Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Under the TV’s roar Ilya hears the beep-beep-beep of his door code. Svetlana’s the only person who knows it. She didn’t say she was coming, but she doesn’t always. Maybe he likes the easy intimacy it represents, but he’s not looking forward to having to text her dont come over tonight when he has Hollander here next game. That he always has to announce his hookups to her.

The door opens and closes. He reaches for the remote and turns down the volume a little in response.

It’s Montreal versus Detroit, 2-1. Hollander got their first early in the first period, a sexy slapshot Ilya wouldn’t have left him open for. No one’s scored in the second. He has plans for Hollander, in December.

There’s clattering and clinking in the kitchen, then Svetlana comes in. The room is dark except for the TV. She sets a glass in front of Ilya on the coffee table and takes a sip of her own as she sits.

“Sasha says hello,” she says.

On the TV, Hollander’s line swaps out. “Okay,” Ilya says. He doesn’t want to talk about Sasha, he knows Svetlana knows it.

“You blocked his number.”

“Yes.” Earlier this year, after Sochi. Symbolically: they already hadn’t texted in years and probably weren’t about to start again.

“Good judgment on your part, for once, but it’s cost you a couple of hours, and he had to call me instead. This is important.”

He gives in and looks at her. Her face is dead flat, her eyes lasering—her caring glower, he calls it in his head—and she holds his gaze until he sighs and turns the volume down to a murmur.

Svetlana takes another sip. “Sasha’s father found out about him and men.”

The air barely holds the words. They’ve never spoken about this, not directly. No need to. Ilya isn’t going to be the one to break the silence, but it grows stronger and stronger until he has to.

“Everybody’s always known about that.”

“Everybody always suspected. Now he knows.”

Ilya shrugs, looks back at the game. He rubs his nose. “Why do I need to hear this?”

“He told him about you.”

Ilya blanks for a moment.

“What?”

He can’t get his head around whatever she’s said, and doesn’t want to. “Sveta, what do you mean, told him about me?”

“He was at home, his father was pissed about covering up some dalliance, with a diplomat’s son in Paris, I think, he didn’t give me all the details.” She settles deeper into the couch. “Just that his father confronted him, and they argued, and he said something about fucking his father’s star protégée, and his father threatened him, I guess. He left in the middle of the night and took the first flight back to France, to be safe. Only he was worried about getting sent home, since he doesn’t have any money, his father cut him off, and Europe isn’t very fond of Russians right now, since, you know. The war. Unlikely, but I suppose he panicked. Typical Sasha. So, to make sure he has a strong enough asylum case, he sent a video of you and him to some Russian tabloids, anonymously. Ilya, why is there a video? You know better.”

Ilya’s heart is hammering so hard he can feel it in his knuckles. He feels like he’s been slammed into the boards. Sasha’s father knows. His coach knows. Maybe he’s told Ilya’s father by now. And their video is out there. Everything’s over.

Come on, Ilya, Sasha had said, balancing a shiny new video camera on the mantel, I need something to get me through the school year.

You have plenty of people there for that.

Oh, but you know I get homesick. I want a little reminder of Russia.

And now everyone’s going to know. The worst is happening. His ears hum. The room is either very hot or very cold, and then it’s neither.

“We were fifteen. I was stupid and agreed.”

The next time, when Sasha was home on break, he’d put an SD card in his hand and waved his own with a grin.

Gentler now, Svetlana says, “Yes, well, you were always stupid about Sasha.”

The second period ends. The broadcast cuts to highlights. The worst is happening. The worst is happening. It’s stopped meaning anything. Light from the TV glows in the lines of his glass.

“Nice of him to warn us.”

“So sweet, right?” She gives a single cold laugh. “I think he wanted advice, or reassurance, he’s obviously in a bit of a state. And I imagine he wants your stories to match. But maybe he was being thoughtful, too. Anyway, listen. It’s only four a.m. in Russia, so there’s still a little time. You need to set up a meeting with management, tonight. Better to get ahead of this. Call them now.”

He doesn’t want to call anyone. He wants to bury his head in the couch cushions and wait for this to be over. But he makes his arm move. As long as Svetlana is deciding what to do, it’s basically the same thing.

He scrolls through his most recent contacts—Svetlana, Marlow, Jane—and taps on LeClaire’s. Call. Svetlana reaches over and turns on speakerphone.

Catches himself scripting sentences in his head as it rings, trying to get the English right, something he stopped doing years ago. For some reason his hands are shaky. He tosses his phone on the coffee table and crosses his arms.

“Rozanov, what’s up?” LeClaire has the game on, too, staticky in the background.

“Hi, I, ah…” He glances at Svetlana. What is he supposed to tell him? “I need to have a meeting with you tonight. To talk about um, something. And Morrison. And if a PR person can be there, would be good.”

“Jesus Roz, what’s going on?”

“It’s not bad. I mean, I didn’t do something bad. But there is a problem anyway.”

On the TV Hollander is leaning into a reporter’s mic, hands on his hips, sweat trickling down his neck. The hum of his voice comes faintly from the speakers, then a moment later through the phone. His words are indistinguishable but he’s always saying the same things, we’re feeling good about the game so far but we know it’s too soon to tell, Detroit are playing well too, everyone’s on top of their game tonight.

“I don’t suppose this could be a phone call sort of thing?”

Svetlana shakes her head.

“In person is better, please,” Ilya says. “I know is last minute.”

LeClaire lets out a long sigh. “Okay. Okay, I can get to the rink around nine. I’ll get Chrisa. Morrison might be a tall order but I’ll give him a call. See you in a bit.”

“See you,” Ilya echoes, and LeClaire hangs up. There. His doom is sealed.

Ilya scoops up his vodka. The walls and ceiling warp in the glass. It meets the table again with a tap.

“Good,” Svetlana says. She takes a deep breath, clasps her hands. “So. Obviously you probably shouldn’t go home now either.”

It stirs the sluggish undercurrent of his mind. He can’t go home safely now. Having a father and brother in the government only helps if they protect him; they might enable the violence themselves. He shouldn’t go home. That’s one of the things he’s avoiding thinking. Why is Svetlana making him? He spends most of his time in Moscow hating it and wanting to leave again, but it’s always there to go back to. Now it’s not. Swallowed up, blanked out, yanked away. Wait, not yet, he wants to say, he’s not done with it—

“And you’re here on a work visa, so if the league drops you over this you’re in a pretty bad position. I don’t think they will,” she says quickly, “you just won the cup and MVP, you’re a captain, and you’re a media star. It’d be a terrible move. But if they do, there needs to be a backup plan.”

Something else he can’t think about yet. Everything is sinking, he’s sinking, the room is sinking.

“Ilyusha. Ilya.” Hand on his knee.

He drags his gaze up from the floor. The TV flashes blue on her curls and the side of her cheek.

“If it comes to it, I will marry you so you can stay. Worst come to worst. No matter what else happens, you won’t be sent home. Nothing will happen to you. You don’t have to worry about that part.”

He has never seen her more solemn. He doesn’t speak for a breath, two, three, trying to steady himself.

“Okay,” he mumbles. “Thank you.”

“Of course. What would I do in America without my best friend?”

He laughs, but it’s also a sob. No reason to try to hide it. She can see he’s terrified, she always sees everything about him.

He wishes he had that talent of hers, to make light of something serious while staying so earnest. He can only ever do one or the other. He slumps forward, puts his head in his hands. “Stupid fucking Sasha,” he says. “Doesn’t he have other sex tapes he could have used?”

“One would think, hm? He’s your worst ex, I’ve decided.”

Sasha, his ex. Now they call Sasha his ex. “Not yours, though?”

“Oh, not at all. I handled him. I’m his worst ex.”

“Of course.” She isn’t, by far, they both know.

