Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Scott Hunter, Svetlana Vetrova, Carter Vaughan, Eric Bennett, Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Pre-Canon, Sort Of, Outing, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Scott Hunter is a mess, They're all a mess, bless, Rivals to Exes to Friends to Lovers, Swearing, Found Family, Contributing to your happiness: the fic, WIP

Language:

English

Series:

Part 17 of Miscellaneous 'Verses

Collections:

Prongs_Antlerz favourite hockey yaoi, Subscriptions:Tracking, Relationship Reveal HR, pepperroxd’s library, Cutie Patooties, WTH’s Favourite Fics, These are the stories and series that I have at least reread twice., HR, Shane/Ilya playing in Boston/NewYork AU, In this glass house we are free

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-23 Updated: 2026-02-27 Words: 107,318 Chapters: 20/?

we cannot waste time (—only ourselves.)

Summary

The photos leak on a Wednesday. Ilya sets his life and career on fire on Sunday, mostly out of spite. On Monday, he is the first out queer player in the NHL.

Nobody handles the ensuing circus well, least of all Scott Hunter.

Notes

So, alright, some thoughts:

This is a strange one because, while it is about Hollanov, obviously, it’s mostly about Ilya. It starts off when he’s young, freshly twenty-one, and I wanted to build a voice for him that’s closer to what I think a twenty-one-year-old star athlete would sound like, which means he’s brash and vulgar and crass. More importantly, I wanted to see what he would grow into without the crutch of his willful self-delusion. Shane is part of that willful self-delusion. Those boys were not good for each other for a long time. By the time we get to their mid twenties, they’ve settled into these toxic traits, and were only enabled by everyone around them. I’m sorry, I love Yuna and I love David, but they’ve raised an insecure, unhappy man, drowning in shame, who can’t even reach out for the thing he wants when it's right in front of him. And Ilya—Yeah. So, while Hollanov is the main ship, it’s not the main focus of the story. When we start, they’ve hooked up a several times, but they’ve known each other for about two years, and havent seen each other for most of them. We know they’re meant to be together but it’s really not evident at this point.

I also really wanted to see what Scott Hunter would grow into if given a chance to build a life outside of a romantic partner. I like the first book, I like how Reid deliberately or accidentally writes this wreck of a man, this disaster crushed with loneliness and despair to the point that he latched onto his first boyfriend—at the age of like, thirty something—with the energy of a drowning man. In this fic, I wanted to see what he would be with a younger brother figure to look after. With a platonic family. The man is a closeted orphan who has two friends he barely speaks to, who hates the job that made him a superstar millionare legend. He doesnt need a boyfriend, he needs a therapist, a vacation and a shoudler to cry on.

Chapter 1

August 2012

The pictures leak on an otherwise pleasant Wednesday. Ilya’s mid-workout when the nightmare begins, and he hasn’t run from anything in his life, but he runs from this. After the fifth call from his agent, he puts his phone on airplane mode, his head between his knees and tries to figure this out. 

He could deny. It’s a solid option. Find a look-alike, buy his statement. It’s pretty standard practice among hockey pros; he’s pretty sure there are agencies specialising in this shit. Granted, they’re typically hiding a player snorting coke off someone’s tits, but the principle is sound. Find a guy, pay him five hundred grand to say it was him holding up that twink against the wall—Maybe more than five hundred grand. Whatever, Ilya’s good for it, his contract alone—

Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ, his contract. His team. His family—

Kiselev storms his apartment at the end of the day, which is fair enough. He’s old school, is Kiselev, and he’s seen Ilya through some tough times. They do this awkward song and dance—was it you? Of course not, fuck you; alright, kid, cool it, I had to ask—and come up with a plan. He is going to give a presser, keep his head straight—hah—and they’ll rustle up someone who could pass as him if you blur your eyes. Kisel thinks he can find someone for a hundred grand tops; some gay guy from LA or New York who would love the attention. Win-win and all that. Ilya gets his life back, the anonymous guy gets his five minutes of fame and some cash to make the NDA go down. All is well that ends well. 

Well, almost. 

***

He will deny it at the heavenly gates, but seeing Jane flash on his screen the night before the presser is a balm on his fucking soul. He hasn’t talked to—anyone, really. Not his teammates, not his brother, not his fucking coach. Only him and Kisel and a bunch of PR guys who are trying to calculate how outraged he should be, how much disgust for the very idea he should project. 

So, when the first thing Hollander has to say is You fucking idiot, he gets a bit defensive. When Hollander doesn’t follow it up with how are you or even a Canadian I hope you’re hanging in there, bud, his chest starts to tighten, and ears start to ring. When Hollander, then, starts listing PR solutions and best ways to reject the allegations without coming across as insincere, Ilya starts getting properly mad. 

How dare he? How dare this man whom Ilya has fucked into incoherence, whom he kissed and hugged and lent his clothes and—And he is just assuming that Ilya is going to deny this. It’s a given, is it, that Ilya is going to stand there and reject the allegations of queerness, like they’re in the nineteenth fucking century? Like they’re back in the fucking motherland, and the admission could mean guys coming to your house with guns and bags? They’re in fucking Boston, the year is twenty twelve, and Ilya— 

Ilya is going to deny it, right? It’s what he was planning. It’s what he paid all those crisis management experts tens of thousands of dollars to arrange. He’s going to find some self-actualised gay guy to help him hide, to help him fucking lie like a little bitch—

So Ilya ends up saying some shit. Hollander, who never backed down from anything, says shit back. They end up screaming at each other for longer than is probably wise, considering they’re on the phone and can barely hear each other. He can hear some, though. The last words he makes out before he gets his wits back and hangs up are, Go ahead and ruin your life, asshole. Lose your job, lose your visa. Get sent back to fucking Russia for fucking some twink up the wall in fucking Ibiza. See if you live to see the Olympics— 

Nothing he hadn't thought about himself, frankly. Nothing that’s untrue. Mother Russia loves her hockey players, looks after them, gives them more gifts than anyone deserves. Only, what she gives with one hand, she can take away with the other—and the other one typically carries a garotte. Hollander is not wrong. 

Odd, though. Isn’t it? Isn’t it odd that Ilya knows full well that Hollander is correct? That Ilya was always going to lie and hide and fold? So why, then, is he opening his laptop? What is he doing? His ears are ringing, hands are shaking almost—but not quite—too hard to type, and he is so angry he can barely see—But he is doing something. Click. Record. Click. 

“Hi, hello. Ilya Rozanov here, Captain and star of Boston Bears. First pick of draft, best player in the fucking country. I hear people talk about my business--” It’s not that he’s not aware of what he’s saying; it’s not even that he’s particularly against saying it. It’s just that he’s not sure he is saying it and not some primordial spirit haunting his body. He’s recording too, video and all, and the little head on the screen looks—deranged. His eyes are wild, hair a mess, lips stretched into a grimace. The words come out deep and guttural, like they’re coming from some faraway place. Like they've had to fight through a lifetime’s worth of shame and fear. “Why think this is okay, I do not know, but only cowards lie, and I am never coward. You ask, I tell you. I fuck girls, I fuck guys. Sometimes both. Feels fucking great. Pretty boy in my arms is as good as pretty girl. Only important thing they beg for it. Only important thing I rock their shit.”

Time grows strange after that. Soupy and slow. He calls Kisel at some point, lets him quit, signs that he doesn’t fault him for breaking their contract. Nobody from the Bears calls, but his phone starts blowing up with unknown numbers so he puts the thing in the freezer and—doesn’t do anything else. He’s done plenty to fuck himself up already; better not get any new ideas. He’s—rich. Not obscenely, but has enough for a decade at least. His visa is set for another four months, and when it goes—Plenty of places to go. Cuba. Eastern Europe. Fucking China. It’s fine. He won’t—

Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes, precisely, but his world twists yet again, half a day to a day later, when Scott fucking Hunter almost breaks his door down. 

***

Ilya is slow, admittedly—shock makes him stupid and slow, always has, it's just it typically takes a lot to shock him—but he’s pretty sure that the six-four, wild-eyed beast of a man looming on his door is Scott Hunter. Captain of the New York Admirals. America’s most beloved hockey star. They’ve played against each other. Odd that he can’t remember how it went down. Odd that he looks—bigger here, somehow. You’d think he’d be more frightening on the ice, where he’s pretty much unstoppable, but no. He’s here, wearing jeans and a designer hoodie, and he looks like the type of trouble you’re not sure you will survive.

Is this where he gets his ass kicked? How does he even know where Ilya lives? Should he call 911—

Whatever shows on Ilya’s face, whatever his body did to make itself into a more defensible target, it drives Hunter to take a large step back, then another, until he’s backed up to the wall of the corridor. Then he swallows, curls into himself, shoulders drooping like he’s trying to make himself look smaller. It doesn’t work, but he looks a little less like the type of muscle hired to reliably solve problems. 

“Jesus Christ, kid,” says Scott fuckign Hunter. “You look like hell.” 

“Fuck you,” he manages to say back, mostly because he learned how to talk shit in English before anything else. Even when you can't understand the chirps, you can cover your bases. 

“Hey, no, I—Hell of a brave thing you did. Hell of a thing. I’m—“ Scott Hunter shrugs, looks around. “Can I come in? Don’t want—“ He waves a hand. “People hearing. It’s a madhouse out there. Cops’re holding the press back; have a blockade and everything. It’s a matter of time before someone sneaks through and sets up Bluetooth mics.” 
Ilya opens his mouth to—Tell him off, invite him to jump off a bridge. Sock him in the teeth. 

“Sure.” 

***

Having Scott Hunter in his penthouse is just about strange enough to kick Ilya out of whatever paralysis gripped him earlier. It’s—He hasn’t thought much about the older man, other than to vaguely admire his play and despise how bland and empty he is. There was never anything there, not passion or rage or even simple, raw triumph, just inorganic determination to win. His hockey was good enough to make up the difference, but that’s not anything Ilya cared enough about. Fuck hockey, honestly. Fuck everything. The only thing that ever mattered was that you don’t lose, that you never lose, and Hunter lost each time he pantomimed a game just because of his contract or duty or whatever the fuck. 

Only now—Only now he’s not so fucking empty, is he? Only now he’s looking at him with those big blue eyes full of sympathy, eyebrows all determined and shit, like he’s—Like he fucking—

“—changed the world, kid,” Hunter is saying, torso leaning forward, elbows planted on his spread knees. If he’s affected by the third double whiskey he’s drunk, he’s not showing it. Fuck him, then. Ilya’s on his second vodka, and his vision is swimming. "Lord knows pulled plenty of mad shit in your career, but what you did for the world, what you did for us—Nothing can top it. Nothing can ever top it.”

Ilya sits and breathes, fighting to focus on the insane gibberish coming out of Hunter’s mouth. He—For whom? What’s this us, asshole? What the fuck do you mean us—

“I do not under-stand,” he grits out. “What us? What is this shit, Hunter?” 

“Us as in men who fuck men,” Hunter says. “You fuck both, I know, but I don’t. Men only. Always.” 

So that happens, and Ilya shuts down even more, because—Because Scott fucking Hunter came to his house to—And he looks about as fucked up about it all as Ilya does. More, in some ways, because when Hunter hugs him—swoops down and plucks him from his chair like some sort of gay bird of prey—Ilya can feel how much his shoulders are shaking, breath choppy and uneven. He’s every bit as fucked up as Ilya is—

“Sucks,” he says, for some reason. “Sucks shit, Hunter. I never want—“ 

“Who would be mad enough to want this, Roz,” Hunter says, growls a little above his head, sounding halfway to fucking feral.

“You’re, what, nineteen? Twenty—“ 

“Fuck you, twenty-one.” 

“Twenty-one, then. An infant. And they’ve got fucking—vans down there. News crews. It’s sick and you’re going to sue them until they can’t even afford to cross the Styx—“ 

Ilya stops listening to the crazy American at some point. He’s doing a fantastic villain speech on his own, doesn’t need Ilya’s input at all, which leaves space to focus on other things. Showboating aside, Ilya tries to be as honest with himself as he can, and his antisocial tendencies aren’t a secret he kept against himself. Keeping people at a distance, in this hyper-competitive life, was a given. On the flip side, the lack of baggage means lack of backup; his teammates never expected or required his help outside of the ice, nor have they offered it. In his more fanciful moments, he thinks Kisel would have otherwise been there for him; that he’d earned some loyalty there. Not for this, though. Never for this. Patriots don’t feel loyalty to unnatural perverts; it’s bad for your health. 

So, what is he to think about the impossible Yank roaming around his apartment? Scott  fucking Hunter, a wet blanket in every conceivable way—only, not so wet, maybe, cause he’s a thirty-something NHL superstar who never got caught. Ilya’s barely been playing for five minutes, and he’s already fucked it. 

What the fuck—What the fuck—What the fuck—

***

He naps at some point; Hunter is still there when he wakes up. Not only is he there, he threw a blanket over Ilya, tucked him in like a lunatic, and is now making food. Ilya for sure hadn’t had food in his fridge; he gets his meals delivered like every other pro athlete. So where did he even—

“Ibuprofen and water are on the counter,” Hunter calls when he hears him padding into the kitchen area. “Not that you’ll need it. You hardly drank anything you fucking lightweight, and you’re an infant besides. Hangovers only really start happening after twenty-eight.” 

Ilya takes the ibuprofen anyway—they’re for him, aren’t they?—and sits at the bar stool, tries to make anything make sense. His throat is killing him, his back hurts, his eyes are scratchy and he—

“What the fuck?” 

“Hush. I know who you party with, kid; some mediocre eggs are far from the worst thing that happened in this kitchen.” 

Well. Not untrue. Ilya has had some pretty wild parties. Granted, there were fewer mental breakdowns and more coke and hookers, but—

“Here, have some scramble and bacon. I’ll throw together a smoothie after. Oh, and coffee—“ 

Nothing much gets said for the next hour or so. Hunter seems to be going through some sort of mental health episode and Ilya—Ilya is too short on people who want to feed him. Whatever misplaced guilt is fueling this disaster, it’s going to run out soonish, and Hunter will remember they’ve never even spoken to each other, and that the fact they both fuck men is hardly a bridge built. Might as well get free food out of it. Hell, might as well get some free dick out of it. He’s never considered fucking players other than Hollander—

He cuts that train of thought right off, takes a big scalding gulp of coffee to hurt him back into coherence. Jesus. Alright—

“This is weird, Hunter,” he croaks, when the ants under his skin start leaking acid. “What do you want?” 

“To help,” Hunter says. Looks earnest about it, too. Maybe a bit unhinged around the eyes, and there’s always the endless tension in his shoulders and back, but ultimately, like he means it. “I was sincere, before. I’m twenty-nine, and don’t know if I ever would have had the courage to do what you did. I’d have sooner quit. Or, more realistically, I’d have kept my head down until I retired and disappeared from public life. Hid out on some Midwest farm somewhere.” 

Huh. Ilya has to chew through this one. Never coming out is—Nuts, yeah, but not strange. Christ knows Ilya never would, if he didn’t have to. But quitting? It never even crossed his mind. The option just isn’t there. Why the fuck would he quit? It’s not him who has a problem with the straights. If they want to kick him out, they will have to fight and win. Like hell is Ilya going to let anyone have anything of his without a fight to the death. 

“Quit is ridiculous,” he says. Snaps, really. “They yank the game from my cooling corpse. Fuck them.” 

Hunter nods, expression softening a little, maybe. It’s fucking strange. “Fuck them, yeah. So, I’m going to help. Are you—Not going to lie, kid, things are pretty nuts out there. I know the responsible thing would be to make you sleep some more, get your head on straight, but I don’t know if we can afford to delay any more.” 

We? Again with the fucking we—

“There is no we, Hunter. Is what I am saying. I am not your friend—“ 

“Yes, you are.” Hunter leans forward, jaw working, looking so ferocious that Ilya has to fight the impulse to knock him out before he gets murdered and skinned for leather. “You changed the world, Roz. I am in your corner no matter what, so you might as well shut up and get used to it.  I’m not going anywhere.” 

What. What. What. 

“Right. Glad that’s settled. Now: about the practicalities. The league sent an email around. We shouldn't talk about it even among ourselves, definitely not to outsiders. How’s your agent? I heard you were working with—

“Kisel quit.” Ilya shrugs, tries to make it chill. Relaxed. “After I—So I not work with agent, at present.” 

“Jesus. Jesus. Alright, well, that doesn’t really matter. I have a list of names I was going to recommend you contact to replace him anyway. Mariam Haddad would be my first pick. She’s a shark; won’t let you down.” 

Yeah? That’s really fucking likely. 

“Secondly, immigration. I’ve spoken to Doyle, cause his sister is this bigshot lawyer in Manhattan. She is in criminal law primarily but has taken many immigration cases before. She is more than qualified to handle that front.” 

Ilya swallows around the lump in his throat, digs fingers into his thighs. Focus. “Visa is through team. Work visa. Boston Bears lawyer handle it before.” 

Perhaps predictably, Hunter’s lips press together into an unhappy line. “Best get ahead of that, kid. I—I don’t want to alarm you, and, obviously, I was never in the room for these conversations, but— Malloy is not thrilled. And your teammates—“ 

Ilya’s jaw clenches, and he does what he always does--burn the fear, alchemise it into fury. “I am the best player on team. Made captain this year. They not get rid of me over bad press.” 

Hunter is quiet for several beats. Somehow, the tightness in Ilya’s chest increases yet again. He has to focus on taking in long, careful breaths. “They might. And, more importantly, I don’t like the idea of leaving a young queer player on a team with Kovalev and Hammersmith.”

Fuck you, Hunter. Fuck you and— 

“Then fuck me, yes? They keep me, is bad. Trade me, just as bad. NHL not friend of—“ Say it. Say it, coward. “Queer player. I need to stay. I need to play.” 

Hunter sighs, resettles the weight in his shoulders. “It’s already floating in the aether that they’re looking for a club that can afford your contract. I think it’s time to contact Kathy Doyle, then see about hiring an agent.” 

Ilya very carefully doesn't shout or break his knuckles on his jaw, or do any of the million things he typically does when he feels this cornered. Fantastic. This is just—Fucking great. 

“Thankfully, there is a practical solution here that you appear not to have considered,” Hunter continues. “Meaning the Admirals.” 

Wait, what? 

Hunter exhales a forceful breath, putting on something like an exhausted half-smile. “I have some sway there, believe it or not. They will take you if I tell them to—they might even if I don’t. You’re a superstar, kid, a generational talent. If they can get you on a steal because your management are bigoted idiots, they will jump at the chance.” 

He has to be lying, Ilya just can’t figure out why he would? He gets nothing out of a ruse like this, and Ilya has very little to offer that he can’t get for himself. Well, other than the obvious, and he can’t—

Well. He might. Ilya tries to clear his head, figure this out. He’s never had to think about the possibility of being used for sex, but if that’s the price, he’ll pay it. It might even be a relief to figure out the currency early on. Do this, get this, simple math, perfect for dumb hockey players. Besides, pro athletes already abuse their bodies to make money. Letting an objectively handsome man use his--might not be bad? 

He tries to imagine it, tries to look at Scott Hunter like he thinks a woman might. Like maybe a gay boy toy might. What would that even look like? Would he have to pretend to be into it? That--might suck, but it might not and, more importantly, he should be able to handle it. If he tries, he might even grow to be into it. Ilya’s hardly shy; he’s let people do crazy shit to him, with him, for free—

“You would—offer this,” he says carefully. “Offer your fancy lawyer friend and big shot agent and place on your team.” 

Hunter’s brows furrow. “I mean—I did just say? I’m on your side on this, kid.” 

Ilya makes a noncommittal noise. He could still be lying. Could be delusional or just suffering some sort of break from reality. Taking anything on faith just because Ilya’s feeling distinctly psychotic as well, is dumb as hell. Men tend to disappoint; this tendency seems to be true across continents, ages, classes. 

“Alright, so lets call, yes? The lawyer first.” 

He hadn’t meant to come across challenging; he was going for neutral. Alas, old habits and all that; Ilya is a good actor about some things, but is terrible at faking things on the fly. Give him some time to think through his options, he can build himself a roadmap of possibilities. If he’s going in blind, he’s going in aggressive every time. 

“Good call, kid. Rebecca should be expecting us.”

Chapter 2

Rebecca is, in fact, expecting them. From her line, they’re transferred to a video call with a terrifying woman who introduces herself as Kat, kid, let’s not waste time we don’t have, with dark brown hair pulled in a high bun, full lips and cheekbones sharp enough to cause problems. 

To his credit, Hunter only stays in the room long enough to do the introductions. Ilya hadn’t quite known what to expect, doesn’t know how these things typically go, but it feels like a good sign. Ms Kat, who does know how these things typically go, doesn’t make a huge deal of it. 

“Right, Rozanov. I won’t belabour the point, but it has to be said. I only took you on because Scott was in hysterics, and my baby brother would jump into a well if it would make him smile. With that said, now that you are my client, your interests are my priority. You don’t have to be worried about divided loyalties, and I will face criminal penalties should I break those promises.” 

Alright. That’s—direct. 

“Should I worry about this? Your loyalties?” 

“Always. You’re a valuable young man in a vulnerable place. Whatever I personally believe about Scott, if you would rather shut him out, I will see it done.” 

Yikes. 

“And what are these beliefs?” 

She sends him a blank look. “Personal.” 

Bless. Ilya finds himself relaxing a little. In an unfamiliar but welcome way, the grip of her authority is neutralising a lot of his shock, leaving him oddly relaxed. With that said, while he doesn’t doubt she will honour her professional obligations, Hunter and his connections are the only way out of this hellpit that he can see. The visa issue is big, yes, but getting a transfer to the Admirals is bigger, and he only gets that if he keeps Hunter happy. It’s sweet that she wants to pretend that Ilya is some sort of free agent, but it’s not even a little true. 

“I am in luck, then, because Hunter is alright. I think he means well.” 

“Alright. Keep in mind that you can always change your mind. Say the word, and I’ll see to it he stays at a professional distance. Moving on—“ 

Thirty or so minutes later, Ilya ducks out to the bathroom to look up Doyle Admirals. He then has to spend several minutes staring at the snaps of the burly, hairy defenceman, trying to square that circle. How the fuck is she Declan fucking Doyle’s sister? If someone told him the man can’t read or write, he’d believe them. 

“Back? Good. Picking up where we left off, I’ve taken on worse cases in terms of legal precedent, but that means little when the NHL follows the law as little and as grudgingly as they can get away with. To confirm, you still want to play?” 

Hah. 

“Hockey, Ms Kat,” Ilya says. What a fucking woman. If the circumstances were just a little different, he’d be doing crazy things to tempt her into his bed. “I may lose the game, but never give it up.” 

“Depressing. Alright, so here’s what we’re going to do. One, I’m going to call Mariam Haddad and beg. She has a soft spot for dumb kids like you, so there’s a chance she’ll pause her retired bliss to see you through the worst of it. Two, you two fuzzy sheep are going to lie low. This means no statements, no private meetings with management, nothing—“ 

And still, it goes on. The second hour turns into the third. Ilya has lost track long since, but Ms Kat’s Rebecca assures him she’s taking notes, so that’s alright. It’s—A lot. He’s never had a personal attorney before. He hired plenty of them, but only ever for individual services. Ms Kat—Whatever Ms Kat’s deal, she takes her job seriously. 

“—finally, that was some coming out statement, kid,” she says, her tone different enough in some discrete way that grabs his attention. “Really. Dumb as hell in terms of minimising personal stress and heartache, but all the more brave for it. You stood your ground and kept your head high through traumatic circumstances. That means a lot to a lot of people; if you were my kid, I’d be proud as hell.”

Jesus. Jesus. All things considered, Ilya is badly situated to fight this battle at the best of times. Now? He’s two imperious praises away from begging to spend the next six thousand years serving at her pleasure. 

“Was anger, mostly,” he finds himself saying into the excruciating silence. His mom couldn’t be more different from Ms Kat, in body, mannerisms, style. Mom wore long, flowy dresses, kept her golden hair loose and messy. Whatever Ms Kat uses to slick back her hair, it looks like it could bond concrete, and there is nothing soft about her at all. And yet— “I did not do for other people, did not fight for them. Not even think about them.“ Except Hollander, maybe, and that—Yeah. “I just will not—There are many rules in League that do not get respect, that no one cares about. Not fucking men is not even a rule, and they want I lie? I hide?“ 

“Anger is the correct response to injustice,” she says. Somehow, even the pixels on the screen seem sharper, more vivid. “And the NHL loves nothing more than to force people to heel with unofficial rules. Unspoken rules. Do what we say, or we’ll make your life so miserable that you will end up quitting in six months, only humiliated, terrorised and a lot poorer. That’s not going to happen here.”

Hah. 

“Oh?”

“I can’t make them treat you with respect and dignity you are owed, but I can make sure they hurt a lot more than you do. We’ll see who’ll outlast whom.” 

***

Whatever arcane negotiations take place between Ms Kat and Mariam Haddad, fourteen hours after she’s agreed to rep him, Ms Kat sends over the first draft of the contract that would cover the next sixteen months, with four more open to negotiation at a later date. 

“I had hoped she’d manage it,” Hunter says, after having re-appeared in his apartment with giant bags of groceries and indian takeout. “Haddad is a legend in the business. She repped Beauchamp when he was first starting out, and practically made Jankowski’s career with her own two hands. And, famously, negotiated and executed Kavenagh’s clean transfer from Ottawa to Chicago.” 

Jesus. Ilya—hadn’t known any of that. He should—He should probably have read more about it. Googled the woman that holds his life in her hands. Then again—that’s why you have a lawyer, right? So you don’t need to trust the people they recommend, you just have to trust them? Isn’t that the whole purpose? 

“I have meeting with her tonight. To start work on—things. Was told not to show my face outside or talk to anybody. Ms Haddad and Ms Kat will handle it.” 

Hunter lets his head fall back, slumping back over the sofa. “Silver linings, hey? You get to sit pretty while two of the scariest women in New York spread misery and ruin in your name.” 

Huh. “Does sound nice, yes. Good view.” 

***

And spread they do. Over the next week, it’s difficult to say who suffers more: the League, the Bears, or the sponsors who dropped him after the photos came out. Ms Kat sends notices of impending lawsuits, Ms Haddad makes calls to acquaintances in important places about the shocking behaviour of their colleagues and/or employees. The two of them go over every letter of Ilya’s paperwork and start sending polite letters to every org, group or person who they believe has been in breach of contract or duty. There’s not much they can do about the press except gather evidence about their misconduct and give notice that they will pursue every infraction as far as the law allows. 

Ilya’s one meaningful concession to the reality of his mental health is to stay off social media—a goal helped considerably by the fact that he operates on a basic life-support loop these days. He works out. He eats whatever Hunter puts in front of him. He talks to whoever Ms Kat and Ms Haddad tell him to. He naps. He sleeps. 

Other than the one time with Ms Kat, nobody brings up the fact that Hunter spends most of his days and nights in Ilya's penthouse. Even with his mind operating on backup cylinders,  Ilya can see their assumptions form, then solidify when Hunter keeps moving through the apartment as if he owns it, and everything in it—Ilya very much included. That said, they’re professionals and the threat of whatever hellfire they think Ms Kat and Ms Haddad will rain on them is more than enough to keep things polite. 

It’s funny because they’re not doing anything. Hunter schedules his workouts after Ilya’s and sleeps in the guest bedroom. He’s entirely self-sufficient, in other words, and yet Ilya gives him the spare keys unprompted, shocking no one more than himself. Then again, the older man does come with extensive and practical benefits. One, obviously, he’s feeding them; the whole deal, three balanced meals per day, plus snacks. Two, Ilya has an unhinged maniac sleeping between him and vague terrors he doesn’t think about. And, finally, three: Ilya has to talk to a flood of clerks and publicists and assistants and lawyers and consultants and various ghoul of the administrative deep, all of whom speak in that smooth, airless dialect where nothing is ever bad, it’s just not ideal or suboptimal or due for a revisit. The trick to surviving them is not to dissociate too obviously, let them say their piece, nod at the right times, and present proof of life. That’s where Hunter earns his keep. There is nothing like having a man looming behind you with a polite smile and Patrick Bateman eyes to accelerate a conversation. Suddenly, the room develops an urgent faith in brevity, and things move on. 

With that said, what’s good for Ilya isn’t necessarily good for Hunter; if he were a better person, he’d have already pointed it out. Being in any way close to Ilya is anything but conducive to staying in the closet for much longer. Since Ilya has no claim on goodness—and because he’s pretty sure that Hunter has genuine psychosexual fantasies about coming out and living free—he lets it be. 

After a week of inflicting pain, Ms Kat and Ms Haddad loop in the Admirals’ leadership—the last keep to conquer. By that point, even Ilya’s death grip on cynicism has begun to slip. Hunter followed through on his promises, every one. It’s all sorts of concerning. 

No, really. Ilya might, against all probability, walk out of this hellpit better off than he had been coming in. Better team, several million in damages that Ms Kat bled from the Bears for violating a no-trade clause—a clause he didn’t know he had, much less one worth that kind of money. An agent who seems to know every man and woman in hockey worth knowing, and several to be avoided. Even the visa situation might have a breakthrough.

Apparently, there is a category for exceptional individuals in their field, filed by the person rather than the organisation. He can’t make himself hope, but the concept alone, the possibility of not crawling through immigration office hell every twelve months, could be worth all this drama. 

His debt, in other words, is fucking astronomical, and he has no idea how to even begin paying it. It’s—It’s so fucking awkward. What is he supposed to do, climb into his lap? Crawl under the desk and give him head? When, precisely? And—is that too forward? Ilya never expected to be in this position, but even if he considered it, he’d expect to be on the other end of the equation. The art of submissive seduction has entirely passed him by, and he’s much too frazzled to learn at present. The end of each day sees him drained like an old sponge. When is he supposed to—And what are guys like that even into? It would be easier to signal sexual availability if he were a girl—put on some lace, some lipstick, silk robe. Look down, then up, wide-eyed but pliant. Ilya is six three, a pro athlete and a lippy asshole. He's not feminine in the least and doesn't think he could play it even if he tried his very best. Maybe there are classes—

He obsesses about it plenty over the next two weeks, then some more when Kat organises a security team and a private jet to take them to New York. Hunter’s agent comes with—also a woman, he’s sensing a pattern regarding male authority figures in Hunter’s life and how far they’re to be trusted—and she spends the whole trip talking to Ms Haddad and Hunter. Ilya doesn’t even try to follow, much less contribute, but it looks like it’s going alright.

It turns out there are plenty of laws that protect players who fall into some sort of protected class or minority. There are also plenty of ways to get around most of them, and plenty more polite, lawyerly ways to communicate that it is really for the best everyone settles this quietly and reasonably, because the alternative will see your client in a psych ward, and isn’t that tragic, isn’t that sad, weren’t we all just trying our best. In the same vein, there are plenty of ways a good attorney can suggest their client has nothing to lose and everything to gain, and that they will happily dance in the ashes of the organisation as a whole if the adults in the room don’t start talking sense. 

The meetings with the Admirals’ leadership go by in a haze. Again, Hunter not only delivered, he undersold the influence he has with management. Ilya watches it happen like a magic trick he can’t quite explain: a subtle shift in posture, a glance, a quiet sentence. Hunter nods, and men who could buy and sell a small country jump. 

The offer—so far as Ilya understands it, through the fog and endless jargon—is absurdly generous. Equal pay. Equal time on ice, provided his performance stays up to snuff. Fair and equal conditions. Exceptional discretion in terms of media commitments. The specifics are wrapped in enough conditional language to make a man weep, but the shape of it is clear: they’re not going to exile him to the bench, they’re not going to dress him up in rainbow flags and feed him to the press, they won’t hold his immigration status and sexuality over his head. 

In other news, the weight of the debt starts to keep him up at night, and Hunter still hasn’t made noise or even hints towards collecting. Maybe that’s part of the deal? Maybe he wants Ilya to flail a little? 

He would ask Svetlana what she thinks, but—The radio silence from home rings as loud as anything else. His calls go unanswered. His messages are left unopened. The only point of contact he has is that the money still goes through, which he doesn’t even have enough heart to resent. He’s in Boston; they’re in Moscow high society. He can’t begrudge them distancing themselves from their freakish relative. Svetlana is likely in the same boat, daughter of an old hockey family; it’s best he doesn’t put her in a position where she has to risk her safety for sentiment. It’s just—It’s just that it would be nice to talk to someone about this. What does Ilya know about offering sexual service to closeted NHL superstars? 

It can't go over forever; it doesn’t. The night after having signed the contract with the Admirals--without a single presser, thank the lord and more specifically, Ms Haddad and, more specifically, Hunter—he gets his hands on a bottle of gin, gets tipsy, then a little more than tipsy. 

Hunter finds him starfished on the floor in his underwear, staring blankly at the ceiling. He doesn’t even have the dignity to scramble up to his knees, put on a pretty smile, angle his body into something approaching coy. No, he stares up at him with buzzing ears and an empty head, the only sensation he can name the painful thud of his heart. 

“Holy shit, kid—What—Are you alright? Do you need to call an ambulance—“ 

You’re doing so well, Rozanov. Really, you’ve outdone yourself this time. 

“You have to—“ No, don’t lead with demands. You don’t demand; that’s the point. You offer. Beg, maybe. “Please, Hunter. Just—I do not know how this works. I will—Whatever you want, you can have. I give freely, with gratitude.” 

“Oh, fuck—“ 

***

So, it turns out Hunter doesn’t want Ilya as a sex pet. It turns out he is very upset by the idea, to the point of a localised, time-efficient breakdown. Ilya would scrounge up some offence—plenty of people would pay money to fuck him, thanks—except it seems some of the fog in his head was actually dread he had been hiding from himself. The moment Hunter made his stance clear, Ilya crumbled in a daze, too drained to even act out. 

“I’m sorry, Roz,” Hunter says for the thousandth time, curved into himself, eyes round with—terror? “I should have made it clear—I should have predicted this, put you at ease—I would never, not for anything—You’re so young, a baby—“ 

Ilya manages to focus enough to scoff, throws in an eyeroll. “Is not your fault I assume. You are generous, and good things are never free. I think: Hunter has more money, more power, more fame. Only thing I have to offer is—easy access. You say sex is complicated to arrange, so—“  

“Jesus Christ, Roz, shut up. Please, stop talking.” Hunter backs up some more. Any farther, and he’d be pressed up to the door. “I understand we don’t know each other well, but I am not a rapist. I’m sorry I—I didn't make it more obvious. I’ll work on making it more obvious.” 

Dramatic. “I offer. Would not be rape—“ He breaks off, because Hunter might very well start running for the hills, and that would be a bad way to start paying off the very real, crushing debt Ilya owes. “But I figure out something else, okay? I know now you not want me. You are very clear on this.” Should he apologise? He did upset him, and for no good reason. “Sorry. Should have tried to—do this better.” Be less drunk, to start. “Was nervous, I guess.” 

“Alright. Alright.” Hunter still doesn’t look all that eager to come close, like he’s worried about his virtue or something, but the worst of the hysterics seems to be over. Ilya is almost completely sober, which sucks and doesn't, and Hunter—Who even knows, with him? Ilya is starting to think all North Americans are psychos behind all that naive wholesomeness. “Jesus Christ. Alright. Nobody is fucking anyone. Nobody expects—None of that is happening. Ever.” His eyes sharpen because, again, he’s a psycho. “And if anyone suggests otherwise, tell me first. I will deal with it. Wow, will I ever deal with it.” 

Bless. 

“Will do,” Ilya says and closes his eyes. “Let us never talk about this, yes?” 

“Agreed.”

***

Unfortunately, there is no time to waste on stupid things like crippling embarrassment and uncertainty. Signing a new player is a big deal. While they agreed to protect him from as much as they can, the Admirals have a franchise to look after, and this means announcing a very expensive, very shocking trade. The internet, Ilya is told, explodes yet again, because being seen with Scott Hunter is one thing, but being signed to the Admirals is another. 

Ilya tries to stay philosophical about it—at least they’re talking about hockey and not his dick—and keeps his head down as best he can. Again, his uncharacteristic restraint is aided by the fact that he’s run absolutely rugged day in and day out. On top of all the meetings with Ms Kat and Ms Haddad, he now has to meet with Admirals’ staffers, nutritionists, trainers and suchlike, and interview real estate agents who will sell his Boston place and buy one in New York. 

Staying in this or any hotel until the housing situation is ironed out is out of the question. The press hasn’t yet figured out where he’s staying, but they will all too soon. All it takes is one lucky hotel guest who recognises him, and there would be a mob on the streets again. Hunter, to his utter lack of surprise, has a solution. 

“We’ll rent,” he says, and shrugs. “My apartment is in Sleepy Hollow, close to the rink, but the first place they’ll look. So, let’s rent a gated estate for the year and sue the first fuck who trespasses with a camera.” 

Right, right. Officially living together, then? 

“People will—Hunter, you know people will talk.” 

Hunter arches his eyebrows, leaning back in his chair. It’s not that he squares his shoulders, it’s sort of the opposite, but somehow he shifts or stops hunching or whatever the fuck, and suddenly Ilya can't see much past the breadth of his shoulders and solid, tree-trunk arms. “Are they? And what the fuck do you think people will say to me, Roz?” 

Holy shit. 

“I don’t think anyone will say much of anything," he continues. “They very rarely do.” 

How? How has Ilya somehow stumbled into a nest of scorchingly hot men and women, and none of them want to fuck him? How is this—What the fuck—

“Your call,” he says, just barely managing to stop himself from clearing his throat like a scandalised librarian. Jesus fucking Christ. “I have nothing left to hide. You do.” 

“Since I’m not, in fact, fucking you, no, I don’t.” Hunter leans forward, eyes narrowed. “And if you think I want to avoid shitty rumours more than I want to make sure you’re safe and looked after, you’re out of your mind, kid. Anyone wants to step up and talk shit, they’re more than welcome.” 

It’s entirely possible that Scott never had anyone to worry about, Ilya considers. He’s not loud about it, but the intensity is legit frightening. Ilya—Well, Ilya-of-three-months-ago would be running so fast in the opposite direction, his feet would be barely touching the ground. It’s different now, of course—and Scott wouldn’t have adopted him then, either. The fact of the matter is, Scott hadn’t picked up a star; he picked up trash, a liability. A genuine danger to his comfort and safety. Only someone insane would do something like that, so you don’t get to bitch and moan about the same set of traits that saved your life, that gave you dignity and purpose, that still are working to restore you to something approaching normal. 

“Alright, Scott,” he says, swallowing a wholly unwelcome and unnecessary ball of emotion. “We rent house and stay safe and kick the shit out of anyone who think they hard enough to bark.” 

***

Chapter 3

The house they end up renting is phenomenal: a sprawling fuck-off gated estate with a motorised gate that opens to a long drive that itself curves through a small-ish but decently thick forest. The main house comes with everything you could expect to find in an estate like that: a detached garage, gym, tennis court, pool, etcetera. 

“Wow,” he says after the agent had finished with the tour and left as quickly as he could, like he’s trying to outrun the moment Scott shoves Ilya to his knees and has at him with whips and chains. “You could not choose more porny house. No, really, you think the road is long enough? When you speak to agent, did you say: When I fuck my pet on lawn, I want no one to hear him scream.“ 

The best thing about Scott is that he’s actually got a good handle on his shit. He is a worrier by nature, but he can recalibrate at an impressive speed when he wants to. It took him a day or two, but once he internalised that Ilya knew sex was not on the table, he stopped worrying about it altogether. It’s impressive—and irritating. Ilya loves getting a reaction, and he can already see that Scott is a hard opponent in that respect. Moreover, Ilya’s already escalated about as far as he dares, so that only leaves humour. 

This was a good attempt. Scott huffs a laugh, short and a bit distracted, but genuine enough. Ilya will absolutely take it. 

“You’re hilarious, kid. A real joker. Alright, let’s get this going, because you’ve a meeting with Kat in forty-five minutes, and you haven’t eaten anything more substantial than a smoothie since eleven—“ 

***

The house thing sort of fixes itself from there, without much input required from Ilya. In a strange burst of maturity, he uses the energy to start accepting the fact that—That this is his house, now. For at least a year, this will be his house, and the house after that will also be in New York. Because he’s an Admiral now. He’s a New Yorker. He’s out, and queer, and a New Yorker and none of that is going to change. 

It’s too much of a thought; way too much. He processes maybe ten per cent of it and shuts down, goes to run some sprints in the ridiculous, bougie garden. It’s easier, after,  to come to terms with a manageable part. He’s an Admiral; that’s alright. That’s fucking great. Players get traded and, yeah, it would be nice if he didn’t lose the C, but it was always going to happen at this stage of his career. If he stayed as captain, he’d have been traded to a much worse team. If he’s moving up, then he’s taking what’s on offer. 

He’s an Admiral, now. He’s on Scott fucking Hunter’s line, presumably with Vaughan. It’s going to be nuts. It’s going to be nuts. He’s going to be playing with guys who are older, heavier and play a ruthlessly disciplined game. There will be some space for manoeuvring, for sneaking in creative plays and showy moves, but he’ll have to be sparing with it. The Bears had let him run wild, push right up the line and flirt with crossing it. The Admirals—Yeah. He will have to be clever about it. 

Continuing the effort of settling into his new life, he wastes some time and a lot of money ordering new clothes, jewellery, a watch. A phone. The old one died after living in the freezer for a month, but the data is cloud-stored. He buys the new one in a sparkling pink, then very carefully doesn’t transfer any of his contacts, messages, etcetera. New life, new Ilya. The few important contacts he needs—Andrei, his old man, Svetlana, Kisel—he knows by heart and Hollander—

In a perhaps predictable fit of masochism, he punches in Hollander’s contact too, same shitty nickname and everything. He doesn’t contact him, isn’t even really tempted to, but—It’s nice to have the option, maybe. To know that he’s making the right choice when he doesn’t reach out. Ilya’s life right now is Hollander’s worst nightmare, the reason he bought an abandoned building to hook up in. No, contacting him, dragging him into this shitshow would be both stupid and cruel. Hollander is a great guy, neuroses and all, sweet in a way Ilya knows he could twist and use against him. If he tried, if he put his mind to it, he could drag Hollander back into his life—And then what? Time moves only one way, and every man seen walking next to him is going to be scrutinised for secret gayness. Scott is proof enough of that, and nothing is going on between them. With Hollander, there would be something to find, which means it would be found, and then his life would be ruined. 

Ilya can think about it, though. He’s allowed to think. To imagine the charmed, hilarious time they could have had together. Nobody ever fit so well, melted almost against his better judgment, like he couldn't help it, like he couldn't breathe with how much he wanted Ilya—

Time only ever goes one way. In another life, maybe. 

***

The second big step towards internalising his new life is to start his actual job. To that end, they drive off to meet with Coach Harvey Murdock properly. The Admirals run their preseason differently; the players atomise until early October, so he won’t have to meet his actual team for a while yet—and thank Christ for that. He’s had a strange couple of weeks; he’s drip-feeding civilisation back into his system.  

Coach Murdock is alright. Looks a bit sceptical, a bit shellshocked by everything, but professional and fair. Whatever he thinks about Scott’s looming, he keeps behind his teeth and confirms what they plan to do with him: they’ll put him on Scott’s line with Vaughan, make him into a scoring winger. It’s a generous offer, one they all know Ilya hasn’t earned on merit. Works for him; it doesn’t matter how you win, as long as you don’t lose. Moreover, it’s hardly a shock. Ever since he stopped doubting Scott’s sincerity, it’s been easy to accept and predict his behaviour. He wants Ilya on his line, so he will get him. Simple. 

It does make him consider how they will tackle the inevitable speculations. While any man being polite in Ilya’s vicinity will spawn speculations, Scott’s unabashed preferential treatment will supercharge them. It’s not a problem as such—Ilya’s becoming strangely attached to the concept of being the favourite—but it will need handling.  

“And, finally, Roz, I’ve spoken to your agent about this, but we really can’t keep you from the media any longer. If we stonewall them any longer, it will start harming your career; give the impression we’re not serious about your place on the team. We have to give them something.” 

Hah. “I would hate if my career is harmed,” he says, voice emerging surprisingly, flatteringly level. “I will speak to press, of course; is part of the job. Just—“ He grimaces. “I do not know what to say. Maybe give me notes? And someone—“ He jerks his head to other side of office where Scott is talking with the assistant coach, pretending to be a normal human being. “—Sit on him, maybe. He is—Protective, yes? Thinks I am lost baby bird who will leap to his death at first shitty question.” 

“You don’t say?” Coach Murdock sighs, deep and heartfelt. “It has to be done. Scotty can get away with shielding you more through the season, but we have to do this right. Meaning an official conference, vetted journalists, and a list of banned topics. You can have your agent there, or attorney, or both. Important thing is to start riding the wave, because we really dont want it breaking over our heads.” 

He shrugs. “Is okay. I have—“ He grimaces again. “I have not spoken to the Bears. To no one, almost. Has been—you know. Awful. So I do not know if you need me to make a statement about that, too. Say no hard feelings, will miss old team, all that.” 

“Certainly you will, and we will get them to do the same. Nobody will buy it, but there are formalities to be observed here. You’re hardly the only player to get traded for less than ideal reasons, and we have protocols in place for when that happens.” 

Yeah, alright, fair enough. 

“It helps that we’re treading new ground here, in a way. Nobody wants to get a discrimination lawsuit to the teeth, least of all the League, so we have some space to manoeuvre. It’s still going to be awful, but—“ 

“But I can play.” Ilya exchanges a strange nod of mutual awareness between unlikely, barely willing allies. “All I want, yes? Press do not scare me, but I am not good at the type of press you want. I do shock and horror, yes? Not—“ He waves a vague hand, trying to encompass all of North America in one flighty, irritated gesture. “—Like what you want.”

“Kid, I’ve been in this sport for thirty-two years. I have worked for and with more than enough Russians to know to temper my expectations. We will do the best we can, keep our heads above water until the season gets going. The hockey freaks will stop caring about anything except your play, and you will be too busy and sore to worry about the rest.” 

Ilya manages a more or less sincere laugh. It’s a nice thought. Dumb as hell, but sweet in it’s ignorance. “You think they forget? You think drama stays off ice? First person who chirps about sucking cock for minutes will get murdered by Hunter.” He pauses, shrugs. “I guess this will set tone; maybe this is upside?” He laughs again, more sincerely this time, at Coach Murdock’s appalled expression. Wow. “Might even be fun. Maybe I make it my thing. A loud, gay rat, yes?” 

“Listen, kid, and listen carefully, because this is not a good idea—“ 

“What’s got you in such a good mood, Roz?” 

Perfect timing. The Lord is generous to his deserving sheep. He twists to Scott and bats his eyes, grin widening. “Was thinking—New team, new play. What about new persona: loud gay rat?” 

“Pardon?” 

So predictable. “I mean, I expect they chirp, yes? Fewer mom fucking jokes, more dick sucking jokes. This is just truth.” 

“Oh, I don’t know, I expect I can convince a few otherwise.” 

No, you can’t. Scott is a good player, one of the best, but he stays good by keeping his head. Every player in the league will lean into as much loud gay bashing as they can, if there is a chance they might distract him. 

“Dull and stupid, yes?” He cocks his head. “Hockey players are assholes. I am biggest asshole. They chirp your wife, your mom, your sister, your dick. Whatever they can. They chirp me for—“ He waves an impatient hand, but makes sure to include the coach in the ramble. He didn't expect he would talk about this today, but he might as well. “Getting fucked, begging for cock. Dumb shit like this. If I mind, I lose—and I do not lose. They lose if I make them mad. You think I can not make them lose it?” 

“It’s not the same, and you know it. Leaning into their bigotry legitimises it.” Scott leans forward a little, brows furrowing. “Doesn't matter what you can and can’t do, there are lines.” 

He rolls his eyes. “No, it does not and no there are not. Never were, probably never will. Hockey is sport for animals. I want class and breeding, I play polo.” God. He turns to the coach, who is watching them with a lot less resigned horror than before. If anything, he looks cautiously pleased. “I am right, yes, Coach? They chirp either way, but I show pain, and they only use it against me.” 

“You’re taking this a lot better than I expected, Roz,” the Coash says. “And Scott, Jesus, I can’t believe I have to say it, but of course the kid is right. I’m not saying there isn’t genuine bigotry in the NHL, but most players who will be chirping him about dick are just looking to piss him off. If it starts working, they’ll only be doing it more.” 

Ilya nods. Obvious observation, hardly needed saying, but he appreciates the support. “Worst already happen, and I still have visa, job, money,” he says. “Press is shit, but it always is. I not need you to stop other players.” Well. “Maybe see about team, yes? We need not be friends, but it would be annoying to listen to slop from them, too.” 

***

The press conference comes and goes. If the past weeks have taught him anything, it’s the value of keeping things in perspective. Case in point: unlike the plague of locusts who camped out in front of his place in Boston, these journalists are downright sweet. They likely won’t stay as tame forever, but right now, the people in this room will have the first media access to him since he came out, and they really don’t want to lose that. 

Similarly, Ilya is operating on a new plane of existence in terms of getting angry. Everything he said to Coach Murdock will become a lie if he folds and shows weakness here, at the world’s tamest presser. No, it’s imperative he looks unbothered, maybe a bit bored by it all. He must demonstrate that he does know how to regurgitate PR gibberish as well as any other player, and that he will do it if he’s feeling spiteful. They ask about hockey, and he gives a real, if clipped answer. They ask about his dick, he makes his voice a dull monotone, recites some generic stock phrase and keeps at it until they back off. 

It’s not a bad way to keep himself entertained, frankly, especially once he starts adding in little side-quests for himself. For the next question, include the word operationalise. Answer the next question with ten words or less. Keep intense eye contact with the next journalist. Try to answer the next question as Svetlana would have. As Scott. As Hollander. As Ms Kat. 

He’s likely not as subtle about it as he could be, but these things are to be survived, not engaged with; besides, he has very little ability to take any of this seriously. These people are his enemies in a way no opposing player ever will be. It’s because of them and others like them that his life went up in flames, over something they pretend to be supportive of. America, land of the free. Hah. They’d have crucified him, destroyed his life before he had a chance to cement his spot in his own fucking sport, and the only reason they hadn’t is that Hunter swooped in and plucked him from the air as he was plummeting to rock bottom. 

Right, calm down. He can practically feel the violence vibrating under his skin, begging to be used. You don’t have to deck anyone to ruin their life. Provoke. Instigate. Cause fucking chaos and walk out of it because you are the NHL star and they will lose their job, then house and, eventually, marriage—

Or not. Maybe don’t do any of that. Maybe, instead, get through this, then go to your pornstar house and bug Scott until he makes you syrniki. He will, if you look pathetic enough and, yeah, they won’t be any good, but they will be yours and nobody else's. 

“—Relationship with the young man in the photos?” 

“I keep personal life private, sir,” he says as deadpan as he can. “I appreciate that everyone has respect for my privacy in this matter.” 

“—scandal will impact your season?” 

How many stock phrases can he stick together? Let’s go with three. “My play speak for itself. I focus on preparation, showing up for my team. Story is the team and my job is to contribute.” Maybe four? “I am confident in my process and appreciate interest in my continued commitment.” 

Next one gets hit with I am taking things day by day, and the next one, a contemptuous little flea of a woman, gets a hideous I am treating this as learning experience. 

He’s more than earned a reward, frankly, and both Scott and Ms Kat agree, because he picks up a sweet-treat for him on the drive back, and she has four pounds of lobster and a fancy bottle of champagne delivered to their house. Scott sticks to his diet plan, the freak, but he splits the booze, and doesn’t even have the grace to get tipsy. Unlike Ilya, who only gets warmer and slower, and ends up napping on the rug. It’s a nice rug, in fairness, thick and warm from the floor heating. Scott’s put on some moody playlist, a crooning American from ye olden days, and makes sure to tuck a pillow under his head, throw a blanket over his back and dim the lights to the lowest setting. It’s nice. 

PR is happy with him, for once. Apparently, Admirals fans—already thrilled by the trade—love a petty bitch, and Ilya looking moments away from expiring from acute boredom hit them just right. They ask for more media, something for the socials, and Ilya carefully doesn’t laugh until the end of time, just forwards them to Ms Haddad. Do one good presser, and everyone forgets that you are a mad dog on a leash. Christ. 

On a brighter note, the preseason finally starts morphing into something more familiar. Strict meal plans, regulated bed-times, endless check-ins with the med staff and workouts. Ye gods, the workouts. 

Ilya is a professional; he’s worked with coaches and trainers since before puberty. It hadn’t quite prepared him for the force of nature that is Scott Hunter on a bulking-up routine. The scope of punishment that man is inflicting on his body should be studied; it’s a miracle his heart hasn’t stopped out of sheer outrage. And what is Ilya supposed to do, not keep up? He can handle it, probably. Ilya’s had some brutal trainers over the years; back home, staff who work with talent on this level don’t play around. They put their players through hell, dose ‘em up, and put them through worse. Since Ilya’s been competing internationally since he was fourteen, he managed to avoid the chemical side of things, but that only meant that he had to work harder to keep up, when he played at home. 

With all that said, you’d think he got more of the same with Scott; a hardass who pushes you until you drop, then pushes some more until you get up and push through. Scott is not like that. He’s not angry or loud, doesn't shout at you or set impossible goals that you must strive to meet. No, he’s focused, patient and smart. He’s had plenty of time to tailor routines to specific goals, the discipline to hit his goal and not go past it and risk injury, and the willpower to do it again. And again. And again. Ilya, however, doesn’t have the willpower to follow through, but he is childish enough to rather die than fall short of Scott’s expectations. So. 

***

October 2012

Two weeks into the crazy new routine—most of which he spent in a pre- or post-workout haze, too tired even to even properly obsess over his failings as a man—it’s time to meet the rest of the team. This, in turn, means that Scott's two best friends--Carter Vaughan, Scott’s second liney, and Eric Bennett, their best goalie—come storming the metaphorical castle the night before. 

Ilya’s just finished a gruelling meeting with Ms Haddad about a sponsorship with Adidas that would make him more money than is in any way reasonable, but will be primarily focused on the fact that he’s the first out NHL player in history. Since Ilya’s position on this offer is both predictable and unproductive—and Scott put him in a headlock for seven straight minutes when he mentioned said position—he’s both relieved by the distraction and not in the best mental space to handle it.  

His mood is helped somewhat by the fact that the gate and the long driveway meant that their dramatic entry was ruined from the getgo—Scott had to buzz them through, open the gate remotely, then wait at the door while they drive up to the house. It’s fucking hilarious. 

“Alright, asshole, we’ve given you plenty of time. Man up and let us in, so we can talk about this as—“ Vaughan stops dead when he sees Ilya lurking in the back. He stills, eyes widening, then narrowing, then widening again. Bennett looks similarly flabbergasted, eyes bouncing between the two of them like he is trying to see an invisible leash around Ilya’s neck—or the other way around. “Scotty? What is going on? Your apartment’s empty, your phone redirects to Rachel, you bought a fucking gated estate—Should we have made this an intervention?” 

Scott’s sigh is fake, start to finish, but he doesn’t look aggressive or dead inside so he probably doesn't need Ilya to kick those two losers out. Good thing, that; Bennett looks like he could bench a horse. “Yeah, alright. Guys, come on in. You know Roz.” 

“Introduce us properly, asshole,” Vaughan says, in a hollow voice. “Hi, Rozanov. I’m Carter Vaughan, and this is Eric Bennett. Were this idiot’s best friends.” 

They also think Scott fucking him, Ilya concludes. They either knew or suspected Scott was gay, before, and seeing Ilya here has confirmed it. This means that Ilya is, now, split down the middle between competing instincts. His first impulse is straightforward enough: Ilya owes nothing to these disloyal fucks. If they want to think their buddy couldn't purse his lips and have gorgeous, accomplished, put-together men falling at his feet, that’s on them. If Scott signals he’s okay with it, Ilya is more than ready to escalate this, make the assholes squirm, make them blush and clench their fists. See if he can get them to take a swing. (He for sure can). The second, hatefully mature impulse is likely the correct one. Ilya doesn’t owe them, but maybe Scott does. Ilya doesn’t know their history, maybe they’ve gone through shit. Maybe the scales there are more balanced than they appear. 

“Hi. I am Ilya Rozanov,” he says, as neutrally as he can. “One you read about, yes?” 

“I caught a whisper, here and there—“ Vaughan and Bennett slowly make their way into the house, eying him like he’s a landmine. Scott hasn't said anything, just sort of stands there like a big lump of repressed emotion. One day it will all come out and, knowing him, it will either get sublimated into sex or rage. Here’s hoping it’s sex. “Are you—I mean—“ 

“I live here,” Ilya cuts in and cocks his head. Maybe he can thread this needle more interestingly. Maybe he doesn't have to be an outright pest, but he can push them a little. “Come in, please. You can leave coats here. Beers? Wine? Tea?” 

The, admittedly somewhat saccharine, tone is enough to break the spell keeping Scott in place. He sends him an exasperated look and starts herding his friends to the living room. 

“Jesus Christ, kid. I don’t know where you learned what American housewives act like, but consider that your sources are suspect and, more importantly, that you’re metaphysically incapable of being any such thing.” 

“Housewives?!” 

Ilya has to work hard not to laugh out loud, cackle like a witch. Scott is such an idiot. How he survived this long—That he even manages to walk and talk at the same time sometimes beggars belief. 

“I mean, house wife is hot, I am hot. They are young, I am young. Blond curly hair, long legs, tiny waist—“ 

“Get fucked, what waist? You’re built like a fridge—“ 

While Ilya would like nothing more than to let this go on, let Scott absorb some chill via banter and scandalise his friends—multitasking is an important hockey skill—he doesn’t actually want him to come across as a sexual deviant. 

“Now if only you get over yourself and fuck me, social contract is complete.” 

“For the last time, kid, you can’t be a housewife if you don’t take care of the house, never mind the fucking that’ll never happen—“ 

“Is the only thing missing, and I not appreciate your virtue ruining my self-concept!” 

“Self-concept?! Have you been roaming twee forums again? You know that shit is bad for you—“ 

There, he thinks, observing the badly hidden relief that passes over Vaughan and Bennett’s faces. That’s about enough. 

“—Sit. Talk to friends. I bring refreshments—“ 

“Ye gods, go away, find some better literature. Most nutrition you are capable of providing is an olive floating in a martini glass.” 

“Which is why I no offer meal. I offer drinks, which I am—I have—I know well enough to be employed?” 

Scott, because he’s in many ways much too sweet for this life, immediately shifts gears. “Qualified. You’re qualified to serve drinks. Good work, kid.” 

“Thanks.” 

He struts out, very satisfied with the show. Taking care of a bratty linesman is very much in Scott’s character, and his friends clearly want to think the best of him. They fear the worst, because they’re disloyal, wretched vermin, but he doubts they will fight too hard against being convinced otherwise. 

***

Because he’s not an idiot, and because he suspects this conversation is long overdue, he makes himself busy in the kitchen, brews a killer pot of black tea, even fishes out some cookies and whatnot. It’s, all jokes aside, nauseatingly domestic and more than he thought he would do for anyone, ever, excluding his future spouse. Imagine, Ilya Rozanov, playing the hostess. Someone alert the Hague.

Some thirty-five minutes later Scott wanders in, eyes a bit wild, a bit red around the edges. He didn’t cry, but he wanted to. Loser. 

“Oh, good, you’re alive. I came to see if you managed to choke and die on a cracker you were trying to plate up.” 

“Was close call, yes? Nevertheless, I emerge victorious.” He ambles toward the fridge, which brings him within comfortable shoulder-checking distance. “Your friends are disloyal worms, but it go well?” 

Scott blinks into awareness after a long beat, then frowns. “Disloyal? The fuck you say? They’d die for me. They’re my brothers.” 

Yeah? Something is happening to the more or less relaxed twist of Ilya’s mouth. It’s a strange grimace; feels strange in any case. Strange and painful. “Very true. Like brother. Could not say better myself.” Alright, cool it. “They think you keep me here for sex. I am not know you, so my stupidity counts for less. They should know better. You want I shoot at back of their knees until they say sorry?” 

Scott is looking at him oddly, sort of concerned and endeared at the same time. Ilya’s seen people look like that at slow, plucky animals like turtles or snails. You don’t look like you’re on top of anything, the look says. You look, in fact, like you’re fundamentally unequipped to survive your life. But by god, am I rooting for you. 

“No, kid. I don’t want you to bully my friends for coming to the conclusion you’ve led them to on purpose. I don’t even blame them. In about seven million years, when you’re all grown up, you will light up any room you deign to enter.” 

Ilya blinks. That’s—

“I am getting mix signals,” he says. “Did I hear maybe somewhere in there? I will drop everything, walk around house in tiny shorts, have thoughts on architecture and read books about art—“ 

Scott is laughing, deep, loud rolling sound Ilya’s never heard or would have believed could come from the sullen man. It’s—It’s a little goofy, like all laughter is, and it makes him look even more ken-doll handsome than he already is. Some lucky twink is going to bag him and win so much more than they deserve. 

“Is that what you think sex pets do? Walk around in their underwear and read about art history?” 

“And have lots of sex,” he adds. “But I not mention this because it is obvious.” He gives the man a theatrical once over. “Also, a—what is the word—An attribute, not a bug?” 

“A feature, not a bug,” Scott corrects, lips twitching. The two snake fucks have migrated to the corridor and are watching them with wide eyed astonishment. Good. Ilya is doing his job. Ilya is making him laugh. What have you two done, except let him sink into whatever state of psychosis made him fish feral Russian disasters out of the trash. “Your English is fucking gorgeous, kid.

Good work.” 

“Thank Ms Kat. She pay me with pictures of you with no shirt—Ow, yeesh, alright, alright, no more, I give—“ 

***

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Still no Shane, but he's coming! As soon as I can!

Meeting the rest of the team goes well enough. A bit theatrical, a bit like one of those nature docs where they’re introducing a new animal into the enclosure and the keepers are all feigning nonchalance, while staying locked in to break up the fight before it gets nasty. Irritating, yeah, and pointless; with Scott looming tall at his locker, not even trying to pretend he’s an unbiased observer, Ilya’s perfectly safe. 

Nevertheless, being all but led by the hand into the locker room by the coach smarts a little. If he had it his way—Yeah. Never mind. You are where you are, a room full of hockey bros is staring at you, so keep your chin up, shoulders relaxed, corner of your mouth raised in a get fucked smirk. 

The noise drops when he walks in, not all the way—no dramatic record scratch, no cartoon silence—but enough that he feels it in his teeth. Based on the easy square of Scott’s shoulders and planted feet, he’s just finished threatening them into obedience. Not the most productive way they could have gone about this, but Ilya values the personal significance of the gesture over team chemistry, especially since team chemistry likely never was on the table. 

They all know who he is; he knows who they are. They’ve been in the same league for years. They have seen him on TV. They have seen him in Boston. They have seen snaps of him fucking a man on national news. With that in mind, the wave of hey’s and hello’s is expected. Vaughan and Bennett send him nods, offhand, faux-casual. Bennett looks like he hadn’t slept much, but Vaughan—Vaughan looks chipper. 

Scott is the first to break the silence. 

“Christ, kid, the fuck are you standing there for? What do you want, a red carpet? You want me to sing a fucking tune? Move your feet.” 

“I would like,” Ilya says. “Very much. This is shameful reception.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Jesus.” Scott makes his way over with long, loping steps, nods at the coach absently, wraps an arm around Ilya’s shoulder and all but picks him up with how hard he’s steering him to his locker. It’s close enough to Scott’s, right across and three to the right. ROZANOV. That, at least, is a comforting bit of familiarity. In every country, in every team, the locker stays more or less the same. “Drop your bag,” Scott says. “Get dressed. We’ll do introductions later.” 

“With cocoa, yes? And after, we braid hair, do makeup, like sleepover—“ 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

Scott doesn’t quite freeze in place, but Ilya can see him hardening. Not good. Christ, they need to get that man anger management classes before he kills someone. In this case, this someone is Olivier Brisebois, who probably doesn’t deserve to be the first one on the chopping block because he said the world’s mildest chirp. 

Best step in. “Aw, Breezy, you feel left out?” He slips past Scott—makes sure to check him a little, for all that the looming lump of muscle doesn’t even twitch—gives Brisebois a once-over. “Want I look at you? Understandable but sad. I only want pretty ones.” He looks around the room, supposedly checking them out, actually checking their reactions. They know Scott a lot better than he does, know his tells. Know that one of their own was about to get his head bit off for no good reason. “In this room, this means only Scotty. Trust that nobody more sad about this than me; he is so out of my league, even dream is hard to maintain.” 

Breezy, whom Ilya suspects is a lot cleverer than he lets on, whistles, clutches his heart, theatrical. “Say it isn’t so, Roz. I finally thought our stars had aligned, and this is how you let me down? Cold, bro. That’s fucking cold.” 

Huh. That’s—Not everybody likes Breezy playing along, but most of the room relaxes. Some even smile, a little tense and uncomfortable, but wholly willing to blur their eyes and think of this as everyday banter. See no homo, hear no homo, speak no homo. 

“Truth hurts, Breezy. You have to settle for your hot tub streamer, she help console you, yes?“

That’s good spin; he gives himself a pat on the back. Not only did Ilya give the dumb kid a dignified way out of this entanglement, he showed insight that some could confuse with interest in his personal life. Granted, Ilya only knew that Breezy was hooking up with Lillith because they were hooking up when he slid into her DMs, but that’s whatever. The kid doesn’t need to know that. 

Breezy shoots him a lazy grin, then cocks his head, visibly considering, opens his mouth—Ilya cuts his hand sideways through the air, shakes his head discreetly. Best not make any cute comments about whom Ilya could drown his sorrows with just yet. 
To his credit, the kid pivots without a hitch. “It’s tragic, really. I don’t know if Lils alone can mend my broken heart. Maybe I’ll ask her to invite one of her girlfriends to help her.”

Bless. What a goofy kid. Now, the important thing is not to engage with the concept of threesomes further, even though the effort of not bringing up his history with Lilith is momentous. 

“All else fail, call hotline; they talk you down from ledge.”

A couple of guys laugh too fast, like they’re relieved to have something to laugh at that isn’t the obvious thing. It’s not genuine, but it doesn’t need to be. The important thing is that Scott is relaxing a little, and Ilya has the space to lay down the groundwork, start figuring out what this will look like. 

Three broad categories of men hate queer men. Straightforward disgust born out of a lack of exposure is easiest to deal with. That problem will solve itself, by Ilya not hitting on them, assaulting them or otherwise infecting them with his gayness. Then there are the loud ones, explosive ones. They can be a pain, but Ilya’s been around men with anger management issues since he was born. You learn how to spot signs of an incoming meltdown, and besides, Ilya can scrap with anyone, anywhere. The worst are the quiet ones. They will hide their hate behind a facade of vague straight-guy-discomfort, and stew in it, sit with it, grow mad with it until they snap and do something nuts. That’s the only type he’s worried about, that he’s looking out for. Those are the types who will skate over somebody’s neck, break into someone’s house and shoot them in the head. A guy he trained with in a summer camp in Kiev had switched the anti-anxiety meds of a sweetheart of a figure skater with lithium, and the guy flipped out and jumped off a balcony. 

He doesn’t really expect any of that sort of thing here—but who even knows? They say NHL boys value their careers over their vices, but then a bunch of them would rape a teenager and absolutely ruin their careers, corrupt justice system aside. You never really know, is the point, and letting bigots hide in plain sight never helped anyone. Ilya’s best path towards keeping himself safe is to get to know these people, see how they tick—and show them that coming out hasn’t made him any softer than he’s been before. 

Still—he shouldn't push too hard, either. He can afford to play this by ear, roll with the situation as it develops—

He hears a voice behind him, low and amused.

“Hey, Roz,” Vaughan says over the light buzz of conversation. The grin is lazy, the eyes aren’t. He’s watching the room while he talks, same as Ilya—clocking who’s tight, who’s curious, who’s sick of this shit already. “You gonna take those skates out or you waiting for Haz to lace you up too?” 

Well, shit, he can’t pass this one up. He leans back, rests his back on the locker, spreads his knees, grin wide and mean. “Haz has his hands full holding your career together, Vaughny. But feel free to get on your knees and do it yourself; I allow it this time.” 

That gets a laugh, the first real one that isn’t edged with uncertainty. Someone tosses something—tape? a sock?—that hits Ilya in the shoulder.

“Jesus Christ, Roz,” Huff says, eyes wide with honest scandal. 

“What? I hear offer, I consider: only best for my liney—“ 

To his credit, Vaughan was the first to laugh, and Ilya can’t spot any ill-will there, no matter how hard he looks. 

“Hard pass. Rats don’t do it for me. Is that how it went back in Boston? You boys spend lots of time on your knees for one another?” 

Oof. Ilya grins wider. Vaughan’s got a mouth on him. Who knew? 

“Is that how it go here? You boys spend lots of time fantasising about how other hockey players fuck?” 

Vaughan’s brows lift. He snorts like it’s nothing, like this isn’t a live wire.

“Buddy, nobody’s fantasising. We just watched you eat ice all spring. Pretty sure you spent half the playoffs staring at the rafters.”

“You would know. You spend last playoffs on your back, yes?” 

The room ripples with repressed laughter; someone slaps a stall. Even the guys who are pretending not to are listening in. 

Vaughan’s grin doesn’t falter; if anything, it widens. “You really wanna talk about being on your back, Roz?” 

Leaning into the gayness of it all will bounce back on Scott. Reel it in. 

“Aw, but your mom loves me on my back. Likes to look at my pretty face when I make her come, yes?” 

Huff’s Jesus Christ is audible over the snickers, followed by an even quieter Save a horse, ride a Russian from Breezy. 

Ilya continues. “But hey, she is a sweet lady. Generous. Maybe if you ask nice, she will teach you how to finish strong. Help with grip, too.” 

Unfortunately, just when things are getting good, Coach steps in, expression all sorts of long-suffering. “Alright, you degenerates. Time’s up. Let’s get this done so we can get on the ice. Scott.”

Scott straightens, nods at Coach Murdock, and takes a few steps forward. “Everybody shut the fuck up for ten seconds.” 

Ilya watches the room obey with interest. The vibe is both more and less relaxed than what he’s used to. Back home, if you don’t listen to your Captain, you get a slap on the mouth. In Boston, you get respect if you earn it, and you fight for the right to speak each time. Here, Scott is obeyed with a casual, but ingrained obedience.

“This is Roz. You all know him, one way or another. Well, he’s an Admiral now. One of us.” He cocks his head. “One of mine. That’s the announcement. I don’t expect any problems, but you will come to me if you have them. Not the media. Not your fucking group chat. Me.”

The last word lands heavy. Even the guys leaning on their stalls straighten a little. Ilya feels it in the back of his neck: the weight of Scott’s claim, and the weight of what it costs.

“I’m sure you’ve been briefed about the situation already, and know that we’re breaking new ground. I’ve made promises to myself and others about the kid’s safety on this team. I will not take it lightly if I am made to be a liar.” 

That’s—an interesting approach. Certainly a lot more confrontational than Ilya would recommend, for all that he’s not surprised. Scott trusts these guys, doesn’t expect they will interpret his words as a dare. Time will tell if he’s correct. 

“Looks like the kid can more than take care of himself, Cap,” Vaughan says, eyes sparkling. “But your point is understood. If nothing else, it will be fun to watch you treat your rabid pet crocodile like a baby bunny.” 

“Nonsense,” Ilya says, because that opening was left for him deliberately and with care; he has to reconsider his position on Vaughan's intelligence and lack thereof. “I am perfect angel; liar told you otherwise. Scott knows this is truth.” 

The season starts surprisingly well; better than he’d hoped. Whatever they felt for Ilya as a person and a man, the Admirals were more than prepared to compartmentalise. After a couple of hours of establishing where the lines are—more or less exactly where they had been—and what the penalty is for crossing them—Ilya will cut them off at the knees, then elbow them in the throat as they’re going down—they figure themselves out. They hadn’t asked for Ilya, hadn’t wanted him before, and don’t want him now, but by god, they will keep him now he’s theirs to keep. 

The unexpected burst of goodwill is helped further by the fact that hockey players are a petty bunch. Not a single player in the NHL—including Ilya to a shameful extent—cares about queer rights or whatever the fuck. What they do care about is being left alone to play their game—and that’s where the tension starts. Because, the only thing hockey players hate more than having to think about uncomfortable topics is being messed with by outsiders. Ilya has, for better or worse, one of the boys. He’s on the ice, he scraps, he swears, he scores and taunts and gloats; he’s a familiar sort of pest, no matter how disgusting and gay otherwise. He steps out on the ice, gives you the opportunity to kick his ass when he deserves it. The league suits? They are not one of them. 

