The Soundtrack of Our Feelings

I’ve gone insane, I need her. (June 2014. Las Vegas) “Goodbye, Hollander.” Ilya has to force the words out. His throat still tingles from the cigarette. He grabs a glass, pours vodka into it, and, letting out a hollow breath, downs it in one gulp. Why the hell are there no shot glasses in this ridiculously expensive Las Vegas suite? Now his throat — and his esophagus — are burning, but it’s better than feeling the hollow vortex in his chest that appeared when Hollander asked that question. Does he like Russia? No. He used to love the country. Not anymore. Too many painful memories. Too many people who hate him. Too many boundaries that limit him. And not just in his actions. In Russia, he’s literally forbidden to be himself. Too… Everything there is just too much. But he has to go. He’s obliged. For his father, for his niece, because it’s home. His mother’s grave is there, tended only by him in the rare moments he visits Moscow. The rest of the time, hired people take care of it. But what is this home? The building he grew up in? The people who were there while he was finding his footing? Where is home for Ilya? He feels so lost, so alone, that hot tears spring to his eyes. His body shivers in response. Ilya jumps out of bed, digs through a pile of his clothes to find his boxers, and, swaying slightly, puts them on. There are too many thoughts in his head for him to understand what he’s thinking. Snippets of phrases, memories, his past and present. Family, hockey, home, friends, his desire to escape Russia, the need to prove to himself that he is more than just a bag of money. And weaving through all this chaotic madness is a single leitmotif: his face, his voice, his touch, his moans. He’s everywhere — in his mind, on the ice, on the phone, at events, on TV. Shane Hollander is like an obsessive idea, a voice in Ilya’s head. Maybe it’s not just depression that can be inherited? Perhaps someone in his family suffered from schizophrenia, and that’s why Shane’s voice is so clear in his head? Las Vegas sparkles with lights, living its best life, while Ilya stands alone in the spacious room, staring at the city through the panoramic windows. He doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him. Why he feels so rotten. He needs to forget, to block it out, to let go, to throw these thoughts away. So he shuffles toward another shot of vodka. Yes, he has to wake up early tomorrow. Yes, he’ll regret it when he wakes up with a hangover. But he needs to purge this heap of thoughts from his head. The bottle clinks against the glass as Ilya pours half of it. Never mind that it makes drinking harder — nobody drinks vodka this way anyway. Not now. “So I’m off.” Hollander’s fragile, broken voice sounds too loud. Ilya flinches and spins toward the door — but it’s empty. Of course it’s empty; he was the one to hint at leaving. But here’s the paradox: Hollander may physically leave Ilya’s room, but he can’t be expelled from his mind. Trying to focus on something, anything, he finds his phone in the pocket of the pants he’d thrown on the floor, opens Spotify, taps the first song in the playlist, tosses the phone onto the bed, and collapses after it. Vodka sloshes in the glass; a few drops land on his hand. Ilya watches, almost mesmerized, as the soft light streaming through the windows reflects in those drops. Six years. Almost six years since they met, since he first heard his voice. Almost six years since their first handshake, since Ilya’s sharp remark to Hollander. Almost six years since that damn Shane Hollander kicked in the door of Ilya’s thoughts and settled there, as if he’d bought the space for himself. Ilya has long accepted that he’s obsessed with this hockey player. He lies skillfully to Hollander’s face, insisting it’s only sex and nothing more, but when alone, he admits to himself that he’s lost in him. I’ve gone insane. I need her. Ilya frowns as the lines of the old Russian song echo from the phone speakers. He doesn’t even remember when he added it to his playlist, but now it mirrors his feelings so perfectly that it scares him. Has he gone insane too? How many times has he tried to stay away from Hollander? How many times has he told himself it was the last meeting, the last teasing remark, the last message? And every time he falls apart, because Hollander — no, Shane — has somehow become his anchor. With him, Ilya doesn’t feel constant pressure; he doesn’t have to overthink what to say and what to leave unsaid; he feels whole. As if Shane understands him and, simply by being near, shares the burden Ilya carries through his entire life. That damn Hollander has long become his first thought in the morning and the last at night. Ilya honestly tries to stop himself. He’s no fool — he knows their fling will end someday — but what will remain when Shane leaves for good? When he blocks and deletes the chat with “Lily,” not just to cover tracks, but to close the chapter? Ilya has never felt such a flood of emotions before. So intense that he lacks the strength to surface for a single breath. Because he wants — he physically needs — Hollander to reach out and pull him from the abyss. But to do that, he has to accept that he’s gay. Ilya is certain girls aren’t for Hollander. It’s all too obvious, no matter how much Mr. Too-Much-Sex denies it. I’ve gone insane. I need her. He’s going insane too. He needs him just as painfully. A man who will never agree to a serious relationship with another man. And not just any man — a hockey player, his main rival. Would it have been different if the media hadn’t blown up the story of their rivalry? Ilya can already feel the thought creeping into his subconscious, so he shakes his head. No