All Eyes On You

September, 2017 Växjö, Sweden

Shane looped tape around his stick without having to think about what he was doing. He didn't need music or distractions to hone his nerves the way other guys did. He craved the ice, the way the sound of his blades crunching ice could wash out the roar of a crowd, the way his focus narrowed instinctively and time slowed down in a way that made him feel like he was limitless.

There were very few distractions here, which was great sometimes but often left him stuck in his own head, halfway underwater. His teammates spoke a multitude of languages, some knew English, a few knew French, and everyone communicated in hand signals and gestures to bridge the gap when language failed to convey what they meant. It was simple.

Too simple, maybe, but it was professional hockey that Shane got to play without people asking a million questions, so he would take it. Honestly, he probably ought to be more grateful. It was mostly luck that had connected him with the SHL’s commissioner while he'd been at Wimbledon, which he'd gotten to go to as Rolex’s parting gift—they’d quietly bought out his contract almost immediately afterward. If he hadn't made that connection, hadn't forced himself to say, publicly, that Montreal and the MLH no longer wanted him, he'd be sitting at home spiraling even more than he was now, in a foreign country with no friends or family on the same continent.

He ripped the tape with his teeth, the harsh sound of it ripping like a hook in his brain, pulling him out of his thoughts. The blade needed to be taped next. It only took a couple seconds, maybe five or six, filled with perfect focus and precise loops, then the tape got ripped off there, too. The loose end was tucked in with care, making it look seamless.

Someone a couple stalls over came by, making grabby hands toward his roll. He offered it without looking to see who it was. It didn't matter, the room was a brotherhood. Most things among them were shared.

He let the stick rest in the crook of his arm, momentarily thrown off by the interruption.

“Need a marker?” Mats Ceder, forever captain of the Växjö Lakers, held one out to him.

Shane took it before realizing what he’d done. Something about playing in a new place made him feel like things needed to be different. He didn't need any rituals haunting him lest some stupid superstition he’d had about skate laces convince him things in Sweden will go the way they had in North America.

He considered handing the marker back, but Mats was watching him like he was a bomb in need of diffusing. He never said anything about it, but they both knew Shane was a mess, jumpy and afraid of himself, afraid of the way others saw him, afraid that he'd get himself kicked out here, too, even if everyone told him otherwise.

It was too late not to follow through. He uncapped the marker and thought about his mom, who’d been so hell bent on him staying in Canada, maybe taking a year off or finding a team to take him at the trade deadline once things calmed down. He didn’t think she understood. She wanted to, she’d certainly tried, and she supported him even if she didn’t agree with him running off to Europe even if it was a sound plan—even his agent had agreed it was a good call, it just… didn’t fit the picture of Shane she had in her head.

Just like Shane didn’t fit in Major League Hockey. Not anymore.

It hurt. It always hurt, but thinking about it made it burn bright, a sharp ache in his chest. He missed it. The hockey, mostly, not everything else. But he was lucky: nobody in Sweden cared about the how or the why, they just cared that he was willing to suit up for them and hit the ice. His teammates didn’t care because being gay didn’t have a damn thing to do with his skill.

And he was damn good. The best, actually.

Or maybe tied for it. He guessed he’d never know for sure.

He swallowed against that thought, blinking away thoughts of pouting lips curved up into a smile when he approached the dot for a faceoff. Not that there had been much smiling, at the end. There’d been no smiling or smirking or even eye contact at the end. Just avoidance. Dismissal.

It had been Shane’s fault, and now there was nothing Shane could do. Nothing that wouldn’t make it worse, anyway. He wouldn't ruin anyone else's career, not even to assuage his broken heart.

Because it was broken. Everyone thought he was hung up on the Metros and the MLH. He was good at keeping secrets, but bad at lying. He couldn't even lie to himself, especially not about Ilya Rozanov. Not anymore. Maybe one day the ache in his chest would scar and the pain would be a hollow ache he felt on cold, rainy days instead of this perpetually red hot bleeding wound.

He looked at his stick again. The marker felt heavy between his fingers.

Well. There was something. It would never be enough and he knew Ilya would never see it, but it would have to do.

Very carefully, he wrote the name Ilya Rozanov had given himself in Shane’s phone all those years ago. Four letters: L-I-L-Y.

It felt like agony. It felt like the closest he’d ever get to telling the truth.

January, 2021
Växjo, Sweden

Ottawa Centaurs. Emergency landing. Tampa Bay.

It wasn’t even seven am and even fucking Eurosport had coverage. That's where Shane had seen it before switching to his iPad to watch ESPN, who would do more than display a headline as a footnote during reruns of football matches.

He was going to lose his mind. Had already lost it, if he was being honest with himself. There was this horrible thing inside him, this monstrous feeling he couldn't shake.

He should have fucking been there.

He probably wouldn't have been, he couldn't even fucking picture a world where he and Rozanov—fuck it, Ilya—were in an actual relationship, much less actually communicating like people in relationships supposedly did. It didn't change the way he felt like his heart was going to tear its way out of his chest before it spontaneously combusted.

Ignoring the tiny, catastrophizing voice in the back of his head that suggested he was dying—thank you hindbrain, he knew what a panic attack was, he'd had his fair share—he texted the team group chat, which was also freaking out to say he'd follow up with Derek Briggs.

The kid had been his problem, according to Mats, even though he hadn't been fooling Shane, who had given troubled vets on the Metros a rookie to mentor enough times to recognize the play.

He forced himself to get it together long enough to call, to pace through the rattling flutter in his chest until it burned low enough to call manageable. He comforted the kid, because Derek was, and Shane loved him like a brother and he deserved to have someone in his corner who understood him.

Because, really, Mats had laughed off his ass when Derek asked him and Arty not to try and hook him up with beautiful women and said I knew you were the right choice for Hollzy, which had prompted a round of blushing and stammering from the kid, then twenty-one and a little more fearful, about how he was pretty sure Shane wasn't his type, which Mats had waved away because he hadn't been playing matchmaker, he'd been trying to build community.

The North American scouting teams that had passed over Mats were imbeciles, in Shane's opinion. He could've been magic over there. If he'd landed on a team like Philadelphia or Boston, he'd have his jersey in the rafters and a statue in the square. He was a captain through and through. His skill wasn't top tier, but his effort was transcendent. He worked harder than anybody on the ice and it showed.

The phone rang for what seemed like forever. “Pick up pick up pick up,” he muttered at the ringer, followed by, “Bigrig, pick up your fucking—”

“Hey Hollzy.”

Fuck. Shane squeezed his eyes shut tightly.

“I'm okay.”

“Fuck you, I know that. I saw the news,” he was almost yelling. He needed to not be yelling. “Why the fuck did I have to learn that you almost died from ESPN? Why didn't you call me?”

“I didn’t want to wake you up in the middle of the night to say I didn’t die,” Derek admitted. “Little too close to home. Plus, what if I got on the team bus and it crashed between the airport and hotel?”

Shane pulled his phone away from his face. He could hear the shaky breathing on the other end of the line. This wasn't about him. Derek needed him to be strong, and Shane could do that. He could freak out and spiral later.

“Tell me you're not alone right now.”

“No, Mom, I'm not alone,” came the begrudging, yet dutiful answer, Derek explaining his situation, the younger players all bunking together rather than toughing it out in pairs.

He was glad.

Admittedly, he'd been concerned when Derek was noticed. Not because Derek wasn't good. He was fantastic, actually, a great utility forward who could adjust to play up and down a lineup with ease. Shane wanted him to go far.

He just worried about the League’s politics and Derek's very specific policy of not concealing his sexuality, even if he didn't advertise it. Part of Shane wished he'd been that brave, had just let it happen, the truth popping up unannounced and being what it was. Would it have been better for him? He wasn't sure.

He had been less concerned when he found out it was the Centaurs doing the scouting. Ilya Rozanov was their captain and he didn't tolerate bullshit. It was one of the things Shane lo—liked about him. Derek had shared little tidbits about his new team in their catch-up calls, about how nobody really knew why Rozanov had left Boston even though it had been years, or how he'd bag skated them within an inch of their life the morning after a sloppy win but had convinced their coach to make a morning skate optional after a loss where they tried.

He did his best to reassure Derek, stayed with him until his other teammate came back, grateful for the accidental scrap of information Derek had shared, his Cap made sure, because of course Ilya would.

Time and space from the League, from everyone and everything he'd ever fucking known, had given Shane clarity. So much fucking clarity. He could see the way Ilya bent over backwards for others, the way he had that one afternoon in 2016 for Shane, so desperate to make the things they couldn't have normal that they'd tipped the other way. He recognized the mask of arrogance and confidence and the way Ilya tried, the only way he knew, to let himself be known.

He was pretty sure he would never forget the way Ilya had seemed so cool as he backpedalled (Hollander, it isn't a big deal), how it had taken Shane way too long to figure out he was panicking too, the both of them watching a relationship that wasn't slipping like sand through their fingers.

He closed his eyes against the grief, breathed through it. He hoped Ilya had gone to bed with someone, even if he hated the idea of it, or that some other rookie or player came to him, seeking the comfort of a teammate. He hated the idea of Ilya being alone.

He hated that he had to be okay with it being someone else, no matter how many times he made himself think about it because ultimately, he'd done this to them both.

Ilya probably hated him, anyway. Plenty of people did. Not everyone could be Hayden, who knew even less than Ilya but still messaged him often, like he could somehow will Shame back into his life with pictures of the kids and messages that almost always made Shane cry.

He used to think a lot more about being selfish, saying fuck it and open up that closed door. It had been so bad in the beginning, the way the news had spun his departure with less than nothing to go on. It was bad enough that his parents had been forced to change their phone numbers and stay with family abroad. He couldn't pull Hayden and his family into that. It would've ruined him more than the trade Montreal had forced him into.

Three years on, it probably wouldn't be as bad, but really, there was no point. He liked Sweden, liked being able to travel around Europe when time allowed, liked his teammates. It was a job he was good at. Maybe this wasn't where he'd imagined them raising his jersey to the rafters but that was the funny thing about life.

It was messy and imperfect and sometimes you just didn't get what you wanted.

Shane pulled up to the rink, waved hello to the usual attendant who humored his attempts to speak Swedish which he could understand better than he'd ever speak, and pulled into his parking spot between Benny and Mats who had kids and usually came in closer to nine.

He checked his phone before he got out of the car. It was just habit at this point, the curse of a digital age, as his dad liked to say. He hadn't thought anything about it, flicking through the usual junk emails and sport alerts that made up most of his notifications until there was only one left.

Instagram
You have new unread messages.

If someone asked him why he tapped instead of swiped, Shane would say it was instinct. He was a professional hockey player. Gut instinct was the difference between going home or winning a championship, was the place where talent and skill were forged into something with meaning. It was the override that lit up his synapses and stopped him from swiping to dismiss the messages that would change everything.

January, 2021
Ottawa, ON

Yuna Hollander, for as long as she lived, would never ever forget the call. Shane had called her back to back to back, so much that her phone had kicked on, the ringer she had set for him shrill and sharp, meant to draw her attention in loud or crowded rooms.

She was awake instantly.

“Shane?” Her voice, gruff with sleep, sounded muddy and confused. She was not.

“M-mom?”

Someone was dead, she thought. Someone had to be dead or dying or worse. She’d never heard Shane’s voice wobble this way. Not even when the Metros or the League had done the horrible things they had done to her boy. Sure, he’d cried and shouted and been upset, but it was nothing compared to this, to the devastation in his voice, the way his breaths shook like each one of them was a herculean effort.

“I’m here, baby,” she said. “What’s going on?”

“I-I,” he swallowed. It was loud and damning, not the careful, polished way she’d taught him to present himself, “I can’t,” he said. “Do this.”

“Do what?” She tried her best to keep her voice low and calm, to ignore the growing part of her that was seconds away from freaking out. She threw the blankets off, waving away David, who was blinking up at her in the dark with sleepy eyes, having reached for and flicked on the lamp. He nodded and headed out of their bedroom, presumably to the kitchen to start their pot of coffee.

The wall clock said three fifty-six am.

“Shane?”

“It’s—I can’t,” he repeated, just shy of hyperventilating. “I’m fucking—I fucked all of it up, Mom.” Then, belatedly, “Shit. ’M sorry.”

She wasn’t sure which part of this he was apologizing for: the swearing, the middle of the night wake-up call, but it didn’t matter. Her sweet, mindful boy wouldn’t call her for nothing, and she could hear his hurt. “Are you safe? Where are you?”

“‘m at the rink,” He murmured. “In the parking lot.”

“But you’re safe?”

She could hear his palms bash against the steering wheel, bam-bam-bam, then the sound of a car door, muffled, then another door opening and a soft, “Hey Hollzy, watch the mitts,” followed by Shane hiccoughing away from the speaker and then, “Want me to stay or—okay, I’ll wait for you by the doors. Flash the indicators if you want me to come back, yeah?”

Despite trying her best not to despise the Swedish league for being second rate, she really couldn’t argue the culture. It was significantly better. Shane’s teammates, the few she had met, were good guys. There was still homophobia, she wasn’t sure it would ever be eradicated completely, but it wasn’t in the room, and it wasn’t tolerated by management or the league.

“Was that Mats?”

“Benny,” he corrected. “Mats would be in the passenger seat right now trying to hold my hand or something.” The image was enough to make him huff.

It lessened the feeling of a fist squeezing her heart just enough to suck in a breath and hold it before she talked.

“As he should.” She wished she was there, that she could wrap him up in a hug and hold him until his tears ran out and was ready to talk. All she could do now was pull out tidbits of information piece by piece and hope she didn’t overwhelm him with the full picture before he was ready to see it for himself.

“Mom, I um,” he sniffed. “I need to stop running.” He stopped long enough for the words to trickle like melting ice down Yuna’s spine.

She had waited years for him to be ready. Had listened to David when he said not to push, had forced herself to accept that Shane was a fully grown adult they had raised well and could trust to make his own decisions, even if she didn’t necessarily agree with them.

“Can you help me?”

That was a rhetorical question. Had to be. She had binders and back up hard drives with all his league paperwork and conversations, detailed notes and spreadsheets of how it had all gone so, so wrong. It had been her final act as his manager, before he’d fired her not because he didn’t want her involved, but because he had tried so hard to tighten the blast radius so that only he would face the fallout.

(As if she would want to be a manager for anyone else.)

Her brave, honorable boy. He hadn’t been able to spare them entirely, but new phone numbers and a chunk of the summer spent abroad, first in Europe, then with David’s cousins in Portland had kept them out of the hot seat well enough.

She’d been waiting years for him to say the word, but she hadn't expected it to hurt. “Of course, Shane.”

The smell of coffee called to her like a siren song from the kitchen. She wrapped her robe around her waist and emerged from the bedroom to find David pulling down two mugs. The whole time, she listened to Shane breathe. She knew the cadence of it, knew there were tears pouring down his face, that his emotions, so carefully controlled, so frequently overlooked, were overwhelming him.

“You said you need to stop running,” she began carefully, ignoring the way David stared at her, his clearwater eyes bright with emotion, like he’d sensed this had been it the entire time. “Do you know what you want?”

“I want to come home.”

Home could mean so many things, but home was here, and not there, and for Yuna—no, for a start, she told herself sternly—that was enough.

“Okay,” she said, a little shakier than she’d liked. She tried again. “Okay. I can work with that.”

Shane sniffed over the phone in response.

“Let me call some people, okay? It’s a little early, but I can think of a couple firms who would be happy to take a look at everything and give you an idea of what they think. We need to find out if you should press charges or try to handle it under the table.” She waited, expecting him to say what he always did when she suggested it.

I can’t, like, sue the league or whatever. They’d never take me back. I’ll be a laughing stock. You heard them. I’d be ruined.

“Okay,” he said. His voice was quiet and raw, but without the tremulous flutter of panic.

“You’re certain? If we—you,” she revised, because this was his fight. She could be in his corner, but it had to be him. He’d sent himself to Sweden, and only he could bring himself back. “If you do this…”

“I can’t take it back,” he finished for her. “I know,” he exhaled. “I need to do this, Mom. I have to.”

June, 2021
Ottawa, ON

For a man who hated social media and refused to get involved with anything vaguely resembling a trend, Yuna’s husband David was very often in the right place at the right time because he tended to stumble upon news before she did half the time. She got him back with an uncanny ability to predict the future—see also, reasons why David referred to her as a witch (lovingly, of course, David didn’t have a mean bone in his body)—which she used to flaunt each spring when MLH playoffs started.

Key words: Used to.

These days? Not so much.

It was hard to muster enthusiasm for the league that had single-handedly ruined her son’s life, for the national team that had passed him by for the Olympics because it was run by the same awful people, for the world for thinking they had the right to judge. So no. She didn’t bust out her usual predictions. New York would win the fucking playoffs, but Yuna wouldn’t bother watching a league that couldn’t be assed to do right by her son.

Shane might have the same gentle, forgiving heart his father did, but Yuna’s was wrapped in thorns, dead set on protecting herself and those dear to her. When Shane became a free agent on July first, she would fall in with whatever team he chose and support them just as hardcore as she supported any of the teams Shane played for. She’d probably never love the league or any franchise as much as she’d once loved the Montreal Metros, but you know what they say: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Yuna wasn’t the type to let it get to three times, thank you very much.

Anyway, back to David.

On this particular Sunday morning, like most mornings, he sat at the kitchen table, readers perched low on his face, coffee at his elbow, left earbud in so he could watch youtube or the news and still hear whatever she was saying as she puttered around their cottage.

“Did you know,” David began, slowly looking up from whatever he was looking at, “That Shane went to Boston this weekend?”

Yuna held back the bitter commentary that sometimes threatened to leak out at times like these. Shane didn’t tell her a lot of things anymore. Somewhere along the way, he’d started keeping secrets.

“No, but Hayden’s there and the Raiders are out of the playoffs, so it’s probably safe to talk to him now. It's not far.”

Even though she was barely involved in Shane’s career these days—and whose fault was that, Major League Hockey, she thought angrily for about the ten millionth time—it didn’t mean she lived under a rock. She might not sit in on mediation, but she’d been the one to refer Shane to the best attorneys money could buy, and was in close contact with him and his agent as things developed.

If anything, she was less of a manager and more of a consultant.

She flicked her hands down at the sink, little splatters disrupting the top, sudsy layer of soap. She’d picked up bread baking—it was kind of annoying as far as hobbies went, especially after a loaf had gone into the oven and there was nothing left to do but hope it had risen enough, that her cuts would look artsy and intentional, then clean up the kitchen because there was no way to prevent flour from getting everywhere. She'd tried.

Maybe July first could come a little sooner, she thought begrudgingly. The sad little loaves of sourdough she made were the eighth or ninth iteration of trying to find something productive to do with her free time in the years since she'd stopped being Shane's manager.

It wasn’t like she didn’t know about what was going on. Shane still asked for help every once in a while, and Yuna watched SportsCentre to see what they were saying about Shane, what information some insider had leaked from the MLH side of things. It was a far cry from managing brand deals with some of the top brands in sport, and it killed her not to be in New York, amidst the whirlwind of legal counsel Shane had hired to handle things, but she understood why things were the way they were.

Technically, it was more healthy this way, even if part of her would always be a little desperate to be more involved. They talked more, were more open than they had been when their relationship had been weighed down with business. Her sweet little boy had always been so desperate to please and so terrified of letting people down, but in the end it had been unavoidable. He had jumped through everyone else’s hoops, even her own at times, but it hadn’t been enough. It still made her blood boil to think of those haughty fucking suits trying to snuff out her son’s talent for being honest about himself, who he was.

