Chapter Text
May 2017/ Moscow
Ilya woke to footsteps in his apartment. Someone was there, several people, talking to each other. He left the bed, took the baseball bat he kept behind the bedroom door. He entered the living room, turned on the light, and saw no one, but could tell people were there.
“Who the fuck is there?”
“I’m calling the police, and I’ll knock you out.”
He advanced and felt someone, larger than him, grabbing him from behind. Ilya was not small; for the man to grab him like that, he had to be Ryan Price massive. He tried to scream, but the man put his hand on his mouth and then on his neck, making it difficult to talk or breathe
Another man appeared, smaller, talking to him in Russian but with a Finnish accent.
He was being kidnapped.
***
June 2014
“Open it,” Shane said.
Ilya opened the box. It was a worn Rolex watch.
“You are giving me your sponsor gift, Shane? I am MVP.”
“It’s my first watch, the one I wore most days. Turn it.”
Engraved, a number: 1410.
“The first room,” Ilya said.
“Yes.”
“You are giving it to me?”
“No. You will give it back to me when you come back to me,” Shane said.
It was not how tonight was supposed to go.
Three weeks ago, he had known he would see Shane, spend hours with him, ask him to put on a show, to put distance between them, because whatever was between them could not, should not, exist. He would never have it, even if it had been all he had wanted, the first thing he had wanted more than leaving Russia.
But Alexei happened.
10 days ago, still in the fog of his first Cup, there had been a call at 5 a.m. When he saw Polina’s name on the screen, his heart raced. Father, hurt, lost, dead. But when he answered, her voice was too calm, and she made polite conversation. He did not hate her, but he did not like her either. All those years and no feeling toward her except a slight annoyance. Maybe it was worse. He cut her off.
“Polina, did something happen?”
And yes, something had happened. Alexei. Always Alexei. He had disappeared for a few days. His work had upset his father. They had no reason to think he was hurt or dead. They had found him the day before, drunk and passed out. The police, because of respect for their father, and because being an alcoholic and a drug addict was not cause for revocation, had no real leverage. They would not fire him, but he would be on medical leave.
“I’ll pay for the doctor, and he’ll stay with father more,” Ilya said automatically, because that was what all those calls were. Money, more money, paying for something: roof repair, medication, energy, Alexei’s daughter’s school. One call, one wire.
He was ready to end that too-long call, at an ungodly hour, for his useless brother, but Polina was not.
“No, it’s more complicated,” she said.
How so? Alexei was a drug addict, a loser, in a profession full of alcoholics and corrupt men. He would not be the first nor the last. A little slap. But Alexei had to fuck his life and Ilya’s life, had to drag him with him, even from across the sea, make him pay again and again. Because he was talented enough to leave. Because he left. Because he looked too much like their mother. Because he was the one who found her. Because his father stopped beating him when he became a hockey star. Because.
“Alexei’s asked to go to St. Petersburg.”
“What do you mean? He’s asking for a transfer?”
“Yes. He says that Moscow’s environment isn’t good for him regarding...his consumption, so he’s asking to be transferred to St. Petersburg.”
“Moscow environment? With his wife and daughter?”
“They’ll stay here, but he’ll go for at least six months,” she said.
“When?”
“He has to deal with administrative things here, but in the middle of summer, I think.”
The fact that Polina was calm wasn’t reassuring; she wasn’t panicked about being responsible for their father, because she had already proved she wasn’t. The year before, their father had wandered for thirty minutes, barefoot and in inappropriate clothing, in their neighborhood. The neighbor had called Alexei, and Polina had just answered that she hadn’t seen when he left.
It was clear that their father’s illness was synonymous with freedom for Polina, who had married young to a widower she thought would take care of her, only to find out he still had it in him to crush and terrorize another woman. She did the minimum: appointments, medication, and sometimes overdosing Gregori enough to knock him out.
Alexei was unquestionably crooked, but he would never let their father wander around barefoot wearing only a T-shirt. Polina was taking small revenge on Gregori and was patiently waiting for his death. Ilya thought of Katarina, Alexei’s wife, the apparent choice in line with the Russian patriarchal tradition to which Gregori subscribed. It was always women who took care of the elders, but even Alexei, who was always willing to push onto others what he himself should do, didn’t favor that alternative and preferred to be the one taking care of their father. Ilya knew that Katarina wasn’t an option either.
“I have to go,” Ilya said to Polina. He didn’t let her say goodbye.
Middle of summer. Alexei had left for the other side of the country, his father alone, lost, sick. He left. To go to rehab? Ilya knew his brother. He would never go to rehab, neither for health reasons nor for pride. No, he was leaving.
