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Ilya moved the cushions around and resettled on the couch. He tried but he could not feel too sorry about being out of the playoffs. They were no fun with Shane gone anyway and though he would never admit it out loud, he had grave doubts whether he could have made it through another game with those ribs. Now that he was no longer full of adrenaline every hour of the day it hurt to breathe.
He was just contemplating if it was worth the pain to get a fresh ice pack for his ribs before the game started when the doorbell rang. It could not be, he had explicitly told the team that he’d have an open house from the semifinals on but that he was glad for some recovery time in between. For Ilya, who usually led the charge of the Raiders into party life, this was an unusual request but with the recent death of his father no one had dared to question it. Also, Marley had stepped in right away and had graciously issued an invitation to everyone for the next games.
You could say what you wanted about the Raiders, but they were a decent bunch. But maybe not everyone had gotten the memo. Ilya was searching for the right angle to heave himself off the couch when he heard the key turn in the lock. Ah, that explains, he thought. There was, after all, only one person with the key to his house.
A person with the uncanny ability to look through him like he was Glasnost personified. Also, a person who had reason to be pissed at him, since he had ignored her texts lately. He had avoided her for fear of quite how transparent he was to her when he was so busy obfuscating a different part of himself for every audience. She was, he had to admit, the person least deserving of this deception. Well, time to face the music, as they said here in the US.
“Welcome, Sveta!” he called out in Russian. She had a standing invitation after all. He doubled his efforts to get up but she plunged down next to him before he could, depositing a six-pack and a bottle of very fine vodka on the table.
“Good Evening, Ilya, you are in pain, I see. Excellent. You deserve it, fucker.”
“Nice to see you too,” he retorted sarcastically.
“What gave you the idea that you could ghost me after you left Moscow?” When Ilya took too long to answer, and too long was apparently longer than a split second, she answered for him, lowering her voice for a very bad imitation of him.
“Ah, gorgeous wise Sveta, things got serious with Mr. Jane and now I am all, how do you say it when it’s two men, cockwhipped? asswhipped? and do not text you anymore because you and your perfect tits are a threat to my newfound virtue. That about right?”
Ilya had not realized quite how badly he had needed someone to make fun of him and laughed, then felt his mistake immediately. “Ow.” He let his head fall affectionately against her shoulder as he collapsed.
She slid an arm under him and propped him up, way more gently than her demeanour, then she opened two of the beers and handed him one.
“Yes, ow,” She said satisfied.
“I am sorry. And I am very grateful you came.”
“Better, and?”
“How can I make it up to you?”
“Assuming that you are out of order for sexual services, by spilling the tea. I notice you do not tell me I am wrong.”
“But you will laugh at me. I am pathetic.”
“All men are pathetic and I always laugh at you and you can take it. The only Russian man I know who can, it’s why I love you and why you are the least pathetic. Talk to me, Ilyusha, stop hiding like a coward you are not. So what happened with Mr. Jane?”
Ilya swallowed hard. What had happened with Shane indeed? If only he could really tell. Shane had been there, listened to him, listened him all better. Shane had smiled him all better at the game, full of competitive glee and anticipation. And then Ilya had thought for this dreadful moment that he lost him. Sure, he knew he was in love by then but it still didn’t prepare him for that existential dread that had come over him in those moments on the ice, when Shane was lying there motionless. He had felt, like his whole world had been removed from under him, like he was standing on empty air, like one of those American cartoon characters who did not realize yet that they would plunge down into nothing within moments.
It didn’t happen. Instead Shane was alive and loopy on drugs and had invited him to jump over the cliff into nothingness hand in hand. Don’t go to Russia, come to my cottage. The invitation still rang in his head.
To say things were getting out of hand was putting it mildly. If he wanted to walk out of this on his own two feet, he had to end it now. But who could end anything with Shane with his arm in a sling and texting him all day, like Ilya was his best friend?
“I don’t know about serious,” Ilya finally answered. “But it definitely fucked with my head. Things with Mr. Jane were casual for years and now they are not anymore. Not for me anyway. And I don’t know what to do about it. It has to stay a secret and if it escalates any more than it already has, I have no idea how we could keep it.”
“So, you were full of shi, when you said you would not return to Moscow?”
“No.”
“Then why be a pussy about it? This is Boston. Wrap yourself in a pride flag, show Putin the middle finger and the prissy Americans how queer is done.”
God, he’d missed her. Why again had he decided to mope about this alone for weeks now?
“I cannot out him. It would throw his life in complete disarray. Besides, I think if I suggested it, he would run. I spooked him before with …being too much. I don’t want that.” Swetlana cocked her head, eyeing him like a suspicious bird.
“If you are too much for him, he’s an idiot who doesn’t deserve you. Seriously, that is the biggest problem with dating men.”
