Wake Up

January, 2021

Tampa, FL

Shane. You were the best thing in my life.
I love you. Always. Maybe from the first time I saw you.
I am only thinking about you right now.
Whatever happens, I am with you. Safe in your heart.
I believe it.

Hours later, on the balcony of the hotel room he shared with Zane Boodram, who he’d left to sit on one of the beds and cry to with his wife on the phone in private, Ilya Rozanov looked down at his instagram messages, exhaled a careless plume of cigarette smoke, and took another drag. Even drunk and chainsmoking, at his most morose and self destructive, he couldn’t quite muster the strength to delete them.

Maybe that was because of the little voice in his head that said Shane Hollander had only followed him on Instagram to be tagged in a promotional post after they presented at the MLH awards all those years ago, so of course he would never read them. It couldn't possibly have anything to do with the stupid, pathetic hope that he would.

The last Instagram post from user ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer was dated April 21, 2017. It was a picture of him for Speedo’s summer lineup. He was smiling in sunlight, chest bare, wearing swim shorts that were intended to be athletic, not sexy. That was Hollander’s whole thing, though. His charm.

All of it, everything about him was just gone. From Ilya’s life. From hockey in general.

The misery in his belly curdled. Thinking about Shane Hollander hurt in a way uncomfortably similar to losing his mother—both taken from him for reasons beyond his control, both losses he’d been forced to suffer alone.

Ilya had tried to tell himself he’d already lost Shane: to Rose Landry, to his own stupid pride for making light of the situation, to Shane’s fear and insecurity (when Ilya was feeling especially angry), but it didn’t matter. He could close his eyes and see the news on that random day in June, the image of it on the television, the beautiful anchorwoman and some washed up former player acting like they knew something even though no one knew anything.

Contract Terminated. No one from the MLH or Hollander’s camp available for comment.

How many texts had he sent before the horrible, gut wrenching finality of calling only to hear: We’re sorry, the number you are trying to reach has been disconnected. Please hang up and try again? It had to be a hundred, at least.

And then, earlier, when he thought it was all over, he hadn't even really thought about it, about what he was typing with shaky fingers. His blackened, shriveled heart had kicked his brain aside and taken over, saying all the things Ilya never would have said if he thought he'd have to live with them.

He reached for the bottle of shit vodka he’d gotten from the bar, ignoring the way he spilled some when he poured. He sipped, then stopped and threw back the whole glass. The only option he had were to get so drunk he passed out before he started crying and couldn’t stop.

Idly, he wondered if he was depressed. He squeezed the cross at the base of his throat until the points stung his fingers, thinking of his mother.

If he was, he wouldn't be surprised, not that he could get depression right either. Death didn’t seem to want him yet, so what did any of it even fucking matter?

March, 2021
Boston, MA

Hayden Pike frowned at the guy holding an iPad with his name on it at the airport. He knew he was traveling on little sleep (which he was actually a pro at, thank you very much), so he could be hallucinating, but he was pretty sure he was not and that the massive guy dressed in a suit and cabby hat was not actually a driver.

Judging by the dark hair peeking out from around the hat and trademark shit eating grin, Hayden was rather convinced it was actually Cliff fucking Marleau.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he said, approaching warily, looking around for a camera. It'd be just his luck that they were recording this for social media or some shit. Usually they told guys, but every team was different. Some went for ‘authenticity’ and told them to approve footage in post. Hayden fucking hated that shit.

Please, he thought to himself, please let this team not suck as much to play for as it did to play against in the 2010s.

Marleau winked at him. Around them, travelers continued on with tunnel vision. Even the handful of Bostonites he saw in Raiders merch collecting bags from the carousel didn't seem to notice their team's captain standing there. He looked around again. No cameras or well meaning social media coordinators. This was so weird.

“Can I get your bag, Mister Pike?”

Hands on his hip and sarcasm at the ready, Hayden asked, “Do you do this shit for all the washed up has-beens traded at the deadline or am I special?”

The grin never slipped off Marleau’s face, but his eyes narrowed. He reached down to grab the handle of Hayden's suitcase, looking up at him through dark, thick eyelashes, thoroughly unimpressed. “Rule number one of being a Raider: we chirp other people, not ourselves.”

“You're making that up.”

Marleau turned on his heel, walking toward the exit with Hayden's bag. He called over his shoulder, “Rule two is that all rules are subject to change. Deal with it.”

Hayden took a second to lament his life, curse his agent (even if he'd promised Hayden he’d make at least another one point five per year on the contract extension he was going to sign first thing tomorrow), then scuttled after him, shouting, “If you can just change the rules, shouldn’t that be rule number one?”

“Your reputation precedes you,” Marleau said as Hayden made it to his side, having had dodged a family pushing a cart loaded with bags, no less than three people not paying attention to their pets, and a man who stopped dead in front of him which Hayden had needed to squeeze between a sign and a barrier to prevent bowling over with his momentum because hockey player. “I didn't know Dad could be a personality.”

“I have four kids!”

He made a show of looking Hayden up and down. “I can tell.”

“Fuck you.”

“You should be so lucky,” Marleau chirped, ushering him toward a nice looking Mercedes with its hazards on and opening the trunk. “Get in.”

Marleau went over to the crossing guard and handed over what must have been a tip for not towing his car. They did what looked like a secret handshake Hayden would do with Jade and Ruby, which morphed into a one armed hug. It was incredibly wholesome. Hayden shook his head, muttered, “Cliff fucking Marleau picked me up from the fucking airport. How the fuck is this my life now,” and got into the car.

—

Since Montreal, everything had been fine, so long as Hayden ignored the massive Shane Hollander shaped hole in his life. Prior to that, he’d been so focused on Jackie’s pregnancy, because for once they'd managed to plan a baby that would come in the off-season, but then Amber had come early, and—

And when he and Jackie had finally made it out of the bubble that all parents fell into when a new addition came along, grateful that Amber was healthy despite her surprise arrival, it was June and Shane was gone. A ghost whose silence haunted every corner of Hayden's life. Shane's messages were pinned under Jackie’s. They were each other's on-the-road emergency contacts. They had practically lived in each other's pockets for seven whole years.

The Metros wouldn't give him any details. They said, Shane is gone, the past is the past and we’ll come out stronger than ever. Anyways, Hayden, we know you're a mess over this but cheer up! We're going to give you the C.

He'd told them he needed to think about it, walked directly to his car and called his agent, threatening to terminate his contract (a stupid decision, one Jackie and Seth, his agent, had rapidly talked him out of). Apparently, Montreal had decided Hayden failed their vibe check, so both sides settled for a trade that sent Hayden to a small market team.

Winnipeg was at least Canadian. It had been the best he could do at finding the bright side. He could've wound up in Buffalo. No scenery change would have stopped him from feeling like his best friend had died, because for all intents and purposes, he had. Shane's phone had been turned off, then disconnected, Hayden was pretty sure. Shane probably had to chuck it into Lake Ontario or something because he was not the kind of guy who let notifications pile up.

Still, Hayden had called Shane two hundred times in those early days. He'd tried from Jackie’s phone, thinking surely he wouldn't block her, he'd be worried something happened to the kids. He'd tried his mother in law’s, too, which really told you just how desperate the situation was.

And now, nearly four years on, Hayden Pike was a Boston Raider, and Shane had come back from the dead...

Er, Sweden. Same difference.

Arthur had been on a Lion King kick lately, so Hayden had started to think of Shane like he was Simba. The Metros could be Scar, and Hayden was like, what, Zazu or something?

Not important. The fact of the matter was that Shane was back, and he'd brought the truth with him.

“Brother, you’re looking at the tv like Sportscenter's got the answers to the meaning of life or some shit.”

Marleau, who had claimed the part of Hayden's short-term roommate in this very fucked up, very much not Disney movie that was Hayden's life, came in from the kitchen with a beer. He went to sit down in his usual spot on the far end of the couch and froze, ass suspended above the cushion, eyes catching on the footage of Shane leaving a meeting with Montreal leadership and a fuckton of lawyers. “Shit, dude. Sorry.”

“Oh, uh,” Hayden winced. “It's okay. Just trying to keep up with the headlines.”

Marleau, no, Cliff—they were teammates and would be for the next five years seeing as Hayden had signed the extension last week, best to get used to being friendly—said carefully, “You still haven't heard from him?”

“Nah. He read the Instagram message I sent him when the news dropped, but…” he shrugged helplessly.

What could he say? It had been years, and he had been a part of the team that had fucked Shane over, even if he wasn't personally responsible. Shane's Instagram account was the only social media he had, the only place he could send a message. Hayden had sent him a handful over the years—birthdays and holidays, times when he thought the lack of Shane in his life was worse than losing a limb. None of them had been read until recently. He really hoped Shane had read those messages and it wasn't Yuna or some lawyer or something.

Marleau seemed to get it. He handed over his beer, got up even though he'd just sat down, and went to the fridge to grab another one.

Living with Cliff Marleau was like the fucking twilight zone. Cliff had joked about living a bachelor lifestyle and reminding Hayden of how the other half lived for a bit since he and Jackie had decided not to uproot the kids this close to the end of the school year, and yet it was eight-thirty on a Friday night and here they were at home. He did go out sometimes, but mostly it was after games or to pick up some of the younger kids on the team when they went too hard.

Begrudgingly, Hayden had to admit Marleau was a damn good captain. He was always there when a guy needed him, and his strength seemed to come in handy, when wrangling the idiot kids on the squad. All three rookies on the Raiders roster were six-four or taller and built like brick shithouses and Cliff had yanked them off barstools and out of clubs like they were featherweights.

But more than that, Cliff was always there to lend an ear or a shoulder, and if someone fucked with one of his guys, he'd spend the night in the box. He wasn't captain because he was the best player on the ice. He was captain because he was the team's heart and soul.

Hayden respected him.

He'd admitted to Jackie after the Raiders’ first win since his trade that it felt like healing or something. Something that had been broken since he'd left Montreal switching back on, like he'd forgotten what hockey was really like. He didn't really know his place yet and he had less than fifteen games left before playoffs to figure it out, but it felt good. Better than it had in a long time.

“It's so weird, all of this.” Cliff propped his legs up on the coffee table and gestured with his beer to the tv. They were still going on about Shane, speculating about how successful his talks with the league were, if things would wrap prior to the playoffs. The same shit they always said, really. “If the league knew what was good for it they'd take their lumps, apologize, and get him back for next season.”

Hayden shrugged.

“You don't have to tell me,” He hedged, taking a pull from the bottle before cradling it to his chest, “But like, did Montreal—”

“Couldn’t tell you. I'm sure it was all just business to them,” he scoffed. “That's all it ever was.” He slugged back a mouthful of Cliff’s mediocre beer and scoffed. “They offered me the C in the same conversation as they told me he was gone. Why, I couldn't fucking tell you.”

“Seems like they were probably trying to figure out whose side you were on.”

“It wasn't a secret that he was my best friend,” Hayden pointed out.

“Yeah, but maybe they thought they could buy it? Had a couple GMs like that. They didn't usually last. You meet Jim Crosby? Our CEO?”

“Yeah.”

“He's all about culture. We don't do that shit here. We stand by our guys. If they go through shit, we go through it together.”

“You think your guys would be okay with a gay man on the roster?”

“Who’s to say we haven't had one, you know? Might have to threaten to scramble a couple skulls if someone has a problem but,” Cliff shrugged. “Only an idiot wouldn't ice Hollander because he's gay.”

Hayden held out the neck of his beer. Cliff clinked their bottles together.

“B’sides,” he continued, when they both were back to staring at the television, “Why the fuck do you think you're here, Pike? Hollander wouldn't be showing up to play ball with Crowell if he wasn't going to win. Our best chance at getting him involves dangling you in front of him like a carrot.”

“Me? He hasn't spoken to me in four years.”

Cliff shrugged. “I get the feeling Hollander didn't go no-contact for his own good. He's a little too loyal for that.”

“And how would you know?”

Another shrug. They both drank their beer. “I don't. Rozanov's the one who said that way back when it happened. We thought it would be over in a couple months, he'd just, I don't know, reboot and go somewhere else, not, y’know.”

Desperately searching for an out—he could dread/despair/hope through a reenactment of this conversation to Jackie later—Hayden took what he was given.

“Really? I always wondered why he wanted out.” He chuckled. “You trying to collect the hockey infinity stones or some shit?”

“Of course you're a Marvel guy.”

“Don’t act like you aren't either. I've seen your Blu-ray collection.”

They exchanged a smirk. Despite playing against each other for years, with more than a couple fights and fractures between them, the chirping was light-hearted and fun in a way Hayden was pretty sure neither of them expected. Cliff was kind of a big ol’ teddy bear. Not the smartest guy in the room, but would give a guy the shirt off his back. Hayden could relate.

Fuck, it was so weird to be a Boston Raider.

“Wouldn’t that be something? Could you imagine getting Hollander and Rozanov on the same team? They'd be unstoppable. Roz could play wing or some shit and they'd just,” he made an exploding sound, fist mimicking a blast.

“You got a plan to get him back, too?”

“Nah.” Cliff shook his head. “Still try every time I see him. I think he's wasted in Ottawa.”

Hayden swung an arm toward Cliff. “That's what I'm saying. Why the fuck would he go there?”

The side eye Cliff gave him would've been more frightening if Hayden hadn't spent enough time with the guy to learn it was actually his thinking face. Hayden waited.

“I don't know that he knows why he went, man,” Cliff finally said.

April, 2021
Boston, MA

It was nine am on Hayden’s fucking day off when the phone rang. If it had been the special ringtone he’d set for Jackie or their parents, it would be one thing. He’d be wide awake in an instant, torn between visceral homesickness for his family and fear that something had gone wrong—because seriously, how many times could Arthur lose Chompy? He’d had to mail the damned alligator stuffy the day he’d arrived in Boston because his only son had managed to shove the thing into his suitcase when he wasn’t looking. Cliff was still trying to get their teammates to call him Daddy Pike.

Anyway… this wasn’t the Jackie ringtone. It was the annoying one, the one reserved for teammates. He knew for a fact that after last night’s team dinner and subsequent drinkapalooza that the boys were all down for the count. He and Cliff had practically made a blood pact after ushering the kids into their Ubers at three am, agreeing not to speak to one another until they’d drank a full cup of coffee and the clock said it was after noon.

So who the fuck was calling him? They knew his phone was on do not disturb, which meant they’d called twice to get around it, for fuck’s sake. Hayden blindly groped around his nightstand for the damn thing, swiped at the call screen and closed his eyes lest he be blinded by it when he held it to his ear.

“Someone had better be dead or dying or you’re gonna be,” he grumbled in lieu of answering like a normal person.

“Câlisse, what the fuck are you doing in Boston that has you sleeping past sunrise?”

“Team dinner, you fuck,” Hayden slurred at the familiar caller. It took him a second to remember they hadn’t played on the same team in years. His eyes fluttered open. “JJ?”

Hayden hadn’t spoken to JJ since All Star Weekend, when JJ had called him, raging in Quebecois Hayden barely spoke, demanding to know if Hayden had known all along. He’d been almost inconsolably suspicious, but Hayden had gotten him to begrudgingly accept that Shane hadn’t trusted either of them with his secret.

Before that, Hayden couldn’t really remember when they’d stopped talking regularly, but not long after Hayden was traded to Winnipeg, JJ had gone to Colorado and won a cup.

“Yes, yes, I need to bother you more if you do not remember my voice—”

“Isn’t it like fucking—”

“Unlike your sorry selves, champions have practice leading into the playoffs.” JJ paused. His easygoing tone went a bit sour. “I assume you have not checked the news this morning, hmm?”

“Not unless it’s plastered to the inside of my eyeballs,” Hayden levered himself upright in bed, swiped a bit of dried drool from the corner of his lip and tried to focus. He’d gotten almost five hours of sleep. He’d done more with less. “Not that you aren’t a pleasure, JJ, but what the fuck happened now?”

“MLH insiders are reporting on Shane’s secret lover,” he said. “They’ve received confirmation that it’s a player in the league, though nobody knows if he is still an active player, but…”

“What the fuck?” Hayden had to search for the tv remote, which had fallen to the floor in his scramble to grab his phone while half asleep. “How the fuck do they know that?”

JJ continued. “Osti de crisse de tabarnak,” he said, with feeling, “Shane has been writing their name on his stick.”

“If that were true,” Hayden used his shoulder to keep his phone pressed to his ear, and tried to remember which fucking channels were sports in Boston, Americaland, “They’d know if he were active or not.”

“It’s—tabarnak, Hayden. It’s Lily.”

“Boston Lily?”

“Yes.”

Mind racing, Hayden tried to fling his brain back in time to remember the details. “But they broke up. There was that weird day in Boston, then you introduced him to Rose Landry. He said it was over. We were there, JJ.”

“Yes, and now he is saying he is gay and there is Lily on his stick and the MLH’s people are saying the information is vetted. Shane’s camp is not denying it. They posted a statement that said they would not be sharing the sexuality of any queer players in the league, past or present.”

“Oh, fuck.”

JJ grunted his agreement. “Yes. His Boston girl is a Boston boy, and you in particular are about to become very fucking relevant.”

Hayden gave up on the TV. “I don’t give a fuck about that. I need to know if there’s a player on my team that needs to be hidden from the fucking media. If the media finds out…” His brain, which had gone from lightly hungover to oh fuck, emergency! was very suddenly firing on all cylinders, resulting in a rip roaring headache. “JJ, man, you can’t say anything. To anyone. Not about Boston, not about how long—”

“I fucking know that, salaud,” JJ sighed, clearly insulted. “He was my fucking friend too, for how little he trusted us when it counted.”

“It wasn’t safe. It’s barely safe now, when he’s got a fucking lawyer.”

They fell silent. It wasn't comfortable.

“You will tell me if he contacts you.” The forcefulness in his voice receded. He sounded tired. They both were. “I just want to know he is okay. I know—I am angry, tabarnak, I know it’s not about us, but he is—you don’t have to tell me what he says, I just need to know that he is okay and that he is coming back to us.”

“You can message him on Instagram too, you know.” Privately, Hayden was pretty sure whatever JJ might have messaged him, a long, long time ago before they knew what was going on was probably pretty incendiary and their friendship might never recover from it. Hell, Hayden wasn't sure Shane would ever speak to him again, even though he’d gone rounds with a therapist over it and come to the healthy realization that Shane’s choice to withdraw was not his fault, though he had the right to be hurt about it.

