Chapter Text
November 2007, Moscow
When Ilya emerged from the corridor leading to the hockey team’s locker room, his duffel slung over his shoulder, Sasha was still practising his free programme. He slowly approached the boards and leaned against them, his elbows resting on the ledge. His eyes were immediately drawn to Sasha’s smooth, graceful movements.
The skating rink had been a wasteland for almost an hour now. After the practice, all Ilya’s teammates went home to do their homework, but he stayed to perfect his shooting and improve his speed on one half of the ice while Sasha was occupying the other half. With the regional competition of Moscow Oblast just around the corner, it was common for them to share.
This year, Sasha had been chosen to represent their club, with the hope that he would qualify for the nationals. He was no prodigy like Ilya, but he wasn’t bad at all; he was actually quite good for someone who had returned to skating at thirteen after years of classical dance. He was considered an outsider, with a still irregular technique but a captivating presence and programmes that commanded attention by their grace and sensuality. His triple jumps didn’t always land, but on the ice, Sasha always managed to make people forget his mistakes through the sheer force of his interpretation.
(Yes, Ilya might have watched all the competitions he took part in in Saint Petersburg. He might have watched them more than once–because he was fucking beautiful when he skated. And he might also have spent a lot of time researching figure skating, to the point of learning how to erase his browsing history on the family computer.)
Sasha had an undeniable artistic talent–he needed it, given his unconventional background–but above all he was devoted to his sport, unlike Ilya, for whom it was only an escape. Each minute he spent there, at the rink, moving as one with his stick, was a minute he spent away from home.
While Sasha attempted a new triple Axel, Ilya glanced at the digital clock above one of the goals: a quarter to eight. A good time to head home. He would arrive just on time for dinner then go up to his room to study his still limited English. He had, of course, mastered the technical jargon of hockey–and an impressive amount of slurs, the basics!–but otherwise, he struggled to understand what he read and heard. As for his pronunciation, it was terrible. His accent was too pronounced, and he still stumbled over relatively simple sounds.
Sasha did a series of sidesteps, spirals and some other arabesques Ilya had forgotten the names of to do a full lap of the ice before launching a triple toe loop. Nice execution but the landing was still imperfect. Ilya watched him repeat this sequence several times, captivated by his body.
Eleven minutes to eight. He really should head home. And yet, he was staying. Every day, he delayed the moment of going home a little longer. Since his mother had died…
“She had an accident, Ilya. You understand, yes? An accident!” His father’s voice entered his thoughts.
Who the fuck dies by accident after swallowing a full bottle of pills? No one! But that was what he hammered into him, again and again, until he repeated those absurd words. Until “dead” and “by accident” were inextricably bound together in his mind.
Since his mother had killed herself by accident, the atmosphere at home had deteriorated sharply. His father had always had this need to dominate others, to have power over them, an ascendency. It had begun with the dog, a Belgian shepherd–an adorable ball of fur that four-year-old Ilya had grown attached to–whom he ended up killing in a fit of rage. “This dirty cur” had dared to bare his fangs at him when he raised his voice against Ilya.
Then he began constantly belittling his mother, so young and so sweet. Every move she made, every word she spoke, was a source of criticism and insults of every kind. She always did everything wrong, never behaved as she should. He terrorised her.
And now, he was his new target. Why? Probably because he resembled her more than he would admit to himself.
He was not afraid of him but he never revolted. Why bother? It would only stir up his anger and only God knew what he would be capable of. Besides, it wouldn’t last: one day, he would get out of here.
Just like her, he endured in silence, obediently. It was better that way, even if it was destroying him a bit more each day.
Since his childhood, his father had been exacting, demanding more of him than he could give–more than any child, even the most brilliant, could give. Now, he was intransigent: Ilya had to be perfect, all the time, in everything he did. But especially at hockey, where he could not fail. Ever.
His father never touched him–no, this would leave marks that would affect his game–he disciplined him. With firmness, a lot of firmness, as he probably did with his subordinates and the prisoners at the station.
