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Ilya

The team is in flight when the news breaks. As the plane taxies to the gate, the cabin comes alive with a chorus of buzzing and beeping and chimes as phones come out of airplane mode to an avalanche of notifications, all reporting the same thing.

The Montreal Metros plane lost contact with air traffic control after declaring an emergency somewhere over Alberta.

Headlines across their sport and the Canadian press report the same basic facts, the same lack of details. The pilot reported a mechanical failure, signaled his intention to find a spot suitable for an emergency landing. Then nothing. The plane dropped off radar and didn’t make further radio contact. Search and rescue crews are en route to the flight’s last known location to try to locate the crippled plane.

Shane is out there somewhere. Maybe scared. Maybe hurt. Maybe -

Ilya can’t even bring himself to think it. He reaches for the cross under his shirt, grips it so hard it cuts into his palm. He fights back the panic that threatens to choke him, retreats behind the blank mask that fooled his father and infuriated his brother for so many years. The mask of fine. Of Russian stoicism and untouchable resolve.

Inside, the not knowing is already eating away at him and they’ve barely been on the ground for ten minutes.

Outside, he looks like the same old Ilya. A little tense from the rough road trip, maybe. Frustrated by being a great player on a dismal team. No different from any other day in Ottawa.

His teammates are distracted as they gather their things and disembark, refreshing their screens to check for updates or frantically texting their own loved ones to reassure them that the Centaurs made it home safely.

No one notices when Ilya slips off without a word.

He throws his bag in the back of his Porsche and peels out as he leaves the parking garage. The car really is a ridiculous choice for a Canadian winter but as the engine purrs he can’t regret not bringing his more sensible SUV to the airport. The feel of power as he accelerates past the speed limit does something to mute the buzzing building in his mind.

Sex. Drinking. Driving too fast.

The only ways he knows to cope when the world gets to be too much. He’d never cheat but he can still have two of the three.

Without meaning to, he misses the turn off for his neighborhood. Speeds up on the empty highway. The sportscar hugs the sweeping curve of the road. The number on the speedometer creeps ever higher.

He’s halfway to the cottage before he realizes where he’s gone. It is dark here, away from the city. The leaden sky of evening long since replaced with pure, inky black. Not a single star penetrates the thick layer of clouds.

The front wheels hit an invisible patch of ice. The car slides to the right as the road bends left. For a heartbeat, Ilya thinks about letting go. About not trying to steer out of the skid. About letting speed and recklessness carry him headlong into the trees lining the shoulder.

One thing stops him: the thought of Shane, fighting to survive whatever is happening in the Alberta wilderness only to come home to the news that Ilya gave up on him so quickly.

Carefully he brings the Porsche back under control and eases off the gas. As long as there’s even the slimmest chance that Shane will come back to him, he’ll hold the darkness at bay.

He stops at a liquor store, buys two large bottles of a passable Russian vodka. Not the good stuff, that’s hard to find. But it’ll do for a night like this.

Then he’s navigating the long, rough road to the cottage itself, cursing the Porsche every time he hits a rut deep enough to worry about it bottoming out. Shane’s boring Jeep is so much better out here.

Eventually he pulls up to the front door. Enters the code on the lock and lets himself into the cool darkness of the place that holds so many of his happiest memories. The air inside smells a little stale after so many months closed up, waiting for summer to return. He doesn’t bother turning the heat up to something more reasonable. Only drags himself up the stairs and crawls under the heavy comforter, a bottle of vodka clutched in one hand and his phone in the other.

His screen is full of social media notifications and news alerts but no texts, no calls. No one has reached out to him directly. Why would they? The only people who know what Ilya is going through are dealing with their own fear and worry. They’re Shane’s people, not his.

He navigates to the Twitter feed of an Ottawa paper he trusts, looking for updates. There’s nothing, only the same bare-bones story that greeted him at the airport hours ago. He takes a long pull from the bottle in his hand and refreshes the screen.

In the back of his mind, a plan begins to take shape without his consent. A mental inventory of the pills in his bag, the ones left behind in the medicine cabinet of the cottage. The anti-depressants he still hasn’t told Shane about. The sleep aid his doctor prescribed for the worst nights. The anti-anxiety medication Shane’s team doctor suggested that Shane refuses to take. It isn’t much but Ilya thinks it would be enough.

He thinks of Irina then. Of her hand, grey and limp. It isn’t enough to change his mind but it is enough to spur a fierce determination that it not be someone who cares that finds him.

The screen refreshes again. Still nothing. The bottle is almost empty.

