wrong, Rozy, but I did. I had to really work to win her back.”
“How?” Ilya found himself asking, in spite of himself.
Vicky sighed, thinking. “Flowers, to start. A lot of apologies. Handwritten letters, too, girls love that shit.” He frowned, considering. “I don’t know if that would work on a guy though.”
Marly shrugged. “Might. What is this guy into?” he asked Ilya.
Ilya stared at his friends. “You think I can get him back?”
The three stared back. “Um, yes?” Connors ventured. “Since you’re Ilya Rozanov, hot Russian hockey player and Stanley Cup winner?” Connors tilted his head, clearly trying to figure something out. “Does he not like hockey or something?”
Ilya shook his head, silently marveling at how someone so dim could exist in the world. “I am not telling you anything about him. He isn’t out, it would be–it would not be fair for me to tell.”
Marlow nodded. “Okay, so no details. But like, would he like to get flowers from you? Or a letter? Or like, some good booze?”
“Oh, what about candy!” Connors added. “Everyone loves candy.”
Ilya started laughing for real this time, leaning over on one hand to balance himself as he devolved into hysterics. Vicky came to sit in the armchair behind him and rested his hands on his shoulders, which was good because it wasn’t too long before Ilya’s laughter devolved into ragged sobs. Fuck, he was mortified. But also loved, it turned out? Loved enough that three of his teammates were sitting in his living room trying to figure out how to get his closeted lover to come back to him. When the laughing/crying jag ended, he steeled himself with a third shot of the vodka. “Thank you for… all of this.”
“Of course, man,” Marly answered, leaning forward to ruffle Ilya’s hair, a thing he normally hates but will allow in this moment. He’s feeling sentimental. “Try flowers first,” Marly continued. “Everybody loves flowers.”
They stayed a while longer, taking turns trying to cheer up their teammate with their greatest Rozanov bar tales. They agreed to leave only once they were convinced that Ilya would show up to practice and stop worrying the shit out of them (a direct quote from Connors). Saint Vicky was the last one to leave, hesitating in the doorway before grabbing Ilya in a hug. “I got Celeste back, Roz. Sometimes you just need a little break from each other to figure shit out, you know?” He clapped Ilya’s shoulders one last time before he walked out to get in his car with his teammates.
Ilya stood in the doorway for a moment after they left, still trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened. Buoyed by his friends and the vodka, he took his phone out of his pocket and held it in his hand, considering. Before he could think too hard about it, he typed “florists in Montreal” into the search bar and ordered a bouquet of lilies to be sent to Hollander’s condo tomorrow. Saint Vicky was right: there had to be a way to win him back. Or at least try. Ilya had fucked things up so Ilya would be the one to fix it. Starting with flowers.
***
He went to practice the next morning feeling almost human again. He had slept for six hours all told, which was better than the last few weeks. He was also relieved to find that his teammates acted like everything was normal when they saw him. He even stayed a little bit after practice to help one of the rookies with some passing drills. The kid was only twenty and far from home–Switzerland? No, Sweden? Ilya couldn’t remember. Somewhere far away and cold. Ilya remembered what it was like to be newly landed here: the swirling English idioms and slang that he couldn’t quite get a handle on that entire first year; the winding, confusing streets and unfamiliar neighborhoods in Boston; the random, unexpected bouts of homesickness when he didn’t hear anyone speaking his own language for weeks at a time. He didn’t mind spending a few extra minutes with the kid, even just to pass some time.
He lifted afterward in the weight room too, half listening to the conversation around him. He left his phone in his gym bag, intent on not looking at it for the rest of the day, even though he knew the flowers would arrive this afternoon at Hollander’s place. He wasn’t counting on getting a response right away, although a small, traitorous part of him hoped. He couldn’t stop himself from hoping.
