Work Text:
January 20, 2015
Pretty much the moment the season calendar came out, Ilya clocked that the Metros would be in Boston on February 14th.
It was never a matter of whether to do something stupid and elaborate. It was always a question of how and what.
“Okay, everybody, circle up, this is important announcement!” He was shirtless in the team locker room, dripping with sweat. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, gaze bright on his teammates in the aftermath of a shutout. Everyone was feeling good; it was the perfect moment to propose a team-building activity, yes? As a good captain, that was his job, yes?
The other men turned their attention toward him, everyone in various states of undress, some more unkempt than others. They were a ragged bunch, but they were Ilya’s bunch.
“As you know, Valentine’s is important upcoming holiday,” Ilya said, reaching up to his shelf to grab the little plastic bag he’d prepared. It held slips of paper containing the names of each Raider. “We are on the road, so it’s an opportunity for most of us, a shame for the boring ones who are married.” He rolled his eyes.
“You gonna give us valentines, Rozanov?” Marlow asked.
“You wish,” Ilya said, digging his hand into the bag. He’d made a small tear in the HOLLANDER slip, and his fingers found it instantly, snatching it out of the bag as if at random. “We are giving the valentines. To the Raiders. Is very romantic, chance to reach out olive branch.” He opened his slip, raising his eyebrows as if surprised. “Oh, good, I have Hollander. Maybe… not romantic. Roses are red, your uniform’s blue, you have a weak backhand, and I hate you. Something like this.”
“So more of an anti-valentine,” Marlow said, folding his arms across his chest.
“Yes, is prank,” Ilya said, rolling his eyes again as if Marlow were fucking slow. “Now pick a name.” He held out the bag to him.
Marlow reached in, his expression suspicious, but when he unfolded his slip, a smile appeared on his lips – warming to it. “Okay, Rozanov. So you want me to give another man a fuckin’ valentine?”
Ilya moved to the next person, holding out the bag as if impatient while he chose a slip for himself. “Yes, yes, is simple concept, I’m glad you’ve joined the class,” Ilya said. “See, look.” He held out his hand for Marlow’s slip, and he handed it over. PIKE. “Perfect. Hayden Pike gets a singing – what is it, the singing telegram – to the locker room. You get it?” He handed it back. “Point is to embarrass them, throw them off game.”
“So what’s the winner get?” someone else asked as Ilya continued to work his way around the room.
“Winner? You win the hockey game, you get a big, fat kiss from me,” Ilya said.
“Prize money,” Marlow interjected. “There’s gotta be prize money. Whoever goes all out. Does the most.”
Ilya groaned loudly, but he was pleased they were playing along. “Yes, fine. Prize money. I give… one hundred dollars to whoever impresses the most, okay?”
Marlow shook his head, laughing. “You’re crazy, Rozy.”
“That is not what your mom said last night.”
And so it was set – the stage, the pieces. On his way home, he pulled the slip from his pocket and peered at it, grinning to himself. HOLLANDER.
From: Lily
Text: you make plans for v day after game, i will kill you. schedule open.
February 13, 2015
On the phone, the florist had warned him that a bouquet of a hundred roses was going to be very large and very expensive. But Ilya didn’t give a shit about expense, and the larger the better – he always said that. What else did he spend his money on? His brother’s fucking drugs? A stupidly big house in the suburbs that was way too big on top of a fancy-ass apartment in the city? This was the best use of his checkbook in years.
So he hadn’t worried about the size or the expense, but now that he was here, standing outside the florist’s shop in a beanie and sunglasses, trying to go incognito, he understood just how large a hundred roses really were. And he’d run here from his Beacon St apartment, figuring he’d just carry the items back.
How was he going to carry both this and the five foot teddy bear? One was cumbersome; two was too much.
He was on his phone, pulling up the Uber app, figuring he’d just take a car to get the fucking teddy bear and then bring both back home, when someone clapped him on the back.
Ilya jumped and nearly dropped the bouquet. “What the fuck!” He hadn’t seen Marlow coming up to him because of the stupid roses, and now he had to shift it in his arms to make conversation possible.
“Is this for an actual valentine, or are you wasting this on Hollander?” Marlow asked, amusement in his voice and written all across his face.
Ilya scoffed. “You think I would have actual valentine? No. This is for Hollander, of course.”
“Man, he’s gonna fucking kill you,” Marlow laughed.
“Mm, no, he will try but he could not succeed,” Ilya said, shaking his head. “You are here for Pike’s gift? They told me white roses mean purity and innocence, maybe you should switch to those because Pike is such a virgin.”
