Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The first memory Ilya has is of hockey. It sounds dramatic, but he swears it’s true. 

His father had him in skates as soon as he could walk. Alyosha had proven hopeless – not just at hockey, but at all the other sports their father had him try as a final, desperate bid to make something of his eldest son. And here Ilya was. A chance at a do-over. 

His mother had been apprehensive at first – hockey is a violent sport, after all – but Ilya had taken to the game remarkably well, and her worries dissipated – or at least she stopped expressing them to Ilya. He quickly became better, faster, more precise in his stick and puck handling, than the other kids in his U11 team. By the age of 6, Ilya was in private coaching with Igor Rabinovich – a former CSKA Moscow player, triple Gagarin Cup winner, and a close friend of his father’s. Grigori Rozanov and coach Rabinovich had played hockey together during their time at Moscow State. I broke my knee in third year, Grigori would always say. It’s the only reason I didn’t go pro. Igor would laugh and slap his shoulder, but Ilya got the sense of something colder, more distant lingering under that gesture. Out of the Moscow State team, Igor Rabinovich and Sergei Vitrov had gone on to play for the KHL and for the Russian Soviet national team; Grigori Rozanov had not. None of them mentioned it, yet it hung in the air, heavy and ready to explode, for as long as Ilya could remember.

When Ilya moved from the coed team at the local rink on the outskirts of Moscow to Rabinovich, the coach confirmed what Ilya’s first coach had told Grigori. Ilya was an incredibly fast learner. He had potential. If he worked hard, he could be one of the best players Russia had seen in generations. 

As much as Irina was scared for Ilya, she came to every single game. Kissed his head gently when he won, held him close when he lost. Patched up his bruises and cuts in the bathroom, always kissing it better as Ilya tried to put on a brave face and not cry, even though it hurt, and it never got easier. 

“You’re making him too soft, Ira,” Grigori would say whenever he caught a glimpse Irina’s careful hands put a plaster on Ilya’s knee and reassure her youngest son that it was okay to not be as combative as the other kids; that it didn’t make him weak, just made him different to them. “Too soft.”

Ilya’s team was good. One of the better in the U11 league, alongside Minsk, St Petersburg and, on a good day, Magnitogorsk. Even in those early days, it was clear – the kids that worked hard would make it to the U18 team, and then (maybe, hopefully) to the KHL.

Despite this, not all the kids were good at hockey. Ilya found it more than a bit unfair, for example, that Sasha Rabinovich – coach Rabinovich’s son – was on the team, despite being absolutely terrible at hockey. He also seemed to not care that he was bad at it. He was late for practice more often than not; he smiled when chastised by his father; he laughed when he missed passes.

Ilya didn’t like it. For him, hockey was the only way forward. The only way not to end up like Alyosha – average grades, no real prospects, and an utter disappointment to his father. At least, when Ilya played well, Grigori would clap him on the shoulder, saying he did a fine job. He’d criticise him, sure, but the slivers of praise were more than worth it. Alexei never got the friendly claps on the shoulder; only the angry words and the shoves designed to look like accidents. 

Most days, Ilya stayed late at the rink. He wanted to work hard, be great at hockey, sure; but mostly, he just wanted to avoid going home.

The rink was close enough to the Rozanovs’ new flat that, even though he was only 7, he would often walk home on his own. His father had gotten a big promotion, working his way into the Ministry of the Interior, and with it, came a larger flat than their previous cramped quarters on the outskirts of Moscow. Ilya even had his own room, no longer having to share with Alyosha. 

Ilya would stay at the rink for hours after formal practice was over, until either coach Rabinovich made him pack up or the janitor – not unkindly – told him that he was very sorry, but Ilya had to get going now.

Coming home was a quiet affair at best. Ilya tried to be as silent as possible as he opened the door, giving himself a moment to feel the atmosphere. That day, he opened the door, shivering from the brutal Moscow winter, and his body immediately recoiled at the tension that hung in the air. His breath caught in his throat and it took all his resolve to resist the urge to bolt. 

He closed the door quietly but, clearly, not quietly enough. 

“He’s finally here!” It was his father’s voice, slightly muffled by the master bedroom doors. It was weird, Ilya always thought, that he and Alyosha got their own rooms, but Irina and Grigori had to share. “Let’s hear what he has to say about this.”

His mother’s protests did little to stop his father’s heavy steps from descending down the hallway until Grigori Rozanov was looking down at Ilya with an expression of controlled anger. Like he was still holding it together, but not for long. Like a bomb whose timer Ilya could only watch tick down, knowing there was nothing he could do about it. 

“Ilya,” his father said. Grigori’s tone was neutral, measured, but Ilya knew how to read the cold fury underneath his words. His mother was hovering behind him, glancing between her husband and her youngest son. Not for the first time, Ilya was struck by how young she looked – not even 30 to his father’s 57. 

“Yes, sir?” Ilya tried to match his father’s casual tone. Wrong move, apparently – his father’s careful mask was slipping.

“Did you, or did you not, get an F in maths yesterday?”

Ilya’s throat tightened. 

He had, in fact, gotten an F in maths. He was mad at himself for it because he hadn’t even failed a test, or done anything to actually warrant an F. He’d simply forgotten to do his homework one too many times. It hadn’t been on purpose either – it was just that, no matter how hard he tried, Ilya just couldn’t get himself to remember things like this. It was lazy, and stupid, and completely avoidable. 

“I’m sorry. I swear, I tried, and I don’t know what happened, but I just…” he started, wincing at how whiny he sounded. He was making excuses for the inexcusable, he knew. He felt tears filling his eyes and he tried so, so hard not to cry, but his breath hitched before he could stop it. “I swear, it won’t happen again, I just wasn’t feeling well, and I had hockey, and–”

His father scoffed and turned to Irina. “You taught him to make excuses for everything. For God’s sake, how many times do I have to tell you, he needs to learn to take responsibility and not cry over every tiny fucking thing–”

“He forgot to do his homework,” Irina said, her voice shaky but head raised. “It happens to everyone, Grigori.”

Ilya saw his father’s expression change. The mask slipped completely and he was faced with pure, unadulterated rage.

Ilya went into himself.

He didn’t know what else to call it. But he’d figured out, very early on, that the only way to get through this was to think about something completely different. To disconnect from his body and watch from above, feeling as though he was moving on autopilot, as his father raged at him and his mother.

Ilya always thought about the future. He’d be an excellent hockey player, somewhere far away from here. He wouldn’t play for the KHL; maybe he’d join one of the European leagues, or maybe even the MLH. Him, Irina, and Alyosha would live somewhere far away from his father. He’d see her smile so often, so easily, and he wouldn’t be so scared all the time. He just had to survive this night.

“I’m so sorry, Ilyushka,” his mother said quietly, later that night, as they curled up in Ilya’s bed for the brief period of respite when Grigori showered and brushed his teeth before bed. Irina stroked Ilya’s hair, his head in her lap as she gently rocked him. “I’m working on it. I promise. We will leave soon.”

Ilya looked up at his mum. He wiped the tears from her face and smiled at her – a forced smile, sure, but one she felt she needed. Too often, he was too soft, too weak. But for her, for his mum, he could be strong.

“I’m okay, mama,” he said quietly. She kissed his forehead and continued rocking him until they both heard the familiar clang of the bathroom cabinets closing. She gave him one more kiss and made her way to the master bedroom, barefoot, alone.

Back then, Ilya still went to school full-time. It wasn’t until he was 14 that he was pulled out in favour of 1-on-1 tuition that could fit around his hockey schedule. But, at 8, Ilya was still a normal kid. He played hockey every day after school, sure, but he was still just a kid. 

It was at school that he first met Svetlana Vitrova.

He was messing around with some friends – some of the boys from the hockey and football teams – shoving each other and lobbing insults. Ilya wasn’t quite sure how this was friendship, exactly, but he didn’t question it. They wanted to hang out with him, and Ilya knew better than to leave himself alone, vulnerable, unprotected. 

Ilya had just called Denis – a short kid who had just lost a front tooth and who loved football more than anything in the world – stupid, and Denis shoved him in return. But then, he poked Ilya and pointed at someone. A girl, across the corridor, opening a locker. 

Ilya furrowed his eyebrows. He’d never seen her before – that, he was sure of. 

Some of the kids in Ilya’s year at school looked different than he and his family did. Their eyes were a different shape, and their skin was a bit more tan than Ilya’s, their hair darker and straighter. They were Asian, his mum explained when he’d pointed at one of the kids. They came from a different place in the world, where people looked a bit different to her or Ilya, but they were the same as him in all the ways that mattered.

Since then, Ilya had met quite a few Asian kids. The Kazakh hockey teams were pretty good, and most of their players were Asian, as were some of the kids on the Russian teams. He noticed it, sure, but he mostly ignored it; some of his white teammates, though, seemed to have a different attitude, treating those players more harshly, checking them more often, lobbing insults Ilya had never heard before but could guess the meaning of. 

But he’d never quite seen anyone who looked like this girl. Her skin was brown, and her dark hair was very curly – not the soft, loose curls of Ilya’s and Irina’s hair, but a tighter, more textured kind of curl. They formed a sort of halo around her head. Ilya couldn’t help but think she was really pretty. 

Denis, apparently, was thinking something very different. He yelled out to get her attention – a “hey, you”, combined with a word Ilya had never heard before but, judging by the word “black” in it and the satisfied, shit-eating grin Denis had said it with, it couldn’t mean anything good. His suspicion was confirmed when the girl approached them and Ilya saw her face – not stricken or sad, but absolutely furious. 

“Say it again, you little shit,” she said, her voice remarkably steady. She was much taller than Denis – taller than Ilya, even – and she held herself with a self-assuredness that immediately impressed Ilya. Denis’s smile faded slightly, but he squared his shoulders and said it again.

Before the girl could react, Ilya punched Denis in the face.

His first throbbed, and Denis looked up at him in shock. He spat at Ilya’s feet and walked away, the rest of their – Denis’s now, Ilya supposed – friends following suit. 

The girl looked at him and, to Ilya’s surprise, she seemed even more furious. “Why did you do that?!” she yelled.

“He was being mean, I–”

“I’m not weak! I can protect myself!”

Ilya threw up his hands. “I was just trying to help!”

He stalked off, angry, hurt, and mostly confused. It was a bit awkward since the girl followed him into the maths classroom, but Ilya made a point of sitting across from her and behind Denis and his friends. 

An hour later, he shoved his notebook into his backpack and left the classroom. As soon as he was in the corridor, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around and there she was, looking at him. 

Her lips formed a tight line. “Sorry I went off on you. I know you just wanted to help.”

“It’s okay,” Ilya said, although he wasn’t trying to hide the fact that he was still very much sulking. 

“Are they your friends?” she asked. “The guys who called me that, I mean.”

“I… I don’t know,” Ilya replied in a small voice. 

“They seem like dicks,” she said matter-of-factly. Ilya let out a surprised laugh. He wasn’t used to people using swear words so casually, so boldly and confidently.

“I think they are.”

“Can I be your friend instead?”

Ilya gave her a small, shy smile. 

“I’m Ilya,” he said, extending his hand. He felt silly doing it, but it felt right. It felt like a big moment, one where he should act like an adult. 

“Sveta,” she replied, and shook his hand, laughing slightly at the gesture. Ilya laughed too, and Sveta shoved him lightly. 

“Come on, Ilya,” she said. “We’ve got English now, right? Show me where it is, this place is a maze.”

Irina really liked Sveta. The first time Ilya brought her over after school, Irina solemnly took her proffered hand and made them warm pork cutlets and potatoes. She asked Sveta questions, real questions, about school, her parents, her hobbies – back then, Sveta was really into a new fantasy series that was just purchased by the school library – and she was genuinely interested in the answers. 

“She’s really sweet,” Irina told Ilya after Sveta left for the first time. “She seems like a good friend.”

Ilya couldn’t help but smile at that.

He did, however, dread Sveta meeting his father. It was bound to happen – quickly after befriending her, Ilya found out that she was Sveta Sergeyevna Vitrova, daughter of the legendary Soviet goalkeeper Sergey Vitrov, who, coincidentally, had played with Grigori Rozanov and Igor Rabinovich at Moscow State. However, Ilya didn’t think it would’ve happened so soon, and so suddenly.

Sveta, Irina, and Ilya were sitting at the kitchen table, laughing about something Ilya had just said, when both Irina and Ilya jolted at the sound of the front door slamming shut. 

Sveta – always too smart for her good, Ilya thought – immediately noticed something was wrong. Before either Ilya or his mum could react, Sveta tugged at Ilya’s sleeve and led him to his bedroom. He shot a look at Irina, who nodded and gestured for him to go. 

Ilya closed his bedroom door slowly, as quietly as he could, and shot Sveta a puzzled look. She squeezed his hand. 

