Chapter Text
It was not the Boston Raiders’ year. Coming off a decent playoff run in 2017, they’d counted on the same energy going into the new season, but then both Hegel and Bouffard had retired in the off season, their starting goalie Hans Veidt went on long-term IR for hip surgery, and just about the whole team battled minor injuries right up through Christmas. The final straw was Marleau’s separated shoulder in January, deemed serious and knocking him out for minimum six weeks and probably more like ten. It was a run of bad luck, not a bad team, but hockey had no mercy.
Their outside shot at a wild card slot ended at home in Boston in mid-February, when the math just didn’t work out in their favour anymore.
Ilya wasn’t surprised when he was called into a meeting with the GM the next day. The way he’d been holding out on contract extension talks, and the way the team’s season had been trending, he was honestly surprised it had taken that long.
He put on his suit and tie like armour, and sat in the big office while Jimmy Murphy stared him down.
“Tough season,” he said finally. Ilya just nodded. “You still managed an excellent scoring record. Too bad it didn’t translate into wins.”
“I am sorry,” he said. “We tried very hard.”
He’d met Jimmy Murphy on several occasions before and was usually pretty comfortable in his presence, but in this moment, knowing where the team was at and knowing what he had planned, Ilya felt like a child about to be disciplined. He held his shoulders steady and his chin up and counted on his resting Russian face to give nothing away.
“Well, you certainly did,” said Murphy. If there were others he thought did not, he did not name names. Not in front of Ilya.
“It was an unlucky year,” said Ilya, using all the words he was supposed to say. “They are good players, team players.”
Murphy nodded, steepled his fingers for a moment, and looked Ilya up and down. He seemed comfortable in a silence that felt like it was weighing harder on Ilya’s shoulders moment by moment.
“Your people haven’t started negotiating a new contract yet,” he said finally, the words Ilya had been waiting for, not just today, but for months. “I need to know where you’re at, Rozanov. We’ve reached the end of the line here.”
“Yes,” Ilya agreed, and paused again. It wasn’t that he was having trouble finding the words so much as he was finding it difficult, for once, to actually say them. What happened next would change the direction of the rest of his life. “I have loved my time in Boston.”
The words hung there, the past tense clear. Murphy’s jaw worked for a few moments, maybe nicotine gum or maybe just a slow, tense grind as he took that in.
“Something changed?”
Everything had changed. No, nothing had changed. Everything had just come into focus. “I wouldn’t want to go except that it is… family reasons,” said Ilya after an awkward pause.
“Not to be indelicate, Rozanov, but I didn’t think you had much family.”
“Not yet,” he said, placing significant weight on the ‘yet’ of it all. “Maybe soon. I love Boston, but I— I love someone else more, now. We tried to make it work here, but it does not seem possible.”
Murphy sat back in his chair, laced his fingers over his belly, and slowly nodded his head. “I thought it might be something like that,” he said. “Hadn’t heard anything about you being unhappy with the franchise up till now.”
“No, I have been very happy here,” Ilya said earnestly. “I won the Cup here. I wish maybe I had found a Boston girl, but…”
“But the heart wants what the heart wants,” said Murphy with a sigh. Ilya had gone to Jimmy and Jennie Murphy’s fortieth wedding anniversary party a couple of years back. He had every reason to believe Murphy actually did get it, which was the only reason he’d told him as much truth as he had. It wasn’t vulnerability. It was the best tactic he had to get out of this conversation without burning a bridge. “You’re sure about this?”
“More sure every day,” said Ilya, and that, again, was not a word of a lie. In fact, he said it with such conviction that Murphy even cracked a smile, in spite of the situation. “There is no other reason I would want to move to Ottawa.”
“Ottawa?” said Murphy, almost choking on it. “Damn, Rozanov, you don’t want to make this easy, do you?”
“Nothing about this is easy,” agreed Ilya. “Not for me, not for Boston. Not for Ottawa maybe.”
“Good chance they’ll snap you up as a free agent if that’s what you want,” said Murphy, probably running the same numbers in his head as Shane had last summer. “They’d be stupid not to. But with Boston out of playoff contention and you not planning to re-sign…”
“You will trade me,” Ilya finished for him. “I know this.”
“It’s just business.”
“I know,” said Ilya again. He’d wanted to finish out his last season in Boston, of course he had, but he knew how the system worked. And he knew, without any no-trade clauses in his current contract, that he didn’t have much say in the matter. “It would be good if I could stay in the east, if there is a choice.”
“I’ll need to have some conversations,” said Murphy. “I can’t promise anything. There might be a world where a sign and trade with Ottawa could work out. They aren’t looking at a post-season, either.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding his head.
If Ilya wouldn’t be playing in the post-season either way, they weren’t beholden to the trade deadline, but he knew a lot of his current value lay in that playoff availability the moment he admitted he wasn’t ready to sign a new contract with Boston. He could hope for good faith on all sides and a handed-off contract with Ottawa to get him there early, but he wouldn’t hold his breath.
He never actually apologised for leaving Boston, but he felt like he’d said enough for Murphy to know he had complicated feelings about the situation. If things had been different, he would have been happy to play his entire career for the Raiders.
“And this family reason,” he added after a moment. “It is private for now. We can keep it private?”
“There’s nothing in it for me to say anything,” said Murphy. “We’ll be in touch with your people.”
“Then I’ll head to practice now,” said Ilya, reaching out impulsively to shake Murphy’s hand. He might not have another chance. “Thank you for everything.”
“It’s been a hell of a ride,” said Murphy.
Ilya turned and headed out of the office and wasn’t sure if that was a weight off his shoulders, finally having had that looming conversation, or if it had just been replaced by a new weight of uncertainty and a difficult conversation he was going to have to have with Shane.
But there was nothing to do about that. Right now he was still a Boston Raider, and he was going to be late to the ice.
