Work Text:
Shane enters the wrong gate code.
He’d known it was wrong as soon as he pushed the green button. It triggers an ugly buzz to deny him entry, breaking the silence of the quiet Ottawa suburb. It’s November, past Halloween, and no one is outside. No one heard Shane enter the wrong code, or if they did, they might just chalk it up to a celebrity athlete driving home drunk. It’s a wild thought. Shane has no evidence for such a thought, and it does little to still his shaking hands. He takes a deep breath, looking at the note on his phone that contains the code to double check, and enters it correctly.
A pleasant chime sounds, and Shane’s allowed inside Ilya’s property.
He looks at the time on the console. 9:27 pm. It’s two minutes behind his phone, which reads 9:29 as Shane pulls into the garage. Shane pulls over into his normal spot on the right side of the Mercedes SUV, but it would have been easier to pull in the empty spot where Ilya’s garish orange Porsche usually sits parked next to the covered motorcycle. The Porsche isn’t here now, obviously, a pointed hollowness in the normally predictable and organized space. Ilya normally drives his Mercedes, so Shane is accustomed to the Porsche sitting quietly beside it.
Shane stares at the space through his own window and the SUV. Three layers of reflecting glass. He stares back at himself through each layer, pale and anxious, like a mirror. His lips have been chapped all day, exacerbated by the two-hour drive and the comfort gained from dragging his wet teeth over the flesh until the upper and lower feels irritated to the max. His knee hurts from tweaking it in the game this afternoon, stiff from the drive.
Shane was here last on Halloween, two weeks ago now. He remembers pulling up to Ilya’s house, flushed and happy with the thought of surprising him. He likes surprising him, but Ilya had been so relieved to see Shane standing in the doorway, looking stupidly sexy in his gladiator costume. That was fine. Shane could get drunk off of Ilya’s relief, could gorge himself on Ilya’s desire for him. It’s not like he has anything better to eat, lately.
Ilya had fucked him nearly upside down wearing the costume, like Shane had asked. Shane had liked how it made him feel. Blood in his head and blood in his cock, Ilya coming apart above him, both of them so alive.
The garage is quiet. Shane powers down his car and waits for the headlights to switch off. Once in total darkness, he stares through the windshield, the wall of Ilya’s garage turning to void. He stays still. If Shane doesn’t move, he can pretend everything he’s learned in the last few hours isn’t true. Or, maybe he will be relayed an idea that will fix everything. If he stays here, Ilya could be inside his house, waiting for Shane to come in. Ilya’s Porsche could be at the body shop. Ilya could be out running errands . These things could be true if Shane remains very, very still.
It’s never been easy for him to stay still for long. The challenge calms him, but it’s a futile exercise.
Shane exhales, breath shaking. He digs his phone out of his pocket and opens his text thread with Svetlana.
I will call soon, Svetlana’s last message reads, followed by: The hospital is busy, but Ilya was critical, and seen right away. A lot of things are happening, it is hard to describe. I will call.
Shane hits the call button, dialing Svetlana anyway. It rings four times before her smooth, professional voicemail picks up. He hangs up and calls again. He lets it ring twice this time before hanging up.
He grips the phone, the case creaking in his hand, staring at the black screen. He smacks the steering wheel with his free hand.
“Fuck,” he whispers. Then he tries something louder, resting his forehead on the steering wheel, the hard vinyl throwing his voice back to him at close range. “Fuck.”
It doesn’t help. Every inch of him feels like a live wire, too sensitive. He scrolls through Svetlana’s messages again, looking for answers. Svetlana is of course, as fluent, if not more fluent in English as Ilya, but there’s something about her text messages that remind Shane of some of his earlier exchanges with Ilya. Maybe she doesn’t text in English as much as Ilya. Maybe it’s because she travels back and forth between Moscow and Boston, blurring the edges of each language together. Shane speaks French everyday, but that’s his language, too. His mom’s language, at least. It’s never far from his tongue, unlike the English words Ilya sometimes fails to remember. All of Shane’s languages have been a part of his entire life.
Not that it’s a big deal. Ilya is perfectly understandable, of course. Svetlana is perfectly understandable, despite her vague texts. And she’s doing Shane a favor. It’s not like Shane can go to the hospital. It’s not like he can make any decisions for Ilya. She’s able to do what Shane can’t.
Without the defroster, Shane’s breath slowly fogs up the windows.
The garage is stifling, the walls too close together. He needs a change of scenery. Shane opens the car door and keys into Ilya’s house. He enters the kitchen, surveying the island’s marble countertop. Ilya had picked it because it had more white than grey. Shane flattens his hand to the surface, finding it smooth, like the cleaners had just been there today. Ilya doesn’t keep unnecessary things on his counters, doesn’t care for disarray, even though he plays at being easy going, but tonight there are two things—a wallet and a phone.
Shane’s not a coward; he goes for the phone first. It’s Ilya’s, the black case with the Centaur’s logo on the back recognizable from the last time Shane had seen him. He taps the screen. The time is now 9:35. Shane’s last text message is at the top of Ilya’s notifications, delivered at 6:24 as Shane rushed to get on the road to Ottawa. He reads the preview:
I can’t remember if I told you this on the phone yesterday, but I love you so much.
It had been too late, and Shane had known that when he sent the message. The phone goes dark while Shane stares at the screen. He picks up the wallet instead. Inside are Ilya’s credit cards and ID. Shane finds a wallet sized picture of a sunset at the cottage behind Ilya’s license. Ilya doesn’t carry much cash, preferring to use Apple Pay.
“Ding, like nothing, Shane,” Ilya had said when he got it set up. “I don’t even have to bring anything with me anymore when I go to the store.”
“You need your phone,” Shane had said.
“Well yes, but I’m not going anywhere without my phone. You’re in the phone.”
“You fucking sap.”
Shane pockets Ilya’s phone and leaves the wallet on the counter. He opens the fridge. It’s well stocked, everything in a row like Ilya’s shoppers had been here recently to fill it, but Ilya hadn’t been around to touch any of it. That makes sense; the Centaurs got back from their road trip yesterday.
Six Molson Goldens sit on the top shelf, side by side with six Labatt Blues, arranged in four neat columns of three. Ilya gets them for Shane’s Dad, for when he comes to visit. Next to them are four ginger ales, but those are for Shane, when Shane wants a cheat day in Ottawa. Shane hasn’t had a soda in a year. He checks the labels. They're still a couple months out from expiration.
Ilya has a few tall cans in the back for himself, random IPAs with colorful labels from local breweries. Last year, he’d been all about exploring Ottawa. This year, it seems like he’s run out of places to go.
Shane’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He reads Svetlana’s latest text:
He’s okay for now, will call soon.
Shane puts it back in his pocket with answering and grabs one of the Molsons from the top shelf.
Ilya stocks the beers for Shane’s dad, but David Hollander doesn't drink much. He never does much to excess at all. Growing up, he never yelled or criticized or raised a hand to his wife or child. But he likes a beer, especially after a long day and while he watches tennis, or during a barbecue, when he switches from Molson’s to Labatts. They’d had a barbecue this summer at the cottage. Shane had watched from the sliding glass door while Ilya had clinked bottles with his dad, chatting comfortably while they grilled dinner.
Dad drinking meant things were comfortable, relaxed. Shane associates the Molsons with a quiet night in, his parents cuddled up on the couch, co-conspirators in all things. Mostly about Shane. Maybe that’s why Shane had been curious about the beer when he was younger.
Shane was fourteen when he had a friend over while his parents were away for the day. Brady Olsen had been his name. He’d had thick, light brown hair that flopped over his ears when he put his helmet on. He’d had a wide, mischievous grin, and was a primo-shit-talker on the ice. Shane had gotten some good chirps from him. They’d drank two Molsons each and watched Jackass on cable, side by side on his parents’ couch. Shane can still feel his own smile, young and goofy as he wrapped his lips around the beer bottle. Brady had been a decent guy. He’d been Shane’s right wing that year, but was busted down a league in the following season. Shane had wanted to stick his hands in every grimy pocket of Brady’s cargo shorts. Back then, he hadn’t thought too deeply about the reasons why.
The bottle clams up in his hand, ice cold. Shane twists the cap, realizing too late that it’s not a twist-off. He hisses, and the sharp ridges dig into his palm, scraping and digging divots in the skin. He grimaces, staring at the wound until pinpricks of blood bloom to the surface. He runs it under cold water, the wound shallow enough for the blood to stop almost right away.
Only slightly worse for wear, Shane opens the silverware drawer, rooting around until he finds a bottle opener. It’s got an acrylic imprint on it, the words “Algonquin Provincial Park” in cursive imprinted over a generic mountainous scene. Shane’s parents must have given it to Ilya, or maybe one of his teammates. Shane had talked about taking a trip there, in the summer, if they could find something remote enough.
It removes the cap well enough, whether or not Shane gets to take Ilya to the country this summer. Shane gulps the beer over the sink. It’s very cold, thirst-quenching in a way that he knows is a sham. It takes him three tries to get the whole thing down, the last swallow mostly foam. He leaves the bottle in the sink and grabs three more beers from the fridge. Two Molsens and a Labatt, for variety. He opens all three and starts on the Labatt first, holding the others in the crook of his arm as he walks to the living room. It has less flavor, which is good. It goes down easy.
Shane sets all the bottles on the coffee table with a clatter and sets himself on the couch. The nearest lamp is across the room. He forgoes turning it on, concentrating on finishing his second beer. He takes his own phone out of his pocket and opens his texts from Ilya, scrolling up to earlier in the day.
Facetime later? Shane had texted that morning, before practice.
Fuck yes, Ilya had said. Shane can see Ilya typing, biting his lip the way he does when he’s concentrating on something he wants to do. And most of the time, he wants to talk to Shane.
Williamson is injured, Shane had said then, You should be able to take him without much trouble.
Williamson is the annoying Detroit enforcer who’d collided nastily with JJ in their last game. The Centaurs were supposed to play them tomorrow. Shane doesn’t really know what tomorrow will be, now.
Ilya’s response had taken long enough that it has a new timestamp.
Giving away secrets now? What if Ottawa makes the playoffs?
It had been a joke, Shane knows. Ottawa had lost four out of five games on their road trip. Detroit is decent this year, with a pretty good line-up and depth at center. Ottawa probably wouldn’t beat them, no matter what tips Shane gave.
Shane reads his response: It’s only November. And it’s public knowledge. He was IR for the game against Toronto. I’m just making sure you heard.
Ilya’s next text had arrived quicker: Not so kind when I played for Boston.
I can be mean if you want, Shane had said. Talk later?
And then nothing. Not until Shane’s latest text. I can’t remember if I told you on the phone yesterday…
Shane locks his phone, the screen going dark. Ilya’s phone digs into his hip where it’s still in Shane’s pocket. Shane sips his beer, inhaling air when there isn’t much left. He downs the rest. He takes Ilya’s phone out of his pocket and sets it on the table next to his own.
The passcode is easy. Ilya had given it to him a long time ago: 1005. Shane opens the same text thread on Ilya’s phone. It’s strange to see his messages highlighted in grey instead of blue. He switches to Ilya’s other text conversations. There’s a group chat with his teammates, but no one has spoken in it since yesterday, and Ilya’s name isn’t in any of the replies anyway. There’s another with Ilya’s A, Boodram. Their texts are friendly, but, again, there aren’t a lot of them. Boodram had invited Ilya to dinner two weeks ago, prior to their roadtrip, and Ilya had made an excuse. Ilya had visited Shane in Toronto that night, when Shane had been playing there. They’d gotten a weird hotel room on the outskirts to have some privacy. Ilya had laughed at the towels patterned with embroidered maple leaves.
Shane starts on his third beer. It’s a little warmer, removed from the fridge. Heat creeps up the back of his neck, his tongue heavy in his mouth. He hasn’t had alcohol in a long time. He looks across the room, at a long shadow stretching from the dining room, a long pillar of dark that originates in the kitchen where Shane had forgotten to turn off the overhead light. How long has it been since Shane’s had a beer? The shadow shrugs. Maybe a year. That sounds right.
Svetlana’s messages are right underneath Shane’s. Shane readies his translating app on his own phone. Their last few exchanges are mostly about scheduling. A few days ago Svetlana had confirmed that she was coming to visit in the days after Canadian Christmas. She would come to see Ilya’s home game on December 30th and celebrate New Years with them on the 31st. Ilya had asked her if she was sure she wanted to come, if there wasn’t something better for her to do in Boston or if she would prefer to spend New Years in Moscow. She’d responded with Не будь глупцом. Don’t be stupid.
There’s only one text from today, from Svetlana, with no response from Ilya.
Shane carefully transcribes the Cyrillic characters.
Если ты умрёшь, я никогда тебя не прощу. If you die, I will never forgive you.
Shane locks Ilya’s phone. Maybe his earlier instincts had been incorrect. Maybe he is a coward.
“Are you okay?” Shane has asked Ilya before, at least one time. It’d been back in September, after their first pre-season game against each other in Montreal.
“Yes.” Ilya’s hand had gone still on Shane’s hip. “I’m inside you. Why would I not be okay?”
“You’ve just seemed… I don’t know.”
Ilya had tugged on Shane’s cock, drawing a hiss from him. “Should I pull out or do you want to come before serious conversation?”
Later, after they both finished, Ilya had said: “You know everything there is to know. I love you. What more do you need? The past is nothing to me. I want to look forward to good things.”
“Who said anything about the past?” Shane had asked.
Ilya had rolled his eyes, getting up to fetch a washcloth and coming back to bed tender and forgetful. How can you insist your boyfriend answer a question when Ilya refuses to remember that you’d asked it?
The bottle is warm in Shane’s hand. He’s a little drunk, maybe. He doesn’t know the last time he’d had a beer, the last time he’d been drunk at all. Has he already asked that though? The shadow flutters, like the toss of a curly-haired head, the spirals creeping along the blank wall. Shane asks it:
“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a beer? Because I don’t.”
Shane flinches, his own voice spooking him, spilling piss-warm beer on his arm. The shadow settles into a pillar again. It covers a blank wall. Ilya had mentioned something about getting more art for the walls.
Shane thunks the bottle down on the coffee table. You can’t have a mental breakdown with your clothes soaked in cheap beer, on the couch you picked out with your boyfriend because he wants you to think of this as your home too. Custom leather, special order. Deep enough for them to comfortably stretch out side by side. It’s one of the few things Ilya hadn’t left up to his decorator.
Shane jumps when his phone starts buzzing on the table, rattling against the wood. Svetlana’s name lights up the screen. He fumbles for it.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” Svetlana’s lightly accented voice fills the line. “Can you hear me? Service is shit in the hospital.”
Shane barely lets her finish before interjecting: “I hear you. How is he?”
“He is going into surgery.” She pauses, and Shane hears the tell-tale sticky inhale from a cigarette over the line. He knows what smoking sounds like by now. “He wasn’t wearing his seatbelt. He didn’t go through, but he hit the windshield. His head is… fuck. It’s not good. Swelling in the brain, they said. They had to drill. Very dangerous, I’m sure. But he is a thick-skulled ass.”
She swears in Russian, one of Ilya’s favorite curses.
“What does that mean?” Shane asks, trying to keep his voice even, patient. He can’t risk her hanging up on him. Svetlana is Ilya’s emergency contact. She’d flown standby to get there as soon as she heard. She’d been the one to tell Shane what happened. He can’t lose his patience with her.
“The doctors said a lot,” There’s another smoky exhale. “They said they will do everything they can, which means he is very hurt. It’s not good. He could die.”
Shane exhales with a grunt, biting hard into his bottom lip. “Jesus Christ.”
“Yes. Serious. I would have been here sooner. They couldn’t identify him at the scene, and they don’t know how long he was there until someone in a passing car called 911. I guess they recognized him at the hospital.”
Svetlana is blunt. Practical. She’s not Shane’s biggest fan, and she’s been more removed from Ilya in the last couple of years. She’s still known Ilya longer than him.
“You don’t think he…” Shane says slowly. “That he did this on purpose?”
Svetlana doesn’t answer right away. The line crackles as she breathes evenly.
“I don’t know. What has he said to you?”
Nothing, Shane wants to say, but that’s not completely true. He and Ilya talk every day. They wish each other good morning, they send each other funny videos. They talk endlessly about hockey: the season, the line-ups, trades, and suspensions. Ilya sends pictures of random places in Ottawa to see if Shane can identify them. He’s wrong a lot of the time; Shane hasn’t lived in Ottawa since he was fifteen.
It's normal, or at least feels normal. It feels like having a boyfriend, and Shane really loves having a boyfriend. He loves loving Ilya and being loved by him, but Ilya hasn’t said anything to him. Nothing important. Nothing that would indicate that he would drive his Porsche into the country, unbuckle his seatbelt, and crash into a guardrail on purpose.
The nothingness aches and spreads like a soreness, like a growing wound in Shane's chest. He rubs at it, pressing his fist to his sternum and drawing circles.
“He doesn’t fucking say anything.” Shane’s voice is pitched higher than normal, constricted. “He’s—fuck. You know how he is.”
Svetlana takes another drag from her cigarette; a tiny little pop of the inhale just audible over the line.
“I do.”
Shane sniffs, hard, swallowing around the thickness growing in his throat. “He left his phone here. And his wallet. I guess that’s why they couldn’t ID him.”
Svetlana pauses. “Did you find anything on it? The phone, I mean.”
“Nothing useful.”
A door opens and shuts with a heavy metallic sound on the other line. “Are you drunk?”
“No.”
Svetlana laughs once. “You should be. I wish I could drink here. Fucking Ilyushka.”
“I wish I could be there,” Shane says, too sharp. “Sorry, I— I appreciate you updating me”
She clicks her teeth. “There is nothing to appreciate. I love him, and you love him.”
“Yeah, I do. A lot. He’s. I—” Shane swallows. He grabs the last beer and takes a swig to clear the lump in his throat. “How long will he be in surgery?”
A siren howls on Svetlana’s end. “Two hours, at least, so they say. Could be more.”
That will put them close to midnight. Shane blows out an exhale. “Okay. Um. You should go back inside, it’s cold. And in case something happens. Nothing to do but wait.”
Svetlana promises to update him as soon as she has news and Shane hangs up. He squeezes his phone, needing to feel the resistance. It’s not enough. He springs to his feet, ignoring his damp sleeve and falling into a plank position to do twenty push-ups. He pauses after, the alcohol swishing around in his stomach and his blood, then does thirty more. He stops when his hand hurts, the scrapes from the bottle cap stinging from friction with the carpet. He does thirty crunches with a heavy book on his stomach instead, one of the books staged on a shelf by the window. The coffee table is a good height for Bulgarian split squats. He palms another book to make equal weights in his hands. There’s real weights in Ilya’s gym, but he doesn’t feel like looking for them.
After, he lies face up on the carpet, looking at the light on the ceiling. It’s a pennant light, dark right now. The only light in the room filters in from the kitchen, riddled with shadows.
Ilya has told Shane some things of substance. He’s told him that he doesn’t know what pills his mother used to kill herself. He thinks they were blue, a type of sleeping pill she’d used often before, but Ilya had conceded that he might have been thinking about something he saw on TV. He’d laughed, telling Shane about a horrible nineties drama that included a melodramatic scene of a scorned woman downing pills in front of her cheating lover. Sometimes, Ilya has trouble taking his own story seriously.
