Chapter Text
When Ilya was ten years old, his mother hired a tutor who lived in their building to teach him English. She was insistent. They both knew his father would not approve, one of his many mentalities that were a holdover from the Soviet days. She paid for it herself out of the money she had hidden in a box that had her menstrual pads in, money his father knew nothing about.
Soyfa Makarova was an older woman, seemingly strict and unforgiving whenever Ilya ran into her outside her apartment. However, the moment he entered her apartment, she softened, her harsh lines melting into something smoother. She would brew tea and give him homemade sushki as she walked him through his lessons.
Ilya liked Soyfa Makarova for many reasons; she was kind, extremely patient, and had a particular dry sense of humor that he and his mother shared. Perhaps his favorite thing about Sofya Makarova was that she shared Ilya's curiosity. It was not enough to know the answer; Ilya wanted to know why and how about the things he learned. He was constantly asking questions (something his mother found endearing, and his father found enraging).
Soyfa Makarova, it turned out, was this way too.
During his first lesson, she broke down language, likening it to family trees. She drew a copse of trees. She explained how English and Russian belonged to one big Indo-European family, that being the trunk of one of the trees. Then there is a branching off, Russian falling on the Slavic branch and English to the West Germanic branch. This branching helped him understand not only why there were so many differences between the two, but also why Russian has more similarities with English than, for example, with Mandarin (which was part of the Sino-Tibetan language family tree).
But still, even with the broader understanding of languages, English was a stupid fucking language. Russian, at least, was phonetic; if you knew the sounds the letters make, you could read or say the word. English, you never fucking knew, something even ten-year-old Ilya grumbled about. How could ‘lead’ not only have two different meanings, but sound different based on the context? (Context became one of Ilya’s enemies). At least Soyfa Makarova would grumble sympathetically with him.
Even if Russian and English had several words that sounded and meant the same thing (Amerika/America, komp'yuter/computer, kofe/coffee, and student/student), it did not make up for the invention of articles in English. (Articles became another one of Ilya’s enemies.) Luckily, Sofya Makarova allowed Ilya to complain, but only if he complained in English.
(Is stupid rule, Ilya insisted in English to Sofya Makarova
It is a stupid rule, Sofya Makarova agreed and corrected.
IT is A stupid rule, Ilya sighed.)
Of course, when his mother died, the lessons stopped as well. Sofya Makarova would sometimes ask Ilya to help her around her apartment, speaking to him in English so he could practice, and would sneak him workbooks. When he told her he was going to compete in Canada for the prospect cup, she smiled and told him his mother would be proud.
Ilya remembered wondering if his mama was planning Ilya’s escape from Russia, away from his father and brother. She could have used that money for anything. His father had him training in hockey from a young age, hoping Ilya would open doors for him while playing in the KLH. Maybe his mama was trying to give him more choices, knowing what doors being fluent in English could open outside Russia.
He wished for many things, but he knew that if his mama had lived, he would have brought her to Boston once he had enough money to support her, to help her. He would have helped her with her English using the foundational tools she had given him.
But that was not what had happened. His mother had died, and so had any last shred of decency his father or brother had.
He wondered if she would know about Shane. If she would have had guessed, like Sveta had, that he had been seeing someone for the last few years, or if he would have had told her, as he used to tell her everything when he was a child. Maybe she would have been shocked, but his mama would have gotten over it, he thinks. He doesn’t know why he is so sure of it, but he knows she would. He wondered what she would say if he asked her if he should visit with Shane in the summer.
He sighed as he poured himself and Sveta drinks with the nice vodka he brought home with him after his father’s funeral. He had come home from game four of the playoff series against the Metros. With Shane on the LTIR, Montreal was predictable out of the playoffs. Boston had beaten New Jersey in the first round of the playoffs (4 - 2). Ilya and his team were now waiting for the next round, but the Admirals and Panthers were playing their series game four tonight, the Admirals leading 2 - 1. It would be at least a week before his next game, giving Boston some time to rest.
Sveta took her drink without looking at him, watching the second period of the Admirals v Panthers game from his couch. Sveta’s father had gotten her an English tutor, and her mother spoke English at home. She was more fluent than Ilya, who still had trouble with unfamiliar words and phrases. But it was nice when it was just the two of them, and they could just speak in Russian. Other than her, he didn’t have anyone else to speak it with.
Ilya was pretty sure Svetlana knew who Jane was. Whenever they were watching ESPN and Shane popped up on screen or a commercial with him endorsing a cologne on watch would play, he could feel her watching him closely. She’d then bring up his game play, commenting on a shot he made or a play he ran. Usually, she either started or ended her commentary with how attractive she thought he was.
Ilya, who never backed down from a challenge, deliberately would give her nothing, which in itself was telling. He would comment on Shane’s gameplay or interview, never touching his looks. As the second period ended, he looked into his glass.
