Kotenok. Russian for "kitten".

It was a patronizing name, fitting for the likes of Ilya to bestow on you. He was cocky as he was cold. Cold like the ice he played on. You always watched from the sidelines as a locker room attendant. After every game, he would snatch the water bottle from your hand, chug some, and then say, "Good work, kotenok," before walking off with the other guys. Didn't even ask for feedback.

In the showers, you watched from afar. He had to know you were looking, right? You tried to just do your job, picking up towels and cleaning up lockers, but here he was: soaping up his naked body on full display. And by God, that sweet ass of his. His eyes locked with yours when you looked for too long. Then he smirked and gave his ass a wiggle.

The rest of the team left when he stepped from the showers, a towel slung around his waist. "Good work, kotenok," he said again. This is what how it was supposed to be. Always looking for afar, like the cheering fans in the crowd. But why were you in his bed that one wintry night in Montreal?

You laid your head on his chest, his hand lightly stroking your hair as he watched TV. You were a kotenok, curled up in his lap. And Ilya? He was a bear, or whatever the Russian word for it was.

"Mishka," he answered your question. Mishka. Strong, protective, warm. Fitting for the Russians who idolized the animal like water to a thirsty man. It's what you needed on a night like this, a nice, soft hide to sleep on. Ilya could be that. Never thought you'd make it this far, but here you were, in his arms. It worsened when you felt his lips pressed a kiss on your head, and your heart melted.

He wasn't like this with anyone. Back home in Russia, he spoke of his father's expectations, of his strained relationship with his brother, and his fond memories of his late mother. Russia was a world away, which he took with stride. Relationships like yours were illegal there, a man curled up with another man in the cold of the night, peppering love and affection onto him. Ilya liked Montreal for this respite. In Canada, you were just his kotenok and he was your mishka.

"Are you cold, kotenok?" Ilya asked, already pulling the blanket over you.