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They weren’t talking about anything much when the box arrived: Ryan Price, Buffalo, cities fun and not fun to play in. Ilya thanked the deliveryman, hiding his irritation. Hollander was at that moment sitting on his couch, dressed comfortably in clothing pulled from Ilya’s closet. He had begun the conversation with his arms folded, back straight, but his shoulders had slowly loosened as they talked. His hands had dropped, uncurling and falling to the back of the couch, the dip of his thigh. He was watching Ilya more than the TV.
And then, the chime of the doorbell. The box, ridiculous, as tall as Ilya’s waist. Signed for, dragged inside, easily because it was unexpectedly light.
“What’s that?” Hollander asked.
Ilya didn’t know. He grabbed a spare key from the shelf under the kitchen island and used it to slit the box open, uncovering thirty smaller boxes marked with the brand name Tampax.
The look on Hollander’s face was very funny.
There was a stupid explanation for this. Sveta was meant to be traveling for work; the universe had intervened to delay her first meeting, sending the trajectory of Ilya’s week an inch to the left and into a night of lazy drinking and a laughing debate over Ilya’s etiquette and capability as a host.
It was good that she was there. They’d had some tough games coming up, and he was tired, and he knew that after that there was Hollander—but he was too restless to be alone in his house.
And so, this. The faint wrinkling of Hollander’s brow as he stood opposite Ilya on the other side of the box, both of them blinking down at its contents.
“Okay, I will explain,” Ilya decided.
“Um,” Hollander said. “You don’t have to.”
“Oh, no? You don’t have even one question?”
“Nope,” Hollander said.
There were so many boxes. That was the problem. When he switched his focus to Hollander, Ilya’s brain couldn’t hold onto how many, and then when he looked back it was as if they had multiplied.
They were standing much too long over this nothing of a delivery. Ilya pushed the box against the wall with his foot and went back to the couch.
“Is not a big deal,” he said. “Joke from a friend.”
“Oh.” Shane was still standing. “Like a team thing? A prank?”
“Ah… no. Old friend from Russia. She was drunk,” he added. A sufficient explanation.
Hollander sat, at least. He glanced again at the box. Ilya wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear.
He said, “She tells me it’s rude, that I don’t have these things for her. So she gets them for herself.” It wasn’t only for her, but any woman who stayed over. Ilya opened his mouth to explain this, too.
A bad impulse—Hollander wouldn’t like it—but Hollander drew terrible impulses out of him all the time. This couldn’t be helped.
Hollander said, “Is she like... your girlfriend?”
The look on his face was more baffled than anything fun like jealousy. Ilya understood; the sheer quantity defied understanding. Who needed so many?
“No, nothing like that. Well,” Ilya amended, “sometimes we fuck, but…”
“But what?” said Shane, as Ilya knew he would.
“But it is nothing more than that.”
Shane glanced at the box again, a bit oddly this time.
It was a little funny. An absurdity, dropped into the middle of their afternoon. But it was also an intrusion on a day that was short enough as it was.
“You think I have no friends, is that what this face is? You shouldn’t be so surprised.” He waved a hand at Hollander, proof of the pudding.
“What?” Hollander said blankly. And then: “Friends?”
Ilya said lightly, “No? Not even after all these years? I might cry, Hollander.”
“Well,” Hollander said, “you’ve never bought me a hundred boxes of anything, so...”
“You can order a hundred boxes of ginger ale to my house if you want.” The oven dinged before he could say more. He brought Hollander another ginger ale to go with his tuna melt.
Ilya’s life was very simple. There were things he had to do, so he did them. The rest of the time, he did what he wanted.
Fucking Shane Hollander was something Ilya wanted. Hollander had more than once said they were stupid, risking their careers for this, but it wasn’t much stupider than a lot of things Ilya did for much less enjoyment.
They were careful. No one had reason to guess the truth, which was safety in itself. Even Hollander complained less over the years. Reassured, probably, by how long they had been getting away with it.
When Ilya was young, risk was part of the appeal. Not the main part; Ilya hardly needed extra reasons to fuck. But he remembered how it first felt to want things that came with the power to hurt. The feeling of taking anyway, of baring his teeth and clamping down, of letting himself be led by grasping hands, because the choice was his.
It was different now. Ilya had a life that he had built for himself: his house, his city, his cars, the endless fun of being a winner.
Hollander, sometimes. In passing.
When he noticed the timing of the next Montreal game, he contemplated the opportunity it presented. Then he bought groceries. Ginger ale, of course. A new cologne that he’d been eyeing for a while. He didn’t know when his cleaning service had last changed the sheets, so he did it himself, which was only polite.
It was less effort than he went to when he had the team over. Or Sveta, who mostly made herself at home without his help, but he still ordered fresh raspberries and almond cookies when he knew she was coming.
He had to ask Hollander. All right, so he asked; and Hollander said yes.
Simple. He only wanted to have a little more time, and Ilya usually did what he wanted.
Ilya’s father called while they ate their sandwiches. Hollander asked about him; Ilya said, “I don’t know. He’s fine. Listen, Hollander, if we watch a movie, will we be friends after that? I will let you choose, okay?”
And later, handing over the controller, “Okay, okay, but what about if we play MLH? What do you think, is this something friends do?”
“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Hollander laughed. He laughed again when Ilya chose to play as Montreal; in return he chose Boston, announcing this with a bright sidelong glance in Ilya’s direction. The curve of his mouth deepened, pleased-looking.
He laughed when he was winning, too. Even when he fell behind he still grinned fiercely, eyes locked on the screen.
Ilya realized he himself was smiling. Softly, he stroked his thumbs back and forth over the edge of the controller.
When the game grew boring, they fell into conversation again.
“Do you keep in touch with a lot of friends from Russia?” Hollander asked.
“Not really.” There were people Ilya saw more summers than not, in clubs or in the general vicinity of clubs, but that wasn’t the answer Hollander was after.
Hollander was a truffle pig, hunting down answers with his terrible curiosity. There was an expression he wore, his features too still, as if watching Ilya took up such attention he forgot his own face.
“Svetlana is like me, always back and forth. Easy to see each other,” Ilya told him. At least today’s questions were harmless enough. A thought came to him, amusing; how Sveta would react, if she knew he had Shane Hollander in his home.
“You know, she likes you very much.”
Hollander’s response was slow; wary.
“Oh?”
“Yes, she knows everything about hockey. When we were kids, she made a lot of money on MLH games.”
“When you were kids, really?”
Ilya shrugged.
“Teenagers, you know. It’s funny, now she doesn’t even like to gamble. She never wants to come to Vegas for the awards. I think she just wanted to show…” Ah, he had left out a crucial detail.
“Her father is Sergei Vetrov. Famous Russian goaltender.” Hollander nodded. His mouth was mobile, pressing down on something that could have been a smile or a frown.
Unsurprising, that he seemed familiar with the name. Probably he’d read about Sergei Vetrov in one of the books always appearing on his bedside table.
Ilya badly wanted a cigarette.
“I like gambling,” he said. “Strip poker is best.”
Hollander stopped gazing casually at nothing. His eyes dropped to his own ensemble and then moved, more slowly, over Ilya’s bare chest. The undecided shape resolved into a smile.
“Playing to lose?” he said.
“I think maybe no one loses in strip poker,” Ilya said. “But not for now, yes? We should eat.”
If they did play, he knew how he wanted it to go, and hunger wouldn’t suit the mood. He wanted the patience of bluffing and raising, the careful focus of watching for tells, the gradual revealing of skin. It would be fun to play this with Hollander.