“Of course. Oh, Ilya.” She moves her hand from his leg to his shoulder as she rises. “Come on, get up, we have to go talk to your coach.”

“You’re coming?”

“Obviously. You need someone smart at a meeting like this. And your legal English has room for improvement,” she calls as she disappears toward the door. Ilya drains his glass and heaves himself up. Everything will be fine, if Svetlana is coming.

It’s the coldest night so far this year. They might get the first snow, though it won’t be much. Svetlana walks straight past Ilya’s cars to her own black two-door Mercedes. Ilya can only follow in a daze and slouch into the passenger seat. LeClaire is going to know anyway because everyone’s going to know, but he still feels stupid soliciting his outrage, driving toward it. He imagines the scene, then stops imagining it.

The radio comes on when Svetlana starts the car, coverage of one of tonight’s games, but she turns it off before he can tell if it’s Shane’s or Ottawa-Toronto.

“You need to think about what you’re going to tell them,” she says as she backs onto the street. “The video is from so long ago, if you wanted to, you could say it was a phase. ‘I was young, everyone experiments,’ et cetera. People believe what they want to hear.”

“No.” There’s a lot Ilya can never admit to being ashamed of, but not this. Never his sexuality. Maybe the one good thing Sasha taught him. He’d worn his own aggressively, lounging in the bleachers at practice like masculinity was beneath him, picking out Ilya with his eyes. If Ilya apologizes for this, maybe the only thing he’s actually unapologetic about, he’ll have to apologize for everything. “I can’t.”

“Okay,” Svetlana says.

Silence stretches one traffic light, another. Ilya tries to work out the wording of the next thing. He lets most of the drive elapse.

“I should have told you.”

Svetlana waves her fingers on the steering wheel. “And said what? You knew I knew.”

But I still didn’t tell you. It should hurt, that he didn’t trust her. She should feel hurt.

“I could have pushed. I didn’t. Let’s leave it at that.”

Ilya doesn’t want to leave it. He feels thrown open, exposed, and wants, frantically, for them to talk since he’s here already. He won’t feel like this long. He flicks his jacket zipper and stares at the dashboard.

Svetlana parks and Ilya looks up and they’re parked next to LeClaire’s car with the stupid cartoon bumper stickers, LeClaire is here already, in the practice rink, waiting for them. His stomach squirms so hard it hurts. It takes him two tries to open the door. He hasn’t been this nervous or this afraid since—since when? Since the day he met the rest of the Bears? Since his first flight to North America? Since Sasha kissed him against the wall in his own father’s office at the rink? Since half an hour ago, when this all started?

There’s nothing to be nervous about. This is already happening, inexorably, all he has to do is let it happen.

Their footsteps echo down the long hallway to LeClaire’s open office. Svetlana gives him a little touch on his back as they reach it, to encourage him in.

LeClaire is leaned back in his chair, elbow on the desk, rewinding tape of New York and Washington on the TV. Chrisa from PR sits on the end.

“Ah, Roz! You made it. And Svetlana, is that right? Sit down, Morrison’s on his way and then we can get into it. Still looking at their power play,” he adds, gesturing at the TV. “Not totally satisfied we’ve got it.”

They sit facing him. LeClaire presses play again and Vaughan, Hunter, and Wagner race up the ice. Ilya fixes on their movements as something legible, something familiar to think about through the wait.

The last set of footsteps come down the hall. Ilya feels a wash of dread all over again. He shoos it away and sits up straight.

General manager Morrison strides into the office with a greeting, pushes the door closed, and pulls a chair up next to the desk. His every movement is short and rigid. He laces his fingers in his lap. Ilya would categorize him as hurried, not quite irritated. It probably won’t make a difference; there is no mood good enough to make him like this news.

“Okay,” LeClaire says. “Let’s get this started.”

LeClaire behind his desk, flanked by Morrison and Chrisa, and Ilya and Svetlana out in the middle of the room. They’re all looking at him. He has to tell them.

“Sorry that I interrupted your evening,” Ilya says, as appeasement. Morrison is wearing one of his smarter suits. He’s going to tell the Bears’ general manager in his nice suit that the internet is about to have a video of him and Sasha fucking.

Morrison takes it: waves his hand and eases back in his chair, relaxed now that he gets to feel magnanimous. “I was already on the way home. You wanted to talk about something,” he prompts.

“It’s, um.” Ilya fights the impulse to take a breath, to move his leg, to move his hands. Everything has gone out of his mind. “It’s that I slept with a friend who is a man in Russia. Many times.” Not the relevant part of this. “And I did not plan that this ever becomes public, because it’s not important, for hockey, but now it will be… known…” He looks at Svetlana. He knows his tenses aren’t quite right, he’s forgetting words he usually knows, it’s like his combine interviews, when he could barely understand the questions, let alone respond, and he’d realized just how slowly and patiently Svetlana had been talking to him when she’d helped him practice.

She nods and takes over. “We were informed that a compromising video of Ilya and Alexander Fedorov, son of the coach Mikhail Fedorov, who I’m sure you know coached Ilya for several years, has been leaked to the Russian media. It’s very old—eight years ago. He wouldn’t be so reckless now, I hope. It’ll likely be released in the morning there, probably about four hours, give or take.”

Ilya takes half a glance at the others, without chancing eye contact. Their faces are controlled, neutral. Postures stiff. Squeamish, he thinks, but he doesn’t find the straining jaws or tautness that belie fury. So it could be worse.

LeClaire and Morrison share a look and LeClaire says, “How compromising?”

“Very,” Ilya says. Gaze back on the floor. “It’s clear that we are us, and it’s clear what happens.”

“Which is…?” Chrisa asks.

“Sex. Which is sex.” Which Ilya is never embarrassed about, except now his face is hot and probably red.

He only ever watched the video twice. The memory card burned a hole in his mind for years, too dangerous to open, too fascinating to destroy. He brought it to Canada with him for World Juniors, bought a video camera, and watched it in a stairwell when they were supposed to be at dinner. He rewound and watched it again. He was so young in the video, so nervous but so deliberate, so earnest about it. Then he popped out the card and crushed it, later, with his skate.

“Roz, I’m going to be gauche here and ask for details,” LeClaire says. “We need to know exactly what we’re dealing with. When you say sex, you mean full-on—?” Before Ilya has to answer one way or the other, LeClaire waves his hand like he’s erasing an imaginary whiteboard. “How explicit is it?”

“Plenty enough.” That’s a real native-speaker phrase. Plenty enough.

“And this is a video someone took of you, or?”

“We recorded,” he mumbles.

“Your face is in it?”

It is.

“Like, full-on, clearly? There’s really no chance of denying it’s you?”

We say each other’s names a lot, he can’t bring himself to tell them. “There is no chance. It’s my face, it is not changed so much.”

“And what about preventing it from being released? I mean, they can’t, can they?”

“At this point there’s not much anyone can do to prevent it,” Svetlana says.

“But you said it’s from fucking eight years ago. That’s fucking child porn, right? That’s something we can actually threaten action about. Who has it, who told you?”

LeClaire’s raised voice isn’t at him but he shrinks a little, internally. Or maybe it’s hearing that phrase in connection to himself. He feels like a child, and his face is burning.

“It was sent to several tabloid sites,” Svetlana says. “We don’t know how many or which ones. Not that we could really make any serious threats from another country, even if we knew who to threaten.”

They’re all quiet for a moment, except for the heating vent blowing.

“Well,” Morrison says with a long exhale, “this is obviously not ideal. And uh, we appreciate how promptly you brought it to our attention. I have to ask. Does this—are you telling us that you’re gay?”

“No. Not, you know. Not only.” Gay enough, though.

“Bisexual?” Chrisa says, like it’s the first time she’s gotten to use it.

He shrugs. “If you want.”