He and his team would travel in the morning to Buffalo, another place that made him think of Hollander and their stupid last day together. He should pack tonight, make his life easier tomorrow. He picked up dinner on his way home, going out of his way to grab the good chicken parm from that place in the North End Carmy had shown him. He kept the radio blaring during the drive so he couldn’t hear his phone chime or ring. He told himself it didn’t mean anything if he didn’t hear from Hollander tonight.
He was trying to will himself to sleep later when his phone finally vibrated with a message. He took a deep breath before he picked it up off his nightstand and looked at it, half sure it would be Marly again, asking to carpool to the rink tomorrow to catch the team bus.
It was Jane.
Jane: Flowers are nice.
Ilya stared at the message for several seconds, trying to parse what it could mean. He should answer, right? He considered calling Vicky but that seemed like an overreaction. It was just a text. He knew how to answer a text.
You: glad they got there
Jane: It was a surprise.
Ilya snorted. Hollander was so boring.
You: you like them?
He watched as Jane’s typing bubbles appeared and then disappeared. Once. Twice. Then the pause went on for so long that Ilya began to second guess his question. Should he have said something else? Something less needy?
Jane: Yes. Why did you send them though?
Ilya hung his head. Why, indeed? He couldn’t tell Hollander the truth: that Saint Vicky and Celeste broke up once and flowers worked on her and Ilya wanted… to not be broken up, if that even accurately described what had happened between them. He considered answering with something snarky, like why do you think but that didn’t seem like the correct tone here. He had already debased himself at this point, why not go all the way?
You: I hoped you would like them.
You: and that they would make you think of me.
Jane: You want me to think about you?
Ilya rolled his eyes before forcing himself to type out obviously, because he couldn’t help himself. Hollander reacted to the message with a thumbs up. Ilya nearly threw his phone at the wall. Another few minutes passed before another text came through.
Jane: I have a girlfriend now.
Ilya sighed. Canada’s Golden Boy Shane Hollander. How could he have fallen in love with this absolute dork?
You: I know this Hollander.
You: I am thinking maybe she is not the right person for you.
Jane: Fuck off.
“I wish I could,” Ilya whispered to himself. He didn’t respond, deciding he would let it lie for now. He would figure out a new plan in the morning. Maybe with Saint Vicky’s help.
He put his phone back down, a little relieved. Hollander had the flowers. He had texted Ilya, even though he was confused, and now maybe annoyed. Ilya didn’t particularly care, because at least Hollander was answering him. He wasn’t alone in this anymore.
***
On the bus, the four of them huddled together and read the texts off Ilya’s phone.
“I honestly can’t tell if the ‘fuck off’ is affectionate,” Marly said after reading the text, his lips moving the entire time. Ilya would usually tease him about this but he’s too focused on his friends’ interpretation of the messages to bother.
“Same,” Connors agreed.
Ilya considered this. “This is how we talk to each other usually.”
Vicky snorted. “Of course it is.” He frowned, considering. “This is a good start, I think.”
“Yes?” Ilya said, unable to keep the hope out of his voice.
Vicky nodded and ticked off his reasons on his fingers. “He texted first. He thanked you for the flowers. He didn’t tell you to knock it off, if we agree the ‘fuck off’ is affectionate–”
“Which it is!” Marly insisted. “I tell Roz to fuck off all the time and he’s my best friend.”
Ilya rolled his eyes but found himself smiling. He knocked his shoulder into Marly’s.
“I think it’s apology time, man,” Vicky concluded. Ilya groaned. “What did you do that pissed him off so much he ran out on you?”
Ilya covered his face in his hands. This was the worst part, he decided. Not coming out to his teammates; not having to admit to having feelings; but having to tell them what made Shane run out of his condo like he was on fire. “I said his first name.” When he moved his fingers away from his eyes ever so slightly, all three of them were staring at him blankly. “During sex. Or right after. It was… intense.”
“What… what?” Marly’s face may as well be an error message: does not compute.
