by Rachel Reid
“Tell me everything you want to say,” he said. “In Russian. I won’t understand but...maybe it will help?”
There was a silence that was long enough for Shane to physically cringe at himself. He was about to take it back, when he heard Ilya quietly say, “Okay.”
The next several minutes were filled with Ilya’s voice, sounding more animated and flustered than Shane had ever heard him. He was used to Ilya saying more with a teasing smile or a calculating look than with actual words. But now it was like a dam had burst, and Shane sat himself on the stairs and let it wash over him.
Without the ability to translate any of it, Shane could just enjoy the sound of Ilya’s voice, which he barely recognized now. The words were so quick and confident, unrestricted by Ilya having to carefully piece together his sentences like when he spoke English. It felt intimate—like they were somehow sharing a bigger secret now than when they slept together.
And there was something undeniably sexy about hearing Ilya speak so fluidly in his mother tongue.
When he was finished, Ilya gave an embarrassed-sounding little laugh and said, “I am done.”
It was jarring to hear him switch suddenly back to English. Shane felt his head clear like he was waking from a dream.
“Feel better?” he asked.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Shane lowered his voice and said, “Maybe you could teach me Russian someday.”
“Only useful phrases,” Ilya said. Shane could practically hear his crooked smile. Then Ilya purred something in Russian.
“What does that mean?” Shane asked.
“Get on your knees.”
“Oh.” Shane quickly scanned the stairwell again to make sure he was still alone. He was already more aroused than he should be after listening to Ilya pour his heart out. “And what other useful phrases could you teach me?”
Ilya laughed. “I can think of many, Hollander.”
Shane shifted on the stairs. “I wish you were here now.”
Shane couldn’t believe he had actually allowed himself to say that out loud. They didn’t wish to be together. They reluctantly hooked up when they were in the same city because it was something to do.
He felt his mortification melt away when Ilya said, in a low voice, “Me too.”
Moscow
Something occurred to Ilya after he ended the call with Shane: maybe Shane had recorded that call and was going to run it through some sort of translating app later.
But Shane wouldn’t do that, would he?
Ilya stopped into a coffee shop and ordered a cappuccino. While he waited for it, he tried not to imagine scenarios where Shane would somehow translate every word that Ilya had just said.
Mostly he had just been ranting about his family, but he had included an admission that he wished things could have been different with his father. That he had stupidly always hoped that his father might tell him that he was proud of him.
That admission would have been embarrassing enough, but Ilya had also slipped in an “and on top of everything, I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you and I don’t know what to do about it.”
It was saying those words out loud, even more than venting his frustrations about his family, that had truly made Ilya feel lighter. It was a secret he had been carrying for far too long, locked away so deep inside that he had even been keeping it from himself. But as soon as he let himself acknowledge it, and now say it, he felt relieved. Not because he could do anything about these feelings, but at least he had allowed himself to accept them. And he had, in the most cowardly way possible, said them aloud to Shane.
Shane wouldn’t translate anything. That wasn’t why he had asked Ilya to unload on him in Russian. He was being a friend.
A friend?
Sure, Ilya could admit that he and Shane were friends now. He had certainly been the only person Ilya could think of when he’d decided he needed to talk to someone today.
He walked out of the shop with his cappuccino and reluctantly headed in the direction of his father’s house. The funeral was the next morning. After that, he could leave what was left of his goddamn family behind.
The next day—Montreal
Shane had barely gotten in the door of his apartment before he texted Ilya. He had been thinking about him all day.
Shane: How are you doing?
He wasn’t sure if Ilya would reply or not. He might be busy. His father’s funeral had been that morning. It was late in Moscow now, after ten o’clock at night.
Lily: Fantastic.
Shane waited.
Lily: A little bit drunk, actually.
Shane: Can I call you?
Lily: Yes.
When Shane heard Ilya’s voice, he sounded more exhausted than drunk. “Hollander.”
“How are you holding up, Ilya?”
“Great. Wonderful.” Shane heard him sigh. “Is quiet here.”
“Are you alone? Where are you?”
“My condo. I have one here. In Moscow. For the summers, you know.”
“Right.” Shane didn’t like the idea of Ilya being alone right now.
“If you are wondering if I will be back in time for our game in Montreal—”
“I don’t give a shit about that, Ilya. You know that’s not why I’m calling.”
Another sigh.
“Should you really be alone right now?” Shane asked.
“I am not alone,” Ilya said. “You are here now, yes?”
Shane’s hand flew to his chest to make sure his heart was still beating; he could have sworn it had just melted into a gooey puddle. He wished he could warp to Moscow. Just instantly appear in Ilya’s apartment and hold him and tell him it was all right to be conflicted about his father’s death. That he didn’t owe his family anything. That he should leave them all behind because they made him miserable and he doesn’t need them anyway.
Instead he said, “Yeah. I’m here.”
“And where else are you?” Ilya asked.
“I’m home now. Montreal.”
