I will never fucking forgive you if you get lung cancer and die.
Ilya watched another cloud of smoke disappear into the night sky. I know, sweetheart, he replied silently. I know.
He imagined Shane would be similarly unforgiving if Ilya took his own life. Not that Ilya ever would. Unless he couldn’t help it.
I’m trying to get better.
He finished the cigarette, stamped out the butt, then picked it up and put it in his coat pocket. Smoking was one thing, but littering was one bad habit too far.
When he got back to the hotel, he felt somewhat better. Alone in his room earlier, his mind had been reeling and he’d felt claustrophobic after the long plane ride. It was late now, though, especially when translated to Ottawa time, and he needed to get as much sleep as possible before their game tomorrow.
Troy Barrett was standing by the elevators, holding a paper bag that couldn’t more obviously be concealing a liquor bottle. Ilya hadn’t spoken much to Barrett since he’d joined the team earlier that week. He should probably talk to him now, as team captain.
The elevator doors opened and Barrett stepped on. Ilya didn’t move. He knew he was being irresponsible, but he was too exhausted to care. And it seemed hypocritical of him to be lecturing anyone about vices right now.
Truthfully, he wanted to ask Barrett to share whatever was in the bottle.
Deciding he needed to focus on himself tonight, Ilya waited for the next elevator.
* * *
Ilya woke later than he should have the next morning, but not late enough to miss breakfast. He filled his plate with scrambled eggs and various breakfast meats from the buffet line and joined Wyatt and Bood at a table.
“You find some trouble last night or what?” Bood asked.
Ilya smiled mysteriously. He’d learned that the best way to hide his secrets was to pretend he was hiding entirely different ones. “Did you see your sister?” he asked Wyatt. “And your nephew?”
“Yep! Saw the whole gang. They’ll be at the game tonight, so I’ve gotta put on a show.”
Ilya glanced around the banquet hall the hotel had provided for their private team breakfast. “Have you guys seen Barrett?”
“This morning?” Bood asked. “No.”
Wyatt shook his head. “Haven’t seen him since yesterday when we arrived. Why?”
“No reason.” Ilya hadn’t been a good captain last night when he hadn’t stopped Barrett from taking a bottle of alcohol back to his hotel room, but maybe he could be a good captain today by respecting his privacy until Ilya had a good reason not to.
When he’d finished eating, he headed to the hotel lobby to see what kinds of chocolate bars they were selling in the little shop there. As he was crossing the middle of the room, where all the couches and chairs were for guests to lounge on, someone called his name.
“Ilya Rozanov.”
Ilya stopped walking, and turned in the direction of one of the couches. He couldn’t think of anyone he wanted to talk to who would call out his full name in a busy public place.
He found three men he didn’t recognize—two sitting, and one standing—grinning at him. “Yes?”
The standing man strode over to him like they were friends. He was older than Ilya, probably in his fifties, with piercing blue eyes, gray-flecked dark hair, and a reasonably fit physique for a man his age, though he was several inches shorter than Ilya. He extended his hand when he reached Ilya.
“Curtis Barrett,” he said in a loud, confident voice. “Troy’s father.”
“Oh. Okay,” Ilya said, and shook his hand. “I have not seen your son yet today.”
“Knowing him, he’s probably trying to kick some girls out of his hotel room.” He laughed, and it was horrible. “Fun’s over, ladies, right?”
Ilya wasn’t sure if he liked Troy, but he definitely didn’t like his father. “I can tell him you are here,” Ilya offered, mostly to get away from him.
“Sure, if you see him. I’ve been calling and texting all morning, but he forgot how a phone works, I guess.”
Ilya smiled tightly. “I will let him know. If I see him.”
He left quickly, continuing his journey to the store at the other side of the lobby. He bought himself a Caramilk bar and, after a moment’s consideration, added a bottle of Gatorade.
He checked the room assignments on his phone while he rode the elevator back up to the team’s floor, then walked directly to Troy’s room and banged on the door. “Barrett. Wake up.”
“What is it?” called the tattered remains of Troy’s voice. “What?”
“Open the door.”
Ilya heard moaning, and creaking, and shuffling, and then a bleary-eyed, and mostly naked, Troy Barrett opened the door. He reeked of alcohol and sweat, and his room was a mess. But he was, as Ilya had suspected, alone.
Ilya didn’t wait for an invitation. He pushed past Barrett, wrinkling his nose as he took everything in. “Smells terrible. You got drunk last night.”
“A little,” Troy mumbled.
“Not good, Barrett.” Ilya was legitimately annoyed. Troy had joined the team less than a week ago and already he was letting them down. Ilya held out the Gatorade. “Drink this.” Then, because Troy looked like he was about to topple over, Ilya added, “Sit down.”
Troy sat down heavily on the bed with a sigh and opened the Gatorade.
“I saw you in the lobby with the liquor store bag. Heading for the elevators,” Ilya explained before Troy could wonder how he knew what he’d been up to last night. “You were in a hurry, it looked like.”
Ilya spotted the cause of Troy’s condition—a bottle of horrible, cheap vodka on the nightstand, nearly empty. “This is something you do a lot?” he asked as he inspected the bottle’s label. He sniffed at the liquid inside. Disgusting.
“No,” Troy said miserably.
“We play tonight.”
“I know. It was stupid.”
“Yes.” Ilya wanted to be angry with him, but he found it difficult when Troy looked so pathetic, sitting on his bed in his underwear, curled over a bottle of Gatorade that he was clutching like it was precious.
“It won’t happen again,” Troy said in a small, tired voice. Ilya noticed the shimmer of tears in his eyes before Troy looked away. “I’m sorry. It was—”
His voice broke, and he pressed his lips together. The last of Ilya’s annoyance with him evaporated. “This is your town, yes? Where you are from?”