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Ilya knows he shouldn't be smoking. But out on his back deck on this crisp autumn evening, he doesn't care. Shane's back in Montreal and Ilya's back to being alone in Ottawa—it's only been a few weeks, but each day they're apart feels longer than the last. He takes another drag and blows the smoke out slowly, watching as it dissipates into nothing. It's peaceful; meditative. Wyatt Hayes once told him that meditation was good for quieting the mind, the goal being to think of absolutely nothing. Thinking of absolutely nothing, to Ilya, sounds like death.
And wouldn't that be kind of peaceful too?
Ilya shakes his head and tries again to think of nothing. He fiddles with the cross hanging from his neck. Think of nothing. But instead, his thoughts wander to what his mother's last thoughts might have been. He can't seem to stop wondering about it lately. Were they of regret? Relief? Did she think of him at all?
Ilya thinks of Shane now—he wouldn't do that to him. Won't. He loves him too much. But his mother loved him and Alexei too—she never should've been able to do that to them. And yet... she did. Ilya supposes she couldn't help it. Couldn't be helped.
Think of nothing, think of nothing.
Sudden movement from the corner of his eye shakes him free from this line of thought. He follows the movement, squinting across the yard until he sees an orange blur disappear into the bushes lining the fence. That orange cat again.
"Hi, kitty," Ilya murmurs softly. He watches the bushes as he finishes his cigarette, waiting to see if the cat will show itself again. Ilya has seen it prowling around the last few weeks—he'd first noticed it the day after Shane left. Is it a stray? Does it belong to a neighbour? It never gets close enough for Ilya to check for a collar—he'd prefer to get to it before a coyote does. He's seen a few of them prowling around too. Or a car—some owners let their cats roam free, Ilya knows, but he's seen enough flattened cats on the side of the road to think owners like that are complete assholes.
And if it's a stray, Ilya will take it to a local shelter. Maybe the cat knows that and that's why it keeps its distance, preferring independence over safety. Ilya can relate to that; he valued his own independence and freedom so much he moved continents at barely eighteen years old, barely able to speak the language. All to get away from Russia—away from his family, or what remained of it. At least physically. Even now, years after his father's death, Ilya still isn't quite free of him or his influence.
Every time the Centaurs lose—again, some more—it's his father's voice whispering somewhere deep in the back of his mind. Telling him he's weak, a failure, that it's all his fault. He's gotten better at ignoring it, but it never fully goes away. Ilya's not sure it ever will—yet another thing that makes thinking of nothing that much more difficult. And that much more appealing.
Ilya stares into the bushes as the sun falls out of view, until he’s staring into darkness. Time to go inside. He’ll stare into the darkness there too, but at least it’ll be warmer.
"'Night, kitty."
Ilya woke to frost coating the bare tree branches outside his bedroom window that morning. Well, afternoon. It’s a recovery day, so it’s fine to stay in bed staring at icy branches just outside the window until his vision blurs. It’s fine to know he has to get up, that he should get up, and still not do it. It’s fine—Ilya’s been telling himself this more and more.
The Centaurs lost last night, and the team went out together afterward—to commiserate more than to celebrate, probably. Ilya didn’t go. Yuna and David invited him over for dinner tonight, but he’s not going there either. It’s a recovery day, it’s fine.
While making coffee, Ilya checks his phone. He texted Shane after the game last night—no response yet. Shane’s been busy winning games with the Metros, and maybe even going out with them after. Things a good captain should do.
Ilya sighs, watching the coffee machine slowly fill his Centaurs mug. He should call Yuna, tell her his nonexistent plans changed, that he’d love to come for dinner and work on a puzzle with David. He should call Bood, tell him he’s sorry for ditching the team last night (and all the other nights), that he knows he’s not being a good captain. He should call his father—Ilya’s never used a Ouija board, but there’s a first time for everything—and tell him he was right. That Ilya is exactly the lazy, disappointing failure Grigori always told him he was.
