Chapter Text
Shane had just arrived from his morning run; it was seven in the morning when his cell phone rang, his mother's name appearing on the caller ID.
"Did you hear about Rozanov?" she said before even saying hello.
Shane had seen it hours ago in real time, when he should have been sleeping, but he couldn't stop scrolling through his feed, seeing one news portal after another reposting the photo posted by an anonymous account. Whoever had posted that was either very stupid or didn't need the money, because any gossip page or media outlet would have paid a good amount of money to publish that little embarrassment firsthand.
"Yes, I saw it, but it's so strange."
"Well, I thought so too," said Yuna. "I mean, she doesn't seem like his type..."
"Does he have a type?" Shane asked, and she laughed on the other end of the line.
"Models?" Yuna pondered. "What I mean is that Rozanov never seemed interested in older women."
"Do you like him now?" Shane asked ironically. It was probably the first time he'd heard Yuna Hollander, the biggest Metros fan ever, defend the Boston star player.
"Of course not, but let's be fair, she doesn't look anything like the women he gets involved with."
"Maybe he doesn't have a type, maybe it's enough that they're breathing."
"You're cruel," Yuna said, but she was laughing. "Well, he's going to have a lot to deal with in the next few days, this story isn't going to die down so easily."
"It's going to be a media nightmare," Shane agreed.
"I wouldn't want to be on his team right now."
"Neither would I," Shane said.
They talked a little more and then Shane hung up; it was time to shower before work, but first he went on Twitter one more time. The photo was everywhere, and Rozanov's name was trending, accompanied by the word "traitor."
"Jesus," Shane sighed, people were being really harsh.
There were one or two comments supporting Ilya, but the hatred was so overwhelming that it was drowning out any defense anyone might offer, such as the fact that he looked uncomfortable in the picture, or that he was cornered against a wall.
He had seen the photo so many times that he could describe it with his eyes closed.
Shane knew that half of those people probably already hated Rozanov, and finally he had given them a reason beyond the fact that he was a huge pain in the ass. His bittersweet personality was both irritating and charismatic, yet he was still a foreigner in the United States.
Perhaps he had gotten away with it until that moment because he was the best player in the league (and one of the hottest men Shane had ever seen), but he was still Russian; the vultures were just waiting for a slip-up to devour him alive.
Shane decided to leave a comment on one of the thousands of posts speculating about Ilya having an affair with the Raiders' coach's wife. Specifically, he was responding to someone who insinuated that he was probably harassing the woman.
@newyorkerheart
This guy has a terrible vibe, maybe he was just hitting on her like he does with every woman in the world 🤢
@ottawarocks24
Idk he doesn't look comfortable in the photo at all
@rozanovswife81
Thanks, someone had to state the obvious
@justmaga__
He should go back to the comfort of Russia
@ottawarocks24
You should go back to the comfort of your mother's womb
Shane mentally reprimanded himself, why the hell was he arguing about Rozanov online? His phone vibrated a dozen times before he left for work. He silenced the notifications.
Shane was proudly in the final stages of a documentary for a streaming service; in a few days they would have to deliver everything ready for final editing, the last thing he could afford was to engage in Twitter arguments.
🏒❤️🎬
Ilya couldn't stand being treated like an outcast by the Raiders anymore. It had been two weeks since the incident, and since then his teammates had avoided him like the plague. On the ice, nobody would pass him the puck, even if it meant missing scoring opportunities, and in the locker room, the silence was embarrassing. Cliff Marleau was the only one who still treated him like a person, but his support didn't go much further than that; anyone who took Ilya's side risked receiving the punishment of silence as well. They might as well replace the "C" for captain on his uniform with an "S" for slut.
A rumor based on a photo circulated incessantly in the media. Ilya knew this fire would never go out because nobody had spoken up. Hoping to quell the matter, the Boston Raiders' marketing and media team forbade him from giving any interviews about the issue, which only made him seem even more guilty.