point thinking about it now — it changes nothing. They are rivals. Hollander is convinced nothing serious can happen with Rozanov, while Ilya sits on a firm mattress with an empty glass, listening to a song that turns him inside out, drenches everything in alcohol, sets it ablaze, and leaves it in complete chaos. Inside Ilya, everything smolders. With feelings he can’t even name. He would say it’s love, but does he even know what love is? He knows he loved his mother — but she’s gone, so that “bright feeling” is permanently stained with the rot of loss; he knows he is loved by his fans; he loves Sveta, his best friend. But beyond that… he doesn’t know love. The feeling little Ilya had for his father and brother remains in the past, now covered by a thick layer of hatred. But what he feels for Shane — wanting to always be near him, the need to text and tease “Jane,” to look for him at events and matches — is that love? The desire to live not just to prove something to everyone, but to be with him. Is this love? Is this what the song is about? The song quiets gradually, four words repeating several times, then the next track starts. Ilya no longer hears it. His ears feel muffled. His hands grow heavy, as do his legs. Vodka finally reaches his body. Ilya drops his head, lets out a spasmodic sigh, then curls up on the bed. His gaze catches a bright spot on the black sheets. Shane Hollander’s cum. Yes, because just twenty minutes ago, Ilya had been with him. An hour ago — inside him. But Ilya is far too skilled at ruining everything good he has. And so he destroyed the magic that had filled the enormous suite when Hollander was next to him in bed. He fumbles for his phone, plays t.A.T.u. again, loops the song, and closes his eyes. Images of Shane flash behind his eyelids. Shane, not Hollander. Because Hollander exists publicly, on the ice, socially. In Ilya’s mind, he has long been Shane. He mouths the words of the song silently, and finally, his thoughts settle a little. Already half-asleep, Ilya admits to himself that maybe he hasn’t gone insane. He’s simply fallen in love. *** I wanted to forget, all the way down / I can try to pretend, I can try to forget (January 2017. Montreal) Victor, Cliff, and Carmichael disappear from his sight as soon as they enter the club. More precisely, Ilya immediately rushes to the bar to order himself a shot of vodka. Here, it’s called a “shot,” but what the hell difference does it make? There’s vodka, and there’s a container holding it. That’s what matters. The back of his head tingles with some strange sensation, his stomach rebels as alcohol hits it, but Ilya ignores it, scanning the dark room. Something is supposed to happen. He’s been in this state once before. That day, when he found his mother dead. And now he’s trying to suppress it because the last month has already been too heavy. He won’t survive more. As a cruel joke of fate, a t.A.T.u. song starts playing — but in English. Ilya hears familiar melodies, but the lyrics are different. Not like the Russian version. Ilya had always thought that the second version differs from the original. Because in his perception, it’s not about maddening love, but forbidden love. The kind you cannot show. The one that will be judged. He smirks bitterly, noting how this song — in any language — reflects what was happening between him and Hollander. Happened. Yes, in the past tense. Because Hollander ran away. To Rose Landry. His gaze catches a guy who seems to be trying to flirt with him. Ilya can’t even make out the features of his face because a sharp, annoying squeal suddenly appears in his ears, and his heart races while blood rushes to his cheeks. He spins around sharply, not even knowing what exactly he’s looking for. Who. Not noticing Rose Landry is impossible. Missing Shane Hollander is simply unthinkable. Ilya tenses, seeing strong hands on a bare waist. The hands that once held him at the waist while he fucked him and kissed him. Now those hands are on another — a female — body, and the lips are not kissing him. Ilya’s stomach twists. And it’s not from vodka on an empty stomach. When Rose Landry slides her fingers under Shane’s shirt, literally exposing him in the middle of the dance floor, Ilya grips the bar, phantom-feeling Hollander’s touch on his body. He feels nauseous, it hurts, he falls apart into millions of tiny fragments before the eyes of the crowd around him. He never thought it could hurt this much. And he wishes some girl, vodka, a cigarette, hockey — anything! — could ease his state. But Ilya knows that the only one who could put him back together now isn’t even noticing him, enjoying dancing with Rose Landry. He’s never wanted more to not be Ilya Rozanov. Yes, as a child and teenager, he dreamed of being someone else; someone whose mother didn’t die, whose brother wasn’t a complete idiot, and whose father wasn’t a controlling asshole. But now he wants with a shivering in his knees to become someone else. So that Hollander could be with him, so it wouldn’t hurt this damn much. But he cannot deny to himself that they look good together. Next to her, Shane looks right. That’s how it’s supposed to be. The acknowledgment doesn’t cancel the fact that Ilya is selfish when it comes to one particular hockey player, so he has to check. Prove — to himself or to him — that it was real between them, that he didn’t imagine it. He wants to see Hollander’s jealousy, which would speak louder and truer. Or not… * Shane hates clubs. Too loud, but something inside him is even louder. The dim light prevents him from gauging the glances people throw at them with Rose, and the strobe flashes hit his eyes even harder. People around laugh, move to the music, drink, touch each