Ilya had described the show in Russian, responding to Shane’s request to practice. Shane can understand more that he can speak, but only a summary of Ilya’s words. The details are lost as he works to translate. It’s different from speaking French at home with his mom and learning the proper rules of French and English at school. No one is going to test him in Russian; he wants to learn it through learning more about Ilya. He still doesn’t know the Ilya hidden in the Russian quite yet, but he wants to.
Shane reaches blindly for the beer, tapping around the surface of the coffee table until he finds it. He tilts his head up enough to take a sip. His phone is lying next to him where it fell out of his pocket. He picks it up, lying back down and dialing his mom. She picks up after the third ring.
“Shane, I was just about to call. Are you alright? Have you heard?”
“Hey. Yeah, I mean. He’s in surgery.”
“David, just put it in my bag, there’s plenty of room, I’m trying to talk to Shane—Shane? Are you still there?”
“Yup.”
“Did you talk to Svetlana? What did she say?”
Shane wets his lips. “He’s in surgery. She’ll let me know when he’s out.”
“I’m so sorry honey, we should be there, of course we’re away when something like this happens, that’s how it always goes.” Mom shifts around, the sounds of the airport flooding the line in her pause. “We just got to our gate. The flight is about four hours, but you know how they pad the times. We’re lucky we got on the non-stop, the only other flights had two layovers.”
Shane rubs his eyes. “Lucky, yeah.”
“Where are you? You could go to our house. Gilda delivered groceries last night and freshened everything up. You can sleep in the good guest room.”
“I’m at Ilya’s. I’m okay here.”
Mom sighs, clicking her tongue. “Are you sure? We’ll be home soon, and then you won’t be alone.”
“It’s okay. I’m here now.”
“Alright, if you say so. We’ll come there as soon as we can.”
They hang up, the gate agent starting to announce boarding. They’d been in Cancun for a week, cutting the trip short as soon as Shane had texted that Ilya was in the hospital. The swiftness of his parents packing and booking a flight home for the sole reason of Ilya’s accident would be heartwarming, if not for the circumstances.
He sits up, stretching forward to touch his toes. Ilya had opted for carpet in the living room, saying he liked how comfortable it was under his feet. Shane would have opted for hardwood everywhere, but he’s grateful for it now.
“This will be your home too,” Ilya had said when he showed Shane paint samples from his designer, gesturing in front of the big front window so that Shane could see the colors in the bright light. “I want you to like it. It’s our place, like the cottage.”
And that’s why Shane’s here. He can’t go to the hospital, can’t see Ilya or pace the halls while they drill into his head. He closes his eyes, picturing blood and bits of bone flicking off of the drill. It his ignorant mind, Ilya sits in a dentist chair. Shane has never had a cavity, but he’s had work done on his teeth. He’s felt the vibrating hum of the drill against jagged edges of his teeth, jumping and buzzing as it filed away the sharpness left by a high stick. One time, in Kingston, it had been a puck to the face. He runs his tongue over the capped molar next to his right upper incisor. It’s smoother than his natural teeth. Sometimes he plays with it, it’s wrongness. Right now it feels like it would be a relief to pry it out.
He climbs onto the couch, limbs beer-heavy and his eyelids drooping. He doesn’t want to sleep. When he closes his eyes, he feels the crunch of plexiglass and metal against the guardrail, the Porsche’s frame folding like paper and the windshield shattering from the pressure. Glass rains down on him, sharp and cutting. The car doesn’t go quietly; its injuries are loud and drawn-out, until only silence stretches into a dark night.
Shane. Just tell me the truth, Dad says.
Shane sits at the table in his parents’ kitchen. Dad sits in his usual chair and Shane in his. His mom’s chair is empty because she’s pacing in front of the sink, holding an unlit cigarette in her hands. The fourth chair is always empty, or piled high with Shane’s hockey bag or his dad’s papers from work. They don’t really need a fourth chair, but tables come with four chairs.
Just be honest, Shane, Dad says. Did you drink the beer?
He’s fourteen. Mom and Dad had gone to the hospital in Montreal to visit Mom’s Great Aunt, who wouldn’t survive the weekend. Shane stayed home, fourteen years old and spared from visiting a dying relative he’d never seen for more than a few hours. He’d drank four beers with Brady while they were gone. Four Molsons, the empty bottles shoved to the bottom of the recycling bin and the remaining two bottles flanked by the fancy glass bottles of ginger ale in the fridge to hide their absence. He probably would have gotten away with it if he’d just shoved the bottles in the trash instead, but his parents were good about recycling. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him.
No, Shane says, hating his own whining voice. I didn’t. I wouldn’t do that.
Did Rozanov drink them?
That’s not quite right, Shane thinks. It had been Brady that drank the beers, leaving both his bottles empty. Shane hadn’t finished the second one, letting it go warm in his hand while they laughed at the TV. The memory is a basic one, the normally behaved son doing something rebellious and being gently chastised by his parents. Shane knows how it went. Why is his dad saying the wrong name?
I don’t know why you’re even bothering to ask, David, Mom says. Clearly it was Rozanov.
Hold on, Yuna. This isn’t the end of the word. David turns back to Shane. Everyone makes mistakes, Shane. You can tell us if it was Rozanov’s idea. We know it can be hard when friends pressure you. Was it Rozanov?
The empty bottles are lined up like soldiers on the table. Shane stares at them, red flush creeping up his neck.
I don’t know.
Mom laughs. I don’t know means yes, Shane.
Shane bites his lip. One of the bottles has no label. Shane had been nervous, drinking the first one. He’d picked at the label on the second, stalling, afraid of feeling out of control. His friend had drank quickly, like someone was going to take it from him.
Did Rozanov put you up to this? Dad asks.
What do you mean? Shane asks, confused. He blinks, the room fuzzy. It’s a memory, intellectually he knows it’s a memory, but that’s not what happened. Everyone is saying the wrong name. It had been Brady. Floppy-haired, friendly Brady who everyone on the team wanted as a friend.
Mom switches the unlit cigarette from one hand to the other, shaking her head. You know what we mean, Shane. Rozanov is a bad influence on you.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Dad sighs. He picks up the bottles and puts them back in the recycling bin. Just tell the truth, Shane.
I don’t know! Shane stands, the chair scraping loudly. He throws up his hands, voice cracking. I don’t know! I don’t know!
Mom shakes her head, crossing her arms.
I don’t know means yes, Shane.
Shane wakes with a slurping inhale, facedown in a drool-coated throw pillow. His phone is vibrating and emitting a siren-like alarm. He flails out, scrambling to a seated position to silence the noise. Probiotics! the alarm description reads. Shane exhales with a huff. Ilya had set the alarm to play the siren on his last visit to Montreal.
“Emergency probiotics!” Ilya had yelled, laughing at the culmination of his planned joke. “Big deal! Everyone! It’s time for Hollander to take his probiotics!”
“Yeah, yeah, fuck off,” Shane had shot back while looking for said pills in his travel bag, laughing at Ilya’s stupid antics. “You could do with one fucking probiotic.”
Ilya had shaken his head, resting his hands behind him on the headboard. “My body is perfect, naturally, you see.”
Shane closes the alarm screen and checks the time. It’s 10:05 pm. He checks his messages from Svetlana– nothing. No recent missed calls. He’d slept for about twenty minutes, long enough to have a weird dream but not long enough for there to be any news. His probiotics are in his overnight bag that he left in the car. He considers skipping them for the night, breaking a habit for Ilya’s sake. Ilya would like that.
Shane stalls, scrolling through his text history with Svetlana. It’s easy to start from the beginning; there isn’t a lot. They’d exchanged numbers the first time they met in person in Boston, when Svetlana had come over Ilya’s house to grab some clothes and Shane had been making a protein shake in Ilya’s kitchen in nothing but his boxers. Surprise.
He scrolls to her first message from tonight that Shane had received in his own garage:
I don’t know if you heard. Ilya was in some kind of car accident, he’s hurt. The hospital called me. I just got on a flight. There might be a news story soon. Will call when I land.
They’d exchanged a few messages since then, mostly just Svetlana telling Shane that she would call him when she could, and then Shane asking again for information. Begging.
Shane composes a new text: Is someone from the team there?
He waits a moment, watching the blank screen. Her texts fly in quickly, with exasperation.
Yes
The coach
They called him too
Ilya likes him
I know, Shane types, lip curling over his teeth. He quickly deletes it, even though he does know. He doesn’t need Svetlana to tell him that Ilya likes his new, young coach, Brandon Wiebe, who has a lot of groundbreaking ideas on how to make Ottawa a great team. It had been the first thing Ilya had said about hockey in a long time, after a terrible first season with a retiring coach who barely stood up from the bench even when they won. Even Ilya fucking Rozanov playing center didn’t excite him, not after the years he’d had with Ottawa. Shane had been angry for Ilya, but Ilya hadn’t said much about it at all. Shane had been happy when they announced Wiebe as a new coach, despite his spotty record as a player.
Any news from surgery? Shane asks instead.
The typing bubbles appear, then disappear quickly.
Shane stands, needing to move his stiff knee. He’ll go get the probiotics and maybe Svetlana will update him in the time it takes him to return from the garage. He walks toward the kitchen, grimaces as his knee twitches on a tight corner. He hadn’t stretched properly after the game.
“Hollander!”
Shane jumps at the voice. He looks around. He turns on a damn light. What’s wrong with him, walking around Ilya’s house like it’s a mausoleum? His ears ring, like he’d heard a loud noise or took a hit, but it’s fading now.
The hallway lamp throws shadows. Shane walks to the kitchen. He hears an unfamiliar creak from the floor. Ilya’s house is new, the floors don’t creak.
He stops. The floor groans after he’s still. He watches his own shadow for movement, like it’s going to jump up and fuse with him. The stupidity of the thought overwhelms him, and he pushes it away.
Shane walks normally, ignoring the other pair of footsteps falling in step with him, the echo barely noticeable. Shane sets his feet down, one at a time, but it’s like there are two feet. In sync enough, but off by a millisecond. He tests it with his left foot. The same. He walks normally until he’s almost to the kitchen, and then the steps fall out of sync, loud enough to rival the hammering of his heart. It’s stupid, this is so stupid—
Someone grabs Shane’s shoulder, fingers digging into his shirt, roughly turning him.
“What the fuck?”
“Hollander! Been looking all over for you,” the guy says, fully formed and standing nearly at a height with Shane. He claps his hand on Shane’s arm.
Shane shakes it off by instinct. “What the fuck?”
“Watch your fucking mouth.” But that isn’t what the guy says, not exactly, because he’s speaking in Russian, but the meaning is clear. He looks like the type of guy Shane’s been around his whole life. Middle aged, balding, slightly stooped. He’s holding a clipboard and wearing a red tracksuit with white trim. “Why the fuck aren’t you dressed? The whole team’s already on the ice. You hear that crowd?”
Shane listens. There’s only the silence of Ilya’s house. He looks at the stove clock. It’s still 10:05.
“Look, I think there’s been some mistake, buddy—”
The guy narrows his gaze like a laser. “That’s fucking coach, to you. And it would be the biggest mistake of your life to not listen to me, Hollander.”
Shane stands up taller and clears his throat. “I get that, Coach, I’m just a little confused.”
Coach laughs through his nose, like a hocking goose. “That’s our Hollander, nothing up there except hockey, right?” He knocks on Shane’s head like a door. “Good thing for you, you don’t have to understand shit. Just what I tell you.”
Shane blinks, nodding. Coach gestures down the hall. “Go suit up. We need you to play wing tonight against the Canadians.”
Shane grimaces, his eyebrows furrowing so hard it feels like muscle strain. “Um. Why, exactly, Coach?”
“Oh, so it’s your job to ask why now?”
Shane clams up, shaking his head. “No, sir.”
“You play what I say you play, that’s why.” Coach starts scribbling on his clipboard. “Need you on Rozanov’s left, because his shot’s going to be off. Got clipped in the shoulder last game and we can’t afford to lose the series because he can’t keep his mouth shut.”
At the last word, Shane opens his mouth to respond but his words are swallowed up by the surge of a deafening crowd. He closes his mouth, and the sound disappears. Coach stares at him, expectant. Nerves writhe inside Shane’s stomach, thousands of shoes upon greasy floors mounting stadium steps but inside his chest. Pounding on his bones. Let us in. Let us watch. Let us see. Shane opens his mouth again, his own voice circumvented by the crowd, the ice, the crash of bodies in jerseys and pads thundering down the tunnel. Shane knows what the echoes sound like. He knows it by heart.
They’re in a tunnel now, the bright white of a rink at the end of the shute. Shane’s dressed, pads and skates laced and a jersey on his back, compressing him in the normal ways, but he’s different. Thin and wiry. He rests his hands on his ribcage, feeling the loss of mass like someone had stuck a straw in him and gave it a good suck.
“Hollander! You fucking hear me?”
Seems like a big game, from the sound of the crowd. Shane’s good at blocking that out. He’s good at focusing on doing what needs to be done and leaving the rest for someone else to worry about. He nods, psyching himself up. Obviously, this is an important game. They can’t afford distractions.
“Sorry Coach. Got it. I can do it.”
Coach thumps him on the back. “Damn right you can do it, because you do what I tell you. Now get out there.”
“Wait.” Something else is off. “Did you say Rozanov?”
“Who else, Hollander? Who else causes this much fucking trouble and gets away with it?”
“I guess, but I don’t know. I don’t think—”
“I don’t know means yes, Hollander! Rozanov can’t keep his mouth shut, and now he’s got a busted shoulder. But we need him on the face-offs, and you’re the only one who can compensate for his mistakes. Stupid thing he is.”
“Got the goal though, coach,” Shane finds himself saying. The memory is clear as any other, as any goal he’s made in his life. It’d been a pretty goal, off of Shane’s own assist. Rozanov’s wrist shot made the puck sing, zinging it right through the goalie’s legs and making the confused d-man spin like a figure skater. Rozanov had kissed his helmet after.
No. That’s not right. That had been the All-Star game, Tampa, almost two years ago now, because of Shane’s goal off of Ilya’s assist, but how could that be possible? Shane’s wearing a white jersey with red trim. Red letters in a language that until now had only been in the language app that he kept in a private folder on his phone. He’s thinner. Taking a deep breath feels strange.
Coach grins, claps Shane’s shoulder. “It was a great goal. Now get out there, Hollander!”
Shane’s blades hit the ice. The other forwards are already taking their places at center ice, including Rozanov. They ignore each other for now. Shane hasn’t played wing since Juniors, but he knows hockey. He’s just a skater, and it’s better that he can play any position. He gets excited while doing a few stick maneuver exercises. This is good for him. He appreciates the opportunity.
The Canadian forwards are pulling up too, but Shane can’t get a read on their faces. All the Canadian players are obscured, like someone took their thumb and smeared Vaseline over their faces, softening their features until they meld together to make one guy—one standard hockey guy. Even the Russian players are indistinct. There’s only one person that stands out, different from the rest.
“Shane Hollander,” Rozanov says at the faceoff circle, turning and chewing on his mouthguard. “Will you disappoint me?”
He’s speaking Russian, like the coach, but the meaning is clear to Shane. He glances again at the other players, but they skate out of his eyeline before he can get a good look. Shane shakes his head, blowing out a hard stream of air. It doesn’t fucking matter. He doesn’t need to see anyone’s faces, just their feet and their sticks and the puck.
“Don’t fuck around, Rozanov,” Shane says, taking his place on Rozanov’s left. “I’m here for you. They said you needed me.”
Rozanov grimaces under his visor, offended. He has a zit between his eyebrows. It’s coming to a head. One time, Ilya popped a zit on Shane’s forehead. He’d straddled Shane’s chest, ignoring his laughing protests. It was gross—Just let me get it, Hollander, come on, what is pimple popping between boyfriends? But Rozanov is so young, in front of Shane on the white ice now.
They’re both so young.
“Need you?” Rozanov sneers. “I told them no. No left wing, no problem. I will still score more goals than anyone.”
Shane scoffs. “You have to have a left wing, idiot. You think they’ll reinvent the rules for you? So you can show off and make things harder?”
Rozanov rocks on his edges, waggling his eyebrows at Shane. “Hard?”
Shane flips his own mouthguard around in his mouth, settling it on his teeth for once. “Stop fucking around.”
When the puck drops, Rozanov takes it, swinging around and nudging a short backhand pass to Shane, who drives it down the left side of the rink towards the goal. The Canadian defenseman takes Shane’s feint and Rozanov lands in an open position. Rozanov’s on a favorable side for his injury, and Shane reels back to send him the puck.
Without warning, a wall of players blocks Shane’s way; an inscrutable tangle of bodies and skates and sticks, and Shane struggles to keep his edges. Bright white Russian jerseys interspersed with the black and red Canadian. Too many men on the ice. The familiar smell of old pads and sweat fills his nose. Shane chokes on it, gagging.
There’s no reason to get up close and personal with another player’s rancid gear, unless you’re playing junior hockey and someone decides that you need to learn a lesson. Someone might decide that you need to inhale nothing but grime and sweat for, oh, say an hour, until you’ve learned the lesson they’re trying to teach. Shane never had to learn those lessons, not when he’d spent more time as captain than as a rookie in every room, but others around him did.
Tears leak out of his eyes from the squeeze. No crying in hockey. You cry and all this will just take longer. Shane sucks it up. He swallows his tears and pushes back. Shane waits for the call, the whistle that will clear the scrum, but the onslaught only thickens. Shane shoves, trying to maintain his balance and also find a pocket to escape. His fist connects with hard bone. Someone cries out with a familiar voice.
The whistle sounds, and the bodies clear in the span of one deep breath. Shane gasps again, the weight released. He could have been crushed. The ref looks like he’s about to make the call, too many men, but then he points at Shane and calls—
“Unnecessary roughing.”
Shane points at himself in disbelief. Yes, he’d swung out, but it had been an attack, and where did all those players even go? The ice was nearly empty now.
“Fuck, Hollander, didn’t know you had it in you.”
Rozanov is on the ground in front of Shane, his eye red and the skin around it bruising where the bone rests underneath. His right cheekbone is split, a dot of blood rising to the surface when Rozanov grins.
“Ref, this is insane.” Shane knows he’s not supposed to talk to the ref, that’s the captain’s job, Rozanov’s job, but he’s currently on the ground with one eye swelling shut, laughing like it’s funny. “I was trying to—didn’t—he’s on my team.”
The ref gestures to the bin. “Two minutes. You know the rules.”
Shane helps Rozanov to his feet before skating to the box. He lands on the bench, wiping ice and water from his blades. A new shift comes out, the Canadians neatly scoring on the power play. The goal horn sounds. Shake shakes his head, waiting out his two minutes quietly. Rozanov gets hooked on the next shift, nearly losing his footing. No whistle sounds, no penalty. Shane grits his teeth.
