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Because life was super fucking weird sometimes, Luca Haas was sitting on the floor of Ilya Rozanov’s house, drunk off his ass and desperately trying not to let it show.
Luckily, he wasn’t the only one. Shane Hollander – the Shane Hollander, three-time Stanley Cup winner and Rookie of the Year and Prince of Hockey in general – was currently plastered, perched happily on Ilya’s lap. Shane might have been even more wasted than Luca was right now. Which was really saying something.
Not for the first time, Luca wondered, How the fuck did I end up here?
“My turn,” Wyatt announced cheerfully. He looked at Shane pointedly. “Never have I ever dated Rose Landry.”
The dozen or so Centaurs in Ilya’s living room laughed and ribbed Shane playfully. Shane dutifully took a sip of his drink, nose and freckles bunching up at the taste of it.
“Never have I ever,” Harris said, pausing for dramatic effect, “been named the hottest man in the NHL.”
Another bout of laughter as Shane raised his cup again.
“Never have I ever gotten a guy to move to Canada for me,” Chouinard said, waggling his eyebrows at Shane and Ilya. Shane took another sip. Ilya groaned.
“Never have I ever,” Bood started from his spot beside Luca, “drunkenly made out with Ilya Rozanov.”
Ilya, his arm wrapped firmly around Shane’s waist to keep his husband from toppling over, rolled his eyes. His cup, still full of the premium vodka Ilya had offered all of the Centaurs when they had arrived earlier, sat untouched on the table. Shane, his glass almost empty, giggled and tightened the arm he had slung around Ilya’s neck.
“Bottoms up,” Shane said between hiccups, then polished off the rest of his drink. He wriggled a bit and slid a hand over Ilya’s chest. To Ilya, in what he probably thought was a whisper, Shane said, “We can do it again later, too.”
Now Ilya’s face turned pink, and he caught Shane’s hand mid-grope, pulling it off his chest.
Dykstra, whose camo baseball cap was askew on his head, laughed. “Don’t be shy, Roz.”
“You are all trying to kill Shane and I will have to deal with it tomorrow,” Ilya complained.
“We aren’t doing anything,” Dykstra lied. “It’s not my fault you’re kind of a prude, Roz.”
Ilya made an offended noise that could either have been a snort or a gasp.
“Am not!”
“Then why’s that cup full?” Dykstra asked.
Bood, whose own glass only had a few sips left, agreed. “Yeah, Roz, maybe if you were cooler, you’d be drinking more.”
Troy chuckled, which was still a rare sound. It was getting more and more common, though. Harris, who was squished up beside him on the sectional, supplied a much louder laugh.
“From what I remember last time we played, ‘Only boring nerds don’t get drunk during this game,’” Troy said, dropping his voice an octave lower to mimic Ilya.
Ilya harumphed unhappily.
“Never have I ever,” Dykstra began, tapping his chin thoughtfully, “been named Rookie of the Year.”
Shane laughed in delight and pressed a kiss to Ilya’s temple. Ilya tried to keep his frown in place, but the tint of his cheeks was giving him away.
“I’m all out,” Shane whined, looking at his cup. “Can I have some of yours, Ilya? Not like you’re gonna drink it.”
The Centaurs crowed and chirped Ilya in unison.
Ilya’s frown became a little more real and he said, “Never have I ever flirted with a journalist.”
Shane’s lips turned down.
“For fuck’s sake, I wasn’t flirting with him!” Shane argued.
Ilya made a noncommittal mm-hmm noise.
“You flirt with everyone literally all the time, and I don’t get mad about it,” Shane said, twisting in Ilya’s lap to scowl at him more directly. Neither of Shane’s feet were touching the ground, and his arms were linked behind Ilya’s head.
“Not always!” Ilya said. “Sometimes I am just hot and talking.”
“Never have I ever lied to my husband,” someone called out, and both Shane and Ilya froze, waiting to see if the other would take a sip. Neither moved, which led to more raucous teasing from the Centaurs.
As far as Luca could tell, Ilya hadn’t had a single drink the whole game, which was very much on purpose. That last time they had played Never Have I Ever, Ilya had almost gotten alcohol poisoning and then ragged on all of them for being lame for like two weeks, so this was well-earned payback.
