Five hole heart, p.6
Five Hole Heart, page 6
Ilya’s hand dropped like Leo had burned him. He stepped back, his expression shuttering, walls slamming back into place with almost audible force. Without a word, he turned and walked out, his gear squeaking against the floor.
Coach lingered a moment. “Get cleaned up, Marchand. And next time you want to defend your goalie, maybe don’t get your face rearranged in the process.” He left, but there was something in his tone that suggested he understood exactly what had just almost happened.
Leo sat alone in the medical room, his face throbbing, his hands shaking, his mouth still forming the shape of words he hadn’t gotten to say. What’s mine. He’d claimed Ilya in front of no one and everyone, had crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.
And Ilya had been about to kiss him.
Merde.
Leo touched his own jaw where Ilya’s hand had been, leather and warmth and impossible possibility. Then he stood, wobbling slightly, and went to face the media with a black eye and the certain knowledge that everything between him and Ilya Vasiliev had just changed irrevocably.
Chapter 8
Ilya’s POV
The press conference room was too bright, too loud, too full of people asking questions Ilya couldn’t answer honestly.
He sat at the table beside Leo, whose face looked worse under the fluorescent lights—right eye swollen nearly shut, stitches dark against his bruised cheekbone, dried blood still visible at his hairline despite the trainer’s cleaning. Leo should have been in a hospital getting a CT scan for possible concussion. Instead, he was here because the GM had decided this warranted immediate media management.
Coach sat on Leo’s other side. The GM stood against the back wall, arms crossed, watching.
“Leo, what sparked that fight?” A reporter from the Seattle Times, his recorder aimed at Leo’s battered face. “Seemed personal.”
Leo’s smile came easy despite the split lip. “Brewer was playing dirty all game. Targeting Ilya after whistles, sticks up in the crease. Someone had to answer for it.”
“But you’re not an enforcer. That’s your first fight this season.”
“First time this season someone needed to be reminded that our goalie’s off-limits.” Leo’s voice stayed light, casual, like he hadn’t just admitted to something that made Ilya’s chest feel too tight. “We protect each other. That’s what teams do.”
Another reporter, this one from a sports blog that specialized in controversy: “Vasiliev, your thoughts on Marchand’s defense of you? That’s unusual—typically defensemen handle crease protection.”
The question hung in the air. Cameras focused on Ilya. He could feel the GM’s gaze from the back of the room, measuring, calculating what Ilya’s answer might reveal about team dynamics or his mental state or whether he was worth keeping.
Ilya looked at Leo. The rookie’s good eye was bright despite the injury, and something in his expression—pride mixed with concern mixed with that steady patience that had become Ilya’s anchor—made words tumble out before Ilya could filter them.
“No one has ever...” He stopped. The room was too quiet. Too many microphones recording. “He is good teammate. The best.”
It wasn’t what he meant to say. What he meant was: No one has ever fought for me. No one has ever put their career and face and future on the line because someone hurt me. I have always been the protector, the wall, the one who keeps everyone else safe. To be protected—to be claimed as worth protecting—unlocks something I thought died fifteen years ago on a frozen pond.
But he couldn’t say that. So he settled for inadequate English and hoped Leo understood the subtext.
What’s mine.
The words replayed in Ilya’s head on an endless loop. Leo had said them in the medical room with blood on his face and conviction in his voice, and Ilya’s entire understanding of his place in the world had shifted. He wasn’t just a goalie. He was Leo’s goalie. Possessed. Claimed. Worth fighting for.
The concept was intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.
The presser continued. More questions about the game, about Ilya’s save percentage climbing to .903, about whether he felt secure in his position with two games left in his ultimatum. Ilya gave practiced answers while his mind stayed fixed on Leo’s declaration.
Finally, mercifully, Coach ended it. “That’s all for tonight. Both players need medical attention and rest.”
The reporters filed out. The GM caught Ilya’s eye, gave a single approving nod—the win mattered, the performance mattered, public perception mattered—then left.