He’s their star player. They won’t get rid of him. The stiffness in the room, and the silence, do not mean they’re getting rid of him. ‘Not ideal’ does not mean they’re getting rid of him.

“Well, I have to say, we’ve never had to deal with a situation quite like this before. I mean, we’ve had our share of scandals, but—” Morrison laughs halfheartedly.

This night is hell. This night is purgatory.

Svetlana folds her hands in her lap. “We should discuss what this means for Ilya and for the team, immediately and moving forward.”

“I wonder if this isn’t a conversation you’d want your agent included in,” Morrison says.

“Ilya probably doesn’t have an agent at the moment. He’s Russian, friends with Fedorov.” And with both their fathers. “We’ll get back to that tomorrow.”

Morrison nods, apparently out of contributions.

“Moving forward, I think there are too many unknowns to really say anything. And a lot of conversations we’ll need to have. Immediately, there’s our response and there’s tomorrow’s game,” LeClaire says, looking back and forth between his colleagues. “If this video comes out, it might be best for Ilya if he doesn’t play tomorrow.”

“I should play,” Ilya blurts. Best ‘for him,’ he can work with that, if their angle is concern for him. “It’s against New York, we need me on the ice. And will be good to show that nothing changes, I am same player, we say it’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal, though. I mean, it’s okay if it is. It’s okay to take a break.” Firmer, “I’m not interested in a player who’s not focused on the game, especially not against New York.”

“I will be focused.”

“You say that now, but you don’t know what it’s going to be like, with the reaction.”

No one does.

“Is my specialty, they say, yes? To respond to adversity? Russia does badly at Olympics, I come back and we win Stanley Cup. I play better than normal tomorrow, probably.”

LeClaire looks wearily at Morrison. “We’ll discuss it,” he concedes, which sounds a lot like no. Then at Chrisa. “And our response…”

“Well, either we issue a statement, or we don’t.”

Ilya is supposed to say something. He wasn’t expecting to have any say in this part. Or any part. “What is… what is best?”

“At this point, probably a statement. I mean, I don’t think this is something that’ll just disappear if we don’t say anything. We’d probably draw more attention if we don’t acknowledge it.” Chrisa crosses her arms. “I’d wait until the video’s actually out there, obviously. It’ll depend what exactly the coverage turns out to be. But something fairly run of the mill, ‘the Bears value and support all our players, please be respectful at this time,’ yada yada. I can help you write a statement if you want to post one as well, or you can just leave it to the Bears.”

“I want to,” he says. He doesn’t want to, but he doesn’t want not to even more. He doesn’t want people to read mortification into what is simply privacy.

“Okay. Same deal, keep it standard or, this could be an opportunity to… influence the narrative about your sexuality. I mean, sexual orientation.”

Ilya can’t find the question, or several of the words.

“People are going to have a lot of ideas about your identity,” she tries again. “Nothing we do will get rid of them entirely, but there is some room to push back.”

“He told me he doesn’t want to lie about it,” Svetlana says. They’re all saying ‘it.’ Even Ilya is saying and thinking ‘it.’ “No ‘we were just kids fooling around, I’m not really like that.’”

Chrisa hesitates but then nods. “Okay. That would be the simplest approach, by far. So then, what would you like to say?”

“Um…” What is there to say? Except ‘suck it’?

“You want to come out?”

Ilya Rozanov. Come out. An unfathomable combination. Less likely even than Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander. He looks from one to another of the faces around him. “I guess so, yes.”

—

Chrisa writes him up a couple of drafts to take home and personalize. (“Not too much, though,” Svetlana says.) She shows him what the Bears might post, and what they’ll respond to his post, and what he can respond to theirs. LeClaire and Morrison mutter and peer at LeClaire’s notebook in the corner. They must be so tired of Ilya’s shit.

It’s ten o’clock. Six in the morning in Moscow. Ilya feels like it’s six in the morning here.

“Okay, that’s that.” Chrisa says. “Now we wait. I know it’s going to be really tempting to scroll all night looking for updates, but I promise it’s way better to just hide your phone and go to sleep. There’s nothing else productive you can do.”

“Okay,” Ilya says. Like he’ll be able to sleep either way.

“Yes, Roz, go home and sleep,” says LeClaire. “We need you rested. You’re on tomorrow, but only if you actually fucking sleep.”

Relief pours over him like a post-game shower. He nods.

“I’ll take his phone,” Svetlana says. She puts a hand on his waist and maneuvers him toward the door.

“Just a sec,” LeClaire says. “It would be better if the boys don’t hear about this from the news or the Bears’ social media, alright? We’ve got to think about the bond here. I think the best thing would be for you to tell them, but if that’s not something I can count on you to follow through on, I’ll do it. We’re a team, we have to cohere.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, even though he’d rather eat his neck guard. Going along is the easiest thing, the only thing he can do right now. “I will tell them before team meeting, and then post my statement.”

“Right. Good. Keep it short, though, we’ve got to talk about that power play.” LeClaire grimaces at his own joke.

“And, Ilya.”

He turns back to Chrisa.

“We want you to know how sorry we are this is happening to you. Especially having to deal with being outed in general and this video itself at the same time. You shouldn’t have to be going through this.”

Of course the PR person would say it, but maybe she means it. Morrison and LeClaire nod along soberly, going through the motions.

Mostly Ilya shrugs it off on the ride home, staring out the window at the few stray snowflakes under the streetlights. Whatever, maybe he shouldn’t have to go through it or something, but it doesn’t matter because he can handle it. ‘This video itself’ bothers him less. It’s a more tender moment than he would maybe share with the world, but he’s proud of it, proud of himself in it. When people watch it they’ll think, wow, that was a good sex tape.

“That went promisingly,” Svetlana says. “You still have a job.”

“Yeah. Only because I’m the best.”

“Yes, they want you so bad. As they should, of course, but not everyone can be trusted to think rationally. Morrison’s probably looking up ‘how to stop hating homosexuals’ right now. No, maybe he’s not that bad, but did you see how much he was squirming? I think he thought I was your lawyer and didn’t want to say anything we could use as discrimination.”

Ilya can’t really remember anything from the meeting. “Also because I charmed them years ago. Tricked them into thinking I have a secret heart of gold.”

“Mm, all part of your plan, I see.”

Svetlana stops for pizza on the way when Ilya comes down enough from the evening to realize he never had dinner.

“You’re too good to me,” he says.

“And why don’t you deserve good things?”

For every reason, but he knows she doesn’t actually want to hear an answer, so he licks the grease off another slice and takes a bite.

“I’m taking care of you because you need it. When I have my scandal—which will never happen, I’m too careful—you’ll return the favor.”

She’s right: it’ll never happen. She’ll never need to be taken care of like this. She’d never be so stupid or reckless, and she wouldn’t let it phase her like he has. Ilya will never get to repay her care.

She takes his phone from him the moment they step inside. Makes him go to bed, then sits next to him on top of the blankets.

“So I have to sleep but you get to look at your phone?”

“Yes, exactly. I don’t have to captain a hockey game tomorrow. And I need to keep Chrisa updated on the news. None of them speak Russian.” Two people are going to be up all night scouring gossip sites because of him. They shouldn’t have to deal with this. “It won’t be that much less sleep than usual, anyway,” she adds lightly, like an afterthought, if Ilya didn’t know how intentional her every thought is.

“Mm.” Is this going to be a new structure of their friendship, naming these things instead of just knowing? Stop giving me so much, he wants to say, but instead he goes with, “At least come under the covers.”

She does, and he rests his head against her ribs. She runs one hand through his hair while she scrolls.

And then the fear runs out of him and he finds he’s too wiped out for the panic to catch up to him.