Ilya drifts off to sleep, clinging to the last faint, flickering bit of hope with all the strength he can muster.

Yuna

Yuna Hollander does not understand inaction. Her default method of dealing with the world is to manage and negotiate and reason it into submission. So when she gets the news that her only son’s plane has gone missing, she cannot simply sit at home and wait for news.

She books the first flight to Calgary.

David follows because that’s what David does, carried along in the wake of the force of nature that is his wife. Her fierceness will find a way to be useful. And he’ll be there when she needs a safe place to rest, someone to hold her up while she takes on the world.

The command center for the search and rescue operation is a hotel conference room. Immediately, Yuna finds someone in charge who is willing to give her a task. Communication and coordination are her strengths, and the feeling of doing something eases the sharp-edged fear that grows bigger with every hour that passes.

At dusk, they scale the search back to a monitoring posture. They’ll start again at dawn.

Yuna doesn’t sleep. She listens to the low hum of radio chatter, monitoring flight communications for any report of fires or other signs of the plane. She paces and she thinks and she tries not to imagine life without the son who has been the center of her world for almost three decades.

Her phone buzzes constantly, a stream of well-wishes from family and friends and the many, many people in the hockey world who know her almost as well as they know Shane. She powers it off. The only people she needs to hear from are in this room.

Jackie

The WAGs gather in the Pike house as though by psychic connection. No one decides that’s where they’ll wait for news about the team plane. They just show up, drawn by friendship and shared fear and habit.

Jackie is the unofficial team hostess. Of course they’d gravitate to her home at a time like this.

She’s going out of her mind with worry for Hayden but trying to shelter the kids from the heavy atmosphere of worry that consumes the adults. They’re in the basement playroom with a handful of other players’ kids, having what must seem to them like the world’s best sleepover. Someone ordered pizza. Someone else brought their nanny along to help out. Downstairs is laughter and the familiar words of a Disney movie. Upstairs, the women wait anxiously.

A representative from the league is checking in every 30 minutes, reporting back on the latest from the search effort even when there is nothing new to say. It is better than waiting for the phone to ring, not knowing when the next update will come.

One by one, the kids get tired. Moms put little ones to sleep in beds and pack-and-plays and couches and recliners. A few of the women leave. Most stay, passing a sleepless night in the company of people who understand the unique hell they’re currently going through.

Yuna

The first chatter about wreckage spotted in a remote section of forest comes on the heels of the sunrise. Some fragment of the plane, made visible by the morning light reflecting off of polished metal.

The next hours pass like years. Like lifetimes.

The crash site is heavy wilderness, the trees too dense to scout effectively from the air and the roads blocked by winter snows. It takes hours to get a helicopter crew mobilized to scour the area, on foot if need be, in search of the body of the plane and any potential survivors.

By 9 a.m., the hopeful energy from that first sighting has dissipated. A wing fragment, nothing more. Still no sign of the cabin section and the odds of survival in the depths of a mountain winter get worse with every passing hour.

Just after 10, another flurry of activity. Muffled conversations over the radio. Requests to switch to a secured channel. Yuna’s stomach sinks. David’s eyes burn.

They found the plane, crumpled at the bottom of a cliff and half-buried in snow. There are no signs of life.

Yuna looks lost. With nothing left to do, no action to take to fix this, the animation drains out of her like someone pulled a plug. David holds her up, physically and emotionally. Half carries her upstairs to their unused room and holds her as she cries herself to sleep.

She doesn’t wake again until the next morning.

Jackie

The call from the team comes in just after noon.

She’s expecting it. Somewhere deep down, she feels like she knew all along.

They found the plane. Her husband is dead. They all are, a whole team of loud, boisterous, unstoppable hockey players just… gone.

The news ripples through the house like the tide, faces that held onto composure all night cracking with grief. The kids know now that something’s wrong. And one by one, each family drifts away to handle their loss in their own way.

As grateful as Jackie was for the company through the endless hours of waiting, she’s relieved when she’s alone with her children at last. This, at least, is familiar. This is what she does. She holds down the fort while Hayden is away. Only this time, he’s not coming back.

Tears stream down her face as she tries to figure out how to break the news to the kids. How can she possibly explain death in a way they will understand? They’re too young. It is too much to ask of them.

Ruby is the first to notice her distress. She crawls into Jackie’s lap and strokes her hair softly. Before long, she finds herself at the center of a pile made of all four of her children, their warm little bodies a physical shield between her and the tragedy unfolding in the Alberta mountains.

Telling them can wait a little longer, she decides. And with the sleepless night catching up to her fast, she lets herself nap with her babies the way she did when they were very small.

