Work Text:
Where in the world is Ilya Rozanov?
He is not in his fucking hotel room, that’s for fucking sure, and it’s past curfew, and Cliff is going to have to cover for him again. Goddamn. Second time this month, but at least the last time Rozy had told him where he was going – or at least, Cliff got the picture when they caught each other’s eye from opposite ends of the bar, a Certified Grade A hottie plastered to Rozy’s front and nipping at his earlobe. Cliff had his own pressing matter to attend to anyway, a matter with long blonde curls and insane fucking tits in a hot little leopard print number that was driving him crazy, so he just flipped Rozy the finger and then a thumbs up in quick succession.
Marly
[11:32 pm] bro im going tf to bed, if ur not here by midnight ur on your own
They like coming to Canada because here they can drink in bars without having to resort to subterfuge, begging and in a few cases, outright bribery, but they don’t usually go out in Montreal, on account of not being particularly welcome in the world’s foremost Hockey Mecca. It is all kind of stupid, if you ask Cliff, because most guys in the league are actually cool with each other and he supposes the Raiders v Metros rivalry is played up for, what, ticket sales? As if Montreal needs to sell more tickets, but whatever. They’re all professionals. Professionals who get paid, like, a shit-ton of money to act tough on the ice and more or less normal off it. Sometimes it gets a little heated, yes, obviously, Cliff’s just a man, and Rozy does tend to take his weirdo nemesis thing with Hollander pretty seriously, but overall, they can leave it behind at the end of a game. You never know when you’re gonna get traded and have to play on a line with the guy whose mother you called a two-buck slut in a game last week, so it’s like, whatever. Water under the bridge.
But Montreal is different. They take hockey really, really, really seriously here. It’s not like Boston where you’re competing for popular favour with the fucking Red Sox and the Celtics, nevermind the goddamn Patriots. Sure, the Raiders are hot shit, but in Montreal, every other person is wearing Metros merch. There are billboards all over the city with Shane Hollander’s face on them. Themed souvenir shops filled with off-brand Metros trinkets and unofficial unlicensed jerseys. There are songs about the team, movies, documentaries, entire urban legends about their haunted former arena. Playing here is like nowhere else – it’s a goddamn phenomenon. Practically a religion. And Raiders are, for some long-forgotten reason, personae non grata. The fact that people even recognize their faces here outside of their helmets says enough. This would never happen in Phoenix.
What has happened in Phoenix, however, is Rozy being late for curfew. And Philadelphia, and Detroit, and New York, and Miami, and one particularly memorable time in Washington where they both showed up way past midnight, still a little drunk, definitely worse for wear. How were they supposed to know the girl was going to drag them all the way to fucking Virginia for a threesome? That one earned them a pretty serious dressing down from Coach when they slinked into the lobby of their Marriott just two hours before their flight was scheduled to take off. Still, Cliff has no regrets. That was a great fucking night.
Marly
[11:37 pm] haha remember dc in october, that shit was crazy. who knew u dont have to go to paris to see the eiffel tower
Marly
[11:41 pm] im gonna kill u in ur sleep if u dont get back soon
Rozy
[11:42 pm] slow ur fuckin horse im on my way. asshole
Marly
[11:42 pm] u dont even speak french where the duck do u go in mtl
Marly
[11:42 pm] fuck**
Rozy
[11:45 pm] dont have to speak french to see eiffel tower either
That ducking fog.
–
Where in the world is Ilya Rozanov?
He’s not at his house, though Svetlana doesn’t hesitate to let herself in anyway and drop her suitcase and carry-on at the front entrance before investigating the empty house. She’s exhausted after twenty hours of flight time and one three-hour layover in Abu Dhabi where she didn’t even have time to leave the airport to stretch her legs outside. All she wants to do is wash off the funk of sweat and recycled air off her, eat a fucking Pop-tart or something terrifically American, and have easy, lazy sex before falling asleep in Ilya’s extremely expensive bed, but he is not here. The house is spotless, and smells like pine trees and bleach, but that’s nothing new. His cleaner was probably here earlier, and everything is in its place, though at this time of night, she would expect him to have come home and made some kind of mess by now.
She pokes her head through the door that leads to the garage and turns on the lights, counting quickly. Every car accounted for, and sparkling. This, at least, she knows is his doing. He is meticulous with his cars, spending hours each week babying them, polishing and buffing and shining. He goes through microfiber cloths like most people go through paper towels – a new one for each vehicle, at each step of the detailing process. Terrible for the environment, of course, but Ilya doesn’t give a shit about that. Nothing but the best for his prized possessions.
