Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, Sergei Vetrov, Irina Rozanova, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Original Characters

Additional Tags:

domestic abuse, Mental Illness, Suicide, Gambling, Substance Abuse, Addiction, Saddest Fic in This Series, Making Stuff Up About Hockey in Russia, Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Misogyny, canonical underage sex, Religious Delusions, Ilya's Mommy Issues Colliding With Svetlana's Daddy Issues, Shane Angsting in the Background in Canada, Modern AUs so They All Have Phones, All Social Medias Are One

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Hope You're Not Waiting For Me to Wait For You

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-07 Completed: 2026-05-16 Words: 18,195 Chapters: 4/4

The Knight

Summary

Ilya Rozanov, ages eight to fifteen.

Notes

100k+ words of posting and I finally start sharing one of the first stories I imagined/wrote and I realize there's like zero humor in this thing oops. Ilya's life in Russia doesn't seem to lend itself to much humor.

I should add that no explicit sex will happen between the teens, especially the young teens, because I seem to have a mental block imagining that. That being said, Ilya canonically became sexually active at around fourteen and it didn't seem to be something that bothered him in his mid-to-late twenties.

Chapter 1

There was a lake just at the edge of Moscow where Ilya Rozanov could fly. He watched the weather forecast religiously, with an eye out for any time when the temperature was low enough and the skies clear, and begged his mother to take him there. He begged harder if it was the weekend. His father said it was a waste of time, especially when he was barely passing all his courses in school, but he also said Irina was too soft on him. She always relented, that morning included, so Ilya had stuffed his old skates into a backpack and was now holding her hand on the train.

He would outgrow these skates soon and then who knew when, if ever, he'd get Grigori to buy him new ones.

Irina was staring off into the distance, which she often did (daydreaming, she said), so Ilya watched out for the right stop, and then lead her to the lonely park. Sometimes, she brought a thermos full of steaming tea, or hot chocolate, or coffee, or just hot water, so she could stay warmer while Ilya skated from one end of the lake to the other. When he did something really cool, he would skate over to her bench and find her green-blue eyes looking off into the distance. But sometimes she was watching him and she clapped and patted his head when he skated over to her.

His brother Alexei used to come with them, but he was almost twelve now. Practically a man. And he'd never liked skating much. It made him dizzy. He’d rather go to one of the drab clubhouses owned by the Moscow Police with their father and play cards with the other sons and grandsons of policemen. Alexei said he was very good at cards, which seemed to make him proud. He’d tried teaching Ilya to play, but Ilya found it extremely boring to sit around making bets and inhaling cigarette smoke. He would rather be with Irina.

Alexei said Ilya was Irina's favorite, but she swore she loved them equally. Her little scholar (Alexei) and her little knight (Ilya). Alexei got good grades in school so his pet name made sense, but Ilya mostly tried to stay out of everyone's way. He fought, sure, but because the other boys seemed to sense a weakness in him. Maybe they smelled it. It didn't matter how many fights Ilya won; they kept coming back for more.

There were very few people on the park that day and no other skaters on the lake because it was so cold. But the sky was a clear, sunny blue, making the bright red notice at the farthest edge of the lake area cleared for skating visible. Ilya tried to skate faster than he ever had, hoping to bring a real smile to Irina’s face, if she was watching. She always used to, but Ilya guessed she’d grown tired of the ice, like Alexei had. He tapped his stopwatch and went off, enjoying how the frigid wind bit his face. There was a little bump on the ice, but it didn't matter, served only to add a little spike of fear to the rush of flying. He shaved two seconds off his best time.

His mother was not looking at him, but not because she was daydreaming. Not this time.

This time, she was talking to a tall man in a dark coat. Or a tall man was talking to her. Ilya skated towards her, heart pounding, and slowed only when he spotted a short figure with a storm of dark reddish curls trying to escape a fluffy hat. It was a girl dressed in a pink coat next to the man. She made eye contact with Ilya as he came to a stop near to Irina, who immediately took a step closer and laid a gloved hand on his shoulder. The man was asking who they were and Irina was trying to stutter out vague answers.

Ilya decided to take over. “I’m Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov and this is my mother. We’re waiting for our father to come pick us up. He’s a police officer.” That was a lie—not the police officer part, but Grigori was not going to pick them up.

“Ilya, is it?” The man turned clear green eyes towards him. He was tall and had the broadest shoulders Ilya had ever seen. He dressed like he should be on TV, exiting a car after a servant opened the door for him.

“Yes, sir,” said Ilya, stepping off the ice and waddling towards the bench, where his boots were laid out.

“You are a very talented skater,” said the man.

“Thank you, sir,” said Irina, “but we should be on our way.”

“Of course.” The man nodded. He didn't point out that what Ilya had said about Grigori. “Safe travels, Mrs. Rozanova.”

“I want to race him,” the girl said. Her eyes were as clear as the surface of the pond at the height of summer.

Ilya wanted to race as well, but he could sense that Irina wanted to be away from these people. It was a shame. The girl had longer legs than Ilya; she might be a challenge. She sat down on the bench and took out a pair of pink skates her bag. Ilya waved mournfully at her when Irina took a hold of his hand and hurried away.

All the way home, Irina trembled like a leaf. Ilya didn't know why—the man in the dark coat had let them go without making a fuss—but he didn't waste any time asking. He put Irina to bed, brought her a cup of tea so she could take her medicine and sleep, and promised to make food so that Grigori wouldn't get mad later.

“You’re my little knight, Ilya,” Irina said. Her blue eyes were gleaming, hopefully not with tears. “Never stop being so kind.”

“Yes, Mama,” he said, accepting the gentle kiss she placed on his forehead.

Pretty soon, Ilya forgot all about the man in the dark coat, and even the pretty girl with him. He had a math test coming up on Thursday that he was almost guaranteed to fail. Irina had been looking pretty shaky and Grigori more impatient than ever. He looked at Ilya and Alexei with glinting blue eyes every time either of them set the table and served food for dinner. He'd been quiet at least. Mostly.

But Ilya knew that would change if he didn't manage to squeak by on his stupid math test. Grigori would say that it was Irina’s fault, that instead of doing her job as wife and mother, she had made her sons act as a maids.

As it turned out, worrying was not the same as studying, so Ilya did fail the stupid test. His teacher, a stout woman who said he was too soft because he cried in front of her once (Grigori hated it when his sons didn't do well in school), had barely glanced at at him when she deposited the marked up test on his desk. Ilya was proud that he didn't cry this time, but that didn't change the failing mark on the paper. Apply yourself! was written in red ink right under the failing grade.

Maybe Ilya could run away for a bit. He’d have to go home eventually, of course, but then Grigori might be so relieved to see him that he wouldn’t care about the math test? Ilya laughed to himself and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He’d been hiding under some bleachers in the playground for so long that it’d started to snow. Maybe he’d freeze to death. Probably, he wouldn't. Maybe the other boys would want to play with him tomorrow. He felt like a snowball fight and off skates, he was not too much faster than them.

Alexei found him soon enough. His brother slid under the bleachers and sat down next to him, turning exasperated blue eyes on him. “What happened this time?”

Ilya reached for the test, which he’d crumpled and stuffed into another pocket. He handed it to Alexei.

“You’re so dumb, Ilyusha,” said Alexei. “Fractions are not even hard.”

Ilya didn't say anything. He was too busy blinking away tears.

“But Papa will blame Mama for this,” said Alexei.

Ilya’s felt his cheeks getting wet and buried his head in his elbow so Alexei didn't see. He heard Alexei sighing and ruffling through his own backpack. If Ilya could stop himself from making any noise, than maybe Alexei wouldn't make fun of him for being a crybaby.

“Here,” said Alexei, nudging his shoulder.

Reluctantly, Ilya raised his head. Alexei was handing him the test. Up in the corner, he had forged a passing grade.

“If you get caught and tell anyone I helped you,” said Alexei, “I swear I’ll smother you in your sleep.”

“I won’t get caught; I promise,” said Ilya, wiping his eyes. He knew Alexei would have no trouble following through. They shared a room after all.

They headed home together, happy as they ever were. Ilya let himself hope that Irina had gotten better and made dinner tonight, which would give him time to at least try to study. All thoughts of that left him when he and Alexei entered their apartment and found a strange man sitting across from Grigori at their dining table.

Wait, not a strange man. Ilya recognized him when Grigori motioned him forward. It was the man from the park, the one who had scared Irina. He was even larger than Ilya remembered, taller than his father and broader at the shoulders. His face was smooth even through his blond beard was streaked with gray hairs.

“Ilya,” said Grigori, wrapping his hand over Ilya’s upper arm. “You’ve met Mr. Vetrov.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ilya. “At the park.” He glanced back to Alexei, who watched from the threshold to the room that doubled as their dining and living room.

“What’s going on?” asked Alexei. “Where’s Mama?”

“Go to your room, Alexei,” ordered Grigori.

Alexei managed only a brief—very brief—scowl before walking past the dining table and disappearing into the bedroom he shared with Ilya.

“Ilya,” said Grigori. “Mr. Vetrov is an accomplished athlete. He has a question for you.”

Ilya stared up at the man’s intense eyes.

“Do you remember what I said to you last Saturday, Ilya?” said Mr. Vetrov.

Ilya nodded. With a glance at his father, he said “That I am a talented skater.”

“And what do you know of ice hockey?” asked the man.

“It’s a sport, sir,” said Ilya. It was the best sport in the world, the only one Ilya liked to watch on TV. He would give anything for a chance to play, but his school didn't have a hockey team. Even if they did, Ilya could not try out since he kept not doing homework and failing tests.

“Would you like to play?” asked the man.

That was easy. Ilya knew what Grigori would want him to say. “No, sir. I have to focus on my studies.”

Grigori’s grip on his arm tightened, not quite to the point of pain. “Tell the truth, Ilya.”

“. . . Yes, I would like to play, sir,” said Ilya, feeling his lip tremble. No fair. He already cried today.

“I see,” said Mr. Vetrov.

Grigori let go of Ilya’s arm and sent him to his room. Ilya disobeyed long enough to go and confirm that Irina was sleeping. He was so relieved to find her safe that he started forgetting the strange moment in the living room. This Vetrov man was probably someone Grigori was trying to do business with. His father was always looking for a scheme that would make him rich somehow. Or at least well off enough that he could quit being a street cop.

That was not so far from the truth, as it turned out. It just had more to do Ilya than he ever would have dreamed. From that moment forward, hockey would be the epicenter of Ilya’s life.

Grigori transferred Ilya to a private school on the opposite side of Moscow—the rich side of Moscow. The very rich side of Moscow. Ilya couldn't go to the park with his Mama that Saturday because his Papa—Grigori himself—took him to a store that sold fancy uniforms.

“I can’t believe this is fucking happening,” said Alexei, who Grigori brought along even though he didn't have to change schools.

“Me neither,” said Ilya, watching as Grigori bargained with a bored looking lady at the counter. “Papa says buying clothes is for women.”

“No, you idiot,” said Alexei. “I can’t believe you get to go to the Malkin Academy because Sergei Vetrov saw you skating at the park.”

