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The problem with winning three games in a row was that someone always suggested they celebrate.
The problem with celebrating was that Victor St-Simon owned an apartment with a wet bar, a sound system that could legally qualify as a weapon, and the self-control of a golden retriever at a barbecue.
The problem with Victor's apartment was that Ilya Rozanov was currently in it.
And Ilya Rozanov, around drink number six or ten, depending on who you asked and whether you valued honesty, had gone quiet.
Not normal quiet.
Not conserving energy quiet.
The other one. The kind that meant thoughts were happening. Dangerous ones.
Cliff noticed first, because Cliff always noticed first when it came to Rozy. It was like a curse. Or a skill. Or possibly a punishment for a previous life.
He was mid-conversation with Brad Hammersmith about something extremely important. Brad was insisting he had been interfered with by the evil eye during the third period when he noticed it. Ilya, at the far end of the couch, drink balanced on his knee like a physics experiment, staring into the middle distance like he was about to either solve a major life problem or commit a felony. Possibly both.
Cliff filed that under oh no and kept watching.
Connor Connors noticed second, mostly because he had sprawled himself across an armchair like a man who had scored twice and expected society to thank him personally.
"Rozy," Connor said.
Ilya blinked slowly, like someone returning from a different dimension.
"Yes."
"You good?"
"Yes."
The word hit the floor and died there.
Connor looked at Cliff. Cliff looked at his drink like it had answers.
Across the room, Victor was aggressively winning an argument with a rookie too anxious to fight back, and Carmichael was in the kitchen losing a battle against an ice tray, and everything was fine.
Except Ilya had picked up his phone.
He wasn't using it. Just turning it over. Slowly. The way he turned a puck before a shot he was thinking too hard about.
Cliff watched that for exactly two seconds and reached over without looking to slide the bowl of pretzels six inches farther away from Ilya, as if that might help.
It did not.
Brad leaned forward from the other couch. "What's with the captain?"
"Nothing," Cliff said, which is what people say when something is extremely not nothing.
"He's been weird for weeks," Brad said. Louder. Because of course he did.
"He's right there."
"I know." Brad turned fully. "You've been weird for weeks."
Ilya looked up. "Thank you, Hammersmith."
"You're welcome. What's your deal?"
"I do not have deal."
"You've been—" Brad waved vaguely, like he was conducting an orchestra. "Off. Moody. Stormy."
"Stormy," Ilya repeated.
"Like a guy who got dumped and is pretending he didn't."
Ilya stared at him long enough that Brad briefly reconsidered his choices.
"Yeah," Connor said, helpfully making it worse. "Like there's a cloud. You almost killed Wójcik on Tuesday."
"Wójcik deserved."
"He was standing still."
"He was standing wrong."
Across the room, Wójcik froze mid-laugh and quietly reconsidered his entire situation. The poor rookie was nineteen years old, six weeks called up, and still scared shitless of Rozy.
Victor wandered over and dropped onto the couch like he lived there, which was increasingly hard to argue with. "You have been weird," he said cheerfully. "We have discussed."
Ilya blinked. "You had discussions. About me."
"We're concerned," Connor said, with the confidence of a man who had not planned a follow-up.
"You are nosy," Ilya said.
"We're a team," Brad tried.
Connor paused. "I hate that that almost worked."
"We contain multitudes," Victor said.
Ilya looked at Cliff.
Cliff shrugged as if to say This is your problem now.
Ilya set his glass down. Picked up his phone.
Cliff leaned forward. Connor leaned forward. Brad leaned forward half a second later, but harder.
"I am going to call him," Ilya said.
The room froze.
Not silent exactly, Victor's playlist was still doing something low and bass-heavy, but the energy had stopped. Hard.
Connor moved immediately, diving across the couch and slapping his hand flat over the phone.
"Nope," he said. "Dead play. Whistle's in."
"Move hand."
"Who are we calling."
"Move hand, Connor."
"Name. Give me a name."
"Someone."
Connor stared at him. "That is not enough information."
Ilya stared back. Then:
"He can date whoever he wants."
Connor's hand stayed exactly where it was.
"...Okay," Connor said, in a voice being very careful around its edges. "Who can?"
