Five hole heart, p.16
Five Hole Heart, page 16
The game starts with chaos.
Their opponent comes out aggressive, testing Ilya’s mobility immediately with shots that require lateral movement. The first save he makes—a glove grab on a high wrister—nearly takes him down when his knee buckles on the recovery. Leo sees it from the bench, sees Ilya catch himself on the post, sees the grimace of pain before his face goes blank again.
The period is scoreless. Ilya makes twelve saves, each one looking like it costs him. Between periods, Dr. Stevens injects his knee again—more local anesthetic, more cortisone, buying time before the inevitable failure.
Second period, Storm scores first. Murphy from the point, a rocket that beats their goalie clean. The arena explodes. Three minutes later, their opponent ties it on a deflection that Ilya had no chance on. Then Storm goes up 2-1 on a beautiful passing play finished by Richardson.
By the third period, Ilya is visibly limping between whistles. His lateral movement is gone—he’s positioning himself perfectly because he can’t push side to side anymore. Reading plays three passes ahead, cutting angles before shooters even receive the puck, playing the smartest game of his life because his body won’t let him play any other way.
Their opponent ties it 2-2 with twelve minutes left. The building goes quiet, tension suffocating. Both teams exchange chances, both goalies standing tall, and Leo watches the clock tick down while his pulse hammers in his ears.
Five minutes left. Storm gets a power play. Leo is on the second unit, watching from the bench as the first unit sets up. Shaw holds at the point, looking for options. Carter screens in front. And Murphy—beautiful, reliable Murphy—walks the blue line and unleashes a slap shot that deflects off Shaw’s stick and beats their goalie blocker side.
3-2 Storm.
The arena is deafening. Leo is screaming, pounding the boards, and on the ice Ilya raises his glove in acknowledgment before settling back into his crouch. Five minutes. They need to hold for five minutes.
Their opponent pulls their goalie with ninety seconds left. Six attackers against five. The final minute is an assault—bodies crashing Ilya’s crease, pucks bouncing, Leo watching from the bench because Coach won’t risk putting him out there with his concussion history still fragile.
Ilya stops everything. A point shot through traffic. A tip attempt from two feet away. A rebound that he somehow covers with his blocker despite his knee refusing to let him stretch.
The final ten seconds feel like hours. Their opponent has possession, cycling, looking for the perfect shot. Leo is standing on the bench, holding onto Murphy’s shoulder, and every atom of his being is focused on the clock.
Five seconds. Four. Three. Two.
The puck is fired toward the net. Ilya gets a piece of it with his stick, deflects it wide. The buzzer sounds.
Storm wins the Stanley Cup.
The ice becomes chaos.
Players flood over the boards, mobbing each other at center ice, screaming and crying and celebrating. Leo jumps down and immediately starts searching for Ilya through the pile of bodies. He needs to see him, needs to make sure he’s okay, needs to—
Ilya is at his crease, being helped onto the ice by Shaw and Misha. His brother had somehow gotten onto the ice from the stands, his own cane abandoned, supporting Ilya on one side while the captain takes the other. Ilya can barely put weight on his left leg, but his face—
His face is pure, unadulterated joy.
Leo fights through the celebration to reach him. Ilya sees him coming and opens his arms, and Leo crashes into him hard enough that they would have fallen if Shaw and Misha weren’t holding them up.
“You did it,” Leo is shouting, crying, laughing all at once. “You fucking did it!”
“My did it.” Ilya’s arms are tight around him. “My vse.” All of us.
The Cup is brought onto the ice. The NHL commissioner hands it to Shaw first—captain’s privilege. Shaw raises it, skates a lap, and then immediately brings it to Ilya.
“Your turn, Vasy. You earned this.”
Ilya takes the Stanley Cup in his hands. The weight of it, the reality, makes his knees try to buckle, but Leo is there, supporting him, and together they hold it up. The roar from the crowd is physical. Cameras flash everywhere, capturing the moment when Ilya Vasiliev—who’d been written off, who’d played through an injury that should have ended his season, who’d sacrificed everything—raises the Cup on home ice.