* * *
Ilya texted Shane only when he was already heading out of the rink, nothing about the meeting he’d had with Murphy, just a quick “call me tonight” that Shane would either interpret as him needing to call as soon as possible, or as a booty call. Either one would be fine with Ilya, honestly. If they didn’t have phone sex afterwards, he’d be a little disappointed.
Shane ended up calling him right when Ilya’s food was being delivered, forcing him to do an awkward juggling act with food and door and bag so Shane didn’t think he was ignoring his call. Shane was going to get a great view of pant leg or paper bag for a few moments until he got settled.
“Hey,” said Shane. Ilya could almost picture what he looked like when he said that, free hand in his pocket and rocking back on his heels, but he wasn’t angled right to see his screen. “I saw the highlights of the game last night. Tough break.”
“Yeah,” agreed Ilya, and decided to just - what was the phrase? - rip off the bandaid. “I talked to our GM this morning.”
“Oh,” said Shane. “Like, about next season?”
“Yes,” said Ilya. “I have put off talks for so long, he had to ask.”
“And everything’s okay?” said Shane. “You’re okay? I know you guys get along pretty well, but…”
Ilya paused for a moment while he actually sat down and faced the phone the right way around. Shane looked exactly like he’d imagined.
“It wasn’t personal conversation,” he said finally, leaving his food untouched in favour of the conversation. “I told him I was not ready to extend contract, and he told me I should keep an eye on trade deadline.”
“Wait, what?”
“Shane, you knew this was probably coming,” said Ilya. “I am valuable player. This is just the truth. It would be the same for you.”
“I know,” said Shane. “I know. But…the plan was Ottawa.”
“The plan is Ottawa next season,” said Ilya. “This is still this season.” The plan, unfortunately, had taken for granted that Boston would be a contender again this year. They both know what happened when it wasn’t, they’d just never seriously considered it. “This is just…detour. I am lucky that it won’t be a surprise.”
“But detour to where?”
Ilya shrugged. “Probably Detroit,” he said. He’d been thinking through all the possible outcomes, and that had come out on top no matter how he’d looked at it. “It makes the most sense. Nilsson is out until next season with that injury last week, and Berthelette is good but too green to lead. They need first line centre for the playoffs, and they’ve got the team to back it up. They almost went all the way last year. So they’ll be hungry for a rental but maybe not for long-term commitment.”
“So not Ottawa.”
“Ottawa is not off the table,” said Ilya slowly, trying to be honest while not getting his hopes up. “We talked about Ottawa. But sign and trade is risk for me, risk for them too. Do I trust Boston with a pinky promise? So maybe, maybe not.”
“So Detroit,” said Shane, then sighed. “It could be worse. I bet Rose would be happy to see you playing for her hometown team.”
“Three months,” said Ilya. “Four maybe because I’m good. Is it so much harder than what we do now?”
Shane looked embarrassed at that, but the reason wasn’t clear until he spoke. “I might have started looking forward to Boston being out of the playoff race,” he admitted.
“Oh, you wanted me to be full-time WAG after regular season?” Ilya teased him. “No such luck. Maybe I will even win the Cup this year after all.”
“Can you imagine?” said Shane.
“What, winning the Cup for Detroit?” said Ilya. “I can always imagine winning the Cup. Detroit is best-case scenario. Could also be Seattle. New teams are very hungry for wins.”
Shane looked horrified at the thought of Seattle, maybe even a little panicked, which was not a path Ilya meant to take them down. “Only four months,” he reminded him quickly, “and Seattle is very nice city, plus we are not known so well there.”
“Seattle is in the west,” said Shane, saying the obvious issue out loud. If the distance was hard now, it would be impossible then.
“Yes, but then we could maybe play each other for the Cup, for the first time,” said Ilya. “Would be great hockey for the fans, and even better sex after. Everyone wins.”
“Damn,” said Shane, visibly calming down at the thought. “Maybe I should be hoping for Seattle.”
“Then again, when Montreal is knocked out, you can more easily come to my games in Detroit,” said Ilya.
“Oh, is that how it’s going to go?”
“Yes,” said Ilya. “Then you can be WAG.”
“I’m definitely starting to like this Seattle scenario better,” joked Shane, finally smiling again.
Whether Detroit or Seattle or anywhere else, it was going to be somewhere. Someone was going to pay what Murphy would be asking for him; Ilya just hoped he wouldn’t go too cheaply, at least a first-round pick for an excellent playoff rental. Otherwise, that would just be embarrassing.
* * *
Svetlana picked him up from morning practice a couple days later in a new Lamborghini Huracan, and Ilya almost told her they could skip lunch and just go driving and she would make him the happiest man in Boston.
“Test drive?” he said as he got in, switching to Russian and ignoring the catcalls from his teammates behind him. “In February?”
“It’s a beautiful day,” she said. “Clear skies, dry roads, unseasonably warm. Can you think of a better time to let her stretch her legs a little?”
“That’s not the only reason,” he said.
“Of course not,” said Svetlana. “There is a plastic surgery conference in town. Rich doctors having mid-life crises. I drive by in this car, smile at them at a stoplight, and they think this is a life they can have. Then I sell more cars.”
“Is it supposed to work on me, too?”
“I don’t have to try to sell you cars,” she said. “I just have to make you promise to buy them from me.”
“Only from you, until you decide you don’t want to sell cars anymore,” Ilya promised her, giving her air kisses to her cheeks without actually leaning in close enough to kiss her. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere I can park very visibly and keep an eye on her,” she said. “It’s so much easier in the summer. She is meant to be seen today, no valet.”
She found a way, because she was his Sveta and of course she did, and he fully believed that her sales tactic was going to work, too. A table near floor-to-ceiling windows and a clicker that would flash warning lights to anyone who got too close was nearly as good as an open patio for being conspicuous.
“So,” she said, sipping her drink as soon as they had been left alone. “We are here to tell me you are leaving Boston.”
