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Yuna Hollander had her ducks in a row. She was put together, organized, and prepared for anything. So when she found herself at the Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston with a broken wrist, a smashed phone, and no wallet, she was understandably flustered. Finding Ilya Rosanov in the ER waiting room was a completely different flavor of unexpected.
Yuna had landed at the Boston Logan International Airport earlier that day. Her 3-day itinerary was scheduled down to fifteen minute increments: a coveted dinner reservation at a michelin star japanese restaurant in downtown Boston, a tour of the boston museum of arts, and most importantly, a brand deal negotiation on behalf of Shane with Gillet. Normally, David liked to tag along on these business trips, but he was caught up in Ottawa with work. She would have liked Shane to join for such a big opportunity, but he was in Las Vegas for a game, set to fly home that evening for another game in Montreal the next day.
After dropping her bags in her room at the 5-star Four Seasons Hotel in downtown, courtesy of Gillet, the first item on her schedule was a run. Yuna may be traveling, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to let David beat her in step counts. She had checked in the uber from the airport and saw that David was 3500 steps ahead of her for the day. She quickly changed into some winter-appropriate workout clothes, grabbed her phone and her room key, and headed to the nearby public park.
The early February air bit Yuna’s face as she jogged along wide sidewalks through the Boston Common, a public park full of statues, a small frozen pond, and a respectable layer of cold hard snow covering the grassy areas. Yuna smiled to herself as she saw other pedestrians bundled up against the wind. She was born and raised in Montreal, and knew a thing or two about cold weather. The air felt practically balmy compared to the frigid -25C windchill that had chased her plane as it departed the Ottawa airport that morning. People watching was a favorite pastime of Yuna’s, but it also prevented her from noticing and avoiding an errant patch of ice. She went down hard, throwing out her wrist to stop her fall.
The next few hours were an overwhelming blur. Several of the bundled pedestrians ran to help, finding her wrist at an odd angle. Although Yuna prided herself in her lack of squeamishness, having nursed many of Shane’s hockey injuries throughout his childhood, the sight of her wrist made her vision darken at the edges, threatening to blackout entirely. Alarmed at Yuna’s thousand-yard stare, a bystander called an ambulance, and before Yuna could worry about the cost of American healthcare, she was strapped to a gurney and whisked away to an emergency room. Yuna was carted from one hospital room to the next. She received an IV for pain, x-rays, a congo-line of doctors and nurses, and the very welcome news that she wouldn’t need surgery. An overly enthusiastic orthopedic resident set her wrist, fitted her in a cast, and finally, she had an entirely awkward interaction with a kind-eyed social worker.
Yuna’s phone was smashed from the fall, and her wallet with all of her credit cards, ID, and insurance information, as well as her Canadian passport, were sitting in her purse on her hotel bed 6 blocks away. She’d had to answer many questions from the social worker and finally got the insurance information squared away by having a hospital billing agent call her primary care physician’s office back home in Ottawa. Left with a broken phone and no money, the social worker’s main priority was getting Yuna safely back in her hotel room with someone to keep an eye on her.
“Do you have a loved one who can pick you up?” the social worker had asked. Well, yes, but he was currently in Canada. Yuna was able to use a hospital landline to call David (she always made a point to memorize important phone numbers, what if she lost her phone?) and within half an hour he was on the interstate driving to Boston, set to arrive in 8 or 9 hours. Why couldn't she just take an uber back to the hotel? Or walk?
“Generally, we like to make sure you’ve got a trusted person to keep you company. You’re on some fairly strong painkillers,” was the answer. Yuna was welcome to spend the night in the ER waiting room while she waited for her husband. Yuna thought about it, and after some hesitation, she used the landline to call Shane.
Yuna and David were tangentially aware that Shane had, well, a special friend in Boston. Lily. This had come up months ago when the Hollanders had Shane and the Pike family over for dinner. Hayden Pike, Shane’s closest friend, had made a teasing comment about Boston Lily. After some tactful probing on David’s part, the two were led to believe that their son had been romantically involved on and off with Lily for many years, whenever Shane found himself in Boston for a game. This newfound intelligence on Shane’s lovelife was all but confirmed by the tomato-red shade of his ears. Yuna had wanted to press for more information, to meet Lily, but David’s gentle hand on her arm stopped her.