“Jane invited me to stay with him this summer,” he said, not looking at her.
Ilya could feel her staring at him. “Stay? Stay where?”
“He has a…a cottage in the woods?”
“That sounds like something out of a fairy tale,” she said slowly.
“I hope not.”
“A nice fairy tale. An American fairy tale.”
“I don’t know many of those.”
“I know.”
“He says…it’s remote. We could be alone for a week or two. We’ve never…had a chance to do that. Just be together for longer than a few hours.”
“Are you going to go?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Why not?”
He finally looked at her. “If we cannot really be together, what is the point?”
Sveta raised her eyebrows at him. “So, what? Unless you can marry this person, you cannot spend time with him?”
“No,” he disagreed petulantly, avoiding her eyes.
“Ilyusha,” she said, grabbing his face, both hands on either side of his head, making him look at her. It was oddly reminiscent of her grabbing him to check how fucked up he was after a night of clubbing or drinking. She looked into his eyes for a beat, and then another. “Oh, Ilya.”
“Stop.”
“Ilyusha,” she sighed, grabbing him by the back of the neck with one hand, grabbing a pillow with the other, and putting it in her lap. Ilya laid his head in her lap, grateful he didn’t need to look her in the face as he talked about this.
“It’s stupid, isn’t it? I should go, enjoy a nice ‘sexcation’, and then move on.”
“But…you can’t?”
“I think it would be impossible. Him and I…it is hopeless, I think. And going to be with him and then it being over would be worse than not going at all. Can’t miss what you never had.”
“That’s bullshit. Of course you can.”
“Maybe. But it would hurt more, I think.” He sighed, closing his eyes. “But, the thought of not seeing him…I should end it. I’ve tried to end it. He’s tried to end it. But we always end up back where we started.”
“Together?”
“Not together, not really. There is no…we say we aren’t exclusive, but I haven’t been looking for anyone else for a while.”
“I know.”
Ilya took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“I know.”
“I’ll never be able to go back to Russia. Never be able to visit my mama’s tomb or visit my niece.”
“I know.”
“And he can’t be public either, obviously.”
“Why obviously?”
Ilya opened his eyes, shifting so he could look up at her. “Hockey.”
“He’s a hockey player?”
“You know this.”
“What the fuck? I certainly do not,” Sveta said, bewildered.
Ilya sat up, almost knocking their heads together. He shifted so he could face her. “What?”
“What what? You’re asking me what? What the fuck, Ilya? What do you mean?”
“I thought you knew! I thought you figured it out!” he exclaimed, terror rising in his throat. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Ilya, what did you think I knew?”
He swallowed his fear, reminding himself that this was Sveta, not just anyone.“That Jane is Shane.”
“Shane?”
“Shane. Shane Hollander.”
She looked at him, jaw dropped. “Are you fucking joking me?”
“I thought you figured it out!” he repeated, insisting.
“How the fuck would I know that? You didn’t even admit to texting Jane until recently. What the fuck, Ilya!”
“You were always commenting on how he has nice hands and how hot he is!
“Yeah! Because he has nice hands and he’s hot!
“Yeah, I know!!”
They both looked at each other for a long moment before Sveta threw her head back and cackled.
“Of course,” she gasped, unable to get her laughter under control. “Of course it’s Shane fucking Hollander. You’re a fucking menace, you know that?”
Ilya let out a huff of laughter, tension melting out of him. Sveta’s laughter eventually tapered off into giggles. She smacked his arm. “I can’t believe you pulled the captain of the Metros.”
“Shut up.”
“You’ve always been obsessed with him.”
Ilya shrugged, smile growing wider on his face. He didn’t deny it. Why should he?
“You would be too, if he had introduced himself to you when you were young.”
“What do you mean?”
“First prospects cup, I am standing outside, trying to light my fucking cigarette after my father called me, internationally to reprimand me for something, and this boy comes walking over, says my name, reaches out to shake my hand, and tells me I shouldn’t be smoking.”
“He what?”
“I obviously know who he is, have been studying his tape for months, but in person, I can see his freckles. And wow, my thoughts stop. Somehow, I move to shake his hand, barely paying attention to what he is saying, my English flying out of my head as I look at this boy, this same boy everyone keeps comparing me to, and he’s just so fucking cute and so fucking strange. He finished whatever the fuck he was saying, reached out to shake my hand again, and turned to leave. But then I realized I hadn’t said anything to him so I call out to him and say he won’t be so nice when I beat him in the game, and suddenly he was confident and hot, just said that wouldn’t happen, and walked away.”
“Wow,” she stressed.
“And then, not only is he the cutest fucking thing, but he can keep up with me. I never played anyone like that before.”
“So Shane Hollander has game.”