Svetlana’s touch and her smell make him think of the three of them, them and Sasha, hiding out in an unused bedroom back home after a dinner. Suddenly he misses everything, the polished floor, the embroidery on the duvet covers, the pitted driveway winding toward the road, the fucking concrete. The slush in the spring. Moscow slush is different from Boston slush, and the spring is different, secretly more hopeful after a deeper winter. He misses the clubs, and speaking without putting in twice the effort first, and finding clothes he likes, and egg cups, which no one’s heard of here, and things being old, and clandestine parties with his heart in his mouth, and one corner in his room where the sun comes in before he gets up and bounces off a picture frame and blinds him, and his mother’s grave, and his mother, and his father, and Sasha, and Svetlana even though she’s right here, because Russia Svetka is different from Boston Svetka and he’ll probably never be with the other one again.

He presses his forehead harder against her and groans. He doesn’t bother wiping his eyes. He feels too flayed to recoil from vulnerability, he’s way past that right now, though he’ll probably regret it in the morning.

There’s another text he needs to send, but it would cause more distress than reassurance this far before everything’s going to fall apart, and he’s probably asleep already anyway. The most boring schedule in the NHL, except when Ilya comes along to throw it off.

“What are the scores from tonight?” he asks as he drifts off, as his fate hurtles toward him.

—

Svetlana wakes him at eight. He scrambles up. He’s not used to sleeping that late, even without an alarm, and he needs to be the first one at the rink today. He already won’t be.

“It’s on a few Russian sites. Was on more, but it keeps getting taken down. VK, same thing. Some Russian-language expat sites, those will stay up. I haven’t seen any stories in English, but there are starting to be a couple tweets. Nothing that’s getting any attention. Sleep well?”

“Like normal. Did you sleep at all?”

“A couple hours, a couple hours ago. Slow down, your team meeting isn’t until nine.”

“I want to be there early. Just in case.” He has one chance to control how this goes.

“You have never wanted to be early in your life. There’s eggs and sausage if you want.”

He shelves the guilt that she stayed up all night and made breakfast for him for later, when he has time.

“Phone?”

“Don’t look, it won’t help.”

“I have some texts to send.”

She produces it.

Montreal beat Detroit 2-1, no goals after it became the least important thing going on in his living room. Toronto 4-0 against Ottawa.

Ilya gnaws on a sausage while he types with one hand. First to the team chat.

Ilya: I have announcement to give at meeting today, maybe you will hear before, but it should come from me

He knows it’ll only make them more curious, but at least they’ll see this before the video. Even if fewer of them would find the video otherwise. Then the other. He barely has his phone back in his pocket before it buzzes.

Ilya: There is some news but you are not implicated, do not worry

Jane: ?
Jane: Is everything ok?

Ilya starts to type, Dont watch the video, then deletes. “Shit,” he says, and powers his phone off.

He doesn’t let Svetlana drive him again, not with that little sleep. He doesn’t want to die in a fiery crash mere hours after his sex tape leaks. She insists on coming along anyway. Downs her coffee and leaves the cup in the sink. The bare dusting of snow will be gone in an hour.

He doesn’t care if Shane watches the video or not, he just knows it’ll upset Shane if he does. He’ll wish he hadn’t. Ilya will wish he hadn’t, because Hollander isn’t fun when he’s hung up on things. He won’t like that anonymous thousands have seen Ilya’s body. Ilya’s okay with anonymous thousands, just not Hollander. He doesn’t want him to see him how the world is seeing him. He doesn’t want him to see him like that, fervent, somber, wide-eyed, sincere, and believe he’s like that now.

There are other cars in the lot, but not many, not yet. Probably mostly staff. Ilya sits with his hands on the wheel for a moment.

“How does it look now?” he says.

“Just a few tweets. Not about to be trending, sorry to disappoint.”

He whacks her arm without force. “That’s not an aspiration in this case.”

Except it always is, a little bit.

Ilya and Svetlana march toward the long arch of the rink. Can’t stay away. Svetlana splits off toward the offices, then turns back to say, “Ah, your first English news account. They barely have any followers, though.”

So then Ilya is nervous all over again. It’s happening, he thinks, and then reminds himself it’s been happening for hours, it’s going exactly how it was going to go. In which case it basically already happened, and there’s nothing to feel anything about.

He peeks into the dressing room. There’s St-Simon frowning at his phone. He’s reading about Ilya, surely. Ilya’s insides twinge. No one else. He catches a glimpse of the screen and no, it’s a page of blender options.

St-Simon looks up. “Captain, you’re early. Getting ready for your announcement?”

“Maybe, I guess so,” Ilya mumbles.

“Do I get a preview, or are you keeping up the suspense until everyone’s here?”

“I make you wait.” He checks his phone, which is off because he turned it off. He checks the clock. Twenty minutes before team meeting, eons for everyone to check Twitter or be atted or dmed even if they don’t.

In the lounge Hammersmith and Carmichael have their backs turned, stooped over the vat of oatmeal. Three other guys are on the couches. Ilya steps out again before any of them can say anything. Varkov is with a trainer, working on his calf. Eighteen minutes.

He walks down the hall, walks back. The lounge is the place to wait: they can’t talk about him if he’s in there. They might talk to him. He makes the lap again. He leans into the dressing room doorway.

“Don’t check Twitter, okay?” Stupid, now he’s going to check Twitter.

St-Simon sets his phone down. “You’re preoccupied? We can go warm up while we wait. Do bikes.”

“No, no, I want to stay.”

“Sewer ball?”

“No, I am fine.”

St-Simon picks up his phone again.

To apologize, and to keep him away from the news, Ilya says, “You are buying new blender?”

“Yes, the one that I have now has a… electrical problem, I don’t remember the word. It doesn’t turn on.”

Ilya nods. What is he doing. They’re muddling through a conversation in English about blenders like two idiots in Spotlight. Though St-Simon’s English is a lot more consistent than his own.

“You have a, uh…” the word comes to him “shortlist?”

St-Simon pivots on the couch so Ilya can see. “I could get the same one again, but I’m looking for something quieter. Amanda says I don’t wake her up but I know I do, and she has a late shift now. We live in the same house but we barely see each other.”

Ilya hums his understanding.

A text notification pops onto the screen from Maman. Ilya can’t read French but the last word before the message cuts off is his name. St-Simon swipes the message casually away.

Voices jostle in the hallway as their rookies and Connors go by, laughing and shoving each other. Even the rookies are getting this response out of Ilya, this twisting nausea. Just by walking down the hall. He wants to get it over with, but there are still sixteen minutes until the meeting. What if they’re talking?

“Lounge,” he says. He means that he’s going to the lounge, but St-Simon gets up and follows.

He counts ten in the room now. The chatter is loud but lighthearted. He doesn’t think any of these guys have found out yet, either. Curious looks that he ignores. Dubek slaps his arm like he always does, and Feller, their brand-new defenseman, says, “Big news today, cap?” in a deeply oblivious way.

“Patience, patience,” Ilya says.

Dubek claps his hand to his heart. “You’re killing us, Roz. Come on, give us something.”

“Nothing to give.”

“What if we guess it?”

He gives a short, empty laugh. “You will not guess it.”

“You’re not getting fucking traded, are you?”

“No, I am not.”

“Is someone else getting traded?” Feller asks.

“No. Maybe you, if you ask more questions.”

But that only makes Dubek grin. “Is it about the new rink?”

“Of course not. I tell you when I tell everyone, okay? You are toddler who cannot wait?”

“At least tell us, is it good news or bad news?”

He wants to say ‘bad’ just to wipe the stupid smile from his face. But he shouldn’t be telling them even that much. “You will have to see.”

He pushes between them and leans on the back of a couch. He lets the voices around him merge into a drone. He doesn’t have a read on the team, can’t guess how they’re all going to take this. It’s never been worth thinking about. He spends every day with these men, tells them he loves them and is proud of them and means it. There’s the standard talk in the locker room and on the ice, which he’s always been able to dismiss to himself. Now he can’t gauge the real malice underneath.

