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The pounding on the door had been going on for a while and showed no signs of letting up. Mrs. Nesbitt next door could be heard rustling around, probably poised between eavesdropping or nosing outside to start complaining.

“Marly, you bitch,” Ilya howled. He already sounded three sheets to the wind, which was saying something. “Come out, you stupid old cow. Come out, come out, come out.”

Cliff wrenched his door open, shirt half drenched from the haste in which he’d dressed. “Roz, what the fuck.”

“You have company?”

“Wha—it’s like, midnight.”

“So…”

“So I was about to go to sleep, you fucker.”

Ilya blinked slowly at him. For how much of a bastard he was on the ice, he could look surprisingly innocent sometimes—then he ruined it by opening his mouth. “Let’s go clubbing.”

“What? No.”

“Oh I see,” Ilya pouted. He was listing sideways, one hand braced on the door jamb like he was trying not to seem as plastered as he was. “Old man needs to sleep. Sleep when you are dead, yes? Tonight, we go out.”

Cliff was too baffled to even muster up the amount of irritation this deserved. He tried to peel the back of his shirt away from his neck, which was still slimy from remnant shampoo. “What’s the matter with you? Are you good?”

There was a brief pause, and then Ilya’s whole body became liquid as he twisted his neck to look up at Cliff and said, “Uggggggghhhhhhhhhhh, yes I am fine, you are so boring. Hurry up, let’s go. Night is young.”

The urge to pick him up by the scruff of the neck and shake him was growing by the minute. With great moral fortitude, Cliff resisted, and squinted at him instead. Rozanov didn’t look high; his pupils were fairly normal, and his face was faintly red—again, a little concerning in itself. Cliff had seen the kid go through a bottle of vodka like it was water. He’d dressed up a little: leather jacket, a henley that was open as far down as it could go. It dawned on him.

“Something happen with that girl of yours?” Cliff asked.

The subtle stiffening started at his neck and went down the spine to all his limbs; Cliff could see Ilya’s fingers twitch. But Ilya’s face was curving up into an easy smile. “What girl?”

“Man,” Cliff said, relaxing in understanding. “You should’ve just said.”

“Only girl I will have is the one I will fuck at the club tonight. I am not picky.”

Looking down at the defiance in his eyes, Cliff was reminded of how young he was. There was something brittle and dangerous in Ilya’s expression, through the looseness of the alcohol. Maybe it was the first time he’d gotten in the deep end, and he was having trouble climbing out. The first time was always a sucker. Aw, hell; Cliff could feel the sympathy creeping up on him despite his better judgement.

The door on the other side creaked open, and Mrs. Nesbitt’s beak nosed out to peer reproachfully at them. “Just what kind of racket do you boys think you’re making this late at night?”

“Oh?” Ilya said, straightening up. He’d dialed the grin up to eleven, which tended to have a devastating effect on anyone who didn’t actually know him. “I’m very sorry ma’am. I am just trying to take my friend out; I did not intend to disturb a beautiful lady from her rest.”

Mrs. Nesbitt went a bit red, and Cliff felt a headache coming on. “There’s no need for all that nonsense. Just keep it down,” she said gruffly.

“Sorry Mrs. N,” Cliff muttered. 

“We will be very quiet,” Ilya promised, and dropped his eyes to the floor demurely. “I am sorry I was too enthusiastic; you see, Marly is my very good friend, one of my only friends in this country…”

Cheeky bastard. “We went out last week, boy,” Cliff said. “And I see your ugly mug every other day. Any more than that, we might actually kill each other.”

Ilya wasn’t paying attention to him anymore; he’d fixed his stare on Mrs. N, who was visibly folding under it. “I came here alone when I was younger…”

Cliff sighed. “Jesus Christ, let me get my jacket.”

“I am sorry for him,” he heard being whispered as he turned from the door. “He is alone with only his computer for company, you see what I am saying?”

Mrs. Nesbitt made a tutting sound. “I always knew he was going to the bad.”

“You fucker,” said Cliff.

***

The bass in the club was an enveloping embrace; all of a sudden, the lights were gone, the pulse of the music roared, and Ilya finally felt the noise in his head settle down a little, knowing he was just one more stranger in a crowd.

The nice thing about Marly was that he wasn’t one to pry, even if he did make the occasional bitchy comment at Ilya for being a romantic. Like the idiot knew anything about romance. They’d spent the cab ride to Seaport heckling each other, talking about the game they’d just won. That victory was still sweet on Ilya’s tongue, even if it came with a bitter tinge at the end. He didn’t want to think too much about it. That was the whole point of this endeavour.

It could’ve been a night like any one of a thousand Ilya had spent in the city, getting drunk, going dancing, going home with the aftertaste of flavoured lip gloss smeared on his chin—except just as they entered the club, Marly slapped a paw onto Ilya’s shoulder and shouted over the noise, “Take it easy tonight, Roz,”—which of course immediately made Ilya bristle.

“What?” Ilya squinted up at him, pretending not to hear.

Marly just shrugged. “Don’t start anything you’re gonna regret.”

“Going to—what are you, my nanny?” 

“You know what I mean, kid.” He had a slightly constipated expression, which Ilya figured meant he was trying to look wise and paternal, which was worth a chuckle in itself. “Go forth and conquer.”

“I’m your captain, asshole,” Ilya said.

“Not here you ain’t,” Cliff grinned, and Ilya waved him off with a finger as he loped through the crowd towards the bar.

Ilya, being the wiser, had already wiped down a few glasses of Belaya, and sunk immediately with relief into the mass of dancers on the floor. His muscles were still sore but post-game adrenaline always took longer to burn out of him, win or lose, and he could already feel interested looks passing over him, good citizens of Boston who’d no doubt be eager to relieve him of pent-up energy.

Unlike the other option, which felt like pulling teeth sometimes.

Ilya shook his head hard and ran his hand through his hair. Idiot, he thought. Look at the girl making eyes at you, green dress slit up to her hip. Why not her? Her hair was short and curly, doe eyes framed in glittering ink. She looked a little like Svetlana.

Ah, Svetlana. She’d texted him the other night; she would have come to visit, except that the snowstorm had cancelled half the flights in. Ilya mourned the missed opportunity a little, but not so much. These days, Svetlana always had a queer expression in her eye when she looked at him. She knew a little too much about his life, and she wasn’t afraid of his silences.

Another body leaned against his; a man, this time. Lovely dark skin and dark eyes blinking up at him, sultry. A friendly hand crept up his shoulder and reached for his necklace; without thinking, Ilya gently took the cross and pulled it back, until it slid backwards into the neck of his shirt under his jacket.

The man pouted and slipped away.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pushing his hands over his eyes. Stop thinking, Ilya. Was the liquor not enough? Where was Marly and the bar?