“He has fifty fucking kids,” Marlow said.
“Science can do amazing things,” Ilya replied.
“No, I’m not here for Pike, this is for, you know, a woman.”
Ilya’s eyebrows shot up. “A woman? A real woman?”
“Yes, a real, human woman. You’ve met one before, surely?”
Ilya pursed his lips. “Mm, cannot think of a time. But is good you’re here. You’ll help me with my errands.”
“Why the fuck would I do that?”
“Because when I win, I will give you a little bit of my prize money,” Ilya responded.
“Aren’t you the one making the payout?”
“Yes, does it matter?” Ilya rolled his eyes. “You have too many concussions. Go get your little bouquet for your little woman. You are helping me.”
Marlow looked stupider carrying the 5-foot teddy bear than Ilya would have. After several attempts to find the least awkward position, he ended up holding it with his arms wrapped around its stomach, its arms and legs flopping all over the place, while Ilya held both bouquets. “You know, I am doing you service not comparing the sizes of our bouquets,” he pointed out as they waited for the light to change at an intersection.
“I could drop Hollander’s bear down the fucking gutter,” Marlow threatened.
“I said I am doing service! I’m not going to compare!” He gestured with the smaller bouquet – a dozen roses, perfectly acceptable, though embarrassingly small in comparison to Ilya’s bouquet. “So who is this lady?”
The light changed and they started across the street. “None of your fuckin’ business, Roz,” Marlow said, moving as quickly as he could considering the oversized passenger he was dealing with.
“But I want to know.”
“Do you ever tell me about your girls?” Marlow scoffed.
“Is not fair – I never had a valentine to talk about!”
“Maybe if you spent a little more time on women than on stupid pranks on the Metros, that could change,” Marlow shot back. There was a slight edge to his voice that told Ilya to back off – and Ilya knew that he could keep pressing, that he could piss him off and pick a fight, but the chances of the bear actually being dropped into a gutter were too high. Shane, with his folded clothes, would not want a teddy bear that had gotten within six feet of a gutter, or the perpetually gum-splattered Boston sidewalks. It was better to play nice.
“Okay. Down – don’t bite,” he said, as if speaking to a dog.
“You’re so fucking unserious,” Marlow said, and again, there was that edge, a sharpness contained in his words, and they actually landed. Instead of glancing off, as all of the insults they exchanged did, this accusation lodged itself in Ilya’s chest. “You’re young and crazy and all, but Jesus, you’ll have to get serious about someone, actually look at settling down. This is your heyday, man, this is the time to do it – get yourself a good one before you retire and you’re all dried up. You’ll regret it if you fuck around for too long.”
Ilya half-laughed, as it was all he could manage. His grip around Marlow’s bouquet tightened; Shane’s was – Hollander’s was lodged in the crook of his arm. It shifted as his posture shifted, growing more defensive. “I’m twenty-four, I’m not a dinosaur,” he said. “Maybe I’m not unserious, maybe you are too serious.”
“You’ve never even had a girlfriend,” Marlow shot back. “Don’t talk to me about serious, don’t tell me what I’m doing right or fucking wrong.”
Ilya worked his jaw back and forth, frustrated, stiff. He could say it wasn’t true, that he had… well, Svetlana, but that was… or he could say he’d had girlfriends back in Russia, which was a half-truth, he supposed. Or he could say that he could get any fucking woman he wanted, which was a full-truth – he could. They wanted him. So many of them wanted him so badly.
They were approaching his building, so he stopped, holding out Marlow’s pitiful little bouquet. “You’re dismissed,” he said, his expression cool and what he hoped was unreadable.
Marlow snorted a laugh. “You’re– you’re serious?”
“Yes, look how fucking serious I can fucking be,” Ilya snapped. “Go. Give me the bear. Take your fucking flowers.”
Marlow stared for a moment and then shook his head. “Fucking touchy,” he said, as if to himself. He handed over the bear, awkwardly, and Ilya fought to keep it from touching the ground, suddenly feeling that that was very important.
“See you tomorrow,” he said, and Marlow paused before retreating.
“See you tomorrow.”
From: Jane
Text: Just landed. Can I come over?
He was standing in his kitchen by the large, floor-to-ceiling window boasting a view of the city. All of the buildings were lit up before him, shimmering like so many stars, and if Shane came over, he’d love to fuck him against this window. He’d turn off the lights so they could see the view better. He’d press Shane’s face to the glass. Hear the sounds he’d make, feel the way his body would resist and then go limp, the two of them as if on display for the whole city to see and yet safe, up in this high rise, anonymous in the dark.