“You think you’re the only one who can fucking go?” Alexei told him after Sochi during one of their phone calls. If Ilya had known, it would’ve been a warning.
Alexei left far enough to not be responsible. He made sure Polina broke the news to Ilya so that Ilya knew it wasn’t for rehab. It was because Ilya got one thing—The Cup. Alexei had to ruin everything.
He had to make the abyss and darkness cross the ocean to reach Ilya, to drag him back.
Ilya stared at the wall, calling Alexei. Of course, he didn’t answer. Ilya knew he wouldn’t answer.
“In the middle of summer.”
It was Alexei’s notice to Ilya that he had to flush his life and abandon everything, to take his turn and take care of their father.
Ilya called 23 times but didn’t leave a message.
Alexei sent him a text, “Think you’re the only one who wanted to pursue your dream and potential?”
The anger metastasized into dread, pure dread. It was what he deserved, to have abandoned his father, and to have paid Alexei to take care of him to ease the guilt. Now his time had come.
He had four years. Four years, and now he was forced to return.
He could pay someone, multiple people, but no—Ilya had abandoned his country when the MHL wrote up the best contract they could offer in 2009, and recently humiliated Russia at the Olympics by losing to Latvia, lived in Boston, photographed every night in clubs, with flashy cars and women, all while his father was dying and wandering around without shoes. At least Alexei could hide behind being in the service of Russia in St. Petersburg, holding the fort in a city minutes away from the European Union.
And who would they call if something happened? Why would they now, knowing that their father was not mistreated? For all the distance Ilya had tried to put between himself and Russia, he was a product of that particular class of government officials and carried its values and sense of obligation. He had already stretched one boundary by leaving; it was still acceptable, he wasn’t the first nor the only Russian in the MHL. But he couldn’t make that additional stretch, hiring people to live with and take care of their father, knowing Alexei wasn’t there, or not close. He could ignore Alexei’s phone calls for money because he knew that, if something major happened, he could act, he could make medical decisions.
Their father, as a true patriarchal figure, made sure that Polina couldn’t make medical decisions for him, or even legal ones. Someone could see it as love and respect for his sons, but it was a leash—a short leash—whether they wanted it or not, they were responsible for him.
And the guilt went further when all he could think about, about all the things he would lose, was Shane Hollander.
It was 5:45 a.m. His life was collapsing, and all he could think about was Shane’s face; how he hurt him in Sochi, the message he had ignored after. Shane folding his clothes, Shane asking if he was okay.
So maybe Ilya was paying for the hurt he caused, caused by going back to his home country, in his family, where men only hurt each other.
But nothing would matter anymore.
Middle of summer. At least he could go to Las Vegas; the MVP trophy, one last round of photos, maybe stay one week, lose himself in drinking. Pack his apartment, find a new apartment in Moscow, call his agent, dissolve his contract with Boston. Join a KHL team, surely the best, Moscow Sokol. They would definitely pay the remaining contract amount and other penalties to Boston. Say goodbye to Marleau. Maybe gift him one of his cars.
Middle of summer. Everything would go.
And because nothing mattered anymore, that Ilya, captain of the Boston Bears, didn’t matter.
So Ilya called Shane. Once, twice, three, four, five times; and every time the call went to voicemail, he typed again. Then he sent a text message:
Lily: Please.
and again
Lily: Please Hollander.
He called again, and Shane picked up.
“Rozanov.”
Of course, Shane was fully awake; maybe on a run while spending time with his family. His family of people who had not been trying to destroy him. His family of loving Canadians; of a very much alive mother and a father who had never beaten him. A loving family that had made a gentle Shane. Ilya did not answer, just breathed.
“Why are you calling me? Done ignoring me? What do you want?” Shane had asked.
Still, Ilya did not know what he wanted. Nothing. He had wanted nothing, but he would have had to give up everything—all he had worked for, for Shane, whom he had worked for, to get, to lose, to avoid, to not think about, to not fall in love with.
Nothing mattered anymore, even Ilya’s fear of saying what he had wanted for Shane, someone that he could never have, because he would leave for Russia, KHL, and never see him again. So everything could go, like a last confession, like closing the door.
“I want you,” Ilya had murmured.
“Are you calling for sex? You’re unbelievable. You ignored me for months, and you call at fucking six in the morning for sex? Fuck you.”
This was the truth of Ilya: if he wanted his “I want you” to mean “I want to be with you. I want you to want me. I want to hold you. I want you to hold me.” Instead, what he hid behind his Russian words when everything was too much, and he needed to tell Shane he loved him. Yes, he expressed his love, but in Russian, and only when he was inside Shane, and needed to hold him, even though he reminded himself not to stay too long. Everything led to "I want you" being heard the same as "I only want to fuck."