Ilya and Leo sat in the emptying room. Coach lingered at the door. “Marchand, you’re not driving with that eye. Concussion protocol. Someone needs to take you home.”
“I can call a—” Leo started.
“I will drive him.” Ilya’s voice came out rougher than intended. Not a question. Not a request. A statement of fact.
Coach looked between them, his expression unreadable. Then he shrugged. “Fine. But if he pukes or passes out, you’re taking him to the ER. And Vasiliev? Good game. Keep that up for two more.”
He left.
The silence in the conference room felt enormous. Leo turned to look at Ilya, his good eye searching Ilya’s face for something—permission, maybe, or confirmation that the almost-kiss in the medical room hadn’t been trauma-induced hallucination.
“You don’t have to drive me,” Leo said quietly. “I can get a ride share or—”
“Leo.” Ilya stopped him with his name. Using it felt significant, like crossing a threshold he’d been avoiding. “I drive you.”
Leo’s apartment building was in Capitol Hill, a neighborhood Ilya rarely visited. The streets were narrow, lined with old houses converted to apartments and trendy restaurants still open despite the late hour. Ilya pulled his truck to the curb in front of Leo’s building—a renovated Victorian that probably cost more than a rookie’s salary should afford.
He should let Leo out. Should say goodnight and drive to his own sterile condo and pretend the last four hours hadn’t fundamentally altered something between them.
Instead, his hand shot out and caught Leo’s wrist before the rookie could open the door.
Leo froze. His pulse fluttered under Ilya’s fingers—rapid, uneven, alive.
“Come home with me.” The words came out before Ilya could stop them. Not quite a command, despite his usual clipped delivery. An invitation that felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if the fall would kill him.
Leo’s throat moved as he swallowed. “Ilya...”
The hesitation cut deeper than Ilya expected. He was asking too much. Assuming too much based on a declaration made in the heat of post-game adrenaline. Leo probably wanted nothing more than to sleep off his injuries in his own bed, not deal with Ilya’s complicated damage.
“Forget—” Ilya started to pull his hand back.
“Yes.” Leo’s hand covered Ilya’s, keeping their contact. “Yes, I’ll come home with you.”
“You are injured. You should—”
“I’m fine.” Leo’s smile was lopsided because of the split lip. “Head hurts, face hurts, everything hurts. But I’m fine. And I want...” He trailed off, then seemed to find his words. “I want to be wherever you are.”
The honesty of it stole Ilya’s breath. He nodded once, pulled his hand back carefully, and put the truck in drive.
Ilya’s condo was in Belltown, twenty floors up with views of Elliott Bay that he never looked at. The space was expensive, modern, and utterly impersonal—grey walls, black furniture, nothing on any surface that suggested someone actually lived there. He’d bought it three years ago when he signed his contract extension and had never bothered making it feel like home.
Leo walked in, his good eye taking in the sterile environment, and said nothing about the obvious lack of personality. Just toed off his shoes by the door like he’d been here before, like he belonged in Ilya’s space.
“You want water? Food?” Ilya heard himself offering hospitality like they were teammates after practice, not two men who’d spent the last hour driving in charged silence.
“I’m good.” Leo moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the city lights reflecting off the dark water. “Nice view.”
Ilya didn’t look at the view. He looked at Leo, silhouetted against the window, and made a decision.
He crossed the space between them in four strides. His hand found Leo’s jaw—the unbruised side—and tilted the rookie’s face toward him. Leo’s good eye went wide, startled, then darkened to something that matched the pulse hammering visibly in his throat.
“You fought for me,” Ilya said. The words felt clumsy, insufficient. “No one has ever...”
“I know.” Leo’s hand came up to cover Ilya’s where it rested against his jaw. “I know what it means. What you’re risking. What this—” He gestured between them. “—could cost you if anyone finds out.”
“I do not care.” The lie tasted bitter. Ilya cared desperately—cared about his career, about his father’s threats, about Misha’s medical bills. But in this moment, with Leo’s warmth under his palm and those blue eyes looking at him like Ilya was worth the damage to his face, none of it seemed to matter as much as it should.