But Shane couldn’t come over, because he’d see the teddy bear, the million fucking roses who were propped up in the sink, which Ilya had filled with a few inches of water, unsure how else to keep them fresh. And it would be better if they hadn’t seen each other, anyway. Ilya wanted that.
From: Lily
Text: no not tonight. busy. see you at the rink.
He knew it’d piss him off, but that was better. An angry Shane was the best Shane. That was the Shane he wanted to show up to the rink in the morning, ready for him. The truth was that these days, they saw each other as much as they could when they were in the same city. It was just sex – of course – but it was expected, and it was nice. Really nice.
He pocketed his phone and returned to his tasks. It turned out that the Raiders jersey he’d special-ordered, complete with #1 FAN on the back in lieu of a name, wasn’t big enough for the fucking bear. After several undignified moments of wrestling with bear and fabric, which included getting to at least second base with the bear, he gave up and pulled out his kitchen scissors.
“Okay, you monster,” he muttered to the bear in Russian. “I’ll make you a custom outfit. You’re getting the king treatment.” He cut off the sleeves and then, holding the jersey up to where the bear’s arm connected to its torso, eyeballed it and cut larger holes for its arms. The other issue was the head, so he widened the neck by several inches, all of his cuts boasting uneven, jagged edges. But he got it over the stupid thing’s head and managed to stick its arms through, and then it was just – he laughed at the sight of it, this bear in an ugly-ass tank top like he was on fucking Jersey Shore.
From: Jane
Text: Are you kidding?
Ilya glanced at the text and then pocketed his phone again, a smile lingering on his face. So the bear was dressed; now he needed its accessory.
He had bought a 500-pack of construction paper and a 100-pack of Crayola markers, and now was thinking that might be overkill. As might the roses. As might the bear. But Ilya Rozanov had never half-assed anything.
Another buzz in his pocket.
From: Jane
Text: You’re kidding, right?
Okay.
From: Lily
Text: not kidding. you need me to send picture to tide you over?
He laid out several sheets of the construction paper. Pink, red, purple. Considering, he looked through his markers. Selecting a black one, he chose the red paper and folded it in half. This felt like fucking arts and crafts, like he was still a child making silly drawings in his kitchen, his mother cooking at the stove.
He cut the sheet in a half-heart, then unfolded it. Now he just needed something clever to write. He chewed on the back of the marker, considering. His mind offered up nothing: just the slightest bit of uncertainty, thinking that maybe the construction paper and markers were overkill but so was the bear, so were the roses, so was everything else.
He pulled out his phone.
From: Jane
Text: Don’t get too full of yourself. See you tomorrow when we beat you.
From: Svetlana
Text: How is your valentine going?
From: Ilya
Text: what rhymes with ‘boring’?
From: Ilya
Text: other than whoring
From: Svetlana
Text: This is for Hollander right?
From: Ilya
Text: da
From: Svetlana
Text: You should give him my number. Nevermind your stupid rhymes.
From: Ilya
Text: thank you so much for the help
He opened up his email, double checking the correspondence he’d had with the catering team. All looked good; he’d given them his number and told them to call if something went wrong in the morning. He was sure it wouldn’t. With the amount he was paying them, nothing could go wrong.
Why the fuck was he nervous? Why was he – it felt like he was in the fucking playoffs, with the anticipation curled hotly in his stomach. This was a prank, it was a joke. It was… well, it was all in service of giving Hollander a fucking valentine, yes. But it was just – it was just a joke.
In the end, he wrote the valentine and attached it to the bear’s chest with a safety pin and called it a night. He needed to get some sleep if they were going to crush Montreal. That was the important part. Right?
Roses are red
The Metros are trash
Now time to bend over
And I’ll fuck you in the ass
Move over, Pushkin.
February 14, 2015
The mariachi band was already there when Ilya arrived at the rink for morning skate. He’d heard rumors that someone was planning this, and he was fucking delighted that it was true. That made it better – that everyone else was going all in, that there were big plans. That it wasn’t just him. But he wanted to win nonetheless, he wanted to be the one with the most elaborate, stupid valentine.
And he wanted Hollander to be embarrassed. To be… something. To feel something.
The mariachi band was Dubek’s. He was excitedly telling them exactly how big and loud he wanted them to play, the second the Metros started showing up for morning skate.