Ilya did not realize he was crying. He had not moved from his bed since Polina’s call; he had not even gone to the bathroom. He just stared at the wall, listening to Shane, breathing.
“Rozanov, are you crying? Are you okay? Where are you?” Shane asked.
“Home.”
“What’s going on? Is it your family?”
“I… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything.”
“Okay, it’s okay, you were stressed. It’s okay now. I’ll see you again, okay?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I have to go back.”
“Yes, but the awards, and after, you know, after the summer. What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
“I can’t, I can’t. I’m sorry. I want you so much and I don’t know what to do with it. I pushed you away. I’m not good enough. We can’t.”
“Rozanov, are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“You seem upset, very upset, and not good. I can go home, and we’ll FaceTime, okay?”
“No, nothing matters. I’m just sorry, I'm sorry Hollander.”
Ilya hung up. He went to the bathroom, pissed, then went to the kitchen, took a glass and a bottle of cheap alcohol, and went back to his bedroom. He planned to drink enough to forget everything until the awards, until he had to make plans to dismantle his life, brick by brick. Cage his heart and his brain, leaving just enough space for Svetlana and the memory of Shane.
No one would bother him or check on him. He had spent the last two weeks celebrating the Cup, and everyone had started leaving for their families. If he did not answer, they knew he would be at the awards. Alexei’s plan had at least one good side: for one week, he could descend into a pure spiral of misery, alone, preparing for the loneliness.
Maybe he would find someone; he would lose himself in all the beautiful women in Moscow. Or he could be reckless, maybe he would also do men. Maybe he would find one with glasses, yes, freckles, who folded her clothes before sex, who was boring, and smelled like citrus and mint, and never wore wrinkled T-shirts. Maybe he would have kids he could love, send to an international school, and, when he retired, could go live somewhere hot.
He drank and descended slowly into his own misery, peeling it layer by layer, memory by memory, closing possibility by possibility.
The door rang frantically for at least seven minutes. Ilya blinked. The clock indicated 4 p.m. He had drunk himself to sleep. He was still slightly drunk but more hungover than anything. Whoever came to bother him would be sent away, and Ilya would return to his plan. He put on pants, shouting at the door, “What the fuck do you want?”
He opened the door, and standing there, baseball cap low on his face and sunglasses, was Shane Hollander.
Shane pushed him inside, did not wait to be invited, and stared at him like he wanted to kill him, to hug him, to kiss him, all at once. Ilya closed the door. He needed to ask something. What was he doing there? Why was he not in Montreal? No, stupid, it was off-season, so why was he not on vacation with his parents, or filming a Rolex commercial?
“What the fuck, Rozanov? I called you like fifty times. You can’t call me crying and turn off your phone. I thought...Oh my God. What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
Everything. Everything was wrong with him; inside, outside, his brain, his heart, his family, everything except Shane. Ilya stepped closer. At first, he wanted to corner Shane into the wall or the kitchen island and slip into the nonchalant Ilya, the confident one of the dark hotel rooms. He could do it, step closer and tell him he was nothing but a pretty mouth. He could corner him and tell him to get on his knees. No. He would get on his knees for Shane. They could go to the bedroom, and he could make love to him without calling it that. He could fuck him, and because it was off-season, maybe he would stay. It was 4 p.m, he could stay the night. If he did, Ilya would watch him sleep, hug him, and tell him the secrets of his heart in Russian. Hum into his hair, count all the freckles on his face, and remember them. He would steal his T-shirt and take it with him to Russia.
He moved closer; he was ready with an easy plan. He just needed an angry kiss, and the usual dance would follow. Their faces were closer, but Shane put his hand on Ilya’s face, and he looked at him. Looked at him as if he was scared, sad, worried; as if Ilya was fragile. He looked at him.
“What’s wrong? You scared me.”
And Ilya tried. He tried to go with the plan, to have the smirk on his lips, to tell Shane he was dramatic, that he had only called for his cock. He tried. He opened his mouth. He tried, but he cried. He fell into Shane, and he cried. It did not stop. His body refused to stop. He cried, and Shane held him tight, walked with him, not letting him go, and sat on the couch.
“I’m here. You’re okay. I’m here.”
Ilya could not stop. Shane was on his lap, with Ilya’s head on his chest, rocking him, hand in his hair. And they stayed like that for what seemed like hours, but it was not long enough. When Shane finally pulled away, Ilya wanted to grab him.
“I have to remove my shoes, okay? I’m getting water. I brought clothes, so we can lie down on the bed.”