It was unlikely anyone sitting near them spoke Russian, but it was not impossible. Ilya kept his voice down and leaned in closer.
“How the fuck did you know that?”
“Because I am not stupid,” she said, “and I follow hockey news. Chatter is picking up about your impending free agency. Why did you wait so long to tell me?”
“I didn’t,” he protested. “I only just found out a few days ago.”
“Hmm,” she said, clearly not believing him, which was fair because he was definitely lying about that. But a lie was okay if they both knew it was a lie, even if she didn’t know that the decision about not re-signing had been made several months ago. “Because Boston shit the bed this season?”
“That’s not how I would have put it,” said Ilya. “But yes.”
“And now they want you to pay for their sins,” she said. “Rent you out like a cheap tuxedo.”
“I am not cheap!” said Ilya, mostly because the rest was essentially correct. “And now I don’t know where I’ll be in a month, all because I couldn’t carry the team to the playoffs on my shoulders alone.”
“Shoulders that put you on the IR for a week and a half in November too,” Sveta reminded him. “Maybe because your head is too big for your shoulders these days. Boston is just jinxed this year. One of your teammates fucked a witch and now you are cursed for the whole season.”
Ilya laughed. “You are not superstitious,” he said, “but it does feel that way. So many little problems for so long.”
“Did they tell you yet what they are thinking?”
“No,” said Ilya. “Not really.”
“So we guess, then,” said Svetlana. “Hmm. Maybe Carolina, but probably Detroit. I assume you said no teams in the Western conference.”
“I asked,” said Ilya. “I don’t have much leverage.”
“You do,” said Svetlana. “They’ll want to keep the pot sweet so you will decide to come back, even if it’s not next year. Boston fans may have a long memory, but management in pragmatic. They will keep you happy and not burn that bridge.”
“I thought Detroit too,” said Ilya. “I did not think about Carolina.”
“You would be second line there,” said Svetlana. “As insurance, because Masotta has only a year or two left in him at best and they believe he’s an injury risk, especially under playoff pressure.”
“The elderly are prone to falls,” agreed Ilya. “Just look at Scott Hunter.”
“You tripped Scott Hunter.”
“See?”
“They don’t have the depth at centre to go all the way if he’s benched. But they do not need you as much, so they will not offer as much,” she said, “and there are no other elite centres who will be available at the trade deadline this year. It will be Detroit. I will put money on it.”
“I would never dare bet against you,” said Ilya. “Now enough about me. Tell me how you are doing with your fancy new condo that I have not seen yet.”
It was nice to have something else to think about, for a little while.
* * *
The call came just after lunch, six days before trade deadline day. He hadn’t even known it was the call until his agent started talking.
“It’s done,” said Mikhail Sobolev without any fanfare. He’d had always been efficient, effective, and a man of few words. “Detroit.”
“What did Boston get for me?” said Ilya. “Anything good?” It was still easier for him to have this conversation in Russian, and he was glad that Sobolev’s call had gotten to him first.
“You were a hot commodity,” said Sobolev. “You almost went to Vancouver. But Detroit paid the price that Boston was asking. First-round draft pick for 2018, conditional second-rounder for 2019, and a top prospect—“ Ilya heard the rustling of paper in the background. “Radim Liska. Having a great season with Boston College this year.”
“Vancouver?” said Ilya as he clocked the price that Detroit had paid to secure him for the playoffs. Even better than he had been hoping. “I didn’t even talk to Vancouver.”
“Maybe they thought they could be very convincing after the post-season. They still have a shot at a wild card slot this year. You might have done it for them.”
“Outside shot,” said Ilya.
“Better shot with you at centre. Between you and me, I think Vancouver might have had the better offer,” said Sobolev. “They definitely have a higher-ranked first round pick to offer. But what do I know? Not my call. I hear Seattle and Nashville showed serious interest, too. Couple others in the mix. You’ll have your pick of the litter in July.”
“Hmm,” said Ilya. “Thank you, Misha. You’re the best at knowing all of the dirt.”
“Thank me in July, when I’ll actually have done some work,” said Sobolev. “Murphy should be calling you any minute now. Good luck in Detroit.”
“Who needs luck?” said Ilya. “Just one more thing.”
“Just one?” said Sobolev. “What is it?”
“Make sure Ottawa makes an offer in July. I’ll be waiting for it.”
“Ottawa?” said Sobolev. “Really? If you say so.”
He might not be able to negotiate anything right now, but he could find a way to make sure that they knew they were in the running. And if an offer didn’t come in, he would just have to chase one down.
“We’ll talk soon,” said Ilya, and disconnected the call only moments before another one came in.
“Rozanov,” came Jimmy Murphy’s voice almost before Ilya had said hello. “I’m glad I caught you before Twitter beat me to it.”
“Well, I had an idea I might be getting a call,” said Ilya, without giving away that his agent had already given him the broad strokes of the deal. “Maybe not this soon, though. Is it done already?”
“They want you in Detroit tomorrow,” said Murphy. “On the ice for puck drop at seven. That’s more than 24 hours, at least.”
Ilya had been hoping to be able to drive his own car down there, but the timing didn’t sound promising. He would have to leave today, soon, if he wanted to do that, maybe spend the night in Buffalo so he didn’t arrive exhausted at three in the morning.
“It’s been an honour playing for Boston,” said Ilya.
Only when he said that did it really hit that he’d already played his last game for them. He thought he’d have more time; they had three more games scheduled before the trade deadline. Boston was playing the Brooklyn Scouts tonight, at home, and Ilya wouldn’t be there. Ilya was no longer a Boston Raider.
“It’s been an honour having you,” said Murphy, interrupting his spiral. “I know you have a lot to do, so I’ll let you go. Good luck, Ilya.”
“Thank you,” he said, and that was it.