Coach poked his head into the locker room to tell them all that he expected them to be focused today, despite the ‘shenanigans,’ and reminding them that he did not approve. A series of yes coaches echoed and followed him down the hall.
Feller showed up grinning and showed them all a photo on his phone of what he’d just set up in the Metros’ locker room – a heart made out of roses in the center of the room, surrounding a deeply unflattering photo of his chosen Metro and a valentine card addressed to him using the nickname that he was famous for hating.
Johansson threatened to win the day, though, with a trail of rose petals that led from the Metros’ locker room outside, where he’d lead his valentine and then show him the planes writing in the sky: METROS SUCK - XOXO.
Ilya, though, stayed quiet on his plans, just teasing along with everyone else, and then heading out to the ice, where absolutely no one delivered a focused morning skate, certainly not Ilya himself. His mind was elsewhere, and it was clear that a lot of the other guys felt the same. But he knew that what was happening in his head, in his body was different from the others. They were excited in a kind of devilish way, wanting to embarrass their assigned Metro more than the rest, to impress the other Raiders.
Ilya wanted that, too – he wanted to see Hollander blush, of fucking course he did – but… but he’d be lying to himself to say it wasn’t more than that. And that Hollander would know full fucking well that it was more than that. And what would he think?
It all went well. The Metros were appropriately pissed off and embarrassed when they arrived for morning skate and were variously surprised by their valentines, the Raiders all laughing and filming reactions. The media in the stands were confused as fuck, which just made it all funnier, and also – Ilya noted – provided him the perfect cover. Everyone knew this was all a prank. He could execute exactly what he’d planned without raising eyebrows. He allowed himself a bit of pride, as the Metros left the ice after their morning skate, most of them looking apprehensive, especially the ones who hadn’t yet gotten a valentine surprise.
Ilya’s eyes were on Shane. They were always on Shane. And Shane’s eyes were on him. He’d been quiet throughout the morning so far, watching and laughing gamely at his teammates, and until now, Ilya had avoided the eye contact he knew Shane was trying for. He could feel Shane’s suspicion from here; how could he fucking feel it? Like they were connected, like there was something in between them – some physical force that brought Shane’s emotions to Ilya on a silver fucking platter–
Now, though, it was time. The violinist walked out first onto the ice at the opposite side of the rink and started playing, a mic amplifying the music. The remaining Metros on the ice turned around to look, including Shane, but he quickly whirled to look back at Ilya, who stepped out onto the ice and approached, skating up easily to him. “Hollander,” he said quietly.
“Rozanov,” Hollander returned, a frown on his face. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“You are my valentine,” Ilya said. The other Metros stared, wondering what their captain would do – maybe they thought this was a highly coincidental combination, that Ilya pulled Hollander’s name. And it was, wasn’t it?
“Don’t–” Hollander started, but then the doors at the other end of the rink opened and instead of a zamboni, out walked the catering team – two of them carried a small, round table, two carried a chair each, four carried the dishes, one carried the massive fucking bear, and the other the massive fucking bouquet.
“You thought I would not go all out? Win the competition with my team?” Ilya asked, loud enough to be heard by all of the Metros as well as the Raiders who had come out to observe.
“Il…” His first name died on Shane’s lips, and he seemed to snap himself out of it. “Let’s get it over with.”
Ilya grinned. “Come, you will miss your special lunch.” He skated toward center ice, and Shane followed him, uncertain.
Once they were far enough from the others, but the catering team had not yet joined them, Shane’s voice dropped and he stepped closer. “What are you doing?” he asked again.
Ilya just smiled – a wide, toothy grin. “I told you, Hollander. You’re my valentine.”
“Rozanov.” Shane looked over nervously to his team, to the media in the stands. “This is so stupid.”
Ilya frowned. “You don’t like my gifts?” And then, more seriously, “It’s fine, Hollander. You worry too much. It’s a prank. A big prank. You saw what your teammates all got? This is just prank. Don’t think it means I like you. I could have pulled anyone's name.” He turned then, greeting the catering team as they arrived at center ice, and he helped them set up, laying out the table cloth with a flourish. The dishes were laid out, the bear and roses set on the ice, and Ilya dismissed them once he was happy with the setup.
The rest of their teammates had gotten bored, though they delivered several catcalls and some whistles before departing. Marlow had left last, making eye contact with Ilya for a long, strange moment before Ilya broke it off. The media, too, was packing up, having gotten the shots they needed, though whether they’d report on the stupid pranks was dependent on how good the Raiders’ and Metros’ PR teams were. Ilya motioned for Shane to sit down at the table, and he did; Ilya followed.
