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If you too are struggling to figure out how to tell your boyfriend’s parents that you’ve been seeing their son for over a decade and you had to concoct a 10-plus year plan to come out to the world, Ilya highly recommends having a small mental health crisis and letting them piece together the clues on their own.
Very efficient, in his experience. Russians love efficiency.
Slipping into a depressive episode, however, was not very Russian of him. Ilya was sure his father was rolling in his grave at the indignity. If he were alive, he’d be spitting mad at the shame Ilya was bestowing on the Rozanov name. He’d say, “What do you mean, you could not get out of bed? You are too much like your mother, useless, lazy boy. Weak, in mind and body. No wonder Boston let you walk away, you were dead weight to them.”
Blyat, can’t win them all. At least he gets to enjoy the Hollanders’ hospitality.
Yuna and David had the opposite reaction, coddling him in a way he hadn’t been since he was young. Yuna had bundled him in blankets and coaxed him to sip on peppermint tea, running her fingers through his knotted curls.
David ordered takeout from a Russian restaurant, insisting on getting all of Ilya’s favorite comfort foods. Mind you, this restaurant was clear on the other side of the city and wildly inconvenient to get to. But David had insisted, gently nudging Ilya’s head back into Yuna’s lap when he tried to offer to go and get the takeout himself. Ilya knew this attempt to be less useless and pathetic would be immediately thwarted, already having failed to prevent the takeout order all together before trying to at least pay for the food. Yuna’s withering glare had him tucking his wallet back in his jacket pocket without comment.
“This is what you do for… people you care about, son. Stay here, rest, let me feel like I’m helping,” David had said as he toed on his shoes.
The Centaurs’ final game of the season was two days away. With both teams knocked out of playoff contention officially the week prior, it was, in essence, a pointless game. But it is not in a captain’s job description to coast to the finish line, and certainly not Russian at all. So Ilya would… what was the phrase? Tie shoes anyways? Pull himself up with his socks? Blyat, whatever the silly English phrase was, it didn’t matter. Ilya planned to lace his skates and show up on the ice, as he always did.
Or at least that was his plan, prior to his phone call with the team doctor. Terry was nothing like the other team doctors Ilya had dealt with over the years. He appeared to really be listening to him when he spoke, patiently helping parse through difficult English words without judgement. He had a kind face, one that made it appear like he really did want to hear about an old back injury or a mildly sprained ankle that Ilya absolutely could’ve played on and wrapped himself, thank you very much.
Terry also seemed to have little interest in appeasing the powers that be. If he didn’t think an athlete was 100 percent ready to return to the ice, nothing would sway him. Ilya wasn’t sure Terry’s strong moral compass would serve him well at any other professional team. He was also fairly positive that Terry would happily part ways with an organization that wasn’t prioritizing athlete health and wellness.
It was quite the novelty to Ilya, and a firm departure from his Russian roots.
The doctor listened as Ilya robotically read the script David had carefully written for him, humming occasionally to indicate he was listening. When he was sure Ilya was done speaking, Terry very gently but firmly stated that his professional opinion was that Ilya should be benched.
“Ilya, a captain’s job is to take care of his team. But you can’t do that if you aren’t taking care of yourself.” Ilya supposed that was reasonable, even if he didn’t like it.
Ilya opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. English appeared to be entirely too much for his tired brain. David sensed this, placing a gentle hand on Ilya’s shoulder as he took over. “Hi, Terry. This is David Hollander. My wife and son work with Ilya at the Irina foundation. Ilya’s going to be staying with Yuna and I while…”
Ilya assumed David didn’t actually trail off, but English had fully slipped out of his grasp for a bit. He noted, not without some humor, that David’s smooth voice was starting to sound a bit like the parents in that one cartoon he’d watched with Shane at the cottage, with the silly dog and the boy who dragged his blanket around with him everywhere he went.
“Everything is going to be okay, kid,” David said upon hanging up the phone, ruffling Ilya’s hair fondly. He’d said it so confidently that Ilya almost believed him. Almost.
