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By the middle of January, hockey started to feel endless. Exhausted from the brutal schedule of practices and games and travel, players could hardly remember what summer had felt like. Those long, hot days wishing for sticks in their hands and blades on their feet faded away. They trudged to the ice where—four months ago—they had trotted out like giddy ponies.
In the relentless limbo of game after game, the life they’d all fought for began to feel more like survival. The same food every day fueled their muscles. The same drills kept their feet nimble. The same seat on the plane meant they never had to think.
Sometimes, it felt like the only things that ever changed in the middle of the season made everything worse. A winger got traded. A rookie got sent down. Someone got hurt. Each pain lashed across the numb backs of the team, an unwelcome break from the sameness.
Between the monotony and the bad news, little joys became big celebrations. They learned to acknowledge their happy days. Goals became as important as wins. Wins were like gold medals.
An eight-game win streak felt euphoric.
Zhenya burrowed into the middle of the buzzing pile when the team converged after the buzzer. Who knew what Nashville thought of their celebration. It must seem like an overreaction—piling together like they’d won something other than the game. Surrounded by black and yellow with hands patting his helmet and shoulders, Zhenya didn’t care what Nashville thought. He let his mood be buoyed by the frantic joy of his teammates all the way from the ice to the tunnel and back into the locker room.
The buzzing barely dimmed enough for Sully’s post-game speech—short and sweet. “Nice work, boys,” he said. The corner of his mouth pulled into a near smile. “Let’s keep it going.”
The coaches exited without needing to say the obvious. Zhenya could see their pride in the straight set of their shoulders, their relaxed walks. No amount of praise could equal the fierce joy in Sully’s eyes when he watched his team win.
"We should go out," Sheary said, practically shouting to be heard above the noise that had ramped back up in the room when the coaches left. When all eyes turned to him, his confidence visibly dwindled. Young and new to the league, he’d never been the ringleader of an outing before. His eyes darted cautiously to Sid, hoping for backup.
Before Sid could say a word, Tanger replied with a skeptical raise of his eyebrows. “On a school night?”
Sheary relaxed—the intended effect. No one was fooled by Tanger’s protest. They could all see the glint of mischief under his mask of disapproval.
“I mean. If you're too old,” Sheary said with a shrug and a poorly concealed grin. He barely dodged the whip of Tanger’s retaliatory towel before it left a welt on his hip. A grumble of French followed him as he escaped to the showers.
“I’m in,” a voice said above the chaos.
Recognizing it, the room fell quiet. Zhenya’s eyes followed the interest of the team as it narrowed on Phil in the stall beside him. Their surprise was justified. Phil went out with the team so infrequently that even Zhenya had him beat. Phil glared back at everyone. “What?”
“You go out?” Zhenya asked.
Phil’s shoulder jerked a defensive shrug. “Sure, I’d have a beer or two. Play some pool with a surly Russian.”
Zhenya snorted. Over a couple of seasons with Phil, he’d grown used to the insulting descriptors—surly, grumpy, pain in the ass. They were mostly said in love these days, with twinkling blue eyes.
“You cheat at pool,” Zhenya said, which they both understood as his agreement to go out.
“Yeah, well,” Phil said, scruffy cheeks tightening gleefully. “You keep playing me.”
"If Phil's going, I'm totally in," Dumo chimed in. A ripple of agreeing voices joined him, which transitioned smoothly into an argument about where to go. Between thumping clubs and quiet bars and a couple of guys who offered to host, everyone seemed to have a different idea of where the night should take them.
“I say we make it Captain's choice," Jake said, jerking a thumb at the quietest man in the room.
Sid’s head raised as he realized the attention was on him. Only then did Zhenya realize that Sid had never outwardly agreed to join them. Everyone had just assumed he would. Unlike Zhenya, Sid usually attended all team outings with at least feigned enthusiasm.
The sheepish regret in Sid’s face previewed his answer before he spoke. “Sorry, boys. Can’t do it tonight. Duty calls."
"Duty?" Zhenya blurted before thinking. He didn’t usually question Sid in front of the team, but he was taken off guard. "You captain after game too?"
A glimpse of emotion froze Sid’s smile and twisted Zhenya’s guts. Had he crossed a line? He didn’t know why Sid couldn’t go, but he hoped it wasn’t something embarrassing that Zhenya had now called attention to.
But the worrying moment passed, leaving Zhenya faced only with Sid’s uncomplicated, squinty-eyed smile. “I'm always your captain, day or night.”
“That mean we can call you if we need a ride home?” Dumo asked, smiling widely because he knew the answer.
“Sure, bud. I’ll call you the best taxi money can buy,” Sid said, eyes sparkling. “And since it’s captain’s choice, I think you guys should go to Eight-O’s.”
Zhenya was familiar with the club. It was rowdy enough to dance in but with a top floor secluded from the noise and movement. Sid always picked Eight-O’s when he got the choice, where he could sit on a leather couch and chat with his teammates and never have to hit the dancefloor once.
“Do you still get captain’s choice if you don’t go?” Phil mused beside Zhenya, but the buzzing room sounded generally pleased with the suggestion. Sid’s pick would doubtlessly be the winner.
Unlike the rest of the team, Zhenya wasn’t appeased by Sid’s brush-off. He watched Sid’s face, searching for any signal of Sid’s internal thoughts. He tended to be easy for Zhenya to read. He could tell when Sid was irritable from a tough game and wanted to sulk. It wasn’t that. But why the secrecy? If he had to be somewhere, he would have said something. Surely, Sid wasn’t just going home.
“Phil right,” Zhenya declared, wrapping a towel around his waist as he rose to go shower. Sid’s eyes found him again, his smile bemused. “You come, too. Duty later.”
“I can't, G,” Sid called after him.
Zhenya frowned as he continued into the showers. Sid sounded adamant in a way he usually reserved for going out with family. But Zhenya knew when Sid’s family was in town. Maybe Sid wasn’t feeling well. Worse, maybe he’d injured himself in the game and wanted to go home and ice it.
But there hadn’t been any sign of discomfort in Sid’s game. He didn’t look sick. Zhenya stood under the spray of warm water narrowing the possibilities and came to the only conclusion that made sense. Sid simply didn’t want to go out.
The showerhead beside Zhenya spurted into a downpour. Even a blurry glance through the droplets on his eyelashes told Zhenya the bulky body beside him was Sid. Zhenya’s fond exhale blew a mist of clear water. They knew each other well. For all that he had been watching Sid for signs of trouble, Sid had observed his concern with the same attentiveness. He hovered near Zhenya now, opening himself for conversation.
