Chapter Text
"What is this?" Ilya threw his hands up as he watched the better of the Centaur's two rookies whirl on the ice like a tornado. "What are we doing here?"
"Practicing?" Luca ventured, coming to a stop in front of Ilya with wide hopeful eyes. The spinning had clearly made him queasy and Ilya took a slight step back. His days of being vomited on were behind him. Hopefully.
If someone had asked Ilya eighteen months ago if he was a patient man, he would've said yes. Hadn't he drilled himself into being one of the best? Hadn't he gritted his teeth and dealt with every injury and insult, throwing them back with the best of them? Hadn't he waited his turn to win the cup? Hadn't he waited for familial acceptance that was never coming like a penitent on his knees in an unfeeling church?
Being an assistant coach had Ilya had had to scrape the bottom of his old well of his patience clean and dig a new one out back.
"Yes," Ilya said carefully. "I can see that, thank you. Why are we spinning in circles?"
"We were taking a five minute break," someone offered, wisely mumbling. "And getting the rookie dizzy."
Ilya nodded once very slowly. Everyone sailed backwards on the ice away from him as if he'd started screaming. Good.
"Haas," Ilya said quietly, "do not listen to these assholes. Yes?"
"Yes," Luca nodded, a little too hard.
"The rest of you…start spinning. Not much fun if only one person does it, I think. Good practice for balance."
Bood sailed back onto the ice, back from a bathroom break and stood for a moment, watching half of his teammates trying to be figure skaters while Luca dizzily clung to the wall.
"What the fuck?" Bood breathed out. "Sorry, coach, I forgot I can't leave these lunatics alone for ten seconds."
"It's fine," Ilya gave him a wane smile. "Hazing is never good, but…this is not so bad."
It was like everything about the Centaurs. Not so bad.
The drills started again and Ilya watched them. The constant itch to join them, to be one of them again, wasn't so bad today. It came and went.
"I heard we were doing some hazing," Wiebe appeared at Ilya's elbow.
"Little bit. I haze back. It's fine," Ilya glanced at him. "How was the press?"
"Bored," Wiebe laughed quietly. "We're being annoyingly unproblematic. I think they want you to shuffle onto the ice and throw a few punches so they'd have a story."
"Would it help us win?"
"The work you're doing with Haas has a better chance with that."
They both watched Luca make a smooth pass as if he knew he was being discussed.
"He's good," Ilya allowed. "He will be great. Some day. Not today."
"That's all right," Wiebe said. "I'll take some day. That's the nice thing about people having low expectations. It gives us time to sneak up on them."
Sneaking up on people was not Ilya's style. He had run at life like a wolf with his teeth bared, ready to snatch wins by tearing out jugulars. But it wasn't so bad maybe, to be patient. To build confidence and energy and skill.
"Tape review this afternoon?" Ilya checked.
"Yeah, I pulled clips already. Including that fumbled goal. I want you to break that one down for them," Wiebe said. "I have an unrelated question for you."
"Mm?" Ilya glanced at him. Wiebe looked as neutral as ever. The man gave little away really, despite a generally kind attitude.
"What do you think about Shane Hollander these days?"
Internally, it was as if someone had put a hand through Ilya's chest, wrapped their fingers around his heart and squeezed for all they were worth. Externally, he was as calm as Wiebe. Say what you would about Russia, but it had given Ilya a fantastic poker face these last few years.
"What is there to think?" Ilya shrugged. "He's best player in the league. Now."
Wiebe laughed. "Right, right, but I meant personally. I know there was a lot of played up drama about you two, was any of that real?"
"Some," Ilya conceded. "But only on ice."
Which was true enough. His stolen nights with Hollander were far behind him now. A collection of memories he may still occasionally take out to admire and mourn over like stolen jewels that couldn't be sold.
"Good. I had a feeling, but I was curious," Wiebe said.
Wiebe was rarely curious, but Ilya was wholly uninterested in finding out what had led Wiebe to asking about Hollander of all things. Probably the same thing that made other people ask Ilya about him, stirring the last dying coals of what had been a raging publicity fire for years to see if anything might still catch.