“You and your mum both looked so scared,” she whispered. “I didn’t want you to have to see him.”

Ilya swallowed past the lump in his throat and laid his head on Sveta’s shoulder as they settled on Ilya’s bed, backs against the wall. 

Sveta was talking in that same quiet, assured voice – telling Ilya about something stupid she’d overheard Oksana from her afterschool French class say – when they heard Grigori’s voice, loud and harsh.

“And whose is this? I knew it, I can always tell you’re being unfaithful, that you’re–”

Ilya’s mum said something in response, and the rest of the words were muffled as the kitchen door slammed shut. He couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he could tell his father was becoming increasingly agitated, and his mum was saying less and less.

“Do you want to go to my place?” Sveta whispered. Ilya nodded. He grabbed his backpack and a pair of sneakers and, as quietly as he could, made his way down the hallway, Sveta following behind. 

They managed to sneak out, with Ilya shutting the front door just as his father’s voice got louder, muffling the sound. He pulled his shoes on and sprinted towards the stairs, Sveta only slightly struggling to keep up with him. By the time they got down from the 7th floor, they were both absolutely winded. Ilya was practically wheezing. 

Sveta lived 5 bus stops away from Ilya, and they were silent the entire time. Ilya didn’t stop looking over his shoulder even when they reached the Vitrov house – not a flat, but a proper house in one of the fancier districts of Moscow. Sveta knocked.

Jade Vitrova opened the door, eyebrows furrowed with surprise. 

“I thought you were at Ilya’s, Sveta,” she said, and only then did she notice Ilya behind her. He must’ve been in a state, he thought, wheezing and pale. “Oh. I didn’t know you guys were here today.”

“I’m really sorry for the trouble,” Ilya said quietly.

“It’s no bother,” Jade said, although there was something uneasy in her voice. She let them in and, after they kicked their shoes off, she gestured towards the kitchen. “Ilya, please feel free to grab something to drink or eat. I’ll just talk to Sveta for a moment, okay?”

Ilya nodded and made his way to the kitchen. Despite himself, he grabbed a korovka from the sweets-filled bowl in the kitchen. He perched on a stool and looked out the window, watching the snow fall, illuminated by the streetlights. 

Soon, Jade and Sveta made their way to the kitchen, and Ilya was struck by the similarities between them. Sveta clearly had her mother’s textured hair, although Jade’s was darker, as was her skin. Still, they had the same confident, regal posture, the same poise with which they kept their heads up. 

Jade saw Ilya chewing on the korovka – working that thing was a big task, and Ilya’s jaw was starting to hurt, although he always thought it was worth it – and smiled. She sat down on the stool opposite Ilya. 

“Sveta told me your mum made dinner,” she said. Ilya found it incredibly impressive how Jade, despite being American and having moved to Russia 15 years prior, spoke Russian without a trace of an accent. 

Ilya nodded. “That’s kind of her,” Jade said softly. Ilya gave her a small smile. 

“Sveta also told me that your dad came back from work, and that he seemed angry, so she offered for you guys to come here.”

Ilya nodded again, swallowing and looking away. Jade sighed softly. “Ilya, I need to ask – does your dad ever hurt you, or your mum? Or your brother?”

Ilya could swear his heart stopped for a moment. “No,” he said quickly – maybe too quickly, because Jade narrowed her eyes. “No, no, he’s never hit any of us. I promise.”

He saw the tension drain from Jade’s shoulders, and he felt himself exhale. For once, it seemed, he’d said the right thing. 

“Okay,” Jade said. “That’s good. But Ilya, I want you to know that if you ever feel that scared again, you can always come here. Alyosha and your mum too, okay?”

Ilya looked her in the eyes, analysing her expression. He didn’t find a hint of insincerity. He nodded.

“Okay,” he whispered.

“So, your dad’s kind of… intense.”

Ilya glanced at Sveta. They were behind the school, savouring the hour Ilya had between classes and hockey practice, both sipping on the chocolate milk their school had supplied during lunch. 

“Like, you and your mum and Alyosha,” she continued. “Do you like him?”

“Of course,” Ilya replied automatically. “He’s my father.”

“Does he ever, I don’t know, hug you?” Sveta asked, and Ilya hated how she looked at him. Almost like she felt sorry for him. 

“Sure he does,” Ilya said, shrugging. “When I win at hockey, I guess.”

“And if you don’t win?”

Ilya cursed Sveta for being this perceptive. “He gets a bit angry, you know, but it’s understandable. I mean, he pays so much for those classes, it’s only fair I actually do well.”

“And Alyosha?”

Ilya had to actually think about this one. And he felt uneasy when he realised that no, he’d never quite seen Grigori hug Alexei. “He’s not very good at hockey,” Ilya said, disliking how meek he sounded. 

Sveta just nodded and looked away into the distance. “Your mum’s lovely, though.”

Ilya smiled and, this time, the smile felt genuine. “She is. She likes you, too.”

Sveta glanced at him, then. “Please tell me she doesn’t think we’re dating.”

It was bizarre, but it happened to them a lot. They were only 9, but it wasn’t unheard of for kids in their year group to slip each other shy notes or blush when someone they liked walked into the room. And, because Ilya and Sveta were a boy and a girl, a lot of people – kids and adults alike – seemed hellbent on reading into their relationship, making it anything beyond a friendship. They both hated it. 

“She doesn’t!” Ilya said. “She’s smarter than that.”

Sveta smiled softly. “She does seem smart. Smarter than your dad, anyway.”

Ilya felt uneasy with this open criticism of his father, but he nodded. “You know, I think she is.”

“Why…” Sveta fidgeted with her backpack strap. “Why do you think she married him?”

Ilya knew people should marry because they’re in love. But his parents didn’t seem in love – not the way that Jade and Sergei were, with their soft kisses and jokes and easy touches. 

“I don’t know. I hope,” Ilya whispered, and he swallowed. The thought had been brewing inside him for so long, but it felt like he was never, ever allowed to vocalise it. But this was Sveta, and somehow, he knew she’d understand. “I hope she leaves. That we can go somewhere safe. Away… from him.”

Sveta didn’t reply. She just moved closer to Ilya and gave him a hug. And if any of the kids in their year saw it and filed it under another piece of evidence that Ilya Rozanov and Sveta Vitrova were dating, well, Ilya and Sveta couldn’t care less.

“I hope so too,” Sveta said softly against Ilya’s hair. 

As an adult, Ilya would remember being 9 primarily as the last year he had a good relationship with Alexei. 

Something shifted between them when Alyosha turned 14. Maybe it was the fact that he looked so much like their father, all brown straight hair and dark eyes, where Ilya was so similar, too similar, to Irina, with her soft curls and bright blue eyes. Or maybe it was that Alyosha had finally found a way to make his father proud of him – promising to join the police academy right after graduation, in only 3 years, in the meantime taking up whatever menial jobs, loftily called “internships”, Grigori’s Ministry friends had for him. He certainly had the look – the shaved head, the combat boots, and the company he kept that made Ilya nervous even though he didn’t fully understand why yet. This wasn’t the definitive breaking point, not yet, but Ilya would always pinpoint that to be when they started drifting apart.

But at 13, Alyosha was still Ilya’s big brother. Sure, he would tease him, sometimes playfight with him, but it never went beyond that. They went to the playground, got ice cream, stayed in the kitchen as Irina cooked, radio on as the three of them sang whatever cheesy song was popular at the time. She would smile at them and kiss their cheeks. My boys. 

Because Alyosha was older, he spent more time outside the house – loitering outside supermarkets in hopes of one of his friends’ older siblings getting them alcohol, most likely, or playing football in the park. This meant he didn’t see everything that went on in the Rozanov household, not the way Ilya did. Despite this, he wasn’t oblivious. When he came home, Grigori passed out on the couch, Ilya and Irina trying to make as little noise as possible, he hugged his mum tightly, and ruffled Ilya’s hair. On bad nights, Ilya slept in Alyosha’s bed, his brother’s warm back pressed against his. 

Grigori’s ire did, sometimes, fall on Alyosha, but Irina and Ilya seemed to be the primary targets. Irina, Ilya supposed, simply because she was Grigori’s wife – not a person, but a status symbol, a role she couldn’t quite live up to. But in Ilya’s case, he always thought Grigori saw his potential. Him not paying that much attention to Alexei almost meant that he’d given up on him. Like he wasn’t even worth the anger, the lectures, the hard-earned lessons. But Ilya was – Ilya could still be something. Ilya could still make his father proud. 

Sveta didn’t play hockey. She complained about it, sometimes, and Ilya knew it bothered her, no matter how matter-of-fact she sounded. 

“My dad doesn’t think girls should play,” she said, rolling her eyes. “He’s probably right. No-one ever talks about the women’s league.”

“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t play,” Ilya offered. He snatched another crisp from the packet Sveta was holding and she swatted his hand away.

“I don’t care that much,” she said. “I like watching, but I’ve never been that interested in playing.”

“Have you tried?” Ilya leaned back slightly, his back hitting the frame of Sveta’s bed, her carpet soft under his palms. He stretched his long legs out in front of him.

They were 11 now, and kids around them were slowly becoming aware that boys and girls could be very different. Ilya and Sveta learned to ignore the rumours. They were comfortable with each other – a boy and a girl, best friends, and nothing more. They were both determined to not let the others’ taunts and jokes and apparent sudden awareness of differences get in the way of that. 

Sveta considered it, popping another crisp into her mouth. “Yeah, a couple times. When I was 6, maybe? It’s not as big in Boston as it is here, though.”

Ilya nodded. “What…” he hesitated. “What’s Boston like?”

“It’s nice,” Sveta said. “Moscow is bigger, more interesting. But Boston is… I don’t know, friendlier.”

Ilya must have looked confused, because Sveta sighed. “Well, there’s a lot more Black people, for example,” she said bluntly. Ilya nodded. “So nobody looks at me like I’m a freak, you know?”

“You’re not a freak,” Ilya said sternly. Sveta rolled her eyes again.

“I know that. You know that. But these idiots, out there?” She pointed behind her back at nothing in particular. “They don’t know that.”

Ilya nodded again. It wasn’t that he was uncomfortable, exactly; it was more that Sveta’s experience was so different from his own he didn’t always know what to say. Nobody ever looked at Ilya with immediate suspicion just because of his looks. Nobody ever stared at him from across the street or spoke slow, accented English at him because he couldn’t possibly speak Russian. Nobody ever told him to go back to Africa or made one of those stupid comments about monkeys he’d hear people say to Sveta all the time.

“Do you want to live there? When you’re older?” he asked. Sveta shrugged.

“Maybe. I mean, I love Moscow, but it’s really hard sometimes. I just get treated like… like a tourist attraction or something, not like a person. So maybe. I do have an American passport because of my mum, you know. Maybe I could move there.”

“Maybe,” Ilya agreed. He hesitated. “Maybe I’ll come with you. Maybe I’ll play for the MLH one day.”

Sveta laughed. It wasn’t a cruel laugh, far from it. Even at 11, Ilya was amazing at hockey, and she of all people knew it. If he kept at it, she had no doubt he’d make it to the KHL at the very least. It was just sweet that Ilya was thinking that far ahead. 

“We could live together,” she said, smiling. “We’re best friends. It’d be so fun! We could have sleepovers every night.”

Ilya smiled, too.

“Mum?” Ilya asked. His mum looked up from her ice cream, smiling.

“What is it, Ilyushka?”

Ilya licked his ice cream, accidentally getting it all over his cheeks, and Irina laughed, passing him a napkin. He wiped his mouth before talking.

“Why don’t you leave?”

His mum stilled. “I can’t, Ilyusha. You know I can’t.”

“But why?” Ilya pressed. She sighed.

“I’d need money to leave. I tried getting a job, I did, but… I don’t even have a high school diploma. I don’t have connections. And everyone in Moscow knows that I’m… I’m married to your dad, and that he doesn’t want me working.”

“Have you,” Ilya started carefully. “Have you thought about… leaving Moscow?”

She furrowed her eyebrows. “Where is this coming from, Ilyusha?”

“Sveta’s American. She’s Russian, too, but she was born in Boston. She says it’s nice there. Friendly.”

Something flickered across his mum’s face. But she smiled and ruffled his hair. “Maybe. It’s not a bad idea. Maybe one day, we could go somewhere else.”

There was something wrong with his mum.

Ilya knew that Irina had never been happy, exactly, but she could always put on a brave face for Ilya and Alyosha. She’d take them – first, both of them, and then, as Alyosha became a withdrawn teenager, just Ilya – to the playground and to get pizza and ice cream. She’d play tag and hide and seek with them and tickle Ilya until he was in tears, laughing. Sometimes, Ilya would catch her smile slip, or that faraway look in her eyes, but whenever he asked about it, she’d shake her head mildly and that smile would return. Ilya sometimes felt like he was the only person in the world who got to see that smile. 