That wasn't Ilya's fault so he didn't see why Alexei sounded so mad. He hadn't meant to cause problems. He never did, certainly not by skating. He’d considered telling Grigori that he didn't want to change schools since Irina didn't want him to. She'd had an argument about it with Grigori and since their apartment was so small, Ilya and Alexei had heard the entire thing.

“Hockey is dangerous!” Irina had cried. “And like you keep saying, Ilya is soft. The other boys will give him a hard time.”

“You only want the brat around so you can coddle him more,” had been Grigori’s answer.

“Grigori, please,” Irina’s voice had taken a frantic edge. “You saw the photos of this Malkin place; it’s where oligarchs send their brats. We can’t afford to send our baby there.”

“I told you, he’s been offered a scholarship,” Grigori had said. “This is an incredible opportunity for him, Irina, and I won’t let you ruin it. If I catch you in bed, sleeping off your pills while he does the dishes instead of his homework, I swear I’ll ship him off to my sister in Blagoveshchenk.”

So there was no point in fighting about it. Grigori had already made up his mind. And. . . well, Ilya did hate his current school. The kids were okay, but his awful math teacher? Ilya wouldn’t mind never seeing her again. That was before the part where he was going to a school to play hockey.

“Sir,” Alexei said a bit later, after Grigori had herded them to the backseat of his old car. Up front, there was a large bag with a bunch of fancy uniforms for Ilya. “I’m just wondering about all this. Are we forgetting that Ilya is slow? Papa, he can barely read.”

“I can read,” mumbled Ilya. He had his phone open to a shounen manga translation and he was reading it just fine.

“I haven’t forgotten,” said Grigori. “We’ve been indulgent about your brother’s laziness, but that ends now. I’ve told your mother that she will not be allowed to foist housework on him anymore. You will be helping him with his homework.”

“But sir!”

“Do not interrupt me!” snapped Grigori.

Ilya had to suppress a flinch even though he wasn't the one trying to argue.

“Alexei, I will hold you personally responsible if your brother fails another test,” said Grigori.

“Yes, sir,” said Alexei, shooting Ilya an angry look.

Fucking hell. Alexei would kill him before this was all over. Sooner rather than later.

Malkin Academy was okay, if a little lonely. The other kids smelled 'poor kid' on Ilya the very first day, but the teachers did not tolerate fighting. All they could really do was pretend Ilya didn't exist when he tried to talk to them, which was easy to deal with by simply not talking to them. Not like they were so awesome. If anything, being ignored by them was making Ilya's life a little easier. He passed the time at school by listening to the teachers and trying to do his work.

Ilya was actually learning, enough so that he didn't have to bother Alexei too much with his homework.

Even if it was all terrible and he was fighting daily, Ilya would be happy. The hockey team was amazing. He got to skate so much, and around adults who praised his efforts. The rink was huge, always smooth, and the team was provided with skates so amazing that Ilya couldn't believe they were real. He figured skates were skates, but it looked like rich kids got special ones.

The puck was an added thrill, as he had been sure it would be. Ilya was one of the smallest boys in the team, but it didn't matter. He was one of the fastest, and he loved figuring out how to pass, when to move, how to dodge a check, and take a shot. The only position he hated playing was goaltender.

"How old are you?" one of the coaches asked him a few months after his transfer to Malkin. He was a new guy with a funny red beard who spoke Russian with an odd accent. According to one of the older boys, he had moved from France.

"I'm eight, sir," said Ilya.

"Vetrov's son?"

"No," said Ilya, a little alarmed. "I'm Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov. Mr. Vetrov knows my father."

He didn't get a chance to dwell on the strange exchange because Irina didn't come to pick him up that evening. The guard at the gate ignored him when he asked for permission to leave on his own, forcing him to rush back to Malkin for a different option. In the meantime, he texted Alexei.

Alexei Rozanov

Ilya Rozanov
Mama didn't come get me
what's happening

Alexei Rozanov
just get here
I need help

Ilya Rozanov
I can't just leave
you know that
how is Mama?

Alexei Rozanov
same as always
you can be clever when you need to be
just get here before Papa does

Goddamn it!

Irina would hate if she knew that he was using God's name like this, even in the privacy of his own mind, but fuck. Ilya slid into the boy's bathroom, rushed to a stall, and forced himself to take deep breaths. It was a school full of dumb rich kids who liked to pretend he was invisible. They talked around him like he was dumb, deaf, and blind. So he knew how they sneaked out to buy cigarettes.

Ilya rushed outside, to the fields behind the Malkin's main building. Spring was coming, leaving the air less frigid than it would normally be this late. Almost everyone had gone home already and the areas was deserted, so it was simple enough to go behind the little greenhouse where smart kids worked with plants. The stone fence was oldest here, with cracks that could be climbed--yes! The older kids had been on to something.

Ilya made it to the top of the fence without issue. He celebration lasted until he looked down and realized that he'd never done something like this before. Not even with trees. Ilya was a runner and a skater, not a climber. But it didn't matter. He closed his eyes, said a short prayer his Mama had taught him, and looked for whatever nook the older kids used to climb down.

He made it, and only a little scrape on his left palm from a second where he almost fell on his ass. There was minimal blood. Ilya hoped it wouldn't bother him when he was holding his stick and pulled out his phone to check Maps. If he ran to the station, he could make it home before Papa. He had to.

He did and found Alexei at their kitchen, working on dinner. "Is everything good?"

“No, moron,” said Alexei. “Mama is having another episode.”

Ilya sighed, a little relieved. An episode was fine. They could handle an episode. In fact, they had more time than usual to handle an episode since Grigori usually went out to drink with his fellow police officers on Fridays. With any luck, they might be able to handle everything so well that Grigori wouldn't even notice anything amiss.

Grigori liked fish for Fridays and roasted potatoes were easy enough to make. Ilya left Alexei working alone for a bit longer and rushed to his parents’ bedroom to check on Irina. She was huddled on the bed with a heavy blanket over her. Her small button-like nose scrunched in distaste when Ilya lifted the cover, so she hadn't taken too much of her medication. Papa hated it when she did that, and Ilya had to admit that he didn't like it either. But he would never yell at her for it.

He went back to the kitchen to ask Alexei if he needed anything.

“Yeah, tidy up while I do this,” said Alexei as he scaled the fish.

“Got it,” said Ilya.

Grigori liked his house clean and orderly, which it mostly was, but if he so much as scented that something was off, he might explode because one of the living room pillows was crooked. So Ilya went through all the rooms to organize any clutter, then made sure to do a quick dust sweep of all the flat surfaces, confirmed that there was no dirty laundry (or unfolded laundered clothes), and then lit a scented candle. By the time he returned to the kitchen, the fish was in the oven and the potatoes were boiling.

“Get the bell peppers, and onion, and the cauliflower in the fridge,” said Alexei. “Start chopping while I make the sauce.”

Ilya nodded and got started. As he chopped, he wondered what, if anything, happened to set Irina off. He didn't bother asking. He hadn't been around enough to cause any problems, so there was nothing he needed to change or fix. Could fix or change.

“Six months this time,” said Alexei, startling Ilya.

“Hm?”

“Six months between episodes,” said Alexei, as the savory scent of his sauce filled the apartment. “Since you started at Malkin.”

“That’s not too bad,” said Ilya, trying to believe it. He could’ve sworn Irina had been doing better. She’d sure been listening to Ilya ramble about hockey drills and encouraging him every time he complained about how he wished the coaches would just let him skate in peace sometimes.

“You haven’t done anything stupid, have you?” asked Alexei, his blue eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“No!” Ilya made sure to hold his gaze because Grigori said people who have nothing to hide should be able to hold their heads high. “What could I even do?”

“Failed a test, got into a fight, stayed out past recess to build a fucking snowman—”

“—I only did that one time!” snapped Ilya.

“Are the coaches happy with you?” asked Alexei.

“I guess,” said Ilya. He did all the drills and he was catching up with all the other kids in stick handling, passing, and shooting. The only guys who were faster than him were older boys who were much taller than him. “They get mad when I don’t pay attention sometimes.”

“Typical,” said Alexei. “But Papa hasn’t said anything, so I don’t think this has anything to do with you.”

Everything was ready and perfect by the time Grigori arrived, but Ilya could tell by the way he scanned the dining table that they hadn't fooled him. He ate the meal, though, and in complete silence. He didn't even ask after Irina and Ilya hated him for it a little bit. Why did he not care when his wife got sick?

Irina was still feeling sick next morning so Ilya went off to Malkin alone and shrugged when the security guard at the front gate asked where his mother was. “She had a thing so he dropped me off at the station today.”

“Right, you’re a charity case,” said the guard, waving him inside.

Ilya would argue about that, but he was too relieved to have been let in without a fuzz. Besides, it was true. All the other hockey players said so, and at first Ilya had been a little confused. He was not the only boy in the team who was on a scholarship, after all.

Then, he’d talked to some of those kids and realized that all of them had been training for as long as they could remember. Their parents had fancy job titles with the word “executive” in front of them, or they were doctors and such. Ilya was the only kid in the entire school who didn't speak at least a little bit of English. He might really be the stupidest boy at Malkin. It wasn't something that bothered him much. He kept on doing his best.

By the grace of God, Irina didn't have any other episodes that year.

There were a couple when Ilya was nine, the worst of which had her leaving him at a department store near the center of Moscow. Ilya had looked for her for over an hour before admitting defeat and calling Alexei.

"Mama's in her room praying," Alexei had said. "Where the fuck are you? I thought you were at Malkin's for more training."

"Yeah, that's where I am," Ilya said.

"Ilya, I can a hear a crowd in the background."

"Never mind, I'm heading back."

Alexei gave him a dirty look when he stumbled into their apartment, but didn't ask where he'd been. "Just tidy up the place before Papa gets home."

Ilya’s tenth birthday came and went. Irina baked a honey cake from scratch and Grigori bought him new skates. They were of lower quality than the ones he got during training, but Ilya didn't care. He was too deliriously happy that Grigori used his actual money to buy him skates. Alexei tried to say he didn’t get anything, but Mama said he’d helped with the cake. Then, she’d had them all dress in their best clothes and taken them to a photographer in the city for a professional family portrait. Besides an awkward moment when the photographer confused Grigori for Irina's father, it was a great day.

Ilya got a handful of .jpegs that he saved on his phone and the cloud. There was a serious shot of all four of them staring at the camera, another one of them smiling, a third one with Irina grinning and Grigori looking fondly exasperated because Alexei had him in a mock choke hold. Ilya chose the last one as his phone screen and also asked the photographer to print him a physical copy to slip into the back of his phone case.

It was his favorite present ever.

The coaches were talking about taking Ilya on the road with the rest of the hockey team even though he was only a backup player. More like a backup backup player, since he was the youngest member of the team and still smaller than everyone. Grigori thought it was a great sign, but he was concerned about the cost that Coach had quoted him for the trip. His latest business scheme must have failed, which Ilya and Alexei had guessed from his short temper over the last couple of weeks.

Irina did not want Ilya to go. She'd been adamant about it. Ilya was too young, just recently turned twelve, and this was apparently a sensitive age for boys. Ilya had asked Alexei, who was fifteen, what she meant by that. His only answer had been an exasperated eye roll.