Chelsea Phillips had a reputation, but it had never spread beyond the hockey bubble, so if you weren't in the league you wouldn't know she was a serial cheater with a hyperfocus on handsome young men who could be her sons. With a husband who spent so much time away from home during the season, she had plenty of opportunities to have fun in the company of other men. She was like an urban legend that none of the guys dared mention, fearing she might materialize before their eyes.
But Chelsea had made the mistake of going public with her hunt, and to Ilya's misfortune, he was the victim.
It wasn't often that the woman accompanied her husband, Coach Phillips, but they were in NYC, so some benefit could be gained from the stay. During a post-game celebration at the hotel bar, the woman tried to strike up a conversation with Ilya several times throughout the night. He quickly deflected each time, moving to another group of people where he could be safe. However, at a certain point in the night, upon leaving the bathroom, he found himself cornered by her.
Even from a safe distance, Ilya would have smelled the alcohol and strong perfume, but up close it was simply nauseating.
“If we leave separately, no one will notice,” the woman said, placing one hand on Ilya's chest. “What's your room number?”
Ilya grabbed her wrist and pushed her hand away.
“Thank you, but I'm not interested.”
She laughed.
“I know you like an adventure. I like it too. We can have some fun together.”
She must have drunk more than she should have, because she lunged at Ilya, trying to kiss him. He pushed her away, his hand accidentally brushing against one of her breasts, and the situation only seemed to get more ridiculous.
“Don’t play hard to get, nobody will know,” she said, throwing herself at him again.
“Don’t touch me,” Ilya grabbed her shoulders and turned her around, making her occupy the spot where he had been. With his path clear, he walked away with longer strides than usual, bumping into a few people unintentionally.
“What’s wrong, man?” Marly asked, seeing him hurry out of the bar.
“Nothing,” Ilya said, aware that some other guests and at least two of the team players had seen Ilya corner Chelsea.
He pressed the elevator button hurriedly and went to his room. Lying on the bed, he stared at the ceiling, trying to process what had just happened.
Marleau entered a few minutes later.
“Dude, are you okay?”
He sat on the bed next to Ilya's.
Rozanov didn't know what to say. He didn't know what he was feeling. The magnitude of the confusion this could cause him if it reached the coach's ears haunted him.
“That perverted woman hit on me.”
“What woman?”
“The coach's wife.” Rozanov sighed, pressing his eyes shut with his thumbs.
“Wait a minute… Chelsea?” Marleau asked, shocked.
“Yes.”
“Damn it, man…”
They both remained silent, processing exactly what that meant.
“What are you going to do?” Marly finally said.
“I hope nobody saw,” Ilya said in a lament, knowing that wasn't a possibility.
He woke up the next morning to a call from his manager, Hannah.
“What did you do, Rozanov?”
He immediately realized he was in trouble; Hannah only called him that when she was furious.
“I didn't do anything.”
“Well, it seems the whole world disagrees with you.”
Ilya felt a shiver run down his spine instantly.
“Have you been on social media today?” she asked.
“No.”
“Then before you go on and see for yourself, I want you to explain to me exactly what happened between you and your coach's wife, for God's sake.”
Ilya repeated the same story he told Cliff, but with more details.
"Jesus," she sighed, "Someone leaked a photo, the angle makes it look like you're touching her, it didn't look good for you at all."
"What are people saying?"
"Many things, Ilya."
"Are they against me?"
"There are some comments in your favor, but most are against you, yes."
Ilya put the call on speakerphone while accessing Twitter.
His name was everywhere, post after post.
Ilya also had a reputation, and it wasn't the best; while his romantic conquests hadn't extended to the spouses of his teammates, he had managed to escape accusations of being a scoundrel. After all, he was single, right? Who cared if he didn't want to get married and have children at 27, like most of his teammates had done at least 3 years ago?
Now this mattered, and apparently it mattered a lot. He shut down the comments with a churning stomach. This was a nightmare, it could only be a nightmare, and he desperately wanted to wake up.
"Are you there?" Hannah asked after he'd been silent for a few seconds.
"What do I do?" Ilya began to feel breathless.
"You don't do anything. Just breathe and wait, I'll think of something."
"Okay."
