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The Centaurs’ locker room is full of players in different stages of undress, a bunch of sweaty men fresh off the ice after practice, when Ilya Rozanov climbs onto the bench. He is half-naked, chest bare except for the ever-present gold chain, and he has a serious case of helmet hair.
That doesn’t stop him looking like a person of utmost authority and respect when he claps his hands together.
“Listen here because I’m not repeating myself,” he shouts over their heads and the locker room instantly falls into silence.
All eyes focus on him, even though the men continue to pull on their clothes.
“You’re all invited to my house tomorrow. For dinner. You don’t need to RSVP because it’s mandatory,” he doesn’t sound like he’s joking.
The Centaurs exchange glances.
“I already—” starts Holmberg.
“No,” says Rozanov.
“What’s the occasion?” Bood asks. “You getting married or something, Roz?”
Rozanov chuckles. He rubs the side of his nose as he says: “Or something.”
Troy Barrett clears his throat, likely about to mention his own plans for the free afternoon, but Rozanov turns to him with a finger pointed at Troy’s face. “Bring Harris. He’ll want to be there.”
Rozanov sounds—
Not casual.
Not cheerful either.
He sounds a little like he does before an important game.
“Look. I have something important to tell you. And I’m only saying it once. So if you’re not there tomorrow, you can live all confused when—”
He cuts himself off.
“Why don’t you just tell us now, Roz?” Dykstra asks. “We’re all here.”
“Because you made me listen to your music all day and I’m not giving my pretty speech when I’ve got those songs stuck in my brain. All I can think is my horse leaving me for a truck or whatever.”
Rozanov jumps off the bench.
“I’ll text you all details!” he calls, obviously not taking any more notes on his invitation.
They see him stop at Harris’ office on the way out.
***
The truth is, the Ottawa Centaurs have been through a lot the past few months. All of them have been rattled by the emergency landing of their plane, and all of them have cheered for Troy Barrett’s coming out. They’ve played some good hockey and filled the Ottawa’s stands in unprecedented numbers.
Life has been a lot.
Ups and downs in the most literal sense.
And there’s no telling what Rozanov has in store for them.
He’s an unpredictable force of nature, their captain. He could be about to inform them that he’s done all he can for Ottawa and he’s changing teams at the end of the season. He could be about to reveal he’s dying of untreatable disease. He could be announcing his participation in some weird reality show. He might very well be about to introduce them to his secret child. Or a secret wife. Or a secret wife and three children he’s been hiding in Russia all this time and finally brought over.
Or he could be trying a new recipe and making them all his lab rats.
There is no way of knowing.
***
Some of them have never been to Rozanov’s house. The few who’d visited before have only seen it a couple of times. There’s a large gate, but the neighborhood is quiet, the kind where you raise families and walk dogs. Not a place for a rager.
Their cars fill the side of his long driveway.
“I’m telling Wiebe to bench anyone who’s not here by seven,” Rozanov says as they filter into his living room. “I’m not joking.”
“Sounds like a smart plan,” says Shane Hollander, the Montreal Metros captain, from where he’s standing by the wall. The corners of his mouth twitch upward. “I don’t see Boodram yet.”
They eye Hollander with curiosity. He’s not part of their team; he’s the captain of their team’s division rival. It makes no sense for him to be present, except that he and Rozanov are apparently friends these days. Or at least friendly enough, running training camps and a charity together.
“You got dragged into this, too?” Boyle asks him.
Hollander shrugs in a manner of someone just learning how the gesture should look.
Fortunately, Boodram arrives a few minutes later, and so do Young and LaPointe, and soon Rozanov’s spacious living room is crammed full of hockey players, half of them in some kind of Centaurs’ gear.
“That’s all of you?” Rozanov looks around, lifting his hand to count the heads like he’s a teacher on a field trip. “Good, I don’t have to make anyone do extra drills.”
“I cancelled poker night for this,” Holmber says. “So get on with it, Roz.”
“Poker night? I told my girlfriend I’d take her to that new Poke place and she’s so pissed I cancelled on her,” Young says, mournful, “if this is something stupid...”
“Is not, I promise. A little stupid, maybe,” Rozanov corrects himself, “but is important.”
“Lisa has a shift tonight,” Wyatt Hayes, their goalie, says with a soft smile. “I can hang out all night.”
“Not all night. I’m telling you news, feeding you food and kicking you out in time for saying goodnight to kids,” Rozanov says.
