SWNOVELS The Long Game: Chapter 29
February
“Where have I seen you before?” Ilya asked.
The Detroit defenseman, Kerr, looked confused. “The fuck are you talking about, Rozanov?”
Ilya pointed a gloved finger at him. “Oh! I know. From that gif. I see it all the time. From last season when I deked around you like you were a fucking statue and scored.”
Kerr shoved him. They were behind the Detroit net, after a stoppage in play. “I wouldn’t be fucking bragging if I played for Ottawa.”
Ilya leaned back against the glass, still smiling. “Weird because it’s like 3–1 for us right now.”
“Whatever.” Kerr skated away.
“Rozanov,” an exhausted-sounding ref said, “could you give it a rest for once?”
“Anything for you.”
Bood joined Ilya as he skated toward the bench. “Are we sure we’re in the right building?” he said over the roar of the crowd. “This can’t be Ottawa.”
It was midway through the second period of the first home game since the All-Star break and the arena was packed. And loud. Even now, when nothing was happening on the ice, the crowd was fired up.
“I guess we just had to start winning,” Ilya said.
“Damn, we should have tried that sooner,” Bood joked.
Ilya laughed, because he was in a great fucking mood. Hockey was fun again, and he was happy for Bood, who had been with Ottawa for his entire career and had never known how it felt to be on a good NHL team. He was happy for Wyatt, who was way too good to be the goalie for a losing team. He was happy for the rookies, and Coach Wiebe, and for Troy, who had been smiling a lot lately, though that probably had more to do with Harris.
Ottawa ended up winning the game 5–2 after Troy scored an empty net goal with less than a minute to go. A great effort all around. And definitely worthy of a team outing to Monk’s to celebrate.
Ilya was sitting at a table with Troy Barrett, Evan Dykstra, and three pitchers of beer. He was already most of the way through one of the pitchers. “Do you know why I think we are winning so much?” he said, his words a bit sluggish as he drunkenly stumbled through the English language. “Because Dykstra has not been the DJ. In the locker room.”
“Hey!” Evan said. “My music is totally fucking good.”
“No,” Ilya groaned. “Is terrible.”
“Where’s Hazy?” Evan said, looking around. “He’ll back me up.”
“Does not count. Hazy likes everything.”
Bood approached the table, holding a beer in one hand and a pool cue in the other. “Who wants to get destroyed at pool?”
“Sure,” Evan said. “Ilya’s being a dick.”
“No!” Bood said, feigning shock. “Ilya Rozanov?”
“Isn’t your wife having a baby right now?” Ilya asked.
“Not yet, but I’m leaving after I kick Dykstra’s ass. Y’know. Just in case.”
Evan left with Bood, and Troy, who’d been quiet all evening, said, “Dykstra’s music really is awful.”
“Right?” Ilya took a long sip of beer. “Are you okay?”
Troy frowned at the table. “Yeah. I’m just…thinking about something.”
“Harris?” Ilya guessed.
Troy’s lips curved up a bit. “No. I mean, yeah. Kind of.” He glanced up at Ilya. “We’re together now, by the way.”
Ilya beamed and put a hand on Troy’s shoulder. “This is great! Where is he now?”
“Still working. But he’ll be here soon he said.” He fiddled with a paper coaster on the table. “So, I’m thinking about coming out. Like, all the way out. Publicly. Maybe the day of the Pride Night game.”
Holy shit. For a moment Ilya was speechless as a confusing swirl of excitement, shock, and jealousy rose inside him. The Pride Night game was at the end of February, only a couple of weeks away. “Oh yes?” was what he finally managed to say.
“Yeah. I’m tired of hiding. And now that I’m with Harris, I don’t think I can hide, y’know?”
It was true. Ilya was sure the whole team would notice how Harris and Troy looked at each other soon, if they hadn’t noticed already. “I am very happy for you. And for Harris. And of course I will support you. The whole team will.”
“You think so?”
“Troy! Yes. Of course. This team is the best.”
A silent question hung in the air: Then why wasn’t Ilya out? Ilya let it hang.