other too casually. As if in this world, everything is simple and clear. But it’s not. “I love this song!” Rose shouts. Shane smiles, because he has to. Because he knows how to be proper, knows how to appear interested. And he’s perfectly good at playing the role of someone he seemingly isn’t: on the ice and off it. He hasn’t heard this song before, but now it feels like a message from above, because by focusing on the words, he can stop concentrating on thoughts, stop pretending he’s fine. Because he’s not fine at all, he’s confused. His girl is dancing in front of him, and she’s perfect in every way: beautiful, interesting, self-sufficient, shows interest in Shane. She’s the right choice. So what’s wrong with him? Why do her touches feel so foreign and wrong? He misses the moment when Rose manages to slide her hands under Shane’s shirt and presses against him in a kiss. Shane feels her warm fingers, feels the plump — not his — lips, but nothing ignites inside. Not the disgust he usually feels thinking romantically about a girl, but even worse. Because he feels emptiness. As if his body is here on the dance floor, and he’s watching from outside, not knowing how to get back into his shell. And it’s not about Rose, it’s about himself. He wanted this, really wanted it. To be normal, like everyone else, like the crowd around, whose life is simple. He wanted a relationship that wouldn’t hinge on his career. He ran from Ilya — no, Rozanov — exactly for that reason. Because that day, when he came with his name — not his surname — on the exhale, it scared him. It was so natural, without the usual mocking tone, without a game. A completely bare “Shane.” And that was enough. Actually, it was even too much. Because the name made everything too real. Made them personalities, not just two people who occasionally fuck. At that moment, Shane felt the ground collapse under him, though it made no sense, because he was kneeling on Ily… Rozanov. It was akin to flying on skates for a puck at full speed, but tripping on a crack in the uneven ice and then smashing your helmet into the boards. That’s roughly how it felt at that moment. And he wasn’t afraid of Rozanov. What terrified him was how he said it. He said his name with warmth, with tenderness, with feelings. And feelings contradict what they agreed upon. If there are feelings, then something is indeed wrong, it’s not an exception or an experiment, it’s not just stress relief. It’s something more. And if he usually convinced himself that a fling with Rozanov doesn’t count, adding feelings to the equation changes everything. I can try to pretend. I can try to forget. Shane is still listening to the song, so these words, their meaning and irony, reach him instantly. He wants to laugh. Until hoarse, until coughing. Because it’s ridiculous. Because it’s true. Because that’s what he’s doing now. He sincerely wants to forget what happened to him — to them — over eight years. Okay, it didn’t start at their first meeting, but that was the butterfly’s wingbeat. He approached Rozanov, not the other way around. And yes, he tries to pretend he’s normal, stubbornly proving to himself that what happened was nothing more than a mistake or a small weakness. A small experiment. It’s not about him, he’s not like that. He’s just confused. He doesn’t want — can’t — be with Rozanov. Can’t feel anything for him besides rivalry and fighting for dominance in everything. He can be the person he’s supposed to be in others’ eyes. There he is, Shane Hollander, dancing in the club with a popular actress — his girlfriend! — holding her at the waist, even kissing her. He can be seen with her in public, she can sit at his games in a #24 jersey, he can introduce her to his parents. But it all doesn’t work, because his body, like his mind, wants another person. The person who’s currently kissing some girl… Shane doesn’t notice him immediately — just scans the crowd mindlessly — when he spots familiar curls. They’re quite close, a few strands slightly damp from the stuffy air. When he focuses completely on the familiar figure, he sees the whole scene. The first feeling that sparks inside, oddly enough, is relief. A spiteful little voice in his head whispers: see, he’s with someone else now, so nothing special ever happened between you. It was nothing at all. But that lasts no more than a second, because then he’s sucked into a whirlpool of pain. Why does it hurt so much? He watches Rozanov pull the girl to him by the hips: they stand semi-sideways, so Shane can clearly see how her lower stomach presses against him, how Ilya slides his tongue into her mouth. And he’s pierced with sharp, burning, teeth-gritting, humiliating jealousy. This is not the kind of jealousy you feel for someone you just fucked. This is the jealousy you feel when someone encroaches on what you consider yours, even though you have no right. He focuses on Rose, who’s babbling, clearly not noticing Shane isn’t with her, leans slightly, and he fiercely presses his lips to hers. But his eyes — beyond his will — find Rozanov. He looks. And in his gaze is the same thing Shane feels. Everything should be right: the floral scent, soft lips, slender fingers on shoulders and neck. Safe. Won’t ruin his career or make him weak. So why does it all feel wrong?! Everything is logical. He can’t be with Rozanov, because he’s his main rival. They’ve competed for years and partly make money from it. He has a reputation, an image. In hockey, there are no precedents for openly gay players. And Shane himself can’t admit to being non-hetero, and even thinking of becoming first terrifies him. But the main problem isn’t even that. It’s not just “I can’t date a man.” It’s a concrete “I can’t be with