But now, something was wrong. He’d never seen her like this before. 

He needed her to walk him to school – he could usually do it himself, but he needed her to sign some stupid form from his teacher. He tried to nudge her awake but, to his surprise, she was awake. She blinked at Ilya with tired eyes and God, she looked so sad. 

“Mum, I need to go to school,” he said, trying to sound as patient as he could. “I need you to sign that trip permission.”

“I’m really sorry, baby,” she said, tucking one of his curls behind his ear. It escaped immediately, bouncing back to its previous position. “I can’t… I don’t feel well. Will you be okay going alone? Bring me the permission slip, I’ll sign it later, okay?”

He felt frustration bubble up in his chest. His mum didn’t have to go to work – surely, she could just walk him to school? But he swallowed it down. He nodded and gave Irina a hug.

“Will you come to my game tomorrow? We’re playing Petersburg again.”

She gave him a small, almost imperceptible smile, but it was there, and Ilya felt just a bit lighter.

“I’ll try my best, Ilyushka. I promise.”

She was there the next day, sat in the front row watching her son attentively, and Ilya felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe she’d get better, and they’d get out, and everything would be okay. He just had to wait. 

As soon as Ilya turned 12, he was sure the world had gone insane.

The previous murmur of ‘boys and girls are different’ now grew into a full-on frenzy. His hockey friends all seemed obsessed with girls – how much they hated them, how stupid they were, and how much they wanted to kiss them. He was questioned about Sveta non-stop – if they were boyfriend-girlfriend, if they’d ever kissed, if he had a crush on her.

So, one night, in her bedroom, he asked the question.

“Do you want to kiss?” he said.

Sveta furrowed her eyebrows. “What?”

“I don’t have a crush on you,” he clarified. “You’re my best friend. But I haven’t kissed a girl before. I’m just curious.”

Sveta seemed to consider it, looking up and weighing her options with her lower lip jutting out. Eventually, she shrugged and nodded.

“Alright,” she said. Ilya crawled across the carpet to her and, awkwardly, clumsily, pecked her lips.

She giggled. “Ilya, I think you’re supposed to do a bit more than that.”

He laughed too. “Well, let’s see how well you do!”

She grabbed his cheek and kissed him, a bit more forcefully, on the mouth. They kept this up for a while before pulling away. They were both a bit flushed. Ilya giggled nervously.

“That was weird,” he said. Sveta sighed, relieved, and laughed too. 

“It was! Not bad, just… weird.”

“Yeah,” Ilya said. He shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind doing it again. But you’re still my best friend.”

Sveta nudged his shoulder with her own. “And you’re mine.”

Ilya knew girls noticed him. He saw it – the way they’d huddle together, giggling, as he walked past them at school. The way they blushed when he smiled and waved at them.

He knew why. He was by far the tallest boy in their year, and hockey had made him strong and broad in a way that made him look a bit older than his 12. He knew girls liked his curly hair – he’d overheard one of them tell her friend it was so cute – and his dimples when he smiled. 

He didn’t exactly hate the attention. It was new, but not unwelcome. 

He kissed a few girls that year. Two behind the school, one in the girls’ changing room after PE, one in the school corridor during the parent-teacher conference. It was fun, and they all liked him, and he didn’t hate it, either.

He was the first boy on the team to kiss a girl, let alone a few. This earned him respect – more respect than his position as their captain or the most skilled player on the team, it seemed. So he played into it. He gave his team tips – touch their face, they like that; close your eyes before you lean in, it’s weird otherwise – and boasted about how he’d kissed five girls in the past 3 months. 

He wasn’t sure he ever had crushes on those girls. He did briefly like Olga Romanova from his year at school, but she seemed wholly uninterested – unlike her best friend Sonia, whom Ilya kissed behind the school the same day Olga made it clear she wasn’t interested. He didn’t have a crush on Sonia, but she had a crush on him, and that was good enough.

It felt good. Like he was more mature than the others, because he had more experience with girls. And when he kissed them, for a moment, he wasn’t Ilya Rozanov, the prospective KHL player, or Ilya Grigorievich, the son who constantly failed to measure up, the boy with shoulders tense in anticipation of the next screaming match. He was just Ilya, a 12 year old boy kissing a 12 year old girl behind the school. 

His mum didn’t get better. 

Grigori noticed, too. He berated her for being lazy, useless, a disappointment, saying that “if she didn’t get out of bed right now, God better help her”. But now, she never tried to placate him. Instead, she looked how Ilya often felt when his father got like this. Her eyes were glazed over, and she didn’t look like she was hearing any of it. As though she was imagining a better future to deal with the present.

“You can’t be lazy like your mother, Ilya,” his father said to him as he walked him from practice. He didn’t often pick Ilya up, but this time, he had some business to talk over with coach Rabinovich. 

This was it. Grigori had been saying it for weeks, now, and it boiled over in Ilya. “She’s not lazy! God, can’t you see? She’s clearly sick. I don’t know what’s wrong, but…”

His father’s face wasn’t one of an indifferent mask with anger brewing under the surface. It was pure, simple rage. Ilya lost all confidence. His stomach felt like it dropped all the way to the bottom of his body. “How dare you talk to your father like that?” Grigori hissed.

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry–” Ilya started, panic rising in his chest. His father, ever so practical, looked around the rink. It was empty. For now.

“Shut up, not here,” he said. He grabbed Ilya’s arm, hard, leading him out of the rink and to their flat, to his mother with the absent look in her eyes, his brother who never quite seemed sure what to do, and his father’s alcohol bottles and short temper.

Ilya doesn’t remember that night.

“Do you know what this is?” Irina asked with a gentle smile. Ilya looked down at the pendant in his hand, confused, and shook his head.

He knew what the cross symbolised, of course. And he knew it was his mum’s favourite necklace, one her own mother had given her for her 16th birthday.

“It’s to protect you, always. I know I couldn’t always be here for you, and I will always, always be sorry about that, but… no matter what happens, He will always hear you. You just have to ask. Just hold on to it and you’ll be okay. I promise.”

She kissed his forehead. Ilya smiled. 

Ilya knew how to take pain. He could take his father’s temper. He got into fights during hockey games all the time, and he was excellent at throwing punches – and taking them. He got into some fights at school too, and he always, always won. Being able to bear pain was one of the things Ilya was most proud of himself for. 

This was the first time he felt pain he was sure he wouldn’t survive. 

He was home from practice – late, as always. He listened out, but the house was quiet. Grigori was still at work, probably. His police hours were irregular enough that quiet evenings did happen, sometimes. Alyosha was probably at a friend’s house – he was 16 now, and there weren’t many nights he did spend at home. 

But his mum should be here. Usually, when she was alone, she would turn the radio on, humming along while she cooked or cleaned or read. Instead, the house was dead silent. 

“Mum?” Ilya called out as he made his way down the hall. The lights were all out. “Mum?” he called again, his voice becoming higher, more desperate.

He knocked on the bedroom door – the bedroom Grigori and Irina shared. Maybe she was just asleep. She did that a lot, these days. But usually, when he knocked, she’d stir awake, calling out for him sleepily as he joined her under the covers, curling up next to her as she drifted off. 

There was no reply. 

“Mum?” he asked again. He palmed the wall with shaky hands and finally, he found the lightswitch and flicked it on.

It did look like she was asleep. But something was wrong. Deeply, deeply wrong. 

Her hand was hanging off the bed. That was the first thing Ilya noticed. His mum always slept on her side, both hands tucked under her head, as if she was trying to make herself as small as possible. But now, she was on her back, spread out across the bed, and her hand was hanging off the bed. Ilya felt his stomach drop violently, making him nauseous. 

“Mum?” he whispered, making his way to the bed. He shook her, first lightly, then harder, and harder, screaming for her to wake up. 

He saw the puddle of vomit mixed with spilled vodka and the bottle of pills next to the bed. He felt how cold she was, how pale. He threw up next to the bed, his own vomit mixing with his mum’s.

He cried, and screamed, and, eventually, curled up in bed next to her, praying to God to bring him a miracle, just this once. 

It was a neighbour that had called the police, hearing Ilya’s screaming. They arrived before Alyosha or Grigori could, to find Ilya in bed, screaming and gasping for air, as he clutched his mother’s cold body.

When Grigori eventually did make it home that night, his face was pale and tight. He sat Ilya and Alyosha down at the table. Alyosha was crying hard, but Ilya was absolutely inconsolable. 

“It was an accident,” Grigori said. It was the first thing Ilya heard his father say all evening. “Do you understand? She took too many pills for her headache. You will hear many things. This is one thing you must remember.”

Alyosha nodded. Ilya sat there, trying to catch a breath, too weak to protest. He found the pendant folded in his jeans pocket and squeezed it, tightly, the edges digging into his palm. 

The funeral was a blur. Ilya doesn’t remember most of it. 

He remembers that his father had him wear his nicest suit. Ilya had gotten a growth spurt recently, and the sleeves were a bit short on him. His father cursed and punched him square in the jaw, as though it was Ilya’s fault, and through the pain and sharp smell of vodka on Grigori’s breath, Ilya couldn’t find it in himself to care.

He didn’t care about much, these days. Not even the fact that, for the first time, his father had outright punched him. 

Something broke through his defences when he saw the coffin being lowered into the ground. Alyosha squeezed his shoulder, and he was crying, tears streaming down his face, but he was silent. Ilya was wailing so loudly that Sveta grabbed his hand and took him to the park behind the church, sitting with him for a long time as he hugged her and screamed into her shoulder. They only left when Jade found them and, after giving Ilya a soft hug, gently guided them back inside for the wake.

It hurt so bad that Ilya was sure wouldn’t be able to take it. This was the only thought that comforted him, that finally made him stop wailing. That soon, he’d be reunited with his mum, and he wouldn’t feel so alone. 

Ilya was 13 when he first drank alcohol. 

His 13th birthday fell just two months after… He still didn’t know what to call it. He knew the term – suicide – and the word his father wanted him to use – accident. One time, when Ilya quietly pushed back, saying it seemed pretty deliberate to him, Grigori hit him so hard Ilya lost hearing in his right ear for a week. 

But he couldn’t admit she was dead, exactly. She was, of course. But the thought felt too big, too permanent, to apply to his mum, who was here one moment and was gone the next. 

When they took her to the hospital – to the morgue, really, but Ilya couldn’t get himself to think about it in those terms – they returned the handful of belongings she had on her to her family. The 2,000 rouble note they found in her pocket. Her house keys with a small heart-shaped keychain she got at the zoo when they’d gone for Ilya’s 6th birthday. A spare bobby pin which never did much to tame her curls. 

There was no wedding ring. That, she’d set down on the bedside table before she went to bed that night. A final act of defiance against Ilya’s father. 

The three Rozanov men stared at the tray in front of them, illuminated by the morgue’s harsh LED lights. 

It was Grigori who moved first. He shoved the 2,000 rouble note in his own pocket and turned around to leave.

“Come on,” he growled, and they did – but not before Alyosha snatched the keychain from the tray. He glanced at Ilya, who nodded, and Alyosha shoved it deep in his jacket pocket. 

That night, Ilya put his mother’s necklace around his neck and squeezed it so hard the sharp edges broke the skin on his palm. She was here, with him. Despite everything, she hadn’t left him alone with an indifferent brother and a father who, Ilya was starting to think, would kill him someday. 

Before Irina had done what she did, Ilya didn’t think things could get any worse. But they did. 

Grigori had always been a drinker, but before – there was only one before and after for Ilya – he would have a drink or two after work. Now, he seemed to always be so drunk he could barely string a sentence together. 

It was terrifying, because Ilya didn’t know this new man his father had become. Before, he’d been able to predict when he’d be praised and when he’d be scolded. He hadn’t always been able to avoid the latter, but he knew how to sense it. He’d see it coming. 

It was different now. His father’s temper got so bad there were few evenings when his father wouldn’t get enraged – mostly, at something Ilya did. Alyosha hardly ever got it. Alyosha, dark-haired, working towards his police academy ambitions, and a knowledge of when to stay silent, had always been like Grigori. But Ilya, with his soft blond curls, a propensity for crying, and a mouth that never shut the fuck up even when he knew better – Ilya was his mother’s son. 

It was also different because this time, the words came with the physical impact to back them up. Before, Grigori had rarely hit Ilya and Alyosha, or even Irina, although Ilya knew that he had hit her before. Sometimes, he’d shove, or throw things at them, but before, his violence was usually verbal – cruel words designed for maximum impact. Now, though, when he got angry, he also got physical. 

It was strange, Ilya thought. His father was so volatile, so unpredictable, but he always made sure there were no witnesses, except for maybe Alyosha. He hit him where he knew his clothes would cover the bruises or where Ilya could make up a story about a hockey fight. 

