Chapter Text
September 1998 - Moscow
Click.
Click.
Click.
Spark!
Irina tucked the lighter in her night gown pocket, breathing in the smoke like it was the first drag of clean air she’d tasted all day. There was a joy to sitting alone, cold, yet warmed by a tiny flame.
The backdoor creaked open. Irina jolted and stubbed out the precious warmth, wafting away the smoke as though it would clear her guilt, preventing the inevitable lecture and shouting.
“Mama?”
Irina smiled and turned to her child, holding out her arms. Radomira snuggled up into her, tucking their head of thick curls beneath Irina’s neck.
“What’s wrong, my precious spark?”
“Can’t sleep. My head hurts. Can you sleep with me?”
Irina pressed soft kisses all over her child’s head, smiling into their squirming mass.
“Of course, Mirka.” Her child whined and leaned away from her, glaring like a particularly displeased cat. Irina sighed and stroked their soft cheek. “Of course, my Ilyusha.”
Radomira grinned a cheek splitting smile, brightening Irina’s weariness, and pulled her inside. They crept together to Radomira’s room. Grigori said both of his children were too young to be sleeping next to her, but Irina was their mother, and she could raise them as she pleased, when he wasn’t looking.
Radomira crawled into their green bed, making grabby hands for Irina. She laid her night gown over a chair and tucked Radomira’s comforter over them both.
“I want a story, mama.” Irina kissed their cheek and leaned away to find the light switch and a book. Radomira squealed, “No! Your story!”
Irina shushed them and smiled. “Okay, my little spark. Have I told you about the lady of-?”
Radomira pouted. “Always girls, mama! Story about a boy!”
Irina booped her child’s nose. “Ask nicely, my baby.”
“Pleaaassee,” Radomira groaned, very, very dramatically. Irina wondered where they’d learned such antics.
“That’s better. Let me begin with the Lord of the Hearth. There are many stories of him all over the world, so there is truth between them. This is mine.” Radomira’s kitten eyes gleamed up at her, alert and excited in the dark. “The Lord is as old as fire, when it burst from a spark between the first humans’ hands and caught alight, watching over us, keeping our flames bright and contained. He is welcomed with gifts, all kinds, but he loves dry leaves above all. You can hear him laughing with joy as the leaves crackle.”
“I should put leaves in the fireplace?”
“Not too many. You don’t want to make him sick.” Radomira nodded, their face serious and stern, ready for the task. Irina loved her child so terribly. “The Lord visits when you need fire. He provides that beautiful spark, warding the winds so fire never spreads too far. But he has a temper, Ilyusha, and he does not like to be disrespected. He must be cared for, so he will care for your fire.”
“Is he lonely?”
Oh Lord above, Irina’s child had such a heart of gold, worried about a spirit’s happiness and companionship. She tried to smile, to squeeze the sadness out of Radomira’s face, but she couldn’t, and she hated herself for it.
“Not quite. He is in love.”
Radomira’s eyes widened comically and they snuggled closer to Irina. She huffed a laugh and coughed to hide her amusement. Radomira hated to be laughed at and did not understand that sometimes a laugh broke out when a smile could not contain such joy. Romance was the one little girlishness that Radomira had not quashed, adoring love stories, but Irina worried about their keenness, about the way they stared at the space between Grigori and Irina.
“Does she love him back?”
Irina smiled. “Of course. The Lord of Frost plays with him, nipping at your nose, bringing the days of snow, the winds to grow and shrink Hearth’s fire.”
Radomira frowned. “The Lord of Frost is a girl?”
“Frost is whoever he wants to be. She is free.”
Radomira pressed a chubby finger into Irina’s cheek. “You smile like it's sad. They love each other. Why is it sad?”
Dear Lord, why was Irina’s child so sweet? So perceptive? She hoped to the Lord, her God, that Radomira’s softness and their eyes, so full of wonder, would never harden.
