Archive of Our Own

Svetlana had been holding a rag up to Ilya's nose, trying to staunch the bleed, when she went ahead and all but promised herself to Ilya. 

"Come to America with me." 

Ilya glared at her. The two of them—Ilya sixteen, Svetlana seventeen—had been dangling their legs through metal balcony bars, thirty-five stories high leading to the Vetrov family's apartment. 

It was another humid Moscow summer, which meant no hockey, no school, and total fucking boredom. 

Ilya groaned. His nose really hurt. "Don't be an asshole." With Svetlana pulling his head down, he could only see her curly hair, pulled back into a messy ponytail, spilling out over where the rag couldn't hide. Her face remained completely obscured from him, so he had no idea if she was taking the piss or not. 

"I am serious. Fuck your family. Fuck the KHL," she repeated herself. "Come with me to America." 

"What?" Ilya's voice had distorted into a nasally pinch. "You gonna marry me or something?"

She shrugged. "Yeah. Why not?" 

This made Ilya laugh, which made him choke on his own blood. He nudged her hand out of his face, not caring that it meant freebleeding from his nostrils. 

He'd much rather look at her than some old dish rag. 

"Jesus," Ilya cursed. "You're being serious." 

Svetlana tilted her chin up, eyes defiant, not backing down. "You heard me. When we both turn eighteen I'll marry you and bring you to America. I'll take you far away from this shithole." 

"What are you, like, promising to yourself to me?" Ilya mocked.

Except he fucked up. He sounded too much like himself. 

He sounded like he was really asking. 

Svetlana huffed, rolling her eyes. Ilya would've fallen for her cool girl act if it weren't the faint blush on her cheeks. "How's this? If you don't make the MLH in the next two years, I'll marry you. Either way, you leave this place and you come with me. Win-win." 

She then took the hem of her knee length skirt and wiped Ilya's blood from his face. She laughed at Ilya's startled expression, and let the fabric fall back into her lap. 

The bloody stain drew Ilya's attention to her thigh. Svetlana's eyes followed his, and she smirked when she saw where they landed. 

When she looked back up, Ilya kissed her. 

The way he cradled her neck. The way his fingers winded in her hair. 

It was too earnest, too possessive of what they were to each other. 

But Svetlana gasped into his mouth anyway, and all either of them could taste was Ilya's blood. 

When Ilya finally pulled away, Svetlana smiled at him devilishly. Her mouth, against his, was coated in red. 

"Wanna fuck and then go find Sasha?" 

Ilya's bloody smile matched hers. 

Underneath the swinging feet of their sneakers, Moscow stretched out like a familiar labyrinth below them. 

****

What he loved about Svetlana, more than anything, was that she knew. 

"Are you heading back soon?"

"To Russia? For the summer?"

"Why?"

It's home. 

Hollander didn't know anything. 

Ilya wondered if Hollander even knew how he looked at people sometimes. Like he was unzipping them, until he got exactly what he asked for. 

God, having that attention on him during a game—it was the dirtiest thing Ilya had ever experienced. 

Having that kind of attention on him during sex lit Ilya on fire. 

Hollander, underneath him, starving, drinking him in, like Ilya was all he ever wanted. It made Ilya feel insane. 

But Hollander, upright, alert, peeling him back—

It made Ilya want to fucking bolt. 

How many questions would Hollander even need to ask before he got to the center of it?

Desperate, lonely mommy's boy whose dad couldn't even remember how badly he beat him. 

How fucking pathetic. 

No. Hollander made him feel like a champion. Win or lose, it never mattered—the result was always the same. 

Over his dead body would he ever lose that to become some sob story in front of him.

****

Sex with Svetlana however—there was nothing to win. 

He fucked her because he loved her and they both knew how to make each other feel good. 

"Fuck, right there," she cried. 

She had been sitting on his face for the past ten minutes, and when Ilya pressed his tongue deeper she rewarded him by burying her fingers into his curls and pulling. 

The sharp sting, her nails, scrapping his scalp, made him groan, sloppy and desperate. Svetlana whined as the lips to her cunt fluttered around his tongue, her thighs clenching against his head, squeezing him into her.

He let her work herself up, but only for a few seconds. Because once he felt her start to tumble over the edge, he backed off. 

Svetlana actually cried out like she'd been shot. Fuck it was so hot. She whimpered, sensitive and overwhelmed, when he switched to light kisses, gentle sucks, small swirling motions against her clit. 

"You motherfucker," she gasped. She sounded weak. When she looked down at him, her eyes, heady and smeared with makeup, were half-lidded, her lips parted in desperation. "Let me come." 

Ilya just blinked back up at her. He caressed her curves to angle her against him, increasing momentum with his tongue. Svetlana cried out again, more broken and delirious than before. Ilya knew what too much pressure, especially when she was about to come, did to her. It made her go crazy—it felt too good, so good that it tumbled into too sensitive for her to climax.

He knew this, and she knew he knew this. 

So this time, when Svetlana pulled his hair, Ilya thought he was going to white out with the pain. 

When he met Svetlana's eyes, he moaned, startled and turned on at the ferocity he found in them.

"I said," she gritted out. "Make me come."

He palmed her ass with his right hand, pushing her into his mouth. As he did, Svetlana brought his left up to her chest, urging him to touch and pinch and play with her perfect tits. Her moans climbed in intensity and volume, as her thighs squeezed tighter and tighter around Ilya, until he felt like his head was going to pop.  

She climaxed, gasping Ilya's name over and over, her slick wetting his mouth, his chin, his face. The grinding slowed as the pleasure crested, her moans peetering out into pleased whimpers.

Ilya was so hard his dick could cut diamonds. 

He let her pant and catch her breath above him, cunt still fluttering around his mouth. He gave her thirty seconds to recover before he grabbed and flipped her over in one easy motion. 

"I want you inside—fuck!" she gasped, throwing her head back. Before she could even finish her sentence Ilya pushed her legs over his shoulders. He palmed the bed desperately to find where he left the condom, and then when he found it he brought it to his mouth and ripped it open with his teeth.

"Hurry up oh my god," she said, rolling her eyes. 

"Begging for it after I made you come twice?" Ilya groaned. He spat the wrapper out his mouth and rolled the condom on his dick. "You can't go around giving men like me power over you like this, Svetka." 

She laughed, delirious. "I bet you'll come in less than three thrusts." 

Ilya entered her, and shit, she was probably right. "Fuck, you're so fucking wet," Ilya groaned.

Svetlana had put on a brave face, but with her ankles linked against Ilya's back, her eyelids slid shut, pretty lips parted once again in pleasure. Ilya buried his face into her neck, into her hair, groaning once, twice, three times—shit—if he was going to come this early he might as well make it count. He pushed into her, hot, deep, and languid, just the way he knew she liked to be fucked. 

She dragged Ilya's face to hers. She kissed him.

Ilya came with a sudden burst. 

When he was done, the two of them laid there, panting, side by side. When Ilya could finally see straight, he tied off the condom and tossed it into the trash. When he came back, he returned to his spot on the bed, and in a fit of fondness, hooked his pinky through Svetlana's.

The two of them held hands, as 3 am turned to 4 am. 

"You were kind of mean to me tonight," she said, finally.

Ilya scoffed. "You like it when I don't let you come."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, duh. It's hot." She turned to him though, sizing him up. "You are usually so eager though. So impatient." She raised her voice into a higher falsetto, in an attempt to imitate him. "Oh Sveta, please come. Please let me make you come. I wanna see it—please—"

Ilya lunged for her. She laughed, sudden and surprised when Ilya then pinned her to the bed. 

"Maybe I want to put you in your place," Ilya smirked. He shifted his weight onto his hands, holding her wrists down as she struggled. "Show you who is really boss."

This made her laugh even harder, uproarious. "It's definitely not you, that's for fucking sure!"

He pouted. He let her go, but still stayed perched in her lap. "I can be the boss!"

