Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

F/M, Gen

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov, Harris Drover & Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble, Ilya Rozanov & Original Character(s), Zane Boodram & Ilya Rozanov, Evan Dykstra & Ilya Rozanov, Wyatt Hayes & Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Wyatt Hayes & Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander & Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Harris Drover, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Wyatt Hayes, Cassie Boodram, Zane Boodram, Evan Dykstra, Original Female Character(s), Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Eurovision Song Contest 2019, Eurovision, Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Supportive Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Ottawa Centaurs Player Ilya Rozanov, Hockey, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Surprises, References to Depression, Original Character(s), Mental Health Issues, Depression, Suicide Attempt, Suicidal Thoughts, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Player Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov's Montreal Jane

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Friends in Ottawa AU

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-01 Completed: 2026-09-16 Words: 76,056 Chapters: 16/16

Loving You Is A Losing Game

Summary

Box office manager Gabriella Marchaud returns from vacation to find her work best friend Ilya Rozanov spiraling into a playoff-induced depression.

To pull him back from the brink, she devises a ridiculous plan: lure him back to Ottawa for a night of glitter, drunken chaos, and the transformative power of Eurovision.

But she can't do it alone. She needs a team of hockey players willing to learn the sacred art of Europe's greatest cultural event—through 67 pages of history, two semi finals of training, and the kind of ridiculous joy that might just save Ilya from himself.

Or

Gabriella recruits the Centaurs into watching Eurovision so she can save Ilya from playoff depression.

Notes

I have been working on this for a while, and with today's news that Canada is finally joining Eurovision, I couldn't wait any longer to share it, even if the whole story isn't finished yet.

Enjoy.

Chapter 1: Manifestos

Chapter Notes

Gabriella Marchaud was worried about her friend Ilya Rozanov.

She had spent the first week of the playoffs in Vancouver visiting friends and had deliberately not told him where she was going. She did not know why that mattered, but apparently it did, because he was not handling it well. She did not actually need to tell him. He was not her minder, they were not involved, they were strictly friends. So why was he blowing up her phone?

There had been two reasons she hadn’t told him. First, she assumed he would be too busy with Shane to notice. Second, she had no interest in explaining her personal life to the nosiest man she had ever met.

It was not that she did not trust him. She did. The problem was that Ilya treated every unanswered question like a personal challenge, and she did not want to answer these questions. She did not want to explain why she needed a break, what she was running from, or who she was visiting. Some things were hers to keep, and Ilya had never been good at respecting that boundary. So she had turned off her phone, enjoyed the mountains, enjoyed the wine tastings, and made a conscious decision to keep Ottawa and Vancouver separate for a few days.

But in hindsight, that had been a huge mistake. Because while she had been drinking wine and watching the sunset, Ilya had been unravelling, and she had not been there to see it happen.

Instead, she witnessed it through her phone. Every time she disabled Do Not Disturb, without fail, there were at least twenty unread messages waiting for her, each one more frantic than the last. A few were normal. Where are you? What are you doing? Are you alive? The rest were about hockey. Not ordinary hockey. Obsessive hockey. Unhinged hockey.

There would be three paragraphs on Montreal's power play followed by four more on Washington's defensive zone coverage. Then a detailed breakdown of why a coach should reunite a specific line combination. There was even one memorable six-hundred-word analysis of a third line defenseman she had never heard of, featuring several genuinely creative insults.

It was not the sheer volume that concerned her, though that was certainly alarming. What worried her more was that none of Ilya's messages felt like a conversation. They were not really meant for her. He was not talking to her so much as thinking out loud through his phone, using her as a sounding board for thoughts he could not seem to contain. She had somehow become the unwilling recipient of every spiral, every obsession, every unhinged thought that crossed his mind.

Usually he talked about hockey because it was his job, sometimes because it was his hobby, occasionally because he was trying to annoy someone. But this felt different. The messages had a compulsive quality to them, as if he could not stop. As if stopping would force him to think about something he desperately wanted to avoid.

The more she read, the more convinced she became that whatever was wrong with Ilya had very little to do with hockey itself. Months of friendship had taught her how to read between his lines. Hockey was not the problem. Hockey was the symptom. So she watched from a distance, increasingly concerned and increasingly unsure what to do about it.

Several times she considered texting Shane. Several times she typed a message and deleted it. Shane was busy carrying Montreal through the playoffs. He did not need a concerned friend showing up in his inbox with: Your boyfriend is texting me manifestos about third line defensemen. Please intervene. Shane would laugh or worry, and neither option felt helpful. So Gabriella kept the messages to herself and waited.

+++

When Round Two started and she returned to Ottawa, she assumed things would improve. Montreal was playing Boston. Ilya had history there, former teammates, former coaches, half a city full of memories. Surely that would pull him out of whatever strange emotional bunker he had built for himself.

It did not. If anything, he seemed to disappear even further.

Gabriella found herself checking social media more often than she cared to admit. She scrolled through fan photos, arena shots, restaurant check-ins, anything that might prove Ilya still existed corporeally outside Shane's house. She found nothing. No coffee shop sightings, no blurry background figures that could have been a six-foot-something Russian lurking near the edge of a frame, no telltale glimpses of his silhouette in a window reflection. It was as though he had vanished completely, leaving no trace of himself in the outside world.

At first she tried to rationalise it. He was supporting his boyfriend, that was admirable. She knew how brutal the playoffs could be, how demanding and consuming they were. The travel, the pressure, the exhaustion. Supporting Shane through that made perfect sense.

But as the games rolled past, the silence everywhere else grew harder to ignore. There were no updates from anyone else. No sightings. No casual mentions from mutual friends. It was as if Ilya had poured himself entirely into Shane's orbit and left nothing behind for himself. He was fading into the background of someone else's life, and no one seemed to be noticing.

Eventually, the realisation arrived all at once. Gabriella was halfway through reading a message explaining why Comeau appeared to be powered entirely by pure assholery when the pieces finally clicked into place.

Ilya was not just visiting Montreal. He was not simply supporting Shane. He was actively haunting the playoffs. The thought stopped her cold. He was watching from the edges, hovering in the shadows, trying to stay close to something he could no longer be part of. And she had no idea how to pull him back.

For years his entire life had been built around reaching this point of the season. The grind, the routine, the singular focus of playoff hockey had given him purpose and direction. Now the structure was gone, and he seemed completely incapable of replacing it with anything else. He had narrowed his world down to two things: supporting Shane and writing dissertations. Neither appeared particularly healthy.

Her concern only grew when she realised she was not the only victim. Ilya had clearly been doing the same thing to Svetlana, his childhood best friend. Gabriella knew because he had started forwarding Svetlana's responses to her as well. The messages arrived in dense blocks of Russian that Gabriella could not read but could certainly count. There were dozens of them. Apparently, Ilya had decided that what her life really needed was more hockey analysis. It was not. What she needed was for him to stop spiraling.

Gabriella loved him dearly, but something had to be done. The Conference Finals were approaching, and everything pointed towards Montreal and Washington. If that happened, she was genuinely concerned that Ilya would disappear completely into Shane's orbit and never emerge again. She needed a plan. Preferably before he started attending Voyageurs practices disguised as arena staff.

+++

The solution to all of Gabriella's worries arrived on a Tuesday afternoon, unexpectedly and without fanfare.

She was sitting at her desk catching up on emails when a notification appeared on her phone.

May 18. ESC

She almost ignored it, but then she looked again and the date seemed important. She checked it against her playoff schedule, then checked it a second time to make sure she was not hallucinating.

"No way," she whispered to herself.

The dates lined up perfectly.

Potentially Game Five between Montreal and Washington. And, most importantly, a day when Shane would be somewhere else —on the road, locked into his own playoff bubble— and a day when Ilya would almost certainly be alone, haunting Shane's house with nothing but his thoughts and his phone and the hollow echo of his own loneliness.

A slow smile spread across her face.

For the first time since she had returned from Vancouver, Gabriella could see a way forward. A distraction so powerful that she might actually be able to pull Ilya Rozanov's attention away from hockey and away from Montreal. It was loud and ridiculous, exactly the kind of chaos he needed, and she knew it was something he loved deeply, especially after a few drinks.

The plan was clear and admittedly insane. It would require logistics, recruitment, preparation, and possibly even bribery. But for the first time since the messages began, Gabriella felt a flicker of optimism. Ilya Rozanov was having a playoff crisis, and she intended to save him from it, whether he liked it or not. She already knew exactly who she needed to recruit first.

Chapter End Notes

I know Eurovision is a complex topic right now, and I want to acknowledge that. I am a former avid watcher of the contest, and I wrote this story because I was thinking about how much I loved the 2019 songs and how they connected to the characters I was writing. It also brought back memories of the watch parties I used to have with friends and I miss those day/parties.

This story is meant to be fun and focused on the music, but I recognise that not everyone will want to engage with it in the current climate. I respect that completely, and I hope readers will take this for what it is - a love letter to a version of Eurovision that once brought me a lot of joy.

Chapter 2: Marketing & Communications

Chapter Summary

Gabriella recruits from within.

Chapter Notes

The plan to "save Ilya" required more than Gabriella's determination alone. It needed chaos, enthusiasm, and someone who would not ask too many uncomfortable questions. She needed Harris Drover.

She found him exactly where she expected him to be, in the media room surrounded by paper and headshots.

"Harris." She asked tentatively.

He didn't even look up. "If you're here about the charity game graphics, they're almost done. If you're here about the season recap video, also almost done. If you're here for literally anything else…"

He glanced up, saw her expression and immediately abandoned the photos.

"Oh no. What did Ilya do?" he asked exasperated.

"Nothing."

Harris narrowed his eyes.

Gabriella added, "Yet."

His expression immediately became more alarmed. "That's somehow worse."

"It is."

She closed the door behind her and walked further into the room. For a moment, she considered how much of the truth to tell him. Not all of it. Definitely not all of it. She obviously couldn't mention that Ilya was currently bunkered in Shane Hollander's house, making protein shakes and hovering like a very large, very anxious ghost. That was not her secret to tell.

What Harris needed to know was simpler and also somehow more complicated.

"I think," Gabriella said carefully, "that Ilya is having a hockey related existential crisis."

Harris raised an eyebrow. "That's weirdly specific."

"It's also accurate." She sat down across from him, the chair creaking under her as she settled in. "It's his first spring without playoff hockey in almost ten years. He's not injured, he's not suspended, he's not between games. He is just done."

She emphasized the word like a death knell, letting it hang in the air between them. Done. Finished. Over. The kind of “done” that left a person standing on the wrong side of a door that had just slammed shut, with no idea what came next.

“Oh,” Harris's expression softened. "And I’m guessing by your face he's not handling it well?"

Gabriella pulled out her phone. "Well, you tell me." She handed it over.

At first, Harris looked confused. Then he started scrolling. And scrolling. And scrolling. His eyebrows climbed steadily upward.

"Oh my God." He kept scrolling. "What am I even looking at?"

"Monday."

His voice cracked. "That’s just Monday?"

"Yes."

Harris looked genuinely disturbed. The messages filled the screen in long blue paragraphs: breakdowns of defensive systems, complaints about coaching decisions, predictions, statistics, observations, counterarguments to his own observations. At one point, Ilya had sent six consecutive messages chirping the Voyageurs' goalie save percentage. More memorably, he had offered a detailed explanation of why playoff sex bans do not work, complete with cited research and a personal anecdote that Gabriella had immediately deleted from her memory, though she suspected she would never fully recover from reading it.

Harris reached the end and looked up. "How often is this happening?"

"Every day. Usually in bursts."

"How big of a burst?"

"Three hours."

Harris stared. "Three straight hours?"

"Usually, then nothing for approximately twenty-one hours then it starts again."

She didn't mention that she was pretty sure the three-hour bursts lined up exactly with Shane's practice schedule, the window when Ilya had finished his chores and run out of ways to be useful, leaving him alone with nothing but his thoughts and his phone.

"Then another three hour hockey dissertation?"

"Yes."

"Does he know you don't speak Russian?"

Gabriella shrugged. "I assume he thinks I'm taking the time to put it through a translator. Which I am not."

Harris slowly handed the phone back, his expression caught somewhere between awe and horror. "Yeah," he said. "He is not handling this well. That is a full spiral."

She hadn't realized how badly she'd needed someone else to say it. The moment he did, her shoulders loosened slightly. She had been wondering if she was overreacting, being dramatic. Maybe this was just what happened when elite athletes suddenly had free time. Apparently not.

"So," Harris said, leaning back in his chair. "Where is he? I assume he is not here, if you're asking for help."

She paused. She'd forgotten how intuitive Harris could be.

Fuck, best not to lie.

She looked him directly in the eye, almost challenging him. "He's in Montreal."

Harris's eyes widened. "Montreal?"

"Yes."

"The Montreal currently in the playoffs?"

"Yes."

"I thought he was watching from home."

"He is not."

"He physically relocated himself closer to the playoffs?"

"Technically, he relocated himself closer to his best friend. Who just happens to be in the playoffs."

Harris stared at her. Gabriella stared back, eyebrows raised. Neither of them said anything.

Finally Harris whispered, "That is the saddest thing I've ever heard."

"I know."

"He isn't even playing."

"I know."

"He's just..."

"Hovering."

“Fuck.”

For a second, neither of them spoke. The humour faded. Because underneath all the absurdity, it was genuinely sad. Ilya Rozanov, captain of the Ottawa Centaurs, six-foot-something of pure competitive fire, had nothing to do but haunt his ‘best friend's’ kitchen and text three hour hockey dissertations.

Eventually, they got their wits about them.

“Ok. So how are we going to save him?” Harris asked.

A smile tugged at the corner of Gabriella's mouth. Finally, the important question.

"Well that’s obviously why I'm here,” she said. “I need to ask a favour."

Harris blinked. Then his whole face lit up with horrifying delight. "You," he said, pointing dramatically at her, "You want a favour from me? You never ask for help!"

She chuckled, he was so dramatic.

"Usually I wouldn’t ask, but this is an exception. We need to save Ilya from himself. So I will ask for help, just this once. It's serious."

He looked positively gleeful and crossed his heart. "I swear, on behalf of Marketing and Communications, I will not let you down."

Gabriella laughed despite herself. "Thank you."

"Now. Tell me, what do you need?"

She took a breath. Because this was the part that sounded insane.

"First," she said, "I need to know if you are familiar with Eurovision?"

Silence.

Harris stared at her like she’d just asked if he knew what oxygen was.

"Am I familiar with Eurovision?" he repeated slowly, drawing out the first person singular like she had just insulted his entire identity.

“Yes?”

He put a hand against his chest in visible offense. "Gabriella," he said with immense dignity, "I am a gay man. I have glitter in my bloodstream. I illegally streamed Eurovision for years before Canadian broadcasters finally got their act together."

Gabriella bit her lip, trying not to laugh.

"I have opinions," Harris continued, his voice growing stronger, "about the 2013 voting irregularities that absolutely robbed Azerbaijan of a fair shot. I once got into a three day argument with a Swedish fan about whether Denmark's win was actually rigged. Do I know what Eurovision is?" He smiled. "Pfft. Honestly, you offend me."

She chuckled. "So that’s a yes?"

“That’s a yes.”

He leaned forward immediately, eyes sparkling. “Why are you offending my gay sensibilities like this?”

Gabriella mirrored him instinctively, lowering her voice like they were conspiring to commit a crime.

"Because I want to distract Ilya with Eurovision."

Harris's face underwent a rapid transformation, confusion, then dawning comprehension, then a grin so wide it looked almost painful.

"O.M.G." He clapped his hands together softly, clearly restraining himself from something louder. "That is hilarious. Will it work?"

Gabriella allowed herself a small smile. "I think so. He once spent a full hour playing me his favourite Russian entries in order of preference."

Harris's eyebrows shot up. "A full hour?"

"Yes, he had rankings and sub rankings."

"To be fair, I would too." Harris's eyes twinkled with anticipation. "What was his favourite?"

Gabriella pretended to think about it, even though she remembered perfectly. "Obviously it was ‘Believe’ by Dima Bilan in 2008. It was the one with the figure skater on stage. Ilya said it was 'the peak of European cultural collaboration.'"

Harris looked like he might actually cry. "This is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard." He wiped his eyes dramatically, though there were no tears, yet. "Okay, so this will definitely work then, what is your plan?"

Gabriella leaned back in her chair, already running through the logistics in her head. She'd been thinking about this for days.

"So the grand final is on May 18th," she said. "My idea is: I book him in for a buddy date during the day. Brunch at his house, just the two of us. And then…" she spread her hands, "...we ambush him with a Eurovision party."

"Ha, amazing!" Harris cackled. "Okay, that is very doable. But what is the catch? There is always a catch."

"The catch is timing." She pulled out her phone again, scrolling to the playoff schedule. "I don't think we can get him back to Ottawa unless Montreal goes to Game Five."

Harris's grin faded slightly. "Explain."

"Right now he is in Montreal, completely embedded. We already know that if the conference finals are against Washington, the first two games will be played there, which means he will be alone in Montreal while the team is on the road. Games Three and Four will be in Montreal, so I assume he will want to be there for the home games, even if he cannot actually attend them. He will be hovering the whole time, pretending to be supportive and keeping himself close to the action."

"Haunting, you mean."

"Yes. Haunting. So our best bet is to execute the plan only if we know the playoffs are going to Game Five. Hopefully it will not be a clincher. Montreal will either be up three games to one or tied two games apiece, or whatever. Either way, the game will be out of the country, which means he will be less stressed about it than if the series were ending in Montreal with a potential elimination or a championship win."

"Okay. So we prepare, and if we know it is going to five, then we execute."

"Exactly."

"Do you think you can lure him back?"

"I'm pretty sure he'll come back to Ottawa if I ask."

"Okay. But what happens if Montreal sweeps the series?"

She frowned. "If that happens we lose him completely. He'll stay in Montreal until the Stanley Cup finals start, and then we don't see him until the charity camps."

"There's no backup plan?"

"No Eurovision backup plan." She paused, thinking. "If Montreal sweeps the series, I think I will have to go out there and try to save him in person, but without any Euro-pop to back us up."

"Well, fuck." Harris sat up straighter. "I would come with you if you do that. Maybe we need to start working on a Plan B?"

"Yeah. Probably."

They both looked dejected for a moment, contemplating the possibility that their insane idea might never see the light of day.

"Okay," Harris said, shaking it off. "Logistically speaking, what do you need from me to execute Plan A?"

"Ah. See, logistically…" Gabriella hesitated, suddenly aware of how strange her request was about to sound. "I came here to ask you for an introduction."

"To who?"

"I want to recruit some of the team, the ones who are still in town. I want them to join the party, but I need them to be willing to commit completely and not tell Ilya."

Harris stared at her. "You want me to ask the guys to participate in Eurovision?"

"I want you to ask them to help save Ilya by learning how to watch Eurovision. Ilya has many opinions about how uncultured we Canadians are and how we can never truly understand the competition's greatness."

Harris nodded solemnly. "I feel personally attacked. Also, I'm obsessed with how many opinions he has on this."

“You should be.”

"Okay. So you want hockey players." Harris lowered his voice conspiratorially.

“Yes.”

“And you want to introduce them to Eurovision.”

"Yes. And I want them to show Ilya that Canadians can out-Eurovision the Europeans."

Harris sat back in his chair, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“This is the greatest thing you’ve ever done.”

Gabriella laughed helplessly. "So, you are in?"

"Oh, I am in!" Harris grabbed his phone instantly, fingers already flying across the screen. "I am already drafting the group chat."

Chapter End Notes

There are about to be a lot of Eurovision fact drops and detailed analysis. So I might start adding percentages to the notes on how much is Eurovision chatter and how much is plot.

Chapter 3: Recruitment

Chapter Summary

Harris and Gabriella recruit help for their mission.

Chapter Notes

As promised the chapter breakdown is about 60% plot, 40% Eurovision.

Harris created the group chat at 11:14 am from the media room couch, while Gabriella paced in front of the whiteboard like she was planning a military operation. She had phases. Timelines. Contingencies. She had already mapped out the playoff schedule against her own calendar. What she did not have were co-conspirators. She also did not have Ilya. She only had Harris.

"This is insane," she muttered, stopping long enough to reread the words Operation: Save Ilya she'd written across the top of the board. Boring, but to the point.

Harris barely looked up from his phone. "It's inspired. There's a difference."

"I'm serious."

"So am I." He pointed at her without lifting his eyes from the screen. "Your emotionally repressed Russian hockey buddy is haunting Montreal because he doesn't know how to cope with not being in the playoffs. If that doesn't warrant an intervention, I don't know what does."

Gabriella sighed. Unfortunately, he was right. While they'd been talking, her phone had accumulated another forty-five messages from Ilya. It was deeply concerning behaviour.

So yes. It was time for an Intervention.

Harris hummed to himself as he typed, then broke into a grin.

"Oh, this is good."

"What did you write?"

He turned his phone around.

Harris: Gentlemen. Gabriella and I require assistance with a confidential operation. It is not charity related. It is not team related. It is probably not illegal. Who's still in Ottawa?

Gabriella barked out a laugh. "Probably?"

"It creates intrigue."

Ten seconds later, the replies began.

Bood: I’m still here. Define confidential.
Harris: can't. classified.
Bood: that sounds suspicious.

A pause.

Bood: i'm in.

Gabriella blinked, "That was easy."

"Bood would join a cult if the vibes were right."

Another typing bubble appeared.

Dykstra: I’m here. Is this about Cap?

Harris looked over at Gabriella. She gave the smallest shrug.

Harris: …maybe.
Dykstra: OK i'm in

Gabriella frowned. "Huh."

"See?" Harris said smugly. "Team loyalty."

"Or nosiness."

"Those are not mutually exclusive."

A third notification flashed onto the screen.

Hayes: I'm bored and Lisa's working late all week. What are we doing?

Harris's grin became positively villainous.

"I'm going to give him just enough information."

Before Gabriella could stop him, he typed.

Harris: learning about european culture

There was a long pause. Gabriella could practically picture Wyatt Hayes staring at his phone, trying to work out whether this was code. Then finally:

Hayes: Sure, why not.

Harris clapped delightedly. "Oh, this is going to be spectacular."

"Now you really sound like a villain in a movie."

"Thank you." He executed a mock curtsy, one hand pressed to his chest, the other sweeping out dramatically. Gabriella rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

A moment later, Harris created a new group chat, added everyone who was still in Ottawa, made Gabriella an admin, and tossed his phone onto the couch beside him.

Her own phone immediately began vibrating. The operation had officially begun.

+++

Gabriella: Hello gentlemen. Thank you for agreeing to participate in this mission.
Gabriella: Well. At least I hope you do once I've explained it
Gabriella: Also this is Gabriella from Box Office
Bood: hi gabriella
Bood: what's the mission?
Hayes: yeah, what's up?
Dykstra: i don't think i'd make a very good spy

Gabriella smiled.

Gabriella: No espionage required.
Gabriella: I just need your collective help to lure Ilya back to Ottawa.
Bood: ...ominous
Bood: why?
Hayes: Wait.
Hayes: Cap isn't here?

The joking stopped almost instantly. Gabriella glanced at Harris before typing.

Gabriella: No, he is not.
Gabriella: And because you're his teammates, I'm going to be honest.
Gabriella: This is Ilya's first time missing the playoffs in almost ten years.
Gabriella: And I think he is taking it harder than he is letting on.

The typing bubbles came and went for a few seconds. Then finally:

Bood: ...shit
Hayes: honestly yeah
Hayes: that actually explains a lot
Dykstra: wait
Dykstra: is THAT why he vanished?
Gabriella: More or less.
Bood: So where is he?

Gabriella hesitated only briefly.

Gabriella: Montreal.
Hayes: Montreal??
Dykstra: why?
Gabriella: The playoffs.
Bood: WAIT.
Bood: Is Cap literally stalking the playoffs?

Before Gabriella could answer, Harris had already picked his phone back up and jumped in.

Harris: yes.

The chat exploded.

Hayes: OH MY GOD
Hayes: HOW DID WE MISS THIS??
Bood: HE'S BEEN GONE FOR TWO WHOLE ROUNDS!
Dykstra: i thought he went fishing
Harris: Does Ilya Rozanov strike you as someone who fishes recreationally?
Dykstra: ...
Dykstra: no

Gabriella couldn't help laughing.

Gabriella: He's been... discreet.
Hayes: So he's haunting arenas?
Gabriella: Not the arenas.
Gabriella: Just Montreal.

And Shane, she thought.

The mood shifted.

Bood: poor guy. Is this cause we sucked this season?
Hayes: did we break Roz by coming bottom of the table?
Dykstra: oh god we did didn't we? We broke cap?

There it was. That soft undercurrent of concern the Centaurs were famous for. They were loyal and earnest, and they would always do right by Ilya. Because even though he was loud and arrogant and occasionally impossible, everyone loved him.

Gabriella smiled sadly.

Gabriella: No you guys didn't break him
Gabriella: Hockey did.
Gabriella: I just don't think he was emotionally prepared to miss the playoffs

Nobody replied for several seconds.

Dykstra: so what do we do?

Gabriella looked at Harris. He gave her an encouraging thumbs up. She took a breath.

Gabriella: I think I know how to distract him and get him away from the Montreal
Hayes: How?

Gabriella typed one word.

Gabriella: Eurovision.

Silence. A very long silence, and then:

Bood: Eurowhat?
Dykstra: what the fck is eurovision?
Hayes: WAIT! I KNOW THIS!
Hayes: it's like european american idol except everyone is horny and there's fire

Gabriella stared. Beside her, Harris bent double laughing.

Gabriella: …that is distressingly accurate.
Hayes: thank you
Hayes: AND also australia is there for some reason?!
Dykstra: australia is not in europe
Hayes: I KNOW
Hayes: THAT'S PART OF IT
Bood: this already sounds fake

Gabriella leaned back against the couch. This was either going extremely well or catastrophically badly. Possibly both.

Gabriella: Okay. Proper explanation.
Gabriella: Eurovision is an international song competition.
Gabriella: Every participating country submits a song.
Gabriella: There are semi-finals, then a grand final. There is dramatic voting.
Gabriella: National pride. Chaos. Sequins. Deeply concerning staging choices.
Harris: and gay people.
Gabriella: yes. also gay people.
Gabriella: It’s a really big deal
Bood: Okay, but why would Roz care?

Gabriella answered immediately.

Gabriella: Because he loves it.
Hayes: Wait.
Hayes: REALLY?
Gabriella: Very much.
Bood: Then why has he literally never mentioned it?

Gabriella smiled.

Gabriella: I think he assumes Canadians won't understand.
Bood: rude
Harris: he's not entirely wrong
Bood: wow
Gabriella: Also, I think he is scared to be *too* European sometimes.
Bood: you mean the guy who won't shut up about being Russian is too scared of being too European?
Hayes: doesn't sound like him.
Bood: Okay, so if we take you at your word
Bood: and Cap is secretly obsessed with this Eurovision thing
Bood: how exactly is that going to pull him out of his funk?
Bood: explain why to me like I'm a concussed hockey player…
Gabriella: Firstly, Ilya is European.
Bood: i don't feel like that answered my question?
Harris: it answered it completely actually
Gabriella: Secondly, Eurovision is not just a show.

She paused thoughtfully. Then added:

Gabriella: It is a lifestyle. A commitment. An emotional experience.
Harris: a spiritual awakening
Gabriella: yes.

Gabriella considered this. Then decided honesty was best.

Gabriella: If you really want to know how much Ilya loves it
Gabriella: He once got drunk and spent almost two hours explaining why juries ruined the contest.
Gabriella: His hypothesis was that Eurovision introduced the jury system to punish fun entries, reward blandness, and ensure that Eastern Europe does not win too often.
Gabriella: He may have cried a little

Harris's eyes went wide. "Did he really say that?"

Gabriella nodded, already smiling at the memory. "Yeah. He gave a whole speech about how when Sertab won with 'Every Way That I Can' in 2003, the jury was embarrassed after years of ballads winning and just panicked. He said they 'saw five pretty women shaking their hips on stage' and forgot how to vote properly.'"

Harris stared at her. "But that is legit one of the best songs in Eurovision history. The choreography! The weird ribbons! The costume change!"

"Thank you!" Gabriella threw her hands up. "I thought I was going crazy. I tried to argue with him, but he was very committed to his theory."

"That song is iconic," he said stubbornly.

"Tell that to Ilya at two in the morning on his sixth vodka."

Harris shook his head slowly. "I would love to witness that debate."

Gabriella grinned. "I have it saved as a voice memo."

"You recorded him?"

"I record all his drunken rants. They're my retirement fund."

Harris leaned forward eagerly. "Send me that clip."

"No."

Meanwhile, the chat had carried on without them.

Bood: I don’t know what any of that means
Hayes: There's no way he put that sentence or that argument together himself
Harris: Apparently he gets very impassioned, especially about Russian entries.
Dykstra: I genuinely cannot picture this

"Maybe we should send the voice memo to the chat…?" He looked at her quizzically, one eyebrow raised.

She thought for a second too long, long enough that Harris's grin started widening, then shook her head. "No. He would kill me."

"You have a point."

"Yes, a very sharp one. I am trying to save him from himself, not get him arrested for murder."

Instead, she typed.

Gabriella: He has also on more than one occasion sung his favourite english speaking entry to a bagel
Harris: Was it Euphoria?
Gabriella: Number one.
Harris: *sings* YOU ARE THE ONE, YOU’RE MY NUMBER ONE!
Gabriella: * The only treasure I'll ever have!! *
Hayes: Are you two doing Karaoke by text?
Gabriella: Yes, sorry. It’s a problem. If you hear the song you have to sing it.
Bood: I don’t know any of these songs
Gabriella: yet
Bood: Yet?
Dykstra: i still don't get it.
Hayes: You know what I can see it, Roz wearing his slutty euro shirts and singing along
Gabriella: Yes, that’s it exactly.

Harris immediately took over.

Harris: @dykstra Okay. Let me try and be clear
Harris: Eurovision appeals to exactly three demographics.
Harris: Europeans.
Harris: Queers.
Harris: And people spiritually aligned with the European experience. (AKA Australia)
Harris: If you are a part of any of these three groups and know about Eurovision, you have very strong opinions. Good or Bad.

Gabriella covered her face with one hand and groaned, she could see exactly where this would go.

Dykstra: okay.
Dykstra: so ilya is european.
Dykstra: you're gay.
Dykstra: and gabriella is… what exactly? Canadian?
Gabriella: Yes, i am canadian
Harris: Also, she is culturally sympathetic.

Gabriella snorted.

Gabriella: I've lived in several European countries
Gabriella: and Australia
Gabriella: Also I've been to Eurovision twice.

That one landed.

Bood: WHOA
Hayes: okay yeah that's kind of iconic actually
Dykstra: twice???
Gabriella: Once in Dusseldorf. Once in Vienna.
Hayes: Like in Germany?
Gabriella: Like in Germany and Austria
Hayes: Fantastisch

Harris looked deeply emotional. "Keep reeling them in," he whispered.

Gabriella smirked and kept typing.

Dykstra: okay so you two are eurovision experts?
Gabriella: In this group, yes.
Harris: Yes
Dykstra: and what do you need from us exactly?
Hayes: Yes, how do you two being experts help us get Roz back?

Gabriella smiled slowly. She could feel Harris vibrating next to her, barely containing his excitement. She let the silence stretch for just a moment longer than necessary before typing.

Gabriella: We need you to become one of us.

The chat went quiet. She could practically see them processing this, their thumbs hovering over their screens, trying to decide if she was joking.

Bood: Define "become one of us."
Gabriella: Learn Eurovision. Understand why it matters.
Gabriella: And once you do
Gabriella: WE throw Ilya Rozanov the greatest Eurovision party of his life.
Harris: And Canadians finally defeat European cultural superiority.

Gabriella side-eyed Harris. "I was going for sincere."

"So was I!" he practically whined.

She ignored him and kept typing.

Gabriella: If we do this right, he forgets about hockey for a few hours.
Gabriella: That is the goal. To give him something else to hold onto.
Gabriella: It is about showing him he is not alone.
Gabriella: That his people are willing to learn the things he loves, just to be with him.
Bood: And this is supposed to fix him?
Gabriella: It is supposed to remind him he has people who care.
Gabriella: The rest is up to him.

There seemed to be a pause while they processed this information. Harris looked at her, something soft in his expression.

"You are really good at this," he said quietly.

She didn't look up from her phone. "I am just telling the truth."

Bood: okay if we agree to this, how exactly will this work?

Gabriella had been waiting for this part. She straightened instinctively.

Gabriella: We have a curriculum.
Dykstra: oh god there's curriculum
Gabriella: Part One: Theory.
Gabriella: Part Two: Immersion.
Gabriella: Part Three: Party. Practical assessment.
Dykstra: A practical assessment???
Hayes: Party! Woo!
Bood: OK, that’s doable
Dykstra: this somehow became school!?
Gabriella: Education is important.
Hayes: What's the timeline professor?

Gabriella checked her notes on the whiteboard. She wasn't even embarrassed about them anymore.

Gabriella: The Grand Final is on May 18th. So that is in a week and a half.
Dykstra: THAT'S NOT ENOUGH TIME!!!
Dykstra: i barely passed actual school *crying emojis *
Harris: this is different.
Gabriella: Between now and Tuesday, we tackle theory.
Gabriella: I'll send you all a packet to study
Hayes: define packet
Gabriella: History. Rules. Voting systems. Notable winners. Political controversies.
Harris: bloc voting discourse.
Gabriella: Costume analysis.
Harris: wind machine theory.
Gabriella: everything you will need to know to SURVIVE

There was a beat.

Hayes: how long is this packet?

Gabriella hesitated. Harris was already grinning. Traitor.

Gabriella: sixty-seven pages.

The chat immediately detonated.

Dykstra: SIXTY SEVEN???
Hayes: bahahah awesome
Bood: honestly i respect the commitment
Harris: it has footnotes.
Dykstra: WHY DOES IT HAVE FOOTNOTES?!?!?!
Gabriella: Because education matters.

Gabriella was laughing now too.

Gabriella: I included visual aids.
Hayes: visual aids like graphs???
Gabriella: visual aids like* someone explaining europe to hockey players* through youtube compilations.
Dykstra: okay thank god
Gabriella: The goal is simple.
Gabriella: You study. You ask questions. Then Tuesday we gather for Semi Final One.
Hayes: honestly this having playoffs makes it easier for me to understand

Gabriella froze. Her thumbs hovered over the screen. She read the message twice, then a third time, waiting for the punchline that never came. Hayes was serious. He was genuinely, unironically grateful that Eurovision had a playoff structure because it meant his hockey-addled brain could finally make sense of it.

She looked up at Harris.

Harris pointed at her phone triumphantly. "See? Hockey players!"

He looked emotional. Actually emotional, like he'd just watched a baby take its first steps. "They're learning," he said, voice thick with pride.

"They're adapting."

Harris clasped his hands together. "They're taking our weird European nonsense and filtering it through hockey. That's cultural exchange, Gabriella. That's beautiful."

This is working, she thought and typed her response and hit send.

Gabriella: Exactly. The semis are basically the wildcard rounds.
Bood: OH okay now i get it
Gabriella: The two semis are on Tuesday (14th) and Thursday (16th) at 3 p.m.
Gabriella: Put it on your calendars. Place TBC
Gabriella: We will watch it live together. We discuss. We learn. We pick countries to support.
Hayes: we get our own teams???
Gabriella: yes.
Bood: this rules actually
Dykstra: what if i pick wrong?
Gabriella: There is no wrong country if you believe in them hard enough.
Harris: *man throwing glitter gif*
Hayes: wow.
Hayes: that genuinely moved me.
Bood: same honestly

Gabriella grinned helplessly. They were all fools, lovely fools, unfortunately.

Gabriella: Then comes the practical exam.
Gabriella: May 18th is the Grand Final.
Harris: FYI it is the same day as Game Five, so it will be a long day.
Gabriella: Yes. We gather. We party. We emotionally rehabilitate our captain.
Bood: FUCK yeah
Hayes: i'm so in
Dykstra: hold on does this count as professional development?

Gabriella blinked. Then burst out laughing.

Gabriella: Sure.
Gabriella: I will personally issue certificates from The Centaurs University of Culture.
Bood: incredible
Hayes: framed on my wall immediately
Dykstra: okay but are grades involved?
Gabriella: Pass/fail.
Gabriella: But if we do our jobs correctly, everyone passes with honours.
Harris: I'm already tenured faculty.
Gabriella: yes he is.
Gabriella: So just to confirm, you are all in?
Hayes: hell yes
Bood: Yes
Dykstra: this feels like joining a cult
Gabriella: Only a little.
Dykstra: OK fine. Yes.
Gabriella: Thank you gentlemen, you will not regret this.

Then Gabriella clapped her hands once decisively, even though nobody but Harris could see her.

Gabriella: Now, if you can all send me your email addresses.
Gabriella: I'll forward the packet.

The responses came almost immediately. One by one. Like they were actually committing to this insanity.

Gabriella stared down at the thread for a second longer than necessary, warmth spreading through her whole being.

Gabriella: Thank you, I believe all of you can do this :)

Maybe this would work. Maybe they really could pull Ilya back from whatever lonely little spiral he was disappearing into. Maybe ridiculously earnest hockey players and excitable queers were exactly what he needed right now.

Her phone buzzed again.

Hayes: that feels weirdly sincere
Bood: yeah now i want to do well
Gabriella: Good.
Gabriella: One final thing.
Gabriella: You can’t tell Ilya.
Dykstra: I knew there would be a catch.
Bood: okay wait.
Bood: why are we hiding this from Roz?

Gabriella shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

Gabriella: We don’t want Ilya to find out what we are doing in case we can’t get him back to Ottawa on time.
Gabriella: This whole plan hinges on the fact we need Montreal to make it to Game 5
Hayes: because he's stalking the playoffs?
Gabriella: Yes.
Harris: If the series goes to five games, it will be an away game
Harris: So we can convince him to come home for a few days.
Gabriella: And then we strike.
Dykstra: you two sound like bond villains
Gabriella: thank you.
Bood: honestly this is kind of sweet though
Hayes: Why don’t we drive to Montreal and just kidnap him?
Harris: Great idea, do you know where he is hiding?

They saw the dots appear and disappear…

Hayes: No
Bood: No
Dykstra: No
Gabriella: yeah. So no kidnapping then.
Bood: So to get him back you are what? Going to honey trap him?
Gabriella: Lord no, I will just guilt him into a buddy date
Bood: How is that different?
Gabriella: Very different outcomes ?!?
Harris: OK we are getting distracted. Gabriella gets Ilya back into town for Game 5.
Hayes: Then we hold our sad Russian playoff intervention via a European singing competition.
Harris: It wont be sad :( there will be glitter
Hayes: Doesn’t matter, I'm in and emotionally invested now.

Something in Gabriella's chest eased at that. Because yes. Exactly. Emotionally invested. That was the point.

Bood: What happens if the series doesn’t go to Game 5?
Harris: No Ilya.
Hayes: Can we try kidnapping him again?
Hayes: We can lure him out with vodka on a string or something?
Dykstra: Then we study for NOTHING?
Gabriella: Not nothing, you will still receive your honorary degree
Bood: If we lose Roz, can we still have the party? but at mine?
Gabriella: Going for first class honours Bood?
Bood: Damned straight. If I am studying, I am ace-ing the practical exam. Roz or no Roz.
Gabriella: then yes

Wow, she was falling in love with these fools.

Gabriella: OK gentlemen. Just read the packet and I will see you on Tuesday.
Bood: already started
Hayes: god help us all
Dykstra: if i fail this practical exam i'm blaming you personally
Gabriella: noted.

Harris sat back on the couch, looking deeply satisfied with himself.

"We're going to save him," he said.

Gabriella nodded her head, still smiling. "We're going to try."

+++

By the time they had coordinated the viewing parties, Gabriella's phone battery was at 19% and her iPad was on 5%. Harris was fully horizontal across the media room couch, laughing into a throw pillow.

“I think,” he wheezed, “we may have accidentally started a cult.”

“Mm,” she said. “Probably.”

Honestly, though? Better Eurovision than whatever emotional disaster Ilya was currently going through in Montreal. She could work with Eurovision. It had rules, structure, a predictable format, and decades of precedent. Ilya Rozanov had none of those things. He was chaos wrapped in a hockey jersey, and he had forgotten how to exist on his own. But Gabriella had a plan now, and accomplices, and for the first time she truly believed it might actually bring him back.

Her phone buzzed once more. She looked down to another twenty-three unread notifications that thankfully were not from Ilya.

Bood: okay serious question
Gabriella: go ahead
Bood: how political is eurovision actually?

Gabriella immediately looked at Harris. Harris looked back at her with the expression of a man watching someone step onto a landmine.

Gabriella exhaled slowly through her nose before typing.

Gabriella: theoretically? not political at all. officially, everyone is friends and “united by music”
Bood: and realistically?
Gabriella: it is the most politically complicated event in europe outside of actual war
Bood: incredible
Hayes: i'm obsessed with this already
Dykstra: page six says there are rules against political statements but then page seven immediately lists twelve political controversies
Gabriella: yes ❤️ *red heart emoji*
Dykstra: that emoji feels threatening

She liked the message.

Hayes: So how do we know which songs are actually good versus just political?
Gabriella: that's the neat part, you don't.

The chat went quiet for a moment, the guys presumably processing once more.

Dykstra: wait what
Bood: that can't be right
Hayes: so we just... guess?

Harris had fully slid off the couch at this point, clutching his stomach and gasping for air between laughs. "I'm so proud of them," he wheezed. "They’re already asking the right questions."

Gabriella ignored him and kept typing.

Gabriella: essentially yes
Gabriella: You cannot get hung up on the politics or the innuendos
Gabriella: if you try to analyse every voting bloc or conspiracy, you will drive yourself crazy
Gabriella: You just need to find a song that speaks to you personally. Whether it is tacky or not
Gabriella: The important thing is commitment. confidence. emotional investment.
Gabriella: You can’t watch Eurovision ironically.
Harris: The competition senses weakness.
Bood: like playoff hockey
Gabriella: exactly like playoff hockey
Gabriella: You commit to your team and you believe they can succeed despite all odds.
Hayes: holy shit this is just european hockey culture for musicians

Gabriella and Harris cackled together.

Gabriella: Yes. That’s actually exactly what it is
Dykstra: OK Hayes that actually helped
Bood: yeah buddy, you’ve got this
Hayes: do i get extra points on my grade?
Gabriella: Pass/Fail remember

Harris turned to her, his expression caught somewhere between awe and horror. "I know I was impressed before, but Wyatt Hayes accidentally understanding Eurovision on instinct is deeply upsetting to me personally."

Gabriella laughed joyfully. "He is a natural."

She leaned back in her chair, smiling helplessly at the screen. It seemed hockey players were made for this with their obsessive niche traditions and rituals, their petty nationalism and ranking systems, their love of screaming at referees and overanalysing performance quality under pressure. Honestly, in retrospect, Eurovision might have been inevitable.

Another notification popped up.

Dykstra: Okay, I need clarification on something.
Gabriella: On what?
Dykstra: page fourteen says “never underestimate a woman alone on stage with a wind machine”
Hayes: i also highlighted that line actually
Bood: same

Gabriella grinned.

Gabriella: that’s because it’s important
Dykstra: important HOW?
Harris: Because she will emotionally destroy you.
Gabriella: exactly
Dykstra: Sounds made up
Gabriella: I promise you it is not.
Gabriella: Watch the videos in the footnotes.
Hayes: honestly this packet reads like religious doctrine
Gabriella: thank you
Hayes: that was not a compliment
Gabriella: and yet i received it as one

Harris burst out laughing again.

+++

Bood: So when were you going to tell us Canada was in Eurovision?
Gabriella: Canada wasn’t in Eurovision
Harris: Canadian ICON Celine Dion represented Switzerland in 1988.
Gabriella: It’s on page 32
Hayes: CÉLINE DION WAS IN EUROVISION? SPOILERS!!
Gabriella: Yes, and she won. It’s in the notes.
Harris: She was only eighteen years old and won by a single point.
Harris: The closest finish in Eurovision history.
Hayes: Iconic
Bood: so canada could send someone?
Gabriella: No. Canada isn't in Europe.
Hayes: neither is australia
Gabriella: ...fair point. but no.
Dykstra: any other canadians?
Gabriella: Natasha St-Pier 2001. Represented France and came fourth.
Bood: so we have to pretend to be european to compete?
Gabriella: Apparently.
Hayes: okay but can we pretend canada is competing when we watch the final?
Gabriella: No.
Harris: yes
Bood: yes
Dykstra: yes
Hayes: democracy
Gabriella: You can't just vote Canada into Eurovision!
Bood: watch us
Hayes: if Celine can do it, we can too.

+++

“God,” Harris said, wiping tears from his eyes. “I can’t wait to watch them experience the semis live.”

Gabriella could. Very, very easily.

She was already planning snacks AND scorecards. And whether she could convince the arena events manager to let her borrow the industrial sized glitter cannon currently sitting in storage from Pride Night. You know, purely for educational purposes.

Her phone buzzed again.

Bood: okay final question
Gabriella: okay
Bood: if this works and we save roz from stalking the playoffs do we become honorary Europeans?
Gabriella: yes. but only if you survive the practical exam
Hayes: what happens if we fail?
Gabriella: deportation
Dykstra: TO WHERE
Gabriella: America probably

Once again, the chat lit up with exclamation marks and caps lock remarks.

For the first time in days, Gabriella stopped worrying about Ilya. They were going to do this and it was going to be epic.

Chapter End Notes

SONGS MENTIONED/REFERENCED THIS CHAPTER:

"Ne partez pas sans moi" by Céline Dion (Switzerland 1988)
"Je n'ai que mon âme" by Natasha St-Pier (France 2001)
“Every Way That I Can" by Sertab Erener (Turkey 2003)
“My Number One” by Helena Paparizou (Greece 2005)
“Euphoria" by Loreen (Sweden 2012)

Last Chapter:
"Believe” by Dima Bilan (Russia 2008)

And for those who are interested here is a basic history of the competition:
https://youtu.be/w62thtMe98U?si=Wmk0GYpb2eD9ZtyS

Chapter 4: Ilya Interlude I

Chapter Summary

Ilya's spiral POV

Chapter Notes

Plot ca. 90%, Eurovision 10%.

Ilya was feeling hollow inside and he didn't know what to do about it.

He had been lying still on Shane's couch for what felt like hours, his body slowly sinking into the cushions as time stretched and warped around him. He checked the clock again it had only been forty-five minutes since he had sat down. It had felt like five hours. He couldn't believe that Shane wouldn't be home for several more hours. What was he supposed to do? He had already cleaned the kitchen twice, organised the fridge, prepped dinner, and folded laundry that didn't need folding. He had done everything he could think of how to fill the silence. But no matter what he did, the time just wouldn't pass.

He knew why this was a problem. He knew why he was clinging to the hum of the refrigerator instead of letting his mind wander. The hum kept his thoughts blank and blank was safe. He knew if he stopped actively distracting himself, the loneliness would creep in. And then he would have to think about the heaviness of missing Shane. And/or the growing hollow ache of being left behind while everyone else moved forward. He couldn't afford to let those thoughts take hold. He needed to keep moving, keep convincing himself everything was fine.

But no matter what he did, no matter how much white noise he focused on, the strange, hollow weight in his chest would not go away. It sat there, heavy and oppressive, weighing him down until he wasn't sure how much longer he could carry it. He pulled Shane's sweatshirt tighter around himself and inhaled the faint scent of his body wash, hoping it might anchor him to something solid. It didn't. The minutes continued to stretch on, each one longer and heavier than the last, and he found himself wondering how many more he would have to endure before the silence finally broke. Before he broke. He didn't have an answer for that and he wasn't sure there was one.

Usually, Ilya knew how to handle loneliness because he had spent enough time on planes and in hotels to know how to pass the hours. But this was not that. This was something else, something he didn't quite have a name for, a hollowing out, like the parts of him that used to hold purpose and drive had been scooped out, leaving behind nothing but an echo. The usual depressive feelings were still there, but they didn't feel like the familiar grey fog he had learned to navigate. That fog had been predictable, dull and numbing, something he could function within. This was different, sharper, like something was fundamentally wrong with him. He was terrified to look too closely. Terrified to name it, because naming it would make it real.... and he wasn't ready for that.

But if he did have to look at it, if he did have to name it, he would have to admit that he was a professional hockey player who simply was not playing anymore. Everyone else had moved towards the playoffs, and he was on the other side of the glass, watching from the periphery of a world that had once been his entire life. Last year he had been a generational player on a franchise team, and now he was just a regular player, sitting on a couch and watching. This world no longer belonged to him. He was a spectator now, and he had no idea how to be that. He had never learned how to watch from the outside, how to cheer for others while his own dreams sat idle. He had only ever known how to be in the middle of it all, and now he was on the outside, and he didn't know how to find his way back.