Depending on the gravity of his “crime”, he could simply be ignored by all his family members for days, have to apologise for a fault he didn’t even know he had committed, or watch them eat before being granted permission–or not–to do so. When his father was especially irritated, he would make him stay in the garden, in the cold, waiting for his authorisation to come back in, or wake him up at dawn to run outside, regardless of the weather, until he collapsed from exhaustion.
But the worst were the words. Always the same, as sharp as a knife, designed to hurt not the flesh but the soul itself.
“You’re lazy, Ilya.”
“You’re weak, Ilya.”
“It’s your fault you lost, Ilya. Because you are a poor captain.”
“I gave you everything, Ilya, everything! And that’s how you thank me? By humiliating me publicly? You should be ashamed!”
Polina, his stepmother–whom his father had married only a few months after his mother’s death–was absolutely indifferent to his fate. In her eyes, he was only the goose that laid the golden eggs who would bring her wealth and fame.
She did not treat badly, but she did not treat him well either. She simply ensured that he didn’t dishonour their family and that his basic needs were satisfied. He always had clean clothes that fit him, healthy meals adapted to his energy expenditure. She made sure that he received the best care–so he could return sooner to the ice, not because she cared about his health. She ensured his schooling didn’t encroach on hockey, signed every leave of absence he presented her.
But never ever did she have a kind word for him–not that Ilya expected one from her, he had renounced any form of maternal love the day he lost his mother.
As for Andreï, his brother, four years older than him, he simply did not like him. He was jealous of him–had always been. Of the attention their father gave him, attention Ilya could have done without. Of the smiles their mother reserved only for him, the tenderness in her voice, the warmth she had never shown Andrei. Of their close bond–light-years away from the cold, distant relationship she had with her eldest. And now, of his growing fame in the junior hockey world, of this international career that was taking shape a little more each month.
When he was younger, Andrei had also played hockey, but he had no talent–and he certainly never invested as much as Ilya. Perhaps because he had never seen that pride in their mother’s eyes when she watched his practices. Perhaps because he had always seen it only as a way to attract their father’s attention. Perhaps simply because he didn’t enjoy it.
Anyway, their father didn’t want him to continue. Not with Ilya being far more promising than him at only eight. And also, he had always had another plan for him: the Interior Ministry Academy–the police.
Andreï and he were made of the same wood, had that same darkness in the bottom of their hearts. Their father saw it instantly and didn’t want to waste his potential.
What potential? The one to report every single move and word of Ilya and their mother? What a potential! It was because of him that he always yelled at her. That he reproached her for overprotecting him, for loving him too much, for making him weak. That he accused her of cheating on him or wanting to run away with Ilya.
Fucking Andreï! He sure knew how to open his mouth…
Ilya had also realised, from a very young age, the monster that lurked in his brother. He had always been quite attentive, able to gauge people and their intentions.
He had never been good at school–he hadn’t tried to be either: he could have, he had the ability, but it wasn’t by studying that he would get out of here. Instead, he made it a point of honour to develop this emotional intelligence, which served him every day. At home, with his family, to survive and protect himself and his secret. At hockey, with his teammates, to know what to say, how to motivate them. At school, with his classmates, to charm them when they were pretty or intimidate them when they smelled trouble.
Ilya had always known that Andreï was a Grigory Rozanov in the making. It was no doubt for this reason that he had never tried to close the distance that had grown between them over the years. That, and the fact that he had more than contributed to their mother’s personal hell. Ilya would never forgive him. Never!
Well, Andreï never loved him. It must be said that Ilya did nothing to be loved by him either. And sleeping with his girlfriend hadn’t made things any better. But he loved taking risks, he felt more alive that way.
To his credit, he hadn’t been the one to go after her–he demonstrated a minimum of decency and manners towards his brother, even if he didn’t deserve them–but the other way around. Dasha had shown up at the door of their house one day when Ilya was enjoying a rare afternoon off.
She had said that she found him handsome-more handsome than Andreï. Taller, more muscular, more masculine too. Everything his brother could never be, since he didn’t take care of his body as Ilya did. She said that she had noticed his eyes on her generous curves, strangely well highlighted, and that she appreciated it more than she should. That she wanted to feel his big hands on her, his impressive body over hers.