He skates with it. More like limps, really, his left leg barely functional, but he makes it around the ice once before heading to the stands where Misha is waiting. His brother is crying openly when Ilya lifts the Cup to him, lets him touch it, both of them saying something in rapid Russian that Leo doesn’t need to translate to understand.
Then Ilya turns. Skates—limps—back to center ice where Leo is watching with the team. He sets the Cup down on the ice between them.
Doesn’t hand it to Leo. Just... sets it down.
The celebration around them continues, but Ilya is reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket—the one he’s wearing over his jersey, the good luck ritual Leo had started. He pulls out a small black velvet box.
Leo’s brain stops processing.
The noise in the arena seems to hush, or maybe Leo just can’t hear it anymore over the roaring in his ears. Ilya is holding the box, his hands shaking slightly, and even through his mask Leo can see the determination in his eyes.
“Leo,” Ilya says, his voice clear despite the chaos. “You saved me. Not just my career. My life. You gave me my brother back. You gave me a home when I thought I did not deserve one. You are my heart, my home, everything that matters. Will you marry me?”
Leo is nodding before Ilya finishes speaking. Tears are streaming down his face, his throat too tight for words, but he manages to choke out, “Yes! God, yes, of course yes!”
Ilya removes his glove with clumsy fingers, opens the box to reveal a simple platinum band—nothing flashy, just solid and real and permanent. He slides it onto Leo’s finger, and it fits perfectly. Then he rips off his mask, pulls Leo close, and kisses him.
In the middle of the ice. With the Stanley Cup at their feet. With cameras swarming and the entire hockey world watching.
Leo kisses him back, tasting salt and champagne someone had already started spraying and joy so intense it feels like burning. When they break apart, the team is surrounding them—whooping, congratulating, Shaw pounding Ilya’s back hard enough to make him stagger.
“About fucking time, Vasy!” Murphy is grinning like a maniac. “Thought you were gonna wait until the parade to make it official!”
The celebration continues for hours. On the ice, in the locker room where champagne flows and speeches are made and the Cup makes its rounds. Leo drinks from it when it’s his turn, the champagne mixing with tears, and watches Ilya hold court with reporters while sitting down because standing is beyond him now.
Later, much later, when most of the chaos has died down and they’re alone in a quiet corner of the locker room, Ilya pulls Leo close.
“I love you,” he says in English, clear and deliberate. “I am sorry it took me so long to say it properly.”
“You’ve said it before.”
“In Russian. When you could not understand. Was coward’s way.” Ilya’s thumb traces Leo’s cheekbone. “I love you, Leo Marchand. I will spend rest of my life proving it.”
Leo’s throat closes. He kisses Ilya instead of trying to speak, and pours everything he can’t articulate into the contact.
“I love you too,” he finally manages. “And we’re going to have the most ridiculously emotional wedding. Misha will cry. Your grandmother’s ghost will probably show up to approve. It’ll be perfect.”
Ilya’s laugh is wet. “You are probably right.”
They stay like that—surrounded by the smell of champagne and sweat and victory—until the equipment staff politely kicks them out so they can start cleaning up.
The victory parade happens two days later.
Downtown Seattle is packed with fans, hundreds of thousands lining the streets, and the Storm players ride on open-air floats with the Cup making appearances. Leo stands with Ilya, who’s back on crutches but radiant, waving to the crowd and occasionally lifting Leo’s left hand to show off the engagement ring.
The cheers when they kiss are deafening.
Misha is on their float too, his own recovery coming along well enough that he’s walking with just a cane now. He’s talking to some of the younger players, his English improving daily, and seems genuinely happy in a way that makes Ilya’s entire face soften when he looks at him.
Leo is watching the crowd, grinning and waving, when he notices something on the float ahead of them.
Captain Shaw is standing near the Cup, looking every inch the championship captain. But beside him is Matty Finlay—the rookie defenseman who’d come up mid-season, all skill and attitude and barely controlled chaos. They’re not celebrating. They’re arguing.