Some other time, maybe. They could do this again; it could be like this, when they saw each other again. Ilya gave Hollander his phone and let him look over the options offered by his meal service.
Hollander had grown less twitchy as the day went on. Of course he never entirely relaxed. He rolled his empty can of soda between his palms, rubbed at the back of his neck. Sometimes his gaze lingered questioningly on Ilya, but by evening, it was a look of mild uncertainty at worst. It prickled like warm electricity across Ilya’s skin.
Ilya kept him entertained and fed. Afterward, a conversation about killing time in airports led to a game that Shane said the Montreal rookies were obsessed with: you stood face to face, and you tried to knock the other person off their feet by pushing on their hands.
Once Ilya understood the rules, the pushing was more like slapping; slapping hands away before they could push. When they made contact, they shoved each other hard enough that their arms windmilled and they wobbled precariously. The problem was that Ilya was just figuring out the strategy, whereas Hollander had the benefit of experience. The minute Ilya realized how to adjust his weight to put forth the most pressure, Shane took advantage, starting as if to fend Ilya off normally and then yanking his hands away so that Ilya, braced for more resistance, fell forward onto his chest.
He brought Shane to the ground with him. His face was buried in Shane’s neck, and he had to kiss him there, up and down Shane’s soft neck and into the join of his shoulder, inhaling.
“Oh, are we doing this now? You don’t need a rematch?” Shane said breathlessly.
He sat up and leaned his weight forward so that he could crawl into Ilya’s lap. It was a good position for having sex on the floor. Shane wrapped his hand around both of them together. Ilya slid his hands up the thick span of Shane’s thighs.
Shane’s eyes were wide and dark. For a moment, Ilya felt the ghost of lips on his brow. Then Shane stilled; his lashes dipped and fanned his cheeks. He shook his head minutely.
Ilya would have asked what was wrong, but at that moment the light changed. Shane’s eyes opened and melted into warm honey. He broke with Ilya’s gaze and stared intently at his own hand where it was working both of them, making his shoulder flex. Whatever was bothering him was dismissed.
“That’s really hot.”
“You think?”
“Shut up.” Shane was laughing.
Friends? he had said, looking so surprised. It had been living in Ilya’s head since the afternoon. He pressed his face to the front of Shane’s shoulder, then lower.
It was good sex, he had heard people say, when you could laugh. When it was a good time, not so serious. Not so intense, not so life-or-death. That was when it was best.
The game was annoyingly close. Montreal set the pace, Hollander too fast, too powerful to fully contain, but Ilya fucking loved playing against Hollander in games like those; catching the edges of his smiles against the boards. At least they dragged it into OT, clawed a point back. Ilya was frustrated, but he knew they’d get the next one, when Vic was back from IR.
Home afterward was quiet. Ilya immediately switched on the TV and began scrolling through the unread notifications on his phone. Alexei, telling Ilya to fuck off. His agent, wanting to schedule a call. Some DMs. And one from Shane.
Jane: Thanks for yesterday. It was fun.
This was baffling. Then comprehension dawned, and Ilya felt strangely delighted.
Hollander had slept over. He had eaten Ilya’s food and borrowed his clothes and a toothbrush. Hollander was being polite.
Lily: Such a good guest, sending a thank-you note.
Jane: Fuck off.
Lily: I am a good host, thank you for noticing.
Jane: You’re not bad.
Lily: Since you are being nice, I will allow you to be a good guest.
Jane: I really don’t need your permission.
Lily: Sorry about the parting gift also. I know Montreal worries about a race so close.
The Metros had held onto most of the big-name players from their Cup runs, but their depth was for shit this year. The media was beating a drum that said: temper your expectations. The team was going to be on the bubble, and every point mattered.
Jane: Oh, fuck you.
Satisfied, Ilya went to grab something to eat.
It did not feel like the same day that had seen Shane Hollander leave his house in the cool gray early morning light. Hollander wasn’t rushed about it, not like he was itching to get out; but a game day was different, Ilya recognized, than a whole day off with nowhere to be. A night spent talking about nothing in particular, watching what came on the TV if it caught their attention, fooling around lazily until they fell asleep, sooner than Ilya had intended.
In the morning, he thought he could have caught Shane’s hand at the door, tugged him in and pressed him against it. Probably they could have made out for a while.
But when Ilya went to test this theory, Hollander glanced back at him. Well-rested, freshly showered, one hand curved around the doorknob.
“See you later,” he said easily. He was surprisingly free of tension, the assorted nervy shadows that usually clung to their goodbyes.
Ilya nodded, and Hollander left.
Ilya blamed his post-game routine and exhaustion: He didn’t notice until the next morning that Hollander had sent a follow-up text.
Jane: Hayden thinks I play better in Boston. He wants me to thank Lily for the win.
His mouth fell open. To flatter his prowess and make it the vehicle of his own defeat. He quickly tapped out an answer.
Lily: Very sad Jane isn’t also so inspiring.
Jane: Only so much a girl can do.
Lily: Hmm no. I think she needs to work harder, reach her full potential.
Hollander didn’t respond. Ilya had time to reply to his agent, make and eat his breakfast sandwiches, and play the puzzle game on his phone that he used to learn new English words before another text came in.
Jane: Like how?
Ilya sat down at the kitchen counter. He had the morning off, but Hollander was already in Tampa. Was he texting from team breakfast?
Lily: Where are you?
Jane: My room.
Lily: A picture could be very inspiring.
Jane: Be fucking serious.
Lily: You see, this is why I am sad.
Jane: Come on.
Lily: Is okay, I can imagine very well.
There was a pause, but it was brief.
Jane: Imagine what?
Ilya’s lips were dry. The day before came back to him first, naturally: Shane’s legs wrapped around him, Shane in his lap, Shane’s hips rocking steady in his hands like he could keep going forever. The slope of his nose, his breath warm on Ilya’s face; his eyes closed almost peacefully when Ilya finally got him on his back.
Lily: Your sweat.
Jane: Jesus.
Lily: It was in my face. Nose and mouth.
Jane: You liked that?
Lily: Put your hands up on the pillow and I will lick the sweat from your arms when I fuck you.
The typing bubbles appeared and disappeared. No text came through.
Lily: Are you sitting? Lying down?
Jane: On my back.
Lily: Like I said? Hands on the pillow?
Jane: One hand anyway.
Lily: Fuck. Good. You are touching yourself?
Jane: Yeah.
Lily: Do it harder.
Ilya was still in his fucking kitchen. The fabric of the chair was damp under him; he pushed himself away from the white span of the counter. Texting was becoming difficult, but looking away from his phone was impossible. He reached into his pants and fucked into his hand, not too fast; in time with the pounding in his blood.
Jane: You close?
Lily: Almost. Fucking make me, come on.
Jane: I am.
He was. Ilya heard his own breathing, a barely-there hitching gasp. Harder. The sheets were in a basket in the laundry room, sweaty and musky, not yet washed. Shane’s legs falling open, the easy welcome of his body. Shane moving under him, slick from exertion. When Ilya came it was inside the hot wet memory of it, chasing the same orgasm twice.
He wiped himself down and went to the living room to fall backwards onto the couch.
Lily: Good effort, Jane.
Jane: Maybe I’ll send a pic.
Lily: Maybe you won’t.
Jane: Maybe I won’t.
After a moment, another text came through.
Jane: Feeling inspired?
Ilya put his hands over his face. He saw Shane’s suppressed grin, his eyes flicking over to check how his little crack was received. Ilya laughed helplessly.
Lily: I don’t know if that is the word.
Jane: Too bad. I have to go.
Lily: You are not helping me, you are killing me.