“They cannot touch. They have chased each other for so long, they play together, competing for gifts and our love, but it is their shared love they cherish above all. This love makes them desperate and cruel. Lord Frost seeps into your bones, Lord Hearth burns you with the sun, if you get too close to their love. They so desperately want each other that they can never look away. It is how disasters occur.”
Radomira yawned. “That is very sad, mama. They should touch.”
“They would turn to steam. Fire and ice do not mix well, Ilyusha.” Irina carded a hand through Radomira’s long curls.
“Then they can be steam together,” Radomira mumbled, their eyes finally drifting closed. “They love us so long. It’s only fair. I think. We will be okay.”
Irina’s eyes grew wet. She breathed shakily, wiping them with a too long nail. Grigori preferred them long.
“I hope so too.”
April 2010 - Moscow
Ilya swirled a particularly tough bit of meat around his mouth. Their chef’s solyanka was usually wonderful, so maybe he was ill. Milana was probably at home, so Ilya could be in and out of her house reliably, but he was also restless and itching for a night out, stuffing himself with whatever powders or pills were available, more hungry for the danger than the actual high.
Polina clicked her tongue. Ilya ignored her and continued playing with the meat, trying to ease it apart. Who the fuck cooked it? The rest of the stew tasted nice.
Grigori sighed. Ilya’s eyes snapped to his father at the head of the table, a seat removed from himself. Polina scoffed at his side. Ilya ignored her; he had no reason to respect her when she refused to get his name right.
“CSKA are offering the captaincy.”
Ilya held his tongue, gagging to roll his eyes and scoff. He couldn’t show his father a shred of disrespect. He swallowed it all and nodded. “I know, Papa. There are more opportunities in America.”
“They are soft and lazy and undisciplined. I don’t want you to become worse than you already are.”
Ilya tapped his foot against the chair leg, willing his hands to keep still, and at least those listened to him. “I will play like it is the KHL. No one will be better than me.”
Grigori put his cutlery down and faced Ilya directly, sending the hair on the back of his neck standing. “If you are not here, I cannot protect you. You are safe here.”
Ilya bit his tongue, inhaling strongly to push down every headline about the encroaching European faggots and the muslims and the transexuals trying to steal all the kids and turn them into degenerates, content being discussed in the fucking Duma, as though it wasn’t fear mongering. Headlines of which Grigori ate up and forced down Ilya’s throat. Ilya wasn’t stupid enough to think the danger did not exist, but Grigori could not ‘protect’ him forever. He had to know that.
“I will get the best contract. That’s 72 million rubles.”
Grigori picked his cutlery up and sighed, continued to talk and rant between his mouthfuls, about Ilya’s disloyalty, his laziness, his carelessness, and whatever else. Ilya tuned him out, nodding appropriately when necessary, ignoring Polina’s sharp eyes.
| Is he lonely? |
The lights flicked on as Ilya opened the back door to leave. He rested his head on the door. Fuck Polina with an unvarnished stick.
“Where are you going? It’s past midnight.”
Ilya ignored his father’s wife and went out. He’d barely gotten three steps outside when she grabbed his wrist and tried to pull him back inside. He twisted out of her grasp and stared down at her, bored.
“You have a curfew!"
“No, you said I did, and no one listens to you.”
“Radomírka-” Ilya turned and shouldered off. Polina grabbed his shoulder and tried to pull him back to face her. He shook her off. “Ilyukha.”
He sighed and turned back to face her. She was shivering, in a flimsy nightgown. Why hadn’t she grabbed a cardigan? “What?”
“I worry about you. Lyosha gets himself in such trouble. You are the good girl-” Ilya turned back around, “the good boy.” Ilya didn’t move, but he didn’t face her, wanting to slap her, wanting to bolt and never look back. “Don’t mess this up.”
“You are not my mother, Polina. Stop pretending. No one likes it.”
She didn’t stop him. He distinctly heard the click of a lock as he pulled himself over the garden wall and smirked to himself. He had a key copied off Alexei’s when he was 11. Ilya refused to spend any more time on his father’s God awful wife, letting Milana and Alva and maybe a new girl dance through his mind with all the possibilities of the pleasure he could wring from them.
| They cannot touch.
