Chapter Text
Lily: I’ll be there for the draft. Flight is tomorrow.
Jane: What?
Jane: …is there something you’re not telling me?
Lily: No, no. They want me there for parties and shaking hands and things.
Jane: They’re bringing you all the way back from Russia for parties?
Jane: You think you’re getting LeBlanc, don’t you?
Lily: Of course we are. He is the best. We are the best. It’s natural.
Jane: We’ll see about that.
Lily: We will. And I will see you?
Jane: Well, I live here, so…
Lily: Yes but I thought you would be at your cabin doing your yoga and flipping your burgers.
Jane: Not for another week. My folks are in Japan so I’m sticking around here a little longer.
Lily: Good. Then I will see you.
Jane: Yeah, you’ll see me.
The early July humidity coated Montreal like a heavy blanket. The city was vibrant even in the dead of winter, but in the summer, it blossomed even as the heat beat down on the city streets and made everything sticky.
The pedestrian district of Old Montreal was awash in a sea of tourists packed shoulder-to-shoulder along its historic cobblestone streets. Homebody as he was, Shane spent little time there in the summer. As Ilya pointed out, he’d usually be at the cabin by now.
What good fortune then, that he’d chosen to stay in town. Well, that and Ilya wasn’t the only one who’d been strong-armed into making an appearance at the draft.
Between the draft, the regular glut of summer tourists, Montreal Comiccon, and the Montreal Jazz Festival, there were people everywhere. Usually crowds of that size made Shane anxious. But with so much activity and movement, it was easier to be overlooked. He wasn’t often given that level of anonymity in a hockey-obsessed city.
As he made his way up from Old Montreal toward the Palais de congres, young hockey prospects in suits mingled with tourists and people in colourful comics from cartoons, comics, movies and video games. Up ahead and past a barrier, a saxophonist played for the afternoon crowd.
Large sections of the downtown core had been pedestrianized for the half a dozen or so outside venues of different sizes as part of the jazz festival. As Shane moved past the barrier, a security guard smiled at him and asked for a picture. A cluster of frat boys noticed him and asked for a selfie. Then, when a line started to form, he made polite apologies and stepped away to disappear into the crowd once again.
Shane wasn’t there for the festival, or the comic convention, or the draft. There was no anticipation for the live acts or the work he’d have to do at parties and press conferences surrounding the draft. He was there for Ilya.
And Ilya was late.
It was a risk to meet in public, but they’d decided a walk through the crowded city would be possible especially given how many other hockey players were in town. It gave them a rare excuse to see each other outside of the regular season. Their recent appearance at the All Stars game meant that a little friendly association wasn’t as strange as it once would have been.
Shane was a bundle of nerves. He clutched his phone with a sweaty hand as he found a place to stand outside the flow of the crowd, next to a food stand selling Beaver Tails. It was a torturous place to stand, not only because it added to the heat but for the cinnamon air that ruffled his hair and filled his nostrils. He began to salivate. The lure of carbs and sugar was strong, but he was still maintaining a strict diet even in the off-season.
His phone vibrated.
Lily: We were delayed getting into Toronto. I missed my connecting flight. New flight in one hour.
“Fuck.”
Jane: Okay.
Shane considered returning home for the minimum of three hours it would take for Ilya to appear. But with the traffic, he’d just get home and it would be nearly time to set out again. He tucked his phone back into his pocket and looked out at the crowd.
It seemed he had some time to kill. With every second, the anticipation built like it always did when it got close to one of their rare, stolen moments of togetherness. He felt the shadows of Ilya’s hands all over his body as they groped and pulled and caressed. His mouth anticipated his taste and the way his accent vibrated pleasantly in his ears.
The waiting hurt. But they were both used to dwelling in anticipation. As much as it could be agony, it did make their stolen moments that much sweeter. This moment, this unexpected one at the height of summer, was an unusual delight he intended to savor despite the dangers.
He just had to kill a little time.
—
Shane didn’t wander alone for long before a group of prospects found him. The young players were led by Oliver Power, an outgoing former junior league teammate from Newfoundland who was taken out by an injury in his rookie year. After he recovered, he was hired by Ottawa as an assistant coach. He’d been assigned the inglorious role of chaperone for Ottawa local prospects there for the draft.
“Fucking hell, bud. That was a helluva season you fellas just had,” said Oliver as he pushed a plastic beer cup labeled Aphrodisiaque into Shane’s hand.
Oliver was solid, but short with curly red hair and a spray of freckles. Before he’d wrecked his collarbone after a brutal cross-check, he’d been one of the fastest players in the league. “You boys trounced us real good, wha?”