She reached up, and flicked him, hard, right on the chin, a remnant from their school days. "You still need to beat me in a fight first before you go around calling the shots, sissy." 

"We were ten!" Ilya insisted. "And I went easy on you because you were a girl!"

"Yeah? A girl made you eat dirt?" Svetlana challenged. "A girl curb stopped three of your teeth out?" 

"If I fought you now I would obviously win," Ilya nodded. "But I will never. Because I am a gentleman." 

"Oh please. Prove it," Svetlana escalated. "Get up. Fight me." 

Ilya balked. "What? No. I would kill you."

"Come on, big tough hockey player. Show me what you got," Svetlana goaded. 

"You just want me to fuck you again," Ilya said, shaking his head sadly. "You want me to wrestle you to the ground and fuck you into submission. I am just a toy to you—OW FUCK!"

Ilya jumped, freeing Svetlana instantly. She had dug the sharpest two nails into his thigh, and pinched as hard as she could. She definitely drew blood. 

Ilya rolled over, off the bed, standing up now on the floor. He laughed incredulously, and motioned her over with a Street Fighter stance. "Okay. Bring it on, bitch." 

Svetlana leapt up in joy. With a gleeful smile, hair wild and everywhere, she also lowered herself—and just to make them both laugh harder, she lunged sideways, hand on the floor to imitate Chun-Li's fighting stance. 

"Ready…" the two of them said in unison. 

"Fight!!!" 

Svetlana won. Of course she did. 

But Ilya wanted it on the record that he was pulling his punches.

****

The first time Ilya had asked Svetlana to suck his dick, she reeled her arm back and slapped him.

Her eyes had blazed with betrayal, and Ilya felt like he had landed on a different fucking planet. Women are fucking crazy—a chorus that followed the male Rozanov line for the past three generations. 

He felt like he made a very normal request for a 15 year old boy. 

But Svetlana was livid. 

Immediately her top came back on. Her pants next. 

"Svetka come on—"

"I'm not your whore," she sneered. "You want some ditzy bitch to get on her knees and slobber all over your dick you can call Sasha." 

****

If Ilya loved Svetlana, he was addicted to Hollander.

Ilya didn't like to call himself a drug addict, but it was hard to deny that he came from a family of them. Their vices had a habit of following him like a genetic disease. 

He was addicted to dopamine. 

He was addicted to the way a fist felt seconds after it cracked his bones.

He was addicted to the way Hollander's big brown eyes looked up at him, pliant and begging. 

"I want to hear you say it," Ilya ordered. 

When Ilya pulled him off his dick, Hollander panted, cock-drunk and lost. A long line of spit connected his swollen red lips to the tip of Ilya's dick—his own boner leaking and visible in his boxers. 

"Congratulations," Hollander slurred. He rushed eagerly back toward Ilya's crotch, but gasped when he was forced back by his hair. 

Maybe Ilya didn't fuck his mouth hard enough, because suddenly Hollander's lips quirked upward, eyes mischievous and teasing. "Congratulations on finally beating Montreal—"

Ilya wrenched Hollander's mouth open with his thumb, effectively silencing him. Once Hollander stopped talking, mouth forced wide, Ilya shoved his dick back between his lips. 

"Mmph!" Hollander gasped, startled. But it didn't take long before his lips wrapped eagerly around Ilya's cock, falling back into a sated moan, his eyes drifting closed, scrambling closer, bringing Ilya in deeper. 

"Sore losers," Ilya panted, as Hollander's tongue, his mouth worked obediently over Ilya's dick. "Don't get fucked." 

Hollander's eyes flew open, pleading. "Yes, you hear me correct," Ilya grinned. He grabbed Hollander's hair again, and they'd been doing this for long enough that he knew Hollander could handle Ilya pressing him further into his mouth. "I am going to fuck your pretty lips instead. I'm," Hollander's throat tightened, and Ilya felt it right in his dick, "Fuck—" he cursed. "I will come down your throat—" he gritted out, "And you will not get fucked the way you need—" 

Hollander whined, mouth stuffed full. "But this is enough yes?" Ilya continued. He hissed, as Hollander started bobbing his head deliriously. Ilya felt his eyes slide closed, head hitting the back wall. Fuck. He was going to come soon. "You only need me to use your throat, come in you, and leave."

Hollander nodded, moaning what felt like Ilya's last name over and over on his dick. 

Ilya opened his eyes. He looked down properly now.

Hollander's eyes brimmed with tears.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

Ilya whited out, and came, hard, down Hollander's throat. He felt his mouth say something, probably in Russian, about how hot Hollander was and how he wanted to pin him to the bed and fuck him over and over and never let him leave.

Anything Hollander couldn't swallow dribbled out the side of his lips, down his chin. 

Ilya couldn't help himself. He forced Hollander onto the floor, too frantic to get him on the bed, even as he heard half hearted protests bubble from Hollander's throat. He shoved him, cheek first onto the hotel carpet, just to check, he promised, as Hollander whines grew louder ("It's really gross down here Rozanov—"), and holy shit—

He was right. 

Hollander already came.

God. He was so fucking... Ilya didn't know what he was.

Shane was so… good.

The thought made Ilya succumb to an unexpected bout of tenderness. Like a man possessed, he reached out and cupped Hollander's cheek, and then brushed his thumb across the freckles there, reverent. 

Shane whipped around to look at him, cheek still pressed to the floor, surprised. 

What the fuck was he doing? 

Ilya had to wipe that look off his face.

Ilya was a nice guy. Too nice maybe. Shane acted like a brat and because of it Ilya said he wouldn't fuck him. Wouldn't let him come. But the way Shane was looking at him, no discipline in the world could stop Ilya from grabbing him. In one smooth motion he dumped him on the bed, yanking his ass into the air. 

"Rozanov—" Shane gasped. 

He slapped it to watch it bounce, because why not—Shane was letting him. Shane whimpered, embarrassed, and buried his face into the hotel pillows.

Ilya was happy to let him get comfortable, because then he dove in. 

He ate him out, hungry and rough, and while he did Shane cried, louder and louder. Ilya wasn't intentional, wasn't careful, just delirious with his own craving—he had to taste more of Shane, more, and more—

"Oh fuck!" Shane cried. Ilya dug his fingers into the soft flesh of Shane's curves, pulling him in deeper, and that was all it took for Hollander to come for the second time.

The two of them fell into a disoriented pile onto the bed. They laid, side by side, panting together in silence—both clearly shocked at how good that was.

Ilya didn't reach for Hollander's hand. Hollander didn't reach for his. 

But neither person moved to get up. 

"I need to leave," Hollander said. But he stayed in bed, prone.

Ilya blinked. "Then leave." 

Silence. The two of them continued to lie down next to each other. 

Thirty seconds stretched to a minute. A minute stretched into five.

Ilya could hear Hollander breathing, a soft musical sound.

Ilya wondered if he should feel awkward about it, letting the after of it all drag on, uninterrupted. But he decided he was still sex drunk and sated. This was his hotel room. He wasn't moving. 

It took ten minutes of silence for Hollander to burst out laughing. 

Once Hollander started laughing, it was like he couldn't stop. He threw an arm over his eyes, the other over his stomach, actually clutching himself in hysterics.

Ilya lolled his head to the side to look at him. The movement brought him kissing distance to Shane again. He instead jabbed a finger into Hollander's left ribs. "Stop it," he ordered. 

Hollander just kept laughing. Pouting, Ilya grabbed his arm, the one blocking his eyes, and peeled it back, shoving it to the mattress beside his head, all while still laying down. 

"Hollander, use words. English," Ilya demanded.

Hollander finally rolled his head around to face Ilya. His eyes sparkled with glee, which made him look really handsome, in a way that, somewhere in the past year and a half, became hard to look at. 

"It's just," Hollander giggled a couple more times, like he needed to get it out of his system. "I literally can't get up."

Ilya grinned. "I fuck you that hard?"

