Chapter Text
Jan 2017. All Stars Game, Tampa
Though she didn’t need him to, Ilya had arranged Svetlana’s tickets for the All-Stars game, and while she had taken it initially as a simple convenience, the kind of easy, thoughtless things they did for each other—not gifts, because that implied something especially thought-out, where this was a casual exchange—now she had to wonder if he had, somehow, been meddling. Because, sitting right next to her ticketed seat, one of the VIP places near the back of the stadium with a sweeping view of rink and crowd, was Rose Landry, the red waves of her hair brushing the shoulders of her blue Montreal Metros Shane Hollander jersey. It seemed ridiculous that Ilya would have arranged this, not with the amount of planning it would have taken to make sure her and Rose Landry would both be here, together. Then again, it was exactly the sort of thing he would get a kick out of. But it did not matter—she could ask him later. Now, she set the thought aside as she slid into her seat and looked out over the arena where the usual crush of fans was edging to their places. On the ice, the players were warming up: she could pick out Ilya by his jersey, and Hollander beside him—for once playing on the same team, rather than against each other. She was looking forward to seeing them play together, both because the two best players in the league playing together was sure to be electrifying, and because, if her suspicions were correct (which they were), the two of them would probably play like fucking psychics.
She was, of course, proven right. Ilya was playing at his best (as was Hollander), so much so that her mind mostly quietened as she followed the puck across the ice, tracking the billion moving parts of play with practised ease rather than filling with the usual stream of notes on Ilya’s play and an endless string of good-natured criticism she’d scream spiritedly despite being too far away for him to hear.
Hollander rocketed across the ice, the puck cradled in his stick, and Svetlana saw the play before it happened: Hollander flipped the puck out of the way of an opposing player and passed it off to Ilya, who caught it and deftly manoeuvred between more of the other team’s defence, passing it back to Hollander who had it in the goal in the blink of eye. She leapt to her feet and whooped with the crowd, glimpsing Rose Landry do the same in her periphery. She let her eyes slide away from the celebrations on the ice, just for a moment, to the bouncing waves of Rose’s hair, the broad, earnest grin that lit up her face. She glanced away before Rose could catch her looking, though it was tempting to let herself be caught. She would hardly be the first person to be caught staring at Rose Landry, Hollywood sweetheart.
She looked back to the ice just in time to watch Ilya throw himself full-tilt at Hollander and place a theatrical kiss to his helmet, a real grin on his face visible even from up the back of the stands. Everyone else would write it off as heat-of-the-moment revelry, the kind of overamped celebration of masculine prowess that could excuse anything that would, under any other circumstance, be inexcusable. It certainly wasn’t the first kiss of its kind on the ice. But this one, for Ilya, was different. She knew it, and she was happy for him.
Play resumed and the audience regained their seats. Svetlana tried to get lost in the hockey, and was mostly successful, except that a niggling, insistent part of her mind was flipping through ways to speak to Rose Landry. Ilya’s doing or not, this was not an opportunity she wished to pass up.
In the break after the first period, Svetlana went to get herself a drink. When she returned, Rose caught her eye and gave her a friendly smile, though only a friendly smile, and Svetlana slid into her seat just in time for the second period of play to begin. When Ilya scored a spectacular goal off an assist from Hollander, Rose and Svetlana shot to their feet in sync to scream their appreciation. Somehow, a camera found them—found Rose, really—who waved and blew a kiss. Down on the ice, Hollander grinned and pretended to catch it. Something uncomfortable settled in Svetlana’s stomach, part familiar, part new: the discomfort she’d spent years teasing at until she finally understood it—a distaste for sweet, romantic foppery; and, much newer to her, but easily recognisable nonetheless—jealousy. She was jealous of Shane Hollander and his cute little smile as he caught Rose Landry’s kisses.
The game went on. In the second break, Svetlana pulled out her phone and pretended to be busy, then glanced over at Rose idly, as if bored, blandly curious of the goings-on around her. She saw Rose see her looking, and before she could look away, she said, ‘You’re Rose Landry, right?’ as if she did not already know it with absolute certainty.
