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Of course Ilya had known that Shane would come back but it was gratifying, still, the text from Jane, Can we meet up when you’re here tomorrow, I don’t care where. I really need to see you. The intimation, probably accidental, that Shane was so very desperate he was open to the idea of Ilya fucking him in the street. Ilya typed and deleted many potential replies, which was not characteristic of him. He googled “shane hollander rose landry,” just out of curiosity, but the gossip pages were still full of breathless delight that these two handsome young people were being heterosexual together. Just the evening before they’d been papped leaving a restaurant, Rose shielding her face, laughing, Shane putting his jacket around her shoulders. Shane’s face was pleased-embarrassed-annoyed all at once, which was an expression he had often worn when looking at Ilya. But that had been private.
Ilya flicked back to his text thread with Jane. I will come to your house after the game, he wrote. ok if landry is there, she can watch. Sent.
Desjourneys wanted to try something new, and so rookie Joseph Leitner was on Ilya’s line against Montreal. Ilya didn’t believe in God but accepted Leitner’s presence by his side on the bench as evidence that God wanted him to suffer. Or perhaps God simply hated the Raiders and realised that Ilya’s death by boredom would mean an end to their Cup hopes. Leitner talked endlessly, stupid observations and questions and chirp attempts, while Ilya ignored him and stared out at the ice and waited for their next shift.
Hollander was playing very well, which could have meant anything. Yes, in the past Ilya had noticed that good sex seemed to elevate Shane’s game. But so could many other things. Perhaps he had further refined his stupid perfectionist diet, or started working with a new trainer. He wasn’t necessarily having the time of his life fucking Rose Landry, just because he was skating like a demon and making assists so good the resulting goals felt inevitable.
Leitner said, “Whew, is Hollsy PMSing tonight or what? He’s wilding the fuck out.”
This was an idiotic exaggeration. Ilya turned to his linemate and said, voice entirely flat, “What is ‘PMSing’?”
“Uh,” Leitner said. “C’mon Roz, you know.”
“I do not know.”
“It’s like, when a girl is all angry because she's about to get her, uh. You know.” Ilya waited. “Her period,” Leitner muttered.
Ilya let an uncomfortable little pause stretch and grow loud. He said, “I do not think you can tell if a girl is about to get her period from how she plays hockey.”
“Okay.”
“Is fine,” Ilya said. “One day you will talk to a woman, and then you will be less stupid about these things.” He thought this through, and added, “Maybe.”
Leitner was blissfully quiet for the next minute. And then the whole stadium was in an uproar, because Shane was grappling on the ice with Richards, one of Ilya’s best defencemen. Shane—Shane Hollander—was dropping his gloves and ploughing his fist into Richards’ stomach, once, twice. Being pulled back by a ref and struggling against the hold, trying to get back to the fight. “Holy shit, he’s an animal,” Leitner said, and then shot a wide-eyed glance at Ilya. But Ilya was focussed on Shane. Fighting was very uncharacteristic for him. Richards must have said something, but what? The thought of Shane defending Rose Landry's honour on the ice twisted something in Ilya’s stomach, but the other possibilities weren't exactly better.
Mercifully, there was no sign of Landry in Shane’s apartment when Ilya let himself in. There was no sign of Shane, either, but when Ilya called out “Hollander?” there was a muffled answering call from the couch. Ilya walked over and found Shane lying on it, with a cushion over his face.
It was difficult, sometimes, to enter into the Hollander mind. Ilya found himself staring at the cushion as if the weave of its cover might perhaps provide insight. “Thank you,” he said at last.
Shane removed the cushion. “What?” It looked like he had been crying, which meant the joke Ilya had been going to make (“Thank you for getting in stupid fight so I can score on the power play”) wasn’t going to work.
“Never mind. You are hurt?” He sat down on the edge of the couch, his hip wedged against Shane’s waist.
“Just my knuckles, mostly.”
“Hm.” Ilya drew his thumb along Shane’s hairline, avoiding the swelling radiating out around his left eye. “Next time you want to injure yourself beating up one of my teammates, I suggest Joseph Leitner. Very annoying. Talks too much.”