“The Pride Night game,” Troy said. “It’s against Toronto. So. That sucks.”
Ugh. That did suck. It was hard enough for Troy to face his former team without anything else added to it.
“The Pride Night game is just a league thing, you know? Is not, like…it does not have to be when you come out.” Ilya was doing a terrible job of explaining what he meant. “Like, is for show, kind of. Do not feel pressure to have to come out.”
“I know. I just think it would be nice, maybe?”
Ilya could see that. Pride Night games had always felt weird to him. Performative, mostly, but also uncomfortable because he felt guilty for not being out.
“Then you should do it,” Ilya said. “And we will make sure to embarrass your old team that night.”
“You are such a big boy now,” Ilya said as he scratched Chiron’s ears. “You are like two Chirons.”
Harris had brought Chiron into the locker room at the end of practice to visit the team, but Ilya suspected he had an ulterior motive. His suspicions were confirmed a moment later when Harris asked, “Was Troy not here today?”
Ilya smiled at the dog. “He is here somewhere. Showers, probably.”
Harris glanced toward the showers, but managed to keep himself from running in there to get an eyeful of wet, naked Troy. “Chiron got some bad news last week,” he said. “I mean, maybe he’s not too sad about it.”
A million horrible possibilities flashed through Ilya’s brain. “What news? What is wrong?”
“Turns out he’s not therapy dog material. At least according to the trainers.”
“Impossible,” Ilya said, because clearly Chiron was the best dog in the world and the trainers were fucking idiots if they couldn’t see that. “What will happen to him?”
“Nothing bad,” Harris assured him. “He’s still going to be the official team dog, but he’ll need a home away from the arena.”
Ilya almost offered to take him. He wanted to so badly. But there was another option that made way more sense. “You will adopt him,” he told Harris.
Harris, as it turned out, had already been thinking the same thing. So Ilya was doubly glad he hadn’t tried to steal Harris’s dog.
Ilya smiled at Chiron. “You are going to be the happiest dog ever.” He meant it. Harris loved dogs, and his family had a big farm that Chiron could visit and run around at.
Troy emerged from a back room—not the showers—looking sweaty and, yes, sexy, so Harris’s attention left Ilya immediately. Ilya sat on the floor and played with Chiron, still wearing most of his gear. He removed one of his elbow pads and waved it around, letting Chiron chase it and chomp on it when he caught it.
He definitely needed a dog.
A few minutes later, Troy stood on the bench in his stall and tried to get the room’s attention. It didn’t quite work, so Ilya decided to help. “Everyone shut up and listen to Barrett.”
The room got very quiet as everyone turned their attention to Troy. Ilya could only think of one thing that Troy could be announcing, with Harris at his side, so he held his breath and waited.
“Just one thing,” Troy said. “I’m dating Harris. We’re together. I’m gay.”
Ilya had to respect how efficient the speech was. He began to clap loudly, and everyone else joined in, cheering and whooping. Ilya loved this team. He watched Troy step down off the bench and into Harris’s arms. Then he bent Harris backward and kissed the hell out of him, in front of everyone.
Ilya’s heart twisted, partly with happiness, partly with jealousy. He was thrilled for Harris and Troy, but at the same time he knew he’d never get a locker room full of hockey players cheering for his and Shane’s relationship. And of course he shouldn’t resent Troy for being able to come out, announce his relationship with Harris, and basically adopt a wonderful dog all on the same day.
“It’s okay,” he said to Chiron in Russian. “My day is coming.”
But he wondered sometimes, even with Shane’s ring hanging around his neck, whether he was fooling himself.
“I thought you’d given up on me,” Galina said, in Russian, as she waved Ilya into her office.
“Sorry,” Ilya said. He’d let five weeks go by without an appointment because he’d been feeling more like his old self. He’d been hoping, absurdly, he knew, that he was fixed. But seeing Troy and Harris kissing in the team locker room had sent him spiraling back to a dark place, so he’d made an appointment.
“Busy?” she asked as she sat in her chair opposite the couch.
“Yes,” Ilya said, taking his usual place on the center cushion. “We might be heading to the playoffs, if you can believe it.”
