The #1 fan always losing ticketing war #10
A/B（）
↪前集 上一集
Ласточка; little swallow
Ilya完全買得起球賽門票，他根本不需要向Shane索票。
他甚至曾想過悄悄地買票，悄悄地給Shane一個驚喜。但是當他知道Shane寄了五張門票給音樂學院的院長全家，Ilya的內心泛起一股莫名的煩躁感—那就像Ilya在柴可夫斯基大獎賽確定勝出第一輪，在後台聆聽著其他參賽者的演奏，逐次湧現的煩躁感，但這股躁動總能讓Ilya接下來的彈奏完美無瑕。
Ilya只是很意外Shane能為他帶來與鋼琴競賽同等的激昂。
Ilya could easily afford tickets.
He didn't need Shane to give them to him. He had even thought about buying ticket secretly to surprise Shane. But when he learned Shane had sent five tickets to the Dean of the Conservatory and his entire family, an inexplicable irritation bubbled up inside him—it was the same agitation he felt backstage after advancing from the first round of the Tchaikovsky Competition, listening to the other contestants. That irritation always led to his most flawless performances.
Ilya was simply surprised that Shane could ignite a restless energy in him equal to that of a piano competition.
Ilya收到了Shane寄來的包裹，但是包裹裡只有兩張蒙特婁對陣波士頓主場賽的門票。所以Ilya只好自己買球衣。
球員開始踏進冰面暖身的時候，Ilya沒有戴上Metros棒球帽掩飾，即使Svetlana一直勸他別引起注意，但Ilya只是從冰上的四十名球員裡盯著24號，視線追隨藍色球衣的身影。Shane的體格比其他球員小一點，但是速度飛快，彷彿是在冰上來去無蹤，金屬藍羽翼的小燕子。Ilya追隨著Shane的動向，似乎一個閃神就會丟失的燕子的身影，直到Svetlana喊他看向球場的螢幕。
Ilya received the package from Shane, but inside were only two tickets for the Montreal-Boston home game. With no jersey in sight, Ilya was forced to go out and buy his own.
When the players took to the ice for warm-ups, Ilya didn't wear a Metros cap to hide, despite Svetlana's constant urging him to stay low-profile. Ilya's eyes were locked onto number 24 among the forty players, his gaze following the figure in the blue jersey. Shane was slightly smaller than the others, but his speed was blinding. He was like a blue-winged swallow darting across the ice. Ilya tracked his movements, afraid that even a blink would lose the little silhouette, until Svetlana told him to look at the Jumbotron.
Ilya笑著對攝影機揮手，從椅子上起身，轉身炫耀後背的號碼，然後看見螢幕捕捉到Shane震驚的表情。
Shane在冰面上反覆張望，彷彿在尋找。
Ilya倒抽一口氣，Svetlana咯咯地笑出聲。所以Ilya低頭看向冰面，直盯那身藍色球衣在冰上滑來滑去的24號。
回頭。回頭看。
然後Shane轉身了，Ilya克制不住胸口湧起的激昂。雖然看台距離遙遠，但他能看見Shane眼神裡的閃光，他聽到自己的心跳砰然，所以Ilya朝Shane拋了媚眼，Shane隨即露出尷尬又靦腆的笑容，然後滑走了，回到隊伍裡。Ilya也終於安耐不住喜悅，捧腹大笑出聲。
「O, vlyublyonnyye golubki.」Oh, loving doves.Svetlana打趣地說。
「Otvali!」Back off!
Ilya waved at the camera with a grin. He stood up and turned around, flaunting the name and number on his back, then watched as the Jumbotron captured Shane's expression of pure, unadulterated shock.
On the ice, Shane was looking around frantically, searching the stands.
Ilya caught his breath while Svetlana let out a giggle. He looked down at the ice, his gaze locked onto the blue jersey number 24—skating back and forth.
Turn around. Look back.
Then, Shane turned.