Ilya

The first thing Ilya reaches for when he pries open his bleary eyes is the vodka. The second is his phone.

Even before he unlocks the screen, he knows what he’s going to find. He can feel it. Shane is gone. He’s gone and he’s never coming back.

The headline that greets him confirms his worst fears.

Wreckage of Metros plane located in Alberta wilderness

The article goes on to describe in more detail than Ilya needed the condition of the plane, found in pieces at the bottom of a ravine. The crash triggered an avalanche that buried the bulk of the plane’s body, concealing it from searchers. A preliminary report from the scene suggests none of the passengers survived the impact.

That should be a relief, right? Shane didn’t suffer. Didn’t freeze to death, hurt and stranded in the deep mountain snows.

What kind of fucked up consolation is that? Ilya drains the last of the vodka and lets it wash away the morbid thought.

Before long, biological necessity drives him out from the weak comfort of the bed he and Shane once shared. It is cold in the room, the heat still set just warm enough to keep pipes from freezing. He rummages in a drawer for something to pull on over his thin t-shirt and finds one of Shane’s old jerseys. He brings it to his face and breathes deep, searching for a hint of Shane’s familiar scent, but there’s nothing. He pulls it on anyway.

Vodka. Somewhere in the house, there’s more vodka. He stumbles a little getting to the bathroom, trying to remember where he left the second bottle. It isn’t there. The pills are. He stares at them, the plan forming again in his mind. More detailed now. More focused.

He puts the pill bottle in his pocket before staggering down the stairs in search of the drink he’s craving.

Time stretches and warps as Ilya drinks and watches the clouds cast shadows on the floor through the glass wall of the back of the cottage. Maybe hours pass. Maybe days. Maybe years. He doesn’t move. Not until the vodka is nearly gone and his eyelids are drooping.

That’s when he reaches for the pills. Three bottles, lined up neatly on the coffee table.

Are they enough to do what he needs them to do? He doesn’t know. But he has a backup plan.

He pours the pills into one of the rocks glasses Shane bought because they reminded him of that night in Vegas. Of the glass Ilya sipped vodka out of while Shane put on a show.

Ilya never understood why Shane would want to remember that night when Ilya treated him so poorly. But that was the miracle of Shane. He understood, and he loved Ilya fiercely even when Ilya didn’t deserve it.

The thought makes him hesitate, just for a moment. Shane wouldn’t want this for him. Wouldn’t want him to give up.

He tries to imagine it. Waking up tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow for the next fifty years in a world without Shane Hollander. Lacing up his skates knowing he’ll never see Hollander on the other side of the face-off circle. Going back to fucking strangers just to feel some sliver of closeness to another living person.

He can’t do it.

His hand shakes as he types out a series of texts in Russian. No note. His English isn’t working well enough for that. Even if it was, what would he write? The world doesn’t need to know why. Loving Shane is a secret he’ll take to the grave.

Jane is gone.

Soon, I will follow. I will always follow where he goes, even to the other world.

I am sorry, Sveta. I love you.

He checks the time before hitting send. It is the middle of the night in Moscow. She won’t see the messages until morning, and by then it will be too late.

The phone clatters to the countertop. That’s done. He takes the glass of pills and what’s left of the vodka and pads silently out the patio door. The cushions are put away for the season, but the cozy seat where he once laid in Shane’s lap and told him about Irina is waiting for him. He sinks heavily onto the cold, bare metal and lifts the glass to his lips. He can only choke down a half dozen or so pills at a time, the vodka easing the way a little, but soon enough the glass is empty.

His head droops, his eyelids heavy. With the last of his energy, he stretches out across the seat. He can almost feel Shane’s hand in his hair, the flickering warmth of a fire burning in the firepit that now holds only snow. He wraps a hand around his cross and closes his eyes, offering up one last desperate prayer that he’ll see Shane again in the next life.

Jackie

Jackie Pike bolts upright from a dream of shrieking metal and roaring flame.

The house has that deep hush that tells her it is very late, or very early. A quick glance at the clock on the nightstand confirms this. It is just after midnight. She managed a whole three hours of sleep, but after that nightmare, she knows she’s not going to get any more.

She pads out to the kitchen and puts the kettle on for tea, letting her mind wander back to the many, many happy times her family has shared in this space. And from amid those memories, a thought snags in her brain.

Ilya.

How is he holding up? Does he have anyone looking after him, the way the WAGs looked after one another as they waited for news? Do any of his friends even know who Shane was to him?

She only hesitates for a moment before dialing his number. No answer.

