Chapter Text
Ilya had been ushered into a private hospital room immediately, the staff murmuring into his ear as they rushed him past a few lounging photographers who had been hoping to catch a picture of him injured. As far as he could tell, the bed he was in was nothing special, except it was surrounded by walls and a door, instead of just a paper curtain.
Ilya held a flimsy plastic cup of water in his one free hand, trying not to grip too tightly, lest the water come slopping over the sides as it had five minutes previously.
“Mr. Rozanov,” a nurse greeted him, striding into the room confidently. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” he said in response. He’d already been asked this question upwards of ten times, and he’d said the same thing each time. But this time, the nurse was impossibly young, Ilya thought, (could she even be qualified to work here?) and had bright, keen eyes, flicking over his face with great interest.
“Do let me know if I can help you,” she said. Her hand came to rest on Ilya’s forearm. He stared down at it for a moment, her nails a bright purple, though her skin looked tight and dry. “I know… well, you might not enjoy hospital settings.”
Before he could respond – or even consider much about the implications of her words, a sharp, lightly accented voice sounded at the door, “Ilya.” Svetlana, with her American mother, had only traces of a Russian accent.
The nurse whipped her hand back, spinning on her heels and taking a good look at the new intruder. Taking Svetlana in, with her halo of curls and high cheekbones, the nurse went slightly pink and bustled out of the room without another word.
Svetland shook her head ruefully, plopping herself down in the hard plastic chair at Ilya’s bedside. She reached over into the open packet of pretzels that Ilya had been grazing on. Despite their many years in North America, they slipped back into Russian without a moment’s hesitation.
“Those are mine,” Ilya said with a frown.
Ignoring him, Svetlana said through a mouthful of pretzels, “a nurse, huh?”
“You’re not going to ask how I am?”
“You’re fine. So, the nurse?”
“Stop it,” Ilya scoffed, annoyed. He tried to bat Svetlana’s hand away from the bag, but she clenched onto his wrist with her sharp, impeccably done nails until he hissed and withdrew in defeat. “There is no nurse,” he insisted, examining her clawmarks.
She shrugged, now moving to steal his water as well. “You could do worse. She was very cute.”
Ilya hummed as if to say if you say so. “I don’t care. And anyways, she wasn’t interested like that.” He picked up a pretzel, and started to scrape off individual salt crystals with his nails.
Now it was Svetlana’s turn to scoff. “Do not be stupid, Ilya.”
“It is true,” Ilya said, now grinding the crunchy pretzel into a fine dust. “It was just pity.”
“Yes, pity that she couldn’t climb onto your lap and –”
“Svetlana, enough.”
She cocked her head at him, looking at him curiously while she absentmindedly wiped salt and crumbs onto Ilya’s hospital gown. She didn’t respond to Ilya’s protests – would you stop, you demon – but twisted her mouth thoughtfully.
“It does not always have to be this way.”
Ilya, who was halfway done with rolling up the bag of pretzels to toss into the garbage can, refused to look at her.
“You are lonely, Ilya.”
“Why does everyone keep saying this to me,” Ilya muttered.
“Because you are,” she said. “And I’m sorry if showing up at the hospital is a reminder that you shouldn’t just wait forever –”
“I’m fine –”
“Not everyone cares,” she said firmly. Now, her sharp nails found their way into his matted curls. Normally she would complain about the sweat and salt making its way under her nails, but not today. Today, she just scratched gently, and Ilya couldn’t help but close his eyes for a few seconds. “You do not have to be alone forever.”
“I am not alone.”
“Anya does not count. She is a dog.”
“She is my daughter,” Ilya said, sounding offended, eyes snapping back open, “and your goddaughter, if you remember.”
“Dogs do not have godparents,” Svetlana laughed, ducking her head to dodge Ilya’s outstretched hand reaching to tug on her curls. They’d had this argument many times.
“And I have my friends,” Ilya continued. “I am not just by myself all the time.”
“Uh huh,” she said doubtfully. “And what about when you want to get your cock wet, hm? What then? Because you know I cannot fuck you anymore, I cannot stoop so low as to fuck a Canadian. Papa would never forgive me.”