Joining David at the kitchen table, bowls abandoned to soak, she waited for him to share details.

He didn't disappoint. “There are pictures of him and Hayden. TMZ grabbed them from Instagram.”

“Of course.”

David held out the tablet, which she took, eyes hungrily scanning the article to see what the scavengers had written about it.

It was about as expected. The article itself was a nothingburger, more or less a link to Hayden’s instagram post. Hockey players spotted at breakfast? Big deal. Hayden hugging Shane, captured in a candid? Expected. A heartfelt, if somewhat clumsily worded caption about loving Shane like a brother no matter what? textbook, really.

She tapped on the link to Hayden’s instagram to see what other people were saying. Most of it was equally as rote, fans freaking out either positively or negatively (mostly positively, she noted with satisfaction) and a very small handful of their former teammates posting emojis that failed to convey anything of substance.

David, sensing he was not going to get his device back anytime soon, came around the table to sit beside her. She was already tapping on Hayden’s story, wondering what he wasn’t sharing with the entire world. Thankfully, despite how things are played out, she and David had always had access to Hayden and his wife’s more personal posts. She liked being able to see what their kids were up to, watching them grow into little people with stark personalities. They were probably the closest she’d ever get to grandbabies, after all, especially now that Hayden and Shane were on speaking terms again.

The first two images in his stories were just repeats of the post, nearly a day old. The third was where it got interesting. It was a photo taken by someone sitting on the other side of the table, Shane and Hayden side-by-side in their seats, a third person crouched between them so their heads were all in frame. She paused, showing it to David.

“Is that Cliff Marleau?” She asked, pausing it so they could inspect the picture more clearly. None of the photos had captions. “They look happy.”

David dutifully pulled out his phone to look him up. “That does look like Marleau,” he agreed carefully.

“Do you think he’s—”

“Maybe?” he didn’t let her finish. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to speculate, Yuna.”

For all that they did talk about, for how much healthier her relationship with Shane was now that the business side of it was minimal, there was just one thing that had never come up. A big thing. Something she tried very, very hard not to get upset at him for hiding from them for what had turned out to be years.

Maybe upset was the wrong word. She had to remind herself sometimes that Shane was an adult and, as such, she wasn’t entitled to every detail of his personal life. She wanted to support him, and it felt like she wasn’t allowed to.

And it sucked that she had to learn from Hayden Pike that Lily had been a recurring character in his life for a fucking decade.

She tapped to go to the next post and froze. “What the hell is Rozanov doing in Boston?”

“He was their captain for years,” offered David, engrossed in whatever he was doing on his phone that was not looking up Cliff Marleau’s dating history like she’d hoped. “He and Marleau were close.”

“So you are on his Wikipedia page?” She demanded.

“No, I have this thing called a brain and I use it to remember things.” He turned his head, looking at Yuna over his glasses before giving in and looking down at the screen.

She continued, “Maybe he’s trying to support Marleau? I mean, if Marleau is Lily, it would explain Hayden calling on his behalf, maybe they’re close and this was a good opportunity. Good cover too, so they could be seen together in public.”

It certainly made sense in Yuna’s head. Cliff Marleau didn’t look like the kind of person Shane would be interested in, not that they really talked about his taste in men—Shane always got so defensive, but Marleau—Cliff was attractive. Rougishly handsome, she supposed. Maybe Shane liked that. He was a heart and soul player, not the most talented, but Shane had never really pictured himself as being better than anyone. He just loved the game. Maybe that was why it worked?

She frowned as she realized something else. “Do you think Shane would play in Boston?”

David pulled the ipad from her grasp. “Hey, I was using that.”

“Yuna,” he said calmly, “It’s not Cliff Marleau.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

His shoulders hitched in the world’s tiniest shrug, a silent, okay, have it your way and be wrong. She stopped herself from snarking back at him and fixed him with an equally silent look instead.

“Look at this picture.” His eyebrows rose slightly, suggesting he meant business. “I’m serious.”

“I already did!” She snatched it from his hands and made a show of complying with his request. It was a selfie of the four of them and their breakfasts. Hayden and Marleau were looking at the camera, but Rozanov’s head was turned, his face in profile, like he hadn’t quite been ready for the photo. Shane’s mouth was open slightly, like he’d been speaking as Hayden snapped the picture, his eyes bright with humor or happiness, a spark of emotion that very rarely translated into the digital medium. He usually looked so flat or boyish, but not here. He looked engaged and handsome, leaning forward like the others, fully invested in whatever was happening at that moment.

It took her a second to figure out what Rozanov was beaming at. It wasn't the camera, obviously, nor the massive plate of pancakes in front of him. He was smiling at Shane, whose fork was a blur of motion, encroaching upon Rozanov's plate like he meant to poach one of the blueberries swimming in butter and maple syrup atop the short stack, completely ignoring his own omelette and the seeded toast plated beside it.

“You don't think—” she shook her head, disbelieving. “They hate each other.”

“Do I think that our son, who is even more competitive than his mother,” David said warmly, a note of challenge in his voice, “Would fall in love with the person that challenged him the most?” He shrugged and let the words speak for themselves. “You did say he told you he wants to come home,” he added cryptically. “I guess we’ll see.”

Framework shifted and resettled itself in Yuna’s brain. There had been an incident involving the Ottawa team just before Shane had decided to take action. She hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but—her fingers were already flying across the screen, backing out of Instagram and going to Safari. There were other things, too. She’d seen Rozanov talk about supporting Shane, had seen plenty of pictures from the impromptu jersey moment during the Ottawa-New York series, but at the time that just felt like an Ottawa specific narrative.

And Shane had been spending a lot of time reconnecting with Lily, which they’d taken to mean he’d gotten a hotel or something so they could have privacy… but—

“So maybe… Ottawa?” She paused. She had just finished typing Ottawa Centaurs incident January 2021 into the browser, the cursor blinking lazily at her, waiting for her to hit search. “Can they even afford him?”

“I guess we’ll see,” David repeated breezily. “Can I have my iPad back before you open a million tabs? They always sync to my phone. I plugged yours into the charger this morning, it's in the living room.”

She reluctantly relinquished control of the device in favor of retrieving hers from the coffee table in the other room. When she returned, David was back in his usual seat, earbuds out. “I can’t figure out why you’re so calm about this. Don’t you want to know?”

“Of course I do, but he’ll tell us when he’s ready,” he said, perpetually steady. She sent a prayer to the universe, not that she was particularly religious, hoping that whomever Shane’s mystery man was, even if it was Ilya fucking Rozanov, he would ground him the way David did her. “I’ll do the dishes while you get started on your investigation.”

“You know me so well,” she said, coming back to the table and accepting a kiss.

June, 2021
Boston, MA

Shane ignored Ilya's sleepy murmur of “Okay, Hollander, I get up too,” tucking the blankets around him and pressing a kiss to his temple before sliding out of the guest bed. Ilya had already fallen back asleep, which was good. They'd been up so late the night before, sitting on Cliff Marleau's balcony around a fire pit that was more like a decorative light source than anything, drinking beers and catching up (or getting to know each other, in Shane and Cliff’s case). He could hear the slight whistle of Hayden's familiar half-snore from the room across the hall and smiled to himself.

He had missed Hayden almost as much as Ilya these last few years. They were the only two people (who he wasn't related to) in the life he'd had before Sweden that accepted him for what he was, who truly saw him beyond the mantle of his career. Maybe it was three people now, he decided. Marley seemed like good people. When they'd arrived yesterday morning, Ilya had thrown himself into Cliff’s arms like it was nothing, and Shane would have been jealous of the way Cliff held him so tight if it hadn't been the same way he and Hayden had clung to each other.

Friends were important. So, yeah.

There was a group chat in his phone called Boston Besties 🐻 now, which was mostly Ilya and Cliff sending emojis Shane didn't know existed while Hayden reacted with thumbs up (Cliff) or down (Ilya).

The kitchen was quiet and dark except for the light that was on over the stove. He looked around as quietly as he could, finding the coffee supplies and setting the machine on the counter to brew. There wasn't much in the way of non-dairy milk options in the refrigerator, but Shane could drink his coffee black if he had to. The hardest part of the whole affair had been finding a non-Raiders mug. There was only one, which had been dusty and tucked away in the back corner of the cabinet, that said Live, Laugh, Lobstah with a borderline frightening cartoon lobster on it.

It looked like the kind of souvenir his dad would get when they went on trips that got relegated to their cottage when the cabinets overflowed in their Ottawa house. If he hadn't purposely left his phone in the bottom of his backpack, he might have taken a picture of it to send to him.

He had only just sat down with his steaming lobster mug when the floorboards lurched quietly in the hall.

Cliff wore sleep pants and an old-looking Raiders hoodie that seemed a little overstretched and threadbare in the way comfortable clothes usually were. He jerked his chin at Shane in greeting. “Thanks for making the whole pot, Hollzy.”

“No problem.”

The sounds of coffee making—the fridge door opening and closing, milk being poured, the quiet tinkering of a stirring spoon against ceramic—were comfortable and muted, not as noticeable as the light beginning to slip over the city as the sun rose.

“Wanna take this outside? S’nice out.”

Shane grabbed his hoodie from the row of hooks near the door and threw it over his head, following Cliff out into the cool morning air.

Cliff’s building was decidedly metropolitan, an old industrial building modernized into upscale residences. The skyline still looked old, in a chic sort of way. It wasn't far from where Ilya had lived, when he had his downtown penthouse.

“So,” Cliff relaxed into the patio furniture with a groan, still more than a little beaten up from the playoffs. He thumbed at the raiders logo printed on his cup idly.

Anxiety gripped Shane instantly, so he decided to take the plunge, confront it head on. “Is this, like, some shovel talk thing?”

“What? No!” He took a drink from his mug and put a foot up on the lip of the firepit in the center of the balcony. “Ilya would hate that. Besides, that's more Svetlana's territory. She's the scary one.”

Shane hummed. When Hayden had said as much over brunch yesterday, Ilya had been delighted. It was the one thing they'd willingly agreed upon. “Okay.”

“I'm trying to figure out if I should bother with my recruitment speech or…” He studied Shane's face, looking for something. Shane wasn't sure what it was.

What? “You want to… recruit me?”

“Yeah man,” he took another sip of coffee and set the cup on a little side table with an ashtray. “I'm captain, y’know? Comes with the territory.” He shrugged a little, looking out at the city beyond their balcony. It was starting to come awake, cars and buses moving around below them as the city began its day. “We got Pike back at the deadline because we needed depth at wing, but like, anybody with half a brain knew you wouldn't start something if you couldn't finish it. So…” he shrugged again, but looked over at Shane this time. “How about it?”

Shane probably should have seen this coming. He couldn't blame Cliff for trying. If their positions were reversed, he'd try to do the same thing for his team. He pressed his lips together, thumb flicking over the seam of them, trying to figure out what to say. It was hard with people, sometimes. Shane wanted Marleau to like him, but—

It was just…

“Or are you spoken for?”

His chest lurched. “What? How would I be?” He was babbling, voice quaking with anxiety. “It's been like, a day, and I've had my phone off. You're the first person who's—”

Marley waved a hand, dismissing his anxious rambling. “Dude, I'm just saying,” he reached for his mug, sloshing a couple drops of coffee out of it as he brought it around. He wiped them on his hoodie like an afterthought. “If you're already set on Ottawa—”

“I haven't decided anything,” Shane interjected. “I know it's not like, tampering or whatever because I'm not attached to a team, but I,” he forced himself to relax. “I don't know where I'm going to end up.”

The sliding door opened behind them. “Told you,” Hayden said.

“Eavesdropping, Pike?” Cliff scooched over on the little loveseat thing he was on to make room for Hayden. “Could use some help.”

“I'd love to play with you again,” Hayden told Shane earnestly, but it was in that tone of voice every player knew, the one reserved for media, for official statements and things you were required to say even if they weren't exactly what you'd wanted to.

“Me too,” Shane replied. He meant it too, but…

“It's okay, Shane. I’m really not mad or sad or whatever,” Hayden promised, and yeah. This was Hayden, not Boston Forward Hayden Pike. “If you wanna talk through it, I'm here. But," he leaned forward making sure Shane was holding eye contact before he continued. “Maybe talk to him about it too, okay? I think,” he scratched the back of his head, looking over at the door like Ilya might pop up and berate him. Cliff nudged him with his shoulder. “Just—yeah. Talk to him about it, okay? I think he's convinced you wouldn't even consider—”

“But I would.”

Hayden smiled. “Of course you would. You just haven't stopped moving long enough to let yourself think about it.”

It was, of course, true. Shane relaxed, grateful to be understood. “Fuck, I missed you, Hayd.”

“I missed you too, buddy.” Hayden reached forward and grabbed Shane's knee, squeezing it. “So,” he continued, clearing his throat and working past the emotion trying to clog it. “Ottawa?”

Now that he'd thought about it, Shane was pretty sure he'd never be able to picture anything else. He hadn't let himself think about reconciling with Ilya much less the prospect of playing on the same team with him.

“I don't think they can afford him,” Cliff said carefully. “You'd want, what? Thirteen? They pay Roz twelve point eight, plus Hayes’ extension kicks in and they need to do some moves for depth on defense. It'll be close.”

But I don't care about what I make.

The words were almost out of his mouth, but he managed to hold them back. He didn't think Hayden and Cliff would think less of him but he knew just how ridiculous it would sound coming from him. Though it hadn't been the point, at least, not for Shane, there had been a monetary component involved in his settlement with the league. Money talked and all that.

Once upon a time, before everything, he would have wanted his worth. Fifteen million would be his ask and he'd sign at thirteen point seven five and not a dollar below. He'd want a letter too, and the team that got him would need to be a contender now. He wasn't getting any younger.

It wasn't like Shane didn't want any of those things. He wanted another cup. Wanted to be a good teammate and competitor. Wanted to prove he was more than gay or Asian, that he was the best in the game and had always been, that no time away from the league could ever change that.

But money? It didn't matter. A letter? Absolutely not. He would happily be a veteran voice and mentor without it, thank you very much.

“Did he just blue screen?”

“I'm thinking,” Shane told Marleau without looking up, his gaze caught on the lip of the firepit and the blotchy pattern of gray-white ash on the metal. “Sorry, I just,” he trailed off again, distracted by the tumultuous cyclone that was his thoughts.

If he and Ilya were on the same team, how would that work? Would it be like before, that they'd need to keep their relationship a secret to their teammates? Would they have to disclose it to team management? Would they be accepting of a queer relationship between two men on their active roster? Would the rest of the roster?

Briggs had said Ilya had been good (before he'd been not so good, which was really kind of Shane's fault) and that the team was kind and supportive of him and Luca, but this could be different. Shane had history. He knew what some of the old-timer, retired players said about him after he'd gone public, that he was a drama magnet for dealing with things in the way he had.

More importantly: Did Ilya actually even want them to be on the same team? Was that why Hayden had actually suggested they talk? Did he know that Shane wanted this and was trying to talk him down gently?

The Centaurs were Ilya's franchise. Everyone knew that. Would it feel like Shane was encroaching on his territory if he signed there? Even if Shane didn't want a letter—which he really, really didn't, not anymore, never again—would it be uncomfortable or worse, a hindrance?

“What did you two say to my boyfriend?” Ilya was crouched in front of him, looking sleep rumpled and gorgeous and very, very concerned. He hadn't actually realized he’d folded over himself, head practically between his knees. “Shane, sweetheart, it is okay, yes? You're good here.”

Ilya's hand squeezed the back of his neck, solid and reassuring, but he took care not to let any other part of him touch Shane, like he worried it might be too much.

“I'm okay,” he said, but realized everyone around him seemed to think otherwise. “I'll be okay in a minute,” he revised.

Tsking, Ilya turned to Cliff and Hayden. “What did you two idiots say to him, huh? Is very delicate time—”

“Fuck you, dude, we were just trying to—”

“It's okay,” Shane lifted his head. He really didn't want Ilya to fight with their friends. “They didn't say anything they shouldn't, I just freaked out.”

“Freaked out over…” he waited expectantly for someone to tell him what was going on.

Shane mumbled some approximation of ’m gonna be a free agent, which made Ilya's expression soften.

“It will be okay,” Ilya told him, each of his hands holding one of Shane's. “I told you, every single team who isn't shitty Montreal will try to—what is that saying? Move heaven and earth?” Shane nodded. “That. They will all want you. Even fucking Montreal, who knows they do not deserve you.”

Ilya had never lied to him about hockey. So why, why did he have that look on his face, the one he'd worn when Shane got spooked and ran away, the one when he said Hollander, don't do this, the pinched one that said he wasn't telling the whole truth, that he was afraid to, that he was holding something back?

Why was it worse now, Ilya's emotions covered up with tenderness rather than frustration and avoidance? What was he so afraid of?

Was he afraid that Shane wanted to play with him or against him?

It was hard enough to figure out Ilya was afraid of something, especially for Shane, who didn't do very good with emotions at the very best of times, but there was this way Ilya's gaze went, hard but almost unfocused, even if he was looking right at you, like he was there, but not.

He was struck suddenly by the way Ilya sometimes held onto him, clinging like he couldn't stand to not be touching. It usually happened late at night or first thing in the morning, especially if Shane wasn't in bed when he woke up. He'd mutter things, mostly in Russian—Shane would learn it eventually but right now he only knew what I love you was—but sometimes, if Shane was nearing sleep he'd speak in English too.

The way he'd look then was not exactly the same as what was happening now, but it was close, and it was all Shane had to go on.

“What about Ottawa,” he whispered, not quite mustering enough oomph to make it sound like a question.

Ilya's face shuttered, and Shane was, well, he shoved past his first instinct, which was to be hurt and looked up at Cliff and Hayden who were trying to pretend they weren't stuck outside because Shane and Ilya were between them and the door. The balcony was way too small.

“Uh, maybe we should go inside and talk,” he murmured, at the same time as Ilya’s hesitant, slightly gobsmacked, “You would play in Ottawa?”

There were other things, things about being this person who Shane was now, who he didn’t used to be. Things that kind of abstractly knew about himself, that had been nebulously ordered ahead of hockey in importance. One of those things was himself as a person: he deserved to be honest with himself about who he was. The other, which he’d never said aloud before, much less allowed himself to think, was this:

“I want you more than hockey, Ilya.”

His younger self would have screamed for a concussion spotter, would have had a full-on meltdown because there was no way he’d ever love anything more than hockey, much less the asshole the league had spun into his rival, but Shane had had four very lonely years to think about it, to deal with the unpleasant sensation it had given him. Sure, he’d slept with people here and there, but it was an infrequent scratching of an itch. This understanding, this little fact about himself was quieter now, comfortable and lived in. He would play hockey on Mars if it meant Ilya would be there with him.

“You really mean that?”

There were tears overflowing from Ilya’s eyes, like someone had left a faucet to drip. They fell in perfect little drops that leaked from the corner of his eyes and cheeks. His hands, still in Shane’s, made no attempt to stop them.

”Hey,” Shane managed to free one of his own to run his knuckles under Ilya’s eyes. Getting hit with his gaze head on, eyes full of tears, was like a blow. “Hey. Of course I do,” he said seriously. “I love hockey, but it’s not as good if it’s not with you.”

”We have never played together,” Ilya protested. “You might hate it. And I will be your captain. They will not,” he trailed off, tapping his chest, English failing him, but the gesture enough to follow. He restarted a couple seconds later with a wary, “I will push you.”

Ilya had been pushing him since the moment they'd met. How could he not know that pushing Shane was what made him better?