Jane: Good luck next game ;)
Midway through practice, Ilya noticed he was tired. He had been tired before his visit from Shane, and now he was tired again, but worse.
He managed. If he sat, it would be hard to make himself stand again, so he kept moving.
The mood in the room was boisterous. The noise clawed at him, irritating, but he felt mercifully distant even from his own annoyance. In fact it was easier in a way to be carried along in the wake of everyone else’s enthusiasm, especially when Vic stopped by after a visit with the trainers to show off the new brace on his foot.
“Pose for me,” Connors ordered, holding up his phone. “No, make it sexy. Yes, that’s hot.”
“Looking good,” Ilya told Vic. “Carmy, are you an idiot? Get off his back. If you injure him again, I will murder you.”
Ilya skipped like a stone, lightly, along the surface of every thought.
The kind of sexting he had done with Hollander that morning was not something he did often. If Ilya wanted to get laid, he found, easily, someone who wanted that also.
There were girls who sent pictures, and if they were hot enough or he was horny enough he jerked off about it. There were times he messaged hookups explicit invitations. But to make it a conversation, back and forth all the way to completion; that was different. It was cumbersome. Outside of a little chatting here and there, mostly in the summer, he and Hollander had always stuck to overly competitive bullshit and sexy promises.
He couldn’t fuck Hollander from the other side of the country, however.
Ilya grabbed dinner with Marly and Vic and a couple of the other guys. One of the rookies was stewing over the loss to Montreal; Ilya popped into the conversation long enough to laugh at him.
“You think we’ll win every game?”
“No,” the rookie said sullenly.
“No, you don’t?”
“No, but…”
“But nothing,” Ilya said. “Okay, fine, extra credit for you, I will help you with some passing drills.”
“Yeah, turnover in the first was pretty ugly, kid,” Vic agreed. The rookie flushed.
“Thank you for helping, Vic. So, extra practice, yes? You’ll feel better.”
Ilya thought: Hollander was a rare indulgence. The rarest he had. When he imagined more, he pictured the chance to touch slowly and tease them both. He pictured having more fun, and lingering after.
He did not picture the casualness and accessibility of sexting. That was not how they fucked. Or, it was not how they had ever fucked before.
“Roz,” Marly said, clearly repeating himself.
“What?”
“You want anything else?”
“Ah.” Ilya’s food was half-eaten. He picked up his fork. “No, I’m good.”
“Where’s your head at, man?” Marly said.
The thing to remember was that Hollander roomed with Hayden Pike. By some stroke of luck, he’d had a moment of privacy at the tail end of a day spent all over Ilya’s cock, but this was not a reason to expect daily sexts. For all Ilya knew, they might never do it again.
He sent Hollander the box score from the next Raiders game: a 3-0 win over Nashville, a two-point game for Ilya.
Afterward he sat in his living room playing his puzzle game; contemplating, also, the empty space at the opposite end of the couch and bouncing his knee.
Fuck, if anyone were around to see this. Marly and his smirking comments about Ilya’s Montreal girl. Ilya didn’t want to fucking hear it.
Jane: Dirty fucking dangle, dude.
Lily: I will thank Jane in the MVP acceptance speech.
Jane: I’m starting to think this might be a conflict of interest.
Lily: Not if we both come.
Jane: That makes sense.
Lily: Where are you?
Jane: Bathroom. Still at the hotel for another half an hour.
Lily: Interesting.
It was easy, what came next. Because it was a game: how quickly could they make Shane finish, was he being quiet enough, what would he do if someone knocked?
Shane asked if Ilya had come yet.
Yes, Ilya lied. It would be true soon. He was just a little slower than usual. Hollander was in a rush, but Ilya wasn’t. And he must have eaten something off, his stomach was unsettled. He jerked himself through it anyway. He got there in the end.
The next day Hollander sent him a picture of a piece of toast with the face of a ghost in it, whorls of bread forming an open mouth and cavernous eyes.
Jane: Tell me you see this.
Lily: You are being haunted.
Jane: Thank you. JJ said I was crazy.
Ilya stared at this message for a while.
Lily: You’re welcome.
The Metros had five days left on their road trip. Ilya’s home stand ended after three. Between games, travel, practices, and sundry in-between tasks, the long-distance fucking paused, momentarily.
Ilya threw himself into each game hard enough that he came away hurting more than was probably reasonable. He was fine, he was doing everything he needed to; it was only that it was better not to slow down, not to stop, and anyway it kept him awake; sharp. It kept his energy high.
He still could have fucked Hollander if he had to, but it didn’t come up.
What did come up was that Shane had sat through the flight to Dallas soaking wet because of the new water bottle he was trying out. It had a wide spout that he liked, until he spilled all over himself on a rough bounce in traffic.
Lily: You didn’t tell someone? Ask for a spare shirt.
Jane: It was fine.
Lily: Yes, I’m sure.
Shane asked if Ilya also thought that local reporter in Dallas was an asshole and repeated his mom’s opinions on St. Louis’s goalie and said he had to go because Hayden’s children were calling for him on the phone.
Mundane, yes. Boring, yes. That was okay. The problem was reciprocation: Here is what I also ate for breakfast, and here is what my friend, not my family, had to say about that reporter. A hand reaching into Ilya’s pockets, scattering a trail of breadcrumbs for Shane to follow.
Ilya wrote his replies like it was a compulsion and put his phone away in between like he could make himself stop checking it.
Like normal people, he and Sveta lied to each other often, when both of them knew they were lying, which was the same as telling the truth. Shane was a liar, too, a bad one, and no one understood as viscerally as he did the truths that made up Ilya’s life from October to June.
But.
Jane: You up?
Lily: Yes I am dancing.
Jane: Oh, okay.
Lily: I need to make my rookie relax before he dies from stress.
Jane: Stress about what?
Lily: Nothing. Just his personality.
Jane: Is it working?
Lily: No. Next I will see if he likes fast cars.
Jane: Wouldn’t be second on my list, but okay.
Lily: Nothing too crazy. I’ll get Svetlana to give him a little test drive.
Jane: Svetlana sells cars?
Lily: Yes.
Jane: Won’t she mind giving a test drive to someone you know isn’t buying?
Lily: She will do me this favor. I bring her a lot of clients.
Jane: Cool. So she lives in Boston?
Lily: Yes.
Jane: Is that a coincidence, or…?
Lily:Mostly coincidence. She has family there.
Jane: Nice for you guys.
Lily: Yes.
Ilya’s skin itched, like it knew that Hollander wanted to peel him open and see what was inside.
Svetlana showed up two days after Ilya’s return to Boston. He came home to find her sitting at his kitchen counter, dressed in sweatpants and eating something out of a takeout container.
“Hello!” She waved her fork cheerfully.
The relief that hit him was physical. It was like Hollander’s hand-pushing game: fighting against unrelenting pressure only to have it suddenly and unexpectedly removed. The effect was staggering.
He came around the counter to stand behind her and wrap his arms around her shoulders, burying his face in the familiar texture and scent of her hair. She tucked her chin affectionately over his wrist.
“How was your trip?” she said.
“You didn’t watch? How was yours?”
“Of course I watched. I don’t know why I asked.” He laughed and lay his head on her shoulder.
“Thoughts?”
She shrugged, a motion that lifted him like a wave and dropped him back down again.
“It really is anyone’s game this year. Detroit is doing better than they should be. I don’t think they can sustain it, but it will make things interesting. Montreal, too.”
“And Boston?” he murmured.
“Yes, and Boston.”
“Svetka. Tell me about Boston.”
“What do you want me to say? It will be close. Try to stay healthy.”