The rest of practice was uneventful. In tape review, Wyatt settled beside Ilya. He evaded the worst of Ilya's bark, a competent goalie who was outside Ilya's intended scope. The Ottawa coaching team was really too small for them to stay in their lanes.
"Sorry I didn't catch them egging on Haas in time," he whispered as the tape started up.
"He was enjoying it, I think. It was friendly," Ilya allowed. "No hazing makes rookies nervous too."
"Right, waiting for it to jump scare them," Wyatt laughed quietly. "Maybe that's worse. Listen, I'm throwing Lisa a birthday party next month. Small thing. Just some friends and family. Want to come?"
"Send me the date," Ilya said, eyes on the game.
He'd go. He might even have a good time. Stranger things had happened.
On a higher profile team, Ilya might've had to worry about the optics of a coach being too friendly with players, but the blessing of mediocrity was less scrutiny. If Ilya had his say, which he would, they would not be mediocre for long, but for now, there was something to be said about being lower profile.
It certainly gave him time to think. His therapist said maybe a little too much time. Galina was always suggesting hobbies, interests. The best Ilya could give her was that he was considering a dog.
The review went well enough. Their players were trying. They listened, they took things seriously, and they at least made new mistakes every time instead of repeating old ones. That's all Ilya could ask of them.
He walked to his car slowly, reluctant to end the day.
The players were dispersing, plans and good nights being shouted across the parking garage. Getting his keys out of his pocket always took Ilya longer than he'd like now. He could use his left hand and be done with it, but making the right work was good for it. Good for him. Probably. Mostly it made him grind his teeth.
Triumphantly seizing on them, he glanced up to make sure no one was watching. They weren't, but something else caught his attention.
For a swooping insane moment, he was almost positive that he'd seen Hollander walking quickly away. It was hard to tell in the fading light, only a slice of dark hair and the distinctive profile as he ducked between cars.
But no. Whatever Ilya had conjured, likely jarred by Wiebe's earlier conversation, was only an illusion. What would Hollander be doing here?
All plans Ilya might've had crumbled to ash. He was clearly having a bad day even though it had started out well. Bad days happened. There were plans for bad days. He drove home (no longer his favorite sexy sports cars because manual was a pain in the ass now, but at least a low slung expensive sedan whose engine purred to him) and forced himself to cook.
Cooking was one of his so-called hobbies. It was good, losing himself in preparations even if most of it went right back into the fridge to be brought out for future lunches. The act of it soothed him and the shower afterwards, long and hot, did its work too.
No hockey on the TV or on his phone. No work after work, a firm rule that he often broke. Tonight he stuck to it. Ilya watched the Korean drama that Svetlana was crazy about these days and texted her incessantly, complaining about the pacing. She didn't answer, but that was fine. Whenever she came back to her phone, she would reply to his rants with fond amusement, telling him exactly how wrong he was.
Mostly it felt good to rant in Russian.
He slept. He was good at sleeping. A little too good. Alarms, a chalky pill, and sheer perverse will power kept him from taking multiple useless naps some days.
As predicted, Svetlana had an incisive reply for him in the wee hours of the morning, calling him a number of creative names that mostly amounted to 'you're wrong, I'm right forever'.
Ilya: I will finish the next season, if only to preserve my life.
Svetlana: Wise choice. I've decided to bless you with my presence this weekend.
The sheer relief of knowing she was coming made his head spin.
Ilya: It's rude to invite yourself over. Didn't anyone ever teach you that?
Svetlana: If I wait for an invitation, I may never see you again. I know you don't have any games.
Ilya: I invited you over the summer!
Sveltana: Two entire months ago. I fly in on Friday. Pick me up from the airport.
Ilya: Demanding. Send me the information.
The promise of company erased any of the weirdness of yesterday from Ilya's mind. The routine he'd worked hard to establish here moved him forward. Long runs and light lifting for himself, careful strength building exercises to keep the physio happy, shower, practice, meetings, dinner. Therapy on Thursdays, physio on Mondays and Fridays.
