I Wish I Was Smarter - Igor Chernyshov Fanfic
Igor Chernyshov Fanfiction
Summary: Igor Chernyshov is struggling with English, and after one too many conversations where he can't quite find the words he wants, he ends up having an unexpected heart-to-heart with his goalie.
Warnings: Homesickness, loneliness, language barriers, self-esteem issues, identity struggles, crying, emotional hurt/comfort, immigrant experience, mild angst, self-deprecating thoughts
Word Count: 2,880
requests open :)
Everyone was laughing.
Luckily, not at him.
Nobody is ever laughing at him, even if that would almost be easier.
They're laughing with each other, heads thrown back around the breakfast table, forks abandoned on plates as stories get interrupted by other stories and jokes get built on top of older jokes and somebody inevitably says something ridiculous enough to make half the room groan.
It's normal.
It's completely normal.
And that's the problem.
Igor sits with his eggs and toast and coffee and understands about half of it.
Almost.
That's the frustrating part.
When he first arrived, missing things had been expected. Nobody had anticipated perfect English from a teenager who'd spent his entire life in Russia.
Now, though?
Now he was supposed to be getting better.
And he was.
Technically.
He understood coaches.
He understood systems.
He understood interviews.
He could order food.
Could navigate airports.
Could hold basic conversations.
The problem was that understanding a language and living in it were two very different things.
By the time he understood one joke, the room had already moved on to three others.
By the time he thought of something funny to contribute, somebody else had already changed the subject.
By the time he figured out exactly how to phrase what he wanted to say, the conversation had ended.
So he smiled.
Laughed when everyone else laughed.
Nodded along.
Played the role everyone expected.
The quiet Russian kid.
The easygoing one.
The one who didn't talk much.
It wasn't really him.
But it was easier than constantly feeling behind.
"Hey, Igor."
He looked up.
Macklin Celebrini was pointing at him with a piece of bacon.
"You ever played golf?"
The question caught him off guard.
"Little."
"Are you good?"
"No."
The table laughed.
Macklin grinned.
"See? That's the most honest answer anybody's given."
More laughter.
The conversation moved on.
And Igor hated how relieved he felt.
Because he'd answered.
Because he'd gotten through it.
Because nobody had waited long enough to notice that he'd actually wanted to say more.
That yes, he'd played golf.
That his father loved golf.
That he'd once accidentally launched a ball through a neighbor's fence when he was twelve.
That the neighbor had chased him down the street yelling while his friends nearly died laughing.
It would've been a good story.
Maybe.
Instead nobody heard it, the moment passed.
And practice wasn't any better.
Coach asked a question during video review.
Several players answered immediately.
Igor knew the answer too.
A good answer.
The correct answer.
He could explain exactly what had gone wrong during a defensive-zone sequence.
Could see it perfectly.
Could explain it perfectly.
In Russian.
By the time he figured out how to phrase it in English, three other players had already spoken.
The meeting moved on.
Nobody noticed he hadn't contributed.
But Igor noticed.
Every single time.
Like paper cuts.
Tiny.
Insignificant.
Until suddenly there were hundreds of them.
The interview after practice should have been easy.
It usually was.
The reporter smiled.
"What's been the biggest adjustment since coming to North America?"
Language.
Smaller ice.
Different systems.
The usual answer.
The safe answer.
The answer everybody expected.
The reporter nodded.
Satisfied.
Moved on.
Interview over.
Easy.
Except as Igor walked away he found himself replaying the question.
Because the real answer wasn't language.
Not really.
The real answer was feeling like somebody had taken half of his personality away.
The real answer was missing the version of himself that existed naturally.
The version that didn't have to stop and translate every thought before speaking.
The version that didn't feel stupid.
But the breaking point came that night.
Not because anything bad happened, but because nothing bad happened.
The team was sitting in a hotel lobby after dinner.
Players sprawled across couches and chairs.
Phones out.
Snacks open.
People talking.
Somebody asked a question.
Igor never figured out who.
"What was your favorite childhood memory?"
The answers started immediately.
Street hockey.
Family vacations.
Fishing trips.
Broken windows.
Lost teeth.
Stories flew around the room.
Each one funnier than the last.
Everybody building on everybody else's answers.