***
It had been after a game in Minnesota last March, too cold to go out anywhere, all of them drinking at the hotel. They were staying at something called a Best Western, even though from what Luca knew of American geography, they were nowhere near the West Coast. They’d been in the middle of a winning streak, and the bar in the lobby had what Ilya deemed to be acceptable vodka – “Not as good as from Russia, but close.”
That night Luca had been struck by a moment of bewilderment, looking at the NHL stars drinking and laughing around him, and had that same recurring thought: How the fuck did I end up here?
He had frequently had moments like that during his rookie season. Alcohol usually brought them on: the sense of being outside of himself and tipsy and downright perplexed with his thoughts spinning wildly in directions he couldn’t control.
There had been one time Ilya and Troy had gotten absolutely shit-faced off rainbow Jell-O shots in Dallas after a shut-out win. Jello-O was a truly alarming substance, and no one Luca had asked – even the bartender! – had had any idea what it actually was. By the end of the night, Luca had ended up dragging two of the league’s most elite players back to the hotel with Wyatt’s help, bringing the total of generational talents in their merry little group to three.
Wyatt had very kindly offered to handle Ilya, who had become a mountain-sized lump of drunken giggles, so that left Luca with Troy, who had clung onto Luca’s torso (Luca was decently tall, so Troy couldn’t reach his shoulders very easily). Troy then tripped over a snag in the hallway carpet and immediately crumpled, taking Luca down with him. Ilya, laughing hard enough to wake the dead and teetering a little bit himself, had reached down and yanked Troy up by the scruff of his shirt like a kitten.
“Cannot hurt him, Barrett!” Ilya had scolded. “Is the future of this team, right here.”
And Luca’s heart had gone fucking nuclear at that, stomping and kicking against his ribcage like one of those bulls that people in Texas liked to ride for fun (Luca still couldn’t believe this was a real place. America was a LOT sometimes). He was so happy he felt like his chest would explode, sprawled on his back and staring at the hotel ceiling, feeling dazed and euphoric and a little drunk.
But anyway. That night in Minnesota. When the Centaurs had decided to get drunk together – again – and had almost destroyed Ilya’s liver.
Wyatt had been the one to suggest it, because he was a pure soul and had probably been a golden retriever in another life.
The guys had chirped him at first, ragging on him for suggesting they play a high school drinking game.
“Why don’t you tell us who you’re taking to prom first, Hazy?” Bood had asked.
Then Ilya had asked what the fuck prom was and Harris, who had joined them on the road trip for reasons Luca couldn’t remember, had immediately launched into a long explanation of the hallowed tradition of prom and his own role in planning his high school’s dance and then the whole thing got derailed, until eventually Wyatt insisted that they give Never Have I Ever a chance.
And then Ilya had almost died. Every single turn he drank. Every. Single. Turn.
Dykstra had started off with “Never have I ever had a threesome,” and of course, Ilya drank.
Chouinard had gone next and said, “Never have I ever had sex with someone whose name I didn’t know,” which was kind of a cheap shot, but Ilya drank anyway.
Then Bood had said, “Never have I ever had a secret affair,” and Ilya drank again.
That one had provoked a round of cat calls and wolf whistles. Out of the corner of his eye, Luca had thought maybe Troy had taken a sip, too, but when he looked over his shoulder, Troy’s face was totally neutral.
Wyatt had offered up “Never have I ever kissed a famous person,” and that one got Ilya and Troy, much to everyone’s shock. Because Luca was already looking at Troy, he very clearly saw him raise his glass and take a pull. Troy just shook his head and blushed.
“I, um, I don’t kiss and tell,” Troy had stuttered out, his cheeks flaming red.
Troy had cleared his throat then, and cut his eyes toward Ilya. “Never have I ever gotten a tattoo that I regretted.”
And everyone had laughed and the tension had dissolved.
“Who says I regret it?” Ilya had argued, crossing his arms.
Bood had thrown a handful of pretzels at Ilya from the bar. “Liar,” he had called.
A chorus of boos rang out until eventually Ilya relented and took a sip.
Luca had straightened his shoulders and said, “Never have I ever been to Russia.” The entire team – sans Ilya – had broken out in delighted shouting. Someone had grabbed his arms and shook him, and a hand had clapped him on the back in praise. And then it had been open season on Ilya.
“Never have I ever lived in Boston.”
“Never have I ever had a sports car collection.”
“Never have I ever gotten yelled at for trying to pet a police dog at the airport.”
“Never have I ever started a charity with my rival.”
