Now or never

February 2016, Toronto

My head ached from fatigue, and to somehow ease the pain, I pressed my forehead against the cold glass, watching Ilya Rozanov pass by with a victorious smile. He had scored another goal, so his mouth wouldn't stay closed — light insults flew toward the opponents. Even Scott Hunter couldn't resist, replying something. I needed to catch every word, but due to migraines and the pounding noise in my temples, a pulsation appeared. Nothing helped me focus. — Awesome game, — commented one of Ilya's fans sitting behind me. Someone decided to support the team, and another wave of satisfied cheers swept through the arena. I had to leave quickly to wait for that idiot near the locker rooms. Half an hour remained, plus about twenty or even forty minutes were spent shaking hands with opponents, answering questions from journalists, and other crap, so there was no need to hurry. I just managed to go to a café, located fifteen minutes from the arena, buying a couple of buns and tea for Rozanov. To flatter him, though I wasn't sure he'd appreciate it. Since the beginning of the year, this was my fifth attempt to interview him to advance my career, prove something to my father… Yeah. — I kept wondering whether you'd come back or not, — Ilya was standing near the black exit, searching something in his pocket. He had already skated off and was now standing in an unzipped black jacket, wearing the same black hat. His cheeks were red. Clearly, he wasn't afraid of getting sick, but was doing everything to make it happen. — I was damn good today. Well, as always. His smug smile made me shiver, but I silently handed him a cup of tea, which hadn't cooled down yet. Rozanov, of course, opened the lid, trying to understand the trick and even sniffed, then grimaced, continuing to mock: — Thinking of poisoning the best hockey player? Sorry, malysh, but not today, — he watched my reaction pouring tea. And yes, a Russian word flashed in the middle of his sentence, which I understood perfectly, but I didn’t show it. Let him keep talking, I was memorizing every word, imagining how I’d drop this bastard in the article. Ilya Rozanov had just recently broken into big hockey, but behaved as if he was already a mega-star, mocked, showed character. Our first meeting revealed a lot, because I’d never seen so much contempt in just one look. Maybe it was because I, a student of Toronto Metropolitan, stood among a crowd of half-wits shouting questions about Russia and my father? And yes, these idiots were my classmates. We had an assignment to write an article about a rising celebrity. I thought my choice was unique until I saw familiar faces. Margaret, with whom I got along pretty well, apparently spilled my Napoleonic plans to half the group. Later, most shifted their attention to Ilya's rival — Shane Hollander. He was kinder and, at the moment, more popular than Rozanov. — You're persistent, — Ilya placed his cup on the window frame, which was just below our shoulder level, and took out a cigarette. — Seems like smoking isn’t allowed here, — I said automatically, making the guy smirk. And of course, to my annoyance, he lit up with such pleasure… I had to turn away, pretending to be interested in their opponents, who were the first to leave the arena. Their bus had just stopped a couple of meters across the road. — Do you really hope to get ahead because of me, — after a long pause, the guy asked, turning half-profile. — I found a couple of your articles about environmental pollution. They’re crap. — Thanks, idiot, — I couldn't help but smile, causing bewilderment on Ilya's face. He even held his cigarette in his lips a little longer, then smirked, inspecting me from head to toe with interest. Those articles had been printed an hour before the deadline because I couldn’t cope with everything. Student debts due to family problems piled up like a snowball. — Why did you choose me? — Ilya took his last drag, tossing the cigarette into his tea cup. — Why not Shane Hollander? Or Scott? Why hockey specifically? — It’s insanely popular in this country, — I shrugged, finishing my cold coffee. Without much thought, I took Ilya's cup and threw it into the trash, replacing it with mine. Rozanov snorted but said nothing, only twirling a pack of cigarettes in his hands, contemplating whether to light another one. Apparently, fatigue had finally taken its toll. — You know, I hate all this. The media stuff… And you act like an idiot, thinking you're cool. — Am I not cool? — Rozanov seemed to like my emotionality; he even stepped away from the wall he was leaning on. I approached so that our eyes were on the same level. Fortunately, my height allowed it. — Net. Razve chto dlya devochek. kotoryye ot tebya kipyatkom ssutsya? — I said almost without an