He didn’t even have a chance to check his texts before his phone was ringing again, the ringtone an obnoxious techno song that he’d been briefly obsessed with. It was already starting to get under his skin, especially hearing it so many times in a row. The number was unfamiliar, but it was coming from Michigan so Ilya took the call.
“Rozanov,” came the familiar voice of Don Carnahy. The Detroit GM had been a legendary player in his time; Ilya had watched him play as a child when his own hockey glory was still just a dream. “Just wanted to call you personally to welcome you to Detroit.”
“I will work very hard for you,” Ilya promised him, echoes of a promise made to Boston a long time ago now.
“I have no doubt,” said Carnahy. “The team is looking good, and we believe you’re just what we need to make a run at the Cup again this year.”
“Playoff hockey is the best hockey,” said Ilya, with a fervency that was not just politeness.
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Carnahy with a chuckle. “Can’t wait to see an Overdrive jersey on you. We’ll see you soon.”
“Yes,” said Ilya. “Thank you.”
And that was all the expected formalities. From here on it was just logistics and goodbyes.
Ilya’s phone was already starting to blow up with texts but most of them could wait. He sent a very quick note to Marleau that read “traded to Detroit, will talk when I can” so he didn’t find out from someone else, and
“you were right about Detroit” to Sveta, and ignored the rest.
Where would Shane be right now? Did they have practice today? Was he in the air right now? No, no, he was in Toronto for a game, probably just finished morning skate or maybe his workout. Unless he had an alert on his phone, and was off the ice, Shane would not even know yet.
Though even if Shane hadn’t heard— a quick glance at his texts told him that yes, Yuna Hollander had already messaged him.
He hit Shane’s contact and hoped that he would pick up. It took four rings.
“So, Detroit,” said Shane, instead of hello. Ilya could hear a door closing somewhere near him, the subdued din of what was probably a dressing room on the other side of it.
“I just got off the phone with Murphy,” said Ilya. “At least he beat the internet to telling me.” Even if Ilya hadn’t beat the internet to telling Shane.
“When do you go?”
“Now,” said Ilya, looking at the clock. No more than ten minutes had passed since the first call. “Soon. I have time to pack a few things.”
“Like right now? Today?”
“In a couple of hours probably,” said Ilya, plotting the route in his head and seeing just exactly what it was near and what it was not. At some point he had apparently already decided he was going to drive after all, and they would just have to make it work. “Do you fly back to Montreal tonight right after your game?”
“Supposed to,” said Shane, and Ilya’s brief spark of hope began to turn to disappointment before Shane went on, “but the charter was having minor mechanical issues and the repairs won’t be done till morning. Rather be in my own bed but we don’t play tomorrow so better to fix it now than fly with questionable landing gear. There are worse things than a night in Toronto.”
“Like a night in Buffalo?”
“I mean… I guess?” said Shane.
“I can be in Buffalo tonight,” clarified Ilya. “I play in Detroit tomorrow night, but tonight…tonight I can stay in Buffalo, on the way. Will you come?”
The noise Shane’s intake of breath made was somewhere between a gasp and a sigh. “That would be so stupid,” he said. “So irresponsible. We wouldn’t get any sleep.”
“Yes,” agreed Ilya. “Will you come?”
For a moment, Shane’s silence made Ilya think he was going to say no. It was the sensible choice. The reasonable choice. It was what he should do. But then Shane said. “Make it Niagara Falls. Not Buffalo. Stay in Niagara Falls instead and I’ll come.”
Ilya wasn’t sure if that was genius or recklessness. They were definitely more likely to be spotted and recognised in Buffalo. With Ilya’s trade public knowledge, people might even be keeping an eye out for him there tonight. But at least being in Buffalo, even for Shane, could make some kind of sense. They would be way more under the radar in Niagara Falls, but spending the night together in the honeymoon capital of North America, where neither of them had any reason to be, was kind of shockingly bold in its own way.
“I will send you my room number when I check in.” He would stay in Niagara Falls, for Shane. He would stay in a tent by the side of the road if it came down to that. “I have to go.”
“I know.”
“I will see you tonight. It will be okay.”
“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” said Shane. “It’ll be okay.”
“It’s only three months,” Ilya reminded him.
“I love you,” said Shane.
“I love you too,” said Ilya. “And tell your mother I will text her back when I can.”
Shane’s soft laugh was the last thing Ilya heard as they disconnected the call, and he held that close as he started to tackle everything else he needed to do.
* * *
Ilya loved to drive, under warm blue skies and in expensive cars, up and down the coast and as fast as he could get away with on the highways around Boston. Usually he was driving for the sake of driving. Usually he didn’t have an actual destination further than his house or TD Garden or whatever club was hottest that night.
Today, that changed.
Since he had just enough lead time to drive one of his own cars to Detroit instead of having to fly in to make the game and then suffering with a rental for however long it took to sort his life out, his new team had agreed to the arrangement. Even though it meant he would likely miss morning practice, it probably made their logistics a little bit easier too.
He wanted to take the Porsche, but it was an almost twelve-hour trip, in February, on ice and snow and salt. No, his baby would stay safe in his big garage in Boston, and he would pack whatever he could throw together into his Audi instead, the closest thing to a practical car he owned. After all, he had to have something to drive in the winter.
Tomorrow, or maybe the next day, Ilya would arrange for someone to come clean out his fridge and tidy his house while he was away, but everything else could wait till summer, for his real move to Ottawa. The one that mattered. Today, right now, he just needed to get in his car and go.
He hit the road at quarter to four, an hour and forty-five minutes after that first call, following a conversation with Tanya from the Detroit Overdrive’s team services who was arranging for his hotel room in Detroit, shipping his personal gear straight from TD Garden to Little Caesars Arena, and sending him several documents with directions to the player parking area and the practice ice and about a hundred other little details he was going to need to learn.
It was a relief to get on the road. Something familiar. Something he loved.
