Ice and fire

      We spent our vacation in a cottage undisturbed by anyone. We surrendered to our passion without restraint. We let ourselves breathe, talked for hours, emptied our hearts.       But at some point he closed off again, withdrew into himself. He was there beside me and yet somewhere far away, not truly with me. So close and at the same time impossibly distant. It all felt like a fairy tale that had finally come true, and yet…       Our problems remain unspoken, the past still unhealed, the dependency not gone, merely renamed love.

This is not "happily ever after".

This is "we survived. For now".

Two well-known hockey players are together now. Almost officially. Everything seems so calm. Even tender. And yet so damn frightening. Balanced on a razor’s edge… Ilya seems to be losing himself, constantly adjusting to me and to my needs. As if he’s afraid that without conflict he’ll simply stop being loved. And who am I, with him and without him? I’ve stopped understanding what I truly want, other than him. Happiness is turning fragile. We both feel it, but we’re afraid to say it out loud. Will we ever learn to be together without pain? And who are we without rivalry on the ice?

Are you even happy?

It’s the question I’m afraid to ask him. Afraid to ask myself. We chose each other freely. No one stands in our way now but us. To walk away would mean admitting that our happy ending was a mistake. And that is the cruelest form of romance: when love exists but it doesn’t heal, it only holds you in place.

***

In the morning, his apartment is bright, almost perfect after I cleaned it. We’re in the same bed. I look at Ilya as if I’m checking: is he really here, or is this only temporary? I close my eyes and drift back to sleep. I dream of ice. I’m chasing him, but he keeps slipping away… Where the puck is no longer matters. When I finally surface from the slick of sleep into the present, the bed is empty. It sobers me instantly. The last traces of the dream vanish at once. I’m in his apartment. He rented it as soon as he transferred to the new club. The season will start soon, and we won’t be able to see each other this often. Half a minute later, Ilya appears in the doorway, barefoot, sleepy. He went to put the kettle on. My hands, resting on his pillow, are trembling traitorously. “You didn’t wake me,” I try not to sound accusatory, but I can’t help it. “I just wanted a couple of minutes alone,” he says honestly, paying no mind to my anxiety. I stay silent, biting my lip, and head to the shower. He doesn’t follow me like he used to. We have breakfast almost in silence. I can’t stand the tension any longer. “Do you regret it?” “I’m getting used to it.” He smiles, but there’s worry in his eyes. “I’m not something you get used to.” “Exactly. That’s why I’m afraid.” “Afraid of what?” “The kettle’s been cold for a while. I want to go to practice today. Will you come with me?” He tries to change the subject, but I won’t let it go. “Be honest. Did you choose me… or did you just fail to let me go?” “Is there a difference?” he asks, eyes daring me. I always drown in that look. His boyish openness and audacity are mesmerizing and, damn it, terrifying. Every single time. Silence explodes between us. “I don’t want to be your addiction. I want to be your choice.” “You are my choice, Shane. Every day. Don’t start.” “Talking about it is normal.” “Not for me. Different mentality, you know.” “You can’t joke your way out of this.” “It used to work. Admit it. It used to be enough for you… all of it. So what changed? The truth is, you’re addicted too, aren’t you, Hollander? You’re addicted to me. To my attention… my dick…” “Stop. It’s like you’re afraid that without pain no one will love you.” “And could you love me any other way? Do you really think you know how?” Silence. Every word has been said, and none can be taken back. I snap to my feet. He was about to leave, but I grab him and turn him around. We stand face to face, breathing heavily. Rozanov takes a slow step toward me. Though really, how much closer can he get? I lean against the wall and let him go. “If we don’t learn to be together calmly now… we’ll destroy each other.” He smirks too honestly. “What if calm isn’t for us?” I reach for him. The kiss, neither gentle nor angry. Desperate. We cling to each other as if this is both salvation and the beginning of the end. He yields. The kettle is long forgotten. I take his hand and lead him to the bedroom. He lounges on the bed confident I’ll drop to my knees with just a half-glance. No asking needed. “When your mouth is busy with this instead of arguing with me, I like it much more.” I bare my teeth slightly, feigning displeasure, and Ilya reacts instantly, grabbing the short hairs at the back of my head. “No tantrums. Whose obedient little bitch are you?” “Yours,” I mumble around him. He pulls out his phone and turns on the camera. “I can’t hear you,” I love it when he’s insistent. “Look at me.” I obediently let him go and stare dazed into his lustful eyes. “Yours.” “Whose are you?” “Ilya Rozanov’s.” “That’s right. Just like that, good boy. Keep going,” he grabs my head and guides me toward himself. He angles the camera toward me again. It stirs conflicting feelings, but with Ilya it’s always like that. Embarrassment and desire hit me at the same time. Over time, shame started to turn me on. Rozanov leans back on the bed and tells me to undress. It’s not difficult. Apart from the stretched-out sweatpants, there’s nothing between us.

