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Ilya calls Shane after practice. Shane picks up immediately. "Hey. Are you okay?" It sounds like he's still in the locker room, maybe in a corner somewhere.
"Yes," Ilya says. "Probably." He wonders who told Shane. Hazy told Ilya. Hazy knows everyone.
"It's okay not to be okay," Shane says.
"We were not friends," Ilya says.
"Yeah, but," Shane says. The noise on Shane's end fades. Maybe he's walking to his car. Ilya's already in his car. "We both know it's weird when it happens to a hockey player."
"Yes," Ilya says.
"There's a lot of us in some ways," Shane continues, "but not that many of us. I didn't really know him either, but he was there, you know. Someone I expected to see."
"Yes." Ilya cannot find other words to say. But it's good to talk to Shane, to hear Shane's voice.
"It sucks that rehab didn't help," Shane says. "I heard he had been a couple of times."
"You know how easy it is," Ilya says. Everyone in hockey knows. They get hurt. There is pressure to play, even if it doesn't come directly from the coach or the other players. More than that, they want to play. He loves the game and so does Shane. Pain is nothing when their teams rely on them. So they take the shot, or they swallow the pills, and they do the best they can until they can rest. Harvey's life on the ice was mostly pain: he was there for his fists, for the fight in him. He didn't have the protections that Shane and Ilya have, the big men to take their hits for them. He didn't have trophies for his quick feet or his good hands.
Ilya tries to avoid the pills, when he can. He's afraid, a little, of the sadness inside him. He's afraid it's genetic, his mother's gift to him, wrapped up together with his curly hair and the shape of his mouth. Sometimes he thinks that there is a hollow place where something has rotted. The drugs make it easier to pretend that place isn't there, like a tree that looks fine until it falls. They take the pain away. But pain is something that Ilya has learned to live with. To feel some hurt all the time is better than the way the pain comes back when the relief wears off. The pain is real. The relief is only a dream.
There are chimes, probably Shane's car door opening, and then the clunk of the door closing. They're both alone now. Shane sighs. "I wish I could hold you right now, baby." His voice is so soft and gentle. Ilya wants to sink into it, to let it wrap around him.
"I wish you could too," Ilya says. He wants to lie in Shane's lap and feel Shane's fingers in his hair. He wants Shane's mouth. He wants to rest his head on Shane's broad chest or Shane's thick thighs.
"At least it's the All-Star Weekend," Shane says. "Maybe we can find some time."
"I think I will go to the funeral," Ilya says. "They can find someone else to play this year." It surprises him, almost, even though the words are coming from his mouth. He has never, on purpose, skipped a chance to be with Shane. But their situation is different now. They see each other more than a handful of times a year. Not much more, not enough to satisfy, but enough to survive on. One or the other of them has missed the All-Star stuff before, for different reasons. They will live.
"When is it?" Shane asks.
"I don't know. I will find out."
Shane says nothing for a moment. Then: "I could come with you."
"No," Ilya says with love in his voice. "Shanya. You can't." He knows Shane would, almost without a second thought, but they can't. It's too much. He and Shane can't both miss All-Stars for a man neither of them really knew without people talking about it. Maybe people know they have the foundation together now, and that could be an excuse, but Ilya can't sit in his dark suit across the room from Shane, now that it's known that they're friends, and he can't sit next to Shane either, not without touching Shane somehow. Not at a funeral like this. He'll have to carry Shane's comfort with him inside his heart instead.
"I know." Shane sighs again. "I don't want you to be alone."
"I will call you after, when I can," Ilya says. "I don't even know where he was from."
"Some little town in Ontario, I think," Shane says. "Not somewhere with nice hotels. You'll probably have to drive, or fly to a small airport and drive from there. I'm sure Mom would help you, if you want."
"Yes, maybe," Ilya says. "I will call her. Maybe your dad knows about this little town. He knows a lot about little towns."
"Yeah," Shane says.