"Don't answer calls from unknown numbers. Everyone will want a statement from you today."
"Okay," Ilya sighed, the day had barely begun and he was already exhausted.
"We'll figure something out," Hannah said, and Ilya wanted to believe her. "Bye. I love you."
"I love you too."
Ilya threw himself back onto the bed, wishing he could wake up again in a world where reality was different.
🏒❤️🎬
Upon returning to Boston with the team, Ilya was informed that he had a scheduled meeting with the Raiders' management.
His hands trembled more than he felt comfortable admitting; Hannah was by his side the entire time.
Ilya was forced to give his version of the situation in front of George Phillips, who seemed much more dejected than truly angry at first glance. Did he even know what kind of person he was married to? Ilya lamented having to be the one to rip off his rose-colored glasses, if they even still existed after so many years of marriage.
The management's joint decision was that no statement would be issued; admitting that either part was wrong would equally tarnish the team's image. And Ilya would not give post-game interviews indefinitely; Marleau would be responsible for speaking to the media, but he also received express orders that the photo incident was a forbidden topic.
During the games, it was noticeable that the coach's mood could fluctuate much more than it should, considering that Ilya had less and less ice time even as they advanced to important games where he would make all the difference.
The situation was becoming increasingly unsustainable, and the players were suffering trying to fill the void he left on the rink.
Two weeks after the fateful night in New York, Ilya found himself sitting having lunch with Hannah; the atmosphere was incredibly awkward.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Ilya looked at her suspiciously.
“I have news for you.”
“Tell me it’s good,” he sighed, letting his body melt into the restaurant chair where they met.
“I’m afraid it’s not what you want to hear.”
“What is it now?”
“You’re being traded right now.”
“What? How could you let this happen?”
“First, calm down,” Hannah said. “I have no power over this, Ilya. You have a contract, and it has clauses.”
“They can do this?”
“Yes, you signed it, it’s valid. You agreed to it, they can transfer you whenever they want, and they will.”
Ilya knew the clauses, but he never imagined Boston would trade their most talented player mid-season. Were they stupid enough to lose the championship just to quell a rumor?
“They won’t win the Playoffs without me.”
“I don’t think they see it that way, and besides, there’s a lot of pressure on social media for the team to address what happened.”
Ilya had read a lot about it recently, from a simple insult like "traitor" to the most xenophobic slurs imaginable; he was the most hated person in the United States at that moment, and they had Trump as president.
"Nothing happened, that bit..."
"Ilya, speak quietly," Hannah put her hand over his. "People are watching."
Ilya put his hand over his eyes; this was too much for him. His stomach churned in an inexplicable tightness.
"I didn't do anything, this is a fucking nightmare."
"Hey, don't you at least want to know where you're going?" Her voice had a calm tone, as if she could pull him out of that state of stress just by sheer willpower.
"To the damn Buffalo?" Ilya was hopeless.
"Ottawa."
Ilya felt the ground disappear beneath his feet.
“They’re sending me to Canada?”
“Yes, unfortunately yes.”
“The citizenship.” That was all Ilya could say. He had never felt so angry in his life. He was so close to achieving it, and now it was all over. Everything was ruined for nothing.
For years he had struggled with himself; his father would never approve of Ilya having any nationality other than Russian, but now his father barely recognized him, and Ilya knew it would only get worse until the inevitable happened; he needed to start building his path away from his homeland, so he wouldn't have to return there in retirement.
“I’m sorry, Ilya,” Hannah sighed. “But Ottawa isn’t all bad.”
“Ottawa is awful.”
“They have a new coach, Brandon Wiebe, the team seems to like him a lot.”
“What do they know? They’re probably too used to losing.”
Ilya had heard of Wiebe; he was still active when Ilya started his career. He was a good player, not a generational talent like Ilya, but still very skilled.
Ironically, Wiebe's reputation as a tough player was incompatible with the reputation as a friendly coach that now surrounded him. For better or worse, someone had to be wrong about him.
“They also have Troy Barrett,” Hannah said.
Troy Barrett had also been traded after getting into a fight with Toronto star Dallas Kent, the most despicable player Ilya had ever had the misfortune to play against.