Ilya suppressed another eye roll with great difficulty. It had been several years since he and Svetlana had been anything even approaching sexual. She had transformed, when he had most needed it, into a sister, in a way that there had been no going back from.
Ilya flopped back into his bed dramatically, which he regretted when he felt a stab of pain through his shoulder. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he said, a ghost of a smirk on his face. “I get what I need.”
“What you need… yes, I am sure what you need are random, nameless encounters over and done with by four in the morning.” Svetlana waved one hand dismissively through the air, as if to illustrate the meaninglessness of Ilya’s current sex life.
“It works,” Ilya said defensively.
Now, her tone turned gentle. “For now, Ilya, maybe. But not forever.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I want you to let yourself be happy,” she said simply. “If you ever meet someone that… makes you feel something. I want you to be brave enough to let yourself feel it."
Unbidden and unwelcome, Shane’s face flashed in Ilya’s mind. He thought of the irresistible pull to make Shane laugh, to poke and prod at Shane until his cheeks burned and he stuttered over his words. He thought of the way his body tightened when their eyes met.
“What has happened?”
“What?” Ilya asked, startled from his momentary reverie. “What are you talking about?”
She was eyeing him with great suspicion. “You have stupid, dreamy look on your face. Why?”
“You are crazy,” Ilya scoffed, averting his eyes wildly. He cast around looking for something to focus on, and had to settle for reading his own hospital bracelet which, unsurprisingly, carried no information that was not already known to him.
“Did you meet someone?” she asked shrewdly.
Ilya’s eyes snapped to her in alarm. “You are a witch?”
The laugh she let off was surprised but delighted. But before she could say anything else, a tall man in a white coat with the heaviest set of eyebrows Ilya had ever seen knocked on the open door.
It took an annoyingly long time for the doctor to explain what Ilya had already expected. A full sling for two weeks. Two more weeks of careful rehab and physical therapy before he was re–evaluated to return to the ice. Four weeks, maybe six, before he was back in full contact.
“Yes, yes,” Ilya said impatiently. “I promise to be good.”
“Now, I want you to hear me, Mr. Rozanov,” the doctor said, looking stern. Or perhaps it was just his eyebrows that made him look that way. “The healing process is not to be rushed. I understand you tweaked your shoulder in August.”
“August,” Svetlana interrupted, sounding annoyed. “Ilya, you did not tell me.”
“It was nothing,” Ilya said irritably. “I was practicing.”
“Practicing,” Svetlana grumbled under her breath, “five hours a day, in the offseason no less.”
“I need to stay in shape! It is my job!”
“I would hazard a guess that you were going beyond the job,” the doctor – Dr. Peters, maybe – responded. “The amount of repeated stress on your shoulder is increasing its instability. It puts you at greater risk for injury, as we saw tonight.”
“I was hit. I went down. It happens.”
“Yes,” the doctor said drily. “And sometimes, when you’re not careful, you don’t get back up,” Ilya gaped at him, “I am telling you, Mr. Rozanov, that what you need is to mind the letter of your physical therapy plan. If you don’t take care of yourself, I think you will regret it.”
The doctor left without saying goodbye. Ilya wondered if Shane’s bedside manner was any better.
Ilya spent the following hour sniping back and forth with Svetlana in Russian.
“You are lucky I was visiting,” she said.
“You go back tomorrow.”
“I could stay,” she shrugged.
“You can’t stay,” he huffed. “You have a job. How do you expect to sell cars in Boston from Ottawa?”
“If I say I can stay, I can stay.”
Ilya couldn’t leave until he was visited by the physical therapist, but as he lazed around in his room – Svetlana had gone, under protest, to fetch him a diet coke – his mind wandered back to Shane. He knew it was wholly illogical, but he hoped that Shane might somehow appear in his room. The fact that Shane had clearly been working, in between studying for a very intense, very stressful job, did not elude him, but he sometimes just had to enjoy his fantasies.
“There it is, again!” Svetlana reappeared in the doorway, diet coke in hand.
“What, Svetlana?” said Ilya, exasperated.
“The stupid look!” she exclaimed.
“It is nothing! Give me my soda.”
