“What did you used to do, when you played in Boston?”
Ilya huffed out a laugh. “I had sex. Like, all the time. I went out, picked up. I went to clubs and parties and had a great time.”
“But now you’re in a monogamous relationship?”
“Yes. And I’m glad. I love being with…him, and I don’t miss…” He rotated one hand in the air. “Sleeping around. It was fun at the time, but I only want…him.”
Ilya and Shane had talked about other people. A couple of years ago he’d told Shane, as casually as possible, that if he wanted to have sex with other men when they were apart—which was most of the time—he could. Since Shane had figured out he was gay around the same time he’d realized he had fallen in love with Ilya, it wouldn’t be unreasonable for him to want to explore sex beyond what Ilya could give him. What did it matter as long as his heart belonged to Ilya? That’s what Ilya had told himself.
Shane hadn’t taken Ilya’s offer well. He’d thought it had been Ilya’s backhanded way of letting Shane know that he’d cheated on him, or that he wanted to. Ilya had told him that he didn’t believe in cheating because he didn’t own Shane. It had ended with Shane storming out of Ilya’s house in Ottawa and driving back to Montreal, which had been a horrible waste of a rare night they could have had together. He’d ignored Ilya’s texts for three days after.
Then, on the fourth day, he’d called Ilya from his hotel room in Philadelphia and said, “You really wouldn’t mind if I had sex with someone else?”
And that was when Ilya had realized how much he would mind it. He’d felt sick at the idea of someone else touching Shane, and he hadn’t been sure if Shane was asking because he’d already done it, or if he was about to or what. Maybe someone had been heading to his Philadelphia hotel room at that very moment.
But all Ilya had said was, “Of course not. If that is what you want.”
“I don’t want, you fucking moron,” Shane had spat. The relief had been so intense that Ilya had nearly sunk to his knees in his living room.
“We’re happy together,” Ilya said now, to his therapist.
“But when you’re apart?”
“I’m miserable,” Ilya admitted. “More than he is, I think.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“He has friends, family. He lives near where he grew up, his best friend knows about us. He has another close friend who knows about us. He’s not alone.”
She nodded and made some notes. “Is there someone on your team, or maybe another person, who you feel like you could open up to? Maybe not the whole truth, but someone you could share part of yourself with?”
Ilya wasn’t sure. Harris was certainly a possibility. He was openly gay, super nice, and easy to talk to. But he also worked for the team and was, honestly, a bit of a gossip.
For some reason Troy Barrett came to mind. Ilya had noticed, over the past few weeks, that Troy might not be entirely straight. For one thing, his gaze had lingered on Ilya’s bare chest more than once （not that Ilya could blame him）， and for another, he kind of obviously had a crush on Harris.
It was possible that Troy needed someone to talk to too.
“Maybe,” Ilya said finally. “It would be good, I think. To try.”
He was sure none of his teammates would be bothered if they knew Ilya was bisexual, but he was also sure that revealing that part of himself would make it too easy for people to guess the rest of it. If they knew he was bisexual, and that Shane was gay—because most of the league had at least heard that rumor by now—and knew that he and Shane worked together in the summers…
Well. It didn’t take a genius.
Better to let the hockey world think that Ilya was all about the ladies, and that he and Shane had a tenuous friendship based mostly on running a charity together. It had been working so far.
“It seems somewhat imbalanced,” Galina said. “Your boyfriend—”
“Shane,” Ilya said, suddenly finding the way they were both dancing around the obvious annoying. “You know who it is. His name is Shane.”
As usual, no surprise showed on her face. “Shane,” she repeated, “seems very comfortable in his life. Whereas you have made a lot of changes for him.”
“For both of us,” Ilya corrected her.
“Of course. But maybe you need more things in your life that are specifically for you.”
Ilya considered this, then huffed. “I almost bought a car yesterday. A Lotus Evora. Cyan blue. It is an absolutely ridiculous car for driving around Ottawa, and I sold most of my car collection when I moved here. But I just wanted… I don’t even know. To feel like my old self, maybe.”
“What made you decide not to?”
“I knew it wouldn’t make me happy, I guess. I had it all picked out and was about to call my dealer when I decided I was being stupid. I still would have been sad, but with a blue car in my garage.”
“A lot of people find shopping to be therapeutic. Buying things we don’t need.” She smiled. “For me, it’s usually new bedsheets, but we might be in different income brackets.”
Ilya smiled back and said, in English, “Money doesn’t buy happiness, yes?”
She laughed, then continued, in Russian, “Why did you sell your car collection when you moved to Ottawa?”
“The cars didn’t make me happy anymore. When I thought about my collection, it seemed gross. So much money spent on cars I barely had a chance to drive. I put all of the money I made from selling them into the Irina Foundation.”
“It had nothing to do with how Shane felt about your cars?”
Ilya couldn’t honestly say it hadn’t. Shane had thought the collection was ridiculous, certainly. He didn’t understand the obsession, and he was terrified that Ilya was going to die in a high-speed crash. Maybe Ilya had sold them because he’d wanted to be a better person. The kind who owned a sensible SUV with all-wheel drive for winter conditions.
“Maybe a little.”
“Have you made many changes based on how Shane felt about things?”
Ilya didn’t like where this was going. “He isn’t demanding. He didn’t ask me to sell the cars, or to stop going out. He wants me to be happy.”
“Does he know you’re not?”
Ilya thought back to the one time Shane had expressed concern for Ilya’s mental health, and how quickly Ilya had shot him down. “I don’t know.”
“Is it something you could talk to him about?”
“Isn’t that why I’m here?” Ilya asked with a hint of irritation. “So I don’t have to burden him with this? I thought I could talk to you and fix myself so I can be good enough for him.”
A heavy silence hung in the room for a moment. Then, Galina said, very gently, “What do you think Shane would say, if he heard those words? If he knew you didn’t want to burden him, or didn’t think you were good enough for him?”
God, Ilya could imagine Shane’s face so clearly, all twisted into his scrunched confusion expression. “He would say, ‘What the hell are you talking about? You’re already good enough for me.’” Ilya smiled. “He would say, ‘You’re perfect for me.’” His smile fell. “He doesn’t understand, though. There are some things I can’t talk to him about.”