“Yeah, apparently they’re taking in all the stray dogs.” Ilya sighed.
“I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear, I know, but things aren’t good here and I don’t see how they’re going to get better.”
Ilya looked at her incredulously.
“Is that it? Is that your support? Very encouraging, thank you.”
“Ilya, you know I’m here for you, we’ll figure this out, but Ottawa is your new life and you’ll have to adapt to it.”
Ilya took another deep breath.
“At least it’s not Russia.”
“There’s one more thing,” she said carefully, as if she were about to touch a bomb and afraid it would explode.
“What?” What else could there be, Ilya thought. Could it get any worse?
“Some of your sponsors were threatening to break their partnership with you if we couldn’t do more effective damage control…” She paused dramatically and then added, “So I’m creating a plan to rebuild your public image.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve devised a strategy to try and remedy this. It’s not the most common approach, but I’m sure it can work well.”
“Isn’t changing countries enough?”
“Unfortunately, people don’t forget that easily. We need a better distraction and a way for you to show a different side of yourself, not the arrogant Ilya you’ve shown the world since your rookie season.”
Ilya had no answer for that; he knew how he had built his reputation: based on immense talent and the freedom to act like a complete idiot on the ice. He was hated by all the other teams and their fans too.
“You’re going to be on a TV show.”
“What?” Ilya laughed at the absurdity. “When would I have time for that?”
“Ilya, Ottawa was eliminated, you have time. You just need to do the physicals when you get there, a few meetings, and you’re free until pre-camp.”
The humiliation hit Ilya; he wouldn’t be playing hockey for months.
“What kind of show?”
“That’s the delicate part.” Hannah took a deep breath. “It’s a reality show.”
“What would I do on a reality show?”
“The show revolves around finding you a girlfriend.”
A laugh escaped from deep within Ilya. That was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. He was almost certain there was a movie with that plot. He laughed for several minutes while Hannah stared at him, too perplexed to interrupt.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she said, crossing her arms and waiting.
“Sorry,” said Ilya, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “Sorry, but you have to admit it was very funny.”
“Good thing it amuses you, because this will be your life for at least seven or eight weeks.”
“You can’t be serious… How is a ridiculous reality show going to help my career?”
“You need to clean up your womanizing image, you know that’s exactly what fueled this infernal rumor.”
“And how is having women competing to date me going to help? I don’t understand.”
“Ilya, the right woman can make you look like a prince in the public eye. We’re building a narrative here, we’re going to show a more sensitive Ilya, someone who seems to care, who is loyal, someone women could dream of starting a family with. We need people to give you the benefit of the doubt, otherwise when your season with Ottawa starts we’ll just be swapping the hatred of the United States for that of Canada. We need the public to like you again, your sponsorships depend on it.”
“Do you think the audience for a reality show is the same as the audience for violent hockey games?”
“The fans have wives, right? And everyone loves celebrity gossip, I’m sure it’ll be a hit, besides, I don’t see any other option for you.”
Ilya knew his sponsorships were a bigger source of income than his NHL salary; he wasn’t exactly a darling of advertising like that damned Scott Hunter. That centenarian face was everywhere. But being the best player in the league meant many brands ignored Ilya’s rudeness and saw only his charismatic and charming side. As long as he kept his mouth shut, he could wear Calvin Klein underwear and show off his attributes to the world.
“And I’ll have to date someone I don’t like?”
“Not for long, you know, until the dust settles probably. It can’t be such a big sacrifice for you to date a beautiful woman for a few months. Who knows, you might even really like one of them.”
Ilya rolled his eyes; he had never been in love in his entire life, and it wasn't going to be some ridiculous reality show that was going to change that.
“I have no choice?”
“I'm afraid not.”
“Okay,” he sighed resignedly.
“Pack your bags, you're moving by the end of the week. Meanwhile, I'll contact some TV stations in Canada. Your sponsors have already agreed to the idea; the station will also have its own, whatever fits the dynamics of the program.”
“This is all ridiculous,” Ilya sighed.
