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Ilya is seven when he catches a nasty strain of flu from a school classmate. The whole experience is awful, leaving him with aches down to his toes and a throat that feels like broken glass. Despite this, his father insists he go to school anyways.
“You are a Rozanov, Ilya,” his father lectures, “we are too smart to get sick. And we are too strong to cry about it. Now get out of bed and fight.”
And Ilya tries too, he really does. But when he sits up a terrible cough rips through him, sharp against his chest, and he finds tears streaming down his cheeks from the pain. “I’m sorry,” Ilya manages, voice scraped and raw.
His father says nothing, but Ilya feels the shame wash over him anyways. He braces for another lecture, or to be dragged out of bed like he’s done with Alexei. But instead whatever his father plans for next is cut off by his mother’s voice in the hallway.
“Let him stay home, Grigori. God forbid he get a classmate sick. Do you want to risk an angry babushka at our door step?”
“You’ll just pamper him if he stays home.”
“Medicine and soup is hardly the height of luxury.”
His mother strides over then, sits at the side of Ilya’s bed, gently presses the back of her hand to his forehead. “You are burning up my love,” she says as she gently cards through Ilya’s sweat soaked hair. Her hands are soft and rhythmic, like skates gliding through ice. So he hides behind his mother as she takes the brunt of his father’s anger.
“You are making him weak this way. Rozanov men need to learn strength.”
“And my son needs to get better. If he grows up spineless then you are welcome to blame me. But he is staying home today.”
Ilya’s flu takes hold of him for a full week. His father does not come back to check up on him. Instead it is his mother by his side every day. She feeds him soup, and rubs circles along his back, and tells him how brave he is as he bears the violent chills that rack his body. Another scraping cough wracks through him and Ilya can’t stop himself from crying anymore.
“I’m sorry,” he tells his mother but she just shushes gently, pulls him into her arms, and sings him a Russian lullaby. Ilya falls asleep, head against her collarbone, the vibration of her vocal cords soft against his ear. His father’s words echo back faintly.
Rozanov men need to learn strength.
Ilya’s not very interested in being a “Rozanov man” he thinks. He’s perfectly content just being Irina’s son.
////
“I need you to look at me, repeat this back to me. This was an accident. Nothing else.”
“But Papa-“
“Shh. We will not let her weakness ruin this family. She died by accident. Say it back.”
“… She died by accident.”
“Good. Get used to saying that now. It is the truth from here on out.”
////
Ilya is twelve when a strong pang of nausea hits him at his mother’s funeral. His suit feels too itchy, and his tie feels too tight, and the tall ceilings of the Moscow cathedral feel like it will swallow him whole. Ilya secretly wishes it would. He secretly wishes a million terrible things to happen to him so he no longer needs to be here.
But his father and brother stand on either side of him, and what feels like all of Russia is attending this funeral. So Ilya plays his part, and clamps down his nausea, and shakes hands with the fifth dignitary to arrive. Rozanov men need to learn strength. Ilya thinks he’s doing a pretty good job until the last few attendees enter.
He hears her before he sees her:
“I’m so sorry, Ilya,” his Aunt Ksenia says, and Ilya turns his head to catch deep blue eyes, eyes like his mother’s. And Aunt Ksenia always looked so much like her, expressive and open. Ilya’s stomach rolls as she holds his hand. “We all miss her so terribly.”
And suddenly Ilya is kneeling over a velvet couch, a rolling pill bottle on the floor beneath it. Cold hands. Vacant eyes. Mama, please. Please wake up.
Ilya’s halfway to the cathedral’s bathroom before he even realizes he left.
He flings the door open and scrambles to the crooked toilet to empty his breakfast. And it’s here, under a slanted ceiling and wooden walls that Ilya comes undone. He doesn’t fight the loud, ugly sobs that rack through his body, nor does he fight the next wave of nausea that rolls through. His body is pure instinct, desperate to expel every inch of grief in his guts.
It’s when he is spent and tired, forehead resting on the porcelain rim, when the bathroom door opens. Alexei cautiously closes the door behind him, takes in Ilya, pathetic on the floor.
“Are you going to yell at me?” Ilya asks.
Alexei just shakes his head and carefully hauls Ilya up to the sink to wash him up. It isn’t until Ilya’s face is clean that Alexei asks, “Do you feel better?”
The evidence of Ilya’s breakdown has been flushed away and thrown into a waste basket. But he can’t bring himself to lie.
“I don’t think I’ll ever feel better.”
Alexei just hums in understanding, and Ilya wonders if he will cry too. But instead his brother straightens up, hardens his face, and tells him, “You cannot do that again. We are Rozanov men now. We need to be strong.”
Alexei’s lips move just like his father’s, sharp and stinging. And despite only being sixteen, his brother feels so much older now. Ilya feels so much older too.
“When we go back out there,” Alexei continues, “I need you to be a man. Can you do that for me?”
Ilya’s chest feels cracked open and cold, like some shot-down grouse in hunting season. But he nods anyways and lets Alexei shuffle him out of the room.
The service is stuffy, not at all what his mother would have liked. Ilya goes through the motions anyways: eyes forward, back straight, stoic as her casket is lowered into the ground. His father claps him on the shoulder after, tells him, “That is how it’s done, Ilya.”
When it’s all over, and Ilya is back home, he thinks back to the slanted cathedral bathroom and the crying boy he left behind in it.
////
Ilya is sixteen years old when he cracks his rib at the Junior Cup Finals.
The opposing team from Voronezh have been gunning for him since the puck drop, slamming into him every moment they can. It hasn’t been enough to keep him down (his team’s winning 2-0, both of their goals made by him), but Voronezh seems to have no plans to stop shoving him into the boards.
It’s impressive, their tenacity. And also fucking annoying. Ilya’s almost ready to rack a major penalty just to get out of this game but his father is in the stands and so are a handful of MLH recruiters. Most of them already have tabs on Ilya but this is their first time seeing him in person. He needs to impress them today. Now that he’s eligible for draft next year. Now that he has a shot at getting out of Moscow.
Like clockwork, the Voronezh center shoots the puck at their net but misses. The puck bounces off the railing, straight to their defenseman, who passes it to Ilya. Ilya’s skating to Voronezh’s half of the rink in seconds. He weaves through defensemen, fakes out the goalie, and passes it to his teammate when the Voronezh center slams into him out of nowhere.
Ilya’s left side meets plexiglass, and he hears the small popping sound in his rib before anything else. A sharp pain floods in shortly after, aching and bone deep. And Ilya can tell something is very, very wrong.
Breathing feels like a tight rope yanking at his rib bone, but Ilya knows his father is watching somewhere in the stands. Rozanov men need to learn strength. So Ilya breathes in deep despite the pain, and squares up to the Voronezh center, “If you learn to aim as well you shove, you might be able to score a fucking goal tonight.”
The Voronezh center gets a two minute penalty for punching Ilya in the face. It’s enough for a temple-bruised Ilya to take back control of the puck and score the final goal of the game. His team wins 3-0, every goal his own. Every MLH recruiter lines up to shake his hand after.