“Mom, what’s up? My plane is taxiing for takeoff, I don’t know how much longer until my call gets dropped,” Shane said when he inexplicably answered an unknown Boston-area number on the first ring and Yuna had identified herself. Yuna quickly explained the situation, adding a “I’m completely fine, really, there’s no need to worry. I was just wondering if perhaps you know anyone in Boston who can give me a ride from the hospital back to the hotel,” Yuna said, cringing. She hated being the one who needed help. She hated to be bothering Shane when he should be focusing on the game tomorrow. She was the fixer in the family, not whatever this situation was. She just wanted to crawl into her hotel bed, sleep off the painkillers that she hadn’t wanted in the first place, and wait for David to arrive and repatriate her back to Canada. She’d have to reschedule the Gillet meeting, but to hell with that.
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then Shane said, “okay, Mom. Don’t worry. I’ll have – “ His audio broke up.
“Shane, can you hear me? Shane? I can’t hear you,” Yuna said.
“Should be there to pick you up in 30 minutes,” Shane was saying when his voice came back.
“Who should be there? Shane? Are you there?,” Yuna pulled the receiver away from her ear to look at it uselessly, and brought it back. “Shane? Who’s going to be there?” The line was dead.
“Shit,” Yuna swore. She glanced at the social worker, who was watching her. “Sorry,” she said.
The social worker chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. I love the way you Canadians say ‘sorry’,” they said. Yuna fought a brief battle and won, and very politely did not roll her eyes. She supposed it was better than being praised for ‘how good her English was.’
“My son’s friend is going to pick me up in 30 minutes,” Yuna said.
“Are you sure? It didn’t sound like you caught their name,” the social worker said, an eyebrow raised.
“They’ll be there,” Yuna said firmly. Despite the truly terrible day she’d been having, Yuna felt a small thrill of excitement. Was she finally going to get to meet Boston Lily? Or perhaps Shane had another friend in Boston? He wasn’t exactly a social butterfly. The social worker shrugged, and wheeled her out to the waiting room in the wheelchair that she had insisted she didn’t need. Hospital policy, she’d been told.
Yuna sat in her wheelchair for what subjectively felt like several hours, but according to the yellowed analog clock on the wall, was objectively only about 25 minutes. It was getting late and it was already dark outside. The waiting room was mercifully not busy. Yuna had been placed near a coffee table stacked full of crumpled magazines. She had nothing to look at but a cracked, dead phone. With her good arm, she began sorting the magazines into alphabetical order, first by title, and then by issue date. She had just picked up a 6-month old issue of Cosmopolitan when she was interrupted.
“Mrs. Hollander?” A deep, accented voice said. Yuna startled and looked up. A large, handsome man with golden curls and a ruggedly crooked nose was looming over her. Concern and worry were written all over his face. Yuna stared at him, open mouthed, trying to place him. She knew his face. Where had she met him? In an instant, recognition crashed into her.
“Ilya Rosanov?” Yuna said, incredulously.
“Yes, I am him,” he said, a corner of his mouth pulling up. “Shane told me you were, ah, in trouble,” he finished, gesturing to her cast, and perhaps, well, to everything. Yuna didn’t want to imagine what she looked like right now. His accent was thick and rolling, and he spoke gently, like Yuna was at risk of spooking. Also, ‘Shane’? Hockey players were rarely on a first name basis. Yuna brushed that thought away for more pressing questions.
“Shane called you? To pick me up from the hospital? I didn’t even know you had each other’s numbers,” Yuna paused. Rosanov was fidgeting under her gaze. “I thought you hated each other,” She added lamely. This was a ridiculous conversation to have in a hospital waiting room, but Yuna was feeling a little unmoored from reality. Why not leave it all on the table?
“No, ah, Mrs. Hollander. We do not hate each other. Rivalry is pretend, yes? Good for TV. We are friends,” Rosanov said, glancing around the waiting room. It was now empty, which had to be no small miracle for a Wednesday evening in downtown Boston. “Please, Mrs. Hollander. I will take you back to your hotel room. Get you settled in. Wait for Mr. Hollander. Is that okay? Please don’t worry. Shane would not ask me if he did not trust me,” he said.