Hollander reaches over and smacks his stomach boyishly. Ilya barely flinched. "No bro, like. I know I have to leave. I know I need to get up. But I just like, can't bring myself to do it."

Ilya got like that sometimes, during the mornings, but it was usually because he felt so sad he couldn't move. 

"Is my room," Ilya sniffed. "So I do not need to go." He smiled, with a fair bit of mirth. "Is your job to leave." 

Shane rolled his head back up to the ceiling. "Can we just. I don't know. Will you freak the fuck out if I just asked you to talk to me for a little bit? Until I work up the energy to get up?"

"Okay. I can talk you through orgasm number three," Ilya smirked. "I do not touch you. I just tell you everything I want to do, every part I want to kiss, every part I want to suck until you come."

Shane's breathing got shallower. But against all odds, his resolve stayed strong. "No, fuck you," Hollander said, shakily. "Like…just tell me about your day—I don't know."

"I play against Montreal and embarrass you on the ice. Day done," Ilya insisted. 

"Relax—I'm not asking about like, personal stuff." Hollander cut him a glance, and Ilya was baffled to see tinged with a nonzero amount of hurt. "Don't worry, I won't make that mistake again." 

Ilya was now fully on edge. "Personal? Mistake?" Ilya snapped.

Hollander started to back track. "I didn't mean it like that—" 

"Sometimes you say English words I understand separate. But together make no fucking sense."

Hollander groaned. "Oh god it's not that deep okay? I'm saying like. Your day. Like. Your week. Did you watch any good movies, or shows. Or did you eat anything weird. Or watch a stupid video on the internet, I don't know." He frowned, brow wrinkling. He looked angry at himself. "You know what, you're right, I'm being stupid, I'm going to shower and leave—"

Ilya's hand suddenly shot out without his permission. Shane jumped as Ilya, just as startled as him, grabbed his wrist, heart thudding in his ears, loud and insistent, as he pulled Shane back down on the bed. 

The two of them fell back and resumed their same positions. But now the air had changed, charged and significant.

Ilya still had Shane's wrist, wrapped in a vice. He didn't let go. 

Ilya never wracked his brain faster for a string of English words in his life. "I download emulator." 

"Emulator?" Shane frowned. His forehead crinkled, and it made him look very cute. Ilya wanted to rub it smooth, until the tension disappeared. "What's that?" 

"To pirate old Game Boy games," Ilya said. "Discord friends from Russia teach me. You never play?"

"Video games? I mean I play Madden and FIFA if they are out at a party. But I never did Nintendo or Sega or whatever. Pokemon. That shit rots your brain." 

Ilya rolled his eyes. "Is not yoga and meditation, yes—"

Shane gasped. He whipped around, delighted. "Oh shit. You watched my AD video."

Fuck. 

"No you tell me—"

"I would never in a million years tell you I do yoga," Shane gloated. "The only way anyone knows is if they watched to minute ten of my house tour." 

Ilya watched that video to minute one million. "Youtube recommends," Ilya lied, and badly.

Shane smiled. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. His brown eyes latched onto Ilya. Unzipping time. "Youtube does not force you to sit and watch the whole thing, though." 

Like an old reliable mule, Ilya swung the conversation back to sex. "Yes, okay, I did watch," he leered. "I watch to jerk off to your 'downward dog' and think about making you come all over your mat while you hold position." 

At this Shane's swagger popped like a balloon. His eyes went wide, and a blush colored his cheeks. 

Ilya smirked. The conversation fell back under his control. "Emulator," he continued, smoothly. "Let you pirate whatever game you want, free. Is very cool, a lot of childhood games. Mega Man. Metroid. Yoshi. Next time, I should—" 

Shane sucked in a breath. Ilya stopped.

You stupid fucking idiot. 

They both knew what he was about to say. 

Next time I should show you. 

Why the fuck did he never use his damned brain before he spoke? 

Shane wasn't here to watch him play shitty games he liked when he was a kid. He was here to have Ilya rock his world and leave. What the fuck was he spouting, next times and hanging out and—

"Are you good?" Ilya snapped suddenly. "To go?"

Shane had the audacity to look hurt. "I—Yeah. Sorry I—" 

Shane yanked his wrist away from Ilya's hold. He jerked up in one easy motion, and all Ilya could do was watch with his heart in his throat. "I'm going to just shower super quick." 

Ilya didn't respond. Shane got up, and padded over to the shower. 

He was gone within twenty minutes. 

****

Ilya hated most of Svetlana's female friends.

He was not a woman hater. He loved women.

Svetlana just seemed to only be interested in becoming friends with women Ilya found spiritually and morally corrupt—and not in a hot way. 

They were party girls with millions of sycophantic followers on Instagram. They were obscenely rich models on the verge of a mental breakdown. Dead-eyed celebrities who got famous too young and only came alive when they found a way to hurt themselves or others. 

Because of her friendships with these women, Svetlana ensured there wasn't a single door in any city she, or Ilya, couldn't walk through. 

When Ilya was a teenager, he thought this made Svetlana the coolest girl ever.

Now that Ilya was twenty-three, he started to notice a pattern. 

Svetlana was very shit at keeping said friends. 

It always happened the exact same way. The friendship with these women would get very close, and very intense, very fast. Svetlana would throw herself into the tornado of these girls' lives. 

And then, without fail, six months later, they would spit her back out. 

This time the girl was an old money New York socialite whose parents were famous Hollywood actors and whose grandparents were famous Hollywood directors. The night started in the girl's penthouse, already packed by the time Ilya and Svetlana deigned to drop by. 

As if she had been waiting and watching the door, the girl's head snapped up quickly the second she saw Svetlana, ditching the conversation she was in to envelop her into her orbit.

"Fuck, thank god you came," she said, peeling Svetlana way from Ilya. "You're so late. Make it up to me by doing drugs with me. Now."

Svetlana smiled arrogantly. "This is supposed to be a punishment?" 

The girl laughed, and with one strong tug Svetlana disappeared into the crowd. Even though no one asked whether or not he wanted drugs, Ilya abstained, only because it was midseason. Also, k-holing while drinking made him feel like he was experiencing Orthodox Hell. 

So he decided to wander around and help himself to the friend's bar cart, stocked exclusively with top shelf liquor. 

When Ilya, appropriately drunk, swung back to check on Svetlana, the two girls were busy trying to lure some hapless idiot off Raya to come out dancing with them, except the ketamine and the tequila kept making them laugh and drop their phones. 

"Hey! Hockey player!" the girl ordered. Her phone fell out of her hand again and landed with an obnoxious boom on the penthouse's wooden floor, which sent Svetlana and her friend into hysterics. When she recovers Svetlana's friend motions Ilya over with the snap of her fingers. "We need to get Lana a man for tonight, and the guy who flashed full frontal dick on the new HBO show is all over her. I can't feel my fingers so you are going to need to type for us 'I need your dick right now.'"

"I do not do shit or fuck for people who do not know my name," Ilya snapped, taking vigil next to Svetlana on the sofa. He hooked his chin over her shoulder to get a look at the guy. "This man is gay." 

"No," Svetlana's friend scoffed. "He's just gay looking." She gave Ilya a judgemental up and down. "And we both know she's into that sort of thing." 

Ilya rolled his eyes. Enough with this girl. He switched to Russian.

"You really want to get fucked by pretty boy tonight?" he asked. He would be upset, but he would back off if she actually did. "He definitely can't fuck you the way I can."

"Please," Svetlana lolled her head over, laying against Ilya's shoulder. Ilya, in return, buried his hand into her hair, playing with her curls absentmindedly. "I've been telling her to leave it alone for the past ten minutes but she's obsessed." Svetlana switched back to English. "Girl, for the last time, I told you to drop it."

The girl did not, in fact, drop it. In fact, she glared at Ilya, before narrowing her eyes at the two of them, tangled up together on the sofa next to her. 

"You told me you two weren't exclusive." Her eyes flashed dangerously. "But you never want to fuck any guys with me when he's here." 

