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The problem was that everyone who played for Boston, except for Ilya, was like a million years old and had forgotten what fun was, if they’d ever known. They were all, like, married with kids and their idea of a good time was a barbecue where they drank a few flat weak-ass beers and or went golfing. Ilya just wanted to have fun, okay? He just wanted to live.

And what was wrong with that? He was playing awesome. He was fucking third in points in the league, the lead point scorer on the team, he’d been named rookie of the year, and don’t even try to front that they would have gotten the cup if it wasn’t for him.

So he slept around. So he drank and partied. So he tweeted a few things he shouldn't have. He was young and beautiful and what else was life for?

And okay, he knew the assholes on the team didn’t like it, but he’d earned his place and his fucking ring. They could go all suck each other off, maybe that’d loosen up the sticks in their asses. What the fuck were they going to do? Trade him?

.

“They fucking traded me,” Ilya said, glaring at the phone.

“Huh?” Felya asked, swaying a little.

Ilya blinked and tried to remember what had just happened. He’d been mostly drunk and a little high, so it was hard. Everything else his agent had said after ‘you’ve been traded…’ was white noise, so high pitched he’d wondered if he’d gotten a fly stuck in his ear somehow. “Ilya? Ilya, are you there?” he’d finally heard his agent saying.

“Okay,” Ilya’d replied, and his agent had sighed, then continued in his terrible Russian “I’ll let you process it and reconnect tomorrow to talk logistics.”

Sure, Ilya had thought. Whatever. “Okay,” he’d said, again.

“Traded?” Felya repeated, like he’d never heard he word. Maybe he hadn’t. Felya was a law student who knew absolutely nothing about hockey. Ilya’d only met him through Sveta; she’d acquired a posse of Russians and brought them all out to the house Ilya’d rented on Nantucket, despite him saying he wanted to mope alone.

Sveta, Ilya thought, wildly. He needed her. He got up, grabbed the wall until his head stopped spinning and finally found her lounging around in a bikini with less fabric than a handkerchief, pretending to be ignorant of all the boys sitting around drooling over her.

“Svetochka,” Ilya whined.

Sveta frowned at him, then stood and grabbed his hand and pulled him down the path onto the beach. It wasn’t as nice as a beach as they had in Miami, but it was cooler, at least. She walked forward until the waves were lapping at her toes.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I got traded,” Ilya replied.

“Those impotent walrus penises,” Sveta swore. “You’re the fucking best player on the whole shithole team. Where are they sending you?”

Ilya opened his mouth, then shut it. That had been part of the white noise.

Sveta rolled her eyes while Ilya gripped with his addled memory. “Give me your fucking phone,” she said, holding out her hand, and then when he did, put in his passcode and swiped around for a minute, then sighed. “Montreal. Makes sense.”

“Montreal?” Ilya repeated. “How does that fucking make sense?They already have a center, that perfect Canadian golden boy.”

“I bet you’d play great together,” Sveta mused. “Everyone is always contrasting you but I think you are similar enough you’d do well together. They can put you on separate lines and then together for the power play. You can taunt the players until they go for you and then clean up.”

“They hate me in Montreal,” Ilya said, dropping down into the sand, not even caring about the waves getting his shoes and shorts wet, lapping at his butt crack.

Sveta snorted. “They hate you when you make them lose. They will love you when you make them win.” In the distance, the sky lit up with heat lightning, a crackling, flashing light in an otherwise clear sky.

“They traded me,” Ilya said again and she sighed and sat down next to him and put her arm around him and pulled him so he was awkwardly bent with his head on her shoulder. Everything had been easier when she’d been taller than him.

“They will regret it,” she predicted, and Sveta was always right, so Ilya had to believe her.

.

His agency would handle all the logistics of relocating; finding him a place in Montreal, packing up his Boston apartment, shipping his things, hiring a realtor to sell his Boston apartment, but he decided he might need to be in the same hemisphere in case someone needed to meet with him or something and he used that as an excuse not to go back to Russia. Instead he decided to fuck off down to Miami and train with Senya there.

“I’m not going to dick around,” he told Sveta, who’d been skeptical at this plan. “I’m going to show those fuckers what they’re missing.”

A day after Ilya decided all this and had listlessly started packing for Miami, he got another phone call, this one from an unknown number based out of Canada. The Voyageurs, Ilya assumed.

“Hello, this is Rozanov,” he answered in Russian, just to fuck with them.

“Yeah, uh, hi, is this Ilya Rozanov?” the person on the other hand asked in a polite Canadian accent.

“Yes,” Ilya said.

“Oh, ah, hi. This is Shane Hollander, of the Montreal Voyageurs.” As if Ilya might never had heard of Shane fucking Hollander. “Um, I am excited to meet you,” Hollander added in Russian in the worst accent Ilya had ever heard.

Ilya sighed. “Yes, thank you,” he said in English, giving in so Hollander wouldn’t attempt any more Russian. “I am looking forward to playing with you.”

“Me too!” Hollander said, suddenly far more excited. “I’ve been watching some tapes of your old games and I’m really jazzed to start working with you. I don’t know if we’re gonna want put you on the second line to just pummel our opponents or, well I’ve see some tape of you playing left wing with Dynamo and, fuck, I’d love to try that out at some point.”

Ilya blinked. It had been a while since someone had been excited to play with him. And this was Shane Fucking Hollander.

“Yeah,” Ilya said.

“Well, I’m just calling to welcome you to the team, and let you know I’m happy to help you if you need anything. And, oh yeah, look, I know you must be looking for a place and I own a building here, nothing much, just a few apartments, but they’re vacant and super convenient to the rink— we could even carpool?— and in a really nice neighborhood, so if you’re interested, you know you could even just stay for a little while, until you get settled?”

Ilya was nonplussed for a moment. Hollander wanted him to live with him? Or in his apartment building, whatever? And then he realized; management had must have asked Hollander to keep an eye on him. He opened his mouth to tell him where he could stuff it and then closed it again.

He already fucked it up once. Already fucked it up so hard that he’d been kicked out of Boston. He’d thought he’d been a sure thing, a player you built a franchise around. Thought he was going to be the fresh new face of Boston. And then he’d dicked around and gotten sacked.

If Boston could afford to lose him, Montreal sure could. They already had their fresh new face. If he didn’t play along what was to stop him from them trading him? And then he’d be branded a Problem and probably tossed from team to team like a hot potato until he ended up somewhere miserable with a contract for millions less than he was actually worth.

“Yes,” he heard himself say. “Thank you. That would be good.”

.

“Hollander offered to rent me an apartment his building,” he told his agent a few minutes later, feeling like he’d gone numb somehow.

“That’s good,” his agent said, encouragingly. “That’s great, actually. If Hollander takes you under his wing, if you charm him, like I know you can do, you’ll be golden.”

Ilya unwittingly thought of the story of King Midas. Hollander must be the king in this scenario, turning everything good into a worthless hunk of metal. He shook his head to dispel the ridiculous thought.

“Well, send the agency the details when you get them so we can arrange the movers,” his agent said. And don’t fuck this up, Ilya heard. He hung up and called Sveta to complain.

.

By August Ilya was as tanned as he got (not very) and utterly sick of the Miami heat, actually glad he was headed to Montreal, despite everything that awaited him; apple-cheeked Hollander saying he was really looking forward to playing with Ilya, and the stern message he’d gotten from Montreal management about him not posting on his social media without team approval, and the horrified thought that maybe they’d expect him to learn French.

He spent the flight from Miami to Montreal with his shoulders up around his ears and his headphones in place, blaring the kind of punk music that overrode his brain and kept him from thinking too much.

All too soon the plane landed and Ilya was heading through immigration. The immigration official looked at his passport and grinned and him and said “we’re very glad to have you here, Mr. Rozanov,” before ushering him through and Ilya’s head was still spinning a little from that when he got to the baggage claim to see Shane Hollander, hat pulled low over his eyes like he thought that made him anonymous, holding up a sign that said ‘Ilya Rozanov 81’ with a crowd of people trying to look like they weren’t watching excitedly.

When they saw him they started whispering and then, suddenly, half of the people in baggage claim erupted into applause and cheers.

“What the fuck?” Ilya muttered. He glanced over at the baggage carousel but it hadn’t even started moving yet. People had their phones out and were taking videos. “Why did you do this, Hollander?” he murmured under his breath before pasting on a smile and going over to greet his new captain.

Hollander’s smile was genuine, Ilya thought. Instead of shaking Ilya’s hand, he used his grip to pull Ilya’s into a manly hug, slapping his back a few times before letting him go. “I’m so happy to have you here,” he said, again sounding completely genuine. “We’re going to do great things together!”

“Yes,” Ilya said, trying not to let Hollander’s enthusiasm be infectious, trying to keep his smile polite and not let it grow.

The baggage carousel came on with a whir and a thunk and they both turned to watch the bags emerging.

“Got the renovations done to your apartment just on time,” Hollander told him, then proceeded to talk, at length and excruciating detail, about the improvements he’d made to Ilya’s new apartment.

He’d emailed Ilya about it almost after the phone call, mentioning that it was basically move-in ready, but he’d been meaning to do some renovations, if that would fit with Ilya’s time-frame. Ilya had replied that he wasn’t planning on showing up in Montreal until late August and Hollander had taken that for a sign that he should pepper Ilya with questions about what color he wanted the walls to be and what material he wanted for the counter tops and did he mind an induction stove, only Hollander had heard those created less internal air pollution, and Ilya suppressed the urge to reply that he did not give a fuck.