Sometimes there were clubs. Less and less now. Sex, his greatest refuge for so long, no longer harbored the promise of relief the way it once had. It was still good. Great even, but as his temporary partners walked away, Ilya found an unsettling exhaustion crashing in.
"I have to leave early," Ilya told Wiebe on Friday morning. "Picking up a friend from the airport."
"Good," Wiebe said.
"Yes," Ilya said. "It is."
Pulling up to arrivals and spotting Svetlana already waiting, five times better dressed than everyone around her smacked a foolish smile on Ilya's face. He rolled down the window and wolf whistled at her.
"Hello, lovely lady. Would you like a ride?"
"From you?" She raised her eyebrows. "If I have to."
She slid into the passenger seat and leaned over to kiss his cheek.
"Do you want to go out for dinner?" He offered. "You seem dressed for it."
"I had an afternoon meeting before the flight," she said. "I want you to make me something."
"I can do that."
All the way to his house, they talked about her work and Ilya sank back into Russian like a seal too long out of water. The tiny dramas of annoying co-workers were the same everywhere and they compared troublesome people to each other. While he cooked, she sat on the island, and every time he walked by, she reached for him. When everything was simmering, he simply sank into her arms and they hugged for a long quiet minute, his entire spine melting into it.
"Boston is a misery without you," she told him.
"No, it isn't," he said, his forehead resting on her shoulder. "You love it there."
"Two things can be true," she said and rubbed his back. "Like: I'm very glad you're here, but I wish you were there too."
"You don't want two of me. You would never get any rest."
She laughed and kissed the top of his head. "Too true. Still. You could come visit."
"I will," he said and he meant it now. Time had passed. He could go back to Boston and enjoy a few days. "I'll come to your fancy job and tell them I'm your boy toy."
"Wear something designer. If you're my toy, then I want them to know you're a luxury one."
They ate dinner on the couch, her legs over his lap and Ilya could forget anything had ever changed. She followed him up to his bedroom and they had the kind of sex that came with long familiarity and affection.
"Let's go out tomorrow," she said, rubbing her nose over his shoulder. "Somewhere touristy and stupid."
"A museum? I haven't gone to the National Gallery."
"Yes, good. That. We'll look very smart."
"If you're hoping to get photographed, you're no longer in the right company."
"Who gives a fuck? We can look good and smart for ourselves too."
So that's what they did. Dressed to match, slick and flashy, they wound their way through dull art exhibits as they gossiped. Svetlana held his hand the whole time.
When he'd first gotten injured, Svetlana had appeared like a blazing vengeful angel. He had forgotten that he had made her his emergency contact. With her forthright competence, she acted as his translator, his companion and his care manager. He had tried to make her leave, to go back to work, until she had held his uninjured hand so tightly that he feared for it too and hissed You think my love for you stops at the door of a hospital room? We don't have to be the kind of people that marry to take care of each other. Shut up.
From then on, he had reached for her whenever she was near and she had taken his hand up like a promise.
"Sometimes," he said now as they stood in front an enormous abstract painting, "I think I would've died without you."
"No," she said firmly. "You survive because of you. I was only there to spot you like with your ridiculous weights. But anything I did, I'd do again a thousand times."
What could he do about that, but take her out for an expensive dinner and let her order whatever wine she wanted? They went clubbing afterwards, dancing as if they were the only two people alive. She went home with him. They didn't have sex again, but they shared the bed and that was nearly as good. In the morning, he made too much breakfast and they gorged themselves.
He drove her back to the airport and kissed her goodbye.
"I love you," she said. "Come visit."
"I love you," he said. "I will."
Then he was alone again.
That was fine. Ilya was great at alone. Really really great. Perfect.
Fuck his entire life.
His right hand trembled all the way home, just to really rub it in.
They flew out to Pittsburgh for a game. Ilya got to watch his players put in their best efforts and eek out a 2-1 win. It wasn't a glorious victory, but Ilya would take what they could get. Heaping praise on all of them felt better than trying to soothe bruised egos and handing out scoldings anyway.