him.” Because if he allows it, he becomes vulnerable. And vulnerability in their world equals defeat. He’s doing everything right. Left, cut ties with Rozanov, started dating a girl, now builds the image others expect. Yet his traitorous body and mind remember that drawn-out “Shane.” And the scariest part of it all is that he misses it. Not the sex, but the fact that with Rozanov he didn’t have to pretend. He could be awkward, clumsy, boring, but wasn’t judged. Rozanov didn’t expect him to be the same off-ice as on it. With Rozanov, Hollander was just Shane. Even more real than with his own parents. Now he plays the proper Hollander role every second. Rose deepens the kiss — Shane moves automatically. Responds without breaking his gaze from Rozanov, imagining he’s kissing him. And suddenly, with painful clarity, he realizes it’s not about orientation. Not about being straight or gay. It’s that his body and heart have already made a choice. Only his mind and logic are still fighting. And it’s unclear who will take the top spot on the pedestal. “I’ll step away for a minute, it’s too stuffy here,” he says loudly into Rose’s ear. She nods and turns to Miles, who apparently has been next to them the whole time. He needs a break because he’s suffocating from the realization that just hit him. Pretending doesn’t save him, it hurts, it strangles, but he can’t risk it yet. Sorry, Ilya, but I can’t. Not yet. Maybe someday. As if echoing his thoughts, a line of the song surfaces in his mind: This is not enough. Yes, it’s not enough. One epiphany isn’t enough. Ilya isn’t enough. And the war inside him still rages. He pushes through the crowd, desperate to get outside. * Ilya wants to scream, but instead grabs the girl’s hips and demonstratively kisses her. He wants to distance himself, erase the taste of lipstick with something strong, but notices Shane sees him. And it shuts off all his brakes. I can try to pretend. I can try to forget. The familiar beat, the melody coursing into his veins, but in another language. English. People sing along, surprisingly many know it. Someone laughs on his left, someone awkwardly brushes past behind him as they squeeze toward the exit. Ilya doesn’t hear the English words. Instead, his mind supplies another line: I wanted to forget, all the way down He feels with his whole being how that “down” breaks his ribs, because he tried too. Kept himself together, gave them time, tried not to analyze every touch and phrase between them. Ilya admitted it long ago. He accepted that Shane is not just sex. And that’s why it hurts so much. All his actions are for show. A silent scream: pay attention to me! He knows he’s acting foolishly, but can’t help it. Ilya doesn’t give a damn about this girl, he doesn’t want her. But he needs to see it: Shane’s reaction. He feels his gaze because he honed this skill for years. Just like he learned to find him in a crowd. Their eyes meet, and there it is. Ilya catches it: tension, a flash of something dark in the brown eyes, a clenched jaw. Yes, he’s not the only one drowning in what they’ve done. And that’s good, because it means it wasn’t for nothing. Shane feels it too. Relief quickly turns into disappointment. He’s about to push the girl away — whose name he doesn’t even know — when Shane grips Rose Landry’s waist tighter and kisses her. Fuck! That’s more than enough to understand: Shane is still afraid, still running from himself, and will keep pretending. Ilya knows what he saw in his gaze. Only, as it turns out, it means nothing. He deepens the kiss not out of anger, not to make Shane jealous. No, it’s stubbornness, rivalry, boiling in the blood, fueling all emotions to make them sharper. Fine, if Hollander decided to pretend nothing happened, Ilya won’t interfere. Yet a heaviness settles inside. He foresaw this: Hollander with a girl. He knew fear of losing his career would matter more than destroying what was between them. Ilya is tired of waiting for Hollander to catch up in honesty with himself. Fed up hoping he’ll overcome his fear. Loving doesn’t always mean holding on until the end. Sometimes it’s about letting go. “Fuck this,” he growls in Russian, stepping away from the girl. She babbles something about the guy she came with, but he doesn’t care. Ilya accepts Hollander’s choice, even if it means he’ll go mad alone. Only back in his hotel room, Ilya growls out of helplessness. “Why?” he asks the emptiness. He doesn’t even turn on the light. Runs his hand along the rough wall, trying to reach the bed. His legs give out as soon as his fingers touch the protruding corner where the mini-hallway ends and the room begins. Ilya doesn’t know how much time passes while he kneels and laughs at the fact that the same words from the song endlessly repeat in his head. *** Daddy lookin' at me / Mom, Dad, forgive me (March 2017, Moscow) No matter how cold Canada is, it could never compare to springtime in Moscow. In Boston, Ilya already strolls around in a light jacket, but now he trudges down a half-empty street toward a 24-hour café in a winter down coat, cursing himself for not wearing a hat and forgetting his gloves. He’s been freezing since he stepped off the plane. The first gust of wind hit him standing on the stairs, and it hasn’t let up since. He just confessed to Shane that he loves him. And, damn, he even feels a little lighter. Yes, for a moment there was fear — what if Hollander recorded the conversation? — but he managed to let that go. Only, relief washed over him in a warm wave, then slipped away, leaving another wreck in its place. The noise of the street, the shouts of teenagers playing hockey in the yard, the squeak of snow underfoot — it’s all background noise. His moment of weakness in front