And Igor had one.
A really good one.
One his grandfather used to tell.
One that still made him laugh every time he thought about it.
He knew exactly how to tell it.
Exactly where the funny parts were.
Exactly how his grandfather would've delivered the punchline.
The story existed perfectly in his head.
The problem was that it existed in Russian.
By the time he'd translated the beginning, somebody else was already talking.
By the time he'd translated the middle, everyone was laughing at another story.
By the time he'd translated the ending, the conversation had moved on completely.
"So what about you, Igor?"
The question landed suddenly.
Unexpectedly.
Everybody looked at him.
Waiting.
Patient.
Friendly.
Interested.
And somehow that made it worse.
Because they were giving him a chance.
A real one.
And he couldn't take it.
His mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
"I don't know."
That was all.
Three words.
The conversation continued.
Nobody thought twice about it.
Why would they?
But Igor sat there feeling something in his chest sink.
Because he did know.
He knew exactly what he wanted to say.
And nobody would ever hear it.
The conversation continued around him.
Nobody noticed anything was wrong.
Why would they?
As far as everyone else was concerned, Igor was quiet. Igor had always been quiet. Igor shrugged and gave short answers and smiled a lot and mostly listened while everyone else talked.
The fact that none of that was actually true somehow made it worse.
A few minutes later somebody started a card game.
Another group moved toward the elevators.
The lobby slowly began breaking apart into smaller conversations.
Igor sat through maybe ten more minutes before he couldn't do it anymore.
Not because anybody was bothering him.
Not because anybody had done anything wrong.
He was just tired.
Tired of translating.
Tired of trying.
Tired of feeling like every conversation happened half a second too fast.
Eventually he stood.
Nobody stopped him.
Nobody thought anything of it.
"Night."
A couple players waved.
"Night, Igor."
"See ya."
"Later."
He forced a smile.
Then headed upstairs.
His room was dark when he stepped inside.
His roommate, Michael Misa, hadn't come back yet.
For a moment Igor just stood there.
The silence felt strange after spending the entire evening surrounded by people.
Without really thinking about it, he grabbed his phone.
Mom.
The contact sat at the top of his recent calls.
He pressed it.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four.
No answer.
Igor frowned.
Then checked the time.
5:07 PM.
San Jose.
His stomach immediately sank.
Moscow.
Four in the morning.
"Idiot."
He dropped his head back against the wall.
Of course nobody answered.
His mother was asleep.
His father was asleep.
His grandparents were asleep.
His friends were asleep.
The entire country was probably asleep.
For a second he considered sending a text.
Then decided against it.
What was he supposed to write?
Hi Mom. I miss being able to talk.
Hi Mom. I forgot how to be myself.
Hi Mom. Everyone here is nice and I still feel lonely.
None of those sounded particularly reasonable.
So he locked his phone and shoved it back into his pocket.
Suddenly, the hotel room suddenly felt too small, too quiet, too empty.
Igor lasted maybe two minutes before leaving again.
The automatic doors slid open as he stepped outside.
The evening air was cool.
A few cars moved through the parking lot.
Traffic rolled steadily along the road beyond it.
The distant hum of tires on pavement filled the silence.
Igor sat down on a curb near the edge of the lot.
Pulled his sleeves over his hands, and watched cars pass.
One after another.
One after another.
One after another.
Inside the hotel, nearly forty minutes later, Yaroslav Askarov finally realized something.
"Where's Igor?"
Nobody looked up.
"Room maybe?"
"He leave?"
"Thought he went upstairs."
Askarov frowned.
Because he'd known Igor long enough to recognize a disappearing act when he saw one.
The goalie set down his cards.
"I'll be back."
It didn't take long to find him.
A Russian hockey player sitting alone outside a hotel wasn't exactly difficult to spot.
Askarov pushed through the doors.
The evening air hit him immediately.
Igor was exactly where he'd expected.
Sitting on the curb.
Looking at absolutely nothing.
Or maybe everything.
With Igor it was often hard to tell.
For a second Askarov just watched him.
Then walked over.
"Hey."
Igor looked up.
Blinking like he'd forgotten other people existed.
"We're starting card game inside, want to join?"
The words hung in the air.
Igor stared at him.
Not blankly.