"Good assist. I'm proud of you," Ilya told Luca and the boy's eyes had gone so wide, Ilya was a little worried they might roll out of his head.
"Damn, coach, careful," Wyatt laughed as Luca stumbled away. "You might kill him like that one day."
"That would be a news story," Ilya shook his head. "You did well too."
"I know," Wyatt winked at him. "But it's always good to hear. Just don't expect me to swoon about it."
"Fuck off," Ilya shoved at him a little and Wyatt cackled harder.
"Hello, boys!" Harris peeked his head around the door. "Nice job tonight. Ilya, can I borrow you for a second?"
Why did they have Harris at an away game? Ilya liked him, but that seemed like overkill to bring the social media guy for a mid-season game with low stakes.
Not that any of their games were high stakes. Yet.
"You have me," Ilya said as he stepped into the hallway. "You need a picture? Quote?"
"Not exactly," Harris said. "I wanted to get your opinion on something. I- well. Okay. Look, I'm not assuming anything, but given the speech you gave over the rainbow laces last time, you seem like one of the safest people to ask."
"Is someone giving you a bad time?" Ilya growled, instantly ready to go for blood. His right hook might not do him much good anymore, but he could still do a lot of damage with the left.
"No! No, oh my god," Harris grinned. "But thank you for that. It's appreciated. It's not about me at all."
Ilya subsided. "Fine. What is it?"
"There's a very loud rumor going around that a player with some name recognition is going to officially come out. A current player," Harris said. "Not on our team. I'm not supposed to know anything, but communications people tend to communicate."
"Sure," Ilya said, already scrolling through a list of potential names. "Good for them."
"Is it?" Harris asked wryly.
"Yes," Ilya said. "I hope."
"Yeah, I hope so too. The thing is, I want to do some supportive posting about it and I already cleared it with the higher ups. I need someone outside the department to look at the posts. Someone who knows what kind of support someone like that would want to hear."
"You're good at this," Ilya said, stalling. How did Harris know? Did he know?
And then in a burst of calm that smacked of Galina's breathing exercises, Ilya realized it didn't matter. So what if Harris knew? Ilya wasn't a famous player anymore. He wasn't anyone, really. An assistant coach to a third-rate team. But he was, by an extreme rush job that was likely deeply unfair to other patiently waiting people, a Canadian citizen now. A boring Canadian man could be out. No one cared.
"I'm bisexual," he announced and Harris' mouth dropped open. "If that is what you are asking."
"It absolutely was not, I promise. I just thought you were a good ally who knew more about locker room things," Harris said, mouth wavering a little before resolving into a kind smile. "Thank you for telling me. I appreciate your trust."
It didn't feel any different, having Harris know. It was fine. Ilya smiled back. "You're welcome. I will read your post."
"Great! I'll send it to you tonight. No name yet, but I don't think that'll matter for the content," Harris hesitated, then plowed on. "Hey, no pressure, but if you ever did want to come out more publicly, this is probably the best team to do it with. Everyone's been very cool here and I'd help you with the publicity."
"I will think about it," Ilya said and was surprised to find he wasn't lying.
The posts Harris sent him were genuine and heartfelt. The photo he'd chosen was simple, a line of skates, with a single pair laced up with the pride laces. Ilya stared at the picture for far too long. It was lonely. Poignant.
Ilya: Its good. Picture is depressing. Two. There should be two.
Harris: You're right. Next to each other or apart?
Ilya: Together.
Maybe it didn't make sense with only one person coming out, but Ilya was grateful Harris took the note.
Whenever 'soon' was, it wasn't in the next few weeks. Lisa's birthday party arrived and Ilya went with a nicely wrapped gift and expectations of getting wasted. He hadn't taken into consideration that Lisa and Wyatt were both gigantic nerds, so instead of dancing and shots, they were playing board games with slowly drained beers.
"No, no, so like, when you have enough eggs you can do that," Wyatt explained for the fourth time.
"I think you are making up the rules," Ilya said. "I'm not sure this is a real game."
"It would be a really elaborate prank," Wyatt said, then went a little distant as if he was considering what that would entail. "Anyway, how about you just be on my team?"
