Chapter 9: The Long Game: Chapter 9

Ilya woke from another dream about his mother. The same dream. Always the same dream.

He reached a hand out toward Shane’s side of the bed, but of course it was empty. He hadn’t shared a bed with Shane for two weeks.

He brought his hand to his chest and traced the crucifix around his neck with one fingertip, soothing himself with the familiar bumps and edges of the gold cross.

He had to go to practice. He still felt tired. He always felt tired these days. It could be because he was twenty-nine, which was hockey middle-aged. Or because his terrible team had lost five to one last night. It could be because of the frequent unsettling dreams he’d been having about his mother. It could be because he missed his boyfriend.

No. He was fine. Normal. It’s not like he ever stayed in bed all day crying.

He hauled himself out of bed despite everything in his body and brain protesting. He’d gotten rocked into the boards last night by a New Jersey defenseman, and he was paying for it this morning. One more thing to deal with.

He missed waking up with Shane. He missed breakfast together, even though Shane only ate extremely healthy food now. He missed making Shane coffee and serving it to him in an Ottawa Centaurs mug. He missed showering together, and tumbling back into bed together after, warm and damp and unable to stop touching each other.

He sent Shane a text. How is St. Louis?

Shane began typing his reply right away. Raining. How’s Ottawa?

Ilya gazed out his kitchen window to the river behind his house. The trees were bright with autumn leaves, and the sun was shining.

Ilya: Fine.

Shane: Did you eat breakfast?

Ilya huffed. Shane worried about the weirdest things.

Ilya: Might go to McDonald’s for a McGriddle.

He’d mostly written it to annoy Shane, but now he really did want a McGriddle.

Shane: You shouldn’t be eating that shit.

Ilya: Should I be eating hay for breakfast like you?

Shane: It’s not hay. And yes, probably.

Ilya: I would rather have the sandwich that is made with pancakes as bread.

Shane: Gross.

Ilya smiled as he imagined Shane’s nose wrinkling, bunching up his freckles.

Ilya: Send me a pic.

He had time to pour himself a coffee, fix it with cream and sugar, and take a couple of sips before Shane finally sent a selfie. Ilya wondered how many he’d taken before deciding this one was good enough to send.

It wasn’t intentionally sexy. It was just Shane, standing near a window, probably in his hotel room, wearing a light blue Montreal Voyageurs T-shirt, and smiling. His hair was tucked adorably behind his ear on one side.

Ilya: I miss you. It was the only thought in his head, at that moment.

Shane: I miss you too.

Shane: Stop stalling. Where’s my pic?

Ilya was still shirtless, which was a good start for a selfie. He stretched the arm holding his phone out and raised it a bit, angling down. Then he shimmied the waistband of his sweatpants down until he was nearly exiting the safe-for-work zone. He tucked a thumb into the waistband, tugging down a bit, and snapped the pic.

Wow, Shane wrote back. That was mean.

Ilya wished he could watch the shift in Shane’s face now. The way his cheeks flushed and his eyes grew brighter when he was aroused. He was probably biting his bottom lip.

Ilya: If you are alone we could…

Shane: Team meeting in ten minutes.

Ilya: Is that a challenge?

It took Shane forever to reply, and Ilya imagined he’d deleted several responses before finally landing on: I can’t. Sorry.

Ilya: ok Shane: It’s going to be hard to delete that photo.

Ilya: I can take more.

He knew Shane delete the photo. They always deleted anything in their message history that could give away their secret.

Shane: You gonna watch tonight?

Ilya: Maybe. If I am very bored.

Shane: I’ll try to win for you.

Ilya huffed and wrote, Try to lose. We are in the same division, idiot.

Shane: Nah.

And , with no warning, Shane sent a pic of his crotch, his semi-hard dick visible under the gray fabric of his boxer briefs.

Shane: Talk to you later.

Ilya exhaled shakily and wrote, Fucker.

Shane hated West Coast road trips because they messed up his sleep schedule. They had flown directly from St. Louis to L.A. earlier that day, and had a game at eight tomorrow night, which would feel like eleven at night. Yuck.

Now it was nine thirty Pacific Time and Shane was in bed in his hotel room, trying to ignore the fact that it was only nine thirty. If he were home, it would be past his bedtime, especially before a game day.

But he couldn’t sleep.