Oliver also had the thickest Newfie accent Shane had ever heard. When he was a rookie, the press often asked him to repeat things because they couldn’t understand him. Which was saying something in a league full of Russian, Quebecois, Swedish and Finnish accents.
“You put up a good fight,” said Shane quietly. He had his hand in his pocket. It was wrapped around his phone so he would feel it the second it vibrated.
“You’re being kind,” said Oliver with a heavy sigh. “Too many unforced errors. S’why we’re trading Babkin. How many goals you get on him this season? Five?’
“Seven,” said Shane as a matter of precision, not as a brag.
Oliver let out a low whistle. “I don’t mind telling ya we really got to get our act together. We’ll put up a good fight next season, I promise you that. I…” he turned around. “Oh Jesus Murphy. Where’d my ducklings get to?”
Shane motioned to one of the bar kiosks where the prospects were lining up shots.
“I told them boys no bloody shots! They’ve got shit to do tomorrow. I swear. Is this what we were like when we was them? Well, not you,” Oliver pointed at Shane. “You’ve always been the best of us.”
Shane demured and hung his head. “If you hadn’t been taken out…”
“Aw, don’t be doing that now. No pity for Power, y’hear? Sides, I like my gig. I get to sit most of the game.” Oliver flashed a smile, clapped Shane on the shoulder, then offered his hand. “Good to see ya. Hope to see you around again before this dog and pony show is done. I better go wrangle them boys before they get the arse out of ‘em and I have to use a pot and pan to get them outta bed in the morning.”
Shane shook Oliver’s hand, then sipped from his beer and moved off toward the main stage. Lauryn Hill was about to take the stage and people jostled for a good spot.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and with a few flicks of his fingers, he sent Ilya the map coordinates for the main stage. The growing vibration of the music meant he might not feel the vibration of a message. Then Shane found a spot toward the back of the crowd.
He’d never been to the festival before. Usually he was at the cabin or otherwise avoided the crowd. It was different than what Shane imagined it would be. The crowd was thick, yes, but not rowdy. The press of bodies all around him and the lingering heat kept the evening hot, though the earlier humidity had blissfully eased.
Still, sweat trickled down Shane’s spine and down his back. The few beers he’d had with Oliver took the edge off his anxiety, though the ache of anticipation still clenched his stomach.
Where was he?
Lauryn Hill’s melodic voice floated across the crowd, who swayed or sang along. He wasn’t that familiar with her music, but found himself closing his eyes as her powerful voice rang in his ears and the thrum of the bass shook his body with each pulsing note.
Strumming my pain with his fingers
Singing my life with his words
Killing me softly with his song
Killing me softly with his song
Shane opened his eyes. The corner he’d found was away from the bright stage lights but still thick with people. When he lifted his head, he immediately spotted a familiar face despite the density of the crowd. A blue light from the stage streamed from behind him, highlighting the breadth of his shoulders and his halo of curls.
Telling my whole life with his words
Killing me softly with his song
Killing me softly…
Ilya moved through the crowd, roughly pushing others out of the way when they wouldn’t move. One man cursed at him as the jostling nearly spilled his drink, but he ignored him and kept going.
The sight of Ilya moving through the crowd like a shark intent on its prey made his whole body vibrate. He couldn’t properly see his face, but he’d seen that hungry look enough times to fill in the blanks created by the night. He wanted him so badly that it overrode all sense and reason.
…with his song
La la la la la la…
Ilya’s hands pressed against his hips…
In public? They can’t…
Ilya stepped forward and pressed him into a nook created between a generator and a barricade. A corner cloaked in darkness but surrounded on all sides by the crowd.
So many people…
Oh, oh-oh-oh
Ilya slammed him against the barricade. It rattled hard, but the swell of music and the singing of the crowd muffled it entirely. He grabbed Shane’s chin and pulled their faces close.
Shane met him halfway and kissed him fiercely. He tasted cigarettes on his breath. He should hate it. It stunk. It was horrible for him. But over the years, he’d come to associate the smoke on his breath with the way he made him feel. It was also the taste of danger, of everything forbidden in his life.
Ilya slid his hand down Shane’s sweat-soaked back and down the back of his shorts. He cupped his ass and pulled their hips together, then whispered hotly in his ear. “Fairmount Queen Elizabeth. 2011.” Then he slipped something into his back pocket.
Then Ilya disengaged abruptly after teasing out a second kiss. He melted back into the crowd.
Shane weaved on his feet, ragged breath in his lungs and tent in his shorts. He swallowed and turned to face the barrier as he tried to compose himself. He waited just long enough to give Ilya a head start, then he entered the sea of people after Ilya.
Killing me softly with his song
Killing me softly with his song
Telling my whole life with his words
Killing me softly with his song