They so desperately want each other that they can never look away.
They should touch.
They would turn to steam. |
Ilya could barely make out his mother’s face anymore. He saw his own face, younger, softer, feminine, with the big long curls he felt like a phantom limb resting on his shoulders and gliding down his back.
Irina did not have a Lord Frost, because she was definitely Lord Hearth, playful and warm and so sacrificing. Perhaps that was why she left, to find her Frost, because Ilya was not enough. He did not begrudge her, he never did. He missed her.
May 2010 - Moscow
Morozov lifted the Gagarin above his head. Ilya’s team cheered wildly, screaming and clutching at each other, pointing at it like it wasn’t completely obvious they’d win. He was their star and led in points across the whole KHL, more or less. He cheered and screamed and appropriately kissed the Gagarin when it was handed to him, shouting incoherently, feeling only tangentially related to his body.
He had no idea whether they pulled him into the scrum, but they probably did. Ilya’s night from the buzzer onwards was a blur of cameras, champagne, cars, bright streets, and clubs. So many women wanted to steal him away. He let them. He just wanted to disappear.
| Is he lonely? |
Ilya probably saw his father at one point, but he was more concerned with the endless party and keeping up a good face, pretending he was so sad to leave and fuck North America even though it paid better. Not even the girls made it easier, all their softness and warmth and tears, the beauty they exuded when he made them lose their minds. Not enough. Never enough. He’d won the fucking Gagarin cup in his rookie year, half of the KHL was bidding for his contract, and he wanted more. He deserved more.
He wanted to leave. He wanted to be nowhere. He wanted to go to the stars where his mother was waiting and hold her and become steam with her.
June 2010 - Los Angeles
The Combine was exhilarating, being among so many fellow younger players, some from his last Prospect cup, all hungry and vying for the top spot, though none as good as Ilya. He was a good sport with his team, so friendly and ribbing, and scathing against their opponents, delighting in their red faced anger and spluttering because no one practised wit like Ilya did.
It was over too soon. Ilya wasn’t done with the thrill, and he didn’t want another reason for his father to be angry with him for choosing North America over Russia, so he didn’t sneak out at night, at least to party. There would be enough time for that later, probably.
Ilya wasn’t entirely sure he’d be the first Draft pick. Boston, Vancouver and Toronto hadn’t had good seasons in years if not decades, but they would have to reckon with his medical papers. Ilya thought if they were sensible, Boston would take him in a heartbeat, but powerful men were not known to be sensible. He liked the sound of Boston, blunt and cold and old without centuries of blood and gold beneath it.
Above all, he needed the best for Grigori, to prove it was the right decision, that Ilya would be so much more successful, definitely coming home every year like a dutiful son. He was dying to be away, to see through the bars of his cage instead of the walls of his safe.
The audience quieted for the picks to be announced. Ilya watched his father straighten. He prayed to his mother’s God, recited the correct lines, and begged, please, let him be enough.
“Ilya Rozanov!”
Ilya grinned so widely he could’ve torn his cheeks, breathing shakily, he went up to receive his jersey, all black and gold and beautiful. He smiled and winked for the camera, preening under all the attention, silently praying to his mother, giving her his thanks, dedicating his success to her.
Grigori caught Boston’s GM as soon as everyone began stretching their legs and networking. Bare minutes into the conversation, the bald man asked, “So there are scars, aren’t there? How are those explained?”
Ilya steeled himself for his father’s answer. “Cancer.”
Morris’s eyes widened a fraction, and he laughed gently. “That is quite a serious lie, Mr Rozanov.”
“Is how we discuss it. Close to truth. No one knows. Ilya tries being perfect, but still, he can be, how you say, lazy.”
“Well I’ll take your word for it. From what I’ve seen, he’s anything but. We fought hard for you to be here, kid.” He clapped Ilya on the shoulder. “Looking forward to August. We’ll be putting you straight on the team. We’re not looking to demote a KHL cup winner.”
