Chapter Text
Ilya
The call arrived the very same night he was back from Canada. The cottage and what happened there, Shane's warmth and his gentle and awkward confession still locked in his heart.
He felt like he only fell asleep a few moments before his phone woke him up demanding his attention, even if the pale light from outside the window told Ilya he had least had a couple of hours to close his eyes before life, and whatever mess it would throw at him, woke him up.
His voice was heavy with exhaustion when he answered. "Привет?" (Hello?) Ilya only realized he spoke Russian when his only answer was a confused silence from the other side.
"Hello?" He tried again, his accent still strong, like Ilya didn't spend years in North America.
"Mr. Rozanov?" A voice Ilya only rarely heard asked, tentative. Why would the owner of the Boston Riders call him in the middle of the night?
"Yes?"
It sounded more like a question than an answer, but Ilya decided the day was already weird enough he could still blame his thoughts on the fact that he was abruptly woken up when, technically, still on a break, by one of the richest men in Boston. What was his excuse, he wondered.
"Sorry to call you this early." The man said. Not an apology per se, but the closest thing Ilya knew he would get. "But there is something of the utmost importance we should talk about before tomorrow's practice."
Ilya was taken aback by those words. He felt his mind ready to spiral down into panic. What could have happened? Ilya knew he was a free agent by next season. He and Shane talked about that. Could this be something related to his contract? Was management going to fire him?
"Would you be so kind as to join me for breakfast in a couple of hours?"
Ilya nodded, then he remembered the man couldn't possibly see him. What was he supposed to say, no? Of course he agreed to have breakfast with the man who technically owned him.
He didn't get any more sleep after the call ended, but used the time to check the address Mr. Winthrope sent him and wasn't even surprised when he realized it was The Country Club in Brookline. Ilya never played golf, he found it boring, but after all every sport was boring compared to hockey. Apparently very wealthy people all shared the same cliché love of boring sports.
Don't get him wrong, Ilya loved boring, but his favorite kind of boring was a Canadian golden boy who owned his heart for years now, and he too played hockey.
After his mind shifted from thinking about boring sports with small balls and random holes, to thinking about Shane, Ilya knew he needed a shower that would be too lonely and too cold. Fuck, he thought. He already missed Shane more than he missed hockey.
Grabbing his phone again, Ilya opened the private messages to Jane and began to type.
«You are a witch. You cast a spell on me and now all I can think about is you.»
It wasn't long before Shane answered. The dots appeared. Ilya waited. The dots disappeared and Ilya felt disappointment rising in his chest. Was this too much, he wondered. What was he supposed to tell Shane now that they weren't hooking up anymore, now that they confessed their love?
Ilya never had a boyfriend before, he never could. It was always too dangerous to get attached, to get close to someone. Russia would never forgive him if rumors about his sexuality ever came out, and his family would have taken advantage of any woman unlucky enough to gain his affection.
The closest thing to a relationship he ever had was what he shared with Svetlana, but she was so much more than a lover and at the same time, she was never the one his heart beat for.
She was his platonic soulmate. Ilya had learned the word while he was trying to make sense of English and almost gave up because the concept sounded so confusing, yet it made a scary amount of sense when he thought about it related to Sveta.
The dots appeared again and this time Ilya held his breath.
«You stole my heart, I had to make sure you would only think about me.»
Bold. Since when was Shane so bold? What should have been just a silly message suddenly sounded like so much more than that. It sounded like Shane was showing him vulnerability for the first time, showing himself without the masks society forced him to wear.
It felt like his boyfriend was offering him a glimpse of who he really was, and at the same time begging Ilya not to reject him, not to force him again into the box society and hockey created for him.
«I always think about you. Freckles as beautiful as yours are hard to find. They distract me. »
New dots.
This time Shane's answer doesn't hesitate.
«Why are you awake already?»
«Got call from owner. He wants to have breakfast and talk.»
Ilya waited for the dots to appear, knowing how the news would cause Shane's mind to spin. Only to be startled by the chirping of the phone that broke the quiet of his bedroom.
"Hell-"
"What do you mean the owner wants to talk to you? What happened?"
Shane sounded frantic already. "Is everything okay? Do you think…?"
"Shane. Shane, love, slow down."
Thankfully Shane would always react to Ilya's voice and the calm command in it.
"Sorry. Sorry, it's just…"
"Surprising? I think so too. I have a feeling whatever it is, is going to be big."
"Big like… you not being able to leave?"
Shane's voice sounded small. Too small. This was the man who could command a whole rink by his mere presence. One of the best hockey players in their generation and in the history of hockey, and now, he sounded like a scared child who had dared to hope he could ask for something for himself, only to have the universe deny him.
"I - I don't know. I think, it shouldn't be an issue. It's too early in the year to talk contracts already."