“Okay,” Ilya said.
Ilya followed him, not letting him out of his sight, cataloging all the ways he removed his shoes at the entry, opened Ilya’s fridge, and poured water for both of them. Drinking it, Ilya took his hand and his bag, and walked with him to the bedroom.
He sat on the bed and watched Shane remove his clothes, unpack sweatpants and a T-shirt, and Ilya stopped him.
“No, stay like this.”
Shane lay on the bed. Ilya put his head on his chest, held onto him tight, and murmured, “Thank you.” And Shane responded with one hand in Ilya’s hair and the other trailing on his face,
“I’m here. You want to sleep, and we’ll talk after.”
“Okay.”
When Ilya woke up at nine, Shane was not there. He thought it was a hallucination — why would Shane be there? He was alone and had drunk too much. But when he rolled over, there was the bag and the folded clothes, so he left the bed with urgency.
Shane was there on the couch, watching a soccer game. He was there, not in his clothes, but in Ilya’s T-shirt and sweatpants, drinking a Canada Dry. Ilya did not have Canada Dry. Had he brought it? Ilya watched him, another memory he needed to lock in his brain, in the box he would need in Moscow, another thing he would never have.
When Shane saw him, he smiled, the gentle and soft smile Ilya had seen.
“I ordered Thai food. It’s still warm. I was waiting for you.”
“I need to freshen up, and I’m coming.”
Shane walked over him, put a gentle kiss on his lips, one on his jaw, and one on his neck.
“I’ll set the table.”
In the shower, Ilya did the calculations. He already counted everything that he would lose when leaving in the middle of the summer, but every minute with Shane added to it exponentially. It was only four hours. They did not even share fifty words. They did not even properly kiss, but it was so much, and he would have to leave it too.
He would have to leave knowing that Shane cared enough about him to fly to Boston the same day, hold him for hours, bring extra clothes, order Thai food, wait for him to wake up, and gently kiss him.
Every minute was an additional loss. Should he be pragmatic and tell him to go? But Ilya was selfish, like Alexei. He wanted to take, take, and take everything he could from Shane before he had to go. He would keep him as long as he could, even if it was just chaste kisses and being held.
In the kitchen, Shane put the food on plates, set aside a Coke for Ilya, and a glass of water. He sat across from Ilya, but Ilya could not stand the distance. He took his plate and sat next to him, put a kiss on his neck, his cheek, and took his mouth, kissing him as a thank you, as a sorry, as an almost goodbye, as an I want to remember you forever.
When he separated their lips, Shane was panting, “Talk to me,” Shane said.
Ilya looked away from Shane. How could he tell him how fucked up he had been, how fucked up his family had been, his brother who should have died with his mother, his father who had grown into a monster, his pathetic self who still wanted to be acknowledged and loved by him?
Shane stepped closer. “Hey, look at me. It’s okay. You can talk to me.”
Ilya pulled Shane into a hug, lowered his head, and started talking. He talked, and talked. Twelve, his mother in the bathroom. Fourteen, sex, and more hockey to not feel. Alexei, the hate; his father, the disappointment of leaving Russia, the constant reproaches, the loneliness, the dementia. Russia's anti-propaganda law, but also the summer and the love for Moscow. The hate of his family, Alexei's revenge, and finally, the leaving.
He said everything except the things about the one person who had been everything, the one who had been holding him then. He said everything and hoped Shane understood that he had been everything, that of all the things he would lose, Shane had been more important than Boston, than hockey.
“Why did you call me?” Shane asked.
Ilya had three choices: not answering, saying he had not known, or telling the truth. If he told the truth to Shane, he stepped outside his head, his heart. He would have to say out loud what he wanted, and the loss would exist for Shane to hear, and maybe it would be too much. Could he do that to Shane, tell him his true feelings, and then leave? Should he spare him, let him keep what they had been as fun memories, and those past hours as some bug, something they did not need to talk about? But he had been held with such care, Ilya could not find it in himself to do anything other than say, “Because you’re everything to me. And I… I like you, Shane.” It was almost all the truth, but he could not take the next step: he was already in love with him.
Shane moved away from him and looked at him. Was he panicking? It was too much.
“Say it again,” Shane said, mystified.
“I like you, Shane,” Ilya said, and Shane kissed him. He kissed him with everything he had, as if he wanted to merge with Ilya, and finally said, “Me too, I like you, Ilya.”
When they finished eating, they went to bed, kissed and hugged more, trailing their hands on their bodies.
“You’re not leaving?” Ilya asked.
“I’ve nowhere to be before the awards,” Shane said.
