Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov was a lucky man.
He knew it, and everything around him confirmed it. The wedding band on his finger. The new Porsche, which his husband mercifully had agreed to, was now standing in the garage. And well, the fact that he could piss Shane Hollander off by being his captain and being able to order him around more than usual.
Ilya, even just thinking about it while unpacking groceries in their wonderful, wonderful house, smirked to himself. Shane was at a Reebok photoshoot in Boston today, which Yuna had arranged, and Ilya, as always, loved to mock him about it.
“Oh Mr Sexy, how’s the advertisement going? Did you show your feet?
Ilya didn’t have to wait long for a reply. “I’m proud of your English, babe.”
And the best part was that Shane was still saved in his phone as “Jane.” Scott Hunter had once been outraged when he caught Ilya texting someone named Jane at summer camp, and Ilya — the idiot he was — instead of just saying it was Shane, spent a good half hour seriously convincing him that he was actually cheating on his husband, something that would never even cross his mind.
Babe. When had they become so gross? They were really gross. Ilya had been afraid they would be less gross once they were on the same team, but well, that didn’t happen.
If not that they became more gross. Ilya tried not to favor Shane to the point where he made him do extra laps whenever he was acting up, and sometimes he was afraid that Shane would throw himself at him the way he did at Scott Hunter. Oh, that one was hilarious—like a little rabbit attacking a wolf.
But them being on the same team sometimes ended in hate sex the moment they crossed the house threshold. Ilya would occasionally come up with new plays, like punish Shane for his ’bad behavior’ on the ice and taking him over his knees at home, spanking his ass pink, though what Shane loved most was the praise—how bravely he endured it. And of course, he loved the praise most when Ilya told him what a wonderful player he was, while stroking his dick.
The truth was, Ilya didn’t care that much about hockey lately—he acknowledged to himself that he was at a venerable age for a hockey player—but Shane Hollander was definitely on the list of his priorities. So yes, Ottawa won the Stanley Cup that year, and what mattered most: they kicked the asses of those assholes from Montreal. The fact of having Shane on the team gave Ilya the impression that it made him a better player and captain than ever before, because, well, Ilya might not be interested very much in hockey, but he was interested very much in keeping Shane happy, and Shane liked winning.
Ilya even did these boring grocery runs for him. Salmon, brown rice, and asparagus. After the last one, the piss smelled weird, though Shane claimed he didn’t smell anything. But well, Shane Hollander wasn’t human—Ilya was convinced of that after years of being with him. Maybe a few times, he had caught a whiff of sweat from him, but generally, Ilya wasn’t sure if it was love that had dulled his senses, or if Shane always tasted and smelled incredible.
Shane, fortunately, had relaxed with that stupid diet, but Ilya had promised to both his husband and therapist that he would take better care of his own diet too. The only thing he had smuggled in was butter, which he planned to use to make a sauce. But the perfect Chardonnay was already chilling in the fridge, and Ilya was counting on the evening being nice. Shane had been gone for only two days and he already missed him stupidly. Now Ilya couldn’t understand the times when he could endure months without Shane. What a waste of time. Now he would go back in time and just tell that stupid hockey player—with his weak (okay, okay, better lately) backhand—that he was his boyfriend and that was all.
Ilya’s phone buzzed in the meantime, and he glanced at the display. Mom Yuna.
“Hi,” he answered immediately. If he could be more fucking grateful for anything, it was definitely Yuna and David. He couldn’t understand why Shane was sometimes such a little brat to them because his parents were wonderful. The best.
“Hi, Ilya, what’s up?”
Ilya shrugged. “Unpacking groceries and I’m making today super boring dinner. I have to throw out the Cheetos pack I ate yesterday a few miles from home so Shane won’t know.”
Yuna laughed shortly. “He relaxed with diet anyway, and played better this season!”
”Truth, and I will tell you a secret. He has the best captain ever.”
“I won’t even argue with that... Is he coming back today?”
“Yep. But we will be busy,” Ilya replied in a suggestive tone.
“Ah, you two are impossible!” Yuna exclaimed. “Remind him that he has to wear only Reebok. He wore Pumas last time.”
“He mixed them up with mine,” Ilya said.
“Well, we don’t want them to take away his contract.”
“And when will I have my contract? I want Calvin Klein,” Ilya said.
“I’m working on it,” Yuna said. “And how are you doing?” she asked, as if she hadn’t seen him the day before yesterday at dinner and hadn’t packed him food to go like Ilya would starve until Shane came back. But Ilya knew what she meant.
“Good,” he said, and it was even true. He was good. Sometimes, still this overwhelming feeling of sadness and helplessness came over him, but the meds helped. In fact, he wanted to slowly taper off them, which Shane was absolutely not okay with.
“That’s good. You know that whatever… you can count on us,” Yuna said.
“I know. Thank you.”
“Well, I won’t bother you two today. Have fun,” Yuna said.
“Thanks, we’ll come over for dinner on the weekend, da?” Ilya said, pacing around the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water.