This was not the Rosanov that Yuna had come to expect over the last 8 years of his and her son’s “rivalry.” (Was she already putting air quotes around “rivalry?” That alone was a huge revelation to dissect for later). Every game, piece of media, every sports thinkpiece had led Yuna to believe that Ilya Rosanov, the second-best hockey player in the league, was an arrogant, reckless womanizer. Not the rambling ball of nerves in front of her.
Rosanov had made a good point. Shane wouldn’t have asked Rosanov if he didn’t trust the Russian. Yuna was in an awkward situation. This whole day had been a shit disaster. She might as well not make it more difficult by demanding answers under the harsh fluorescent lights of a foreign emergency room. She would trust her son’s judgement. Yuna took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment, and then looked back up at Rosanov. “You are very kind, Mr. Rosanov. I would very much appreciate a ride back to my hotel,” she said.
“Ilya, please, Mrs. Hollander,” he said, a weak smile on his lips. Yuna blinked.
“Yuna, then,” she said. Well, if getting picked up in this sorry state didn’t put them on a first name basis, she didn’t know what would. Hopefully Rosanov – Ilya – wouldn’t use her as ammunition for insults on the ice aimed at Shane. Surely he wouldn’t stoop as low as making fun of Shane’s injured mother? Despite it crossing her mind, Yuna didn’t find herself particularly worried. This Ilya didn’t seem like the type.
“Are you in pain? Do we need to stop at pharmacy?” Ilya said as he moved behind her. Yuna’s wheelchair lurched forward.
“No, I’ve got everything I need,” Yuna said, showing him the prescription bag that was sitting in her lap. Ilya guided her through two sets of sliding doors out into the chilly ambulance bay of the ER. Ilya veered them right and down the sidewalk a short distance until they approached a large black SUV that was in what was most likely a wildly illegal parking job. That was the Ilya Rosanov Yuna expected. There was a little silver emblem on the hood of the SUV that looked like a person with wings that Yuna didn’t recognize, but she didn’t have much of an eye for cars. Ilya darted forward to open the passenger door and then hovered while Yuna gingerly maneuvered herself into the vehicle, his hand never leaving her good elbow.
The car door was shut, and Ilya jogged off to return the wheelchair, and then he was sliding into the driver’s seat. He reached over to clip in the seatbelt that Yuna had been struggling with, and then pushed the ignition button. They both jumped out of their skin as music blasted out of the car stereo at a truly ungodly volume.
DARLING YOU’RE MY, MY, MY, MY, LOVER – Ilya smashed the mute button so hard Yuna was worried he’d break it. There was a moment of silence as Yuna sucked in her lips and arched an eyebrow at the sheepish man in the driver’s seat.
“A fan of Ms. Swift?” she said. Ilya shifted the gear and began driving, offering a small shrug.
“Is catchy,” was all he said. Yuna could see the corner of his mouth pulling up again.
Ilya pulled the SUV onto the main road and into bumper-to-bumper traffic. Light flurries were visible in the headlights. The two were silent for several minutes while Yuna searched for something to say. She kept stealing glances at Ilya, who was rapidly bouncing one of his legs. His knuckles were white on the gear shift. If Yuna didn’t know better, she’d think he was incredibly nervous.
“So, uh, how long have you and Shane been friends?” Ilya made quick eye contact with her and then looked back to the road.
“Since rookie season,” he said. Yuna’s mouth fell open. “Wait, is not true- since the summer before,” he clarified.
“Wow,” was all Yuna could say. She couldn’t help but feel a little hurt. Shane shared everything with her and David, or at least she thought so. Why not mention that he was pals with the infamous Russian Boston Raider? It seemed like something that would come up organically in conversation. She took a grounding breath, reminding herself - as David occasionally and gently did - that she wasn’t entitled to every detail about their son’s life. But still.
“So you two hang out?” she asked. The intensity of Ilya’s leg jiggling increased.
“Yyyes,” he said, “sometimes.” A traffic light ahead turned green, and they started creeping forward. By the time they reached the intersection, it had turned red again.
“Blyat,” Ilya muttered. Fuck. He glanced over to her again, eyes wide. “Sorry,” he said. Yuna waved him off with her good hand. Yuna had taken a single trimester of Russian as an elective in college many years ago. All she remembered from those lessons were the swear words that the TA had sneakily taught the students. She had never repeated them to Shane when he was a kid, much to his chagrin. Wait, did Ilya know she understood Russian swear words? Would Shane have told him that? No, it must be muscle memory to apologize to your friend’s mother when you swore in front of her, regardless of language.