”I don’t want a letter,” he told Ilya as Hayden muttered, “Seriously, do they talk about anything or…?”

Cliff kicked Hayden and stood. “Alright Pike, I need some Dunkin. Let’s—”

”Ohthankfuck,” Hayden blurted, words tripping over one another as he sprung to his feet.

When the sliding door closed behind them, leaving Shane and Ilya alone, Shane tugged Ilya to his feet and led him to the newly vacated two-seater.

“How are we still so bad at this?” Shane asked.

”I don’t know,” Ilya said, still teary, but with the tiniest little curl of a smile to his expression. Shane threw his arms around Ilya's shoulders, pulling him close. “Fuck.” He swiped at his face with a little more force than was necessary. “You don’t have to do this for me,” he said. “I don’t want—I will hate being apart from you, but I can manage. I will. We did it before, but it will be better this time.”

He said that, but Shane got the feeling he was saying it to convince himself and not to tell Shane it was okay. Fuck, it hurt to look at him, to know Ilya was holding things back for his sake. He didn't want that.

Shaking his head, Shane said, “I don’t want you to ‘manage,’ Ilya, I want you to be happy. I want us both to be happy.” He realized he was looking over Ilya’s shoulder instead of into his eyes and shifted his gaze. “You turned that entire team around. Anyone with half a braincell where hockey’s concerned would want to play there.”

”Was not just me,” he sniffed.

“No, but culture starts in the room, no matter what anybody else says. I know that was all you. I saw what you did in Boston. There was a reason you beat me to the cup. You made them believe way better than I ever could.”

”Your team was not as good.”

”I will concede that this one time, and if you ever bring it up again I will deny it,” he smiled and Ilya matched him. “I know everything’s like, crazy right now with me being out and a free agent and having,” he inhaled sharply, because fuck he would never be able to avoid the next part for as long as he lived, “Y’know, sued the league, but, I want to, and I know it’s really selfish but, I want everything with you. A home, a life, several cups—“

”At least three cups,” Ilya said sharply. “And then you will retire so that I can win two more and beat you.”

”Well, I guess that means the rivalry wouldn’t be dead if we played for the same team,” huffed Shane. “Do you think Ottawa would take me?”

”It would be tight,” Ilya’s cheeks, pink from crying, flattened out as his jaw worked, his expression turning a bit more reserved. “Hayes needs to be re-signed first. He needs more, Toronto was underpaying him before trade last year.” He tapped his cheek with a finger. “They’d have eleven left, maybe less, depending on Hazy’s agent. They are pretty good, I’m told.”

“I don’t need the money.”

“Ah, so you will pay for free.”

Shane shoved him. “No. Of course not.”

”So… what? I go to GM and say, ‘Shane Hollander will play for whatever money you have left?’”

“No. I want at least eight,” Shane said carefully. He’d made seven point five for years in Montreal, which was nothing compared to what he’d made in brand deals, all of that money carefully invested and saved in ways that generated enough passive income to live comfortably for the rest of his days. “Maybe eight point one?”

That little surprised smile was back, but Ilya squashed it with his words. “You are joking.”

”I’m really not.” He wasn’t. He kind of liked the idea of it. It would be a sweetheart deal, the kind that helped a team build a fucking dynasty. It was the kind of thing players did to come home, to finish their careers where they started. Even if Shane had at least another ten seasons ahead of him and would need an extension. Plenty of guys insisted on having certain numbers in their deal. Maybe Shane could be one of them.

”You will also send sky-writer, the plane-thingy,” he gestured out at the yellow-orange morning sky, “To say ‘Shane Hollander loves Ilya Rozanov.’”

“I think that might be a little much, but, um.”

“But,” Ilya prompted.

“We could, I don’t know, let them guess? And then maybe, someday, if it's like, safe or whatever and you wanted to confir—“

With a wounded sound, Ilya shoved himself upright.

His phone—the same phone he’d had five years ago, now cracked and scuffed and held together by a fraying case and similarly broken screen protector—was being shoved into his face. He recognized the flag with its red maple leaf, obviously, but the little logo on the top of the email said IRCC. “I am Canadian resident,” he said. “Brand new, just approved. I will pick up paperwork from post office when we get home.”

“What the—How are you just telling me this?”

“It is new. I did not have lawyer or paperwork until two months ago, but team and lawyers and Canada think I am national treasure so,” Ilya pursed his lips.

Shane leaned forward and kissed him, just a little peck on the lips, nothing particularly scandalous, but it cut through the charmingly arrogant pout he’d been trying to give Shane and melted it into something more genuine, like he was startled by a desire to laugh or smile for real.

“You are serious,” Ilya said, not quite asking.

“I am. About this.” He felt the shift. It was easier to follow the flow of the conversation with Ilya. Maybe it was because they were so close with one another now, or because Ilya had always been Shane's person. “Is,” he squeezed the hand he was still holding, “Is that something you’d want, too?”

“Is this something I—“ a rapid, beautiful, entirely incomprehensible to Shane flurry of Russian cut off Ilya’s English. Shane really needed to download an app or get a tutor or something. “Of course I want,” he finally continued in English. “I have been pinching myself since we started this conversation,” he shifted to show Shane the irritated skin on his arm, red with two white epicenters from where he had indeed been squeezing the skin. “I am still not convinced I am awake. I might wake up in bed and this will all be a dream and I—” He cut himself off, making a sound almost like a whine, something wordless, pure emotion.

“It’s not,” Shane said. “I want to be with you. I want to play with you.” He tugged Ilya closer. “I want to win with you.”

”You will have to tell me this again, I think,” Ilya said when they’d resettled, his head on Shane’s chest, ear pressed to his heart.

He liked that position, Shane had come to realize, these last few weeks. For a moment, he felt a horrible pang of longing for all the time they'd wasted pretending, those four horrible, lost years.

“As many times as you want.”

There were other questions—feasibility, the organization, all the other things that had a low-level anxiety skittering in the back of Shane’s skull—but they could wait. This was more important. He knew it would take work to fix what he had broken, even if it wasn’t entirely his fault. He wanted to do that work, lay down the framework of what would hopefully be the rest of their lives together. He’d do whatever it took to make sure Ilya knew he was serious, because he was.

June, 2021
Ottawa, ON

Shane did not like driving Ilya’s sports cars, no matter how often Ilya told him he could just take one of his until he had a contract and was ready to buy his own. Even this one, which Ilya insisted was his slowest, most boring vehicle, not to mention his only SUV, made Shane feel a little bit uncomfortable. Still, it was worth it to pull up at the arrivals in the Mercedes (rather than a rental, or worse, his mom’s jeep) to see Ilya’s face shift with surprise. A part of him had recoiled at Ilya walking through the parking lot after his long flight from Las Vegas, even though he knew Ilya flew all the time and often drove himself.

“I thought you might chicken out,” Ilya called into the open rear hatch as he slung his backpack and carry-on into the trunk. He was pretty incognito in his backward baseball cap and athletic clothes, though Shane would recognize the shape of him anywhere. “I would have gone to parking lot.”

“Hello to you, too,” Shane replied, looking at Ilya in the rearview. They shared a grin as Ilya slammed the trunk shut rather than using the perfectly functional button that did it automatically, then he was sliding into the passenger seat, giving Shane a quick peck on the cheek as he pulled the door closed behind him. He laughed when Shane didn’t pull away, thrilled.

”You missed me,” he sing-songed, buckling his seatbelt before Shane could instruct him to. Only then did Shane put the car in drive.

“Yeah,” Shane allowed, adding, “You missed me too.” He navigated around the wayward throngs of Canadians waiting to pick up their travelers with ease.

Ilya’s gaze burned into the side of his head. He hadn’t denied it.

Shane turned to look at him for only a blink. He was driving, after all. “What?”

“You look good driving my car,” Ilya said smugly.

“And?”

”You missed me,” Ilya drawled teasingly, reaching over the center console for his hand.

”We did just establish that,” Shane groused, but laced their fingers together. “How were the MLH awards?”

Ilya relaxed into his seat, ripping off his hat and throwing it carelessly into the back seat. “Boring. Hunter gave a whole speech about being a gay icon—“

”He was pretty brave,” Shane remarked.

“Yes, yes, but you did the hard part for him, moya lyubov. You were the first. I did give my congratulations to Kip, though. Hunter actually brought him.”

Looking over the edge of his sunglasses, Shane turned to Ilya. The vehicle rolled smoothly toward a red light. ”Told you he would.”

“Bah. Kip deserves better.”

Shane flicked his blinker on and coasted through the turning lane up to the line. “Did you talk to him at all?”

“Hunter?” Ilya sighed. “Yes,” he slurred the word like a hiss. “Club nearby had Scott Hunter Night. He was there, looking scared half to death but also very happy. We talked, I told him being gay was okay, he looked at me funny, I danced a little but he still didn’t get the idea, so I left.”

“You probably could have told him.”

“I have done everything but told him, Shane. You cannot fix stupidity, yes?”

Shane’s gaze flitted over for a second. ”I guess.”

They made it most of the way back to Ilya’s before he spoke again. “I do not know that I will ever have love for him, bravery or not. I do not like how he turned such a blind eye.”

”He really didn’t know about what they did.”

“Obviously I don’t want him to stop playing unless his arthritic bones make decision for him,” Ilya explained indelicately, “But is not about on ice, is about off it. Is bad look for him to be top liaison between players and league. He was Crowell’s guy, so he should resign from PA job.”

“I mean, maybe, but, Crowell went on the record and called Kip the f-word, and Scott denounced him. Plus the whole Lily leak was kind of a doublecross. He helped.”

”You are not going to get me to believe our getting back together is fucking Scott Hunter’s fault,” Ilya insisted. “Has nothing to do with him.”

“No, I know. He just started the conversation. Kind of.”

Ilya looked outraged. “You did that. Was your plan. Not him.”

”Okay, okay. Scott did nothing,” Shane relented. “But by that logic, this is all on you.”

”Someone must bear the burden,” he returned loftily.

Shaking his head, Shane said, “Way to be humble about it, asshole.”

—

In a perfect world, Shane would have driven them straight to his cottage, stopping maybe once to get Ilya something from Tim Hortons. They would spend the next month wrapped up in one another, removed from the outside world, until it was time to emerge, relaxed and sated and ready to begin training. He would speak only to family and friends, a small, hand-chosen group of people he loved and tune out everything and everyone else.

The thing was that this was not a perfect world. It would never be. Shane could only control so much, something he still struggled with pretty regularly. This summer was more of a stepping stone, the foundation of something better, a way to futureproof summers where they could stay tangled up in one another for longer than the twoish weeks he hoped they would have between now and the end of August.

So instead of hoofing it two hours to his cottage, Shane drove them back to Ilya’s place and that led them to this: a quick romp in Ilya’s bedsheets, a too-short afternoon nap, followed by Ilya trying on three different shirts while he thought Shane was distracted reading emails from his agent. Naturally, Shane got caught ogling him and Ilya went on the defensive.

“What? I want to look good for your parents.”

Shane smiled. “You always look good. Besides, I think they’ll be surprised no matter what.”

“Oh, you think?”

He felt his smile widen. “Yeah.”

Ilya studied the reflection of himself in his closet mirror. “I could get one of my old Raiders shirts, I know you said your mom loves the Raiders these days.”

“I said she hates the Metros.”

He straightened his black t-shirt. The sleeves hugged his arms, drawing attention to them. “Mm, same thing, yes?”

“I love you,” Shane said.

It never failed to catch Ilya off guard. He flinched, just a little bit, whirling around to look Shane in the eye, his own darting around, trying to figure out what it was that had prompted Shane to say the words.

“What did I do?” He asked, when he couldn’t figure it out.

Shrugging, Shane said, “Nothing. I just wanted to say it.”

Because really, it wasn’t like he could put it into words anyway. He’d never been any good at that sort of thing.

Ilya’s pursed lips and arrogant smile lessened from something practiced and pouty to sweet and gentle. The lack of confidence in his expression made him look younger, boyish and disarmed.

“I love you, too, Hollander,” he said, blinking at him, a little wide eyed. He said something else in Russian, which was beautiful and unfair and a little harsh in the way his native tongue always was.

“What was that?” Shane asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’ll have to teach me Russian someday.”

“Maybe.”

—

His parents' house looked imposing from the road, perfectly kept thanks to his dad keeping up on things between bi-weekly visits from the lawn care company. His mom's domain was inside, a combination of perfectly organized chaos in family areas, while the spaces more likely to host guests remained picturesque.

“Very Canadian,” Ilya commented from the passenger seat of his own vehicle. Somehow Shane had landed himself the role of chauffeur, which he was choosing to believe was because Ilya liked to be treated like royalty and not because he’d shaken his head once when Shane had said they could take whichever too-fast car Ilya wanted.

“If the shoe fits.”

“I think it does,” Ilya said. “Like glove. That is the saying, right?”

Shane smiled at him as he unbuckled his seatbelt. He could see his mom’s silhouette in the large bay window and wondered just how long she’d been pacing, if that would make it better or worse. Ilya wasn’t the only nervous person in the car. “It’s going to be okay.”

“Are you telling me or yourself?”

“Both of us, I think.”

Ilya snorted, then leaned over and kissed him. “I will be on my best behavior.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” he said, smile widening. “Come on, before she comes out here.”

His mom had been on him since the day he’d authorized Scott Hunter to share the name, prying in the slightly passive aggressive way she did when someone was holding out on her. It wasn’t mean, but it was targeted. She didn't like knowing only the peripheral details of his life, especially when he'd asked for her help. He understood, but he hadn’t wanted to share anything until he was sure that Ilya wanted to be together.

So when he’d finally told his parents he wanted them to meet Lily at long last, his dad had nodded and his mom had said fucking finally under her breath before giving him the options of going out to dinner or having something more casual at home.

Shane had opted for casual. It was only June thirtieth, and while he’d be a free agent at midnight, he wanted to forestall the craziness. Farah would call him first thing in the morning with the first round of offers and her recommendations which usually included a twenty-four hour waiting period.

He slipped out of the car and tucked the key in his pocket, coming around the front end to grab Ilya’s hand.

“You nervous?”

“Terrified,” Ilya admitted, wincing. “You are sure they will like me?”

“So sure,” Shane confirmed. “Come on.”

He dragged Ilya up the walk and inside. His mom stood just inside the door waiting for them to kick their shoes off. His dad emerged from the kitchen, dish towel thrown over his shoulder dotted with a bit of pasta sauce. The house smelled like basil and oregano and tomato, the day long simmer of sauce that preceded his dad’s incredible chicken parmesan.

“Hi Mom, Dad,” he started, careful to keep Ilya’s hand locked in his. With his free hand, he gestured to Ilya, who rested at his side in a line of tension. “This is Ilya. Rozanov. But you already know that.”

“Hi,” Ilya said, voice a little too low to be casual.

“My boyfriend,” Shane added, just to make sure it was clear.

His dad moved first.

“Hi,” Dad said, reaching around Mom to shake Ilya’s hand. “I’m David. Hope you like chicken parm.”

“I do,” Ilya said stiffly.

“Dad’s is the best,” Shane said. “He pulled out all the stops.”

“Your mom made the garlic bread,” his dad informed them. “It’s really good.”

All eyes went to his mom, who hadn’t moved. She was looking at Ilya very intently, studying him like she could see into his skull, reading every thought in his brain. Shane felt the fine tremor in Ilya’s hand as he waited for her judgment.

“Hello, Ilya,” she said finally. Shane watched in alarm as she swiped at her eyes and her chin wobbled slightly. “Sorry, I um,” she exhaled and shook her head and said, through tears, “Please, come in.”

Ilya stayed where he was as the rest of them moved further inside, the tension in their joined hands keeping Shane from taking more than a pair of steps away from him. “I do not want to make your mother uncomfortable,” he murmured, unaware that Yuna Hollander could hear a pin drop from across the street.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mom turned back to them, once again swiping away an errant tear. “It’s not you,” she said. “I just,” she sniffed. “You were in Boston, weren’t you? When Hayden and I talked.”

Ilya's voice was tight. Small. “No. He came to see me in Ottawa. Marleau, too.”

Shane closed his eyes, squeezed them shut as tight as he could. It was good for him to be reminded of the cost of his actions, the harm he’d caused trying to do everything the right way. What good was finesse if he still hurt the people he cared about? Just because Ilya had forgiven him, it didn’t mean Shane forgave himself. He wasn’t sure he ever would.

When he finally opened his eyes, his mom was standing before Ilya, going up on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck.

What Ilya didn’t know, even as he wrapped his arms around her carefully, was that this wasn’t the kind of thing his mom did. She wasn’t a hugger. Shane was raised in a perfectly normal household, where he and his parents said I love you often and spoke more days than they didn’t. But his mom had never been particularly tactile with anyone who wasn’t Shane’s dad. Sure, they hugged when they said hello or goodbye before and after flights or when a conversation took a lot out of them, but that was specifically for their family unit. It wasn’t the kind of thing Shane expected her to extend to his boyfriend. Not right away, at least.

She said something to Ilya, the words muffled by Ilya’s face, her lips too difficult to read through the curtain of her hair.

Ilya nodded along with whatever she said and she squeezed him a little bit tighter in response.

“Okay,” she decided after a moment, which Ilya correctly interpreted as his cue to step back. She looked between the two of them, then embraced Shane, planting a brief kiss on his forehead. “Okay,” she repeated, mostly to console herself. “We are all going to dry our eyes and enjoy David’s very delicious cooking.”

“I’m not crying,” Shane pointed out.

“Must be nice,” Ilya replied, sniffing.

“Must be,” his mom agreed.

There was no more crying at dinner, and not because his dad made a comment about having put enough salt in the sauce. There had been a few close calls during what Shane thought of as his parents’ interrogation, the long overdue questioning he’d warned Ilya was coming. Mostly, it was Ilya, in his carefully spoken English, saying things like I have only ever loved one person, and Summer before rookie season, I think, but probably since always, while Shane nudged his foot under the table and inarticulately said things like only one and me too.

Ilya ate more than Shane had ever seen, asked his mom how the bread was so crusty and tasty as he mopped up every last drop of sauce with it and they almost—almost made it through the entire night without anyone bringing up the countdown to free agency.

“So,” Mom said, when they were sitting at the cleared kitchen table, the dinner wine switched for vodka that had made Ilya’s eyes light up with surprise when his dad had pulled it out of the refrigerator rather than the freezer—the correct way to store it, he’d explained to Shane. “You’re signing with Ottawa?”

Shane groaned. “Mom,” he started.

“Is good team,” Ilya said. “Better every year.”

“Shane was a Centaurs fan as a kid,” his dad chimed in, only to react with a silent, telegraphed, What? when his mom gave him what Shane could only refer to as The Look.

“You said you wanted to come home,” she said. “I thought Canada. Ottawa is still years away from a cup.”

Ilya made a sound that suggested he had a very different opinion on the subject.

“I don’t want to do long distance again,” Shane said plainly. “I know we weren’t really in a relationship before, but it sucked.”

“And you’ll both be out? Russia’s going to be okay with that?”

“Mom!”

Ilya set his vodka down, shoved his thigh a little closer to Shane’s, the warmth of his body bleeding through his jeans. “No,” he said with a shrug, “Of course not. But I applied for permanent residency when I learned Shane still had feelings for, ah, Lily.” Shane tapped the toe of his shoe against Ilya’s. Ilya tapped back harder. “My Russian passport is good for long enough to get citizenship in Canada. Is not perfect, but I have lawyers. Team does not know about me yet, but they know I want Canadian citizenship. They were good to Briggs, and we have other queer people on staff. They will protect me if it comes to that.”