He could hear Hayden moving around in the room next door. Earlier it had sounded like he’d been watching a movie. Now Shane could only hear footsteps.

He closed his eyes.

, he told himself.

He was in the middle of some slow breathing exercises when there was a knock at his door.

“Just a sec,” he called out as he hauled himself out of bed and began rummaging through his suitcase for some sweatpants and a T-shirt. Once he was decent, he opened the door.

“Hey,” said Hayden. He was pawing the back of his own neck, and his blond hair was thoroughly rumpled. “Can I hang out for a bit?”

“Did you watch a scary movie again?” Shane asked, already stepping back to let him in.

Hayden smiled sheepishly. “It was fucking terrifying.”

Shane closed the door behind him. “You need to stop watching those.”

“I know.” He threw himself onto Shane’s bed, making himself at home. “What were you up to?”

“Trying to sleep.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s cool,” Shane said, sitting on the bed beside him. “I wasn’t too successful.”

“Fucking time zones.”

“Yep.”

“Wanna watch something?” Hayden asked.

“What? Like, one of the movies?”

“No! The opposite of that.” Hayden grabbed the remote off the nightstand. “I’ll find something.”

He landed on a competition reality show about strangers hooking up in some tropical location, which basically a horror movie as far as Shane was concerned. He kept his thoughts to himself, though, and let his friend be comforted by toned young women in bikinis.

“It would be weird to go on one of these shows,” Hayden said.

“Mm,” Shane agreed.

“I’d probably be good at it, though. I’ve got a good body, I’m a nice guy. I know I’m not, like, smart, but compared to these dudes I’m a road scholar.”

“Rhodes,” Shane said.

“Yeah. And I’m rich, so. That would be an edge.”

Shane sat up from where he’d been lying back against the pillows. “Sorry. In this scenario, you would be a contestant on this trashy reality show, but also you would still be an NHL player?”

Hayden shrugged. “I guess.”

“You would spend a month of your life, or however long it takes to film this show, living in this gross beach house and trying to win ten thousand dollars when you have an NHL salary and, like, barely any vacation time?”

Hayden frowned at him. “You’re overthinking this, buddy. Obviously I’m not going on a show like this because I’m married to the best woman in the world and we have…four beautiful children.”

Shane grinned. “Did you hesitate before you said four?”

“No!”

“Did you actually lose track of how many kids you have?”

Hayden lightly punched Shane’s thigh. “Just wait until you’re a dad. You’ll see.”

They watched in silence until the next commercial break, then Shane said, “You think I’ll be a dad someday?”

Hayden’s eyebrows pinched together. “Sure. You want to be, right?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Well, then.”

“It won’t be easy. And probably won’t be for a long time.”

“Parenting is never easy.”

“Yeah but, like, obtaining a baby sometimes is. For some people.”

Hayden laughed. “It’s never been an issue for Jackie and me, that’s for sure. Although, she’s fixed now, so.”

Shane wrinkled his nose. “Fixed?”

“Like, had her tubes tied or whatever they call it. When we had Amber she had it done when she had the C-section. Two-in-one surgeries.”

“Efficient.” Shane realized it was maybe weird that he hadn’t known any of this. He often teased Hayden about his brood of children, but he never really talked to him about his and Jackie’s experience with having babies and raising kids. “Was that a mutual decision? Not having any more kids?”

“Definitely. I mean, even if only Jackie had wanted to stop, that would have been the decision made. I would never have pushed for more if she wasn’t into it. That would be fucked. But four kids is plenty for both of us.” He sighed. “The kids want a dog now.”

Shane smiled. “So does Ilya.”

“Does he want kids?”

“I think so.” Shane’s cheeks heated. “We haven’t talked about it too seriously. There’s not much point right now.”

On the television, a very drunk young man started making out with a very drunk young woman. Shane let his eyes unfocus even more than they already were without his glasses, and quietly began to stress out about the logistics of adopting children with Ilya. There were so many things that had to happen first, and they were all terrifying.

“He’d be a good dad, I guess,” Hayden said, breaking through Shane’s anxiety spiral.

“Who?” Shane asked, in case Hayden meant the drunk gentleman on the TV.

“Rozanov. He’s good with kids. Ruby and Jade love him.”

“He basically a kid, that’s why,” Shane said, though inside his heart was glowing. “Do you think I’d be a good dad?”