And above all, she wanted to be his first. She found that exciting. Dasha loved the danger too.
He should have said no, he was much too young to have sex–he had only turned fourteen a few months ago–but he liked her. Very much. He had dreamed of her, of what it would be like to taste her, to be inside her, to make her come. Andreï and she were not very discreet when they fucked. From his room, he heard them and her moans were erotic. He wanted to make her scream harder, longer–to the point where it became indecent. He had even hoped that this would make her leave Andreï; she was far too good for him–but she didn’t.
He should have. His whole mind had revolted against the idea, but he had given in to temptation and to the risk she represented. He hadn’t regretted: that lay–and the ones that followed–had been among the most passionate he had had until then. And since then, he had slept with a lot of girls.
Ilya was perfectly aware that he shouldn’t have had so many partners but sex had become a drug. When he was sleeping with them, his mind went blank. He only thought of their pleasure and his own, not of what his life would be if he wasn’t drafted into the NHL.
But Ilya wanted to leave Russia more than anything else. To put as much distance as possible between himself and this father he could never satisfy as well as to escape a regime that did not tolerate who he was, nor who he loved. And maybe also, in the process, to cut the ties with this brother who wouldn’t hesitate to ask him for money to pay for his fucking drug.
He didn’t think of his mother either, of that grief that he wasn’t allowed to express and that was eating him away from the inside. She was dead, and he had been forbidden to mourn her. Suicide was a sin for their church and a sign of weakness for his father. They had erased her from his life as if she had never existed. From her, all he had left was the Orthodox crucifix that never left his neck and his faith–even if it had been deeply shaken.
Ilya lived every single day with a gaping hole in his chest. A hole that would never close up. Not because there was no hope of healing–there was someone out there, somewhere, who would soothe his bleeding heart, who would love him more than he could imagine; she promised him and he believed her–but because he was forced to deny it.
So, since he wasn’t allowed to hurt, he was angry. At God, for condemning her to that life. At his father, who made her suffer so much. At his brother, for pushing her over the edge. At all those people who judged her without knowing that for all those years she had fought so bravely the sadness that consumed her. They said she abandoned him, that she failed as a mother, and that Ilya should be angry with her, that he had the right to. That he even had to be.
Except, he didn’t want to. He couldn’t. She fought all that time for him, because she loved him more than anything in the world. But she was only human, and had her limits-limits she had reached long ago. So she had set herself free, and Ilya refused to be angry with her. He understood her. He, too, too longed for freedom.
The dull slam of a stainless steel blade hitting the ice, followed by a shout of joy, pulled him out of his thoughts. Sasha was jubilant, probably because he landed his triple Axel perfectly. A small smirk came onto his lips. He was even more beautiful when he was exulting like this.
As Sasha resumed his training, gliding over the ice with ease and lightness, Ilya couldn’t look away from his slender, graceful body.
He should leave. He would end up late, and Andreï wouldn’t fail to report him to their father.
He should, yes…
But the dark leggings clung perfectly to Sasha’s slim, athletic legs, highlighting his firm, round ass far too well.
Damn, that ass was insane. And those hips…
Ilya was already imagining placing his hand on them, pressing his body against his, slipping one hand on his flat stomach while the other one slowly moved to his groin, his mouth would devour his neck with kisses.
He shouldn’t be having these thoughts. They were in Russia, for fuck’s sake, and he was a hockey player.
Yet he had never managed to push them away. To be honest, he had never really tried since the first day he had laid his eyes on Sasha.
It was only desire. Nothing sick, nothing immoral. Not in his eyes, at least. It wasn’t elsewhere in the world, so why should it be here? People here were so narrow-minded.
Ilya knew he was supposed to be ashamed of wanting to kiss a guy-and even more of wanting to sleep with him. That was what Russian society expected of him. But he refused to be. It was natural. Since the dawn of time, men loved other men. Homosexual behaviour had always existed in nature. Why would the human species be the only exception?
No, Ilya wasn’t ashamed at all. If anything, he considered himself rather evolved compared to his fellow Russians. And besides, why deprive himself of half of his potential sexual partners? It was stupid.