of Shane leaves a bitter aftertaste. While he spoke, his heart raced, and the words poured out naturally. He couldn’t make himself stop, because he didn’t want to. He needed to say it all — there was no strength left to hold back. And then… Then he broke when he heard the steady breathing on the other end of the line. He imagined what Shane would look like if he were there, and… he lost it, blurting out that he loves him. For the first time, he said aloud what he had long admitted in his thoughts. And on the other side wasn’t a person, but the icy screen of a phone. A car passes by, playing an English-Russian t.A.T.u. remix. Ilya laughs, tilting his head back. Steam escapes in clouds as he finally exhales, his lungs burning in the frosty air. Of course. Someone above is clearly mocking him, because lately this song keeps following him everywhere. Daddy lookin’ at me… Mom, Dad, forgive me. What irony, what mockery. Ilya stops and listens to the melody, which fades as the car drives away. The words hit harder than he expected. And it’s not really about his father — it’s about him. About Ilya. He tried so hard. All his life he tried to live up to his father’s expectations. Tried to jump higher than he could to earn approval; to be first at everything just to catch even a shadow of pride in that steely gaze. But it was never enough. He paid, controlled, gave all of himself. And still, never enough. All his actions never saved him from feeling like a bad son. He was never enough. Always that damned “not” at the beginning. He tilts his head back, but no longer in a fit of hysterical laughter. Up there, there are no stars, no moon. The sky isn’t ink-black because of the city lights, but it all feels even more wrong. “Forgive me, Father,” he whispers quietly, sincerely. For not being enough, for not meeting expectations, for not doing more, for not being there at the last moment. The apology drowns in the absence of an answer. Ilya stands, eyes closed. Because right now, he makes a decision — fully, without reservation. One that would have infuriated his father. He will no longer come for holidays, nor for any errands, nor out of obligation. He will not return to Russia. He renounces the pathetic semblance of family left in Moscow. His brother. His father’s grave. He will not return because he has no strength left. Ilya is tired. He can no longer — and no longer wants to — be good for everyone. So many years he tried, and it was all meaningless. Not a single “thank you,” not a single kind word. Only mockery, ridicule, cutting remarks. Enough. He chooses to love himself. And here, they do not love him. They expect him to… But expect what, and from whom? Unfortunately, he will never know. And with this realization comes another, colder than frost: his parents are gone. He is an orphan. His brother is now an empty space, mutually so. His homeland is no longer his home. He is alone. Ilya sobs as a freckled face appears in his mind. Almost alone. There is a person for whom it’s worth fighting, for whom all of this makes sense. But if that person does not accept him, does not choose him, then truly there will be no one left. And Ilya will fully sink into the mire, surviving day to day for hockey. For another duty: to the team, because they chose him; to the fans, because they support him. And that’s all. He has made his choice. The turn is still Shane’s. “Forgive me, Mom,” Ilya whispers, this time completely sincerely. Without inner struggle, resistance, or clenched jaw. Forgive me for no longer coming. Forgive me for never managing to fix things with Dad and my brother. Forgive me for not being able to save you. Forgive me for leaving without looking back. For a fraction of a second, it seems to him that a star winks in the sky. He knows he has been heard. Gathering himself, he looks around, spotting the café he needs, and walks toward the crosswalk, feeling not only the pain for the first time but a phantom glimmer of freedom awaiting him. He will manage. And Mom will understand. Dad wouldn’t, but that no longer matters. Not anymore. *** Nobody else, so we can be free (April 2017, Montreal) The hospital room is too bright, too quiet, painfully glaring, even with the curtains partially drawn. Shane lies on his back, feeling the world tilt occasionally, as if someone is rocking the bed left and right. The pain in his collarbone doesn’t cut as sharply as it did at the moment of impact, but it’s still there — dull, dense, constant — a reminder that his body isn’t iron and can break. His collarbone is secured, yet his body feels utterly foreign. Too heavy, immobile, restricted. He’s used to feeling fast, precise, in control of every movement. Now, he can’t even control whether he’s asleep or awake. He saw his parents last night; Hayden came with them, but he passed out before they left the room. All night he woke up only to drift back into sleep. The concussion adds a strange lightness to his mind: thoughts flow slowly, yet for the first time in a long while, they feel crystal clear, free of fear and noise. Though maybe it’s not his brain’s doing, but the drugs they gave him. He remembers the warm-up, Ilya’s gaze — something was off. Their short conversation, the start of the game. At that moment, he was sure they’d meet afterward, as they usually did. Then came the collision, and everything broke apart. But Shane vaguely remembers asking the doctors to tell him everything was fine. Not the coach, not his parents — Ilya. That moment, a second before the hit, when he saw the ice and the puck, heard the roar of the crowd, Shane knew he had plans that evening. Not “their” plans. He always framed it that way. His territory. His space. His initiative. And beyond the plans he