Something wrong with Rozanov

Cream Soda – Heart of Ice

Boston – Montreal, May-June 2018

Ilya’s transfer to Ottawa was announced just before the final game of the season. It was a true sensation, especially given that the Boston Raiders had crashed out in the semifinals. He was dragged through endless press conferences, television interviews, and sports media cycles; on social media, a storm of criticism broke over the ex-captain. Boston fans were livid, accusing Ilya of a lackluster and irresponsible performance in the semifinals and a devastating loss to the Admirals — Scott Hunter had personally put three pucks past Boston’s defense while Ilya Rozanov was on the ice. Well, now, in addition to New York, Ilya was hated in Boston too — and in all of Massachusetts and the surrounding states.“I can start a bingo card of cities where I’m persona non grata,”he thought with a smirk while scrolling through the news. Particularly fervent fans and influencers among the masses of supporters called Ilya the “Double-Headed Eagle of Misfortune,” a nod to the hockey player’s Russian roots, and predicted a similarly dismal fate for Ottawa: second place on the podium. Professional sports is no business for the faint of heart. You’re only as good as the gold you bring home. Or bronze, at the very least, because being the worst among the best is cool and prestigious — but only the first time. People see your potential and expect nothing less than silver the following year. Returning with bronze again is not an option. But earning bronze after having won gold? That is a true disgrace. It doesn’t matter if it’s the World Championships or the Olympic Games — the average Joe from the Russian hinterlands or his counterpart from a Texas village, who hasn’t held anything heavier than his own dick in his hands, will hurl the remote at the TV, crack open a can of cheap, warm beer from the nearest supermarket, and announce to his wife: “our guys blew it again.” “Fire the coach,” “fire the captain.” You remain the enemy until the moment you start winning again. Ilya didn't have to get used to condemnation: he read the hate comments with a certain contradictory relish. Whether they loved him or hated him no longer mattered. He was too tired of America and wanted nothing more to do with it. Ilya often wondered: how many more countries were ahead of him from which he’d want to flee? Where would he eventually end up? Is there a place on this planet he could actually call home? After all, only weaklings and cowards run — so, he was a weakling and a coward too? It was logical; it was the truth. Over a year had passed since his father’s death, yet Grigory still managed to reach his son even from the cold ground of the grave.