Ilya and Yuna crept through rush hour traffic in downtown Boston. There were entirely too many car horns blaring to be productive. Yuna wished David was here. He’d know what to say to break this uncomfortable silence.
“Thank you again for the ride, Ilya. I’m so sorry I’m pulling you away from your evening plans,” Yuna said. After a moment, “I hope any pretty girls waiting at home for you won’t be too mad at me,” she said, cringing internally. Why did she have to add that? Jesus. Ilya chuckled and shook his head.
“Is nothing, Mrs. Holl– Yuna. You are hurt. And no, there is no, ah, how do you say? Line up? Of pretty girls,” he said.
“No? Did a special someone finally lock you down?” she asked. She was prying as badly with Ilya as David told her she did with Shane.
Ilya only nodded. Yuna raised her eyebrows in surprise. Ilya Rosanov, exclusive with someone? This was hot off the press tabloid news. She should give the poor guy a break and drop it.
Despite herself, Yuna said, “Well, she’s a lucky girl.”
Ilya opened his mouth, then closed it. Another moment passed. Yuna began to worry she had said the wrong thing. Then, softly, he said, “I am a lucky guy.” Well, good lord, that was sweet. Yuna hadn’t taken Ilya for a romantic. She found herself warming up to him.
The next ten minutes were spent chatting about hockey. They carefully steered away from the Raiders and Voyagers - it’s not like Ilya was going to share insider knowledge with Shane Hollander’s mom - but there was still plenty to discuss.
“I just think this is Scott Hunter’s year,” Yuna said. Ilya was shaking his head.
“No, no, Yuna, Scott Hunter is ancient. He was friends with dinosaurs, before Earth cooled. He is over the mountain.”
“I believe the phrase is ‘over the hill,’” Yuna said, laughing.
“No, I meant mountain, Mrs.– Yuna. Very large hill for very old man.”
“You know, I’ve got at least 20 years on Mr. Hunter.”
“You? No! You are ageless. Tolkien elf. In prime. Well, in prime except for broken wrist.” Yuna shook her head, grinning. Ilya’s accent may be thick, and his grammar somewhat lacking, but she was impressed by his fluency. There were subtleties to his jokes that only someone with a mastery in the English language could make up on the spot. Shane was known for his on-ice IQ, but she had always privately thought that Ilya Rosanov was underestimated in that regard due to his heavy Russian accent. She was all too familiar with that unconscious - sometimes conscious - prejudice from watching her own parents navigate life in Canada.
Ilya deftly pulled the car into a parking garage and then backed it into a spot in one smooth motion. Yuna looked around, dazed, and realized they were at her hotel. She realized belatedly that she’d never given Ilya the address. Shane must have mentioned it. In another five minutes they were in Yuna’s hotel room. Yuna sat down heavily on one of the queen sized beds. Her eyelids drooped and she failed to suppress a yawn.
“Ilya, thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. You must be wanting to get back to your special someone,” she said.
Ilya shook his head. “They do not live in Boston. We are long distance. And I would prefer to stay with you until David gets here. Shane would not forgive me,” he said. How did he know David’s first name? Had she mentioned it in the car? Yuna couldn’t remember. Also, despite her sleepiness, it wasn’t lost on her that Ilya used a neutral pronoun for his partner. Somewhere deep down she perked up in nosy curiosity, but she stifled it.
“Are you sure? It’ll be another six hours, at least. I’m completely fine, I just need to sleep” she said.
“I stopped you from running into elevator doorframe,” Ilya pointed out. “I’m used to hotel rooms.” He didn’t budge. Yuna shot him a friendly glare, and then relented.
“Well, please take the other bed. And don’t hesitate to raid the mini-bar or get room service, it’s all on Gillet,” she said.
Ilya's face transformed into a delighted smile. “Gillet? Shane in a razor ad campaign?” he said, eyebrows wagging.
“Shit, that was under an NDA. Don’t say anything, please?” Yuna rubbed her face with her good hand. Maybe these pain killers were affecting her more than she realized. Ilya made the motion of zipping his lips and throwing away a key.