I thought this was a short term rental? he asked inside, and Hollander had said for sure, but as long as I’m doing renovations it might as well be to the taste of someone who’s actually going to live there and Ilya had sighed and looked at the pictures Hollander had sent him and really tried very hard to have opinions.

Hollander’s home improvement monologue was interrupted by fans asking for autographs, (not just of Hollander, but of Ilya too!) and by the time they were done, Ilya’s suitcase and gear bag were two of the last pieces of luggage on the carousel.

Ilya grabbed both and they bickered for a moment before he let Hollander tow his suitcase while he shouldered his gear bag.

Their path to the short term parking was littered with fans eager and ready with random things for them to sign and by the time they got to Hollander’s car (an ugly sensible dark blue SUV), Ilya’s hand was cramping.

“It is like this always?” Ilya asked, as Hollander started up the car. The radio was set to a top 40s station, Katy Perry singing about getting black out drunk.

“What?” Hollander asked, turning to look out the rear window as he backed up, the smooth skin of his neck and cheek uncomfortably close.

“Fans. Signing things.”

Hollander shifted the car into drive. “For sure,” he said. “There’s a big fan base in Montreal, you know. People are excited you’re joining us.”

The song ended and the radio hosts exclaimed something in a burst of French before transitioning into something that sounded like a commercial.

Ilya stared out the window at the city beyond. This was his new home, he tried to tell himself. Until he was traded again. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the backrest.

“Your car got here,” Hollander said, after a few minutes.

Ilya opened his eyes and looked at him.

“It’s not very practical,” Hollander continued. “That low carriage— aren’t you afraid of salt damage? And I’m afraid you won’t have great traction in the winter. And can you even get your gear bag in the trunk?”

“It is not a car for practical,” Ilya informed him.

Hollander clearly didn’t know what to do with this. “Well,” he said, finally, “I’m always happy to give you a ride.”

Ilya couldn’t help smiling at this.

“How was your summer?” Hollander asked and suddenly Ilya found himself talking about his conditioning, arguing with Hollander about the best exercises and the best diet— Hollander had some bizarre kind of meat-free diet— and if using epsom salt really did anything helpful.

Finally, Hollander was parking in front of a brick and concrete building in a quiet-looking neighborhood with a small clothing boutique on the first floor. He unlocked the door, warning Ilya that it stuck in really cold weather, and led him up a flight of stairs.

“This is your place,” Hollander said. “I’m one flight up.” He unlocked the door and set Ilya’s suitcase inside the door and toed his sneakers off.

The apartment was nice; large, with wide open spaces, hardwood floors, large windows. It was already furnished with the few things Ilya had accumulated during his two years in Boston, the scarcity of furnishings making the place feel larger and emptier. Hollander gave him a tour, again mentioning the renovations he’d had done, finishing in the kitchen where he described some frustration around getting the tiling right in the back-splash.

Ilya opened a cabinet and saw the plates he’d bought his rookie year at Walmart, because he needed plates, the first ones he’d seen, a horrible floral pattern, neatly stacked there. He opened another and it was empty.

“Yeah, you need to go shopping,” Hollander said. “I can show you my favorite grocery store, if you want? Or, I’ve got a service that delivers groceries. It’s pretty good. A lot of the single guys do a meal service thing, if you want I can get the name of it.”

Ilya nodded.

“Do you want, like a tour of the neighborhood? Or do you want to settle in?” Hollander asked, a little anxiously. “Or we could go to the practice arena and I could show you around? We could get a workout in if you wanted?”

Ilya was feeling restless, so he nodded and Hollander disappeared to get his workout clothes, as if he hadn’t already been wearing athletic gear. Ilya brought his suitcase into his bedroom and opened it up to grab his favorite shorts and running shoes and was drinking a glass of water looking out the window when Hollander reappeared.

“The water isn’t bad here, eh?” Hollander said, encouragingly. “I mean it’s better out of the city. I’m thinking about building a cottage on the lake I used to go to as a kid and I’d put in a well. Have you had well water? It’s the best, for sure.”

Ilya had nothing to say about this, so he finished his water and put the cup on the counter.

Hollander eyed it like he was going to ask Ilya if he was going to wash it, but instead he smiled and asked if Ilya was ready to go.

The drive to the practice arena wasn’t far even though Hollander drove like a grandmother, double checking at every turn, driving exactly at the speed limit.

Finally they were parking in the player’s lot, heading into the building via a side door. “You’re scheduled to meet with management and get an official tour tomorrow,” Hollander said, “I mean, I’m assuming you already know that. They’ll probably give you your key card then.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed.

Hollander showed him the locker room, the trainer’s rooms, the equipment room, the player’s lounge, the empty dock where they played two-touch and floor-hockey shinny, then, finally, the fitness room.

Hollander had only played with the Voyageurs for three years but he moved through the practice arena like it was his home. He had his favorite chair in the lounge and his favorite machines in the fitness room. He clearly had a game day routine he was devoted to. Ilya imagined the other Voyageurs making room for him to follow it, humoring him if it would get them more points.

Or maybe because they cared about him. Everyone they ran into greeted Hollander with affection, and Hollander knew all of their names and positions, invariably complimented them: “this is Kyle, one of the PR managers— I owe all my Twitter followers to him,” and, “our equipment manager, Monique, who graciously puts up with all our ridiculous demands and can get you whatever you need,” and so on. He knew even the custodians, greeting each of them by name and asking about their summers.

And Hollander went hard on his workout, spending just as much time on the different floor exercises that Ilya never found the patience for as on the machines, diligent and through, until he was covered in a sheen of sweat, telling Ilya he was gonna hit the showers, but Ilya should feel free to go longer if he wanted to.

But Ilya, who had worked out longer than he meant to because he didn’t want to finish before his new captain, followed him to the showers.

Hollander was hot, objectively. Hot in normal clothes, even though he generally wore athleisure, hot in his game day suits. He was hot in his gear, shooting a challenging look at Ilya over the ice, and hot in his workout clothes, his loose shorts deliciously stretched around his big hockey ass when he bent over.

But oh, fucking god, he was hot naked. Not that Ilya was looking. Hollander grinned at him in the shower, then turned back to rinsing himself down, quickly and efficiently, then smiled at him again and stepped out.

Ilya took a deep breath and then held his face up to the water. He was not going to get a huge crush on Shane Hollander, he was fucking not.

.

On the way home, Hollander suggested they stopped for groceries, since Ilya didn’t have anything in his cupboards, and a few minutes later Ilya found himself pushing a shopping cart beside Hollander, who was stopped every few minutes to sign something. Ilya didn’t know what to buy, so he just put random things into his cart, until Hollander squinted into it and asked what he was planning on making and Ilya had to admit that he didn’t know.

“Well, I can’t give you any advice since my diet is… well, different. But— oh I know,” he said, and took out his phone, thumbing through it, then making a call.

“Hi, Jackie!” he said, cheerfully. “How’s the vacation going? Sorry to interrupt, but do you have a few minutes? Yeah, okay.” He smiled at Ilya, tapping one foot. “Okay, so I’m here with Ilya Rozanov— yeah, he just got in today.” Hollander looked at Ilya again. “Jackie says ‘hi’ and she’s excited to meet you.”

Ilya, of course, had no idea who Jackie was, so he just blinked back.

“So Ilya just moved in and we’re in the grocery store and not sure what to buy. He’s got nothing at all because he just moved here, so got any advice? Uh, I think so, hold on.” He lowered the phone. “Do you have any special dietary needs? Allergies or anything?”

Ilya shook his head.

“What about favorite foods?”

Ilya shrugged, mind suddenly gone blank. “Pasta,” he said, finally.

“Pasta,” Hollander repeated into the phone, then looked at Ilya again. “Any specific type or pasta dish.”

“The one—” Ilya gestured meaninglessly. “With the white sauce. And little… like olives?”

Hollander relayed this. “She’s asking if it’s carbonara?”

“Yes, I think,” Ilya agreed.

They went back and forth like that for a few minutes, Hollander’s friend Jackie asking Ilya what he liked to eat for breakfast, for snack, for lunch, etc, until finally he hung up. “She’s going to send us a shopping list in a minute and then some recipes,” Hollander told him.

Ilya was impressed. “Jackie is team nutritionist?’ he asked, and Hollander shook his head. “She’s Hayden Pike’s wife, but ever since they got married she’s been researching nutrition programs and making new recipes to match the dietary requirements. She’s an amazing cook. A lot of the things she makes you’d never believe fit with your diet plan.”

A group of Voyageurs fans approached them then, and Ilya was charmed by how Hollander interacted with the children, squatting down and drawing the shyer one out of her shell. He spoke French with what sounded to Ilya just as much fluency as he spoke English, and that was somehow charming too, and he kept introducing Ilya to the children with things like ‘this is Ilya Rozanov, my new teammate, he’s amazing, you’re going to love him,’ and the children would gape up at Ilya in the same way they gaped up at Hollander and ask him to sign their hats and shirts and random scraps of napkin too.

Hollander’s phone chimed and then he started reading out the list, directing Ilya to grab flour and garlic and all sorts of other things. Silken tofu? Nutritional yeast? Until the cart was full and Hollander was pulling out the reusable bags he apparently kept in his car and chatting with the cashier in French while another grocery store worker filled up Hollander’s reusable bags and Ilya felt vaguely like an accessory to the whole process until he pulled out his credit card and paid.

