Chapter Text
***
Ilya Rozanov was in Hell. He had not been such a terrible person, he thought. He did not deserve this. But he died. And went to Hell. If things were a little different, he would find it amusing. Many people told him to go to Hell over the years. Too many to count. Now he hated them all. Because they got their wish. Cursed him. Ilya Rozanov was in Hell.
***
When Ilya woke up on January 28th, he wanted to go right back to sleep. It was cold. Had been snowing for days. Felt like the month that would not end. His sole plans for later were to lose a hockey game because he was the star center for the Ottawa Centaurs… the worst team in their division. Ilya was tired.
Maybe it would be different if they were playing Montreal. Then his secret lover, Shane Hollander, would be here. He was probably already in Tampa with his team. They had a game tonight, too.
Ilya was always greedy for more time with Shane. It was never enough. Their precious few moments. Shane was here yesterday. But Ilya was so angry they would only have one night, then two weeks apart, that he’d been a miserable asshole. Shane did not deserve that. Shane could do better than Ilya, and he dreaded the day Shane would finally realize.
They fought last night and only fucked once, then went to bed early. Shane had to leave by 4 a.m., and did not wake him to say good-bye. Shane always wanted to let Ilya sleep in. But Ilya always wanted Shane to wake him. He wanted one last kiss. One last farewell.
Before the next drought.
He turned towards his nightstand and grabbed his phone. He opened up to his text messages and clicked the thread called “Hollander.” Ilya smiled. Changing their names in their phones had been a big deal. When no one knew about their relationship, they’d used female pseudonyms. Since they’d changed the narrative and were now publicly friends, they’d updated to their surnames. ...Just like any other hockey player. His shoulders slumped.
Ilya typed out and sent a simple, “I’m sorry.”
Hollander
Me too. I would have told you this morning, but I didn’t want to wake you.
Rozanov
Shane.
Hollander
You’d looked like you needed the rest!
Rozanov
I only need you. Very mean you did not give me good-bye kiss.
Hollander
Yes I did…
A moment later a picture came through. It was a selfie Shane took of himself kissing a sleeping Ilya on the cheek.
Ilya brushed his fingers over the spot Shane’s lips had last touched.
Rozanov
Sneaky.
Hollander
❤ I’ve got to go. Good luck tonight.
Ilya’s team did not need luck. They needed a miracle.
Rozanov
Yes, you as well. ❤❤
Hollander
Don’t forget.
Hollander
❤❤❤
Don’t forget. He never forgot. Delete the photo, delete the incriminating texts. He always did. He never wanted to. He was sick of erasing a part of his life. The most important part. Shane would delete everything as well, but he never acted like it was a sacrifice. Was merely part of his routine. He scowled.
Rozanov
❤❤❤❤ x ♾
Hollander
🖕
Ilya laughed. It sounded very loud in his big, empty house.
***
Ilya was on his home ice, trying not to be miserable. He still loved playing hockey. He knew he was privileged. But he would just prefer playing winning hockey.
It was the end of the second period, and they were losing 4-1.
They were playing Toronto. Ilya was not a fan. Team was a bunch of assholes. He checked their center, Dallas Kent, into the boards, harder than necessary– and stole the puck.
Ilya tore down the rink, faster than anybody else on the ice. He knew he would sink this upcoming shot. He wondered if Shane was doing the same thing at that exact moment. Maybe they would both win their games tonight. It was a nice fantasy. Would be something pleasant to talk about later when they Facetimed.
He was thinking about scoring, and he was thinking about Shane, and he was thinking about scoring with Shane when a body slammed into him. He lost control of the puck, and was laid out on his back. His head hit the ice with a deafening crack. Ilya heard gasps from the stands and the ref’s whistle.
But the last thing he heard before drifting off to total blackness was Kent starting to spit out, “Fuck you, fa–.”
***
Ilya woke with a start. He was not on the ice or at hospital… he was in his own bed. What the fuck? He grabbed his phone. The lockscreen said 28 January. …what the fuck? Had that all been a dream? He had never dreamed so lucidly before. Everything felt real.
He had had dreams before, where he woke right before he died or was attacked or victim to some catastrophe. But it had never been like that. Like he’d truly been living his life. This was off. Unnatural.
He heard his phone chime and looked down. It was a text from Shane. Then another.
Hollander
I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you in person, but you looked like you needed the rest. Don’t be angry. I remembered. 😉
Then Shane sent the photo of him kissing his cheek. The same photo as yesterday. Or, the same photo as in his dream. But it couldn’t be...
Rozanov
I thought we deleted this one?
Hollander
?? It’s from this morning.