So, during one of the rare evenings his father was on the night shift and Alyosha was staying at a friend’s house, Ilya opened his father’s alcohol cabinet, unscrewed the cap from a bottle of vodka, and took a swig. 

He almost gagged when it first hit his throat, the taste sharp and so reminiscent of his father. But then Ilya felt the pleasant warmth of the vodka sliding down his throat, his chest, settling in his stomach. The more he drank, the more he felt himself relax. 

He drank half the bottle before passing out on the couch, feeling peaceful for the first time in a long time, the crucifix on his necklace digging into his collarbone.

The good thing about going all-in on hockey was that Ilya hardly ever saw his father anymore. Ilya couldn’t let himself think too much, so he threw himself into the game. The exhaustion, muscle pain, endless bruises, the adrenaline of the game – all distractions intense enough to stave off the raw pain he still felt whenever he thought of his mother. Whenever he glimpsed himself in the mirror and saw her blond curls, her blue eyes, her flushed pale skin. 

Ilya made sure his team won. The nights he did, his father would get quieter. Sometimes, if Ilya had done something particularly impressive, Grigori would pat his shoulder approvingly. Almost like he had, before. 

He was at the rink so much the janitors laughed he was as permanent a fixture as the Zamboni. He was there before school and immediately after, staying until 8, 9, 10 at night. He managed to get decent grades by floating past with his good memory and Sveta’s offers to copy her homework. But hockey? He was fantastic at hockey. 

He was exhausted, and he relished the feeling, as he warmed up by doing laps and puck drills on the ice. It was 5 in the morning – Ilya had a good two hours of skating before he’d have to get to school.

The rink was always empty at this time, save for the night shift janitor, who had taken a liking to Ilya and allowed him to practice when he wanted. Ilya was so focused on the exercises he was doing he didn’t notice the footsteps approaching the rink until he heard the familiar voice, steady and authoritative.

“This one, he’s always here,” coach Rabinovich was saying. Ilya looked towards the bleachers, where Rabinovich was talking to a tall white man in a suit. The man looked vaguely familiar, but Ilya couldn’t quite place him. 

“Rozanov!” Rabinovich called out. Ilya skated up to the boards. 

“Yes, coach?”

“This,” Rabinovich said, gesturing to the man, “is Sergey Babkin.”

Ilya’s eyes widened as Babkin extended his hand to Ilya with a smile. Ilya took off his glove and shook Babkin’s hand.

“You know who I am, son?” Babkin said. Ilya nodded. Of course he knew. Babkin was the coach of the Russian U18 team. 

Ilya was too young to join the team. He was only 13, barely in the U15 league, and there had never been a player under 16 who had been drafted to the U18 team. And U18 selections were a huge deal. Their players got to prove themselves, and when they did, they were scouted for the KHL, the European leagues, or – Ilya didn’t want to let himself hope – the MLH. 

“You’re only 13?” Babkin asked. Ilya nodded again. Babkin laughed. “It’s hard to believe, with the way you play, and how you look.”

Ilya smiled, still uncertain. 

“You’re too young for the U18,” Babkin said, and Ilya felt himself deflate a bit. He’d known he was way too young, and he was angry with himself for hoping that maybe, maybe Babkin would draft him there and then. That Ilya would have a way out, now. “But I was talking to Igor here, and, if you keep this up, I think we could make a few exceptions and draft you when you’re 15. I’m not making any promises, but we like to keep tabs on the U15 league, and I like what I’m seeing from you, Rozanov.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ilya said stiffly. Babkin and Rabinovich were looking at him expectantly, and Ilya had no idea what to say. “Can I go practice now?”

Babkin laughed, not unkindly. “Go right ahead, son. Keep it up!”

That night, he didn’t get home until well past midnight. His father was long asleep and Alyosha was nursing a drink in the kitchen, hardly acknowledging Ilya when he walked in. He was too tired to even change out of his sweat-soaked clothes. He just collapsed into bed.

But for the first time in a long time, there was just the faintest glimmer of hope in his chest. Two years. He just needed to last another two years.

We were supposed to do this together, mum.

But Ilya had been too late then. And now, he’d have to claw his way out on his own.

The exhaustion became a part of him, and it never really crossed his mind that it wasn’t just because of his gruelling hockey training. He was now in private tuition, and played hockey for at least 8 hours a day every single day. He couldn’t really remember what it was like to not be tired all the time, to pass out at the end of every day, to lean against the bus window and immediately feel like he could fall asleep.

The U18 draft was the only thing that kept him going, and it was driving him insane. The thoughts became routine, too. Whenever he messed up, there was a niggling at the back of his head that said maybe I should just kill myself. He’d brush it off every time, and throw himself into training with more intensity, as though he could physically push every thought out of his mind and it could just be him and the ice.

When Ilya wasn’t at the rink, he was at a party. Drinking, too, became part of him. It took the edge off when he wasn’t playing hockey – when there was a game at his rink and he couldn’t skate into the night, or when Rabinovich practically barred him from entering the rink, saying that Ilya needed at least one day of rest after the three weeks he’d spent there non-stop. 

He loved those parties. The alcohol made him braver, bolder, more confident. It made him seem older than he was, because he was damn good at handling his drinks. He looked older than he was, too, so he wasn’t exactly surprised when it happened. At a party thrown by his teammate Misha, a girl who was definitely older than Ilya’s 14 smiled at him in that way he was starting to get used to. He strode across the room to meet her. He smiled, he joked, trying to keep upright after the 9 vodka shots he’d just downed. She never asked how old she was. When she touched his thigh, slid her hand up, Ilya let it happen. They went to Misha’s bedroom, and Ilya was glad for the distraction. 

“I had sex last night.”

Sveta’s head shot up from her book. 

“What?” she asked, blinking at him. 

“I went to Misha’s party, had some drinks, slept with this girl. No big deal.”

Sveta raised her eyebrows. “Who was she?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya said.

“You don’t know her name?”

“Relax, would you? We both wanted it.”

Sveta studied his face for a moment. “How was it?”

Ilya shrugged. “Fun. I don’t know. Good while it lasted.”

“And after?”

“I left.”

Sveta groaned. 

“What!” Ilya said indignantly. “I was drunk, I had to go. I didn’t want to throw up all over her.”

“You were drunk?” Sveta asked, her expression carefully neutral. 

“Yeah. I told you, it was at a party. It’s not like you don’t drink!”

“I do,” Sveta agreed. “But, Ilya, you had sex for the first time while drunk.” He just shrugged. “If you say you’re fine with it, then I guess I’m happy for you.”

“Oh, it’ll make me a legend in the locker room, for sure.”

Sveta snorted and went back to her book. 

Ilya was quick to fall into a routine with these things. He’d practice as hard as he could during the week, and then, on Friday and Saturday nights, he’d go to parties. He’d get extremely drunk – and often high, on weed or cocaine or whatever else was available (not pills, though; never pills) – and have sex. Sure, maybe 14 was a bit young, but it wasn’t unheard of to have sex at that age. And Ilya loved it. It gave him a brief pocket of space where he could just feel good, and make someone else feel good, and he didn’t have to worry about his father, or his brother, or his mum, or hockey, or the U18 draft.

And, apparently, he was very good at it. 

Every girl he’d slept with said so. He was attractive, he was a good kisser, he was attentive and not selfish and so mature and experienced for how young he was. He revelled in it. 

Sometimes, he’d hook up with strangers, but more often than not, he slept with the same few girls regularly. A few months into regularly partying at his teammates’ older siblings’ houses he was bound to know most of the attendees. There was Sofia, a 15 year old from the technical school, who kept telling everyone at school that she’d slept with Ilya Rozanov. Whenever he went to one of his parties, Ilya slept with Katya, his teammate Misha’s older sister, who was 17 and apparently very experienced, and who liked to take charge – which, sometimes, he didn’t exactly mind. And then there was Masha, Sveta’s friend from her church group, who seemed just as drunk as Ilya the first time they had sex. She cried afterwards, and Ilya got so scared he’d done something wrong, but she kept reassuring him that it wasn’t it; she just didn’t want to go home. He stroked her hair as she cried into his shoulder, both of them naked under the covers.

It became hockey, and sex, and boasting about sex during hockey, and using hockey to meet girls to have sex with. It was all a blur of intense physical sensations. The pain from bruised ribs and hockey fights, the feeling of pinning an opponent to the boards when checking them, the cuts and scrapes, the tongues slipped into mouths, the physical toll sex took, the sensation of being inside someone. It was the only way Ilya could feel tethered, real, and not like he was about to float away, like his mother had.

When Ilya was 15, Sasha finally quit the team.

The teams were now competing for some of the players, the U18 roster slowly taking shape. Good players came over to train in Moscow – guys from all over, the shitty towns in Siberia, the deprived outskirts of Minsk, the bright lights and air pollution of Almaty. As a result, the guys who were just kept on because their parents had money – or because, say, their fathers were the coaches of the CSKA Moscow Junior team – finally had to leave. 

Sasha wasn’t on the team, but he hung around the rink. He would sit at the top of the bleachers with a small, sarcastic smile on his face. He had a little notebook and pencil, and Ilya never saw him watch a game for more than 5 minutes at a time. He’d look up, tilt his head, and then bend over his notebook, drawing with his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

Maybe Ilya should’ve noticed that he noticed. That he looked at Sasha; paid more attention to him than he should. That it wasn’t the first time he got distracted by a boy during practice. 

Ilya was given a 5 minute penalty – for fighting, of course. It was a friendly match between his team and another Moscow junior team, but Ilya didn’t really believe in the concept of friendly matches. He was fucking great at checking, but sometimes – fine, he could admit it – he took things a bit too far. Although the guy he’d checked was an asshole, so Ilya didn’t feel too broken up about it. 

Ilya sighed and rested his chin on the boards behind the glass. He smelled Sasha’s cologne before he noticed him in the seat next to him, apparently having moved down when Ilya had left the rink.

“You in trouble, Rozanov?” Sasha asked with that same sarcastic smile he always wore.

“Came in too hot,” Ilya replied, turning to look at Sasha. Sasha was looking at him, too, with an intensity Ilya recognised a bit too well. 

“Mhm,” Sasha murmured. “You do that often, don’t you, Ilya?”

Ilya nodded towards the notebook Sasha was holding. “You any good at drawing?”

Sasha leaned in. “Only when I’m inspired,” he whispered, as though he was bestowing a secret upon Ilya.

Ilya rolled his eyes, but he felt a smile tug at his lips. “Are you feeling inspired by,” he gestured to the rink, “the world’s most boring hockey game?”

“It is pretty boring,” Sasha said. “But I did find something inspiring.”

They were close enough that Ilya could see each of Sasha’s eyelashes. The blush on his cheeks. How his lips didn’t look chapped despite it being the middle of January in Moscow. 

“Yeah?” Ilya said, trying to keep his voice level. “Show me, then.”

Sasha cleared his throat and backed up a bit. He opened the notebook, though, and passed it to Ilya.

Ilya blinked down at the page.

It was a drawing of Ilya. It was good, too – a close-up of Ilya’s face under his hockey helmet, looking off to the side, a sparkle in his eyes.

“My nose isn’t that crooked,” Ilya said.

Sasha grabbed his notebook, but without any real urgency. He lingered for a bit where Ilya held it in his lap. “How about you give me an opportunity to… correct my mistake? By studying the subject up close, I mean.”

Ilya held his gaze and nodded. “Where should we meet?”

They decided to meet up at the rink, hours after the game was over and everyone had long gone home. Ilya, as the team captain, had been trusted with the keys to the building, and he knew the schedule of the cleaning staff – they’d chased him off the ice, hours after practice had officially ended, countless times. He knew they came in every other day, and that Thursday wasn’t one of them. 

Ilya stared off into the parking lot as he lit a cigarette. He breathed out a cloud of smoke when he heard footsteps, soft, careful, and he turned around to see Sasha. 

They didn’t talk. Didn’t even greet each other. Ilya nodded towards the back door, and Sasha followed. Ilya led them to the nurse’s office, the rink corridor illuminated by the streetlamps outside. Sasha treaded silently behind him.

Ilya finally turned the light on when they were in the office – not the main light, but the small desk lamp. He closed the blinds and locked the door behind them. 

There they were. Ilya and Sasha, looking at each other, both breathing heavily. 

Sasha made the first move. He walked towards Ilya and pushed him against the wall, lightly, holding his shoulders. This was it. Beyond this, there would be no plausible deniability. 

Sasha squeezed Ilya’s shoulders as he looked into his eyes. Ilya gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, and Sasha moved his face closer to Ilya’s.

The kiss started slow, hesitant, but he could feel Sasha relax when Ilya opened his mouth and moved his tongue inside Sasha’s. The room was silent except for the wet noises they made and the soft moans they both let out. In a practiced move, Ilya’s hands found the hem of Sasha’s shirt. The whispered, “yes, please,” Sasha gave as a response was all he’d needed.