If he had thought she was wrong, he would have argued. Instead he stayed where he was while she continued eating. When his back protested, he pulled out the chair next to her.
“Did I tell you that I’m learning to golf?” she said. “It will be good for business, as long as I’m no good at it.”
“Ah. You are learning to be bad at golf.”
“Yes.” She sighed. “I could also learn to be good at golf, but it seems very slow. Worse than baseball.”
“If you’re good,” Ilya pointed out, “after you close a sale, you can hustle them. Two scores in one.”
“Perfect, Ilya. This is why I run all my ideas by you.”
She didn’t, of course. Ilya didn’t know anything about sales, or branding, or having normal coworkers.
“If you look in the bottom of the linen closet,” he said to her, “do you know what you’ll find?”
“What?”
“A large delivery for you.”
There was another moment of incomprehension before memory arrived.
“Oh!”
“It came when I had someone over. I think it made a strange impression.”
She burst out laughing. Ilya thought: I should never talk to anyone else. Why would I bother?
“When did you get home?” he asked her. “I thought you were only going for a short trip.”
She got up and tossed the empty container in the trash. With her back to him, she said, “I was. I visited my mom afterward.”
Sveta’s head was turned away indifferently. Hollander would have asked a question. Ilya watched as she stretched, arms extended, back arching, and then smiled at him over her shoulder.
“Well? You have a day off tomorrow, yes? Are we going out or what?”
They went.
This meant, first: Sveta doing her makeup in Ilya’s bathroom while he showered, calling out horrifying stories about her new clients and connections. He joined her at the mirror to do his hair; she noticed the difference in his cologne. She inhaled a few times, closing her eyes, before she declared that she liked it.
The dress she wanted wasn’t in his closet like she thought, so they went to her place so she could finish getting ready. Ilya lay across her bed watching the Metros game on mute for five minutes until she came out looking good enough to eat.
Hazy lighting, a drink in one hand, Svetlana clasping the other and dragging him along behind her. Ilya would have been happy to stay in and fuck, but once they were out he was glad she had opted for this choice instead.
He was simply a body, in a way he had not been simply a body in weeks. He danced, Sveta alongside him, as they scoped out the possibilities.
A reset. Back to basics. He was here for something quick and dirty, as good and uncomplicated as he could make it. Sveta sauntered off, tossing a smile at him; he didn’t catch sight of where she was headed before he was dancing with a girl with a cute eyebrow piercing, a narrow spike threaded into delicate skin.
His first impression was that she was shy, maybe too shy for what he had in mind, the way she dropped her gaze when he stepped closer. Her dress was black, sheer, cut to her collarbones and the tops of her thighs; sexy, but relatively restrained. On the other hand, she rested her hands lightly on his shoulders and stepped closer, too. When he held her by the hips, she looked up, clear dark eyes without a sliver of hesitation. She wanted him.
He kissed her, and he could feel that she was smiling, as he was. He teased his tongue against hers; she slid her hands into his hair and opened her mouth wider. It was so good to get lost in it, the music and the taste and the moving, moving, his body with her body, until she pulled away and took his hand.
Under the bright bathroom lights he could more clearly see the sweet fullness of her cheekbones, the unusually deep curve of her bottom lip. For a moment he stilled.
“We can fuck,” she said, watching him carefully. “If you have a condom.”
He shook himself out of his distraction.
“I have one.”
Lightly, she traced her fingertips over the front of his pants.
“I thought you might.”
“Do you want me to…” He gestured towards the floor. The filthy bathroom floor.
“No. Like this.” She untied something at the back of her neck and the top of her dress came loose. Her nipples were dark, small, hard and tight; she brought his hand up to touch and shifted so that her thigh pressed firmly between his legs. He bit her lip gently, tugging.
They fucked with one of her feet planted on the closed toilet seat. He held her ass in his hands, squeezing; she was wet, palpably, smearing against both their skin. She held an arm out to brace herself against the wall. If they were in bed this felt like something he could have savored. But this was a club bathroom; she made an approving noise when he jerked into her short and rough. She panted, “Yes, come on, Jesus.”
The sounds of the club filtered through. Two girls out by the sinks were laughing uproariously, and someone whispered, half-moaning, god, on your tits. He fucked her harder, and she bent her head to his shoulder to avoid banging it into the wall. She ground her hips in circles against him when she came.
He sat on the toilet seat after, watching her tie up the top of her dress, shake out her hair and sweep it into a knot. She slanted an amused glance at him.
“You look ready to fall asleep.”
“I’m okay.” He felt amazing, actually.
“If you say so.” None of her business, was what she meant. “You planning on moving any time soon? Should I go into the next stall to pee?”
He thought about not moving, mildly curious what kind of reaction his laziness would garner. He thought about asking for her number.
She held out a hand; he took it and let her pull him to his feet. He squeezed in thanks, and she squeezed back with a smile. Her mouth, when she smiled, formed a too-familiar shape.
Ilya left the bathroom.
He ignored any messages other than Svetlana’s, which said that she would see him at home. Ilya didn't feel like going back to an empty house, so he had another couple of drinks, chatted with a cute guy at the bar who was watching college basketball on his phone, and went back out to the floor for a while, loose and relaxed.
By the time he made it home, Svetlana was freshly showered, sitting on his bed in a towel applying moisturizer to her legs. He threw himself down beside her, wobbly on his feet and regretting stopping for fries.
“Good night?”
“Mm,” she agreed.
“Who did you leave with? I didn’t see.”
“Two people. They were very sweet.”
“Really? A couple?” Sveta didn’t get along with couples. She shook her head.
“They knew each other, but I think this was their first time together.” He twisted his head around to look at her.
“And you put yourself in the middle?”
“They put me in the middle. Anyway, it wasn’t like that. I told you, they were sweet.” She laughed at his expression. “I like interesting people, Ilya. A little drama is good for the soul.”
“What was their drama?”
“I’m not sure. That’s what made them interesting.”
He pressed a kiss to her thigh; another. She resealed the tub of moisturizer and put it on the nightstand.
“Shower,” she said, running her fingers through his hair. “And then come to bed, yes?”
He felt good. In the morning, he ate breakfast with Sveta before she left. His phone sat silently on the counter, upside down. If she noticed that he didn’t touch it, if she looked at him a little too long, she still said nothing.
He met with his agent, who wanted him to start thinking about what his priorities were for re-signing. He watched stupid English TV, very educational. He went over to Marly’s to hang out around lunchtime and spent the afternoon there. His head was clear and his stomach was settled.
He wasn’t avoiding Hollander. Obviously. They had a game against Montreal in December. He just needed to take the day, get a little distance. Remember that he could do whatever the fuck he wanted, and if that meant not texting Shane fucking Hollander then that was what it meant.
At nine o’clock he decided that it was enough. He crawled into bed and opened his unread messages. Shane had replaced his new water bottle with a newer water bottle. He had asked how Ilya’s rookie was doing. He had asked if Ilya was dead. Nothing, since the last message went unread.
Lily: I’m not dead. My friend was visiting.
Jane: Cool.
Lily: You survived without me?
Jane: I made it through somehow.
Lily: I will imagine this means playing all alone with your dildo.
Jane: Sure.
Lily: What does this mean, sure?
Jane: What’s confusing you?
Lily: You are being sarcastic with me, yes? So, you were not alone? You have a girl who likes the dildo?
Ilya mostly said this because he thought Shane would feel compelled to give a real answer. Sure enough, Shane took a long time typing his response.
Jane: No.