“Keep this skating up and you’re a shoe-in for first pick next year,” one of them tells him. And duh, Ilya knows this. And his left side is starting to feel more and more like butchered meat every minute. But Ilya just nods and thanks the recruiter anyways. Head forward, back straight, just like his father taught him.
There are five more recruiters waiting to to talk to him after. So Ilya adapts to the pain in his side and lets it make a home in his ribs. It’s what makes him such a good hockey player, Ilya thinks. Even more than his confidence or his skill. Ilya knows how to accept pain.
He struggles to remember a time when he didn’t have to.
////
Ilya is seventeen when he meets a boy with bright eyes and freckles across his nose.
“Ilya Rozanov? Shane Hollander I wanted to introduce myself…”
Ilya knows who Hollander is. The same way Hollander knows who he is. Through sports articles and deep dive hockey blogs. This Shane Hollander is the “one to watch” supposedly. All Ilya knows is he is far too polite for his own good.
“Well, I should go. They’re waiting for me, but um… good luck in the tournament.”
Then Shane shakes his hand twice. Twice. And Ilya takes note of the callouses along his palm, wonders all the ways in which he got them. He just can’t help himself when he says, “You will not be so nice when we beat you.”
Hollander reels back a moment, caught off guard by the statement. Ilya watches him smile through his surprise. His face is annoyingly endearing.
“That’s not happening.”
And Ilya doesn’t really care what happens or not; he just likes seeing this nice boy flustered. He thinks he’d like seeing him flustered again.
////
Ilya flusters Shane again. And then again. And then again in different ways until-
“Uh, I know we talked about Montreal in two weeks, but…”
“Oh my God, Hollander you are so boring. Give me your phone…”
////
Ilya is twenty when he learns the word “sexting”. He learns very quickly after, that he’s pretty fucking good at it.
Jane: That was a nasty hit you took against New Jersey. Is your back okay?
Lily: You should worry about your back
Jane: ???
Lily: Because I am going to blow it out so hard when we meet again
Jane: Jesus
Lily: You liked it :)
Jane: You never answered my question
Lily: It was barely a hit
Jane: You looked like you were limping after
Lily: I’ll leave you limping the next time we meet ;)
Jane: I wish you never learned English
////
And it goes like this for a while:
Shane and Ilya play hockey. Then Shane and Ilya get horny. Then Shane and Ilya do something about it. Over and over again, like a carousel ride Ilya never wants to get off of. And for a moment, Ilya thinks he doesn’t have to. He lets himself believe he can stay here, in this nice rhythm with this overly polite man, and ignore the world around him.
Maybe If he ignores it hard enough, he’ll never have to face the world at all.
////
CNN SPORTS - February 14th 2014
- RUSSIA OUT OF OLYMPICS EARLY -
In a surprising turn of events at Sochi this year, Russia’s men’s hockey team was taken out early in the first round by the Latvian program. While this is a huge loss for Team Russia, no one looked more disappointed than young captain Ilya Rozanov, who was expected to lead the team to victory with his storied MLH resume.
When asked for comment, Rozanov stated, “I want to apologize to Russia. We failed them. I failed them. This loss will be heavy on my mind all year.”
After the Sochi games conclude, Rozanov will return to America to finish up the 2014 season with the Boston Raiders, where he plays as their leading center.
////
Ilya is twenty-three when he breaks his nose at an away game in Montreal.
It’s the first match against them since the Olympics and Ilya is hungry to right the very unbelievable wrong that was Sochi, if anything to satisfy his father, who hasn’t stopped calling Ilya ever since.
“This is your chance to prove Sochi was a fluke. Your chance to beat Canadian players on Canadian soil.”
“I know, Papa.”
“Russia is still watching you. I’m still watching you. Prove to us you’re still worth it.”
And Ilya genuinely thinks he will. Boston is great this year, and every match so far has proven Svetlana’s predictions true. You can take it this year. Ilya sees it now. And the rest of the league sees it too: the cup this year is Boston’s to lose.
Boston may be the one to beat this year, but Hollander is still Hollander. He’s quick on the puck drop, precise in his passes, and eager for a home win. It’s mesmerizing, watching him skate, and Ilya loves trying to keep up with him. And he loves annoying him as he does.
“Beautiful shot, Hollander! If only we didn’t block it.”
“Fuck off Rozanov.” Shane replies back, clipped and simple, but Ilya sees the small smile form on his face. And he realizes he loves making Hollander smile as well.
By third period the game is tied 1-1 and the Montreal crowd is restless. They’ve resorted to booing relentlessly every time Boston gets the puck, and Ilya’s pretty sure he heard someone tell him to “go die!” from the stands. It’s the most fun Ilya’s had playing in a while.
The usually calm and collected Montreal is starting to get restless too. Hollander’s passes are scrappier than usual, and his wingers are playing desperate. So Ilya’s not surprised when, in a mad scramble to get the puck, one of Hollander’s teammates hefts his stick up way too high and clips Ilya’s nose with it.
And it wouldn’t be that bad a hit. That is, if they weren’t skating 20 kilometers an hour, or if the arena wasn’t freezing, or if he wasn’t clipped with the sharpest part of the stick, or if the person swinging it wasn’t a 200lb hockey player.
Ilya’s nose bleeds immediately, and one of his teammates tries to punch out the Montreal winger, but Shane breaks both of them up. Ilya’s ushered to the bench and some medic wipes up the blood on his face. The medic pokes at the tender spots on his nose, tells his coach, “It might be broken,” but Ilya shrugs him off before he gets the chance to look at it further.
“I’ll be fine,” he tells his coach.
“Fine enough to make it through overtime?”
“Fine enough to win it for us.”
So they quickly bandage Ilya’s nose and Ilya ignores how much his face is starting to feel like a lead balloon.
The game goes in overtime, and then a shoot out, and on the 7th attempt from both teams, Ilya sinks the winning goal for Boston. The crowd is devastated, booing as the Raiders celebrate their victory. His father is probably watching on live-stream right now.
Later, as the team wraps up in the locker room, Ilya gets a text:
Jane: Pike feels bad about high sticking you
Lily: Because of how good I played after? He should be mad he didn’t hit me harder
Jane: Are you okay?
Lily: The medic said I am dying. And that only blowjob from losing team member will cure me
Jane: Fuck you
Lily: No, BLOW me
Lily: Are you still in same boring apartment as before?
Jane: That depends. Are you going to get properly looked at?
After a thorough examination, Ilya’s nose is officially determined broken. The medic quickly resets it, then gives his nose an overzealous amount of bandaging that he takes off as soon as he leaves the stadium.
“You look terrible,” Shane says bluntly when he greets Ilya at the stairwell. “Are you hurting?”
Ilya shrugs. He is hurting, actually. The adrenaline from the win wore off somewhere between his texts with Shane and the medic’s second consult. His face feels swollen and it hurts to speak when he says, “I am not wilting daisy, Hollander. I can handle getting hit at hockey game.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re okay.”
A strange pang hits Ilya’s chest then, unassuming and small. Ilya chooses to think nothing of it.
“Mm no. I am dying, remember? I told you about cure.”