“We can go somewhere.”
“Where?”
“I know a place. Private”
“Okay.”
Ilya reached for his phone and sent a quick message to his travel agent.
“We’re leaving tomorrow. Early.”
“I don’t have many clothes.”
“Order online, and you can have them delivered there,” Ilya said, giving his iPad open on his Saks account "I already put the adress"
“Okay.”
They fell asleep, Shane spooning Ilya. It was the first night they slept together without sleeping together.
In the morning, they were ready to leave at seven.
Ilya drove them to the small heliport near Boston Logan Airport, and their helicopter landed thirty minutes later on Martha’s Vineyard. A car with tinted windows waited for them. A man handed the key to Ilya.
Ilya drove them. They did not talk much; they listened to music and commented on the landscape. It was Shane’s first time there. Ilya loved coming there. One of his NBA friends had told him about the discreet luxury travel service and the secluded, private house with direct beach access, available for the modest cost of $74,000 for six days. They would be alone, with a grocery delivery service, a car, a helicopter transport, and bicycles.
The house was perfect. Everything was ready. The fridge was stocked with drinks, including Canada Dry, as well as fresh food, luxury sheets and towels. Shane glanced over. “Wow, I love this house. Do you know the architect? Is it your house?”
“No, it’s rental. It’s private. Everyone signs an NDA, from the helicopter to the cleaning service. No one around, and we can go to a private beach.”
“You come here often?” Shane asked, the silent part was a question, Do you come here with someone else?"
“No, only when I need my head to be quiet, I always come alone.”
“You should buy it.”
“Doesn’t matter now,” he paused.
Ilya showed him every room and amenity. Shane did most of the talking, describing everything, even if it was his first time, and Ilya imagined everything they could do. Six days. He had six days to pack every essence of Shane into his mind before it was all done. He would fuck him in every room. He would hold him, feed him, make him laugh, ask him to kiss him, count his freckles, hold his hand, and put everything in a secure place in his heart.
They ended up in the ensuite bedroom, dropping their luggage and unpacking. Ilya took Shane’s hands.
He carefully removed Shane’s clothes; he wanted to memorize everything: the T-shirt, the pants, and the briefs. He was the one who folded them.
“Sit,” he had told him, pointing to the bed.
He undressed himself. Shane looked at him with intensity and need in his eyes. Ilya stroked himself; Shane moved, revealing his desire to fall to his knees and take Ilya in his mouth. Ilya stopped him. “No. I'll take care of you today. Stay.” Then Ilya dropped to his knees and took Shane in his mouth. Shane moaned, “Ilya.” Ilya didn't go fast; he took his time, his hand on Shane’s stomach, reaching for his pec. Shane fell back on the mattress. “I'm going to cum,” he said, so Ilya stopped. “Not yet. I'm going to fuck you,” Ilya said, standing.
Shane sat on the bed, and Ilya reached for his head. Shane took him in his mouth, but without Ilya’s patience—he devoured him. He tried to reach for his own cock, but Ilya stopped him. “You're so good, Shane, so good to me.” Ilya pulled out, reached for his bag, took out the lube and condom, and Shane waited. “Yes, please, Ilya, fuck me.”
“Lie on the bed. I want to see you. I'm going to fuck you slow.”
Ilya went back to Shane, played with Shane's rim with his tongue, and slid in a finger. “Ohh, Ilya, more, give me more.”
Ilya put in a second finger. “Be loud for me, Shane.”
“Yes, Ilya, I like it, I want more.” He was breathing hard. Ilya put on the condom with one hand and placed himself at Shane’s entrance, pushing his knee up. He entered slowly. “I am ready, Ilya, come all the way, please,” and he pushed. One thrust and Shane screamed, “Oh fuck.” He did what he had promised — he fucked him slow but hard. He kissed him on the neck, earlobe, mouth, cheek. “Talk to me, Shane.”
“It’s so good, you are so good. I love you, Ilya.”
Ilya had dreamt about those words, about saying them, but he had never dreamt about hearing them first, hearing them like this, facing Shane, inside of him, smelling his sweat, tasting him. All of this, with three weeks before he would have to leave his life, leave the continent, the league he shared with Shane. The happiness and cruelty of it. Shane’s love was given to him, to be taken away. He wanted to cry, to kiss him, and break something all at once.
“I don’t want to let you go. I love you.”
“Mark me," Shane breathed. Ilya kissed him hard, creating hickeys on his chest and neck.
Ilya accelerated his pace toward the end, still talking, reclaiming words to Shane, telling him how good he was, how good he was taking it. They came together, sweating and panting.
