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Knock knock.
Shane didn't know why he was here. He really didn't. It had been months since Ilya had done so much as even reply to his texts. He had never tried to see the Russian without first being invited - either a room number or a text or at the very least a certain kind of look when they were out on the ice. And there had been no such look today. Shane had just crushed Rozanov, pounded him into his own fucking ice three goals to nothing. And the asshole wouldn't even look at him.
So here he was, knocking at Ilya's apartment door at half past midnight. It was the quickest he'd been able to slip away after the game ended. There were footsteps now. Good. Shane would see how well Rozanov's stupid cold shoulder held up when there was no one else watching.
But as the door swung open it was not the tall, broad-shouldered blond of his dreams. Instead it was a fiery redhead who only came up to his nose in height, frizzy hair spilling out everywhere atop a dark face dotted by darker freckles. She was wearing - was that Ilya's sweater?
"You're not-"
She cut him off before he could even finish his startled reaction.
"Ilya? No, I am not. He is not here."
Her English was accented, tinged with the same Russian as Ilya's. Was she- Ilya had mentioned a Russian girl in Boston, more than once. And her name was-
"Svetlana, right?"
Please don't let him have gotten it wrong. He didn't need any more embarrassment atop of already having shown up here to pine after his- his what? his fling?
"Yes. And you are the great Shane Hollander. Even in Boston, anyone would know who you are."
The way she said that - mocking, acid, bitter. What was her deal, anyways?
"So?"
"So why are you here? Not enough to beat him on ice? You come to rub it in?"
So she didn't know then? The way Ilya had talked about this girl, Shane had thought she would know. If she didn't-
"Yeah. Team prank. Just came here to see his stupid face."
He put as much bravado into that as he could muster. Tried to come off the way Ilya did when he was trash talking.
"Oh? I see. So it is not because you are here like some desperate puppy dog? Keening after my man? Instead of getting one of your own?"
"Ya tebya lyublyu."
The words slipped out before he even thought about it, a foul curse Ilya threw at him whenever he was feeling particularly ornery. Shane had said it back to him once, and from the way the Boston captain had flinched Shane knew it had to be something awful. See how she liked that.
But instead of recoiling, Svetlana blinked, stared, and then doubled over laughing, an absolute torrent of giggling and snorting that went on for a long while. Shane stood there dumbfounded, unsure of what to say until the redhead managed to drag herself back up, holding one hand against the doorframe.
"What do you- Where did you hear that? Who taught you?"
She still sounded amused, and also... probing? Curious? Shane couldn't tell why.
"Ilya says it. All the time. I thought it was-"
She cut him off. Again.
"He says this to you all the time? When?"
"I don't know, he curses at me a lot, okay? Like when we knocked Boston out of the playoffs. Or the one year I got put on the game cover over him. And there was this one time at a club - I knocked into him by accident-"
Shane cut himself off this time, as an awful, awful thought occurred to him.
"Oh god it's not a slur, is it? I didn't just like, call you something awful or-"
"No. Is not slur. If Ilya wanted to call you faggot he would call you faggot."
She gave a little bit of extra sharpness to the end of "faggot," like she was relishing it. Like she was in on some joke Shane wasn't. Did she even know what she was saying?
"I don't know if you know what that means, but you really shouldn't be saying-"
"I go both ways. Like Ilya. Should you be saying it? Does the big, brave captain of the great Montreal Metros like getting-"
"Ya tebya lyublyu."
It felt better than just telling her to fuck off. Or at least it would, if it didn't cause her to double over laughing once more.
"That's not what that means."
"So what does it mean then. At least tell me, if you're just going to keep laughing at me."
It was infuriating, the look in her eyes. Like she knew so much he didn't. About himself. About Ilya.
"It means..."
She trailed off, and her tone grew serious all of a sudden, sad even. All the laughter had gone.
"It means I love you."
Shane sputtered, trying to think of something to say, anything. Any acceptable response for the idea that Ilya Rozanov of all people had been saying he loved Shane. On and off the ice. For years.
Svetlana shook her head, some complex mixture of emotions playing across her face as she reacted to Shane's own shocked expression.
"I think you should go now. Good night, Shane Hollander."
She shut the door. Maybe not slamming it, but certainly hard enough to make a noise, the little whoosh of air almost knocking Shane back. He felt like it could have knocked him over, so unsteady were his feet beneath him.
Svetlana had given him an answer, and yet he still had the same question. What did that mean?