"Him."
"Who?"
"One I am calling."
"That's still not a—"
"He can date her," Ilya said, gaining momentum in exactly the wrong direction. "I do not care. He can marry her. Have beautiful babies or—" he waved his free hand, "—whatever."
Connor tightened his grip on the phone.
Silence.
Brad stopped blinking. Victor stopped drinking. Carmichael materialized in the kitchen doorway, ice forgotten. Ryan appeared beside him, arriving without nearly enough context.
Cliff watched the realization move through the room like a slow-motion pileup. The private hypothesis that had lived unspoken for years, quietly confirming itself out loud, without fanfare, on a Tuesday night surrounded by empty bottles.
Oh.
Oh.
OH.
"Beautiful babies," Brad echoed, like he was discovering language.
"With his stupid freckles," Ilya said. "I do not care."
"freckles?" Connor shook it off. "Rozy. Who is he?"
"No."
"Who—"
"Many people have freckles!"
Brad snapped his fingers. "Wait, is this related to the Russian thing?"
Ilya went very still.
Connor turned. "Brad."
"They always say his Russian sounds—" Brad paused. Did not think enough. "You know. Kind of fa—"
"BRAD"
"I'm quoting!" Brad said. "I'm not saying it, THEY say it."
"Stop," Connor said.
"Stopping."
Beat.
"Still counts, you know."
Meanwhile, Ilya, who had been watching this with the focused patience of a man waiting for a gap, made his move. Clean. Efficient. The practiced reach of someone who had decided something and was executing before anyone noticed.
Cliff noticed. Of course he noticed.
"Nope," Cliff said, already leaning.
Connor spun mid-sentence, "what? Hey!"
Victor, closest to the bar, snatched the phone two inches before Ilya's fingers arrived.
"Absolutely not," Victor said, holding it up like a referee with evidence.
Ilya looked at him with the specific expression of a man reconsidering a friendship.
"I was checking time," he said.
"There are clocks," Connor said immediately. "Society has solved this."
"I do not see clock."
Connor looked around. "There's—" He scanned the room. "—okay fine there isn't one but that is not the point—"
"Give phone."
"No."
"I will not call him."
The entire room stared at him.
"Okay that is fair," Ilya said, after a beat. "Still. Give phone."
Victor tossed it lightly across the room.
Connor lunged.
Brad, for reasons never established, also lunged.
Three grown men collided in what could generously be called a low-speed board battle.
"Fuck."
"I have it."
"You do NOT!"
The phone popped loose.
Carmichael, who had contributed nothing to the evening so far, caught it on pure reflex. He stood there holding it above his head like a man who had found himself in possession of a live grenade.
"I don't — what do I do?"
"Stay up," Connor said immediately. "High. Keep it moving."
Carmichael raised it higher.
Ilya stood.
"Oh my god he's standing," Brad whispered.
"Sit your ass down," Connor said.
"No."
"I will be reasonable," Ilya said.
"Define reasonable," Victor said.
Ilya considered this with apparent sincerity. Then, with the measured calm of a man presenting a business proposal:
"I tell him I am hotter than girlfriend."
Connor made a sound like a car failing to start.
"Buddy—"
"It is true."
"That is not the—"
"Also better at sex," Ilya added.
The room detonated.
Brad physically fell sideways on the couch.
Connor doubled over, hand braced on the cushions like he'd taken a hit.
Victor turned away entirely, shoulders shaking.
Carmichael, arm still raised, experienced a small crisis of faith.
"Bro," Connor wheezed. "You cannot tell him that."
"It is important information."
"Also I miss him," Ilya said. "This is the honest part."
"That part is fine!" Victor said, wiping his eyes.
"None of this is fine," Connor said.
"And he never—" Ilya searched briefly for the word, found it, deployed it without hesitation. "Topped."
Connor made a noise that had no precedent.
"She should know this," Ilya said. "He is probably bad at it."
"She absolutely should not—"
"Is useful information for planning," Ilya said, with the patient tone of someone explaining something very simple to someone very slow.
Brad was horizontal now. Making no sound. Just lying there, staring at the ceiling, apparently communing with a higher power.