Even what he does not possess, Ilya handles with the utmost care. This is something she appreciates about him, and maybe she is the only one who sees this. There is a lot, she thinks, that nobody else sees. He fucks other women, but he fucks them so well they forget they are one of many. He resents his brother, but he does not let his niece starve. He plays a rough game, but he does not play it dirty. He razzes other players, riles them up until they are frothing at the mouth to fight, but never with anything too personal, never anything that could bring them to their knees. Though, and this she knows best of all, he could. He could be callous. She has seen him be it. He catalogues weaknesses like he takes advantage of strengths, which is to say so deftly and quietly nobody notices he’s done it at all. Nobody but her. After all, he learned from the best.
On paper this makes them a matched pair. In practice that doesn’t mean much. They tried to live together once when they first came to Boston, to make a go of it, for real. It was good for six months, then it got spectacularly bad. The problem is they are both too possessive and too flighty – try to figure that one out. She brought home a hook-up one night, and he got pissed and went out and did the same, then they did it again, and it turned into a vicious psychosexual game of Tag. Childish. Spiteful. Whatever flame they’d been harbouring for each other since they were kids was quickly blown out. Still, the embers are there, and maybe they could be fanned into catching again, but for now, it is all just smoke. And occasionally, a good, familiar fuck.
They love each other. How could they not? They know the same people, the same places, the same language, the same jokes. He is so cutting and funny – she delights in it every time. It is easy to love each other, just not easy to only love each other. Better to have, but not to hold. Separate houses where she does not have to pick up his socks everywhere and he does not have to follow behind her and close cabinet doors she’s left open. Though, and he insisted on this, they have each other’s door codes and are welcome at any time, unless one or the other requests no disturbance, the equivalent of leaving a sock hanging on the doorknob of a college dorm room. He has a toothbrush at her apartment and she has one at his house. This has led to disagreements with some of her former flings, but as soon as it becomes an issue, she knows it’s time to find another, like a built-in asshole detector. If a man can’t accept her relationship with Ilya, then he is not the man for her.
It is strange, though, about him not being home. Gone to meet with a hook-up, maybe, but he would never turn down the chance to show off one of his cars to a potential fuck. Unless he was going somewhere sleazy where he wouldn’t want to be recognized, but that too, is unlike him. Ilya loves to be known. Remembered. Or rather, not forgotten. He has been forgotten before. He does not want it to happen again. This is a secret he is keeping from himself, Sveta thinks, and probably will forever.
They played today, a relentless push of a game she watched the highlights of in her Uber here, but Boston lost, thanks to a sick last minute backhand shot from Hollander off the smoothest spinorama she’s seen in years. So likely Ilya isn’t out celebrating, but he hasn’t been back here since the game ended, and he didn’t drive himself to the stadium.
Svetlana
[12:31 am] Вас похитили? У меня нет денег на выкуп.
She lets herself into the bathroom off Ilya’s bedroom, where she keeps her things. He has a drawer for her, and he keeps it stocked with her favourite lotions, hair oils, tampons, lube, razors, soap. He has never asked which products she likes, but he keeps track of things like these. She is impossibly fond of him.
Ilya
[12:34 am] Не жди меня. Спокойной ночи)
Ah. So he will not tell her.
As she steps into the shower her exhaustion hits her all at once. This is a mystery for another time, a sharper mind. And she knows, as well as she knows Ilya Rozanov, that she will get the truth of it. Eventually.
–
Where in the world is Ilya Rozanov?
And would it fucking kill him to answer his goddamn phone for once? It’s afternoon in Boston, for fuck’s sake. Ilya is ignoring them and he doesn’t care, the goddamn little shit, he doesn’t care about them at all. Piece of shit baby brother who had everything handed to him. He has no fucking clue what it’s like to have to work for a living, no idea what it’s like out in the real world.
What a life Ilya leads. What an easy, lazy life. Alexei has seen the articles and the photos, the ones with the awards, the women, the cars. Despicable, if you ask him, when his family is struggling like this, what with Father slipping further into forgetfulness and irrelevance every day and the cost of food and rent and everything going up so. If anyone were to take him up on it, Alexei would bet that Ilya doesn’t even know what a loaf of bread even costs these days, but no one is stupid enough to take that bet, not when everyone knows about the fancy apartment Ilya pays for in full at the start of each year just so he can spend a month there every summer, and even then, most of the time he is out training or drinking or whatever the fuck he does with his money that isn’t taking care of his family. The spoiled, rich brat.