"I'm sorry if you're disappointed, baby," she said, kissing Ilya's forehead as he put on his jacket. Today, he would deliver Papa's 'no' response to Coach. "Maybe next year, after you've grown a bit."

"I'm not disappointed," said Ilya. Being stuck with his annoying teammates on a bus for hours and hours didn't sound fun.

He ended up going anyway. Ilya didn't know where Grigori got the money, or why he chose to spend it on a field trip for Ilya, but he'd done it. His parents had a huge fight about it the night before Ilya had to go.

"Don't you watch the news, Grigori?" Irina had cried. "These wealthy demons torture children and drink their blood to stay young and strong!"

Ilya didn't know where Irina got these ideas. But when they came to her, an episode was not far behind. He knew it, Alexei knew it, and even Papa knew it. It was the worst time for Ilya to leave Alexei alone.

"I could pick a fight," Ilya said to Alexei before heading out that morning. "Jump one of my teammates next time they chirp at me. Coach would punish me by not letting me play a few games."

"No," said Alexei, mouth twisted into a grimace. "We need you to do well at this school, Ilyusha, to get into the MLH in five years. I'll handle Mama."

"Ale--"

"--you'll just make her worse anyway!" his brother snapped. He hadn't gotten much taller, unlike Ilya, but at fifteen he was broader at the shoulders and had sprouted a beard. Ilya still felt minuscule next to him. "You'll nod along to her stupid bullshit and tell her you'll protect her from her demons, and where will that get us?"

"Where does yelling at her and calling her crazy get us?"

"Just get the fuck out, Ilya," said Alexei, with a disgusted noise. "Go and enjoy your fucking trip."

He did not enjoy his fucking trip. Ilya tried texting Irina, but she kept sending him bible quotes and promising to fast and pray until God brought him back home. If Ilya begged her to stop, she called him crying because, surely, only the Devil would suggest such a thing. The Devil had taken her baby from her. Within hours, Alexei texted him that he'd taken Irina's phone.

I told you to fuck off. You're making her worse.

Fuck you.

Alexei did not respond.

Ilya considered picking a fight, but what would be the point? They were too far away from home so at most, his punishment would be to stay at the hotel while his team played. He had no option besides pushing through.

The Kommandos--Malkin's hockey team--won. Ilya was miserable the entire time, even though one of the older center forwards a stomach bug and Ilya got to play. He scored his first goal in a real game, but the memory Ilya took home was of the fight he picked with an opposing player. Or maybe the other kid picked the fight; it didn't really matter. Ilya got to punch and punch him, until the referee pulled him off the guy. Then he settled for spitting and yelling obscenities.

"Your mother is the whore!" Ilya screamed once he accepted that he was too small to pull away from the referee holding him.

He got sent to the penalty box for trying to fight the referee, but it was close to the end of the game. They still won. Coach told him he had to work on his temper, but there were no other consequences. Ilya got the message. Win, and you have the right to defend yourself.

Irina was deteriorating fast. Alarmingly so, and all of them knew it, especially her. Last night, after hearing someone slam the front door shut, Ilya rushed to his parents bedroom and found her kneeling by the bed, praying, the collar of her sleeping gown ripped. When he tried to laying a hand on her shoulder, she whirled on him and stifled a shriek. Her eyes had been wide as saucers. She made the sign of the cross at Ilya and rushed out a chant to ward demons.

Ilya had help Alexei with breakfast that morning just in case, though they both knew Grigori wouldn't return until the evening at the earliest. They'd both been quiet and avoided each other's gazes. Ilya had gone to check on Irina while Alexei worked on something for school. At some point during the night, she'd crawled into bed and fallen asleep. With the help of pills, no doubt. Ilya hadn't been able to wake her for a second, but she'd been breathing fine.

Training had gone well, which Ilya guessed was a good thing. It'd helped him forget, something he couldn't do as easily as Alexei. Sergei Vetrov had been very clear with Grigori that Ilya was not allowed to take drugs. They damaged the body and reflexes, and the only thing Vetrov was interested in was Ilya's body and reflexes. So Ilya couldn't take a break like Alexei did--by stealing some of Grigori's vodka and knocking himself out.

"Did you hear?" one of the other boys said in the locker room, to another kid. "Vetrov's mongrel daughter is back from the USA. She'll start at Malkin this semester."

"Mongrel or not, she's gotten hot," said another boy. "Hey, Rozanov! You know her? Vetrov's daughter?"

"No," said Ilya.

"Really?"

"Yes." Ilya had seen her a couple of times while training with Vetrov's private coaches at the man's personal rink, tucked away behind his mansion about thirty minutes away from Moscow proper. They'd even made eye contact. But she had ignored Ilya the one time he'd waved at her.

"Charity case, don't ignore me when I'm talking to you!"

Someone tried to grab Ilya's shoulder. He whirled on them and threw a punch without checking who it was and pounced before the other guys could get a hold of him. It took three to tear him away from whoever the fuck had spoken.

"You're lucky you're Vetrov's bitch," he spat at Ilya moments later, after the other guys managed to separate them.

"You're the bitch," sneered Ilya. "Afraid to defend yourself just because of big, bad Sergei Vetrov."

The boy snarled and launched himself towards Ilya. One of the D-man teens got in front of him and a second pushed Ilya out of the locker room. He left his backpack in there, but he didn't give a shit. Ilya wanted to go home. Or maybe not home, but somewhere away. He wiped at his mouth, rushed to his locker to pick up his coat, then headed to the back of the school. It was probably too early to try and sneak out, but Ilya didn't care.

He waited a bit until a group of older teens made the climb, heart still racing. God, if only practice would've lasted longer. He still had so much energy to burn. But he still made sure to climb carefully.

Last month, one of the forwards had slipped on ice trying to sneak out to buy cigarettes. Or drugs. Not only had he fucked up his ankle, but he'd had to admit that he'd been planning to buy the drugs and/or cigarettes. The coaches had been furious. Vetrov did not want drug addled hockey players out of the junior team he was funding. Papa and Alexei seemed happy, though. Since the kid was out, that meant that the team would have to use Ilya more often.

Ilya made it up and down the fence without issue. His heart started to calm the instant his feet touched the ground outside of Malkin and he sighed softly to himself, beginning to walk away. When he was about to turn the corner, he heard a startled cry. Followed by worried mumbling coming from a girl.

Sighing with much less relief, Ilya turned around.

Two girls from Malkin had climbed the stone fence after him and a blonde one may have twisted her ankle. The other one was Svetlana Vetrova.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

I started writing this thing long enough ago that half of it is in present tense so editing is turning into "fix the tenses" lol.

Note for some who have asked: I wrote this without thinking about dates, so set in my present time (mid 2020s God help us all) which means they're kids in the 2010s or so. So phones everywhere, even for younger kids. And no covid because Jesus that would be at least a year of added stress to these characters.

Although they're so rich it probably didn't fuck them up as much as it did the average person.

TRIGGER WARNINGS/CONTENT NOTE at end.

Alexei brought a girl home for dinner a couple of days before one of Ilya's hockey games. Her name was Olga Volkova; her hair was shiny and blond and done up in a bun. She didn't wear any make up, which Irina really approved of, so Alexei kept bringing her. A few times, she joined them at church for Sunday service with her family's approval. Ilya only hoped that she would make Alexei happy. Lately, he'd been yelling more than usual, bursting out with aggression at odd moments, lashing out at Ilya even if Ilya hadn't done or said anything.

Good thing all the hockey training left Ilya with fast reflexes.

"Let's invite Olga for dinner this weekend," said Irina one day, during breakfast. "She's been your friend for three months now, right Alexei?"

"Yes," said Alexei, without looking at any of them. He was blushing a little bit.

Irina grinned and kissed his forehead, then shared a nod with Grigori. For the last few weeks, she'd been doing well. The talk of demons had been minimal and Ilya and Alexei hadn't needed to step in with household chores, at least not while she was half-unconscious in bed. It was different when she planned an elaborate meal and decided to involve them.

"What about you, Ilyusha?" she asked him. "Have you made friends with any girls at Malkin?"

"Uh, not really," said Ilya. He didn't think that his mother would approve of Svetlana and Katya the way she approved of Olga.

"He's too young for such things," said Grigori. "Better for him to focus on hockey."

"Yes, sir," said Ilya.

He was, but he would be an idiot to ignore Svetlana and Katya. Not only were they the first kids at Malkin to not talk to him like he was a turd stuck to their shoe, they were so pretty. Svetlana's curls glimmered red under certain lights and her neck. . . well, Ilya wasn't sure what was happening with her neck, just that he liked to look at it. And Katya, she had legs that went on and on and on, and she colored bits of her light blond hair in different shades of pink and red.

Since Ilya helped Katya with a light ankle sprain, using what he'd learned from coaches about how to manage minor injuries, they'd been taking Ilya with them parks, movie theaters, department stores. And Katya's house, a big fancy house at the edge of Moscow where servants wore blue button up shirt with the same logo on it.

Instinct told Ilya to keep all of that to himself. God only knew what ideas would enter Irina's head if she heard the sometimes-sour laughter Katya let out. Since his family assumed he was training whenever he wasn't home, he didn't need to worry about any of them asking why he missed dinner occasionally.

Besides, they had Alexei and Olga to keep them distracted.

"And Ilya goes to private school, right?" Olga asked one evening.

"Yes," said Irina, smiling at him. "My little knight is very good at hockey."

"What's it like?" asked Olga.

"Like flying," said Ilya. "Like you're the fastest person in the world."

"She meant the school," said Alexei.

Oh. Ilya shrugged. "Like school, except there are security guards."

"Security guards?" Olga's blue eyes widened. "Why? I thought it was in the rich part of the city."

"Lots of wealthy people send their kids there," said Alexei, shooting Ilya a look. "They like to show off."

"That's right," said Grigori. "Often, the wealthy hire security simply to look like they need security. Malkin is a very safe place."

That was probably right. Ilya had been attending Malkin for three years now, and aside for the occasional brawls on the ice and in the locker room, there hadn't been any problems. The guards themselves looked bored out of their minds almost always. Kids older than fourteen could come and go through the front gate just by signing a book.

Svetlana or Katya, who were both fifteen, didn't want someone to know that they were leaving. When he first started hanging out them, Ilya would meet them at random shops or parks near Malkin, assuming that they'd sauntered out of the school with their heads held high. Not the case. Sometimes, when one of them was in detention, they'd text Ilya to see if he was done with training and wait for him at the fence if he wasn't.

"Why do you guys sneak out?" he'd asked them once.

Katya twirled a lock of her light blond hair and tapped his nose with her finger. She giggled and laid her head on his shoulder. "I like a little excitement in my life."

"Katya, he's twelve," said Svetlana.

Katya leaned away from him and started speaking in rapid English. Even if she were to slow down, Ilya wouldn't get much of it. English was probably his worse subject, though he knew he should try harder for the MLH.

For Alexei's birthday, Ilya got the family tickets for a Malkin home game, including one for Olga.

"Dumbass, why would I want to go to one of your stupid games for my birthday?"

"I thought Olga might want to see Malkin," said Ilya, though the truth was that he hadn't had time or money to get anything else. Or knowledge. What did Alexei bother with anymore besides his school work and lottery scratch cards?