Ilya needed to shake this dream off. He sounded absurd.
Rozanov
Sorry. Deja vu. Very sweet of you.
Rozanov
I’m sorry for last night. I love you. ❤
Hollander
Me too. Good luck, tonight. ❤❤
Rozanov
You as well. ❤❤❤ x ♾
Hollander
🖕🖕
Ilya looked down at his phone and laughed. They were ridiculous. In reality and when he slept.
Hollander
Don’t forget. ❤❤❤❤ x ♾ x ♾
***
Ilya had been skittish the entire game. Everything felt strange. He’d scored the Centaurs only goal. They trailed 4-1 towards the end of second period. Unsettling, but just a coincidence.
Ilya shook his head. He would not let this game keep happening to him. He wanted Toronto to lose. He shook off his nerves, and stole the puck from Dallas Kent. He checked Kent even harder than he had in his dream, and it felt even more satisfying in real life.
He zoomed down the ice. He knew he would sink this shot. Then another. Maybe more. Ottawa winning would be even odder than his dream, if they could pull it off.
Ilya was thinking how to relay everything to Shane, about weird day, for when they Facetimed later. He was about to score when he felt a body slam into him.
He lost the puck. His head cracked against the ice. The crowd gasped. The whistle blew. And Kent started to spit “Fuck you, fa–” when everything faded to black. Again.
***
Ilya shot up in his bed. He grabbed his phone and turned on the lockscreen. 28 January.
What the fuck.
Ilya did not understand what was happening. Maybe he’d lost his mind. Madness ran in his family. It was genetic. He thought he had more time? Ilya was unnerved. Scared. He did not want to be alone.
He unlocked his phone again and called Shane.
Shane: Hey, I can’t really talk now. I’m supposed to meet the team soon. But I was just about to text. I don’t like how we left things last night. I’m sorry. I would have told you this morning, but you–”
Ilya: “...looked like I needed rest.”
Shane: “Ha. Yeah.”
Ilya: “Please wake me up next time. Always wake me.”
Shane: “Don’t worry. I didn’t forget about your good-bye kiss.”
Ilya heard the notification for when he gets a text. He looked at his phone. It was the same photo of Shane kissing his cheek from two days ago. Ilya sucked in a breath.
There was a lump in his throat. He did not understand what was going on, but he knew it wasn’t good. He did not know if he could speak again without his voice breaking.
Shane: “Knew you’d like that. You’re speechless.”
Ilya: “I… I like it very much. Thank you. And I am sorry. For everything, Shane. For all of it. I love you.”
Shane: “I love you more.”
Ilya could hear the grin in his voice.
Shane: “Good luck tonight.”
Ilya: “Shane…”
Ilya did not know what to say. He’d sound crazy. He felt crazy. He swallowed the lump in his throat down again.
Ilya:“I do not feel well today. Not sure I will play tonight.”
Shane: “What?”
Ilya: “Maybe I am sick.”
Shane: “I don’t love how you sound… but you've played through broken bones… you really don’t think you can play? Do you need the hospital?”
Ilya: “No…”
If he went to hospital today, he’d end up in a padded cell.
Ilya:“Maybe I am just tired. Had bad dream.”
Shane: “A bad dream?” …Should I have my mom stop by?”
Ilya: “Is fine. Don’t bother Yuna.”
Shane: “Ilya…”
Ilya: “Do not worry, sweetheart. I will have nice nap. And feel all better.”
Shane: “Well, stop by medical at least after you get to the arena.”
Ilya: “I promise. Sorry for stress. Good luck tonight. I love you.”
Shane: “I love you more.”
Ilya: “I love you most. Always.”
Ilya promptly disconnected the call before Shane could say anything else.
His phone chimed, and he looked down at a text.
Hollander
🖕Don’t forget.
***
There was no fucking way Ilya was playing in tonight’s game. But he still came to the arena. And went to medical as promised. He lied about tripping and a bad sprain and had faked a limp the whole time. He would ride the bench tonight. And in two weeks he would ride Shane.
It was nearing the end of the second period. The score was 4-0, Toronto. Coincidence. If not for Wyatt Hayes in net, would be complete bloodbath. Somehow, the Centaurs had the most talented goalie in the league. And the second best center. …Still shit fucking team.
Dallas Kent skated closely past their bench and Ilya flinched. Fuck this shit. Ilya stared at the scoreboard, willing the clock to move faster, and for this terrible game to finally end. 9:20… 9:21… 9:22.
Ilya’s eyes shot open and he gasped. He was in his bed at home. He checked his phone. 28 January. Again.
Fuck.