"I also want to see apartment," Ilya said, quieter, like this was the part that had actually been sitting in him. "He said it has big windows. Nice view of Montreal."
A beat.
Just long enough for the comedy to drain out slightly and leave something else.
Connor looked at Cliff. Cliff looked at the floor.
"Give phone," Ilya said.
"No."
"Carmichael."
Carmichael flinched. "...Nope."
"I am captain."
"Still no," Carmichael said, with the quiet dignity of a man who had discovered a spine.
"Good," Connor said. "You're a veteran now."
"I'm not even close to—"
"Tonight you are."
Ilya stepped forward. Connor stepped forward. Victor moved sideways to cut the lane, which it was.
"Where are you going," Victor said.
"Phone."
"No."
"My phone."
"Team property," Connor said.
Brad, from the couch: "We are protecting you from a terrible turnover."
"I am not turning over—"
"You are absolutely about to give it away at the blue line with no support," Connor said.
"I have support." Ilya gestured at all of them.
"We are not that kind of support," Victor said.
Carmichael's arm was shaking now. Subtly. Visibly.
"Guys," he said. "My shoulder."
"Switch hands," Connor said, without looking.
Carmichael switched. The phone wobbled. Every muscle in the room tensed simultaneously.
Ilya lunged.
Connor grabbed him.
Victor grabbed Connor.
Brad, somehow back on his feet, grabbed an ankle.
It became a pile. A genuine one. Grunting, an elbow in someone's ribs, someone's knee finding the coffee table.
"I still have the phone!" Carmichael screamed, from above the carnage.
They untangled slowly, breathing hard.
Carmichael still had it. Held above his head. The expression of a man who had survived something significant and was not entirely sure how.
Ilya looked at all of them.
The fight went out of him like a slow leak.
"I just want to talk to him," he said.
Connor caught his breath. "Yeah," he said. "We know."
"I miss him."
"Yeah. We got that."
Ilya dropped back onto the couch.
Nobody said anything for a second.
Then Connor, because Connor always had to be doing something, sat down across from Ilya and said: "Okay. Can we just talk about this for a second."
"No," Ilya said.
"Just the broad strokes—"
"Connors."
"Because," Connor said, barreling through, "we have — and I want to be very clear that this comes from a place of — of—"
"Concern," Brad offered, from the floor.
"Love," Victor said.
"Curiosity," Carmichael said, and immediately looked like he wished he hadn't.
Connor pointed. "Somewhere in that range. We have, over the years, noticed some things."
Ilya looked at him.
"What things," he said, very carefully.
There was a pause.
A collective inhale.
Connor, Brad, Victor, and Carmichael all looked at each other with the synchronized guilt of men who had absolutely had these conversations. Multiple times. In various combinations. Most recently in a group chat that Cliff had been added to by accident and then immediately removed himself from.
"Okay but listen," Brad said, pointing like he was drawing up a play. "It's not like you're not into girls."
"That is correct," Ilya said.
"Yeah, obviously," Connor said. "We have eyes. The reputation precedes you."
Ilya narrowed his eyes. "Then what is the problem."
"No problem," Connor said quickly. "Just—" he gestured at nothing, "—additional data."
"Like," Brad said, leaning forward with the energy of a man who had been waiting years to present his findings, "we've known for a while that you are not just playing one position."
Connor stared at him. "What does that mean."
"You know what it means!" Brad said. "Versatile. Two-way."
Victor nodded seriously. "Good in both ends."
Connor put his face in his hands. "Oh my god."
"I mean like on the ice!" Carmichael started. "Or not on the ice but like—"
"We know what you meant," Connor said, muffled.
Ilya blinked slowly at all of them. "I am going to kill everyone in this room."
"That's fair," Connor said, lifting his face. "But we're not done."
"We are done."
"We're not." Connor sat forward. "You like girls. Big fan. Documented enthusiast. And also—" he pointed, "—sometimes you look at guys the exact same way. Multiple times. Multiple guys. Multiple situations. And we never said anything because it's not our business. Obviously. But now you're sitting here telling us about a him, and—"
"And the Tampa thing," Connor pressed on.
Ilya's expression shifted. "What Tampa thing."