All for playing a game. The worst of it is, the real kick in the balls of it all, is that Alexei was pretty good at hockey too. Probably would have been great, if he’d been given the same opportunities as Ilya, if goddamn Minister Vetrov had noticed Alexei first. But no, it had to be his arrogant asshole of a brother, who was always running around with Vetrov’s little half-breed daughter and Coach Medvedev’s little faggy son. Of course Vetrov paid attention, given that. Keep your enemies close, keep the cocky teenager who deflowered your daughter and protégé’s son closer.
Christ. What a loser. No concept of propriety whatsoever. Alexei once found them drinking behind the neighbourhood church, if you can believe that. He was 20 and on his way home from work, and they were all of 16 years old, convinced they were untouchable. Anyone could have seen them like that. Drunk, giggly, taking turns stuffing their tongues down each other’s throat. Ilya’s lucky Alexei’s route home from the bar he bounced at passed by the church, and luckier still no one else saw them first. But that’s just Ilya. A man made by luck and bad decisions.
Alexei is not so lucky. For one, his idiot brother never picks up the fucking phone when he needs him. For another, his wife hates him, which is just a pain in the goddamn ass, because she used to be so easy and fun, so pliable with simple gifts, good coke, and promises. Now she won’t touch him, won’t even look at him. All she does is take care of that crying toddler, who would rather stare at a TV screen than listen to her father. And then there is her grandfather, of course, another toddler of sorts, a man who can’t remember to eat or sleep or to wipe his ass after he goes to the toilet. God! If Ilya knew the kind of shit Alexei has to put up with – figurative and literal – he would fall to his knees begging for forgiveness. Or maybe not. Ilya wouldn’t be able to recognize hard work even if it body checked his ass into the boards.
Alexei
[7:47pm] Ответь мне
Alexei
[7:48pm] Если только вы не хотите чтобы отключили электричество вашему отцу и племяннице
Alexei
[7:48pm] Неблагодарный придурок
The response only comes later, when Alexei is pacing his living room in a sweat, trying to stop himself from hitting another hole in the wall. Vera is crying about something or other, as usual, and Nastya can’t seem to shut her up. Vera should be asleep by now but that would just be too fucking easy, wouldn’t it? Father is at the kitchen table reading today’s newspaper. Later he will ask Alexei the date. Why he bothers paying for the subscription still is anyone’s guess.
Ilya has no idea. He’s never had a fucking clue.
Ilya
[8:29pm] Я уже позвонил и оплатил напрямую
Ilya
[8:31pm] Передайте Вере и Папа, что я их люблю
Alexei throws his phone and wouldn’t you know it, it dents the fucking wall. If only the people of Boston and the world knew what Alexei knows. Maybe one day he will tell them.
–
Where is he he is supposed to be here he is supposed to come see me. Mama said he would be here today. Last week he called me and told me he would take me to the zoo and he had presents for me and we were going to spend a whole day together just me and Uncle and Mama without Papa. Where is he. He is not here. Why did he stay in America. Last year he took me shopping with Auntie Sveta and they got me all new clothes but now everything is too small and I need bigger shoes and Papa won’t get me anything new and Mama says there is nothing left. I guess that means no money, but I know he has money because Papa tells me he does. I am scared about it. What will we do if there is no money? Mama told me a secret she said she wants to take me away somewhere but that costs money too I think. Papa yells at me all the time and I can’t stop crying so he yells even more. The kids at school laugh at me because my pants are too short and Mama cuts my hair crooked because her hands don’t ever stop shaking. So where is he. Where is he. I need him. Where is he he should be here where where where where
–
Where in the world is Ilya Rozanov?
As a matter of fact, where is Shane Hollander, too? It is not like either of them to be late for dinner, especially not on such an occasion as Ilya’s birthday. David made all his favourites and a few surprises too, and they had plans to watch game four on the big screen in the home theatre downstairs that David had installed over the winter. Super slick, reclining seats, the whole shebang. Yuna told him it was nice to see him so focused on a project like that since his retirement. He thinks she meant it partly as pity but it was nice, actually, to have something new to work on, so he just smiled at her and explained the sound system’s specs again.