A surge of adrenaline rushed through Ilya's chest. Even from the distance of the stands, he could see the spark in Shane's eyes. Ilya's heart hammered against his ribs. Unable to help himself, Ilya winked.
Shane's reaction was immediate, a bashful, embarrassed smile before he skated away to rejoin his team. Ilya finally let the joy burst out, doubling over in a fit of laughter.
"O, vlyublyonnyye golubki," Svetlana teased. (Oh, loving doves.)
"Otvali!" (Back off!)
開場不到兩分鐘，24號射進今晚的第一顆球，季後賽第一場的第一顆球。Ilya激動地站起大吼，雙手伸向空中歡呼，同坐在Ilya那一側的Metros球迷也瘋了似，24號滑進隊友的懷裡慶祝，是個火熱的開場。
球場喇叭卻響起Ilya再熟悉不過的旋律—李斯特的匈牙利狂想曲第2號，第二部分的Friska。
球員大多會選擇輕快且強節奏的流行樂作為他們的進球曲，充滿球員自己的風格，也鼓舞球迷跟隨音樂節奏慶祝，向體育館裡的所有人張揚：「那是我的進球！」。而Shane Hollander是多麼無趣的人，居然選擇古典鋼琴曲作為他的進球曲，Metros球迷全都習以為常地跟隨節奏鼓掌，整個場館迴盪著鋼琴的密集高音與狂亂掌聲，隨著節奏愈發高昂而歡聲鼓舞。
小燕子在風雪裡從未減速，他縮著翅膀飛快地飛越阻礙，銜著punk穿過隙縫，扔進球門，讓旋律為他鳴奏。
Less than two minutes into the opening, number 24 scored the first goal of the night, the very first goal of the playoffs. Ilya stood up and roared, arms thrust into the air. The Metros fans in his section went wild as number 24 slid into his teammates' arms to celebrate. It was a scorching start.
Then, the arena speakers blasted a melody Ilya knew all too well—
Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2, the Friska section.
Most players chose upbeat, bass-heavy pop songs for their goal songs, reflecting their style and inviting fans to chant: "That's my goal!" And yet, Shane Hollander, that boring player, had chosen a classical piano piece. The fans clapped along to the rhythm they had grown used to, the arena echoing with rapid-fire piano notes and thunderous applause.
Ласточка (little swallow) never slows down in the storm; he tucks his wings, flies past obstacles, carries the puck through the gaps, and fires it into the net. He lets the melody speak for him, every single time.
那首匈牙利狂想曲第2號，卻不是普通的鋼琴曲。Ilya停下鼓掌，陷入他的座椅裡，隨著鋼琴的節奏沉入回憶。
And this recording of Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 was no ordinary track. Ilya stopped clapping and sank into his seat, drowning in the memory triggered by the rhythm.
那是Ilya在波士頓演奏安可曲的現場錄音版。
那是他一如往常地在演出前一晚喝了痛快，頭痛宿醉著準備傍晚的演奏；那是他從一篇稱讚演奏會的社群貼文裡，第一次發現"Jane"的花束；那是當他的止痛藥失去藥效，卻依然想著"Jane"坐在觀眾席看著他；那是Ilya開始彈奏安可曲，手指的節奏不斷加快，裝飾音失去控制，是他彈過最痛快的匈牙利狂想曲第2號。
那是Ilya第一次發現"Jane"重燃了他對鋼琴的激昂。
Shane卻選了那天的安可曲錄音作為進球曲。
It was the live recording of his encore in Boston.
It was the night he had drank far too much, preparing for the performance with a pounding hangover. It was through a social media post that he first identified the bouquet as being from "Jane". It was when his painkillers were wearing off, yet he kept thinking of "Jane" sitting in the audience. It was the moment he started the encore, his fingers accelerating, the ornaments spinning out of control—the most exhilarating performance of the piece he had ever played.
It was the night Ilya first realized "Jane" had reignited his passion for the piano.
And Shane had chosen that specific recording as his goal song.