"Very normal of him," Ilya teases. He can feel the hollow place inside him, but he can feel the Hollanders' love too. He isn't twelve anymore, screaming in an empty room that should have had his mama in it but only had her body and a bottle with no pills in it. He can still hear that boy — he'll never stop hearing that boy — but from a distance. He wonders who found Duncan Harvey. He wonders if dying hurt less than living.
He hopes so.
"I don't fly out until tomorrow," Shane says. "I could come over tonight."
"I play tonight," Ilya says. Practice was optional this morning, but Ilya has been trying to set an example, and to convince Tanner Dillon that he, Ilya Rozanov, MLH Cup winner and multiple times league MVP, does know what he's talking about when it comes to how a line is supposed to work.
"I could meet you after," Shane says. "I mean, I probably can't come to the game, but I'll watch at the house, and I can leave early in the morning."
"If you want," Ilya says, trying to hide how desperately he wants. He should tell Shane it's silly to drive so far for so short a time, but he can't. Shane's arms around him will hold him steady. Shane's body under his will bring him the relief he craves, the quiet in his mind. Not so different from drugs, maybe, but Ilya can't overdose on Shane.
"My parents will probably be at the game, right?" Shane laughs, just once. "I won't tell them I'm coming."
"Probably best," Ilya agrees. "I will have you to myself." He enjoys it when the Hollanders are there, sitting in his seats. Yuna doesn't even boo him anymore, not since the foundation was announced. He misses it, a little bit. He could always pick her voice out of the crowd. He doesn't think anyone will tell them about Duncan Harvey. He hopes not, almost. Not tonight. To be part of a family that likes spending time together is very nice, but sometimes what he needs most is Shane. Just Shane. There will be family meals later, he is sure, and the kind of hugs that make him feel small and enormous at the same time. They will help, but tonight he needs something more raw. Shane can handle the sharp edges of Ilya's pain. Shane is brave. His strength matches Ilya's, but their hurts are different. That's good. They can lean on each other, press into each other, and not cut deeper.
Maybe it's strange, to feel so strongly about a man he saw a few times a year, for not so many years. Maybe it's strange to want to go to the funeral of a stranger. But Ilya sees too much of what could have been in Duncan Harvey. He didn't do enough before. He can do a little now. Too late to help Harvey, but not too late to help whoever Harvey left behind.
"I love you," Shane says.
"I love you very much," Ilya tells him.
"I have to go to lunch with my agent," Shane says. "I think she's been talking to my mom about some things, so don't be surprised if Mom brings up some kind of Speedo campaign."
Ilya can laugh at that. "Okay."
"Apparently even when we aren't on rival teams, people want to see us together, especially if we're not wearing a lot of clothes."
"Well," Ilya says.
"Not like that," Shane says in his stern captain voice.
Ilya sighs. "Fine. I will not release our sex tape. Yet."
"You're not funny," Shane mutters.
"Hmm, that is not what your mother says," Ilya tells him.
"I hate that she actually said that," Shane says.
"I know, lyubimyy," Ilya says. "You suffer so much."
"I'll see you tonight, okay?" Shane's voice is soft. "Score a goal for me."
It's not a question. Ilya likes it when Shane tries to tell him what to do. It's cute. It reminds Ilya of Shane pushing him toward the bed, that first time in Toronto after their commercial shoot. "What do I get when I do?"
"Whatever you want," Shane promises. "Fuck. I've got to go."
"Bye," Ilya says, and hangs up, because otherwise they will say goodbye for another ten minutes. He sits in his car, thinking. He will have lunch, and a nap, and then he will get ready for the game, and he will forget about Duncan Harvey for a little while, and only think about the puck and the net and the bodies around him. He will leave everything on the ice, and he will come home to Shane, and he will forget again. Tomorrow, he'll make plans, and Yuna and David will help, and even if no one else understands, the boy inside him will feel a little less lonely for an hour or two.
He puts the car in gear. One step and then another. That's always been the way back to himself.