Zhenya emerged from his waterfall in time to catch Sid’s eyes darting away. “You not go watch game tape?” Zhenya asked—a dangerous question. If Sid truly planned to head home and review the game, worrying at some nagging play like a sore tooth, he would invite Zhenya. And Zhenya knew himself. He would follow Sid and stifle a few yawns through the game recap instead of dancing until midnight.
Thankfully, Sid laughed. “No, of course not,” he answered like Zhenya hadn’t seen him hovering over an iPad hundreds of times, replaying the same ten seconds of ice time until he memorized it.
“What you doing, then? You can’t come out?”
“Believe it or not, I've got a life. Barely. And I'm trying hard to keep it that way. Canceling dates isn't the way to keep the streak alive.”
Zhenya’s attention caught on the word date and hung there, hovering in confusion. “Date?”
“Don’t start,” Sid said, eyes rolling. He chuckled after, but there was a real warning in his tone. His eyes were fixed stubbornly on the tile wall while he scrubbed soap onto his chest.
“I’m not start,” Zhenya protested. He wasn’t sure why Sid seemed braced for him to be a dick about it. “It’s just, I don’t know you have girlfriend. Why you don't say to room? Boys understand that. You’re being—what’s it? Mystery."
“I’m not being mysterious. I’m allowed to have a private life. And I don't have a girlfriend.”
Zhenya’s annoyance at the vagaries came out in a huff of breath. “Sid.”
"I've got a boyfriend."
Zhenya felt as though the water hit a hot wire in his mind and shorted him out.
"So, you know," Sid shrugged and ducked his head under the water. He emerged again to rub shampoo into his hair, eyes carefully focused anywhere but Zhenya. "I’m keeping it kind of quiet for now.”
The controls for Zhenya’s body wouldn’t respond. He wanted to say something, but words flitted past him, just out of reach. As he felt a rush of lightheadedness, he worried he might not be able to keep breathing.
Zhenya’s silence did nothing to ingratiate him with Sid, who finally glanced over only to find him staring openly without a word.
"What?” Sid said with a defensive hardness to his voice. His eyes weren’t any softer, like he thought Zhenya might say something horrible.
“Nothing,” Zhenya said. The words pushed painfully through his closed throat. “I just don’t know you go on date.”
Sid’s eyes didn’t move from Zhenya’s face, but the toughness went out of them. Whatever thing he’d been braced for, he now seemed to realize Zhenya wasn’t going to drop the gloves with him. He nodded. “Yeah. I go on dates.”
Sid went on dates. Sid went on dates with men. Sid, who Zhenya thought lived and breathed and married the game of hockey, went on dates with people. Male people.
“I never know it,” Zhenya said, a jumble of words that lost all their meaning as they tripped off his tongue.
“Yeah, well,” Sid said, eyes searching Zhenya’s face. “I wasn’t really—there wasn’t anyone serious before.”
"Serious?" Zhenya’s mouth repeated before his brain could intervene. His voice sounded like a trod-on hose—squeaky and rough.
The echoed word hardened Sid’s eyes back into dark stones. This time, when he scanned Zhenya’s face for a long, heavy moment, he found what he was looking for. It didn’t make him look very happy. “We've been seeing each other since last June. That's pretty serious in my world."
Zhenya wasn’t making any moves to wash himself. He was just standing under the showerhead, staring at Sid. He kept staring even as Sid ducked his head back into the spray to rinse the shampoo and reemerged with a side-eyed glance at him. Sid seemed to think the conversation was done. Zhenya still had a million questions.
"Yo, G. Take a picture,” Murr called across the shower. “It'll last longer.”
The interjection served as a jarring reminder that Sid and Zhenya weren’t alone. They were in the communal shower, surrounded by teammates. Tucked away in a corner, their conversation had been low enough to escape notice for a while, but with others coming in, they were losing their moment.
“Who’s taking pictures?” Phil yelled as he arrived, towel slung over his shoulder, confirming Zhenya’s suspicion that his private moment with Sid was over.
“Shower selfies for Insta,” Rusty said, cackling at his own lame joke.
“Don’t give the media team any ideas, boys” Sid said, eyes crinkling with good humor for the team like he hadn’t been frustrated with Zhenya seconds before.
He was probably still frustrated, though Zhenya wasn’t entirely certain why. Because Zhenya hadn’t known about his secret boyfriend? Guilt tugged at him and said that probably wasn’t it, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Sid was dating someone. It was serious and he was keeping plans with him instead of going out with the team.
“I’m sorry,” Zhenya said before he’d wrapped his mind around what he was apologizing for. It just seemed like the right thing to say.
Sid’s smile dipped when he returned his eyes to Zhenya, but he didn’t look frustrated this time. Instead, he seemed a little bit—sad. “It’s fine, bud. I’m used to you being nosy.”
Zhenya wasn’t sorry about prying. Or, he was, but not because he had invaded Sid’s privacy. He felt sorry for himself, not Sid. He was sorry he’d learned about the secret boyfriend and equally sorry that he hadn’t been told before. He was sorry to learn that Sid kept things from him.
Seeing Zhenya’s expression made the wilting attempt to maintain a smile fall away from Sid’s face. He leaned toward Zhenya, eyebrows drawing together with worry. When he spoke, his low tone blended with the sound of running water. Nobody outside of their little space could hear him when he said, "We good?"
No, Zhenya thought as his mouth formed the word, “Yeah.” How could they be good? Sid had spent months keeping something big from him.
He could tell Sid didn’t believe him, but he also knew they couldn’t get into it. Sid glanced around the room at all the people around them. He seemed to choose his words carefully when he spoke again. "I'll go out next time, okay?"
"Sure."
Sid scanned his face with earnest concern. He obviously sensed something was still wrong, but he knew as well as Zhenya that they could no longer speak in secret—not with Tanger turning on the showerhead on Zhenya’s other side. Instead of trying to clarify, Sid dropped his gaze and nodded, then turned off his tap.
And then he was gone, off to get ready for his date. He left Zhenya behind, staring at the blank space where Sid used to be.
***
Excited chatter about the team outing rushed past Zhenya’s stall, parting at his immovable disinterest like river rapids around a rock. His thoughts remained with Sid, who had departed minutes after Zhenya left the showers. As the team laughed and shouted their way through getting dressed and doing hair, Sid was driving away from the team to have a quiet dinner with his boyfriend. Zhenya spent an inordinate amount of time pulling on each of his socks while he pondered the details.