People were messy. Hayden would know: He and Jackie have made enough of them.

“I know,” JJ huffed. “You’re not going to tell me who Lily is if you find out, are you?”

“Not a chance, buddy.”

“Tabarnak.”

“I know that’s not what you want to hear but, yeah.” Hayden found a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt in the clean laundry basket near the closet he hadn’t bothered using for more than his rotation of game-day suits, shimmying into the pants one-handed. “Thank you for telling me, JJ. I love you buddy.”

JJ sounded frustrated, but Hayden knew that deep down, he understood. “Love you too, you fuck. I better see you in the final. Been too long.”

He hung up before JJ could continue yapping—the man would not stop if you gave him any leeway, impending practice or not—and padded into the ensuite. A moment later he threw open his bedroom door, cursing loudly into the bright, airy living room of Cliff’s definitely not as bachelor as advertised bachelor pad.

If he was going to break the oath he’d sworn last night, emergency situation or not, he’d better do it with a pot of coffee already brewed.

—

The ceramic cup slipped through Cliff’s fingers, bounced off the counter and landed in pieces in the sink.

“The fuck—Cliff, you good?”

To Hayden’s infinite surprise, Cliff hadn’t been all that difficult to get moving. He’d rolled over, shotgunned the bottle of water he’d set next to the bed for himself, and popped up like a daisy, scratching his nuts and telling Hayden to let him take a piss before hitting him with whatever clusterfuck had befallen them.

He’d listened carefully as Hayden ambushed him in the hallway, followed him dutifully into his own kitchen and then thunk. Raiders mug, meet sink.

“You said,” Cliff swallowed, turning away from the open cupboard and broken ceramic in the sink. His eyes were very wide. He looked like a massive, confused owl. “How long have you known about this Boston Lily person?”

“I don’t know, like twenty-eleven? That’s not the important part. I thought sh—they were, I don't know, a trainer on your staff or something? Shane would always fuck off to spend time with her—shit, him—when either team played each other, so it had to be someone who traveled for games. He never had a roster like some guys do, you know?”

Cliff closed his eyes, seeming to do some mental gymnastics.

Hayden continued, “But they broke up early in the last season Shane played, fall twenty-sixteen. Rose Landry was a thing and then, poof.”

“Poof,” Cliff repeated back, deadpan. He opened his eyes slowly, almost like he was afraid he’d be taking a blow. “Okay. I think,” he nodded a couple times as if that would convince him to say whatever his tongue clearly couldn’t work out saying.

“We just need to figure out who the common denominator is. It’s not you, right?” Hayden froze, realizing all of the criteria lined up. “You know I’d be totally cool if it was, right? Like, whatever you need—”

“It’s not me,” Cliff interrupted, seeming to pick each word very carefully. “Do I look like a Lily?”

“No, but I don’t think Lily looks like a Lily either, if you know what I mean.” Hayden crossed his arms. “Why are you looking like I punched you in the solar plexus—”

“What the fuck is—”

“Stomach,” he clarified. “Spill, Marleau.”

“Give me a minute, fucking Christ.” Cliff banged his fist on the counter. “Actually, fuck. I’m gonna sit my ass on the floor.”

“There could be shards—”

“I’m fine, Dad.” He flopped onto his ass on the cold tile and looked up. “You sit down too.”

“I’m good here, thank you.”

“No you’re not. Floor time, Pike. Captain’s orders.”

Rolling his eyes and muttering that it was no surprise Cliff had called him dad seeing as he was acting like a toddler, Hayden crouched down, then sat so they were facing, his feet near Cliff’s torso, the two of them wedged between the sink and kitchen island.

“You know who it is,” Hayden guessed, because well, parenting instincts kind of came in handy, “Don’t you?”

He was answered with a question. “You ever hear about Montreal Jane?”

“No, but…” Hayden would be the first guy to admit he was lucky at times to have two brain cells to rub together. However, he could do a lot with those two brain cells, especially when he was locked in. “Jane sounds a hell of a lot like—”

“One of our guys had a Montreal girl,” Cliff said over Hayden, not letting him reason through any realization he was trying to have out loud. “Jane. He was nuts about her. Like, full-on batshit. He had a roster, but never really did repeats, ’cept for her.”

“Oh, fuck.” Hayden crossed his arms. “Okay, so who are we protecting?”

“What?”

“I mean, this team is full of lifers, Cliff. We gotta support our guy.”

Cliff looked at him, bewildered. Like he was missing something.

Hayden was already three steps ahead, parenting brain sorting tasks into buckets, ready to divide and conquer. “So we don’t put him anywhere near the media, we pull him aside and let him know that he’s supported—or you can, it’s—you don’t have to tell me who, I just—I can do fuck all for Shane, so the least I can do is—”

“He’s not on our team anymore.”

That changed things, but Hayden could still work with it. He had friends across the league, surely there was someone who could look out for him. “Okay, so, call him? Surely he could use a friend, and I know all you Boston guys stay tight—”

“It’s not—I just—fuck,” he looked skyward, thunking his head against the lip of the counter. “He’s not the kind of guy you just talk to about shit like this.” He sighed and Hayden could practically feel it, like a seismic shift on the floor in the kitchen. Cliff said, “I’m going to tell you, and if you tell anyone they will never find your body, kapeesh?”

“It can’t be that bad. Shane’s a pretty good judge of charact—”

“Rozanov.” Cliff interrupted.

“What’s Roz got to—”

“Lily.” Holding eye contact, he added, “Ilya.”

Every nebulous, half-formed plan came to a screeching halt against the inside of Hayden’s skull. “No fucking way.”

His response wasn’t good enough for Cliff.

“Look, Hayd, that’s—shit. He’s my fucking guy. My captain. We had years. If you’re going to be an asshole about it, I’m gonna need you to pack your shit, stay with St-Simon, and never talk about this ever again.”

Hayden held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Let’s not get too hasty,” he said. “It’s just—can you picture it?”

Cliff looked away for a second, but only just. He nodded once.

“Okay. Let me just wrap my brain around this for a second.”

He wasn’t actually freaking out. It was a shock, sure, but not complete system failure. There was every possibility that it was true—Shane and Ilya, Jane and Lily? Who the fuck came up with those aliases, one of his children? How had nobody figured them out? There had been the rivalry, Shane being obsessed with Rozanov as a player, and really, hockey was a type regardless of what gender you preferred. It’s how he’d managed to punch above his weight and land Jackie, after all. There was also every possibility that they were catastrophically wrong, in which case Rozanov would laugh his ass off when they got a hold of him.

Looking at Cliff, whose big, owl-y looking eyeballs were kind of going through every stage of grief in rapid fire, he was pretty sure there was at least a shred of truth in there somewhere.

So, who knew? Maybe Hayden would have the mad-man freakout later. It was certainly possible: Parenting had taught him to compartmentalize like a motherfucker. Have you ever seen your baby girl smack her lip and bleed enough for six people but been forced to pretend like everything is totally fine because she’ll only freak out if you do, then crawl into bed and cry like a baby afterward because that’s your whole entire world and how the fuck are you supposed to have your shit together seeing them get hurt?

Fuck, he was so grateful to his rockstar goddess of a wife and their chaotic, messy brood of children. Life skills, baby!

Still on the floor below the sink, Cliff stirred. “I’m—I need back up,” he said, smacking his hands on the tile and pulling himself up. He winced, and Hayden hoped it wasn’t from the tiny shards of ceramic that were probably dotting the floor. “And a flight to Ottawa.”

That drew Hayden out of his not quite successful self-reflection-slash-convincing.“Shouldn’t you call him first?”

“He’s been dodging my calls since All Star.”

“Yeah, been a lot of that, it seems.” Hayden said darkly. “JJ called me. He also knows about—”

“You—you can't tell Dagenais. He can’t—”

“Not my place to share, big guy. Already told JJ to keep what little he does know hush hush secret secret, not that he’d ever guess Roz in a million years. JJ's a hothead, but he's not a bad guy.” Hayden also stood, grabbing his phone. “So we need plane tickets to Ottawa—”

“You’re not going—”

“Oh yes I am. You need backup and I’m practically a local. Shane’s from Ottawa. I used to visit him at his parents’ place all the time…” they shared a look.

“Oh, motherfucker, you don’t think—”

He doesn’t think what? That Ilya Rozanov, potentially codename Lily, moved to Ottawa after Shane disappeared as some fucked up way of coping with a broken heart? Not really, but, “I think it’s becoming more likely by the second, bud.” He pat Cliff’s shoulder. “Anyway, what was that about backup?”

—

Svetlana Vetrova, the backup in question, was hands down the scariest woman Hayden had ever met, even though he hadn't actually met her at all. He could tell. She answered the phone in Russian when Cliff FaceTimed her, which led Hayden to a horrifying realization that was, more or less, the Russia of it all. You know, because that was where Svetlana and Rozanov were from: A country which did not appreciate public figures actively practicing homosexuality, as evidenced by the very few Russian players who participated in pride night, when the league wasn't cancelling them in some fucked up campaign to save face.

So yeah, maybe Hayden had experienced a mild freakout while Svetlana went from Moscow club ready to airport bound in under thirty minutes, cried no more than a half dozen very manly frustration tears over Shane bearing the burden of truth on this one alone into the cuff of his hoodie, and had a brief, but no less heartfelt come-to-Jesus meeting with himself.

He'd never liked Rozanov. Probably wouldn't ever like him. But it wasn't because he was possibly gay or however he chose to identify—because there were options. It was because he was an asshole. So if he was Shane's Lily, Hayden was going to protect the fuck out of him, both for Shane's sake and, according to a much quieter voice in his head that reminded him of his own father, because not even Ilya Rozanov deserved to go through this shit alone.

“I'm going to shower and book the next flight out,” Cliff said. “Svetlana won't make it to Ottawa until tomorrow.”

“Throw me your passport, should be early enough to fly there.”

An American passport landed on the floor in the hall. “You really don't have to do this.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Roz has never liked you. This—he's probably not going to be kind.”

“Oh,” Hayden rolled his eyes. “I know. It was always ‘Fifteenth best Metro,’ and ‘Do you have enough children to start your own hockey team yet?’ with him.” He shrugged. “It died down once I got to Winnipeg. I figured he lost interest.”

Whatever Cliff said was swallowed by the background noise of the shower running, but Hayden was pretty sure it was to do with the overarching situation.

He booked them tickets for two hours from now, thankful for business flights on a weekday, then speedran packing a backpack. They'd have to be back for practice on Monday afternoon, so he slapped some clothes in his bag, showered and met Cliff back in the kitchen in under twenty, ready to roll out on a fucked up mission to check on Ilya Rozanov.

April, 2021
Ottawa, ON

Over the last month, Cliff had given Hayden a lot of shit for admitting his main ride was a minivan. But now, sitting in one which smelled like those awful black ice scented pine tree things—there were three of them dangling from the rearview of their rental—he hadn't made a peep.

“I gotta admit, I miss your car.”

Cliff tried to smile at him. It came out looking more like a grimace. Tough crowd.

The GPS on his phone told him to turn left, so he did. “Is Roz in a walk-up or a house?”

“Condo or some shit. Never been.”

“Okay, cool.” Hayden drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “You got any idea how you plan to handle this? You're looking like you're going to be sick.”

“I can't stop thinking about him handling this alone. Even—fuck. He's going to hate me. I told Svetlana who I think Jane is.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?” Hayden roared, nearly blowing through a red light. He threw an arm out like that would somehow keep Cliff's massive bulk from going anywhere.

Cliff looked down at his outstretched arm and mouthed fuckin’ dad. “She's—she said she knew Jane was a man. She's told Ilya she knows that much and he never corrected her. The identity bit is, well, she kind of guessed.”

“God, that woman is terrifying.”

“You have no fucking idea,” Cliff said. “Our objective is to hold out until she gets here.”

“Right,” Hayden agreed, like that wasn't fucking foreboding or anything.

Twenty minutes later they pulled up in front of an upscale-looking house that was definitely not a condominium. Hayden held back his thoughts about Rozanov's massive ego outgrowing that one penthouse that was always shown on reruns of HGTV’s rich and famous house highlights—old habits and all that—to follow Cliff out of the vehicle and up the walk.

He forced himself to stop at the base of the stairs. He would be pissed if one of his friends brought a random unannounced, so no sense in making things worse.

Cliff rang the doorbell probably ten times over the course of three minutes. Nobody answered. He resorted to slamming his fist against the door, knocking like the police did in the Law and Order SVU reruns they both liked watching—once again, what was his life, he was fucking friends with Cliff Marleau: they even had common interests—then stepped back just in time to dodge a very furious looking Ilya Rozanov, his curly hair puffed up and sideways like a drunk chicken.

Which, speaking of drunk, Hayden could smell the vodka from here.

“Oh fuck,” Rozanov slurred. “We don't have…” he trailed off, muttering something in Russian. Hayden looked him over. He looked like he'd gone three rounds with yesterday and lost: dressed in a pair of skin-tight, leathery looking pants and a button down shirt that had a horrible pattern while being nearly translucent. There were also sweat stains, which Hayden pointedly ignored. “Wyatt call you?”

Cliff shook his head once. “No, Rozy, haven't heard from him.”

“Okay. You're coming in?”

“Yeah.”

Cliff looked over his shoulder. Hayden mouthed, it's four in the fucking afternoon, Cliff, but the sentiment was waved off.

For a second he thought Cliff would shut the door in his face, effectively icing him out, but his new captain held the front door open. They made eye contact just inside the threshold, wearing matching grim expressions.

The inside of the house was trashed. Not rockstar bender trashed, like Hayden had expected, but instead a more familiar disarray. It looked like his house did after Amber had been born and Shane had disappeared, but with way more cigarettes. Anything vaguely collection shaped had become an ashtray.

He did his best to ignore the smell beyond an obligatory scrunch of his nose, and shoved back the reminder that he'd been here. He knew this look, a house made messy and tired and dull, take out containers everywhere, trash and recycling multiplying near but never quite making it out the door. There were clothes draped over the couch he could see to the left, jackets, suit parts, team shit all within easy reaching distance.

He knew what grief looked like. He'd lived it. He'd been lucky enough to move away and start over before it swallowed him.

Had Rozanov tried to do that, too?

“When’s the last time you slept?” Cliff asked from the living room.

“Right before you got here,” Rozanov grumbled, indicating a jacket he'd probably been using as a blanket.

“Sleep,” Cliff emphasized, “As opposed to being blackout drunk.”

Roz blew a raspberry at him. “I'm fucking fine, Marley.”

Cliff’s posture was unimpressed, hands on his hips. It was all rather dad-like of him. “Shower,” he said. “Now.”

Another raspberry, and then Cliff was marching him toward the master like he owned the place.

“I've seen your bare ass plenty, Roz, I’ll throw you in there myself if I have to.”

Two minutes of muted grumbling later and a startled yelp of, “Motherfucker!” indicated Cliff had indeed followed through on his threat.

Hayden exhaled, coughed a little—fucking nicotine, nasty fucking habit—and got to work clearing shit off the couch so they'd have somewhere to sit when Rozanov was (hopefully) more awake and alert.

He pulled an iPhone that looked like it had also seen better days out from between the cushions. There were a fuckton of missed calls and texts, some previews in English, some not. He set it atop a pile of clothing until he managed to clean off the ash-laiden coffee table and wondered just how long Roz had been living like this. Couple months, probably.

Maybe since All Star Weekend, he thought, feeling a pang of empathy. Hayden wasn't sure if he'd cried more when Shane had departed his life or when he'd found out why. Sometimes he pictured himself going to Sweden and demanding Shane talk to him, because yeah, all drama aside, he was still out there in the world. Hayden could've tried, and then what? What would it have fixed?

“What the fuck is—why is Hayden Pike in my fucking house?”

Hayden flinched, nearly fumbling an ashtray.

“He's a Raider now, dumbass. We take care of alums.”

He began in Russian, then scoffed and started over, “The fuck is an alum?”

“You,” Marleau said, shoving him down on the couch cushion Hayden had cleared off. “Former players of the club.”

“Whatever.”

Hayden clocked the frustration on Rozanov's face, the way his clenched jaw didn't match the incomprehensible look in his eyes, and made himself scarce.

“Did you let him throw away my cigarettes?”

“Dude,” Hayden called from the kitchen, “I threw away the empty pack and dumped your ashtray. You should quit though.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Rozanov yelled after him. He sounded bitter.

“Go—you know what? No.” Hayden exhaled, walked to the threshold between the kitchen and living room then stopped a safe distance away. “I saw a corner store,” he said, pulling out his wallet and producing a handful of Canadian bills he always kept with him. “You two go get some air and a pack of cancer sticks. I'll clean up.”

“What the—I know I must be on something,” Roz muttered. He pinched himself, then looked down at his arm like it had offended him. “What the actual fuck, Marley? Why are you here?” He looked young and confused, which was not a way he'd ever thought he'd describe Rozanov. “You are acting like someone di—” he almost dove for his phone.

“Svetlana is fine,” Cliff said. “I have to pick her up from the airport tomorrow.”

“Then what is this about, huh?” He swung his gaze to Hayden. “You bring this shitty hockey player into my house—”

“You’re Lily.”

Rozanov reared back from Cliff like he’d been struck. “I do not know what you are talking about,” he said thickly. The accent was getting heavier. It’d be almost funny if it wasn’t clear he was trying to act put together and serious about the whole thing. “Who is this person?”

“Ilya.”

Cliff had this way of talking when he was done messing around with a person, which he’d turned on Rozanov. It could go a couple of ways depending on the situation, but the bottom line was that Cliff was almost always calm. A lot of times it was more of a calm before the storm, but this time it simply was.

There was a horrible sound, like broken glass but made by vocal cords. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rozanov insisted, sniffing sharply. “Yes? You don’t know.”

”Fuck, brother just—“ Cliff shoved an errant hoodie off to the side and all but tackled Rozanov in a hug, holding the other man—they were almost the same size, built big—tight enough to hurt. “It’s okay.”

“I’m not—Cliff, I can’t.”

“It’s gonna be okay.”

Weakly, he answered, “You don’t know that.”

Hayden backed out of the room to the sound of their hushed voices.

—

Hayden had made three trips to the empty garbage cans backed up to the deck in Rozanov’s back yard, clearing most of the detritus in the kitchen, when Cliff made his way back into the kitchen. He checked the refrigerator and frowned.