Just processing.
Askarov recognized the look immediately.
He'd worn that same expression himself years ago.
The one where you knew the words.
Understood the sentence.
But your brain still needed an extra second to put everything together.
So before Igor could even answer, Askarov switched languages.
"Мы скоро будем играть в карты — если хочешь, присоединяйся." We're about to play cards. If you want, come join us.
Relief flickered across Igor's face so quickly most people would've missed it.
"Я просто здесь побуду, но всё равно спасибо." I'm just going to stay here for a bit, but thanks anyway.
Askarov paused.
Then sat beside him, thinking about how that was probably the most he'd heard Igor speak in weeks.
For a while neither of them said anything.
Cars rolled past.
Headlights swept across the parking lot.
The automatic hotel doors opened and closed behind them.
Somewhere in the distance somebody honked.
The silence wasn't awkward.
Not yet.
Just quiet.
Comfortable.
At least for Askarov.
Eventually he glanced sideways.
"Ты как?" How are you?
The response came too quickly.
Almost before the question finished.
"Да нормально всё, в порядке... Просто зашиваюсь. Сезон хоккейный сам понимаешь, навалилось всё." Oh, everything's fine, I'm okay... Just busy. Hockey season, you know how it is, everything piling up.
Askarov hummed.
Nothing more.
Just:
"Hm."
Because it was a lie.
An obvious one.
The kind people tell when they don't really want to answer.
And Askarov knew enough not to push immediately.
So he let the silence return, but unfortunately, Igor hated silence. Or maybe he hated what happened when people sat quietly long enough.
So he suddenly felt compelled to fill it, which only made things worse him.
"нормально потренили сегодня" Practice was good today.
Askarov nodded.
"Да." Yeah.
"И завтра опять выезд." And we travel again tomorrow.
Asky hummed in response, followed by another silence.
"Мне домой надо позвонить." I need to call home.
"Нормальная тема." That sounds good.
"Набрал уже, но забыл про разницу во времени… Там типа четыре утра сейчас." I already tried calling, but I forgot about the time difference… It's like 4 a.m. there right now
A slightly longer silence.
"Mom is asleep."
Askarov glanced over.
English, not Russian.
Interesting.
Like Igor had unconsciously slipped back into work mode.
Back into translating.
Back into simplifying himself.
The goalie didn't say anything.
Just waited.
And somehow that seemed to make Igor dig himself deeper.
"Everyone fine."
"That's good."
"And team is good."
"Yes."
"And city is nice."
Now Askarov looked at him.
Because that sentence wasn't answering anything anymore.
It was just listing things.
Things that sounded positive.
Things that sounded normal.
Things that sounded like someone trying very hard not to talk about what was actually bothering them.
Igor stared at the pavement.
His shoulders slightly hunched.
Hands hidden inside his sleeves.
Looking for all the world like a kid who'd been carrying something heavy for far too long.
And Askarov found himself thinking that maybe this conversation wasn't really about hockey at all.
The thought sat there for a moment.
Then another.
Then finally:
"Тебе помочь с английским?"
Do you need help with English?
The reaction was immediate.
Igor's head snapped up.
His shoulders stiffened.
And for the first time all evening there was actual emotion in his face.
Offense.
Sharp.
Instant.
"Я не тупой." I'm not slow.
It was fast, and defensive. And angry.
Askarov blinked.
Taken completely off guard.
"Что?" What?
"Я не глупый." I'm not stupid.
"Я не говорил—" I didn't say—
"Я не глупый." I'm not stupid.
The goalie straightened slightly.
"Это не то, что я—" That's not what I—
"Нет, нет." No, no.
The anger vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared.
Like a wave crashing and immediately pulling back.
Igor rubbed a hand over his face.
"Нет, я знаю." No, I know.
His voice was quieter now.
Smaller.
"I'm sorry."
The apology sounded genuine.
Which somehow made it worse.
Because now Askarov wasn't confused anymore.
Now he was concerned.
Igor stared at the pavement.
At his shoes.
Anywhere except at another person.
"Просто..." It's just...
The words stalled.
He swallowed.
Tried again.
"Просто английский..." It's just that English is...
Nothing.
The sentence died.
He knew what he wanted to say.
Askarov could see it happening.