In his defence, Ilya does offer to handle the issue, to let Scott take a step back. He said it sincerely, too, and while Scott likely believed him—the man is depressingly trusting—he also laughed in his face a bunch—trusting doesn’t mean stupid. And Ilya lets him. What the fuck does he know about fighting this fight? This fight had started after he had already lost. And, besides, it’s not like Scott wouldn't have had to fight it either way eventually. This way, at least he can have some distance from it. 

With the cards having been dealt and roles having been distributed, Scott starts setting up his moves, forming his plays. Ilya doesn’t even try to contribute except to ask what his role in all of it is (Become happy, healthy and self actualized, then stay that way, forever) and what he should say to the press when they ask details about all the depraved quid pro quo sex he’s having (None of my business what you say, but it will annoy them most if you neither confirm nor deny). 

***

The first game is against Pittsburgh, and it’s a lot. Certainly a lot bloodier than the first game of the season has any right to be.
Ilya steps on the ice with a chip on his shoulder approximating the size and make of Mars, breathless to make his feelings everyone else’s problem. Which is to say he doesn’t score once, but he drives four different guys into a blackout rage, gets into six fights and wins all of them, and by the second-to-last one—against Göransson, which is as bewildering as it is unfortunate—things get so mean the crowd goes quiet, uncertain if they’re all going to be deposed in a criminal trial. 

Much like Ilya—but very much unlike himself—Scott spends most of the three periods inflicting pain on anyone who dares cross his path. He doesn’t instigate. He doesn’t chirp or slash their sticks or get in their faces, doesn’t shout or yell. Scott gets to where he was going. He finishes every check, pins guys to the boards and holds them there too long—never long enough for the ref to have to call it, just long enough for the other guy to know he could have escalated this as far as he pleased, and there’s nothing anyone could do about it. 

By the second period, the two of them have settled into a routine. Ilya would rush forward and do what he does best: infuriate, instigate, escalate. He rolls into it, eager for the blood, and draws them out because every time someone bites, Scott is already there, punishing them for any and every misstep they made. 

In the end, they win 3–0—Huffy and Wags burying all three, as directed by Vaughan—but neither the players nor the crowd seem to care much about the score. Not after two teams with no particular history have managed to spill about as much blood on clean ice as Team USA did against Canada. 

“Good game,” Scott has the balls to say to Boyle, whom he has crunched into the glass with such deliberate malice, even Ilya’s ribs ached in sympathy, to say nothing of his steadily purpling eye and broken nose. “Look forward to the next one.” 

“I don’t. Jesus Christ, Haz—Talk about making a fucking point.” 

“Pardon? I’m not following.” 

Ilya—shamelessly trailing Scott like a remora, practically glued to his back—tries to etch Boyle’s expression into memory. It isn’t defeat. This is as meaningless a game as they come, October noise, one of eighty-two. It’s the sheer, long-suffering outrage. Pittsburgh is an alright team, and Boyle is an alright captain, but they haven’t sniffed the playoffs in seven years, and this won’t be the year they manage it either. In many ways, it’s a cruel and unusual fate to be first through the door, to be the ones fed, warm and trusting, to Scott Hunter on a path of violence. 

Things get better and worse on the road in Philadelphia.

The hockey is exactly what it’s supposed to be. Four–one. Ilya scores once, sets up the other three, and spends most of the night feeling like he’s finally where he should be. He tends to feel pretty unbeatable on ice, even with the Bears, who are loyal but will let a guy make his own mistakes if it comes to that. Admirals will die for Ilya, on Scott’s word alone, and consider it a fair bargain. Needless to say, Ilya feels less like an athlete and more like a mythological creature, something with wings and claws and teeth, bullying puny humans because they invaded its lair.

That’s the upside. The downside, according to some law, somewhere, written into the fabric of the universe, is equal, beat for beat. Meaning that the league start making moves that even Scott, Ms Kat and Ms Haddad can’t keep away from his conscious awareness. 

The first step is embarrassing, yes, but tame. Ilya is assigned a PR liaison—only him, mind. Not the Admirals, just Ilya. The man is blank-faced, middle-aged, generically handsome; as far as Ilya can determine, his name is actually, legally, Jack Smith. He isn’t loud or pushy, but that only serves to underline the fact that he’s there to spy, not spin. Every PR person Ilya’s ever met has been cut from the same cloth: forceful, solutions-first, always three steps ahead, bossy and endlessly unimpressed with the talent they’re saddled with. If Jack Smith is solving problems, he’s doing it with such incredible discretion that the work is invisible.

The second step is worse, and makes Ilya think about patterns of escalation. The hotel gets new protocols. Ilya’s room is booked on a separate floor, with a strict guest list, complete with keycard checks by three security guys posted near the elevators and staircases. It’s all very tasteful, very professional, very transparent in its message: Please do not fuck any more twinks into the drywall. Thank you for your cooperation in this matter.

In all fairness, Ilya took this one better than the first, but he was the only one. It’s hard to say who was more upset, Ms Kat, Ms Haddad, Scott or, in a strange twist of circumstance, his new teammates. Up to that point, they’ve treated Ilya as a strange new breed of a WAG that plays hockey and is allowed in the dressing room. Seeing him singled out like this, quarantined away ‘for his own safety’  triggered several core traits present in every hockey brain. You protect your own, even the team rat, even the guy you can’t stand. The implication that they are the ones Ilya needs to be protected from doesn’t help matters, nor does the fact that the arrangement was immediately leaked to the press and the internet at large. 

And then, after the game, the real punishment lands.

Mandatory media availability is tightened for Ilya specifically, which is a nice way of saying they park him in the scrum and don’t let him leave for ninety minutes. Admirals PR isn’t there to run interference, and these reporters haven’t been instructed to play nice or else. The opposite seems to be true; these guys seem to have gotten the green light to extract as much blood as they please, while they have the chance. 

They don’t waste it.

As far as punishments go, this one would have hit home, even a month ago. Even a week ago. Hell, if he had played a bit worse, if he hadn’t come off a near-perfect game—if Scott wasn’t standing right behind him, off his shoulder, blank-faced and dead-eyed—maybe he’d snap. As things are? He could do this all fucking night. 

A man in the front row lifts his hand and doesn’t wait to be acknowledged.

“Rozanov—are you living with Scott Hunter?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. He rests his chin in his palm, tilts his head to the side, lids on half-mast.  “Is a nice house, also.” 

“Why?” 

Christ, what an opening. If it were just Ilya on the line—Alas. “Because it is convenient,” Ilya says. “Because New York has many photographers and house has tall gates and full time security. Because Admirals pay a lot of money for their new player, and want to make sure a crazed maniac does not cost them money. Because I want to. Take pick, yes?” 

A woman leans forward, smiling like she’s about to sell him something.

“Are you living with him because your family cut you off? Is this charity?”

Bless. 

“My family is not paying my bills,” he says. “I play in NHL for years. Trust that I am alright in terms of money, even by American standard.”

“Did Hunter demand the Admirals trade for you?” another voice asks. “Did he pressure management?”

Ilya lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

“You would have to ask management. I was not present for those conversations.”

“And are you comfortable,” the woman continues, “with the power dynamic? You’re twenty-one. You’ve had a public scandal. You’re vulnerable. He’s an established star. A captain. You don’t see how that looks?”

“I do not, sorry. Explain how it look, please.”

“I’m asking if you feel safe?”

“Do I feel safe with Scott Hunter?” Ilya lets himself smile, a proper one, meaning crooked, a little mean, more than a little delighted by the absurd thing he’s witnessing. “Do I, Ilya Rozanov, feel safe with Scott Hunter?” His smile widens into a grin, then he waves at the wrist, lazy. “Never in life have I felt safer. Is hard to imagine I could.” 

A beat writer tries to salvage it.

“Can we talk about the game? You had four points—”

“No,” someone cuts in immediately, sharper. “Ilya, are you aware that the league has concerns about distractions and conduct detrimental?”

Bless. 

“If so, my agent has not spoken to me about it.” 

“Have you been warned by the league?” the same reporter asks. “Have you been instructed on what you can and can’t do off the ice?”

“I have been told the rules of the NHL, yes. Three years ago, when I was signed to the Bears, we go over them, I sign. We have no problems. I have not heard that the rules have changed since, but if they have, my agent will tell me, and we will go over them again. Together.” 

“Have you complied with additional security protocols?” another asks. “Guest lists? Restricted access? Is the league trying to protect you from yourself?”

“Oh,” Ilya says. “That is what this is called.” He shrugs. “The league pays for hotel, for security, all such things. If they think I am in danger, I am grateful they take steps to keep me safe.” 

A man with a podcast mic—of course—leans forward, hungry for the clip.

“Are you still sleeping with men?”

Ilya blinks once. Looks the man up and down. Smiles. “Your interest flatters me, but fucking reporters is never worth it. I have to decline.” 

“That’s not—”

He arches his eyebrows, puts on a condescending, pitying smile. “My mistake, sorry. Repeat your question, please. I will try to hear it in a strictly heterosexual way, yes?” 

A pause, then another angle, quivering with moral indignation. “Do you think it’s appropriate,” a woman asks, “for the Admirals to put you in this position—living with your captain—given your history?”

“My history,” Ilya repeats, slowly. “You mean, someone did a crime against me, and you enjoyed seeing it?”

Her smile falters.

“That’s not what I—”

“It is. Next question.”

They keep trying. It’s not about getting what they want—they already have what they came for. They got to ask their questions, to have his answer on the record, whatever the answer is. Everything else is a bonus. 

“What did the league say to you after the leak?”

“Do you feel pressure to be a spokesperson?”

“Do you think other players are uncomfortable?”

“Are you worried you’re damaging the brand?”

He’s up to his neck in typical PR-slop jargon, when someone asks the one question that he will take seriously, even if only the once. 

A man in the third row raises his voice, not his hand.

“Is Scott Hunter gay?”

For half a second, the room goes dead quiet, not because the question is shocking—these creatures don’t feel shock or shame—but because Ilya stops dozing away on the podium. He sits up, purses his lips, and makes an acknowledging sound. 

“I will answer this. Where is—“ He looks around for a bit, but finds the expected camera easily enough. “I speak directly, so the answer is not chopped up to taste, yes? One thing a live stream is good for.” 

He takes a moment, makes sure his voice is nice and even.

“Is important you understand: I will never answer a question like this. It is one thing to be target of your voyeuristic perversion. It is stressful and painful and makes relationships hard, but I want to play hockey, so I will endure. But now you want me to participate in your perversion, and this, I will not do. I will not do this to a man I hate. I  certainly will not do this to a man I respect with everything I am.”

Ilya turns back to the reporters, relaxes his shoulders. 

“Back to regular—to schedule—“ He turns around. “What is that expression, on old TV—“ 

“Back to our regularly scheduled programming, kid.”

“Cheers.” He turns back around, smiles, bored. “Back to our regular scheduled program—Yes?” 

The beat writer, grateful, lifts his hand.

“How did you find space on the power play tonight?”

Oh, wow. That’s refreshing. 

“Philadelphia gets greedy,” he says. “They chase. They leave the seam open. I take it.”

The podcast guy tries again, desperate not to lose the narrative.

“So you refuse to clarify—”

“I refuse to participate,” Ilya corrects, pleasantly. “Same way if someone ask me if you are gay, I say: he was very interested in my dick and my taste in men, but I cannot say past that. Not my place.”

“And the league’s concerns—”

“Also not their place. Who you fuck is your business. Who I fuck is my business. This is simply true, by law and common sense.” 
He glances at the clock, sighs, but shrugs. “We have forty-five minutes more, so go ahead. I live to serve.” 

***

Chapter End Notes

I now know a little bit about hockey. Have some trivia:

New York Admirals

Goalies
Eric Bennett (G) — 37 — “Benny / Benns”
Tommy Andersson (G) — 22 — “Swede / Anders”

Defense (7)
Frank Zullo (D) — 30 — “Zoo / Zully”
Matti Jalo (D) — 27 — “Jals”
Liam Cameron (D) — 24 — “Cam / Cammy”
Jonas Müller (D) — 27 — “Mulls”
Owen Marleau (D) — 31 — “Marly”
Nathan Armstrong (D) — 28 — “Arms”
Declan Doyle (D) — 24 — “Decky/DD”

Forwards (14)
Scott Hunter (C) — 29 — Captain — “Haz/ Scotty / Cap”
Carter Vaughan (RW) — 25 — “Vaughny / CV”
Cale Wagner (LW) — 24 — “Wags”
Greg Huff (F) — 26 — “Huffy”
Sean Burke (RW) — 22 — “Burkie/Seabs”
Caleb MacDow (LW) — 27 — “Mac / Mack”
Olivier Brisebois (F) — 20 — “Breezy”
Owen Gillis (C) — 20 — “Gills”
Tyler Farmer (LW) — 25 — “Farms”
Patrick Woodward (RW) — 29 — “Woody”
Jani Virtanen (RW) — 23 — “Virsey / JV”
Kellan McKenzie (C) — 24 — “Kelsy” (OC)
Evan Rinaldi (W) — 26 — “Rino” (OC)
Ilya Rozanov (W) — 21 — “Rozy / Roz / Tsar”

—

Line 1: the protection line
LW Ilya Rozanov – C Scott Hunter – RW Carter Vaughan (A)

Line 2: the matchup/scoring line
LW Cale Wagner – C Greg Huff – RW (your choice: Burke/MacDow moved to RW/another winger)

Line 3: the forecheck/check line
Farmer – Gillis – Woody

Line 4: the rotation line
Rotation of a winger, a center and a winger. Rest of the team rotates.

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Don’t talk to me about chapter count. Don’t you even start.

While there’s nothing Ilya could’ve done or said that would’ve convinced the world he wasn’t earning his spot on the team face-down, ass-up, the fact that he didn’t deny it might as well be a confirmation. The League certainly isn’t happy about it; Ilya gets two fines, twenty grand for ‘Unprofessional conduct toward media’ and another ten for “Failure to comply with contractual media obligations”. And, naturally, the press immediately finds out, down to the wording. Ilya, whose ten-year sponsorship with Adidas came through and made him crazy monopoly money, thinks it’s pretty funny and has the originals framed. Ms Kat and Ms Haddad pet his hair, stuff him full of chocolate and make court-certified copies of the fines for their archives. It’s all very dramatic. 

Thing is, none of this is surprising, for all that the scandal of it all seems to be melting everyone’s brains. The league managerial class likely hadn’t expected the fight at all, but now that they’re in it, they're committed. Ilya isn’t surprised. He isn’t even surprised they’re playing so badly. The worst type of bigot is the one hiding in plain sight, and one of those is lurking high up in the NHL leadership. And, just like these things typically go, their hate is making them wig out, do weird, convoluted shit. In this case, this means that, instead of isolating Ilya, instead of focusing on his very real character flaws, they did the dumbest thing they could and lumped Scott together with him. And that’s a very different fight. 

The scandal is gathering speed fast, that much is clear. Ilya hasn’t yet reached whatever nebulous stage of his mental-health journey would make him go online and look up the finer details, but he doesn’t need to. Everyone else’s reaction tells him that much. Besides, the only interesting part in all this is the unintuitive way the battlefield is shaping up. Hand on his heart, gun to his head, he’d not have guessed the League apparatchiks would step up swinging as hard as they had. Similarly, he expected the blowback from the actual players to be a lot more concrete. 

Coach was sort of right—it is easier to handle the nonsense in the season—and sort of wrong—turns out, only the hockey freaks and league leadership care about who Ilya is fucking. Similarly, Ilya was sort of right, sort of not: while players have chirped all the expected sludge at the start, they stopped pretty early on. And it wasn’t just because they didn’t get the results they were looking for. Ilya knows himself, knows his limits. He can shrug off generic, dumb heckles, but a real pest, a clever one like Mason Albright or a funny one like Luka Vidmar would make him snap in three sentences.

They don’t try, is the thing. The chirps start fading back into typical hockey filth after the third game. After the fifth, they chirp Ilya about sucking dick about as much as they do everyone else—meaning more than anyone should reasonably expect, but in a clueless, off-hand way that’s not even a little challenging to ignore. Some brave gay boy will, one day, stake his flag on that hill and die honourably, but Ilya is more than delighted to chirp right back, get weird with it, lick their faces. Rat king, baby. 

It’s a welcome reprieve from an unlikely source, and Ilya suspects it's driven by two broad factors. The first is Scott’s quiet social engineering via grabbing a beer with an old teammate, chatting with an old coach over a burger in Fuckswille, Massachusetts—who just happened to be a grizzled old vet who knows everybody and likes nobody but hates suits most of all, etcetera, etcetera. Scott doesn’t ask for help; he doesn’t even complain. What he does is answer when asked. I have a spy in my barn, I have a coach who can’t even book hotel rooms for his players. My rookie has mandatory interviews with reporters I’m not allowed to vet, nor can my PR people run interference. Now I have scumfuck fines? They’re going after my rookie, but Roz is a nineties Moscow brat; he’ll survive fucking anything. What about yours? You think they’d handle it? Cause they won’t stop at mine. 

The second factor is more obvious, for all that it can sometimes be difficult to predict, and it’s the same one that made Ilya’s teammates so protective after five minutes and no goodwill. Hockey players, simple creatures that they are, respect hierarchy above all else. Meaning that, while the hockey world agrees it’s bizarre that Scott Hunter wants a male, in-house sex-pet, he’s Scott Hunter. He gets what he wants. Get good or die quiet, etcetera. At least he got himself a sex-pet that can play hockey, and made sure to keep him stapled to his line. That’s practically a class act, compared to the shit other guys do. 

That mentality is easy, even natural, to spill over onto Ilya because—well, because he got his rep fair and square. It pays to have made yourself a spectacle in eighty-two games per year, every year you’ve played; it means that the preconceptions you have about gay guys will pale in comparison to the documented reality of his character. And with the season proceeding full steam ahead and the Admirals skating Ilya to death every game, he has plenty of chances to remind everyone just how sweet and gentle and submissive he is. 

So the narrative becomes: Why are the managerial overlords making such a mess of things? Why are they wasting everybody’s time with this nonsense? Media playing up rivalries was one thing, but they’re dragging whole teams into this shit, inviting new, even more irritating reporters to yap about who Roz fucks and what freaky shit he gets up to, like the kid hadn’t always been nuts. 

It’s some sort of hilarious that hockey tribalism is the only thing that could horseshoe around to a surprisingly tolerant conclusion. Nowhere is this mindset more apparent than in their eleventh game of the season. The away game against the Bears. 

***

Ilya is normal in the morning and normal in the car. He’s normal on the plane. And then—Well. 

He hasn’t been at this airport since Ms Kat had hired a full security team to hustle him and Scott through the crowd of reporters and fans. It's all so—familiar. Hideously familiar. He knows every fucking inch of this airport; he recognises the damn security guards. His mind is flooded with memories, none of which he wants to revisit, because none of them matter. The car service that picks them up is the same one that the league uses, meaning they’ve driven him hundreds of times. And his old barn—

Sliding back into the fog is easier than having to think about any of it. Pull yourself together before you start clawing at your chest, before you start making a scene that will make your teammates look at you even more weirdly than they do now. Christ knows Scott is two seconds away from declaring this to be a mistake, beelining back to the airport and flying both of you to Nepal to herd goats for the rest of their lives. Cool it. 

Blink, and he’s inside. The dressing room is wrong, but otherwise—He can identify the smell of the Boston rink at a thousand paces. Stupid amounts of money have been thrown at it, and still the smell persists: iron, ozone, spite. He thought—This was supposed to be his year, the year he’d take them to the fucking cup, the year they’d—

He clenches his fists, tenses his shoulders and exhales a loud, hoarse sound that has Gilly jumping two feet in the air, whirling around wide-eyed and astonished. 

“Holy, kid—“ 

“I am fine.” Maybe try not snarling in your teammate’s face. “I am fine,” he repeats, trying to telegraph that he is fine and excellent and on top of things and that he should not be fucked with right now because he’s losing it and someone is going to get hurt if he’s pushed too hard. “Just—Thing stuck in my throat.” 

“Yeah? We call that fucking sadness—“ 

Thankfully, at least the second part of his silent message seems to have come across to the room, because Vaughan is suddenly there, dragging Gilly away without Ilya having to do something crazy like elbowing him in the mouth. Christ. 

Scott is suddenly there, winking into existence before him. Ilya blinks up, swallows. Whatever state he’s suddenly found himself in, it’s similar to that night when he tried to get Scott to fuck him; like his body is just a container of compressed, vibrating dread, unstable and terrifying. Like nobody, least of all himself, could count all the monsters lurking in there, poised and ready. 

“You’re alright, Roz. It’s hockey. It’s where you’re at your strongest. What do you do in the first?” 

“Kill some guys.” 

“The second?” 

“Score some goals.” 

“The third?” 

“Start some fights.” 

“That’s right.” Scott’s trying to telegraph his movements, but that’s useless considering Ilya’s both hyperaware of his every twitch and incapable of processing past that base level of awareness. “You got this. And we’ve got you. Easy.” 

“I don’t—“ It’s not about the hockey. It’s never about the fucking hockey. He doesn’t even know what it is about, if it’s about anything more concrete than being ambushed by all the things you refuse to think about, the things he lost. And he’s so angry, so fucking aimless about it, he wants to sink his teeth into something, wants to hurt something, cause pain, rip this whole fucking room apart—

He clenches his jaw, head tilting back, hand somehow finding its way to the left side of his chest. He should have—Once things calm down, he’ll get the fucking thing covered. Laser it off his chest. It’s fucking pathetic— “I am fine. Fine. Just—“ You’re having a meltdown is what you’re doing. You’re embarrassing yourself and Scott and every other person who worked hard to get you on your feet. And why? What do you hope to accomplish? What’s the plan? 

“Yeah. Sucks, I know. Regardless, you’re doing great; precisely what you should be doing. Keep that pattern, in-for-three, hold-for-four, out-for-five—“ 

***

On the upside, Ilya seems to be such a nutcase that having a nervous breakdown in the dressing room doesn't appear to give anyone pause. Or, more realistically, if they do have a problem with it, they weighed it against Scott’s retaliation should they bring it up, and decided it’s better to let things lie. 

Scott makes him sit there and breathe like an idiot for some thirty minutes—he resents the first five and then gratefully sinks away into the repetitive haze for the rest, feeling his muscles unclench and lungs expand smoothly. Then he makes him drink a gallon of water, eat three chocolate bars and then swoops him and wraps him in an intense hug. He does that sort of thing, doesn’t have a good handle on friendly touch. He doesn’t touch Ilya much at all—probably on some level still traumatised by the proposition, the idiot—until he can’t help it, and then is way too much about it. 

Ilya, who has been described as a bit much on occasion, doesn’t mind at all. Besides, in his experience, most people are a bit fucked up, all the most interesting people are, and the fact that Scott hugs with the intensity and comfort of a locomotive is not even on the list of the weirdest things about him. 

***

Warmups before games are often about more than just warmups, but this is especially true this time. Ilya can only imagine how much the media has hyped up this game, especially combined with all the drama regarding Ilya and Scott and the league. 

The Bears are already there when they step onto the ice, and the crowd boos with gusto. Since sharpening himself against the disapproval of others is Ilya’s signature move, this helps, if anything, makes it easier to straighten his back and tilt his jaw, shake out the tension in his limbs until he’s loose and ready to throw down. 

Only—Only yeah, they’re booing the boys, and they’re booing the shit out of Scott, but they’re not booing Ilya. They’re not cheering, Christ forbid, but they’re not booing either. No matter how you slice it, there’s more approval than disapproval there, and Ilya has no idea what to do with that. Seems like the league machinations have backfired more than he expected. 

“Keep close, boys; eyes open.” 

Yeah, okay, like he needed to say it. The Admirals look like they’re marching into trench warfare, like they’ll be in hell soon. 

Focus. Warm up. You will be playing a brutal game soon, you need every advantage you can get. 

He gets lost in it a little, goes through his routine with a little more care than he typically does. A puck slides into Ilya’s lane, and he catches it clean, flicks it back without looking. Wait, no. That’s— 

Jojo is already there to receive it. His face is blank, the way it always was. You can only tell what Jojo is thinking by his eyes, and only when he wants to let you. He loops back and taps Ilya’s skate with his stick, precise and annoying.

“Edges still shit,” he mutters.

Ilya can barely hear his own words over the roar in his ears, cold clench in his chest. Something about his mother, something about his girlfriend. Johansson’s mouth twitches, and he glides away like nothing had happened. 

Jesus Christ, what—What is even happening—

Dubek comes in loud, skates too close, glove brushing Ilya’s elbow, and announces to the entire fucking arena:

“Jesus Christ, Roz. Look at that ugly fucking jersey. You look like you’re about to talk to me about extended warranties and HDMI cables” 

The only thing that saves him is instinct; there's certainly nothing in his head except cotton wool and violence. “Hi, welcome, how can I help you today? Need directions? Need attention? Need to get put on your knees?”

Dubek lets out a delighted sound. “Buddy, you offering premium service now?”

“Yeah. Employee of the month. My job is putting you face-down in the glass.” 

“Be still, my heart,” Dubek says, fanning himself. “What are you doing, baby, threatening me with a good time?” He laughs, opens his mouth to chirp some more, then his eyes jump sideways, and his grin twists into something a lot less jovial. “And look at that,” he says. “Scott fucking Hunter. Fucking disgusting. Bet he sleeps in his gear. Bet you keep him in the rink between games, just shut him off and stash him in a shelf somewhere—“ 

Scott, who has absolutely heard every word, tilts his head a fraction. He glides up beside Ilya like a crocodile that learned to skate. Close enough to be a wall. Not touching. Not crowding. Just there in a way that reads as a claim to anyone with eyes. 

Bless. Ilya nods at Dubek, sighs and makes a shooing motion. Dubs scoffs but skates off—only for Seabs to pass through centre ice like a slab of silence. He doesn’t chirp. He doesn’t grin. He sends Ilya a nod and, very deliberately, doesn’t acknowledge Scott or the other Admirals in any way. 

And then Cliff fucking Marlow cuts across the neutral zone with that bright, reckless swagger that makes refs sigh preemptively. He angles in and clips Ilya shoulder-to-shoulder—hard enough to be felt, clean enough to deny.

Marly’s grin is all teeth. “Roz.”

“Marly,” Ilya says, flat.

Marly’s eyes flick to the red on Ilya’s chest, then back up to his face. He looks—Ilya doesn’t know what he looks like. Older, maybe? He’s paler than the norm, that’s for sure, and looks a bit leaner. More serious. 

“The fuck is this pussy shit, Roz? What have these robots done to you?” He leans forward. “Boston has high expectations, and you better treat us like we deserve.” 

The ringing in his ears increases, but he’s—calm is not the right word. Shocked by the momentum of relief is better, only more blood-soaked. You want to be treated like you deserve? Where’s Ilya’s fucking chainsaw? 

“I treat you any way I please,” he says, straightening. 

Marly nods, decisive. “Better. We got fresh ice just for you, and if it doesn’t get ruined before the second period, it’ll be a damn tragedy.” 

A couple of Bears snicker. Ilya throws a glance. Cammy and Dubs, looking, grinning, not as easygoing as they appear. Marly’s gaze skates past Ilya to Scott, and his grin sharpens.

“Hunter,” Marly calls, easy and friendly, eyes a deep well of rage that meet Scott’s reptilian ice and hold.

Scott doesn’t move. “Marlow.”

Marly looks Scott up and down like he’s deciding where to dent him. “You know what I love about you, Captain?” he asks.

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“You’ve had Roz for like five minutes, and you already act like he’s a kitten you rescued  from a burning building.”

Scott’s jaw tightens. The contempt is controlled, but it’s there, cold and not even a little impersonal. He’s not going to deck him, is he? It’s Scott. He’s held his temper against horrible shit. 

“Oh, sorry, my mistake. Did I say love? I meant I can’t wait to punch off your face.” Marly tips his chin toward the navy jersey. “He might wear your reds now, but we drafted him. We raised him. Made him captain. So maybe take all that moral indignation and choke on it, if you can’t find anything more interesting to choke on.” 

Fuck you, howls something in Ilya’s mind. Fuck you and your lies. I was your Captain, I was supposed to fucking retire in Boston, and you threw me away in a fucking week. You sold me to the Admirals, gave me to the first man who asked, and now you’re talking shit? Wasn’t I worth a fucking phone call? A fucking IM? 

“Take care how you speak to my captain,” Ilya finds himself saying. “He likes to settle his debts with broken bones and skate away with nothing on the clock.” 

Marlow cocks his head, grins. “Oh, no. Threaten me with anything but violence, you know the sight of blood makes me faint.” 
Christ. 

***

The game is brutal, it really is. There’s something about the Bears that you can’t replicate, some intrinsic characteristic that Ilya will stop loving as soon as he figures out how. They are irrepressible, relaxed and, crucially, are having the time of their fucking lives. It's what Ilya enjoyed most, what he misses in the Admirals, for all that they couldn’t get him to admit it under torture. The Bears grin and yap and chirp the other guys, each other, the refs, the crowd—everything their eyes can see. You hit them, they hit back twice, laughing all the way. 

And by god, do they extract their pound of flesh. It’s very rarely worth it to meet the Bears at their own level. Unless you’re in the playoffs, the correct choice is always to give them the win and make up the difference with a less insane team. Only this game ended up being about everything but hockey. Gloves were thrown as the puck dropped, and that only set the tone for the rest of the evening. The Bears came for Scott, hard, and he came at them right back, for once willing to take full advantage of his ridiculous strength and cause some fucking pain. 

Ilya, of course, knew his place—taking care of his captain—and had some complex feelings to work out besides. Pretty soon into the first period, even the refs seemed to sigh and give up and let the degenerates mess each other up a little since no real hockey is happening tonight. 

It gets rough. It gets mean. It gets downright nuts at one point—six separate fights on the ice, with guys leaving some and joining others, just a giant pandemonium. Ilya saw his replacement—Sima, fucking Sima, they replaced him with Sima, how dare they, he liked him—and lost it, just went fucking nuts. Scott was right there behind him, only he got tackled by Lyosha and Seabs, and Lyosha, for one, would have ended up in organised crime if he didn't play. Marly and Mulls came to make sure Ilya doesn’t kill himself or anyone else, and got dragged into it in point two seconds flat. 

“—dare you, snake fuck trash,” he finds himself screaming into Cliff’s face, as he’s trying his very best to smear him into the ice. “Throw me away like less than nothing and now you fucking yap—“ 

Cliff bares his teeth, bloody and dangerous, does something, twists, gets Ilya on his back, then slams him hard enough his vision grows spotty for good measure. “We didn’t do shit, Roz. Ownership did it all behind our backs. You think we liked it? We almost refused to play the season.” 

It’s been loud in Ilya’s head for a while, but now—Now he’s so mad, he wants to draw blood with his teeth, wants to get his hands on Cliff’s flesh and twist until it rips, splits—

“Bullshit. Bullshit. You never even—Not a fucking message—“

“Get fucked and die, you self-absorbed diva!“ Whoops. Ilya is not the only one mad. Cliff makes an inarticulate sound and slams him on the ice, adds a headbutt for good measure. Ilya’s head crunches back into the ice, hard. “You changed your number, asshole. I came to your fucking apartment like some lovelorn schoolgirl, and it was up for sale. You fired your agent, your new agent threatened me with a restraining order, what the fuck was I supposed to do? Stalk you via carrier pigeon?” 

Huh. Ilya blinks up at him, a bit dazed. If he hadn’t had a concussion before, he’s getting there fast. He did—He did sort of do that. 

Cliff must see some of the fight draining out of him, because he sags too, shoulders coming down a little. He sighs, spits some blood out. It won’t help him much; he’ll be finishing the game with at least two fewer teeth. 

“Yeah. Fucking sucks. I’m mad as hell, but it wouldn’t—It wasn’t a question if we’d keep you, it never crossed our minds they’d—“ He spits again. This time, just because he’s a coarse motherfucker. “Somebody panicked, some suit made the call, and that was that. If it were up to us, you'd have retired a Bear, just like Malinovsky. Like Vetrov.” 

Horrifyingly, Ilya finds himself choking up. He’s not crying, thank Christ for that, but he’s getting emotional and stupid with it. What the fuck is he supposed to—What does he even fucking say—

“You give me cigarette now, or continue fucking my trauma in front of Christ and ESPN, Cliffy—“ 

“Eat shit, asshole, I’m having a beautiful moment!” 

“Is very beautiful, only I was sure I could not get pregnant, but this is a lot, so just in case, you know? Maybe fuck off and jump in a well?” 

“Loser mentality, Roz. Our children would be hockey gods, would get raised by the NHL and lead them to the promised land of beers and pussy and no shitty refs.”

“True. Continue, then. You want I get on all fours, and you talk to me about my father?” 

***

He finds a brick phone taped to his locker when they limp back to the dressing room—one zero for the Bears, in overtime, and only because Benny couldn’t see for shit with the blood in his eyes—with a sign underneath that says Learn how to use me, asshole. 

Fair enough. 

“That went better than I expected,” Scott says, like a lunatic. He’s as messed up as the rest of them, for all that he’ll bounce back from it in five minutes. 

Ilya boggles at him. “You mean because they not sneak in Kalashnikovs? I expect Lyosha had some around, but you kept him busy by repeat blunt force trauma to the head.”

Scott rolls his eyes and jerks his head toward the phone that Ilya hadn’t even had the balls to look at for too long, much less figure out the burning feeling in his stomach. “Marlow’s not wrong. He’s a petty little bitch, but he’s not wrong. You should call them.” 

Ilya stops, opens his mouth, closes it. 

“Jesus Christ, kid, is that what shuts you up? The inconceivable notion that your old team misses you?” Scott rolls his eyes, wraps his arm around Ilya’s shoulders and shakes hard. Ilya’s brain and heart and desolation rattle, as confused about all this as Ilya is. “They’re the worst, absolute fucking animals who need to get leashed and muzzled, but they almost killed me for stealing you from them. That’s as it should be.” 

Christ. 

“What, you think I invite Hams and Jojo and Marly to our pornstar house for beers? I invite Ark and Seabs and Pikey to watch a game?” 

Scott rolls his eyes. “Way I see it, I already live with the worst nightmare the Bears have ever raised. If you think there is anything those losers can do to faze me, you’re out of your mind.” 

Pathetically, Ilya finds himself beaming. He is the worst, thank you. It’s easy after that: he rips the brick phone from the locker, shoves it in his bag, then flops across Scott like dead weight and demands Scott haul his sorry carcass to the showers. 

“My legs hurt, Scotty, you want your sex pet slip and break his neck in Boston? You want that headline—“ 

***

He does call. Well, alright, he doesn’t call anybody, he’s not a fucking maniac. He adds them to his contacts and makes a group chat on WhatsApp, and sends Cliff and Jojo his new address. But, while he’s there—

It’s all well and good that he’s transferred the contact over, but Hollander doesn’t know the new number. And, yeah, it’s not like there is anything there, not like he wants anything but—But if he made good with the fucking Bears who gave him away, maybe he can sort of—

They’re playing the Voyagers in ten days. It’s going to be a shitshow. They’ve already made a spectacle of the Bears game, fed the media and the hockey nuts. The fines are about to start pouring in; he doesn’t doubt it. So maybe—With the benefit of hindsight, he can admit that—well, as shitty as it all was, Hollander had reached out to help. He did it badly and without style, but it’s Hollander. He’s never encountered an interpersonal situation he couldn’t misinterpret, overanalyse and ruin. And, besides, Ilya’d be pretty pissed if he saw pictures of Hollander fucking another guy—He stops and considers his suspicious lack of jealousy. Alright, that’s—Ah. He flips things around, imagines Hollander getting fucked by some other guy, head thrown back in bliss, pupils blown—There it is. There’s the rage. 

So, he sends a quick message. 

ME: Good game. Lily 

The reply is flatteringly quick. Less than two minutes, never mind the time difference. 

JANE: Thanks. Yours too. I think. 

Bless him, he’s trying to be nice, but even his Canadian sensibilities couldn’t find anything good about that game. It was bloodletting more than it was about sport. 

ME: Congratulations on second hat trick of the month. 

There, nice and polite and attentive—not pushy, but shows he's been keeping up. Scott would approve. He and Hollander are friends of some sort, he’s pretty sure. 

JANE: Yeah. 

JANE: How’s it been? 

What an idiot. Ilya rolls his eyes so hard it hurts and replies. 

ME: Oh, you know. Ups and downs. Scott has spilt rivers of blood in my honour, which is nice. 

JANE: Yeah. I caught that. And no suspensions. Shitshow with the Bears aside, that stunt you pulled against the Centaurs should have had both of you on the bench for four games at least. 

It’s strange, Ilya thinks as he gets into it with Hollander. Familiar, but—Professional maybe. He has absolutely zero inclination to seriously flirt with anyone, much less Hollander, but this is a strange dynamic to get into. Are they hockey buddies now? Instead of chirping Hollander about how much he loves Ilya’s dick, will he chirp him about his backchecks? Which, in fairness, he chirped him plenty about hockey, but it was always innuendo. Pretext. 

What a screwy situation to be in. Probably for the best, but screwy. 

***

Newfound maturity aside, he won't deny that he’s buzzed as hell by the time the Voyagers game is up. He had committed to the meal plan, the workouts, the sleep schedule. He does his PT from the Bears game like a good boy and doubles on his stretching routine. He listens to everything the trainers say, for once, tries to listen to their advice and not just Scott’s. His teammates scoff and roll their eyes, but Scott doesn’t. Ilya has a theory that Scott has maybe made some observations over the years, formed some suspicions that he’s hinted at here and there, but left it at that. Which is for the best; as long as he doesn’t ask, Ilya doesn’t get to choose between outing someone and lying to Scott. 

“We forgot about your epic rivalry, kid,” says Jals, two days before the game, when Ilya starts becoming properly obnoxious, even to himself. “How silly of us.” 

“Very,” he says, grimacing with all his teeth. “We will not lose, not if I have to carry you on my back. We will win.” 

“We will,” Scott says, nodding, eyes serious and expression focused in a way that even Ilya has come to fear in the past two months. Even now, when he’s as keyed up as he can possibly be, he’s a stoned-out sheep in comparison to Scott, who decided To Do Something. “Alright, here’s the play—“ 

***

Facing off against Hollander without the C on his chest is bizarre, but Ilya’s good at bizarre. He’s fucking great at bizarre—especially when he’s so off his head on adrenaline he doesn’t know his own name. The tension is boiling, it’s shimmering in the air, and it’s funny, isn’t it, how the media can get everything wrong and still somehow end up being correct? They hyped this game to high heavens, and they, the dancing monkeys they are, are here to deliver. If only they had the first clue as to why, their puny little heads would implode. 

The game is mean and dirty, and loud. Hollander is on fire. He’s fast and skilled and sneaky, brutal with slashes that live just under the ref’s radar—little love taps that land on tendon and soft spot, the kind that don’t look like much until your hands stop working. But—well. He can only do so much with the team he has, and this is a bad matchup for him.

Because then there’s Scott.

Scott is just as technical, just as disciplined, only he’s bigger and calmer, and he’ll be precisely as much of an asshole as he needs to be to get where he’s going. He doesn’t get baited, barely even seems to be paying attention, until he’s planted himself in the right lane at the right time, making himself everybody’s problem. Add Ilya to the mix—and Hollander can’t solve both of them by himself. Worse, he doesn’t have anyone behind him who can match them. Who can even come close. 

And still—somehow—Hollander manages. He plays the best game he’s played in his fucking life, scores three goals more or less by himself, and makes a spirited attempt at breaking Scott’s legs come what may. He’s everywhere, a cutthroat little ghost, dragging his team along by the throat and refusing to die quietly.

And Ilya—Ilya wants to win. Win-win-win—no matter what it costs, no matter what it looks like, no matter who ends up limping off the ice afterwards. 

After three brutal periods, it’s three-three, and overtime has Hunter winning the puck, bullying his way right to the net. Everyone in the building expects him to bury it. Even Ilya expects him to bury it. Scott has that look on his face like he’s seeing into the future, already knows the part of the net he’s going to hit. And then, right at the last second, instead of sinking it, putting a bow on this story, Scott dishes it sideways. To Ilya.

Ilya is, for a split second, genuinely bewildered—Scott’s basically in the crease and he does not pass up goals—but he’s not dead, and he’s not stupid, and he’s been a scorer since he was a baby, so his hands take over before his brain can finish swearing. He buries it neat, clean, fucking pretty. Lights go on, the room starts booing, and  Ilya’s stick is already in the air when his teammates crash into him like they’re trying to bruise the joy into his ribs. Gloves in his face, helmets knocking, screaming inarticulate gibberish. Yeah. He needed this fucking win. 

After a long and very necessary shower, he goes out to sniff out Hollander. He’s nowhere to be found. He sends him a text, and gets a reply hours later, when he’s already in bed, in the hotel. 

JANE: Sorry, was busy. 

He rolls his eyes. 

ME: Is alright. I just—

He pauses. Just what? Just wanted to invite him to your hotel room that’s monitored more closely than the fucking Pentagon? To rent a motel room for a quickie? 

He shudders. The idea of sex, right now, feels—cursed. Sick. Even that aside, he can’t even go to the corner store to buy a pack of smokes without being photographed by a dozen paps. If he even tried—He shudders again. Ilya survived, somehow, but Hollander, with his beautiful family and middle-class upbringing and loyal, pure-hearted friends, would get crushed. Ilya wouldn't even blame him. All he lost was a liar of a father, a deadbeat brother and a passport to a country where men like him are killed in mysterious accidents. It would be so much worse if he had everything Hollander has. So, so much worse. 

ME: Is alright. I just wanted to say no hard feelings. Hard game, but good game. 

Jesus Christ, when did he become so mature? Disgusting. 

***

In December, they lose to the Long Island Mariners four to one. Ilya gets into a fight against Lukáš Križan on the ice, breaks his nose, several teeth, and two ribs. They're both lucky that Ilya slipped and missed with that elbow to the throat. He himself gets a black eye and bruised ribs, but Križan was in no way expecting him to go all out so fast. He started light, which meant Ilya fucked him up before he even knew what was going on. There is talk about suspending him for the season, but he gets away with sitting out three games, making a public apology and taking an anger management seminar. More importantly, Scott bullies him into going to therapy. It sucks. It sucks a lot. But—Aside from the insignificant fact that he’d do anything Scott says, whenever he said it, Scott he found a Russian therapist willing to drive over to their house for their sessions. So he agrees. 

It sucks so bad.

***

Chapter End Notes

What Ilya thinks Scott is telling his buddies: My rookie is tough as nails, he doesn’t care about this shit at all but your soft western children would be upset so—

What Scott is actually telling his buddies: They wrecked that kid, he is dissociating with the power of the fuckign sun and I will not know peace until I have ruined them and everythign they love even if I have to bring this whole org down brick by fucking brick—

Also credit to Shoresy season 5 for the What do we do in the first? Kill some guys bit. Season 5 is not as great as the rest but I would die for it nevertheless. I keep thinking how I could cross it with Heated Rivalry and I’lol figure it out somehow.

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

This one is a bit melodramatic - lol, more than usual which prob says a lot - but I can’t write Russians and not be melodramatic. It’s also written super fast, very much inhale-type-post type of thing which is my favorite way to write but probably not best for the end product. We’ll see how it goes. Maybe when I finish this I will go back and adjust. For now keeping the momentum is yhe name of the game lest I get stuck at the cursed 30k pit and never finish it

This is a Russian heavy chapter, so tehre's some worldbuilding at the end. For now:

Ilya’s therapist - Fyodor Avraamovich Zherdev, Fedya

Also: don’t talk to me about chapter count

---
Okay, via consultation of incredibly helpful readers, I’ve built a better idea about how Russian names work. I used to write first and middle names, because I read a lot of Russian classics, and that’s what was in vogue then. I am reliably informed this is archaic now and looks either ridiculous or ironic. So, here’s how I’ll try to use it from now on. Please tell me if you see a mistake - and maybe keep an eye on such things in your own fics :) Especially in the Heated Rivalry fandom, this is important, as both Reid and the show writers make a big point about name usage - Ilya doens’t start calling Shane ‘Shane’ until like ten years into his situationship, and when he does it’s this whole thing.

(You may notice that in this fic Ilya hasnt called Scott ‘Scott’ until after he both realized he was sincere about his promises, and that he doesn’t want anything from Ilya in return. That’s the level of fundamental trust and investment we’re talking about here)

1. First names & nicknames
So, okay, first and the most obvious level are teh first names. That’s our Scott, Alexei, Sasha, Svetlana. No real notes here except to note that Russians have these ‘name-specific’ nicknames that, I guess, other languages have, but I feel like they’re more codified in Russian? Could be, again, the fact I dont speak Russian but I read a lot of Russian novels, so I may be treating the whole language as, idk, worldbuilding lol. Alright. Fedya for Fyodor is obvious, as is Sasha for Alexandar. But!

Svetlana already sounds a bit archaic to me. I wouldnt have named a girl born in 1989 Svetlana if I were Rachel Reid. Again, not an expert, but to me the name sounds like idk a fairy godmother from Sleeping Beauty, the red bossy one. Not this alpha bitch knockout. It gets even worse with the nickname—I will not be calling that babe ‘Sveta’, or ‘Svetochka’ that’s out of the question. That sounds like the teapot character from Beauty and the Beast, or like, my grade one teacher in primary. No.

So, I settled on Lana - Lanka/Lan’ka as the primary nickname, and for Ilya and Sasha specifically, is Svetik/Tsvetik. As I understand it, it means a diminutive of flower, but cute.
So Svetlana - Lana, Lanka, Lanochka, Svetik/Tsvetik.

2. First name + Patronymic (non-ironic)
Non ironic use of First name + Patronymic signifies respect, formality, power. So, Svetlana would use it for Ilya’s dad - Grigori Ivanovich. Ilya /might/ use it for his stepmother, but only if it’s a character choice, like if I want to signal eitehr that he respects women more than one might expect, or that it stuck from his childhood (more doubtful, if he was already fifteen when his father remarried) or if he’s making a choice to sort of keep a distance between them, a level of formality and respect. So, Polina Viktorovna, maybe.

3. Ironic use of First name and Patronymic
I only have one use-case for an ironic use of it in this fic, and that’s for his therapist, and only because he has this running bit that his therapist is an Unseelie demon, a malevolent creature of evil and so forth. So he could use it ironically, maybe. Maybe. It feels like a funny joke to me, but if it looks corny to russian speakers, ill probably cut it.

4. Surnames, First name and Surname
Most men and people he doesn’t know would get either first and last name, or just last name, like most other languages work. Russians introduce each other and themselves with First and Last name - I am Ilya Rozanov. This is Svetlana Vetrova. In a more casual setting - have you met Rozanov? Did you see that post from Vetrova? Normal stuff.

*. Hockey nicknames
Self evident. Hockey players have their own naming traditions that are more abotu the sport than any other language.

The good thing, looking back, is that while it’s not great that Ilya’s life is a never-ending hurricane of drama and chaos, the volume of his meltdowns dims the importance of each. Yes, in the moment you fall into pieces with the same—maximum possible—intensity, but you pick yourself up quicker as well. What, you had another breakdown? That must be super fucking hard for you. Was it about as bad as the one last Tuesday? 

All of which is to say that, while the Long Island kerfuffle was bad and the subsequent bout of damage control and psychological triage were worse, the therapy itself was the real issue. Fyodor Avreyevich Zherdev—Fedya to the friends he doesn’t have and patients he wants to bamboozle into trusting him—is a merciless, nebulous creature of the netherworlds. He isn’t angry, or passionate or even particularly acerbic. What he is, is tall, solidly middle-aged, blessed with the type of emotional unavailability that took a lifetime to build, looks like he would fuck like a machine, and is probably the smartest person in any room he’s in. He is a casual hockey fan who, when he has free time, follows the games, and returns home to St. Petersburg every Easter. He isn’t handsome, looks a bit like a coat hanger with wide shoulders and narrow chest. He is impossible to piss off, entertain or, and this is the rub, impress. 

Ilya doesn’t want to fuck him—he doesn’t just want to fuck him. He wants to stab his fingers into his back, peel back his skin, sink his teeth into his, without a doubt, optimally functioning liver. He wants to tear his tongue out of his throat, put it in a vat of formaldehyde, and climb into the space left free. He wants to slice open every one of those elegant, long fingers, pin them carefully, and study the shivering nerves. See if they would twitch as beautifully on the table, driven by electricity, as they do in person. It is all electricity, isn’t it? He’s read a book about it once. It’s all zeroes and ones, energy, no energy. So how much energy, precisely, would he need to sink into those skinny wrists, if he already dismantled them, ordered them neatly into bones and tendons and veins—

Yeah, so therapy is going super well. If the goal was to prevent Ilya from savaging any more unsuspecting colleagues by focusing all of his weirdo impulses onto one person, it’s working out. They won’t ever need to find a better canary in the coal mine. As long as Fyodor Avreyevich is walking around New York alive and whole, they can be sure Ilya hasn’t succumbed to his peculiar but likely inevitable appetite for human flesh. 

With that said, Fyodor Avreyevich should probably be very grateful that six sessions into their acquaintance, the newest, most left-field meltdown arrives with no preamble and less mercy. 

***

Thursday, Dec 27 2012

Ilya is staring morosely at the latest indignity Fedya has forced onto the household—an emotions wheel, a tool that looks to be designed for and by children under the age of six—when Scott pads out from the gym, staring at his phone with bemusement. 

“Hey, kid, so—Did you forget to tell me you had friends coming over?” 

He hadn’t, but he’d host a venom-spitting hydra if it would get him out of trying to determine if what he is feeling towards his brother is guilt or fear or jealousy. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean that Adam is telling me there is a limo at the gates, with two Russians inside who claim to be here for you.” 

A limo. A limo and two Russians. A limo and—His heart skips, drops, ears filling with a sick whine. Two Russians. Is it Andrei? Is it Father? Is it Natalia Petrovna with the kid—

“Oh, wow, breathe, kid! It’s alright, we’ll turn them away—“ 

Jesus Christ. “Are you insane? No, tell me who—“ He’s vaulting over the sofa, accelerating towards Scott with his heart in his throat before he knows it. 

“Yikes, easy. It’s a guy and a girl. About your age. The girl has curly red hair and red lips, and a fur coat—“ 

Oh, thank fuck. Thank the fucking Lord. Ilya slows down, sort of sagging as he goes, the force of relief so strong that white spots are dancing in his eyes. It’s fine. It’s—

Scott is looking at him with, frankly, unwarranted astonishment, considering he’s almost given him a heart attack for no reason and with no justification. “So—“ 

“Shut up. Just—“ He sags some more, topples back, puts his head between his knees for a little bit. “Is fine. Let them in. Is Svetlana and—“ And who else? Does it matter? “And her plus one. Whoever he is, is fine.” Well. Lanka's taste in men can be eclectic. She’s fucked everyone from broke poets to Bratva thugs who just got out of prison. “But describe him, still.” 

“Uhh. Alright. Tall, skinny, brown hair, dressed in some ridiculous fur coat. Wears jewellery, uh, not like—I mean, not that I know shit about jewellery but this looks pretty, uh. Girly, you know—“ 

Ilya relaxes some more. Weird, but alright. Lana wouldn’t bring Sasha around for no reason. It’s—It’s probably fine. 

“Sasha. A—He—“ 

How does he even begin to explain what Sasha is? Is there anyone, anywhere, who could? Fedya maybe. Ilya blinks, breathes in a long, centring breath, then exhales. He’s been good, hasn’t he? He hadn’t let his heart implode just then, so he’s earned a brief but intense daydream of introducing Sasha to Fedya. Jesus. Fedya is a lot, but Sasha very well might be a prince of hell. Maybe he should introduce them and lurk nearby to watch the carnage. He’d tape it, only he doesn’t know if Sasha’s species appears on film when they're feeding. 

“We grew up together. Let them in.” 

“Already had. Wait there, I’ll wait for them—“ 

Yeah, no. 

“You will not greet them like butler, Scott, Jesus. You have no idea—“ Never mind Fedya, how is he going to keep Scott alive? The two of them will take one look at all that compressed goodness and despair, unhinge their jaws and gobble him down, never to be seen again. “They are—Listen, hide behind me, okay? They will let you be, if you make no sudden moves.”

Scott’s eyebrows are angling up into a familiar, disbelieving angle. It’s the same expression he gets when he thinks Ilya is exaggerating about the evils of Fyodor Avreyevich. Which, alright, it hadn’t mattered then, because Fyudor Avreyevich seems to be the type of Unseelie spawn that keeps to the contract he signed. Lenka and Sasha hold to no contract, agreement, pact or oath that doesn’t suit them. It’s a fundamentally different game. 

“Right, okay. You will protect me from the two twenty-something socialites that rocked up to our place in a silver limo.” 

“I will. They like me; they will not cross me in this—“ 

The doorbell rings. Ilya lurches up, blinking. Alright. Alright. Let’s do this. 

***

“Ilyusha, wow, you look fantastic—“ 

Whatever had brought them here, Ilya can’t deny that the sight of them, willowy and perfectly made up in matching fur coats, doesn’t make something in his spine relax. Christ, it’s been—It hasn’t been that long, actually, but it feels like it’s been years. A whole lifetime. The Ilya they spoke to, kissed, fucked, hugged—he feels dead and buried and unlamented. Will they like this new, reanimated version? 

Probably not, but that doesn’t mean much. They hadn’t liked him before. They loved him, as he loved them. Irrevocably. 

“Lana, Sasha—“ 

He lets them fuss over him a little, touch his face, his shoulders, tilt his jaw this way and that. Sasha’s fingers roam his back, sides, stomach, seeming to caress but searching out bandages and raised flesh. Familiar routine. Once they’re satisfied, he lets them press polite kisses into his cheeks, then takes two proper ones back from each, and calms down some more when they smile into his mouth. It can’t be that bad, then, whatever brought them here. It can’t be—Terrible. 

Svetlana leans back, taps him on the cheek. Up close, he spots signs of exhaustion. Her makeup is thicker than she prefers, under-eyes puffier. Nothing can be seen on Sasha, but you can only see signs of humanity on Sasha after he’s been on coke and ketamine for eighteen hours and counting. Based on razor-sharp eyes, he’s stone-cold sober, and not very thrilled about it. 

“Don’t be rude, Ilyusha. Introduce us to your daddy-dom.” 

Bless. He can almost taste the force of Scott’s eyeroll. Svetlana hadn’t likely expected she would shock him—she’s been around more hockey players than Ilya had; she knows what the bar here is—but it was probably some sort of test either way. 

“If only. Scott, meet Svetlana Vetrovna and Aleksandar Orlov. Lanka, Sasha, meet Scott. He—“ He what? He hasn’t known Scott for that long, but that doesn’t make him any simpler to explain. “He found me in the trash and gave me a life of purpose and worth. So.” 

“So we heard.” Svetlana doesn’t seem to be willing to take Ilya at his word, which isn’t surprising, for all it's not ideal. As with most Moscow girls of her make and temperament who made it to adulthood, she has opinions about what happens to those who need to rely on others to survive. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you properly, Mister Hunter.” 

Scott makes an exasperated sound. “We’ve met, actually.” 

Oh? Ilya twists around, sends Scott a curious look. “You have?”

“Several times. Not that I expect you would remember—“ 

Svetlana leans forward, painted lips tilting into a perfect smile, eyes hooded. “My dear man, I remember a lot more than most people would prefer. That said, this is the first time we’re meeting since you had my Ilya move in with you under very unusual circumstances. Trust that you’ve had my full and undivided attention for months now.” 

Yeesh. 

“Calm down, harpy,” he grumbles, yanking her back. “He never touched me. Not even when I strip and offer.” 

She sends him a long, evaluating look, but subsides. “Hmm. Sasha, don’t be rude. Introduce yourself to our dashing host.” 

“Hello, Mister Hunter,” Sasha husks, not so much as moving an inch from where he’s draped over Ilya’s side. “Is big honour. Huge. Not often I meet a man so spoken of in Moscow high society.” He cranes his neck to give Scott a theatrical once-over. “You look taller in person. More handsome. That is well done of you; men who take advantage of Ilya are usually a lot less pretty.” 

Good grief. Ilya opens his mouth to say something, maybe try the futile path of religious symbolism and holy water, but Scott intercepts him. 

“Right, okay, this is going to be fun. Kid, what do Russian hellspawn eat, typically? I’ll order something in.” 

Um. 

“Souls of mortals who displease them,” he says. “But they enjoy fish. Good wine. Cheap gin.” 

“Sushi and booze it is. Get them situated somewhere. I’ll call Rosa, beg her to stop by and make up a couple of rooms—“ 

***

Nobody says much of anything for the next couple of hours. Ilya is much too frazzled, Lana and Sasha are delighted to sit back and observe, and Scott is at his happiest when he can indulge his control freak nature and lose himself in the practicalities: who will sleep where, what to do with the luggage, when the rest of the luggage is coming, etcetera. The only time he addresses them is to ask for contact information so he could put them in touch with the housekeepers, the chef and the security. 

“The two of us don’t use physical keys, but the staff can probably get some made for you if you prefer,” he is saying, visibly a million miles away, eyes staring into some invisible lunatic list. He hasn’t even asked how long they’re staying, just assumed based on their fuck off demeanour, that it’s going to be a while. “When you get a chance, introduce yourselves to the security. There’s a rotation of twelve, but you only really need to know two: Peter and Shaun.” He nods, possibly to tick off the mental bulletin point. “Food will be here soon. Kid, do you wanna contact Jessica or should I?” 

Ilya’s brow furrows. Fucking Jessica. 

“No need. I will do the session.” 

Scott blinks, sort of stuttering to a stop and into awareness. “You will? Your family’s here. You can push it back.” 

As if. “They not call ahead, so they can wait while I do PT.” He rolls his eyes. “I have three appointments left until I never have to see her wretched face again. If I could have all three tonight, I would. Alas.” 

Scott scoffs, but shrugs. “Your call. Seems weird, but what the fuck do I know about your weirdo ways? What else—“ He trails off again, eyes unfocusing. “We have a home game with Columbus on Saturday, but that’s all prepped. I’ll tell Coach we’ll do an afternoon skate, so you can sleep in. You don’t have anything scheduled with Zherdev I don’t know about?” 

Ugh. 

“Thankfully not. We do not meet until after the Winter Classic game.” 

Scott cocks his head, frowns, then huffs a laugh. “Is that why you were pouting earlier? Did he leave you homework?” 

“Die in fire,” Ilya suggests, very reasonably. “He is the worst, a scourge on all dignity, parasite of weakness and pretension.” 

“So, yes. Good to know. Alright, there’s that—“ His phone dings. “That’ll be the food. Be right back.” 

“He seems—nice,” Sasha says in Russian, eyes tracking him, lips pursed. “Dumb as a doorknob, but goodhearted. You say he’s not fucking you?” 

“He’s not,” Svetlana says. Whatever is brewing behind her eyes, he can’t place it. “Not sure if he isn’t building up to it. Then again, he could just be into this—“ She waves a vague hand. “Domestic shit. It could be all a part of the fantasy.” 

“Not ideal. That stuff always starts wholesome, and then before you know it, someone is fucking someone else with a carrot and is getting locked into a dog crate at night—“ 

Jesus Christ. 

“Enough.” Huh. Ilya’s getting a little defensive about his pornstar Americana bliss. Who knew. “He saved me. It—I owe him so much, you have no idea. He—I don’t know if I’d have made it without him. I’m still—It’s still—So stop it. He’s not like that, somehow.” 

Svetlana frowns, bites her cheek, and exchanges a long look with Sasha. “It looks bad, darling. Yeah, he looks like a cookie-cutter hero, but—Nobody does this just because.  People don’t save strangers. Not for nothing in return.” 

Yeah, well. “Scott does.” He leans forward. This is important. “Listen to me. Scott does. He is a mess, a fucking disaster, and he’s lonely and shockingly naive and generous, but he helped me because he’s gay and in the closet and he saw me getting torn apart and wouldn’t stand for it. That’s it. I could get him to do—crazy shit. Crazy insane shit, shit that would destroy his career, waste his money, ruin his reputation.” 

Sasha hums, rolls his shoulders. His eyes are still jumping around the house, catching on bits of life. Ilya’s notebooks, his clothes. The workout gear, hockey bags. Plush carpets and a million blankets Scott likes to tug over his shoulders when he inevitably falls asleep wherever he was sitting for longer than fifteen minutes. 

“He seems to be pretty—obsessed with your needs,” he says after a beat. “Alright. Trust but confirm. And if you are right, and you found the one genuinely good man on the continent, then we apologise and buy him diamonds to compensate.” 

Hah. 

“He’s richer than all three of us combined, loser. If he wants diamonds, he’ll get some for himself. He doesn’t because he’s a weirdo freak who only wears whatever shit he’s sent by his sponsors, but the point remains.” 

“People who can afford diamonds very much appreciate getting them for free,” Sasha says, adding in an eyeroll. “But I’m sure between the three of us we can find some way of grovelling that he will accept. If, that is, he turns out not to be what he very much appears to be, which is a manipulative worm.” 

Yeah? You think? Good luck with that, because your trust issues are complex and unknowable, as are Svetlana's, but nobody, not God or Devil, is more paranoid than Ilya, and Ilya drove himself into a breakdown with how hard he looked for the rot, only to uncover even more goodness. 

“You will have plenty of time because, if I’m not very mistaken, he’s already moved you in. So welcome home, ye of little faith. Good luck keeping your hearts to yourself; you will be tilting your head to have your hair pet before the month is out, mark my words.” 

***

Scott gives them a whole hour to chat shit before he returns with a big-ass tray of sushi and a clinking bag slung over his shoulder. 

“Dig in. You especially, kid, because you’ll want an hour at least between food and Jessica.” 

Ilya’s nose wrinkles. Fucking Jessica. 

“So, hellcats. What brings you to these parts?” 

“Ilya,” Svetlana says. She’s shrugged off the fur, both of them have, leaving them in similar all-black jumpsuits, both chic and comfortable to wear on the plane. “We finish up the last of our business back at home, and have finally arrived. Trust we’d be here sooner, but—“ She shrugs an elegant shoulder, dislodging the thick knot of hair bunched up there. “There was a lot of admin to finish up. Residences, paperwork, licences. It was all very tedious.” 

Ilya frowns around his mouthful of tuna. Hold on. Residences? Paperwork? 

Sasha sends him a bored look, exhausted by the fact Ilya hasn't read their minds already. “We are now American citizens. Also, married. You may express your best wishes appropriately. Gold, for preference.” 

“What?” 

Svetlana arches an imperious brow. “What confuses you, my sweet? That we hadn’t stayed in Moscow? In this climate? Please.” 

“Is not fashionable to know Ilya Rozanov and not curse his name,” Sasha drawls. “Is dull but true. Very bad for my skin, very drying, ageing.” 

Jesus Christ. “So you fucking curse, Sasha. You don’t fucking uproot your life—“ 

“You don’t tell me what to do, Ilyushenka,” Sasha says, eyes almost closed with how hooded they are. “Nobody does. Besides—It was getting so fucking boring, hearing the same shit over and over again—If I didn’t move, I’d have to do something drastic like suck some politician’s cock in the middle of a Parliament session, and then I’d really have to leave.” 

What—

Ilya sits back, head spinning. On automatic, he reaches for another piece of tuna. He likes this sushi place, they get the tuna fresh from Asia, keep it on ice—

“Calm down,” Svetlana says, impatient. “I did everything right. Your—“ Her eyes flash to Scott, lips purse, and he switches to Russian too. “Grigori Ivanovich has round-the-clock care, with experts I verified. There are check-ins scheduled with a private firm that reports to me. Polina and Aleksei have also been handled with the grace they do not deserve. Natalia and Dasha have independent finances, staff that is paid in advance by the trust fund, and divorce paperwork she only needs to sign.” 

What. What-what-what—

“What did you do, Lanochka—I never asked you to do any of this—I never would have—“ 

Svetlana scoffs, but abandons her food, glides over, and slides into his lap. Somehow, he finds himself hiding in her hair, like he’s a kid again, and she his invincible older sister. She doesn’t smell the same—back then she smelled like baby powered and coconut deo, not Chanel5—but the similarity is striking. 

“You were hurt most despicably, my love. You were hurt, and you dealt with it with courage. Do you expect me to be less? Fuck you. Anything you can do, I can do.” 

He laughs, wet and miserable and so, so grateful. That’s true. 

“And you, Sasha? The fuck did you burn your glittering career for?” 

“Sorry? You think there is no ballet outside of Russia? When did you get so fucking snooty? Do you know how many Bolshoi-trained male leads are out there, looking for work? They’ll take me anywhere.” 

Yes, well. There’s a reason there aren’t Bolshoi-trained male leads for the taking, because they’re all in Bolshoi. Because, if you are looking to play classical, old school ballet, which Sasha is, no matter how avant-garde he likes to dress, Bolshoi is where it begins and ends. 

“And, besides, what if I also want to make a trending video about making pretty boys beg to fuck me, hm? Maybe I want to be a makeup influencer or a fashion model, or a pornstar. There’s only so much grace even ballet dancers are allowed, and I was just about outgrowing my pen.” 

“Meaning even the dealers were getting concerned their money cow was about to croak,” Lana scoffs. “No, it was time we parted ways with the motherland for a while. Ten years, I’m thinking. Then we’ll see.” 

Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ. 

“And they—You made sure they are—I know Aleksei can be a dick—“ 

“The best thing that can happen to Aleksei is that he spends five years in prison, getting clean and learning how to live for himself and by himself,” Sasha says. “But Lenyochka was generous. She sold your apartment, emptied the bank account. Made them a fairy tale fucking ending. It’s up to them to destroy their charmed lives yet again.” He makes a disgusted noise, so probably Svetlana sent him a look. “Or not. Maybe it’s different this time. Maybe they learn and grow as people and love each other until they die in bed of old age. Stranger things have happened, one must assume.” 

***

Chapter End Notes

The Rozanov family

Grigori Ivanovich Rozanov — b. 14 Mar 1963 — Moscow
Irina Anatolyevna Rozanova (née Belova) — b. 02 Sep 1966 — d. 19 Aug 2003 — Moscow
Polina Viktorovna Rozanova (née Mikhaylova) — b. 25 Oct 1974 — Moscow
(stepmother; married Grigori in 2007; no children)

Children
Alexei Grigoryevich Rozanov — b. 11 Feb 1987 — Moscow
Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov — b. 15 Jun 1991 — Moscow

Alexei’s family (all Moscow-based)
Natalia Petrovna Rozanova (née Orlova) — b. 07 Jan 1989 — Moscow
Darya Alekseevna Rozanova — b. 18 Apr 2011 — Moscow

 

The Vetrov family

Sergei Viktorovich Vetrov— b. 05 Jan 1961
Boston Bears legend / Hall-of-Famer goalie. Retired, went back, got a career in politics. Russian Minister of Interior,

Yelena Arkadyevna Vetrova (née Sokolova) — b. 17 Jul 1964 — Moscow, Russia
Mother. Theatre actress

Svetlana Sergeevna Vetrova — b. 12 Feb 1988 — Boston, MA, USA
Dual citizenship (US + RU): born in Boston while Sergei played there (US citizenship by birth; Russian by parentage)

The families are friends through their mothers: Yelena (actress) and Irina Rozanova (playwright) knew each other via theatre work in Moscow

Orlov family
Moscow, Russia
Viktor Konstantinovich Orlov — b. 03 Apr 1962
Father. Famous, well-connected hockey coach (elite Moscow pipeline → pro level).
Marina Sergeyevna Orlova (née Vetlitskaya) — b. 19 Aug 1965
Mother. Former figure skater, later choreographer.
Children
Dmitry Viktorovich Orlov — b. 27 Jan 1984
Oldest. Hockey track.
Yekaterina Viktorovna Orlova — b. 06 Oct 1986
Middle. Medicine
Aleksandr Viktorovich “Sasha” Orlov — b. 14 May 1990
Youngest; miracle baby. Ballet dancer (Bolshoi pipeline).
Sexuality: understood, never discussed (“don’t ask, don’t tell”).

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

This one is a bit fillery, but weidly dense in terms of logistics and setting up the pieces. The next one will also be a bit fillery, like this, but important.

do not talk to me about chapter count.

Also: About Svetlanas nickname. I cannot stress enough how much I will not write her as Sveta. It’s like calling Angeline Jolie Mildred or Millicent or Arlene. I recognize that this could be a me thing, or a Serbian thing, but if my parents named me Svetlana we’d have issues. If they called me Sveta, I’d be pissed as hell and I certainly wouldn’t let my friends call me that.

When Ilya said Scott would have Sasha and Lana charmed by the end of the month, he didn’t even realise how literal he was being.

The outcome was always going to be this. Scott is an irresponsibly sincere, generous man; if anyone is getting taken advantage of, it’s him. Except—no, even that isn’t quite true. Scott has sacrificed a lot for Ilya, except that most of what he lost is what drove him halfway to madness in the first place. His Fortress of Solitude lifestyle wasn’t exactly hidden, nor were the costs discrete. Americans just don’t recognise loneliness as a real emergency until it starts presenting with serial murder and lampshades made of human skin. 

All of which is to say: Scott’s particular strain of psychotic loyalty was always going to be catnip to Moscow-bred rich kids with abandonment issues. Ilya just assumed it would take them longer than a few days to believe it’s real. Apparently not.

The first crack in their scepticism was the sheer relentlessness of Scott’s care for Ilya—and his absolute lack of boundaries about it. The second, fatal blow was that he got Ilya into therapy. After that, the two of them more or less agreed that even if Scott is running some kind of deranged long con, he’s still going to leave Ilya better off than he found him. And that Ilya should consider the merits of being seduced, if so. 

“Not now, of course,” Sasha says. “Part of what makes Hunter such a valuable mate is unimpeachable character. Fucking him before this bizarre rehabilitation process is complete would damage him and, therefore, your profit.” 

True. Expressed in a deranged way, but true. “I doubt he will want to,” he says, and adds, because he might as well, “And, weirdly, I don’t know if I want to?” 

Svetlana scoffs, but stays put: green face mask, Scott’s bathrobe, no-shit cucumber slices on her eyes. Cigarette in a long wooden holder so she doesn’t smudge the lip mask; a giant green bonnet tied over her hair. She looks like a cross between Cruella DeVille and a hooker between clients. “My darling, let’s not overstate things; the day any person in this room doesn’t want those hands wrapped around their throats is the day they put us in the fucking ground.” 

Ilya scoffs. “Obviously, I want to fuck him. I just—Respect him too much to do it, you know? I don’t know what his family situation is, but he’s never spoken to them in my hearing. His teammates respect him, yeah, but the only thing he needs is family.” 

Sasha laughs, tilts his head up, cracks an eye open to peer at him. All three of them are piled haphazardly on the rug next to the fireplace, but Sasha tends to look like a collapsed tent when he doesn’t arrange his bony limbs with care. “So? You’re my family, Ilyusha, and we’ve fucked plenty. To say nothing of the fact that creating a family via sex and romance is literally the bedrock of human civilisation.” 

Well, yeah. “I don’t love him like that,” he says, and grimaces. “I don’t want to—have him. To marry him. And I don’t know if it’s American prudishness or whatever, but he strikes me as very black and white in these matters. I don’t think he would ever want what the three of us have.” 

Lanka snorts. “I’m out either way, and more’s the pity. I doubt he’d ever touch a woman sexually.” 

Sasha hums, and even Ilya hesitates, curious. He never considered that Scott could be exclusively gay. Most queer men he knows are somewhere on the spectrum. Ilya’s split neatly down the middle, and Sasha prefers male bodies but had the occasional easygoing fling with a woman. Lanka, for the most part, but fellow dancers also. Hollander is another example; he’s fucked girls and presumably liked it well enough, but loves getting fucked more. 

“You think Scott isn’t drawn to women at all?” 

She shrugs a shoulder, lips twitching. “I don’t know, obviously, but I doubt it. At risk of sounding arrogant, I put on my hottest lingerie and swanned through the house. He hadn’t even blinked, just sighed and rolled his eyes.” 

Jesus. Jesus. If it’s the set he’s thinking of, the black lace one she had custom-made, then she’s being modest if anything. She’s worn it for him once, and he almost blacked out. “Jesus Christ, Lanochka, are you playing straight chicken with my mentor? What would you have done if he took you up on it?” 

“Fucked him, of course. He’s a snack, Ilyosha, don’t be greedy.” 

Well. He is a snack. 