“Thanks for the tip.” Shane sounded grumpy, but he turned his face towards Ilya’s hand. He'd rejected Ilya, walked out of his house and thrown the whole world out of balance: but now he wanted Ilya's touch again. Ilya let himself relax into the magnificent relief of it.
They fucked on the couch, face to face, which was horrible for leverage and generally not particularly comfortable for Ilya—there wasn’t enough room for his arms, it felt like he was on the verge of falling off the whole time—but was what Shane seemed to want: to be blanketed by Ilya’s body, all of Ilya’s weight resting on him, stupid little grinding shallow thrusts all Ilya could give in this position but Shane took them so beautifully, eyes closed, hurt little sounds falling out of his mouth. He came quickly, which maybe wasn’t surprising with his dick sandwiched between their bodies. Ilya, wallowing against the couch cushions and aching from a bad hit in the third period, wasn’t even close. He kissed Shane’s neck and pulled out, got the condom off. “Let me,” Shane said, “I want to.” He slid off the sofa onto his knees.
“Hollander, my cock will taste of latex. You hate this.”
“I don’t care,” Shane said. “It’s my mouth.” He glared up as if he needed Ilya’s latex-flavoured dick in his mouth right that fucking moment in order to live.
Ilya said “Fine,” and got his hands into Shane’s hair. Pulled him close and fucked his mouth, not gently, because that was not what Shane needed. He was very beautiful with his eyes full of tears and his lips spit-slick around Ilya’s dick, hands clamped onto Ilya’s thighs like he wanted to leave bruises. Ilya said stupid things as he came, but they were all in Russian.
Afterwards he pulled Shane back onto the couch and arranged them so Shane’s head was resting on his lap and he could pet his hair and look at his face. “So why crying,” he said. “Richards, he said something to you?”
Shane shook his head impatiently.
“Okay.” Ilya did not particularly enjoy trying to be psychic, but he soldiered on. “You had fight with Rose Landry? Or maybe, you feel guilty because you are cheating on her with bootylicious Russian sex god.”
“Where did you even—you know what, no. Fuck you, Rozanov, I’m not cheating on Rose.”
Interesting. “Not what the internet would think.”
“‘The internet’ is wrong, okay? Rose and I are just friends.” Shane turned his face into Ilya’s thigh; winced as he caught his bad eye. He mumbled, “It helps us both right now if it looks like we’re in a relationship, that’s all.”
An ugly exultant feeling began beating in Ilya’s chest. Shane and Rose weren’t really together. Shane wasn’t having sex with Rose, Shane didn’t have feelings for Rose. It was possible that Ilya had not in fact fucked things up forever. “Okay,” he said, tracing the shell of Shane’s ear with a fingertip. “So why sad? Why attack my nice D-man tonight? ”
Shane said, “You’re going to think I’m so fucking stupid.”
“Mm, no. I will not think that. Just tell me, Shane.”
“I,” Shane said. It was clearly killing him, trying to get the words out. “I, after we. After I saw you in the club, I.”
“Yes? Is all right, Shane. Whatever you did.”
“I wanted to hook up with another guy,” Shane said. Ilya noticed that he didn't feel rabid with jealousy at the thought of this the way he did at the idea of Shane with Rose, and set the observation aside for later. “To see if I liked it, or—I was pretty nervous, so I kept putting it off, but last week I went out to this bar—to a bar for, um. And then I freaked out, and I was going to leave, but this guy started talking to me.” For the first time since starting his stuttering haltering explanation, he turned his face and looked up at Ilya. “I thought he was nice,” he said beseechingly.
Before his illness Ilya's father had been violent when he was angry: punching walls, shouting, throwing objects. He never hit Ilya or Alexei or Irina but the threat implied by his violence had lived in the walls of their apartment, hovered over every tense conversation. Ilya had promised himself that he would never be like that. It was very important to Ilya that he never be like that. He linked his hand with Shane’s and brought Shane’s hand to his mouth and kissed his bruised knuckles, so gently. He said, “This man was not good to you?”
“He didn’t—” Shane said. “We went back to his apartment, and he said—he wanted me to wait in the living room, while he set things up. To make them nice, he said. When he took me into the bedroom there were candles, and I thought—I gave him a fake name. He said he didn’t follow hockey.”