“No, I get it,” Connors said suddenly. They turned to stare at him instead, a brief and welcome reprieve to Ilya, who was still rattled with embarrassment by the admission. “Like you guys only call me by my first name if something serious is going on. If it’s not Connie or Connors, I think maybe someone died or something.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Marly said. “This was the first time you said his name? How long have you two been hooking up?” Ilya grimaced but didn’t answer. “Like, it’s been years, right?”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know why it was so weird that you switched to his first name. Like, if this has been an ongoing thing, why did that make him freak out?”
“Ohhhh,” Vicky said, causing Ilya to turn his grimace on him. “I think I get it. It got intimate all of a sudden, right? The last name thing kept it casual?”
Ilya threw his head back, wishing for the tenth time that hour that he had thrown his friends out of his house the other day instead of letting them know about this. “Yes, okay, it was first time I said it. He freaked out and ran out of my house.” It was one of the worst moments of my life. I would do anything to take it back but I can’t and I also can’t move on and I guess it’s written all over my face because even you assholes noticed.
Vicky shook his head. “No way, man. He freaked out and ran just cause of that? That sucks.”
“Yes, yes, was very strange. But now what? Flowers worked, maybe, what next.”
They all looked at Vicky again, since he was both happily married and the brains of the operation. “Okay. I don’t think you should apologize for using his name, that’s like… Fuck. Maybe you should just tell him what you’re thinking now? That you want to keep seeing each other?”
“I still need to know how long you’ve been fucking,” Marly interjected. “For science.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. “A long time, okay Marly? Longer than you’ve known me.” The three of them stared, open-mouthed. “Yes, I know, is crazy. It has not been serious before, obviously, but I–” He shook his head, unable to admit out loud that he wanted it to be serious. He wanted Shane Hollander more than he had ever wanted anyone. It was painful but it was the truth. He couldn’t keep avoiding it.
“Okay,” Marly said resolutely, slapping his hands on his thighs. “You gotta talk to him.”
“I tried! The day he came over, before the stupid name thing, I tried to ask him… things.”
The three of them exchanged a look. Marly sighed and tilted his head at Ilya like he already knew the answer to whatever he was about to say. “What things? And did you ask in that fucking cryptic Russian way you talk when you don’t want people to know what you really mean?”
Ilya glared. Connors backed Marly up. “Yeah Roz, I can’t imagine you were like, clear. No offense.”
“Okay, are we done shitting on Ilya now?” he asked, frowning. “Is bad enough you fuckers know, he’s going to kill me.”
“We know he exists,” Vicky corrected, “not who he is. Let’s just go back to the plan, okay?”
***
Later that night, after Boston trounced Buffalo, Ilya checked the score of the Montreal game. The Metros had also won, 2-1 against Philadelphia, which meant Hollander would be in a decent enough mood. He considered the next steps of the plan his teammates had helped him come up with. He thought it was pretty solid, he just wasn’t ready to deploy it yet. Instead, he texted good game to Jane and threw his phone on the bed before taking a shower.
Jane: Thanks. You too. Great assist in the second.
You: you watched highlights?
Jane: We play you guys, want to be ready.
You: not until after all star break
Silence followed. Not a surprise but a little disappointing. Ilya forced himself to wait a full thirty minutes before picking up the phone again. Fuck waiting; let step two commence.
You: i can’t find my black t-shirt
No response came that night but late the next morning, in the airport getting ready to leave for a quick roadie, his phone finally buzzed. Marlow, Connors, and St. Simon all looked up at him. He tried to ignore them.
Jane: Okay?
Ilya smiled. He knew Shane knew what he was talking about. He had twisted Ilya’s favorite black t-shirt in his hands the entire time he lied about having to leave for a team meeting. Then he had walked out of his house with it on, presumably; Ilya hadn’t watched him walk out the door. It wouldn't work to call Shane out on the lie though. He had to play this part carefully so Hollander wouldn’t run away again.