“He’s going to apply for citizenship once he hits the residency requirement,” Shane said.

“And that’s what you want?” His mom asked.

Shane lifted his chin to answer, but he wasn't the one being asked.

Beside him, Ilya took Shane’s hand before it could drum anxiously against his knee and placed it on his thigh instead. “Yes,” he said, nodding once, sharp and confident. “I will never go back to Russia. It is sad, but,” he pursed his lips, “It is nothing compared to the sadness I felt without Shane in my life these last few years.”

“Fuck you,” Shane said, feeling his eyes begin to well up.

Ilya tilted his head, looking so much like he wanted to say later, but he wouldn’t dare with his parents on the other side of the table. Instead, he said I love you in Russian, those three words that had quickly become Shane’s favorite Russian phrase, while his parents tittered quietly to themselves, thoroughly convinced that the love they saw on the other side of the table was genuine.

July, 2021
Ottawa, ON

Ilya was like an overexcited puppy once July hit, signalling the beginning of free agency. He was manic to an extent that Shane wondered if he'd slept the night before, if a sudden crash was incoming. The lack of walls between them—or maybe Shane’s desire for there not to be walls—made him giddy and sweet. He liked when Shane held his finger up to his lips in a demand for silence while he spoke to his agent, Farah Jalali, his eyes flashing in interest and focus when Shane put the call on speaker so they could listen to her recount the list of yesterday’s offerings together. It had been a slower than usual first day of free agency, the market holding its breath to see where Shane would land before teams went through the usual motions.

“Vancouver is all in,” she told him. “Edmonton, too. Both said some iteration of the sky being the limit, which means they'll go up to sixteen if you push. Calgary came in with fourteen, but said they could go fifteen five if you sign an eight year deal. In the States—” there was the sound of aggressive clicking as Farah rapidly went through emails and spreadsheets, confirming her data.

Ilya slithered down the bed, sleep warm and rumpled despite his earlier enthusiasm. He rested his head in Shane’s lap, arms coming around Shane’s middle, nose pressed to Shane's belly. He looked up intently, though his eyes closed when Shane dug his fingers into Ilya's tangled curls to scratch his scalp.

“Honestly, Shane, I've got offers from twenty eight of thirty two teams. I'd consider maybe fifteen of those.”

Ilya pinched his side, but Shane was pretty sure they had the same questions. “Who didn't bother?” He paused. “Beside the obvious.”

“Winnipeg, but I expected that. They have maybe six million in cap space and a couple guys up for extension. They did send a nice message saying they wished they could afford you.” Farah hummed. “Saint Louis offered five, because it's what they have, so I took them off the board. Thanks for playing.”

“And the Southwest?”

“Nope, they're in. Vegas offered a blank check and LA is desperate—they’d fire Lankeshaw into the sun if you said yes, but we agreed they were a no.” Shane could hear the frown in her voice. “Ottawa took Winnipeg's approach. Their GM called me to say they'd love to bring a hometown boy home but they didn't want to send an insulting offer. Rozanov's contract is up in two years and they're all in on him and Haas. Hayes is going to need a significant bump to consider sticking around after Toronto short changed him on his last deal and the number sounds like four and a half, which is a deal if you ask me.” She paused, noting, “Briggs is up next summer, too. Ottawa is loyal to their guys, I'll give them that.” Another pause. “They offered their facilities for the off-season, though. No questions asked. Kind of them.”

“They've been very supportive,” Shane agreed, feeling Ilya breathe out against his abdomen. He could hear the business-like tone of his own voice.

Ilya was watching him again. Wondering, probably, how Shane would play his hand.

“Thank everyone in the Southeast and West—who isn't Canadian,” he clarified, “For their interest. If you get asked, narrow it down to the Canadian teams, Boston, New York—”

“I'm sure that won't be taken out of context,” Farah pointed out.

“Probably will, but that's the new reality, right?”

“God, I love you Shane. You are my favorite client.”

Shane felt himself flush right around the same time Ilya muffled his snort of laughter into Shane's thigh, “Let’s add Detroit. I'm sure that will generate some buzz about me and Rose, but she knows it's coming. She checked in with me yesterday.”

Ilya went still against him.

Fuck, Shane thought. They'd talked about a lot of things over the last few weeks, but they’d never broached the subject of Rose.

Of course she was a sore spot. Had he even told Ilya that they were friends? He didn’t think it had come up. She'd been abroad filming the latest X-Squad movie for months and even when she wasn’t on location they had always talked sporadically. He kept her updated, even though he was pretty sure she was the most online person he’d ever met, but talking about her hadn't really registered to Shane as being important because for him, it was so far in the past.

That didn't mean Ilya felt the same way, he realized. He really sucked at this boyfriend thing, didn't he?

“Sounds good,” Farah said, pulling him out of the tailspin his stupid mouth had sent him into. “Do you have an idea of where you want to land? I know we agreed to table so you could think, but I would like to know what the short list is.”

“Ottawa,” he said. “Let the other teams talk. I'm sorry, I know that's more work for you, but—”

“To be clear,” she said. “Just Ottawa?”

“Yeah.”

There was a brief pause, the sound of a keyboard chittering quietly as Farah took notes. “Shane, Ottawa is out,” she told him, an edge in her voice that sounded a lot like she was talking to a child who couldn’t be bothered to listen, “They literally cannot afford you.”

“They can if I give them a deal.”

“Shane, if this is what you want—”

“I want to come home.” The words were a refrain. He'd said them so many times, but they were true, so he kept saying them. “My family—” he tightened his grip in Ilya's hair, made sure he was looking directly into Ilya's sad, serious eyes, not at his chin or cheeks or the line of his stubbled jaw, “Is here.” Ilya swallowed and looked away. “I want to play here,” he finished. “ I’ll sign for eight. For anyone else, the floor is fifteen, but,” he sighed, hoping that would convey he wouldn't be taking it. “The league’s paying me fifty million in damages. It's not like I'm struggling over here.”

“Okay,” Farah placated, sensing he was serious. “Okay. I would remind you that you paid almost half of that in lawyer fees, but I can tell your mind’s made up.” She paused, but the sound of activity on her end suggested she was making notes. “Ottawa it is. I'll put out feelers. They’ll probably need time to get Rozanov on board, even though I'm willing to bet you covered that on your trip to Boston last month as part of some well formed plan you strategically failed to mention…”

Wow, Ilya mouthed. She's good.

“Guilty,” he admitted. “I could call Carlton and make the offer myself—”

“Shane, you pay me literal millions to represent you. Please let me be your agent. I’ll call Carlton, tell him you’re interested and see what he’s willing to offer.”

And Ilya was back to laughing against him, though it seemed to be startled out of him against his will. Shane smacked his shoulder, which made him smirk and squeeze Shane around the middle before detangling himself and pointing toward the shower.

Shane grabbed his wrist to stop him. Unfortunately for Ilya, he'd guessed correctly: Farah was very, very good at what she did, do Shane was expecting what came next.

“Have you talked to Lily about what happens next?” She paused. “I assume that's the reason for all the background noise.”

Ilya whipped around, then perched himself beside Shane on the bed, throwing his hands up as if to indicate Farah must have very good hearing because he'd been very quiet the entire time.

“Hey, you called it,” Shane deadpanned. “She's the best in the game.” To Farah, he added, “We've discussed it. I don't plan on making a statement—” he laughed at himself a little, “And before you say anything, I know, I’m surprised at me too,” he gave Ilya a helpless look, “People will find out when they find out.”

“It might be sooner than you think, especially if Pike posts more pictures of Mister Rozanov looking at you with heart eyes on Instagram.”

“What the fuck—” Shane shoved a hand over Ilya’s mouth.

He was certain Farah had heard Ilya and his very distinct voice, but went with a flat, “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“You did not just use your media voice on me,” Farah exhaled, blowing out the phone speaker for a second. “I officially retract my earlier statement about you being my favorite client. I can already feel the headache coming on,” She said it tiredly, but her next words were accompanied by a rare warmth. “Good for you both.”

“Thanks, Farah.”

Ilya looked over at him for permission. Shane nodded. A little hesitant, Ilya added a quiet, “Thank you.”

“Let me know if you or your agent need any backup,” Farah told Ilya, then it was back to business.

Ilya went tense and still as Shane threw around terms (as long as possible, full no move clause) and Farah indicated they were both a given, followed by a heads up that they would have to discuss his relationship at some point, especially once the contract went through. She needed answers if she was going to be able handle matters on his behalf.

Honestly, Shane would just read the summary she emailed him later. The Ottawa situation would sort itself out eventually. Interest was there and that was enough to get the ball rolling. There were more important things

“So,” he ventured, “About Rose—”

“It is done then,” Ilya spoke over him, a little too fast for Shane to believe it wasn't premeditated. “As good as, right?” He paused. When Shane looked at him a little too expectantly, he switched topics. “Maybe I should fire my agent and work with Farah. Would you mind? She is very good.”

“Ilya.”

“What?”

His voice was so much harsher in the morning, each consonant practically weaponized by his accent. Shane wanted to burrow his face against Ilya's neck and nuzzle until the stubble there started to chafe his cheeks. Shane turned to him, tilting his head. “We're friends. We talk when she's not on set and I'm not too deep into the season. It's not—” he narrowed his gaze at the all too familiar look on Ilya's face, watching him try to play down his emotions. “I'm gay, Ilya.”

“I know that, Shane.” He replied petulantly. “But not so gay you couldn't fuck Rose Landry.”

“Twice,” he said, even though it was like one and a half times, maybe, “And both times were total disasters.” He'd never confessed that to anyone before. His cheeks felt hot.

“Disasters like how?”

Ilya could definitely see his blush.

“Let’s just say she isn’t looking for a repeat performance,” he groused. “It was years ago. I was scared. I thought I could pretend and I couldn't.” He scratched at a bit of fuzz stuck to Ilya's face to remove it, watching the way that handsome, serious face went slack as he processed Shane's words. “She figured it out and we agreed to stay friends.”

“Figured it out like she told you?” The look on Ilya’s face was thunderous, like he didn’t think any of this was particularly funny.

“I'm not exactly known for being good at like, relationships,” Shane pointed out. It wasn't a direct answer, but it wasn't a lie. He wasn’t ashamed of how it played out between them—he’d gained something far more valuable out of the demise of their relationship than he had by trying to force it—but he didn’t want to rehash crying into his drink at Ciel while Rose tried to hook him up with Miles and his heart tried to tear itself into itty bitty pieces that would take years to put back together.

“You are doing fine,” Ilya said.

Shane huffed. “Easy for you to say, you’re really good at,” he gestured between them, which Ilya shook his head at, “All this. I don’t—You don’t have to worry about Rose. I’ll introduce you over like, facetime or something. She doesn't know about you yet—nobody knew until Hayden and Cliff figured it out, but she knew there was someone. I was pretty obvious.”

“Fine,” he relented, placated for now, “But you are wrong. More people know than that.”

“What?” It felt like someone dumped a bucket of cold water over Shane’s head. “Who?”

“Svetlana, Hazy, and my rookies.” Ilya looked at him like he was crazy, which meant Shane hadn't done a good job of hiding his surprise about that second part. “You told Briggsy, yes?”

“I didn’t.”

“Ah. Then Luca figured it out. He is very smart, that one.” He smiled fondly. “You will like him. Like mini Shane Hollander but more top energy.”

“Oh my god, Ilya,” Shane drawled, letting his head drop sideways. It thunked against Ilya's cheek before dropping to his shoulder. “You can't just like… out people.”

“I know Derek told you he is with Luca. I bet he tells you everything. I know what your name is in his phone.”

Shane flushed. “Yeah. I mean, kind of, but still.”

“So? What is big deal? I know, you know, is not like we are screaming it from rooftops to strangers.”

“You’re unbelievable.” Shane rose, throwing his phone behind him on the bed as he pushed past Ilya to take the ensuite. “See if I let you shower with me now.”

“Mm, you will,” purred Ilya. “You know I will make it worth your while.”

He wasn’t wrong, but Shane still made a whole production out of pretending to shut him out.

—

The messages came at a breakneck pace. Ilya was busy packing a bag to take to the cottage, but he'd left his phone behind to annoy Shane in the living room.

“I think your team chat is blowing up,” Shane yelled across the house, right around the time the phone calls and facetime requests started.

“Well, someone waited a week to sign the contract they'd practically written themselves,” Ilya called from what he'd begun referring to as their bedroom, which made Shane smile every single time, “Then went full primadonna about press access and embargos.”

“Sorry I didn't want to blow up our summer with a bunch of media appearances,” he replied, hearing the moody edge of his own voice. “I was hoping we'd be at the cottage when the news broke.”

“And whose fault is that?”

It was Ilya's and they both knew it, so Shane said, “You're the one who spent three hours deciding what color iPhones we needed from the Apple Store—”

He tried and failed to wipe the smile off his face before Ilya popped his head out of the bedroom, yelling, “I am sorry, I wanted to match with my boyfriend who wanted to be very boring and pick black when I know he liked the purple one better—”

Shane spoke over him, “Then insisted on going into the store to make sure everything transferred over even though I'd paid to have said phones—whose color I compromised on, you asshole—delivered.”

“I did not want to lose any pictures!”

Shane shook his head. “Your boyfriend said he could help you with that at his cottage—”

“Yes but if something happened because my phone is as old and decrepit as Scott Hunter my boyfriend would never forgive himself.”

Ilya was right about that, at least. Ilya also knew that he was right, which made him very smug as he sauntered into the living room and reached for one of the two red phones on the table.

Naturally, he picked up Shane's, which he only knew because the face ID didn't work. He turned it toward Shane but Shane snatched it from his hands and handed the very annoyingly buzzy one to him instead, which connected immediately when it saw his face blinking down at the screen.

“Rozanov! Finally!” A loud voice called, testing the new speaker “I know you know the news. Monk’s. Now.”

“Bood, I am busy packing for trip,” He argued.

“I’ve seen you pack in four minutes, Cap. This is way more important and you know it. Shane fucking Hollander signed. Captain Canada is going to play for our goddamn team, and I want to know who the fuck is responsible for it.”

“Embargo lifts at six,” Ilya looked to him for confirmation, even though Shane was about ninety nine percent positive he knew exactly what time everything was set to occur.

“It’s four thirty. Fucking happy hour, man. Just come out. I asked Briggsy to get a hold of Hollander but he hasn't answered yet. I think he went golfing or some shit with the rest of the kids.”

“I'm leaving in a couple hours,” he groaned, looking to Shane for backup.

“Russia can wait, Roz,” Bood insisted incorrectly, almost whining. “This is important.”

Shane shrugged.

Ilya's eyes darkened. “On second thought, maybe. I will call you back.”

He hung up while Zane Boodram was still talking.

“Now you don't want to leave?”

“We can meet Boodram for happy hour.”

“You do not understand.”Ilya threw himself across the couch, invading Shane's personal space. “Boodram is inviting the entire team. Is what he does. He is, what the fuck is—ah! Master of ceremonies. And grill. He is very serious about barbecue. You will see.” He cut himself off. “It will become massive party. If we go we will not make it to the cottage until tomorrow afternoon.”

Shane wanted to go to the cottage. He wanted it so badly, but the part of his brain hardwired to being a professional knew it was important to bond with his new teammates.

“Yeah, but they're technically my teammates now. We could surprise them. Plus, I haven't seen Derek yet, he went with Luca and their friends to Cabo, so.”

“Yes,” Ilya hummed, “The kids trip. I saw all the pictures. I am glad they were sloppy in the group chat and not on Instagram.

Shane smirked. He'd gotten more than a couple drunk texts from Derek. It was good that he'd felt comfortable letting loose a little.

“They will shit themselves if you come with me.” Ilya was definitely scrolling through said group chat now. “They think you fucked off to your fortress of solitude in the wilderness of Lanaudière.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Isn't that the ice palace thing from Superman?”

“I don't know, probably? Fucking Hazy and his superhero shit,” Ilya swore. His eyes flicked up over the edge of his phone. “You are sure you want to go?”

“Yeah.” He watched Ilya's smile unfurl. “Do you think we need to tell Derek and Luca to keep things quiet?”

“I think they know better, but we will call them on the way.”

Derek probably would have ignored group chat blowing up if Luca hadn’t made a sound like a mouse, sharp and shrill and way too fucking cute to ignore. They were on their final hole of the afternoon—there was a joke in there somewhere but Derek liked to think he was mature enough not to make it—Bergy at the tee box about to swing.

“You alright over there, Haas?”

“No,” Luca told them on a delay, eyes never leaving his phone. “I mean, I’m fine, but holy fuck.”

“What? What’s going on?”

“We signed Hollander.”

Bergy dropped his club, his ball rolling off the box and down the slope. That was fair, because Derek’s jaw was currently making a valiant attempt at hitting the ground.

“No fucking way,” LaPointe said. “We can’t afford Captain Canada. Even you said that, Derek.”

“I did,” Derek replied, though nobody had listened when he said Shane didn’t like being called that. “Who reported it?”

“No reports. It’s in team chat. Apparently they’re dropping the presser tonight and wanted to give us the heads up in advance,” Young moved fast when he was motivated, and for a man who acted like he was more brawn than brains on the ice, his reading speed was rapid. “Hazy just posted a meme of the bat signal with a twenty-four instead of a bat, and Bood’s calling for everybody to get to Monk’s asap.”

“And they want you to call him,” Luca informed Derek, explaining, “Since you’re the only person on the team with his number.”

Derek wasn’t so sure about that. He was pretty sure their captain also had his number, a theory Luca also agreed with, despite his insistence otherwise to their friends. “Let’s finish up here and I’ll text him. We can call it now or—”

“Uh, yeah, we’re calling it,” Pointer was looking at him like he’d grown another head, Bergy nodding profusely beside him, “My ass will be on a barstool to watch the broadcast of that presser because I cannot believe it.”

“Hear, hear,” Holmberg agreed. “Everybody to the cart. I’m driving.”

Bergy, as the only sports car owner and enthusiast among them, liked to be the one driving in critical situations. Personally, Derek loved chirping him for it. It was hilarious.

“You know it’s a golf cart, right? This thing might go thirty miles an hour with a half ton of hockey player and gear loaded on it.”

“Shut up, Bigrig, or you’ll be walking back to the clubhouse.”

—

Monk's was dead, as it usually was in the off-season. An alt rock song blasted a little too loudly over the speakers and the TVs showed highlights from a Blue Jays game, closed captions fucked up and perpetually behind. Derek had played baseball as a kid, but much like golf, he barely tolerated playing and downright hated watching it.

It was good, then, that Luca was tucked under his arm, Bergy, Pointer, and Young coming around them like heat-seeking projectiles, noticing the animated discussion between Bood and Hazy at the bar.

“Children!” Dykstra was also present, having just gotten a beer from their usual bartender, Laurie. “You look sun kissed. Keeping the good times rolling from Cabo?’

“Fuck me,” Luca said quietly, flushing hotly as he detached himself from Derek. “We're never going to live that down.”

“Probably not.” Definitely not, he thought.

There may have been a four am photo dump in the team group chat (rather than their friends chat) which included many, many incriminating photos of the five of them. Personally, Derek thought they were funny and cute, even if his hindbrain recoiled with a very specific kind of panic at not remembering the rave where most of the photos were taken. He certainly looked blackout drunk, eyes blown and glossy as he danced way too close with Luca for public consumption.

Roz had personally congratulated them for being young and stupid, which was a ringing endorsement and eternal damnation wrapped up into one.

So, no. They would not be living it down.