Ilya wins the next faceoff but loses the puck when his right winger fails to connect on a pass. The Canadians have the advantage, but their wings aren’t great and it will take a lot to set up their system spontaneously. Shane knows, he’d compensated for them for two Prospect Cups, waging offensive war to delay the inevitable defensive slog and keep their goalie from fainting from fatigue. Shane knows how to handle them.
He stands in front of the door, bouncing on his skates. He can time this. The puck is right there, swirling in the mess of sticks with the Canadians getting manhandled by Russia’s defense.
“Time!” the bin attendant calls, and Shane surges out onto the ice, grabbing the puck from a pass and surging over the blue line. Rozanov skates into position, shit-eating grin nearly a grimace as he takes the pass from Shane. One more, and then Shane is shoving it in the goal.
The goal horn sounds, and Shane is about to celebrate when the ref blows his whistle. The crowd groans when the ref motions a penalty.
“Fuck—offsides?” Shane says in disbelief. There’s no way. He’d compensated his thrust from the bin with the trajectory of the puck to avoid that very call. He looks at the Jumbotron for the replay, and sure enough, there he is, in the legal zone with the puck, but the call still stands.
He skates to Rozanov, who’s leaning on his stick. “Fucking do something, talk to the ref.”
“Coach wants you on defense next shift,” Rozanov says instead, not looking at Shane. “Says it will be good for you.”
“What?” Shane says. “Are you kidding me? We’re in the middle of—”
“Not my call. Be a good boy, Hollander.”
Ilya skates away. Shane blinks, and he’s in position in front of the goal, the other d-man scowling at him like Shane had done something to personally offend him. Shane’s never felt more insane. He hasn’t played defense outside of scrimmages since Timbits. He bends over his stick, taking a deep breath. He’s not too good to play defense. He’s just a skater, and he has a job to do.
Rozanov turns around. His bruise is deep purple under the visor, almost black. He grins at Shane. “Defense suits you, Hollander. Now you can watch me all you want, like I know you want to.”
“Keep your eyes forward,” Shane yells as the puck drops.
Rozanov loses the face-off, and the Canadian center rockets down the ice. Shane braces himself, following the puck. The Center attempts a deke, but Shane blocks it, the flash of the Center’s dark hair and the jerky movement familiar enough for Shane to anticipate it. Shane’s stick slides easily, like water, cupping the puck and picking the pocket. Shane whips down the line, where Rozanov is waiting.
Rozanov smiles, baring bloodied teeth.
The smoothness turns into halting slowness. Shane keeps fishing the puck out of piles of ice melting rapidly into water, using his stick like an ice scream scoop. His skates lag, pulling through ice that becomes snow, snow that becomes slush, and slush that’s nearly water. The other players are lagging too, losing their edges on the slushy ice. Shane is sinking. Soon he’s wading, like he does in the lake, his ankles buckling as the blades meet solid ground, but then he’s sinking, the ground dropping out from beneath him as he flails out, struggling to tread water as it rises to his chest.
“Hang onto the boards!” Shane calls to Rozanov, but Ilya doesn’t move. His smile fades, and he looks sad. Shane gets to him, shoving him to the boards, trying to get him to grip onto something as they sink, but Rozanov reaches too late. He reaches with his left hand, his busted left shoulder.
Ilya loses his grip, and Shane loses his feet as the ice gives way under them, plunging them into deep, freezing water.
It’s dark, the soaking cold poking like daggers through Shane’s jersey and pads, dragging him down. Shane yells out, and his mouth fills with water. He tries to yell Ilya’s name, but the sound is muffled. The other players struggle and flail, their blades dangerously close to his face, clawing to a surface that Shane can’t see. He can’t tell if he’s looking up or down, if he’s swimming to oxygen or to oblivion.
Shane looks ahead instead. Ilya is there.
Ilya is still, his face turned up. His hair floats above him like a halo. He doesn’t struggle like Shane, letting the water above and below cradle him. There’s light on him, as if he alone has found the sun. There shouldn’t be sun here. There should be industrial fluorescent light above them and a roaring hometown crowd. They should be playing hockey. They should be together.
“Ilya!” Shane calls again, the water filling his lungs and burning all the way down to the core of him. Shane kicks out with his feet. He’d been on the swim team in middle school for one season, one season to try something new before he decided that everything should be hockey all year round. He knows how to get some speed under him, but his skates and pads are heavy like the wet towels piled up in the dressing rooms, saturated with water and sweat and exertion. He casts off his gloves, trying to get a better stroke against the current. The water stings the cuts on his hands. He should have known he needed a bottle opener.
Shane’s muscles fail, his struggling uncoordinated from exhaustion.
Ilya smiles, like he hears him. It’s nothing like the cocky grin Shane has loved since he was 19. It’s the soft smile Ilya saves for Shane now, in their present, now that they are in love.
The world turns on its axis, water rushing over Shane’s mouth and ears. It pours over him like someone had tipped a glass, tumbling Shane through space. He falls, but the current reverses, water washing over him like a shower as a freezing wind blows through his hair. He gasps for breath, his lungs expelling water as he’s allowed air at last.
Shane lands, skates down, on solid ice. There’s a cage strapped to the front of his helmet, impairing his vision in a new way. He hasn’t worn a cage since he bruised his jaw in Juniors, when he chipped the tooth. As his eyes adjust to the brightness of the rink, he realizes he’s weighed down in a new way. There are giant pads on his legs. The lines around him put him in the goalie crease. He’s in a red and black jersey, a Canadian Maple Leaf emblazoned across his chest.
Ilya skates toward him, handling the puck sluggishly. He’s sopping wet to Shane’s dry, water pouring from him in streams and refreezing to his hair and skin. It creates harder, reflective mirrors on the ice. He’s not smiling now. His helmet is broken, and his eye is black, almost swollen shut.
Shane is completely dry, and he’s a goalie for Canada. He calls to the Russian coach:
“Hey! What’s happening? I can’t switch teams mid-game.”
Coach shrugs. He speaks, but his Russian is way faster and nearly indecipherable from this distance. Shane makes out the tail end of it, something like “...you were not any help to him.”
Coach speaks again, but it’s to Ilya, not Shane. Shane doesn’t need to understand to hear how he barks at Ilya, how he belittles him. Ilya doesn’t flinch, just keeps handling the puck down the rink. Ilya isn’t looking at Shane like he knows him. His face is empty.
“Ilya,” Shane says, using his name, using the weight of his present memories, clawing to them, of what Shane knows waits for them if only they stay patient, if only they let their story play out the way it’s supposed to. Just a little longer, and they can have everything. “Ilya, listen to me. You’re going to be okay.”
Ilya isn’t listening. Shane doesn’t know what he would say if he was. He’s been making it up as he goes for so long, and that’s not sustainable. Goals need an actionable plan to be achieved.
Shane tries to meet Ilya’s eyes while he braces in front of the goal. Somehow, he knows, he can’t let Ilya make this goal. He’ll fall in front of the puck. He’ll stop it with his face, letting it twist and rend his face mask. He’ll let it dig into his chest and bludgeon his heart. He can’t let Ilya score.
Ilya’s eyes dart only to look for openings, holes in Shane’s ignorant strategy. You can’t make a plan without the facts. You can’t plan for what you don’t know.
“Ilya,” Shane tries again. “You never said anything.”
Ilya’s face twists. He rears back on the puck in anger, throwing his entire weight into the shot. The puck whistles through the air, blacking out Shane’s gaze.
Shane scrambles to life, the alarm blaring from the coffee table. He reaches out, muscles stiff from his contorted positioning. He swipes at his phone, trying to turn off the alarm, but it slides to the floor, thudding dully on the carpet.
He hangs over the couch, breathing hard, precariously close to landing a header on the leg of the coffee table. The phone is face up on the ground, the alarm title reading:
Probiotics!
“Emergency probiotics!” Shane remembers Ilya yelling, delighting in how he’d changed the alarm to the shrieking siren unbeknownst to Shane—
Shane stops, curling his first against the ground. The thought is too familiar. Is it possible that he could have the same thought again? He steadies himself, sliding to his knees on the ground. He taps the button and the alarm stops. The time is 10:05.
“Hello?” Shane calls out as the dream fades. He looks for light, at the light from the kitchen and the moonlight from the window. There’s more shadows now, moving in the wind.
The shadow near the window stretches its arms above its head. It cracks it’s neck, a sickening sound. Shane grimaces. He hates that sound. Shane complains about it when Ilya does it. Ilya usually follows it up with cracking his knuckles right next to Shane’s ear.
“You have played with broken ribs on the ice,” Ilya had said, with audible glee. “I’ve seen you bloody. Cracking knuckles bothers you this much?”
“Yes!” Shane had said, laughing as he tried to shove Ilya off of him before he could do it again. “I fucking despise it. Guys are always cracking their necks and shit in the room like it’s some magic thing that will make them play better.”
Ilya had taken Shane’s hand, threading their fingers together. “Because it is magic, Hollander. Just try it.”
Shane had tried to slip his hand out of Ilya’s grip but he’d held fast. “No! My hands don’t do that bullshit, because I’m normal—”
“No, it is not normal that you don’t know the relief. The sweet relief. Let me show you—” He’d started bending Shane’s fingers, and now Shane can’t remember if he’d been laughing or screaming, yelling and clutching onto Ilya because while Ilya brings him pain, the comfort that follows is that much sweeter.
Shane sits back on the couch. He swallows the last gulp of warm beer from the bottle he’d started before falling asleep. The shadow stretches again, falling back into the shape of the pillar. Ilya’s hair is shorter lately anyway, the curls less defined. The shadow hadn’t even gotten him right.
“Fucking A…” Shane exhales.
Just a shadow. Just a dream. Just the remnants of a fading dream, when it seems like your nightmare follows you out of bed, only for you to have forgotten it by the time you wash your hands.
Shane swallows. Goalie pads. Clambering around the crease. Not the strangest dream he’d ever had. Shane curls his hands around his knees, catching his breath. He checks his messages from Svetlana. There’s nothing from her, and nothing from his parents.
He peels his tacky lips apart, his mouth tasting rotten from the beer.
Just a dream. Obviously. Four beers will fuck with your brain on a good day, and he’d played a grueling afternoon game against Nashville, one of the top teams in league right now, and then driven to Ottawa, barely showered. He’d assisted Hayden on a goal that left his knee sore. He should ice it.
Shane stands, pocketing his phone. He looks out the front window at the lawn, out to the gate that leads to the street. Ilya has said he likes it here. He likes the quiet. Ilya had hosted Shane’s parents a few weeks back. He’d sent Shane a picture of himself with Mom and Dad around the table, playing cards after dinner. His smile had made his eyes crinkle. He’d captioned it: You Mom is teaching me to destroy you at Pitch. Prepare to have your ass kicked. Shane had kept the picture for a night, to look at Ilya’s smile, and then deleted it in the morning.
Shane used to think about where deleted pictures go. He tries not to, now.
He opens his phone again, scrolling through the missed calls. He’d called Ilya, Svetlana, and his parents, but still near the top is one red one. Red for missed. Red for error. Ilya had called at 5:07 pm. Shane had missed it, but only by a few minutes. He’d thundered back into the locker room with his team, talking and laughing and dealing with press. Shane could call Ilya after, he’d thought at the time, he could call Ilya anytime, and when Theriault had asked Shane to review some tape with him before he left Shane had done that too.
So, it had been well past 5:45 by the time Shane had called Ilya while he walked to the car. Ilya hadn’t answered. He hadn’t thought much about it until he got home and saw Svetlana’s text.
Svetlana starts typing now, but the bubbles disappear quickly. He waits, his phone hot in his hand. He hears a noise, like fast footsteps moving upstairs. Someone is upstairs, and they’re not trying to be quiet.
Shane tense. “Mom?” he calls out, even though according to the time his parents are in the air somewhere over Texas right about now. “Dad? Are you guys here?”
There’s no answer except for the brief skid of footsteps, like sneakers. The upstairs changes direction. It’s a familiar gait, an excited lope moving quicker than normal. They slam down the stairs faster than Shane’s panic.
But why would he panic? It’s just Ilya.
“Hey,” Shane says, smile stretching muscles he hasn’t used all night. “Slow down. I missed you.”
“Hollander.” Ilya is out of breath, his eyes darting. “Hollander, you have to help me.”
Shane reaches for Ilya, for his hand, anything to calm him down. “Yeah just, calm down, what can I do—”
Ilya flinches out of the way of Shane’s touch. “Fuck off. Not here.”
Shane curls his fingers, his arm falling to his side. “Alright, sure. I get it.”
“Do you?”
Shane’s stomach swoops, like the roller coaster he and Hayden had ridden at Cedar Point when they were rookies with a day off in Ohio. He’d ridden the same coaster five times that day, loving the feeling as much as he’d hated it.
Shane lands hard now, the floor beneath him jarring his ankles as his body finds its balance. He’s staring down at white linoleum squares. He looks up, and they’re in a narrow hallway, beside them a closed blond wood doorway. The air smells like chemicals and old food. It’s been a long time since Shane was in a school.
Ilya’s question is still urgent on his face, like they’re still standing in Ilya’s house.
Shane curls his fingers into a fist, punching it casually into his open hand. “I fucking get it. What’s the problem, Rozanov?”
Rozanov looks up, some of his steeliness breaking. He looks up, tapping his heel. It’s a nervous tell. Shane had seen it in their first press conference together.
“This is a…test. Sort of an important one.” Ilya sights. “I am fucking desperate. If I do not pass—well. No MLH.”
Ilya’s accent is thicker than it’s been in years. It’s possible Shane has never heard him be this unsure about his English.
“What test? Can you describe it to me?”
Ilya rolls his eyes. “Ah, yes, perfect fucking Hollander. I think you never failed a test in your life, yes?”
Shane thinks back to his final English Lit paper on Great Expectations. Shane had been playing for Kingston and was in the playoffs, the games piling up as he also tried to secure some kind of diploma. His English teacher kept dropping Shane’s paper on his desk, covered in red pen marks. Incomplete, Fix and return.
“Is English test. For, ah… proficiency.” Ilya says, less on the defense.
“Proficiency?” Shane asks.
“Like, good enough. Did I say correctly?”
“Yeah but, the league doesn’t require an English proficiency. They’ll get you tutors and it shouldn’t affect your Visa. And you speak English really well compared to other—”
“Hollander.” Ilya’s eyes narrow. “I’m asking for a favor, and you are trying to teach me a lesson. I’ve had enough school, don’t need you. I need to take the test. I need to pass, or else no MLH for me. Can you help me?”
Shane exhales, yanking a frustrated hand through his hair. Down the hall, a heavy door opens. Footsteps and loud voices fill the hall. It’s all in fast Russian, too fast for Shane to understand.
“I mean, what can I even do?” Shane huffs. “Seems like the test is happening right now. It’s not like I can help you study.”
Ilya adjusts the backpack on his shoulder. He’s wearing a black zip-up with white trim to match his pants. His shoulders are narrow under the straps. He looks like the Ilya Shane first met, but back then Shane rarely saw Ilya out of hockey kit. His face is rounder, his curls tighter and blonder. Shane doesn’t have pictures of that time besides official promotional pictures from the league. No one looks young in those pictures.
“You can take the test for me,” Ilya says.
“What? I can’t do that, you’re fucking crazy—”
Ilya shoots forward, covering Shane’s mouth. The crowd noise gets closer.
“Shut up. I’m not crazy. You take the test for me, and I pass. Do this for me, Hollander.”
Shane pushes Ilya’s hands away. “They’re going to know. I’m obviously not you.”
Ilya licks his lips, blinking harshly and looking over his shoulder. “No, you don’t understand. Is not my school. Is a standard test. They don’t know me! You tell them you are Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov and they will know no different. Here—”
He shoves a piece of paper at Shane. It looks like it’s been folded a hundred times. Shane catches it against his chest before it falls.
“Just give them this at desk. And—” Ilya grabs Shane’s hood, pulling it securely over his head. “That should help.”
Shane throws up his hands. “I thought you said they wouldn’t know you—”
But Ilya’s already off at a run, leaving Shane in the hall clutching the application. He takes a deep breath. The horde of people round the corner, speaking Russian and thankfully ignoring him. Shane adjusts his hood for security and disappears into the crowd, heading towards the double doors.
A tired-looking woman takes his application without looking twice, and soon Shane is ushered into a hard, straight backed chair at a small desk. The room is cavernous and cold, full of neatly arranged rows of desks. Shane looks down his row. Before he can get a good look at his fellow students, a proctor drops a testing booklet on his desk.
Ilya___________________Rozanov is pre-printed on the front cover.
There’s a row of proctors at the front of the room, standing in a perfect line like soldiers. One stands at a podium. She taps a microphone, clearing her throat.
“Please fill in your middle name on your test booklet,” the proctor drones in Russian-accented English. Shane waits for further instruction, but everyone else around him are already starting their tests. The proctors march silently up and down the aisles, eyeing him suspiciously. Shane snaps his gaze back to his own booklet.
Okay. Shane can’t draw attention to himself, so that rules out asking the proctors a question. He also can’t ask the proctors if they know his own middle name, or what is supposed to be his middle name. Shane takes a deep breath. He can do this. English is his first language. He skips Ilya’s name for now, opening the test booklet. He tears out the perforated answer sheet from the back, setting it to the side. He looks for the mandated black pen and finds it already between his fingers. He reads the first multiple choice question in Part 1, moving his lips soundlessly and wishing he has his glasses.
1) Did you do enough?
a) I did more than enough and am absolved of guilt.
b) I did everything I could with the information I had.
c) I did not do enough and knew better.
d) I don’t know.
Shane stares at the question. The student next to him clears their throat. Shane’s throat feels dry too, he should have grabbed a water bottle, but Ilya hadn’t given him time to think, let alone bring supplies. He hadn’t given Shane any time to get the facts straight and make a decent plan.
Shane skips to the next question. Skipping the hard questions is a legitimate test-taking technique. He remembers that much from school.
2) Do you believe you are at fault?
a) None of this is my fault.
b) All of it is my fault.
c) I concede that this is partially my fault, but assert that it is a complicated situation. How was I supposed to know that Ilya Rozanov was struggling when he never said anything? How was I supposed to fix a problem he never made me aware of? Every time we saw each other we were happy. We were relieved to see each other and happy together. That doesn’t automatically mean I should have known he was miserable when we were apart. He told me he was doing well. He told me he liked his new coach.
d) I don’t know.
Shane swallows hard. Use the test to take the test. That’s what teachers used to say. He stares at the blank space where Ilya’s middle name should be. Ilya had said his middle name, before, in the hallway. Shane knows he did, he just forgot. You tell them you are Ilya (?) Rozanov— but Shane can’t remember. He can’t submit this test without the name filled in.
“You have one hour remaining,” a proctor calls.
Fuck. Shane adjusts himself in the seat, organizing his papers that had somehow gotten into a disarray. He doesn’t even know how much time he started with, and now only one hour remains. Shane rereads the first question (Did you do enough?) and realizes that he’d missed the reading passage that goes along with it, along with the directions. He exhales, backtracking to read them quickly:
Directions: Read Passage #1 below and answer the following questions based on the reading and your knowledge of the English language.