Would they go somewhere fancy? It wasn’t really Sid’s preference, but he could class himself up when the occasion called. He’d walked out in a suit and made no mention of going home to change. He wouldn’t wear a suit to a burger joint. He stood out enough in Pittsburgh without adding to his conspicuousness.
“I’m not asking,” Phil said. He was fully dressed and had been for a while. The way he leaned back in his stall seemed casual, but Phil was often more than he seemed.
“Asking?” Zhenya said, certain he’d missed something. He’d been so preoccupied with his thoughts he hadn’t noticed when most of the team left. He and Phil were two of the last men in the room, and Zhenya still didn’t have his shoes on.
“I’m not asking what’s wrong with you,” Phil continued. “So, you might as well just tell me.”
“Why you think something’s wrong?”
“You’re sighing like a steam engine,” Phil said, evaluating him with a sidelong gaze. “You were fine before the shower. Soap piss you off?”
“No,” Zhenya said. He clipped the word to make it clear he wasn’t interested in talking and hurried to get his shoes on.
“Well, something’s wrong.”
“Nothing wrong,” Zhenya said as he jammed his feet into the leather and jumped up. “I see you at club, okay?” He didn’t wait for Phil to answer before grabbing his jacket on the way out the door.
He’d thought being away from the scrutiny would give him room to think. Instead, silence crushed him into his seat as soon as he shut his car door. He nearly wanted to open it again, to hear the faraway voices of the remaining staff and the buzz of the lights. If he did, it felt like the quiet would pour out like so much water. His arm barely moved when he lifted it to touch the start, but the rumbling turn of the engine banished some of the oppressive weight of his thoughts when he managed to start the car.
Not all, though. Zhenya’s mind still speculated about the wine Sid might order on his date as he put the car in reverse. He thought about Sid’s loud and unfiltered laugh. Sid always tried to control it in upscale social settings, which only made Zhenya try harder to coax it out. Which laugh would the boyfriend hear across that candle-lit table?
Zhenya’s tires squeaked with the force of his foot when he accelerated out of the carpark. As he joined the road away from the arena, he jabbed at the screen in his console and searched his contacts for a number—the one man who could give him the answers he wanted without telling Sid.
Flower answered the phone in two rings. "Geno!"
"Hi Flower. Need rescue yet?"
"Definitely. Come get me right away," Flower said, a thick paint of humor over the yellowing stain of real sorrow. Half a year since the move to Las Vegas, it still seemed unreal. Zhenya sometimes caught himself looking for Flower to return from hiatus and take his spot on the bench instead of appearing in some other team’s net.
“I come in the morning. Tonight, I have team stuff. Going out.”
Flower laughed at him. “You sound so miserable about it. Where are they taking you—a country bar?”
“No, it’s nice place. I like it.”
“Yes, you sound like you do,” Flower said. The amused curve of his mouth tilted his words. “So. What’s wrong?”
“Maybe nothing,” Zhenya said. He was starting to feel foolish for calling Flower. Asking about his real agenda would probably inspire even more mocking laughter than his morose feelings about going dancing. Flower might just tell him to stop being so nosy and ask Sid himself. “Maybe I just call to say hi.”
“There is a first time for everything,” Flower said, and he was right. Zhenya rarely called people aimlessly. He would call just to chat with his mother. For Flower, he would text a meme or Snap him a picture—never call. “Are you worried you shouldn’t go out? Do you need someone to tell you it’s okay to relax?”
“I know it’s okay,” Zhenya said, chuckling at Flower’s mockery. "I’m not worry about that."
“Ah, so you are worried.”
Flower had snared him. Not that Zhenya had been subtle, calling late at night even by Western standards. Flower was never going to believe he wanted to chat about the weather. Zhenya tightened his hands around the steering wheel, digging his fingers into the leather. If he hung up without revealing his purpose, the subject would circle back. Flower would ask about it every time they talked. He had to say something. He might as well just dive in. He took a deep breath.
"You know Sid has—dating someone?"
"Very good avoiding the pronouns. Sid would be proud of you,” Flower said. There was still a smile in his voice, but it had taken on a tense quality. He sounded almost defensive when he continued after pausing. “And yes, I know Charlie."
Charlie. Sid was in a relationship, and it was serious, and his name was Charlie.
Flower spoke again before Zhenya could form any words out of the jumble in his mind. "Let me guess. You don't like him.”
"No," Zhenya said, protesting. He didn’t not like Charlie. He had barely begun to adjust to Charlie’s existence.
"That's really not fair,” Flower said with all trace of the smile gone from his voice. He sounded annoyed, like Sid had earlier in the shower.
“What’s not fair?” Zhenya asked. He didn’t think it was particularly fair that everybody kept losing their patience with him simply for being surprised, but he didn’t think Flower would agree with him.
“It's hard for Sid to date. It takes him a long time to trust somebody like that. This is the longest relationship he's had since—” Flower cut himself off with an audible sigh, then continued, softer. “It’s been a long time. If you don’t like Charlie, it will affect Sid.”
“It’s not I don’t like Charlie,” Zhenya said, exasperated. The way Flower was talking, it was as if he thought Zhenya would deliberately sabotage Sid’s relationship. “It's I don't meet. I don't even know Sid date boys!”
An unreadable silence fell over the line. The ambient noise assured Zhenya that the call hadn’t dropped, but Flower didn’t say a word for a long time. Zhenya gripped the wheel, barely breathing in anticipation. Had he said something wrong? When Flower finally spoke, he did so in a deeply pitying tone.
"Oh, Geno."
A jolt went through Zhenya’s body. Outrage restarted his breath and ignited his heart to warm his blood. “What you mean ‘oh Geno’ like I’m so stupid?
"You are a little stupid, my friend,” Flower replied. No smile crept into his tone. He remained solemn and sympathetic, which only served to make Zhenya feel patronized.
Zhenya’s intended sharp reply got jumbled together in his mouth and came out as an indistinct cry of outrage. When he finally got a few of the words untangled, he said, “You can’t say that. I call you for help!”
“You don’t want help,” Flower said. “If you truly wanted help, you would not lie.”
“Lie?” Zhenya cried. This was becoming an all-out assault against his character, which was not something he’d expected when he called Flower. He’d expected, at worst, a useless but friendly ear.
