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To mama (к маме)

III: Olympians & Rose

Tags: Character study style writing, Hurt/comfort, Happy Ending, Heated Rivalry from Ilya's POV, Everything in chronological order, Irina Rozanova haunts the narrative, Ilya Rozanov is obsessed with Shane Hollander, Fuck AI.

TW: Suicide mentioned (NOT any of the main characters), Dealing with grief, ESPECIALLY in this chapter

Chapter: 3 / 4

Word count: 12207

This is also on AO3 by roianamustang (me).

First pick but not rookie of the year, that’s how his first hockey season ended. If he had any doubts about it being memorable they would be squashed under the expectations put on his shoulders and the solid warmth of the only person who seemed to be able to catch up to him.

After the latest trip to Moscow that worked through its newly acquired script, Ilya studied and perfected it, just to return to Boston the second he heard word of before the season practices.

Seeing Svetlana again for a long period of time was worth it. He’d missed her calming presence. Ilya tended to feel like a small boat on an open, angry ocean every time he went back to Russia. Harsh winds and big waves that crashed and filled the boat enough to wet his ankles and slow his movements but not tip him over. Svetlana acted like the sails leading him to ground, always on the horizon but never reaching. Every time he went back, the water went just a bit higher. Landing in Boston had started to feel more and more normal as he exited through the airport gates that he seemed to have learned by heart already.

With his return to Boston, came the return to his newest favorite activity. Texting Shane Hollander. The conversations filled with chirping and horrible sexting. He didn’t need to have Hollander in the room to imagine his look of confusion and pinking cheeks.

The problem that arose however, is something Ilya could not have predicted. It was a well known fact around the team and the hockey world that Rozanov started building a roster in every city he set foot in. Seeing him with his phone, fingers confidently typing improper grammar was not a surprise to any of his team members. But he’s back in Montreal now.

“Wow, this Montreal girl works you up brother?” came Marlow’s annoying, agitating, grating voice that popped the bubble of excitement and erased the smile of his face. The second he heard Cliff’s stupid words, Ilya turned to look at his stupid eyes on his tiny ass forehead.

Blinking rapidly he soon replied, heart having fallen to his ass in a moment of panic, “Shut your idiot face, Marlow.” As if that wasn’t enough to indicate this conversation, that shouldn’t have started to begin with, was over, Marlow kept fucking speaking.

“You’re straight up blushing, Roz.” In all the years Ilya Rozanov had walked on this earth, he could count on one hand the amount of times someone tried to offend him to such an extent.

“No, no. Never in life have I blushed, Russians do not do this.” Throwing his phone in his cubicle was the only thing keeping him back from throwing it at Cliff’s face when he started fucking giggling.

And so they lost the game, and Ilya truly was angry and frustrated. However, somewhere deep inside in the back of his mind, the persistent known fact of tonight's possibilities just happened to very slightly dampen any other emotions brewing. Giving a quick speech as the newly appointed captain handling their loss with their greatest rivals, had the other men in the room nod tiredly and clap his back as he passed by. A quick shower later, he got dressed and declined the team’s invitation to a night out, leaving the room with Marlow’s stupid comments about Montreal Jane and whistles. The team may have lost tonight, but he sure as hell was about to be the winner.

Opening his phone as he heard a well-timed ping, he saw an address sent by “Jane”. Finding a taxi was easy enough in Montreal on game night. About 15 minutes later he felt the taxi turn to a smaller, darker street. A thank you and a big tip later, Ilya exited the car to fresh Canadian air and a nearly eerie quiet. Following the direction on Google Maps led his feet to go even deeper into the alley, to a door at the back of the building. Having a quick smoke to calm his nerves, not that he needed to of course, Ilya quickly throws the cigarette on the ground stomping it while texting Hollander. Putting his phone in his pocket, he only had to wait. A sharp, metallic door opened showcasing bleak yellow lighting and a frazzled looking Hollander.

Shadly looking around, Ilya spoke up first, “You will murder me.” Have it known that Shane Hollander was indeed funny as a quick Maybe left Ilya smirking as he was led into the staircase. The second the door closed behind him, a hand caught the lapels of his jacket and threw him at the wall on his right. Feeling a breath escape him on impact, the sudden change of direction made Hollander the pivot and center of his attention. Little else could be as exhilarating as being thrown around by a hot, strong hockey player. Looking up Ilya locked eyes with obsidian and hints of brown as he kept eye contact with the man in front of him. His eyes strayed to scattered freckles only twice. Are there more of them now? He knows his mouth is moving and he is replying with teasing comments but his mind was still reeling from the feeling of Hollander.

“Oh, you miss me, didn’t you?” Eyes trailed along, following soft black hair as Shane moved to climb the stairs, hand catching to the end of the softest blue hoodie Ilya had ever felt. As if a well oiled machine activated he immediately replied while pushing away the grip Rozanov had on him.

“I fucking didn’t.” Quickly following the other man’s footsteps, Ilya started climbing. In all his years of living, Ilya had never met someone who could match him toe to toe. Even Sveta could learn his way of thinking and predict his actions, but that was only most of the time and after a great amount of consideration. Shane Hollander however acted as a mirror parallel to everything that Ilya seemed to do. Almost as if a zip of electricity passed through their synapses at the same time, both boys started racing up the stairs, pushing each other with everything they got.

Soon enough they reached the actual door to the apartment, as Ilya was dragged around in a small tour. Mr.Landlord all right. The bedroom quickly entered their sight as they passed by the threshold. For the last few minutes Ilya had been struck by little happy buzzes as Shane droned on about the apartment and his designer and blah blah blah. He could only really focus on Hollander’s, well— everything really. Slowly approaching the other player, Ilya almost felt like they were playing against each other on the ice. A pull and a push there and Shane Hollander was laid out before him, all soft and warm and smooth and perfect. Ilya’s brain went quiet. He didn’t need to think, only to hear and memorize all of Shane’s little noises as hands clutched his curls.

Stepping foot on the nearly frozen ground of Moscow never truly felt like a welcome back. Yet it always left Ilya with a see you again. Last year's Olympics winner was Russia, so this year they are hosting the game in Sochi. If it was any other place Ilya would’ve been on his way there already, but being past his country’s border allowed for Grigori Rozanov to throw orders around. Besides that, he wanted to go and visit someone. Going back and forth during the season practically made it impossible for him to really have time to do this, but whenever he could he made plans to go visit his mama.

Sveta always waited for him at the airport, ironically however he saw her more frequently back in Boston then here. Life in Russia worked with a set of instructions given to you upon your return and an unspoken rule that breaking any of them will have some form of consequence. The air felt stifled, his lungs felt like they had less space. Every breath felt like it had to be counted to fill the exact number that is given to you per your instructions. He was only to stay in Moscow for a few days, then he would be on another plane towards Sochi to go train his team.

Captain of the Russian Olympic team at the ripe age of 22. It was an honor like no other, according to his father of course. Maybe even the whole country. Nationalism sailed through the blood of the people of Russia. Ilya was waiting for it to set sail in his.