Ilya needed to learn how to deal with this and fast. He needed to know how to sit with the quiet without it consuming him. How to face what the silence let in and the thoughts that crept through when there was nothing else to drown them out. He didn't want to deal with the questions he couldn't answer. Or the very real fear that he had already peaked in his career, that his best seasons were behind him, that he would never play in the playoffs again. And especially not the fact that maybe the thing he had spent his entire life working towards had been taken from him, and he hadn't even noticed until it was gone.

Now he had to learn to sit in this world, all by himself without falling apart. He just didn't know how to start.

+++

The first round against Tampa Bay had been manageable. Montreal won in six games, and there was a rhythm to it: game days, recovery days, travel days. He fell into the routine easily enough. He watched from the couch. He paced during overtime. He celebrated victories by himself, his fist punching the air in an empty living room, the sound of his own cheering swallowed by Shane's high ceilings. He waited for the click of the lock, the heavy tread of exhausted footsteps, the way Shane would drop his bag in the hallway and stand in the kitchen looking lost until he put food in front of him. It was almost like being useful. Almost like being part of something.

But the nights were long. And the silences between games were longer.

He knew he did not need to be alone, Yuna and David had invited him over multiple times. Come over, Ilya, we have wine, we have leftovers, we have a spare bedroom. He always declined. He made excuses. He said he was tired, or that Shane would be home soon, or that he had things to do. None of it was true. The truth was simpler and sadder: he did not want them to see him like this. He did not want anyone to see him like this.

He knew that Yuna would see right through him. She would take one look at his face and know that he was not fine. Then she would ask questions, and he would have to admit that he did not know who he was anymore without the playoffs. David would just look at him with those quiet, knowing eyes, say nothing, pour him a drink, and wait. That was worse somehow. The silence. The acceptance. The way David never demanded an explanation, which meant he had nowhere to hide.

So he stayed in the bubble he had created inside Shane's home. He cooked. He cleaned. He made sure the fridge was stocked and the laundry was folded and everything was perfect for when Shane walked through the door. He was the perfect invisible boyfriend, the one who never asked for anything, the one who was slowly disappearing into the background of someone else's life.

+++

The second round was supposed to be easier. Instead, it was merely shorter. Montreal beat Boston in five games, which meant fewer nights alone, but the emptiness did not care about math. It settled in anyway, filling the spaces between games with the same hollow weight he had been carrying for weeks.

Still, there had been a few precious days before the series started, when Shane was home and mostly human. They went for walks along the river, the kind of slow, aimless walks they used to take before the playoffs consumed everything. They cooked breakfast together, something that felt almost domestic, almost like the life he had imagined for them. They watched terrible reality television because he had developed a secret fondness for Married at First Sight Australia, a fact he would take to his grave. They spent entire evenings pretending they were not both counting down the hours until hockey swallowed Shane whole again.

Then the next series began, and normal evaporated. The walks stopped. The breakfasts became solo affairs, him eating alone at the kitchen island while Shane reviewed game tape in the other room. The silence returned, heavier than before, and he found himself staring at the ceiling again, wondering when exactly he had stopped being a person and started being a supporting character in someone else's playoff run.

+++

Ilya managed one secret trip to Boston during those five games. Officially, he was visiting old friends under the cover of darkness. Officially, he was reconnecting with former teammates who could not acknowledge he had been there. The secrecy thrilled him at first, the late night drive, the cap pulled low, slipping through the city like a ghost. It felt like being a spy, like he still mattered, like he was still part of something important.

But the thrill faded fast. He was not in Boston to see old friends. He was there to be close to the playoffs, to feel the hum of a hockey city during the most important time of the year, to pretend for a few hours that he was still part of it all. He wanted to breathe the same air, walk the same streets, feel the energy of a city that was once his. But the city did not feel like his anymore.

After the games ended, he did not stay for the celebrations. He could have. They would have welcomed him. But staying would have meant explaining why he was there, and he did not have an answer that made any sense. So instead, he left before sunrise, driving back to Montreal in the dark with nothing but his thoughts (the ones he was trying to avoid) and the empty highway ahead. He slipped into Shane's house like he had never left, hung his jacket by the door, and stood in the quiet kitchen trying to remember what normal felt like.

No one knew he had been gone. Only his friends and the border security agent had even known he existed. That was the point. He had perfected the art of moving through the world without leaving a trace, of existing in the margins of other people's lives, of being present without being seen. And that was also the problem. He was starting to realize he did not know how to stop. He had become so good at disappearing that he was not sure he remembered how to be found.

+++

After that, he didn't even bother trying to leave Montreal. Deep down, he knew he didn't need to be there the whole time. He could have gone back to Ottawa, slept in his own bed, seen his own friends. But he didn't. He couldn't. Because being anywhere else felt like admitting that he wasn't needed here, and he wasn't ready to face that. So he stayed, drifting through the apartment like a ghost who had forgotten there was a world beyond its walls.

It took him a while to start reaching out to people. Even then, he didn't know what to say. He didn't want to worry anyone, didn't want to be a burden, didn't want to admit that he was slowly coming apart at the seams. So he tried to be the versions of himself they would want to hear from, the confident captain, the sharp analyst, the guy who always had a quip ready. He buried the loneliness under jokes and observations and carefully curated fragments of normalcy. But every now and then, parts of the truth would sneak through.

[imagine the text is in russian]

Ilya: i am dying of boredom
Svetlana: you are not dying. you are sitting on a very expensive couch in a very nice house.
Ilya: same thing
Svetlana: no. it’s not.
Ilya: shane is at practice. i have cleaned the kitchen 3x. i watched a documentary about penguins
Svetlana: were the penguins interesting?
Ilya: no. they just stood there
Svetlana: that is what penguins do.
Ilya: i know. it was very disappointing
Svetlana: You know you don’t have to be there right?
Svetlana: You can go and live your life
Ilya: not happening
Svetlana: why not
Ilya: because what if he needs me?
Svetlana: he's at practice, Ilya. not war.
Ilya: same thing
Svetlana: no. it’s really not.
Ilya: you don't understand
Svetlana: i understand that you're hiding.

The message sat there. He didn't respond.

Svetlana: fine. text your work friend then.
Ilya: she is offline.
Svetlana: offline how?
Ilya: like not answering. for days.
Svetlana: maybe she is busy?
Ilya: with what?
Svetlana: her life? The thing you should be living?

Ilya stared at the screen.

Svetlana: Ok fine. Just go OUTSIDE ilya
Ilya: no. Its montreal i can’t go out
Svetlana: ilya
Ilya: there are people outside
Svetlana: yes. that’s where people live.
Svetlana: You are impossible.
Svetlana: You have done this to yourself.

Ilya stared at the Cyrillic characters on his screen, Svetlana's words landing harder than he wanted to admit. You have done this to yourself. He read the line several times and each time a feeling settled deeper inside of him. It was not guilt, exactly. It was something worse, it was recognition.

He tossed his phone onto the couch, the screen glowing up at him from the cushion. He thought about typing something back, something defensive, something that would make her understand why he had to be here, why he could not leave, why the thought of going outside and living his own life felt impossible. But he did not have the words. Or maybe he had too many words, and none of them were the right ones.

He picked up his phone one more time.

Ilya: do you think penguins ever get bored?
Svetlana: i am blocking you

He almost laughed. Almost. The corner of his mouth twitched, but the smile did not arrive. Svetlana had been his best friend since childhood, and she knew him better than almost anyone. She knew, probably better than he did, that he had built this cage himself and then pretended someone else had locked the door.

The phone buzzed again.

Svetlana: I am not actually blocking you
Svetlana: But I am worried about you
Svetlana: And you know I am right

He stared at the messages. He did not respond. He could not respond. Because if he typed out the truth I do not know who I am anymore then it would be real, and he was not ready for it to be real.

So he set the phone down, face up, and watched the screen dim. The penguins were still frozen on the paused documentary, mid waddle, beaks open, eyes blank. They looked how he felt and for some reason, that was the saddest part of all.

+++

He grabbed his phone and scrolled to Gabriella's chat. Still offline. Still no response. He typed anyway, because typing was easier than sitting in silence.

Ilya: are you alive?
Ilya: please be alive
Ilya: i am watching penguins and they are very disappointing
Ilya: shane is at practice and i am in montreal and i have cleaned the kitchen three times…
Ilya: i think i might clean it again
Ilya: this is what my life has become
Ilya: cleaning and penguins

He stared at the screen. The messages felt hollow, weightless, like they disappeared into nothing the moment he sent them. So he switched to hockey, and he found that once he started, he could not stop. The words poured out of him in long blue paragraphs, each one a small attempt to fill the emptiness with something familiar. Anything to keep the silence at bay.

He knew he was not texting because he thought Gabriella cared about hockey analysis. He was texting because the alternative was sitting in silence with his own thoughts, and the silence was worse than anything he could type.

Ilya: sorry
Ilya: i know you're not here
Ilya: i just…

He deleted the last message. Started again.

Ilya: come back soon
Ilya: i miss you

He set down his phone and looked back at the documentary. The penguins had not moved. They would never move. They were frozen in time, just like he was, just like everything else in Shane's house when Shane was not there. If she was not going to answer, he would keep typing. Keep pretending that if he explained the playoffs well enough, he would not feel so alone. It did not work. It never worked. But he did not know what else to do, and the silence was pressing in on all sides, and the penguins were still staring.

+++

When Gabriella's messages finally appeared in a cluster, Ilya grabbed his phone so fast he nearly dropped it. He read them several times, making sure they were real, that she was actually there.

Gabriella: I'm back
Gabriella: I’ve missed you too
Gabriella: Did you really need to spam me every hockey thought you ever had?
Gabriella: You know I don't speak Russian right?

His thumbs hovered over the screen for half a second before he started typing, relief and indignation warring for dominance.

Ilya: YOU ARE ALIVE
Gabriella: Yes, surprising I know
Ilya: And YES
Ilya: you were offline for DAYS
Gabriella: I was on vacation.
Ilya: without telling me?
Gabriella: I don't need to tell you when I go on vacation.
Ilya: yes you do
Gabriella: no I don't
Ilya: i was WORRIED
Ilya: YOU are MY mirror twin
Gabriella: And that's not a legally binding term
Gabriella: I was in Vancouver.
Ilya: vancouver
Ilya: Whats in Vancouver that you couldn’t tell me about it?
Gabriella: I was visiting a friend.
Ilya: what kind of friend
Gabriella: The kind I visit in Vancouver.

Ilya squinted at his phone, suspicious now.

Ilya: was it a sex vacation?
Gabriella: I'm not answering that.
Ilya: So it WAS a sex vacation
Gabriella: I said I'm not answering.
Ilya: gabriella
Gabriella: ilya
Ilya: you had sex
Gabriella: I had a nice time with a friend.
Ilya: that means yes
Ilya: Good for you
Gabriella: I'm not discussing this with you.
Ilya: why not?
Gabriella: Because there are boundaries.

Ilya stared at the word boundaries like it had personally offended him. It sat there on his screen, small and innocuous, representing everything he did not understand about Gabriella's insistence on keeping parts of her life separate from him.

Ilya: i don't like boundaries
Gabriella: Not true. I know you are very considerate of people's boundaries.
Gabriella: You LOVE consent
Ilya: Yes. but maybe i want to tell you about MY sex life
Gabriella: Well, I don't want to hear about YOUR sex life.
Ilya: why not? It’s top tier content
Gabriella: Because I work with you and there are BOUNDARIES.
Ilya: you are no fun
Gabriella: I am plenty of fun. I just don't want to know when you and Shane are...
Ilya: are what?
Gabriella: I'm not saying it.
Ilya: are you blushing?
Gabriella: I'm ending this conversation.
Ilya: no wait
Gabriella: Too late.
Ilya: gabriella
Gabriella: I'm gone.
Ilya: you are not gone
Gabriella: I'm gone.
Ilya: fine
Ilya: but you will tell me about the sex vacation later, yes?
Gabriella: No
Ilya: Liar. Liar who lies.

He was grinning now. For the first time in days, actually grinning. The tension in his shoulders had loosened, and the hollow feeling in his chest had pulled back just enough for him to breathe.

She was back, and he was not alone anymore.

He kept typing, because annoying her was cheering him up, and he was not ready to stop.

Ilya: so was the friend cute?
Gabriella: Goodbye, Ilya.
Ilya: that means yes

He laughed, a proper deep burst that took him by surprise. It echoed off the walls of Shane's quiet house, and for a moment, the silence did not feel quite so heavy.

+++

Gabriella: how was shane's birthday?
Ilya: Well was it really a birthday if you cannot eat anything good or have any fun?
Ilya: And it’s days early
Gabriella: I am sure you did something appropriate.
Ilya: of course. i steamed chicken with brown rice and broccoli
Gabriella: Sexy. Any celebratory sides?
Ilya: does a protein shake count?
Gabriella: No.
Ilya: Do i count?
Gabriella: No.
Ilya: then no
Ilya: We will make up for it after the playoffs
Gabriella: i guess i know what that means
Ilya: Yes. There will be CAKE
Gabriella: What kind of cake?
Ilya: Cake in bed
Gabriella: Well. Happy belated birthday to Shane then.
Ilya: yes. will practically be my birthday by that point
Gabriella: Perfect timing.
Ilya: Yes 🔥🍑👉👌 *string of inappropriate emoji’s *

+++

They had been texting back and forth for the first two games of the conference finals. Shane had been in Washington, and Ilya had stayed behind in Montreal, and he was losing his mind.

He had tried all the food from every restaurant he liked. Twice. He had even left the house and babysat for the Pikes and also had a separate wine night with Jackie, which was nice, actually. She talked about the other WAGS and did not ask him why he was moping around Montreal like a lost dog. He appreciated that about her. She let him pretend. But her was slowly realising it wasn't the same. Without Shane and without his own people.

Jackie was one of his people, technically. He genuinely liked her. But she was still Shane's friend first. She had known Shane longer, loved Shane longer, would always choose Shane if it came down to it. It was not the same as someone who was his. Someone who had chosen him first.

Svetlana had chosen him first, but as always she was busy with her work and her life and her endless ability to be exactly where he was not.

Gabriella had also chosen him, but she was in Ottawa, refusing to talk about her sex vacation. Still, he could tell she had noticed his mood. The loneliness. And she did not seem to be flinching away. She just kept talking back to him. She was just present, and that was more than he deserved.

What he really needed was more friends. Not acquaintances. Not teammates by circumstance. Not people who only knew him as the guy who scored goals and yelled at referees. Actual friends. The kind who wanted to be there for you, who texted you first. Who noticed when you were offline. Who called you out on your bullshit and stayed on the line anyway.

Maybe he should message the team. The thought sat heavy on him for a moment, awkward and strange, like something he had swallowed and could not digest. He scrolled through his contacts. Bood. Dykstra. Hayes. Harris. He had not texted any of them in weeks. They were guys he had spent almost every day with for months. Guys he had shared planes with and practices with and road trips with. Guys who knew how he took his coffee. Guys who knew exactly how angry he got when someone touched his sticks. Guys who would probably answer if he texted.

And somehow that made it worse. Because what was he supposed to say? Hello teammates. I am emotionally unraveling in Montreal. Please save me? He could not do that to them. They were on holiday now, scattered across cottages and beaches and places that were not Ottawa. They did not need to hear him moping about the playoffs. Ottawa had never even been in the playoffs. He could not complain about missing something they had never had. That would be cruel. Self-centered. The kind of thing the old Ilya might have done, before he started learning how to be a person instead of just a player.

So he did not text them. Instead, he picked up his phone and texted Gabriella.

Ilya: do you think i am bad at making friends
Gabriella: What are you on about?
Ilya: like. Do you think I’m bad at it? at keeping them?
Gabriella: I think you are excellent at making friends
Gabriella: You know the names of all the janitorial staff and their wives.
Gabriella: You bring cake to every social and text people happy birthday without reminders.
Gabriella: You made friends with your neighbour's kids and now they wave at you from their window.
Gabriella: This is all good friend stuff, Ilya.
Ilya: Really?
Gabriella: Yes.
Ilya: How can I trust what you say is true?
Gabriella: Cause i am your friend, and I give you 5 stars
Ilya: that is not a real rating system
Gabriella: It is now. I’ll make you one of those ratings you can hang in your window

Ilya could feel the smile pulling on the edges of his lips.

Ilya: okay
Ilya: but i didn't make friends with you by being nice
Gabriella: you showed up in my office and practically demanded I be your friend.
Ilya: thats not exactly how i remember it
Gabriella: Even so, we talked, we shared stories, we laughed, we became friends.
Ilya: I came to you because I needed something
Gabriella: And now? Now that you don’t need anything?

He did not know how to answer that. Because now he did not need anything. Not really. Not anything she could physically give him. No tickets, no secrets, no press boxes, no favours. Just her. Her attention, her patience, the way she made him feel like he was not completely alone in the world.

Ilya: I don't know
Gabriella: Then maybe that's the problem.
Ilya: What do you mean?
Gabriella: Maybe you're so used to needing something from people that you forgot you could just want them to be there?

He read the message several times. Then he put down his phone and stared at the ceiling. The question sat heavy on his mind, heavier than before, but different somehow. Warmer. He did not have an answer. Not yet. But for the first time in a while, he thought maybe there was one.

+++

Gabriella: Okay, serious question.
Ilya: i am always serious
Gabriella: No you're not.
Ilya: fine. what is the question
Gabriella: What are you doing on May 18th?

Ilya's stomach twisted. He knew May 18th was Game Five. Shane would (hopefully) be in Washington again, and the house would be silent, and he would be alone with nothing but his thoughts.

Ilya: watching the game. probably alone.
Gabriella: Will you stay in Montreal?
Ilya: Maybe. Yes.
Gabriella: But Shane will be in Washington.
Ilya: i know.
Gabriella: So you'll be alone. In his house. In a different city.
Ilya: you are making it sound sad
Gabriella: It IS sad.
Ilya: It’s fine. I'm fine.
Gabriella: You are not fine.

He wanted to argue. He wanted to type yes i am and move on, change the subject, deflect. But his fingers hesitated over the keyboard because she was right. He was not fine. He had not been fine for weeks.

Ilya: What do you want me to say?
Gabriella: The truth.
Ilya: i miss him
Ilya: i miss playing
Ilya: I don't know what to do with myself
Ilya: and i am tired of being alone

He stared at the messages after he sent them, the words sitting there in blue bubbles, too honest and too raw. He thought about deleting them, about taking it all back, about pretending he had not just admitted something out loud that he barely admitted to himself. But Gabriella had already read them.

Gabriella: Okay.
Gabriella: Here's what we're going to do.
Ilya: we?
Gabriella: When Shane leaves for Washington, you are coming back to Ottawa
Ilya: I am?
Gabriella: Yes. On Saturday I will come to your house at 1pm.
Ilya: You are allergic to my house. You hate my house
Ilya: You always avoid coming when I invite you
Gabriella: I know. I’ve been weird about it. But I am fixing it now.

He stared at the screen, something warm and unfamiliar filling him from the inside.

Ilya: why?
Gabriella: Because I don't want you to be alone.
Ilya: i am fine being alone
Gabriella: You literally just said you're tired of being alone.
Ilya: that was different
Gabriella: How?
Ilya: ...i don't know
Gabriella: I will come to your house. You will cook for me.
Ilya: i’m cooking?
Gabriella: You're Russian. Make me something Russian.
Ilya: you are very bossy
Gabriella: Yes.
Ilya: fine
Ilya: but only because you asked nicely
Gabriella: I didn't ask nicely at all.
Ilya: I know. It was very effective

By the time they had finished texting, he had already started planning the menu. A starter, a main, maybe he could find some sour cream ice cream somewhere. He could make a soup, something hearty and Russian that would make Gabriella's eyes widen when she tasted it. He could do this. He could be a human again. Not just a ghost haunting someone else's house. Not just a man waiting for someone to come home. He could cook. He could host. He could have a friend over for brunch like a normal person who had a life outside playoff hockey. It was a small thing. A tiny thing. But it was something and right now, something was better than nothing.

+++

The next afternoon, just as Ilya was considering cleaning a kitchen that was already spotless, when his phone buzzed.

Gabriella: Have you heard any of the Eurovision entries this year?
Gabriella: first semi is on tuesday

He stared at the message for longer than was necessary and then smiled. The smile surprised him. Not because of Eurovision, but because for the first time in weeks he was interested in a topic that wasn’t hockey.

Ilya: no
Ilya: i have been busy
Gabriella: doing what?
Ilya: suffering
Gabriella: dramatic
Ilya: send help?
Ilya: send songs
Ilya: Please
Gabriella: since you asked so nicely…

A few seconds later, the first link arrived. Then another. Then another. Without either of them realizing it, the conversation stopped being about surviving the playoffs and started becoming something else entirely. Something fun.

+++

Ilya was bopping along to the tracks Gabriella sent. Some were genuinely terrible, songs that made him question the future of European music. Some were unexpectedly good. Others lodged themselves in his brain against his will, destined to haunt him in the shower and every quiet moment afterward. He wisely did not tell Gabriella which were which. She would weaponise the information.

Then he clicked on Italy. Mahmood's Soldi.

Something about it caught him immediately. The looped sample, the hand claps, the restrained production. Mahmood's voice was confessional without ever becoming theatrical. It felt less like a Eurovision entry and more like someone quietly opening a door they normally kept locked.

When the song ended, Ilya didn't reach for the next video. He just sat there in the quiet, letting it wash over him. That alone was unusual. He eventually looked up the lyrics to make sure he wasn't missing something in the translation, an important practice with Eurovision, as something could sound incredibly moving but actually be about mocking the competition itself, or confronting an ex-lover, or perhaps even referencing a diplomatic incident between a Venezuelan president and the king of Spain. It was always a roll of the dice which one it would be. So he checked to be sure.

But this one, "Soldi," was about all the things he had been trying not to think about.

"Quando sono solo, vendo soldi.”
When I'm alone, I sell money.

Despite the lyrics, the song wasn't really about money. It was about a father who measured love in absence. About growing up around someone who was physically there but emotionally unreachable. About carrying resentment so long it became part of who you were.

"Mi chiedi perché, mi chiedi perché.”
You ask me why, you ask me why.

Ilya read the translation twice in English. Then he translated it into Russian to be sure. The father in the song did not really want to know his son. He was simply going through the motions, performing concern without ever being truly present.

His father had died two years ago. Alzheimer's had taken him slowly, piece by piece, until the man who had once been impossible to please became impossible to recognise. Ilya had flown back for the funeral but he hadn't cried. Not because it hadn't hurt, but because he hadn't known how.

"Tu pensavi solo ai soldi, soldi / Come se io abbia mai avuto soldi, soldi."
"You only thought about money, money / As if I have had any money, money."

Mahmood's father measured love in money. Ilya's had measured it in achievement. Goals. Contracts. Prestige. Success. He had been physically present, but emotionally unreachable. Critical. Dismissive. Impossible to satisfy. Nothing had ever been enough. He realised, with faint surprise, that he still hated him.

"Non me ne vanto, ma forse è un po' che non piango.”
I'm not proud of it, but maybe it's been a while since I cried.

That line stayed with him. He hadn't cried at the funeral, but he had cried months before, alone in Boston, after learning his father no longer remembered who he was. He knew that he had not cried for the man his father had been. Instead he had cried for the father he never was.

He replayed the song. Then again. Each listen pressed on the same bruise inside him, but it wasn't only sadness anymore. It was recognition. Some wounds survived the people who made them.

He did not text Gabriella any of that. Instead he typed: Italy is my favourite so far

Then he put the song on again while he cleaned the kitchen again. But for the first time in weeks, the silence felt occupied instead of empty.

+++

After Italy, Russia felt like walking into a different room.

Sergei Lazarev's "Scream" was technically excellent: flawless vocals, immaculate production, every note engineered for maximum impact. But after "Soldi," it felt less like a confession and more like a campaign. The song was louder, more constructed, the production massive and layered with surgical precision. Where Mahmood had whispered, Lazarev announced. This wasn't art. It was a product designed in a musical lab for Russia to win. Ilya appreciated the craftsmanship, the key changes, the way the vocals pushed higher without breaking. But it didn't make him feel anything. After "Soldi," it was hollow.

As with Italy, he could not tell Gabriella what he truly felt. He could not admit that his national pride felt like sand slipping through his fingers, that the song from his homeland left him cold while a stranger's confession in Italian had cracked him wide open. So he fudged the truth a little.

Ilya: this is going to be incredible live
Gabriella: How do you think your brethren will stage it?
Ilya: I vote mirrors, very effective
Gabriella: And narcissistic
Ilya: This is Russia yes?
Gabriella: Fair point.
Gabriella: But boring, mirrors are predictable.
Ilya: mirrors work
Gabriella: Mirrors are lazy.
Ilya: you are hard to please
Gabriella: I know what I like.
Ilya: Show me what you like then
Ilya: No more ballads

She didn't hesitate. The links started coming faster now, but these were different. No ballads, no confessions. Just pure, unfiltered joy.

One made him dance while he waited for pasta water to boil.

Ilya: okay this is fun
Gabriella: I know.

He could hear her smugness through the screen. He didn't even care.

She kept sending hit after questionable hit, and then she sent him Iceland.

His speakers nearly exploded from the bass static. He was sure she was trying to kill him.

Hatari was an Icelandic group that exuded BDSM-chic industrial pop. The lead singer screamed the lyrics like he was personally offended by the concept of melody. The whole thing was chaos wrapped in chains and set to music. It was amazing.

Ilya watched the video four times in a row just to get his head around it. It reminded him of the bars he had visited in his early twenties, during summers in Europe. When we visited the dark corners of Berlin and Amsterdam where the music was loud and the dress code was flexible and no one asked questions about what you were doing there, or who you were doing it with. Places he would never ever take Shane.

Ilya: Iceland is giving me flashbacks to my wild days
Gabriella: 😮 *open mouth emoji*
Gabriella: i'm going to need more information
Gabriella: what does “wild days” mean?
Gabriella: Did you mean the music or the leather?

He set down his phone. Smiled. Waited.

One minute. Two minutes. Five.

Ilya: sorry, i can't tell you
Ilya: boundaries

The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

He went to take out the laundry and fold it and let her sweat.

Ten minutes. Fifteen.

His phone kept buzzing.

Gabriella: ILYA ROZANOV
Gabriella: COME BACK HERE
Gabriella: WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

He laughed out loud as she kept texting him. After 20 or so unread messages he gave in.

Ilya: i mean i have a past
Gabriella: I KNOW YOU HAVE A PAST
Gabriella: I WANT DETAILS
Ilya: boundaries
Gabriella: I'M REMOVING ALL BOUNDARIES
Ilya: Tell me about the sex vacation first
Gabriella: …
Ilya: Ha. That is what I thought!
Ilya: Respect my boundaries Gabriella

He was grinning now. A full grin, the kind that made his cheeks hurt. He hadn't realised how long it had been since he'd smiled like that. For the first time in weeks, the hollow feeling had pulled back far enough for him to forget it was there at all.

Chapter End Notes

REFERENCES:

Ilya was watching March of the Penguins (dir. Luc Jacquet, 2005)

Yes, I am alluding to the idea that maybe Ilya spent time in the KitKatClub, Snax Club/Berghain or Wasteland back in the day.

SONGS (some were cut from the final chapter, sorry).
"Soldi" by Mahmood (Italy 2019)
"Scream" by Sergey Lazarev (Russia 2019)
"Too Late for Love" by John Lundvik (Sweden 2019(
"Say Na Na Na" by Serhat (San Marino 2019)
"Spirit in the Sky" by KEiiNO (Norway 2019)
"Hatrið mun sigra" by Hatari (Iceland 2019)

OTHER SONGS:
“One Step” by Bettina Soriat (Austria 1997)
“Baila El Chiki Chiki” by Rodolfo Chikilicuatre/Mr Chiki Chiki (Spain 2008)
“Party For Everybody” by Buranovskiye Babushki (Russia 2012)

___

General Note: I finally figured out the last few chapters, so now it's all about editing and fine tuning the dialogue and sentiment as I go. I'm very happy about this because it means I can focus a little more intently on my *actual very real* book that is definitely overdue to the editors. Oop.

___

Next chapter: Semi Final One!

Chapter 5: Semi Final One

Chapter Summary

The Centaurs watch Semi Final One

Chapter Notes

Ca. 40% Plot , 60% Eurovision

I've only written about the songs I like and the ones that help the plot. Sorry if your country was left out.

Also, I have over explained some things for the non-Eurovision readers. Let me know if it is too much or if you need more clarification.

If you want to follow along: the full show and all the performances are still up on YouTube. I recommend finding versions that are not on the official page, but sometimes it is unavoidable.

The conference room was ready. Gabriella had arrived almost an hour early, setting up one of the smaller player meeting rooms while Harris raided the office kitchen for supplies. The whiteboard had been commandeered for the Drinking Game Rules. Bowls of popcorn and chips were spread across the table, bottles of water were lined up in the corner, and thanks to Harris, a small collection of European flags (that had absolutely no business being in an NHL arena) were being hung.

She was nervous, which was objectively ridiculous. Three professional hockey players had simply agreed to learn how to watch Eurovision with her because she had told them it was important. It should have felt absurd, but instead, it felt strangely high stakes.

The group chat had been enthusiastic all week. Hayes had apparently done "independent research." Bood had asked if there was tape he could review and Dykstra hovered in the background and simply asked, Do we get snacks?

Bood walked in first, coffee and notebook in hand. He stopped in the doorway, looked around at the decor, at the whiteboard, and then nodded seriously. "Excellent."

Gabriella laughed and he offered her a fist bump, she complied. "Hello to you too."

"What's up?"

"Nothing much." She gestured toward the room. "Just preparing for European cultural domination."

"Outstanding," He said and grabbed a seat.

A few minutes later, Evan Dykstra appeared still in gym clothes and looking vaguely nervous.

"Hi Evan." She waved him in. "Nice to meet you in person." They shook hands. "I appreciate you doing this for Ilya."

"Hi." He stepped inside and shook it. He looked around cautiously. "I'm not gonna lie. I'm weirdly nervous."

"You don't need to be," Gabriella said. "We're here to help."

He smiled sheepishly and sat opposite Bood, who winked at him. "You'll do great. We have excellent teachers."

Harris and Gabriella beamed at each other.

The third arrival was considerably louder. Wyatt Hayes burst through the door wearing a Team Canada t-shirt and carrying what looked like a stack of printed documents. He immediately spotted Gabriella.

"Hello!"

Before she could react, he had pulled her into an enthusiastic hug. "It is so good to finally meet you!" He held up the papers triumphantly. "I've done research."

Harris looked over from the drinks table. "Of course you did."

"Yes," Hayes corrected. "And I have notes!"

He dropped the stack onto the table. Gabriella caught sight of handwritten headings: Potential Favourites. Historical Voting Blocs. Countries to Watch.

She blinked at it all, dumbfounded.

"And I made a map!" He showed her enthusiastically.

She shook her head and laughed. Harris looked genuinely delighted. "I think I love him."

Dykstra squirmed. "Teacher's pet."

Hayes smiled at everyone and flopped into a chair at the top of the table.

+++

"OK. Everyone relax." Gabriella said, laughing. "We need to go through the basics before we start."

The players settled around the conference table. Harris handed out bottles of water like he was running a training seminar. Gabriella stood in front of the whiteboard.

"Okay. You've all read the packet, the history, the rules, the theory. And some of you," she glanced at Hayes's stack, "have clearly done additional homework. But none of that actually prepares you for the live show."

Bood raised a hand. "Why not?"

"Because Eurovision lies."

Three confused faces stared back. Gabriella folded her arms. "You've watched the official music videos. You've probably picked favourites. You might even think you understand the competition. But I am here to tell you that the semi finals exist to teach you that none of that matters."

Dykstra frowned. "What does that mean?"

Gabriella nodded gravely. "Success depends on the live performance. The staging. The costumes. The camera work. The charisma. And above all else..."

"The vocals," Harris said.

"The vocals," Gabriella agreed. "One bad note and you go from winning Eurovision to offending an entire regional voting bloc."

Harris jumped in. "Yes. You can have the greatest song ever recorded, but miss the first note and twenty countries decide to never forgive you."

Bood looked alarmed. "Does that happen often?"

Gabriella and Harris answered simultaneously. "All the time."

"So your assignment tonight," Gabriella continued, "is to watch these performances and decide whether your favourite actually deserves to survive."

Hayes nods, “It’s battle royale.”

Gabriella nods at him proudly, “Exactly.”

Harris took over. "Remember, only ten countries qualify from this semi for the Grand Final. And hopefully yours will be one of them."

"Hopefully," Gabriella added, "But you also need to be emotionally prepared for the very real possibility that Europe will not share your opinions."

Bood's brow furrowed. "So we're scouting?"

"Yes, we’re scouting." Gabriella pointed at him. "You're watching the competition, evaluating performances, and figuring out who to support in the final. Just like you would watch a playoff team before facing them in a series."

Dykstra's face lit up. "Oh. This is tape review!"

Bood leaned forward. "Do we get any reports?"

"You have your own eyes and ears. Take notes. Trust your instincts. And for the love of God, do not fall in love with a song that's clearly going to bomb during the jury vote."

"So... we're expecting disappointment?"

"No," Gabriella said. "You're expecting that millions of people might disagree with your deeply held, but completely uninformed, beliefs."

"And," Harris added, "you should also prepare for political voting."

Bood looked genuinely confused. "I thought you said Eurovision wasn't political."

Gabriella looked at him expectantly. "I did. It's not political," she prompted. "Instead we are what?"

Hayes didn't even hesitate. "UNITED BY MUSIC."

Harris pointed at him. "Gold star."

Gabriella nodded approvingly. "Exactly. As responsible temporary Europeans, we will completely ignore complicated geopolitical issues surrounding the show and the host country this year. We will not discuss why the contest is being held in Tel Aviv, other than they won last year. We will not discuss international politics. And if anyone asks why we're ignoring all of that. It's because we are….”

The three hockey players glanced at each other, then answered together, slightly uncertainly. "United by music?"

"United by music," Gabriella confirmed.

Bood looked unconvinced. "So people just... forget world events because there's a singing competition?"

"They absolutely do not," Gabriella said. "They just channel all of those feelings into the voting and murmuring about it over cheap wine."

Harris nodded. "It takes a very special song to make Europe temporarily forget centuries of war, invasions, and unresolved historical grievances."

Bood blinked. "...That's kind of dark."

"It is," Harris agreed. "Remember that the competition was created specifically to gloss over those issues and project an image of European harmony."

"So it's propaganda."

“It’s 100% propaganda.” Gabriella concurred.

“But with glitter,” Harris chimed in.

They all sat with that thought for a moment even though it was uncomfortable, absurd, and not entirely wrong. Then Gabriella clapped her hands once, shattering the reverie.

"Right. Let us get back to the international cultural gaslighting otherwise known as the Eurovision Song Contest," she announced. "We have key changes to drink to, white pants to mock, and approximately three hours of emotional manipulation ahead of us. No time for existential dread."

"We will deal with the dread another day," Harris agreed, raising his glass. "Tonight, we have key changes to deal with."

+++

She uncapped a marker and wrote across the whiteboard.

DRY RUN DRINKING GAME

"You are all doing a sober drinking game tonight. Every time one of these things happens, you take a sip of water."

She started writing. Barefoot singer. Pyrotechnics. Wind machine. Key change. Costume change. White trousers.

Hayes was already scribbling notes.

Dykstra raised a hand. "How many times does this happen?"

Gabriella and Harris exchanged a look, a silent should we tell them? before nodding and turning back to Dykstra. "A lot."

"And," Gabriella added, "if your chosen country gets mentioned by the presenters, that's a shot."

Dykstra stared at the board. "That's a lot of shots."

"Exactly," Gabriella said. "Which is why experienced viewers pace themselves. I've watched entire Grand Finals where I remembered absolutely nothing except who won."

"I thought this was a music competition."

"It is."

"It sounds like survival training."

"It is."

Harris started passing around cups for the water. "Oh, one last thing. We are not watching the Canadian broadcast."

Bood frowned. "Why?"

Hayes' hand shot up. "Oh! I know this one! We watch the UK broadcast because the British Eurovision commentary is an institution."

"Exactly!" Gabriella said. "One commentator basically spent decades professionally mocking the entire competition, and he was so popular and hilarious that now someone else carries on the tradition."

Harris put a hand over his heart. "Sir Terry Wogan. May he rest in peace." He and Gabriella raised their water bottles in a solemn toast.

Across the table, the hockey players looked utterly baffled.

"I don't remember this part being in the package," Dykstra admitted.

"Me neither," Bood agreed.

Hayes looked unbearably pleased with himself.

Gabriella smiled. "That's because the packet teaches you the rules and the history. The watch party teaches you how to actually watch the show."

"Today we're practicing with water," Harris said. "You'll drink when needed. You'll learn when to take a toilet break. Timing is everything."

"Wait, we need instructions on when to pee?" Hayes asked quizzically.

"Yes. You need to know the line-up. You need to know when to sprint so you can get back in time for your favourite song."

Hayes made notes.

Bood leaned forward. "Okay, so when can we take a leak?"

"The best times are ballads from countries you don't care about or acts you actively despise. But the absolute best time is the second you see the hosts. That means they're stalling for technical issues, staging changes. It could be brief or five minutes. It's a risk, but it's your best opportunity."

Bood processed this. "So today we are training our bladders?"

Harris looked serious. "We are seeing how far you can make it, and we are judging you."

Gabriella shook her head. "No, we are not. But we want you to be prepared."

Hayes held up his hand again. "I need a clarification for white pants or bare feet rule. We only drink the first time they appear during the performance, right? Not every camera change?"

"Correct."

"And with pyro?"

"Ah. That depends on frequency. One big display at the end is one drink. Multiple displays, like every chorus, means you drink every chorus."

Dykstra whistled. "This is dangerous."

Harris looked deeply satisfied. "Eurovision takes skill and determination."

+++

As the room settled, Gabriella's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, grinned, and clapped her hands together. "Before we start, one final announcement. Our dear captain has agreed to come back to Ottawa on Saturday..."

Cheers erupted around the table. "Finally!" "About time!"

Gabriella held up a finger. "...But only if Montreal plays Game Five."

The cheers collapsed into collective groaning. "Oh, come on." "That's brutal."

"Montreal, do the funny thing and lose," Dykstra muttered.

Bood leaned back. "So we half have him?"

Gabriella picked up her phone. "I think we have more of him than you think. He'll be watching the semi final with us today, virtually. He doesn't know that I'm watching with you though."

Hayes leaned forward. "He's watching?"

"Yes," Gabriella corrected. "And he's texting me constantly. He has already requested live updates, performance rankings, staging analysis and a full explanation of any voting irregularities."

Bood laughed. "That's incredibly captain behaviour."

Harris folded his arms, looking deeply satisfied. "We've got our claws in him now."

Hayes punched the air and muttered. "We're going to get him back."

Dykstra crossed his arms. "Fuck Montreal."

Everyone looked at him. He shrugged. "What? We need our captain back."

A beat passed. Then the entire room dissolved into laughter.

+++

When the screen flickered to life at 3pm a familiar brass fanfare filled the room.

Bood jumped slightly. "What is that?"

Gabriella looked horrified. "That is the Eurovision theme."

"The song contest has a theme song?"

"No. The broadcast company has a theme. The EBU, the European Broadcasting Union, produces the show and this fanfare opens every Eurovision broadcast. It is the telecommunications anthem."

Hayes slowly nodded. "So this is basically the Hockey Night in Canada intro?"

Gabriella shrugged. "I guess in terms of Hockey, yes. Except it's older, and more dramatic, and legally required to make Europeans emotional."

The famous reverie played through the speakers. Harris put a hand over his heart. Hayes looked unexpectedly invested. Bood sat forward.

Dykstra glanced around the room. "Why does this suddenly feel important?"

Gabriella smiled. "Because it is. Welcome to Semi Final One, gentlemen."

+++

The broadcast began. The theme appeared on screen: DARE TO DREAM. The hosts welcomed Europe, explained the rules, outlined the voting process. No one interrupted. Hayes underlined things in his notebook, Bood studied the presentation like he was identifying a tactical system, meanwhile Dykstra looked overwhelmed but committed.

No one interrupted and then the screen exploded to life with the postcard for song one.

CYPRUS
Straight away, the screen filled with pyrotechnics. A blonde woman with wet-look hair, wearing a glittering bodysuit and black PVC, strutted across the stage like she owned every camera in the building.

Bood leaned forward. "Okay, now we're talking."

Harris raised a hand immediately. "Important context. You all need to know that this is good... but it is not as good as Cyprus last year. This is not Fuego."

Dykstra frowned."What's a Fuego?"

Harris looked personally offended. "The greatest Cypriot Eurovision entry of all time."

"It is the standard by which all future Cyprus entries will be judged," Gabriella added.

"That seems unfair."

"It is," Harris agreed. "But it is also correct." He pointed at the screen. "Look. She's good. A great dancer, strong stage presence. But she's basically the store brand version of Eleni Foureira."

Gabriella considered that. "It's like getting sparkling water when you ordered champagne."

"Yes!" Harris pointed at her. "Exactly."

Dykstra stared intently at the screen for another few seconds. "I don't think I know enough to tell the difference."

"You don't," Gabriella said. "Yet."

The chorus devolved into a dance break, then there was a costume reveal. More pyro. All three players reached for their water bottles simultaneously.

Hayes looked down at the whiteboard. "Wait. Is that a drink for the costume change and another one for the fire?"

"Yes," Gabriella said.

"And the dance break?"

"No."

"Should it be?"

Harris and Gabriella looked at each other. "...Maybe.”

At the end of the song Hayes looked up from his notes. "I understand why people get into this."

+++

Ilya: cyprus is trying too hard
Ilya: she knows she's not eleni
Ilya: the desperation is visible
Ilya: good costume change though
Ilya: very sexy
Ilya: Going to listen to Fuego again

+++

FINLAND
The moment Darude appeared on screen, Bood nearly fell out of his chair.

"No way.” He pointed at the television. “That’s Darude! THE DARUDE!! Sandstorm Darude!"

The opening synths rolled in. Bood looked vindicated. "Oh, this is going to be good."

For a brief, glorious moment, everyone believed him. Then the vocals started and the enthusiasm drained out of the room in real time.

Bood's smile faltered. "...Oh."

The singer strained for a note and missed by just enough to hurt.

By the second chorus, Bood looked genuinely heartbroken.

Harris gave him a sympathetic smile "Yeah. I'm sorry bud."

Bood didn't answer.

Dykstra echoed the chorus skeptically, "'Is it in my head?'"

A beat passed. "Sadly, yes," Gabriella replied.

Bood leaned back and stared at the ceiling. "I now understand why you told us not to get attached too easily. It can only lead to disappointment."

She reached over and gave his arm a reassuring pat. "Welcome to Eurovision."

Hayes, entirely sincere, patted his other shoulder. "We're here for you."

Bood sighed dramatically. "I need a minute."

Gabriella glanced at the screen where the next postcard was already beginning to play.

"You have about thirty seconds."

Bood let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh of existential disappointment. "I can't believe they did this to Darude."

+++

Ilya: finland
Ilya: oof
Ilya: this feels disrespectful
Ilya: sandstorm was a cultural landmark
Ilya: this song sounds like someone described eurovision to an ai
Ilya: and then forgot to include the melody
Ilya: just shows that fame cannot save you here

+++

POLAND
The Polish singers emerged in traditional costumes, and the room went quiet again. Then they opened their mouths and a sound emerged that none of the hockey players had ever heard before: high-pitched, almost screaming folk harmonies. It was a style of traditional singing that seemed to come from somewhere ancient and powerful.

Dykstra's eyes went wide. "Are they okay?"

"They're fine," Gabriella said.

"They sound unhappy."

"They're traditional."

“Traditional I can get behind.” Bood squinted at the screen, then gestured toward the massive LED backdrop. "But there are so many floating heads."

The observation landed like a curse, once spoken nobody could unsee it. The backing visuals were, indeed, mostly giant floating heads. They hovered behind the singers, looming like benevolent ghosts.

"That's a choice," Hayes said.

"Eastern European television budgets are not what they used to be."

"They have floating heads, Gabriella. Plural."

"I can see"

Dykstra had not stopped staring. "Are the heads supposed to be their ancestors or something?"

"I have no idea."

Bood shook his head slowly. "This is the most surreal thing I've ever watched."

+++

Ilya: the singing is very culturally significant
Ilya: i am choosing to respect traditions i do not understand
Ilya: this is growth as person
Ilya: you should be proud
Ilya: But I want the babushkas from 2012 to come back
Ilya: that was cultural enrichment

+++

SLOVENIA
An attractive couple in matching white outfits walked onto the stage.

"WHITE PANTS!" Dykstra yelled, and everyone dutifully took a sip of their water.

The song started quietly. The woman sang in a soft, breathy whisper over a mellow electronic beat while staring into her partner's eyes. It was intimate, almost dreamy. The problem was the enunciation. The words blurred together like she was singing with marbles in her mouth.

Hayes squinted at the screen. "Are they dating or are they related?"

"No idea," Gabriella answered.

"I vote related," Hayes said.

"Yeah, they could be siblings," Harris agreed.

"I think they might kiss," Dykstra offered.

"Ew," Harris scoffed.

Bood frowned, "Why is everything in English?"

Gabriella sighed. "Because Europe decided English sells."

"But isn't the whole point that everyone brings a bit of their own country?"

"It used to be," Harris muttered. "Then people started trying to win."

Bood didn't look convinced. "I think you should get bonus points for singing in your own language. Feels more authentic."

Gabriella raised her water glass. Harris immediately mirrored her.

"Correct," Gabriella said.

"Amen," Harris agreed.

Bood nodded seriously and scribbled something in his notebook.

"What are you writing?" Hayes asked.

Bood didn't look up. "Native languages should be protected. Also, white pants are apparently a public health issue."

The chorus drifted back in, all soft synths and murmured vocals. Soft. Understated. The opposite of everything Poland had just thrown at them.

"I think I like this," Hayes admitted.

Everyone reluctantly agreed.

+++

Ilya: white pants
Ilya: DRINKKKK
Ilya: why is she mumbling?
Ilya: Does she have stage fright?
Ilya: Eurovision is not the place for stage fright
Ilya: the man is just standing there
Ilya: being attractive
Ilya: it is an excellent contribution

+++

CZECH REPUBLIC
Three adolescent looking singers appeared on screen dressed in bright coloured shirts, yellow, blue, and pink. It looked like a box of crayons had exploded on set. Their upbeat song "Friend of a Friend" blared through the speakers, pop heavy and ridiculously eager.

Hayes immediately lost it. "Why are they dressed like children's television hosts?" He pointed at the screen. "Are they going to teach us the alphabet?"

Dykstra was already nodding along, his foot tapping under the table. "Friend of a friend," he sang under his breath, completely off key but committed. He turned to the group. "I think this is my favourite."

Gabriella raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"It's catchy."

"It's cliché."

"I don't care."

He was right, it was so damned catchy.

By the second chorus, Hayes was tapping his fingers on the table. By the bridge, Bood was nodding along. By the final chorus, even Harris was mouthing the words.

"Okay, I take it back," Hayes said. "The kids have got it."

Dykstra gestured triumphantly at Gabriella. "See!"

She laughed with him. "I see."

+++

Ilya: why are the shirts so bright
Ilya: hurts my eyes, along with their smiles
Ilya: this song is…
Ilya: i hate that i am tapping my foot
Ilya: this is not for me
Ilya: this is for people who enjoy things
Ilya: i have accidentally started singing the chorus
Ilya: TELL NO ONE

+++

BELARUS
As soon as the singer opened her mouth she was out of tune. Painfully out of tune.
The room collectively winced. Even Dykstra, who had been cheerfully bopping along to everything, stopped mid nod.

"That's unfortunate," Hayes said, wincing.

"Very," Gabriella agreed.

The song continued. It did not improve.

Bood covered his ears. "Is this going to be the whole performance?"

"Probably."

"Can we skip it?"

"No.

"Why not?"

"Well we are live and also because suffering is part of the Eurovision experience."

Harris nodded sagely. "It builds character."

"I have enough character," Bood muttered.

"Clearly not."

When the final note finally, mercifully, ended, Hayes spoke for the group. "I need a drink."

"You're drinking water."

"Then I need stronger water."

Gabriella sympathised with him.

+++

Ilya: i think there may be a technical issue
Ilya: with the microphone
Ilya: or possibly the concept of singing

++++

SERBIA
The song started. The song ended. Nobody had much to say. No wincing. No comments. No off-key observations or debates about staging. Just... silence. Which somehow made Serbia seem worse than Belarus. At least Belarus had been memorably bad. This was just... forgettable. The song simply existed, took up three minutes of their lives, and then evaporated from memory the moment it ended.

Dykstra broke the silence first. "Well," he said. "That was... a song."

"It was," Gabriella agreed. “Great observation.”

"Did anyone catch the melody?"

"No."

"The lyrics?"

"Also no."

