The adrenaline had worn off quickly, and now he was standing alone in the parking lot outside the lobby, smoking a cigarette. Sure, his New Year’s resolution had been to quit smoking for real, but he’d earned this cigarette.
His phone rang when his lungs were full of smoke. He exhaled too quickly, which made him start coughing.
“Hi,” he said, and then coughed again.
“Ilya. Jesus. Are you okay?”
“Yes. Fine.” He coughed again, and thumped his chest with his fist.
“Where are you? What’s going on?” A pause. “Are you smoking?”
“No,” Ilya said, and stamped out what was left of his cigarette on the ground. “I am in Tampa. At the hotel. The team is all together in the bar.”
“It must have been terrifying.”
“Yes. It was scary, but we are okay now. Everyone is okay. Maybe a little...” He waved his hand around in the air. “Shaken.”
“You can tell me if you’re not okay,” Shane said gently.
Ilya smiled tightly. “I think I am...crashing maybe. A bit.”
“Adrenaline is wearing off. Yeah, that makes sense.”
“Yes.”
“Are you...in the bar now?”
“I wanted some air, so I am outside now.”
“You are smoking!”
“I am enjoying the warm Florida night!” He sighed. “And also smoking a little.”
“Well,” Shane said, “I’ll allow it.”
“Great,” Ilya said flatly.
Shane laughed, which made Ilya’s heart race. What if he’d never heard Shane’s laugh again?
“Can I see you?” Shane asked. “Can we FaceTime?”
“Yes. Of course. One second.” Ilya bent to retrieve his cigarette butt, pocketed it, and started walking to the other side of the parking lot. On the way, he sent Shane a FaceTime request.
He could tell right away that Shane had been crying.
“Oh,” Ilya said softly. “Sweetheart. I am so sorry.” They didn’t use pet names very often, beyond the nonsensical Russian nouns Ilya liked to throw at Shane, but Ilya said this one with his whole heart.
Shane gave a fragile, trembling smile. “You should be.” Then he covered his mouth with his hand as his eyes filled with tears.
“I am okay,” Ilya assured him. “Still here. I should not have scared you with those texts.”
Shane only shook his head in response, mouth still hidden by his hand. Ilya hated seeing him so upset, but he loved seeing him. Loved his freckles and his little nose.
“I did mean what I wrote,” Ilya said. “All of it.”
Shane lowered his hand, cleared his throat, and said, “So a little brush with death and you turn into Mr. Poetry?”
Ilya laughed softly. “Was it too much?”
“No. Fuck you, it was beautiful. And I’m glad it wasn’t...” Shane stopped talking. Then he took a steadying breath and said, “I’m glad it wasn’t...necessary.”
Ilya’s eyes started to burn. “Yes. Me too.”
“You’re not allowed to die, Ilya. Not before I do.”
“Do you have to win everything?”
“I have to not lose you.” His voice cracked on the last word.
“Shane,” Ilya said soothingly, “it is okay. I am okay. Is over.”
“You’re so far away,” Shane said, sniffing hard. “I want to rent a car and drive there.”
“Would be a long drive,” Ilya said with amusement, “from Washington.”
“Thirteen hours.” Shane smiled sheepishly. “I looked it up. Right after I looked up available rental cars in Washington.”
Ilya chuckled fondly, which made Shane laugh too.
“Maybe you could play for us against Tampa,” Ilya joked. “Give us a chance of winning.”
“I doubt I’d play very well, to be honest.” He exhaled. “God. I just keep thinking—”
“I know,” Ilya cut him off before he could say it. “But I didn’t. I’m here. I’m fine.”
Shane nodded. “I wish you were here with me right now. I want to hold you. I want to, fuck, feel your heart beating.”
“Now who is the poet?”
“Shut up.”
They both laughed again, then smiled at each other for a few silent moments.
“You look way too good,” Shane said, “for someone who just went through a harrowing ordeal.”
Ilya was too tired to translate those last two words, so he replied with, “I love you.” In Russian.
Shane repeated it back. Then said, in English, “You should go be with your team.”
Ilya sighed. “Probably. Yes.”
“Call me tomorrow. Or later tonight if you want. I’ll just be, y’know, freaking out in my hotel room.”
“Don’t. Jerk off or something instead. Send me pictures.”
“While you’re hanging out with your teammates? Absolutely not.”
“I won’t show them.”
“Good night, Ilya.”
“I almost died!”
“I’m really not ready to joke about that yet.”
“Sorry. Good night, moy pomidor.”
“Tomato, right?”
“Yes.”
“Weird. I love you.”
“I love you. Send pictures.”
They ended the call, and Ilya went back inside the hotel. He considered joining a table, and he considered going up to his room, then he spotted Troy sitting alone at the bar. Why Troy was sitting there and not upstairs making out with Harris was beyond Ilya.
He left Troy alone, and joined one of the tables. He picked the one that had the most pitchers of beer on it, and immediately poured himself a glass. Time to get fucking drunk.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The next morning, as Shane was putting the few things he’d unpacked back into his suitcase, there was a firm knock on his hotel room door. When he opened the door, he found J.J. there, holding two coffees.
“That for me?” Shane asked, stepping backward to let him in.