Passage #1
You had an afternoon game today against Nashville. Ilya Rozanov called you at 5:07 pm EST. You finished the game, intending to call Rozanov back but did not. You stayed at the rink longer than you needed to, and remembered to call Ilya back when you were halfway home. The fact that these behaviors are up for interpretation may seem unfair, but logical problem solving is tantamount to proper language acquisition.
(Source: Bell Canada, Wireless Records: Shane Hollander)
Shane drags his teeth over his chapped lip until it burns. He reads the second to last sentence three times. He could have sworn that he’d tried to call Ilya back while he was walking to his car, not when he was driving. He reaches for his phone by habit, to check, but he doesn’t have it here.
Shane circles answer d) I don’t know for question 1. He bubbles it in on the answer sheet, and feels some sense of accomplishment. He rereads question 2, but when he goes to bubble his answer he sees that his answer to question 1 has been changed from answer d) to answer a) I did more than enough and am absolved of guilt.
The proctor announces: “You have thirty minutes remaining.”
Shane draws a clear X over the undesired answer, instead bubbling in answer b) I did everything I could with the information I had. He watches the answer sheet for a moment, to be sure it sticks.
Sweat beads down the back Shane’s neck, soaking into his hood and making his hair stand on end. He presses his feet into the floor, suppressing a shiver. This cold is similar to heat here, just as heavy and suffocating. He wishes there was a fan going, or something, anything to move the air around and cover the sound of the other text takers. Their breathing is loud, interrupted only by throat-clearing and paper-shuffling. Normally, noises like that don’t bother Shane, but everything feels like a distraction now.
Shane flips to Part 2, to at least start the short answer section. Maybe he can go back and bullshit the multiple choice, but he can’t just guess on the written questions. He digs his finger nail into the plastic pen. He starts reading another passage:
Directions: Answer the questions below. Construct support for your arguments by using information from the passage below and your knowledge of the English language.
Passage #8
Ilya Rozanov was involved in a car accident that smashed his Porsche on a country road running through Kanata. He hit the guardrail head-on with enough force to send the vehicle careening into oncoming traffic. His car flipped and skidded along the pavement until it hit the left guardrail from behind. The road was covered in a light fog due to an early winter thaw and unseasonably warm temperatures. Rozanov was not wearing his seatbelt but was not ejected from the vehicle. It is reasonable to assume that the windshield was smashed and caused his cranial injuries. It is unclear what his destination was, as his car was found beyond his usual boundaries of The Canadian Tire Center and the practice arena he frequents. He did not bring his wallet or phone, and was identified at the hospital by employees who recognized him as the captain of the Ottawa Centaurs.
1) In your educated opinion, did Rozanov crash his car intentionally? Your argument may be in support of the affirmative, negative, or ambiguous nature of this situation.
Five blank lines sit underneath the question. Shane gages that he should probably write four sentences, or at least three. He starts to reframe the question, eating up words and taking up space. It’s what teachers always taught: reword the question, and you’ll find your answer. Something like that.
Shane writes:
Based on the passage and my educated opinion, I don’t believe that I can construct a supported argument to answer this question. Rozanov didn’t wear a seatbelt but he has been known to show reckless behavior before, like with unhealthy habits such as smoking cigarettes and listening to loud music in his earbuds, so this detail doesn’t really prove that he would hurt himself on purpose. Rozanov’s habits also include “going for a drive,” as he is a fan of sports cars and luxury vehicles, and a country road would be attractive for this purpose. At this time I cannot infer from the passage or my knowledge whether the act was intentional or accidental.
Shane sets the pen down, flexing his cramping hand. He doesn’t remember the last time he handwrote something as long as this. He presses his left thumb into the muscle of his palm, proof-reading his answer for errors:
Based on the passage and my educated opinion, it is an irrefutable fact that Rozanov incited this vehicle accident on purpose. Rozanov is a capable driver, but is known for risk-taking behavior exacerbated by a recently unpredictable temperament. The lack of restraints, neglecting to bring his wallet and mobile phone, and the violence of the crash on an otherwise quiet road also speaks to the purposeful nature of the act.
Shane swallows hard against the dry lump forming in his throat. The answer is written in his own chicken scratch print.
“You have two minutes remaining,” a proctor calls. “Please make sure all answers are filled in and that you have completed the informational section on the front cover. Without accurate personal information, your test will be invalidated.”
It’s too late to change his answer. Shane spastically flips back to the front cover, catching the booklet before it slides off the desk. He has to at least write Ilya’s full name on the front cover. It would defeat the whole purpose of him being here if he can’t actually help Ilya. They won’t grade the test without a full name. He sets the pen to paper, ink bleeding before he starts to write.
“Time’s up! Please discontinue any work.”
Shane drops his pen, staring at the front of the test book where he had just written: Ilya Hollander Rozanov.
A proctor appears at his side, checking his test. Everyone else is gone, the desks empty and the room still. The proctor checks Shane’s nearly empty answer sheet, comparing it to the test questions. Shane’s thighs sweat where they’re plastering to the plastic seat.
“It’s a shame,” the proctor says, adjusting his glasses on his plain, unsmiling face. “You could have asked for clarification.”
The proctor produces a red pen, striking one line through Ilya’s name on the front cover. He annotates something in Russian next to it.
“What does that mean?” Shane asks.
“You could have at least checked your pockets,” the proctor mutters, barely masking his annoyance.
“What?” Shane responds. He digs a hand in his pocket, finding a hard, thing slip of plastic. He draws it out, finding Ilya’s Ontario drivers license. Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov, it reads. “How—?”
“I suppose you need me to tell you what to do with it?” The proctor pulls Shane’s booklet and answer sheet away. Before his answer sheet disappears, Shane sees that every bubble is filled in black, with every possible answer chosen.
Shane’s angry now. “Did I fail?”
“I don’t know,” the proctor says, a little kinder. His English is lightly accented. “I’m not the grader.”
“How long until I know my grade?”
The proctor holds out his hand. Shane surrenders the pen.
“How do you think you did?” the proctor asks. He pulls a chair away from an empty desk, spinning it around to sit backwards. “You can still make corrections, you know. There’s a retake available.”
“There is?”
“Yes.”
On his last word, the proctor’s voice deepens. Shane blinks, and it’s Ilya. He’s not the school-aged boy from before, but closer to the man Shane had been hoping to see this weekend. He’s wearing a Centaurs cap, his curls poking out the sides. His hair is longer, like he’d kept it last season.
“Shane? Did you hear my question?” Ilya asks. “How did it go with the team? What did they say when you told them?”
Shane closes his eyes, hoping that Ilya will just keep talking. He likes hearing Ilya’s voice, what he says barely matters.
Ilya takes hold of Shane’s chin. “No. Talk to me. Answer the question.”
“I’m tired, Ilya. I don’t know.”
“How can you not know what happened to you? This is important, Hollander. You can’t go yet.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Shane whispers. He opens his eyes.
They’re sitting at Ilya’s kitchen island. Ilya is turned toward him on the swiveling stool.
“How did it go with your team?” Ilya repeats. “What did they say when you told them?”
They’d had this conversation before. It had been the Autumn before last, after the first summer of running the Irina Foundation and Ilya’s move to Ottawa. Shane had been back with the Metros training for a few weeks before making a quick visit to Ottawa. It had been such a relief to make the scant two hour drive to see Ilya, after a year of being so far apart.
“It was okay,” Shane says. “Not too bad.”
“Just okay?”
Shane nods. “Yeah, okay. Nothing to write home about.”
“Very David Hollander thing to say,” Ilya jokes. They both laugh, but it peters out quickly. Ilya tilts his head, surveying Shane. “Okay could be a lot of things. What does this okay mean?”
Shane sighs, wetting his lips. “Okay means okay. Good, even. It was as good as I thought it could be.”
Ilya strokes a hand down Shane’s forearm, gripping his hand at the end of it. “What did they say?”
“Nothing much. I mean, the whole thing is weird, so I get it.”
Ilya furrows his brow. “Weird how?”
Shane stands, letting Ilya’s touch slide away from him. He shuffles some papers on the island; goes to the sink to rinse a spoon dusted with protein powder. He puts it in the dishwasher.
“Like, me standing up and making a big announcement about myself felt weird. I don’t know how I would react, if someone else on the team did that. I would probably be like, ‘whatever man, why do we need to know?’”
“You would?”
Shane closes the dishwasher. It beeps like a warning. He’d accidentally pressed the start button. He opens it again and presses a few buttons to try and silence it.
Ilya speaks over it. “Does the team react this way when Hayden announces he’s having his tenth kid?”
“That’s not—” Shane shakes his head, finding and holding the cancel button for three seconds, and the beeping ceases. “You know it’s not the same.”
“Yes, Shane. I know it’s not the same.” Ilya sounds tired. He’s also been training with his new team. “Do you think they will tell? Start rumors?”
Shane sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe they don’t want anyone to know their captain’s gay either. We can agree there, even if their reasons are shit.”
Ilya nods, slowly. Shane knows what he said next: Can we talk about something else? It had shut down Ilya’s line of questioning pretty effectively. It wasn’t like Ilya really knew what to say about Shane’s situation, he was flying blind just like Shane.
Still, this is a retake. You can’t take the same test twice with the same answers and expect to pass. Shane tries something different.
“The team doesn’t care that I’m gay. I mean,” Shane pauses, licking his lips. Ilya waits, nodding at him to continue. “They do. But not necessarily in a bad way. But I think as long as we keep winning and playing well it won’t matter. I think we should both just concentrate on playing.”
Ilya sways in his seat, like he’s weighing Shane’s words. “But you told them for a reason? To ease into this?”
“Yeah, and like. It’s better, only having one secret.”
Ilya smiles. “Me, right?”
“Who else?” Shane turns back to the sink, rinsing and wringing out the dish sponge. “And I mean, if I play well enough then they won’t have any reason to think it affects my playing. It’s… building trust.”
“You think they trust you less? Because you suck cock?”
“Jesus Christ.” Shane sighs. “Maybe a little. Hunter made shit like this difficult. Maybe they think I’m going to make it my whole fucking thing, like he does.”
Ilya is quiet behind him. “Sweetheart.”
Shane turns around to chirp at him, to joke and push like they do and get them on lighter footing, but Ilya is gone. The entire kitchen island is gone. In its place is a small desk and a piece of cream-colored paper with official American letterhead. Americans and their eagles.
It’s a letter, addressed to Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov. Shane reads the first line.
We are pleased to inform you that your Visa application has been accepted.
Shane reaches into his pocket. Inside, Ilya’s Ontario ID is gone.
The alarm sounds like a sci-fi horror movie. Like the airlock to a spaceship has been compromised and the crew is rapidly losing oxygen. They gasp and cling to handholds and consoles to keep from being sucked into the vacuum of space. Rose had starred in something like that once. Shane watches a lot of movies like that on planes. They make the time pass.
Probiotics!
“Emergency probiotics!” Ilya taunts, close by. Close enough to be in the room. Shane wonders if its the the shadow, learning to speak.
“Shut up,” Shane groans, without opening his eyes. “With all the crap you eat your body is probably begging for a probiotic.”
“I’ll show you begging,” Ilya says. If Shane were to open his eyes, would the shadow be grinning? “And what even are these magical probiotics, Mr. Health? What do they do? Do you even know?”
If Shane opens his eyes he knows there will be nothing to see. If he opens his eyes it will be 10:05 pm and Ilya will be in the hospital with a busted head, fighting for his life. And Shane won’t be with him.
“The team doctor recommended them, asshole.”
“Oh? And what exactly—”
Shane doesn’t have time for this. The alarm is going off, loud and insistant. Shane opens his eyes to turn it off. Total silence rings out in its absence, no trace of any sound in the air, including Ilya’s voice. The shadow is just a pillar, straight lined and unmoving. Shane’s not on the couch this time, instead in Ilya’s comfortable reclining armchair. He’d sent Shane pictures of different recliners when his interior designer had been working on it.
Which do you think David would like the best? Ilya had texted. The gesture made Shane smile and his heart race, as if it was a thrill to live in a world where Ilya Rozanov made decisions based on Shane’s father’s comfort. He’ll be happy you thought of him either way, Shane had replied. No! Ilya had said, Tell me the right answer!
It’s 10:05. His phone buzzes with a text from Svetlana.
They updated the article about the accident, the message reads, along with a link. He’s still in surgery.
Shane opens it, reading the news headline.
Collision on Ottawa back road allegedly involving Star Ottawa Centaurs Player Ilya Rozanov
It’s 95% headline, with a small blurb about a car accident on a dark country road in the outskirts of Ottawa. Shane knows the road, it was on the way to the rink he used to practice at before getting drafted into the OHL. His dad preferred it over the busier highway, even if it meant they’d needed to leave earlier to get to Shane’s practice on time.
Who would make sure the correct things got out about Ilya Rozanov’s car accident? The Centaurs? Had Ilya been drunk? Shane knows about the weed, and he gets annoyed about it sometimes, but it’s not that big of a deal, a lot of players do it, and the beginning of Ottawa’s season had been brutal.
Shane reads it again:
Rozanov was brought to The Ottawa Hospital trauma center, where he was assessed for multiple injuries. It is reported that Rozanov was identified on the scene after passing cars reported the wreck, but is in critical condition. This story is still developing…
Identified on the scene. Shane stands, walking to the kitchen. Ilya’s phone is still in his pocket, but his wallet is gone. Shane stares at the empty spot, blowing out a hard stream of air. It doesn’t matter. He must have imagined Ilya’s wallet there. It’s been a long night already, and the edges are blurring between this day and other days Shane’s been in Ilya’s house. He needs to be patient. He’ll get some real news soon enough. Life or death, news is news.
He runs his fingers over the smooth countertop instead. He gets another beer from the fridge and drinks half of it walking up the stairs to Ilya’s room. Shane stands in the doorway. They’d had sex in here over three weeks ago, when Shane had a day off and was able to drive up to hang around for nearly two whole days. He’d arrived while Ilya was at practice and helped himself to Ilya’s fleshlight, timing it so that he was feeling insane by the time Ilya got home, and they’d fucked with slats of sunlight coming in through the blinds, warming their bare skin.
Shane picks up one of Ilya’s hoodies hanging from the back of a chair. He holds it to his nose, inhaling. It doesn’t smell like much of anything.
“Dude, you still picking out an outfit? Let’s hit it!”
Shane lowers the hoodie from his nose. Standing in the doorway is a giant guy, tall and wide like most hockey players Shane has known. He grasps the lintel, grinning at Shane like they have a secret. He’s wearing a familiar going out on the town uniform for hockey players— dark jeans, navy blue button-down, black boots. Shane can smell the musky body spray from this sizable distance.
“Mel… Collins?” Shane chances, the vaguely familiar face jogging his memory. Collins had been in their draft class, a d-man drafted along with Ilya to Boston. He’d been decent, but his career had stalled after Boston won the cup in 2014, and Shane thinks he weathered some shitty trades before giving up and retiring a few years later.
Collins flips a baseball cap onto his head. “Yeah dude, who did you think it was? Come on, we gotta go.”
Collins was a strange bird. He’d learned hockey in L.A., which made Shane skeptical of him from the start.
“Go where?” Shane asks, still clutching Ilya’s hoodie.
“Dude, Cup parties! Guess there’s gonna be mad bitches. Marley’s got some kind of connection. You’re lucky Roz is such a pretty boy, telling us all go home to change before we get fucking damaged, or you’d have missed all the fun.”
“Rozanov?” Shane asks. “Where is he?”
Collins drums on the doorframe. “Probably already fucked-up, because you’re taking forever! Let’s go. And make yourself decent, you look fucking homeless, bro.”
Collins ducks out, his heavy boots pounding down the stairs. Loud Rap music starts playing downstairs from some kind of tinny speakers, and Collins tries to sing along, to a bad effect. Shane unfreezes, draping Ilya’s hoodie on the back of the chair once more. He sheds his own hoodie and steps out of his joggers, shivering in the chilly air of the bedroom. Ilya usually jacks up the heat, but the thermostat had been strangely low. Shane opens one of the dresser drawers, pulling on a pair of Ilya’s black jeans. They’re a nicer pair, a little baggy in the hips, tighter in the thighs on Shane, but he gets them to button and adds a belt. The shirts are easier, and Shane finds a sleek v-neck black t-shirt, one that always drives him wild when Ilya wears it. It sits tight across the shoulders, pulling the neckline wide. They don’t have the same size feet, so Shane’s sneakers will have to do.
“You’ve got Roz’s phone, right dude?” Collins calls up to him. “He said you had it, wanted to make sure you brought it to him.”
Shane checks his pocket. Ilya’s phone is still there. “Yeah, I have it.”
“Then let’s fucking GO!”
Shane steps into the hallway, newly dressed, and is accosted with loud street noise.
“Come on, man!” Collins beckons, slightly ahead.
Vaguely, Shane recognizes the streets of Boston. He’s seen a little of the city, relegated mostly to hotel rooms near the arena and eventually Ilya’s house, because there’d never been anything to see in Boston besides Ilya. It’s busy, people hocking horns and hoards of people celebrating in the streets, their clothes emblazoned with the Raider’s black and gold. Collins practically bounces beside him, obviously trying to get Shane to walk faster.
“Surprised nothing’s on fire yet. Did you see that fucking goal, man? Roz was like a lightning bolt, I was practically leaning against my stick with my dick in my hand. Almost just bought some popcorn to just watch, you know? Fucking beauty, is what he is. Never thought I’d be on a team like this.”
“Yeah, he’s good,” Shane says, shoving his hands in his pockets. A few people run by, brandishing sparklers.
“So fucking good at hockey. Like, generationalized. That’s the word, right?”
“Sure.” Shane watches people run out in front of them, the sparks drawing lines of light in the darkness. “And yeah. He’s the best, probably.”
Collins leads Shane to a dark building with a pink neon sign. Shane doesn’t catch the name, ducking into the building after Collins.
“This is my fucking song, man!” Collins yells, thumping Shane on the shoulder in excitement while Shane takes in the smell of old beer and something sweet smelling, like rot, inside the loud club. “Whole city is on our side tonight!”
The music is indeed a continuation of the same song Collins had been blaring in Ilya’s house, the celebrations well underway as nearly naked women dance on an elevated platform that might legally count as a stage. Like the street, the bar is clad in black and gold, even the strippers getting into the spirit of the night. Boston is a sports town, but not everyone knows hockey. But they know winning, and they like that.
Collins leads him past the bar, past the stage, through a black door labeled “private.” A blast of noise hits them, and Shane is ushered into the back room of a strip joint for the first time in his life. He’s been in strip clubs with his team, obviously, but this is more of an exclusive situation, with couches and bottles and yes, women.
“Melvy! You finally made it, you fuck!”
Shane recognizes Cliff Marleau, gamboling up to them like a kid in a candy store. He has a necktie knotted around his head, even though his outfit doesn’t imply that he was wearing a tie. Greasy pink lipstick is smeared on his neck and the corner of his mouth.
“This guy was holding me up, but I got him here,” Collins said, punching Shane’s arm. It jogs Shane’s stance enough that he sees Ilya, sitting on one of the sofas. He’s talking to one of the strippers, a half-smile on his lips. “Get him a drink, man!”
Someone shoves a beer in Shane’s hand, a shitty Bud Light of course, and then a waitress, the most dressed woman in the room in a bra and skirt, distributes shots between him, Collins, and Marleau.