By the time Ilya’s call with Terry wrapped up, it was practically time for the Voyagers’ game against the Washington Eagles. While this game was technically big for the Voyagers— they needed to win to clinch their spot in the playoffs, the downhill slide they’d been in since Shane came out to the locker room almost guaranteed a loss. Every game for the last few weeks had been almost identical: the stupid, homophobic Voyagers refusing to protect or work with Shane, Shane still managing to score a few goals despite this handicap, but losing anyways because his defense was more interested in fucking him over than they were protecting their own net.
Needless to say, Ilya didn’t feel too terrible when he started to doze, head resting on a pillow on Yuna’s lap and belly full of borscht. The way she was gently kneading his neck, Ilya thought lulling him to sleep was her end goal, but he couldn’t bring himself to resist the pull of unconsciousness.
~
Ilya woke to soft kisses on his forehead and the weight of a familiar hand rubbing his back.
“Hey, baby,” Shane’s voice wrapped around Ilya like a hug.
Ilya blinked, confused. Last time he was awake, Shane was on the ice in Washington DC. Montreal wasn’t scheduled to fly out until the following morning, and unless Ilya had slept on the Hollanders’ couch for more than 24 hours, there was no plausible way for Shane to be in Ottawa. And yet here he was, sitting at Ilya’s hip.
Sensing Ilya’s confusion, Shane offered, “I said I had a family emergency,” as an explanation with a shrug. “Frankly, I don’t think management would’ve cared if I said I just didn’t want to spend another minute with the team. They’ve made it clear they’d like me to waive my non-compete clause, and I’ve made it clear that I won’t be having any conversations without representation present.” He paused, planting another kiss on Ilya’s forehead. “Come on, Ilyusha, let’s go upstairs.”
A perk of dating a professional athlete, Ilya supposed, is Shane can pick up him and carry him up the stairs without breaking a sweat.
“I feel like princess,” Ilya murmured against Shane’s collarbone, more than a little delirious. Shane huffed in amusement against Ilya’s hair, carrying him to the bathroom.
“How about a shower, mon amour?”
Well, that was one way to tell your boyfriend’s parents about your relationship, Ilya thought to himself.
Because Shane seemed to have a sixth sense for Ilya’s anxiety, he smiled softly over his shoulder as he started the water. Keeping one hand under the stream to test the temperature, he held Ilya’s gaze. “I think they’ve caught onto us. Dad called you my partner, turned beat red and clarified that he meant ‘business partner.’”
Ilya chuckled as Shane moved to undress him, letting Shane rearrange his limbs like a rag doll. “I see you get your subtleness from your papa. Your mamushka, she is too smart for us. I am sure she is the one who.. how do you say… connected the dots?”
Shane dropped to one knee, deftly removing Ilya’s socks before gesturing for him to stand. “You’ll need to get used to always being three steps behind her,” Shane made quick work of his own clothes before ushering them both under the warm stream. Ilya all but collapsed against his boyfriend, letting Shane support his weight, rocking slowly and humming softly.
Ilya knew he was being needy and clingy and pathetic and deeply un-Russian, but he didn’t care. His boyfriend was here, and for the first time in weeks, things felt like he was going to be okay.
“We should probably, you know, confirm they know we’re together…” Shane trailed off, chuckling at the absurdity of the sentence. “I know this isn’t how we wanted to tell my parents, but I’m glad they know,” he whispered. “I’m so excited to share you with them. Ya tebya lyublyu.”
Ilya’s tears mixed with the shower water and soap dripping down Shane’s neck. “Ya tebya lyublyu, solnishko. What is phrase? Too moon and back? Da. I love you to planet far, far away and back.”
~
The simple domesticity of waking up in Shane’s childhood room alongside Shane made filled Ilya with a bubbly warmth he didn’t quite know how to describe. He knew Shane said David and Yuna likely knew about them, that they already loved him as just Ilya, co-founder of the Irina Foundation, that they’d love him even more as Ilya, Shane’s boyfriend. But just in case, he wanted to savor this feeling for as long as he could. Bottle it and save it for a rainy day, if his reserves happened to dwindle.