Bood crossed his arms. "I don't remember anything about it."

"That's the problem."

Harris sighed. "Some years, the semi-finals are like this. Songs that exist purely to be eliminated."

"Can we eliminate them faster?"

"No. We have to watch the whole thing."

+++

Ilya: Why did they even bother?

+++

BELGIUM
A man in denim stood dramatically in blue lighting alone, no dancers, no pyro, no wind machine. Just a guy in jeans and a button down, looking like he had wandered in from a completely different show.

Hayes squinted at the screen. "Where are the costumes?"

"I thought Eurovision was visual," Bood added.

"It usually is," Gabriella admitted.

"This guy looks like he's about to sell me artisanal coffee."

Everyone turned to look at Hayes. He shrugged.

"You're not wrong," Harris said.

The song itself was fine. Pleasant, even. A mid tempo ballad about something vaguely emotional.

Dykstra tilted his head. "Is he going to do anything?"

"He's singing."

"Yeah, but... anything else?"

"No."

"Just standing there?"

"Just standing there."

The blue lighting shifted to purple. Then back to blue. The man in denim continued to stand. Continued to sing.

Bood shook his head. "This is not what I signed up for."

"You signed up for Eurovision. This is also Eurovision."

Bood looked genuinely betrayed. "I feel like you misled me."

"I didn't mislead you. I just didn't warn you about the boring parts."

+++

Ilya: i am bored
Ilya: why is he dressed for a casual trip to ikea
Ilya: i was promised chaos
Ilya: where is the glitter??

+++

AUSTRALIA
Gabriella shifted in her seat, barely containing herself. She knew what was coming. The next two songs were going to wreck them. She glanced around the room at Bood, Hayes, and Dykstra, all sitting there in blissful ignorance, thinking they had Eurovision figured out after nine songs.

They had no idea.

The postcard for Australia ended. The stage went dark.

Kate Miller-Heidke appeared at centre stage, and the music began: a slow, pulsing beat mixed with something classical and otherworldly. The wide shot showed three women in flowing dresses suspended above a surreal CGI world, their bodies angled as if they were floating above it, untethered and weightless.

Kate sang standing still until the chorus and then everything shifted. She and the dancers all tilted at a forty-five degree angle, leaning across the stage like she was floating on air, still singing, still perfectly on pitch.

Dykstra's mouth fell open. It seemed like Hayes had stopped breathing and Bood leaned forward so fast he nearly tipped out of his chair.

"What. The. Fuck." The words escaped Hayes as a shocked whisper.

The suspension poles were barely visible as the dancers twisted and turned, but Kate's voice never wavered, never acknowledging that she was currently floating several meters above the stage performing operatic gymnastics.

Bood looked genuinely awestruck. "Is this witchcraft?"

"No," Gabriella said.

"Then explain."

"I cannot."

Kate floated back and forth, her pink dress billowing, her body moving in ways that should have been impossible while singing. The backing vocalists joined in, their harmonies wrapping around Kate's voice like a safety net. The song built.

Gabriella felt emotional.

No one in the Centaurs' conference room moved.

The reveal of the poles suspending the performers near the end of the song was the moment when they could finally see the mechanics behind the magic, and it earned applause from the room.

"That's art." Hayes sounded reverent. "That's actual art."

Bood was nodding slowly. "I did not know Eurovision could be… THIS." He gesticulated wildly at the screen.

"There's a reason Australia keeps getting invited back," Harris said quietly.

Gabriella wiped her eyes, she hadn't even realised she was crying.

Hayes turned to her. "Are you secretly Australian?"

"No."

"You cried."

"Yes.."

"You cried immediately."

"It makes me emotional."

Hayes squinted at her. "You're secretly Australian."

"I'm not."

"You have a flag somewhere. I know you do."

Gabriella didn't confirm or deny. She just smiled and wiped her eyes again. She did have a flag, but she wasn't going to tell him that.

"Nothing can possibly top that!" Dykstra exclaimed.

Gabriella's smile widened. "Just you wait."

+++

Ilya: GABRIELLA
Ilya: WHY DID YOU NOT SEND ME AUSTRALIA!!?!?!
Ilya: SHE IS FLYING!
Ilya: SHE IS SINGING OPERA WHILE FLYING!!!
Ilya: HOW DO I GO ON WITH MY LIFE NOW??
Ilya: okay
Ilya: okay i understand now
Ilya: why you like australia
Ilya: she is GLORIOUS

+++

ICELAND
Gabriella was practically vibrating in her seat she was so excited. She had been waiting for this moment all night. Not just to educate them, but to shock them. The way she had shocked Ilya. The way Eurovision always shocked people, year after year, when they thought they had it figured out and then something came along and proved them wrong.

She wanted to see their faces. She wanted to show them the duality of Eurovision. The whiplash it could cause and the way the contest could make you cry during one song and then completely unsettle you during the next. Australia had been heaven. What came next was something else entirely.

She glanced at the screen. The postcard for Iceland was ending.

"Pay attention," she said.

Then came Iceland and all traces of emotional sincerity vanished.

As expected there was leather, PVC, chains, fire and enough red lighting to summon a demon. The lead singer stalked the stage like he personally wanted to fight every person in the audience. The beat was relentless and the choreography in your face. The vocals were raw, almost hostile. The whole thing felt like a threat delivered in three minutes.

Gabriella leaned back happily in her chair.

"This." She pointed dramatically at the screen. "This is Eurovision."

The room watched in stunned silence.

Australia had been soaring and beautiful. Iceland was the opposite. It was grounded, aggressive and unapologetically strange. The kind of performance that made you question whether you were watching a song contest or were in an underground club from 2003.

Hayes broke the silence first. "The confidence."

Bood nodded slowly. "The dominance."

"I'm scared." Dykstra sounded completely sincere.

"Good." Harris looked emotional, his eyes fixed on the screen. "Fuck, I love Eurovision."

As the performance continued, Gabriella launched into quiet commentary.

"The thing about Scandinavia, the Nordic countries," she said, not taking her eyes off the screen, "is that they don't do anything by halves. When they want to win, they send polished pop perfection. Sweden does this best. ABBA-level production. Key changes. Choreography. Everything is calculated."

She gestured at Iceland. "And when they don't want to win, they send this. Chaos. Art. It's a challenge to the rest of the world to view them differently." She grinned. "Look up Lordi later to understand what I mean."

"So Scandinavia is either perfect pop or complete madness?" Hayes asked.

"Yes."

"There's no in-between?"

"No."

Bood nodded slowly. "I respect that."

"They're not trying to win," Gabriella said. "They're trying to make a statement, to be remembered and in Eurovision, sometimes that's better."

Harris leaned over. "But Lordi won," he whispered.

Gabriella smiled at him. “Yeah they did. Sometimes we get lucky and chaos prevails.”

+++

Ilya: ah
Ilya: there is the chaos
Ilya: hello old friends
Ilya: the leather
Ilya: the chains
Ilya: this takes me back
Ilya: and no, i will not elaborate
Ilya: boundaries

+++

ESTONIA
The song started with an acoustic guitar and a reasonably handsome man, Victor Crone, in a leather jacket, singing directly down the camera lens. A steady rhythm began to build into a soaring chorus: "Storm like this can break a man like this, when it all comes down, we will be safe and sound." It was very Mumford & Sons meets EDM, like a folk band that had accidentally wandered into a DJ set.

Dykstra perked up immediately.

"I like this," he announced.

Nobody else really knew why. The room turned to look at him. He was nodding along, completely sincere, completely oblivious to the confusion on everyone else's faces.

"Because it sounds like country dance music?" Hayes ventured.

"That's not country music," Gabriella said. "It has awkward singer songwriter energy."

"It feels like…" Dykstra gestured vaguely at the screen. "Like country's European cousin."

"You know that country music descended from immigrants who moved to North America, right?" Harris asked. "Not the other way around?"

Hayes nodded thoughtfully. "So country music is just very old European folk music that got a new accent?"

"Basically," Harris said. "They just picked up banjos along the way and started singing about trucks instead of their ancestral homes."

Bood ignored them both entirely. "Speaking of, is he singing about a woman or an actual storm?"

"I think it's a metaphor."

"Are you sure?"

"No."

Gabriella frowned at the screen. "As a woman, I do not like the way he is staring down the lens the whole time. I find this more disturbing than the floating heads."

There was a very awkward special effect where he rotated into a CGI storm, and Gabriella actively shrank back.

"I hate this."

Harris offered her a water. "It is nearly over."

"He literally went from being in a storm one second to magically back into his acoustic shtick again. That was cringe worthy."

The song ended, and Dykstra clapped like he was at a folk festival, hooting and hollering like he had just watched his favourite band close out a set. Everyone stared at him.

"That was nice," he said, still beaming.

"It was fine," Hayes said flatly.

"It was more than fine."

"It was adequately fine."

Dykstra looked genuinely hurt. "You don't understand my vision."

+++

Ilya: The Estonian dude is intense
Ilya: His eagerness if off putting
Ilya: The faces.
Ilya: What is the word?
Ilya: Mugging?
Ilya: He is mugging at the camera
Ilya: No thank you
Ilya: I’m taken creepy handsome man
Ilya: Get off my screen

+++

PORTUGAL
All of the room was on board immediately, except for Dykstra.

The stage was lit up in red and the performers wore green, the Portuguese colours washing over everything. The singer, Conan Osíris, wore sneakers and designer clothes that looked like they had been assembled by someone who had never seen a normal human being. The weird beaded face plate was strange, angular, utterly captivating.

Hayes leaned forward like he'd been struck. "What is this?"

Bood's eyes went wide. "I don't know, but I love it."

"I love it too," Gabriella said, her voice coming out more breathless than she intended.

Harris declared it high art before the first chorus even finished. "This is theatre. This is performance. This is everything Eurovision should be."

Dykstra looked confused. "I don't get it."

Conan Osíris wandered across the stage like a mysterious art project. His movements were precise, deliberate, almost alien. They both danced, popped and locked in sneakers, then the dancer rose onto his toes like a ballet dancer and eventually dropped into impossible positions before springing back up again as if pulled by invisible strings.

"What is he singing about?" Dykstra asked.

"No idea," Bood admitted.

"The only word I understand is telemóveis," Gabriella said.

"What does that mean?"

"Telephone."

Dykstra stared at her. "That's not helping."

Portugal felt completely unlike Iceland. Just Conan and a dancer on stage with a set of stairs, and a song that seemed to exist outside time and space. And somehow, it was equally brilliant.

Hayes was already taking notes. "This is avant-garde. This is... I don't even know what this is."

"It's genius," Bood said.

The song built to its climax. The dancer spun and dead dropped to the floor. Conan looked like he was about to pass out, staggering back to his prop stairs and collapsing on them as the final notes faded. The audience on screen erupted into rapturous applause.

The room stayed quiet for a moment.

Then Hayes spoke. "I need to listen to that again."

"Same," Bood said.

"Same," Gabriella admitted.

Dykstra threw his hands up. "I don't understand any of you."

"Give it time," Harris said. "It grows on you."

"Like a fungus?"

"Like art."

Hayes raised his hand. "Is Portugal like Iceland? Do they actively not want to win?"

Harris considered the question. "No, this is just Portugal being Portugal. They are at the edge of Europe and they do their own thing. They don't try to fit in. They just exist on their own terms."

Hayes nodded and made more notes. "They are awesome."

Dykstra still looked unconvinced. But when the next postcard started, they were all still thinking about Portugal.

+++

Ilya: Why is Portugal always like this?
Ilya: Europe goes one way and Portugal says NO!
Ilya: i am being weird and wonderful
Ilya: deal with it
Ilya: why do i love it?

+++

GREECE
By the time Greece performed, the room had already exhausted its capacity for strong opinions. The song was fine. The staging was fine. The singer was fine. Everything was perfectly, aggressively, unremarkably fine. No one had anything to say.

The song played. People nodded occasionally. Someone checked their phone. The chorus came and went without anyone noticing.

When it ended, Hayes blinked. "Was that Greece?"

"Yes."

"Huh."

That was it. That was the entire reaction.

Gabriella made a mental note: Greece 2019. Forgettable. No one would mention it again. She was almost certainly correct.

+++

Ilya: Meh. Greek florence and the machine?
Ilya: Remember when Greece used to send five hot guys in white
Ilya: Who would take of their shirts
Ilya: And dance around a pretty woman?
Ilya: I miss those days

+++

SAN MARINO
The room expected disaster. San Marino was tiny. Their entries were famously terrible. This should have been a trainwreck.

Instead, they got Serhat. A confident middle-aged man in a white suit who clearly belonged in a different decade. The song had a vintage disco beat and absurdly sincere lyrics sung in a joyful monotone. It was the kind of performance that should have been embarrassing, but somehow it wasn't.

Everyone had already taken a sip before the first note because, of course, the performers were all in white.

"Okay old man." Bood sat forward, arms crossed, daring the screen to impress him. "Show me what you've got."

Serhat smiled. The chorus hit.

Say Na na na. Say na na naaaa.

Simple, silly and catchy as hell.

By the second chorus, Hayes was nodding along. By the bridge, Dykstra was mouthing the words. By the final chorus, everyone was singing. Say na na na. Na na na. Na na na.

It was impossible not to. The song burrowed into their brains like an earworm designed in a laboratory. Not because it was good but because it was sincere. Because Serhat believed in every second of it, and somehow that confidence was contagious.

The song ended. The room sat in stunned silence.

Then Bood spoke. "That was..."

"A slow burn masterpiece," Gabriella finished.

"I unironically liked it," Hayes admitted.

"We all unironically liked it," Harris said, gesturing around the table.

"Are we going to be singing this tomorrow?"

"We’re going to be singing this for the rest of our lives."

Dykstra put his head in his hands. "Say na na na," he muttered. Already infected. Already lost.

+++

Ilya: YES Serhat!
Ilya: the king
Ilya: the legend
Ilya: say na na naaa
Ilya: this is what san marino does to people
Ilya: they send a man
Ilya: they send a dream
Ilya: they send na na na
Ilya: and we are all powerless

+++

When the voting opened, almost all of the guys ran off simultaneously, chairs scraping against the floor in a chaotic chorus. Presumably, they were heading to the toilet.

Gabriella watched them go, then turned to Harris with a raised eyebrow. "They’re coming back, right?"

"I think they took our training advice a little too seriously."

"Hockey players."

Harris nodded solemnly. "Hockey players."

++++

Ilya: OK, Australia and Iceland for sure
Ilya: maybe portugal if europe is feeling brave
Ilya: King Serhat will make it
Ilya: Bargain Eleni probably
Ilya: If Estonia get through
Ilya: I will protect you from his creeper face
Ilya: Maybe I can get Svetlana to vote for us
Ilya: OK done, Aus bonus Russian points secured
Ilya: you can thank me later

+++

When they returned and settled noticeably more relaxed, Gabriella stood in front of the whiteboard, marker in hand, surveying her students. "So let’s recap."

Hayes was bouncing in his seat, notebook open to a page covered in exclamation points. Bood sat with his arms crossed, nodding slowly like a man processing advanced mathematics. Dykstra looked like he had just seen something he could not unsee and was not sure he wanted to talk about it.

She held up one finger. "First. You cannot trust studio recordings. Finland looked good on paper, they had a famous DJ and everything, but then the live singing happened." She paused for effect. "We do not speak of Darude anymore."

Harris saluted, “RIP.”

Bood winced dramatically. "I am still mourning."

"Second." A second finger went up. "The visuals are out to get us. Floating heads are apparently a legitimate staging choice in Eastern Europe this year. We do not know why. We may never know why, but we can assume it’s because of budget restrictions. But we must accept it and move on with our lives."

Dykstra shuddered. "I think they are still watching me."

She smirked at him. "Third. Australia is not in Europe, but Australia can fly and will outperform all of your favourites. We do not question Australia. We simply applaud."

Hayes starts clapping. "Australia WOO!"

Gabriella smiled, “Thank you Wyatt.”

Bood raised a hand. "I have a question. If Australia ever wins, what happens? Europe can't exactly go to Australia."

Gabriella nodded. "Ah, that is the thing. When Australia eventually wins, the contest will be hosted by one of the European nations. Probably one of the Big Five."

Dykstra looked confused. "Who are the Big Five again?"

"The Big Five are the UK, Germany, Spain, Italy, and France," Harris explained. "The countries that contribute the most to the EBU. They get automatic qualification every year, regardless of how their song does." He paused, a hint of something wry in his voice. "So when Australia wins, they'll have to co-host with one of them… probably Germany or the UK, as they haven't won in years and are probably desperate for the hosting gig anyway."

"Yes," Gabriella agreed. "They are the most likely candidates."

Bood nodded thoughtfully, and Hayes animatedly made a note in his notebook, sketching little stars around whatever he had written. Gabriella grinned at them both.

"Fourth. Scandinavia likes to mess with the rest of Europe when they don't want to win. Exhibit A tonight: Iceland. That performance was terrifying and art, and those two things can be true at the same time. We simply have to live with that knowledge."

"I still do not know if I liked it," Dykstra admitted.

"That is the correct response," Harris said.

"Fifth." Another finger went up. "Portugal exists in its own dimension. We may never understand Portugal, and we are not meant to. Portugal is for the Portuguese. We are simply here to experience it and feel blessed that they let us watch."

Hayes nodded vigorously. "I think it changed me as a person."

"Me too," Gabriella acknowledged. "Sixth. San Marino is an enigma. They sent a man in what appeared to be a thrift store suit, backed by dancers who seemed to have wandered in from the 1970s, and we all sang along anyway. That is the power of Eurovision, it transports us through time, and we simply say thank you. We do not question it. We embrace it."

"Say Na nana na na," Dykstra muttered under his breath. Still infected. Still lost.

Gabriella capped the marker. "And finally. Only ten countries qualify. Nobody is safe. Nobody is guaranteed anything. Europe is chaos, and we are simply living in it, or, I suppose, witnessing it from afar."

She looked around the room. "Any questions?"

Hayes raised his hand. "When do we watch Semi Final Two?"

Gabriella smiled. "Thursday. Same time, bring more snacks if you need."

"Can I bring beer this time?" Bood asked.

"You can bring whatever gets you through the voting."

Dykstra raised his hand hesitantly. "Is Iceland going to be there again?"

"No. Iceland will either qualify for the final tonight or go home."

He visibly relaxed. "Oh. Good."

Harris patted his shoulder. "You made it through buddy, we are proud of you."

Dykstra did not look convinced.

+++

When Gabriella and Harris quieted everyone down for the vote reveal, the guys shut up quickly, leaning forward in their seats like they were watching a Game Seven shootout. The hosts threw over to a panel of people sitting at a long table, looking very official.

"Who is that guy?" Hayes asked suddenly.

Jon Ola Sand appeared on screen, his familiar blue tie perfectly straight, his greying hair immaculate, his smile radiating calm authority.

Gabriella immediately pointed. "That is a legend."

Harris nodded. "An icon."

Gabriella and Harris said in unison, "Jon Ola Sand."

The players exchanged confused looks.

"And who is he?" Bood asked.

"He is the Executive Supervisor of the Song Contest," Gabriella explained. "He has been running the show for over a decade. He is the reason the voting system has not completely collapsed. They bring him out every year to validate the vote, and we admire him for it."

"He also has presence," Harris added. "If Jon Ola Sand told me the world was ending, I would simply nod and accept it."

Bood squinted at the screen. "You both look like you are in love with him."

Gabriella snorted. "No."

"You answered too fast."

"He has a nice smile," Harris said defensively.

"Ah hah."

"And nice blue eyes," Gabriella concurred, almost involuntarily.

They both sighed together, a little too dreamily, and the room immediately dissolved into accusations. Hayes pointed an accusing finger. "You two have the same type!"

Dykstra nodded along. "You love him."

Bood just crossed his arms and looked vindicated.

This time, neither Gabriella nor Harris bothered to dispute it.

+++

Then came the results. Heartbreak. Confusion. Joy. The true Eurovision experience.

The full qualifying list rolled across the screen. In the "why did they make it" category: Greece, Belarus, Serbia, Estonia and Slovenia. But favourites also secured their spots: San Marino, Cyprus, the Czech Republic, Australia, and Iceland all advanced to the Grand Final.

When Australia's name appeared, Gabriella's phone buzzed almost instantly. A text from Ilya: Say thank you Gabriella followed by: You owe me. She smiled, added a bold red heart next to Australia on her qualifying list.

When San Marino qualified, the room celebrated exuberantly. Bood stood up and pointed at the screen like he was challenging the television to a fistfight. "SAY NA NA NA IS GOING TO THE FINAL!" Hayes laughed so hard he had to put his head down on the table. Dykstra just kept muttering "say na na na" under his breath like a man possessed, already lost to the earworm forever.

But when other favourites missed out, cries of outrage followed. When weaker performances advanced, accusations of criminal voting behaviour flew across the table. When Bood suggested the entire competition might be rigged, Harris launched into a five minute speech about the historical integrity of the EBU voting process. No one listened. They were too busy arguing about whether Belarus had bribed someone.

Hayes stared at the screen, pen frozen mid note, looking genuinely distressed. "Do only bad songs qualify?"

"Sometimes," Gabriella said.

"Why?"

"The short version." She shrugged. "Europe is way too big."

Harris leaned forward, eyes alight with the gleam of a man about to lecture. "It is because Eastern Europe is vastly different from Western Europe. Different musical traditions. Different cultural references. Different expectations of what a Eurovision song should even be. Then you have wild cards like Australia and Azerbaijan, who bring their own influences and tastes into the mix. All of that impacts the voting, alongside bloc voting, which has been happening since the dawn of the contest. It is not corruption. It is... sociology."

"So basically," Hayes said slowly, "Europe is just a collection of countries with very strong opinions and very long memories."

"Correct," Harris said. "And that is precisely why Eurovision is unpredictable. It is democracy in its purest, most chaotic form."

Dykstra looked personally offended by the entire concept. "Why do we get attached if they can just leave?"

Gabriella pointed at him like a professor calling on a student who had just stumbled into the right answer. "Congratulations."

"What?"

"You now understand Eurovision." She smiled, and something in her expression softened. "You invest. You hope. You fall in love with a song or a performance and then Europe votes, and sometimes it breaks your heart. But you keep coming back because next year might be different. Next year might be your year."

"So it is like being a fan of a terrible hockey team," Hayes said.

"Exactly like that," Harris agreed. "Except with more glitter and significantly more key changes."

Hayes looked mortified. "Wait. In this analogy… are the Centaurs Belgium?"

The room went dead quiet.

"Oh no," Bood said slowly, the realisation dawning like a slow motion car crash. "He is right."

"What do you mean?" Dykstra asked, genuinely baffled.

"Think about it," Bood said, gesturing wildly. "We have been bad for years. Every season, people say we are rebuilding. Every season, we have a few good moments, a flash of something promising. A goal, a save, a period where we look unstoppable… and then it all falls apart. We should be better than this. Everyone can see the potential. But somehow, we always end up in the same place."

"Exactly," Hayes said, nodding vigorously. "We are Belgium."

Bood looked almost offended. "Why couldn't we be weird and wonderful like Portugal? Or fun like San Marino?"

"Because we are not any of those things," Gabriella said gently. "We are Belgium. Nice. Solid. Occasionally brilliant. But ultimately, we always finish somewhere in the middle, close enough to offer hope, far away enough to disappoint. Reliable. Unspectacular. Loved, but not quite celebrated."

"We are the Belgium of hockey," Dykstra said, his voice hollow.

Harris patted his shoulder with solemnity. "There is no shame in being Belgium. Everyone thinks Belgium is nice. They have good chocolate. They have good beer. They are just... never quite the centre of attention. And that is okay."

"I feel like I have just been told I am adequate," Hayes said, staring into the middle distance.

"Guys." Gabriella's voice cut through the gloom like a knife. "You are forgetting something. You are not just Belgium. You are the Ottawa Centaurs, captained by Ilya fucking Rozanov. Your time is coming. You just need to believe it."

Harris nodded vigorously. "Yes. And when you get there, we will be there with chocolates and glitter."

Hayes looked at him, a flicker of hope in his eyes. "And the Eurovision theme tune?"

"If that is what you want," Harris said.

"I want the Eurovision theme tune," Hayes said firmly. "When we make the playoffs next year. When, not if. I want that fanfare playing in the locker room after every win. Full brass. Maximum volume. I want the opposition to hear it and to know."

"That can be arranged," Gabriella said, already pulling out her phone to make a note.

Bood straightened up, a spark of hope flickering across his face. "So we are Belgium... but with potential."

"Exactly," Gabriella said. "Belgium with potential."

"That is just Belgium," Dykstra pointed out.

"Belgium with more potential," Harris corrected. "And better odds."

The relief in their eyes was palpable. The tension that had settled over the room since Hayes's comparison began to lift, replaced by something lighter, something that felt almost like hope.

Hayes pulled out his phone, scrolled for a moment, and then the familiar brass fanfare of the Eurovision theme filled the room. Everyone perked up immediately. Bood and Dykstra sat up straighter. Harris closed his eyes like he was hearing the national anthem.

+++

By the time they packed up, no one wanted to leave. But Game Three was starting soon, and the guys were already pulling on jackets and checking their phones, eager to get to Monk's. They were hoping the series would stretch to at least five games so they could get Ilya back.

Gabriella was fairly certain they'd be rooting for Montreal's downfall with the same intensity they'd just applied to Eurovision qualification, which she did not want. If Montreal lost, Ilya would only get more restless, more likely to spiral.

Still, even though they invited her to join, "Come on, Gabriella, we'll buy you a beer," Hayes said, and Bood added, "You can explain why Cyprus deserved it." She let them down gently. She had work to do. And honestly, she could only hope their newly acquired Eurovision enthusiasm would distract them from actively willing disaster upon the Voyageurs.

As they filed out, voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony of hockey predictions and song contest grievances, Harris lingered at the door. He leaned toward her, lowering his voice. "Think it will work?"

She smiled. "Oh," she said, watching them disappear into the night. "It is definitely going to work."

Chapter End Notes

COMPETING SONGS:
"Replay" by Tamta (Cyprus 2019)
"Look Away" by Darude ft. Sebastian Rejman (Finland 2019)
"Fire of Love (Pali się)" by Tulia (Poland 2019)
"Sebi" by Zala Kralj & Gašper Šantl (Slovenia 2019)
"Friend of a Friend" by Lake Malawi (Czech Republic 2019)
"Like It" by ZENA (Belarus 2019)
"Kruna" by Nevena Božović (Serbia 2019)
"Wake Up" by Eliot (Belgium 2019)
"Zero Gravity" by Kate Miller-Heidke (Australia 2019)
"Hatrið mun sigra" by Hatari (Iceland 2019)
"Storm" by Victor Crone (Estonia 2019)
"Better Love" by Katerine Duska (Greece 2019)
"Say Na Na Na" by Serhat (San Marino 2019)

PAST EUROVISION REFERENCES:
"Fuego" by Eleni Foureira (Cyprus 2018)
“Party For Everybody” by Buranovskiye Babushki (Russia 2012)

OTHER SONGS:
"Sandstorm" by Darude

Chapter 6: Ilya Interlude II

Chapter Summary

Ilya being soft in Montreal between games and semi finals.

Chapter Notes

95% plot/fluff, 5% Eurovision

By Wednesday, the conference finals stood at two games for Washington and one for Montreal. That meant the series would go to at least five games, maybe more, and Ilya could breathe a little. Shane probably wouldn't breathe, but he could.

Which meant he could entertain the idea of leaving Montreal, because Shane would be away soon, and the house would be too quiet, and there was nothing keeping him there except the hollow echo of his own loneliness.

Even if Game Five meant Montreal might lose the conference in Washington, Ilya was feeling oddly calm about being in Ottawa. He had already started thinking ahead, maybe he could go to the Hollanders with Gabriella to watch the game if it seemed likely. Yuna already liked her. David would appreciate her quiet competence. It would be almost normal.

He was already making plans beyond the menu thinking that maybe he could do more than just cook for Gabriella. Maybe they could actually enjoy themselves. He could already imagine how the day would go, the two of them in his kitchen, music playing, something simmering on the stove. It would be normal. It would be human. It would be a reminder that he existed outside of Shane's playoff schedule.

So he texted her, just to make sure she wanted it too.

Ilya: When you come over on Saturday we are watching Eurovision yes?
Gabriella: Yes! Great idea!
Gabriella: Should I bring prosecco?
Ilya: Absolutely
Ilya: I might even have some champagne in the house somewhere
Gabriella: Oh, we're going to PARTY party :)
Gabriella: Will we follow up with Game 5?
Ilya: Of course, I would not deprive you of watching Shane with me

He could feel a knot loosening in his chest with each plan. He would go to Ottawa and he would cheer from there, in Shane's hometown, rather than in the din of an empty house in Montreal.

He could support Shane from anywhere. It may as well be in his own home.

+++

Wednesday was a quiet gift. Shane had a rare day off, no practice, no meetings, no media obligations. Just sleep and recovery and the slow rhythm of doing nothing together. Ilya loved that he had a sleepy Shane all to himself, he was practically staring at him while he slept.

He started playing Eurovision songs around the house, wondering if Shane (who was famously musically illiterate) would even notice. He mostly didn't. Shane could hum exactly two songs on demand: the Canadian national anthem and the Hockey Canada theme. Everything else blurred into background noise.

But he did notice when Ilya started dancing to "Soldi" once again, swaying by the stove while something simmered on the back burner. Shane shuffled over, still half asleep, and pressed himself against Ilya's back, wrapping his arms around his waist. His chin hooked over Ilya's shoulder. He didn't say anything. He just stayed there, warm and heavy, breathing against Ilya's neck.

Ilya kept cooking. He kept swaying and for a few minutes, everything felt almost normal.

"So," Shane murmured against his shoulder, voice rough with sleep. "You're really going to Ottawa?"

Ilya's hands stilled on the stove for just a moment. "Yes."

"Good." Shane's arms tightened around his waist. "You need to get out of this house."

"I thought I was being helpful."

"You are." Shane pressed another kiss to the side of his neck. "But you're also going insane. I can tell."

Ilya didn't deny it.

"I'll be back Sunday afternoon," Shane continued, his voice still half muffled against Ilya's shoulder. "Win or lose, I'll be back Sunday."

"Win," Ilya said firmly. "You'll be back Sunday after you win."

Shane laughed, a quiet huff of air against his skin. "I'll try."

"Try harder." Ilya paused, then added, "I will be back Sunday evening or Monday morning. Depending on how long it takes me to get out of Ottawa and back here."

"Take your time," Shane murmured, his arms tightening around Ilya's waist. "I will be asleep. Probably for the whole day. Maybe the whole week."

Ilya snorted. "You have never slept a full day in your life."

"There is a first time for everything." Shane pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. "You can wake me when you get back. If I am conscious."

"I will bring food."

"Then I will definitely be conscious."

They stood like that for a long moment, Shane wrapped around him, the stove humming, the song still playing softly in the background. Ilya thought about telling him about the party, about his plans for Gabriella, but it wasn't the right time. Not yet. Not when Shane was this soft and this tired and this close.

Instead, he just said, "I'll be watching."

"I know." Shane squeezed him once. "You always are."

Ilya felt a load of relief wash over him. "I love you."

"Love you too." Shane pressed another kiss to his neck, then pulled back, yawning. "Wake me when the food's ready."

Ilya laughed. "Yes, go back to sleep my love."

He watched Shane settle back into the cushions, eyes already closing, and turned back to the stove. The song had shifted to something softer, something forgettable. He didn't mind because the oppressive silence was finally starting to dissipate around him.

+++

Before bed, he checked in with his people one more time. Svetlana was still sending predictions for the games, her analysis sharp and unsentimental as always. Gabriella was needling him about his Semi Final Two predictions, demanding to know why he hadn't ranked Norway higher.

Everything was falling into balance again.

When he put his phone down and slid closer to Shane, he made a sleepy noise but didn't wake up. Instinctively, he shifted backwards until he was tucked against Ilya's chest. Ilya wrapped an arm around his waist and closed his eyes.

He lay there in the darkness, Shane warm and solid in his arms, and felt a quiet contentment settle over him. For the first time in weeks, he had something to look forward to that wasn't hockey. Eurovision had wormed its way into his brain, the songs already looping as he mentally prepared some of his chirps for Semi Final Two. Shane's breathing evened out against him, and Ilya let himself drift, still smiling into the dark.

+++

On Thursday morning, Ilya awoke to an empty bed and the faint scent of Shane lingering on the pillow. Shane was already gone, out the door before sunrise for his game day routine: a short run to clear his head, then practice, then back home for a pre game meal and a nap before heading back for the game.

Ilya padded down to the kitchen, still groggy, and set about his usual routine. Make the protein shakes, followed by a proper breakfast. Something that would keep Shane fueled until the pre-game meal took over. He moved through the motions automatically, his hands finding ingredients without needing to think.

While the blender whirred, he checked his phone.

Gabriella: So are you driving back tonight or tomorrow?
Ilya: Not sure. I think in the morning.
Gabriella: Another chance to clean the kitchen?
Ilya: Something like that.
Gabriella: I am excited to have you back.
Ilya: I am excited to do Eurovision with you
Gabriella: Me too.
Gabriella: Australia has a good chance of WINNING.
Ilya: Europe is not going to vote for Australia. Just pity votes, I think.
Gabriella: Impressed votes, you mean.

They went back and forth like this right up until about an hour before the show. It was easy, familiar and he felt like the person he used to be.

Gabriella: You will eventually tell me about the wild days right?
Gabriella: RIGHT?

He left her on read for a while. He could almost hear her exasperation through the screen.

Gabriella: Ugh, why are we even friends.

He liked all the messages but did not answer that line of questioning. Some things were for another time. Some things were for never. He was still deciding which category the 'wild days' fell into.

Outside, Montreal was quiet. Shane was at the rink. The second semi final was about to start. He set down his snacks, prepared his drinks, water and vodka, and settled onto the couch. For once, he was looking forward to not just the show and the game, but also tomorrow, even if Shane would not be there to share it with him.

Chapter End Notes

I don't have a set timeline for posting, but I just finished the first draft of a chapter for my actual work, and I'm feeling pretty good about it. So more Ilya.

SONGS REFERENCED:
"Soldi" by Mahmood (Italy 2019)
"Spirit in the Sky" by KEiiNO (Norway 2019)

Next up: Semi Final 2

Chapter 7: Semi Final Two

Chapter Notes

ca. 40% plot, 60% eurovision

The second Semi Final was louder, not only because Bood had brought beer, but because the guys were clearly feeling more confident in their opinions and how to watch the show. Dykstra had even brought a notebook and looked significantly calmer than last time. It was almost like he had finally accepted that this was happening and resistance was futile. Hayes had once again printed out the Wikipedia page for every competing country and was annotating it in red pen with the intensity of a man preparing for a final exam.

"Did you do more homework?" Gabriella asked.

"I did more research."

"That's the same thing."

"No. Homework is assigned. Research is chosen. I chose this." He held up his notes with the pride of a scholar presenting a thesis. "Did you know that Moldova has qualified for the final eight times in the last ten years?"

"I did know that."

"Did you know it or did you just assume?"

"I knew it."

Hayes leaned in. "You are terrifying."

She shrugged at him. "I am your professor. It is my job to know these things."

"Mine too!" Harris piped up, waving a bottle of cider that had definitely not been in his hand a moment ago. He seemed a little drunk already, which was hilarious given that both he and Gabriella were still technically on the clock. They were, after all, at work in an NHL arena. Even if it was mostly empty and the only people around to witness their professional misconduct were three hockey players who had brought their own beer and security. It was, objectively, hilarious.

No one commented on it. No one wanted to break the spell of anticipation.

+++

Gabriella clapped her hands together to get everyone's attention. "Okay, gentlemen. Welcome back to Semi Final Two! By now you are feeling confident. You are feeling like you know what to expect from the shows, right?"

"Right!" "Yes!" "Absolutely!"

"Good." She smiled. "Semi Final Two will be harder for you all. Not just because you will be clearly drinking, but because due to the draw, the songs are stronger. They are punchier and they are here to challenge you."

Harris piped up, waving his cider bottle like a professor's pointer. "Every year, there is a good semi and a bad semi. Semi One was decent, but as we all agreed, several average songs progressed. Tonight it will be harder. It will be tighter. So be on your game."

"Yes," Gabriella continued. "Now, you should know we are very proud of your progress so far, and we know you will keep improving. So a round of applause for yourselves, please."

The guys exchanged glances and broke into an awkward but genuine applause for themselves. Hayes even gave himself a little pat on the back.

“Well done everyone. Now for the announcements."

Everyone sat a little straighter. Chairs scraped forward. Notebooks opened.

"Firstly. Today we are drinking for real." She pointed at the drinking game rules on the whiteboard. "You know what to do. Follow the rules and remember to pace yourself. Water is important, as are food and toilet breaks. Remember, you still have a grand final on Saturday and wives to go home to."

She glared at all of them in turn. They nodded back, properly chastened.

"I also hope you warned your wives and arranged for lifts home."

Everyone nodded again. Harris cheered and saluted himself with his bottle. "I have sisters! Woo!"

Gabriella stifled a grin. "Yes, Harris. You do."

"Secondly. I have an update on the Ilya situation."

The guys looked at her expectantly. Dykstra pouted. "And?"

Bood leaned forward. "Do we have him?"

Gabriella paused for dramatic effect, letting the silence stretch just long enough for Dykstra to shift in his seat.

Then she grinned. "Ilya has invited me to a Eurovision viewing party at his house on Saturday. We have him.”

The room lit up like they had just won the Stanley Cup.

"WE FUCKING DID IT!!!!!"

"WE GET TO DO THE PRACTICAL EXAM!"

They started chanting some kind of football chant, something about "Roz is coming home," and hugged one another enthusiastically, bouncing around the conference room like they had just won a playoff series instead of convincing a grown man to attend a Eurovision party.

Pride swelled in her chest, hot and unexpected. She was on the edge of crying. Harris was filming and crying at the same time, his phone shaking in his hand, tears streaming down his face while he tried to capture the chaos.

"We did it, kids," Harris said, voice cracking. "We got him."

The guys engulfed Gabriella in a group hug. Hayes squeezed her shoulders and Bood clapped her on the back. Dykstra just stood there grinning like he had just been told Christmas was coming early.

"We are so proud of you!" Bood said.

"How did you get him to suggest the party? Are you a Jedi?" Hayes asked, eyes wide.

She shrugged, still grinning. "I have my ways."

+++

After the celebrations died down, they got back to business. Harris prepared the live feed, fiddling with the cables until the screen flickered to life. Gabriella readjusted her outfit and made sure all the drinks and snacks were in place. Bottles of beer lined up in formation. Bowls of popcorn redistributed. Everything was ready.

When the horns of the Eurovision theme started, everyone perked up. The familiar brass fanfare filled the room, sending a ripple of energy through the group. Bood held up his glass.

"Let's do this, guys. For Roz!"

"For Roz!" they all cheered, raising their drinks in unison.

Then they settled into the boring show preamble, the hosts welcoming Europe. Despite the boredom of the introduction the energy in the room was different now. They were not just watching to learn, they were watching for Ilya. It was happening.

+++

Ilya: its starting!
Ilya: the horns
Ilya: i’m emotional
Gabriella: Tonight's your night!
Gabriella: Are you ready for Russia?
Ilya: i was born ready
Ilya: if Russia does not qualify i will riot
Gabriella: Noted. I will have bail money ready.
Ilya: you are a good friend

+++

ARMENIA - Srbuk, “Walking Out”
As per usual, the performance captivated from the start with stark mood lighting, dry ice, and a single woman in black who commanded the stage with attitude, confidence, and competent vocals. The "woo" in the chorus was infectious, and everyone found themselves leaning forward. Air effects gave way to pyrotechnics. Armenia clearly wanted to qualify this year.

Hayes sat up so fast he nearly knocked over his beer. "Okay. I know she’s saying she’s “walking out”, but I want you all to know that I am adding this to my workout playlist immediately. From now on, every time I start a session, I will be singing 'WORKING OUT WOOO OOOO' at the top of my lungs."

No one argued. It was exactly the kind of energy the song deserved.

Bood nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on the screen where the performance had just ended. "Once again, strong opener. Good staging. She knows exactly what she is doing." He paused, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "Are we sure the opening songs are really selected at random? Because that felt very deliberate."

Harris shrugged. "That's how it technically works."

Bood turned to him, unconvinced. "Technically. But the quality of these opening songs makes me suspicious. It feels like someone is curating the line up to make sure the show starts with a bang."

Gabriella grinned, reaching over to bump his fist. "Good. Always question authority, Bood."

He bumped her back. "I learned from the best."

Dykstra just stared at the screen, his foot still tapping. "I think I like this one."

"Of course you do, buddy," Harris said, shaking his head.

The singer hit a key change just as the pyros exploded, and everyone raised their drinks in approval, taking a sip in unison.

+++

Ilya: I like her attitude
Ilya: I like her confidence, very attractive
Ilya: she is not asking for permission
Ilya: she is taking the stage
Ilya: respect

+++

MOLDOVA
The performance opened with a dramatic ballad, Anna Odobescu's voice filling the arena as sand art played out on the backing screens. A woman in a flowing dress created intricate images in sand, each one dissolving into the next as the song built toward its climax . The visual was stunning and the song was powerful. The room was genuinely impressed.

"Okay," Bood said slowly, setting down his beer. "That was actually amazing."

"Told you," Harris said. "Moldova always brings something delightful. The sand artist on stage is a choice, but it's a good one."

Hayes squinted at the screen. "Wait. This seems familiar, I’m sure I’ve seen this before?"

"That's because Ukraine did it in 2011," Gabriella said. "It is even the same artist performing the sand art."

"Same artist?" Hayes looked genuinely confused. "So they just brought the same person back? That is either homage or theft. I am not sure which."

"That is Eurovision for you," Harris said. "Great ideas never really die. They just get recycled."

"Will it qualify?" Dykstra asked hopefully.

Gabriella shook her head. "Probably not. The art overtakes the song. Never a good sign.”

+++

Ilya: the staging is beautiful
Ilya: sand art is always effective
Ilya: but the song is boring
Ilya: moldova needs to bring back epic saxophone guy
Ilya: this is not the moldova i know
Ilya: *0/10 no sax*
Ilya: next

+++

SWITZERLAND
Luca Hänni took the stage with confidence, strutting towards the screen against a vivid red background. The performance was high-energy, featuring a dirty dancing section and a solo dance break that had everyone's attention. The crowd in the arena was overjoyed, singing along at full volume.

"That is how you do a proper pop performance," Gabriella said, nodding approvingly. "It may be dance-forward, but he is the full package. He has the moves. Decent vocals. It is catchy, it has swagger."

"He won Germany's version of Idol and has been on several dance competitions," Harris added. "The man knows how to move."

Bood studied the screen with a tactical eye. "Strong staging and camera work. He is using the space well."

The song hit its peak, and Luca launched into a solo dance break that transitioned into a cloud of smoke and pyrotechnics. Flames shot up behind him as he landed the final move. The room erupted in appreciation.

Hayes was already pulling up something on his phone. "He has got the stats to back it up too. His song has charted in thirteen countries. That is more than Sweden and Russia."

"Thirteen countries?" Bood raised an eyebrow. "That is impressive."

"YouTube numbers are strong too," Hayes continued. "He has momentum."

Dykstra squinted at the screen. "Does not mean he will do well, though."

Harris did a dramatic turn to face him. "Did you just say something reasonable?"

Dykstra looked at the screen, then back at Harris. "Am I right, though?"

"Yes," Harris admitted, sounding slightly shocked. "He is a good performer, but not a great one. And at Eurovision, great is what wins."

Gabriella smiled and added a few stars next to Dykstra's name on her clipboard. He was definitely passing, even if his taste in music was objectively terrible. At this rate he might even get honours. She underlined his name for good measure.

+++

Ilya: the lyrics are just random words that sound good
Ilya: they do not mean anything
Ilya: No awards for songwriting happening right here
Ilya: I like that he did a reverse sexy dance break

+++

LATVIA
The band Carousel took the stage with their indie folk sound, a quiet departure from the upbeat energy of the previous performances. The duo delivered a stripped-back, romantic track that felt more suited to an open mic night than a Eurovision stage.

"Now this is country!" Hayes announced. "Dykstra, this is for you!"

He turned and looked at Dykstra expectantly, waiting for a reaction.

"Let us hear the song first before we judge," Dykstra said, holding up a hand. "I need to experience it properly."

Gabriella made another note on her clipboard, grinning like the Cheshire cat. She was already enjoying this far too much.

Bood squinted at the screen. "Where is this coming from? The hats? The vests? How is this Latvia?"

The lyrics scrolled across the screen: Love, where are you? Love, I need you. Love, all night through.

Harris was already shaking his head. "The problem is not that it is country pastiche. The problem is that it is sandwiched between far superior songs. That is a death sentence in a semi final."

Hayes looked skeptical. "The fact that it is country music was not already a death sentence?"

"I think it is beautiful," Dykstra said quietly.

Everyone ignored him.

+++

Ilya: I AM BORRRREEEEED

+++

ROMANIA
Ester Peony took the stage in an academic-goth inspired suit gown, complete with a tie and subtle sparkles. As the opening notes of "On a Sunday" filled the arena, the first pyro erupted. The performance was theatrical, almost Lynchian in its dark, dreamlike quality, with dramatic red lighting and a haunting melody that felt like it belonged in the Twin Peaks soundtrack. Fireworks exploded again as the chorus hit. Two male dancers moved around her with intense, close choreography, their dynamic edgy and captivating.

"She's good," Gabriella said as the group drank. "But will she qualify?"

"She's got the pyro," Harris said. "That counts for something."

"It counts for a drink," Bood corrected, and they all took another sip.

"I like the aesthetic," Hayes offered. "Gothic vampire princess at a Vegas show. It's a vibe."

"The song is forgettable though," Bood said, frowning. "I've already forgotten it."

"It's a nice package," Harris decreed, "but the song itself doesn't go anywhere. She's trying to be dramatic, but the chorus doesn't hit hard enough."

"I think she's got the look," Hayes said. "But I don't think the song is going to get her through."

"I think it qualifies," Bood countered. "Barely."

"I don't think so," Harris said. "This is a semi final packed with stronger entries. She's going to get squeezed out."

+++

Ilya: PYRO!
Ilya: this is trying very hard to be dramatic
Ilya: Gothic chic in eurovision is still weird to me
Ilya: After Hatari this is a snooze fest
Ilya: KEY CHANGE!
Ilya: at least i am getting buzzed watching this

+++

DENMARK
Leonora took the stage in a cute pantsuit with suspenders and a matching bow, looking like she had stepped out of a children's television show. The performance was cutesy, cheerful, uncomplicated and utterly charming. The staging was simple but effective. A giant chair and ladder dominated the stage, with dancers climbing over and around them before gathering together to sing the final chorus in a group huddle. It was pure syrup of positivity.

"Okay," Hayes said. "The after school special aesthetic is definitely a choice."

Gabriella agreed, “it certainly is on theme this year though. They are obviously trying to capture the younger demographic.”

"I think it’s fun," Dykstra countered, already nodding along.

"It's aggressively wholesome," Bood said. "Like, aggressively. I feel like I'm being hugged by a golden retriever."

"That's exactly what they're going for," Harris said. "And honestly? It's working."

"She's not going to win though," Hayes said. "I mean, she's pleasant, but that's it. Just pleasant. The song is nice, but it doesn't really go anywhere."

"Sometimes being nice is exactly what people need," Dykstra said quietly.

The room went quiet for a moment. Gabriella took some notes, mainly about how involved in the debate they were and not necessarily about the song itself. She watched Hayes argue with Harris about whether Denmark's staging was too simple, while Bood tried to estimate its qualification chances. Dykstra just kept nodding along to the song, completely unbothered by everyone else.

+++

Ilya: too happy
Ilya: nobody is this happy
Ilya: not even danish people

+++

SWEDEN
The moment John Lundvik of Sweden took the stage, Bood sat up straighter. The choir of women in black flanked him, their voices rising in perfect harmony as the opening gospel chords filled the arena. The song built slowly, each verse adding more layers, more power, more conviction.

"Oh what is this?," Bood eyes fixed on the screen. "Gospel pop! Bring it!"

The key change hit. Everyone drank. Lundvik's voice soared, the choir exploding behind him like a wall of sound. The crowd in the arena was on its feet.

The lyrics "IS IT TOO LATE FOR LOVE?!" echoed out of the speakers.

Hayes turned to Gabriella. "Do we drink for gospel choirs?"

"No."

"Should we?"

Gabriella considered this. "Let's say yes."

"How is this Sweden?" Hayes asked. "This sounds like it is from the deep south."

"Fun fact," Harris said, "the singer co-wrote the UK entry this year. But he saved his best song for himself, submitted it to the Swedish delegation, and won their national final."

"So he has two songs in the competition? You can do that?"

"Yes," Gabriella said. "Doubles your chances of winning."

