Chapter Text
Ilya shivered in the chilly grayness of the March afternoon. He was standing next to Svetlana and staring down at the ground. Or, rather, the hole in the ground that his dead father was being lowered into. The priest was speaking softly, chanting a hymn that did not mean anything to Ilya. There were only a few people who had come to the actual gravesite to put Grigori Rozanov to rest - Ilya, Svetlana, Ilya’s brother Alexei and his wife, and a few other government officials Ilya barely knew. His late father’s wife, Polina, had come to the church but had not bothered to show up to the cemetery to bury her husband.
The casket was dark wood, gilded on the edges, with ornately patterned carvings in the lid. Ostentatious and expensive, just as Papa would have wanted. Ilya had paid for it, in addition to getting a plot for his father to be buried with his own parents, as he would have wanted as well. It cost a lot of money, especially on such short notice. Not that anyone else in Ilya’s life appreciated his efforts. They had demanded even more money from him the second he arrived to dinner straight from the airport after getting into Moscow. Polina had asked him for $25,000 USD, casually, like he owed it to her. His brother had also demanded Ilya continue to fund his apartment and give him extra money “for his wife and child”, which Ilya knew really meant for Alexei’s vodka and cocaine habits.
In a scorched earth effort to cut ties completely, Ilya gave Polina the money she asked for, with a curt note that she was never to contact him again. He promised Alexei his own Moscow apartment after he left, and set up a trust for his niece that she could access upon turning 18. Back at his father’s house, he snuck a tarnished silver photo frame into his bag. He didn’t want the photo of his father and Polina in the frame, but he remembered that it had been a frame that had existed in the house when his mother was still alive, and it was just a tiny piece of her that he could still give himself.
Standing in the cemetery, Ilya was not sure how to feel, this being the last time he would ever be with his father. He hadn’t ever enjoyed spending time with the man. Most of his memories of Grigori were of a hard, angry, bitter person. Someone who demanded excellence and still found ways to criticize even when excellence was delivered. Ilya had been very young when Grigori’s tempers turned toward his youngest child. He learned quickly to say as little as possible in his father’s presence, lest the back of his father’s hand connect with his face. Grigori had allowed Ilya to learn hockey as a kid at his mother’s insistence and had only allowed him to remain in the sport if he was the best. He had excelled beyond almost anyone else in his generation, certainly from Russia and maybe from the world, except for one Shane Hollander. And still it had not been enough for Grigori. Ilya spent his whole childhood and a large portion so far of his adult life chasing his father’s approval, and he never got it.
Now he never would.
Ilya felt his eyes pricking with tears. Not for the man that Grigori Rozanov was, but for the father he wished he had been. He wished his father had been able to guide him, give him advice, speak of him proudly, maybe even love him for who he was as a person and not just use him for the money he was able to provide. Ilya pressed his lips together in a tight line and inhaled the bitingly cold air into his lungs slowly. He could not cry here. He tugged the corners of his hardened Rozanov mask in place. He sprinkled a handful of dirt onto the casket lid.
You do not have power over me anymore, Papa. Ilya thought, grabbing a second handful of dirt. As it trickled from his fingers, snowflakes began to fall, dusting the small group of darkly-clad mourners in speckles of white.
I am free. Ilya thought with finality, backing away from the gravesite. He huddled closer to Svetlana as they walked down the hill to their car.
—————
Shane drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk. He was sitting in front of his laptop after eating an early dinner, looking at his Google Calendar. It was carefully color-coded for different activities: games, practices, hockey-related meetings, sponsorship meetings and events, medical appointments, and personal tasks. He had a home game against Calgary tomorrow, and then a rare three days off in a row with some optional skates before they played an away game in New York. He re-checked Boston’s schedule despite already knowing that they also played at home tomorrow against Tampa and then had three days off before a game at New Jersey. He checked his phone again. No reply yet from “Lily”. Shane had texted a Hey, how are you? earlier, knowing that Ilya’s father’s funeral was today. He didn’t want to bother Ilya, but he did want the other man to know that he was in Shane’s thoughts.
Shane ran his tongue over the front of his teeth, dislodging a piece of parsley in his lip from the chimichurri chicken he had just finished. He gnawed on it absently as he mentally tried to play Tetris with his schedule. Despite having three days off, he had things scheduled every day. A dentist appointment, two sponsorship meetings, an interview, and a haircut spanned the three days, plus dinner with his parents. Shane wished his mother was a little less intense about packing his schedule. She was a great manager in that she secured good PR and lucrative partnerships like she was born to it, but he really wanted to leave this week open in case Ilya needed him.
His phone vibrated on the desk with a text notification from “Lily”. Shane scrambled to pick it up. It just said better now and there was an attached screenshot of a flight itinerary from Moscow to Boston. The date said it was for tomorrow morning. Doing some mental math to figure out when Ilya was getting on the plane and landing in Boston relative to Shane’s time, he realized it was already the wee hours of the morning in Moscow.
Ilya was flying home today!
That meant he should be in Boston tomorrow evening. Shane quickly pulled up a new tab and checked flights from Montreal to Boston.The game with Calgary was a daytime game, so he should be able to make an evening flight. He spotted one that would have him landing at Boston Logan around 90 minutes before Ilya’s flight was supposed to get in, and there was still one seat left. Shane glanced back at the other tab with his very full calendar on it. He closed his eyes and let his breath out slowly. Blinking his eyes open again, Shane saw the seat was still available. Without dwelling further, he clicked book. Then he pulled up his emails to start rearranging his meetings to clear his schedule.
Shane typed out a text to his mother.
Sorry mom, something came up and I have to move some things around for the next few days. I emailed the sponsors to reschedule meetings and CC’d you. I also won’t be able to make it to dinner with you and dad, sorry!
His phone buzzed again, this time Yuna calling him not two minutes after he sent the text.
“Shane, hi honey. What came up?” She asked. “I’m sure it won’t be a problem to rearrange the meetings. We’ll just wait to hear back from Reebok and Rolex. But what happened?”
“Oh. Hi, mom. Just some things that I have to do. Nothing much,” Shane lied. It was a lame excuse and he knew it, but he didn’t have anything better prepared.
Yuna paused. “--Like what things? Are you okay?”
Shane decided to try a new tactic. “Yes mom, I’m fine. Just have some of my own things to do. I’ve been so busy. I need some time when I don’t have any games going on.”
“Oh honey, why didn’t you just tell me you were tired? I’m sorry if I’ve been scheduling too many things,” Yuna apologized. “Enjoy your time off and relax. We’ll pick things back up again next week.”
“Yes, thanks mom. I have been pretty tired lately with so much going on.”
Shane was relieved she interpreted his excuse this way. It wasn’t entirely untrue. Shane had been pretty tired. March was deep in the season and with another playoff run looming in his future, hockey was not going to be letting up anytime soon. After exchanging promises to reschedule dinner too, they hung up.
He quickly fired off another message to his dentist to request a rescheduled cleaning and a text to his hairstylist asking to move his appointment out 2 weeks when he had another homestand in Montreal. Then he stood from the desk and strode to the closet where he kept extra duffel bags and suitcases. No morning skate tomorrow because of the day game, so he would have time to finish packing last minute stuff before he left for the rink. Shane chuckled to himself as he folded t-shirts into his bag. What the fuck was he doing?