"You know Sid is gay already."
"I didn't!"
"Geno," Flower said, stretching the syllables of Zhenya’s name to convey his frustration. Zhenya could imagine his long fingers clasping dramatically over his eyes. "I will come back just to kick your ass."
"What I do? You say I’m lie? Sid lie to me about boyfriend for long time."
"Sid didn't lie to you. He kept something from you. And even that, he didn't really! You knew he liked men, whether you wanted to deal with that or not. And now he has a boyfriend. A lovely, normal boyfriend, and you are going to be the nicest friend in the entire world to Charlie or I won't wait for a road game to make you suffer. Do you understand me?"
It wasn’t often in his adult life that Zhenya had been scolded. He wouldn’t have taken it from many people. Before this moment, he might have believed that he would only allow for such a tongue-lashing from his parents, but Flower’s words cowed him. Well, Flower’s words combined with a nagging idea. It wiggled through the compacted chaos of his thoughts to grow and bud and bloom until it was too bright to ignore. It was poisonous, the realization, but he plucked it anyway.
Sid had been dating Charlie for months without telling him. Their relationship was serious. Flower knew, which meant Tanger knew. Their wives knew, which meant others probably did. At every dinner and party this season, Zhenya had been in a room with people who knew about Sid’s secret boyfriend, and none of them had said a word to him.
Flower wasn’t the only one who thought Zhenya would ruin Sid’s relationship with Charlie. Every person who knew had kept the information away from Zhenya because they thought he couldn’t be trusted.
Including Sid.
The bright and poisonous realization burned in Zhenya’s eyes. Instead of protesting his innocence, he attempted to clear the blockage in his throat and nodded in the dark even though Flower couldn’t see him. “Yes, I will be good.”
The words clearly took Flower aback. He’d obviously expected Zhenya to remain belligerent. “Good,” he said, voice softening with kind tones of fondness and pity. “Now, go drink and be nice. Sid's had it rough."
"Okay,” Zhenya said. He didn’t bother saying that Sid wouldn’t even be at the club for him to be nice to. For some reason, he followed up with, “Sorry, Flower."
“It’s not me you should be sorry to,” Flower said, a handful of gentle words that would haunt Zhenya the rest of the night.
***
Zhenya floated through the thumping atmosphere of the club, never feeling his feet touch the floor. He was familiar enough with the layout to know where to find the team. They tended to gather upstairs and toward the back, in a relatively quiet alcove of couches and tables. They would use it as a base camp from which they would venture to the dance floor.
When Zhenya reached the team, Phil was pouring glasses of bourbon for the table. He took one look at Zhenya and made his next pour a double. “You look like shit,” Phil said over the music when he handed him the glass.
Zhenya could tell Phil expected a retort, a smart answer for his insult. After the draining phone call, Zhenya’s mind felt as weary as his hockey-beaten body. In silence, he toasted the rest of the boys and threw back the hefty pour in a mouthful that he knew he would regret in the morning. It burned down his throat and warmed his stomach. It felt good. He tapped the glass with a finger and pushed it toward Phil again.
“You have hands,” Phil complained even as he filled the glass again.
“I like how you do it,” Zhenya said. He saw the motion of Phil’s head when he snorted, inaudible in the loud club.
“You better be a good tipper.” Phil handed him the glass. “Cheer up, man. We won. Go dance or something.”
Weighed down by Flower’s accusatory words, Zhenya didn’t feel like dancing. He tipped the glass toward Phil in agreement, but he didn’t take his drink downstairs. Instead, he wandered over to the furthest, darkest couch in the alcove and groaned as he sat. He was out of the way enough that most of his teammates barely noticed him. He only had to wave off a few gestures to come to the dancefloor.
When most of the boys were downstairs dancing or talking to girls on other couches, Zhenya sagged into his seat. He could feel the music pulsing through the cushions, rippling the surface of the bourbon in his glass. His eyes turned toward the dancefloor below, watching the writhing movements of the bodies out there moving together. He usually loved dancing, relaxing into the beat like high-energy meditation. He wondered if he should just force himself out there. Maybe he could lose himself in the music.
Even as he hoped, Zhenya knew he could not. His worries weren’t the minor kind, the little ones he could trample down under dancing feet. They were the major, life-changing kind that would cling to him as he tried to escape.
Sid might not trust him.
Zhenya pushed himself off the couch like it had whispered the venomous thought into his head. He paced over to the railing, hand tight around the glass. Below him, lights and shadows and bodies merged into a moving surface, currents flowing with the DJ’s beat. He spotted Sheary laughing with a blond woman in a tight, red dress. He danced well for a hockey player, spinning the woman as she beamed her enjoyment. Zhenya smiled against the rim of his glass as he watched heads turn to admire Sheary’s moves.
In the center of the dancefloor, his eyes stopped. His smile fell away at the sight of two strange men, both dark-haired, dancing together. The way their bodies moved left little doubt in Zhenya’s mind, but his suspicions were confirmed when one wrapped his arms around the other and kissed him. They smiled as they parted. One of them laughed. Zhenya watched them until they grew blurry.
If it hadn’t been for Zhenya, would Sid have come to the club? Would he have brought Charlie?
Zhenya tossed back the bourbon and pushed away from the railing. Phil was nowhere to be seen anymore, but he was right—Zhenya had two perfectly good hands. He used them to fill his glass and then returned to his hidden spot on the couch to brood.
Zhenya didn’t know how long he stared into his glass. He thought at least three songs cycled through, but they all sounded so similar he couldn’t be sure. He’d spent that time swirling the bourbon into a whirlpool in the glass and wondering if this was what it felt like to be a bad person. And then, as if conjured by troubled thoughts, a familiar voice at Zhenya’s elbow asked, "This seat taken?"
Despite the mix of feelings inside him, Zhenya’s first reaction to seeing Sid would always be a positive one. His smile came easily when he looked up and found Sid leaning next to him, though it wilted when he saw the weary quality of Sid’s own smile.
"Sorry,” Zhenya said with a half-smile so Sid would be in on the joke. “Saving for my captain. It's good luck, he sit here."
"Good, I can use all the luck I can get," Sid said as he claimed the seat.
Zhenya jumped up to grab another glass and a bottle. He put the glass in Sid’s hand, half expecting to be waved off. Sid barely liked to drink. He usually didn’t touch hard stuff. It said a lot about his night that he allowed Zhenya to pour him a glass of liquor. Between his grimacing gulps of bourbon and his surprise appearance at the club, Zhenya could guess how Sid’s date had gone.