"But not if it is the UK," Harris added.

"Yeah, probably not."

Bood was fully invested now, his foot tapping, his head nodding. "The backing singers are everything. They are not just background, they are the performance."

"Sweden knows how to do pop," Harris said.

"Is this a winner?" Bood asked, still standing.

"I think it could be up there," Gabriella said. "He's got the vocals. He's got the staging and the choir. It's a complete package."

"It's going to do well with the juries," Harris said. "This song is designed to appeal to everyone."

"Top five," Bood said confidently. "Maybe top three."

+++

Ilya: key change
Ilya: drink
Ilya: also
Ilya: IS IT TOO LATE FOR LOVE?
Ilya: NO IT IS NOT
Ilya: HEAR ME
Ilya: MY JAAAAAANE

+++

AUSTRIA
Pænda took the stage with her minimalist electro pop, a stark contrast to the gospel explosion that had come before her. The song, "Limits," had a delicate, atmospheric quality that felt intimate and introspective. The performance was understated.

"Nice," Gabriella said. "But it sounds exactly like the recorded version. Boring."

"She is cute though," Hayes offered.

"That's not a critique."

"It's an observation."

"It's a compliment," Harris corrected. "And I agree."

Bood was less impressed. "This is going to get lost in this semi final. It's too quiet. Too subtle. Nothing really stands out."

+++

Ilya: remember when austria sent good entries?
Ilya: conchita
Ilya: woki mit deim popo
Ilya: udo jurgens
Ilya: the good old days
Ilya: now they send this
Ilya: austria
Ilya: you are better than this

+++

CROATIA
Roko took the stage in an all-white outfit, his hair perfectly coiffed, his expression deadly serious. Digital flames, wings, and dry ice surrounded him as he launched into "The Dream," a dramatic power ballad about love and unity. Everyone was semi-into it, until the half-naked winged angels appeared. Massive gold wings were attached to the backing singers, fluttering behind them as they pranced across the stage. The room collectively lost it, laughter erupting as the absurdity of the moment sank in.

"White pants!" Dykstra yelled, and everyone dutifully drank.

Despite the emotional delivery, the room cackled when Roko himself sprouted wings and ascended.

"Wait, did he die?" Hayes asked, genuinely confused. "Is he an angel now?"

"I think he's just really committed to a theme," Bood said, shaking his head.

"The queer angels look like they're about to either save him or eat him," Harris observed. "I'm not sure which. I like it."

"The wings are too much," Gabriella said, frowning at the screen. "They're distracting. He's a good singer, but the staging is doing him no favours."

Hayes perked up. "Multiple key changes!" Everyone chugged.

"Would he qualify if he lost the wings?" Bood asked.

"Probably not," Harris admitted. "But he's definitely memorable."

+++

Ilya: is this what gay heaven looks like?
Ilya: more bi erasure
Ilya: i am offended
Ilya: but also intrigued
Ilya: the wings are very dramatic
Ilya: i want wings
Ilya: where do i get wings?
Ilya: Gabriella, if they qualify I want WINGSSSS

+++

MALTA
Michela Pace took the stage in a white jacket with transparent vinyl sleeves, white shorts, and knee high white socks that immediately became a talking point. The song, "Chameleon," was a summer hit, R&B-pop with a Middle Eastern twist, designed to showcase her versatility.

But the question hanging in the room was immediate and urgent.

"Do we count white shorts as pants?" Hayes asked.

"Absolutely," Gabriella said. They all drank.

"Finally," Bood said, "a song that knows what it is."

"Yalla, yalla, yalla," Harris sang along. "That means 'let's go' in Arabic."

"I think they're just trying to sound cool," Gabriella said. "And it kind of works."

"The outfit is a choice," Bood said. "The vinyl sleeves. The knee socks. I'm not sure what the aesthetic is."

"She's giving compression sock chic," Hayes said. "I respect it."

+++

Ilya: This is messy
Ilya: And fun
Ilya: Do I love it? No
Ilya: Would I dance to it in a club, yes
Ilya: After about 5 drinks.

+++

RUSSIA
This was the one they had been waiting for all night. Number thirteen. Sergei Lazarev. Russia's biggest hope and the man they hoped would make Ilya proud.

"Okay, everyone lock in for Roz," Bood announced. "If this is good, I will be so happy for him."

The performance opened with a single spotlight on Sergei, dressed in all white, his voice rising from the darkness. Then he moved towards the mirrors, and his reflection multiplied across the stage. The key change came early and unexpected and everyone drank.

"Whoa," Dykstra said. "Key change in the normal chorus."

During the bridge, Sergei stepped into one of the mirror boxes, and rain began to cascade around him.

The room went quiet. Even Hayes stopped taking notes.

"He is stuck in the mirrors!" Hayes pointed.

"And the rain?" Bood added. "What is the rain for?"

"Dramatic effect," Harris said. "It's always for dramatic effect."

"This is how I imagine Roz every time we lose to Montreal," Hayes said quietly. Gabriella snorted.

"Is this a narcissist's dream?" Bood asked. "So many of him in the mirrors."

After a dramatic chorus, he exited the rain box to sing alongside several digital versions of himself reflected in the mirrors. It was over the top, all those white outfits multiplying endlessly.

Gabriella shook her head. "I blame Måns Zelmerlöw for this technology."

Harris pointed at her. "Yes!"

"Wow," Bood said. "I hate the song, but I like the performance?"

"We can support Roz with this," Hayes agreed. "For him, we can get behind it."

"If this is what he's been waiting for, then we're all in," Bood said. "For Roz."

Dykstra nodded firmly. "For Roz."

+++

Ilya: MIRRORS!
Ilya: I TOLD YOU
Ilya: I TOLD EVERYONE
Ilya: and now they are HERE
Ilya: BAHAHAHA
Ilya: so many mirrors
Ilya: he is trapped in his own ego
Ilya: i feel represented
Ilya: the white pants
Ilya: DRINNNNK
lya: he qualifies
Ilya: obviously

+++

NORWAY
This was the one the room had been waiting for. KEiiNO, Norway's genre-bending trio, took the stage with "Spirit in the Sky," a song that mashed up classic Europop with traditional Sámi joik chanting. The crowd in the arena was already on their feet before the first chorus hit.

"The way she keeps finding the camera is both disturbing and hot," Hayes admitted.

"She is looking directly into my soul," Dykstra said.

"That is called stage presence," Harris chimed in.

"I'm here for the chanting. What is it called again?" Bood asked.

"Joik, I think?" Hayes supplied.

"That is indigenous representation right there." Bood beamed. "Everything in this song is a ten."

"Some critics are calling it garbage," Harris said, scrolling through his phone. "They're saying it's too messy and there's too much going on."

"It's not garbage," Gabriella said firmly. "It's an instant classic. There is a difference."

"The crowd is loving it though," Bood said. "And that's what matters."

+++

Ilya: EURO POP GREATNESS
Ilya: the second dude is killing it
Ilya: what language is this
Ilya: the chanting?
Ilya: i like it
Ilya: she is very committed to the camera
Ilya: It’s hot
Ilya: it will be a disservice to europe if this does not qualify

+++

NETHERLANDS
Gabriella knew what was coming next, the possible winner Duncan Laurence. The song that had been haunting her playlist for months. She could see Harris starting to vibrate next to her with barely contained excitement.

Duncan appeared at centre stage, seated at a piano with a single spotlight trained on him. No flashy dancers, no pyro, no wind machine. Just Duncan alone at the piano and a voice that was about to break the entire room.

The opening ghostly "ooh" of the first bars rang out, and the room went quiet. It was like a summons, a call to attention. Then Duncan started to sing: "A broken heart is all that's left."

Harris started crying almost immediately. Gabriella was right behind him, her voice catching as she sang along through the verse and into the chorus. None of the guys spoke. They just sat there, soaking in the song.

By the time the chorus hit, she and Harris were quietly sobbing and singing to each other, trying not to disturb the guys' viewing experience.

The song built slowly, each verse adding more weight, more emotion. Duncan's voice grew stronger, raw and real. The camera panned around the piano, capturing him pouring everything into a song about losing someone and still loving them anyway.

When the acapella section kicked in, Harris started stomping his feet.

The song ended. No one spoke for a full ten seconds.

Then Dykstra said, very quietly, "Oh."

"This is the winner," Harris said softly between sobs. "I am calling it now."

"Yeah," Hayes agreed.

"That was..." Bood started, then stopped.

"Amazing," Gabriella offered, as she wiped her face.

"That was phenomenal," Bood said. "Absolutely phenomenal."

+++

Ilya: netherlands
Ilya: Well duck
Ilya: Thats a winner right there

+++

NORTH MACEDONIA
A strong performance, but poor darling was on after the Netherlands. She never stood a chance.

"She's good," Harris said. "But she's not Duncan."

"Nobody is Duncan," Gabriella agreed.

+++

Ilya: So I was thinking do we need honey cake after the borscht?
Ilya: or would you prefer blinis?
Ilya: It’s not the right time of year, but we could do it as a special occasion
Gabriella: No need to make a cake Ilya
Gabriella: I will bring ice cream, will go well with the champagne
Ilya: Caviar goes well with Champagne too
Gabriella: True, but if you’re making the borscht and the salad
Gabriella: Then we have enough no?
Gabriella: I’m not bringing you back to Ottawa just to cook
Gabriella: I want you to relax too.

"Gabriella?" Bood yelled out. "Is that Cap?"

"Yeah," she said, not looking up from her phone. "He is planning food logistics."

"So he hates North Macedonia?"

"I think he is just bored after the Netherlands." She finally looked up, pocketing her phone. "I just talked him out of making blinis."

"You talked him out of blinis? As in the pancakes?" Harris asked, horrified. "Why would you do that?"

"Because he is already making borscht, herring salad, and God knows what else. He needs to relax, not spend the whole day in the kitchen."

"That is very responsible of you," Harris admitted.

"I am a very responsible person."

"You are a very responsible person who just talked a Russian out of making blinis," Hayes said. "That is either impressive or a crime."

+++

AZERBAIJAN
The final performance of the night. Azerbaijan. Chingiz Mustafayev took the stage with "Truth," a song that was supposed to be a powerful anthem about honesty and identity. Instead, it was a deeply confusing experience that left everyone in the room staring at the screen in bewilderment.

"What is happening with the 3D printers on stage?" Dykstra asked. "Are they making him a heart?"

"I am concerned," Hayes added.

"Wow, this is boring after all that greatness," Bood said. "Punished by the draw."

They all nodded in agreement. It was a sad way to end the evening. The Netherlands had just blown them all away with “Arcade”, and now they were watching a man sing about truth while a printer constructed a neon heart behind him. The contrast was jarring.

They all drank. Some out of sympathy. Some out of confusion. Some just to have something to do while they processed what they had just witnessed.

+++

Ilya: azerbaijan
Ilya: what is this
Ilya: no

+++

As the hosts returned to the screen to announce the start of voting, the room shifted into a quieter energy. One by one, everyone took turns refreshing their drinks, the earlier buzz settling into something more focused. The performances were over, and now came the waiting.

Everyone was a little fried after the drinks and "Arcade" emotionally wrecking them. They talked through their favourites and hopes for the vote, but mostly, they were eager to move on with the day, no matter how good the show had been as a whole.

When Jon Ola Sand reappeared on their screen, everyone perked up.

"Your boyfriend is back!" Hayes said, looking at Gabriella and wiggling his eyebrows.

Gabriella smiled at him. "Such nice eyes."

Hayes grinned. "Admit you are in love with him."

"I will not," Gabriella warned, still smiling. "Don't ruin this for me."

Harris happily sucked on his cocktail straw and ogled the TV, making no effort to hide his own appreciation. "He has great hair," he offered.

"You are both hopeless," Bood said, shaking his head. "I don't know why you both won't admit to it."

+++

They quieted as the results were announced. The first qualifier flashed on screen. North Macedonia. The room nodded in approval, a solid, if unexciting, start.

Then the Netherlands. The room erupted.

"YES!" Hayes punched the air. "DUNCAN MADE IT!"

Harris was already tearing up. "Of course he made it. He was always going to make it."

"That does not make it less impressive!" Gabriella said, grabbing his arm.

Then Albania. Then Sweden qualified and Bood whooped so loudly he startled Dykstra.

"SWEDEN!" he yelled. "THAT IS MY GOSPEL!"

"It is not your gospel," Harris said. "I thought you were going for Norway?."

"I am pro all of Scandinavia."

Then Russia.

The room cheered. Bood actually stood up and pointed at the screen. "HE MADE IT! ROZ'S BOY MADE IT!"

"ROZ IS COMING HOME!" Hayes joined in, and the room dissolved into chaotic celebration. Harris was filming again. Gabriella was clapping. Dykstra was nodding along, a satisfied smile on his face.

"Roz is going to be so happy," Hayes said.

"Roz is going to be insufferable," Harris corrected. "But happy. Very happy."

Then Azerbaijan qualified. The energy dipped into confusion.

"Wait," Bood said, squinting at the screen. "Azerbaijan? The one with the printer?"

"With the printer," Harris confirmed, grimacing.

"No…. Why?" Hayes whined.

"Who voted for the printer?" Dykstra asked.

"Europe," Gabriella said. "Europe voted for the printer."

Denmark qualified. The room shrugged. Norway qualified, and Bood celebrated again, Hayes singing to him, "You're the spirit in the skyyyyy."

"Please stop," Bood said, but he was grinning.

"Never," Hayes said, launching into an enthusiastic but wildly inaccurate approximation of the yoik chants. "Heiii laa e loiii laaa!"

"Your spirit is very off-key," Bood observed.

"My spirit is passionate. There is a difference."

Switzerland qualified, to polite nods. Malta qualified to moderate enthusiasm.

Then the non-qualifiers appeared. The room fell silent.

"Who did we lose?" Hayes asked, his voice smaller now.

Dykstra was the first to speak. "Moldova," he said quietly, still staring at the screen. "The sand art is gone."

"Armenia?" Harris asked, scanning the list.

"Gone," Gabriella confirmed.

"Working out WOO HOO!" Hayes mourned, slumping in his chair. "Noooooooo."

"I can't believe a printer made it to the final and Armenia didn't," Bood offered.

"Eurovision is cruel," Harris said.

"Romania?"

"Not even close."

"How Azerbaijan qualified over Romania is BEYOND me," Bood added.

"This is a tragedy," Hayes announced.

Harris held up his hands. "But we have The Netherlands, Sweden, and most importantly, Russia."

Everyone cheered.

+++

Before they left, Gabriella gathered their attention for one final announcement.

"Okay gentlemen, are you sober enough to hear about information for Saturday, or should we do this tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow!" Hayes shouted immediately, throwing his hands up in mock surrender.

Bood and Dykstra nodded vigorously in agreement, still looking a little glassy eyed from the emotional rollercoaster of the afternoon.

Gabriella laughed. "Okay, but you have to remember to do your homework! Watch last year's voting so you know what to expect."

They collectively rolled their eyes at her.

"Don't roll your eyes at me! Remember to prepare your liver, dress to support your main country, and bring food from your chosen nation. Harris will bring the flags."

"And," Gabriella added, a knowing smile spreading across her face, "there will be glitter and face paint for everyone."

"There is glitter?" Bood asked, suddenly perking up like a child who'd just been promised cake.

"There is always glitter," Harris said, looking slightly offended. "It's Eurovision."

The guys grabbed their stuff and wandered off into the evening, heading to watch Montreal hopefully beat Washington so Ilya would be in a good mood for his trip back to them.

After they finished cleaning up, Harris sloppily leaned into her, beaming. "He's coming home."

She beamed back. "He is."

They did a drunken high five before heading off to their respective rides. As the door of her taxi slid shut, Gabriella pulled out her phone and smiled at Ilya's last messages, the warmth of the evening settling around her.

+++

Ilya: That was a great show
Ilya: Saturday is going to be epic

Chapter End Notes

COMPETING SONGS:
"Walking Out" by Srbuk (Armenia 2019)
"Stay" by Anna Odobescu (Moldova 2019)
"She Got Me" by Luca Hänni (Switzerland 2019)
"That Night" by Carousel (Latvia 2019)
"On a Sunday" by Ester Peony (Romania 2019)
"Love Is Forever" by Leonora (Denmark 2019)
"Too Late for Love" by John Lundvik (Sweden 2019)
"Limits" by Pænda (Austria 2019)
"The Dream" by Roko (Croatia 2019)
"Chameleon" by Michela Pace (Malta 2019)
"Scream" by Sergey Lazarev (Russia 2019)
"Spirit in the Sky" by KEiiNO (Norway 2019)
"Arcade" by Duncan Laurence (Netherlands 2019)
"Proud" by Tamara Todevska (North Macedonia 2019)
"Truth" by Chingiz (Azerbaijan 2019)

PAST EUROVISION REFERENCES:
“Hey Mamma” by Sunstroke Project (Moldova 2010)
“Angel” by Mika Newton (Ukraine 2011)
“Rise Like A Phoenix” by Conchita Wurst (Austria 2014)
“Woki mit deim Popo" by Trackshittaz (Austria 2012)
“Merci Cherie” by Udo Jürgens (Austria 1966)

NOTES
Posting this now as I have multiple doctors tests in the morning and I'd love to read your replies while I am in the waiting room ;)

Next up: Ilya returns to Ottawa

Chapter 8: Ilya's return

Chapter Summary

Ilya prepares to host the grand final in Ottawa.

Chapter Notes

ca. 99% Plot / 1% Eurovision

Ilya drove back to Ottawa early on Friday morning, listening to his curated Eurovision playlist as the highway stretched ahead of him and the sun rose over the road. He felt more relaxed with each kilometre. The series was tied two games apiece, which meant he didn't have to worry about anyone winning the Cup while he was drunk on prosecco and Eurovision chaos. He could actually breathe. It was refreshing.

When he finally passed a sign for the Ottawa exit, he felt a familiar tug of anticipation. He was going home. Not to an empty house, but to a life that was starting to feel full again. And that, he realised, was worth more than any trophy.

He had already asked his cleaning service to drop by the day before so the house would be ready for Gabriella's first visit. When he finally arrived and inspected every room, everything was gleaming. It was nearly perfect.

To be honest, he was nervous about her visit, which was absurd. He had hosted teammates, friends, even Yuna and David without a second thought. But Gabriella had avoided being in his home for months, and he had never quite understood why. He assumed it was out of respect for his space and for Shane, boundaries she kept carefully in place. But now that she was finally coming, he wanted everything to be perfect.

He wanted to impress her, to let her know she was welcome there, that this wasn't just his house but a place she could feel safe in too. But it wasn't just about the space. It was about what it meant. After months of careful compartmentalisation, she was finally letting him in, and he wanted to show her that she had made the right choice.

After he finished his inspections, he moved on to meal prep. He carefully selected the required groceries from the fridge and began his mise en place for the Russian menu he had planned: borscht, handmade pelmeni, and a herring salad she would probably hate. He prepped the salad first, as it needed time to ferment, then prepared everything else so he could simply reheat it in the morning. The kitchen filled with the familiar smell of dill and vinegar, and he felt a quiet sense of pride. He felt at home.

+++

Friday was memorable, but not because the borscht was perfectly balanced or the pelmeni turned out just right. It was memorable because Gabriella texted him a sentence he never thought he would see from her.

Gabriella: you have some spare lube lying around your house right?
Ilya: what?
Ilya: I assume Jane has like a litre wholesale bottle somewhere?
Ilya: yes, but why are you asking me this?
Ilya: I invited you for Eurovision, not an orgy
Gabriella:: Lol, yes i remember
Gabriella: No, I need lube to make us some glitter
Ilya: you need lube for glitter? Why?
Ilya: I thought it just attached to people for life by sheer will
Gabriella: Glitter is not sentient, Ilya.
Ilya: senti-what?
Gabriella: It isn't conscious. Alive.
Ilya: I am not so sure about that. I have found glitter in places I did not know existed
Ilya: It has a mind of its own
Gabriella: Either way, I need lube to make our own glitter combinations
Gabriella: To stick
Gabriella: It’s hypoallergenic and is better for your skin
Ilya: you want to put my sex lube on my face?
Gabriella: Technically, I want to put glitter on your face.
Gabriella: The lube is just the delivery system.
Ilya: that is not better
Gabriella: It is. Trust me.
Ilya: fine. okay. You can waste my expensive sex lube for glitter
Gabriella: Great, And it wont be a waste. you will look fabulous.
Ilya: i am not convinced
Gabriella: You will be when you see yourself in the mirror.
Gabriella: Jane will love it
Ilya: okay then yes we will do this

+++

On Saturday morning, before Gabriella's arrival, he checked every single room again for no reason. They were all spotless. He then poured out a portion of lube for her into a small jar and left it on the kitchen counter, then hid the giant litre bottle back in the cupboard with the locked door, because some things did not need to be on display. He made sure all the drinks were in the fridge – prosecco, gin, vodka, and the mixers. He (again) fluffed the couch cushions, opened the curtains to let in the afternoon light, and stood in the middle of his living room trying to see it through her eyes.

It was ready. It was more than ready. It was his home, and he was going to fill it with music and lube glitter and laughter and Eurovision joy. He smiled to himself, a quiet thrill running through him. This was not just a party. This was a beginning.

+++

Exactly at 1pm, the doorbell rang.

Ilya opened it to find Gabriella standing there, looking nervous, clutching several grocery bags that seemed to be actively trying to escape her grip. Before he could say anything, she dropped them on his doorstep and launched herself at him. They crashed into a giant hug, her face smushed against his shoulder, her arms locked around his back like she was afraid he might disappear if she let go.

She was mumbling something into his shoulder, but the words were lost in the fabric of his shirt. He held her tightly, letting her stay as long as she needed.

"Hello Gabriella," he said, patting her back warmly. "I cannot understand you. Your face is smushed."

She pulled back and stared at him, her eyes boring into his soul like she was checking for damage. "I have missed you, you big oaf." She lightly punched him in the arm. "Don't ever do that again."

"Do what?" He feigned innocence. "I did nothing. You went off on a sex vacation and abandoned me, remember?"

"Yes, and you started haunting Montreal," she shot back. "Texting me manifestos at 2am and hiding behind Jane instead of just dealing with your playoff anxiety."

They stared at each other, daring the other to refute the claims. Neither did. Instead, Ilya smiled, and she cracked first, laughter spilling out of her.

"Correct. We are both terrible, yes?" he said.

"Yes," she admitted, her eyes glistening. "I have missed you. Please don't scare me like that again."

"I promise." He meant it. "You either."

"Deal."

They hugged properly again, nice and tight. When they finally pulled apart, Ilya looked down at the pile of bags on his doorstep.

"Shall we take your millions of bags inside before the neighbours start filming us for social media?"

"Yes," she said, already bending to grab them. "I have a few snacks for the fridge and extra prosecco. And some things you probably do not have in your kitchen because you have been away for weeks."

"That is not true," he said, picking up the rest of the bags. "I'm fully stocked. I have a freezer full of dumplings." He paused. "And kale."

"Well done, I guess.” She raised an eyebrow. “What's all the kale for?"

"The kale is for when I am pretending to be healthy."

“And the dumplings?”

"The dumplings are for when I am happy or entertaining."

She looked at him, a teasing smile on her lips. "And do we have dumplings today?"

"Of course." He grinned. "I love to entertain."

"And are you happy?" She asked the question lightly, but there was something softer underneath it, something careful.

He turned to face her, his smile genuine and warm. "So far, yes." He held her gaze for a moment longer, letting the words land. "It is nice to have company. And not just any company."

She laughed and skipped after him into the kitchen. "Good. Because I brought enough food to feed a small army. And glitter. Obviously."

"Obviously," he agreed. "What is Eurovision without glitter?"

+++

In the kitchen Gabriella started unpacking her bags with focused efficiency. Prosecco first, of course. Then spare ice, popcorn, a spare bottle of gin and backup tonic. Then the food: lamingtons for Australia, an Italian deli spread of meats and cheeses for Italy, and a container of pistachio ice cream that looked far too fancy, but she had brought it anyway because they deserved to have something nice.

Looking at all of her treats he was surprised by the sheer volume of it all. "Gabriella, I have seen you eat. This is too much food."

She waved a dismissive hand. "We will be watching TV for six plus hours and you are you. We will need it, trust me."

"OK but remember I have also made borscht, pelmeni, and herring salad as promised."

“Amazing! I can’t wait to taste it.”

Once everything was set out, he gave her a tour of the house. Downstairs: the lounge, storage, kitchen, dining room, trophy room, garage. The basement gym, which she politely admired. Upstairs: the bedrooms, office, an extra lounge room that he called a reading room but was really just a place where books went to be forgotten, and finally his bedroom.

He didn't say this was where the magic happened, it was implied. He wanted her to like it, and was relieved when she did. She had looked around cautiously, cooed at the right moments, but seemed generally impressed. He was swelling with pride.

She liked it.

Before they returned downstairs, she turned to him earnestly and asked if he could show her the things he didn't normally show his other guests.

He raised an eyebrow. "You already know about the lube supply."

She glared at him. "You know what I meant. Your Shane Shrine. I know you have one. Show me."

He hesitated, then led her to the office. In a cupboard, hidden like a high school locker shrine, was a collection of photos, articles in binders, scrapbooks, and souvenirs of his time with Shane. Ticket stubs. Press clippings. Programmes from their events together. It was both sweet and confoundingly sad.

She looked through it and admired the volume. "This is amazing," she said, carding through some publicity photos. She paused on one from their rookie season. "Oh my God, you are babies here."

Ilya looked over her shoulder and smiled. "Yes. We were young and stupid."

“And talented.”

“And hot.”

She nodded and put the pile down slowly. "I am sorry you have to hide this," she said quietly.

He shrugged. "Is okay. I'm used to it by now."

"Yes, but you shouldn't have to be." She bumped into his shoulder. "But you two are doing great, considering the circumstances."

"Yes. We are."

He closed up the cupboard and they headed back downstairs to warm the soup.

+++

As she dove into her second bowl of borscht happily, she had that look on her face that meant he was about to be interrogated. He straightened up, ready.

"Ilya," she said carefully. "Will you tell me what really happened in Montreal?"

He took a deep sigh. He could hold it all in, or he could just let it go. So he decided at that moment to just let it go and tell her everything.

How he had tried to lose himself in Shane at first because he missed him. How he wanted to be a good boyfriend, because he had never been there before and now he could be. And then day by day, he had disappeared and couldn't say anything. He was choking on his own shame and fear, and he felt he couldn't reach out. Not really. Not without giving more of himself away than he knew how to.

He told her about – and apologised for – all the texts he had sent to everyone and how they had felt hollow. About the penguin documentary that had felt like his own life. And how he had cleaned the kitchen four times in one day just to feel like he was doing something. And how, no matter what he did, the emptiness had just settled and refused to leave.

She sat and listened, her face unreadable but present. When he ran out of steam, she went to his freezer, pulled out a bottle of vodka, and poured two shots. She handed him one.

"Ilya, I'm sorry you went through all of that. But I hope you realise how brave you were, you reached out when it mattered, you didn't let the emptiness win. You texted when you needed help, and you came home. I am so proud of you for that."

"I didn't really..." he tried to justify, to tell her she was wrong, but she cut him off.

"Yes, you did. You didn't give up, even when it was scary. And you're here now. That's what counts."

She raised her glass to him. "To not disappearing."

He smiled awkwardly, accepting her words, and repeated her toast. "To not disappearing."

They clinked glasses and drank. The vodka burned, but it was a good burn. It reminded him he was still here.

He poured a second glass. "To never giving up," he added.

They drank again. The second shot was warmer, or maybe the room had just gotten brighter.

She set down her glass and looked at him. "I see you. I am here."

"I know." His voice cracked. "Thank you for making me come home and hang out."

She laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "You might take that back when the show is over and we beat you."

"You and your operatic gymnasts? I think not."

"She absolutely will."

After that they ate happily and argued about predictions while Ilya's ‘best of’ playlist filled the kitchen, a chaotic mix of Russian pop classics, questionable winners, random Eurodance, and at least three songs he saw Gabriella add to her own playlist. Ilya felt a lightness he hadn't felt in so long. It was quiet and steady, and it was not dependent on hockey or Shane.

He was just happy to be here. To be in Ottawa. To be home. And to have a friend over who didn't need him to perform or pretend or be anything other than exactly who he was in this moment.

+++

When the doorbell rang again at 2pm, Ilya looked at Gabriella quizzically. She was suddenly very interested in rearranging the lamingtons on their plate, her focus a little too deliberate. He excused himself to answer, assuming it was a delivery, or a neighbour, or some charity worker looking for donations.

Instead, on his stoop stood Harris Drover, dressed head to toe in bright orange and carrying what seemed to be a million flags. He was smiling from ear to ear.

"Ilya!" Harris practically sang at him. "Happy Eurovision day!"

"Harris, ah, what are you doing here?"

"I was told you were having a Eurovision party," Harris said, already stepping inside and steamrolling past Ilya with confidence. "You can't have a Eurovision party without a gay person present, it's bad luck. So I'm here to save the day."

Harris had been to his house before, so he walked straight into the kitchen without hesitation. "Oh, Gabriella! You are here! What a surprise," he overacted, his voice dripping with theatrical innocence.

They hugged and kissed cheeks as Harris dropped his bags and flags on the counter. Ilya watched, utterly bewildered, as Harris unloaded (more) herring and stroopwaffles.

"Are either of you going to explain what is going on here?"

Gabriella finally spoke up, her voice carefully neutral. "I may have mentioned we were having a watch party and Harris asked if he could join. I hope that is okay."

Harris looked at Ilya inquisitively, waiting for an answer.

Ilya didn't know what to do with this. He had been planning for just Gabriella, expecting a quiet afternoon of food and Eurovision and catching up. Now more food was being unloaded onto his kitchen bench, and Harris was unfurling a stack of flags like he was about to decorate for a national holiday.

"Uh, yeah. Of course, it is okay." He said, frowning a little.

"Great!" Harris beamed. "I will decorate the lounge while you two finish whatever you were doing here."

And he flounced away, singing along to the hit playing over Ilya's speakers, already draping a Dutch flag over the window.

Ilya turned to Gabriella. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

"Yes," she said, not meeting his eyes. "We cannot have Eurovision without a gay, it’s bad luck apparently."

Ilya nearly smiled at her. How did she have the confidence to look so innocent while clearly playing him?

"This is bi-erasure and you know it," he whispered.

She finally looked at him. "Yes, but he does not know about us. Does he?" she whispered back.

"True." His face softened a little.

"Is this okay? That he came around with a bajillion snacks and decorations?"

"Yes," he said, but he didn't sound convinced. "It is just a surprise."

"Okay, good. Because there may be a few more surprises today."

"How many?"

"At least three?"

"Gabriella!"

"They are all nice ones, I promise. And not biphobic."

Ilya stuffed a pelmeni into his mouth, chewed aggressively, and went to check on Harris.

+++

Five minutes later, the lounge was transformed. Harris had put flags up over every available surface, arranged snacks into themed platters, and was already nursing a cider like he had been here for hours. Gabriella was setting up her face paint and glitter selection with the precision of a battlefield medic.

Ilya watched her prepare the glitter/lube combo: red, silver, and blue, plus a shock of orange for Harris, and felt something warm settle over him. He could do this. He was good at this. They were his friends.

Gabriella called out, "I am ready. Whose first? Ilya, as the host, will you do the honours?"

He took another shot of vodka for courage and sat down opposite her at the table. "And who are you supporting today?"

This was the moment he had been dreading. How could he not get Russia painted on his face? He was Russian. He had to represent. But he also loved Italy and he loved…

"I am going for Italy and Russia, of course," he said carefully.

She nodded at him. "Of course. Do you trust me?"

He nodded. She got to work, her brush moving with quick, precise strokes. Green, red, and white on one cheek. Blue, silver, and red on the other. He had no idea what shapes she was making until she added dollops of glitter to the corners of his eyes and pulled out a mirror.

On his left cheek was a flag for Italy. But on his right were blue, silver, and red hearts, not just Russian colours, but hearts for the Voyageurs. For Shane.

He stared at them for a long moment, feeling warm and slightly overwhelmed. Then he smiled at her and squeezed her knee ever so slightly.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"No problem," she said, her voice soft. "It is non-allergenic and water-based, so you can wash it off easily. It will take a minute to dry though, so be careful."

As soon as Ilya vacated the seat Harris plopped down ready for his shock of orange. Just at that moment the doorbell rang once more.

Ilya stiffened and looked at Gabriella. Both she and Harris were suddenly very interested in the face painting, avoiding his eyes.

He trundled over to the door.

+++

Ilya opened the door to find Zane Boodram on his stoop, dressed in a Norwegian flag poncho with Cassie beside him, carrying two covered dishes that smelled like smoked fish and spices. "Ilya! Welcome home. I brought Swedish meatballs and some smoked fish," Bood announced. "With my secret sauce, of course. I made it special for today."

"Bood, Cassie, I take it you are here for the party?" he said, resigned.

"Yes," Cassie said, "thank you for the invite. I have never been to a Eurovision party before."

"We are super excited for this, Cap. You have no idea how much hard work we have put in," Bood said as he walked past him into the kitchen, where Ilya heard him greet Harris and Gabriella.

Cassie pulled him into a hug. "It is really good to see you, Ilya. Today is going to be great."

Then she swished away too. Ilya stood there gaping at the empty hallway when the bell rang a second time in as many minutes.

When he opened the door, Evan Dykstra stood there holding a six-pack of Czech beer and looking apologetic. "Cap! I have missed you." He leaned in for a bro hug, then showed him his offerings. "Sorry, I don't know what Czech food is. So beer will have to do." He shrugged.

Ilya let him in, even more confused than before. "Hi to you too. Everyone is in the kitchen."

"Awesome."

Before Ilya could even close the door, he heard Wyatt Hayes approaching. "Captain! You are alive!" Hayes burst through wearing a Team Canada t-shirt with an Australian flag as a cape, carrying what appeared to be a fluffy homemade dessert with fruit and cream. "I will have to hug you once I set this down."

"Hayes, is there anyone else behind you?"

"No, I think I am the last one?"

"Dykstra and Bood are here."

"Then yes, I am the last." He smiled and bounded into the kitchen. "Everyone, I have arrived, and I have pavlova! I made it myself! It's Australian!"

Ilya followed him and stood frozen in his kitchen doorway, watching his teammates mingle and show each other their outfits and food. He heard Bood say something about an IKEA recipe he had adapted, and Harris was comparing the different forms of fish on the table. Hayes set his pavlova beside Gabriella's Lamingtons, and Dykstra put his beer into the fridge alongside the prosecco. They moved with the efficiency of a team that had been planning this for weeks, and Ilya realised with a jolt that they had been planning this. They had been planning to invade his home.

Suddenly Ilya had had enough. He needed to understand how and why this was happening. He paused the music and raised his eyebrows at them. Everyone turned and looked at him quizzically.

"Can someone please explain to me why you have invaded my house dressed like you are going to the World Cup?"

Everyone looked around, clearly choosing a spokesperson. Gabriella stood up, but Bood shook his head and stepped forward.

"Cap. Roz. We know the last few weeks have been a lot with the playoffs and us sucking so bad this season. So we wanted to do something special for you. Gabriella suggested that we should have a Eurovision party. So we are here to do that. With you."

"You are here to Eurovision with me?" He looked at Gabriella. “And it was your idea?”

She nodded.

"How was it your idea? I invited you here to watch Eurovision, not the other way around."

Gabriella made a face. “Did you though?”

Hayes stage-whispered, "She Jedi mind tricked you into thinking it was your idea."

Ilya looked at her again, and this time she stared straight at him, challenging him to refute the statement. She was daring him to be upset, to be angry, to push them all away. He could feel her watching him, waiting.

Instead, warmth spread through him once more, understanding that he had been outplayed. And as confusing as it was, he wasn't mad about it.

"You Jedi mind tricked me into a party at my own house because you wanted to do something nice for me?"

Everyone smiled and nodded.

Bood tried again. "We have been worried about you, Cap. And we wanted to show you that we can do things that you like aside from hockey. We can Eurovision like the best of them, if that is what you want."

"But none of you even know what it is."

Dykstra squeaked out. "Ah, we learned."

Ilya's eyebrows shot up. He looked at all of them being sheepish.

"You learned?"

"Yes. We learned about Eurovision, for you."

Ilya's mouth dropped open and he just stood there like he was rebooting. The room went quiet. Even Harris stopped rearranging the food.

He looked around the room. They had learned Eurovision for him. The weight of it pressed against his heart and he felt his throat tighten.

"You learned," he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "How?"

"Gabriella and Harris taught us," Bood said. "There was a packet with footnotes."

"A packet with footnotes?" Ilya's voice cracked. "You did homework for me?"

"Of course," Dykstra admitted. "But full disclosure I only skimmed the footnotes. But I did read the important parts."

"I annotated mine," Hayes said, pulling out a heavily marked up stack of papers. "I have a map."

"You have a map?" Ilya asked weakly.

"Yes and it’s colour coded. How else was I supposed to understand the voting blocks?"

"We also watched both semi finals together," Bood added quietly. "As a group. We have opinions now. Strong ones."

"You have opinions?" Ilya asked, his voice rising.

"Norway this year is a modern classic," Bood said firmly. "And Sweden is where it’s at."

"Iceland is art," Hayes added. "Terrifying, but art."

"The Czech Republic is underrated," Dykstra said. "Nobody else agrees with me, but I am right."

Ilya turned to Cassie. "And you? What did you do?"

Cassie shrugged. "I have been studying the packet on my own time. I know who is going to win."

"Who?"

She smiled mysteriously. "You'll see."

Ilya looked around the room at each of their faces. They were so eager and determined to do something nice for him. The realisation hit him like a wave, warm, unexpected, and completely overwhelming: they wanted to be his friends. Maybe they actually cared about him. The thought lodged itself inside of him and he felt his throat tighten. He was about to choke up, but he managed to force the words out.

"You are all too earnest," he said finally, his voice rough. "We need vodka."

Harris produced a bottle from the freezer, as if he had been waiting for this exact moment. More glasses appeared. Toasts were made, to friends, to Eurovision, to being ridiculous together. The clinking of glass echoed through the kitchen like a promise.

"United by music," Gabriella said on the last toast.

"United by music," everyone echoed, and the warmth in Ilya's chest spread until it reached his fingertips.

+++

One by one, they got their face painted. Norway's colours for Bood. Australia's green and gold for Hayes. The Czech flag for Dykstra. Netherlands orange for Cassie, who seemed delighted to be included even though she hadn't watched the semi’s.

Lastly, Ilya watched Gabriella expertly paint her own face in the mirror. Australian green and gold hearts on one cheek, Italian stars on the other. She was supporting her team and his, without needing to explain why.

Ilya sidled up to her. "You have clearly done this before."

"Yes," she said, not looking away from the mirror. "I worked at a football stadium when I was younger as a face painter. I was very good at it."

"You did not tell me you were artistic."

She finished a star and finally turned to face him. "You did not tell me what happened in your youth either."

They stared at each other for a long moment, neither willing to look away first.

"Touché," he said finally.

She grinned. "Touché."

They giggled together, the tension between them dissolving into something lighter. Gabriella grabbed a couple of fresh drinks from the counter, handing one to Ilya.

"You are not mad that we did this, are you?" she asked, her voice softer now. "The party. The surprise."

He took the drink, considering the question. "No," he said slowly. "I think I needed this." He looked around the room, at his teammates laughing and the glitter and paint on all of their faces. "I did not know how much I needed it until it was happening."

She bumped his shoulder with his. "Good. Because we are not done with you yet."

"I would not expect anything less."

+++

Ilya managed to sneak a moment to himself in the bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His face was a work of art: Italy's tricolour on one cheek and the Voyageurs' hearts on the other, two red, four blue, and a generous dusting of silver glitter. He took a photo and sent it to Shane.

Ilya: Good luck tonight. I am at a team event, but I am with you always.
Ilya: If you need anything, you let me know.
Ilya: I love you

Shane texted back almost immediately.

Shane: Wow. You look stunning. Are the hearts for me?
Ilya: Of course. My hearts are always for you
Shane: Have fun at your event. We will talk after.
Ilya: Yes after
Shane: I love you
Ilya: Knock em dead

Ilya pocketed the phone and stood there for a moment longer, looking at his reflection. He looked happy. He looked like himself.

He turned and walked back to his friends, in his house, in his home.

Chapter End Notes

Sorry, no specific song references this chapter :(

Next up: Actually watching the Grand Final.

Chapter 9: Grand Final: The Show

Chapter Summary

Everyone watches the Eurovision final, drinking leads to some big emotions.

Chapter Notes

ca. 60% plot, 40% Eurovision (ish).

Apologies, I may have gotten carried away.

Gabriella assembled everyone in front of Ilya's massive TV at 2:40pm, clipboard in hand, ready to wrangle the players like she was back at work. She had prepared for this moment. She had contingencies, drinks, sparkles, and a plan. And she would make sure it went off without a hitch.

"Okay, everyone. Before we start, we need to establish the rules for the in-house vote. Everyone participates, and the winner gets a bottle from Ilya's collection and a participation trophy." She looked at them all expectantly. They nodded, except for Ilya, who looked confused.

"Excuse me, they get what from my collection?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

"One of the bottles in your freebie cupboard."

"My freebie cupboard?" His eyebrows shot up. "How do you know about that?"

She looked at him steadily with a knowing and pointed look. He shrank back almost immediately and chuckled. "Okay, yeah. I can find a few bottles."

He went over to the cupboard and pulled out a Japanese whisky, a sparkling wine with gold flecks, and a tequila rose, presenting them with a flourish like a game show host. He smiled at Gabriella. "As you command."

"Nice selection," Bood said, nodding appreciatively. "That Japanese whisky is actually worth something."

"Thank you, Ilya." She nodded approvingly, then turned back to the group. "Now, the voting rules are simple. You cannot vote for your own country, but you can vote for anyone else. At the end, we tally the scores and crown our champion."

"You mentioned a trophy?" Hayes asked, still focused on the prize. "I can only see alcohol."

"It's a figurative trophy," Gabriella said. "You get the respect of your peers."

"That's not a trophy."

"It's what matters most." She smiled sweetly and held up a stack of paper slips. "Now, let's select who is supporting who. You each get to pick your main country as long as someone else hasn't already claimed it. The rest will be drawn from this bowl."

She turned to Ilya. "As the host, you get two choices and you go first."

"Italy and Russia," he said without flinching, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had been thinking about this for days. She handed him both papers, and he held them like they were sacred texts.

"Who do you choose to go next?" she asked.

"Bood," Ilya announced.

"Norway," Bood said firmly, crossing his arms.

"Hayes?"

"Australia. Sorry, Gabriella." He looked almost apologetic.

"No problem, Wyatt." She marked it down on her clipboard.

"Gabriella, you can go next."

"Thank you, I'll take Iceland," she said, her voice steady.

"Cassie?"

"Sweden," Cassie said, surprising everyone. Bood beamed with pride.

"Harris?"

"The Netherlands," Harris said, holding up his orange flag. "It is my destiny. I was born for this moment."

"Evan?"

"My friend of a friend, the Czech Republic," Dykstra announced, and when everyone looked at him quizzically, he shrugged. "What? It's catchy."

They then shared out the remaining countries, pulling slips from the bowl until everyone had a full roster of support. Some were thrilled with their draws. Others stared at their assigned countries with the resigned acceptance.

Gabriella marked them all down on the whiteboard she had found in Ilya's office, the names and countries arranged in neat columns. Once she was done, she turned to face the room.

"Okay. At the end of the show, you will fill in your scorecards, and the winner takes home one of these beautiful bottles." She gestured to the prizes. "General house rules: drink when necessary, shots for your country, and we are united by music until the voting starts. After that, all bets are off. Greece will vote for Cyprus, Cyprus will vote for Greece, and we will all pretend to be surprised."

She looked around the room, making eye contact with each person. "Are you all ready?"

"Yes," they all chimed, a chorus of voices that seemed to shake the walls.

"Ilya, do you have any last words?"

Ilya sat up, a smirk spreading across his face. "Yes. Do me proud. Show me what you have learned, and prove to me that even Canadians can understand true culture. And prepare for Italy to crush all of you."

He punctuated the sentence by popping a piece of popcorn into his mouth with exaggerated flair. The room burst into cheers.

Gabriella’s eyes began to well up as she sat down. She had looked around the room and saw everyone smiling happily at Ilya, saw him looking so at ease and present. For a moment, she felt the weight of the past few weeks begin to fade away. He was here. They were all together. There was no question of whether this was going to work any more. The only question now was how big a hangover they were going to have at the end of it.

+++

As usual, the broadcast began with the familiar brass fanfare of the Eurovision theme. Everyone raised their glasses in a solemn toast of respect and when the final note faded, they all drank.

Ilya's eyes were sparkling, catching the light from the television and the glitter on his cheeks. Harris took photos of everything, documenting their shenanigans before everything got our of control, or too drunk.

Then the flag parade started, and the chaos was instant. Moments earlier, everyone had been calm and reserved. Hayes had even joked about how embarrassing the parade was.

"It's tradition," Gabriella said. "We have to all endure it."

But from there everything escalated.

"Russia," Ilya announced, doing his shot with reverence.

"RUSSIA IN WHITE PANTS!" Bood yelled, and everyone else dutifully drank with him.

"DANA INTERNATIONAL!" Harris shouted, pointing at the screen. "She is Eurovision royalty!"

"SLOVENIA SIBLINGS, WHITE PANTS!" Dykstra added. Everyone drank.

"ICELAND! DO LEATHER WHITE PANTS COUNT?" Hayes demanded.

"ABSOLUTELY," Gabriella confirmed. They all drank.

She did her shot and sipped for the pants, already feeling the warmth spreading through her whole body.

"DO WHITE SHORTS COUNT?" Cassie asked.

"YES." Drink.

"FRANCE, ALSO WHITE PANTS!" Harris yelled. Drink.

They were all drinking now, a rapid fire succession of sips and shots as the parade continued. Gabriella was already feeling buzzed, the room shimmering slightly around her.

Ilya was laughing so hard he almost choked on his prosecco, tears streaming down his glittered cheeks. "This is already one of the best days of my life," he announced.

Harris was already running to the fridge for another bottle, shouting something about not being prepared for this level of commitment.

"This is going to be a long night," Gabriella said, grinning.

"Long and glorious," Ilya agreed. And they drank again as they saw more white pants walk across the stage.

+++

Song 1 - MALTA
When the broadcast cut to Malta's postcard, everyone groaned – and drank – because of course she appeared wearing white shorts.

Then the shot cut to the live stage, and as expected Michela, was wearing the same white shorts they had all seen in the flag parade. Another collective mingle of laughing and groans rippled through the room.

"White shorts!" Dykstra yelled, already reaching for his glass.

"Wait," Hayes said, and everyone paused. "We have seen the white shorts before. Do we sip again?"

"Absolutely," Gabriella confirmed. "The rules are clear. During every performance, interview, or postcard, if there are white pants, white shorts, white anything below the waist that looks like it could be pants, we drink." She held up her glass, and the room echoed her gesture. They all drank again.

"Chameleon" was not a masterpiece, but it was catchy enough to get everyone dancing. Bood was the first to get up, pulling Cassie with him. Harris followed, then Hayes, and soon half the room was on their feet. Gabriella bopped her head next to Ilya on the couch, her shoulder brushing his making sure he was with them.

"Malta is setting the bar high," Ilya said, grinning at her.

"She is," Gabriella agreed. "The song is pure summer energy."

"Key change!" someone yelled, and everyone drank again.

By the end, even Ilya was up, moving awkwardly but enthusiastically, his glittered face catching the light as he swayed.

"I will never walk away, na na na," he sang to Gabriella and then to the team, his voice off key but full of joy.

Everyone cheered when the song ended, applauding the screen like they were in the arena themselves. The first song was done, and the energy in the room was already electric.

+++

SONG 2 - ALBANIA
Albania brought the first pyro of the evening, and everyone dutifully drank. The song itself was pleasant enough, a mid-tempo ballad that floated by without demanding much attention. Bood, however, was fully engaged, complimenting the singer's tattoos through the entire performance.

"I didn’t notice this in the semi’s but she's got great ink," Bood said, nodding appreciatively. "Sleeve work is solid. That takes time and commitment."

"I think I love her," Cassie agreed.

"She is very pretty," Bood admitted, glancing at his wife with a grin. "But she is not as pretty as you."

"Nice save," Harris said.

"I am an honest man," Bood replied.

The pyro came in waves, explosions of gold and red that punctuated the chorus and sent sparks raining across the stage. They drank at least twenty times for the pyro alone, a rapid fire succession of sips that left Harris scrambling to keep count.

"Pyro is insane," Harris announced, gesturing at the screen. "Do you know how much that stuff costs? A single fountain or fire effect can run over twenty thousand euros and that is before you factor in all the additional costs."

"They are setting money on fire," Gabriella said. "Literally."

