Coping 3/5
by me
Rating: R
Warnings: Deals with death and other adult themes
Pairing: Ilya Kovalchuk/Dany Heatley
Disclaimer: I made all this up and am not insinuating anything about
the thoughts, feelings or inclinations of those mentioned.
Setting: Early season for the Thrashers
Notes: Thanks to Lisafi and Kathleen for the betas *hugs*
Ilya Kovalchuk was fighting a losing battle with his emotions. He had
told himself in the car on the way over a million times that he had to
stay calm. That he would focus on hockey, only hockey, nothing else.
He wouldn't think about the fact that Dany was surely watching on TV
or that there was a new black patch on his jersey's shoulder or that
Dan's watch link hung heavily around his neck. He would think about
the game. Just the game.
Theoretically. Standing here now, trying not to watch the video
montage on the jumbo screen, trying not to hear the bagpipes, trying
not to feel the emotion of the crowd, of his teammates, he knew focus
was going to be hard to come by. Everyone hushed for a moment of
silence and Ilya's eyes found the black and white "37" painted on the
boards in the corner. He shut them briefly and took a deep breath as
the moment ended and the crowd's noise level picked up and Savy skated
out for the face-off, Shawn and Kozzy lining up on his wings. And the
puck dropped on a season none of them could have imagined trying to
get through.
It was the end of his fifth shift, the end of almost 2 full minutes on
the ice and the end of the Thrashers' second power play of the season
that he struck. Frankie sent the puck over, and Ilya knew when it
left his fellow pointman's stick that he was going to score. He
raised his stick, never taking his eyes from the black disc as it spun
towards him, but still knowing where every other person on the ice
was. He knew he had a shooting lane, he knew where Denis was
positioned, he knew he was 58 feet from the goal and he knew he was
going to get his full power behind the shot.
His laser beam hit the back of the net after his stick was in the air
in celebration. Savy grinned big as he hugged him, tapped his helmet,
"See Kovy, we're going to be just fine with you around."
Ilya grinned back, but as he settled onto the bench and watched the
third line take the ice, it seemed like he could feel the weight of
the season and of his team settle onto his shoulders. It was a
disconcerting feeling, but he pushed the thought out of his mind,
maintaining his focus, knowing he would have plenty to worry about
tonight after the game and there was no reason to start now. He was
on the ice for the Blue Jackets' goal late in the second, but everyone
in the building knew Atlanta wouldn't lose the game. Tamer's slapper
from the blue line with less than three minutes left sealed the 2-1
victory.
But the quiet flight to Toronto gave him plenty of time to revisit the
realization of what this season was going to be like for him. Dany
was in the front of the plane, a window seat next to the team doctor.
No one liked their patients flying with a wired jaw, so Dany was
lightly sedated in an attempt to avoid any complications. There was
too much on his mind for sleep, so Ilya pulled his headphones over his
ears, flipping through the catalogue of songs on his MP3 player to the
Russian stuff. He stared out his window into the darkness and
realized that he was going to be responsible for whether the team
could win this season. He was very aware of what that meant, too. It
meant he couldn't be streaky with his scoring. It meant he had to
have more assists than goals, no matter who he was playing with,
because he knew he was the only one Bob could afford to put with
normal third-liners and give them first-line minutes. It meant he had
to play 2 minutes every power play and quarterback it. It meant he
had to play defense and play it well and be on the plus side of
plus/minus. It meant when they were down a goal or two, he had to be
the one to create energy and bring the team back. He idly twisted the
headphone cord around his fingers and reminded himself it was a team,
which meant he couldn't be fully responsible for everything that happened.
He could think that all he wanted, he didn't necessarily make him feel
that.
Sometime during all his zoned out vowing to himself to not let the
team down they had reached Toronto. Ilya shook off hockey-related
thoughts and focused instead on whispering along with the music until
the plane touched down. It was a couple hour bus ride to Elmira, and
the coaches and managers filed off while Bob told them roommate
assignments and to get some sleep. Ilya didn't feel the need to
remove his headphones for this information; he just shouldered his bag
and went to get his key from the front desk.
He pushed his hotel room door open, surprised to see the light already
on. He may have been zoned out during roommate assignments, but he'd
been one of the first ones in the building. Except for his roommate,
apparently. Then he noticed who was stretched out on the bed already.
Dany was asleep, on top of the covers, fully dressed with the lights
still on. Ilya let the door swing shut and dropped his duffle bag by
the wall, then hung up the garment bag containing his suits for the
funeral and road travel. He looked between the beds for about half a
second before toeing off his shoes, flipping off the light and
collapsing beside Dany, who didn't stir. Another half a second and
Ilya was fast asleep.