Which doesn’t matter anyway; it’s okay if there’s malice. He thrives on malice. It would hurt the team, though, if they react poorly, if they stop respecting and trusting him. Bad for cohesion. LeClaire is right to make him walk himself to his own execution.

Kovalev and Kane come in and pick at the buffet table. Varkov comes in. Oregan comes in, and Ilya can tell from how he meets his eyes that he knows. Ilya’s pulse goes harder. Maybe he’s gone viral since he saw Svetlana. Maybe there are actual articles now.

Ten minutes pre, they drift from the lounge to the meeting room. LeClaire and a couple coaching staff have the projector warming up.

Marlow drops into his usual seat next to Ilya. The expression he makes at him is complicated, knowing but also searching. Ilya feels spotlit. He would guess he’s seen some gossipy tweets but not any real details about the video.

He should have told Marlow, he realizes as several more guys file into the room. He should have thought of that. He could’ve called him this morning, or asked to meet up before tape. It feels shitty that he’s going to find out at the same time as everyone else, like he’s any random player on the team and not Ilya’s friend and alternate. Maybe they’ve never actually established their friendship as close, as we-tell-each-other-first, but it’s felt like it could be that, if either of them ever came up with something big to tell. Now Ilya has made it not that. It’ll sting, Marlow finding himself relegated to the pack like this. He should have thought of it.

He counts heads and feels another wave of cold. This has to stop, the whole insides prickling, the feeling like he’s going to faint. He can’t keep doing it. He’s barely aware of the voices around him.

Everyone’s there. LeClaire raises his eyebrows at him.

Ilya stands up. He tries to summon the control he has on the ice. He slaps his hands together, rolls his shoulders back, summons a bit of a slouch.

“Okay, everybody. Announcement, like I promised you.”

The room goes silent. The front rows twisted in their seats. All their faces turned up at him. About a quarter of the team has seen or heard something, he thinks, judging by the intensity of their gazes. From his spot, he can’t see them all at once.

He has something of a script. He practiced it in his head on the way here, in an abstract, hypothetical way, unable to risk approaching the reality of this moment.

“So,” he says. “We start with, we are Stanley-Cup-winning team and I am your captain who you love, yes?”

Some eye rolls, some laughter and ribbing.

“I just want to remind you. In case you forget, because so many concussions in the past. Okay, okay, so. Announcement is, once upon a time I fucked a guy. This is not a isolated incident, for me. Fuck men, fuck women, you know. Does not matter, really, is not anyone’s business. But there is video now, old, from several years ago, but it shows up now. Sex tape, we can call it. So, it doesn’t matter that it’s not anyone’s business, everyone gets to know anyway. So, it’s better that I tell you. Since you will know anyway. It’s not, ah… probably I would never tell you, if this didn’t happen. Is hockey, I get it. It would not be smart. Oh well, not an option anymore. That is the announcement.”

He looks at his teammates look at each other. He reads uncertainty. Definitely discomfort, confusion, denial. No one wants to be the first to speak. Ilya’s proud he used the word ‘several’ so naturally, instead of the generic ‘many.’ He hasn’t chanced a look at Marlow yet.

“I never look at you in the showers, I know you wonder. Not pretty enough for me. Also, the video, probably is better if you don’t watch.” If there’s no prohibition, there’s no breach. “Or, I don’t know, rest of the league will watch, maybe is better strategy also to watch, like, required reading, but if you do, don’t tell me. Also if you have questions, you ask me. If you have problems, no. You don’t have. Everything is clear?”

Now there are a few tentative nods, the rookies and Dubek and Kovalev.

Right up close in his peripheral, Marlow punches his hip and says, “Crystal fucking clear, cap!”

Ilya gets his eyes to pass over him for an instant. Nothing can communicate to him the gratitude he feels.

“Fucking sucks about the video, dude,” Connors says. “Just like, having to know people are watching it and you can’t do anything about it. Nightmare scenario.”

That catches Ilya off guard. He’s prepared for an argument, for a fight, but not for commiseration. All the responses he has ready are antagonistic and suddenly it would be the wrong move, would lose him goodwill he’s not used to needing. He almost says no shit but that’s too unguarded. He’s been too unguarded already. He feels like he’s vomited.

“Yes, well. Now there is confirmation I have always been hot and good at sex, like everyone suspects.”

Dubek half raises his hand. “Are you still playing tonight?”

“Of course,” he says, like there was never any doubt.

“You really got with your coach’s son?” Oregan asks, eyebrows up, looking more impressed than anything else.

“I did, yes, long time ago. Any more questions, or we are done here?”

He glances at LeClaire, who claps once and says, “Yep, eyes up front, boys. Got a couple new points to go over. Rest of the discussion can happen later.” He turns down the lights and the projected rectangle of ice beams.

The curious looks start up when LeClaire releases them to the gym. Like they’re waiting for him to do something. He could snap that they’re not being subtle about it, but they probably know that already and just don’t care. Instead, when Chrisa appears in the hallway, he powers on his phone.

A spew of notifications comes in. (The Russian jumps out to him—twelve missed calls from his brother, five texts. He expected more texts. Nothing from his father.) He swipes them all away and crosses the room, props himself in the doorway. Chrisa is ready, phone out as well.

He copies his statement into Twitter. Chrisa lets out one breath of a laugh as she reads over his edits, which gives him an outsized swell of achievement. He presses post. Chrisa waits a few seconds, then posts the Bears’. Ilya refreshes, likes the post. Chrisa types out a reply to his.

Ilya Rozanov @rozanov81
Good morning everyone, I am bisexual 🩷💜💙 While I am comfortable in my identity, I had no plans of disclosing it as I prefer to keep my personal life separate from hockey. However, without my consent, that information has recently been made public, so I am sharing it now on my own terms as well. See you tonight.

Boston Bears 🐻 @bostonbears
Proud of our MVP! 🧢🏆

Boston Bears 🐻 @bostonbears
The Boston Bears values and supports all our players. We do not tolerate harassment or discrimination against any of our players. We are aware of footage circulating, and are working closely with those affected as the situation develops. We ask that you please respect all our players’ privacy through this turbulent time.

Boston Bears 🐻 @bostonbears
Additionally, we urge all to remember that while the affected player is no longer a minor, distribution of the footage in question remains illegal per federal child exploitation law.

He dislikes ‘turbulent.’ He doesn’t like the expectation that he’s feeling turbulent, when really he’s doing fine. But he doesn’t make her change it.

Ilya muscles through workouts and stretches and gearing up with his head down. The chatter is stilted, when it isn’t absent altogether.

At least on the rink there’s the puck to look at, directions for everyone to follow. He throws himself into it. It’s not normal, but there was never any chance of that. Less rowdy than usual, including himself. He hopes that doesn’t last. He doesn’t hope anything. He wonders what comments they’re holding behind their teeth.

St-Simon works with him on the penalty kill the same as always, fast, methodical, for the off chance Marlow is the reason they’re on the kill. It could mean he’s one of the more open-minded on the team, or that he’s good at keeping it on the ice. He didn’t say anything in the locker room. It doesn’t matter whether or not he’s open-minded; it only matters that they’re still playing well together, they’ll play well together tonight, and he’ll prove he isn’t tearing the team apart. St-Simon doesn’t have to like him.

Most of them give him more space than usual when they skate past into position. They don’t hold his gaze as long. Ilya rolls his eyes to himself.

At the end Marlow challenges Ilya to a race, which makes him feel terrible. He’s putting so much effort into making things normal. It would be ungrateful of Ilya not to go along with it, though, so when he wins he loops back and whacks Marlow’s shoulder.

“It’s unfair, you always pick me because you know I beat you and you never have to pay for lunch.”

“Fool me twice, right, Roz? Don’t forget the extra cheese.”