"Did we just drink to twenty thousand euros plus of fireworks?" Hayes shook his head. "For that price, the performers should be drinking too."

"Worth it," Ilya said, raising his glass. "For Eurovision, everything is worth it."

The room cheered, and they all drank again.

+++

SONG 3 – CZECH REPUBLIC
The Czech Republic had everyone bopping along, the bright colours and infectious energy of "Friend of a Friend" filling the room. Dykstra was on his feet, singing at the top of his lungs to anyone who would listen, utterly committed, his voice cutting through the surround sound. Ilya was right there with him, matching his energy, their voices blending in a messy but joyful harmony.

"Friend of a friend, friend of a friend!" they yelled, throwing their hands in the air.

"You are not even close to the right note," Hayes said, laughing along.

"I don't care!" Dykstra shouted back. "This is my song!"

Soon everyone was joining in and bouncing up and down, yelling “I’m only a friend!”

Gabriella was concerned someone was going to spill their drinks they were jumping around so hard, but their smiles told her to just grin and bear it.

She ended up dancing with Hayes, both of them yelling "She's only a frieeeeeennnd" along with the lead singer.

The bright smile of the singer on screen was reflected in all of their faces as the song ended.

“Okay Dykstra, you were right.” Hayes called out.

And Evan did a little jig that could only be described as a Scooby Doo dance.

+++

SONG 4 – GERMANY
Germany brought more floating heads and the promise of last place. Two young women known as S!sters took the stage in black and gold.

"Oh, we haven't seen them yet!" Bood exclaimed.

Everyone paid slightly more attention for this reason, leaning forward to catch the performance they had missed during the semis. Their voices wove together in a song that was both cute and powerful, but something was missing. The harmonies were tight and the staging was competent, yet there was no spark, no moment that made them feel anything at all.

"They're cute!" Harris said. "The voices are a little grating though."

"They're earnest, I guess," Gabriella offered as her only consolation.

"MORE FLOATING HEADS!" Hayes yelled, pointing at the screen.

Dykstra recoiled. "THE HORROR!"

Ilya looked up from his phone, a bemused expression on his face. "This trend worries me."

Dykstra nodded vigorously. "We cannot escape them!"

Ilya, who had been sipping prosecco consistently for half an hour straight, used the song as an excuse to text while singing along half-heartedly.

The song built toward its chorus, and suddenly without thinking both Gabriella and Cassie grabbed each other's hands and started to sing to each other "SISTER! SISTER SISTEEERRR" They took a big gasp and launched into the next line: “Don’t you try to hide it!” A pause. “SISTER!”

"Okay, I am getting a little emotional now," Gabriella confessed when they had finished the chorus.

Then came the pyro, and everyone drank automatically.

"It escalated well," Hayes said, nodding at the screen.

When it finished, the sisters jumped up and down on stage, beaming at the camera like they had just won something. Ilya watched them with a slight smile, his attention already drifting toward the running order. Russia was next.

"Still," Bood observed. "Boring but nice."

"They are so excited for last place," Hayes said. "Bless."

"They are going to get zero points," Harris predicted. "It is written in the stars."

"The UK might beat them to it," Ilya said, shifting in his seat.

"The UK is always in the running for last place," Gabriella agreed. "It is tradition."

+++

SONG 5 – RUSSIA
As soon as the postcard for Russia started, Ilya knew he had to lock in. His eyes fixed on the screen, he knew that this would answer the question he had been asking himself all week: Did he actually want to support Russia? The noise of the room faded around him as he leaned forward, the chatter and laughter becoming distant static. He barely registered the movement around him, only the screen, and the weight of the question pressing against his chest.

"Shots Ilya!," Harris said, already reaching for the bottle. "Graham Norton just said Russia about six times."

"I'm not doing a shot for my own country."

"House rules."

"It’s my house! I can break the rules."

"Traitor," Gabriella said fondly, but she took the bottle and poured him one anyway. The gesture was small, but it grounded him.

Everyone perked up when the postcard ended, sensing this was a moment that mattered. Harris refilled every other drink, moving carefully around the room and avoiding stepping in front of Ilya at all costs. The chatter died down as Sergei Lazarev appeared, the mirrors multiplying across the stage and reflecting his face from every angle.

"White pants again!" Bood yelled, and everyone dutifully drank.

The key change came early. Ilya knew Gabriella wasn't a fan of the song, but she sat beside him, letting him watch it as he pleased. He watched the performance intently, his jaw tight, trying to separate the performer from everything else. She mirrored him but remained considerably calmer than he was. He tried to draw on that energy.

"He's still stuck in the mirrors!" Hayes exclaimed.

"Poor guy," Cassie said softly.

Ilya ignored them, leaning forward. He felt Gabriella press her leg against his, offering silent support.

"Key change," she whispered.

"I know," he said, his voice soft. They both drank.

The room went quiet, everyone watching Sergei sing in the rain box, taking their cue from Ilya's focused silence. No one cracked a joke. They just watched, giving him the space he needed.

The song built to its climax with the mirror projections smashing and the final scream echoing across the arena.

Hayes broke the silence first. "So, what's the verdict, Cap? Was he up to your standards?"

Ilya shot his drink back. "Very solid performance. Very professional. Too much technology, though. The Russian delegation obviously wanted to impress this year."

Bood cleared his throat. "He certainly has a strong voice."

Dykstra chimed in. "He did well."

Ilya nodded. "Da. The country will be proud." He stood and flashed them all a smile, the tension in his shoulders finally releasing. He could feel Gabriella's eyes on him, tracking every movement and reading between the lines. She could see the performance he was putting on for the guys, but she waited patiently beside him, giving him space to do what he needed to do.

He cleared his throat. "We will now drink to my homeland."

He poured generous shots for everyone who wanted one, moving around the room with a lightness that hadn't been there before.

Hayes raised his glass and everyone copied. "To Roz!"

"To Roz!" they all echoed, drinking together.

When the noise settled, Gabriella found him. "It was still good," she said softly. "You should be proud."

Ilya looked at her, his eyes warm but something flickering beneath the surface. "I am," he said. "I am proud of the performance." Even if I am not sure I am proud of the song itself. Or my homeland. He didn't say that part out loud. He didn't need to. She already knew. Instead, he added, "And I am proud of all of you for being here."

For a moment, the weight of the past weeks lifted. Ilya was surrounded by people who cared, who had chosen to be here with him. Even if he had doubts about the song and his country, he didn't have any doubts about them.

+++

Gabriella's phone buzzed several times throughout the show, and she kept answering with a small smile, relieved she had changed certain contact names before coming over. She didn't need any more questions about her private life, especially from a room full of hockey players. But it was not meant to be.

JSH: Are you with the team?
Gabriella: Yep, keeping an eye on festivities.
JSH: Send photos pls.
Gabriella: Won't that distract you from your work?
JSH: No I don’t think so. It might actually help.
JSH: You know, inspiration to do better and all that.

She typed away happily, putting her phone down only to sing along or grab a fresh drink. Bood noticed her screen lighting up with another message from JSH.

"Who's that?" Bood asked, leaning over. "They’ve been texting a lot. Like, a suspicious amount. Who is JSH? Is that short for Josh?"

"No, it’s just a friend," Gabriella said, pocketing her phone with a little too much speed.

Ilya had clearly heard the conversation and turned around slowly, like a shark smelling blood in the water. "Oh, a friend?" He held her gaze. "Are they from Vancouver, perhaps?"

"No, they’re not from Vancouver," she said, keeping her voice steady. "They’re just a friend who is traveling to Washington."

"Washington state or DC?" Dykstra asked, genuinely curious.

Gabriella kept her eyes on Ilya. "DC."

Ilya's expression flickered, just for a moment, recognition dawning behind his eyes. He knew exactly who was in Washington DC right now. His posture relaxed almost imperceptibly, and something warm and unspoken passed between them.

"Oh and what did this JOSH want?" he asked, his tone softening.

"They don't believe I am hanging out with a bunch of famous hockey players," she said, smirking. “And asked for photos.”

The room erupted with increasingly louder voices. "Well, we can't stand for that!" "We must impress your friend!" "We will send proof!" "Do they know you are with royalty?"

Ilya barged into her space. "I am the sexiest and most famous. I will be in the centre of the photo."

"We are all sexy," Harris corrected. "But yes, proof of our hotness is necessary."

They scrambled together for a group photo, arranging themselves around Gabriella like a glittery, chaotic family portrait. Ilya stood in the centre, his arm draped over Gabriella's shoulder. Everyone smiled, faces painted, flags draped, sparkles catching the light.

Cassie took the first photo, and then Gabriella took another of just her and Ilya, both of them grinning like they had just won something. She sent the photos off to JSH.

Gabriella: Proof of team.
JSH: OMG you guys look wasted.
JSH: And festive.
Gabriella: We are ready for your imminent success.
JSH: I love your enthusiasm, but don't jinx it.
Gabriella: We don't believe in superstition here.
Gabriella: Only talent.
Gabriella: And the power of glitter.

"What does Josh say?" Ilya asked, his voice pointed but curious. "Did he say I am the most handsome?"

She laughed. "No. Just that we are all very good looking and drunk," Gabriella said smoothly.

"Make sure it doesn't go on the internet," Harris bellowed from the kitchen.

"They're discreet," Gabriella said, smirking. "And a good friend."

Ilya caught her eye and gave her the smallest nod, a silent thank you, as his own phone buzzed. He looked down and beamed. Clearly JSH had some extra words just for Ilya.

+++

While they continued to take selfies and topped up their drinks, the hosts threw to a segment with Jean Paul Gaultier, who announced that Madonna was in the building and would be performing during the voting. Harris nearly lost his mind with excitement.

"I CANNOT CALM DOWN. IT'S MADONNA!"

"Harris, sit down," Gabriella said, but she was laughing. "She is not even performing yet."

"But she is in the building!"

"Yes, but she's not in this building. So chill."

Ilya shook his head. "Yes, I would know if Madonna was in my house, Harris. Relax. Plus, having someone famous there is the antithesis of Eurovision."

Hayes looked at him. "You know the word 'antithesis'?"

Ilya raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Hayes. I have been in North America for over a decade."

Hayes laughed. "Tell that to the press you fooled the other week when you pretended not to know what a metaphor was."

Ilya grinned. "Denying that I knew something so basic is hilarious, especially if I can make them explain it to me and show how dumb they truly are." He shook his head, still chuckling. "People think because English is my second language, I must be slow. So I let them think that. It's a useful trick. They say things they shouldn't. It gives me an advantage."

Gabriella shook her head, laughing. "It blows my mind that people still underestimate you after all this time. You are one of the best players in the league and chirp like a monster."

“I know," Ilya said, his grin widening. "But I don't need them to know that I know. It's better if they think I'm just a big dumb Russian who happens to be good at hockey. Then they don't see me coming."

"You are terrifying," Gabriella said.

"Yes," Ilya said, tapping his temple. "Strategy."

+++

SONG 7 – SAN MARINO

San Marino arrived with Serhat and his "na na na," and the room erupted, putting Harris's previous Madonna meltdown to shame. Ilya was on his feet before the first chorus hit, swaying and singing along with the kind of unironic joy that only Serhat could inspire.

"YES!" Ilya yelled, pointing at the screen. "SAN MARINO!"

"White pants!" someone yelled, and everyone drank.

"I still think he’s the Count from Sesame Street!" Hayes announced. "Can you hear it? One AH AH, two AHAHA!"

“We love you Serhat!” Harris chimed in.

Dykstra was bouncing across the room. "Say na na na! Na na na!"

"The confidence," Bood said, shaking his head in admiration. "Too much confidence for so much mediocrity. I love it."

"I knew nothing about San Marino before this," Cassie admitted, laughing. "Now I want to go there just to know what is in the water, because they are insane."

"The water has to be filled with pure chaos," Harris said. "It's the only explanation."

By the end of the song, everyone was on their feet, shouting the "say na na na" chorus like it was a stadium anthem. The room had transformed into a sea of waving arms and off key singing, united by the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

"Serhat," Ilya announced, raising his glass, "is the new King of Eurovision."

They all cheered and drank, the energy in the room electric. San Marino might never win the contest, but they had won this room.

+++

SONG 8 – NORTH MACEDONIA

North Macedonia took the stage, and Hayes sat up straight, his expression shifting from casual interest to something resembling revelation.

"I forgot to mention," Hayes announced, "that I have reconsidered my opinion of this song. I have read all the lyrics and I am declaring this a feminist masterpiece. A manifesto, if you will."

Dykstra side eyed him. "Are you drunk?"

Hayes turned to him earnestly. "No!"

The opening line hit, and Hayes leaned forward. By the time the chorus arrived, he was nodding along like a man who had just discovered a new truth.

"Listen to the lyrics. She talks about being proud of the women in her life," he said, pointing at the screen. "I want the women in my life to know this too. It's about owning who you are. Breaking the rules. Not letting anyone tell you how to live."

Cassie raised her glass. "Amen to that."

Gabriella tilted her head. "You know what? You make a good point."

Ilya watched the exchange with amusement, a smile slowly breaking. "I am learning a lot about my teammates tonight," he said. "I did not know Hayes was a feminist scholar. I am very impressed Hazey."

"I am a man of many talents," Hayes said without looking away from the screen.

The song built to its climax, and Hayes was fully invested, nodding along with each powerful note. "This is important," he said. "This is the kind of song that matters."

"Every song matters at Eurovision," Ilya said softly. "That is the point. They are all trying to say something even if it is through terrible lyrics. But you are right, we must support the women in our lives."

Harris leaned into Gabriella. "We might need to give Hayes an extra certificate for feminist theory too."

Gabriella nodded. "Agreed. He has earned it."

At the end Cassie cooed, "Naw, she dedicated it to her kids and anyone fighting for their dreams."

Hayes looked triumphant. "See? Feminist masterpiece."

+++

SONG 9 – SWEDEN

The moment Sweden appeared, Bood was on his feet, his arms spread wide. "FUCK THE BALLADS!" he bellowed. "LET'S GOSPEL, BABY!"

Hayes joined him. "THIS IS YOUR SONG, BOOD! BRING IT!"

Cassie immediately argued, “Hey! This is my country!”

Bood laughed, pulling her into the celebration. "We can share Sweden. We are a team."

They kissed, then turned back to the screen, already moving to the beat. The room cheered as the choir of women in black sparkles flanked the singer, John Lundvik, their voices rising in perfect harmony.

Bood and Ilya found themselves side by side, arms around each other's shoulders, singing the chorus at the top of their lungs. Ilya's glittered face was split with joy, his eyes bright. Bood was beaming, his voice rising above the chaos.

Everyone was singing along, waving their arms like they were in a gospel choir themselves. Cassie had her phone out, filming the madness. Harris was doing a full-body sway, his eyes closed in ecstasy.

When the song ended, the room erupted into cheers. Bood collapsed back into his seat, breathing hard. "That was perfection," he announced.

"THE WINK AT THE END!" Hayes basically screamed. "DID YOU SEE THE WINK?"

"I SAW THE WINK!" Ilya yelled back, grinning wide.

"It was pretty great," Gabriella admitted.

"But Norway will still dominate," Bood declared. “I love Sweden, but Norway is better.”

"Norway hasn't won since 2009," Harris pointed out.

Bood grinned, unshaken. "This year will be different."

+++

SONG 10 – SLOVENIA

The Slovenian siblings came and went as Gabriella was in the kitchen refilling her and Cassie's drinks. No one knew it, but Cassie had pulled Gabriella aside earlier to quietly explain that she wasn't drinking but didn't want anyone to know. So they had been playing a careful game of drink cat and mouse, Gabriella making Cassie's drinks look alcoholic so no one would suspect, and sometimes having to discreetly drink both of their drinks herself when one of the guys inadvertently tried to top Cassie's glass up.

She was certainly feeling it now, swaying slightly as she leaned against the counter. From the lounge, she heard a chorus of voices:

"THEY KISSED!"

"AREN’T THEY RELATED?"

"THEY STILL COULD BE!"

"ARGH!"

She drunkenly giggled to herself. It was all going so well.

She grabbed the refilled drinks and swayed her way back to the couch. "What did I miss?"

"Everything!" Harris said. "The siblings kissed! It was scandalous!"

"Did we find out if they are actually siblings?" she asked, settling back next to Ilya.

"NO!" Hayes yelled. "That's what makes it scandalous!"

Gabriella laughed and handed Cassie her drink. Cassie took it with a grateful smile, and they shared a knowing look.

Ilya looked between the two of them. "Something you want to tell me?"

Gabriella leaned in, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. "Yes, you sparkle." She gestured at his glittered face. "Like a vampire. A very sparkly, very Russian vampire."

He chuckled. "I think you need more water than gin."

"And you need to stop swaying," she shot back.

"I will get you some food," he said, already turning toward the kitchen. "Maybe do not drink again until Australia."

"Can you get me three lamingtons and some of your dumplings?"

He paused at the kitchen doorway, glancing back at her with a soft smile. "Anything for you."

+++

SONG 11 – CYPRUS

Cyprus took the stage with "Replay," and the room dutifully drew comparisons to the previous year's entry.

Hayes pointed at the screen. "Not Eleni!"

Ilya's head snapped around. "YES, HAYES! YOU GET IT!"

Harris beamed from across the room. "He's learned so much."

The song hit its first chorus, and the costume change came fast, followed immediately by a burst of pyro.

"Costume change!" Bood yelled.

"Pyro!" Dykstra added.

Everyone drank. Gabriella danced in her seat as she stuffed her face with food, lamington crumbs scattering across her lap. Bood, Harris, and Hayes had abandoned their seats entirely, attempting to recreate the dance break in front of the TV. Harris was surprisingly coordinated. Bood was enthusiastic but questionable. Hayes attempted a high kick and failed spectacularly.

"This is my team," Ilya said, gesturing at the three grown men attempting choreography.

"You should be proud of them," Gabriella said, grabbing a dumpling. “They’ve come so far.”

"They have," he admitted. "And I am.."

The words landed softly, but there was something genuine in his voice, something unguarded. Gabriella nearly squealed because in that moment he looked so happy. His eyes were bright, his smile easy, and for a moment, it felt as if everything was exactly as it should be. Instead of giving in to the lump in her throat, she munched on her snacks and tried not to cry happy tears.

+++

SONG 12 - NETHERLANDS

Everyone was eager to hear The Netherlands again. Even Ilya sat a little straighter as the haunting introduction began. Harris and Cassie positioned themselves closer to the TV, their orange flags already waving. Everyone else sat in anticipation ready to be moved all over again.

"This is going to be so good," Harris whispered to no one and everyone.

On stage, Duncan Laurence appeared at the piano and started to sing.

A broken heart is all that's left
I'm still fixing all the cracks
Lost a couple of pieces when
I carried it, carried it, carried it home

Gabriella was close to weeping before the end of the first verse. Harris was already gone, tears streaming down his face. By the time the pre-chorus hit, Cassie was gripping his arm and crying too.

I'm afraid of all that I am
My mind feels like a foreign land
Silence ringing inside my head
Please, carry me, carry me, carry me home

When the chorus arrived, everyone was singing along, still seated but completely invested.

I've spent all of the love I saved
We were always a losing game

Then everyone was up and yelling along:

Whoaaa oh oh ohhhh
All I know, all I know
Loving you is a losing game

There was not a dry eye in the house. Gabriella ended up clinging to Wyatt and Ilya, everyone's arms slung around each other, holding on deliberately, desperately. The fact that every single person in the room knew the lyrics and had been screaming them at the top of their lungs was proof of how deeply the song had landed.

Later, when the acapella section hit, the arena crowd sang along and so did the room. Everyone was still linked together, tears streaming as they continued to sing and scream the lyrics. Some hit the notes (Cassie and Harris). Others didn't (everyone else). No one cared.

By the final bars, they had stilled, the room thick with raw emotion. No one spoke for a moment and then they started to cheer through their tears.

"That was so good," Bood sobbed into Cassie's hair.

"I don't want to sound like a dick," Dykstra said quietly, "but God bless whoever broke this man's heart. This song is everything."

And then everyone sobbed again and started hugging.

When Gabriella turned away from their giant sobbing hug, she noticed Ilya had slipped away. She looked around and Bood caught her eye.

"Should I?" he mouthed pointing to himself..

She shook her head. "No, I've got this."

+++

She found Ilya out on the back deck, sitting on the edge with a cigarette in his hand, his posture slumped. The sounds of the party were muffled through the glass door, but out here, everything was quiet and still. The afternoon light was beginning to soften, casting long shadows across the yard.

She sidled up to him slowly and sat down. "You need a TV out here. So you can watch the games or have an outdoor cinema in the summer."

"Good idea," he said, his voice flat. "I will suggest it to Jane."

They sat in silence for a moment, the smoke curling upward into the cooling air. She watched him from the corner of her eye, observing the tension in his shoulders and the way he rolled the cigarette between his fingers, like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

He nodded curtly. "Da. Just a little..." He waved his hand around his head. "Overwhelmed."

"Oh." She processed for a moment. "Was it us, or the song?"

"Both, I think." He took a long drag. "It wasn’t bad, but it was…. a lot."

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He nodded slowly. For a moment he said nothing, just watched the smoke disappear into the air.

"Yes. The song was beautiful and I understand why you like it." He gave a small, humourless laugh. "But it also made me feel bad."

"What?" She turned towards him fully. "Why?"

"It made me feel like maybe I let all of you down."

Her expression softened, but she let him continue.

"I've been feeling really shit lately, as you know. But I pushed you all away because I didn't know how to ask for help." He glanced towards the house, where the others were still laughing. "And then I come back and you're all here, and you've done all this for me."

"Of course we did," she said gently. "We want you to be happy."

"I know that now." He swallowed. "But I could have called someone. I could have come home. Instead, I hid behind the playoffs, behind Shane, behind my phone. I gave myself reasons to stay in Montreal because it was easier than admitting I didn't know how to deal with my emotions."

He took a drag, holding the smoke in his lungs before letting it out slowly. "I'm supposed to be the captain. The person everyone can rely on. I'm supposed to be the one who keeps going when things get difficult." His voice roughened. "Instead, I went away and sat around feeling sorry for myself."

“Ilya…”

"And I'm having fun," he admitted quietly. "That's the stupid part. I'm actually having fun. But underneath it, I still feel like a failure."

She studied him, letting the silence sit for a moment before responding. "Ilya, you can be two things at once. You can be happy to be here and still regret that you stayed away. You can love everyone in that house and still have been too overwhelmed to call them. Those things can be true at the same time."

He looked down at their joined hands, his thumb tracing absently over her knuckles. "I don't know why I can't just be normal about any of this. Why can't I accept that you all want to be there for me?"

"Because you're used to believing you have to earn your place," she said softly. ""But that's not how it works here," she continued. "Not with us. You don't have to be the captain. You don't have to be useful. You don't even have to be okay. You just have to be here. That's it. That's all we ask."

He let out a long breath, his shoulders dropping slightly. "I don't know if I know how to do that."

"You're doing it right now." She squeezed his hand. "You're sitting here, talking to me, not performing. That's all it takes."

He let out a long breath through his nose, his shoulders dropping slightly as he nodded. They sat in silence for a while, the quiet settling around them.

"I just keep thinking about the song lyrics," he said softly. "Love is a losing game. No? I think this is true."

Gabriella tilted her head. "I don't think that's what the song really means."

“But he says it…”

"He does. But there's a difference between saying 'love is a losing game' and saying love isn't worth playing." She looked out across the yard, gathering her thoughts. "The whole song is about knowing you can't control what happens. You can love someone completely and still not be able to make them stay, or make things work, or protect yourself from losing them. That's the losing part. You don't get to control the outcome."

Ilya frowned, considering it. “So why play?”

"Because sometimes you win." She held his gaze trying to implore him to understand what she was saying. He gave her a small, skeptical look.

"And even when you don't..." She shrugged. "That doesn't make love meaningless. You don't stop loving someone just because there's a chance you might lose them. If anything, the fact that you can't guarantee the ending is what makes choosing them matter."

He was quiet, processing. “So it’s about hope?”

"Yeah." Her voice softened. "I think it is. Loving someone when you don't know what happens next. Choosing them anyway. That isn't losing."

He looked down. "I don't know if I believe that. Sometimes it feels like no matter how much you love someone, you can still end up alone."

Gabriella studied him. "Is that what you're afraid of?" With Shane?"

His head came up immediately. "No. Not with Shane. But sometimes…" He paused, then dropped his voice even lower. "Sometimes I wonder if I am enough. If I am doing enough. If I am enough for him to stay. Or for the team to need me. For anyone to want me around when I am not being useful."

Her heart broke a little more. "Oh, Ilya."

"I know it sounds stupid."

"It doesn't." She shifted closer. "Shane isn't going anywhere. And neither is the team. They're in there right now, showing you exactly how much they care about you. Do you know how much effort everyone put into tonight? They spent an entire week learning about something they thought was incredibly stupid because they wanted to give you one good night."

His eyes glistened.

"You didn't have to earn any of that. You just had to let us love you."

He looked at her then.

"That's not a losing game, Ilya," she said softly. "That's love. They love you, Ilya." Her voice caught slightly. "I love you."

The words hung between them. She hadn't planned to say them, not like that, not so plainly. The alcohol had loosened the careful boundaries she usually kept in place, but the words were true. She worried for a moment that she had gone too far. Then she saw his face.

"You really believe that?" he asked, his voice rough.

"I really do."

"And you love me?"

“Of course I do.” She gestured vaguely towards the house. “Isn't it obvious by all this stupidity?”

He smiled, the first since they had come outside. "Maybe yes."

"I've sacrificed my dignity for you repeatedly. If that's not love, I don't know what is."

He chuckled. “Yes, you have.”

"So yes." She bumped his shoulder. "I love you."

He bumped her back. "And I love you too," he said softly and pulled her into a hug.

They sat like that for a moment, the tension finally beginning to leave his shoulders, when Cassie popped her head out through the glass door. "Ah, guys, you have missed two songs, and I have been advised by Zane to tell you that Norway is next and he will kill you if you miss it."

Ilya didn't let go. He just yelled, "Be right there!"

"If you don't let go, people will keep thinking we're dating," Gabriella said, snickering.

"Pfft," he said. "I never even had a chance. You said I am definitely not your type."

She snorted. "Ilya, you were practically married when I met you."

"Details."

She leaned back and wiped the tears from his glittered cheeks. "You are my hugging type, though."

"Yay. Bonus for me."

+++

SONG 15 – NORWAY

Ilya and Gabriella slipped back into the room just as the Norwegian postcard began. Bood was pacing, practically vibrating with barely contained excitement.

"Oh, thank god," he said, pointing at them. "I thought you were going to miss it!"

"We would never do that to you, or to Norway," Ilya said, settling back onto the couch. "We are ready for Europop greatness."

KEiiNO took the stage, and the room cheered. Their voices soared, pure and commanding. The beat dropped, and the room was up dancing, waving flags, Bood was waving his poncho around as he sang along to the lyrics.

"Every 'He lå e loi la' makes me ridiculously happy," Harris declared once more.

"Norway give me winning vibes to be honest," Hayes shouted. "I have goosebumps! Bood, you chose well!"

Ilya nodded. "They will be at the top. Eurovision audiences always recognise greatness."

The three-way harmonies toward the end had everyone dancing together and singing to the screen once more. Everyone chanted along with the joik sections, their voices joining the crowd in the arena.

"This is indigenous representation," Bood said, his voice reverent. "This is history. This is everything."

Dykstra looked almost surprised. "I didn't know I needed Eurodance until now. It's... good!"

Ilya clapped him on the shoulder. "Do not worry, Dykstra. We will teach you about good music."

At the end Bood tossed back a shot. “Fuck yeah Norway!”

"To Norway!" everyone echoed.

+++

SONG 16 – UNITED KINGDOM

When the UK took the stage the room's energy dipped completely. The song was competent, polished, professional, perfectly performed but something was missing. There was no magic. Quite frankly Gabriella was bored. Ilya was checking his phone again, so he clearly was too.

Dykstra sat up straighter halfway through and declared, "Now that we know it was written by Sweden..." He paused for effect. "It's so obvious. It's a carbon copy of Sweden's song. He sang it well, but we have seen it before."

Harris's mouth fell open. "Holy shit."

Gabriella immediately strode over to Dykstra and pulled him into a hug. "Congratulations," she whispered.

He looked at her strangely. "For what?"

"You passed."

His face crumpled, and he started to cry. Harris joined in, and soon the three of them were in a group hug.

Ilya watched from the couch. "What is happening?"

"He understands," Gabriella said. "He finally understands."

Ilya shook his head, but he was proud. "Good job, Dykstra."

Dykstra wiped his eyes, still laughing. "I don't know why I'm crying."

"Because you are one of us now," Harris said, patting his back.

+++

SONG 17 – ICELAND

The postcard for Iceland popped up, and Gabriella instantly scooched closer to the screen. As soon as the stage turned red and she caught the first glimpse of leather and chains, she turned and shot Ilya a significant eyebrow raise.

He saluted her calmly with a smile and a small nod, an acknowledgment of her interest in his past.

“The screen is that way Gabriella.”

She shot him a glare and turned back towards the Icelandic chaos on screen. "It’s so fucking subversive," she breathed.

Cassie looked out of her depth. "What is happening?"

"Art," Harris said. "Aggressive, queer, industrial art."

"Gabriella is having a religious experience," Hayes observed.

"Gabriella is having an everything experience," Ilya agreed.

The song built to its climax, the screaming, the pounding beat, the red lights pulsing like a heartbeat. They drank through all of the pyro, Gabriella bouncing happily in her seat. When it ended, she let out a jubilant cheer.

Dykstra leaned back. "They still scare me."

"Good," Gabriella said. "That was everything. I hope Europe appreciates this.."

Ilya nodded, his voice low but certain. "They'd better. It's time for chaos to reign once again."

They looked at each other laughed and saluted to Icelandic domination.

+++

They were drunk enough by the end of Iceland that hardly anything between Song 18 and Song 21 made any impression. The songs blurred together in a haze of daring costumes and key changes, none of them memorable enough to cut through the prosecco and vodka fog that had settled over the room. Azerbaijan and Belarus bored Gabriella so much she wandered into the kitchen to devour more herring salad with a side of stroopwaffles, standing at the counter like a woman on a mission.

Ilya walked in and laughed at her. "Still have the munchies, do you?"

"White shorts and bad pop do nothing for me," she said, mouth half full.

"You are a liar," he said. "They are the pinnacle of Eurovision and you love it."

"Correction," she said, pointing her fork at him. "Bad pop is the pinnacle of Eurovision. White shorts are just the uniform. And yes, I do love it."

He laughed, the sound easy and unguarded. "So. I was wondering, is drunk you going to tell me about Vancouver?"

"Nope."

"What about the you that loves me?"

She scoffed. "Nice try. Absolutely not."

He sighed dramatically. "You know I just want you to be happy."

"I am happy."

"You are drunk."

"I am happy drunk." She grinned at him. "There is a difference."

"Name one."

"Happy drunk me eats herring salad." She gestured at the bowl in her hands with exaggerated pride. "Happy me also steals your lube and turns it into glitter face paint." She grinned, taking another bite. "Big difference."

He considered this, a small smirk playing across his face. "Fair point. But if you ever wanted to talk about Vancouver, or anything else, you could. I promise not to make fun."

"Thank you." She blushed into her salad, suddenly very interested in the herring in front of her.

Before either could say more, Bood's voice boomed from the lounge. "France is starting!"

The opening keys of the song began delicate and promising. Then the vocalist started singing. It wasn't great.

"Never mind!" Hayes yelled. "Stay where you are!"

"No, come back!" Harris called out. "The message is good! It's just a terrible song. They have a ballerina!"

Gabriella popped her head into the lounge, salad in hand. "Oh, you're right. The ballerina is fabulous."

Bood squinted. "Is that sign language? That's a nice touch."

"I think so," Cassie said. "Inclusion matters."

They watched the rest in respectful silence. When it ended, they applauded, not because the song was good, but because the effort deserved acknowledgment.

+++

SONG 22 – ITALY

Ilya stood up, his face alight with anticipation. "Okay, everyone! Now get ready to dance and be amazed! Tonight's winner, Mahmood, is about to begin!"

He had somehow found a red shirt with palm trees on it, he claimed it was a lucky shirt and was already moving toward the center of the room as the opening notes of "Soldi" began.

The room cheered as Mahmood strode onto the stage, his presence magnetic and immediate. The staging was deceptively simple: just Mahmood, three dancers, and a backing screen that shifted from intimate close ups to striking visual statements. Words flashed across the screen: "it hurts to be alive", followed by "Money can't buy your love." The production was stripped back, allowing the song's raw emotion to take centre stage. Mahmood moved with quiet confidence, his voice crackling with tension as he delivered each line like a confession.

Ilya was dancing. Not well, not even intentionally. His body just moved, pulled by the beat, and then Gabriella was beside him, matching him step for step, both of them grinning like idiots.

"Follow me!" Ilya shouted, and suddenly the whole room was up, clapping along to the rhythm, trying to recreate the choreography with varying degrees of success.

"Soldi, soldi!" they all sang and clapped, the rhythm filling the room with a happy, chaotic energy.

Harris had his phone out, filming the chaos. "This is going in the group chat.”

Ilya was fully lost in it, his eyes closed, his body moving like he had been born to this moment.

The song built to its climax, the hand claps driving everything forward, Mahmood's voice cracking with emotion as he stared directly into the camera. The final double clap hit, and Mahmood held the moment, his eyes locked on the audience, a dazzling smile breaking across his face. "Grazie, mille!"

Cheers and applause erupted in the room. Ilya downed the last of his drink and beamed at everyone, his chest still heaving from the performance. Gabriella was laughing beside him, her cheeks flushed, her drink forgotten on the coffee table.

And in that moment, everyone knew that there were now two real contenders to win.

+++

SONG 24 – SWITZERLAND

Switzerland began, and the energy dipped again. Cassie leaned over to Bood, murmuring something about the barbecue.

Ilya watched her for a moment, then turned to Gabriella. "Why does Cassie not seem as drunk as the rest of us?"

Gabriella kept her eyes fixed on the screen. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, everyone else is well past tipsy. She has been holding the same drink for three songs."

Gabriella shrugged. "Maybe she is pacing herself."

Ilya raised an eyebrow. "You are lying."

"I’m not lying," she said unconvincingly.

"You are a terrible liar." He leaned closer. "You are also a terrible deflector."

She sighed. "Everyone has different tolerances, Ilya. You four are as big as houses, and I am pretty sure I am out drinking you."

Ilya laughed. "Now I know you are properly drunk. If you think you are more sober than a Russian, you have lost your mind."

"Pfft." She waved a dismissive hand. "You are Canadian now. You lost your tolerance the moment you started eating maple syrup instead of drinking vodka."

"Is that a challenge?"

"Lord no. But we will be having a dance off later. You have been warned."

"Deal!" He clinked his glass against hers. "Prepare to lose."

+++

SONG 25 – AUSTRALIA

Gabriella scrambled to her feet the moment the postcard began, grabbing Hayes by the arm. "This is it! We're on!"

"I'm ready." Hayes adjusted his Australian flag like a cape, and they clasped hands, staring at the screen with identical grins.

Harris screamed, "Wait! I forgot I have a present for you, Gabriella!" He ran out of the room and came back with a crown almost exactly like the one Kate had worn in the first semi final with silver sparkles, saint like spikes and stars that caught the light. Gabriella nearly cried as she put it on.

"Oh, Harris, it's beautiful! Thank you!"

"Why don't I get one?" Hayes asked.

"We can share!" Gabriella said, already returning her attention to the screen.

Ilya shouted, "Guys, it's starting!"

Hayes and Gabriella locked back in, and the opening notes of "Zero Gravity" filled the room. They started singing to each other, pointing and grinning.

"Hey you! Hey you! It's me again!"

Gabriella grabbed a scarf from the couch while Hayes pulled off his flag. They launched into the performance, waving them like they were floating through the atmosphere. Ilya watched from the couch, laughing, as they spun and swayed with wild abandon.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Creating art!" Gabriella called back.

She laugh/cried through the operatic chorus, her voice wobbling as she belted alongside the performance. Hayes was doing interpretive dance beside her, surprisingly graceful for a goalie. Then Hayes grabbed Ilya's arm and pulled him into the frey. Ilya stumbled to his feet, still laughing, and joined in.

"Zero gravity, zero gravity..." the three of them sang together, Ilya finally hitting the high notes with surprising accuracy.

"Hold me down! Hold me down!" Hayes and Gabriella sang to each other, and then to Ilya as tears streamed down their faces.

Harris was filming, his phone shaking. "This is the greatest thing I've ever seen."

The final notes faded, and the three of them collapsed into a heap of laughter and tangled flags and scarves. Gabriella lay on the floor, gasping, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Everyone else started clapping for them, a chorus of "Bravo!" and "Encore!" filling the room.

"Thank you, Europe!" Kate yelled from the stage.

"That was beautiful," Cassie cheered.

"Absolutely unhinged," Bood whooped. "But beautiful."

Hayes pointed at Ilya. "Did you know she's secretly Australian?"

Ilya laughed. "What, you think she has a kangaroo in her backyard?"

"I don’t have a kangaroo!!" Gabriella protested, her scarf tangled around her head.

"That's exactly what someone with a kangaroo would say," Ilya grinned.

“She definitely has a flag somewhere!” Hayes yelled.

“You’re literally wearing one!” she shot out.

Dykstra shook his head, smiling. "You're all crazy."

Cassie was applauding.

Harris beamed at his phone. "Hashtag Eurovision."

+++

SONG 26 – SPAIN

The final song of the night came from one of the Big Five countries: Spain. It kicked off with full energy immediately, a chant-like chorus that had the audience in the arena singing along before the first verse was even over. The song was called "La Venda," or "The Blindfold," and it was a pure party anthem.

Bood looked around the room. "Anyone speak Spanish?"

Gabriella leaned forward, listening intently as the chorus hit. "I think it's something about 'the blindfold fell, and only joy remained and new days will begin, stirring up fantasies and you'll become what you wished.'"

Gabriella shrugged. "Essentially, live your life, be free, be yourself. Very self acceptance, very 'you are enough.'"

Hayes nodded, already tapping his foot. "It's giving fiesta energy. Like, aggressive fiesta energy. I like it."

Ilya was already frowning, his foot betraying him by tapping along despite himself. "I hate how catchy this is. It is going to be stuck in my head for days."

Bood nodded slowly, still watching the performance. "I am a bit upset. Not with Spain, but in general. The fact that we didn't see the Big Five until tonight is a disservice to them and to us. I literally have no attachment to any of these songs except Italy. Like, what even is this?"

He gestured at the screen as a giant puppet walked onto the stage. The puppet was massive, colourful, and deeply confusing. According to the announcer it represented "society that oppresses us" looming in the background like a strange, oversized metaphor that no one fully understood.

Harris raised his glass. "We should have drinks for random introduction of stage design."

Gabriella snorted. "Then we would be drinking all night."

Hayes grinned. "And we haven't been already?"

The song continued its relentless assault of positivity. The final shot was the Spanish singer on the catwalk, the camera pulling out to reveal his back to the whole crowd. An amazing celebratory shot of the audience behind him, all dancing and waving, the stage lights glittering like a thousand tiny suns.

"Now that is an astounding end pose," Harris said, clapping.

The final notes faded, and the room erupted into applause, more for the energy than the song itself.

Hayes toasted. "Thank you, Spain!"

"Thank you, Spain," everyone echoed, laughing.

They all stood up to stretch and grabbed water, the energy in the room shifting from performance watching to voting preparation. Gabriella sprang for the voting cards and handed them out to everyone.

"Fill in your faves as per the rules. Hand them to me when you are ready. No more than ten minutes and you can’t vote for your own country! Then we can hold the house vote!"

“Yes, hurry up.” Harris yelled, “I am not missing Madonna!”

Chapter End Notes

SONG REFERENCES IN THIS CHAPTER

Competing Songs (2019):
"Chameleon" by Michela Pace (Malta 2019)
"Ktheju Tokës" by Jonida Maliqi (Albania 2019)
"Friend of a Friend" by Lake Malawi (Czech Republic 2019)
"Sister" by S!sters (Germany 2019)
"Scream" by Sergey Lazarev (Russia 2019)
"Say Na Na Na" by Serhat (San Marino 2019)
"Proud" by Tamara Todevska (North Macedonia 2019)
"Too Late for Love" by John Lundvik (Sweden 2019)
"Sebi" by Zala Kralj & Gašper Šantl (Slovenia 2019)
"Replay" by Tamta (Cyprus 2019)
"Arcade" by Duncan Laurence (Netherlands 2019)
"Spirit in the Sky" by KEiiNO (Norway 2019)
"Bigger Than Us" by Michael Rice (UK 2019)
"Hatrið mun sigra" by Hatari (Iceland 2019)
"Roi" by Bilal Hassani (France 2019)
"Soldi" by Mahmood (Italy 2019)
"She Got Me" by Luca Hänni (Switzerland 2019)
"Zero Gravity" by Kate Miller-Heidke (Australia 2019)
"La Venda" by Miki (Spain 2019)

OTHER SONGS
Eurovision Theme
"Fuego" by Eleni Foureira (Cyprus 2018)
"Euphoria" by Loreen (Sweden 2012)
"Fairytale" by Alexander Rybak (Norway 2009)
"Ding-a-dong" by Teach-In (Netherlands 1975)

Next up: Voting Chaos

Chapter 10: Grand Final: Voting

Chapter Summary

Eurovision voting is a lot more involved and chaotic than it should be.

Chapter Notes

Ca. 70% plot, 30% Eurovision.

Bood stood at the front of the room, an empty beer bottle in hand as a makeshift microphone. The in-house vote had been chaos from the start. Scorecards had been filled out, some people with careful consideration and others with snap decisions on the spot. Ballots were handed back amid a flurry of yelling and improvised maths.

"Alright, alright, settle down," Bood announced, tapping the bottle. "It is time for the douze points reveal. One at a time. No heckling. Well…" he glanced at Hayes, "...minimal heckling."

Ilya went first. He stood up, straightened his shirt with exaggerated dignity, and delivered his votes in rapid, rolling Russian. His hands moved dramatically as he spoke, his voice rising and falling like he was delivering a speech to the UN. He paused for maximum effect, then announced his douze points.

The room applauded even though they did not understand a word. He smirked and sat down.

"Translation?" Hayes asked.

"I gave twelve points to Australia. The rest does not matter."

"That is not a translation."

"That is the only part that matters."

Gabriella went next. She stood up, smoothed down her glitter-covered shirt, and delivered her votes in crisp, elegant French. She let the language roll off her tongue like she was reciting poetry, pausing just long enough to let the silence build, then announced her douze points.

"Et mes douze points vont à... l'Australie."

She sat down with a satisfied smile.

"That is so unfair," Bood complained. "You made it sound so classy. I just sound like I am yelling."

"You are yelling," Harris pointed out.

"That is my style."

Harris stood up next, adopting an accent that wavered somewhere between Eastern European and a bad impression of a game show host. He announced his votes with the flair of a man who had been waiting for this moment his entire life, building up to his douze points like he was Oprah giving away a car.

"Twelve points to... Norway!"

Hayes followed, and instead of just announcing his votes, he started complimenting the room before revealing his choice, praising everyone's commitment and emotional investment.

"Incredible showing from everyone tonight. Bold choices. Very brave. However, my douze points go to... the Netherlands!" He gave a theatrical bow and sat down.

Dykstra kept it simple. "Estonia. Twelve points." He sat back down, looking vaguely satisfied.

Cassie went last. She stood up, already tearing up, and announced her douze points with her voice cracking.

"My twelve points go to... the Netherlands!" She wiped her eyes. "I am just so proud to be part of this. This is the best house vote I have ever been part of."

"It is also the only house vote you have ever been part of," Bood pointed out.

"That does not make it less special!"

Bood held up the scorecards he had already tallied, his expression shifting from showman to announcer. "Alright. The results are in."

He read them out, starting from third place.

"In third place, with forty-eight points... Italy!"

Everyone cheered. Ilya groaned loudly, throwing his head back like he had been personally betrayed.

"This is wrong! You are all wrong! Mahmood deserved better!"

Bood coughed into his hand, barely suppressing a grin. "Okay, great showing from Italy. Now for the big reveal. The two countries in contention for first place are... the Netherlands and Australia."

He paused for dramatic effect. The room leaned in, every drink forgotten.

"According to our prestigious juries, the Netherlands has scored fifty-two points..."

Another pause. Someone shouted, "JUST TELL US!"

"Whereas Australia has scored..."

Bood held the silence until it was almost unbearable.

"FIFTY-EIGHT POINTS! AUSTRALIA HAS FINALLY WON THE IN-HOUSE EUROVISION VOTE!"

The room erupted. Hayes roared in celebration. Gabriella jumped into his arms and they spun around in a circle, both of them laughing and screaming. Someone ripped the Australian flag off Hayes's back and flung it into the air. Everyone else cheered around them, whooping and hollering like they had just won an actual championship.

When Hayes had calmed down a little, he pointed at Ilya's liquor cabinet. "That's my bottle! I want the whiskey."

Ilya strode across the lounge, grabbed the bottle, and handed it to Hayes like it was the Eurovision trophy. Gabriella relinquished the crown and placed it on his head.

Hayes posed like a pageant queen, holding the bottle tight, his face split in a triumphant grin. Harris of course documented everything.

Gabriella found some party poppers and started letting them off as Hayes held up his hard-won prize. He started singing and dancing with it, belting out "Zero Gravity" at the top of his lungs, his voice thick with emotion. Everyone joined in.

Looking on, she shook her head, smiling as the chaos unfolded around her. She had started the season alone with only spreadsheets and silence in her tiny office. And now she was here, in Ilya Rozanov's house, in a room full of hockey players celebrating Australia's fake Eurovision win with the kind of joy that could not be faked.

What had her life become?

She did not know. But she was grateful for every ridiculous second of it.

+++

After the celebrations died down, Harris and Gabriella exchanged a knowing look. The chaos had settled into a warm, comfortable buzz, and the room was still glowing from the fake Eurovision victory. But there was one more thing left to do.

Harris cleared his throat dramatically. "Alright, everyone. Settle down. It is time for the main event."

Bood looked up from his beer. "There's more?"

"Of course there's more," Gabriella said, pulling a stack of certificates from her bag. "You didn't think we would let you go through all that training without proper recognition, did you?"

Harris stood beside her, holding a bunch of ribbons to wrap about the certificates. "Welcome, everyone, to the first ever graduation ceremony of The Centaurs University of Culture."

The room burst into applause and cheers. Dykstra looked genuinely excited. Hayes was already adjusting his crown. Harris took a moment to hand out glasses of prosecco to everyone, making sure each person had a drink in hand before the ceremony began.

"First," Gabriella announced, "I would like to invite our captain and dean of the school to sign off on the certificates. Ilya Rozanov, will you come to the stage?"

Ilya blinked. "Me?"

"Yes, you are the captain."

"And the dean," Harris repeated. "You have to sign the certificates."

Ilya strode over to them, still shaking his head in disbelief. Gabriella handed him a pen and a stack of certificates. He signed each one with exaggerated flair, like he was signing a bill into law, adding little flourishes to each signature.

"There," he said, handing them back. "Now it is official. Do I get to make a speech?"

"As the dean, it is your right," Gabriella said, her voice warm.

Ilya looked around the room at his teammates, his friends. They were all watching him, grinning, holding their prosecco like it was champagne at a wedding. He took a breath and stepped forward.

"Alright," he said, his voice rougher than he intended. "As captain of the Centaurs and dean of this... very real university... I would like to say a few things."

He paused, gathering himself. "When I came to Ottawa, I did not know what to expect. I was a Russian guy with a reputation and a lot of opinions. I did not think I would find friends. And I definitely did not think I would find a team that would learn Eurovision just for fun."

His voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat and pressed on.

"You learned it all with enthusiasm, with commitment, with joy." He looked at each of them in turn. "You are now officially honorary Europeans. Which means you can no longer claim to be uncultured Canadians. But more than that, you became people who chose to understand the things I love, just so I wouldn't have to love them alone."

He paused, his voice softening. "I will be honest, lately I have been going through something and I have been feeling a little lost. But tonight, for the first time in a long time, I feel like I have been found. I feel like I am home because you are all here."

He raised his glass. "So thank you. Thank you for being enthusiastic, and for being ridiculous, and for learning about Eurovision. Thank you for being my team." He paused, then added, "And thank you to Gabriella, who started all of this."

He looked at her, his eyes bright, then back at the room. "I do not know what I did to deserve you all. But I am very, very grateful. Congratulations to the 2019 Graduates."

He raised his glass higher.

The room was quiet for a moment. Then Bood raised his glass. "To Roz!"

"To Roz!" Everyone echoed.

They drank, and the warmth spread through the room like a wave.

“Thank you Dean.” Gabriella stepped forward, her voice warm and teasing. "Now let’s begin with our first graduate. Evan Dykstra."