*
*
*
Ilya tried to focus on the ground. He kept his mind on things like
how the temperature wasn't hot but the sun beating down on the back of
his neck was. He was also pretending not to understand English. That
was a fun game � letting the words wash over him like they used to
when he was a rookie and only knew how to say "Sprite" and look at
Dany pleadingly for help. He kind of liked that even now, when he
spoke English well enough to be considered fluent and could give
unscripted interviews and quotes he still had that on/off switch in
his brain. It made him feel like no matter how Americanized he
became, he still had a link to his home that no one could revoke. But
even when he was processing what he heard, he realized that this
situation wasn't all that different anyway, because mostly all they
were talking about was God.
Religion hadn't been imprinted on him when he was young � after all,
that hadn't been allowed, and his parents hadn't been dissenters. So
he had been born an atheist, and even once he got older and Russians
had a choice in religious matters again, he didn't have much use for
it. Hockey had already taken his heart and soul and he wasn't going
to give it up to anything less tangible. Hockey was a religion.
Remembering that he didn't believe in God was another good distraction
to keep from hearing the sermon. Staring at the ground kept him from
looking at Dany, or any of the Snyders. But for some reason he could
still feel tears in his eyes.
He ran a hand across them as the pastor asked for heads to bow in
prayer. Ilya didn't really know how to pray, didn't like the idea of
begging for things to some mystical being you couldn't see or feel.
He didn't listen to the words uttered by the pastor, eloquent as they
probably were. Instead he thought of Danny just two weeks ago,
bumping him hard into the glass on the return from their second
"mountain" at the end of practice. His smirk and twinkling eyes as he
dared Ilya to beat him on the next one; even though he had just been
cleared to skate from ankle surgery, Dan was still going all out.
Ilya remembered how he couldn't even feel his burning lungs and aching
legs as they raced goal line to goal line, tying each other but
beating everyone else. He still couldn't fathom that he was never
going to get slammed into the boards again by the little prick, see
that smirk and hear that teasing "Head up, Kovy."
There was no fucking god.
*
*
*
"You been sleeping ok, buddy?" Practice is long over, video meetings
adjourned, and Dany has just finished his rehab session on this Sunday
morning. He's leaning against the doorframe of the weight room with a
crutch, drinking water through a straw and watching Ilya do crunches
on the weight bench in shorts and a 5-year-old Spartak t-shirt. Ilya
paused, laying on his back and letting on arm dangle, fingertips
brushing the floor.
"Isn't that my question?" Ilya knew this wasn't a real diversion, but
he wasn't sure he wanted Dany worrying about the fact that he was
leaving the television on all night and discovering that playoff
baseball highlights weren't good company.
"You know my answer already. Yes, because I have pills to help."
"No," Ilya said faintly, starting his crunches again. "I haven't."
Dany looked around quickly, checking that no one was in the hall
behind him. "Ilya..."
"I'm fine, Dany. Five goals, right? Three-oh-two?" He liked saying
that out loud. He liked the way a winning record tasted.
Dany didn't think that was a real answer, but decided not to push it.
He himself still felt pretty numb. He worked hard enough to not
think, his knee ached enough to keep his mind elsewhere, and the pills
took care of his nights and dreams. He tried to limit his thinking to
whether or not he needed another milkshake to keep his caloric intake
for the day high enough. "Ok," he said softly, counting off 8 crunches.
"You heading home?" Nine-ten-eleven.
"Yeah. Andy's giving me a ride."
Ilya nodded in between 12 and 13. Dany wouldn't be surprised, knowing
Ilya, if he was at about 213 in reality.
"Dinner?" Not that dinner was a real concept for Dany, he couldn't
eat anything anyway. Still, he'd gotten used to having the Russian
there while he didn't eat.
Ilya paused on his back, his eyes fluttering shut. He pulled his
shirt away from sweaty skin, revealing abs that didn't need any more
crunches. "I...don't think so."
"Oh."
"I have to...I just have a meeting with Bob this afternoon and I don't
know how long it'll take and..."
"You don't have to explain."
Ilya almost did want to explain, that it was awkward. That he felt
out of place there. Dany didn't talk much, and Ilya could only make
so much small talk with his parents. But what good would it do to
tell Dany that? "I'll see you later."
"Yeah," Dany said quietly, dropping the empty water bottle in the
trash and limping back down the hall.
*
*
*
Dany pretended to be asleep on the way back to his house, so Andy
wouldn't talk to him. But his mind was racing. Ilya had
been...phenomenal through these weeks. Dany couldn't ask anything
more from him. He'd been in the hospital every minute he could, until
Dany was discharged, then he would endure quiet and uncomfortable
dinners with Dany's parents and brother. Mark had gone back to
school, but Murray and Karin were there indefinitely, in Atlanta.
Now, it seemed, Ilya had had enough. Heatley could almost be relieved
by this. As long as Ilya wasn't around, Dany couldn't hurt him any
more than he already had.