Shane just rolls his eyes and ushers him inside.
////
Two months later, in post-season, Boston wins the cup. There is a deafening roar throughout the stadium and Ilya can see the red lights of dozens of news cameras recording their celebration. All of it is melting ice to Ilya, fleeting and unimportant. There’s only one person he wishes were here.
“For you, mama!”
Okay… maybe two.
After a long night of champagne and confetti, Ilya wakes up the next morning to an onslaught of texts on his phone. Without thinking, he opens to read one:
Jane: Congratulations. You deserve it
And Ilya starts typing a reply. I know another way you can congratulate me… but something stops him from sending it. That strange pang in his chest returns, just like the night of his broken nose. It’s fresh, and new, and beating. Ilya hates how much it frightens him.
Ilya doesn’t text Shane back. Instead, he puts his phone away, and clamps down the pang like a wave of nausea.
////
“…How the fuck did he even meet her?”
“…The two met at a mutual friend’s party according to unnamed sources. I’ve never seen Rose this happy the source goes on to say. I’d be fucking happy if I was banging Rose fucking Landry!”
////
Ilya is twenty-five when he wakes up hungover in a Montreal hotel. His head is fucking killing him and the taste of Vodka still lingers in his mouth. Ilya wants nothing more than to lay here forever and wallow. He settles on groaning into his pillow instead.
“Someone’s regretting having fun last night!” He hears Connors’ voice above him, far too jovial for having gone out with him. “Come on. Our flight leaves in three hours. Try to look decent.”
“When am I ever decent?”
“Good question.”
Ilya starts to shuffle upwards, then cringes at the way his stomach rolls from the movement. He’s fucking pissed, and he’s fucking nauseous, and he barely even remembers the name of the girl he fucked last night. As if fucking her even did anything.
He just wanted to forget him.
He wanted to drink him out of his system until it was reset completely. Back to the body he had before things mattered. Before the pang in his chest showed up whenever he even looks at him. And he’s tried so, so hard to clamp things down, but Shane Hollander is an unstoppable force that refuses to leave him the fuck alone.
And he was there last night with Rose Landry, dancing in a crowded Montreal club for everyone to see. And Ilya is a champion winning hockey player with the world at his disposal, but he can’t do that. The best he can offer is hidden stairwells and a text from “Lily”.
Ilya’s entertaining the idea of going back to bed and skipping his flight entirely when his phone rings. Almost immediately, a deep voice curses at him in Russian when he picks up.
“Whoa, whoa Papa? What is going on?”
“Where are you? The game is about to start and you are not here.”
“What? The game was yesterday.”
“You start in twenty minutes and I cannot find you!”
“… Papa, where you are right now?”
“Where do you think? This is not how we beat, Voronezh, Ilya. Not with recruiters watching.”
Ilya’s stomach rolls again. A hammer drives a nail into his temple. Still, he straightens up, his voice steady as he talks to his father.
“Papa where is Alexei? Can you put him on the phone?”
“Alexei cannot help you. No one can help you if you choose to be this lazy.”
“I am going to call Alexei now, okay?”
“So you can disappoint him too? You are failing me. Just like she did.”
“Papa.”
“I always knew she’d fail me.”
Ilya hangs up his phone and bolts out of bed.
“Everything okay?” Connors asks him from the ensuite bathroom.
Ilya settles his breathing and tries to be a Rozanov. “Da. Everything is fine. I just need to call my brother.”
The third time he gets Alexei’s voicemail, Ilya gives up trying.
////
“Is your father?”
“Yes, dead.”
“Ilya, I’m so so sorry.”
“…I will be back by the end of the week.”
////
Ilya is still twenty-five when he arranges his father’s funeral.
The service is in the same high-ceilinged cathedral as his mother’s was years ago, the space just as large and suffocating as he remembers. But things are different this time. Ilya is not some blubbering boy, overwhelmed by emotion. In fact, Ilya doesn’t think he can feel anything at all.
His father is buried in a cemetery twenty blocks away from his mother’s. Ilya settles into the heavy sense of nothing as his casket is lowered into the ground. Eyes forward, back straight, demeanor stoic. That is how it’s done, Ilya.
Svetlana is with him through it all, patient through his resignation. When the service is over he asks her a favor.
“I need to do something before dinner. Can you hold off my brother for an hour?”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. I think he’s secretly scared of me.”
“Everyone is secretly scared of you.”
She just smiles, kisses him on the cheek, and tells him to call her if he needs her.
Twenty blocks later, Ilya finds his mother.
- IRINA ROZANOV - DUTIFUL WIFE, LOVING MOTHER -
Ilya kneels down, snow seeping into his pant leg, and talks to her.
“I’m sorry it has been so long since I have seen you,” he says, touching the crucifix on his neck. “I understand if you are disappointed in me for that.” And this day has felt like nothing but vast empty, but something in Ilya starts to fill up.
“The thing is, this place has not felt like home for a while. Not since you left. And I’ve tried to be a Rozanov without you. But I failed at it. I keep failing at it. I’m sorry that I can’t stop failing. But can you forgive me, mama? Can you forgive me for failing as your son?”
A marble slab stares back at Ilya, and he knows his mother is not really here, not the way he wishes. Just like he knows his home has not been Moscow for quite some time. He takes these facts and gathers them up, like envelopes in a mailbox, unsure of what to actually do with them.
////
Later, after a hollow dinner and a fight with his brother, Ilya calls Shane in an underpass.
“Svetlana, she loves me. And I love her. But not like… but not like I love you.”
The tunnel wall is sticky and there is brown snowy slush at his feet, but Ilya does not want to be anywhere else but here. Does not want to hear anything else but Shane’s voice on the other line, grounding him like an anchor. So when Shane asks him, “Do you feel better?” Ilya refuses to lie.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Maybe you can teach me Russian someday.”
“Yeah, OK. Only useful phrases.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know like harder please. Yes sir.”
Ilya can feel Shane’s smile over the phone, and it’s probably the only good thing he’s done today. He is a failure of a son and a brother, but at least in this moment, next to a disgusting wall, he can make Shane happy.
“How bout I wish you were here right now?”
And Ilya always wants to be where Shane is. Needs it like breathing. Aims for it like a soft place to land. And Ilya wishes, more than anything, that home can be bright eyes and an endearing smile. That home can be a calm voice on a phone call.
“I wish I was too.”
////
And then Scott Hunter kisses a man on national television and Ilya is tired of wishing.
“What the…”
“I’m coming to the cottage.”
////
For two weeks, in a glass fortress by lake water, Ilya ignores the world again.
He and Shane make love, and play soccer, and sit by the fire, and Ilya talks of his mother and how brilliant she used to be. And then after, Ilya lays in bed and lets Shane build a future for them in the middle of the night. Because for the first time in years, there is a future Ilya actually cares about.
And things are perfect here. They won’t be perfect forever, Ilya knows that like he knows hockey. But he lets it be for just a little longer. He holds onto this reprieve like a lifeline, and kisses Shane deeply as they walk back to the cottage from the lake. And he puts his arms around Shane and lands softly.