The days in his childhood home tended to merge together. The sky was always gray and gloomy, the air humid and the winds persistent. Waking up today was like any other day here. In a place like Moscow, he wondered if his eyes seemed gray like his mama’s did. No sun was visible through the early hours of the morning. His alarm had only needed to ring once before Ilya opened his eyes and started his day. He wore his slacks and good shoes, the Rozanovs had a reputation to uphold. He’d been angry at it for a long time, now he’s just tired of it. Quickly putting on his black coat, he made his way out of the door. Leaving the vast gardens behind Ilya walked a well traversed path. You could close his eyes and block his ears and he’d always find himself back here. Walking to the back of the mansion his view filled in with an apple tree. The apple tree. His mama’s favorite fruit had always been apples. They were ordinary enough to be found anywhere and there were such vast varieties, similar enough to each other to be different, she'd say. So he had fought, tooth and nail to make sure that her resting place was under an apple tree. He’d fought for days, tears permanently making paths down his rosy cheeks. Vocal cords hoarse from the yelling and the crying. Alexei had gotten angry, hit him even, but nothing was more important than mama, and mama was gone. That was the one time Grigori heard him.

Irina Rozanova rested at a beautifully ornate grave. The rock was the highest of qualities, however you wouldn’t be able to tell. The grass around her was overgrown, the rock darkened by the weather. No one came to clean it during the year except for Ilya. Even the maids were ordered to let it be untouched. Yet, the greenery around it flourished. Flowers every season, grass at all times, apples falling down their branches, too many of them for the tree to be able to keep. Branches extended towards the grave almost as if shielding it. Leaves decorating it all year round.

The day before Ilya had bought his mother’s favorite flowers, a bouquet of Lillies. In the midst of it were delphiniums and foxgloves. The woman at the shop had long memorized Ilya’s face, alongside his reason for coming there. Alongside the flowers he always picks up a small plastic bag containing candles and a small box of Pryanikis obtained from the bakery across the street. In his other hand is a water bottle. Going towards the grave, Ilya shut his mind and let himself get swept by the familiarity of the routine. Pick away the leaves and dirt, on the sides take care to detach the snails that always creep up, putting them somewhere he won’t accidentally crush. The flowers being held by the metallic vase at the corner of the marbled top were long rotten. The last person to put them there had been him, like always. Every once in a while he wonders if amongst the bouquet he should get some plastic flowers so they can resist the harsh weather a bit longer, every time however it feels like that would be some sort of goodbye. Taking out the old flowers he put them by his feet and raised the vase to allow the water accumulated in it to drain. He picked up the water bottle he had filled at the sink and started pouring it around the grave, allowing it to wash away any dust it can. The marble’s white snowy color coming back into view. Almost as if it realized, the sun came up letting the water dry quickly. Pulling out the candles, Ilya made quick work of lighting them up and putting them in the small glass container made just for them. The cookies made their way next being put under Irina’s beautiful picture. A cross lay next to it, alongside the words ‘Beloved Mother, wife, daughter’. When he was young he’d tried to make them write more. They had nothing more to say. With the plastic bag now empty Ilya reached for the rotten flowers and started breaking off the stems of the bouquet in order for it to fit the vase. Birds chirped around, and a mild wind picked up leaves. The sun hadn’t left yet, as if realizing Irina’s importance.

Looking down at his work, he could see his own blonde curls reflected on the marble, a stark reminder of the woman laying there. Walking to the left side of the grave, Ilya sat down, right next to his mother’s picture. Whenever he is in Russia, he doesn’t talk much, but this little corner of dirt and flowers and a tree always let him be. Giving a quick kiss to the photo, Ilya let himself go. He let his head fall on the stone and in a quiet voice, started telling his mama all about Boston, Marlow, his teammates, the season, Sveta and Shane. His Shane. In quiet whispers and slow words he confesses to his mama, what he wouldn’t dare confess to the world. At the back of the grave, Ilya let his fingers trace a small jagged carving.

Yours forever Mama.

The next day he’s on his way to Sochi with plans to meet his team and train them. Everything’s weighing on his shoulders. Success is a choice not a coincidence. Which is probably why Ilya felt absolutely helpless against this group of unruly stupid men. No matter what his papa says, hockey is a team sport and Rozanov cannot afford to be their leader, wild card, defense, goalie, center and referee. He is good, one of the best if not the best— if he doesn’t have a slow canadian voice fighting him in his ear. But he is not a magician. So after hours and sweat poured over the Russian hockey team, it ended up being for nothing. They lost against Latvia. It was unheard of, it was humiliating and it fell on his shoulders. His brother's leering voice and his father’s harsh cadence were just too much, so Ilya closed his brain and stepped back. Every once in a while he would open one eye to see his phone.

Jane:

Hey! U doing ok?

He let his eyes roam over the message, opened and read it. Whatever warmth he felt from it he shut down. Right under that he had another notification.

Alyona:

You did amazing Ilyusha, it was not your fault.

Are you free? I am here to watch you and would love if we could meet.

I miss you, Ilya. She would’ve been proud no matter what.

He stared at his phone closing slowly, the screen darkening before deciding to at least reply to Alyona. He hadn’t seen her in so long.

The next day started with a stupid persistent alarm Ilya put just to make sure he wouldn’t be late to the designated meeting spot he decided with Alyona. His later plans consisted of wallowing in guilt and maybe going to see the men’s figure skating tournament. After all that’s the least likely place he could run into anybody.

Opening his suitcase, he pulled out a light layered jacket. It wasn’t cold enough for a thicker one. Quickly putting it on he had the completely unwanted realization that it was the exact fucking jacket he had on when he went to Hollander’s house in Montreal.

He didn’t like thinking of that Montreal night. Didn’t like thinking of Shane’s little you smell like cigarettes. Didn’t like thinking of you come here, no you come here. Didn’t like thinking of a fancy house and a hundred thousand throw pillows. Didn’t like thinking of folded clothes and smooth skin. Of jet black hair and big brown eyes. Of breathy sighs and feverish skin and nimble hands and moans filling the air alongside their combined smell. Didn’t like thinking of a gentle hand running through his curls. Of being walked down stairs as he waited for his stupid Uber. Of curious orbs and jokes. Of the softest hoodie alongside the softest pair of lips as he kissed Hollander before having to pull himself of by sheer will and force alone or he’d start thinking about a future and happiness.

Ilya is a great liar when he needs to be. He can put on faces and act the way people around him want him to act. His father made sure to train him young and his mother always seemed sad by the fact that she could tell Ilya was just pretending. Sadder than usual. But pretending was a necessity in the Rozanov household. It was a survival tactic. His mother grew tired of pretending. In turn she didn’t survive. Ilya often wondered how long he could keep pretending for.

His phone pulled him from his thoughts as the ping of it alerted him of another message by Alyona. Putting his shoes on, he made a quick checklist of his phone, wallet and hotel card. Right as he was opening the door he caught sight of unruly blonde locks. Whatever. It was just Alyona anyways.