Sasha skated past the board where he was still leaning and flashed him a charming smile.
Those fucking lips… Pink and full. He wanted to taste them, to slip between them.
Just imagining the feel of Sasha’s lips on his own, Ilya was already getting hard. He really should leave before doing something stupid.
This dangerous little game had been going on for far too long. It had all started in June, when his father, Ilya’s new coach, had introduced them. At first, there had only been timid glances, thrown when they were thinking the other wasn’t looking. Then they had grown more lingering, more suggestive. Then came staying to watch the other train-not long, just a few minutes, enough to drink in the sight of the other’s body. And now, they exchanged knowing looks when they crossed paths on the ice, smiles heavy with innuendo.
They were lucky no one had noticed anything yet. They weren’t discreet–far from it. But that was precisely what made their game so exciting.
This past few weeks, however, Sasha had clearly decided to turn up the heat. He was no longer content with looks and smiles–he wanted more. Much more.
Ilya could feel it; he himself was close to giving in. Just imagining his fingers in Sasha’s stubble, his chest pressed against his, his cock rubbing against his…
Fuck.
He was already waking up at night, rock hard, fantasising about Sasha’s mouth on his dick–or his on Sasha’s. Jerking off wasn’t enough anymore.
The only thing still holding him back was hockey. His way out. His only chance to escape this fucking life. But Sasha did everything to make him break. And God, he was so hard to resist.
Sasha skated past him again, devouring him with his eyes, slowly licking his lips. Ilya felt his insides clench. He had a wild urge to pin him against the boards and devour his mouth until he couldn’t get enough.
No. Not here. Not with his coach’s son. If someone saw them…
He refused to go through that thought any further.
He turned away abruptly and walked along the rink, his heart hammering in his chest. He could feel Sasha’s eyes on his back–hot, frustrated, disappointed.
Not tonight.
Not while hockey was his only way out.
Tomorrow… maybe.
* * *
Tomorrow turned out to be a week later.
Ilya had stayed again to train, sharing the ice with Sasha who was still working on his triple Axel. When he paused to catch his breath between attempts, Ilya could feel his dark blue eyes devouring him.
He was tired, exhausted from fighting the frustration. Jerking off while thinking about him, imagining everything he would do to him, wasn’t enough anymore. Not at all.
A small voice in his head kept repeating that it was stupid, risky, that he was his coach’s son, and that everything could fall apart in a second.
But he couldn’t anymore.
He dropped his stick.
He skated towards Sasha in long strides, like a predator finally giving in to his instincts. Sasha didn’t step back. He stayed still, a satisfied smile on his lips, as if he had always known that this moment would come…
“Fuck you, Sasha,” he growled.
And he crashed into his lips, a hand on his cheek, the other at his neck. The kiss was aggressive, hungry. He bit those lips that still refused to open, pressed into the hollow of his neck, tugged at his mid-length hair tied in a low bun.
Fuck, it felt so good. Better than with any girl. He could be himself: fierce, sharp, demanding. And that stubble under his fingertips… so manly, so normal. Yes, everything was suddenly more in place.
He was getting hard like crazy and had to hold himself back from grinding against Sasha. No way he was letting him think he had already won this.
Sasha laughed against his lips.
“What?” he hissed, irritated.
Couldn’t he open his fucking mouth? He wanted to play with his tongue.
“If I’d known you kissed like a god, I would have teased you this way sooner.”
Ilya pulled harder on his hair, tilting his head back and exposing his throat. He licked his lips to the thought of devouring it. Later.
“Shut up and let me kiss you properly,” he ordered, his voice rough with desire, his fingers tightening on Sasha’s jaw.
Sasha only laughed more.
“Make up your mind: should I open it or keep it closed?”
“Both”
And he claimed his lips again, taking advantage of his surprise to slip his tongue past his teeth, searching for his. When he found it, he started a slow, deep, almost insolent ballet.
Sasha moaned into his mouth and the sound went straight to Ilya’s crotch. He got even harder, his dick straining against the thin fabric of his joggers. He hadn’t put his gear back on after the training. Thank God. With the cup, it would have been torture.