"Tampa last year," Brad said. "You vanished."
"I was outside."
"For thirty-five minutes," Connor said.
"I needed air."
"There were people outside too," Carmichael said carefully. "We checked."
"You checked," Ilya said.
"There was a search party," Brad said. "Small one."
"Connor was worried," Victor said.
"I wasn't worried," Connor said. "I was tracking. For safety."
"You texted me four times," Brad said, and pulled up his phone with the speed of a man who had been waiting for this moment. "'Has anyone seen Rozy, I saw him leave with that guy from the bar and I cannot tell if this is a thing or if he's been kidnapped.'"
Silence.
Connor looked at the ceiling. "I stand by the concern."
"Dark jacket," Brad said. "Tall. You were talking to him for a while before you both—"
"I went to get air," Ilya said.
"Together," Brad said.
"Separately. At same time. Coincidence."
"Sure," Brad said.
"And then you came back," Connor said, "doing the face."
"What face."
Connor made a face. It was not a good impression, but it was recognizable in the way that a child's drawing of a house is recognizable: proportions wrong but spirit intact.
"I do not make that face," Ilya said.
"We call it the scored-and-didn't-celebrate," Brad said. "Post-goal, private rink."
"You made it in Nashville," Carmichael said.
Everyone looked at him.
Carmichael held his ground, which was new. "The tall redhead," he said. "With the tattoo." He gestured at his own neck. "That was a Face Night."
"I cannot believe this," Ilya said. "You catalog."
"We don't catalog—" Connor started.
"You have a group chat," Ilya said.
The silence that followed was extremely guilty.
"What group chat?" Ilya said.
"Victor." Ilya said.
Victor took a philosophical sip of his drink. "There have been several group chats," he said. "Over the years. Various purposes."
"What purposes."
"Mostly welfare," Connor said quickly.
"Brad named one of them," Victor said.
"What was the name," Ilya said.
Brad opened his mouth. Closed it. Made a decision.
"Rozy Watch 2014," he said.
Ilya stared at him.
"It was a welfare check," Brad said, without apology. "You were going through something."
"And the clothes," Connor said, because apparently they were doing all of it tonight. "The steamer, Rozy."
"They are good shirts."
"You have a handheld steamer in your gear bag," Brad said.
"That is for wrinkles."
"In your gear bag," Brad repeated.
"I travel all the time—"
"We all travel," Connor said. "I will wear the same three shirts for a week and a half."
"That is a you problem," Ilya said.
"It is a normal hockey player problem," Connor said. "You are a statistical anomaly. Too well-dressed."
"And when you're relaxed," Carmichael said, entering dangerous territory with the calm of a man who had decided he was going for it. "You get kind of—"
Connor pointed. "Careful."
Carmichael made a small, doomed wrist motion.
Time stopped.
"—like," he finished anyway.
"I hate all of you," Ilya said.
"It's not a bad thing!" Carmichael said quickly. "Range. You have range."
"Depth," Victor said.
"Layers," Connor said.
"I am not a cake," Ilya said.
"No," Connor said. "You're a very expensive, very well-dressed—"
"I am going to throw you through that window," Ilya said, pointing at Victor's floor-to-ceiling glass.
"That's double-paned," Victor said. "You'd need a run-up."
"I will take run-up."
"And the staring," Brad said, because Brad had never been deterred by anything including physical threats. "You look at girls. Normal. And then sometimes you look at a guy the exact same way."
"Like you're watching tape," Carmichael said. "It's the same eyes."
"I have one set of eyes."
"We've established that," Connor said. "They can still multitask."
"And the chirping," Victor said. "There's regular chirping and then there's your chirping. Different energy with certain guys."
"My chirping is excellent and consistent."
"Hunter," Brad said.
"Hollander," Victor said.
The room went quiet in a slightly different way.
Ilya looked at Victor.
"Hollander is rival," Ilya said.
"Mm," Victor said.
"Professional rivalry."
"You know his point totals better than your own," Connor said.
"That is strategy."
"He has freckles," Brad said.
Silence.
Ilya put his head in his hands.