Ilya hit the call button. The phone rang four times, five, before Shane picked up, sounding irritated.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” Ilya said; and recklessly, “Tell me about this dildo girl.”
“Fuck off, Rozanov.” He was incredulous. Incredulous, Ilya thought, that after his little stint of ignoring Shane, this was the bullshit Ilya came back to him with. But Ilya was committed, now.
“I think she sounds very nice, my dildo girl.”
“Please stop calling her that.” It wasn’t amused or forbearing. He was annoyed, for real.
“Okay.” Ilya considered. “What is her name?”
“She doesn’t have a name. I mean, there is no dildo girl.”
“No, of course not.” He paused again. He was feeling his way blindly, but it seemed to him that there had been only one firm denial: that there was no girl who had fucked Shane with his dildo.
“I am joking, you know.”
“Okay?” Shane said.
“But now I think maybe there is a girl, yes? Not a dildo girl, but…” Shane was silent. “There is a girl?” Ilya said again. Shane cleared his throat, belatedly.
“No, there really isn’t. I was just thinking about something Hayden said.”
“Hayden knows about the dildo girl?”
“Christ. No. What the fuck?”
“I say there is a girl and you say you think about Hayden, so…”
“There’s no girl. You just reminded me of something. Not even something recent, okay? And definitely not what you’re thinking.”
“And what am I thinking?” Ilya waited, and waited, but Shane didn’t answer. He tried again. “Okay, I will tell you. She has a leather harness, first of all.”
“Yeah?” Shane said flatly. “Great. What else?”
Stupid, obviously. Wrong approach. Whatever this was, Shane did not want to make light of it.
“Hollander,” he said. “I’m just curious.”
Shane was quiet.
“Okay?” Ilya tried.
Shane said, “You think it’s hot.”
Ilya didn’t know what it was yet; so, no, not exactly. He was sure it would be hot, though, when he knew.
But also, Shane was uncomfortable, and despite this, he was not changing the subject. He wouldn’t tell; he was not having fun; but he was still making sure to talk around the edges of this, outlining its shape, for all that he stopped when he brought Ilya in too close.
“Not recently,” Ilya said slowly, “and not what I think. Okay, you never said dildo. This was my idea. What was it, then? Fingers?”
Another silence. An exasperated huff, tense.
“Obviously.”
“Yes. Obviously.” He wouldn’t pry this free one word at a time like he was conducting an interrogation. Not out of kindness; he would not torture himself with such a painful pace.
“Is this a game? Twenty Questions? Tell me. I want to hear your crazy sex stories.”
Finally, fucking finally, he got a laugh. He thought maybe Hollander was glad to have something to laugh at.
“It’s not a crazy sex story.”
“I want to hear your boring sex story.”
“Why, so you can laugh how boring it is?”
“I don’t think I will be laughing.” This would be easier if Hollander were there with him. He would kiss him, or push him down and crawl on top of him, and Hollander would say what he wanted to say while squeezing Ilya’s bicep and shoulder like a stress ball. When he turned his head away, Ilya would lay kisses on his neck.
“The first time,” Hollander said, with an edge in it, “she was sucking my cock.”
Ilya was returned forcibly to the present.
“The first time,” he repeated.
“Yeah.”
“There were more times.”
“I mean, yeah. We were dating, I guess.”
Already this was not what Ilya was anticipating.
“She was your girlfriend?”
“No. We went out a few times.”
“You went out a few times. And the first time, after you went out, she sucked your cock.”
Hollander didn’t answer
“Where were you? At home?”
Hollander swallowed audibly. Ilya could hear the sound of him shifting.
“We went to her place,” he said.
“Ah, yes. The date is good, you bring her home, she says, do you want to come in for a drink?”
“Pretty much.”
“Pretty much. And did you have a drink?”
“Yeah.” Hollander drank sometimes, though not always. Ilya didn’t know what made the decision for him.
“She had some wine,” Hollander said.
“Wine. Okay. Details, Hollander. Where did you drink your wine, standing up in the kitchen?”
“No. We took it to her room. There were these old figure skating costumes she wanted to show me.”
“She was a skater.”
“Not… she never competed. She got injured.”
“And she had old costumes to show you.”
“Yeah. We went to her closet to look at them.”
Hollander was a terrible storyteller, but a picture was emerging, nonetheless. She was an athlete. She brought him to a dark corner and stood close by his side as she shared an intimate, vulnerable thing from her past.
“And then?” Ilya’s voice came out low.
“I don’t know.” Hollander said, with more difficulty, “I knew she wanted…”
“Yes.” Ilya also knew what she wanted. “Did you kiss her? With wine in your mouth?”
The silence was long. Longer than just a pause for Hollander to think of the right words.
“Hollander? Are you...”
“She pushed me back into the room,” Shane said, strangely flat. “To the bed. She said…”
“What?”
“I don’t remember.” He remembered something, or he wouldn’t have mentioned it.
“Really?”
“Something about my mouth.”
“It is a very good mouth.” There were many things Ilya could imagine telling Hollander about his mouth.
“Yeah?”
“Oh, you don’t know this? You should get your fingers wet,” Ilya decided abruptly. “Put them in your mouth. I will hear.”
He couldn’t hear; not clearly. Hollander was making an effort, though, from the little that did come through. His eyes were closed, Ilya imagined, but his mouth was open so the sound could escape, wetness pooling and spilling over.
But this was not what Hollander did with his athlete, his girl with the wine, whom he went out with a few times.
“Take them out,” Ilya said. “Touch yourself. What happened next?”
The long pauses were increasingly unsettling. Shane would fervently suck his fingers, and still he retreated into this strange discomfort.
But then, bluntly: “She sat on my face.”
Ilya’s thoughts scattered. How wet was she, how hot and slick, tell me Hollander, what did she taste like, how hard did she come, was it all over you? No, forget all of that.
“Is a good idea,” he said. “I should sit on you and feed you my cock.” He was burning up inside. The noise Hollander made was a soft, choked-off thing. Then wet, muffled sounds again, near the phone; he was, Ilya thought, even more frantically sucking his fingers off.
But in this story, what Shane got was a ride on his face. And then.
“She sucked you.” She was wet on her thighs, sweat-damp hair down her back, leaning over and sliding her mouth onto him. Ilya saw it clearly. Shane’s breathing grew louder: short, sharp, through his nose because his mouth was full.
“One finger, yes?” Ilya said. A half-vocalized sound in response from Shane. “Did she ask first? She didn’t know if you liked it.”
Never would Shane tell her the truth of this. He was too careful. But she had touched him, she had seen him, and right now Ilya had only half-audible sounds over a phone line.
“Is it good?” he asked, because he couldn’t see. He couldn’t know. “Did you put them in, is it good?”
“I…” Shane’s voice was tight. “You want me to…”
“Yes.” Ilya rolled onto this stomach and rocked his hips into the bed. He quickly reached a hand under to take hold of himself. Shane exhaled in his ear, a long release.
“How many?” Ilya demanded.
“Two. I need…” The sound of—what was it? Shane spitting, he realized. Ilya’s cock leaked into his hand.
“Is it what you want?” Ilya felt slightly nauseous, slightly insane.
“What?”
“Two fingers. Fucking yourself for me. Is it good? Is it what you want?” She had only used one. Shane hadn’t contradicted this.
A long pause. Shane was gasping. Ilya held his control in a white-knuckled grip. He didn’t let himself ask again.
“Fuck.” Shane’s voice cracked. “Yeah, it’s good. It’s so fucking good.”
Hollander came on his own fingers. Ilya came letting himself think only of nothing.