“I'm sure you'll thank me for this later.”
“It better be, if I become poor you'll be unemployed.”
“Go fuck yourself,” she rolled her eyes.
🏒❤️🎬
Ilya had no friends in Boston besides Marly. He got along well with the other players, but Ilya wasn't exactly the most outgoing person. If you needed him in an emergency, or wanted company for a night out, he'd be there, no doubt. But if you wanted someone to text daily and talk about your emotions, he wasn't the guy.
Hannah accompanied him on the flight to Ottawa. She had scheduled meetings with the network that would broadcast the show and some sponsors, as well as the Centaurs' media and marketing team.
All Ilya had brought with him were his clothes; eventually a moving company would bring his cars, but his house had been put up for sale fully furnished. He had bought it that way, but had gradually added things that made it feel a little more like him. A nice lamp, a cushion he'd bought on one of his countless trips with the team, artwork that almost no one knew he appreciated. It almost looked like a home, but it was just a roof over the head of a lonely person.
And once again he was alone in a country he didn't know well, whose language could sometimes escape him. Ottawa was even more daunting; Ilya knew it was a bilingual city, and he didn't understand or speak a word of French. Would he stay there long enough to learn?
"Are you alright?" Hannah asked, bringing him back from his thoughts.
"I'm fine."
"The real estate agent will meet us at the house with the keys. Don't worry, it's as big and bright as your house in Boston."
It was better, Ilya thought as he arrived. He had seen the photos on the website, but in person it was breathtaking. The house was near a wooded area, and a stream ran behind the property. The garden was enormous and had too many plants that Ilya knew would die if they depended on his gardening skills to survive.
'Hire a gardener,' he mentally noted, right after 'learning the basics of French.' Probably just enough to understand when someone greeted him or cursed him, he still didn't know what the reception would be like here. Canadians had a reputation for being polite, but he was Ilya Rozanov; the rules didn't apply to him most of the time.
The following morning, Ilya went to the team headquarters to undergo medical exams and meet Coach Wiebe.
He was a tall man, with a shockingly athletic build for someone who had been out of the rink for years. Brandon Wiebe was young, one of the youngest coaches in the league, but in hockey years he was a dinosaur.
“Rozanov, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” the man said with a friendly smile and seemed sincere. He gestured for Ilya to sit down.
Ilya knew that in terms of gameplay he was an excellent signing for Ottawa, but he was well aware of how many smiles he had received in recent weeks, and the numbers were between zero and none.
“Ilya,” he said, trying to reciprocate the gesture, “It’s a pleasure to meet you too.”
“The team is very happy to have you with us.”
“Are they?” Ilya strongly doubted.
“Yes, they are.” Brandon pondered but finally said, “You know rumors spread like wildfire, but reputation precedes us. You’ve been loyal to Boston since your rookie year, no doubt about it. As for Chelsea Phillips, well, she has her own reputation to speak for.”
Ilya felt a spark of hope ignite in his chest.
“We’re not interested in your personal life, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the team’s performance or your own. The past is the past.”
“It won’t interfere, I promise.” Ilya nodded. “Hannah spoke to you about…”
“The show?” Brandon seemed to want to suppress a laugh.
“Yes,” he sighed, embarrassed. “This is all so pathetic.”
“Well, it’s certainly an unexpected approach, but it has a good chance of working. I know my wife would see something like this. She’s a big fan.”
“She must be the only one left.”
“Just be patient, things can get dark at rock bottom, but the only way is up, right?”
Ilya wondered if Brandon was referring to his own situation or if perhaps it also reflected how he viewed the team's situation. Ottawa had been on a string of losing seasons, this one being the first under Wiebe's management. Even if he was good, he couldn't have worked miracles; the team desperately needed a good center. Maybe they really hoped that Ilya's arrival would change things a bit.
Someone knocked on Wiebe's office door.
"Come in," he said as if he already knew who it was.
Wyatt Hayes and Troy Barret appeared when the door opened. Ilya hadn't expected to find anyone else from the team that day.
