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Cursing under his breath, Ilya rolled his eyes and glared down at the ice, jaw set in annoyance as the Minnesota Nomads erupted in celebration over their goal, tying the game 3-3. A tie game, with only two minutes left of the third period. For fuck’s sake. This was turning into a long night.
Once their cheers finally died down, Ilya glanced up, irritated to find the Nomads’ #43 staring him down. Again! The guy had been doing it all fucking night, eyes honed in on Ilya, following him like a hawk. Even after scoring with an incredible assist, instead of cheering with his teammates, he was trying to intimidate Ilya. Fucking impossible! Damn Americans.
Ilya spit, vitriol curling his lips as he yelled across the ice. “Take a photo! Will last longer!”
“What’d you just say to him?” their #7, Faber, yelled back.
Ilya scoffed. Damn kid.
Skating closer, Ilya pointed at #43. “If he is such big fan, I can sign photo for him. Easier than staring at me all night.”
“Easy, Roz,” Marleau said from beside him. “Game’s almost over. It’s not worth it.”
Ilya scowled, knowing he was right. They were so close. They only needed to make one more goal, and then they could get out of here, shower off, and go home. Just one more.
Turning to follow Marleau back to their bench, Ilya took one last glance over his shoulder. His feet were moving before he could think, leading him over to—
“Hellooo?” Ilya drawled, waving his gloved hand in front of Hughes’ face. “The fuck is wrong with you?”
“Roz—”
“Get away from him!”
Somebody slammed into him from the side — Faber, he assumed — but Marleau took the brunt of the hit, his body keeping Ilya balanced upright as Faber grabbed on to his jersey, trying to drag him away from Hughes.
Through it all, Hughes stared at him, unblinking.
Ilya snapped. “What are you looking at? Fuck.”
Hughes’ face was blank, his voice monotone. “Your mom.”
Ilya saw red.
His gloves were off in a second, and he had Hughes’ jersey in one fist, dragging him closer in a white-knuckled grip, the other ready to throw a punch. “What the fuck?”
Ilya couldn’t believe it. There was chirping, and then there was whatever the fuck this guy was doing. This was more than provoking trash talk. It was more than stupid banter. This was a personal attack — it had crossed the unspoken line into goddamn psychological warfare.
The roar of the crowd chanting Fight! Fight! Fight! was deafening, drowning out the yells of the referees threatening penalties and the Nomads’ captain arguing with his players to stop fighting around them. Marleau had Ilya by the arm, trying to pull him away, but Faber held on to him tight, tugging him in the other direction by the back of his jersey, and Ilya refused to let go of Hughes, so they all slid together as one, unstoppable forces meeting immovable objects.
“He get like this sometimes. Is okay,” someone said, softer, in broken English, breaking through the huddled scuffle of players. Ilya turned his glare to their #97, Kaprizov.
“Is this a sick joke?” Ilya spat out. “You think this is funny?”
Kaprizov hesitated, then shook his head, glancing over at Hughes. “He is… haunted, they say. He can see them. Ghosts.”
Ilya stared. “So he is crazy. Good to know.”
“He’s not crazy!” Faber yelled in his ear. “He really can see them! You get used to it! He means well!”
“Okay, so you are all fucking crazy,” Ilya scoffed, trying, and failing, to shrug Faber off of him. “Whole team of crazies.”
“No, really. He can see them,” Kaprizov repeated. “There must be one with you now. He only get like this if ghost is near.”
“I don’t— I don’t know what she’s saying,” Hughes murmured, eyes wide and glazed over, fixed on a spot over Ilya’s shoulder. “She keeps saying something, but I— I can’t understand her—”
One of the referees blew his whistle, gesturing pointedly. “#81! #7! Settle down!”
“Just try, Quinn!” Faber yelled over him. “Prove it to him!”
Hughes nodded, furrowing his brows. “Uh… privet?”
Kaprizov attempted a small smile. “Your mom says hi.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. “I know what Привет means, asshole.”
The Nomads really had to work on their intimidation tactics. This was by far the most offensively pitiful stunt Ilya had seen in a long time. Resorting to dirty, cheap mind tricks? Pretending to see ghosts? Insulting his family and his native tongue? Pathetic.
“Um. Eh-ta Irina, two-ya mama. Ya teb-ya loo-blue, Ilyusha.”
Ilya froze, breath caught in his throat.
The din of chaos surrounding them faded away, replaced by a ringing in his ears. He stared at Hughes, grip slackening on his jersey. A shiver ran down his spine, and goosebumps erupted over his arms, every hair on his body standing on end as he slowly looked over his own shoulder, warily hopeful.
But nothing was there.
“Is not funny,” Ilya choked out. The gold cross he always wore burned icy-hot against his skin. “Fuck you.”
“You look just like her.”
Tears prickled Ilya’s vision, and he let Hughes go, arm pulling away like he’d been scalded. He wouldn’t cry here. He refused to. How pitiful would it look to be crying on home turf over some asshole’s lame chirps? He’d never hear the end of it.
Hughes mumbled something else, mouthing around broken syllables that sounded vaguely Russian, but in his American accent meant nothing to Ilya’s ears.
“Did she say, я скучаю по тебе?” Kaprizov softly asked Hughes, squeezing his way in alongside him, past the other tussling players.