Marleau raises his glass to the ceiling, spilling half the whiskey down his arm. “The Fucking Boston Raiders!”
Everyone drinks to that. Shane sips his beer and lets the shot glass hang by his side, still full. It’s a strange feeling. He’s watched a lot of cup celebrations that weren’t his own, and from the outside the debauchery was annoying, mostly. It’s only fun if it’s your team, your city.
This feels different.
Across the room, Ilya’s smile presses into something different as the stripper straddles his lap. He presses his hands into her thighs. Someone must have paid extra for them to be able to touch the women. There’s a bouncer by the door, watching everything stoically, but by the looks of things the Raiders hadn’t found the limit yet.
Shane had never celebrated a cup win that wasn’t his own, but the energy is electric. He takes another sip of his beer. At least it’s cold. Ilya parts his lips, whispering something in the woman’s ear. She throws her head back and laughs. Shane’s chest constricts. It’s Ilya’s natural talent, to make everyone laugh in any circumstance.
Shane slips away, Marleau and Collins momentarily distracted by the Raider’s goalie getting an athletic lap dance. Shane weaves through the Raiders, breathing in the familiar stench of keyed-up hockey player crossed with victory and alcohol. There’s a mismatched chair near the sofa. Shane palms the shot glass and beer in one hand, spinning the chair around to sit backwards.
Ilya gives him the nod. “Hollander.”
Wordlessly, Shane hands Ilya the shot glass.
“Generous,” Ilya says. The stripper reaches behind herself to unhook her bra. The flimsy material snaps up, bunching near her collarbone. Her breasts fit perfectly in Ilya’s hands. His right hand. He toasts to Shane with his left. “Cheers, Hollander.”
Shane nods and tips his beer back while Ilya drinks the vodka. Ilya drops the empty shot glass on the sofa and resumes fondling the stripper’s nipples. She throws her head back, grinding in his lap, pushing the flesh into Ilya’s hands.
“What’s on your mind?” Ilya asks flatly. “I’m trying to celebrate, if you hadn’t noticed.”
Shane’s tired. Getting to this cesspool of a backroom had been journey enough. He doesn’t feel like beating around the bush.
“Are you okay?” Shane asks loudly. He doesn’t want to repeat himself.
“Are you serious? We just won the fucking Stanley Cup.”
“Fucking Standley Cup!” one of the other Raider’s crows, having heard Ilya. Everyone cheers and drinks. Shane takes another small sip.
“I know,” Shane says. “That’s not what I asked.”
Ilya shoots him an annoyed look. “You should go to bed. Unless you are going to get fun right fucking now.”
“I can’t sleep,” Shane says. “And I’m here for you. I have your phone.”
Shane takes the phone out of his pocket, setting it on the table in front of Ilya.
Ilya’s nostrils flare. He swallows hard, sliding his hands down to grip the woman’s waist, thumbing at the ladder of her ribcage.
“Nothing below that,” she reminds him. Somehow, it doesn’t interrupt her performance. She arches back into his hands. It’s familiar to Shane; Ilya does that sometimes, when Shane’s feeling him up, as if to say: Like what you see, Hollander?
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ilya says now, smiling at her. “You do okay on your own, ah, Sweetheart?”
Ilya looks at Shane when he mumbles the endearment. Shane leans into the chairback against his chest. Ilya is hard, his clothed cock rubbing into the crease of the woman’s thigh.
“Take a picture, Hollander,” Ilya says. “You can even do it on my phone, since you’re so worried about my stuff.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Shane says.
Ilya sniffs. His Adam’s Apple bobs as he swallows. “It’s been a long day. Sue me if I’m a little tired, we won a fucking cup.”
“I know. You said.”
Ilya inhales loudly through his nose as the stripper moans loudly and starts grinding on him in earnest, but Ilya is still talking to Shane. “You always want me shining and sparkling, the brightest thing in the room. I can do this for you. Marley has coke. Be a good boy and go get some for me?”
“Get it yourself.”
Ilya grins, rubbing the woman’s back. “Do I need to make a joke about my full hands?”
Shane stands and the chair scrapes against the cement floor. His dick is pressing against the zipper of his pants, constricting it like a torture device, but at least it’s not wholly visible in the dim lighting. Ilya buries his face in the stripper’s neck before Shane turns his back on him.
Marleau is over by the bar, leaning against the shiny black granite and talking to a stripper like he’s trying to put the honest moves on her.
“Little busy right now, Hollander,” Marleau says, stroking a hand down the woman’s arm while she giggles at his antics. “They’ll serve you at the bar, you look over twenty one.”
“Funny,” Shane quips, dryly. “Not here for that. Cap wants coke.”
Marleau brightens, his attention falling away from the woman. “Why didn’t you lead with that? Cap gets what Cap wants. Fucking legend he is.”
Marleau reaches into his pocket and comes out with a little bag, just like in the movies. When Shane sees those baggies come out at Metros parties, he usually toasts the room and heads home.
Marleau presses the baggie into Shane’s chest, his motions slurred like his speech. “Give him a fucking kiss for me, and tell him I get to jerk him off after he’s done with Laila.”
Of course, Marley knows the strippers by name. Shane catches the bag before it falls.
“Sure, I’ll tell him,” Shane says, and then, masking the nerves in his voice with false arrogance: “Can I get a bump?”
“Whoa!” Marleau nearly yells, limbs flying out. The stripper gives him a dirty look, walking away. “Seriously? Fuck yeah man, let me line you up.”
Marleau takes out another bag and an American Express card. It’s already got white dusted on one of the edges. Marleau taps the white powder onto the bar, using the card to make a neat line. He rolls up a twenty dollar bill and hands it to Shane.
“In you go, Hollander.” Marleau grasps Shane by the back of the neck, pressing until Shane bends over the bar. Shane blocks a nostril and closes his eyes, clenching his feet in his shoes as he sniffs up the powder. It stings, like there’s something in his eyes as well as his nose, and the rolled up twenty smells like shit. At first there’s nothing, and Shane straightens, wiping away the excess that falls onto his upper lip.
Marleau nods at him. “Just give it a second. You’re a virgin right?”
“Fuck off, Marleau.”
“Coke virgin, Hollander! No shame. I know you get tail, how could you not with those stats?”
A minute passes. Then two. Shane braces a hand on the bar. Marleau still has a hold on the back of Shane’s neck. He squeezes, and Shane feels the rhythm, Marleau’s hand like a pulsing creature riding on him. There’s brightness in the room now, everyone looks better, even the monstrously aging Raider’s defensemen.
Shane feels like he’s here. He feels like this is something real. Had he played hockey tonight? Had he worn a black jersey, his name emblazoned in gold across his shoulders? Or had it been Ilya’s name?
His dick is still hard.
“Fucking Stanley Cup winners!” Shane yells, and the Raiders answer with a roar.
Marleau shakes him. He has a molar missing, visible with his goofy fucking smile. “Fuck yes, Hollander. Now go get Cap, get him on the level.”
Shane realizes that he’s been clutching the bag of coke for Ilya the whole time, his palm sweating around the slip of plastic film. He pockets it. There’s a contingency of fourth line Raiders partially blocking his way, recording themselves doing some kind of stupid dance trend. Shane shoves through them, ignoring their dumb protests. It feels good, to expend some of the fake energy buzzing through him. He needs a brick wall to topple.
Ilya is still alone. Well, alone with a woman in his lap.
Shane sits back in the chair, leaning forward. He waits for Ilya to look at him, only then taking out the baggie and holding it between two fingers of his right hand. He flicks it with the index finger of his left hand, making it swing.
“So considerate,” Ilya says, eyes flashing. “Wanted to help my friend and I have a party?”
Shane shakes his head. He feels like there’s fire behind his eyes. He wants to knock Laila off Ilya’s lap. He could do it so much better. He could show Ilya a good enough time to get him smiling for real.
“What’s wrong with you?” Ilya studies him for a minute, and then raises his eyebrows. “You did coke with Marley.” Ilya’s eyes narrow. “Not a good boy then. I was going to share with you. Be your first, again.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“So you say. This is your first time doing coke, yes?”
“No,” Shane says quickly. He blinks. Ilya waits. “Yes.”
Ilya throws his head back and laughs. Shane’s cock stabs into the fly of his jeans.
“It’s already wearing off, asshole,” Shane interrupts when Ilya’s laughing gets self-indulgent. It turns into a moan as Laila starts humping his lap in earnest. It’s a deep sound, could be masked as a manly grunt if anyone called Ilya out on it. Shane looks around. Nobody’s watching them. Nobody’s watching Ilya. Even Marleau, with his declaration of fraternal dedication to Ilya’s dick getting wet, is still at the bar, having wrangled a new stripper whose boundaries he could test.
Ilya flattens his hands against Laila’s back as she drags her barely covered sex over the fly of his pants.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says, opening his eyes.
The endearment lands on Shane, again, instead of her. There’s no one looking at them. Shane reaches over the chairback, curling his fingers over Ilya’s knee. Ilya grimaces, his mouth making an odd shape.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Shane says.
Laila switches to grinding the top of her thigh on Ilya’s groin. Ilya’s eyebrows knit together, but he’s still not undone. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Shane stalls and collects his thoughts. He swallows the spit that’s gathered in his mouth. “Don’t come right now, and I’ll get you off myself. However you want. And I’ll do more coke with you.”
“How much more?”
Shane rolls his eyes. “As much as you want.” He pauses, looking at the outline of Ilya’s cock through his jeans. He licks his lips. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
Ilya circles Laila’s waist with his hands again. He speaks to her quietly, and she nods, giving Shane a wink when she stands up and rehooks her bra. Ilya reaches into his pocket, flipping open his wallet to give her a one-hundred dollar bill. Shane sees Ilya’s ID behind the clear plastic, and it looks like Shane’s used to, when he lived in Ontario; not the American ID that he should have at this time. Ilya flips it closed while Laila tucks the bill into her panties. She saunters off to another sofa, planting a wet kiss on another stripper currently in Collins’s lap. Collins toasts his glass to Shane, calling out:
“Thanks, man!”
Fingers grasp Shane’s jaw, and Ilya forcibly turns Shane back to him.
“Well?” Ilya squeezes Shane’s cheeks. The seal breaks between Shane’s lips. He breathes hard as he takes in the full weight of Ilya’s gaze. It’s still intense to have all of his attention. “You said you brought me something.”
Ilya holds him still while Shane offers the baggie in his sweaty hand. Ilya palms it, stroking Shane’s fingers in the process. Only then does Ilya release him, leaving an ache in Shane’s jaw that doesn’t hurt enough.
Ilya fiddles with the tiny zip-lock closure of the bag. “Come closer.”
Shane slides the chair closer. It scrapes loudly against the cement floor. It jostles the table, knocking Ilya’s phone to the floor. Ilya grasps a hunk of Shane’s hair and tilts Shane’s head to the side. With a tap that’s only audible in Shane’s ear due to proximity, Ilya lays out a line at the juncture between Shane’s neck and shoulder, in the cup of his collarbone. Shane’s heart beats hard. Ilya must see it in the jump of his pulse at his neck.
“Your phone fell,” Shane says.
“So what?”
“So, you need to not leave your phone in this skeevy club. Someone will probably steal it and sell it.”
Ilya shakes him by the crown of his head, like a dog. “Who will do this? You?”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m going to sell your phone, exactly. I don’t even know how I got you your wallet back, Rozanov, so stop testing this shit. It’s been a weird enough night.”
Ilya doesn’t respond. He leans in, inhaling deeply, the tip of his nose tracing the skin over Shane’s bone. He sets a steadying hand against the front of Shane’s throat, and Shane swallows against the light pressure. His eyes dart around the room.
“Don’t worry, they are not looking,” Ilya says. He dips his tongue into the divot of Shane’s collarbone, licking up the traces of power.
Shane swallows again. “They should be. You just won them a cup. Why are you alone over here?”
“The team won the cup.” Ilya laughs, a creaking sound, his smile stretching against Shane’s skin. “I’m not alone. You’re here, aren’t you?”
Without waiting for Shane’s answer, Ilya sits up. He prods at Shane’s mouth with a finger. Shane clenches his jaw, but Ilya doesn’t really need him to open. He slips his powdery finger past Shane’s lips, rubbing the bitter traces of cocaine into Shane’s gums, sliding over his teeth.
“More?” Ilya asks.
Shane nods. Ilya slides his hand down Shane’s neck, spreading the wetness from Shane’s mouth down his neck and down Shane’s arm until the finger is dry. Then he takes Shane’s wrist and tugs him to standing. Before he’s fully upright, Shane grabs Ilya’s phone, shoving it in Ilya's back pocket. And then Shane gets a flash of Ilya’s eyes, bright and wide before he’s backed into a wall. A door, Shane thinks it must be, with how it rattles on the hinges as Ilya takes his mouth, kissing with a frantic passion that matches the synthetic energy buzzing through Shane’s blood. He hitches a leg around Ilya’s hip. Ilya takes both thighs and in hand and lifts him—effortless, invincible strength, and slams Shane back against the door. Shane feels strong but weightless, suspended with tension alone, like a bridge stretched over raging waters.
They’re in Ilya’s Ottawa bedroom. Shane can see the partly open drawer where he’d borrowed Ilya’s shirt. The party rages on, behind the door.
It feels so good to touch him like this. Shane sinks his fingers in Ilya’s hair. The curls wrap around his fingers of their own accord, the gel or whatever other product Ilya uses sticky and slightly crunchy. The door rattles again as Ilya grinds their cocks together through their clothes. It barely feels like anything besides dry friction, except Shane never wants it to end.
“Say you’re mine,” Ilya growls against Shane’s lips, licking inside before Shane can answer. He digs his fingernails into Shane’s thighs. “Say it.”
Shane gasps, biting Ilya’s tongue to get him to back off. “You know I’m yours.”
“I don’t know anything.” Ilya pulls away. There’s still white under his nose. “Don’t be stupid.”
Ilya’s being stupid. Shane laughs about it, ears buzzing. Shane smears his thumb over the skin above Ilya’s upper lip. There’s still a dusting of white there.
“Need more? Knew you’d love it. ” Ilya asks, smiling with a giddy joy. He kisses Shane once more. “Hold on.”
He sets Shane down, fumbling for the bag he must have pocketed at some point. The room is so quiet, the voices of the other Raiders and music muffled. Shane’s heart beats rapidly. He laughs while Ilya’s giant fingers maneuver the tiny bag.
Ilya shoves him, grinning. “Fuck off, I’m the teacher here.”
Shane stumbles, face heating. He shoves Ilya back. “You aren’t shit.”
Ilya finally gets the bag open and crowds Shane against the door. He presses a thigh between Shane’s legs. “You ride that while I get mine. Keep you busy. I like you busy.”
Shane unbuttons his pants and unzips his fly, leaving everything else in place as he straddles Ilya’s thigh, pressing a steadying hand into the small of Ilya’s back and grinding his cock into the denim. Shane feels more like a panting spectator than a participant as Ilya props up his arm, pinching a measure of coke out onto Shane’s forearm. He snorts it quickly, licking the rest up and swishing around his mouth. He lets out a big “hah!” as if the sound could equalize the feeling in his body.
“You?” Ilya asks, jittery and hopeful, all pretense gone. “You now?”
Shane nods, his cock aching in his boxers as Ilya taps out some powder onto his own finger and holds it under Shane’s nose. The second high is still bright, clear like glass, but Shane’s not quite as unearthed this time.
“How do you want it?” Shane asks while Ilya kisses his neck.
“However you want.”
Shane shakes his head, Ilya’s ear warm against his cheek. “No, no, you. What you want.”
Ilya sighs, impatient. “Fine. I want you to suck my dick.”
Shane goes to his knees quick enough to feel the impact, especially in the sore one, but he’s too busy finally getting Ilya’s jeans open to dwell on it. Ilya’s hard already, red cock head already out of the foreskin. Shane spits on it, moaning as he licks the tip.
Ilya grips the hair at Shane’s crown, holding him off of his cock. He makes Shane look at him. “You’ll beg for it?”
Shane nods, scalp sprouting pins and needles as the motion pulls at the roots of his hair. This is what they’re good at. Not talking, not problem solving, not the complexities of relationships. Getting on their knees for each other and using each other and making demands of each other that are fun in both success and failure? That, they can do.
Ilya nods too, like he can hear Shane’s thoughts, like he’s agreeing. He sniffs, hard. “Go then. Show me.”
“Please,” Shane starts. He grasps Ilya’s legs, curling his fingers in the denim. He sits back on his heels, makes himself smaller, lower. “Please, Ilya. Please. Let me.”
“Let you what?”
“Let me suck it.”
“Why should I?”
“Because,” Shane licks his lips. There’s still bitterness there. He wonders how long a high like this is supposed to last. This one is already fading. He needs more. “I want it.”
Ilya laughs, no longer a kind sound. “But what about what I want? I thought you said this was for me?”
“I’ll make it good for you.” Shane shuffles closer, pulling against Ilya’s firm grip. “I’m here for you.”
Ilya looks at him. His grip releases and he pets his hair. It’s worse.
“Let me suck it, Rozanov.” Shane tries again, the words toneless. The k and the t implode in his throat.
Ilya sets a guiding hand on the back of Shane’s head. He nods. Shane moans when he gets his first mouthful, letting saliva run over his tongue and onto the length. He kisses underneath, at the vein and the swell of his balls.
“Come on, Hollander, not all day, there is a party,” Ilya says, but there’s no bite to it.
“Not like they’re looking for you,” Shane says, closing his mouth around the tip. “I’m the one here for you.”
Shane fits the length back in his mouth, bobbing slowly to start, sucking hard on the release like he knows Ilya likes. But Shane isn’t really good at taking his time, making a cramped noise in the back of his throat when he goes too deep. He does it again, fitting Ilya’s cock in his throat on each pass, taking him deep enough that dark blond hair tickles his nose.
Ilya’s hands are rough when he hauls him up. He turns and manhandles Shane so that his chest and cheek are pressed to the door. He gets Shane’s jeans off enough to bare his ass. Shane hisses and rises to his toes when cold, wet fingers press at him, one sinking inside.
“Easy,” Ilya whispers.
“Yeah,” Shane says.
Ilya braces his hand against the side of Shane’s face.
“You will take it because I want it, yes?” Ilya asks, adding another finger. “You are my prize.”
“Sure, sure. Anything you want, ah, anything you want me to be, I’m here for you—”
Ilya laughs. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but you’re up to something. Get out of my head, Hollander.”
Ilya’s cock slides in now, opening him on a single, deep thrust. Shane gasps.
“I’m here for you.”
Ilya doesn’t respond. He tilts Shane’s hips up to deepen the angle. Shane moans, turning to lean on the other cheek. Ilya reaches around and jerks Shane’s cock through the slit in his boxers.
“Want you to come with my cock in you. You’ll do what I want, yes?”
“Of course,” Shane says, leaning back, pressing back. “Fuck, Ilya—but I need to know if you’re okay, I need to know if you crashed your car on purpose—”
“You have no sense of timing Hollander. Uh, uh, fuck—that’s okay. You are a good lay.” Ilya’s hand softens on Shane’s hip. “Later. We can talk later. Come now, Hollander. Come for me.”
