Chapter Text
Tanya is starting to think she might have to quit this job. Not that she ever thought she’d love it or anything. It’s a stepping stone kind of placement, obviously. Moving on up and all that. On towards actual legitimate forms of journalism. Today though, she really isn’t sure if it’s worth the filth she will have to swim through if she carries on with her role as one of TMZ’s latest interns.
The unpublished article her boss just sent through is pulled up on her laptop screen. Another piece of awful fucking speculation on when the NHL’s most eligible slut will get back to form. Give up on the being gay and married and in love with his rival thing and deliver TMZ a good old-fashioned salacious cheating scandal.
Tanya looks down at her hands. Twists one of her several chunky silver rings. Round and round her thumb.
It’s trash, is what it is. This article. It’s also the sixth one this month. TMZ is practically salivating. Certain the ‘bisexual cheater cheats’ headline will be theirs to publish any day now.
Maybe tomorrow Tanya will say fuck it and wear her bi flag earrings to work. Or just call her girlfriend to bitch about all of this and then hand in her resignation. Written in sharpie on a fucking pride flag.
For now, she sighs and picks up the phone. Her boss has been very clear in his message. They need to be able to publish this article today and it needs to contain the words ‘Ilya Rozanov declined to comment’ which means Tanya needs to call him. Needs to call Ilya fucking Rozanov and possibly ruin his day with a bunch of unfounded conjecture. Or at least leave a voicemail with the potential to do so. How they even got hold of his phone number, she really doesn’t want to know.
Tanya dials in the number from the email, hits call and waits. She slumps in relief as the call goes to voicemail. At least the worst option is off the table.
“Hi, this is Ilya.” The voice as well as the accent are unmistakable. “I will never listen to your voicemail.”
Tanya waits for the beep anyway but the message keeps going.
“Unless is Shane, okay? Everyone else, uhh, I do not fucking care. Leave a message, do not leave a message. Does not fucking matter. I will not listen so is...and why do I care if is other people who are calling me anyway, okay Shane?”
Tanya puts a hand over her mouth. Covers her growing smile. Is he drunk? He sounds, well, he sounds wasted, actually. He’s definitely slurring his words and from the sound of the background chatter and the faint thump of the base, he is almost certainly recording this at a club.
“But if is you calling, my Shane... Okay, well, I still will not listen to voicemail. Is fucking voicemail. Who does this? But call back, okay? Yes, sweetheart? Or text, yes? You know I will not listen to voicemail. Is stupid. Do not leave one. You know me better than this... If, uhh, if you leave me voicemail I will probably think you are dying, no? So just call again. And then maybe again. You should always be calling me, sweetheart, yes? I miss you, fuck. So you should be calling me to...Uhh, shut up Barrett. Is not embarrassing fucking drunk call. We are married already. Anyway, is not drunk dial, is for new voicemail...Oh...What? No, Troy, what ...I cannot hear you. Okay, anyway, sorry my Shane, does not matter what they are...Fuck off, Barrett.
“You wanted me to fix voicemail message, yes lyubimy, and now, is fix. Ah, uhhh, what? No, do not give fucking- not to Luca, he is baby! Okay, okay, I go now. Ya tebya lyublyu, Shane....Oh and if is other people calling then is not important, so, yes, goodbye. Do not leave a fucking voicemail. Is not fucking nineteen hundreds already. Fuck.”
Tanya hangs up and sets the phone down on her desk. Her hand is shaking. She can’t tell if it’s nerves from what she could be about to do next or just repressed laughter. She presses her other hand harder against her mouth. Maybe she won’t have to hand in her resignation after all. Maybe TMZ will just fire her after this and she can finally be done with this fuckup of a so-called news outlet for good.
God, she really needs to buy herself a Rozanov jersey. She is fucking going to. Just as soon as she gets the first paycheck from whatever her next job turns out to be.
From the other room, Yuna can hear David’s steady voice. Shane’s half formed protest.
“Your mother’s been working out a strategy all day, Shane. To deal with all these horrible articles about Ilya and how he’s...”
Yuna hears Ilya snort.
“...well,” David says, “a lot of nonsense we all know Ilya would never do so your mother has come up with her game plan for dealing with the media, of course. And I know you don’t want to talk about any of this stuff right now, son. I know it’s been...well, lets just hear her out quick and then we can put it all aside for now, okay? Enjoy dinner together instead?”
Shane sighs. There’s the creak of a chair. Another sigh.
Yuna laughs a little, in spite of the ruin of her day’s work. At least she has good news for them. Truth be told, she’s never been so happy not to need a carefully formed and tabulated plan of action. Because it turns out, action has already been taken. Very vocal and effective, if accidental, action, at that.
Yuna sweeps into the living room, a smile stretched across her face. From the dining table, Shane frowns at her. Ilya, as she half expected, keeps his attention and affections fixed on Shane. Ilya who is trying to drain the tension out of her over thinker of a son with one broad palm braced against the back of Shane’s neck, thumb tracing slow across his skin.
“Okay, change of plan,” Yuna announces as she reaches them. Now everyone is looking at her. Shane’s frown worsens at the words ‘change’ and ‘plan’ in the same sentence. “Or, well,” Yuna says, “there is no plan. Not anymore.”
“What?” Shane asks. “What do you mean ‘no plan’?”
Yuna smiles and sinks into a chair. She reaches over and squeezes Ilya’s forearm. “My wonderful son-in-law has already fixed it.”
“Um.” Ilya is frowning at her now too. “Is very kind, Yuna, but I-”
“Oh, no, don’t worry honey. Here.” Yuna takes her phone from her pocket and calls Ilya’s number. “No, no. Don’t pick up. Just listen.” Yuna puts the call on speaker and places her phone down in the center of the dining table.
They all sit together in silence as the voicemail plays out. Yuna catches David’s quiet attempt to hide his amusement as the recording unfolds. Yuna bites down on her grin and twines her fingers with her husband’s beneath the table.
The recording comes to an end. Shane is staring across at Ilya beside him, his eyes wide. Ilya lets his hand drop from Shane’s neck and frowns at the phone.
“I, um...” Ilya rubs at his nose, shrugs. “I do not remember...Is, well...must have been the night out last week, no? They tried to give Luca shot of absinthe, that I remember. I had to- but anyway, I do not- I didn’t...”
Shane just keeps staring, cheeks flushed. “What the fuck?”
“Yes, well.” Yuna spreads her hands across the table top and smiles at both of her two favourite sons. “If you hadn’t both been staying offline today...Hadn’t been logged out of all your social media since that latest article last week, well. Then you both would have seen this already by now. You are viral, Ilya. Very viral.”
Ilya’s sharp cheekbones hold just a smudge of pink.
Yuna grins. “Yes, really remarkably viral, actually. I think it’s safe to say those awful cheating speculation articles have taken care of themselves.”
Silence falls again. Ilya risks a glance across at Shane.
“Ilya, what the hell?” Shane says, glaring back at him then looking away again. “I asked you to make your voicemail message actually professional. Not...not this.”
Shane shakes his head but Yuna is not fooled. She can hear the bubbling fondness underneath the admonishment. See the dark spreading blush colouring her son’s face. The way Shane ducks his chin just a little, tries in vain to fight off the pleased tilt to his voice, the happy quirk of his lips.
From the sideways lift of his own half smile, Ilya can absolutely see it too.