"We should go, Lyosha," said Olga. "I think it would be interesting."

And just like that, Ilya's family came to one of his games for the first time. Irina put on one of her nicer blouses and her fancy blue coat. Grigori wore his nice jacket and even Alexei slicked his hair and trimmed his beard. Olga, with indulgent support from Irina, let her hair down and applied light pink lip balm. As he led them to their seats, Ilya realized that he was nervous. What if he sucked tonight?

"Good luck luck, my knight," said Irina, leaning down to kiss his forehead.

"Don't embarrass us," said Alexei.

Ilya made a face at him, then nodded to Grigori and headed to the locker room, only to find half the team glaring at him. Two of their forwards, including their first center, had been hospitalized earlier in the afternoon. No one in the locker room knew the details, only rumors about them going at each other over some girl, but the details were irrelevant. They were in bad shape for the upcoming game.

"You'll be on the ice a lot this game, Rozanov," said their coach.

“You better not fuck this up, Charity Case,” said one of the other players, when their coach was out of earshot.

“I won’t,” said Ilya, thinking of Grigori and Alexei sitting on the second row.

He knew in his bones that he played well, but he was still one of the smallest kids on the team. And one of the teams had to lose regardless. Still, Grigori would not be thrilled if Malkin lost and it was obvious that it was his son that cost them the match.

Ilya mentally shrugged. There was little he could do to change the situation. He squared his shoulders, determined to try his best, then went out with the team.

The older kids were pushing fifteen and they all played like they had something to prove. In the first period, the match tied at two-two. One of the goals was Ilya's and when he looked towards his family, he saw Irina and Alexei clapping happily.

The second period was so fast that Ilya began to simply enjoy the speed and aggression of it all. The visiting team was getting rough--Ilya winced when one of their D-man crashed into the Kommando's top center forward. The boy crumbled like a sac of potatoes and did not get up. The crowd got really quiet. It took them a bit to start up again, but by the time the referees had helped the boy off the rink, their chatter had a new edge of excitement to it.

Ilya couldn't see his family easily from their team's box and he was glad for it.

While he waited for the rink to be readied, Mr. Vetrov appeared by their box and beckoned Ilya over. The man was pale, with prominent cheekbones and a full head of dark wavy hair that had started growing gray at the temples. Somehow, he seemed broader every time Ilya saw him, like he'd just walked of a boxing a match after knocking his opponent unconscious.

“Time to fly, boy,” he said, green eyes hard. “I would’ve preferred for your balls to drop before having you compete in a game like this, but we don’t always get what we want.”

Ilya didn't know what was so special about this game, but he nodded. It was true. As far as he could tell, people rarely got what they want.

“Don’t worry about scoring at first,” says Mr. Vetrov. The other players lined up behind Ilya to listen. “Fly. They’ll get flustered trying to catch you. Let your wingers and defensemen defend you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ilya, then nodded at the coach before heading out to the center.

The other center in bigger than him, but Ilya refused to be intimidated. The puck dropped.

And Ilya flew.

The anxiety left him as he skated, only barely concerned with the puck itself. He glided around the opposing players, keeping track of his wingers to pass the puck. He scored the winning goal with less than a minute to go and the crowd exploded. Ilya threw his fist in the air and his teammates gathered around him to envelop him in a group hug.

The ride back home was odd. Alexei had his face fixed on his phone screen, ignoring Olga's attempts to hold his hand. Irina gripped her crucifix so hard that her knuckles were white, and Grigori's jaw was tight. Ilya searched for something to say, some joke or quip that would diffuse the tension hanging over them like a cloud of smoke. There was nothing.

After they dropped off Olga, the tension got even worse. Alexei still wouldn't look at him. Ilya tried texting him to ask what was wrong. He was left on read.

It was a good thing he won the stupid match, wasn't it? It was why they had sent him to Malkin in the first place. So why were Irina’s shoulders tight with tension? Why hadn't Grigori looked at him even once?

In all honesty, Ilya had expected at least one measly, gruff word of praise.

When they got to the apartment, Grigori went straight for the cabinet where he kept the vodka. Ilya meant to escape to his room with the fastest goodnight he could muster, but he noticed that Alexei was staying close to their mother. Who was barely inching into the living room.

“Boys, go to bed,” said Grigori.

Ilya opened his mouth, but Alexei shot him a warning look before he could get out a yes, sir.

“Papa,” said Alexei. “Ilyusha told me he hurt his foot. Can Mama come with us and help me with him?”

Ilya had said nothing of the sort, but he’d long since learned to go along with Alexei when things got ugly. He usually knew what to do. So Ilya stood still as Grigori turned around and stared at him with more fury than Ilya had ever seen on his face.

It wasn't fair. Ilya hadn’t done anything wrong this time, absolutely nothing wrong, and Grigori was fair. He was supposed to be, so why was he walking closer like he meant to crush someone.

Ilya stood his ground even as Grigori took a fistful of his hair. “You look less like your mother every day."

“Grigori!” cried Irina. She took a couple of long steps and laid a trembling hand on Grigori's shoulder. “Darling, please. It’s a happy evening.” She laid her other hand across the wrist of Grigori’s opposite hand, the one he had buried in Ilya’s hair, and pressed her the length of her body against his side. “Please. We should celebrate.”

Slowly, Grigori's hold on Ilya’s hair loosened. Ilya trembled, almost ran away, but he didn't want to leave his mother alone and so close to his father right now.

“Alexei!” said Irina, sharp like jagged glass. “Take your brother down to Nana’s for hot chocolate and cookies.”

No, that was not a good idea. Alexei had to know it too. They should stay together. Alexei must know it too because Ilya watched him hesitate.

“Alexei, take your brother,” said Grigori.

And that was that. Alexei would never disobey a direct order from their father. He grabbed Ilya’s sleeve, pulled him towards the door, and gestured at their coats while Irina kissed Grigori’s chin.

Ilya wanted to vomit.

Alexei didn't take him to Nana’s for hot chocolate and cookies. He took them out to the street, bought a pair of cigarettes off a bum, then parked them at a cold bench. As snowflakes began to fall, he light one up and started to smoke.

“What did I do?” asked Ilya, eventually.

“Nothing,” said Alexei. He tried to pass Ilya the other cigarette.

“Coach says I’m not supposed to smoke,” said Ilya. And it smelled gross; he didn't actually want to try it.

“Pussy,” said Alexei, putting the cigarette back in his pocket. “But you’re pretty good at hockey. Guess it’s not nothing.”

"What does that matter?" Ilya lamented. "Papa doesn't seem to care."

"And what about Mama?" said Alexei.

Ilya shrugged. "She didn't even want me going to Malkin in the first place."

"No, Ilyusha, think." He sucked on his cigarette. "Do you know what it would mean, if you actually make it to the MLH?"

"Money." The other boys couldn't stop talking about it.

"Not just money, you vapid little mouse," said Alexei. "Enough money to help Mama, maybe. To take her to America to see American doctors and buy American drugs."

"You think she'd agree to that?" Mama didn't even like going to Russian doctors. And she kept saying that America was a hedonist, corrupt place.

"We can try to convince her," said Alexei, with a hard look. "Once you have the money."

Something shifted after that game, both at home and at Malkin. The other boys started including him in their conversations, and not just to clumsily bait into conversational traps. When he chirped back at them, they forced out laughs and called him clever. After he growled at them to stop calling Svetlana a mongrel, they quit doing it. In front of him, at least. Ilya had zero doubt that they still called her that when he wasn't around.

It was fine. Ilya liked it better than been called a charity case all the time.

"They're being really weird," he couldn't help but complain to Svetlana and Katya.

"In what way?" asked Katya. She was helping Svetlana with the makeup girls put around their eyes. The eyeshadow, which was such a cool name. Ilya wished he could wear some, but it wasn't for guys. Grigori would murder him for just having the thought.

"They keep inviting me to their houses," said Ilya.

"And that's weird?" said Svetlana. "You keep coming with us."

"I can think of a few reasons he'd rather be with us," said Katya.

Svetlana rolled her eyes.

Katya meant that they were pretty girls, but that wasn't it. Not entirely. Ilya found their endless wandering in department stores boring, but he'd rather be with them on the few days he wasn't training. It was better than going home.

Irina had been praying more than usual. Crying too. She was doing her duty as a wife and mother, for what it was worth, so Ilya tried not to dwell on it too much. Irina asked him not to.

"I was born with a sad soul," she kept saying, whenever Ilya asked what was wrong.

Maybe Ilya had been too. Though he kept scoring goals, though his coaches and teammates all said that he was growing into his potential, he didn't really feel much of anything about it. Except annoyance at all the increased attention. He couldn't shake the feeling that he ought to be spending more time with his Mom. Alexei had started an after school program with the police, plus he kept going on dates with Olga, so Irina was spending a lot of time alone.

That night, something had Alexei in one of his moods. He kept shooting Ilya angry looks and fishing for something to harangue him about.

“Fuck, I should be grateful you’re too stupid for homework,” he finally settled on, glaring from the top bunk.

“It’s not like I’m having that much fun,” said Ilya.

“Oh, is that right?” Alexei made a mock sad face. “I’m sorry Ilyusha doesn’t have a blast Every Single Time he has to play sports.”

Ilya gave him the middle finger. “Vetrov has it in for me,” he mumbled.

“What do you mean?” asked Alexei.

“He comes to watch the Kommandos train and he always calls me over to tell me I’m playing wrong,” said Ilya. “And he’s not even a coach! It’s annoying.”

Alexei gave him an exasperated look and sighed deeply. “Are you listening to him?”

“Yeah,” said Ilya. As much as Ilya hated to admit it, his advice wasn't bad. “But I don’t know why I’m the only one he picks on.”

“God, how are you this dumb?”

“Stop calling me dumb!” Ilya smacked the frame of their double bed.

“Have you, at any point in the years you’ve been at Malkin, wondered who Sergei Vetrov is?” asked Alexei. “Like, have you looked him up online? I know I talk a lot of shit, but you can read, right?”

“He’s some rich guy who likes hockey!” said Ilya. “Rich enough he can just decide he wants some random kid at a park to play on his favorite hockey team, I guess.” It sounded insane, but Papa always said that rich people do insane things because they have too much money.

“Ilya. . .” Alexei let out a deep sigh. “Sergei Vetrov is one of the most famous professional hockey players in the world, though he’s been retired for about five years. He was a goaltender for an American team and he’s a high ranking official for the Ministry of Sports now.”

“Oh.” That sounded like he was a rich guy, so Ilya had gotten the gist of the situation.

“He’s paying for your Malkin tuition and God only knows what else,” said Alexei. He stopped peering down at Ilya. “It’s not so bad a thing and It’ll probably be fine, so long as all he wants is for you to play hockey and you can keep doing it well.”

Ilya grunted.

“I’m fucking serious, Ilya,” said Alexei. “If you’re not thinking of hockey as a job yet, it’s time for you to start. Don’t bitch about how much fun you’re not having, and definitely don’t bitch about how Sergei fucking Vetrov is coaching you. God!”