Shane’s arms tightened around him, fingers gently exploring Ilya’s ribs. “You’re never the little spoon.” Shane’s morning voice was rough with disuse.
“Mmmm, nyet, is normally you, solnishko. But I might trade more often, is nice.” Ilya flipped in Shane’s arms, pressing their noses together.
Ilya debated if hiding was a viable option. Maybe, he and Shane could just stay in bed all day, and Yuna and David would just leave them be. Never wonder where they went. Or why they were in the same room.
Who was he kidding? Yuna would do no such thing. And David would surely be willing to guilt him with leftovers if Yuna’s efforts to lure him from Shane’s room didn’t work.
In the end, Yuna did disturb their peace, calling Ilya’s phone.
“Hi, honey. I didn’t want to… intrude… but Coach Wiebe is here.”
Ilya blinked, unsure what to make of that sentence. His coach was here? In the Hollanders’ living room? Confirming his relationship with the Hollanders was one thing, but his coach was a hurdle he wasn’t prepared for.
Coach Wiebe knew Ilya was bisexual. Against his agent’s advice, Ilya told him bluntly before he signed any papers.
“Is not your business, but I am bisexual. I have long-term partner, who is still in closet. He is not sure if it is… safe to come out.” Ilya paused, letting his words sink in. If Wiebe had been startled by the turn in conversation, his face confirmed nothing.
“I tell you this now, because I will not allow locker room to not be safe. When I wear the C or A, I will not tolerate slurs or bad behavior. If you disagree with this, I will go elsewhere. Is simple. I have no plan to come out anytime soon, but I will not work somewhere that requires I stay in closet.”
Wiebe had nodded his head, taking a moment to chew on Ilya’s words. In retrospect, Ilya knew those were the words of a man who had everything on the line but felt like he had nothing to lose. No ties to Russia, no interest in returning to his home country, what felt like a lifetime between him and his so-called happily ever after, and very unmedicated depression. Had Wiebe told him to take a hike, his path to Canadian citizenship would’ve been destroyed, his plan to be with Shane ruined… Ilya had to stop this line of thinking before it turned into a full-blown spiral.
But Wiebe had simply nodded his head, a pensive expression on his face. “It takes guts to share something this personal with a man you don’t know,” he’d said, finally breaking the silence. “That’s exactly the kind of man I want leading my team. I want nothing more than for you to captain my team, and I hope one day I will be able to meet your partner.”
Ilya had looked down at his lap, willing the tears back into his eyes.
“And, Rozanov?” Wiebe waited for Ilya to make eye contact. “Making hockey a more welcoming sport starts one locker room at a time.”
Ilya held onto that sentiment as he lay in his boyfriend’s childhood bed, feeling like he was held together by duct tape and twine.
“Thank you, Yuna. I will come down now.”
Shane planted a quick kiss on his lips before he could sit up. “Do you want me to come down with you?”
“No, I need to do this myself. Ya tebya lyublyu, but coming out to your parents and my coach in the same day is too much, I think.”
Shane nodded, kissing him one more time before letting him stand.
“Text me when you want me to come downstairs.”
~
“Ilya, it’s good to see you.”
Ilya. Not Cap or Rozanov or Roz or Rozy. Ilya. Whatever Terry said to Wiebe must’ve painted a grim picture, because Ilya couldn’t think of a time anyone on the Cens called him by his first name.
“After talking with Terry, I thought it might be a good idea to check in with you in person. I want you to see that I mean what I am about to say.”
Ilya sunk further into the couch, bracing for impact. Yuna was circling like a shark, pretending she wasn’t eavesdropping in the kitchen. David had vacated the premise, retreating to the garden.
“I care about you as a person. That means I don’t care if your on-ice performance is excellent if your mind is suffering.” Wiebe let the words hang between them, like a heavy fog, before continuing. “The way you pour into the Centaurs is incredible. You set an example for everyone in that locker room. With how you conduct yourself during practice, how you take care of the rookies, how you remember the wives’ names and their children’s favorite cartoons. All eyes are on you, and for good reason. Which means it’s time for you to set a good example now. It’s time to show the team that you have to take care of your mental health, too, if you want to be the best.”
