#rushplay

M. can't sleep / @rushplay

IN TRUTH he dreams , and there is the stark image of HIS MOTHER. the way he can never reach her in time , and the knowledge that she loves him. in these dreams he wonders if he pushed too much as a child , if he made her happy ... children were RELENTLESS with their wants , the unending SELFISHNESS that they employed. ilya now skates for HER , everything he does in in effigy of his mother.

that cross that lays between his chest is FOR HER , and he reminds himself that he escaped RUSSIA ; proved himself to be the best.

' never ' he responds as the other takes a seat next to him , ' it is too close to championships anyways ... ' THERE'S a cigarette that dangles , a PROMISE that he never kept. ' you ? ' he eyes the other with the type of curiosity that accompanies a player that is from DETROIT. they were good but , they weren't BOSTON. though , ilya in truth isn't a dick , and they aren't on the ICE.

' what , you like detroit ? ' ilya making casual conversation slowly as his english isn't QUITE where he wants it. ' this hotel lobby sends me into a depression every SIX months '

ilya then smiles as a CIGARETTE dangles from his mouth , ' don't tell anyone ... ' cigarette lit by lighter as he then takes a drag , ' you're sort of an annoying right wing '

IT'S TRUE the other is EXCEPTIONALLY talented , did ALL guys from NORWAY play as good as ISAK. god , if only he had ISAK on BOSTON. then again ? ilya was a GOOD captain , and even faster skater.

elena rossi  ...    ▇▇▇           she  never  really  paid  much  attention  to  other  sports  outside  of  racing  and  maybe  some  football.  and  she  never  shyed  away  about  admitting  it.  so  when  the  paddock  rang  of  hockey  players  during  the   grand  prix,  she  shrugged  it  off.  it  wasn't  abnormal  when  guest  came  into  the  red  bull  garage.  her  focus  never  going  towards  where  they  were.  often  ,  she  remained  in  her  driver's  room  –  focusing  on  what  her  main  goal  was.  to  win.  to  at  least  get  some  points  for  herself  and  her  team.  however,  she  was  sort  of  forced  into  this  whole  social  thing.  at  least  her  company  wasn't  that  bad.  maybe  she  didn't  have  to  bite  as  bad  like  she  did  with  the  last  person  who  she  had  to  show  around  her  car. 

       ❛   ever  been  around  one  of  these  before?  ❜   eyebrow  quirked  as  she  looked  his  way.  she  wasn't  sure  if  he  had  or  not.  regardless,  it  didn't  hurt  to  ask.  ❛  i'll  be  honest  –  I'm  not  very  good  at  showing  all  of  this.  I  sort  of  do  more  of  a  crash  course  in  it.  unlike  my  teammate.   ❜ 

                        HEART IS BEATING RAPIDLY,  WORDS ARE FAILING HER.  for once in her life,  she is rendered speechless,  nothing to be said.  she could only look at him with widened eyes,   a bright red flush spreading across her cheeks,  and shaking hands.   surely,  he was acting out of kindness,  not because he was infatuated by her.  she did not want to get her hopes up.  isak is an athlete,  a high-profile one at that.  anne is a reporter. the press would have a field day if they had found out about this!  if he was not going to think about his reputation,  she would have to.

“   … what in the world are you doing?   ”  anne’s words were almost a whisper,   taking hold of his arm,  quick to tug him into the apartment.   there was no way that he was here for her,  or so she continued to tell herself.  he did not mean to end up at her door with such a beautiful bouquet in hand.  “  you’re lost,   right?  that has to be it,  ”  she finally speaks up.  the metaphorical dots connecting in her brain.   that would make far more sense!  “  if anyone saw you come here,   people would assume …  ”  her tone lowers,  gaze dropping.  she almost feels shame.  “  d-do you need help finding where you were trying to go?  ”  still convincing herself that this was a simple mistake.  “  they are stunning,  by the way.  the flowers-  ”  her gaze shifts to the bouquet, taking in the colors within it,  and how it had been tied.   “   did you know that every flower in that bouquet has a meaning or intention behind it?  even the ribbon that holds them all together has a meaning depending on color and type.  ”

tongue swells with uncertainty at the words . kept silent so there's no possibility to fumble the speech . no , he wants to give isak everything . they don't have time for stuttering . caught in a drumming pulse of adrenaline , following the pressage of stick . how easy it would be to deal injury .