They left the rink without another word, but every Thursday, Ilya would smoke out in the parking lot, Sasha would join him, and they’d go to the nurse’s office to have sex.

Ilya was surprised at how casual he felt about it. He knew it needed to be kept a secret, of course, but he wasn’t anxious about it – Sasha had a lot to lose if it got out, too. Of course, he knew that doing these things with a man, as a man, was heavily frowned upon in Russia. Not illegal, but certainly not acceptable. He’d been called a faggot by his teammates before, of course – had probably lobbed the word around as an insult once or twice himself, even though it always felt foreign, wrong, to say it. Like he was just putting on a performance. Like he was betraying a part of himself. 

But he wasn’t really afraid. He knew he liked having sex with girls but now, he also liked having sex with Sasha. It was different, of course, but it got him off all the same. It helped that Sasha had been with a man before, and he was patient to explain the nuances and required preparation to Ilya. 

He should’ve been afraid, probably. He knew that if he were caught, the consequences, while unlikely, could be as bad as dying. He found he didn’t exactly mind. Instead, he just felt… grown. Like he knew more about sex, was more open minded about it, than most of the people in his life. 

Ilya was thinking about this, about Sasha, about what they’d been doing every week for the past three months, when someone slid into the seat next to him, their thigh touching his on the small couch. Ilya took a sip of the lemon-flavoured vodka he was drinking and turned. He was already really drunk, and it took him a while to recognise that Sasha really was here, next to him, and that he was real and not just something Ilya had imagined. 

“Hi, Ilya,” he said, putting his arm around him. Ilya could smell the alcohol on him, heard the way his words were slurred, but he was so pleasantly buzzed that he didn’t mind. 

“Hi, Sasha,” he replied in a teasing tone. 

They spent that whole evening together, laughing, talking, and touching. Not in a way that went beyond the plausible deniability they both needed, but in a way that was certainly more intimate than Ilya was used to with his male friends. Ilya held Sasha’s gaze as they threw down more and more shots; Sasha got incredibly close to Ilya as he passed him the card he’d used to cut and snort the cocaine, their thighs touching; Ilya picked up lint from Sasha’s hair, getting so close he could see every single one of his eyelashes. And, okay, maybe at one point, when Sasha said he needed to go, Ilya had dragged him to Sveta’s bedroom – that none of the guests but Ilya had access to – and kissed him, which turned into Ilya sucking his dick until Sasha was exhausted and all spent and until he really, really needed to go. 

The next morning, he woke up on Sveta’s couch with a head-splitting headache. He groaned and felt Sveta, whose lap he was apparently lying on, stir.

“Morning, Ilya,” Sveta said, stretching out her arms above her head. 

“I’m never drinking again,” Ilya groaned. He half-opened his eyes, taking a look around the room. It was empty now – of people, anyway. The floor and the coffee table were covered in alcohol bottles and pieces of food and dirty glasses. Ilya noticed he was still in his jeans and t-shirt from last night. He ran his hand over his face.

Sveta laughed. “Oh,” she said in a mockingly sweet tone. “Did Ilyenka have a bit too much to drink last night?”

He flipped her off and shoved her halfheartedly as she laughed. She brushed his curls off his forehead and gave him a kiss. “Go have a shower, stupid. I’ll make some breakfast. And coffee.”

“You’re the best,” Ilya said as he hauled himself off the couch, his head throbbing.

“You know it,” Sveta said, winking. 

Ilya really did feel better after his shower. He came downstairs and, to his relief, his stomach grumbled at the smell of the eggs and toast and coffee Sveta had made. She passed him a plate and a mug of coffee, alongside a glass of water and two pills.

“Ibuprofen,” she said. “Eat something. It’ll help.”

Ilya did so, shovelling the food into his mouth and getting up for seconds only a moment later as Sveta snorted over her barely-touched plate.

“I’m a teenage boy,” he said, mouth already half-full of toast. “I need nourishment.”

“Did you have fun last night?” Sveta asked, her voice neutral, as she cut into a sausage. She wasn’t looking at Ilya sitting across from her.

“Mhm,” Ilya said between bites. “Sure. It was good. Nice alcohol, fun people.”

“Meet anyone you liked?” Sveta said, keeping the same casual tone, but this time glancing up at Ilya. His stomach rolled, just slightly.

“What do you mean?” he asked, sounding more hostile than he’d maybe meant to.

Sveta shrugged. “You just seemed to get along with Sasha, that’s all.”

“I knew Sasha before the party,” Ilya said. “His father is my coach. You know this.”

“I do,” Sveta said. They were silent for a while, before Sveta spoke again. “Did you know that Sasha is gay?”

Ilya almost dropped his fork. “How do you know?”

“He told me,” she said simply. “And he’s fine with people knowing, by the way. Well, safe people, anyway. So I don’t think he’d be mad that I told you.” She raised her eyebrows, as if to say, right?.

Ilya shrugged, trying to seem as indifferent as he could. He had a suspicion it wasn’t working. “Sure. I mean, I don’t care about that kind of thing. It’s cool with me.”

He was so focused on not looking up at Sveta, instead staring intently at his eggs, that he didn’t notice she’d gotten up until she sat down in the chair next to him.

“Ilya,” she said softly. He finally looked at her. Her face was open, calm, and she was studying his expression. “I saw you two kissing in my bedroom last night.”

Ilya suddenly felt like his food was about to come back up. His throat was impossibly tight.

“I’m… a bit surprised, to be honest,” she said. “But you know I still love you, right? You’re my best friend. Being gay doesn’t change that.”

“I’m not gay,” Ilya said, almost automatically. Sveta let out a heavy sigh, and Ilya threw up his arms in frustration. “I’m really not! I’ve liked girls before. And it wasn’t fake. I like kissing girls. I like sleeping with them. I’ve had crushes on girls before. Gay men don’t do that, Sveta, at least not last I checked.”

“And now,” Sveta said, gently. “Do you have a crush on Sasha?”

Ilya looked away and swallowed. He didn’t confirm or deny, and this seemed proof enough for Sveta. She hugged him so tightly he was a bit worried she’d bruise his ribs, but he let himself be held. When he finally felt like he could speak without crying, he pulled away. 

“I’m really not gay,” he said. 

Sveta snorted. “Then, what, were you just kissing Sasha as an experiment? Because I have to tell you, Ilya, you both looked really into it.”

Ilya let out a frustrated groan. “I didn’t say I was straight. Not completely, maybe.” He realised this was the first time he’d said it out loud. “I don’t know, Sveta,” he said, suddenly all fight leaving him. “I like girls. But I think I like guys, too. Maybe I just like having sex.”

“Misha likes having sex,” Sveta pointed out. “And do you see him kissing any guys?”

Ilya snorted. He had to admit, Misha was probably the straightest man he’d ever met. “To be fair,” he said. “It wasn’t just kissing.”

Sveta furrowed her eyebrows. “What– you know what, nevermind. I don’t want to know.”

“No?” Ilya asked, and he felt himself smile. “If you ask Sasha, I think he’ll tell you. I’m very skilled with my mouth, as you’ve heard–”

“Shut the fuck up! I don’t want to know!” She laughed and covered Ilya’s mouth with her hand. Without hesitation, he licked it, and she yelled in disgust, wiping it on Ilya’s shirt. They were both laughing.

Ilya looked at Sveta and hoped his face conveyed what he wanted to say. Thank you. You’re the best friend I could hope for. I don’t deserve you. I love you. I love you, and maybe I’m a little scared. 

She gave him a gentle hug in response. 

No matter how hard Ilya tried, the thoughts just didn’t go away. And he tried hard – the hockey, the alcohol, the drugs, the sex, all filling as much of his time and energy as possible. But at the end of the day, he found himself falling asleep and thinking about his mother, and how his father would always say Ilya was too much like her. 

He’d never actually kill himself, he didn’t think. He thought about it, though. A lot. When he messed up during hockey, when he had to spend the night at home and deal with Grigori and Alexei, when his father repeated, again and again, that Ilya was too weak, too lazy, too much like Irina. The thought – I could make it all go away – kept him going. Kept him tethered. 

He thought about how he’d do it. Pills seemed like the obvious choice, but Ilya could never do that. Grigori had a gun at home, he knew, and he was pretty sure that the code to the safe was 1941 – Grigori’s year of birth. They lived on the 7th floor, so a fall from the balcony wasn’t out of the question, either. Both methods seemed foolproof enough, and the thought made him calmer.

Not that he’d ever do it. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it, either. Maybe he just had the same sadness deep inside him he saw in Irina years ago. He didn’t mind that. It made him feel closer to her, somehow. Like she was still with him – like she’d left her mark.

Ilya was hungover. It was a Monday, he had the most important hockey game of his fucking life that night, and he was bent over Misha’s toilet bowl, retching, as he had been for the past half hour.

“llya?” Sveta called out. He groaned out a response, and she pushed the door open. 

She was wearing sweatpants and one of Ilya’s hoodies, and her hair was up in a ponytail, and yet, she looked so infuriatingly perfect for someone who had herself been throwing up just a few hours earlier. 

She sat down on the bathroom floor across from Ilya. “Should I make breakfast?”

“I think I’ll just throw up more if you do.”

“Do you want to throw up now or during the game?”

She was right. He had to be at the rink in 5 hours, and he had to be on top of his game, because this was the match he’d been preparing for all year. It was rumoured the game would be attended by Sergei Babkin, and that he’d be scouting for the U18 game. And Ilya knew that Babkin was willing to make a few concessions to let Ilya onto the team before he turned 16. The final game would fall exactly a week after Ilya’s 16th birthday, and he’d be eligible to play. And that game would certainly be attended by KHL and MLH scouts. 

This was the most important game of his fucking life and Ilya, like the fucking idiot that he was, had gotten blackout drunk the night before. 

If he was honest, he’d been so terrified of the game all week that he hadn’t been able to focus on anything else. He thought that maybe going to Misha’s party and drinking, partying, fucking would make him feel normal, and it helped, for a while. But now, Ilya was puking into a toilet bowl while his best friend stroked his hair, and he couldn’t imagine getting up from the floor, let alone playing a hockey game. 

“Please,” he managed to say. “Breakfast is probably a good idea.”

By the afternoon, Ilya had forced a ridiculous amount of fatty foods and energy drinks and Powerade into his system and he was, thankfully, feeling a bit better. Still a bit nauseous, but not like he was about to throw up any minute. 

He showed up to the rink 15 minutes late for roll call, which his teammates took as nonchalance and not a sign of Ilya having freaked out so hard the night before that he’d spent all day getting up from Misha’s disgusting bathroom floor. 

“We all need to be more like Rozanov,” Dmitri said, throwing an arm around Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya forced a smile as he shoved Dmitri away playfully. “He’s so relaxed and he’ll probably end up being scouted for the fucking team, anyway.”

“No, he won’t!” someone objected from across the locker room. “He’s too young.”

“Oh, they’ll make an exception for me,” Ilya said with false confidence, flashing a smile. Praying it would be true. 

They made an exception for Ilya. 

It wasn’t his best game. He missed a few obvious passes, and he lost control of the puck more times than he’d have liked. But he played more aggressively than he usually did, checking the Almaty players hard, and he still ended up scoring the game winning goal that put Moscow 3-2 against Almaty. 

He had never changed out of his gear and showered this fast. He ignored all his teammates talking to him as he rushed out of the changing room, now in a hoodie and jeans. He only felt a little sick when he saw Igor Rabinovich, Sergei Babkin, and Grigori Rozanov talking in the tunnel leading out of the rink. None of them noticed as Ilya approached, their voices growing louder. 

“That won’t really be a problem,” Babkin was saying. “He’ll be 16 by the final game, that’s the most important thing. There won’t even be that much paperwork you’ll have to fill out.”

“He’s a talented player,” Grigori replied. “But you did see him miss the pass from Kuznetsov, yes? He can be sloppy.”

“Every player misses a pass from time to time,” Rabinovich offered. “And as Sergei said, he’s one of the best junior players we’ve both seen in a while, Grigori. He’s an obvious pick.”

“If you give him the structure, I think he could be great,” Grigori said. “I never could make him disciplined, and I’ve tried. You saw it. He could’ve scored more goals.”

“He still scored two,” Babkin said, sounding somewhat confused. He looked over Grigori’s shoulder and noticed Ilya. “Rozanov!” He beamed. “We were just talking to your dad here.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, now standing next to Grigori, who was eyeing him. Ilya avoided his gaze as much as he could.

“If he agrees,” Babkin said, “we have some great news.”

Ilya looked at his father then. “Of course I’ll agree,” Grigori said. “It’s a great honour. Just don’t let him get lazy now that he’s on the team.”

For the first time, Grigori’s words didn’t even sting. Because here it was. A way out. 