As one song ended, there was a brief lull of disorientation in the club. Everyone in these places relied on the rhythm of the music to keep upright; without a beat, people started tripping and pushing into each other, packed in so tightly they swayed as one. Ilya turned blindly, trying to see over the crowd. He should’ve left the jacket at home.

Someone knocked into him, and his arms opened automatically. There were hands pushing clumsily at his chest, a shoulder stumbled into his collarbone, and a dense, lithe frame tucked neatly into Ilya’s grasp, and Ilya blinked through the strobe lights. A polite—“Jesus, I’m so sorry about that,”—as the man twisted in his arms, trying futilely to disentangle himself—and then, as a light passed over them briefly, he saw big brown eyes staring at him in shock, mouth open in an ‘O’ of dismay, pale skin and brown dots dusted across a cheekbone. Ilya felt his heart lurch once, twice, and his hands spasmed and twisted into the span of waist that had fallen so thoughtfully within his reach.

In that state of blind panic Ilya said something; he had no idea what, and he was glad it was lost in the roar of the crowd. But Hollander was looking at his lips. He was always doing that. Those sweet eyes pulled up towards his face, finally—it took longer when Ilya didn’t tilt his chin up himself, pushing against his shyness—and met his with a sigh.

Hollander was sighing. What? Something in his face settled and seemed to relax. The grip on Ilya’s shirt was loosening; he was pulling back. In confusion, Ilya hitched him closer. This wasn’t how these things were supposed to go.

“That’s one hell of a trip,” Hollander murmured. And then he actually smiled, and Ilya knew something was fucked.

***

It wasn’t like Hayden was allergic to feelings or anything, but this situation with Shane was proving to be trickier than expected. The trouble was he’d never been the most delicate person, but he hadn’t exactly gotten any negative reinforcement to improve his behavior. Like, half the team communicated in cussing and grunts, and his proposal to Jackie, the only thing in his life that had required actual finesse, had ended in a tray of appetizers smeared across her dress—but in a fit of psychosis she’d still said yes.

He’d been the one to realize this particular issue with Shane, though, so now this was him doing something about it.

“We should be doing massage therapy right now,” Shane was complaining, heedless of Hayden’s attempts to herd him down the line of bars along the waterfront. He looked ridiculous in his puffer coat, but Hayden had had to resort to trickery to get him to leave the hotel at all. He hoped the three little dollar signs next to the Google reviews of the place meant they had a coat check. “Where the heck are we going? It’s like fifteen degrees out.”

“We’re Canadian,” Hayden said. “Stop complaining. This is the first free day we’ve had all season, and we’re going to do something fun.”

“I was having fun at the hotel. Or, you know, any other place with a cover to stop the fucking snowpocalypse coming down on our heads.” Shane plucked at Hayden’s much more stylish jacket with his finger. “Dude, you’re fully gonna to get hypothermia. Coach is gonna kill you. Here, take my beanie.”

“Hey look, we’re here—stop with the fuckin’ beanie—look!”

Shane stopped in his tracks. “Nope.”

The queue wasn’t nearly as long as Hayden had anticipated; probably because no one with any sense would be content waiting outside. Anyway, Shane was big enough in Boston that his face might be known in the VIP line.

“Oh yes.”

“Oh no. I’m using my presidential veto.”

“Since when the fuck do you get that?”

“Since I got a jersey with a fucking ‘C’ on it, that’s when.”

“Being captain doesn’t mean you get to opt out of fun activities.”

“No, but it does mean I can pull rank, asshole. I ain’t going.”

Shane was stronger than Hayden, but the puffer jacket was working against him; he couldn’t get his arms fully around Hayden’s torso as he was towed towards the entrance. They were starting to get weird looks on the street.

“We’re going dancing,” Hayden shouted, sliding on the snow. It really was coming down; his fingers were starting to go numb.

“What the fuck is happening,” Shane yelled.

With a combination of sliding and twisting, they managed to get through the door of the Royale. Hayden finally let Shane go but stayed leaning against him as convenient leverage; he was whole-body shivering with the sensation of heat flooding back to his extremities.

“Hayd,” came Shane’s Serious Voice. Shit. Hayden looked up at him. The solemnity of his expression was almost enough to counteract the baby face. “What’s going on?”

“I just wanted to help you let loose,” he said weakly.

“Seriously, no bullshit.”

Hayden straightened up. “Okay. No bullshit.” Damn, but he hated this shit. “Look, I know, man.”

“You know what?”

“I know… you got dumped.”

Shane looked confused. “Dude, I’ve seen Rose like twice. I don’t think we’re even dating.”

“Not Rose. The—whoever it is you text all the time.”

There was a flash of something across his face: it was an unsettling blankness that Hayden hadn’t really ever seen before. But he somehow knew in his gut that it meant Shane was about to lie to him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t hit me, okay?”

“I’m not going to—look, I haven’t been dumped. I’m not in a relationship with anyone.”

“Don’t hit me,” Hayden said grimly, “Because I’m about to say something that’s really gonna piss you off now.”

“Buddy,” Shane said, starting to look a little concerned; at least it meant the blankness was receding from his eyes. “Where is this going?”

“I made Jackie a food spreadsheet for you.”

Shane’s mouth opened and closed. He looked at Hayden like he’d lost his mind.

“No, listen,” Hayden insisted. “I made a chart of all your diets. You know how obsessed Jackie is about hosting—”

“She’s great at it,” Shane muttered, knee-jerk politeness.

“—so I kept track of your diets, and I made a list of foods you can eat, and then foods you think you have to eat but hate, and then foods you sometimes shouldn’t eat but obviously love.”

“Is this—going somewhere?” Shane said, baffled.

“So you can’t say I don’t know your diets. I know your diet, okay. I know your fucking diet. I have a cupboard full of quinoa solely for you, and I fucking hate quinoa.”

“I’m touched?” Shane waved his hands in confusion. “What the fuck is going on?”

“So when I say you’ve been eating less, I know what I’m talking about,” Hayden finished.

Shane gaped at him. Then his pale cheeks flushed red. One thing to say about Shane: he was absolute shit at hiding his real feelings in private. In front of the press, Hollander was cool, slightly dour, effortlessly PR-ready at all times—a manager’s wet dream. Now, though, Hayden was pretty sure ten years of friendship was about to end with two black eyes on his face.

“You—uh, you tend to eat a little less right after you break up with a girl,” Hayden added hesitantly. “Is what I’ve—what I’ve noticed.”

“Hayden.”

“You promised you wouldn’t hit me,” he said quickly.

“Hayden,” Shane said, and his voice was deadly cold. But he didn’t continue.

“I want you to be okay. I’m not saying shit about your game, or practice, or whatever. But you’re not okay right now, and I have no idea what’s going on, but. Uh. I just want you to be okay.”

Shane stared, and stared, and stared. And then he closed his eyes. “I need a fucking drink,” he said, and stormed into the club.

