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“Haven’t you ever wanted more time?” echoes around inside Shane’s head for much, much longer than he wants to admit.
It hurts when he thinks about it so he tries not to, but when he sees his teammates with their girlfriends and wives, when they discuss their plans to spend time together after games and on long weekends, when the cameras pan to the WAG box and the Jumbotrons flash photos of them and their players —
It frustrates Shane so much he could scream, cry, rage at the injustice of it all.
When he thinks about it, he and Ilya have been together, in some capacity, longer than any one of his teammates have been with any of their partners, but then the numbers crunch in his mind and it’s… not really true, is it? They’ve known each other for ten years, sure, and they’ve been intimate with each other for eight years, but in those eight years, they were lucky to see each other five or six times a season, and never for more than an evening.
Even now, when they’ve officially committed to each other, when they talk daily and video chat almost every evening, when they make the commute to see each other in person as often as they’re able to — it’s never more than once or twice every few months.
And the unfairness of it all, really, is what makes Shane’s blood boil, because he loves Ilya so much, he’s loved him for so long, but it’s not enough.
He thinks about the time he and Rose were together, how she went to exactly one of his games and the Jumbotron stayed fixed on her almost as much as it played the actual game. Rose Landry, in Shane’s jersey. Rose Landry, Shane’s WAG.
One month, they were together.
Versus eight years.
Shane isn’t even sure if he wants to see Ilya in the WAG booth. He doesn’t know if he wants Ilya papped in his jersey. He can’t decide if he’s angrier that he doesn’t know if he wants it, or if it’s because he knows they can’t have it. That they’ll never have it.
The math is there. Eight years together, on paper, but in one year they saw each other less than seven times. Seven days together, but never for longer than three hours before curfews and flights and fear got in their way.
At best, they spent a cumulative day with each other in the span of one year. A week’s worth of visits, even at the long end of three hours together, and it still amounted to less than a day’s worth of time with one another.
Time. It always comes back to time.
Soon, they’ll have more of it. They’ll have the summer. Ilya will move to Ottawa and they’ll have weekends. They’ll get All Stars and Playoffs, if they’re lucky.
One day, they’ll have the time to map each other out.
And the thing is: he wants to. He wants to know Ilya.
He knows Ilya physically — how to take him apart, how to break him down. He’s had time to learn exactly how he likes to come, and he knows exactly what to do to make it happen. He can picture the constellation of moles across Ilya’s skin so clearly, he thinks he could draw them from memory. He knows the exact shape and size of Ilya’s hands when they hold him upright, holding him tight, like he can singlehandedly keep Shane from falling apart at the seams.
He wants to know more.
How does Ilya act in the summer? When there’s no hockey to regiment his schedule, no mandatory training or meetings or interviews to steer him forward, what does he do? When he isn’t obligated to return to Russia and provide for the family that never appreciated him? When he basks in the freedom of nothing long enough that it loses its novelty, what does he do to then pass the time?
Does he get antsy?
Does he bask in the quiet, the stillness of it, while he has it?
How does Ilya: Boyfriend act, Shane wonders? Would he be overly affectionate, obnoxiously displaying his affection because, in this hypothetical world, he can? Ilya is a tactile lover, Shane knows firsthand. Would Ilya hold his hand at every opportunity? Would he lay his arm over Shane’s shoulders in casual conversation, just to stake his claim? Would he press his hand against Shane’s lower back, snake his arm around his waist, pull him close just because?
How does Ilya: Friend differ, then? He knows who Ilya is to his teammates. He sees the way Ilya smacks them on their helmets and chants good game, I love you to each one. He knows Ilya chirps everyone incessantly, but he’s seen Ilya’s direct messages. Asking how their partners and partners are doing, checking in on their kids, asking (begging) for pictures of their pets and responding with a barrage of emojis, half of which Shane didn’t even know existed.
And what about Ilya: Teammate? Ilya: Captain? Is he strict or lenient? Is he like Shane, who leads with numbers and graphs, who uses tapes to his advantage and lets statistics enforce their training? Does he lead Boston the same way he learned how to lead in Russia, with harsh corrections and an iron fist? Or is he the type to lead by example, correcting when he sees the opportunity but allowing his players to find their own way?
Time. It always comes back to time.
Time they don’t have.
But, maybe, one day. Hopefully. Eventually.