“Never have I ever watched Miss Congeniality on a flight.” (Ilya: “Sandra Bullock is a legend! Is not my fault you have no taste.”)
They had been in the middle of debating whether “Never have I ever hooked up with someone in a pool” was different enough from the previous turn’s “Never have I ever hooked up with somone in a hot tub” to make Ilya drink twice, when Coach Wiebe had walked in.
He had surveyed the mess they had made of the bar, which had been covered in pretzels and empty glasses, and had taken in the team captain, who was looking a little green and tilting sideways in his chair.
A hush had fallen over the players, who were all up way past curfew and in the process of giving one of the NHL’s most expensive centers a hangover that would last for days.
With a small grin, Wiebe had said, “Oh, it’s totally different.”
Bood had clapped his hands and giggled girlishly. “Drink up, Roz,” he had ordered gleefully, and the Centaurs all cheered.
Other than probably giving Ilya cirrhosis, it had been a really good night.
***
Now Luca was here, a little less than a year later, watching the guy he had idolized as a teenager try to balance his drunk husband on his lap while his teammates very intentionally did not let him drink.
Luca was learning that despite being quiet and polite when he was sober, Shane Hollander was a very handsy drunk.
“Your turn, Shane,” Harris prompted.
Shane’s nose wrinkled in thought, struggling to recall the rules of the game.
“Oh,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Never, um, never have I ever, uh, thought Ilya’s eyes are all sparkly.”
Harris shrugged, then took a drink, while Troy mumbled, “God damn it,” and did the same. So did Luca, heat rushing to his face. He noticed every other Centaur was drinking, too.
Bood shook his head and took a swig. “It’s just like, how do they do that, you know?”
Harris glanced back at Shane, who hadn’t raised his glass, and said, “So you don’t think Ilya’s eyes sparkle?”
Shane looked lost. “What? Of course, I do.”
“Then drink up, buddy.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Shane laughed and went to drink but found his cup empty.
Troy refilled Shane’s glass, then said, “Never have I ever had a girlfriend.” Ilya’s head dropped back in frustration while Shane took a sip. A little bit sloshed over the rim and landed on the hand Ilya had looped around Shane to keep him upright. Shane grabbed Ilya’s wrist and was about to fucking lick the vodka off of him when Ilya yanked his arm away.
“No,” he said sternly.
Luca had the clarity of mind to realize if Shane remembered even a second of this tomorrow he might die of embarrassment.
Shane pouted and dropped his hand to Ilya’s belt buckle.
“You sure?” Shane asked, coquettish and over-the-top levels of flirty. It could have been a line directly out of the worst porn Luca had watched as a teenager when he was still figuring stuff out.
Ilya shot up like he had been electrocuted. “No.”
Shane, who didn’t seem like standing up was really something he could or should be doing on his own, looked up at Ilya through his lashes. His face scrunched a little in confusion.
“No, you are sure, or no, you aren’t?”
“I – fuck, I don’t know.” Ilya took Shane’s hand and extracted the mostly full glass from it. “You are cut off.”
“The rest of you,” Ilya said, pointing to the group of Centaurs lounging on his couch, “are dirty cheaters who I am going to enjoy getting back.”
“Do your worst,” Dykstra said, his camo baseball cap now at a downright precarious angle. Then they all laughed, because, once you got to know him, Ilya was actually a loveable teddy bear who cried at the end of Marley and Me.
“It’s fine if your husband is cooler than you, Roz,” Bood said. “Makes it more impressive you locked down someone so out of your league.”
Ilya flipped Bood off as he hauled Shane out of the room before he managed to get Ilya’s pants open in front of their friends and teammates. Luca smiled and finished off his drink, and he let Bood go all I’m-a-concerned-adult on him when he realized how drunk Luca was, even though Bood was arguably just as gone as he was.
The players who had wives and partners who hadn’t spent the night drinking like fish called them to come retrieve them, while others requested Ubers. Troy and Harris retreated to one of the guest bedrooms, as did Wyatt, whose wife was working the night shift at the children’s hospital and had explicitly told him she wouldn’t be able to play babysitter tonight.
Luca had just pulled out his own phone to order a ride home when Ilya reemerged and tossed a pair of sweats at him. Ilya gestured vaguely to where Troy, Harris, and Wyatt had disappeared to.