Ilya was not his father and even when he had to remind himself of this it did not mean he was his father. He bent down and kissed Shane—a terrible angle, but the kiss was a small good thing to set against the buzzing roar at the back of his skull. “So. There are photographs?”
“Yeah,” Shane said miserably. “You can see my face, it’s—it’s really bad, Ilya.”
“Okay. What is he called, this fucker?”
“Tyler. Or that’s what he said, I don’t know if that’s his real name.”
Once all this was sorted Ilya was going to sit his lover down and explain how to safely pull strangers as a famous person—step one, don’t start by going to a fucking gay bar and waiting to be picked up—but this was not the moment for it. “When did he last contact you?”
“Yesterday. Just before I texted you. He wants to talk tomorrow evening.”
Ilya nodded. “Show me. Did you give him your number?”
“No!” Shane said, as if the very suggestion of such naivety was insulting. “I have a backup email address that’s not in my name. I didn't know, obviously—I thought things went okay, and. I thought he wanted to see me again."
Ilya wanted very strongly to punch something. His sweet Shane, hoping for a second date. But all he said was, “Okay. Show me email.”
Shane pulled up the email on his phone and handed it to Ilya.
Hey, Shane -
I know, you told me your name was Sean, but let’s not fuck around, right? I had a great time with you last week. Photos came out super well, have a look.
Don’t worry, I have zero interest in blowing up your spot. The media would have a fucking field day with these pics but if we work together we can make sure everything stays safe and private. Let’s meet to discuss. Wednesday evening, Bar Kâlice, 10pm. I know you’re in town, I checked the Metros schedule ;)
Best,
Tyler
There were several files attached to the email, which Ilya did not open. “This fucking loser asshole,” he said. His chest felt tight. “This motherless little shit. I’ll fucking kill him, I’ll kill his family. How dare he write to you like that, so fucking smug, little winking face asshole motherfucker—”
“Ilya,” Shane said. “Ilya, I don’t—you have to speak English.” He sat up on the couch and put his hands on Ilya’s shoulders, as if Ilya was the one who needed comforting. “Ilya, it’s okay.”
“It is not okay, Hollander.”
“I mean.” Shane’s face did something that made Ilya’s chest ache. “Yeah, it’s not, and my career is probably over, but. Maybe if I pay the guy off? I can afford to try it, at least.”
“You will not pay him anything.” Ilya didn’t know the English word for leech. “Assholes like this, they are never satisfied. If you pay him once you will pay your whole life. No.” He kissed the side of Shane’s face, next to his unbruised eye, and said, “Will you let me take care of this for you?” Shane looked at him doubtfully. “Please, sweetheart?”
“Ilya.” Shane sounded despairing, but he nodded. Yes, okay, yes.
The interior of Bar Kâlice the next evening confirmed Ilya in his initial assessment that they were dealing with someone quite stupid. Crowded, noisy, dark: you wouldn’t be able to record anything here. One worry to set aside, at least.
It took him a minute to spot Tyler, because Shane’s description had not been very illuminating. “Uh, tall, I guess? Kind of built? White, with glasses and a beard?” There were fifty men like that here. But only one sitting by himself, phone on the table, looking expectantly up every time someone walked by him.
He wasn’t bad-looking. A little bit pointy-faced. Good shoulders. Ilya wouldn’t personally have fucked him, but he could see why Shane might have.
Ilya did a circuit of the bar. He didn’t buy a drink. He scrolled through his phone: everything ready. Then he walked up behind the blackmailer and bent down and murmured “Tyler?” Tyler jumped, which was more satisfying than it should have been, and twisted to stare at him.
“Holy shit. Are you—Ilya Rozanov?”
Ilya was actually doing his best not to look like himself. He had his hair shoved up under an unbranded baseball cap and his cross necklace tucked under his t-shirt, and he was wearing an ugly black blazer he’d borrowed from Shane.
“No. Mistake,” he said casually. “I am not anyone you know.”
“Okay?” Tyler looked confused, which was good. “Why—how do you even know my name?”
Ilya bared his teeth in a smile and sat down at the table. “I know many things, Tyler. I am here representing my client John Smith. You emailed him to set up this meeting.”