“We’ve wandered off topic,” Sasha says, interrupting Ilya’s brief but intense daydream of Scott fucking Svetlana. “Meaning what you should do in case it turns out that all this was an elaborate courtship ritual.” 

If it does—

Ilya shrugs. “I doubt it, but if it does, I’ll take him and catch up. I’m not insane. All else fails, I’ll get Fyodor Avraamovich to hypnotise me into wanting him.” 

Sasha nods, closes his eyes, tilts his flute glass high up and downs what was left of his champagne. “There we go. Easy.” 

“But later, as we discussed,” Svetlana adds. “Even if Scott loses his head and tries to rush into things, stop him. No sense in damaging your new stallion before you even ride him.” 

***

29th December 

If Scott is at all confused by their sudden about-face, he doesn’t show it. Scott has this particular hellcat-handling methodology—a club Ilya could, grudgingly, claim membership in—that’s as simple as it is effective: stay cool, and act like you’ve already won. It’s what he did with Ilya from day one. He just barged into his life and behaved like they were already friends, brothers. He does the same with Sasha and Lana. Start as you mean to go on. Ones and zeroes. Yes or no. And once Scott understood who they were, he filed them under family, which means inevitable, inarguable, permanent.

Ilya can sort of follow the logic, even if he struggles with the execution. Ilya would do crazy, unwise things for Sasha, but he wouldn’t have moved his older sister into his house on sight. He might have rented her a place, if she needed it, or helped her find one for herself, but wouldn’t have gone further unless Sasha explicitly asked. In contrast, Scott had, between the first and the second minute of acquaintanceship, concluded that Ilya now comes in three separate shapes, and that all three require looking after with equal, if specialised attention. 

Someone, somewhere fucked that man up, Ilya is beginning to understand. And while he can’t address or even consider those debts right now, he will in the future. He won’t always be a wreck—and now he even has Sasha and Lanka to do the bulk of the heavy lifting on the plotting and scheming side of things. 

“—checking in with Kat, and she—Jesus Christ—“ Scott turns on his heel and marches out of the room. “Are the three of you fucking in the living room? Really?” 

Ilya scoffs. He hadn’t even touched them. Other than the first time, he hasn’t even kissed them. 

“Is cosmetics,” he shouts after him. “Oil to rub in skin—“ He huffs, frustrated, and nudges Lana. “Explain.” 

“It’s skincare, Scott,” Svetlana calls, voice light with laughter. “I had a masseuse and an aestethician come for an emergency session, and now we have to let the product sink in.” 

“I see,” Scott calls from the corridor. He doesn’t sound pissed, which is a relief, but maybe a bit strangled? Exasperated? It’s hard to say. Ilya shifts a little, considers their position. It’s suggestive, granted, but there’s only so many comfortable ways you can lie on the sofa with two people, and Sasha is so bony, he only has one or two comfortable spots to rest on. Lana is a little better, for obvious reasons, but Ilya is definitely the cushiest one of the three, and the two jackals know it. “Either way, you’re naked and—like that. So, I’m going to get started on the food, and you three find me when you’re ready.” A pause. “And dressed. I can’t stress this enough, children. Robes at the very least.” 

Bless. “Yes, Scott,” he calls, then pokes the other two until they echo him. “Will be there soon.” 

***

They’re not there soon, as such—he dozed off, and Sasha and Svetlana see food as a hateful burden of the flesh—but that’s probably alright. Scott is smiling when they get there, small but warm. Honest. 

“Hellcats,” he says, adding three nods. “Sorry for barging in. I don’t suppose you’ll have mercy on me and start closing doors when you start losing clothes?”

Ilya’s nose wrinkles. “We will if it bothers you,” he says, because that’s both true and important to establish. This is Scott’s house. His rules. “We not mean to—provoke or challenge. Is just—“ He shrugs, tries to think of the last time he had to pay attention to such things when he was alone with Svetlana and Sasha. Granted, he’s not alone now, but Scott is so firmly marked safe in his mind, it’s difficult to reclassify him. “If you mind, if we stress you out, we keep our clothes on, promise.” 

“We have been casually sleeping with one another since we finished puberty,” Svetlana says. “With that said, we have sex a lot less than people think. Most of the time, when we’re naked, it’s skinship. Comfort.” 

Ilya nudges her, grateful. She’s always been better at explaining things with words. 

“I was going to ask if people often think about how often you have sex, but realised how ridiculous the question was halfway through thinking it,” Scott says. He has little smile lines under his eyes, which Ilya hadn’t noticed before. Either Scott is in an unusually good mood, or he’s not had much cause to smile before. Or, most likely, Ilya was far too in his head to notice much of anything. “I also didn’t think you were trying to provoke me, whatever the fuck that means. With that said, I’m a professional athlete; nudity doesn’t shock or alarm me. I’d just rather you not involve me in any intimacy that I don’t belong in.” 

Right, right. 

“Not sure what that means, sorry,” he says, and tries to sound appropriately apologetic. “Either way, I do know you should be the one to dictate—“ Fuck English,  honestly; it’s hard to speak it at the best of times, but switching between it and Russian is a real headache. “—lines.  Borders of comfort.” 

“Boundaries,” Sasha says, sounding halfway to sleep with how bored he is by the hand-wringing. “Meaning that if you see a situation developing that interests you, you are welcome to join in whatever capacity you like.” 

“Jesus Christ.” Scott looks between the three of them, grin widening. “I’d be more alarmed by this offer if I weren’t so thoroughly outnumbered and outclassed. Nevertheless, I’d still like to note that I have never fucked Ilya, will never fuck Ilya, and the same is true for his—“ He makes a surprisingly emotive gesture, a wide, slow flick of the hand at the wrist. “Companions. Individually or otherwise.” 

“So you say,” Sasha says and shrugs, ambling closer to investigate the contents of the glasses Scott left on the bar. “Offer is open, if your position evolves. Whatever works, etcetra—Is this lemonade?” 

“Freshly pressed. While I am, broadly, interested in watching a man contract  scurvy while wearing a minimum of a hundred thousand dollars at any given time, I’d rather someone else do the legwork—“ 

 
***

“What did you start to say?” Ilya says a little while later, when it’s nearing his bedtime and Svetlana and Sasha trooped away to pack. “When you came in, before?”

“Oh.” Scott looks up from his book. Some sort of psychology text, or other that he’s been reading since Ilya started therapy. “I was going to check if you have everything ready for the trip. It’s going to be a giant mess, even without your two unholy sirens.” He pauses, considering. “They are coming, yes? I kind of assumed.” 

Hah. “It will be a four-day media circus with a hockey game attached,” Ilya says. “Of course they are coming.”

“Thought so.” Scott gets a faraway look, like he’s picturing something and finding it highly amusing. He snaps his book shut. “Probably for the best, frankly. We can use the distraction.” 

“Yeah?” Ilya tries to—focus. Behave like a grown man who thinks about his life and plans for the future. “You expect problems? Is just more of the same, yes? Media, sponsors, donors, photographs. Unless you think Buffalo is a problem, in which case I take you to hospital immediately to treat your stroke."  

Scott rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, so it’s alright. “No, I don’t think Tridents are a serious opponent. Indulge a clarifying question, kid; have you ever done one of these things? Winter Classics?” 

“Nope,” Ilya says, adding a little pizzazz on the p. “But I mean—is like any other thing, yes? There are so many of these, awards and cups and tournaments, and always there is reception and party and press.” 

“True, true. How many, do you think, included an out queer player who just signed a ridiculous endorsement deal with one of the biggest sports brands in the world? A player who hadn’t given a single press release or statement, outside of league-mandated hockey scrums?” 

Ah. 

“Who also, and I hate to belabour the point, has been living in a den of sin and debauchery with the captain of the team he has been traded to?”

Ilya has to concede that, yes, maybe this year's Winter Classic will be a bit more intense than usual. “Wait until they find out about Svetlana and Sasha.” 

“Oh, I am. Me and the four new interns I hired for our publicist are on tenterhooks, let me tell you.” 

Bless. 

Ilya laughs, then hesitates, thinking. “You want I take this more seriously? Or try, at least?” 

“Nope,” Scott says, echoing his shitty popped p. “This situation is deeply unserious, and it should be treated as such.” He reaches out and fluffs his hair; both hands, too, left to right, then up and down, like he’s patting a sheepdog. One day, that will stop being the most adorable thing that’s ever happened to him, but today is not that day. “You’re doing so good, kid. Gold star fucking superstar behavior. Keep it up, and this’ll all be over soon. Next season, we’ll look back and laugh.” 

Jesus. “I laugh now,” he points out, very reasonably. “You laugh also. And, let me tell you, Tsvetik will do more than laugh. She can be intense when she is messed with.” 

“Tsvetik?” 

Ilya’s grin softens, eyes growing a little far away. “We met when we were very young, six and nine, through family. I call her Tsvetik which sounds like Svetik which sounds like Svetlana. Also, means little flower. Was funny because she had short hair and grew fast and was Vetrov’s kid, meaning mean and loud. Was funny to call her such a cute name when she liked to grab kids by the hair and slam their faces into ice.” 

Scott blinks, opens his mouth, but only a laugh emerges, bright and a bit shocked. That’s the right reaction when confronted with the reality of Lanochka. “That skinny little nympho housecat?” 

Bless. Bless. If you only knew how very unsettling she can be, even when she’s on your side. Even when she loves you. The shit she paid to be done to the dealer who laced Sasha’s coke with fentanyl was—yeah. Allegedly, of course. 

“I know. Crazy, yes?” Which is not to say that Sasha is much better. Most kids in their class bracket grew up to be some sort of psycho. In a wholly unexpected turn of events, Ilya turned out to be the least fucked up of their circle, and that’s because he is just a big, dumb hockey player when you come down to it. Svetlana went to law school. “She has no taste for doing the violence herself, these days, but urge for blood is there.” 

***

Once prewarned means twice prepared, or however the saying goes. Whatever. Ilya decides to take seriously the instructions not to take this seriously. Meaning, he not only finds the itinerary for the Winter Classic circus, he prints it out and actually reads it. The printer spits out ten million pages, which would be more concerning if he didn’t already know how repetitive and unnecessarily convoluted these things can get. 

It’s a lot. It reads like a military op, with the number of moving parts, how staged it all is and, crucially, how little any of it has to do with hockey. Between the League, the Tridents and Admirals ownership, and the sponsors, a lot of big fish are crammed into a very small pond, all of them fighting over the same prey. The only way Ilya survives this is by delegating—everything. So he does.

There’s nothing to be done about the League PR. Ms Kat already made sure he’s excused from everything he could be; what’s left is the stuff he’d be fined for, the stuff he’s contractually obligated to do. By and large, he’s all set there. He has about thirty stock phrases ready to cycle through in response to whatever idiotic questions they decide to pose, and has perfected the technique of communicating boredom with unfocused eyes and deep sighs. Besides, he’s looking forward to the segment he’s doing with Hollander. They’re supposed to do some ridiculous rivalry-themed live piece on the first, the day before the game, and he even thinks he remembers the hosts. A bunch of hockey bros, but less reptilian and soulless than most media people he’s met.

More time-consuming but even less complicated are the Adidas people. With his sign-on bonus already paid out in full, they’ve decided to start moving toward the rollout. There are approximately six thousand steps to the campaign, spread over seven years: soft launches and marketing pushes and capsule drops and who even knows what. The packet is in English and Russian, and the jargon makes about as much sense in both—very little—but it’s been negotiated by Ms Haddad, Ms Kat, and Scott, so he doesn’t need to worry.

The important part, for the Winter Classic, is that they’re starting the so-called soft launch. Which means a whole team will be waiting in Buffalo to do final wardrobe adjustments, coordinate what he’ll be wearing and when, and begin the laborious process of manufacturing authenticity. So, alright. A chore, but manageable. Sponsorship people are competent and professionally pleasant, in his experience. They know more about handling huffy talent than Ilya knows about being huffy talent. So that’s the second packet category done. 

Finally, the parties. Ownership throws them to woo the sponsors, the donors, the money people. There will be plenty, but only the big New Year’s Eve sponsor event is mandatory, and only for an hour. An hour inside, anyway, and about as much on the red carpet beforehand. 

Ilya would’ve enjoyed it regardless, but this one is going to be spectacular. It’s been a long time since he’s walked into an event with Lanka on his arm. Now he gets both her and Sasha—a rare, precious occurrence. They only did a handful together before, and it was always Sasha’s award ceremonies or one of Lanka’s corporate things—always in Russia, always under the usual constraints. Now Ilya is out, Sasha and Lana are married and American, and all three of them are equally motivated to be as outrageous as they damn well please.  

“—be wearing for the carpet, Ilya? I want to coordinate.”

Bless. 

“You know what I have, pick something.” 

“Ugh. Fine, I’ll order something and have it express shipped. Do you think Buffalo has tailors or should I beg Francesca to fly out and meet us there—“ 

***

The circus gets going from the morning of the thirtieth and only keeps gaining steam. They fly out in the morning, pack into black vans and are escorted straight to the hotel. Everybody’s oddly tense, shoulders squared, and lips pressed tight, eying the security posted on the players’ floors—two, one for the team, one for Ilya—with blank disapproval. Since Scott hadn’t once let himself be separated from Ilya, he doesn’t mind much, especially since he typically gets assigned the nicest room on the floor. From there, they get into the hockey side of things, meaning team lunch, meeting with the coach, tape review and indoor training. 

“Roz, you’re up,” Coach calls, about two hours into the training session, when he’s mostly fuckign around with stretches and cooldowns. “You’ve a meeting with your agent and—people. Grab a shower and scram” 

Ah. Those would be the Adidas suits. He goes. Scott, naturally, comes with. It’s entirely possible Scott being there is in his contract. 

***

Say what you will about the ridiculous force of American corporate decadence, but they go hard. Adidas people book out a whole suite for them and their people, two floors up from Ilya’s floor. It’s fucking ridiculous—ten people, plus their own security, and a gaggle of interns streaming to and fro with tablets and garment bags, doing incomprehensible busywork. And these people, for all that this whole thing is hypercapitalist fever dream, are professionals who want to get their work done so they can go home.

He’s barely through the door before someone’s already apologising at him—smiling hard, eyes tired—and handing him a bottle of water. A woman with a measuring tape looped around her neck shakes his hand like she means it, then immediately starts circling him. Another one, younger, hair in a tight bun, iPad clutched in clawed hands, asks him to stand on a little mark on the carpet.

“Shoes first,” someone says.

“What, you want I put your shoes on?” 

They laugh politely, as if he’s made a charming joke. Nobody in this room laughs normally. It’s very likely they never learned how. 

“No, the line,” the woman with the iPad says. “We’ll do the scans.”

Will they do the scans again? Jesus Christ.

They sit him down on a low chair and a guy in grey—stylist, maybe; he calls himself a “product specialist”—crouches in front of him and starts measuring his feet. Another person runs a handheld scanner around his ankles, across the arch, around the heel. 

They’re efficient, he’ll give them that. It’s not the League’s swampy, self-important wandering. Adidas runs like a well-oiled machine. They take his foot measurements. They take his inseam. They take his shoulders, waist, neck, wrists, hands. It would be ridiculous even if they hadn't already had all these measurements, but they do. These are just adjustments. Last-minute checks to make sure everything is as it should be. If not, Ilya’s not entirely sure how they'll proceed. The man and woman in the back with the crazy eyes—artists of some sort, they have to be—look like they’d sooner cut him to measure. 

It all fits, thankfully, so they don't need to find out. Athletes’ bodies are recorded weekly; there was no real reason why it shouldn’t. The shoes fit like gloves, like they were made for him, which they were. The clothes, similarly, fall perfectly, even if the pair in the back gets into a hissy, hysterical argument about the length of the cuff and line of the collar. 

Scott is there, of course. In the corner, arms folded, unmoving, quiet. Every time someone tries to talk to Ilya about “brand voice” or “narrative,” or "representation" Scott’s gaze slides to them like a blade. And somehow, mysteriously, they go away. 

At some point a man in a suit steps forward and introduces himself. He has the kind of mass-produced smile that almost loops right back around into being charming, that's how unpleasant it is. 

“We’re very excited,” he says. “This is an important moment.”

“Mm,” Ilya says, eyes vaguely fixed on the wildly entertaining fight between the two creatives in the back. They might very well start a fistfight. 

The man continues. “We’ll keep today tactical. Wardrobe and final adjustments. Light content capture. Nothing invasive.”

Scott makes a small sound that might be approval. Or a warning.

They show Ilya the Winter Classic plan in miniature. The arrival look. The walk-in look. The pre-gala look. The “casual” look that still costs more than his first car. A few options for what he’ll wear to the League’s mandatory nonsense, with the Adidas logos placed so precisely you couldn't miss it if you tried, but still discrete enough that it's tasteful. Subtle. 

“This one reads strong,” a woman says, holding up a coat that feels like it was made out of money and spite. “This one reads approachable.”

Does it? It looks the same as most of his clothes do. Dark, a bit trashy. A discrete adidas logo on the inside of his sleeve. Less discrete one on the shoes. 

“I doubt pretty clothes make me approachable,” he says. “But good attempt, yes?” 

That gets a giggle from one of the interns, who then immediately looks down and pretends to check her phone, appalled that she produced a real human noise. 

They do photos, too. A couple of stills against a clean background. A short clip with him lacing up the sneaker. Another with him zipping a jacket, looking down, looking up, expression neutral. The photographer says things like, “Perfect,” and “Yes, that’s it,” like he’s coaxing a horse over a jump. Ilya does what he’s told. He’s been on camera since he was fifteen. This is fucking easy. 

They hand him a few scripted lines, too, printed neatly on a card: something about “excited,” something about “honored,” something about “the game.” He reads them once, as evenly as he can. The ecstatic expression on the besuited exec is throwing him a little. Whatever he’s getting from this, Ilya doesn’t know if he wants to be a part of it. 

“Could we do one with a little more warmth?” someone asks, careful.

Ilya looks at Scott.

Scott, without moving his face, says, “No.”

It lands like a door shutting. It’s almost beautiful.

The room recalibrates. People smile again. People pivot. Nobody argues.

“Do you prefer the black or the navy?” 

“You pick” Ilya says.

The stylist smiles like that is adorable. “Navy.” 

They adjust the sweater. They pull the fabric across Ilya’s shoulders. They step back, squinting. The tailor pinches the waist a fraction. The two creatives in the back hiss. 

“Looks good,” Scott says

Does it? 

They move him through the rest fast after that, sensing, perhaps, that what passed for patience is quickly running out. Coat. Scarf. Gloves. A ridiculous sweater that makes him look like a monied university student from some tiny country in Western Europe. As they put the outfits together, they pack them into giant, black garment bags, neatly labelled in large, block letters.
On and on it goes—and then it’s quarter to seven, and Scott clears his throat. No more than that. The exec in black looks at him, expression clearing into something a lot less ridiculous than the grimaces he’s been throwing at Ilya. 

“Of course, Mr Hunter. This has been a fruitful meeting, thank you. We won’t trespass further on yours or your talent’s time.” 

“Thank you, Mr Whitaker. I have enjoyed working with you.“

“Please, call me Darius.” 

“Then you must call me Scott—“  

It’s entirely possible, Ilya thinks, fascinated, that these people have simply forgotten who he is. Like someone, somewhere, classified him as visuals comma model and nobody’s bothered to correct it since. Either that, or they’ve fully bought the brainwashed sex-pet narrative.

Not everyone, obviously. The creatives couldn’t care less; he’s just a body over which fabric is draped. The interns and the lower-tier staff keep flicking stunned little glances between him, Scott, and the guy in black, very aware that they’re watching something strange and volatile. But the execs have formed a tight orbit around Scott, adult smiles locked in place, while Ilya gets handled like an overbred show cat: expensive, temperamental, and wholly lacking sentience. 

Have they seen his scars? They must have, with how intently they’ve been observing his body. Have their scans clocked the metal pins in his body? The nine missing front teeth, the nose that’s been broken, what, ten times? Have they somehow missed all of that?

He’s watched this exact dog-and-pony show play out for months now, and it still manages to surprise him. Straight men, usually, but women do it too—they find Ilya and Scott to be a challenging configuration. For some people, actively upsetting. But if they squint hard enough, blur their eyes and tilt their heads, they can see something of a pattern. An outline of something they recognise and, therefore, cling to with ferocity. 

A wealthy older man. A temperamental young star. Mentorship. Control. Power. It’s a familiar, comforting string of concepts that they know what to do with. They know what this is; they’ve seen it a thousand times. And sure, the ingénue isn’t usually a six-three NHL thug with a reputation for fighting, drugs, and sex parties—but that’s just details. It doesn’t matter what he is; he is Scott’s. And Scott is a blue-eyed American sweetheart, a national treasure with a strong handshake and clear, no-nonsense boundaries. 

Yeah. It’s a hoot. It works like a charm. Ilya will never get sick of it, not ever. If anything, he’s delighted to discover just how far he can still push. 

“—It was a pleasure, Mister Rozanov,” the suit is saying, once the Important Adult Talk has concluded and Scott has started taking pointed looks at his wristwatch. “We’ll see you tomorrow. Same time. Quick check. Final confirmation.”

Ilya nods once, smiles politely, and drifts after Scott. He looks calm enough, vaguely pleased, but there’s a thin edge of discomfort to him, a fatigue he can’t quite hide. Not from Ilya at least. 

Poor man. He’s getting all the stress of having a moody sex pet and none of the benefits. Honestly, tragic. Maybe Ilya should nudge him harder toward Sasha. There’s no loyalty there, no mutual respect, which makes it perfect: straightforward sex, a lot less adventurous than Sasha likes to imply, easy to schedule, no strings attached. Efficient. Sexual hygiene. Ilya should workshop this.

“Christ,” Scott says, the second the door clicks shut behind the army of interns who carried his garment bags into their suite, hung them and gone over what he’s wearing when and where. God forbid Scott and Ilya carry them themselves. They’re such delicate flowers, clearly unfit for eight garment bags that weigh, collectively, four pounds. What if someone gets a cut? What if they trip? “I’ll never get used to this lunacy.” 

“Yeah? Is Rolex deal simpler?” Ilya laughs at him, enjoys it. What a fucking liar. “Is Porsche? Please. This is small potatoes compared to your shit.” 

Scott scoffs, throws himself in the nearest chair. “No, it’s not. I take some pictures for them every six months, nobody says shit. I get pretty watches I don’t wear and hideous cars I don’t drive. Not—“ 

Uh-huh. “Not what?” Ilya drops down into a low start, accelerates, gives it his best attempt and launches himself at the bed. The mattress is too fancy; he bounces, hard, and slams into the wall behind. A light fixture wobbles, but holds. He’s giggling too much to care. “I like Adidas. Is very Russian expat. Adidas and fur.” 

“I don’t like how they speak about you,” Scott says after a minute. “But that’s whatever; I’ll deal with that later. The timing works for us. It must have reached them that the League is fucking with you, and they sped up their timeline and sent their people to protect their investment.” 

Ugh. Kill all the joy, must you? Ilya liked being seen as Scott’s brainless bimbo a lot more than the endangered Adidas money cow. 

“Do you think I can get Lanochka and Sasha to wear one of the new sweaters and nothing else, and take pictures? Bet I can—“ 

***

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

a. this is a monster of a chapter, two chapters in one easily
b. I'm on track for the chapter count, go ahead and ask, assholes. ask away

December 31st

By the time Svetlana and Sasha hit the hotel in a flurry of bags, furs and cigarette smoke, Ilya is more than ready to decompress with some good ol’ fashioned drama.

Scott warned him. He warned him over and over again that it’s going to be a madhouse, and he didn’t listen. He thought he knew what media frenzy was like, especially after the disaster that was his coming out. Only, he could have, and had in fact, hidden in his apartment, then. There is no escaping the vultures now. He has to be a good boy, play the game, pretend the paps with long-range lenses aren’t lurking behind the ridiculous wall of security provided by the Admirals and Adidas both.

Ugh. Security. Fucking bodyguards, like he’s some pop star, some ridiculous little boy who needs protecting from his adoring fans. He’s Ilya fucking Rozanov, the meanest asshole in the league, in the fucking hemisphere. If things continue escalating like this, he will be forced to embrace the time-honoured American tradition of biting off ears to establish his dominance.

It’s a fucking mess, all in all. Between the tight schedule, endless atomised tasks, PR bullshit, meetings with the team, the coach, Adidas, it’s half past six by the time he’s free to slink back into his rooms and decompress. Only, Svetlana and Sasha are there, preparations for the donor party in full swing, and Ilya is so far behind their schedule, Svetlana almost claws his eyes out when he suggests a quick nap.

“You already had a nap, or Scott would never let you leave his clutches. Shut up, go shower, and be quick about it.”

“And shave that ridiculous, patchy beard,” Sasha adds, waving an absent arm as he continues brushing something shimmery and gold into his chest. “Nothing can be done about the mop you call hair, but you’re a hockey player; you and Scott are shining beacons among your wretched kind.”

“Probably helps with authenticity, too. There’s no helping it.”

Authenticity, she says. Ilya is one of the best hockey players in the world. Players are authentic if they act like him, not the other way around.

Which is not to say they are wrong. Ilya does need a shower, a shave and maybe a bump of ketamine to take the edge off. If only the League bullshit didn’t mean that the randomised drug tests are suddenly testing for a much wider array of illegal substances.

***

They make it to the party only fifteen minutes too late, only a little winded when they pause to catch their breath and hand over their coats. The women at the coat check look appalled and enamoured in equal measure. Ilya’s seen the look often on those unfortunate souls, burdened with a sense of perspective and common sense, whose work forces them to be among the unreasonable and the tasteless.

And they are that, Ilya thinks, as he takes a moment to admire his two companions.

Svetlana’s gown is velvet, a matte black that drinks the light and gives nothing back. Heart-shaped neckline, slit past the hip on her left side, hair pinned up, chest bare except for gold and jewels draped across tanned skin. No seams, no lines, no construction; beauty uninterrupted by anything, including shame.

Sasha is similarly black-on-black, sheer in places, structured in others, cut to show exactly what he wants: the long line of his torso, the narrow waist, the deceptively curved slope of his shoulder. Yellow diamonds—to match the colour scheme Ilya, don’t be crass—glitter at his throat, around his wrists, gold shimmers across his cheekbones; his eyes are soft, melancholy, as if he’s already bored and sad about it.

Ilya is too young, too soft and too poor to have earned them hanging off him, but the room doesn’t know that. All they know is what they see, and the bare-chested man in a wide Goultier jacket, fingers heavy with gold, must have something backing up his arrogance.

Nobody gasps as they move into the space. This is not that type of room. The money people assess, recalibrate, consider.

“Let’s go find Scott.”

Scott is not difficult to find. All the hockey players are piled up on one side, near the bar, looking stiff, uncomfortable and out of place. Scott banned the booze, then. Sad. Scott is standing a little way away, talking to someone. Based on the ugly suit, crooked nose and spectacular mullet, a hockey guy. Who—Ah. Luke Carver. Two captains, banding together, huh?

Unlike Carver, Scott looks lovely, in a bland but tailored tux, back straight, hair swept back, beard neat. His expression is heavy with resigned amusement. Of course, his eyes say, crinkled at the corners. Of course you did this.

Ilya lifts his eyebrows. I warned you.

Scott’s lips twitch, eyes swinging up to the ceiling, then back. You did not.

Svetlana chooses that moment to unhook herself from Ilya’s arm, a slow unspooling of perfume and bare thigh, and the room’s attention follows her because the room is full of men who understand power plays and the shifting nature of ownership. Sasha detaches too, a half-beat behind her, crossing the last few meters without speaking, going straight for Scott.

Lanka reaches him first, places a delicate hand on his chest, and tips up to kiss his cheeks. One on the left, second on the right. Third, back on the left, close enough to the corner of his lips to be a pest, far enough to stay polite. It’s not even vulgar, not technically. It’s just deliberate, a performance to suit the room.

“Happy New Year, Scott,” she says, accent thicker, voice deeper than it needs to be. “Sorry we’re late.”

“Happy New Year, Svetlana.” If he’s upset they crashed his conversation, Ilya can’t see it—and he’s looking. He hadn’t seen any sign of annoyance in him yet, but they’re pushing hard, all three of them; they’ll have to encounter a line at some point, and it will absolutely be up to Ilya to drag his jackals back from it. “You look beautiful.” His eyes flick up, over Ilya, then Sasha. “All three of you. How you managed to pull this off in an hour, I will never know.”

Svetlana’s lips twitch. She hasn’t pulled back yet, lingers close to him, hand sliding up his lapel, straightening an invisible wrinkle. Her nails flash gold. The jewels down her shoulders and chest catch light, reflect a cold, hard glare.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, “I do so love to feel appreciated.”

Scott’s smile widens. For a beat, Ilya thinks he might laugh, but the moment passes, leaving him looking just a little softer, a little less tense. “Shocking.”

“Mm.”

She peels back slowly, theatrically, swans back to Ilya and relaxes into his side.

When it’s his turn, Sasha presses three kisses too, but is lighter about it, easier. He murmurs his greetings, sweeps his eyes over Scott’s suit, nods with approval and retreats. He stays close enough to be included in the tableau, far enough to watch the room, hooded-eyed, smile detached.

Ilya doesn’t bother with kisses or greetings, but he does step in closer, taking Svetlana with.

“Looking flashy, kid,” Scott says. “It’s a balmy ten degrees outside, perfect for going about shirtless.”

Ilya shrugs, hopelessly endeared. Here he is, the centrepiece of a very expensive problem, and the first thing Scott tells him is that he’s going to catch a cold. Jesus Christ. “Benefit of good fur and a warm car.” He lets his smile deepen. “And good company.”

Scott’s sigh is a thing of beauty, mostly because of how sincere it is. Unlike Ilya, Svetlana and Sasha, who barely speak with their real voices, with how much of a performance they’re putting on, the only thing different about Scott is that he’s a little more reserved. Ilya’s heard this sigh twice in an hour since they met.

“Okay, let’s get this over with. Make the introductions.”

Ilya’s lip curls. “You make them.”

Scott’s expression doesn’t change. Don’t be difficult.

Bless.

Have you met me?

Svetlana’s hand slides up Ilya’s arm, as she leans forward a little, eyes jumping between Scott, Carver, and the gaggle of hockey players staring at them from the bar. “Are you going to introduce us, Scott?” At the same time, Sasha’s fingers find Scott’s shoulder, a light touch, polite, restrained. Absolutely looks like a proposition of some sort.

Yeah, you’re not winning this one, Ilya thinks, eyes roaming over his wide-eyed teammates and even more perplexed Tridents huddled behind their perplexed captain. You would in normal circumstances, but Ilya thoroughly stacked the deck in his favour for tonight. If you come to this room, to this party, with Vetrov’s daughter on your arm, you get your due respect. If you get the daughter of the Russian Minister of Internal Affairs—Is that KGB? Is KGB still a thing? Does it matter?—to come here, to a random ballroom in fucking Buffalo, you get to act out a little. A lot.

To say nothing of Sasha. This room might not know Bolshoi talent, but they know diamonds. They know posture. You can fake looking like real money, but it takes some doing. Sasha could have—and, indeed, had—looked expensive in a crack house.

“Alright, hellcats, you win.” Scott rolls his eyes more obviously this time. “Heavens help me. This is Luke Carver, Captain of the Tridents and all around a good guy. Luke, you’ve met Ilya. These are Svetlana Vetrova and Sasha Orlov. His friends.”

Carver’s eyes flick, once, down Svetlana’s chest to the drape of jewels, the slit swallowing the idea of decency. Then they flick to Sasha, the posture, the bored melancholy of someone who has been applauded by more important rooms than this. Finally, to Ilya, preening, pleased, trying to look as civilised as possible under the circumstances.

“Pleasure,” Carver says carefully, “Happy New Year.”

Svetlana doesn’t offer her hand; she takes half a step forward and tilts her head. Carver hesitates—smarter than he looks—and then commits, leaning in and brushing a polite kiss on her cheek. It earns him a pleased look and a smile that says: Good boy.
Sasha gives Carver that same small nod he gave Scott, the one that implies approval without granting familiarity. Carver shakes his hand anyway.

Carver clears his throat. “So. This is—” he gestures vaguely between them, as if naming it would make it real, “—a team thing?”
Svetlana’s fingers tighten on Ilya’s forearm, velvet brushing his skin, and she leans in just enough to be heard by exactly the wrong people. “We’re guests.”

Carver’s mouth twitches. “Right.”

Scott visibly swallows a laugh, but saves it at the last moment, turns it into a perfectly mild, polite, all-American cough. “Okay,” he says, voice carrying just enough. “Introductions.”

A collective flinch. God bless hockey players. Put them on a block of ice, strap blades on their feet and make them hit each other over a puck, and they’ll be happy as anything. Put them next to a hot woman in velvet who isn’t at all impressed by them, and suddenly everyone’s a church mouse.

Scott starts with the Admirals. “This is Svetlana,” he says, and the name goes out like a match. “And this is Sasha. They’re with Ilya.”

That last part is the only thing anyone hears. With Ilya. Breezy’s expression is torn between delight and disbelief, like he wants to laugh but fears the reprecussions. Vaughny looks outright proud, chest puffed. Yes, this is our problem and what a glorious one it is. Benny has gone pale. Jals has stopped blinking.

“Hi,” Svetlana says, sweet and taut; silk stretched tight over a scorpion pit. “Happy New Year.”

Nobody responds; they’re possibly waiting for Scott to instruct them further.

“Happy New Year,” Scott supplies, which prompts a subdued avalanche of echoes and variations on the theme. Someone laughs on the wrong beat.

Lana doesn’t seem to mind. She shifts—one elegant step—and hooks an arm around Scott instead, melting into his side with the casual ownership of a woman who’s never been told no and doesn’t expect that to change. Then Sasha drifts behind Scott’s shoulder, not touching, not even standing all that close. And, like that, the story begins writing itself

Ilya can practically see it happening: the money people’s eyes flicking from the jewels to the bodies to Scott’s blank, calm face. To Ilya, standing a little in the back, next to Carver, doing as he’s told.

It is, objectively, hilarious.

“You know,” Carver says, eyes fixed politely ahead, “most guys bring their moms.”

Ilya inhales a bracing breath. Don’t laugh now, when you’ve done so well so far. “I try something new.”

Carver’s mouth twitches. “I don’t envy Scott one bit. Jesus Christ.”

It takes some effort, but Ilya doesn’t say any of the ten things that spring to mind. He looks to be an alright guy. Scott had said as much. “Good call.”

And behind Carver’s shoulder, in the shifting crowd, a couple of phones lift. Svetlana doesn’t look at them, but Sasha does, once—one slow glance, direct enough that whoever’s holding the phone flinches—and then looks away, bored. Message received; the phones disappear.

They do the Tridents next, but mercifully, Scott doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He just gestures them forward as a group, hands out, names traded in quick, shallow waves. It becomes a blur of hey, good to meet you, happy new year, yes, lovely, wow, okay.

Svetlana and Sasha don’t offer much beyond that. They don’t need to. Their entire job tonight is to be seen and understood. This doesn’t change as they start the required meet-and-greet with the crowd. They stay close to Scott and Ilya, expressions poised and distant. They don’t wander or let anyone pull them into a conversation they didn’t choose. If anyone attempts it, Svetlana smiles like she’s humouring a child; Sasha looks through them as if they’re fog.

If someone’s eyes linger too long—on Svetlana’s mouth, on Sasha’s neck, on Ilya’s bare chest—and are typically met with Scott’s bland, pleasant smile right after. This is, typically, enough to keep things moving.

The definite change happens around forty-five minutes in, as Scott is discreetly but firmly herding them towards the exit. The rep of this or that sponsor approaches Scott, barely shakes Ilya’s hand. A man in fifties with shiny veneers who looks like he’s never felt doubt pulls Scott into a conversation and only then glances at Ilya like an accessory that might, if positioned correctly, become useful.

Ilya watches the room decide it, piece by piece: that whatever Svetlana and Sasha are doing here, Ilya is a part of it. Whoever placed them here, they included Ilya as part of the package.

Ilya takes a slow sip of water and looks back out at the ballroom. God bless America.

***

January 1st

Ilya starts the year feeling a bit high, filled with a low buzz that makes everything tolerable. It carries him through the morning, the meetings with the team, the coach. The atmosphere is pleasant enough, the boys as buzzed as he is from the night before. Some are away, with family that came with. Others are on their phones, texting, calling, congratulating the new year.

Ilya is—excited, to his shame. The segment with Hollander is today, and he’s excited in this stupid, itchy way, like he’s listening to a song he pretends he doesn’t know the words to. He eats what Scott puts in front of him. He drinks his coffee. He listens to the boys chirp each other and feels—normal. He’s in one hotel, Hollander is in another. There’s a game tomorrow. They have a dumb press thing. The nostalgia is bitter, but that’s alright; he’s always liked his joy with a little bit of a kick.

The team rec room is one of those desolate, spiritually dead spaces that even the best hotels always seem to have. Folding tables. Bad lighting. A whiteboard no one will use.

They’ve got twenty minutes. The segment is five minutes away—downstairs, across a corridor, through security, into whatever set the League cooked up for today’s “Winter Classic Week Experience.” Ilya is dressed and ready: black trousers, sharp jacket. His hair is behaving, his face is clean-shaven. He almost looks like a person you could put on live air without having a written apology printed out and ready to go.

Scott is with him, of course. So are the boys, scattered around the room, half sitting, half hovering, trying to pretend they’re casual. Someone is yapping about the snow. Someone is trying to figure out if the segment is live-live or “live” in the sense of “we’ll edit you into a real boy in post”.

Scott’s phone rings. It’s not dramatic, except in the sense that it rings at all, that the lunatic doesn’t have it on silent like a normal person. Ilya glances down; it’s Ms Haddad. Alright—That’s fine. Sure.

Scott answers. “Hello.”

Nothing about Scott’s expression changes, not his face, his posture, nothing. He makes a sound that could mean understood or thank you or I will kill them for you immediately. Then he holds the phone out, without comment.

Ilya takes it. “Ms Haddad?”

Her voice is crisp and unamused, like she’s put out her fourth fire today, and she’s pacing herself. “Hi, Ilya. Listen carefully.”

He goes still. That’s—not a good start.

“The League says you’re no longer needed for that segment,” she continues. “You’ve been pulled.”

The first reaction is, maybe, predictable. Relief. No press. No sitting under hot lights while some idiot with slicked back hair makes a joke about his sex life. No careful neutral tone. No watching his mouth.

Then the relief flips into something sharper. Because it’s not press he was looking forward to. It’s Hollander. It’s the idea of seeing him, even for a stupid press thing, even in a forced League segment with pre-written banter. It’s proof of life. Proof that Shane Hollander is still a real person and not just a bruise in his chest he gets to press on when he wants to feel pain.

“I do not understand,” Ilya says, very calmly. “How can they—“

“They can,” Ms Haddad says. “They did.”

His hand tightens on the phone. It takes some effort to unclench his jaw, to reel himself back into his body. “How does that even work? The segment starts in twenty minutes.”

“I know when it starts,” she cuts in, still calm, still flat. “That’s the point.”

Ilya’s vision goes a little too bright around the edges. He can feel heat climb up his throat. The room hums—too many bodies, too much attention, too many eyes flicking toward him. Jesus Christ, he’s going to hit someone. He’s going to become a fucking problem.

“Why?” Ilya asks, and it comes out uglier than he intends. “What are they saying?”

“Nothing,” Ms Haddad says. “No lie. No explanation. You’re simply not needed.”

“Oh,” Ilya says, and laughs once, sharp and humourless. “Just fuck you, then.”

“Correct.”

He wants to explode. He can feel it, the familiar internal storm: humiliation transmuting into rage, rage into movement, movement into violence. He can already picture it, see their fuckign headlines. Rozanov throws tantrum. Rozanov unstable. The Adidas reps watching with horrified fascination.

He can also picture Hollander, sitting there in a chair, waiting, blindsided, told at the last second that Ilya is unavailable. Unprofessional. Unreliable. His voice goes cold. “So they think they can yank me around like a rookie.”

“They think they can make you look like a liability,” Ms Haddad says. “In front of your sponsors. In front of ownership. In front of everyone.”

Ilya’s jaw works. He swallows hard. “Right.”

“You’re not a liability. You know it, I know it. They know it too. But you’re loud, and you’re young, and you’re currently in a public fight with the League. So they want to build the narrative.”

Jesus Christ, if he hears that word again, he’s going to lose it. He’s going to smash this fuckign phone and flip the table, flip his shit--

“They want you to make a scene. They want you to crack. They want you to do it in a hallway, in front of everyone who is anyone in hockey, with cameras within reach.”

Yes, well, let’s give the people what they want, then. It’s been a while since he had a proper fuck-about, hasn’t it? He’s been good, kept his head down, he’s due some proper stress release--

Ms Haddad’s tone sharpens just a fraction. “Don’t.”

Ilya’s nostrils flare.

“Don’t tell the story they’re writing for you,” she says. “Because it’s not true, and them baiting you into a trap is them winning. Do you want them to win?”

He stands there, breathing through it, the way he was taught. In for three. Hold for four. Out for five. In and out, slow. Trick your body into relaxing. Clear your mind.

He forces his voice back into something civilised. “Okay.”

“Good,” Ms Haddad says. “Now. You’re going to be calm. You’re going to let Scott fuss over you. And you’re going to remember that we will hurt them with this. We will hurt them a lot worse than they have hurt you.”

Right.

“Yes, Ms Haddad.”

Ms Haddad exhales. “Hand the phone back to Scott.”

Ilya swallows the rest of the fire in his throat and passes the phone over.

Scott takes. “Yes.” He listens for a beat, nodding once. “Mm. Understood. Thank you.”

Then he ends the call, tucks his phone away, and looks at Ilya. “It’s alright, kid."

Ilya stares at him. His hands are steady, but his heart is very much trying to punch its way out of his ribs. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth.

Scott’s gaze stays level. “It’s fine.”

Ilya huffs a laugh. His teeth itch, sweat is beading on his palms. He wants to say something cruel. Something venomous. Instead, all that comes out is, “I was looking forward to it.”

Scott’s eyes soften.“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

Behind them, the room has gone weirdly still. The boys aren’t staring directly, because hockey players have a sense of self-preservation, but the silence has that unmistakable what the fuck shape. Vaughnybreaks it first, voice pitched halfway between outrage and awe.

“Are you serious?” he says, looking past Scott to Ilya like he’s trying to decide whether to start a riot. “They pulled you?”

Ilya shrugs, stretches his lips into a battered, rusty grin. “I am not needed.”

Breezy shakes his head, eyes wide. “That’s insane.”

Several people murmur in agreement. Vaughny shakes his head, then gives Ilya an assessing look—taking in the suit, the bare collar, the no doubt insane expression on his face. “Look,” he says, “after last night, there is literally nothing anyone can do to harm your reputation. You brought Vetrov’s daughter as your date. You’re bulletproof. Chill.”

A laugh breaks out, the tension shifts, eases. The room wants a joke. The room wants a ladder out of the pit. Ilya breathes in and out, and finds he’s calm enough to give them one.

He gentles his smile as best he can, folds away the sharp edges. “We live together, actually.”

Vaughny’s fixed smile twitches. “What.”

“With Scott,” Ilya adds.

Vaughny stares at Scott, like he can barely internalise the scope of this betrayal. “Jesus Christ. Really? Since when?”

Ilya makes a vague gesture. “Week or so?”

“Christ. I gotta start visiting more. Both of them? For good?”

Ilya shrugs again, the picture of nonchalance. “However long they want. Sasha will find a company to join at some point. Lanka—“ He pauses, because he’s truly never considered it. Who even knows with her? “Svetlana does what Svetlana does.”

A couple of the guys chuckle. The mood loosens another notch. Even the Tridents players lurking near the door like they’re ready to flee, look faintly amused.

Scott watches Ilya with that same steady attention, like he’s tracking a pulse. When Ilya meets his eyes, Scott gives him the smallest nod.

Good. Keep it here. Stay funny.

Ilya lets out a slow breath through his nose. Feels his shoulders drop a fraction. Ms Haddad’s words loop in his head. We will hurt them with this. We will hurt them worse than they’ve hurt you. That’s—Not enough, but it will do.

Besides, what is he so pissed about anyway? It’s a fucking press segment. It’s an insult over nothing, by people who mean nothing, who can only do petty shit like this. Take away his press privileges? Fucking please and thank you.

Do the segment. Do a hundred. Go with God, be blessed, etcetera.

Ilya tells himself he doesn’t care. He tells himself that very carefully.

The important thing is that he must not, under any circumstances, go back to his room to brood. That’s how every bad decision he’s ever made starts. That’s how you end up doing something crazy and dangerous, end up in some casino twelve hours later, end up in some alley snorting whatever was on offer.

He finds the gym instead. It’s not a real gym, not a place built for athletes, just a room with a couple of treadmills, a squat rack, dumbbells that max out at corporate wellness initiative. Still, it’s quiet. It’s a place that makes sense. He’s just started rolling out his calves when the door opens.

Scott has changed into training clothes, hair damp at the temples like he’s already been moving. He stops, takes in the scene. His mouth twitches. “Looking good, kid.” He offers a hand. Ilya takes it, lets himself be hauled up.

They move through a cool-down together, Scott guiding without making a big deal of it. A slow walk, a stretch, a breathing pattern that feels suspiciously like meditation. When they’re both steady again, Scott leans against the wall, arms crossed.

“So, Hallsy did a brave thing.”

Ilya blinks, barely avoids choking on his water. “Pardon?”

Scott’s eyes flick to him. There’s something odd in the look—hesitant around the edges, like he’s choosing his words. “You didn’t watch?”

Ilya snorts. “Why would I watch?”

Scott’s brows lift. Because you’re an idiot, the expression says, and he’s not wrong, but fuck him anyway.

“Fyodor Avraamovich encourages me not to read press,” Ilya says. “In fact, he encourages me not to read anything written in this century. Preferably nothing outside of the motherland at all, but is less strict about that part.”

Scott’s mouth twitches again. “Mm. Sounds healthy.”

“I think so,” Ilya says, with great dignity. “He is darkspawn made to torment mortals, but knows a thing or two.”

Scott’s gaze stays on him, steady. “They sat Shane down, told him you were suddenly unavailable, and he refused to do the segment.”

For a moment, Ilya can’t parse it. Refused. Shane Hollander refused a media commitment, in front of God and Reebok and everyone.

“What do you mean, refused?” Ilya says. “Refused what?”

Scott looks at him for a long beat, and there’s something soft about it. Something like curiosity, and something like sadness “Maybe watch it,” he says, like it’s easy. Simple. “I don’t think I’ll retell it right.”

Ilya wipes his face with his towel, buys himself two seconds of not reacting.

“Fine,” he says finally, voice rough. “Show me.”

Scott pulls out his phone.

And Ilya, against every instinct he’s cultivated for survival, leans in.

***

The clip opens on a bog-standard set for a sports segment; round table, bright lights, logos everywhere, arranged with the subtlety of a hostage video. Three hosts. Three different flavours of hockey bro. One is older—silver hair, ex-player shoulders, the kind of face you see on commercials selling trucks and masculinity. One is mid-thirties, slick suit, too much energy. Looks like he says tremendous a lot. The third is young, boyish, grinning like he can’t believe he’s allowed to be here. All three have the same tightness around the eyes.

And then there’s Hollander.

He’s settled into the guest chair with perfect posture, shoulders squared, hands clasped loosely in his lap. He looks different. Older. Less nervy, maybe, but wound tighter, too. His hair is neat. His jaw is set. He has that expression he wears at faceoff—blank and lethal and focused on a single point somewhere beyond the room.

Jesus Christ, he looks good.

The mid-thirties host starts the segment with that bright broadcaster voice, mass-produced cheer. “Happy New Year, everybody! Winter Classic week, baby—”

They do the setup. Rivalry segment. Rozanov and Hollander. Old storyline, new angle. The kind of nonsense the League thinks is charming. Then the host glances—quick, almost panicked—toward something off-camera. Teleprompter. Producer. Someone in his ear. He clears his throat. “So, uh—Shane, we were supposed to have Ilya here with you today—”

Hollander’s eyes flick up. “Yeah.”

“We are told he’s—not available.”

Hollander pauses, hesitates. Ilya tracks the slow blink, then the little frown that appears between his brows. Confused.

“Not available,” he repeats, flat.

The young host jumps in too fast. “You know how Roz is, right? The guy had a big night—rumour is he rocked up to the party with some pretty crazy company—”

Hollander’s jaw tightens. It’s subtle, but clear enough to anyone who knows him. Ilya likes to think he knows him better than most. He knows what he looks like five seconds before he does something nuts. Knows to look for the signs—There they are. His mouth will still, then relax. His eyes will go cold.

“That’s unfortunate,” he says, voice even. “We’ll do it next time.”

The older host laughs too loudly, desperate. “Well, hey, you’re here. We can still do the segment without him—”

Hollander doesn’t blink. “No.”

The table goes silent in a way that makes Ilya’s skin prickle. The hosts smile harder, the mid-thirties host tries again. “Come on, Shane. We can have some fun—talk about the rivalry, talk about—”

“No,” Hollander repeats. “I’m not doing it without him.”

The young host’s grin flickers. He looks off-camera like he’s begging someone to save him.

The older host leans in, voice dropping into that “reasonable older man” register. “Shane, the fans love this stuff. You’ve got an opportunity here—”

Hollander’s eyes flick briefly to the side again—teleprompter—and back. Ilya watches him clock it. Watches how he, briefly, looks mad enough to spit fire, before it’s all neatly packed away behind inscrutable black eyes, plastic smile.

“I’m happy to sit here,” he says. “You can run the show. You can talk about anything else you want.”

The studio goes so tight it’s almost audible. You can feel the producers scrambling, can feel the hosts trying to keep their faces from cracking while someone in their ears panics.

The oldest host forces a laugh. “Alright, alright—so what are you saying, you’re just going to—what, stonewall us?”

Hollander lifts his shoulder in a shrug, head tilting to the side by an inch or so. Usually, that gesture makes him look even more doe-eyed and innocent. It doesn’t, now. At some point, in the past couple of months, someone taught Shane Hollander how to project violence.

“I’m saying I’m not participating in whatever this is,” he says. “If you want to ask me about the game, ask me about the game. If you want to talk about the Winter Classic, we can talk about the Winter Classic. But I’m not doing a rivalry segment alone, and I’m not doing a segment where the punchline is Rozanov is unreliable.”

The words hit the air; Ilya feels them land right on his chest. A clean, bright shock that makes his head spin. It’s not just the objectively fantastic way he says it, bright and uncompromising. It’s that he makes it look simple, a basic principle. Obvious truth.

The hosts flounder. They pivot, clumsy. They start talking about outdoor ice, about sightlines, about weather, about skates on colder surfaces. It’s fine. It’s salvageable. It’s also clearly not what the League planned. Hollander answers like a professional. Pleasant enough, accurate. Not warm, exactly, but he never is, in these things. He makes up for it with competence—and maybe a thread of fury woven through, just for them. The clip ends.

Ilya stares at the frozen last frame: Hollander’s face in that studio light, eyes steady, mouth set, the whole of him a composed no.

He swallows, presses play again. Watches it though. Press play again.

What the fuck—What the fuck—What the fuck—

No matter how he looks, he can't find the angle. What he could have been thinking. Ilya swallows. His throat aches. He doesn’t know what he feels, only that it’s too much and not enough at the same time—gratitude and disbelief and a weird, panicky warmth that makes him want to pace.

Beside him, Scott sits quietly, witnesses his meltdown without comment, without even a meaningful glance.

Ilya clears his throat, voice rough. “This was—You are right. He was brave.”

Scott’s mouth twitches. “Yeah.”

Ilya stares at the phone. He can’t stop staring.

By the time Ilya collapses into his bed, he is spent. Utterly, completely spent. His heart can only take so much, and the rollercoaster of emotion pulped him even before he had to go and be a normal person and do the rest of his schedule.

Scott is somewhere in the suite, invisible and present; the steady sound of movement, the occasional soft clink of a glass, a low murmur into a phone call that isn’t Ilya’s business. He doesn’t intrude.

Ilya is in bed, he’s showered, he’s eaten. His head is empty. He’s watching Hollander’s clip for the fiftieth time when a message arrives. Hollander.

JANE: well that fucking sucked.

Ilya exhales through his nose, annoyed at the way his heart is behaving, and taps.

ME: you didnt have to do that
ME: i mean it

He pauses, thumbs hovering. He types: thank you. Deletes it. He types: they’re going to punish you. Deletes it. His phone lights again before he has to decide.

JANE: yes i did
JANE: shut up
JANE: they’re fucking weasels

Ilya swallows. Shane is a one-message man. Two, maybe. Three if he’s mad about a ref. This is a stream. For reasons he refuses to examine, he feels his mouth twitching.

ME: whatever
ME: is press nonsense
ME: you didn’t have to

The reply comes fast.

JANE: check your ego, rozanov
JANE: i am protecting my brand
JANE: if they think they can yank me around like this
JANE: fuck them
JANE: fuck. them.

Ilya stares at the screen. Somewhere beyond the bed, there’s the faint rustle of Scott turning a page, or shifting on the couch.

ME: they will fine you

Less than a minute to a response

JANE: say it isn'tt fucking so
JANE: my agent already told my mom
JANE: someones getting fired
JANE: i hope they do it in public and someone puts it on youtube

Ilya lets out a sound that is dangerously close to a laugh. He types: your mom? and deletes it.

ME: )))
Me: you are insane

JANE: bud, you have no idea
JANE: better for them they get fired
JANE: better than what my mom will do
JANE: fuck

Ilya shifts onto his side, phone clutched like a secret. He is acutely aware of his own body--heavy limbs, tired eyes, the pull of tomorrow’s game—acutely aware that he is in bed, texting Shane fucking Hollander.

ME: okay john wick
ME: relax
ME: i’m fine

He regrets it instantly. It reads weak. Vulnerable. He hadn’t asked, to start with.Hollander responds before he can think his way out.

JANE: you are not fine
JANE: and i’m not going to relax
JANE: they had it on the teleprompter

Oof.

ME: what.

JANE: rigth?!
JANE: “well you know how reliable rozanov is”
JANE: “hes always a show”
JANE: “he was probably busy last night”
JANE: etc
JANE: I thought I was losing it

Ilya’s thumb drags over the edge of the phone case, again and again.

ME: wow

That’s good enough. Safe.

JANE: fucking disgusting
JANE: theyre snakes
JANE: and i hate wasting my time

Ilya doesn’t catch his laugh in time. Christ.

ME: your time is very precious
ME: i understand

JANE: fuck you

Ilya bites his lip hard enough to hurt, because if he laughs again, Scott’ll look over, and the last thing he needs is Scott’s fond, knowing smile right now.

ME: my agent and my lawyer are on it
ME: apparently there is a plan
ME: ms kat hired other lawyers
ME: like, a whole team

JANE: good

ME: and scott has been talking to his ancient hockey elders

JANE: GOOD
JANE: jesus christ i cant believe they did that
JANE: they flew me in and everything
JANE: like i’m a fucking prop
JANE: i wanted to throw the chair at the camera

ME: you would have missed

JANE: i wouldnt

ME: you absolutely would

There’s another pause, shorter this time, and Ilya can almost see Shane’s face: that tight little frown, the offended dignity. He’s probably chewing on the string of his hoodie furiously.

JANE: sry gtg
JANE: plane is taking off

Bless.

ME: safe flight

The reply comes back almost immediately.

JANE: tnx

Ilya stares his phone for—longer than he should. His eyes certainly don’t appreciate it. He’s grinning, wide and baffled, head both loopy and empty. What the fuck? What is this day? What--

Behind him, Scott’s voice drifts in from the other room, calm and a bit amused. “Go to sleep, kid. Game tomorrow.”

Oops. Busted.

Because today has been a fucking trip, he finds himself giggling, snickering into the pillow like a little boy. He tucks his phone under his pillow, burrows into the blankets. “Yeah,” he says into the dim. “I know.”

And he does. Ilya closes his eyes and lays in the confused pleasure, the sudden absence of stress, emotion in his chest hot and strange, like the beginning of a bruise.

Chapter End Notes

Hockey bro host: yeah so Roz is not coming
Hockey bro host: what a flakey little asshole amirite?
Hockey bro host: amirite, Shane? What a—
Shane, who just flew into Buffalo, between games, to catch a glimpse of his thriving ex, exhausted, heart sore, foaming at the mouth from impotent jealousy: you fucking wHAT—

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

This one is a bit fillery too, but important for the next one.

January 6th

Getting back into the tunnel vision of the season is typically easy for Ilya, but twenty-thirteen is proving… challenging.

They’re playing two to three games a week, they’ve shot up into the top five Cup contenders by most analysts, and Scott—and, to a lesser extent, Ilya—spend most of their downtime in meetings.

It’s a fucking mess. There is simply no time in the day to do everything that needs doing sequentially, so they delegate even more shit and start multitasking like they’re running a business. The first—but not the last—time Ilya combined therapy with a PT appointment was weird, but not as weird as Scott’s neurotic alarms to remind him of naptime, snack time, downtime, etc. Even at their busiest, the lunatic will make sure Ilya naps for ninety minutes every day, eats three protein-heavy snacks between meals at regular intervals, and has forty-five minutes a day to do nothing.

It’s nuts, considering the rest of the schedule, then, has to bend around it: meetings rescheduled, things double-booked, delegated, and occasionally outright ignored. The team does their best to help, to their credit. They do what they can to keep Scott free, even insisting he stay off the ice as much as possible so he can heal up and bank his energy. It works well enough, for all that the lunatic will only agree to sit out the majority of the less important games. 

It doesn’t all work. The media thing, especially.

With them being as busy as they are, and with the League being as irritating as it’s been, the Admirals management has done its best to release them from PR obligations on their end. Unfortunately, the solution they’ve landed on is not a solution so much as a new kind of disaster. They tasked one of the interns to follow Ilya and Scott around in team spaces and film them for “elite bromance moments.”

Ilya doesn’t like it at first. Then he gets properly huffy. Then— 

Thing is, Ilya would rather do one dumb segment and be free for the rest of his workday than always have to be on the lookout, never knowing where the goofy little intern is filming from. What he’s filming. Whether he’s about to pop out from behind the cooler like a fucking jack-in-the-box. 

Granted, they’re not doing anything Ilya is particularly upset about being filmed, but that’s not the point.

It comes to a head when the kid barges into the dressing room, camera front and centre, already filming, with another intern trailing nervously behind him. 

Ilya—shirtless, sweating like a pig, about to shuck the rest of his uniform—freezes, staring straight at the camera. From the corner of his eye, he sees Scott’s head snap up.

“Hey, Roz—” the kid chirps, breathless, way too cheerful for a man who has just entered a room full of half-naked NHL players without permission. He swings the camera from Ilya to Scott, then back to Ilya. “Okay, okay, we’re doing a quick one. Team chemistry segment. Thirty seconds. No big deal.”

The kid swings back to Scott, and barrels on, somehow oblivious to the realities of his situation. Scott had, not an hour ago, flattened a defenceman into the boards so hard, his teammates had to help him limp off the ice. And he’s not looking happy. 
“Captain, can we get you two to do the—uh—” he squints at his phone. “—the ‘Trust Fall Challenge’? Or the ‘Two Truths and a Lie’ one? Fans love it. We’re doing a series; it’s called ’it’s bromance, but elite.’”

He pivots back to Ilya, too close, camera still rolling.

“Roz, okay, quick question: what’s the one thing Scott does that drives you crazy, but you secretly love?”

Blood roars in Ilya’s ears, nostrils flaring. He’s not, fuck knows, prudish or embarrassed; he’s been to sex parties where he was absolutely part of the act and, besides, Ilya is a professional athlete. He’s been stripping down in rooms with other men since he was six years old.

Still—

“How about we do properly,” he finds himself saying.

He’s gotten to his feet at some point, and now he’s looming over the bug-eyed intern—in his space, chest to chest. The camera dips, points down. A pin drop could be heard in the silence of the room. 

“How about Scott sit down, I get on my knees, he gets his hands in my hair, cock down my throat. That is elite bromance you talk about, yes? That is what this means—”

Benny is the one who grabs him by the shoulders and muscles him back toward his locker. He’s sweet about it, too, like he’s handling a feral cat: slow voice, slow, strong hands, no sudden movements. And Ilya cooperates, because he does not actually want to punch Mike the Intern or whatever the kid’s name is.

Scott is—Yeah. Pale, lips pressed tight, visibly furious. Ilya shrinks into himself a little. Oof. Maybe he—Is this the line? Did he finally find it? 

“Get him out of here,” Scott spits. Much like Benny has Ilya, Vaughny has Scott—hovering, expression unreadable. Scott glances up at the clock on the wall and swears, vicious and low. “And someone get—” He swallows the rest, then snaps it out anyway. “Someone tell Coach that the next time anyone brings a camera to my dressing room and films my players, I will break their arms and legs. Roz, hurry up. We’re going to be late.”

Oh.

Ilya swallows, looks closer—Nope. It’s good to be the favourite, because Scott is spitting mad, but not at Ilya. Huh.

“You good, kid?” Benny is looking at him oddly. He doesn’t say much, so when he does, even Ilya tends to listen. “You need a minute?”

Ilya blinks, frowns. “Fuck you, Bens, I—” He stands, sways a little, sits back down.

Yeah, okay. So maybe he’s a bit loopy. That’s fine. He’s starving. They just played a fantastic game—and still lost, what a fucking joke—and he’s probably downplaying how hard he got crunched into the boards in the third. His head is doing that fuzzy, floaty thing where the world feels slightly delayed; not a concussion, but maybe it's closer than he thought. 

“Meeting with Ms Kat in thirty,” he mumbles, blinking too hard. “And I need to—fucking—get clean—”

He can’t show up sweaty and bloody. Only he also doesn’t want to strip, somehow. Somehow, the thought of stripping, walking over to the showers not fifteen meters away, makes him want to hit someone.

“Yeah, alright.” Benny shifts him like he weighs nothing, swings him sideways, and suddenly Ilya is sitting on the bench, slumped into Benny’s side.
Christ. That man can make anyone feel small. 

“Here,” Benny says. “Eat.” He cranes his head, looks for someone— “Decky, tell your sister the kid will be late. Half an hour, tops. He’s helping me out with something urgent.”

“Done, buddy—” 

Ilya stops listening, a little baffled by the whole production, because Benny has just produced a bagel and pushed it into his hands. 

“Where the fuck did you get bagel?” 

Ilya bites down and closes his eyes. They can’t make rye bread to save their lives in this godforsaken wasteland—and the less said about what Americans call caviar, the better—but the salmon is good. The cream cheese is… alright. More importantly, it’s salmon and cream cheese and rye bread, none of it on his meal plan, all of it fucking delicious.

“We’re in Jersey, not fucking Siberia,” Benny says.

Ilya huffs a laugh around a mouthful.

“If you knew—” He has to open his eyes, look up at Benny, give him his most solemn, wounded expression, tries to impart the scope of Benny’s ignorance. “If you knew the fish and rye bread they had in Siberia, you would weep, Benny—”

***

January 8th

The email comes two days later.

They’re in Tampa, because the League, in its infinite mercy, has decided that nothing says healthy work-life balance like Florida humidity in January and a back-to-back that ends with a 7:30 start and a mandatory “community initiative” photo op the morning after. Scott is off for a meeting. Ilya hadn’t asked; it’s not his business, and Scott has a look lately that suggests he’s one inconvenience away from indiscriminate slaughter. 

Ilya is in his ridiculous suite. He’s just finished his call with Fedya—thirty minutes of “did you make progress in understanding the concept of happiness and how it could be applied to your life” and “how are the new focusing techniques working out” and “stop clenching your jaw, you’re going to grind the few teeth you have left into powder”—and he feels—alright. Not happy, whatever the fuck that means, but alright. He’s full, tired, loose around the edges. 

Lanka had recommended some ridiculous game for learning English, and he, the disgrace that he is, got immediately addicted. It cost a shocking amount of money for an app that ugly, but it’s got something he can’t pinpoint that has him hooked. The devastatingly stingy reward system is likely a part of it. 

Choose the correct spelling:

CONSCIENCE
CONSCIOUS
CONSCIONCE

Ilya stares at it until his eyeballs ache.

“Go fuck yourself,” he tells the phone. The phone does not care.

He wouldn’t have even seen the email if the game hadn’t forced him to wait for some energy bar to refill and his thumb hadn’t drifted to the little notification icon like a moth to a flame.

The title is so official it feels like a threat.

OFFICE OF THE COMMISSIONER / PLAYER SAFETY & CONDUCT
NOTICE OF ENHANCED MONITORING & COMPLIANCE REQUIREMENTS

Oh, lovely. That’s really fucking fantastic. He closes his eyes, inhales slowly through his nose, holds it until it starts to ache, exhales like he’s trying to fog a window. Fedya’s voice, earlier: Longer out than in. Like you are letting air out of a balloon.
Ilya opens his eyes and keeps reading.

From: Office of the Commissioner – Player Safety & Conduct

To: Ilya Rozanov (NYA), Club Representative (NYA), NHLPA Liaison
CC: League Security Operations, League Communications, Legal Compliance
Subject: NOTICE OF ENHANCED MONITORING & COMPLIANCE REQUIREMENTS – CONDUCT DETRIMENTAL / REPEATED NONCOMPLIANCE

Mr. Rozanov,

This email serves as formal notice that, effective immediately, you are placed under Enhanced Monitoring pursuant to the League’s authority to maintain a safe and professional environment for players, club personnel, League partners, media, and fans.

This determination is based on a documented pattern of repeated noncompliance and conduct potentially detrimental to the League, including but not limited to:

• Failure to comply with scheduled media obligations
• Security protocol breaches and unauthorised access incidents in League-designated facilities
• Unprofessional conduct and/or refusal to cooperate with League-appointed personnel
• Behavior contributing to an unsafe or disruptive media environment

As part of Enhanced Monitoring, you are required to:

• Complete additional professionalism and media-coaching sessions as assigned by League Communications
• Comply with all security protocols issued by League Security Operations (including guest lists, access checks, and travel arrangements)
• Submit to any additional reporting requirements and/or check-ins deemed necessary by League representatives
• Refrain from conduct that may be interpreted as retaliatory, disruptive, or detrimental to League operations

Failure to comply may result in further disciplinary action, including fines, suspension, and/or additional remedies available to the League.

If you have questions, please contact your club representative or the NHLPA liaison.
Sincerely,
Office of the Commissioner
Player Safety & Conduct Division

Ilya reads it twice. He reads it a third time.

The surge of anger is quick and familiar. Media refusal? What the fuck have I refused? He’s been in scrums. He’s answered questions using their ridiculous empty words like “process” and “mindset” and didn’t slap anyone once. Didn’t even swear much—

Is this—Is this about the fucking intern—

He takes a screenshot and sends it to Hollander before he even knows what he’s doing.

ME: picture attached
ME: you see this shit?

He stares at the screen, waiting for regret to arrive. It doesn’t. Huh.

Instead, he flips over to his email, forwards the whole thing to Scott, Ms Kat, Ms Haddad. Svetlana and Sasha. Then, because misery loves company—and because there is a chance this is all happening because he was mean to an intern—he forwards it to Coach Murdock and the team group chat.

Then, heart bubbling with spite and indignation, he drops it in the Bears’ group chat as well, with a follow-up message:

Careful how you treat your baby interns, boys. They might rat you out to management.

The reply from Hollander comes back within five minutes.

JANE: What?
JANE: What in the
JANE: One min.

Ilya snorts.

He switches apps and pulls up his notes. The Voyageurs are playing the Ottawa Centaurs tomorrow, which means Hollander is either still in Montreal or he’s already driven ahead to spend the night at home. Knowing him, he’s at home. Good family boy. Probably drinking tea and helping his mother with the laundry.

JANE: alright
JANE: jesus christ
JANE: this is fucked up

There’s a pause.

JANE: okay
JANE: first
JANE: breathe
JANE: seriously

ME: i am breathing
ME: its fine
ME: this is just
ME: what?

JANE: yeah. what is right.
JANE: “media refusal”??
JANE: what media have you refused

Ilya only thinks about it for a moment, and then decides it’s fine. He’s already sent the email to the Bears; the messages in the group chat have been arriving for a while. Besides, the email itself is the problematic thing.

ME: none
ME: i did their fucking scrums
ME: i think its the intern
ME: we had an intern that did press things since the league never does positive segments anymore
ME: he came to the dressing room, started filming
ME: i snapped at him, i guess

JANE: jesus
JANE: did you hit him? hurt him?

Ilya laughs once, sharp and involuntary.

ME: what
ME: no wtf
ME: i didnt touch him
ME: didnt even say much
ME: team threw him out
ME: i mean we were changing

JANE: wtf
JANE: fuck that
JANE: alright, so someone said something? the intern went to the league?

ME: no idea
ME: not sure if it was the intern tbh
ME: just coincidence, maybe

JANE: doubtful

Ilya’s grin fades as fast as it came. The anger is still there, pacing in his blood like a caged animal.

ME: i dont get it
ME: they can just
ME: send this?

JANE: they can send whatever they want
JANE: that doesnt mean it holds
JANE: but yeah, theyre escalating
JANE: this is escalation

Yeah, no shit.

ME: i want to
ME: fuck shit up
ME: we’re in florida, perfect place to make a mess
ME: fucking noncompliance
ME: im locked on a separate floor like a plague child

JANE: okay. vent.
JANE: vent first.
JANE: but dont do that

Ilya huffs around a laugh.

ME: like i said
ME: venting is best in florida

JANE: okay
JANE: do you have a plan

ME: yes
ME: law firm
ME: always law firm
ME: ms kat will eat them alive

JANE: i meant
JANE: for you

Ilya blinks at the screen.

ME: what

JANE: like.
JANE: when you get this email and you want to kill a guy
JANE: do you know what to do
JANE: besides kill a guy

Ah. Right. Ilya’s thumbs move before he can overthink it.

ME: i am in therapy
ME: so i guess i do

There’s a pause. Longer than before. Not long enough to be dramatic—long enough for his stomach to clench, shoulders tensing.

JANE: you are?

Fuck you, Rozanov. You had to go and make it fucking weird. Loser behavior, fucking hell—

ME: its not a big deal
ME: im fine
ME: its just
ME: i started after that fight

JANE: oh yeah
JANE: against krizan right?

Ilya’s mouth tightens.

ME: yeah well
ME: i couldnt deal with scotts nagging
ME: he freaked out

JANE: that checks out
JANE: what was that about even
JANE: it was at the end too

Ilya stares at the words. The heat rises again, quick and sour.

ME: what do you think

Another pause. Short.

JANE: oh.

ME: yeah
ME: oh

JANE: good

Ilya’s eyebrows shoot up.

JANE: i mean not good
JANE: but you know
JANE: good
JANE: now he knows better
JANE: it was a teaching moment

The tension in his body is releasing, smoothing out.

ME: not good
ME: getting mad about that shit is how they bench me for good
ME: only reason i am still allowed on the ice is that im above it all
ME: they cant get to me
ME: if i start being a liability they bench me

JANE: well, i mean
JANE: not really

Ilya’s lip curls.

ME: yes really

JANE: guys fight
JANE: hockey is a contact sport
JANE: talk shit, get hit

Ilya stares at that and feels the ever-present clench of resentment bubble and hiss, fill his ears with static. Yeah, okay. Sure. Talk shit, get hit works when the chirping is about your mom, your girlfriend, your hometown—things the world agrees you’re allowed to be angry about.

If they chirp something the public thinks is shameful, something hockey players don’t want to think about, then suddenly you don’t get to hit. Suddenly you’re unstable. A liability.

Best not get into it. What is he even supposed to say—and to whom? Hollander knows it full well.

ME: sure yeah
ME: dont want to get into that rn
ME: either way i went a bit nuts i guess
ME: would have gotten suspended for season only league really didnt want to repeat what he was saying
ME: got off easy
ME: so i go to therapy

A pause.

JANE: whats it like

Ilya hesitates, surprised. A little warmed, maybe. That’s—unexpected. But alright. Hollander is curious; water is wet. More to the point, what is therapy like? Awful. Humiliating. Exhausting. It makes him want to rattle out of his skin, claw his eyes out. It also makes the world stop spinning sometimes.

ME: good? idk
ME: my therapist is unholy satan spawn
ME: but he doesnt make me talk about dumb shit
ME: he’s practical i guess

JANE: thats really cool

Ilya pauses, suspicious.

ME: dont patronize me hollander

JANE: im not
JANE: im serious
JANE: i dont know any guys who actually go
JANE: outside of like court mandated stuff
JANE: thats really smart of you

The spark of anger fizzles out, helpless against the rush of warmth. Ilya swallows. His throat feels weird.