It took half the glass before Sid leaned toward him and said wryly, "I can tell you’re dying to ask.”
“Ask?”
Zhenya’s answer was too innocent and prompted a distinctly not-fooled chuckle out of Sid. He sat back against the couch and shook his head. His lips moved, but he spoke too quietly to be heard over the music.
“What you say?” Zhenya asked.
“I got dumped,” Sid said louder with a glance around to see if anyone else heard. No one stood close to them. Nobody could hear. Sid continued with a wry twist to his mouth that could have been a smile if it weren’t so unhappy. “I'm too focused on hockey to be present in a relationship. The only people I can satisfy are my teammates."
Charlie. Geno didn't get a last name, but he could find it easily enough. His muscles tensed, bracing like he could get up and confront the guy right away. The only thing that kept him on the couch was Sid’s voice, still speaking with sad amusement.
"Maybe I have a pretty short temper, too. When he said that, I figured—fuck it. Might as well come please who I can. Walked out of the restaurant before the food came."
"Good, Sid. Fuck this guy."
The grim set of Sid’s mouth did not relax with Zhenya’s solidarity. He shrugged and breathed out a long sigh. “It’s not his fault,” he said before tipping back the rest of his drink.
It was Charlie’s fault—because the alternative was it was Sid’s fault, and Zhenya would never believe that.
Zhenya's temper flared again. He cooled it with a gulp of bourbon, realizing how light he felt—like he was floating. He was starting to really feel his liquor at the worst time. He put the half-full glass down on the table and turned to Sid to speak earnestly. “Don’t say,” he pleaded. “He’s crazy, he thinks you’re not good. You’re so good.”
Sid’s smile grew and only seemed more miserable than ever. He looked at Zhenya for a long beat like he had something important to say, then shook his head like he’d talked himself out of it. His eyes went out toward the dancefloor when he said, “Not good enough.”
“Yes, you are,” Zhenya said. He scooted closer on the couch, stretching his arm across Sid’s shoulders to make sure Sid heard him. “You’re good. Charlie is just stupid, bad boyfriend. You get someone better."
"I don’t think so, G. I gave it my best. My best wasn't good enough. I think I’m on my own now."
Sid’s comment didn't sound like the flippant remark of someone who just got dumped. It sounded desperately true. Resigned. Lonely. Zhenya’s arm curled reflexively, wrapping around Sid's shoulders like he could shield him from hurtful words with half a hug.
To Zhenya’s surprise, Sid squirmed out of his embrace. He scooted across the couch until Zhenya could no longer feel his warmth. Sid met Zhenya’s baffled stare with an apologetic wince. “No offense, G. I’m just—keeping things simple.”
Zhenya couldn’t think of a word to say. He stared as Sid became visibly less comfortable under his gaze, failing to speak until Sid patted his knees and got up.
“I’m going to grab a beer,” Sid said, shifting his weight awkwardly. “This hard stuff will kill me tomorrow. Want anything?”
Zhenya shook his head, but it was a lie. He did want something. He wanted Sid to come back and sit with him and not poke at old wounds.
But Sid disappeared, leaving Zhenya with the unshakable feeling that Charlie had somehow won the fight without actually being there. Or Zhenya had kicked his own ass. Because he remembered. He remembered a night so many years ago, a night after a terrible loss when he was tired and upset and he wanted to go home and recuperate. He remembered what he’d said to Sid—words that he never expected to have flipped around and stabbed into his chest.
***
Seryozha no longer blinked when Sid showed up at his door looking for Zhenya. After a whole season of carefully ignoring how close the two young players had become, he simply let Sid into the house and set him free. It was no surprise when Sid knocked on the door of the guest bedroom and pushed it open.
Sid’s eyes were rimmed with pink, but he smiled when he saw Zhenya on the bed. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
Things were stilted between them, as they had been between Zhenya and Seryozha. Nobody knew how to be there for each other when they were all feeling the same pain. Sid stepped inside and closed the door. He flipped the lock, though it didn’t matter. Seryozha would stay far away from the room in an effort not to know what went on inside. Zhenya watched Sid navigate PlayStation cords and dirty clothes to reach the bed. The mattress dipped under his knee. He craned over and kissed Zhenya. It was the easiest thing in the world—easier than scoring goals.
Guilt twisted in Zhenya’s gut and poured ice water through his veins. He pulled back.
“Yeah, I know,” Sid said, subdued. “I’m not feeling it either.” He flopped to the side, stretched alongside Zhenya on the bed.
They lay together in the stillness. Normally, Zhenya would put something on the television to fill the silence, but he felt too raw. Noise seemed like it would bring the world with it, a world where he’d come to the NHL only to fall far short of his expectations for himself.
Sid’s hand curled against Zhenya’s. “I know it sucks now,” he said. “But there’s always next year.”
He spoke like an old man—like he’d been in the league more than two seasons himself. “We good now,” Zhenya said, remembering all the goals he hadn’t scored in the playoffs.
“I think we’ll probably be good for a long time, eh?” Sid said. Zhenya could see the curve of his mouth, smiling like he hadn’t been crying on the ice eighteen hours ago.
Zhenya’s misery spun inside of him. Tendrils of individual failures twisted together to form a thick rope to drag him down. He didn’t leave his home to come to Pittsburgh and fail. He hadn’t burned all those bridges just to cuddle in bed with Sidney Crosby. The rope of shame curled around his throat and hot tears pricked at his eyes. He wiped them.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Sid said, propping himself up on an elbow to face Zhenya. His thumb followed the wet trail of an escaped tear down Zhenya’s cheek. “We get to do it all over again next year.”
Zhenya didn’t think that sounded like a good thing. His first season in the NHL had been turbulent, frustrating. While he’d scored a lot and done objectively well, none of it came easy for him. He’d struggled with the language and the small ice and by the time he’d fully gotten his feet under him, it was over. They were out in the first round of the playoffs.
There had only been one thing in Zhenya’s first season that had come easy for him. He’d run to Sid whenever he had felt bad about a game or been upset about a missed goal or even when he wanted to celebrate. It had all been Sid.
“I don’t want,” Zhenya said.
“You don’t want what?”
“Next year.”
Sid’s hand fell from Zhenya’s cheek to rest on his chest. Zhenya could hear when he swallowed. “You don’t want to play for the Penguins next year?”
“Yes, I want play. I want play good.”