***

We walk down the street, hand in hand, laughing. Too perfect. “We look normal.” “Don’t scare me with words like that.” We step into a café. Ordinary. Noisy. Luckily, no one recognizes us. No one is watching. The waitress asks, “Are you together?” I pull my hand back. A short pause. Ilya nods at her. Too fast, too clumsy. If they recognize me—awkward. If they recognize both of us—too many explanations. But in this café, thankfully, there are no hockey fans. We can relax. “We need more days like this. Without all of it.” “Without what?” he shrugs. “Without… us as we were.” He tenses. “You want me to be convenient.” “I want you to be happy.” “I was happy when you fought me,” that smirk of his is always on the edge. “But in a couple of seasons, I’ll, so to speak, lead the team to unprecedented success. And then our match against each other will be just a matter of time.” “A couple of seasons won’t be enough. We’re in different leagues.” “And who’s to blame for that, huh? For whom did I settle for less?” he says. It’s with a smile, not reproach, but sometimes it feels like the ‘less’ is me, not the new team. The café goes on with its life, and we remain silent for a while longer.

***

Shane is making dinner. He’s been tense ever since we got back from the café. “Let’s eat and watch that video you filmed this morning.” “Why?” “I want to watch it. And then you delete it.” “Nope.” “What do you mean?” he chops vegetables too sharply. “It’s mine. I decide what to do with it and when.” “That’s not what we agreed on.” “We never agreed on anything. Why are you angry? Don’t you trust me?” “I’m trying.” It sounds worse than “yes.” I step closer. “Want some help?” “I’ve got it.” “Tell me, are you provoking me on purpose? Afraid that if I stay calm, you won’t want me anymore?” He stays silent. Is that an answer without words? “Then let’s be honest. I’m leaving today.” He spins around sharply. “Where?” “Somewhere I won’t be ‘fixed’.” “Svetlana’s in the US.” “What an idiot you are. And I’m an even bigger one if I go along with you.” My Canadian really did get scared. He falls for every one of my manipulations while never following through with his own. “You know I can’t let you go,” he says almost dramatically. “I know. And that’s exactly why you’ll do whatever I ask.” “You’re using me.” “And you’re using me every time you want me to be someone else.” “Don’t leave. I don’t want you to be anyone else. I need you as you are.” I slowly take off my jacket and lay it over the chair. “Then stop pretending that we’re normal.” He kisses me roughly. The knife slides off the countertop. This isn’t reconciliation. This is surrender. We both understand that dinner will have to wait. He nips at my chin, and I squeeze him until it aches in his ribs. My love is intense, and he endures it every time. I like testing his patience, seeing if he can’t do without me, proving that in this sparring he’s the weaker one, and that he likes it. “I’ll play on your ice. I am not needed for this video; you are with me. But I want you to know what is stale. What I believe in our deposits is that, and how you will work.” Shane puts a hickey on my neck, trying to mark me. Otherwise, I no longer want to make this pitiful attempt to dominate. I take his face in my hands. He freezes, intoxicated with passion. “Tell me.” “You are right, Ilya. You’re a smut now.” “Good boy. And now go to the bedroom.”