had with Ilya, he also had plans for Ilya. Shane isn’t angry at the injury, not at Marlow. He’ll never admit it to anyone, but he isn’t even angry that he’s out of the playoffs this season. He’s angry at the interrupted expectation. That the evening he had been looking forward to dissolved in the clash of a heavy body and the crunch of his own fall, leaving him staring at the hospital ceiling instead of Ilya’s face all night. He’s angry it happened exactly when he had decided he would invite Ilya to the cottage. Shane closes his eyes because it’s too bright. The world doesn’t disappear; he still sees the room, but it softens. And in that softness, something foreign surfaces. Not exactly a thought, more like a memory. Back when a completely different light hit his eyes. The club. Wanna fly to a place where it’s just you and me Nobody else, so we can be free The lines appear suddenly, as if someone whispered them in his ear. He hears no music, no “voice,” only the pure phrase. After that night, Shane added the song to his playlist, listening over and over. Not so much because he liked it — though he did, because he found himself in it — but because it was inextricably tied to memory, to association. To Ilya. He breathes slowly, amazed at how selectively the brain throws random moments at him. Why this one? Why now? Shane knows the answer: because he doesn’t want to escape for the sake of secrecy. He doesn’t want to hide for the thrill of the forbidden. He doesn’t want another night where they meet and then part until next time. He doesn’t want to pretend it’s just a convenient habit. He doesn’t want meetings in a rented space, just to avoid being at home. He wants to try something he’s never allowed himself before. To be with Ilya where there’s no one else. Not because they need to hide, but because no one will get in the way. The cottage has always been his sanctuary. He spends every offseason there since he bought it. Away from cameras, the city, the team. Away from expectations. There, he can truly rest, recharge, meditate. No masks, no roles. All this time, he’s gone alone. Yes, his parents have visited, once even Hayden, but rarely. Mostly, he’s been alone — and it suited him. He’s never invited — never even thought to invite — Ilya. To invite him would mean letting him in. And that’s no longer just sex; that’s something serious. Shane opens his eyes. The room rocks slightly, but he holds steady. His thoughts flow calmly, without panic, without drama. He understands simply, and accepts simply: if this were only about physical attraction, he’d now be thinking about recovery. About regaining form and catching up. But instead, he’s thinking not about the game, but whether Ilya will come, whether he was scared at the moment of the collision. This feeling — that someone might care for him — doesn’t annoy or embarrass him. It calms him. Nobody else, so we can be free Shane smiles quietly to himself. That his brain feeds him this song only confirms the correctness of his choice. His decision. He won’t hide from reality, because he understands who they are in the public eye, what their situation, careers, and countries mean. But he wants to try being with Ilya where there’s no pressure. To wake up next to him not to leave, but to spend time together. Without hiding, without looking back, without counting the days until the next flight or calculating the next chance to meet. At least for a week. Maybe two. And the thought doesn’t feel insane. It doesn’t feel like a whim or impulse of a heavily medicated man. It’s calm, logical. Shane is pragmatic. If he needs to test whether something works, he tests it. And two weeks isn’t “forever.” It’s not a promise or a statement. It’s an opportunity. At the cottage, no one will see them, because no one is there. No neighbors in sight, no passersby, no prying journalists. Only the cottage, the forest, the lake, and silence. Well, sometimes loons, but he’ll warn Ilya if he remembers. They’ll be completely free there: from expectations, labels, prejudices. And most importantly, from their own fears. Shane remembers Ilya’s reasons why they couldn’t. He heard him. About Mom, Dad, reputation. And he understood then that Ilya had built a wall while exposing his soul, so Shane didn’t argue — he just accepted, because he didn’t even know what he wanted himself. But now he knows. And he won’t demand a decision from Ilya immediately. No ultimatums. He’ll just ask. Pose the question, because it’s simple. Probably, if Ilya doesn’t come to the hospital, Shane will text. Better, he’ll call, since typing with his left hand will be slow for a while. If Ilya enters the room, Shane won’t demand or pressure. He’ll offer and see if Ilya agrees to step into a space where there’s no one else. Then they’ll figure it out. And for now, that’s enough. *** Without you, I’m not me; without you, I don’t exist (December 2019, Ottawa) He doesn’t hear the door close behind Shane, because it’s not his style to slam it shut when leaving. He probably closed it carefully — and that makes it worse. Ilya stands for a few seconds outside their bedroom, staring at the dark wood of the door. A tiny part of him hopes Shane will come back, even though he’s just — again — driven him away. That he’ll say he understands, suddenly realizing how selfish he’s been, that it was all just poorly chosen words, and they can rewind it all. But no footsteps on the stairs. The silence slowly grows heavy and sticky. Would you have chosen me? Idiot. Why hadn’t Shane noticed? Why did Ilya constantly brush it off when Shane tried? He doesn’t feel so much anger now as exhaustion, as if the argument has burned him out from the inside. Not because they shouted — their relationship