「這首曲子是你的...」Ilya的側臉感受到Svetlana的目光。
「Da.」Ilya看見24號緩慢地滑過他前方的冰面，Shane望向看臺，微笑意味深長，目光鎖定Ilya，「Da. 那是我的李斯特。」Ilya揚起大大的笑容。
"This piece... it's yours, isn't it?" Ilya felt Svetlana's gaze on the side of his face.
"Da."
Ilya watched as Number 24 glided slowly across the ice in front of him. Shane looked up at the stands, his smile pointed and full of meaning, his eyes locked onto Ilya's.
"Da. That's my Liszt." Ilya's face broke into a wide, triumphant grin.
最終，他們在那一晚聽了三次匈牙利狂想曲第2號，音樂在第三次響起的時候，Ilya便將繡著Metros標誌的棒球帽扔向冰面，他站著咆哮24號球員的名字，將那些連聽三次自己的鋼琴曲的情緒宣洩而出，每當24號滑過他前方的冰面，Ilya已經不在乎球場攝影機今晚總共拍了多少次他失控的歡呼。
七分五十秒後，裁判吹響哨音，廣播宣布了今晚的三名最佳球員。
「他為你進了四球。」Svetlana語氣平穩，彷彿故事的旁白揭示一個顯而易見的事實。
Ilya癱坐回椅子上，喘著氣，聲音嘶啞，「三球，其中一個是助攻。」
Svetlana哼了聲，表示不贊同。Ilya卻感覺得到她凝視著他的笑容，Ilya看著Metors的隊長與隊友擊掌後走進後台的步道，Ilya仍然直盯著球場上今晚最佳球員的背影，然後他立刻拿出手機。
By the end of the night, they had heard Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 three times. When the music erupted for the third time, Ilya hurled the Metros-branded cap onto the ice, standing tall as he screamed number 24's name. All the pent-up emotion from hearing his own recording three times over finally boiled over. Ilya no longer cared how many times the arena cameras caught his unrestrained cheering.
Seven minutes and fifty seconds later, the final whistle blew. The Three Stars of the Game were announced over the speakers.
"He scored four for you," Svetlana said, her tone as steady as a narrator revealing a plain, undeniable truth.
Ilya sank back into his seat, breathless and hoarse. "Three," he wheezed. "One was an assist."
Svetlana let out a noncommittal hum, but Ilya could feel her smiling at him. He watched the Metros captain high-five his teammates before disappearing into the tunnel. Ilya's eyes remained fixed on the back of the First Star of the Game, and then, he immediately reached for his phone.
＊
Ilya: Dear the First Star of the Game, Shane Hollander. Can we meet?
Shane: Restricted corridor. Entrance at Section 112.
＊
Ilya看了眼場上，球隊才剛離開冰面沒多久而已，Ilya忍不住竊喜，然後急忙把手機塞回口袋。
「如果你今晚不打算開車載我回去，記得傳訊息跟我說一聲好嗎？」Svetlana挑著眉。
「會啦，會啦。」Ilya小跑步離開觀眾席區。
Ilya stole one last glance at the ice. The team had barely disappeared into the tunnel, yet the reply was already here. He couldn't suppress a giddy, triumphant grin as he shoved his phone back into his pocket.
"If you aren't planning on driving me home tonight, do remember to send me a text, won't you?" Svetlana said, arching an eyebrow in a knowing look.
"I will, I will!" Ilya called back, already jogging away from the stands.