ME: it was not my idea
ME: scott bullied me

JANE: like anyone could make you do anything
JANE: please
JANE: you could have told him to fuck off
JANE: and you didnt

ME: okay
ME: so what do i do now
ME: besides bite florida man

JANE: send it to your lawyer
JANE: and then do your therapy thing
JANE: the plan for you
JANE: what is it

Ilya pauses. He could lie. He could.
ME: breathe
ME: and write it down
ME: like what happened
ME: like
ME: time, place
ME: what i think it means 
ME: and then
ME: eat something
ME: because apparently i forget to eat when im mad
ME: so I find scott and get him to feed me 

JANE: wow
JANE: look at you
JANE: domestic

Ilya feels his mouth twitch.

ME: shut up

JANE: no
JANE: also do you want me to call you

The question sits there like an offering. Ilya’s chest does something stupid again.

ME: no
ME: yes
ME: i mean
ME: not now
ME: i am fine
ME: im just
ME: annoyed

JANE: okay
JANE: text me when hunter gets back
JANE: and dont do anything dumb

Ilya rolls his eyes at the phone like Hollandersh can see him.

ME: i never do anything dumb
ME: i am perfect angel

JANE: sure
JANE: still
JANE: florida people all have alligators around to bite newcomers
JANE: you dont want that smoke

Ilya snorts.

ME: i want all smoke
ME: smoke is my right and privilege
ME: but alright

He pauses, considers—

ME: did you catch our game
JANE: oh boy
JANE: did i
JANE: zullo is intense.

ME: you like! i work hard to get his chirps good. before me he was hopeless.

JANE: good job i guess.
JANE: he told jj that he looks like he eats snickers bars upside down because he likes to feel the veins on his tongue
JANE: it was a lot. he was really weirded out

ME: )))))))
ME: zoo is such a beauty
ME: natural talent all there, i just nudge him a little

JANE: isn’t it a little
JANE: i mean does it bother you
JANE: that sort of shit
JANE: now that you’re out

Ugh. Now Hollander is making it weird. They’re so bad at this.

ME: nah
ME: if i want polite team i change career
ME: jokes are fine
ME: and if jokes not fine i slash their knees and make them cry
ME: simple

JANE: huh
JANE: clever

Some thirty minutes later, he’s lazing on the bed, playing his dumb game—English tenses don’t make any fucking sense, how many variations of the verb have do you need—when the keycard clicks. The door opens.

Scott walks in with his jacket half off, hair a little wild, mouth set in a thin line, eyes worried. He stops dead when he sees him on the bed, in sweatpants, freshly showered, ready to sleep. His eyes narrow.

“What happened,” he says, flat.

Ilya blinks at him, innocently. “I am learning English.”

Nothing. Tough crowd.

Ilya gestures vaguely toward the phone, then, because he’s not actually suicidal, adds: “Also, League sent email.”

Scott’s face tightens in a way that makes it very clear that whatever meeting he just came from was not, in fact, the worst part of his day.

“Yes. I saw.”

“Is fine,” Ilya says, and even means it, somehow. “I sent to Ms Kat. And Haddad. And Coach. And Bears.”

Scott’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to laugh and failing.

“And Hollander,” Ilya adds, because if Scott is going to explode, he might as well know the full extent of Ilya’s sins.

Scott goes very still. “Yeah?” he says, carefully.

Ilya shrugs—a loose, almost casual movement that surprises him with how sincere it feels.

“I—He is very calm,” Ilya says, then snorts. Calm. As if. “Not calm but—smart. Like you and Ms Kat. Does not go out to hit strangers in Florida.”

Scott looks at him for a long beat.

“That’s good, kid,” he says finally. “Good thinking, to reach out to your peer. Friend. Proud of you.”

Jesus. Ilya wrinkles his nose, caught between competing urges to close his eyes and bask in the praise or scoff. Ilya scored two goals last night, and Scott is proud of him for spilling his secrets to players on other teams.

“Is whatever. Don’t be weird.”

“Heavens forbid.” A pause. “Alright, I assume you’ve eaten? Because if you go to bed on an empty stomach and swoon tomorrow at the game like a Victorian maiden, I will never let you live it down.”

“Always, is food, with you. Are you going to start measuring my fingers soon? Check if I am fat enough to put into the oven—“ 

***

Friday, January 11th

They scheduled the meeting to discuss the whole sorry affair for Friday, after they’re back from Toronto. Ilya, in all honesty, can’t see the purpose of the meeting at all, but it’s fine. It could be worse. At least he’s in a good mood. 

Boy, is he in a good mood. They won against the favourites for the Cup, beat them in their own barn, and the victory was more than worth the broken nose and chipped tooth. If anything, the ache makes it sweeter, earned. Even better, Saturday’s game is at home, so they don’t have to travel until Sunday. They hadn’t even had training today; the coach had let them stay home and rest, which meant Ilya spent most of the day conked out, emerging from his bed to eat, rinse his mouth and have a quick PT session. Jessica has grown on him a little. 

Alas, all good things etcetera. Scott, whose day was significantly busier than his, and spent it bouncing from one meeting or another, drives back with Ms Kat in tow, a little past six. 

Ms Kat comes in briskly, looking like a modern interpretation of a Valkyre, wrapped in a structured wool coat, hair slicked back in her customary knot, makeup sharp and impeccable. She takes in the scene—Sasha sprawled on the couch, Svetlana on the rug next to the fireplace, sipping a glass of red, Ilya next to her, with his head in her lap—and sighs. 

“I’d love to stay and take this slow, but I'm afraid there is a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it,” she says. “So come on, kids. On your feet. Scotty, do you have a space for us to sit and work?” 

“Dining room should do,” Scott says, voice so very mild that Ilya knows he’s laughing at them. 

“Fantastic. Lead the way.” 

Ilya sighs. “Do you need me for this? I sent you everything I have already. Nothing left to contribute.”

“Kid, you’re the only one here I do need. The rest of them are there because you want them there.” 

Ilya makes a face. “Jesus Christ.”

“It has been pointed out to me,” Ms Kat continues, voice very even, “that you are the last person to ever know what’s going on. As your lawyer, I am skirting the edge of unethical. I have to make sure you are aware of your own case.”

Sasha, from the couch, says blandly, “Finally.”

“Traitor,” Ilya tells him in Russian, but gives up. “Fine. You know best.” 

Ms Kat’s lips twitch. “I do, yes.” 

“I’ll start with this: All-Star Weekend.”

Ilya blinks, frowns.

“You and Scott are two of the six who have been voted by the fans to participate.”

“Huh,” he says slowly. “That is interesting. I thought they would cut us.”

“They would,” Ms Kat says. “If it were up to them. But there was a fan ballot—a stunt to make fans feel involved and therefore motivated to watch the event, buy the jerseys, click the links, whatever. You, Scott, Hollander, Marlowe from the Bears, Moritz Kappel from the St. Louis Archers, and Isak Lövgren from the Vancouver Orcas are the six they voted in.”

“Huh,” Ilya repeats, because he has run out of ways to say that’s so interesting, please, tell me more, I am thrilled to learn about this very important thing. 

Ms Kat’s tone goes sharper—not a lecture, but something with a point. “That’s what this whole thing has been about,” she says. “The email. The stunt with Murphy. The ridiculous slander—”

“Murphy?” Ilya cuts in, eyebrows drawing together.

Ms Kat makes a small, disgusted sound in the back of her throat, lips pressing together. “The intern,” she says. “He gave them the recording. Filed a complaint for inappropriate workplace behaviour.”

It’s easy to dismiss the surge of anger because—well, because he assumed as much. The kid was filming, an already infamous NHL player got in his face, talked shit. He thought he’d get back at him. 

Lanka exhales an amused sound, sort of like a laugh. “This was an unwise decision on his end. I hope whatever he was paid is enough to cover his legal fees.” 

For a moment, he’s tempted to wave it off, make some sort of argument about them being too busy to bother with ruining the kid’s life. The urge passes when he remembers the incident. Yeah, let him be afraid for a while. Maybe then he won’t be—Yeah. 

“We will find out eventually,” Ms Kat says. “As things are, the damage has been done. The Admirals’ management is working with us on this, and my office will be handling it in due time.”

Oof. .

“That’s the part you need to understand,” Ms Kat says, and the calm returns—controlled, deliberate. “The recording, the email, the ‘Enhanced Monitoring’ notice? That’s not them winning. That’s them building a file.”

Ilya closes his eyes briefly, trying to do away with the first pangs of a headache. He’s on significant painkillers already; he should be able to shrug off a bat to the head. And yet. “A file.” 

“A paper trail,” Svetlana says, English vowels smooth like glass. “Justification for the punishment they mean to impose.”

“And,” Ms Kat adds, “a way to provoke you.”

Again. Always the same fucking nonsense. Poking and prodding and endless sabotage—and for what? Is he supposed to spend his whole career looking over his shoulder? Waiting for the next stupid stunt? The next ‘official’ letter, the next ‘mandatory’ meeting, the next hapless fool with footage to leak, who Ilya will then have to waste time and effort to punish? 

“I am told the email is toothless,” Ilya says, tightly. “Not concrete.”

Svetlana flicks an absent hand. “It is what it needs to be. They are deliberately using vague language. It’s designed to be flexible so it can mean anything they need it to mean later.”

Yeah, okay. Ilya exchanges a grim smile with Sasha. That part is familiar. Like back home; it’s not illegal to be gay, it’s illegal to promote gayness in public or some such—whatever phrasing they pick for the year. When you make your law nice and vague, you get the luxury of prosecuting whoever you want, whenever you want, at your leisure.

“All this so they can ban me from the All-Star game?” He shakes his head. He’s getting jittery. Calm down. Focus. Breathe. In and out. “Over positive press?”

“All this because someone will lose their job over this scandal,” Scott says, voice easy. Pleasant. Like he’s discussing the weather. “I made sure of it.”

Ilya stares at him. Well, alright. That’s—a statement. 

“It’s spun too far out of control,” Scott continues. “If they win, we get booted out of the League on some bullshit noncompliance, obscenity-justification. If we win, Commissioner Crowell gets fired. There is no middle ground anymore.”

Yeesh.

Crowell? He’s heard the name, sure, but mostly as a concept. Words printed out, name mentioned in passing. He’s never met him, has he? He blinks. Does it matter? No, it doesn’t. One spiralling bigot is the same as any other. 

“Scott is, broadly speaking, correct,” Ms Kat says. “There is a right way and a wrong way to handle these things, in the League’s eyes. We should have dealt with this quietly, behind closed doors, made concessions and deals and shielded all of us with a forest of NDAs. We went the opposite way and spread the word far and wide.”

“Your boy is doing the same,” Scott adds, lips twitching. “Hallsy. I’m told his people are sending feelers out. Trying to figure out what’s going on, and why their most biddable, marketable star is suddenly making waves.”

That idiot. Ilya huffs, looks to the ground, swallowing a smile. That giant fucking drama queen.

Ms Kat ignores him, continues, “Which means their best bet is to make sure you have no positive press, no public support. Scott made sure the players were more or less unanimously behind you. Miriam spread the word among the industry people, and her word carries weight. What the League really doesn’t want is sponsors and promoters getting involved.”

Svetlana sighs, rolls her eyes. “We understand. They want to suspend Ilya because they can’t ban him.”

“Exactly,” Ms Kat says. “If the League wants to stop you, their cleanest option is to suspend you before then.”

“Yes.” Ms Kat looks intent now. Serious. “We are building a strong case here. A case I intend to bring against the League, whether or not Crowell is ousted. He may be the main force behind this pointless fucking drama—but he’s not the only one. And I plan to make it so that the next person who comes out—” She says it carefully, deliberately. No emphasis and certainly no meaningful glance cast Scott’s way. “—has precedent to call on. Precedent spelt with seven figures and printed apologies in all the major publications.”

Well, now.

“Now you speak my language, Ms Kat,” Ilya says, inexplicably cheered. Precedent is a nice word. He needs to integrate it into his vocabulary. “That sounds great. But forgive me—I don’t know what this means. Is there something you want me to do differently?”

Ms Kat sighs, the fire mellowing into something a lot closer to sadness. 

“Yes and no,” she says. “Primarily, I needed to make sure you knew what was happening. You—” She hesitates, looks around the room, conflicted. “You delegate. You trust Scott, and you trust me, and you trust your friends, so you let us run your life. And that’s very flattering, but it can only go on for so long. These are your decisions. Your life. I have an obligation to keep you informed.”

Yeah, okay. Sure. He exhales a long, self-soothing breath, lest he do something crazy to relieve the pressure of having her look at him like he’s a stray dog she’s trying to coax into a carrier.

“Legal technicalities aside,” he says, flat, “please.”

“They’re not—” Ms Kat pauses again, fingers drumming a quiet but agitated beat into the table. “Staying away from social media is one thing; I applaud your restraint and common sense. Same with the press. That said, sponsors have begun to write to Scott directly rather than to you or Miriam—or me. I cannot advise this continues.”

Yeah, okay.

“Is it harming his reputation?” Ilya asks and turns to Scott. “Could this be a problem for you? Not a problem for me—I do not have doubts. If you want, though, I can downplay or—” Hee waves an impatient hand, “—hide, I don’t know.”

Scott cocks his head. “What are you asking, kid?”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “You know what you’re doing, and I trust you,” he says, because they’ve apparently decided to waste time saying obvious things out loud. He sends Sasha an exasperated look and is surprised not to receive one back. If anything, Sasha seems amused. “You know better than me, and you care more than I do. Even if you make the wrong call, it’s always going to be better than if I did it.” Mostly because he wouldn’t have done it. It’s easy not to make mistakes if you don’t do anything.

“You do remember I have held Ilya’s power of attorney since he was emancipated at sixteen,” Svetlana says casually.

Ms Kat looks even more pained.

“As does Sasha,” Svetlana continues. “And we have signed ours to him. Health, finances, contracts, emergencies. It’s reciprocal.”
Scott’s eyebrows climb so high they nearly drop off his face.

Sasha makes a pleased little hum, soft and content. “And I expect Ilyusha will add Scott to the arrangement as soon as we get around to—” Sasha frowns. “What is the term, Tsvetik?”

“As soon as we execute the US equivalents,” Svetlana supplies, lips twitching. “All for one, and so forth. But we can talk about this later. I only bring it up to illustrate that Ilya outsources things to people he trusts without reservations. This is not likely to change.”

True.

Ilya shrugs, trying not to laugh at the Americans’ appalled expressions. Scott seems caught between impressed and horrified, but Ms Kat looks like she wants to physically shake some sense into them. 

“Alright,” Ms Kat says finally, after a beat. “Sure. Well, in any case, I would rather you stay as involved in the events of your own life as you can bring yourself to be. Think of it as a favour to me, if you must. It upsets me to keep you in the dark.”

Dramatic.

“Ms Kat, all due respect, I have very little time,” Ilya says. He leans forward, tries to look as sincere and trustworthy as his weaselly face will allow. “I play three games a week. I spend another three days travelling to and from them. On top of this, therapy three times a week, PT after the games. Whatever free time goes to these meetings and sleep.”

“We are talking about the future of your career, kid,” Ms Kat says, but she sounds defeated. “You won’t be going to any games if the Commissioner gets his way.”

“Right.” Ilya nods. “This is why I do what you say. But I do not need to know why you tell me to do this, yes?” This whole meeting, for example. He could have had a nap. He could have whined at Svetlana until she hired that masseuse and spent the evening lazing by the fireplace. “This is not—” he waves a hand, searching, “—symptom of trauma. I have always lived like this. All three of us have.”

There is a pause. The Americans look—sad. Ilya is tempted to start tearing his hair out in frustration.

“We understand,” Scott says. His smile is battered, but real enough. Ilya will take it. “We won’t badger you about it anymore. Not until the season is over, in any case. You have enough on your plate.”

“But I will be informing you,” Ms Kat says, regaining some steel. “As often as I feel obligated to. Whatever POAs you had in Russia aren’t valid here, and besides, this level of codependency creeps me out.”

Well, Ilya thinks, grinning, at least she came out and said it.

“Believe it or not,” he says sweetly, “I have picked up on your feelings, as discreet as they are.”

Chapter End Notes

Apropois Bennet being six six. I know goalies arent typically very high, and I know im overloading the team with high guys, but in my defence:
—> I’m serbian, and we’re a tall people. My scale for what tall is is not usual. A guy under 190 is not tall to me. He’s normal. It’s a me thing, probably. I’m 175cm and I’m not particularly tall in my friend group.
—> Otter playign for Dallas Stars is 200cm, 6ft6, and he’s a goalie and a good one.

—
I stole the snickers line from somewhere on tiktok; I fuckign died laughing let me tell you, its so weird
—

Ilya: Oh, yeah, the three of us have this deranged blood pact slash full legal access to each others finances, to make health decisions in each others names, everything
Ilya: we have since we were emancipated teenagers
Ilya: so dont worry, it may look like im dissociating because of trauma and giving all my autonomy to the first adult I trust aka Scott
Ilya: but I’m not, I have been like this my whole life. All three of us have. So it’s fine. Nothing to worry about.
Ilya: :)

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

When I do eventually go back to review this fic, this and chapter eight are probably going to get chopped the most. Idk, I feel like I have important setup here, I know where I’m going with it, but its definitely said with more text than it needs to be. On the other hand, I’ve one more setup chapter, and then we’re off to the races to the end.
Idk, this is always the worry with posting as you write, it’s fun and helps you keep momentum but inevitably stuff makes it in that you aren’t sure about.

 

Just FYI: Ilya is not a rookie. The Admirals are deranged. Ilya is young, but he’s played like 200+ games and was the captain of the bears for a year. He is under no definition a rookie. He’s superlatively not a rookie. Being the captain of the bears at twenty makes you a generational talent and a franchise player. It’s just that the Admirals are nuts and have, before now, traded away their draft picks and prospects and traded for established players. They hadn’t played with such a young player in years, and now are sort of baffled at having a baby in their midst—and it’s Scott’s baby and it’s fucking Rozanov, halfway into a mental breakdown that sort of unintentially brought down his walls enough to let them see the wide-eyed, dissociating kid underneath.

Wed, Jan 16, 2013 

Moments after the last horn in Hartford, Ilya gets hauled from three directions at once. Vaughny crashes into him, swiftly followed by Huffy. He might have stayed upright if Mack hadn’t barreled into them at full speed and crashed all three of them into the boards. 

“Beauty,” Vaughny says, loud. “Absolute beauty. Roz, you’re a fucking menace.”

His grin is, admittedly, a bit too wide, a bit too delighted. This wasn’t an easy game by any measure; it never is when Scott is not there to keep things steady. Still, with him finally agreeing to sit out the occasional game and pace himself, they have to adapt. When Scott sits, the whole team shifts sideways: lines get bent, matchups get weird, the bench gets louder and less organised. They need to figure out their timing all over again, how to break through the neutral zone, how to read each other, and it doesn’t always work. Some nights, they fall apart, lose all sense and cohesion. Other nights—like tonight—the chaos becomes functional and, dare he say it, fun. 

It doesn’t hurt that Ilya got to be the main scorer. He’s earned this hat trick fair and square, with barely a dirty play in sight—it’s almost impossible to do otherwise, with how straight-laced his lineys are—and won them the game in overtime. Four-three. Since they all treat the games they bully Scott into sitting out as basically lost, earning a victory feels that much more significant. 

The handshake line is quick but cheerful. Delaney is a stone-cold professional—and leads a team that’s already guaranteed a spot in the playoffs, barring disaster—so he’s not all fussed about the loss. They do their rituals, slap each other's backs, chirp a bit—what you would expect from a tension release ritual. 

Scott is not there when they pile into the dressing room, which is fine. They’ve seen him be pulled by Coach Murdock after the third period started, and it’s hardly anything new. There is a reason they need to pace Scott more and more, and it’s because his is the unenviable task of being the face of the team. The team that's feuding with the League. Yeah. 

The locker room is too hot, music too loud, bodies steaming. Guys strip pads and talk over each other, laughing about goals and chirps and petty little wins. Ilya goes through the motions—gloves off, helmet off, shoulder pads loosened—still buzzing in that good way, the way he’s supposed to feel after doing the one thing in his life that’s ever made sense.

Scott comes in when he’s almost ready to leave, freshly showered, as close to calm as he’ll get. His gaze sweeps the room. It hits Ilya briefly—steady, unreadable—then moves on.

“Alright,” Scott says. “Listen up.”

Oof. That’s not a good tone. Ilya feels himself brace. There are moments his body reacts before his brain has worked through the situation. It’s always been like this, his body always, on some level, ready to pump adrenaline and deal with the new threat. 

“The League fined the organisation,” Scott says. “Twenty minutes ago.”

A beat.

Ilya’s stomach drops like he’s missed a step.

“Failure to manage media environment,” Scott continues, voice even. “Impeding league access. Security noncompliance.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s forty men processing at once, all the same thought landing in different skulls: they’re expanding the blast radius.

Vaughny is first, because Vaughny is always first. “The org?” he says, loud with disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Benny’s face goes red. “For what?” he demands. “For keeping our rook from getting mobbed by cameras? For not letting their minions film us in the fucking showers?” 

Kellsy doesn’t say anything, but his jaw tightens, and he starts picking at the tape on his wrist like he’s trying not to hit something.

Everywhere Ilya looks, it’s anger—bright, direct, clean. And it isn’t pointed at him. It’s pointed outward. He swallows, lets his shoulders drop, breathing settle. It’s fine. They’re not—This is not what he first thought. It’s fine. 

Breezy leans forward, elbows on knees. “They’re trying to shake the tree.”

Scott nods once. “Yeah. They want ownership leaning on management, management leaning on me, and me giving in.” He takes a moment, eyes jumping from player to player, calm, patient. “It’s not going to work.”

“What if it gets worse?” someone asks—Benny, still vibrating.

“It probably will,” Scott says. “This is an opening move. A message that they’ve other cards to play, not just—“ He shrugs a seemingly unconcerned shoulder. Nobody buys the chill, not a single person. “Humiliation and slander. We’ll see what the follow-up is.”

Breezy raises a hand. Ilya blinks, taken out of the mounting wave of rage by the sheer incongruity. Who—Who the fuck raises a hand at a time like this? Where does he think he is, Grade One? “How much is the fine?”

“Twenty-five thousand,” Scott says.

A beat.

Breezy stares at him, blank, uncomprehending. “That’s it?”

Woody makes a warning noise, but Breezy is already off. “That’s what they think is gonna fuck us up?” he says, offended. “Cap, you spend more than that feeding Roz for a week.”

It catches Ilya wrong—so stupid, so perfectly phrased—and he barks out a laugh before he can stop it. A few heads turn. He doesn’t care. Feeding Roz, like he’s a pedigreed lapcat with a special diet, like Scott has him scheduled for feedings and enrichment, or he’ll start chewing the cables. 

Scott’s mouth twitches. “While that is most certainly true—“ He pauses for the braying laughter that rings through the room; it doesn’t take much to amuse this bunch of animals. “—It’s not about the amount. They’re sending a message that the next step in the game is making us turn on each other. It will be more next time. They’ll hit us with fines, slash our league press exposure. Make shit uncomfortable for sponsors.”

It’s a good strategy, too. Ilya hadn’t considered it. Team loyalty is all well and good, but sooner or later—This is not a game. These are people’s lives. Their careers. And, sure, it’s Ilya’s life and career too, but priorities are priorities. Ilya wouldn't even begrudge them—Well, alright, that’s not true; he could and would begrudge angels their wings. He would understand, probably. 

Vaughny huffs. “Cowardly fucking snakes. Fuck that. Fuck that.” 

Benny’s fists clench and unclench. “So what are we doing?”

The good thing about being the heart and soul of a team, Ilya thinks, as Scott inclines his head, is that your people want you to lead. If things plummet into hell, yes, Scott will lose them, but until then, they will follow as long as he has a plan. And Scott always has a plan. 

“We’re not sitting idle. Kat’s spearheading the formal response, and Haddad and Agnes are on it as well. We’re building a case that’s not going to end with a quiet meeting and a handshake.” He tilts his head a little. “Which the League knows. They’re trying to cut us off before we’re ready. A good enough strategy, but it’s not going to work. If I have to personally refund all of you for loss of earnings, I will, but I’m seeing this through. Come what may.” 

Vaughny’s scoff is loud, even over the din of outraged refusals. Still, Ilya feels the need to throw in his two cents. 

“Me also,” he says and tries to de-escalate his instinctive fuck-off grin. “All this is for me, I am not blind to this truth. If things become worse, I will make right what I can.” 

The room quietens, then explodes with outrage. Benny looks like Ilya went and slapped him in the face, and the D-line isn’t that far behind. Zully and Jals look to be moments away from storming out and making a proper scandal. 

“Over my dead body—“ 
“Over everyone else’s dead body—“ 
“The fuck are you filling the kid’s head with, Haz?”

“No, we will not be taking money from our rook,” Scott says, not quite shouting, but not far behind. “Frankly, I don’t expect the pressure to escalate in that direction. The more concrete numbers we have to document and use as evidence, the more Kat is salivating at the idea of a court trial.”

Ilya has to sit quietly for a bit, baffled both by the fact that several players look relieved by this and by those who are looking at him with a flavour of shocked disapproval, like they can’t believe his audacity. Some of these guys have kids, families to look after, what the fuck are they acting so precious about—

“—us? What do you want us to do?”

Good work, now you missed things. Focus, you absolute disgrace. 

“Win,” Scott says. Flat. Certain. “That’s what you do. Keep winning. Everybody loves a winner; nobody likes a loser. Let them be the ones who look insane.”

Talk about setting the tone, Ilya thinks. Even his heart is racing, and he knows all this shit. Even he is ready to put on his jersey and go to fucking war. The boys are moments away from slashing their palms and making blood oaths. 

It won’t last, it never does, but maybe it won’t have to. Maybe they’ll make it through before the pressure and the stress start outweighing the loyalty. Stranger things have happened. 

***

As has become the norm, they’re escorted to the presser by two PR guys, security and whatever unfortunate soul from legal the Admirals sent with the team. Coach Murdock stopped insisting he be present—at Scott’s urging, which lets him off the hook in the eyes of the team, but not Ilya’s. Snake behaviour is snake behaviour, no matter how self-sacrificing your Captain is, and how much work you supposedly have. What could be more important than sticking up for your boys? 

Whatever. Ilya would be there, even if he wasn’t mandated to, is all he’s saying. Granted, his presence is always mandated, and Scott likely wouldn't be in this position if not for him, but that’s beside the point. 

“Chill, kid,” Scott says quietly. “We won, they can say whatever the fuck they please.” 

Yeah, sure. Because these things are about hockey. 

“Thinking about barbecue,” he says instead. “Google says there is good barbecue in Hartford. Best in state.” 

“We’ll get enough for ten if you keep your temper.” 

“Sold.” 

The noise hits them like a wave.

“Captain Hunter—Scott—right here—”
“Over your left—”
“Scott, quick one—”
“Captain, can you—”

Mics jut forward. Phones tilt. Lights glare. Ilya doesn’t pay much attention because—that’s a pivot, isn’t it? Typically, it would be his name they’re shouting, and he still hears it, here and there, threaded through the din like static—but the main body of the parasites is oriented toward Scott. Not ideal. 

“Captain Hunter,” a guy in the front says, “did you demand the Rozanov trade?”

Scott doesn’t blink. “No.”

The guy tries to smile through it. “You didn’t call the GM?”

“It is not my habit to communicate directly with Mr Barringer in professional matters.” 

“Is that a yes?”

Scott’s gaze doesn’t move. “No. Next.”

A second voice cuts in, louder. “Did you threaten to sit out if they didn’t bring him in? Yes or no.”

“No.”

A third jumps, like they’ve rehearsed their timing. “Is it true you tied your contract to acquiring him?”

Ilya blinks, looks sideways—there it is, the baffled line between his brows. What? “No.”

“Captain—” someone else says, and there’s a little edge of excitement in it, like they can smell blood, “are you concerned the league now views you as part of the problem?”

Scott’s mouth tightens a fraction. “I am, in fact, a hockey player, sir. We’re here to play hockey.”

“That’s not an answer—”

“It is,” Scott says, bland. “Next.”

They start stacking questions. 

“Did you instruct teammates not to speak to league media?”
“Did you refuse to participate in league content segments?”
“Did you block league camera access to team areas?”

It’s not a bad strategy if applied to almost anyone else. Ilya certainly can’t handle a barrage well, even if only because it overwhelms his meagre English skills. Scott handles it like he handles everything else: very competently. He can multitask with the best of them. “No. No. Ask the organisation about access policies. Next.”

A reporter pushes forward with a different hook, voice too cheerful. “Captain, was the decision to isolate Rozanov from the rest of the team yours?”

Oh? This is a new one—and more bold. Before, the insinuation was: Rozanov needs to be isolated and kept on a short leash lest he upset the good, straight players with his gayness. Now it's: Are you keeping him separate for ease of access? Are you keeping what you’re doing away from prying eyes? 

Scott’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Our security plan is the organisation’s decision. Next.”

“But why separate—”

“I was told it was for his safety,” Scott cuts in. “Next.”

They surge again.

“Captain Hunter, are you worried this is undermining your leadership?”
“Are you still fit to wear the C?”
“Are you worried about the ongoing distractions influencing the season—”

“No. Yes. Thirty-three, thirteen and four. Seventy points through fifty. Point seven. I’m comfortable with where our game’s at, personally.” 

That gets a ripple—some annoyed, some amused. They’re not used to him being firm. 

“So you’re saying there’s no special treatment here?”

Scott doesn’t even glance at him. “If by special treatment you mean we take care of our star wingers, then yes. Next.”

It’s dawning on them that they’re not going to bait him out. Ilya’s strategy in these things is to stop listening and babble gibberish. Scott, somehow, draws on some inherent well of calm, acknowledges each ridiculous question and keeps going. 

“Is this about your power struggle with the league?”
“Are you challenging the commissioner?”
“Are you telling the league they can’t discipline your rookie?”

Scott doesn’t rise to any of it. He keeps batting it back into the same dead zone: hockey, hockey, hockey.

“Rozanov!” a guy calls, raising his voice over the others. “Do you feel like you owe Captain Hunter for saving your career?”

Ilya’s hands flex. He has several responses. Most of them would get him fined. A couple would get him arrested. 

“Concept of work is pretty simple,” he says. “I work, so I am owed money. Not the other way around.” 

On and on it goes. Scott doesn’t stumble—but it’s costing him. His eyes are reddening, patience thinning one capillary at a time. He won’t crack, but—

Ilya leans forward, takes the next question. 

“—worried you’re spending more time managing your reputation than managing the bench?”

“No,” Ilya says, crisp. “Bench is good. Scott’s reputation is spotless. He manages both easy.”

The guy frowns. “That wasn’t for you.”

Ilya lifts his eyebrows. “Everything—Ah, yes. Everything light touches is for me.”

That gets an honest little snort from somewhere in the back—one of the older beat writers, maybe. 

The first guy tries again, recalibrating. “Rozanov, fine. Do you think the team is having to spend extra energy keeping you on track?”

Ilya smiles. “I score hat-trick tonight. My track is fantastic.”

“Come on,” someone says, impatient. “Off the ice. Do you understand what he’s asking?”

Bless. His smile widens. “Not get dumb foreigner jokes for a while. Is nostalgic. Yes, I do understand your very complex question. And I answer. I score the goals. Is what I am hired to do.” 

“Okay,” another voice cuts in, sharper. “So when the captain’s standing here answering questions about you—does that help the team win?”

Scott shifts beside Ilya. Oof. Maybe his Captain-soothing methodologies need updating. 

“I see why you would be concerned,” he says, nevertheless. “He has to sit here, waste his time when he could be preparing for Friday game in Detroit. Is good that you worry—but not enough to ask better questions, yes?” 

“Let’s talk hockey, then. Your game’s been good—no one’s arguing that. But is your style of play forcing the team into more special teams than they are used to?”

Huh. 

“Better question,” he says, then seesaws his hand. “If they take penalties on me, then we have power play.”

“Sure,” someone says, “but you also end up in the box sometimes. Do you worry you’re putting them short-handed because you can’t manage your emotions?”

And back to this. 

“Not particularly—“ 

***

FRIDAY JAN 18

They survive the game without fatalities, even if only just. Even with their Bear in Admiral clothing, the best they could do was hold the line, hit back and keep a tie for long enough that Scott wins them the game in overtime. 

Ilya rushes through the showers, keeps his head down, thanks the hockey gods he doesn’t have media obligations this time. Games like these always leave him feeling restless and insufficient. He’s the loud one, the one who provokes, who can scrap and pick himself up and scrap again—and it wasn't enough. Cammy’s wrist is sprained, Decky’s got two black eyes and Burkie’s on concussion watch. 

A year ago, he’d already be figuring out a hookup, some pretty girl with a tiny waist who would let him be a bit much, a bit mean, who would be loud and sweet and desperate for him. Now—Now he has his phone and his English learning apps—he’s on level sixteen, a feat that nobody is appropriately impressed by—and Scott, once he finishes the post-game duties that seem to be growing longer and longer every game. 

The stadium is familiar enough—he’s been here before, and stadiums are more or less the same everywhere. He sniffs out the rec rooms easily enough, then goes looking. Two are occupied, that won’t do. The third is too big, has games and shit. No. Finally, he finds a small, cosy-looking room—looks to be a quiet place for WAGs with small children, but that’s alright. That’s perfect. He drags a sofa from the corner, throws a couple of pillows into the empty space and burrows. Scott’ll find him when he’s done—at least an hour, he said. Enough to maybe figure out Oxford commas. 

Benny jerks him from his nap sometime later. He burrows harder—how dare he, he’s fucking cosy—to no avail. If Benny wants to move a guy, any guy, anywhere, he’ll move him. 

“Settle down, kid. I’m sorry to wake you, but you gotta see this,” Benny says.

Ilya’s immediate reaction is fear. This is—What could possibly be so fucking important— 

“Everything okay?” 

“More than. Come on—“ 

The relief hits, melts into earlier sleepiness, so he sags, lets himself be ushered away, down the hallway, right, right—The hallway is getting busier, and Ilya shrinks further, haze clearing. He’s in Detroit, these are not his people, these are the people who almost broke Burkie’s fucking head— 

“Here.” Benny shifts, steering him into one of the first rec rooms he’d seen. This time, it’s cleared except for his team, sans Scott, staring at a TV. “I’ve got him. Pause and rewind!” 

Ilya doesn’t even have time to grump, before he’s somehow sitting on the couch, smushed into Mulls’ side, as someone rewinds—He frowns. Is it an event of some sort? Fundraiser by the look of it. Why the fuck are they so precious about a charity fluff piece, what the fuck is wrong with them—

The rewind stops, video plays. Ilya shuts the fuck up, because that’s Grant Havelock. Someone put Lock in a suit, a hideous grey box of fabric that looks stiff and scratchy. The lines between his brows and down his face look to be carved from stone, to match the flint-hard eyes. Yikes. He’s standing at the bottom of a stairwell, in front of some event space or other, and the banner behind him exclaims that it’s Legends Night, which—Well, they got Lock, somehow, so he will forgive the name, the banner, the dressed-up crowd of journalists, his ridiculous suit. 

How the fuck did they swing that? Lock is hardly a press guy. If anything, he’s unusually camera-shy. He doesn’t do talk shows, punditry, doesn't give interviews, nothing. He comes to games, sometimes, typically for kids or the smaller leagues, somewhere where he might not get recognised or treated as—Well, as the legend he is. You put the Warden in an NHL game, and the players will be too busy trying to impress him to play a game worth seeing. 

They hadn’t wound the segment to the start. By the look of it, they've been at it for a bit. Typical press shit; Lock seems to be wholly, entirely, wholeheartedly displeased by everything that is taking place. 

“—comment on the state of the game,” a reporter asks. 

Lock nods, frowns, then says, evenly, “The game has grown beautifully. These kids are doing things we never could’ve dreamed of. No notes.”

The reporter relaxes a fraction, like: good, we got the clip.

“But I do have something to say, now that you bring it up,” Lock continues in the same, even tone. He looks straight into the camera. Ilya, and most of the room, straighten by instinct. 

“This business with Rozanov doesn’t sit well with me.”

Jesus. Jesus. Lock isn’t a talk show guy or an Internet guy or a hot-take guy. He’s not someone who wants attention. He’s saying this because he wants to. 

“I don’t know why everybody is so obsessed with who the kid is fucking,” Lock says. “It’s weird.”

Mulls wraps an arm around his shoulders, shakes him a little. “It’s only going to get better from here.” 

Indeed, Lock is still talking. “—and now you’re dragging Hunter into it. Escalating because he did what any good captain would do. Meaning defended his player.”

His expression tightens. Not dramatic. Just less patient.

“And, to make matters worse, now I’m reading deranged articles about Hunter too.” The pause, this time, is deliberate. If he wanted to impress the weight of his disgust, he succeeded. “That he’s fucking the very same player. That he’s not fit to lead Team USA. That he shouldn’t be wearing the C on his chest.”

Lock’s eyes flick across the reporters as he says it, and Ilya can’t help noticing how he looks at them: like he’s memorising them. Like he’s not angry so much as focused. 

“That man earned his C by dragging that team out of the mud, and did it with grit, skill and patience. I’m not an Admirals’ fan, Christ knows, but Hunter made something of them. Not enough, because the Loons will get the Cup this year, but enough to be in the playoffs eight of the ten years he’s led them.”

The reporters don’t interrupt. They don’t even try. They’re getting exactly what they want and, besides, what levers of control do they have against Grant fucking Havelock? He’s retired, old, rich, and a grandfather four times over. He’s not involved with the League at all, or with hockey for that matter. After he retired, he went back to his desolate fucking village in Minnesota and emerged only when he had to. 

Lock leans forward slightly.

“I also don’t like your role in this.”

One of the reporters opens his mouth, then closes it. Good choice.

“I understand the business model,” Lock says. “I’ve been in this sport since I could walk. I know it’s a business, I know you want a story. That’s fine; I’m not the sort to get between a guy and how he makes his money. There are lines, nevertheless.” 

His mouth twists a little, like he hates that he even has to say it. 

“Hockey players aren’t the brightest bunch, but we will remember the faces of the people who strung those kids out like this,” Lock goes on. “You can be damn sure not a single player with a set of balls on him is going to forget which of you treat their lives as reality TV slop. How much of a career will you have, then? Not much, and I, for one, will celebrate each well-earned expulsion.” 

Then he stops. No dramatic sign-off. No smile. Just that flat stare, and hard, vaguely pissed-off expression. 

The clip ends.

The room is quiet, the boys watching him and Ilya—Ilya can’t sit in there and let twenty people watch him react. He cuts and runs, to no-ones suprise, least of all his own, to find Scott. He finds him near the lockers, towel around his neck, face damp like he just splashed some water on it, but hair dry and neat, so no shower. 

He doesn't waste a moment, just exhales a small breath and sets his shoulders, bracing for impact. “What’s wrong?”

Ilya holds his phone out. “Watch.”

Scott takes it and watches the clip where he stands. His face doesn’t do much—Scott’s face rarely does—but there are small tells if you’re paying attention: the tightening at fucking the player, the brief stillness at Team USA, the flicker of something almost like relief when Lock says earned the C.

When it ends, Scott hands the phone back.

“Huh,” Scott says.

Ilya stares at him. “Huh.”

Scott’s mouth shifts, quirks. “That’s cool.” 

“Cool,” Ilya repeats. Is this what having a stroke feels like? “Fuck you. That’s Grant fucking Havelock. Fuck you. The Warden went and—Said all that.” 

“Yes.” 

Ilya steps closer, eyes wide. “Did you do this?” Never mind what it feels like, is Ilya actually having a stroke? Is that what’s going on?

Scott snorts. A real snort, quick and involuntary. “Are you fucking nuts? I’ve spoken to that man twice in my life and almost fainted from fright both times.”

“Then why,” Ilya says, and it comes out sharper than he intends, but what is he supposed to say? What the fuck—“Ms Haddad is great, but she work with agents, not players. She never would have the pull.” 

“The President of the US doesn’t have the pull, kid. Lock does what Lock does. And I guess he wanted to.” 

Yes, well. “So, why?” 

Scot shrugs, gaze shifting away, looking into middle distance. “I guess the last batch of articles was too much.” 

Ilya hesitates. He hasn’t been reading, hasn’t been following, and, yeah, that’s not likely to change, but Scott has, and maybe he should—Maybe he would like to talk about it? Vent or whatever the fuck? 

“Were they bad?” Ilya asks, carefully.

Scott rolls his eyes. “Not really. Drivel. I doubt anyone believed it outside the freaks who already wanted to. The players don’t believe it. That matters.”

“And the League?” Ilya asks.

Scott’s expression goes still in a different way. Not worried. If anything, he’s satisfied, which is a whole different type of unsettling when coupled with steel eyes and tense shoulders. “The League believes what suits them best. Before, it might well have been useful to believe I kept you gagged and in chains between games. Now—Now Lock went and made his position clear, and where he goes, a thousand will follow.” 

A beat.

“Also,” Scott adds, “a side-benefit of my not having coerced you into humiliating acts of sexual service is that I am not worried about investigations, internal or otherwise.”

Ilya, a bit thrown by the concept of kept you gagged and in chains, huffs a surprised sound. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m just saying,” Scott continues, unbothered. “If they wanted to get at us via some performative internal probe about player safety, I doubt it’s a viable option anymore.” 

Ilya blinks a few times, brain idling, hopelessly overwhelmed. It’s not—

He gives up, finally, abandons any sense-making paths ahead and focuses on what really matters. 

“The Warden said you earned your C, Scott. The Warden knows who you are—“ 

Like him, Scott lets tension seep out of him, shoulders sagging, head tipping back. He lets out a loud groan. “Thank the fucking skies, we’re over the freakout. Kid, let me tell you, my heart has been racing for twenty minutes now. I’m two seconds away from keeling over right here and now—“ 

“Fuck you, is valid freak out. Plus, you think Hockey Jesus knowing my name make me want to freak out less? Are you insane?” 

“He fucking said—Never mind about the Loons, they’re not winning, even if only because I’ll wring their fucking necks myself—But he said—He said I had grit—“ 

***

Chapter End Notes

Updated and tweaked Admirals lineup

New York Admirals
Goalies
Eric Bennett (G) — 37 — “Benny / Benns”
Tommy Andersson (G) — 29 — “Swede / Anders”
Defense (7)
Frank Zullo (D) — 33 — “Zoo / Zully”
Matti Jalo (D) — 29 — “Jals”
Liam Cameron (D) — 31 — “Cam / Cammy”
Jonas Müller (D) — 29 — “Mulls”
Owen Marleau (D) — 34 — “Marly”
Nathan Armstrong (D) — 30 — “Arms”
Declan Doyle (D) — 27 — “Decky / DD”
Forwards (14)
Scott Hunter (C) — 29 — Captain — “Haz / Scotty / Cap”
Carter Vaughan (RW) — 30 — “Vaughny / CV”
Cale Wagner (LW) — 28 — “Wags”
Greg Huff (F) — 31 — “Huffy”
Sean Burke (RW) — 27 — “Burkie / Seabs”
Caleb MacDow (LW) — 32 — “Mac / Mack”
Olivier Brisebois (F) — 27 — “Breezy”
Owen Gillis (C) — 27 — “Gilly”
Tyler Farmer (LW) — 27 — “Farms”
Patrick Woodward (RW) — 35 — “Woody”
Jani Virtanen (RW) — 28 — “Virsey / JV”
Kellan McKenzie (C) — 29 — “Kelsy” (OC)
Evan Rinaldi (W) — 30 — “Rino” (OC)
Ilya Rozanov (W) — 21 — “Rozy / Roz / Tsar”

Lines (default)
Line 1
LW Ilya Rozanov — C Scott Hunter — RW Carter Vaughan
Line 2
LW Cale Wagner — C Greg Huff — RW Sean Burke
Line 3
LW Caleb MacDow — C Owen Gillis — RW Jani Virtanen
Line 4
LW Tyler Farmer — C Kellan McKenzie — RW Patrick Woodward
Extra forward / rotation: Evan Rinaldi
Defense pairs (default)
Pair 1
LD Frank Zullo — RD Liam Cameron
Pair 2
LD Matti Jalo — RD Jonas Müller
Pair 3
LD Owen Marleau — RD Nathan Armstrong
Extra D / rotation: Declan Doyle
Goalies
Starter: Eric Bennett
Backup: Tommy Andersson

Admirals culture & mythology
Scott didn’t inherit a dynasty. He inherited a mess.
The Admirals went from scrappy-good to rich-good to rich-bad to falling-apart-bad. Scott came around in the falling apart bad stage, when the ownership became concerned that the team is going to drop into AHL. They placed 29th overall
Then, as luck would have it, they win the lottery and draft the most talked about young player of the lot, young Scott Hunter straight from this or that championship
After two years of Scott in the team and one of him being captain, the rep of teh franchise becomes:
Always in the playoffs
dangerous
Exhausting to play
Never a serious threat for the cup.

“The Admirals problem”
They haven’t won the Cup in 26 years. They havent won it since Scott joined, but they got better. So their standing in the league is this weird double-image:
To outsiders: perennial contenders
To their own fans and media: perennial disappointment
They grew a lot, got better funding, better players, better everything in the past ten years, but still no cup. It’s becoming a problem. Even with Scott Hunter, they cant seem to win the cup.
Team culture
The Admirals are built around structure, hierarchy, and protection.
—> Systems, structure, plans. Clean games, hard plays focused on execution rather than creativity. You know it’s coming and you cant do anythign about it
—> Hierarchy. Traditional team, a bit old school. No drama. No stunts.
—> Loyalty. More typical hockey stuff, but it’s up there with the culture of team. One for all and all that. Disagree or not, back up your boys.

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

Fun fact, chapters 9,10 and this one, were supposed to be one chapter. That’s why I keep saying like, yeah, filler chapter, filler chapter—They’re not filler! Ch8 was positioning, but ch9 was actually very plot-dense—>Because everything in chapter 9,10 and 11 are supposed to be in one.

How I expected that would go is beyond me. I can barely write a chapter above 3,5k. Chapter 9 was like 6k, chapter 10 was 4,5k, this one is 6k. Truly, my delusions know no bounds.

You can maybe see how my chapter count goes to shit. I have a clear idea and narrative structure, what needs to be covered and when, only no clear idea how long it will take me to get there.

Jan 18, 2013

Their trip back to the hotel gets delayed somewhat. Obviously, he had to drag Scott to the rec room to watch the broadcast with the boys. Then they had to find medical and play the clip to Burkie, only he’s not allowed screens yet, so Jals put his headphones in and narrated the whole thing. Then, they run into the Motors and have to play them the clip, which leads to the Motors unearthing a hidden stash of beers they keep in their barn. A sort of a break glass in case of emergency situation, Jack Hollis explains, as if he and his pack of feral dogs hadn’t nearly torn them to shreds not two hours ago. The Lock deserves a proper salute; this is a serious occasion, etcetera. 

Ilya doesn’t partake, as pathetic as he has become, since he has to duck out for his appointment with Fyodor Avraamovich. He finds himself back in his spot between the sofa and the wall, rambling nonsense about justice and debt and God for forty five minutes. Why the ramble left him with numb tears streaming down his face is best left unexamined. It happens sometimes, when your body is overexcited, processing big events like games and such. It’s fine. 

When he emerges, he’s not even surprised to find Scott and Benny hanging out near the door, the air of nonchalance all but having solidified into a force field around them. It’s—It’s whatever. 

“Hey, kid,” Scott says, wrapping a, true to form, exceptionally nochalant arm around his shoulders and reeling him in. Benny unfolds himself from the wall and looms on his other side. Between the two of them, Ilya can barely be seen from any direction. It’s—Weird, but nice. Ilya is a burrower by breeding and habit, and it takes real effort not to collapse into Scott, make himself comfortable. “Long day, hey? Whaddaya say we leave those reprobates in the dust, head towards the hotel?” 

What does he say? He is starving, he’s floating on some bizarre adrenaline crash, head stuffed with cotton wool. None of these things is improved by being in enemy territory. 

“Yeah, alright. Gotcha. Let’s go, Benny rented us a car.” 

***

Ms Haddad calls when they’re in the car. 

“So, boys, how ecstatic do we feel?” 

Ilya manages a more or less sincere laugh. “Did you know about this?”

“As flattered as I am by your apparent belief in my omnipotence, no. I’ve never once gone near the Loons and thank Christ for that. They’re intense even by my standard.” 

Yeah, no shit. Even Canadians sometimes look at Minnesota and think these guys need to get their head on straight about this hockey business. It’s probably all that politeness; the rage has to come out someplace. 

“With that said, it’s rang loud and far. I’m getting calls from people I would have had to work hard to get through to. It’s good, boys. This is good.” 

“Best not rely on press buzz too much,” Scott says, the horrible liar. Ilya can see the dazed look in his eyes, still. “It will die down as quickly as it had arrived.”

“Oh, relax, Hunter,” Ms Haddad says, a rare note of laughter in her tinny voice. “At the end of the year, I’ll be asking you if winning the cup felt better than getting a shout-out from Lock, all the while knowing the answer.” 

Bless. 

“Good game tonight,” she continues. “Motors are a bunch of no-good hooligans who won’t see the playoffs in their lifetimes, but they don’t like to lose on their turf.” 

No, they do not. They don’t like to lose, period. When they came to New York, they won 3-2, and even that much was hard to get. Teams like that are a headache. Scott is playing to a strategy, has to think about how his team will survive the next game, and the game after that. Motors’ fans just want them to play mean, fast and hard. 

The conversation banks into sponsor shit, emails from this or that luxury brand. Ilya tunes it out, leaves it for Scott to deal with, and sinks into himself. The woolly ache of before is warming up, colouring with a softer version of euphoria, something loose and undemanding. It’s a rare and precious feeling, one that he’d like to savour. The sponsors can die in a ditch. 

***

Fair’s fair, the restaurant in the hotel is phenomenal. He and Scott work through a shocking volume of chicken parm and pasta, then split a contraband tiramisu. Ilya flops into Scott, hangs off him as they get up to his suite and barely even notices the looks theyre getting from security. As Scott said, everyone already made up their minds one way or the other. He’s not going to play Schroedinger sex pet with these assholes. 

He’s showered and in his pyjamas when Scott, Vaughny and Benny come barreling in. Well, Vaughny barrels, Scott walks in like a normal person, and Benny looms awkwardly in the doorway. If he’s a vampire, he’s the strangest one Ilya’s heard of. You’d think he’d play forward, if he wanted the blood of his enemies; bloodthirsty goalies are a bizarre concept. Still, he waves his hand, invites him in. No sense in being rude. There are all sorts of humans; there are probably all sorts of vampires, too. 

“We’re off for beers, kid. You want in?” 

Ilya blinks, looks at himself—sweatpants, an unfamiliar cotton shirt that’s loose enough in the shoulders that he must have stolen it from Scott, freshly showered—then back to them, eyebrows arched. “What do you think?” 

Scott’s eyes narrow.

“I am tired,” Ilya adds, injecting as much wounded pathos into his voice as he could. “I am old. I am weak. I need to lie down.”

“You’re an infant,” Scott says flatly. “And a dreadful, atemporal demon who transmutes the suffering of others into life force.” 

Well put. “You see this,” he tells Benny, craning his head to the side. “You see this abuse? All I ask is food and sleep, and you see how I am treated—“ 

Scott’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Alright, kid, keep your secrets,” he says. “Try to get some sleep. We played a hell of a game tonight.” 

Yeah, it’s what happens when you tell a team as fantical as this one that their Captain’s job hangs in the balance. He’s been seeing miracles on ice since, feats of strength and daring you’d expect to see in the Olympics, not fucking Detroit. 

Scott pauses, then continues. “Sasha texted. He and Lana are staying in Manhattan for the weekend.”

Ilya blinks. “Yeah? What for?”

“Work,” Scott says, then gets a strange expression on his face, like he is aware just how broadly that statement could apply. “Ballet. He’s got an interview at the American Ballet Theatre. Svetlana came with, presumably to feast on the misery of the applicants who get rejected.” 

Huh. “I hadn’t heard.” He taps into the group chat. Indeed, it’s got notifications

SASHA: Lincoln center is ugly in daylight
LANA: You’re ugly in daylight
SASHA: :O
LANA: Rehearsal in an hour. Stop texting. Do you have your suit?
SASHA: My dove, who do you think you are talking to? 

ME: Guessing the interviews are still happening 
ME: Keep me posted
ME: Especially on the clothes of the other dancers

LANA: oh my god, Il’ka 
LANA: one girl had eight layers
LANA: just kept taking off jackets and jumpers and shirts all in this hideous pastel pink 
LANA: I swear to Christ, one girls had some sort of plastic covering her leg warmers
LANA: sec 
LANA: picture attached

ME: wow 
ME: more
ME: you’re being very withholding right now 

LANA: picture attached; picture attached
LANA: the number of crochet shawls Ilyusha 
LANA: picture attached; picture attached; picture attached; picture attached; 
LANA: some of them had more than one
LANA: picture attached; picture attached

ME: oof 
ME: brutal 
ME: but also, the crop top in the back? 

LANA: waste of sexy lats 
LANA: thought I was a dancer, tried to impress me with his accomplishments

ME: lol

He blinks away from the phone when Scott’s bear paw ruffles his hair, hard. 

“Right. Be good. Don’t do anything nuts. If you do decide to do something nuts, find me, and we’ll do it together.” 

Christ. 

“Go have fun,” he says, valiantly resisting the call of all the other, much more appropriate responses to having Scott’s fingers in his hair while he tells him to be good. “Drink those losers under the table. Bring honour to our family.” 

“Kid, Benny is conceptually closer to a forklift than a human person, and Vaughny’s got Irish blood,” Scott throws over his shoulder, adding in a small wave. His back looks four meters wide in that coat. “I won’t be drinking no one under nothing. But I will hustle someone at pool.” 

Of course, he plays pool. He takes a moment to send a preemptive pulse of commiseration to those poor women who will be witnessing the spectacle. His sisters. Fellow victims of the ego death that comes from belonging to a category of human that Scott Hunter is not interested in carnally. 

“Anything under fifty bucks, I put mayo in your shampoo.” 

When the door clicks shut, Ilya waits a moment or two, finds a bag of chips—dried fruit chips, his life is a horror show—locks the door and burrows under the covers. He opens his messages. Several are waiting. 

JANE: fuck 
JANE:FUCK 
JANE: i can’t believe it
JANE: he just did that
JANE: im going to pass out
JANE: hes so cool, oh my god

ME: hockey jesus knows my name
ME: hockey jesus thinks all this is weird
ME: I thought I was having a stroke 

JANE: understandable 
JANE: you’re, where
JANE: fucking Detroit? 
JANE: noting good happens in Detroit
JANE: id be suspicious too

ME: he said it like it is obvious
ME: like why you all act weird, stop

JANE: yeah
JANE: like he was disgusted he had to say it
JANE:fuck 
JANE: the Warden went and smote the press
JANE: what a time to be alive

ME: smote

JANE: killed
JANE: dont worry abt it 

ME: why are you so chipper?
ME: 4-2 against pelicans? 
ME: pelicans are a fucking joke
ME: should have won more

JANE: you’re the one typing like you’re on cocaine

ME: i am on adrenaline
ME: also rage
ME: also joy

JANE: pick one

ME: cannot
ME: i am complex organism

JANE: you’re a menace

ME: well, yes
ME: but cultured 
ME: i am learning english, also learning manners

JANE: terrifying

ME: correct

JANE: do you think he only came to the event so he could say this
JANE: ?

ME: fuck I hope so
ME: probably not
ME: but imagine

JANE: am doing so presently 
JANE: when you thought he couldn't become better Lock transcends 
JANE: do you think they have a statue for him in Minneapolis? 
JANE: do you think they have ten? 
JANE: a forest planted in his name

ME: herd of carnivorous moose made in lab 
ME: released into the wild to terrorise the world
ME: named after him
ME: super predator 
ME: but happy to stay in frozen wasteland 
ME: let the weaklings live to pass on genes 

JANE: jesus christ

ME: also
ME: you would die if he called you kid

JANE: shut up

ME: you would

JANE: i would not

ME: is lie again
ME: you would die immediately, right there on camera

JANE: i hate you

ME: no you don’t

JANE: i don’t

ME: see
ME: we are friends

JANE: don’t make it weird

ME: fuck your weird
ME: look at our lives hollander
ME: impossible to be more weird than this

There’s a beat. Longer than the others. Then:

JANE: it felt good

ME: what felt good

JANE: him saying it
JANE: like 
JANE: finally someone said the truth. 

Ilya stares at the screen. Something in his chest tightens, then loosens, like it’s making space. He’s pressing call before he knows what he’s doing, and then the only path is to brazen it out. Never show weakness. 

“Roz?” 

“It is nice,” he says, keeping his voice casual. If you don’t acknowledge it, it doesn’t exist, rule one of social interactions. If they act like calls are normal, then they’re normal. Nothing to see here, move along, right-o. “The Lock. Saying it.”

There’s a pause where Shane breathes, and the sound is stupidly intimate through the phone speaker—not sexy, not romantic, just—Close, maybe. More truthful or at least closer to the truth. 

“Yeah,” Shane says. “I watched it three times, watched it with my mom, then turned the sound off and watched it again, just to look at his mean old face.”

Ilya snorts. “Figures, though. That it would be someone like that.” 

“The irony is not lost on me, trust me. Things had to go to shit so bad, Hockey Jesus had to literally come back to show us the way.” 

“Yeah. Like they forgot that someone can just… say it.”

Ilya’s dumb apple chips crinkle in his hand. He eats one anyway. Fucking tragic. “People think, is not their worry, yes? Not their business.” He pauses, chest twinging. “I not say anything either, before. When they print good stories about me, I not pay attention to anything else. Was not my business, until it was.”

“Get fucked with the wisdom, loser,” Shane says, then pauses briefly. “You should be sleeping.”

“I am sleeping.” 

“You are not sleeping.”

“You don’t know.”

“I do, in fact, know.” 

Jesus Christ, he’s biting down laughter. What is happening? 

“You sound,” Shane continues, and now he sounds careful, “like you had a good night.”

“We won in Detroit,” Ilya says. “I get to live another day, against expectation.” 

Shane exhales a quiet laugh. “I saw the pictures. You looked chummy enough with Wex.” 

Ilya has to pause, rewind. Wex, Wex— 

“Calder fucking Wexler? Hollander, are you high? Are you fucking sane?” He casts back, tries to remember if he did anything but stare up at the hulking defenceman with an unintelligible accent and a beard that looked like it contained all the secrets of the universe. 

“Bullshit. You looked like a kid at Christmas.” 

“Yeah, because every moment you draw breath in that man’s presence is a miracle!” Honestly, fuckign Wexler—“Also, what pictures?” 

“Oh, Hollis posted on his IG. Titled the post “The Warden Spoke”. It was very subtle.” 

Yeah. Yeah, okay. On one hand, better late than never. On the other hand, fuck your late.

“None of my business,” he says firmly. “Social media is media is source of stress and heartache.” 

“Well, that’s most definitely true.” 

Then Shane goes quiet again, and when he speaks, the humour has slipped, like he put it down and forgot to pick it back up.

“It felt good,” Shane says.

“I know.”

“No,” Shane says. “Like—”

He stops, and Ilya can hear him swallow. A tiny sound that, for some reason, makes his stomach tense. “Like someone opened a door,” Shane finishes. “And you didn’t have to kick it in.”

Ilya closes his eyes, leans his head back against the headboard, wood cool against his hair.

“Yeah,” he says, quieter than he meant to. “Yes. Exactly.”

Shane breathes again. Somehow, Ilya realises he’s trying to sync up their breathing over the phone, to match his inhales. 

“I get so tired of it,” Shane says. “The silence. The waiting. All these guys—vets, legends—people who could say something and nobody would say shit back because they’re untouchable. And they don’t. They never fucking do.”

Well, not never. Evidently, not never. 

“You think it should’ve happened before,” Ilya says.

“I mean, ideally, a little before the whole ecosystem turned into a toxic fucking wasteland, yeah. If it’s not too much fucking bother to let us do our jobs in peace.” 

Careful, Ilya thinks, throat working around a bitter lump he refuses to acknowledge. Careful, sweetheart. That’s a dangerous us. That’s an us you, historically, hadn’t wanted anything to do with. 

Shane goes on, and there’s something in his voice that’s—off. Not angry, not even cold. Tired, maybe. “Not even just this,” Shane says. “Other stuff. I wasn’t the first Asian player in the League, not even close — but it felt like it, and none of the untouchable guys ever said a word.” 

Ilya blinks, softens against his will. Yeah, that’s—He doesn’t think about that much. Hollander makes it easy not to think about that. 

“It wasn’t like, slurs or whatever, I’m not being dramatic. I was allowed in, if I was better than everybody else. If I was exceptional. And I fucking was.” 

Ilya swallows. He feels suddenly, sharply, how exhausting it must have been. How infuriating. He was the best. He is, arguably, the best now, or high up there. Now, nobody doubts his skill, even if they deny it for self-serving reasons. But it wouldn't have always been like that. 

“And I know you get the same shit, or similar enough. I know you’re not exempt from the bullshit. But like—“ He breaks off, and Ilya almost tries to reach into his phone, physically pull the words out. “At least you are really Russian. Not like me.” 

Oh, thank the lord. Ilya makes a quiet but, hopefully, ardent noise of curiosity. 

“I’m not fucking Japanese,” Shane says, and the way he says it is brutal in its simplicity. “I mean—my mom is, but I’m not. Not in any way that matters. I don’t speak the language, I never went to visit, if I have family there, Ive never met them.” 

Ilya’s throat tightens again, and he hates it, hates being made soft by someone else’s honesty.

“So what does it even mean? When they tell me I’m representing my culture? Which culture? Am I fucking stealing it? Is that the lesser evil here? Like it or not, there aren’t many kids who look like me in the league, so if those kids can feel better—“ Hollander’s exhale is rough. “—Maybe I should lie. What’s one more thing, right?” 

Melancholy hits hard and fast—or it was there all along, and he just didn't spot it until it reached critical mass. The thought of baby Shane, determined, irrepressible, stubborn, going his way come what may—It breaks his fucking heart. 

It wasn’t like that, for him. He always belonged in Russia. Except for the one thing. 

He doesn’t plan it. It just slips out of him, the way the truth does sometimes when you’re tired enough that your mouth forgets what to do. 

“Do you believe in God?” 

There’s a pause on the line — not long, but real. Shane shifts, fabric rustling, like he’s sitting up straighter.

“No,” Shane says. “Not like that. We are a secular household.” A beat. “Do you?”

Ilya stares at the ceiling, oddly panicked by the shocking absence of panic. He’s comfy, toasty under the comforter. His body is relaxed, utterly. Content. His heart is calm, if a little overflowing. He’s safe. 

“Yeah,” he says, then winces. Good work, way to sound like a mindless beast. He scrambles for footing. “But not like— Orthodox is not like what you have, I think. And I am not an authority. I barely ever went to church.”

“So why?” Shane asks, not mocking. Just… curious. Gentle with it.

Ilya swallows.

“It feels obvious,” he says, and immediately hates that too. 

“Obvious how?” 

What does he even say? He’s never had to say it out loud. He’s always just—had it, the way you have your eyes and arms and legs. You don’t talk about having a spine at parties. You don’t explain it. It holds you up, and you move on.

“Is not like I think there is a man in the cloud,” Ilya says finally, and it comes out rough. “God, Christ—is like the big, vast thing. The great mystery—but good. Safe.” He drags his fingertips over his collarbones, his ribs, counts the ridges absently. “It feels like--magic. Like a fairy story.”

“Yeah?” Shane’s voice warms with a little surprise. “That sounds nice.”

Ilya snorts. “Do you know Russian fairy stories? They’re not nice. They’re not Disney. They are—how do you say—” He searches, frowns. “They are full of teeth.”

Shane makes a small sound of laughter.

Ilya continues, because he might as well finish. He’s where he is, he’s doing what he’s doing. Might as well. “It’s… about making sense of the world, maybe. The world is dark and full of terrors, yes? But terrors just are. You can deal with them or not, but that’s your choice. They are not punishment. None of this is about punishment.”

Shane goes quiet. Not the usual text-pause quiet. Real quiet. Listening.

Then, softly: “Give me a second. I need to think”

“Yeah,” Ilya says, grateful. He needs a fucking second, too. 

He shifts, presses the phone to his other ear, and melts back into the bed as easily as he had before. There’s a faint sound of the ice machine down the hall, somebody’s distant laughter. 

A memory floats up, soft and undemanding. He’s young — seven, maybe. Mom’s hand is firm around his mitten, steadying him on frozen cobblestones. Aloyosha is there , restless and bright, head and a half taller. Practically an adult, at his—what, thirteen, fourteen years? They’re on an outing—one of many; mom made sure—to a monastery. White, smaller, the name escapes him. It would have to be Andronikov, yes? Has to be. It’s stone walls and tall, curved roofs. Rays of sun glittering on the gold of the frescoes and velvet, plush silence. Most of all, he remembers feeling the enormous might of wonder. It all made perfect sense—you’re in a place of magic. 

It was just that—an outing, then a walk. His mother’s voice is low and soft. Ilya doesn't remember her words, but he remembers how the sun caught in her long hair; how she looked like one of the frescoes. They went to the park, after, and she bought them sweet buns, warm and simple and filled with jam. Aleksei picked him up, swung him onto his shoulders, ran through the trees. The world is full of terrors, but it is also full of buns and mothers and brothers, of solemn, painted faces with dramatic gold borders, of sunny days in quiet parks. 

He blinks back into the present, jaw clenched, breath calm, heart racing. He hadn’t—

“Alright,” Shane says finally, and his voice is different — slower, thoughtful. “That makes sense.”

Ilya’s throat works once. He doesn’t trust his voice yet, so he just hums.

“My dad always said,” Shane continues, “you don’t get to control what happens to you. But you do get to control what you do next.” A pause. “It feels obvious, but—yeah. It’s a good place to start.”

Shane hums, and Ilya thinks — absurdly — that the sound suits him. That steady, thoughtful agreement. Like the man himself: never passive, always moving, building systems and control around his life and inside his own head—and only his head. Never outward, to control. Never to snuff out the magic from the world, to make it smaller and inorganic. 

Then, cautiously, like he’s stepping into a room he’s never been in before, Shane asks, “So, how do you know?”

Ilya blinks, “What?”

“Like,” Shane says, and there’s a little embarrassment in it, like he knows it’s a dumb question and also can’t stop himself. “Is it—Bible? Church? Your family? Is it something you were taught?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think about it. Is not like a story I was taught or I read in a book. I just feel it.”

“Where?” Shane asks, voice gentle, coaxing. “Like—when?”

Ilya’s throat tightens again, irritated with himself. He hates being this tender. It feels like walking around without skin. Why? What do you mind? Talking about Christ? What is shameful about this? 

“In church,” he says, and then immediately shakes his head even though Shane can’t see it. “But also in forest and sea and—” He gestures uselessly at the room, at Detroit, at the whole of fucking North America. “Same everywhere, sometimes.”

There’s a pause. “That’s not very Orthodox of you.” 

“No,” Ilya says. And then he tries, because Shane asked and Shane is listening and for some reason that makes it matter. It makes it important that he says it as best he can, never mind this ridiculous situation. “It is… like there is this thing that exists and you can’t see it, can’t understand it, and it never occurs to you that you should try. Like—why would you? It is there, and you are in it. That is as it should be.”

Shane is silent for a long moment. When he speaks, he’s careful. “So you don’t—think about it? Don’t try to figure it out? Figure out your purpose there, your role? Your path?” 

Ilya lets out a breath.

“No,” he says, and the sentence lands quiet and satisfying. Like he finally made it to where he was going. Like Shane’s endless questions helped him steer his way through the fog. “God is lived. Living it is all there is. You just close your eyes and fall backwards.” He hesitates, embarrassed by his own banality, and then pushes through it anyway. “And you are in it. In the safety and belonging.”

The word belonging tastes strange in his mouth. Too personal. Too close to the bone. On the phone, Shane exhales slowly.

“Do you think we’re… what we’re supposed to be, then?” he asks, and there’s something in his tone, something small and earnest. Something he may have wanted to ask for a bit. “Do you believe that? That we’re okay. As we are.”

Ilya’s mind is still half in the monastery, half staring at the reflection on the window across from him. Of the long, tired face peeking out from behind the pile of blankets. He feels blown open in a way he doesn’t like, in a way he suspects is exceptionally dangerous. 

“Yeah,” he says, absently. “Well. Mostly. The truth of us is as it should be, but—”

He stops. He’s so bad at this, it’s bewildering. How can it be that he’s never talked about this with anyone? Not with Lana, not with Sasha, not even with Alyosha. He swallows.

“I think you know, and I know—I think everybody knows when they are going against themselves. They ignore it. We all ignore it, or hide from it, or lie—” A laugh escapes, small and spiky. “—that’s a big one. Lie to others, lie to yourself, lie to the fucking Heavens. But you know. You always know when you are not right. And you know when others are not right about you.”

“Alright, about others, sure. But what if others are right? What about—you know. When you’re just wrong.” 

Fuck. “Good thing you ask such simple questions, Jesus Christ.” He lets Hollander laugh, lets both of them breathe out a little. Buys himself some time. “Do you mean when you do wrong or when you are wrong?” 

Hollander swallows. “Both, I guess.” 

“Well, when you do wrong—tough shit. Live with it. When you are wrong—“ Well. “I guess I don’t think you can be wrong for being you. Lie or truth, right? You tell the truth, is right, no matter what. Might not be nice, or easy, or whatever the fuck, but that's okay. What is easy anyway, you know?” He frowns, because that’s still not quite it. “Problem is—when you go against it. When you reject yourself.” When you reject Christ. When you reject life. 

“So, truth then? That sounds—challenging.” 

Ilya shrugs. “I don’t know, how the fuck would I know? Do you?” 

“Not really,” Shane says at first, and there’s a carefulness in it, like he knows he’s walking into an Ilya-shaped minefield and doesn’t want to set off a lecture. “I believe you can do wrong without being evil,” Shane says. “And I believe… the point is what you do after. You fix it. You own it.”

Ilya hums, because yes. Yes, that makes sense. It makes sense, for a man like Shane Hollander, who sees things without mystery—but without cruelty either. 

“My dad calls it being a mensch,” he says. “Just—how you’re supposed to be. Part of that is that you don’t get to live like you’re the only person in the world. You don’t get to take and take and then act shocked when you’re alone.”

It’s odd, how heavy alone lands. How it drives the breath from his lungs, makes his heart skip like it’s missed a step. It’s not a fear he shares, exactly — he has Lana and Sasha, always; before, he had his mother and Alyosha; and now somehow, impossibly, he has Scott too— but still. Alone is a word that knows how to find the soft parts of you, that you dread instinctively. 

“So,” Ilya says, slowly, “being selfish? 

Shane makes a quiet, contained sound. Not quite a laugh. More like, yeah, kind of.

“The only really bad thing is deciding it doesn’t matter,” he says. “It’s deciding you don’t have responsibility. You don’t have to be careful with people. You can just—” He stops, and Ilya can hear him exhale through his nose, like he’s trying not to get carried away. “You can just live for yourself. You can make your world smaller and smaller until it’s just you.”

The restlessness that’s been tingling around the edges spreads. Ilya finds he’s pressing his knuckles into his sternum. Drumming the beat of his heart into his ribcage. He makes a small sound, meaningless, encouraging.

“Yeah,” Shane says, voice dropping, gentler. “That’s the worst thing. You decide nobody matters, and you’ll do your thing. You’ll be great, all on your own, and—And then that’s it. You’re alone for real, and you’ve made it so yourself.”

Ilya’s mind offers him his own words back—lie to others, lie to yourself, lie to the Heavens—and he feels the unpleasant neatness of it, the way the two ideas slot together like teeth on a bear trap. Lie to yourself that you don’t need anything, and you manifest it. You hollow out. You become untouchable because you aren’t alive.

And what—how could Hollander, sweet, wholesome Hollander, whose greatest sin is mean words and mean thoughts—how could he talk about this with such fear. Like he knows. Like he has seen it. Like he—

Enough. This is enough. More than, it’s too fucking much, because Ilya suddenly wants to close the blankets over his head, hide under the pillow. Wants to find Scott and make him fix it, wants to throw the phone into the wall, smash it up for what it can’t do. He can’t see Shane’s clever eyes, can’t see his tense mouth. Can’t reach out. Can’t make him smile. Can’t touch him, calm him. Bite his neck and feel his pulse in his mouth. 

