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Ilya’s day took a turn with the most innocuous of things, in the visiting locker room the Centaurs were currently occupying in Tampa. They were all gearing up for the game, and Ilya had just finished securing his shoulder pads when he caught it. His eyes had landed on Dykstra.
He was facing his own stall, eyes closed, head slightly bowed. The movement was so minuscule that Ilya almost didn’t notice it, but there was no doubt, he was mouthing something.
Prayer, Ilya thought instantly.
He wasn’t sure what made him notice; he wasn’t searching him out or anything. He’s not sure he’s ever been aware of this particular pregame ritual. Ilya liked to think that after several seasons (and a fair amount of shared trauma), he knew his teammates—at least simple things like this. Maybe the bickering and chirping over certain music choices in the locker room had kept him unaware. Or, more likely, his own recent habit of seeing how much he could pester his husband before it would start to ‘hinder his focus’ or however Shane phrased it.
Ilya shook his head away. He realized he had been weirdly staring for too long. What did it matter if Evan Dykstra prayed before games? Apparently, pre-season ones at that. He pulled his jersey over his head and tried to ignore the start of a gnawing feeling in his chest.
“Not trying to have me walk out with my jersey on backwards?” Shane asked as he appeared in front of Ilya. His tone was teasing, but Ilya also knew it was his way of checking in. He caught on to Ilya’s unusual quiet. Ilya gave a reassuring smirk.
“No, but I should. So I do not have to look at the wrong last name while we play.”
“First of all, we never changed last names. And second, if anyone were changing names, it’d be you. With a matching Hollander jersey.” Shane punctuated his words with a few jabs at Ilya’s shoulder. It was true, but Ilya wasn’t going to admit that so easily.
“Not matching, mine would still have C on it, remember?”
“Like you’d let me forget.”
“Hollander is the better of the two,” Bood interjected from beside them. Ilya raised a brow at him. “Better of the last names! Come on, you know I’m not picking favorites.”
“You just like it cause it’s Canadian.”
“Wouldn’t it technically be Dutch? Holland… Hollander…?” Wyatt asked.
“I’m not Dutch.” Shane frowned.
“Hayes, where do you get this stuff?”
The team’s bickering continued, but the conversation eventually moved focus. Shane was back at his own stall, and Ilya was in his own head again. He finished putting on the rest of his gear, nestling his helmet on his head. He was back to feeling off-kilter and didn’t know how to shake it.
Maybe I should try a prayer. The bitter thought came quick and unbidden. Ilya didn’t dwell on it for long; the door to the locker room opening snapped him out of it.
“Alright guys, it may be early in the season, but I don’t want to see any slacking on the ice tonight. We win games because of the effort it took to get us to where we are now. Don’t forget that,” Coach Wiebe said. His voice was stern, but the prideful look in his eyes offset it. The team he was looking at was at a whole new level compared to when he first became its coach.
Ilya tried to hold onto that feeling of pride as they made their way out of the locker room and out onto the ice. He was just as proud, if not more so. It was a better headspace than whatever was trying to take place.
They did end up winning, despite the ghost Ilya had become during the game. Instincts and muscle memory kept him afloat as he played with half a mind. Which meant he still managed to score at least once.
Now, they were back at their hotel room for the night after having a few celebratory drinks at the bar downstairs with their teammates. Ilya hadn’t contributed much to the conversation. He liked to think it was him giving Shane space to bond more with the team. It was only his second season with them. But that excuse was flimsy; they already loved him.
Ilya was still lying on his back on the bed from his initial collapse when they entered the room. His shoes were haphazardly kicked off by the door, still in his clothes on top of the sheets. Shane was in the shower for a quick rinse before bed.
He knew he got like this sometimes. Even with his medication, some lows couldn’t be helped. But something about the reminder of prayer had him questioning himself. He used to pray, didn’t he? As a child, he made the effort to look as if he were praying alongside the rest of the congregation. It made his mom happy.
But he grew older, learned the concept of faith, and discovered his own. Ilya was never a by-the-book follower; he simply believed. He heeded his mother’s hopeful image of God, the one she looked to for answers.
The bitter feeling from earlier returned.
So much for answers when she truly needed them. Ilya hadn’t asked for them anymore. Not since he was twelve. But he had continued to pray, desperate pleas, angry cries for justice, or simply for reassurance that his mom made it through the pearly gates.
Then, he had left Russia, and hockey became his sole focus, well, almost. Prayers and thoughts of a higher power fell by the wayside. Hockey and sex had become his version of salvation and communion. For a while, anyway.
“Oh, I thought you’d be passed out and under the covers,” Shane said from the bathroom door. Ilya hadn’t heard the water shut off or the door swing open. He hummed noncommittally from his position on the bed, still staring at the ceiling.
There was the familiar sound of Shane moving around, and then shuffling through his travel bag before he felt the dip of his weight on the bed beside him.
“Is it a low day today?” Shane asked softly, his fingers found purchase in Ilya’s curls.
It wasn’t written out or anything, but they had figured out some code words for Ilya’s mental state. With the help of therapy and recent work on communication, really low days have been few and far between. And even when he had days like this, they were manageable. Shane gave him grace and patience. It’s all he ever needed.
“Maybe,” He found himself rubbing his crucifix pendant between his fingers. A memory sparked at the movement. He lifted the pendant, the ring sliding down the chain as he did. “You asked me about this once.” He finally met Shane’s eyes.
Shane studied his face for a moment. He hadn’t expected that. “Years ago, yeah,” His eyes followed Ilya’s fiddling, “I felt silly that I had been hooking up with you for years and didn’t even know about the one piece of jewelry you wore.”
“You asked if I was religious.”
Shane nodded, “And you said you believed in God—or that you maybe do?”
“You don’t.”
“Never really thought about it, no. And you know my parents aren’t religious,” He ran his fingers through Ilya’s curls in a soothing, repeated motion. “What’s brought this up?”
“Was just thinking,” Ilya dropped the pendant. “Dykstra was praying before game tonight.”
“Did he think we were going to lose?” Ilya managed a chuckle at that. They sat for another moment like that in companionable silence, Shane’s brows were pinched in thought. Ilya learned that sometimes, when the topic of conversation was out of his comfort zone, Shane would take time to consider his words. “Do you? Pray, I mean,”
“Not like I used to. Not to God.”
Shane hesitated before asking, “Your mother?” Ilya met his eyes briefly; the soft look in Shane’s eyes was too much at the moment. He knew him well.
“Yes. I tell her about me, about us,” Ilya rubbed at his nose with a sniff, “Things I am proud of, things I wish for her to see.” He knew his voice was wavering. He had never admitted this before. “I lost reason to pray to anyone else.” Shane nodded, bent down to press a soft kiss to Ilya’s temple.
“She’s proud of you, Ilya.” He murmured his words along Ilya’s hairline before sitting back up.
“You sound sure.”
“I am, because I’m proud of you.” Ilya fidgeted under the sincerity directed so strongly towards him, always one to dish it out but unable to take it himself.
“You should be careful, you always worry about my ego. Big head and all that.”
Shane exhaled a puff of air through his nose in amusement, “That’s more to do with your looks. Completely separate topic.”
“Oh, please, Shane, tell me more about my good looks. I never hear about this.” Ilya fanned out on the bed in a more dramatic pose. Shane rolled his eyes and moved to crawl into his side of the bed.
“Get out of those clothes and brush your teeth, you’ll feel better.” Ilya resisted the urge to make a poorly timed ‘yes, mother’ joke. When he finished his nightly routine and curled into the sheets, he made a point not to acknowledge that Shane was right. He felt better.