They loaded the groceries into Hollander’s SUV, then he started the car again, the radio blasting Niki Manaj. Idly, Ilya poked around the console between the seats and found a neatly arranged group of CD cases, pulling one out to find out a handwritten label in what Ilya could only assume was Japanese writing.

“What is this?” Ilya asked.

Hollander glanced down for a second. “Oh,” he said. “Music I like to listen to sometimes.”

“Maybe it is better than this?” he asked. Ilya didn’t have anything against Niki Minaj, but there was a time and a place and he’d heard this song three hundred times in the last week.

“I don’t know if you’ll like it,” Hollander said, but Ilya was already slipping the CD out of the case and sliding it into the CD player. The radio clicked off, the CD player whirred, and then the sound of a stringed instrument started up. A moment later, a flute joined it. Neither seemed to be in tune or to be following any kind of rhythm. It was melancholy and sweet.

“What is it?” Ilya asked, after a minute. The music was at odds with the traffic they were in.

“Gagaku,” Hollander said. “Traditional Japanese music. My cousin joined an ensemble when she was at Columbia. She played the shō— it’s like a type of flute, I guess. I went to one of her concerts and I really enjoyed it so she keeps sending me these CDs.” He was quiet for a moment, turning left at an intersection and beginning to weave through the roads of what Ilya thought was his new neighborhood. “I like it,” he added, a little defensively. “I think it sounds like a landscape, kind of.”

That made no sense to Ilya, but the music was interesting. Relaxing.

Hollander helped Ilya bring the groceries up to his apartment, then helped him put them away, asking him where each thing went, like Ilya knew. Then Hollander showed Ilya the recipes Jackie Pike had sent, and then they decided they might as well make once, since they had the ingredients, and it was dinner time anyway, and then Hollander had to keep running up to his apartment because Ilya, it turned out, didn’t have much in the way of cookware, and who knew you needed special pots and pans for an induction cooktop (Ilya still wasn’t entirely sure what that was), and the carbonara mysteriously had tofu in the sauce, which made no sense to Ilya, but it was pretty good, even though Hollander had insisted on whole wheat noodles, and they talked about hockey while they cleaned up and still were talking about it after, leaning on the counter, then Ilya mentioned something about NHL 11 and so then, of course they had to play.

They spent like half an hour trying to hook up the game system and the TV and the speakers and everything before even starting the game, and then Ilya went to choose a player, but he usually played himself, but he didn’t want to play for the Bears, so he chose to play as Hollander instead as a bit of a gag and Hollander pouted so Ilya made fun of him for usually playing as himself, and then Hollander went to choose to play as Ilya instead but then he saw the look on his face, so choose to play as Scott Hunter and Ilya booed and made fun of Scott Hunter and Hollander laughed and then everything was okay again.

They played until Ilya started yawning, and then Hollander, who’d just been chirping Ilya and elbowing him, trying to get him to mess up, suddenly became all apologetic and Canadian, telling him a hundred times he was sorry for keeping him up so late and, oh gosh, Ilya must have had such an exhausting day, flying in from Miami, and what was Shane thinking keeping him up? And then the apartment was empty, except for Ilya and all of Ilya’s things and Ilya was blinking, trying to figure out what the fuck was happening to him.

(He did not jerk off to thoughts of Hollander. Not to Hollander’s perfect ass and not to Hollander’s cocky smile and not to Hollander speaking in soft French to a shy little kid, and definitely not to Hollander’s thick thighs and how they’d look wrapped around Ilya...)

.

Ilya slept poorly and went running in the gray light of the early morning, ran through the streets of brick buildings, until he came up on the banks of a river, and stood watching it for a minute. It was strange not to have the smell of salt and fish in the air, to see signs and hear people speaking French. For a moment he had an absurd pang of homesickness for Boston of all fucking places, but he swallowed it down and bought a coffee at Tim Horton's and headed back the way he’d come.

Hollander bounded down a little bit after Ilya got out of the shower, paused, open-mouthed when he saw Ilya shirtless for long enough that Ilya started wondering if he was checking him out, then swallowed and asked if it was a good time.

Ilya shrugged and let him into the apartment, resumed making the protein shake he usually had for breakfast, while Hollander talked about the prospects that were coming for rookie camp in a few days, which ones he thought were likely and which ones weren’t, and maybe Ilya would want to pop into rookie camp with him to check them out. They didn’t have to attend rookie camp, of course, but Hollander made it a point to meet them and Ilya was welcome to join him, anyway he had a few days to decide.

.

Hollander drove Ilya to the arena again, which was ridiculous because Ilya had his own car and didn’t drive like a grandfather and so could get there in half the time, but he still found himself buckling himself in. The car was still playing the odd Japanese music and Hollander went to change it, but it was too early in the morning for OneRepublic or whatever was playing on the top 40 channel, so Ilya stopped him.

The music did sound like landscapes, Ilya decided. Like the time he’d driven down to Cape Cod to spend Christmas all alone to stay in a rental house there and the sky had been gray above the salt-marshes, above the gray sea, flocks of birds looking black against the gray, trees reaching up crooked brown branches like jagged slashes that broke the sky.

He’d gone out of some kind of sense of ennui and spent a few hours walking on the beach, picking up sea glass and shells and watching the waves rolling in before wondering what the fuck he was doing and driving back to Boston to go clubbing.

Hollander showed Ilya to the front office and introduced him around before ushering him to the door of a meeting room where the GM was waiting with a whole host of other presumably important people who are apparently were only there to make sure he understood that they were just waiting for him to fuck up like he did in Boston to trade him on.

It didn’t take long for Ilya to realize he’d been lured into a sense of false security by Hollander’s niceness and enthusiasm and for a minute he got angry at Hollander, thinking he’d played him but the more he thought about it, as the GM went on and on about Montreal’s reputation and standards for their players, the more he doubted himself.

Hollander had been so sincere and so enthusiastic and spent far too long with Ilya the day before if he’d just been trying to gaslight him. And everything Ilya’d ever heard about Hollander— from the guys who’d played with Hollander in Juniors and Worlds and at the All-Star Game and who’d been on the Voyageurs before getting traded— was that Hollander was just like that; sincere and kind and oblivious to anything but hockey.

The social media manager, Bianca, was nicer, although she made it clear that if Ilya didn’t play along she’d be taking his accounts away from him. They shot a few videos introducing Ilya as Voyageur and then Hollander appeared and they shot a few more with him. Hollander was stiff and uncomfortable on camera, despite the seemingly hundreds of sponsorships he’d done. Ilya starting joking and teasing him until he loosened up and finally smiled in a way that didn’t suggest he was being held at gunpoint.

“The ice is free,” Hollander told Ilya when they were done. “You want to get on it?”

Ilya wanted nothing better.

“Can I come and shoot some video?” Bianca asked, and Hollander agreed, and then they were heading to the locker room.

Someone had slapped a post-it with Ilya’s name on it on the stall beside Hollander’s. There were post-its on all the stalls, actually, and some other signs that the room was still being made ready for training camp.

“Just shinny,” Hollander suggested, and Ilya nodded. He’d put on nice clothes for the meeting so he changed out of them into a tracksuit while Hollander just put his skates on, knotting them carefully and then getting into some story about a prank Beaulier and Schneider (who Hollander called ‘Pretty’ and ‘Needy’) had pulled on Pike.

“Pike and J.J. are the alternates,” Hollander said, thoughtfully, when the story was done. “But I’ll talk to management about getting you an ‘A’ too. You can alternate who wears it. Some teams do that.”

“Me?” Ilya asked, surprised, straightening up from where he was tying his skates.

“For sure,” Hollander said. “You’re gonna be one of our biggest stars.”

“You know…” Ilya paused, and swallowed. “You know my reputation.”

Hollander shrugged. “I don’t care about any of that. I know your hockey. That’s all that matters to me. You’re gonna show up, right?”

“Yes,” Ilya said.

Hollander grinned, a vicious grin, all teeth. “Then you’re gonna show them. You’re gonna show them all exactly who you are.”

Ilya stood up, held out his fist, but instead of bumping it, Hollander put his hands on Ilya’s neck, pulled him in for a gentle head-butt. “We’re going to win,” he said, before letting Ilya go.

“For sure,” Ilya heard himself say, and Hollander laughed. “Let’s go shoot some pucks.”

They skated around for a while, playing keep-away, then showed each other some trick-shots, then Hollander asked about a play Ilya had made when he was still in Dynamo and Ilya broke it down for him, then the Zamboni driver was coming out, informing them the rink was booked in a few minutes and chasing them off the ice.

.

Ilya got an email that evening with links to the Voyageurs social media accounts and  suggestions for what to write when he re-blogged and he opened the link to see a video of him and Hollander, opening with a cut of Ilya and Hollander laughing together, then Hollander, more serious, saying ‘I’m really excited to have Rozy on our team— we’re going to do great things together,’ then Ilya, looking nervous, saying “Hollzy has been very welcoming, excited to meet rest of the team,” a few shots of the two of them playing around on the ice together, then a graphic saying ’Welcome to the Voyageurs, Ilya Rozanov!’

Ilya found himself staring at it for far too long before entering in the suggested text and posting it.

.

