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Ilya isn’t sure just how long he sits there, with the remanence of Shane still on his stomach.
He stares blankly ahead, feeling helpless, feeling rejected, feeling raw.
He left.
In Ilya’s shirt.
In Ilya’s pants.
His Rick Owen’s pants.
Fuck.
Ilya can’t believe it. Can’t believe he let himself get carried away like this. Let him self work up the courage to ask Shane to stay, let himself remember the type of drink Shane preferred and fill his fridge with so many cans. Let himself look for the ingredients to something light that would align with his micro biotic diet.
Ugh, tuna melt?? Who does that!!
It was the ginger ale wasn’t it. It had to be. Ilya was so proud of himself for buying it and recalling this tiny fact he’s picked up over so many years. He kept insisting that he drink one, asked him if it was cold enough, watched him drink it.
He played house. Making lunch and washing dishes, and cuddling on the couch. Of course Shane got freaked out. Of course he ran away. Ilya was being weird and moving too fast, pushing the limit. Trying to make something out of nothing.
Nothing, fuck!
He lets his head fall back and rest on his couch with a sigh, staring up at his high ceiling trying to retrace where he went wrong. Was it asking about girls? He can admit he was being pushy, making irritating comments to try and pry Shane open. He wanted to figure out where he stood in Shane’s roster, if Shane even had a roster. He wanted to make his interest known and in his own mind-game cryptic way, let Shane know what this was. Let him know what it could be.
Or maybe it was his conversation with his father. Ilya knows Shane doesn’t understand Russian, but what if he slipped up and accidentally said something in English. He’s done it before, residing in North America for so long that his accent fades and words get jumbled in his mind. Did he say Alzheimer’s? No no he couldn’t have, he tries not to say the word around his father as it’ll just confuse him more.
What was it then? What did he do wrong?
The more Ilya questions himself, the more frustrated he became, turning regret into anger.
Who was Shane Hollander to just up and leave? In his clothes!
Ilya was a gracious host and an even better entertainer! His house was comfortable and cool! They napped together and he played hockey highlights. He even turned the temperature down on his thermostat because he read in a sports magazine that Shane runs hot, how much more welcoming could he be!
He questions the nature of their relationship. Maybe they weren’t as close as he thought, maybe it really was just sex between them and would never be more.
He hates how badly he wants it to be more.
As he gazes up, Ilya feels his eye’s prickle and his eyebrows furrow. A lump grows in his throat and he feels suddenly like he can’t breathe. His mouth twitches into a frown and his lip begins to quiver before raising his arm over his eyes and squeezing them shut. He won’t cry.
“Fuck.”
Ilya gets up and stands still for a second. Looking around at the aftermath of his afternoon, he wipes the wet spill on his stomach with napkins on his table. He picks up the two plates, looking at the bits of crust left on Shane’s, then gathers the cans of soda before heading to the kitchen. Ilya places the plates in the sink, suddenly feeling like smashing them, and throws away the cans.
He’s not sure what to do with himself, he planned his whole evening around Shane staying over and was now left feeling empty.
Ilya wanted to forget the feeling, forget every feeling.
Shane wasn’t worth it, he thought, if he wanted it to be over then fine. It’s over. Ilya won’t think twice about it. He adopts a new attitude and is filled with a sudden resolve to not care.
He won’t let this ruin his day, Shane doesn’t control him. No one does. No one can. He grabs his coat and keys and heads to the nearest store to buy a pack of cigarettes.
Take that Hollander.
The next morning Boston plays Montreal. It’s an event Ilya would usually look forward to, he loves playing Shane - correction. Loved. Past tense - but as he pulls into the parking lot of the arena, he feels sick.
Resting his head on the steering wheel, he tries to forget about what happened but the sight of Shane retreating, saying he couldn’t do this, saying he had to leave, is all Ilya can picture. He thinks he might kill him on the ice tonight. Strangle him for making him feel this way while he sits on the bench with his guard down. No, he’s lying. He could never hurt Shane.
Ilya takes a deep breath, knowing what his brother would think if he saw him right now. Time to win this game. Or not. Whatever.
The game ends and It turns out unremarkable, Montreal wins, and Ilya spends the entire time not looking at Shane and keeping his distance, or trying at least.
No matter what he did he felt his presence, watched him in the corner of his eye, listened for the crack of his stick, and if Shane was looking at him too he really couldn’t tell.
In the locker room Marlow asks Ilya if he’s doing alright, to which a perfectly fine Ilya snaps at and curses him for.
“Do not ask me stupid fucking question. We just lost, how do you think I am doing?” Ilya barks, but the loss couldn’t mean less.
The anger he felt on the surface was seething and hot and exhausting to carry. Ilya drives home and grips his steering wheel tight, making him wonder why he’s doing that once he notices.
His mind feels blank.
There’s nothing to think about, as he mindlessly walks into his house and into his kitchen. He wants vodka, whiskey, rum, anything to replace his weird state, but as he opens his fridge door Ilya is met with the 5 lone cans of ginger ale.
One missing.
Ilya can only stand there as he stares at the cans with a limp grip on the fridge door handle. His mouth is dry suddenly and his throat feels tight.
Shane…
Ilya’s eyes begin to swell before he can resist and tears fall suddenly in rapid streams down his face.
For the first time since he won the Stanley Cup, Ilya cries.
He turns and rests his face in his hands, leaning his elbows on the kitchen counter with the fridge wide open behind him. He stays there and cries and cries and cries and cries. Weeping softly as his body goes numb.
His shoulders shake, his breath hitches, his eyes squeeze shut hoping to stop the tears from falling but it’s too late and he gives in.
He lets himself cry for Shane.
Cry because he loves him. He really loves him, so much, and he ruined it and he’s gone.
He cries because his heart is broken, mourning the future with Shane he didn’t know he wanted.
He cries for himself. For his life, for turning out this way.
He cries for his father and his deteriorating mental state.
He cries for his brother and the acceptance he will never receive from him.
He cries for his mother. Wishing she were here, wishing he could see her and lay his head in her lap while she comforts him and rubs his back. Wishing he could tell her about the cute boy with cute freckles he’s fallen in love with. Wishing his father wasn’t so cruel and didn’t push her to take her own life.
Wishing he wasn’t so close to taking his.
He cries for Russia, the place he’s grown to hate so much but can’t help but long for. His friends were there, Svetlana was there. Ilya cries because no one was here.
Shane wasn’t here.
Ilya cries because he bought 6 cans of ginger ale.
He cries and cries and cries and cries and cries till the tears dry up and his eyes become heavy and tired. Ilya makes his way up to his room, not bothering to shower or brush his teeth or change into pyjamas. He crawls into his bed and slips under his thick covers, engulfing himself with his warm blankets and burrowing into his large pillows, accepting the state he was in and wanting to sleep for as long as possible.
As he stretches an arm across the bed, Ilya’s hand brushes against something. He turns and pulls out from under the sheets a t-shirt.
Shane’s t-shirt that was discarded the other day.
Ilya doesn’t have it in him to cry any more so instead he balls the shirt up with a firm grip in his palm and curls his arms into his chest, holding it against his heart.
His eyes shut as he holds this piece of Shane in his arms. It smells like his clean body wash and shitty cologne.
Ilya breathes it in deeply as a stray tear slips from the corner of his eye. His chest feels lighter, his mind clearer. He drifts into sleep feeling strangely serene.
That night, Ilya dreams of his mother.