Tyler, who was clearly gunning to get himself recategorised in Ilya’s mind from quite to very stupid, said, “I don’t know any John Smiths. Wait. Are you talking about Sh—”
“I am talking about John Smith, yes,” Ilya said. Tyler’s eyes widened. Finally, some neurons firing. Ilya smiled again. “I am Mr Smith’s legal representative.”
“Okay, nobody’s breaking the law, here.” Tyler’s voice got a little aggressive, a little whiny. “I’m just a good samaritan, all right? I’m looking after some of—of Mr Smith’s property. Keeping it safe for him.”
A toad, a rat, a liar. Ilya wanted to knock him down. “Property, ” he said encouragingly. “You mean photos.”
“Yeah,” Tyler said. He hesitated and added, “Video, too.”
Very stupid. A smarter man would have held that in reserve. But Ilya simply nodded, as if he had known about the video already. “Mr Smith wants his property back. All of it.”
“Well.” Tyler was on more confident ground here. For the first time since Ilya had approached him he smiled. Ilya could admit it was a handsome one. Probably he had never spat blood after a fight and realised from the way it felt leaving his mouth that a tooth was leaving with it. He said, “We can work something out, sure. But I’m not running a charity here. I need to be paid for my efforts.”
“Of course,” Ilya agreed, very polite. “How much?”
Tyler took in a fortifying breath. “Five hundred thousand dollars. ‘Mr Smith’ gives me the money, I hand everything over. Photos, videos, the whole thing.”
Five hundred thousand! And of course if Shane paid it would end being more than that, he would have to keep paying forever. There was no way this lying sack of shit would actually give up everything he had. But Ilya pretended to consider. “Hm,” he said. “Canadian dollars or US?”
Tyler’s forehead furrowed. He wasn’t handsome at all when his face was like that. “Uh, I guess Canadian, but—”
“I am fucking with you,” Ilya explained. “You don’t have to answer. Better if you don’t.” He took a long swallow from Tyler’s beer. It tasted bad, flat and sour. Canadian piss drink.
“Hey, that’s my beer,” Tyler said. He sounded aggrieved, but he didn’t try to take the glass back.
“It was your beer,” Ilya informed him. “Now it is mine. Things can change so quickly. Have you ever noticed this?” He looked Tyler up and down. “Perhaps not. I think you are not an observant man.”
Tyler was sweating, cheeks flushed. The crowded bar was warm but Ilya was comfortable, in Shane’s ugly blazer. “All right, asshole, listen here,” Tyler said. “I know what I have, and I know what it’ll mean for ‘Mr Smith’ if I go to the tabloids.”
Ilya ignored this entirely and continued his earlier remarks. “For example, I do not think you have noticed that I am Russian.”
Tyler stared at him, mouth sagging slightly open. Again, not attractive.
“The clues are subtle,” Ilya said, with sympathy. “I have these handsome slavic features, but the bar is very dark. Maybe you do not see them. And I have a small, a very small accent. If you listen hard maybe you will hear it now. Are you ready? I. Am. Russian. And I am connected to so many of my countrymen. Almost like… a brotherhood, you might call it.” He grinned. “Mr Smith, my client, he is our friend. Under our protection. You understand?”
Tyler said, “Are you fucking serious?”
“Hm,” Ilya said. “It was difficult for your teachers when you were in school, yes? Let me see if I can help you.” He took out his phone and opened the folder of images he had carefully curated earlier. Selected the first one; turned the screen so Tyler could see it. “Does this make things clearer for you?”
It was a disgusting and upsetting image. Ilya was relying quite heavily on Tyler’s not having seen the television show Hannibal, from which he had sourced it. A gamble, certainly, but Shane had said there was no television in his apartment.
Tyler, staring at Ilya’s phone, pleasingly blanched. A credit to NBC’s production designers. “But that’s—what the fuck—that’s—is that real?”
Ilya looked at the screen himself. “Yes,” he said. “This is not my work, you understand. But my friends, they are so… creative.” He flicked to the next image. “I know what you are thinking, because you are a stupid little rat with a stupid predictable little rat brain. So here, this next photo, have a good look.” Tyler looked. “This is someone who tried to go to the police,” Ilya said. “The Canadian police, I mean. In Russia, little different. My father is police, my brother is police. They are strong men. But here, in this silly soft country? I would not go to the police here, if I were you. They cannot protect you.”