“Call your boy, Briggs,” Boodram ordered, patting the seat next to him. “Right fucking now.”

“Already tried. His phone is off.”

“Rozy told Bood there's gonna be a press conference.”

“Of course Roz knew,” Luca murmured. Wyatt elbowed him, shooting him a dry smile, which made Derek snort.

Of course Hazy knew everything, he thought.

To be fair, he wasn't the only one in the know. Derek and Luca had stopped home to drop their car off in anticipation of this turning into what their hangouts at Monk’s always turned into: a shit show that either closed the place down or sent them off to either Bood or Hazy's place to hang out and destroy five hundred bucks worth of pizza.

Thankfully, that also meant that it was just the two of them when Roz had called Luca to tell them to keep their mouths shut about anything they thought they knew, Shane nagging him in the background not to be an asshole and getting a half a greeting in before Roz said Smell you later, rookies and hung up while Shane told him off some more, which was about as close to verbal confirmation as they would get on something Luca and Derek had already convinced themselves they knew.

Luca had showed Derek the Instagram post that placed them in Boston with a couple of Raiders players courtesy of Hayden Pike. Derek hadn't been able to find his profile when he looked, but he never claimed to be savvy when it came to being online. At the time, Luca had given him a look that said he was kind of an idiot and said Of course he blocked you. He's jealous.

Of what, Derek didn't know. Pike was a damn good hockey player and most definitely Shane's best friend if those pictures were anything to go by, but whatever.

A couple of others showed up. Harris and Troy, who were together, no surprise, Harris looking tanned while Troy had a pink flush to his nose and cheeks that was definitely sunburn, came in looking gleeful. Bood immediately honed in on Harris, demanding details, because someone had to schedule important updates on the team's social media page and it was definitely him. Tanner Dillon showed up with Chewie not long after, the two of them waving at everyone on their way to the bartender, ordering drinks before joining the crowd.

Last—well, not last, technically—but not least was Rozanov, who threw open the door like he owned the place and yelled, “Listen up, Fuckers!” Like he was about to give a pregame speech rather than making a grand entrance at their local watering hole.

“Dude, we didn't buy out the bar,” Hazy yelled back.

Roz scanned the room, noticed the four-top in the corner with their half price nachos and pints and waved. They waved back. “They don't mind,” he decided on their behalf. “Now. I am sure you all have questions and want to watch big press conference. We will not be doing that.”

Tanner and Barrett booed him. Some of the other guys joined in. More than a couple ice cubes were fished from drinks and pelted at him.

Laurie, their favorite bartender, yelled, “Cut it out or get cut off, heathens,” which was why she was their favorite.

A chorus of apologies followed, but then it was back to business.

“Why no presser, Cap?” Bood asked.

“Finally someone asks,” Roz said, exasperated, acting like he'd been waiting forever. He reached behind himself to push the door open a crack. “We will not be watching because we have special guest.”

“No shot,” Pointer muttered somewhere behind Derek's back. “No fucking shot.”

Bergy and Young made similar sounds of anticipation and disbelief.

“Rozy, you're fucking killing us,” Hazy gestured to the gaggle of hockey players assembled at the bar. “Get on with it.”

“Fine, fine.” Roz sighed very dramatically. The door Roz hadn't cracked open swung wide as Shane stepped inside, pocketing his sunglasses and smiling a little awkwardly. Roz held his hands up like a conductor trying to silence the band before the big finale. “Everyone, allow me to introduce your new second favorite Centaur, Shane Hollander.”

“What the fuck, Rozanov,” Shane said, doing a poor job of looking upset. “Second favorite?”

“Yes, after me. Is my team.”

“Fuck you,” he said, shoving Roz, who looked positively incandescent at the prospect of banter between them. “This is my hometown.”

“Mmh, score more points than me and we can talk.”

“You know I will,” Shane glared up at him.

Roz grinned. “You will not.”

“Oh my god,” someone murmured. Derek thought it might have been Bergy. “We're gonna win the cup.”

Chouinard clapped Bood on the back, shoving him forward. They shared a little look as he did, raised eyebrows and shock giving way to excitement.

“Well? Are you fucks going to greet him or should we go back and tell Carlton you are not interested in playing with best players in hockey?”

“You shut your mouth, Rozy,” Bood strode forward and offered Shane his hand. “Holy shit,” he said, when they shook.

“Very eloquent, Mister Assistant Captain,” Roz swung around Bood, clapping his shoulder as he went over to the bar.

Shane smiled, a little lopsided. “Ignore him, he's very excited he got to do the grand reveal.”

“Sorry. I just can't fucking believe it. I know Carlton told us and Wiebe confirmed, but like, you're here.”

“For the next eight years,” he said.

“No fucking way.” Everyone looked over at Derek. “What? We're all fucking thinking it!”

Roz laughed at Derek’s expense as the bartender came over to serve him. With a put upon sigh, he said, “Laurie, tell me you have ginger ale. Canada's golden boy has returned home and I do not think it is on the menu.”

“I guess he has,” Laurie said, surveying the room. Her eyes were wide enough to betray her surprise, but like always, she was a professional. To be fair, it was her bar and had been the Cents’ local haunt for years. “I'll send one of the dishwashers to pick up a couple cases.”

“Thank you,” Roz said, and Derek didn’t need to see Laurie scoff to know he’d put way too much money on the bartop. Over his shoulder, he called, “You hear that, Hollander? Star treatment!”

“I can drink beer, you asshole,” Shane yelled back. The boys were lining up for handshakes and introductions. Outside of the rink it looked like a lopsided, pseudo-receiving line.

Roz rolled his eyes and gestured to the shelves of liquor behind the bar. “We are doing shots, Hollander,” He called back. “You will need chaser, da?”

—

They do a lot of shots. Did, Derek revised as Rozanov tried to summon everyone back to the bar for another. He definitely should not do any more. Everything was a little blurry, blame split between the drinks and shots and the dim light of the bar. He felt good. Luca sat across the table from him, talking right up in Pointer's face, hands flapping excitedly as he did.

He was so fucking adorable. And handsome. Derek wanted to do unspeakable things to him.

A glass of water landed solidly in front of him, ice cubes clinking. He watched over his shoulder as Shane dragged over a chair from an unoccupied table nearby to give himself a place to sit.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Derek said, leaning over with the intention to hug his friend and mentor. Instead, he promptly lost his balance, nearly sliding out of his chair. He was such a klutz when drunk.

“Hey, kid—whoa.” Shane was a pillar, easily taking his weight to push him back upright. He laid a cold hand on the back of his neck while the room righted itself.

“Oh my God, Derek,” Luca giggled. “You're cut off.” He pointed in Derek's direction, but his finger was a little too far to the left.

Pointer hiccuped. “You're Shane Hollander.”

“That’s me,” he said. “You're,” he looked Pointer up and down. “LaPointe, right?”

“You know my name!” Derek was pretty sure he’d never seen Richard LaPointe look like an over-eager toddler before. He hoped he wasn’t too wasted to forget so he could give him shit for it in the group chat tomorrow.

“You introduced yourself to me,” Shane reminded Pointer, not unkindly. He hadn’t actually sat down yet, but he did make a slashy motion with his hand in the direction of the bar where Roz was hollering about them being lightweights. “I think all of you should probably be cut off. Waters?” He looked around the table.

“Dude, we can’t make Shane Hollander get us water,” Bergy whisper-shouted.

“You’re not making him do anything,” Derek advised, feeling a little bit like an expert on the subject. “He’s just like that.”

A hand patted Derek on the head, then proceeded to mess up his already messed up, likely very sweaty hair if the raucous laughter from Luca, Bergy, and Pointer were anything to go by. “Behave yourselves, children,” Shane said dryly.

“Ugh, stop it,” Derek was flushing as he tried and failed to make his hair sit the way it was supposed to.

Luca kicked him under the table when Shane walked away. At least, he was pretty sure it was Luca, because Bergy and Pointer were arguing about who won at golf earlier, despite both of them being tied before they called it quits.

“He’s hotter in person,” Luca complained, cheeks red with inebriation and embarrassment..

Derek rolled his eyes even though Luca wasn’t wrong. Shane had shown up in a linen shirt, shorts, and boat shoes, the usual summertime uniform of an athlete, except his shirt was unbuttoned half way and he wasn’t wearing an undershirt. As the night had gone on, even with the overhead fans turned up as fast as they could go and bar’s doors propped open—both entrances and the patio boasting signs that the place was closed after half the population of the city had tried to come celebrate with them—sweat had made his shirt stick to his frame, showing off sinew and muscle and… yeah. Derek wasn’t into Shane, but he could appreciate one of the most attractive men in the game.

“And so fuckin’ cool,” Young said, pouring himself into the seat Shane had dragged over. He had the drunken wobble going on, waving back and forth. “Y’gotta fight against the man, you know? Fuck the Metros. I’m glad they lost those picks.” He sighed, listing sideways against Derek and slurring, “I’m so fuckin’ hyped for camp.”

“Ooohkay,” Bood, who seemed to pop up out of nowhere, plucked the whiskey out of Young’s hand with the deftness of a parent, ignoring Young’s incoherent argument and flailing arms. “I think you kids are done.”

“Mom’s already getting us water,” Derek told him, which got everyone looking at him strangely. Well, almost everyone, because Luca was too busy laughing. “What? That’s what his name is in my phone!”

“I can feel the heat of that blush from here,” Bergy chirped. “You’re looking pink, Bigrig.”

“Fuck you!”

“Why do I feel like I’ve walked into something,” Shane remarked, handing Young a water before going around to the opposite side of the table to distribute the rest. He’d managed to convince one of the bartenders to give him a serving tray, which seemed about right.

Bood cackled. “Nothing too bad, Hollzy, Briggs was just telling us how you adopted him.”

“Oh,” Shane shrugged. “Yeah, more or less,” he said. “We lived together and he was kind of a mess.”

“Like how?” Pointer’s eyes had lit up. “He’s so stuffy and put together except when we get him shwasted.”

“You mean like now?” Bergy asked.

Derek felt his chest puff up. “What the hell do you mean, stuffy?”

He was too busy arguing that he was not stuffy, but rather far less immature than his younger teammates to notice Bood’s departure with the tray Shane had borrowed. He did notice when Shane pulled up another chair, this time in the gap between Bergy and Luca, the latter of which was chattering to him amicably, cheeks red with a flush that was definitely not all alcohol.

Shane had made a point to work the room. Over the course of the night he’d played darts and pool and even air hockey, then stood around and shot the shit with the boys while nursing his ginger ale. He wasn’t the most talkative guy, but it was different than Derek remembered. In Sweden, Shane came out when playoffs hit, or when it was mandatory—team dinners, championship celebrations, that sort of thing—he never showed up just because, and he certainly didn’t go around the room and make a point of talking to everyone. It was strange, kind of. He knew Shane was charismatic in that famous, yet down-to-earth sort of way. He just hadn’t expected to see what that looked like in a group social setting without it being an official function.

This was an impromptu get together, so either Shane had volunteered, or Rozanov had convinced him to come.

And speaking of Rozanov, he came by, vodka in hand, looking like he was fucking floating. Derek watched as he fist bumped all them, realized they were drinking water, and sighed.

“You are taking care of the kids already,” he said to Shane. “Why am I not surprised?”

Shane smirked up at him. “Probably last call for you too, Captain. Pull up a seat.”

“Oooh,” Bergy said, “He’s comin’ for Roz’s job.”

“Nonsense,” Roz handed Shane his drink to hold while he grabbed one of the few remaining chairs. He perched on it gracefully, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back like a rockstar, his shirt gaping open to reveal the glint of his necklace. Shane handed back the drink, eyes darkening as Roz took a sip of it and smacked his lips at the taste. “Hollander does not need letter on his chest to be leader, children. Is important lesson to learn. Actions matter and all that.”

“Who are you and where’s Roz?” Luca chirped, amiably.

Roz’s eyes narrowed. “You are lucky it is off season or I’d tell coach bag skate in the morning. I am always this wise, you are just not listening to me.”

“Okay, that’s bullshit,” Shane smacked Roz’s arm. “You called him a mini-me, so I know he’s listening carefully to everything his captain says.”

“Except for when he’s an asshole,” Luca revised.

Suck up, Derek thought, noting Shane’s smirk at his comment. He wondered if Luca would be so bold if he wasn’t drinking and decided he’d probably be a little mortified in the morning.

“It was nice knowing you, Haas,” Pointer gulped. “We should not have revisited that tequila.”

Laughter erupted from Roz. He shook his head, wiping tears from his eyes. “I love that my little rookie has claws. You really are baby Shane Hollander,” he told Luca, who couldn’t decide whether or not he was being trash talked or complimented so had chosen to purse his lips into a semi-petulant frown. Rozanov sobered, expression simmering into something rather serious for a chat with the team’s younger players twenty minutes before the bar closes. “But you will be better. Probably better than both of us,” he said, gesturing to Shane beside him. “You are so much smarter than we were at your age.”

His gaze briefly flicked to Derek halfway through the sentence. It felt like every nerve ending in Derek’s body lit up, but Roz was still talking.

“You are future of the franchise, Haasy. The next generation. We will build you a fucking empire and you will carry on our legacy.”

Luca had tears in his eyes when Derek managed to tear his eyes away from Rozanov. His lip was wobbling, but he set his shoulders and nodded like he was officially accepting some sort of mantle even though it was clear he didn’t trust himself to speak.

“I’ll drink to that,” Shane said, holding out his ginger ale to clink against their waters and Rozanov’s vodka.

August, 2021
Lanaudière, QC

Ilya wandered out of the cool darkness of the bedroom looking rumpled and furious. It was late, nearly four in the afternoon. He’d been asleep since last night, forced awake by the shrill ring of his phone. Prior to that, he’d been semi-coherent, lucid just enough to grumble and groan at Shane when he checked in after his morning run to see if Ilya wanted to get up. He hadn’t, so Shane let him rest—he knew he’d be nothing but a nuisance if he went back to bed, incapable of holding still for very long with his brain wide awake and begging for stimulation—occupying himself with maintenance work around the cottage until storms rolled in and drove him inside.

The muffled Russian Shane could hear over the low drone of the tv had a sharp edge to it. Shane shuddered in the memory of the last time he’d heard that tone from a room over, but tried his best to pretend like he was focused on the documentary on screen.

He wasn’t sure if Ilya bought it, but it didn’t seem like he was up for talking. Instead, he perched himself on the edge of the couch, clad only in yesterday’s boxer briefs, before giving up and listing sideways to maneuver himself so that his head was in Shane’s lap and his body was curled up as small as he could make it.

Shane ignored the sour scent of morning breath and the tangible oily feeling beneath his fingers when they naturally found their way into Ilya’s hair.

Their first two weeks at Shane’s cottage had been utter bliss. A lot of it had been sex in every room, position, and manner that suited their fancy, but that was to be expected. When they untangled from each other enough to venture outside, they’d taken the kayaks out and swam in the lake, had bonfires, and even went up to his parents’ cabin for a night, getting drunk on his mom’s book club sangria. The next morning, his dad had made them his special hangover breakfast and Ilya declared it the best thing he’d ever eaten.

The last few days had been a little harder. Farah started pushing, asking Shane to commit to doing some media after his former coach Thieralt did a podcast circuit with some ‘tell-all’ story now that he was relieved of his duties. Ilya’s agent asked if he was going to blow off his brand deals after weeks of dodging calls and failing to disclose his newfound permanent residency to the person who had managed his career for the last twelve years. It was already starting to feel like the rest of the world was closing in. And then, this.

Whatever this was.

“You okay?” Shane asked, instead of do you want to talk about it? It seemed like the safer option, the one that wouldn’t make him defensive and angry right away. He kept his eyes on the wall above the TV, focused entirely on Ilya in a way that hopefully wouldn’t draw attention to it.

Ilya was silent for long moments, watching the yellow eyes of a panther emerge from the shadows of a rainforest on screen. The narrator droned on in a dry accent that sounded vaguely British. “Maybe,” he murmured, voice rough and sleepy. “I don’t know.” He sniffed. “I’m tired.”

The rain picked up outside, the trees rustling in the wind, casting shifting shadows across the hardwood. Raindrops pelted the roof in a muted staccato. Ilya blinked up at the skylights long enough to see where the new sounds had come from before smooshing his face against Shane’s thigh once more.

Shane pulled the soft throw blanket that was draped across the back of the couch over Ilya, who wiggled to cover himself up, pulling the coral colored linen up to his chin once he’d made sure the rest of him was cocooned sufficiently enough. He leaned down and kissed Ilya’s forehead once he’d settled, whispering a “You can go back to sleep if you want,” instead of pushing him to share if he didn’t want to.

A hand squeezed his knee, but Ilya remained quiet, tucked under the blanket and blinking sightlessly at the television.

They passed hours that way. It was dark—actual dark, not just from the storms—when Ilya forced himself upright. Shane had tried not to stare at him, but he was pretty sure Ilya had just laid there, somewhere between awake and sleep. Every time he’d looked down, Ilya’s eyes were half-lidded and empty, like someone had sucked all the life out of him.

“I will shower,” Ilya told him. “Then I have to go into town.”

“Want me to—”

“No.” The refusal felt like a slap, hard, and absolute. Ilya shook his head, his expression softening. “I have taken up enough of your day.”

That was a lie. Ilya had laid on Shane for a couple hours while Shane watched whatever he wanted. It wasn’t like he was some prisoner. He could’ve moved out from under Ilya, swapped in a pillow or something.

He wanted to know what was going on so bad. He wanted to ask was that your family on the phone? Do you like them? Do they like you? Why does it sound like you’re being pulled apart by the seams every time you talk to them? Maybe it was unfair because he’d only ever heard Ilya talk to his family twice in private settings. He discounted the draft because everything about that day had been a chaotic blur of nervousness and disappointment at going second.

“You haven’t,” he said slowly. “I like having company.”

“Ah,” Ilya answered. “Even stinky company like me?” He made a point to smell his armpits and recoil. The humor felt strange and off-putting.

“Yup.” He tried and failed to be casual about it, watching Ilya’s expression fracture after less than a minute of putting up a brave, if self-depricating, front. “I want to be here. With you, I mean,” he clarified haltingly. “Where and how doesn't really matter.”

The blanket fell to the floor, forgotten as Ilya dropped back onto the couch beside him. His eyes were hard, his mouth twisted in something that looked small and shameful, like a child caught doing something they shouldn’t.

“My brother called,” Ilya told him. “He wants what he always wants.” He exhaled harshly. “Money.”

Nodding, Shane tried to read between the lines but decided whatever he’d come up with would probably not be right, so he settled on an inadequate, but no less heartfelt, “That sucks.”

“Yes,” sighed Ilya, “It does.”

—

Shane expected Ilya to drive as fast as Shane would allow him to through the backroads of cabin country. Ilya did not. He drove a respectable ten kilometers an hour above the speed limit. They'd gone into town not for Ilya to visit a bank—You do not have banking app? It is twenty-twenty-one, Hollander, oh my god—but rather for cigarettes.

Not rolling his eyes when he found out the purpose of their trip into town had been some kind of red flag for Ilya, like Shane was allowing him to have them out of pity. Personally, Shane thought that was stupid. He thought smoking was stupid, too, but he understood that for a lot of people it was a social and cultural thing. Like drinking, which Shane only did very fleetingly, in social situations. He liked to think that a couple years in Europe had made him a little more accepting.

“Do… Do you want me to yell at you for it?”

“You always did.” Ilya paused. “You shouldn't smoke, Rozanov, is bad for you, Rozanov, makes your mouth taste worse than ass—”

Shane shoved him in the Shopper’s parking lot.