"Yes," Ilya said with great relief, letting the cards fall to the table. "Thank you."
"I thought board games would be up your alley. You love to play."
"I love to win," Ilya corrected. "I do not even know how to win this game."
"Liar," Wyatt said, even as he reached over and pulled Ilya's chair closer. An impressive feat of strength. Ilya was no longer player weight, but he wasn't a lilting flower either. "If you minded losing so much, you'd leave us for a better team."
"Never," Ilya said fiercely.
"It really doesn't bother you?"
The other players were still settling in, ignoring the two of them as they set up their pieces. Lisa was helping one of them, who seemed to be having more success following things than Ilya.
"That we are going to be winners and surprise everyone?" Ilya shook his head. "No. I like it."
"What if we're not?" Wyatt asked and there was no anger or doubt it. Just sheer curiosity. "Can you live with a losing team forever?"
"Nothing is forever," Ilya said.
"Rozy, seriously. I'm afraid we'll wake up one day and you'll have left us for a newer, hotter team."
"You worry about your marriage or me?" Ilya elbowed him. "I'm not leaving."
Because two things could be true. Ilya could love to win and he could also love coaching a team that had taken him in when his world was collapsing around him. He could be competitive and loyal. He could love and suffer. Look at him go.
"What is happening?" Ilya asked a half hour and two beers later. He was slumped against Wyatt at this point. Undignified, maybe, but he'd left his dignity at the bottom of his last Corona.
"We're winning," Wyatt said.
Lisa brayed like a donkey. "In your dreams, babe. I'm about to pop off."
"This is a game about birds," Ilya said. "You have plastic eggs. What will you pop off about?"
"We're very serious about our bird game," Lisa said, wagging her finger at him. "Cuddle my husband harder. Distract him for me."
"You make this difficult," Ilya complained. "I'm comfortable, but we are on the same team. So if I stay I'm wrong, if I move, I'm wrong."
"Don't worry," Wyatt said giving Ilya a distracted pat on what he probably intended the shoulder and was instead partially Ilya's face. "I've got this, do what you need to do."
There was a card game (not the fun kind, something with special cards with cute little characters on them) being played in the other room and their laughter rolled in. There were worse places to be then held up by a friend in a room full of people having a good time at a dull roar.
"Thanks for coming," Wyatt said, much later. They had, apparently, lost at the bird game. "We might start doing this more often. It was fun, right?"
"Yes," Ilya agreed. "But simpler games, maybe."
"We can play checkers or is that too rough? Tic tac toe?"
Ilya flipped him off as he headed for the waiting car.
At therapy that week, Galina started the session as she usually did: by asking Ilya how he was doing. In the beginning, he'd always given her the same 'Fine' that he did everyone else, then let her dig up the truth. These days, he gave her the truth immediately. So it was nice to say,
"Good. I had a nice week. I played a board game. Sort of."
The Centaurs won their next three games. Ilya got to say 'good' a lot in therapy. When they played New York (a loss, but a close one), Ilya took the next day off and got on the long train ride to Boston. He surprised Svetlana at work, dressed in his sluttiest designer best and she played it up with a sparkle in her eye, taking him ostentatiously to lunch.
"I told our communications guy that I'm bi," he told her. The likelihood of anyone else speaking Russian in the restaurant was low, but it felt good to say it at a normal volume anyway. "He said if I wanted to come out, he would help."
"Really?" Svetlana smiled at him. "That's great. What are you going to do?"
"I might. Maybe. I don't know yet. Who would even care now?"
"I don't know why you think the world has forgotten you. You're not that easy to erase."
"Tell me more about the deal you're making. The one that gives you millions."
"I will let you distract me because I actually want to tell you about it, but we'll come back to this."
Ilya was great at distracting her. They didn't get back to it. He had to catch a flight out that night and she had to go be powerful and beautiful at people.
The flight was quiet, one of those times where almost everyone fell asleep. Ilya stared out the window at the darkness outside, occasionally broken up by solitary red lights blinking far below. Idly, he picked up the cross from around his neck, thumbing over the tiny raised details as familiar as the lines of his own knuckles.