Shane just sat there, looking at him; didn’t do or say anything at first. Ilya picked up his fork and knife and started in on the food – spaghetti and meatballs. Carbs, protein. He knew Shane’s ways, he knew he wouldn’t accept anything that would have him performing less than his best.
“What are you doing? Eat,” he said, nodding to Shane’s plate. “Is good. Good for you. Carb loading.”
Shane shifted in his chair, slowly picking up his fork, spearing a meatball – and then setting his fork back down. “I don’t have to go along with this,” he said. “I could leave.”
Something twinged in Ilya’s chest, but he refused to believe it was his heart. Probably a muscle. “Then leave, Hollander,” he said darkly, more serious now.
Shane locked eyes with him, and Ilya held his gaze – steady. The violin music played in the background; slow, romantic. Ilya thought of a different world, a different life, where they were in a real restaurant. Where this wasn’t a prank but a date – a Valentine’s Day date, like everyone else in the city was having tonight. They would both be wearing suits instead of their fucking uniforms. They would walk home in the snow and hold hands. They’d kiss on the street. On the fucking street. Right there, in the open. Under a streetlight even as the snow fell.
How disgusting, how fucking romantic. Was Ilya getting sentimental that these images were parading through his mind?
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Ilya said again, when Shane failed to speak and so he needed to use his own voice to diffuse his thoughts. “It’s a game. A prank.”
Shane stared, his expression nearly unreadable. His gaze was steady, though. Intent. “You’re so embarrassing,” he said finally, picking up his fork at last and using it to cut the meatball.
Ilya nodded, smiling softly to himself. “Yes, and you are so boring,” he replied.
Shane was quiet for a bit, focused on his food, and then he said, “They’ll think we’re just out here talking trash.”
“Do you want to talk trash?” Ilya asked, his mouth half full. “Would that make you hard, Hollander?”
Shane narrowed his eyes at him. “You wish.”
“I don’t have to wish,” Ilya replied. “I’ll do it later.”
“Oh, so I am invited over.”
“Of course. You are my valentine, it comes with certain responsibilities.”
“Responsibilities?”
“Yes, is all in your contract,” Ilya said, nodding toward the bear and the valentine attached to his chest.
Shane looked at the bear like it could be a bomb, and then returned his gaze to Ilya. “Where did you even get that?”
“I have my ways.”
“God, you’re – embarrassing.” But there was a hitch in his voice, a moment’s pause, and Ilya latched onto it – that stupid thing in his chest, that pulled muscle or whatever it was, beating faster.
“Okay, so I win, I think we all agree,” Ilya said loudly. The locker room was full again as they all dressed for the game. By the time Ilya and Shane had finished with lunch, everyone had floated off to their own corners or left the arena for the afternoon to do their pre-game rituals. Now, they were all back together, and Ilya was floating high – eager for the game, to fucking crush the Metros, and then to fucking crush Hollander later that night, just as he’d pictured the night before.
Some of the other men booed, and there were protests. The skywriting was clearly the most impressive, or no, the band, or no – there would be no consensus, obviously, everyone sticking up for themselves.
Ilya locked eyes with Marlow, who was watching him closely, a strange expression on his face, like the one he’d had earlier. He almost looked… knowing, though that couldn’t be. Marlow was stupid, oblivious, what could he possibly fucking know?
“Guys, I think we gotta give it to Rozy,” he finally said, speaking over everyone else. The others quieted down, annoyed mutters fading into silence. “He hired a fucking violinist, I mean, come on. And it’s his own goddamn money anyway.”
“He paid you to say that,” whined Dubek.
“Scout’s honor, he didn’t.” Marlow crossed his heart. “Let’s all just call it. The real winners will be sorted out on the fucking ice anyway, right? Rozy gets this victory, let’s give him another and send Montreal crying for their fuckin’ moms.”
This got everyone riled up, and soon it was all forgotten; in a few days, no one would think of it anymore. It was dumb, all of it. Just stupid pranks. Just having fun.
But Ilya, he knew that he’d be thinking of that moment Shane knocked his skate against his underneath the table. Of when he’d unpinned the valentine and read it, his cheeks coloring. Of when he balled it up and threw it at Ilya and told him he’d be lucky if he saw him at all tonight. Of that image he’d had, just for a moment, sitting there at center ice – the two of them holding hands, walking home. Pausing beneath the streetlight. Kissing, as the snow lightly fell.