“Ah, no, you get nothing until you tell me,” she proclaimed, waving the can around in the air.
“You’re going to make it fizz,” he complained. “And it's very mean to withhold from me on my sickbed.”
“Sickbed,” she rolled her eyes. “I only got it for you because you threatened to smoke a cigarette if I didn’t.”
“I still might.”
“You’re in a hospital,” she said, finally relenting and handing the soda over, “and you will tell me now.”
“There is nothing to tell,” Ilya hesitated for a long moment, but then Svetlana sighed dramatically and he figured he was probably going to give in either way, so he might as well spare himself the trouble. So he told her, keeping his voice light and his eyes determinedly away from hers, about the beautiful man with the pretty freckles.
“Are you going to try to find him?”
He shrugged. “He is too good for me, probably. I don’t know.”
“Ilya, you sound like you are in love.”
“In love,” he scoffed, “I met him a few hours ago.”
She just hummed to herself, one finger lightly tracing the back of Ilya’s hand. “Does he know?”
Ilya looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Maybe? It doesn’t matter, he wouldn’t want to have to deal with my drama.”
Svetlana looked at him sharply. “Ilyusha,” she started, forcing him to look at her. Svetlana saved the diminutive for her most serious moments, when she wanted him to really hear her. “That is not why I asked.”
“Why did you ask, then?”
“Because,” she said, sounding frustrated, “you always talk yourself out of being happy. I don’t want to watch you do that again.”
“Don’t watch then.”
She breathed out hard through her nose. “You’re impossible.”
“Yes,” Ilya admitted. “That is true.”
_____________
The next afternoon, Ilya sat at his kitchen table and stared at his laptop screen. His shoulder ached, and Svetlana’s voice – as it so often did – was ringing in his head.
He was lonely. He knew that. But his own yawning sense of emptiness was not enough of a reason to go barging into someone’s life. Ilya knew, quite well, the consequences of giving into his own impulses.
He wasn’t going to call. There, decision made.
He brought a pack of M&Ms to his mouth with his one free hand, ripping it open with his teeth. Distracted, he pulled much too hard, and the candy went skittering all over the floor. Ilya let himself close his eyes for a minute but then, sighing, he went to his knees, feeling one–handed over the dusty floor and being forced to pick them up one–by–one.
This is humiliating, he thought grimly. He was at least grateful Anya was in the backyard; he didn’t think his ego would ever have recovered from trying to wrestle chocolate out of a dog’s mouth which, in his current state, would have almost certainly ended with him losing.
He wished, then, that he’d let Svetlana stay. But he’d sworn he would be well taken care of, with various members of the team having promised him (well, they promised Svetlana, after she left a very brisk voice note from Ilya’s phone in the Centaurs group chat) and Bood had assured her he would make an appearance that evening.
But, well, there was nothing that made him feel quite so alone as wobbling on the balls of his feet, one arm strapped to his chest while he scooped up his pathetic excuse for his dinner off the floor.
“Fuck,” he said out loud to himself.
His phone rang, an embarrassing Britney Spears song at full volume, programmed after Ilya lost a bet to Hayes at their first practice of the season. Ilya heaved himself to his feet.
“What?” Ilya said by way of greeting,
“Well, hello to you too, princess,” came Bood’s amused-sounding voice. “What’s got your panties in a bunch?”
“That’s homophobic.”
“You’re not gay.”
“Biphobic, then,” Ilya said, putting the phone on speaker and tossing it onto the kitchen counter. He resigned himself to rummaging through his pantry, hoping to find something to eat that was both quick and easy to make with one hand.
“Don’t be annoying,” said Bood, his voice tinny over the speakerphone.
“You’re hardly one to talk.”
“Rude, too, today!”
“I’m not,” Ilya snapped. Then he sighed, “sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Bood said. “Are you upset, then, about being out for a few weeks?
“Of course, but it’s fine."
“Hm… how upset?”
Ilya couldn’t decide whether to be touched or irritated. He settled for a bit of both.
“Don’t worry,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I will be back in a few weeks. You haven’t seen the last of me.”
“Well, good. Anyways, I was calling because I’m leaving for your place in a few minutes. What do you want for dinner?”