He’s been silent too long. It’s creepy. Tough it up, Rozanov. If all you can do is croak, then croak. 

“Guess that is what makes you good Captain,” he blurts, like an idiot. “Being good guy on purpose. Mensch.” He takes care with the unfamiliar word, says it carefully. It sounds important. “Very annoying.”

“You’re annoying,” Shane says, but his voice is lighter. Relieved, maybe, that Ilya didn’t let them both fall deeper into whatever bizarre pit of melancholy that was. Christ, how pretentious. He needs to go drink ten beers and jump in the river. Is there a river in Detroit? Surely there must be?

“I mean it,” he says. “One of the worst things about you, how good a captain you are—”

“Get fucked, Rozanov—”

“—Even when you are being vicious little—” Ilya flounders, brain fried, heart bursting, scrambling for the right chirp like his life depends on it. “—Sneaky slasher. I see you. Is all polite, all pretty, round eyes, and then somehow my ribs are on fire, I can’t hold my stick, and you are twenty meters away already, bullying my D-men.”

“That is not something that ever happened,” Shane says, and now he’s laughing properly, betrayed into it.

“Not yet,” Ilya says, solemn. “But I believe in you. I believe you have it in you.”

“Shut up.”

“Mensch,” Ilya says firmly. “Mensch-slash.”

There’s a soft noise on the line — Shane breathing, steadying. The weak chirp does its job; the sharp edge of the confession is still there, but it’s no longer a knife.

“You know what I mean,” Shane says, quieter.

“I do,” Ilya says. He keeps his voice light, but not being careful with him, now, here — it’s impossible. Simply not a thing that can be done. “Is—good.”

You’re good, he thinks. You’re so fucking good, it makes me want to throw up. 

***

Jan 19, 2013

The email hits at 10:14 p.m., which feels deliberate. Subject line: ALL-STAR WEEKEND — MEDIA AVAILABILITY & PROFESSIONALISM SUPPORT SESSIONS. Subheading: MANDATORY.

Christ

He opens it on his phone, because of course he does, because he is incapable of peace. It’s four pages of cheerful corporate language with a thin wire of humiliation running through it. If this had arrived two months ago, he would have exploded. If it had arrived three weeks ago, he would have frozen and then exploded. Today, he’s already running on a choked-up blend of wrung out and buzzing. Caring about a media schedule feels impossible; like being asked to have a nervous breakdown over a parking ticket right after you witnessed a meteor hit the ocean.

He checks his phone again. No new messages. The group chat is silent for once. He reads the email one more time and feels, faintly, almost amused.

Oh, you didn’t manage to provoke me into getting suspended before All-Star weekend, he thinks. How sad for you.

And it wasn’t even that hard.

He sets the phone down and makes himself eat a protein bar, two glasses of water, then bends down to stretch. He’s halfway through a basic routine when the lock clicks.

Scott comes in, once again braced for the worst. He toes his shoes off by the door, glances at Ilya, and pauses.

“Hey,” Scott says. “You okay?”

Ilya huffs, bent over his legs, spine as straight as he can make it. “Thriving.” 

“Uh-huh,” Scott says. “Why are you thriving?”

“No reason,” Ilya says solemnly. “I am just a happy boy.”

Scott makes a sound of focused disgust and walks into the kitchen, leaning down to ruffle Ilya’s hair as he passes, absent and casual like he doesn't think about it anymore.  “What happened?” Scott says, already reaching for a glass. “Email?”

Ilya points at the phone on the table with the protein bar. “League sent their schedule. All-Star Weekend media. Mandatory ‘professionalism coaching.’ Tightened rules.”

Scott’s posture shifts instantly. Not dramatic. Just—his spine goes a little straighter, face calm, breathing even. “Yes?” 

He might as well give up on the stretches. He exhales, bends down one last time, rests his forehead on his shins, then straightens, pads over to the kitchen.

“I mean—is press. They play this card already. I know what to expect. They cannot scare me with it anymore.” 

Scott inclines his head. “That’s a healthy outlook. Also, suspicious. I don’t trust it.” 

Bless. 

“What do the kids say? Samesies?”

That one landed. Scott’s eye-roll is so violent, it’s probably gone past the zone of mild discomfort. “Kids, he says, Jesus Christ. Alright, so there is press. I’ll go out on a limb and say that it’s as much press as your contract will allow, plus penalties and unpleasant segments.” 

He hadn’t looked, truth be told. 

“Probably. Too early to talk specifics. Ms Haddad and Ms Kat have to give green light.” 

“Alright. That’s an admirably mature response. I don’t trust it one bit, but I’ll try to enjoy it while it lasts.” A beat. “Speaking of, I’ve news.”

Ilya blinks. “Oh?”

Scott’s mouth twitches. The expression on his face is weirdly pleased, like he’s trying not to laugh.  “I’m going to be one of the captains of the All-Star game,” Scott says. “So that’s fun.”

Ilya stares at him. His brain does a clean reboot. “What?” No, seriously, what? “How the fuck did that happen?”

Scott’s smile widens, slow and wicked. “Players voted.”

“Players,” Ilya repeats blankly. “Like… the players.”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “Not the fan-voted six, the thirty-two other players. The League-selected pool.”

Ilya makes a strangled laugh, “After all this,” he says. “After all their sabotage and fines and the plotting— 

“They can’t stop other players from voting.”

Ilya laughs again. "So it’s you and…?” he asks, already reaching for the name.

“Mason Albright,” Scott says. “Captain of Toronto Guardians.”

Ilya’s grin stretches, sharp and delighted. “Albright is going to have a stroke.”

Scott snorts. “Probably.”

“Roster is out, then?” Ilya asks, because his phone is still sitting there like a grenade he’s refused to hold. “I got some dumb email, but assumed it would all be the media schedule.”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “It was announced. Good spread, all things considered. We’ll have fun.”

We’ll have fun. Ilya can’t remember the last time hockey sounded like fun. Not work. Not war. Not survival. Just—fun. A show game. Scott’s team. If Scott is captain, he’s picking Ilya first. Obviously. And if Albright has any sense, he won’t pick Ilya even if he wins the draw and gets first pick, because Ilya will, in response, ruin his life forever. 

And Hollander—

Ilya bites his cheek hard enough to hurt. Hollander will be there. Just another player, vicious and clever and fucking beautiful. They might even be on the same team. He does not ask Scott to make it so, because he doesn’t have to. Scott sees everything, always. 

“And you’ll get to see Hallsy again,” Scott says, right on schedule. 

A grin escapes anyway, blooms wide and toothy, and Ilya doesn’t even try to keep it contained. “Yeah. Yeah. It will be fun.”

Scott watches him for a moment longer, quiet, then wraps an arm around his shoulders, gives him a hard, rattling shake.

 “Attaboy.” 

Chapter End Notes

Ilya: Yeah I just randomly burst into tears when talking about justice and god and debt with my therapist
Ilya: It’s all very normal and fine.
Author: It was not, in fact, fine

—

Ilya: I believe christ is love. By which I mean I believe in feeling unconditionally loved by my mother and feeling safe and cherished
Shane: interesting. I believe in being responsible and giving back. By which I mean, I believe in feeling unconditionally loved by my father and feeling safe and cherished

(no Yuna slander here, but she is a source of shane’s strength not his moral and spiritual beliefs. And less said about ilyas father the better. Although he is, in a horrible way, the source of ilya’s strength)

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

Fucking Jesus, you guys, again, this is basically first half of this chapter. Maybe first two-thirds? When I finish this fic, I will have so much editing to do, oh my god.

Thursday Jan 24

Ilya spends the whole flight thinking about how bizarre it feels to travel without the organised chaos of the Admirals. You don’t notice a shield until it’s gone. He hadn’t realised how much the circus —car, bus, hotel, rink, bus—kept the real world out. Now it’s just him and Scott, plus more security than anyone should need. A “player services” rep takes custody of them at the gate. It doesn’t get less weird after that.

The thing is, Ilya’s never valued luxury, which means he’s weirdly good at it. And after the last year, being the centre of attention is…challenging. First class helps. The businessmen don’t care, the foreigners care even less, and the handful of young people are too bored and too rich to act impressed. Ilya takes a couple of selfies with two girls who braved Scott’s menace, says nothing worth remembering, and sinks into his seat. Soldiers, athletes and cats can fall asleep anywhere. Ilya’s body has started to associate the sensation of takeoff with the concept of having two plus hours of uninterrupted rest and recovery. He fall asleep before the fligth attendents finish explainign the safety protocols. 

***

A crowd is waiting for them when they land, which admittedly does throw him a little. They look like—normal people, is the thing. Well, alright, crazed fans, most of them women, most of them screaming, but not paps or the media. Not the sort of thing hockey players have to deal with typically. The airport security takes them through with grim faces. One of them tries to grab Ilya by the arm to shuffle him faster and thinks better of it when he realises who, exactly, he is dealing with. There is a conversation waiting to be had about it all, a conclusion he is refusing to even come near. Best he can figure, all that nonsense lives in the domain of social media, not something he needs to think about now, if ever. In the sea of much more pressing worries—that he is also, by and large, ignoring—the ebbs and flows of American celebrity culture interest him not at all. 

The driver takes them up toward Union Square, past banners and branded tents and those temporary city-festival structures that pop up overnight like mushrooms. Every street corner looks sponsored. There are autograph lines already, snaking around barricades, people bundled up with signs and sharpie markers. Giant screens loop highlights: goals, hits, smiles, slow-motion skates cutting ice.

Highlight reels are playing too. The usual: goals, cellys, checks. They cycle through players—old legends he grew up watching, then the new wave, everyone reduced to ten-second proof-of-life clips. The screen in the middle is him. Looping.

He’s on the ice, stealing a puck, driving through traffic, stuffing it in at a stupid angle that’s not just luck, but it’s definitely helped by it. Shift: he’s at a mic somewhere, bragging about his shot, grinning, winking. Shift: a candid video—club lighting, a woman on his lap. Vegas, maybe. Her skirt is already short and it’s ridden up; there’s a flash of red. Ilya’s shirtless, skin still raw on the right side of his chest from the grizzly tattoo, bent close to her ear, smiling, laughing. Jesus Christ. He looks so young. Shift: different rink, another goal, another slow-motion celly. Shift: some hideous press bit about his workouts. Shift: a scrap on the ice—mean and fast, the one with Goranson earlier this season, helmets snapping back, bloody knuckles, snarling. Shift: him and Scott on the ice afterwards, Scott’s arm around him, and Ilya beaming up at him like a kid. Shift: goal. Shift: another club, another woman. Shift— 

His stomach rolls. His ears ring. Pressure stacks in his chest, heavy and bleak. He takes one deep breath and locks his face down. No twitching. No flinch. Eyes blank. Mouth relaxed. Breathe in, breathe out. In for four, keep for four, out for four. You’re not alone. You’re not safe. There’s a League ghoul in the car with you, eyes cold behind his glasses. Ilya will not puke in this SUV. He will sit there and be cool and adult, composed and untouchable. And then later—later someone will figure out how this came to be. Someone made that reel, someone who was self-aware enough not make one for other players. He hadn’t seen any of their girlfriends, their candids, their fucking TMZ leaks—

No. He’s not going to freak out. He’s going to sit here and breathe and not think about it, not think about any of that shit. It’s the All-Star Game. Scott is the captain. Every time you’ve played in the All-Star Game, it’s been a fucking riot. These dingbats aren’t going to ruin it. You can’t win, but you won’t lose. Keep to your principles. Don’t lose.  

Scott’s noticed, of course, and is quietly livid. The man’s got a jaw on him at the best of times, but now you could see muscles twitch under skin, fluttering with pressure. Someone’s going to get fired over this, Ilya thinks, and settles further. Someone made this, and many someone’s okayed it and maybe not all of them are going to get axed, but some will. Enough to make others hesitate next time. 

Next time? What fucking next time? Is he supposed to—what, wait for the next time? What will they do next time, collect every embarrassing clip of him out there, stitch it all together and play before a game? Play a slideshow of his infamous gay snaps in Times Square—

Right, this isn’t working. Time for a more efficient distraction. He grabs his phone, opens his texts with shaking fingers. 

ME: Have you landed? 

He doesn’t have to wait too long, but even scrolling up through his old texts is calming. Hollander is so catty, it’s a fucking miracle he keeps it all behind polite Canadian smiles and cow eyes. 

JANE: bless you
JANE: I’ve been here since last night 
JANE: my shedule is fucking insane
JANE: to say nothing of this city
JANE: how is this actually worse than last year? 
JANE: how did they make SanFran into a cuntier trash heap than Vegas? 

ME: big question
ME: also fuck you 
ME: I like vegas

JANE: you would you embaressment 
JANE: and keep up 
JANE: i said worse than vegas 
JANE: I asked a couple of people and they said its not usually so packed

ME: yes well
ME: youre welcome I guess

JANE: ugh 
JANE: such a fucking diva
JANE: have one scandal and suddenly whole world is about you
JANE: ill have you know that Cherry from Detroit Motors just had a big divorce scandal 
JANE: and Delly starred in the new Bond movie that just came out

ME: delly? 

JANE: fucking what 
JANE: Pat? Patrick Delaney? 
JANE: no65 Anaheim Hammerheads??

ME: christ hollander
ME: so dramatic

JANE: oh wow
JANE: to live to see the day 
JANE: the audacity is hard to witness let alone bear 

ME: yes yes
ME: boring
ME: do they have you in media?

JANE: what do you think
JANE: at least i have Viggy here
JANE: i’m dragging him to everything 
JANE: the sponsors hate him and it’s saving my life

ME: “viggy”????

JANE: my goalie, bud
JANE: also, the best 
JANE: like just now some PR guy asked “what are you most excited about this weekend”
JANE: and Vig said “I try not to be excited. It makes me unreliable.”
JANE: dead serious
JANE: the PR guy almost fainted

ME: )))))))
ME: goalies
ME: why are they like that

JANE:  god left them unfinished
JANE: anyway he’s being my emotional support psycho
JANE: i point him at people and they get scared and stop asking me questions

ME: wow
ME: captaincy as a weapon
ME: i respect that

***

From there, it’s easier, if more soul-crushingly boring. They march him into “media coaching,” which he survives by dissociating from reality and texting Shane. Three women and two men sit across from him with bright, haunted smiles and start saying words like conduct and engagement. At one point, David—the marketing expert, who was very careful to relay that information like it fuckign matters, like Ilya isn’t erasing their existence from his mind in real time—says, cheerful as a kindergarten teacher, “We’re going to do some roleplay today.”

Ilya has to sit there in silence for a full five seconds, just to make sure he heard that correctly. What self-control he has, from that point on, goes into ignoring them and nodding when the droning slows down or rises up in pitch to indicate a question. 

JANE: quick question
JANE: you scored four in first period against spartak back in ‘08?

ME: what
ME: why do you know that
ME: creepy as hell
ME: also yes
ME: it was not spartak. it was vityaz
ME: but what

JANE: okay good
JANE: that’s what i thought
JANE: don’t ask

ME: i’m asking
ME: why are you asking me
ME: are you stalking me on russian internet like a freak

JANE: i am literally being interviewed right now
JANE: it’s one of those trivia pieces
JANE: it’s not about our epic rivalry
JANE: excpt you know
JANE: how it absolutely is about our epic rivalry
JANE: and they have their facts wrong
JANE: fucking hacks

ME: )))))))
ME: are you on your phone during a segment

JANE: i can either be on my phone
JANE: or i can throw my phone at their heads
JANE: i’m choosing peace

ME: wow
ME: character development
ME: proud of you

JANE: don’t start
JANE: i’m trying to keep my face neutral while a man says “and then you fought in junior because of a girl”
JANE: i’m going to fucking lose it

ME: why did we fight in juniors

JANE: how the fuck should i know
JANE: one would assume that you wanted to piss me off
JANE: so you did

ME: so say that

JANE: i’m not giving them that soundbite
JANE: they’d insert it in your highlight reel
JANE: creepy fucking maniacs

ME: better than what they used

JANE: ugh. disgusting. dont mention that shit when i have cameras on me
JANE: it’s getting handled either way

ME: is easy to ignore, tbh

JANE: oh, they wish
JANE: before this is done national equity fund will look like peanuts
JANE: compared to the cash they’ll have to pay out for the fucking lawsuits coming

“—listening, Ilya?”

“Of course. Please, continue. I am so curious about your media strategies.”

JANE: oh, god, they’re going to fucking talk to me about rose
JANE: jesus fuck

ME: rose??

JANE: rose landry
JANE: a friend

ME: oh?

JANE: get fucked shitbag
JANE: she’s amazing
JANE: a good friend

ME: okay…

JANE: also, the term ‘playoff beard’ has been mentioned once or twice

ME: wow
ME: w o w

JANE: you didnt catch it fr? it was fucking everywhere
JANE: she came to one of our games in my jersey
JANE: pretty sure it was on national news

ME: not on social media.
ME: or any media
ME: strictly moody russian novels
ME: but i know who rose landry is
ME: whole world knows who rose landry is
ME: wow, hallsy
ME: most guys would just keep a ig model for that
ME: not you
ME: fucking rose landry
ME: go big or go home i guess

JANE: ugh
JANE: fuck off and die, loser 

***

They don’t let him leave the coaching room so much as they pass him along. 

“Great work today,” Ponytail, she of the dead eyes says. “Nancy will take you from here.”

Nancy is not Ponytail. Nancy is built like a rugby player and dressed like she runs security. He looks closer, thinking for a moment. League people have a look to them that Nancy doesn’t share. She may well just be running this event. 

More in favour of her moral character is that she brought Scott with, all dressed up in a lovely, boring tux. Christ, a tux. Well, at least they had it tailored. 

“Rozanov?” she says.

Bless. 

“Present.” 

She doesn’t seem all that impressed by his wit, but shrugs. “Fantastic. We’re going upstairs. No lobby.”

“Love that,” Ilya says.

Nancy doesn’t smile. “You’re hilarious, sir. How about you continue regaling me with your witicisms as you walk?” 

Wow. Nancy is a bitch. Ilya’s grin grows more human as he slides into Scott’s side. “Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say, ma’am.” 

“What joy you bring me, sir.” 

They don’t go through the hallway that leads to the public elevators. They go through a door marked STAFF ONLY, down a service corridor, past stacked chairs and a linen cart and a man pushing a rack of banquet trays. From there it's the service elevator, past two separate security checks, through a couple more dodgy corridors, until they reach—his suite, apparently. 

“There you are, sir,” Nancy says, as stone-faced now as she had been from the start. “Go ahead and rest up. You’ve forty-five minutes.” 

Ilya blinks. “Forty-five minutes for what?” 

Nancy consults her clipboards. “To get presentable. Good day.”

WOw. Someone needs to put Nancy in a high position in the NHL. She’d run that shit like the military. 

“C’mon, kid,” Scott says, ushering them inside. “I wouldn't test her; she seems like the type to drag you to the draft shirtless and barefoot.”

Yeah, no shit. 

“Thankfully,” Scott continues, as Ilya wastes no time to shuck his clothes and beeline to the shower. “It seems like you won't have to waste time figuring out what to wear.” 

“Oh?” 

“Mm. Adidas left you a care package. Whole fit, socks and underwear included.” 

Jesus. Underwear. “God bless American business sense. Is it branded?”

“Honestly? It’s pretty tasteful. It’s there if you know where to look—three stripes stitched inside the lining, trefoil cufflinks, stuff like that.” A pause. “Which is not to say that it’s not flash as fuck. The shirt is cut down to the navel; you will absolutely look like an expensive escort.” 

“Ah, good. They have a sense of what I like.” Which, now that he thinks of it, is odd in itself. “Lanka probably got her claws in them.” 

“Shocking.” 

Yeah. 

***

ME: what are you doing today

JANE: same as you, probably
JANE: meetings
JANE: then a shoot
JANE: then more meetings
JANE: then another shoot
JANE: interviews
JANE: then red carpet
JANE: then live draft
JANE: then party
JANE: and then I down a bottle of xannies and die I guess

ME: wow you’re famous

JANE: swear to god roz

ME: mr glamour

JANE: omg

ME: mr marketing

JANE: youre the one to talk asshole
JANE: how much was that Adidas sponsorship
JANE: ten years?
JANE: ten million?

ME: honestly? no idea
ME: ms haddad handles all that
ME: speaking of dumb shit
ME: what is “activation”
ME: they say this word to me today fifty times 

JANE: it’s when a sponsor makes you hold something and pretend you love it
JANE: so basically my whole day

ME: lol
ME: you’re so brave. martyr
ME: speaking of, I survived the coaching
ME: I was so obedient
ME: so demure
ME: so marketable
ME: who is shocked? other than me?

JANE: shocked and fuckign appalled
JANE: I was hoping that a handy massacre would get me out of this fucking suit fitting
JANE: alas

ME: )))
ME: I guess
ME: is black with white shirt, dark blue tie.
ME: something dull like idk
ME: tom ford
ME: black shiny shoes

JANE: brother, if you think I give a shit what im wearing
JANE: youve lost the fucking plot
JANE: christ
JANE: the only important thing is that I manage to get out of the tie they want
JANE: makes me look like im twelve
JANE: like
JANE: might as well put me in a fucking bowtie

ME: clean good canadian boy is your brand
ME: and absolutely take a bowtie
ME: but only if they tailor your suit properly
ME: then is sexy not
ME: idk fetish shit

JANE: jesus christ
JANE: what the fuck are you even saying you utter disgrace
JANE: stop

ME: are you nervous

JANE: no
JANE: i’m angry
JANE: which I guess is my version of nervous

ME: cute

JANE: don’t do that 

***

They make it in time, if only just. Scott took over and pinned his cufflinks in place. A knock hits the door exactly forty-five minutes after she left, on the dot. 

Nancy’s voice, muffled: “Call time.”

Yeah. Showtime. 

“This is going to be fucking sick.” 

***

The overlords peel off Scott almost the moment they get downstairs, presumably to do his own media hell. Nancy, however, sticks to Ilya. It seems that whoever was in charge of the logistics of this mess made sure to put their most grizzled veteran on Ilya. Smart. 

“Player holding,” she says. “Let’s move.”

***

Player holding is, technically, a green room. Workably, it’s a in impromptu pen for NHL players and their handlers. 

Which is not to say that it’s not fancy. Low couches. High-top tables. Bottled water, absolutely no booze, a buffet calibrated for hockey brains: protein, carbs, zero joy.  Along one wall is a wardrobe rack packed with supplies he can’t name or guess the function of. Along the other is hair and makeup—ring lights, chairs, a small army of stylists moving with calm, lethal efficiency. They’ve seen everything. They’re not impressed by fame. They’re just here to do their jobs, earn their paychecks and go home. 

Not everybody’s in yet. A few seats are empty. The Bears are late, which is tradition. Hollander and his goalie are late too, which is… less normal. 

Ilya barely gets a second to take it in before Nancy hands him off to a makeup lady. 

“This one next, please, Dinah,” she says. 

“Hi, Dinah,” Ilya says, grinning down at her with as much charm as he can produce on command. She’s comfortably middle-aged and has a wedding ring, so she probably has kids in their teens at least. That narrows his approach. He widens his eyes, cocks his head, relaxes his shoulders; a picture of teenage nonchalance. “Be free to be as flashy as you like; match the outfit, yes?”

Dinah, the makeup lady, laughs like she’s heard worse. “Sit.”

After makeup—lamentably discrete, for all that it took forty minutes and a baffling amount of palettes, products and brushes—the tecchies whisk him off to mic him up. Typically, an easy enough affair, but not when he’s wearing such a slippery fabric. You can tell the outline of his abs through the shirt, never mind a wire. In the end, they opt for Bluetooth. 

“Don’t touch it,” the tech warns.

“I won’t,” Ilya says. “I respect your tiny robots.”

The tech pauses. “It’s not—okay. Great.”

Nancy reappears the second he’s done, like she’s been watching through a vent.

“Fifteen minutes,” she says. “Then you’re seated.”

“Seated where?” 

Too late; she’s stomped away, looking at her phone with a worried expression. Something, somewhere, is probably burning. 

Well, fifteen minutes are not nothing. Ilya shakes out his shoulders, adjusts his ridiculous shirt.

Scott undersold it. It’s a shirt that clearly communicates how much rather he’d be naked: dark gold silk that catches every bit of light, cut past his breastbone. The plunge is reinforced with a strip of fabric that adds weight to it, makes it so it stays where the designer wanted it to. Meaning: as open as physically possible without ruining the lines of the piece. It shows a clean slab of chest, collarbones, the edge of ink—everything Adidas paid for, basically. 

He’s already shucked the suit jacket and handed it off to some assistant to keep it from getting wrinkled or splashed or breathed on. Which means, shirt as it is, he’s easily the most naked person in the room. By a goddamn mile.

It’s nuts how unimaginative hockey players are. Granted, Ilya isn’t what anyone would call passionate about fashion, but he understands the point of it. The function. The boys understand pageantry too—just in their own language. Skates, jerseys, logos, sticks; the rituals are obsessive. It’s the same thing: presentation, performance, positioning.

And yet here they all are—millionaires, every one—in suits that don’t even fit. Jackets pulling at the buttons or hanging wide and ugly, sleeves too long, pant hems bunched over shoes. Even the handsome ones end up looking like sullen schoolboys. 

Before he loses what sense he has and starts going around the room, insulting everybody’s fashion choices, the Bears descend. It’s hard to tell who looks more like a bouncer at a strip club. Well, no, it’s not. It’s Hammer. It’s always Hammer. Cliff looks more like the bartender, or one of the dancing talent, and Seb, uncomfortable and ever dissatisfied by having to be away from his hot wife, could pass for a manager. 

“Holy shit,” Marly says. “Look at you.”

Ilya grins, does a little spin, makes the movement sharper than necessary; if he moves with enough force, the grizzly on his chest peeks out more, which feels appropriate in present company. 

“What the fuck are you wearing, Roz?” Hammer says. “I don’t know if you remember, but everything tonight is free. You won’t need to fuck your way out of a bill.” 

Ilya shrugs, extends the movements so the shirt moves with, shimmers over his body as it catches the light. Whatever they used to weave this silk, it’s fantastic. It looks and feels like they wove real gold through the strands, cool and shivery. 

“Always, you say this, and it so rarely ends up being true.” 

“Uh-huh.” Hammer’s gaze skates over him—professional, blunt. “You good?”

Ilya flashes teeth. “I’m having the time of my life.”

Hammer sighs, but doesn’t look all that relieved. “I mean—he’s not—this is what you want?” He gestures at Ilya’s shirt, his watch, gold at his neck. “This was your call?” 

Ilya cocks his head, frowns. “The fuck, Hams?” 

“He’s asking if you’re dressing to fit the role of Hunter’s sex pet,” Marly says, grin wide-wide-wide. A gun to his head, Ilya would think he’s cheerful. Maybe a bit amused. And yet—Maybe not. “No, sorry. You are dressed like a sex pet. He’s asking if you want to be.” 

Aaah. Ilya relaxes; the unease drains out of him. Around their little circle, twenty guys from all over the league go quiet, barely pretending they aren’t listening.

“I said time of my life, and I meant it,” he says, leaning in. “Most fun I’ve ever had. Also—the outfit is a brand deal.”

He hooks his fingers under the hem and lifts the shirt, up, up, then up some more just to be a pest. The silk is gossamer-thin, but the edges are reinforced with a heavier ribbon—weighted, structured, meant to shape the slippery material. Three familiar stripes are printed down the ribbon, unmistakable branding pretending to be discrete. 

He drops the shirt and tugs his waistband up. The elastic is branded, too. Half the room is staring at the unexpected and unasked for spectacle. Ilya grins and shifts around to give better access to the stylist marching his way. 

“Even my socks are Adidas,” he says. “So yeah. In this case—thank corporate America.” 

“My point stands, kid,” Hammer says quietly. “Even in regular circumstances, it’s good to have some distance from your—“ He waves an impatient hand. “—Whatever the fuck you made out of Hunter. You work together, live together, travel together. Whenever you want some space, Boston is a car ride away.” 

“My brother lives in New York,” Seb adds quietly. “You know Jack? No? He’s great. Has a cute wife, a cute cat and a board game collection that borders on psychotic. You’d be welcome to crash there.” 

And now Ilya is getting emotional, Jesus Christ. 

“I—“ Thankfully, they know him as well as anyone and can spot the signs of him getting overwhelmed. 

“Offer stands,” Hammer says. “Anytime. And, of course, if there are problems that need fixing, you’ll have your pick of volunteers.” 

“You’ll need to beat them off with a stick,” Marly mutters. “Sidsy most of all. He’s not happy this is how he finally got called up.” 

The aside is strange enough that he is jarred out of his discomfort. “What does Dima have to be upset about? He’s on the first line, and he’s killing it. Game against Calgary Outriders was a fucking bloodbath.” 

“He was supposed to be your winger, dipshit,” Marly says. “Well, to grow into it. Why do you think he stayed in the AHL for two years? You think nobody wanted him? Please.” He shrugs at Ilya’s appalled expression. “He’s doing alright; we found two emotional support rookie Russians to settle him.” 

“They’re not Russian you moron,” Sab says wearily. “Wierzbicki is Polish and Kassenov is Kazakh.” He turns to Ilya and shrugs, like, what can you do. “But they are babies. We got them from the Cubs. All goes well, we’ll draft them next year, stick them in the AHL.” 

Wow. Ilya has so many questions—

Only Nancy is walking in with Shane and a vaguely familiar player. The goalie, probably. Huh. Shane wasn’t exaggerating; the guy looks like a psycho. Normal enough on first glance, normal size and weight—not like Benny, the overgrown freak—but the cold lizard eyes are a lot. 

Hold on, why is Nancy marching in Hollander like he’s a captured German soldier about to be stood in front of a firing squad? Why is Nancy involved at all? Shouldn’t Shane have some mild-mannered French-Canadian woman gently escorting him to and fro? 

Did Hollander fuck something up? His grin widens, taking up what feels like the entire lower half of his face. Please, Lord, let Shane have made some sort of problem. By the look of him—face blank, eyes sharp, bundled into a grey suit that looks like some ridiculous private school uniform—he appears calm enough. Maybe a little grim, a little stern, but he’s an intense little fucker; you never can tell what’s going on in there. 

“Was a blast, boys, but I have to go,” Ilya says. “Catch you later.” 

Shane looks—Alright, he always looks handsome, that part is the same. Older, certainly, sartorial choices aside. Before, his seriousness came across as—sulky, maybe. Defensive and awkward. Now, he’s sharper, settled in with some new source of confidence. Not calm, never calm, but present and less concerned with taking up space. He doesn’t duck his head or curl inward, doesn’t downplay the build of his shoulders. And the freckles—They’re even darker, now that he has more of a tan. Spread across the bridge of his nose and up his cheekbones—he looks like he has makeup on. Like he brushed on the shimmery thing Svetlana and Sasha like. Jesus Christ. Maybe it’s best they went for the ugly suit, or there would be bloodshed. 

“Hallsy,” he calls when he’s close. He hasn’t stopped being the centre of attention since he landed in this fucking city; he barely registers that half the room is holding its breath, waiting for the fight they assume is coming. “Who picked your suit, Domna Anisimova?” 

Shane’s eyebrows arch, head twitching a little to the side. “Am I supposed to know who that is?” 

Oh, right. Ilya swallows a burst of embarrassment. Moving past it doesn’t seem to be on the table, either. Shane’s got that look in his eyes, locked into a weakness. Best brazen it out. “Blind Domna,” he says with as much dignity as he can muster. “Russian poet. Embarrassing that you don’t know, frankly.” 

His lips are twitching, the horrible little nightmare. “Right, sorry. I’ll just get onto catching up on—“ He glances down at his phone. “—Niche nineteenth-century Russian poetry?” 

Niche? Who is niche—“As you should. Not that the translations are any good, your horrible English ruins everything it touches.” Good god, Rozanov, shut your fucking mouth. “Anyway, back to your ugly suit.” 

“It’s fine,” Shane says, lips fully curved into a delighted smile. Nothing cheers him up like Ilya’s discomfort, ugh. “It doesn’t make me look like a rentboy, which helps.” 

Now back on firmer ground, Ilya relaxes. “Excuse you, what boy? At most, I am rentman.” He rolls his shoulders, shifts this way and that to show off the outfit. “Also, I do not understand what rules even are. Adidas dressed me like this and paid me money to do it. By that logic, I am selling—“ He sweeps his hand in a wide gesture. “—Sex. Broadly. But this is not, somehow, sex work.” 

“Oh, boy, I’m not sure the world is ready for Ilya Rozanov: sex-worker rights advocate.” He continues before Ilya can think of a response—good thing too, because he was coming up empty. “Also, you’ve been ignoring my goalie. That’s fucking rude.” 

Ilya hums, cocks his head, looks the man up and down. He’s shorter than Ilya, around five eleven, but the dead eyes are good at suggesting that he doesn’t expect this to be any impediment to him roasting Ilya’s lungs on a spit. It’s an interesting look, a little familiar. Scott does something similar on occasion, but he is too fundamentally civilised. Sasha, though. Sasha can get like this. 

He’s flying down the day after tomorrow, isn’t he? That will be a fun introduction. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” Ilya says finally, sticking out his hand like a gentleman. The man—Vinnie, apparently—inclines his head, accepts the handshake. Doesn’t try to do the bro backslap—point in his favour—but doesn’t look any more or less inclined to flip his shit and kill them all. “Ilya Rozanov.” 

“We met,” the man says. He has a pleasant voice, interestingly. Not deep, not high. Average, maybe, only resonant and rich.

Yes, well. “I am not good with names and faces,” Ilya says. “Probably was hit in the head too much.” 

“Is that so? Interesting.” 

Bless. 

“Do you like my shirt?” Ilya does another slow spin, preening as best he can. 

“I do. It’s very cleverly stitched.” 

He beams. “A man of refined taste. Everybody is slut shaming me since I put it on.” 

It’s working. Nothing specifically unthaws on the man’s face, but Ilya’s got a good nose about these things. Being weird is the way to go. 

“I am sorry to hear that. It will pass, once they learn how to appreciate displays of male eroticism.” 

Oof. Ilya may be in over his head with this one. He tilts his head. “Are you having fun?”

Viggy squints at the ring lights. “No.”

“Strong answer.”

“It’s too bright,” Viggy says. “And there’s too many feelings.”

Ilya laughs once. “And yet, you are Hallsy’s friend.” 

“I am, yes.” Then, pause. “Good luck.” 

“With what?”

Viggy looks toward the ballroom doors. “Not making it worse.”

Ilya’s grin goes sharp. “That is not my goal.”

“I know,” Viggy says. “That’s why he likes you.”

Shane, who’s been pretending not to listen, turns his head a fraction. “Vig.”

The man—Ilya can’t call him Viggy, he really can’t—doesn’t look away from Ilya. “What?”

“Don’t fucking what me, bud—“ 

“I do hate to interrupt, sirs,” Nancy says, voice snapping out like a whip. “But we are on a schedule. Mr Rozanov, you need to talk to the wardrobe assistants. Mr Hollander, Mr Vigneault, to the makeup station.“ 

Ilya shifts a step towards Shane, tilts his head like he’s whispering. “I do not think she hates to interrupt.” 

“Astutely observed, Watson—“ 

***

They are ushered into something that serves every function of a cattle chute with carpets and logos. So many logos. League logo. Sponsor logos. Host city. And, of course, there are the photographers. 

It’s really strange, Ilya thinks, as he is fed into the grinder, that regular, real celebrities handle stuff like this. Ilya is a fuckign hockey player, he is very comfortable with adrenaline and high-stress, confrontational situations—and he can barely keep a straight face. How do those tiny pop girls do it? The models, who basically do nothing else but stand and be screamed at by a horde of reporters. 

“Look right.” Flash. “Look left.” Flash.

A reporter gets one question in before someone physically shifts them along. “How excited are you to be here, Ilya?”

He shifts bodily towards him, which only ups the shouting, gives it a boost of greed. They wouldnt have expected him to engage at all. “Very excited. I love All-Star Weekend. Is fun.” He pauses for effect, hitching the corner of his lips sideways in a way that he was told makes him look roguish and no-good. “City is also fun, yes?” 

“And what about the—”

“Here, sir, we must move on.” 

God bless Nancy. 

***

Security wand. Credential check. Another credential check. Wardrobe. Final mic check. Finally, they are led into the ballroom. 

“Wow,” he tells Hollander under his breath. “They go for the big swinging dick vibe. Lots of respect.” 

It’s an understatement, if anything. The only thing louder than the money it cost to build this place is the total lack of taste of whoever designed it. The League clearly wanted modern. Techy. Clean lines. So they took a room that’s pure baroque fever dream—velvet, marble, gold everywhere—and jammed a sleek stage into the far end with two glossy podiums for the captains, one mark for the host, and a giant LED board behind them. 

Cameras are everywhere: tripods in the aisle, a roaming handheld crew, something overhead just in case the others miss something. Players get rows of seats up front—no round tables, because production wants clean sightlines and easy stand-ups when names are called. VIP tables sit behind them: owners, sponsors, the whole ecosystem. Press risers ring the perimeter, and beyond that the control booth zone—monitors, headsets, production. 

Ilya clocks Svetlana immediately in VIP. She’s wearing a pretty dress—tamer than he expected, tamer than her usual. Which, granted, “tame” for Tsvetik means something completely different than it does for the civilians, but still. It’s long and off-white, neither sheer nor low cut, leaving only her shoulders and arms bare. It’s classy. It’s the kind of dress you could slap onto any WASP trophy wife and call it a day. Her hair stands out. Her hair always stands out—untamed, unlikely, refusing to be normal—and then there’s her face, obviously. But she’s toned it down for some reason. Even her lips are painted a pretty, gentle pink. Interesting. He’d bet both his arms she’s going to change before the party later tonight. She doesn’t notice him staring. She’s deep in conversation with someone Ilya should probably recognise. Some corporate guy, by the look of him—money, but not ownership, not League suits. Sponsor-side.

“—Mister Hollander, Mister Vigneault, I will escort you to your seat. Mister Rozanov, please follow Katherine.” 

Oh, wow. Shane did do something, he’s sure of it. Something that got him in trouble with Nancy. 

“See you later, Hallsy,” he says, adding a grin. “I am very curious to hear about how today went for you.” 

***

The ceremony itself goes well enough. The host—a gorgeous blonde pop star who is eying the players with the lazy look of a woman at the peak of her strength, browsing the offerings on display—does her bit, makes her jokes, executes the scripted stunts with good grace. They mime a puck drop when it’s time to decide which captain will pick first. It’s all very embarrassing. 

Mason wins the toss and takes his teammate first—Felix Hartman, goalie. Typical. 

Scott steps up next and doesn’t even pretend to think about it. “Ilya Rozanov.”

The room laughs like it’s cute. The cameras swing to him. Ilya stands, tilts his lips into a sideways smile, keeps his eyes hooded. He debated adding some sway to his hips, really gaying shit up, but decided against it. Even if he could pull it off without a hitch—which he is not at all sure of—it could come across as mocking the wrong people. 

He nods where he should, puts on the jersey they made for the event. Turns, grins wide, toothy, gives the photographers some time to work. Shift, shift, shift. 

Then he’s guided into Scott’s team corner, leaning forward, thrilled. 

Mason takes Evgeny Kuzminsky. Smart move. Zhenya is a beast and surprisingly even-tempered for such a bitchy player. 

Then it’s Scott’s turn. He picks—

“Shane Hollander.” 

Bless them. Bless all of them. Nobody expected it, certainly not Shane. A legit hush falls onto the audience, as forty players, most of who’s who in the behind-the-scenes stuff—and, of course, everyone who is watching this live fucking broadcast. The applause, when it comes, is uncertain, but picking up. Marly is laughing, loud and obnoxious, which always brings the mood up. That loser can bray with the best of them. 

Ilya doesn’t hide how delighted he is when Shane makes his way up to the team corner, looking composed except for the tension in his shoulders, the frantically recalibrating look in his eyes. He’s encountered an unexpected social situation, and his OS crashed, the poor thing. 

Ilya gives him half a second to sit, exhale, inhale—Now. He elbows him. Not hard. Just enough to say hi. Just enough to be a pest.

Shane doesn’t even look at him—just elbows back, perfectly timed. 

Ilya’s smile widens. It’s on, asshole. He escalates. Shoulder bump. Shane answers with a shoulder bump. Ilya leans in like he’s about to whisper something obscene; Shane leans in too, then realises there’s nothing coming and huffs, annoyed.

They both adjust in their seats with exaggerated innocence, and then immediately do it again. Ilya flicks Shane’s knee with his own. Shane retaliates by nudging Ilya’s thigh, sharp and efficient. Ilya goes, “Oof,” silently, because he’s dramatic, and Shane’s mouth twitches 

They’re still doing it—two grown men in suits, playing slap-fight like twelve-year-olds—when Scott clears his throat into the mic. 

The audience laughs.

Ilya stops trying to faux-discretely dig his knuckles into Shane’s ribs, and straightens, widening his eyes and putting on a polite, innocent smile. Who? Me? I’ve never done anything wrong in my life. How dare you accuse me of this? I don’t even like causing problems. 

Mason picks Marly. Scott picks Hammer. Mason picks Seb.  Ilya stops tracking after that, because the only thing that matters has already happened.

This is going to be fantastic. 

Chapter End Notes

All-star weekend

Who qualifies + how they get picked

Clean timeline
Mon Jan 9 — Fan Headliners announced (fan vote)
Thu Jan 12 — League announces full All-Star Pool (42 total)
Wed Jan 18 — League announces the two captains (voted by players/participants)
Thu Jan 26 — Live fantasy draft (teams formed)
Sat Jan 28 — Skills Night
Sun Jan 29 — All-Star Game

Who chooses the All-Stars in this AU (2012 setup)

1) Fans choose 6 “Headliners” (guaranteed) — Mon Jan 9
Ilya Rozanov (F) — New York Admirals
Scott Hunter (F) — New York Admirals (C)
Shane Hollander (F) — Montreal Voyageurs(C)
Cliff Marlowe (F) — Boston Bears
Felix Hartman (G) — Toronto Guardians
Derrick Mayhart (D) — Vancouver Orcas (C)

2) League chooses the rest of the pool (36) — Thu Jan 12
Luca Martens (G) — New Jersey Gulls
Pascal Vigneault (G) — Montreal Voyageurs
Carter Vale (G) — Los Angeles Paladins
Marek Jansson (G) — Chicago Hounds
Isak Lövgren (G) — Vancouver Orcas
Émile Desrochers (D) — Ottawa Centaurs (C)
Julian Crowe (D) — Los Angeles Paladins (C)
Adam Wilson (D) — San Jose Quakes (C)
Viktor Sokolov (D) — Chicago Hounds (C)
Reece Tanner (D) — Anaheim Hammerheads (C)
Félix Desmarais (D) — Colorado Yetis (C)
Sebastian Rourke (D) — Boston Bears
Keegan Shaw (D) — Philadelphia Hammers
Parker Sloane (D) — Phoenix Rattlers (C)
Mason Albright (F) — Toronto Guardians (Captain; All-Star Captain)
Luke Carver (F) — Buffalo Tridents (C)
Brad Hammersmith (D) — Boston Bears (C)
Erik Nyström (F) — Minnesota Loons (C)
Evgeny Kuzminsky (F) — Winnipeg Frost (C)
Coleman Briggs (F) — Dallas Outlaws (C)
Caleb Mercer (F) — Long Island Mariners (C)
Nico Álvarez (F) — Tampa Breakers (C)
Tate Hennigan (F) — Hartford Scouts
Jace Laughton (F) — Pittsburgh Hornets
Rafiq Calloway (F) — Washington Sentinels
Quinn Delvecchio (F) — New Jersey Gulls
Mateo Sanz (F) — Florida Pelicans
Yannick Bichsel (F) — Carolina Cyclones
Tomasz Nowak (F) — Columbus Blades (C)
Wade Callahan (F) — Nashville Strings (C)
Matej Kovač (F) — Calgary Outriders
Juho Halmetoja (F) — San Jose Quakes
Rihards Vilsons (F) — San Francisco Seals (C)
Finn O’Hara (D) — Ottawa Centaurs
Jules Beaumont (F) — Chicago Hounds
Moritz Kappel (F) — St. Louis Archers

Captains — Jan 20
Chosen by the players:
Scott Hunter (F) — New York Admirals
Mason Albright (F) — Toronto Guardians

Live fantasy draft — Thu Jan 26

Teams

Team Albright
Captain:Mason Albright — Toronto Guardians

Goalies (3)
Felix Hartman (G) — Toronto Guardians
Luca Martens (G) — New Jersey Gulls
Carter Vale (G) — Los Angeles Paladins

Defense (6)
Derrick Mayhart (D) — Vancouver Orcas (C)
Julian Crowe (D) — Los Angeles Paladins (C)
Adam Wilson (D) — San Jose Quakes (C)
Parker Sloane (D) — Phoenix Rattlers (C)
Félix Desmarais (D) — Colorado Yetis (C)
Finn O’Hara (D) — Ottawa Centaurs

Forwards (12)
Mason Albright (F) — Toronto Guardians (C)
Cliff Marlowe (F) — Boston Bears
Erik Nyström (F) — Minnesota Loons (C)
Evgeny Kuzminsky (F) — Winnipeg Frost (C)
Caleb Mercer (F) — Long Island Mariners (C)
Nico Álvarez (F) — Tampa Breakers (C)
Wade Callahan (F) — Nashville Strings (C)
Rihards Vilsons (F) — San Francisco Seals (C)
Jace Laughton (F) — Pittsburgh Hornets
Quinn Delvecchio (F) — New Jersey Gulls
Mateo Sanz (F) — Florida Pelicans
Matej Kovač (F) — Calgary Outriders

Team Hunter
Captain: Scott Hunter — New York Admirals

Goalies (3)
Pascal Vigneault (G) — Montreal Voyageurs
Marek Jansson (G) — Chicago Hounds
Isak Lövgren (G) — Vancouver Orcas

Defense (6)
Brad Hammersmith (D) — Boston Bears (C)
Émile Desrochers (D) — Ottawa Centaurs (C)
Viktor Sokolov (D) — Chicago Hounds (C)
Reece Tanner (D) — Anaheim Hammerheads (C)
Sebastian Rourke (D) — Boston Bears
Keegan Shaw (D) — Philadelphia Hammers

Forwards (12)
Scott Hunter (F) — New York Admirals (C)
Ilya Rozanov (F) — New York Admirals
Shane Hollander (F) — Montreal Voyageurs (C)
Luke Carver (F) — Buffalo Tridents (C)
Tomasz Nowak (F) — Columbus Blades (C)
Coleman Briggs (F) — Dallas Outlaws (C)
Moritz Kappel (F) — St. Louis Archers
Rafiq Calloway (F) — Washington Sentinels
Tate Hennigan (F) — Hartford Scouts
Juho Halmetoja (F) — San Jose Quakes
Yannick Bichsel (F) — Carolina Cyclones
Jules Beaumont (F) — Chicago Hounds

Chapter 13

Chapter Notes

Dont even start with the chapter count. I should have known. It always goes like this. If i miss my blessed, well-loved, rarely embraced 20k exit, its alway a straight plummet into hell and despair.

What was i supposed to do? have a 10k chapter??

Ugh. I am weak.

Jan 24, 2013

The draft wraps the way these things always wrap: slowly, then all at once. One moment it’s stage lights and cameras and cheesy little media segments; the next the host is thanking sponsors, the captains are waving, and everyone’s being herded into place to smile on cue.

Then again, Ilya is hardly a reliable witness, so who even knows—maybe it wasn’t abrupt at all. He had better things to think about than whatever the League writers decided counted as a joke. Like fucking around with Shane and Vig as loudly and obnoxiously as he could without Scott shooting him those exhausted looks.

Man, what a shitshow this event is going to be. All-Star games always have a surplus of captains, but usually it balances out—enough vets to soak up the ego, enough rookies to absorb the yelling. This year? Not so much. He and Shane are the youngest by a mile. After them it’s Derrick Mayhart at twenty-six—also a fan-vote darling—then Vig at twenty-seven, and from there it’s just a gentle slope into middle age and authority issues. Most of these guys are used to leadership. They’re professionals, sure, trained to be chill and whatever, but only up to a point. Some of them have worn a C for a decade. That’s a long time to get comfortable having at least a couple of rookies to boss around. So what happens when there aren’t any? Are they all going to try ordering Mayhart around? Are they going to try it with Shane?

Christ, he hopes so. That would be hilarious. Shane’s all knife under that polite Canadian wrapper. The first guy who tries to big-dog him is going to end up in the hospital after--as a result of several strange, unfortunate, entirely avoidable accidents--someone skates over his bare neck. 

As if that wasn’t enough, Scott then had to go and pick the most unhinged group ever to have existed. On top of having chosen Ilya, Shane, Hammer, Seb and Vig as his one-through-five picks, he also got Viktor Sokolov, Reece Tanner and Coleman Briggs. It’s going to be a bloodbath. Hammer will snap and kill them all in three minutes, and every jury on the globe will send him home with a thank-you note and a cash prize. 

“C’mon kid, up and at ‘em,” Scott says, once the techs have finished taking off their mikes and such. “Hallsy, hey. Hate to interrupt, but the reception is starting in less than an hour, and a time to shower and change would be greatly appreciated. We’ll catch up as soon as we get back down, yeah?” 

Ilya’s grin grows wider, against all probability. That’s sweet. He has a call with Fyodor Avraamovich scheduled, and Scott’s giving him a way out. 

“Of course, yeah,” Shane says, with a blank smile. Bless. The guy can mess around with Ilya until the cows go home, but put him in front of a player he  admires and he turtles inwards, right back into awkwardness. “No worries, man. The night is young, etcetera.” 

“Well said, Rook. We’ll be sure to find you when we’re back. You’ve had a killer season so far, by the by; we’ve had your games on as often as our schedule allowed.” Scott turns to Ilya and hitches his eyebrows, like, well? “If you’re waiting for Svetlana, no need. She’s already upstairs, getting ready.” 

Oh, boy. He can’t wait to see—Lanka doesn’t miss, and she doesn’t waste time. Whatever her reason to step away from her succubus persona, it’s going to be interesting. 

“I hope you ordered room service, because I refuse nibbles for dinner.”

Ilya bounces on his heels and gives Shane a light punch in the shoulder—something casual, something easy—pushing straight through the awkwardness of… well. The obvious. This is the first time they’ve been out in public together, and he has no idea what the rules are for appropriate physical behavior.

“See you in a bit, Hallsy.” He leans in for a bro-hug and adds under his breath, “I have therapy call in five. Is why we have to run.” 

Shane gives him a strange, wide-eyed look. He thinks its a bit impressed around the edges. “You can—Over the phone?” 

“In this sport? Is almost always on the phone.” He leans back, grins at the Unseelie-goalie. “Are you coming to the party, Vig?” 

“Not even for a minute. Some horrors are best left unexplored.” 

“Is what I thought. Remember what the best thing on room service menu is, yes? We will do the same, and compile findings tomorrow.” 

“I will keep careful notes.” 

He probably will, too, and they will be as strange and impenetrable as he is. Viggy looks like he could either be genuinely illiterate or like a man who invented his own language for cryptography purposes. 

“Alright, later boys. Be good.” 

There really isn’t much time to get ready once his thirty-five minutes with Fedya are up. They steer carefully around opening any doors that would take significant time and pain to close again, and stick to the practical stuff instead: how to stay focused through a boring conversation, how to keep emotional distance, how to hold on to his self-possession, how to spot the moment a reaction starts and clamp down before it blooms into a scene, et cetera. It feels a little like a doomed effort, but progress is progress, and there’s no point being precious about it. If Ilya can’t run his own life, the least he can do is stop actively sabotaging the people who can.

Buoyed by these newly acquired skills, he doesn’t insist that Scott wait for him—thereby implying they spent the last hour having unhinged, morally challenging sex—and sends him ahead. Even a maniac like Ilya can navigate a hotel without getting into trouble, especially when the promise of entertainment at the venue is stronger than anything he could find by wandering off on his own.

What, is he going to get drunk in some shitty bar and hit on strangers when there’s a fancy cocktail party happening right now—with Scott, Shane, Svetlana, and at least one Boston Bear in attendance, if not all three? Please.

As it happens, finding his way is made even easier by the League staffer lurking right outside his suite. Ilya cocks his head, looks him up and down. Most of him is typically bland and irrelevant, but the wide eyes and somewhat slack expression are telling. 

“Did Scott send you—“ He peers closer. “John?” 

“Ah. Yes, Mr Rozanov. Mr Hunter asked if I could—escort you.” 

Oof. No wonder the guy is rattled. 

“Good man. We go presently.” 

The party is not what he expected.

It’s prettier, for one. Prettier and miles fancier, formal in a way that doesn’t quite fit the occasion: marble floors, high ceilings, warm wood walls, everything sleek and minimal. At one end, a string quartet and a little patch of space reserved—presumably—for dancing. A couple of pairs are already swaying in something waltz-adjacent while the quartet plays Bach. Hacks. Good thing Sasha isn’t here; he’d be halfway to arson over the mismatch between the music and the dance.

The bar and buffet anchor the far side. There are proper dining tables nearby, then sofas and low tables along one wall, high-tops and stools on the other. It’s set up for mingling, for hovering, for being seen. The cameras aren’t in your face like earlier tonight, but they’re still here—photographers milling about, faux discrete, every bit as dangerous. 

Alright. That’s enough of the room. Who cares about the room—except the buffet part, which looks very promising—when the important part are the people? 

Scott first, because Scott is always first. He’s off to the side with his back to the wall, quiet rumble of his voice so familiar by now, Ilya could close his eyes and find him at a thousand paces. The knot around him looks important in that casual way real power tends to share. Whether it's earned or not is irrelevant; what matters is that it’s backed up, and it’s been that way for a while. 

Scott’s suit is different now, miles better than the tux from earlier—dark, perfectly cut, expensive in a restrained, unconcerned way. The dark blue shirt makes his eyes look bright and cold. With the beard and the shaggy hair, he looks like an old-money sea-captain; the kind of man who would absolutely throw you off the ship and watch you drown with mild, dispassionate interest.

Sasha did this, Ilya thinks, pleased. Scott would never.

Across the room, Hammer, Marly, and Seb are in a loose hockey cluster with a couple other guys, shoulders bumped together, stiff and uncomfortable. A little way to the right of him is Shane, in a cluster of his own. He’s talking to two men even Ilya recognizes as capital-I Important. Tense shoulders and unhappy expression aside, he seems to be holding his own. He’s lost his hideous tie, which heps,  and slung his jacket over his shoulders. The fancy watch sits easily on his wrist, as do a couple of rings he hadn’t noticed before. Silver–or platinum–clean and minimal. Suits him. 

Alright, Ilya thinks. That’s the map. Safe harbor, idiot friends, Shane doing Adult Things. What do you do, in a setting like this? You find your fucking rock. 

Scott sees him coming. He doesn’t break away from his conversation, doesn’t do anything as rude as that. Instead, he reassigns his attention, wholly and without shame. His eyes flick to Ilya and stay there, even while he’s in the middle of some anecdote or other. It’s not subtle and it’s not meant to be. Good, Ilya thinks, immediately smug. Good and correct. Favorite status: confirmed.

Much  like his attention, Ilya's space at Scott’s side is guaranteed. As he arrives, Scott shifts with, sweeps out with an arm and tucks him close, hand landing at the small of his back. Steady, warm pressure. I’ve got you. True to form, Ilya preens, relaxes, not quite melting into his side but implying as much. 

“Indulge a digression: I don’t think you’ve met Ilya—“

Paying attention to introductions is both beyond him and, frankly, unnecessary. The sharks certainly don’t expect it. Scott follows a predictable pattern—husband, wife, husband, wife, single woman—and Ilya shakes and kisses hands on schedule, his most pleasant smile in place. The one that suggests all his available mental real estate is currently occupied by playing back snapshots of all the dick he’s getting on the regular.

The only reliable way for him to not make a scene is to avoid interacting with men for longer than absolutely necessary. The wives aren’t much safer, but at least they’re more interesting. Nobody’s trying to pretend they’re twenty-two. Nobody’s doing trophy-wife cosplay. Camille looks like she could run a disciplined, ruthless barbarian horde; Lauren—if that’s her name—reads as her treacherous but competent second-in-command.

“To live to see the day when a hockey player is wearing couture,” Camille says. “And pulling it off, too. Cesca has done you justice, and you, her.”

Right.

“I am in-cen-ti-vi-zed to behave,” he says, jerking his head discreetly toward Scott. “Scott worked hard to make the collaboration happen. Least I can do is wear what Adidas gives me.”

“Adidas in collaboration with Gucci’s creative director,” she says. “Meaning Francesca Giordani—Ah. But, it doesn't matter, does it? It’s not like you care.”

“I do not, no,” he says, inclining his head. “Again, Scott is generous with rewards, so I agree, but we are all hockey players in the end. I am happiest in sweatpants and a hoodie.” He pauses, theatrical and ridiculous. “In situations  where clothes are required, of course.” 

That earns him a real laugh—Camille’s, and one from Lauren too, softer like she’s surprised she’s amused.

One of the men tries to hook him, draw him into conversation—something about the season, about handling attention, about how he’s “adapting”—and Ilya doesn’t take the bait. He turns to Camille instead, like she asked, like she’s the only person he can hear.

 “Did you know,” he says, “that once my skates got tangled with another guy’s when we went into the boards. They had to cut us apart. Nobody could even figure out how it happened.”

“Did you enjoy it? Predicament bondage sounds like your type of trouble.”

Bless you, lady, he thinks, delighted. And bless Ilya’s big mouth. It’s done more to inflate his reputation than he ever could’ve managed himself.

“Hockey gear is predicament bondage even when everything goes right,” Ilya says, nose wrinkling. “Also, no. Cold, ice, and most hockey players are ugly. This one was a big, smelly Finn.”

For a few minutes, it works exactly how it’s meant to: Scott handles the suits, Ilya keeps the wives entertained, and nobody asks him a question that would drive him to make a scene out of principle. And then Scott’s hand presses—quiet cue, enough, we’re done—and Ilya lets him steer them out of the circle. The hand stays on the small of his back, gentle and possessive. It's debatable if Scott is even aware of the implications but Ilya certainly is. Aware and drowning in the attention they're getting.

Go ahead. Look. Fucking die choking—

They finish with Rafi Singh—Toronto Guardians, governor, the kind of man who smiles like he’s never felt shame in his life—and his wife Ayesha, who has the steady, quiet presence of a woman who has apologized for him before, in public and in private, and expects she’ll have to do it again.

Unlike the corpo people earlier, Singh actually knows hockey players—knows them well enough to be thrown. Scott, on his own, is easy: he’s already established himself as the rare adult in the room. It’s the way he’s interacting with Ilya that throws Singh off–to say nothing of how Ilya is, himself, behaving. Singh keeps searching for the trick, the joke, the missing explanation—why they’re doing this, acting like this, dressed like that, why any of this is happening in their nice, straight, manly sport.

Yeah.

Keeping his fangs behind his lips is taking most of Ilya’s processing power, and he doesn’t even get the delight of being treated as Scott’s significant other to bolster his mood. Singh keeps trying to draw him in, keeps reaching for the script—season, pressure, adaptation—and keeps bugging out when Ilya won’t play along.

Ayesha gives them an exit ramp in the end, thank Christ. Even Scott is starting to lose his patience for Singh’s stubborn refusal to meet them where they are.

“Jesus Christ,” Scott says once they’re finally free. “That was fucking miserable. Food. C’mon.”

The food is real food—small plates, expensive tiny things, but actually filling, actually tasty—and Ilya jumps at the distraction. Booze would help, but drinking in enemy territory is rookie shit. Scott gets tonic with lime and ice, that can pass for vodka. Ilya goes for apple juice. Svetlana finds them right as they finish whatever the fuck a compressed citrus salad is. Ilya knows salads. Salads are usually less delicious and come with a lot less steak.

Well, now this is a sight for sore eyes.

He’s only seen the outfit from afar, but that was enough to tell she’s escalated it significantly since. The cape is gone, which makes it easier to appreciate the dress— not white, but a very, very pale gold. It’s long and severe, closed at the throat, following the lines of her body without pause or mercy. Put it on a suburban trophy wife, she would look like she’s headed to church. On Svetlana, she looks like she’s about to buy the town and fuck the priest.

Her hair is pinned up high, presumably to steer the eye straight to the outrageous gold collar around her neck. Jesus Christ, the collar. That has to be borrowed, lent for the evening by some jewelry house. Svetlana is comfortably wealthy, sure, but not “casually wearing a millions around her neck” wealthy. Tens of millions, who even knows. That's a lot of gold. 

It isn’t delicate—that much metal couldn’t pull off delicate, no matter how fine the filigree—but it fits her so perfectly it reads as gauzy. Like someone cast a spiderweb in gold and wrapped it around her throat with magic. How she got it on is beyond him. How she’s wearing it without losing her mind is even more so. Simply breathing looks like it would require specialised training, possibly from a counterespionage agency. 

He’s heard people joke that rich men put their daughters in posture collars and never believed it. Watching Svetlana move in that thing, he’s starting to understand where the idea came from. And she’s making it look like it’s nothing.

She kisses them both—three times, first Ilya, then Scott, identical greeting down to the angle of her jaw. Like the outfit, the greeting is more contained than is her usual. When she wants to, Lanka can radiate sex like a heater and make the whole room sweat. This is something else. It’s quieter. A different kind of power.

“Look at you,” Ilya says, delighted. “What is the plan–No, do not tell me. I guess. Giving the signal to begin a short but bloody civil war?”

“Now, now, darling, do not joke. You know how sensitive Americans can be about these things.” She reaches out, tugs Ilya’s shirt this way and that, adjusting the plunge. Even her nails are painted gold, matte and sharp. “I am on my best behavior tonight, as I expect you to be.” 

Scott’s mouth twitches. “Not at all ominous.”

“Tonight is a big night.” She glances at the room with a relaxed, even smile, then circles around and tucks herself on Scott’s free arm. “We must behave appropriately.”

Ilya huffs a laugh. “You? Appropriate?”

“I always act appropriately for the outcome I intend, my love. Regrettably, the outcome I intend is not always the outcome other people would prefer.” Her attention skims his drink, lips tipping in a private smile. “I could explain, but it would take an age, and we would both be bored to tears well before the conclusion.”

Well, that’s certainly true. Ilya huffs and gives up. She’s right; its none of his business and, moreover, now is not the time. 

He settles, smiles. They match—him and Svetlana in gold, framing Scott’s black with that slash of blue. Deliberate. Not Western. Old-country, flag-and-anthem shit: white, blue, red, only translated into silk and linen. He should be grateful she didn’t decide to make it imperial and drape Scott in purple.

He looks around.

Appropriately, the attention on them is as intense as it is different from what he’s used to. At the Winter Classic people stared openly. Here the players are watching, but the other half of the room isn’t the sort to stare. These people aren’t interested in the fact that Scott has a man and a woman on each arm, whoever they happen to be. They aren’t interested in Ilya’s sexuality, his dramatics. If anything, the scandal of it is quaint. 

Yeah. Maybe Ilya is starting to understand Svetlana’s shift in posture, in performance. These people aren’t interested in her beauty, her sex appeal, or even her wealth in themselves. What they do admire, is the fact that she can communicate all three the way they respect: quiet, impeccable, implied. 

“Do you need me to do something?”

“Scott and I are here to network, darling,” she says. “You are here to do what you are best at. Be pretty, be sweet, be an asset”

Ilya shifts forward a little, takes a long, theatrical look at her neck. He wouldn’t have guessed in a million years that the message she was sending was compliance, but what does he know? Corporate people have unpredictable blind spots. Maybe they would see a carnivore with gold looped around its throat and think: tamed.

“Shocked you did not find a collar for me, also. Maybe something with a ring and a lead.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, dearest. You are drinking apple juice. You couldn't better signal that you like being told what to do if you consulted an expert.” 

He barks a laugh, can’t help it. It rings well with Scotts quiet but heartfelt sigh. Poor man. 

“True. I nevertheless appreciate how your tasks are always what I most enjoy doing.”

“What is that saying–Happy wife, happy life?” 

Bless. With permission to check out given and confirmed, Ilya stops paying attention to the suits and sharks, and refocuses on the players. Bingo. Across the room, he catches Shane’s eyes. For a second, he lets the sharp smile soften—lets it turn into something more obviously amused, almost self-aware. Look at this fucking clown show, the look says. Can you believe this? It lasts maybe two beats before Shane’s agent tugs him back into conversation, but Shane’s mouth quirks, and he looks—if not relaxed—then at least less miserable than he did a minute ago.

Someone drifts in from the side with the careful approach of a person whose job is to be pleasant without ever getting close. Adidas. The rep congratulates Ilya, says something smooth about the night, asks a nothing question that merts a nothing answer that Ilya gives. Svetlana’s eyes flick to him, gleam. Oh. There it is.

“My love, I think your friends are trying to get your attention,” she says brightly. 

They’re not, obviously, and nobody thinks they are, least of all the Adidas rep, but its smooth as far as polite fictions go.

Ilya, having done his job—demonstrated his obedience—takes the out, and leaves them to focus on their part: demonstrating competence.

The Bears are easy to spot: a familiar huddle of discomfort and impatience. Derrick Mayhart is with them too, looking as perpetually startled as ever. He looks, all at once, high, scared, and haunted by the ghosts of his ancestors. 

Ilya slides in like he belongs there. 

“Roz, light of my light, fruit of my loins,” Marly says, loud enough to carry. “You finally decide to stop doing whatever the fuck that was with Hunter and the smoke—”

Hammer physically shudders. Full-body, eyes squeezed shut, palms clenched tight like he’s begging God for mercy. “Don’t call Vetrov’s kid a smokeshow in front of me, Marlowe. Don’t you fucking dare.”

Marly’s grin widens. “Oh, that’s Vetrov’s kid? I had no idea. You were so discrete about it, Hams, swear to god. Really played this one close to your chest.”

Hammer opens his eyes, expression hollowed out. “Vetrov’s baby girl,” he repeats, flat. “His only child. I know you think you’re hilarious, but I promise you that this is not the type of trouble you want to court.” 

Ilya stops in the middle of them, delighted. “Oh shit,” he says. “Did I forget to mention Lanka before?”

Seb’s sigh is deep, heartfelt, exhausted. “Yeah, kid, you forgot to mention her. A fact that hasn't haunted our brave captain’s dreams at all.”

Hammer points his drink at Ilya so hard the contents slosh out. It’s not booze, but it might as well be, with how messy and wild-eyed he looks. “You know he was my captain when I got drafted,” Hammer says. “You know how fucking terrifying he was. I don’t—” His mouth twists. “If anything, I’m impressed Hunter can still walk. That he can still draw breath. Jesus wept.”

There’s a beat of silent agreement from the cluster. Even Mayhart nods, solemn.

“Yeah,” Ilya says. “No. Crazy how that slipped my mind.”

“It slipped your mind,” Seb repeats, voice thick with disbelief, staring past Ilya’s shoulder—toward where Scott and Svetlana are still standing, arm in arm, picture-perfect, power-couple immaculate. “How a woman like that slips your mind, I will never know.”

“Telling you slipped my mind,” Ilya corrects, bright. “She’s like the air or the sun. Family. That’s probably why I never thought to mention her, you know?”

Hammer makes a miserable sound. “Don’t say that. That makes it worse.”

“She and Sasha and I grew up together,” Ilya continues. “Since I was six. She taught me that ice is hard, bodies of other children are soft, and how I should marshall those two axioms to cement my place in the hierarchy.” 

Mayhart’s eyebrows climb. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ilya says, proud. “She is a gifted teacher.”

Mayhart’s gaze flicks again, involuntarily, over to Svetlana—then to Scott—then back to Ilya. “And she and you—” he starts, then stops, realising there’s no safe way to finish that sentence.

Ilya grins, wide and toothy. This one is turning out more interesting than he would have expected to find in the captain of the Orcas. “Svetlana gets everything she wants out of everyone she wants,” he says. “Always. It’s best not to think about it too much, just pray that she wants something from you that you have to give.”

Marly, the bravest and craziest of his Bears, laughs, all awe. Mayhart exhales, a short, exhausted sound. “That’s– deeply upsetting, man.”

“Not really,” Ilya says cheerfully. “Anyway. Hello. You are also here.”

Mayhart’s expression shifts—less scandalised now, more professional. He steps in properly, offering that practised hockey warmth that still smells like locker room. “Hey, Roz,” he says. “Youve been having a hell of a season.”

Ilya brightens immediately. “Thank you.”

Mayhart’s expression goes careful for a second, like he’s picking his words with caution, turning each one over in his mind to inspect for parts that can be misunderstood as homophobia. “Sucks what happened to you,” he adds. “But—yeah. You look like you landed on your feet.”

Ilya tilts his head, amused. “What does that mean, Hartsy?”

Mayhart’s eyes flick past him again—quick, shameless—toward Scott and Svetlana. “I don’t know, Roz,” he says, deadpan. “It looks to me like you’re doing alright for yourself.” Then, with the boldness of a man who has decided he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, he adds: “Rumour has it there’s another Russian twink in your den of sin and debauchery.”

Hammer makes a noise like he just aspirated a peanut, Seb’s face does that delighted-horrified thing where he’s fighting a laugh with his whole body. Marly doesn’t even pretend. He chokes out ‘another’ and loses it, lough ringing out bright and irritating. Fair enough. Being called a twink by this slim, doll-faced boy, with his round blue eyes and pouty, bitten-red mouth, is a lot. Ilya has twenty kilos on him, and that's being generous. 

“Look at you,” he says, impressed as hell. “Kitten has claws.”

“Don’t call me kitten, you freak.” 

“I wasn’t familiar with your game, kid,” Ilya continues, ignoring that entirely. “Good work.”

Mayhart squints at him. “Kid?” He gestures to himself, incredulous. “Sorry—whose the kid here, precisely? Surely not me. I’m five years older than you.”

“Kid in spirit,” Ilya says serenely. “And in face. Look at you.” He points at Mayhart’s eyes with his glass as best he can. “Those big round eyes. Like a tiny Victorian orphan. Like a sickly chimney sweep.”

Mayhart stares at him. “Victorian orphan.”

“Victorian orphan captain,” Ilya corrects, generous. “Very inspiring.”

Marly snorts. “He’s got you there, Hart.”

Mayhart twists to the side, eyes even rounder and more astonished, somehow. “No he hasn’t. He hasn’t gotten me anywhere. What the fuck are you talking about?” He gestures at himself. “I’m five-eleven. I’m a D-man and won the–You know what? No. I’m not engaging.” He points vaguely at Ilya, then the Bears, an all-encompassing gesture of outrage. “This is cursed nonsense and I’d appreciate it if you'd all stop saying odd shit.”

“This is us at our best behavior, kid,” Hammer says, hilariously solemn. “Trust that I’d like nothing more than to be literally anywhere else. But unfortunately we’re here for the same reason you are.”

“Which is?”

Hammer points at Ilya. “Because this one has spun so much chaos that the after-party of the fucking All-Star game draft has every big sponsor in the league here, and half of ownership besides.” 

Huh. Who would have guessed Hammer was so dialed into the politics of it all? Ilya certainly hadnt been, while he wore the Bears’ C. 

“So if we have to suffer through this,” Hammer goes on, “it’s better to focus on Roz’s outrageous love life than on the fact that his—” He pauses, searching for a word and finding only despair. “—whatever the fuck Hunter and Svetlana Vetrova are to him are currently talking to Graham Weller from Apple and Darian Holt from Visa.”

Seb rubs a hand over his face. “I hate it here.”

Ilya, bright and carefully brainless, escalates his grin. “Oh, Scott and I spoke to Holt earlier,” he says. “His wife is nice. A proper killer.” He nods with sincere approval. “She might actually email me her recipe for spinach quiche. She seemed pretty amused by the idea and looks like the type of woman who follows through.”

There’s a beat.

Seb makes a strangled sound. “So this what they mean when they say ‘brand alignment,’ is it?”

“Stop,” Mayhart says flatly. “Please, for the love of God.”

Ilya grins at him like he can’t help it, like he was built for this exact kind of chaos. “Welcome,” he says warmly, “to my den of sin and debauchery.”

Eventually—because nothing good lasts—he notices movement across the room that interests him. Shane is peeling out of a conversation, shoulders loosening the second he’s no longer trapped inside it, jacket still slung over his shoulders like a shield. His agent stays behind to finish smiling at someone important. Shane takes the first available gap like a man escaping a fire.