Hayden went into the antechamber until he saw a security guard pulling back closed a velvet rope, which had traces of snow over it, and sighed, digging out his wallet to pay the exorbitant cover charge. You goddamn idiot, he could hear Jackie saying in his head. That’s how you bring it up?

“Gimme a break, Jacks,” he muttered. “Is my nose broken? I call that a win.”

“Boy, you better be joking,” said the guard.

***

A seedy EDM rave bathroom wasn’t the worst place to have a breakdown—objectively speaking, the title holder for that was still the middle of Bell Centre when he jumped Hunter—but it also wasn’t ideal, considering Shane was currently trying to pretzel himself into an extremely narrow and worryingly sticky stall, over which random partygoers were draped around smoking illicit substances. He was also fucking boiling, although he’d already shed the puffer and shoved the beanie somewhere down a pocket.

He managed to slam the door close and the lock down, and then he put his head against the laminate and started counting his breaths. Jesus fucking Christ. Was he so messed up that Hayden of all people was coming to talk to him about it? Who else had noticed? Was there anything noticeable on camera? Had he gotten slower? Was that why they’d lost the game? Because Shane had met Rose Landry, and tried his best to fall in love with her, and nearly succeeded, and then he’d gotten one look at that black and gold jersey and everything else in his head turned into white noise?

He was such a fucking pussy.

The sickly sweet smell of vapes was almost more nauseating than his—the—regular cigarettes. Shane tried to breathe through his mouth. There was a lull of quiet as the group of smokers finally left the bathroom, and then just as he’d gotten his hopes up that he might be able to spend the rest of the night in peace, the volume rose again as a gaggle of high-pitched voices and clacking shoes entered the bathroom.

“Gross, is there anyone here?”

“Sasha, someone’s literally in the stall.”

The knock on his stall door startled Shane so badly he nearly fell backwards into the toilet. “Hello,” came an authoritative voice. “Hey, honey, you occupied in there? Mind if we use the mirror space? The woman’s bathroom’s packed to the fuckin’ gills right now.”

“Uh, that’s fine,” Shane said, wincing as his voice cracked. It was, in fact, not fine, but he wasn’t emotionally prepared to fight sorority girls on his night off in his—this—city.

“Huh. You crying in there?”

“Oh my god, Maya, don’t be rude.”

Shane hastily wiped at his eyes. “I’m just—uh—”

“You okay, honey? God, this place fuckin’ stinks. Hey, if you need some water or something, just holler, okay?”

“Sash, stop moving. Your mascara’s dripping down your fucking face.”

Shane decided the safest choice was silence, and he kicked down the lid of the toilet, resigned to sitting in his miserable little square until they left, and he could get out. Fuck Hayden anyway. What the fuck did he know? Him and his fucking quinoa. Fucking bullshit.

“Did you get dumped or something?”

“Sash, Christ, leave the guy alone.”

“Well, excuse me for caring. He sounds like he’s having a panic attack in there.”

“I’m okay,” Shane said tentatively.

“Hey,” came a voice somewhere by his feet, and Shane jumped about a foot in the air when he looked down and saw a glitter-covered face peeking up at him beneath the door gap. Jesus holy Christ. “I remember you! You’re parka guy. You came in with your friend—or boyfriend? You had a fight, right?”

“Maya.”

“He’s—no—uh—” Shane panicked. Fuck. They’d seen his face. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. Did they recognize him?

“Dude, you are way cute,” the girl named Maya said, and then there was another face peeking up at him from below, this one belonging to a blonde-haired girl with black spiky ink dripping down her eyes. “Did your boyfriend make you sad, parka guy?”

“You are cute, wow,” said presumably-Sasha. “God, don’t even cry over him, babe. So not worth it. I bet like half the people in this club would fuck you if you wanted. Actually, Ellie over here would do the trick if you wanted—you’re so her type.”

A pair of hands reached out and yanked the girls back by the scruff of the neck, to indignant howls. “Leave him alone, you psychopaths. Sorry about that.”

The privacy of his space utterly invaded, Shane resigned himself to slowly opening the stall door. Ellie—a pretty Asian girl with a sheet of sleek black hair—had maneuvered the other two back to the mirrors, and had a wet wipe poised across the blonde girl’s cheek. “I’m so sorry,” she said, glancing at him. “Don’t let us bother you.”

“Are you into redheads, baby?” glitter-girl said coyly, perching herself on top of the sink counter. She fluttered her eyes at him. “I could show you a good time.”

“Maya.”

“Um, no, thank you,” Shane said. He was so taken aback by their friendliness, he almost forgot to add, “And, uh, no, that wasn’t my boyfriend. He’s just—a friend.”

“Ooooo,” all three of them suddenly chorused, even Ellie, who turned her head to give him a knowing squint. “I see.”

“Do you?” Shane said helplessly.

“Yep. No worries. None of our business,” Ellie said firmly, and gave the other two a warning stare.

“Yes, it totally is,” Sasha argued. “He’s in the bathroom.”

“So what?”

“It’s like, an honor code. We have to assist in his journey.”

“We’re advisors on his quest,” Maya agreed. “We’re like, plot-driving NPCs. It’s the code.”

“It’s the fucking code, El,” Sasha said.

“Jesus,” Ellie said, and then turned to Shane and said, “You hung up on that friend of yours?”

“No,” Shane said. “What? No, I’m not—I’m not gay.”

The squint was really quite intimidating. “Uh. Huh. But you’re trying to get over someone, clearly.” 

“Uh,” Shane said weakly, unable to stem his verbal incontinence.

“Look,” Sasha said, clearly finding his contribution unnecessary to the conversation. “Forget them. You’re, like, mega hot. There are about three hundred other hot people out there on the floor, not even including us, who I bet would love to generate enough friction with you to survive this fucking snowstorm. Get out there and dance.”

“Maybe lose the flannel,” Ellie said thoughtfully, looking critically at Shane’s shirt.

“I’m not really good at dancing,” Shane said, starting to get invested despite himself.

“No one here is,” Ellie said. “If you turn off the music, everyone looks like eels wriggling against each other.”

“I’d like an eel,” Maya sighed. “I’d treat him nice.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Ellie said. “You always say—”

“Use him, abuse him, lose him,” they all said together, and they high-fived each other without looking. It was incredibly impressive.

“Oh, don’t look so scared, babe,” Sasha said. She was rifling around in her purse. “Here, I have something that might take the edge off.”

***

The one good thing about growing up in his father’s household is that Ilya had developed an unparalleled poker face over the years. So as his stomach tried to jump up his throat and his every instinct told him to pull Hollander closer—what else was Ilya supposed to do when Shane was looking at him like that?—Ilya managed to clear his throat, take a step back, and take a look at Hollander’s face.