The cafe they decided to meet at was a small looking thing hidden from plain sight. When you walked in, a bell jingled alerting the worker of the presence of a new customer. Taking a quick look around he caught sight of a brunette bun on a short woman. He knew that woman. Walking towards her, he put his hand on her shoulder, feeling her jump a bit from the unexpected touch. As soon as Alyona turned around, Ilya was caught in a strong hug. It was his turn to be caught off guard. Gathering his wits quickly he put his arms around the shoulders of the smaller woman. Alyona was warm. She had always been warm, a big bundle of warmth and comfort and reassurance. He let himself have this. He hasn’t been hugged since– he doesn’t know when actually. Breaking apart he looks down to ask.

“Have you ordered yet? I can go, tell me what you want.” Alyona tries to convince him that it is ok but he is his mother’s son. “If you do not tell me what you want, I’ll just go and order a bit of everything.” Alyona rolled her deep blue eyes.

“Oh my god, could you be any more dramatic, Ilyusha? Get me a Cappuccino and a slice of cake please.” Hearing the exasperation in her voice made him slightly smile.

So Ilya walked up to the counter, ordered, picked up their drinks and went to sit down. The space quickly filled with small talk that evolved into Ilya’s life in Boston and almost reluctantly, Alyona’s life in Moscow. Alyona had married later than Irina. She met her husband at the university she studied Psychology at. A year or two later they got married, however no matter how many times they tried, they couldn’t have children. Whenever his mama was too tired, Alyona would come and help around the house as long as Grigori wasn’t there. She was the closest thing he had to family besides Sveta.

“Have you visited her yet?”

Ilya just nodded while sipping. Eyes returning to a neutral state after crinkling with laughter for the past 15 minutes. “Of course.” Looking up he saw Alyona’s attentive gaze tip to his. “I cleaned her and everything. She should be ok until next summer.”

Alyona’s small smile turned almost remorseful. “I miss her everyday.” Holding his hand on the table she continued. “And you miss her every second of every minute of every hour. I can proudly and confidently tell you Ilya, you are everything she wished you to be and more.”

Lowering his head, he felt the urge to wipe at his eyes quickly filling up. Alyona became slightly blurry in front of him, but from the sheen on her eyes he could tell she was tearing up as well.

“You were her pride and her joy. Everything she looked forward to had you in the middle. You were her sun.”

Drying his eyes, Ilya could only reply. “I don’t want her proud, I just want her back.”

For all their attempts at keeping this lighthearted they sure failed as Alyona’s cheeks filled with trails of tears. The conversation continued a bit more until they reached a form of companionable silence. Putting their glasses and plates back at the counter, Ilya helped Alyona with her coat before wearing his. As soon as they walked outside, as the faint noise of the bell was blocked, Alyona pulled him to the side and into another deep hug. This time he let himself shed a few tears. Comfort like this wouldn’t show up in a while. Alyona’s strong rose perfume permeated his nose as he let his head be put on the comforting shoulder of one of the most important people in his life, a hand cradling him. Nuzzling he let himself be carried over, for just a few more minutes.

After a sad goodbye filled with promises, Ilya walked Alyona to her taxi, waiting for her to get in and the car to get out of his sight before starting to walk towards the Olympic Village. He didn’t have any games anymore, neither did he have any practices, but if he went back to that horrible empty hotel room, he was gonna lose his mind. Especially with the upcoming dinner he had to attend tomorrow night alongside his father. At least Sveta would be there.

The roads of the village were never quiet, each athlete functioning on their own internal clock and routine. You could wake up at 4 in the morning and someone would be training or stay up until 2 in the morning and see the same thing. He walked these roads, almost in a reminiscent manner, they seemed much more alive the first day he stepped foot here. Before he lost to fucking Latvia.

Finding the figure skating building was remarkably easy. The Olympic Village had to be built from scratch, so the architects would always put areas that needed lots of ice together, so right next to the Hockey ring, stood the figure skating one. Walking in he made a quick scan of the people, before deciding better than to sit on the stands. He’d been coming here for the past 2 days and found a spot no one seemingly wanted to walk on. Climbing up the stair he opened the door, the sound getting lost at the sheet size of the ring, before going near the first column on the right and finally letting himself have a breath. His phone had been buzzing and ringing the whole time, Alexei making sure his opinions were known and heard, loud and clear. Closing his phone again, he could only shake his head in disappointment before he felt the presence next to him. Turning left slightly filled his vision with a bright white and fuzzy texture, eyes catching on the the glaringly red of the Canadian leaf embroidered on both arms of the one and only person Ilya had not wanted to meet in fucking Russia.

Shane Hollander was standing a “safe” distance apart in all his big doe eyes glory, as fading freckles pointed daggers into the side of Ilya’s face. A stupid “Hey” left Hollander’s soft lips. This wasn’t a place he could be soft in.

Making sure to turn his face back towards the ring, to send a message, or better yet a warning. They cannot be caught having a conversation here.

“Not here.”

And sweet, soft Shane Hollander kept going, and Ilya knew it was out of concern and worry but he didn’t know what to do with it, not now, not here, not on this soil and this wind.

“No, I’m not…” A quick look around and Shane kept going. “I saw you up here, I just wanted to see how you’re doing.” He can’t care. He cannot afford to. Why did he have to make it so hard for Ilya. He didn’t want to see Shane’s face fall, hurt written all over it. But Ilya did not have choices in Russia, he has instructions.

“Fine. Go sit down.” and Shane was so persistent. He was almost as persistent with Ilya as he was with hockey. Before allowing him to continue, Ilya cut him off. “We are not anything. Go away Hollander.” Letting his eyes lock on to the spinning man currently doing tricks, he made sure to not turn towards Hollander. One look and he’d be gone.

“Are you ok?” Ilya could feel the blood vibrating in his veins, ready to jump out and leave and find a way just so he didn’t have to look and let Hollander see what was going on. “You didn’t answer my text.”

And Ilya knew Shane wouldn’t leave. This wasn’t about them as much as it was about the genuine worry Hollander had towards Ilya. Because Shane was good, he was so good and really he should be staying far away from Ilya’s rotting touch cause all he seems to be able to do is cause pain and suffering.

So he did what he knew best, and caused it. Turning to face Hollander he could read everything the other man was feeling written in bold letters on his forehead. Making sure to lock eyes, Ilya dealt the final blow, “No, I did not answer your boring texts. Now will you go?”

Predictably Shane averted his eyes, defeat finally sinking in. “Fine. Fuck.” Ilya kept his gaze towards Shane retreating back, the red Canada sign almost mocking him. Closing his eyes he turned towards the ring and let his head fall on the metal next to him. He only had a bit more until Hollander reached his seat. He should leave.

Returning home after spontaneously meeting Shane, was far more draining than he expected. Well, he wasn’t expecting to meet Shane at all, to be fair. Now he only had a few hours before he needed to go back to Moscow to then go to the dinner planned by whatever officials that had invited him and his father. So Ilya went back to his hotel room and started packing whatever little clothes he had with him. Walking around the room he checked every drawer, as if they had been opened to begin with. Going in the bathroom he made sure to get his toothbrush that always seemed to get lost in his constant travels. Having a few more hours to spare Ilya put on an alarm and decided to get under the covers and hopefully close his eyes for a few hours.