Yuna is a woman of projects. She likes the planning of them, the logistics, the end goal. She likes to be able to dust her hands at the close of them and move onto the next thing, confident that whatever she left behind her was made better by her involvement. As with many things she is usually right. In practice this has grated on David’s nerves more times than he can say, but he can’t deny her results. It’s like when she decides to clean the entire house all in one day, take apart the closets and throw out years of accumulated detritus, the little miscellanies of married life. And David’s just trying to move around this mess she has created to do the dishes and get supper going — the daily work that keeps a household working smoothly. But it is nice, in the end, to have clean closets. It’s not like he needed to hold onto thirty-two reusable Freshco bags and the ugly purple jacket he got on vacation in Whistler in 2005 because the zipper on his other one broke trying to do it up on top of the ski hill.
Ilya Rozanov is Yuna’s latest project. He didn’t know what hit him the first time Shane and Yuna started talking about talent representation and brand ambassador contracts and ETFs in front of him at the dinner table. David’s pretty sure he saw the kid gulp, like in cartoons, and square his shoulders like it would help him understand the jargon they were throwing at him at full Hollander speed. After some digging it turned out that almost all his money was liquid — and vehicular, David supposes — aside from one exorbitant trust in the name of his young niece back in Russia. No other investments. No plan for the future. This is when David got involved. Thirty years as a federal accountant had to count for something, after all.
Then there was the Centaurs contract negotiation. The No-Movement Clause Yuna negotiated came at a hefty paycut, which Ilya didn’t seem to care about much, because it was the price to pay to ensure he wouldn’t get sent down to Belleville or somewhere in Europe against his consent. Not like there is much fear of Ottawa loosening their grip on their biggest — and perhaps only — star, but injuries can happen to anyone, and getting old does happen to everyone. Doesn’t David know it. Ilya and Shane aren’t showing it much yet, though Ilya has complained quietly about his ribs aching in the cold on more than one occasion, and Shane had a harder time than normal keeping up his bulk by the end of the past season. They’ve got good hockey years left but David and Yuna worry.
Poor kid. He chafes at their concern as much as he revels in it. David sees these twin feelings warring in Ilya’s eyes every time Yuna offers to accompany him to a meeting with CCM or whomever, and every time David sends him home with Tupperwares full of food and careful reheating instructions. He is gruff about their affection, both thankful and wary. David tries to keep Yuna calm about it but he feels her anger too. Not at Ilya, of course, but instead at whoever shipped him to the United States of America without so much as a how do you do, no support, no take-backs. His agent was ancient, and Russian, chosen for him by his father when Ilya was still in Juniors. No wealth investor, no talent manager, no accountant, not even a housekeeper. He’d not even been billeted by an older player his rookie year. Everyone left him to figure it out on his own. In light of this David can’t blame him for being distrustful of their attention, even if he is polite to a fault around them. Poor fucking kid.
He wouldn’t call either of the boys the particularly well-rounded individuals. It seems likely that no professional athlete can be, what with single-minded devotion being so central to their success and domination. Shane and Ilya speak hockey and competition like a native tongue. It is the lens through which they see everything. It’s lucky they found each other, really, because it would probably annoy anyone else, whereas David sees how fluently they push themselves forward with it. How they love each other through it, and because of it. It’s completely insane. It’s like nothing else David’s ever seen. And now that he’s seen it he can’t imagine anything else for them.
He can, though, be concerned that they are twenty two minutes and counting late for dinner. Ilya wouldn’t usually risk David and Yuna’s disappointment, and Shane has never been late for anything in his life — he was even born on his due date at exactly midnight, like he’d pencilled in his arrival in a little baby calendar.
David
[6:22pm] Everything alright? I’ve got some lasagna and some coconut cake with your name on it, birthday boy
The response comes a few minutes later as Yuna brushes past David in the kitchen to steal a candied walnut from the beet and arugula salad he’s made in the beautiful handmade wooden bowl Ilya got him for Christmas this year. Another surprise: how thoughtful he can be, how careful with those who surround him, beneath the bravado and pure magnetic charisma.
Ilya
[6:29pm] on our way, had to gas the car. been dreaming about that coconut cake i think, shane said i was talking about it in my sleep last night
He’s not sure if it’s one of the little lies people tell sometimes to make others feel good or if Ilya really is a prolific sleep talker, but either way, it’s sweet. Yuna kisses his cheek to distract him as she swipes another walnut, and David smiles. He looks down at the table carefully set for four. They will get here when they get here.