“Are you starting with the announcement?” Hollander asks.
“Yes. Is a test. Whoever loses appetite, I’m telling management to trade them to Buffalo. Alright!” Rozanov claps his hands and the next moment he’s climbing on top of his coffee table even though all eyes are on him already. “Now, look out the window. Look at my yard. See how big it is? Plenty of room to hide bodies.”
They all give a cursory glance through the window before exchanging glances among themselves.
“I’m saying that,” Rozanov continues, “because I need you to know that nothing I say tonight leaves this circle. Not until the end of the season, you understand?”
There are some nods, but most people are staring at him in expectation.
“Is that why Harris is using a camera?” Hayes, ever observant, asks. “And not his phone?”
Rozanov meets the gaze of the social media manager across the room and nods. “We have an agreement. Harris can record and take pictures, but none of it goes out before summer.”
“What happens in summer, Roz?” Boodram prompts him.
“Are you leaving Ottawa?” Luca Haas asks nervously.
Rozanov shakes his head. “Everyone will know about this in summer, but I need to tell you now. So you save the date. For the wedding. I need you all to be there.”
“I don’t know,” Hollander says, his voice carried over the hum of whispers that fill the room, “summers can be a little busy for me.”
Rozanov points an outraged finger his way. “Now he turns into a comedian!”
Hollander lifts his hands apologetically.
“A wedding?” Luca Haas squeaks. “Yours?”
Rozanov nods. He takes a deep breath and lifts his hand to quiet them as questions start being hauled his way. “Listen. Listen! I need to say this. I’m very proud of you this year. We played some very good hockey. We’re going into the playoffs, it looks like. We continue winning and you’re all so fucking beautiful on the ice. But I haven’t been a good captain.”
He keeps speaking over the sounds of protest. “I haven’t been. I know all of you. I know your wives and girlfriends and, congratulations Troy, boyfriends. Your kids. I know what you do in your spare time and where you like to eat. But you know nothing about me.”
“That’s not true,” someone, who might be LaPointe, protests.
Even though it is.
“Is true. Is true that I keep things from you. I don’t tell you where I go or who I am seeing. Who is important to me. It’s not because I don’t want to. It’s not because I don’t trust you. Is because I have a secret. And it’s dangerous for me, and it’s a very big secret, and it’s not just mine. But it won’t be a secret after this summer and I need you to know first. And I hope that when you know, when you know all of me, we'll play even better.”
He looks around the room. All eyes are on him.
Not even Hollander quips about maybe keeping the secret a secret until Montreal beats them in the playoffs, just in case sharing it does improve the Centaurs' game.
“I’m bisexual,” Rozanov says. “I’m bisexual and I’m in love with a man, and this summer I am going to marry him.”
There is a beat of silence.
Complete and utter silence, you’d hear a piece of paper fall onto the rug beneath Rozanov’s coffee table.
Then the room erupts into shouted congratulations and general chaos.
Boodram stands up. “Are you going to tell us who it is, Roz?”
“Maybe.”
Rozanov makes a ‘come hither’ gesture.
Hollander shakes his head. “I’m not getting up on a table,” he groans, but he’s already moving across the room and the next moment, he’s climbing up on top of the coffee table to stand beside Rozanov.
Rozanov grabs him around the waist, pulling him flush to his side. “You know Shane Hollander, right? You know him as the second best hockey player in the league,” he bats away Hollander’s attempt to poke him under the ribs at that. “As the captain of the Montreal Metros. My rival. My friend these days, I guess.”
He looks at Hollander at that and smiles.
Incredibly gently.
“That’s not how I want you to know him,” he says before turning back to his stunned teammates. “This is the man I love. The man I’m going to marry. Shane Hollander is the love of my life.”
Hollander drops his forehead to Rozanov’s shoulder, hiding against him, flustered.
“Oh,” Boyle snorts. “For a moment you almost had me, Roz.”
Rozanov glares. “Is not a joke. I love him.” He turns to Hollander and gently lifts his head, two fingers under Hollander’s chin. He repeats, unbelievably soft: “I love you.”
He kisses Hollander on the lips.
He dips him backwards and they almost fall off the table and Hollander punches his shoulder, but then he’s kissing Rozanov back.
It leaves no room for doubt.
The living room shakes with congratulations and catcalls and questions. Rozanov’s neighbors must think he’s finally throwing a rager.
Harris never stops taking pictures.