Dykstra perked up, looking surprised to be called first.

"Evan," Gabriella said, smiling at him, "you started this journey confused, uncertain, and repeatedly convinced that Estonia was somehow country music. But you persevered. You asked thoughtful questions, you defended your terrible opinions with unwavering conviction, and you eventually learned to appreciate the chaos of Eurovision on its own terms. You are officially a graduate of The Centaurs University of Culture."

She handed him the certificate. Dykstra took it, beaming, and held it up like he had just won an Olympic medal.

"I would like to thank my family," he said. "And Estonia, which is clearly the European home of country music. I don't care what anyone says, that country gives country music energy. They were awesome."

Hayes opened his mouth to argue. Harris shook his head at him. "Let him have this."

"Also," Dykstra continued, "I would like to thank the Czech Republic for 'Friend of a Friend.' It is a contender, and I don't care if none of you believe me. It’s a banger."

He held the certificate up again, his expression utterly sincere. "I also want to thank you all for giving me this opportunity and for believing in me." He hugged Harris and Gabriella tightly.

"We knew you could do it," Gabriella said.

Evan sat back down, clutching his certificate like it was made of gold, a smile spread across his face.

"Next!" Harris announced. "Wyatt Hayes."

Hayes stepped forward, once again wearing his Australian flag like a cape and the crown.

"Wyatt," Harris said, reading from his notes, "you approached Eurovision like it was a playoff series. You made maps, you studied stats, you annotated your packet with three different highlighter colours. You declared North Macedonia a feminist masterpiece and defended Australia with the fervour of a man who had personally funded their delegation. You are officially a graduate of The Centaurs University of Culture with honours in enthusiasm."

Hayes accepted the certificate and immediately held it up for a photo. "This is going on my wall," he announced. "Right next to my Stanley Cup ring."

"You don't have a Stanley Cup ring," Bood pointed out.

"Not yet. But when I do, this will be right next to it."

"Next," Gabriella announced. "Zane Boodram."

Bood stepped forward, still wearing his Norwegian flag poncho.

"Zane," Gabriella said, reading from the certificate, "you approached Eurovision with the same intensity you bring to the ice. You studied the history, you defended Norway with passion and precision, and you never once wavered in your belief that the Sámi people deserved representation on the biggest stage in Europe. You are officially a graduate of The Centaurs University of Culture with honours in cultural appreciation."

Bood accepted the certificate and immediately turned to the room, holding it up like a trophy. "I would like to thank the Nordic countries," he announced. "For proving that art, performance, and indigenous languages belong on the biggest stage in Europe. Norway showed us that pop music sung in a minority language can and should be in the spotlight. Sweden reminded us that gospel pop is a real genre. And Iceland proved that you can be terrifying and brilliant at the same time."

He paused, grinning. "Also, I would like to thank my wife, Cassie, for letting me be this ridiculous. And for not divorcing me when I spent three hours explaining the Scandinavian voting bloc to her."

Cassie rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "You are welcome."

Bood held the certificate up one more time. "And to everyone who said hockey players couldn't learn Eurovision" - he looked very pointedly at Ilya and grinned - "look at me now." He gave a theatrical bow and sat down to scattered applause and laughter.

Everyone cheered.

"Next," Harris said. "Cassie Boodram."

Cassie looked surprised. "I didn't do the training."

"You transferred late into the class," Gabriella said, her voice warm. "You deserve this also."

Cassie stepped forward, tearing up again.

"Cassie," Harris said, reading from the certificate, "you joined this journey late, but you embraced it fully. You supported The Netherlands with grace, you learned the drinking game rules faster than anyone, and you managed to look like the only sane person in the room while still being part of the chaos. You are officially a graduate of The Centaurs University of Culture with honours in patience."

Cassie accepted the certificate, her voice cracking. "This is the best day of my life."

Bood looked affronted, "Hey!"

She kissed him and smiled, "I know it is yours too."

Bood smiled bashfully, “yeah, it is.”

Harris laughed and declared. "By the power vested in me by the The Centaurs University of Culture, and with the signature of our distinguished dean, I now declare you all officially graduated!"

The room erupted in cheers and everyone was hugging.

Ilya watched them all, something warm and unfamiliar blooming in his chest. He had not asked for this. He had not known he needed it. But here he was, surrounded by people who wanted to know him and wanted him to be happy. And for a moment, the hollow feeling that had been pressing against his soul for weeks was quiet.

Gabriella caught his eye and smiled. "Not bad for a bunch of uncultured hockey players, huh?"

He shook his head, laughing. "Not bad at all."

+++

After the graduation ceremony and Madonna's performance, where Harris actually cried, clutching his orange flag like it was a lifeline, the real voting began.

But before they could start, the hosts cut to Gabriella's favourite administrator, Jon Ola Sand. He appeared on screen, silver hair immaculate, tie perfectly straight, looking slightly harassed but also like he was holding the entire continent together with sheer force of will. He looked stressed, but lovely, as always.

"What's wrong with your boyfriend, Gabriella?" Hayes asked. "He looks like he's about to have a breakdown."

Gabriella frowned at the screen. "He does look a little stressed. It has to be related to the Belarusian jury. Unless there are other voting irregularities we don’t know about. But even if there are, we won't know for a few days."

On screen, Jon was placating the audience, his voice calm but strained. "Everything is okay. We can confirm that, and this will be very exciting. So take it away."

Hayes turned to Harris. "What voting irregularities? What happened with Belarus?"

"They told a reporter who they voted for before one of the Finals," Harris explained.

"Which is a big no-no. So they were dismissed."

Hayes looked shocked. "So they cheated and got caught?"

Gabriella shook her head. "Not exactly. It's not like they rigged the votes or anything. They just broke the rules by revealing them early. So the EBU had to step in."

"So what happens to their votes?" Dykstra asked.

"They created a substitute aggregated result," Gabriella said. "They calculated it based on other countries with similar voting patterns and then those points are awarded."

Bood's mouth fell open. "So the voting is a guess?"

"An aggregate," Gabriella corrected.

"An aggregate guess," Bood said.

Hayes shook his head. "You are right. This show is always full of surprises. Europe is chaos."

Ilya was just enjoying the shenanigans, watching the confusion unfold with a bemused smile. Then he leaned over to Gabriella. "I see why you like Jon Ola Sand. Old man, nice blue eyes. Definitely your type, yes?"

Gabriella snorted. "Shut up."

Ilya cackled. "Ha. I am right."

Hayes chimed in. "She hasn't been subtle about it!"

Gabriella took a pointed sip of her drink, refusing to dignify any of them with a response. Her silence spoke volumes.

+++

After Jon confirmed the results, the jury votes rolled in, a slow tense procession of fifty plus spokespeople delivering their points with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Most of them seemed hyperactive, practically bouncing as they announced their Douze Points.

Dykstra frowned at the screen. "Why are they all speaking English but saying 'douze points'?"

Gabriella smiled. "Remember, the show used to be in French and English. It is basically the last remaining vestige of the Frenchifying of the contest."

"It's tradition now," Harris added.

When former winner Alexander Rybak appeared as Norway's spokesperson, Gabriella practically squealed. "I met him in Düsseldorf! He was so lovely!"

Harris turned to her, eyes wide. "Photos or it didn't happen."

It took her a minute to scroll through her phone, but she found it and showed him. He looked impressed and annoyed at the same time. "I hate you. But also, touch me so I have been close to a Eurovision winner."

They held hands for a moment, Harris still buzzing from the proximity to Eurovision royalty. Alexander ended up giving Norway's 12 points to the Czech Republic, and Dykstra jumped up, celebrating wildly. "I told you I was right! Douze points, baby!" He was equally smug when Hungary, Georgia, and Slovenia followed suit, each one confirming his prediction.

Harris raised an eyebrow. "Calm down, big boy. You haven't won yet."

By the end of the jury vote, Sweden was on top along with North Macedonia, Italy, and The Netherlands trailing behind. But the room's attention kept drifting back to the familiar patterns of the jurors.

Of course, when Greece's announcer appeared. a metal looking dude who shredded a guitar while giving his 12 points to Cyprus, the room cheered. He was clearly enjoying himself, his performance as much a part of the spectacle as the points themselves. The crowd in the arena roared its approval, and in the house, glasses were raised in salute. It was equally loud and unforgiving when Cyprus gave their 12 points to Greece. It was tradition.

The Nordic countries followed with their own bloc voting and everyone groaned and laughed with joy, the predictability somehow making it more satisfying than a surprise.

But then it was time for the televotes, and everything changed. The hosts stood behind a desk and delivered the public votes mournfully, starting with the countries at the bottom of the scoreboard and working their way up to the top. The tension in the room shifted from anticipation to something more intense as the numbers climbed slowly, each announcement met with a mix of relief, disappointment, and the occasional gasp.

Germany scraped together 24 points from the jury but zero from the public. It was brutal. Someone in the room actually laughed. It was Bood. The United Kingdom received eleven points total, three of them from the audience vote, so it was not a complete disaster.

Norway exploded ahead with 291 points from the public and briefly took the top of the leaderboard. Bood's cheers were short lived, his celebration cut short as the next country's results came in and Norway was quickly overtaken. He slumped back in his seat, still grinning despite the loss.

Iceland received 186 points from the public, much to Gabriella's delight. She clapped her hands together, a triumphant laugh escaping her. "See! Europe appreciates Chaos!!"

Ilya clapped her on the back, his grin widening. "I think Europe appreciates leather and chains," he said, his voice full of mischief.

She beamed at him in response, her eyes bright with the thrill of victory. "Time to spill," she mouthed, pointing at him.

He shook his head firmly, his expression turning mock serious. "Boundaries," he mouthed back, pressing a hand to his chest in exaggerated seriousness. She laughed and turned back to the screen.

After that, Russia pulled in 244 points, much to Ilya's surprise. Apparently the Russian machine had been well oiled and Europe had appreciated it. Ilya saluted with a shot, and everyone cheered as they went to first place. Much to Dykstra’s disappointment, the Czech Republic only received 7 points from the public and Hayes howled with laughter. "Sorry, Dykstra. Europe has voted!"

Australia maxed out with a combined score of 284, and Kate Miller-Heidke blew a kiss to the camera. Gabriella and Wyatt cheered. She had already won the house vote, so she was already their queen.

The tension built as the scores continued to roll in. When Italy took the lead with 465 points, Ilya cheered, probably because they overtook Russia, but Gabriella could not be sure. The room held its breath. The winner would be Italy or one of the three countries still waiting.

Then the Netherlands were announced next. Their total climbed past Italy with 261 points from the public, reaching a combined total of 498 points.

The room was ecstatic. Harris yelled, "I told you Duncan would be at the top!" He was already on his feet, pointing at the screen like he had personally willed the result into existence.

“Yeah.” Bood shouted back, "For how long, Harris?"

Ilya's eyes flickered with something complicated. He had wanted Italy to win, had wanted Mahmood to win, but the Netherlands was also good. Both could be true. He watched Duncan celebrate on screen, and for a moment, he let himself feel both things at once, the disappointment for Mahmood and the joy for Duncan.

North Macedonia tanked in the public vote with only 53 points. The last delegation to be announced was Sweden, and everyone looked nervous. They already had 239 points and needed another 260 points to win. The hosts drew out the process, making both Sweden and Duncan wait with the most nervous faces of all time. In a dramatic twist, Sweden ended up scoring only 93 points. The look on his face was pure disappointment as they cut away.

Meanwhile, Duncan and the Dutch delegation were ecstatically celebrating on screen. The Netherlands had won with 498 points. Gold glitter rained down on the stage. It was their first win since 1975. In the house, Cassie and Harris screamed so loudly Gabriella was sure someone would call the cops. Everyone cheered and hugged them.

On screen, Duncan screamed, "Yes! Yes! This is to dreaming big. This is to music first, always. Thank you!" He kissed the trophy.

For the winner's reprise, Duncan performed "Arcade" on stage by himself without a piano. He looked so happy, already crying before he had even started to sing.

“OK everybody,” Bood grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. "Let’s do this one more time!"

The opening "ohh ohhh" notes filled the room, and everyone started singing along, their voices thick with emotion. Hayes held his whiskey up like a torch. Harris was wearing the crown now, tears streaming down his face as he sang along. Cassie cried happily into Bood's shoulder. Dykstra had his arm around Hayes, belting at the top of his lungs.

Ilya found Gabriella in the middle of it all. Without a word, he held out his hand. She took it, and he pulled her into a side hug, her body tucked under his shoulder, her arm wrapped around his back. They swayed together as they watched the screen, not quite in time with the music, but close enough. His arm stayed around her waist, her cheek resting against his chest, and for a moment, they just let the song wash over them.

"I've spent all of the love I saved..."

"Thank you," he said softly, his voice almost lost in the music, his lips close to her ear so she could hear him over the singing.

"Don't thank me yet, we still have a game to watch."

"I know, but I will keep thanking you for everything. Especially for this." He gestured vaguely at the room, at the chaos, at the singing, at the glitter still clinging to everyone's faces.

She smiled up at him, her eyes bright. "There is no need to. I wanted to do it. We wanted to do it."

"I'm serious. Thank you," he said again, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "For not giving up on me."

"I will never ever give up on you." she hugged him tighter.

They all sang together. "We were always a losing game..."

The chorus swelled, and everyone sang along, their voices rising together. Hayes was doing a dramatic reenactment with his whiskey. Harris was sobbing and filming at the same time. Cassie and Bood were slow dancing now. Dykstra was just standing there, eyes closed, letting the music wash over him.

As the acapella section hit again, everyone linked together, forming a messy, tearful chain of arms and shoulders. They belted out the last few whoooo oh ohhhhhs with abandon, voices cracking and soaring in equal measure. Some were on key. Most were not. None of them cared.

The song swelled to its final notes, and the room exploded into applause and cheers. Ilya pulled Gabriella into a proper hug, holding her like she was the only thing keeping him upright. On the final note, everyone cheered loudly through their tears once more. Everyone hugged each other in celebration.

Ilya held Gabriella a little tighter. "Do you feel a little better now?" she asked, her voice soft.

He looked around the room at his teammates dancing and crying. "Yes," he said. "I feel lucky, i feel like the luckiest."

"Good." She laughed, her cheeks flushed. "You deserve it.”

Chapter End Notes

SONG REFERENCES:
"Soldi" BY Mahmood (Italy 2019)
"Arcade" BY Duncan Laurence (Netherlands 2019)
"Zero Gravity" by Kate Miller-Heidke (Australia 2019)
"Friend of a Friend" by Lake Malawi (Czech Republic 2019)
"Ding-a-dong" by Teach-In (Netherlands 1975)
“Fairytale” by Alexander Rybak (Norway 2009)

HOUSE VOTE:

1st Australia 58
2nd Netherlands 54
3rd Norway 50
4th Italy 48
5th Sweden 24
6th San Marino 16
7th Iceland 14
8th Estonia 12
9th North Macedonia 4

Ilya's Votes: Australia (12), Iceland (10), Netherlands (8), Norway (6), San Marino (4).
Gabriella's Votes: Australia (12), Italy (10), Norway (8), Netherlands (6), San Marino (4).
Bood's Votes: Sweden (12), Netherlands (10), Italy (8), Australia (6), San Marino (4).
Hayes's Votes: Netherlands (12), Norway (10), Italy (8), Sweden (6), North Macedonia (4).
Dykstra's Votes: Estonia (12), Australia (10), Italy (8), Netherlands (6), Norway (4).
Cassie's Votes: Netherlands (12), Norway (10), Australia (8), Italy (6), San Marino (4).
Harris's Votes: Norway (12), Australia (10), Italy (8), Sweden (6), Iceland (4).

 

Next up: Phase Two

Chapter 11: Phase Two (Planning)

Chapter Summary

What about phase two?

Chapter Notes

Things went well at work today, so I've had time to edit this chapter. And because it has gotten completely out of control, I have decided to cut the start off and make it its own chapter.

As a result we may or may not have a new chapter added on. Let's see. The final few chapters need some rewrites. Oke. Enjoy

There was about forty-five minutes between the end of the show and puck drop, and immediately the room shifted into a strange limbo. The Eurovision high wasn't fading so much as slowly receding, replaced by the creeping tension of hockey.

Ilya had gone outside for a smoke, flanked by Dykstra, the two of them talking animatedly about something that made Ilya laugh. It seemed to Gabriella that there was an unspoken rule that one of the Centaurs had to stay close to him at all times, a quiet agreement no one discussed but everyone understood.

Harris rearranged the snacks and adjusted the decor, carefully removing the Eurovision flags so they could focus on the game without distraction. Hayes put himself on coffee and water duty, moving through the room with quiet efficiency, topping up glasses before anyone had to ask. Bood had started grilling dinner with Cassie as sous chef, the smell of smoke and meat drifting through the open back door.

Gabriella nursed an espresso tonic between the kitchen and the lounge, keeping one eye on the pre-game show and one on Ilya. She watched him laugh at something Dykstra said and felt a knot ease in her chest. She was silently muttering to herself: He was still here. He was still present. It had worked. It was working.

When Ilya and Dykstra drifted back inside, still talking, still relaxed, Wyatt caught her eye and tilted his head toward the garden, ever so subtly. With one last look at a laughing Ilya, she followed him.

When they were safely out of earshot of the house, he finally spoke.

"So. Phase Two," he said quietly.

Gabriella blinked confused. "Phase Two?"

"Yeah. We successfully completed ‘Phase One’ and we got him through Eurovision. Now we obviously move onto Phase Two. So what happens next?"

She stared at him. "What do you mean, what happens next?"

"I mean, what happens during the game?" Hayes asked, his voice low. "What do we do if Montreal loses? And more importantly, what happens after we all go home? We can't just leave him alone."

She stood there, shocked by the questions. Her drunk brain whirred.

"Are we assuming Montreal will lose?"

"No, not at all. But we need to be prepared."

Her stomach dropped. She had been so focused on getting Ilya to Ottawa and through the night that she had completely forgotten about what came after. What happened when the glitter-high settled and the music stopped and they all went back to their own lives? When he went back to not being in the playoffs?

She had honestly assumed that Eurovision would reboot his brain, and that with the support of his friends, he would be reminded that he had options, that hockey didn't have to carry the entire weight of his existence. But she hadn't thought about what happened when he was alone with his thoughts again.

Oh Fuck. She had fucked up.

She started to hyperventilate, her breaths coming too fast and too shallow. She could feel the panic tightening in her chest, a familiar and unwelcome sensation that she thought she had learned to manage. But tonight, with the alcohol and the exhaustion and the weight of everything she had been holding together, it was too much. She stalked off into the garden, desperate for air, but she could feel Wyatt following her. And somehow, by instinct, she knew Bood had followed too. Then her vision started to blur at the edges, the world tilting sideways as she stumbled forward.

"Gabriella." Hayes put a hand on her shoulder. "It's okay. Breathe. We will figure it out."

Bood caught up with them. "What's happening?"

"I think she's having a panic attack," Hayes said.

"What did you do?" Bood asked, his voice sharp with concern.

"Nothing!" Hayes protested. "I just asked what Phase Two was!"

Bood's eyebrows shot up in alarm. Gabriella looked at them incredulously, her vision blurring at the edges as the panic continued to swell. Bood and Hayes moved instinctively, each taking one of her arms, steadying her as her knees threatened to buckle. They made eye contact, breathing with her, their voices low and steady:It's okay. We are together. We will figure it out. He is fine. He is with us now. You will be okay.

After a few minutes, when her breathing started to even out, she practically cried at them. "How exactly will we figure it out? I didn't plan. We didn't plan. Fuck..."

"Hey, hey, hey. Everything is okay," Bood soothed her. "We are strong and capable people. We can come up with a plan. We just need you to breathe. We've got this."

It took her a few minutes to calm down completely. By then, one of the guys had brought her some water. She sipped slowly, the cool liquid grounding her, pulling her back from the edge. Her hands were still trembling, but the worst of it had passed. She took deep breaths.

When she finally looked into their eyes again, Hayes asked, "How are you feeling now?"

She shook her head, then stopped. "Better. Fuck." The word came out shrill and before she could stop it, a sob escaped her throat.

"Okay, just take your time." Bood looked her square in the eyes, his voice calm and steady. "Are you okay to plan, or do you need a minute?"

She sat down hard on the grass. "I can plan. I guess when I planned all of this, I just assumed you, as hockey players, would know how to handle the hockey part. And I forgot about the rest." She took a shaky breath, forcing herself to focus.

Bood kept eye contact with her, his voice calm and steady. "Okay. So let's focus on the hockey part. The game starts in about twenty minutes. What can we do during the game to make sure Cap is comfortable?"

Gabriella forced herself to think, dragging her mind away from the panic and back to the practical. "Well, we know he's supporting his... best friend. Hollander. Not the Voyageurs. So I guess we focus on that?"

Hayes nodded. "Okay, yeah. We can do that. We make it clear we are rooting for Hollander and the other players Ilya likes. Who else on the team does he like?"

She could tell he was trying to get her to focus, to ground her in something concrete. Gabriella thought, pulling names from the scattered memories of Ilya's texts and rants. "Miitka, I think. Secretly Pike. Maybe Boiziau?"

Hayes nodded. "That’s good, we can keep that in mind and we follow Ilya's lead. If he cheers for someone, we cheer. If he stays quiet, we stay quiet. If he chirps, we chirp."

Bood added, "Right. Fuck the rest of them."

Gabriella snickered. "Careful, you'll start sounding like Evan."

Bood grinned. "Good. Fuck Montreal."

They beamed at each other. She must be doing better if they were making jokes.

Bood nodded. "Okay. So we don't support Montreal. We support Hollander and co. That way Roz knows we are on his side."

Hayes looked serious again. "Okay. But what about if Montreal loses?"

Gabriella hesitated. "We have to make it a positive. That Hollander did his best and it wasn't our fault, or Ilya's, for dragging him away from Montreal." She started to look panicked again and took a few deep breaths. The guys breathing loudly with her.

Eventually she got out, "Maybe Harris can help with that? Maybe we can do some social media thing to amplify our support?"

Hayes nodded soothingly. "Okay, yeah. That's a good idea. Harris can handle that."

Bood messaged the group chat. Harris appeared almost instantly, stepping out of the back door with a look of concern. "What's happening?"

"We are working on Phase Two for the game," Hayes said. "We need you to create a distraction online in case Montreal loses. Turn the evening into a positive."

Harris gaped at the small group. "Eurovision wasn't enough? And now you want me to drunkenly come up with a social media campaign? Duncan only won twenty-five minutes ago. I’m still fragile!"

"Maybe you can tie it in?" Hayes said earnestly. "Use the party for something to change Roz's focus? I don't really know how to do what you do."

Harris's brows knitted. "How long until the puck drops?"

"Eighteen minutes."

"Okay, I can try and come up with something. Do you have any ideas on what Phase Two is?"

Hayes spoke up. "Aggressively support Hollander and whoever else Cap cheers for."

Bood added, "Not the Voyageurs."

Gabriella, “Fuck the Voyageurs.”

Harris perked up. "Good start. Okay. I'm going to need cake and a quiet corner to think." He stalked back to the house.

Bood turned back to Gabriella. "Okay. And what about after? Like when we go home?"

Gabriella hesitated. "You all have families to get home to, so I guess... maybe... I guess..." She stumbled to get the words out. "Maybe I could stay over?"

Bood raised an eyebrow. "Stay over?"

She shot him a dirty look. "Platonically, Bood. Sheesh, how many times do I have to tell you? We are just friends." Her voice was firm, but her cheeks were flushed. "I could stay over and distract him. Maybe talk to him about… stuff. Whatever he needs."

Bood nodded. "Okay, great start. You stay over 'platonically' and then he goes back to Montreal. And then what?"

"I guess we support him through that. Let him know we are here, and he doesn't have to haunt the playoffs."

"Yeah, okay, whatever happens after we figure it out as we go."

She started to nod but then stopped. A ghost of an idea swam through her thoughts. "Maybe…" She shook her head. "No."

Bood looked at her expectantly. "No, what? You had an idea. Tell us."

She scrunched up her face. "I could, maybe, go there? Offer to watch the game with him in Montreal. I have friends there who could help me find somewhere private to watch it. Make sure he isn't alone."

Hayes's eyes widened. "You would go to Montreal?"

"Yes?"

Bood perked up. "Yeah, that's a good idea. A solid Plan B. You go to Montreal. Do you have a place to stay? We could help."

Hayes nodded. "Yes, we can definitely do that. Especially because we can't go ourselves."

"I’m pretty sure there will be no hotels left during the playoffs. But I can probably find a couch."

Bood smiled. "Gabriella, there are always rooms when you have money. And we have NHL money. Don't worry about that. We've got this."

Hayes nodded. "I will book you a room when the game starts."

She stared at them incredulously, once again reminded that she had forgotten they were earning millions while she only made a few thousand. The gap between their worlds was always there, lurking beneath the surface. But they were willing to help her out for Ilya, and that meant more than she could say.

She looked conflicted, but she nodded. "OK. If you really think it's best, I will contact my friends in Montreal and set Plan B in motion."

The guys fist pumped. "Now that's a solid plan. Phase Two: aggressively support Hollander, support Cap. Harris comes up with a distraction in case they lose. Phase Three: Gabriella stays over, 'platonically'." Bood emphasised the word with air quotes.

She glared at him.

Bood continued, unbothered. "Then Plan B: you watch Game Six with Roz in Montreal."

Hayes nodded. "We’ve got this.”

Gabriella exhaled slowly. "I hope so."

"Sorry it's all on your shoulders," Hayes said, half hugging her.

Gabriella nodded, parsing it through the drunken haze. No. This was the right thing to do. She would message her friends in Montreal. She could call Marcel and call in that favour. And if not, she could book a private screening room just for the two of them. Either way, it would work. For now, she would sober up and shadow Ilya. This was all doable.

"No, it's the right play. We do this." She nodded aggressively. "But if we're going to do this right, we're going to need to change our face paint."

The guys beamed at her. "Damn right we do!"

They tried to high five each other all at once, missed spectacularly, and then went inside to execute their plan. They had the confidence of drunks buoyed by a post-Eurovision glow and the massive amounts of alcohol they had already consumed. They just had to hope Phase Two wouldn't blow up in their faces.

Chapter End Notes

No songs, just panic.

Next up: Phase Two the Execution

Chapter 12: Phase Two AKA Game Five

Chapter Summary

The Centaurs quietly put Phase Two into motion, throwing their support behind Shane Hollander (not the fucking Voyageurs) with enough chaos and noise to keep Ilya from noticing.

Chapter Notes

98% plot, 2% Eurovision

They all returned to the living room after carefully amending their face paint, somehow managing to do it without Ilya noticing. Small details had been added to each person: a 24 on Bood's hand, hearts and stars on Cassie's cheeks, Hayes with a 2 and 4 configuration on his cheek, and Dykstra with stripes. Gabriella painted her hands instead, since numbers in the mirror proved impossible. Even Harris had reluctantly scrubbed off his orange and replaced it with a subtle tribute in blue, white, and red. They moved quietly, speaking in hushed tones, careful not to draw attention to their conspiratorial efforts.

Gabriella even managed to fix Ilya's face paint. She told him he needed an update and carefully wiped off the Italy flag. He barely noticed, his eyes fixed on the pregame analysis, and just nodded when she asked. She worked quickly and carefully, and when she finished, she stepped back to admire her work. The number 24 sat boldly on his cheek, a small tribute to the person he loved most, hidden in plain sight.

"You are now ready for the game."

"Yes, I am always ready for Hollander," he said absently.

Everyone kept organising around him, drinks and snacks ready, barbecue on the grill. They were set. They settled into the pregame show until Harris held up his phone. "Okay, everyone. Group photo for the socials. Big smiles."

The room arranged itself around Ilya, who barely looked up from the screen. Harris directed them like the social media manager he was. "Bood, move left. Hayes, stop making that face. Dykstra, you look like you are at a funeral. Relax.”

"I am relaxed," Dykstra said, his smile frozen.

"Try again."

"Okay, now Ilya, look at the camera!"

Ilya finally glanced in Harris's general direction and smiled widely, though his attention was clearly still half on the TV.

Harris snapped several shots: one with everyone looking at the camera, one with everyone pointing at Ilya, one with everyone holding up a 2/4 combo with their fingers, and another with Harris in the centre as the star. Through it all, Ilya remained largely oblivious, his eyes drifting back to the screen between flashes.

When they were done, Harris scrolled through the photos, grinning. "Perfect. This is going straight to Instagram."

Ilya barely glanced over. "Pick one where we look the hottest."

"Of course," Harris said, already tapping away at his phone. "I want us to go viral." He posted it immediately.

When the puck dropped, everyone cheered as Shane won the faceoff. The first few minutes passed in a blur of end to end action. Washington pressed hard, but Shane's line was everywhere, breaking up plays and generating chances. Nothing had paid off yet, but the energy in the room was electric. Everyone leaned forward, drinks forgotten, eyes locked on the screen as the game settled into its rhythm.

After a few minutes, Bood headed back to the grill, his phone propped up to stream the game while he kept an eye on the room through the window. Cassie floated between the grill and the house, checking in on both fronts, making sure everyone was okay. Everything felt manageable. They had a plan and they were ready for whatever was about to happen.

Gabriella watched Ilya from the corner of the couch, his eyes fixed on the screen, his shoulders tight with tension. She had no idea what she would say to him after the game or if she could actually follow through on any of it. But she was going to try. For now, she would observe and offer support where she could.

++++

Harris’ post to the Centaurs official account:

Image 1: Ilya in the centre, surrounded by Bood, Hayes, Dykstra, and Gabriella. All of them are face painted and proudly showing off their 24 paint. Some are holding up fingers forming a 2 and 4.

Image 2: Same shot, but now a selfie with Harris in the foreground, grinning like he's just pulled off the greatest heist of his career.

Caption: Ottawa's finest is backing Ottawa's own @shanehollander24 in Game 5 of the Eastern Conference Final. 🏒💙

We're donating to the Irina Foundation for every goal he scores. Will you?

🔗 Link in bio to donate.

#GoalsForIrina
#OttawasFinest
#Hollander24
#CentaursSupport
#NHLPlayoffs #ECF

Harris tagged the Irina Foundation account and, as soon as the post went live, he shared it with the team. The likes flooded in almost immediately with comments from fans, teammates, and even a few rival players appearing within seconds. The likes and retweets mounted up faster than anyone had expected, the magic of the playoffs amplifying their silly post into something much bigger.

Back in the room, Ilya was oblivious. He was already lost in the game, his eyes tracking Shane's every shift, willing him to make something happen on the ice. He was also happily chirping away with Dykstra and Hayes, so he didn't see the post. He didn't see the comments. He didn't notice the quiet pride on his teammates' faces as they sneakily watched the world rally around his cause. He was too focused on the game, on the man he loved, and Gabriella hoped he would stay that way for a little while longer.

+++

Gabriella: Harris, are we going to get in trouble with the higher ups for this?
Harris: Nah, it is the off season. All publicity is good publicity.
Gabriella: What about the GM?
Harris: He can donate if he wants.
Gabriella: That’s not what I meant.
Harris: The charity is live now.
Harris: And it’s the off season. It’ll be fine.
Gabriella: Should we tell Yuna?
Harris: I don’t think so. We’ve tagged the foundation and It’s a grassroots campaign.
Gabriella: From a rival team?
Harris: From the charities co-founders team.
Gabriella: God, I hope you are right
Harris: I hope Hollander scores many goals.
Gabriella: It would save our drunk bacon if he did.
Harris: OMG Check the likes.

Gabriella opened Instagram. The post was already climbing and other teams' social media accounts were reposting it. And then she saw it, the Voyageurs' official account had liked it.

Gabriella: Well fuck me. I guess we’re doing this.

++++

Class Chat

Harris: Alright, alumni. Time to put your money where your mouth is.
Harris: We are taking this to the next level.
Harris: #donationlink
Harris: Tell the team sans Cap.
Bood: Aye aye, Comms Captain.
Hayes: On it.
Dykstra: What is the base donation?
Bood: 1000?
Hayes: 500 for junior players?
Gabriella: What about admin staff?
Bood: 100? 50?
Gabriella: Liked the message.
Hayes: I will pay the difference if you need Gabriella.
Gabriella: Thanks, Wyatt. Depends on how many goals Shane scores.
Hayes: *Side eye emoji*
Hayes: We all know he is a machine.
Gabriella: Okay, good point. But I can carry my own.
Gabriella: I will pass the message onto the admin and box office chats.
Harris: I’ve got comms covered.
Dykstra: I hate to state the obvious, but should we tell Roz? He is right there.
Hayes: Nah, look at his face. He is so invested. Let him find out later.
Bood: Yeah, a "we raised a few thousand for your charity while we were all drunk" surprise will cheer him up.
Harris: Yes. We are the best.

++++

Just as Bood returned to the room and announced the meat needed a few more minutes to rest before dinner would be ready, the puck found the back of the net. The room erupted.

Shane had scored.

On screen, he winked at the camera and held up a single finger. That's one, the gesture seemed to say. Ilya was beaming at the screen, his grin stretching wide across his face. Around him, the room exploded into celebration. Hayes jumped to his feet, fists pumping, Bood let out a whoop, Cassie cheered with her hands in the air, Dykstra punched the air and Harris snapped photos. Gabriella clapped so hard her hands stung, her eyes fixed on Ilya's joyful face.

"THAT'S ONE!" Harris yelled. "I am going to be so poor tomorrow."

Ilya turned to him, confused. "What?"

"Nothing!" Harris said quickly, still filming. "Just excited!"

Right after, everyone's phones started buzzing with mentions and notifications, a steady stream of alerts about the game. Ilya glanced at his own phone, frowned, and put it on silent before setting it back down. He didn't seem to care that his notifications were going crazy and he didn't bother to swipe into a single one. His attention was already back on the screen.

The group quietly pulled out their phones under the cover of celebration. Payments were made, screenshots were taken, and reminders were sent to their respective group chats. Bood texted Cassie to double check the donation, while everyone else kept promoting the campaign to their friends and online. The hum of quiet coordination continued beneath the noise of the game.

They all looked incredibly smug. Dykstra kept glancing at Ilya, then back at his phone, trying to suppress a grin.

Harris sent a message to the class chat: One down.

Hayes: He's gonna get a hatrick.
Gabriella: Keep manifesting, Wyatt.
Harris: Yep, goodbye hard earned money.
Bood: Yo. Eyes up before Cap notices.

The room settled back into the game, the energy electric. They were just getting started.

+++

As Bood announced that dinner was ready, the room shouted back to wait until the break. But Cassie decided not to wait. She moved through the lounge with purpose, pressing plates into hands and making sure no one went hungry. She delivered food directly to everyone, including Ilya, who accepted it with a brief, grateful nod before turning back to the screen.

Ilya was visibly happy, grabbing a plate and eating with one hand, his eyes never leaving the screen. Shane was back on the ice and he was locked in, leaning forward slightly with each shift, his fork hovering mid air whenever the puck came near the net.

Gabriella's phone buzzed in between bites of chicken. She glanced down, expecting another message from the Class Chat. It wasn't.

The notification was from Yuna Hollander.

"Fuck," she whispered, thankfully everyone was too busy chowing down and focussed on the game to notice. She carefully wiped her fingers and swiped the messages open.

Yuna: You are with Ilya.
Gabriella: Yes.
Yuna: Great. Are you at his house?
Gabriella: Yes.
Yuna: Can we join you?
Gabriella: Is this one of your supportive surprises?
Yuna: Yes.
Gabriella: You should know It is us and some Centaurs.
Gabriella: Also we are all very, VERY drunk. It has been a crazy day.
Gabriella: If that is okay with you, yes you should come.
Yuna: OK, That explains a lot, actually.
Yuna: We’ll be there
Gabriella: Great. How do you want to proceed?
Yuna: We will head over during the break and message you to let us in.
Yuna: I don't want to use our key if the Centaurs are there.
Gabriella: Okay. No problem.
Yuna: Do you party animals need anything? Coffee? Ice cream?
Gabriella: We have enough snacks for a hockey army.
Gabriella: We just need good vibes.
Yuna: We can manage that.

Gabriella liked the message and set down her phone, her heart pounding. This evening was escalating at a rate she hadn't prepared for. She decided not to warn anyone. Instead, she topped up everyone's coffees, took a quick shot for her nerves, and finished her meal, trying to act natural.

Shane didn't score for the rest of the period, but Washington did. It was 1-1 at the end, but everyone was buzzing. Ilya still didn't know what was happening and Gabriella had no idea how she was going to explain The Hollander's showing up at the door.

++++

At the first break, Ilya finally looked at everyone's faces properly for the first time. He blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"What is going on with everyone's faces?"

They all smiled at him. Hayes looked utterly innocent in his crooked crown, his new blue and red face paint with silver sparkles on his cheeks. "Do you like it? I think it brings out my eyes."

"Yes, your eyes are very beautiful," Ilya said, "but why do you all have Voyageur colours... and 24s?” He gestured to everyone's faces, his brow furrowed in confusion. The room went quiet for a beat.

Bood shrugged, casual. "We’re watching a game. We have game face paint now."

Harris chuckled. "We're supporting our favourite player."

Ilya was smiling, but he looked genuinely confused. "So you are all Hollander fans now? Why?"

Bood shrugged. "Of course we support Ottawa's long lost son. Who else would we go for?"

Dykstra opened his mouth before anyone could stop him. "Yeah, he's the best player in the league. We certainly are not supporting the fucking…"

Gabriella clamped a hand hard over his mouth before he could finish. "I think what Evan is trying to say is that we want to be supportive of your good friend Shane Hollander. Isn't that right, Evan?" He nodded under her grip.

She grinned, her hand still firmly in place. "Plus we still have all this amazing glitter and face paint to use." She gently let go of his mouth, keeping her eyes cautiously on Ilya.

Ilya stared at them all, dumbfounded, his gaze moving from face to painted face.

Bood jumped in, trying to change the topic. "So, I was thinking, since we're being supportive, shall we bet on how many goals Hollander scores tonight?"

Hayes lit up. "Oh yes. I have fifty on a hat trick."

Harris shook his head. "I say two."

Dykstra, freed from Gabriella's grip, nodded. "I think two. The next will be in the third."

Gabriella smiled. "I say four. One in each period and a bonus."

Ilya kept looking at them like they had all grown three heads. Gabriella held her breath, watching him process. He opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head slowly. She could see him weighing his options. "Hayes is right, Hollander will score a hat trick, one in each period. I will double the money."

Gabriella let out a quiet huff of relief as everyone relaxed into bickering about the odds. Bood manned the betting pool with exaggerated seriousness, debating with those who had made the same bet. He commandeered the whiteboard, scribbling new odds and tracking bets with full seriousness, making sure to be loud and brash enough to distract Ilya from their other schemes.

In the middle of it all Ilya caught Gabriella's eye and tilted his head toward the kitchen. She followed him.

"What is happening?" he asked, his voice low.

"I think they are just trying to show you they care."

"Yes, but why are they focused on Shane?" He looked terrified. "Do they…"

"No." She cut him off gently. "No. They are literally just doing the most hockey thing possible. They are supporting your best friend and Ottawa's own hockey god. You know, to make you happy."

"Oh." A range of emotions flashed over his face. "Ohhhh." He paused, processing. "They are being earnest again."

"Very." She smiled. "They just want to be a part of your life and show you that they care." She watched his face do that thing where he would either cry or stop functioning entirely, and she knew he needed a direct intervention.

"Do you want me to get the vodka out again?" she asked gently.

He looked relieved. "Maybe. Yes, a little."

They did a quick shot together, then headed back for the second period, the tension in Ilya's shoulders slightly lighter.

+++

Class Chat

Hayes: did we go too far?
Bood: I tried to get us back on track
Dykstra: he literally dragged Gabriella out of the room. Like…
Hayes: We can't break him again guys
Harris: chill everyone, Gabriella has this
Harris: I hear glasses clinking
Gabriella: it's OK relax
Gabriella: he's just processing his emotions the Russian way
Hayes: oh thank god

++++

Once everything was settled back in the lounge, Gabriella started to fret about the incoming surprise. She positioned herself near the kitchen, pretending to check her phone or shuffle through her email, anything to look casual. The guys were happily chattering on the couches, oblivious to her quiet panic. She glanced at the door every few seconds, her heart racing, waiting for Yuna's message.

The second her phone buzzed, she attempted nonchalance. "Ah, so, who wants ice cream? I have pistachio or raspberry."

Everyone's hands shot up. “Yes!” and "Both please!" were the most common answers. She left the room but didn't head directly to the kitchen. Instead, she stealthily made her way down the hall, opened the door, and welcomed in Yuna and David.

She snuck them into the kitchen undetected.

"Hi Gabriella," Yuna said once they were inside. "Thanks for this. Have you officially met David before?"

"No, not yet." Gabriella shook their hands, apologetic. "Hello, nice to meet you. Sorry for the chaos. We had a team party before. We are not at our best. There were shots."

"Shots, you say?" David grinned. "Sounds like my kind of party. Lovely to finally meet you. We appreciate all you have done for our boys."

Gabriella blushed. "It is nothing."

"Well, your nothing has raised the foundation thirty-three thousand dollars so far tonight," Yuna said plainly.

Gabriella's mouth fell open. "Oh, well that was Harris. He will be so glad…"

She never got to finish because Harris walked into the room and nearly ruined everything. Gabriella quietly shushed him as he was about to squeal in delight. Instead, he quietly shook the Hollanders' hands, beaming.

"Hello! Hello. Oh my God, are we in trouble? Yuna, I hope we did not overstep. We were just having fun!"

"It is okay, Harris," Yuna said. "Your drunken campaign is working. No harm here. Does Ilya know?"

Gabriella grimaced. "Not yet. He has been distracted with the game. We thought we would just let him find out naturally."

"Well, I guess us being here will ruin that," said David, smirking.

They all smiled conspiratorially.

Yuna leaned in closer. "So, can we get some face paint too?"

"Of course!" Gabriella said.

"Yes, you do that," Harris said, "and I will organise the ice cream. Second period starts any minute now."

Harris paused, an idea forming. "Maybe Yuna and David can help deliver the ice cream as a reveal?"

Yuna looked delighted. "Oh yes, that is a great idea! Wow, the Voyageurs are never this creative. Or fun."

"It is something we pride ourselves on," Gabriella said as she quickly painted Yuna's face with hearts, 24s, and glitter. David settled for stripes and a big 24 on his cheek. She showed them both.

"So fast! And perfect," Yuna said. "Thank you, Gabriella."

Harris took out the first bowls and the other three grabbed the rest.

Gabriella turned to them. "Are you ready? I will go in first, and you follow and deliver to Ilya and whoever is missing out?"

David nodded. "Sounds like a plan."

Yuna smiled. "Oh, this is so fun."

Gabriella strode out and handed her ice cream to Wyatt and Evan. Then, as she settled on the couch, she heard Yuna declare from behind Ilya, "Here you go, honey."

Ilya automatically replied, "Thanks, Yuna," and he went to take the bowl from her outstretched hand.

Then he paused, frozen mid motion. The whole room snapped to attention, turning to see Yuna and David happily holding their ice creams, all sparkling and smiling at Ilya. For a moment, no one moved. Ilya stared at them like they were apparitions, his brain struggling to catch up with what his eyes were seeing. The room held its breath waiting for his reaction.

He jumped up in shock just as the puck dropped and Shane won the faceoff. But no one was watching the game anymore. Everyone was watching the live spectacle in the lounge.

Ilya finally stopped gaping like a fish and managed to get out, "Wh-what are you doing here?"

Yuna smiled. "Well, we saw on Instagram you were having a watch party and it seemed like so much fun, so we thought we would join you. Is that okay hon?"

Ilya was frozen on the spot for a second, and then his brain seemed to catch up in double time. "Of course you can. Ah, everyone..." He jumped over the couch and brought Yuna and David in for hugs. "This is Yuna and David, Shane Hollander's parents."

"Hi, Yuna and David!" they all called out like they were at school.

Ilya laughed, still slightly flustered. "Ah, well, I guess introductions... this is Zane Boodram, my alternate and his wife Cassie. You know Harris. This is Gabriella, as you know. David, do you know…"

"Yes, I know, son."

Ilya flushed. "Ah, okay. Evan Dykstra, defence and Wyatt Hayes, goalie."

Everyone shook hands enthusiastically and Yuna and David settled next to Ilya on the couch.

"So, how is my boy doing?" Yuna asked.

Everyone started giving updates all at once. The general consensus was that he was doing very well.

David smiled conspiratorially. "I guess we can all hope he scores again soon, hey?" He signalled towards the betting board.

Bood perked up. "You want in, Mr Hollander?"

"Yes, put me down for a hat trick also," David said. "And David, please."

"Sure thing, David."

Bood turned to Yuna. "Mrs. Hollander, do you want to bet?"

Yuna spluttered. "I am not betting on my son..." She paused and thought. "Maybe... No. No, I won't bet on Shane. I believe in his talent."

Ilya snorted. "Good, Mumma Yuna. Very diplomatic."

++++

Everyone settled back into the game, Yuna and Wyatt quickly falling into an easy rhythm of commentary about plays and chirps. David happily sipped vodka alongside Ilya, the two of them exchanging quiet observations and occasional grins. Gabriella was sobering up, enjoying the show more than she expected. The room felt warm and full in a way she hadn't anticipated, it was definitely different from the drunken Eurovision chaos of an hour earlier, but in a way that felt just as right. She watched Ilya laugh at something David said, his shoulders relaxed, his smile genuine and felt something ease in her.

She was positively radiating pride at everyone when, midway through the period, Shane was on a tear away.

The room fell silent, everyone concentrating on the screen. Harris started filming, his phone steady as Shane streaked down the ice. The crowd on TV roared, but the room was utterly quiet.

Shane faked to the forehand, then as the goalie bit and shifted his weight, he pulled it back and snapped a shot top shelf. The puck hit the back of the net before the goalie could even react.

The room jumped out of their seats with loud cheers. Everyone on TV went wild. The celebration was immediate and joyous.

On the screen, Shane tapped his heart and winked at the camera. Ilya replicated it, once again a small, private gesture that only Gabriella and maybe the Hollanders seemed to catch. She smiled to herself. This was what Ilya needed, to share these moments with the people he loved, to feel connected even when he was on the outside looking in.

Yuna and David embraced each other, then Ilya, then the room. "David!" Bood shouted. "Don't forget to put your money where your mouth is!"

"Yessir!" David called back, already reaching for his phone.

Everyone diligently pulled out their phones, made their donations, and tagged the #GoalsForIrina tag. The room buzzed with the shared energy of giving and celebrating.

Yuna surreptitiously checked her phone and beamed at them all as the donation tally climbed exponentially.

Harris posted an update to the Centaurs page:

Image: Yuna and David embrace while the rest of the team celebrates around them, faces painted, glasses raised, the chaos of joy frozen in time.

Caption: The Hollanders have joined the Ottawa Centaurs viewing party. That's two goals for @shanehollander24. Will you join the party? #GoalsForIrina

++++

Everyone couldn't believe that Ilya hadn't caught on yet. Maybe he was drunker than Gabriella thought. Or maybe he was just that focused on the game/Shane. Either way, he remained blissfully unaware as the room buzzed around him.

Yuna showed Harris and Gabriella the current total: $77,000 and climbing. They did a little shoulder shimmy together, trying to contain their glee. David hummed delightedly beside them, sipping his vodka next to Ilya, his contentment a quiet counterpoint to their barely contained excitement.

At the end of the second period, everyone was jaunty but significantly less drunk than they had been at the end of Eurovision. Wyatt was now explaining Eurovision to David, his hands moving animatedly as he recounted the highlights and gesturing at his crown. Yuna was debating something with Bood and Cassie, their voices rising and falling in a playful back and forth. Dykstra and Harris were scrolling through photos and Ilya was swanning around like he was on top of the world, still completely oblivious to the quiet scheming that had been unfolding around him.

The score was tied 2-2, and the press were interviewing the captain of the Washington team. It seemed obvious they'd talk to Shane next, so the post-Eurovision drunks and the newly tipsy parents were also patiently waiting for Shane's inevitable interview.

When he appeared on screen, all sweaty and serious, everyone cheered.

"That's my boy!" Yuna hollered, and everyone cheered louder.

Shane gave generic answers to most questions, his voice steady and professional. Then the interviewer asked: "So, Shane, how do you feel about your foundation raising money tonight based on your goal performance?"

Shane looked confused. Clearly, this wasn't a question he had been expecting.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that, please?"

"Yes. Did you know that there is an online campaign happening tonight called Goals for Irina, seemingly started by your rivals, the Ottawa Centaurs? It seems that the aim is for people to donate to your foundation every time you score in tonight's match. So far, you have two goals. What are your thoughts on this?"

Shane looked genuinely taken aback. Then a slow smile crept over his face. "Let me get this correct. The Centaurs are raising money for the Irina Foundation based on my goal tally?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Well, first off, no, I didn't know about this. But it is a nice surprise. I would like to obviously say thank you to the Centaurs and to everyone who has donated so far. Mental health initiatives are very important, and we are happy to be raising funds for those who can give back."