Ilya stepped in, because why not. "Is because my dick is magic," Ilya said, with a magnanimous smile. In the next breath, he switched back to Russian, turning to Svetlana. "What is going on? Does she want to fuck you? Why is she being so weird?" 

"Ilya, let me handle her," she warned. 

"Does she want to fuck me? You have to warn me if she wants to fuck me. I do not do crazy rich girls anymore."

"Ilyusha!" she ordered. "Shut the fuck up." 

Ilya threw his hands up in defeat, rolling his eyes. "I want to go to club," he demanded, back in English, to the two girls. The girl's penthouse had steadily become less and less hospitable the more inebriated her guests got. Also, she had completely lost control of the AUX. "Are we going to go club or are you two going to keep looking at men on iPhone while drinking tequila on horse medicine?"

"Your man is so fucking needy," the girl groaned. "Fine. Lana, do another shot with me before we go." 

Svetlana's smile returned, euphoric and chemically sated. "Now this I will not pass on." 

The girl hooked her arm around Svetlana's, and dragged her back out of Ilya's orbit. The two pushed their way to the bar cart, but not before the socialite turned and stabbed a finger at Ilya. "Be useful and call the Uber." 

"Fuck you!" Ilya shouted to their retreating backs. Grumbling, calling the girl some choice Russian insults under his breath, he ordered the car, only because it was the gentlemanly thing to do.

As he did, Hollander texted him. 

Jane: congrats on new york. 

Like a child, his heart skipped a beat when he saw the notification.

Hollander's bids for friendship were sporadic yet no less impactful every time. Ilya thought at first they were the awkward, fumbling attempts at initiating phone sex from a boring, straight-edged man.

But Ilya didn't know when, or how, but semi-annual sex had turned into Hollander seeming genuinely curious as to what he was doing. 

Ilya stared at his phone. The car was coming in less than 2 minutes. He definitely shouldn't sext Hollander right now—nothing sounds more nightmarish than being squeezed into a black Suburban with Svetlana and her she-demon while his boner strained against his jeans. 

He could always reply later. 

But Ilya realized, with a good amount of dread, that he wanted to talk to Hollander too much to pass this opportunity up. 

Ilya's thumb flew over his phone.

Ilya: send pic????? 

Ilya: send pic as reward?????? 🥵🥵🥵🥵

Ilya: please

Ilya: please

Ilya: please 

Ilya: please 

Ilya: please 

Jane: heck no. new york isn't even a conference leader. 

Jane: i am not risking career suicide because you beat out a mid-tier team. 

Ilya: ?!!! tf?!!! you congratulate me!!! now you say my win is nothing?!!!!!

The three of them clambered into the Uber. The second Ilya sat down he pulled his phone back out again. 

Jane: i never said it wasn't a good game :> 

Ilya: hmph!!! 0-3!!!! zero fucking three.

Ilya: do not pretend ilya rozanov destroying new york on their home ice does not make you hard <3 

Ilya: i deserve reward. i deserve warrior celebration. 

Ilya: send pic. 

Ilya: send pic. 

Ilya: send pic. 

Ilya: send pic. 

Jane: LMFAO wtf fucking weirdo 

Jane: beat someone below the age of 45 first

Jane: … then maybe.

Jane: :)

Ilya: wah wah.

Jane: in case you missed it the joke btw is that hunter is old!

Ilya: 🤯🤯🤯 waow!!! 

Jane: pretty funny right????? 

Ilya didn't realize he'd been smiling down at his phone until he looked up and caught Svetlana staring at him. 

She frowned, and then looked away. 

A weird, nagging feeling of guilt pushed Ilya to put his phone away. 

The uncomfortable feeling lingered until Gangland came on the radio. 

"Oh I love this song!!!" all three passengers, of varying degrees of inebriation, shouted. The Uber driver obediently turned up the volume.

Svetlana looked over at Ilya and laughed, genuine and sweet. Ilya, of course, with a swell of fondness in his chest, returned the smile immediately. 

The upset look from earlier wiped itself clean off her face.

Ilya, in a moment of uncharacteristic optimism, decided he probably imagined things. 

****

Except everything proceeded to break bad the second Svetlana caught him making out with her friend later that night. 

Fuck, okay. Listen. Listen. Pitchforks down please. Ilya was an asshole, but he usually wasn't that big of an asshole. 

He knew there was a code with girls. There was definitely a code with guys that he violated with glee, letting the illicitness of, say, fucking his teammate's ex-wife boil his blood hot.

However, the unspoken code between him and Svetlana—that Ilya respected with a lot more care and authority. 

Ilya shouldn't fuck her friends because that would be a shitty thing to do, and he didn't like being shitty towards Svetlana because he loved her. 

The problem was Hollander. 

Ilya was a drug addict, through and through. The second he let himself get even a taste, Hollander had burrowed under his skin like an itch he couldn't reach. 

Ilya felt like he was seeing Hollander everywhere, and even worse, feeling Hollander everywhere. The more he danced and the more he drank, the more each and every person's skin, brushing up against his, lit him up like a narcotic burn. The thrashing neon lights, the human contact, they all kept tricking him into reliving memories—

Of Hollander underneath him. 

Of Hollander, begging for him. 

Of Hollander, unmade with his hands. 

Every hot person looked like him. Every hot person felt like him. Brief flashes of gyrating shapes surrounded Ilya, and in the sporadic light he kept feeling he could see Hollander, the back of his head, waiting for him, obediently, somewhere in the crowd—within reach— 

Only for the person to turn around, and ruin the illusion entirely.

Fuck. He was going insane. He was acting insane. 

He hated it when he acted insane. Acting insane made him do insane things. 

Ilya stumbled back to their table, head swimming. The random men Svetlana and her friend had lured into buying them all free drinks disappeared somewhere with the girls, leaving Ilya completely alone at their booth. 

Ilya already felt like his skin was on fire, and the reminder that Svetlana was also somewhere on the dance floor grinding up on a guy that wasn't him only made Ilya more restless. So, to occupy himself, he pulled out his phone. 

He really shouldn't have, because in the interim of three hours, Hollander had sent one last round of texts. 

Jane: ONE PICTURE. 

Jane: i am doing this for you under the threat of actual career suicide. so you better be grateful. 

Jane: but if i am going to do this i will be smart. not like you.

Jane: remember when you sent me your entire dick when i was in the middle of the fucking locker room???? 

Jane: anyway don't make fun of me.

Jane: but i spent the past hour thinking about what body part would look the least conspicuous if someone saw it on your phone. or if it got leaked. 

Jane: it's NOT my dick. so don't get your hopes up!! >:( 

Jane: DELETE IMMEDIATELY. i am SERIOUS!!! 

Ilya scrolled down to the photo. 

The instant he saw it he felt himself actually stop breathing. 

The photo was of Hollander's chest. 

If Ilya hadn't been trashed, he'd almost be embarrassed by the intensity of his reaction. It was literally a picture of Hollander's clavicle, with his chest bunched up with his right arm to hide his nipples. But the way the photo was posed, angled intentionally to remove any implication of gender, drew attention to the fullness of Hollander's tits, the suggestion of cleavage. 

Not to mention, the photo's lighting made Hollander's freckles so stark Ilya could count, if he wanted, every single one, the way they scattered across his chest, his neck—

He needed to feel the path they took along Hollander's body with his lips. 

He needed to be in Montreal. 

Ilya needed to bury his dick into Hollander so badly he felt dizzy. 

This wasn't normal. 

"I'm so fucked," he muttered, out loud. His dick started to strain against his jeans, so he prepared to get up and jerk one off in the club bathroom, when Svetlana's friend reappeared out of nowhere. 

Ilya shut his phone off with expediency. 

The girl was trashed, blown pupils visible even from Ilya's vantage point. There were hickeys scattered across her chest, her neck, but all Ilya could stare at was the pissed off look at her face, eyebrows drawn together in disapproval as she stared down at him. 