Hollander must be lonely, Ilya decided, when he appeared at Ilya’s door for the sixth day in a row, this time with a bag of takeout.

He grinned at Ilya when he opened the door, then headed directly to Ilya’s kitchen and pulled two plates out of the cupboard, grabbed utensils from the drawer and then plated the food; a steak for Ilya and a fillet of salmon for Hollander, with sides of sautéed spinach, mashed cauliflower, and two large salads.

Ilya was certainly eating better than he ever had before. He followed Hollander to the kitchen table and sat down across from him, accepted the sparkling water that had shown up one day in Ilya’s fridge, and thanked him for the food.

Hollander smiled in a way that made the corners of his eyes crinkle and dug in.

Ilya was expecting him to rehash the prospects they’d observed at rookie camp that day (Hollander had gone to watch because he was captain, Ilya because Hollander had shown up his door with an expectant smile), but instead he asked Ilya about his summer in Miami, about what it was like there; Hollander had only ever been in Florida for games.

So Ilya talked about the summer he’d spent on the beach, about going snorkeling in the artificial reef and kayaking in the everglades and being almost bitten to death by mosquitoes.

Hollander smiled. “It can be like that here too, in the summers. On this lake— the one I spent summering on, when I was a kid— there’d be so many mosquitoes you’d be surprised you had any blood left in you. Then my mom started putting up bird houses, because she’d read about it online somewhere, I guess, all around the property, so the birds would come in and eat the mosquitos instead.”

“Did it work?” Ilya asked.

“Not as well as she’d hoped, but we all told her we thought there were less of them.” Hollander smiled, thinking about it. “It does sound nice, going snorkeling, though. I’ve always wanted to see a coral reef.”

“You can,” Ilya pointed out. “It is easy; book a ticket, fly down. Next summer you can do it. Or pretend you are sick and skip the All-Star weekend and go for bye week.”

Hollander smiled. “I’m a creature of habit,” he said.

Ilya huffed at that. “Everyone knows this. Everyone knows you have very particular game day routine, get out of bed on your left foot, yes, shit at same time every game day—”

“It’s not that specific!” Hollander protested, laughing.

“Go to rink, do same thing every time. What is it? Yoga? Rowing machine? Walk around the locker room, drink the same smoothie every time.”

“I don’t walk around the locker room,” Hollander protested. “Anyway, everyone has routines.”

Ilya shrugged. “I do not.”

Hollander gaped at this. “You don’t?”

“No,” Ilya said. “I do what I want to do. Do what feels right. Some days it is one thing, some days it is other thing. I do not believe in superstition. I believe in myself.”

Hollander raised his eyebrows like he’d believe it when he saw it, then changed the subject.

“The Pikes got back into town today. Jackie Pike who gave us those recipes? And Hayden, of course, number 35, and they’ve got two children, Ruby and Jade and one on the way.”

Ilya, of course, knew who Hayden Pike was. One of the As on the Voyageurs and Hollander’s left wing. Ilya had never understood why the Montreal coaches had put them on a line together; he near wasn’t fast enough for Hollander.

“Yes?” Ilya said.

“Hayden’s one of my best friends on the team. And J.J. of course. I think you’ll really like J.J. He’s really into the club scene, knows everyone, is always begging me to go out with him.”

“You think I like clubbing?” Ilya asked, defensively.

Hollander frowned at him. “Don’t you? There were all those pictures of you partying, so I assumed… I guess I should know better than to trust the tabloids, but…”

“No,” Ilya said, reminding himself that Hollander wasn’t his enemy. “I mean yes, I do like clubbing. But I think maybe I do not go.”

Hollander looked confused.

“It cause too much trouble before.”

“Oh,” Hollander said. “J.J. goes clubbing and no one has a problem with it, so I’d think you could go too. But you should do what you think is best for you, I guess. Anyway, I really brought Hayden up because Jackie invited us to dinner tomorrow night.”

“Us?” Ilya repeated.

“Yeah,” Hollander said. “They’re really excited to meet you.”

“I met Pike before.”

“Only on the ice,” Hollander said. “He thinks you’re an asshole because of your chirps.” He grinned. “Why do you always tell Hayden he’s the 15th best player on the team?”

“Could be worse,” Ilya said. “Could be the twenty-third worst player. That is eight players he is better of. It is compliment.”

Hollander pressed his lips together like he was trying not to laugh.

“J.J. and his girlfriend are coming too,” Hollander added. “It will be fun. Do you want to come?” he asked a little anxiously.

And of course Ilya would. He would because he was determined that this would be a new start for him, that this time he would be seen as a team player and not a trouble maker, and he’d come because he’d been invited to dinner with the captains of the team, and he’d come because Jackie really had been very kind to him.

But mostly he’d come because Hollander had asked and he was beginning to suspect he’d go anywhere if Hollander asked him.

.

Hollander stopped at an upscale grocery store to buy what he called ‘hostess gifts’. (Hollander was driving again. Somehow Hollander always drove). He got a small box of chocolates and directed Ilya to buy two six packs of local beers Hollander explained were Jackie’s favorites.

The Pike house was modest considering Pike’s income, a midsized house with a front yard full of plastic play sets and a driveway that was crowded with tricycles and tiny street hockey nets. Hollander pulled to the side and jumped out of the car, Ilya following him, trying to resist the urge to adjust the collar of his shirt and the fall of his jacket and to ask Hollander if he was dressed okay.

Hollander was wearing a Voyageurs hoodie and one of the pairs of jeans he’d had specially tailored and a pair of brand-new bright orange Reeboks he’d been sent the day before as part of his sponsorship deal. He’d opened the box in front of Ilya and frowned at them. “They’re Speedsters orange,” he complained.

Ilya’d seen an insta about these exact sneakers going for three hundred dollars, but he didn’t say anything.

“You only wear Montreal colors?” he teased instead. “I think your shirt is the wrong blue.”

Hollander had tugged on the hem of his shirt, frowning. “Montreal colors are to bright,” he’d said.

“What team has best colors then?” Ilya had asked. Hollander had considered this. “Seattle Squid,” he said, finally. “Dark blue and light blue.”

“Aqua,” Ilya had corrected.

“What?” Hollander asked.

“It is not light blue, it is aqua.”

Hollander blinked. “Aqua is light blue.”

“No it’s too bright.”

Hollander rolled his eyes and asked “what about you?”

Once Ilya would have replied automatically with the Bears’ colors, black and gold. But, of course, he wasn’t a bear any more. He considered. There were a lot of red, white, and blue teams, a few black and gold. “Summit,” he said, finally. “Dark blue and red.”

Hollander smiled. “Almost the same as mine, then.”

Now, Hollander knocked on the door, then let himself in right after.

“Uncle Shane!” a voice screamed, then a tiny body was launching itself at Hollander. Hollander laughed and swept the child up into his arms. She stared at Ilya over Hollander’s shoulder. “Who are you?” she asked, voice muffled by her fingers.

“Ruby, that’s not polite,” Hollander chided, turning so he was facing Ilya. “You should say: ‘hi, my name is Ruby.’”

“Bonjour, je m’apple Ruby,” Ruby said instead.

“Hi, Ruby,” Ilya replied. “My name is Ilya.”

“Ilya’s going to play hockey with me and your dad,” Hollander explained, then turned to greet the woman approaching them.

“The little gremlin heard you were coming and refused to go down,” she explained. “Come on, Ruby.”

“No!” Ruby shrieked into Hollander’s ear. Hollander winced. “Uncle Shane do it!”

“I’d be happy to,” Shane said, turning to the woman— Jackie, Ilya assumed.

“She’s just playing you,” Jackie replied, sounding tired, but if you want to.

Shane bounced Ruby. “Come on, bug,” he said, and headed into the house.

“I’m not a bug!” she exclaimed, gleefully.

Jackie turned back to Ilya. “It’s so nice to meet you,” she said, beaming up at him. She was a pretty woman, much more casual than a lot of the wags he’d met in Boston, with only a tiny bit of makeup and her hair pulled up into a ponytail, in t-shirt and jeans, a tiny stain on the hem of the t-shirt and a hand-shaped flour print on her thigh. “I’m Jackie, but I bet you guessed that. Oh, is that for me?”

“Hollander said it’s your favorite,” Ilya explained.

“It is,” she agreed, turning and leading him into the house. “You’re early, of course. Shane’s always early. He’s never heard the rule that it’s more polite to be fifteen minutes later.”

“But he drives so slow,” Ilya said, and Jackie laughed. “He does,” she agreed. She opened the refrigerator and considered it; it was packed with food, nearly arranged. She bent over and rearranged a few things, then pulled out a covered tray. “You can put it on that shelf there.”

Ilya did, then stood there, uncertain what to do, as she checked a pot on the stove. “How are you finding Montreal?” she asked.

“It is very nice,” he said.

Jackie smiled. “Have you seen anything of it or has Shane just been dragging you to the training center?”

Ilya didn’t say anything and Jackie laughed again. “He was so excited you were coming,” she said, beginning to cut avocados and scoop the flesh into a bowl. “The whole summer he’s been talking about getting that apartment ready for you and watching your tapes and talking about line formations. He’s been telling everyone that this is going to be Montreal’s year. ‘We’ve got Rozanov— we’re going to take it all the way!’”

Ilya felt like he was supposed say something to this but he didn’t know what.

A moment later the doorbell chimed and she looked at her hands, dismayed.