“I’ll place a grocery order in a bit,” Hayden said. “Is he…”

“He’s asleep on the couch. he’s still fucked up, so it’s probably for the best. His bedroom is…”

“Yeah,” he agreed, even though he didn’t really know what Cliff was trying to say. The first two parts were definitely true, though, so it would have to do. “We should probably do some laundry. His sheets at least.”

“You know, I didn’t bring you to play housewife.”

Hayden shrugged. ”It’s fine. I want to help but I think me talking just, like, set him off, so…” Another shrug. “Besides, I’m not very good at talking anyway.”

Cliff nodded, walked to the newly tidy row of stools lined up at the far end of the kitchen island, took a seat, and buried his head in his hands.

“You should update Svetlana.”

“He texted her,” came the murmur from the island. “She’s flying to London and the weather there is shit. She’ll check in when she wants to.”

They were quiet for a while, Hayden occasionally grumbling to himself when he found yet another cigarette butt or smeared ashes on his fingers. He’d found cleaning equipment under the kitchen sink and was planning to scrub everything just as soon as he loaded the few non-plastic dishes he found amongst the wreckage into the dishwasher.

“You know what he likes to eat?”

“He eats like a child.”

“Well, lucky for us, I have several of those.” The joke landed flat, but Hayden didn’t force it. “Here,” he handed Cliff his phone, open to a grocery app. “Add whatever you think he’ll eat to the cart. And a fuckton of pedialyte. He’s going to have a rough couple days when the booze wears off.”

”You dump it?”

“Wasn’t much left to dump, but yeah.”

Cliff sighed. “I’ve seen him self-destruct before, but this—“ he shook his head. “I don’t think he’ll actually remember anything. I’ve seen him blackout a couple times and it’s… yeah. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”

“Is this,” Hayden looked over his shoulder, soapy hands reaching for a mug in the sink, and sighed. He had to ask. “Is he an alcoholic?”

“No, just an idiot, thankfully. The smoking is usually the worst of it.” He shrugged. “I knew he was having team problems, they closed out the season playing like ass.”

“I also watched his games, Marley. Team looked—“

A sharp knock on the front door interrupted him. They both froze.

The door beeped unhelpfully as the newcomer entered the lock code and shouldered his way inside. “Roz? It’s Wyatt. I brought gatorade and smokes. I’m even going to compromise and watch Deadpool again even though you’re way behind on—”

“Shh!” They hissed, rushing toward the entryway. Cliff shoved Hayden’s phone back at him.

Wyatt—Wyatt Hayes, the Centaurs’ starting goaltender jumped like a spooked cat. “Fucking hell, what—who are you and what are you doing in Roz’s house?”

“We’re friends,” Cliff said slowly, as if trying to determine if Wyatt could be trusted. Hayden nodded along. “He’s been having a tough time.”

“Uh-huh,” Cliff said. They stood there, staring at each other awkwardly.

“I’m Hayden,” Hayden offered, breaking the silence. “Pike. That’s Cliff Marleau. We’re on the Raiders.”

“Right,” he said, like they’d have to be idiots for him not to know who they were now that he’d gotten a good look at them without the veil of being scared shitless. “Wyatt Hayes,” he added.

“We know who you are from All Stars. You’re a real pain to play against, even if your team could use some work.” Cliff smiled—it didn’t really meet his eyes, which, fair, Hayden thought, watching him clapped Wyatt on the arm.

Wyatt didn’t seem inclined to argue the point. “I’m going to put these in his fridge,” He said, indicating the gatorade, but stopped short, whistling at the state of the kitchen. “You guys staging an intervention or something?”

“Or something,” Hayden said, probably not casually enough. “You got some spare time? The gatorade will work for a bit but something tells me he’s not going to survive on the three pickles and lightly expired eggs hanging on for dear life in that refrigerator."

“My wife’s on call until tomorrow, so sure.” He looked happy to be included. “I can handle anything but whatever’s probably happening in his bathroom. Been a couple rough nights back to back.”

Cliff nodded, looking a little queasy at the thought..

“Lucky for you,” Hayden volunteered, “I’ve got experience in all things ick. You ever have a kid—” he noticed their green pallor and moved on, “Doesn’t even phase me.” He looked between them, nodded to himself, and started assigning tasks. “Marleau, you’re on what’s left of kitchen duty because I assume you know how to use this fancy ass espresso machine and I might die if I don’t get caffeine. Hayes, you’re on groceries. Delivery: I’ve got an app, shopping trip, whatever gets food in the house will work. I’ve got bathroom duty and laundry because I doubt he’s got another set of sheets lying around here somewhere.”

“You really think that? With the amount of tail he gets?” Cliff asked.

Hayden raised his eyebrows.

“Er, right.”

If Rozanov was able to keep it up long enough to fuck given the dozen empty vodka bottles he’d just threw in the recycling and who knew however much he’d been drinking when he was out, Hayden would be impressed. Begrudgingly so. He didn’t really want to think about Ilya Rozanov in the context of being Shane’s Lily much less him being the playboy the whole league thought he was. The whole thing felt gross and wrong and kind of empty to Hayden and his well known reputation as a serial monogamist.

That got him thinking about texting Jackie an update, but he decided he’d wait until tonight. Because really, what could he tell her? She did so much for him, had been so strong for both of them through all these fucking transitions and he really didn’t want to put her in a bad spot, make her keep a secret when he’d already isolated her so much by leaving Montreal and now Canada in general.

—

Between the three of them, the cleaning went quickly enough. Rozanov had stumbled from the couch to the bedroom at some point while Hayden was scrubbing the hallway bathroom—the second one he’d cleaned today, thank you very much. Cliff was busy collecting the grocery bags from the front entry, having traded tasks with Wyatt, who was weirdly meticulous about laundry folding, so Hayden’s final task had been to throw open all the windows to air out the smell of misery and cigarette smoke.

The three of them had retreated to the kitchen, standing around the island and eating the subs Wyatt had insisted on getting them from Skip to celebrate a job well done. They’d been chatting about Western Conference matchups when he threw them a one-eighty. “So, am I right in guessing this has something to do with recent events in the news?”

Both Cliff and Hayden winced.

”I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cliff tried, voice even.

Wyatt wasn’t buying it. “It’s just: Roz has been a mess since Tampa, but things didn’t really go to shit until after All-Star, and now you two.” He nodded at Hayden though, the real oddity among them.

Hayden tried to redirect because he really didn’t want to have this conversation for the second time today, ”What do you mean after All-Star? He was a fucking mess at All-Star. We all were.” He looked to Cliff, trying to figure out if he was helping or hurting, but Cliff was occupied, picking a slice of onion out from between layers of sliced meat and tomato, dropping it onto his flimsy paper plate.

“It didn’t get bad until after,” Wyatt said. “When all this mediation shit started. They dragged one of our rookies into it.”

“Briggs, right?” Hayden didn’t like the kid, not for anything he was or wasn’t, but because he felt like Hayden’s replacement. He knew, logically, that wasn’t true, Shane had never been like that, but he thought he had a legitimate reason not to like the kid—not that he’d ever take it out on him.

“Yeah. Played with Hollander in Sweden for a bit and the press found out. Pair that with the rumors that Hollander was with a player and all of a sudden, Roz doesn’t want the kid or his drama on the team.” Hayes looked up from his own mostly finished sub, which he dropped back to the plate in favor of crossing his arms over his chest. “Now the press have a name and I walk in on Rozy and Hollander’s best friends staging what appears to be a long overdue intervention—which, you probably hadn’t known was necessary until—”

”Dude, okay. Enough. Stop.” Hayden held out his hands. There was shredded lettuce on them, which he then had to pluck from Rozanov’s newly clean counter after flinging it by accident. “We don’t know shit. He was still mid-bender when we got here. So making assumptions is not something we’re doing.”

“How’s the rookie taking it?” Cliff asked.

Wyatt shook his head. “Honestly, better than expected. We thought he was going to request a trade, but he’s been brave about it.”

“The kid’s Hollander’s former roomie or some shit? I thought I saw it on the news.”

“My replacement,” Hayden said, rolling his eyes. “Kid’s a winger. Better than me, not that he knows it. Doesn’t take much.”

“Listen here, shithead,” Marley spat in his direction, “How many times do I got t’tell you to cut that shit out? We have rules for a reason. How the fuck am I gonna give you Carmichael’s letter this offseason if you can’t follow them?”

Hayden folded forward, palms smacking the granite counter. “I—what?” He turned his wide eyes on Cliff. “You told me I was Shane-bait!”

“You are,” Cliff confirmed. “But I just watched you go full crisis-resolution mode for a guy I know you don’t like. I’m impressed, and we’re anticipating a vacancy.”

”You’re fucking crazy,” Hayden insisted. “I’m just a nice guy. Doesn’t mean anything.”

It was late when he opened his eyes. Maybe early. Ilya honestly wasn't sure. Dark, though, no light spilling out around the curtains over the windows. His head was pounding, his stomach feeling like it was folding over itself in hunger, and he had a deeply seated feeling of dread he couldn't shake.

What was the last thing he remembered? The club? There'd been a woman, but he hadn't really wanted to bother. He remembered getting home, kicking off his shoes, stumbling to the fridge for the bottle he kept there because he wasn't thinking about anything and that was good, he'd wanted it to continue, then everything was blank.

He must have done okay because he was in a t-shirt and sweatpants. He didn't smell vodka or vomit. The only thing he could smell was—he shoved his face into his pillow and inhaled. It smelled like detergent. Clean.

Not like cigarette smoke and his lack of desire to shower between the club, a hook-up, and sleeping.

Ilya had done a lot of things drunk, but he was very confident in his knowledge of himself. There was no way he had gotten blitzed and decided to do his own laundry.

He rolled over, pawing the bedside table for his phone. It wasn't there. He'd dislodged what felt like two pills he'd never take and a bottle of water, which clattered to the floor. “Blyat,” he swore, swallowing against his dry mouth. He managed to locate the water bottle on the floor before it could roll under the bed. He swung his legs over the side and proceeded to down it in greedy gulps.

A quiet sound from behind him had him twisting around, squinting into the dark.

“Who the—”

“Quiet,” came the familiar voice and irritated tone of Svetlana, harsh and lovely in their mother tongue.

“When did—” he felt a hot flush of shame, seeing the laundered bedsheets for what they were. He wondered, morbidly curious, what condition she’d found him in, how bad it must have been for her to decide to share a bed with him. It had been years since things had been that bad, he'd thought. He'd still been in Boston.

The thought of Boston made his brain itch, but he couldn't figure out why.

“Sveta,” he prodded gently.

“I am sleeping, Ilya. Hush.” She threw the blankets over her head, covering her messy curls and leaving Ilya alone to face the world.

The gray-blue watery light of a cloudy spring morning greeted him when he ambled out of the bedroom. He hadn't found his phone in his bathroom—also clean, which Svetlana would never, another not so good sign. He wondered just how stupid he'd been, hating himself for not being able to remember. He was usually pretty good at remembering the dumb shit he did, his brain loved to remind him of how fucking pathetic he was.

He'd nearly made it to the kitchen, finally awake enough now to crave a cigarette when the other shoe dropped.

His condo was clean and Cliff Marleau was asleep on his couch.

“What the fuck?”

A voice from the kitchen shushed him. “Dude. He had to go get Svetlana at like two am. Her flight was delayed.”

Ilya had spoken too soon. Now the other shoe had dropped.

Hayden Pike was in his kitchen, talking about Svetlana Vetrova as if they were friendly.

“Pike? What the fuck are you doing in my house?” Pike was dressed in rumpled clothes he'd likely slept in, feet bare. He stood in front of Ilya's coffee maker, staring at it like it was too complicated for his tiny brain to figure out. He played for Boston now, the hockey part of Ilya's brain recalled.

“Fuuuuuck. Of course you don't—shitfuck. Maybe,” he held his hands up like Ilya had him at gunpoint, “Maybe we should wake Cliff up after all.”

Ilya’s focus tightened on Pike’s face. He looked fearful and wary. Like he knew something. Like—Ilya was like a shark. He couldn't scent blood in the water without charging the source.

“What. Happened?”

Pike gulped. It was satisfying, in a way, except he didn't fold. “What's the last thing you remember?”

Rolling his eyes, because it should be obvious, Ilya told him, “Drinking. Arriving home.”

“Cool,” he said, looking kind of like he wanted to be sick, but he kept asking questions instead of answering Ilya's. “You got any idea which day that was?”

Ilya found a pack of cigarettes on the counter next to an ashtray, fished through one of the drawers until he found a lighter, and lit up. He blew smoke at Pike, who made a disgusted face and flopped his hand around to make it disperse. “Thursday. Late. Probably Friday morning.”

“It's Sunday, Rozanov. Just after eight in the morning.”

“And?” He'd done worse to himself. Usually in Russia, but sometimes here. Had his fun. Now it was over, practice tomorrow. Playoffs after that. Distractions. Focus. He was fine. Wyatt would check in Sunday night, make sure he was ready for practice Monday morning.

“God, I just—” he threw both hands up, went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of electrolytes that looked like it was for children. He shoved the bottle across the counter. “Drink that.”

“Only if you tell me why you and Marley are here. Him, I get. You—Boston or not, you have always hated me.”

“Oh, you motherfucker,” he snarled, mostly under his breath. “Cliff should be the one to—” He made a break for it, but Ilya grabbed the back of his shirt with the hand holding his cigarette and wrapped the other around Pike’s shoulder.

“Ah, no.” He came around so they were face to face and bullied Pike back into the kitchen properly. “You have working mouth. You will tell me.”

“I will, but you're going to drink that entire bottle of pedialyte and eat breakfast first.”

“Who do you think you are? My fucking dad?”

“Cliff’s been trying to get the room to call me daddy, so you're not far off,” he said. He was probably expecting a chuckle, but Ilya did not laugh. He pressed on, “Your options are scrambled eggs with cheese or scrambled eggs with cheese. I'll even add in some toast if you make me a cup of coffee.”

“You will talk while you cook,” Ilya ordered.

“You sound like my kids,” Pike replied, “But unfortunately for you I can't multitask more than eggs and toast so you'll have to wait five minutes like a big boy.” His placating tone made Ilya want to punch him, but his stomach growled louder than his thoughts, seemingly ready to eat itself.

The breakfast Pike made him was horrifyingly delicious, even if it took fifteen minutes and not five for him to make. He suspected that had more to do with how little he'd eaten in the last week than actual taste, but he ripped through four eggs and two slices of toast. Pike glanced at him across the island, seeming to decide something for himself and dropped his last piece of toast, which was buttered, with jam, on top of Ilya's crumbs.

He didn't wait for Ilya to pressure him to talk, which was kind of surprising. “You really don't remember anything, right? You're not fucking around with me?”

“Nope.” He slurped at his coffee, nudging the empty bottle of electrolytes away from him. “I partied, got drunk, then nothing. Emptiness.”

“You shouldn't do that,” Pike said.

“I am not interested in you parenting me,” he retorted. “Why are you here?”

“Because something happened Friday. Not something bad, necessarily,” he backpedaled, “But Cliff and I realized something and, well, we decided to circle the wagons.” He looked uncomfortable.

“What is this phrase? I have heard it, but—”

“It’s, like,” Pike frowned. Ilya wondered why he said shit if he didn't know what it meant. “It means we knew you needed support so we were going to do that.”

“And you want to support me,” he said dubiously, looking him up and down. “You.”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“I think this is all a stupid dream. Or a bad trip. I have not done drugs since before MLH, but—”

“Cliff told you while you were still blackout,” Pike interrupted. “You—fuck I really can't believe you don't remember.”

“Then just fucking tell me,” Ilya snapped at him. “You are only—” he couldn't find the word, so he gestured widely, “Like making it bigger and bigger.”

“Oh. Right. Uh, escalating,” he offered, stupidly.

“So stop,” Ilya reminded him.

“Fine. Fuck.” He gave one last hopefully glance in the direction of the living room but Marley was still snoring quietly.

The light in his eyes dulled, and his expression—

Ilya didn't like it. He didn't like it at all. He knew that expression. It was the expression someone had when they gave you bad news, but because the he wasn't Russian he wanted to be fucking emotional about it, like Ilya would also be sharing. And because it was Hayden Pike and Cliff Marleau together, he got the sudden, sickening feeling that they'd put their heads together and guessed the truth a decade too late. Now they wanted to… what? Help him grieve or some shit?

“I know that Briggs and Hollander are together,” he forced himself to say. “Is—” he shook his head and swore under his breath. “Go ahead and laugh, then get out. I do not want your pity.”

“Oh my God,” Pike said, horrified. “I wouldn't—that’s,” His fingers twitched. “They—”

“Are you having a stroke?”

“Fuck you, Rozanov, I'm just trying to figure out how this got so fucked up.”

“I was young and stupid,” He volunteered, because really, he was his own worst enemy and his brain and mouth and gooey insides had decided he would be voicing his secrets to Hayden fucking Pike of all people. “It was casual.”

“Right.” Pike bit his lip. “I think—fuck. You think Briggs is with Shane?”

“I know he is. Calls him all the time.”

He watched Pike's face cycle through anger, then sadness, then something muted and deeper. It wasn't particularly satisfying for Ilya like it should have been.

“They’re—I,” Pike smacked his palms on the counter, then shoved both hands down into the pockets of his sweatpants. He made a small, triumphant sound as he located and fished out his phone. “You're wrong. Maybe not about the calls or whatever, probably,” he backpedaled yet again, “But it's not Briggs.”

Ilya thought he might be sick, those buttery, delicious eggs and syrupy cherry drink wasted. If not Briggs, then who? Why did he have to know?

He was trying to forget all of it. The stupid messages, the fucking memories, the truth. He was trying to just feel nothing and it never fucking worked. His stupid heart would kick with hope and despair until his feelings swallowed him up or tore him apart.

Pike opened the browser app and slowly pushed it across the island. Before Ilya could snatch the device, Pike hesitated. Their eyes met again.

“Only Cliff, Svetlana, and I know,” he said, and then the phone was in Ilya's hands.

Ilya looked down at it, expecting to see an article. TMZ or PopCrave or FanBeat, one of those sensationalist type outlets. He hadn't really expected it to be the Athletic, but he should have, especially if it was Hollander's people giving up the information. They would never go to a tabloid.