Ilya’s attention snaps to it with the clean, predatory focus of a bored dog seeing a tennis ball.

“Alright,” he says, already stepping back from the Bears. “This was fun. We will do this again soon.” He points a finger at Hammer, Marly and Seb, pauses, then includes Mayhart as well. “When we get a free moment, you come to our place. Games. Food. Talking properly. Not this peacock nonsense.” 

“Me?” Mayhart asks, eyebrows up, half-amused, half-wary.

“Samesies.” He tips his empty glass his way. “Provided you survive Sasha. He’s coming tomorrow.” 

Mayhart’s mouth twists, but it’s mostly playful. Ilya’s got a nose about these things. “I don’t know, man, I’ll think about it. That sounds stressful.”

Ilya turns back to the Bears, grin widening. “Look at this,” he says. “You can tell the man went to college. This is why they pay him the big bucks.” He claps Mayhart on the shoulder in approval. “It is stressful, yes. Being around the hottest people in the world usually is.” He takes half a step away, already vibrating with the next idea. “But we’ll talk more. I gotta go bother Hallsy.”

Hammer lifts his glass. “Yeah? You and Hallsy made nice, have you, kid? That’s sweet.”

“I am always everything sweet and gentle in the world, nice that you finally understand.” 

Chapter End Notes

Yes, the Canucks are Orcas. I like to think Im funny. One guess and no reward for who the hapless haunted captain is.

For anyone interested, this isn’t the point of the story but it’s my inspiration for Svetlanas dress, full House of Dior precision, Dior’s Fall–Winter 2022–2023 collection;.

Chapter 14

Jan 24, 2013

He crosses the room on a straight line like it’s a mission, dodging a server, slipping between two suits who flinch, appalled. Shane is near the buffet now, finishing up a conversation with someone Ilya is pretty sure owns the Admirals—or at least owns enough of them to feel entitled to that particular calm, satisfied expression. The man moves off just as Ilya arrives. 

“Hallsy,” he says, loud, bright. “Looking good. Love the relaxed vibe.” 

Shane’s eyes flick over him—over the shirt, the bare skin, the sheer lack of shame—and his face goes politely blank. “You? No. And here I was, worried you would be appalled by my crass and vulgar ways.”

“I mean.” Ilya gestures at him. “No tie. Shirtsleeves rolled up—” He leans in, squints at Shane’s hand. Not silver. “—platinum on your fingers? I—” He almost says something dumb, some dumb joke about him rubbing off, and stops, genuinely shocked by himself. Jesus Christ, Rozanov. “—Am plenty scandalised already.”

He draws a breath, resets, “And on top of all that, you were late to the draft today. What the fuck? That is not like you.”

Shane’s easy expression wobbles for the tiniest moment. He probably pissed about Ilya’s near miss, as he should be. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, “I had a meeting that ran long.”

Ilya leans in, shaking off the brief discomfort. “Bullshit.”

“Calm down,” Shane says, rolling his eyes, and it’s so familiar, it hits something in his chest, some sore, aching part that hasn’t yet caught up. “It’s whatever, my guy. Leave it.”

“I don’t want to leave it,” Ilya says. “When have I ever left anything, ever, in my whole life?” 

Shane’s mouth twitches, the hint of a smile that doesn’t quite land. “Yeah, well. We can’t always get what we want.”

Ilya opens his mouth—ready to argue, to wheedle, to be the biggest pest—and then his eyes flick past Shane’s shoulder: Svetlana and Scott have disengaged from their little orbit of suits. They’re heading toward the bar, moving in that coordinated way they do when they’ve decided it’s time to pivot. 

A better idea detonates in his head.

“Oh,” Ilya says, and the word comes out like a laugh.

Shane frowns. “What.”

“Come,” Ilya says immediately, and reaches out before he can talk himself out of it—fingers closing around Shane’s elbow, a tug that’s more excited than forceful, like he’s dragging him toward a surprise birthday party. “Come, come, come. You need to meet Lana.”

Shane’s body goes a shade more rigid, but he lets himself be pulled, more out of reflex than agreement. “Roz—”

“And Scott,” Ilya adds, talking over him, because when he’s like this he can’t help it, words spilling out faster than he can manage. “Who you love, you little fanboy.”

Shane makes a strangled sound. “I’m not—”

“Yes you are,” Ilya says, and tugs again, grinning back at him over his shoulder. “Shut up. This will be fun.”

He drags Shane straight into the wake of Scott and Svetlana like he’s delivering a prize. They’ve just reached the bar—Scott leaning in to say something to the bartender, Svetlana angled beside him like she owns the concept of ordering drinks. Ilya arrives at their shoulders, bright-eyed and triumphant, fingers still hooked around Shane’s elbow.

“Scott, Lanka,” he announces, like he’s presenting a witness. “Behold, I have brought you a friend. I have met him and befriended him and kept him all on my own; didn’t get any help from anyone. If anything, other people were an obstacle.”

Svetlana turns. Her smile is as polished as the rest of her, warm and inviting and chilling when set against the dispassionate eyes. She takes Shane in with one fast sweep, then settles on his face. 

“Shane Hollander,” she says, as if she’s been expecting him. “In the flesh. I was looking forward to this”

Shane straightens. “Ms Vetrova,” he replies, careful, in his horrible, Canadian accent that inserts twang where no twang should ever exist. His voice is steady, expression nice, respectful, blank. 

Svetlana’s brows lift a fraction. “Please. Svetlana.” She tilts her head. “Or Lanka, if you are brave.”

Shane’s eyes flick to Ilya. Ilya beams back, charmed to be asked. “Lanka,” he says, helpful. “Say Lanka. Is cute.”

“Lanka,” Shane repeats. You have to hand it to him, Shane made awkwardness into an art form. It takes talent to make a childish nickname sound like an item in a criminal deposition. 

“Interesting,” Svetlana says, approving.

Scott turns from the bar with tonic juice in one hand, and the second he clocks Shane his expression shifts—softens into something openly amused.

“Hey, Hollander,” Scott says, easy, throwing in a smile. “You surviving the suits okay?”

Shane’s mouth twitches. “Barely.”

“Yeah.” Scott nods like this is a shared trauma. “Same.”

He passes the apple juice to Ilya without looking, takes Ilya’s empty glass out of his hand, and sets it on the counter. His fingers land at the back of Ilya’s neck for a brief squeeze—absent, automatic, automatic. Ilya doesn’t even think about it; he just loosens, lets it happen, like a cat being petted mid-stretch.

“Hey, so—” Scott tilts his head at Shane, like he’s about to ask something, then his brain catches up with the obvious. “Ah. Right.”

He leans back toward the bar, expression flattening into polite competence. The bartender—a stunning twenty-something—practically teleports back to their end the second he turns.

“One ginger ale, please.” Scott glances over his shoulder. “You got a favourite brand, Hallsy?”

“No. Not particularly. Anything’s fine.” Shane adds, because he’s Shane, “Thanks.”

“Not a problem, kid.” Scott smiles absently at the bartender and she blushes so hard it’s a medical event. “Canada dry will do, miss. And–” He shifts a little, throws a look over his shoulder to Svetlana: “I’m assuming your lipstick is waterproof, so do you want something?”

“You pick, dear,” Lanka says, voice pitched a little deepr, loaded with an astonishing volume of sex. “You know what I like.”

Scott rolls his eyes and turns back to the bartender—who is now staring helplessly between the two of them, frozen  in pure bisexual panic.´Ilya takes a private second to send her heartfelt sympathy. Yes, sister. We’ve all been there.

“What vodka do you have stocked—” Scott starts, then drops his gaze to her name tag. “Luca?”

She answers, rattling off a brand.

“Perfect.” Scott nods once. “One skinny bitch for the lady. Extra lime.” He turns to Svetlana with a flat, bland smile. “Do you want ice with that?”

Svetlana laughs—an actual laugh, bright enough to crack her polish for a second and make her look her age. Ilya’s heart squeezes, stupid and fond.

“And here I was,” she says, “expecting lemonade.”

“Note the extra lime. I just inched you horrible monsters away from scurvy, and if I have to sneak citrus in through vodka to keep my progress going, I will.”

Luca hustles the drinks back like her life depends on it. Scott acknowledges her with a small nod and murmured thanks, takes the glasses and distributes them without thinking: ginger ale to Shane first, then the cocktail to Svetlana.

“Sorry, Hallsy,” he adds, mild, easy. “It’s always a bit of a production with these two.”

Svetlana takes her glass—and because the scorpion always stings—she kisses the pads of her index and middle finger and presses them to Scott’s cheek before she even sips. “Such gallantry. Such class,” she purrs. Then her eyes slide to Ilya, amused. “I hope you’re taking notes, Il’ka.”

“Always.” 

Scott’s gaze flicks to him: long-suffering, fond, behave, you’re freaking out the nice Canadian boy. Then he turns back to Shane, puts on a rueful expression, a bit comiserating. “Sorry—yeah. What were we talking about?”

Ilya leans in. Now’s his chance. “We were talking about Shane being late,” he says, because he cannot let anything die. “He claims he had a meeting. Do you know something?”

Svetlana’s eyes flick to Shane, smooth as silk. “A meeting,” she repeats, mild.

Shane’s jaw tightens by a fraction—nothing you’d call tension unless you were trained to look for it. “A meeting,” he confirms, flawlessly polite. It’s the cleanest fuck off Ilya has ever heard in his life. “There’s nothing to discuss.”

Scott looks between them, entertained, like he’s watching two cats decide whether to fight or pretend they’ve never met.

“Sure,” he says. “And I’m sure you aced it, like you’ve been acing everything this season, on and off the ice. That Mariners game the other night was a fucking work of art. I was on the edge of my seat in the third.”

Shane blinks, caught off guard. “Thanks. Uh—yeah. You too, man. Hell of a season.” His eyes flick to Ilya and back, careful. “Guaranteed playoff spot. Prognosis is… good.” He hesitates, then adds, like it’s a joke he’s not sure he’s allowed to make: “You shooting for the Cup?”

Scott shrugs, but his mouth curves into a grim smile, eyes unfocusing a little. “Oh, we’re winning the whole thing. No offence, etcetera.”

Bless. 

“But,” Scott continues, all chill and whatnot, like he didn’t just let them peek behind the curtain, let them catch a glimpse of the horrors, “that’s not why we’re here tonight. How’re you feeling about the game, Hallsy?” His smile returns, easy. “Excited to play with Roz for once?”

“If I never hear the word rivalry again it’ll be too soon,” Shane says, and there’s a tired edge under the joke. “Especially after the last year—” He takes a long drink, then pauses and grimaces a little. Not a fan of ginger ale? Huh. Ilya could have sworn–But what does he know? His memory is barely equal to that of a ten year old.

“I was a bit surprised by the teams,” Shane goes on, careful now. “I’ve never played with Sokolov, obviously, but—are… is that going to go well. Considering?”

Ilya stills. The question lands heavier, shocks him out of his bubblegum pink mood. It’s a good point, one he hadn’t considered. Vitya and Ilya got on fine, before. They’d met years ago, back before the NHL, when he was still in Dinamo. There was even talk of Ilya ending up in Chicago until Boston snatched him first. They weren’t close, but he trusted him to be, vaguely, on his side. And now—

“I don’t expect problems,” Scott says, easy and relaxed. “No.”

“Yeah?” Ilya says, trying for light and missing by half an inch.

Scott’s eyes snap his way, clocking the wobble. He shifts closer and drapes an arm around Ilya’s shoulders, a quick squeeze and a shake. Ilya doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t melt, but the hold is easy, phyusically grounding. Showing weakness here, now, in this room–it’s not ideal, but if it had to happen, it’s best it happened now. Between Scott, Svetlana and Shane, he’s outrageously, superlatively safe. 

“I spoke to him,” Scott adds, like it’s obvious. “Me and him go way back. Even if he wanted to be a dick about it—which he doesn’t, because he’s a good guy—he wouldn’t disrespect me like that.” A beat, and then, drier: “And he definitely wouldn’t disrespect Hammer like that.”

Ilya’s shoulders loosen under Scott’s arm without his permission. That’s true. 

“Between us,” Scott finishes, tone deepening slightly, quieter, the rumble he goes for whenever he wants to be comforting, “I’d be shocked if anyone had anything to say. And, on the off chance they do, we’ll make sure to make it an educational object lesson, hey?”

Ilya relaxes wholly, soaks up the affection for a long beat, then digs an elbow into Scott’s ribs, hard. “Quit it,” he says, all teeth. “You’re smothering me.”

Scott doesn’t even flinch, the brute, just looks bored, gives him a bone-rattling shake and lets him go.  Ilya sidesteps back toward Shane like he’s reclaiming territory. “See,” he says. “Is good to be delicate flower. Then I can be a complete asshole on the ice, and nobody wants to be the guy who says anything back. Very efficient.”

Shane’s mouth tightens—almost a smile, almost not. “Yeah,” he says dryly. “Jesus. Must be a curse.” He takes another drink, grimaces, then pivots, turning towards Svetlana. “So,” he says. “I understand you two are childhood friends?” 

Svetlana’s eyes flick to Ilya, then back to Shane. Wh “Our mothers worked together at Sovremennik,” she says. “I met him when he was an itty-bitty thing. Couldn’t stand on his skates to save his life.”

Huh. She’s giving him a real answer. That’s nice of her–and more than he expected. 

“That is slander,” Ilya says, mostly on automatic; he knows his part of the script well. “I was adorable. In fact if you weren't there to ruin my innocent nature, who knows, maybe I would be a famous poet? Painter? But no, you went and taught me how to thirst for blood–” 

“--And the rest,” Svetlana picks up smoothly, “is history.”

Shane blinks, looking between the two of them like he’s watching a tennis match. “You grew up in Moscow, then?”

“Boston,” Svetlana corrects, smooth. “For a while. I moved back when I was six, officially, but my father still worked here for a few years before he retired.” 

Ilya hesitates, then thinks fuck it. 

“Lanka was an unofficial mascot,” he says, leaning Shane’s way. “She grew up watching games, since she is born, yes? There is this clip–”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Ilya–”

He doesn’t pay attention to Lana at all, tracking as Shane’s eyes light up with realization. “No.”

“Yes. Little Lanka, wearing this giant foam paw glove—”

Svetlana’s smile goes razor-thin. “I was ten.”

“And someone asks what she likes best about hockey,” Ilya barrels on, because he cannot help himself, “and she goes—” He pitches his voice high and joyful. “Violence.”

Shane actually huffs, a real laugh escaping before he catches it. Svetlana’s expression doesn’t change, but her eyes do—briefly warm, briefly young.

“It was a different era,” she says with great dignity.

“It really wasn’t,” Scott mutters. He looks pained, like he’s just noticed the passage of time on his own body. “Jesus Christ. Everywhere I look, I trip over children. You were ten? Oh my god—”

Ilya stops short, then the implication hits him like a slap to the mouth. Scott would’ve been playing then—maybe not NHL yet, but around. Old enough to have seen the clip making the rounds He cracks up, loud and hiccupy, drawing far too much attention from the curious drift of suits nearby.

“Sorry—sorry, I just—” He wipes at his eyes like a drunk idiot. “I forget sometimes, okay? I forget how fucking old you are, Scotty—Christ—”

Scott lets out a long, grounding breath, eyes swinging up, staring at the ceiling, wounded and bullied. “I never forget,” he says. “You make me feel my age, every year and month and fucking minute–” 

Svetlana lets them bicker for a beat, indulgent in the way of older sisters who are sweet and obliging as they lead you up to, and pitch you into, the snake pit “And you, Hollander?” she asks. “I hear you and Rose Landry are having a good go at it.” A pleasant little pause. “Shame she couldn’t make it. I’d love to meet her. I’m a big fan.”

Shane’s shoulders shift—barely. “She’s filming,” he says, smooth. “Work.”

Ilya grins “She’s busy being hot and famous,” he says. “Being a fucking superstar.”

“Of course,” Svetlana says, smiling. “Shame, as I said.”

“She’s in Prague,” Shane says–not, notably, to Svetlana, but to Ilya. Its an intense look, not one he knows what to do with. “On some studio thing. Night shoots. Stunts. The whole—” He makes a small, helpless gesture with his glass. “Hollywood thing.”

Does he want backup? Ilya brightens. He’s great at backup.  “Prague!” he repeats, delighted. “Gorgeous place; I lived there for three months. Yeah, that tracks. She’s filming that—what is it—Glass Cathedral? No. Cathedral Protocol? Something like that.” 

“Close enough,” Shane says, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Protocol: Glass Cathedral.” 

Scott, meanwhile, watches them with a sappy grin. Ilya knows it well, it’s the expression he gets whenever he thinks Ilya is too dumb to live, but is too endearing to be allowed to perish as nature has intended. Fuck you too, loser. Shane thinks Ilya is funny.  “Yeah, I caught some of the promo,” Scott says. “She’s good. More importantly, long distance is a nightmare. You’re handling it really well.”

Shane’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Thanks,” he says, quiet. Then, like he’s correcting a mistake: “She’s handling it. I’m just–there. For her. Always”

“Nothing but the best for Hallsy,” Ilya  says into the brief silence. Jesus, these people are awkward. “Eternal overachiever. Hottest young movie star in Hollywood comes to your games, wearing your jersey—”

Shane makes a small sound that might be laughter in another universe. His grip shifts on the glass. Scott’s eyes cut briefly to Ilya—don’t.

Ilya barrels on. What does he know?

 “Do you think the movie will be out in the off-season? How cool would it be to go to the premiere with her? Wear some fancy suit? Movie stars wear the most ridiculous shit, I’m sure she can find you, like, some leopard print snapback or something.” 

Shane’s expression tightens for half a second, the way it does when he’s bracing against a hit he doesn’t want to show. Okay?

 “Yeah,” he says, thin. “That would be… cool.”

Right. Ilya hesitates, recalibrates. So, alright, maybe Scott was onto something. Maybe he went too far? But Shane was fine talking about his hot fake girlfriend? They text about it all the time? And it’s not like Ilya said anything bad. 

“More importantly,” he says, breezy, as if he’s changing the subject because he wants to, not because the air just went sharp. “Do you think she will watch you lose in skills competition?” He jabs Shane lightly with his elbow, throws in a grin. “You ready to get embarrassed?” 

Shane exhales, something easing. “Buddy, you’ve never won a single skills competition against me. Not a fucking one.” 

They sink back into it—the easy, formless banter that feels like a pocket of quiet in the middle of all this noise. Ilya makes a mental note to ask Scott about his mystery misstep later, when they’re alone and Scott can explain what he did wrong.

A couple minutes later, Svetlana breaks the spell. Ilya blinks at her, having missed the first half of whatever she said. Something about—

She rolls her eyes, fond. “Work calls, dearest.”

Scott sighs like a man being sent to war. “Christ. Alright.” He gives Shane a look that’s almost kind. “Be good, kids.” Then, to Ilya, automatic: “Don’t forget to eat. And drink some fucking water at some point.”

Yeesh. “I ate. You know I ate.” 

Scott scoffs. “Eat some more. You’re a bottomless pit, Heavens know.” He shifts to Shane. “Hallsy—I want to say keep him out of trouble, but that’s an insane ask. Maybe don’t let him get you into trouble.”

Shane’s chin lifts. A flicker of bristle. “Sure,” he says, too polite. “We’ll be fine.”

Scott’s brows go up, surprised and faintly amused. “Damn. Alright.” He nods once. “Good luck, I guess.”

Svetlana offers Shane her hand. Her grip is perfect, her smile impeccable, edged and not really hiding it. “It was a genuine pleasure, Shane Hollander. I look forward to our next meeting.” Then she reaches, drags Ilya down and presses a chaste kiss to his cheek, hooks her arm through Scott’s and glides away. 

Ilya watches them go with his heart full of stupid admiration. It’s a hell of an image—royal couple walking off to do violence in his name, while he gets to stand here, fed and watered, talking shit with Shane Hollander.

Life is good.

Shane’s posture loosens the second Scott and Svetlana peel away, like he’s been holding his shoulders up by force and finally lets them drop.

“Well,” he says, dry, with the faintest edge of amusement. “That was… something.”

Ilya laughs, delighted. “She likes you.”

Shane’s brows lift. “Does she.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, entirely confident. “I know these things. And Scott, of course, adores you. You’re his favourite.” He pauses, recalculates. “After me. Obviously.”

Shane makes a small sound that could be laughter, if you were generous. “Comforting.”

“So,” Shane says carefully, like he’s testing the ice with the toe of his skate. “Svetlana. She’s… a lot.”

“Oh, she’s the worst,” Ilya says easily. “Also the best. The three of us grew up together. Me, her, and Sasha.”

Shane’s eyes flick—quick, curious. “They… moved here for you?”

Ilya nods, bright. “Yeah. Dropped everything and came over once things went to shit.” He keeps it light, because it’s easy to keep it light when he’s looking at the good parts. When there are, somehow, so many good parts to look at. “Crazy. I never would have— I mean, it was a dumb move on their part. Sasha especially.”

“Because of ballet,” Shane says, not quite a question.

“Yeah.” Ilya rolls one shoulder. “Ballet dancers don’t have long careers. And he was at the peak of his. Now—” He makes a vague little gesture. “He’s working already, but it’s not the same.”

Shane makes a noncommittal hum. Then, careful: “And what does she do?”

“Run my life, mostly,” Ilya says, fond. “She’s a lawyer.” He lifts a shoulder. “Once things calm down she’ll probably figure out how to… translate her diploma or whatever. I have no idea how any of that works.”

“It’s good,” Shane says quietly, and the softness in it surprises even him, like it slipped out. “Having someone like that in your corner.”

“One of the best things about having Lanka in your corner,” Ilya says, dead serious, “is that this is the only way you can make sure she is not in someone else’s corner.” He smiles, bright and a little helpless. “Trust me. It’s not just good to have her working for you. It’s important that she’s not working against you. She’s ruthless.”

Shane huffs a small laugh. “Okay.”

He looks down at his glass, rolls it slightly between his fingers, then glances back up like he’s trying not to sound like he’s asking.

“And Sasha,” he says. “He’s… coming this weekend?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, cheerful. “Saturday. He has opinions about everything and he’s super bitchy about it, like you. You’ll love him.”

Shane’s eyes flick away for a second—quick, reflexive, like bracing—then he forces them back. “I’m sure,” he says, neutral as drywall.

Ilya laughs, because he can hear it: the carefulness, the tiptoeing. He’s had this conversation a thousand times. People always want the shape of his life, but they ask around the edges like they’re afraid of cutting themselves.

“It’s boring,” Ilya says abruptly, and Shane blinks. “Talking about Lanka and Sasha. Everyone always asks.” He leans in a fraction, eyes bright with sudden mischief. “Tell me about you. What is it like to date a movie star.”

Shane’s ears go pink. “Jesus, Roz.”

“What,” Ilya says, innocent. “I’m curious.”

“It’s normal,” Shane says, and his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.

“That is a lie,” Ilya says immediately. “Normal is dating, like… a dentist.”

Shane laughs—an actual laugh, short and helpless.  “She’s a person.”

“She is a person,” Ilya agrees, solemn. “A very hot person. And smart. I watched an interview the other night. Crazy impressive.” He waves a hand, indignant on her behalf. “She didn’t even snap and swear once, even when they kept asking about her underwear and costume and all that insane shit.”

Shane’s smile tugs wider, like the compliment hits somewhere private. He relaxes further. His eyes spark.

“Christ,” he says, fondly exasperated. “She was so pissed about that one. Wait— I’ll show you the messages.”

He thumbs his phone awake and angles it so Ilya can see.

ROSE: i’m going to commit a felony

ME: fair

ME: why

ROSE: he asked what kind of underwear i wear under the suit

ROSE: under. the. suit.

ME: Jesus

ME: could he have meant, like—

ME: for safety?

ME: that shit chafes

ROSE: shane

ROSE: he then asked if i “feel powerful” in leather

ROSE: i said i don’t need leather to feel powerful

ROSE: but i understand his issue

ROSE: it’ll work itself out when he finds a therapist

ROSE: and figures out why a woman in leather makes him feel like a sub

ME: rip

ME: 😭

ME: i’m proud of you

ROSE: as you should be

ROSE: anyway i’m going to bed

ROSE: pray there is good room service

ROSE: i’ll take anything that isn’t almond-based sadness

ROSE: if i eat another plain chicken breast i will fucking hurl

ME: fucking a

Ilya reads it, then barks a laugh, delighted. “Such an alpha bitch, honestly.”

Shane’s grin goes soft around the edges. “Crazy dedicated too,” he says, like he can’t help giving her credit. Good Canadian boys can’t resist that shit, it’s in their blood. “People talk about hockey players, but when she’s shooting it’s around the clock. And the shit they have them eat—while doing these nutso workouts—” He shakes his head, solemn and grim. “I’m this close to hiring a meal service just so she doesn’t pass out from starvation.”

You dork, Ilya thinks, fond, fond, fond. Do you have a spreadsheet with her calorie intake? Are you tracking her macros?

“Maybe you can help her with her workouts,” Ilya says, grinning. “Vanity muscles are very good, but she should put on some weight if she’s going to be beating up all those evil Russians.”

“They haven’t been using Russians forever, loser,” Shane chirps, going faux-snooty. “It’s been Arabs forever. And I think this time the studio didn’t want to offend the Saudi money, so they made up some fake Central European country. I don’t know. The plot is a fucking mess, contradictions all over the place, and there are, like, six of these movies.”

Bless him, Ilya thinks, never mind the calories—he absolutely has a spreadsheet tracking the plot of the fucking franchise.

“So cool,” Ilya sighs. “I can’t believe you stole her. A good Boston girl and she’s cheering for fucking Montreal. A travesty.”

Shane scoffs. “What, was she supposed to go to fucking Bears games? Please.”

“Yes!” Ilya says immediately, scandalized. “And who’s to say she didn’t? Before you stole her. Maybe she came to my games. Maybe last year when I was captain, huh?”

“If Rose Landry came to your games,” Shane says, rolling his eyes, “you would have been insufferable.”

True. “I’m already insufferable,” Ilya points out. “This would change nothing.”

“It would make it worse. Bu, hey—at least you’ll get to see her cheering for me in the playoffs while you flame out and watch from the sidelines.”

“You fucking wish,” Ilya says. “We’re leading our division.” He leans in, conspiratorial. “If anything, I should steal her number and see if she’ll come to our games. Bears won’t make it past round two, and that’s if none of them get arrested and ruin their chances, but New York is a much better alternative. Who else is she gonna cheer for, fucking Guardians? Please.”

Shane snorts. “Fuck off. If we lose—which we won’t—Rose won’t be cheering for anyone. She’s a fucking movie star. She doesn’t give a shit about hockey.” He pauses, and then, with the air of a man admitting a shameful family murder spree: “And even if she did cheer, she’d cheer for the Quakes.”

Ilya gasps, genuinely appalled. “San Jose Quakes? What?”

Shane nods, glum. “I know. She thinks it’s adorable when they skate out of the shark head. Don’t even ask.”

The shark head thing is kind of cool, Ilya thinks privately, but they couldn’t water board that information out of him.

“They’ve never even won a Cup,” he says, horrified. “Not fucking ever.”

“I know, man.” Shane’s voice is heavy with suffering. “It’s a fucking travesty.”

Ilya shakes his head, aghast. “Okay. Then she has to cheer for us in the playoffs. I will send her tickets. She can even wear your stupid jersey, as long as Rose Landry does not—”

He stops, mid-rant, overcome by dread. The idea lands fully formed in his brain: the Quakes, somehow, impossibly, making it to the playoffs. Rose Landry in the stands. A camera cutting to her, smiling, wearing teal.

“Imagine,” Ilya says, devastated, “if they made it. Imagine if the fucking Quakes made it to playoffs and Rose Landry cheered for them.”

Shane shakes his head, eyes going distant, haunted. “Don’t say that shit out loud, man. Don’t manifest anything.” A beat. “And may I remind you two of their players are here tonight. One of them is on our fucking team.”

Ilya shudders. “Fucking Quakes.”

He takes a breath. Enough. “Let’s change the topic,” he says briskly. “You were late.”

Shane groans softly. “We’re still on this.”

“Yes. I will annoy you until you tell me. ”

Shane’s smile wobbles and he exhales, resigned. “I really was in a meeting,” he says. “Contract stuff. There were… issues, so I brought my lawyer with me called a meeting to deal with it.”

Ilya pulls a face. “Ugh.”

“Yeah.” Shane’s mouth quirks. “You know what these things are like. They take forever. We’re not done. We won’t be done for months.”

“Thank God I don’t know,” Ilya says, with feeling. “I don’t pay attention to any of that. That’s what I have Scott and Lanka and my agent and my lawyer for.” He flaps a dismissive hand. “Shame. I hoped you did something ridiculous.”

Shane looks at him, expression halting, strange, like he’s recalibrating in real time. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Well, to start, my agent basically worships the ground your agent walks on. So that’s… comforting. At least.”

“Ms Haddad is terrifying,” Ilya agrees fondly. “Old Testament type of authority.”

Shane nods once. His voice quiets, turns more deliberate. “We’ll put a pin in the rest for now,” he says. “This isn’t the time or the place.”

Then, like a professional choosing the next play, he shifts the topic cleanly.

“How did you convince Hunter to build that team, hey?”

Ilya snorts. “Pfft. I didn’t convince anyone of anything. It was his idea. He knew I’d want to play with you. And the Bears, of course.” His grin turns wicked. “Shame we couldn’t get Marly too. That would’ve been amazing.”

Shane’s brows lift. “Marlowe?”

“Who else,” Ilya says, warming to it instantly. “Oh—hey, you know what? Hartsy is surprisingly chill, did you know that?—”

Scott reappears like he’s been summoned by the exact frequency of Ilya’s blood sugar dropping. He doesn’t look harried—Scott never looks harried—but his eyes take one sweep of Ilya’s face and go flat in that particular, clinical way.

“Alright,” Scott says, stepping in close like he’s shielding Ilya from the room. “That’s it. We’re leaving.”

“I’m fine,” Ilya says automatically, and then immediately regrets it when the floor does a tiny, ugly tilt under his feet.

Scott’s hand lands at the back of his neck—firm, grounding, casual enough to pass for captain-y bullshit if anyone asks. “Sure you are. You’re also swaying. Drink some water playboy, and stop pretending you’re immortal.”

Ilya bristles on instinct. “I am immortal.”

“Yeah, yeah. Immortal and sleepy. Am I going to have cranky to the fucking list? Christ. Come say goodnight like a civilized person.”

He steers him half a step closer to Shane, the movement so smooth it’s almost astonishing. Like Scott’s already decided where Ilya goes, and the universe has to rearrange itself around it.

“Hallsy,” Ilya says, bright and loud. “Scott is being a tyrant. Please tell him to fuck off.”

Shane’s mouth tightens—almost a smile, almost not. “He seems… pretty reasonable right now. Night, Roz.” His eyes slide to Scott. “Night, Hunter. Don’t keep him up.”

Ilya laughs. “Keep me up? He’s ancienct in body and spirit. He’ll be asleep in the elevator.”

Scott’s expression doesn’t change, but his thumb presses once at the base of Ilya’s skull—shut up, you’re tired—and he inclines his head at Shane, all clean professionalism. “Night, Hallsy. Get some sleep.”

And then Scott turns, and Ilya turns with him, floats along in the slipstream, smiling like there is nothing that could ever hope to harm him.

Chapter 15

Chapter Notes

This is why I cant write to a chapter count. I just get interested in writing out the fuckign hockey, like any of this is about the hockey, and we get 8k of this.

In my defence, I tried to load it up with context and whatnot, to make it fun for you guys, because it was super fun to research and imagine how the Skills Comp would look in this AU

With that said, its not a complete waste, im just going to probably cut the actual AllStars game right down. Idk I feel like this is more interesting than a game anyway? Like, how would you even pace a hockey game in terms of narrative and character? Here, these idiots can yap and be idiots.

Idk, Im probably rationalizing away the real fact of the matter: the pacing of this story is so fucking off, jesus christ. I’ve already cut like 2,3k words of hockey from this chapter, and it’s still at 9k. There is no hope, only despair.

By the time Saturday afternoon rolls around, Ilya feels fit to rattle clean out of his skin. He would go out and kill a man in broad daylight if it meant he could finally put on a pair of fucking skates. If not for all the medical checkups and blood tests, he’d be worried about the state of his endocrine system; that much flash photography has to be bad for your cortisol levels or whatever the fuck. 

Since Ilya could never, in his life, be described as subtle, everyone in his vicinity has twigged onto his delicate state and has been quietly enabling it: steering him into nooks, running interference, finding him five-minute hidey-holes to decompress in. Even players he doesn’t know well—players who don’t particularly like him, players who keep looking at him like he’s some sort of deformed slug—keep stepping between him and the nearest camera. Some outright lie and claim they haven’t seen him, even with him in full view: curled up in an armchair with a sleep mask over his eyes, noise-cancelling headphones on, and the biggest of Scott’s hoodies thrown on top like a burial shroud.

Finally, on Saturday afternoon, fifty or so hours after they landed in San Francisco —subjectively: forty winters spent on the Eastern Front fighting the Germans—they’re loaded up on a bus and driven to the arena for the first official part of All-Star weekend. Meaning: the Skills Competition.

It says a lot about the state of the world that the NHL’s most pathetic media event—universally considered lame, unwatchable, and profoundly, painfully irrelevant—has still managed to secure twenty-one captains out of forty-two players, including captains of every division leader at this point in the season. It’s nuts, is what it is. The same is true about the atmosphere among the players: relaxed, yeah, but checked in. They’re not treating this like a fun excuse to drink fancy booze and eat good food on the league’s dime. They’re here to represent their teams, for better or worse. They’re here because they’ve been told to be here, because—like it or not—Scott made sure important people are watching. Important people who include their owners, and sponsors their owners are very much beholden to.

Yeah. Fun times.

—

By the time they’re herded off the bus and into the glossy maze of the arena, Ilya is already vibrating—breathlessly relieved to finally be somewhere that smells like ice and tape instead of hotel carpet and freshly printed paper. To honour that feeling, he spends the entire bus ride bugging Scott incessantly: elbowing and poking, stealing his shit, asking obnoxious questions. Drinking his water. Commenting on his clothes, his hair, his beard. 

Scott, to form, endures it with saintly patience, and only occasionally flicks him a look that says: this is fine, have fun, but I swear to God, if you lick some league ghoul’s face, we will be having words.

Ilya gives him his best innocent face. Scott’s eyes narrow. It’s a very emotionally rewarding exchange.

“All right,” Scott says eventually, and physically sits him down on one of the couches in the lounge. They’ve been getting a wide berth—other players from their bus clearly not wanting to become the target of Ilya’s enthusiasm. “Sit here. Play your games. Catch your fucking breath.” He looks him over like he’s assessing structural damage. “You’re equal parts unbearable and adorable, and I’m pretty sure that’s going to translate great to the shitshow that this Skills Comp will be. I also don’t know how long I can withstand it.” He grimaces, then ruffles Ilya’s hair. “So. Sit. Breathe. Be good.”

Ilya sighs like it’s a big chore, like these are cruel and unfair expectations put on him, but he nods and accepts another hair ruffle. “Go,” he says. “Work. Leave me alone to perish from heartbreak.”

“I will do so presently,” Scott says and goes.

With that well of amusement gone dry, Ilya fishes out his phone and sprawls across the sofa: legs crossed at the ankles, slung up over the backrest, head hanging upside down, phone hovering above his face. If he tilts his chin just right, he can see the ceiling lights and the edge of a TV screen playing slow-motion highlights from last year. His own face flashes by for a second—teeth bared in a grin—and he almost laughs. 

Then, before he has time to click into his English learning apps, someone blocks the overhead lights. Ilya blinks up and sees Shane Hollander standing there, phone in hand, expression set in that specific Shane way: buzzed, but tense. Focused. 

“Hey,” Shane says.

“Hallsy!” Ilya hurries to sit up, cheerful and delighted. Much better than any app. He throws the phone into the crease of the cushions and pats the seat beside him. “Come. Sit. Be woebegone with me.”

Shane hesitates, then lowers himself down gingerly, shoulders tight, mouth set in a strained little smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Unfortunate, but expected. Shane tends to be this way in crowds, aware, controlled, bracing for danger.

“Okay,” Shane says, exhaling through his nose. “So. Listen. I didn’t get a chance to talk to you earlier, but the events sheet is fucking nuts.”

Ilya hums, blinks at him. “Is it?”

Shane’s jaw works, shoulders roll back precisely once. “Your—” He catches himself. Tries again, more neutral. “Hunter’s entries are insane.”

Ilya tilts his head. Relaxed. Amused. “Doubtful.”

“Listen, man,” Shane says, and there’s a sharp edge under the polite tone now, “I’m asking. What’s the plan here? Or—since the plan appears to be hand Mason fucking Albright the win—what’s the justification? Is there some blackmail situation I missed? Are we trading points for hostages?”

Wow, Ilya thinks, charmed. It must be great inside his head. Terrible, but great, as the saying goes. 

“What do you think it is?” Ilya asks, genuinely curious. “No, really. I am not fucking with you.”

Shane’s eyes narrow, and he tilts his phone toward Ilya. Ilya glances down. His lips twitch. Okay. Yeah. It’s kind of nutso when you see it written out. Scott is such a fucking freak. 

Shane taps the screen with his thumb, like he’s pointing to evidence in court. “Fastest Skater: Nowak, Rourke, Halmetoja.”

Ilya shrugs. Don't laugh, because you won’t stop. “Good skaters.”

“Good—” Shane’s voice spikes, then clamps down again. “What do you mean good skaters, Rozanov. Albright has Derrick fucking Mayhart. Delvecchio. Himself. That event is gone before it starts. We won’t get a single fucking point.”

Ilya nods, easy. “Sure.”

That is absolutely the wrong thing to say. Shane’s eyes narrow further, heat rising behind them like a storm front. “You’re fine with that?”

“Why would I be not fine?” Ilya asks, honestly.

Shane inhales. Tries again, softer—careful. Like he’s handling something skittish. He’s managing me, Ilya realises, delighted. He’s being gentle. Solicitous, even.

“Because we will lose,” Shane says, voice low. “Millions of people will watch this live. They’ll watch you lose.”

Ah. That phrasing was deliberate. Maybe he’s not managing him. Maybe he’s just poking him for a reaction. And getting one, because swallows in trees know how Ilya feels about losing. 

“Alright,” he says, and his smile goes a little thinner. “I think I understand your problem. Look—” He taps Shane’s phone with two fingers. “See here? See how I’m not doing Fastest Skater?”

“I know you’re not.”

“So I don’t care.”

Shane’s patience visibly buckles. Too bad. So sad. “That’s not how—”

“This is exactly how,” Ilya cuts in. “This is the whole point.”

Shane stares at him like he’s trying to find the trick. The hook. The hidden second meaning.

Ilya lets his gaze drift past him, briefly, to where Scott stands across the room. He’s still trapped in Captain Purgatory, leaning in toward some media guy, expression set in that calm, looming way he gets when he’s fantasising about ripping a man’s head off his shoulders and using his dried, hollowed out skull to hold his loose change. 

“Did you even look at the whole list?” Shane demands.

Ilya jerks back into the present and hums. “I looked at my parts.” 

Shane’s mouth tightens. “Which are?”

“Breakaway and Elimination.”

Shane nods once, jaw clenched so hard it looks like it hurts. Ilya doesn’t feel any particular urge to soothe him, this time. There’s control freak, and then there’s control freak. They’re at an All-Star weekend. This matters, in one specific way, and is profoundly irrelevant, in most others. 

“So what,” Shane says. “That’s it? Hunter’s throwing the event, and you’re not even going to tell me why?”

Ilya almost says yes, just to annoy him. The impulse is strong. He swallows it down with some effort; he’s been working on this. 

“Look,” he says, exhaling. “I don’t know. Obviously. I haven’t talked to him, because I don’t care. You couldn’t pay me to care about an imaginary score in an imaginary press circus bullshit event, okay?”

The sharpness in his tone lands. Shane goes a shade paler, shoulders squaring automatically. And because he is who he is, and he is where he is, it also draws attention and raised eyebrows from the rest of the room—Scott included. Calm down. Pull yourself together. 

“But,” he continues, more even now, “if I had to guess? Scott is optimising for the results he wants.”

Shane’s lips twist. “Very helpful, Rozanov. Super fucking informative.”

Ilya grins back. Not friendly, exactly. “This is press bullshit, so he’s playing a press bullshit game. He’s not going to put you up there to lose Fastest Skater—even if it gets him the precious prize of one or two imaginary points—because then every clip from tonight becomes you eating shit on live television.”

Shane exhales hard. “All points are imaginary points, or none are. We are literally playing a game professionally. Or do you think they pay you in gold nuggets for each goal in the season?”

Ilya closes his eyes for a beat, then opens them again. “This isn’t hockey, Hollander. This is a media event made to earn our owners millions from product placement. Winning here is different than winning a game.”

Shane’s expression snaps colder. “Don’t patronise me, Rozanov. Don’t talk to me about sponsors and media play. Don’t you fucking dare.”

Ilya smiles, sweet. “Then think,” he says. “Scott doesn’t care about the Skills Comp. He cares about his players—by which I mean me and, to a lesser extent, you.” He lets that land. 

“He’s not putting us in races we won’t win. He’s not giving the media that clip.”

Shane’s eyes widen, genuinely offended by the implication. “What?”

Ilya shrugs. “Everybody wins. Mason Albright wants to look like a legacy darling, so he puts his best everywhere. He wins relay, he wins skating, he looks correct and proper.”

“And Hunter?”

“Scott shows the world that his players deliver,” Ilya says, voice warm with the simple pleasure of it. 

Shane’s throat bobs. He swallows. “On command.”

As opposed to—what, precisely? Do you want him to pass around straws of different lengths to determine who plays when? Do you want him to wait for volunteers? 

“Yes.”

Shane looks down at his phone again, jaw tight, scrolling like the answer might change if he stares hard enough. “Hardest Shot,” he mutters. “He puts Hammer in. Fine. That’s obvious.”

“If you have Hammer and you don’t let him do Hardest Shot,” Ilya says, “you won’t live to see the sunrise.”

That drags a laugh out of Shane—short, reluctant. The tension dips, just a little. Ilya absolutely takes the win as his own. Then Shane’s face tightens again, remembering why he came over.

“And he just decides all of it,” Shane says, disbelief returning. “Just—unilaterally.”

Ilya sighs. “He is our captain, Hollander.”

“That’s not—”

“That is literally what it is.”

Shane’s eyes flick, frustrated. “Do you ever push back?”

Ilya pauses, genuinely thrown.  “Why would I fight him on this?”

“Because these things are important,” Shane says, urgent in spite of himself. “Your career is important.”

Oh. Oh, sweetheart. The peach-pink-manic cheer of the past two days wobbles, holds, crystallizes further. If it shatters, the shards will cause more damage than anything else could. His career? The career Scott yanked back from free-fall on a whim. The career Ilya went and lit on fire himself? 

He lifts his eyebrows, waits, patient, until Shane’s brain catches up with who he’s talking to. It doesn’t take long—because Shane, at base, is a good man. His mouth clicks shut, eyes rounding. People eavesdropping flinch, look away—but continue listening in. They’re all busybodies here, Ilya very much included. 

“Exactly,” Ilya says into the silence; he’s not even being a dick about it, keeps his tone polite. “Whatever his reasons are—because, again, we haven’t spoken about this—they’ll be for the best.”

Shane exhales, visibly forcing himself to unwind. “Right,” he says. “Right.”

It’s not his fault, Ilya thinks, thawing the last little bit. He’s a captain, and he’s used to being in control. Used to being the smartest person in the room. Used to knowing what’s happening before it happens.

“Ask him,” Ilya says, feeling generous in the face of all that repressed frustration. “Before you sink into despair about losing an imaginary game, ask him if there is a plan. Christ knows that man keeps ten contingencies in his sleeve at all times.”

Shane’s mouth twists. “Yeah. Sure.” A beat. Then, because he can’t help himself: “But Breakaway? Seriously? That’s, like, the lamest skill of them all.”

Ilya huffs, offended on principle, but he’s smiling. “Excuse you,” he says, leaning back into the couch.  “Is most fun skill. I have whole thing planned; it’s going to be sick.”

Shane’s eyes flick up, reluctant curiosity breaking through. “A whole thing.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, bright and manic again. “A concept. An artistic statement. A work of great cultural importance.”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane mutters, but there’s less doom in it now, more fond exasperation.

They talk a little longer—nothing important, just the usual little orbit they’ve developed, jokes and sniping and the steady relief of not having to perform politeness every second.

Then a handler’s voice cuts through the lounge, crisp and practised: “Two-minute warning.”

Everything shifts. Guys straighten. Phones disappear. People move like they’ve been tugged by strings. Across the room,m Scott’s head turns immediately, eyes landing on Ilya with a silent question: you good? Ilya lifts his chin. Obviously.

***

The events play out pretty much exactly the way he expected them to.

Fastest Skater goes to Derrick Mayhart with a comfortable margin—tiny Orca zipping across the ice like he’s being propelled by magic. You’d never guess, looking at him any other day, how much power is packed into that sleepy little body. Then he’s banking left and right like he’s bike racing, not skating, edges so clean it’s disgusting rude. Albright takes second, smooth and efficient and untouchable, exactly as predicted. The surprise is Tomasz Nowak snagging third, slipping in ahead of Quinn Delvecchio by a hair. Five–one, Team Albright.

Hardest Shot is equally predictable. Hammer wins it clean, shoulders loose, expression bored. Crowe takes second fair and square—pretty and mean with it—while Kappel muscles his way into third with a shot that has that satisfying thunk you feel in your teeth. Desrochers threatens to steal it at the end with a properly nasty release, but the margins are brutal tonight, and he lands just outside. Seven–five, still Albright.

Accuracy Shooting is more interesting, but only because Shane is in it, meaning it’s one of the events Scott actually claimed for himself. Like the first two, it’s stacked: Zhenya, calm and still in that terrifying way he’s so good at projecting; Nico Álvarez, all slick confidence; Nyström, built to turn pucks into goals; and then Jules Beaumont—Chicago Hounds star winger—who looks like he wandered out of someone’s bed, dishevelled and sleepy. They go target for target, little red lights winking out one by one, and it comes down to Shane and Zhenya trading perfect hits until the end. Shane takes first by the thinnest margin, Zhenya takes second with a shrug, and then Beaumont steals third away from Álvarez with a clean run that makes the arena roar and Álvarez unleash a creative torrent of curses. Nine–nine. Tied.

The Captain’s Relay is pure circus—pylons, quick passes, a couple of stupid little precision shots—and Team Albright wins it fair, because of course they do. Mayhart flies. Albright is efficient. Delvecchio, still pissed about losing earlier, is clearly working through his feelings in real time. The funniest part is Team Hunter’s lineup makes it painfully obvious Scott never even tried to take this one: Rourke, Nowak, Carver, and Briggs take a competent crack at it, but they’re not even a little fussed about the outcome. Briggs is snickering so hard he nearly fumbles a pass. All the while, Shane, watching from the side, is visibly fuming in that tight-jaw, death-stare way. The vibe in the arena is stupidly good—guys chirping their own teammates, fist-bumping opponents, grinning at the crowd, at the cameras. It’s the fucking Skills Comp. How much do they want them to care? Eleven–nine, Albright.

And then, finally, it’s time for the Breakaway Challenge.

This is his fucking moment.

Ilya steps onto the ice without his helmet, which is objectively stupid. He doesn’t look toward the bench. If he looks over, Scott will give him that persecuted, bullied look—the one that says you are a grown man with a brain in your skull, please act like it—and then Ilya will laugh, and the whole thing will be ruined. 

Svetlana skates out moments later, movements clean and strong. Hockey royalty then, hockey royalty now. She’s in a tailored Boston Bears jersey with Vetrov—70—across her back, one bag hooked over one arm and a second over the other. The arena pipes down, hush falling. Ilya is the first one in this event, and it’s not unheard of to include others and bring props, but it’s not common, either. Svetlana—via Ms Haddad—had to clear it with management, and from what they gathered, nobody else is going to put on anywhere near as much of a show. 

Right. Focus. 

Ilya waits until she’s close, then drops to one knee, grins up at her. Svetlana swings the bag up, pulls out an imperial cape—ridiculous, theatrical, edged with real ermine if he’s not very mistaken—and settles it over his shoulders. The crowd lets out a brief cheer, then cuts off when they realise there is more. 

Ilya bows his head, exhaling a calming breath. It wouldn't do to dissolve into giggles here. This is a—Christ, forgive him—a serious matter. This is about his career. 

He waits until the crown is fully settled on his head, strapped under his chin and obscured by his hair as much as possible. It’s lighter than it appears, considering it’s not small at all. And, of course, considering the added weight off the fake rat ears on the side. He exhales another long breath, and, when he’s as settled as he’s likely to get, he Ilya takes Svetlana’s hand and kisses it, faux-solemn, eyes lifted like he’s swearing fealty. The crowd rumbles; someone starts chanting RAT KING, and the chant catches like fire. RAT KING. RAT KING. RAT KING.

Ilya lets them have one second of theater then rises, bows as neatly as he can on skates, turns and starts skating toward the centre with the cape still on. Halfway to the puck, he reaches up, unclasping it with one hand, and whips it off toward the boards.

He needs to focus. Theatrics are all well and good, but he will have to ceremonially disembowel himself on live television if he fucks this up. That’s the joke. That’s the price. You get to crown yourself Rat King if you have the skills to back it up. He does—and now it’s time to prove it. 

Attempt one is the make-or-break. He’s pretty confident he can make it. He’s been perfecting this move since he was five years old. In the future—if God is kind, if his knees don’t explode, if Scott doesn’t murder him—he likes to think it’ll become his signature.

He comes in fast but controlled—no sprinting, no frantic chopping strides. Just speed, quiet edges, a glide with teeth. He sells backhand hard with shoulders and hands, commits his whole body to the lie. The puck barely moves; that’s the trick. The goalie bites, and the instant the goalie drops, Ilya swaps to forehand and snaps a wrist shot high over the near shoulder.

He doesn’t celebrate, but the crowd roars anyway, and the bench hoots and hollers—the familiar hockey-player noises for when somebody does something genuinely nasty on the ice. Yeah. It looks easy because he made it look easy, but it’s not, and they all know it.

The votes flash up on the jumbotron in huge, stupid numbers. He doesn’t look. He doesn’t need to. He’s going to do as well as he can; the numbers shouldn’t influence him one way or the other.

When he reaches their bench, he leans over the boards and tilts his head, letting the crown catch the camera light.

“

Fix my crown, Scotty,” he says, sweet. “It’s crooked.”

“I knew I should’ve asked what you were plotting with the hellcats,” Scott says, but his hand is already up. Careful, gentle fingers, tugging the crown—and the ears—back into place, making sure Ilya’s curls sit comfortably around the strap. “I’m shocked you didn’t get Sasha to come out and play your pretty assistant, too.”

“We weren’t sure when he’d fly in,” Ilya says. “Plus, Lanka is hockey legacy, and Sasha dated enough figure skaters to loathe ice with a passion.”

“Shocking,” Scott says, deadpan. “Lean back—”

The weight of the ridiculous cape settling over his shoulders makes Ilya jerk, surprised. He twists, and there’s Seb, grinning wide, visibly proud, hands still planted on Ilya’s shoulders. 

“That was fucking great, kid,” Seb says, and gives him a bone-rattling shake. “The wind drag on that fucking thing must’ve been weird as hell. You wanna take it off for the rest?”

Ilya huffs, faux-offended. “You think I can’t compensate for this little thing? You want to make me cry here? In front of Scott? In front of Svetlana?”

“Kid gets one taste of power, and it immediately goes to his head,” Seb snorts. “Should’ve expected that, honestly—”

They dissolve into aimless bickering, the kind that’s mostly just noise and affection, until a staffer comes over to shoo Seb back to the bench. Seb sighs theatrically and finally peels away, still grinning, and Ilya turns back to the ice.

Huh. He’s missed most of it. It’s almost his turn again. Delvecchio is just finishing up, and it’s good. A fun routine, deliberately built to resemble a figure-skating program, except it’s absolutely and utterly hockey-ready, just dialled up to a hundred: clean edges, showy little transitions, a last-second inside-out that makes the goalie bite, and then the far-side tuck so pretty it almost makes you mad. The crowd eats it with a spoon. 

And then it’s Jules.

Beaumont is smaller than all of them, and he skates out relaxed, looser in the shoulders, mouth curved in an easy smile. It’s an interesting choice, lining up two of the League’s most classically pretty-boy handsome forwards back to back—blond, blue-eyed, curls and boyish faces—except Beaumont has that slow, sloped-eyed look that makes him seem a little dumb and a little wicked, and you never know which is overpowering which. His attempt looks simple, stripped of flourish. He skates down in a lazy, silky loop, slows down with a cool spin in front of the goalie, then slides it far side like he’s skipping rocks over a lake. Looks easy, if you don’t know how much strength it takes to pull it off, how far and wide you need to stretch your attention to keep track of your puck, the feet, the stick, the goalie. Showmanship can be ridiculous if you let it be ridiculous, but it’s also a boast: look how much of this I can hold at once. Beaumont can hold a lot.

Ilya grins when Jules skates past the bench and slaps him on the back. “Good work, eighty-eight,” he says. “Bit dull, but pretty as hell.”

“High praise coming from the Rat King himself,” Beaumont says, lips quirked. He looks younger than thirty when he smiles like that. “That was a nasty trick you pulled back there. Familiar. Pretty sure you came at us with something like that the other month.”

Ilya beams, because yes, he did, and he’s not going to pretend he didn’t love hearing it. “Good eye, JB.”

“It’s why they pay me.”

Ilya shakes his head, turns back—and catches Shane a few feet away wearing a blank, checked-out expression like he’s waiting for a dental appointment. Poor thing. This really isn’t his cup of tea. Ilya opens his mouth to chirp, distract him, say something dumb, but it’s his turn again. 

Attempt two, he goes smoother.

He takes the puck again and comes in a touch slower, like he’s bored, like he’s giving the goalie time to think. He sells the backhand feint again—same signature, so everyone recognises what’s coming—But holds the puck dead for a fraction longer and slides laterally on his edges while keeping his speed. That sideways drift is the difference; control, not chaos. The goalie commits harder, and  Ilya roofs it with a quick release and no wind-up.

The arena stops laughing at the crown, and starts yelling his name like it’s a real game.

Ilya exhales, shaky with adrenaline he refuses to admit is adrenaline. That was—close. Christ. If he falls and breaks his fucking head, Scott will unhinge his jaw and swallow the sun. His legs are buzzing a little. His hands, too—something is trembling, badly, at the edges of control.

He catches the tail end of Beau’s second attempt—he tries to push it a step further, adds an extra flourish, a second fake, something showy-but-not-buffoon, and the goalie reads it. Either a save or the post. Still fun, still gets the crowd going, but not points-perfect.

“You ready for the third?” Shane says at his shoulder as JB skates back, breath visible. 

Ilya turns, grinning. “You bet. It’s gonna be nuts.”

“Don’t fall and break your neck,” Shane says, deadpan.“I saw how you wobbled at the end there.”

“No promises. Avenge my death; spill blood in my honour. Set the fucking rink on fire.” 

***

Attempt three is the spike. The one he shouldn’t do. The one that could go badly enough that it haunts him for the rest of his life.

He takes the puck and comes in fast again, straight line, like he’s going to do the classic and end the night neatly. Right, he thinks. This is it. Focus.

He sells the backhand feint. The goalie commits. So far, so good. Conscious thought swims away. His mind goes blank and sharp, the way it does right before a fight or a goal, and he swaps to forehand and—doesn’t shoot.

He holds it for a horrible, excruciating beat, body humming, heart hammering into his ribs, and he can feel the goalie scrambling to reset, can feel the weight shift, the panic. Then, exhale, keep steady, wrists, elbows, shoulders, back—He releases a wrist shot off on the wrong foot, wrong timing, wrong angle, half a beat from collapsing back and down, all instinct and reckless nerve, the kind of thing you only do if you trust your body more than you trust your brain.

It works. Jesus Christ, it works.

The puck hits the high net before the goalie even finishes moving, and Ilya’s lungs seize up like he’s been punched. It’s the dumbest thing he’s ever done on skates, and it worked—and all it took was a real risk of dislocating every joint from his neck down. 

Never mind that. You pulled it off;  now you sell. Glide away smooth, shtug at the crowd like, What? Like it’s hard? Don’t show how much you’re sweating like a pig, how your heart is racing, your lungs struggling. He keeps it up until he gets to the bench and collapses as elegantly as he can, head tipped back. The voting numbers on the jumbotron are still counting. Yeah, he thinks, dazed and triumphant. Yeah, he’s winning this one. 

—

He does win it—no big surprise there.

The surprise is the rest of the podium: Marly somehow snags second—which he may or may not deserve; Ilya has no idea, because he hasn’t seen a second of his skate—and Quinn Delvecchio takes third, looking like he’s trying very hard not to look personally offended by numbers on a jumbotron. The crown is still on Ilya’s head. The rat ears bob every time he moves.

Ilya leans toward Beaumont, who is close enough that Ilya can smell his aftershave under the cold rink air.

"For shame, eighty-eight," he says. "You should taken first."

"And rob you of your crown, kid?" Beaumont says, cocking his head. "It looks so pretty in your golden hair."

Ilya stares back, unimpressed. The only way Beaumont could look more like an anthropomorphised Disney rabbit is if someone stapled a cottontail to his ass.

"Lazy," Ilya says, pursing his lips. "Unmotivated. I would crown you myself if you won first."

"Aw, baby, and you tell me now," Beaumont says, eyes sparkling. He doesn’t sound serious—Beaumont has a reputation, and so does Ilya—but still. The implication hangs in the air, a little strange, a little dangerous. "Alas, as thrilling as the idea of getting on my knees for you is, the dragons guarding your virtue are much too deadly. You should’ve given me a couple years’ head start to plan my offence."

Ilya barks a laugh, sharp and honest. Scott’s head twitches their way, turning just enough to catch the tail end, and his expression does that thing where it tries to be stern and fails—mouth twitching, eyes bright. Are you actually flirting with the Hounds’ star scorer right now, on camera, with microphones everywhere, while wearing a crown with rat ears?

Ilya blinks back, wide-eyed and innocent. Who, me?

He turns back to Beaumont, still grinning. "Damn, JB," he says. "That’s fucking smooth."

"Thanks, kid. My girlfriend thinks so too." Beaumont looks completely unbothered. "But hey. If the road takes you to Chicago when things calm down, feel free to give me a call. I’ll take you out for beers, introduce you two. Catch a movie, etcetera."

Ilya can just bet. "Back rows," he says. "Yeah. I’m familiar with that pastime."

Beaumont laughs, eyes crinkling, dimples deployed to their maximal, devastating effect. It doesn’t work, but it would have even six months ago. Hell, it might in the future. Who knows what time will bring, and, besides, with how he’s grown up, messing around with a couple is one of his most comfortable pastimes. 

Best not get into any of that now. They are in public. "Maybe," Ilya says, leaning in with a grin that telegraphs safe, joking, bro-vulgarity.  Nothing to see here. No serious offers have been made or, indeed, been taken under advisement. "I only have beers with people who make it to the playoffs. And what I’ve seen tonight doesn’t make me believe you’ll make it there."

Beaumont’s grin grows both smaller and more honest. "You’re on, kid," he says. "The disappointment of us kicking you out of the playoffs might be offset by the reward of grabbing beers with Amila and me."

"I can just bet," Ilya says, and he punches Beaumont’s shoulder lightly. What a fucking dork. His girlfriend is pregnant, he’s pretty sure. Or maybe that’s just the vibe Beaumont gives off: man who will smile at you, bamboozle you with his cheekbones and deep blue eyes, fuck with your head, ruin your life, then go home and make his girl tea and babble silly noises at her bump. 

—

Later, while they’re clearing the ice and resetting for the next event, the whole building in that in-between hum of commercials and handlers, Ilya drifts until he can slide into Scott’s side like he belongs there. Scott looks down at him with an expression that’s still faintly amused.

"That was cold, kid," Scott says.

Ilya frowns. "Sorry?"

Scott shakes his head, lips twitching. "Never mind; I’ll tell you sometime." Then he leans a fraction closer, voice dropping. "But maybe don’t arrange any threesomes on the ice, yeah? With cameras and microphones everywhere. I’m sure JB doesn’t mind—that’s his kind of trouble—but his girlfriend probably doesn’t deserve the stress."

Ilya blinks.

Oh. Oh, fuck.

Heat crawls up the back of his neck. Because yeah—that was shitty of him, the casual way he implicated a woman he doesn’t know into a bit she never agreed to be part of. It’s not all on him—and, presumably, any partner of Beaumont is going to have to have a thick skin about this stuff—but still. He’s definitely the instigator in this situation, and he presented Beau with a choice to either freak out about a guy flirting with him or flirt back and avoid escalation. 

He should apologise. He should track down Beaumont later and say sorry like a grown-up. Except—Jesus Christ—what if that looks like he’s hitting on him more? 

"Can you—" he starts, then stops, lips pursing as he tries to say this without sounding deranged. "Do you have his number? I want to apologise."

Scott doesn’t answer immediately, looks at him for a long moment, then sighs. "I do, kid. And I’ll give it to you, because—" He pauses, then continues, voice pitched a bit louder, like he wants to be overheard, presumably by JB himself. "Because you should apologise. Even if she’s okay with it, you couldn’t have known that. A bit is a bit, Christ knows you like to see yours through, but let's try and keep the damage contained, hey?"

Ilya exhales, relieved and mortified all at once. "Yeah," he says, quiet. "Okay. Yeah. I will. Thanks" 

***

The commercial break stretches out into something like half an hour, long enough for the clownshow to get dismantled piece by piece. Staffers stream in and out in tight little packs, brisk and efficient, collecting props—rat ears included—while equipment guys follow behind them with that focused, irritated look of people who have real work to do. Missing goalie gear shows up first, then helmets, gloves, proper kit for the ones participating in the Elimination Shootout event. The mood shifts with it. The elimination round is significantly more serious than everything before, and they all know it.

Ilya suits up. He trades the jersey for a real one, gets his helmet on, tightens the chin strap like he has common sense, and even has time to pick through the snacks Scott always seems to have on him. Nothing fancy—nuts, dried berries, protein bars—but he’ll take what he can get. 

Once the staffers clear out and everyone’s finally where they’re supposed to be, Ilya ambles down the line and drops in at Shane’s side like he lives there. He digs an elbow into Shane’s ribs, leans in. “Here we are, finally,” he says. “The important part.”

Shane doesn’t even flinch. He’s quiet, dark eyes thoughtful and far away. “We’re only two points behind,” Shane says, low. “If we take the first and the third, we tie. Take all three, and we win.”

Ilya blinks. He’s still obsessing over this? Except it doesn’t land like criticism. If anything, Shane looks… surprised. Almost disgruntled that the gamble paid off. That this is where they are. Only—why? Shane is a strategic thinker. Shane is the one with plans, with the long view. So why—why is he so hung up on this, of all things?

Whatever. Not the place to bring that up. 

“We have the best five scorers in the league.” Granted, the other five are all on Team Albright, but that’s neither here nor there. 

“Bad matchup for Callo,” Shane says, chewing his cheek absently. “He was drafted by the Guardians the year after they drafted Harts. They know each other inside and out.”

True.

“Which is why Scott put him first,” Ilya says. If Calloway scores, it’s a clip; it sets the tone. If he gets stopped, it’s a clean stop that doesn’t make anyone look stupid. Callo gets to laugh it off. 

“Tough call either way,” Shane mutters. “Could be better to put him last. Rattle Harts a little.”

Yeah, no. Nobody is rattling anyone tonight because nobody cares. Not unless you count Shane, who might be physically incapable of chilling out.

Scott cuts in before Ilya can say something incendiary that he probably doesn't mean.

“Alright, boys,” he calls, voice carrying down the bench. “Here’s the play. Callo, you’re up first. Hallsy, you’re next. Beau third, Roz fourth, and I’ll go fifth.” He looks over them, eyes jumping from one to another, focused but, ultimately, pleased. Like he’s already won—which he has, tangibly, done. “Hartman is good,” Scott continues. “You don’t need me to tell you that. And Albs would’ve made sure he keeps his head. No theatrics. Go with what you know.” He leans in, lips tipping into a sweet smile so devoid of malice it can only be a threat. “I’m looking at you, Beamer,” he says. “Don’t get cute.”

Beamer. Jesus Christ.

Beaumont tips his head, grinning around the mouthguard he can’t seem to keep out of his mouth. “Yes, sir.”

“Christ,” Scott says. Then, louder: “Alright. Callo—take it away. Have fun.”

Calloway laughs, easy and bright. “Sure thing, Haz. Let’s get this show on the road.”

Shane is right, Ilya thinks as Calloway skates out. It is a bad matchup. Callo is fantastic at what he does, but he doesn’t care enough to improvise on the fly, and Hartmann reads him like an open book. Sure enough—Calloway goes in slow, does his usual thing, tries to sell the play, tries to coax the goalie into the wrong move—

Harts’ arm flashes out clean and easy. A gorgeous save. Callo thinks so too, because he laughs and coasts in to bump helmets, yaps like they’re buddies, fucking around at practice. Delvecchio answers for Albright with something quick and nasty: speed in, late cut inside, tuck far side before Vig can get his edges set. Goal. 

“Here we fucking go,” Ilya mutters, locked in now.

Shane doesn’t play around. He doesn’t showboat,  skates in controlled, keeps the puck where he wants it, forces the first commitment, and tucks it home.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Ilya says, loud enough that Shane hears him.

Nyström answers—matches Shane for lack of artistry, pure execution. Straight lane, angle change, release like a snapped wire. Vig is set early—of course he is—but Nyström hits the corner anyway. Goal. Pure shooter violence.

Third pair, and it’s just in time. The crowd’s been wanting something sweeter than Shane’s control and Nyström’s power, something they can cheer for. JB goes, smooth and relaxed on the surface. Ilya, who is something of a faker himself, isn’t fooled. The delay is nasty—half a beat later than you expect—then a blurred last-moment burst, and the puck is in before the goalie’s brain catches up. Goal.

Then Álvarez answers and—oh, Ilya can’t help it. He grins and elbows Shane lightly. “He’s going to fuck it up.”

Whether he gets bored or whether he’s trying to match Beau, Álvarez goes for the flourish, tries to fake Vig into biting. Dumb move. Viggy doesn’t do pedestrian emotions like impatience or frustration. He stays square, waits for the trick to end, and plucks the puck out of the air like he’s taking something off a shelf. Save.

His turn. 

“Showtime!” Beaumont shouts as Ilya stands. “Kill ’em dead, kid.”

Ugh. Being called kid by a five-ten bunny rabbit of a winger should be a criminal offence.

“Lame,” Ilya says. He bumps Shane’s shoulder on his right, then Scott’s on his left. “Here goes.”

Nobody cares. That’s true. Ilya doesn’t care. Except—

Well. Except he’s playing for Team Hunter.

He keeps it simple. Hartmann expects theatrics, and Ilya gives him nothing. He slows down, keeps his temper, sells the backhand just enough to make the forehand go through clean. Goal.

When he skates back, Scott’s grin is wide and toothy. “That’s how it’s done,” Scott says. “No fuss, no mess. Just a shot you see coming and can’t do anything about. Fantastic work.”

And, as per usual, Ilya feels about twelve feet tall. 

***

Villy scores, then the captains bury theirs—slow and heavy in Scott’s case, like he’s dragging the puck behind him on a chain, and fast and mean in Albright’s, the kind of quick cut that makes it look effortless and feels like an insult anyway.

“Round two,” Shane mutters beside him, eyes glittering. “There’s a fucking chance.”

***

Nobody misses in the second round, but the air changes. The laugh-track fades. The building tightens around them, the way it does in a real game when everyone collectively remembers the rules are real and the puck is going to count. By the time the third round swings around, there’s very little left of the easygoing, chill vibe. Even JB is locked in, eyes hooded and glittering. 

It goes fast, is the thing. Shane is the next one out, cut in the third round, through no fault of his own. He makes a straight, perfect play—no tells, no wasted motion—Hartman guesses, and he guesses right. A perfect save.

Nyström gets cut next, the mirror of it: Vigneault reads him clean and plucks it from the air. The third round ends with no more cuts, just tension climbing another notch. Beaumont is the next to go, in the fourth—leaving four of them: Ilya, Vilson, Scott, and Albright. The fifth round rocks by with no cuts. Sixth, too. Ilya powers through his plays, pulls some wild shit, but stays in the game. Then Vills gets cut in the seventh, and it’s just the three of them left. If Scott takes first—and Ilya keeps his third—they have their tie. Christ. 

***

He knows he’s fucked it seconds before he actually fucks it.

He’s an instinctive player—at least compared to most of his teammates—so the moment his body refuses to click into the pattern, he knows it. The timing is wrong. The distance is wrong. He’s so focused on staying blank, on giving Hartman nothing to read, that he loses his own rhythm. He’s too close; there’s no time, no opening, nothing left but improvisation.

So he improvises. He lunges sideways, extends his stick wide, tries to make something out of nothing. For a wild moment, he thinks there’s a chance—Hartman flinches, bites for half a beat, slides, and an opening appears: a thin, tempting strip of net above the pad. Ilya tries to take it. He tries to lift the puck from up close, pop it up and in, quick and clean, before the goalie can recover.

Unfortunately, Harts is a wily old fox. He doesn’t chase the puck, he seals the gap, and Ilya watches in real time as the space he’s aiming for simply vanishes. The puck thuds into Hartman’s pad with a blunt pop. Oof.

Ilya exhales rough, heat rising sharp in his chest. That was—embarrassing. A dumb mistake. But… well. A goalie like Hartman, rested and locked in and fully calibrated? He’s going to get you. He got better sharpshooters than Ilya, minutes ago. Let it go.

“Good game,” Ilya manages, more or less even. He exhales again, forces the adrenaline and the misplaced anger through clenched teeth. “I mean it. Beautiful save.”

“Likewise, Rozzy,” Hartman says, tipping his visor up to give him a smile. He’s always been a bit of a heartbreaker, in the way all the best goalies are: strong jaw, crooked nose, cosmic, eldritch weight behind his eyes. “Now scram. I need to focus if I’m going to survive whatever nightmare Haz is about to send my way for putting a frown on his baby’s face.”

Well.

“Brains and hands and pretty face,” Ilya sighs, theatrical. “Mrs Harts is a lucky woman.”

“Don’t compliment me, kid,” Hartman says, already settling back into his crease. “It’s only going to escalate the scope of the horrors. Shoo. Shoo.” 

***

“And then there were two,” he tells Shane when he gets back to the bench.

The little back-and-forth with Hartman helped, honestly. Cleared his head, reset the perspective. He was never getting second against Albright anyway—not unless he broke his wrists and ankles. Knees too, to be safe. A tasteful little offering to the hockey gods.

“Mm,” Shane says.

Ilya barks a laugh at the laser focus.  “Scott has this,” he says, easy. “No worries. Scott doesn’t want many things, but he gets what he wants, in my experience. He wants this, ergo—no need to stress.”

“All available evidence seems to point in that direction,” Shane says. “And yet, I stress.”

Bless.

Ilya turns his attention back to the ice.

The two maniacs are still going at it, one after the other, fast and merciless. Albright comes in wide and fast, forcing Vig to respect the rush—then darts around and slips it in before the pads can follow.

Goal.

Scott doesn’t match the speed. He matches the nerve. He comes in slow, waits until Hartman’s weight shifts, and then snaps a shot so quick Ilya is reacting to the sound, not the puck.

Goal.

Albright again—same entry, different ending. He zips close, shoulders square, threatens forehand just long enough to freeze Vig, and then tucks it low through the gap by the post.

Goal.

On and on it goes. Two rounds. Three. Vig is starting to look a little ragged at the edges. Hartman, somehow, looks more or less exactly the same as he did at the start, except Ilya is pretty sure he can see burst capillaries in the whites of his eyes from here.

The crowd goes quiet, shocked into attention. The announcers drop into a hushed, bewildered narration, like they’re watching a rare, herbivorous species unexpectedly become violent. This is still the All-Star weekend, their tone says, incredulous. What is wrong with these people?

Finally—finally—Albright makes a mistake. It’s subtle. He misreads Vigneault’s fake-out, misunderstands the commitment. The backhand is beautiful—smooth, clean, almost lazy—

—and aimed the wrong way. The puck hits Vigneault’s shoulder and drops into his glove like it belongs there.