“I will get it?” Ilya offered, tentatively, and Jackie grinned. “That would be great, thanks!”

So Ilya retraced his steps to the door and opened it to find Boizau and a pretty redheaded woman at the door.

Boizau blinked at him and made a show of looking around to make sure he was at the right house. “Rozanov!” he exclaimed, finally. “You have moved in with the Pikes? They needed a new nanny?”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed, “I have quit hockey and moved to Canada to be nanny. It is very illustrious.”

Boizau laughed and clapped Ilya on the shoulder. “For real, though, it is good to have you. Roz, this is my girlfriend Noemie. Noei, Ilya Rozanov, our new forward.”

Noei smiled at him. “I’ve heard of you,” she said, in a thick French accent. “Welcome to Montreal.”

“Thank you,” Ilya said, then remembered he was standing in the doorway and moved aside. “Jackie is in kitchen, I have not seen Pike.”

“Right here,” a new person interrupted, and Ilya turned to see Pike coming down the stairs. “Just putting Jade to bed. Roz, great to meet you, officially.” He held out a hand and Ilya shook it. “Boizau, Noei! How was your summer?”

“I did not have the summer off,” Noei said, with humor, “so it was just as it always is.”

“Ah, Piker, the beauties of France!” Boizau exclaimed, “you must come and bring your family.” He caught Noei’s lifted eyebrows. “And by beauties, of course I mean the lovely countryside, the delicious food, the wine, the fields of blooming lavender. And, of course, I brought you wine and cheese.” He hefted a case of wine bottles, then nodded to the small cooler Noei was carrying.

“Oh, Jackie’s going to love you,” Pike said, leading them back to the kitchen, where Hollander was slicing vegetables while Jackie finished up the guacamole. He face lit up when she saw Boizau and Noei, then got even brighter when she saw the cooler Noei was carrying.

“Tell me that is what I think it is,” she said.

“The very best French cheeses,” Boizau assured her, “illegally transported into the country just for you.”

Jackie washed off her hands quickly and took the cooler from Noei, unwrapping the cheeses and smelling them excitedly. “I’m so excited!” she exclaimed. “I have to many things I want to make, but I also want to just shove them into my pie hole!”

They all laughed, and then Jackie began directing people to take food into the dining room.

.

The dinner party wasn’t vastly different from any Ilya had attended in Boston. But the participants (except Ilya, of course) were younger. The women spoke more. The environment was more comfortable than polished. There weren’t any jokes that made Ilya vaguely uncomfortable to hear them. Hollander kept looking at Ilya warmly and making an effort to include him in the conversation, providing unnecessary backstory.

And Hollander was in his element, cheeks glowing red from the small amount of beer he’d had. Comfortable in a way Ilya hadn’t seen from him before. It made something inside Ilya burn with jealousy. It made him want to snatch Hollander away from Pike and Noei and back to their building where it could just be the two of them, where maybe Hollander could look at Ilya like that.

Instead he smiled and turned to answer a question about Russian food from Jackie.

.

They left around eleven, Hollander protesting he needed to keep to his sleeping schedule, Jackie loading them up with tupperware and pressing one of the bottles of wine Boizau had brought from France on Ilya.

“That went well,” Hollander said, pulling out of the driveway. “Didn’t that go well?” He’d only had a tiny amount of beer and yet he was loose in a way Ilya had never seen him, smiling more easily and letting his eyes linger on Ilya longer. Ilya wanted to grab his chin and make Hollander look at him, force all of his attention on him.

But Hollander was driving and Ilya wasn’t here to burn bridges. “Yes,” he said.

“Did you like them?” Hollander asked, but didn’t let Ilya finish. “I think they liked you. I mean—” he smiled a little, shy smile, and glanced at Ilya. “You’re pretty easy to like.”

Ilya bit his lip so he wouldn’t say anything.

At the traffic light, Hollander exchanged the traditional Japanese album for some kind of techno electronica. “To help me stay awake,” he told Ilya. He was beautiful in even the orange street light. He was beautiful in all lights. Ilya wanted to bang his head against the dashboard.

“I’ve never heard this,” he said again and so Hollander told him about his old teammate who’d gotten into the electronica scene and sometimes sent him cds.

.

Theriault looked over the assembled players, huffed and walked back and forth a little bit, then looked at them again. This was, apparently, super normal behavior for him. He considered them again, then gestured to one of the assistant coaches, who hurried up with a clipboard.

“Okay,” Theriault said. “We’re paying a pretty penny for our shiny new center here, so we might as well make use of him.”

That was a little unfair, Ilya thought, since he was still on his entry-level contract.

“I’m thinking Rozanov here will center the second line, and we’ll put Rozanov and Hollander together on the power play, but will try Rozanov out as Hollander’s left wing, too, just for shits and giggles.” He said the last with a completely straight face and sober tone and Ilya glanced at Hollander’s face, trying to get a read on the coach, but Hollander seemed completely engrossed. But Boizau made a face at Ilya behind Hollander’s back that made him think maybe this was completely normal.

The assistant coaches started organizing drills and Ilya slid into the familiar work of learning to skate with unfamiliar people.

.

“You had some chemistry with Koch,” Hollander reflected on their way back to the apartment. The cd player was playing electronica again, subdued and dreamy this time. Was Hollander’s entire music library traditional Japanese music and obscure electronica? Ilya’s fingers itched to find out.

“I am good with cock,” Ilya said, more or less automatically, and relished how it made Hollander’s cheeks pink.

“What about Andropov?” Hollander asked.

Ilya shook his head. “He’s too stiff.”

“He’s intimidated by you,” Hollander said. “We need to give him time. Burke?”

“Terrible,” Ilya said. “How is he in the NHL?”

“He has his moments!” Hollander defended.

“Rare ones.”

Hollander didn’t argue.

“I will steal Pretty from you,” Ilya told him, and Hollander laughed.

.

Hollander was right about Andropov (‘Andy’), and Koch, and slowly Ilya’s line cohered, but the real magic was the power play, because playing on the ice with Hollander was incredible. He moved like a dream, his hands were incredible, and he could always find Ilya, could always find a path to get the puck to Ilya.

“Good,” Theriault said, with a little twitch to his mustache, high praise from him, apparently. “Run it again.”

.

Hollander introduced Ilya to everyone with so much excitement and confidence about how much Ilya was going to bring to the Voyageurs that everyone seemed to forget his disreputable past. His teammates all welcomed him enthusiastically, taking their cues from their captain, who was clearly regarded with a great deal of affection, even by the guys who teased him for his terrible pre-game speeches and the old-person hours he kept and his unusual diet.

On Friday, as they were changing after training camp, Boizau dropped onto the bench beside his. “Rozy!” he exclaimed. “You like to go clubbing, eh? Come out with me and my squad.”

Ilya froze in the process of pulling on his shorts until he realized he probably looked ridiculous with them half-way up his thighs.

“What?” Boizau asked. “Come on, man! Hollander hates loud noise and bright lights because he’s a grand-père—”

“Fuck you,” Hollander said, reflexively, on the other side of Ilya.

“— And Piker’s got a dozen kids now—”

“Still only have two.”

“And Mitty’s a total weirdo who only likes obscure electronica, and Pretty and Needy are hicks who only drink beer and Andy is a literal child.”

“I’m nineteen!” Andropov argued.

“So I need someone to go clubbing with.”

“You have, like, a million friends,” Hollander argued.

“They’re not my team. Hollzy, how am I supposed to brag about how awesome my night was when no one even understands?” Boizau pouted.

Ilya loved clubbing. He loved the pounding music, he loved dancing, grinding, hot and sweaty, everyone's’ blood pumping the same, losing himself to the rhythm, to a stranger. He missed it, the way he missed smoking every time he tried to quit, like an itch under his skin he didn’t know how else to scratch.

But he couldn’t keep thinking of what happened in Boston. About how it all had gotten away from him somehow.

“You should go out, if you want to,” Hollander said, suddenly.

Ilya looked at him, uncertainly.

Boizau threw an arm around Ilya’s shoulders. “Listen man, we’ll go and drink a little, maybe smoke a little, eh? I’ll keep an eye on you, no scandal? Tomorrow we have off, no team breakfast to miss.”

Ilya looked up at him, uncertainly, but Boizau was one of Hollander’s best friends, and Ilya would trust Hollander with his life.

“Okay,” he said. “Not too late.”

Boizau laughed. “I’d chirp you for being like Hollander, eh? But you and Hollander have different ideas about what not too late means.”

“It means ten o’clock right?” Hollander asked with a smile that meant he was chirping himself.

“In the morning?” Ilya asked, pretending to be confused and Boizau clapped him on the back. “That’s my man.” They made plans to meet and Ilya rode home with Hollander.

His weird ambient music made the still brightly lit city seem dream-like.

“I’m glad you’re going out with J.J.,” Hollander said, suddenly. “He’s a good guy, eh? He’ll look after you.”

“I don’t need to be look after,” Ilya replied, grumpily.

“I know,” Hollander said, too sincere, as always. “But I don’t think you do.”

Ilya chewed on this for a few minutes.

“You know,” Hollander said, “if anything ever goes wrong, if you ever need anything, you can call me, eh? Anything at all.”

Ilya glanced at him, skin lit gold with the afternoon sun, glancing over at Ilya with that overwhelming earnestness and had the idiotic desire to ask what Hollander would do if Ilya asked him to kiss him, to get naked, to go down on him. If I need an orgasm, Hollander, would you give me one? If I need someone to hold me all night long?