Sasha grabbed his ass and pressed their bodies together. He was hard too–and impressively so. Ilya was dying to touch him, to feel his weight in his hand. He had never been so turned on in his life.
He deepened the kiss and Sasha started grinding against him.
Fucking hell…
It felt too good. Way too good. If they kept going like this, Ilya knew he would be able to stop. He would end up on his knees in front of him, pulling down his leggings and briefs in seconds and taking him greedily in his mouth. He couldn’t stop thinking about it-about that, and everything else he wanted to do to him.
He pushed Sasha back with one hand, but the latter immediately tried to chase the kiss. When Ilya caught his face between his fingers to pull their mouths apart, Sasha pouted.
“I thought you liked danger?”
Ilya shot him a dark look.
“You really want I fuck you here?”
Sasha snickered.
“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? Who says I wouldn’t be the one fucking you?”
Ilya considered it for a brief moment–tempting as hell–then the reality caught up with him. They were on the ice, in the middle of the rink and…
“Fuck, Sasha… the watchman!”
Sasha raised an eyebrow, puzzled.
“He does his rounds much later. We’ve got time.”
Ilya knew he was trying to reassure him, but he couldn’t. There were too many entrances, too many blind spot. He couldn’t watch them all.
“You’re serious?”
Sasha met his gaze, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“What? Don’t you think that makes it more exciting?”
Ilya felt the anger rise suddenly. Was he messing with him?
“I can’t lose hockey,” he snapped. “I don’t want to stay here. I can’t”
Sasha shoved him, both palms flat against his chest.
“Fuck, Ilya, do you think I do? I’m not like you. I only like men! And I can’t do that here. I don’t want to spend my life hiding.”
Ilya clenched his jaw and took a few deep breath, giving Sasha time to calm down too. Then he held out his hands, palm open.
“I know, Sasha. I know… Just… not here. It’s too risky.”
“Okay, okay,” Sasha said, still agitated. “Not here, you’re right.”
He sighed heavily.
“I don’t know what came over me. It’s all this sexual tension… it drives me insane.”
Ilya nodded silently. He felt it too, to the point of recklessness. He shouldn’t have kissing him here, on the ice. He should have waited: the locker room, somewhere they could lock the door, or even outside, in the alley behind the rink. At this hour, no one went there.
He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more, then offered it to Sasha.
“You still want…?”
“Fucking yes!” Sasha grabbed it. “Your locker or mine?”
“Mine locks.”
A wide grin spread across his lips.
“Let’s go!”
He let go of his hand and headed to the board, towards the corridor leading to the locker rooms. Ilya skated quickly to his stick, grabbed it, and caught up with him in a few powerful strides.
Just before reaching the barrier, Sasha nudged him and murmured hotly in his ear, “I’ll die if you don’t touch me. Even jerking off thinking of you lips around my dick isn’t enough anymore.”
Ilya snorted.
“I will suck you. Don’t worry.”
It would even be the first thing he did.
“Can’t wait!” Sasha snarled.
They stepped over the board, pulled off their skates, tied the laces together. They tried to walk normally… then broke into a run like idiots toward the locker room.
They were starving. Both of them.
Once the door was locked, Ilya did exactly what he had promised. He pinned Sasha against the wall, kissed him deeply, then dropped to his knees in front of him
Bend over his head, his hand gripping desperately at his light brown curls, Sasha was slowly catching this breath while Ilya kissed the inside of his tight and stroked his left cheek with his fingertips.
“Jesus…”
“My name is Ilya”, he teased him with a crooked smile.
He pressed one last kiss to the hollow of his groin before straightening up. Sasha followed the movement and pulled him into a slow, languid kiss. He seemed to enjoy tasting himself on Ilya’s lips. Ilya wondered fleetingly if he would like that too. So far, he had liked everything they had done.
“Let me recover from that orgasm, and I’ll return the favour,” Sasha murmured, resting his forehead against his shoulder.
Ilya toyed with the short hairs at the nape of his neck while nibbling at this earlobe.