Shane looked up at him with glassy eyes, “I love you,” and Ilya buried his face in his neck, “I love you so much, I thought it’d kill me.”
They spent the week talking about their first kiss, middle school hockey gossip, playing video games, their families, Shane’s anxiety, Shane being Asian, how many Cups they wanted, when they thought they would retire, Svetlana, Shane and girls, Montreal, funny stories in the locker room, the worst players, Hayden and his kids, Sasha, Ilya and his mother, Shane's diet. On day five, walking on the beach and talking about nothing in particular, they stopped and watched the waves coming and going. Shane reached for Ilya’s hand, both silent, facing the sea.
“I love you,” Ilya said.
“Me too.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“But you have to, because you’re a good son.”
“I love you so much. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
“Wait? Wait for what? What was Shane saying? This week-long funeral of a stillborn relationship, their love, was the most Ilya could wish for in this life. This wait.
“I’ll wait for you. I looked it up. I’m sorry, I know it’s a bit morbid,” Shane said.
“What?”
“Your father’s health, what you said about the symptoms and the medication. I don’t think he has many years left, Ilya. I’m sorry.”
“You’ll wait?”
“Yes, until you come back, in two or three years. I’ll wait for you.”
“Shane, you know we can’t do long distance. If someone finds out, it’ll be dangerous for me.”
The development of the anti-propaganda law had taken a macabre turn the month before, when hackers had hacked into the phones and emails of public figures, handing them over to the police. Now, a TV presenter, a soccer player, and two singers were facing prosecution, even if they had not “propagandized.” The Russian police, compensating for the economic crisis, had launched a full moral police hunt for enemies from within: feminist activists, the opposition, but also those accused of propagandizing Western values. Sochi was past the point of needing to soften the image, too. He knew he would have to delete everything, or maybe change his phone, keep the one there. Because other men also had code names for their lovers, boyfriends, and hookups. Money could protect you, but nothing could protect you from the need for a public spectacle to distract from failing politics.
“I know. You’ll be safe in my heart. I’ll wait. I want you to know, I’ll wait for you.”
“It could be years.”
“I know, Ilya. I’ve tried, you know, to have other people, not to think about you. But I couldn’t. I thought I liked you too much, and that you didn’t care about me.”
“I cared, I care, so much, Shane.”
“I know now. And I can’t go back to not knowing you loved me, so I’ll wait. I’ll watch all your games and know where you are. And we’ll text and FaceTime every day.”
“If you want to be with people, someone…”
“You mean sex.”
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t. I want sex, but only with you. You’ve ruined me for anyone else, remember. It’s only you. I’ll think about you and wait. We can see each other during the summer, in Europe, when people don’t care about hockey.”
“Years of jerking off and dildos, Hollander.”
“Yes,” Shane said, pausing and looking at him. “Would you wait?”
How could Ilya have deserved this? Love, the wait; Shane would have waited for his return. He had known the doctor had given his father two to three years, but still. He had known that being in Russia in the summer, passing through, was not the same as living there, having a Russian phone, home internet, and using an internet that could be shut down. After Sochi, it was revealed that a TV presenter had been living next door to his companion for three years and had been arrested. When the news broke, the other man was traveling. Now his partner was facing, at the very least, public humiliation and being cast out. At worst, they were imprisoned and had been forced to seek emergency asylum in Germany.
If Ilya were caught in contact with Shane, they would make sure the news did maximum damage to both of their lives. He was devastated, but something grew in Ilya, watching the sun on Shane’s face, an anchor, a light at the end of the years of darkness that were coming. He would do it for Shane. It would be his salvation, his redemption. He would wait. He would wait to come back. As soon as his father was buried, he would come to any team. He would do penance, focus on hockey, become the best in the KHL, and come back. The MHL would take him back.
“Yes.”
“You will come back to me.”
And Ilya said, “I will.”
They had flown to Vegas on separate flights. Ilya had packed Shane’s clothes and had displayed them directly in the penthouse. Back in the room after the ceremony, they were celebrating Ilya's MVP award, not like Ilya had planned weeks ago, the distance he had planned to put between Shane and him.
“Open it,” Shane said.
Ilya opened the box. It was a worn Rolex watch.
“You’re giving me your sponsor gift, Shane? I’m MVP.”
“It’s my first watch, the one I wore most days. Turn it.”
Engraved, a number: 1410.
“The first room,” Ilya said.
“Yes.”
“You’re giving it to me?”
“No. You’ll give it back to me when you come back,” Shane said.
Ilya reached for the drawer, took a box.
“It’s for you.”
“I didn’t win,” Shane said, opening it. It was a thin gold necklace, the same one that Ilya had, but without the orthodox cross.
