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“He’s playing hurt,“ says Yuna. “I bet it’s his ribs.”
Shane squints at the television. She’s right. On the ice, Ilya Rozanov skates a large circle around the goal where he’s just missed a backhand shot. The puck is already back in play, but Ilya isn’t. He skates slowly behind the action, watching, his hand massaging his left rib cage. It’s almost unlike a captain, who would be right there in the sweaty blur of colorful jerseys, fighting to right his wrong. It’s extremely unlike Ilya Rozanov, who would never have missed such a perfect opportunity of a shot in the first place.
“How could you possibly know that?” says Shane, although now that he looks, it's obvious. Still, he wouldn’t be caught dead noticing something like that. In fact he’s almost trained himself not to notice even the most obvious things about Ilya on the ice. Sometimes he wonders if his apparent inability to notice anything about Ilya was - by accident - more suspicious.
What is the normal amount of noticing? For two people who have known each other for almost a decade and supposedly hate each other?
Shane knows when Ilya is trying to fake him out. He smirks, but only one side of his mouth curves up. It’s cute, like he’s so proud of trying to trick Shane, but it never works. Shane always knows, because he spends too much time staring at Ilya’s mouth. Is that too perceptive?
Ilya notices him too. Shane has his own tics, like the way he picks at his thumbnail when he’s nervous. It tells Ilya that he has half a second longer to react. Ilya takes advantage of that every time.
“Look at him!” says Yuna. “He’s clutching his ribs. It’s obvious.”
“Oh yeah, he’s definitely hurt," says Shane. Always safer to let others notice things about Ilya first.
Instinctively Shane reaches for his phone.
Hope your ribs are okay.
Ilya won’t answer right away, but that’s fine.
“Good thing he’s an asshole,” says David from the kitchen. “Or else I’d feel bad for him.”
Yuna chuckles, and Shane feels a pang of - something. Not anger. Just an urge to set the record straight. Hiding his relationship with Ilya is one thing, but confirming the narrative that Ilya Rozanov is nothing more than an asshole is a whole different one. ‘It’s mostly an act.' That’s what he’s been saying.
But it’s not just an act. It’s a defense mechanism. Because when you’re Ilya Rozanov, you don’t let people see you hurting. You wear armour. Waterproof armour where no one can see you cry underneath.
You don’t know him like I do. Shane just wants to tell everyone that. He wants everyone to know the real Ilya, and at the same time, bask in the privilege of being one of the chosen few who gets to see him unmasked.
But he could start changing the narrative now, if he wants to. Every opportunity to prove himself as more than a rival to Ilya becomes harder to resist.
“He’s not that bad,” says Shane.
David emerges from the kitchen with more appetizers. He places them on the coffee table before landing onto the sofa between Shane and Yuna. The addition of this weight causes Shane to shift toward him. “What was that, Shane?”
“Rozanov,” repeats Shane. “He’s not really an asshole.”
David chuckles. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”
Because that’s what he wants people to think. “He visited me in the hospital.”
“Really?” It’s Yuna who sounds pleasantly surprised. Her voice is warm. “Just a few weeks ago?”
“Yeah. It was nice.”
“Maybe he just wanted to contaminate your IV drip.” jokes David.
Shane laughs. He vaguely remembers the nurse saying something similar about smothering him with a pillow. “Well, I was awake at the time, so I guess we’ll never know his true intentions.”
Yuna and David laugh, and Shane turns back to his phone. He angles it away from his dad as he types.
You should go see the doctor about your ribs.
“I still hate him, but maybe a little less,” says Yuna.
“It was definitely fun to watch you both play together at the All-Stars game. Unbeatable duo.”
“Yeah. It’s more fun playing with him than against him.”
“Lots of chemistry,” says David dryly. “You should play together more often.”
“Maybe at next year’s All-Stars game.”
“Are you two friends?” asks Yuna.
Friends. As far as Shane is concerned, they’ve never been friends. So much less than friends, and at the same time, so much more. Shane doesn't have a word for it.
“No, not really,” says Shane.
“That would be tough,” says David. “What would the league do without their money-making rivalry? All their marketing budget, down the drain.”
“Can you imagine the PR nightmare?” says Yuna.
David and Yuna laugh, and Shane forces a smile. He grips his phone tighter, his knuckles whitening. Nothing like a cruel reminder that even a public friendship with Ilya would be inconvenient for the league. And impossible for Shane.
He takes a deep breath and types another message to Ilya.
Call me when the game’s over.
He just needs to hear his voice. Even if it’s Ilya lying about how his ribs are totally fine.
“Who are you texting, anyway?” asks Yuna.
Shane stares at his phone, Ilya’s name on the tip of his tongue. He could casually say he’s checking in on him. He got his number at the All-Stars game just a few months ago. They’re not friends but they text. They’re allowed to text each other. Visit each other in the hospital. The league doesn’t have to know.
“Hayden.”
“You’re always texting Hayden,” says David. There’s a glint in his voice that Shane doesn’t fully recognize.
“Well. He’s my best friend.”
David peers at him sideways. Shane notices how careful he is to avoid looking at his phone, where he would see the name “Boston Lily” at the top of his message thread.
“It’s good to have a best friend.”
He considers telling them the truth. He’s always texting Ilya Rozanov. Not Hayden. But this is probably enough honesty for the day. It’s a start.
They turn their attention back to the game. Ilya’s scored, finally, and they’re about to face off again. Shane watches Ilya crouch at the center line, waiting for the puck to drop. He’s frozen in place. His stance is different. It could be because his ribs hurt, and he’s in pain. He always stands weird when he’s in pain. It could be that he’s preparing his next move. Fake right. Pull left. Maybe if his opponent looked up and saw a half-smirk, he’d know, but he won’t. He’s not looking at Ilya’s mouth.
The living room is quiet, as the commentary has paused in anticipation of the puck dropping. Shane can hear his parents breathing beside him. He’s sure they can hear his heart pounding.
The puck drops and Ilya does exactly what Shane predicted. Fake right, pull left. He wins the face-off and heads toward the goal. His skating is still lopsided, awkward. He really needs to see a doctor if his ribs hurt so badly that he’s skating like that. But it’s a breakaway. Ilya rushes past the defense, pulls the puck over to his backhand side for a shot.
Shane picks at his thumbnail. Don’t do it, it’ll hurt you more.
As if reading his mind, Ilya changes course. He cuts across the center to whip the puck from his dominant side, straight past the goalie's shoulder and into the net. Shane smiles automatically, for the briefest moment, before erasing it from his face.
“Good hockey is good hockey, no matter who’s playing it,” says David.
“That was a nice goal,” says Yuna. She claps for Boston, although she wasn’t rooting for them.
Shane agrees - it was a beautiful goal - but he doesn’t clap. Even though he was, and usually is, rooting for Boston.