“Geno, you’re rookie of the year for sure. How much better can you play?”
“Best,” Zhenya said. He pushed Sid’s hand away from his chest with a huff. “I play best.”
“Okay,” Sid said. He was carefully sitting up as he spoke. His caution only frustrated Zhenya more because he couldn’t explain himself.
“I wish I could make you understand,” Zhenya said in a burst of frustrated Russian. “I have so much fun with you. You’re like a party I never want to end. You’re all I want. And I can’t—do it anymore.”
Sid blinked. He hadn’t gotten a word of what Zhenya had said. “I know you’re upset,” he said in slow words.
“No,” Zhenya said in English. When Sid didn’t react, he pushed himself out of bed and paced away from him. “I’m mad. We lose.”
“Me too.”
Zhenya held up a hand. Sid wasn’t getting it at all. Zhenya could have been better for the team. They could have won.
Sid stood up gingerly and made his way over to Zhenya. He cupped Zhenya’s hands in his and pulled him close to kiss him. “It’s really not the end of the world, Geno.”
But it would be. Zhenya would give up his best years of hockey to kiss his captain behind closed doors, and when that ended—that would be the end of his world. One season in, he could already feel that pain looming. He stood at a fork in the road, a choice he would inevitably have to make. Did he want to goof around playing at romance with Sid for however long he could, or did he want to be great?
Zhenya pushed Sid away and held him at arm’s length. “I don’t want,” he said again. This time, he saw Sid’s understanding of what he was rejecting. The realization showed as pain in his eyes and a gasp between parted lips. “I want best hockey.
“What does that have to do with this?” Sid asked with an injured expression like he didn’t know—as if he wouldn’t be the one pushing for Zhenya to leave the team when they reached the end of their fling. There would come a time when Sid looked across the locker room and saw Zhenya as nothing but an embarrassing problem.
But that was only if Zhenya didn’t act. He could cut that off now, make his priorities clear. Their future of growing up and apart didn’t need to be inevitable.
“I need,” Zhenya started, grasping for English words. What did the coaches always say when the boys were overthinking and passing too much? “I need simple.”
Sid shut his mouth. He knew he didn’t have an argument for that. What they were doing was good and fun, but it wasn’t simple. They’d nearly been caught a dozen times sneaking in and out of each other’s hotel rooms. They’d gained a lot of side-eyes from coaches and weird questions from teammates and ultimately had to admit—at least to their closest friends—that they were sleeping together. Nothing about them was simple.
“Okay,” Sid said, two syllables full of pain. “I hear you.”
Maybe it should have felt like a relief that Sid could understand what he was saying. Instead, as Sid slid away from him, it felt like drifting away at sea. Zhenya watched numbly as Sid crossed the room to the door, unmoored.
“Sid,” Zhenya called when Sid was opening the door. Sid looked back at him, hope peeking through the misery in his eyes. “It’s good,” he said in English words thick with emotion. “We win Cup.”
The flickering light of hope disappeared in Sid’s eyes. He didn’t say anything. He just nodded like he was disappointed and walked away.
***
Memories propelled Zhenya out of his seat on the couch. He ignored Phil’s call from deeper in the alcove. He could be a good teammate later. More urgent business called him to action, pushing him down the stairs toward the dancefloor.
He found Sid sipping beer in a dark corner, tucked away from the dancefloor while he blended into the shadows. Zhenya could always find him there, in the dark, hiding from anyone who might ask him to do something horrifying like dance. Always sharp, Sid’s eyes found Zhenya before he got halfway across the room and watched him curiously as he closed the distance between them.
The moving lights didn’t touch the corner where Sid was hiding. No one was looking at them when Zhenya approached. Still, it was reckless when Zhenya crowded Sid back into the corner and kissed him. Sid made a muffled sound against his mouth. A protest? But the hand not occupied with holding his beer told a different story. It clutched into Zhenya’s shirt to anchor him close.
When Zhenya broke away, Sid’s eyes were wide and dark, unmoving as he stared at Zhenya’s face. He didn’t look angry or upset—only surprised. Zhenya could feel the puffs of breath against his chin while Sid sputtered for words and finally came up with some.
“What the fuck, man?”
Despite his harsh words, Sid still didn’t sound angry. His eyes remained curious, not hostile. His hand stayed gripped in Zhenya’s shirt, holding him close. Sid didn’t want him to back off or stop or go away. It wasn’t too late. Zhenya had waited twelve years to fix his mistake, and somehow it wasn’t too late.
With his heart racing, Zhenya leaned close and spoke in Sid’s ear. "I know you shouldn't now because you just break up. But we have too many times we don't understand. I don’t want that anymore.”
“What are you saying?”
"Sid, I don't know you’re gay," Zhenya said, pressing his forehead against Sid’s like he could push his thoughts directly into Sid’s head. "Not for real. I don't think…what we have before. I think that’s something else. Something like—just for boys, but not forever."
When he pulled back, Sid was still just staring at him. He didn’t look any more like he understood than he had a moment ago when Zhenya had kissed him.
"Back then, I think—I can't leave my country and then you be with girl later. Maybe I have to go to different team. I don’t want that. I have to stay with Penguins. Be serious."
“Why didn’t you say any of this then?”
“I can’t,” Zhenya said, the claustrophobic feeling of old frustration pressing him in on all sides. “I don’t have the words then to tell you how I’m feel.”
"How you feel?" Sid repeated, voice almost inaudible under the music.
"Sid,” Zhenya said, gathering all of his courage. “I love you. I think I love you back then, but I don’t want it. I love you now for sure.”
"Oh,” Sid said, still staring at Zhenya with wide eyes.
"I know you can't," Zhenya said. He pressed one last lingering kiss to Sid's mouth to make his point. "But if you want someday, I don't need it simple. Okay?"
Sid nodded, still looking pretty dazed. It would take him a while to sort through everything. In the meantime, the best thing Zhenya could do for him would be to leave and let him think. He spent an enormous amount of effort pushing away from the wall to do just that.
Zhenya stood outside the club with the muted, foggy feeling of being pleasantly drunk and out of the music. He stared at his phone. His Uber grew closer. In twenty minutes, he would be home and stripping and crawling into bed where he could—stay awake half the night and regret his choices, probably. He snorted to himself.
A hand touched Zhenya’s wrist and jolted him out of his thoughts. Sid peered up at him. He didn’t look stunned anymore. He seemed supremely and wholly interested. “I’m glad I caught you,” Sid said.