Leo can’t hear what they’re saying over the crowd noise, but he can see Finlay’s jaw set in stubborn defiance, can see Shaw getting in his face with the kind of intensity usually reserved for on-ice battles. The tension between them is electric—something dangerous and crackling that makes Leo’s internal radar ping.
“You see that?” Leo murmurs to Ilya, nodding toward Shaw and Finlay.
Ilya follows his gaze, watches the confrontation for a moment, and something knowing crosses his face. “Da. I see.”
“What do you think that’s about?”
“The same thing everything is about.” Ilya pulls Leo closer, his crutches balanced precariously. “Fear. Want. Two things that look like anger until you know better.”
Leo watches Shaw grab Finlay’s jersey, watches the rookie shove back, watches them get pulled apart by Murphy before it escalates. The way they look at each other afterward—like they’re fighting not to close the distance again—tells Leo everything he needs to know.
“Another storm is brewing,” he says, grinning.
“Da.” Ilya’s hand finds the back of Leo’s neck, familiar and grounding. “But that is their story. This—” He gestures to the parade, the Cup, the ring on Leo’s finger, the future spreading out before them. “—this is ours. And it is only beginning.”
Leo kisses him in front of hundreds of thousands of fans, in front of cameras and media and the entire hockey world, and knows with absolute certainty that whatever comes next—retirement, recovery, the wedding they’ll plan, the life they’ll build—they’ll face it the same way they’d faced everything else.
Together.
Chapter 20
Ilya’s POV
The lake house is filled with light.
Ilya sits on the dock in early morning, his left leg stretched out carefully, and watches sunrise paint the water gold. The knee aches—will always ache now, a permanent reminder of what he’d gambled and won—but it holds. Four months post-surgery, countless hours of physical therapy, and Dr. Stevens’ grudging admission that the repair had healed better than expected.
He can play. Will play. The new season starts in three weeks.
Behind him, inside the house, Leo is attempting to make breakfast. Ilya can hear the clatter of pans, Misha’s laughter at whatever Leo is doing wrong, and feels something in his chest unclench completely. This is what peace sounds like—domestic chaos and his brother’s joy and the man he loves burning eggs.
“Bozhe moy,” Leo’s voice carries through the screen door. “How do you burn scrambled eggs? They’re literally the easiest thing!”
“You must stir,” Misha calls back in careful English. “Always stirring. Like relationship—you stop paying attention, everything burns.”
Ilya smiles into his tea. His brother had been living with them for three months now, his own surgery successful, his physical therapy progressing faster than anyone expected. Yesterday, Misha had mentioned college—maybe studying sports medicine, maybe coaching. The possibility of a future instead of just survival.
Leo appears on the dock, carrying a plate of slightly burnt eggs and toast. “Your brother is a comedian now. I’m blaming you for encouraging him.”
“I encourage nothing. He is naturally funny.” Ilya accepts the plate, kisses Leo’s wrist as he does. “And you are naturally bad at cooking.”
“That’s why we’re getting married—so you can cook and I can look pretty.” Leo sits beside him, their legs dangling over the water. The engagement ring catches sunlight, platinum gleaming. “Speaking of which, I talked to the event coordinator yesterday. She can do October fifteenth at the facility’s banquet hall. Small ceremony, just family and the team. Maybe a hundred people total.”
A hundred people. A year ago, Ilya would have panicked at the thought. Now he just imagines the faces—Misha as his best man, Shaw and Murphy and the team he’d bled with, Leo’s parents flying in from Montreal, maybe even some of his grandmother’s recipes served at the reception.
“Sounds perfect,” Ilya says.
“You sure? Because we could do something bigger. More traditional. Whatever you want.”
“I want you. The rest is just details.” Ilya sets the plate down, pulls Leo closer. “You have made me happier than I knew was possible. The wedding could be in parking lot and I would not care.”
“We’re not getting married in a parking lot. I have some standards.” Leo’s smile is crooked, beloved. “But I love you for offering.”
They sit in silence while the sun climbs higher. Misha joins them eventually, moving with only a slight limp now, and Leo tries to teach him to skip stones across the lake’s surface. Misha is terrible at it, Leo only marginally better, and Ilya watches them compete with increasingly absurd technique while his tea goes cold in his hands.