It felt more significant than what it was: three mildly standoffish texts and some phone sex. Although, when Ilya read over the last conversation again, he wasn’t certain Hollander was standoffish.
Hollander probably did think it was cool that Ilya had a friend visiting. When he wrote about making it through a day without Ilya, he probably had that smile hovering at the corner of his mouth; amused, playing along with Ilya’s dramatics.
And Hollander never brought up other people, so his hesitation wasn’t unusual. It was a blank space, territory they had never traversed; Ilya had never had the chance to map it out, to know what was there. He hadn’t even known for sure that Hollander fucked women.
Things were normal for the rest of the week. A few prosaic texts and chirps. Hollander called him with video the one night they both had off and they watched the same game along with dinner.
“Hmm,” Shane said. He was peering at his phone screen but not at Ilya, looking troubled.
“Everything okay?” Ilya asked.
“What? Oh, yeah, it’s just my mom.” He swiped something away. “She’s trying to convince me to go to Wimbledon.”
“I see. What a terrible problem.”
“Fuck off.” Shane laughed. “It’s a branding thing. Rolex is pushing for it.”
“And you don’t want to go?”
“Nah. Not really what I want to do with my time off.”
“Okay.” Ilya didn’t understand the difficulty. “So you say no.”
“I mean, I did.” Shane touched his eyelashes with forefinger and thumb, a fidgety gesture. “I’m usually fine with whatever, so we’ve never really had to… but no, you’re right. It’s not a big deal.”
Ilya studied him.
“I,” Shane said. “I like to get away for a while, in the summer. I have this cottage.”
Yes. Ilya was familiar. He made a careful sound of acknowledgment. Ate a bite of steak.
He imagined meeting the Shane who popped up on television and on billboards, putting a finger under his chin and seeing if he leaned into it like the real thing. This Shane who was fine with whatever.
“You still going back to Russia, in the summer? Going to see your family?” Shane asked.
“Yes, of course,” Ilya said. He waited, but Shane didn’t ask anything else.
Ilya had no useful advice about mothers. The best he could offer was a fuck. Not as a solution to the problem, whatever it was. Just generally speaking, it leavened the monotony of failure.
Ilya barely managed to chase down Alexei, and he was paying him. He could not often calm his father, though he was the only son his father remembered.
Where are you, his father demanded, as dissatisfied with Ilya’s absence as he had ever been with his weakness, his laziness, his selfishness.
If you were here, Alexei said, meaning Moscow, home, another life, you wouldn’t be here either. It was a hard thing to argue, when he wasn’t there at all.
But at least the people he slept with seemed pleased. At least he was fucking Shane well, even if over the phone. Even in competition with the girl from his story, who had clearly burrowed under his skin. Though the story was pretty boring; Hollander was right about that.
Maybe she was special for having any idea at all what to do with him. If Hollander often saw women who knew how to fuck him, he wouldn’t be as hungry for it when he was in bed with Ilya.
It was a couple of days later that Hollander called him from the car after practice. Ilya overheard some of the guys giving him shit. They tapped on the window, informed him the coach was looking for him; Hollander quickly told Ilya he’d call him back. But what he said out loud, to make sure Ilya knew he was being addressed, was Lily, and that was enough to spark a flurry of reactions.
“Lily?”
“Cap, tell me it’s not that fucking…”
“Ugh, fuck off,” Hollander said before the line went dead.
Ilya asked him about it. Not that same day; he had a game, he would’ve had to leave even if Hollander hadn’t gotten there first. But over breakfast the next morning.
Hollander sounded annoyed when he said that it was nothing. The guys were being assholes. About what? Just some woman at a bar when they were on the road, a fan that he talked to for a bit. And they didn’t approve? No, Shane said shortly. She wasn’t a puck bunny; he was pretty sure she was a hockey player.
“We were just talking about the game,” Shane said. “For like, two minutes. But now it’s a whole thing.”
There was something sore and sensitive there, under the surface irritation. Maybe Hollander had really liked her. Another athlete, and this one knew puck. Knew it well enough that Shane was drawn into conversation, which he enjoyed enough that his teammates noticed.
Part of the thing, Ilya gathered, was that she was big, tall enough to look him in the eye. Ilya could see her more clearly once Shane told him this: too shy to admit outright to Shane fucking Hollander that she played hockey, but still tall and fit and confident enough to shoot her shot.
Hockey players were morons. Of course Shane liked this woman. Ilya pressed on this knowledge like a bruise, felt it bloom red and purple in his mind.
“You did not get her number?” he said.
“What?”
“She sounds hot.”
“No, I didn’t get her number.” A hint of sharpness from Hollander. “No boring sex story today, sorry.”
“Well, maybe you’ll run into her again.” Pressing, pressing. “I think I will like this one, too.”
Shane hung up.
Jane: Sorry. I dropped my phone.
Lily: Right.
Jane: I have to leave in a minute anyway. Sorry.
Lily: If you don’t want to talk it’s fine. Breaking your phone is a little crazy.
Jane: My phone isn’t broken.
Lily: Oh, good. So you will call me later.
Jane: Yes, I’ll call you.
If Hollander found himself a serious, hockey-playing girlfriend, he would definitely not tell Ilya stories to get off to together. Ilya’s mind conjured up a version who would, though, and toyed sickeningly with the idea of it: Shane twisted up, unhappy—he would have to be unhappy—vulnerable. And Ilya pathetic, coaxing: Tell me. Does she touch you like this?
On the way to the rink Ilya deliberately replaced this image with that of a threesome. Nostalgic drinks after a game, this time Shane not unhappy but thriving. Ilya hitting on him: wouldn’t it be fun if we... And then, in bed with a stranger whom Shane trusted and who also knew what he liked, who also wanted him to have it, who regularly gorged themselves on Shane and his own endless hunger.
Or would it be Hollander fixing his eyes on Ilya, inviting him to see how he fucked someone else?
He sat in his parked car for three minutes, cursed, and scrambled out onto the pavement, slamming the door behind him. The air was frigid, filling his lungs.
He would die for a cigarette. But he had started keeping them only at home, not in his clothing or his car, since he decided to cut down. Stupid, stupid.
Ilya threw himself forcefully into the game. He would know nothing, see nothing but the ice. The other team wasn’t even there, not really. They were stick figures, drawing out plays on the clean cold whiteboard beneath his feet. In all honesty, he barely saw his own team, except as an extension of himself, pieces shifting into place where and when he needed them. It should have felt mechanical, but every time a play unfolded without thought, he moved forward on a surge of rightness, vicious and wild and triumphant.
The others crashed into him afterward, bodies against bodies. The volume turned back up, he was back outside the game, he could see and hear and feel again. He was bruised to shit.
Marly sat pressed against his side, gossiping with Vic across the bar table. Ilya nursed a beer and took stock of himself.
He felt okay, he decided. That was a weird place he went to in his head, but he was back to normal. He would be fine, when Hollander called.
Jane: Holy shit what were you on today.
Lily: You like what you see?
Jane: Fuck you. Yes. What are you doing now?
Lily: Out with the team. You are back home?
Jane: Yeah, I just got in a little while ago.
Lily: I’m leaving soon. I’ll call you.
Jane: I might be asleep. I’ll try to stay up but I’m so wiped.
Lily: Okay. Then you won’t pick up.
Jane: I guess.
Lily: Put your phone on silent.
Jane: Nah, it’s fine.
Lily: Why? Just sleep.
Jane: My mom wanted to talk. She’ll probably call in a minute anyway. Although I could still put it on silent, she’s on the exceptions list.
Lily: What is this, exceptions list.
Jane: The calls that come through no matter what.
Lily: Ah.
