"It's him, isn't it?" Your eyes darted from his face to the phone, your heart leaping from your chest and drowning itself in sorrow.
"No."
You sucked your teeth in, weaving shaking fingers through sweaty hair. "Dont. Lie. To. Me. Ilya."
"Fine. It was him." A deep inhale to an old, stale cigarette. You wanted to fucking throw it across the room. Maybe his apartment would catch fire. Maybe the beautiful trophies and uniforms and memories will burn.
"Why do you keep answering the phone when you promise not to?" You felt an ache that was deep, deep in your gut.
He shrugged, now refusing to answer at all. From barely anything to nothing at all. You were truly losing him. To a fellow hockey player who understood every single thing about his life that you didn't. It hurt like a sharp paper cut to the heart, stinging and fine, blood seeping through the slit.
"I know that I don't get it. I know that I don't understand like he does. But you love me, don't you, Ilya?"
"Of course."
"Say it."
He exhaled smoke, long and gray, clouds exploding through the room with lack of response.
