“Oh. That’s cool.”
“Good luck this season. Lydia can show you out.”
“Okay. Thank you. Um...thanks. Bye.”
Shane followed Lydia—the receptionist—to the elevators in a daze, his stomach clenching and his skin crawling with disgust. He wanted a shower, or a treadmill, or soundproof room he could scream into.
He stood in the elevator and miserably watched the doors close, blocking out the large glass NHL logo on the other side.
* * *
Ilya woke up from his pregame nap to find about a hundred texts from Shane on his phone. Most of them asking him to call as soon as possible. But also assuring him he was fine. But to call him. Soon. Now, if possible.
Ilya called him.
“Jesus. Finally,” Shane said.
“I was asleep. What is it?”
“I met with Crowell.”
Ilya propped himself up on an elbow. “Oh yes?”
“It was weird.”
“Weird how?”
“He basically said—I don’t even know what he said. He’s really intimidating.”
“Tell me one thing he said.”
Shane exhaled loudly. “First of all, he told me we were doing good work with the Irina Foundation. He asked me to tell you that.”
“Okay.”
“But he also, like, told me not to come out, maybe?”
Ilya sat all the way up. “I don’t understand.”
“He said he’s heard rumors about me being gay and basically that he’d like them to stay rumors.”
“He said this?”
“Not exactly. Like I said, it was weird. The way he talks, it’s friendly and scary at the same time. I hated it.”
Ilya was starting to get angry. Mostly at Crowell. A little bit at Shane. “What did he say?”
“I think he doesn’t want another Scott Hunter. He doesn’t seem to be a fan of activism in hockey. Or anything that isn’t hockey in hockey, really.”
“He is a fan of money in hockey,” Ilya said.
“He was talking about how great diversity is, and about the league’s LGBTQ initiatives, but also that he hates distractions from the game. The whole meeting felt like an indirect threat. Like, he wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to surprise anyone by coming out on social media or something.”
“Or kissing your boyfriend on TV.”
“Right. I mean, obviously I’m not going to do either of those things.”
“Obviously.” Ilya said it bitterly, but Shane didn’t seem to notice.
“But also it was like he was daring me to accuse the league of not being, like, queer-friendly or something. By listing all the stuff they do.”
“Gross.”
“It was, a bit. Yeah.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Nothing. I wasn’t going to do anything anyway, but I still feel slimy after that meeting.”
Ilya’s jaw clenched. He knew all too well Shane had no intention of going public about their relationship, but if there had even been a chance and Crowell had crushed it...
“Anyway,” Shane said, “I just needed to tell someone about it. So thanks.”
“No problem.”
“Good luck tonight, okay?”
“Sure. You too.”
“I love you.”
Ilya’s heart felt like lead. “I love you too.”
* * *
“Last time we met,” Dr. Galina Molchalina said, in Russian, “you told me quite a bit about your mother. Would you like to talk about your father today?”
“No,” Ilya said, without hesitation. Then, “I’m glad he’s dead.”
If Galina was shocked by this statement, her face didn’t show it. “He died a few years ago, right?”
“Yes. I’d been expecting it. He had Alzheimer’s, and had been deteriorating quickly. My brother pretended it wasn’t happening.”
“Are you and your brother close?”
Ilya barked out a surprised laugh at that. “Andrei? No. Not at all. I haven’t talked to him since I went home for the funeral. He’s a clone of Dad.”
Galina leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, waiting. Ilya sighed. He supposed he did need to talk about his goddamned father.
“Dad was a cop. Very highly decorated, very proud. He climbed the ranks all the way to an important job at the Ministry. He was about fifty when I was born. Andrei is four years older than me. And my mother was still only in her twenties when I was born, so.”
“Quite an age gap between your parents.”
“Yes.” Ilya hated to imagine what circumstances made his young, beautiful mother have to marry a joyless old man and bear his children. “My father hated her, I think. He always thought she was cheating on him, or planning to leave him. I wish she could have left.”
He didn’t want to get into some of his darker memories of his father terrorizing his mom, and Galina must have sensed it. She asked, “Was your father proud of your hockey career?”
“Not really. He was a big KHL fan. He thought the Russian league was superior to the NHL, and did not want me going to America. He never followed my NHL career too closely, but he was always interested when I played for Team Russia in any tournament. If Russia won gold, he was proud of me. Anything less was an embarrassment.”
“That must have been very hard,” she said, and Ilya wondered if she was thinking of the disastrous Sochi Olympics.
“My mother loved watching me play, when I was little. I liked playing for her. After she died, hockey became an escape for me. It got me away from home, and it was a way to get out some of my anger, I guess.” He smiled. “And I was very good at it.”
Galina smiled back. “It’s good that you had that. Were there other things you did to escape at that time?”
Well. Yes. And Ilya supposed there was no reason to be shy about it. Not here.
“Sex,” he said bluntly. “When I was old enough, sex was the other thing I did to keep my mind and body busy. Sex and Hockey could be the title of my autobiography. I’m not complicated.” He stretched his arm along the back of the couch, trying to show how relaxed and uncomplicated he was. It probably wasn’t convincing.
“May I ask when ‘old enough’ was?” she said.