What was maybe an hour later, Ilya felt his eyelids twitch as he registered the shrill noise of his alarm waking him up to leave the room. Wearing his jacket and shoes, he picked up his small suitcase and left for the reception.

On his way to the airport, a text lit up his phone as it was pulled out of the pocket of his jacket. Half of him expected another message from Hollander, but considering how he’d acted to the man he knew he wouldn’t be seeing any messages from Jane for a while. If not forever. Maybe that was for the best, for the both of them.

He went through the monotony of going through airport security, it had become second nature at this point, and sat down on the small plane. A few hours later he was at the comfort of his room in Moscow, though no real comfort had been felt in between these four walls since he was 12. For now he had the luxury of falling asleep. There was no need for an alarm this time as the only responsibility he had to take care of was the dinner tomorrow evening.

A suit had already been prepared for him the next morning, having just arrived from the dry cleaning and a quick ironing by one of the maids around the house. Ilya went on a run and tried to will the day away. The sooner this day ended, the sooner the night came, the sooner he’d be back to this house and then he’d leave to be back home. Knowing Grigori was going to start his monologues and wise words in a bit, he picked up the suit alongside the bow tie and dressed himself. Going to the adjoined bathroom he spent, he doesn’t know how long, taking care to make his curls look posed and taken care of. Father had always expected his mother to look her best, even in moments where there were no guests to be met. Even on the day of her death, her curls were taken care of. No frizz or split ends in sight as her locks spilled on the bathroom floor, a sharp contrast with the darker interior.

As if he carries an internal clock, the older Rozanov called his name. Knowing their, on his side, reluctant almost-routine before any public outings, was due, Ilya picked up his shoes, putting them on and started walking towards his father’s bedroom. Upon entering the room the older man beckoned him to come closer as he turned around to pick up, what seemed like a glass of Vodka. Breathing deeply Ilya stalked closer and followed his father around as he turned to him, the expected venom leaving his mouth.

“You need a haircut.” A well learned reply was already leaving Ilya’s mouth.

“Yes, sir.”

His father ranted on and on about the honor of being invited by the minister despite his utter failure. But unlike the learned clockwork of their conversations, now there seemed to be gaps to it. Ilya had been noticing his father straying memory for a while now, but no matter how often he seemed to scream and yell and shout at Alexei or Polina about it they both turned a blind eye. The one thing however that his father remembered like a weapon, was his disappointment. It seemed no matter how good Ilya did, or how much he tried, it didn’t matter enough to cement itself to the fleeting mind of a cruel man. At this point it almost seemed impressive. He’d accepted it long ago, yet he always feels like he has to learn how to accept it in real time as a his heart gives a small tinge at the words. Grigori keeps speaking, with Ilya nodding and drinking the Vodka that seemed to snake down his throat like a vice. No reply would be satisfactory for the man in front of him. No matter how Ilya bared his teeth back in America or Canada, the only thing that seemed to be bared when he was back in Russia was his throat. A small pause in the conversation brought his attention back to his father who was now handing his own glass for Ilya to hold as he started reaching for his bow tie. Almost on instinct Ilya tensed until the next words shook him to his core.

“Who tied this for you?” with no time left to reply Grigori trailed on, “Your mother? She doesn’t know how to do this properly.”

Wrinkled hands started adjusting the bow. Lowering his head so he can look his father in the eye, Ilya corrected, “No, father.” He had to correct this. He never wanted Grigori to forget what he caused to Irina Rozanova.

“Mama is dead. You remember?” This time, his father tensed, as his eyes seemed to stray around almost in confusion.

“We should go.”

A car ride away and they arrived at the gala organized by the minister. As soon as they entered through the incredibly ornate door they were whisked away by government officials. Ilya quickly zoned out, as he nodded on autopilot. In the corner of his eye he could see his father glance over, and while usually that would mean he wasn’t paying enough attention, now there was almost a helpless quality to it. Almost as if he was asking for help. Before he cared to think more deeply about it he snapped back into reality as Sveta seemed to make her way over to talk to her own father. She caught his hand, making an excuse about needing a drink as she quickly pulled him down the stairs and into a quiet hallway.

Soon enough they came in front of a double doored room as Sveta dramatically pushed them open to reveal who was inside. Sasha. He hadn’t seen Sasha in forever, and to be quite frank, had no interest in seeing him again. Sasha snorted what was probably cocaine and started walking towards Ilya, a small smirk decorating his face alongside, before reaching him however, Sveta walked in with drinks. Almost reluctantly he saw Sasha sink into the tub in the middle of the room. He wasn’t getting out of here for a bit, so Ilya took off his jacket and leaned over one of the useless mirrors to the right side of the room. He could see the sails of his boat lift as they spoke about the current MHL season. Fuck the stupid russian team, Sveta was right, this year Boston had a chance to get to the cup.

Sighing, Sveta left her glass on the table as she rounded the room to say bye to both of the men. As soon as the doors closed behind her, Sasha started yapping. And he wouldn’t stop. As much as he used to relish in the ability to make the other man shut up, this time, or maybe for a long time now, he didn’t care to even spend a glance at the other man. His hair wasn’t dark enough, eyes rimmed with red as the browns in them almost seemed dull. Seemingly getting the message, only partially really, Sasha got out of the tub. He walked towards Ilya, lanky form coming closer to almost embrace him, as he started whispering memories into his ear., Too tall, too lanky, too flamboyant. Wow, big word. His lashes didn’t frame his eyes like they should’ve. By all means, Sasha was a model back in Paris, Ilya just quite frankly didn’t give a shit as the only thing he could feel engraved on the back of his eyelids were star speckled freckles scattered across smooth cheekbones. Finally turning to look at the other man in the eye, Ilya just replied, “No.”

Sasha leaned away as he started speaking again, Ilya maybe would’ve cared to listen if he hadn’t opened his phone to a familiar looking text.

Hey! U doing ok?

His phone went dark again, the message most likely ingrained into the screen by now. Ilya wouldn’t have cared to listen anyways.

Boston saw his face soon, with his return from Russia at the continuation of the season. They won, and they didn’t stop winning. Montreal was kicked off soon enough from an injury their goalie sustained, just like Sveta said and Boston was on a roll.

In the Spring of 2014, The Boston Raiders scored their final goal against San Francisco, effectively winning the Cup. The ice seemed to be almost melting as each player screamed while doing laps around the rink and throwing themselves at each other. Gloves and sticks were in the air as the team piled on top of the goalie. Sweat was rivulating on Ilya’s face, curls plastered to the front of his forehead where his helmet used to lay before being thrown amongst the other shit on the ice. Ilya got pulled by Marlow into a death grip, cursing filling his ears. Soon enough the cup was brought center ice, and handed over to the captain, Ilya Rozanov as he neared the camera, teammates screeching around his shoulders.

Для тебя, мама!

