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When Rose was 16, she had her first boyfriend. Well, the first one that felt real. The first one that she’d count when asked as an adult.
His name was Lucas, and he had pretty green eyes and a crooked smile. They were playing opposite one another as Seymour and Audrey in her high school’s production of Little Shop of Horrors. It made sense, really. They dated for three months after the production, and while she was hearing stories about her friends and their boyfriends, she was realizing that the same could not be said of her and Lucas.
They broke up, and when she checked his Facebook a couple years later, he was happily in a relationship with a guy named Jake. They seemed perfectly happy. And Rose was happy for them.
But it became a pattern. And a joke, between her and her friends. Rose dates gay guys. She’s had countless boyfriends reach out after they’ve broken up to apologize for being gay. It must be because she dates actors, and she picks the ones who aren’t misogynistic assholes. Pretty low bar for fucking Hollywood.
That was why she pivoted. She likes hockey, of any of the sports for her to choose from, hockey is the one she actually likes. Not football, or baseball. She grew up in a hockey family, and meeting Shane feels like a good option. Nevermind the fact that he seems keen on outrunning his shadow, or that there’s something in his expression every so often that feels a bit too far away from her. Or the fact that he can barely get it up for them to have sex.
She thinks maybe it’s the stress of the season. Maybe a night like this one, where they can go dancing and he can let loose after a win, it’ll be fine. It’ll actually work out, and she won’t have to listen to Miles imply she’s ended up with another gay boyfriend.
Shane peels out in the blink of an eye. One second, he’s said he’s going to grab a ginger ale from the bar, and the next, she’s watching him dart out the door without saying goodbye. Miles raises an eyebrow, and she moves to chase him out. Through the throes of hockey players, she watches him escape out the doors. “Shane!”
She watches him stop outside the club doors and take in a shuddering breath. “Are you okay?”
Shane turns around to look at her, and worries his lip between his teeth. “I’m sorry, Rose. I’m not feeling well. I… I have to go home. I’m so sorry.”
She knows Shane isn’t sick. But she also sees something there, in that far off and vacant look in his eye. She wraps her arms around Shane’s middle and hangs on for a minute. “We’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll text you.”
“You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?” Shane asks, a bit vacantly. His voice is shaky.
“You’re a great friend, Shane. But I’m in a very sexy dress that my friends said should be lethal, and it’s clearly not doing anything for you.”
“Rose, I…”
“I have an idea. Why don’t we meet tomorrow for brunch, and we can talk all of this out.”
She looks at Shane and he sniffles, wiping at his face. “I’m really sorry, Rose.”
“No. It’s okay, seriously. Some people are just not compatible.”
Shane nods his head. “I can explain tomorrow, I just… can’t stay here.”
And with that, Rose ends her relationship with Shane, walks him to his car down the street, and turns around to walk back inside.
That is when she hears it.
Look, Rose went to theatre school. She’s lived the dorm life, and partied with other childhood Hollywood starlets. She has heard her fair share of throwing up, held back enough hair to last a lifetime, and has comforted sobbing friends outside of the club what feels like a million times.
However, she has never ducked into the alley to check on someone throwing up, and found Ilya Rozanov.
He’s got a hand braced against the wall and is hunched all the way over, only lit by streetlights, his hand that isn’t bracing the wall is cradling a cigarette. Right. They played Boston. And Ilya Rozanov is the most notorious ladies man in the NHL. Of course he’s here. “Jesus. Are you okay?” She asks.
Rozanov turns to her with a look in his eye bordering on wild. He looks pained, and his eyes are full of unshed tears. Whether it’s from the throw up or something else, Rose can’t tell. He looks like shit, though.
“Fuck.” He says, looking back down. Rose approaches slowly, like she’s approaching a wounded animal. “You should not be here, Rose Landry.” He says her name with respect, but underneath it there’s something bitter that she can’t parse.
Rose scoffs. Men.
“You and Shane might have this rivalry thing going on, but I know for a fact that he wouldn’t care about that stupid rivalry when you’re throwing up out here. Besides, I sent him home. And I’d really rather not be liable if you’re found out here with alcohol poisoning and need your stomach pumped.”
“Is fine.” He argues. “I am Russian. Russians are born to drink. Stupid Montreal with its stupid vodka.” a tear rolls down Rozanov’s cheek, and his lip fucking quivers. So, not crying because of the gagging. Something else.
“Are you here alone?”
