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"What the fuck do you want?" Ilya snaps on the phone.
Alexei draws a breath on the other end. Ilya swears to God if a fucking request for money is what comes out, he'll scream hard enough to shatter couple of ear drums. He doesn't have time for this; he wants to bask in this feeling of a good, honest, hard win he had to earn second by second because of course Shane didn't let him to get away with anything, he wants to have a shower, have a drink, go home and see if he can persuade Shane to—
"Father's dead," Alexei says and Ilya feels it in his chest like a physical blow. Everything goes quiet and white and bright, distant like viewed through water. His brother's breath rattles in his ear, suddenly a cuttingly sharp connection over the distance separating them, that sign of life the only thing he can focus on.
Ilya remembers Alexei when their mother died, stone-faced at the funeral, but right before that, the way his fingers had been gentle when they straightened Ilya's crooked bow before their father could see. How they almost, just almost, touched Ilya's cheek before he stepped back and pulled them both to the back seat of the car. He remembers standing by that dark grave when the casket was descended into that empty, dark hole that leached up all the warmth in the world. All the warmth, except provided by the shoulder slightly bumping against his.
It is just us, now.
"Nothing to say?" Alexei says, and laughs, short and humorless. If it is wet, the connection is not crisp enough to convey that. "Get your ass in Moscow."
Then he's gone.
And Ilya is left holding the silent phone on his ear, the last remnants of his family fading away. And the world is silent.
Now it's just me.
Ilya flinches when a hand grabs his shoulder. He looks up, just like he did back then, and for a second—
"Roz, did you—," Cliff Marleau, towering over him, frowns. "You okay? Who was that?"
Ilya blinks and the double image disappears like a mirage it was. Impossibility that's long gone, buried in the cold hard ground like their mother.
"My brother," he says. "I have to—"
Marleau's brow furrows further. "English, Roz."
Ilya blinks again. Oh, shit, right, stupid language. The words grind like rusty gears in his head before they arrange into anything resembling an order. "I have to go home," he says. "My father is dead."
Father is dead.
"Whoa," someone says and something definitely happens, because when Ilya blinks again, he's sitting down. Marleau is crouching by him, and it's the second time Ilya deeply wishes the man was somebody else.
The door opens slightly, but before the press manager is even fully in, Connors snaps "No press" with a tone so unlike him that there's no objections, just the door closing again.
"I'm sorry, Roz," Marleau says and his hand on Ilya's shoulder squeezes, hard and somehow grounding. Marleau has never been a big emotion guy — hah! Who in hockey is? — but there is something in his eyes and the curl of his mouth. And Ilya has met Marleau senior, even signed a picture for him, and the man looked exactly like Cliff — if 20 years older and much rounder around the midsection. He is nice too, based on that short interaction, and well liked by his son based on the way Marleau had smiled talking to him, without strain and hidden meanings or the underlying deep wariness that steeped every interaction Ilya ever had with his father. And ever would. Because now, father was gone.
You didn't even know him, Ilya wants to say. Maybe he was a shithead and I hated him, but nothing comes out.
"What do you need?" Marleau asks.
Ilya blinks again. His eyes are dry. "I need to go to Moscow," he says.
Marleau nods. "Okay," he says, "How about you start with a shower and change of clothes? No one's gonna let you board a plane smelling like that."
Ilya huffs and looks up. A whole locker room full of hockey players looks back, faces in various shades of awkward and apologetic. "And what the fuck are you staring at?" Ilya barks. "Can't shower without help?"
"Trying to get out of having to find three thousand dollars," Connors pipes up, and Ilya actually laughs. It's short and not very merry, but a laugh nonetheless: a resemblance of normalcy he can cling to with both hands. He's good at that. He points.
"All you fuckers fucking owe me," he says. "I won't forget. And now, fucking shoo."
Everybody turns away, more or less, and some level of chatter resumes. It's nowhere near the level of noise a locker room should have after a win against fucking Montreal of all teams, and Ilya spots more than one man shooting a surreptitious look at his way, but it's better than the dead silence of few seconds ago. Or maybe that was merely Ilya's imagination, who the fuck knows.