Save.

“He did it,” Shane exhales, voice a little strangled. “The fucking asshole. He pulled a fucking tie out of his ass. Oh my God. He couldn’t— And you can’t even see him shake.” Shane turns his head just enough to look at Ilya, eyes wide with offended awe. “What the fuck, Ilya. Is Hunter actually not Homo sapiens? Are the rumours true, and you’re banking on the fact that no law exists against nonhuman animals playing in the NHL?”

Ilya snorts, shrugs, helpless. Who knows? Who knows what’s going on there? If he found out that Scott doesn’t actually need to consume food and subsists on photosynthesis and willpower, he’d believe it instantly. 

The announcer is babbling through it, still sounding faintly stunned that anyone is trying this hard for Skills Night of all things. Viewership has to be through the roof. The whole All-Star thing has gotten more and more pathetic in recent years, a hollow cash-grab, and now here are stars of this calibre, playing like it matters.

“Nineteen-nineteen,” Ilya says, the words sweet on his tongue. They might win this. Holy shit. While using the dumbest strategy imaginable, they could actually win.

“What now?” Shane asks, still breathless. “They continue the shootout?”

Hammer snorts from Ilya’s left, eyes fixed forward. “No chance they risk either of them getting injured over this. No. They’ll probably—”

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer cuts in, suddenly bright with a kind of excitement that’s more believable than the saccharine misery from earlier. “Skills Night is tied! We will go to a shootout tiebreaker to determine the winning team.”

There’s a beat, and Ilya glances around. Yeah. Everyone’s hyped. Wide eyes, open delight, guys leaning forward on the bench like they’ve forgotten they’re supposed to appear disinterested. 

“Each captain will select a shooter,” the announcer continues.

Right. Right.

“Do you think he’ll choose himself?” Shane asks quietly. “He’s obviously the best shootout guy here.”

Very obviously, yes, as he just helpfully demonstrated.

“Not a chance,” Ilya says. “Hammer is right. Both of them are going to pick someone else.” He watches the officials do their little theatrical reset, like they’re cleansing the ice of sin. The league truly cannot resist milking drama until the cow is dust. “Albright is going to go with Mayhart or Marlowe. And Scott—”

He pauses, thinking. “JB, I think,” he says. “Him or you. Probably you, actually. You’re fresher, and Beau is— as we learned—too impatient for Hartman.”

“Them’s fighting words, baby,” Beaumont calls from the other side of the bench. “Either put your mouth where your money is, or consider not yapping.” He pauses, theatrical. “Or is that the other way around?”

Ilya is learning so much about his fellow players. All this chirping potential, untapped for years, just simmering quietly under the surface—until, apparently, the league finally got an openly queer player and everyone’s dormant homoerotic energy found an outlet.

“You want to talk about my mouth from inside that glass house, Beamer,” Ilya calls back, delighted. “I am not the one with an oral fixation. Or are you the only one here wearing a mouthguard because you think someone will inevitably sock you in the teeth? Both options are likely.”

“My mouth has been known to get me into trouble,” Beaumont says, still grinning, “but it tends to be the type of trouble I enjoy—”

Jesus Christ. Someone is going to sock him, and it’s looking increasingly like it’s not even going to be Scott. No—Shane, on Ilya’s right, is going very still in a way that reads as violent. The gay chirping must be new for him, sure, but it is also not going to happen less if he shows it bothers him. Shane is not built for this particular kind of chaos. Make a note to see when Shane pissed off JB, too. This seems, frankly, a little targeted, and while Ilya vaguely respects JB as a player and a pest and a fuckboy, he’s on Shane’s side ten times out of ten. It’s not even a little bit of a debate. 

Thankfully, the announcers finally hit whatever audience engagement target they wanted and move things along.

Albright, to no one’s surprise, picks Mayhart. Now Scott will choose Shane—

“Ilya Rozanov.”

Ilya blinks.

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Bursts into laughter, sudden and helpless. 

What a fucking freak.

***

He’s a little delirious when he steps onto the ice.

Lying is beneath him—After Scott went and dragged a tie out of that lineup, against that team, and then handed Ilya the path to victory,  Ilya will sooner set his own eyeballs on fire than disappoint him. So: playoff focus. Locked in.

Mayhart cares a little less, maybe, but only just. They’re all competitive as a breed, hockey players; they absorb energy in the room and spit it back out twice as sharp. And right now, every guy on the ice would spill blood for a single dumb tie point. Mayhart is no different.

Ilya goes first.

Focus. Inhale, exhale. Clear your head. Don’t think—move, move, move.

He keeps it simple: an early snap, no trickery, no delay. Goal. Mayhart matches him, sinks his fast and clean. Ilya doesn’t watch. Round two. Goal, goal. Round three. Goal, goal. Round four—his own attempt comes out ugly, wrong angle, last-second switch, no thought, all instinct, the puck just barely squeaking through like it’s been bribed. Goal. 

And Mayhart—

It’s not even a mistake, not really. He makes a smooth, beautiful play, and Vig makes the right bet at the right time, reads the commitment, stays square, lets the puck come to him. It ricochets off his chest with a dull, blunt sound.

Miss.

For half a second, Ilya is frozen in place, then he’s gone—launching himself at the bench, into Scott, into all the hands and shouting and bodies colliding: Shane, Hammer, and motherfucking Beaumont, all of them swarming him like he’s scored in overtime in Game Seven. 

“I never doubted you for a fucking second, kid,” Scott shouts right into his heart. “Not for a fucking moment.” 

***

Chapter End Notes

Okay, this probably needs to be said somewhere.

If you’re in NHL fandom at all—especially on AO3—you’ve already done a lot of mental gymnastics. Not in a fun way. In a survival way. We’ve gotten very good at compartmentalizing, and at building an AU not just on the page, but in our heads.
Because you kind of have to.

Hockey—sports in general—is full of horrible people. Think of your favorite player. In the vast majority of cases, he’s at Least traditionalist conservative. At least. And the NHL in particular is ridiculously saturated with rot: abuse (sexual and otherwise), assault, violence, gambling, addiction, you name it. The stars have done plenty. God knows what happens at lower levels.

So if you’re a fan, you… build a world where they don’t. Or where it isn’t the point. You try not to support them financially (which is easier for those of us on the AO3 side of things—and yes, there’s a tiny petty satisfaction in that; if some of these guys knew what we write about them and their fellow probably-conservative teammates, they’d combust). But still: it’s complicated. It’s always complicated.

And it’s not like hockey is unique. Your favorite rapper (hello, fellow 90s babies) probably did terrible shit. Your favorite NBA player. Kobe had sexual assault charges—criminal and civil. Tupac went to prison for rape. It is what it is, and it sucks, and you either engage with the art/sport in a heavily filtered way or you don’t engage at all.

So. Where am I going with this?

If I were writing straight-up NHL RPF, I probably wouldn’t even bother with this note, because I’d assume we’re all in the same boat. If you’re there, you’ve already done the rationalization steps (or whatever you want to call it) that get you to a place where you can read and enjoy fictionalized versions of real people doing fictional things. More specifically: you’ve gotten yourself to a place where you won’t be triggered by seeing fictionalized versions of real people doing /good/ things, even if you know—or strongly suspect—they’re /bad/ in real life.
Does that make sense?

But this fic isnt there, because people in this part of ao3 are reading about fictional NHL. You lot are maybe not there, yet? And maybe a part of you is also familiar enough with NHL to know who im basing my OCs on. So for people who know the NHL know who Mayhart is based on, who Rat King Ilya is based on and, crucaially, who know who Beaumont—the star scorer for the Chicago Hounds—is based on, I say:

I have chosen the coward’s path, and I am hiding under my AU umbrella.

This is wish-fulfillment. In this universe, the Warden (no. 99) is actually fantastic, and no. 88 is a bi disaster who never did anything wrong. Ever.

Yeah.

Chapter 16

Chapter Notes

Second part of what was supposed to be the one chapter. Christ.

Also, I changed my writing software and the new one looks great and is apparently awful so there are more mistakes than ever. Considering my mild dyslexia, I probably won’t catch them all. So. Heads up.

Things get hectic after the comp, to the surprise of absolutely no one. The fact that players took it seriously for once—and that there was plenty of private drama to tide over the undecided viewers—meant press obligations were non-negotiable. Not with everybody, no, but the important ones: the six the public voted in, the other captain, the people who won each event, and the occasional unlucky friend who has to tag along to keep their buddy company.

Non-negotiable, however, means very little in the face of Scott, who doesn’t need help bulldozing people he doesn’t particularly care for; he barely needs an excuse. He plays nice for ten minutes, tolerates the chaos for another fifteen, and then decides enough is enough. Twenty-five minutes into the press lanes, he taps his watch—a fuck-off Rolex Ilya knows for a fact he thinks about a lot less than the fibre count of his socks—clears his throat, and smiles.

“Unfortunately, we must leave presently. We have a scheduled obligation in five minutes, and the reception tonight starts in less than an hour.”

“But our schedule—”

“I understand your position, but it can’t be helped.” Scott’s tone stays pleasant. Deadly, but pleasant. “Once you determine who is responsible for this double-booking, contact my staff. I will make time to meet with the person in question, so we can talk through their protocols and make sure we avoid such problems in the future.”

You fucking asshole, Ilya thinks, heart bursting with fondness. Contact my staff? What staff, shitbag? Are you seriously bullying this unpaid intern when you know full well there was no double-booking and you’re just being unbearable?

“But sir—”

“I look forward to your email,” Scott says, and then simply steps away like the conversation is over because he has declared it so.

Ilya sighs, besotted. “See you in a bit, Hallsy,” he says, shaking his head at Shane. “Try to sneak in a nap, if you can manage. I expect you’ll need it.”

Sasha and Svetlana are waiting for them, primped and ready, in elegant, shockingly modest outfits. Lanka’s in black—dress, hugging her like it was sewn on, but covering her from collarbone to knee. Severe, expensive, forbidding; it matches the blood-red lipstick. Sasha’s in high-waisted trousers, a loose shirt, and a jacket—tailored, of course, but casual by his standards. Barely a sheer fabric or a dramatic neckline between the two of them. It’s honestly unsettling.

They don’t talk much. There’s no time. Ilya speeds through a shower, puts on what they say, how they say, lets Sasha swipe quick, brisk finishing touches of makeup, and then they’re off, the three of them trailing a little behind Scott like ducklings.

The ballroom is the same room as the draft—only now it’s been put back the way Christ and interior designers intended. The minimalist staging is gone, and what’s left is full baroque opulence: velvet, gilt, hardwood, glittering chandeliers. Ilya loves it; minimalism is for losers and liars.

The room is already thick with bodies. Most of the players have naturally migrated to one side—clustered together in a loose pack, opting for safety in numbers—while the real adults roam the other half with their flutes and restrained laughter. High-top tables are stacked with food and drinks, and people drift between them in slow, grazing loops.

Ilya spots familiar faces immediately. Shane is impossible to miss, bright-eyed and slightly rumpled, like he got dressed in a hurry. Vig is with him, looking calm and handsome and aloof, a man whose resting cosmic horror face suggests he has never once in his life sent a text, much less in all caps. They’re talking with a loose circle of people, and Shane’s smile is doing its public-service act: polite, blank, a little strained at the edges.

A few feet away, the Bears have formed their own gravitational field. Marly in the loud centre of it, as usual, with Seb hovering at his shoulder land Hammer suffering them to live despite his better instinct. The Chicago contingent is hovering nearby. Beaumont, badgering his captain, Vitya, enduring it, Marek Jansson, most of the way, checked out.

“Quick tour,” Scott announces, jarring him to the present. “Say hello, make our faces known, then we get food.”

“They already know my face,” Ilya mutters, but he follows, because Scott is inexorable and also because he’s right. You do the little laps. You smile. You let the suits see your teeth so they never forget that biting is on the table.

They move through the room with Ilya on Scott’s arm and Svetlana on Sasha’s. It’s probably a statement of some sort; everything is these days. Ilya does his best to survive the chitchat, the introductions, the endless repetitions of the same ten phrases. Have you met such and such? Wonderful to meet you. Scott has been telling me about– If anyone expects more of him, they don’t show it, and Ilya doesn’t think they do. Not with Scott and Svetlana here to do the heavy lifting, and Sasha and Ilya present as their assets.

And, well. He’s always known Sasha would beat him out in playing the indolent sex pet, but he hadn’t expected how badly. Ilya doesn’t think he’s bad at it, but he’s still pretty new; he still needs to perfect his role. Sasha–

Sasha says almost nothing, but manages to twist his disinterest into a status symbol with a handful of expressions and gestures. He’s not rude. He’s not hostile. He’s just… detached. Distant in a way that reads as power in rooms like this. His posture is immaculate, bored foreign aristocrat at a function he doesn’t enjoy and vaguely thinks is beneath him. He stands half a step behind Svetlana, hands loose, gaze drifting over the room like he’s imagining some other, better party that he could, instead, be bored by. The suits eat it up. Of course they do. Nothing impresses Americans like a man who isn’t all that impressed by their money and status, but only because they’re inferior to his.

At one point, someone says something admiring about international talent—a phrase Ilya hates with a passion—and Sasha blinks slowly like a cat and replies, “Is that so? How interesting.” Which is a phrase so devoid of meaning, it boggles the mind. Nevertheless, the man smiles, nodding, looking like it’s the smartest thing he’s heard all night.

Eventually, mercifully, someone catches Svetlana’s attention—an important someone, by the way her whole body shifts—and she peels off with a final “Excuse me, darlings. I will be back with you shortly.”

Scott watches her go, then turns back to Ilya and Sasha. “Alright,” he says briskly. “We’ve been seen. We’ve behaved. It’s time to run, before she inevitably reels us back in.

They’re halfway to a quieter table in the back when they run into Shane and Vig.

“Shane!” Ilya beams, wide and a bit crazed. “Have you eaten? Doesn’t matter. You should eat more. Come, we eat, we talk.”

Shane sends him a dry look. “Hi, Roz. I’m doing alright, Roz. Yes, in fact, it is rude that you’re ignoring Vig, how nice you noticed. Almost as rude as you not introducing me to–-Aleksandar Orlov, yes? Infamous Sasha?”

Right. He takes a moment to collect himself and speed-works through introductions, while he’s extending his fist to get gently, ever so softly bumped by Vig. He’s pretty sure he’s introduced Shane to Sasha as hardest motherfucker you will ever meet, toughest guy in the world, which is concerning, but also a good indicator of how close he's come to system shutdown

“Alright, that’s done. Now, listen. I haven't eaten anything real since noon. I am going to black out and start ingesting protein in five minutes. Ideally, this would not be uncooked flesh of other men, but the option is there and becoming more likely by the second.”

Vig stays only long enough to nibble through a fascinating selection of plant-based protein–not because of any dietary restrictions; he was reportedly managing his mood, a terrifying explanation that probably earned him Sasha’s lifelong respect. Ilya, however, was not joking about being half-starved.

“Finished, are you?” Sasha says, finally, when he starts winding down. “Shocking. Are you certain? I’m sure someone can fetch a roast boar or two to round the meal.”

Yeah, yeah. “Not all of us survive on booze, fish and malice,” he says, wiping his fingers with the fancy little towels that appeared at his elbow by the waitstaff, possibly when they noticed that, unlike the other guests, Ilya was not there to nibble. “Alright, good. Sorry, Scott, Shane, what were we saying?”

“I was congratulating Hallsy on his play today,” Scott says, lips curved in a sincere smile. “Incredible work, really. Best backhand in the League, easily.”

Shane, bless him, looks fit to expire from discomfort. “Uh, don’t know about that, man, Albright’s right there, but cheers, I guess.”

“Albs is good, but not as good as you–”

Ilya lets the well-meaning bullying continue. It’s good for them. Scott likes building his players up, and he should have a variety of victims in his diet, not just Ilya and what little praise Svetlana and Sasha will accept. Moreover, it’s good for Shane, too, who gets weird and squirrely about compliments. Ilya learned young to coat his praise in insults and sarcasm, make it safe by making it deniable. In recent months, though, he’s tried to step away from that. It’s cowardly shit, he’s come to accept. It’s brave to like things and braver to say as much. Real men can like things. Real men can own it.

So he lets Scott do his thing and throws himself headfirst into one of his favourite topics with Sasha: ballet drama.

No scene in the world is as pointlessly, self-defeatingly dramatic as the theatre world, and within that category, ballet and opera are locked in a never-ending fight for gold. Ilya—who grew up listening to ballet drama and spent a whole summer sleeping with an opera singer--feels himself qualified to say that ballet circus is more enjoyable.

For one, the dancers are, fundamentally, athletes, which brings an interesting dimension to the drama. For another, the better they are, the more precariously they are balanced on the intersection of neurosis, psychosis and paranoia. It helps nothing and no one that they’re also half-starved, hormonally fucked, by and large incapable of regulating their body temperature, addicted to any number of things from cigarettes to sleeping pills, and superstitious enough to make a hockey player baulk. Americans, it turns out, are no better than the Russians in this respect. Granted, there are fewer grievous bodily-injury plots and more financial ruin plots, which is a little disappointing, but nevertheless head and shoulders ahead of the most deranged soap opera on air.

Svetlana swings by just as Sasha finishes outlining a small but delicious string of traps set by an Italian contender for Prima Ballerina, aimed at the current principal dancer. Both names are unpronounceable and irrelevant, because Sasha is certain that the up-and-coming Italian-American Rachel Rossi is the dark horse—and Sasha knows these things. Rossi, reportedly, is playing a sophisticated psychological game that will, inevitably, end with the German dancer deported and the principal dancer divorced, disgraced, and shipped off to some other company.  

“Sorry to interrupt, boys. Scott—an interesting thing is developing. Be a dear and find Hammersmith and bring him to me. No need to be overly discreet; Hastings knows what we’re working with.” She pauses briefly to press a distracted three kisses into Shane’s cheek. “Mister Hollander, it’s lovely to see you again. If time permits, I look forward to talking to you more.”

“Duty calls,” Scott says, sighing. “Off to the trenches, boys. Brad fucking Hammersmith. Jesus wept—”

Ilya snickers, makes a shooing motion. “Your plight amuses and delights me. More importantly, I look forward to observing the clown show that will be Hammer being bullied by Lanka.”

“I’d have more sympathy for Hammersmith if he weren’t a carnivorous psycho.” Scott sight, reaches out to clasp Ilya on the neck, squeezes, then does something similar to Sasha, only lower down, because the number of people who can touch Sasha’s neck and live is two, and Scott is neither. “Don't forget to hydrate. You've ingested enough salt in twenty minutes to preserve yourself like a fucking ham.”

He’s not wrong. More importantly, once he leaves, Shane lets himself be drawn into the conversation about Sasha’s costumer, who is sleeping with the set designer, his wife, and his assistant, and doing it with enough discretion to keep all three of them guessing and enough spite to keep them paranoid. It’s great fun, mostly because both Sasha and Shane are typically quiet around people they don’t know. Now they’re both sort of talking to Ilya, not each other, but being the world’s shortest conversational bridge has never been easier. He doesn’t even have to say much, just nod and let each man respond to the question or sentence.

At some point, when he’s feeling all sorts of pleased and present, he spots Beaumont, Albright and Cole wander past, and he’s speaking before he makes the conscious decision to do it.

“Hey JB, do you have a moment?”

The group freezes in place, turns his way, then splits like it was rehearsed, Albright and Cole sending them nods and wandering away–but not far enough, he would like to note, so they can’t hear what’s going on.

Alright, Rozanov. Here goes. You’ve just been thinking about how you’re stepping away from cowardly, dumb shit. Well, now’s the chance to prove it. One, you apologise face-to-face like a grown-up. Two, you have company, which should cut down on the chance of him thinking you’re going to continue flirting–

Although, it’s not like a stadium’s worth of onlookers and live cameras stopped him earlier–-So maybe–-No. Focus. You’re in it now.

“You know Hallsy,” he says, gesturing at Shane; one of the stupidest things he’s ever said. Jesus. Both Beaumont and Shane are staring at him like he’s nuts. Sasha, being a creature of chaos and ruin, is smiling. Move on, and do it fast. “And this is Sasha. Alexandar Orlov. Sasha, Jules Beaumont of the Chicago Hounds.”

Sasha’s lips twitch. “I am not sure if his hockey team was entirely necessary, Il’ka.” He nods at Beaumont's, inclines his head, barely there. “Pleasure.

“Likewise,” Beaumont says, eyes glittering. He cocks his head. “What’s up?”

Showtime.

“I wanted to—” Jesus Christ. “Apologise for earlier. I shouldn’t have done that. It’s going to be trouble for your girlfriend. I was going to get your number from Scott, but I figured I should do it face-to-face.”

The easy smile on Beaumont’s face tightens, smooths into something friendly but vague. “Apologise for what, kid? For pulling off the best shootouts I’ve seen in years?”

Ilya rolls his eyes, but he’s also a little pleased. It’s a big deal, coming from Beaumont. The guy won the Cup last year with an overtime breakaway goal.

“Don’t play dumb, man. I didn’t—”

He inhales, hands twitching at his sides. The urge to make a dumb joke, to deflect and spare himself the vulnerability, is immediate and violent. Unfortunately, Lanka didn’t raise idiots, and Sasha didn’t raise liars. He said he’d apologise, so he will. And since he’s doing it, it’s best to do it here and now, face to face—with backup in the room. Every person alive who loves him is within yelling distance. Not taking advantage of that would be ridiculous.

“Look. I talk a lot of shit. But I shouldn’t have gone there.” He swallows. “If the cameras caught it, you’re going to have paps parked outside your place with telescopic lenses. You’ll have to put up blackout curtains just so they don’t take long-range photos of your bedroom.” He waves a vague, frustrated hand. “I understand your girl is expecting, so… yeah. Sorry. If you end up moving or whatever, I will cover the costs.”

Beaumont is frowning now—thoughtful, displeased. “Is that what happened to you?” he asks. “Long-range photography?”

Ilya shrugs, immediately uncomfortable. “Yeah—Look, this isn’t about me. I’m just saying… yeah.” He exhales. “I just wanted to say sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything like that, and you were decent in return, so I don’t want to repay it with stress for you. Or the baby.”

Beaumont nods, expression going strange around the edges: thoughtful, a little pissed, and bizarrely soft in places. Sincere.

“Okay,” he says. “Number one: that’s fucking terrible, and I’m sorry that happened to you. Two: anybody who wants to harass me for fuckign around with a teammate and a fantastic kid like yourself would’ve found something else to harass me about anyway. Three—and this is important—you’re not at fault if other people are being little bitches.”

He tilts his head, like he’s deciding how to best play this. Ilya’s seen that look before. It presages a lot of crazy shit, goals coming in that have no business coming in, heralded in by a lazy smile and silky hands.

“I know you were fucking around; I was too. Nevertheless, anyone would be lucky to have you give them a second glance. And if they can’t handle the heat, that’s their problem. They shouldn’t go around flying close to the sun and then complain about getting burned.”

Ilya stands there for a long moment, utterly blindsided.

“Uh… cheers?” he manages. “I think?” He blinks again. “Still. Your girl—”

“Amila is a ’90s baby from Bosnia living in Chicago, kid,” Beaumont says, deadpan. “She has four shotguns mounted on the wall and a never-ending thirst for blood. Don’t worry about Amy.”

Right. Okay.

Ilya shoots Shane a mildly panicked look and is gratified to get a wide-eyed one right back. Good. Great. He’s not the only one baffled by this sudden outpouring of support from the biggest slut in the NHL.

“Well said,” Sasha says into the baffled silence. “Very impressive. One is shocked to find such eloquence in a hockey player.”

Beaumont snorts. “You caught me at a rare time when the right thing to say is obvious and straightforward. Ask me something else, and I promise I’ll go right back to being lame and obnoxious.”

“I don’t doubt that your capacity for being obnoxious exceeds my admiration,” Sasha says, dry. “I have, for my sins, grown up among hockey players. And because I have grown up among hockey players, I am well-positioned to say that just because the right thing to say is obvious and straightforward, it does not make it any more likely it will be said.” He inclines his head, cat-eyed and terrible. “So—thank you for saying it.”

Now who is awkward, Ilya thinks, back to feeling comfortably smug. Ilya is one thing—he’s not at his best—but no soul alive can beat Sasha at being direct and devastating.

“Right,” Beaumont says slowly, eyes jumping between them. “Hey, so—while I’ve got you here, I do have a quick question.” He gestures between them, a jerk of his head. “What’s the sitch here, boys?”

Ilya pauses, frowns a little. They’ve answered this question seven thousand times. It’s getting tedious.

“We have known each other since we were children,” Sasha says, “as I’m sure Ilya has explained. But that’s not what you’re asking. You’re asking if we are lovers.”

“Well. Yes,” Beaumont says.

Ilya closes his eyes briefly. Now he’s done it. He feels a distinct urge to dive under the table for cover.

“You don’t have to answer,” Beaumont adds. He doesn’t hurry or rush. He’s talking as slowly as always, mouth curved in a half-smile, eyes lidded. Nevertheless, it has the air of clarification. Contextualization, if nothing else. “I wouldn’t force you even if I could—and I’m pretty sure stronger men than me have tried and failed to get you to do anything except precisely as you please.” He huffs a laugh. “Still. I’m curious. I want to know, so I’m asking. What’s the deal? Boyfriends? Partners? Weirdly intense friends?”

Well, that’s something. At least he de-escalated a little. Sasha loves sincerity with characteristic categoruical intensity, follows it like it’s his most fundamental guiding star. The straightforward approach should appeal to him.

“Sasha is—” Ilya starts, and then stalls, baffled by his own inability to translate. “He is family.”

“Sex has nothing to do with it, in fact,” Sasha picks up. He leans forward, intent, present. He wants to say this. “He saved me when I was overdosing and held me when I was in withdrawal. He cleaned the wounds other men left on my skin—and did it again when I inevitably went back to them.” His voice doesn’t shake, isn’t confessional, passionate or even detached. It’s just–a lot. “He is not my boyfriend or my lover or my friend. He is just mine.”

Ilya clears his throat. He’s a little choked up. It’s not that any of this is new. It’s all true, and more. He’s not even embarrassed—there’s nothing embarrassing about being loved, especially not by a man like Sasha. It’s just… awkward, is all.

“Weirdly intense friends, then,” Beaumont says finally, expression—for once—inscrutable. It’s a bizarre look on him, when he typically looks like he’s perpetually stumbling between a keg stand and a stranger’s bed. “Gotcha.” He waves an absent hand. “Hey, there’s nothing insignificant about the word friend. Wars have been started over friendship. And a blind and deaf man could spend ten seconds in Rozz’ company and learn he has a thing about loyalty.” His mouth quirks. “I was just wondering.”

“Nobody ever just wonders, in my experience,” Sasha says. “And attempting to categorise relationships is never that simple. But you are likely more correct than the opposite.”

“Highest bar I’ve ever strived for, kid.”

“Yes,” Sasha says, perfectly dry. “I can see how this would be the case.”

Beaumont laughs. It comes out a little wistful, but sincere enough.

“Right. This has been wild, kids. Good luck.” He nods at them like he means it. “Take care of each other.”

“Yeah,” Ilya says. He feels distinctly off-balance and can’t quite figure out why. “Thanks?” Should he thank him? Thank him for what?

This apology took a very weird turn very quickly, and he doesn’t appreciate it.

“Jesus,” Shane says once it’s just the three of them. “Only you could drag hidden depths out of Beaumont of all people. That was… intense.”

“I’m as surprised about it as you are,” Ilya says, still a bit shellshocked. “I should’ve gotten his number from Scott and texted him. If someone caught that on camera—”

“They wouldn’t air it,” Sasha says. “Platforming a player being a normal, well-adjusted human for once? Perish the thought.” He sweeps his eyes over the crowd, nose wrinkling. “Ugh. My glass is empty. This cannot be borne. Come—let’s remedy this.”

Marly and Mayhart are loitering at the bar. The party, such as it is, is in full swing, but is becoming thin on the ground in terms of players. Almost everyone here is either a captain or has been ordered to be present. Seb is busy with Hammer, Svetlana and Scott—bless them—and Ilya keeps taking little looks their way and snickering. Hammer looks terrified, following Svetlana around like a bear on a leash—pun intended—as she and Scott spin whatever nonsense they’re doing with the suits.

They exchange greetings. Shane shakes hands with Marly, then does the half-hug with Hartsy that’s cute as hell—both solemn and baby-faced, like they’d be more at home at a poetry reading than a hockey function. And both captains of their teams, no less. The only captains in this little cluster, in fact.

Cliff slings an arm over his shoulders and goes, “Rozzy, Roz, Roz—man of the evening. Sick moves on the ice, man. That third attempt was fucking poetry. You looked like you were moments away from death.”

Ilya laughs. “Dumbest thing I ever did, Jesus Christ. I’m never doing that again. Never mind that—Hartsy!” His grin is sharpening by the moment, schadenfreude alchemising his skin smooth and shiny. “Just the man I wanted to see. Meet Sasha. The other Russian twink you’ve heard about.”

Hartsy—bless him—looks like he’s about to have a stroke. His eyes somehow get even rounder as he looks up at Sasha, who’s easily half a head taller, maybe more, with ballet-wide shoulders and thighs. Ridiculous posture and fashion aside, Sasha could kick a horse dead, and looks it.

“Yikes,” Hartsy says. “Alright. Hi?”

Sasha’s unimpressed look has been a thing of beauty since they were six, but he’s been perfecting it ever since. It helps that he gets so much practice.

“Charmed, I’m sure. I take it you are the other—” He pauses, adds a slow blink. “—twink, Il’ka?”

“Guessed it in one.”

“Fascinating,” Sasha says. “Your colleagues’ wit continues to astound.”

“This is the best day of my life,” Marly exhales. “Oh my god. You’re Sasha. Of course you are. What was I thinking? Hi. Hello. Welcome. Never leave.”

Ilya’s grin is threatening to start causing structural damage. He slides closer to Shane. “This should be fun,” he murmurs.

“You’ve thrown a werewolf, a vampire, and a zombie into a room and locked the door, you absolute maniac,” Shane whispers back. “They’re natural enemies. This will be a disaster.”

“Fun disaster.”

Indeed: Mayhart, smart boy that he is, seems to be frozen on the spot like a critter playing dead, while Cliff and Sasha size each other up. 

“So,” Cliff says, bright and loud, “I hear you’ve settled in okay? How is it, living with Roz and Haz?”

“America is predictably and unsurprisingly dreadful,” Sasha says. “There is no class, sense, or taste.” He shrugs. “Alas, Ilya is determined to ruin his body in pursuit of hockey greatness, so here I am. It could have been worse, probably.”

Mayhart clears his throat, uncomfortable. “Yeah,” he says. “It probably could be worse. Considering.”

Ilya hums, interested. “Oh?”

“I mean—” Mayhart shrugs, still looking like a bunny staring up at a set of claws coming his way at a hopeless speed. “I heard things got pretty dicey pretty quickly. Good that you got out of there?”

Ilya feels Shane’s interest sharpen like a physical thing. Fair enough—he’s pretty surprised himself.

“How do you figure?” Ilya shakes an impatient hand at Mayhart’s expression. “I’m not fucking with you. I’m just surprised you’ve heard anything about it.”

“I asked Kuzy, of course.” Mayhart sends him a funny look—surprised, and a little sad. “And Sokolov. Everybody was talking about it, man. The blow-up and, well. The second blow-up, when your two friends left.”

Oof.

“Kuzy would be Evgeni Kuzminsky,” Sasha says, expression a hundred degrees north of cold. “And Sokolov is Viktor Sokolov, yes? From Dinamo?”

“Yeah.” It makes sense, in retrospect. Ilya was vaguely aware people were talking about it; he just… hadn’t imagined the practicalities.

“I see.” Sasha pauses, straightening, eyes scanning the crowd. “I haven’t seen Sokolov in some time. I should say hello. Catch up. Tear his forked tongue out of his mouth–”

Yikes.

“No. Nope.” Ilya closes the distance between them and hooks an arm through Sasha’s, for good measure. “Leave Vitya be. And Zhenya. They’ve been decent—” Well. He doesn’t actually know. He sends a questioning look Mayhart’s way.

“Very decent,” Mayhart says, nodding hard. “Most decent. They were really, really decent.” He blinks once, twice. “Also worried. Ask Beamer. I’m pretty sure Socks was calling people in Sweden to—y’know—buy Roz’s contract. If things didn’t go through?”

Now it’s Ilya’s turn to blink a few times. He turns to Shane. “Socks is—”

“Sokolov, yeah,” Shane says, shrugging. “Pretty sure it’s legit. People I know in Germany were talking about it.”

Jesus. Jesus Christ—

Never mind that. Focus, because Sasha’s fur is still up.

“See?” Ilya says, sharp with it. “They are decent. Allies, even. No need to eat them at all!”

Cliff swallows a laugh, but joke’s on him. Sasha is nuts, and Zhenya’s and Vitya’s families still live in Russia. Vitya is especially vulnerable, since he’s a fellow Moscow brat.

“Allies do not spread gossip,” Sasha says, eyes narrowed. “Journalists are one thing, but Americans are stupid and lazy. They rarely bother investigating abroad. I did not think we would have leaks.”

Jesus. Ilya closes his eyes, opens them again. Shane is looking a little pale, and Mayhart is blanking completely.

“There are over sixty Russian players in the NHL,” Ilya says, as patiently as he’s able. “Someone would have gossiped.” Wait—no, that’s not even the main issue here. “More importantly, the gossip itself is not something we need to hide! Nothing bad happened. Nothing illegal.”

Shane’s exhale is subtle. Mayhart, meanwhile, seems to visibly deflate with relief. Yikes.

“Oh.” Sasha frowns. “Obviously. It’s just private.”

Private. The entirety of Russia knows, or near as. Ilya hasn’t checked—Christ, of course he hasn’t—but he knows how fast gossip spreads in the Motherland, and his whole situation was tailor-made for papers and news broadcasts and, not to put too fine a point on it, government propaganda.

The anti-gay laws hadn’t even been in effect a whole year when Ilya went and had his gay scandal. What better way to demonstrate their necessity than to say: Here, look. The decadent West corrupted a good Russian boy so easily. He hasn’t been gone a handful of years and he’s already making gay porn—

A bolt of pain stabs between his eyes. He couldn’t stop the grimace if his life depended on it. “It’s fine,” he grits out when three pairs of eyes snap to him. Even Mayhart looks briefly distracted from his terror. “There is no issue. Lanka and Sasha settled my legal affairs, set up a trust for my family, got married, and split. It’s hardly anything shocking.”

Shane and Marly—because they’re the worst—immediately look back over at Hartsy, eyebrows raised sceptically. Hartsy backs up. Like, fully takes a step back. Both hands go up, palms out.

“That’s right. That’s what happened,” he says quickly. “Besides, I don’t even know anything. Just passing comments. In passing.”

Way to make it sound suspicious, you utter disaster.

“That is what happened,” Sasha says irritably. “We hardly escaped into the night with bags of cash. Everything was done properly, in court, with appropriate witnesses and such. I don’t even understand how it could possibly be news.”

Well. There was the disowning, Ilya thinks—this time managing to successfully keep the grimace off his face. And the fact that Grigori Rozanov was FSB, and retired FSB agents who get diagnosed with advanced dementia typically get shot in the head to make sure nobody can gain access to them. Ilya’s connection to the Vetrovs and the Orlovs kept him from that fate, but now that bridge is good and burned, which means Grigori Rozanov is retired FSB with dementia and a traitor son. Lanka did her best, and presumably Sasha did too, but—

He swallows.

“How about we change topic,” he says brightly. “To anything else. Anything else at all.”

“Good idea,” Shane says promptly. “How about we talk about what Ms Lanka wanted with Hammersmith—” His eyes flick, sharp. “—and how it includes Oliver Hastings, Graham Weller, and Avery Caldwell?”

In what he will admit is not his finest moment, Ilya blanks completely. “Sorry, what? Who? What are we talking about?” Good work, loser. Now the concerned eyes are back, and they’re even more concerned than before.

“I do not know,” he says, trying—and likely failing—to paste on a believably relaxed smile. “Is not my business, surely?”

“The VP of marketing at Adidas is talking to Hunter, Ms Lanka, and two other big sponsors,” Shane says slowly. “And this is not your business?”

Ilya exhales, hit with a bolt of relief that softens the insistent buzz in his ears. Oh. Good. It’s really not his business. He was worried for a second there.

“Scott handles all that stuff,” he says, his grimace relaxing into something more human. “And Lanochka is there to help him. Is fine. Not need me there at all.”

God’s own truth. And yet Shane doesn’t look convinced.

“They’re talking to Oliver Hastings and Graham Weller, Ilya,” he says. “Meaning Apple and Coca-Cola. Unless you think they’re negotiating a sponsorship with Hammersmith, it might be your business.”

“They will tell me when they need me to go somewhere and do something.” Good grief. This is a little better than the family talk, but not much. “I really not waste time thinking about it until then.”

He takes a long, centring breath and checks the time. It’s not even half past ten. Jesus Christ. He’s been here barely an hour, and he already feels beat.

“Right,” Shane says. “And—just by the by—your agent is around here somewhere, yeah?”

Still. Still, they’re doing this.

“Ms Haddad is where she wants to be, I am sure.” This time, he doesn’t even attempt to make his smile anything but wooden. “Now, and I say this with love: next man who ask about my personal life, I elbow in the mouth. Okay?”

He gets the predictable set of responses from the peanut gallery: a wide-eyed nod from Mayhart, a suspiciously easy smile from Marly, and a tense of course from Shane.

Sasha, however, thinks he’s hilarious. He hums, quiet and amused, eyes on half-mast.

“Took you long enough, Il’ka,” he says. “I was about to check your drink for mind-altering substances.”

Yes, well. Ilya feels pretty drugged, that’s true enough.

“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. Or more or less public.”

“Even if you did,” Sasha says, “your truth is your own—to shout from the rooftops, if you so choose.” He tilts his head, mild and maddening. “It’s just that you never do. I’m not shocked by what you said, but by the fact you said anything at all.”

Yes, well.

“Fyodor Amraamovich says that being more forthcoming with harmless information is a cost-effective way to build healthy relationships.”

He rolls his shoulders again, inhales a long breath. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. You’re good.

“Sorry about that,” he says, English rough and heavy in his mouth. “It happens. What were we talking about—”

True to form, after the drama of the dinner, Ilya falls into a haze that keeps up well into the following day. He’s only sort of back to himself halfway throughthe first period, and even then, he knows he’s being slow and subdued.

He knows this, of course, because no less than five people are orbiting him with baffled, worried looks, not including Scott, who just looks pissed as hell. He hasn’t stopped scowling since lastnight, the freak, and even Ilya’s reasonable observations about wrinkles and his advanced age hadn’t made them go away.

That said, while it’s weird as hell to be nagged on by not only your own team, but the team you’re playing against, it’s pure bliss to play the game itself. He’s on Scott’s line with Shane, and he knows they couldn't make this up if they tried. They could win Olympic gold with this line. They could win three Cups in a row. It’s fuckign incredible.

They’re electric for a couple of shifts. Scott throws them out together like he can’t help himself, like he’s watching ascience experiment succeed. On the other end, Albright flies across the ice in a nasty rush, before Tanner blocks him, passes. JB picks it up, slides away-–Hartsy steals it–-Scott–-

It’s an exhibition, still, no hits, no real chirps, all skill and swagger. Fun. And Scott, Ilya and Shane keep being a trio you couldn't even hope for. The goalies are messing about, going for goalie goals every ten minutes or so. JB scored a goal skating backwards, though his own legs. It's all a joke, except it’s not. Ilya is having as much of a workout as he would have if the game were legit.

They win, sort of, after a ridiculous score - nineteen-seventeen - but nobody cares. Literally, not even Shane cares. Ilya hadn’t seen this much laughter on the ice since summer hockey back when he was a kid, messing around with kids at summer camp.
Shane catches him in the tunnel.

“Hey,” Shane says, and swallows. His eyes flick once to the side—checking cameras, checking people, checking exits. “Can we talk?”

Ilya’s body does the thing it always does when the good part ends: tightens. Braces. The familiar buzz starts up again in his ears, like someone turned on a fluorescent light inside his skull.

He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to ruin what they just had. He doesn’t want to–Do anything except shower, change, eat. Sleep. But Shane is looking at him like this matters. Like he matters. Be a man, Rozanov. Face your shit. Own it.

“Yeah,” Ilya says, like it’s easy. Like he’s not already bracing for impact. “Okay.”

Shane exhales—small, relieved, miserable. “Alone?”

Ilya nods. His throat feels thick.

“We can go now,” he says, because if he waits even ten seconds, he’ll start making jokes, and if he starts making jokes, he will run right after. “Where?”

Shane hesitates for a beat, then jerks his head down the corridor, away from the flow of bodies.

“My room,” he says.

Ilya’s pulse jumps. 

“Okay.”

Chapter End Notes

Slight cliffhnger, but unavoidable. I hope not to leave you hanging for too long, but life, you know? Also: is it a cliffhanger if the only person who doesnt know what they will talk about is the protagonist?

Also:

JB: god these kids
JB: they’re so awkward.
JB: im gonna check in with my buddy Scott, see why his alleged sex pet is mooning after Good Boy Hollander
JB: ah, okay as I thought they’re just being idiot twenty something year old
JB: im going to help gonna help so hard
JB: best clear the air first i remember what it was like back then
JB: good we’ve established so much good good—
Sasha: he is my everything. He is the light in the dark, he is the ground upon which I walk and the breath of air which gives me strength, the love I feel for this man gives me shape and purpose he is not my boyfriend
JB: ah
JB: okay I gotta go away now
JB: you kids are fucking freaky
JB: im not crying you’re crying
JB: fuck I gotta go call tazer tell him im sorry and I love him fuck

Chapter 17

Chapter Notes

Okay, duckies, be mindful of the unreliable narrator tag in this and the next one. Self-perception is the perception of self. Do you think Ilya is very perceptive?

Shane’s room is smaller than Ilya’s, and is—less neat than he’d expect. Shane tends to be anal about his things being in the right place. The room is not messy, as such, except by Shane’s standards. His gear is thrown on the sofa, for one, and the bed is unmade. The door of the closet is thrown open, with several sets of jackets and shirts in a mild disarray. 

“Right,” Shane says, shutting the door. “So—A drink?”

Ilya cocks his head. Right. Look beneath the surface, for once. Shane looks like he’s heading into war, like he’s making his way to the fucking gallows. What is going on? Is this going to be an argument? What about? They hadn’t—

Well, alright. Ilya has hardly been a gentleman where Shane is concerned. There could be a lot he might mind, in retrospect. At the time, he thought it was—Mutual, or something, but that’s pretty convenient. He might have done a hundred shitty things he never even knew, that Shane might never have felt safe enough to bring up? 

“I try to drink less,” he says slowly. “Bad for my hockey.” 

Shane exhales, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “I meant, like—Water. Juice. Whatever.” 

Jesus. 

“I am good. Thanks.” Rip the bandage, Rozanov. He’s clearly working up the courage. Help him out. “What is it you want to talk about, Shane?” 

“I—“ Shane rubs a hand over the back of his neck. Whatever expression he’s seeing, it’s one Ilya hasn’t seen before. Sort of—scared, maybe, but determined. “I— I want to talk. For real.”

“Sure,” he says, as plainly as he can. “We talk for real.” 

“And—Before I start, I want you to know that I’m not trying to—” He swallows. “I’m not trying to come between you and Scott.”

For a long moment, Ilya is plain confused. Is this about work, somehow? Is Shane worried that—That Ilya is going to take Scott’s side in something? Which—understandable worry, if so. Ilya is on Scott’s side, come what may, but Shane probably knows that. That’s why he’s leading with the disclaimer. Intense, sure, but he’s a weirdo. 

“Why don’t you just—Start,” he says slowly, carefully. “Let the Scott part be for now.” 

A bolt of—something flashes over Shane’s face. Anger, maybe, or just impatience, frustration, who knows? “The Scott part is—I want to talk to you about the Scott part. As a friend. As your friend.” 

Ilya’s peace of mind was never anything one would write home about, but it’s wobbling really hard right now. What the fuck is going on? Shane is acting crazy. 

“I’m not judging you. I’m not—moralising or attacking or getting in your business.” Shane pushes off the door, comes forward a step, palms open. Ilya stares at them, how they’re so carefully relaxed. Christ, it would be easier if they were tense. He’d know what to do with a guy who wants to slap him. “Your relationship is your own, and I respect that. I’m saying… I’ve seen some stuff. This weekend. This season. And it’s concerning.”

A sick sort of realisation is starting to creep up, to demand it be taken seriously. He can’t—Ilya swallows, inhales a deep breath. Keeping steady takes some doing, but there’s no other option. Stand your fucking ground. If this—How dare he—

“You saw—stuff,” he repeats. His voice comes out hollow, but that’s good. It’s better to keep it hollow than to let it get filled up by all the sickness that’s bubbling up in his chest. It’s possible neither of them would survive that. “You, Shane Hollander, have seen stuff about how Scott is with me. And this is—What, some sort of intervention?” 

Shane rolls his shoulders, expression tense. Focused. “Everything you do goes through him, Ilya. He manages your schedule. He manages your press. He speaks to your sponsors. And that’s not—It’s not healthy. I’m not saying he’s taking advantage of you, I have no idea if he is, but he could, very easily.” 

Jesus Christ. He’s backing away before he knows where he’s going, and manages to catch himself at the last moment, turning the movement into something normal, something sane. Step, twist, change direction. Before he knows it, he’s at the fridge, grabbing a glass with trembling hands. Fuck this. Fuck all of this. 

Shane keeps going. Of course he does. He’s decided to be some sort of—fucked up white knight. Six months too late, six months after Ilya actually needed someone, anyone—

“You moved in with him after, what, a month? You need to be in the NHL for your visa. He got you to the Admirals. He’s talking to Adidas. He’s talking to—”

“Stop.” 

Shane must hear the danger in his voice, because he does stop, exhales a shuddering breath. Oh, it’s not easy, is it? It’s not easy to stand there and spin wild shit, to accuse Scott, the best man in the fucking world of—

“Again, I’m not saying he’s manipulating you or using you. That’s not what this is. But, as your friend, I can’t—The imbalance between you is nuts, Ilya. It’s set up in a way where if something goes wrong—”

Wrong. Wrong-wrong-wrong. 

“If you guys get into a fight,” Shane says, “if there’s a breakup, if there’s— anything— you’re the one who loses everything.”

Ilya’s hands are shaking so hard, the drink he’s poured is spilling out. His nose tingles—Vodka? He’ll fucking take it. It takes some work to bring it to his lips, but once it’s there, his body takes over. The burn is familiar, hateful, and so fucking welcome, he wants to cry. 

Okay. So—This is happening. Calm down and figure it out. Shane is nuts, but he—Surely, he’d ask? Surely, he’d have already asked if he really thought Ilya was sleeping with Scott all this time? Everyone else, fine. They’re fucking idiots, and Ilya never gave them enough of himself to have earned the respect, but Shane—Never mind the sex, they’ve been talking for months. Ilya talked to him about Scott, about Svetlana and Sasha. He’s told him about Andrei, about himself—

Shane knows him. Ilya would have sworn, on his life, that Shane knows him. And he just assumed? He was so certain that Ilya was bartering sex for care, that he never felt he had to ask? He asked Ilya about his faith and his hopes and his fears, but he never asked—

Because he didn't need to. It’s obvious, yeah? It’s so fucking clear that Ilya could only get a man like Scott in his corner if he was fucking him. If he was paying back with something concrete. And that was—That was the baseline; the inarguable and self-evident truth. Only, something changed, yeah? Shane saw something, and became worried that Scott was taking advantage of him. And that was bad enough that it required a fucking conversation. It was one thing if Ilya was just trading sex for support, but now that money is in the picture—

He swallows, head spinning. He’s clutching at the bedpost with his free hand, fingers white at the knuckle, and still he feels unbalanced. No. It wasn’t even about the money. It’s about control. Scott, Shane thinks, wouldn't even want Ilya for sex. It has to be some sort of—Of fetish. Scott would only want him when he’s at his lowest, when he’s at his weakest, because he could play out his supposed freakshow fantasy. 

“You have no—“ He swallows. The unexpectedly vast depth of hurt might be helping him out, weirdly. Shock is good. Shock is his friend. “You have no idea. No idea at all—“ 

Shane exhales hard. “I’m not saying you should—break up with him or anything, Ilya. Just—some reasonable guard rails. I’m sure Hunter is doing his best by you, but it’s not fair to either of you to expect that he could be everything. There has to be equality for love to be real. There has to be safety.” 

“Safety,” Ilya repeats with numb lips. Anger is catching up, and fast. Wrap this up, Rozanov. Remove yourself. “What the fuck is this? What the fuck is wrong with you?” He knocks back what’s left of his drink, considers pouring another and thinks better of it. He’d have to walk back over to the fridge, which would bring him closer to Shane. “This is—I did not expect this. Everything else, I could. You curse me for how I treated you. Demand apology, closure, whatever. But you come here to—To save me from Scott?” The laugh that comes out of his throat is unhinged enough it disturbs even him. “And you never even ask me what is true.”

Shane takes a step forward, as pale as he’s ever seen him, eyes huge and red. “Ilya, I’m trying to help you.”

“I thought we were— ” The words are out before Ilya can stop them. They taste of blood. “I told you things. I told you—” He swallows hard. The ache under his sternum is so intense it’s almost funny. “And you still look at me and see a thing someone could want only as a sick fantasy. Jesus Christ, you think the same as the fucking press.” 

Shane’s voice breaks a little. “Ilya, please. It’s me. I’m not some fucking—I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t understand. Please, help me understand what is going on right now. What I am doing wrong.” 

The important thing right now, Ilya thinks, head full of cotton wool, is not to deck him in his lying face. 

“He never touched me like that,” he manages to say, surprisingly even. He feels a little far away, a little detached from reality. “He saved me because he’s the best man in the world. Because he saw I needed help and—“ Quit while you’re ahead. You’ve never once understood why he did what he did, and you never will. Don’t even bother trying to verbalise it, least of all to this fucking snake. “He never fucking touched me.“ 

You need to leave. You need to leave right now, because you’re—You’ve always thought that it’s nuts, what Grigori did to your mom. You were so certain that you would never, that you could never do anything like that. But you can see, maybe, how it would work. How you could look at a face that you feel such deep respect and admiration for, and see just a source of pain. A simple calculation—if such, then such. This hurts, cut it out. Make it fucking stop. 

He backs up again, eyes bright, throat tight.“How dare you?” Here’s hoping the rage obscures the undertone of a whimper, of a kicked dog, confused and hurting. 

Shane looks like he’s been punched. “I’m sorry. I thought—”

“I understand what you fucking thought, Hollander.” Move. Move-move-move. “You make it very clear what you think of me, and of him. Better late than never, I guess. Better I know now before I—“ Shut up. Stop talking. Move. “How dare you do this to me?“ 

Inhale. Breathe. Calm down. He doesn’t—He doesn’t deserve your fucking pain. Whatever you thought was between you, you were obviously wrong. Wishful thinking or whatever. You made the whole thing up, imagined he saw you, imagined he—he liked you. How fucking pathetic. How often do you need to be taught the same lesson? 

“I’m sorry—Ilya, please—Look, I’ll leave, I’ll leave you alone, just please, don’t go? Stay here. I’ll leave, you can—You can call Hunter, call your friends. Don’t—You’re not—“ 

Ilya inhales a long breath. It doesn’t quite help anything, but the shock is solidifying into a numb wall of ice between him and himself, between him and the world. He feels both less likely to fall into a pit of genuinely insane rage, but also less likely to ever emerge from it. 

“I—“ Words stick in his throat. Sick, twisted things, barbed and cruel, things that hurt to think, that never should be said. No. No. Breathe. You’re losing the fucking plot. “I really did not expect this,” he finds himself saying. “I—I am sorry. I am sorry. I did not know I treat you so bad, you think this of me, but—“ But he must have, Jesus. It’s Hollander. He’s hardly manipulative. Hardly spiteful. He thinks—all that, and he still reached out to help, as he could. “But I must have, so I apologise. Truly.” 

 Good. That’s good. Measured. Dignity is a lost cause, with how wretchedly you just acted, but you don’t need to make it worse. What are you doing, freaking out like this? Over what? Over nothing. This is nothing. Who is he to you, that you would let him hurt you like this? 

 “But, and I say this with respect for you as someone who I—With respect for you as a colleague and a man. Stay the fuck away from me and mine.” 

He gets out into the corridor like he’s been pushed, like an invisible force squeezed him out of the room. The latch clicks behind him and, for a second, he just stands there.

His heart is doing a stupid, panicked gallop. His hands are trembling hard enough that it’s almost funny, except it isn’t funny, because it’s his hands and his body and his fucking life and apparently he still can’t keep any of it under control.

Okay, he thinks. Right now, you walk. He starts moving before he knows where he’s going, world full of possibilities, each one more terrible than the last. Go out. Go back. Wreck this fucking place. Wreck him, wreck yourself, find a hole and hide in it for a thousand years— 

Down the hallway, past endless doors. Past security checkpoints, first, second, third. No one asks any questions. He might very well be invisible. Halfway to the elevators, he realises his jaw hurts. He’s been clenching it so hard it’s making his teeth ache.
He stops at the mirror by the elevator bank—some stupid decorative thing meant to make the corridor look bigger. He catches himself in it. Hair a little wild, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. Like he’s been messing around with someone, maybe. Could pass for bedhead, if not for the glassy eyes and strange way his mouth gets when he’s freaked out, skin seemingly stretched taut over teeth. 

Right. This, at least, you know how to fix. 

His mouth goes first. It lifts into something easy. Cocky, a little bored. The expression is something of a workhorse, appropriate for almost every setting. Bored smile and sharp eyes, jaw tilted a bit. Body is next. His shoulders relax, roll back, neck arches. Arms, hands, back, hips. It’s all just mechanics, in the end. All just movement and message. Don’t fuck with me—or do. I’ll make it worth your while, probably.  If you’re worth it. 

There. Better.

He takes his phone out, and the screen lights up. Most of the notifications are blocked anyway, so tapping into the right group chat is easy. Without distraction.

Bears group chat is active, and thank the Lord for that. His next option is Aftermath, and he’d rather not leave the hotel if he doesn’t have to. Besides, there is always time later. When he’s—relaxed a little. Settled into his own skin. And, of course, you can’t beat private afterparties for convenience. You don’t even need to put on a jacket; just grab someone and take them to a different room. Hell, you can rent one, just for that. Maybe he should? These things are typically organised on mostly empty floors, so the noise doesn’t disturb other guests. All he has to do is call the reception. 

HAMMER: where we at
SEB: you’re 37, go to bed
MARLY: lol. hartsy’s suite 2708. dj guy is here. 
HAMMER: who’s dj guy
MARLY: how the fuck would I know dipshit
MARLY: some scrawny kid with neck tats and pupils the size of venus

Ilya stares at it until the words start to compute. Suite 2708. Concrete. Simple. A place with noise. Perfect. His thumb hovers over the keyboard; he types without thinking.

ROZANOV: coming

The elevator dings like a cheerful little lie. Doors slide open, and he steps in. His reflection multiplies in the mirrored walls—three Ilyas, five Ilyas, all of them with the same stupid, shocked face. 

He presses the floor button. His finger is steady now. Good. His body caught up with the program, stopped—Misreading things. 
On balance, in retrospect, etc., the only upsetting thing about all this, is how much he freaked out. What happened, when it comes down to it? Nothing. Hollander thinks he’s a problem—and whose to say he’s wrong? 

You are a problem. You’re Ilya fucking Rozanov, the biggest problem in the fucking world. So, what are you doing, bitching about—What? Your hurt feefees? What’s the problem, here? That Hollander thinks you fuck?

You do. Did you forget who you are? You do fuck, everyone who catches your eye. It’s a fact of life, bedrock of the universe. You’re Ilya Rozanov, eighty-one, fuckign trouble. Why wouldn’t you fuck? 

Yeah. There you go. Calm and cool, relaxed and unimpressed. You’re not bitching, you’re not moaning. You’re making a point, reminding them about the rightful order of things. 

The numbers on the display crawl up. Eight. Nine. Ten.  Each floor a little further away from Shane’s door makes it easier to breathe. This is—Yeah. He knows this. He looks himself in the mirror, makes last-minute adjustments to his outfit, his posture.

 Lose the jacket, sling it over your shoulder. Mess up your hair. Slap the pallor out. You—Don’t look your best, maybe, but absolutely good enough to get precisely every single thing you want. 

The laugh that bubbles up from his throat is—Ouch. Maybe keep that away. They like your sharp edges, but only in controlled doses. 

The elevator opens on the twenty-seventh floor. Security is already there, but he doesn’t even have to speak; he just arches his eyebrows. You gonna stop me? Didn’t fucking think so. 

His phone buzzes.

MARLY: oh shit Roz??
HAMMER: wtf, fr? 
SEB: jesus okay 

Good. Normal. Nothing out of the fucking ordinary. He doesn’t speak or hesitate, just keeps moving with the full certainty the security will open the door for him. 

They do. 

Chapter End Notes

Most of the next chapter is done, i'll prob get it done tomorrow, the day after. You won't have to suffer long <3

Chapter 18

Chapter Notes

This one wrote itself? Idk you guys, this shit goes so much easier when i dont spend hours researching hockey-plausible moves and shots xD

also, it's basicall pt2 of the last chapter

i would just like you to know that chapters 12-19 are all, im pretty sure, set over the All-Star Weekend, and that's excessive, even by my standard

Also: mind the unreliable narrator tag and keep, in your heart, the idea that nobody is perfect and that people fuck up.

ALSO: this poem:

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Hartsy is right at the door, grinning big, cheeks flushed, sleeves rolled, looking genuinely delighted “Roz! Holy shit. Come in, come in.”

The party is—Familiar. He’s been in a hundred suites just like these. Warm, loose, vaguely expensive: low lights, real glasses, a bartender behind the dining table that’s been turned into a bar, citrus cut into neat wheels, ice piled in a bucket. The DJ in the corner is as described—around Ilya’s age, coked up to his eyeballs, thinks he’s hot shit. 

Hartsy’s grin shifts a fraction, the surprise turning into something else—curiosity, maybe—when he looks past Ilya into the hallway and sees no one following. “You come alone?” 

Ilya lifts his eyebrows. “Is problem?”

“No,” Hartsy says quickly. “No, I just—” He stops himself mid-sentence, thinks better of it. He bumps Ilya’s shoulder instead, friendly. Warm. “You know the rules, kid. Phones away, good vibes, good times. Nobody’s going to bother you here.” 

Yeah? You sure about that? He does a quick sweep of the room, notes familiar faces and—not so familiar faces. Girls, predominantly, pretty and made-up, all in silk dresses and sporting long, soft hair. 

“Hey, man—You good?” 

Ilya blinks back into focus. He missed something. No matter. He adjusts his smile, his posture. “Perfect. On top of the fucking world.” 

Hartsy’s expression tightens for half a heartbeat, but nods, shrugs. “Okay. Good. Well, shit, come on. Let’s get you situated.” 

Marly sees them first, because Marly sees everything. His face lights up, and he makes a show of it. “Roz! Look at you, superstar. Wasn’t expecting to see you here. After hours and all that.” 

As soon as he’s within distance, he’s being reeled in, grabbed into a tight hug. It feels—weird. Far too good and far too terrible, the contradicting impulses to curl into him and to back away battling it out, leaving him frozen. Awkward. He pulls himself together soon enough, but the misstep has been noted. Marly pulls back just enough to look at his face. His grin stays, but his eyes get sharper, a quick up-down scan. 

“Where’s Captain America?” Marly asks, and his voice is light, but the question lands like a pebble tossed into a deep well. “And your terrifying murder twins?” 

Ilya’s smile doesn’t change. “Elsewhere.”

Marly’s eyebrows go up. “Uh-huh.” 

“Hey, kid,” Hammer says, from a little way on the left. He’s sitting on the couch, perched on the edge, elbows on knees, heavy presence contained in stillness. “Everything good?” 

Ilya gives him the bored smile, the one he perfected in Juniors when adults asked questions they didn’t want answers to. “Why everyone ask me this?”

“Because you look like you’re gearing up for arson and violence,” Marly says brightly.

Seb stands up from the arm of the couch, quiet as a shadow. He’s holding out a water bottle. Jesus.  “Hey, bud,” Seb says. “Good to see you. How about you drink something first?” 

Drink something first? First implies second. What is he going to drink second? Do second? Do third? 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Ilya says.

Seb’s mouth twitches. “Sure.”

Hartsy, still hovering, visibly relaxes. “Good. This is good. I did good.” Then, to Ilya, warmer: “Hang with them, buddy. Bartender’s legit if you want something. Don’t make me regret inviting you.”

“I would never,” Ilya says, and flashes teeth.

Hartsy laughs and peels away, relief in the way he hands Ilya off. He’s done his job. He got the dangerous animal into its enclosure. 

Marly flops back onto the couch and pats the space beside him like it’s an order. “Sit. Tell us gossip.”

“I have no gossip,” Ilya lies.

Hammer’s gaze doesn’t leave him. “Where have you been? You disappeared after the game.”

None of your fucking business—He inhales, lets his eyes close for a beat, takes a moment to refocus. They’re nosy but not the enemy. Calm down. “Nowhere important. Now—about that drink.” 

“You have a drink,” Seb says. “You haven't touched it.” 

Ilya flicks at the bottle in his hand. Don’t throw it. Especially don’t throw it at his face. Easy, Jesus. 

“Crazy.”

 He stands, threads through bodies toward the bar. People glance at him and look away, and glance again. He can feel the eyes, like heat on skin. It steadies him. Yeah, this is his fucking space. The bartender looks up with a polite smile.

“Hey. What can I get you?”

“Vodka double,” Ilya says, throws in a gentle smile. It’s good, he knows. It’s the smile that got him into all sorts of trouble. “Neat. No ice.” 

The bartender pauses a fraction, then shrugs. “Sure.”

Marly doesn’t say anything; neither do the other two. It’s the loudest thing they could have done. Ilya gets his glass, eyes it fondly. Nice and heavy, no frills, no fucking sprinkles. Clear, simple, honest. You know where you are, with a drink like this. You know, they know, everybody knows. 

The burn hits his throat even sweeter this time. Good shit, cool and scorching. His shoulders relax some more, relief hitting hard. So fucking simple. 

“Okay,” Marly says, breezy. “We’re doing shots. Cool. Normal. Great.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. Shots, please; they’re not fucking twelve. “No need for dramatics. We are at a party, yes?” He lets his eyes wander, cataloguing. Fifty or so people, streaming in and out of different rooms. He knows about fifteen—and night is young. “All is well.” 

“Oh, yeah. I can see that.”  

Three drinks later, he’s buzzing nicely, doesn’t even need to force his shoulders to relax. Marly’s at his elbow, talking shit, showing him something on his phone. It’s—easy. Fun. 

“How about we get some air, hey?” 

Ilya shrugs, lazy. “Sounds good.” 

“Great, come on—“ 

The balcony is less crowded, clear and familiar. Every single person there is a player. 

“Roz,” JB calls, expression familiar. Ilya’s pretty sure it’s the one he’s wearing right now. It looks more natural on Beau, probably, when combined with his posture: loose, handsome, happy; leaning against the wall, a glass of something amber in his hand, most of the way full. “Looking good, bud.” 

Ilya smiles back. Finally, someone who doesn’t immediately start shit. “Likewise.” He hesitates, then resigns himself to a flurry of greetings. “Good game, yeah? Fun times.” 

“For sure,” Carver says, calm and unhurried. “A whole circus, but fun as hell.” 

Quinn Delvecchio is there too, vibrating with the loose-limbed, friendly, slightly frantic energy of a guy who wants everyone to like him. Labrador in hideous designer sneakers. He lights up when he sees Ilya.

“Ilya!” Quinn says, a little too loud. “Dude. You were insane tonight.”

Ilya lifts his glass slightly. “I try.”

Quinn grins, then his eyes flick over Ilya’s shoulder automatically—checking for Scott without meaning to. It’s so unconscious it’s almost insulting. “Where’s Hunter?”

Well, at least someone asked. That’s good, right? Ilya laughs. It comes out fine, probably. “I am not, in fact, his keeper.” 

“Oh—“ Quinn pauses, head cocking to the side a little. “Cool. I just thought I’d say hi. He played such a sick game. That last shoulder check was so fucking nasty, Christ. Almost broke my nose.” 

JB laughs, which sets off a tidy little chain reaction. Nothing out of the ordinary here. Boys having fun. 

“You’re good, though?” Quinn leans in a little, expression smoothing into something wretchedly good-natured and earnest. 

Ilya’s smile tightens. Easy. “Good,” he says.

“Cool,” Quinn says, relief written in every line of his lanky body. Then he adds, because he evidently can’t help himself: “Couple fights happen, y’know? Everyone’s stressed this weekend. Travel, cameras, all that—”

Marly’s arm squeezes Ilya’s shoulders once, subtle. A warning, a grounding. Don’t; not here.

Jules’ smile goes thin. “Quinn.”

Quinn falters. “What? I’m just—”

Carver shifts half a step and puts a hand on Quinn’s forearm, a gentle redirection. “It’s all good, kid. Chill. We’re all good.”

Quinn’s cheeks flush. “Oh—shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean—Of course, yeah.”

Ilya stares at Quinn for a beat too long. He means well, Jesus, a blind and deaf man could see how well intentioned and clueless he is. So, what you shouldn’t do, is bite his head off like a psycho. It’s nothing you hadn’t heard before. Granted, it wasn’t directed at you, and it was never about a guy, much less Scott fucking Hunter, but the principle is the same. Your boy gets in trouble with his girl, you slap his back, and offer dumb advice. Let her cool off. Apologise in the morning, figure out if you can get flowers delivered. Maybe some jewellery, if you really fucked up. 

He forces the bored smile back into place. “I’m fine,” he says, lightly. “You all worry too much.”

Mason Albright is a little behind them, close enough to hear, far enough not to be in the middle. Albright doesn’t smile much. He watches, composed, quiet. Captain posture, even here.

Jules leans in, voice lower, for Ilya only. “Hey, doll, how about we get out of here, yeah? Grab a bite to eat. I’m fucking starving.” His eyes flick to the side, find Marly. “You too, Marls; Christ knows you always look half-starved.” 

“Oh, but is nice here,” Ilya says. The smile on his face is beginning to ache. “Having fun with the boys, etcetera.” He shrugs. “Marly can keep you company for sure. He’s good company. Sweeter than he appears.” Good grief. “Oh, look at that. My glass is empty.” 

“On it,” Marly says. He hasn’t let go of his shoulder, which Ilya should probably mind more than he does. He waves at the bartender with his free arm. Huh. No drink. “Get my best guy something that looks fancy but is secretly non-alcoholic.”

“I do not—” Ilya starts.

“Shh,” Marly says, grin sharp. “You’re not allowed to argue, baby, you’re the star guest of my delusion.”

Carver’s mouth twitches again. He picks up his glass and tips it toward Ilya. “Always smart to hydrate; can’t argue with that.”

Ilya can argue with anyone over anything, bud. Some of the sentiment must show on his face, because Carver’s expression flickers, mouth growing a little solemn, a little concerned. Ilya looks away before he is overcome with the desire to do something about it—

And sees a guy hovering near the balcony door, his phone raised in their direction. It could be nothing, could be he’s checking the time, looking for better reception, looking up the track that’s on. Ilya’s chill evaporates so fast, it leaves him fucking dizzy—

Carver is already moving in front of him, torso shifting to the side, blocking the line of sight. Albright is moving too, right next to him, strolling up to the guy with an easy set of his shoulders. Ilya can’t hear what they’re saying; the tone is low and calm.  Whatever it is, the guy’s growing paler by the moment. The phone disappears. He disappears. Albright strolls back. The whole thing lasted fifteen, twenty seconds. 

Marly squeezes his shoulder again. This time, the discomfort is starting to seep in. Ilya grins back, says something dumb, expected, but shifts a little, then again. He’s being discreet enough, probably, because nobody is looking when he wiggles out of the hold. 

“Hey, so, who are you playing next?” JB says. “Ottawa, right?” 

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Hornets. And then Bears. That should be fun.” 

Marly laughs. “As fun as last time? Its our turn to mess up your ice.” 

For once, Ilya can’t even stomach talking about hockey. He’s sunk to new and fascinating depths. 

He squirms out of the balcony soon after, but Marly comes with, much to his lack of surprise. It’s fine, probably. He doesn’t expect much, keeps up a steady stream of chatter, lets Ilya be for the most part. Hammer’s nearby, chatting with Seb and Vitya, no doubt about something boring. Ilya is, somehow, holding a bottle of water in his hand. He doesn't know how it got there—he doesn’t particularly know how he got there. Doesn’t matter, probably. He is where he is, doing what he’s doing. The vodka is a warm line in his gut, music just loud enough to make thinking difficult. He can—drift. 

The girl is, probably, as inevitable as this whole evening was. She’s gorgeous and knows it. A couple of years older than him, with dark hair and low cut dress. The teasing slant of her lips is at odds with the sharpness of her eyes and nails. She walks straight to him through a room full of more valuable targets, already decided what her evening’s entertainment is going to be. 

He looks back, undaunted. Maybe a little amused by the blatant sweep she does, eyes catching at points of interest. Neck, shoulders, hands, mouth.

“Hi,” she says, leaning in close enough that he can smell expensive perfume and ambition. “Good to see you, Ilya.”

He blinks, slow. Keeps the smile; keeps it bored. “Have we met?” 

She laughs like he’s charming. “We’re meeting right now. I’ve watched you earlier tonight.”

“On ice.” 

“Mm.” Her gaze drops, not subtly, to the open collar of his shirt. “Not only.”

Marly makes a soft noise beside him, something between a laugh and a warning.

The girl’s eyes flick to him, then back to Ilya. She doesn’t care about Marly. Shocking. Is it a power play? Beautiful girls like her like to collect men like him. When he fucks her, he’s going to be a bit reverent, a bit desperate. She will enjoy that sort of thing. 

She says, voice low, conspiratorial like they’re sharing a secret: “Where’s Scott?”

Oof. His smile sharpens. Maybe not. Maybe she’s going for a more straightforward power play. This is a messy one, hey? His eyes flick to her drink, tries to look back, remember if she has been here for a while. That’s not a clever move, and she looks clever. Also, angry as hell, behind the sweet smile. Heartbreak? 

Regardless. “None of your business.” 

Her smile widens. “Very true.”

She leans back a little, adjusts her stance, her posture, her angles. Someone’s taking pictures, then? Her friends? Honestly, he’s shocked that she has friends at all, much less ones that would enable this crash out. Girls like her always think ‘there’s no such thing as bad publicity’, and are then caught flatfooted when they learn better. All publicity is bad publicity, babygirl. Especially for women. Shame that nobody explained this to you yet. 

She’s said something that he hadn’t caught. He hums, impersonal, and she nods, stepping closer, hand landing on his chest. He can feel the attention it summons—eyes sliding, heads turning, the subtle gravitational pull of drama. His body goes very still.

“Hey, kids, what are we doing?” Marly says lightly, voice pitched as a joke, but his hand is already hovering near Ilya’s elbow like he’s ready to pull.

The girl laughs. “Relax. I’m just saying hi.”

“Are you?” Marly asks. “Is that what you’re doing?” 

She tips her head, smile sharp. Her fingers are tapping on Ilya’s chest, sharp nails tracing lines over bare skin.“Is it a crime?”

“I mean,” Marly says, bright, “in some states.”

Ilya hears himself laugh. It comes out soft and wrong.

The girl leans in, closer now, mouth near his ear. “You look bored,” she murmurs. “That’s sad.”

He says nothing. Just tilts his head a fraction because his body knows the choreography. The girl smiles like she’s won. Christ, she hadn't even told him her name. What a bad matchup; two idiots crashing out. Two idiots, harming each other--and themselves in a much more substantial way. Somewhere in the room, someone makes a little ooh sound, quiet, but audible. Like they’re watching a game.

Dull. How fucking predictable. It should be a contradiction, no? That they think this of him, that he’s the sort to step out on his partner, and that a worm like that could ever get a guy like Scott. But it’s not a contradiction, to them, because they see it clearly. Simply. It’s a power thing; a kink. Scott likes brats, and Ilya likes acting out. Likes deliberately tugging at the leash on his neck until he’s yanked back by it. Stepping out on him might very well be a part of it, yeah? It’s all part of the game. Fuck up, then grovel. Pay back. Perform penance.