“What ad? I have never heard of Gillet. Do they sell dog food?” he said. Yuna laughed. She yawned again and eased herself to a lying position over the covers. She could hear Ilya clinking around in the mini-bar. Yuna closed her eyes. She could probably sleep twelve hours straight. God, what a day. That morning she had woken up in her own bed in Ottawa and now she was in a hotel in Boston with a broken wrist laughing with Ilya Rosanov.
Yuna felt herself drifting near sleep. What a surprise to have her son’s career rival pick her up from the hospital. Ilya had been so attentive, so worried about her. It was like he already knew her, cared about her. Yuna still couldn’t imagine why Shane would have kept their friendship secret, and it stung a little. What possible explanation could he give that would make sense to hide a friendship? The two clearly were close, on some level, given the little details Ilya seemed to know about her and David. He was such a sweet person, the complete opposite of what she would have expected. Yuna couldn’t even bring herself to feel disappointed that she hadn’t finally met the famous Boston Lily.
Lily. Who could she be? Yuna wondered if Ilya knew about her…maybe she could find a subtle way to ask.
Ilya. Lily.
Ilya.
Yuna sat straight up in bed like she had been struck by lightning. She whipped her head to Ilya, who had frozen at her sudden movement with a glass halfway to his lips. There was a miniature opened bottle of vodka sitting on the desk. Yuna noticed distantly that it was the same brand David kept in their liquor cabinet.
Yuna continued to stare at Ilya with her mouth open. Ilya’s eyes were wide.
“Ilya…” she finally got out, “are you and Shane…”
Ilya shot to his feet. “Do not ask me this,” he said. His voice had a tremor. “Please talk to Shane.” He began looking around, somewhat frantically. “You need ice. For your wrist. Ice your wrist. I will be back,” Ilya said, grabbing Yuna’s room key from the table and stuffing it into his pocket.
“Ilya, wait,” Yuna said, alarmed.
“I will be right back, I promise. I will go get you ice,” Ilya said as he bolted to the door. A moment later and he was gone.
Exhausted, Yuna flopped back onto her pillow. Wow, she had fucked that up. Where was David when she needed him? He would have known what to say. Or known to keep his mouth shut. She squeezed her eyes shut. Could Shane and Ilya really be… together? Ilya had all but confirmed some type of relationship with that reaction. She and David had long speculated Shane might be gay. Or at least, not straight. She searched through her memories, trying to put things together, but it was hard to focus. She was bone tired.
Yuna fell asleep. She was so deeply asleep that she did not wake up when Ilya crept back into the hotel room with a small bucket of ice. Nor did she wake up as Ilya carefully, slowly unlaced her running shoes and eased them off her feet. She didn’t wake up as Ilya pulled the covers off the other queen bed and draped them over her.
Yuna did wake up when her pain meds wore off. Ouch. Her wrist throbbed in a way that was impossible to ignore. It was still dark out. The sound of the hotel door closing and quiet murmuring made her sit up. Two dark figures were standing near the entrance. David made it to Boston and Ilya had just let him in the hotel room. Based on the tone of the conversation David didn’t seem too shocked to find the Boston Raider watching over his wife. Shane must have given him a heads up. Probably, Ilya had been giving Shane updates and Shane had been relaying those to David. Ilya moved to leave.
“Wait, Ilya,” Yuna said and she stumbled out of bed. She was still in her running clothes. At least she wasn’t wearing her sneakers, but she couldn’t remember when she had kicked them off. She brushed past David and stopped in front of Ilya, who had one hand on the door knob.
Yuna pulled Ilya into the best hug she could manage with her arm in a sling. She held him as tightly as she could, as tightly as she would Shane. Yuna tried her best to communicate as much as she could with that hug. After a moment's hesitation, Ilya’s arms wrapped around her, careful to avoid jostling her bad arm.
They pulled away, and in the dark room Yuna could see that Ilya was blinking rapidly.
“Thank you, Ilya,” Yuna said. Ilya only nodded, seemingly unable to say anything. “Maybe we’ll see you soon? You will always be welcome in Ottawa. We’d love to have you,” she said.
Ilya swallowed thickly. “Maybe, maybe,” was all he could say. And then he was gone. Yuna watched the door as it shut behind him. Behind her, David turned on a desk lamp. She turned to her husband and smiled wetly.
“Sounds like I have a lot to get caught up on,” he said carefully. Yuna laughed, and fell into his arms. She winced as her wrist throbbed.
“Yes,” she said. “But first, help me get out of these goddamn running tights.”