Of course, he only knew that it was the Athletic because of the little banner at the bottom of the picture. He swiped. Pike was literally showing him a picture. Not an article.

That was fucking insulting.

“Do you think I can't fucking read?”

“What? No!” Pike leaned forward, chest nearly in the remains of his breakfast. “Zoom in on the picture, asshole.”

“Is Hollander on the bench. I do not get it. Is his boyfriend behind him or something?”

This was starting to feel fucking cruel.

Another frustrated sound came from Pike, who reached out and adjusted the picture on screen and said, “It's you, numbnuts. You're the fucking guy.”

“I am not in this—” he looked down at the grainy, magnified photo, the little 24 written on the base of the palm of a glove, fingers wrapped around a stick, how it was pressed to the side of Hollander's face, his expression focused and steady where he sat on the bench. He had always written his mother's name on his sticks. It was the one and only thing Ilya had never chirped him for, for obvious reasons.

Yuna Hollander's name was not written there any more. Instead—

“Lily,” Pike said.

Ilya's traitor heart kicked wildly in his chest, like it had suddenly fucking remembered it had a purpose.

“This can't—why would he—” It was now his turn to sound like he couldn't speak. “It could be—like strategy,” he said, hating trying to speak English with his thoughts half formed and just as incoherent in both his languages. “A new thing. To protect his new boyfriend. I would not say anything. It would...”

“I don't think Shane would do that.”

“And how would you know? Has he talked to you since fucking off to Europe?”

“No, of course he hasn't.” Pike didn't take the bait. He sounded tired. Sad. “He's not intentionally cruel, Rozanov.”

“You don't know that.”

That gave Pike pause. “Do you?” He asked.

For a moment, it almost sounded like Pike would believe him if he said he was. He probably wouldn’t though. It was more likely he would at least agree to hear Ilya out.

Ilya sighed. “It doesn't matter. It—it wasn't…I got what I had wanted. It wasn't like we had—we weren't anything.” Gospodi bozhe, why was he fucking talking? Pike had only fucking guessed and here he was giving himself away like a fucking—

“Breathe, Rozanov. You look like you're going to pass out.”

“I'm not,” he argued, forcing his breathing to go heavy and slow. He might be pathetic, but he wasn't fucking weak. “Where the fuck is my phone?”

He needed answers. Needed to know what Hollander meant when he wrote that fake name on his stick, if it was to prove a point or start a movement, or if it really meant something. There was only one person he knew who could put him in contact with Hollander.

Derek Briggs owed him that much.

“I am an idiot,” Ilya said to Svetlana. She sat on the far end of the sectional, stretched out on the side with the chaise that was no longer covered in discarded outerwear, wrapped in a robe and pajama pants, her typical jet lag recovery outfit. Ilya’s head was in her lap and her fingers carded idly through his curls. Marleau and Pike were somewhere else, otherwise she would have forced him to be polite and speak English.

“Of course you are,” she told him. “You are in love. It makes people stupid.”

“I wanted a perfectly good rookie off my team,” he continued, “For something he did not do.”

“I could have told you that, if you talked to me,” she murmured, though it lacked the bite her criticism usually had. “His energy was all off.” Quieter, she added, “I knew Hollander was your Jane, all this time. I thought you’d let him go.” He could hear her silent displeasure, the silent echo of ‘I wish you had told me.’

“I wish I could.” He sniffed, but his eyes remained itchy and dry.

“No you don’t.”

“I tried very hard to move on.”

She waited for him to continue.

Ilya shook his head, face pressed to her belly. “I do not know if I can do this again,” he admitted softly. “If I let myself feel these things, I don’t know that I will survive it.” He exhaled harshly, heating up the soft fleece of her robe.

“Then you must ask yourself what you want,” she said carefully, “And decide if it is worth it.”

Ilya had been asking himself that question for years. For so long, he hadn’t had an answer. After his mother died, he’d thought it was hockey, but hockey was nothing more than a distraction, a job that he was very, very good at. And then there had been a stupid, boring Canadian man who shook his hand twice the first time they'd met, then continued to meet him wherever he was, every time after. It hadn't been perfect. They had been young and stupid and scared. They had hurt each other because they knew it couldn't work, but it had been three and a half years without him, and Ilya could not stop himself from loving him. He did not think he ever would.

A memory came to him unbidden. It was that first and last time at his old place in Boston. Shane had been asleep, had woken from a nap in Ilya's arms. He'd smiled back at Ilya without thinking, and for a moment, for possibly the first time since—since Ilya was twelve, everything had been right with the universe.

Ilya wanted so many things, but they all boiled down into one.

His eyes stung.

Pushing himself up onto his forearms, twisting himself uncomfortably to look her in the eye, Ilya spoke. “Him,” he said, seriously. “It’s only ever been him.” Even if it destroys me, he thought, because it probably would.

She searched his eyes, as if testing his resolve, then nodded. He returned his head to her lap and her hand combed through his hair. “There are articles,” she murmured. “People trying to figure out how long he has been writing your name on his stick. They think it has been since always.”

“It cannot be. It was his mother's name when he played for Metros.”

“I mean in Europe. He is away for playoffs now. Left them to follow breadcrumbs. It is a good move. Clever. Enough to give nothing away but also draw attention.”

“Yes,” Ilya sighed. “If only he would have told me. He changed his phone number. Mine is the same as always.”

“And if someone overheard or it was leaked, you would be in danger. You still have a Russian passport. I told you to apply for permanent residency when you got to Ottawa.”

“I was not sure I was staying.”

The hand petting his head stopped. She looked down at him without a word, easily calling his bluff. He wriggled a bit. She grabbed his shoulder to stop him, the petting resumed a moment later. Ilya closed his eyes.

“If you are going to fight for him, you must have residency, Ilya.” She spoke calmly, matter of fact. “You must protect yourself. I do not think the Raiders would have done to you what Montreal did to him, but the Commissioner would have made your life difficult. Ottawa will be kinder still, but you will need a lawyer for immigration. Someone with connections.”

“You have already contacted someone,” he accused.

“Of course,” she confirmed. “But I will not do this for you. I will give you their information. You will decide how to proceed.”

Because proceeding—trying, even though Shane coming back to him was not guaranteed—meant he would have to sacrifice Russia completely. It was hardly a sacrifice: a handful of weeks spent drinking and feeling sorry for himself, wondering why he came back if his brother and stepmother had no love for anything but his wallet, but it was still, in many ways, home.

Conceptually, at least.

He was beginning to think maybe he had been away from home for a long time, because home wasn't a place at all—and wasn't that the most horrible fucking thought. If this didn't work out, he would have nothing.

He felt like he had nothing now. No home, no future, just an endless stretch of existing, latching on to points in the future and hoping they'd make him feel something for longer than the time it took to reach him.

He was not very good at existing, if he was honest with himself. He needed purpose. A reason. A challenge.

It didn't even have to be a big challenge.

Right now was challenging enough. How long had he felt like a part of himself was missing? Since that club in Montreal in 2016, when he'd seen Shane and Rose Landry with his own two eyes? Or maybe longer, when Ilya had overstepped, had shown Shane he wanted something neither of them believed they could have?

Or longer still: Vegas, 2014, when he refused to let his emotions get involved because he knew they already were and it would ruin him, if not them both?

Or, actually—

I love you, he had typed in the moment, thinking it would be his only chance to say what he felt. Always. Maybe from the first time I saw you.

Maybe Shane Hollander had been taking pieces of Ilya with him since the moment they'd met. Maybe Ilya hadn't realized he'd been giving them away because they hadn't been his in the first place.

“Give me the number,” he told Svetlana, who did not flinch at the thickness of his voice. “I will call.”

—

Ilya was finishing up with the lawyer when Marleau and Pike returned to the condo from wherever they had gone. Their arms were full of takeout, pizza, he thought, and wings, the barbecue ones. Marley liked to pretend he liked the spicy buffalo ones, but Ilya knew better.

“Pike did something stupid,” Marley announced to the room.

About fucking time, Ilya thought, thanking his new attorney for their time and the eighteen new emails he would have to review before their official first meeting tomorrow. He hung up and all but bounced toward the pizza smell in the entryway, savoring the feeling of doing something maybe possibly productive.

“You will tell me everything,” he said, but came up short, wary of Marley’s tight jaw, the way he dodged eye contact initially before holding it a little too long.

“Pike—”

“I contacted Farah Jalali,” Pike confessed.

“You did what?” Svetlana’s voice was shrill, furious.

Pike had the good sense to look fearful, even with his arms full of wide, flat boxes. “Rozanov—you said he wasn’t going to get anywhere with the rookie, so I thought I’d try a different approach.”

“So you called Hollander’s agent,” she repeated, stepping in front of Ilya as if she was his protector, and in a way, she kind of was. “And said what? Ilya Rozanov wants to speak to Shane Hollander can you give me his phone number?”

“Fuck, of course not!” Pike cried.

If any of them had asked him, Ilya would have been telling the truth when he said he didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t like he could call Hollander’s agent. He had no reason to.

“I listened to the message he left,” Marley volunteered. “I think it was a fucking terrible idea, but he didn’t like, out you or something, brother. I’d fucking kill him.”

“I’d want to kill myself,” Pike said.

Svetlana’s posture tightened, but Ilya reached for her shoulder. She looked back at him. Ilya tried to convey he is a fucking idiot but why would he know he shouldn’t say that to me with a look and wondered what cosmic fucking tragedy his life was that he was defending Hayden Pike.

“What did you say to the agent?” He asked tiredly.

“I asked her to have Yuna Hollander call me. No chance Shane will contact us, but she might.”

“And what did you tell her to ensure she would?” Again, Svetlana was very demanding, coiled and sharp and ready to rip him apart if she needed to. She looked between him and Marley, expectant.

“I said it was about Lily,” Pike answered. “Yuna will think I’m in Boston. Nobody ever fucking recognizes me, and why the fuck would either of us,” he gestured to Marleau and himself, “Be here in Ottawa, much less with you considering playoffs start in forty-eight hours?”

There was a hostile silence before Ilya broke it, scoffing. He moved around Svetlana to claim the pizza boxes, pressing a grateful kiss to her temple as he passed. “Your plan is stupid,” he offered over his shoulder, in Pike’s direction.

“I’m trying to help—”

“I know.” He set the pizza boxes on the counter and looked Pike in the eye. He wouldn’t say thank you, maybe ever, so it would have to be enough.

A part of him didn’t think anything would come from it, but he could admit to himself that it was a better plan than waiting and hoping his preparations would be worth it. He had waited long enough, was rubbed raw and tired of it. He wouldn’t wait another fucking minute if there was a chance that Shane still wanted him.

—

Pike’s phone rang with an unknown number. It was an Ottawa area code.

They all looked down at it, stupidly, before Marley kicked Pike’s shin and he grabbed for it, standing.

“Hi, this is Hayden—” His shoulders rose, posture going tense. He exhaled slowly, looking over his shoulder at all of them. “Hi, Yuna,” he said. “How are you?”

Svetlana rolled her eyes and gestured for him to get on with it or possibly to put Yuna Hollander on speaker. Probably both. Marley held up a hand as if suggesting caution. He had barbecue sauce on his fingers. Despite giving Pike shit earlier, he seemed awful content to trust him, which was ridiculous considering they’d both spent years chirping him for being a shitty player who was easy to rile.

“I, uh, yeah.” Riveting conversation Pike, Ilya thought. He was on the other side of the kitchen, standing in front of the sink like he was looking out the window. It was dark out, so there wasn’t anything to look at. “The kids are good. Jackie, too. We’re going to look at houses after the playoffs. How’s um, how is he?”

Pike looked over his shoulder, took a deep breath, and put the phone on speaker.

“-ow I can’t answer that, Hayden. If he wants to talk, he’ll contact you.” Yuna Hollander’s voice was reserved, almost cold. “But you know that,” she added like an afterthought. “So why now?”

“It’s like I told Farah,” Pike said. His hands were shaking. “I just—I heard the news, you know? About Lily.”

“And that’s the straw that broke the camel’s back?”

“Kind of,” he said. “Is it true? Are they, like—”

“I can tell you put me on speakerphone, Pike,” Yuna sounded unimpressed. “I called you back because I know you love Shane and I’m sure you feel guilty about what happened, but I can’t talk about—”

“It’s not about me,” The stern dad-voice from this morning was back. “But yeah, of course I feel guilty. I’d do anything for Shane, which is why—” he looked up at Ilya and sighed. “You’re right, I can’t help Shane. I just… need to know some things. Nothing about the stuff going on with the League, I swear.”

A disgruntled sound came down the phone. “Hayden, you’re not—” Yuna paused, “It’s not you, right?”

Pike’s face was a sight to behold. Ilya wanted to take a picture of it, but couldn't convince his fingers to move. “Jesus Christ, Yuna! Of course not."

“I was just checking!” She returned. “You have to admit it looks suspicious. You and Shane were close for years. You practically lived together during the season. I would feel bad for Jackie, but I could see it making sense, if you stop to think about it.”

Marley almost broke, but Svetlana silenced his not quite laugh with a glare that said she wouldn’t hesitate to end him.

“Well,” he said. “We’re not.”

“But you know who Lily is,” she accused.

“Well, I can’t exactly help Shane,” he replied, agitated.

The conversation that followed was stilted and uncomfortable—both sides wanted information the other one wasn’t willing to give up, particularly any information on Shane and Lily’s identity.

Pike had managed to get confirmation that Shane’s sticks had stopped bearing Yuna’s name after the ‘16-17 season. It had only been Lily in Sweden. Shane had never explained it to her. In exchange he had admitted that he knew of Lily’s existence for years, but only ever as an on-again, off-again hookup. Yuna had agreed to pass along Lily’s desire for contact, but warned that contact between Shane and anyone from that time in his life was frowned upon right now.

She was a smart woman and a good mother, Ilya knew. He had a strong suspicion that she knew he—meaning Lily—was listening in on the conversation, because she never brought up Pike’s phone being left on speaker again.

When the conversation waned, Pike said, “Give me a second, Yuna,” and put the device on mute. He returned to the table, sitting down in front of his abandoned plate. “What else do you want to know?”

His first thought was stupid—he wasn’t going to let someone else say the things Ilya felt. He refused.

“Ask when Hollander decided to fight the league’s decision,” Svetlana instructed.

All of them frowned at her, but neither Ilya nor Marleau had any ideas, so here they were. Pike took the phone off mute.

“When did Shane decide he wanted to push back?” he looked to Svetlana, who offered him no assistance with her blank look, “Was it, um, recent?”

Yuna took a moment to answer. “Kind of,” she said. “I always knew he’d want to fight it someday, but it came out of nowhere. Maybe a month before the news broke, so Mid-ish January? Why?”

“Just curious,” Pike answered. He looked pensive, but Ilya wasn’t looking at him.

It was like he couldn’t stop himself, but then again, he’d never been great at impulse control. He flipped his cracked phone over so it was screen up, pressing his thumb to the sensor. It took a second to get to instagram and pull up the messages he hadn’t been strong enough to look at since the day it happened, much less delete.

They were dated for January twelfth. Beneath them was a single word that had not been there on the evening of January twelfth, the last time Ilya had looked at them. Seen.

Seen.

Shane had seen his messages. He knew that Ilya—

There was only so much Ilya could take. His limit came without his consent, eyes prickling with tears.

Svetlana was on her feet in an instant, arms closing around him. Pike jumped up like someone had burned him, his blue-green eyes overbright and watering as he tried to provide space lest Yuna Hollander hear his choppy, tear-soaked breaths and somehow realize it was Ilya they were speaking about. Marley watched the whole thing from across the table with a confused expression. Even though he was waiting for someone to bring him up to speed, he reached a hand across the table, not for the phone and the displayed message he couldn't read upside down, but to take Ilya's elbow in hand when he folded himself over his dinner plate and tried very hard to control his emotions.

“Yuna.”

Ilya looked over. Pike’s expression was haunted. He had seen the messages, Ilya realized, or at least part of them. Maybe he had even put the pieces together. The Centaurs’ emergency landing had been a big deal. The entire league knew about it. Many players across the league, including Pike himself, had reached out to him and his teammates in the aftermath, checking in and offering well wishes.

She must have noticed the shift in Pike's tone, the way his voice shook, or maybe even the quiet hitch of Ilya's breath through the speaker. “Jesus, Hayden, what is it? What did I say—”

“Do you have access to Shane’s instagram account?” he interrupted.

“No, I—why?”

“Just checking,” he said, far too casually for a man who had just confirmed that Shane knew Ilya loved him. “That one was for me,” he added, rubbing the back of his head. “Just wanted to know my messages are getting read.”

“The lawyers advised against talking to anyone in the league, Hayden. I shouldn’t even be talking to you. Please don’t betray our trust.”

“We won’t,” Pike promised, blinking a tear down his cheek.

Pike and Marleau left Monday morning, headed to the airport long before the sun rose. They had a team meeting that afternoon and practice the day after—their playoff series against Detroit would begin Wednesday.

Marley hugged with his whole body, wrapping Ilya up tight and holding on harder. If Ilya had any tears left to cry, they might have been squeezed out of him.

“Love you, brother.” The words were muffled and close, but so was Ilya's response.

“You too, Marley. Thank you for—” the correct word was everything, but it felt too small.

“What family's for,” he said easily. “I'm only a phone call or flight away.”

“Okay.” Ilya nodded the word into Marley's collarbone.

Then he stepped back and Ilya was left with Pike, who nodded to him. “Take care, man,” he said lightly, looking a little uncomfortable, but steady and certain. “Good luck in the playoffs.”

“I do not need luck to beat Montreal,” corrected Ilya, because luck was for losers and that was not something Ilya was on the ice, no matter the score. “But thank you. Good luck to you and Raiders.”

“Come on, Roz,” Marley groaned. Pike waved him off, willing to pretend none of this had happened now that it was over. They had nearly gotten away with it, too.

But Ilya could admit he owed Hayden Pike a debt, if only to himself.

Ilya’s shoulders twitched in a tiny shrug. “Pike,” he called after him.

“Yeah?”

He shoved past Marley and held out his hand. Pike looked at it stupidly for a minute, but took it. They shook hands. “Thank you,” he said, with gravity. “I know we are not friends, but—”

Pike nodded. “We both love him, in our own way. I think that's enough.”

Ilya nodded. “You will get my number from Marley,” he decided aloud. “Or he will send to me. If I hear from Shane, I will tell you. Not details,” his head tilted, “for obvious reasons, but…” he sighed.