and yet it's gone far before it could ever leave a mark . he feels unsatisfied .

gliding after , caught up in the tunnel vision . held back by a guiding hand from a linesman . vesa simply leans forward to peer around . staring with the simplicity of wanting . either to put bruises and soreness , or to receive it himself . there's a thrill in both winning and losing , big knuckles make the prettiest bruises .

the bench comes before any words can articulate in the brain , much less translated . straddled over and squished in between thick shoulders . the satisfaction radiates . they always love when he's mean . as does he . loves extending that high by driving in fingers against the bruises on his skin . remembering their stories .

maybe if he'd pushed a little harder , dug a little deeper , he could have looked forward to a line of unsteady purple blooming across his abdomen by the morning . he nearly mourns the loss .

next shift comes like a promise . scrambling over boards to chase tails . the attention spreads like a disease . a parasite . if isak is not near then the aggressions turn to another muse . as many hits as possible without getting a penalty . long since memorized what the referees will and won't deal with .

each drive follows up with a glance , never fleeting in nature . the stray dog that leaves animal carcasses on the porch . he wants it to be seen . flaunted like a challenge , either outcome will satisfy him regardless .

it has only been three weeks. twenty-one days. i know because i counted them once in the notes app on my phone and then immediately deleted it so i wouldn’t seem insane — even to myself. three weeks since he stood in the cold outside the rink and asked me, almost shyly, if i wanted to be his girlfriend. three weeks since i said yes and felt something in my life quietly shift into place. three weeks is nothing. it’s barely measurable. it’s the amount of time milk lasts in the fridge. it’s a vacation. it’s a blink. and yet it feels like something that has been building for much longer. he’s standing at the bottom of the porch steps now, and for a moment i don’t even notice what he’s holding. i just notice him.

i don’t think i will ever get used to how beautiful he is.

not in a delicate way. not in the polished, curated way boys sometimes try to be. he’s beautiful the way something solid is beautiful — broad shoulders under a soft gray sweater, hands a little rough from tape and ice and years of gripping a stick too tight. his hair falls into his eyes when he forgets to style it, and he never remembers to fix it unless i reach up and do it for him. sometimes i catch people staring at him. at the rink. on the street. girls who recognize him, girls who don’t. i don’t blame them. what i can’t believe — still, even after three weeks — is that he looks at me the way he does. like i’m the surprising thing. like i’m the one he can’t quite believe. it’s valentine’s day. i knew that, obviously. the entire world has been red and pink for the past two weeks. heart-shaped candy. glittering cards. overpriced roses at the grocery store. i told myself we didn’t need to make a big deal of it. three weeks is too new for pressure. too new for expectations. but he’s here. there’s something tucked behind his back, and the gesture is so almost-cliché that it makes my chest tighten instead of roll my eyes. he looks slightly uncomfortable — not awkward, exactly, but aware. like he understands the weight of the day and chose to show up anyway.

he shifts his weight, glances up at me, then back down. i’ve seen him before games with less nerves than this. and that — more than anything — is what undoes me because it’s been three weeks, and he still cares how i’ll react. it’s been three weeks, and he still looks at me like this is new. like i’m new. i think that’s what makes it feel fragile. not breakable — he’s not breakable — but tender. like we’re both holding something we don’t want to drop. he finally brings his hands forward. flowers. of course they’re flowers. white roses. pale blue hydrangeas. soft blush tucked between them. a ribbon tied carefully around the stems — not sloppy, not rushed. intentional. my first real valentine’s bouquet from my first real boyfriend. and suddenly i am acutely aware that this is the kind of moment girls remember. the kind they compare all future ones to. the kind that becomes a story you tell years later — whether it lasts or not. but standing here, watching him hold them out to me like he’s offering something far more vulnerable than petals and stems, i don’t think about the future. i just think: he chose me. three weeks in, and he is still choosing me. and i cannot believe — not fully, not yet — that someone that beautiful, that steady, that quietly extraordinary, is standing on my porch on valentine’s day with flowers in his hands and that soft, almost-hopeful look in his eyes. for me.