Shane does, and white noise leaks into his ears, loud like a rush. He loses track of Ilya along the way, loses his place like a book falling closed before he could get the bookmark in, but there’s still an indent where you might have left off. He comes to when the noise clears, something hard pressed against his chest.
“Fucking Stanley Cup winners baby!”
The party roars back to life around Shane. Marleau is across the room, one of the strippers in his lap with her arms looped around his neck. Shane stands from the chair, his legs aching like he’d been there for hours. The couch in front of him is empty.
Shane walks on shaking legs, finding Collins at the makeshift bar.
“Where’s Ilya?” Shane asks.
“Roz?” Collins says, his stupid eyebrows pressing together like Shane is asking him to do long division in his head. “Went home, I think. He’s not here anymore, but he’s always fucking disappearing.”
“Did he drive here?”
“Yeah in that fucking nasty orange number he just bought. Parked it right outside when Boston is burning everything down in the win. Fucking gas.”
“He’s driving?” Shane raises his voice. “You fucking let him go? He’s fucking high! What the fuck is this?”
Collins laughs, looking at Shane like he’s crazy. “Dude, Roz does this all the time. Says he’s better at it this way. You think I can stop him? Go ahead and try. At least he didn’t forget his phone this time.”
Shane’s high fades along with the scene. One by one the Raiders disappear, then the women, then the walls. Cool, damp air creeps under his clothes, and Shane’s feet land with a smack onto wet pavement.
Shane inhales cold air, opening his eyes. Ilya’s quiet street stretches out before him, blacktop pavement under Shane’s feet. His phone buzzes in his pocket, the alarm familiar by now. His other pocket is empty, Ilya’s phone gone.
Probiotics, the screen reads right before Shane turns the alarm off.
“Emergency probiotics!” Ilya had joked. It feels like an echo of a memory now. Shane doubts whether it happened at all. Maybe Ilya had never said the English word for probiotics in his life. Why would he? Shane could barely get him to answer a question.
Shane waits for the memory to fade, enjoying the sound of Ilya’s laughter in his ears even though it’s far away. Once it’s completely gone, Shane takes stock of what’s in front of him.
It’s a damp night, too warm for November. There’s water in the air, suspended. Mist and fog, not rain. There had been an early snow in October before Halloween, but it’s already gone, melted into dirty patches of mud and puddles in the street. Ilya lives in the suburbs, similar to the neighborhood where Shane grew up, but wealthier. The homes have gates, circular driveways, and security systems, but there’s a friendliness there. Ilya has fans on the street, but he’s never shown Shane the specific houses.
“Many people in Ottawa are Montreal fans,” Ilya says, as if Shane doesn’t know this about his hometown. “Seems like it is 50/50 most times. Ottawa comes out for Montreal’s games, you’ve seen.”
“We put on a good show,” Shane says. “Even better now that Ottawa has you.”
Ilya grins. “So I am just a clown? For Canadian entertainment?”
“Ship sailed on that when you went for the MLH.”
Ilya laughs. He tries to grab for Shane’s hand. “I am on your ship though? Your first mate?”
Shane moves his hand away from Ilya’s grasp, leaving Ilya’s question lingering in the air. Ilya isn’t supposed to be here. Shane should let him go. He needs to find where Ilya really is, and roads are made for traveling.
Shane’s lips are dry. He wets them, looking at his phone once more. It’s 10:05. Shane adjusts his stance, feeling off-balance. Shane hasn’t lived in Ottawa for years, not since he started billeting in Kingston when he was fifteen, but he knows the roads. He knows that if he walks forward he will meet a main road. The main road will take you to many places you wish to go, you only have to get on it.
His Dad would take young Shane to hockey practice on the back roads instead, avoiding the major highways. Shane never takes that road to Ilya’s house, he doesn’t know it as well as his dad, but he does remember it by the way his dad’s car would veer and shift in the curves. Shane’s body would lean with them. There’s one specific bend about a mile away from Shane’s old rink, notoriously tricky to maneuver in the dark. The driver needs to half their speed to safely negotiate the curve.
Mom hates that curve, and hated that Dad would take the back road, even in early Winter, with black ice a constant threat on weather forecasts. Mom would call out to them as they walked to the car, giant gear bags over their shoulders.
“Be careful! Watch for ice! David?” She would rush to meet them at the car door. “Did you hear me? Take the highway, it’s salted.”
“No problem. Be back soon,” Dad would say.
David Hollander never complained about his wife. He always told Shane she was the smartest person he knew, and yet, every time David assured Yuna that he would take the highway, despite taking the same country road every time. Shane would play his Gameboy on the drive. He’d never given much thought that they could die driving to hockey practice. His father isn’t a reckless man.
“Did you slip on black ice?” Shane asks. He scrolls his weather app, keeping his eyes on the screen. “Did you have black ice in Moscow?”
“He asks if there is ice in Russia.” Of course Ilya hadn’t left. He’s with him now. Maybe he always had been. “Instead of answering my charming question about our life at sea.”
“Fuck off with your bullshit. Forget Russia. Did you slip on black ice?” Shane finds the temperature for the time of Ilya’s crash. “It wasn’t cold enough for black ice.”
“Maybe it’s colder in the countryside. Ice gathers on bridges and curves,” Ilya says.
“You would never say that.”
“No?”
“You would reassure me that you were fine. You would tell me to fuck off before telling me the truth.”
Ilya tries to grab for Shane’s hand. “Is that what you want? I can do that.”
Shane exhales a sob, rough against his throat, jerking his hand away, and Ilya falls silent. The tears are hot on his face.
Shane had asked, once, in the beginning, if Ilya was sure he wanted to live in the suburbs. Ilya said yes.
Ilya’s street leads to the highway, but it leads to the backroads as well. One way out, many ways in.
Shane picks up his foot, knowing where he will land before he even finishes his step. His right foot meets his left, and he hisses as his thigh presses hard into a metal guardrail. Something flashes. The guardrail is covered in reflectors, flanked by iridescent signs that beg the driver: turn, for the love of god, turn.
Red and blue lights flash in the reflector paint from behind Shane, casting an eerie glow.
Turn, Shane thinks to himself, For the love of god, Shane, just turn around.
The scene is laid out like a photograph, more stillness than motion. Ilya’s porsche, smashed in the bend of the guardrail, twisted into an odd shape like a kidney. Through the back windshield Shane can see that the front windshield is cracked and smashed, small pebbles of glass falling to the ground in the soft wind. Some of them are tinted pink, nearly red.
“Shane, a little help here?”
There’s a yellow stripe along the bottom of the EMT’s jacket. It’s also reflective, like the signs on the guardrail, but not as bright. She has blonde hair cut into a messy shag that’s caught in the collar of her shirt. Shane follows the flurry of her gloved hands. She reaches into a bag, pulling out instruments and gauze. Her hands return to work. Underneath them is Ilya.
There’s blood, yes, darkening Ilya’s hair and clothes, but not as much as Shane feared. He’s limp, his eyes closed. The EMT had managed to get him on a stretcher by herself. There’s a brace on his neck. Shane pulls on his own fingers, remembering what Svetlana had said about the doctors drilling into Ilya’s head.
“Shane! Are you freaking out or something?” The EMT calls, her voice edged with annoyance. “Unrestrained male, obvious head and abdominal injuries. I can’t get him in the rig by myself, and he’s already dead weight. Do you need the salts? Long-ass night already.”
Dead. Shane could use the familiar jolt of smelling salts right now, the acrid ammonia scent burning the back of his throat had gotten him through long, rough games, but he’s not tired now. He’s watching Ilya’s blood soak through his clothes. He’s downright attentive to it.
The offer isn’t genuine, however, because she hands Shane a pair of gloves instead. “I need you to keep pressure on this wound while I secure his head. His 911 call said that he’d hurt his head.”
“He called? But he didn’t have his phone—”
“Just do it!”
Shane nods, setting that thought aside for now. He pulls the gloves over his shaking hands. He looks for the wound that she could be referring to. There’s a cut on Ilya’s forehead leaking a fountain of blood that drips down his eyes and nose, settling into the indent above his lips. There’s a long slice through his sleeve, like it had torn, but it’s more of a superficial wound. Shane lifts Ilya’s shirt, seeing a large bruise forming on his lower abdomen. Lifting further, there it is: large, c-shaped gash. It bubbles with blood as Ilya breathes his shallow, unconscious breaths.
“Fuck, fuck.” Shane scrambles for the medical dressings that the EMT has at the ready. He presses it over the wound, staunching the flow as best as he can. It soaks through in seconds, and he grabs for more dressings as the EMT shines a bright light into Ilya’s eyes. She props up his eyelids with her thumb, like a doll. They barely look blue, one of the pupils larger than normal, overtaking the iris.
“What does that mean?” Shane asks.
She doesn’t answer, consumed with securing the neck brace before she gestures to Shane to help her with the mechanisms to lift the gurney into the ambulance rig. He jumps into the rig and shuts the doors behind him, refocusing on holding the compression to Ilya’s wound.
Before hockey had taken over everything, Shane dreamt about a summer job as a lifeguard at the lake. He’d seen those lifeguards as a kid, thinking they must be thirty when they were probably only pushing eighteen. He’d imagined himself sitting atop that high seat, watching as people recklessly swam and boated, knowing that he would have to plunge himself into danger to save them if it came down to it. It was the height of power to a ten year old. He would know how to do CPR, like they did on TV.
Of course, they didn’t teach CPR to ten year olds, not in a child’s First Aid class. But they did teach you that blood needed to stay inside the body for people to live.
“We have to be quick, right?” Shane asks as the EMT putters around the truck, finding a packet of blood and leisurely starting a port in Ilya’s left arm. “Time is everything, in these situations, right?”
“Time and blood, sure, sure. This guy though?” She shrugs.
“What? What was that shrug?” Shane presses harder on Ilya’s wound, as if to compensate for her cavalier attitude.
She purses her lips, hanging up the bag of blood. It enters Ilya in a thick stream through the clear plastic tube. “These ones are the worst. Like, he’s probably not even going to make it to the doors. And the Cens were just starting to play better, too. You see his ID? It’s Ilya Rozanov, man.”
“Why don’t you fucking start driving then, if you’re such a big fan?” Shane spits.
She leisurely makes her way to the front. “I mean, I can drive all I want, but you better secure that dressing and start compressions if you want to have a warm body to turn over to Docs.”
“His heart isn’t beating?” Shane yells, scrambling for the medical tape to secure the dressing. “Why did you say anything? Or check his fucking pulse?”
“Why didn’t you check his pulse?” She leisurely makes her way to the driver’s seat. “We’re a team, Shane. And I’m on a double shift so like, maybe step off.”
Shane folds his hands over Ilya’s chest. They didn’t teach ten year olds CPR. They didn’t teach MLH hopefuls CPR either. But he’s watched movies. So many movies. He’s seen compressions done on the ice, once. Hopefully he’s something close to accurate.
He starts pounding on Ilya’s chest, backing off only when the EMT slowly hooks up the nodes to his chest. When he starts up again, there’s a steady beeping from the heart monitor, in time just with his hands. There’s no heartbeat without Shane. He can’t stop. The blood soaks through the bandages over Ilya’s abdomen, pumping faster now that Shane is making his heart beat.
“Shouldn’t have turned the truck off,” the EMT says from the front seat. She rubs her hands together. Dry skin that sounds like paper. “Damn thing gets cold so quickly.”
“Fucking Christ,” Shane says, continuing the compressions. There’s something with CPR about the rhythm. He’s heard there’s songs you can sing to yourself to keep the right beat, but Shane has never been good at remembering things about music. There’s blood under his hand. Another wound. Is he even in the right spot? Is he killing Ilya, as he tries to save him?
“What do you want to listen to?” the EMT asks, fiddling with her phone. “I’ve got everything on here.”
“Would you just fucking drive, please?” Shane snaps, yelling for the first time.
“Okay, okay, sheesh—”
The truck starts moving. Shane pauses the compressions to peel an eyelid back. He’s loved memorizing the way Ilya’s eyes light up when he laughs, loved seeing him fully alive off of the hockey rink. He gets to have every facet of him. Ilya doesn’t hide anything from him anymore. They’re in love, and isn’t that what it means to be in love? To have no more secrets?
“Why didn’t you just say something?” Shane says, the words broken and ugly. “You wouldn’t say anything. I asked. I asked you so many times. I don’t know how to do anything except ask. If I was with you, I could push you but I wasn’t with you, and I didn’t want—”
The truck drives over a large bump, Shane’s rhythm ruined for a beat. The monitor beats languidly in the absence of Shane’s compressions. Something like a heartbeat, he guesses.
“Okay, okay you fuck, we got something—”
Shane starts the compressions up again. Something snaps under Shane’s hands. He knows what breaking a rib feels like. Blood leaks from the corner of Ilya’s mouth.
“Sucks when people die from us trying to save their lives, you know?” the EMT says, lounging at a stop sign, waiting for far-away cars to clear. “Crazy, isn’t it? By the way, did you check his airway? I know it’s a formality, they’re just going to call it when we get there.”
“No, they’re not,” Shane says, not pausing. “No, they’re fucking not.”
“Whatever you say, dude.”
The ambulance lurches forward and Shane continues his compressions. He stops counting after they enter the city proper, towards the hospital he knows is just around the corner. The ambulance turns, and turns, and turns again.
“Where the fuck are you going?” Shane asks. His arms feel like jelly. There’s a bruise forming under his hands. “We should be there already. The hospital is right here.”
Shane looks at the front seat, but the driver is gone. The ambulance is cold, like it had never been started. Shane looks down at the gurney, and it’s empty, the fabric covering it clean and staged for the next patient.
“No, no, no—” Shane scrambles at the empty sheets, clawing with fingers that are still red from Ilya’s wounds. His gloves are gone. His hands are tacky with blood that has long gone dry.
Shane’s phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He reaches for it, seeing that Ilya is calling him.
Shane sits back in the hard, plastic pop-up chair built into the side of the ambulance.
“Ilya?”
There’s static on the other end, and then silence. The line beeps, dead.
“Fuck,” Shane breathes, but then the screens lights up again with a call from Ilya. He answers it. “Ilya, Are you there?”
The line beeps, dead again.
Shane swallows. The truck’s doors are open, a gaping maw looking out into a dark night. No guard rails, no reflector paint. He turns away from it, looking back down at his phone. He switches to the call log. The screen looks different now. Instead of one failed call to Shane at 5:07, there are four additional calls to Shane from Ilya: 5:10, 5:17, 5:29, and 5:30.
Another call comes through, the phone vibrating in Shane’s hand again. He stares at it, stares at Ilya’s name, knowing that this call isn’t for him. It goes to voicemail. Shane waits for it to finish, and then clicks to listen, holding the warm phone to his ear.
The line picks up after a few moments, the blank sound of an outgoing call switching to the air-filled static of a live line. Shane waits. An automated voice picks up first:
Replaying emergency services call number 5071005. Please wait while we access the call log.
Shane waits on a silent hold until the line clicks, engaging like a roll of film. The dispatcher answers first—911, what’s your emergency?—and then it’s a voice Shane could listen to for hours.
“Yes, I am here. Fuck. Sorry. I was in an—ah—car accident.”
“Do you know where you are? Can you share your location?”
“Yes, I am sharing my location on the phone.”
“Please give me your name and callback number, sir.”
“Ilya Rozanov. And um…”
“Can you repeat that, sir?”
“Yes. I think, ah fuck, I think I hurt my head. Windshield is smashed. I think I’m off the road…”
“Stay on the line, sir, we have your location and we’re sending an ambulance.”
“Sorry, yes, I will stay on the line, but I. I don’t know, I don’t know if I can…”
Ilya’s voice goes silent, but the line doesn’t die. Shane listens to Ilya breathe, unsteady and shuddering, slowing down with every passing second. Shane’s alarm starts to go off in his ear, reminding him to take his probiotics. It’s loud, but Shane doesn’t move. It doesn’t sound like a siren anymore. It sounds like something new.
The alarm is still ringing when Shane wakes up. It’s like an old-fashioned telephone, shrill and non-stop, but faint. He blinks his eyes open. The sheets under his cheek are different that what he’s used to. They’re scratchier and printed with tiny yellow flowers. He picks up his head, kicking off the blankets. A radiator rattles in the corner of the room. A dark wooden chest of drawers takes up one wall of the room, with some sort of religious figurine staring back at Shane. The wallpaper matches the sheets.
“Mama!” a voice calls through the house. It’s youthful and energetic, speaking in fast Russian. “I’m home! Practice went late.”
Ignoring the voice for now, Shane looks around for the source of the alarm. His phone is gone from his pocket. The alarm isn’t coming from this room. Shane kicks off the sheets, standing on shaking legs. His arms are sore from the muscles that support his shoulder joint down, like he’d been lifting.
Something rustles out in the hallway, like the voice had dropped something heavy. “Ugh, fucking bag. Alyosha? Are you home? Mama! Where is everyone?” Shane hears clinking sounds as the voice sets what sounds like dishes in the sink. The footsteps are quick and sloppy, sneakers squeaking on the hardwood, like a child growing into an adult. The voice gets closer, but not near Shane yet. “Mama! You slept through your alarm again. It’s alright, I walked home with Sasha—”
The voice cuts off. Shane walks out of the bedroom. The narrow hallway is edged in the same dark wood as the bedroom, the sconces glowing with yellow light. Shane passes a window. It’s evening, the night sky dark over an unfamiliar skyline. He’s seen it in pictures, but never in person.
“Mama…”
Shane enters a dim living space. He makes out the sparse outlines of a decorative sofa, some end tables, and two armchairs. The wood-trimmed television is small but set on an ornate wooden table. Shane presses a hand to the screen, remembering the fuzzy static that used to cover the warm glass on TVs like this. This one is cold, like no one has used it in a long time.
He enters a short hallway. Through an archway is the kitchen, and down another hallway is the voice and the sound of the alarm. The voice gets louder, hitched on the backend of little hiccuping sobs each time. The alarm gets louder too, with every step he takes. Shane faces that room, trying to control the speed of his own heart.
“Wake up,” says the voice harshly. And then a gentler: “Mama. You have been sleeping all day again. You have to wake up now, Father will be home—”
There’s a soft light coming out of that room. A bedside lamp, maybe. Shane walks toward the light, towards the empty doorway with only one dancing shadow. There’s only one person moving inside that room. There’s only one person alive in there.
Inside, the alarm blares from an old fashioned digital alarm clock, like the ones Shane had seen in hotels when he first started traveling for hockey. The numbers are red, and the alarm is harsh, the audio blaring from the subpar speakers.
10:05 pm.
Shane crosses the room. The alarm is loud and obtrusive, and he knows it would be helpful to turn it off. It would be helpful to twelve year old Ilya Rozanov, trying to shake his dead mother awake.
“Mama—” It’s more sound than word, low and rough. Ilya’s voice must have broken early, because it’s deeper than Shane expected. Ilya squeezes her hand, clumsily looking for a pulse.