Ilya hadn’t seen Shane Hollander since Sochi. He was about to see him again, as they both presented the Major League Hockey Awards with stupid little scripts. By the time he arrived, suit and makeup ready for the cameras, he couldn't look Hollander in the eye. His stupid, lazy heart betrayed him however, as just hearing Shane’s stilted words had it beating faster than it had since holding the cup in his hands. The second he heard the man behind one of the cameras finish his countdown he walked ahead feeling the other man follow him into the spotlight as he put on a flashy smile and did a small wave.

The script they had was awkward and slow, flowing in an almost wrong manner. He knew his lines, he learned them well, especially for this moment as he dug into his pocket to pull out his phone for the bit they’re for some reason still running. Letting his arm raise higher he took note of the dichotomy they seemed to cause to the front camera, contrasting colors bringing out the features of both men. Without thinking twice Ilya pressed the button letting it take around three separate photos before closing the phone and putting it back into its place.

At the time he took these, Ilya had no way of knowing that these would be the only photos he would have with Shane for the whole decade they knew each other, besides the first photoshoot they did together. The moment the lights dimmed enough and the director signaled cut, Shane had left Ilya’s left side and briskly walked away from the stage. And he might as well have had a leash on Ilya as he followed behind him just a few steps slower.

Following the walking man in front of him seemed nearly impossible as Ilya nearly got lost in the labyrinth of the hallways in this building. Both of their steps echoed across the walls as the heels of their shoes harshly pressed against the tiles. In front of him, Ilya could only see the back of Hollander, his hair bouncing slightly until he reached a door and quickly entered it. The click of the same door closing is what snapped Ilya out of his spacing out, as he looked up to see that this was one of the many men’s bathrooms of this establishment. Pressing against the door, letting it collide with the wall behind it, Ilya entered the room to see Shane quickly give him a one over and take a deep breath.

For all his infinite knowledge of hookup culture and good social skills, Ilya was virtually lost on how to navigate this situation. In front of him Hollander clearly wanted nothing to do with him, but he hadn’t made any moves to actively push him away. And no matter what excuses Ilya gave to himself, he couldn't deny the effect the other player had on him. In Russia he was all poised and prepared, script ready like a gun. Here he was free. He was himself. And he wanted Shane, but he’d never force him into anything.

Either way, what they had was simple. If Ilya still has the luxury of having it of course. So he put on his best smile, putting his arm around the hand dryer on the wall and faced the older man in front of him. Hollander was doing that thing where his big eyes strayed to every corner of the room before reaching his. Now they were framed by red eyelids and shiny eyelashes, putting forth the brown in them, a wet sheen over almost as if to hypnotize Ilya. Ilya let him slowly build up the eye contact, not wanting to rush him. He never wanted Hollander uncomfortable and all the little habits he did seemed to calm Shane down. It also helped that Ilya was positively endeared by them. In a completely platonic manner of course. Which is to say that while he expected Hollander to be cold or even slightly petty, he didn’t expect him to be almost volatile.

The man in front of him seemingly had a surge of anger as he spat out, “What?” eyes temporarily looking away he continued, “What the hell do you want Rozanov? You haven’t answered a text from me in like, 6 months.”

A sharp breath followed as Shane loaded the next sentence, “You won’t even acknowledge that I exist unless there’s a fucking camera pointed at us,— “ Taking another seemingly unexpected breath in, Hollander kept going as he gestured around, blinking rapidly “and then it’s for some fucking clown show.” Slowly losing his momentum, Shane dealt the finishing blow. “So yeah, what the fuck do you want from me?”

Keeping his eyes locked at the man opposite of him, Ilya let his head fall to the wall behind him.

What Ilya wanted from Hollander, he’d come to accept it immediately after breaking his heart in Sochi. What Ilya wanted from Shane Hollander did not matter because it shouldn’t exist therefore it does not. What Ilya wants from Shane is not just forbidden but illegal. It never mattered what Ilya wanted, he could never get it. He didn’t get it when he was 6, he didn’t get it when he was 12, he won’t get it now, and he’ll never get it later. What Ilya wants doesn’t exist so therefore he does not want. What Ilya needs doesn’t matter. What he can get with the sticks and stones given to him when he was stranded on the island, is what he’ll have.

Ilya Rozanov is a selfish man. His father has said it to him his whole life, his brother reminds him of it during every phone call. With a handshake and an unlit cigarette he was able to get Shane, and selfishly he did not want to let go. So he didn’t. Riling up the man in front of him was easy. Keeping their eyes locked and mouth blabbing often got him to where he needed to go. Shane’s eyes dropped to the floor as he turned away from Ilya. Letting his heels drag behind him, Ilya slowly approached Hollander, invading his bubble. Allowing himself to reach forward he put his palm on the side of Shane’s jaw, pulling him towards his face, letting his eyes roam over perfect full lips, reddened by the constant biting the other man seemed to do absentmindedly. Following the bridge of his nose let his eyes get caught by freckles. More now than when in Russia. His sight caught on teary eyes as Hollander let his head loose, seemingly giving the cards and the wheel over to Ilya. Because of course he was. Because he was fucking perfect. As soon as the soft Please left Shane’s lips, Ilya couldn’t help but let their foreheads drop towards each other, he’d noticed it tended to calm the other man. As if having even more strings cut loose, Shane dragged his face until he fully leaned at the crook of Ilya’s neck.

Letting his lips drag over the short hair Shane had to the sides, Ilya turned his head to allow more space for him to lean and let his lips linger at the crown of Hollander’s head. “No.”

Denying Shane might’ve been the single hardest thing Ilya has ever done in his life. And he’d won a cup. So he compromised, catching Shane’s chin on his grip again, letting the other man wipe the few tears that had managed to drop. And as Shane replied with his stupid cute smile, Ilya had to push himself away slightly or he’d enter his orbit and never leave again.

Locking eyes one more time, Ilya felt himself get lost as he pulled Shane closer to kiss him like a starving man in the desert. His heart picked up the pace.

Have it be known, that Ilya Rozanov never claimed to be smart. For all his big words of pushing Shane away and have it mean nothing, the second he’d seen him tear up, he was a lost cause. Especially when it was an unsaid but known fact that this year’s MVP would be him. Montreal got pushed off way too quickly to allow the public to see the excellence that is Shane Hollander, so Ilya had effectively no rival for the title. Immediately after he got the trophy, he did a quick circle around the room before leaving. On the way to the hotel he’d decided this was the last time he’d get to have Hollander. They’d both get something out of it, feel good and then be back to what they were always meant to be. Players on opposite teams. Coworkers at best.

Going up the elevator required his key card as he was the only person staying in what they called ‘The Penthouse’, or at least the 1st one, which he assumes means the biggest. Entering his, at this point, apartment, Ilya made quick work of his jacket and bow tie letting them hang so it wouldn’t bother Hollander. In the living room, the hotel had left a PR note about being honored to have him here and most importantly, a bottle of Vodka. A good one. So Ilya took out one glass, filling it generously. Not too long after he heard knocking on his door and the beeping of the code being entered. A buzz soon followed as the door opened to reveal Hollander in all his unbuttoned shirt glory. Ilya let himself savor the view as he dragged his eyes across the currently undressing form of the other man, feeling his stupid heart betray him and warm up when he noticed nimble hands folding the clothes. Must be the Vodka.