“I haven’t complained to anyone else!” Ilya could see with his own eyes how much the man was worshiped at Malkin, even if he’d never bothered to find out the reason.

Svetlana never talked about him, so Ilya igured it would be best to leave it alone. He would hate it if any of his friends went snooping around Grigori.

But fine. Alexei piqued his interest and he finally looked up Mr. Vetrov. All right, maybe the man was a bigger deal than Ilya had noticed. Sergei Vetrov had played in MLH for fifteen years and been considered one of the best—if not the best—goaltender in the whole world. Ilya sucked at that position, which tracked since he was an idiot and goalies are supposedly the smartest hockey players.

Ilya didn't care. Goaltending was boring. He absolutely hated it when he had to be the goaltender during drills so he knew the basics of the position just in case there were no other players available in the middle of a game. If the Kommandos ever landed so many players in the penalty box that they had to make Ilya their goalie, then the match was lost. At least the coaches seemed to realize it.

Except Vetrov, apparently. The next time Ilya had to play as goalie, Mr. Vetrov called him off the ice.

“What’s happening?” Vetrov asked him. “You’ve let every puck through today.”

Ilya shrugged. He couldn't be honest to this man. Not about how much he hated being a goalie and all the stupid extra gear he has to wear for it while watching everyone else actually skate, or how much he didn't want to be playing hockey right now. Alexei had texted him in the middle of lunch and asked him to get home earlier if he could. He’d never done that before. Ilya couldn't begin to guess what was going on back home.

“Rozanov,” said Mr. Vetrov.

To his horror, Ilya sniffled. “I would like to go home early today, sir. Please.”

Mr. Vetrov looked down at him, back straight and massive, still as a statue. He reached into his pocket and got a small card and a pen. After writing something down, he passed it to Ilya. “This is my personal phone number,” he said, handing Ilya the card. “You may go today and sort out whatever has you in this state, Ilya Rozanov. If it’s something beyond you, you will call me and I will asses the situation.”

“What about the guards at the gate?” asked Ilya, looking at the helmet at the corner of the card.

“I will speak with them,” said Mr. Vetrov. “You’re different than the other children here. There’s no reason you can’t come and go independently, and certainly no reason for you to risk injury every time you feel like climbing the back fence.”

Ilya blushed. “I can leave whenever I want?”

“Of course,” said Mr. Vetrov. “I can’t force you to become a world class athlete, Rozanov. I can only clear a path for you.”

But why would you do that for me?

Ilya only nodded and said thank you, then skated off the rink. The gate guards didn't even look at him when he left Malkin.

Ilya texted Alexei on the train and got no response, not even a thumbs up emoji, which wasn't great for Ilya’s peace of mind. He considered texting Irina (no) or Grigori (absolutely not, and Alexei would rightfully murder him). No point in texting anyone. He was already on the way and would figure out what needed to be done shortly.

He practically ran up the stairs and almost forgot to take off his boots at the threshold. “Mama! Alexei!”

No answer from either of them. Ilya cursed as he threw his boots aside and ran to his parents’ room first, heart in his throat. He found Irina sprawled on the bed wearing only her underwear, above the covers.

Stupidly, he thought that it was a little cold in the apartment before snapping out of it and going to check her pulse and breathing. Her heartbeat was steady under his fingertips and it made tears escape his eyes.

“Fuck,” he breathed, wiping his cheeks and then making sure she was breathing. Yes. Steady, easy breaths.

Ilya curled his hands into fists and then went to the closet to look for extra blankets. He maneuvered Irina to her side so hopefully she wouldn’t choke if she vomited, then stepped back and took a few calming breaths. Where the fuck was Alexei?

In their room, it turned out, cradling a bottle of liquor and smoking cigarettes. “What the fuck?” shouted Ilya. “I fucking texted you. Why didn’t you answer me?”

Alexei blinked at him. His blue eyes—bright, shiny blue, like their father’s—were fogged over. “Hi, Ilyusha,” he slurred. “Could you make dinner tonight? I don’t think Mama is up to it.”

Ilya let out a short, incoherent scream and strode towards the bed. “I get the bottom bunk, you asshole! Don’t stink up my bed with smoke and liquor.” He ripped the bottle out of Alexei's hand and threw it against the wall. It shattered and, since Ilya was an idiot, he yelped at the sight of clear liquid dripping down to the floor. What the hell did he think would happen?

“You little—fucker.” Alexei tried to get off the bed, likely to throw a punch, but he was too drunk. He only fell to the floor.

“Was that Papa’s vodka?” demanded Ilya. “I’m not helping you unfuck this. He will kill you.”

He left the room, hands buried in his hair, heart pounding like he was in the middle of a speed drill on the ice. Fuck Alexei. How dare he do this shit? They had a deal—unspoken, but obvious. Ilya kept out of trouble at Malkin, like Grigori had commanded, and Alexei took care of Mama. He was supposed to be so much fucking smarter than Ilya, but he pulled some shit like this?

Fuck. Ilya paced around the little kitchen and living room, feeling more enraged than he ever had in his life. He glanced at the clock. Almost 17:00 hours (the hockey team had him thinking in military time). He had maybe three hours to get everything ready before Grigori got home from work.

Seething, Ilya stopped by the oven and turned it on. Might as well do something productive with all his pent up energy. He opened the fridge to see if there was enough ingredients for a decent meal, trying to remember what they had for dinner the prior evening. Grigori hated to eat the same thing twice in a row.

But fuck him too. Ilya picked random stuff and began to throw something together mechanically.

While everything was boiling or baking, he grabbed thick gloves and cleaning supplies to sort out that broken bottle. That part of the mess at least was fully Ilya’s fault. Alexei had plopped down on Ilya’s bunk at some point and was currently snoring softly. Ilya paused to put him on his side too, scowling at the stink of alcohol in his breath, then snuffed out the cigarettes. He spent a good ten minutes afterwards picking up pieces of broken glass.

Though his heart beat was back to normal, Ilya was still seething. He knew he would cover for Alexei—return the favor for all the times Alexei had covered for him—but he couldn't let go of his disappointment. Ilya was supposed to be the fuck up, except every time he fucked up, it was a mistake. No way Alexei accidentally had gotten black out drunk on Papa’s vodka.

What the hell were they going to do if this become a regular thing? What was Irina going to do?

At least for that evening, Ilya got the dining table ready with food the way Grigori liked. He even got time to sweep everything and light a candle so the apartment smelled nice. His eyes were dry by the time he heard a key jingling and his heart stayed calm as he went to the dining table.

“Good evening, Papa,” said Ilya. He was proud of his steady voice.

Grigori looked around. “Where are you mother and brother?”

“Mama needed extra medication tonight and Alexei has headache,” said Ilya, only a little concerned with how weak his lie about Alexei was. Chances were that Grigori would not go check on him. “But it’s okay. I took care of everything.”

“Why are you dressed like that?” asked Grigori.

Ilya blinked. Glanced down at himself. He still had the athletic wear he put on under his hockey gear. “I. . .” Fuck. Fuck. Alexei would have reminded him to fucking change. “I need to. . .” Do laundry? No. Irina was supposed to make sure their clothes were clean. “I forgot to change, sir. I apologize.”

With a sigh, Grigori sat at the head of the table. Ilya moved to serve him without being told, hoping Grigori was in a good enough mood to let the hockey gear go. Ilya had been playing goalie and doing a pretty bad job of it, so hopefully he didn't stink.

“How are you doing in school?”

“I’m doing well, sir,” said Ilya. It was even true, today aside. “I’m still the fastest skater in my age group and I passed my last math test.”

“Good.”

They didn't say anything for the rest of the meal and Grigori didn't make any comments when Ilya started clearing the table and doing the dishes by himself. Ilya wished he could check on Irina, but he was not allowed to go into his parents’ room when his father was home. Not that he wanted to go in there with Grigori in the house.

Ilya could check on Alexei, but he didn't want to look at his brother. He went back to their room and climbed to the top bunk, musty hockey gear and all. If Alexei gave him shit about it tomorrow, Ilya would punch him in the throat. Consequences be damned.

As he laid on Alexei’s bed, staring at the ceiling, he finally remembered Mr. Vetrov’s card. Ilya scowled to himself. What could the Minister of Sport, or whatever his title was, have done about the mess that is Ilya’s family? Nothing, but there might other disasters. There would be other disasters. Ilya reached into his pocket for Mr. Vetrov’s card, then added the man's phone number to his contact list. At the last moment, he deleted “Mr. Vetrov” and typed “Coach” instead.

Chapter End Notes

Irina's mental health and Alexei's substance use gets worse. And Grigori abuses his family, with sexual abuse of Irina strongly implied (she distracts him from hurting the kids with sexual advances).

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

CONTENT WARNING at end note

In other news, this was going to be the last chapter but once again, the "editing" turned into more writing lol

Svetlana and Katya had a fight. They kept denying it on the way to the department store, but Ilya could tell by the way they made snide comments at each other and argued about silly things, like if a particular shirt looked nicer in green or red, and then demanded that he choose.

"I don't know," he said to Svetlana.

She grunted and shoved both pieces of clothing at him. Ilya took a hold of them and watched her storm off, right out of the store.

"Ignore her," said Katya. "This is how she always is this time of year."

"Why?"

"It's. . ." Katya trailed off. "You should ask her, Ilyusha. She's sweet on you."

Ilya didn't think so. Sometimes, when he went to Mr. Vetrov's private rink for extra training, Svetlana would be there on the side, watching silently with an intense air about her. A couple of times, after coaches or Mr. Vetrov said he'd had enough, Ilya had asked if she wanted to skate with him a bit. She had ignored him every time, so Ilya had stopped asking. That might have gone on forever if Katya hadn't sprained her ankle.

He didn't know why Svetlana tolerated him at all whenever he got out of practice early enough to join her and Katya. It was better than going home, though, so he didn't question it.

They wandered around for about an hour, until Katya's Papa sent a driver to get her. Ilya didn't want to leave without Svetlana, but she wouldn't answer his or Katya's texts. Was she still in the department store? What if something happened to her?

"Nothing happened to her," said Katya. "She's just in one of her moods. Come on, Ilyusha."

"No," said Ilya. "We shouldn't leave her alone."

Katya rolled her eyes. "Well, I'm leaving. Have fun with your precious Sveta."

That wasn't what Ilya said at all, but there was no point in arguing. He nodded, held his ground when Katya called him an idiot and Svetlana's pet, and pulled out his phone the moment she left to look for her driver.

If you don't tell me where you are I'll call your father, he texted Svetlana.

He got a nauseated emoji face as a response followed by at observation deck.

Ilya found her huddled in a corner, gleaming in the red tights girls wore with their Malkin uniforms, knees drawn up to her chest, staring off into the city's shining skyline. Though her face was set in a stony look, Ilya couldn't help but sigh as the light from the passing cars caught her eyes. She was so pretty--the prettiest girl in all of Malkin. It made everyone so mad.

"What are you staring at?" she asked.

Ilya shrugged and decided to sit close to her. Not many people were left this late in the evening since everyone had to work or go to school tomorrow.

"Why aren't your parents wandering where you are?" asked Svetlana.

"They think I'm training," said Ilya, worried that she would think they weren't responsible. "And I can take care of myself."

