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Are soulmates real, Mom? Ilya had asked. Are you and Dad soulmates?
Much of that evening with his mother had been lost in the long years since that conversation, but that fleeting, soft, and despondent smile on Irina’s lips—Ilya could never forget that.
Yes, Ilyushenka, soulmates are real. You’ll find yours one day, I’m sure of it, and they will be perfect for you, Irina had said in a patient voice, her creamy-pale fingers brushing away a strand of curls by his forehead.
Leaning against the bed, the two of them had been sitting on the floor in Ilya’s bedroom. And although she’d never tell him, with the shine in her eyes, Ilya knew that his father must have berated her just minutes ago, like how his father had often yelled at him.
So you and Dad are not soulmates? Ilya had said, after gathering his courage. How do you know, Mom?
Then, brushing back some of her own curls, Irina had turned to him, her eyes still wet.
When your soulmate lies to you, she had explained, you’ll see the words on your skin, like a tattoo. But it’s temporary, usually taking about a day to go away. And I know—I know your father doesn’t always speak the truth to me, I know it, but there has never been a tattoo I could find on myself, never. He knows this, too, when I tell him I’m fine, and I’m happy.
Ilya had been too young to understand her sigh at the end.
The last part of the memory was his mother draping her arm over his shoulders, and Ilya snuggling into her embrace, the safest place in the world. Back then, little had he known that this hug would be one of the last.
And it would be the most beautiful thing in the world, Ilyushenka, when you find your soulmate, she’d whispered. When you know, you know.
Nashville, 2011
After Shane had left his hotel room, Ilya sauntered to the bathroom to put away his towel, and the flick of his arm made him notice something curious under the warm light in the bathroom: a faint smudge was beginning to bloom on his wrist.
Could it be a bruise that he hadn’t noticed from the game tonight? It would be a weird spot for that, Ilya reckoned, and he hadn’t seen it all evening, not until now. He pressed down with his thumb, but the darkened part of his skin didn’t feel dull or sore, the way a bruise would. And he’d just taken a shower. He should be more than clean.
Then his heartbeat accelerated as, seconds passed by, the smudge was beginning to define itself on his skin, black ink appearing as though by magic, into a neat font that could totally be Shane Hollander’s handwriting.
I’m not scared.
The exact words that, pressed under him on the hotel bed, Hollander had said to him earlier tonight.
This couldn’t possibly be real, could it? Ilya’s vision turned into mist, and he had to grasp on to the bathroom sink to support his suddenly weak bones. It could not be… only there was no other explanation for it. Ilya had known about Sasha finding his soulmate in Paris in an underground bar, flirty denials of feelings turning into tattoos on their wrists. Ilya had also learned all about soulmates online, in all the lonely years after he’d lost his mother, with all of his dreams of finding someone to belong to.
But, should he let Shane, someone who wasn’t himself without hockey, know this? Should he be so selfish and distract Shane at the start of their careers?
The words didn’t disappear until the next evening. By then, Ilya had decided, and had begun to repress the longing in his heart.
He’d wait for the right time. He could learn to live with this sense of yearning.
Sochi Winter Olympics, 2014
“We’re not anything,” said Rozanov, his sidelong glance landing on Shane like an ice-cold physical blow. Shane winced, hurt. “Go away, Hollander.”
If they weren’t in the arena, where anyone might see, Shane would cross the distance between them and… and do what? What could he possibly do to make Rozanov see that he cared? Even though they had only been hooking up, Shane wanted to know if Rozanov was fine, if he’d be safe in Russia, if… everything was all right with him since the last time they’d talked.
Luxuries that Shane didn’t deserve to have.
Biting his lip, swinging half-determinedly on his heel, Shane did leave. Screw this. But then, but then… in his seat in the audience, right next to Scott Hunter and Carter Vaughan, Shane just wanted to check his phone—what if Rozanov decided to return his texts?—and instead saw the faint outline of a cloud of black on his wrist.