He’d made a plan. The more distance there was between him and Hollander the easier it would be to detach himself from this addiction. Dragging the chair away from the window he let his mouth order around. Hollander listened so well. Yet, Ilya seemed to prove his forgetfulness as he felt himself throw whatever plan he might have made out of the window. He was but a man, and he’d be a lunatic monster if he somehow did not react to Shane Hollander’s straying hands and pleas.

“I need—” heart beating out of his chest Ilya egged on, “What?” he didn’t remember if he had drank any more of the vodka.

“Tell me.”

“I need you.” and Ilya Rozanov was gone.

The night was perfect and Shane was perfect and Ilya did not know what to do with himself when things went well and he couldn’t fucking do this anymore or he’d talk too much and bleed out right here on the pale white sheets of a stupid hotel that kept the heat, shape and smell of Hollander right next to him. So he looked at the wall and pulled out a cigarette with shaking hands so he could quench his thirst and not pull Hollander into a kiss because next thing he knew he’d be asking him to stay. Quickly putting the stick to his mouth he gave Hollander his prize. Ilya knew Shane did not like the taste of alcohol or even the smell of cigarettes but that did not matter. Ilya did not care. Ilya could not care. So he pushed, staring at the wall listening to the sounds of Hollander picking up his clothes and his shoes, walking around the penthouse and finally after a beat of silence, leaving.

The night had been great. Ilya felt like he could throw up and do something unspeakable as the void in his chest seemed to get bigger and bigger as if there was a string attached to either man that pulled more taut as he went farther away.

We didn’t even kiss.

Ilya kept smoking. The next two years were filled with calendar dates, home matches and going to and from Montreal. They had a good fight for the 2015 cup, but the Montreal Metros kicked them off the curb as Ilya spent his afternoon watching Shane Hollander lift the cup. A smile might have graced his lips but there was no one there to see. Every summer he’d go back to Russia and the second the season started he'd catch himself in between toned legs and darkened freckles, tauntingly multiplying during his time away.

During the season however, he was never really in one place. Whenever he’d be back to Boston, if Sveta had any free time, they’d get dressed and go out to a club. Tonight was no different. He’d donned on a button up, the first few buttons left open, with the knowing knowledge that more would do the same as the night went on, and was waiting for Sveta to finish getting ready. Remote in hand, he passed by every platform ever, before deciding YouTube would be the best for a quick look. Before he knew it his eyes caught onto the 4th video recommended to him, ‘A look into Shane Hollander’s life: The Cottage’ and his thumb pressed the center button on his remote. His view was quickly filled with a gorgeous scenery of nature, in the middle of it, almost co-existing, lay a beautifully built villa. Ilya had no idea where the fuck cottage came from as a name, cottages don’t look like a multi-million full length windowed, stone built house. He’d amped up to maybe send a text, teasing the man on the screen before his ears caught onto the next words. Something, something yoga. Letting his phone fall from his hand, Ilya looked up just as Sveta walked into the room, mildly obstructing his view of the TV. He knew she was saying something, but not much could distract him from the sudden view of Shane Hollander stretching across the screen. Or at least that’s what Ilya thinks he’s doing, his brain had tuned out of any words said by the woman in the documentary as he let his eyes roam over familiar planes on warm skin. He shakes his head to disagree with whatever Sveta had just said, he caught wind of the confusion in her tone as he replied in false disinterest.

Almost as if she could read his mind, Sveta went on, “He’s fucking hot, though.”

Green eyes immediately turned to her, a flare of something akin to jealousy and possession. He wishes it’d been for Svetlana, with her gorgeous curls and full lips. But he knew better. It didn’t matter anyhow, he’s hooked up with so many people and Shane Hollander was just like any other. Later when he finds himself strung in a sea of bodies, he ignores the images of Hollander his brain decides to conjure, before choosing somebody for the night.

They’d built a routine by now and every time the other man would be at their home games instead of reaching out to meet in hotels, they’d comfortably let each other have their addresses. Up until now, they’d only really been able to go to Hollander’s house in Montreal. The seasons had been predictably unpredictable, so neither men knew if they’d still be in the play for the cup. In between everything they were doing however, their houses were the safest places. Which is why Ilya didn’t hesitate to send a message goading Shane for their game tomorrow, immediately followed by a time. He knew the other player would say yes. That had nothing to do with the wall of Ginger Ale in his fridge door or even the tuna melt ingredients of course. He just knew that Hollander was particular about his life. He’d noticed his soft clothes that had the tag cut off or stretched out enough to not feel it, almost as if he uses it as a beacon on which side to fold his shirt on. The diet he’d offhandedly mentioned and Ilya had seen in interviews and all these things that he seems to do slightly different. He never had the privilege of seeing Shane’s calendar, but he doesn’t need to. He imagines it’s filled by hours on a day to day basis rather than just a weekly one. Ilya doesn’t tend to think about these things all that often, but he’d honest with himself that Shane was one of the best lays he’d ever had and it helped that they ran around each other in circles. He was always there, and he’ll be there until he finds a nice girl to settle with, which doesn’t matter to Ilya.

Hearing his doorbell ring followed by a series of knocks, made him get up, subconsciously fixing his hair. Peeking a bit through the clear glass on the side of his door, confirmed Shane’s silhouette, making his pulse speed up. With a quick flick of his wrist he unlocked the door, swinging it wide and letting his eyes roam to blue jeans and a brown jacket before settling to jet black eyelashes framing Hollander’s eyes. Standing to the side he let Shane walk in, following him as he could see the small sparkle of interest as he took in Ilya’s apartment. Every time like clockwork Ilya is hit by memories of Mr. Landlord as he lets a small smirk rest on his face. He let Shane look around for a bit and ask his questions before doing anything since he knew this was one of his interests. But Ilya was just a man, so after a little he quietly cornered the other man to his counter before letting his hands run underneath his thighs to pull him on it. There was no need for Shane to have his clothes folded, Ilya had already prepared a newly washed pair for him anyways.

Time always flew by when they were together, and they’d both left their phones somewhere on the floor with the rest of their belongings so they truly did not know what hour of the day it was. But they’d done this a million times by now, so Ilya knew to psych himself up for what he was about to ask. He’d let Shane lead the conversation however, which apparently he was about to.

“I should go.” Staring out the window let Ilya gather the courage to ask, all the while noticing that Shane had turned to look at him.

“Or you could stay.” Turning his head slightly towards Shane, who replied, “Stay?” in a soft voice. Ilya quickly continued.

“Here tonight.” Taking a deep breath in he let his eyes fly across Shane’s face. “I’m not done with you. And we have afternoon game tomorrow, so no morning practice.”

He could see the little rules Hollander followed, wavering with each word, somewhere fighting between what Ilya was asking and what he wanted.