Ilya laughed, very carefully this time, and shook his head. “No, he is not, just scared, I think. But now he invited me to spend the summer with him and lord knows if I do that I will never be able to walk away from him. I’ll drown myself in some stupid lake in the middle of nowhere.”
Svetlana cocked her head even more and gave him a pensive glance.
“Hm, so you want to walk away now when it is still possible. Be a hard and tragic man who turns away to protect his heart and his beloved. And because of this you get that smile on your face when you talk about him, and you are saving yourself all for him so that you can break up with Mr. Jane as a pure virgin of a few weeks.”
She was not wrong. His behaviour was contradictory. He needed to make a clean cut and at the same time he was living from one sweet text to the next, telling himself he would quit next week, just like he did with smoking.
“I don’t want to end things. But keeping it in limbo like we did for years is becoming harder and harder. It’s the last exit before we go over the cliff. And if I do what I actually want to do…”
“What DO you actually want to do?”
“I will tell you this only because you are already familiar with the depth of my stupidity.”
He straightened, then winced.
“What I want to do is to tell him that I love him. That the whole affair means more to me than my fucking life. More than Russia, more than hockey. That I would be content to live tied up in his basement for the rest of my days, if he would have me. That I have not touched anyone but him in a month and that I never want to again.”
Ilya hid his face in his hands and she threw an arm around him.
“Ilya, Ilya, stop. I get it, you caught feelings. A lot of them but it sounds like Mr. Jane has the same affliction about you, deluded, of course but I cannot throw stones in that department. Let him know.”
“What if it all goes wrong? He runs, I do something stupid. Lose my career, get deported. I never want to go back, I meant it when I said it. I cannot live like this anymore. Torn between here and there. I feel like a demented clown, confusing all the costumes I’m wearing for everybody. What if it all falls apart?”
Svetlana did not hesitate. She took Ilya’s hand in hers and squeezed.
“If that happens the two of us will have ourselves the saddest, funniest wedding the world has ever seen. I’ll get myself a tux and we’ll find something white and sparkly for you. We’ll find a band that sings exclusively about the fickleness of men. We’ll dance all night and drown ourselves in sinfully expensive vodka until we cannot stand anymore. We smoke like chimneys until our throats are sore. And when you wake up the next morning, you’ll have U.S. citizenship and your head will hurt so badly it cannot come up with bad thoughts anymore.”
“You would?”
She nodded quietly.
“I repeat myself, but don’t deserve you.”
“Ah but you do. But just in case you come with the misconception that there are no strings attached. There are a million strings, Ilya. You have me for good. You can leave Russia, Hockey, women… but you cannot leave me behind, yes?” She squeezed his hand hard and Ilya returned her grip.
“Never.”
“Good.”
Ilya got quiet again. The thought of taking the leap towards Shane was almost as scary as the thought of walking away. Svetlana traced his cheekbone with her thumb.
“Ilyusha, I know you want to leave it all behind, but really, this calls for you to get your Russian soul together. Don’t be so horribly American about being in love. Like you need to be happy all the fucking time. Or he needs to be. Since when are you afraid of pain? You used to drink that stuff?
Ilya recoiled a bit. Was it really that? He remembered the time Shane had left him on his couch, after Ilya had flown too close to the sun, had hit too close to home. It had torn him apart inside, like someone was eating at his heart with a spoon. Then Rose fucking Landry had come along and Ilya just felt like he was withering into something dried up and barbed every time he saw them smile together. Another round of this and what sort of bitter monster would crawl out of his skin?
“You are in love with this man, and you are not certain if he will break your heart into tiny, sharp splinters. I think you should be brave and let lim. Tragedy and pain are what we thrive on, hm, my little prince Myshkin?
Ilya elbowed her.
“You think I am a stupid hockey jock who doesn’t touch books anymore?”
Sveta laughed infectiously and something inside Ilya dissolved.
By the time the final comes around, Ilya’s ribs are almost healed. It is getting warmer every day, summer is closing in on them. The Raiders’ rookies and Svetlana are lounging on the couch beside him and he has resigned himself to watching mummified Scott Hunter snatching up the cup with his gloved ancient leathery claws.
He doesn’t let his phone out of his sight. Shane must be bored out of his mind but Ilya would never complain about the constant string of texts that now goes back and forth between them.
A kiss later he is hitting call, says the words before he can think about it too much and hangs up. Sveta smiles at him from across the room, comes over throws her arms around him and then her legs too and gives him a kiss.
“I knew you’d be brave.”
“So brave, my hands are shaking.“ he huffs.
“It’s not brave if it’s not scary.”
“You’ll be there to scrape the pieces of me off the sidewalk if this ends in tragedy?”
“Always. But we are in America now and you’re going to Canada and they just don’t know how to do a proper tragedy here. You will end up with an ending so sweet it will rot all your teeth, I’m afraid.”