And then he meets Shane’s father.
////
Ilya is twenty-six when he sits at a table with David Hollander. Shane is outside with Yuna and neither Ilya nor David want to interfere. David seems very polite and Ilya is trying to be, so both of them sit there, fiddling with their glasses of Vodka, attempting to make small talk.
“So how are you doing?” David asks, with an earnestness in his gaze that reminds Ilya so, so much of Shane.
“Uh, good. Fine. Thank you.”
“This whole day has been overwhelming, I’m sure.”
“Mm yes. Shane is holding up well, though.”
“Yeah, he is. But I meant for you.” And Ilya’s eyebrows raise. For him? David seems to pick up on his confusion. “It was your secret too. I’m sure you weren’t planning on us finding out today.”
“It is different. You are not my parents.”
“Yes, I guess that’s true. We’d probably notice if we were.” And they leave it there for a while, with Ilya squirming and David staring straight ahead, and Ilya nestles into the silence. That is until-
“My condolences for your father. I heard about him on one of the podcasts Yuna listens to.”
“That’s okay. We weren’t very close. Not like you all.”
“Did he know… about you?” And Ilya can’t help the snort that comes out. He doesn’t mean to be rude, but the image of having a sit-down conversation with his father, talking about who he loves is ridiculous.
“Uh… no. He didn’t. Well, maybe he did. But we never….”
“Talked about it? Like how we’re talking right now?”
Ilya just shakes his head and shrugs. “I’m sorry for laughing. Just with Russia… with my family… this would never happen.”
David hums, looks out the window, something eating at him, Ilya can’t possibly imagine what. “Well, I’m sorry you never got that.”
Something shakes loose in Ilya’s chest, a small broken thing he doesn’t remember holding onto.
“It is fine. We are here for Shane now.”
David nods, leans back into his chair. Ilya squirms under the gaze of this nice, boring man who played hockey for McGill once. “Well if you need anyone to be there for you, just let us know.”
The back door opens, and Shane and Yuna re-enter before Ilya can respond.
////
ESPN - July 7th 2017
- ROZANOV LEAVING BOSTON, SIGNS 2 YEAR CONTRACT WITH OTTAWA -
Surprising news has rocked the MLH this week as Ilya Rozanov has signed a two year contract with the Ottawa Centaurs. Previously Rozanov has made waves as the Boston Raiders’ star center, leading them to a championship cup at the end of the 2014 season. The decision comes to much excitement for the Ottawa team, who have missed the play-offs for the past decade.
“We are thrilled to welcome Ilya to this team,” Ottawa general manager William Bryce told ESPN. “This city has been hungry for a play-off spot and we believe Rozanov will lead us to it.”
While Ottawa is ecstatic for the new, exciting addition to their team, Boston was left stunned over the decision. The same day Rozanov signed with Ottawa, Boston winger Cliff Marleau posted on twitter:
I’m just as confused as everyone else, folks. Love ya Rozy but this one hurts.
Another shocker to add to the list? When pressed for comment about his decision, the usually vocal Rozanov declined to answer.
Comments:
Rumor has it he’s a prima donna. I think Rozanov just jumped ship to a team that will put up with his shit.
How much money do you think Ottawa bribed Rozanov with? As if the asshole needs any more.
FUCK THE BOSTON BETRAYER!!!
////
Ilya is twenty-seven when he plays the worst hockey game of his life. But he’s getting ahead of himself.
“My parents want to come watch you tomorrow. That is if you’re okay with it,” Shane mentions over the phone. Ilya can hear the sound of passing cars in the street. Shane most likely found some alleyway by his hotel to call him from.
“They don’t want to watch your last game of season?”
“We beat Colorado two times already, we’ll do it again. They want to watch you, especially given who you’re playing against.”
“Ah, they think Boston will beat me up after game?”
“Or during… or before. They just want you to know they’re rooting for you no matter what. I am too.”
“Be careful, Shane Hollander. If you admit to rooting for ‘Boston Betrayer’ you may get jumped too.”
Ilya’s first year as Ottawa’s new “star center” has been a shit show to say the least. For a decade, Ottawa has been struggling in the league’s rankings but the addition of Ilya has given them a fighting chance. Ticket sales have gone up, so have wins, and now for the first time in a decade, Ottawa has a shot at a wild card spot in the play-offs. That is, if they win this next match.
Ottawa fans are ecstatic. The rest of the hockey world thinks Ilya is an asshole. They’re probably a little right but that doesn’t really matter to Ilya. MLH fans can burn cutouts of him all they want, as long as it means being closer to Shane.
But being closer to Shane also means being closer to Shane’s parents. And Ilya feels… well Ilya doesn’t know how to feel about that yet.
“You can say no, if you want. If you’re not comfortable with them coming.” Shane tells him over the phone, sensing Ilya’s hesitancy.
“That depends. Do they want to beat me up too?”
“Stop deflecting. Listen, they’re Ottawa residents, and this is an anticipated match up to say the least. No one’s going to question why they’re there. But if you’re worried about that…”
“That’s not what this is about.”
“Then what is it about?”
It’s about how kind Yuna and David Hollander are. And how kind they’ve been to him this past year in Ottawa. They invite him to dinners, and put him in the family group chat, and text him “good job”, and Ilya doesn’t know what to do about any of it. It’s like he can feel a warm, comfortable tether forming between them, new and fragile. Ilya fears what will happen if he pulls them too close.
“They are your parents. They should watch your game.”
There’s a frustrated sigh on the other end and Ilya knows this will be a conversation for later, probably after the season. But for now he’s thankful that Shane doesn’t push.
“Okay, I’ll let them know. But they are rooting for you. And so am I. I hope you crush Boston tomorrow.”
“Mmm yes. And then you can crush me after. Right between your-”
“Ilya, I am hiding behind a garbage bin right now.”
If Shane’s parents are disappointed, they don’t say it. Instead, Ilya receives two separate texts that night while he’s out a team dinner:
David: Hey! Just wanted to give my support for tomorrow! If you want free food after the game you know where to find us :)
Yuna: Boston’s gonna play angry tomorrow but don’t let it get to you. You’ve got this.
And it stresses Ilya out, how much they see through him. That despite his confidence on the ice and the bravado in his interviews, the Hollanders can tell just how nervous he really is for this game. Probably because for the first time in years, he cares enough about a place to be nervous.
Boston was fun, fleeting shots at glory. Moscow was a tradition he couldn’t keep. But Ottawa?
It’s not fully pieced together yet; his life here. But he sees the future Shane built for them in his grasp, and it relies on Ilya playing well enough to stay here. He’s never had a reason to stay anywhere before. He’s not sure he’s good at it yet.
Ilya texts a thank you back to both Yuna and David and nothing more. He keeps the tether loose, and chips away at restaurant ceviche while his goalie recounts some story about losing his tooth in the AHL.
He feels his nerves still, a slow growing nausea in his stomach. Ilya follows the routine and clamps it down like everything else.
////
Ilya’s nausea refuses to go away after the dinner. Instead by the goalie’s third broken bone story, it’s rolling in like waves and Ilya is starting to suspect this is more than just nerves. Food poisoning, maybe. The fucking ceviche.