Ilya laughed his way back to the car, carton of cigarettes tucked under his arm. “What? Is true! You like eating ass. Is like special treat.”

“You're ridiculous,” Shane said, smiling. He didn’t argue the point for obvious reasons. “I don't want you to get, like, lung cancer. Obviously,” he shrugged. “But I’m not going to throw a fit if you smoke, Ilya. Might chirp you a bit when I outskate you, though.”

“Me?” Ilya pointed to himself. “You could never. I smoke to even play-field. Playing field?”

Shane nodded.

“Yes, this.”

His satisfied expression made Shane smile.

Ilya did not drive them back immediately. He steered them onto new roads, ignoring the GPS, bent elbow stuck out the window. He didn't drive the speed limit (no one really did, not even Shane) but rather by feel: they went fast enough to feel the wind but slow enough to keep the windows down without the reverb of road noise. They stopped a couple times to watch deer in a field, Ilya pulling off to illuminate them with his high beams, grass and rocks kicked up at the Merceces’ undercarriage.

“You should be more careful with your car.”

“Is your car, I am just borrowing it,” he corrected.

“You bought it.”

“You like driving it and I like you not driving boring jeep.”

“I do not,” Shane protested, even though Ilya wasn't completely wrong. “Your other cars are just too fast.”

“For these roads, yes,” Ilya flicked ash out the window. “If we retire here I will want three wheeler or something.”

Shane forced himself to play it cool, ignoring the way his heart kicked at the prospect. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Ah, but I was going to say big chopper with the handlebars,” he held out his hands to indicate how high they'd be and laughed at Shane’s expression.

“At least one hand on the steering wheel please, for fuck’s sake.”

Still cackling, Ilya put his hands back on the wheel even as he argued, “Is straight road. Nobody is on it but us.”

“Still. What if a deer crossed in front of us? He paused, watching Ilya's eyebrows creep higher, then went in for the kill. “Or a loon?”

“Oh fuck no,” Ilya shuddered. “If loon jumped out at us I would hit it. Splat.”

Shaking his head, Shane said, “You can't run over a loon. They're protected. There are laws.”

“Laws to protect shitty bird?”

“I mean, they're protected under like, federal law so yeah, I guess. You shouldn't hit them anyway, even if you're scared of them. Especially not with my car.”

“Oh, so now it is your car.”

“You said!”

Ilya looked over. His eyes were warm, even in the dark. Shane could just tell. He took Shane's left hand in his right and traced over his knuckles. “I did,” he said, pleased. “I will share with you. If you want new car, I will take you shopping during season. Harris would film it for social media. People would love it. You would hate my choices but I would have secret option for boring safe car and not a Ferrari.”

“Oh yeah? What kind of boring car would you buy me?”

“Mm, I will have to think about this. Whatever is most boring car with best safety rating. Maybe instead I put big bow on this one and hire someone to do decals so it says Rozanov and my number on the doors. Oh, and Centaurs logo on hood.”

“That would be so tacky.”

“Yes,” Ilya took a drag of his cigarette. “But funny, especially if people think it is your car.” He thought about it a moment, exhaling smoke. “You would be bad at prank war if we started one. I would have to tell you in advance. I bet you hate surprises.” He was smiling.

“I do,” Shane admitted.

On one well documented occasion, the Metros vets had decided to throw him a birthday party his rookie season, except they hadn't made the playoffs and the party had been thrown a month early. He hadn't seen it coming and had staved off the panic long enough to grimace through the photos and the singing and a single bite of a cake before retreating to the showers. It wasn't their fault Shane was different, but nobody ever tried it again.

Ilya hummed. “I will make sure there are none. They are good people. I know you have only met them once, but—”

“I know they are. They love you.”

“Not like you do,” Ilya pointed out.

“Better not,” Shane said, which earned them a smile.

“It would be funny, to play on rivalry,” Ilya said. “I will still want to beat you on the stat sheet.”

“Me too,” he agreed, because he did.

Some part of Shane had never forgiven Ilya for going first overall, for beating him back in 2008 at World Juniors, for dazzling the scouts and convincing them that he was the best player in their draft year. He had a feeling Ilya felt the same when it came to Rookie of the Year. Things that couldn't be changed, where there was only one shot and no chance to catch up, they had a way of staying with you.

Disappointment was good, in a way. It made you hungry. It made you push harder, made you want to find your limits and smash past the things that limited you. Shane felt like he had been doing that his entire career, right up until Sweden.

In Sweden, he'd been the best. It wasn't a contest. Sure he played hard, and it wasn't like he didn't have an off night here or there, but even at his worst he could feel the gap, even if he never acknowledged it. It had felt like overcorrecting: The Metros had made him feel like he wasn't enough, wasn't living up to the expectations they had, the investment they'd made in him. Växjö had just been happy he showed up. The room was better—kinder, more intelligent, more cohesive—but it had instilled in Shane a fear of backsliding, waking up one morning to find he'd become complacent.

Even if he never really thought he'd end up coming back to the league, there was still the Olympics, which had been a joke considering MLH players were barred from participating, and, well, maybe Shane had secretly thought it wouldn't be forever. Some delusional, foolishly hopeful part of him had thought that the Metros or the League would reach out and try to make amends.

“Are you thinking or,” Ilya made a swirling motion with his index finger.

Shane blinked. His sightless gaze had been focused on the deteriorating yellow reflective paint dissecting the road ahead into two uneven lanes. “Honestly?”

“Obviously, yes.” Ilya snuck a glance at him.

“I was just thinking that I'm really looking forward to being back. I know it will be different, but—”

Ilya didn't make him say it. “You were so bored. You want an actual challenge.”

He nodded and set the truth free. “Fuck, I was.” He felt himself blush, feeling bad about being honest. “I'm a little scared that I just jinxed myself for training camp, but—”

Ilya blew a raspberry. “I watched you in playoffs—” he cut himself off to wave Shane off before he could say something about it. “Yes, I was very sad and pathetic, Svetlana made fun of me for insisting to watch you play instead of taking nap before games.”

“That's—you weren't pathetic, Ilya.”

Another plume of smoke was sent out the open window. “Mmm, no, I was. She said I was like teenage girl with unreturned—requited? English is stupid.” He sighed. “I was like girl with crush, all heart eyes like little puppy dog, but I was watching. You are still good. Will be an adjustment, a little, but you are still the best in the game. I would not lie to you. Not about hockey.”

“I don't think you'd lie to me about anything,” Shane blurted, then flushed even harder.

They rolled to a stop at a T-intersection. Ilya indicated left, toward the cottage, toward home, but the car didn't move.

“Not on purpose,” he said gently, eyes focused on the stop sign straight ahead. “Sometimes I think I am struggling, but I don't know,” he let out a breath. It sounded heavy. “Is hard, sometimes.” He gestured with his hands, like a shifting scale. “I do not mean to be difficult.”

It was strange to come around full circle to what had begun all this, but also not. They had spent so much time talking—having sex, really—instead saying anything to one another that it was all bound to leak out eventually now that they were actively trying to communicate.

“You're not.”

“I am,” Ilya looked over at him, eyes a little glossy. He wasn't crying or anything, but his eyes caught what little light there was in the dark.

Shane frowned, trying to figure out what he meant. So much of what he had originally thought Ilya to be… wasn't. There was a difference between what Ilya showed the world, the league, the fans, the game, and the man Shane knew from stolen moments across a decade. This Ilya, his Ilya was not lesser. If anything he was sweeter, more genuine. Maybe a little too accommodating, but that could be the newness, the fear that this was a fever dream and not their new reality. Shane felt that way, too.

It was hard to be open with someone, even someone you loved. Shane was kind of lucky that his business had been made public: Ilya (and everyone else for that matter, though maybe not to the same extent) knew all about his struggles. The darkest, scariest parts of himself were mostly out there, for the world to see.

He got the feeling Ilya wasn't like that, that he held a lot of the dark things inside him, shoving them down, down, down until he could pretend like they weren't there at all. Ilya would hate to know it, but it kind of reminded him a whole lot of Derek, though they were a different kind of avoidant. Derek didn’t have the same cocky facade to hide behind, not like Ilya did.

And unfortunately, Shane wouldn't know, hadn’t known, until he was told, not that Ilya owed him that. It was just hard to watch the people you care about hurt. And Ilya was hurting, even if neither of them knew how to put it into words.

“I think,” Shane scratched at the faintest impression of stubble on his chin. “I think all we can do is try to be honest with each other. About what we think, and maybe how we really feel? Even if we don't know how to say it.” He shrugged. The chirp of crickets outside the car was nearly loud enough to rival the purr of the vehicle’s idling engine. “And if we fuck up, we fuck up. Together.”

“Together, huh.” Ilya looked over at him. “You make it sound easy.”

“Can't be too bad if it's you and me,” Shane pointed out. “Besides, I have crappy days too. Like, meltdowns and shit. I guess, just, I’ve got you and you've got me?”

Ilya nodded. “Okay,” he said softly, like maybe he was convincing himself more than he was reassuring Shane.

He pressed on the gas and they continued toward home.

“So, um.” Shane cleared his throat, unable to let the silence settle between them just yet. “If you ever want to talk, about whatever, you can. And if you don't want to talk or you just need, well—whatever it is. If I can give it to you, I want to. For the record.”

For a while, it was only the sound of the road and the whisper of rushing air around in the cabin.

Then Ilya sniffed and said wetly, “You are a terrible person, Shane Hollander. You come back in my life and bam! I am crying all the time.” He shook his head, as if he could will the tears away.

“I'm sorry,” Shane said, because he didn't want Ilya to cry if Ilya didn't want to. Personally, Shane felt a little embarrassed if he cried, but usually afterward, it was worth that minor discomfort. Crying tended to make the world a little more manageable.

Ilya's lip trembled as he patted Shane's cheek. “Is okay,” he said, letting Shane pry his fingers away to lace with his own before setting their combined weight in Ilya's lap.

September, 2021
Ottawa, ON

“You're unbelievable,” Shane said, shaking his head at Ilya, who was shotgunning a diet coke like his life depended on it, free hand fanning his face dramatically on the other side of the kitchen island. It looked very stupid and ineffective and Shane was equal parts fond and exasperated.

“You are trying to poison me, Hollander,” Ilya replied, exhaling sharply before burping from the carbonation. “Is all a part of your evil plan to become best hockey player on my team.”

“It’s my smoothie,” he protested, taking a sip of it. It tasted fine. “You’re the one who wanted to try it.”

Ilya went to the fridge to get water, gulping down half the glass before refilling it from the little dispenser built into the door. Apparently the coke hadn't helped. “It’s like if sadness was a liquid, but also, like, spicy? Should be studied in laboratory.”

“It’s a totally normal shake,” Shane dropped a straw into his bright green breakfast and made a show of sucking down a bit of it. “It’s healthy.”

“Only shake I will be having is protein shake with milkshake flavored powder or actual milkshake. Motherfucker,” Ilya commented to himself, sticking his tongue out and waving at it. “My tastebuds will never recover.”

“You’re such a baby,” Shane rolled his eyes at Ilya’s pouting expression. “It’s literally protein powder, greens, and ginger.”

”What the fuck is a green? Like lettuce?”

“Kale,” Shane deadpanned, “Or spinach.”

“And you like this?” Ilya’s expression was somewhere between shocked and horrified.

Shane rolled his eyes for what had to have been the fifth time that morning. “It’s fine. Been part of my training regimen for years and it works, so,” he shrugged. “Don’t worry, I won’t try to like, convert you or something.”

The relief on Ilya’s face was noticeable. As noticeable as the look on Shane’s when he pulled a box of Count Chocula cereal out of the cupboard and poured it into a massive bowl. “Oh no, you don’t get to give me shit for eating happy cereal.”

“Like you didn’t just give me shit for my smoothie?” Shane countered, eyebrows lifting in silent accusation.

It felt good to be able to banter, like exercising a muscle that hadn’t been properly activated in a while. They’d spent a lot of the summer on tenterhooks, trying to be as considerate as possible of each other as they dove head first into a relationship. Neither of them really did things by half measures, which was really good in most ways and a little bit not so great in others.

With summer training and camp not so far off, it meant they needed to figure out a more stable normal: the place where Hollander and Rozanov became Shane and Ilya, what parts of them were owed to others because of their careers and what belonged to them alone.

Because of this (or maybe in spite of it, in Ilya’s opinion), they decided not to train together. It was weird, after nearly three months of waking up and doing mostly everything together, to be on different schedules. It was good, though. They couldn't live in each other's pockets forever, though Shane was pretty convinced both of them would happily do so if it had been a realistic option. Time apart was healthy.

They did try to have breakfast together before they went on to face the day, even if it was ten minutes of Shane standing around the kitchen drinking his post run smoothie while admiring a sleep-rumpled Ilya who grumbled about vegetables and checked out Shane’s ass in his running shorts when he thought he wasn’t looking while eating half a box of children’s cereal meant for Halloween. It was hard to be the first one to leave, to kiss Ilya goodbye and huff at the taste of sugary marshmallows, even if he knew they’d be back together by dinnertime most nights. In a way it made Shane look forward to the season even more. Sure they’d be busy, but they’d be together almost all of the time.

It wasn’t like Ilya was waiting around for Shane anyway. He had commitments: a handful of brand deals, some organization related items before the team’s internal and community outreach obligations began in earnest, and Luca.

At first, Ilya had tried to convince Shane that Derek and Luca would probably explode with joy if they all trained together, once he remembered that he had agreed to workout with the Centaurs’ up and coming star and couldn't follow Shane around all summer. Shane hadn't been particularly interested in that. He and Derek were particularly alike in this way, which was why they had wound up splitting off into two groups: Shane and Derek, Luca and Ilya.

It was nothing against Luca or Ilya or all of them together. This—summer training—was Shane’s time to hone his mind and body, to prepare it for the work ahead. Training in a duo was fine, but trios were louder, more messy. He shuddered at the thought of training in a quartet. That was better suited for camp, or maybe in the lead up to camp. He wanted to make sure he could stand on his own, that he came into camp ready and at the top of his game, not coasting in on some half-forgotten legacy dredged up by allegations and the media that surrounded it.

He knew some of that was anxiety, but it was still true. He knew it was going to be rough, in the beginning. Possibly the whole season. He’d have to prove himself to his new teammates, to their coaches and the organization, to the fans, and the rest of the league. It was part of why training with Derek was perfect, as they both had something to prove: Derek was on the last year of his deal, and he'd need to perform if he wanted to make more than the league minimum going forward.

”We are still meeting for lunch, yes?” A pair of arms wrapped around Shane’s middle, hands skimming over his hips as he rinsed out his smoothie cup and straw at the sink.

”With Derek and Luca?”

“Double date,” Ilya breathed against his ear. Shane shivered. “Who knows, maybe we will make headlines again.”

“I don’t think people realize they’re dating, so I highly doubt they’ll realize we are, too.” Ilya’s hands, which were stacked one atop the other around his abdomen, encouraged Shane to lean back into the embrace. “People keep spotting us at random places and commenting about ‘turning the rivalry into a brotherhood.’”

”Is ridiculous. We were arguing about how much kale you needed for smoothie of sadness in grocery market. Is peak couple shit!”

Shane tilted his head, letting Ilya get a good glimpse of his smile. “It is,” he agreed, “But tell me you don’t love it.”

Ilya shoved his nose into the juncture of Shane’s neck and shoulder, nuzzling there. “No,” he mumbled against Shane’s skin, “I cannot do this. Maybe they will ask me if I know who Lily is during camp when media doesn’t know what else to talk about but gossip. I will have to think of good answers.”

“Menace.”

“You like it,” Ilya’s hands fell to his hips and drove their pelvises together, back to front. “Do we have time to—”

Shane turned off the sink before flicking water into Ilya’s face with wet fingertips, laughing at the startled look of betrayal that flashed across Ilya’s features. It only grew louder, blooming into cackling peals as Ilya growled playfully, manhandling him toward the bedroom.

—

Shane had made it to the arena loose and happy, for obvious reasons. Unfortunately, that feeling didn't last. The anxiety crept in, made his mind buzzy and his fingertips tingle with restless energy.

That was fine. He’d planned for this, knowing it was inevitable. He just needed to get it over with already.

He'd made the decision to come out to the arena, rather than the practice facility a week before camp to reacclimate to the enormity of MLH arenas. It wasn't just the difference in ice size and the way the game changed because of it. It was everything else that came with it. Being on this ice would make it real, would confirm that he was back. It would make that first shift, first faceoff, first goal tangible.

This day had been looming over him ever since they’d come back from the cottage. He tried his best not to think about it, but that simply wasn’t his way. He’d considered asking Ilya to come with him, too, but in the end he'd decided he needed to do this alone. Whatever happened with Shane’s career was his own. He wanted to compete with Ilya, against him in the ways that two teammates could. If this was a moment of weakness for him, he’d rather push through that barrier on his own.

For all the world thought he had to prove to them, Shane knew he’d always had a whole lot more to prove to himself.

The dressing room was, as he’d asked when he’d booked the time with Coach Wiebe, empty. He laced up his skates and strode down the tunnel with purpose, stick in hand. He did one last check just to confirm nobody was around to see him. Harris, the team’s social media guy and one of Ilya’s close friends, would definitely want to get this moment on camera. If this had been before, Shane probably would have let him, too. It would be great marketing content.

Shane Hollander 2.0—what they referred to him on TV and in news articles, a wildcard of a man who was either playing for a lot less than what he was worth or had realized he wasn’t what he used to be—was more selfish than they made him out to be. That was a good thing. At the end of the day, he had to come first. He reminded himself of that a lot.

So: boundaries. He’d happily participate in content and do whatever he could to help promote the team within reason. He’d maybe not do the bits like Ilya and Zane Boodram did where they showed off their hobbies (Shane was a boring person, but he knew what a thirst trap was and he would not be posting videos of himself doing yoga anymore), but he was happy to engage with fans and do outreach or whatever.

These moments, though? The big ones? Those were just for him. Maybe the people close to him, too, sometimes, but yeah. Shane—Shane 2.0 or whatever they called him—was okay with being a little bit selfish.

The arena felt both smaller and bigger than he remembered. Ottawa’s arena was right around average, seating just over eighteen thousand people, more than three times the size of Växjö’s arena. It dwarfed even Malmö’s, which put the rest of the SHL to shame. And yet, the ice felt so small, almost claustrophobic surrounded by floor to ceiling seating.

The upper bowl felt so far away from ice level, more sharply angled, like it was a part of the ceiling or the sky than the building itself. Shane stared up at it from the bench, a sharp voice in his head reminding him that he rarely paid attention to them even when the stands were full of people cheering for or against him, so what did it really matter now?

Maybe it wasn't so much that it mattered, but that things were different now. The questions he was asked in his post signing media availability, the ones that would be asked of him in camp and beyond, until the world moved onto whatever it perceived to be the next biggest scandal, would be personal.

Did he think he still had what it takes?

Did he feel the pressure to perform for others like him? Had knowing he would be a pioneer in this League been a part of his reason for pressing formal charges against it?

What did Lily think about all this? Was he happy with where Shane wound up?

Shane had been spotted with several notable players this off-season—

No. There were some rules that even the media abided by. He'd allow them to ask if Lily was happy with his choices (Ilya was), but he would make sure the media coordinators knew that he would not be answering any questions about Lily's identity or any potential queer players in the league.

There were more than a couple, after all, and not all of them were on the Centaurs or Scott Hunter.

