Chapter Text
The call is a surprise. Alexei wakes up to his phone vibrating somewhere in the sheets and Tanya grumbles in her sleep. He wraps one hand gently around her ankle as he roots for the phone.
He blinks at the display. It’s Georgia.
It’s Georgia and they’re sorry but there’s something about cap hits, and future growth, and he’s thanked for his service to the franchise.
“What did you—” He clears his throat. “What you get for me?”
“Gladstone,” says Georgia.
“He— good player,” says Alexei. “Solid.”
He refrains from saying that Glads is older than him, with many more miles on the clock. If they want a well-behaved Canadian D-man, then they aren’t gonna do any better than Gilles Gladstone. He’s not the face of a franchise, not the way Alexei is — was — at Providence but maybe there’s only room for so many people on the banner that hangs over the Duckhouse entrance.
“Okay,” says Alexei. “Okay. I should — I should pack now.”
He waits till he’s sure the line is dead before he hurls his phone at the far wall.
“Lyosha,” mumbles Tanya. “Too early for tantrums.”
“It’s earlier in Nevada,” says Alexei, bleakly, as cold reality settles in.
+
On the Hunt Hockey
Rumours are flying about why Providence traded one of their most bankable stars. Mashkov t-shirts are now selling at cut price in the Falconers’ official shop and his bobblehead figure is no longer available, maybe ready for repainting in Nevada.
The first theory, and the likeliest, is that it’s a question of cap space; they’ve ditched Mashkov’s big contract for a slightly less unwieldy one, to make space for the inevitable increase in Jack Zimmermann’s contract. The second coming of Zimmermann has been exciting to watch and dealing away the admittedly popular Mashkov is probably just sound business sense.
Of course, when one delves deeper, other rumours emerge. Stories of personality clashes and locker room issues, particularly between Mashkov and Zimmermann. Both have always denied a rift and, indeed, have been seen having dinner together as recently as this month. There are rumours, too, that Mashkov was unhappy at being passed over for the A, following Poulin’s early retirement before Christmas. Finally, Mashkov’s long-term girlfriend, former Russian reality TV star and current movie star, Tatiana Sorokina, has been implicated. Even though she is largely based in Moscow during the NHL season, it’s said that the charms of Providence have worn off.
+
Tanya laughs. “It’s true. I don’t like Providence but it is much better than Magnitogorsk.” She shrugs. “It is no Moscow, though.”
Alexei looks between two pairs of socks, balled up in each hand.
She touches his wrist. “Is it time we break up, my love?”
“What? No,” he says. “What would I do without you?”
“Be true to yourself?” she asks, and her smile is sweet and her fall of blonde hair shimmers and there’s not a camera to be seen.
“In Las Vegas?” he asks, appalled.
“I met someone,” she says.
Tanya always meets people but Alexei thinks this might be different. “Ivan Kozlov.”
Alexei blinks. “Your producer? He is, what? Fifty years old?”
Tanya’s nails bite into the skin of Alexei’s forearm. “I am not the only one in this room who likes older men, Lyosha.”
“Do we have to break up?” Alexei asks pitifully. For all intents and purposes, Tanya is his childhood sweetheart. They grew up together and schemed together and chased their dreams together. They love each other but they would kill each other if they lived together all the time, like that movie with Will Smith and Charlize Theron. Alexei can’t remember the name of it but he knows Tanya can probably punch holes in the sky.
“Yes, sweetheart,” she says, and she pulls him close. They hug, for a while.
“I love you,” Alexei says. It’s a sweet moment, soft, even if the future is nothing but skate blades and cactus plants.
“I know,” she says, because she’s an asshole, and Alexei has probably never loved her more.
+
They drive to Logan together, while the internet’s hot takes are already cooling off for the next trade deadline story, and Tanya’s hand is curved over Alexei’s thigh.
“You drive fast when you’re angry,” she says. She doesn’t seem to mind; her hair is whipping out behind her and she looks like a Valkyrie, in oversize Chanel sunglasses.
“I always drive fast,” says Alexei.
“Yes,” Tanya says.
They say goodbye at the airport and Tanya pulls Alexei in for a long, lingering kiss. He finds her left hand with his right hand and whispers, “you could marry me.”
“And be a rich widow within weeks?” she asks, her smile sharp and amused. “I would not do well in prison, Lyosha.”
