The Long Game: A Gay Sports Romance (Game Changers Book 6)

November

Ilya paced the waiting room outside Dr. Galina Molchalina’s office. He was alone, but he still had his plain black ball cap pulled low over his eyes, and kept his head down. He’d tried sitting, tried reading one of the magazines on the squat coffee table in front of the cheerful blue sofa with the yellow and white throw pillows. He’d examined the abstract art on the walls. He’d done whatever he could to distract himself from how badly he wanted to leave.

He wasn’t sure if Dr. Molchalina was even a good therapist. She just happened to be the only one in Ottawa who spoke Russian. And, during their brief phone conversation, she’d acknowledged that she knew who Ilya was without making a big deal about it. That had been a plus.

Finally, the door opened and Ilya stood with his back to whoever was exiting the room, wanting to avoid being recognized and to offer the other person the same privacy. He pretended to be fascinated by a tall plant in the corner.

He heard the outer door open and close, and then his new therapist said, in Russian, “The plant is fake, I’m afraid.”

Ilya turned to face her. “That makes sense, I guess,” he said, also in Russian. He gestured to the walls. “No windows.”

“Sometimes it’s better to not have the distraction of the outside world,” she said with a small smile. “And it’s better for privacy.”

“Oh.”

She held out her hand to him. “I’m Galina. It’s nice to meet you, Ilya.”

Ilya shook her hand. She was a small woman, probably in her forties, with dark blond hair that she wore in a neat ponytail. Ilya wondered when she’d left Russia, and why. “It’s nice to talk to someone in Russian.”

“Has it been a while?”

Ilya considered it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a full conversation in his native tongue. He hadn’t been in Russia since his father died years ago, and he never talked to his brother anymore. Ottawa didn’t have any other Russian players, and he didn’t have any Russian friends. The only person he ever spoke Russian to was his friend with former benefits, Svetlana, but she lived in Boston and they hadn’t spoken much since Ilya had moved to Ottawa. He felt bad about that almost every day. He missed her.

“It’s been a long time.” He smiled wryly. “I may not be able to shut up.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Would you like to come in?” She took a step toward the open door of her office.

“Of course, yes.”

He walked past her into the small, cozy room. As described, it had no windows, but did have very nice lighting, a comfy-looking light gray couch and matching armchair, and more fake greenery. It was about what he’d imagined a psychologist’s office to look like.

“I sit here, right?” Ilya asked, gesturing to the couch.

“Most people do. Are you nervous?”

Ilya figured lying wouldn’t be the best way to start his therapy journey. “I’m very nervous. Is that weird?”

“Not at all. Though I hope you’ll find there’s no reason to be. Please make yourself comfortable.”

Ilya sat in the middle of the sofa, hands folded in his lap, knees spread apart. Every muscle in his body felt tense, and he tried to take a steadying deep breath.

“Are many of your clients Russian?” Ilya asked.

“A few. I’m the only Russian-speaking psychologist in town, I believe. As you probably know, mental health isn’t a popular concept among our people.”

Ilya was very aware of that. “No. It isn’t. Not for hockey players either.”

“That’s true. But you’re a Russian hockey player, and you’ve been outspoken about mental health issues. The charity you started is doing good work,” she said. “I’ve been following your progress with it. I’m very impressed.”

Ilya twisted his fingers together. “Oh. Thank you.”

“You told me you haven’t tried therapy before, even though you seem to be quite knowledgeable about mental health. What made you decide to book this appointment?”

Okay, so they were just going to…start. Ilya tried not to overthink his reply, and said the first thing that popped into his head. “I think I might be depressed. Sometimes.”

She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. He’d never said those words out loud, in any language, so he just let them sit there like an anvil.

“Your mother suffered from depression,” she said.

Ilya nodded. It wasn’t a secret anymore. Not since Ilya had spoken about her illness during the press conference where he and Shane had launched the charity they’d started in her name.

“Would you like to talk about her?” Galina asked gently. “That might be a good place to start.”

Ilya had been expecting this, but he still wasn’t sure if he was ready. He stared at his folded hands, and noticed his knuckles were white from how hard he was gripping his fingers together.

“I’ll try,” he said.

He started talking, and he didn’t stop for almost forty minutes. By that point his cheeks were wet with tears that he hadn’t even noticed were falling until Galina had silently handed him a box of tissues. There was now a small pile of used, crumpled tissues beside Ilya on the couch. His ball cap was next to the pile, because he’d started raking his fingers through his own hair as he’d been rambling. He’d never talked so much about his mother. He’d shared his fondest memories of her, and the way she’d tried to hide how bad her depression had gotten, always ready with a reassuring smile for Ilya. He’d noticed, even as a child, that her smile was often sad.

He told Galina about finding his mother’s lifeless body when he’d been twelve years old. How he’d thought she was resting, as she often was, until he’d gotten closer. It was her hand that he’d noticed first. The way it was flopped over the side of the bed, fingers dangling.

He talked about his father sternly telling Ilya that his mother’s death had been an accident. She had taken too many pills for her headache, that was all.

“Did you believe him?” Galina asked.

“No. Not at all. But I didn’t say anything.” He took a slow, shaky breath. “He moved on so quickly. He wanted to forget about her. Wanted me and Andrei to forget her too. It was like…he was disgusted by her.” Ilya’s throat tightened again. “I missed her so much. I still…” He covered his mouth with his hand as the room turned blurry.

“I’m sorry,” Galina said. “That’s a horrific thing for anyone to go through. Especially a child.”

Ilya could only nod miserably. He knew it was. He tried not to think about it too often, because what good would it do, but he knew.