Could practically watch Igor searching for words even though they were speaking his native language now.
"Просто..." It's just...
Another failed start.
The silence stretched.
And suddenly Askarov realized something.
Igor wasn't frustrated.
He wasn't annoyed.
He was dangerously close to crying.
The realization hit hard enough that the goalie actually froze.
Because this wasn't the quiet, easygoing version of Igor everybody knew.
This was something else.
Something exhausted.
Something worn down.
Something that looked like it'd been carrying too much for too long.
And apparently all it had taken was one badly phrased question for the cracks to start showing.
Igor laughed.
A short, miserable sound.
The kind that wasn't actually laughter.
"Не знаю." I don't know.
His voice cracked slightly.
Just enough.
"Я просто..." I just...
Another pause.
Then finally:
"Я бы хотел быть умнее." I wish I was smarter.
For a second Askarov genuinely thought he'd misheard him.
"Что?" What?
Igor shrugged.
A tiny movement.
Barely there.
Still refusing to look up.
"Я бы хотел быть умнее." I wish I was smarter.
"Игорь." Igor.
"Я медленный, да?" I'm slow, aren't I?
Askarov stared.
Because of all the things he'd expected to hear tonight, that wasn't one of them.
Not even close.
"Игорь, ты—" Igor, you're—
"Я знаю хоккей." I know hockey.
The words tumbled out before Askarov could finish.
"Я понимаю, что требуют тренеры." I know what coaches are asking.
"Я знаю." I know.
"Я понимаю, что говорят люди." I know what people are saying.
"Я знаю." I know.
"Я понимаю шутки." I know jokes.
The last one came out quieter.
"Я знаю истории." I know stories.
Askarov didn't say anything.
"Иногда я точно знаю, что хочу сказать." Sometimes I know exactly what I want to say.
Igor swallowed.
Hard.
"И потом..." And then...
His hand made a vague motion in front of him.
As if trying to grab something invisible.
"Не могу." I can't.
The words hung in the air.
Cars rolled past.
Headlights swept across the parking lot.
Somewhere behind them the hotel doors opened and closed.
Neither of them looked.
"Я знаю это по-русски." I know it in Russian.
Igor continued.
His voice cracked again.
"Я знаю каждое слово." I know every word.
Askarov felt something unpleasant twist in his chest.
Because now he understood.
Completely.
Not homesick.
Not hockey.
Not really.
Not even English.
Identity.
That was the problem.
"И потом кто-то спрашивает меня о чём-то, и я звучу как..." And then someone asks me something and I sound like...
He stopped himself.
Looked away.
Then finished anyway.
"Как будто я ребёнок." Like I'm a child.
Silence.
For the first time all night, Igor didn't rush to fill it.
Maybe because there was nothing left to hide.
Maybe because he was too tired.
Maybe because saying it out loud had taken everything out of him.
Askarov watched another car pull out of the parking lot.
Watched the red taillights disappear.
Then finally spoke.
Quietly.
"Могу я тебе кое-что сказать?" Can I tell you something?
Igor shrugged.
"Sure."
"Когда я впервые приехал в США..." When I first came to the US...
Askarov was already smiling.
"Я заказал куриный сэндвич." I ordered a chicken sandwich.
That finally got Igor to glance at him.
Confused.
"Ну?" So?
"Я хотел куриный сэндвич." I wanted a chicken sandwich.
A pause.
"Я случайно заказал, типа, пять." I accidentally ordered, like, five.
For the first time all evening, the corner of Igor's mouth twitched.
Just slightly.
"Я потратил тридцать долларов." I spent thirty dollars.
Now an actual tiny smile.
"Это не так уж плохо." That's not so bad.
"Становится хуже." It gets worse. Askarov added seriously.
"Я не знал, как их отменить." I didn't know how to cancel them.
Igor snorted.
And suddenly Askarov knew he had him.
Not fixed, not okay, but listening.
Which was a start.
Because the thing Igor didn't seem to understand yet was that every international player had gone through this.
Not exactly this.
Not the same details.
But the same feeling.
The same frustration.
The same loneliness.
The same terrifying fear that maybe the people around them only knew a fraction of who they really were.
And Askarov intended to make sure Igor understood that before the night was over.