He sighs. Marleau nudges his skate. "Do you need help?" he asks.
Ilya snorts. It's not quite as haughty as he usually pulls. "Day I need help showering, you shoot me."
Marleau grins. "Good, 'cause I draw the bro-line at shampoing your fucking hair."
Ilya kicks him. "Shampooing my hair is privilege."
Marleau coos, just like he always does. "Ooh, fancy, is that the word of the week?" He finally raises up from the crouch, but before he pulls his hand back, he squeezes Ilya's shoulder once again. Ilya bends down, and starts opening the bindings on his skates. And if he has to swallow very hard a few times, nobody's the wiser.
The rest of it goes with an autopilot, all part of the routine Ilya has perfected a long time ago, requiring no thoughts or focus. Skates off, jersey off, padding off. Undershirt is gross as always after a hard game, peeled to his skin and soaked through with sweat. Underwear, grabbing a towel, and then the water hits his face. He closes his eyes and lets it wash over him. When he licks his lips, it's still just clean water, without even a hint of salt.
The shower is more perfunctory than usual, and also unlike usual, he spends the whole of it turned towards the wall, not saying anything to anyone. He doesn't miss that all the guys are giving him a wide berth. All except Marleau, who — conspicuously for a man known to soak until he's practically a prune — ends his own shower within seconds of Ilya turning the water off. He doesn't even have the decency to look cowered when Ilya shoots him a withering look, just follows him back to the lockers.
Which are even more crowded now than when Ilya left.
"Rozanov," the coach says with his default tone of utter contempt for the world in general and whoever happens to stand right in front of him in particular. The only thing new is the reproachable look their travel coordinator shoots at him from the bench where he's hunched over a laptop. The look turns apologetic and way too pitying for Ilya's taste when it turns to him, so he shifts his own quickly to the coach.
"Coach," Ilya says. This kind of thing he knows how to deal with. "I have to go. I'll be b—"
"Of course you do," the coach interrupts him gruffly, and Ilya tries to reorient. For fuck sakes, they have a game tomorrow in Nashville — admittedly it's not really going to be that much of a challenge for them — but it's the principle of the thing. The coach never lets anyone skip anything if he can help it at all, and definitely not without a detailed justification, and at least a three-point plan on how the no-show will be made up. The coach huffs. "You go," he says with the same tone he tells Ilya to not start fights, absolute like he doesn't just expect but knows he will be obeyed even if the whole universe has to tilt to make it so. "And you do what you need to do, for however the fucking long you need to. Then you come back, and score us some fucking goals."
Ilya blinks.
"Do you want to fly tonight?" Pete pipes up from the bench.
"What?" Ilya asks.
"There's a red-eye tonight, you can catch it if you can get to the airport in two hours. Next one leaves tomorrow, midday."
"You book me flight?"
"Yes," Coach says, like it was a stupid question. Maybe it was, but to be fair, a question needs to be in a level of geniusness not yet achieved by mankind to not get that tone from the Coach.
"The return flight is at the end of the week so you can make it to the next home game," Pete continues, "but it's adjustable, so."
Ilya is feeling weird. A little bit like there is cotton wool wrapped around him, settling on him gently. Whatever it is, it feels… Warm.
"Tonight is good," he says.
Pete nods and clicks his keys. "Done!" he says. "I emailed you the ticket. It has room for one luggage, but if you need more, let me know."
"Is okay," Ilya says. It wasn't like he meant to or needs to pack much. It's much easier anyway to travel light. It's just…
Pete closes his laptop and the coach nods briskly. His mouth is a tight line, like it always is. He glares at Ilya and worries his teeth. For someone with such a speech centered profession, he sure ratios words like their value compared to diamonds.
"Rozanov," he says finally, gruff like he was grinding gravel. "My condolences. To you and your family."
"Oh," Ilya says, stupidly. "Thank you?" and it comes out as more of a question. The coach nods again, and then turns on his heels and marches away. Pete jumps up the bench like a marionette, and scurries after him with a quick "Condolences from me too. Have a safe flight!"