“Take one of the guest rooms upstairs. I do not know where the others went, but pick one they are not in.” Ilya paused, smirked a little, then added, “Unless you want to cuddle, of course.”
Luca grinned back and with a level of bravery that could only come from liquid courage, said, “Is Shane available, or is that just for you?”
Ilya let out a shocked yelp of laughter, then shook his head.
“You are a little shit, Haas,” Ilya said with a smile.
He chucked the t-shirt he was holding at Luca, then turned and walked back to his room.
Luca unfolded it and saw a faded decal on one of the sleeves that looked like the Russian coat of arms. Ilya’s last name was on the back, in peeling letters. On the front, it said I WON GOLD AT THE 2009 WORLD JUNIOR HOCKEY CHAMPIONSHIPS AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS STUPID SHIRT.
Once again, Luca thought, How the fuck did I end up here?
***
Ilya, because he was petty and childish but knew a thing or two about how to play the long game, waited a whole month before getting his revenge.
It was a few weeks later, at a team outing to Monk’s, and he ordered a round of top-shelf vodka for the table and explained the new game.
“It is called Bitch If You Haven’t,” Ilya said. “You say something you have done, and the others have to drink if they have not done it.”
“Because you’re a bitch if you haven’t,” Bood said, stroking his chin wisely.
“So it’s like a reverse Never Have I Ever?” Wyatt asked.
Ilya nodded, then rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get started.”
It was a slaughter. With a few exceptions here and there, the Centaurs drank every turn. Every. Single. Turn.
Ilya, meanwhile, was smug as hell.
“Bitch if you haven’t slept with your brother’s girlfriend.”
“Bitch if you haven’t fucked your coach’s son.”
“Bitch if you haven’t hooked up with a teammate's girlfriend.”
There were a few Shane didn’t have to take a drink for, including “Bitch if you haven’t married your rival after telling the NHL Commissioner to go fuck himself” – Shane grinned at Ilya, and proudly left his cup untouched – as well as “Bitch if you haven’t been outed in a viral Twitter video.” Again, Shane didn’t take a drink, but he was a bit more sheepish about it this time.
Luca felt like his head was swimming in fancy vodka, which honestly tasted just as bad as cheap vodka. But that was an opinion he planned on taking to his grave, so he very bravely kept downing shots that might as well have been undiluted gasoline.
Wyatt, swaying drunkenly, reached for Ilya’s shoulder and almost faceplanted on the floor of the bar.
“Ilya, not to slut-shame you or anything,” he slurred, “but you need to calm down.”
Ilya surveyed Wyatt calmly, his expression completely stoic, and said “Bitch if you haven’t had a years-long secret relationship with a celebrity.”
The Centaurs all groaned, and a few lodged complaints about whether or not Shane counted as a celebrity, so no one noticed Troy leave his glass on the table. Except for Luca. And, of course, Ilya.
“Barrett, who-” Ilya started, only to be cut off by Bood.
“Bitch if haven’t fathered a child!” he shouted in triumph, thinking he had finally broken Ilya’s streak.
Ilya folded his arms across his chest. “We really don’t know, do we?”
And then the arguing devolved even further, and Shane looked like he was ready to shove Ilya off a tall building, which wasn’t exactly unprecedented.
Luca, tipsy and feeling like knocking Ilya off of his I’m-the-king-of-chaos throne, downed the rest of his vodka, which he strongly suspected contained a not insignificant amount of bleach, and sat up straight.
“Bitch if you haven’t fucked the mascot guy,” Luca said, grateful the words came out steady.
“WHAT?” At least six people yelled at once, the sound so garbled it was impossible to tell who had spoken.
“Wait,” Harris said with his hand held out in a stop right there gesture. “You mean Theo? The guy who wears the Chuck costume?”
Chuck was a seven-foot-tall anthropomorphic beaver of unknown origins that served as the Centaurs’ mascot. He had large, unblinking eyes and massive buck teeth and was very popular with children. Theo, however, was the cute dude who was paid to wear the costume during games and team events.
“Drink up, everyone,” Luca instructed, grinning.
Ilya raised his glass to his mouth and muttered something that might have been “I knew it.” His lips were pressed together like he was fighting a smile.
Luca shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. Again, and certainly not for the last time, he thought, How the fuck did I end up here?
Not that there was anywhere else he’d want to be. Not when he had Ilya ruffling his hair like an obnoxious older brother and a text from Theo waiting on his phone.