Chapter Text
10 March 2020
Ottawa, Canada
‘Congratulations, Shane!’
Pop!
The cork ricocheted against the thick glass of the modern walls of the cottage, followed by a soft fizz. Four champagne flutes sat expectantly on the elegant, wooden table. Shane’s mom, Yuna, was smiling at him, the smile lines around her dark eyes deep and crinkled with pride, bottle of champagne aloft. To her right, Shane’s father David grinned at him, clapping Shane on the shoulder with a large hand. Wasting no time at all, Yuna poured the champagne with the practised air of someone who had found much to celebrate over the years. Hayden— Shane’s best friend—rudely ruffled his hair like he did after a win, grinning as he held out his flute expectantly.
‘Remember we have a game tomorrow, Hayden,’ Shane said, automatically fixing his hair, aiming for nonchalance, and probably failing. Hayden predictably rolled his eyes, watching Yuna steadily fill the glasses.
‘Right, because getting into the Great British Bake Off isn’t a big deal at all, even for you,’ said Hayden sarcastically, eying the bubbles fizzing up from the bottom of the flute.
‘Hayden’s right, Shane. You deserve to celebrate tonight, on top of everything you have already achieved,’ his mother insisted proudly. She pressed the full glass into Shane’s hand, the condensation cool and wet against his fingers. His dad grinned at him with that smile and half-shrug that said “there’s no fighting Yuna”.
‘To Shane!’ called Yuna, raising her flute to her son, her eyes slightly shinier than usual.
‘To Shane!’ echoed his dad and Hayden.
As he sipped, the tang of good champagne fizzed on his tongue and warmed him. Around his glass, he smiled, letting the quiet elation he was feeling seep through.
He had actually done it.
Years of baking, holding his parents’ hands as they showed him how to whisk an egg. Countless nights rugged up in front of the TV, biting his nails—Shane! You’ll ruin your fingers!—watching his favourite contestant’s dreams melt away like their ice-cream cake in a hot tent. And then, more recently, escaping the stress of hockey, sponsorship deals and photoshoots with the soothing and methodical calm that could only come from baking. As long-buried joy germinated in him, a shoot shyly unfurling and wriggling its way toward the light, he threw himself into baking again.
And after months and months of kneading, proving, stressing, waiting, and hoping…he was finally through. He let his smile broaden, grinning widely and blushing at his family and best friend like an idiot.
No one noticed, in their shared joy, a grave-looking newsreader on the flat screen TV, and a breaking news headline in red that hurried across the screen.
Shane was going to be on the 2020 Great British Bake Off.
20 June 2020
London, United Kingdom
‘Are you fucking serious?!’
The voice coming through the tinny speakers of Ilya’s phone was not excited.
‘Yes, Alexei,’ Ilya snapped. ‘I’m going to the fucking Great British Bake Off next month.’
He glared at his phone, wishing he could smash the thing so he never had to pick up to his father or brother again. He could afford it. He could do it.
‘You’re such a selfish faggot. You’re lucky Papa can’t remember shit anymore, or he’d fucking belt you.’
‘Yes, well-‘
‘So what? You get to just fuck off for six weeks and abandon us again, to make fucking cakes with a bunch of queers? How fucking convenient for you. What about your brother? What about your niece? What about Papa? How are we going to afford it if you’re not playing?’
'Stop pretending to give a shit about my career,’ Ilya spat, ignoring the lurch of something roughly in the shape of guilt, twisted with despair.
'It’s six weeks. And you know I can’t play. Wimbledon is cancelled. Roland-Garros is cancelled. The American Open is cancelled. Everything is fucking cancelled.’
‘And how is that my problem?’
Ilya gritted his teeth and tried not to scream. Alexei continued, shit that he was.
‘We need money! Papa’s medicine is expensive and he can’t even remember he needs to take it. Maybe if you were a better tennis player, we wouldn’t be in this situation!’
‘What fucking “we”, Alexei?’
The bitter words spilled up and over, bursting through the rumbling dam in his chest.
‘More, more, more… fuck you. You don’t spend a fucking penny on Papa or your family- don’t fucking start again with this “we” shit. I’m away for six weeks, and you’ll have to – I don’t fucking know – finally get a job? I’m not doing this anymore. I’m done. I’m fucking done.’
Ilya hung up, then immediately lit a cigarette, the small flame of the lighter shaking in his hands.
So, he was going to be on the fucking Great British Bake Off.