***

For the second year in a row, Ilya and Shane were spending a two-week vacation at the cottage. This year, Shane had managed to take a few extra days off — due to legal delays in finalizing a new advertising contract, his filming had been pushed to late summer, which genuinely pleased them both. By the end of the season, Shane had looked exhausted. Ilya had learned a lot from their joint vacation the previous summer: sitting by a campfire and watching the flames is great; Shane is terrible at math, judging by the burger patties — that’s funny; the cry of a loon is haunting, but you can get used to it; Canada is a dreadfully boring place, but there’s a certain charm in that. The Hollander family had been the true discovery of the year. Ilya had only seen families like this in foreign movies on TV when he was a teenager. A big, beautiful house furnished with love: every detail held something special, from the childhood photos on the walls to the porcelain figurines on the mantel brought back from various countries. A vast array of charming trinkets, mementos of shared trips and experiences. A high-end record player and a collection of vinyl. A large dining table in the living room with eight chairs to accommodate a big company of relatives and friends. On the wall next to the fridge, two aprons hung on hooks because Yuna and David loved to cook together. A bread basket on a snow-white linen napkin at breakfast — just like in a restaurant. A large wine cabinet. Beautiful crystal glasses and painted plates weren't left to gather dust in a sideboard for years — they were used for eating and drinking every evening, because dinner was an important family ritual, even if there was no special occasion for the gathering. Conversations about everything under the sun, without deep philosophical meaning or the goal of solving some monumental problem — people simply shared what happened yesterday and today, telling each other what they thought, felt, worried about, and what made them happy. They trusted each other with their feelings. During dinner, there was no TV blaring news in the background about who was killed, jailed, or robbed. No one went to eat in their own room. Before meeting Shane’s parents, Ilya sincerely believed all of this was unreal — that this synthetic, put-on friendliness was created only to project the image of a "perfect" family. However, there was no catch. These people lived exactly the life they appeared to lead: calm, quiet, peaceful, soulful, and close-knit; the "boring" life of people who are simply happy to be together. He had been accepted from day one, and for that, he didn’t have to do anything at all except “act naturally” — that was the instruction Shane had given Ilya when they went to see the elder Hollanders for the first time.“We have different ideas of what’s natural, sweetheart,”Ilya had wanted to say, but he chose to stay silent. “Listen,” Ilya said, not looking away from the TV screen, “do you think I’ve started playing worse lately?” Shane was silent. He was working the buttons on his gamepad with intensity, finishing a combo that resulted in a puck being hammered into the Montreal Metros' net: “What?” Hollander leaned back against the sofa with a satisfied, victorious smile and tossed the controller onto a cushion. “Just accept that I play better for Boston than you do.” “No, you idiot. I mean real hockey.” “I haven't noticed anything like that. Why are you asking?” Hollander stretched out on the sofa and rested his feet on Ilya’s lap; by instinct, Ilya covered the cool feet with his hands. “I don't know. I’ve been screwing up all season; last year was crap too.” “Sometimes you play better, sometimes you play worse. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. Is this because of what they’re writing about you?” “No, I don't care. They can rot in their own bile for all I care.” “You're not the only one losing. It’s a team sport.” “I’m the captain,” Ilya countered, pinching Shane’s ankle; Shane jerked his leg, giving him a light kick in the stomach. “Well, yeah, you're always going to take more heat than everyone else, but that doesn't meanyouspecifically are losing.” “I know people personally who would disagree with you,” Ilya moved his palm to Shane’s knees. Shane’s skin was becoming warm and slightly damp under his fingers. “Rozanov, since when do you care what they write about you online?” “I don't.” “Liar.” “Yes, I am a liar,”Ilya should have answered, but instead, he shoved Hollander’s legs off him and, in two sharp movements, was on top, hovering over his chest. His T-shirt collar smelled of fresh, slightly musky fabric softener. “You're lying to me, aren't you?” Shane’s voice distorted because Ilya had gripped his jaw with one hand, pulling him close to his face for a kiss. Once this started, it was hard to stop. The script was similar from time to time: they began with long kisses, moved on to oral, and sometimes added rimming, depending on the mood. Shane had been wrong in that text — in an hour, he could actually come at least three times, not twice. It took them about ten minutes on average to "reload." Shane’s hand landed on Ilya’s buttock, pressing his hips against his own. Ilya could clearly feel everything in Shane’s groin swelling and hardening, stronger with every passing second. It was incredibly arousing: he shifted positions, bracing one hand against a sofa cushion and pressing his lips to Hollander’s chin, while his free hand slipped under the waistband of Shane’s shorts and underwear. “Wait,” Hollander said breathlessly, catching the hand on his hips. Ilya stopped instantly and looked up at him: Shane’s moistened, slanted eyes, with deep black irises like two large drops of oil, looked back at him with a drunken, blurred gaze. “I want to keep our clothes on.” Wow. When exactly does sex in a relationship become boring?Ilya asked himself mentally as he covered Shane’s cheeks, forehead, chin, and neck with kisses; Shane’s hands moved across his back in intricate patterns. There was consent and approval in those movements:yes, like that, keep going, don't stop.Shane felt good. Ilya felt good because Shane felt good. The mere thought that he was regularly screwing an Olympic hockey champion fascinated Rozanov, and with a little mental effort, that thought could be amplified to the superlative degree — he and only he was the one doing it. Shane Hollander was portrayed as someone exceptionally private, modest, and unsocial, yet kind, fair, honest, and talented; if only they knew what Shane Hollander turned into when his hard cock rubbed against Ilya’s through four layers of fabric. Ilya pressed down on him with his full weight, pinning him into the sofa. Shane moved his pelvis slowly, tucking it slightly inward as if doing glute exercises at the gym, then paused for a few moments at the highest point, where the tension and the force of contact were at their peak — and then lowered his hips back onto the sofa. And so it went in a circle, up and down, to a count of four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Ilya wanted them to move at Shane’s pace. It felt good to give him control. “God, Ilya,” Hollander hissed as Ilya placed his fingers on his neck, right along the line between his jaw and Adam’s apple, pressing with steady force and restricting the airflow to his lungs. Shane seemed to like that. What they were doing took on a strange, surreal quality: Rozanov had extensive experience in bed, but he was doing something like this for the first time. He was used to seeing Shane completely naked, sprawled across a damp bed or the wall of a shower stall, not like this, and it turned him on like hell. It turned out they didn't have to be naked to want each other this badly. “You amaze me, Hollander,” Ilya whispered into Shane’s open mouth. Shane opened his eyes with a giddy smile: there wasn't a grain of sober reason left in his gaze. Their climax was swift and sharp: feeling it approach, Shane gripped Ilya’s hips with both hands to prevent him from pulling away even a millimeter. His black eyebrows arched in two heartbreakingly sad lines, his eyes were clamped shut, and two small, shimmering droplets formed in the corners. “I adore you,” Rozanov murmured, barely audible, pressing his face to Shane’s cheek. It was sticky and wet below; the smeared stain of semen on Hollander’s red shorts looked like the KHL logo. Shane’s relaxed body suddenly mobilized, gathering strength — he grabbed Ilya by the shirt, shoved him off, and in one motion was on top. A quick kiss, almost innocent, not matching the mood of what had just happened; Shane got on all fours on the sofa, moved lower, pulled down Ilya’s shorts along with his boxers, and took the now-softened head of his penis into his mouth, cleaning away the remaining sticky white drops with his tongue and lips. Two encouraging slaps on the thigh, and Hollander was already on top of Ilya again, pulling him into an embrace. “My parents will be here soon,” he said. “For dinner.” “It would’ve been a riot if they’d arrived half an hour early. Like last year.” “Not funny,” Shane countered and fell silent for half a minute. They listened to each other’s steady breathing. “Why did you ask if you’ve started playing worse?” “Jesus, Hollander, give it a rest. We just came. Let me catch my breath.” “So, why?” Shane insisted. Ilya smiled and ruffled Shane’s messy hair. “Don't worry about it. I just asked.” Shane’s face looked disappointed to Ilya. They both knew Ilya wasn't telling the whole story. As he headed toward the shower, Shane said — in a very serious, even dauntingly serious tone: “You can't spend the rest of your life masking your problems and anxieties with fucking, Ilya. Even with me. It doesn't work that way.” Great,Rozanov thought with annoyance. There was a strange and hardly pleasant pattern in Hollander’s behavior: by leaving — even if only for a short time in the shower — he sometimes left Ilya alone with unfamiliar, heavy thoughts that Ilya wanted to keep at a distance. Moreover, Shane Hollander’s very presence nearby allowed those reflections to be kept at a manageable range. Without him, Ilya was quickly sucked into the dark, bottomless swamp of a past that had long since ended but never ceased to exist. Most likely, that was the price Ilya had to pay for his love.