“A little.”
“Maybe they should offer fans a free hot chocolate or something. That would be an enticement.”
“Sure,” Ilya said dryly. “Or a month’s rent.”
Wyatt laughed again. “That might get a few people in the seats. Maybe.”
As much as the lousy attendance was a running joke amongst his teammates, Ilya honestly fucking hated it. In Boston the arena had been full every game, cheering for their team. In Montreal the arena was sold out well in advance for basically the entire season. Shane didn’t know what it felt like to play for a half-empty arena because even when he played in Ottawa the arena was reliably full. Of Montreal fans. With Shane Hollander jerseys.
But tonight they were playing Columbus, so no one was going to be there.
“Maybe we should play shirtless,” Wyatt joked. “That could bring in a new audience.”
“Would be cold,” Ilya said.
“Yeah. And also I would probably die.”
“Shirtless goaltending. Bad idea,” Ilya agreed.
“I guess we could start winning,” Wyatt mused. “That might work.”
“I will suggest it at the next meeting.”
“Who’s the extra coffee for?”
“Haas.”
Wyatt snorted. “He’s gonna frame it.”
“Fuckin’ A!” Bood yelled as he slammed into Ilya in the corner, wrapping him in a hug. Ilya had scored early in the first period, making it 1–0 for Ottawa. The goal siren blared, the fans who’d bothered to show up cheered, and the team’s goal song started playing (DJ Khaled’s “All I Do Is Win,” which seemed like an ironic choice to Ilya).
“Your turn next, baby,” Ilya said, trying to match Bood’s energy. He bumped gloves with their other winger, Tanner Dillon, who frankly wasn’t good enough to be on a line with either of them. Ilya dreamed of a day where his right wing linemate was as strong as his left. Maybe it would be Haas someday. He had potential.
But Ilya was tired of waiting. Tired of losing. He wanted a star right wing player on his linenow.
He wanted a lot of thingsnow.
“Great start, fellas,” Coach Wiebe said cheerfully when they reached the bench. “Keep it up.”
They didn’t keep it up. By the end of the second period it was 3–1 Columbus.
“We played against Boston last week,” said Jake Pierce, Columbus’s star center, as he and Ilya waited for a face-off. “They were really good.”
“Cool.”
Pierce huffed and shook his head. “I have no fucking idea why you signed with this team.”
“Maybe I like the quiet.”
“You know we’ve got rookies who had posters of you on their bedroom walls?”
“Nice. Good taste.”
“You shouldn’t be here, is all I’m saying.”
Ilya’s lips curved up. “Next time I sign with a shit team in a boring city, I will choose Columbus.”
He could tell Pierce was trying not to smile. “You’re a fucking weirdo, Rozanov.”