Rozanov shakes his head. “Well, I wasn’t. My team… left. Past few months I have been… not good.” his words stumble a little, before he wretches again. Jesus. “I should not be telling you this… Hollander would not approve. Would not be right of me, talking to his girlfriend.” Rozanov spits the word girlfriend out and closes his eyes like saying it is a physical blow. Two fat tears fall when he does, glinting in the low alley light. What a fucking mess.
“Look, I’m gonna level with you.” Rose starts, “I hate Boston. I hate your team, and I hate everything you stand for. But I would hate it even more to watch someone cry in an alleyway and not try to help even a little bit. Shane left, he went home. He’s not gonna know about any of this unless we get papped. And we won’t get papped if I call my car and we go get some greasy food and sit on a curb somewhere.”
“Why are you helping me?” Rozanov asks, staring at the wall instead of her.
“Just a gut feeling, I guess.”
Rozanov seems to ruminate on that one for a minute, before straightening up and following Rose out of the alleyway.
Which is how she finds herself sitting inside a shawarma restaurant across from Ilya Rozanov in Old Montreal, of all people and places, watching his face as he tries to figure out how to have feelings. Something made him throw up in that alleyway, and she’s guessing it’s not the loss of the game, or the liquor.
“Shane… He would not like it if I told you this.”
Shane.
Hm.
“Seriously? Why do you care, what’s your deal, Rozanov?”
“He is a good guy. Rival, yes. But… a good guy. I would not want to stress him out more by him knowing I spoke to you, would probably really put him off his game, and he is the only person worth playing hockey against.”
Fair. “Hmm. Well, this can be our secret, then.” She says. “I have a feeling you’ve got something rattling around in that head of yours. Especially since all your hockey friends left you at the club. You’re the team captain, isn’t that worth anything?”
“Not when I have spent the past few months making everyone else miserable because I am miserable.”
Rozanov starts to fidget, looking down at his can of coke on the table. He traces a drop of condensation. “I need a cigarette.”
Rose tails him out of the restaurant in hopes he doesn’t peel off in regret of showing up here in the first place. He parks himself on the curb and offers her a cigarette and his lighter. Hell, with this conversation she definitely needs it. He’s already taken several long drags off of his own, and he’s got that teary look in his eyes again.
“My team… they are very upset with me. They love me. And they know I am going through things… but that is no excuse to treat them poorly. They are family.” he clears his throat. “I used to see… a girl. Here, in Montreal. I took her for granted for many years. Was not… the nicest. Or the easiest. And it was fun, for a while. The both of us, we did not take it too seriously, yes? Until… well…”
“One of you caught feelings?”
Rozanov points at himself. “I did. I caught feelings. I said something stupid, and I scare her away. My fault.”
“How’d you scare her?”
“Asked too many questions… for us it is complicated. To be together is impossible. And… you know me, I am sure. Ilya Rozanov. I see many, many sexy women, but she is… special.”
“I don’t think that it’s necessarily impossible for you to be with someone just because they’re from Montreal.”
“Circumstances.” He says, before swearing under his breath and taking a long drag off of his dying cigarette. “I should not be telling you this.”
Rose huffs. “Look, we can talk entirely in hypotheticals here. And I’m not going to tell a soul.”
Rozanov nods, mostly to himself. “Hypothetically… I am Russian, yes?”
“Sure. Hypothetically.”
“I am Russian. And the she I am seeing… is not a she… a he.”
Oh.
“Oh.”
“Problem?” he asks, like he’s scared Rose is going to out him or do something evil when he’s trusting her with this.
“No, no problem.”
“I like both, the women, they are great. And for many years, it worked, I could try to forget about him… but it is him that I love.” He says, pulling his legs up closer to him protectively, resting his chin on one of his knees. “I did not mean to. I tried very hard not to, but I do love him. I am sorry.” he looks away. “I am very sorry.”
Why is he apologizing to her?
Oh. Oh.
“I scared him away. It was my fault. How about I talk about girls with the guy I am seeing, instead of just being honest about my feelings? Is stupid. I tried… tried to think of it all as simple. But it is not.”
“The best things hardly ever are.”
“It is over now, anyways. Too bad, so sad. Seems easy enough for him… hypothetically, of course. He is a big shot, makes lots of money. Dates movie stars.”
There it is.
“Shane and I broke up an hour ago. For the record.”
Rozanov doesn’t bat an eye at that. “I am sorry.”
“I would say it’s not your fault, but I don’t know if that’s all the way true.”
