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"You fell!"
"Because it's slippery!"
"It's ice!"/
By the counter, smiling fondly, Ilya's mama watches them arguing about Ilya's defense. Beneath her ushanka-hat, a veil of thick, golden-brown hair like Ilya's. Many curls. Svetlana thinks Irina Rozanova doesn't dye them. Even when she has darker brown skin than Svetlana.
"You play goalie next time since you know everything, Svetka!" Ilya fumes, his little cheeks reddening.
(Not untrue. Svetlana's papa IS a famous Russian goaltender, Svetlana smugly knows. So she does know everything more than Ilya.)
Ilya doesn't like losing. He's sometimes as bad as Alexei about it.
Alexei can't play hockey.
Ilya's mama can.
Svetlana saw her glide on Moscow's outdoor ice-rink like Irina Rozanov had wings instead of skates on the ground. She scored while Ilya was trying to 'shuffle' around a makeshift-net, Ilya's little, blue-hazel eyes wide. She hugged Svetlana, her teammate, in victory.
Whispering out "Ilyushenka..."—she reminds Ilya about indoor voices—"Yes, Mama, I understand... I am sorry, Mama...".
"You should play center, next time," Svetlana suggests like a truce, eating out of her waffle cup treat. "You are good. You are the fastest."
Ilya's little, white face brightens so sweetly.
Sweeter than the ice cream.