The Sveta incident should’ve made Ilya realise he was getting sloppy, careless. Instead, now that his best friend knew about him and Sasha, Ilya felt lighter. He felt like it wasn’t the potentially life-shattering secret it really was – especially now, that he was officially drafted to Russia’s U18 team, and was set to compete in the International Prospect Cup in just a few months. 

Grigori had always said Ilya was sloppy, too brash, didn’t think about his actions enough and Ilya hated that he was right. He knew he was right. 

It was a stupid mistake. He forgot to pull down the blinds in the office. He just forgot. And Sasha hadn’t noticed, either. So here Ilya was, on his knees, Sasha moaning as Ilya took him in his mouth. This wasn’t their first time doing this, far from it, and Ilya noticed he’d gotten better and better – at least, if Sasha’s reactions were anything to go by. 

His stomach dropped when he heard an angry yell. 

He immediately stood up. Outside the window, he met Alexei’s eyes. Ilya could see his own reflection in the window, clear against the dark of the street and the light of the office – he was shirtless, lips wet, hair messed up from where Sasha had grabbed it just moments ago, as Sasha was trying to tuck himself back into his underwear and jeans, fumbling with the zipper. 

Alexei disappeared from his sight, but Ilya heard the heavy thud of his boots. He wasn’t police, not yet, but he was at the police academy, and he wore those stupid fucking boots all the time, as though to wrestle for any sort of control over his younger brother. 

“Fuck,” Ilya said. “Fuck.”

“Do you know him?” Sasha asked. He sounded terrified. Probably as terrified as Ilya felt as he pulled his t-shirt on. 

“It’s my fucking brother,” Ilya said.

“Oh, fuck.” Sasha leaned back against the wall. 

Ilya and Sasha just stared at each other, wide-eyed. Ilya wasn’t exactly hopeful that Alexei would keep this to himself. He knew, though, that his own panic was making Sasha spiral. 

“I’ll handle him,” Ilya said, sounding a lot more confident than he felt. 

The door to the office burst open as Alexei came in. They’d remembered to lock the door, but it didn’t seem to matter – Alexei had just leaned against the old, squeaky door, and he snapped the shitty lock out of the doorframe, falling into the room. 

Ilya squared his shoulders. “Hi, Alyosha,” he said as casually as he could. His brother was breathing heavily.

“I fucking knew it,” he said. “You were always so soft. Oh my God, dad is going to freak out when he finds out about this.”

Ilya could swear his heart stopped, but he forced himself to stay calm. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. “Finds out about what?”

Alexei laughed then, a loud, cruel sound. “That you, and Rabinovich, for that matter,” he said, barely sparing Sasha a glance, “are–”

“What, hanging out in the nurse’s office?” Ilya interrupted. His brother’s face went red. 

“You think this is funny?” Alexei breathed out, stepping towards Ilya. His voice was barely above a whisper. “This could land you in jail, Ilya, and you know it.”

“No, it couldn’t,” Sasha said. It was the first time he spoke since Alexei came in. Ilya stilled. Sasha had no idea how to handle this, how to speak to Alexei when he was like this. How to make sure Alexei didn’t feel like he had all the power in this situation, because if he did, Ilya was unable to imagine what would happen later that night. “They made it legal. 10 years ago.”

Alexei laughed again. “Rabinovich, stay the fuck out of this.”

Ilya shot Sasha a glance and mouthed, “go”. Sasha hesitated, but Ilya nudged his head towards the door. Sasha shot him an apologetic look and practically bolted from the office. 

Ilya and Alexei stared at each other. 

“Don’t tell dad,” Ilya said, quietly.

He had one final bargaining chip. The only thing that could save his skin right now.

“Don’t tell dad,” Alexei repeated in a high-pitched imitation of Ilya’s voice. “About what, Ilya? What should I not tell dad? That you were on your knees, sucking Rabinovich’s dick like a fucking faggot? That I saw you do it, and it made me fucking sick?”

“Yes,” Ilya said, breathing through the humiliation. He wouldn’t give Alexei the satisfaction of hurting him. “Because if you tell him about this, I’ll tell him you failed the police academy test.”

Alexei blanched, face completely wiped of any anger.

Ilya had him. He knew he had him, and he was so satisfied he could laugh, but he forced himself to stay calm. He’d seen the letter on the kitchen table a few nights ago, when Alexei slammed his fist on the table and went to the bathroom. Alexei had apparently failed the theoretical part of the exam, while passing the physical. He could retake, but he’d have to wait another 6 months to do it. 

“You really think he’d care about that more than about you being–”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “He already thinks I’m soft. He’d probably think I’m just acting out to make him mad. But you? You’ve never won his approval. This is your only shot at making him proud, and you fucking failed. I’m on the national team, Alexei. I can be a great fucking hockey player even if I am a faggot who sucks his friend’s dick. You can’t ever make him proud if you fail that test.”

Ilya hadn’t been sure where he was going with this when he started speaking, but the more he said, the more it made sense, and he could see it on Alyosha’s face. 

He shook with anger. Eventually, he slammed Ilya into a wall.

“If I ever see you do it again, I’ll fucking kill you before dad can even find out.”

And then he left. Ilya was alone in the office, his heaving breaths echoing throughout the small room. 

Ever since Ilya made the U18 team, he’d managed to maintain relative peace at home. His father still got angry, but it wasn’t the default anymore. He hadn’t hit Ilya in months, and Ilya let himself hope that the grief his father felt after his mum was slowly fading. That he wasn’t reminded of her, of what they all knew he’d driven her to do, every time he looked at his younger son. 

Now it was Alyosha who caused most of his problems. He resorted to moves that Ilya found infuriatingly childish – tripping him up, moving furniture so that if Ilya wanted to go to the toilet in the dark he was bound to hit himself, hiding his things so he’d be late for practice. 

It would all be annoying, and a bit pathetic, if it didn’t come with the constant threat he held over Ilya’s head. Every time he slammed him into a wall and hissed a slur at him, every time he glanced at Ilya when gay people were mentioned on TV – and it was becoming a hot topic, debates raging every time Ilya turned on the news or saw newspaper headlines – with a contemptuous smirk. He made loud comments to his father, from saying that the west was going too far in legalising gay marriage to unsubtly suggesting he thought all gay people should be gotten rid of, one way or another. Their father hummed in agreement, sometimes laughing at Alyosha’s comments, and every time it happened, Alyosha would glance at Ilya, smirking and raising his eyebrows. 

The comments were quiet, but constant. When their father called Ilya soft, Alyosha would throw out a “I wonder why” that went over Grigori’s head and made Ilya’s blood go cold. When one of Alyosha’s police academy friends came over, he’d make a point of calling Ilya slurs, knowing that if he reacted too aggressively, it would only confirm them. When they went to church for Christmas, Grigori talking to someone and Ilya craving a cigarette, breathing in the freezing January air, Alyosha leaned over and said to Ilya, “wonder what all these people would think if they knew. Wonder what mum would think.”

Ilya ignored it, over and over. Because what else could he do? If he got angry, it would only serve as confirmation, and it would draw Grigori’s attention. Ilya knew that if his father found out, it would shatter the relative peace he’d fought for. He had no doubt that his father would use physical violence if Alyosha told him Ilya wasn’t straight. And that, he realised as nausea rose up in his throat, was the best case scenario he could imagine. 

It didn’t even seem to matter that Alyosha knew Ilya regularly slept with girls. When he caught Nina Abdulov sneaking out of Ilya’s room in the middle of the night, he laughed.

“You don’t know what you’re signing up for with this guy, you know that?”

She looked confused, but she smiled at Ilya and left. 

“Why the fuck do you keep doing that?” Ilya said, and he sounded less angry and more tired than he’d like. 

“For your own good.”

Shortly before Ilya’s 16th birthday, the strangest thing happened. 

It was a rare Saturday he got to just spend at home, napping, flicking between TV channels, and just being bored. He was forbidden from practicing by both Babkin and the U18 team medic, having taken a bad hit at a game against Kazakhstan the week before. His brother and father were at work, Sveta was studying for her exams, and Sasha wasn’t picking up his phone. So, Ilya was completely alone in the flat, sipping on a beer and watching some mind-numbingly stupid action film on TV. He was being lazy, as always, but maybe just this once, it was okay.

Then he heard the chanting. He couldn’t make out the words, but this, in itself, wasn’t unusual. He lived in central Moscow, not far from the Red Square, and protests weren’t exactly uncommon – not in those days, anyway. But he was bored enough to look out the window anyway, and he swore he forgot to breathe for a moment.

A small group was walking down the street, waving rainbow flags. Behind them, in front of them, on their sides, was a sea of skinheads, and the only chant Ilya could make out was “sodomites out of Russia”. 

Ilya couldn’t look away. Despite everything, despite being so hopelessly outnumbered, the small group kept moving down the street. 

He saw what he was pretty sure was the first punch, thrown by a bald man wearing a leather jacket and white-laced combat boots. He shoved one of the gay protesters, a small man in a colourful shirt, while shouting in his face. The man was passed to another skinhead behind him.

As soon as a full-scale fight broke out – or, really, as soon as the skinheads felt emboldened to escalate into physical violence – a large police contingent began breaking it up. He saw the arrests – mostly of the gay protesters. He watched as two dozen people in colourful clothes, holding rainbow flags, were thrown into the OMON van parked right under Ilya’s flat while rocks, bottles, eggs were thrown at them.

He laughed bitterly. Of course. This is what his brother and father were doing. Arresting people like him. Protecting those who wanted to hurt him. 

Things didn’t calm down after that, but he couldn’t watch anymore. He downed the rest of his beer and briefly thought about going to Sveta’s but, with a sickening feeling he realised he could be a target if he left the house. He didn’t exactly look like the protesters – he was tall, muscular, with bruised knuckles and always wearing a hockey team hoodie and jeans – but he sure as hell didn’t look like one of the skinheads either, and he had no idea how many of them knew about him from Alexei.

He kept staring at the TV, even as the film ended and Russia-1 went into the afternoon news, showing nothing but the protest. He downed two more beers. They didn’t do much to take the edge off.

Alexei and Grigori came home at the same time that day. Ilya schooled his expression to be careful, neutral, as they walked into the living room, both sweat-soaked and irritable.

“Did you see what happened, Ilya?” his father asked. Alexei shot Ilya a look that made him nauseous. It was more hateful than he’d ever seen it. He’d always known Alexei disliked him – for being more successful than him, for reminding him of their mother too much, for their father paying more attention to him, for whatever his skinhead police academy friends told him about Russia and honour and men – but this level of hot hatred took him by surprise. Mostly, the surprise was how much it hurt Ilya to realise it. 

“Mmm, not sure,” Ilya replied, still looking at the TV. “I wasn’t really paying attention to the news.”

“There was a protest,” Grigori said. 

“Big word,” Alyosha said. “It was one of those fucking faggot parades,” he added, looking directly at Ilya.

Grigori hummed as he poured himself and Alyosha a glass of vodka each. 

“I just don’t want to break them away from each other next time, God knows what they’ll come up with,” Grigori said. 

“We’ll arrest them,” Alyosha said. “Or let people take care of them. Would be a public service, right?”

Grigori didn’t respond, instead handing Alyosha a glass. Ilya just stared ahead at the TV, trying his best to slow his breathing. To not throw up in the middle of his living room as his father and brother casually discussed the efficacy of lynch mobs against people like him. 

“Were there many of them?” Ilya asked, trying to keep his tone casual. Conversational. Asking about the weather, not about the number of people just like him who might be getting beaten up, or assaulted, or worse, right in Ilya’s hometown. 

“Too many,” Alexei replied. 

Ilya was woken up by Alyosha shaking him, aggressively. He shoved the landline into Ilya’s hand. 

“It’s been ringing all fucking morning,” he spat. Ilya rubbed his eyes and grabbed the phone. 

“Hello?”

“Oh my God, Ilya,” Sveta said. She sounded so relieved. “You’re okay?”

“Yes?” he replied, feeling increasingly confused. “Why would I not be okay?”

“Did you not see what happened?”

Ilya stilled. “What, the…”

“Yeah, the parade,” Sveta said. Ilya looked behind his shoulder, even though he knew there was no one else in the room. 

“I didn’t fucking go there, Sveta. I think you know that.”

“I don’t know that,” she said, as though he was being dense. “Sasha went.”

“What?” Ilya’s voice came out wrong, higher and louder than he’d have liked. 

“He’s…” Her breath shuddered. “He’s not well.”

Oh, fuck.

“I’m gonna visit him,” she said. “Can you come, too?”

Ilya was out of the flat in 10 minutes. 

He spent the entire metro journey to Sasha’s trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible, which wasn’t exactly easy, considering he was a 6’1 semi-professional hockey player. He avoided eye contact, marching straight ahead – he was lucky he knew Moscow as well as he did – and tried to ignore the skirmishes still going on in the streets, instead opting to shove his hands down the pockets of his hoodie and walking straight ahead. 