He was trying. He was succeeding. For himself. For her.
The season went on. There was no hope of the playoffs, but Ilya could see a season shaping up when they would be. Wiebe seemed to share his vision, an infectious cheer radiating off him after every game regardless of outcome.
"We're cooking," he said over and over. "It's happening."
The end of the season loomed a little dark. It was the first summer that Ilya wouldn't go back to Russia. He and Galina had come up with a plan. If a dog could be said to be a plan which Ilya contended was and Galina was leery about. She was pro the dog, but anti his thinking stopping there. Too bad for her, that's as far as he could manage.
"Hey, coach!" Bood called across the ice. They were training today, but everyone was getting lazy about it. End of season-itis without a goal in sight. "What are you doing with your time off?"
"Going to an island and surrounding myself with beautiful women until I forget all your names," Ilya called back. "I have already started. You are Buddy, yes?"
Luca skated closer than he should've. "Are you really?"
"Going to forget your names? Yes. Immediately."
"No, are you going to an island? That sounds nice."
"No," Ilya shrugged. "I am getting a dog."
"Do you already have on picked out?" Luca asked, his attempts to pretend to follow instruction forgotten.
"No, I am considering."
"You're going to get one from a shelter, right?"
"Get what from a shelter?" Bood called out.
"Are we not practicing?" Ilya asked them.
"We're taking a break! Tell us about the dog!"
"There is no dog yet!"
That wasn't enough to deter them and Ilya found himself surrounded by a half dozen full grown men, who wanted puppy details for a puppy that didn't exist.
"Do I want to know?" Wiebe asked, emerging from whatever warren of meetings he'd been trapped in that morning.
"Rozy is getting a dog!"
"What kind?" Wiebe asked and there went his chances of escape.
That kind of hostage situation was why Ilya found himself letting Luca climb into his passanger seat three days after their last game. Instead of being politely hung over and miserable like a normal rookie, Luca was brimming with well-caffeinated energy and excitement.
"Thanks for taking me along!" he chimed. "I know I can't get a dog right now, but I had them all the time growing up and I miss them."
"I need an expert," Ilya said. "So today, you are the expert."
They drove out to the Dover household which was so picturesque and pleasant that it made Ilya borderline angry. Or it did until Harris introduced him to the dog that he'd found on the side of the road.
Then all Ilya could see was her. He was vaguely aware of Luca talking at him and the dog. Harris was also making conversation, words flying over Ilya's head. Maybe Ilya was even responding since no one was calling him on being distracted.
But everything was with the lovely dog who immediately wanted to sniff him all over and lick his face and accept his eager ear scritches. Eventually, Ilya had to acknowledge the humans around him with a slightly more plugged in attention and he found himself eating dinner with Harris' very nice family.
"She fell right into your lap," Luca grinned at him. "You should name her something like 'Lucky'."
"No," Ilya pulled a face. "Anya. Her name is Anya."
"You are definitely the guy that gives his animals human names," Harris said. "She does kind of look like an Anya."
"Of course she does."
Luca liked the Drovers so much that he might have moved in if Ilya hadn't extricated them after dinner. The rookie needed more friends.
"Hey, before you go," Harris trailed them out to the car. "Remember that post for our potential gay guy?"
It had been months ago now, but Ilya remembered. He figured whoever it was had backed out. Understandably. "Yes."
"I think it might go up this week," Harris said. "I guess they were waiting for their season to end. Or maybe they want to do it before playoffs. The word is that it's soon, anyway."
"Thank you," Ilya's concentration was on Anya. She was his job this summer, not whatever some random guy was doing. "I like to know."
"Me too."
The first week with Anya was perfect. She had to adjust, of course, and Ilya had to adjust too. She didn't want to wait for him to roll out of bed. Bathroom times were mandatory and early. It wasn't so bad though. The backyard was fenced in, but he quickly found himself taking her for walks more often than letting her out.