Ilya nodded, keeping his expression stoic, like he wasn’t dying to scream and thank the man for acknowledging a universal truth. Ilya was phenomenal.
Ilya’s agents, Mr Ivanov, a trusted friend of Grigori, and Ms Hussain, an American, old and certified with the NHLPA, negotiated his contract with ease, Ms Hussain being incredibly thorough with his morality clauses, which seemed to suck all of the air out of the room. He liked her, she was firm and spoke to him like she cared to hear what he had to say. It was quite novel.
Reilly and Morris held him back after his lawyers made their exit and Grigori hung by the door, waiting for Ilya.
“We just wanted to make sure, Ilya,” Reilly began, and Ilya knew exactly where he was going, “that you’re not, y'know, going to talk about your sex change.”
“No, no reason to. Does not exist. Just- medical thing, cancer if- ah, asking many questions.”
Reilly nodded. “You don’t care about those liberals with their rainbow flags?”
Ilya had somewhat expected that. “No. I am here to play hockey.”
Reilly grinned and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
Ilya nodded because he was supposed to, and Reilly was right on some level. Ilya understood him perfectly; he was just another jailer in a different uniform.
Morris sighed, curling his lip. “This is still pretty serious stuff. You keeping it under wraps is one thing, your home country is another.”
Ilya blinked. What the fuck? Sure, Russia was getting a reputation for receding into authoritarianism, which real pundits heralded as necessary, which Ilya was still confused about, but when did non-Russians care? Ilya was very good at pretending he didn’t care, but Grigori was not and he had many, many loud opinions on the economic troubles of the 90s and trading their young democracy for stability, nostalgic for the stolen might of the USSR.
“We believe in you, kid. We don’t want anything to get your visa in trouble, however things shake out, so we asked Adeela to find you a good immigration lawyer. It’ll be a couple years, and it’s just a precaution, but I’m sure you know what Russia’s like.”
Ilya was very, very glad his father hadn’t decided to overhear, as that would give him absolutely no peace on their way back to the hotel. He nodded, swiping at non-existent dirt on his nose, and thanked them for their kindness, like he wasn’t boiling from the inside out, not even sure why he was.
| Is he lonely? |
July 2010 - Boston
Ilya agreed to billet on his coach’s and Ms Hussain’s recommendations, as he’d never lived away from home, let alone across the Atlantic, in a city that looked much younger than he thought it would. Then again, it only had two or so centuries, Moscow had over a millennium, and it never let you forget that.
Cliff Marleau had a decently large apartment in walking distance from the TD Garden, as well as another location somewhere or other, with enough space for Ilya and then some. He was a solid winger, one of the better players, boisterous and amiable, and Ilya should like him, as Ms Hussain told him. Ilya decided he would not. There were so very few things in his life that he could be difficult about. There was little he enjoyed more than being difficult.
Ilya arrived the day after the movers packed all his things into the apartment. He expected to have to figure out calling himself a car, but upon exiting arrivals, weaving through businessmen and reuniting families, he saw a very familiar looking man, in black from head to toe with a grin outshining the oppressive colour. Ilya had no idea how to react to that.
“Good to meet you, man!” Marleau clasped Ilya’s hand and pulled their shoulders together hard, clapping him on the back. Man, Ilya noted, not kid. That was interesting. “You can call me Marley, everyone does.”
Ilya nodded, pulling his big suitcase away from Marleau’s outstretched hand. “Okay. Thank you for- getting me. Is- ah, early, yes? For Raiders?”
Marleau shrugged and managed to snatch Ilya’s backpack. The bastard. Ilya pouted as he followed him out. He was more than capable of carrying everything.
“I mean yeah, but I live here. Logan’s not far from my place. And hey, I figure getting to know my rookie a little’s a good idea, better than bitching and moaning about having some kid around.”