Svetlana snorted.

"I can," insisted Ilya. "Katya says you always get 'like this' this time of year. What does she mean?"

"My mother died this month," said Svetlana. "Five years ago now."

"Oh." Ilya stayed quiet for a moment. "What happened?"

"She got a phone call that Papa was meeting another woman at a club," said Svetlana.

Ilya took a small, shaky breath. He reminded himself that Grigori wouldn't do that--he was a respectable man who believed in the importance of honoring vows, to God and his fellow men, even if he didn't go to church anymore. He wouldn't cheat on Irina. Alexei said so too, though he thought it was because no woman with a ruble's worth of sense would pay any mind to an aging cop with two kids to support.

"So she got in her car to drive to them and confront them," Svetlana continued. "It was raining that day and drivers in Trinidad can be unpredictable." She sighed. "My mom was the drunk one, though."

Ilya waited a few moments in case she wanted to say more, but it looked like she didn't. He could guess what had happened. "She didn't do it on purpose," he said.

"Of course not," said Svetlana. "She's dead anyway."

Over on the street, the cars kept driving. Ilya watched until the traffic light turned red.

"Mama says that when you die, you don't stop existing," said Ilya. "You get closer to God and it's. . . nice, I think. Because God loves us."

"That's stupid," said Svetlana. "God's not real. When you die, nothing happens except you stop existing."

"Maybe," mumbled Ilya. Alexei said something close to that, and he was the smart one.

"Next thing you'll tell me is she's watching me from heaven," said Svetlana.

He didn't know about all that. Maybe Svetlana's mother had not been a good mother. Which would hardly be a helpful thing to say now. "What's Trinidad like?" he asked, hoping some kind of distraction might work.

Finally, Svetlana smiled and her shoulders relaxed. "It's beautiful, especially away from the city. The beaches are as blue as the sky on a sunny day."

"Is it true it's always hot there?" The guys in the hockey team said that it was, so much so that girls normally walked around half naked even during the winter. They figured that was why Vetrov had married Svetlana's mother, and that Svetlana herself went around half naked when she wasn't in Moscow even if she was dressed normally in the occasional pictures she posted online regardless of where she was staying.

"Compared to here, yes," said Svetlana, pulling out her phone. "Do you even know where it is? Here, let me show you on a world map."

They spent some time looking at pictures of gorgeous beaches, colorful birds, and impossibly green mountains. There were some women wearing small bathing suits and bikinis, but that was what people wore at the beach. The guys went around half naked too. Old and young, thin and fat, tall and short, it seemed that there was no need for long sleeves or coats in Trinidad. It might as well be a different planet to Ilya, who had never been too far from Moscow and its neighboring cities.

He started asking questions, hesitantly at first, but he noticed that Svetlana brightened up when she spoke of her mother's homeland. Soon, he was asking every little thing that came to mind. What was the food like? Did it snow? Did she have a lot of family there?

"A bunch of cousins," said Svetlana, smiling. "And my auntie and my grandparents."

It sounded nice. Ilya didn't have any distant family that he was close to. Grigori's only sister never had children and he didn't know anything about Irina's family. The few times he had asked, she'd gone quiet and said they were no longer in her life.

Ilya put all that out of his mind and kept asking Svetlana questions about Trinidad. And Tobago. Why did they have different names? Did they pray to the same God? Did the people know or care about hockey?

They got so engrossed that neither of them noticed Mr. Vetrov until he cleared his throat. Ilya jumped a little. Svetlana merely gave her father a stony look. There was a short, tense moment, but luckily Mr. Vetrov didn't seem angry. Still, when he dropped Ilya off in front of his apartment building, Svetlana ignored his goodbye.

Ilya tried not to take it personally. He didn't know what Mr. Vetrov expected of her.

Much to Ilya's disappointment, Irina seemed to get worse that summer. Alexei was bummed out too, often lamenting that he'd been praying for the warmer weather that usually gave their mother a boost in energy. Not that year. She missed most church activities, and sometimes Sunday mass. She barely managed to make an appearance for Alexei's sixteenth birthday picnic.

Luckily, Olga was around to help. Not only did she take time to help Alexei (and thus Ilya) with some chores, her presence also stopped Grigori's periodic explosions at what he called Irina's "lazy periods". He wouldn't do that in front of guests.

One day, after a home game that went overtime, Ilya found Irina sitting at the dining table alone, staring off into space. She didn't seem to notice him as he took off his shoes, or even when he walked past their small living room and into the kitchen.

"Mama?"

Her blond hair, usually so well kept whenever she made it out of her bedroom, was tied up in a lopsided bun. Ilya's heart raced when he noticed a dark smudge under her left eye, then realized that it was only smeared make up of some kind.

"Mama?" he tried again, a little louder.

Her blue eyes widened for a moment, but she seemed to relax when she spotted him. Ilya felt his own shoulders loosen when she offered him a wobbly smile.

"Baby," she said. "Come over here. How was your day?"

"It was okay," said Ilya, walking forward. "It was good. We won. I scored two goals."

"That's my little knight," said Irina. Though her smile widened, tears stained her cheeks.

"Where's Alexei?" asked Ilya.

"He. . ." Irina sniffled. "I'm not sure."

"That's okay," said Ilya. "He can take care of himself."

It was the wrong thing to say. Irina crumbled, tried and failed to stifle a sob. Ilya wrapped his arms around her and blinked her, determined not to make things worse by also bursting into tears. Probably, nothing in particular had happened. Alexei might still be in school, preparing for a test. Or out with Olga. Or just with Grigori at one of the clubhouses. He should be home, but maybe he'd thought it'd be okay to take a break. Irina had seemed more or less okay during breakfast.

"Do you need anything?" asked Ilya. "Food? Praying? Maybe to go for a walk?" Irina shook her head at all of these suggestions. Ilya gave up and went for the thing that always seemed to work, albeit at a steep price. "Maybe medication?"

"No," said Irina, slowly pulling back to look him in the eye. "Ilyushenka, my sweet, kind baby, I need you to promise me something."

"Anything," Ilya said immediately.

"Promise me you will always take care of your father and your brother," said Irina. "Even when they get harsh, never give up on them."

"Of course." That was easy. He did that already, as much as he could. "We always look out for each other."

"Yes, always," said Irina, smiling. A genuine smile, like the ones that came when it was a particularly nice day and they were all together. "I think I will have some of my medication after all."

"Okay," said Ilya. "Let me help you to your room."

He wished he could say that his promise helped matters, but that conversation marked the beginning of one of her worse episodes in weeks. Irina practically stopped getting out of bed altogether, except to go to the bathroom. Ilya and Alexei started taking turns waking up early to handle chores as best they could, resorting to making meals in larger batches even though Grigori preferred to eat freshly prepared food.

The situation was dire enough that he didn't complain about it, only looked at the plates Ilya and Alexei put in front of him with a curled upper lip. Sometimes, Ilya wanted him to say something, to have an opportunity to scream at him that his family needed help. His wife needed help.

Worst of all, at least to Ilya, was the fact that Irina stopped praying out loud. Alexei said he was relieved since her incessant chanting could get annoying during bad days, but Ilya hated the silence most of all. The only person who shared his concern was Olga, who rightly pointed out that it was a terrible sign if Irina no longer found comfort in God.

"Maybe we should help her to a doctor," said Olga, one of the days she came over to help them prepare a few days' worth of food.

"Papa says we just need to wait this out," said Alexei, groaning and lighting a cigarette. "Sweetheart, I know this looks bad, but I know my mother. She'll get over this like she always does."

"I don't know if she's ever over it," said Ilya.

"Don't you start too," said Alexei. "Just focus on your hockey sh-stuff."

Right, so he could get into the MLH, become as rich as Mr. Vetrov, and get Irina to some fancy American doctors. Ilya didn't think they had that much time, but what else could he do?

He thought, sometimes, about Mr. Vetrov's phone number. Saved on his phone, so far useless. He hadn't needed to call the man. Or rather, he hadn't worked up the courage to do it. Ilya knew that Grigori would be humiliated if his son involved another man in what he considered his wife's misbehavior. Ilya wouldn't care so much about that, except he knew how much it would hurt Irina if Grigori got even harsher with her.

Besides, what if Mr. Vetrov also judged Irina to be lazy and a bad mother? Or crazy? Ilya wouldn't be able to accept money from a man who treated his mother so harshly. . .well, except for Grigori himself. But at least Grigori was his father.

Life went on. Ilya tried to be grateful for every day that things didn't get worse and even got into the habit of starting his days with a short morning prayer. Silently, as to not annoy Alexei or cut into his own limited time. It didn't seem to do anything.

One morning, while he was putting on his shoes, Irina came out of her room.

"Mama!" Ilya kicked off his boot and rushed towards her.

"Baby," she said, with a wobbly smile. Her eyes were bloodshot. "I'm so glad I caught you."

"Do you need anything?"

"I just have a gift for you." She shoved her crucifix at him while he tried to figure out if he should call Alexei.

"Mama?"

"Please, I want you to have it," she said, smiling.

"Ah. . . okay," said Ilya, taking the crucifix, noting that it still carried the warmth of her skin. He could always give it back to her later. "Anything else?"

"Promise me again," said Irina.

"Promise what?"

"That you will take care of your father and your brother." Irina stared at him, hardly breathing.

"Of course," said Ilya. "I'll take care of them. I promise."

Irina seemed to relax. Her shoulders loosened, and she let out a soft breath. "Thank you, Ilyusha." She smiled. "Please, put on the cross."

Ilya smiled too and quickly slipped the chain around his neck. He put the crucifix under his shirt for good measure. It was enough to calm Irina down to the point that she was willing to go back to her room. Ilya considered staying with her, but he had a game that afternoon so if he missed school, there was no way it wouldn't get back to Grigori. He settled for sending Alexei a message to please come back home early that evening if he could manage it.

The game was unremarkable. The Kommandos won and Ilya scored, as had been the case the last few times they played. Coaches and teammates clapped Ilya on the back and praised his speed. Ilya smiled and thanked them, finishing up in the locker room as quickly as he could.

"Rozanov, how about joining us for our post-game celebration, for once?" one of his teammates asked.

"Man, he's a fucking infant," said another. "I doubt he knows what his dick is for."

"No, thanks," said Ilya. "I have plans."

"With the slut, Katya?" said one of the guys.

Ilya gritted his teeth and walked out without another word. He sent a short message to Svetlana and Katya. Usually, he did go and spend time with them after his games, but not tonight. Alexei hadn't responded to his morning text about Irina. Ilya hadn't had the courage to message Olga instead. She knew of Irina's problems, but still. It was one thing for Alexei to call her, and another for Ilya himself to do it.

The train ride back home was interminable. Ilya tried calling Irina herself despite knowing that it was a waste of time. Even on her good days, Irina kept the phone off. During some of her bad days, she became convinced that God or the Devil was trying to call her. Alexei or Grigori took her phone whenever that happened and though Ilya could see why they did it, he hated the way it made Irina weep.

He practically ran up to their apartment and took off his boots after barely loosening his laces. "Mama!" he called out as he hung his jacket.