Jane: Maybe I’ll put you on the list.
Lily: Why?
Jane: I don’t know. In case you’re ever in town last minute.
Lily: Who else is on your list?
Jane: My dad, Hayden, Jackie, JJ, my agent, my coach, my GM.
Lily: All in case of personal or hockey emergency.
Jane: Yeah, that’s kind of the point.
Lily: Sex emergency now too.
Jane: I have my priorities.
Lily: So I see.
Jane: Who’s on your list?
Lily: Basically the same. Some family, some friends, work.
Jane: Nothing for sex emergencies?
Lily: My mistake.
The phone screen showed Shane reclining against his mountain of pillows. He was lit by the dim glow of his bedside lamp, warm gold spilling across his broad shoulders and chest. Caught between brightness and dark, his features were softened halfway to a silhouette; the bold line of his nose stood out, and the dark fall of his hair.
More striking than all of this, he was pillow-creased and squinting. He covered a yawn with his free hand.
“Hi.”
“Yes, hi. You are asleep,” Ilya said. Shane shrugged lazily.
Ilya was in his own bed, also shirtless. Pantsless, too. He had also arranged himself next to a light and gotten an extra pillow in case he wanted somewhere to prop his phone. None of this was being appreciated.
“No, you are. You are asleep.” He kept his voice low. “What’s the plan, Hollander?”
Shane’s mouth tipped up at the corners. He was regarding Ilya, but the look was hazy.
“Whatever you want,” he said. Ilya wasn’t convinced he was aware of what he was saying, or even that he was speaking at all.
“Yes. You are so ready to put on a show.”
“Hmm.” Hollander turned onto his side, giving Ilya a too-close look at his cheek nuzzling a pillow. The angle changed; he was probably aiming for his body, but he mostly ended up showing one hand and forearm, lost in folds of dove gray.
“Mm, yes, very sexy blankets.”
The phone swung back up to catch Hollander’s displeased expression. When Ilya remained quiet, his eyes fell closed on a slow blink. His brow smoothed out; his breathing deepened.
Suddenly, he jerked his eyes open.
Ilya muttered a curse. Shane blinked at him, unfocused.
“I’m awake,” he said.
“Yes, I see.”
“You were so fucking hot today.”
“Thank you.”
Shane yawned again. He rubbed at his eyes.
“You’re really hot now, too,” he murmured. Ilya swallowed. Shane’s eyes drifted shut. The picture stayed centered on him; the closest thing to the camera was his freckled cheek.
The room was very quiet and still. Ilya held his phone loosely in his hand, listening to the distant sound of cars and Shane’s soft breathing. It made sense to wait, in case he woke up again. It made sense not to move, in case the sound disturbed his rest. He had already woken himself up once without help.
Anyway, no one was asking for an explanation. No one was counting how many minutes Ilya sat there or watching to see with what gentle reluctance he finally pushed the button to end the call.
Two days later, Hollander was all over the internet with Rose Landry.
The weeks leading up to the Raiders’ game against the Metros were very strange.
Marly and Connors were horrible gossips who loved the entertainment news shows, now that it was a hockey player they were talking about. Ilya couldn’t get through training without pictures bombarding his eyeballs: Hollander and Rose Landry, laughing cutely and holding up their hands to hide from the cameras. Rose Landry beaming, Hollander gazing down at her with a fond little smile.
She was not a hockey player, Ilya thought inanely.
Shane said they weren’t dating. But he said it in a weird, squirrelly way.
Lily: Congratulations.
Jane: What do you mean? Is this about the pictures?
Lily: What pictures?
Jane: Are you fucking with me?
Lily: You won a game yesterday. I am saying congratulations. What pictures?
Jane: I met some of the X-Squad actors. They’re filming in Montreal.
Lily: Oh, those pictures.
Jane: You’re such an asshole.
Lily:I am an asshole? You don’t even offer to introduce me to Ava Alonso.
Jane: I didn’t talk to her.
Lily: Or Rose Landry. You talked to her, yes?
Jane: Yeah, I did.
Lily: So?
Jane: So what?
Lily: Introduce me.
Jane: You’re joking, right?
Lily: Why would you think that?
Jane: I’m not introducing you.
Lily: Too bad for me. She looks very nice.
Jane: She is.
Lily: You think there will be a second date?
Jane: It wasn’t a date.
Lily: Just sex?
Jane: No.
Lily: Then what? You are friends with Rose Landry now?
Jane: Maybe. I don’t know. We just met.
Rose Landry came to a Metros game in a Hollander jersey. She sat on Shane’s lap eating cake. However, Shane didn’t mention her name unless Ilya brought it up first, so mostly, between the two of them, Rose Landry didn’t exist.
“What do you usually do in the summer?” Shane asked. His mother had been talking to him again, Ilya thought. It wasn’t Wimbledon anymore. Now it was scheduling for his other sponsorship commitments.
Shane left his phone on the bedside table, leaning it upright against the wall, and criss-crossed the room as they talked: pulling some new books out of a box and placing them on the dresser, collapsing the box and leaving it somewhere Ilya couldn’t see. He raised his voice a little to be heard.
“I mean, I know you go home, and obviously there’s training, but what else do you do? Like, um, for me, there are some nice hikes near my cottage, and bike trails, the lake…”
Shane walked back into frame to look at the camera, warm and curious.
Last summer, when Ilya’s father refused to take his medication, Ilya had told him that he was ill, but that he would be well soon; he only needed to listen to the doctor. His father believed him and took his pill. This was when Ilya knew that his father was forgetting him, too.
Shane waited for an answer. His head was tilted. The neck of his t-shirt was stretched out enough that the curve of his chest was visible, absurdly inviting.
He was so pretty. Ilya scraped some pretty words for him from the back of his throat.
“Drinking. Dancing. Fun, you know?”
Shane nodded slowly. His eyes flitted back and forth, studying Ilya’s face.
“You said you wanted to show me something,” Ilya said. Shane blinked; faint pink dusted his cheeks.
“Yeah, um. I bought something.” He disappeared in the direction of the closet.
The something Shane had bought was a tripod, which he placed at the foot of the bed. He went around behind the camera to check the angle, leaving Ilya with a view up the middle, from the runner folded across the bottom to the pillows piled against the wall. Shane reemerged at the corner of the screen, raising an eyebrow at Ilya.
“Clothes,” Ilya said. Shane was pleased with himself, ducking his head and suppressing a grin.
Never before had Ilya been frustrated by the distance the phone imposed. It made this possible; it brought him into Shane’s space at all hours. But he felt it now, thwarted and impatient. He couldn’t wrestle Shane down and hold him there. He couldn’t feel him go still and soft under Ilya’s hands.
When Shane brought out the dildo from the drawer, Ilya said, “Don’t get on the bed.” Shane stopped and looked at Ilya. His expression was trusting. Not waiting for an explanation; waiting to hear the play.
“Come closer. On the floor, on your knees.” Shane didn’t hesitate. He tilted the camera down without being asked, and it was a familiar view, Shane gazing up at him.
“Start with your lips.” Shane trailed his mouth along the side of the cock. He moved with aching slowness, dragging his lower lip obscenely. He was inhaling deeply, like even the air around the toy had to be tasted and savored; and then he exhaled, sinking into it, luxuriating, utterly without urgency.
Up, and down again. He tilted his head to brush the shaft with his cheek, nuzzling. Curled in close, hovering now and breathing on it, lashes sweeping his cheeks. Ilya touched himself lightly.
“Your tongue,” he said. Shane pressed a sucking kiss to the base, still in that meandering way. If Ilya could feel it, it would be a tease, there and gone again.