Leo’s free hand found Ilya’s waist, fingers curling into his shirt. “You should care. I should care. This is—we’re teammates, and you’ve got two games left, and I don’t want to be the reason you—”
Ilya kissed him.
Not gently. Not tentatively. With fifteen years of denial and two weeks of 5 AM mornings and the aching need to claim Leo the way Leo had claimed him in the medical room. His mouth found Leo’s, careful of the split lip but otherwise demanding, and Leo made a sound—surprise or relief or both—before kissing back.
Leo tasted like the metallic tang of blood and the mint gum he’d been chewing to stay awake. His mouth was warm, responsive, opening under Ilya’s with an eagerness that made Ilya’s control slip further. They stumbled backward, Ilya’s hands moving to Leo’s waist, Leo’s arms coming up around Ilya’s neck despite the height difference.
They hit the couch. Leo’s back connected with the leather, and he pulled Ilya down with him, their legs tangling, hands searching for contact. Ilya was mindful of Leo’s injuries—keeping his weight off the rookie’s bruised ribs, avoiding the swollen eye, gentle with the stitched cheekbone.
But his mouth was ruthless. Kissing Leo with the pent-up need of two weeks watching the rookie show up at 4:58 every morning with coffee and patience. Kissing him like Leo’s blood on the ice had awakened something possessive and primal that Ilya hadn’t known he was capable of feeling.
Leo’s hands found Ilya’s face, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones, anchoring him. When Ilya pulled back to breathe, to check that Leo was okay, the rookie was smiling—bright and genuine despite the split lip.
“Took you long enough,” Leo said, breathless.
“Idiota,” Ilya muttered, the Russian endearment slipping out. Idiot. Fool. Mine.
He kissed Leo again, softer this time, mapping the shape of his mouth, learning what made him gasp. Leo’s hands moved from Ilya’s face to his shoulders, then down his back, pulling him closer. The intimacy of it—being touched deliberately, being wanted—made Ilya’s throat tight.
“Is this okay?” Leo whispered against his mouth. “You’re sure you want—”
“Da.” Ilya cut him off. “I am sure.”
He moved to Leo’s neck, kissing the pulse point that had been driving him insane for weeks, tasting salt and the faint scent of the soap Leo used. Leo’s head tipped back, giving him access, a quiet sound escaping his throat.
Ilya worked his way down—throat, collarbone, the hollow between Leo’s collarbones. His hands found the hem of Leo’s shirt, pushed it up carefully, revealing bruised ribs that made Ilya’s chest ache with protective fury. He pressed gentle kisses to each bruise, worship and apology in equal measure.
“Spasibo,” he murmured against Leo’s skin. Thank you. For fighting. For staying. For being patient when Ilya gave him every reason to leave.
“You don’t have to thank me.” Leo’s hands threaded into Ilya’s hair, gentle and grounding. “I’d do it again. I’d do worse if anyone tried to hurt you.”
The words settled into Ilya’s chest, warm and terrifying. He looked up at Leo—face bruised, eye swollen, but expression open and honest and completely unguarded.
“You are reckless,” Ilya said.
“Yeah, probably.” Leo’s smile was crooked. “But so are you. You invited me here.”
Fair point. Ilya kissed him again, slower now, the urgency giving way to something deeper. They stayed on the couch for a long time, trading kisses and careful touches, learning each other’s boundaries and preferences and the specific sounds that meant more or careful or yes, there.
Eventually, exhaustion caught up with them. Leo’s movements grew slower, his responses delayed. The concussion protocol that Ilya had ignored because he was selfish and desperate and wanted this too much to care about medical advice.
“Sleep,” Ilya said, pulling back. “You need—”
“Stay.” Leo’s hand caught his shirt. “Don’t go. Please.”
The plea undid him. Ilya adjusted their positions—Leo on his uninjured side, Ilya stretched behind him on the wide couch, arm draped carefully over Leo’s waist. Leo’s breathing evened out almost immediately, exhaustion and injury dragging him under.
