lesslofty



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    Walking back to the restaurant in a daze he had sobbed at random, at the sheer look of Moscow in the night, thinking, this is literally it. I’ll never come back. And maybe he would, but so far down the line that all would be totally unrecognizable. The orange light, the blue light against the snow. His nose running. Cars buried in snow, cars buried in snow.

    Moscow, Shane's cottage, Boston, New York.

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    30 Aug 2026

  2. Public Bookmark 42

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    When the door opened, for a second, Svetlana thought she'd made a mistake. Women's voices buzzed around Irina's figure in the doorway, chatting away. The feeling of betrayal was unexpected and unavoidable. And then Irina said "Sorry, hang on," and fumbled for a remote inside a pocket of her robe. The voices, which she realized were familiarly staticky, lowered.

    "Ilyusha is at his game," Irina said after a minute, when it become clear Svetlana was not going to be the first to speak. "But I can tell him you came by."

    "Um, no," Svetlana said. She was waiting for embarrassment to hit her, but it wasn't. She just felt eager. "I wanted to talk to you."

    On the outskirts in Russia, Svetlana tries to make new friends.

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    16 Aug 2026

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    Michael Zhang makes his palms itchy, the back of his neck clammy and cold. The world’s going to be hard on you, he thinks, and watches the kid watch the floor, his mouth flooding with the bitter metallic taste of blood before he realizes he’s bitten down. Learn to take a hit already. He feels a kind of repulsion that he doesn’t want to be feeling, a part of him that instinctually wants to flinch away, like you would from something old, or sick.

    This is what it's like, seeing your reflection.

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    16 Aug 2026

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    Steganography: the practice of concealing secret information in the everyday. Saying one thing and meaning another.

    On the ice, it's feinting, deking. Ilya’s good at that.

    Off the ice, he's even better.

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    16 Aug 2026

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    His stomach takes a sharp, screeching left. His heart stalls and then shifts into gear, zero to 180, every tired tract of him seizing and squealing to go, run, leave.

    “Hey, I found him,” Tony says, finishing a conversation Ilya wasn’t in, easy like all conversations without Ilya are. Easy like the world isn’t ending. Like Ilya isn’t standing there, wishing every time he tried to self-destruct or kill himself had worked.

    Greasy black hair. Sallow freckled skin. A turned head and horror-widened eyes taking in the big bad monster who finally arrived onscreen.

    “Shane, Ilya; Ilya, Shane,” Tony says, totally oblivious. “You both like hockey, right? So that’s something in common. I’ve got to take lunch, but I’ll check in on you both before my shift is over.”

    Nobody knows if Ilya Rozanov tried to kill himself before the draft. Nobody sane goes first overall. And nobody knows if Shane Hollander is going to survive another mediocre season with the Boston Raiders.

    Isn’t it funny how a single nick in the ice can change the entire game?

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    01 Aug 2026