A spark of warmth lit in Ilya’s chest.
“Ah… thanks, Bood. You don’t have to come over –”
“I thought I said to stop being annoying. I’m coming because I want to come. Besides, I’m a little scared of Svetlana.”
“Everyone is,” Ilya said reasonably. “But… yes, okay. That’s very nice,” before he could sound too emotional, he rushed to add, “mostly because the only thing I can find here is floor chocolate and an open package of ramen with the spice packet missing.”
“What’s floor chocolate?” Bood asked, sounding confused.
“Nothing,” Ilya said, kicking a few loose M&Ms under the refrigerator. “Get me whatever, I don’t mind. See you soon.”
Ilya rounded the kitchen counter back to his table, where his laptop was propped open. Ilya was happy that Bood was coming over. He was grateful his friends cared about him. But still, Ilya stared at the phone number on the screen.
______________
Four months later
The club was so dark, and packed so full of swaying bodies, that Ilya could hardly see the blurry outlines of his teammates. He thought he spotted Barrett, but then again his and Harris’s faces had been wielded together most of the evening, so it was difficult to tell.
Bood was standing next to him, facing the bar. He was waving his hands again, pointing at a bottle and then miming taking a drink.
“He’s not listening,” he shouted into Ilya’s ear. “He –” Bood hiccuped, “is ignoring me.”
Ilya glanced back tiredly. “He’s not a bartender.”
Another shout that reverberated into his ear drum. “What?”
“He’s standing on this side of the bar, idiot,” Ilya shouted back.
Bood looked momentarily stunned, then shrugged. “I’m going to sit back down, you get it.”
Before Ilya could protest – what, am I a bottle girl, now? – Bood squeezed between two couples grinding shamelessly on the dance floor and disappeared.
“Children,” Ilya muttered to himself. Turning back to the bar, he tried to remind himself that this was a good night. They deserved to celebrate.
“One ginger ale, please.”
Ilya snorted to himself. He couldn’t help but crane his neck a bit, wanting to catch a glimpse of whoever it was that was ordering a plain ginger ale at a nightclub so grimy that no less than three separate people had already come up to offer to sell him drugs.
Leaning forward, he saw first the black hair, and he thought of Shane. That happened more often than Ilya would like to admit, considering he’d only met the man once. He shook his head, as if trying to physically cast the thought away. Then, the man turned, and he saw, in flashes timed with the pulsing lights, bright, brown eyes and – even from here – a gentle sweep of freckles splayed over broad cheeks.
“Shane?” he said stupidly. He snapped his mouth shut, but it was too late. Shane picked his head up, looking around to see who had called his name. It took only a second for their eyes to meet.
“Ilya?” He sounded as stunned as Ilya felt. He said something, too quiet for Ilya to hear.
“What?” Ilya asked loudly. Shane took a step towards him, and Ilya felt his body sway. He forced his feet still, but wasn’t sure if he’d wanted to move back or lean desperately closer.
“I said, what are you doing here?” Shane asked, head tilted towards Ilya’s right ear.
“Me?” Ilya asked, eyes flicking over him. Shane’s expression was curious and open. “Well, I could ask you the same thing.”
“It would be a fair question,” said Shane.
“You are not normally one for clubs?” Ilya asked. He might have guessed, somehow.
“No, not usually.” Shane’s finger tip was clicking nervously against the rim of his glass. Ilya was so close he could see each of his eyelashes.
Earlier that day, at the end of their game, the Centaurs charged into the locker room with a relentless, vibrant energy. Haas had knocked over a barrel of gatorade in his excitement, and Young and Dykstra had ended up in an enthusiastic wrestling match for control over the spotify account blaring over the speakers.
Ilya had looked around and, though he felt satisfied and relieved, also felt a world apart from the guys around him. Barrett had noticed – one of them always did – and coaxed him into a smile by promising to have Chiron visit Anya over the weekend. But that feeling – that buzzing under their skin – eluded him.
He felt it now.
“Do you – would you sit? For a minute?” Ilya heard himself say, nodding to an empty table in the far corner of the room.
Shane didn’t turn to look. “Yes,” he said instantly. He took a breath. “I mean, sure.”