He shook his head until his face felt a little sensitive and gripped his stick until he felt the strange creak of his gloves against it. Without preamble, devoid of forethought, he threw himself over the boards. There was no clean re-entry, no open gates, only barriers he'd risen above. There was sense in putting it off.

The ice was pristine, marked only by his blades. He did a full loop at a comfortable pace, maybe somewhere just above quarter speed, taking in the familiar sight and smells, everything feeling like it was ratcheted up by a factor of a hundred. It was more than a little overwhelming, and he couldn't deny the heavy drum of his heart.

He swung around and came up to center ice, coasting in, blades angled perfectly to slow him down. He allowed himself to stand there, not in position for a faceoff, but as a man who never thought he'd have this ever again. He imagined the arena full of fans in their horrible red and black jerseys, imagined the wall of unintelligible sound.

As a child, he'd wanted to play for the Centaurs, because that's the hockey he'd grown up on. By the time he was twelve, it had become clear he had what it took to go pro, so with his mom’s encouragement he'd taken a more analytical approach. He threw himself into listening to AM radio feeds out of Montreal that crackled with static, an added challenge on top of rapid fire Quebecois French he’d only practiced with his dad at home. His mom made sure he was media trained, taught him how to say something while meaning almost nothing at all, employing all the tricks of the trade from a career working in telecom.

He had made himself into the perfect specimen, the kid you'd want on the ice and off of it. He'd been malleable, he'd adapted, he'd packaged himself to be fit for anyone's consumption, and look where it had fucking got him.

Cutting an angry figure eight, he came back to the dot. Lower this time, his stick poised just shy of parallel to the ground, he let his mind wander to some other time and space, to what a game would feel like. It was surprisingly easy to send adrenaline skittering through his veins. He lifted his chin, envisioned an enemy squaring up for the draw—

—and wasn't particularly surprised that his imaginary opponent was himself in blue and red.

Before, it would have been Ilya in his mind’s eye: all swagger and blinding smile, eyes narrowing with mirth and a chirp ready to fire as he licked his lips. He'd been everything Shane wanted and everything he wanted to rise above, all wrapped into one infuriating person he couldn't help but love.

He wasn't sure if it was a good thing that his biggest challenge was himself. Maybe the washed up players turned analysts on Sportscentre were right: maybe he wasn't what he was.

But there was only one way to find out.

When the first trill blared overhead, Ilya and Luca went off like twin rockets. They kicked hard, propelling themselves down the ice with sharpness and speed, leaving the rest of the players in their group to trail after them. Derek, who'd fallen in with Shane when their names were called, shook his head.

“Don't know why I'm surprised,” he muttered, following at a much more controlled pace.

Matching him stride for stride, Shane hummed. “Different styles,” he offered, though it probably wasn't style, but rather ideology.

“Taking your time over there, Hollander?” Ilya's taunt was playful, but his eyes were sharp. He'd already turned back, waiting for the next beep to signal that it was time to return to their starting position, indicated by cones that made a dotted line at each zone’s faceoff dots.

“Slow and steady wins the race, Rozanov,” he called back dutifully, crossing through the cones and turning swiftly, ready to begin again.

Ilya blew a raspberry. “Boring,” he commented, making some of the guys watching from the bench laugh in a combination of amusement (veterans) and nervousness (rookies).

This was the first time Shane and Ilya had shared ice in years. It was also the first time since the 2009 MLH Prospect Combine since they'd shared it without being on opposite sides. So, second time total, but also first time where the goal was to play on the same team rather than to see who would come out on top.

It was more exhilarating than Shane had been expecting. He had a feeling Ilya felt similarly, considering how much he'd been chirping him since yesterday when camp had officially begun.

Another beep sounded and their group was off again, streaking past the benches and the two other groups gathered there in white and black jerseys with the Centaurs’ logo on them.

“Ignore him,” Wyatt Hayes said to Shane’s left. “I appreciate the company. I’m trying to make it to level eight this year.”

“He’s great for pacing,” Derek called around him. They crossed the blue line and spun around, putting their backs to the other group, distinguishable only by their black jerseys. Their group was in red.

“You two do this a bunch or something?”

“All the time,” Derek said to Barrett, who was on his other side, two down from Shane. The beep cut through his next words: “Hollzy made me do beeps every month in Sweden.”

“Then why the fuck did you only make it to level nine last year?” Boodram shouted from the bench as they skated by.

“You only made it to level nine?” Shane demanded when they’d made it to the other side. “Every month?” Hayes blanched. “That sounds terrible.”

“I was nervous!” Derek blurted before addressing Wyatt, “And it was!”

“There is a lot of chatting and not a lot of skating happening,” Ilya yelled at them. “This isn’t fucking social hour.”

“Sorry, cap,” all of them muttered in not-quite-sync.

Shane wasn’t the kind of guy to bet on things, but he was relatively certain that Ilya’s glove was in front of his face to hide his grin at Shane’s deference.

The chatter stopped after that, the guys locking in at their captain’s insistence. Ilya and Haas still went on like lightning in a bottle, the rest of them trailing after them. Shane started to notice Hayes flagging early in level seven—he wasn’t the only one, but he’d said he wanted to get to level eight, so—

“Hazy move your fucking feet,” Ilya barked without looking over. “I can hear you panting from here.”

There was no way he could. There were a couple guys who had hit the boards and dropped when they’d missed the last beep.

“Fuck you, Roz,” Hayes huffed, sliding in just in time to be sent staggering back the other way. The panting was only obvious because he’d been talking while skating.

“Stay on me,” Shane quietly encouraged. He was good at these kinds of tests. They just made sense to him, made him count the space between seconds in the sound of his blades serrating the ice, the number of breaths he needed to take. He loved the feeling of his lungs expanding with effort, the way it came on slowly, made his entire body feel buzzy and electric. “I’ve got pace.”

“Thanks, man,” Hayes didn’t tuck in—this wasn’t a race or anything, but he latched onto Shane’s pace for the next six laps before making it back to the far side and bumping his blocker with Shane’s glove.

He only made it two more shuttles before dropping out, but he seemed satisfied with his result. He’d met his goal, after all.

“Do I need to carry you, too?” Shane teased Derek, whose gaze remained firmly ahead in their rest between level eight and nine. The thirty second rests started feeling shorter and shorter as time went on.

“I’ve been keeping pace with you just fine,” Derek said. “Weren’t you supposed to be the nervous one?”

Shane liked the teasing. He shook his head and added an extra burst of speed to his next lap, just because he could, bridging the gap between himself and the Haas-Rozanov duo.

“You have decided to show up all of a sudden?” Ilya drawled, smirking.

“I thought this was supposed to be my comeback tour.”

“Oh, now you are comedian?”

Shane grinned, chewing on his mouth guard. He hadn’t had a good partner to chirp in years—not that he was particularly skilled at chirping, but he had always known how to get under Ilya’s skin when he was playful like this. “Nah, just waiting for some competition.”

The bench rippled with quiet murmurs, little oooh’s and chatters.

From center ice, the sounder went and they were off again.

Ilya had said to them in warmups that he wanted them to be hungry. He wanted them to push and push and break through their limits. He wanted them to fight. Shane understood that. It was the kind of thing he’d said to his team too, once upon a time, albeit not with the same vehemence and charisma that Ilya had. He understood his place now, that it wasn’t front and center—at least, not like that. It was foundational. He was meant to be the backbone, not the loudest voice in the room.

“I bet you could beat him, you know,” he said to Derek, words shielded from Ilya by his glove at their next rest.

“Fuck off,” Derek said, breathing hard, but not overwhelmingly so. He had another three levels in him, of that Shane was sure.

“He’s probably fallen off without anyone to challenge him,” Shane pressed, just loud enough to piss Ilya off.

“You go to Sweden and now you have chirps,” he scoffed. “Cute.”

“Guess we’ll see,” Shane threw back.

They skated hard for the next minute, dropping more guys at the top end of the tenth level than in all the ones previous. It was only the five of them left: Troy Barrett in the center, Ilya and Derek flanking him, Luca and Shane on the ends.

“See what?” Ilya asked, continuing their previous conversation. He didn’t sound terribly bothered by the skating, which was unfair considering Shane was now intimately aware of just how much he smoked.

“If I’m chirping or not,” Shane told him, matter of factly.

“And they think I am asshole,” Ilya huffed. “You are asshole. Do you guys fucking hear this?” He hollered in the direction of the bench.

“It’s about time somebody put you in your place, Rozy,” Boodram said merrily, sitting on the boards, legs dangling as he watched. “Best SMAT we’ve done in ages.”

“I’m going to make you do them monthly like Hollander did to Briggs since you like them so much,” he threatened Bood.

“If it makes us better,” Bood called back, ignoring the concerned murmurs of roster guys and prospects alike.

The next few levels flew by. Shane tuned out everything but the droning beep, thinking of other things, but mostly nothing at all. This was meditative for him in the same way most cardio was: Everything and nothing mattered, all he had to do was go down and back, rinse, repeat, keep moving, keep moving, keep moving, then recover well.

He came back to himself to a muttered, “Eight,” to his right.

“Stop counting, Briggs,” he corrected sternly, barely having enough time to utter the words before they were off again.

“Fuck,” Derek responded, choppy strides loud with only three others left. Barrett had dropped two shuttles earlier, not quite clearing the halfway mark of level thirteen.

“Eyes up,” Shane told him as he trailed in behind him. “You’ve made it to fourteen before. You’re going to today.”

Derek might make him a liar. Shane was pretty sure he only had another three to four shuttles before he broke, but Luca Haas wasn’t faring much better, and he wanted the two of them to push each other. Haas had yet to top out. He had some growing to do and a higher ceiling than Derek when you thought about circumstances and development, but Derek was stronger than he gave himself credit for. He hadn’t come close to his ceiling, either.

When Luca didn’t quite make it to Rozanov’s side before the beep went two shuttles later, Derek surprised Shane by pressing on.

“Don’t look so fucking suprised,” gasped Derek, words wheezing a little. “You said I’d make it to fourteen.”

“I did,” Shane agreed, swinging around him so that he was between him and Rozanov.

“Someone’s been putting in the work,” Ilya said approvingly. “This is your fault?”

“Nope, all him,” Shane deflected. He was sure he was a good influence on Derek, but the work that he put in was all his own. Shane didn’t want credit for it. Derek had worked hard to find his way to the show, and he deserved praise for it.

All three of them were still breathing hard when the next beep rang out.

“Let me show you how to do this,” Ilya called, streaking toward the dot.

“Motherfucker,” Derek swore, following suit, Shane beside him, then slightly ahead as the beeps grew closer and closer together. He made it a shuttle more before failing, doubling over and breathing hard when the beep went without him making it.

And then it was just them. Shane and Ilya. Hollander and Rozanov.

A romantic sportscaster or journalist would probably call it destiny.

In the old world, the one that Shane thought of as the one he’d left behind when the Metros did what they’d done and things splintered off, his life’s trajectory flung in a strange, sideways arc that eventually leveled out and went forward: things would play out pretty simply. There’d be a beep that was too close to call, Shane possibly making it, Ilya less than a quarter-step behind him. They’d argue over it forever.

In this new world, the real one, Shane was most recently a star player on a team that was good, but kind of had him to blame for a decent chunk of it. Sure he played less games a season, but he’d taken his team to three straight championships, carried them there on his back it felt like, not that he’d ever admit that to anyone except maybe Ilya, a long, long time from now. He’d averaged a staggering thirty one minutes and forty-six seconds in ice time over the course of those playoff bouts, and his regular season number was only about a minute lower.

He knew Derek must have said something because someone, maybe Chouinard? One of the older guys in white from the defensive group, called out, “What the fuck do you mean he played thirty three minutes a night?”

“I’ve seen him play thirty-five,” Derek clarified unhelpfully.

“Ignore them,” Shane forced out, the both of them barely through the cones before the beep sounded off.

Ilya rolled his eyes, but Shane was pretty sure that the grimace he’d had on his face was meant to be a smile, y’know if it wasn’t for all the physical exertion. “Ice hog,” he teased.

“Fuck you,” Shane replied, then turned on the jets. It wasn’t like he had a whole lot left in the tank, but he could keep going for a little bit. Maybe he’d drag Ilya to level fifteen kicking and screaming.

He didn’t. Ilya failed to reach the second to last shuttle of level fourteen, Shane completed the level, and instead of making Shane push on after the rest, Coach Wiebe called it while the rest of the boys sticktapped.

“You’ll be lucky to get your number’s worth of minutes,” Ilya huffed at him. “A bit more stacked than Sweden, yes?”

“I’m okay with that,” Shane answered, similarly out of breath.

“And just because you won—this time,” he was quick to clarify, “Does not mean you are taking first line from me. You can skate and hold stick, big deal. We will see if European leagues have made you soft.”

Coming from Ilya, the chirp didn't rattle him. “They haven’t,” he argued back, “But whatever.”

Their banter was pretty mild, heatless and fun to engage in even if it was mostly performative. Shane had been very clear about where he wanted to end up in the lineup. Most good teams had a top six that was interchangeable anyway. That didn’t stop Coach Wiebe from skating over and confirming there weren’t any problems.

Everyone only saw the rivalry, Shane realized as camp went on. If they were too friendly, people—most people, with some notable exceptions—were suspicious, waiting for a scuffle to break out, a couple of guys always ready to shoulder between them. It was like that night they'd all gone out to Monk's was a lie.

Maybe the boys had gotten so wasted they didn't remember Shane and Ilya leaving together. Maybe they thought it was coincidence? An act? Some strange, temporary truce? Shane couldn't tell and it probably wasn't worth metaphorically spinning himself in circles trying to figure it out. Maybe their coaches thought they were playing nice in pursuit of a cup.

It was stupid, really. They weren't fucking wrestlers. Their competitive drive was real, of course it was, but even when they pissed each other off, there was a level of respect there (even if you needed a fucking microscope to see it on Ilya's end in those early days).

Shane voiced this to Ilya when they left together on the third day of camp—together. For the third time. People really just saw whatever they wanted. Sometimes, Shane couldn't figure out why they didn't get caught. Other times, it was, well, this.

Ilya, sat in the passenger seat, looking content and maybe a little exhausted lit a cigarette before he leaned over and ruffled Shane's hair in a way that would send him squirming if it had been anyone else.

“Coach is very concerned that we will kill each other,” Ilya told him on an exhale. “Which is funny. Orgasm is called little death in French. You know this? I bet you didn't.”

Shane shoved him before putting the car—truck? SUV?—vehicle in reverse. “I know about le petit mort, Ilya. I knew that in like grade seven.”

“I bet your cheeks turned all red when people talked about it. Or maybe you didn't know about it at first? I bet you didn't. You were probably so innocent—”

“I mean, I was playing hockey with fourteen year olds,” he pointed out. “I heard plenty in French and English.”

“Anyway,” Ilya continued on, puffing away on his cigarette, “They worry about fit and if we will kill each other and yet, so many little deaths between us.”

Shane rolled his eyes at the innuendo, pointedly ignoring the molten lurch of arousal in his gut. “Are you not tired?”

Laughing, Ilya said, “I am going to take ice bath then crawl across house and take nap.” He smirked roguishly. “Then, we will fuck before DOMS arrives to kick both of our asses.”

“You're ridiculous.” It sounded perfect.

Ilya looked over at him, looking boyish and severe all at once. It was a contradiction but it suited him well. He looked happy, Shane thought, but almost like he wasn't sure he was allowed it.

Shane didn't let himself think. He reached over and took Ilya's hand, pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “I love you,” he said, the words smudged against the top of Ilya's hand. Ilya's smile grew more earnest, less restrained.

They waited in silence for the light to change.

Let the world think what it wanted, he told himself. It didn't matter. They were going to do it their way.

—

Unsurprisingly, Shane made the team. He wasn't allowed to play preseason, which he argued about but ultimately conceded was the right call when he realized two of the games were against Montreal. Most of the bones of that team were gone, but some notable guys from Shane's time remained, trapped between relevance and retirement in the way a lot of guys in their late thirties were.

The only difference was that the guys on Montreal's bench had been very clear about where they stood on matters.

It sucked having to play WAG while Ilya went out and skated circles around them with prospects who were close but not quite ready for the show. Cartlon and Wiebe had asked Shane to stay home for both games, the Centaurs home and away against the Metros. They worried about the press getting silly ideas almost as much as they worried about Shane's mental state.

It wasn't like there were restraining orders in the settlement. Obviously Shane wasn't going to talk about what happened, not that there was much he could talk about that hadn't already hit the media by his own actions. Shane had agreed to rest for the preseason, but told them this wasn't going to fly when they were fighting for points in the standings, which had made Carlton and Wiebe exchange a glance that suggested they were amused by the insinuation.

Shane was hell bent on advocating for himself. It was one of the more important things he'd had to learn after Montreal and all the changes that came with leaving, specifically firing his mom as his manager. He didn't always voice his needs perfectly, but he certainly tried to be cognizant of situations even as he insisted upon his wants and needs as a player.

Which had led him—them, actually—to this.

It wasn’t a requirement to disclose their relationship, but they’d agreed it wouldn't be fair to blindside the front office if someone figured them out—which had begun looking a lot more likely than when these last few weeks, which boggled Shane's mind to think about. He really thought they'd been obvious, which he’d said to Derek, Luca, and Ilya over lunch last week. Derek had politely insisted that was because straight men were not subtle creatures while Luca and Ilya laughed, the latter patting Shane's cheek in a very patronizing way. Derek was right, though: Even the media had happily leaned into putting a different spin on the rivalry when they’d realized Shane had no plans to tell them anything about Lily besides their shared happiness that Shane was back in Major League Hockey, where he belonged.

Ilya sauntered along beside him with a shit-eating grin. They had gone back and forth about how they wanted to handle things. They could’ve left it to their agent, now that Farah represented them both, but Ilya had a lot of respect for the Centaurs’ organization and Shane trusted him to make this call.

Well, mostly. Maybe just not in the most professional way possible.

“Against my better judgement,” Shane said, the two of them coming to a stop outside Wiebe’s office, I'm going to defer to my captain on this.”

“Ah,” Ilya hummed loftily, “Wise decision.”

“We'll see about that,” Shane glanced sideways at him. “You're a little too excited for me to think you're not going to share the news in the most embarrassing way possible.”

“Sorry, sorry, let me,” he slapped a hand over his mouth and dragged it down, making an exaggerated frown, “There. Now I look like I hate you and they will panic like we have decided this team is not big enough for the two of us.”

The door had opened while Ilya was speaking. Coach Wiebe’s timing could not have been worse.

“Gentlemen?” He stepped out of his office into a very poorly represented situation.

To be fair, their positioning didn't help: Ilya glowering like a Saturday morning cartoon villain at Shane, who had his arms crossed over his chest and an eye roll charged like those laser eyes one of the guys in the superhero show Hayes had forced Ilya to watch last week (Shane had been reviewing film on the other end of the couch, his toes tucked under Ilya's thigh to stay warm so he'd maybe caught a couple things before putting in his earbuds because wow it was violent). Maybe it made sense that Harris hadn't asked them to do their promo together, now that Shane thought about it.

Ilya threw his head back, laughing. “Look what you've done, zaychik.”

Shane’s nose scrunched, earning him the nickname he’d learned about for similar reasons just last week. “Me? How is this my fault?”

Wiebe cleared his throat. “Why don't we take this behind closed doors,” he suggested, almost evenly. There was a little bit of a waver, like he wasn't particularly sure what to make of things. He stepped inside and gestured for them to follow, asking, “Should I call Carlton, or your agen—”

“No,” They said, layered imperfectly over top of one another, “No no no.”