But Ilya’s held down worse so he deals with it, and laughs at the goalie’s story, and then his right winger’s story about a torn tendon after, and then his defensemen’s about a broken elbow after that. By the time dinner is done, Ilya is starting to sweat.
“You alright cap? You were pretty quiet back there,” one of his teammates asks him as they make their way back to their cars.
“Mhm. Just tired.”
“Since when are you too tired to talk?”
Ilya just waves him off and books it to his apartment.
Ilya’s able to clamp down the nausea long enough to make it through the front door. But then his stomach lurches again and next thing he knows he’s hunched over the kitchen sink, emptying the contents of his dinner. Fucking ceviche.
And Ilya can’t have this tomorrow. We are too smart to get sick. So he stumbles his way through the kitchen cabinets, downs some Tylenol with Gatorade and sets up shop in his ensuite bathroom.
And it’s there, while splayed out on marble tile, forehead resting on the toilet rim, that Ilya tries to will the sick away. His stomach lurches again, and Ilya heaves, and he prays that’s the last of it. That after he can wash himself up, and make his way out of the bathroom, and force himself better like he’s done a million times before.
////
Ilya wakes up on bathroom tile feeling demonstrably worse than the night before, sweat soaked and aching. He can hear his phone ringing in the other room, an annoying blare that makes the headache forming at his temple even worse.
And Ilya wants nothing more then to lay his face on the cool tile and stay here forever. Shane can move in with him. They’d make a beautiful home by the shower head. But his phone is still ringing and his father’s voice echoes in the back of his head. Get out of bed and fight. So painstakingly, Ilya tries to.
Ilya’s stomach lurches again as he gets up, and he has to steady himself with the bathroom sink. It’s at this point Ilya has to reconcile with the fact that this might not be food poisoning either. It’s probably something worse. And it’s probably something he shouldn’t play through. llya forces himself out of the bathroom anyways.
“Hello?” He manages when he finds his phone, not even bothering to check who’s calling.
“Where are you? We were supposed to start pre-game press ten minutes ago.” The voice of his coach bristles on the other line, which confuses Ilya, because pre-game press doesn’t start till 1pm. lya starts to argue this until he catches sight of his alarm clock on his nightstand:
1:12pm glares back at him. How long was he passed out for?
“Ah fuck. I’m running late.”
“Yeah no shit. Get here.” No one can help you if you choose to be this lazy.
Ilya speeds through an apology and scrambles to put on anything he can wear in front of cameras. He’s stumbling into a pair of sweats when he gets another ping from his phone.
Yuna: Watching both you boys on split screen tonight <3 Remember, if you need anything at all just let us know.
What Ilya needs is to be unconscious for twenty four hours. He settles on thumbs-upping Yuna’s text instead, then cringing when he accidentally hearts it. Vaguely, he wonders, like a fun hypothetical, what Yuna would even do if he told her he was sick. He’s too old for soup and lullabies, has been for some time now.
Rozanov men need to learn strength.
Eyes forward, back straight, stomach cramping, Ilya forces himself out the apartment door. Fifteen minutes later he makes it to the arena for press, the waves of nausea still rolling through him.
Ilya does what Ilya does best and adapts to the pain.
////
“Ilya hi. Jacob Lawrence, Sports Illustrated. With this being both Ottawa and Boston’s last chance at the wild card spot tonight, how are nerves in the team locker room?”
“… They are fine.”
“That’s it? Even with the tension between you and your former teammates? I doubt Boston plans to go easy on you tonight.”
“Oh no, really? I was hoping they’d let me win.”
////
By the time the first puck drops the arena is packed and roaring; Ilya’s head aches from the noise, an ice pick at his brow bone. He still manages to take control of the puck first, Boston at his heels. Every movement pulls at his stomach but he sucks it up and plays like his father’s watching.
Boston is as ruthless as expected. They shove into Ilya every chance they get and at least three separate fights break out in first period alone. The crowd roars through it all which Ilya usually loves. But right now he’s just trying to keep his head from swimming.
“Are you okay?” His teammate asks him after his fifth missed shot. And Ilya is pissed now on top of feeling awful. Boston is up 1-0. Ilya wonders how disappointing he must look on the Hollanders’ split screen TV.
You are failing me. Just like she did.
“I am fine,” Ilya says, forcing himself to get it the fuck together. He manages to pick up the pace in the next period, evening things up 2-2, the nausea in his gut a riptide. Ilya’s playing good still, but Ilya usually plays great, so by the end of second period his head coach pulls him aside.
“You look rough, Rozy. Do I need to bench you right now?”
“No, I can hold on. I can win this for us.”
“That’s not what I’m asking. Do you need me to get a medic?” Ilya doesn’t understand how that question is different from the first, so he just shakes his head, and gets back out on the ice for third period.
And that’s when things promptly go to shit.
////
Ilya doesn’t remember much of third period. All his thoughts seem to boil down to two things: that he needs to win and that his body fucking hates him.
Ilya has always played scrappy and unpredictable but right now he is pure instinct. He glides past Boston defensemen, gets the puck, and manages to score a goal into a very blurry looking net. The arena’s roars are deafening. Ottawa is up 3-2. Ten minutes later Boston ties them again.
They are in the final minutes of the game when Ilya gets hold of the puck one last time, his body charging through the current. Ilya weaves through Boston’s defense, lines up his shot, when suddenly he’s slammed into the boards instead.
Right side hits plexiglass.
The riptide explodes.
A crashing tsunami charges through his stomach and Ilya goes overboard.
////
Ilya comes back to face first on the ice, a small pool of bile next to him. We are too smart to get sick, his father tells him, but no that’s not right. He is not in Moscow anymore. He won’t ever go back there again.
“Rozanov, man you have to talk to me. Where are you hurting?” There are voices above him, poking and prodding, “nothing seems broken…”, “possible concussion…”, “his coach said he was feeling ill earlier…”
It’s all a little too much for Ilya, who is much more concerned with how his stomach is currently imploding.
And Ilya’s not sure when he started crying but he can’t seem to stop. He feels the need to apologize for some reason. We are too strong to cry.
“I’m sorry,” Ilya tries to rasp out. His throat can only manage a weak groan instead.
“Ilya, we’re going to get you off the ice now,” some blob of color tells him. “We are going to flip you to your back and…”
Ilya tunes out the voices. He can’t just lay here any longer. He knows how shameful it is. He knows what he needs to do. Get out of bed and fight.
So Ilya firmly places his hands on the ice.
“Hey, don’t move…”
And then Ilya starts to push himself up to all fours.
“Whoa, whoa, Rozy stop!”
And then Ilya’s world turns to black.
////
He wakes up floaty and disconnected, the tsunami that roared through him now a still lake. And Ilya may be treading water, but his body aches. His skin feels hot and clammy, and his brain feels like mush, and his father must be lecturing him soon on how lazy he’s being.
There’s only one person who can make Ilya feel better right now. But where is she?