Ilya lay awake, stroking the soft hair at Leo’s temple, memorizing the weight of another body against his. The fear was there—whispering that he would ruin this, that his father would destroy it, that management would use it against him. But for now, with Leo’s heartbeat steady under his palm and the warmth bleeding through their clothes, Ilya let himself have this.
Just tonight, he told himself. One night where I am not broken.
At 3 AM, his phone rang.
Ilya extracted himself carefully from Leo’s sleeping form, grabbed the phone from the coffee table, and padded to the kitchen. The caller ID showed Dmitri—his agent, who knew better than to call at 3 AM unless the world was ending.
“Da?” Ilya kept his voice low.
“Ilya.” Dmitri sounded tired. Stressed. “Your father came to my office today.”
Ilya’s stomach dropped. He looked back at the couch where Leo slept, peaceful and trusting, and felt the fragile peace of the last few hours start to crack.
“What does he want?”
“Money.” Dmitri’s exhale was audible through the phone. “A lot of money. He says Misha needs emergency surgery. That without it, he’ll lose the leg completely. He wants $200,000 by the end of the week.”
The number was staggering. Impossible. Ilya made good money by NHL standards, but $200,000 liquid in four days would drain most of his savings. “I send money every month for Misha’s care. Where does it go?”
“I’ve been asking that question for three years.” Dmitri’s voice hardened. “Ilya, there’s more. Your father knows about the ten-game ultimatum. He knows management’s been watching you. And he said...” A pause. “He said if you don’t pay, he’ll go to the media.”
“And say what?” But Ilya already knew. The cold certainty settled into his bones.
“That you’re distracted. That you’re choosing your ‘personal life’ over hockey. Over your family.” Another pause, heavier this time. “He didn’t specify what he meant by personal life, but the implication was clear. He’s been asking questions about your roommates, your social life. He knows you live alone. He’s fishing.”
The floor dropped out from under Ilya. He gripped the kitchen counter, his knuckles going white. In the living room, Leo shifted on the couch but didn’t wake.
“He has nothing,” Ilya said, but it sounded weak even to his own ears.
“He doesn’t need proof. He just needs to plant doubt. Media speculation about a goalie’s focus during a career crisis?” Dmitri’s voice was grim. “Management will use it as justification for the trade. Your father knows that.”
Ilya closed his eyes. Fifteen years of sending money home. Fifteen years of trying to atone for Misha’s injury. And his father had turned it into leverage, into a weapon aimed directly at the one thing Ilya couldn’t afford to lose.
No, the two things. His career and the man sleeping on his couch.
“I will handle it,” Ilya said.
“How?”
He didn’t have an answer. He looked at Leo—bruised face peaceful in sleep, trusting Ilya not to ruin him—and felt the weight of impossible choices crushing his chest.
“I will handle it,” he repeated, and ended the call.
Chapter 9
Leo’s POV
Leo woke to absence.
The couch still held his body heat, but Ilya’s warmth against his back was gone. Morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the sterile condo in shades of grey that matched the Seattle sky. Leo sat up, his ribs protesting, his face throbbing where Brewer’s fists had connected. The stitches over his eye pulled tight when he tried to fully open it.
“Ilya?”
No answer. But Leo could hear movement in the bedroom—drawers opening, the rustle of clothing. He stood, his muscles stiff from sleeping on the couch, and found Ilya already dressed in suit pants and a dress shirt, his hair still damp from a shower Leo hadn’t heard him take.
Ilya’s back was to the door. His shoulders carried tension like physical weight, and when he turned at Leo’s footsteps, his face was a mask—the same blank professional expression he wore for media, for management, for everyone except Leo in those sacred 5 AM mornings.
“You are awake.” Stated as fact, no emotion. “You should go home. Rest before game.”
Game nine. One more after tonight and Ilya’s ultimatum would be over. But that wasn’t what made Leo’s stomach drop. It was the careful distance in Ilya’s voice, the way he wouldn’t quite meet Leo’s eyes.