“Sure. You’d be the responsible one who makes sure they, like, eat vegetables and brush their teeth and stuff. Ilya would be the fun one who buys them Jet Skis for their tenth birthdays.”

“Oh god. He do that.”

“And you’d return them and buy the kids sensible shoes or something instead,” Hayden teased.

“Eat shit. I’d be a cool dad.”

Hayden wrapped a hand around Shane’s forearm. “Shane. Buddy. You’ve never been cool about anything ever. And parenting is the most high-stress thing you can do. You’ll be an absolute mess.”

“Thanks.”

“You should still do it, though. Kids are the best.”

“Okay.”

“Hey, maybe Ruby and Jade will be old enough to babysit kids! Man, that’s wild to think about.”

It wild to think about. Every aspect of it was wild. “Yeah.”

“You got plans for tomorrow?” Hayden asked.

“I’m hanging out with Rose.”

“Oh, sweet! Can I come?”

“No. Last time you babbled the entire time like a drooling fanboy.”

“Yeah, because she’s a giant movie star!”

“She’s also one of my best friends. And a totally normal, real person.”

“I’ll be cool, I promise!”

Shane shook his head. “She’s taking me shopping. I don’t need a witness to that. I’m weird enough about clothes without you being there.”

“Fine.” Hayden turned his attention back to the TV. After a minute of watching, he chuckled. “That guy’s back tattoo. Sheesh.”

Shane squinted at the shirtless white guy who was being yelled at by another shirtless white guy. “What’s it say?”

“‘No Worries.’”

Shane huffed. “Must be nice.”

There were two kids—Willa and Andrew—who lived in the house down the street from Ilya. Almost every home game day, the kids would stand in their driveway and wave at Ilya as he drove by on his way to the arena. Sometimes they wore the jerseys he’d given them. Sometimes they held homemade signs.

Ilya slowed down as he approached their house and rolled down his window. Willa was wearing her jersey, and Andrew had an Ottawa Centaurs foam finger.

“How many goals should I score tonight?” Ilya asked.

“Three!” said Willa.

“Eight!” said Andrew.

Ilya chuckled. “No problem. Will you be there?”

Andrew—the younger one—started jumping up and down. “Yeah! And I’m going to get popcorn!”

“Aw. Lucky,” Ilya said. “I never get popcorn at the games.”

“Because if you ate popcorn while playing hockey, you would get a cramp,” Willa said wisely.

“This is true,” Ilya agreed. He noticed the kids’ mother sitting on the front steps. “Hello, Kate.”

Kate waved. “Good luck tonight, Ilya.”

Ilya nodded and gave a final wave, then drove away smiling. There were a lot of things that he found difficult about living and playing in Ottawa, but he absolutely loved this pregame ritual with his neighbors. He loved having neighbors. His penthouse in Boston had been sexy and private, but being on the ground in a house surrounded by other houses was nice.

To be fair, it was a house. With a gate and trees and an enormous semicircular driveway. He still needed privacy.

The drive from Ilya’s house to the arena was only about fifteen minutes, and he passed a Starbucks drive-thru on the way, so it was basically a perfect commute. It was a sunny day, so Ilya had decided to take his orange Porsche 718 Cayman, which was the coolest of the cars he had left. These days he mostly drove his Mercedes SUV with all-wheel drive. Sometimes on nice days he rode his Ducati, but both Shane and Yuna strongly disapproved of his decision to buy a motorcycle, so Ilya didn’t take it out often.

Shane was so sure Ilya was going to die in a crash. It was annoying.

Ilya drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the Bad Bunny song that he’d recently added to his pregame playlist. He needed to get his fill of good music now because it was Evan Dykstra’s turn to be in charge of the locker room music, and that meant country. Ilya tried to be open-minded about music, and maybe not all country was bad, but the particular songs Dykstra was into were definitely bad.

He pulled into the Starbucks drive-thru, ordered a coffee with cream and sugar for himself and a black coffee for Luca Haas because he’d found that he liked the way Luca got flustered when Ilya gave him any attention at all. Ilya had always been against hazing or making rookies feel uncomfortable or bullied, but he got a kick out of being nice to the starstruck ones.

