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J.J. and Shane had cleared the air—the first time—not long before the wedding, which J.J. had attended, on his best behavior, feeling more than a little off balance. They cleared the air the second time, properly, after "sharing" two bottles of wine (Shane had roughly two glasses; J.J. had the rest) the following summer, one late night after a long day of camp. J.J. and Shane were good, now, three years on, and he came to the Ottawa house and occasionally the cottage when invited, where he did his best to make nice with—while mostly avoiding—his friend's husband.
It was early September the season after the Centaurs had won their second cup, and he and Hayden had made the two-hour trip together for a visit on the last free weekend they all had before the pre-season started. Rozanov now had some sort of almost-friendly weird, banter-y thing with Hayden at this point, but J.J. was still on barely more than nodding terms with the man. Rozanov had largely made himself scarce for most of Friday and Saturday, leaving the three of them to their own devices, other than to occasionally breeze through whatever room they were in to drop a kiss on Shane’s head or to tell them about food in the kitchen. Shane was happy at least, and that was the important part, J.J. told himself. They were all adults; they could act like it for one weekend, for Shane's sake.
But Saturday night was apparently a "team bonding" night, and so now here he was, sitting on patio furniture in Zane Boodram’s backyard, surrounded by Centaurs and their respective plus ones, just one seat away from Ilya Rozanov. Shane had been perched between the two of them, providing a much-appreciated buffer, but he had gone off a few minutes ago to get another drink, and Anya had immediately leapt up into his vacated seat, promptly falling asleep half on Rozanov’s lap. Hayden had disappeared a while ago, joining the small cluster of men “helping” Bood run his grill.
J.J. sits quietly, sipping his beer, watching Rozanov do the same out of the corner of his eye, even as he strokes Anya’s silky head. The fire pit in front of them is nice, even if not strictly necessary this early in September. Most of the crowd is up on the main part of the deck, where the food and drinks are located, so J.J. feels very isolated and odd, stuck with exactly the company he least wanted.
Another sneaky glance to the side, and he notices that Rozanov is smiling at something, his face softer than he’s ever seen it—at least, other than the day of the wedding. J.J. follows Rozanov’s gaze and is unsurprised to see Shane at the end of it, chatting with surprising animation with a man J.J. doesn’t immediately recognize. Like most of the men in the backyard, he is tall, broad, and a bit hairy, but he has a lankiness to him, like a puppy not yet grown into his feet, that makes J.J. suspect this is one of the new Centaurs rookies.
The younger man stares, eyes wide, at Shane, hunching over a bit, as though a bit ashamed of the fact that he had a few inches on him. J.J. can tell even from across the yard, that Shane is in full captain mode, his back straight, doing his best to make eye contact. The conversation wraps up, and Shane claps the taller man once on the shoulder, and then disappears into the house, either to take a break from people or some other Shane-type-errand.
The rookie stands, stock still, eyes still wide. He looks around, as if not quite sure that the conversation even happened, and J.J. snorts to himself. Rozanov cuts a smile to him and their eyes meet briefly, the same mirth on his face at the rookie’s overwhelm. J.J. has seen this before: the Hollander experience. The familiarity of the scene allows J.J. to relax a bit, until he realizes that the rookie has locked eyes on Rozanov and is barreling across the deck, down the stairs, and onto the lower patio towards them, like a D-man coming for the puck.
Rozanov kicks a chair closer and gestures to it, and the man falls into it with a big breath. Then he starts talking to Rozanov in rapid, guttural Russian, and J.J. gets it—the newcomer is Russian. Must be that kid from the KHL. What’s the name? P-something-or-other. Maybe?
Rozanov interrupts J.J.’s train of thought, nudging him with an elbow.
“Boiziau? Meet our rook. Petukhov. Evgeny. We call him Petty.”
J.J. nods at Petukhov, raising his beer in salute.
“Starstruck by our Capitaine, non?” He takes a sip. “Happens to the best of us.”
Rozanov laughs, covers it with a cough. “Ah, not exactly.”
Petukhov just stares at him. His gaze is haunted.
“He doesn't like Shane?” J.J. finds this hard to believe. Or at least, he finds it hard to believe that Rozanov would be so chill about it, if so.
Rozanov opens his mouth to say something, but Petukhov interrupts him, spitting something out and gesturing forcefully back to the deck. J.J. turns to Rozanov, a question on his face.
“Ah, our new friend Petty here, not much English,” Rozanov settles back into the cushions. “Shane is being very welcoming alternate Captain. He is only one here other than me who speaks Russian, you see. Beyond curse words. I give lessons in locker room on Russian cursing. And chirps.” He smirks, and there’s the Rozanov J.J. knows and loathes.
“Nice of him,” J.J. says slowly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Is bad,” Petukhov says. “No good.”
“Shane is bad?”
“Nyet,” says Petukhov, frustrated.
“J.J., I’m going to tell you a secret,” Rozanov says, “and you cannot ever tell Shane.”
“Shane’s my friend.” J.J. doesn’t have to add the subtext: his loyalty is to Shane, not his husband. He owes him that, after everything.