“Same here,” Pike offered. It seemed they had established a truce. “I'm pretty sure you'll be the first person he talks to, when he's ready or whatever.”

“I hope so,” he admitted, hating just how desperate he sounded.

—

In the aftermath, Ilya became Svetlana’s problem. She had coddled him quite a bit, though, so he shouldn't have been surprised that she allowed them to drink coffee and smoke a cigarette in silence before promptly losing patience with him.

That was okay, though. It was a weekday and she was very good at working from anywhere. Selling fancy cars to rich people meant there were handlers for things and she could work remotely. And since his house was no longer a mess—a pigsty, Pike had called it, Marley laughing at him—it meant she could take calls from the kitchen or living room without it reflecting poorly.

She would not be leaving him, she'd said, until Montreal was defeated. He had asked by whom and gotten a strange look.

He did not pretend he was in charge of her decisions. He did not deserve her, though she seemed to know when he thought that and glared at him.

He went to practice feeling better than he had in a long time. A couple months, at least. The sadness was there. The ache was there. But it was quiet. Hopeful. Expectant.

In the locker room, Briggs and Luca arrived together and nodded at him in greeting. Wyatt watched the interaction from his usual stretching spot, eyebrows climbing.

“Briggs,” he said, because he knew that he needed to suck it up, that they had to go into this shit as a unit, not divided, “You will lead warm-ups, yes?”

“Uh, sure?” Luca elbowed Derek, who cleared his throat and added, “I mean, yeah. Okay, Cap.”

Wyatt rolled his eyes. Ilya rolled his eyes harder, which Hazy took as an invitation to approach.

“Mornin’ Rozy.”

Ilya shucked off his sweatshirt. “Hazy,” he greeted. “Don't you have glove and blocker to thank for their service or something?”

“In a minute,” he said, unmoved by Ilya's barb. He spoke almost too quietly to hear, but Roz was watching his mouth. “You good? Visitors still around?”

Right. Wyatt had been over to check on him. There was always a point after the meltdowns and benders when they felt so recent to others but to Ilya, it was like they had happened to someone else. To be fair, it was probably because he remembered so little of them.

“Some left. My friend Svetlana is staying for a bit.” Until Montreal is defeated, he reminded himself, but this was not the place or correct company for him to say it, even if Marley and Pike were correct about Wyatt. It was still too new. He was still too fragile.

“Cool,” Wyatt said. “My sister might come stay with Lisa. They're considering driving to Montreal to see our away games.”

“You have fan club,” he chirped.

“Don't worry, yours is still bigger.” Smirking, Wyatt reached over to grab and throw a roll of tape from Chouinard’s stall in Haas’ direction. “Luca hasn't stolen them all just yet.”

“Luca will steal them never!” Ilya squawked, outraged.

“You never know,” Bood said, coming in from the shower, towel at his waist. “You can’t play forever.”

“Is untrue. I will never stop playing. Will be older than Scott Hunter and still putting up more points than all of you,” he drawled, pointing at Luca before dragging his finger around the room to make sure they knew he was talking about each and every one of them.

Luca snorted.

“Skate circles around him tonight, Haasy,” Chewie chirped. “And gimme back my tape when you’re done. This fucking klepto,” he tried to shove at Hazy, who dodged and moved far too quickly for a man in pads to his usual corner of the room. “I’m gonna have to put an airtag on all my shit.”

“That’s what you get for leaving your comics in the lounge,” Bood reminded him. “Looked like a fucking magazine to me,” he added.

“Hey!”

“I was going to put it back when I was done,” Hazy told Chewie. “You just saw me with it before that.”

“Right,” Chewie said doubtfully.

From the corner, Briggs made a face. “Isn’t it, like, good to have your goalie be a thief? You know, like stealing the game?”

Wyatt turned to him with a thoughtful look. Briggs was in the middle of ripping perfectly good tape off his stick. When he finished, Luca was handed over Chewie’s roll, but the defenseman didn’t say anything about the waste.

“So, what? My hero name could be klepto? Short for Kleptomaniac?”

“Absolutely not,” Chewie said. “We are not rewarding him for this.”

“I’ve stolen lots of games, though,” Hazy said, turning what Ilya thought was actually a pretty good set of puppy dog eyes on him. “Especially when you get caught flat footed—”

“Oh, fuck you! I’ll thank you and your goalposts for the next three games if you don’t make me call you klepto.”

“But you started it,” Ilya reminded Chouinard.

“Eh, I don’t know. Klepto sounds like a supervillain, and Hazy’s our hero,” Bood cut in.

Wyatt’s chest puffed up a little. It was harder to see with his shoulder pads on, but Ilya laughed, and soon they were all chuckling along.

With the mood in the locker room less hostile, they eventually went back to their own pre practice rituals. Briggs and Haas went out first, probably because Ilya’s acknowledgement had knocked Derek off-kilter.

Now that he knew what to look for, it was almost too obvious. For all that they were different, he could see Shane’s influence in Derek: the way he was mindful, polite but not that polite, actually, once you got to know him. And on the ice, too: the patience and stoicism, the way he took things hard and always strived to challenge himself. He would never be anywhere as good as Shane, much less Ilya, but he was decent. He would have a long career in the league if he played his cards right.

If the deck wasn’t stacked against him, Ilya thought to himself, pulling up his socks and yanking his jersey over his head. Skates next, order didn’t matter to him. With that done, he walked over to the stick rack by the tunnel hallway and stopped short. There was a sharpie on the bar above it, miscellaneous tape that had been left behind or provided by the equipment team.

Ilya looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was coming up behind him, then grabbed one of the markers. He inspected his perfect tape job for far too long. He knew what he liked, he’d been taping his sticks almost the same way since he was seventeen. He looked at the spot just below the little knob he liked at the end, the one that kept his hand steady on the stick when he was streaking down the ice after the opposition, checked over his shoulder again. Satisfied that he was still alone, he uncapped the marker, wrote Jane in messy, imperfect letters and felt kind of absurdly stupid at the way his heartbeat thundered in his chest. He wrote it on the rest of his sticks anyway, flicking the name when he was done.

It felt like he was getting away with something.

It felt he’d done something right for once.

—

Svetlana pretended it was completely normal for Ilya to watch Swedish hockey on the days he spent at home during the Montreal series. She made fun of him when he grumbled at TSN’s spotty coverage and giggled when he gave up on that for Swedish websites, swearing at the Google Translate plugin—it was not Ilya's fault it rarely fucking worked after you clicked a link and page refreshed—then casually pulled up FloHockey and demanded his credit card to pay for the subscription with a pointed look that said she had a limit to how much of his shit she was going to tolerate.

Her commentary on the quality of the hockey they watched was cutting. Amateur hour, his teammates might have called it. Professional, but not as good. Växjö was the best team, it was true, but it was clear that Shane was a cut above.

Watching him play on an Olympic sized rink, flying faster, playing more minutes than any of his teammates, it was like pressing on a bruise. It hurt, but it was healing, too.

It was healthier than the alternative. Ilya knew the high level details of Shane’s case against the MLH, everyone in the league did. Captains murmured about it before games, press asked in most cities because of their rivalry, always happy to share morsels of information in the hopes that Ilya gave them a reaction worth writing about. Shane felt like a shadow in the corner of Ilya’s vision most days, even more than he had that first season Ilya played without him.

Privately, Ilya was pretty sure that following the news peoples’ commentary would be doing Shane a disservice. It was different in the room, as a player. Different still to be Shane fucking Hollander.

He had always been respected. Guys wanted to play with or against him, wanted to be in the same room, the same ice, the same circles. These days most felt the same, though more than a few were less inclined to comment on the reasoning why he’d left in the first place. A lot of it, Ilya suspected, was ignorance—the game was not progressive. Guys played, they retired, they did what they liked until the head injuries caught up and sent them to an early grave. Some of them were homophobic idiots because they were hateful, but most of them were that way because that was the culture that had raised them, not because they felt any type of way about it.

Toxic masculinity, Harris had called it, when he’d commented on the lack thereof in Ottawa. It was still there to a degree, get a group of men in a room and of course there was, but it was better. Maybe it was the lack of a winning pedigree, the fact that Ilya had arrived and management had simply nodded along with his answer to but why here, when he’d said he was bored and wanted to see if a championship culture could be built.

Nobody knew the real reason Ilya had come here. The stupid one. The one he’d made, twenty-seven and half-crazy, wanting to get away from all the people who would never stop asking him about his (no longer) Montreal Jane. It had been easy to sell his decision to the world. Ottawa’s offer had been the best: the highest number on the check, free reign over the room, offers to connect him with whatever sponsors he wanted.

And if it had been Shane Hollander’s hometown, well, Ilya ignored that bit because everyone—the league, the fans, the city itself—seemed just as desperate to forget that he’d left them, too. He’d lied to himself for years, said he absolutely did not pick this city out of some sick desire for an accidental reunion, like he didn’t check social media to see if anyone had spotted him. They never did.

Eventually, Ilya had checked less and less, the familiar phantom pain of grief tempering itself into something he only really felt on bad mornings and sleepless nights. It felt closer on days when he faced those familiar blue jerseys, the faceoff dots haunted by the absence of dark eyes and pretty freckles, a wry smile and chewed mouthguard that would do fuck-all if Ilya crosschecked him.

“Did you talk to the lawyer?”

Ilya looked away from the television, which he hadn’t really been following. Intermissions were boring, second period especially. There were usually special interest pieces, but Ilya didn’t know or care about Sweden, much less the other teams in the league. Svetlana looked sideways from the far cushion, eyebrows lifted expectantly.

“Application is done,” Ilya said. “Last week. I told you.”

She hummed, which meant Ilya was to explain further.

“I talked to him yesterday. No update yet. He talked to team, too. Owners and GM. They will support me. They want me to retire a Centaur.”

Laughing, Svetlana said, “Of course they do, they have no decent alumni.”

They shared another look, this one amused.

“Have you talked to Alexei?”

“No,” he said, sobering. “He called a month ago for the usual.”

“Will you stop?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Probably no. Is not like I am poor.” Shrugging, he added, “At least until my niece is grown.”

“And you think that money makes it to her?”

Cutting commentary was not saved for hockey, Ilya thought, shaking his head. “I have a fund for her. For when she is grown. In her name so he cannot touch it.”

She didn’t look convinced. It was something Ilya worried about too, but he could not control everything. He could barely keep himself together most of the time. He reached for the diet coke dripping condensation on the low coffee table and let the bubbles burn his throat.

There were so many things he could not control, but there was a saying he remembered: Secure yourself before assisting others.

It was ironic, because flight attendants always said this about oxygen masks and life vests. For most of his life, Ilya had tuned them out. But after Tampa, after nearly crashing, he’d listened to them go over the emergency instructions every time.

It was impossible to do in practice, but Ilya had resolved to fight for the future he wanted, even though he had no idea what it would actually look like.

Round Two
New York Admirals vs Ottawa Centaurs
May, 2021

Ilya had known that at some point, things would become ugly. When powerful, greedy people were involved, when they were challenged with something they refused to accept because change was for lesser people, it was inevitable.

He also knew that someone like Shane would not start a fight he could not win. Not about this. Ilya had known all about the pressure Shane put on himself before others heaped their own aspirations on top. Ilya had been largely immune to it—he was well versed in being a failure and a disappointment, had been before he had ever made it to North America—but Shane had been prone to buckle under expectation. He wanted to be good, to be the best, mostly for others: his parents, his fans, the franchise, the city, all the little people who said they were counting on him.

For himself, Shane had only ever wanted to play the sport he loved. That was the part of him Ilya knew, the one that met him at center ice for puck drop every time they squared up at the dot. Maybe, after all these years, Shane had decided he wanted something more for himself. Ilya had hoped he might, once. Hoped he might again now, or maybe even still.

He was fighting, after all.

The group chat Marley had added him to last month entitled 💐Support Squad was alive and well on the morning of May tenth. Svetlana was back in Moscow and well ahead of the North American news cycle, so by the time he was expected at the rink for practice, Ilya had already seen the reports and listened to the recording twice, promised Svetlana she did not need to catch yet another series of flights west to collect his broken pieces, and spoken to Hayden Pike, of all fucking people, on the phone.

Pike had called him, frantic and raging, just after seven in the morning. Ilya had listened to him for five excruciating minutes before reminding him that they had a group chat specifically for this reason. He stayed on the line after that for another three minutes, suggesting Pike call his wife and army of children for comfort if Marley wasn't immediately available.

Ilya was upset about the recording: about its presence, about its necessity. He was grateful that Shane’s mother had insisted upon it. He hated everything that was said to Shane, that the Metros had done this. But, more than that, he was proud of Shane for sharing it.

It was a brave thing that Shane had done. Both in the past, trying to have the conversation, and now, sharing it—because who else would give something like that to a reputable news outlet? Sure, some people said it was a leak, and it was, but not a scandalous one. If it had been a scandal, the kindest person on staff at the Athletic would not have been reporting on it.

No, no. Shane had wanted this news out. The league had tried to make him the bad guy when they were the villains themselves. They wanted to fight him, and they would not win. Ilya had seen his demands. They were lofty goals. Goals an old regime would not tolerate. Ousting its long-time commissioner and removing an original six team from the Board of Governors was not the kind of demands just anybody could make.

They weren’t the kind of demands you made without proof. Ilya suspected any other conversations Shane had had in those days before he left had also been recorded. Shane Hollander had fought and lost plenty, but he was a winner. He would not lose.

Ilya would help him, in his own way. He couldn't be outdone by Hayden Pike flying back to Canada to help him, after all.

Being a superstar and a captain meant that he had a certain kind of sway. People listened when he spoke, so when he called the team’s GM and told him he wanted to meet with the Centaurs’ board of directors and ownership to discuss how the team was planning to handle the Hollander situation, they set up a meeting before noon the same day.

It was very likely this meeting had already been planned, but Ilya appreciated that snappy response all the same.

The Ottawa Centaurs were a good organization. Ownership cared, but stayed out of the team’s way. Their GM and coach were younger than most, willing to try different things and learn as they went, rather than doing the same things over and over again. They were progressive, always participating in themed nights that recognized different groups in the community because they cared about it, not just because it checked a box or provided social clout.

The city had come alive in April. The fans were excited to see the team in the playoffs and positively electric now that they had defeated Montreal, who had no choice but to see them as a divisional rival after years of writing them off. Ilya had an idea that would bring them together even more than that.

Ottawa was not just the home of the Centaurs, after all. It was also the hometown of the second best player of all time (after Ilya of course).

—

“Hunter.”

Scott Hunter did not look pleased to see Ilya coming. He never did. It had never been as true as it was now, after the All-Star Weekend. Ilya had not been kind to Scott, but Scott had deserved it. He was the lead spokesperson for the MLHPA—the fucking player’s union—and had bore the brunt of Ilya’s ire for being ignorant of Shane’s situation.

Maybe it hadn’t been completely fair, but Ilya didn’t have it in him to feel sorry for the old man. He should know better. Instead, he was joining old man Crowell at every possible opportunity, acting in the interest of helping mediate things between the league and Hollander. Ilya had always had his suspicions about Hunter, which didn't change even if he was acting in the interest of the league rather than the player it had wronged. Try as he might to say he was neutral, everyone knew what side of the table he sat on. It was a dangerous place for a queer man to be, at Crowell’s side, but Ilya knew the saying about hiding in plain sight.

Gay or not, Ilya hoped Scott Hunter was every bit the honorable old man he'd always believed him to be.

“Rozanov.” Hunter grunted, looking around for his teammates. Most of them had gone back to their hotel, Ilya suspected. Hunter was the lone guy in the hallway outside the locker room, pedaling along on one of the stationary bikes lined up there like the cardio merchant Ilya often chirped him for being. “You lost? We’ve got the arena for practice today.”

“Ah, no. This will only take a minute,” Ilya continued, even though Hunter was doing his best not to look at him. “Is about new developments in the league.”

Hunter wobbled on the bike, legs falling out of sync with his brain or something. He cursed under his breath and slowed to a stop. “I can’t comment on any of that,” he said. “The investigation is ongoing.”

“Oh please,” Ilya rolled his eyes. “I am not a reporter. No more—the lines, like rehearsed?”

“Canned?”

He nodded. “Ah, yes. No canned lines.”

Dismounting, Scott grabbed the towel hanging over the handlebars and swiped at the sweat dripping down his face. “What do you want, Rozanov?”

“You have heard recording, yes?”

“Yes,” Scott growled. He looked uncomfortable with the thought of it. “Hasn’t everyone?”

Ilya waved that thought away, even though it was probably true. “I am going to do something,” he said, “To show support.”

“You can’t—”

“Oh, but I can,” he sing-songed. “Team is in. Ownership is in.” He shrugged. “League will probably fine us, but what else is new? Someone knees someone in head? Fine. Someone gives middle finger in pressbox? Fine.”

“Look,” Hunter looked around like he was expecting a camera crew to pop out from somewhere. It didn’t, so he leaned in, lowered his voice, and hissed, “If you tell them I told you, I’ll deny it. They plan to suspend anyone who gets involved in this.”

“It’s the fucking playoffs! Would be a terrible decision for… what is this word,” he pretended to think on it, tapping a finger to his chin before meeting Scott’s eyes and going in for the kill, “Optics, yes?” He pursed his lips and shrugged.

“Look, I get it. Between you and me, I want Hollander to wipe the floor with these guys, but Crowell—”

“Thinks you are kiss-ass, because you have always been kiss-ass. Everyone knows this.”

“Great,” Scott said, sarcastically. He slung his little sweat towel around his neck. “Anyways, Crowell will start suspending guys who make a fuss. He wants to keep it out of the arena.”

Ilya scoffed. “Is cute he thinks this is possible. Hollander has haunted arenas since the day the Metros kicked him out. Anyone who does not see this does not know the sport.” He shook his head a little, his hands following his words in artless motion. “Which is why I am asking New York Admirals to participate. Is nothing bad. Just a statement.”

“A statement.”

“Yes. Ask your team, management, whoever. We will need to know by tonight so equipment managers have time to make jerseys for warmups.”

Hunter shook his head, jaw flexing. “You’re fucking insane.”

He tilted his head, studying Scott. The old man looked very uncomfortable. Conflicted, like maybe he did not know whose side he was on. Ilya squinted at him. “I offered to pay fines of any guys who wear Hollander jersey for warm ups. It will be fine, not suspension. They won’t suspend an entire team. I will do same for any Admiral.”