“No,” laughed Ilya. “None. He genuinely has no idea how hot he is. He does not catch subtle flirting or attention. And when you are very obvious, he blushes, or stammers, or tells me to fuck off. And even that is cute. Even after all this time I can still make him blush. The first time we fucked -”
“When was this?” she interrupted.
“Summer before our rookie season.”
“When?” she asked, baffled. “When did you even have the time to see him?”
“CCM asked me to film a promotion for them, so I suggested they ask Hollendar too, you big rivals and everything.”
“Oh my god. You suggested.”
“I told you, subtlety is lost on him. After the draft, I wanted to see him. I caught him checking me out a few times, and I wanted to be sure.
“Ilya, that’s fuckin insane.”
“Whatever,” Ilya said, brushing it off. “Turns out he was very interested, thank fuck. So anyway, the first time we fucked, he was so fucking eager and soft, I could tell he hadn’t been with another guy before, so I expected him to be, well, bad, but he was so hot, and I really wanted to fuck him, and I figured I wouldn’t get another chance. Not only was he good, I mean, inexperienced at sucking my dick for sure, but still good. I thought he’d jump into bed with me, but he folded his clothes first. Who does that?”
“Literally no one.”
“Looking back, I think that might be when I was in trouble.”
“Holy shit, Ilyusha.”
“I know.”
“Does he know?”
“Know what?”
“That you’re in love with him.”
They stared at each other for a long time, Sveta patient and unmoving, Ilya trying to wait her out. He failed. “I told him in Russian,” admitted Ilya.
“Does he speak Russian?”
“No.”
“Ilyusha.”
“What? Since when are you Madam Feelings?”
“He invited you to his home? From the boring ESPN special you watched fifty times.”
“Not fifty.”
“He is notoriously private. Even the special said it. It sounds like he might also feel the same, yes?”
“It doesn’t matter how we feel. It is impossible.”
“You’ve done impossible things before,” she said.
“Yes,” he conceded. “But nothing so impossible that others haven’t done before. My mother died, I made myself go on. I needed to escape my father and brother, I became the best hockey player, number one draft pick. I needed to prove that I was worth something after the Olympics, I won the fucking cup. All these things, people said, were impossible, but I was not the first one to do something like that. Give me terrible odds, one in one million, I will beat them, but I need the odds to exist.”
Sveta opened her mouth to say something, but Ilya cut her off. “No more of the feelings, okay? I don’t want to think about feelings anymore.”
She looked at him for a long time. “Okay, Ilyusha. Alright.” She pulled him to her so his head was resting on her shoulder. “He was hurt when you played Montreal, yes? How is his head?”
“Sveta, it’s so good, he can just take me and swallow like -”
Svetlana cackled, which is exactly what he wanted her to do. “Oh, so he’s good, hmm?” she asked, giggling.
Ilya sighed dramatically. “You’ve always admired his hands and his stick handling.”
“Booooo, too easy.”
“He is now, but he made me work for it for years.”
“Oh my god, you really have been obsessed since the beginning.”
He groaned. “I think so, yes.”
They were quiet for a long moment. “So?”
“So?” Ilya repeated.
Svetlana pinched his side. “Tell me more!”
“What?”
“Come on! I want to hear it. Who else knows?”
“Just his parents.”
“What? What?”
So Ilya told her the whole story, about Lily and Jane, about how Yuna Hollander called him, invited him to the hospital the next day, let him speak with a super high Shane. How he and Shane made up in Tampa, about how fucking good it felt to play on the same line as him, about how easily Shane was to piss off, and how quickly he forgave Ilya for the stupid shit he would say to annoy him. About his hands, his eyes, his ass. Once he started, he couldn’t seem to stop. Sveta laughed and groaned and hmmmed at all the right parts. Teasing him and asking questions.
They missed most of the third period (the Panthers won, tying up the series), with Ilya just talking. About Shane. Nothing ever too heavy, like the beginning of their conversation, but still, it felt good. He understood what Shane meant when he encouraged Ilya to talk to Sveta. Nothing had changed about their situation, but Ilya felt better, lighter, wishing he could bottle this feeling for when things felt to heavy.
At the end of the night, Sveta lightly tapped his cheek twice affectionately, kissing his other. “Thank you for telling me about your Shane, Ilyusha.”
“Thank you for listening, Sveta.”
She gave him one last smile and walked down his hall to her preferred guest room.
Ilya got ready for bed, eventually settling under his covers, and sighed. His Shane, Sveta had called him.
In the deepest part of Ilya’s mind, past the unreasonable part of him that wanted to call Shane his, and full into dreamland delusion, he called Shane Shanya. Let the world have Holly, Holzy, Hollander, even Shane. Shanya, a dream so deluded he had never spoken it out loud, just thought it, late at night, where even his psyche would let him get away with it before he fell asleep. He closed his eyes and began to breathe deliberately, priming his body for sleep and thought about his Shanya.