“I told Hayden.” At the name of the other man, Ilya let himself blink in confusion as he asked, “Is Hayden your mother?”

A quick shake of the head, let the other player reply as Ilya egged on, “No, he’s not?” Making sure to look at Shane in the eye as he let his expression still showcase disbelief.

A roll of the eyes and a predictable Fuck off later, Ilya badgered on, “Who cares what you told Hayden?” Letting his head delve deeper in the crook of Hollander’s neck, he gave a quick peck as he dragged on the next word, making sure to whisper it in the other man’s ear.

“Stay.”

They woke up a bit later, from a nap that rejuvenated Ilya more than any sleep he’d had since he was 12. He woke up a bit before Shane actually, but the warmth and presence of him seemed almost unreal as Ilya squeezed the arm thrown around the body on his. Soon enough he could feel the body between his arms stir awake. Letting him get a good view of his surroundings, taking in the view of a smiley sleepy Shane, Ilya broke the silence, going on with Phase Two of his plan.

“I’m hungry.”

“For what?” Shane’s sleep-addled voice egged him on. Letting a smirk show on his face, Ilya squeezed his hand on Shane’s peck before replying.

“For food, pervert.” Getting up he let his brain activate as he remembered the clothes he’d left out for Shane, collecting and throwing them at him. It seems sleepy Shane doesn’t ask too many questions.

Making his way around the kitchen, Ilya pulled out all of the ingredients he’d prepped for a tuna melt. He’d had to google around to figure out an easy Canadian recipe, and then google even more to see if Hollander had said anything about liking it, before he bought everything that was needed and prepped it the night before.

And maybe, just maybe Ilya had planned this. He wanted this to be perfect for Shane, with all of his intricacies and tendencies to get anxious. Ilya had finally accepted that he would be willing to keep Shane in his life, in any way that he can for as long as he can. There was no use denying it, he would crawl back to Shane one way or another, had been doing that for a while now, 8 years and counting really. But time was ticking, seconds counting down to whenever it would be that Shane would find someone. Ilya wasn’t egotistical enough to believe he’s the only man Shane had been with, but he knows him enough to at least be confident that he didn’t have a habit of just, hooking up. He didn’t treat sex like a meaningless act that gave you quick pleasure. It was more personal to him. So while Ilya didn’t like thinking about Shane with other people, he wanted to be sure that at the very least the Montreal captain would find him comforting and trustworthy. He wanted— no he needed Hollander to feel safe with him. Bringing both plates in the living room was a smart decision as he saw Shane’s shoulders slightly lower, tension leaving his body again. Opening his TV to a well-planned hockey game, he allowed the familiarity of it keep the conversation flowing.

Letting the conversation ebb let it lead to Sveta and a vague skirting around relationships and the future. He’s telling Shane some bullshit about finding someone. He hasn’t been looking anyways. Wouldn’t even know what the future holds for him in any aspect but hockey really. So Ilya quickly follows it with a well-known phrase.

“But you know me. I’m lazy so…” letting the sentence hang in the silence didn’t last long as Shane immediately replied.

“I don’t know that side of you at all.” Turning to the left to look at the man sitting next to him, Ilya let his eyes roam across Shane’s messy bed hair filling his vision alongside scattering freckles, as he felt a smile pull at his cheeks and a warm feeling fill his heart to the brim.

Beeping permeated the air as he got up, mentioning for Hollander to stay where he was. No need for two people to get two plates of tuna melt, that’s what he has hands for. One for the food and one for the captain of the Montreal Metros. Sitting back down allowed both men to start finally eating. When he’ll look back to this in the future, Ilya will realize the absolute bullshittery he was trying to pull just to ask Shane if he had ever been interested in women. Cemented by the fact that he continued the conversation after making sure to tell Shane that he only liked him for his body. Thankfully he was saved by the ringtone of his phone, unthankfully it was Grigori.

His thumb pressed the button and his ear soon was filled with Grigori’s frustrated tone. He kept asking Ilya questions, questions which seemed meaningless in their nature. Asking Ilya why he hadn’t talked, when he just called him yesterday, not remembering Polina, and even worse somehow, not remembering Alexei. Alexei, who Ilya sent money to every month to bribe him in order to stay with his sick father. No matter how much he tried to reason with the other man on the phone a continent away, he couldn’t get through to him.

“Father, stay calm.” the string of what he can now recognize as fear in his father’s voice, did not seize. Taking a deep breath in and clenching his fist, he did what he could do.

Locking eyes with the modern painting he’d bought a year ago after seeing them in a stupid interior design catalogue, he nodded to himself as he kept speaking to Grigori, “I will call Alexei. I will call him.”

Closing the phone soon thereafter, Ilya started sliding down his list of contacts until he reached Alexei’s. Pressing it quickly, he put the phone on his ear as he held his breath listening to the ringing. As soon as the call picked up Ilya felt his hackles rise alongside his tone, “Where the fuck are you? Dad is alone and he’s freaking out.”

Breathing in deep, he felt himself wound up even more, “I fucking pay you to be there with him, you asshole!” Closing the call, he heard his own words echo around the room, as Ilya took in deep breaths. This day was for Shane. Pulling himself together, he walked out into the living room and quickly sat down.

Keeping some light talk around, Ilya could feel the almost awkward tension lingering around the room. Which is exactly why he felt a breath escape him as Shane asked, “How is your father?” It might as well have put a chokehold on his heart as he felt it stop, turning to the player next to him.

Wandering eyes passed in between honeyed ones as he pressed, “Ah, you speak Russian now?” Shane averted his eyes as a brief chuckle escaped him, “I know the word for father.”

The horrible thing is, Ilya knew Shane did it out of care. He was sweet and honest and so open. Ilya thinks, few things Shane can say or do, will ever be able to actually hurt him enough to be angry at the other man. Before he knew it, a smile had stretched across his cheeks as he stared at the man in front of him doing the same, seeing his freckles shift like constellations. Pulling Shane’s head towards him, Ilya let it lay on the crook of his neck, as he felt his own hand involuntarily start stroking fluffy dark strands as his lips caressed the same spot. Few things in life have ever managed to calm him like this.

Before both men knew it, they’d already started getting swept in the next wave of arousal. Pulling Shane on him, he felt his finger dig into hard muscle as his eyes dragged to follow the trail of freckles up Shane’s body.

In his household in Russia, Ilya grew up, in what most would consider a religious upbringing. While his father never cared to actively practice anything remotely Catholic, he made sure to keep it loaded as a lifestyle that they lived by, for any prejudice they tended to uphold. When his father mentioned religion to him it was used as a weapon as a master of destruction. But Irina, quiet, calm, beautiful, sad Irina, used it as a vessel that could help her stay afloat. She carried the hands around her neck and practiced the prayers under her breath. She used it for salvation, or survival. She hoped it’d be enough to keep her in this tangible, harsh world, enough to keep her here for her sons. Whenever he caught her looking out of the window, both hands clutching the cross around her neck, whispers carried in the walls of a cold, static house, Ilya would think that maybe his mama at least had something that brought her peace.

