When Ilya had played for Boston, the energy in the building had crackled with pride and possibility. The team had been making a promise to the fans to do everything they could to win for them. The fans in Boston had expectations; they wanted champions.
Ottawa’s home openers were more like a pre-emptive apology. There were no promises being made here tonight, just a lot of fancy lights to distract from the fact that the team was truly terrible and would almost certainly lose this game. And the next one.
Ilya hated it. The worst part was that it didn’t even make sense to him. Ottawa had the elements of a great team, himself included. Their new coach, Brandon Wiebe, was untested and very young, but Ilya liked him already. Wyatt was a great goalie, and was regularly stopping forty shots or more to keep them from losing too badly. Ilya was still scoring plenty of goals, but it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t be a whole team.
As the captain, Ilya’s name was called last. He stepped onto the ice, and the fans went wild. They truly did love him here in Ottawa. It was nice.
He took his place, completing the circle his teammates had made around the logo at center ice. The Centaurs logo was one of many baffling things about the team: a cartoon drawing of a centaur playing hockey. Ilya wasn’t sure how exactly that would work. It was sort of the perfect representation of Ottawa’s team, though: a bunch of things mashed together that had no hope of winning hockey games.
“These poor bastards,” muttered Ilya’s linemate, Zane Boodram, as he gazed at the crowd through the dry ice and the dim lighting.
“Maybe we will win,” Ilya said.
“Sure. Maybe this will be the season we finally decorate the ceiling of this dump.”
Ilya glanced up at the rafters, where exactly zero Stanley Cup Champions banners hung.
“Maybe.”
“This was one fucking game,” Coach Theriault said in his usual gruff, humorless tone. “We’ve got a long season ahead of us, so let’s not start jerking each other off just yet.”
There were murmurs of solemn agreement from the players in the locker room. Shane nodded along with them, agreeing with his coach but wishing he could have used less homophobic wording. After nearly thirty years of a life in hockey, though, Shane barely knew what counted as homophobic anymore.
It had been a good game. Montreal had dominated from the very first minute, and their goalie, Patrice Drapeau, had only let in one goal. Nearly perfect, really.
“Tomorrow,” Coach said, “we’re going to talk about the power play because it was a fucking mess tonight. Video meeting before practice. Nine A.M.”
There were mutters of “Yes, coach.” Shane honestly wasn’t sure what power play problem was, since they’d only had three power plays and had scored on one of them, but he supposed he’d find out. This team strove for perfection, always. It wasn’t easy being a Voyageur, but at least the hard work and sacrifice paid off. Only one team in the league had raised a banner tonight.
He couldn’t imagine being on a team like Ottawa. Ilya rarely complained about it, but Shane wouldn’t be able to cope with the embarrassment of losing that often. It was a bit disappointing, if he was being honest, that Ilya didn’t care more. He missed actually competing against Ilya. These days there wasn’t much challenge.
“Coach didn’t cheer up any over the summer, huh?” Hayden said to Shane after Theriault left the room.
“He’s our coach, not our friend,” Shane said, somewhat automatically.
Hayden nudged him. “You didn’t cheer up any over the summer either.”
Shane scoffed, which didn’t make him sound any more cheerful.
Hayden laughed and threw an arm around Shane’s shoulders. “Love you, pal. Wanna get lunch tomorrow after practice?”
Shane ducked out from under Hayden’s sweaty arm. “I have my meals pre-planned for the week.”
Hayden shot him a withering look. “Can I get takeout and eat at your house? I just want to hang out, you fucking doofus.”
“Oh.” Shit. Was Shane a terrible friend? Probably. “Sure. Of course.”
“Yeah?” Hayden asked. “You sure you’re not busy with…you know.”
“Nope,” Shane said quickly. “We won’t see each other for a while.”
Hayden didn’t look too sad about that. “Do you think Ottawa won tonight?” He stood and grabbed his phone off the shelf. “Let’s see.”
God, Shane hoped so.
Ottawa lost, of course. But Luca Haas scored his first ever NHL goal in his first ever NHL game, so there was reason to celebrate.
“Not the result we were hoping for,” Coach Wiebe said. His tone was almost apologetic, as if it was his fault they’d lost. As if this team hadn’t been losing all the time for basically its entire existence. “But I saw a lot that I liked out there tonight. Wyatt, amazing game. Ilya, can I just say, it’s a pleasure to watch you up close. Incredible. And where’s Luca?”
Across the room from Ilya, Luca shyly raised his hand.
“The fucking future right here,” Bood announced loudly, ruffling Luca’s short, sweaty hair. He handed Luca the goal puck and everyone cheered.
Not for the first time, Ilya wondered why the hell Bood wasn’t the team captain. He was basically the team’s social director, head cheerleader, and he’d been a Centaur since his first NHL game six seasons ago.
Ilya was a shit captain these days. He barely went out with his teammates, and hadn’t gotten to know any of the younger players. He felt like ripping the C right off his own jersey and handing it to Bood right now.
Ilya watched his teammates laughing and chirping each other as he began to remove his gear, feeling a million miles away. He used to be the center of this sort of thing, dancing in the middle of the room to make his teammates laugh. Now he only felt a bone-deep exhaustion that couldn’t entirely be blamed on the game he’d just played.
The press entered the room, and Ilya managed a few basic statements for them. Yes, the loss was disappointing, but he believed in this team and was confident they would turn it around this season.
Mostly the reporters wanted to talk to Luca, which was a relief. Once they’d left Ilya, he happily pulled his sweat-soaked shirt off and tossed it into one of the laundry hampers.
“Howdy,” said a cheerful voice.
“Harris,” Ilya said, acknowledging the team’s social media manager. “You need a shirtless picture of me for Instagram?”
Harris laughed. “I mean, it would get a few likes, I’m not gonna lie.”
Ilya did a couple of silly muscleman flex poses, showing off his biceps. Harris jokingly fanned himself. “Jesus, I need to sit down,” Harris said, plunking himself in the stall next to Ilya’s. “I’m about to swoon.”
Ilya grinned at him. If anyone could improve his mood in a hurry, it was Harris. Everyone on the team loved Harris, which Ilya appreciated because Harris was openly gay. He wasn’t sure Harris would have been as warmly accepted in Boston. He wouldn’t have been invited to team outings, that was for sure.
“Everyone’s going to Monk’s after,” Harris said. “You coming?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”