“Ilya?” a gentle voice asks him. Someone cards through his hair soft and rhythmic. Like blades gliding through ice. Ilya opens his eyes to find his mother’s. “Hey there, how are you feeling?” And since when did his mom speak English? She looks different, and the lights above him are far too bright, and there’s a strange feeling in his sore gut that’s telling him something isn’t right here.
“What’s going on?” he asks his mom in Russian because surely she should know, but his mom just furrows her brows in confusion. “Mama? What’s going on?”
“Ilya honey, we’re in the hospital. They had to remove your appendix, and you’re on a lot of antibiotics right now. But you’re going to be okay. Do you understand?”
No, obviously not. Hospital? He just woke up with the flu.
A deeper voice, one like his father speaks out next to her. “Shane’s still in the air right now. He took the first flight he could. But we’ll be here with you in the meantime.” The man speaks in kind English but none of it makes sense. His father would never be this gentle with him, not unless something terrible happened to him. Did something terrible happen to him?
Ilya bolts up. His mother gently tries to push him back down. “Ilya, just stay still.”
“Am I dying?” Ilya means to say it in English, but the language feels so hard right now, his brain is fuzzy, and he might be dying, and his mother’s eyes are brown now for some reason, glistening as she speaks.
“Sweetheart, I’m sorry I don’t know what you’re saying.” And Ilya understands now, that this isn’t his mom. But if this isn’t his mom, then where is she?
“Where is my mom?” Ilya manages to scrape together in English because he needs to find her so she can help him. His not-mom takes her hand in his and tells him, “She’s not here right now. But you’re going to be okay, Ilya.”
“Where is my mom? I want my mom.”
“I know sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” Why aren’t these people helping him find her?
“Mama!” He tries calling out instead, and then louder when she doesn’t answer.
“I’ll get a nurse,” the deeper voice says but Ilya doesn’t want a nurse.
“Why won’t you help me? Where is she?”
A cluster of people come in then, blurry and disorienting. Ilya doesn’t know what else to do but cry out for his mother louder. And then something cold and heavy floods through his system, smothering him like a weighted blanket.
“That should help him calm down…” a distant voice starts saying above him, speaking too fast in English for Ilya to catch all of it. His not-mom strokes the back of his hand and Ilya, heavy and tired can’t help but try one more time. “Can you find her?” he says in Russian first, and then again in English. “Can you find my mom for me?”
His not-mom’s face crumples. He’s not quite sure why he made her so sad. “I’ll try honey. Just try to go to sleep now. Things will make more sense soon.”
Not-mom cards her hands through his hair again and Ilya doesn’t have the energy to object.
////
Voices wash over Ilya as he toes the lines of consciousness.
“…is he? Is he alright?”
“…better now, sweetheart. I’m sure he’ll be glad...”
“…in pain? When he came in?”
“…scared mainly…speaking Russian…I don’t think he knew where…”
There are gentle hands on his face, then through his hair, and the voices are in English but they feel like a lullaby anyways. Ilya lets them rock him back to sleep.
////
Ilya wakes up to ugly hospital lighting and Shane sleeping in a plastic chair next to him. His head rests on the bed, next to Ilya's right hand. And okay, Ilya may have missed something here. Wasn’t Shane in Colorado?
Ilya feels hazy, and achy, and on drugs so he just can’t help himself to carding his hand gently through Shane’s hair. It’s enough to wake his boyfriend up with a startle. Brown eyes bore into his, and Shane breathes out a sigh of relief, “You’re awake.”
Shane leans forward to cup Ilya’s chin in his hands, kisses him so softly, like Ilya is something fragile. Right now Ilya feels like he might be.
“You are not in Colorado. ”
“No, not anymore. My parents called me as soon as our game ended. I took the earliest flight I could back.”
“Ah, your teammates think you miss Lily?”
“My teammates think I had a family emergency because I did. Also you don’t get to make jokes right now. Not after you played with fucking appendicitis. Do you know how pissed I am at you?”
“Is it this much?” Ilya asks, putting his hands up a very specific amount apart.
“I’m being serious. I saw the video of you collapsing. It’s everywhere now. You looked…” Shane stops himself, tears welling in his eyes. “You scared me.”
And seeing Shane upset because of him hurts more than his sore side, so Ilya raises his hand to Shane’s face, gently wipes at the tears running down it. “I’m sorry. I am better now, though.”
“Yeah, after a slew of antibiotics and a two day nap.”
“I was out for two days?”
Shane nods. “I got in yesterday. My parents were with you before that.”
“Your parents?” Suddenly memories rush into each other, fractals on top of each other like a kaleidoscope. Tidal waves, and heavy pain, and voices guiding him through it all. Voices that he thought were…
Can you find my mom for me? Where is my mom?
Oh. Oh God no. They were there for that?
“Yeah, they’re home now. But they’re coming back tomorrow morning.”
“No. They should not do that.”
“Why not?” Because the idea of seeing them again, after how pathetic he was is actively making him break out into hives.
“Because they don’t need to. They did too much already.”
“They wanted to be there for you. They still do.”
“Well, I don’t want them here.” He says it too sharp, surprising even himself. But Shane doesn’t look hurt, just confused and frustrated. Ilya doesn’t blame him.
“Do you not like them? Is that why you avoid them?”
“No. No. I like your family. They are nice to me. They are kind.”
“But?”
“But…” But he can’t look at them without seeing all the ways he’ll fail them. Without seeing all the ways he’ll fail Shane. “But they are your family.”
“Ilya, they want to be your family too.” And the tether is so fragile that it’s bound to snap.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“We can’t leave it forever.”
“I know. But can we leave it now?”
And Shane, merciful, takes Ilya’s hand and squeezes it gently. “Okay. We’ll leave it now.”
Ilya’s not quite sure what he did to deserve his patience.
////
THE OTTAWA SUN - April 15th 2018
OTTAWA OUT OF PLAY-OFF CONTENTION, ROZANOV COLLAPSES MID-GAME
Despite a valiant effort from the Ottawa Centaurs this season, the team fell just short of clinching the wild card spot in the play-offs this year. Instead, the spot has been granted to their opponent, the Boston Raiders, after beating Ottawa 4-3 in a tight overtime round.
However, fans are less disappointed about the game than they are worried for their new star Center Ilya Rozanov. Rozanov, who was giving signs of fatigue throughout the match, collapsed on the ice in the third period after a hard hit. The Sun has confirmed that Rozanov is now recuperating and expected to make a full recovery by next season, though the nature of his injury has not yet been disclosed.
Ottawa may be shut out of play-offs, but it seems the fans are anything but dissatisfied.
“Rozanov really sparked something in this team all season,” one Ottawa local stated when asked for comment. “Maybe we didn’t get the post-season we wanted, but the team sure as hell fought for it. We’re all just hoping Rozanov gets better in time to lead us again next year.”
////
Ilya is hospital bound for another three days before the doctors send him home with strict orders of bedrest and daily antibiotics. They throw around words like “infection” and “longer recovery time” that Ilya has plans to ignore until the image of a tear-stained Shane pops into his head. So instead, Ilya takes the written instructions the doctors give him and bites his tongue.