“You and your fucking extra cheese,” he says as he skates to the edge of the rink.

Chrisa is waiting as the rest of the team files off the ice. He’s going to miss his chance to establish a precedent about the showers, but he goes over. She’s been too generous to blow off.

“A couple things,” she says, gesturing with her phone. “First, responses to other players’ messages.”

“Messages?”

“A couple of people have put out statements of support. It’d be a good move to acknowledge them.”

“Yes, okay,” he says. All he’s thinking, though, is, Who? What are they saying?

“I’m keeping a list, and we’ll go through them once you’re changed. Second, media tonight. Morrison wants to excuse you from press, keep it simple, not risk any drama. I think we ought to lean into the ‘not a big deal’ stance. You know, show that the drama isn’t on our end, we’re being chill about it, have you answer questions like normal.” She pauses. “The concern is whether you can do press how you’ll have to. We’ll do our best with the moderation and banned topics but they’ll still try to ask about it. If we do this, you have to keep things cool, and you have to only answer questions about hockey. The goal is to make everyone else look immature for sensationalizing this.”

“And, what, Morrison thinks that I am not mature? I cannot keep it cool?”

“If you want to, he’ll let me do some practice with you, rehearse some responses, to see if we can make this work.”

“Okay, yes, we do. Can I go shower now?”

Everyone’s out of the shower and getting dressed by the time he makes it to the locker room. He gets his practice jersey off and unstraps his pads with a force he hopes sends a message.

“Marley,” he says, not looking, as he pulls off his shirt.

“What’s up?”

“I have media training date now, cannot go get our lunch. I still pay, though. Wallet is in the dressing room.”

“Fucking eel, should’ve known you’d find a way out of it,” Marlow says. He hauls himself up from the bench. “I’ll let you get away with it this time.”

“I want those pickles on the side. And stop at the cannoli place, yes? Little box?”

“You’re pushing it, dude.”

“Not for me, for Svetlana. You can be nice to her even though you are so mean to me.”

Marlow snorts and ruffles Ilya’s hair and ducks out of the room after Connors and a couple other guys.

He strips the rest of the way and wraps his towel around his waist. The room’s half empty now. The scratches on his back from Montreal last week probably aren’t all the way faded.

“I always thought you and Svetlana were dating,” says Carmichael. “Or, you know, like, something, casually. You’re just friends?”

It’s far from the first time he’s gotten that question. It’s rarely worth trying to explain. “Yes, always we are friends.”

“But what about all the other women? You’re always picking up at clubs and shit.”

“Yes, what about them?”

“None of that was real?”

“Of course it’s real.” He stares down Carmichael, who’s frowning. “I already told you, I do both.”

“Yeah, but—never mind, whatever.” Carmichael reaches for his shoes.

Ilya showers quickly and grabs his phone and goes to find Chrisa in the PR-social media office.

They go through her list of supportive statements. Wanna show support for—doing a brave thing—congrats—facing this head-on—important moment—Ilya opts to like them all in lieu of responding. There’s one from Scott Hunter, who he realizes must be in the building right now. There’s one from Shane.

Shane Hollander @shanehollanderofficial
Nothing but respect for @rozanov81. I’m honored to consider him my rival.

He gets a weird thrill from that.

By the time Chrisa has drilled him on every variation of ‘thank you but I am not answering questions about my personal life at this time,’ Marlow has long since dropped the paper bag by the door and gone off again. Ilya’s panini is cold now. He slips his card back into his wallet.

He finds Svetlana sitting across a row of chairs in the conference room, sandwich wrapper balled up, box of cannoli open in her lap. He flops down next to her and she reaches a hand over to rub his knee.

“We went about this all wrong,” she says.

“Ha?”

“This whole thing. I told you to go straight to team management. I should’ve made you talk to a lawyer.”

“I don’t have a lawyer.”

“I know. Why we’ve all let you get away with it this long, I have no idea. You should get one now.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, but he doesn’t even bother adding it to the mental list of things he should do now. “It went fine, though.”

“By luck. It could have gone disastrously, and we weren’t prepared.”

“Okay, but, it didn’t. It went fine.” But he knows it’s this discipline that sets Svetlana apart from and above him: he’s content with things working out; for Svetlana, working out has to be the only thing they could ever do.

Svetlana doesn’t respond, but licks powdered sugar off her fingers one by one.

“Your cat,” Ilya says as he realizes. “You haven’t been back.”

“My neighbors are feeding her, it’s fine. They do it all the time, whenever I’m home.” She leverages herself upright. “Ladies’ room. Your cannoli have made my hands sticky.”

And for the first time today, Ilya has a minute unclaimed.

He unwraps his sandwich and opens his phone. Text messages, DMs, emails—he’s not dealing with emails right now, and DMs are sure to be mayhem, and his thumb has already tapped on messages anyway. Marlow, a while ago: Gotta run home for a sec which he scrolls past to the chat he’s been waiting to check all day.

Jane: Care to elaborate?

Jane: 🙄be ominous then

Jane: Oh fuck
Jane: Fuck
Jane: Fuck im so sorry this is horrible
Jane: This is so shit are you ok
Jane: Shit your game
Jane: This is fucked

Jane: If theres anything i can do please tell me

Jane: I have to go to practice now

Jane: Well thats one way to do it
Jane: Ok I guess you have this under control
Jane: Thats good
Jane: Too bad you won’t respond

Ilya reads over the whole thing a couple times, then types out his response.

Ilya: my knight in shining armor

Jane: Fuck off
Jane: I was just pissed off because my team was saying shit and Th wasn’t backing me up and i needed to make a point

He takes a bite of his panini.

Ilya: ah so you dont respect me
Ilya: you are not honored
Ilya: you just use me to make your point 😔

Jane: Im regretting it now obviously
Jane: Asshole

Shane starts typing and stops. Ilya chews and stares at his phone, waiting. He still hasn’t responded when Ilya finishes his sandwich. He’s glad that’s resolved then. He brushes off his lap and stands. The gym might be empty again by now and he could do with letting off some steam.

Then LeClaire leans in the open doorway and sees him.

“Oh good, there you are,” he says as he steps in. “Listen, just keeping you in the loop. We just got an email from the league, recommending we scratch you for tonight. Technically they haven’t told us to do anything yet,” he adds before Ilya can respond. “It’s just a recommendation. Our plan is to put off responding as long as we can, then reply last minute that we don’t have time to change the lineup. Not the slickest way to do this, but.” He shrugs.

“Very Bears, this strategy,” Ilya says. “Very messy.”

LeClaire gives him an appreciative clap on the shoulder. “It is too late to pull you,” he says. “We’d be shooting ourselves in the foot. Don’t want to let the league shoot us in the foot, either. Anyway, it’s good for this to be the first game. Admirals. I mean, captained by Scott Hunter, gentleman of hockey. Should stay pretty sportsmanlike.”

“I can handle.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m talking about precedent. Showing this is a non-issue. The game that’ll best prove it is against the Admirals. Otherwise I’d have to bench you until fucking San Francisco. Okay, got to run. Anything happens, we’ll let you know.”

All of this is chance, Ilya thinks as LeClaire ducks back into the hallway. Svetlana is right. Working out is not the only thing this could have done, if it even is working out. He feels a giddy rush. His career, his whole life, comes down to a team management that happens to value his ability enough to put up with the rest of him, even when the league is giving them an easy way out. Even when they all know today’s game isn’t that important, it’s only November and the Admirals, though strong, aren’t as formidable as they were this spring.

He stretches again, he naps, he eats. Management wants him to stick around until call time, ‘in case anything comes up.’ He avoids Varkov and Sebbin on the massage tables. He supposes all the staff have been filled in about it by now, though they treat him more or less like normal. New York has cleared off for the afternoon, so he skates just to have something to do. The hours tick by.