He calls Shane instead. No answer, he’s probably at practice. Ilya takes his coffee out to the deck. He’s shirtless and it’s cold out, but he doesn’t care. His father used to say the cold was good for you, that it makes you strong for Russian winter. Ilya needs some strength, needs to toughen up and stop feeling like he’s going to burst into tears at the slightest inconvenience lately—like a simple text going unanswered because the recipient is busy. Busy with more important things than Ilya. So, Ilya stays out on the deck until his Centaurs mug is empty, the ceramic like ice in his hand. Until he’s shivering.
He hears a soft meow and turns his head in its direction. “Hello, Dima.”
The orange cat is perched on the deck railing, eyeing Ilya cautiously. He had mentioned his little orange visitor to the Centaurs in the locker room, and Wyatt—always full of trivia—told him that statistically, most orange cats are male. Ilya had taken to calling him Dima.
“You are feeling brave today, hmm?” Ilya had seen the cat on the deck before—usually through the window when Ilya was inside—but he’d never ventured this close. Ilya furrows his brow. “Are you cold?” It sounds like a stupid question once asked aloud. Ilya’s cold, so surely the cat must be cold. But then it occurs to Ilya he doesn’t know much about cats. Little Dima has an impressively fluffy orange coat; maybe he’s made for this weather.
As soon as Ilya makes a move to stand up, Dima pushes up onto his front paws, looking like he’s ready to bolt if need be. “Do not worry, I’m going in other direction,” Ilya says, slowly backing away to the door so as not to startle the cat. He steps inside the house, but holds the door open. He makes a welcoming gesture with his arm. “Is warm inside.”
Dima just stares at him.
“Okay. Maybe next time.”
Keeping secrets has been a staple in Ilya’s life for as long as he can remember. Hiding the truth of his mother’s death, pretending along with the rest of his family that it was just an unfortunate accident. Hiding his bisexuality in Russia from a young age. Hiding his feelings from Shane for so long and so hard, he even tried to hide them from himself.
Hiding their relationship now, protecting it like something precious—and it is—having to pretend his heart isn’t full of aching love for one single person while wanting to shout it aloud. Wanting people to know that he belongs to someone fully, and that person belongs to him too. Maybe if the entire world knew he belonged somewhere, he would believe it himself.
He’s started seeing a therapist, Galina, and it’s another secret to keep, yet another entry at the bottom of a long list. So, it’s a relief to have something personal he can share with the locker room—with people who should be his friends, but who really know very little about him outside of his role as Ilya Rozanov, Hockey Player. He gives them almost daily updates on what little Dima has been up to. Ilya told them when he started leaving food and water out on the deck. He told them that just a few days ago, he got close enough to hold out his hand, and Dima sniffed it—then ran away once Ilya shifted in his deck chair. Another time, Ilya saw him yawn. Okay, the quality of the updates varies but Ilya is happy to have something, anything, to share. Something to make him sound like an actual person, not a husk that spends most of his time alone missing his partner that barely anyone even knows exists.
Dima certainly isn’t as exciting as the new team puppy, Chiron (at least Chiron lets Ilya pet him), but Ilya likes having the little orange blur around. He doesn’t share this part with the team, but having to refill the food and water gives him a reason to get out of bed on his days off. He didn’t share that with Galina either, but maybe he will in their next session.
It’s another day off for Ilya, and he got out of bed at a reasonable hour to refill Dima’s food bowl. Now, setting up the little cat house that he’d bought for Dima on the deck, carefully arranging the straw inside—Wyatt told him not to use a blanket, Ilya’s first suggestion, because fabric holds moisture and could freeze—Ilya keeps scanning the yard for Dima. Like the cat should be supervising so Ilya can set up the shelter how he likes it.
He spends the rest of the day trying to do the things he should—things Galina has been encouraging him to do. Things Shane would encourage him to do, if he knew Ilya wasn't already doing them. If Ilya were being honest with him about how much he's been struggling. Things like exercising and cleaning up after himself. But he takes several breaks to look out the window for Dima, checking to see if he'd found his little home yet.
After a couple of days of not seeing the cat, Ilya starts to worry. The locker room brushes it off—stray cats come and go, maybe his owner found him—but Ilya only worries more. He needs a reason to get out of bed. He needs something to think about that isn't how much he misses Shane, how much he misses his mother, or which of them he'll see again first. Wyatt had given Ilya a look and asked if he was okay in a tone of voice that made him immediately laugh it off. It's just a stray cat, of course Ilya's okay. He's fine, everything's fine.