Scratching his stubbled chin, Scott asked, “Why?”

Ilya considered for half a second what might happen if he told the truth. It would be worth it to see the other man’s eyes pop out of his skull, but not so much if Hunter told Crowell Shane’s secrets to save himself. “Is Ottawa. Hollander is hometown hero, yes? But who knows? Maybe I just want my rival back. You are all so slow and terrible.”

For a long moment, Scott seemed to war with himself. He squeezed his eyes closed and clenched his fists, stress and intensity concentrated into a single point before he forced himself to relax. “You’re crazy, Rozanov,” he said. “I’ll talk to my coach and management, see what they think. You’re sure your whole team’s doing this?”

“Yes. They are all in. We will support Hollander no matter what the league tries to do to us. Is the right thing to do and you know it.”

Scott sighed. “You’re right,” he said heavily, like he wished it wasn't the truth, “But I can’t make any promises.”

—

Scrawling Lily on his own hockey stick was stupid. Having to be reminded to do so by Luca Haas, who handed him a marker with a decidedly gleeful expression while Derek Briggs rolled his eyes good naturedly was worse. Derek was smart on ice and more emotionally aware than Ilya certainly was, but Ilya was pretty sure he'd been more intelligent at that age. Or maybe he had been more nosey than the twenty-five year old pseudo-rookie, who tried very hard to stay out of others’ business.

Luca, Derek’s younger and more talented boyfriend, thought he was smooth, but the look on his face read I know a secret very clearly. In the game's aftermath, Derek sent Luca to the showers just as Ilya came back from doing press, throwing a quick, tight-lipped nod over his shoulder that had nothing to do with the fact that the young man’s torso was mostly a massive bruise or the whining from Luca who knew exactly what Derek was doing.

Sometimes Derek made Ilya feel very bad for being angry with him. The similarities between him and Shane were a bit obvious now that Ilya knew what to look for, and his relationship with Luca was cute. He felt like a proud parent sometimes, watching them be happy from afar. It was easier to look at it like that rather than to focus on how badly he wanted something similar for himself. That would probably never happen, but anything would be better than the nothing he had now.

“What is the league saying?” Ilya asked Bood, because if anyone was aware of the bigger picture, it would be him.

“So far, nothing.” Bood patted himself dry with a towel, then tossed it into the laundry cart in the corner. “Hazy thinks it’ll be later, they need something else to talk about at intermission besides Colorado throwing.”

“Colorado’s letting Seattle burn themselves out,” Hazy called.

Bood rolled his eyes, yanking on his boxers. “It’s a good thing we’re not allowed to bet on this shit,” he said, “Otherwise Hazy’d be broke.”

“Okay grillmaster, friendly reminder that I wiped the floor with you in fantasy football.”

“Neither of us give a flying fuck about football.”

“You two practically fought for last place,” Chouinard called from across the room. “I am never inviting you over for the Super Bowl again.”

Ilya watched them banter with a smile, running a hand through his messy, tangled curls. He was fond of them. They’d gotten their asses kicked despite pulling off a win in regulation. They were tired, but they were fighting, and Ilya was surprised just how excited he was for the future. Next year they will be even better. Sharper. More… together.

Having sped through his post game routine, Ilya was as ready as he’d ever be for their post game tradition of closing down Monk’s. With nothing else to do but wait, he pulled his phone from his pocket. He hadn’t checked it since the game and it was flooded with messages. Most recently, Svetlana had messaged her typical curt congratulations on his win despite it being the middle of the night.

The rest of her messages had gone into their little group chat. He wondered if Wyatt had caught up yet, but given he was looking fondly at his blocker when he wasn’t chirping Bood, Ilya doubted it. He made sure to react accordingly to Pike and Marley’s pissed off messages. They, like the rest of the league, hadn’t been in the know on their little stunt tonight.

People are talking, brother. Be a real shame if you started a revolution, Marley’s last message, timestamped for twenty minutes earlier, read. Pike had reacted to it with a thumbs up, but neither responded to Ilya’s devil emoji response. Ilya suspected they were too busy bothering their team's management and equipment staff.

Several other group chats he was in and had muted—old All-Stars rosters, the ones with team captains and vets who loved to run their mouths—were talking about it as well. It was good to know that other players, maybe even teams, wanted to make their opinions known. It wasn’t much, and it probably wouldn’t actually change anything, but Ilya hoped it would help.

He felt so fucking helpless, like a lovesick fool. He wanted—

Briggs dropped onto the bench beside him, silent despite his size. He angled his phone so that only Ilya could see what the screen said.

That was a hard won victory, the message from a contact named ✨Mother✨ read. Ilya was too busy reading the messages to roll his eyes at himself for thinking it was anything but platonic between them. The next one was a simple Congrats. Underneath that, Sorry about your captain’s wallet. Kip heard from a certain someone that he offered to pay up.

Derek’s response was a hastily typed, It was his idea after all.

Shane’s response? Of course it was. Tell him thank you.

It wasn’t fair. Ilya knew why Shane couldn’t, at least a little bit, but it didn’t stop him from being annoyed that his too-old Rookie got to talk to Shane while he couldn’t, even though he’d spilled his fucking guts. He didn’t want a second-hand thank you. He didn’t want all these fucking crumbs. Hadn’t he waited long enough?

“He knows how to get a hold of me, Derek,” he said, trying not to sound angry. It wasn’t the kid’s fault. He handed the phone back. “Tell him to do it himself.”

“You got it, Roz,” Derek said softly, popping up in the nick of time. Luca came out of the showers clad in a towel, pale hair dripping. He squinted at the two of them, but Dykstra had managed to steal control of the stereo from Chewie and some hellacious song started playing, drawing everybody’s attention. They tolerated it for about a minute before someone turned the speaker off entirely, the room devolving into whoops and chirps and calls to hurry the fuck up and get to Monks so they could celebrate properly.

Ilya’s phone buzzed as he followed the horde out into the tunnel and toward the parking lot. He tapped at it and froze mid-step, eyes glued to the screenshot Derek had sent.

He’d done as Ilya had asked.

He says you can tell him yourself, Derek had said.

I will, Shane’s answer read. Soon.

The thing about soon was that it had to happen eventually.

Soon came on a sunny, too-warm Wednesday in Ottawa. It, like the weather, came unexpectedly. It arrived on a day that felt a little buzzy and hollow, that first morning after locker cleanout.

Ilya wasn't sad about that. His team had fought hard and gone rather than anyone expected. The season was ultimately a foundation for them to build upon. Ilya would bring them a championship. Of that he'd never been more certain.

Still, the season’s end always stung, just a little. There was a saying that Ilya had seen on an instagram post once that said All endings are just beginnings. He liked it because it was honest, not trying to pretend it was only good things. Endings could be bittersweet, too, but that wasn't sad.

The little drawing of a duck-like bird saying it had been cute, memorable too, for a reason he couldn't place.

It was stupid to think of that little bird—he always wondered why it had such beady red eyes and was mostly black instead of brown like all of the other ducks he'd seen—was it evil or something?—but Ilya was pretty sure that of all the stupid things he'd caught himself doing, this didn't rank in the top thousand.

His phone buzzed. He ashed his cigarette and picked it up from the counter.

Unknown number: Hi, this is Shane Hollander. I know this is a little sudden, but I’m in Ottawa right now and was hoping you might have some time and want to meet? It's okay if you don't or it's a bad time or whatever.

Ilya's fingers shook. His mind had gone blank, all white noise and empty space as he pulled up the little info screen and looked at the number like he might be able to memorize it, despite being shit at that sort of thing. He'd been clutching the device too tightly to prevent it from falling—it was old and cracked and probably wouldn't survive another drop—to the point where it creaked ominously against his palm before vibrating again.

Unknown number: I’d like to see you. To talk. I think I'd like to talk more this time, if you still want.

He threw his head back so he was looking up at the offwhite kitchen ceiling and rubbed at the spot between his eyebrows that crinkled strangely until he was sure he wasn't going to cry.

What Hollander called sudden was years overdue. When he asked if Ilya had time it was like he had no idea that Ilya would clear his entire fucking schedule if it was full. To insinuate that there was ever a possibility that Ilya wouldn't want to talk was just…

He huffed. It was so very Shane. Polite, boring Shane, always willing to give someone an out. Ilya didn't want an out. He wanted back in.

Shoving aside his very complicated, but no less demanding feelings, Ilya forced his fingers to move across the keyboard. There were so many things he wanted to say, but he wanted to say them in person.

Ilya: I am free. Where are we meeting?

He sent it, then updated the contact in his phone, fingertips drumming uselessly across the counter while he waited for a response.

Shane: Here? Link. Nobody there will say anything.

If Shane was saying it, Ilya believed it. He’d seen Shane jump at his own shadow for years, terrified of someone saying something, terrified of what Ilya might have said, done, or insinuated when they were parted. If someone whose personality could be described by polite overthinking said that it was safe, Ilya believed him.

Besides, his permanent residency—thanks to the Centaurs and his Immigration lawyer—was pretty much guaranteed. He didn’t have the actual paperwork yet, but it was a done deal. He was too talented to be kicked out, so all he had to do was be healthy come training camp, though it was likely he’d have it before the end of August.

Ilya: I will leave now.

—

The location Shane chose was a little cafe called Loon and Lark, the kind of hipster establishment that probably charged too much for coffee but was made by people who really liked bean water. It was tucked away in a plaza that was mostly empty, the kind that was halfway remodeled but still attached to the skeletal remains of a defunct big box store. It was the kind of place people drove by often but rarely checked out.

It was also the kind of place that had closed early, because the little wooden sign in the window said as much when Ilya slow-rolled through the nearly deserted parking lot before pulling up next to a boring looking but well maintained Jeep that probably belonged to one of Hollander's parents. It had safe, reliable, Canadian family vehicle all but stickered on its bumper.

His phone buzzed in his pocket with instructions: The door is unlocked. See you soon.

Right. Ilya, who was pretty sure he'd never been nervous about meeting someone, much less someone he'd already met, felt that odd, fluttery feeling in his stomach that had a sharper, more definitive edge than panic.

He was terrified. Of what, he couldn't say. Maybe it was scary because it was so simple and mundane: A little coffee shop at just after two pm on a random Wednesday. Maybe it was because he never really got the things he so desperately wanted, not that he'd ever really wanted much.

Banging his head against the steering wheel, Ilya exhaled once, flicked his hands like his nerves were something he could shake off, and forced himself out of the car and toward the tiny shop.

The cafe was dim in the way that places like this were, brooding and largely untouched by daylight. He opened the door and it jingled quietly, muted wood chimes against the top half of the doorpane rather than a sharp jangle of bells. There wasn't anyone behind the counter, but movement from the corner of his eye grabbed his attention: a dark head of hair rising from a couch in the far corner, strong shoulders covered in a muted purple button up and tailored slacks that the Shane Hollander Ilya once knew would never ever wear.

He swallowed. “I, um—” yes, very eloquent, he disparaged himself.

Shane turned, and Ilya’s gaze was drawn to his, because how could he not be after not seeing him in person for all these fucking years, and—

And gospodi bozhe, Shane was still the most beautiful fucking person Ilya had ever encountered. It hit him like a gut punch, but was worse because, “You wear glasses?”

The words were pulled out of him like he’d had no other path forward but to say them. They were cute glasses, black metal frames slung just a little bit lower on the bridge of his nose than they should have been, like he’d been reading something as he waited for Ilya to arrive. That probably explained the cafe environment. Ilya’s agent had always preferred fancy, upscale restaurants for their discussions, but of course Shane’s would prefer somewhere quiet and unassuming.

Shane reached for them, biting his lip, his blush obstructed by his freckles. “They’re for reading,” he said, almost shyly, plucking the frames from his face.

“No, leave them,” he told Shane. It was kind of sinking in now that they were both here, even with half a cafe between them. It struck Ilya with a sense of horrible, terrible longing, wondering just how long those glasses had been a part of Shane’s life and what other little mundane things he had missed all these years—the last few, of course, but all the other ones that had come before it.

“They’re, um, not for like,” he gestured around, glasses in hand. “I don’t need like, contacts or anything like that,” he finished, ever so slightly defensive.

Ilya huffed. “They look good on you, Hollander,” he said, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice. Then, “Shane.”

He smiled at Ilya, so big it was like he needed his whole body for it, so bright it was like the tiny little cafe didn’t need any of its shabby chic little lamps to light the space.

“Ilya,” he answered, because this had always been their little game. Call and response. Matching each other step for step, always rising to the other’s level, always striving to go higher and higher still.

Ilya didn’t remember moving closer, but he had. Shane had, too. They met somewhere in the middle of the room, Shane looking up that little tiny bit because Ilya’s fingers had finally found their home at the jut of his chin, cradling his jaw, tilting it upward. Shane huffed quietly, laughing at the familiarity of it all, and then they were laughing. Their bodies knew this dance too, as it was.

Their eyes met again, closer now. Ilya blinked hard, swallowing against the maelstrom of emotion that just this simple little touch dredged up. He wasn’t the only one. Shane’s chin trembled under Ilya’s fingers, eyes welling up with tears as Ilya blinked through his own.

“Hi,” Shane said, pulling Ilya’s eyes to the tense line of his lips.

“Hello,” Ilya answered, equally soft. He could hear his broken breathing now. It should have been embarrassing, but it wasn’t. How could it be when he’d already confessed the kinds people did when they didn’t think they’d be forced to live with them. “I—”

“I love you too,” Shane interrupted. “I’m sorry, I just—your messages, I needed to—”

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya crushed their bodies together in a hug that he probably should have apologized for. It was forceful, even for two large men accustomed to contact sports. He was probably bruising Shane’s shoulders, holding on as tightly as he was, but Shane’s hands were on his back, clutching Ilya just as hard.

“I love you so much,” Shane continued. “I’m sorry. For all of it.”

“Not all of it is your fault,” Ilya said, even though some part of him needed that apology, needed to know that Shane acknowledged that his actions hurt, and would probably continue to hurt for a while still. “I’m sorry too.”

That gave him pause. “What are you sorry for? Convincing Scott Hunter to put my name and number on a fucking Admiral’s jersey?” Shane rolled his eyes.

Ilya let him pull back, but not all the way. His hands dropped to Shane’s hips, hitching him closer before he could fall out of Ilya’s orbit. “For pretending like this didn’t mean anything and getting mad when you ran away.”

“I,” one of Shane’s hands snuck up between them, swiping at the underside of Ilya’s eyes, collecting an errant tear. He dried it on Ilya’s shirt, making them both smile before his thumb went to his own lips, swiping across it. “I regret not talking to you before that season ended. I’d had this whole plan to invite you to my cottage after the playoffs, force us to maybe be honest with each other for once, but then…”

“The Metros.”

Shane sighed, like there was so much more to the story, even with so much of it out there in the open. “I was so afraid to pull anyone into my orbit. What if they figured it out? I did a lot of reading—”

“Of course.”

“Fuck you.”

Ilya touched his lips to Shane’s forehead like a promise. He’d like to reconnect in that way too, but Shane wanted to talk and Ilya wanted answers, so they were talking. It couldn’t be the same between them. Not after all these years, after everything.

Shane continued, “I realized that if the news broke, or even if it didn’t, enough people knew about me that anyone close to me would be under so much scrutiny. I didn’t want—I know it’s not safe for you, and I know you go back often, like, with your family.”

“No. You are not telling me you went to—to fucking Sweden because of me.”

He shook his head. “No, of course not. There was no way I’d be able to play in the league without them breathing down my throat, trying to micromanage my image, make sure no one found out. Crowell’s just as bad as the Metros. He doesn’t want the sport inundated by ‘woke culture.’ It’s fine if it’s rainbow flags in the rink and pride tape at warmups but god forbid someone’s queer for real.”

Ilya exhaled forcefully, nostrils flaring a little. Shane pulled his other hand free and put both hands to Ilya’s cheeks, rising just a little onto his toes to kiss him, chaste and sweet.

“I was so scared,” he admitted, looping his arms around Ilya’s neck and staying close. Ilya hadn’t looked away from his face since he’d started talking. He wanted to see every little twitch of his lips and jaw, the way his nose scrunched when he said something that irritated him, the way he blinked against big fat tears he willed not to fall. “I wanted—” his voice cracked. “I wanted to be brave. I thought I could do it a little at a time, and maybe you and I, I don’t know, that we could find a way, or something. To be together without it being all about the fucking rivalry.”

Eyes fluttering shut, Ilya pulled him close again. He tucked Shane’s head beneath his chin, kissed his hair, and clung.

“I wanted to tell you, after you messaged me,” he continued, speaking into Ilya’s collarbone. “But I,” he trailed off. “We spent so long thinking this wasn’t possible and I knew that if I was going to fight for it, for this—” he forced his head out from under Ilya’s chin, “For us,” he said, holding eye contact, “I had to be smart about it. That’s why I—”

“You would have played the rest of your professional career in Sweden if I hadn’t sent you sappy messages when I thought I was going to die,” Ilya deadpanned. “Maybe my messages saved you. You would have been so bored. No competition.”

The laugh that bubbled past Shane’s lips was sweet. “There was some competition,” he said earnestly, but they both knew he wasn't being completely honest.

Ilya forced himself to straighten up. “Ya tebya lyublyu,” he said, as seriously as he’d ever said anything, then repeated it in English with the same intensity. He wanted Shane to know he meant it. “I love you.”

It brought Shane’s laughter up short, but the quiet, confident smile that followed was worth its absence. “Since the first time you saw me,” he marveled aloud. “Really?”

“Probably yes,” Ilya answered. “Somewhere between you telling me I shouldn’t smoke and folding your clothes the first time I let you suck my cock.” His lips parted in a lopsided smile at Shane’s half-hearted attempt at being annoyed. “Since always, even if I was not realizing it.”

Shane beamed at him. It didn’t last as long this time because Ilya had gone years without kissing him and every second that passed was one too long.

—

Ilya took a picture of their hands, fingers interlaced, a pair of half-drank mugs on the wicker table they rested on just beyond their reach and sent it to Hayden Pike with the caption Promise kept.

“He is a good friend.” Ilya regretted saying it almost immediately, his phone buzzing about eighty times in rapid succession. He set it face down on the table so it wouldn’t distract him, and returned his attention to Shane. “You will have to talk to him eventually. I am no good at being, what is—ah, placeholder.”