is built on bickering. Not because harsh words were exchanged — they are masters of verbal dueling. But because he finally said what he’d been holding inside for months. He didn’t threaten, manipulate, or demand. Ilya simply stated the fact: he had already chosen Shane. It turns out that wasn’t enough. Only when he finally enters the bedroom does he hear a sound. Ilya doesn’t immediately realize where it’s coming from, but then he remembers — they had left a playlist of Russian songs on YouTube and forgotten to turn it off. The TV is quietly on, the screen flickering with light. He’s about to reach for the remote out of habit, but freezes when he hears a familiar melody. Without you, I’m not me; without you, I don’t exist. He stands frozen by the nightstand, unable to move. The words aren’t loud or dramatic, yet they cut through the silence and land exactly where it hurts. Ilya looks at the screen but doesn’t see the video; he just feels a strange, unpleasant understanding rising inside. At first, their plans sounded simple, beautiful, romantic — like a promise of complete, unconditional love. Now, it sounds like a verdict. He moved for Shane. Didn’t stay on a team where he won the Stanley Cup; didn’t transfer to a promising team where crowds would chant his name; didn’t choose a city where his career could continue effortlessly. He chose a place that had never been his dream. A team that had lingered at the bottom of the standings for years, never reaching the playoffs. A life two hours away from someone who still hesitates to appear with him at a party, even though everyone knows they are friends. He let the world see them as just friends, smiled at events, kept distance in public, pretended it was normal to be near and yet not. He focused his life around Shane, while Shane built his own world in whatever way suited him. He followed Galina’s advice — and what did it bring? Only worse. Though she was right when she said that over time Shane could stay on one side with friends and family, while he remained alone on the other. And that’s already happening. Ilya doesn’t exist without Shane. He suddenly realizes how terrifying that sounds. He’s been molding his life around “us” for so long that he almost stopped asking what he wanted himself. And he had been waiting all this time for Shane to catch up in honesty, to finally make a step not in words or promises of the future, but in reality. He waited for effort to stop being one-sided. But just now, he saw not Shane’s fear, but his limit. The limit Shane isn’t ready to cross — and the one Ilya already has. The song continues to play, and there’s nothing remarkable about it except that it aligns too perfectly with this moment. Irritation rises — not at the song, but at himself. For letting these words become part of his truth. He doesn’t want to disappear for love, to make his choice the sole pillar holding up their relationship. Ilya is tired of being the one who explains, smooths corners, endures, and waits. Tired of fighting, tiring, and hoping for two. He grabs the remote and turns off the TV. The screen goes dark, and the room deepens into shadows. Silence returns to its place like a loyal dog, now pure, without background music. He sits on the edge of the bed and lowers his head, hands locked behind his neck. Inside, there’s no hysteria, no urge to run after Shane or text him. Only a heavy, calm clarity. He’s made his choice. And if Shane wants to be near, he’ll have to take the step himself. Not out of fear of losing him or stubbornness, not in response, but because he’s genuinely ready. Because Ilya can’t keep explaining what he has done for their relationship. And if Hollander never realizes it… well, then so be it. Ilya takes a deep breath. The pain hasn’t gone, but along with it comes a strange sense of stability. He won’t apologize for the truth or call it a flare of anger. He’ll apologize for losing himself and presenting it all this way — and no more. He doesn’t want to dissolve into Shane. He wants to be with him. And in this silence, where the song of two teenage girls no longer plays, Ilya allows himself to stop fighting. Not today, not now. *** +1. All The Things He Said: I’ve gone insane (August 2022, cottage) Shane holds Ilya tighter and buries his nose in his curls, inhaling the familiar scent. On the cot beside the bed, Anya sleeps, while they linger in the bed after a whole day of doing nothing in the cottage. At first, Ilya’s phone vibrates on the nightstand. One, two, three… ten times. Then Shane’s phone starts making sounds as well. Ilya lifts his head slightly, bewildered, and looks at his husband, who’s equally confused. Shane grabs his phone and exhales heavily: — Fans are tagging us again, — he tilts the screen so Ilya can see the flood of notifications. — This feels like a DDoS attack. — Or just a normal day for fans who love us, — Ilya counters, taking the phone to see what triggered the spike. — Oh, look. Shane gets comfortable, focusing on the screen. There’s a beautifully edited video: their first public appearance after coming out, a press conference where Shane effortlessly says “my husband,” a moment from a past All-Star Game where they laugh, helmets pressed together. Over the footage — All the Things She Said. — Damn, — Shane exhales. It’s a beautiful video that sends shivers across his skin. He listens to the chorus and smiles faintly, but there’s a thoughtful weight to it. — Remember that night in the club? Ilya immediately knows which night he means. That night, when Shane — still not fully out — danced with Rose. And not just danced, but Ilya refuses to spoil the moment with that memory. — Yeah, I remember, — he replies calmly, locking his phone and settling his