Ilya shrugged. He doubted he could ever care that much about anyone, especially a teammate. “That is normal- ah- thinking? About rookies”
“Mostly. More for you, Roz, since Coach hasn’t shut up about you. No one likes a prima donna, even if they’re happy for some raw talent.”
“Prima donna,” Ilya rolled the words around his mouth, vaguely aware of the meaning, but unsure if he was right contextually.
“Like- dramatic, expecting everyone to kiss the ground you walk on. Annoying about it.”
Ilya decided he liked that word. It sounded fun. “Prima like first. I am the best, so maybe yes is me.”
Marleau let out a hearty laugh and clapped Ilya around the shoulders. “You’re a funny guy, Roz.”
“Mmh, yes, so very. Everyone tell me this.” The only person who ever called Ilya funny was dead. She was the funniest person he knew.
| Is he lonely? |
Ilya decided Boston was too contradictory as he watched it through Marleau’s car window. The buildings had no cohesion, some brick and then fake brick and then slabs of concrete and then tall glass towers. Not to mention all the rivers. Moscow’s rivers were thinner, its buildings did not contrast in architectural style block to block; it was clear when they were built. Boston was not an old city and Ilya thought it should stop pretending to be so.
Marleau was badly singing along to songs on the radio. The tones were off and the overlay between him and the Radio meant Ilya had no idea what the song was about. He vaguely heard the word ‘dinamit’ a few times, whatever that was.
“On your right, kid,” Marleau broke Ilya from his reverie. He frowned out of the window, then a sort of laugh escaped him. The TD Garden. “You excited, man?”
“You have no ideas.”
Marleau let out another hearty laugh and squeezed Ilya’s shoulder.
He stopped judging the buildings and tried to parse out the lyrics Marleau kept putting a horrible rendition over. He picked out ‘rock’, ‘gotta’, ‘baby’, and ‘club’. So a song about dancing? Probably. What the hell was dinamit?
Three more songs played before Marleau pulled into an ugly parking structure, all blank concrete without any style. At least brutalism was identifiable despite its oppressiveness. He beat Ilya to his rolly suitcase, the bastard. Ilya resolved to get his hands on it as soon as they were inside.
Marleau showed him to his room, almost as large as his one back home. It looked like a hotel room, but less, shiny? It held more liminality between a display and a short stay.
“I don’t have a lot of rules. Just clean up after yourself. My cleaner comes on Tuesdays and Saturdays, mostly when I’m not here, so try not to get in her way. And for the future, since you’re just getting settled and shit, I don’t care if you wanna bring girls over, just text me first. I’ll do the same.”
Ilya was immensely grateful for how slowly Marleau spoke. He had a decent understanding of English, much better than he spoke it, but he’d recently spent a lot of time with lawyers and was beginning to think they spoke a language that transcended common speech.
“What is cleaner’s name?”
Marleau snickered. Did he assume Ilya only told jokes? Ilya rolled his eyes and dragged his rolly onto his bed to start unpacking. “Oh- you actually want to know?”
“Is manners knowing house staff.” Marleau seemed to have nothing to say in response to that. Ilya cocked an eyebrow at him. “What? You looking at me like I am alien.”
Marleau chuckled. “Nothing, kid. Just didn’t expect that. Martina.”
“Martina,” Ilya repeated to himself. He pointed to the second door in his room. “Is that bathroom?”
“Yeah. Cool. I’ll leave you be. Holler if you need anything.”
He gave Ilya a two finger salute and ducked out of the door. Okay, so, Marleau was a pretty nice guy, just like Ms Hussain said. Ilya thought he probably ought to have more house rules for a man he’d only just met and was now sharing a house with, but that was on him.
He’d just finished stuffing his clothes into the closet when Marleau barged back in. Ilya snapped his suitcase shut, keeping his hands on top of it.
“Uh- you good, kid?”
A half crazed laugh escaped him. He really was being insane. But he couldn’t let Marleau see inside. He’d taken this one especially, with a code lock, his own personal safe. “Fine. Is private.”