Ilya turns back to his locker and starts pulling clothes on. At least he has good travel clothes with him, no need to change when he packs at home. And he was ready to travel anyway—
"Oh shit," he says.
"What?" Marleau says immediately, like expecting some brand new and shiny bad news.
"The fucking press," Ilya grumbles. "They are going to be fucking all over this, if I don't fly to Nashville—"
"Don't worry 'bout it," Conners interrupts. Ilya turns around and raises his eyebrows.
"Don't worry about press?" he says mockingly. Every fucking player in this league worries about them constantly, even perfect boy Shane who can make them eat from the palm of his hand with a flash of a smile and that lovable bashfulness. They are sharks, that's what they are, and when they smell blood in the water…
"Suzy will handle it," Conners says confidently. And Suzy is a world-class media wrangler, but even she can't spin diamonds out of shit like dead fathers; it is going to hit the fan with a sickening and disgusting splurtch. Besides, she is an awesome woman and Ilya hates to leave his mess for her to deal with. "She said she got it," Conners continues before Ilya can voice any of that.
Ilya narrows his eyes. "And how did Suzy hear about that?"
Conners' face radiates innocence. "You know her, she hears everything."
Ilya opens his mouth to argue. Conners is, surprisingly, faster. "She also said, and I quote, 'Shut the fuck up, Rozanov, and let the pros handle it'." Marleau laughs behind them and Ilya has to huff a little in amusement. That does sound like her. Conners grins too, before getting more serious again. "She also sent her condolences."
Ilya nods briskly, and turns away to pull a sweater on. It's all so… He keeps his head down when he dives for his jacket. Sneakers on and then he's ready.
"C'mon," Marleau says and pulls his toque on. "I'll drive you home."
Ilya grimaces because that's the expression that comes on easiest and is also the easiest to hide behind. "What?" he says mockingly. "You drive me to airport too?"
"Yes," Marleau says without a hint of irony. When Ilya just blinks at him, he smiles that cocky smile of his, without quite the usual amount of teasing. "It would be a pity if you messed up one of your pretty cars by driving into a ditch tonight. Or to leave it in the overnight park that's available at this hour."
Ilya frowns. "I can—"
"Ilya," Marleau says, stopping Ilya at his tracks. He reaches out with his large hand and parks it on Ilya's shoulder again. "Let me drive you, okay?"
"Uh," is all Ilya can say, loss at words in two languages, and that does not happen to him often. Marleau's hand on his shoulder is warm, even through the several layers.
"Would make me feel a lot better, at least," somebody mutters behind him, barely audible, and Ilya is suddenly acutely aware that everybody in this room is once again focused on him. Usually he doesn't mind, usually he seeks it, but now it feels… It feels…
Marleau's eyes are warm when they gaze down at him. Steady, and familiar, and worried. People don't look at Ilya like that. Usually when people look at Ilya with worry in their eyes, their focus is on what Ilya will do, what he will say next, how the downfall of it can be contained and controlled. It's always about the action, not the man.
"Uh," he says, again. "Okay," he finally manages to cough up, and definitely has to stop at that before something else comes up. Marleau smiles slightly and lets go when Ilya turns around. Turns around to roomful of men staring at him.
'Uh' Ilya is about to say again — what a fucking cursed thing to say — when the man closest by, Miller, only half dressed, hair dripping, raises his hand and forms a fist. Out of habit so deep it's instinctual at this point, Ilya curls his fingers and then their knuckles bump against each other.
"Love you," Miller says solemnly and steps aside. Carter reaches around and then it's his knuckles against Ilya's.
"Love you," Carter says with a sympathetic twist on his normally easy smile. The next fist raises up behind him, and Ilya steps forward to meet it, too. A quick "love you" follows it, from Conners, and then Ilya is shuffling forward and every man in the room meets him. 'Love you', 'love you', 'love you' repeats in his ears in every cadence known to manly men, and with each one, something cold in his chest splinters and thaws further.
Maybe it's not just him, after all.