The Long Game (Game Changers #6)(50)

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?