3. January 17, Monday #3
He hated that those felt like the only options.
It left him looking for reasonable excuses he could use to justify reaching out to her.
“Serge,” Montgomery called. “You with us?”
Ilya looked up. “Of course. Sorry. Just thinking.”
“Good. Then think out loud.”
Before Ilya could answer, Bobby cut in smoothly. “We were talking this morning about mixing up some defensive pairings during practice. See if it shakes a few guys out of the rut.”
Bless him.
Montgomery turned. “All right. Let’s hear it.”
While Bobby laid out the idea, Ilya caught up quickly, filling in where needed, nodding when appropriate, forcing his brain back into the room. He did his job.
But Zoey stayed there at the edges. Not just because the divorce complicated things. Because even now, even after years of training himself to live within smaller, safer definitions, the truth stayed the same.
He didn’t just miss her friendship. That would have been easier.
He missed her. Her laugh, her running commentary, the way she made even boring charity events feel like covert operations.
The way she looked at people like she was actually seeing them instead of sorting them by usefulness.
The way she had once texted him six consecutive photos of a possum outside her condo because she thought its expression matched his after a bad road loss.
He loved her in stupid silence for so long it had started to feel like a private disease.
Which was exactly why reaching out now felt dangerous.
Because friendship was not the whole truth.
And if he texted her pretending it was, then what?
He’d be stepping back into the same lie and hoping this time it hurt less.
It would not. He knew that already.
He also knew hearing about her dating again someday might actually kill him, which was dramatic and unhelpful but not, unfortunately, impossible.
A worse thought slid in right behind it. What if she cut ties entirely? What if divorce meant a clean break not only from Mitch, but from all of them? The idea sent a cold wave down his spine.
He looked down and realized his hands had tightened into pale fists in his lap. Not helpful.
Across the room, Scott was saying something about performance variance and conditioning.
Ilya heard none of it.
What would he even say if he reached out without using Kira’s chaos as cover? Hey, just checking in. How are you doing really? That sounded thin.
You should come visit––we miss you. Too intimate.
I talked to Mitch and he seems fine, how are you handling your life detonating? Unhinged.
Or, if he were completely honest. I miss you. I have for years. I should have noticed sooner that you were drowning. I should have asked better questions. I should have done something besides stand there and call distance, respect. That one, at least, would be true. Also, unusable.
Because what did he really want here? Not to “check in.” Not closure. Not a clean little friendship reset.
He wanted to ask her out. Wanted to tell her he’d been gone for her since college.
Since the first time he’d seen her at UVM, standing at the front of a debate hall and making half the room look lazy and the other half look terrified.
Since spotting her smiling face on a flyer for the Young Feminists Club taped crookedly to a student center wall.
Maybe it was weird to fall for someone before you even knew them, but stranger things have happened.
And after all the hours they’d spent together once she’d been unofficially adopted into their friend group—and later firmly claimed as Mitch’s girlfriend—Ilya knew one thing for certain: even if it hadn’t been love at first sight, it would’ve become love within a day of knowing her.
Too late now. Way too late. So late it was almost funny. He had let years pile up on top of the truth until the truth was basically nonexistent.
Maybe this… distance, awkwardness, occasional texts, pretending was what he got for waiting.
A phone on the table beeped.
Montgomery checked the wall clock, muttered something under his breath, then pushed back from the table. “All right. That’s enough suffering for one morning.”
Chairs scraped. Paper shuffled. The room started to break apart.
As everyone stood, Montgomery came around behind Bobby and Ilya and planted one heavy hand on each of their shoulders.
“Thank you,” he said, voice gruffer than usual.
“For keeping an eye on the room. For speaking up when it matters. We win when guys trust each other on and off the ice.” His hand squeezed Ilya’s shoulder once.
“Keep doing what you’re doing. That’s what makes us strong. ”
Ilya gave a stiff nod. His throat had gone strangely tight. That was his job, though, wasn’t it? He was good at being useful. Very good at carrying things no one else wanted to hold. Strong, in every way that made other people feel better.
The room emptied in pieces. Sam with her folder. Scott with his second energy drink. Casey still muttering about lineup cowardice.
Bobby pushed to his feet beside him more carefully than he wanted anyone to notice. “You all right?” Bobby asked.
“Always,” Ilya said automatically. Then, because he was not a total hypocrite, “You?”
“Always,” Bobby lied right back.
They shared matching, tired half-smiles.
Bobby slapped his arm once on the way past. “See you at practice. Let me know when you need an ear.”
Ilya watched him go, eyes catching on the worn paperback sticking out of Bobby’s back pocket.
Then the hallway went quiet. Too quiet.
Ilya stepped out of the conference room and leaned back against the wall with a solid thunk.
For a second, he just stood there. Breathing.
The ache behind his sternum sharpened into something restless.
He should talk to the trainers about Bobby and check on Teemu’s hamstring.
He should figure out what was bothering Tommy.
What was driving Jason mad. If Christian’s girlfriend was doing okay after their big scare at the beginning of their third trimester.
He should go over the upcoming community schedule before three more people found him in a corridor and tried to volunteer a player’s remaining sanity to a bake sale.
Instead, he pulled out his phone.
Zoey’s thread sat too near the top. Their recent messages were sparse. Careful. Nothing you could point to and accuse of being anything but polite.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He typed once. Deleted it. Tried again. Deleted that too. Finally, he went with the least disastrous option he could manage.
Ilya: Hey. I meant to add last night, if you need to talk, I’m here.
He stared at it. Too bland. Too late. Too loaded. But it was honest. He hit send before he lost his nerve.
Immediately, regret kicked him in the ribs. Not because he didn’t mean it. Because he did. Too much.
He dropped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes for one brief second.
What would his life have looked like if he’d had the guts, ten years ago, to walk up to the exquisite girl from debate club sitting alone at The Grundle with oatmeal and a notebook?
What would’ve changed if, when Mitch said he was going to ask her out, Ilya had told the truth for once and said no, actually, I’m not fine with that?
He’d never know. And unless he was very wrong about the shape of his fate, he probably never would.