"Good morning," Hayes greeted them, Barret just nodded. He didn't seem exactly comfortable.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Wiebe greeted them. "Ilya, I asked the lads to come and welcome you; most of the team is traveling at the moment, so we don't have many faces here today."
Ilya couldn't help but feel the strangeness of the situation. It was still April; no one should be free to travel at this point in the season, but Ottawa hadn't come very far. He couldn't shake the taste of failure in his mouth; Ilya was used to winning.
“The guys are going to show you around the training center,” Wiebe said, rising from his chair to escort them to the door. “I want you to feel at home.”
“Thank you,” Ilya said with something very close to a smile on his face.
🏒❤️🎬
“When did you move in?” Hayes asked as they walked down the hall.
“Yesterday.”
“Jesus, you’ve already found a place?”
Ilya nodded. “My agent has good contacts.”
“That’s good, you should give your broker’s number to Barret, he’s been here for a while but still lives in a hotel.”
Troy looked startled, as if someone had shone a spotlight on him. He tried to go unnoticed; Ilya had noticed, he’d been like that his entire career. Dallas Kent’s shadow. Until he exploded and turned against him publicly. Ilya had seen the video, everyone had. “That would be good,” Troy said quietly.
“Okay, I’ll ask Hannah and send it to you,” Ilya said, taking his cell phone out of his pocket and handing it to Troy. “Put your number here.”
Wyatt immediately took his cell phone out of his pocket too and passed it to Ilya. “Give me your number too, I’ll put you in the team group, the guys are eager to get to know you better.”
Ilya highly doubted it was true. He already knew some of the team from playing against them, but even before all this happened, Rozanov had never been a popular player among the opponents.
“That’s nice of you, but I don’t believe it.”
“You’re one of us now, man,” Wyatt said excitedly with the new contact on his screen.
Ilya looked at Troy with a questioning look, hoping he would interpret it as ‘Is he always like this?’ Troy shrugged in response.
After Wyatt showed Ilya around the facilities, and Barret discreetly interacted with them a few times, the three stepped onto the ice.
Wyatt took his place in the net while Ilya and Troy took turns shooting and retrieving pucks; it was a more pleasant morning than Ilya had expected. He tried not to get his hopes up, but perhaps Ottawa really could be a fresh start.
“Do you like it here?” Ilya asked Troy.
“I don’t dislike it,” he seemed unsure of the words to use. “The people are nice, it’s just…”
“Do you feel out of place?” Ilya tried to guess.
“I think I’d feel that way anywhere.”
It was a strange feeling, this feeling of not belonging. Rozanov could understand; he’d spent more than half his life in a country that would never fully accept him, and the other half in a country that saw him as nothing more than a lucrative outsider. And at the first opportunity, it spat in his face.
“Maybe it’s a matter of time,” Ilya said. “And things will fall into place at some point.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Troy said thoughtfully.
When he got home, he finally looked at his phone and there were many messages in the team group chat, most of them welcoming Ilya. He allowed himself to be happy with them at that moment.
“Is that a smile on your face?” Hannah asked, sitting on the sofa a little distance from him.
“No,” he lied.
“I thought I was hallucinating, I haven’t seen one of these in almost a month.”
Ilya looked at her silently. Hannah was the closest thing to family he had in North America, maybe even including Russia. A father who only acknowledged his failures and a brother who hated him didn’t quite fit the description of family.
A thought struck him: ‘It was a relief that his father wasn’t lucid enough to see all this,’ he immediately blamed himself for thinking that.
“It’s a good team,” Hannah said, interrupting his spiral of thoughts. “It’s not all about winning. I think you can be quite happy here.”
“This is hockey, it’s always about winning.”
“Well, maybe you can help them get there.”
“Maybe,” he murmured. “Maybe.”
🏒❤️🎬
“Isn’t there anything to do in this city?” Ilya said, bored for the third time that day, and it wasn’t even 4:00 p.m. yet.
“You could unpack,” Hannah suggested. Ilya gestured to her with his hand as if to brush away the idea like a fly.