Nothing. That wasn't too strange, though. Irina slept deeply, especially when she was taking extra medication. Alexei hadn't come home early after all, but Ilya had expected that much. He ran to his parents' room.

And found the bed empty. Neatly made, though, so maybe Irina had gotten a burst of energy and decided to go out for a walk? That might be good, so long as she hadn't gotten too energetic.

He had to go and check his parents' bathroom. Ilya didn't like going in there; it was his parents' private area. Their room as supposed to be as well, but they all accepted that it couldn't be so when Irina was ill.

"Mama?" Ilya tried calling out one last time.

No response. He squared his shoulders and went into the bathroom.

Ilya didn't manage to get her out of the tub and dressed before Mr. Vetrov arrived. He couldn't stop thinking about it during her funeral, though he supposed it didn't matter in the end. He barely remembered calling anyone, much less Mr. Vetrov, but he had. The man had found Ilya hysterical, failing to lift his mother's wet, naked body out of the cooling tub. He'd grabbed Ilya's shoulder, shaken him, and told him to go to his mother's closet for a large, soft bathrobe. By the time Ilya found it, he'd taken Irina--Irina's body--back to the bedroom.

"Lay the bathrobe on the bed," he'd ordered. "Go and call 1-1-2."

Irina would have hated to learn that a strange man had seen her naked and gotten her somewhat presentable before the police and ambulance arrived. Grigori certainly hated that Ilya had called a stranger first. Alexei had to pull him off Ilya after everyone had left.

"Why didn't you call me?" he'd demanded.

"I didn't think of it," said Ilya. Not angrily, just stating an obvious fact. He never thought of calling Grigori anymore. In fact, he went out of his way to never call Grigori. Not about Irina's problems.

Now, he never would.

But Ilya should have called Alexei. Between the two of them, they would have been strong enough to get Irina dry and presentable for the police and the ambulance.

As to why he'd called Sergei Vetrov of all people, that Ilya couldn't explain even to himself. He'd known right away that Irina was dead. No amount of money could fix that. Maybe he'd wanted to ensure that he'd be invited to the funeral in case he decided to bring Svetlana. Which he had.

Svetlana held his hand just like Olga held Alexei's. But that was where the similarities ended. Occasional tears flowed down Alexei's cheeks and he let himself sag against Olga a little bit. Ilya, on the other hand, felt like his eyes had turned into deserts. What was the point of crying now? He just wanted to get the service over with.

"Someone told me that when people die, they get to be closer to God," Svetlana told him, soon after Mr. Vetrov signaled her to head to their fancy car. "That it's nice."

"Someone told me that's stupid," said Ilya. "Besides, suicide is a sin." A rejection of God's gift of life. "You don't get to be closer to God that way."

Svetlana squeezed his hand. Thankfully, she didn't try to say anything else and only kissed his forehead. Ilya's nostrils flared and he pulled away from her. That was too close to how Irina used to kiss him.

"I'm sorry, Ilyusha," said Svetlana.

"I'm sorry too."

It didn't mean anything that either of them was sorry. That anyone was sorry.

Chapter End Notes

This is the chapter where Irina commits suicide. Ilya finds her.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

This was supposed to end with Ilya going to Canada and meeting Shane while trying to have a smoke but I can't get to the point lol Sasha isn't even in this thing yet. What is pacing?

But I think this is where I want to stop because like 10 years from now in this verse Shane is tagging along with Drapeau and Comeau to Montreal clubs and nitpicking why every hot woman who pays attention to him (and there are a lot) is Not Good Enough. Amd I want to get to that side of things.

Irina's death didn't change much, Ilya was sad to admit. He and Alexei divided chores as they'd been doing for weeks. Months. Maybe years. In some ways, it was easier. They no longer had to check on Irina every morning, or worry about what she would do while they were away from home. Grigori seemed more relaxed now that there was understandable reason to make his sons act like maids. He'd said that Irina had died in some unspecified accident and everyone believed him. Or pretended to.

Even Sergei Vetrov pretended to believe him.

Sometimes, Ilya thought he heard Alexei sniffling at night. He gritted his teeth every time it happened to stop himself from screaming. Alexei had never cried in front of their mother. He'd echoed Grigori that all the sniveling was weak. An excuse to shirk responsibilities.

It hadn't been so for Irina, and it probably wasn't so for Alexei either. Ilya couldn't call him lazy. If anything, Alexei had been more hardworking since Irina died.

"Did you know she would do that?" Alexei asked one morning.

"What?"

"You sent me a text that I should come home early that day," said Alexei. "So did you know she would do that?"

"No, I didn't fucking now," said Ilya. "I wouldn't have left if I'd known."

"But you knew something," insisted Alexei.

Ilya shrugged. He had gone over the day in his head a million times, trying to remember if anything Irina said or did should have been a clue. He'd searched for 'signs of suicide' online, and yes. Some of it had been. Giving away some meaningful belongings (her crucifix). Making him promise to take care of Papa and Alexei (taking care of unfinished business). But Ilya hadn't known that before he'd searched for it. He hadn't.

"Just eat your breakfast," said Ilya. He had promised, after all, to take care of Alexei.

His game improved. A part of Ilya wondered if he had Irina's death to thank. Without worry for her health and happiness eating at him, he could focus entirely on the ice. He wanted to, looked forward to it. When he skated, stole the puck, and evaded or push through checks, he could stop thinking. His coaches were delighted and his teammates impressed. Svetlana was impressed. She was always there when he went to train with Mr. Vetrov's private coaches, clapping and grinning whenever Ilya broke a new personal record.

Did she feel sorry for him? Maybe, but it didn't change that he was improving, and fast. His teammates were as slow as turtles, the defensemen too bulky and awkward to stop him from scoring again, and again, and again. It got to the point that if he didn't score at least two goals per game, his coaches asked him if something was wrong.

They'd taken to showing him tapes of some Canadian kid with dark hair who they'd decided was his competition. He was so fast, like a small meteor evading drunken penguins on the ice. Not quite faster than Ilya, though, not that he needed to be to skate circles around all the soft North American boys he was competing against. Ilya noticed that he didn't react aggressively enough when he was checked, or when some dipshit tripped him.

"You'll have to be better than this boy to be noticed," said one of his coaches. "Shane Hollander."

On the screen, Shane Hollander was blushing and struggling to meet the eyes of the woman asking him something. All English, of course, but Ilya could imagine what was being said. Reporters liked talking down to them because they were young. Shane Hollander stuttered something then tried to hide his face behind the collar of his fluffy sweater, looking way cuter than any hockey player ever should. The locker room must be hell for him.

A dark haired woman put her arm around his shoulders and took over the interview. Though Ilya's English remained abysmal, he still caught the word 'mother'. He stopped paying attention to the tape and to whatever his coaches were saying.

By the following summer, he was as tall as Alexei. Ilya didn't know if he was a big thirteen year old, or if some kind of curse had befallen Alexei and was sapping the strength out of him. And the intelligence. That fall, Alexei brought home a report card full of near failing grades for the first time.

"This is disappointing," said Grigori, with a small sigh. He signed the report card and put it aside. "How are your grades, Ilya?"

"Fine." The teachers at Malkin were generous graders, at least with him. If he fucked up a test too badly or handed in some extreme garbage for any assignment, they sat him down and gave him a little lecture, and then passed him.

"Good," said Grigori, looking at Alexei. "You should look to your brother for inspiration."

Ilya felt his fingers twitch. To the side, Alexei let out a small breath. They'd heard that before, many times, in a different direction. He used to be the one who was supposed to look to Alexei for inspiration. On how to be stronger, smarter, less of a crybaby. Things had changed so much. Now, Alexei was the one finding nooks and crannies to hide in, plus stealing Grigori's vodka and scrounging for cigarettes.

He rarely made it church too, which pissed Ilya off more than anything else. Irina would've wanted them to continue going to church, which was why Ilya kept going, boring as it was. Grigori had stopped attending a long time ago, so Ilya sat next to Olga and her parents. He asked for forgiveness on Irina's behalf and begged God to allow her soul into his kingdom during every service.

I know she sinned, he prayed, but it was the one time. All her life besides that one time, she tried to obey your rules.

"How is you brother?" Olga asked one day after mass.

"Fine," said Ilya. "Wouldn't you know?"

"I'm worried for him," said Olga, blue eyes dimmed with sadness. "He hasn't been the same since. . . you know."

"Yes." The only person who was the same was Grigori. Maybe even better.

"Could you get him tickets for one of your games?" said Olga. "He used to be so excited about your potential."

"He was?"

"Yes," said Olga. "He thinks you're good enough to build a career. It's a great comfort to him."

"Right." The coveted MLH career. Ilya had hardly thought of it in months. What was the point of it now that he couldn't use the money to help Irina? "I'll see what I can do."

Getting tickets was not a hardship as the coaches were delighted with him. Grigori declined the invitation, but Olga accepted on her and Alexei's behalf. Ilya wondered what Alexei would have said if he'd offered the tickets to him separately.

The night of the game came without incident and the game itself was average. So, good. As usual, the speed of it all took Ilya's mind off of things. He scored a hat trick and grinned as his teammates and the crowd cheered him. During the third period, he got into a fight with an opposing forward and marched to the penalty box with a smirk on his face.

Afterwards, Svetlana and Katya found him as he joined Alexei and Olga at the rink's front entrance. Katya threw her arms around his neck and planted a wet kiss on his cheek, near his mouth. Ilya blushed, wiping the red lipstick that he was sure would be smeared on his cheek, and introduced them. He thought he saw a dark look cross Alexei's face, but he must have imagined it. Alexei had every reason to want him to succeed at hockey.

A couple of months after Ilya's fourteenth birthday, he found Alexei unconscious in their small, shared bathroom. Ilya heard a howling noise. It took him a few moments to realize that it'd come from his own mouth. His heart hammered in his chest like a giant construction drill. He almost ran out of the bathroom, but then he remembered his promise to Irina.

As calmly as he could, he cataloged the differences. Alexei was huddled in a corner, fully clothed. Not naked in a bathtub with a trickle of reddish-yellow vomit dried on his chin. There was a half-empty bottle of vodka next to him.

Ilya went to him. When he tried to take the bottle, Alexei startled awake.

"G-give back," he slurred.

But Ilya was bigger now. He could take on Alexei, even when the brat was sober. He verified that the bottle wasn't Grigori's and then poured what was left down the sink. Alexei was too out of it to notice, though his nose twitched when the scent of vodka hit the air. It was fucking Wednesday. Alexei had school tomorrow.

Not that he seemed to care much about that anymore. Ilya had heard him arguing with Olga a couple of weeks ago. His grades were not so important anymore because he'd decided to become a cop and Grigori had friends at the Vladimir Kikot Moscow University. Ilya didn't think Irina would have wanted that, but he also knew that if he brought that up to Alexei, the whole thing would end in a big, stupid fight.

When they were little, Alexei used to say that he would be a cosmonaut. Or an engineer. At least a doctor. When had he given up on that? How had Ilya not noticed?

There were worse things than being a cop. Or so Ilya told himself as he cajoled Alexei to his bunk. All cops couldn't be as bad as small and petty as Grigori. Irina wouldn't want him to think of his father like that, but Ilya had only so much discipline.