The season wasn't even on yet, however Ilya knew the request had roots in something big, something that he couldn't figure out yet.
It was unsettling. All his life Ilya had been forced to be always alert, always in control, even when choices and decisions had been made by others. It was the only way he knew to survive in a country that would hate him just for the crime of being himself and now, a man who owned his contract and by extension his life and the visa that kept him protected enough in US, wanted to meet him and he had no clue why.
"You — are you safe?" Shane's new question, whispered into the phone, hit Ilya like a slap.
He cares, his treacherous mind offered. He cares enough to be scared, worried for you. The last time someone had cared for him, it was his mom, and it was so long ago that Ilya didn't know what to do with the concept that Shane cared too.
"I am as fine as I will ever be with Russian passport, mое сердце. (My heart)" Ilya admitted.
He was safe, with the C of the riders on his chest and his Visa secure on his passport, he was safe for now. Sure, Ilya knew how easily that could change, but for now he had no reason to think about the worse.
"What?"
"What?"
"What was that?" Shane clarified when Ilya's confusion seeped into the repeated question.
Fuck, he thought. Was it too soon? They confessed their love to each other at the cottage, but now they were back to the reality that wanted them bitter rivals on the ice, so Ilya didn't know what the etiquette was now that things changed so much between them.
Then he decided he didn't really care. They had been so brave already, why stop now?
"Мое сердце." He said again. "It means my heart."
After a moment of silence Shane's voice sounded again in the silence of Ilya's room, stronger this time.
"I like it. I really like it."
Shane couldn't see the smile that lit up Ilya's whole face, but Ilya knew Shane could feel the same joy he felt in his answer. "Я тебя люблю. (I love you)"
When Shane tried to copy the sound so dear to their heart the result was less than stellar, but Ilya knew Shane would learn Russian in no time, like he already said one night, under a cold tunnel in Russia, when he realized he didn't have anything else in the world but the man he fell in love with.
"Please, be safe, and call me… after I mean."
"You will be the first person I will call, мой любимый (My beloved)." Who else would he call? He highly doubted that Svetlana, still in Moscow, would be interested in knowing why her best friend was going to have breakfast with his owner in - Ilya looked at his clock and cursed. Fuck. He was going to be late if he didn't move.
After a too quick goodbye to Shane and a new promise to call him as soon as he knew what was going on, no matter the time and what Shane could be doing, Ilya jumped in the shower and allowed the cold water to wake him up and at the same time to silence the doubts in his mind.
There was no reason to torment himself with what and if, Ilya tried to reason with his mind. Soon enough he would know what the hell was going on and would deal with the consequences, like he always did.
Ilya didn't survive as long as he did in a land that would prefer to see him dead than loyal to himself and his true self, or in a league that loved to hate him, by showing his belly and accepting things for what they were. No, he was used to fighting, and if worst came to worst, he would do it all over again.
///
Ilya chose one of his slicker cars. Black, powerful and with a rumble that spoke of love for speed and elegance. If the Germans knew how to do something, it was how to make cars, and the Porsche was the prime example of that statement.
He arrived perfectly on time after the car devoured the miles between his apartment and the club in no time, thanks to the non-existent traffic so early in a day that was still vacation time for many.
When he came out of the car the valet, a young boy too awake for the time of the day, and too well kept together to really need such a job, was already there to retrieve his keys.
The way his eyes bulged out of his head when he realized who Ilya was, was hilarious and made Ilya think that perhaps the day wasn't going to majorly suck like he feared.
Well, apparently he spoke - or better thought - too soon, because the day would soon morph into a clusterfuck that not even Ilya and his Russian pessimism had seen coming.
Maxwell Winthrope looked exactly like someone who came from old money should.
Well kept, his hair freshly done, no shadow under his chin, glowing skin typical of those who have money to spend on skincare and time to dedicate to it.
He was in his early fifties, Ilya guessed, with a toned body under a simple t-shirt that probably cost more than a paycheck of the people working around in perfect silence, serving the few people already seated for breakfast, and linen trousers he knew Shane would love.
When Ilya was escorted - yes, someone took the time to literally walk him to the table Maxwell didn’t waste time with small talk.
"Please, take a seat, Ilya, and thank you again for joining me."
Ilya nodded, still unsure of why he was even there. While he didn't like pleasantries, too used to them because of how his father had drilled in his skull that he always needed to shut the fuck up when people in power talked, this didn't look like one of those situation he was glad he left behind in Russia.
However, Maxwell looked nervous under the well schooled facade of someone used to owning the room and people's attention at once, and that made Ilya nervous too.
Maxwell ordered an English breakfast for himself and waited for Ilya to order his food.
Ilya's order was a bit more complicated. "Four eggs. Two whole, two whites. Scrambled with coconut oil. One bagel with avocado and tomatoes. One bowl of no fat Greek yogurt with berries and a banana on the side."