Shane heard mattress springs squeak as Ilya presumably settled himself on his bed. “Tell me about your home, Hollander,” he said in a tired voice. “What does it look like? I try to imagine it...”
“You do?”
“You will not let me see it.”
“That’s not...” Shane grimaced. “It’s not because I don’t want you here. You know that.”
“I know nothing. What does it look like?”
“It’s, I don’t know...it has big windows.”
“What can you see out of them?”
“Buildings, mostly. A bit of the water.”
“Fancy kitchen?”
Shane laughed. “Yeah. Too fancy, probably. I barely use it. I could probably get by with a toaster and a blender.”
“What is your favorite thing about your home?”
“I dunno. It’s close to the practice rink?”
Ilya snorted. “Figures.”
“It’s private. Good security. Hey, I made a donation to the Alzheimer’s Society of Canada. For your father.”
Ilya was quiet a moment. “That is nice of you. Might be good for me. Can be...what is the word...passed on?”
“Hereditary?”
“Yes. Hereditary.”
Neither man said anything for a moment.
“Listen, Ilya—”
“What about your bedroom? What is it like?”
Shane didn’t want to talk about his stupid bedroom, but he understood what Ilya was doing. He left his living room and headed for the bedroom.
“It’s nice. Pretty basic. I mean, it’s enormous. Big windows. But not much in it.”
“What color is your bed? The blanket?”
“Blue. Like, navy blue.”
“I knew it.�
�
Shane smiled and sat on the bed.
“Do you have books? In your room?”
“A few.”
“What are you reading? What one is beside your bed?”
“A book about the 1972 Canada/Russia series, actually.”
Ilya laughed. “Do you read books that are not about hockey?”
“Sometimes,” Shane said. “I mean, no. Not very often.”
“You are obsessed.”
“Of course I am. Aren’t you?”
“Maybe. In a different way.”
Shane picked up the book and flicked the end of the bookmark with his finger. It had been nestled between pages forty-one and forty-two for over a month. “Hockey has always been everything to me. For as long as I can remember.”
“It has been for me as well. But...more as like...an escape. Is that right to say? My brain is not good right now.”
“Yes,” Shane said quietly. “An escape. That’s right. It was never an escape for me. It was just what I loved to do.”
“I love it also,” Ilya said. “Hockey is...fun. And I am very good at it.”
Shane laughed. And Ilya laughed.
“Is wild how much money they pay me to play this game,” Ilya said.
“Tell me about it,” Shane agreed.
“I don’t want to come back here.”
Shane was confused by the sudden topic change. “To Russia, you mean?”
“Da. I want to become American. Or Canadian. But I am in America, so...”
In that moment, Shane wished like hell that Ilya played for a Canadian team.
“You should,” Shane said. “Have you looked into—?”
“We should get married,” Ilya said.
“What?” Shane flushed right down to his toes.
“Not to each other,” Ilya said. Then he started laughing and couldn’t stop.
“I knew you didn’t mean to each other,” Shane lied.
When Ilya finally stopped laughing, he said, “I can marry an American girl. You should get married, Hollander. You want children, yes?”
“I’ve already told you... I don’t want to marry...anyone.”
“There is a nice Russian girl in Boston. American, I mean. But from Russia. Svetlana. I like her. I could marry her, I think.”
“Oh.”
“She is...what is word?...sensible. Marriage would be like business deal, yes? Just until I am citizen.”
“You don’t love her, then?”
“No,” Ilya said quietly. He sounded like he was falling asleep. “Not her. No.”
Shane knew he should end the call, let Ilya get some sleep. But instead he blurted out, “You should come to the cottage this summer.”
“Cottage? What are you talking about, Hollander?”
“My cottage. In Ontario. You’re not going back to Russia, so...come to my cottage with me. It’s quiet, and beautiful and...private.”
For a moment, Ilya didn’t say anything, and Shane thought he really had fallen asleep.
“I will think about it,” Ilya said finally.
“Okay.”
“I am tired.”
“Yeah, I can tell. Get some sleep, all right?”
“Yes. Goodnight, Hollander.”
They ended the call and Shane sat on his bed for a while after, not moving. It occurred to him that they’d just had an entire conversation that hadn’t been about sex at all, and was barely about hockey.
It also occurred to him that his heart was beating like he was in the middle of a run, and his mouth was dry. He had actually just invited Ilya to his cottage! The fact that he had even done that was absurd, but what if Ilya actually accepted?
What if he had Ilya all to himself at Shane’s favorite place in the world? If there was no one to interrupt them, no one to hide from, no one to remind them of all the reasons they shouldn’t want each other...
It would be too much. Shane would never be able to hold back everything he had been trying to pretend he didn’t feel. He would blurt something out that he would never, ever be able to take back.
He’s never going to be your boyfriend, Shane.