Worry settles in her gut, bitter and unsettled. She can’t shake the sense that someone needs to make sure he’s okay.

Working on pure instinct, fully aware that this might be nothing more than her grief looking for an outlet in action, she shoots a text to Lisa Hayes. She works odd hours. Maybe she's awake. Maybe she would know if Ilya’s with his team. The reply comes almost immediately.

Wyatt said he didn’t show for the team meeting today. No one has talked to him since the airport yesterday.

Dread coils in her stomach as she dials his number again. Then again. It rings out, then goes to the familiarly obnoxious voicemail greeting that is pure Rozanov.

Hi. This is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.

There’s only one other person Jackie can think to call but she isn’t sure if she should. Maybe it can wait until morning. Yuna and David are already dealing with so much, losing their only son. They don’t need her waking them in the middle of the night over unfounded worries.

But she remembers the way Yuna talks about her boys. The way Ilya bragged when she called him her number one son. And she thinks Yuna would understand her fear, even if it turns out to be nothing.

She dials.

Yuna

Midnight phone calls never bring good news.

That’s Yuna’s first thought when her phone lights up on the kitchen counter in the small hours of the morning. A moment of normal parental worry followed by the crushing realization that it can’t be Shane, can’t be about Shane. She’s already gotten the worst news imaginable about her son.

But when she sees Jackie Pike’s name on the display, she answers.

“Jackie, what’s wrong?”

Stupid question. Everything is wrong. Yuna lost her son. Jackie lost her husband. But Jackie understands in that way that women do. Yuna isn’t asking about the big picture. She’s asking about this call, about why the younger woman dialed her number in the middle of the night, about what it is that can’t wait until morning.

“Have you talked to Ilya?”

Yuna has to catch herself on the counter. God, she’s a horrible mother. She didn’t even think to check in on the one person who meant more to Shane than anything else in the world. Didn’t do the one thing that Shane would have expected of her in a time like this.

“I just got back from Calgary. I - I wanted to be there in case -.” The words sound like the weakest of excuses.

“He isn’t answering his phone. His team hasn’t seen him since the news broke.”

“I have a key to his house. I’m on my way there now.” Yuna doesn’t stop to get dressed, just tugs boots on over her sleep pants, shrugs into a jacket and grabs her purse. “Can you - ?”

“I’ll stay on the phone.”

Neither woman says the thing that they’re both thinking. Ilya wouldn’t hurt himself, would he?

No. He wouldn’t. He knows what his mother’s suicide did to him. He wouldn’t do that to the people who love him. Only… Does he even know how many people love him? Not because he’s Shane Hollander’s boyfriend but because he’s a sweet, charming, loyal young man who is impossible not to love?

Maybe not. Maybe he’s feeling alone in this the way he felt alone in Ottawa, in keeping the secret of his relationship with Shane.

Yuna drives faster.

The house is dark when she arrives. She lets herself in anyway, but the heavy silence tells her he isn’t there. Rather than check every room, she starts with the garage. There’s an empty space where Ilya’s ridiculous electric blue Porsche usually sits.

“He’s not here.” The words echo a little, sounding hollow.

“Is there anywhere else? A bar, maybe? Or one of the guys who might not have talked to Wyatt?”

Jackie is grasping at straws. They both know Ilya wouldn’t want to be surrounded by people. Wouldn’t want to have to keep up the Rozanov act. Yuna sits with that for a beat before it occurs to her that she does know where her adopted son would go to hide from the world. The place where he and Shane hid from the world every summer, the place where they came closest to living their relationship out loud.

“The cottage.”

Driving there herself would take too long, but Yuna Hollander is not one to let little details like geography get in the way of what needs to be done. She says a rushed goodbye to Jackie and then places two calls. Within minutes, she has the supervising officer from the provincial police post closest to the cottage on the line assuring her that one of his patrol cars is already en route.

She hopes this is all for nothing. That her phone will light up any minute with a call from an angry Russian kid who just wants to be left alone to grieve in peace. But that call never comes.

Hockey phenom Ilya Rozanov dead at 29

Ottawa Centaurs star center Ilya Rozanov was found dead at a Quebec vacation property belonging to his friend and charity co-founder Shane Hollander.

Provincial police discovered Rozanov unresponsive at the home at approximately 2 a.m, following a call requesting a welfare check at the address. In a brief statement to the press, a department spokesperson said only that there is no suspicion of foul play and that the investigation is ongoing.

The news hits a sport still reeling from the loss of 38 members of the Montreal Metros organization in an Alberta plane crash earlier this week. Shane Hollander was among the players killed in that tragedy.