Shane fiddles with the alarm, finding the snooze button first. It turns the alarm off for now, and Shane looks for the off button instead. Irina’s face is obscured by her arm. There’s a discoloration in the bedding, staining the pink floral sheets. Not blood, but a beige-colored substance like bile. Shane gives up looking for the off button, stooping over to yank the plug from the wall outlet instead. The screen goes dark.
“Will you help?” Ilya entreats, looking directly at Shane when he straightens and speaking in troubled English. “She’s— she— not feeling well. Will you help?”
Ilya is slender, gangly with early adolescence but near to his full height. His face is rounded. His cheeks are red from crying, tears spilling easily from his eyes. He’s wearing athletic clothes twenty years out of date, but they are not so different from what he wears now. Two of his fingers are taped together, like he got hurt at practice.
“I—Ilya.”
Ilya shakes his head hard. He lets go of his mother’s hand. “You know. You know how to help. You are here to help?”
Shane chokes on his words. “I’m here for you.”
“What? What does this mean?” He points at his motionless mother. “She. She needs the help. What does this mean, you are for me? You know how to help?”
Shane gently replaces the digital clock on the side table. “I am here for you. But I… I don’t know if I can help.”
Ilya crosses to Shane’s side of the room. “I don’t know means yes. Yes, you can help. She only took pills. Too much. Not like gun. She needs to—” he waffles, trying to conjure the word, instead sticking his finger down his throat and making a retching noise, like vomit. “You know. You know what I say. I did it before—” Ilya’s eyes dart around. “With Alyosha last time, we carried her to the washroom, so Father did not find the mess. We will do again, but… cannot alone— help me.”
Ilya grabs Shane’s arm, shaking him. Shane hears footsteps behind them walking a steady beat.
Tears prick at Shane’s eyes. “Ilya, I’m so sorry—”
Someone enters the room, turning on a proper lamp, flooding the room with soft yellow light.
Ilya’s nostrils flare. “Sorry is not help, sorry is nothing.”
Hands twine between them, pale but alive. They are gentle, and they peel Ilya’s fingers off of Shane’s arm one by one. They take Ilya by the shoulders and steer him back to the bed, away from Shane.
The hands belong to a tall woman. Her blond curls are a halo around her head. She smells like cigarettes and hairspray, stronger than the kind Shane’s mom used to use. She wears a gold cross around her neck. She smiles, and Shane knows her. She’s the woman in Ilya’s few pictures, brought home by Svetlana. She’s the woman in the bed, cold and stiff, left too long alone in death. Shane knows her smile because it’s like Ilya’s smile, and Ilya is her son. Shane loves her son.
“It’s not real, Shane,” Irina Rozanova says. “You drank too much.”
“I barely drank anything,” Shane snaps, surprising himself at the cold way he speaks to the woman that would have been his mother-in law. “Not enough to be drunk. This isn’t even a dream, like the others. It’s real. This is what happened, isn’t it?”
Irina looks at herself, motionless in the bed save for how her son shakes her. Her arm falls away and reveals her lifeless eyes, staring forever. “Maybe. Ilyusha barely remembers. His mind protects him, as much as it can. You drank enough to wallow in guilt. Guilt you do not understand. Cannot understand.” My flicks her fingers. “It’s not your fault. It’s the way you are.”
“So what? You’re saying there’s nothing I can do for him? That he’s just going to die in a car accident and it was always going to happen that way?”
“I don’t mean to offend. You have already done so much, Shane.”
Behind them, young Ilya starts to cry. It’s a yell, really. Children are fearful about death, their grief only taking shape when adults explain it to them. Ilya will be scared unless someone explains to him that his mother has gone to sleep and will not wake up, like Yuna Hollander did when Shane’s grandmother died of a stroke in her sleep. Shane can explain it to Ilya, the way it was explained to him.
Shane pulls a hand through his hair. The living Irina in front of him tilts her head, surveying him. It’s a devastatingly familiar piece of body language.
“There is nothing you can do in here,” she says. Her voice is low, like Ilya’s. Husky. “You see it is over.”
Shane shakes his head. “No, nah— there’s a lot I can do. He needs, he needs someone to tell him it’ll be okay.”
“It is not okay. Lies do nothing.”
“Fuck that. No, I’m going to help him. He’s asking me to help.”
“Do you always do what he asks?”
Shane turns away. She isn’t making sense. But she’s dead, so whatever. She can say all the cryptic shit she wants, comforting Ilya is Shane’s priority. Adult-Ilya would want Shane to meet his mother, but there’s only a kid here, and Shane is pretty good with kids. Not fun or good at making up games, like Ilya, but he knows how to stoop down to their level like he’s seen Hayden do with the twins. He knows how to explain facts of life to them, like taking turns with toys or that hitting your sister isn’t an appropriate response to her sticking her tongue out. He hasn’t done a death conversation yet, but he can try, he can say what his mom said to him when—
The upright Irina catches Shane’s arm. Ilya doesn’t react to their shuffling feet. There’s snot pouring from his nose, mixing with the tears. He strokes his dead mother’s hair.
“Mama, Mama, wake up Mama…”
Irina tugs on Shane’s arm. “Come. I will make you tea.”
With one last look at Ilya, Shane allows himself to be led back into the hallway and through the arch. The Rozanov’s kitchen is large, but not comfortable. There’s no table, only a work surface and two ovens with a sizable cooktop. It’s a kitchen for cooking food that will be presented in another room. Food made with ceremony. There’s only one small chair in the corner. It has a small frame, wooden, with a woven seat. Like wicker. No, it’s not wicker, but it is woven.
Whatever it is, Irina gestures for Shane to sit in it. He does, and it creaks, like it’s made for someone lighter. Irina busies herself with a kettle. Ilya is still crying in the other room, the sound gradually muffled by the rushing sound of heating water.
“How do you like your tea?” Irina asks.
Shane realizes, for the first time, that she’s speaking in English.
“Um. Black?”
She nods. “Jam? Lemon?”
Ilya never has tea with jam. The only tea they drink is chamomile, occasionally, from tea bags, when they’re too keyed up after a game and seeing each other to sleep. It’s one of Ilya’s new Ottawa habits, and Shane doesn’t mind it. That tea is different from the dark concentrate Irina pours into a fine china teacup, topping it with hot water from the kettle. Ilya has spoken about tea with jam, from when he was young.
“Jam sounds good,” Shane says. He can’t keep telling her no. He’s been so rude already.
She spoons the dark red jam into his cup, giving it a stir. “It is good. Our housekeeper makes it herself. She is very proud of it, so I buy many jars. Ilyusha’s favorite.”
Shane stands as she carries the cup and saucer over. “Thank you.”
The tea is sweet and cool enough to drink right away while still being pleasant. Irina fixes her own cup with a slice of lemon and leans against the countertop.
“What happens now?” Shane asks.
She purses her lips. “Grigori will come home. He will put Ilyusha in his room until the body is gone.”
“And then he’ll tell Ilya it was an accident,” Shane finishes.
Irina shrugs. “Maybe it was. No one knows for sure.”
“Are you saying you didn’t kill yourself?”
She purses her lips. “Grigori went to a dinner with very important men from the government. I was meant to make myself pretty and hang on his arm, like a decoration. I refused to go, and he left angry. Alyosha hadn’t been home in three days, staying with a new girlfriend. I cooked Ilyusha a late lunch and he sat in that chair while he ate,” she gestures her chin at Shane, “so that he could keep talking to me. I took him to hockey practice and then came home. That’s when I took the sleeping pills.” She stops, taking another sip of tea. “I wasn’t counting how many. Maybe I didn’t mean to take too many.”
“No one just takes too many.”
She raises her eyebrows. “And you are an expert in these things? The ways in which unhappy Russian housewives kill themselves?”
“It doesn't matter.” Shane stands, wishing he was at a table so he could leave the cup and saucer. He has to keep it with him, unless he wants to drop it and let it shatter in front of Ilya’s mother, who killed herself. Ilya’s mother, who is beautiful and funny, and doesn’t seem weak at all, just like Ilya had said. Maybe that makes it worse. “You left him. He needed you. He loved you. You left him alone, and you shouldn’t have.”
Ilya’s mother nods. Her blonde hair is the same shade as Ilya’s.
“Is that the truth?” Shane asks.
She crosses her ankles in front of her, another familiar gesture. “I don’t know.”
“You either know or you don’t. I don’t know means yes.”
“Ah, you throw this nonsense back at me. Can you only think in black or white, Shane Hollander?” She says his name so coldly. “Do you only know the lessons your parents taught you? Do you only know yes or no? Do you think my boy understands what happened tonight?”
Shane rolls his eyes. “He understands that he’s crying over your body.”
Irina shakes her head. “No. Not this night, your tonight. Do you think he knows whether he crashed his ridiculous car on purpose or not?”
“He’ll tell me,” Shane says. “When he wakes up. He’ll be honest with me.”
“Because he loves you, yes? And that alone will save him? Because he loves you more than I loved the thought of death. This is what you believe?”
Shane swallows the last of the tea and sets the cup carefully in the sink. There are blue flowers on this cup. Yellow flowers in his bed, pink in Irina’s, and blue on the china. They are the same type of flower, dyed different hues. The wallpaper above the sink is of purple flowers, the same petal shape.
Shane turns around. “This is a test.”
Irina smiles over the lip of her cup, sipping before speaking. “Yes, of course it is. You are funny, Shane Hollander. You try to answer a question I haven’t asked yet. Impatient. Like my Ilyusha. You remind me so much of him.”
“If you have a question, why don’t you just ask it?”
“I have limited time, but I’m enjoying our talk. I wanted to get to know you first. Is that such a crime? Your own mother thinks of Ilyusha like a son, but I will never meet you.”
“You’re meeting me now.”
“And you are making a terrible impression.” She laughs at her own joke. “Fine, fine. I will hurry. Did you drink your father’s beers in the fridge?”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Yes, fuck, I drank them. Brady wanted to, and I wanted him to think I was cool, and I fucking drank them. What does it matter?”
“It matters that you are sure, Shane,” she says. “It matters that you are saying yes now, even if you couldn’t in the past.”
“So it’s my fault then?” Shane throws his hands up, finally raising his voice at Ilya’s dead mother while Ilya sobs in the next room. “I missed something, I wasn’t paying attention, and Ilya fucking crashed his car on purpose while I wasn’t looking.”
“I cannot tell you what’s true and what isn’t true.” She sips her own tea. There is still steam coming from her cup. A cup that never cools, time that never moves forward. “But just because you see something, or know something, doesn’t mean you can stop it. You have done so much already.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“But you have. Without you, Ilya would have left his wallet and phone home, would have careened into the guard rail without thought. With you he takes these things. He lets himself be identified. He calls your emergency people. This is not nothing, and there is more you can do. But still,” she raises her eyebrows quick, up and down, bunches her mouth into a tight purse. Another familiar gesture. “But still my boy will do what he does.”
“I don’t understand you.”
She laughs, tapping her forehead. “Too much hockey. Okay,” she says with an exaggerated western accent. “You can pass my test by answering this question. Then it will all be over.”
Shane nods. “I just want to end this.”
She sets her cup down. Her fingernails are painted bright red.
“Did Ilya crash his car on purpose?”
Shane breathes. There is so little sound here. Only Ilya’s cries, and the thud of his own heartbeat.
Shane remembers his own text to Ilya, sent after he learned about the accident: I can’t remember if I told you this on the phone yesterday, but I love you so much.
But he does remember. Shane had told Ilya he loved him. He’d listened to Ilya breathe into the phone, asleep after a long conversation about nothing, certainly not about all of Ilya’s losses on the road, during which they both barely kept their eyes open. Ilya had fallen asleep first, and his phone flopped out of his hand. Shane could only see the navy blue of Ilya’s sheets and a strand of light from the bedside lamp—light that cast a spiraled shadow of Ilya’s curls. Shane had traced his finger over that shadow, and then he’d said it.
Shane had said it. He’d said:
I love you. I’m going to hang up now because you’re totally fucking asleep, but I love you. Good night, Ilya. I love you.
Shane inhales. He looks in Irina’s eyes. “It doesn’t matter. No matter what I—it doesn’t matter. If he lives, it doesn’t matter. We’ll get help. I’ll help him.”
Irina nods. “Good. Now go get him. You can help him now, if you hurry. There is one more thing you can do for him.”
Shane furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”
“He doesn’t belong here.” She gestures at the opulent but cold kitchen. “He will die here, if you don’t get him out. He needs a chance.”
Shane doesn’t understand her still, not fully, but his shoulders drop with the relief to be given a task. “Show me how?”
Irina pushes off the countertop, her bare feet soft on the kitchen tile and then the hallway hardwood. Her beige dress swishes around her knees, the only sound now. She leads him to the bedroom again. Ilya has stopped crying. He’s on his knees next to the bed, stroking Irina’s hair. He’s holding her pale hand. Between his fingers is something gold, shining dully in the low light against his skin.
The living Irina gestures for him to go.
Shane nods. He lowers himself, squatting beside Ilya. He untangles Ilya’s hand from his dead mother’s and makes sure the gold chain doesn’t fall. It slips into Shane’s hand. He touches Ilya’s chin, encouraging him sit up, away from the ruined sheets. Shane finds the clasp of the necklace, pinching it between his fingers and lifting it to Ilya’s neck. Ilya ducks his head forward, making it easier for Shane to twine his arms around him and secure the clasp. The gold cross sits clunkily in the thick neckline of Ilya’s sweatshirt before Shane tucks it inside to rest against his skin instead.
Shane rests his hand on Ilya’s shoulder, squeezing. “Time to go.”
Grigori Rozanov would never come home to find Ilya. He would never tell him it was an accident. Shane will protect him from both the truth and the lies.
Ilya stands when Shane stands, and in that moment they are the same height and with the same width shoulders. Ilya’s sweatshirt has a Centaurs logo. Shane lets his hand fall, tracing the embroidery over his heart.
“Time to go,” Shane whispers again.
“You can have him if you can keep hold of him,” the living Irina says. “If you let go, he will be lost.”
Shane cups his hand over Ilya’s bicep, smoothing down his arm to grasp his hand. He laces their fingers together. That should be the most secure way.
Irina sits on the bed, holding Ilya’s dead mother’s hand in his stead. She nods at the door.
“Go.”
Shane turns, holding Ilya’s hand tight enough to feel bone. He leads him out of the bedroom, and when they step into the hallway the door slams shut behind them.
Shane’s ears are assaulted with the sound of a ventilation fan. Then comes the talking, the post-game ribbing and call-outs; the stink of sweat and rubber and exertion. The Montreal Metros locker room takes shape around him. Shane stands in front of his cubby, looking for the tube of muscle ointment he’d left there. Hayden is grabbing his shoulder and shaking him, congratulating Shane on his final goal off his assist. JJ is there too, making plans for the evening, roping Shane in without asking.
“Fucking A’– give me a fucking minute, JJ” Shane says while they babble on. “Theriault said he needed me and my knee feels like shit, just let me catch my breath—”
Shane gropes around for the tube of ointment while they keep talking. It would be easier to find if he had both hands free. He doesn’t understand why his other hand is occupied. Maybe he’d left a glove on and it’s caught on something. He starts to slip it out of the grip around his fingers, but as his hand gropes around his stall shelf, he finds the tube, and next to it, Shane’s vibrating phone.
Ilya Rozanov-Irina Foundation flashes across the screen. The time reads 5:30 pm. Shane watches the phone ring three times, and then he answers it.
“Hey, game just got done,” Shane says. The dressing room falls silent. “How are you?”
“Good win,” Ilya says in response. “Tell Pike to stop feinting to the left every time. He’s making my TV go all lopsided.”
“Come on, he had a great game,” Shane says. llya’s voice is slightly muffled. “Are you driving?”
“Yes.” Shane hears the clicker of Ilya’s signal over the purr of his Porsche’s engine. Ilya starts humming, a few words sneaking through tunelessly. “Country roads, take me home.”
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s a good song. Americans like it.”
Shane turns, and Ilya is still behind him, like he was in Ilya’s mother’s room, holding his phone to his ear. The dressing room is empty. Shane grips his hand harder. He’d almost let it go. You can have him if you can keep hold of him.
“I know the song,” Shane says. His hand sweats against Ilya’s. “Why are you singing it?”
Ilya’s lips are chapped. Shadows pass rhythmically over his face, the shape of streetlights from Ilya’s driver’s seat, even though he stands here in the sterile light of the dressing room. “Because I am driving on country roads. Random thing. It’s not a secret code. ”
“No? You’re pretty good at keeping secrets.”
Ilya laughs once. “We both are. You are the best, probably.”
A ding sounds, another alert inside Ilya’s Porsche. It’s insistent and unrelenting, a steady beat, a sound that wants to be heard.
“Are you wearing your seatbelt?” Shane asks.
Ilya pauses. “Ah, no.” Shane hears the vinyl slip through the mechanism, and then the fastening click. “There. Must have forgot. Safety first, yes?”
“Yeah, safety first.”
Tears well up in Shane’s eyes. He wants to swipe at them, to press at his eyes, but he doesn’t have a free hand.
“There’s a bend in the road, coming up,” Shane says. “Watch for it, okay? If you’re driving where I think you are.”
“Okay.”
“And I’ll stay with you while you drive,” Shane says. “To keep you company.”
Ilya pauses, followed by another click of his indicator. “JJ must have plans. You’re not going out with your team?”
“Nah, I’m not into it tonight. My knee feels like shit,” Shane says. He sinks to the floor, crossing his legs to sit. Ilya does the same, sitting across from him. Shane holds his phone to his ear with his shoulder, and grasps Ilya’s hand with both of his. He pulls it into his lap, making Ilya stretch his arm, straighten the elbow. “I just want to talk to you. Whatever you want to do, I’ll stay with you.”
Tears gather at the corner of Ilya’s eyes, making his eyes shine clear. Redness rings the upper and lower lids.
Shane speaks again: “Whatever happens, I’ll stay with you.”
The shadows that pass over Ilya’s face are farther apart now, like there are less lights on the road. Maybe they are only from passing cars.
“It’s not because I don’t love you,” Ilya says.
“I know.”
“My mother loved me. And she still killed herself.”
“I know.”
Over the line, the roar of the Porsche grows louder. Headlights flash over Ilya’s face, passing cars going much slower than him.
“You will stay with me?” Ilya asks. His voice is fragmented over the phone. His lips move, but Shane only hears him through the craggy connection. “Even though you know what happens?”
Shane squeezes hard. “Yes. I don’t want you to be alone. You never have to be alone again.”
“No? Why’s that?”
“Because you have me. And you’re going to make it through this.” Shane inhales, fighting the thickness in his throat. “So, I’ll see you soon, okay? I love you.”
Ilya’s expression collapses, his mouth parting as the tears fall. He bows over their joined hands. Over the phone, Ilya exhales, the tail-end of it a sob. Shane sees it in the twitch of Ilya’s back. Ilya squeezes Shane’s hand, and the cuts sting. It disturbs the scabs, and warm blood wells up between their hands.
Everything goes dark. Shane’s not in the dressing room anymore. He’s nowhere. He’s in the place you go when you think you have nowhere else to go. He’s there with Ilya.