Kisses, kisses, tongue out, tongue flicking against the head. Shane’s eyes were closed entirely. Throaty sounds accompanied every press of his open mouth.
“Gorgeous,” Ilya said. Shane’s lashes fluttered. “Fucking beautiful, when you suck my cock.”
His fingers were trembling, echoing Shane’s movements. Finally he couldn’t stand it anymore. Ilya told Shane to put it in his mouth, and he came watching Shane fuck his own face.
Shane came quickly afterward, panting and dropping his head back onto the bed.
Later, after they hung up and Ilya was alone in his bedroom again, he scrolled compulsively through the comments on a picture of Shane and Rose Landry holding hands on a Montreal street corner.
The hard kernel of truth was that none of this fucking mattered. It had never mattered, and Ilya had always known that. Hollander asked his questions, followed his trail of breadcrumbs, and it led to fucking nowhere. So what difference did it make, whatever unknown thing existed between him and Rose Landry?
When Ilya and Sveta were teenagers, they fucked constantly: each other and other people and then each other again, comparing notes. Some things they didn’t share, keeping them private and close. That was all right. Over the years, they came back to each other often enough to know: this could be counted on.
He and Shane fucked when they saw each other, they texted and talked, and year after year they kept coming back to each other. But the idea of Shane being so certain of him made Ilya uneasy. It was shiny bait in a trap. It attracted and repelled.
Jane: I forgot to ask. What do you like to eat?
Lily: You will cook for me?
Jane: Depends what you want. I don’t cook a lot, just pretty basic things.
Lily: Disappointing. I was thinking I will see you in a sexy little apron.
Jane: There’s no fucking way you actually think that’s hot.
Lily: You are very sure of this.
Jane: Are you going to answer the question?
Lily: I’m not picky.
Jane: So just pick something then.
Lily: Pasta.
Jane: What kind?
Lily: Surprise me.
Jane: You’re not very helpful.
Lily: Sorry.
Jane: I’ll figure it out. See you soon.
Ilya came into the sketchy back stairwell in daylight for once. He kept his hat pulled low over his hair, coat collar obscuring his face. Shane greeted him in joggers and a t-shirt, comfortable, smiling just as he did on Ilya’s phone screen; like he wanted his face to be still, but he couldn’t make it stick that way.
He took Ilya’s coat. They made out against the wall and the other wall and the glass panel beside the staircase. Somewhere at the top of the staircase, if they could make it that far, was Shane’s bed.
Shane stepped back. It wasn’t an attempt to separate; their hands were still entangled. He was only moving to turn them toward the stairs. But then he stopped. He looked downward in confusion.
“Where’s your bag?”
Ilya tried to kiss him again. Shane was full-sized and solid in his arms, opening his mouth against Ilya’s. This was all very compelling. Shane kissed back; they exchanged teasing little pecks, chasing back and forth.
“Hey,” Shane murmured into Ilya’s mouth. It was sexy. Everything was sexy. Shane’s skin smelled like clean laundry and garlic. “Where’s your bag?”
Ilya kissed the tip of his nose, which made Shane’s smile widen.
“What bag?”
Shane looked down again, to the right and to the left. He opened his mouth. Ilya kissed his neck and noticed that Shane was oddly still. He pulled back.
“What?” he said.
Shane’s eyes caught the light and glimmered. He took a real step away from Ilya, away from the stairs.
“You’re not staying over?” he said.
“Oh.” A thread of unease curled through Ilya. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
Shane said, “So you’re planning to—leave? After lunch?”
“I really didn’t think about it.”
If he had thought, he would have known that Shane wanted him to stay. That he could either plan to go along with that, or not. So he hadn’t thought about it.
Shane was upset; he really couldn’t hide when he was upset.
“Is it only okay when you do it?”
“When I do what?”
“I don’t know, everything?” Shane shrugged. “Staying over, fucking other people, it’s all fine if it’s your idea, right?”
“Whoa,” Ilya said. His heart was pounding furiously. “Fucking other people, what?”
Shane scoffed.
“Give me a break. You want to know every single person I’ve ever…”
“I don’t give a fuck,” Ilya said, “that you’re fucking Rose Landry.”
“I’m not.”
“Okay.”
“I’m fucking not. We’ve never even…” Shane stopped abruptly.
“Oh?” It cut sharp as a razor. “What is this?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.”
“Of course. Nothing.” Ilya spread his hands, sarcastic, ignoring the knowledge that it was a mistake. That he had no idea what was happening. He had barely walked through the door, and somehow Hollander had dragged him into this.
He needed to say fuck this and leave; or he needed to say, Look, what does it matter? If you’re inviting me, I can stay. Okay?
So, he hadn’t brought a bag. He hadn’t assumed that the conversation about food meant that he was invited here the same way he had invited Shane. What a fucking asshole he was.
Hollander was grimacing and running a hand through his hair. He said, “Sorry. Maybe we should sit down. This isn’t…” He shook his head, somewhere between frustrated and embarrassed.
“I was going to… Let’s just sit down, okay?”
Ilya was going to get whiplash from this conversation.
“Why? What is this?” he said. Shane walked past him to the couch. Ilya turned around more slowly, watching him. Shane looked at him, expectant.
Ilya sat.
“I’m gay,” Shane said.
Ilya stared at him.
There was a script for this. Something nice; thank you for telling me, something like that. Shane was swallowing nervously, hands planted on his knees.
“I mean, I don’t like women. In that way. So…”
A compilation of the last several weeks played out in sudden and rapid technicolor in Ilya’s brain, and he understood with painful lucidity why Shane was telling him this.
“Shit. Fuck. Sorry, Jesus, sorry…”
Shane’s hands were now smoothing up and down his own legs. When he saw Ilya noticing, he stopped.
“It’s fine,” he said. He rolled his eyes at Ilya’s expression. “I’m not saying I want to do it again. But it’s fine, I was… you were fine.”
Ilya wasn’t fine. He was hideously embarrassed. A jealous prick, and a stupid one, too. Oblivious.
“So, you’re really not fucking Rose Landry.” Or any other woman. Not any hockey player or ice skater. None of the things Ilya had imagined. Shane laughed and ducked his head.
“No, I’m not.”
Okay.
“I should have brought a fucking bag,” Ilya made himself say.
“Whatever. I’ll give you a toothbrush.”
Their hands grazed each other, lying between them on the couch cushions. Shane glanced at him.
“Is it usually easier than this?”
“Is what easier?”
“Fucking your friends.” Somehow, Shane managed to say this without a hint of irony.
Ilya stroked his thumb over Shane’s. He thought about Sveta; even Sasha, and all their mess. Friends who knew him, who never had to try so hard to learn him the way Shane did.
“For me, yes.”
“Yeah.” Shane chewed his lip. “Is that why… Does it make you want to stop?”
Every second. And yet.
“No,” Ilya said.
Shane smiled. Ilya, who was weak, pulled him close, tucked him under his arm. Shane went easily.
“Shane,” Ilya said.
“Yeah?”
“It won’t end well.”
Shane nodded into Ilya’s shoulder. He played with Ilya’s hand, catching it where it was draped over his neck.
Fine, Ilya thought. Fine. He was staying.
“I need to be able to go back home. In the summers I take care of my father.”
Shane tugged on Ilya’s pinky; placed Ilya’s palm between both of his and pressed, gently.
“He’s sick. Dementia. My brother is supposed to be there, but he’s like me. He doesn’t do things that aren’t easy.”
Shane leaned his head against Ilya’s shoulder, heavy and warm.
“That hasn’t been my experience,” he said.