“It’s my necklace, I had it cleaned and bought a new one to put my mother's cross. You keep it, half of me.”
Shane did not even spend ten minutes in his own room. Every second outside of the press and parties was spent in Ilya's room. Room service, fucking, talking, making promises. But tomorrow came. And after waiting for the summer, they decided to interact more publicly. Shane would say something when Ilya announced his departure. Shane’s watch on his wrist, Shane on his arm, Shane telling him, “I’m proud of you, I love you.” Ilya tried to push away the after, his flight ticket for Moscow in five days, the PR announcement, and the end of his contract with the Boston Bears to take care of his father and join Moscow Sokol.
June 2015 (End of 2014-2015 Season)
For the last twelve months, Ilya had kept a routine. He had opened his mailbox. Hospital bills, sponsorship contracts, and letters from his bank. He had been waiting for a text from Shane on his Russian phone. Not every day, maybe two or three times a month. Mostly boring texts. “Good game.” “Not so weak backhand.” Comments about games. “Hope your family is okay.” When he arrived, he turned off his American phone, which he was still paying for, and left it in his luggage.
After that, every day when he woke up, and every night, he turned it on, sent a message to Shane, and answered his texts; they FaceTimed once or twice a week. Shane had been adamant that they could not take a risk, so Ilya never left the house with the phone, turning it on and off only to talk to Jane, send pictures, and say "I love you" every morning.
They spent one full night on the phone when Shane's cousin died in a car accident. This death hit Shane hard. It was the first time Shane took ten days of personal time from hockey. Ilya sent a flower arrangement under a pseudonym for the funeral. His AT&T roaming bill was scandalous, but he did not care, and it meant nothing to his finances. In his Russian phone, he kept everything boring, compliant. Former rivals with no animosity.
Ilya thought Shane was maybe too cautious, but three weeks into his first season with Moscow Sokol, a rich oligarch’s son, twenty-seven, was arrested in a sauna, and pictures were published. His father was in the U.S., maybe on his way to do something he should not. His father returned, his company was nationalized, his son was freed, and they both left the country. A reminder that they had ways of knowing and, when needed, would act. It got worse. Every week, there was a new case of moral panic and “interventions against immorality.”
One year. It was one year. Alexei did not come back except for six visits. He stayed in St. Petersburg. Word on the street was that he was living a full life, while his wife and daughter were still in Moscow.
Ilya had to move to a new apartment to be closer to his father’s house, but he still wanted to maintain some distance and privacy. He paid medical staff to be at home, but had to go every day when he was not traveling for games. His contract was good. He was the highest-paid KHL player. Sponsorships were generous. He went every month to the children’s hospital, did his job, went out with his team, did not drink much, cried a lot at night, scrolled Shane’s Instagram, and watched Shane’s games.
It was not an easy year. One night, spiraling and depressed, he went out. He drank too much and looked for a distraction. He settled on drugs and found a seller, but then a fight broke out. A random homeless man crashed in and accused the man of stealing his cart. Ilya left and went home, turned on the American phone, and sent “I miss you so much. I am miserable.” It was 9 p.m. in Montreal. Shane called him back and stayed the night with him on FaceTime.
In Moscow, when he was not with his father, coordinating with Polina and the medical aid, he spent a lot of time with his neighbor’s dog, Anya. Anastasia let Anya sleep in his apartment and let her stay with him as long as he wanted. She had moved into the building one month after him. Anastasia was an old, taciturn woman, the widow of a rich banker with no children. She did not ask many questions and did not talk much. Some days, she left food for him. Ilya loved her dog. He could not have a dog, because after two or three years, he would be back overseas with Shane. He felt guilty most of the time, living in Moscow, waiting for his father to pass away, and still feeling dread that his father was dying.
One year had passed since he had seen him. Boston was still mad at him for leaving, but mostly sad. The public sent him so many messages. The management told him that when he was ready, he could come back. The league posted a statement, wishing him and his family the best. Russian media praised him: “the return of the prodigal son,” and "Russian family values." Shane commented on his post, noting the loss of one of the league's best players, who had challenged him. Very sportsmanlike, very Shane.
One year, and he stayed true to his promises. To avoid Russian media in his business, he was spotted by Moscow paparazzi as often as possible when Svetlana was in town. For the rest, he was a responsible Russian son, playing hockey in his country and taking care of his father, a great man of the Russian military.
Some weekends, he played chess with Anastasia. She told him gossip about Moscow high society. Sometimes the gossip became grim; people disappeared, political opponents, activists, feminists, and gay clubs were being shut down. Ilya tried to enjoy the city. He walked a lot and was often stopped for photos. He tried new restaurants, spent time with youth, but most of the time he was with his father or at home.