"Do you give a fuck about her at all?" she snapped. 

Good fucking lord, what now? 

Ilya gave her his shittiest, meanest smile. "I do not know what your problem is with me." 

She walked over, and stabbed a finger to his chest. When she did, she stumbled into him. Ilya, already turned on, tried not to groan at the contact. 

"I hate it when I see gorgeous girls get hung up on mediocre guys who don't care whether they live or die," Svetlana's friend spat.

Anger, sure and true, surged through him. "You do not know what the fuck you are talking about."

The girl laughed. "Yeah? Then why have you been looking at your phone the entire night instead of dancing with her?"

"You are friends with her for what? Three months?" Ilya snarled. He leaned forward, getting closer to her. "I know her since I am ten years old. You know nothing about me," he narrowed his eyes, "or her."

She returned Ilya's smile, teeth clenched into a face of maliciousness. "I know everything I need to know about you. You are a," she stabbed her finger back into his chest, punctuating every other word, "a dumb," stab. "shitty jock," stab. "happy you are getting sex on tap from a girl who is way out of your league," she grabbed the collar of his shirt now, dragging him in—

"A girl you don't fucking deserve."

Ilya didn't know what possessed him. Maybe it was because she fulfilled the bare minimum—light freckles dusting her cheeks, brown eyes that were alight with challenge. Maybe it was because she was getting up in his face, yelling and berating him, and he was drunk enough that the twisted antagonism gave him a poor imitation of the thrill he felt when he slammed Hollander against the boards. 

Maybe it was because the text from Hollander made him so fucking horny it didn't matter who threw themselves at him. 

He and Svetlana's friend were only a breath apart.

"Fuck. you." he spat. 

"You wish," she hissed, lips lightly ghosting his. 

Ilya lunged for her. 

When they met in the middle, their teeth clacked against each other, brutal and ferocious. She gasped, excited at the violence, and when her lips parted Ilya quickly shoved his tongue down her throat, as she sucked and then bit the soft plush of his lips with a savagery that went straight to his dick. Ilya quickly yanked the back of the girl's top to drag his fingers up the small of her back, toying with the clasp of her lace bra. 

She swung her leg over to straddle his lap, and laughed mockingly when she felt how turned on Ilya already was. Ilya shut her up by sliding and then fitting both his hands around her ass, pinning her against his crotch, shoving her skirt up to grind up against her panties, already soaking wet. Her nails clawed the back of his scalp, his neck, as her tongue dug deeper into his mouth—

Suddenly, she pulled away, her cruel smile all he could see for the longest of seconds. 

It was like a fog suddenly cleared in his brain. She turned away, and when Ilya went to see what she was looking at—

He made direct eye contact with Svetlana. 

Svetlana looked to her friend, then to Ilya. Her eyes grew hard and unkind. 

"Hey Lana," the girl drawled. She still had her hands wrapped around Ilya's neck. "Look what I got."

"Sveta—" Ilya said, stomach dropping. 

Svetlana wasn't an emotional person. Not like Ilya. When you pissed her off her heart locked itself to you like a vice.

She turned around, and ran. 

"Fuck," Ilya groaned. He pushed the girl off his lap. He heard Svetlana's friend call after them, but Svetlana was quickly making her way through the crowd, shoving and pushing her way forward with authority, so Ilya had to go even faster just to catch up with her. 

The two of them exploded onto the street, the New York air crisp and biting.

Svetlana had left her coat in the club, so her strappy dress did nothing to protect her from the cold. 

"Sveta!" Ilya yelled. Svetlana ignored him. She continued to stalk down the street, with no clear indication as to where she was going. "Svetochka come on, slow down!" 

"Fuck off!" she shouted. "Leave me alone!" 

"Can you just hear me out?! Please?!" 

The light turned red. Svetlana whipped around, glaring at Ilya. 

Then, just as fast, she turned back around, and charged across the avenue, even though this meant she was seconds from being obliterated by oncoming traffic.

Ilya cursed, and with a frustrated groan, gave chase. 

A yellow taxi floored the horn at him, and Ilya slammed his right hand against the hood. The man started yelling, belligerent and angry, so Ilya flipped him off before another car skidded to the right in an attempt to bypass him. The entire intersection rebelled in anger when Ilya dodged two more Lambos in order to finally make his way across the road. 

"Sveta!" he shouted, once he found his way back to solid ground. 

Svetlana stilled, as if she couldn't quite believe that Ilya caught up to her. In the next second however, she doubled her speed, tearing down a sidewalk littered with multi-million dollar brownstones. 

Ilya, as a professional athlete, matched her with ease—so well that he ended up only a few paces behind her. 

She resolutely ignored him. 

"Svetochka," he begged. "Can you please talk to me?"

His plea fell on deaf ears. 

He tried again, failing to keep the desperation out of his voice. "If you don't want to talk can you at least look at me?" 

Svetlana finally stopped. 

Noise and night life chattered loudly and persistently on either end of the block, childless adults shrieking in inebriated delight. But on the side street the two of them wandered down, Svetlana and Ilya were suspended in a pocket of total silence. 

Svetlana whirled around to face him, and Ilya stilled when he saw her mascara streaked all the way down her cheeks. 

"It's not a big deal," she spat, even as angry tears continued to bubble up. "You want to fuck her it is a free fucking country." 

"Svetlana—" 

"Just warning you though, she got her last boyfriend arrested, so if you really want to stick your dick in that pot of crazy—" 

Ilya ran a frustrated hand through his curls. "I don't want her." 

Svetlana's eyes only widened in hurt. "Oh, yeah?" her voice shook. "You have a lot of practice fucking girls you don't want, do you?" 

This night had truly gotten away from him. 

"I fucked up, okay?" Ilya insisted. "I was drunk and stupid so I fucked up and I'm sorry so can we just talk for five fucking minutes—" 

"Oh here we go, the Rozanov special," Svetlana spat. "If you want to fuck her just fuck her, don't abort halfway and then do your usual routine of wringing your hands and acting all pathetic, it pisses me off." 

Ilya stopped. "My usual?" he asked, low and angry. 

"Yeah, your usual," Svetlana sneered. Her voice lowered to a mocking impression.  "Oh, Svetik, don't be upset! I didn't mean to do it, I wasn't thinking! Oh Svetik, don't be upset, the neighborhood boys want to kick the shit out of me because oh, I wasn't fucking thinking! Oh Svetik, don't be upset, I wasn't thinking when I fucked your friend in public—" 

"I told you that chick was weird!" Ilya lashed out. Every one of her jabs hit exactly where she wanted to in his heart, gnarling it into anger. "I told you a million fucking times she gave me the creeps and you insisted on hanging out with her anyway!" 

"Oh!" Svetlana laughed, incredulous. "So now it's my fault. Awesome."

"Sure, it is your fault if you only want to be friends with all these vapid, old money rich girls—"

She raised her eyebrows. "Too good to talk to them, but just good enough for you to want to fuck them, I see how it is." 

Ilya grabbed two fistfuls of his hair. "Oh my god, I did not fuck her!" 

She narrowed her eyes. "You know the only reason she wanted you was because she's a spoiled bitch that doesn't like being told no, right?"

"Sveta, you are clearly upset. Just tell me why and what I can do to fix it." 

Svetlana ignored him. "Everything I had she had to have too. You were the one thing that was mine and not hers and now that's ruined too because you are too drunk and stupid to keep your junk in your pants."

Ilya didn't even know how to begin responding to what she said because what Svetlana just explained didn't seem like anything even remotely resembling normal human behavior. "That's so fucking weird," he blurted out. "What the fuck is wrong with your friends?!" 

"It doesn't matter!" Svetlana shouted. "It doesn't matter because you didn't mean to do it and you don't give a fuck about yourself or her, so of course I'm the crazy bitch for even getting upset about any of this!" 

The unfairness of the situation suddenly made Ilya so upset he finally dropped the contrition. 