It’s all power plays, the whole way down, because what else could it be? He feels his smile grow mean. The girl’s smile flickers, eyebrows twitching, but whatever is driving this mess is stronger than the common sense she drowned in booze. She leans in some more. 

Marly’s arm wraps around Ilya’s shoulders, draws him back. “Okay,” he says, still cheerful, still joking, but there’s steel in it now. “We’re gonna—”

The girl turns her head, eyes narrowing. “Who are you?”

“I’m his best friend,” Marly says, leaning in toward him, arm around Ilya tightening, drawing him another half a step back. 

“Wow,” she says, unimpressed. “That’s hot.”

“It is, I agree. So you should take your hand off him. Now.” 

The girl blinks at him, startled by the bluntness. “Excuse me?”

Hammer’s voice rumbles a little behind him. Ilya jerks; he hadn’t heard them approach. “We don’t particularly mind causing a scene, ma’am, but Hartsy is having a nice night. So why don’t we all remember that we’re adults with things to lose, and walk away before this escalates.” 

For a heartbeat, she looks like she might argue—but there are suddenly three, four players around her. Seb brought reinforcements in the form of a beaming Beau, and he’s probably the biggest threat there, if her startled look is any indication. Her hand slides off Ilya’s chest, slow, reluctant, as if she’s making a show of being wronged.

“Jesus,” she says, laughing. “Okay. Sorry. Didn’t realise he was—public domain.”

Oof. Ilya barks a sincere laugh. Wow. “That’s me,” he says, laughter warming up his voice. He almost sounds sane for a moment there. “Free access, team project.” He leans sideways, wraps an arm around Seb’s waist. “Project is nice word, yes? Better than most others about me.” 

“Jesus,” Seb mutters. “Jesus Christ, Ilya.” 

“What? She is funny.” He smiles at her, bright and wide. “Honest. Not very wise, probably, but we are all here for a reason. What is yours, then, sweetheart? You find your boy in bed with your sister?” He tilts his head. “Nah. You not have a boy. No, okay. I know this one. He did not leave his wife yet, and he promised—“ 

Vitya clears his throat, eyes solemn. Sad. “Easy, kid. Let her be.” 

“Am I keeping her?” He turns to the girl. She’s backed up, mouth a little open. Looks—hurt. “You not like honesty? Shame. Was the prettiest thing about you.” 

“Air break!” Marly announces suddenly. “Air and food. Everyone, feel free to continue being hot and irresponsible without us.”

A couple people laugh. Someone boos playfully. The room’s attention slides away because Marly gave it something else to look at. Hammer takes Ilya by the elbow. Seb stays close, a steady presence at his back. Jules walks on the outside, Vitya trails, tense. They hustle him toward the hallway like they’re killing a penalty. Behind them, the girl’s laugh rings out, a little too loud.

“Bye, babe,” she calls, syrupy. “Tell Scott I said hi!”

Ilya’s skin goes cold, but his laughter warms it over. Christ. 

The room they take him to is across the hallway, two to the right. Marly punches in the code, so it was probably meant for a hookup. Maybe with the hot brunette from before. She looks like a wild ride. 

The door shuts. For a second, nobody speaks. Ilya takes the time to wiggle out of Marly’s hold, throw himself on the armchair. What a random night. What a fucking clownshow. The water he drank earlier is ruining his buzz—Well, that, and the adrenaline caused by having all these men looming over him. 

Hammer breaks the silence, stepping his way, eyes hard, jaw clenched. “Jesus Christ,” he says. “Holy fucking shit, kid, what the fuck are you doing?”

Ilya’s laugh comes out bright. It’s good work, he sounds sincere even to himself. Not, maybe, the most appropriate reaction, but he’s impressed by the absence of—Fuck knows. Feral snarling. They should be, too. “Having fun.”

“No,” JB says quietly. “No, you’re not.”

Drama. Ilya sighs, slumping in his seat. Such fucking dramatics. Marly leans against the wall, arms crossed, grin gone now. He looks tired in a way Ilya has never seen him look. 

“Buddy,” Marly says softly, and the softness is a warning in itself. “Talk to us.”

“I don’t—” Ilya starts.

Hammer cuts in, voice low and ugly with concern. “Hunter is a good guy. Don’t fuck it up because of a single fight.”

Breath leaves Ilya’s lungs without warning or mercy. He chokes on a laugh—or a snarl. Who even knows by this point? Christ, he’s so tired. The atmosphere shifts, tension amping up. If he could summon up the energy to move a single muscle, he’d be—Tackling someone, probably. Spilling some blood. Fuck this. Fuck all this. 

“It really sucks,” he finds himself saying. God, Jesus, you’re such a fucking embarrassment. Do you hear yourself? Are you going to fucking cry and talk about your feelings? Shit. Shit. “It sucks you’re like this.” 

Marly steps in, quick, voice gentle, trying to blunt the edge. “Roz, hey—he means—”

“I know what he means,” Ilya says, and it’s not even loud or angry. Just—tired, maybe. Scrubbed raw with humiliation. 

Hammer’s jaw tightens. “Kid, we’re trying to help.”

“We’re not fucking.” He swallows. “He’s not mine. I’m not his. It’s not a thing. It’s never been a thing.” He cocks his head. Will that be enough? How does one demonstrate a lack of a relationship better than this? “He never touched me. Never would. And you—“ He breaks off, inhales a sharp breath. 

Silence drops like a curtain, and Ilya can’t even stomach their shock and guilt and fucking nonsense. 

“Why didn’t you say—“ 

“Because nobody asked,” he says. “Not a single person asked. You all think—Roz is such a fuckup, he must be paying for all this. Whatever he is giving, it must be a lot. It must be worth the cost—And I get it. I am all that, and more. But he’s not. Fuck you, for not knowing that. For thinking that about him.” 

Jules exhales through his nose, a sharp little sound like fuck. He takes a step closer. “It’s—Okay, Roz. We fucked up. We’re sorry.”

“No need to apologise to me, bud. I earned what I got. But he—” Ilya’s voice cracks on the word, and he hates it, hates the weakness of it, hates that it takes so little. “That you think Scott Hunter would ever do that, to anyone, is fucking sick.”

Hammer blinks, slow. “Do what, kid? Help someone? Fall in love? What were we accusing Hunter of doing that’s so reprehensible?”

Fall in love, please. Ilya rolls his eyes. “That he would take up with a fucked up kid with no other choice. That’s the punchline, right? It took me a bit, but I finally got that one.“ Jesus Christ, shut up. Stop talking. “When Scott falls in love,” he continues, for some reason, “it will be with someone beautiful and put together and kind. Someone who can give him back what he gives.” He looks at them, furious and wounded. “No wonder he’s lonely,” Ilya says quietly. “If this is what you think of him. And no wonder that he had to reach all the way down to me, to get some fucking loyalty—“ 

Jules’ voice breaks in, sharper than before. “Fucking stop.”

Ilya whips his head toward him. “What?”

“Enough,” Jules says, tight. “Just—This is a lot. This is fucked up. Picking at it won’t do anything except fuck things up further.” He exhales, forceful and choppy. “I’m sorry. I made assumptions, and I shouldn’t have. And now I'm going to pretend you said sorry for not correcting me. People don’t need to ask you a direct question to pick up on your signalling—and you were signalling deliberately.” 

“It’s not about me—“ 

“It is,” Marly says. “Right now, it’s about you, Roz. Hunter is his own guy, but right now, we’re talking about you.” 

“Oh, well, then I invite you to fuck right off to Hell—“ 

From out in the main suite, the bass thuds once, twice—and the door handle rattles. Yeah, okay. That’s fucking familiar. Ilya sags. 

“You called him.” 

“Sure did,” JB says, solemn. “As soon as I understood that it’s not him you needed distance from.” 

Yeah? Fuck you. What do you know about it, you worthless, miserable little—

Scott is walking in before he gets to say anything, Sasha and Lanka trailing behind. He’s—pale, mouth pressed tight, eyes hard with worry. His gaze lands on Ilya, stops, locks down. He doesn’t look at anyone else, doesn’t acknowledge the room, the men, the awkwardness. He just crosses the distance in two strides and kneels down, reaches for him like it’s instinct.

“Hey, kid,” Scott says, and his voice is rough around the edges, like he almost can’t get it out. He wraps both arms around Ilya and pulls him in, solid and warm and endless. Ilya’s arms are up and around him before he knows what he’s doing, clutching hard enough to punch holes through his sleep shirt. “It’s okay,” Scott murmurs, low enough that the others can pretend they can’t hear. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Ilya laughs once, broken. “Yeah? You promise?”

“On my fucking life,” Scott says, and there’s a wobble it that he’s not trying all that hard to hide. “Come on. Let’s go—Let’s just go, yeah? We’re gonna—” He swallows, holds tighter. “We’re gonna make it fine. Whatever it is, whatever happened.”

Sasha’s voice slices in, cool and efficient, to the room at large. “Thank you for looking after him.” Ilya burrows harder. Christ. What is even happening? He’s really making things interesting for himself, hey? New dimensions and variants of shame. 

“Hey, easy,” Scott is saying, because Ilya is, apparently, laughing. “Is all good. We’re here, your buddies are here. Everyone here wants you the very best. And, well—If they don’t, we’ll feed them to Sasha, raw and wiggling. That should make your day, hey?” 

“I’m just—Really tired, Scotty,” he finds himself saying. “Shane—“ No. That’s too much. That’s none of their business. You might be bewilderingly fine with screaming your weakness into every megaphone you can find, but Shane isn’t. “Can we go?” 

“We can do whatever you want. You want to go home right now? Bet your Svetlana can find us a flight.” 

“Done,” she says, into the silence. “Give me ten. We can be at the airport in thirty minutes and in the air in sixty.” 

Ilya sighs, mind fogging up further. “I almost—I almost fucked up, Scott,” he says. It’s important he knows. “I would have, if they hadn’t helped. If they hadn’t stopped me, I would have fucked everything up.” 

“Impossible,” Scott says. Christ, he’s so good, he’s so endlessly fucking good, it’s hard to believe. It’s hard to comprehend. “And even if you had—So what? You think my patience with this shitshow is endless? We’re fucking millionaires. I’m living for the day you realise how very optional all this is, and we move to Aruba to make homemade rum and fish.” 

Well. That’s a thought. He hiccups, only a little hysterical. “Yeah? You ever killed a single fish, you fucking liar?” 

“How hard can it be? Yank the thing out of the water, slam it on the rocks, stab it with a stick, cook it over a flame. Easy peasy.” 

Idiot. Utter idiot. 

Ilya sighs, burrows once last time for good luck, and emerges. The sea of blank faces is, somehow, not all that hard to withstand. 

“Did he hurt you?” Svetlana is saying, dead-eyed and terrible. “I swear on the cross, Il’ka, I will hurt him back, I will ruin his fucking life—“ 

Ilya laughs, mostly because of Vitya’s wide-eyed look. Most of the room can read her tone just fine—Hammer is sighing, low and resigned, like he’s already seeing wanted posters with his face on it after he inevitably gets drawn into revenge plots and bloodshed. Vitya knows there is a he. And he mentioned Shane. So, maybe he shouldn't laugh. 

“Nothing happened. I just—Freaked out, I guess. You know how I can get.” 

“I do know.” Svetlana drifts closer, presses a careful kiss on his lips, rests her forehead on his. “We will talk tomorrow. You just need to tell me where you want to wake up. I have our passports; name it.” 

Yeah, yeah. He smiles. “I ran enough, I think. Let’s just go to sleep. Nothing happened, again. I just—Realized something I was putting off, I guess. It was going to happen sooner or later.” 

“Interesting,” Sasha says, voice off. Sprained. Fire and ice, the two of them—Both equally destructive. “This is not the place for this discussion.” He shits to stand between him and the onlookers. “Gentlemen, again, thank you for looking after him.” 

“Nothing you need to thank us for,” Marly says quietly. “We have his back.” 

Ilya sighs, shifts a little to catch his eyes. Focusing is a bit of a chore; all the schoolgirl emoting has him wrung out and aching, but he can at least look his buddy in the eye. “Sorry for—All that. For freaking out on you. It’s—It happens sometimes.” 

Marly shrugs, looks helpless for a long moment. “Jesus, Roz.”

“Let’s go,” Scott says quietly. “C’mon. You can say what you need to say, to whomever it needs saying, tomorrow.” 

“Молись богу да ложись спать; утро вечера мудренее,” Sasha says, not quite under his breath, but clearly for his ears. “We will settle our debts tomorrow, fairly and without flinching.” 

Bless. 

Chapter End Notes

I snuck in two references in one paragraph, to HR and LOTR and am really proud of htat one

The russian quote at the end there is one of the sayings ive been lowkey obsessed with since i was a little kid. Its from this Russian fairy tale called Vasilisa the Beautiful, and it basically says - go and pray, go to sleep, because mornign is wiser than the evening. its a lot more beautiful in serbian and heaps heaps heaps moreb beautiful in russian. and it's just--dont you just need to hear it? sometimes? Go to bed. go and pray and fall asleep, and the mornign will be smarter than the spiralling.

ALSO pardon the higher number of mistakes. again, i changed my writing software because i switched from Mac to Linux, and Scrivener doesnt work on Linux. Well, I could wine it, but you can only wine the Windows version and I bought hte mac version and long story short, i have a diff writing software, and it has shitty shitty shitty spellcheck. and i have dyslexia, not terrible, but enough that fuckign and fucking, as was pointed out, is absolutely the same unless i know its there. same with hte and the. yeah. So! That's why.

Chapter 19

Chapter Notes

USA hockey team is such a fucking joke. Matthews--I liked you. Fuck you most of all.

Ilya wakes up in the wrong bed.

Not wrong in the sense of danger—quite the opposite. This is, objectively, the safest bed in the building. Wrong, as in, not his. Fantastic. 

He lies there for a long moment, blinking at the ceiling, and tries to convince his brain to cough up a clean memory of how, exactly, he got here. It gives him nothing but fog and fragments: the corridor carpet under his shoes; the elevator ding; Scott’s hand at his back, steady pressure like move, kid, keep moving; a door unlocking; Svetlana saying something sharp and amused; Sasha saying something worse, in that lazy, distant voice he uses when he’s preoccupied. Then—darkness. Like someone reached in and flipped a switch.

He rolls his head to the side. The pillow smells like Scott’s cologne. The one next to it is Svetlana’s. Alright. So far, so good. 

The not-good part is flooding in. He fights the urge to hide under the pillow. Jesus Christ, he’s physically burning with shame. Embarrassing doesn’t begin to cover it.

Well done, Rozanov. This is one for the hsitory books. You almost ruined everything they have been working toward, on what—on a whim. A fucking moodswing. You lost your fucking marbles and worried eeryone. You worried Scott. Sasha and Svetlana can handle your dramatics–they’ve seen him through worse, and he, them. Those two can handle Ilya being dramatic.

Scott—Scott is going to worry. He’s going to be stressed out and anxious–and that’s if he’s not blaming himself, somehow, which he absolutely is. And then there are the other players–

No. Actually, alright. He did not embarrass himself there. He spent his first year in the NHL obnoxious and drunk and snorting coke off of strippers. He cannot conceivably embarrass himself worse than that.

He stares at the ceiling until his eyes burn.

The hangover is… whatever. Barely present. His body is annoyingly functional. He can feel last night as a dull ache in his muscles, the kind you get after a bad game and a worse sleep. He pushes himself up onto an elbow. The sheets slide off his chest. His shirt is still on—some soft thing, probably Scott’s. Of course. Of course, Scott put him in his own clothes and then put him to bed.  

From the other room—the sitting room, probably—he hears movement. Low conversation. A murmur, then a sharper laugh. Not loud. Not tense. Not the sound of people actively planning murder.

So Scott is awake. Sasha and Svetlana are awake. They’re out there, talking. He sits on the edge of the bed and puts his face in his hands.

Now—now he has to talk about this. He has to walk out there and apologize. Explain. Clarify. Do words. Make it better. Ugh. He’d rather take a slapshot to the teeth.

He breathes in through his nose, slow. Breathes out, slower. His chest feels tight anyway, like his body didn’t get the memo that the crisis is over. He wants to pace. He wants to bolt. He wants to do something physical, something with clear rules, where you can win by being stronger and faster and meaner.

Instead, he has to do this.

He drags a hand down his face, then rubs it over his hair until it stands up in stupid directions. He’s pretty sure his English gets worse when he’s tired, and right now he feels like his brain is stuffed with wet cotton. Great. He’s going to go out there and sound like a caveman. Perfect impression.

He stands. His knees crack. He rolls his shoulders, pads across the bedroom, bare feet silent on the carpet, pauses at the door.

There’s a moment—one tiny, pathetic moment—where he considers turning around, crawling back into bed, and pretending he’s asleep until they leave.

Then he thinks of Scott’s face last night. Not angry. Not disgusted. Just… hurt. Confused. Like Ilya walked up and slapped him for no reason.

No. He doesn’t get to hide.

Ilya opens the door and steps into the smaller lounge like he is walking onto ice with no helmet: cautiously, braced for impact.

“Hey, kid,” Scott says. Christ, it takes work to drag his eyes up to him. It’s the gentle tone; it hits him right in the fucking heart. “Jesus, put those woebegone eyes away, my heart can’t take it. It’s fine. Everything is fine. Just–come and sit. There’s food.” 

“So much food,” Sasha says, from his corner. He’s dragged an armchair to a corner next to an open window, one hand with a mug, other with a cigarette. By the look of things, he’s gone through half a pack and ocunting. “Some people stress-bake, i understand. Scott stress bullies. You should have heard him barking at the restaurant staff.” 

“If they host NHL players, they should damn well know how to feed them–” 

Ilya lets the chatter wash over him, bringing unearned relief with it. Alright, so—It seems that he might very well survive this with—With more than he deserves. 

He shuffles to the low table, trying not to scurry like a child. It’s probably only so successful, but nobody comments, not even Sasha. He must look properly miserable. 

“The soufflé omelette is good, I understand,” Svetlana says quietly, plopping down next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. She twisted her hair in two tight panda buns on top of her head, and has something green on her face. The hit of normalcy lands, releasing another knot in his stomach. Jesus, he might even keep the food down. “And black tea. It’s not worth anything, but coffee is worse, so. One has to be philosophical about these things.” 

“Thank you,” he croaks. “I–” 

“Food first,” Scott says, putting a giant plate with an upsetting amount of European and American breakfast menu items. “Everything else can wait.” 

***

Some indeterminate amount of time later, he finally manages to put the utensils down, having consumed enough food for Scott’s satisfaction. 

“When are we leaving,” Ilya asks, “for Pittsburgh, or wherever?”

Scott scoffs,. “Whenever we please.” At Ilya’s arch look, he sighs through his nose. “I mean it. Technically, we have a game Wednesday in Pittsburgh, yeah. But we can fly out from here. They’ll deal. The team will deal, the league will deal. Everyone will deal.”

Will they? He can’t see why they would. The league drama does not stop just because they are preoccupied. If anything, it gets worse. Yesterday’s… dramatics… will come with consequences. They only ever needed an excuse, and Ilya handed them one gift-wrapped, with a bow.

His stomach turns.

Do not borrow worry, he tells himself. You are where you are, doing what you are doing. The rest will follow. 

Scott is watching him again, eyes sharp. He might very well be cataloguing physical signs of distress. 

“I do not suppose you let it go?” Ilya says. Might as well try. “Let me say it was a temporary attack of madness and we can never speak of it again?”

Scott arches his eyebrows. “You’re a grown man. I can’t make you do anything.” He leans back slightly, then adds, very calmly: “But I will nag. I will fuss and nag and bother you. Relentlessly.”

Svetlana makes a small sound—amusement, approval. Sasha’s mouth twitches like he’s entertained against his will.

Scott goes on, softer, but still stubborn. “Besides—is it so bad, talking to me?” He shrugs, casual, but his eyes don’t move. “And it doesn’t even have to be me. Talk to your friends. Talk to your therapist. Just—someone. Someone should know what’s going on in that head of yours. Maybe they suggest some better ways of dealing with it than…” His gaze flicks to the plate. To Ilya’s hands. “Growing miserable, drunk, and mad as hell.”

Yeah, Ilya thinks, exhausted. Yeah, probably. If nothing else, they need to talk about it so Svetlana does not decide Shane deserves an elaborate execution.

“I am honest when I say nothing happened,” Ilya says. That, at least, is true. “Nobody— It is not— I just misunderstood some things.”

Sasha hums and ashes his smoke. The tap is a lot louder than it should be. “What things?” Sasha asks, voice mild.

Here goes. No going back now. You’re where you are. You’re doing what you’re doing. It’s fine. This is fine. .

“I guess I didn’t think that people—real people, people who matter—actually thought I was sleeping with Scott.”

Scott’s eyes widen a fraction, then narrow, like he’s trying to parse the sentence into something else. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Okay. That’s—”

Sasha lifts a hand, palm up. “Mm. Elaborate.”

Ilya swallows.

“Shane,” he says, and has to stop when his tongue wants to dissolve in his mouth. “We talk, as you know. He’s— He was worried that—”

He stops. Breathes in. Breathes out.

“That Scott had too much power over me,” he says. “That he was too controlling, and it was not right. Because he was my lover. That it was not right to be so… beholden… to a lover.”

Scott’s face does something complicated—confusion first, then a flash of offence, then something like ache.

“And I guess I freaked out about that,” Ilya says. “That he thought that. About me.”

Scott opens his mouth, then closes it. “But why?” he says, finally, sounding honestly lost. “I’m not backtracking, I’m not—” He gestures between them, vague and irritated. “I’m not attracted to you at all. Not even a little. But I don’t get why the idea of Shane thinking you were in a relationship with me was so… terrible.”

Ilya’s shoulders creep up, protective. “I do not know if I want to talk about this.”

Scott stares at him for one beat. Then his expression goes gentle in the most ruthless way.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says, like he’s joking, like he isn’t dead serious. “We’re talking about it.”

Svetlana’s mouth quirk-smiles into her cup.

Scott keeps going, voice steady, no room for escape. “We don’t have to talk about anything else. We don’t even have to go to fucking Pittsburgh. But we have to talk about why the thought of being with me sent you spiralling.”

Ilya sits there, breathing evenly. Bizzarely, the combination of brittle desolation and the unconditional safety of the room turns out to be centering. His words come easier than he expected. 

“Well,” he says, and his voice sounds thick to his own ears. “Several reasons, I guess. I was—When things went to shit, and you saved my life—It really freaked me out, to think you wanted sex in return.”

The room goes very quiet. Scott doesn’t move. Svetlana doesn’t blink. Sasha’s cigarette pauses halfway to his mouth.

“I can’t explain it,” Ilya says, because that is the worst part—how irrational it was, how total. “Why it did. But I–I could not eat, I could not sleep. Basically drank myself unconscious every night.”

Alright, Ilya tells himself, here is how you’re going to play this. You’re going to go through this once—today, now—and then never again. Do it once, do it right. Never do it again. 

“And it’s not—” he says, because he cannot stand them misunderstanding. “You’re the best. You would have been the best guy I ever touched, best person. If I met you in a club, I would do crazy shit to get you to kiss me. So it’s not—It’s not about that.”

Scott’s mouth parts like he wants to interrupt, but he doesn’t. He just watches, breathing carefully, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal.

“It’s just the thought—the thought of having to fuck someone. To lie down and let someone fuck me.” His stomach twists. “It made me sick. It made me crazy.”

Scott clears his throat. His brows are furrowed so deep, it looks painful; a grimace. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. That’s… perfectly reasonable. I would be sad if you didn’t feel crazy things about being—about being violated sexually.” He swallows. Tries again. “So far, so good. Did I not—” His eyes flicker, hurt and earnest. “I thought I explained. I thought you believed me that I wouldn’t—rape you.”

Ilya shakes his head once. Twice. “Christ. I believed you, of course I had. And, more importantly, Svetlana and Sasha believed you. That’s not the issue. You aren’t the issue at all.” He drags a hand down his face. “But Shane—”

“Shane thought you were sleeping with Scott,” Sasha says, in a calm, measured voice. “And this made you angry.” 

Ilya pauses, considers. He’s–not wrong. “More—freaked out, I guess,” Ilya says finally. He swallows, paws for his tea, takes a big swig to buy himself some time.  “I just—We talk, every day almost. We spoke about—about all sorts of shit. Real shit. I thought he—” He stops, inhales, unclenches his jaw. “I thought we had something. Respect. Affection. Duty of care. And he—he thought Scott was doing that to me, and never said anything.”

Scott makes a small, hurt noise. “But, so—I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m not trying to be difficult here, but you’re going to have to be patient with me.” His eyes flick between Ilya and the floor and back. “You were upset that—that Shane thought you were getting sexually violated, and he didn’t intervene? But only once he did intervene, because that’s when it clicked?”

Well. It sounds weird when Scott says it like that.

“Sort of,” he says, begrudging. “It never occurred to me that he could think this. We talked about so many things.” He shrugs, for once in this horrible conversation, committing to eye contact without trouble. “Is it crazy to expect he would at least be… a little uncertain? Even if he thought, like—Roz is such a wreck, he had to resort to this—shouldn’t he have some doubt?” Maybe not. Maybe he’s the crazy one. All evidence points that way. “Enough to think to himself: maybe it is something else. Maybe Ilya is paying with money. Or—fuck knows—drug smuggling routes through Belarus into EU.” He spreads his hands, palms up. “Shouldn’t there be enough doubt to—ask?”

“Right, right.” Scott swallows. His eyes are too round. He’s blinking at a fourth of  the rate of a normal human being, which is, unfortunately, a very clear sign of Scott Hunter trying not to lose his mind. “He should have asked. I agree. It was dumb of him to assume anything.” He pauses and soldiers on. “So you think that—You’re upset that he thinks that the only reason I reached out to help you was that I—” His mouth twists. “Was because I knew that you would let me—That you would let yourself be—”

“Pretty much,” Ilya says. “And even past that, he reached out, so he couldn’t have been so scandalised about my earning a spot in Admirals on my back. So even then, is it too much to expect he check in? Like, how are you settling into your new life as a hooker, Rozanov? You doing okay? You need anything?”

Scott looks like he might actually throw up. His face has gone pale in a way that makes thick, sick guilt churn in Ilya’s chest. Maybe–Maybe that was too much–

Sasha leans forward a little, intent now, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. “I think I see your problem,” he says, voice smooth as ever. “He betrayed the duty of care to you. He should have known better. He should have seen you more clearly.” He tilts his head, quick and feline. “This is the problem, yes? He should have treated you better. What you have given him, what you have built, it deserved more.”

Ilya sags, shoulders dropping. He stares at his hands. “Yes,” he says. “And also—And the boys should have treated Scott better.”

Scott’s brows pull together.

Ilya pushes on. “Shane is my friend, he has no duty to Scott,” he says. “But the rest of them—They owe more. They think Scott would—He could do this.” He gestures, helpless. “Never mind me. That he could do it to anyone. It’s deranged.”

Sasha’s head tilts. “That he would fuck you?”

Ilya’s jaw tightens.

Sasha continues, cool and collected. . “We fuck. You and I. And we have done so when I was very hurt. When I was depending on you to live.”

“Yes, well, only sometimes,” he says, rolling his eyes, “and because we wanted to. I know that you know that I would never demand that of you. And I know this because you would have crucified me on top of an anthill.”

Sasha’s mouth curves, pleased, but Svetlana makes an impatient noise. “I don’t see why you think Scott wouldn’t want to,” she says and waves a hand at Scott’s outraged expression. “In theory.” Her eyes flick over Scott, assessing, then back to Ilya. “Why he would not want you, like I want you. Like we want you—like he loves you and wants to make you feel good. Wants to let you make him feel good.” She pauses, wholly, entirely for effect. “Do you doubt he loves you?”

Ilya scoffs, reflexive. “Of course not. He loves me, and I him.” He looks at Scott and has to roll his eyes at the goopy, adoring expression; he looks like someone hit him over the head with a frying pan. Jesus Christ.

Sasha sighs, unfolds from his arm chair and kneels on the floor, edges himself between Ilya’s knee. Then, he reaches out and takes Ilya’s chin. His thumb sweeps over Ilya’s lower lip, then his cheekbone, then the line under his eye. It’s a familiar touch—Sasha’s strange tenderness, always precise, always slightly disorienting. 

“So what—” Sasha says, not particularly quiet but not loud or declarative either. “I do not understand, and it is important I do, Il’ka. You have been to me what Scott is to you. Especially when we were younger.” His thumb strokes Ilya’s cheek again, slow. “And I could not have been hurt through that, no matter what anyone thought. Even Svetlana. Even you.”

Ilya hums, grows a little boneless. It’s a learned habit, to melt into him when he’s like this, forward and expectant. 

“So now I worry, Sasha continues. “I worry that the hurt you feel now, about Scott, you might feel about me, in some potential future. That you sleeping with me, loving me, could be used to make you feel small and afraid.” His mouth tightens, faint disgust. “And this—I do not like this. It must not happen.”

Ilya’s chest spasms. “It’s not the same,” he says, but it comes out uncertain. Defensive. Sasha doesn’t let go of his chin. “You and I are—” he tries again. “It’s different. With Scott.”

“Why?” Sasha’s head cocks. His thumb keeps moving, soothing. “Because it is unequal? 

Well, yes. 

“He is not like us. We’re—We’re the way we are, but he doesn't need—People, like that.” 

Sasha hums, pauses, like he’s giving it due thought. He probably is, the freak. “So are we worried that Scott will find someone who will give him all those other things? Things you don't want to give him, things he doesn't want from you. Are we dreading the day he gets them–which he should. He deserves it. Them.”

Ilya huffs, head clering a little. Finally, an easy one. “Damn right he does. And he will, because he is the best, and his lover will be amazing and smart and capable.” 

Sasha blinks. 

Scott makes a sound like it’s been punched out of him. He sets his mug down too hard on the table. The ceramic clacks. The coffee sloshes. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. ”Which is you,” he says. “If things were different—if we met differently—if I didn’t see you as family, I would love you, like, obsessively. Madly.” His eyes are too bright. Too forceful to be soothing, but Ilya’s never been normal about these things. “I’d have moved you in in a week and married you in a month. You’d be it for me. And maybe in some other world, you are. Maybe some other Scott and Ilya are living it up in Aruba—”

Ilya exhales, manages to swallow the lump in his throat. “What is it with you and Aruba?” 

“Don’t change the topic, you whole, entire disaster. You aren’t some—” He breaks off, swallowing hard, and then the words come out fast and fierce. “You’re amazing. I respect you so much, you have no idea. To live the life you’ve lived and to come out with so much fucking guts and grit and love—you’re the most loving, most loyal person I’ve ever fucking met.” He gestures at Ilya, a sweeping, all-encompassing move. “And you think you wouldn’t be enough? For me? Are you insane?”

Jesus. Jesus Christ. Ilya is going to cry or puke or pass out. All three, maybe, in no specific order.

Svetlana, mercifully, rolls her eyes and cuts in before Ilya has to resort to drastic measures like, fuck knows, blood vows and oaths of fealty.

“More importantly,” Svetlana says, cool, “Scott isn’t giving more than he’s getting. He got you. He got the two of us.” She flicks her hand, impatient. “Look at him—he’s fucking killing it. He’s living his life, finally. Standing with his back straight. Flexing the power he had and never had the motivation to use.”

Ilya nods; that part’s true. “No, I mean. I get that. Plus—” He shrugs, helpless. “A lot of the stuff he’s doing now, the fights he’s having, he’d have had to fight them alone sooner or later. It’s definitely better if he does it like this. With us.”

“Maybe,” Scott says, and then his mouth twists like he cannot help but be outrageously, heart-stoppingly devastating. “Or maybe I never would have had the guts to go through with it. Maybe I would have continued being lonely during the season and fucking anonymous twinks in South America during the off-season, until I went nuts and became some deranged serial killer who kept dried hearts of pretty young men. Ahem.” He lifts his brows. “Which is to say, you’ve saved my life as much as I’ve saved yours.”

Ilya blinks at him.

Well, alright, that’s also true, he thinks. Not the serial killer stuff—Scott would not hurt a fly. But the miserable emptiness of Scott’s life before he found Ilya was a lot. The family he does not talk about. Partners he never had. Friends he barely spoke to. A man like Scott—much like Svetlana, Sasha, or Ilya himself—needs people to love. People to take care of. Without that, he will shrivel up and wait for death; sleepwalk through his life.

Svetlana sets her cup down with a small click. “I do want to circle back to the sex of it all,” she says. “I accept you want to keep it out of things, but it does concern me a little.”

Sasha nods, slumped with his back to the couch, head sideways on Ilya’s thigh. “I am also concerned. It seems like you attach more meaning to sex than I do. Sex as such. And this is—I should have known this.”

Ilya shrugs, helpless. “I did not know until I thought Scott wanted it from me like that,” he says. “It’s—not something I thought about. Christ knows I have never been particular about who I fuck.”

Svetlana’s gaze stays on his face, steady. “But do you think we need to think about it? The three of us?”

Sasha’s voice is quiet. “You never felt shame about sex with strangers, this much I know. But you do feel differently about sex with people who matter.” He watches Ilya like he’s trying to keep him safe,  by force and retroactively. It’s a familiar look; he’s lifted it from Scott wholesale. “And nobody matters more than we do. So, do you—do you think the three of us, being as we are, acting the way we are, is hurting you up somehow? That sex became something you do for us? To comfort us? To give us?”

“Well—” Ilya starts, and the word catches. “No, of course not?” It comes out like a question. He tries again, “Of course not. We never—Not once, have I felt anything but cherished when I was with you. Not once. In bed or out of it.”

“I—That’s not, precisely, what worries me, my love,” Svetlana says. “But—We can shelve it, maybe. It’s not the most pressing issue. Just something that occurred to me.” She tips her head, eyes sharp. “Your Shane probably thinks you are fucking us, and you would not have minded. Keep that in mind.”

It’s different, Ilya thinks stubbornly. It’s—This is how they are. Scott does not want that, in any case. So. There. 

“Speaking of the most pressing issue—”

Ilya lets himself slump, forehead dropping into his arms on the couch. “No. Nyet. Non. We spoke for seven thousand years, I feel like one of those—blind, disfigured underground rats—”

Scott clears his throat. “Mole.”

“Yes, mole. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, kid.”

“Anyway,” Ilya mumbles into his sleeve, “I feel like a mole that has been torn from its home and left to fry in noon sun. If you want more, you will have to wait until after game, after I will hit other men very hard and re-establish my inner balance.”

Svetlana’s lips curve—endeared, condescending, gorgeous—and then tighten. “Yes, well. We need to talk about that, too.”

The headlines are—

It’s been months since Ilya set eyes on any of his press, any of anybody’s press, much less one in print. He vaguely expected it would cause some sort of upset—and it sort of does. Only he’s so wrung out of every drop of emotion he has that he cannot spare more than distant fascination.

“Wow,” he says, eyes scanning the deranged text. “It matters—so little?”

One of the tabloids has it in font the size of a small country:

HUNTER’S BOY TOY CHEATS WITH OF CREATOR — MORE ON PAGE 3!

He glances to the next one.

ADMIRALS CAPTAIN HUMILIATED: ROZANOV CAUGHT CANOODLING WITH STARLET

Then a more respectable publication, all faux discretion:

SOURCES: ROZANOV’S WEEKEND “INCIDENT” SPARKS LOCKER ROOM CONCERNS

And then it slides right back into pure sludge:

IS HE EVEN GAY? ROZANOV’S “PHASE” EXPOSED!

DRUNK, DISGRACED, DESPERATE: CRY FOR ATTENTION AT ALL-STAR WEEKEND

PLAYING HUNTER? INSIDERS CLAIM ROZANOV USED “ROMANCE” TO GET ON ADMIRALS

COUP IN NEW YORK? ROOKIE SCHEMING TO OUST CAPTAIN, TAKE THRONE

He stares at the last one for a second. “Throne,” he repeats. “Okay.”

“I like this one,” Sasha says cautiously, and extends his phone. The post reads: HE’S BI, YOU COWARDS. “I feel like it captures essence of things.”

There are photos, of course.

She’s as beautiful as he remembers. That’s good. And, ashe predicted, there was some scandal. Ilya’s eyes flick to the little blurb underneath. Affair with a married man. Big name. Star basketball player. Allegedly, of course.

And he—

“I get it,” he says, jaw clenching. Reading it is one thing. Seeing the picture is different. There has to be something to those superstitions about how taking pictures takes a piece of your soul. He looks— He would feel a little better if he could barely recognise the man on the paper.

It’s him, though. Hooded eyes. Side smile. Tight jaw. Something sharp and closed-off that makes him look like he is about to savage someone. Why anyone would want to touch that creature is beyond him.

“--Press bullshit,” he finishes. 

“Well, press bullshit is likely to—” Scott’s loud sigh and breezy tone come across as sincere, if a little performative, as he gathers the papers in a stack and bins them. “Obviously, it doesn’t matter, and it shouldn’t matter, but they will make it matter. And I expect they will use the chance to push you more.” He looks at Ilya. “They think you’re unstable. Cracking under pressure. So they’ll up the pressure.”

Reasonable enough assumption. If only they took into account the fact that Sasha, Svetlana, and Scott have already drained every ounce of energy from his body, Christ.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Scott says, already reaching for his phone, “we now call Mariam Haddad and find out.”

They call Ms Haddad. She picks up on first ring.

“Ah,” Ms. Haddad says. “Good. I don’t have to put Kat on a plane to spring you from jail. That’s something.”

Ilya, to his shame, finds himself smothering giggles. “It was all big misunderstanding,” he chokes out. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Listen, I’m clinging to plausible deniability with my teeth and nails,” Ms Haddad snaps. “No details. Jesus Christ.”

“It’s true,” Scott says mildly. Ilya blinks. That’s a proceed-with-caution voice Scott doesn’t break out often. And when he lumbers over, sits down next to Ilya and sweeps him into a half-hug, he reconsiders again. Scott seems a bit—rattled. “Nothing to worry about. Nevertheless—”

“I have been served notice of a suspension, yes,” Ms Haddad says. “Five games for—let me get the exact quote—violation of league event conduct standards, public intoxication, and creating a media distraction at a league-controlled weekend.”

Ilya blinks. Five. Five?

“I broke two of Lukáš Križan’s ribs, his teeth and his nose, and I got three!” 

“Oh,” Ms Haddad says. “Wait. You mean to say the league might be engaged in selective prosecution? Say it isn’t so.”

Ouch. Touchy. Ms Haddad sounds stressed.

“More importantly, do I need to hire crisis PR? Are you—Is everything good?”

Oh. Oh, bless her. She’s worried about them. About their relationship.

“Not on my account,” Ilya says quickly. “I mean—do as you think is best, of course, but I don’t mind ignoring it. Press is press.”

“You might want to manage this one. Might go so far to give a statement or an interview. The—the woman you were photographed with is probably already talking to the press.”

Oh, no. She’s talking to the press. Wow. Anything but that.

“I hadn’t touched her,” Ilya says, but leans into Scott a little, shoulders hunching. It’s true. He hadn’t. He would’ve, but he hadn’t. “Our one point of contact was her hand on my chest.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Thank the fucking sun—”

Ilya startles at the swear—so uncharacteristic coming from Ms Haddad, he’s a little scandalised.

“Alright. Alright. You should have led with that.”

“I don’t see why he would need to,” Scott says, a little too sharply for the occasion. “He’s a single, gorgeous young man in his prime. If he wants to engage in casual sex with someone, he can and doesn’t need to justify himself to anyone—”

“I’m going to stop you right there, kid. I’m sure you’re up to your ears in testosterone or whatever the fuck, but I had no less than seventeen phone calls in the past twelve hours, from various panicked sponsors.” A beat. “I sent three of my assistants to your agent because she was in near-hysterics at the phone calls she was fielding. So, with very little respect: sit down, and shut up.”

Scott’s mouth snaps shut.

Ms Haddad exhales, and the sound shifts like she’s moving—pacing through her office, probably.

“The whole ridiculous fake-dating situation was done against my urging,” she continues. “Well, now you’re in it, and you will not be getting out of it until this blows over. Which means no hookups, no scandals, absolutely no hooking up.” Another beat. “The only reason I didn’t break both your legs already for adding Vetrova and Orlov is that it is understood they are fucking both of you—and this is how it’s going to remain.”

Wow. Ilya shares a wide-eyed look with Scott. Both of them hunch into themselves like shamefaced schoolboys. Wow.

“That’s us told, Scotty,” Ilya mutters.

“Sure fucking seems so,” Scott mutters back.

“Good. That’s cleared up,” Ms Haddad says. “Now—alright. Alright. Nobody cheated on anybody’s fake boyfriend? Do I need to explain what cheating is? Christ, I probably do, you’re fucking degenerates. Did anybody’s genitals touch any foreign skin, present company excluded?”

“I didn’t touch any of her skin,” Ilya yelps. “None. Not even her waist over her clothes. All contact was her hand on my chest for, like, a minute. In public. At the party. Marly was right there—”

“You realise it doesn’t fill me with relief that Cliff Marlowe was there—” Ms Haddad inhales through her nose, sound coming out strange via her phone’s mic. “Alright. So it’s a hoax of some sort. Fine. I’ll let Kat know; she will draft a cease and desist. Are there witnesses willing to corroborate?”

“At least thirty,” Ilya says. “And, like—security was there. It was afterparty in the hotel. Nothing more scandalous than some short skirts. Nobody even took their shirt off.” Which, for hockey players, means a lot.

“Good. Good. Great. Fantastic. Better than I could have hoped for. Alright. Now, listen.” The tone shifts—harder, focused. “We will accept the five-game suspension meekly. We will appear to keep our head down. And we will figure out how to ride this wave.”

Ilya goes still.

“Because if it’s true, and if we can prove the League suspended the most famous hockey player in the NHL today over nothing, it will be gold,” Ms. Haddad continues. “It will be game-set-match, children. So, we will not tip our hand. We will work fast. And we will strike hard.” A beat. “To do that, I need you to lock in and not fuck up. Can you do that?”

Jesus.

“Yes, Ms Haddad,” Ilya says immediately, and elbows Scott once. Scott makes a low sound of protest, stubborn in silence. Ilya elbows him again. Scott exhales through his nose.

“Yes, Ms Haddad.”

“And the other two monsters? Yes, I know you’re there, because you were photographed stumbling into Scott’s room together, and it was very, very widely shared.”

“Yes, Ms Haddad,” Svetlana says, eyes gleaming with admiration.

“Burn in hell—Ow—don’t poke at me, witch, I am not—” Sasha breaks off, then exhales, furious. “Oh, fine. Yes, Ms. Haddad. Whatever you say, Ms Haddad,  I will absolutely under no circumstances plant termites in your house, MsHaddad.”

“I will take it. Alright. Be good. Keep your head down. Appear subdued but mulish. Resentful. It might make them give you more fines.” Her voice goes almost cheerful. “The more fines, the better.”

Ilya stares at the phone like it might start smoking.

“I will forward you the tickets for the plane. Don’t talk to anyone.”

“Yes, Ms Haddad.” 

“Good. Good. Bye.”

The line goes dead.

---

Chapter End Notes

The three panicked inner spirals of Scott, Svetlana and Sasha

—

Scott: I’m just baffled that you would tell the world we’re fucking, then get a panic attack when people believe it, and you listing things you find attractive about me is not helping
Ilya: Ugh, you’re so embaressing, GOD
Ilya: So, the thing is, you are the best
Ilya: So, when you fall in love—in the person who passed all the trials set by yours truly—they will be gorgeous, accomplished, clever, devoted
Ilya: A real boy
Ilya: A real boy who is, crucially, nothing like me, a diseased sewer rat you adopted because, as seen above, you’re the best
Ilya: :)
Scott: See, now I’m baffled and heartbroken and vaguely planning to hunt your therapist for sport—

—-

Svetlana, who has no use for the parents she already has, brows furrowed, focused as never before: No, explain it to me again - you dont want to fuck Scott? Like—Not at all? Not even, like, to hold you down, gently but firmly and praise you as he—
Ilya: For the twentieth time, Svetik, no, I dont want my dad to fuck me, that’s gross
Svetlana, after a long pause: No, but, he would still be your creepy psycho guard dog, he would just also fuck you—Ilya, no, come back and be reasonable. You’re the only one of the three of us that has a chance, and he looks like he would fuck like a machine—Do it for the plot baby boy—

—

Sasha, blank: So, so.
Sasha: You’re saying that
Sasha: And I am sorry, but you’re going to have to be patient with me here
Sasha: You’re saying that you would feel worse if you were blackmailed for sex than with money
Sasha: Just, like, across the board
Sasha: We’re not talking some deranged fetish thing
Sasha: Let’s even say that the sex is good, fine technique, with someone you found hot
Sasha, warming up to the topic, fascinated: You would legitimately feel worse if that person blackmailed sex out of you instead of, like, ten grand?
Ilya, exhausted: Yes, Sasha. As we’ve discussed
Sasha *suprised pikachu face*: wow.
Sasha: America has done a number on you
Sasha: You’ve been here for five minutes and they’ve made you a Puritan
Ilya: Not again—
Sasha: What’s next, keeping a strict Sabbath
Ilya: Here we go…
Sasha: No booze on holidays
Ilya: Christ…
Sasha: Witchburnings
Ilya: …
Sasha: Hey, Scott, Private Witchfinder Rozanov here misplaced his flint—

Chapter 20

Chapter Notes

I would just like to note that the book has 88 k words, and it’s absolutely shameful that we’re at 110 and counting. We haven’t even finished the fucking season never mind the playoffs

Also: I’m quite proud that this fic has officially more comment threads than my other fic of mine, even the one that’s twice as long and has been up for years. Fantastic work guys🥰

Also!! Linux is ruining my life (but fuck apple more) so please tell me about all mistakes! Spellcheck here is awful, and I have enough dyslexia to make line editing a nightmare.

Somewhat predictably, after Ms Haddad hangs up, things become calm at the foundation and incredibly, dizzyingly chaotic on top. They have a plan—clear marching orders, given by a bloodied but delighted general who backed up like Kutuzov, letting the enemy win themselves to death. Which, yes, is great, only the one thing that was never, ever said about Kutuzov was that he was nice.

All of which is to say: Scott gets swept away in a hurricane of online meetings, phone calls, check-ins, and breakdowns. Svetlana gets dragooned into service as well, assigned the duty of talking down panicking sponsors. A couple of overcaffeinated interns try to shanghai Ilya into helping too. Granted, they’re immediately taken aside and quietly given the lay of the land by a colleague, but the fact that they tried says a lot about how overworked everyone is. Nobody, of course, tries to pressgang Sasha—terrified, likely, that he would accept.

All of which is to say: Ilya barely has time to blink, and he’s packed. Another blink, and he’s bustling into the black Jeep that will take them to the airport. Another blink, and they’re boarding the plane. Blink, they’re in a car, heading home. There’s no mental real estate for much beyond that—except to keep moving, text the Bears’ group chat what he can (there’s a plan; yes, me and Scott are fine; no, don’t go rogue; I swear to God if any of you start subtweeting about loyalty–), and keep his mouth shut.

Nothing concrete changes when they get back home, except Ilya’s tasks condense into: don’t go anywhere, talk to anyone, do anything. Pretty easy stuff, all things considered.

Scott is immediately whisked back to the city—he insisted on seeing Ilya home, the loser—to bully Admirals ownership into obedience. He takes Sasha and Svetlana with him; Sasha has ballet. Svetlana has “business,” which is code for bullying some clerk at the prospective law school she’s been considering. It’s easier to avoid the endless commute from Scott’s fuck-off estate and just crash at Sasha’s place in Manhattan.

All fine. All good. Only—

Alone, buzzy Ilya on strict orders not to go anywhere, talk to anyone, or do anything, is a catastrophe waiting to happen. So, in the spirit of charity, Ilya goes about managing his own adrenaline.

He’s halfway through the second-to-last set of weights when his phone buzzes across the bench. Screw the workout; he can take a break. He dives for it—only a handful of people have this number, none of them would call unless there’s a dire emergency, and one of them is Shane.

Unknown number.

He stares at it like it might bite; it buzzes again, impatient. Christ.

He answers. “Yes?”

“Hey, Roz,” says a voice, warm and amused. “It’s JB.”

Ilya blinks. “How did you get this number?”

A pause—like JB is smiling into the phone. “Baby, I’ve been playing in the NHL for twelve years. I know everybody.”

“That is not an answer.”

“Of course it is.” A beat. “You good?”

Ilya considers hanging up. “Guess.”

“Fantastic. Love that for you.” Beau exhales. Judging by the noise in the background, he’s at the airport. “Listen—I’m not going to keep you long. I just wanted to check in; clear a couple things up.”

“Mm.”

“It occurs to me that about ninety per cent of this could’ve been prevented if we all stopped relying on word-of-mouth bullshit and went to the source.”

Oh no.

“Ilya,” Jules says, voice brightening into something dangerously cheerful. “Our horrible Chosen One. Scott’s precious baby boy. How do you feel about me adding you to the group chat?”

The weight in Ilya’s chest drops, then spikes. “What group chat.”

“The only important one,” Jules says. “C’s, A’s, vets, old heads. Guys who matter. Guys who need to know when you’re about to do something crazy. Guys who would really appreciate some guidance on the current shitstorm.”

Christ, but he’s charming. Ilya, who has been in precisely three group chats in his life—with Svetlana and Sasha and, now, Scott, the Bears and the Admirals—is tempted to join. That man could sell sand in the desert.

“Not yet,” he says carefully.

“What do you mean, not yet?”

“I am instructed,” Ilya says, “to keep my head down, appear meek, lock in, and not fuck up. There is a plan. I am not allowed to talk to anyone.”

Jules pauses. Then, mild: “Okay. Respect. Love a good terrifying agent.” A beat. “Just a couple of questions, then.”

“Shoot.”

“What do we say?”

“Nothing,” Ilya says. “All you know is Scott and I are good. Past that, you know nothing.”

“Perfect. Great. A simple, concise script.” Jules makes an approving sound. “Second question.” Jules hesitates just long enough to indicate a shift in the proceedings. This is going to be important. “Or—On second thought, make it a random rejoinder that has absolutely nothing to do with your situation.”

Well, that’s not ominous at all.

“My best friend,” Jules says, and his voice shifts—not sad, exactly, but… older. Less eternally twenty-three. “My best buddy. Me and him—we were messing around when we were kids. More than messing around. We were obsessed with each other.”

Ilya goes very still. Jesus Christ, he cannot be having this conversation in the gym, with chalky hands, sweating like a pig.

“Only I was a coward,” Jules continues, steady. “And an idiot. Long story short, I lost him. He—Yeah. And I can’t even blame him. He did what he should. He took care of himself.”

Fuck this, the workout’s over. Ilya exhales a careful breath, wedges his phone between his ear and shoulder, and books it out of the gym. He, suddenly, really needs to see the sky. Shirt. Shoes. Jacket. Cigarettes.

“I’m not—pining or anything. Amila is great. The best girl in the world, and I have a kid on the way. I’m fine.” He laughs, once, sharp and humourless. “But, he was it for me. He was the love of my life, and I fucked it up. And then, I didn’t fix it when I could’ve.”

It has to be some type of inappropriate to talk with such depth of settled, calm emotion in your voice. A calm ocean of melancholy. Ilya’s hands are steady on the cig, on the lighter, but he can see how this might, soon, change.

“And now,” Jules continues, not having the grace to tone things down, “looking back? I would give anything for another chance. If I could go back and have him or hockey? It wouldn’t even be a question.”

Ilya opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

“So,” Jules finishes, voice lifting again like he’s putting the mask back on, “you know. Think about it.”

For a second, Ilya can’t breathe.“I don’t—” he starts, and he hates how thin it sounds. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Jules hums.

“Again, it’s none of my business. I’m just saying I know what heartbreak looks like.” The amusement is gone now, scraped clean. “And I’ve seen that boy stumble out of the hotel this morning, alone and manic.”

Ilya’s palms are itching now. What the fuck do you want me to say, asshole? What are you doing, talking about this shit? Shane is straight to the world. What are you doing, talking about this shit like it’s allowed?

A familiar, ugly impulse sparks; he can feel his face tightening, shoulders tensing. “Why call me? Why not him? Since you know everybody.”

“Because, dipshit, I care about you. Hallsy is great; a fantastic kid. Wish him all the best, Godspeed, etcetera. But you—I want you to succeed. I want you to be happy.” His voice softens, just a fraction. No, that’s not the right word, maybe. It’s not soft, it’s relaxed. Unravelled—for better or worse. “At a certain point, the chances for fixing things stop coming. And when that happens, I promise, you won’t even remember what kept you from trying. Pride, anger, shame, fear—you won’t remember any of it. All you’ll have is regret.”

Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ—What is there to say to that? What the fuck can he even—

“Food for thought,” Jules says, flawlessly back into stoner hackysack adolescent. “Alright. That’s it. Don’t do anything stupid. Tell Haz I said hi.”

“Mm,” Ilya manages.

“Love you, babe.”

Ilya is still thinking about it that evening. He’s still thinking about it when he manages to fall asleep, and when he wakes up.

It sucks, feeling guilty. When you know you fucked up, your brain won’t let you rest. It just replays and replays, without pause or mercy. He closes his eyes, and he can see Shane’s face, stricken and startled. He can see his careful movements, the overcome hitch in his breath. The way he’d offered, stuttering, to leave. To go somewhere else so Ilya could stay in his room.

Christ, where would he have gone? The fucking lobby? A stairwell? Outside, in January, with the press like vultures circling the hotel? And Ilya, class act that he is, told him to stay away from him and his.

Jesus Christ. He’s such an asshole.

And for what crime, exactly? For not being perfect? For being scared? For being… what, human? The self-delusion of it all is staggering. Imagine. Him, Ilya Rozanov, acting so fucking precious that someone fucked up. What would you have done? It took six guys to drag you away from ruining everything, and Scott, Svetlana and Sasha to patch you up after. Who did he have?

I know what heartbreak looks like. I’ve seen that boy stumble out of the hotel, alone and manic.

Fuck.

He’s still brooding when Scott finally gets fed up.

They’re in the kitchen, because Scott always ends up in the kitchen when he’s irritated—meal prep, lists, spreadsheets. The Navy is less fucking organised than Scott with three malnourished, alcoholic Russians to raise.

He glances over. “What’s up, kid?” He doesn’t pause marking his documents, ticking off some bullet points, scribbling over others. “What’s eating you?”

Should he start chronologically or alphabetically?

“I want to tell Shane.”

Scott’s face barely changes. He hums, drags a vicious line through some rows. Ilya forges on; best get this done with in one swoop. He’s had success with that strategy recently. Get everything out, and the smaller stuff gets overlooked often. Scott tends to stress on a scale.

“I know Ms Haddad said not to. But I want to.”

Scott makes a considering noise, writes several arcane symbols near the bottom of the list, puts his pen down—red, of course—and turns his way, leans back into the counter. “Go for it.”

Ilya blinks. “Really? Just like that?”

Scott shrugs. “Look—we’re doing this for us. If we start giving up important things for the sake of some future happiness…” He trails off, jaw tightening. “Yeah. I’m not doing that anymore.”

Alright—this seems promising. Also deranged, but he’ll take it.

“You want to patch things up with Hallsy,” Scott continues, steady and sure, “I’m with you a hundred per cent.”

Ilya’s head is spinning a little. He swallows, exhales. Focus. “Okay, but—even if he forgives me, should I—I don’t know if it's good of me to drag him back into this?”

Scott’s gaze sharpens.

“Look at what they’re writing,” Ilya says, voice going too fast. “About me. About you. They will drag any man I look at for more than ten seconds into it.”

Scott’s eyebrows lift, but he inclines his head in a deep, mindful nod. “If he refuses you,” Scott says, “that’s your answer right there. And you get to rest a little easier, knowing you did what you could to make up for a wrong.”

Ilya flinches at wrong. Ouch.

“I don’t see it happening, frankly. That kid adores you.”

And what joy it brought him. Ilya knows he’s not utterly without positive qualities, but Shane—He’s not sure he’s seen a single one.

“As for the broader concern—that’s not your choice to make. I know I would be pissed as hell if you cut me out of your life because the press was mean to me.”

Ilya opens his mouth to say it’s different, because it’s Shane. Because Shane is—Only, no. He isn’t, it isn’t. Shane’s closeted. Scott was, too, technically. Granted, Scott was brushing up on psychosis with how much he wanted to come out and live an authentic life, and Shane purchased an abandoned building so no nosy neighbours could hear him fuck a guy, but the situation is, broadly speaking, the same. They both know what it costs. They both know what it buys.

If Shane ever wants an authentic life, he’s going to have to start getting used to what it feels like to have it.

“If he doesn’t want to be your friend,” Scott says, “he won’t be. And even if he doesn’t—he’ll appreciate an apology. Which, again—I don’t know how bad it would have to be for him to refuse to even try to fix it.”

“And—and the plan—” Ilya starts, because Ms Haddad is basically living in his skull now.

“Fuck the plan.”

Ilya stares.

“No, seriously. Fuck the plan.” Scott leans farther back against the counter, folds his arms. “At this stage, there will be a lockout if they boot you from the league. And even if there isn’t—who’s won what, here?” His eyes narrow. “What’s your worst option?”

Ilya laughs, sharp and humourless. “Well—exile. Exile is one. Lose hockey, lose my visa, lose my mind.”

Scott rolls his eyes. “Alright. Let’s say you lose hockey. Then you can marry me.”

Fucking, excuse you?

Scott continues hideously blase. “Christ knows the government won’t bother with inspections, since everyone has such vivid daydreams about our sex lives. Why not actually get some concrete value from this mess? There—easy. Visa sorted.”

Ilya stares, then laughs, incredulous. “What the fuck.”

“And that’s if you even want to stay in the States,” Scott continues, unfazed. “Which we don’t have to. We can go to Europe.”

Ilya’s laugh trails away, but the warmth lingers in his chest. “Just like that.”

“Everything is just like that, kid. Why not? They would sacrifice newborns to get the two of us in the German league. We can move to Berlin. You’ll love it there.”

“Honestly,” Scott says, “I’m just so fucking done worrying about this.” The words come out flat, not dramatic—like a door closing. “At this stage? I don’t mind getting booted and then spending a couple million suing them in perpetuity while I’m living off my investments and having opinions about fashion and giving the occasional cunty interview to some gay podcast.”

Jesus Christ, he can just imagine it. All six-two of him, broad and jacked and the very image of hetero masculinity, sitting on some too-small chair, sipping a bitchy cocktail, gossiping about this or that red carpet look.

“Maybe I’ll go to college. Who fucking cares?” He looks at Ilya again, softer, lips quirked in a smile. “So,” he says. “Text Hallsy.”

One would think that the challenging part of his day would end there. He has a plan. Apologize. Fix it. Good. Great. Fantastic. How?

It doesn’t help anyone that, while the guilt makes up for the lion’s share of the heaviness in his chest, there was a fair bit of anger still left over. Anger that is, now, alchemising into plain, ol’ hurt, miserable and aching.

He’s spiralling, frozen in place, and then the sun is setting. Jesus Christ—Get over yourself. What are you doing? Shane has a game tomorrow. He’s playing the fuckign Sentinels. If he steps on the ice with anything but full focus, he’s going to get ruined. He’s going to get smeared into the boards and then blamed for it, because he’s the only good player on that wretched team and—

He texts.

ME: if you didnt block me

ME: im sorry

ME: can I call

Shane calls, not thirty seconds later. Ilya’s picking up on the first ring.

“Hello.”

“Are you okay?” Shane’s voice comes out tight, urgent, already halfway to panic. “Are you—are you in trouble? Do you need help?”

A decent slice of his heart crumbles, atomises with shame. That’s what he thinks this is. He’s worried that Ilya’s in trouble. That he’s only apologising because he needs help. And he’s making it easier, isn’t even making him squirm.

“No. No, listen. I am just—sorry. About what I said. I—It wasn’t right—”

Shane exhales, loud and forceful. “Never mind the fucking fight, Ilya. What are you doing about the suspension? Your visa? Where are you? Are you safe? Is Hunter—”

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut.

“Scott isn’t mad,” he says. “And there is nothing to be mad about. They’re lying about what happened. I didn’t touch her. I spoke to her for ten minutes at the party, and I left. There were people with me the whole time.”

There’s a beat of silence on the line, and then Shane lets out a long, shaky breath. “Jesus Christ. Okay. Okay.”

Well, Ilya thinks, maybe I really should lead with that. First Ms Haddad and now Shane—that’s a hell of a pattern. He swallows.

“Hey,” Ilya says, quieter. If he felt any more wretched, he’d probably start having organ failure. “Listen—even if I wasn’t fine. If I fucked up, it wouldn’t be—It wouldn’t be because of you.”

“Believe it or not,” Shane snaps, “if you’re in trouble, the least of my concerns is who is to blame, Ilya. This isn’t—” He stops, takes a breath, comes back rougher. “I thought you were hurt. That maybe you weren’t in a good place. I thought there were maybe—pictures again. That you would lose your shit.”

Jesus.

“No pictures,” Ilya says. He exhales. “There can’t be pictures. I didn’t—I didn’t want to touch anyone, since—well. Since all that.”

Shane goes quiet for a beat, and then he exhales like the air is getting punched out of him. “Shit, man,” he says. “Shit. Okay. So—you are good? You promise?”

He really is so obnoxiously kind. Disgusting.

“I am not good,” Ilya says. “I’m guilty. I have this friend. This ridiculous Canadian boy. I wasn’t good to him, and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

There’s a pause.

Then Shane speaks, careful, so careful: “Maybe your friend is also… guilty. For—for making dumb assumptions. And not—not being more brave.” Another pause, like he’s smiling despite himself. Ilya can picture it perfectly, the baffled little curve of his mouth, eyes round, like he's shocked at the unexpected absence of stress. “Christ, I can’t believe I’m talking about this over the phone. We’re the actual fucking worst. We just spent a week together.”

Yes, well. Three days ago, Ilya would have set his own ears on fire rather than talk about his feelings. Only—when you’re guilty, when your mind won’t let you rest, when it keeps looping back and back and back—it becomes difficult to do anything else.

“You should have asked,” Ilya says. Forces himself to. “It—really sucked. To hear that.” He swallows again, the words scraping. “But I—I talked to Scott and Svetlana and Sasha. And I understood that—That the way I feel about this is not normal. Not justified.”

“Why,” Shane says, quieter. “I mean—obviously it’s not my business, but if you can… I would really like to know.”

Ilya’s mind supplies, brightly, helpfully: Other than my mom, Scott is the only person who loved me and didn’t want to fuck me—No. Absolutely not. Jesus Christ.

So he tells the truth sideways. “I also thought Scott wanted that. In the beginning. And I was—I went with it, I guess. I thought at the time it would be okay.” He laughs once, dry. “That I would just—Do what I need to do. I thought I could handle it.”

Shane doesn’t interrupt. He’s good at that, projecting a space to talk into.

“And then he didn’t touch me. And I kept waiting, and thinking about it, and picturing it and—Freaking out, essentially.” He swallows hard. “We dealt with it eventually. I lost it, had a meltdown and—never mind. It was bad, but we managed; cleared things up.”

Only, did you? Did you clear anything up, or did you drop the issue entirely, buried it as deep as you could, and let it rot and fester? Because this, this strange situation you’re in—that probably doesn’t happen without some seriously wonky thinking.

“I thought I dealt with it,” he says, finally. “I thought—It was what it was, but I was wrong, so it’s all good. I don’t have to think about it anymore. But—maybe not.”

Shane inhales like he’s about to say something and then thinks better of it. Then: “Okay. Jesus. That’s—that’s so incredibly fucked. That’s—Okay. I can see how you would—How things were dire and you—Prioritised.” His voice shifts, careful now, like he’s stepping around broken glass. “Only, and please tell me to fuck off if I’m poking where I shouldn’t, but… why did you pretend to be in a relationship with him?”

Ilya goes still.

Shane keeps going, gentler but relentless in that awful way he has when he’s trying to understand. “Why didn’t you put out a statement? You had to have known, Ilya. You’re not insane. You had to have known everybody thought you were together. I thought you were, it never would have occurred to me that you were—Faking it for some reason.”

Ilya huffs out. Why indeed.

Because Scott is amazing, he thinks. Because he’s—he’s so good, and it was nice, okay? It was nice to have both things at once: all the benefits of a hot older boyfriend and none of the downsides of doing things Ilya didn’t want to do. It was nice to be able to think—look at this incredible guy. He chose me. I have this signifier of success. Scott Hunter never even looked at you, but he chose me.

He doesn’t say any of that.

“Believe it or not, I have entertained the occasional self-destructive impulse.”

Shane makes a small, vaguely entertained sound.

“It was never a decision I made,” Ilya continues. “At first, I didn’t deny it out of spite. And because it was… nice that Scott cared more about me than his reputation.”

A beat. His stomach twists.

“And then,” Ilya says, quieter, “it was easier. It is still easier to be Scott Hunter’s sex pet than to be a single queer player. It is easier to step back and let him take the heat. Who is going to tell him no? He’s Scott fucking Hunter, and he defends what is his.”

Yeah. Being Scott Hunter’s plus-one is a whole lot better than being Ilya Rozanov, universal fuck-up.

Shane is quiet for a long beat. “He would have defended you even as his player. As his protege. Wouldn’t he?”

“He would,” Ilya agrees. “But—this is a narrative everyone knows. A rich older guy taking up with a younger lover and giving them a leg up. Protecting them.” He exhales, bitter. “It was nice to have that. Especially since I know—down to my bones—that Scott would never touch me. Never want me like that.”

The ensuing silence is long enough that Ilya’s skin starts to itch. Then Shane says, stiff, audibly offended, “I don’t see why he wouldn’t.”

Ilya blinks.

“I mean,” Shane continues, voice sharp and huffy, “okay, I get that—from a practical perspective it’s better he doesn’t, but I don’t see how he could be so fucking choosy—”

Ilya laughs, and it comes out bright and a little manic, like it’s breaking through something. “You lunatic,” he says. “Do you want him to want me?”

“Well, no,” Shane says immediately. “As I said. It’s practical he doesn’t.” A beat. “But it doesn’t say good things about his taste. Too many concussions, probably—”

Ilya laughs again. “He doesn’t want me because I was barely functional when he found me. I was—I was such a mess back then.” He drags his hand through his hair, exhaling a long breath. Back then, yeah? You were such a mess back then? Tell the truth, coward. “I still am, of course, but it was properly fucked up, in the beginning. I didn’t eat, I barely spoke, I was losing time. Just—checked out.”

Shane doesn’t say a word.

“And then I traumatised the hell out of him when I thought he was patiently waiting to start extracting whatever it was that he wanted from me. Yeah. That was the final nail in the coffin of any notion of romance.” He exhales hard. “Unless you’re a particular type of freak and those people deserve to be skinned, salted, and sun-dried.”

There’s a beat of dead silence.

Then Shane, voice blank with shock: “Nice alliteration, loser.”

Ilya snorts.

“Oh my god,” Shane says, voice hurried, horrified. “Sorry—sorry, I didn’t—I don’t know where that came from. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make light. That’s so bad, Jesus, I didn’t—”

Ilya sighs, oddly content. Shane is such a weirdo. He’s so fucking funny.

“Breathe, Shane,” Ilya says. “Jesus. It’s fine.” He can hear Shane actually inhale. “It is nice alliteration,” he adds, pleased with himself despite everything. “I’m going to sit C1 English soon.”

“Really? That’s great, where—”

Jesus.

“No, not really. Do you hear yourself? Why would I get English certificate--”

“So what now?” Shane asks.

Ilya’s eyes flick to the clock, and he has to swallow, because—Jesus. They’ve been talking for almost three hours. It’s nearing ten; Shane’s flying out in nine.

“What’s the plan?”

“Nothing,” Ilya says.

Shane makes a noise vibrating with impatience.

“I’m out for five games. My agent is setting a trap. Everyone thinks I fucked the girl, and I hadn’t. The league sure thinks I had—” He rubs his face with his free hand, exhausted. “And she’s…” He exhales. “I don’t know. I feel like she was maybe used somehow. Used to—I don’t know, seduce me or something.”

“What?!”

“I don’t know, obviously,” Ilya says. “It’s just a hunch. She wasn’t—girls aren’t like that.”

Shane makes a quiet but forceful exhale thick with scorn.

“She didn’t want me to fuck her,” Ilya says, stubbornly. “She wanted me to cheat on Scott. And part of that is maybe trauma, but I think there might be more to it. And I think maybe she doesn’t appreciate being used either.”

Silence. Then Shane, flat: “So your theory is she’s… getting revenge on the people who set her up. By going to every news outlet and telling them how you—” Shane stops and swallows. “She wasn’t—discrete, Ilya. She was, in fact, pretty fucking explicit.”

Was she? Now he’s kind of curious. What story could she have told?

“That’s why it’s weird.” He shifts on the couch, for once, perfectly calm. “Why would she do this? There were people there. Cameras. Security. They know I was escorted out of that room by five hockey bros; I can prove it easily. So why is she lying?”

Shane’s answer is immediate and sour. “To get fame and clout she couldn’t earn herself. Which is, coincidentally, exactly what happened.”

“Maybe,” Ilya allows. “I don’t think so.” He pauses, then huffs. “And it doesn’t really matter either way. I can prove I didn’t touch her, and even if I couldn't, everybody who matters knows I didn’t. I really don’t care about anything past that.”

Shane lets out a frustrated breath.

“Also,” Ilya says, because it maybe needs to be said. Maybe he’s been not saying too many things recently. “Scott wouldn’t mind if I did fuck her.”

“What.”

“He almost bit my agent’s head off,” Ilya says, grinning. “When she was chewing me out for fucking up my reputation. He was all like Ilya is a handsome young man who gets to fuck whoever he wants and doesn’t need to justify himself, blah blah.”

Shane makes a noise that is half laugh, half choke.

“Anyway,” Ilya says, regaining momentum, “I think she’s lying because whoever set things up will pounce on the chance to humiliate me, and when I prove my innocence, it will backfire.”

“Oh,” Shane says. “Well—I mean, maybe. Seems a bit convoluted. She could just be a gold-digging vulture freak.”

Ouch.

“She looked clever enough,” Ilya says mildly.

Shane makes an incredulous sound.

“Obviously fucked up,” Ilya adds, “but who am I to judge? Girls don’t like guys like me, with good reason. If she was fucked around by an athlete—well.” Ilya’s voice goes quieter, rougher. “I fucked girls in relationships. Girls who probably wouldnt normally do that sort of thing, but were overwhelmed by the fame, the chance to touch the guy they have been watching on screen. I probably knew it was fucked up, and I didn’t care enough to not take advantage of a good thing on offer. I only started to care when I was the one hurt.”

A beat.

“So, I don’t mind her.”

“I do,” Shane says immediately. “I do mind.”

Of course you do.

“But whatever,” Shane continues. “It doesn’t matter. Good thing is your plan doesn’t hinge on her being anything other than what she clearly is—meaning a homewrecking spiteful opportunist who will corner a visibly upset star specifically to ruin his life.”

Ilya’s grin widens.

“Anyway. As I was saying, since you’ll do the same things no matter what her motivations are, I don’t mind. Go ahead and believe there was a convoluted plot she’s foiling.”

“She doesn’t matter, no,” Ilya agrees, swallowing a laugh. “Spring their trap and let the dice fall how they will. I’m sure the hellish web of sponsors Scott has been weaving won’t like it that their expensive investment is being sabotaged.”

God bless America.

“And past this, play hockey. Win the Cup. Make them carve my name into it forever, the same year I came out. Make them carve Scott’s name. Make them choke on it.”

Shane is quiet for a moment.

“Good plan.” Ilya closes his eyes. “Ten out of ten.”

Chapter End Notes

Shane, channelling his inner Yuna, focusing on precisely every wrong thing, ever: I don't see why he wouldnt fuck you. What a loser, don't mind him, he's been hit in the head too much--

Also

Ilya: yeah so I don’t know why I’m so fucked up about the Scott thing
Ilya: it suprised the hell out of me
Ilya: but maybe
Ilya: MAYBE
Ilya: it has something to do with that one time i was spiraling like a lunatic about having to fuck Scott or be deported back to Russia, for weeks, until I literally lost my mind got drunk stripped naked and laid on the floor and begged him to just get it over with
Ilya: or MAYBE it’s something to do with the fact my dad abused my mom in ways I likely don’t even know and will never find out bc she killed herself when I was twelve
Ilya: or maybe I’m just somehow become unexpectedly prudish in my old age
Ilya :)
Ilya: I guess we’ll never know

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[Restricted Work] by The_Procrastinating_Writer