He didn't always follow the rules the nutritionists Maxwell paid, but the season was about to begin and after his injury he wanted to give his body a fair chance to recover.
He also wanted the damn cup this year if it was the last year he played for the team that gave him his freedom.
"I never realized how much you guys eat." Maxwell said to break the silence. "I mean, I know hockey is a demanding sport…" If he waited for an answer Ilya wasn't going to offer one.
All he could think about were statistics, and Shane's voice in the back of his mind offering him numbers and daily calories intakes he wasn't going to share until he understood what game Maxwell was playing at, and how safe it was for him to take part in whatever charade this was.
"I sometimes cut myself some slack in summer, but what you guys do everyday is mindblowing." Maxwell offered again.
"We play very demanding sport and we earn a lot of money for that. I don't think it's very impressive."
"And yet, you are one of the best."
"I am the best. Hollander is close second. Everyone else is," Ilya took a moment to think about words. "Everyone else is miles away. That's why they need food, to keep up with us."
The laugh came unexpected, real and thundering in the pristine silence of the dining room. The few people scattered around the other tables looked at them, alarmed. Some even scraped their silver forks on the china, making the noises even worse.
The waiter, who was coming right at that moment with their steaming plates, faltered and almost tripped on thin air.
"Here it is, the infamous Rozanov's chirping." Maxwell looked delighted he finally saw it in person. "I know why so many hate you Ilya, and why I am glad you are in my team."
Ilya felt the ice cold sensation of not knowing what to say when the realization hit him that this was probably not the right moment to bring up the fact that hopefully, in one year, he wouldn't be in Boston anymore.
When the food was in front of them and the commotion died down, Maxwell became serious all over again, it was like watching a switch to be turned off, and suddenly the man in front of Ilya wasn't the jovial owner who invited him for breakfast but the businessman who literally paid his paycheck.
"So, now that we know who the two best players are, according to you and the world, where would you put Scott Hunter in your list?"
That was a question Ilya hadn’t seen coming. Not many knew that he always respected Scott Hunter as a player. He was levelheaded, a strategist second only to Hollander, with a view of the rink and player positions that many envied, both rookies and veterans.
However, now he respected the man even more. Not just as a player, but as someone brave enough to come out openly. Ilya had learned how to read people all his life. He knew Hunter didn't plan to come out as he did. He figured out that his boyfriend had no idea what Scott wanted to do.
God, the poor boy was so shocked Ilya was almost sure he resigned himself to be a dirty little secret, or lose Hunter for good.
Scott acted upon fear of losing someone he loved. Ilya read it in Scott's eyes. The man was it for Scott Hunter, and even if he didn't know the story behind it, he knew they were both hurting, God only knew for how long.
Now Scott Hunter was the man of the moment. An icon for the queer community. A pain in the ass for Crowell and his croons. Someone to hate for the homophobic players who couldn't accept a fag had beat their asses for years.
Ilya had wanted to approach him in Vegas. It was thanks to him and what he did that Ilya had found the courage to ditch Russia for the cottage. He wanted to thank Hunter for what he did, for himself, for the league and for all those players who never dared to hope they could one day be themselves without losing everything else.
Why ask him about Hunter now? Ilya's instinct told him that something big was going on, something that potentially could explode in his face.
"Very sad that his first pet was dinosaur. He probably feels all alone."
Maxwell looked at him like Ilya grew a third head right in front of his eyes. "I - what?"
"He's million years old in hockey years. He should be in retirement home, with old people like him, instead he still plays. Very brave, and very stupid too."
Another laugh echoed in the renewed quiet of the dining room, and this time the people around reacted by shaking their heads. Ilya was sure a couple of old ladies with more diamonds than hair on them, were looking at Maxwell disappointed. Probably wondering if his poor grandmas knew what a scoundrel their bloodline generated.
"So, you think he's too old to play?"
Ilya had raised his fork and looked at the other man with a strange expression on his face.
"He's old but he still has a few seasons under his belt, probably because of much younger boyfriend keeping him active."
Oh Ilya knew there were more reasons for Hunter not to retire yet. He had something to prove, now more than ever. Ilya knew that at least.
The small smirk on Maxwell's face promised nothing good, but it intrigued Ilya. This man was up to something, and according to where his aim would be directed Ilya could even be on board.
"Where does he sit in your list of players?"
"On a wheelchair, but way above the whole bunch of Metros. Admirals are lucky to have him as their Captain. They could even try to win one more cup."
This time Maxwell didn't react immediately. The man took his time sipping at the steaming coffee in his mug and tasting some of the perfectly crispy bacon in his plate before he hit Ilya, hard.
"And what if the Admirals lost him?"
The piece of bagel that Ilya was chewing went down the wrong way. What the fucking hell, he thought while fighting to breathe again.