Tyler’s gaze was darting all around, frantic. He was waiting for someone to pop up and tell him it was all a joke, maybe. You’ve been pranked. But no one came. “Look,” he said eventually, “this is a big misunderstanding. I never wanted to hurt Mr Smith in any way. I was just kidding around, okay? Just some banter, I obviously never expected him to actually pay me—”
“My client does not enjoy your banter,” Ilya said softly. “But he is a reasonable man. He is willing to let you fix things.”
Relief and suspicion warred on Tyler’s ratlike little face.
“I need you to explain exactly where the photos and videos are stored. Best to think thoroughly.”
“Flash drive in my pocket.”
“And?”
Tyler swallowed. “Backup flash drive in my apartment.”
“Good. Anywhere else? Laptop, phone? Camera memory?”
“No, I—I transferred everything to the flash drives and then deleted it.”
Ilya woke his phone screen and flicked to the next photo. “Someone who gave information, but not full information,” he explained. “Thought oh so clever, holding something back.”
“I’m not, I swear! It’s just those two drives!”
He sounded scared enough. Ilya nodded. “Okay. Give me flash drive from pocket.”
Tyler did, dropping it into Ilya’s hand almost sulkily.
“Good. Now we will go to your apartment and get second drive.”
“No! Look, I’ll send it to you. I don’t want—”
“You think I give a fuck what you want?” Ilya stood up. “Stop wasting my fucking time. Let’s go.”
Tyler was jumpy, walking through the streets of Montreal with Ilya. He kept inhaling as if he was about to speak and then not saying anything. “I’m a good person,” he said eventually.
Ilya snorted. “Oh, yes.”
“I just wanted a down payment for a house.”
“Half million dollar down payment,” Ilya said. “Very nice house.” He could see Tyler’s neck flushing where it met his beard.
“It’s not—I just thought, when am I ever going to get this chance again, you know?”
“‘This chance.’ To blackmail someone for being gay.”
“I’ve had a lot of challenges in my life, too.” Tyler’s voice had taken on a whiny, resentful edge. Definitely he couldn’t have sounded like this when he was with Shane, or Shane would never have fucked him. “My mom is sick—”
Ilya said, “Shut up before I break all your teeth.” Tyler shut up. They walked on in silence for several more minutes.
Tyler’s building wasn’t anything that would’ve impressed Mr Real Estate. Blocky, ugly, small windows. Neither was the apartment itself. Small, low ceilings. Landlord-issue paint and blinds. Thinking of Shane having been there, Shane waiting in the little living room while Tyler fucked around in the bedroom, setting up a camera, planning to ruin his life, Ilya’s anger felt almost too large for his body to contain. He could understand his father, maybe: understand the urge to throw something, just to let some of the feeling out.
Tyler got the second flash drive out from a desk drawer and handed it to Ilya with a mutinous look. “Okay? Are we good now?”
“No. Give me your phone.”
“Look, I told you, I deleted everything. I’ve got personal shit on my phone, man.”
Ilya laced his fingers together and stretched his hands, one way then the other, cracking the knuckles. Tyler, clearly full of loathing for large Russian men in general and Ilya in particular, handed his phone over. Ilya did a thorough search of every app that might conceivably contain pictures of or messages about Shane. A hidden folder called “private” was promising, but contained only some very poorly composed photos of Tyler with his dick out. Evidently no one had ever explained to him about foreshortening.
As expected, Tyler’s email outbox contained the message he’d sent to Shane. Ilya deleted it, then emptied the deleted emails folder. He gave the phone back. “Okay. Laptop next.”
“There’s nothing on my fucking laptop either!”
“Good news for you. Let me look.” The same routine with Tyler’s laptop. Nothing there. Ilya finished his search and gently closed the laptop lid.
“Great,” Tyler said. “No offence, but can you leave now?”
“Not quite,” Ilya said. “I want to see your camera.”
Tyler clearly wanted to lose his temper, but was too afraid of Ilya to do it. “Why? I swear to god, I deleted the photos from it.”
Ilya said, “Professional interest.”
Tyler hesitated, but some instinct for self-preservation won out, and he went into the bedroom. The camera, when retrieved from the back of his closet, was revealed to be a small cheap model, easy enough to hide. As promised, there were no photos or videos of Shane in its memory. Ilya examined it closely, then threw it onto the ground and smashed it with his heel. He had worn dress shoes rather than sneakers specifically for this purpose, and felt grimly pleased with his own foresight.