And yet, as he ate up the miles through Massachusetts and then upstate New York, the journey felt more and more hollow. Ilya felt more and more hollow. Road trips weren’t meant to be taken alone, and no amount of Russian hip hop blasting out of his speakers was going to change that. At least when the Montreal-Toronto game came on he could listen to that instead of Eldzhey or MORGENSHTERN or his own thoughts. There had been some chatter from the announcers about his trade, of course, but at least most of the focus was on the game.
He didn’t listen to the Boston game. His heart wasn’t ready for that yet.
Montreal beat Toronto somewhere between Syracuse and Rochester. By the time Ilya crossed the border, Shane would be more than halfway to the Falls, and while Ilya was checking into the hotel, Shane was likely only a half hour behind him, and only that far because Shane obeyed traffic laws that Ilya saw as mere suggestions.
He finally checked his texts when he got into the room, with no one batting an eye because who cares who Ilya Rozanov is or why he would be checking into into a fallsview hotel in February. This was not a hockey town, not the way Montreal or Buffalo were. Maybe Shane had the right idea after all.
His most recent text from Shane was from well over an hour ago.
Jane: just got my rental car see you in a couple hours
Ilya: Marriott Fallsview 1927
He didn’t expect a response while Shane was on the road, instead settling into a chair by the window to wait for a knock on the door. He barely even looked at the falls, all lit up for nighttime, picking and choosing which other texts he was going to tackle.
Yuna first, of course, though she was probably already asleep. Shane would have told her the broad strokes of the plan, and she would have seen the actual deal once the details were reported. None of that information was private.
Mrs. Jane: Saw the trade went through. It might actually be for the best, in the long run. Give me a call when you’re settled in. We might be able to capitalize on this in the short term.
Mrs. Jane: You’re probably on the road already. Be safe.
Ilya: Yes I am halfway to Detroit and taking a rest. We will talk soon. Thank you.
The fact that he was much more than halfway, and about to spend the night with her son, was probably information that did not need to be shared with her. Ilya would call her after his first game, because she was almost as excited to make deals for him now as for her own son, and for Yuna Hollander, Detroit was so much better than Boston.
Marley: motherfucker did you know
Ilya smiled, imagining Marleau’s face when he sent that. By the time stamp it wasn’t long after Ilya had messaged him. He finally forced himself to check on how the Boston game had gone and winced. 3-0 loss to the Scouts. That one had to sting, and he tried not to carry any of the blame on himself. He would have stayed right to the trade deadline, or the end of the season if that had been management’s decision. But it wasn’t up to him.
Ilya: we all knew it was possible
Ilya: I told you as soon as I found out
He wasn’t surprised that Marleau was still up, but he was a little surprised that he wasn’t too busy drinking or hooking up to check his phone right away. His shoulder wasn’t healed up enough for hockey, but it was probably healed up enough for that.
Marley: Good
Marley: motherfucker
Marley: tonight was a shitshow without you
Ilya: didn’t watch sorry
Ilya: was driving
Marley: shit are you in Detroit already
Ilya: Buffalo
Ilya: Detroit in the morning
Ilya: I drive fast but not that fast
Marley: Detroit can fucking wait
There was a pause before his next message, three dots appearing and disappearing.
Marley: I miss you already motherfucker
Ilya: You too asshole. I’ll call soon
Marley: you fucking better
He hadn’t been removed from the Raiders group chat yet, so Ilya got to leave it on his own terms. It was a nice touch.
81 Rozanov: Well boys it’s been a great run. Hope your next captain is even bigger asshole. Good luck playing Detroit next month!
He smiled and hit send. They wouldn’t expect anything less of him.
There were some messages from other friends and teammates that Ilya read but didn’t feel the need to reply to as urgently. They wouldn’t be expecting to hear anything more from him right away, probably not until after tomorrow’s game. But Svetlana… surely Svetlana was in there somewhere.
Sveta: call me
“It has been hours, you asshole,” she said, picking up immediately despite the fact that she’d sent the text mid-afternoon.
“Sorry, I should have called you from the car but I was distracted,” he said. He should have called her from the car, but once he was on the road he realised he actually wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. The drive was the first time he’d slowed down since the first phone call had come in, the first time he’d had to sit with his thoughts, and he’d drowned them out with hip hop and hockey instead of actually confronting them.
“Distracted by what?” said Sveta. “Cattle and billboards? It’s upstate New York, Ilyusha. What is there to see but asphalt and trees?”
“Distracted by my big brain,” said Ilya. “You know why.”
“Your big brain can’t talk to me while you think?” she said, but he knew when Sveta was actually angry and this definitely wasn’t it.
“My big brain is talking to you now,” he said. “We have a little bit of time before Jane gets here.”
“You can call him by his real name.”
“But where is the fun in that?” he said, and flopped back on the very large, very soft bed. “I almost went to Vancouver, you know.”
“Vancouver?” she said, almost spitting the name. “Vancouver doesn’t deserve you. They had Olivarez for three years and completely wasted him. Let them get a new head coach before they get any more good players. No, it was always going to be Detroit.”
“Don’t pretend you were the only one who knew that,” said Ilya. “They were the obvious option. The only reason to send me to Vancouver is if Boston didn’t want to play in-conference against me, and the GM is not that petty.”
“Do not underestimate the pettiness of old, white men,” said Svetlana. “You think he was your friend? You were a pawn to be moved around the league, just like everyone else.”
“Murphy is one of the good ones,” said Ilya, but that didn’t mean he didn’t agree, at least a little. Business was business. It was the reason he was on the move at all. “I think he went to bat for me, at least against Vancouver.”
“You aren’t allowed to use baseball metaphors to explain your deadline trade,” said Sveta, then sighed. “It was a smart move. I can’t believe I’m going to have to go to Detroit to see you in the playoffs.”
“You would come to Detroit to see me?”
