Summary:

When Ilya signs with the Ottawa Centaurs, everyone wants to know why he moved. Turns out, he married a Canadian. Her name is Jane. Or so the team believes - because Ilya never bothers to correct them. It was the start of a new season, so Coach got up with a clipboard and announced the new members of the team. “We aren't getting any drafted rookies. This year. We've got some veterans coming in. Our new players this year who will be joining the Centaurs are Wyatt Hayes and Ilya Rozanov.” The meeting room went silent. Did the Centaurs hear that right? “...Wyatt Hayes is a goalkeeper,” said the captain, Zane Boodram, slowly, while the other players unfroze and looked around at each other. “But did we hear the second one correctly?” “Yes,” said Coach. “Ilya Rozanov.” “Why is Ilya Rozanov joining the Centaurs?” Asked Evan Dykstra. Coach shrugged. “Don’t know.” “Can you afford Rozanov?” “We can. We're not capped out yet," said Coach, putting his clipboard down, “Rozanov requested to be put here. For some reason, I have no idea why. At this point in time, it would be good to have him on our team. Perhaps he might be able to change that losing streak of ours.” At this point, there was a knock on the door, and Wyatt came in, looking a bit nervous, whereas Rozanov strode in confidently behind him. Was there something wrong with Rozanov's visa? Did he commit a crime in the United States and was on the run? Did he get thrown out of Boston? The other players knew how he played on the rink. He was one of the biggest ice hockey Pests of all time according to a recent poll on ESPN. Wyatt Hayes on the other hand had come from Toronto Guardians, and had no controversies. Did the Centaurs really want someone with a history like Rozanov on their team? The team didn’t even greet them. They just stared at Rozanov, not even noticing Wyatt Hayes who was starting to look a bit confused. “Stop making them uncomfortable. You men are usually the chattiest, freakiest lot I've ever coached. Get over the fact we've got Rozanov now. Now, you take your new team members to Monk's,” said Coach. “That's an order.” *** Monk's was a tavern not far from the practice rink. The team migrated to the dark sports bar that smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. Neon signs flickered in the corners, and the walls were covered with framed jerseys, autographed pucks, and faded posters of long-forgotten championships. A large screen over the bar showed an American football game. Rozanov felt quite cheerful to be with a different team, even though the rest of the team seemed uneasy with him. Wyatt Hayes stuck close, and he poked at a plate of chicken wings, while Rozanov appeared completely relaxed, like he owned the place. The bar was also used as their training cafeteria, so it had dished out the usual orders - fries, buffalo wings, pickles - and also pregame/training meals that were crimes against humanity. “So… why exactly did you move here, Rozanov?” one of the forwards asked, trying to sound casual but failing. Rozanov shrugged. “Needed to be closer,” he said, voice calm, almost bored. He took a chicken wing from Wyatt's plate, getting buffalo sauce all over his fingers. “Closer to what? We have no secrets.” Said Mile LePointe, leaning in closer. “Ignore LePointe. He's a slut for gossip. Closer in Canada, Rozanov? To what? Closer to… a lady friend?” Another player suggested. “Hmm,” said Rozanov, not giving anything away, licking his fingers. "Good wings." Oh yes. The team recognised that tone of question - avoidant. When a close team like the Centaurs knew each others gossip, because, as Coach stated, they were freaks. “W ife? Partner? Spouse?” LaPointe said, slowly. “Are you married?” Rozanov didn't say anything. “Oh he definitely is,” said Harris, the Centaurs social media manager, who was sitting on the other side of Wyatt. “That silence is usually a bit fat fucking yes.” Rozanov took a sip of his drink. He sighed, then slowly took out his necklace, a crucifix. There was a ring threaded through the chain. “You’re not to tell,” he immediately said to the team. “Don’t you dare.” Harris put his hands up. “We’re not blabbers!” “You look like one.” "Technically, that's my job-" "No telling! I mean it!" “Hey,” Boodram snapped at Rozanov, “You may be a Pest, but don’t take it out on Harris. He’s new, too.” “Oh.” Then, almost to himself, Rozanov looked at his fries and muttered under his breath something like, “Jane.” The room went silent, except for the football on the television. “Wait… Jane?” "Who's Jane, Rozanov?"