Ilya had to resist the impulse to take his hand.
The table was tucked away, set mercifully apart from the overhead speakers and far enough from the crowd that they didn’t have to shout to hear each other. It was a small, circular table set against a rounded bench. They sat so close that their knees bumped together.
“So,” Ilya said, tipping his drink towards him, “Shane Hollander, paramedic.”
Shane laughed, ducking his head down. “It’s just Shane, remember?”
“Yes,” Ilya grinned at him, “oh, yes, I remember.”
“Do you?” Shane asked lightly, one finger rounding the top of his glass slowly. Ilya watched it move. “I’m surprised.”
“Surprised,” Ilya repeated slowly. “Why? If anyone should be surprised, it is me.”
Shane raised his eyebrows, looking at him curiously, then went back to staring into his drink.
“I do not think it is poison,” Ilya said lightly, trying to break the tension. He lifted one foot off the ground to cross his legs, and he heard the squelching sound of his shoe unsticking from this truly disgusting floor. He paid extra mind not to accidentally tap his foot against Shane’s clean, tan pants. “It is just ginger ale.”
Shane groaned, and the sound of it shot right through Ilya. He rubbed his face with one hand. “You heard that?”
“Yes,” said Ilya, “it’s very cute.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” Shane frowned.
Ilya studied him for a moment. “I’m not making fun of you. Why do you think I am?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know… people have…” he took a breath. “I know I’m not, like, loads of fun. I can be, um, kind of a drag sometimes, I guess.”
Shane’s eyes were fixed resolutely on a strange, purplish stain on the table, and Ilya made a mental note to be careful where to rest his arms.
“Someone has said this to you?” Ilya asked. He ducked his head slightly, trying to catch his eye. He wanted Shane to look at him.
“Yeah, I – I guess.”
“And you believed them?”
This prompted Shane to raise his head, bewildered. “What do you mean?”
“What, someone says it and just, poof, it’s true?”
“No,” Shane laughed nervously, “obviously not, but, like…”
“Like?”
“He knew me, so – it must – well, whatever,” he stumbled. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I think it does matter,” said Ilya. Feeling bold, he reached one hand out slowly. Shane watched his approaching hand, but when he didn’t move, Ilya rested it lightly on his arm. “It sounds like you need some better friends.”
Shane blinked. “Maybe I do.”
“So,” Ilya said, tone lightening, pulling his hand back, “tell me, just Shane. If you are not a club person, why come out tonight?”
“Oh,” Shane sounded distracted, eyes having tracked Ilya’s retreating hand, “it was a big day. We’re celebrating.”
“Ah,” Ilya exclaimed, raising his glass, “me, too.”
“Really?” Shane asked, curious, “what are you celebrating then?”
Ilya chuckled, swishing the vodka around in his glass before realizing it was mostly just ice, now. “Of course you do not know.”
“Oh, sorry,” Shane was relaxing into his seat now, “I forgot how much you love fan service,” he was sporting a lovely shit-eating grin now, too, “Mr. Rozanov, I’ve followed your every game, if you shake my hand I’ll never wash it again –”
Ilya barked out a laugh, “I do not need it,” he decided to chance his luck, “but if you wanted to call me Mr. Rozanov again, I would not stop you.”
Shane had been giggling to himself, but at that his eyes darkened slightly, roaming over Ilya. He tipped his head back, resting against the wall. “Tell me, then,” he said, head lolling forward. “Why are you celebrating?”
“We made it into the playoffs,” Ilya explained. He watched Shane’s face and had a strong suspicion that this meant very little to him. “Very early for it to happen.”
“Congratulations,” Shane said, lifting his glass and tipping it in Ilya’s direction. Ilya nodded humbly. Shane’s nose was scrunched, his eyebrows pulled together as he thought hard. “Do you think you’ll win the… trophy?”
A startling, full body clench of affection gripped Ilya in that moment. “The Cup,” he corrected him, trying to keep his voice steady.
“And you?” prompted Ilya. “Why are you celebrating?”
“It was match day,” said Shane, with no further explanation, and Ilya was delighted by the fact that Shane had no clue what it meant to make it to the playoffs, but presumed Ilya would have even a chance in hell in understanding that the fuck a ‘match day’ was.