He bit his lip. “For sure,” he said, when he could finally speak. “I know.”

.

Ilya took a cab to the club, a quieter place then the ones he’d frequented in Boston, or maybe it was just earlier. Boizau was at a table surrounded by much more fashionable people than Ilya usually encountered on a regular basis.

“Rozy!” he exclaimed and came over to kiss his cheek. “Everyone, this is Rozy, the second most fashionable guy on the team!”

Ilya looked pointedly at Boizau’s outfit and he laughed before introducing his friends.

“Noei is not here?” Ilya asked.

“No, she’s gotta study for a test,” Boizau said. “Or take care of her clams or something.”

“Clams?” Ilya repeated.

“She is in grad school studying biology,” Boizau said, proudly.

Someone asked how Ilya was enjoying Montreal and he turned and answered, then Boizau offered to go buy another round, then they were all on the dance floor and Ilya was back in his element, grinning and yelling and jumping and grinding on a dark haired woman who’d insinuated herself into his arms.

For a little while it was okay and then she turned and wrapped her arms around his neck and tried to kiss him and he found himself frowning and shaking his head until she pouted and then flounced away.

Ilya saw Boizau chatting with the bartender and went to join them.

“Not your type?” Boizau asked as the bartender left to take a customer’s order.

Ilya shook his head.

“You can go home if you want to,” Boizau suggested.

Ilya looked at the dance floor. He’d been having fun. Boizau was fun and his friends were fun and the music was good and it had been so long since Ilya had been able to let go like that. And then the girl had come to dance with him, and, fuck, it had been so long since Ilya’s hooked up— not since Miami— but had hadn’t been able to stop from wishing she was someone else.

Boizau tilted his head and looked at Ilya. “Missing your evening with Hollzy?” he asked.

Ilya pulled himself onto the stool beside him. “Is very…” he searched for the right word. “Domestic.”

Boizau laughed. “Look, I love Holls, I really do; he’s one of my best friends,” he said, and Ilya braced himself. Nothing good ever came after words like that. “But I don’t know if I could spend as much time with him as you do. He’s just so… particular about everything, its get on my nerves, you know?”

Hollander was particular, it was true. And maybe it should have been annoying. But instead it was… Ilya groaned internally. Adorable.

Boizau was watching him intently and suddenly his posture changed. “Oh,” he said.

Ilya looked at him questioningly.

“Look, man,” Boizau told him. “I didn’t mean anything bad by that. Holls is one of my closest friends and everyone has annoying trait, right? I didn’t realize you and he were…”

It took Ilya a moment to get it, and then he recoiled.

“Look, man,” Boizau said again. “I’m cool. I’m not going to say anything to anyone, believe me. I’d never out someone.”

“We are not—” Ilya began.

“Like I get it, no one’s out in hockey. All the homophobic things I’ve heard— well, you know. Holls doesn’t allow any of that in the room, thank Christ. The management supports him.”

“We’re not,” Ilya tried again, and then faltered. “Hollander is not…”

Boizau looked at him closely. “Oh,” he said. “You mean just you…? Really? Cause that boy is so obsessed with you. The moment he heard you were traded to us he was blowing up our group chat. No— before that. Back when you were a rookie and you beat us and everyone was bitching about you in the locker room and Holls was just sitting there, dazed, and finally Pike asked him ‘what’s up’ and he said ‘he might be an asshole, but his hockey is beautiful.’

“And when they were debating who was going to win rookie of the year he kept saying ‘If Rozanov doesn’t win they’re all idiots’ something like that, and he watched so much tape of you, and then he heard about the trade and he got on the group chat just talking endlessly about how you were going to bring us the cup and how awesome to be to play with you and he was so excited to fix up the apartment for you, you know? He came to Montreal early to make sure it was perfect and he was so nervous about meeting you and since then you’ve been joined at the hip, eh?”

“It isn’t,” Ilya tried. “Hollander isn’t…?”

“Oh,” Boizau said, “I don’t know. I guess he had a girlfriend once and he picked up a few times in his first year but he never seemed happy about it. Like he thought it was an obligation. I thought maybe he was asexual. But he looks at you like… like Piker looks at Jackie.” He smiled. “Like I look at Noei. Like you’re the best thing he’s ever scene. And maybe that is still just hockey. You know Hollzy; he’s all hockey all the time.”

He wasn’t. Hollander wasn’t and Ilya was simultaneously smug he knew more about Hollander than one of his best friends and a little horrified about how little Boizau knew him if that’s what he thought. Hollander was that weird experimental music he listened to, and trying out new recipes, and Wikipedia holes, and sharing weird historical facts about the city and their neighborhood. Hollander loved youtube videos about cute animals and memes where it looked like animals were doing human things.

Boizau shrugged. “Sorry if it’s just you,” he said. “That’s super tough. But I wouldn’t discount Hollzy just yet. I don’t know if it’s platonic or romantic, but he really likes you.”

“But if it is not romantic then I ruin everything,” Ilya pointed out.

Boizau frowned. “Yeah, I guess,” he said, then he clapped Ilya on the shoulder. “Lighten up!” He shouted something in French to the bartender, who came over with a couple of shots and moment later. Boizau handed one to Ilya and took the other himself, then pulled him back onto the dance floor, grinning.

.

Ilya made it home by one, which was earlier than he’d usually gotten home in Boston. He paused at his door, looking at where the stairwell continued up to Hollander’s apartment, then unlocked the door and let himself in.

.

Hollander didn’t wake Ilya up for breakfast or appear for lunch. In an irrational huff, Ilya headed out at 2, went into the first fast food restaurant he found, ordered a double patty burger and a large fries and at about a third before he threw the rest away, disgusted.

It should have been delicious. It should have been wonderful. Hollander had had him eating rabbit food the last few weeks, giving Ilya worried looks every time he ate something that could be vaguely considered unhealthy. But for all that he’d craved it, when he actually bit into it it brought him no satisfaction. It was too greasy and salty and left him feeling gross.

He washed his hands and headed back to his apartment, pausing again on the landing and then, on impulse, bounding the rest of the way up.

Hollander opened the door with a confused, anxious frown. “Ilya,” he said.

“You usually come by,” Ilya told him.

“Oh,” Hollander said. He let Ilya in and closed the door behind him, then stood there, beside his neat rack of shoes.

“Why didn’t you?” Ilya finally asked.

Hollander shrugged and pulled the sleeves of his hoodie down to cover his fingers. He drifted into the kitchen, pulled out a bottle of seltzer.

“I thought maybe you picked up?” he said, like it was a question. “And then maybe you’d sleep late. And then maybe you’d want to, you know, do it again? And, I don’t know, I wanted to give you space.”

Ilya blinked at him. He almost said ‘I don’t want space’, but that was a ridiculous thing to say. “I didn’t pick up,” he blurted out instead.

“Oh,” Hollander said. “But I thought... You… everyone said you, like, slept with a lot of women. And you weren’t, so I thought maybe you missed it?”

Ilya had a sudden suspicion that Hollander had set this whole thing up, had asked Boizau to invite him out just because he was worried Ilya was horny. The most he thought about it, the more it seemed like exactly the kind of thing Hollander would do.

“Boizau said you used to hook up too,” Ilya said, “but you haven’t for years. Do you miss it?”

Hollander blushed red under his freckles. He shook his head, not looking at Ilya.

Ilya opened his mouth to say something. Something that would probably be stupid and too revealing, but he took a deep breath instead. “I have to go shopping,” he said finally, and Hollander brightened.

“I’ve got a new recipe I want to try out,” he said, and went to grab his phone.

.

They traveled to the first preseason game the next week, a short flight to Buffalo. Theriault wanted to test out Ilya’s new line and the mettle of the players he was considering. Many of the team veterans staying in Montreal, but Hollander came along to be a supportive captain.

One of the team staff handed out room assignments and Ilya headed up to his with the others, dropping his bag beside the bed and figuring he’d nap for a while before finding somewhere to eat, but his roommate, Andrew Gary, had already shucked off most of his suit, plopped down on his bed and immediately pulled out his dick and started stroking it, all without even acknowledging Ilya’s presence.

It’s not like he’d never seen someone masturbate before, but there had always been some kind of ‘do you mind’ or even ‘do you want to join in’, some kind of acknowledgement that Ilya existed.

He sat down on the bed, honestly feeling a little baffled. A moment later a text came through from Hollander:

Hollander: first time having my own room, feels strange.

Me: Jealous. Gary is jerking it.

Hollander: Jerking what?

Hollander: OMG he’s masturbaing? Like right in front of you?

Me: He did not even look at me when he came in. He just started

Hollander: That’s sexual harrassment.

Me: I don’t know

Hollander: You can report him.

The last thing Ilya wanted to do was report Gary for sexual harassment.

Me: It is okay.

Hollander: Is it?

Hollander: You can come hang out in my room

Me: You are happy being alone

Hollander: You’re always welcome, you know. Wherever I am. I like having you around

Ilya felt himself flush.

Hollander: But seriously, if you’re uncomfortable you should come to my room. 1413.

Ilya glanced at Gary and then grabbed his bag and headed over to Hollander’s room.