"And there's the Montreal ‘girl’," Connor said, not unkindly. They could all hear the quotation marks. "You never talk about it. And Hollander's in Montreal. And we—" he gestured at the room, "—connected some dots."
"Also you've been weird since the Rose Landry news broke," Carmichael said. "And you said freckles tonight."
Ilya lifted his head.
He looked around the room: at Connor, who had the expression of a man who had solved something and was trying not to look smug about it; at Brad, who had dropped the comedy and was watching Ilya with something almost gentle; at Victor, who had always had the quality of making a room feel slightly less catastrophic just by existing in it; at Carmichael, who had lowered the phone to his lap and was watching carefully, like a kid trying to get something right.
At Cliff, who hadn't said anything in a while. Who was watching Ilya the way he always watched him, steady and patient, like he was waiting for Ilya to catch up to something Cliff had known for a long time.
"So," Connor said, quieter now. "How long."
Ilya looked at his glass.
"Since summer," he said. "Before rookie season."
"Six years," Brad said.
"It was nothing," Ilya said. "For him, always nothing. Casual."
"And for you," Victor said.
Ilya didn't answer. Which was an answer.
"I miss him," he said eventually. "He is with Rose Landry now. She is good for him. He is easier with her. He can hold her hand. Be normal."
He put the glass down.
"But I am hotter than her," he added.
"Rozy," Connor wheezed. "She is a movie star."
"It is still true."
"You're gorgeous, we know," Connor said, still laughing. "It is still not the point."
"Someone should tell him," Ilya said.
"That someone cannot be you," Brad said, "at two in the morning, drunk, on the phone."
"I will also tell him I miss the freckles," Ilya said, which landed different. Quieter. Less like a punchline.
The room let that one sit for a second.
"Give phone," Ilya said, with slightly less conviction than before.
"No," Connor said.
"Carmichael."
"Nope," Carmichael said, clutching it.
"I am captain."
"We love you," Carmichael said.
Everyone turned to look at him.
Carmichael held his ground. "I mean. We do. That's why we're not giving you the phone."
A beat.
"That came out okay," Brad said, surprised.
"Yeah," Connor said. "Stick with it."
He looked at Ilya. "What he said. All of it. We love you, you're not getting the phone."
"Love," Victor confirmed, in the tone of a man who kept it in a place he didn't open often and had just opened it.
Ilya looked at them.
Then at Cliff.
Cliff had been quiet long enough. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked at Ilya directly.
"We've been watching you carry this for years," he said. "Not just tonight. Years. And you never had to do that alone."
It wasn't loud. It didn't try to be.
Ilya held his gaze for a moment. Something moved across his face that he didn't quite manage to control.
Then he looked away.
"You are all very drunk," he said.
"Extremely," Connor said.
"I hate all of you," Ilya said.
"No you don't," Brad said.
"A little."
"Nope," Victor said pleasantly.
"What time is it?" Brad asked, like his brain had rebooted and selected the safest available question.
"Great question," Victor said, visibly relieved. "No idea."
Ilya looked pointedly at Carmichael.
"Phone would know," he said.
"Phone is on injured reserve," Connor said. "Season-ending."
Carmichael squinted at the screen. "I think it's... late?"
"Not a time," Brad said.
"Spiritually a time," Victor said. He clapped once. "Okay. New round."
Victor went to the bar and came back with drinks assembled with the specific recklessness of someone who had decided the night needed to go somewhere else immediately. He handed one to Ilya first, on purpose.
"Drink," Victor said.
"I already—"
"Drink anyway."
"Burgers," Brad announced. "We are getting burgers."
"Yes," Connor said.
"Fries," Carmichael said, finally lowering his arm.
"You can put the phone down for fries," Brad told him.
Carmichael clutched it tighter. "I don't trust Rozy."
"Good instincts," Cliff said.
"Two patties or three—"
"Two," Connor said.
"Two," Victor said.
"One," Carmichael said.
"You get two," Brad said. "Heroic performance tonight."
Carmichael considered this. "...Two."
Brad nodded solemnly and started ordering.
Ilya was staring at his drink.
"I miss him," he said again. Different this time. Not the rhetorical version he'd been deploying all evening. The real one.