“Take your time. I want to savour. If you sucked me now, I’d come in less than two minutes.”
Sasha laughed softly.
“It’s better than a cunnilingus, isn’t it?”
Ilya pondered for a moment.
“Ten times better”, he replied. He still couldn’t decide whether it was ten or a hundred. “But I’m not going to stop liking women, though.”
“What do you like about them? Their boobs? Their pussy?” Sasha asked, a hint of disgust in his voice.
“Both, I guess… I never really thought about it. I just like them, that’s all.”
“But you prefer men?”
Ilya shrugged.
“Seems like it. Unless it’s just you?” he threw out, even though he knew very well it wasn’t.
Sasha was not the first guy to catch his interest. Some of his teammates were attractive, but he didn’t feel any desire for them. And anyway, he could not allow himself to.
“I’d like to believe that,” Sasha sighed, “but trust me, it’s men. If it were just me, you wouldn’t have enjoyed sucking me that much. You wouldn’t even have suggested it. You’d have just taken me from behind.”
Ilya raised an eyebrow.
“You know what you are talking about?”
The answer was evasive.
“Sort of.”
They hadn’t really talked before today. Their attraction had been purely physical, sharpened by the danger of their situation.
“So I’m not your first?” Ilya said, feigning disappointment
“Sorry, but no. And you won’t be my last either.”
Well, that was crystal clear.
Sasha probably already knew the nationality of his soulmate. He had turned seventeen in September. Maybe they would talk about it one day? They would probably kept hooking up until one of them left Russia. They would have the time to get to know each other… and maybe even become friends.
“At least, we agree on one thing : this is just sex,” Ilya summed up.
“Talking about that…” Sasha lifted his head, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Do I have carte blanche for you first time with a guy?”
Ilya hesitated for a moment.
“You’ll stop if I ask you to?”
Sasha looked offended.
“I do have some self-preservation instinct, you know.”
“Oh really? You wanted me to fuck you on the ice!”
He punched gently him in the elbow.
“I told you, I’d be the one to fuck you first. Now let me give you the best blowjob of your life!”
“A bit presumptuous, don’t you think?”
It wasn’t. Sasha was good. Fucking good. He brought him right to the edge several times before finally letting him come, playing with his balls, his head of his cock and even his ass, finding his prostate with almost irritating precision. It was as electrifying as everything Ilya had ever read about.
* * *
For the next two weeks, Ilya and Sasha met up almost every day in the hockey team’s locker room. They still trained after everyone had left, but they spent a bit less time on the ice to pleasure each other.
Discovering this new side of his sexuality was exhilarating for Ilya.
Being jerked off by another guy was nothing like anything he had known before. Sasha knew exactly how to handle him, what movements to use, what rhythm to set. His touch was firmer, more confident, more masculine. He knew when to stop just before it was too late, and when to keep going to drive him mad.
But what Ilya liked most was taking both of them in his large palm. The sensation of their two cocks pressed together, sliding against each other, was almost magical. He loved watching what he was doing: it was obscene, crude, but so incredibly arousing. Sasha would rest his forehead against his shoulder, nibbling at his lips, letting out rough moans that made everything more intense.
There were also the blowjobs, still just so good, and the fingering, which was becoming more and more devastating. Ilya had quickly found Sasha’s prostate and took a wicked pleasure in tormenting him until he begged to be allowed to come.
They hadn’t yet talked seriously about anal sex. He had mentioned it jokingly once or twice, but hadn’t pushed it. For now, he was satisfied with what they were doing. He knew, however, that it wouldn’t last. He had always loved to explore, to push his limits. He simply didn’t want their first time to happen against a locker room wall. It wasn’t the ideal position, nor the right moment. And above all, he didn’t have condoms on him.
The competition Sasha had been training so hard for was taking place next Saturday. His father, seemingly pleased about their recent closeness, had invited Ilya. That gave them the perfect opportunity to exchange numbers without raising suspicion.
Since then, they had been sexting regularly as a form of foreplay. Ilya deleted the messages whenever he could and changed his password almost every day. With Andreï going through his things as if they were his own, he couldn’t take any risks.