“Shane is… boring and perfect.” Rozanov says. “Is not… good, for me. My life is too complicated. He deserves something easy.”
“Is that what he wants, though?”
“I don’t think that matters very much to Shane.” Rozanov says. “He will do what is expected of him. Be who everyone wants him to be.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to get that.”
“It isn’t possible. And I accepted that, I thought. But I saw him tonight and it just…”
“All came back up?”
Rozanov at least gives that a chuckle. She considers that a win. “Yes. It is hard to pretend you are scary and mean when the girl you are dancing with has a boyfriend and the man you want is dancing with his girlfriend. But it is not your cross to bear. Now you are in the middle of all of this, and I am sorry.”
Rose nods, feeling emboldened enough to put her hand on Rozanov’s shoulder. “Love is complicated. Feelings, too. Can I ask… how long?”
“Forever. If you’re asking the specifics then… seven years, give or take.”
Jesus Christ. How is she in the middle of this gay hockey drama?
“Look,” Rose starts, ashing the forgotten cigarette between her fingers. “You’ve gone through a lot, clearly. And this is a huge thing, a fucking insane thing. But… what I know is that… if you love him, and I mean, really love him, you have to just go for it.”
Rozanov shakes his head. “No. It won’t work. I appreciate the advice but… I would not do that to him. He is worth more than me.”
Before Rose can continue the conversation, Rozanov is standing up and dusting himself off to leave. “I have to go. Early flight.”
“Just think about it. Actually.” She says as a bookend.
And with that, Rozanov vanishes into the Montreal night.
…
Rose is very drunk.
It’s not her fault, really. It’s the champagne and celebration, and the others have brought fancy scotch as a gift to the newlyweds.
She finds herself kicking her heels off and laying down in the plush and manicured grass. The sun is setting and it’s getting all dusky, her heart is full with everything surrounding her.
She hears the sound of someone else laying down beside her, the smell of cologne, and a deep contented sigh.
“You’re going to be all grass stained, and then Shane will kill us both.”
Ilya laughs. “Eh, not today, probably.”
She turns her head towards Ilya. His suit jacket has been long forgotten, and the sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up. His hair, which was perfect this morning, is disheveled, and Rose knows that it’s because of Shane based on the fact that she interrupted them making out in the kitchen while everyone was mingling outside.
As it turned out, after Ilya vanished into the night, she did meet Shane for brunch. He was apologetic as ever, and told her that he knew the sex was a problem, but that he would work on it because he liked her.
I know you like me, Shane. And I like you, too. But there’s someone you love, and it’s not me.
Shane looked at her in horror, eyes filled with tears, and stared downwards at the omelette on his plate. It’s not… I don’t know what to say.
Rose, for what it was worth, sat across from Shane and told him there’s nothing wrong with you, or who you are. But what I do know is that you’re just as deserving as anyone else of love, and hiding from it is only going to make you miserable.
That day, Rose told Shane that she could use another friend, and that he definitely needed more girlfriends in his life. A few months later, Scott Hunter kissed his boyfriend on the ice, and Shane texted her to thank her for being there for him. Then she got wind of the news that Ilya Rozanov was going to Ottawa, and met the guy for the first time, according to Shane. They sat on the porch of Shane’s cottage and drank sangria, and neither Rose nor Ilya told Shane of that night that they first met.
They didn’t need to, not really. Rose is sure that whether she had sat on that curb with Ilya or not, that at some point she’d end up here. Some things are just inevitable, she thinks.
“I never did thank you.” Ilya says. “For the chat. For sitting with me. It was a very weird time in my life. I was very alone, in my head.”
“You know I can’t take any credit, right? None of this would have happened without you and Shane deciding to be brave.”
“Nah, if you hadn’t pulled my head out of my ass, who knows where I’d be right now.” a third voice chimes in. Shane is standing over them with a glass of champagne in his hand, and a small smile on his face.
Ilya raises a hand out towards Shane. “Join us.”
“You’re going to stain your nice shirt.” Shane says reproachfully. Rose laughs.
“See, I told you.”
“My love,” Ilya starts. “It is our wedding day. Please lay in the grass with your favourite ex girlfriend and favourite ex boyfriend.”
“You’re my husband.”
“And, as your husband, I want you to come and lay with us in the grass. Is nice, Shane.”
Shane relents, laying down with his head on one of Ilya’s thighs. Ilya looks over at Rose, who just smiles back. He mouths it, thank you. And Rose just shakes her head. No thanks necessary.