He has never known such peace.
The first official practice of the new season happens on a Thursday.
Ilya drives to the Storm facility with Leo, their routine so established it requires no discussion. Leo drives because Ilya’s knee stiffens if he sits too long, and they stop at the same coffee shop they always do, and Leo gets his usual ridiculous caramel monstrosity while Ilya drinks black coffee like a civilized person.
“You’re nervous,” Leo observes, pulling into the players’ parking lot.
“Da.” No point lying. “Knee has not been tested in real practice yet. What if—”
“Then we adjust. But Ilya—” Leo’s hand finds his thigh. “You’ve been skating for six weeks. You’ve been doing goalie-specific drills for three. Dr. Stevens cleared you. Your body is ready.”
“But what if I am not same? What if I cannot—”
“Then you’ll still be a Stanley Cup champion who played through a torn MCL to win it. You’ll still be you.” Leo kisses him quickly. “Now get in there and be a wall. A smart wall. A wall that knows when to ask for help.”
Ilya nods, grabs his gear bag, and heads inside.
The locker room is familiar and strange at once. Mostly the same faces—Shaw, Murphy, Richardson, Carter. But new players too, including the backup goalie they’d signed in the off-season. Kid named Marcus Chen, twenty-three, drafted in the third round four years ago and finally getting his NHL shot.
The kid looks terrified.
Ilya dresses slowly, methodically, his pre-game ritual unchanged. Pads, chest protector, pants. The left knee brace goes on first now—reinforced, custom-fitted, a permanent part of his equipment. Then skates, jersey, finally the mask.
When he stands, the knee holds.
He takes the ice for warm-ups with his chest tight and his breathing controlled. The cold air hits his face, familiar as coming home. He skates to his crease—his office, the place he’s spent fifteen years of his life—and settles into position.
It feels different.
Not worse. Not diminished. Just... different. No longer a fortress of solitude or a penance he’s serving. Just the place where he does his job. Where he’s good at what he does. Where he belongs.
Leo skates past during line rushes, taps Ilya’s pads with his stick—their ritual. Ilya returns the tap, and when Leo circles back, their eyes meet across the ice.
Leo grins, taps his own chest. My heart.
Ilya taps his chest in return. Mine.
Practice is intense. Coach runs them through systems, testing combinations, pushing tempo. The backup goalie—Marcus—rotates in halfway through, taking shots while Ilya works with the skating coach on lateral movement. The knee protests but holds, the rebuilt ligament doing its job, and by the end of practice Ilya is exhausted and sore and satisfied.
They run a scrimmage at the end. Ilya in one net, Marcus in the other. The kid is talented—quick reflexes, good positioning, reads the play well. But he’s nervous, overcompensating, and when a soft wrister from the blue line sneaks through his five-hole, Ilya sees the exact moment when panic sets in.
During the next stoppage, Ilya skates to Marcus’s crease.
“You are okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, just—” Marcus shakes his head. “That was a terrible goal. I should have had it.”
“Da. Should have. But did not. Is done. What matters is next save.” Ilya remembers Leo’s words from a lifetime ago, in a dark rink at 5 AM when Ilya was drowning. “Breathe. It is just ice. Just puck. Nothing else matters.”
Marcus nods, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Thanks, Vasy.”
“We are teammates. We help each other.” Ilya taps the kid’s pads with his stick—paying forward the kindness Leo had shown him. “You will be fine. Trust yourself.”
The scrimmage continues. Marcus stops the next three shots he faces, and when practice ends, he seeks Ilya out in the locker room.
“Hey, thanks for earlier. That helped.”
“Is my job. We are team.” Ilya strips off his gear, wincing slightly when his knee protests the movement. “You have questions about position, about reads, you ask me. Ponyatno?”
“Understood.” Marcus grins. “You’re not as scary as everyone says.”
“Give it time. I am very scary when you let in bad goals.” But Ilya’s mouth twitches, and the kid laughs.