Shane stays in Ottawa for a little while longer, visiting Ilya as much as he can while avoiding the very avid reporters visiting the hospital for updates, as well as Ilya’s even more avid teammates.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t win it for you,” his goalie tells him after a particularly emotional visit. “Next year we’re fucking making it up to you. We’re gonna destroy Boston and demolish all their asses.” Ilya bites his tongue there too.
By Ilya’s request, Shane’s parents don’t come back to the hospital. It’s a relief for Ilya, who’s not sure he can bring himself to face them after his pathetic display, both at the game and after. Instead, when Ilya finally gets his phone back, he ignores the barrage of well wishes from everyone in the MLH and opens it up to read two texts:
David: Yuna and I want to give you your space, but just know that we are so, so glad you are okay.
Yuna: Just let us know if you need anything okay? When you are back to full strength, we’d love to talk.
Because Ilya is a weak, awful person, he doesn’t respond to either of them. Instead, he closes his phone and forces himself to believe the cold feeling in his chest is relief.
////
Shane gets two more days with Ilya in his apartment before he has to go back to Montreal for play-off training. The two of them spend it in embarrassing domesticity.
Ilya still tired from the whole “burst appendix thing” spends half his day dozing in bed, or dozing on the couch, or dozing on Shane as his boyfriend traces figure eight patterns on his skin.
The other half is spent arguing over what is and isn’t classified as “light activity”.
“You barely move in blow job.”
“Not the way you do it, Ilya.”
It’s wonderfully easy, the quiet comfort they slip into. And Ilya dreads when Shane has to leave. He can tell Shane’s dreading it too with the amount of ‘mother-henning’ he’s been doing, as if he’s scared Ilya will break once he’s gone.
“And you still have to take your antibiotics for the next two weeks. Two every morning. Two every night.”
“I think I can manage a pill.”
“Four pills, Ilya.”
“Four? What is that number, I can’t count that high.”
And Shane’s looking more frustrated than amused, so Ilya straightens up a bit. “I will take my pills, Shane. I will eat my bland pasta. I will sit on couch and sleep, like true boring Canadian. I promise.”
“I guess I’ve rubbed off on you.”
“Is that a new move? I don’t know that one.” Shane chuckles, his smile bright, and Ilya won’t ever tire of making this man laugh.
“Are you watching play-offs with the team?” Shane changes the subject, abrupt.
“One of our defensemen is hosting party, I think. I will probably not go.”
“So you don’t have any play-off plans whatsoever?”
“Why? Do you want to skip your games and join me?”
“Just curious is all.” Shane shrugs, but doesn’t say much after that. Why he’s suddenly so interested in Ilya’s viewing habits is beyond him. But Ilya lets it go, and settles for leaning back against the couch and admiring the view as Shane rifles through his kitchen fridge.
“I’m gonna order some groceries for you before I leave. There’s barely anything in here.”
“Whatever you say, hockey sugar daddy.”
“Please don’t ever call me that again.”
////
Shane’s flight for Montreal is set to leave the next morning. Because Ilya is Ilya, he spends his last moments with his boyfriend under the covers, wrapped up around him, making sure Shane has some memories for the road.
“Fuck Ilya… okay now I really have to go,” Shane tells him for the third time that morning. Somewhere around the fifth time, Shane actually gets out of bed.
The goodbye hug is long, and tender, and ridiculously sappy. “I’m gonna beat Boston for you,” Shane says, serious. “We’ll knock them out as fast as possible.”
“My hero.” Ilya is deadpan, but he does truly want that to happen. No one is allowed to beat Shane but him.
Ilya breathes in Shane one more time, holds onto him a bit longer, and memorizes his touch for the weeks he won’t have it. And then Shane is out the door and Ilya is alone again.
////
Because Shane is Shane, he stays true to his word and orders Ilya groceries for his apartment. Somewhere around mid-day, Ilya gets a text.
Jane: I think groceries should be here soon
Lily: How exciting
Jane: I also just want to say ahead of time that I’m sorry
Lily: ?
Lily: Did you buy me your bird food?
Jane: …
Lily: Did you???
Ilya doesn’t have time to make sense of the exchange because a knock at the door rouses him from the couch. He doesn’t bother to check the peephole before opening. “If it is lettuce and nuts, don’t even both-”
Ilya stops in his tracks.
Yuna Hollander stands in his apartment hallway, holding several paper bags. “You know, I don’t remember buying any nuts, but I’ll make sure to throw them out if I did.”
Suddenly Ilya has no idea how to act in front of anyone. “Yuna.”
“Ilya. Can I come in? These bags are getting heavy.”
“Right. Yes. Of course.”
Ilya ushers Yuna in and she makes a beeline to the kitchen, moving as if she’s been here before. She wastes no time unpacking the bags into his fridge. Ilya is still slow to process the sight of her.
“When Shane said he got groceries, I thought he meant Door Dash.”
“Nope. He meant me.”
“You did not have to-“
“You’re watching the first round of play-offs with us. Montreal vs. Boston.” She says it so fast, so determined, that Ilya forgets he can argue.
“You will not watch in person?”
“The first three games are in Boston. And you have no plans.”
“My teammate is hosting watch party.”
“Shane said you weren’t going. So we’re hosting you. End of conversation.” And now Ilya gets it. The questioning from Shane, his vague texts, the hands-off approach from the Hollanders recently.
“This is planned coup.”
“If you want to see it that way, sure. Dinner starts at six. If you are not there by then we will come to you. Am I clear?” And this side of Yuna is easy for Ilya. Cold blooded and business minded. Ilya understands his role here, which is to shut and up say yes. So he does.
“Good. We’re roasting chicken.” Then Yuna’s out the door before he can say anything else.
////
Lily: Your mom threatened me with chicken
Jane: Yeah she’ll do that
Jane: Are you mad? It’s okay if you are
Lily: I’m not mad
Lily: I just don’t know what they want from me
Jane: Maybe you should ask them
////
In an effort to not have his in-laws break down his door, Ilya arrives at the Hollander’s home at 6pm. Yuna and David as usual, are kind and welcoming, a plate of roast chicken and pasta already set up at the dining room table.
While eating they ask Ilya about his recovery, his favorite moments of the season, what he plans to do for the summer. They never bring up the night of the hospital. They never bring up his ghosting them after. Ilya is a tightly wound coil throughout out it all, waiting for his failures to finally be sprung up at him. They never are.
Instead, David makes easy conversation and Yuna makes fun of Boston when they eventually watch Shane’s match in the living room.
“You know if Boston aimed as well they shoved, they might actually be able to make a goal.” Yuna says with a decisive sip of wine. Ilya can only stare at her, dazed. “What?”
“Nothing. Deja Vu.”
Shane is still Shane and keeps his promise to Ilya. Montreal beats Boston 5-1 in the first game of play-offs. And when Shane locks eyes with the camera and smiles at the screen, Ilya knows who he’s really looking for. Ilya’s always looking for him too.