It was Zhenya’s turn to be shocked when Sid pulled him close and kissed him. They were alone outside, and the Uber was still a few miles away, but it was just as risky as it had been in the club.
“I’m coming home with you,” Sid said—not an offer but a declaration.
“Why?” Zhenya asked. He wasn’t really up for more talking. He’d used up all of his bravery doing something impulsive in the club.
“Because I don’t need time,” Sid said. He wasn’t making much sense. “I'm very good at compartmentalizing.”
“What’s word?”
"It means I'm tired of wanting you and wishing I could have you, and I don’t care if I just got dumped—I'm not waiting another night. So, I’m coming home with you."
The determination in Sid’s face made up for the words Zhenya could hardly process. He didn’t try to make his face stop smiling when he nodded. “Good. You come home with me.”
Sid nodded—businesslike. The deal, in his mind, was done. Zhenya bit his lip to keep from laughing at Sid’s intensity and turned to look for the Uber. He needed to get Sid somewhere private right away where he could kiss away Sid’s game face and bring back the silly, sexy boy he knew Sid kept tucked away somewhere.
Only, when they’d endured the ride home making small talk with the driver, when they’d walked up Zhenya’s driveway and stepped inside his house and closed the door, every ounce of their boldness dried up. They stood in the dark entryway staring at each other. Zhenya could see the naked fear in Sid’s eyes, a mirror of his own dread about the next steps.
“I should turn on lights,” Zhenya said. When he started to move, a hand on his wrist stopped him.
“We won’t be down here long.” Sid’s voice didn’t sound as certain as it had outside the club, but his touch was firm. “Take me upstairs.”
“Sid,” Zhenya said. He didn’t want to say it. He didn’t even want to think it. He wanted to take Sid upstairs and make up for twelve years of not having Sid in his bed. “We should talk.”
“What’s there to talk about?”
So many things. They were twelve years older than they’d been the last time they slept together. Forget the mental changes from teenagers to adults—their bodies had spent those years in grueling hockey games. Joints didn’t work the same way anymore. Backs ached in some positions.
But Sid knew that as well as Zhenya did. He knew how it felt to be bruised all over and messed up from hockey. More importantly, he knew what it was like to shed the insecure skin of an NHL rookie, to grow up and mature outside of the game. He knew as well as Zhenya the transition into manhood, the desire to settle and be loyal to someone. To love them.
Maybe they didn’t have anything to talk about after all.
Zhenya flipped his hand and slid it into Sid’s to lead him toward the stairs in the dark.
The remaining awkwardness faded behind the closed bedroom door. Like taking to the ice after a long time away, their bodies remembered what to do. They kissed their way across the room, shuffling out of clothes until they hit the bed. Sid pulled Zhenya onto the mattress with him, still half-dressed in an unbuttoned shirt and silky dress socks and boxer briefs that strained around his bulky thighs.
None of the remaining clothing stopped them. As if they were transported back into their young, horny bodies, Zhenya barely managed to kick his own underwear off the bed and yank Sid’s down around his knees before things became desperate. Hands gripped and tongues pushed and hips ground together. Pretty quickly, Zhenya knew there was no chance for anything more graceful—not tonight. Not when he was still drunk and emotions were raw and they needed anything from each other.
Sid threw him off balance with a hand around his wrist, pulling insistently. “I need,” Sid said, and he didn’t need to find the words to finish the sentence. Zhenya had spent half a year when he was 20 years old giving Sid exactly what he needed. On instinct, he pitched to the side and spit in his hand before reaching for Sid’s dick. It wasn’t quite enough. Lube would be nice, but Sid’s audibly shaky breathing didn’t contain any word of complaint.
Zhenya touched Sid as if twelve years hadn’t passed at all. His hand knew the exact right amount of pressure to make Sid gasp. His wrist knew where to twist, his thumb swiping over the tip to feel the slick evidence of Sid’s pleasure. He knew when Sid grasped his forearm that he shouldn’t slow down. No, to the contrary, he pumped his hand just a little faster until Sid threw his head back with a moan and pulsed against his palm.
On another night, he might have thought twice about grasping his own dick with his come-slicked hand. He might have considered cleaning up a bit, getting lube, slowing down. But that night, with Sid still breathing hard beside him, it was too easy to pretend they were kids again. And kids didn’t care about mess. He groaned as he touched himself.
“No,” Sid said, bossy even as he floated in orgasmic bliss. “Give me that.”
Zhenya didn’t immediately let go, but Sid wasn’t deterred. He turned on his side, facing Zhenya, and batted his hand away. It shouldn’t have felt like a world of difference. A hand was a hand. Any pressure against his dick should have done the trick.
Sid’s touch made his stomach clench so hard he thought he might get a cramp. For a second, he thought he’d come just from the first contact of Sid’s fingers. He hadn’t, but he sure didn’t last much longer. He grasped Sid’s hip to pull him close and kissed him while Sid jerked him off and didn’t pull away when he came.
In the aftermath, their heavy breaths sounded loud in the quiet room. Reality settled around them. They weren’t in Seryozha’s guest room or the mother-in-law suite of Mario Lemieux’s house. They weren’t 19 and 20 years old, carelessly chasing the guilty highs of unwise pleasure. They no longer had the excuse of youth to explain their impulsive behavior.
And Zhenya regretted nothing when Sid smiled at the ceiling and said, “I missed that.”
Zhenya pulled him close to kiss him again. Soon, they would need to get up and shower and change the sheets. He would need to drink several glasses of water if he didn’t want to suffer in the morning. They would do all the grown-up things that never would have occurred to them the first time around.
For the moment, though—Zhenya kissed Sid without guilt or fear, and all those things could wait.
***
Zhenya woke to the insistent buzzing of a silenced phone. He reached for it without looking and propped it onto his ear with a groggy, "Hello?"
He could hear enough white noise on the line to know it had connected, but no one answered. He was seconds from hanging up when a familiar voice said, “Good morning, Geno. I suppose I should say congratulations.”
"What?" Zhenya asked, rubbing his eyes. Why would Flower be calling him so early on a day off?
“These modern phones. They all look the same.”
Zhenya stopped rubbing his eyes. He dreaded to look, but he pried the phone away from his ear. The case was navy blue. Practical. Plain. Nothing Zhenya himself would ever buy. He cringed and put Sid’s phone back to his ear. “Maybe we trade phones before. At game.”
“Oh yes, I’m sure you did. Can you put him on?”