He had his address open on Maps and was trying in vain to find an interesting place nearby to go. His eyes wandered over a point and returned to it seconds later; not far from Ilya’s house was an animal shelter called Joy.
“I found a place for us to go.”
“I’m not going anywhere right now, Ilya. I’m finalizing some details for tomorrow’s meeting with the TV station. I can’t stop. And I also did some grocery shopping and I’m waiting for delivery; I need real food.”
“But it closes at 5:00 p.m.” Ilya argued in vain.
“You should go.”
He didn’t want to go alone, but he also didn’t want to spend the rest of the day staring at Hannah frantically typing on her laptop. Ilya tended to feel lonely even when surrounded by other people, and he hated that.
“Okay, I’ll go.”
“Put on a coat, it’s very cold outside.”
“Don’t worry, Grandma, I’ll go.”
“Go to hell. I love you. Bye.”
“Bye.” He said, already heading out the door while putting on his coat.
He slightly regretted not calling a taxi; it was really very cold. He pulled his hat down a little more, covering his ears, and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his warm coat. It seemed like an eternity, but only a few minutes later Ilya was crossing the entrance of the shelter.
A staff member greeted him and gave him some instructions; she seemed to be handling Ilya’s sudden appearance better than most of the other staff. They looked at him as if he were a ghost.
Ilya greeted some of them and took photos, then the employee who had helped him first, whom Ilya now knew was called Lucy, took him to meet the animals.
Most were in a common area, like a playground, dogs as far as the eye could see. Ilya was in paradise.
“They seem to like you,” the young woman said.
“I like them very much too,” said Ilya, he had at least 3 puppies trying to climb on him at that moment.
After some time Ilya asked how the place was maintained. Lucy explained that they received government funding, but that most of it came from donations from the community itself.
“So you don’t have a sponsor or anything like that?”
“Not yet. Well, donations help, but they aren’t enough every month; medical expenses are higher.”
“Medical expenses?”
“Yes, we have an infirmary; some dogs get sick, sometimes we rescue animals in difficult situations and they arrive injured.”
“Can I see them?”
“Of course.”
In the infirmary, the animals were kept in separate cabins; one in particular caught Ilya’s attention. It didn’t even move and had an IV in its paw.
“What happened to her?”
“We rescued her two days ago; we think she was hit by a car.”
“She’s still so small,” he said, heartbroken.
“I think she’s not even a year old yet,” said the assistant in charge of the infirmary. “She’s very strong, she’s holding on tight.”
“Does she have a name?”
“We haven’t given her a name yet,” said the man.
“Why don’t you think she’ll survive?” Ilya asked.
“We’ve saved dogs in worse situations, but there are no guarantees.”
“Maybe she’ll get better faster if she believes she’ll be okay,” said Ilya. “She should have a name.”
“Do you want to choose?” asked Lucy.
“Can I do that?”
“Of course, you can also be her godfather if you want.”
“We should call her Anya.”
“It’s a good name,” Lucy said tenderly.
But Ilya was too focused on Anya’s breathing to hear. She would survive, he wished optimistically.
Although it was April, Ilya left the shelter with a calendar full of photos of dogs up for adoption and the necessary information for making donations. He passed the information on to his accountant and asked her to include a donation of $10,000 to the Joy shelter every month from then on. He felt a little lighter when he got home.
“You smell like dog,” Hannah said when Ilya passed by her. He tried to hug her, but she ran away.
He went to his room and took a hot shower; in fact, he smelled like he had been rolling around with the animals, because he really had.
As he lay down, Ilya opened his Instagram and hid all the photos where he appeared wearing the Raiders uniform. He reposted in his stories the announcement that Ottawa had made of his acquisition a few hours earlier and then posted a photo of the calendar with that day's date circled in red, and added some information for donating to the shelter. He knew people were waiting for a post from him; if they were so thirsty for it, at least he could give visibility to an important cause.
Ilya put down his phone, knowing that in seconds his DMs would be flooded with angry messages, as had been happening every day. He didn't want to see it. His eyes grew heavy with the exhaustion of the trip and weeks of his life crumbling before him, and he fell asleep.