“I know, I’ve been following. It’s very exciting, as a fan.”
Ilya smiled. “And as a player.”
“So hockey is good,” she prompted.
“Hockey is great. I’m having fun again.” He looked away from her. “I thought, maybe, that would be enough.”
“You thought you didn’t have to see me anymore because you felt happier.”
“Yes.” He forced himself to look at her. “Stupid. I know.”
Her lips curved up. “I wish it were that easy.”
“Me too.”
“I take it your good mood didn’t last?”
“Not exactly, no. I’m still having fun playing hockey, and I love the time Shane and I have together. And I’m…” He paused, but decided he should probably tell her this. “I’m engaged. He asked me to marry him, and I said yes.”
“Congratulations.”
Ilya nodded. “It’s everything I want, and we are planning to come out this summer and maybe get married then too. No more waiting until we are both retired.”
Galina made notes and said, “This is a big change for you guys.”
“Huge,” Ilya agreed. “I’m excited and happy, but I’m also scared.”
“Of how people will react?”
Ilya pressed his fingers to the ring that lay hidden under his T-shirt. “I’m scared Shane will change his mind. Or that he won’t, and it will affect his career, and he will hate me for it. Maybe not for a while, but eventually.”
“Does it seem likely that he’ll change his mind?”
“I don’t know,” Ilya said honestly. “He spooks easily, sometimes. Panics.”
“But he proposed to you. That probably wasn’t a decision he made lightly.”
Ilya happily remembered Shane going to one knee, surrounded by the candles that he’d bought and carefully decorated the living room with. “No. I think he was very serious about it.”
“Does the second scenario seem more likely? Where he resents you?”
Ilya grabbed one of the throw pillows next to him and hugged it against his stomach. “I don’t know. My brain tells me it’s likely, but my brain has lied to me before.”
“Brains can be jerks that way.”
Ilya gave a small smile. “Yes.” He curled his fingers into the pillow. “There’s another thing. One of my teammates just came out as gay. To the team, I mean. But he’s planning on coming out publicly on the day of our Pride Night game next week.”
“Wow. That’s exciting. How does that make you feel?”
“I’m very happy for him. He’s dating the team’s social media manager. A great guy. I’m happy for both of them. The team all supports them. It’s been nice.”
Galina didn’t say anything, just waited for Ilya to continue.
“But,” Ilya added, “I’m jealous, I guess. It’s made me think about how much harder it will be for me and Shane.”
“Do you remember,” Galina said slowly, “in one of our earlier sessions, I’d asked about your other friends?”
“Yes.”
“Have you told anyone yet, about Shane?”
“No,” Ilya admitted.
“You seem to be trapped in this cycle of wanting to be openly in a relationship with Shane, but also dreading it. I think it would help if you told a friend—someone you trust. Someone on your side.”
“Maybe,” Ilya said, though it also sounded like a good way to lose a friend.
“Try it,” she urged. “A teammate, or an old friend. Just one person, and see how you feel after.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll try.”
“Fuck you, Rozanov!”
It was probably the one millionth time Ilya had heard that phrase, or similar, during the afternoon game in Boston. This time it was from a charming middle-aged woman behind the penalty box he was currently serving a two-minute minor in.
Beside him, Dykstra, who was serving his own penalty, said, “You gotta love Boston.”
“She probably used to wear my jersey,” Ilya said. “Used to love me.”
“That was before you turned traitor, though.” Dykstra laughed. “Did you see the guy who actually added ‘fuck’ to the back of his Rozanov jersey? He’s sitting near that corner somewhere.” He gestured with his stick. “That’s a commitment to hate that you have to respect.”
Ilya squirted Gatorade in his mouth. If he offered to sign the “Fuck Rozanov” jersey he’d bet the guy wearing it would be thrilled. Deep down, this city probably still loved him.
“We were talking about getting dinner somewhere after the game,” Dykstra said. “We figured you’d know all the good Boston joints.”
“I can suggest something, but I cannot join you. I am meeting a friend.”
“Oh yeah? A friend, or a friend.”
Ilya only smiled.