“Da,” Yuna said with a laugh. “Love you, Ilya, bye.”
“Love you… too,” he said, feeling strangely touched. At first, the meds had numbed him a bit, and well, he had wanted to stop them almost right away because he sometimes had problems with those things, and sex was something Ilya Rozanov would never give up in his life, but later everything stabilized. And at least he wasn’t thinking about ending himself anymore. No, in fact, the only thing he wanted was for him and Shane to be healthy and enjoy their happiness for years.
Anya was already wagging her tail, and Ilya remembered that it was probably time for a walk. But during his phone call with Yuna, somebody had probably called him because he had a message. But well, no, it would have asked him to switch phone calls, so maybe it was a blocked contact…
He clicked on the number, wondering whether it was his brother, whom Ilya had indeed blocked—especially after receiving a series of very vulgar messages following the wedding with Shane. But it wasn’t Andrei. It was… Sergei Abdrazakov. His first agent after arriving in the United States was a friend of his father’s, which in itself was an excellent reason why Ilya had ended that collaboration years ago. But what could he possibly want from him now? He hadn’t contacted Ilya in years, and their parting had been rather cold, but Sergei had been a shitty agent. True, he had arranged that photoshoot with Shane that Ilya had wanted, but apart from that…
He wrestled with himself whether to call back or not, but maybe it was something about his family? Ilya didn’t give a fuck about Andrei, but he still had a daughter whom Ilya regretted he couldn’t have better contact with, and if something had happened—no matter how he felt about his stupid brother—he would react.
Sighing loudly and saying to Anya, “Go,” while putting her leash on, Ilya decided to leave the house and temporarily unblock the contact. He dialed the number, and after a few rings the call was answered, and he heard a hard Russian “Hello” in the receiver.
“Hi, it’s Ilya. You called me. What did you want?” Ilya didn’t beat around the bush. He was sure Sergei was already turning red at not hearing any polite forms, but Ilya had no intention of groveling before anyone the way he used to before his father.
He heard a clearing of the throat on the other end. “Ilya, how are you?”
“Good. Very good,” Ilya said.
“Good. You’re probably wondering why I’m calling.”
“Not at all,” Ilya said, crossing the street toward the nearby park.
“Of course. I don’t know how to tell you this… can we meet?”
Ilya snorted. “What for?” he asked. “And I’m in Ottawa.”
“I know. The news about your… Well, the relationship is quite… loud.”
“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” Ilya asked innocently.
“I’ll get to the point,” Sergei said dryly. “Do you remember when I was your agent?”
“Yes,” Ilya replied quickly. “Do you want to give me back the money for wasted time? I accept checks.”
“I’m in Ottawa now. I came with papers because I have to tell you something.”
Did Sergei also have dementia like Ilya’s father? Ilya sighed. Why was he being so weird?
“Run around a bit, Anya, I’ll join you soon,” he muttered to the dog in English, letting her off the leash, and then said louder into the phone, “Sergei, what the hell is this about? What papers?”
Another sigh. “Ilya, and… I feel bad about it, I want you to know. That I agreed.”
“What is this about?” Ilya repeated, with more irritation.
“Do you remember a woman named Hayley Scott?”
Something lit up in Ilya’s head. He remembered her—the one with freckles. And nice tits and ass and pussy, but Shane didn’t need to know that. She had charming dimples in her cheeks, and to this day he remembered her eyes, not knowing why. Maybe because she had sad eyes, empty eyes, the kind Ilya sometimes had. Not anymore, though.
Was she going to sue him for sexual harassment? Sweat broke out on his forehead. He was sure he had never harassed anyone; he always asked for consent multiple times, but someone could accuse him anyway.
“What about her?” Ilya asked.
“She died,” Sergei said. Ilya froze. He didn’t see her for years, obviously, but it was sad. How did he even know? Hayley was very young, younger than Ilya.
”How?” Ilya asked instinctively.
”Car accident,” Sergei replied. How tragic, Ilya thought. Since his almost plane crash, he was somehow afraid of such things.
“Oh,” Ilya said. ”I’m very sorry. Can I send flowers to her family or something?”
“Well, the problem is she… She doesn’t have a family. Maybe besides one person. Her son.”
She had a son? Ilya didn’t think so; he had visited her a few times at home, and they snorted cocaine off the counter. And once he snorted it off her… Would Shane agree? No, Shane wouldn’t even agree to snort sugar from there. No, why were such disgusting thoughts coming to Ilya’s head when someone had died?
“That’s bad. Can I send him money?”
“Yes, probably you will need to. Because… The problem is,” Sergei said, “he’s also your son, Ilya.”
Ilya stopped in the middle of the park, and now Anya was jumping in front of him with a stick, but he didn’t see or hear anything anymore.
His who? No, Sergei was joking. Or he lost his marbles. Anyway, something was wrong with him. But Ilya couldn’t make himself speak anything in reply, nor move.
“Now do you want to meet?”