<hr/>
112區管制走廊的保全聽了Ilya的名字後就放行他通過，他穿過走廊，只拐了一個彎就看到一名黑髮男子靠著牆。
他穿著緊身上衣，腳踩拖鞋，頭髮的汗濕未乾，皮膚因水漬而柔亮，雙肩垂下，直盯著手機螢幕。
「Shane Hollander, 」
黑髮男子猛然抬起頭，雀斑下的雙頰仍然是激烈運動後的潮紅。
「You did not...」汗水的悶濕味鑽入Ilya的鼻腔，他必須扭一扭肩膀，才能驅散那股奪走他注意力的男性荷爾蒙，Ilya聲音粗啞地說，「...dispointted your fans.」
「Of course.」Shane露出得意的笑容。
Ilya的胸口隨之抽動，忍不住擠了擠眉頭，沒留心又一口吸入那撩人的汗水味。
「Uh, and, did you... 」汗水滑落Shane的唇角，他抿了抿，猶豫聚集在他棕色的雙眼裡，「Did you enojoy tonight?」
「Da. Of course.」Ilya的回答沒有一絲猶豫，然後他看見如釋重負爬回Shane臉上，「我還弄丟一頂棒球帽，蒙特婁的24號球員得賠我一頂。」
「想得美，你才是那個丟了帽子的人，怪我囉。」Shane笑出聲。
「不，我是認真的，」Ilya大口吸入氧氣，放棄抑制胸口的快樂，他的聲音變大了起來，「最好要有他的簽名，而且他也欠我一件球衣。」
「為什麼？」Shane靠向牆邊，他的眼神疲憊而慵懶，那種凝視讓Ilya的心跳漏拍。
「噢？還能為什麼？」Ilya誇張地揮動雙手，「他只寄給McGill的音樂學院院長三件簽名球衣，還少了一件。」
Shane突然充滿興致，目光專注，「少了誰的？」他舔掉上唇的汗水，「我可以現在簽。」
「啊，真是個貼心的球員，」Ilya的胸口開始無法控制的焦躁，他甚至沒注意到彼此的距離逐漸縮短，「你很照顧你的球迷嗎？」
「當然了，尤其是那些特地來看我比賽的，我會確保他們能盡興。」Shane圓潤的雙眼，懶散的語氣，暈紅的雙頰，自在的姿態，不是Ilya在音樂廳後台見過的那種緊繃。現在的Shane知道自己是Shane Hollander，是MLH的明星球員，是Montreal今晚的最佳球員。
Shane迎刃有餘，因為他在Bell Centre的管制走廊會面的Ilya Rozanov，現在是他的球迷。
Shane伸出手，「有筆嗎？」
Ilya頓時回神卻慌了手腳，開始亂掏口袋，差點弄掉了手機才拿出預先準備的麥克筆，Shane一接手便拔開筆蓋，咬在嘴上，Ilya像是被訓練過的一樣，不發一語地背對他。
然後Ilya聞到麥克筆的溶劑氣味，感覺到球衣後方被拉伸，他看向橡膠地板的坑疤與劃痕，直到球衣被拉扯的震動停止。
Shane拍了拍他的後背，「好了。」
Ilya轉身，麥克筆塞進他手裡。Shane已經退開距離，他指了指後方，「我還得回去，呃，洗澡，賽後記者會。」
Ilya那張伶俐的嘴突然就說不出話，他只能開合著嘴，雙手捧著那支Shane剛握過的麥克筆，一動也不動，彷彿那支筆被聖人加持過。然後Shane聳聳肩，疑惑地歪著頭，片刻後，不知道他是察覺了什麼，突然咯咯笑起。
「Alright. 我的『新』球迷，我得走了，」Shane向後邁開步伐，「謝謝你今晚來看我的比賽。」
Shane已經轉身走遠，Ilya才終於組織句子對著Shane的背影喊著，「I looking forward your next game!」他甚至破音。
The security guard at the Section 112 restricted corridor let Ilya pass as soon as he heard the name. Ilya hurried through the hallway, making a single turn before he saw him, a dark haired man leaning against the wall.
Shane was in a tight training shirt and slides, his hair still damp with sweat, his skin glowing under the hallway lights. His shoulders were slumped in post-game exhaustion as he stared intently at his phone.
"Shane Hollander," Ilya called out.
Shane's head snapped up. His cheeks, dusted with freckles, were still flushed from the intense exertion of the game.
"You did not..." The scent of damp sweat and raw masculine hormones hit Ilya's senses. He had to shift his shoulders as if to shake off the sheer intensity of the man's presence. "You did not disappoint your fans."