“So you’re still alive.”
Ilya grinned at his old friend and hugged her. “Still alive.”
Svetlana swatted his shoulder. “Then why the fuck haven’t I seen you in three years?”
“I’m sorry,” Ilya said, meaning it. He switched to Russian. “It’s a long story, but it’s mostly because I’m a terrible friend.”
“You were always a terrible friend, but you were a fantastic lay and I miss you.”
“I missed you too.” Ilya offered her his arm. He’d met her on the sidewalk near the Beacon Hill restaurant they were having dinner at. She’d stepped out of the taxi looking like a movie star in a long black fur-trimmed coat, her white-blond hair swept into an elegant knot at the back of her head. “You look stunning.”
“Probably.”
“Are those boots practical for Boston winters?” Ilya asked, eying the tall, narrow heels on her knee-high leather boots.
“Of course. They’re like ice picks. And don’t change the subject. We’re still talking about how terrible you are.”
“I thought we were talking about how great I am in bed.”
“How great you were. It’s been years, Ilya. Years.”
“I know,” Ilya said seriously. He opened the door to the restaurant and held it for her. “Let’s order drinks. Then I’ll explain.”
Once they were seated at the most private table in the elegant Italian restaurant, and martinis had been ordered, Svetlana glared at him expectantly.
Ilya sighed. “If it makes you feel better, you’re not the only one I lost touch with.”
“It does not,” she said sharply.
“I’ve been…a bit closed off, since I moved to Ottawa.”
“What does that mean? You’re not sleeping your way through North America anymore?”
Ilya huffed a laugh. “No. Not anymore.”
The server brought their martinis. Ilya had never been so happy to see a cocktail.
“What a loss to women everywhere,” Svetlana said dryly.
“Hopefully they can get over it.” Ilya sipped his martini, which was perfectly cold and crisp. “How have you been? Where are you working?”
“I finished my MBA.” She smiled. “I have been offered a job by the Boston Bears.”
“Perfect!” Svetlana knew more about hockey than anyone. More than Shane. Possibly more than Yuna. “You’re going to take it?”
“I think so. They’re excited to have Sergei Vetrov’s daughter working for them.” Vetrov had been a superstar for Boston in the ’90s.
“And what does Sergei think?”
“That I am a princess who should get whatever I want. We have that in common.”
Ilya laughed. “Were you at the game today?”
“Yes. You couldn’t hear me booing you?”
“Not over everyone else booing me. Boston hates me now.”
“Of course we do. You left.”
And that could be a segue into why he left, but he was struggling to make himself bring it up. Shane knew about and supported Ilya’s decision to tell Svetlana about their relationship, and Ilya knew he could trust her, but finding the words was difficult.
Instead, he picked up the menu beside him. “What’s good here?”
Svetlana reached across the table and pushed his menu down with one beautifully manicured finger. “Why did you sign with Ottawa, Ilya?” she asked in her usual blunt way. “I have never understood it. No one does.”
Ilya took his time answering. “To be closer to someone.” Then, like a coward, he took another sip of his drink.
Svetlana’s vivid blue eyes widened. “Someone? Like, someone you are dating? Are you actually with someone? In a real relationship?”
“Yes.”
Her face lit up. “My god. She must be spectacular. Who is it? Where did you meet? In Ottawa? Is she Russian?”
The server returned to take their orders. “We need more time,” Svetlana said, not unkindly, but a bit impatiently.
The server left with a polite, “Of course.”
Svetlana rested one elbow on the table and tapped her red fingernails against her red lips. “Why have I never heard of you dating someone? Is it a secret?”
“You are asking a lot of questions.”
“Answer the last one first.”
“We should look at the menu—”
“Ilya.”
Under the table, Ilya’s fingers flexed against his dress pants. “Yes, it’s a secret.”
“This is intriguing. Are you having an affair? Is it a teammate’s wife?”
“No,” Ilya said quickly, slightly offended. “Nothing like that. Of course not.”
“Didn’t you tell me once you’d slept with your teammate’s girlfriend? Back in Moscow?”