Shane hears it, and then he feels it: a sudden swerve, the screech of tires, the impact, and the rending of metal— all in real time. It whips through his body like he is the one in the car. He bends over Ilya, shielding him from the glass that rains down over them. He holds his hand tight, muscles straining in his hands and wrists, pins and needles bursting in the tendons and joints.
Shane holds Ilya’s hand with his right. With his left, he searches for Ilya’s heartbeat. It’s faint, fluttering against Shand’s hand like the vibration in his pocket.
Shane wakes to a vibration—hard and insistent, against his sternum. His eyes open, only one seeing anything in the dark living room. The other is blacked-out, as his body ended up face-down on the couch, his arms wrapped around the throw pillow. On the third buzz he jerks up onto his hands, realizing that his phone is beneath him. He scrabbles for it as it falls between the cushions, not stopping to look at the name before he swipes to answer.
“Hey, sorry, fuck—” Shane sits up on his knees, nearly drop the phone again as he shoulders it in the crook of his neck. “What’s going on? How is he?”
Shane squints at the cable box across the room, glowing blue in the darkest corner of the room. It reads 10:49 pm. A voice fills the line, round and warm. Familiar.
“Shane.”
“Ilya.” Shane stands. His mouth his dry and tacky, crust burning at his eyes. “How are you—I thought you were in surgery.”
It’s Ilya breathing on the other line; Ilya’s cough, followed by a wet sound, like he’s drinking water.
“I was. They finished. Spasibo.” The Russian is for someone else. Svetlana’s voice answers, faintly, from somewhere in the room with him. “We’ve been calling for a while, I was getting worried. We called your parents.”
Shane puts the phone on speaker, looking at his missed calls. There’s two missed calls from Svetlana, starting at 10:06 pm, and three more from Shane’s parents, starting shortly after. Before that, there are five missed calls from Ilya. The first at 5:07, the next occurring at 5:10, 5:17, 5:29, and 5:30.
“Shane, are you there?”
“Yes.” Shane walks, the floor creaking under his socked feet. He walks to the window, peaking through the curtains to see only the plain suburban road outside of Ilya’s house. There are no dangerous curves, no flashing reflector lights. “Sorry I’m—I’m just freaking out a little.”
“I’m sorry, Sweetheart,” Ilya says. His voice is hoarse and thick. “I’m sorry I scared you.”
Shane walks into the kitchen and turns on the light. He’s alone in there. Something tickles his wrist. He looks down at his forearm—blood drips in messy tracks from the wounds on his hand. It had pooled in the crook of his elbow while he slept, drying in a caked mess.
“Shane?”
“I’m here.”
Shane heads to the stairs. He walks towards Ilya’s bedroom, turning on every light as he goes. Inside the bedroom, Shane opens the dresser drawers. The shirt he’d worn to the Boston club is still folded up inside. He presses it to his nose, smelling only laundry detergent.
“You’re angry with me,” Ilya says. “I understand.”
“Why? What do you understand?” Shane asks, clutching the fabric to his chest instead. He sits on Ilya’s bed. “Why did this happen?”
“Shane, it was an accident. I…I don’t know why it happened. Are you okay?”
“I’m not angry.” A pair of headlights beam through the gap in the curtains. Shane’s parents car pulls up the long driveway. The light swings from one wall to the other, cold over Shane’s face. “I love you.”
Ilya exhales. It makes static over the phone. “I love you too.”
“How are you awake?” Shane whispers. “Svetlana—she told me you had a head injury, that it was bad, they had to drill holes.”
Ilya speaks in Russian again. It’s muffled, like he’s holding the phone away from his mouth. Svetlana responds, and Shane recognizes most of the words she says, translating them in his head: I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“There’s nothing wrong with my head, Sweetheart,” Ilya says. “Just a little scrape—”
“You were in a car accident. In Kanata.”
Ilya pauses. “Yes. A car accident. Near the arena.”
“No game today. No practice. It was an accident?”
There’s another pause, and then more Russian. Svetlana responds, a little more annoyed sounding than before.
“I went for a drive. They say there could have been ice,” Ilya says.
“Was there ice?”
“I don’t know, Shane, I don’t know.”
A door opens and shuts inside Ilya’s hospital room. Car doors slam outside the bedroom window, followed by the panicked voices of his parents. He has texts from them too, panicked things from them that prove that the absence of communication is worse that a confirmation. They’re here too early. The timing is off, based on Shane’s previous information.
“I don’t know means yes, Ilya.”
“What? Shane, I don’t know what—”
“What the fuck, Ilya!” Shane digs the heel of his hand in his eye. The sound he makes is animal, an agonized grunt. “What the fuck did you do? Tell me right now.”
“I’m sorry. I never meant to make you worry—”
“No, you meant to finish the job! You meant to make it quick so there was no time to worry.”
The line is silent.
“Well?” Shane yells.
“Shane.” Ilya says his name so quietly, like it’s nothing at all. Like it would have been nothing, to leave him here. Surrounded on all sides by people and hockey and expectations and grief, and so desperately alone.
“You wanted to leave,” Shane says.
“No.”
The door opens downstairs. Shane must have left it unlocked. Mom and Dad yell up the stairs. “Shane! Are you here? David, I don’t see him.”
“Seems like he had a time, from all the bottles,” Dad says.
“David! What if he’s sick?” Shane hears his mom throw her keys on the countertop, a loud clatter. She’s broken fobs that way. “Shane! Are you here?”
Shane shoulders his phone, calling through the open doorway. “I’m up here! I’m fine, just give me a minute.” He runs his teeth over his bottom lip. “Ilya?”
“I’m here.”
“Will you do something for me? Make it up to me?”
Ilya waits, as if Shane is going to elaborate. When the silence stretches, he says what Shane is hoping to hear.
“Anything.”
Shane picks at a thread on his pants, digging a fingernail into his knee. “Marry me?”
There’s only a few places in Shane’s cottage that don’t have windows. Only one or two aspects that make you feel enclosed. Ilya’s Ottawa house is different. He’d bought this house for them to weather winters together. There would be summers, too, times when the good stretches out warm and sultry, soft like lake water under your gliding hand. They’d known no pain at the cottage, but it could never be a real home. A home is where you know everything.
“I didn’t—” Ilya starts, voice thick and halting. Shane doesn’t know if he’s heard Ilya cry this hard before. “You don’t have to do this. I won’t do it again—I promise—”
“Then promise me you’ll marry me.” Shane steadies his own voice. He swallows, coughing into the next words. “You’ll marry me, right? It’s so stupid that we’re not married. What if you—we have to, we have to protect each other. If something like this happens again.”
Ilya laughs humorlessly. “It won’t happen again.”
“You know that’s not true but—I’m sorry I yelled. And it’s not to make it up to me, that’s bullshit. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Shane punches his fist into his thigh. It twinges his knee, the pain grounding him. “Fuck, I wish I was with you. I would do this better if I was there. But…” Shane squeezes his sore knee, pressing the cuts on his hand into the cap, making them smart and sting. “I love you. I love you and you don’t know what could happen, Ilya.”
Shane waits. There’s nothing, not even the sound of Ilya’s breathing on the other end of the line. “Are you there?”
“I’m here,” Ilya says.
“Then marry me. I love you. You’ll marry me because you love me too. That’s why people get married, right?”
“It was an accident, Shane.”
Footsteps start up the stairs. Yuna Hollander is only going to give Shane so long before she needs to see him for herself.
“You said your head is fine,” Shane says. He scrapes his fingernails across his palm. It dislodges the scabs, the blood smears over his skin again, bright red and new. “I trust your judgement. I’ll trust you if you say yes. Marry me.”
Shane will go driving on the country road tomorrow. Somewhere, Ilya is dead, and Shane will take a look at it in the daylight, at the shape of the damage to the guardrail that killed him. He’ll take the curve at a sensible speed and unclick his seatbelt for just a moment, to feel the possibility. To know that it could have been real.
Ilya breathes. He says something in Russian to Svetlana. And then he responds to Shane.
“Sweetheart, I will say yes if you come here and ask me properly.”
His Mom leans against the doorway. She has bags under her eyes and matted hair. “Honey, what’s going on? What happened to your hand?”
“I can do that,” Shane says into the phone. The tears leave warm tracks over his face, cooling rapidly. “My mom’s here. I think she can help me do that.”
The doctors say that Ilya is lucky to have been wearing his seatbelt. He’s lucky to have been able to call 911 himself. The Porsche is totaled, but not smashed to pieces, because Ilya had swerved at the last second, the brunt of the impact reaching the back end of the car. The windshield is intact, only the driver's side window smashing.
Ilya had escaped with only a shallow chest wound, a piece of the console lodged in his chest an inch away from his heart, and a broken arm. It only took a brief surgery to remove it and set his broken arm. He doesn’t even need to wear a cast, just a brace and a sling for six weeks.
It’s Ilya’s right arm, so they decide on left hands, for the rings.
Shane had proposed properly, next to Ilya’s hospital bed, with an old wedding band that belonged to his Dad’s grandfather. Dad had dug it out of Mom’s tall jewelry box, testing it on his own finger and Shane’s. His parents guarded the door and Dad held Shane’s hoodie, baseball cap, and sunglasses that he’d worn to get inside unnoticed. They’d had to convince him to cover himself up at all. The hospital linoleum dug into Shane’s knee as he asked Ilya again. He posed it as a real question, spoken plainly while he held Ilya’s left hand to his mouth, so that Ilya could feel the shape of the words as well as hear them. I love you, will you marry me?
The ring fits perfectly, go figure.
Yuna Hollander makes magic happen from her cell phone and her laptop. Mom had always drank more than his dad. Her corkscrew is magnetic, it sticks to the fridge. Just one glass of wine a night, no more. Maybe two. One after a hockey game. One after an important call for Shane’s career, her voice like steel on the phone. He’d thought everything was so easy for his mom, until he’d caught her one day hanging up their old cordless phone after negotiating Shane’s first local sponsorship. She’d exhaled like it had taken everything to keep her voice even and adjusted. The wine had already been poured. Just one glass. Shane had a game in the morning. There’d always been a game on Saturday mornings.
Mom had negotiated NDAs for the hospital workers to sign, along with anyone who came in contact with Shane at the hospital. And then she’d negotiated paperwork for a rushed marriage license. Every phone call attached to a new form that asked for secrecy from people just doing their jobs on Tuesday mornings and Thursday afternoons.
Shane plays a game in Toronto while Yuna arranges a discreet minister, and then a home game in Montreal while they wait for the marriage license to come through. His hand heals. He drives back to Ottawa in the hours between, crawling in bed behind Ilya and burying his nose in his hair. He makes sure that Ilya sleeps on his left side and checks the dressing over his wound. It’s in the shape of an C, and they laugh about being branded an MLH captain, like it’s a good joke. Shane stays with Ilya as long as he can, clings to him until Google maps tells him he has to leave right now, or he won’t make it back to Montreal for practice.
Shane wants to be close to Ilya, like an opposing magnet. It should be obvious. But magnets aren’t necessarily kind things. Magnets can be violent, their attraction at the expense of other things. They’re getting married, but Shane can’t stop yelling at Ilya.
“Then make me understand, Ilya.” Shane’s shirtless. They’d been kissing just a few minutes ago, with Shane sitting on the kitchen island with his legs wrapped around Ilya’s hips. His mouth is still wet with Ilya’s spit. His shirt is hooked onto a drawer handle. “Because you were going to leave me, weren’t you?”
Ilya rakes his fingers through his hair, getting a glass from the cabinet. He fills it from the sink. “You don’t fucking get it, Hollander, and I can’t make you get it.”
“Don’t—” Shane points a finger at the air, jabbing it like he could dig under Ilya’s wound and make him feel real pain. Break his heart the way Shane’s is breaking now. “Fuck off with your Hollander bullshit. It’s easy, right? You were going to leave.”
“Everything is easy to you,” Ilya spits, filling his glass from the tap again. It’s already full, and the water runs over his fingers. Ilya has a fancy filtering system, but rarely turns it on. “So clear and clean. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Shane barks a laugh. “You better start knowing. Fucking dig deep.”
“Or what?” Ilya snaps. “Or you will leave? You won’t marry me?”
Shane hops down from the counter. “You know that’s not what I mean.”
“I don’t know what you mean. Just like you don’t know what I mean. You don’t know what it’s like to be in my head, Shane. You can’t know.”
“Fuck you.” Shane shoves him, a hard hand against Ilya’s uninjured arm. The glass drops into the sink with a clatter. “I do know. I know.” He grabs the side of Ilya’s face in a facsimile of a slap, curling his fingers around his ear. The shell bends in Shane’s fingers, snapping back in place when he lets go. “I would have had a lot of fucking new choices to make, if you had died.”
Ilya’s fingers circle Shane’s wrist. The touch is too tender. Shane wants him to dig into his skin with nails.
“I was never dying, Shane. I just got hurt.”
“Yes, you were!” Shane cries out, his left hand mirroring his right, taking Ilya’s face between two hands and shaking him. “You pretend like you don’t know but you do. You saw it too. You were there with me. I fucking stopped it. I stopped all of it.”
Ilya shakes his head, looking at Shane like he was the one who tried to kill himself.
“Sweetheart.”
The argument ends with Shane kissing Ilya against the counter, kissing the tears before they fall from his eyes. He can’t watch Ilya cry, on top of everything else. Ilya says he’s sorry, and Shane’s sorry too. He’s sorry to bring death into their life. He’s sorry he’s seen too much. He’s sorry for remembering.
“I found a therapist that speaks Russian,” Ilya says on a Tuesday night, his arms warm around Shane’s waist. Tomorrow is a special day and Shane made it to Ottawa the night before so that they could wake up together. “I’m going to talk to her next week.”
“That’s good,” Shane says against his throat. He’d laid Ilya out flat and rode him slowly, until Ilya came inside him and Shane draped himself across his chest, listening for the heartbeat underneath the dressings. He’s nearly healed. The coverings are smaller than they were when Ilya first got home, more a bandage now than anything. Ilya’s head is full of his same curls because he didn’t hurt his head. “I think it’s a good idea.”
“I do too.” Ilya strokes Shane’s hair. “I don’t really know what people say in therapy, but maybe it will help.”
“There can’t be like, a set thing you’re supposed to say,” Shane says. He hadn’t come, his erection flagging as they catch their breath. It’s fine, he doesn’t really want to deal with it. “I’m sure she’ll have questions for you.”
“You would know.”
“What do you mean?”
Ilya threads his fingers through strands of Shane’s hair, letting it stab his fingers and then fall away. “You have questions for me.”
Shane leans on his hands, rolling his forehead over Ilya’s solar plexus. There’s a fading bruise there, from the seatbelt, reaching from his shoulder to underneath his pec. It had been red and angry the first time Shane had watched the nurses change Ilya’s dressings in the hospital room.
Shane puts his full weight on his hands. Ilya’s soft and no longer inside of him. He leans over Ilya’s face, kissing his swollen lips. They’d kissed a lot tonight.
“I don’t have questions,” Shane says. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. I just want to marry you tomorrow.”
“And if I want to be honest with you?” Ilya asks, scruffing the back of Shane’s neck.
“You can tell me anything,” Shane says, settling next to him on his side. He strokes Ilya’s belly, pressing into the muscle and softness alike. He’s thinner already, from the hospital and recovery. “I’ll listen. I won’t try to—it’s okay if it doesn’t make sense. Fuck knows I— a lot of things haven’t been making sense lately.”
Ilya nods, scratching the hair at the nape of Shane’s neck. “Okay. Then we will get married tomorrow. That was a test.”
Shane laughs and nips his chin. “Keep it coming. I’ll pass all of them.”
Ilya Rozanov, captain of the Ottawa Centaurs, gets put on LTIR while he recovers from a car accident. Shane gets married on a Wednesday in Ilya’s living room before flying out for a string of Western Conference games.
Mom makes Ilya’s living room look nice, assuring that the cleaners take extra care and ordering flowers. Lilies, ironically, though Shane doesn’t think she knows the relevance. Svetlana had flown back to Boston when Ilya was discharged, but she’s on Ilya’s phone now on Facetime, propped-up against a lamp.
Ilya stands for most of the ceremony. Halfway through he looks pale, so his mom and dad grab chairs from the dining room while Ilya leans on Shane. They sit down in the straight-backed chairs and face each other instead, getting as close as possible, their knees alternating.
His knee, my knee, his knee, my knee, Shane thinks, nonsensically.
Nothing has made much sense lately, except when he slides the plain gold band on Ilya’s finger and says some magical words, those make a lot of sense. Things like as long as we both shall live, which Shane means with every fiber of his being, but there should be more. He should have added a clause: I will extend your life. I will make your life long. I will make it my mission to help you live forever. He’ll lie on top of Ilya and dig his knees and elbows into the ground and keep him from floating away. But that’s not part of the wedding vows. They’d decided to keep it traditional, since so much of this is not.
Dad makes chicken parmesan and Shane eats a whole plate of it with a glass of his mom’s wine. After, Ilya is still a little nauseous from the medicine and needs to lie down. Mom uncorks another bottle and Shane drinks it with her in Ilya’s kitchen, taking the damp rag when she asks him to wipe the counter. He puts the big pasta pot in the cupboard below his feet after she dries it. He liked helping his parents in the kitchen, when he was young.
Shane holds Ilya that night and doesn’t sleep. Now it’s his responsibility if Ilya tears his stitches, his responsibility if he takes too hard of a hit when he’s on the ice next. Shane is possessive of it, this new responsibility. He doesn’t remember what it was like, to not have it. He tries not to remember how it felt to feel Ilya dying in the hospital, while he sat in the dark drinking tasteless beer.
He hugs Ilya closer. Shane holds his husband. It feels better, knowing the paperwork is filed.
It’s a clear, cold night, still somewhat warm for late November. The house is quiet and dark. As Shane’s eyes close, the warmth of Ilya’s back against his front, he hears sirens. They’ve been going off, on and off, for the last hour. A firetruck, or maybe an ambulance. It’s not for them. They don’t need to worry about it.
“What’s that?” Ilya asks.
Shane curls his fingers in Ilya’s skin. “I don’t know.”
“Do you hear that?” Ilya asks, groggy. “Shut your alarm off.”
Shane holds him tighter, plants his lips on the knob of his upper back. “There’s no alarm. Go to sleep.”
Ilya is okay. Shane squeezes his eyelids shut, blocking out the light, blocking out the shadows, staying where they are. He holds on tighter and he doesn’t look at his phone. The time doesn’t matter because Ilya is so warm; he’s so alive. He’s a living thing with the correct amount of blood. His skull is intact, barely a scratch. A broken bone that will heal and a scar that will fade. He has a pulse and a brain that is largely uninjured.
They’re both lucky, really, with their careers, to have so few concussions. They’re lucky to be here at all. It’s their wedding night, and Shane doesn’t have any alarms set. He’ll wake up on his own.
“It’s so loud, Shane. Can’t you turn it off?”
Shane will wake up when he wants to. He threads his fingers in Ilya’s hair, pressing into his scalp. Something warm like blood blooms under his fingers. He tangles Ilya's curls in his knuckles, pulling to feel the scalp give and resist. They don’t need to set an alarm. Shane will wake them up himself.
“I don’t know.”