You: i thought maybe it got mixed up with your stuff
You: is no problem if it did
You: i like the idea of you having something of mine
He sighed and flipped his phone facedown on his leg. Marly appeared in the seat next to him but didn’t say anything. Ilya was grateful.
Jane: I don’t get what’s going on
Jane: With you
Unabashedly, Marly looked over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows. “And you say I’m thick.”
Ilya laughed in spite of himself. “He is smart,” he assured his teammate. “Just… nervous. Like cat.”
You: i have road trip for a few days now. Won’t be in your time zone for a bit
You: but christmas break is coming
You: maybe we can talk then
Ilya held his breath until Jane thumbs-upped the message. He exhaled loudly, as did Marly, almost in perfect unison. He glanced at his friend. “You are very invested in this, Marly.”
“Yeah well, I hate to see you feel like shit over some asshole. I hope he’s worth it.”
Ilya nodded. “I think so, probably. Yes. He is.”
The road trip was fine. Better, actually, than Ilya had expected. He played well. He went out with his team afterwards and drank a normal amount. He danced with a few beautiful women but didn’t bother kissing anyone. He was surprised to realize he wasn’t even tempted. If he was going to commit to this thing, to winning Shane Hollander back, he guessed his wild days would be put behind him.
After the road trip, Shane had texted him twice: once to congratulate Ilya on his hat trick in Dallas and once to ask about a particularly nasty check in Colorado. Ilya hadn’t pushed the conversation any further, though it felt like a small victory to hear from Hollander at all. It helped him make it until the holiday break, when he planned to initiate their first real conversation.
Ilya had been invited to St. Simon’s for Christmas day, where his giant Catholic family would gather with more food than seemed strictly necessary and Ilya would pretend his English wasn’t very good when he couldn’t remember all the names of Vicky’s thirty-odd cousins. Ilya was grateful for the invitation, even though it wasn’t his holiday. He didn’t want to be alone when everyone else was with someone.
He decided he would try to catch Hollander the day before, when presumably he would drive home to Ottawa to see his parents. He had a brief flush of jealousy when he thought about it: the Hollanders sitting at a nice table, maybe with Rose joining them for their first holiday as a couple. Gag. He hadn’t seen more pictures of them in the tabloids recently but that didn’t mean anything. He imagined that their schedules made it hard to get together, even though they were still in the same city (he thought). Hollander wasn’t a club person either so the lack of pictures wasn’t much evidence either way. He and his movie star girlfriend probably mostly hung out in quiet places, like Hollander’s real house that he had never invited Ilya to. They probably made out on Hollander’s nice couch and told each other over and over how pretty the other one was. The thought of Hollander touching Rose Landry filled him with rage. He ran five miles on the treadmill to shake it off. It wouldn’t do to call Hollander already pissed at him.
Connors thought he should text a warning before he dialed (“He’ll think something’s wrong, man, it’s like the first name thing!”) but the others agreed that Ilya should just call. If he got Shane’s voicemail he would hang up and maybe start working on that letter Saint Vicky recommended. Luckily, he was spared from having to utilize the English alphabet. Hollander answered on the second ring. Ilya took a deep breath.
“Hi,” he said quietly.
“Hi.” Did Hollander’s voice sound weird? Ilya hadn’t heard it in so long, he couldn’t be sure.
“You answered,” Ilya said earnestly, before he could chicken out and make some lame joke instead to rile Hollander up.
“Uh, yeah. You said you wanted to talk so…”
Ilya inhaled again, wishing he had taken a couple of shots before embarking on this part of the plan. “How is Rose Landry?”
“Uh. Fine? Is that… is that why you called?”
“No, Hollander, is not why I called.” He wasn’t ready to get into his reason for calling yet, he decided. Let Hollander squirm for a minute. “It was big surprise though, when I saw pictures of you with her. Looked serious.”