“Are we broken up?”
“Yes,” she says. “Goodbye, Alexei. I will come visit you in Las Vegas.”
As he watches her walk away, he thinks that this is maybe not how break-ups usually work.
+
From Russia With Love
New photographs have surfaced of hockey star, Alexei Mashkov, and his on-again, off-again girlfriend, Tatiana Sorokina, engaging in a passionate clinch at Logan International Airport. As they once again go their separate ways, Mashkov to Las Vegas and Sorokina to Moscow, it’s clear that there are still strong feelings on both sides.
Sorokina is in the running to play a Bond girl in the next, as yet untitled, 007 outing. She’s used to towering over her leading men, aside, of course, from her hockey beau, who, at 6’6” is still a great reason for Sorokina to wear those fabulous Laboutins.
+
There are a lot of messages on his phone and he’s ignored most of them. The ones from Sasha and Zhenya are as useful as might be expected, as though there aren’t enough parentheses in the world to convey their amusement.
Sasha is quoted on NHL.com as saying that he feels better now that Alexei has left the eastern conference so Sasha can feel less bad about shooting at him, and past him.
He sends a text to Alexei that says he’ll miss him but maybe Alexei will have more fun in Las Vegas.
Alexei doesn’t understand why anyone seems to think that he needs more fun in his life. All he wants to do is play hockey and he could do that just fine in Providence.
Zimmboni’s text is short and heartfelt and apologetic. It’s not Zimmboni’s fault that he’s the Next Other One or the Other Next One, or whatever convoluted term the Canadian press has come up to describe him. He’s one of the few people Alexei texts in return, wishing him luck and hoping that they’ll see each other when the Aces play the Falconers next month.
There’s a text from an unfamiliar number, too. Welcome to the Aces. Really stoked to have you here. KVP.
And that’s the thing. Playing with Kent Parson is going to be a challenge all of its own. Alexei has never been Parson’s biggest fan. Oh, he’s an incredible player and Alexei will probably, eventually, learn to appreciate the fact that he no longer has to play against him because Kent Parson can make even the most nimble of defenders look clay-footed on the ice (and Alexei has never been, precisely, nimble). Alexei is honest enough with himself to know that his dislike of Parson isn’t entirely rational and, despite what people say, it has nothing to do with Parson beating him out for the Calder in a year when they both knew that the rookie rivalry should never have featured an American against a Russian.
Alexei pulls his cap down low over his face. He’s not stupid enough to think he hasn’t been recognised; he walked into the terminal building with a six foot tall movie star, after all.
His phone rings and Snowy’s picture flashes up on the screen.
“You motherfucker, gonna fucking leave without saying goodbye?” Snowy is shrill when he’s angry.
Alexei tries to speak around the lump in his throat. “Didn’t know what to say,” he says. Oh god, his voice is wavering slightly. “I call you, makes it real. You call me, it’s just Snowy complaining again. Still not real.”
“It’s fucking real that they’re sending you to the other side of the fucking country,” says Snowy. He sounds so perfectly outraged that it almost cheers Alexei up.
“Maybe you come with me? Put you in my luggage.”
“I’m not that much smaller than you, you asshole,” says Snowy. “Punch Parson in the dick for me when you see him, okay?”
Alexei snorts. “Think it’s frowned on to punch captains in the dick.”
“You can start a new custom, like our handshake.”
“Ah, fuck,” says Alexei. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Snowy, I hang up now. Can’t cry in public. Leave you to snuggle with my bobbleheads. I know you bought them all.”
He ends the call, to another colourful tirade from Snowy and the weight on his chest is heavy and icy and he has to get on a plane to a place with no fucking seasons aside from ‘hot’ and ‘armpit’ and he’s never missed Providence more.
+
Alexei has the better part of six hours to contemplate what lies ahead. It’s a long time, even in business class, with very attentive stewardesses and passable vodka. He can just imagine Tatiana accusing him of sulking and she wouldn’t even be wrong.
When he gets to McCarran, a woman from the front office meets him. Her name is Zoe and she comes up to his elbow and she talks almost too fast for Alexei to keep up.