Ilya cancelled his next appointment with Galina. He doesn't want to say the words out loud, doesn't want to admit that being abandoned by a stray cat was making him spiral, undoing all the work they'd done over several sessions in just a few days. And there was his father's voice again, whispering to Ilya about how disappointing he was, how useless, how weak. All over a cat.
He's also been putting off texting Shane back. Ilya doesn't know what to talk about these days; everything he wants to talk about, he doesn't want to burden Shane with. Galina, the cat, his mother, how much the Centaurs' constant losing is taking a toll on him—how much it's all proving Grigori right. Why would Shane Hollander, the best player in the MLH, want to be with someone who can't even win one fucking game? He's a joke of a captain, and a joke of a hockey player, and Shane's going to figure that out sooner or later.
A soft squeaking sound Ilya can't place breaks him out of his thoughts. He's been sitting at the kitchen table in the dark, clutching his phone and staring at Shane's last text—are you getting these? call me back pls—since getting home from another lost game. Ilya turns to the sound. It's coming from the sliding glass door to the deck. Squinting in the dark, he sees a flash of glowing eyes and jumps a little before recognizing the small cat pawing at the window. Ilya lets out a soft laugh at himself before gingerly stepping over to the door and sliding it open as softly as he can so as not to startle Dima.
The cat slowly steps inside, moving stiffly with his ears pressed back and his body low to the ground. Ilya may not be a cat person, but he can recognize an animal being cautious, so he takes a few steps back and leaves the door open. "Hello, Dima. Did you want some food?" The bowl of kibble was still full on the deck last Ilya checked, but it had been sitting out for days. "Maybe wet food?"
Ilya heads to the cupboard where he keeps the cat food, giving Dima a wide berth. He empties a can into a small bowl and gently places it in front of the cat, then takes a seat on the floor a few feet away.
Dima sniffs the air curiously but makes no move toward the bowl, seeming to curl in on himself a little more instead.
"Do you not like salmon?" Ilya asks. He and Dima watch each other for a few minutes. Finally, Ilya can't help himself—he slowly scoots closer, holding out his hand until he's close enough for Dima to sniff him. Then Ilya gently runs his fingers over Dima's head, the cat tilting into it. "That's a good boy," Ilya whispers, used to telling Chiron the same thing. He continues, brushing his fingers gently down Dima's back, before quickly pulling his hand away. Something feels wet.
Ilya frowns. "Were you in... snow?" He lifts his hand, squinting at his fingertips in the dim light. It's blood.
Ilya freezes, not wanting to scare the cat even though the cat was scaring him. He slowly stands up and tiptoes around Dima to close the door so he can't escape, not that he looks like he's in any hurry to go anywhere. "One minute, Dima. I will find hospital." Ilya grabs his phone, ignoring the blood now smeared on it, and quickly looks up the nearest emergency vet that's open this late.
After finding one, he goes to the door and dumps out his gear bag before slowly approaching Dima with it. "I apologize in advance—I only have this smelly duffle bag for you." Dima doesn't seem to mind when Ilya lays a kitchen towel over the wound on his back. And he doesn't protest when Ilya very gently picks him up and places him inside the bag. Ilya leaves the bag unzipped and hurries them both out to the car.
While driving, Ilya glances over at Dima, curled up in the duffle bag on the passenger seat. "We are getting you help, Dima," he says quietly. "You will be okay. I promise."
Dima's a girl. The emergency vet had shaved the area around the wound, cleaned it, and gave Ilya antibiotics to put in her food for the next two weeks. This shaved little orange creature, wearing a ridiculous plastic cone around her neck and clumsily inhaling a bowl of kibble on Ilya's kitchen floor, seems so different from the timid, mysterious cat that used to prowl around just out of Ilya's reach. Maybe her fight with whatever animal it was showed her there were worse things than being pampered in a warm home. She's purring so loudly, Ilya can hear her from across the room. He takes a picture of her and sends it to Shane with no explanation, giddy at the confused response he's sure to get once Shane is done with practice later.