They watch Shane’s press with him afterwards. For the most part the questions are standard throwaways from lazy reporters. How does the team feel going into the next round? Do you feel confident about the cup this year? What’s your morning routine? Until-
“Now Shane, I know you visited Ilya Rozanov after he collapsed on the ice in regular season. Do you have any insight on how the Ottawa center is doing and how he must feel missing out on play-offs after coming so close?”
It’s a cheap question built for gossip, and not even about Montreal’s win. Ilya knows Shane, ever the professional will skirt around it just fine, but it still fucking hurts knowing the world is as aware of Ilya’s failures as he is.
Ilya never gets to see Shane answer however, because David abruptly turns off the TV. “I think that’s enough of that. I know it’s past my bedtime.”
David starts to get up and Ilya takes it as his cue to leave as well. He gets up from the couch, thanks both of them for hosting, when Yuna takes Ilya’s jacket from where it was lying on the arm rest.
“It’s midnight and you look exhausted. Why don’t you stay with us tonight? I’ll put you up in Shane’s old room.”
“It is not a far drive. I will be okay.”
“We insist.” David says by the front door, clearly trying to block the entrance from him. And if it was anyone else but Shane’s father it would look intimidating. Instead, David Hollander looks like he is trying to coax some lost animal back to safety.
And Ilya gets what’s happening now. What this whole night was really for.
“We’re are talking about it tonight, yes? That is what you want?”
Yuna just nods and leads Ilya to the hallway. “Come on. Let me get you some pajamas.”
////
Shane’s room is a time capsule of hockey trophies and yearbook photos. Ilya revels in all of it: the old jerseys stuffed in the back closet. The photos of a seven year old Shane with his parents on the ice, then a similar one with him at twelve, then sixteen, then eighteen. And Shane looks so different from when he was a child but the smile Ilya fell in love with is a constant. It’s like Shane’s history is packed into every endearing grin.
It’s all so disarming to Ilya, who sits on Shane’s twin bed, donning a pair of David’s pajamas. And Ilya suspects that was Yuna’s intention all along in setting him up here.
Yuna, leaning against an old dresser, gets straight to the point. “Why didn’t you want us to come back to the hospital?” Ilya’s thankful for the brevity, anything softer from her and he just might run.
“You did too much already.”
“We were happy to be there for you.”
“That’s not the point. You shouldn’t have had to be there in the first place. I should have been stronger.”
“Stronger with appendicitis?”
“Stronger with all of it!” And Ilya doesn’t mean to yell but Yuna isn’t getting it. Rozanov men need to learn strength. “I failed my team. I cried like sick school kid. I threw tantrum in hospital.”
“I wouldn’t call what you did a tantrum.”
“I yelled at you in Russian.”
“You were confused.”
“I called you my mom.” And Ilya wasn’t planning on saying that part but it slips out anyways. The truth dangles between them in the air and Ilya can’t grab it back. “I don’t remember much that night, but I remember thinking you were her. I’m sorry.”
Yuna’s eyes start to well, her face conflicted, and Ilya rushes to reset things again. “It won’t happen again. I can handle things better, usually.” It only makes Yuna’s eyes well more. And Ilya’s not sure what to do here. He’s trying so hard to fix this, why is he only making it worse?
“Ilya,” Yuna finally responds, sitting down next to him on the bed. “I am mad about a lot of things that happened that night. I’m angry your coach didn’t bench you. I’m pissed some stupid rookie went for an illegal shove pass. And I am so, so mad at you for playing, knowing how sick you were.”
“It was Boston, would you bench yourself?”
“Ilya.” Her voice is strong and determined. It shuts Ilya up immediately. “You were sick, and you were scared, and you were confused. I will never be mad at you for that. I’m just sorry I couldn’t find her for you.”
And suddenly Ilya’s chest is cracked open again, just like it was when he was twelve. Tears start to spring from his eyes, frustratingly uncontrollable. And it’s here, in Shane’s childhood bedroom, with Yuna next to him, that Ilya comes undone again. Yuna just gathers him up and lets him sob into her shoulder.
Later, when Ilya’s eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, Yuna grabs a washcloth from the bathroom to wipe his face. She doesn’t make him move. She doesn’t make him get up at all and Ilya is thankful for that. He’s so fucking tired of fighting.
“I am a grown man,” he tells her, another piece of truth offered to the air, “I have been for a while. I don’t know why it still hurts this much.”
“Because you’re still her son,” Yuna tells him, simple. “Even when she’s not here anymore, you’ll always be her son.”
More tears start to fall down Ilya’s face but Yuna says nothing of it. Instead, she wraps her arms around him again, and rubs soft circles along his back, like a warm memory years ago.
////
Montreal kicks Boston out of play-offs within four games, only to lose after a seven game match against Detroit in round two. llya watches all the matches with David and Yuna that week, sleeping in Shane’s strangely comfortable twin bed every night.
“I assume you knew this would happen?” Ilya asks Yuna as the post-game press starts up.
“I had a feeling. You can’t play a defensemen with shin splints in the play-offs and expect to make it to finals.”
“How do you know he has…”
“Because she’s a witch!” David calls out from the kitchen, breaking out a bottle of chardonnay.
“Did you know I was sick? I mean before I threw up my guts for all of television.”
“I had a pretty strong feeling, yeah.”
“Since when? The puck drop?”
“Since you hearted my text.”
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Several days later Shane returns to Ottawa and the two celebrate the end of the season with a return to the cottage. It’s there, wrapped in each other’s arms, a fire burning by them, that Ilya shares something he never has before.
“My mother used to sing to me when I was sick. I miss it often.”
Shane hums from where his head rests on Ilya’s chest. “That sounds nice.”
“It was. She wasn’t a singer, but I loved listening to her. I would fall asleep knowing she was there.”
Shane says nothing, just gently touches the crucifix on Ilya’s neck, and waits for him to continue. “I wonder what she’d think of me if she met me now. I changed so much just to make it without her. I fear she would not recognize me.”
Shane just shakes his head, presses a kiss to Ilya’s jaw line. “She’d recognize you. Sure, you’ve changed, and grown, and gotten cocky.”
“You like it when I am cocky, no?”
“Fuck off, I’m trying to make a point. Maybe you’ve changed. We all do. But you’re still her son, Ilya. You’ll always be her son.”
“Your mother said something very similar to me.”
“She’s usually right.” Shane sits up a bit further, kisses Ilya on the lips now, gentle and perfect. “You know they love you too, right? Just like how I love you.”
Ilya traces Shane’s chin, kisses him back before he tells him, “I think I am starting to.”
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Welcome back to Man in the Crease, your one stop hockey shop.
We’re starting off the episode with a surprising bit of gossip at the start of the new season. Shane Hollander may have crushed it in Tampa this week but his parents were seen celebrating Ottawa’s home game win against Vancouver. In fact, many reported spotting Yuna and David Hollander at a restaurant with Ilya Rozanov of all people afterwards.
Yes, Hollander and Rozanov have recently started a foundation together but they are still competitors in the MLH. Is this dinner a long game sabotage from our Boston Betrayer? Or have the Hollanders merely taken pity on Rozanov after his disastrous end of last season?
Either way, one thing is for certain, Hollander and Rozanov’s long standing rivalry has just taken an interesting new turn.