“Yes, but he was an asshole to her, and also I was seventeen. I would never do that now.”
Svetlana hummed thoughtfully. “It’s a secret, but it’s not an affair. Maybe your coach’s daughter?”
“My coach’s daughter is eleven.”
“The owner’s daughter, then. Or is it the owner? Isn’t one of the owners of the Centaurs a woman?”
“It’s not the owner.”
She smiled over the rim of her martini glass. “This is a fun game. I like this.” Suddenly her eyes went wide. She leaned forward and whispered, “Is it a man?”
Well. That hadn’t taken long. Ilya answered with the slightest tip of his head as he brought his glass to his lips.
Svetlana covered her mouth with one hand, eyes still wide. He could tell she was smiling, though.
“Ilya,” she finally said. “Holy shit.”
“Yes.”
She grinned wickedly at him. “Did you fuck every woman in Canada and had to move on to men?”
Ilya rolled his eyes. “That’s not how it works.”
“So who is he?”
Ilya’s cheeks heated, which he hoped wasn’t noticeable in the dim lighting of the restaurant.
“You’re blushing,” Svetlana said, delighted. “Ilya Rozanov, are you in love?”
Ilya couldn’t stop the smile that crept across his face. “Extremely.”
The server came back then, so Ilya and Svetlana both hastily looked at the menu and ordered. Ilya wasn’t entirely sure what he’d chosen, but it had scallops, so it couldn’t be terrible.
“Anyway,” Ilya said casually, after the server had left, “how’s your father doing?”
“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Svetlana said. “As if we’re not still talking about you falling in love with a man.”
“Is it that interesting?”
“Who is he?”
Ilya glanced sideways. “You don’t know him.”
“Of course not. I’ve never been to Ottawa. What’s his name?”
Okay. There was no dodging this question. Not unless Ilya wanted to lie, which he didn’t. What was the point, really? They were going to tell everyone soon enough, and Svetlana was a friend. She may be shocked by what he was about to tell her, but Ilya didn’t think she’d go to the tabloids or anything.
“His name,” Ilya said calmly, “is Shane.”
“Not Russian, then. Too bad. What does Shane do?”
Ilya somehow managed to keep himself from laughing. “He’s an athlete.”
Svetlana narrowed her eyes. “Which sport?”
Ilya rolled the stem of his martini glass between his thumb and forefinger. “Hockey.”
Svetlana huffed. “I don’t understand. Unless you’re in love with Shane Hollander, I can’t think of any—” She stopped, and then she lunged forward, practically resting her whole torso on the table. “Is it Shane Hollander?” she hissed.
“I’m afraid so. Yes.”
“Can I bring you another drink?” asked the server, who’d suddenly reappeared.
Svetlana seemed to realize she was basically lying on the table, and slid back into her chair with as much grace as possible. “We’ll need several bottles of wine, I think.”
Ilya grinned. “Let’s start with one.”
Three hours later, Ilya and Svetlana were waiting arm in arm outside the restaurant for their separate cabs to arrive.
“I really am disappointed we aren’t going to have sex,” Svetlana sighed. She was slumped against him, head resting on his shoulder. They’d both had a lot to drink.
Ilya chuckled. “You can’t convince me that you’re hard up for sex.”
“I’m not,” she agreed. “But men are so boring. Why are you all so boring?”
“I thought I was exciting.”
“You were. Now you’re going to marry a Canadian. Boring.”
“I don’t know how many people would describe my secret relationship with my rival boring.”
She laughed. “I don’t suppose you have a cigarette.”
“I quit.”
“Of course you did. Boring.”
A car pulled up. “This one is yours,” Ilya said, and stepped forward to open the door for her.
She placed a hand on his shoulder, and stood face-to-face with him. “I’m glad we got to catch up. I’ve really missed you, and I want to be friends, even without fucking.”
“I would love that. Come to Ottawa sometime. Meet Shane.”
She smiled. “I will. Until then, text me. Keep in touch.”
“I promise.”
She kissed his cheek, and got into the car. Ilya smiled to himself, feeling like he’d gained back a piece of himself, as he waited for his own car.