Rose smiled. ‘Yeah, I am.’ Her voice sounded nicer in real life than it did in movies.
‘So, are you and Hollander really a thing?’ Svetlana asked, keeping her tone casual, like she wasn’t particularly concerned with the answer.
‘Oh, uh, no, not like—we’re good friends,’ Rose said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, the movement drawing Svetlana’s gaze to her perfectly manicured hands. It occurred to Svetlana, far too late, that this may have been a bad idea. To Rose, she was no one, just another fan who she’d be nice to once and never see again. She might not even be into women—if she was, she’d certainly never made it public (Svetlana had checked).
‘That’s nice,’ Svetlana said, and meant it. She realised she hadn’t actually introduced herself. ‘I’m Svetlana, by the way.’
‘Rose,’ Rose said, then slapped a hand to her face. ‘Ohmygod. But you already knew that. Obviously.’
Svetlana chuckled.
Rose was saved from further awkwardness by the resumption of the game, and again Svetlana kept half her mind on the game, half on how to shoot her shot with Rose Landry. When the final buzzer sounded, Svetlana fished around in her bag and found a business card and pen—a business card was not ideal for her purposes today, but it would have to do in lieu of anything better—underlined her phone number and drew a little heart, then left it conspicuously on her seat when she left.
*
Rose watched Svetlana leave after the game, following the auburn cloud of her curls until it disappeared. Svetlana was…unexpected. Rose was used to attention, to fans, to people who knew so much about her while to her they were strangers. Svetlana had been like that, but also not at all. She’d known Rose’s name, but it was unclear how much else. She hadn’t asked for an autograph or a picture or gushed about any of her films. She’d just made conversation, like they were two people who happened to sit down next to each other at a hockey game—which was exactly what they were.
But Svetlana had a magnetism to her, one that made Rose wish, somewhere deep and inarticulate, that they could be something more, that their chance encounter would not be their last. Was that weird? It was probably weird, to be so entranced by someone she’d just met. To think that she was beautiful—but, Rose dismissed, that was, like, an objective fact: Svetlana was a beautiful woman. Stunning, really.
She shook her head as if it could tip the thought out. But her eyes trailed right back to the seat Svetlana had occupied just moments before, the memory of her leaning forward against the surface of the bar—there was a small, rectangular card.
Rose picked it up. A business card, advertising Svetlana Vetrova, car saleswoman. Her phone number had been underlined in pen, and a little heart scrawled beside it. Rose’s heart jumped. This was…unexpected.
*
Later
Rose lay in her hotel bed, her phone in one hand and Svetlana Vetrova’s business card in the other. Svetlana, the beautiful woman from the game, had given Rose her number. That was something people did to…flirt. To say, hey, we should hook up. Or, Rose was pretty sure that’s what it meant. Because Svetlana had, technically, given her her business card. Except she’d underlined her number, and added a heart. The underlining could be looked past, but the heart was unambiguous.
Unless she meant it as a friend thing. She had to know Rose was straight, right? Maybe it was a friendly ‘here’s my number’. But then she surely wouldn’t’ve been so coy about it. Rose threw her phone down on the coverlet with a groan. Why did this have to be so complicated? To text Svetlana or not to text her? If she did text her now, would that be too soon, seem too eager? If she left it till later, would that seem like she didn’t really care? If she texted at all, was she sending the wrong message? She wanted to see Svetlana again, to…hang out. Get coffee, or something. But she was straight, and maybe it wouldn’t look like that from Svetlana’s side and—
She flung the card across the room and picked up her phone again. She wanted to text Shane, ask if he could meet up, and they could eat takeout on the floor of her hotel room and gossip and be chill. But she’d already texted him a million times asking to meet up, and he’d politely said he was too busy and would be all weekend. The only other text he’d replied to all day was when she’d congratulated him on the game. She could call Miles, she supposed—but he’d be totally unhelpful. He’d offer teasing and gossip, not solutions, which was often nice but not what she needed right now.
Maybe she should just forget about it, forget about Svetlana. It would be so easy—logisitcally speaking—to never see her again. She glanced at the glowing numbers on the bedside clock, and decided now was as good a time as any to go to sleep.
*