Marleau’s eyes lit up and he tucked his phone back in his pocket. “Private? What? You got like porn mags and shit?”
“No- hey! Fuck off!” Marleau sprinted over and shoved Ilya away to get inside his case. Ilya threw his weight on it, but he was no match for the bigger man. Marleau frowned as he took in the contents. “I said is private! You do not listen!”
Marleau raised an eyebrow at him. “Files and- a first aid kit?” he asked, picking up Ilya’s hormone kit, expertly disguised as a first aid kit. He paled, seeing it in Marleau’s hands. All he had to do was look inside and- Ilya snatched it back, feeling- just- that Marleau was too close and looking at everything- and-
“Documents. Is important keep in hand. Kit is important. From my mother.”
Marleau stepped back, scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry, man. Didn’t realise. You want me to like, knock? Next time?”
Ilya was being pitied. He fucking hated pity. He was not weak. He was so, so unbelievably strong. He was here, in Boston, a first draft pick pushed straight to the major league. Still, a knock would be nice. He couldn’t remember the last time his door had been knocked on, an alert and a question, putting the decision of entry in Ilya’s hands.
“If you are not caveman, yes. I- ignore stupid people with no manners.”
Marleau laughed heartily again and squeezed both of Ilya’s shoulders, shaking him. “I’ll make good on that kid. Was just gonna ask what you want for dinner?”
Ilya grinned. “You cook?”
“Hah!” Marleau crowed, walking back to the door. “Nah, not my thing. Pizza good? There’s a Sal’s nearby so delivery’s quick. Not now, obviously, but like, say 8ish?”
Ilya shrugged and nodded, “I am easy.”
“Good quality.”
“Quality,” Ilya repeated, as the door closed. He’d heard that one before but forgot what it meant.
Ilya placed the medical box back in his suitcase next to the doc box, containing his medical and legal documents, as well as every picture he could find of his younger self and Irina, a treasure trove of memories and pain he’d begun filling after he called an ambulance. Some part of him knew all records of his mother would disappear, and he couldn’t let it happen.
He didn’t expect the same to happen to Radomira, but Grigori treated the affair like he’d rescued Ilya out of Radomira’s cold corpse, cremating the body and tipping the ashes into the wind. Those pictures were harder to find, squirrelled out of Grigori’s study when he was away, always kept on Ilya’s person in case someone searched his room. He kept copies of all the records of his transition, not trusting his father to not destroy them, as they were necessary for his medical care, as much as he hated the notion. The more people who knew about him, the more likely he could be found out.
Ilya grabbed the plastic bag of dry leaves he kept for special occasions, and sealed the case, messing with the code, and shoved it under his bed.
“You have outside space?” Ilya asked, wandering into the main room where Marleau had spread himself across the rather large couch, his eyes on an action movie.
“What? Like a balcony? Or the street?”
“Part of apartment.”
Marleau nodded and gestured to the sliding doors with billowing curtains by the edge of the couch. Ilya closed the door behind him and dragged the flimsy metal and glass wrought table behind the curtains, dropping into a comfortable fabric covered chair, which did not match the ugly table.
He lit a cigarette first, taking shallow breaths to calm the slight jitters wracking him since Marleau shoved open his case, seeing everything and absolutely nothing. He was a blessedly stupid man, or perhaps just a man, as there were only files and a box, hiding evidence that could easily destroy Ilya’s life.
On the third exhale, he kept the cigarette in his mouth, and took out a leaf, bringing it to his lighter, and smiled as he watched it burn to dust and crackle, letting the Lord of Fire watch over him. It was silly, and probably stupid, but it made him feel safe, catching a spirit’s attention, honouring his mother’s beautiful stories.
| Is he lonely? |
August 2010 - Boston
Rookie camp was fine, nothing to write home about, other than Ilya absolutely trouncing everyone present, drinking in their envy like it sustained him. It was glorious, but a high that only lasted while he was around them. He probably could’ve been less of a prick, considering that many of them would be Raiders in a few years. The one who was expecting to become a Raider that year, Carmichael, was a pretty decent wing, but nowhere near Ilya’s skill. It was whatever, he could be their brother later.