He met Sveta right under the entrance to Sasha’s block of flats. It was one of those newer buildings made to look like pre-revolutionary architecture that Moscow was starting to be full of. It wasn’t as overwhelming as Ilya’s 10-storey brutalist block of flats. It felt more removed from the harshness of Russia, from its greyness and sharp edges. 

Sveta was holding two grocery bags, both filled to the brim. She set them down carefully when she spotted Ilya and she enveloped him in a tight hug. 

“Do you know how he’s doing?” Ilya asked when they broke apart. Sveta shook her head.

“His mum called me,” she said. “Said he got beaten up. That’s all I know.”

Ilya was going to throw up. It must have shown on his face, because Sveta gave his shoulder a squeeze before pushing the front door open. 

They were silent as they climbed the stairs to the 4th floor, their footsteps echoing in the stony staircase. Ilya had insisted he carry the bags, and it was testament to her headspace that Sveta didn’t even try to argue. 

Sveta knocked softly on the door, and Riva Rabinovich opened the door. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she smiled when she saw Sveta and Ilya. 

“We’re… we wanted to see if Sasha’s okay,” Ilya said. “We brought him some snacks,” he added, lifting the bags for Riva to see. 

“Please, come in,” she said in a quiet voice. As soon as they stepped in and took off their shoes – and refused Riva’s attempts to give them house slippers at least 3 times, which she only gave up after Ilya assured her she most likely did not have his size – Riva gave them both a hug, first holding Sveta and then Ilya, swaying them both gently. 

“He’ll be happy you’re here,” she said, leading them to Sasha’s bedroom. She knocked.

“Sashenka? Sveta Vitrova and Ilya Rozanov are here to say hi.”

There was no answer, so she pushed the door open. Ilya heard Sveta inhale sharply next to him. 

Sasha was in bed, his skin as pale as the white sheets he was surrounded by. His face was badly bruised – he had a black eye, his left cheek was varying shades of green and purple, and he had a split lip. But he still managed a crooked smile when he saw Sveta and Ilya. 

“We brought snacks,” Sveta said quietly. She looked at him for a moment before rushing to his side and hugging him.

“Careful,” he said. “My ribs are broken.”

Ilya approached the bed, carefully, and lowered himself down onto the edge of the mattress. After a moment’s hesitation, he also gave Sasha a small hug. 

“Mum?” Sasha said. Riva was there, immediately, by his side. 

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Could I get some tea?”

Understanding dawned on her face. She gave him a small smile. “Of course. Sveta, Ilya, would you like some too?”

“I wouldn’t mind a coffee, if it’s not too much trouble,” Sveta said. “Ilya?”

He shook his head, giving Riva a small smile. She left, shutting the door behind her. 

“What the fuck happened?” Sveta asked. She shifted so that she was close to Ilya, their thighs touching. She sounded like she was close to tears.

Sasha shrugged, immediately wincing at the pain. “I went to the parade. Didn’t exactly know there’d be a bunch of Nazis there.”

“Oh, you didn’t?” Ilya asked, surprised at how harsh he sounded. Sasha tutted.

“Okay, I did, but I didn’t think I’d get the shit beaten out of.”

They sat in silence for a while. Sasha was the one to break it.

“Why didn’t you go, Ilya?”

Ilya almost laughed. “Why the fuck would I? So I could be in bed with broken ribs, and–” He looked at Sasha’s face, the telltale red rimming around his eyes and nose. “Probably a concussion? I think I get enough of that with hockey.”

“You know why, Ilya. You don’t understand. Sure, they beat the shit out of me, but before that… It was the best I’ve ever felt. The most free I’ve ever felt.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “You feeling free now? Stuck in bed?”

“Give him a break, Ilya,” Sveta said. “And don’t agitate him, Sasha.”

“Okay, mum,” Sasha said, and Sveta shoved his shoulder, keeping her touch very light. Sasha smiled at her.

“You know I couldn’t go, Sasha,” Ilya said quietly. “My fucking father and my brother were out there. Arresting people.”

“I know. I saw them.”

Ilya sighed. “I figured.”

“Did they…” Sasha started. He swallowed hard. “Did they say anything?”

“About you? No,” Ilya said. “But my brother did suggest letting a lynch mob kill all the gay people in Russia.”

No one had anything to say to that.

As Ilya and Sveta were pulling on their shoes, Ilya noticed Riva hovering behind them.

“Are you alright?” he asked in a tone he hoped was friendly, not confrontational.

She hesitated. She was fidgeting with the loose end of her tischel.

“You two know what happened, yes?”

“Yeah,” Ilya said softly. 

“Did you…” She looked away. “Did you know about Sasha? Before this?”

“Yeah,” Ilya said again. “We both did.”

Riva nodded. “And you don’t have a problem with it?”

“No,” Sveta said. Ilya blinked in surprise at how fervent she sounded.

“Not at all,” he added. 

Riva nodded again. She gave Sveta, and then Ilya, a tight hug.

“You’re good friends,” she said. “I’m… I’m trying to wrap my head around it, myself.”

“It’ll probably take time,” Sveta said gently. Riva nodded.

“His father doesn’t know,” Riva said. “He’s away for work. But, yesterday, when Sasha came back, and I saw him like that…” Her voice broke. “I don’t know what to do. I want him to be happy, and I know he can’t be. Not in Russia.”

“Then maybe, he can leave Russia,” Ilya said. “You’re a good mum, Mrs. Rabinovich. Sasha is lucky to have you.”

Riva pulled them both into tight hugs just once more before they left.

Eventually, Sasha recovered, but something seemed to irreversibly change between them. Now, every time Ilya thought about sleeping with Sasha, he got lightheaded.

It was annoying, really. Sasha had been reliable – someone Ilya knew well, and who knew him well; who wouldn’t push, but who’d be willing to try new things; someone who had as much to lose as Ilya did.

Except now, that wasn’t true. Because Sasha, apparently, decided that Moscow Pride had been the worst thing that could possibly happen to him, and he was now telling everyone he was gay. 

They both knew worse things could happen. They both knew Sasha didn’t care.

They never talked about it. At first, Sasha tried to flirt with Ilya, but Ilya rejected his advances unless he was so drunk or high that all reason had gone out the window. It was only then, when Ilya was so gone he couldn’t remember why, exactly, sleeping with Sasha was such a bad idea, that they’d have sex. They’d pull into the bedroom, or bathroom, or, one time, into the empty kitchen of wherever their current house party was, and they’d fuck. When Ilya would sober up, he’d pretend like nothing happened. 

It wasn’t even that Ilya was scared of getting caught. He knew that, once he endured whatever his father would deem to be punishment enough for this, it would go away. Grigori would make it go away. Because he would not let Ilya, or Sasha, embarrass him like this, not when Ilya was about to make his debut for Russia’s national team. Ilya knew that his father would do everything in his power – and what power it was – to make it go away. To not tarnish Ilya’s career. 

But he still felt like a fucking coward. So he pushed Sasha away, and slept with girls, and focused on hockey, and tried not to think about the heavy feeling in his stomach when he saw Sasha making out with a guy in the corner of Sveta’s party. 

That pit in his stomach stayed with him when he stumbled into Sveta as she was leaving the kitchen. He held onto her, tight. Her question of “are you okay, Ilya?” was cut off by Ilya pressing her against a wall and kissing her. It was hard, desperate, forceful, but she reciprocated and pretended Ilya wasn’t crying as she took his hand and led him to the bedroom. It helped settle the heavy feeling. It made Ilya feel just a bit less alone.

Ilya woke up in Sveta’s bed the next morning, alone. His head hurt, Sveta wasn’t there, and he wanted to die. 

God, he’d fucked up so much. They’d kissed before, that one time as kids, and then they’d giggled and assured each other they were still best friends, and they had never done it again. Usually, the sinking feeling in Ilya’s stomach could be settled by reassuring himself that he didn’t care, anyway. Masha, Olga, or even Sasha – he liked them, but he knew he’d be okay without them. 

But Sveta? Without her, Ilya truly had no one. No one who really knew him beyond the talented hockey player who partied hard and would sleep with anything that moved. No one who saw him, who knew all the raw and messy details of him and who stayed anyway. No one who hugged him and played with his hair when he was upset, who ribbed him about his hockey mistakes but was kind about proposing solutions to them. No one who looked at him with such steady, unwavering love and loyalty which Ilya didn’t exactly know how to receive but which he received anyway. And now, Ilya had fucked up what felt like the only good thing in his life. 

He sat up in the bed and ran his hands over his face, trying to fucking breathe. Okay. So he’d fucked up. Maybe he’d be able to convince Sveta he’d been so drunk he’d thought she was someone else. Maybe they’d laugh it off as a big mistake. It was the kind of thing that could ruin friendships, but Sveta and Ilya had always been different – a boy and a girl who were best friends, who were there for each other no matter what, who had kissed but had no interest in dating each other. Maybe eventually, she’d forgive him. 

Ilya let out a long breath, trying to steady himself, and raised his head to see Sveta staring straight at him. She was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

“What’s wrong, Ilya?”

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about last night,” he started. “I wasn’t thinking. I was upset, and–”

“Ilya,” she cut him off. She was still looking at him with that stoic expression. “If I didn’t want it, I’d have stopped you. You’re not the only one who made a decision last night. Was it okay for you? Because it was very okay for me.”

“I mean, yeah, but…”

“Then what’s the problem? Come on, Ilya, I couldn’t have been that bad.”

Ilya’s eyebrows furrowed. “No, you weren’t bad. At all. I just…”

She inclined her head to get him to continue.

“We’re still friends, right?”

At that, Sveta’s gaze softened. She made herself comfortable on the bed next to Ilya, grabbing his hand.

“Do you still want to be friends?”

He glared at her. “Yes, Sveta, obviously, that’s why I’m fucking asking.”

She kissed his forehead. “Always, Ilya. I’ll always be your friend. And I’ll always be here when you need me.”

Travelling to Finland for the International Prospect Cup qualifiers was Ilya’s first time outside Russia. It was a bit disorienting, to suddenly be surrounded by a language he couldn’t even begin to decipher, no matter how hard he tried. He knew better than to speak Russian to the cashiers or gas station attendants, so he tried to get by with his stilted English. His accent gave him away – he was a bit annoyed at how stereotypical he was, a tall, blond man with a thick Russian accent – but nobody seemed to mind. Not the way they minded when Misha, stupidly, insisted on speaking Russian for their first day in Finland, only to be met with glares and angry English. 

It was disorienting, but Ilya loved it. It felt new, refreshing, full of possibility. Stupidly, and most importantly, it felt like proof that there was a life outside Russia – that the world outside Moscow and his Red Square apartment was real and that Ilya could be a part of it. That he really, really could leave – all it took was an excuse and a plane, and he could be out. 

Finland was great, but the qualifiers were a disaster. Russia had managed to scrape by with a win against Czechia, but faced with Finland, the team struggled. Ilya was still a few months shy of his 16th birthday – while he was allowed to join practice, he was in the bleachers for the games. He was expected to replace one of the left-wingers in the final. 

This was so sure – that Russia would win against Finland, go to Sweden, beat Slovakia and Germany, and go to the semi-finals in Canada – that Ilya failed to consider that they could simply be knocked out in the qualifiers and that his short trip to Tampere would end in disappointment and a return flight to Moscow. But the game went into overtime, and Russia ended up losing 4-5. Finland would go on to play Sweden. Russia would go home. 

Their coach was usually so loud, so full of unruly teenage boys, that the silence on their way back to the airport felt foreboding. Nobody was playing music out of the boombox Borya had secured God knew where. Nobody was roughhousing, teasing, or planning a prank on a sleeping teammate. Everyone was quiet, staring out the window or down at their hands. 

Eventually, it was Igor Kirilov who broke the silence with a punch to the seat in front of him. Ilya startled, jumping up in surprise, as the plastic splintered and Igor yelled.

“Fuck! Man, my father’s going to fucking kill me,” Igor said as Babkin made his way over to him to ask what, exactly, his fucking problem was. 

The airport wasn’t any better. A couple guys – Artem, who was only a month shy of his 18th birthday and who was missing a front tooth and his best friend, Tolya, a loud, muscular guy – tried to cheer the others up, but nobody seemed in the mood. Still, Ilya did end up accepting a chocolate bar and a ruffle of his hair from Tolya, grateful for the gesture even as he swatted his hand away. 

Ilya wanted to just be left alone on the short flight back to Moscow, but he wasn’t afforded the luxury. He was pointedly staring out the window when Babkin sat in the empty seat next to him. 

“Disappointed you won’t get to play?” he asked. Ilya shrugged, still looking out the window.

“A bit. I know Finland’s good, but I’m mad we lost.”

Babkin sounded confused. “It’s hockey, it happens.”