The pre-game media want to know a lot of things. They want to know about his day. They want to know what he thinks his season will look like ‘now.’ They want to know what the energy in the locker room is like today, if the energy is different from other games, and, setting aside the team, how he specifically is feeling going into this game. He does his best to give them some words and takes the first out he sees.

The crowd’s energy is different, he thinks, during warmups, a constant, intense murmur. Ilya kicks the ice. It doesn’t matter how normal he is about this, there’s too much that’s too far out of his control. In the locker room he had to wait, head bowed, while LeClaire instructed his teammates not to rise to vicarious insults. That, not that he thought New York would be too intense about it, and of course Ilya would be getting the brunt of it, and he’d just have to use his words and not his fists, but the rest of the team had to be prepared for chirps about being captained by Ilya, centered by Ilya, sharing a locker room with Ilya, and they didn’t need to be taking any unnecessary penalties. Of course; now his whole team is dragged into his mess.

Admirals red skates into his field of vision. Ilya looks up from his stretch. It’s Scott Hunter, fidgeting with his stick.

“Happy to see you out here, Rozanov,” he says. “You should be really proud of what you’re doing.”

Ilya nods and switches legs.

For a moment there’s movement in Hunter’s eyes, urgency, and then it retreats and he closes his mouth. Ilya can imagine what he’s just chickened out of saying. He basically called it, even if he’d been largely joking.

“And it’s really awful that this is happening, and I think it’s really impressive that you’re playing anyway.”

It’s not impressive, really, he’s just had twelve hours longer than Hunter believes to prepare.

Ilya finishes his stretch and gets up. He’s still feeling aftershocks of honesty so he says, “I begged them to let me.”

“You asked to play? They gave you an out and you asked to play? That’s brave, man. Fuck, that’s admirable.”

“Hey, woah, is too far,” he says, pulling on mock offense, “you do not call me fucking Admiral, just call me a fag.”

Hunter jerks back. His eyebrows furrow, he gives a single angry, disbelieving laugh. The joke has not landed.

Now he has to play it off. “I mean like, I say that Admirals is insult but fag isn’t, not that Admirals are all…” Ilya waves his hand vaguely. “I know you said admirable, not Admiral, was just a chirp—”

“Yeah, yeah, fine, just shake my fucking hand and leave it,” Hunter snaps.

Ilya shakes his hand, knowing he doesn’t deserve this grace. Leave it to him to antagonize even the most genial man in hockey, and one who can even actually relate to his situation. He’s a lost cause.

New York is having one of their good days, unfortunately. It’s a hard, intense game, but LeClaire was right that it’s cleaner than most, cleaner even than their usual games against New York. Hunter must have talked to them. Boston scrapes out a win, barely. Ilya doesn’t score but he gets an assist. No one can look at the game and say they’re not focused tonight, no one can say they’re not clicking as a team. Ilya dislikes being made to think about that. His job should be racking up points and skating circles around the other team. He doesn’t have anything to prove.

He doesn’t meet Hunter’s eye after the game. What message does Ilya think he’s sent with his performance and the outcome of this game? There are no messages for him to think about, he tells the reporters in the locker room, just playing a game and winning, like normal. He peels off his layers and gets in the shower with everyone else, eyes down, ears pounding, and if it bothers anyone they don’t make a show of it, or he’s doing a good job of not noticing. He’s looking at water trickle down the white tiles. He knows it’s quieter than it usually is. He knows it’s tense. They all need to fucking get over themselves.

Marlow volunteers his living room as an alternative for anyone who doesn’t want to go out. Ilya goes straight there, in his passenger seat; Svetlana is driving his car back so she can pick up her own and go home. Ilya is privately relieved not to face the Boston bars just yet. Too many opinions no one deserves to have and he’s not about to deal with.

Squinting out at the dark road, Marlow offers him the gift of a casual conversation about the game, their better plays, a particular bummer of a blocked shot in the last five minutes, but Ilya can’t let it go on.

“I wish I told you before the team,” he says.

“Don’t worry about it, Roz, really. It’s alright.”

Ilya wants to protest because it sounds like Marlow is forgiving him and he didn’t say sorry, was careful not to phrase it as an apology. Ilya Rozanov never apologizes for himself, especially when he knows he ought to. Some barriers must not be breached. But Marlow’s forgiveness is what he was moving toward, even if he didn’t mean to be looking for it, and it was an apology in all but name. He feels an awkward jolt. He’s been apologizing all day. To his team, in his statement that felt so confident, I had no plans of disclosing it, I would never tell you if this didn’t happen, so sorry to make hockey uncomfortable, I swear it was an accident. He’s not sorry. He wants them uncomfortable. It’s just the strategy, which he realizes amounts to sucking up to the league as much as possible to make up for coming out, to apologize for it. That will have to stop. As long as he gets to keep playing, they can be as uncomfortable as they want.

Marlow, though, he is sorry about. But he doesn’t respond. Let Marlow believe he’s given him absolution; Ilya knows he cannot accept it.

“Honestly, dude, you’re fucking handling this like a champ.”

He’s not. He’s handling it the way he has to, the only way there is to handle it. “Well, I am champ, so.”

Marlow chuckles.

He sounds like he’s about to say something else heartfelt and misinformed, so Ilya flicks on the radio.

—er. WBZ was unable to reach Mr. Rozanov for further comment as the Russian player, who was drafted to the Bears as first overall pick in two thousand and nine, got right back to business preparing for this evening’s game against the New York Admirals, who we defeated two-one, but we can expect to hear more from him in the coming days. Twenty fourteen has been a big year for sports coming out stories; while seven out athletes competed at the Winter Olympics in Sochi, Russia, more current and past Olympians have come out since the games, including a luger, a figure skater, a swimmer, a Nordic skier, and the goaltender of Canada’s women’s hockey team, which took home gold in February. Ilya Rozanov joins their numbers, but he is the first and only openly LGBT active player in the NHL; he follows in the footsteps of fellow Big Four athletes Robbie Rogers of the MLS and Jason Collins, who announced his retirement from the NBA on Wednesday, a year and a half after coming out as gay. Beyond a brief statement, the Bears have not commented on the captain’s coming out, and official disclosures remain scarce. Of course, Rozanov’s announcement differs from other athletes’ in that it was apparently unplanned, following quickly after the leak o—

Ilya’s fingers finally jerk and change the station.

99.5. Classical. His heart sinks with the grim, iconic descending arpeggio. Swan Lake.

He jams the radio off.

Tonight’s group is small, which might mean people are avoiding him, or that they’d rather go out to let off a hard game. Carmichael and Oregan are treating it as a pregame, Kovalev promises to swing by later unless his night develops favorably. They cluster around Marlow’s overstyled living room, under warm light and an iTunes playlist that hasn’t changed in a year.

Ilya should be helping Marlow with the drinks, but since he’s on a roll being ungrateful and bothersome he lays across the leather armchair and accepts the glass he brings him. He tips his head back and opts not to feel or think anything in particular. The others grumble about the beer, their bruises, their phones that something, something, Ilya doesn’t hear, he’s staring at the scalloped ceiling light, trying to hold onto the distance that carried him through the day.

“Roz?” Connors says, kicking him from the end of the couch. All eyes are on Ilya. He snaps back into the moment.

“Mm?”

“Are you seeing anyone?” he repeats.

Ilya frowns and shoos the question away. “You already know I do not, does not change now.”

“Yeah, but if you were seeing a guy, maybe you wouldn’t have told us, and now you would. So you’re not? Seeing a guy?”

The question is so outlandish it takes him a moment. Seeing a guy. Shane doesn’t count, though he wonders whether they’d say he does. He’s not seeing Shane. He’s not even his only repeat partner, and certainly not his most frequent, or his longest-term. Svetlana, obviously, who now he's probably going to marry.