They moved well together and when he risked running a little, she kept up with him. He wouldn't force her on his entire 10k treks, but it was nice to jog a little with a companion. At night, she got into bed and he let her, burying his face in her fur. Just the sound of her breathing unwound the knots in his head.
Ilya: [Photo of Anya curled up at in her plush doggy bed] My new favorite girl.
Svetlana: I give up without a fight, she is very sweet.
The bubble of doggy paradise burst on Friday night. Ilya had already lost track of the days a little, only kept at all on schedule by phone reminders. He'd gone to physio this morning, the endless rounds of strengthening and toning starting to feel useless. Three years on, things were what they were.
He took Anya on a long walk in the afternoon. Long enough that she fell into a deep sleep as soon as they came home, snoring a little. Adorable. He took a video and posted it to his Instagram which at this point was a wall of dog photos. Fine. Who cared? It was the least controversial thing he'd ever posted.
Boring Canadian man has dog. Big news.
It was great not being big news. Mostly. Sort of. A little.
He ate dinner, then stretched out on the couch. Scrolling through feeds took a little time and then he was setting the phone aside to try to read a book again. Reading in Russian was still easier, but it made him a queasy disgusted kind of homesick now. Reading in English had the advantage of giving him new vocabulary words to spring on his unsuspecting colleagues.
He made it a few chapters in before his phone went ballistic. Notifications buzzed in from every direction. It made every sound it knew how to make and maybe a few more before he fumbled it off the table. He couldn't take anything in except a text from Harris.
Harris: Watch this immediately. We're putting up our post now. You may get some people reaching out to you for a response for old times sake. I'd recommend not responding.
The link was to a video that started playing as soon as it opened.
There was a neutral blue backdrop and a white couch. A nowhere kind of set. Sitting on the couch was Shane fucking Hollander. Someone had helped him pick out grown up clothes for this moment, a striped button down shirt with a single button open at the neck and the sleeves carefully rolled up to his elbows. Calculated to be both casual and formal. His hair had gotten a little longer than Ilya remembered it. It swept becomingly over his forehead.
"Hi," Hollander said and if there was a prepared statement, he must've memorized it. There was nothing in his hands, no indicator of a teleprompter. "I've spent a long time thinking about this moment and how it should go. I used to think it would be a nightmare. Something sudden that I would have to do.
"Instead, I get to choose to do it. I'm grateful for that."
The reality of what he was watching caught up with Ilya all at once. He stuffed the heel of his hand between his teeth, a scream mounting there. Now? Like this? At the height of his career? Why? . Ilya's stomach churned ominously.
"I love hockey. There isn't much I wouldn't do to keep playing and winning for all the people that have cheered me on over the years. It's my life and I look forward to many more seasons playing."
Hollander paused to inhale. A small thing. He shifted a little. The small movement changed the lighting. Now, Ilya could see every one of his freckles.
"But I can't keep pretending either. I'm gay. I've always been gay. For three Stanley Cups and all the playoffs. Every award, every medal was won by a gay man," Hollander said the last with a defiance that shot straight through the camera. "I gained a lot by keeping that secret. But I think a lot about what I've lost.
"I've lost some self-respect. I've lost the feeling of freedom. Mostly though I think about the people," Hollander's voice caught. Not a lot. Not even noticeable to most, Ilya would guess, "that I've lost. I'm done with that. I'm done losing. I much prefer winning. I consider today a win."
And then, the little fucker did it all over again in French like it was a fucking airport announcement.
How many times had Hollander taped that so it came out smooth? Had his mother stood behind the camera, making phone calls as it went on, ensuring that all the sponsors were warned?
Why now?
Why ever?
Ilya watched the video again. And again.
The way Hollander looked straight down the barrel of the camera was getting into his head. It was like he was looking right at Ilya.
"I hate you," Ilya told his earnest face. "Every day. Every fucking night, I hate you."
Anya roused, disturbed by his vehemence and padded over. He leaned down to kiss her furry head which at least made sense. Hollander's voice kept playing, looping now whether in reality or just in Ilya's head.
The people he'd lost.
