“How are you holding up, Ilya?”
“Great. Wonderful.” Shane heard him sigh. “Is quiet here.”
“Are you alone? Where are you?”
“My condo. I have one here. In Moscow. For the summers, you know.”
“Right.” Shane didn’t like the idea of Ilya being alone right now.
“If you are wondering if I will be back in time for our game in Montreal—”
“I don’t give a shit about that, Ilya. You know that’s not why I’m calling.”
Another sigh.
“Should you really be alone right now?” Shane asked.
“I am not alone,” Ilya said. “You are here now, yes?”
Shane’s hand flew to his chest to make sure his heart was still beating; he could have sworn it had just melted into a gooey puddle. He wished he could warp to Moscow. Just instantly appear in Ilya’s apartment and hold him and tell him it was all right to be conflicted about his father’s death. That he didn’t owe his family anything. That he should leave them all behind because they made him miserable and he doesn’t need them anyway.
Instead he said, “Yeah. I’m here.”
“And where else are you?” Ilya asked.
“I’m home now. Montreal.”
Shane heard mattress springs squeak as Ilya presumably settled himself on his bed. “Tell me about your home, Hollander,” he said in a tired voice. “What does it look like? I try to imagine it...”
“You do?”
“You will not let me see it.”
“That’s not...” Shane grimaced. “It’s not because I don’t want you here. You know that.”
“I know nothing. What does it look like?”
“It’s, I don’t know...it has big windows.”
“What can you see out of them?”
“Buildings, mostly. A bit of the water.”
“Fancy kitchen?”
Shane laughed. “Yeah. Too fancy, probably. I barely use it. I could probably get by with a toaster and a blender.”
“What is your favorite thing about your home?”
“I dunno. It’s close to the practice rink?”
Ilya snorted. “Figures.”
“It’s private. Good security. Hey, I made a donation to the Alzheimer’s Society of Canada. For your father.”
Ilya was quiet a moment. “That is nice of you. Might be good for me. Can be...what is the word...passed on?”
“Hereditary?”