“You are high,” he said, and that was legitimately worrying. What the fuck had he taken? Hollander was such a lightweight it could’ve been anything from a shot to one of the random tablets being passed through the room like candy. “What did you take? Are you okay?”

Hollander’s face flushed an even deeper red. Ilya’s fingers pressed white spots into his chin and his cheek. “I’m fine,” came a barely audible mumble. “What are you doing here?”

“What—What do you think? It’s a club. What are you doing here?” He wasn’t dressed for it at all; was that fucking plaid? Unbuttoned over a white t-shirt, like he was one of those woodcutters in the bad American movies people here liked to watch during Christmastime. But he looked—the heat of the room had everyone sweating, and the shirt was thin and barely translucent. His hair was slick and dripping a little. Snow from the outside? Hollander reached a hand up and tugged at the collar of his flannel, and wriggled around in Ilya’s grip, pulling himself out of the long sleeves until he dropped it carelessly on the ground. Ilya tried to catch it, but he was distracted. Who could fucking blame him.

Shane had gotten a finger into the crook of his shirt and he was yanking at that now too, like he was fully going to take it off.

“Ah, no, no,” Ilya said hastily, catching his hands. “Let’s go somewhere…” Shane was still trying to slip out, and the crowd was starting to jostle them again, so Ilya twisted his fingers through Hollander’s and led them through the swarm towards one of the curtained stairwells. The upstairs had a less populated bar and private alcoves.

Hollander followed him more or less obediently. A few times he tried to absent-mindedly pull his hand away, but still he went where Ilya wanted him. That was very worrying. They were fully in public, although it was dark enough that Ilya doubted anyone could really see them. But they were recognizable, himself especially in Boston, but also Shane, because. Well. Because of his dark eyes and the pout of his lower lip, and the strong breadth of his shoulders.

Maybe it was a mistake coming into the alcove.

“Let me get you some water,” Ilya murmured, leaning in closer to his ear to make himself heard. He saw the shiver pass down Hollander’s neck and the goosebumps rise on his freckled skin; he closed his eyes briefly for control.

“You didn’t text me.”

Ilya opened his eyes. Shane was looking at him balefully, but his voice was still soft and sweet. “I didn’t think you wanted me to.” His voice came out in a rasp, by comparison.

“Why would you think that?”

“You… you keep different company now, no?”

“What are you talking about?”

Ilya ran his tongue over his teeth. He felt a familiar heat rise up his throat; whether or not it was anger, he was less sure. “You are big in the tabloids these days.”

Hollander’s brow smoothed out. “Oh. Rose.”

“Rose,” Ilya repeated. Queen of the flowers.

“She’s nice. We’re not… oh. We’re not really together, though.”

Their fingers were still tangled together; slowly, slowly, Ilya tried to let him go. “Let me get you some water,” he said.

“You didn’t text me because you thought I was dating Rose?”

The air felt a bit thin. Maybe Ilya needed water, too. “No. I was just busy. Had plans already.”

“With who?” Shane seemed more awake all of a sudden; the furrow was back above the bridge of his nose, and his tone was cold. Was he—no, Ilya.

“Marleau,” Ilya muttered. “He came here with me.”

“You’re in your slut outfit.”

“I think you and I both know this is not my slut outfit,” Ilya reminded him, throwing in a leer for good measure.

“Marleau.” The perfect French accent. “Your teammate?”

“Yes, the big bear.”

“Oh,” Shane said, seeming to unwind again, and then he laughed suddenly, and there were creases along the corners of his eyes, and Ilya needed to get the fuck out of here before he started something he was going to regret, fuck you Marly.

“Let me get you some water,” he said again, and it sounded like begging. “Stay here.”

“Alright,” Shane said. The tendons of his white neck flexed as he tilted his head towards Ilya.

Ilya ducked out and leaned against the closest column he saw.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought to himself.

***

Leaning against the bar, Cliff surveyed the pulsing mass of the crowd and was forced to admit he really was starting to get too old for this shit. He’d never been into EDM except as workout music, and all it was doing now was giving him a headache. Shit, maybe Roz had been right.

Cliff wasn’t really the target customer for this kind of place, anyway. The Royale was the kind of place made for young, glittering things who didn’t believe in REM cycles. There was no doubt Ilya was one of them, but even when Cliff had been that age, he hadn’t been the type.

He tapped his bottle against the counter, wondering how long would be acceptable to stay before he could grab Roz and make his excuses. On the other hand, maybe he should grab Roz and make sure he got home okay. The more he thought about it, the more he was starting to get worried. Ilya had been wound all the way up for the past month, for some reason, but really it hadn’t just started there—it had started when he came back from Moscow at the end of summer. He was always tense after spending time with his family, Cliff knew; everyone on the team knew, as much as they knew talking about it was an invitation to get your ass kicked. Ilya was pretty good about keeping a leash on it; he was demanding enough in practice that changes in his mood didn’t really make a difference either way.

Still. You didn’t play with a guy for going on seven years without developing a little protective affection for him—like a bitchy street cat that always went claws-first for your balls that you still fed milk regardless.

Nice thing about being a head taller than the crowd was Cliff got a first-hand view of all the blowups and attempted clandestine activities tucked in the corners. People getting handsy, people passing around baggies. There was a guy in a full puffer coat trying to shove his way through the mass of people. He ducked away around a corner. A few moments later, another shaggy head came through the entrance of the club—and there was a face he knew.

It took him a moment, but he placed it finally: Number Five for Montreal. Hollander’s friend—Pike.

Ah, shit. They must’ve been stuck in the city because of the snow.

Cliff took a swig of beer and waded in. “Hey, Montreal,” he called, and sure enough, the brown head whipped around, and eyes narrowed at him in recognition.

“American Werewolf,” Pike said, nonsensically.

“The fuck?”

“I mean, Martin—Marleau? Seven, right?”

“Yeah,” Cliff agreed. “You guys stuck here an extra day?”

“The planes are all down,” Pike said. He was still frowning at him.

Cliff eyed him. He was about half Cliff’s size. If he tried to start anything, it wasn’t going to be a fight. “Look, pal, I’m here with Rozanov. We ain’t gonna have a problem, right?”

“Fuck.” Pike’s eyes were wide. Christ, but Cliff swore half the Metros looked like they were barely out of college. “Rozanov’s here? I gotta find Shane.”

“He was the parka, huh? Man, talk about fish outta water.”

Pike scowled at him and started to edge past, but Cliff tapped his shoulder. “Hey, keep your boy away from Roz. I don’t want to see any trouble tonight.”

“What are you, a chaperone? Why don’t you keep your boy away from Shane? Shane never starts fights.”

Cliff barked a laugh. “Maybe he never wins them, for sure.” As Pike bristled, he continued—“Look, it ain’t a good night to start shit, okay? Just—do me a favor, keep them away from each other.”