Rozanov waves a hand in the air, dismissing him. “Yes, yes, and that is why you do not tell Shane. Would hurt him.” He pauses, taking a long sip of his drink while looking J.J. square in the eyes. J.J. reluctantly nods, his curiosity getting the better of him. “You see, my husband is perfect, wonderful, excellent ass—” J.J. scoffs, and Rozanov grins again, shark-like, “—and he is excellent with languages. A…cunning linguist, even…”
“Who taught you that?” says J.J., scandalized. “That’s not even accurate, I’m pretty sure.”
“Depends on which meaning you want,” Rozanov says, toying with his mostly empty glass. “Anyway, he learned Russian in, what? Three years? Very fast. Excellent grammar. Perfect. Speaks Russian better than my English, really.”
“Not surprising,” J.J. says.
“Ah, but his accent." Ilya allows himself a long pause, and Petukhov again cuts in.
“Is shit.”
And J.J. cracks up. Rozanov smiles, and Petukhov still looks some combination of flummoxed and incensed.
“Really, it’s very funny, for me at least,” Rozanov says, “but usually is only for me, this joke. Personal joke between husbands. Or, one-sided private joke between husbands. But now we have baby Petty, and he gets to experience the best worst Russian he has ever heard. It is thing of beauty.”
Petukhov spits out something that sounds like disagreement, but J.J. can’t quite hear because he is still laughing.
“I thought—” he hiccups out between cackles, “—I thought it was just—oh, mon dieu—”
Rozanov tilts his head. “Is funny, but not this funny, Boiziau.”
“Putain de merde,” J.J. gasps. “If his accent in Russian is as bad as his accent in French, it must be very funny.”
Rozanov’s face lights up, like he’s been handed prime chirp material. “His French, it is bad?”
J.J. nods, wiping away tears of mirth. “So bad. Or like, technically perfect. His grammar is better than mine. Probably his spelling too. But the accent—it's like, not Parisian French, or Québécois, it's just—Shane. Flat, no music to it. That accent—” He and Rozanov lock eyes and, for the first time ever, perfect understanding flows between them. Rozanov nods along with him.
“Just so. Perfect grammar. Terrible, terrible accent,” Rozanov says.
“So, like: dance, ten; looks, three?” someone says behind them, and JJ and Rozanov both jump, Rozanov letting out a little sound that JJ would normally mock him for, but he’s distracted by the beer he just spilled across his lap.
Wyatt Hayes leans over the couch and hands J.J. a napkin, which he futilely uses to dab at his shorts.
“Dance? What is this, Hazy?” Rozanov says.
“A Chorus Line? It’s a classic, man,” Hazy says, coming around to pull a chair up on JJ’s other side. “So, there’s all of these actors who are like, trying out for this big Broadway show, and—”
“Hazy,” Rozanov says, face falling back into his customary slavic scowl.
Hayes rolls his eyes and says, “Too long to go into. But Shane is like...grammar, ten; accent, three. If you’re scoring both out of ten.”
Rozanov snaps his fingers and points at Hayes. “Yes, this is it. His grammar is perfect, like angel. Like very serious angel with dictionary. The accent though...”
“Quelle horreur,” J.J. says, with emphasis. Petukhov nods along, although JJ doubts he understands the words.
“I was so impressed with his perfect French,” Rozanov says, “when I first heard him do those pressers in both languages.” J.J. nods, rolling his eyes. What a show-off his Capitaine is. “But, but! Ah, this is too good.”
“Well,” Hayes says philosophically, “nobody’s perfect.”
“Shane is perfect,” Rozanov says firmly. “This is just…quirk. Minor quirk. Still best husband, second best hockey player, best alternative captain—” he makes a motion with his hand, a sort of physical manifestation of the etcetera that they can all imagine. But then he straightens, fixing both Hayes and J.J. in turn with a gimlet eye. “And this is secret from Shane. And from rest of team, Hazy. Shane can never know.”
“You really think he doesn’t already know?” Hayes asks, one eyebrow raised.
J.J. and Rozanov share a glance again.
“Absolument pas.”
“Nyet.”
Rozanov looks at the three of them, and then gestures them all to lean in. He lifts his near-empty glass. “Say nothing, do you swear?”
Hayes and J.J. exchange a glance, while Rozanov mutters in Russian to Petukhov. They all raise their glasses, clinking them.
“Hey guys,” Shane says, sliding in among them. Rozanov picks up Anya and moves her to his lap, and Shane collapses back onto the couch. “You looked serious. What are you talking about over here?”
“Musicals,” says Hayes.
“Cultural differences,” says JJ.
“Linguistics,” says Rozanov.
“Kompromat,” says Petukhov darkly, under his breath.
“Ohhhhkay. Should I leave you to it?” Shane says, shifting like he’s about to stand up, but Rozanov wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him flush against his side. Anya stretches out across their laps, trapping him.
“No, no, lyubimyy moy, is just friendly chat. Sit with us. I know you like the fire.”
Shane smiles, and settles in against his husband, looking peaceful and completely unaware that there was some small way in which he was not living up to his full potential. J.J. suspected that it really was for the best, just as Rozanov had said.
He should probably start calling the man Ilya, he thinks, catching a wink from over Shane’s head. J.J. winks back, and polishes off his drink.