Chapter Text
Ilya hasn't missed a single practice or game since he joined the Centaurs. A rink is a rink; he knows what he's doing on the ice. He plays Captain: runs drills, checks in with everybody, riles the team up before games, consoles them when they always lose. He laughs and teases and watches, always present, always reliably there. Quick as a blade.
His responsibilities are serious. He is Captain to a team… less confident. Sometimes… weak. They need him more than Boston. Ilya is a boyfriend now too. His Shenya needs him. Needs him to keep going, keep following their plan, keep reaching for their end goal, even if it takes a long time.
There's nothing for him in clubs or alleys or bathrooms, now. And he doesn't have anything extra left over in him for being fun. So each night after practice, he drives home. Tells himself he's ok, he's older now, yes? He has earned his peace. No more nagging brothers or sick fathers. He can rest. There's no reason to be so sad, still. He has a purpose. He has love. He's good, here. His team are kind, his boyfriend is kind. Ottawa is safe. He's good.
His energy plunges. Marlow never minded Ilya being an asshole when he was tired. The Raiders were used to his moods. Ilya was volatile, yes. But boisterous. Playful. Somewhat… unhinged, sometimes? But that was expected of him from the beginning. Cocky rookie, number one in the draft, always chirping, always loud and demanding. They indulged him like their showoff, little brother, long after he should have grown up.
It's not like that with the Centaurs. Where before he would have ranted and yelled and let the rest of the team shout him back down with their dumb, clumsy affection, now it’s different. He keeps doing a strange kind of bowing out. Not on purpose. It’s like on a smaller team, he becomes a smaller person. He is protective of the others and it’s harder to tease when no one gets a win - there’s a different energy. But in so much quiet, he’s lost the knack of being himself.
The polite, reserved Ilya that survived Russia is somehow here, surviving Ottawa. Even though it's not the same at all. He should be proud here. He is making good decisions for his future. He already survived the bad, he should be celebrating. It's just that he's tired. And small hits that shouldn't matter are hurting brighter in the gloom.
So what, he's low? He is aware. But he can survive low. He has survived low before. And he knew what was coming, he agreed. Ottawa. 2 hours away. For Shenya. For himself too, for both of them. Even if Ottawa is a very bad team, it was his choice too. Ilya thrives under pressure. Everybody says this. He will drag Ottawa from weak to strong. Make it click, if it kills him.
Ok, he's bored, sometimes. Ottawa is no Boston. No Moscow, even. But that's his own fault. He should make more effort to be sociable, especially as Captain. And they have a plan; the narrative does not change overnight. One day, they will retire and be free. He should not be lazy. He has to keep working if he wants rewards.
And the work is so important. The Irina Foundation is a beautiful thing that Shenya dreamed. Only Shenya's mind could imagine such a good thing to change their narrative. Ilya meets with Shane and Yuna once a month to discuss the hockey camp and the charities they will support. Yuna is making connections with many people who can help them build this. And so many good projects to support! Early mental health intervention, crisis hotlines, peer support groups for grieving families. And pet therapy! It's true - puppies to help people who are too sad! It is so beautiful. He never knew puppies could be therapy.
Could something so simple have helped his Mama? Ilya has kept her secret and safe, close to his heart for many years. It’s dizzying how often he hears her name now. It's good. But it hurts too, sometimes. Maybe. He wonders if he is betraying her memory, using her name like this. He called her “Mama,” but “Irina” was always there underneath, when teachers asked after her, her friends at church, Ilya's grandparents, their neighbours, Papa. They all called for her: Irina. Irochka. Irisha. Now, the Irina Foundation. It means charity, hope, despair, Canada, Shane. He's muddying all his memories and the word “Irina” is dying, becoming a foreign thing on many strangers’ breath.
But the work is important; it’s not just about her, of course. There are so many people struggling. They feel closer now. He can't carry all of them, but one life saved is better than none, even if sometimes it feels like sucking at an ocean of tears with a paper straw and then patting himself on the back for a good job. He tries to keep perspective. There’s no way of knowing if something like the Foundation could have helped his Mama or whether it was all just inevitable. Neither feels very good. He stares at the hotline numbers and imagines calling when he was 12. Perhaps there was someone out there who would have had an answer.
Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Usually, he doesn't like to think too hard about that year. But now broken bits of it keep floating back to him, out of time. He didn't even have his own phone at that age. Mama had a mobile. He used to steal it to play games. Could she have used it to call for help? If she had known about hotlines? Lyosha was always pestering Papa for his own phone. Ilya thinks he got one shortly after Mama did. He has vague memories of Lyosha gloating about his clunky brick, and all the girls he was texting on it. Ilya wanted a phone; he wanted anything Lyosha had. But he didn't have one. And then Mama died. And, for a while, Ilya didn't want anything. But Papa gave him a phone so he could get to school by himself with their driver since there was no Mama to take him.
Ilya didn't care much about the phone until he gave Sveta his number. Then she was always texting him bad things, terrible gossip that could make even him splutter and giggle. He felt better when he texted her back. His true family in his pocket. Sveta and Sasha. Sasha would send him secret locations to be deleted as soon as he read them. He felt old, glamorous, like a spy. But that was years later. It all gets mixed up.
He doesn't need to be reliving that over and over. None of that matters. He's here in Ottawa. There are beautiful sunsets. A canal ice rink through the city. There are good people here. Mama would have loved it, if she had fought a bit harder. If she had used her phone. If someone had helped. He's not angry at her. He's not angry at Papa or Lyosha. What would be the point now? Is Lyosha even still alive? Would someone tell Ilya if he wasn't? Who would call?
He doesn't need to think about that. His true family is here in his phone, in his pocket like always. He has a perfect boyfriend and a perfect dream life: American Hockey Star. He did it. Well, maybe not star any more, but Canadian Hockey Player. It's good. It's simple. He is very spoilt, could buy anything he wants. What more could he want?
He feels sometimes like he's done, like he did everything he wanted already. He made good choices, had a good life. Achieved almost everything he dreamed. Now he's floundering in extra time. Soon he will be older than Mama ever was. Jesus. She was so sad and so trapped. Ilya escaped, succeeded at everything and found the love of his life. It's not the same. But the days keep coming and coming and Ilya doesn't know if he has another, what, 30 years in him? 40? He imagines calling one of the hotlines they are funding and them laughing; he has literally no problems. No, he will leave the hotlines open for people who need it. Everything is good here. He doesn’t need to keep feeling sad.