“Of course I would!” she said, acting offended. Actually, maybe not just acting. “And you’ll pay for a nice hotel room for me and we will go out so I can find myself a nice Detroit boy for a few nights.”
“A nice one?”
“A nice-looking one,” she clarified. “How are you? Are you good?”
He shrugged, unsure of how to answer that question. “What are people saying about me?”
“Mostly that you are too good of a player to end your season before the playoffs,” she said. “Boston fans are furious, but many are saying that you’ll re-sign with Boston afterward with a better deal than you would have gotten after a losing season.”
“Good,” said Ilya. “That sounds good.”
Boston’s bad season was a temporary slump, everyone knew that, but Ilya was still worried it would look like he was leaving for a better team because of it. Then again, he would be going to Ottawa in July if everything went to plan, so maybe not. It wasn’t that he cared that much about being beloved, but Boston was his home. It at least mattered a little.
“They’re wrong, of course,” Sveta went on. “Because you could have signed a contract extension with excellent terms much earlier in the season and you didn’t. Which I have never made you talk about.”
“Because you know what they don’t,” said Ilya.
“That you have a lot of motivation to settle down in Canada instead?” said Svetlana. “What I don’t know is how you think Montreal will be able to take you.”
“They won’t,” said Ilya, but he didn’t spell it out beyond that. Svetlana knew everything about hockey. She had probably figured out his plans before he had.
“Ah,” she said. “Ottawa, then. Not Toronto, even though they have the better team. Still Canada, but too far away.”
“Plus, they’re Toronto,” said Ilya. “We did not even discuss it. It was not an option.”
“And what will you tell the people when you sign with the worst team in the division?” she asked him, but it didn’t seem like a question that needed a real answer. Not yet, anyway. “They will ask.”
“They can ask all they want,” said Ilya. “I can say personal decision.”
She made a noise of disbelief that he was all too familiar with, but she didn’t ask again. She would. They would be talking about this more than once over the next few months. But not today.
“Ottawa is terrible,” she said finally.
“Ottawa is a bad team,” he said, “and it is boring. But they will be a better team with me. And I will have a better life with—“
“With Shane,” she said. “We can say it now, right? With Shane Hollander?”
“We’ll make it work,” he said quietly. He knew she knew. He’d known for a long time. But they’d avoided saying it out loud, until now. “We have to.”
“Because you are madly in love and no one else will do anymore.” A couple of years ago she might have been teasing him, even mocking him, but today the words out of Svetlana’s mouth were simple and sincere and very, very true. “This is why you will help me replace you. You have an old friend in Detroit now, I think?”
“You are more than capable of doing that on your own,” he said, “and Dimka is too young for you.” There were a couple of other guys on the Detroit roster that might meet her admittedly high standards, though. He supposed he would be finding out soon enough. “I miss you already.”
“You saw me a week ago at lunch,” said Svetlana, then, “I will miss you too. But I will not move to Ottawa for you.”
He laughed, not just a huffed breath or a snort but an honest-to-god laugh, which he really, really needed. “I would never dream of asking,” he said. “I will still have the same schedule. We’ll see each other often enough.”
“We’d better,” she said. “Enjoy Buffalo. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”
“Oh, you think I’m in Buffalo, do you?” he said. Of course she had done the math and figured out where he’d probably stopped for the night.
“No?” she said. “Then where?”
“I’ll tell you in a couple of days,” he said, then smacked a loud kiss at her and disconnected the call.
Sveta: asshole! <3
He smiled at the text message but didn’t reply, and decided that was enough for one night. Everyone who needed to know had been told and the emotional exhaustion was starting to hit.
Ilya turned on TSN, both too early and too late to catch Sportscentre, and watched some NBA highlights while he waited for Shane to arrive. He both did and didn’t want to know how his trade was being talked about, still unsure himself how he was feeling about it, which was why he hadn’t looked anything up on his phone before now. Tomorrow would be early enough, or Shane would tell him when he arrived. Maybe. If they decided they wanted to talk at all.
When it switched over to the Olympic recap he tried to stop paying attention but he couldn’t help himself. Russia looked like it was going to win this time around, and it turned out Ilya still harboured a deep-seated resentment from 2014 and a feeling that somehow, somewhere, his name was going to come up in conjunction with the Russian men’s team, implying that they won because he wasn’t there.
When his phone buzzed and “Jane” appeared on the lock screen, he was glad of the excuse to leave the program behind as he crossed the room to open the door. He didn’t even read the message.
Shane had clearly gotten into the rental car with wet hair and just started driving because it was falling onto his face in ways Ilya didn’t think he’d seen since they were barely out of their teens, flat and awkward and maybe the most endearing thing he’d ever seen.
“Hey,” he said, and Shane slipped inside, closed the door behind himself, and leaned in for a kiss.
It was hungry in its way, they always were, but it was also a little bit careful. Shane put his hands on the sides of Ilya’s face and held him there and he couldn’t deny that there was a sense of relief that flooded through him now that Shane was here.
“How are you doing?” Shane asked when he pulled away.
“Better now,” said Ilya, taking Shane’s hand once he let them drop from his face and leading him not to the bed but over to the sofa. The TV still droned on in the background but he barely noticed now.
“I think it all started to get real when the news hit the dressing room,” said Shane. “I had to get them all focused back on the actual game. It was all Rozanov before that. Did you realise we aren’t going to play each other again in the regular season? We played our last against Detroit last week.”
He hadn’t, but at least he was confident they were both going to make playoffs now, unlike Boston.
“Are you okay?”
Shane shrugged, but he wasn’t completely tensed up. Maybe because he’d had a lot of things to distract him. “I’m mostly tired,” he admitted. “And you’re right. It’s just a few months, and our plan is long term. This doesn’t change anything.”
“No, wait, wait, I want to bask in this,” said Ilya. “Shane Hollander said I am right.”