They tried to put him through the wringer, but the coaches were not happy about damaged goods and kept telling the boys off. It was very funny.
And now he was outside of the Garden, the rush of his greatness wearing off. What to fucking do? He hadn’t met the rest of the team yet, so he didn’t have anyone to hang out with, other than Marleau, who was probably with said team, if any of them were in town.
A sharp whistle caught his attention as he was about to cross the street. His blood iced over. No fucking way. He was hallucinating, he’d developed schizophrenia, he-
“I’m not waiting all day.”
Ilya slowly turned around, begging his mother’s God to not let him be crazy, and there she was.
Svetlana in the flesh, leaning against a far wall. She was taller, her beautiful curls all reddish and coiled in a halo around her head, not a hair out of place. That thin perfunctory smile she always wore around others widened and dimpled. She was even more beautiful, and there, and-
Ilya dropped his bag and ran over to her, clasping her tightly in his arms, spinning her around, letting her go only when she rapped him back. She stumbled slightly as she regained her footing, still grinning and laughing with him, steadying a hand on his shoulder.
“How- how are you here, Svetka? I…” he hugged her again, tucking his face into her neck, breathing through her curls. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“Please, no is not final when it comes to me, it is time, and that time is up.”
Ilya laughed, his heart full and hurting with the overflow of love. He’d missed her so, so much. He pulled back, delighting in the fact that he was still taller than her, quite so.
“How did you find me?”
She shrugged and linked arms with him, walking him over to his discarded bag. “It was simple, really. You’re the top draft pick, so obviously they’d put you in the rookie camps to see if you should make the cut for the Raiders.” Ilya grinned, his official joining of the major team hadn’t been announced yet. “What? Why do you look stupid.”
“Oh, nothing. You’re walking with an official Boston Raider.”
She tipped her head to the side, a perfect eyebrow arched searchingly. He kept smiling, once again proud of how fucking good he was. She grinned back at him, knocking their shoulders together. “Well then! Look at you! Mr Raider! I should go back in time and tell myself it was worth it.”
She extricated herself to wave to an approaching taxi cab. Ilya’s softness ebbed. Four years. He’d missed her for so long. He had no idea what it had been like for her. He had a good excuse for his father, she did not.
“How have you been?” Svetlana turned back to him, looking at him like he’d grown a second head. “It’s been years.”
She rolled her eyes and opened the cab door for him, rattling off a hotel address in English.
“I don’t know where to start, Ilyusha. I’m guessing you’d rather talk alone? So I go first?” Ilya nodded, thankful that she was still as insightful as always. “Honestly, really fucking shit. If my father is in a mood, I am a disappointment or hell spawn or a good for nothing dyke. It starts a lot of arguments with Valentina. She was on his side at first, agreeing that we should never see each other again, but she came around quickly with the divorce. I learned my stubbornness from him.
“Ola never had an opinion since I’m not her child. Zorka came around first, Lukasha still hasn’t, like our father. Anyway, it’s not a problem anymore. I planned around it. I knew you’d come to America, you’re better than the KHL deserves, you always have been, and things have been getting bad for us. You always pretended you’re not, but you are very sensible, Ilyusha.
“So I got into NYU. I always loved New York. The Atlantic hasn’t been doing well for years, so I knew they were wracking up draft points. Really, you couldn’t have been picked by a better team.”
Always such a planner. His heart broke for her. Her family life had always been a negotiation, similarly to his, but along more tenuous lines than respect and deference, with nationality and culture and family wrought and shattered across the seas, made more turbulent because their friendship had led to their beds.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. We have each other again. That was always going to happen.” Svetlana squeezed his hand, and he felt that everything was a little more right in the world.
| Is he lonely? |
For the first time in four years, Ilya was not. His fire was stoked and blazing, comforted by his ever cold best friend, blessed by the touch of Lord Frost, not so cold that they turned to steam.