His body resisted turning to look. When he managed it, he found Sid squinting at him with one eye, the other side of his face still smashed into the pillow.
“You want say hi to Flower?” Zhenya asked, holding out the phone. Sid’s squint intensified, indicating that—no—he did not want to talk to anyone so early. Then his eye caught the phone. He jerked his head up.
“Is that my phone?”
Zhenya cringed. “Sorry.”
Sid sat up and took the phone. Neither of them considered that it would confirm exactly what Flower suspected when he said, “Hey.”
Unable to handle the pressure of hearing the one-sided conversation, Zhenya slid out of bed and fled to the bathroom. He took his time brushing his teeth and washing his face and fussing with his hair. All the while, he could hear the indistinct words of Sid’s phone call. He didn’t sound overly upset, but the early phone call couldn’t be a great sign. Undoubtedly, Flower had called to warn Sid about Zhenya’s dislike of his boyfriend.
Ex-boyfriend.
Zhenya’s twisting guilt resolved momentarily, pushed aside by his competitive pride. He’d won. Sid’s boyfriend was gone and Zhenya had taken his place.
All of which would be seen as not good things by Flower. They were moving too fast, Flower would say. Sid just got out of a long-term relationship. They should have taken things slow.
Zhenya leaned against the counter worrying for so long that he missed when Sid stopped talking. A rap of knuckles on the door made him jump. He opened it and found Sid smiling through the remnants of exasperation.
“Flower wants me to tell you if you hurt me, he’ll hurt you back,” Sid said flatly. He clearly did not believe he needed Flower’s protective threats.
“It’s none of his business,” Zhenya said even as his guilt flared like a fever, prickling his skin.
Sid shrugged like he knew that, but that—ultimately—they couldn’t control a nosy goalie. “Do you have a spare toothbrush?”
Zhenya dug one of a drawer and handed it to him. Then he leaned a hip on the counter and watched Sid methodically brush. The last time he saw Sid brushing his teeth would have been the last time they were together romantically. Beyond showers, the team rarely did basic hygiene at the rink. It felt intimate, something nobody else got to witness.
“Hmm?” Sid asked around the brush, eyes interrogating Zhenya for why he was staring.
He might have brushed it off and walked away, chalked his emotional turmoil up to the newness—or renewedness—of their relationship.
Except Flower called so early. In Las Vegas, it would be before sunup, and he’d called Sid thinking he needed to keep Zhenya from ruining a good thing in Sid’s life.
Instead of pretending, Zhenya said, “Flower really worry about you.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” Sid said with a chuckle around the brush. He leaned over and spat in the sink. “You’d think I was falling apart the way he fusses.”
“He don’t trust me?”
Sid’s smile fell away. The wide-eyed glance conveyed everything Zhenya needed to know even as he lied. “No, Geno. It’s not that. He trusts you. He’s just…worried.”
“Because how I am before?”
A nod seemed to force its way past Sid’s efforts to contain it. “It’s not anything we need to dig up again, but…he saw a lot of that. You know—breakup stuff. It was my first real relationship. I was pretty torn up. I think it freaked him out. It made him feel like he had to protect me.”
“We’re friends so long,” Zhenya said. It was tough to square Sid’s words with his experience with Flower, their many years of friendship. “He secret hate me?”
“He doesn’t hate you,” Sid said very firmly. “I told him from the start it wasn’t your fault. He never hated you. But you know. When him and Tanger and everybody started settling down and getting married, and I wasn’t even, like, seeing anyone. I think he got really worried that I was broken or something.”
It's hard for Sid to date.
That was what Flower had said on the phone. He’d sounded so exasperated. Which made sense if he’d been waiting over a decade for Sid to enter into a meaningful relationship and perceived that Zhenya was planning to thwart it.
“You don’t date for so long because I’m,” Zhenya started, and then his throat closed around the words. He wasn’t sure he could handle the answer. “You’re sad all that time because I’m stay on team?”
To his great relief, Sid laughed. It was a barked, ungraceful laugh that Sid couldn’t fake. “Of course not! I wasn’t sad at all. I wanted you on the team. If we couldn’t be together, I wanted to be your teammate. Your friend. Was I hurt that summer? Sure. But—you know. First heartbreaks are hard. I got over it.”
Flower’s tone when Zhenya had called him didn’t make it sound like Sid had ever gotten over it. Sid’s eyes cut away from Zhenya’s face when he said it, too. He might not be lying, but he wasn’t being fully honest either. Whatever healing he’d done that summer after Zhenya cut him off, it seemed like it had left some scars.
Zhenya pushed away from the counter and reached for Sid’s hand. Sid watched him with a perplexed grin.
“I don’t hurt you again,” Zhenya said. He knew Sid could hear the earnest promise in the words when his smile fell away. “Flower don’t have to worry. I’m a stupid boy before. I have a very good thing, but I don’t know it. I know it now. I don’t hurt you.”
The hope in Sid’s eyes tightened the guilt in Zhenya’s gut. “I know,” he said, but it sounded more like a plea. “I mean, I don’t know if you can stop Flower from worrying, but I know.”
Zhenya wanted to take any lingering doubt away. He wanted to drop to one knee and propose on the spot. He wanted to call a press conference to announce their love. He wanted to commission a statue of Sid to adorn his front lawn.
But Sid wouldn’t want any of that.
Instead, Zhenya squeezed Sid’s hand before he let go and said, “I make you breakfast.”
As predicted, the offer brought a smile back to Sid’s face. “You don’t want me to sneak out of here before Sergei wakes up?”
That’s how it had been before. Always sneaking and running away. They’d done a small handful of domestic things together back then, but always in the frantic, clandestine way they did almost everything. The only time they’d had breakfast after a night together was when they snuck out of each other’s rooms and met downstairs at a hotel for team breakfast.
This time would be different. This time would be real. Zhenya would communicate that with eggs and bacon and whole wheat toast. Instead of engaging with the teasing question, he kissed Sid again and asked, “You want coffee or tea?”
He knew the answer. He knew Sid. But he also knew the softening of the smile that would come when he asked, happily tinting the word when Sid answered. “Coffee.”
“Good. I make for you. You stay here, look hot, do whatever.”
Sid snorted. “How about I come help you?”
Even better. “Sure, you look hot there too. It’s okay with me.”
Zhenya held out his hand, and Sid took it. Together they walked with bare feet across the house to the kitchen. And it felt like a brand new day.