“And that is… what?”
“Right, sorry! It’s when final year med students get matched to their positions for their first year as a doctor. Like, to see if you get into the specialty you want.”
“Oh,” Ilya said, astonished. “That is a very big day. I can see why you are celebrating.”
“Yeah, I thought I was going to throw up when I opened my letter,” Shane said. “It’s the most nervous I’ve been in ages.”
“What specialty did you want?”
“Emergency medicine.”
“And what specialty did you get?”
Shane repeated, “emergency medicine,” but this time he looked smug. He drained the last of his ginger ale trying to cover his smile.
“Ah, I would have expected no less from genius man, Shane Hollander.”
Shane laughed at that, but Ilya thought he was secretly pleased. “It was everything I’d dreamed of,” he admitted shyly, “after all this work…” he drifted off, his eyes going hazy.
“What do you like about emergency medicine?” Ilya asked. He thought it seemed like an incongruous choice, somehow. He was well aware he didn’t actually know Shane, but he wanted to. He wanted to go rooting around in his brain and catalogue every last thing he found there in a special lock-box only for him (though perhaps he’d keep this particular desire to himself).
“You don’t think I seem like the type?”
Ilya only shrugged.
“You wouldn’t be the first to think so… everyone in my life seemed to think I was destined to be, like, a surgeon or something where I’m just locked in a room with someone who can’t talk back,” he gave a dry laugh, and it sounded a bit bitter, “but it’s hard to describe,” Shane said, sounding thoughtful now. “I think I like to find order within the chaos, you know?”
“Tell me more,” said Ilya earnestly.
“When everything around you is crazy, and someone needs to act, to move, and that someone is me… it’s… satisfying, somehow? That’s how it was as a paramedic, at least,” he explained. “It’s like I’m taken out of myself, in the moment. It’s actually a relief, because I only need to focus on that one thing, nothing else matters. No hemming and hawing, you just have to trust yourself.” The words had burst out of him. He looked at Ilya then, reddening slightly. “That probably sounds silly,” he said, trying valiantly for a casual shrug.
“It does not sound silly at all,” said Ilya. His hand found its way back to Shane’s wrist. His fingertips burned. “It sounds very familiar, actually.”
“It does?”
“Yes,” Ilya said simply. “And either way, it seems obvious now. It’s in your eyes, like I can,” he waved his hand at Shane, trying to find the right words, “see it, I think. See you.”
Shane looked at him now, his face naked and open. Ilya thought he looked… grateful, maybe? But there was something else there, too. Shane’s gaze danced over Ilya’s face before coming to rest on his eyes. The moment stretched in front of them, feeling impossibly long, Ilya was sure that the buzzing under his skin… that Shane felt it too.
He could feel himself wanting, desperately, to lean forward, to bring their faces closer together, to feel their noses brush…
Steeling himself, hating himself, Ilya wrenched his hand back. Shane did not want him, he’d made that clear.
“I think,” Ilya said grandly, smacking his hands on the table, “that this calls for a proper celebratory drink.” He got to his feet, gesturing at Shane to stay in his seat. “Another ginger ale, Doctor?”
“I’m not a doctor quite yet,” said Shane, looking dazed, “and… no, I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Are you sure?” Ilya asked, eyebrows raised. “I don’t mind. I will even get you top–shelf ginger ale. Best in house.”
Shane laughed again, but said, looking up at him with wide eyes, “yes, I’m sure. I’d like to celebrate… with you, if that’s okay.”
Ilya felt his stomach drop. “Yes, of course. I will be right back.”
After a quick panic at the bar, in which Ilya hastily bought two expensive, Russian glasses of vodka because it turned out he knew very little else about alcohol (like, for instance, what mild-mannered, ginger-ale-drinking Canadian men might like), Ilya was sliding back into his seat.
He laughed, but not unkindly, at Shane’s first sip, which was too large and ended with him spluttering all over the table. He patted Shane on the back in a patronizing sort of way, prompting Shane to elbow him hard in the ribs. Shane cared not at all when Ilya complained he’d already taken enough abuse to the ribs on the ice, eventually settling back into his seat to take slow, tiny sips while making easy conversation.