"It can't go both ways," Ilya hissed. "You can't dance on guys all night, and parade around these Hollywood twinks who want to fuck you, then get all upset when I step out of line. Why are you pretending like I've never seen you make out my friends or my teammates? Why are you pretending like I've never seen you all over some random guy when I am right fucking there? You do that shit to me all the time and I just have to be okay with it because I am not your fucking boyfriend!" 

The declaration rang, loud and accusatory, between the two of them. 

Svetlana's eyes bead with more angry tears that do not fall. "That's because you never gave a fuck about who I sleep with." 

All Ilya could do was glare at her in disbelief. His chest was heaving with exertion. "... You really think that shit doesn't upset me?!" he demanded. 

"It doesn't because you don't care enough about anyone to get upset at shit like that," Svetlana accused. "Everyone is just fun to you. No one means anything real to you." 

Svetlana's words stabbed him with a viciousness he hadn't experienced since they were teenagers. "You do not mean that," Ilya said, despondent.

"It happened with Sasha," Svetlana looked angry on his behalf. "And I'm just waiting for the day it happens to me." 

Jesus, did everyone he love see him as some horrible, cruel person? 

"You," he said, slowly, fury simmering underneath the surface. He brought up old hurts. "You were the one who wanted to keep things casual. You were the one who wanted to fuck other people." 

Svetlana laughed, pained and outraged. "Because you give people no choice. People have to say and accept shit like that with you, because everything has to be casual and everything has to be no questions asked because no one can ever want anything from you without fucking breaking you." 

The attack landed like a bomb between the two of them, shocking the conversation into complete silence. The two of them stared at each other, panting, before some horrible emotion—a heady mixture of betrayal and hurt—jolted Ilya back into action. 

How fucking dare she. 

"I would've done anything to be with you when we were kids." Ilya shouted. "Anything. I fucking loved you and you knew it and did nothing about it so don't put this shit on me!" 

He wanted Svetlana to fight back. He wanted her to tell him that the swirling, all-encompassing love he felt toward her as a teenager was nothing but puppy-like adoration—useless and meaningless. 

Instead, Svetlana made a small noise, pained and heartbroken. 

That was all the warning Ilya got before she kissed him. 

Their lips met desperate and angry, Svetlana trying to exorcise the messy conflict of emotions of the evening by grabbing his back, grabbing his hair, arching into Ilya's touch. Ilya groaned and pushed her up against the brick wall to get more leverage, trailing his hands down her waist, her thighs. 

"Wait," she gasped, when Ilya started to push her dress up, "We should—" She moaned when Ilya's other hand found her tits through her dress, rubbing his thumb against her nipples through the rough lace of the fabric. "Fuck, Ilya, not—not in public—" 

Ilya nodded, panting against her lips as he pulled his hand away from her chest, from out between her thighs. Quickly, he called another car, and the two reemerged out of the side street and onto the main road. Svetlana's face was flushed, eyes wild, chest heaving as the two of them waited for five minutes in complete and total silence. 

The second the car pulled up, the two of them jumped each other again, Svetlana straining the seatbelt across her chest as the two of them plunged their tongues into each other's mouths. They barely managed to keep their clothes on before Ilya dragged her up hotel steps, through the lobby, into the elevator, and then, as she leapt into his arms and wrapped her legs around his waist, into the hotel room. 

Ilya fucked her over and over, their foreheads pressed against each other. Their coupling had none of the usual levity and game, the usual jokes or laughter, as Svetlana gasped Ilya's name over and over into his ear, begging him to come closer and to fuck her deeper as she dragged her nails across his back. 

When they both finished, the two of them laid there, Svetlana collapsed on top of Ilya's chest, trying to catch her breath. When they both recovered, Svetlana rolled over, grabbed a cigarette from her clutch, and lit it. She turned, held out the pack to Ilya, shaking it in offering. 

When Ilya accepted the gift and stuck a smoke in his mouth, Svetlana leaned in, cupping her hands, and lit it for him. 

The two of them smoked in silence, as 4 am turned to 5. Ilya saw the early notes of sunrise peak through their curtains.

"Ilya," Svetlana asked, finally. "Who's Jane?" 

Ilya choked on his smoke. 

"Who?" he said, as if on command. 

Svetlana gave him a sad, humorless smile. "The girl you've been texting for the past year and a half. Who is she?"

Ilya sucked in another lungful to stop himself from coughing. The smoke billowed out his nose. "She's just someone I see when I'm in the city." 

Svetlana shook her head. "Ilyusha," she said. Her brown eyes shined with hurt, and heartbreak, so much fucking heartbreak. "Don't lie to me." 

Ilya tried to find the words that he and Hollander practiced, insistently between moments of unexpected intimacy, gasping breaths, and soft sheets. Jane. Casual. Layover state. Nobody. No one. 

Except, staring at Svetlana, his best friend naked in his hotel bed, all that could come out of Ilya was: 

"Jane isn't a real name," Ilya said, at last, words drunk, loose, and resigned on his tongue. He just managed to stop himself from blurting out: and his real name is Shane Hollander. "He's…" Svetlana's eyes softened, just a tad. "He cannot be public." 

"Do you like him?" she asked. 

"I…" he smiled, ruefully. "It doesn't matter how I feel. It cannot be." 

She looked at him, measuring. Then, without another word, cigarette pinched between two fingers, she used her free hand to flick him, hard on the forehead.

"Ouch," Ilya grumbled. 

"Don't be stupid," she insisted. "Of course how you feel matters." 

Ilya rubbed his forehead, and took this moment to consider Svetlana as well. The way she selflessly gave herself to people, without asking for anything back. Her father, her mother. 

Ilya. 

Leaving no room to love anyone real. 

"Okay," he tried, tongue awkward in his mouth. The weird way the two of them clawed their way back to each other after a bad fight always took a while to acclimate to. "How you feel matters too."

Svetlana frowned. "I know that."

The tension in the air slowly deflated. Ilya snorted. 

"Do you?" he said, tired. 

It was the two of them, alone, once again, late at night. New York City twinkled through the hotel window. Another city to their backs. Another city conquered. 

Svetlana didn't answer. She just took another drag, before she stamped out her cigarette. 

****

In the chaos, he hadn't remembered to respond to Shane's text.

The next day, he woke up in his hotel room alone. When he checked his phone, he found that he had gotten papped making out with Svetlana's friend at the club. The glitzy New York socialite and her pet hockey player. The headline, the photo, and his blurry hand up her skirt became inescapable for the next two days. 

The casual texts from Shane stopped entirely. 

Three months later, he invited Shane to his home. He made him lunch. Shane crawled into his lap, eager and sweet, laying his forehead against Ilya's as he jerked them both off. 

Ilya had forgotten himself. It was hard not to. He had nowhere to look but Shane's eyes. So when he came, overwhelmed, he couldn't help but pour everything he had felt, the past six years they've known each other now, into a single word.

Shane. 

Shane's eyes widened in shock. Against his control, he gasped Ilya's name in return against his lips. 

The second it was over, Hollander pulled away in pure terror. He looked like a cornered animal. 

He left within five minutes. 

Hollander started dating Rose Landry two weeks later. 

****

"Jesus, is your friend good?" 

Ilya fell onto the floor, laughing. 

"Yes, he's fine," he heard Svetlana say, somewhere far above him. "Ilyusha," she said, switching to Russian, "Get up before the bouncers throw us out." 

Ilya didn't move. "He doesn't fucking love me," he slurred. Svetlana's face went white, as she looked around the club to see if anyone heard him. At least his English got fucking awful when he got blackout drunk, so there was no way anyone other than her could understand him. "Why doesn't he fucking love me what did I do wrong—" 

"Svetlana," he heard a girl's voice urging Svetlana gently. "Don't worry, my boyfriend can carry him to a taxi. Let me call a car for him." 