The pause that followed made Ilya’s heart ache again. He had thought the ache was gone now, or at least lessened by the support from the boys and the several step plan they had concocted together. But every second of this phone call seemed to exacerbate the ache rather than relieve it, making Ilya press the heel of his hand to his chest in an attempt to ease it.
Finally, Hollander answered. “Yeah, I–I guess it was surprising to a lot of people.”
Ilya held the phone away from his face for a minute so he could snort derisively in peace. “Did you find my t-shirt?”
“Uh, yeah. Do you want me to–”
“Keep it,” Ilya interrupted. Even if this didn’t go anywhere, at least he could imagine something of his at Shane’s, pushed into hiding in the back of one of the otherwise organized drawers. It probably didn’t smell like him anymore. It had been more than a month since that day that Shane had left with it in his hands. Still, just its presence in Shane’s house was something to Ilya. Something to grasp at like a lifeline. “Is not why I’m calling.”
“Why are you calling?” Hollander’s tone was blessedly light. He didn’t sound irritated, just confused. Maybe curious?
Ilya cleared his throat. Now or never. “I’m sorry about that day. When you took my shirt.” Hollander stayed silent on the other line so Ilya barreled on. “I didn’t mean to–I was not clear, probably. About what I wanted.”
After a moment, his voice strained, Shane said, “And what did you want?”
“Shane.” Using Hollander’s first name triggered a strange feeling in his stomach. He pictured the look on Hollander’s face when he had sprung out of Ilya’s lap, desperate to get away from him. He pictured his own outstretched hand, the way he had tried to rewind and keep things simple instead of asking for more. He pictured Hollander practically running towards the door to get away from him and the way he had ignored him ever since, until Ilya sent the flowers. Was taking this risk worth the humiliation he still felt about that day? Maybe not but he was in it now. As his mother used to say, if you call yourself a mushroom, get into the basket. “Do you really not know? What I want from you?”
“No,” Shane whispered.
Ilya sighed. “Okay. I will say it then. But Hollander, listen, if you don’t feel the same–if you think you will be happy with Rose Landry or with someone else, then I will leave you alone.” He hesitated then, afraid to hear the answer to his confession. He decided to hedge his bets first. “Would you? Be happy with someone else?”
“Rose and I broke up,” Shane said, so quietly Ilya feared he had misheard him. He cleared his throat and continued. “She and I aren’t, uh, compatible.”
Compatible, compatible, does that mean what I think it means? English was hard when he was stressed and he didn’t have time to look up the word so he took his chances and kept talking. “Because maybe you want someone else?” Shane didn’t answer. Ilya would have to be the brave one here. He would have to be clear, like Marly had said, not speaking in his cryptic Russian whatever. Fucking Marly. Ilya hated it when he turned out to be right. He decided not to tell him. “Okay. Listen. I want you. Not just to fuck when we see each other. Not just… I want more. With you.” Shane’s silence only motivated him to keep talking, to lay it all out so he could move on if that’s what he had to do. “I have tried to stay away from you. I have tried not to wish for impossible things. I know what I want is impossible, Shane, I know this, but I cannot stop wanting it.”
He paused for a second to see if Hollander planned to reply. When he didn’t, Ilya sighed unhappily. The next part of the little speech he had prepared was Saint Vicky’s contribution. It was not just the flowers and the letters that had wooed Celeste back, it seemed. It was also that Victor had given her the space she needed to make her own decision. In truth, Ilya had resisted this step the hardest. Flowers were one thing, texting about a missing shirt was another; waiting to hear what Hollander’s answer would be for almost three weeks sounded like torture. Part of him wanted to force Hollander to answer right that second, to be in or out without having to think about it. But in the end, he knew Vicky was right. If Shane was going to agree to whatever Ilya was asking for, he wanted that yes to be given freely and thoughtfully. “All Stars is in two and a half weeks, yes? I have said a lot today. Maybe you want time to think about it. We will see each other in Tampa and if–if you want this… if you want me. I will text you my room number.” He exhaled, trying to make his breath be even instead of shaky. “If the answer is no, you don’t come. And if it’s yes–I will be waiting for you there.”