“I know,” Shane said. “I want to, I’m just—”

“It is a lot,” Ilya agreed easily. “I do not wish to share you, either.” He tilted his head. “Why did you want to talk now? I thought you had to wait until after.”

After was a scary, nebulous word. Yes, the Board of Governors had held an emergency session, and they’d even placed Commissioner Crowell on leave, but it wasn’t like they’d actually decided on anything, nor was it likely that they would with the playoffs ongoing.

“I do, but I,” Shane scratched the back of his head. “I mean, that whole conversation between me and the Metros isn’t the only conversation I had, you know?” He shrugged, and Ilya let him get away with it. “Thing is, I want to play next year and that means I need to be eligible for a PTO by September at the latest, if not before. And all the executives go on vacation in July and August like we do, so that's not a lot of time to sort things out.”

The idea that Shane Hollander required a try out was ridiculous. “You will not need PTO. You have been destroying all of Sweden. They will sign you as free agent, no try out required. Boston is already planning for it, I’m sure other teams are as well.”

Ilya shoved the fact that the Centaurs hadn't been out of his mind. That wasn't important right now. They could do long distance. They had done it before. It would be better this time. More honest. He tried to convince himself to believe it.

“Boston has good leadership,” Shane pointed out.

“Yes, and while you might not be best player in MLH, MLH is still better with you playing in it.” Ilya didn’t release Shane’s hand, even though Shane tried to pull away, mock-angry at Ilya’s teasing. This forced Ilya to spin his mug around to grab the handle with his left hand when he wanted to sip at it. The one he’d picked was pretty good, coffee and chocolate and hazelnut, made by a middle-aged woman with grey-black hair who owned the cafe and couldn’t care less about hockey, but was still under NDA just in case. She appreciated that Shane was a good boy who supported local business while sticking it to the man because ‘love is fucking love, eh?’

“I just want a future,” Shane said, recentering the conversation, even if Ilya could see the slight flare of competition in his eyes at the implication he wasn’t the best.. “For both of us, you know? If you still…”

Ilya shook his head, looking at Shane like he was crazy for the second time in as many minutes. “I confessed my love for you over fucking Instagram, Hollander.”

“You also did that like twenty minutes ago, Rozanov.” He smiled as he said it.

“Yes,” Ilya nodded. “I still want,” he said seriously. “I want to go with you to little nerd cafes where no one knows who we are and watch you wear your slutty little glasses—”

“They’re normal glasses,” Shane argued.

Ilya squeezed his hand, letting him have the point even if he was dead wrong, “I want us to be, I don’t know.” Ilya wanted everything. “Boyfriends,” he decided.

Shane seemed surprised, but delighted. “I thought you’d say lovers.” He blanched at the word.

“That too,” Ilya said, waggling his eyebrows. “We were very good at that part.”

Nodding, a little stupidly, Shane swooped in and kissed the side of his lips. Ilya finally released his hand to cup both of Shane's cheeks and descend upon his mouth the way he was pretty sure Shane was asking for. “I want,” he told Ilya when they parted, chest heaving just a little. “Do you?”

“Terribly so,” Ilya breathed. “You are staying with your parents, yes?”

Shane nodded again.

“Then we will go to my house,” Ilya whispered up close, just to watch his eyes flutter shut at the shift in sensory output. He pressed a kiss to Shane’s temple. “I will take you apart however you want.”

“Please.”

“And after,” he said, because there needed to be an after, “After, we will talk some more.”

“Yes,” the word came back to Ilya stretched out, half agreement, half playful hiss. He could get addicted to Shane smiling at him like that, searching his gaze like he'd found exactly everything he'd been looking for and couldn't believe he could simply take it in.

Ilya woke to an empty bed. He did not like that even though he was used to it, having spent his adult life trying to ensure he never fell asleep with someone so this exact situation couldn't occur. Svetlana, as his best friend and someone who did not accept his arguments, was the rare exception to this not quite a rule.

A low thrum of anxiety coursed through him. Where was Shane? Did he go back to his parents' home? Ilya hadn't said Shane should be there when he woke up, but should he have? Surely he'd been clear in his desire to wake up together, despite swallowing back several iterations of don't leave me again last night when he'd been running his mouth during sex. Surely he was allowed to have just a little bit of pride?

He stumbled out of the bedroom in sweatpants and nothing else, feeling almost like he was in a dream ready to turn nightmare. A quiet voice from the living room cut through his overlapping thoughts which were really just impressions of the worst layering over each other.

“Yes. Thank you, Trace,” Shane was saying. He paused. “No, everything looks fine, so go ahead. My people know it's coming.” Another pause, this time shorter. “Definitely. You too. Thank you again.”

Shane was sitting sideways on the couch, a laptop screen illuminating his face in the otherwise dark room. He twitched in surprise when he saw Ilya shuffle out from the hallway, pulling his phone away from its cradle wedged between his ear and shoulder to confirm the person he'd been talking to had hung up.

“You were not in bed,” Ilya said a little stupidly, voice thick with sleep.

“Sorry. The Athletic is dropping the other recordings today and they wanted final approval.”

Frowning, Ilya considered his face, the way the light cast the outline of it perfectly, but so much of it was shadows. He forced his brain to actually fucking process what was being said to him as he came around the couch to wiggle into the space behind Shane, get his arms around him. “This is a timing thing, da?”

“Yeah. My lawyers—” of course he had several, Ilya thought, huffing quietly into Shane's shoulder, “Said it's important to force them back into emergency session between the conference finals and the cup, so it was time for another leak.”

“And you think is enough?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, decisively. More tentative, he asked, “Did you listen to the first one?”

Ilya nodded against him. “I was afraid I would get blindsided by it, in media. I have not been very okay about any of this. I think,” he sighed. “I don't think I would have been ready all those years ago, if you had told me when it happened. I want to think I would be, but I think I would be scared, too. I don't think it would have helped much.”

“Maybe if we had been at All-Stars together and been able to talk, it would have been different.”

“My father would die just to spite me,” he commented.

The pain in Shane's features hurt to see. “Oh my god. Ilya, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it like that—”

“Is okay. He probably did. I am weak and lazy, soft. Just like Mama. He hated me.”

Shane stirred in his grasp, wriggling his way around to face Ilya. His gaze was sharp and serious, eyes daring back and forth with intensity usually saved for the ice. “That's not true.”

“It is,” Ilya said evenly. “But it's okay.”

“No,” he argued. “You're strong.”

“You would not have said that a few weeks ago,” Ilya muttered darkly, “When Pike and Marleau found me blackout drunk and incapable of taking care of myself.”

“I would have,” Shane said sternly. “They're not like exclusive or something. Sometimes we need help. Accepting help is strength.”

“Even when you're bullied into it?”

“Even then.” He closed his laptop and set it on the coffee table, then continued, “I was a mess that first year abroad. Mats, our captain, basically gift wrapped Briggs and dropped him on my doorstep after they signed him. Said I needed to do something with my pent up energy and Briggs could use a mentor from the league he wanted to play in.”

“I assumed Briggs impressed you,” Ilya commented, meeting Shane's gaze. “But if you tell him this, I will deny it.”

Shane smirked. “He did, but I didn't think I could mentor anyone. Not because I was out, but,” he bit his lip. “It ruined my confidence. The conversations I had with the league, and all that. I have a pretty obvious panic attack in one of the ones that drop today. It's ugly.”

“You were brave,” Ilya said. “Still are. For sharing.”

“So are you. I still think about,” he headbutted Ilya's sternum, an animal sound in the back of his throat. Ilya kind of welcomed the small flash of pain. “I saw your messages and it was like none of it fucking mattered. It was like I was just letting life happen to me and then you said—”

I love you. Always. Maybe from the first time I saw you.

The words echoed in the silence between them. “I called my mom, hysterical. She was so happy I was ready to fight for myself that I don't think she ever figured out why. Maybe she thought it was Derek or something until, you know.”

“That would make me feel better,” Ilya murmured.

Shane rolled his teary eyes, rubbing at his lower lids like he could erase the liquid there. “Let me just,” he shoved at Ilya a little, like Ilya was the one who had shoved Shane into the space between his chin and chest. “I need to say this.”

“Okay, okay. Continue.”

“I know those things you said were meant to be like, your last words or whatever, and,” he sniffed.

Ilya reached for the box of tissues under the coffee table on instinct, suspecting that Shane, who could not handle bodily fluids on his person for more than three seconds, likely felt the same way about runny noses.

“Thanks,” he whispered, swiping at his eyes and nose. “I wouldn't have been able to live with it. You—this,” he gestured between them, palm smacking each of their chests, “I'd have to go forever knowing what we had was,” he swallowed hard, tears falling down his cheeks in earnest little tracks that made Ilya feel like he was dying, “That we loved each other. That you loved me even though the last time we were together I ran away and I,” he shook his head, shrugging helplessly. “There I was: still fucking running.”

Ilya's throat worked, and he only narrowly escaped crying because he had cried so much in the last day that he had nothing left to give.

Shane composed himself as well as someone with tears streaming down their face could, and said, “So no, I don't think you're weak or lazy. Not on the ice, and not here.”

“Chort,” Ilya said, his lower lip trembling with effort as he attempted to stave off breaking down entirely. “How am I supposed to argue with this?”

“You're not.” A tiny smile graced Shane's lips, sad and hopefully and lovingly pressed to Ilya's chin. “What if, maybe we decide to be brave together?” He tapped his cheek thoughtfully. “About, you know, everything. You and me. Not like, in public or whatever just yet, but soon? I want to be together. I don't want to wait until we're done playing.”

Pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, which was a stupid thing someone had once told him would stop him from crying, but had never worked despite how hard he tried, Ilya nodded. “You're so fucking brave,” he whispered.

“Because you love me,” Shane whispered back. “It fucking killed me, you know?”

“Yes,” Ilya said, because he did. “But not anymore.”

—

When Pike called before dawn, Ilya was still awake, Shane dozing in his arms. He very carefully extracted himself from the couch and snuck out to the back patio.

“Pike, it's five in the fucking morning.”

“Did you see—”

“I did.” Shane had offered to sit with him through it, but Ilya was convinced Shane had relived these horrible conversations enough for one lifetime. It was easier to listen with Shane in his arms, one earbud in. Barely. He'd been grateful when Shane fell asleep halfway through, placated by Ilya's hands on his back and in his hair. Ilya needed to know, needed to be able to speak on it as a veteran in the league and its top player—for now, he thought ominously, because there was no fucking way the league didn't give Shane everything he asked for and a golden fucking ticket to whatever team he wanted to play with.

They'd taken advantage of him, of his kindness, devotion, and work ethic for way too long. It was deplorable. If this was how they talked to the best player in sport when they thought no one could hear, how did they talk to the ones who were not Hollanders and Rozanovs and Hunters?

“Are you—Cliff's going to book another flight when he hears.”

“I am okay. I listened to it before it hit Sportscentre.” And then, because Pike deserved to know, and Ilya was feeling kind and maybe a little fragile, “Shane is here. Will be until he goes back to New York.”

Pike was quiet for a long moment. “Are you two…”

“Making love and crying like little babies? Yes.” He sighed, like the admission had cost him something.

“Dude, TMI. But like, I cried when you texted that pic, so I don't think that makes you a baby.”

“You sound like Shane. ‘You’re not weak, Ilya, you're brave,’” he groaned. “I feel very pathetic. So much that I am telling you.”

“Fuck off, I'm great to talk to.”

“You are tolerable. Sometimes. Only on occasion.”

They lapsed into silence.

Hesitantly, Pike asked, “Has he said anything? Like, about…”

“He will talk to you, Pike. I don't know when. He's not supposed to be talking to me yet, but,” Ilya lit up a cigarette, took a puff. Summoned some confidence he didn’t really feel. “I am how you say… irresistible.” The words sounded hollow to his own ears.

“To Shane, maybe,” Pike groused. “I think you’re irritating.”

“Mm, no. You like me,” he trailed off, unwilling to say the rest out loud. Pike cared enough to come to his house, to call and check in afterward without making Ilya feel like a complete head case.

He cared enough to play along. “You're such a jackwagon. I don't know why I bothered calling you.”

“Because you are better person than hockey player,” Ilya said, honest.

“Says the guy whose team got eliminated.”

“Yes, my team was defeated but is you who is being outskated by Hunter. Is bad look to be outperformed by literal fucking dinosaur.”

Pike sputtered, “What the fuck? You literally lost to him last week! Dude's been on a fucking warpath.”

Ilya hummed. “Mm, Centaurs need depth. We will win next year. Boston traded for you so what is your excuse?”

“I can't stand you.” He sounded like that might not be true, like he could hear the thinly veiled compliment there.

“Feeling is mutual,” Ilya lied. “Beat New York anyway, yes?”

They hung up not long after, Pike off to the rink to do his pregame routine, Marley in tow. Ilya had stayed on the line long enough to be put on speakerphone and insist that he was fine, yes he would call if he needed to talk, no he did not need a babysitter, and didn't they have a dinosaur in Scott Hunter to put down?

Inside, Shane had rolled onto his back, practically starfished on the couch: one arm thrown over his eyes, one leg off it entirely, socked foot on the floor. Ilya smiled at him, not that he was awake to notice, and went to the kitchen for coffee.

It was easier to believe that things would be okay with Shane here. He wondered just how long he could get away with it, how long it would be before some panel or advisory board called him back to negotiate, if he would let Ilya follow after him. He wondered if maybe that was too much. He wondered if Shane would be scared when it came time to go back out into the world.

Mostly, he wondered what the limits were. Were there any?

Ilya had never paid much mind to them before, but he would now, if he had to. Did Shane know that?

He padded quietly into the living room, sitting at the far end of the couch, warm mug cradled in his hands. One sleepy brown eye opened a moment later.

“You left,” Shane slurred, still mostly asleep.

Ilya smiled fondly at the displeased crinkle of his forehead, the way it happened on a delay. “Pike called. I did not want to wake you.”

“Mm,” came the eloquent response. “Stay.”

“Okay,” he chuckled softly. “You are stuck with me.”

A socked foot made gentle contact with Ilya's knee, casually possessive. “’s the idea.”

June, 2021
New York City

With nowhere else to go and night descending upon the city, Ilya made his way to the Kingfisher. It was a warm, muggy evening, making him grateful for the thrum of air conditioning that washed over him just inside the creaky door. This early, the dark and dingy bar was dead. A pair of women were laughing, playing darts by the window. Only a single bartender stood at the counter, mostly watching TV but also cutting up fruit to go in the little containers on the bartop for the cocktails he’d be serving later.

The bartender looked over when he approached, sitting just off to the side from where he worked, expression shifting from the polite dissociation most shift workers wore to shock as he recognized his new patron.

Ilya grinned. “Hello bratty bartender,” he said.

“Russian hockey daddy!” Kyle squealed. “What brings you back to New York?”

Shrugging, he waved a hand. “Business and pleasure, you know how it is. I am meeting a friend later but thought I would come visit best bar in the city, yes?”

“As you should,” agreed Kyle, nodding sagely. “What can I get you? On the house, of course.”

“Let me pay you,” Ilya said, leaning in to add, “I promise I make enough to tip you right.”

Making a big show of shivering, Kyle nodded. “Beer? Our vodka selection hasn’t gotten any better since last time you were here.”

“Ah, no. Coke for now. Is a little early for drinking.”

“Ilya Rozanov, you are at a bar. We are open. It is never too early for a drink.” He studied Ilya for a long moment, eyebrows raised and hand stilled just above the pint glass he’d been poised to grab. His eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?”

“What is this? Confessions? Are you priest or something?” Ilya held up his hands defensively. “I am just wishing not to get drunk. Is nothing wrong.”

Kyle smirked. “So it’s something right,” he surmised, leaning in. “Tell me everything.”

Ilya grumbled. “You are very unfair, Kyle.”

“You weren't wrong about me being a brat when I want to be,” he sing-songed, blowing a kiss. “At least I'll make conversation, though. Mister Grumpy Pants will be here at seven to help during the game and he'll be miserable the whole time.”

“Oh, you mean—” Ilya looked around quickly to make sure no one was within listening range, but Kyle beat him to it.

“The Reformed Smoothie Man himself, Kip Grady.”

A disgruntled voice behind him called out, “Hey!”

“Uh oh,” Ilya said, tapping his phone to reveal a very fast car currently parked in his Ottawa garage as well as the time. “I think it is seven.”

Kip shouldered past Kyle with a glare that wasn't nearly as angry as he’d sounded seconds earlier to sass Ilya. “Are you lost? I know very little about hockey and even less about Canadian geography, but I'm pretty sure Ottawa isn't on the eastern seaboard.”

“Bar is full of comedians,” Ilya chirped back. “Is why it is my favorite.”

“This isn't a comedy club,” said Kip. Kyle had moved back, grabbing the little nozzle that would dispense Ilya's drink. “Except the last Tuesday of the month.”

“Good to know.”

“No it fucking isn't. Do you think anyone actually funny comes in here?”

“I am looking at you, yes?” Ilya blinked innocently, then howled at Kip's scowl.

“Be nice, Christopher, he's just joking with you.” Kyle slid over a coke. It was a little weak, like the syrup was starting to run out, but not too terrible. Besides, Ilya had drank far worse in the name of decent company, especially when he needed a distraction. “I was trying to get the tea from him. He's different. Doesn't want to drink yet. I have it narrowed down to new love interest or massive payday. Thoughts?” He rested his head in his hands. “You sign a big deal with some sports car company?”

“Can you even name a sports car company?” Kip asked Kyle. He sounded doubtful.

Ilya looked at Kyle expectantly.

Kyle could not. Instead, he blurted, “I've seen the Fast and the Furious!”

“Yes, because I made you,” Kip retorted. To Ilya he continued, “Neither of us have a driver's license but I'm sure it's something expensive and European.”

Trying to save face, Kyle came in with, “Well? Do you have a picture? Is it that one on your lock screen?”

Ilya smiled at them. Coming here had been the right choice, a good distraction from what was happening in Manhattan right now.

He had followed Shane to New York, because what good was fuck you money if Ilya didn't spend it to follow the man he loved around North America? The city was massive, and Ilya, while conventionally attractive and famous in certain circles, was just another one in the millions of people wandering the city on a daily basis. No one was expecting him. It was, on the other hand, expecting Shane to settle with the league sometime either tonight or tomorrow. Ilya wondered if the news would break on the tv or if he’d hear it from Shane first.