Ilya caught snippets of Shane’s life (his parents live in Ottawa, being a paramedic had inspired him to apply for med school, and, weirdly, that he held a deep obsession with Ritz crackers) and filed them away carefully for further study later.
Eventually, when their glasses had run nearly dry, Shane asked, “So your shoulder healed okay, then?”
“Yes, fine,” Ilya said.
“I’m glad,” Shane said, nodding, “I was hoping it had.”
“You were thinking about me?” Ilya said, letting the words come out light and teasing. He expected Shane to scoff and roll his eyes and make another joke about being his biggest fan, but instead,
“Yeah.” It came out shy. “I did, yeah.”
“Huh,” Ilya said, clinking the remaining ice cubes in the glass back and forth. They were mostly melted now, but it gave him something to do with his hands. “And what did you think about?”
“Oh,” Shane huffed a laugh. He looked down at the table. “Nothing in particular.”
“No?”
“No,” Shane shook his head, “except of course,” he said, looking at Ilya with an air of forced teasing, “that you never followed through on your promise.”
Ilya tilted his head as he felt the air leave his lungs. “What?”
“I’m just joking,” Shane rushed to say, sounding nervous, “obviously. About how you said you might get me a ticket for a game. Like, of course I knew you were joking then.”
Ilya expended an enormous effort into keeping his face calm, though his fingers were tapping against the table rapidly. “I was not joking,” he said slowly.
“Right – not necessarily joking, I mean, but you had loads going on, it’s fine to forget –”
“I did not forget,” Ilya said firmly.
“Right… what? So… I mean, it’s fine, like if you just didn’t want to –”
“Shane,” Ilya interrupted. “You did not call me back. I assumed you did not want to?”
Shane deflated into his seat, looking nonplussed. His mouth opened, then shut again. After a few seconds, he said, “What are you talking about?” It sounded almost angry.
“I called your work,” Ilya said, trying to modulate his voice. “I left you a message.”
And he had. On that day, not even 24-hours after the incident, just having hung up on Bood and in a moment of madness, Ilya had given in.
“Hello, Ottawa Paramedic Service.” The voice had clearly belonged to a young woman, who sounded very much like she wanted to be anywhere else.
“Yes, hi, I’m calling to… can I… could you help me?” Ilya had said, cringing. Ilya, who was hardly ever ruffled, could not believe how stupid he sounded.
“Um. I can try? What do you need?”
“I am looking for a paramedic,” Ilya had said. He had been glad it was just a phone call, because his cheeks were burning. “I met him yesterday. Shane Hollander.”
“Give me a moment, please,” there was a sound of clacking on a keyboard and the smack of chewing gum, “and what about him? Did you want to file a complaint?”
“No,” he had said hurriedly, “no, he was great. I wanted, ah, to thank him.”
“That’s very nice, sir,” the clacking got more aggressive, “I’m happy to leave a message for you –”
“I was hoping to get his phone number,” Ilya had said, trying in vain to sound casual, “so I could say it to him myself.”
The clacking stopped.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can give out personal information of the staff,” she said uncertainly, “don’t you think?”
Ilya was mystified as to why she was asking him. “Right, of course.”
“Right… so, a message, then?”
“Yes, okay,” Ilya had said. “I… ah, I guess that I called. And said thank you.”
“Wait,” she had gasped, finally coming to her full attention, “are you Ilya Rozanov?”
Ilya had considered lying, briefly, but knew there was little chance of getting away with it.
“Yes,” he had said shortly, hoping to dissuade her of any further questions. It did not work.
“Wow,” she had said. “I’m a big fan, I should be thanking you for bringing two cups to Ottawa –“
“Oh, well. Yes.”
“And some of the team was at the accident with you last night, huh? Jealous of them,” she had said obliviously. “But nice of you to think of them.”
“Ah, right,” Ilya had said, feeling cornered. He could hardly tell her he didn’t give two fucks about the rest of them (an uncharitable thought, yes, but he felt it was fair under the circumstances). “Yes, they were… they were all great. But please send the message to Shane.”
“Okay, and is there anything else you’re wanting to say?”