Hughes stared at the spot over Ilya’s shoulder, then nodded, eyes lighting up.
Ilya could understand that.
I miss you.
Kaprizov threw Ilya a crooked smile, so full of sympathy that he didn’t know what to do with. He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached, trying to stop the wobble of his bottom lip.
“Final warning! Break it up everyone!” a referee’s booming voice yelled.
“Hurry. Keep trying.” Kaprizov nudged Hughes with his shoulder. “I will help.”
“Okay. Um…” Hughes paused, like he was listening, then stuttered out something nearly incomprehensible again, but Kaprizov’s warm smile only grew.
“Я горжусь тобой?”
Hughes nodded franticly.
I’m proud of you.
Hughes’ intense stare never strayed from over Ilya’s shoulder, as he quickly murmured out poorly-interpreted Russian for Kaprizov to translate, over and over, phrase after phrase. Time seemed to freeze as Ilya listened, waiting for him to say more, hanging on to Kaprizov’s every word.
“В последнее время ты выглядишь счастливее.”
You seem happier lately.
“Держись, Илюша.”
Stay strong, Ilyusha.
“Я всегда с тобой.”
I’m always with you.
Hughes reached up and tapped his own chest, right over his heart, the smallest, barely-there smile lilting the corner of his lip. Ilya’s own heart thumped wildly in his chest, each word striking like a dagger, tearing open the scarred-over walls he’d tried so hard to build up over the years since she’d been gone.
Ilya didn’t know what to believe. Was this just some sinister, elaborate scheme to throw him off his game? If it was, it was working. Ilya couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could barely stand upright. But Hughes and Kaprizov didn’t seem like the types to concoct such an evil plan, and that was somehow even worse. Because that meant that Quinn Hughes really could see ghosts, and that Ilya’s mother really was there, watching over him, and every word that Hughes had attempted to translate had actually been said by her.
A whistle blew, sharp and shrill, and suddenly Ilya was released from the scuffle, a referee urging him along with a loose grip on his upper arm.
“#81 Boston, #7 Minnesota — both two minutes each. Roughing.”
Ilya went to the box willingly, and sat down on the bench hard, leaning back heavily against the wall. He stared at the floor, trying to catch his breath, feeling utterly stupid for the commotion he’d caused and for ending up in the box over a non-fight. Like an idiot, he’d forgotten where they were, too enraptured by the sincerity in Hughes’ eyes and in Kaprizov’s voice.
Ilya repeated every word that his mother had supposedly said in his mind, choosing then and there to believe Hughes was telling the truth.
Did Hughes know how lucky he had it? Being able to see what he saw? Ilya would gladly take a lifetime of never-ending “he’s haunted” jokes if it meant he got to see his mother again. He’d do anything for that.
He shucked the glove not holding his stick off, and gripped the gold cross around his neck through his jersey, mouthing out a silent, Thank you, Mama.
He wished, more than anything, that they’d had more time to talk. Why did he have to find out about Quinn Hughes’ powers in the final stretches of a hockey game, in front of thousands of people? What would Ilya have even said to her, given the chance?
I’m sorry, Mama. I’m sorry you had to see that. I’m not usually like this. Not anymore. I’m getting better, I promise. I wish you were here. I miss you, too. I have so much to tell you.
Boos echoed around the arena amongst scattered cheers, and Ilya jumped, coming back to himself. Head whipping up to the scoreboard, his shoulders slumped watching the instant replay. 3-4. With only two seconds left. A goddamn buzzer beater cost them the game.
By the time Ilya got back on the ice and the play reset, the final buzzer sounded off. Ilya stood at the tunnel with his chin up and shoulders back, and tapped each of his teammates on the head, mumbling out Good jobs and I love yous to keep their morale up, even a little. Losing sucked, but his heart didn’t feel heavy. It felt weirdly light, even. It had been a good, close game. On to the next.
Ilya caught Hughes’ eye from across the benches, and gave a nod, a wordless thanks. Hughes nodded back, with the barest hint of a smile, no longer looking as haunted as before. Ilya attempted a smile back, hoping it didn’t look too tired or forced.
What a weird fucking day.
He could practically feel the gloomy, dark cloud hanging over the locker room, everyone getting changed and showered in near silence, the sting of their loss too fresh for any silly banter. Ilya removed his gear slowly, methodically, trying not to think about anything in particular.
“You okay, Roz?” Marleau asked quietly, hushed enough for his ears only. “What the hell was all that about?”
Ilya shrugged. “Was nothing.”
Marleau hovered, clearly not convinced. “You sure about that? Didn’t sound like nothing.”
“I am fine, Marly. He did not mean anything bad. I overreacted. Is fine.” Ilya took a deep breath, looking down at the floor. “I am sorry we lost. Probably my fault, yes?”
“No, not your fault.” Marleau clapped him on the back. “They’re a good team. It was still a good game. We’ll get ‘em next time, yeah?”
Ilya smiled, despite the weird feeling swirling around in his stomach. “Yes. Next time. Definitely.”
“Take it easy, Roz. Don’t beat yourself up.” Marleau gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, before heading for the showers.
Ilya lingered by his stall, hand wrapping around the gold cross hanging from his neck. He closed his eyes and brought it to his lips, mouthing out a silent prayer.
I love you, Mama, wherever you are. I hope I don’t worry you too much. I’ll make you proud.