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“Dude, are you ok?”
Ilya is jolted out of his stupor by Marlow's question, which tone sounds like he's been repeating the question more than once. He looks around; the locker room is now empty, his teammates have all left after practice.
“Yes, why?”
“You've been staring at your phone for ten minutes without even breathing. Is your Jane just being difficult?”
It is a proof of how much Ilya is actually in shock that he does not respond with a ferocious quip or directly with a shove but goes back to staring at the screen with an air that, if it Marlow didn’t know that Russians don't do anything of that sort, would seem truly lost, almost panicked.
“Cap? Cap! ROZ!”
“What?”
“Is she alright?”
“I- don't know… Wait! For fuck's sake, how do you know who's writing to me? Are you telepathic?”
“You don't have to be telepathic, bro, to notice that when you see her name on the screen.. you become all..”
“All?” Ilya raises a brow, inquisitive.
“.. hot and bothered..”
The sound of a new notification distracts Ilya from killing Marlow for his impudence.
Whatever is written there, Rozanov turns even paler and runs a hand nervously through his hair, tugging at it.
Uh-oh, Marlow thinks. In that precise moment, he feels all the age gap between them, and a sense of older brotherly protection springs into him. Rozanov, a terror on the ice, in this moment looks exactly what he is: a scared kid.
He approaches, towering over Rozanov, who has sat down and is clutching his cell phone, his gaze fixed on the screen.
“What did she write to you now?”
Marlow tries to ask, certain that this time he'll be soundly told to fuck off. But, really, he can't help himself.
Roz opens his mouth to speak. Then he closes it. Then he opens it again and looks his teammate in the eye.
“That we need to talk, and that is urgent”
“Oh shit!”
“Cliff what the fuck, you're not helping me! At all!”
“What have you done, Cap?”
“I haven't done shit.”
“You sure? Maybe she found out some secret? Some recent escapade?”
The Russian's gaze turns stony. Funny, Russia's greatest love machine almost seems outraged by the insinuation.
“We're not exclusive” He spits it out like it's poison. “And anyway, it's not that recently, yeah, you know... there's nothing to discover..”
Intresting, Marlow thinks.
“So what could it be? You got her pregnant??”
A thousand different expressions rub across Rozanov's face, in a journey that goes from disbelief, almost to amusement, only to then fall back into the abyss of concern.
“I think we can reasonably rule it out.”
“If you say so…” Marlow becomes thoughtful. “The last woman who wrote me something like that… nevermind, forget it.”
“Forget about nothing, tell me right away, Marly!”
“Ehh… well… she showed up at my house with a bag from the pharmacy telling me she catched chlamydia.”
Ilya turns even grayer. A lethal mix of terror and fury.
“He would never cheat on me” Roz is so furious at the very thought, he can’t even articulate his words properly, his Russian accent stronger than ever, to the point that if the moment wasn’t that dramatic, Marlow would mock him for his incorrect use of pronouns.
"Bro, you're the one talking shit about not being exclusive! It seems a bit much even for you, to expect loyalty only from her side..."
Another sound of a received message interrupts them, followed by a string of what Marlow is almost certain are Russian curses.
“Gotta go, Jane is coming to my place” and after a second “from the airport”.
“Go on, buddy. Call if you need me. I'll leave my phone on all night.”
Rozanov leaves the locker room as quickly as if the devil himself were chasing him.
He rushes into the parking lot and onto the street with a screech of tires and an angry roar from the engine of his green Lamborghini.
The traffic on the way home is unnerving him. He tries to put on some music but stops almost immediately because it's getting on his nerves.
He taps his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, rhythmically, while his mind is busy imagining worst-case scenarios. In all these years, Hollander has never taken a plane specifically to come visit him. Never. So the situation must be serious.
Maybe someone found out.
But if that were the case, he would never have exposed himself enough to take a plane to Boston.
Who can blame him, after all. Ilya feels like such a failure. Who in their right mind would choose to be with him? His father was right. Shane deserves better, much better than this thing between them, whatever it is.
His knuckles turn white from how tightly he grips the steering wheel. The stylized bull in the center of the wheel seems to sneer at him. Anyone would be better than Ilya, for Shane. Even so, the mere thought of Shane in someone else's arms makes him physically sick.
He drives a few blocks slowly, grateful for his vehicle's adaptive driving system, so appropriate at the moment. Perhaps Italians are accustomed to pining for their loved ones behind the wheel.
A thought suddenly strikes him.
What if Marly was right? What if Shane had come to tell him that not only was he leaving him, but he'd also caught some nasty STIs from someone he'd hooked up with? Maybe someone who treated him, if not badly, but certainly not with the respect and devotion Shane deserves. Did this new partner care about him, about his quirks, did he kissedevery single freckle on his nose?
The bitter taste of bile fills his mouth. He pulls over just in time to save the Lambo's floor mats from the contents of his stomach, even though it's only a measly Gatorade; all post-workout hunger left him as soon as he'd received Shane's text.
The rest of the journey proceeds in a blur.
With every block he drives by, a heavy, leaden blanket wraps around his shoulders, barely allowing him to breathe.
When he finally parks in his garage, Ilya has reached a kind of truce with himself. Whatever happens, he'll accept it.
Shane deserves the best.
And while it's clear that the best certainly isn't Ilya Rozanov, he'll make sure whoever comes after him is aware of the gift life has given him. And if he discovers that Shane's new boyfriend isn't treating him right, or worse, has abandoned him after passing on some horrible disease, he'll first take care of Shane, then do his best to ensure this man will never be able to eat solid food again. Only horrible smoothies. From a straw. A very small straw.
It's with a heavy heart that Ilya exits the garage and heads outside, toward the front door. Shane is half-hidden among the hedgerows that border the property.
When he sees Ilya, he stiffens.
“Hollander”
“Not here, inside” he answers, nodding to the door.
Ilya opens the door. And if his hands shake as he dials the access code, well...
He enters first. Hollander follows him and quickly closes the door behind him. Only now does Ilya notice that he's holding a white paper bag from the pharmacy.
His stomach drops to his feet.
His eyes sting with unshed tears. Marly was right, after all.
This is it, then. Rozanov thinks, squinting, ready to receive the worst, final blow.
“Say what you have to say,” Ilya apostrophizes Shane, his tone sharp as a blade.
“It’s nobody’s fault, really. We know these things happen… there’s no point beating around the bush. It just.. happened.” Shane twists the paper bag in his hands.
Rozanov distinctly feels his heart stop beating.
Shane takes a breath.
“Pike’s kids have lice. I got them, too. And last weekend, we… well, we.. you know. After the game. I brought you the hair treatment. The comb is included.”