She expelled a hot vat of angry air. "Why is he always like this?" Svetlana hissed, under her breath. It was a hurtful statement that she said purely out of frustration, but Ilya heard her anyway. 

He also heard her collect her breath, once again switching back to English. "Thank you so much, you two are too kind." 

"Dude," a guy's voice now. "I've had to clean up after friends who'd literally shit and pissed themselves in the Le Bain pool after one too many bumps. Your guy is chill. Let's just get him into a car so he can sleep it off." 

He felt himself get heaved into a taxi. There was talking outside, the pair asking if Svetlana was going to come back after she dropped him off. More talking, and then Svetlana slid in. 

"I ruined your night," Ilya slurred. 

"No," Svetlana said, but didn't elaborate further.

"You should go back to your friends, I'll be okay," he insisted, but he felt all his Russian blur together into some borderline unintelligible soup.

Svetlana sighed, and pushed his hair back from his forehead. "If you throw up and ruin my friend's Uber rating I'll fucking kill you." 

"Remember when you ruined my Uber rating?" Ilya groaned. He rolled open the window and rested his head half out the car, so he could get fresh air. "Remember when you crashed Alexei's car?" 

He miraculously didn't throw up, a fact he announced proudly to Svetlana and the Uber driver. The driver wordlessly gave him a thumbs up, and then sped away, as Svetlana, with Ilya slung over her shoulder, clambered them over into the hotel room. 

The hotel room had one giant California King. She dropped him onto the bed. He heard her pad to the bathroom and turn the water run. When she came back, she had thrown her dress somewhere off to the side, hanging out in just her bra and underwear. 

She placed the water by the stand next to his head. She laid down next to him. 

"Drink that," she ordered. 

Ilya did, then laid back down. 

"Svetochka," he said, in a small voice. "Am I unloveable?" 

"No," she said, blunt. "Drink water and go to sleep." 

"Then why does everyone I love not love me back?" 

She turned her head, looking at him with pity in her eyes. "Unrequited love isn't an experience that is unique to you," she said. "I know it feels that way, and it's unfair." 

"My mom," he slurred, "My dad. My brother. You." 

He felt his consciousness slip in and out, dangerous and teetering. 

"Shane." 

Svetlana inhaled sharply. Part shock, part horror. 

Ilya was too drunk to do anything about it. 

"Ilya," she said instead. She chose not to address the name he blurted into the night air. "What are you even saying? You know I love you." 

"Not enough to be with me though," Ilya said, morosely. "Everyone wants to fuck me but no one wants to keep me." 

There was a long pause. Svetlana rolled over, and pushed Ilya until he let her bring his head to her chest. She hugged him to her body, tight and fierce, and Ilya mindlessly let himself sink into the comfort. She stroked his hair, petting him into a blurry world of sleep. 

"Oh Ilyusha," she murmured, softly. "What have you done?" 

"He doesn't love me," Ilya slurred again. "He doesn't want me. He wants someone shiny—shiny like a  beautiful summer rose. I lost him." 

"You dummy," she said. She sounded sad. She sounded like she was trying to convince herself of something. "What did you expect?" she whispered, into the crown of his hair, as Ilya slid into darkness. "You fell in love with Shane Hollander." 

The next part, she said entirely to herself, with no expectation that Ilya would hear.

"You can't compete with Shane Hollander, Sveta," she whispered. 

****

The next morning, Ilya woke up to an empty bed, and zero memory of last night. 

The only evidence of the carnage was a string of texts from Svetlana. 

Sveta: Had an early meeting in the city. There is Gatorade by your bed. Drink it. I also couldn't finish my breakfast in time for my cab, so there's half a sausage egg and cheese bagel in the fridge. Eat it. 

But then the texts continued. 

Sveta: … Ilyusha, we should stop sleeping together.

Sveta: we should also give each other some space. Not forever, only for a little bit. I just… I need some time.

Sveta: i loved you too you stupid asshole. of course I did. you are a hard person not to love, and you are a hard person not to want. 

Sveta: last night you went on a fucking bender and pissed and shit yourself over this Jane. It was fucking hilarious.

Sveta: but I beg you Ilyusha for the good of clubs across the globe, don't make the same mistake I did. 

Sveta: there is only the smallest window. if you let it close it will stay closed forever. 

Sveta: be honest with your Jane.

Sveta: you will surprise yourself.

Sveta: love you x. 

**** 

Svetlana tells Shane a story, the night before his wedding. 

Shane's known Svetlana for two years now. It's safe to say that every interaction they've had has been awkward at best, and downright uncomfortable at its worst.

Their first meeting was a disaster. 

Shane had braced himself for a female Ilya, to be quite blunt—all the cockiness and showmanship but with none of the attraction on Shane's end to make any of it seem appealing. Like Ilya, she was unbelievably gorgeous, and from her Instagram she seemed like she knew it. 

She was beautiful, sensual, and glamorous. Everything Shane wasn't. 

Except when Ilya had mentioned that she was a fan, Shane hadn't known to what extent. When she saw Shane, her eyes went wide, and she greeted him using his first and last name, a moniker she seemed incapable of dropping throughout the entire dinner as she buzzed with palpable anxiety. 

Shane never did well with anxious people. They turbocharged his neurosis. 

So the entire time, Svetlana was unnecessarily deferential, unwilling to push back on anything Shane said, which freaked Shane out, because it felt too much like an elaborate prank. She was too different from the woman Shane had expected to meet, and anytime they fell into silence, Svetlana couldn't help but stare at him, like he was a trading card that came to life. 

Ilya swooped in, in an attempt to salvage the social situation, to say that Svetlana was finishing up her MBA. Shane made another faux pas by immediately assuming she went to Harvard, putting her in a position where she had to inform him flatly that actually she went to Boston University. He tried to cover it up by blaming it on his Canadianness, but he still watched as Svetlana's brow furrowed when Shane seemed to accidentally radiate some kind of nonverbal disapproval. 

It only took until the second meeting for them to start fighting. 

The weird thing was dinner actually started out pretty well. Good conversation, a nice bottle of red—it seemed like the ice cracked, as well as any ice thick as "Ilya's boyfriend and ex-girlfriend" could crack anyway. Ilya started the dinner by telling Shane that Svetlana got a job on The Raiders as a data analyst. At this Shane visibly brightened. 

Quickly, he and Svetlana left Ilya in the dust while they rapid-fire poured over hockey numbers, shit-talking teams only using jargon and decimal points and p-values that left the two of them laughing uproariously. 

But maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was that Shane let himself get too comfortable. But it only took Shane mentioning Ottawa in the wrong way for the mood to sour immediately. 

Shane was pouring Svetlana another glass. "...Anyway, say what you will. Ottawa was definitely an adjustment," Shane had said, smiling. "But Ilya and I are both really happy he left Boston in the end." 

Svetlana's face fell. 

Ilya also seemed completely incapable of containing the explosion, which only made Shane angrier. He was doing all of this for him after all—trying to be friends with his fucking ex-girlfriend. The least Ilya could do was mediate competently. But accusations between the two of them were being hurled at speeds no one in the room could keep up with.

"—he had friends he had a life and most of all he was at the top of his fucking game in Boston! And you made him give it all up for this Stepford Wives bullshit—" 

"Oh my god I didn't make him give up anything! He's an adult no one can make him do anything  are you kidding me—" 

"Don't act so clueless I will not find it as cute as he thinks it is—" 

"More like you are clueless if you don't find it backwards that you act his fucking mom all the time—" 

"Shane!" Ilya ordered. 

Svetlana laughed. "Holy fucking shit you did not just say that—" 

Shane got upset and went too far, so Ilya jumped up and roared over the chaos that the two of them were done. Svetlana called an Uber, talking to Ilya in Russian in low tones, and Shane cleaned up, feeling like a total asshole even though he didn't even start the fucking argument. 

After that both of them agreed to not drink around each other, and to keep their interactions to polite greetings and small talk at rare industry dinners, or Ilya-sponsored gatherings. 