Shane grinned and batted at Ilya’s thigh with his heels before planting his feet comfortably in his lap. Ilya wrapped a hand around one of his ankles, stroking the exposed skin with his thumb. “You’re right sometimes,” he said. “Once in a while.”
“You think I’m brilliant,” said Ilya. “You think I’m a geeeeenius.”
“Fuck off,” said Shane, giving Ilya’s thigh one more stab with his heel.
When he looked past Ilya to the huge windows, to the lit-up falls beyond them, Shane seemed to really take in where they were for the first time. It felt ironic suddenly that they were in their single most romantic hotel room on what was maybe the least romantic night they’d ever spent together, barring hospital stays.
“Is nice, no?” said Ilya. “I made sure I got a room where we would be able to see.”
“I’ve never seen the falls like this,” admitted Shane, still gazing out the window. “We came on a family trip when I was younger. Went out on the boat, the one that goes up close, but I got upset at my clothes getting wet so I think I spoiled it a little.”
“Hmm, I can picture this, you as little wet rat and pouting like you do when I beat you.”
“I don’t pout when you beat me.”
“But I do beat you.”
“Well, obviously,” said Shane. “Sometimes. A lot less than I beat you this year.”
“Oh, you hit me where it hurts, you are so mean,” said Ilya, earning himself another foot nudge. “You will not beat Detroit so easily.”
The smile that had been on Shane’s face slid off again. He didn’t look unhappy exactly, but more like the fun had been sucked out of the moment by the reminder. It was not what Ilya had intended, but he supposed it was bound to happen.
“People are surprised, by the trade,” Shane said after a moment. “In the dressing room and on the news, too.”
“By the trade, or by the fact that Boston had not re-signed me?” Shane pressed his lips together and but Ilya already knew exactly which one it was. “But they are asking the question, was it Boston or was it me? That’s good, I think.”
“No one’s really sure what’s going on,” said Shane, “except that now Detroit is the one to beat for the Cup this year.”
“Yes, well they are not wrong about that,” said Ilya. “Why were they so surprised? ESPN has been speculating about it for weeks now.”
“Not seriously,” said Shane. “It was more like, what if it happened. You know? I don’t think anyone really thought Boston would let you go, playoffs or no playoffs.” And they wouldn’t have, if Ilya had signed. If Ilya had chosen to stay. For anyone who put two and two together and had a basic understanding of hockey math, they probably decided Ilya was playing chicken with the contract negotiations and lost.
That was okay, too. They might think he was reckless, but they would not be thinking the truth.
“You are thinking too much,” said Ilya finally, as if Shane was the one whose thoughts had been spiralling out about this. “Come on. Come to bed.”
It was time. They could talk more, about many things, but it would probably only make them sadder. And Ilya hadn’t asked Shane to meet him here to talk. He’d asked him because he needed to feel Shane’s arms and his breath and the way his hair tickled Ilya’s cheeks as he nuzzled into him. He needed to count his freckles and hold his hands and watch him fold his clothing. He needed, they both needed, to remember their endgame and know that everything they did between now and then was worth it.
“I hate this feeling.”
“Which one?” said Ilya. “I think you are having many.”
“Like I’m too tired to really deal with this but too restless to actually relax.”
“I bet you did not get a workout in before you left Toronto,” said Ilya, knowing full well he hadn’t. “I can help with that maybe.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You could do pushups on my dick. If you wanted.”
“If I wanted,” said Shane dryly. “Nothing to do with you.”
“I am very generous man,” said Ilya. “I will sacrifice myself for this.”
“Oh yes, this will be such a sacrifice for you,” said Shane, but he was getting up, then reaching for Ilya’s shirt and pulling him up too. “I could go down to the gym instead. I’m sure they had a nice one here. Fully equipped.”
“Not fully equipped with what you want,” said Ilya, palming himself over his pants as they padded across the room.
“I do like the personal amenities you offer,” admitted Shane, carefully undressing. “Especially after such a long trip.”
“We aim to please,” said Ilya, shucking off his clothes before crawling onto the bed and stretching out next to him. He splayed his palm over Shane’s abs and leaned in for another kiss, only to meet with Shane’s wide yawn. “We don’t have to—“
“No, I want to,” said Shane, lips brushing against Ilya’s cheek as he spoke. “I didn’t drive all this way not to.”
But even saying that, they just kissed for a long time before Shane even started moving his hands and lips to other parts of Ilya’s body. Ilya didn’t say so, but he didn’t mind at all. He was hard, yes, but he could take care of that himself if it came down to it. What he really wanted was just for Shane to be here tonight, to get them through this first night before the inevitable roller coaster that followed.
Shane’s mouth, once he started, was relentless. He brushed over every inch of skin he found between Ilya’s throat and his groin, sucking at nipples and licking his armpits and nosing through his happy trail until he finally put his lips on Ilya’s cock.
“Oh my god you’re trying to kill me,” he gasped when Shane finally got there, throwing his head back and threading one hand through Shane’s hair.
The whole lazy river of kisses had left him a live wire, reacting to every little touch that Shane bestowed on him. What was often a frenzied slap of body on body was slow and syrupy tonight, Shane taking him into his mouth inch by inch until he was just resting there, as deep as he could get without going down Shane’s throat.
Shane’s tongue worked in flicks and slides, his head less bobbing than gliding along Ilya’s length, finding a languid rhythm that was as delicious as it was maddening. Ilya got closer and closer with no indication when he was finally going to bubble over.
But no matter how hard he was or how much he wanted it, he was still petting Shane’s hair instead of clutching it, still rolling his hips more than thrusting them.
Shane’s eyes fluttered closed as Ilya looked down at him and his mouth fell off the tip of his cock, his lips dragging wetly down and back up the length of it until he pressed his cheek against Ilya’s stomach. His deep, sleepy breaths still brushed over the head of Ilya’s cock, each one as intense as if Shane was fully sucking him down.