Ilya looked at him. “Could’ve been avoided. Abashev, Voronov, and Kirilov have a turnover problem, which isn’t exactly great when they’re all on the same line. And our defensive line isn’t great, which is weird because we have good players, but there’s a lack of communication there–” Ilya halted. “Sorry. I mean, you know better, probably. But that’s what I noticed.”

Ilya braced himself, but Babkin was smiling in a way that Ilya swore was almost proud. 

“Rozanov,” he said. “I think you’ll be one of the best players Russia’s ever seen.”

No matter how unlikely, Ilya hoped his father wouldn’t pick him up from the airport. Instead, he’d take the bus to Moscow city centre and walk to their flat, and he’d take that time to brace for a conversation with his father – because Ilya didn’t doubt that Grigori would, somehow, find a way to blame the loss on Ilya. 

This hope was crushed as soon as Ilya grabbed his bag from the conveyor belt and made his way into the arrivals hall of Pushkin International Airport. Sure enough, Ilya spotted Grigori in the crowd, standing under the massive announcements boards. He was deep in conversation with a couple – a tall, dark-haired man and a young blonde woman hanging off his arm. They looked vaguely familiar but Ilya only managed to place them as Igor Kirilov swore softly under his breath, walking alongside Ilya.

“That your father?” Ilya asked. Igor nodded, glancing over at Ilya, and they looked at each other for a moment. Ilya suspected what Igor was thinking – he was trying to figure out how to survive the next few hours. 

“Is that yours?” Igor asked eventually, his voice only slightly shaky. He cleared his throat as Ilya let out a small, resigned “yeah”. They walked towards their fathers in halting steps, both boys bracing for whatever was coming – which was likely to be infinitely worse for Igor, who had actually played in the game and who had, as much as Ilya didn’t want to admit it, fucked up quite badly by turning the puck over to Finland in overtime, leading to Russia’s loss. 

As they approached, Ilya blinked in confusion, looking between the four people talking under the boards. Because, where there was a woman whom he assumed to be Igor’s mother hanging off Kirilov’s arm, there was also someone standing close to Grigori. A player’s mother, maybe, he thought, but then Grigori wrapped his arm around her waist possessively. Ilya felt bile rise in his throat. 

The woman didn’t look like Irina, not exactly. She was also blonde, but where Irina’s hair had been the same untameable curls Ilya’s hair was, this woman’s hair was straight, cut into a well-groomed bob. She was shorter than Irina, too, but she seemed to be around the same age Ilya remembered his mother to be. She was smiling politely, but her body was rigid as she tried to lean away from Grigori, who pulled her closer to him. 

“Ilya!” His father’s voice rang across the terminal, and Ilya forced a smile. He approached, Igor trailing behind him. Ilya noticed that the elder Kirilov was looking at his son with barely concealed disgust. Igor’s lips formed a tight smile as he nodded at his father and the woman Ilya presumed was his mother.

“Hello, father,” Ilya said, trying to speak past the lump in his throat. Grigori nodded towards the woman expectantly, as though he was trying to encourage a child to speak to an adult, and she extended her hand with a forced smile.

“I’m Polina,” she said. Ilya grabbed her hand and shook it once, twice. Her hands were cold, but her nails were perfectly manicured. A part of the coldness was because of a ring with a small but definitely expensive stone on it. “You must be Ilya. Grigori has told me about you.”

“And you are…”

“Polina,” she said again.

“No, I know that,” Ilya said, too fast. His father shot him a warning look. “I just mean… It’s good to meet you. I just wasn’t expecting…” Expecting what? To be gone for a week and to come back to his father dating someone who was clearly closer in age to Ilya than Grigori? The thought almost made him laugh. ‘Dating’ seemed a lofty word for whatever agreement this woman must have reached with Grigori.

“Polina and I are getting married,” Grigori said, as though announcing a business transaction. 

“Good to meet you, Polina,” he said again. He just hoped Polina knew what she’d signed up for – and he knew she didn’t, because nobody would sign up for it willingly if they knew. 

Babkin seemed to take Ilya’s analysis seriously. Ilya tried not to let it get to his head, but it felt so good to see his suggestions make the team better – almost unbeatable. As soon as practice for next year’s International Prospect Cup began, Babkin changed up the Abashev-Voronov-Kirilov line, placing each in another offensive line to minimise turnover chances. He recruited a new player who was an excellent defensive player, a Kazakh 17 year old from Peterburg’s U18 team. And, of course, he built the team around a new offensive line with Ilya as the centre. 

As soon as qualifiers started, Ilya knew they’d make it to Canada this year. Ilya’s line scored goal after goal, and the defence went from weak to impenetrable. It gave their team a chance to win; it gave Ilya a chance to shine in front of the scouts.

And there were scouts at the rink. At this point, there were few games not attended by KHL scouts, and Ilya knew that, if he wanted it, he’d be welcomed with open arms in any KHL team. Babkin told him as much, and it took all of Ilya’s courage to look him in the eyes and ask the question.

“And if I wanted to play for the MLH?”

Babkin scanned his face for a moment and nodded. “I have no doubt you’d be drafted in the first round, son.”

Ilya had, once again, been right. The team was fucking good, beating not only Finland, but Sweden, Czechia, Slovakia, Germany, and every other fucking team that was thrown their way, and they made it to Canada.

The semi-finals against the United States was the first real challenge Ilya felt all tournament and even then, the game didn’t come close. Ilya scored a fucking hat trick, putting Russia up 6 points to the USA’s 3. He shook the American players’ hands as they glared at him and it only served to make him feel like he really was good at this; like it really could be his way out.

The stadium was full of MLH scouts. Ilya knew it, saw the way the Americans’ eyes widened in recognition. The way Babkin shot him a smile, waving a few pieces of paper at him after spending all afternoon talking to tall American men in suits. 

Ilya was surprised that, even with his experience of Russian winters, he found Canada cold. It was more the wind than the temperature, he thought, as he wrapped his coat around him. He leaned against the wall of the rink, staring out into the parking lot.

After the game, his father had called him. It was a decent game, according to Grigori, but Ilya needed to pay more attention to his surroundings because he almost turned the puck over in the third period, and did he know that Andrei Kamalov from SKA St Petersburg had an eye on him? It was good news, but Ilya needed to be more careful, more attentive, couldn’t get cocky just because he barely scraped by three goals in the game, or it could all go away. 

Ilya had nodded, and promised to work hard, and he pulled out a cigarette as soon as the call was finished. He groaned in frustration as he fiddled with the shitty lighter he’d gotten at a nearby convenience store. He’d left his favourite trusty lighter – a gift from Sveta – in Russia, not wanting it to be confiscated by airport security, and now the damn Canadian thing wouldn’t work when he needed a cigarette so badly. 

“Ilya Rozanov?”

The cigarette finally lit. Ilya lifted his head as he took a drag of it.

He recognised the boy instantly – the dark hair, the brown eyes, all details he’d seen before when watching Canada’s games in preparation for the final. But the TV had failed to capture his small, shy smile, the freckles dotting his cheeks, the slightly incorrect way he’d pronounced Ilya’s name.

“Shane Hollander,” he continued. “I… I wanted to introduce myself?”

He said it almost like a question, like he was waiting for Ilya’s permission. He extended his hand, though, and Ilya took it. It was warm, slightly calloused but still soft for a hockey player. 

He’d spoken quite quickly, and it took Ilya a moment to register the words, but he was almost proud of himself for understanding everything Hollander had said. Hollander, however, didn’t seem to think the same.

“Oh, I’m… I’m not sure you’re supposed to smoke here?” He slowed down his English and mimed a cigarette entering his mouth. 

Ordinarily, Ilya would be annoyed at this. He’d noticed the big fucking no smoking sign right next to him, but he’d needed the relief. If he didn’t, he’d do something stupid like smash his phone or hit a wall or press Hollander against the wall and kiss him. 

“Okay,” he replied. Hollander smiled nervously and Ilya, only vaguely, realised he was in trouble. He’d usually find people like this annoying – he’d learned that being overly polite was often a cover for cruelty that would be meted out later in private, but, for some reason, Hollander seemed nothing if not sincere, and Ilya registered that he’d noticed a lot more about him than he usually did about hockey rivals, and that he wasn’t exactly cataloguing it to use against them later. And that he wanted nothing more than to press Hollander against the wall of this fucking Canadian skating rink and figure out how far his propriety went. 

“You’re an awesome player to watch,” Hollander continued. 

“Yes.”

Hollander laughed nervously. God, he was easy to tease. He turned to go back in and Ilya couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. Ilya turned his gaze away from Hollander, taking another drag of his cigarette. Get your shit together, Ilya. You’ve been here for 2 days and you’re already trying to fuck a guy who’s definitely not interested.

But then he noticed Hollander resting his back against the wall. He kept some distance from Ilya, but he wasn’t leaving. They stood side by side for an awkward moment, Ilya waiting for Hollander to make a move – what kind of move, he didn’t know – and Hollander clearly waiting for Ilya to do the same.

“Anyway, I should go,” Hollander said eventually. “They’re… they’re waiting for me. But good luck in the tournament.”

Ilya couldn’t help it. He was so amused by Hollander’s earnestness, his politeness so stereotypically Canadian Ilya found it hard not to find endearing. 

Hollander extended his hand again. He shook it again, holding it for a bit longer than appropriate, feeling their warmth.

It took Ilya a moment to translate what he wanted to say, but he managed.

“You will not be so nice when we beat you.”

Hollander turned back, a bit surprised. “Not a chance.”

Ilya tilted his head. We’ll see. 

Hollander turned to leave for good, and Ilya allowed himself to watch. 

“See you in final,” he called after him. Hollander gave a little wave and went inside and Ilya took another drag of his cigarette.

God fucking dammit. 

“Roz, I’ll be honest,” Misha was saying. “I’m surprised your father didn’t fucking kill you when you signed with Boston.”

Misha clapped Ilya on the shoulder and laughed as he got up to get more alcohol. Ilya felt Sveta tense up next to him. Grigori hadn’t killed him, but it had been pretty fucking close. 

It was humiliating, really. Ilya was an adult man, who had at least 30 kilograms of pure muscle on his father. He was a professional hockey player with a million dollar contract with one of the MLH’s most renowned teams. And yet, when his father had berated him, he’d frozen and fucking taken it. 

Grigori had spent all summer trying to convince Ilya to give up the Boston offer and move to Moscow or Petersburg at the last minute.

“It’s not too late to stay here,” Grigori had said. 

“It is,” Ilya had replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “I sent in the contract this morning.”

Ilya’s shoulders still hurt from the hits from the belt and the cigar burns, but the vodka he was sipping dulled it a bit as he rested his head on Sveta’s shoulder. She played with his curls absentmindedly.

“So, when are you leaving us, Rozanov?” Igor asked with a tight smile. Igor, who had provisionally been given a spot on the New York Admirals. He had refused it under pressure from his father, instead being slated to start his rookie season at CSKA Moscow after the summer.

“Rookie camp starts next week,” Ilya said. “My flight is in two days.”

“Two days!” Misha exclaimed, sitting back down. He took a puff of the blunt Sasha had passed him and extended it to Ilya who shook his head. Misha laughed again. “Ah, America making you soft already, Rozanov? Won’t even smoke a bit of weed?”

Ilya tried to keep his tone light. “I don’t think the MLH would exactly like to see weed in my drug test, Mishka.”

Misha shoved him. “Just messing with you, man. Seriously, we’re all happy for you.”

Hours later, the party had thinned out, and Ilya, Sveta, and Sasha found themselves on the balcony. They were sitting on shitty plastic chairs, chain-smoking and looking out at the blocks of flats in front of them, so emblematic of Moscow.

“I’m happy for you, Ilya,” Sasha said. It was the first time he’d spoken to him since the start of the party. Ilya glanced at him. 

“You too,” he said softly. Sasha was due to start art school in Paris in September. 

“I hope America will make you more brave.”

They sat in silence, but it was comfortable. They listened to the sounds of the city they’d all grown up in – police sirens, vague drunken fights, music blasting from a car.

“How has your mother been about it?” Ilya asked after a while. He didn’t need to clarify; he just hoped Sasha knew there was no malice behind his words. 

Sasha smiled, looking ahead and taking a drag of his cigarette. “She’s been… adjusting, I think. But she was very supportive of the Paris idea. Didn’t tell father why, just kept insisting that Paris has the best art schools in the world, and he bought it.”

Ilya nodded. 

“Sometimes…” he started. He gripped the cross around his neck. “Sometimes I wonder what my mother would think of me. If she knew.”

They were all silent before Sveta spoke, her voice soft. “Maybe she wouldn’t have understood, but I know she loved you. She would still love you. And she’d be so proud of you.”

Ilya stared out onto the Moscow skyline for what felt like the last time. A light went out in a window of the block opposite him as Ilya stubbed out his cigarette. 

God, he hoped so.