face against Shane’s stomach. — That night, I realized I’m gay. And that what was happening between us wasn’t just… an experiment? Not a fling or whatever, — Shane smirks slightly. — And when that song played, I saw you with that girl, dancing with Rose, but I was already thinking that somewhere deep inside, I’d chosen you, even if my brain resisted, — he fixes his gaze on Ilya, on his deep breathing. — And later, I listened again. I thought it was about us, you know? About everyone watching, about it being “wrong.” Forbidden. Everyone against us. And I still only wanted you. Ilya is silent for a long moment. He exhales deeply, as if to speak, then looks away, scrolling through memories. He rubs his nose, runs his hand through his hair, then sits cross-legged. Shane mirrors him, pausing when a loon calls in the distance. — For me, it was never about “forbidden,” — Ilya finally says quietly, and Shane frowns. — What do you mean? — You know the English version is an adaptation, right? — Ilya says, fingers fidgeting. Speaking isn’t uncomfortable, but the song has always carried heavy meaning for him. — Wait… seriously? I didn’t know that, — Shane looks genuinely surprised. — Yeah, the original is Russian. It’s called "Ya soshla s ooma" — he says the title in his native language, then explains the translation to Shane. — And? — The English version focuses on an external conflict, outside pressures. All that “Daddy look at me,” “It’s my fault,” — it’s about pressure, fear of judgment. — That’s what I heard back then, — Shane whispers. — I felt like we were against everyone. — The Russian version… — Ilya hesitates, searching for words, — it’s harsher. It’s not about judgment. It’s about someone who’s lost themselves. Without their loved one, they are nothing, an empty shell. — So it’s like… — Exactly. Ilya doesn’t need the question to be fully asked to understand. Shane was about to ask if he saw himself in the song. His husband freezes, too obvious as he scrolls through their entire history in his mind. — And that night, in the club? — Shane asks gently as Ilya places his hands over Shane’s, which tense on his knees. — Well, I barely understood the English then. Only “I wanted to forget, all the way down,” because that was how it was. That moment was — he shakes his head — hard. Before and after the club, there were other times when this song showed up at exactly the right — or wrong — moment. — And what did it mean to you? — That I’m too deeply in you. That if you leave, I don’t just get upset. I fall apart, disappear. And that scared me more than judgment ever could. — I was afraid of that too. That someone would find out, see us, — Shane lowers his head, still running through the dynamics of their relationship. — I was afraid you’d disappear, — Ilya says softly. He wants to end the conversation before upsetting Shane further, but knows he won’t allow it, so he continues. — For me, the song was never about forbidden love, but dependency. That I couldn’t separate myself from you, — he gives a rueful smile. — It wasn’t romantic. It was anxiety. — And all this time I selfishly thought we just had to endure the pressure and not break, to make it work. I… — he lifts his gaze. — I didn’t even understand what you were feeling. — Because I didn’t say, — Ilya answers calmly, placing a finger under Shane’s chin, leaning in to kiss him lightly, easing the anxiety. — Even then, I didn’t fully realize it. My love was just too… boundless. That night, I loved someone as deeply as I’ve never loved anyone. — You really felt that without me, you wouldn’t exist? — There was a moment when yes, — Ilya keeps his eyes on him, stating fact, not blame. — Fuck, — Shane exhales slowly, tears forming in his eyes. — Hey, listen to me, — Ilya says, a bit sternly. — It’s okay now. We’ve gone through everything. I still love you, but I remain myself without you. Therapy, conversations, your love — none of it is wasted, — he smiles and leans in for another kiss. And another. Minutes pass. They kiss, touch, grounding themselves, feeling that they’re here, together, and it’s okay. Shane pulls away first, grabbing his phone and offering it to Ilya. — Play the Russian one, — he says as Ilya returns to the position they had before the conversation. This time, he wraps himself around Shane, who nestles on his chest. Ilya finds the original and quietly plays it. The Russian version hits differently — rawer, denser, almost hysterical. Shane doesn’t catch every word, only a few, but the tension pulses through his veins. — Translate it? Ilya translates. Every word, every line. Shane feels his heart beating faster under his cheek, listening intently, memorizing. — So it’s not “us against the world,” but “me against myself,” right? — he asks when the song ends. — Yep. — And now? You still hear it that way? — Not now. For me, the song is a reminder of who I don’t want to be. I don’t want to dissolve into you. I want to be with you. Not instead of myself, but alongside myself. You and I — as individuals, as people, as a couple. Shane smiles, closing his eyes. — Will you help me learn it? — The Russian lyrics? — Ilya’s voice jumps with surprise. — Yeah. I want to understand every word. Not the version I hid behind in the club, but the one you heard. — Okay, — Ilya says after a few seconds, hugging him tighter. A year later, when Shane plays his third season with the Centaurs, All The Things She Said somehow becomes the team’s anthem. They play it in the locker room before and after games, sometimes in practice. And every time more than twenty grown men howl the chorus, Shane and Ilya shout the words in Russian together. Because Shane learned it for him. Because now he hears the song in both languages too.