“Whatever, man,” Pike said, but there was some uncertainty in his voice. Cliff felt a little more confident; part of the reason Ilya started fights all the time was because he tended to win them. “We just came here to blow off some steam. Shane won’t do anything if Rozanov doesn’t.”

“Yeah, fair enough,” Cliff said distantly, scanning the heads of the crowd again, lips pursed. “Yeah. There’s no reason they’d get into it, right?”

***

It took a few minutes out of Rozanov’s presence for Shane to sober up again. It was the most fucking trite thing in the world, but being around him literally felt like being drugged sometimes; everything in Shane’s head just went sort of empty and quiet, like his subconscious knew there was only one important thing to pay attention to now.

In less hackneyed terms, Ilya made him fucking stupid.

Shit. He needed to get the hell out of here.

But he’d left his jacket somewhere in the woman’s restroom—“It’ll be safer there,” Maya had assured him—and now—where the hell had his flannel gone?

Shane got up, and sat back down again when an unexpected dizziness overtook him. Jesus, what the fuck had those girls given him? He blamed that for the shit he’d spouted about Rose. Christ, what had he been thinking.

No one had seemed to recognize him yet, but Shane wasn’t counting on it. And there was Marleau here, too. It might be safer to stay here until he lost the urge to kill Hayden.

Also, he thought reluctantly, Ilya had told him to stay.

He’d looked good. But then he always looked good. His curls were wild, he looked like he was ready for a wild night on the town. What had he been doing before Shane knocked into him? Dancing, he thought, dancing with pretty girls who’d pressed hands against his shoulders and pretty boys who ground their hips against the dip of his waist; those iliac crests that Shane loved to run his tongue over whenever he could.

Shane ran his fingers under the edges of his eyes, but they were dry. He felt hot all over, and miserable.

He didn't have the right to be, was the thing. He had no claim.

But Ilya had said—

Rozanov had ducked back in, and he was holding a cup of water, condensation beading over. “You feeling better?”

“I’m not high,” Shane said.

“Then you are drunk. You have the tolerance of an infant,” Rozanov said critically. “I cannot trust what you say right now.”

“Oh, you asshole.”

“Seriously?” Rozanov said. “I leave for three minutes and you are bitchy again? You were so sweet just now.”

“Whatever.”

“I brought you water and I found your shirt.” He passed over the folded flannel and somehow managed to fondle Shane’s entire forearm in the process. “I think you should say thank you.”

Shane glared at him and made a wordless noise of displeasure, unsure if the lingering wooziness was from what the girls had given him or just general Russian spillover. He could smell the sharp, clean scent of hard liquor off that leather jacket.

Rozanov tutted. “You are not dressed for this place.”

“Well, I wasn’t planning on coming here. Hayden brought me.”

“Unlike me in my slut outfit.”

“Okay,” Shane said, flushing. “Am I wrong?”

“This is what I wear normally.”

He bit back the automatic retort to that. “You always show your collarbones when you want to get laid,” emerged from his mouth, which wasn’t much better. “Or, like, your arms.”

Rozanov’s eyebrows were rising. “My collarbones.”

“You know, like the—tanks. And stuff.” Was it possible to drown himself in his water? “The…. V-necks.”

Rozanov was leaning closer; slowly, showily, he took off his jacket, and Shane watched, helpless in his orbit. “Yes? Continue. I would like to hear more about this.”

“Stop fishing.”

“Fishing?”

“Looking for compliments,” Shane muttered. The dim lights were making his vision hazy. “You know what you look like.”

“What do I look like?” There was a grin lurking around his mouth.

“Like an asshole,” Shane said in defeat.

“You look like…” Rozanov pretended to look thoughtful for a minute. Shane knew this was a trap; he held his breath anyway. “A wet cat.”

“Fuck you.”

“A very cute cat. But drenched. A kitten running in from a storm.”

“That would be on account of the actual storm happening outside right now.”

Ilya said something Shane didn’t understand, then he said, “Sweetheart,” and Shane just about stopped breathing. He’d gotten them in a corner without Shane realizing it. Damn snake. One of those beautiful arms was braced on the sofa behind Shane’s left shoulder. Was that the same shirt as when—

“Well?”

“What?” Shane said, distracted.

“You said ‘what a trip.” I want to know what you took.”

“Are we still on that?”

“Yes, we are. This is not like you.”

“Fuck off. You don’t know anything about me.”

An expression came and went too quickly from Rozanov’s face for Shane to catch it. “I know you do not much like drinking. You don’t like smoking. You do not like feeling out of control. So I am wondering, why would he come to a place he does not enjoy, and why did he leave his friend, and why is he now drunk and alone?” Then he asked the question Shane had been dreading. “And why did he think I was not real? That is what you meant, yes?”

Shane’s teeth ground together. He wanted to touch the edges of his eyes again to make sure his face wasn’t giving anything away, but it was probably a lost cause. “I’m not alone anymore, am I?” he said.

Ilya looked very solemn all of a sudden. He shook his head, but said nothing.

There was something a little off; the glint that always winked at him wasn’t there. Ilya’s necklace had gotten tangled and twisted backwards, and with shaking fingers Shane reached out and gently pulled on the chain until he reached the crucifix, and he brushed it with his fingertips until the golden cross was pressed against the hollow of Ilya’s lovely golden throat. “Thank you for the water,” he said, feeling asinine.

Ilya looked stricken. And, like a skeleton key in a lock, he leaned in and kissed Shane.

Every time, having Ilya touch him was like trying to predict a lightning strike in a storm. Tongues lashed, breath rose in humid pants, teeth flashed against his lip. Shane didn’t know what caused it; he only knew that he wanted it to hit him, again and again, even if it left him bleeding in the end. It felt desperate. No, that wasn’t right. Shane always felt desperate when he was around Ilya. It felt humbling. Even sitting down, his knees felt on the verge of buckling, so he decided to remedy this by clambering hastily into Ilya’s lap, and then he finally got his hands in those maddening curls. 

Ilya was murmuring something over and over in Russian as Shane leaned down to kiss the side of his neck. He ground down. Ilya’s jeans were loose, but not loose enough to hide the hard curve of his cock. “Stop, stop,” Shane finally heard, and leaned back. “Not good?” he panted.

“No, no,” Ilya’s chest heaved, his pale eyes bright in the dark, lips dark red and wet. He brushed Shane’s lip with his thumb; his other hand was in a death grip on the back of Shane’s neck. “You are not—not sober. Tell me what you took.”

Shane groaned in frustration. “I didn’t take anything. I met some girls and they gave me some snacks.”

“Snacks?” Ilya demanded, bewildered. “That’s it? What else?”

“I don’t know, some cocktails?”

“Did they put anything in them?”

“Uh… these little fizzy tablets.”