When Ilya got home that night, after fucking Sasha’s thighs in the shower, the heat of pleasure was only just beginning to fade. He had the unpleasant surprise of finding his brother on the porch. He was sitting on the top step, wearing a thick coat and a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck.
“You come home later and later these days,” Andreï remarked, rising slowly
Ilya didn’t reply immediately. He kept climbing the steps, as if the remark wasn’t directed at him. It had been weeks since they had only been seeing each other at dinner. It came from nowhere.
“So?” Andreï insisted, his voice drawling. “Who are you fucking after training?”
Ilya froze for a fraction of second. His heart skipped a beat. Andreï couldn’t know about Sasha… He was not clever enough for that. Right?
“Some teammate’s girlfriend? Mine wasn’t enough?”
A cold relief washed over Ilya. He let out a quit sight and replied, sharply, “Dasha is still with you if I’m not mistaken, yes?”
He wondered why, by the way. What could she find him?
Andreï looked daggers at him.
“She’s not staying for me, stupid bastard!”
Ilya swallowed back his instinctive “Bastard yourself” and shoved him slightly to pass under the canopy.
“She wants your money. She’s convinced you’ll be drafted into the KHL and make millions.”
So, that was the reason…
It didn’t even surprise him. She was not the first to see him only as a future paycheck.
Deep down, Andreï and she were well suited to each other: two opportunists ready to live off him, to demand the money he would earn through the sweat of his brow.
Ilya set his bag down and sat on the porch wall. The cold bit through the fabric of his sweatpants, but he knew they weren’t done yet.
“Why are you staying with her if you know she’s mercenary?”
Andreï wasn’t exactly a genius, but he had at least a bit of pride, right? He couldn’t knowingly stay with a woman who didn’t love him, could he?
His brother frowned.
“Mercenary?”
Ilya rolled his eyes. It was impossible to have such a small vocabulary at his age!
“Interested in money,” he clarified patiently.
Andreï snickered.
“Where did you learn that word?”
Seriously?
“I read, Andreï. Every flight, I pull out a book. Just because I play hockey doesn’t mean I have to be an idiot. You should try it too.”
Andreï ignored the jab, but his gaze turned sharper.
“Mr. Hockey is talented… and smart too.”
A crooked smile stretched his lips.
“Is that how you got her into your bed? By flaunting your knowledge?”
Ilya sighed, long and heavy. They weren’t going to have this conversation again, were they?
“I didn’t put her in my bed. She invited herself. I’ve told you already.”
“That’s not what she’s saying!”
Ilya clenched his jaw.
“And what exactly is she saying? That I forced her legs open?”
His voice snapped, harsher than he intended.
“I might be a bastard, but I’m not a rapist!”
“Doesn’t matter, you slept with her for weeks!”
Ilya felt anger surge up the back of his neck. Too fast. Too strong.
He needed a cigarette.
His fingers trembled slightly with irritation as he pulled the pack from his jacket. He tucked one between his lips, lit it, and inhaled deeply. The smoke burned his throat and filled his lungs. He held it for a moment, as if to smother what was rising, then exhaled slowly.
“Why are you staying with her? You know perfectly well she doesn’t love you and that all she wants is the money I’ll earn. Find yourself another girl.”
“I’m not going to tell you that she’s a very good lay” Andreï shot back with a wicked smile.
Ilya took another drag. He wasn’t going to let this go, damn it!
“There are plenty of other pretty girls who fuck just as well, if that’s all you care about. You don’t have to stay with her.”
He took another puff from his cigarette. They were really having this conversation?
“I know!” Andrei snapped. “But Dad likes her.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. As if that was a reason.
“He wants me to marry her and give her beautiful grandchildren. Polina could never have kids; he wants her to look after them.”
Better and better…
“Because you honestly think she’ll care about your kids? She’s just as after the money I’ll earn!”
Andreï didn’t answer. Of course he knew.
“You know I can’t say no to him, Ilya…”
Ilya waved off the argument with a hand. He could say no. He just didn’t have the balls to.
“Do as you like, Andreï. But don’t come whining when she has a kid behind your back.”