After her death, he had been the only person willing to keep any of her things, he had clutched her cross in his small hands and whispered to it. Nothing ever came out of it, so now he held it close to his lips whenever he would remember her. He’d never been able to replicate the reverence it seemed to bring his poor mama. Until now. Looking up at the man above him, all rumpled hair and ruddy cheeks, heat transferred through their bodies as plush lips stayed slightly open enough to feel puffs reflecting against Ilya’s own lashes. He let it pull him over, let it speak for him, as the name Shane escaped the confines of his mind, in a heated breath across the flushed man’s cheek. As if that wasn’t enough, his ears heard the sweet cadence of Shane’s voice calling his name.

Ilya.

Next thing he knew they could hear their own heartbeats in their ears as they tried to catch their breath, leaning towards each other subconsciously. The moment Ilya readied his arms to finally move and embrace the man on top of him, he felt Shane’s body tense. A second later he blinked as harsh lights filled his vision. Shane was now standing at the other side of the couch, looking somewhere in between the cushions as he shook his head. I can’t and I’m sorry filled the air as Ilya felt his heartbeat rush to his ears again and adrenaline shake each working limb. He could fix this.

“Hollander.”

He had to fix this. He would do anything to do so. Extending his right arm towards Shane— no, towards Hollander Ilya tried again. He has to try again, “Hollander.”

His heart clearly hadn’t gotten the message yet, as it seemed set on making Ilya run through a marathon sat down, but somewhere deep down he could feel his mind retreat. Its jarring voice in his head saying something too close to I told you so.

As the last Hollander left his lips, Ilya felt himself hollow out, like a marionette that had it’s strings cut the second his front door slammed shut.

Rozanov doesn’t know how long he stood there for. All he knew was a bit after, his body stil retained the heat of Hollander. If he had been a bit more actively conscious he’d try something stupid just to not let the heat escape. But he knew this was the last time. He got all he could, he could never have more. After all, anything he wanted Ilya lost.

The sun must’ve set at some point. Getting up, he felt each limb move towards the bathroom, not trusting himself to open any lights. Opening the door to one of his cabinets he took out a small towel, wetting it before running it on his abdomen, effectively wiping any remaining proof of the past 24 hours. The tiles were cool under his feet as he wiggled his toes in an attempt to get back some sort of feel in them. Walking back to his room his eyes caught sight of a stupid brown jacket. He couldn’t do this right now. Or maybe ever. Shutting off any remaining light, Ilya got under the covers holding Shane’s smell as he moved his body to lay on the left side of the bed, hugging the pillow there close to his chest. As long as he ignored the outside world, any responsibilities would reflect off the duvet, as he used it almost like a shield. Smushing his face on the pillow between his arms, Ilya let himself hide, in somewhat of a fetus position as he muffled his mouth and let, what he’d later deny, a few tears wet the fabric under him. Darkness swallowed him at some point, and Ilya Rozanov drowned.

The season didn’t wait or pause on anybody. It was an unstoppable force, with no immovable object. Months passed by as Ilya got back into the swing of night outs and intense workouts. The boys had been complaining of the drills he’d spun on them, but lazy men didn’t win cups. So he kept the suicide drills and the night outs and the alcohol and the women. Or more accurately, he'd hoped he’d kept the women. The few times he did, his brain would conjure up pictures of bitten lips and glassy eyes. It didn’t matter anyhow, the most important thing in Ilya’s life was hockey. The name Shane Hollander did not pass rounds around him unless they were up against the Montreal Metros.

So imagine his fucking shock when he’s hearing gasps around the gym followed by names that sound scarily like Shane Hollander and Rose fucking Landry. Whoever that was. Pulling Connor’s phone in his hand, Ilya felt his heart stop as he saw Hollander hand in hand with the world’s most perfect woman. Of course, of course even the people he chooses to stay in his life exude the absolute perfection that he maintains. Landry was a beautiful, relatively tall woman. Gorgeous blowout waves framed her stunning symmetrical face, that even Ilya could recognize from hit movies. He couldn’t do this. He can’t violently oscillate between these stupid fucking emotions, so when the wheel falls to anger, he lets it consume him.

The club was what he needed. He needed a loud, hot place that drowned his thoughts and made his ear drums bleed and his liver scream for help. Wearing another button up that was practically unbuttoned, he led the way to the entrance of the closest club in Montreal. The lights flashed violently between reds and blues, merging together in an almost nauseating purple. The air was stagnant and hot, the bodies around him making it worse. Walking towards the bar Ilya went through his well learned routine of ordering and apologizing for his rowdy teammates. He’d be halfway to Narnia in a bit with the amount of shots he’d ordered. So leaning against the bar top he let his eyes roam free around the sea of bodies. That’s all that people tend to be in places like this. This is probably the reason why it takes his brain a bit to catch up to the vaguely familiar face staring at his from across the bar. He’d seen this man somewhere, he just had to remember where—

Miles.

If Miles was here, a few steps behind him, Rose Landry would show up. Turning around Ilya quickly started scanning the room, because he did not care about Landry and her stupid friend Miles. But if she was here, that could only mean one thing. Greyish tinted eyes quickly caught sight of a boring, plain white shirt. A white shirt that was currently being dragged by the wandering hands of Rose Landry. Ilya didn’t really need to let his eyes wander any higher to know who that abdomen belonged to. Who those hands, clutched on Rose’s small waist and perfect sparkly dress belonged to. Against his own accord however he also saw the wandering hands of fucking Miles as his eyes got caught to darkened orbs. Their gazes locked as Ilya quickly started grinding next to the gorgeous blonde woman who showed up in his arms. This did not get to affect him, especially after clearly receiving the message of how little it affected Hollander. Making sure to drag his mouth across the nameless woman’s throat he kept his eyes locked. If the sight of glassy eyes made him feel a curl of satisfaction, good, that’s exactly what he wanted. Hollander did not get to feel anything, not right now, not after Boston.

Next thing he knew the other man had broken the eye contact, giving a small, what Ilya could tell even from here, extremely complacent smile to Rose as he scurried out of the room. Or maybe he’d be in the bathroom. It doesn’t matter. Ilya could have anybody he wanted and he wasn’t picky. There was nothing special about Hollander. Nothing special about him as Ilya ended up going to his hotel room alone, no teammates informed. Nothing special about him as he opened the shower and let himself drown in it, imagining smooth skin spanning across a sensitive neck. Nothing special about him as he felt his chest cave in deeper and plop his heart on the bathroom tiles. As he dried himself as fast as he could and took out the bottle of vodka in the hotel fridge. As he sipped horrible sips of poison and let it drag down his throat.

He didn’t know what he wanted.

He knew exactly what he wanted.

Ilya didn’t get to have what he wanted. He never did.

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Hi guys, jus wanted to write that I am trying my best to find the time to write the next and final chapter of this, unfortunately I am currently in exam season and it is frying me and my brain. I am really excited about it only because I actually like what I am writing and I haven't written in a long time so please be patient with me!

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