“Just come on my face,” Shane murmured, and it felt like something gripped Ilya’s lungs, forcing the breath out of him. He made a sound that he didn’t even recognize and barely had to touch himself before he was coming, splashing against Shane’s chin and lips and cheek and even his eyelashes. Shane licked his lips and honestly, Ilya would have come again just from watching that if he’d been remotely able.
“Fuck,” he said finally, softly, his voice shaky. His hand moved over to stroke Shane’s cheek, thumb cleaning off his eyelashes though Shane’s eyes remained closed.
He let them both rest like that for a moment, his hands trembling slightly as he stroked Shane’s skin, his hair, his face, then he reached down far enough to tug at Shane’s arm, get him further up the bed, to kiss his face clean. Shane started rolling his hips, rubbing his cock against Ilya’s thigh. Ilya reached down to help but Shane caught his hand instead, lacing their fingers together as they kissed again and again and he got himself off right there, just like that.
“I love you,” Shane murmured, and Ilya kissed his still-closed eyes and no one protested that the cum was cooling against their skin and the bed as they just lay there pressed together, lazy and content.
“You will be unhappy if you do not shower before you sleep,” Ilya said finally.
“Just this once,” mumbled Shane, burrowing closer against him. “’Sokay.”
“Oh, is it? Just this once? After all those other times when you complained oh, Ilya, you are so comfortable but we must get up now?”
Shane just snorted against him. “Sheets are still clean,” he reasoned. “We just get into the bed. Shower in the morning. Laundry is someone else’s problem.”
It was solid reasoning, except for the part where they were going to be stuck together if they didn’t clean up. “Okay, but I will still get towel,” he said.
It was a few more minutes before he did, though, finally forcing himself to roll off the side of the bed and wet a washcloth in the bathroom. He turned off the TV on his way back, flipped off the light by the door, and wiped himself down before finding Shane already tucked into the bed, half asleep.
He carefully ran the cloth over Shane’s face, then kissed him gently and tossed it over his shoulder onto the floor as he crawled into the bed next to him. No more thinking, only Shane.
* * *
It was so early when Shane’s alarm went off, still dark outside with the lights of the falls and the town around them far below. Ilya refused to open his eyes. Shane’s body was still in his arms and he squeezed it a little harder to keep him from fully getting out of bed.
“Okay, now I need to shower,” murmured Shane, turning around in his arms to give him a kiss. Then another. Then a few more until Ilya’s body really started to wake up to it.
“Oh yes, you want that kind of shower,” he said, blinking up at him now with big eyes and a sly smile. “Okay.”
“I can’t believe you let me sleep without one,” said Shane.
“Oh yes, I had so much say in it,” said Ilya. “I made you fall asleep with my magic dick.”
“You kind of did,” said Shane, then kissed him one more time before making an earnest effort to get up.
“No, just five more minutes,” said Ilya, catching his hand and trying to draw him back. “I will make it worth your while.”
“How about an extra five in the shower instead,” said Shane.
“I will make that worth your while, too,” said Ilya, surging forward for one more bed kiss before letting him go. It took him a few more moments to stretch out and get up, Shane already disappearing into the bathroom ahead of him and starting the water.
For a few moments, Ilya had almost forgotten why there were here, almost thought that this was any other road hookup where they would say goodbye before dawn and one of them or the other would sneak back to their hotel room before the team knew where they had gone.
But the hotel room Shane was sneaking back to was an hour and a half away in Toronto, and Ilya was on his way to Detroit.
For a little while longer, though, they could pretend otherwise.
Ilya joined Shane in the shower, pushed him up against the wall, and sucked him down so fast Shane wasn’t even fully hard yet. Ilya relished the feel of Shane hardening in his mouth, filling him even fuller as he tongued and sucked and then, finally, swallowed him down. The noises Shane made were almost but not quite lost in the sound of the shower spray.
Ilya pulled away before he came, though, stood up again and took them both in hand, kissing Shane while rubbing them off together. And then they stood there together for a long while under the hot spray, just enjoying that they were together.
But all things do eventually come to an end.
They dressed without saying anything in what was part comfortable silence and part tense anticipation of the inevitable.
“We have a few minutes,” Shane said finally, everything on but his shoes which were lined up neatly by the door. Once the shoes were on, it would be time to go.
Ilya wasn’t sure what to do with their last few minutes. There was so much he should probably say but he wasn’t sure how, yet there wasn’t much that needed to be said now. They both knew what happened next.
“I know it’s a change,” he said finally, resting a hand low on Shane’s back where he knew that it would help something in him relax. “But you and me, we are not changing. That is the important thing, I think. Okay?”
“Yeah,” said Shane, and let out a slow sigh that released some of the remaining tension in his shoulders. “I know.”
“We will do all the things we did before. I will see you when we have games. You will come watch me in playoffs.”
“Oh, I’m going to come watch you now? I’m not even going to be in the playoffs with you anymore? Is that how it is?”
“You maybe will be in playoffs,” said Ilya, “but you will watch Detroit win.”
Shane grinned and leaned in to him and kissed him, slow and soft, hands resting at his waist like he was willing them to stay right there, in that spot, in that moment, for as long as they could.
“I should go,” said Shane finally, “before I can’t.”
Ilya nodded and watched him put his shoes on and pulled him in for one last kiss. “I love you,” he said. “I will see you soon.”
“I love you too,” said Shane, and just paused for a moment, like he was taking him in, before slipping out the door.
Ilya didn’t take his time after that, finishing dressing and shoving what little he had brought in with him back in his bag and taking one last look out over the falls. They would have to come back one day. Maybe one day in the hazy future, when they could go out in the daylight and actually enjoy it all, together.
But they needed to get there first. So he turned out the lights and left the view behind, and as he exited the hotel this time, even more than leaving his house yesterday, he felt like he was on his way to start something new.