As if he had accidently left Ilya behind in the car or dropped him between the couch cushions. Left behind. Lost. As if Ilya wasn't two hours away from him right now with the same phone number.
Ilya's phone rang, silencing Hollander at last. Instead of an unknown number getting it into their head to get the old rival's take on things, it was Wiebe. Who was certainly supposed to be on vacation with his nice wife and nice children right now.
"What's wrong?" Ilya demanded.
"That depends on if you think good news is wrong," Wiebe said.
"What news?"
"Well, brace yourself," Wiebe said. "Because I didn't believe it either. It's not a done deal, but it's been in the work for months, so it seems likely. Unless the Metros do some serious mea culpas."
"What is- never mind. Tell me," Ilya demanded.
"You saw the coming out video?"
"Yes," Ilya closed his eyes.
"Good. I was waiting for that so I could tell you. There were some serious NDAs around all this. Turns out Hollander talked to the Metro leadership about it months ago. He wanted to do a big formal thing and they said no. It's been a bloodbath for him over there. So he gave them an ultimatum: let him come out formally in the team jersey or he was going to leave at the end of the season when he became a free agent."
"No," Ilya said reflexively. "There is no Metros without Hollander. He wins their games."
"Yeah, tell that to them," Wiebe said, elation in his voice. At the downfall of the Metros? At Hollander's pain? Doubtful. Not his style. "So get this. Hollander's agent doesn't shop around. There's no fishing. They came straight to us."
The place Ilya went to in his mind was quiet. It was the place that he had hid when his mother died, the place he went every time his father and his brother listed his many flaws, the place he'd went to when he'd first been injured and the doctors kept trying to tell him what was wrong.
"Rozanov? Rozy?" Wiebe wheedled. "You still with me?"
"Yes," he said woodenly. "So. What you're telling me is that we're getting the best player in the NHL."
"You don't sound thrilled about it," Wiebe said gently. "It's why I was asking you about him a few months ago. I didn't know the reason back then, but it seemed likely. Were you lying to me? Because if you can't work with him than I don't want him."
"No," Ilya frowned. "That is stupid. Having him is a bigger advantage than having me."
"Factually incorrect. I need you Roz. The boys have each other, but you and me, we're a team too, aren't we?"
Ilya pressed his shaking right hand over his eyes. It was too much. He couldn't stay in the cool silence of his head. That space had shrunk since he started therapy as Galina showed him the prison cell it was instead of a refuge.
"Hollander should come," Ilya said, proud of how steady it came out. "He is an idiot for it, but we can use him."
"We were already getting better," Wiebe corrected. "He's right to want to get into it with us now. Think about the story. It'll be something."
"Yes," Ilya said numbly. "It will."
"All right, I'll leave you to your vacation. Give that pup of yours an ear scratch for me. She's really cute. I bet everyone will be thrilled if you bring her to practices, you know.'
"Yes, they should be. It would be a big honor for them," Ilya said. At least being an asshole was a reflex for him by now. No higher thinking required.
"It would. Good night, Roz. Be easy on yourself."
"Good night."
Ilya hung up and sank slowly off the couch onto the floor. Anya clamored into his lap to lick his face. He pet her absently, the warmth of her trusting body keeping him grounded.
The careful cadence of Hollander's voice had started again. The video really was looping, starting over again now that the call had ended.
Hollander was out. Hollander was leaving the best team at the height of his career. Hollander was coming to Ottawa.
They hadn't seen each other in person in two and a half years. Not since Ilya had made the hideous mistake of calling him 'Shane' and asking him to sleep over a single night.
A month later, Ilya had been in the hospital, the All Stars game that he'd been looking forward to suddenly impossible. As soon as he was getting through the day without pain killers, he got the call that his father had died. At some point in that haze, Hollander had sent some weak text about being sorry for Ilya's loss. It was unclear if he meant Ilya's father or hockey or both. Ilya had never responded. What would the point have been?
Two and a half years of silence and now the ghost of Fuck Ups Past were finally coming back to haunt him.
At least the Centaurs might win a few more games.
Fuck Ilya's entire fucking life.