The circumstances of Rozanov’s death are unknown but speculation is rampant among the hockey community. The foundation he and former rival Hollander founded focuses on suicide prevention and mental health, and he spoke candidly about naming the charity in honor of his mother who died by suicide.

“Ilya Rozanov was a generational talent on the ice and an exceptional leader in the locker room. He was the kind of man who signed on to help build something from the ground up when he could have gone to any Cup contender. He believed in this team and in the future of Ottawa hockey, and his team and his city loved him in return. He will be deeply missed,” the Centaurs organization wrote in an early morning press release.

Within hours of the news breaking online, a makeshift memorial had sprung up at the main entrance to the Ottawa arena. Fans gathered to light candles, leave notes and trinkets, and share their grief over the death of a man who had become the face of a team determined to shake off years of mediocrity.

“He was the kind of man who brings a signed jersey to a sick kid in the hospital,” said one fan, pointing to the signature on the jersey she’s wearing. “He really cared. About the game, about the team, about people.”

Troy

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Harris Drover asks for at least the third time.

“Not at all. I’m doing it anyway.”

They’ve spent two days working together almost non-stop on Troy’s video statement, knowing full well that it is going to cause an uproar in the league. He’s well past caring about the fallout. When the commissioner himself stepped in to order the Ottawa organization to downplay what he called the “suicide speculation” and avoid “public spectacle”, Troy lost the ability to give even a singular fuck about what the league will think about anything he says or does.

He has approval for what he’s about to do from the only people who matter - his coach, his teammates, his front office, and, unbelievably, Yuna Hollander. She cried when he brought the idea to her and hugged him in a way he didn’t realize he needed until this tiny, fierce woman nearly squeezed the life out of him.

“Okay. So, the plan hasn’t changed. We post to your personal Instagram. The team can’t boost the message, not with Crowell’s gag rule in place, but the guys will reshare on theirs. So will Yuna, I’m sure.” Harris sounds as nervous as Troy feels. “Don’t engage with the comments. We’ll respond when media requests come in, but we’re not feeding the trolls. Got it?”

“Got it.” Troy blows out a heavy breath. “Let’s do this.”

“Okay.” Harris takes Troy’s phone from his hand. “Posting in three, two - “

“Wait!” Troy interrupts.

Harris is looking at him in that devastatingly gentle way he has, steady and patient as ever. Nerves that have nothing to do with video statements or coming out or belatedly standing up for his teammate flutter in his stomach as he closes the space between them and finally does the thing he’s been aching to do for months. He kisses Harris Drover until they’re both breathless.

“Now you can post it,” Troy whispers. And Harris does.

Video:

Ottawa Centaurs player Troy Barrett sits on a bench in the locker room, speaking directly to the camera. Behind him is the untouched cubby labeled with the name and number of late team captain Ilya Rozanov, who died on January 9.

Transcript:

When I came to Ottawa, I never thought it would look like this. After what happened in Toronto, I hoped to keep my head down here and focus on the game. But for the second time in my career, I find myself unable to keep silent when there’s something important that needs to be said.

Ilya Rozanov was a beast on the ice. The kind of player everyone wants on his line and no one wants to face off against. He was my captain and, I think, my friend. One of the first to welcome me to Ottawa with an open mind and a willingness to give me a chance despite my past behaviour. And I feel like I owe it to him to say this now.

Rozanov didn’t have to die. His death is a consequence of the price this sport demands from men like him. Like Shane Hollander. Like Scott Hunter.

Like me.

That price is secrecy. Silence. Isolation. Struggling alone in the dark because you’re not allowed to be yourself in the light.

Ilya Rozanov lost the man he loved when the Metros plane went down. Imagine yourself in that position, losing your wife or your husband or your partner. The person you built your whole life around. Now imagine even your closest friends don’t know that you’ve lost anything at all.

Every member of this Centaurs team would have rallied around Rozanov if we knew he needed us. Every. Single. One. Instead, he faced an unimaginable loss alone because our sport, the sport we all love, doesn’t love us back if we admit to being queer.

And alone, he gave in to hopelessness.

It is up to those of us he left behind to find a way to live with that. This message is how I begin to do that, by dragging the ugly parts into the light. The homophobia, the stigma of seeking help, all the macho bullshit that tells young players coming up that it is better to be a womanizer or even a sexual predator than to be gay or admit to human emotions.

We need to be better than that. For the current players who suffer in silence and for the next generation who model themselves after the example we set. I’m done with looking the other way, and I hope some of you out there will join me to start making hockey the inclusive, beautiful game I know it can be.