He wondered if they’d play the clip from Crowell’s meeting with him in June of 2017, when he’d said You’re right. You could sue. But do you think any team would sign you after that? Ilya hoped they did. It was like one of those evil villains in old movies telling the good guy their entire plan so that the good guy could plan around it and come out on top.

“Oh, yeah,” Kip said, “I see it.”

Ilya blinked back to the current situation. Kip was giving him massive side eye. Kyle nodded aggressively, facing Kip, hands on his hips as if to suggest it was about time Kip got the full picture.

“Okay weirdo, what’s going on? Bad enough you’re drinking that shitty, watered down coke because I know Kyle didn’t swap out—”

“Hey!”

“—the BIB, but you’re like,” Kip gestured at him like there was something on his face. “It’s kind of gross.”

“Oh. You are bitter,” Ilya realized. “Troubled paradise, yes?”

“Oh fuck,” Kyle blurted. “There goes my attempt to distract you from your misery.”

“Shut up, Kyle.”

“No, not ‘shut up, Kyle.’ Kyle is right. You are miserable.”

“I want that on a shirt.”

“You are making it very difficult to take your side right now,” Ilya sighed.

Kip massaged his temples tiredly. “First of all, it's trouble in paradise, and there is no paradise to speak of.”

“Hunter wore Hollander’s jersey. Made statement about being ally to media and everything and still he is not talking to you?”

Kip’s hackles rose immediately, making him whirl around on Kyle like he might throttle him. “What the—that’s not—did you fucking tell him?”

“No, no, do not get mad at Kyle, he is a brat not a bitch. Go.” He waved Kyle off, who looked relieved.

“He's your problem now, daddy.”

“Yes. yes, go do work,” Ilya said. He looked over Kip's shoulder to see the national anthem being sung ahead of puck drop. It hadn't gotten much busier despite being a sports bar. “I do not know anything for certain, but you have his phone number and being his smoothie guy is not very good cover.”

“I was,” Kip protested.

“And how many people in your life believe you are just Scott Hunter’s former smoothie guy, huh?”

A frustrated look confirmed Ilya's suspicions.

“He is scared. Is for good reason. You've seen the news.”

“Wait, you know? Did he—”

Ilya leaned forward. “No no no, nothing like that. How you say, gaydar, yes? Probably. I figured, but no. Is very difficult place for him, under commissioner’s wing. Former now,” he revised, “But still. There are expectations. Pressure.”

Kip’s arms crossed over his chest. “So you just… guessed all this.”

After loudly slurping his watery coke through the straw, Ilya said, “Ah, yes. Was pretty easy. Your taste is questionable, but who am I to judge?”

“No one, but here you are,” he hissed. “I know he's got a lot of pressure on him. I told him that that shit stain Crowell would turn on him if he caught wind of the truth. He says he knows, but,” Kip's eyes were a little watery. Ilya pointedly looked a little off to the side. “What the fuck am I supposed to do here, Rozanov?”

“Hope he makes the right choice,” Ilya answered bluntly. “Is shitty situation. You deserve better.”

“I do. I know I do, but I can't just—” he threw his hands up. “I've been waiting for him to make the right call for years.”

“Is not something you can turn off,” Ilya agreed. “Very sucky situation. Feels like it will destroy you, yes? I know this feeling.” He held eye contact for a beat with a distraught looking Kip. “I hope it works out. Not for him, of course,” he waved his hand, indicating Hunter’s happiness to be an afterthought, because it was, “But for you.”

“Thanks, I guess?”

“You are welcome, Kip.” He paused. “For what it is worth, I think Hunter will come around. Life is too short to be unhappy.”

Kip offered him a half-hearted smile that was really just a grimace and disappeared into the back with the excuse of needing to fix the soda before Ilya needed a refill, rather than saying he needed a few minutes to lick his wounds in private. Ilya didn't blame him. His own situation was much different, obviously, but it was a horrible place Kip had gotten himself stuck in, even if Ilya knew all too well that you couldn't actually help who you fell in love with. There was history there, in the deeply defeated way Kip carried himself. Ilya recognized it in himself in the way he had been until recently. Kyle and Kip hadn’t been the only ones to clock a change in his demeanor.

Ilya had met Hazy for lunch the day before he left for New York, so three days ago. His usually observant friend had taken one look at him and stuck out a hand as if introducing himself to a person he'd never met before. Wyatt was not like most people Ilya knew. He saw everything but chose his words carefully. He never talked about that weekend when Pike and Marley showed up unannounced or the days leading up to it when Ilya had been at rock bottom, but was as active in their little group chat as Svetlana and Marleau, present in a way that felt kind but not overbearing. He didn't see Ilya's cracks and think of him as something broken or in need of fixing.

He flicked open that particular group chat to read Hazy’s most recent message Hope SF kicks their teeth in, followed by a little dinosaur emoji, which had been thumbs upped twice, probably by Svetlana and Marley. He added his own agreement in the form of several emoji, confirmed Shane hadn't contacted him to say he was headed back to the hotel and pocketed his cracked device.

Kip came by to drop off a new coke, which looked much darker in color than the half drank sugar water previously given to Ilya, but didn't stay to chat. The bar was beginning to fill up now that the game had started, though it wasn't really busy. Kyle flicked up the volume at a patron’s request, and the two men worked quickly to get everyone served as the game picked up in intensity.

It was easy to distract himself watching it. Hockey had always been Ilya's escape. He loved it, but probably not as much as most other players did. He hated not winning, though, wanted it so bad his teeth ached with it sometimes. The series would probably go six games, but it was clear who would win. San Francisco was good but not great, and New York was hungry for revenge after their game seven loss in the 2017 final. On second thought, Ilya decided it would go seven games. New York would want a victory in their own building.

Someone slid into the seat next to him. Ilya caught a shadow of dark hair in his periphery, a knee brushing his thigh in the way people did when you were packed into small metropolitan establishments. Kip noticed the newcomer and froze.

Ilya turned his head as they addressed him, humor wrapping around a very familiar voice, “You come here often?”

The involuntary smile must have given him away, or maybe it was Shane, sliding his hand down Ilya's shoulder to his elbow and squeezing gently in a move that definitely towed the line between friendly and intimate.

“Holy shit,” Kip said. “Kyle!”

Kyle was already moving around Kip, plunking an ice cold can of ginger ale on a cocktail napkin, cracking it open with one hand while he plucked a straw from one of the organizers on the bar with the other.

“Thank you, Kyle,” Shane said, smiling.

“Put that on my tab,” Ilya instructed.

“Planned to,” Kyle winked. “Should I ring it up as business or pleasure?”

Shane flushed and leaned forward, lips inching toward his drink. The ginger ale was Schweppes, not Canada Dry, but Shane didn't make a fuss about it.

Ilya was well versed in the Shane Hollander Hierarchy of Ginger Ale, which meant he knew Shane preferred Canada Dry (of course), then Vernors. Schweppes was third, and he refused to drink Fever-Tree on account of it being too pretentious in its little glass bottles and tasting more like watered down ginger beer.

“I told you I had friend in the city I was meeting,” Ilya told Kyle, deadpan. He did not seem convinced. “I did not know we were meeting here, though,” Ilya added in Shane’s direction while pulling out his battered phone, thumbing at it distractedly. “Did I miss your text?”

“No,” Shane answered. “We just wrapped so I called a car.” He huffed a little, smiling. “It’s done.”

“Done,” Ilya repeated. “Done like…” he trailed off, willing Shane to continue.

Kip and Kyle, seeming to sense that they were no longer part of the conversation, had gone back to serving their handful of patrons, who were alternating between cheering each time the Admirals had the puck and heckling the other team when they lost it, and giving each other loaded glances that suggested they’d be gossipping amongst themselves the first chance they could.

“Done like over. Completed.” Shane shrugged. “Agreement signed, charges officially dropped. I can't, like, give details—not here, anyway, but,” he looked up into Ilya's stunned face and smiled. His right hand twitched like he wanted to bring it up to cradle Ilya's jaw. He resisted and smirked. “I, um, actually—I heard that there's going to be a new free agent on the market this summer.”

“You heard, huh,” Ilya said dubiously, unable to keep the smile from starting to curve his lips.

“Yeah.”

An Admiral must have scored because the booths in the back went wild. Down the way, Kip fist pumped as Kyle shook his shoulders. Ilya didn't notice. Couldn't. He couldn't look away from Shane’s dark eyes or quirked lips, couldn't hear the cheering New Yorkers over the sound of his heartbeat thumping wildly.

“Every team will want you. Blank cheque. You will be,” he frowned against the sudden knot in his belly and forced himself to focus on trying to remember the phrase on the tip of his tongue, “What is—ah! Belle of the ball.”

That earned him another huff as Shane mouthed the words. “Sure,” he said.

“All eyes on you.” They would be. Everyone would want him.

“Even yours?”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Definitely mine. Definitely always mine.” He looked down at Shane, who was making short work of his little can, letting the unease that had blindsided him melt into fondness. “You are lucky I’ve let you out of my sight,” He said dramatically, though he kind of wasn’t kidding. “I am codependent now.”

“Codependent? Who taught you that word?”

They stared each other down for a few seconds, ultimately unable to keep from laughing. It felt so fucking good to be like this, free and easy and right. Ilya wished it could last forever.

Fuck. He was exactly where he wanted to be, and it definitely was not a place at all. He really, really wanted to get Shane alone and just be. It wasn't even a sex thing. Not that he'd say no if Shane started something, but…

Maybe Shane felt the same, because he asked, “Do you want to get out of here?”

Ilya looked at his second half-drank coke, decided he didn’t give a shit about it, and nodded. “Back to the hotel?” It didn’t really matter where Shane wanted to go. Ilya was pretty sure he’d follow Shane anywhere.

“For now. I think I might want to go to Boston. Tomorrow morning.” He looked a little nervous. “I should,” he swallowed. “You know.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, because he knew he wasn't the only person who desperately missed Shane in their life. “Do you want me to come with—”

Shane’s eyes lit up. “Would you?”

“Of course,” he shook his head ruefully. Like Shane actually had to ask. He opened up his wallet, fished out two bills and tucked them underneath his coke.

He thought for a second Kip had seen him do it, but no, Shane was leaning forward over the bar, waving him over as Ilya rose from his seat.

“That is way too much money for three soft drinks,” Kip said, eyeing the two hundred dollar bills Ilya had pinned to the bartop.

“You are starving artist.”

“I’m a historian who works part time at the Met,” he clarified, looking rather unimpressed.

“Sorry about him,” Shane cut in, ignoring Ilya’s pout. “We’re, uh, gonna go.”

“Together?”

“Yeah.” Shane’s cheeks were dusted pink, even though he hadn't confirmed or denied anything. Ilya wanted to lean in, nuzzle along the line of freckles that crossed his cheeks and nose. He was so fucking beautiful. “I just—” He looked Kip over, then leaned in, gesturing with one hand for Kip to do the same. Whatever he said made Kip’s eyes go wide.

“You really think that?”

“I do,” he said confidently.

“Really? You’re not just, like, trying to keep me from being sad about this or something?”

“No. He told me.”

“Those exact words?” Kip's eyebrows did something complicated.

“Yes.”

Ah. About Hunter, then. Shane had said that he’d spoken to Hunter off the record a couple times, that he was the one who found out about ‘Lily’ and leaked the name at Shane’s request. It had been something Crowell had also wanted, but for less savory reasons, but Shane was confident in the older man. Ilya was a bit more cynical, but he really was rooting for them.

After all, it made sense that someone interested in history would also be interested in Scott Hunter.

—

Shane's phone started ringing non-stop around the time they got back to the hotel. They had taken the risk of getting a car together, enjoying the cover of anonymity provided by a city who cared only about the Admirals if they cared about hockey at all. It wasn't like it mattered. If some paparazzi accosted them outside the hotel, shoving a camera in their face and accusing Ilya of being Shane's secret lover, Ilya would come clean in a heartbeat.

His immigration lawyer would probably not recommend that, but the woman from the IRCC that had called him that morning was a Centaurs fan who said his documents would arrive at the end of the month. It would be worth it to see Shane turn all red and bashful and defensive but not deny it.

He looked up, watched Shane text his mother something, then turn his phone off entirely.

“Room service okay for dinner?”

“Yes. As long as you don't judge me for the burger I am about to crush.”

Shane nodded to the concierge who greeted them and continued along to the elevator bank, Ilya trailing him. He looked back. “I gave you shit because you Doordashed McDonalds, not because it was a burger.”

Ilya could feel his face lighting up with delight and let it. “You wanted my chicken nuggets and I ate them all while you were in the shower.” He paused, adding loftily, “You could have said. I would have shared.”

“You’re such an asshole. That is definitely not what happened,” Shane lied terribly.

Ilya and his brilliant grin followed him into the elevator. When the doors closed, Shane sagged sideways. Ilya's arm came up and around him automatically.

“So.”

“So,” Ilya repeated. “You are excited, yes? You won.”

“I mean yeah,” Shane pressed his cheek against Ilya's chest, making himself smaller, able to fit in the cage of his arms. “I got what I wanted, but now—” Ilya felt him shrug more than he saw the motion. “Now it's all real. I have to live with being the guy who tried to sue the league—”

“You mean you get to be the guy who fought against discrimination in the league,” he pointed out. “It is different. You never set out to make money, this is just what makes selfish, powerful people pay attention.”

The elevator had only made it halfway to their floor.

“I think rationally I know that, but,” Shane trailed off. His other arm, which had been at his side, came around Ilya's front. “It’s stupid.”

“It's not.” Ilya pressed a kiss into his hair, watched himself do it in the reflection of the elevator doors. They looked good together. Perfect. “So. We are going to Boston tomorrow. You are that excited to see Hayden?”

“I mean, he’s my best friend,” Shane began, then corrected himself, “At least, he was. I don’t know if he—”

“He is,” insisted Ilya. “He will talk to you.”

“I just don’t want to wait around. It’s already going to be so much with the press and the fans and wherever I end up—” Ilya ignored the ominous feeling in his belly for a second time that night because this wasn’t about him right now, “And there are all these people who I iced out because I was afraid of taking them down with me, you know?” He paused. “Well, not like a lot of people. More like a couple people. You and Hayden. Maybe J.J., but…”

There was something there that sounded like it might not be so easily mended. Ilya decided it would keep.

“So two people for now,” he confirmed, “One of which is me.”

“Um, yeah. I guess. Maybe two people who aren’t you, but only one I want to try and talk to soon, if that makes sense?”

“It does, Hollander. No need to panic. We will go to Boston and talk to Hayden.”

The elevator chimed and finally spat them out on their floor. Ilya technically had his own room—they weren’t trying to be obvious, even if Ilya was pretty sure no one who saw them talking was ever going to be fooled—but had hung up the do not disturb sign after checking the space over and messed up the bed before going straight to Shane’s room with his small rollerbag.

“Do you want me to text Marley? Is it like, surprise, or…”

“You said he’d be in Boston through the end of next week.”

“Ah,” Ilya held out the spare keycard Shane had given him for the room and opened the door. “Yes. He will probably collect children and wife and come back for summer. Boston re-signed him and he will be wearing the A next year. I think they will have ceremony in July. Fans love a good ceremony.”

He kicked his shoes off and flopped elegantly across the edge of their bed. Shane was still standing in the doorway staring at him.

“You guys like, really talk.”

“We do. I could call him right now and he would answer.” He surveyed Shane’s nervous expression. “There is little diner I like that does breakfast. Brunch, probably since we will have to drive. I would take train but you,” he looked Shane up and down. “No. You would hate it.”

“Ilya, I’ve been in Europe for years. We can take the train.”

Ilya shook his head. “Sorry. I forgot.”

“You forgot,” Shane’s face scrunched adorably with doubt.

“Not like forgot like I forgot about,” he gestured chaotically to indicate the last three years, “But just,” he indicated Shane. “You are world traveler now. Three seasons in Europe and now he takes trains everywhere.”

“We took them when I played in Montreal, too. Doesn’t Ottawa? Sometimes it’s like, way faster than those hour long flights by the time you board and all that.”

“Sometimes,” Ilya supposed, “But not often.” He tilted his head. “I will be coming back to you being Mister Europe now. I bet you have real estate empire over there.”

“I had a condo, which technically I own, but I’m planning to sell it to one of the guys on the team. So no, no empire. Just the cottage in Ottawa. I sold everything else the year after I moved.”

Ilya blew a raspberry. “We will have to start looking at houses, then. For wherever you end up.” He managed to say it without wincing. “I will have opinions.”

“You will,” he deadpanned, but his eyes and the curve of his lips suggested Ilya was saying the right things. To be fair, Ilya was rather serious about this. He wanted to be involved.

“I will,” he confirmed. “But first, I will call Hayden. Or Marley. You pick.”

“Hayden, I think. Should I—” He gestured to the bathroom.

“Ah, no.” Ilya grabbed Shane’s wrist and pulled him down on the bed, then swung himself upright so they were sitting side by side. “You said no more running.”

“Right.” Shane nodded, more to himself than anything, and set his hands on his knees. “Okay. I’m ready.”

Ilya leaned over and kissed him, sharp and sweet and quick, with just a little bit of biting. Shane’s eyelashes fluttered gorgeously. “No, now you are ready,” Ilya decided. He pulled out his phone, ignored Shane’s comment that he really needed to replace it, and navigated to Pike’s contact.

It would not be an easy adjustment for any of them. Not for Pike, who would promptly burst into tears and clear his schedule for the next two days to navigate Shane’s reintegration into his life, nor Shane, who felt stuck between the places he’d been and the ones he remembered that didn’t fit him the way they used to because he’d changed and so had they. Ilya, too: he’d been pretending to be fine for so long he wouldn't know what to do with himself now that things might finally, actually be good for once.

The summer would be difficult. Ilya would have to reckon with Shane’s decisions as a free agent and the mental gymnastics that came with figuring out just how to nurture their relationship which was not necessarily new, but was newly acknowledged between them. It would be scary and challenging and worth it, so fucking worth it, even if Shane went to the West and Ilya spent an eternity getting Canadian citizenship because he was constantly flying to fucking California to see his boyfriend.

Even so, they'd made it this far. Ilya was pretty much convinced he could do anything if Shane was waiting for him at the end of it all.