“Hollander,” Ilya said, abruptly furious. The mood shift was giving Shane a headache. “Why the fuck would you take something when you do not know what it is? You are so careful.”

“Well, maybe I don’t want to be careful all the time!” Shane shouted at him. “Maybe I just wanted a night off! You’re not my fucking mother.”

For a moment, it looked like Rozanov might hit him: his eyes were hard and glittering, and he looked as cold and imperious as he’d been that day in Sochi, when Shane had wondered if that was who he really was, underneath the seduction and the charm. The ice prince of Moscow, untouchable and bored.

Shane was sick of it, and sick of himself for wanting Ilya anyway. “Whatever,” he said, pushing himself upright. He stumbled a little, shoving away the hand that reached out to steady him. “Whatever.”

“Sit down. I will bring you some more water.”

“I’m going to dance. Might as well give Hayden what he wants.” Might as well make someone happy with Shane. No one was ever fucking satisfied with just Shane, were they?

“Sit down.” It was an order this time. “Stay here. What if someone sees you outside?”

“I’ve been told I’m not hideous,” Shane said roughly. “Maybe someone’ll fuck me, if you won’t.”

There were big hands on his wrists and he was being pushed against the wall. They were the same height but the way Rozanov looked at him made him feel small; he looked like he wanted to grind Shane’s bones into the bricks. He looked like he wanted to fuck him.

“You will stay here,” Rozanov said through his teeth. His R’s were slurring a little in anger. “You will wait for me.”

“Get your hands off me.”

“I will if you can convince me that’s what you want.”

“Get your filthy fucking hands off me.”

“I do not think I will, kotik. I think you need someone to tell you what to do. You listened to those girls well enough; now you listen to me.”

Shane didn’t push him off. He was paralyzed by rage and lust. “Leave me alone.”

His wrists were scraping against the wall; they were going to bruise. “Never,” Ilya spat.

He’d thought I was with Rose, Shane wondered.

***

As Hayden sulked over his whiskey in a corner, trying to avoid random sweaty people from rubbing up on him, he saw a gleam of brass-gold hair under the strobes.

Shiiiiit.

Yep, there he was: number Eighty-fucking-One. The curly-haired bastard himself. 

And for some reason, Rozanov looked pissed.

Hayden hesitated in indecision. He hated to admit it, but he wasn’t totally sure he could win if it came down to a brawl. Then he thought of Shane and approached him.

Waving his hands in front of Rozanov’s face had no effect whatsoever; the guy’s eyes passed over Hayden like he wasn’t even there, and he shouldered past without looking.

“Hey, hey,” Hayden stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. He was met with a stare of pure incredulity.

“What.”

“You—I’m. Pike. I’m with the Metros.”

“So what.”

“So what,” Hayden repeated, already irritated. “So nothing, I guess. I’m here with Shane, have you seen him around?”

A blank look. “Come on, dude, Hollander.”

“Ye-es,” Rozanov drawled in exaggerated enunciation. “Hollander, I know.”

“Forget it,” Hayden scowled.

“What happened? You two get into… lover’s quarrel, is what they call it?”

Son of a bitch. So he had seen him. “Where’s Shane?”

An elaborate shrug.

“Man, come on,” Hayden said, trying to suppress his temper. “I’m just trying to make sure he’s okay.“

“Is nice to have babysitter,” Rozanov sneered, “But I think Hollander is not interested. He said he wants to go dance.”

The bastard started flouncing off, and as Hayden stood there, trying to make the red recede from his vision, he suddenly turned around and said, “Go find Marly.”

“What?”

“Hollander took something. I don’t know what. He says some girls in a bathroom gave them.”

“Gave what?” Hayden demanded, alarmed.

“Pills in cocktails,” Rozanov said. His tone was casual, but a muscle in his jaw was ticking. “I don’t know. His eyes—pupils—were very big.”

“Holy shit.” Shane, what the fuck.

“Is not like him, yes? Go find them with Marly.”

“Marl—hey where are you going?”

“Dancing,” Rozanov called without looking back.

Marleau of the weird sideburns was still near the bar. “Boy, this is getting ridiculous,” he said to Hayden when they were in shouting distance. “I feel like we’re in a sitcom.”

“What did Rozanov tell you?” Hayden asked, stomach in knots. Boston and Montreal weren’t exactly on friendly terms. What if they started spouting shit about Shane dosing in seedy nightclubs? Jesus Christ, this was all his fault.

“Relax, guy,” Marleau said, grinning. “Let’s go get your Boy Scout clean and out before he pops his cherry on something else.”

“This is my fault,” Hayden insisted. “Oh my god. I can’t believe I pissed him off so much he took uppers from—from random club bathroom girls?!”

“Let’s go check it out.”

Marleau waded through the floor, Hayden trotting anxiously in his wake as he cleared a path for the both of them.

“What’s up with you two anyway?” Number Seven asked. “Fighting over a girl?”

“I’m married.”

“What, hockey?”

“Nah. Jeez. That all stays on the ice.” Hayden shook his head. “It’s like you said. It just ain’t a good night.”

“Yeah, that’s going around.”

“… Thanks for helping, though.”

“It’s cool. They’ll get over themselves.”

“You’re way too relaxed about this,” Hayden said.

“You’re young. You’ll grow out of it.”

“I got a kid, for your information.”

“Babies having babies,” the dark head nodded sagely. “Mazeltov.”

The occupants of the women’s bathroom all shrieked in a deafening chorus when Hayden and Marleau poked their heads in to politely inquire about any illicit substances that may have been making rounds through the floors.

“Look, we’re not trying to intrude,” Hayden said, and got a compact to the temple for his trouble. Marleau was fending off jabs from mascara wands with his hands. “Christ. Look! Our friend took something and we want to know if we need to take him to the fucking ER or not.”

“All I got is a blunt, babes,” someone called from inside a stall.

“We’re looking for a trio,” Marleau announced. “A blonde, a redhead, and a brunette. Any takers?”

“Oh, iconic,” said someone smoking a cigarette over the sink.

“Witchy,” someone else agreed.

“Whaddaya want with my coven?” came a voice behind them, and they both jumped. A black-haired girl with her hands on her hips was sizing them up impatiently. “Could you not block the door, please?”

“Are you—“

“Yeah, I heard the yapping. What’s up? You friends of the parka? Cause I gotta say, he wasn’t too happy when I saw him.”

“You don’t know what you’re—“

“Did you give him anything?” Marleau interrupted. “What was it? Molly? K?”

“What the hell are you talking about? Maya, Sash,” the girl yelled. “Get over here.”

“You weren’t the ones who gave it to him?”

“Oh sure,” a redhead popped up. “Are you talking about the brownies?”

***

Ilya was on the verge of losing it. The entire purpose of the night was bust. He’d come out to forget about a specific person and get laid, and now not only had that person appeared in front of him, he was also absolutely not getting laid tonight, never mind that the sense memory of what every inch of that body tasted like was imprinted in his stupid brain. His cock was about hard enough to hammer nails.