Hollander had a single king, the coverlet already pulled off and neatly folded in the corner of the room. A book was thrown on top of the bed, as if Hollander had been in the middle of it. Mauve, the title read, How One Man Invented a Color That Changed the World.

Ilya picked it up and looked at it. “You’re reading a book about colors?” he asked.

“It’s, uh, the history of chemical dyes?” Hollander said.

“Dyes?” Ilya asked.

“You know, like paint but for fabric. Kind of.”

Ilya nodded.

“I like to go to the library and find books about things I don’t know anything about,” Hollander told him, picking up the book and putting it down carefully on the end table. “Were you going to get something to eat?”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Nap first and then maybe eat? But now…”

“You can nap here,” Hollander said.

Ilya raised his eyebrows and looked down at the single bed.

“It’s big enough,” Hollander told him. “And I promise I won’t start jerking off.” He smiled like he hoped it was a good joke.

“You can,” Ilya blurted out and then felt his face heat, but Hollander wasn’t looking at him, rubbing his palms on his thighs instead, his cheeks also pink.

“Uh” he said.

“Joking, Hollander,” Ilya threw in quickly, losing his nerve. “Yes, I will nap here if you are okay with it.”

Hollander smiled, still not looking at him. “Yeah, for sure. I made the offer.”

Ilya decided he wasn’t going to think too much about it. Instead he pulled off his suit, changing into sweatpants and an old shirt and crawled into the bed on the side Hollander hadn’t claimed.

The mattress shifted as Hollander climbed into the bed on the other side and Ilya rolled onto his side so he could watch under his lashes as Hollander snuggle in, turning on his side and looking at Ilya for a moment before closing his eyes.

Ilya didn’t sleep. Instead, because he had apparently lost his mind he spent the whole hour and a half staring at Hollander’s face; the way it went slack with sleep, the way he looked younger and more innocent, the way his eyes moved beneath his eyelids and he twitched slightly when he dreamed.

Every few minutes or so Ilya told himself he had to stop staring at Hollander. He would close his eyes and try to sleep and then open them again, like a child afraid of missing his favorite show. He would tell himself he was going to get up and get his phone, but instead he stayed lying there, watching.

Finally, Hollander began twitch a little and regained consciousness, eyes flickering open, Ilya closing his own, hoping Hollander would still think he was sleeping.

He didn’t get up though; the sheets didn’t rustle and the mattress didn’t shift. After waiting minutes, Ilya finally opened his eyes again to see Hollander looking at him.

He smiled, guileless and open. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” Ilya replied, like the love-struck fool he was.

“Did you sleep well?” Hollander asked.

“Yes,” Ilya lied.

“Good,” Hollander said. “Do you want to get dinner?”

Getting dinner with Hollander would mean abiding by Hollander’s terrible diet, but Ilya still said ‘yes’. He would have endure much worse if it meant spending time with Hollander, a man he spent the majority of his waking minutes with already.

Hollander smiled and rolled out of bed, unselfconsciously stripping and neatly packing away his clothes, before heading into the bathroom.

“You’re welcome to take a shower here,” he called out as he started the water. “If you’re afraid Gary isn’t still jerking off.”

“If he is his dick must be raw,” Ilya replied. “He wasn’t even using lotion.”

Hollander made a disgusted sound and must have stepped into the water. Ilya lay on the bed for a few more minutes, staring up at the ceiling and wonder what the hell was wrong with him, before rolling out of the bed and going over to his bag to find clothes.

.

Buffalo wasn’t as terrible as Ilya had expected. They had dinner at some hippie vegan place that could have been worse, then Hollander suggested that they go for a walk and they ended up walking along the canal as the sun set. Hollander somehow started telling Ilya about the invention of chemical dyes and Ilya didn’t even mind. That’s how stupid in love he was.

.

They headed back to the hotel, still talking, Hollander explaining something to Ilya now about the industrial revolution that he definitely wasn’t following, too tired and uninterested to pay carefully enough attention to Hollander’s English, which got faster and harder to understand when he was excited.

Unthinkingly, Ilya followed Hollander to his room, and when Hollander suggested they watch a nature documentary he saw no reason not to say ‘yes’ and when he started nodding off, Hollander elbowed him and told him to go brush his teeth, and since Ilya’s bag was still in Hollander’s room it was easy to grab his toiletries bag out of it and brush his teeth and then crawl right back into Hollander’s bed.

.

The next game was in New Jersey, across the river from the bright lights of New York. Ilya had played there any number of times with the Bears. They’d had a favorite bar to go to after the game, dark and wood-paneled, where no one cared about hockey.

Hollander, who still hadn’t played, was happy about their win and optimistic about the season, took Ilya to a hole-in-the wall Japanese place and ordered for them both in Japanese, to the smiling delight of the waitress. Ilya was unsurprised to discover Hollander got soup and brown rice and tofu, but was surprised at his own meal of fried chicken on rice with a brown sauce.

“It’s chicken katsu,” Hollander explained. “It’s not very healthy, but I thought you would like it.” He had a look on his face like he was eager for Ilya to try the dish, so Ilya did, carefully picking up a piece with his chopsticks and smiling as he ate it. He didn’t have to pretend, but he would have. He’d have eaten a pile of garbage with a smile on his face if Hollander wanted him too.

.

They headed back to Montreal and when they get back Ilya went to his apartment and Hollander went to his and this was completely normal and Ilya was a normal person who could handle a few hours of being alone until Hollander came to bug him again.

.

The next game was against Boston and Theriault decided that Ilya’s line should rest and put Hollander’s line on the roster instead. Ilya didn’t even go to the game; he put it on the tv, torn between watching Hollander’s beautiful edges and the effortlessly way he scored and looking away, nauseous, at the sight of gold and black.

Hollander came to Ilya’s apartment after the game and, for once, didn’t do a post mortem, didn’t discuss the Bears’ offense or defense or the new goalie they’d been trying out. Instead he turned on a show that mostly seemed to be leopard seals viciously hunting and killing penguins, the ocean water washing red again and again, sitting close enough his arm and thigh were warm against Ilya’s, not saying anything when Ilya sank down until his head was resting on Hollander’s shoulder.

That night, Hollander followed Ilya into his bed without saying anything, just disappeared for a few minutes and came back in the flannel pants and old t-shirt he used as pajamas and climbed in beside Ilya, close enough that Ilya could feel his warmth and match the pace of his breathing as it slowed to sleep.

So. That was a thing they were doing now.

.

They closed out the preseason with one more win than loss, which seemed like a good sign. Montreal had gotten to the playoffs for the first time in years the season before and Hollander was confident they’d go even further this year. Even Theriault looked satisfied under his mustache.

Ilya and Hollander headed home and were still arguing over what to make for dinner when there was a knock on the door. They looked at each other confused— no one besides Hollander had ever visited Ilya— and Ilya went over to open it, barely taking in the sight of Sveta posing like a model in his doorway before she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and french kissing him so hard he almost fell over backwards.

He kissed her back for about half a minute before he remembered Hollander was still there, and then he pushed her away.

“What the hell?” she demanded, in Russian, and then her face flickered through confusion, suspicion, realization, contrition, and finally settled on curiosity.

She pushed Ilya inside and pushed into the apartment, dragging her suitcase after her, and lit up when she saw Hollander.

“Introduce me,” she ordered Ilya.

“You know Shane Hollander,” Ilya said.

“I know of Shane Hollander,” Sveta corrected, demonstrating her annoying mastery of English prepositions. “Hi, Shane Hollander, I am Svetlana Sergeevna Vetrova, Ilyusha’s best friend.”

“Nice to meet you,” Hollander said, automatically, then frowned. “Your father is Sergei Vetrov? Like the goaltender?”

Sveta’s eyebrows went up, impressed, Ilya imagined, both at Hollander’s understanding of Russian names and knowledge of Soviet goalies.

“You know him?” she asked.

“Know of him,” Ilya corrected, to be a little shit.

Hollander nodded. “When I was little I’d watch any game footage I could get my hands on and I got this VHS tape somewhere that was highlights from Soviet teams or something like that and I watched it over and over because I was so fascinated by the Soviet style of play, the way they skated all together the way they did, and there was a section on goalies and I remember a few of the goals your dad saved. Incredible.”

Sveta smiled. “You are also an incredible player,” she said.

Hollander returned her smile shyly.

“Why are you here?” Ilya asked Sveta.

“So rude,” Sveta said, clucking her tongue. “Your best friend flies all the way to Canada to see you and this is the welcome I get?”

“Maybe you tell me before you come?” Ilya suggested.

“It was supposed to be a surprise!” Sveta exclaimed. “You used to be more fun.” She smiled slyly at him and glanced sideways at Hollander. “You are mad because you are trying to seduce your captain?”

“I am not trying to seduce him!” he exclaimed.

Sveta looked between the two of them again. “Oh,” she said.

Hollander narrowed his eyes. “Oh, what?” he asked.

Sveta shrugged one shoulder elegantly. “Nothing,” she told him. “Apropos of nothing, I should tell you that Ilyusha and I are not in a sexual relationship of any sort, the kiss was just a Russian greeting.”

“I have never seen Russians french-kiss in greeting before,” Hollander said, clearly skeptical.

“But have you seen close childhood friends see each other after a long and difficult separation?” Sveta asked, all coy sweetness. “Female friends?”

“Ilya isn’t female,” Hollander said.

“But I am. Believe me, this is typical in Russia.”

“I’ll ask Andropov,” Hollander warned.