The reporter pressed. "Do you think this kind of stunt is a distraction during such an important game?"

Shane's smile didn't falter. "A distraction? No. If anything, it makes me more motivated to score against Washington. Win or lose, this game is good for both hockey and mental health communities."

The reporter nodded. "Thank you, Shane. We will let you get back to the room."

"Thank you," Shane said. As he walked away, a faint giggle could be heard, followed by a muffled, "Fucking Centaurs."

+++

In the room, Ilya wore the same look of confusion Shane had displayed moments earlier. Everyone else watched him expectantly, uncertain of what he would do next.

Yuna slowly put her hand on his arm. “Ilya, are you okay honey?”

He nodded slowly, then pressed mute on the remote. The sudden silence made everyone freeze. He looked around at each of them, his gaze steady and deliberate.

"So," he said, his voice calm but edged with something sharper, "I guess for the second time tonight, can someone please tell me what is going on?"

Harris spoke up. "We thought it would be fun to turn the party into something charitable."

Bood nodded. "Yes, after Eurovision we wanted to spread the good vibes we were feeling."

"So," Ilya said slowly, "you started an online campaign called Goals for Irina just because you were drunk and wanted to share the good vibes?"

"Yes," everyone answered.

"And everyone donates when Shane scores?"

"Yes."

He looked at Yuna expectantly. She checked her phone. "They've already raised eighty-three thousand dollars and climbing," she confirmed.

“And you knew?” he asks Yuna.

“Yes, dear.”

Ilya stood there processing, his face unreadable. Gabriella could see his eyes welling up and something raw and unguarded breaking through. Then, without a word, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving everyone stunned in his wake.

Gabriella and Yuna both moved to follow him, but David stopped them. "Not yet," he said quietly. "Give him a minute."

They could hear clinking and cupboards from the kitchen. Then a minute later, Ilya appeared with a tray of shot glasses and a bottle of vodka under his arm. He set the glasses down and started to pour. When he was finished, he stood up and faced them all.

"Okay. You all know I am not very good at sharing feelings," he began, his voice rough. "But I will do my best. Tonight, you have shown me patience and kindness." Everyone nodded. He coughed, steadying himself. "It is not something I am used to. But everything you have done tonight is appreciated. Every dollar donated…" He cleared his throat. "That you would do this to honour my mother and my... Hollander... it means the world to me."

He composed himself, taking a breath. "So because you are going to keep killing me with kindness, I will now kill you all with vodka."

He handed out the glasses, skipping Cassie, then raised his own. "Thank you all of you."

"No, thank you Cap! Ilya! Roz!" they all saluted back in one way or another, then everyone downed their vodkas, even Yuna.

Yuna whispered something in Ilya's ear, and he blushed, wiping his eyes. David clapped him on the back. Gabriella felt a swell of pride. Everything was coming together. Maybe Phase Two, as haphazard as it was, wasn't such a colossal fuck-up after all.

Chapter End Notes

No song references, only Hockey and sincerity.

Next up: The After Party

Chapter 13: After Party

Chapter Summary

Everyone is living the life post game.

Chapter Notes

ca. 85% plot? I think I may be as drunk as them.

The third period took their little party to a whole new level of insanity.

Shane scored two more goals, each one sending the room into a frenzy. Gabriella was practically levitating after the second one, that was four total, a hat trick plus a bonus, just as she had predicted. She had guessed that once Shane caught wind of their little campaign, he would be gunning for as many goals as possible. She had guessed correctly, and she was smug as hell about it.

But Washington pushed back hard. In the final two minutes, they found the net, sealing a 5-4 victory. It was an absurdly high scoring game for the playoffs, and the loss stung, but Shane's four-goal performance would dominate headlines regardless of the result. An almost unheard of achievement in any playoff game, let alone a conference final.

Despite the loss, Ilya was radiating pride across the room. He seemed genuinely happy for Shane, even if not with the result, and that had been the aim all along. The loss hung in the air a little, with Yuna still in the room, but there was a collective refusal to let it linger. Everyone kept their focus on the bigger picture, keeping Ilya grounded with his friends and family around him.

Out by the firepit, he was deep in easy conversation with David, Bood, and Cassie, while Wyatt chatted eagerly with Yuna about God knows what. The drinks kept flowing, and the energy was a beautiful collision of drunken Eurovision excess, the success of the charity fundraiser, and the sting of the game loss, all merging into one happy, chilled out session. The earlier tension had dissolved completely, replaced by the warmth of good company and the quiet satisfaction of a night that had somehow worked out exactly as it was meant to (even though nothing was planned).

At the end of the game, Harris restarted the Eurovision playlist, and "Playback" by Carlos Paião started playing, coincidentally one of Gabriella's favourites. She was already dancing around the kitchen, completely in her element, swaying and singing along as she grabbed another drink. She was overjoyed. The Irina Foundation had raised $186,000 by the end of the game, and Yuna and Harris had already posted several updates celebrating the party, the donation tally, and thanking everyone who contributed. Shane had even reposted the stories once the game ended, triggering another flood of donations.

Gabriella paused to watch Ilya through the window. A smile spread across her face as she saw him laughing at something David said, his shoulders loose, his head tilted back. He looked light, with no trace of the tension that had filled her phone over the past few weeks. He was home, not just in the physical sense, but in himself. That was all she had wanted, for him to feel like himself again, even if only for a night. She let herself soak in the sight before turning back to the kitchen.

Gabriella and Harris, being the kind of drunks who cleaned houses, did exactly that while singing along to the playlist. "Waterloo" and "Sound of Silence" went down particularly well as they worked on the lounge, and "Poupée De Cire, Poupée De Son" and "Fuego" accompanied their dishwashing. Within twenty minutes, the lounge and kitchen were practically reset, as if the past several hours had never happened. The only evidence left was the occasional flicker of glitter here and there and the vast collection of empty bottles in the recycling bin.

Just as they finished cleaning and were happily preparing their next drinks, the opening notes of "Euphoria" started to play. Harris and Gabriella turned to each other and smiled mischievously. They both knew what was about to happen. They started to sing and walk towards each other very enthusiastically. As the verse ended and their singing grew more dramatic, they launched into Loreen's full choreography with the chorus. Both of them dramatically crab-danced around the kitchen in time with the music, belting at the top of their lungs. Gabriella knew Ilya and the others had a perfect view of their shenanigans through the window and didn't care. She and Harris were in Euro-heaven.

When the song finished, they collapsed onto stools and clinked their drinks while laughing.

"Great performance," she said.

"Great show," he agreed.

"Thank you for doing this with me. I know it's been intense and despite forgetting about phase two, I think we did well. You did well."

Harris was radiant in that moment. "We both did well. You did something amazing here tonight. You introduced Eurovision to hockey players successfully, maybe too successfully? I don't know. But you made so many people happy tonight. Look out there!" He nudged her towards the window. "There's so much love. You did this."

“You too. We make a good team.”

"Yeah, we do." He grinned. "Maybe you'll reach out and ask for more favours in the future, ha?"

She blushed. "Yeah, maybe I will."

"It doesn't have to be just for Roz. You can ask for yourself too."

She looked wistfully outside. "Yeah, maybe."

They sipped their drinks and watched as the backyard settled into a peaceful hum. Then "Rise Like a Phoenix" started to play, and they immediately started singing along very loudly.

+++

Evan was the first to dip out. They offered him one of the many takeout bags they had created filled with leftover international snacks and wings.

"For you," she said, passing it to him. "Thank you for all of your hard work this week. I really appreciate it."

"It was a pleasure." He paused, his eyes glistening slightly. "Will we do it again next year?"

"No, not unless you want to do distance learning?"

His brow furrowed. "Why? Are you not with the team next year?"

"Of course I am with the team next season," she laughed. "But you will have to do distance learning, because you will be in the playoffs next year. Ilya is not going to let you miss out again. He'll be dragging every single one of you into the post season, whether you like it or not and you'll need to be ready."

She paused, a grin spreading across her face.

"Besides, you've all proven you can learn Eurovision in a week. A playoff run should be easy."

He smirked. "You really think so?" He considered it for a moment, then nodded. "Okay, yeah. Then we do distance learning or we celebrate after the playoffs."

She smiled at him, warm and genuine. "It can definitely be arranged."

They hugged, and he made his farewells, disappearing into the night with his takeout bag and certificate. Gabriella watched him go with pride. He had come so far. They all had.

++++

Harris and Gabriella were deep into a rendition of Dmitry Koldun's "Work Your Magic" when Yuna and David announced they were leaving. They attempted to make their way through the kitchen with Ilya by their side, but found themselves trapped by the dancing duo, laughing quietly at the enthusiastic karaoke routine happening in front of them. Harris showed no sign of shame, but Gabriella stopped dancing and turned down the music to apologise.

Yuna smiled. "You two look like you are having fun."

They just smiled back. "Yes."

David nodded. "We are off now. Thank you for letting us crash your party."

Gabriella waved a hand. "It is Ilya's party, but yes, you are welcome to join us anytime."

Harris chimed in. "Oh yes, you are season ticket holders, you are one of us. Always welcome. For Eurovision also."

Ilya laughed at them. "You two are still very enthusiastic. Maybe the espresso martinis were a bad idea?"

Harris looked appalled. "But they're decaf!"

Ilya laughed at them lightly and tried to shuffle Yuna and David toward the door. "Come on, I will walk you out. You have seen enough Centaurs chaos for one night."

But Yuna pulled away and came back toward Gabriella, her expression softening. "Thank you for tonight, truly. I know why you did it, and I am glad you managed to get him back. He wouldn't let us in to help. But you managed, and as always we are grateful."

Gabriella blushed, caught off guard by the sincerity in Yuna's voice. "Anytime. Are you still okay to get the y’know, for Montreal?"

Yuna winked at her. "Of course. Anything for you both."

David called from the door. "Yuna, the car is here!"

Yuna smiled. "I have to go." She hugged them both. "Thank you, and have a good evening." She squeezed Gabriella's hand. "Take care of him."

As Yuna left, Harris turned to Gabriella. "What is the “y’know” thing she is getting you?"

Gabriella dismissed it with a wave. "Just something for Plan B."

Harris looked shocked. "You started Plan B without me?"

Gabriella grimaced. "Yeah, sorry. But don't worry, I will take lots of photos for you."

Harris frowned. "You had better!"

+++

Bood and Cassie were the next to leave, arms full of leftovers and matching sleepy smiles. Bood paused at the door, leaning in with a wink. "Enjoy your platonic evening," he whispered, loud enough for Gabriella to hear.

Harris followed shortly after with a flourish, pausing at the door to yell, "Happy Gay Christmas to everyone!" before pretending to throw glitter everywhere and skipping off to his ride.

Now only Wyatt, Ilya, and Gabriella remained, sitting around the fire pit in the backyard. Gabriella was wearing the crown again, the sparkles catching the firelight as she sipped her drink. Ilya was stretched out on the couch beside her, their hands loosely intertwined, enjoying the quiet hum of the fire and the fading echoes of the night.

Wyatt looked at them curiously, his brow furrowed like he was trying to solve a puzzle. "Why have you two never hooked up?"

Gabriella nearly spat out her drink. "Excuse me?"

Ilya just smirked beside her. "She has standards, Hayzey. I am not good enough."

Wyatt looked offended. "No, I'm serious. You two get along so well. I know you had that buddy date that didn't end well because of the paparazzi or whatever, but you also have drinking sessions and gossip constantly. How has this not become romantic?" He gestured to them on the couch, still holding hands. "You two are always doing things like this. I just don't get it."

"There's nothing to get." Gabriella looked down at their intertwined fingers, then shrugged and snuggled onto Ilya's shoulder.

Ilya patted her arm. "Yes, we are just friends. She likes to use me as a pillow, and I like to buy her flowers. No need for anything else."

Gabriella smiled. "Nothing else. Nope, nothing." She looked seriously at Wyatt again. "It is purely platonic. Platonic affection."

Wyatt just stared at her. "Platonic... sure."

Ilya tried to help. "Hayes, you are a good man. You know women and men can be friends, yes? I have many female friends. Look at Svetlana…"

"Not a good example," Gabriella coughed.

"Oh yes, we used to have sex, but not anymore, and now we are still the best of friends."

Wyatt looked even more confused. "That is not helping your case Cap."

Gabriella laughed, squeezing Ilya's hand. "Look, Wyatt, I love Ilya. He is one of my favourite people in the world. But I am not in love with him and he isn’t with me. We just work, as friends. Platonic.."

Ilya smiled and parroted, "Yes, platonic friends… mirrors… the same."

Wyatt still looked unconvinced. "I’m just saying you could be happy together."

Gabriella shook her head. "I am happy. He's happy. Just not together in that way."

"Yes, very happy." Ilya said casually, "But I do know a person she might like that way. They have good eyes, nice smile. Slightly taller, nice ass."

Gabriella froze. "Ilya."

"What?" He shrugged, feigning innocence. "I am just saying. I am very good at matchmaking. I also know many hot hockey players..."

"No hockey players," she said firmly. "No. Absolutely not."

Wyatt looked between them, his expression shifting from confusion to growing suspicion.

"What's wrong with hockey players?" Ilya continued, undeterred. "They would treat you right. Be very respectful. Take you on good dates. Plus, they're definitely your type."

"Will you stop?" Gabriella warned, glaring at him. "I don't want to date a hockey player. I get enough of you all at work.”

"Rude. But either way, I will make this happen." His eyes sparkled, clearly loving every second of it. She slumped into her chair, exasperated.

Wyatt still looked confused. "Are you sure you guys aren't already married and you're just messing with us?"

Gabriella looked shocked, “Absolutely not.”

Ilya grinned, leaning back with a theatrical sigh. "You wound me. I would make a great husband. I cook, I clean, I can give your family money for your hand in marriage. Land privileges. A dowry of goats and cattle. I have connections in the old country."

Gabriella stared at him. "This is not a feudal society, and I am a grown ass woman. I do not come with a price tag, especially not for goats."

"You are priceless," he said smoothly, clearly enjoying himself. "But my offer stands. Five goats, two cows, and a small plot of land in the countryside. I have been saving for the right occasion."

Wyatt's mouth fell open. "Are you being serious?"

"Of course not," Ilya said, laughing. "But she would be a fool to turn down such a generous offer. I am a catch."

They continued to bicker softly about Ilya’s marriage potential, his offer of goats and land growing more elaborate with each passing moment. Wyatt watched them both, his head tilted like he was observing a nature documentary. He still didn't understand. But he thought maybe he didn't need to.

"You two are weird," he said finally, shaking his head.

Gabriella laughed. "We know."

Ilya nodded. "That is why we work."

“Platonically,” she giggled.

+++

The evening continued like this until Hayes finally announced he was leaving. In the kitchen, as she handed him his leftovers, he leaned in and whispered, "Are you sure you are okay to stay over? 'Platonically'?"

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "Yes, Wyatt. I’ve got this."

He studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. But text me if you need anything.."

"I will. Now go home to Lisa."

They hugged, and Ilya showed him out, the two of them exchanging quiet words at the door that Gabriella couldn't quite hear. When Ilya returned to the kitchen, he looked a little tired but soft around the edges, his guard finally fully down.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, leaning against the counter. "Do you want to go to bed, or stay up a bit more?"

She considered it. The night had been long and messy, but she wasn't ready for it to end. "Can we talk a bit?"

"Absolutely." He straightened, a small smile playing at his lips. "Do you need snacks or drinks?"

Her eyes lit up. "Ohhh! Snacks!"

He laughed, the sound warm and easy, and started pulling things from the fridge. "I knew you would say that."

They settled onto the outdoor couch with a spread of leftovers including the last of the herring salad, dumplings, cold meatballs, and whatever else they could find. Gabriella tucked her feet up beneath her, cradling a bowl of something warm, and Ilya stretched out beside her, the fire casting flickering shadows across his face. The night had been long, but this part, this quiet and easy part, felt like the best of it.

They talked about whatever came to mind: the game, the party, the insanity of the night, the ridiculousness of Harris's exit, the way Yuna and David had committed to the Centaurs way.

"How do you rate the evening?" she asked, popping a dumpling into her mouth.

"Five stars," he said without hesitation.

"You host a good party."

"I thought you were the host?"

"We were the hosts," she agreed, smiling. "Team effort."

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting to the fire. “Yes, we are a good team.”

She shoulder bumped him between bites of meatballs. "Are you okay with how it all turned out? I know it got out of control with the charity business and the Hollanders. None of that was planned."

"Obviously." He smiled into the fire. "No, I think maybe I learned some things today. Aside from the fact that you love me, which I kind of already knew, but the fact that the guys want to be there for me, to get to know me, and I can tell them things I didn't think I could. That is good."

"Yes, they want to know you. All of you."

She looked at him intently. "Maybe you could tell them about…" She gestured vaguely at the house, at the life he kept hidden in plain sight.

He grimaced. "I can't. Not without Shane's okay. But I would want to one day."

"I think they would like it," she said softly. "I know they would like it."

"Yes, they are very into big gay love now. Eurovision proved it." He paused and turned to her dramatically, his eyes wide. "Gabriella, did you just actively queer my team by teaching them Eurovision so they would understand gay European politics?"

She snorted. "Well, that wasn't the aim… but I guess it is a bonus result of it all."

They laughed together, the sound warm and easy in the quiet of the night. "You are indeed a Jedi," he said.

"Yes. I am one with the queer force,'" she teased.

They continued like this for a while longer. So much so, she didn't remember falling asleep. One moment she was laughing at something Ilya said, and the next, she was out cold, her head heavy on his shoulder, the crown slipping from her hair and landing softly on the couch cushion between them. Ilya didn't move. He just sat there, letting her sleep, watching the fire die down and the stars glisten in the sky.

Chapter End Notes

SONG REFERENCES IN THIS CHAPTER
“Poupée De Cire, Poupée De Son” by France Gall (Luxembourg 1965)
"Waterloo" by ABBA (Sweden 1974)
"Playback" by Carlos Paião (Portugal 1981)
"Euphoria" by Loreen (Sweden 2012)
"Rise Like a Phoenix" by Conchita Wurst (Austria 2014)
"Work Your Magic" by Dmitry Koldun (Belarus 2007)
"Soldi" by Mahmood (Italy 2019)

next up: The morning after

Chapter 14: The Hangover

Chapter Summary

Emotions run high as Gabriella and Ilya nurse their hangovers and navigate a difficult conversation.

Chapter Notes

It's not all sunshine and rainbows this chapter folks:

Content Warning: This chapter contains references to depression, mental health issues, suicidal ideation, and treatment.

Also, I have finished editing the next chapter and have split it into two... so we are now up to 16 chapters! Huzzah.

The next morning, Gabriella woke up feeling like utter shit in an unfamiliar bed. Her mouth tasted like glitter and regret, and her head was pounding a rhythm that felt suspiciously like the beat of "Soldi." There was a bucket on the floor next to her, along with a glass of water and paracetamol. She sat up slowly and everything shifted slightly. Lying back down, she remembered she was at Ilya's house, probably in one of his spare rooms. She was still wearing her pants, but her top was now an oversized Centaurs tee that definitely did not belong to her. She could see the number 81 on the sleeve.

Oh.

She smiled to herself and then regretted every life choice that had led her to this moment, melting back into the bed.

She lay there as a puddle in human form, willing the world to stop spinning long enough for her to function. She attempted to grab her phone, which thankfully was plugged in and charged. God bless Ilya. She knew it wasn't her drunk self she needed to thank for these small concessions. He must have found her passed out, carried her inside, made sure she was comfortable, and set her up for either a good death or a slightly less traumatic awakening. Unfortunately, right now it was the latter.

After a few deep breaths and some water, she was able to blearily look at her phone.

Class Chat

Bood: everyone alive?
Hayes: define alive
Bood: not 6 feet under
Dykstra: wish I was
Hayes: seconded
Harris: i feel as fresh as a daisy
Bood: you are still drunk Harris
Harris: *sparkle gif* Yes
Hayes: @Gabriella did Cap look after you?
Gabriella: am all good. Puke bucket is empty. Paracetamol had.
Gabriella: Will now track down all the greasy food in my vicinity
Harris: that's our girl
Hayes: Make sure Roz gives you a proper hang over breakfast!
Gabriella: Yes, will report back once i can move

She smirked at her phone but put it down quickly as the world began to shift once more. She waited for the pulsing in her head to die down and tried to piece together the night before. There had been singing, a dance off, the fire pit. She remembered something about goats and a country estate, though the details were hazy. She and Ilya had talked into the night, but the specifics were slipping through her fingers. She knew they had been truthful by the fire, they always were, but she could not quite recall if they had discussed Vancouver or "Iceland". Surely she would remember if they had. Instead, all that remained was the warmth of the flames and the comfort of not being alone.

After the paracetamol kicked in, she found the bathroom to make herself presentable, then made her way downstairs. The living room was clean, it seemed her and Harris's drunken cleaning efforts had paid off. It was mostly glitter free.

She eventually found Ilya in the backyard on a deck chair, half asleep in the sun, two cups of coffee cooling beside him. He looked up when she shuffled out, his eyes bloodshot but his smile warm.

"Morning," she mumbled.

"You're alive!"

"Debatable," she croaked.

He gestured to the coffee. "It is mostly fresh. Drink it."

She grabbed the cup and slumped into the lounge chair beside him. It was almost a love seat, really, generously sized for one very large person, like a hockey player, or perfectly cosy for two normal sized people. She sank into the cushions, and the warmth of the morning sun began to seep into her aching bones.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, taking her first sip of coffee.

"Fragile, but good. Might still be drunk," he admitted.

“Hmm, me too.” She shuddered. "I'm glad I mostly stuck to gin. If I had been mixing, I think I would have slept in your bathroom."

He laughed at her.

"Eurovision is amazing, but the day after? Oof. Nul points."

“But it is worth it, yes?”

"Absolutely." She took another sip.

"So, did you enjoy our platonic sleepover?" He gave her a suggestive eyebrow wiggle.

She groaned, letting her head fall back against the chair. "Ugh, yes. I don't know if I passed out or slept, but either way, that bed was comfy. Thank you for letting me stay."

"You are welcome. I want you to be comfortable here… Even if you won’t accept my marriage proposal."

She groaned louder. "Oh my God. That is why I woke up mad about goats. Why did you even say that in front of Wyatt?"

"Ah, to distract him, of course."

“And you thought that would distract him from all the other rumours about us?”

“Was funny. I am sorry, I promise not to bid for your hand in marriage in the future.”

“You had better, if Shane finds out you will have to pay for my funeral expenses.”

“Shane will not kill you, he will get Yuna to do it,”

"What the fuck, Ilya? I thought we were friends, but this whole time you were setting up your mother-in-law for a felony?"

He snickered. "No felony. There would be no body."

"Not helping!" She kept drinking her coffee, but she was smiling.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "Do they really think we are dating? We joke, but do they really?"

She gave him a serious nod. "Yes, Ilya. They are very certain, despite my many protests that we are just friends and platonic, that we are a thing."

"I'm sorry. I will do my best to be more platonic and less… me."

"Please never be less you. But maybe not plan my murder or our wedding in public. Okay?"

“Okay.”

“Thank you.”

"But you know," he said, his eyes glinting, "we could have told him you were dating 'Josh'." He said the name with exaggerated air quotes, wiggling his fingers for emphasis.

"I was not inventing a fake boyfriend just so you don't have to talk about your actual boyfriend."

"We could have invented a very nice girlfriend for you. As I said, I have some ideas…"

"Ilya, please. My head hurts. This is too much right now."

"Okay, yes. I am sorry." He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Platonically."

She nearly choked on her coffee. He was never going to let her live this down. They sat there for a few minutes, bathing in the sunlight, the warmth slowly easing the tension in her shoulders some more.

"So when do you head back?" she asked.

"I have a car coming at two. I wanted to give Shane some time to relax before I show up with dinner."

"Good boyfriend."

"Yes." He smirked. "The best."

"Humble too." She kept her eyes on the garden, not quite able to look at him. "So I was thinking maybe I could come up tomorrow and watch the game with you… if you want."

She eventually looked at him cautiously. He was sipping his coffee calmly, but he didn't look at her or answer.

"Would you like that?"

It was only at that moment that she realised he hadn't answered because he was silently crying. He wiped his face and nodded. "Yes, I would like that."

She pretended not to see and nodded back. "Good, because I have plans."

"You always do. So, what are these big Montreal plans?"

"Well, I have some friends who could get us into one of those private clubs. We could probably rent one of their viewing rooms. It would be just you, me, and the staff. No weird Voyageurs fans watching, just us and the game."

"That sounds nice. Yes, let's do this." He nodded at her, then his expression shifted into something more curious. "Now, tell me about these friends in Montreal. Are they like your friends in Vancouver?"

She rounded on him slowly so her head didn't pound too heavily. "Did I, ah, talk about Vancouver last night?"

He laughed quietly. "Relax, Gabriella. You did not talk to me about your amazing sex vacation. Yet. I know you will when you are ready."

She visibly relaxed. "OK, that's good."

She snuck a look at him and saw genuine disappointment flicker across his face. Guilt twisted in her gut. Yesterday he had opened up to her about the playoffs, his anxiety, the loneliness, the depression, the self sabotage, and she had given him nothing in return. Maybe it was time to be brave. She could let him in. She could trust him. She sat with that thought, letting it settle, and decided to relent.

"OK, fuck it. Vancouver wasn't exclusively a sex vacation."

"Ha, I knew it!" His face lit up with triumph.

She blushed furiously. "Ugh, don't be like that."

"Like what? I just want to know that these nice friends are taking care of you."

She blushed even further and sunk back into her seat. "Well, they did."

"Oh!" Ilya was incandescent with happiness. "They gender neutral, or they multiple?"

She nearly slid out of her seat trying to avoid this conversation, but she had decided to be brave, to just roll with it. It was probably best to tell him while she was still somewhat drunk and heading into hangover territory. "Ah, they… multiple."

Ilya's smile widened, pure delight radiating from him. "And…" he prompted, clearly not about to let her off the hook.

"And, okay, fine." She set her coffee down and turned to face him properly. "So, when the whole hashtag thing with you happened…"

He nodded emphatically. "Yes, and I am still sorry."

She smirked at him. "I know. It was horrible, yes. But it was also nice in a strange way. People I had lost contact with or rarely spoke to got back in touch. They actually made an effort to talk, to keep a real conversation going. I didn't have to reach out or do all the work for once. It was really, really nice."

"Yes, having photos with the two best hockey players has that effect on people."

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "Apparently so. Even if it was the most basic reason to get in touch, people did, and it was nice to reconnect. To actually talk to people who knew me. And one of those people was from Vancouver. That's where my family is. Did I ever tell you that?"

He shook his head, his expression passive. "No. You did not."

She nodded, her voice quieter now. "Yeah, well I grew up there and my family is still there. And when all that chaos happened, someone from my past reached out. Someone I hadn't spoken to in years. It felt good, you know, like the universe was reminding me that not everything that was happening was bad."

He held her gaze for a moment, his face softening. "Of course it was good. I’m sure everyone wanted to be there for you. Make sure you were okay. It was a lot."

She shook her head. "Well, not everyone. But this one person messaged, and we started talking. Messaging. And it was really nice. Really easy. We just clicked. It wasn't forced or awkward." She was smiling now as she spoke, remembering the awkward-to-fun messages that had slowly turned into something more. "We'd send each other stupid memes, talk about our days, flirt a little. It felt natural, like I wasn't trying to impress anyone or be someone I wasn't. And I think that's why I let it go further… because it didn't feel like work. Which was nice for a change."

She managed to make eye contact once more and Ilya’s smile was the biggest she had ever seen.

"I am happy for you." He tilted his head, his massive grin straining his face. "And are they good enough for you?"

She felt her cheeks warm. "Ilya, you don't understand. He is so hot. Like, so-so hot and lovely, and he has a personality. I know the bar is low, but he can actually hold a conversation and is interesting. Also, he's a Muay Thai kickboxer, so he's just wow. The whole package."

Through her blushes and gushing, she checked his face again. She realised she had changed pronouns by accident. But Ilya was grinning now, clearly enjoying himself, so it didn't really matter.

"Anyway, we just got along. So we agreed that in the break I would visit him and see if maybe it could be something more. No pressure, no expectations."

She took a breath, looking down at her coffee cup.

"So I went." She looked up at him. " And it was good."

"And was there something more?"

She took a deep breath and smiled. "Yeah, there was something."

"I'm glad." He leaned back, looking far too pleased with himself. "Do I get to see your handsome man?"

She scrunched her face, pretending to consider. "I don't know. He's very handsome. I'm not sure you can handle it."

"I am a professional athlete. I have seen handsome men before."

"Not like this."

"Gabriella. Just show me the hot kickboxer." He held out his hand expectantly.

She sighed dramatically, but she was already reaching for her phone. "Fine. But you have to promise not to be weird about it."

"I am never weird."

"Liar."

She scrolled through her photos until she found her favourite. The picture was of a tall, dark haired man with olive skin and shoulder length hair, an extremely fit physique, and a glowing smile. He was wearing a tight shirt and short shorts, the same kind Shane wore that she knew drove Ilya crazy. Every part of his body was accentuated in that damned outfit. She loved this photo because he was glowing, genuinely happy, and she remembered exactly how that day had felt.

She offered it to Ilya and he studied it for a long moment, then let out a low whistle. "Holy shit, Gabriella, he's a ten."

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm more surprised he's not an old man! He's hot. Damn. Good for you." He handed the phone back. "Did you say you already knew him?"

"Yeah, he went to my cousin's school. We hung out at parties and stuff growing up. He didn't look like this then. He was awkward and nerdy, but always athletic, you know. Not in an evil jock way. Just an unassuming nice guy way."

"So he was a late bloomer."

"Very late. Like, post-university late. But he grew into himself, and honestly the confidence suits him."

"Back then, did you ever?"

She shook her head, a small smile on her lips. "No. I mean, I noticed him because he was always around, always nice, always made me laugh. But he was just… there. A fixture, someone you take for granted because they've always been there."

She paused, looking at the photo again.

"He told me later that he'd had a crush on me for years. He was just too scared to say anything." She let out a soft laugh. "And I spent all that time thinking I was invisible and weird."

She looked down at the photo, her voice dropping. "I guess at the time I never really believed anyone would want me like that."

"I’m sure that is not true. Were you as intimidating then as you are now?"

"I wouldn't say that. I was quieter back then, more in my own head, which some people could interpret as unapproachable. But I've always taken a while to warm up to people and to let them in. Trust doesn't come easily to me, it never really has." She glanced at him. "But once I do…"

"You slowly trickle out information and they learn you are actually soft and gooey inside?"

She laughed. "Something like that. I just don't like to give people everything at once. I like to see if they're safe… or if they'll stay. And if they do, then I let them in a little more each time."

He nodded slowly. "And he passed the tests?"

"He did." Her voice softened. "He passed them all."

She could feel him smiling from across the divide. “Will you see him again?”

She hesitated, it wasn't an easy question to answer. "I don't know," she said, her voice quieter now. "I think part of me is still figuring out if I'm ready for that."

He nodded, giving her space. "That is fair."

She deflected by checking her phone, the screen offering a brief escape. Ilya must have sensed it because he changed course.

"And the other they's?"

She felt a different kind of warmth creep across her cheeks. "Well, there was one other. I went out with the girls on a different night and 'reconnected' with another friend." She did air quotes, and Ilya mirrored them back to her with an amused grin. "She was someone I had been with in the past. And when we were together, it was like no time had passed at all. We could read each other's bodies perfectly. And again, it was so nice…"

"So you had a very good week," Ilya observed.

She nodded, still smiling. "The best."

"You have another photo? Give."

She didn't even try to hold back this time. She scrolled through her photos and found the one she wanted, a tanned, athletic woman with tattoos all the way up her thighs, wearing a silken slip. She was holding up her long dark hair and smiling at the camera, backlit by sunshine. You couldn't really see the face, but you could feel the affection through the screen.

Ilya studied it for a moment, then let out a low whistle. "Damn, another ten. I didn't know you had this much game, Gabriella."

"Well, now you do." She smiled at him, taking her phone back. "I love this photo."

"What does she do?"

"She's a dancer. Modern dance. She's very good."

"Only the best for you." He leaned back, grinning. "So, this is your lady type? Dark long hair, athletic, tattoos?"

"Mostly, yeah." She shrugged, still smiling at the photo. "I seem more drawn to redheads, but I keep dating or sleeping with dark haired women, so maybe I don't actually know what my type is."

"You can have several preferences. That is okay."

"Says the man whose preference is exclusively Shane Hollander."

"Well, there were a few years where I tried very hard for that not to be true. So I dabbled across the board."

"And how did that work out for you?"

"Made me love him more."

"Sickening," she joked.

He looked back at her, proud as punch. "I know."

She looked at him and smiled. He was so warm and welcoming, but he was also notoriously a little shit, always poking, always prodding, always wanting to know more than she was ready to give.

“Did you see them separately or together?”

“Separately, I don’t share in that way.”

“Smart. But they knew?”

“Yes, he thought it was hot and she didn’t care.” She shrugged. “Good for me.”

“But probably confusing if he was chasing you for a relationship, no?”

"Maybe…" She trailed off, not wanting to admit that even though he/Daniel had seemed like the right guy, something had still felt missing. Then Zara had reappeared, and somehow she had filled in the cracks without even trying. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to be with just one person, even if that person checked every box with a great body, mind blowing orgasms, and a gentleness she hadn’t known she'd been missing until she found it.

She didn't bother to finish the thought. After a few moments, she watched his expression shift. His smile faded slightly, replaced by something more conflicted. His emotions played across his face like he was trying to figure out how to ask something else without pushing too hard.

"What's up?" she asked gently.

He hesitated, then let out a breath. "I guess… I want to know… if it was so lovely… why didn't you want to tell me?" He sounded almost defeated. "These people, they treated you right. You had fun. You clearly had a good time. Why would you not want me to know that?"

He looked pained again, and she knew it was her fault once more for not being open with him. She felt a pang in her gut. She was a bad friend.

"You don't have to tell me everything," he continued, his voice softer now. "I know you get weird about sex talk. That's fine. But I want to know this stuff. I want to know about you and about the people in your life." He paused, holding her gaze. "So yes. That is what's up."

She felt the weight of his words settle between them. She couldn't deflect. Not this time.

"Oh."

"Yes, oh."

Gabriella had a thousand answers, but her head was screaming, and her face must have been filtering all of them through because he looked concerned. He was being so honest, and he was hurt. She couldn't pretend she didn't have reasons. Her brain once again told her to deflect, but the drunk part of her, the alcohol still travelling through her bloodstream, wanted the noise to stop. It wanted to keep being honest even if that meant he might never look at her the same way again.

She reminded herself that she could trust him, even if she was scared of the consequences. She took a breath and gathered her thoughts.

"The reason I didn't tell you wasn't because of the sex. That is just me being awkward. For real, the sex was great across the board, highly recommended." She paused. "But I don't want to get into specifics. There will be no diagrams."

"No, I don't need a diagram." He smirked slightly. "Am expert."

She snickered despite herself. "I’ve heard." The humour faded. "But that's not it. I… I…" She could feel the lump rising in her throat and tears pricking at her eyes. She rolled over to look at him properly. He mirrored her in his chair.

"I didn't want to tell you because Vancouver was lovely, but it wasn't real. It was like Disneyland for me. Make believe. You know what I mean?"

He looked confused.

"With Disneyland you go there and everything is perfect. Manicured gardens, smiling people, everything exactly how it should be. For one day you have everything you ever wanted. But then after, you go through the exit and you're in a car park in the middle of nowhere. And everything is grey and sad."

"So Vancouver was Disneyland? You had a good time, but this was a bad thing?"

She sighed audibly. She didn't want to do this. She was dancing around all of the things she wanted to say.

"Yes." She frowned at him as she tried to say the rest. "I needed Disneyland for those ten days. I needed to go on the rides and live the dream. But now, after… I have to deal with reality."

"And reality is… not good?" He was trying to understand her, his brow furrowed with concern.

"No. I mean… Look, my life is generally good. I have a great job, you guys are great, I love my life here… but it isn't always good." She let out a shaky breath. "Ah, fuck. OK. Let me try again… Do you remember what I told you about why I moved to Ottawa?"

"You said you moved here for work from Spain."

"Well, I lied a little. I didn't move here for work. I moved here because a few months before I got the job I had a really bad time, mentally. It got so bad that I had to move back from Madrid to get the help I needed. At first I went to Vancouver because that was where my family was, but they were not helping."

"You do not like your family?" he whispered, obviously trying not to spook her.

"It's not that I don't like them." She shook her head, her voice wavering. "But I couldn't get better with them there. They meant well, but they didn't know how to help. They were scared, and their fear made everything worse. I needed a fresh start. Somewhere I could focus on me without having to manage their worry on top of everything else."

She was starting to well up and rolling away, so Ilya shifted to lay down next to her. They both squeezed onto the lounge chair face to face, his hands wrapping around hers.

"Tell me," he said softly.

Through a shaky breath: "I came to Ottawa for treatment. Inpatient at first. My friend Alice, she's a nurse and lives here, and she suggested a place that could help. So I decided to fuck it and moved my whole life here. She helped me settle in, and afterwards she helped me find an apartment in her building. I didn't have to make decisions. I didn't have to face anybody. I could just exist, first at the clinic, and later at home in peace."

"She sounds like a good friend."

"She really is."

He just nodded and rubbed his thumbs across her knuckles.

"For a very long while things were very hard. I had all these appointments and new medications, and at first I felt like utter shit. But then slowly things came back. I came back. And everything settled." She gestured vaguely towards her head, unable to find better words. He rested his head against hers for a moment, letting her breathe.

"I work hard every day to stay on track," she whispered. "But it is so fucking hard."

She openly wept now, and he pulled her into him, his arms wrapping around her, holding her close.

"And now you have help, yes?"

"Yeah." Her voice was muffled against his chest. "I have my therapist. A psychotherapist. And… more. Yeah, I have help."

"Good." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Ah, thank you for telling me."

She snuggled into his side, eyes leaking all over his nice shirt. They sat there for a long time, wrapped up in each other, the sun warming them as the weight slowly began to lift.

"Gabriella?" She nodded. "You don't have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but if you can… if you want… can you tell me what happened, or maybe the symptoms?"

Her breath hitched and she nodded slightly. "I can't remember everything, but essentially my brain shut down. Then I shut down. I was just empty, and no matter what I did I couldn't make it right. Eventually I had some kind of break, because they put me in the hospital. I may have…" She just let the words float away, unable to finish.

"That part is a blur, but eventually they called my family and my sister came and got me and brought me back here."

"Gabriella…" He tried to look into her eyes. "Did you…?" He searched her face, and she just looked at him, eyes welling.

"Not on purpose," she whispered.

And then she saw his face crumple as he let out a huge sob. "Ah, fuck."

He pulled her closer, and they sobbed together for a while, her tears soaking into his shirt, his body shaking against hers. "I didn't mean to. I really didn't. I don’t know what happened…," she mumbled into his chest.

He was murmuring something in Russian at her now, low and soft, and she just accepted the caresses and the words she couldn't understand. They sat like that even longer, wrapped up in each other and breathing together, the world outside fading into nothing.

She couldn't think about herself now, not when he looked so broken. He was sobbing quietly while he held her, and she remembered what he had said about his mother's death. Guilt washed over her. They had never discussed it after the press conference, but now she wished they had. She had let him down, even if it was before they had ever met. She started to cry again, him still soothing her, his hand rubbing slow, steady circles on her back.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she said over and over.

"I know. It's okay. You are okay," he kept murmuring between Russian phrases.

It took a good fifteen minutes before they untangled themselves. She reached for a drink and found tissues. They were both blotchy, their eyes red with tears.

She could feel him cataloguing her now, his eyes flitting to her wrists and back, searching for something he wouldn't find there. For a moment, she saw the question forming in his mind, how had she done it? But she said nothing. She couldn't. Not yet. She reached for the water, and he didn't ask. She wanted him to. She wanted him to push, to demand, to give her permission to let it out. But he just sat there, patient and steady, and that was somehow harder.

She sat up next to him and looked at him front on, taking a big breath.

"I want you to know I really didn't mean to then, and I don't want to now. Things are good. I am good. The therapy and medications help. I just need a little more support on the bad days, I guess. And as you know, I have been working really hard to be open, to try new routines, to let myself be happy."

He nodded at her, his eyes still glistening. "I know. I can see that."

"But Vancouver showed me it can't be there, not with people from before. It can't be with people who don't know all of me. Not even if they are perfect. It has to be with people who know me now, in this phase of my life. The whole reassembled version. The broken but fixed version. People who choose me and see me as I am. Not what I was, or what they want me to be. Does that make sense?"

He nodded again.

"It makes perfect sense." His voice was thick with emotion. "You are perfect the way you are. You are brave and strong and I am so proud of you."

They both welled up again. "Fuck, Ilya, we have to stop crying. I think I am too dehydrated for this."

He chuckled. "Well, you started this, with the drinking and the partying."

"Yes, I did. I needed this as much as you did."

They held eye contact and he took her hands again.

"It was perfect. Thank you."

She nodded slightly, not trusting her voice.

They sat in silence again, the outside world moving around them.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I just don't generally like telling people, so I make sure that no one knows."

"It’s hard to let people in if you don't tell them, though."

"True. I am still working on it."

He looked at her, concerned. "So, who knows?"

"In Ottawa? Well, my doctors, HR, Alice, and I guess now… you."

"Thank you for trusting me." He squeezed her hand. "If you ever have a bad day, I am here for you, no questions asked."

"Thank you." She nodded at him. "You too."

He smiled sadly. "Yes. I know." They sat in silence once again until Ilya got that look on his face, the one she didn't like. Mischief. "I should meet Alice some day. She seems nice."

She blushed a little. "Yes, she is."

His eyebrows shot up. "Gabriella, are you and Alice…?"

She smirked. "No, it's not like that. Well… a little like that. But neither of us want a relationship. It's just convenient and she's a good friend."

He shook his head, grinning. "How do you have game even when you are in treatment? It's impressive."

"Technically I have finished treatment," she informed him. "But in all honesty, my libido disappeared for ages. But now… yeah… I think I am back on track." They chuckled together.

"Yes, after all this sex you've confessed to, you are definitely back in the horse saddle, or whatever the saying is."

"Yeah." She looked proud of herself. She felt proud of herself.

"Are your friends in Montreal like Alice and the Vancouver branch?" he asked, a teasing glint in his eye.

"The Vancouver what now? Branch? I'm not running a fucking bank, Ilya!"

He shrugged, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "I am just saying, if you come to Montreal to see friends, I would like to be prepared for all of your game."

"We will be watching a game, with help from a friend. A normal friend. No other “game” will be happening."

"Sure, sure. I believe you." He patted her arm condescendingly.

She rolled her eyes. "Marcel is just an old friend. He owes me a favour and he works with VIPs, so he was the best person for the job. Please do not make this weird."

"I promise not to make it weird. But if you two start flirting in front of me…"

"Trust me, that will definitely not happen."

"Oh really? Why? Is he one of us?"

She just winked at him as an answer.

After that, they settled back into their normal rhythm. He kept poking at her, trying to get her to confess to more things that were not trauma based, but she deflected them with ease. She sat there, filling up slowly with warmth as she realised she had needed to tell him. She hadn't told him everything, but enough for him to know and to support her without making her feel alone again. There was no pity in his eyes, just understanding. And that was exactly what she needed right now.

They eventually went inside to devour some bacon and egg sandwiches, the greasy comfort food with about a litre of water, was exactly what they both needed after the morning's emotional weight. They ate in comfortable silence, having long since sailed past the vortex of deep emotions. The quiet between them felt settled and she was grateful.

When it was time to leave, they hugged on the porch.

"Give my love to Shane and wish him luck," she said.

"Of course. I will see you in Montreal."

“Yes.” She pulled back, smiling. "Thank you for not making today too weird."

He grinned. "I learnt from the best."

She rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling.

He called after her as she walked away. "Text me when you get home."

“Of course. See you tomorrow.”

She got into the ride share and pulled out her phone. A message from Marcel confirmed everything was in place: the viewing room was booked, a car was arranged, and thanks to Wyatt, the hotel was sorted too. She leaned back in her seat, letting the city blur past.

She hadn't meant to unload all of that on Ilya, especially while they were both drunk and hungover, but it had been necessary. The words had tumbled out before she could stop them, a rush of honesty she couldn't take back. She would deal with the consequences later and hope he still wanted to be by her side. For now, she just needed to sober up and focus on Plan B. Everything else could wait.

Chapter End Notes

Soldi is once again mentioned :)

next up: Game 6 in Montreal.

Chapter 15: Plan B: Montreal Game 6

Chapter Summary

Ilya returns to Montreal for Game 6.

Chapter Notes

I split the final chapter count so this is now the penultimate chapter.

Ilya stared at the spot where Gabriella's ride share had disappeared, a knot of worry settling in his chest. She had told him more than she probably meant to, and he could still see the weight of it in her eyes, a look he wouldn't soon forget. But no matter how concerned he was, he had to get on with his day and trust that she would be okay, hangover and all. There would be time to check in later. For now, he had to believe that she would reach out when she was ready.

As soon as he turned back to his door, he noticed a weird sign in his window that hadn't been there before. As he got closer, he had to chuckle. She had actually done it, in his window was what looked like a Google review. He leaned down cautiously to read it.

Reviewed by GMarchaud
Local Guide - 24 reviews - 666 photos

IR81 - “Five stars for friendship. Would absolutely recommend.”
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 5.0

I've been using this establishment for almost a year now and can confidently say the service remains consistently excellent. Reliable, loyal, good company, and always there when it matters. The friendship experience is first class, with excellent customer service and a consistently high standard of care.

Services provided include:
* Emergency drinking companion
* Unlimited conversation and laughter
* General life assistance
* Questionable advice, often available 24/7
* Loyalty and support
* Guaranteed good times
* Custom flower deliveries upon request

Customer service: 5/5
Reliability: 5/5
Sense of humour: 5/5
Ability to keep a secret: 5/5
Decision making: 3/5 - some room for improvement

Opening hours:
Monday - Sunday: Whenever there's a good time to be had.

Main complaint:
Occasionally disappears for several hours/days without responding to messages. Management claims he is “busy,” but this has not been independently verified.

Hygiene rating: A+
Friendship rating: A+
Value for money: Exceptional
Would use again: Absolutely.

Overall: An outstanding friend and a five star establishment. Consistently delivers, highly recommended, and I would have no hesitation in referring him to friends and family.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Ilya stood there for a moment, speechless. He reread the review and felt the prickling of tears in his eyes. She consistently surprised him. Even though she had said she would do it, he had never really expected it. How did this one tiny woman, who had been crying on his shoulder an hour earlier, still manage to make him laugh, feel seen, and care for him in ways he wasn't prepared for?

He took a photo and decided to leave it up. Maybe other people would start leaving their reviews for him in the future. He sent the photo to Gabriella with a thank you, and a copy to Shane for support.

He was happy about the review, but it was too early in the morning to process that kind of kindness without vodka. So he kept moving, trying not to get emotional over the fact that his friends kept showing up for him in ways he never expected. It had already been a long morning, and even though he wanted to sit with everything that had happened, he had to pack and close up the house first. There would be time to think about it all later, on the drive to Montreal.

++++

When he finally climbed into his chauffeured car and settled into the leather seat, the city blurred past as he made his way to Montreal. He tried to focus on seeing Shane, but his mind kept drifting back to Gabriella. He thought about the way she had hesitated before telling him about Vancouver and the doctors, how she had slowly shared fragments of her life, carefully revealing just how bad things had been and what that still meant for her in Ottawa. And the way she told it, like she wasn't sure he would stand by her. The thought of her being so unsure about him nearly broke his heart.

He had known she was hiding something. He had sensed it for months, the way she deflected certain questions and built careful walls around parts of herself. But he had not realised how much she had been carrying alone or how heavy the weight of pretending to be fine must have been.

He had so many things he needed to do, so many questions he wanted to ask her. But he also did not want to scare her away. He decided the only way he was going to get everything in order was to channel his inner Shane Hollander. He needed to make a list.

The headers of each section came easily. Things he wanted to know, things he wanted to do for her, and ways he could support her better. He typed them into his phone with a furrowed brow.

Firstly, he wanted to know how she had ended up in the hospital. There were no physical traces he could see, but that didn't mean there weren't scars. Was it pills, like his mother? He needed to know. He also wanted to understand her relationship with her family and why she didn't feel comfortable with them. Was she safe? What was the story there? Why did she not trust people easily? Was it related to her family? If she had left Madrid because of her hospitalisation, were she and Ines already over? Had that been a trigger, or was it something else?