The first person Ilya spotted in the parking garage at the arena was Wyatt Hayes, who was just getting out of his army-green Jeep Wrangler. It had a Green Lantern logo on the tire cover on the back because Hazy was a fucking nerd.

“Hey, Roz,” Wyatt said with a small wave.

Ilya nodded back because he was carrying two coffee cups. “Hazy.”

Wyatt fell into stride with Ilya as they walked through the garage. He was about Ilya’s height—maybe an inch shorter—with curly blond hair and a wide mouth that almost never frowned. “What kind of crowd do you think we’ll get tonight?”

“Is a beautiful evening, so basically no one.”

Wyatt laughed. “Yeah. Our numbers will go up when it gets cold.”

“A little.”

“Maybe they should offer fans a free hot chocolate or something. That would be an enticement.”

“Sure,” Ilya said dryly. “Or a month’s rent.”

Wyatt laughed again. “That might get a few people in the seats. Maybe.”

As much as the lousy attendance was a running joke amongst his teammates, Ilya honestly fucking hated it. In Boston the arena had been full every game, cheering for their team. In Montreal the arena was sold out well in advance for basically the entire season. Shane didn’t know what it felt like to play for a half-empty arena because even when he played in Ottawa the arena was reliably full. Of Montreal fans. With Shane Hollander jerseys.

But tonight they were playing Columbus, so no one was going to be there.

“Maybe we should play shirtless,” Wyatt joked. “That could bring in a new audience.”

“Would be cold,” Ilya said.

“Yeah. And also I would probably die.”

“Shirtless goaltending. Bad idea,” Ilya agreed.

“I guess we could start winning,” Wyatt mused. “That might work.”

“I will suggest it at the next meeting.”

“Who’s the extra coffee for?”

“Haas.”

Wyatt snorted. “He’s gonna frame it.”

“Fuckin’ A!” Bood yelled as he slammed into Ilya in the corner, wrapping him in a hug. Ilya had scored early in the first period, making it 1–0 for Ottawa. The goal siren blared, the fans who’d bothered to show up cheered, and the team’s goal song started playing (DJ Khaled’s “All I Do Is Win,” which seemed like an ironic choice to Ilya).

“Your turn next, baby,” Ilya said, trying to match Bood’s energy. He bumped gloves with their other winger, Tanner Dillon, who frankly wasn’t good enough to be on a line with either of them. Ilya dreamed of a day where his right wing linemate was as strong as his left. Maybe it would be Haas someday. He had potential.

But Ilya was tired of waiting. Tired of losing. He wanted a star right wing player on his line .

He wanted a lot of things .

“Great start, fellas,” Coach Wiebe said cheerfully when they reached the bench. “Keep it up.”

They didn’t keep it up. By the end of the second period it was 3–1 Columbus.

“We played against Boston last week,” said Jake Pierce, Columbus’s star center, as he and Ilya waited for a face-off. “They were really good.”

“Cool.”

Pierce huffed and shook his head. “I have no fucking idea why you signed with this team.”

“Maybe I like the quiet.”

“You know we’ve got rookies who had posters of you on their bedroom walls?”

“Nice. Good taste.”

“You shouldn’t be here, is all I’m saying.”

Ilya’s lips curved up. “Next time I sign with a shit team in a boring city, I will choose Columbus.”

He could tell Pierce was trying not to smile. “You’re a fucking weirdo, Rozanov.”

The game ended 4–2 for Columbus. Most of the crowd had left by the middle of the third period.

“Rough one tonight,” Harris said to Ilya in the locker room after the press had finally left.

“Rough one every night,” Ilya sighed. He remembered when hockey had been .

“If it makes you feel better, I regrammed this photo of a pumpkin a fan carved your portrait into. It’s pretty impressive.” He held out his phone so Ilya could see.

“Wow.” As far as pumpkin portraits went, it impressive. Ilya loved how weird North American Halloween was.

Then he got an idea. He took a few seconds to weigh the pros and cons, then stood up and announced, “Halloween party this year is at my house, okay?”

Everyone cheered and clapped, which made Ilya smile. He never hosted parties, and rarely went to them. Because he was a terrible captain and teammate.

He would host this party, and it would be talked about for years. The best party ever. Epic. In Boston he’d been the one who organized impromptu outings. He’d been the guy his teammates called when they wanted to go out and get drunk and dance and get laid. He could be that guy again. He could try.