Ilya didn’t know why exactly he snapped. Maybe it was the searching glances
Dany kept sending his way, as if he needed Ilya’s profile in view to
discover what exactly he was feeling. Maybe it was frustration because he
had scored 5 goals in 2 games and they hadn’t won either of them.
Maybe it was just because Mike Comrie was a little prick who seemed to take
pleasure in trying to take Ilya out for the season. But whatever the
reason, he just couldn’t take it anymore. When Comrie slammed him against
the bench, throwing an elbow high, whispering “fucking asshole” in his
ear, raw emotion overtook him, and the Oiler became the target. In the
end, Ilya figured getting the jersey off was a mistake, because it
would’ve felt a lot better to land more of the punches.
But winning was good enough, and he headed for the locker room propelled by
the delighted cheers of the crowd. It wasn’t often anyone got to see
their top goal-scorer drop the gloves. The rest of the team was jovial as
they filed in a few seconds later, despite the fact that Ilya had given
them a four-minute penalty kill to start the second period. They teased
him a little – highlighted by Jeff Odgers loudly proclaiming that he could
obviously hang up the skates with Ilya around. He played offended, of
course, but still smiled.
Until Fraser entered the room. He didn’t look happy as he motioned Ilya to
his office, and the Russian had a feeling this little conversation was not
going to go well.
He was right. “What the fuck are you doing out there?”
“Protecting myself,” he said steadily. It was true.
“From what?”
He shrugged. “They are trying to hurt me. They will not if-“
“Maybe that’s how things work in Russia, but we’ve been over how things are
different here.”
“Hockey players everywhere are alike. They will take cheap shots if I do not
have respect and that must be earned.”
“I don’t care what you think about respect, I do not want to see you do that
again.”
Swallowing his anger, Ilya nodded and left the office. So much for an outlet.
*
*
*
Dany was at a loss now. He had handled frustration with Ilya’s play and
frustration with the team’s play. But this…this coldness was something
new. He was alive after the first period, Dany had seen that, he was
smiling, laughing, exhilarated.
But whatever Curt had told him had killed that. Now it looked like he was
going through the motions. This was worse than the anger and frustration
of before. Dany’s musings slowed down the process of getting undressed
and before he realized it he and Ilya were the only two people remaining
in the Atlanta locker room.
Except he was zipping his bag and Ilya was staring at the wall. Dany cleared
his throat. “Kovy…are you ok?”
His voice was normal, but it wasn’t. “I cannot take much more of this.” He
stood up abruptly, lifting his bag effortlessly, his eyes still blank.
Dany was sensing that there was nothing he could say to fix this, to make this
better. But he had to do something, his mind told him frantically as Ilya
started towards the door, not so much walking as trudging. “Ilya…”
He halted and half-turned and Dany took a step towards him. He fucking hated
seeing his friend look defeated. It was not a look that suited him. “I
want to go home Dany.”
“Look, I don’t care what Curt told you, Kovy. You were fucking awesome.”
The faintest spark jumped back into his eyes. “Really?”
“Yes, fuck, yes. Makes me glad the refs broke up our little scrum back in
World Juniors, I’d never stand a chance against you.” He smiled, and was
relieved beyond belief to see Ilya genuinely smile back.
And Dany had a sudden urge to be a lot closer than he was. He took another
step as Ilya’s grin faded and he sighed, shoulders slumping slightly
again. Figuring maybe there was something that could help where words
would fail, Dany pulled Ilya into a hug before he could think about it.
The Russian seemed surprised, but not for long, and he released his breath in
a shuddering sigh as he dropped his forehead to Dany’s shoulder. Dany
couldn’t help but trace his fingers through the soft, dark hair, and Ilya
sighed again. “I’m so sorry, Ilya. I’m sorry for causing so much of
this.”
“Nyet… nye tebye,” was the murmur against his shoulder.
“But it is me,” Dany answered. “I…I hate doing this to you. I know some of
it’s hockey, but not all, and I…I just can’t. Not right now.”
“’s ok, Dan.”
“But…please Ilya.” Dany swallowed hard and pulled away a little, Ilya doing
the same with obvious reluctance. “I love you, too, you can’t doubt that.”
The smile he got in return was small and heartbreakingly sad. The eyes that
met his were a dull brown, without the light Dany loved to see dancing
there. “Ya znayou,” was the whisper. “I know, Dany.”
And damned if Dany wasn’t shocked to silence for a third time.
Continued inpart 10