The vet guessed Dima was around seven months old, and she had no microchip or tattoo, so there was no owner on record who might be looking for her. The vet had also advised Ilya to schedule her to be fixed once the wound healed and she finished her antibiotics. Ilya had almost protested that this was not his cat, but the words didn't make it out of his mouth. She's his responsibility for the next two weeks, at least. Someone needs to make sure she heals properly and takes her meds.
And is loved forever.
"You are going to be spoiled, Dima." Ilya scrolls Amazon, adding cat beds, laser pointers, toy mice, and anything else that catches his eye to his cart. "You will never want to leave again."
He starts looking up local cat-sitting services that could be trusted to take care of her while he's on the road next week. Or maybe Yuna and David wouldn't mind doing it; he'll text them later to find out, maybe invite them over. For now, he texts Wyatt to tell him he was wrong about statistics, because Dima is a girl.
He calls Galina's office to see if he can un-cancel his next appointment. He thinks back to something she told him in one of their first sessions, something about putting on your mask in an airplane before helping anyone else—he'd found himself thinking about it last night while the vet treated Dima. What if Ilya hadn't been there when she came pawing at the door? He's annoyed that Galina's advice was right. And ashamed that it took this cat getting hurt for him to finally understand it.
Ilya opens the carrier door, and Dima pounces out, taking off down the hallway. They'd just come back from her follow-up at the vet; her wound has healed nicely, she's got a microchip officially declaring Ilya as her owner, and an appointment to be fixed the following week. This poor cat is going to hate the vet, Ilya thinks, but it's for her own good. In the past two weeks, she's rubbed her face on everything in Ilya's house, claiming the entire place as her own. Ilya's opened the door to the back deck a few times for her, but she's ignored it each time, preferring to curl up in one of her many cat beds throughout the house. Or, preferably, in Ilya's lap whenever he's sitting down. He worries she'll be more interested in going outside when it's not freezing cold out, but the catio he's got planned to build off the deck next summer will hopefully be enough to keep her happy. And safe. Ilya had never thought of cats as being particularly affectionate—he'd never spent much time with one, so how would he know—but Dima is a cuddler. She curls up at his feet every night at bedtime; Ilya sends Shane pictures almost daily, hoping to make him jealous.
He steps into his office to find Dima sprawled across his office chair. Leaning over it, he tells her, "Shane will be here soon, you can finally meet in person." They have two shared days off coming up which Shane will spend in Ottawa. "You have to be nice to him, okay?" Ilya gently strokes her soft coat, the shaved patch looking a little less silly as the orange fur is starting to grow back in.
Ilya finally told Shane he's seeing a therapist, but didn't go into too many details about why yet. He wants to have that conversation in person. Some days getting out of bed is still more difficult than others, but he's speaking frankly about it with Galina and listening to her advice. She told him to tell his father to fuck off when he starts whispering in his ear, and that's been his favourite therapy exercise so far.
He's stopped trying to think of nothing; he has too many things he wants to think about. Like Shane coming soon, his next dinner with Yuna and David, going out with the Centaurs to have a good time even if they lose. He might even try medication, but hasn't decided yet—maybe he'll talk about that with Shane too once he's here.
"I think you will like him," he tells Dima, scratching under her chin.
Ilya opens his bedroom door, rolling his eyes. Dima glides into the room, looking annoyed, and hops up onto the bed, which is impressively disheveled after his and Shane's much-needed reunion. Ilya pulls on his pyjama pants and drops onto the mattress with a contented sigh, closing his eyes and listening to the steady rush of water as Shane showers in the attached bathroom. Dima crawls onto his stomach, purring. "You will have to get used to closed doors, sometimes," Ilya says. "Shane does not like an audience in the bedroom."
He brushes his thumb over her head until she settles down on his chest. She reaches out her front leg, resting her paw on top of the cross around Ilya's neck, giving him a slow blink as he stares into her eyes.
"Did she send you to me?" Ilya asks, his voice quiet. He places his hand gently over Dima's paw, over his necklace, watching her like she might answer. But she just closes her eyes and keeps purring, the soft vibration against his chest as good an answer as any.
Ilya smiles, looking up at the ceiling.
"Thank you, mama."