Imagine you're ilya rozanov and you bury your feelings because it's been more than a decade since anyone cared enough to ask you how you are
You throw yourself into hockey in a wholly new way at 12 years old because your mother used to watch you play, because it can get violent sometimes and you need that, you're carrying so much rage
You discover sex at 14 and it's a different kind of escape. It feels like rebellion. It's nice to feel something other than rage and sadness. You crave feeling wanted. You crave the temporary reprieve of loose limbs and heaving breaths.
You crave never having to be alone whilst simultaneously never being known. You may never be ready to talk about any of this.
And then you realize you like boys too, and that's more sex, but this time there's a dangerous edge. It's rebellion and risk and freedom and maybe some downright stupidity.
You've never wanted to die. Not really. But there have been many times you didn't want to live.
But then the momentum shifts and hockey isn't just an escape from grief but an escape route out of Russia and away from the bleeding remnants of your fucked up family
It's a good thing you're good at it. But you need to be the best. So that not a team in the world would turn you down. So you can get the fuck out.
You fuck, and you fight, and you play your way into a whole new life.
Your father calls you a traitor. He says you should be ashamed. And you're ashamed of a great many things but not the ones he wants you to be.
Your brother says they're all better off without you. That you abandoned the family. You think he doesn't understand the meaning of the word.
And then you develop a pointless little crush on a freckle faced prodigy that may be the only one in the whole world that can stand toe to toe against you.
He has a loving home and a strong sense of morality. He's in this for the love of the game. He eats, sleeps, lives, breathes hockey in a way you sometimes envy. You wished you could still love it that way, like you did when your mother was in the crowd.
And maybe if you just touch him. Just get this whole thing out of your system, get the upper hand. You want to challenge him in wholly new ways and want to rile him up because you can only imagine how he'd respond.
He sees you as a cocky, self-assured bastard who needs to chirp his way through life. That's fair. That's all you've shown him.
But you're unravelling at the seams. You fucked and fucked and fucked, and he's still there under your skin.
No one else will do.
He has somehow become your entire fucking world and you chased him straight into the arms of another. It was the one and only time you dared to get closer.
But of course he didn't want you. Who would?