Those were, however, only problems two and three respectively. Problem number one had freckles that made Ilya go cross-eyed with lust, and he was currently missing.

Nobody besides Ilya seemed to understand that Hollander being polite and soft-spoken and quiet did not preclude the fact that he was a huge bitch. It was one of the things Ilya appreciated about him, besides his snap shot and his beautiful thighs. But no, it was always Ilya, why are you such a bad influence? Ilya, why can’t you hold your tongue? Never mind that Ilya was currently role-playing the Good Samaritan so hard they should’ve nominated him for the Nobel fucking Peace Prize.

Case in point: there was a neatly folded pile of clothes on the couch, shirt, flannel, pants and all. He supposed he was lucky Hollander hadn’t taken off his underwear as well, which was a thought that had never passed through Ilya’s mind thus far.

With all this there was only one place to go. There was a little tunnel you had to go through to get into the room at the top of the club; it was all damask and velvet, and there were indistinct figures in the folds of curtain, touching and kissing with slick wet noises.

He thought of Shane there, among them; Shane, there, with him. Pretty boy with sad eyes that made Ilya stupid. Ilya might go down to his knees for that boy, in this club full of strangers; he was sick of hotel rooms. Hollander would curse and fight, and his paranoia would keep them safe, but still—Ilya might offer.

It would never happen. But the force of his longing scared him.

A profile briefly visible in the flash of low light that came from an opening door: aquiline nose, proud chin. Lithe muscles under flawless skin. There was tension in the way he moved. He wasn’t comfortable here. He wasn’t alone. There was another man, barely dressed himself, leaning over that face.

Ilya sighed and felt phantom scabs over his knuckles.

“Got lost, huh?”

Hollander whipped his head around. His mouth was open in an ‘O’ again. He didn’t seem to know what to do.

“Got another drink,” he finally mumbled.

“We’re occupied,” the stranger said. He was handsome, in a generic way, and of no importance.

“No,” Ilya said easily. “My friend here is going home.”

“Hey, buddy, I got here first.”

Ilya tasted blood in his gums as he grinned. The man watched him uneasily; he seemed to realize he was outmatched, but still he didn’t move away.

“Leave me alone,” Shane said quietly.

“Oh? So this is your type?” Blood filling the back of his throat, eyes scarred over. Ilya could feel it all pulsing like a beautiful promise. Shane fucking Hollander. “Wow, good for you. You know what they do in this room?”

“Hey man,” the guy continued, but just as Ilya leaned in, Shane put a hand on his chest and moved away with him.

“Leave it,” he muttered, to the general audience. “Christ, just leave it.”

They moved back and back towards the exit, Ilya keeping his eyes on the retreating figure so he wouldn’t have to look at Hollander wearing nothing but his briefs. In the fucking Boston Royale, talking to men when he shoved Ilya away every chance he got. When Ilya saw Hayden Pike again it wasn’t going to be pretty.

Shane was still saying, “Leave it, leave it,” voice soft. And then—“Ilya.” And Ilya couldn’t look anywhere else.

“I will take you back to your hotel,” he said after a moment.

“I just wanted a break.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, trying to keep his voice low and soothing. He dug his nails into the meat of his palms. “But tomorrow you will regret not being so careful. Take care of yourself today. Please.”

“I wanted,” Shane began, and closed his eyes in frustration. “You’re right. I just.” He let out a harsh sigh.

What do you want, Ilya thought, tell me, anything you want, don’t you know I would get it for you, don’t you know, even in this terrible room, I would beg for you. Did he kiss you? I could do it better. Aloud, he said, “Please let me take you home.”

Wet eyes blinked at him. Shane visibly tried to pull himself together; he heaved a sigh and shook the tension from his shoulders. “To your penthouse mancave?”

“Man—you are also a man.”

“I’m not a slob.”

“We cannot all have a thousand and one pillows.”

“It’s tasteful.”

“I am not the one who wore a puff coat to a club.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Shane said, “It is hailing outside.”

“I should be clear,”  Ilya said, shrugging out of his jacket and throwing it on Shane. “You don’t need to find someone who wants to fuck you. I am here. However, because I have the soul of a saint, I am not going to today.”

Hollander went red. “A saint.”

“Yes. They will put my bones on display and make picture of me on the walls.”

“Canonization.”

“Da.”

“What if I begged?”

“You are so mean to me,” Ilya said sadly. He dug his nails in deep. “I think this is toxic relationship.”

“Oh, you think?”

Ilya thought he was pretty well fucking exhausted. “I think I am about to collapse. Taking care of you is like herding mule.”

“Okay, I don’t understand why you’re so hung up on this,” Shane said, looking genuinely confused. “Yes, I had a few drinks. But I swear, I swear, Ilya, I am not high. You don’t have to—to baby me like this.”

“Have you ever taken drugs before?”

“Not really, but some of the guys smoke blunts sometimes.”

“Then how would you know?”

“Because I just know! Do you want me to solve a math problem for you or something?”

Ilya frowned. “You said those people gave you some things. Then what did they give you?”

***

“What?”

“Brownies,” the girl repeated.

“Wait, what?” Hayden said.

“Holy shit.” Marleau was laughing, hands over his eyes. “No fucking way.”

“A weed brownie?” Hayden said. “You’re telling me you brought weed brownies to a rave? In your fucking purse?”

“No, Officer Krupke, they’re regular brownies. I have low blood sugar.”

“Oh my god,” Marleau said. There were tears coming out of his eyes. “I can’t.”

“You’re telling me you just gave my friend a regular brownie and he—and he—went off like he was fucking high?” Hayden sputtered.

“I mean, we also got a lot of cocktails,” the redhead said. “I love me a marg.”

“I’m a great baker,” Sasha said. “My brownies are fucking excellent.”

“What about the pills?”

“What, the seltzer tablets?”

“You’re absolutely fucking bullshitting me. His pupils were dilated!”

“It’s a nightclub, you idiot,” Ellie said. “It’s dark.”

“Or, maybe he met someone cute,” Maya offered. “Oo, did he meet someone cute? That’s what we told him to do.”

Marleau started hiccuping. Hayden resisted the urge to punch him in the face.

“He’s too cute for you,” Sasha said, looking Hayden up and down. Then she glanced at Marleau. “You, on the other hand…”

Hayden put his head in his hands. Had Rozanov been bullshitting him, the fucker? No, surely, he’d seemed actually serious for once. “Okay, we gotta go.”

“Go where? Sounds like Hollander’s fine, and Roz can handle himself. Whatever, let’s just leave them to it.”

“He’s upset,” Hayden snapped. “I brought him here to get his mind off—shit, you know what, do whatever you want.”

“I think I will,” Marleau drawled. He was looking back at Sasha.