She gave him time to collect himself a bit. Finally, when his eyes were dry and his throat had relaxed, he said, “I might be done for today. That was a lot.”

“It was. How do you feel now?”

Ilya assessed himself before he answered. “Tired. But better, maybe. I would like to do this again.”

They figured out a date and time for Ilya’s next appointment, then Ilya gathered his tissue pile up and found a waste bin in the corner. He paused at the door before leaving and blurted out, “Do you think there is something wrong with me?”

“Wrong?”

“Am I depressed? Mentally ill? Am I…going to get worse?” He closed his eyes, embarrassed that he’d said all of that, but needing to know.

“You’re here,” she said kindly. “I’m afraid I can’t give you any answers this early on, but being here is an important step in the right direction.”

“Slow and steady, right?” Ilya said, in English, with an attempt at a smile.

“Exactly.”

He sighed. “I hate slow things.”

That made her laugh. “I’ve heard you like fast cars. Maybe you can think of this as building a Ferrari, instead of driving one.”

Ilya was hoping he was more like a Ferrari that needed a bit of a tune-up, rather than one that needed to be built from the ground up, but he understood what she was saying. The important thing was to avoid the scrap yard.

Ilya walked around Ottawa for a long time after his appointment. He’d hoped that speaking to a professional would give him some clarity, but instead his brain was a jumbled mess, and his chest felt hollow. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head to block out the cold autumn wind, and to hide his ragged expression.

Was he supposed to feel this way? Was therapy useful at all? He didn’t think he could keep it up if he was going to be this badly shaken after each appointment.

As he walked, he cautiously examined his feelings, searching for any improvement. It had been good, perhaps, to talk about his mother, as much as it had wrung him out. Maybe therapy, like so many things worth doing, hurts when you first start. Ilya knew about pushing through pain.

He’d see Shane tomorrow afternoon. They would have a night together. Ilya was excited about it, but now he felt weird about it too. He didn’t think he could tell Shane about therapy. Not yet. But he was worried Shane would notice how raw Ilya was. He didn’t want to tell Shane the truth: that he’d felt off for a while now, and that it was getting worse. That the things that used to help weren’t helping anymore. That he was worried this was how it had started for his mother.

That some days he missed Shane so much it felt like claws were digging into his heart.

He ended up walking along the canal, his back to the wind. Ottawa was cold in November, but he’d never lived anywhere warm, so it didn’t bother him.

He kept his head down as he walked, but was still recognized by some fans who, fortunately, only wanted to shout out his name and wave and didn’t ask for selfies. Ilya did not have a selfie face at the moment.

There was a bench facing the water with no one around, so Ilya sat. He pulled out his phone and opened his saved photos. He didn’t keep his photos very organized, but he had one album he’d named “Boring.” He opened it now, and scrolled through the six photos it contained. They were all more or less the same, taken years ago during the NHL Awards. Ilya and Shane had been presenting an award together, and the scripted banter had involved Ilya asking Shane for a selfie. Ilya had used his real phone, and he’d taken real photos. Six of them.

Back then, Ilya’s hair had been longer, and that night he’d had it tied back. Shane’s hair had been short and tidy. He looked annoyed in the photo, lips almost pursed, dark eyes full of impatience. Ilya had his arm around his shoulders and was grinning broadly, hamming it up for the audience.

Ilya couldn’t possibly guess how many times he’d looked at these photos in the years since he’d taken them. He had other photos of Shane. Newer ones. Ones that had been taken since he’d finally gathered the courage to tell Shane he loved him, and Shane had said it back. He didn’t need to cling to these old ones, as he once had, as the closest thing he’d thought he’d ever have to being Shane’s boyfriend.

But these photos reminded Ilya of that night. It reminded Ilya of the way Shane had put on a show, later in the privacy of Ilya’s hotel room. He’d stroked himself, fingered himself, writhed on the bed, while Ilya had watched from a chair at the end of the bed. Shane had clearly been nervous, but he’d done it. Because Ilya had asked him to. It remained one of the hottest things Ilya had ever experienced.

He also loved the photos because they reminded him of how he’d felt back then. The overwhelming, inconvenient longing he’d secretly carried for Shane. The way he’d tried so hard to convince himself he didn’t feel anything extraordinary for Shane. That he’d only wanted to fool around with him because it was forbidden and sexy.

Ilya looked in the eyes of his younger self in the photos and laughed. “Who were you kidding?” he said quietly, in Russian.

He’d been an idiot then. He still was, really, when it came to Shane Hollander.

Impulsively, Ilya sent Shane one of the photos. He’d never shown them to him before; embarrassed, maybe, that he still had them.

Less than a minute later, Shane replied: Wow. I forgot about those pics. You still have them?

Ilya: Obviously.

Shane: Should I cut my hair? Did I look better like that?

Ilya huffed. Of course that would be Shane’s reaction to Ilya revealing how fucking soft he was for him. How soft he’d always been. Ilya had been carrying these photos around like precious treasure for years, transferring them to each new phone. And Shane was concerned about his hair.

Ilya: No. I like your hair now.

Shane: Ok.

Shane: I just remembered what night that was!

Ilya: It was a good night.

Shane: I’m glad you don’t have any photos of THAT.

God, Ilya wished.

Shane: Are we watching the doc tomorrow?

Ilya: If you want.

Shane: Yeah. Let’s do it.

Shane: I have to get ready for the game. I’ll see you tomorrow!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ilya sent back a heart emoji, followed by several eggplant and peach emojis. He ended it with a kissy face. Then he stood and began walking back to his parked car, feeling lighter. He decided to stop at the weird healthy grocery store on the way home.