Ilya blinked. Words, it appeared, were evading him.
“This is not me putting pressure on you to recover a certain way. This is me trying to explain that I meant it when I said I wanted to make hockey a more welcoming sport. This is me saying you have my full support.”
Ilya was shell shocked. Gobsmacked. Stunned. He’d seen evidence of Wiebe’s progressive views, with the way he spoke to players, how he often encouraged them to speak to the sports psychologist on staff, and so much more. But still, he’d never had a hockey coach utter the words “I care about you as a person” or “you have my full support.”
“I… thank you, Coach. Your support.. means a lot.” His words felt inadequate. They felt small, and inconsequential in comparison to the gift Wiebe was giving him. Wiebe smiled like it didn’t matter. As he headed for the door, Yuna swooped in for the kill, walking Wiebe out as she greased the wheels for Shane’s inevitable departure from Montreal.
~
Ilya wandered out to the garden, needing the chilly morning air to fill his lungs and help ground him. There, he stumbled upon David Hollander with a cigarette between his lips.
“I’d say don’t tell Yuna, but I’m a fool if I think she doesn’t know exactly what ‘going to the garden’ means,” David shook his head, smiling as he thought of his wife. “Want one?”
Ilya accepted the offering wordlessly, leaning back and closing his eyes. The pair sat in companionable silence, letting the crisp air and cigarette smoke wrap around them. Not for the first time since he’d formally met the Hollanders, Ilya thought to himself that he could get used to this.
That thought always felt dangerous. After the last 24 hours, however, its edges seemed to have dulled. For the first time, Ilya’s future with Shane truly felt within reach, and he was starting to believe it wouldn’t be yanked away.
Lulled into a sense of security, Ilya found himself leading the conversation with David instead of enjoying the quiet.
“I feel like I am betraying my Russian roots, taking mental health day instead of finishing shitty season on mediocre note. Is what would be expected of me elsewhere, as captain.”
David hummed, as if he understood. Maybe he did.
“Just because that’s what would’ve been expected of you doesn’t mean it’s right. You might have Russian roots, but you replanted yourself in Canadian soil. What matters now is how you build your life from here.”
Ilya nodded. Maybe it was time for a new therapist, if a cigarette and a metaphor from David felt like it explained things better than six months of grinning and bearing his way through therapy in his second language.
~
Ilya and Shane officially came out while eating a unique fusion of Russian and Japanese leftovers. The last of David’s experimental pelmeni sat center stage, next to the miso soup Yuna pulled from the depths of the freezer and what remained of the pirozhki and golubtsy from the night before. None of it technically went together, but Ilya was fairly certain he’d never had a better meal.
They’d had a brief, hushed conversation before sitting down a the table, both agreeing that they wanted to tell David and Yuna about their relationship. In an out-of-character moment, Shane declared he’d go with the flow and tell them when the moment felt right. Ilya was being supportive, not wanting to discourage his boyfriend’s relaxed approach.
Of course, Shane’s idea of “going with the flow” meant nearly choking on a pelmeni, grabbing Ilya’s hand as he had a coughing fit and then, with tears in his eyes as he caught his breath, going “Mom, Dad, Ilya is my boyfriend.”
To their credit, neither David or Yuna said “yes, that much was clear.” They didn’t look exactly surprised, but neither of them were actors. Ilya could live with the warm smiles on their faces instead of shock.
”So I take it you won’t be upset I did a quick temp check to see how Wiebe felt about you becoming a free agent?” Yuna’s smile was all teeth, reminding the table that she was an apex predator in sheep’s clothes. “He’s very amenable to the idea.”
Ilya cackled, leaning his head against Shane’s shoulder as he shook. He was going to be ok. After all, his boyfriend was here, his in-laws were here, and the path to his future had never felt clearer.