My fucking life, thought Hayden, yanking his phone out and tapping Find My Friends.

***

“You’re right,” Shane said, fully clothed again and recovered from his brief fit of psychosis. The strobe lights were oddly sobering coming downstairs from the dark room. “I’m gonna want to kill myself in the morning when I remember all this.”

There was a sudden tightening to the point of pain—Rozanov’s grip had gone white-knuckled. But Ilya’s expression was remote and cool. “Please do not say this,” he said calmly.

“Sorry. It’s just a joke.”

Ilya sighed.

“Well, let’s hope my jacket’s still there.”

Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeeep.

What the heck? They both patted themselves down until Shane unearthed his phone. Oh, Jesus.

“HOLLANDER.”

Hayden charged up the stairs, holding his phone aloft, heaving with breath and spitting mad. “Are you alive? Are you okay? You fucking asshole, I thought you were on the verge of an OD.” This part was half-directed at Ilya.

“Geez, Hayd, it’s all good. I just had a few drinks.” Shane held his hands up placatingly, feeling wrong-footed. How had the tables turned? “Sorry, look, I just needed some space.”

“And what are you doing with him?” This demanded of Rozanov.

Ilya’s face had gone back into his default setting, his smirk coolly indifferent. “I help him find his clothes.”

“Oh you mean this?” Hayden said, chucking the puffer jacket at Shane’s head. “Okay. Playdate over. Time to go home, kids.”

Shane shrugged on the coat. He felt all the awkwardness rushing back to him now that Hayden was there, and he felt a little bad wishing that he’d go away, so Shane could just stand with Ilya a little longer, get one more look at him without being worried about other people watching. It would be two months before they had the chance to see each other again.

“Thanks for your help,” he stuttered.

Ilya just shrugged. His hands were tucked in his pockets and his jacket was slung through the crook of an elbow: the picture of insouciance.

“See you at the All-Stars,” Shane finally said, apropos of nothing, and tried not to look back as he followed Hayden down and out.

The cold sobered him up completely. Hayden was wearing completely impractical loafers, and he skidded a little over the snow, yanking at Shane’s arm to steady himself.

They wobbled, arm in arm like kindergarteners, in a dead silence down the street towards the Uber stand. One block. Two blocks. Three.

“So maybe this wasn’t the best idea,” Hayden began, and Shane started laughing hysterically, and then Hayden started giggling, and they both clutched each other trying not to collapse into the snowbank beside the filthy, clogged up storm drain on the edge of the sidewalk.

“You stupid motherfucker,” Shane wheezed.

“Hey, what was the point of putting seltzer tablets in alcohol? Did it enhance the flavor or something? Genuinely curious.”

“I’m going to be so mad at you tomorrow.”

“I know,” Hayden said, “But it was this or bowling, and the closest alley was closed for the night.”

“And you can keep your mouth shut about my fucking diet. Jesus.”

“Uh, we’ll revisit that.”

“And I wasn’t dumped.” Hayden made a disbelieving sound. “No, seriously, I wasn’t.”

“Alright.”

“Good.”

“Fine.”

What a fucking day, he heard in Ilya’s voice. It made him smile.

“Let’s never come to this fucking club ever again.”

“You know, Hayden,” Shane said, looking up at the snowfall. Some flakes drifted down and landed on the tips of his eyelashes, and when he closed his lids he felt the water melt and slide in wet streaks down his chin. “I might not be okay.”

“I know, buddy,” said Hayden. He reached over and pulled the beanie out from Shane’s coat pocket, and jammed it down on his own head. “Let’s go home. I really am gonna get fucking hypothermia.”

***

Maybe clubs could be his thing again, Cliff thought smugly, trying (not very hard) to wipe the lipstick off his face. He sidled up to Ilya, who was staring off into space, his hands in his pockets. He looked wholly different from the beginning of the night.

“Guess you sobered up too, huh?” Cliff elbowed him gently.

A grim smile. “Weren’t you supposed to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid?” Ilya asked bitterly.

“What’d you do?” Cliff asked patiently, not expecting a response. Sure enough, there was nothing but that blank stare again. “Nice of you, what you did for Hollander.”

“Hm.”

Cliff had known Ilya for a long time. He knew how he took his coffee, how badly he drove, what parts of his body acted up sometimes from old injuries and strains. He knew to keep inquiries after Ilya’s father brief, and his mother nonexistent. He knew what kinds of people Ilya tended to give the once over in bars; icy blondes, leggy brunettes. Brown eyes. Toned arms. Freckles.

He’d never seen Ilya as he’d been an hour ago, fingers digging into Cliff’s bicep, voice urgent. There’s something wrong with Hollander, Marly. Can you help?

There was a shot Cliff could take. But he didn’t. His captain hadn’t told him to, so it was none of his business, nor anyone else’s. But Ilya was going to have to do something about his Montreal girl sooner or later; you could see it building up in him, the tension, the misery, the desire. He was just a keg waiting to blow.

But there was no point talking to him about it. Ilya would just pick a fight with you until you forgot all about it. Cliff was wise to his tricks.

“It’s gonna work out, Roz,” Cliff said finally. “And hey, if it doesn’t, there’s always hockey. If you can improve your backhand, that is.”

“Go fuck yourself, Marly,” Ilya said, hiding his smile.

***

When Ilya was younger, his father took him and Alexei hunting, just the once, through the estate. Grigori didn’t have a particular appetite for it himself, but it was another one of those things he could use to find a flaw, another thing he could criticise in his sons. See how well that turned out; Ilya might as well have made twice as many mistakes in the last decade, since it wasn’t as though his father remembered any of it anymore.

He’d been eleven or twelve at most, running through the forest after his brother and father. He’d been slower, and they got separated by some distance. He was still scared of the woods at the age, but when his mother comforted him his father would grow colder and colder, so she’d had to stop. Ilya stuck close to the trees, clutching his rifle, keeping quiet. Even in spring the foliage was dense enough that sunlight barely filtered down to the floor, and the stillness felt dangerous to disturb. Then a rustling.

It was the first time he’d seen a deer so close. He was small enough that maybe he didn’t seem like a threat, because the doe nosed through the moss towards him, totally ignoring his presence. Her ears looked soft and sleek and her tail twitched in her wake. Her dark brown eyes were pure and guileless.

Ten years later Ilya couldn’t tell you what happened after. The doe had gone away, and he’d heard shots, but his father didn’t bring any game back to the house when Ilya rejoined them. All he could remember was how he felt staring at the deer, silent, watchful, frozen in place with anxiety and fear for the future, fear for death and the inevitable. All he could say was that there had been frost on the moss even in April. Sometimes it felt like he’d never stopped being twelve.

He wondered if he would ever be able to tell the person he loved about it.

See you at the All-Stars, he typed in the text box, and pressed send.