“Hey!” Tyler yelped. “What the fuck? That’s my fucking camera!”
“No,” Ilya said. He gave the mangled corpse of the camera a few more stamps. “It was your fucking camera. Now it is little gift to you, to keep you safe. You can look at this sad smashed pile of junk and say: Tyler, whatever you are thinking of trying, bad idea. Not worth it.”
Tyler swallowed.
Ilya did one more thing. Then he said, “I am going now. If I have to think about you ever again you will regret it very much,” and left.
He got a cab back to Shane’s apartment. It was a little worrying, how much he had enjoyed destroying the camera. Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov, truly his father’s son. He had savoured the shock on Tyler’s face. Tyler’s fear that he might do something worse. He wondered if it made a difference that Tyler was not part of his family, if that mattered at all. He wondered if he might someday be able to discuss the matter with Shane. Shane, my beloved, you grew up in a functional family. Does my capacity for violence frighten you?
The cab driver kept looking at him in the rear view mirror. Eventually he said, “Hey, you look kind of like Ilya Rozanov.”
“Thank you,” Ilya said. “I am best Rozanov impersonator in Montreal. Can hire me for parties, $20 an hour. For $30 I bring my buddy Shane Hollander.”
“Uh, you know what, I’m good,” the driver said, and stopped staring.
He let himself back into Shane’s apartment and found Shane himself pacing around the kitchen, clearly panicking. “Hey,” Ilya said, wrapping his arms around Shane, drawing him in close. “Hey, is okay. Everything is sorted. All fixed.”
Shane pulled back and said disbelievingly, “Are you serious?”
“Very serious. He had the photos saved on two flash drives. I have them now.”
“But—Ilya, the email he sent.”
“I deleted that too. And I checked his camera, and his laptop.”
Shane nodded, but didn’t relax. Ilya took his phone out. “I got little insurance policy, also. Here.” He hit play on the video he’d recorded just before leaving Tyler’s apartment.
Tyler stood alone in the frame, staring twitchily at the camera. “My name is Tyler Petterson, and I’m a piece of shit,” he said. “I had sex with a closeted man and secretly recorded it so I could blackmail him. I understand that if I ever try to contact him again this video will be sent to my employer and family.” He was crying a little bit. Not enough, not nearly enough, but it was something.
“Holy shit,” Shane said. His face had gone so full of bright relief that looking at it almost hurt. “Thank you. Is that weird to say? It feels like not enough. But. Thank you.”
“No big deal,” Ilya said.
Shane nodded and flinched his gaze away, a cue he was about to say something he considered deeply mortifying. Knowing Shane, anything might qualify. Ilya waited. “I just—Didn't Boston have a game tonight?”
Ah. Ilya had been wondering when he would mention that. “Yes. We lost 5-3 to the Panthers. Embarrassing for us.”
Shane said, “But—you missed the game, Ilya.” Ilya had to kiss him, then. But he was not to be deterred. “What did you tell your team?”
Ilya contemplated Shane’s lovely face. To leap or not to leap, to speak or be silent. But perhaps Ilya had already spoken, with what he’d done.
In the end, he took the coward’s path and said, “I told them I had emergency. Personal situation. Back for next game.” It was nearly the truth. Emergency vs family emergency. Just a one-word difference, but it was an important word. A word for another day, perhaps.
Shane said, “Well, thank you,” and Ilya, as restrained and prudent as any monk, did not say I love you, I love you, can you tell, do you love me. “Um, there’s something I want to ask you, and, uh. I want to ask you now, not when we’ve just had sex. So you know it’s not just about sex.”
Very clear Shane-logic. Ilya felt full-up with affection, bursting with it. “Ask me quickly, then,” he said, hooking a heel behind Shane’s foot, pulling him in closer.
“Will you come to my cottage this summer,” Shane said, too quickly, words running together. It was clear he had rehearsed the question; equally clear he was nervous. “Don’t go to Russia. Come to my house. We could have a week there, or even two—”
Ilya wanted more than a week or two: but it was a start. "Yes," he said, "yes, okay, yes."