“No, I see no one like that. Only hookups right now.”

“Do you hook up with guys? Like, currently?” Feller, billeting with Connors, asks wide-eyed.

Ilya suppresses his scowl. It’s a good thing, he supposes, that they’re comfortable asking him questions like this, even if he’d rather they don’t. They could all be cold shouldering him, or too disgusted to even speak the words ‘hook up with guys,’ and they’re not. So it’s best to go along with it.

“Sometimes, yes,” he says.

“Really? When was the last time?”

“A week ago, or so.” Maybe those adverbs are supposed to go in the other order.

“A week?” Marlow says from across the kitchen counter. “Right under our fucking noses? The hell, Roz, how the fuck did you manage that?”

Ilya lifts his hands, drink sloshing.

“Fine, fine. What’s your type, then?” Marlow asks. “In guys, what’s your type?”

He doesn’t want to tell them that. He’s not obligated to; the details aren’t for them anyway. “Same as in girls. Hot. Motivated. Loud in bed.”

“Vague,” Cadyn says. The other rookie, the impertinent one.

Ilya shrugs. “You keep it vague, you have more options to pick from, you get to be picky. Free advice for you.”

“Come on, give us an example, at least,” Marlow says.

“So many options…” He exaggerates a sigh. “It’s hard to choose. I can’t narrow down.”

“Okay,” says Cadyn. “If you had to fuck someone on the team, who would it be?”

He gets a sticky feeling. This is getting stupid. He rolls onto his side to reach for the tequila and refills his glass before he answers. “None of you, I already said, none of you are pretty enough for me.”

“But if you had to.”

“Is bad question, bad for team dynamic. LeClaire tells me to be careful of the team dynamic.”

Connors waves a hand. “Okay, fine, how about the whole league? Who are you picking?”

He could say Shane and they wouldn’t bat an eye. They’d think it’s the best joke all night. It’s stupid to feel like there’s any risk of suspicion.

Any other day. Today he can’t seem to open his mouth without telling the truth and meaning it.

He skims for an alternative—there are other hot men in the league—but none of them make good answers. And he’s curious, and he’s been on the receiving end of this too long.

“You pick for me. Set me up.”

They bicker a while and then Oregan, back from the bathroom, says, “Guys, come on, Hollander! It’s the only choice.”

Ilya gives a very real snort of laughter into his glass. “Okay, you guys are done, you are terrible choosers.” And in a flash of brilliance, “Hollander probably isn’t even gay, would be a terrible fuck.”

“Are there other gay players? Or, whatever?” Feller asks. Are there. Are there.

“In the whole league? Definitely.”

“But you don’t know any?”

“I am supposed to know all gay players? With, ah, hive mind?”

“I don’t know, I mean, how did you know your…” he gestures at his phone. “You know, your Russian coach’s son. How did you know he was gay?”

Sasha. Ilya’s chest goes light.

Everyone could tell. It was everything about him. A disgrace to his father, always, but he’d lent his family glamor as well. The incorrigible, elegant son, sent off to French boarding school because he was so completely incompatible with Moscow life. He could get away with it. Ilya hadn’t learned how to yet, at that point. Everyone could tell about him, too.

He misses Sasha so much.

“You want tips? You look for boyfriend now? Because girls do not work out so well?”

Feller holds up his hands. “Just asking.”

—

Ilya goes home to a dark house that swallows the slam of the door and the shuffle of his slides on the bare floor.

He leans over the sink and drinks straight from the faucet, wipes his mouth on his arm, a little dizzy. He turns around, catches his breath for a minute. Slides down to the heated floor.

The vague glow of the moon and the streetlights on the other side of his screen of trees sets the kitchen in big shapes of grey and black. It just reaches him in his cramped alley between the counter and the island. The scuff of his breathing takes up the whole space.

He kicks the island with his heel. Then again. It doesn’t make as loud a sound as he needs, but the thump feels good all the way up his leg. He kicks it again.

He’s exhausted, and he’s buzzing with energy, and he wants to cause damage, and he wants to fall to the floor but he’s already there.

He’s in it now. He’s a day into total disaster and he needs to fucking get used to it. He hasn’t had a chance, no one will leave him alone long enough for him to take care of it. He’s run out of strategies to not be alone. Svetlana has made her exit. He should have gone out tonight, then he’d either still be out or he’d have made it to his bed without this stupid spectacle.

No more Russia. He’s gotten that far already. Until policies change, which isn’t worth hoping for, which they might never, his passport is just a fancy red booklet with a washed-out picture of him looking pissed and a series of visas pasted in. But everything else has changed, too, absolutely everything, as he’s always been aware it would, as he’s contemplated both to keep himself focused and to turn himself on when he feels like jerking off but isn’t aroused enough. His career has changed, even if he’s not sure how yet. His position within the league, and the league has changed, and the media, and the fans, and his standing to his own team. His team has changed. Even though they played with him today, even though they won, and none of them have antagonized him, even if they never do, it’ll never be easy again. Normal is gone. His sponsorships have probably changed. His deal might change. His friendship with Svetlana is spinning into new territory, which wouldn’t be bad except any change is bad. He built a taut balance for himself here, made his compromises, directed the attention where it suited him, everyone gets what they want and he gets the thinnest margin of breathing room. So much for that. Accept it, get over it. His mind moves toward the video and Sasha, but that’s still too big, he pulls away at the last moment. Not relevant anyway.

He allows himself a final kick and then sits still.

When he gets up he doesn’t feel any better. He cannot approach the bed, which is so huge and white and empty. Like the house. After five years, the whole place has nothing to do with him, he never bothered. He’ll need to russify it, to get through this. He needs to find the heaviest, most elaborate tasseled curtains. All the things he was glad to leave behind in Moscow, he’s going to need them now. The fur rug could probably be okay under a different coffee table, next to a different couch. He gets out his phone to text Svetlana. He’s a little too drunk to get the keyboard to switch so he types out in Latin characters, i need all of my moms lace next time you go home. That sounds demanding, though, when she’s been so nice to him, unforgivably nice, as in, he cannot be forgiven for how nice she’s being to him, so he adds, please, and while he’s at it, all of the photos, anything you can find.

He’s going to end up one of those pitiful expats that can never let go and builds a mini Russia to atrophy in instead of ever going out into the real world.

Svetlana doesn’t respond, of course. She must be done putting up with him, fed up with his neediness and his unpersonability. It was only a matter of time.

He has other Russian texts he can read, though. From his brother.

Brat: Answer the fucking phone

Brat: Coward as well not a surprise, can’t even show your face

Brat: Father will never survive this disgrace, you’re killing him, you should have thought of that before pulling this, you have no shame, at least he knows the truth now, you never fooled me but he chose not to see it. So much for the perfect son

Brat: So you’re leaving us all behind
Brat: Embarrassing the whole family and then running away, no help, no care, no duty

Woah, that’s too far.

Ilya: why wouldn’t i still help
Ilya: unless youre embarrassed to accept money from me

Ilya stares at the murky reflection of the room in the blank TV screen and thinks of his father. Now he knows. Finally he knows. Often he wonders whether his mother knew, how much longer she would have had to stay alive for him to tell her, whether he ever would have, since it took Sasha to make him okay about it and he would’ve slapped Sasha’s hand away from his waist if he’d been feeling a little less numb and reckless at the time. He has to believe he would have told her. He’s not sure, looking back, when he started to know. Anyway, now his father knows who he is. Maybe he’s livid. Maybe he’s been staring out the window, motionless. What exactly is he thinking? That after everything, Ilya turned out like this after all. Did Fedorov tell him, or did Andrei? Or some government buddy of his? He still hasn’t heard anything from his father; maybe he never will. It would be the best strategy: as long as he doesn’t reveal what kind of disappointed he is, Ilya will imagine them all. He types out, how is father?