Of course, he still felt alone.
"Where's the Russian tonight?" his father asked tactlessly at dinner,
interrupting a perfectly good awkward silence. This required Dany to
actually look up from what he was doing, i.e., staring at the
half-drank protein shake that served as his meal.
"He can feed himself," Dany muttered. "He doesn't have to eat here
every night."
"You just want him to."
"We do not need to talk abut this right now," Karin said sharply, as
Dany shut his eyes and drank some more protein shake. He remembered
complaining about the taste when he was a teenager trying to bulk up.
He can hardly taste them now.
"It's fine," he said wearily. "It isn't a big secret."
Silence reigned again, until Karin spoke up. "Dany, honey, your
father's just concerned, he wants what's best for you right now." Her
tone seemed curiously apologetic, and Dany realized not only did she
disagree with Murray's position, she fully approved of Ilya.
"He can't possibly make things worse," Dany muttered, thinking,
Except if he left.
"You have to concentrate on getting better," was his father's gruff reply.
Snapping, Dany slammed his glass onto the table, rattling the
silverware. "The only thing I'm `concentrating' on is that I killed
another person." He fled the room as fast as his injury would allow.
He found hockey on ESPN2 in his makeshift bedroom, Dallas and
Minnesota, and he watched mindlessly, keeping the Bruins and Ducks on
recall for commercials. He didn't really think anything of it as
NHL2Night followed a relatively uninteresting 3-1 Stars victory and he
watched them rundown a Predators loss. But then the Thrashers logo
hovered beside John Buccigross' head, and for some reason he didn't
turn it off. He watched. He heard the announcer's solemnity in
retelling what happened, and the change in tone when switching to
highlight mode. He watched the entire clip of wins and ties and Ilya
scoring and celebrating without blinking, and when he flipped the TV
off he found there were tears in his eyes not just from dryness.
He was still laying there in silence when his door opened and his
mother slipped in, placing a teacup on the bedside table and perching
herself on the edge of the bed, taking in her oldest son's red eyes.
"He doesn't mean anything, Daniel," she said gently, pushing a stray
curl off his forehead, where it quickly fell again. She had taken to
treating him like a little kid. The funny thing was, he didn't really
mind. "It doesn't have anything to do with Ilya."
"I know. I let him down."
"No, he's worried about you. All parents want to do is keep their
children from suffering, he just hates he can't help you. Give him time."
Dany sighed. "I know."
"I brought your medicine up," she said, handing him the teacup,
complete with straw. Dany imagined he could probably fit a pill in
the gap where his front tooth used to be, but apparently his mother
enjoyed grinding them up and dissolving them in things.
"Thanks..."
"Good night, Daniel." She kissed his cheek and left, shutting the
door behind her. Dany took a sip of the medicated tea. He'd been
taking the sleeping pills since it happened, and he hadn't had a
nightmare yet. Staring into the milky concoction, he though maybe he
deserved some nightmares. Setting the unfinished tea on the table, he
flipped off the lamp and pulled up the covers. Nightmares weren't
nearly punishment enough.
Consciousness brings a checklist. Fire, no. Hands, still attached.
Feet, still attached. Fingers move, toes move. But pain, lots of
pain, and he can't localize it. Everything is fuzzy and he can't hear
anything but the blood rushing in his head. He isn't really sure what
happened, but he thinks he was driving, and he remembers someone else
was there. Dan. He turns his head, sees no one. Stumbling, he
moves, fights his way out of what's left of the car. He tries to call
out, but pain explodes across his face and head and he can't. So he
tries to walk, but he stumbles the first step, falls, and there's more
pain, and everything goes blank except for someone calling his name,
faintly...
"Dany!"
He snaps to wakefulness, gasping, reaching for something solid, and he
gets it. Arms around him, a soft voice whispering, comforting. An
accented voice. "God, what are you doing here?" he breathed, never
more glad to see someone.
"I'm sorry," Ilya said, a non response to a rhetorical question. "I'm
so sorry. I should've been here sooner, the whole time, I'm sorry."
"What...why?" Dany's shaking slowed a little.
"I can't...I can't let you go through this alone." The Russian
released him from the hug but kept a hand on Dany's shoulder, looking
at him.
"Thank you," Dany muttered, "but you don't-"
"Stop. If you think any of us, your family or your team, are going to
just let you fall apart, you are wrong. We need you back, to be ok."
"I can't just-"
"It can take time, that is ok." Dany wondered when he missed the
complete change in Ilya, the finish in maturation. He wished he knew
what he'd done during the summer. Or maybe the summer only did a
little. Maybe the rest of the change was triggered two weeks ago.
Dany closed his eyes against the tears � more tears, did they ever
end? It didn't matter when Ilya had grown up. All that mattered now
was that he was here, and not going anywhere.
Continued in part 4