Sveta shrugged, daring him to.

“I don’t care if you’re in a sexual relationship,” Hollander told her, a little angrily.

“No?” she asked, with feigned surprise.

“Yes,” Hollander said, firmly. “Why would I care?”

Sveta shrugged again. “Regardless, we’re not. Ilyusha is my closest friend. I was so sad when he moved away from Boston. I go to university there,” she added.

Hollander nodded.

“I was so worried about him. The trade was hard. Stupid, on Boston’s part. But then he starts telling me about his new captain. Welcoming him, making the apartment so nice, showing him around the city, driving him everywhere. I am so glad he has someone looking after him here.”

“Oh,” Hollander said, both mollified and a little embarrassed. “For sure, I wanted Ilyush… Ilya to be happy here.”

“You can call him Ilyusha,” Sveta informed Hollander, wandering into Ilya’s kitchen to peer in her fridge. “In Russia it is usual for friends to use nicknames.

“Oh,” Hollander said. “Ilyusha.” He gave Ilya a small smile, his cheeks a little pink. “You can call me Shane too, you know. Uh, there isn’t a good nickname for it. Or, well, my mom used to call me ‘Shy,’ but please don’t. And the guys call me ‘Hollzy’ of course.”

“‘Shanezhka’,” Sveta suggested, pulling a bottle of wine from the back of Ilya’s cabinet and then poking in the drawers for a corkscrew.

“Shut up,” Ilya barked at her.

“What?” she asked, all wide-eyed innocence. “It is a very cute name. You can call me Sveta, Shanezhka, since we will be friends.”

“Thanks?” Shane said.

“Don’t call him that,” Ilya told her.

“Why? Are you jealous?” Sveta made a pouting face at him. “Where is your corkscrew?”

“Do you even have one?” Hollander asked.

Ilya honestly didn’t know. He couldn’t even remember where the wine had come from.

“I can go get one,” Hollander offered, and stood.

“Oh, that would be so kind,” Sveta said, and Hollander nodded and left the apartment.

“What are you doing?” Ilya demanded when he was gone.

“What are you doing?” she returned. “Your fridge is full of vegetables, you have no beer, no liqueur, and you’re mooning over Shane Hollander like he hung the fucking stars in the sky!”

“Maybe I’m trying to be more healthy!” Ilya argued. “Maybe I’m trying to keep from being traded again!”

“Getting into Hollander’s pants isn’t going to do that!”

“That’s not why I…” He realized what he was saying and stopped. “That’s not what I’m trying to do.”

“What are you trying to do then?”

“I’m not trying to do anything,” he admitted. “I’m just… it just happened.”

“Oh, Ilyushenka,” Sveta said.

“Don’t start,” Ilya said.

“You fell in love with your captain?”

Ilya looked away. He felt the couch shift as she sat down on it. A hand rested on his shoulder, then cupped his cheek and turned his head to face him. “Does he feel the same way?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Ilya said. “He’s a… an odd person. It’s hard to know.”

“That is hard,” Sveta said, bringing Ilya’s head down so she could press their foreheads together.

A sound behind them made them both turn. Hollander was there, putting the corkscrew down on the counter.

“Uh, I’m going to go back to my apartment,” he said. “I, uh, hope you have a good visit, Sveta,” and disappeared back through the apartment door.

Ilya stared after him, dumbfounded.

Sveta sighed and sank back against the couch cushions. “I think he likes you,” she told him. “He’s jealous.”

“What should I do?” Ilya asked.

“Go after him,” she said, pulling out her phone and staring down at it.

“What do I say?”

Sveta smacked Ilya on the forehead, then returned to her texting. “Idiot. Figure it out yourself. Do women have to do everything around here? I’m going to go out with a friend who lives in Montreal and will certainly be less tedious than you. Give me a key to your place.”

Ilya got up and found the spare key for her and then took a deep breath and headed up the stairs to Hollander’s apartment.

“Hollander!” Ilya called and knocked on the door. “Hollander. Shane.”

Hollander opened the door and looked at him. “What?”

“We were going to get dinner,” Ilya reminded him.

“You and Svetlana?” Hollander asked.

“No, us. Me and you,” Ilya said, impatiently.

“I thought you’d want to spend time with your— your friend.”

Ilya shrugged. “I had plans with you before. Sveta is going to hang out with a friend.”

“You don’t have to,” Hollander said.

“What I don’t have to?”

“It’s okay if she’s your girlfriend or whatever,” Hollander said. “I know I’m not… You don’t have to humor me.”

Ilya made an impatient noise and pushed past him into his apartment, rummaging in the cabinets until he found the brown rice and poured two cups into the rice cooker, rinsed it, then filled it up with the right amount of water, slamming the bowl down into the rice cooker and hitting the cook button. It jingled a happy tune.

“There,” he said. “Rice. And what else? You want tofu? Chickpeas? What?”

“If you want to go out with her…” Hollander began.

“I don’t want to go out with her!” Ilya exclaimed, turning to look through the cabinets. “I want to stay here with you and eat your terrible food!”

Hollander stared at Ilya wide-eyed.

“I want to sleep in same bed with you and listen to you talk about stupid thing you read in weird book and play video game with you and not her, okay?” He found a can of chickpeas and slammed it down on the counter. “Sveta is good friend and, yes, sometimes we sleep together but not now. Now I only want…” he took a deep breath and plucked an onion and a head of garlic out of the bowl on the counter.

Hollander had drifted closer, his eyes wide. “Only want what?” he asked, softly.

Ilya closed his eyes for a moment, squeezed them shut. He grabbed the knife from the knife block and started chopping the onion, chopping it terribly, not even peeling it first, the chunks too big and uneven, but Hollander would just have to live with it.

“Ilya,” Hollander said. “Only want what?”

Ilya wiped his face with his sleeve. “What you want? I already say too much.”

Hollander put his hand on Ilya’s, stopped his frantic chopping.

“I only want you,” Hollander said, and Ilya stared at him, the onion bleeding under his hand, his eyes stinging. “I’m sorry, I know you probably don’t, and I don’t even know what it means— I don’t know if I’ve ever felt like this before— but when you kissed her, I felt so…”

“She kissed me,” Ilya corrected, grumpily.

“When she kissed you.” Hollander closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“You never felt this before?”

Hollander shook his head. “I dated a few girls but I never felt… nothing you’re supposed to feel. I thought maybe I only liked hockey.”

This was such a ridiculous statement Ilya had to smile. “Maybe you are gay,” he suggested.

Hollander shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe? It’s not something I ever considered.”

Hollander was such an idiot. Ilya liked him so much.

Ilya lifted his hand to grab Hollander’s neck so he could kiss him and then realized he was still holding a knife. He put it down, then looked at his hands. “I am covered in onion,” he said and turned to wash his hands.

Hollander grabbed the cutting board and scraped the mangled onion into the trash.

They both turned back at the same time.

“Are you?” Hollander asked.

“What?”

“Gay?”

Ilya shrugged. “I like both.”

“You’ve been with a guy before?”

Ilya nodded.

“How did you know?”

Ilya frowned in confusion. He thought there’d be more kissing.

“I want to fuck a guy so I fuck a guy. It is not hard. Who you want to fuck?”

“Nobody until now,” Hollander admitted. “I’ve had sex,” he added, quickly. “I just… didn’t want to?”

Ilya sighed. They were doing this instead, apparently. “Why did you if you did not want to?” he asked.

“I thought I was supposed to,” Hollander admitted.

Hollander was going to kill him. Honestly. Ilya was going to die. He reached out and slid a hand onto Hollander’s chin, cradled his cheek carefully with his hand.

“You make me promise,” he said. “Promise you never sleep with person you do not want to.”

Hollander nodded against Ilya’s hand. “I’m done with that,” he assured Ilya. “But… are you sure you want this? You’re not… I am your captain, and your landlord. I’m not… pressuring you?”

“Hollander,” Ilya said. “Shane. Shanezhka. You are fucking with me.”

Hollander shook his head. “I really don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I promise you I won’t,” Ilya said, and stepped forward, pinning Hollander against the counter. “You are terrible,” he said.

Hollander laughed and pressed back against him. “Yes, Ilyusha?” he asked, looking up through his lashes. “And what are you going to do about it?”

.

Sveta burst into Shane’s apartment mid-morning, dressed in Ilya’s joggers and a t-shirt that hung off one shoulder, hair wrapped up in a scarf.

She stared at them for a moment, Ilya only wearing a pair of Shane’s sweats, just a little small (and therefore making Ilya’s ass look amazing), Shane free-balling in a pair of loose basketball shorts that made Ilya have all sorts of plans for a second (or fourth, depending on how you calculated it) round.

“Ilya Gregorovich Rozanov,” she exclaimed. “I have never in my life seen you eat anything remotely healthy for breakfast. Clearly love changes you.” With this, she flopped herself dramatically into a chair and stole Ilya’s coffee.

Ilya would endure a thousand of Sveta’s taunts if the result was that pleased smile on Shane’s face.

.

Shane grabbed Ilya’s glove before they went out, bumped their foreheads together and grinning at at Ilya through his visor. “They’re gonna love you,” he said, and then smacked Ilya on the ass. Ilya followed J.J. through the tunnel and sailed out onto the ice just as the announcer shouted “and introducing, Ilya Rozanov, 81!”

All around the stadium, the fans went wild.