Shane’s heart began pounding, because a story from David was coming back into his mind, hitting him square in the chest in a strike of lightning. On his first date with Yuna, David had forgotten about the time as they’d talked, and about the low temperature in the best restaurant he could afford, and her words No, I’m not cold had emerged on his wrist, words that had started as the same kind of murky black ink. Shane had asked his dad to repeat this tale so many times: he’d always dreamed of seeing the same ink on his own skin.
The pretense of watching the rest of the figure skating competition dissolved into Shane flipping his wrist over, again and again. And words really did appear in a messy scrawl: We’re not anything.
It was like all the confusing emotions in his heart were solidifying into something real. Hope, worries, fear, yearning. And it seemed that Ilya Rozanov had been tortured by his own feelings, ones that Shane hadn’t dared to dream existed.
Fingertips digging into the soft fabric of his zip-up fleece, Shane pulled down the sleeve, in case anyone else might see the sparkling ink. He wasn’t sure what he’d do with this secret that was upending his entire world.
If only he could run back to the nosebleeds and throw himself into Ilya’s arms.
Tampa Bay, 2017
“We get together, we fuck, it’s simple,” said Ilya, keeping his tone carefully casual with an ease he didn’t feel. He added a small shrug for effect.
“Simple?” Shane raised his eyebrows, incredulous.
“It’s simple for me,” Ilya repeated.
As the words slipped out of him, Ilya was beginning to regret it, his arms straining. What if Shane found out later tonight?—saw Ilya’s pale words written across his wrist, exposing Ilya for the coward that he was? This had to be the most blatant lie that Ilya had ever told Shane. Over the years, Shane hadn’t acted as though they were soulmates, and Ilya had given up on hoping.
Telling Shane, It’s simple, was all Ilya could bring himself to do.
But he was not expecting Shane to stand up, long strides erasing the distance between them in the hotel room, and put both hands on his face, a soft caress that transfixed him on the spot.
“You’re not telling the truth,” said Shane, “are you? It’s never been simple, and you know it.”
Ilya just… stared at him. What? Did this mean that Shane had known about them being soulmates? A secret that Ilya had tried so hard over the years to suppress? That couldn’t be possible. Every time he’d sent Shane a text, every time he’d kissed those soft lips, Ilya had pretended that it had been nothing more. He thought he was convincing. He’d almost convinced himself.
“Well, I think—no, I know it’s not simple between us,” Shane continued, his warm brown eyes gazing into Ilya’s, “and I think that you and I are soulmates.”
The edge of the desk pushed into Ilya’s palms. The air had grown still. And Shane was brushing away some fallen curls from his eyes, a loving gesture so reminiscent of what Irina had done, years ago. Ilya could have sworn that he wasn’t tearing up, but Shane was pulling him into his arms, and Ilya was suddenly brought back to his childhood, back when he could still find safety in Irina’s hugs.
And now, his soulmate was holding him, firmly and resolutely, in a way that Ilya hadn’t thought possible. Already in love, he was falling for Shane Hollander all over again, and he hugged Shane back.
“When did you know?” Shane whispered, a smile in his voice.
“In the beginning. Nashville. The All-Star Game. When you lied and said you weren’t scared in my room,” Ilya told him. “But I was the scared one—I didn’t, I couldn’t let you take risks for me, for this. I’m sorry. Maybe I should—then we’d have more time—”
“No, Ilya.” Shane’s thumb touched him on the lower lip. “We still have a lot of time left, so much time.” Then Shane’s lips found his, and a soft, possessive kiss left him breathless.
Shane picked up his hand next; Ilya let him, noticing for the first time that their fingers fit together perfectly. He hadn’t dared to hold Shane’s hand like this. And he was finally, finally allowing his fingers to grip Shane’s long, elegant ones. There was no need to pretend it was simple or casual, not anymore.
When you know, you know.
Irina had been right about his soulmate. Ilya knew; he’d always known. One day, he’d share this memory of her with Shane, and tell Shane that his mother would have loved him, like he loved him.