That is, until Svetlana finds Shane crying behind what he thought was a secluded enclave by the water at his own wedding. 

When Shane first had his cottage built from the ground up, he cataloged all the nooks, all the little hideaways where even in a place as isolated as this, he could conceal himself further. He always took a special joy out of discovering parts of nature that had been left untouched by mankind. 

So Shane had no idea how she even found this place. 

"I can go," Svetlana blurts out immediately. Shane sees her, mid-flight, only to have a particularly loud branch stopping her egress. "I was just trying to find a place to smoke." 

"You can't smoke here," Shane sniffs. He quickly wipes his tears with the back of his hand. "Global warming has made Canadian wildfires uncontrollable." 

Svetlana smirks. It makes her look almost identical to Ilya. She pulls a plastic water bottle out from her clutch, and shakes it at him. "I am an advocate of mother nature," she says. "I know how to put out cigarettes with accordance to wildlife safety protocols."

Shane deflates, look back out over the water. "I just needed a minute alone." 

"You aren't going to leave Ilya at the altar, right?" Svetlana says, entirely serious. "Because we are completely alone and I don't think anyone can hear you scream, if that's the case." 

"Of course I'm not leaving him at the altar," Shane can't help but snap. Svetlana raises her eyebrows at him. "I'm not," he says, attempting to calm down. He doesn't know why Svetlana always rubs him the wrong way, other than the obvious. "I—" Shane groans. "Can I help you? Do you need something?" 

Svetlana's face closes up, a flash of hurt before her mask of aloofness paints it back over. The expression makes Shane's heart clench, because once again it's such painfully Ilya behavior that Shane can only respond tenderly to it. 

"Sorry for bothering you," Svetlana says, flatly, and turns around and prepares to leave.

"Wait—" Shane says. Svetlana stops. "I—" Shane laughs, a little disbelieving. "I don't know. Maybe you are the only person who would get it." 

Svetlana turns around, and she looks tense. "We are two different people," she insists. "I don't love Ilya the way you love him. I would have nothing to teach you." 

Shane nods. "I know. Of course we are. I just," he digs his hands into his hair, ruffling it back. "Ilya and I, we gave up so much to get here," Shane says, voice breaking at the end. 

Svetlana just stares at him, not saying anything. 

"And of course I am thankful for it. And of course I wouldn't change what we have for anything in the world. But god. It was so hard to get here. Svetlana it was so fucking hard," he grinds his teeth, to stop the tears from falling again. "And I just keep thinking, if I had been different, or if I had just prioritized different things, we would've gotten here way sooner. And maybe Ilya would've… maybe he would've been happier I don't—" 

Svetlana's face remains stony. "But you didn't. And you are who you are. There's no crying in the world you can do that would change that." 

Shane laughs. 

Svetlana frowns. "What? I am serious." 

"I was saying the exact same thing to myself the entire time I was standing out here," he says, chuckling. "Down to the word." 

Svetlana looks a little awkward before she huffs out a laugh of her own. "Well, sorry for telling you something you already know, I guess." 

"No, you're probably right," Shane says, before a fresh spring of tears flow again. "Jesus Christ," he grumbles. Svetlana looks at him, measuring his reaction, when she pulls out Kleenex from her clutch and hands it to him.

"I was so jealous of you," Svetlana confesses, as the sun started to fall below the horizon. 

Shane blinks, a little surprised. "Okay. I was so jealous of you too." 

Svetlana laughs. "Not as much as I was of you, this I can promise you." 

Shane frowns. "Are you still in love with him?" 

This only makes Svetlana laugh harder. "Oh my god, no," Svetlana says, easily. "Come on Shane Hollander. I can be jealous of you and jealous of you and Ilya without it having to be about Ilya." 

"... That makes no sense." 

"Did you know I played hockey? As a kid?" 

Shane considers her. "That doesn't surprise me," he gives her a measuring look. "You'd be tough as nails I think, on the ice. You seem like someone who would know how to use your center of gravity to your advantage." 

Svetlana is pleasantly surprised by Shane's compliment. She blushes even, touched. "Thank you," she says, bashfully. 

"Why'd you stop?" Shane asks. 

Clueless.

Svetlana doesn't punish him for it though. "I was twelve. I don't know if Ilya told you this but the arrangement was my dad worked full-time in Moscow, while my mom and I stayed in Boston for most of the year. So I would be in America for school, and then during the summer I would visit my dad in Russia."

She continues. "Anyway, my mom was a pretty lackadaisical parent. I told her I wanted to play hockey, so she just let me do it," she smiles. "You are right. I was good. They didn't let girls check in peewee leagues so I learned quickly how to protect possession without relying on force," she sighs. "So I was what, twelve? And my dad was visiting America for the first time in ten years so it was a big deal—everyone he knew here was coming out to see him, and we had this big gathering by Chandler pond where Dad got to hang out with some of his old teammates."

Shane watches as her eyes grow sad. "I was playing a scrim with some of his friends' sons on the ice. We were just goofing off. But maybe I was playing too hard—I just had so much pent up aggression, you know? And I was finally getting to play rough. So I was on fire. I was owning these boys like three years older than me, junior league prospects. But then I full-body tackled this one kid to the ground, and his skull actually busted open, it was crazy. There was blood everywhere, and everyone was freaking out." 

She laughs, dryly. "Anyway. He had to get like twelve stitches, but he was fine in the end. On the other hand, my dad never let me play hockey again," she says, and her voice actually shakes. Shane's heart breaks for her when he realizes the wound is just as fresh, even after twenty years. 

"That's so unfair," Shane says, obviously. "It's like, a rite of passage to bust your head open on the ice as a kid." 

Svetlana raises her eyebrows like, well, you know. It is what it is. "You can't go around tackling boys on the ice as a girl. My dad said it will make me seem like I come from a bad home. My mom agrees with whatever my dad says." 

"Did you ever get to play against Ilya?" Shane asks, a little afraid of the answer. 

Svetlana shoots him a rueful smile. "He didn't even know I played." 

Shane sucks in a startled breath. "Svetlana…" 

She shrugs. "I didn't really want to talk about hockey, especially after the kid's dad kept going around Moscow telling people Vetrov's psycho daughter nearly killed his son. Also, uh, that summer, when I went back, Irina…" she did a clicking motion across her neck, "you know? It just felt annoying to even mention it to him. So Ilya always just thought I liked hockey because of my dad." 

Shane finds himself struck by a sudden impetus, one that feels alien because staring at this girl across from him, he knows nothing about her.

They are strangers, save the boy they both love. 

Yet Shane finds it imperative to reach out, and wrap Svetlana into a hug. 

"What the hell—" Svetlana jumps, but Shane buries his face into her neck, and squeezes. 

"I'm sorry," Shane mumbles. "I'm sorry you didn't get to play." 

"It's fine," Svetlana insists, gritting her teeth. "I should've tried to play in college. Or done minor league, or whatever—" 

"No, you were good," Shane continues, the conviction deep in his chest. "I know you were. And you didn't get to be great. And that's so unfair and I'm sorry." 

Finally Svetlana cracks. She wraps her arms around Shane and buries herself into him, the two of them holding onto each other. "I wish I could've played against him," she gasps out. "Ever since I was a girl I wanted that more than anything and I will never get to play him at the level I wanted to." 

"Is there anything I can do?" Shane asks. 

Svetlana pulls away. Her eyes are completely dry, despite the overbearing emotion in her voice. "There's no crying in the world that can change what already happened."

"We are who we are," Shane says. 

Svetlana shoots him a lopsided smile. "And what is that, exactly?"

The chaos of wedding preparations happens off into the distance. Ilya might be in the center of it, yelling orders, blissfully unaware of the conversation happening hidden from his view. 

"Well," Shane shrugs. He finds his eyes are finally dry. 

He holds out a hand to Svetlana, as the two slowly make their way back to civilization. "We're two people who fell in love with Ilya Rozanov, of course."