“Okay,” Shane finally whispered. “I’ll see you in Tampa then.”
“Goodnight, Shane.”
“Goodnight, Ilya.”
Ilya hung up the phone and sighed with relief. The hardest part was over, he thought. Now he just had to wait.
***
Waiting, it turned out, was exactly the torture he had suspected it would be.
Christmas was lovely; the St. Simon family was large and loud but they were also fun and sweet and welcoming to their foreign guests (the Swedish rookie had made an appearance as well). Ilya translated phrases into Russian, teaching the best curse words to Vicky’s teenage cousins. He asked the Swede about his family’s holiday traditions. He drank and ate and smiled and laughed. For a few hours, he forgot that the sword of Damocles was hanging over his head.
Svetlana returned to Boston just before New Year’s, skipping Russian Christmas in Moscow this year. Ilya suspected her early return was partly due to the fact that she hadn’t been hearing from him all that often and was worried. She came to a couple of home games and went out with the team afterward, letting his teammates fall all over themselves to buy her drinks. She looked at him suspiciously a few times, especially when they laid in bed together and he made no move to touch her. She took his hand instead and held it tightly as they fell asleep, like she had when they were children.
He would tell her about Jane after Tampa, he decided. If there was anything to tell.
Finally, in mid-January, he caught a flight to humid, weird Florida. He thought about going down to the bar as soon as he got there but he wasn’t sure when Shane’s flight would get in and he feared missing him. He posted up in his hotel room instead, pacing the floors, wishing he hadn’t quit smoking. Cigarettes were an excellent way to pass the time. The sun started to set and he stood at the window to watch it go down, forgetting what time it must be in Moscow now. When had he stopped thinking of Moscow as home? Maybe around the time he started to think he wanted more from Shane Hollander than was reasonable to ask for.
The knock on the door made him jump out of his skin, even though he had been hoping for it for hours now. He inhaled a ragged breath and walked toward the door, reminding himself that hope was a useless, foolish thing. Hollander might be coming to tell him it was over in person. He’s that kind of guy, Ilya thought bitterly. Too nice not to just leave it. He’ll want to have closure. He steeled himself and opened the door.
Hollander looked unfairly good. He wore a linen shirt and nice shorts that stopped a few inches above his knee. He looked like a grownup, Ilya thought, instead of an overgrown high school athlete. Ilya stepped aside to let him in, even though he wanted to keep him standing in the doorway so he could look at him properly.
“Should we sit?” Hollander asked and Ilya nodded, following him to the edge of the bed. It struck him that they had never just sat in bed together before. Or, they had, but always after. And only briefly before Hollander started making noises about having to leave or Ilya decided it was time to shower. He wondered how long they would sit this time and if Shane would say goodbye instead of running out again. “How was your flight?”
Ilya stared at him. He stopped himself from answering with the snarky response that rose to his lips, closing his eyes briefly to get a hold of himself. “Fine.”
Shane nodded. He looked down at his hands, held loosely in his lap. “I just got in a few minutes ago. I wanted to shower and stuff. You know, the plane.”
Ilya wondered how much small talk he was going to be subjected to tonight. He certainly was not going to be the one to start the conversation they needed to have. He waited, digging his bitten fingernails into his palms and taking deep, steadying breaths.