He also wondered how she kept finding all of these impossibly hot people to sleep with. For someone so awkward in certain situations, she must have some kind of superpower. The question was mostly a joke, but honestly, he kind of wanted to know the secret. If he added himself and Shane to the mix, two objectively hot people who were also notoriously difficult to get close to, it started to feel less like luck and more like a pattern. He made a mental note to ask her about it sometime, purely out of curiosity.

He couldn’t help but chuckle at these points.

Next, she had said she was not ready for a relationship with Alice. Was that just about Alice, or was it a general thing? He wanted her to find love. She deserved to be loved. But did she actually mean it when she told him not to set her up? Should he just do it anyway? And if he did, would she kill him, or would she just try to incinerate him with her mind? Probably both. He needed to gather more information.

How could he support her better? He could listen, be there, talk to her about her problems, check in when she was quiet, and make sure she knew he was available, even when he was busy with Shane. Could he tell Shane? Obviously not. It was not his secret to tell. But could he convince her to tell Shane on her own? Shane was reliable and could also provide support.

He sat there staring at his phone, unsure if he was the best person to help someone who was recovering from something he didn't fully understand. She had never told him the diagnosis. Could he assume it was just depression? They had talked about sadness often enough over the past few months. Was that her way of telling him? Could he simply ask her for clarification? He needed to find this out, but he also knew he had to be careful. Pushing too hard might make her retreat, and that was the last thing he wanted.

He needed help. His hand hovered over the call button. How did he ask for help without giving her secrets away? He decided to call anyway.

The phone rang a handful of times before the line connected.

"Ilya, hello, how are you feeling?"

"Hi Yuna, yes I am fine. I am in the car on the way to Montreal. I'm sorry for calling like this. Is now a good time?"

"Of course, honey. Is everything okay?"

He hesitated, then decided to be as honest as he could without revealing too much. "I need help with some Foundation business… well, not business exactly. I want to understand something more and I thought you would know the answer or be able to help me find the answers."

"Okay, sure thing. What do you need help with?"

"I was talking with a friend, and they told me that in the past they suffered from a mental breakdown and had to have inpatient treatment. They have been out for some time and are doing well with outpatient services… But I want to know more about their diagnosis and how I can properly support them without doing or saying the wrong thing."

"Okay." Yuna's voice was calm and steady. "So you want to know what you can and can't do? Like what boundaries shouldn't be crossed or things you shouldn't ask?"

"Yes, this."

"First of all you can't ask for their diagnosis. That's not something they owe you, even if they've shared other parts of their story. What you can do is ask them what kind of support feels helpful to them."

He nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "So I shouldn't ask directly?"

"Not unless they bring it up first, and even then, tread carefully. What you can do is say something like, 'How can I support you in a way that feels right for you? What can I do to help?'"

"I think I can do that." He paused. "But what if I want to understand more about what they're going through? I want to make sure I don’t make things worse."

"That's a good instinct." Yuna's voice softened. "The best thing you can do is make sure your focus is on them, and not about your need to know. Most people when they are confronted with challenging situations make everything about themselves, but with mental health support you need to keep the focus on the person in front of you and how you can be there for them. I can send you some resources about this if you like."

"Yes, would be very helpful."

"OK I will shoot some information over. In the meantime, remember that the most important thing you can do is listen without judgment and let them set the pace. You don't need to fix anything, you just need to be there."

“Yes. I will try to do this.”

“I know you will hon. Do you have any other worries about this person you want to talk about?”

He hesitated again, his grip tightening on the phone. "I don't think I can say too much, but they may have hurt themselves a while back and I want to… No, I need to know how… but I am too scared to ask."

He could hear Yuna take a deep breath. "Ilya, honey, I know this is personal for you. But unless they outright tell you what happened, I don't think you can ask. Instead, you can let them know that if they want to tell you, you are there for them. That you are a safe space. Then hopefully, when they feel comfortable enough they’ll tell you."

He let out a long breath. "Okay, yes. I can be safe space." He paused to rub his hand over his face. "Thank you. In a weird way, that actually makes me feel better."

"Good." She paused. “Ilya, if this person has told you all of this it means they already trust you. You just need to be there and listen even if it is hard, okay.”

"Okay." His voice cracked slightly.

"You're a good friend Ilya. They're lucky to have you on their side."

He swallowed hard. "Thank you, Yuna."

They briefly chatted about meeting in Montreal the next day and about Shane's routine, but Ilya couldn't hold the conversation for much longer. When the call disconnected, he kept imagining Gabriella's tear stained face and how adamant she had been that she hadn't meant to do 'it.' He wished he could know more. But as Yuna had said, it wasn't about him. He would need to be patient and trust that she would share more when she was ready.

He opened his notes app and started typing, a safe space to process without accidentally bombarding her with inappropriate questions. She had trusted him, and now he needed to make sure he deserved that trust.

He thought about his mother and what she would have done. Did she ever ask for help? Did she ever try to seek a safe space? He assumed no, because in the end she had turned to the pills rather than fight her way through. But this was an unfair comparison. They had lived in different times, in different circumstances. His mother had been isolated in a country that offered little support for mental health, in an era when people did not talk about these things. Gabriella had access to therapy, medication, and a support system that his mother never had. Even though in his heart the two women felt intertwined, he had to remember they were separate. He could not project his mother's story onto Gabriella's. Or even his own pain onto hers either.

He added another note to his list: maybe he needed to talk to a professional as well.

He wanted to talk more with Gabriella right now, but he knew she was too hungover and probably too freaked out about everything she had let out. He would let her sleep today. Tomorrow he would see her in Montreal and they could talk again. He would make sure she knew she was not alone, the same way she had done for him, time and again, without ever asking for anything in return.

For now, he had to trust that she would reach out if she needed him. And he had to trust that he would be a good friend for her and not fuck it up.

+++

To distract himself for the rest of the ride, he checked in with the Centaurs, making sure they weren't wallowing in their hangovers.

Bood: Just checking in, Cap. We're here for you.
Bood: For the game and beyond. Whatever you need.
Ilya: Thank you, Bood. That means a lot
Bood: How are you feeling about Game 6?
Ilya: Excited, Gabriella is joining me in Montreal so we will hit the town and show them what we are made of
Bood: Damn right you will. Rest up. Don’t forget to hydrate.

Hayes offered a different approach.

Hayes: [Sends a series of fanedits, the first titled "MAHMOOD WAS ROBBED" with dramatic slow-motion shots of the Italian performance, followed by a hypercut of Australia's staging set to "Zero Gravity"]
Hayes: I have started to collect fan edits. I think I might need separate socials just for Eurovision.
Ilya: You should do this. I need more Mahmood supercuts
Hayes: I can provide, the Australian ones are insane. Did you see how they set up the stage?
Ilya: Is very impressive. I see why you love her
Hayes: Don’t tell Lisa, but I really do!

Dykstra, on the other hand, was for some reason sending videos about fly fishing, all set to Eurovision tracks. He must have made them himself.

Dykstra: [Sends a video of a river, a fly rod, and the sound of someone casting. The audio is layered over "Friend of a Friend."]
Ilya: Is your friend the fish?
Dykstra: Yes! I made a Eurovision playlist for when I go fishing.
Dykstra: I think the beats will help me win catch of the day!
Ilya: I would like you to scientifically prove this
Dykstra: I have all summer to do a complete data analysis!
Ilya:: Caitlin is going to kill me isn’t she?
Dykstra: Only if she finds out.

Harris was the most practical of them all.

Harris: [Sends a wall of articles, screen grabs, and donation updates. The Irina Foundation raised $186,000. Fan accounts are reposting. The official Voyageurs page liked their post.]
Harris: We are viral. We are legends. I am exhausted.
Ilya: You are also incredible
Harris: I know. But also thank you.
Ilya: I will make sure Yuna gives you all the praise
Harris: I will accept a thank you card and a nap.
Ilya: Have you found glitter in any unfortunate places yet?
Harris: It’s everywhere!

He really loved these fools. He would make sure they knew he appreciated them and gave them as much attention as they gave him, within reason.

His mind oscillated between these chats, his worries for Gabriella, and his need to see Shane. He needed to find a balance where he was a functioning adult but also taking care of his friends and family. It was a lot to hold, but for once it didn't feel overwhelming. It felt like something he could actually manage by taking it one step at a time.

+++

When he finally arrived at Shane's house, he let himself in with his key. The place was quiet and dark except for a single light in the hallway. He found Shane passed out on the couch, half dressed in his plane clothes, looking like he hadn't moved since he got home. He must have been truly exhausted if he hadn't even bothered to wash or undress first. He would regret that in the morning.

There was an untouched protein shake on the coffee table, another thing he'd regret not doing.

Ilya sat down on the edge of the couch and gently shook Shane's shoulder. "My love, Shane, wake up."

Shane groaned, trying to roll over. "No. Go away."

"No sweetheart. I need you to get out of your stinky clothes and eat first. Then you can go back to sleep."

"No, I don’t want to."

"Shane, I know you are tired but you have a game tomorrow. You know you will be very cranky if you don’t get all of your calories and these wrinkly clothes off of you."

Shane cracked one eye open. "Fine. You are very bossy."

"Yes, you love it."

"I love you," Shane corrected, pushing himself up. "Not the bossiness."

Shane started to move and when he was sitting up fully he smiled at Ilya. “Hi.” he smiled and leaned in for a kiss.

Ilya kissed him back. “Hi back, love the afternoon breath.”

“Oh fuck off.” and they kissed again. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too. How about you shower and I will prepare some more food for you to grow big and strong.”

“Hmm…okay. Maybe you could help?” he said as he tried to undress Ilya.

“No Shane Hollander, I will not be responsible for you wasting energy in the shower. I will get you to the bathroom and then I will go and make food. Like a good boyfriend. No distractions.”

“You are a good distraction” his hand chased Ilya’s across the couch.

“Nope.” he pulled away. “Cmon, up we go.”

Shane followed reluctantly but let him undress him and put him in the warm shower.

+++

When Shane appeared in the kitchen, Ilya handed him the plate of steamed chicken and vegetables. "Eat, then drink the smoothie."

Shane took a bite, chewing slowly. Then he looked at Ilya, his eyes soft. "Thanks. I really fucking missed you."

"Me too. You played well, though."

"Not well enough."

"You scored four goals. You can't do everything. You did your job."

Shane just looked grumpily at his food, still chewing slowly.

"I saw the fundraising thing," he said eventually. "I can't believe you let me find out through the reporter at intermission."

"Ah, that was how I found out too."

"Really?"

"Yes. It was a surprise from Harris and the team. They started it without telling me."

Shane raised an eyebrow. "You notice everything. How did you miss that?"

"They were very sneaky." Ilya shook his head, still not quite believing it. "Also, I was very drunk. Yuna says they raised almost two hundred thousand dollars. All because of your very pretty goals."

"That’s an insane amount of money. Why did they pick me, though?"

"Why not you? You are the best."

Shane chuckled, the sound warm and tired. "You have the best team mates."

"Yes," Ilya said softly. "I really do."

"From Gabriella’s photos, it looked like you had a lot of fun."

He smiled. "We did. I will explain it all to you after you win the Conference, yes?"

"Mmmm. Careful." Shane said between bites. "Don't jinx it. But yes, I want to know everything. Especially why there was so much glitter and face paint. And why my parents were there."

"Ah, they were there because they missed me and they like to party."

"Mmm. Weird, though. Them and the Centaurs together."

"I will have you know they got along very well. Plus, they're Centaurs season ticket holders."

"They are?"

"Yes. They love both their sons very much."

Shane smiled at him and gestured for Ilya to come around the island. He kissed him deep. "I will make this up to you when I am finished with the playoffs."

"I know, my love." They hugged for a while.

"Eat," Ilya said, pushing the plate back toward him.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Then something occurred to Ilya. "You changed your routine for the finals, yes? You were texting with Gabriella before the game. That's new."

"It's not new," Shane said, a little too casually. "I worked her into my routine a while ago."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. We have a book club now."

Ilya blinked, confused. "You? Mr. Hockey, are in a book club? You are actively reading non hockey books?"

"Yes," Shane said, drawing out the word. "I am growing as a person through literature."

"What kind of literature?"

"Queer books. Fiction, some history, theory and other stuff. Gabriella did a course at uni and is talking me through some of her favourites."

"Why am I not in this big gay book club?"

Shane hesitated. "Ah, well, I guess we assumed you already know it all."

Ilya snorted. "Yes, I know all the gay stories." He chuckled. "So now you read gay books and break your routine to text her about reading books about boys liking boys. You do this with my Gabriella?"

"Our Gabriella," Shane agreed, his voice soft.

"Yes, our Gabriella." Ilya laughed and hugged him. "She is a funny one."

"Hmm. I like her."

"Me too." He pushed the plate back towards Shane. “What are you reading now?”

“We just finished Maurice by E.M. Forster. Have you read it?”

“Ah, no.”

"It's good. It's about a man who falls in love with his friend, and goes through a lot of challenges and shame, but eventually he learns how to live honestly. Proudly." Shane paused, a tired smile tugging at his mouth. "I think Gabriella is trying to tell me something. Maybe give me some hope."

"Maybe." Ilya laughed softly. "Maybe I should read it too." He pushed the plate back towards Shane. "Keep going. Then shake, then bed."

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the night settling around them. Then Ilya spoke again.

"You will win tomorrow, yes? For me?"

Shane looked at him, his eyes warm and steady. "Of course. Just for you. Not because I really want to fucking win."

Ilya laughed, the sound bright. "That is exactly the right answer."

Shane grinned, reached up, and pulled Ilya down into another kiss. "I will eat, but only if you hold me."

"Deal."

Not even fifteen minutes later, Shane was passed out again, and Ilya was passed out next to him, still hungover but glad to rest with his Shane. Shane, who was going to trounce Washington the next day.

+++

As usual on a game day, Ilya woke up to an empty bed. Shane was already deep in his pregame routine. Ilya had his own routine to follow now, the one he had promised himself he would actually keep. That meant making Shane's breakfast, preparing his meals and smoothies, and generally setting him up for success. But it also meant taking care of himself alongside Shane.

He started with the small things. A full glass of water before coffee. A proper breakfast. Five minutes to stretch out his shoulders before the day got too chaotic. He had learned that he functioned better when he took care of himself first, and today was too important to skip that part. Shane needed him at his best, but he also needed to show up for himself. So he took the time, breathed through the morning, and reminded himself that he was allowed to feel steady.

He also needed to check in with the boys again to reassure them he was okay, and placate Svetlana with all the hockey gossip she could handle. He moved through his tasks with a quiet sense of purpose, aware that he was in a better mental state than before he had left for Ottawa. He felt steadier, clearer, more like himself. That could only benefit them both. Shane would hopefully feed off his calm and support, and that might be the edge he needed to win.

The only thing that made him nervous was the thought of seeing Gabriella again. Yesterday had been a lot, but he knew she would want to set that aside for a while and focus on her "big Montreal plans." He could give her that space, especially because he was genuinely excited to have her there by his side, watching Shane's game comfortably and with pride. She had seemed confident they would be watching in private with no issues from paparazzi or crazy Voyageur fans, and he trusted her completely. Still, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that she was up to something more than her usual shenanigans.

He shook his head and continued his tasks. Whatever she had planned, he would just have to go with the flow and see what she had in store for him.

+++

In the afternoon, Ilya went ahead of Shane to enjoy a late lunch with Yuna and David at a quiet restaurant not far from the arena. The plan was simple: eat, catch up (sober this time), and then they would head to the arena and Ilya would meet Gabriella.

Lunch was off to a good start. Ilya and David fell into an easy rhythm, chatting about everything and recapping Saturday's shenanigans, while Yuna watched them both with an amused smile. She seemed distracted, occasionally glancing at her phone, but Ilya didn't think much of it. She was probably texting Shane or one of the WAGs.

David leaned in at one point, lowering his voice. "So, how are you really doing, son?"

Ilya blinked, caught off guard by David being so forthright. "I am okay. Why?"

David shrugged, but his eyes were kind. "You seem lighter than you were a few days ago. It looks good on you."

Ilya paused, considering the words. "I think I am doing better, yes. Going home and seeing the team, seeing them come together for Eurovision, really changed something in me. I don't have the words right now. But yes, I feel lighter. It was a strange few weeks, but it is better now."

David nodded. "Good. You deserve that. They're a good group of guys."

"Yes, they are." Ilya smiled, feeling the quiet support. "Thank you, David."

They were halfway through their entrees when Shane stopped by to say hello, though he didn't stay to eat. He was in his game day headspace, focused and quiet, but he made the effort to show up. The two of them sat side by side like business partners in public, talking with his parents as if it wasn't the biggest thing in the world to be out like this. Ilya was on top of the world, even if nobody knew how much he loved him. Shane stayed just long enough to keep his superstitions at bay, then pulled Ilya into the bathroom for a quick, quiet kiss before heading to the rink. Brief, but enough to get him through the day.

By 4pm, Ilya was starting to worry. He hadn't heard from Gabriella, though he was sure she should already be in town. Just before dessert, Yuna received a message and excused herself from the table. She wandered off toward the front of the restaurant, phone in hand. A few minutes later, she came back with Gabriella in tow.

Ilya blinked, genuinely surprised. Gabriella hadn't told him she had arrived in Montreal. She had barely mentioned her travel plans at all, but she had told Yuna. They looked pleased with themselves, their smiles wide and knowing.

"Gabriella?" he said, standing up. "You didn't tell me you were here."

"I wanted to surprise you," she said, grinning. "Also, I had to run a few errands first, check in to the hotel. You know, priorities."

"And you told Yuna before me?"

Gabriella shrugged. "Yeah, sorry. We were already discussing some foundation stuff. So, here I am."

"Well, I am glad you are here." He stood up and gave her a hug before she sat in Shane's seat.

Yuna was looking pleased with herself, and David looked unphased. Gabriella, however, was already asking the waiter for a ginger ale and smiling at him.

"So, what foundation business did you need to discuss?"

Yuna shrugged. "Just this and that. Making plans for after summer, the usual."

Ilya looked skeptical. "Ah huh." He looked between them, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face. "You two are planning something."

Yuna waved a dismissive hand. "Not at all. We are just excited for the events at the end of summer and the game. Nothing more."

Ilya opened his mouth to press further, but David gave him a small, knowing shake of the head, mouthing, 'Let it go.' So he shut his mouth and let it drop, even though his curiosity was still buzzing through him.

David, calm as ever, steered the conversation back to safer ground, asking Gabriella about her drive from Ottawa and whether she had found the restaurant easily. Gabriella answered easily, her focus clearly elsewhere, but she played along. The four of them chatted for a while longer about the Voyageurs' chances and Washington's failures, the conversation flowing easily. Even Gabriella, who rarely talked strategy, was onboard. Maybe she had learnt something from his manifestos after all.

Towards the end of the lunch, Yuna handed Gabriella a small bag.

"Here’s the merchandise you asked for," Yuna said.

Ilya frowned. "What merchandise?"

Gabriella took the bag, peeking inside before tucking it under the table. "Just some Irina Foundation T-shirts and things I promised to Marcel for tonight."

"I cannot wait to meet this famous Marcel who owes you a massive favour and gets free merch from my charity."

"Me either," Gabriella said, grinning. "I think you are going to like him."

She and Yuna exchanged another look, and Ilya realised that both Yuna and Gabriella were definitely conspiring. But before he could press further, Gabriella's phone buzzed, and she announced they had to go. Their car was arriving.

Ilya hesitated for a moment, glancing back at Yuna and David. Yuna gave him a small, encouraging nod, her eyes sparkling with amusement. David just raised his glass in a quiet toast, a calm smile on his face. Ilya felt like he was being handed off, passed from one set of caretakers to another. It was strange and comforting all at once.

He hugged Yuna and David, pressing a kiss to Yuna's cheek. "Cheer extra loud for me in the arena, yes?"

"Of course," Yuna said.

He and David hugged. "Have fun tonight, son. Gabriella will take good care of you."

Gabriella waved them goodbye and pulled Ilya toward the door. "Come on. We have a game to watch."

Ilya followed her like a lemming. "I am putting an awful lot of faith in your planning abilities."

Gabriella stopped and turned to face him, her expression serious but her eyes warm. "As you should. I am the head of Box Office. It's kind of my job."

"But you are off the clock."

"Yes, but I would never let anything bad happen to you." She held his gaze. "You know that right?"

"Yes. Absolutely." He said it without hesitation.

"Good." She smiled, her grip on his arm tightening just slightly. "Now let's go have the time of our lives."

And she pulled him toward the door.

+++

When they exited the restaurant, the car was already waiting for them, a black sedan with very tinted windows. It pulled away from the curb as soon as they were seated and immediately started driving in a seemingly random direction, weaving through side streets before merging onto the highway.

Ilya watches the city blur past. "Where are we going?"

"Nope." Gabriella doesn't even look at him. "It is a surprise."

He frowned, but before he could argue, she added, "Have you seen the video Harris edited from Eurovision? He wants to post it later."

"No, he didn't. Show me."

She handed her phone over, and he watched the video, his attention momentarily distracted by the chaos of glitter and dancing and singing that Harris had somehow turned into a coherent montage.

While he watched the video, Gabriella chatted happily in rapid French with the driver, her voice light and easy, completely at ease. When the video ended, Ilya looked up to realise they were pulling into an underground car park. The driver typed a code into the security pad and they drove forward to follow the circular road until they stopped outside a nondescript entryway.

"Is this your super secret VIP club?"

"Yes, it is." Gabriella grinned. "Follow me."

She thanked the driver, and they walked through the nondescript entrance, all concrete and surprisingly uninviting. Up ahead, near an elevator, stood a tall dapper man with slicked back brown hair dressed in a navy suit, looking elated to see them.

"Gabriella! So lovely to see you."

"Marcel." She hugs him tightly. "Thank you for doing this last minute."

"My pleasure, my pleasure." He turned to Ilya, extending his hand. "And you must be our surprise guest. It is a pleasure to meet you. I’m a big fan."

Gabriella smiled at him expectantly.

"Yes, thank you," Ilya said, shaking his hand. "It is nice to be here in your murder bunker."

They all laughed. "Ah, yes, it is not the most inviting entrance, but it is the safest for our VIPs. We don't want anyone to get murdered tonight." Marcel winked at Gabriella, which did not make Ilya feel any safer.

She shot something back at him in French, and he threw his head back and laughed. "Yes, I will be on my best behaviour. This way."

He ushered them into the unmarked elevator and used a keycard to get them to the P-floor. Penthouse? Private? Ilya had no idea what it stood for. When they exited into an empty stairwell, Ilya was still very confused about where they were. Was Gabriella friends with the Canadian military? Was she illuminati? Where exactly was he?

They took the stairs up one flight, the concrete echoing with each step. Marcel popped his head around the corner first, checking that the coast was clear, then said something in rapid French to Gabriella. She nodded, and they followed him into a long hallway lined with doors marked P-1, P-2, and onwards. The walls were glass but heavily curtained, blocking any view of what lay beyond. The area had the hushed, soundproofed quality of a recording studio, which did not make Ilya feel any safer.

They stopped outside P-14.

"This is you two." Marcel swiped a key card and pushed the door open.

The room was not what Ilya had expected. It looked more like a high tech office than a VIP lounge, with desks cluttered with buttons and screens, plush carpet underfoot, and a few comfortable armchairs arranged to face a set of heavy curtains. It was strange, almost clinical, but Gabriella seemed unbothered, so he tried to relax.

Once they were inside, Gabriella made a beeline for the fridge, inspecting its contents with genuine curiosity. She moved on to the goody bags on the table, peeking inside each one like a kid on Christmas morning. Marcel watched her with an amused smile before turning to Ilya.

"This is one of our primary suites," Marcel explained, gesturing around the room. "It is currently out of commission due to a technical fault. You will have to watch the game through a computer monitor rather than the 4K screens. I hope that is acceptable."

Ilya blinked, still processing. He had no idea what was happening or where they even were, but Gabriella seemed happy, so he went along with it and nodded at him.

Marcel walked over to the curtains and placed his hand on a chord. "Are you ready to see it?"

Gabriella nodded, her smile widening.

"See what?" Ilya started to ask, just as Marcel drew back the curtains.

And then he stopped breathing.

Because behind the curtains was a window, and through that window was the inside of the Voyageurs arena. He was in the Bell Centre.

Ilya stood there, utterly dumbfounded. He had a perfect, unobstructed view of the ice, nearly the same view Shane had when he sat in the east wing in Ottawa. The Zambonis were circling, the lights were bright, and the stands were slowly filling with fans. He was inside the fucking Bell Centre.

Marcel beamed at him, clearly enjoying the reaction. "Well, enjoy the game. I will be back to check on you when I can. Gabriella, text me if you need anything." He slipped out of the room, the door clicking softly behind him.

Ilya didn't move. He stood there, speechless, staring at the ice. The weight of what Gabriella had done hit him all at once, the planning, the secrecy, the favour she had cashed in. It was all for him.

"Gabriella…" he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes?"

"What did you do?"

She smiled, soft and warm, like she had been waiting for this moment. "I asked for a favour. Box office to box office."

"You snuck me into the Bell Centre?" His voice cracked. "You cashed in your super secret favour for me to be in the Bell Centre?"

"Yes, of course." She shrugged like it was nothing, like she hadn't just moved mountains. "You deserve to watch Shane win tonight."

He closed the distance between them and pulled her into a giant hug, squeezing her so tightly she let out a small squeak. He couldn't believe she had done this for him. All this time he had been moping, convinced he was suffering alone, and instead he had friends like this. He started to shake, but not from crying, instead he was laughing. Huge, helpless, disbelieving laughs that rumbled through his chest.

She looked up at him quizzically, but she was grinning. "Are you… Is this okay?"

He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, but they were good tears. Happy tears. "This is more than okay. Gabriella, I have never seen him play like this before." His voice cracked again. "I have never seen him play in Montreal like this."

He pulled her back into another hug, burying his face in her shoulder. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," he kept mumbling, over and over, until she finally escaped his bear hug, laughing and gasping for air.

He turned back to the window, taking a shaky breath. His eyes were still blurry, but he could see the ice, the banners, the familiar red and blue of the Voyageurs decor. He was in the fucking Bell Centre to watch his boyfriend play in the playoffs. And he didn't have to hide.

He turned back to Gabriella, who was standing bashfully by the desk, her hands clasped behind her back. She looked nervous, like she wasn't sure if she had done the right thing.

"What is this room?" he asked, his voice still thick with emotion.

"It's usually used for sports commentators and special guests," she explained. "But as Marcel said, it's broken at the moment. So we get to use it. And because it's soundproof, we can be as loud as we want cheering for Shane." She beamed at him, her eyes bright.

To stop himself from crying again, he just said, "This is amazing. Also, way better than your little booths at the arena."

"Well, they do have several more cups than us and a much bigger budget." She grinned. "When we start winning, you can make sure my little booths get a renovation, yeah?"

"Absolutely. I will speak with the GM the minute we win the Cup."

She snorted, and he finally laughed properly. He started investigating the box more closely, poking through the snacks and treats. But it was a canvas bag on the desk that caught his attention. When he looked inside there was a stack of Boston Bears trading cards and a jersey, his jersey.

"What is this?"

"Ah, in exchange for this privilege, I had to negotiate a little bit." She looked almost sheepish. "So you have to sign some merchandise from your former glory days."

He looked at the bag, then at her, and his face split into a gleeful grin. "Hell yes I will."

He grabbed the sharpie that was waiting on the desk and started signing things happily, his signature looping across cards and memorabilia with reckless abandon. "We will have to get your Marcel some Centaurs swag as well," he said, smirking at her. "In case Montreal makes it again next year."

She shook her head, her expression softening. "You will be playing next year, Ilya. We won't need it."

“You sound very sure.”

“Oh, I am.”

He puffed up with pride, feeling the joy wash over him. She always believed in him, in the team, in what they could become. He would still send Marcel some Centaurs signed goods just in case, but more than that, he would remember this moment, the way she had moved heaven and earth just to give him something beautiful.

"Gabriella," he said, his voice quiet but steady.

She looked up.

"Thank you for everything you have done for me. I love you."

She blushed, suddenly absorbed in the bag of crisps in her hands, studying the ingredients intently. "Love you too," she mumbled into the packet, refusing to make eye contact.

He dipped his head, trying to catch her gaze. "Don't be bashful now. Thank you."

She finally looked up, her eyes glistening. "You are very intense right now. I don't think I like this."

He laughed, bright and warm. "Too bad. You are stuck with me now."

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "Yeah, yeah. Now stop being sappy or I will leave you all alone in here."

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. I will behave. But only because I know you will follow through."

"Damn right I will."

+++

When Marcel came back, Ilya gleefully handed the signed Bears merchandise to him, and Marcel actually giggled as he handed them some conference memorabilia in return. Some commemorative pucks, a mug and a conference t-shirt each. He warned them that more people were coming through now, and they should only use the bathrooms during game play.

They readily agreed, and Marcel slipped away happily with his signed prizes.

"Are you going to tell Shane you are here?" Gabriella eventually asked.

"Yes."

"You are not worried it will throw him off his game?"

"No." Ilya shook his head. "It will make him play better to impress me."

"Well, before you text, maybe you want to open this first."

She slid him the package Yuna had given her. Ilya opened it suspiciously, but inside, under the wrapping, was a Hollander jersey. One of Shane’s game day ones, one that still smelled like him.

"We thought you might want to support Shane in style."

He didn’t say a word, he also couldn’t say anything even if he wanted to, he just smiled blearily and put it on. Gabriella took photos of him modelling by the window, some where he was looking suggestive, others where he was pointing to the 24 on his back, and others where he was simply grinning wider than she had ever seen him smile before.

When the photoshoot was over, he sent his favourites over to Shane: Look where I am. He captioned the photos. Followed by: You had better play hard for me ;)

Shane immediately sent back a string of excited emojis.

Shane: Holy fucking shit, you are here.
Shane: How are you here?
Shane: Yes, ALWAYS.
Shane: Fuck you look good in my jersey.
Shane: I will demolish them. For you.
Ilya: For both of us
Ilya: and it was our Gabriella
Ilya: She has friends in Montreal that are not you
Shane: We need to buy her another car
Ilya: No, she would hate that
Shane: Well we will come up with something
Ilya: Go win for me my love
Shane: Fuck yes

Ilya texted away, oblivious to whatever Gabriella was up to. When he finished, he turned around, and she had set up the food spread and was also wearing a Hollander tee.

"You are sneaky."

"I am resourceful."

He hugged her again, and then they demolished the free food, laughing and talking as the arena filled up around them. The energy of the crowd vibrated through the walls, distant but electric, and Ilya finally realised that everything was going to be okay. Sitting there in the Bell Centre, with Gabriella beside him and Shane about to take the ice, he felt something he hadn't felt in a long time: peace. Peace of knowing he was exactly where he was supposed to be and with the people he was supposed to be with.

"Thank you," he said again, his voice still rough with emotion.

She smiled wildly at him, and they turned on the computer screen to start the pregame commentary. The warm ups were about to begin, and for the second time in as many days, Ilya was excited for the playoffs. He was excited to watch Shane play in person. He didn't miss playing in them this year one bit, because this time next year, he knew the Centaurs would be in them, and he would be on the ice, not watching from a booth. And maybe, just maybe, they might finally win.

+++

The game was impeccable. Shane played a technically flawless game, scoring a hat trick, and dedicated each celebration in the general direction of where they were sitting. Ilya whooped and hollered every single time, his voice rising above the noise of the arena. He might have even yelled, "That's my boyfriend!" at the top of his lungs, with Gabriella filming and laughing beside him. Ilya was elated.

In the end, Montreal won, securing their spot in Game 7 back in Washington. Thankfully, being in the venue had been a blessing rather than a curse. He didn't want to think about what would have happened if they had lost, Shane probably would have banned him from ever setting foot in the arena again. He was so damned proud he almost wept. The joy of watching Shane succeed in person was overwhelming in the best possible way.

When the game ended, they had to wait at least forty-five minutes for the crowds and the other guests to clear. He and Gabriella passed the time texting friends and watching replays on the computer screen. Ilya didn't mind the wait, he knew Shane would be on a flight to Washington immediately, so there was no chance for a proper goodbye anyway. That was fine. Game 7 was in two days, and after that, the next stop would be either the Stanley Cup Finals or the cottage. Either way, he could deal with it.

Gabriella was pacing anxiously near the door, texting and being generally weird, when there was a knock.

She opened it, and then Shane was there, all harried. He rushed in and crashed into Ilya. In between Shane's full body slam and kisses, Ilya heard the door close and knew, without looking, that Gabriella had snuck out.

Smart girl.

Ilya held Shane tightly.

"I cannot believe you are here!"

"Apparently Gabriella's other thirty percent is sneaking into other arenas!"

Then they were kissing again, Ilya murmuring to him. "I am so proud of you. You played so fucking well. Holy shit, it was hot."

"Knowing you were up here in my jersey was the only thing holding me together. Holding the team together. Fuck."

Ilya pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "How long do we have?"

"I dunno. Five minutes?"

Ilya nodded, set a timer on his phone and then got to work, making every second count.

+++

Gabriella was having a great day. After the pain and suffering of yesterday's hangover, this was by far the best she had felt in a while. All the shame of her confessional and the agony of the alcohol had dissipated into pure joy, because Plan B had not only gone off without a hitch, but now she was pretty sure she was guarding a door while Ilya and Shane were being intimate on the other side. Not really something she wanted to witness or hear, but there she was, leaning against the wall, trying very hard to think about anything else.

She blessed the gods for the Voyageurs' very extensive soundproofing.

A few moments later, Marcel wandered up, looking far too amused. "Enjoying the facilities?"

She knew he was perceptive and had clearly come to all of the right conclusions after seeing Shane in his corridor.

"Yes," she said smoothly. "I am just giving them a moment to deal with business stuff."

"Ah huh. Of course." He smiled at her and handed Gabriella his signed NDA. "For your collection."

"Thank you."

"You know, of all the secrets we have kept over the years, I think this is my favourite."

She smirked at him, waving the paperwork. "I don't know what you are talking about... But yeah, it is."

"What are you going to do with all your signed Bears merchandise?" She inquired.

"Hold onto it. Maybe sell some once Rozanov gets the Centaurs the Cup."

Gabriella looked at him, deadpan. "You are a traitor to your team."

"Hey, I only work for the Voyageurs. I can support whoever I damn well please on the side."

"Damned straight." she cheered.

He looked at her now, his expression softening. "So tell me, are you okay in Ottawa?"

"I am fantastic in Ottawa. If you ever need to move, you know where to come."

"Ha. Well, I know they don't need me if they have you, but if you ever decide to leave, please give me a call."

"You’ve got it." She saluted him.

"You know, I have missed hanging out. So does Jason. You should come to Montreal more often and hang with us. We can talk about non-hockey things. We are adults."

"Yeah, that would be nice someday."

"You and your somedays. I have known you for nearly a decade. You don't have to bluff me. I just want to know you are okay. Maybe have some gins."

“Okay, then yes, we can do that. Next time I am in town.”

"Good." He gave her a side bump. "Message me when you need the elevator."

"A few more minutes… you know, because of the business meeting."

He laughed as he wandered off.

A few minutes later, Shane emerged, looking a little disheveled. He hugged Gabriella and whispered his thanks before running back toward the locker rooms.

Gabriella went back into the press box. Ilya was lying across the couch, looking completely relaxed but also like he had been hit by a tornado. His hair was mussed, his jersey was slightly crooked, and he had a soft dazed/blissful expression that only came from a very thorough goodbye.

"Everything okay?" she asked, amused.

Ilya looked up at her, his eyes bright with joy. "Everything is perfect."

She snickered. "Fantastic. Then come on, Romeo. Grab your things, we should get out of here."

They scrambled to collect their things and headed out. Gabriella pulled out her phone, firing off a quick text to Marcel to let him know they were leaving, then tucked it back into her pocket. Ilya followed beside her, still buzzing, still smiling. The adrenaline was fading, but the warmth of the night remained. She couldn't help but smile along with him, like they had just pulled off a heist.

And the best part? The night wasn't over yet.

Chapter End Notes

No songs this chapter.

Next up: Ilya and Gabriella decompress after the game.

Chapter 16: The Look Out

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Gabriella decompress after the events of the weekend and Game 6.

Chapter Notes

95% Plot / 5% Eurovision

Gabriella had left her car at the Bell Centre before taking the private car to collect Ilya, which meant escaping after the game was surprisingly easy. The only real problem was that Gabriella drove a Mini Cooper. Technically it was the four door model so it had some leg room and made it marginally more practical than the original. However, despite its “bigger size” it was still spectacularly unsuited for transporting a professional hockey player over six foot.

Ilya eyed it with deep suspicion. "This car was not designed for people my size."

Gabriella unlocked it with a flourish. "No," she agreed. "In hindsight, if Shane wanted me to become your chauffeur, he should have planned better."

"Well he did suggest we should buy you another car. Maybe we should get something bigger." he said while shrugging.

She stopped halfway through putting their gifts in the boot. "Excuse me? No, we will not."

He looked at her, offended. She looked back at him equally offended with her eyebrows raised. Then, without another word, they both began adjusting seats and headrests with silent efficiency.

When they were finished she just stared at the car. "You know if it’s too tight you could always just lie down across the back seat, maybe put your feet outside the window or whatever."

He gave her a look that suggested he would rather die and she burst out laughing. Eventually, with only a moderate amount of swearing, he folded himself into the passenger seat.

He experimentally stretched his legs. "...I retract my criticism."

"Oh?"

"This is actually very comfortable, just a little cramped."

"Good." She grinned, hopping in herself and starting the engine. "So," she asked, slowly navigating out of the arena parking, "what now?"

"I could eat several burgers."

"God, yes." She sighed dramatically. "Me too. I think Eurovision created a permanent physiological need for salt."

"And grease."

"And approximately three litres of cola."

"Done."

"Any preference?"

"Naturally. Is it okay if we get take away and eat somewhere quiet?"

"Of course. This is your night, Rozanov." She smirked at him as she pulled out of the garage onto the back streets.

He snorted and shook his head. "Rozanov." She never called him that.

He reached across, typed an address into the navigation, and settled back. The city slowly passed them by as the navigation directed them towards the Champlain Bridge.

“Can you DJ? I trust you have an appropriate soundtrack.”

“Yes, of course.”

He connected his phone to the car speakers and clicked play. The opening "whoa" of Arcade filled the little Mini.

Gabriella smiled immediately. "Yessss. Good choice."

"I know," he smiled back. "Duncan earned his accolades and our support."

"He certainly did."

She began singing almost absent mindedly, eyes on the road, her voice quieter than it had been during the party. He joined in by the first chorus. The two of them sang together terribly, missed harmonies, forgot words and laughed halfway through the bridge. But they nailed the chorus with few tears in their eyes, the song still hitting the emotional highs.

When it ended, neither of them reached to start a new song. The silence that followed felt comfortable and easy.

He looked out the window as Montreal blurred past. He hadn't felt this comfortable in his own skin in so long. Shane had won and was on his way to Game 7, Gabriella was beside him, they were heading for late night food, and the evening stretched ahead with no expectations. The game's adrenaline was fading, but he felt settled and grounded. He smiled to himself.

“Gabriella.”

“Yeah?”

"Thank you again for today and for Eurovision." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "I've never had anyone go out of their way for me like this before. Not like this."

"I'm sure that's not true." She snuck a glance at him as she changed lanes.

"Well, I'm not saying no one has ever done anything nice for me. It's just… no one has done it the way you have. Patiently. Without expecting anything." He paused, searching for the right words. "What did you call it? Not transactional. You just showed up, again and again and I don't know how I can ever repay you for that."

"Well, that's the non-transactional part. You don't have to."

"I guess. But you saw I was in trouble before I even admitted it to myself. I kept telling everyone I was fine, that I was just disappointed about the playoffs. And you just showed up. You didn't wait for me to ask. You didn't make me explain myself first. You just came and pulled me out of it."

He paused, gathering his thoughts.

"I spent weeks telling myself I was sad because we missed the playoffs. But that wasn't it. I was lonely. I missed my people. Hockey had always told me where I belonged and it gave me an identity, a purpose, a family. And when that was suddenly gone, I forgot that I had already built another home in Ottawa. I have my chosen family. I have my team. I have you."

He could see her eyes starting to glisten, could sense the familiar urge rising in her to deflect. So he pressed on before she could interrupt.

He looked at her. "So one day, I will repay you for that. For bringing me back to myself and showing me what I was missing. Or I guess, what I had forgotten."

She was quiet, her eyes fixed on the road, her hands steady on the wheel. He could see her processing, the slight furrow between her brows, the way her jaw tightened. Trying to absorb what he had said without swerving into oncoming traffic.

"You were right, Love isn’t a losing game." She glanced at him briefly, and he smiled back at her, quoting her own words. "It's hope. And I hope that I can be better, that I can be there for all of you just as much as you were for me."

She was quiet again, the only sound was the hum of the engine and the distant rush of traffic.

"I want to do better. Be better." He paused, watching her profile. "And I hope that now you're not quite as hungover, you'll remember that I'm here for you. No matter what. If things get bad again, or if you just need someone to talk to, or sit with, or sit in silence with, remember to send the hockey puck."

He saw the tears running down her face and felt a jolt of panic. He really needed to work on his timing for emotional conversations. This was not the place, not while she was driving across a bridge.

She eventually wiped her face and nodded, letting out a small, shaky cough. "Yes," she said, her voice steadier than he expected. "A hockey puck."

“You promise?”

She swallowed hard and wiped her eyes again, then cleared her throat and glanced at him briefly before returning her attention to the road. "I promise I'll try. But sometimes when it gets bad, I don't really know it's happening until I'm already in it."

"I know. But if you can, I will be there. Always."

She shook her head, a small, sad movement. "You can't promise that, Ilya. You have Shane. You have games and road trips. You have a life."

"Yes." He stared at her, willing her to understand. "And you are part of my life."

She blinked hard.

"Full stop."

She just nodded, silent tears still falling. He knew he needed to pull her back from the edge now. His emotional outburst had run its course, and they still had to make it to the burgers in one piece. So he reached for his phone and queued up another track.

He chose "Heroes." Partly because he knew she quietly despised it, the perfect distraction. But mostly because she knew every single word, which meant she might understand exactly why he had picked it at this moment.

He pressed play and smiled to himself, waiting for her reaction.

As if on cue, she complained. "Ugh, you know how I feel about Måns."

"Yes, but I feel like it is the right song for now."

She still rolled her eyes before singing every word, but he could see the corner of her mouth twitching. And sure enough, by the time the country inspired opening gave way to that triumphant, soaring chorus, she was already singing along, her voice rising, unguarded, filling the little car.

”We are the heroes of our time, but we're dancing with the demons in our minds...

He joined her, and for a few minutes the car was filled once again with nothing but terrible singing and genuine laughter. He watched her demeanor shift as the song went on, the tears drying, her focus returning to the road. When the song faded out, they were closer to greasy burgers and, hopefully, an understanding.

But despite his urge to make things better, and despite the musical manipulation, he decided to keep pushing her buttons. Partly because it was fun, and partly because he knew that if she was busy being annoyed at him, she wouldn't have time to overthink everything he'd just said.

"So," he said, feigning nonchalance, "how many flowers do you want delivered this week?"

He was lucky she was driving, because he could tell she wanted to throw something at him.

"Ilya, I swear to God…"

But just as she opened her mouth to retaliate, he pressed play on Turkey's entry from 2007. He knew full well she wouldn't be able to argue while singing, and sure enough, the moment the opening beats filled the car, her protests were overtaken by the music.

"That's unfair!" she managed, half laughing, as the infectious rhythm took over. "You can't play 'Shake It Up Shekerim' when I'm trying to tell you off!"

He just grinned and cranked the volume and started singing at her.

"Shake it up, shekerim, I know what you're feelin'
Shake it up, şekerim, I got what you're needin'
Shake it up, şekerim, tell me what you're thinkin'
Shake it up, şekerim, you're my only sweet thing."

He sang at her, his voice loud and enthusiastically off key, drowning out whatever protest she'd been forming. He knew the song was about sex, not friendship, but they both understood they were going with the fun, supportive version.

"You are impossible," she said, but she was already laughing, already surrendering to the beat. "Absolutely impossible."

They sang the rest of the song together, their voices rising and falling in a chaotic harmony that would have horrified any actual musician. When they hit the final note, they once again collapsed into laughter.

"God, I love that song." She shook her head, still grinning. "I miss Turkey in Eurovision."

+++

After that, they continued to bicker as the car wound through the streets of Brossard, their argument growing more ridiculous with every turn until they finally pulled into the restaurant parking lot. They collected their food, several burgers for Ilya and a set meal for Gabriella, along with enough cola to drown any residual hangover. Then they drove the short distance to a quiet lookout Ilya knew that was tucked away from the main roads.

The spectacular view showed the city sparkling on the opposite shore. They could even make out the Bell Centre, still glowing against the night sky, a reminder of everything that had happened just hours before. They ate mostly in silence, music quietly humming through the car speakers.

The food was exactly what they needed, greasy and indulgent and deeply satisfying. Between bites, they traded quiet observations about the game, the arena, and the absurdity of the past few days until they had run out of things to say.

Gabriella finished the last of her fries and caught him looking at her.

"What?"

"Nothing." He smiled. "Just thinking."

"About?"

He shook his head, still smiling. "How lucky I am."

"You've always been lucky and talented. It's really not fair."

"Not always." The words came more quietly than he intended. "But I've been fortunate here in North America. With hockey and with the people I've met. With… all of this." He gestured vaguely between the skyline, the arena, and the two of them. "I don't think I appreciated it properly until this week. Until I had to sit with what it felt like to be without it."

She didn't say anything. She just nodded slowly, her eyes soft, letting him have the space.

"And you?" he asked gently, turning the question back on her. "What are you feeling right now?"

She paused, considering. "I feel like I'm on holiday," she confessed.

He understood what that meant now. She was currently in the technicolor version of her life, away from the appointments and the weight of everything waiting for her back in Ottawa. She was free from it for a moment, free to be the lighter version of herself, the one who could eat burgers and sing badly and stay out late without the shadow of real life pressing in.

It wasn't an escape, it was just a break and she deserved it.

"Good for you," he said, and he meant it. But he couldn't let the emotion take over right now. So he smirked instead. "But if you are on holiday do you want to call one of your 'friends' to tuck you in?" he asked, a teasing lilt returning to his voice.

"No." She shook her head, laughing softly. "Not tonight. Tonight I'm just happy to be here with you." She said it shyly, eyes fixed on the city across the river, as if the words were easier to say when she didn't have to meet his gaze.

He felt warmth wash over him, quiet and steady. "Me too," he said softly. He bumped her shoulder gently, and he kept eating.

It was in that quiet moment, with the city lights flickering and the river dark and wide in the distance, that Ilya started to form a plan. Not a grand gesture, just a steady promise to himself that he would support Gabriella the way she had supported him, by being constant and reliable, making sure she knew she didn't have to carry everything alone. She had support in Ottawa and she had him and Shane, if she wanted them.

He also knew he wanted to do something special for her, something beyond the flowers. He didn't know what form it would take yet, but he would think about it over the summer. Shane could help him plan, he excelled at that kind of thing. It didn't need to be grand or dramatic, just thoughtful, steady, and rooted in what she actually needed. He would find a way to give her the same quiet, consistent support she had given him.

He added the thought to his list, right below his questions. What does she need? How can he give it to her? He didn't have the answers yet, but he would. He had all summer to figure it out.

He looked over at Gabriella, who was leaning back in her seat, gazing out at the city with a soft, contented expression. He realized, with quiet certainty, that he would do whatever it took to keep her looking like that.

"So," he asked tentatively, "what are we doing for Game Seven?"

Her face lit up at the question, her eyes sparkling. "Oh, I have a few ideas."

He laughed. "You always do."

And then they started to happily scheme and plan. They debated whether she should stay in Montreal a few days, maybe explore the city together. She could show him her old haunts. He could show her the parts of Montreal he actually liked. They had time. It was the off season for him and anything and everything was possible.

He didn't know what the future held. But he knew he would be there for it and for her.

.

.

.

FIM PART 2

Chapter End Notes

SONG REFERENCES:
"Arcade" by Duncan Laurence (Netherlands 2019)
"Heroes" by Måns Zelmerlöw (Sweden 2015)
"Shake It Up Shekerim" by Kenan Doğulu (Turkey 2007)

*******

This is the end of Part Two, folks. Thanks for coming along on this ride. I really love these two and the Centaurs, so I hope everyone had fun and learned to trust their buddies a little more.

Big hugs.

Please leave your thoughts and comments about the overall story and series below. I have enjoyed writing it and revisiting a fun time of my life when Eurovision meant everything.

The Future >>

Ilya and Gabriella will be back. I am toying with two shorter stories between now and the bigger Part Three I had planned. I am not completely convinced on them yet, but one would be fun and one would be angsty, just to see if I can do it.

As for Part Three, because of the rewrites and changes I made to this piece, it needs to be rewritten and replanned to accommodate those changes. Stay tuned.

xoxo