"I'm going back to Boston," Svetlana said a few weeks later. They were back at the observatory where she'd first told him about her mother and about her family in Trinidad. Katya hadn't been able to join them that evening. "Papa thinks I should go to college in the USA."

"Makes sense," said Ilya, though it made his chest tight to think that he might never see Sveta again. All parents wanted their kids to go to school in the USA, if possible. Western Europe, if not. Maybe even China, depending on which language they picked up first. Regardless of where they went, many of those kids never came back.

"I'll see you there, right?" said Svetlana.

"Hm?"

"When you make it to the MLH," said Svetlana. "I will see you somewhere in the States."

Ilya shrugged.

"I'm serious, Ilyusha," said Svetlana. "You're an amazing forward and you work harder than all the douchebags in your team."

"I'll keep playing," said Ilya. So would every other asshole in the country who had a lick of talent. And the ones who didn't too. Everyone wanted to get into the MLH, or at least the KHL. Anyone could get their brains turned to mush thanks to a bad check.

Svetlana reached for the lapel of his coat and pulled until he looked down at her. "This year, you'll be going West to play against EU junior teams. You'll probably make it to the Youth Olympics at some point."

"I know," said Ilya.

"Unless you start hanging out with all the Malkin vultures." Svetlana gripped his lapel harder. "You will make it out of here. I need you to do that, do you understand me?"

"Why?"

"Because I like you, Ilyusha," said Svetlana, smiling. "And I like having the things I like close to me."

Ilya felt himself blush as he noticed how closely they were standing. Under the evening light, Sveta's eyes seemed to glitter. His eyes fell to her lips, which she'd painted with soft pink lipstick. He leaned down, letting his eyelids fall--and Svetlana leaned back.

"If I go into fashion, I'll make you model my clothes," said Svetlana patting his cheek.

"I'm not wearing girls' clothes," mumbled Ilya, cringing back. What was he thinking? Svetlana could have anyone.

"Of course not," said Svetlana. "I'll design hats, put them on you, and make you give the camera the Slavic stare."

"Right," said Ilya. "I'll remember that if hockey doesn't work out."

Within the week, she was gone.

Strangely enough, they started talking more than ever over the phone. Ilya sat in a corner of the locker room to check her latest message. Svetlana insisted on sending her random pictures from Boston with inane little stories about her silly American classmates and all the gross sugary stuff they ate. She demanded on similar updates from Ilya though his life was as boring as it had ever been.

Svetlana Vetrova

Svetlana Vetrova
Papa says you're doing really well
score your first dick trick
good bye

Ilya Rozanov
wish you had been there

Svetlana Vetrova
I saw the tape
My Ilyusha got even bigger!

Ilya Rozanov
maybe I should be a D-man
looks really fun

Svetlana Vetrova
no you're meant to be a forward
one who'll be a menace
I hope you're taking English class seriously

Ilya Rozanov
how're your classes?

Svetlana Vetrova
ugh I hate my statistics so much
but it's important to get it because you wouldn't believe the amount of bullshit people try to sell with bullshit graphs
I might have to major in this shit

Ilya Rozanov
is there a hockey major?

Svetlana Vetrova
there's exercise science
advertising
sports management

Ilya Rozanov
advertising?

Svetlana Vetrova
public relations
to get better contract and sponsorships
that's where the real money is ilyusha

Ilya Rozanov
the mlh salary sounds like good money

Svetlana Rozanov
this is why you need me
with that face you'll pull a fortune convincing people to buy some stupid perfume or dumb overpriced sneakers

Ilya didn't know how to respond to messages like that. If he didn't know any better, he would say that Svetlana liked him. Really liked him, like that. But if so, why hadn't she let him kiss her? Should he have tried harder? More than once? The other guys on the team insisted that girls never said yes the first time unless they were sluts, so they had to keep pushing until they said yes. Or they were failing the test.

"Rozanov!"

Ilya looked up from his phone, eyebrows raised.

"You won't believe what I was doing last night," said Lebedev, one of the faster defensemen on their team. That was his only redeeming quality, as far as Ilya was concerned. Lebedev walked around Malkin with predatory intent, with narrow blue eyes always searching for a weak target.

"I don't care what you were doing," said Ilya.

"I was getting my dick suck by your slutty girlfriend," smirked Lebedev.

"I don't have a girlfriend," said Ilya.

Some of the other guys snickered. Lebedev snorted.

Katya, then. It was the only person they could be talking about. Ilya slipped his phone into his pocket and grabbed his backpack. The guys made rude noises and gestures as he walked out, but no one tried to stop him. A single locker room fight would turn the coaches into demons. Out in the school's hallways, everyone steered clear of him. He went all the way to the Malkin greenhouse, where Katya sometimes retreated to wait for him to finish at the rink.
She was there that afternoon, huddles in a corner, smoking a cigarette.

"You're not supposed to smoke in here," said Ilya.

Katya rolled her eyes and blew out a puff of smoke. Ilya surveyed her for any obvious. . . damage. Her hair looked a little limp; the last quick dye job was half faded, its blue sort of melting into the previous pink highlights and she wasn't wearing make up. But that wasn't so different from the usual.

"Did you really suck Lebedev's dick?" asked Ilya.

"Here to call me a slut, Ilyusha?"

"No," said Ilya, sighing. "Just. . . did he make you or something?"

Katya snorted.

"He's a piece of shit, Katusha," said Ilya. "You can do better than him."

"Come on," said Katya, standing up and grabbing his arm. "Help me do better."

Ilya had no idea how he could possibly help her "do better", but he was happy enough to follow her. They already spent a lot of time together anyway, mostly smoking. Because of hockey, Ilya didn't let himself smoke more than one cigarette, but that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy Katya's silent company. The alternative was to go home early and watch Alexei drink and smoke instead.

That day, Katya took them to the large mansion where her parents supposedly lived. Ilya hadn't met either of them, just the occasional family servant wandering around the big house. There was no one to stop Katya from leading him up to her room, which was probably three times as big as the one he shared with Alexei. The walls were covered with posters of Marilyn Monroe, Katya's favorite actress. Ilya had tried watching some of the lady's movies, but he'd fallen asleep every time. Too much English, and too much exhaustion from hockey.

Normally, he found Katya's room relaxing, but something about the way she moved today had Ilya's heart racing. When she closed the door behind her, Ilya felt his limbs loosening. His legs adopted a fighting stance, though he would never raise a hand against Katya.

"You want to know what I did with Lebedev?" she demanded.

"I don't need details," said Ilya.

She began unbuttoning her blouse.

"Katya," sighed Ilya, though he couldn't tear his gaze away as she revealed the pink lace of her bra. She had really big boobs, big enough that people thought she'd gotten fake ones for her birthday. "You don't have to do this."

"I know I don't have to," said Katya, letting her blouse fall to the floor. "I'm just trying to do better than Lebedev. Didn't you tell me I should do better, Ilyusha?"

"Ah. . ." Sure, but Ilya had never been with a girl, never even kissed one. He shrugged. "I didn't mean me."

"Don't you think you'd be better?" asked Katya, stepping closer.

Ilya took a step back. The back of his knees bumped against the corner of her bed.

"Or is it that you don't want to touch me?" Katya got close to him and pushed him down on the bed. She straddled him while he tried to figure out what to do. "I know you go to church every Sunday. Do you think God will be mad if you touch a slut like me?"

"It's not that," said Ilya. He grabbed her shoulder and was startled by the warmth of her skin. "I've just never done this before," he admitted.

Finally, Katya paused.

Then, she smiled slowly and stroked his cheek. "Don't worry, Ilyusha. I will show you what to do."

He didn't tell anyone what he and Katya had done. What they were doing, whenever she wanted. It wasn't so much that Ilya wanted to keep it a secret, but that Katya did. She didn't want to have a boyfriend because she thought it was limited and outdated.

"Not that you're not very good, Ilyusha," she said, kissing his chin. "But I want to keep my options open. You should do the same."

"Alright," said Ilya, though he intended to keep to himself.

Why look for anyone else, when Katya made him feel so good? She was generous with her mouth, her hands, with the secrets between her legs. Though she did seem awfully surprised when Ilya asked how he could make her feel good. The question seemed to annoy her more than anything else he did, so Ilya settled for paying close attention to how she reacted.

As good and fun as it felt to kiss Katya, to be with her, he was relieved that she didn't want to be his official girlfriend. Ilya knew that Irina would not have approved of her. Anything about her--not her dyed hair, short skirts, and red lipstick. Never mind these ideas about being "limited" to a single boyfriend.

Irina would have wanted him to find someone like Olga, somewhat sweet and kind who went to church every Sunday and enjoyed keeping a clean house. She fought Alexei sometimes, but only because she wanted him to quit drinking and gambling away what little money he had.

"I really don't know what to do anymore," Olga said to Ilya after church one day. "He's been. . . He tried--" She swallowed back tears.

"You can tell me," said Ilya. Had Alexei tried to hurt himself? To go to Irina?

"No." Olga shook her head. "Could he. . . could we go to your next game?"

"I don't know if that would help," said Ilya. In fact, he was pretty sure it would make things worse. Alexei never glared as intensely as when he saw Ilya in his Malkin uniform.

"Fine." It wasn't like it was difficult for him to get tickets.

Much to his surprise, Olga managed to drag Alexei to his next game. And sober too, as far as Ilya could tell. By now, he was the Kommando's starting center and the stupid game when overtime, so he was exhausted by the time it was over.

"You didn't score," Alexei said, after Ilya joined him and Olga out in the street. He'd taken long enough in the showers and the locker room that most people who had come to watch the game were gone.

"I don't score every game," said Ilya, not bothering to point out that both goals had been scored off his passes. He turned around and started walking, wondering where Katya was.

"Did you score the day Mama died?" Alexei called out.

Ilya stopped in his tracks.

"Alexei!" he heard Olga say. "That was uncalled for!"

"Yes, I did," said Ilya. "What were you doing that day?"

"Guys, please," said Olga.

Ilya turned around. "I texted you that day. I told you to come home. But I guess you were too busy being a fucking drunk."

Alexei let out a furious shriek and launched himself at Ilya. It was like a watching a video in slow motion. Ilya waited to the last second to step aside and watched as Alexei stumbled to the ground. Several people paused to watch as Olga crouched to check on him. Alexei slapped her hand aside and shakily got to his feet, breathing hard.

When had Alexei gotten so small? What had happened to the boy who used to find Ilya hiding under playground bleachers? Irina would not want to see him like this.

"I'm sorry," said Ilya. "I shouldn't have said that."

Alexei stared at him, his blue eyes blazing with rage.

"It's alright," said Olga, though she hadn't done anything, merely witnessed them acting like animals. "Why don't we go home? It would be nice to have some hot chocolate, no?"

Ilya was about to say yes, but Alexei opened his mouth first. He spat on the ground, close to Ilya's feet, and walked away. Ilya stared at his retreating back, vaguely relieved that the spit hadn't hit him.

That would have been worse, right?

Chapter End Notes

I need to delete like two tags. Hollanov tag when Shane is mentioned (1) one time is not warranted but! In my defense, he is was supposed to be mentioned more than this.