Brad looked up. "He's an idiot," he said, without hesitation. "Respectfully. You know how many people want you?"
"They want to sleep with me," Ilya said. "Is different from wanting to date me."
"That is not—" Connor started.
"It is exactly what is," Ilya said. "I am convenient. Good for fun. Is fine. I understand."
"That's the dumbest thing you've ever said," Brad said.
"High bar," Connor agreed.
"You think we hang out with you because you're convenient?" Cliff said. "You are wildly inconvenient. You know that, right?"
Connor nodded. "High maintenance."
"Exhausting," Brad said.
"Expensive," Victor said. "You took us to that restaurant—"
"That was a good restaurant—"
"It did not have prices on the menu," Victor said. "That is a threat, not a restaurant."
"We are rich!" Ilya argued.
"And yet," Cliff said, gesturing at the room, at all of them still there at two in the morning. "Here we are."
Ilya looked around.
"I would date Shane," he said, quieter. "Properly. If he wanted."
"His loss," Brad said.
"Like missing an empty net," Connor said.
"Worse," Brad said. "Missing empty net and then blaming the ice."
Ilya snorted. "That happens."
"Not to you."
"Sometimes."
"Name one time."
Pause.
"...no," Ilya said.
"Exactly." Connor leaned back. "You're just in the bad part. It ends."
"I do not like bad part."
"Nobody does," Cliff said.
Ilya looked at his drink. Then, following a thought he hadn't planned to follow out loud:
"Maybe they come for me."
Connor frowned. "Who comes for you."
"Russia." Ilya pointed vaguely eastward. "For this. The shirts. The men. Silk shirts and liking dick. Prison."
"You are not going to the gulag," Victor said.
"You are Canadian," Ilya said. "You know nothing about this."
"Fair point," Victor said. "You are still wrong."
"They sent people," Ilya said, less comedically. "For less than me."
The room was quieter for a second.
"Yeah," Connor said. "They do."
"But you're here," Brad said. "And we're here. And if anyone comes for you—"
"They go through us first," Connor said.
"Obviously," Victor said.
Carmichael, quietly: "Yeah."
Ilya looked at them. The expression on his face did the thing again. Too many things at once, none of them quite controlled.
"Marley," he said.
Cliff looked up. "Yeah."
Ilya was extremely serious. "If they come. Can I hide under your bed."
Brad made a sound that was mostly air.
Connor pressed his lips together until they disappeared.
Victor found the ceiling very interesting.
Cliff rubbed his face with one hand. "Yeah," he said. "You can hide under my bed."
"Thank you." Immediate. Genuine. Like this was a real plan and it was now settled.
Then: "Your bed is very small."
"It'll be cozy," Cliff said.
"Okay." Ilya nodded. "Is plan."
"Glad we sorted that," Brad said.
"Me too," Ilya said, missing the tone entirely.
Connor looked at Cliff. Cliff looked at the ceiling. Victor raised his glass.
The buzzer went off from the lobby.
“Burgers," Victor said, standing immediately.
Carmichael was already moving, phone tucked under his arm like a football, with the energy of a man who was genuinely grateful for a task.
"Carmichael," Ilya said.
Carmichael stopped.
"Good defense tonight."
Carmichael turned around. Did the math on whether he was being chirped.
He was not being chirped.
"Thanks, cap," he said, and went to buzz the door.
The burgers arrived and took over everything the way food does at two in the morning. Foil wrappers spreading across the coffee table, someone immediately objecting to onions, someone else requiring ketchup, Wójcik materializing from wherever he'd been hiding with the specific alertness that a rookie who smelled free food could have.
The room settled into something comfortable. Less loud. Less charged. The kind of quiet that comes after a lot of noise has meant something.
Ilya ate half his burger in silence.
Then said, to no one in particular: "He has very good freckles."
"We know," Connor said, through a mouthful.
"Still not calling him," Brad said.
"I know," Ilya said.
"Good."
A beat.
"I still want to."
"We know," Cliff said.
Ilya ate another bite.
"I am hotter than girlfriend," he said.
"Sure, cap," Connor said.
"Thank you," Ilya said, satisfied.
He finished the burger.
The phone stayed on the table.
Nobody mentioned it again.