Oh god. That was what Shane wanted, wasn’t it? He didn’t just want to be Ilya’s dirty secret. He didn’t want their relationship to be nothing but sex. He wanted to comfort Ilya when he was sad, and talk to him on the phone, and snuggle together on the couch and watch movies. He would take the short phone call they had just shared over any of their sexual encounters.
Well, almost any of their sexual encounters.
Shane groaned and fell back on his bed, covering his face with his hands. He was super fucked.
Chapter Twenty
The next day—Moscow
Ilya would fly back to Boston tomorrow.
Andrei was the executor of their father’s estate, what little of it there was, and Ilya had fulfilled his duties as a son. He was done.
He’d realized, over the past few days, that he truly had no reason to return to Russia. He probably would, someday, but he couldn’t see spending another summer here. Any obligation he had felt had died with his father.
He had made an impulsive decision to give his Moscow condo to his brother. Andrei could sell it, or meet his mistresses there. Ilya couldn’t care less; he just didn’t want to deal with selling it. There wasn’t even anything in it that he wanted.
He sat on his bed in that condo. It would be his last night sleeping there.
He could think of one thing he would like to do to commemorate the occasion.
Ilya: Are you home?
The reply was immediate.
Jane: Yes.
Ilya smiled and wrote, Skype?
He waited, and wondered if Shane understood what Ilya was suggesting.
OK, Shane texted back. Just a sec.
Ilya decided to make things a little clearer for Shane, just in case he didn’t get it. He pulled his T-shirt off and dropped it on the floor, then stacked some pillows in front of the headboard and settled himself on the mattress. He sent Shane a video call request.
Shane accepted, and then there he was, filling the screen of Ilya’s iPad. He was wearing a hoodie and...glasses?
“Holy shit, Hollander! Do you wear glasses?”
“Oh!” Shane reached up and touched the frames of his glasses, as if he didn’t believe Ilya. “Just when I read. It’s, um...new.” He pulled them off.
“No!” Ilya said, grinning. “I like them.”
“Well...” Shane said, and damn if he wasn’t blushing already. “I can see you a lot better if I leave them on.” He slid the thick black frames back into place. “What?” he asked, because Ilya couldn’t stop smiling.
“What were you reading? Your boring hockey book?”
Shane’s eyes narrowed behind the glasses. “Are you just calling to make fun of me?”
“No. Not only that.”
He watched Shane bite his bottom lip. God, he’s cute.
“Were you thinking we could, y’know...do stuff?” Shane asked nervously.
“Yes. But first, show me your bedroom. I am dying to see it.”
“Really? All right.” Shane tapped on the screen and flipped the camera. Suddenly, Ilya was looking at a king-size bed with a navy blue comforter.
“That’s the bed,” he heard Shane say off camera.
“Oh, is it?”
“Fuck you. You asked for this. Here’s the dresser. And the bathroom is over there. And the closet. And here’s the view...”
Ilya decided he didn’t care about the view or the bedroom anymore. It was as boring as he had been expecting. It could have been a hotel room.
“Why don’t you get on the bed?” he suggested.
“So much for small talk, I guess.”
“And take you
r shirt off.”
“Bossy.”
Ilya waited as Shane put his tablet or whatever down, causing the screen to go black. He heard rustling noises, and then Ilya was looking at the end of Shane’s bed.
“Better?” Shane asked.
“No. Turn the camera around.”
“Oh, shit. Here.” And now a shirtless Shane Hollander’s face and shoulders (and glasses) filled the screen.
“Better.”
“How are you? I’ve been...thinking about you.”
Ilya’s heart flipped. He hoped it didn’t show on his face. “I am okay. I might not come back here, after today.”
“Is that scary?”
Ilya shrugged. “Right now it feels...good. Like, um...”
“A weight has been lifted?”
“Yes. Maybe like that. Is there a way I can see more of you?”
“Oh. Yeah...maybe I can...just a sec.”
Ilya propped his own iPad up on his nightstand and stretched out with his hands behind his head. When Shane reappeared on the screen, it seemed he had done something similar because now Ilya could see from the top of his head to the waistband of his sweatpants.
Ilya wanted, more than anything, to be able to cover Shane’s body with his own. To kiss his way down his chest and stomach.
Shane smiled. “It’s good to see you again.”
“I’d like to see you wearing nothing but those glasses,” Ilya said.
“I don’t think my camera can show that much at once.”
“Next time we are together, then.”
“Yeah. Next time.”
Ilya let his head sink into the pillows. He kept it turned, facing the camera. “Do you remember, after the NHL Awards in...what year was it?”
“Two thousand fourteen,” Shane said quickly. “Yeah. I do. I...I think about that night a lot.”
“Do you?”
“It was memorable.”
“It was,” Ilya agreed. “You put on a show for me.”
“I can’t believe you talked me into that.”
“I think you like to be told what to do, Hollander.”
Shane sucked in a breath. “Maybe. A little.”
“And you’re a little show-off.”
“I am not.”
“You are. You love praise. You want everyone to see how good you are.”