“You’re booked into a hotel near the Aces complex,” she says. “But we’ll get you set up with an apartment as soon as possible. Maybe even a house, if you like. Some of the guys live near Sunset Park but they’re mostly all over. We’ll organise a car for you after practice tomorrow but Sammy Sanders said he’d pick you up in the morning.”
The car she leads them to is an Escalade, so plenty of room for Alexei’s gear, and the driver is a sombre-faced man who barely glances at them.
Zoe hands him a stack of paper. “Here are some of the important numbers. I’ve written Sanders’ number on the back of that page. They’re gonna want you to pick your jersey number ASAP.”
“Seven,” says Alexei because that should be obvious.
Zoe winces, a little theatrically. “See, the thing is, Gustavs Helmanis already has that number and isn’t keen to let it go.”
Alexei is stumped and stares at the back of the seat in front of him. “Uhm. Thirteen?”
Zoes lets out a whistle. “In Vegas? You’re a brave man. You sure?”
Alexei nods. “Yes, yes. Thirteen. Is lucky for me.”
He has no idea if it’s lucky for him or not but it’s a shitty situation and he doesn’t think he can make it any worse.
He takes out his phone and texts Tatiana, though she’s probably still in the air. what am i doing?
+
Samuel (“call me Sammy”) Sanders is blonde and impossibly cheerful. He’s twenty-two and pretty big and his black Aces t-shirt is stretched over his shoulders. He looks like he’d be more at home with a surfboard than on the ice.
“Fuck, you’re huge,” he says, looking up at Alexei. “Good to meet you, man. You sleep okay?”
“Yes,” says Alexei because, the fact is, he sleeps like a baby in hotel rooms. Maybe it’s because they’re all the same, and he could be anywhere. He woke up to a string of texts from Tatiana, which ranged from the gently mocking to the mildly unhinged but at least they made him smile. “Comfortable bed. Maybe I stay.”
“Hey, man, Parse said when he moved here, he stayed in a hotel for like three months so, you know, it’s not unheard of.”
Alexei thinks he should find an apartment as soon as possible. Maybe Zoe can help.
“Training today should be pretty chill. We’ve got two days before the homestand starts so we’ll get you settled right in. Oh, man. Hellboy said you’re taking thirteen. That’s fucking ay-plus. You’ll give Mak a fucking heart attack but that’s okay. He always plays better when he’s on the edge. Goalies, am I right?”
Sanders drives an Audi TT and doesn’t stop talking for most of the way to the practice rink. Alexei finds it pretty relaxing, all things considered, because it doesn’t seem like Sanders wants or needs much response.
The Aces’ complex is sprawling, like everything around here, and Sanders drives down into the underground carpark. Alexei gets out and stretches, reaching up towards the car park ceiling. He’s almost excited, in spite of himself, because he can hear some shouts and a whistle and it’s hockey, so it can’t be all bad.
Before he joins practice, he’s whisked off for a quick photoshoot. His jerseys are ready and he pulls on the third jersey first, which is a royal blue.
While he’s being photographed, he’s asked a few questions and he delivers his best rote answers, about being happy to be in Las Vegas. It’s a great opportunity to play with a skilfull team. He’s sure the Aces will be contenders for years to come. He’s looking forward to this new style of play. He doesn’t know who he’ll be paired up with but he’s looking forward to a lot of minutes on the ice. He’s ready to be a part of any penalty kill unit they provide. No, he’s not above dropping the gloves but he’d rather speak with his hockey, not his fists.
He’d rather speak with his hockey and not his English. He’s getting tired of being polite.
Fortunately, after a few more handshakes, he’s ushered off to the locker room and, once he’s pulled on his practice gear, he goes to find his sticks.
“—fucking huge.”
Alexei rounds a corner to see two people holding one of his sticks.
“Don’t touch my sticks!” he says and it comes out harsher than he intends. A tall brunette shoves the stick into the hands of Kent Parson, who looks legitimately terrified for a split-second, actually flinching before he guides the stick back onto the rack. It actually does look big next to Parson, or maybe Parson looks small next to it.
Wiping his hand on his shorts, Parson walks towards Alexei.
“Mashkov,” he says. He holds out his hand to shake Alexei’s and it’s kind of weird, like Parson is playing at being an adult. Alexei is used to fist bumps and head butts in greeting but he shakes Parson’s hand, nonetheless.
“Welcome to the Aces.”