Finally, Shane turned his body toward Ilya, pulling one leg up onto the bed so he could face him properly. Ilya did the same, like a mirror, trying not to measure how much space was between them. “I’m sorry,” Shane said. Ilya’s heart dropped to the floor. So this was it: Hollander had in fact come all the way to his hotel room in Florida just to dump him properly. “About the time at your house. When I left.” Ilya looked up, confused. Shane didn’t register it or didn’t care; he just kept talking. “I shouldn’t have–I should have stayed. I was scared.” Shane swallowed and looked down again. Ilya resisted the urge to reach out with his fingers and tilt Shane’s chin up to him. “And then you sent me flowers.” Shane smiled at his lap, a wobbly kind of smile. “And you kept texting me, even when I said I was… seeing someone. You didn’t give up.” Tentatively, Shane reached out a hand and laid it on top of Ilya’s. Ilya interlaced their fingers together. Shane exhaled; his shoulders dropped an inch. “I’m glad you’re braver than I am,” he whispered. Finally, he lifted his head to look Ilya in the eye. “And I decided I can be brave too. So yes. Yes, I want more. I want,” he paused here, clearing his throat. His eyes had gone glassy and wet, Ilya thought; it was hard to see because Ilya’s own eyes were threatening to spill over with tears at any moment. “I want to be together. Whatever that means for us.”
Relief flooded Ilya’s body, followed promptly by an unrelenting need to touch Shane, to make sure this was really happening. He pulled Shane toward him and kissed him messily and hungrily, determined to make up for lost time. He ignored the tracks of tears running down his face, mixing them in with Shane’s, kissing and licking and squeezing him as tightly as possible until Shane briefly pulled away, laughing. “You really missed me, huh?” he teased.
The grin on Ilya’s face nearly split him in half. “You have no fucking idea.” He raised his hands to Shane’s chest to push him down on the bed so he could show him just how much he missed him. Before he could, Shane took hold of Ilya’s wrists and climbed into his lap, straddling him.
“Ilya,” he breathed into Ilya’s mouth. He circled his arms around Ilya’s neck. Ilya wrapped his own arms around Shane’s waist. They held each other for a long moment. “I’m sorry,” Shane whispered into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry for being so stupid.”
Ilya tightened his arms around Shane. “Doesn’t matter,” he whispered back. “We’re here now.”
***
Romance Raiders Group Chat
Rozy: plan worked 😎🍆🍑💦
Connors and Marly *laughed* at a message
St. Vicky: Roz I swear to God if you just fucked and didn’t talk
Marly: oh yeah, good point Vic. did you use your words rozy??
Rozy: ugh yes. We had very good talk and then made up
Rozy: twice 😈
Connors, Marly, and St. Vicky *laughed* at a message
St. Vicky: proud of you, cap
Marly: can’t believe somebody locked you down. RIP to my nights out 🪦
Connors: dying to see this guy honestly
Connors: like who has this kind of power
Rozy: only the best for me, i’m very picky
Rozy: also i will only say this once so listen closely
Rozy: thank you
Rozy: i did not think it could get better. You assholes saved me. I love you very much.
Marly: love you too man
St. Vicky: love you too
Connors: obviously love you cap
Connors: but seriously when can we meet him?
Ilya smirked at his phone and set it back down on the nightstand. Shane peered up at him with his eyes half closed. “What’s going on?” he asked sleepily.
“Nothing. Team chat.”
Shane nodded and rested his head back on Ilya’s chest. “They want you to go out?”
Ilya tightened his arms around his boyfriend(!). “No, moy lyubov. I am staying here.”
He felt Shane smile against his chest. “Good. Me too.”
Ilya laughed. “Good night, Shane.”
“What did you call me before?”
“Hmm?”
“Just a second ago. You said something else, not my name. What was it?”
“Ah. Moy lyubov. Is Russian.”
Shane poked Ilya in the ribs. “I know that, dumbass. What does it mean?”
Ilya hesitated but only for a second. “My love,” he whispered, glad Shane couldn’t see the expression on his face.
Shane sighed happily. “I like that. Moy lyubov.”
Ilya wanted to laugh at Shane’s pronunciation but his chest and throat felt tight. Instead he kissed the top of his head and whispered, “Ye tebya lyublyu.”
“What’s that?” Shane asked, his voice beginning to soften with sleep.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Ilya answered. Maybe.
“You better.”
“Tomorrow,” Ilya promised. He didn’t even cross his fingers.