"Of course not," Shane replied, a smirk playing on his lips.
Ilya's chest tightened. He tried to suppress a frown, but inadvertently took another breath of that intoxicating, musky air.
"Uh, and... did you..." A bead of sweat rolled down the corner of Shane's mouth, a flicker of hesitation in his brown eyes. "Did you enjoy tonight?"
"Da. Of course." Ilya answered without a second's thought. He watched as a wave of relief washed over Shane's face. "I also lost a cap. Montreal number 24 owes me a new one."
"In your dreams. You're the one who threw it, not me." Shane chuckled.
"No, I am serious," Ilya said, finally giving up on suppressing his joy. His voice grew louder. "It better be signed. And he owes me a jersey, too."
"Why?" Shane leaned further against the wall, his gaze weary yet lazy. That heavy-lidded stare made Ilya's heart skip a beat.
"Oh? Why?" Ilya gestured theatrically. "He only sent three signed jerseys to the Dean of the McGill Conservatory. There was one missing."
Shane's interest piqued, his focus sharpening. "Whose was missing?" He licked the sweat from his upper lip. "I can sign it right now."
"Ah, what a thoughtful player," Ilya's heart was hammering now. He didn't even notice the distance between them shrinking. "Do you always take such good care of your fans?"
"Always. Especially the ones who travel just to see me play. I make sure I put on a good show." Shane's eyes were soft, his tone relaxed. This wasn't the tense Ilya had seen backstage at concert halls.
This was Shane Hollander, the star of the MLH, the First Star of the Game. He was in his element. And right now, Ilya Rozanov was his fan.
Shane reached out. "Got a pen?"
Ilya snapped out of his daze and fumbled through his pockets, nearly dropping his phone before producing a marker. Shane took it, popped the cap off with his teeth. As if trained, Ilya turned his back to him without a word.
Then came the sharp scent of the marker's solvent. Ilya felt the fabric of his jersey being pulled taut. He stared at the scuffs and scratches on the rubber floor, feeling the vibrations of the pen until they finally stopped.
Shane tapped him on the back. "Done."
Ilya turned around, and the marker was pressed back into his hand. Shane had already stepped away. He pointed toward the back of the corridor. "I've gotta go, uh, shower, post-game presser."
Ilya, usually so quick-witted, found himself speechless.
He stood there, mouth slightly agape, clutching the marker Shane had just held as if it were a holy relic. Shane shrugged, tilting his head in confusion, and then... realizing something. He let out a sudden giggle.
"Alright, my 'number one' new fan. I have to go," Shane said, backing away. "Thanks for coming tonight."
As Shane turned to walk away, Ilya finally managed to find his voice. He shouted at Shane's retreating back, "I looking forward your next game!"
His voice even cracking at the end.
EXIT OF BELL CENTRE
The camera zooms in on the spectator exit. A tall man with golden-brown hair strides out of the doors, a brown-haired woman walking beside him. He is wearing a Montreal Metros jersey.
The camera rushes toward him. A figure, partially blocked by the lens, thrusts a microphone into the frame.
Ilya Rozanov immediately fills the screen.
The reporter shoves the mic toward Rozanov, waiting for a response.
A muffled murmur of agreement comes from the reporter off-camera, followed quickly by another question.
Rozanov's blunt, minimalist response seems to catch the reporter off guard. Rozanov almost walks out of the frame before the reporter and cameraman scramble to keep up.
The reporter thrusts the mic back toward Rozanov. He stops and turns back to face the camera. He remains silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the lens, unblinking. Just as the camera is about to give up, a smirk breaks across his face, a look of pure, triumphant pride.
Rozanov offers no further answer. He turns and walks away. The camera lingers on his back, pulling focus to the 24 HOLLANDER on the jersey, and the player's fresh signature etched right above it.
FADE OUT.
－
♪Listening: Liszt - Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 | Khatia Buniatishvili, Khatia Buniatishvili at Carnegie Hall
留言
張貼留言