“Anyway. Stop dodging the question. Where were you?”
Ilya tapped his cigarette before taking a long drag. Getting angry would only prolong this conversation. And he was freezing. His hair still damp, the cold air bit at the back of his neck. He was hungry too.
What did Andreï actually want from him? He hadn’t cared about Ilya’s comings and goings for a long time.
“I’m not dodging anything. You’re the one who brought her up. And I was at the rink. Where else did you expect me to be?”
His brother snickered. Ilya’s fingers clenched around his cigarette.
“Right, of course! Have you seen the time? Your training finished over three hours ago. I took you there for months; I know when it starts and when it ends!”
Ilya inhaled deeply. He had to stay calm at all costs. Even if Andreï was openly mocking him. His schedule had changed ages ago, every time he moved up a division. But his brother didn’t know that.
“I stayed after practice. I can’t afford to lose!”
“Poor Ilya, who has to be so perfect!” Andreï jeered.
Ilya slammed his cigarette against the porch wall in frustration–it had been useless–and jerked his head up sharply.
“Fuck you, Andrei! You know nothing about my life, about the pressure they put on my shoulders…”
“I don’t give a fuck about your bloody pressure!” his brother cut in. “Dad only talks about you, all the time. It’s me who busts my ass at the academy while you run after your puck, waving your stick around!”
Ilya let out a humourless laugh.
Andreï was truly their father’s son… Always needing to crush someone else to exist. As if they couldn’t coexist in the same house. As if there wasn’t enough room for both of them.
And… did they even need their father’s attention?
“What do you want, Andreï?”
Because he did want something. It showed. In the way he spoke, in his attacks.
“If it’s money, I gave you everything I earned last month. They haven’t even given me my new bonus yet.”
“But they’re going to soon, right?” Andrei pressed. “When?”
“The week after next. Why?”
Ilya didn’t wait for the answer. He already knew it.
“You’ve already sniffed it all, haven’t you?”
Andreï’s face went dark. He had already railed every bit of the coke he had bought last week. Of course. Fuck… At this rate, Ilya would end up finding him in a hovel with a syringe in his arm.
“What the fuck does it matter to you?” His brother barked.
That was it.
Ilya straightened up abruptly and stepped forward, towering over him, trying to crush him in return.
Andreï flinched back. Good. He still had a shred of self-preservation instinct. Maybe all wasn’t lost.
“Because it’s my money you’re buying it with!”
And it was driving Ilya crazy. Couldn’t he buy something else? Anything else but this shit?
“I’m your brother, you have to help me!”
And now, the blackmail.
Andreï knew perfectly well that, for Ilya, no matter what, he would remain his brother. His family. And that he wasn’t the kind to abandon his own–even if he thought about it more and more often.
“To snort lines of coke? Do you have any idea what Dad will say when he finds out?”
Maybe Ilya was fooling himself. Maybe bringing up their father wouldn’t change anything. Maybe Andreï was already too far gone.
“He doesn’t give a shit about me. I could be high at the table and he wouldn’t even notice!”
Ilya froze. What? He must have misheard. Surely.
“You’ve been high during a dinner? At home?”
“Yeah. I need it to cope with this bloody life.”
Ilya ran a hand over his face. He understood. Too well. He also had his way of coping. It was just… different.
“I’ll give you your bloody money, Andreï,” he finally relented. He didn’t really have a choice anyway. If he refused, Andrei would turn his room upside down until he found it. “But promise me you won’t be high at the table anymore!”
He could at least ask for that. Couldn’t he?
“You’re really going to give it?”
His voice dripped with hope. It was almost pathetic.
“Yes.”
A smile immediately spread across his face.
“Alright then,” he agreed too quickly. Then, as if nothing had happened, “I’ll get high after!”
Ilya closed his eyes for a second. Of course. Too good to be true. Andreï was a junkie. He was going to have to get used to it.
“Fuck, Andreï …”
His brother opened the front door.
“Come eat. Polina’s waiting. Dad won’t be back tonight.”
And he disappeared inside. He had got what he wanted. No need to pretend anymore.