One week before he left for Berlin, his apartment was broken into. They stole the TV, watches, sneakers, his laptop, and the ten thousand in emergency cash he had. When he came in and found the police that Anastasia had called, the first thing he checked when they left was the suitcase's front pocket, where he kept his American phone—it was still there. He always had Shane’s watch. Everything else could be replaced.
He was looking at the city on his way to the airport. He was meeting Shane in Berlin for a two-day sponsored event, which they would turn into a vacation: a full week in Berlin, then four weeks at Shane's cottage. When he arrived at the hotel in Berlin, he turned on the American phone and saw a text from Shane with an address and “waiting for you.” He slept, went to his media engagement, and had photoshoots for a sponsor. He saw Shane in the large conference room, but it was strange. He locked eyes with him but rapidly moved away. He would see him later.
At 5 p.m., he took a cab to the address. Fifteen minutes into the trip, a collision happened. Not dramatic, a small one, and a truck blocked the street. People were shouting. The truck was not moving. Ilya needed to go. He had somewhere to be. He could not wait.
The cab driver excused himself, “I don’t know when it’ll move,” still shouting at the truck. Next to the taxi, Ilya saw a mototaxi. He asked if he was free and could pass the small gap between the trucks. He paid the taxi, adding a fifty-euro bill, and took the moto.
He arrived at the address, buzzed, and was let in. The building had nothing special outside; it looked like a warehouse. He took the elevator; only one button was available. It was a large, well-decorated loft. He would never have thought such luxury was hidden in what seemed like a meat processing warehouse from the outside, in the middle of a Kreuzberg neighborhood.
Then Shane appeared.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi.”
And that was it. One year.
“You said hello but did not look at me earlier,” Ilya said, lying in bed next to him.
“I know. I was worried.”
“About what?”
“People sniffing around. But don’t think about it. We are here,” Shane said.
“Yes, we are.”
“We can meet here at night, after the events.”
“Okay. I had to take a moto-taxi; I had a problem with my cab.”
“Oh, an accident?”
“A truck on the road,” Ilya said.
“Mmm, okay. I have a car service. They can pick you up. It’s not the league. No one will care if you don’t use your hotel room. You should bring your things here.”
“Okay,” Ilya said.
“It was hard,” Shane said, inhaling Ilya’s chest.
“I know.”
“I waited.”
“Me too.”
“I saw the news, the son of the businessman,” Shane said.
“Yes, they used his text messages and the internet.”
“But we're careful. We have to be cautious. Nothing can happen to you. Promise me,” Shane said.
“I will. I'm… I was not every time,” Ilya said. “That time I tried buying drugs but didn't. I went home and texted you on the American phone that I missed you and was miserable, and then we facetimed the rest of the night”
Ilya thought they might become claustrophobic, spending every late afternoon until morning in the large loft, not going outside, but no. There were so many things he needed to tell Shane, and that Shane needed to tell him. Ilya needed to tell Shane how proud he was of Shane winning the Stanley Cup again, and Shane needed to tell Ilya how proud he was of him for winning the Gagarin Cup.
“I told my parents,” Shane said
"About you?"
"Yes, about me, that I'm gay, and in a relationship. I told them I was in love with you,” Shane said
“You told them?”
“Yes, I want them to know, and when you come back, to know you. To know that we are serious. I don’t want to hide you when you come back.”
“Okay, I will tell Svetlana, she is my friend, she is safe,” Ilya said
“Yes, it’s good. I wanted to tell Hayden and J.J. later, too, if it’s okay,” Shane said.
“You are not scared for them to know?”
“They will keep the secret. I just want to talk about you so I can feel less alone,” Shane said.
“Yes, I want that too.”
They spent the last day alone in the loft, cooking, watching films, and fucking.
The other day, Shane gave him two boxes.
“Open it.”
“Shane, are you my sugar daddy? Every time, a gift.”
“Stupid. Open.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“I saw the watch in all your pictures. I liked seeing you with it.”
“I liked seeing you in post-game interviews with my chain too,” Ilya said.
“It came with this,” Shane said, giving him an envelope. Inside was an echography, and a woman—the one from the tabloid—pregnant.
Ilya’s heart raced. Who were those kids? And the woman?
“You’re gonna have kids.”
“We are,” Shane said.
“You and the woman from the TMZ picture.”
“No, Ilya,” Shane said, pulling a document from the envelope. “We are,” he said. “You and me.”
Ilya looked at the document—a pre-adoption agreement.