accent in Russian. Oh, I loved the surprised look on Ilya’s face. But when I spoke in my native language, my grandma’s brain seemed to boil. I rarely used it. English and, a bit less often, my native Spanish. To avoid tormenting myself, I switched back to English: — You know, initially I planned to write an article in memory of my mom, but everyone’s much more interested in your fucked-up behavior and your… your damn good game, as you put it. I’ll probably write it like this — good on ice, bastard in life. Top five reasons to hate Ilya Rozanov from his peers on the ice. Sounds pretty good? — Where are you from? — the guy ignored my angry words. His gaze flickered across my face. — You don’t look Russian. — Grandma on my mom’s side, I think, in Moscow, — I muttered. God, she got involved with a Spaniard. Though, if not, I wouldn’t have my mom, Maria. And me, with my explosive blood mix. My dad was Canadian, but who was I? Spaniard, Canadian, or Russian? I laughed, realizing I wasn’t really listening to Ilya. Sometimes I wished I didn’t exist. — Anyway, thanks for the interesting chat, kid. I sighed, turning away quickly, realizing nausea was starting to creep in. Only someone as stupid as me could ignore their health for the sake of some bastard. Before crossing the road, I threw a quick glance over my shoulder toward the place where we stood. Rozanov was still there, staring straight ahead, with a cigarette in his mouth. *** — Juan Santiago Herrera, — a stern voice of my older sister Laura came from the kitchen as soon as I stepped inside. Her full name only sounded when she was angry, so I tried to smooth things over immediately. — Just John, you forgot? — I smiled tensely, heading toward her. To live normally in these new realities, I had to adapt. And I didn’t like my background. — I don’t care what you call yourself — clearly, she was furious, so she even got up from the table, angrily handing me a tablet. — Since when are you on probation? Ah, so that’s what it was. I sighed, not even wanting to look at the screen. She probably received a letter of happiness from my supervisor. I got the same one in the morning, promising to write a brilliant article by the end of the week about Ilya Ryazanov. And I was given a chance. God. This damn final year was so hard. — Listen, I understand that you’re struggling with your mother’s death… — Laura tried to comfort me. Or rather, to calm herself. Yes, that was more accurate. She even dropped her shoulders, sighing heavily. — You know, everyone’s having a hard time. — Yes, but she didn’t die in your arms, — I couldn’t help but snap, flinching at my own loud voice. Laura froze, not knowing what to say. It’s been less than a year since mom’s funeral, but the memories still haunted me at night. I could’ve dropped out, given up everything… but it was my mom who wanted me to be a journalist, she was the one who paid a decent amount to the university so her loser son could be accepted. Of course, my stepfather helped, but my mom did much more. — Sorry, I’m tired. I’m working on it, understand? And yeah, if you came here just for that — the conversation is over. It seems Christina needs to be picked up from school. Of course, Laura immediately freaked out. She grabbed her things and even wanted to slap me, but for some reason, changed her mind and left, slamming the door behind her. In my family, I was a bastard because my mom supposedly cheated on my stepfather not with some guy from a bar, but with a pretty big shot in the sports world. But to hide Carlos’s shame, my mom was forgiven. Back then, he was just gaining popularity, so he easily hid my existence. And when his movies started being nominated for an Oscar, the family fell apart. The promising director Carlos Francisco Herrera started affairs with actresses, and my mom and I moved to Canada. Where we lived peacefully for the last six years. Carlos sent money to my mom so she wouldn’t sue for a substantial part of the inheritance. And we were fine, practically starting a new life. Now, my name was John Williams. But leukemia had “its own plans,” and soon I was left alone. And Laura… kept watch so I wouldn’t ruin the reputation of the famous director Carlos Francisco Herrera with some antics. And so that the media would never talk about me. It’s amazing that I was still indirectly part of what they feared most. I took off my jacket, leaving it on the floor, left my hoodie nearby, planning to remove my pants, but a sudden urge to vomit made me rush to the bathroom. The cause of nausea could have been many things. Most likely, it was just poisoning, because I had been eating anything and everything the past week. And when I emptied my stomach, planning to take a shower and go to bed, my phone vibrated. Someone found my private Instagram account.