“No,” he had said without thinking. “Just to say thank you, that’s all.”
He left her with his phone number and hung up. Ilya had left his phone’s ringer on full volume for days afterwards. It grew extremely tiresome, having Toxic blare from his phone every time Svetlana, a teammate or the mobile pharmacist called. But still, every time it went off he would feel a rush of hope, snatching his phone up, only to be disappointed. By the time a week had gone by, Ilya had felt like a fool.
And now here was Shane, staring at him like he’d grown two heads.
“I never got a message,” Shane said vehemently. “Never.”
“I left it at your work,” Ilya said indignantly. “With… I don’t know her name. Young. Chewed gum. Uh… a girl?”
Shane groaned and hung his head. “Fuck me. Kristen.”
“Who is Kristin?”
“She was on reception for a few weeks. She was a temp. We could have put a duck on reception and it probably would have done a better job,” he looked at Ilya, “what happened, exactly?”
Ilya explained – leaving out some of the more pathetic details – and by the end, Shane was shaking his head so much he looked like a wet dog.
“If you were lucky, she might have passed the message off at random to someone who was working that night – whether they were at the scene would have been beyond her interests or abilities – but more likely it didn’t leave her damn computer. And,” he said, glaring at Ilya now, “it doesn’t sound like you made the message particularly important.”
“I left my phone number,” Ilya said indignantly, “why would I do that unless I wanted the person to call me back?”
“I doubt she even wrote it down. Why didn’t you call again?”
“Ah, you wanted me to make a show of myself?” Ilya asked sarcastically. “She recognized my voice, I was one phone call away from her selling a story about how Ilya Rozanov was stalking his paramedic. More updates at 11.”
“Well!”
“And you did not think to check?” Ilya asked, astonished at his lack of foresight, “with duck girl on reception, you did not think to ask?”
“I didn’t know,” Shane said defensively, “she only worked a few hours in a whole week, and honestly –” Shane clammed up.
“What?” Ilya asked, prodding at him, “what, Shane? You might as well tell me, at this point.”
“Well,” said Shane, exasperated, “I could hardly be surprised! You’re a professional hockey player, and I was – I am – nobody, basically. I just thought you’d teased me a bit because you were bored, and that was that.”
Ilya frowned, distracted. “I do not like this,” he said, waving in Shane’s direction, “this thing where you talk bad about yourself. Like – a drag, a nobody.”
Shane’s cheeks flushed a deep pink now. “But seriously, you’re an elite athlete –”
“Yes, and you are very beautiful man with a beautiful brain,” Ilya said impatiently. “We are both high achievers at this table. I wanted you to call.”
Shane slumped back in his seat. “Fuck.”
“Fuck,” Ilya agreed.
They both sat there in silence for a minute, glancing at their hands, which had somehow found themselves resting against each other again.
It was Shane that spoke first. “You called me beautiful.”
“I did.”
“…is that a joke?”
“No,” Ilya said carefully. “It is definitely not a joke.”
Shane’s tongue slipped out, unconsciously wetting his lips.
“So, you came out with your classmates?” Ilya asked suddenly.
“Yeah,” said Shane, his eyes wandering over to the dance floor, “some friends from school, they said if not tonight, then when? And I just knew if I didn’t go I would never hear the end of it.”
Ilya glanced around the club, wanting to see if anyone’s eyes were on them.
“And you?” Shane asked, “You came with your team?”
“Most of them,” Ilya said. He forced the next words out. “I do not think it would be the best idea for people to see me leave with… people talk,” he tried to explain, “they take pictures. It would be messy, right away. I don’t want that for you. Or,” he admitted, “for me, right now.”
“Hm,” Shane hummed, looking back around the club. “It would be hard to leave without anyone noticing,” his eyes slid back to Ilya, glinting and focused. “There is a bathroom in the back. With a lock.”
Ilya wouldn’t have been more shocked if Shane told him he had just spontaneously sprouted a tail.
“I’ll see you in a few minutes.” Then, Shane stood up, and strode purposefully towards the back where there was a bathroom marked ‘out of order’.
Ilya took several deep breaths, letting three slow, painful minutes pass. Then got up, and his feet carried him towards Shane.