Coach’s shoulders dropped a little. Shane hadn't noticed just how high up they'd been hitched, how much tension he'd been holding. He and Ilya took their seats, leaving Shane to close the door behind them. He hovered a little, eyes darting around the small space. It was nice, Shane supposed, maybe a little dated in the way most arenas were. The only thing that really felt the same was the lighting, yellowy and uncomfortable.

“Shane.” Ilya demurred. “Sit down.” Shane blinked a few times, a little too hard to pass off as normal. Not Montreal, he told himself. Ottawa. How long had he been standing there with his back against the wall? Not long, he hoped.

“Right.” He forced himself to sit in the chair beside Ilya, fingers clamping over his knees reflexively.

“So, gents,” Coach Wiebe began, a note of hesitation returning to his voice as he looked between them, “What can I help you with?”

Ilya leaned forward in Shane's periphery. “Is nothing bad, Coach, promise,” he began, but almost immediately turned to Shane. He must have noticed how tightly Shane was gripping his knees because he frowned. “Is it the conversation—” Shane shook his head microscopically, “Or the room?”

Wiebe's forehead crinkled, probably from trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. Shane was more than a little mortified.

Feeling very stupid and jittery, but cognizant of the fact that Ilya would derail the entire conversation until he spoke up, Shane admitted, “The lights.”

“Ah, okay.” Ilya rose, edging between Shane's knees and the desk, throwing open the office door. “New plan: We will walk and talk.”

Wiebe looked apprehensive as he followed Ilya, who didn't actually do any talking—Shane was pretty sure he wasn't the only one a little nervous about this conversation, albeit for very different reasons—but instead led them to the team lounge, which was unoccupied at this hour. It was a much larger space than the coach’s office, a mix of tables and chairs plus more casual furniture, couches and recliners for guys who needed a space to rest or regroup. Ilya indicated a table on the far side of the room on his way to the fridge against the opposite wall.

He was back in a second, plunking a ginger ale in front of Shane before sliding a coke over to Wiebe. He nudged Shane's shoulder as he sat down, cracking open a can for himself. “Better?”

Shane nodded as Wiebe gingerly lowered himself into a chair as if expecting to fall through it and land on the floor. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Okay.” Ilya took a deep breath, followed it with a massive exhale, turned his head and began. “I trust you, Coach.”

“Roz, Brandon or Wiebe is fine.” He looked over at Shane who shrugged, before adding, “But thank you for trusting me.”

Ilya barrelled onward, mostly ignoring his statement. “I know everyone is very concerned about the rivalry. Will there be less compete because we are on same team? Will it create tension in the room? Everyone is afraid we will fight or one of us will want out. I know you know this. We,” he gestured to Shane with his flailing hands, “See the way you and rest of coaching staff look at us. Harris, too,” he tacked on like an afterthought.

Privately, Shane had a feeling Ilya really wanted to do promo together. They hadn't in years.

“You guys do go pretty hard,” Coach Wiebe pointed out, his hands folded around his unopened coke on the table. “I know we,” he jerked his chin at Ilya, “Talked about it before Hollzy’s signing, but it's another thing to see day in and day out. I don't think anyone doubts that the rivalry is alive and well.”

“It is,” Shane said succinctly. “But—”

“But,” Ilya continued, giving Shane a very pointed look, a nonverbal me first, “We are happy here. This is where we want to be long term.”

“Agreed.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear that.” Wiebe looked like it, too. “I’m sensing there’s something else you wanted to tell me, though.”

Ilya licked his lips. “There is, ah, one other thing.”

“If this is about playing you two on the same line…”

Shane almost laughed. If only that were their request. “I think it'd be, like, fun to try on the power play, but no,” he rubbed at the skin just below his lips, “ It’s not that,” he finished quietly. “It's, uh, actually about Lily.’

Wiebe leaned in attentively across the pristine white table, the laminate surface glossy under the lights. His patient gaze rested on Shane. “Oh?”

His interest was understandable. The Centaurs organization had shown Shane nothing but the utmost respect. No one from management had brought up Lily or asked for his identity beyond insisting the organization was welcoming of all partners and spouses, and the media had been informed of Shane's personal boundaries so no information had been forthcoming.

“Yes.”

Ilya's thigh pressed insistently against Shane's under the table. Shane tipped his head sideways, a subtle go on with it implied with the gesture.

“It is not a secret, exactly,” Ilya told Wiebe, “But we are not telling anyone either.”

“Of course,” Wiebe was all business, professional to a fault like Ilya had suggested he would be. “Shane doesn't have to tell anyone about his relationship unless there’s a contractual obligation to disclose. If someone is pressuring you about it—” He eyed Shane with concern, but Shane was already speaking over him.

“No, that's not—”

“You are not understanding, I think,” Ilya cut Shane off, scratching the back of his head, “So I will be blunt: I am Shane’s Lily.”

Shane could feel the heat that bloomed on his cheeks as well as the lobes of his ears, but Ilya was reaching over to gently pry his fingers off the condensating can of ginger ale, folding his slightly larger hand over Shane's in a show of solidarity.

Swallowing hard, he forced himself to add, “ We wanted you to hear it from us. We weren't really sure if it would be obvious in camp. We're not like, hiding it, you know?”

Wiebe did not know, Shane decided. Wiebe blinked kind of rapidly, looking back and forth between them, appearing rather gobsmacked. “You’re him,” he said slowly in Ilya's direction. “Really.” Now he was looking around the room. “This isn’t some—Harris didn't plant a camera somewhere, did he—”

“He is,” Shane confirmed, hating the idea of anyone joking about it. “Serious, I mean. He is.”

Ilya preened. “Ilya, Lily. Lily, Ilya. Is very close.” He winked.

Shane groaned.

“What?”

“The winking. Really?”

The levity seemed to snap Wiebe out of his surprise long enough to lock back into the conversation.

“This does not need to be so serious. I know, is a big shock for Coach but is not sad news. We are together now and we are going to bring cup to Ottawa, together,” he squeezed their linked hands before returning to Wiebe. “But also someone in management should probably know before the rest of the world catches on.”

“We won't let it impact our play.”

“I'm not worried about that,” Wiebe insisted, shaking his head. His features, younger and less grizzled than most of his peers, were schooled into something serious but no less moved, if the warmth in his eyes was any indication. At least, Shane hoped it was. “But I do think we should tell Carlton.” His lips thinned. “I don't think it'll come to this but I want to make sure we're in your corner if the League tries anything.”

“Fine,” Ilya said, because he and Shane had figured Wiebe would send their news up the chain. “Is not really a secret, anyway. We will not deny when people figure it out, but we do not want it leaked to press. Whole world will find out eventually,” Ilya’s expression was firm. “But we do not owe them anything.”

We do not owe them anything, Ilya had said. Shane clung to it like a mantra through the weekend and the days after, as he showered and dressed for their first game of the season. I don't owe them anything, he told himself. I don't owe them anything.

It was a good mantra, but that didn't mean it would survive real life application.

Forty-five minutes before their homeopener, Harris found Shane in the dressing room. He had a headset on and clipboard in hand, looking business apologetic. At least he'd let Shane finish pulling up his fucking jock before talking. “Both broadcasts asked to mic you up for the game. TSN asked for a twenty second interview during TV timeout in the first—”

“And Sportsnet wants an intermission spot,” Shane interrupted, guessing.

“And post game. There was also some talk of wanting to get a commercial break with your parents, but I relayed your veto on that.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, along with a belated, “Thanks.”

“Boo,” Ilya yelled from across the room, sharp eyes on the back of Harris’ denim vest. It had a massive Centaurs logo embroidered on the back of it, but the pride version, loud and rainbow. Ilya told Shane that he wore it every game day. “Save some attention for the rest of us.”

“You're such an asshole,” Shane said, but he could feel his shoulders drop a little.

Harris was biting his lip, looking a little nervous as he peeked at Ilya over his shoulder. “I know you just want to play, but—”

“You're just doing your job, Harris,” Shane interrupted evenly, unwilling to let himself get upset this close to gametime. “S’okay. I'll do it.”

He had not missed this portion of playing in this particular league. It was nice to just go out and work hard without every muttered swear caught on a hot mic, not that Shane swore more than most guys, but it did make him self conscious.

“You should clip microphone to my back when no one is looking,” Ilya told Shane when Harris left to retrieve the little clip on he'd be expected to wear for the game.

“Please don't,” Troy pleaded, walking to his stall in a towel, which he promptly dropped in favor of pulling on his base layers. Shane had been surprised to learn that Troy had quietly come out to the people he cared about over the course of the last season and outright shocked to find out he and Harris were in a relationship, which the team had accepted easily. “He’s been so stressed about your return going well and trying not to piss you off with all their asks. I had to sleep in the guest room last night because he's been talking about work in his sleep.”

“Sounds like you are not properly relieving his stress,” Ilya said suggestively.

“Fuck off,” Troy replied, lobbing a roll of tape at him.

Shane did him one better, taking the folded and balled up bundle that was his socks and throwing them at Ilya's head. They bounced off his cheek and onto the floor, rolling to a stop between them.

The rest of the room went still and silent as Ilya looked down at them, folding forward to hook a finger inside the bundle and lift them up. He examined them silently before throwing them back in Shane's direction. “The fuck are you all staring at?” He demanded, when the socks had sailed through the air, returning to Shane's outstretched hand.

The guys looked away, some of them murmuring to each other too softly to be properly heard. Shane was still looking at Ilya who jerked his head toward the guys, but it was impossible to tell what he wanted Shane to do about it.

Wyatt, the first to finish dressing, slapped his helmet on, cage up so his face was still visible and ambled toward the door leading out to the ice. He turned back to survey the room. “You guys do know they agreed to play here, together, right? They're not going to murder each other over socks.”

Shane laughed, unable to help himself. He had maybe possibly had a small meltdown about finding dirty, mismatched socks in their bedroom like, last week? Growing pains of learning to live together and all that. His mom had laughed at him for it when he'd called her to blow off steam.

He looked up from the floor to find Ilya smiling at him, like he knew just what Shane was thinking. He said, “I don't know, he will probably want to murder me when I beat him in scoring, again.”

“Old habits die hard, huh,” Shane quipped back, heatless. “You had three years to be the best. My turn now.”

“Oh, you think?” Ilya grinned. “Want to make a bet, Hollander? Whoever scores most goals this month dresses as the other at my Halloween party on thirty-first.”

Heads around the room rocketed upward.

“You're throwing the Halloween Bash?” Dykstra blurted, manic. “You barely even show up at team parties.”

LaPoint followed it up with a slightly more tasteful, “No fuckin way, party at Cap’s house?”

Even Bood, who loved hosting, was all in. “Hollzy, you gotta agree, I gotta see this with my own two eyeballs.”

It was funny. They'd only discussed the concept of a Halloween party in passing, but Ilya had immediately latched onto it.

This house has perfect views and lots of room for hosting, their realtor had said, showing them the fifth property they'd toured that day in late August. Ilya had floated room to room, admiring and admonishing finishes while Shane stood directly in the center of each, eyeing corners and outlets and detailing likes and dislikes and potential issues in his notes app. Her voice had caught both their attention for different reasons.

We could host Halloween party, Ilya had said, excited in a way he hadn't been in the other houses they'd seen. Kitchen is massive and you liked backyard, big patio and room for your fire pit.

Shane, meanwhile, had pocketed his phone and walked from the kitchen back to the empty living room, eyeing the fireplace and the warm, dark hardwood flooring, turning around to take in the sliding glass door between the two that led to the massive deck and entertaining space outside. The configuration was different from his cottage but it had similar bones: warm wood, high ceilings, lots of open spaces with smaller, more intimate nooks to hide away in. It wasn't perfect, but it would be with a little work.

The rest was just details.

Details like both their names being listed on the deed to the property, the pair of them opting out of practice to sit side by side with Shane’s real estate lawyer, initialing page after page of the packet that made the property theirs for good. His mom had wondered if they were maybe moving a little too fast, especially given the sock fight that had happened mere days before they closed on it, but that was just details, too. Shane refused to do things by half where Ilya was involved.

So: Yes. The Halloween party at their house, not that the team knew that yet.

“Okay Rozanov,” Shane said, extending a hand. “You're on.”

They shook on it. Ilya's gaze could have powered the sun, it was that hot.

—

The ceremony of a team’s homeopener was overwhelming, tedious, and ultimately, necessary. It was all about riling up the crowd, getting them amped up and ready for the year ahead, giving the fans a first look at the roster, giving them faces to go with the names printed on the backs of their jerseys.

This year, Centaurs fans had a lot to be excited about.

Shane didn't want to get too excited alongside them, that would only make him nervous. For that reason, he'd tuned out the announcer after his name had been called, launching himself out of the red and black hoof-shaped arch at the end of the tunnel that shot fire and whatever other pyrotechnics he could smell in the air, waving and looking around without really seeing or hearing the crowd’s reaction. They'd said the same thing for him that they did for everyone: From Ottawa, Ontario, number twenty-four, Shane Hollander.

But as the numbers crept higher, it was impossible to tune out the electric quality of the fans. They were like a live wire, making his teeth vibrate. Troy, standing to his left, leaned over and said behind a glove, “Man are they glad to see you,” and Shane smiled down at the camera operator who did a slow-roll down the row of players, his camera tilted up at their faces.

At least he hoped he did.

“Hopefully I don't let them down,” Shane returned.

“You fuckin’ kidding me? Câlisse, brother, you're the prodigal son returned home.” Chouinard, no, Chewie, he’d insisted, shoved up against Shane's right shoulder, knocked the sides of their helmets together.

“I just want to play,” he emphasized, words tucked mostly behind his glove, head turned toward Chewie this time.

It made his eyes snag on his stick tape, on the -ily peeking out behind his glove, the i dotted with a little heart, which had been enough to make Ilya’s eyes go soft when he'd seen it before sending him down the tunnel and it to the crowd. Not that Shane was any better, because he'd seen Jane written on Ilya's stick in what might be the worst handwriting he had ever seen and wanted to wrap him up in an embrace. They'd settled for a more appropriate helmet bump and Ilya's traditional I love you which Shane mouthed back, and now he was here between number seventeen, Troy Barrett, and number twenty-six, Nick Chouinard.

Alternates and captains were introduced last, despite their jersey number. By the time the announcer got to From Moscow, Russia, pausing to denote emphasis, Your captain, Ilya Rozanov, the fans were on their feet, palms slapping the glass, the boards rattling like they couldn't be contained.

Ilya gave the crowd a jaunty salute, spinning wide, as if giving each and every one of them a piece of his attention. If the arena was a kingdom, Ilya was its king, its ruler, the one in charge. The jittery feeling in Shane’s belly settled unexpectedly as he realized how it was. It hadn't really sunk in that he didn't have to be The Guy, the one the fans and media looked to as the pulse of the franchise until this very moment. He could lean on his partner, lover (eww), boyfriend captain for that.

Ilya met his eyes as he swung around, the C ever-prominent on his chest catching in the sway of the spotlights roving the ice from overhead. He winked, smile so bright it was like a camera flash.

Shane felt his shoulders relax as the arena singer belted out the national anthems and the questions he (and everyone else clued into North American hockey) asked of himself fell away.

His mind emptied. The mantra he'd recalled for days returned to the forefront of his thoughts. It had served its purpose, got him through the waiting. It was still relevant, but he had absorbed it into himself. He didn't need it anymore.

Let them ask, he thought. Let them see. His pride was a quiet, confident thing, brought on by hard work and passion and tempered by adversity.

The lights came up and the goal horn blared. The boys shook themselves out and swarmed as the net was replaced, eager to dig in.

All Shane had to do was play his game.

—

His first shift came forty seconds in. Both teams had sent their first line out for the opening draw, Ilya leaning in and chirping the Buffalo centre who swore a hearty fuck off just in time to lose the faceoff, as was his destiny. After, Wiebe had thrown the fourth line out against their opponents’ second, which was a ballsy move but one that worked against a rebuilding team, effectively shutting them down.

Then, Coach tapped Shane. He threw a leg over the boards, ready to swap with Dillon when he approached. Haas had already come on and Derek wasn’t far behind. It wasn't the line Shane was expecting to wind up on. Sure, playing with Derek was a no brainer. They had insane chemistry, which was even more apparent after camp.

But Luca? Luca was unexpected. Ilya had fought Wiebe on it, which he'd confessed guiltily when the lines were announced. Shane understood the gatekeeping, even if he was logical enough to understand that opening night lines rarely made it to playoffs without a dozen or more shakeups. Luca wasn't Ilya, but Shane could see the foundations, could tell just how special this kid would be in the future.

He needed to be tested and pushed, though. Not through words or chiding, which were Ilya's wheelhouse, but through action. What Shane knew, but Ilya didn't, was that Derek also thrived in a situation where he was forced to keep up, but he was like magic when he could push someone else to do it too, saying keep up, follow me, if I can do it so can you, in actions, rather than words.

They had been good in their final practice, the passes sharp and sense of each other tight. Now it was time to dial that up another notch.

Shane heard the roar of the crowd when his blades touched down, but didn't let himself look away from the game. He'd had time to savor this as much as he'd planned to already so he swiveled his head, saw Luca battling with a defenseman at their blue line, and got to work.

The added pressure let Luca play the puck back to Chewie who rang it around behind Hazy over to Derek, who streaked off like a bullet, Buffalo's defense halfway through a change but quick to reset. Luca took off with speed, getting around his man, giving Derek a good passing lane, the two of them orchestrating a chance on goal without Shane doing much more than a pylon, a bright and shiny distraction.

Which to be fair, he kind of was, at least until it was time to take the offensive zone faceoff. The kid across from him was young. He swallowed hard and didn't meet Shane's eyes for whatever reason (nerves or possibly something else), but hunkered down, ready to fight for the puck.

One of the things Shane had been most worried about was complacency in the faceoff circle, so once training camp hit, he and Ilya had spent time after practice making sure Shane hadn't lost a step after years of playing less experienced (less talented, Ilya insisted) opponents.

He won the face off clean, slapped the puck back to Luca who cycled it, their offense fanning out, defensemen taking each side of the point and collapsing in with precision and patience. Shane began to cut toward the middle but stopped, saw the lane before it opened, saw one of Buffalo's defensemen overcommit.

There was no need to beg for the feed, no time to tap his stick. All of it was fractional, pieces of a handful of seconds. Faceoff, wheel, pass, pass, shot, thnnk, silence.

A visceral sound, something beyond words, something that was just emotion, loud and unfiltered and uncontrollable broke that silence. It bubbled up from beneath the ice, maybe, through the knee he'd taken to clap the puck, up his spine and out his mouth, down his arms, through his stick held up and out at the apex of the shot, blade not quite level with the crossbar and beyond.

Time caught up to the rest of them. The goal horn blared. Shane pushed up and off his knee, back upright. He pointed to Derek who was already barreling over to him as whatever goal song played overhead, then pushed toward him to intercept the hug.

“Fuckin’ bomb Hollzy!” He roared far too loudly in Shane's face, jittery and excited. He squeezed Shane tight, then let up to welcome the rest of their line into their huddle of bodies.

“That's how you fucking do it boys!” Young cheered.

“They clocked it at ninety miles an hour,” Chewie told them. He must have looked up at the jumbotron.

“Not my fastest,” Shane admitted. “Guess I've got some work to do.”

“Oh my God,” one of them muttered behind him. Luca, maybe. He peeled off from the group to grab the puck from the goalie to give to the bench, which Shane ought to be skating toward, now that he thought about it.

He spun around, and realized that the entire Centaurs bench was on its feet, sticks bashing the boards like someone had won a fight or something. He let himself look around, realized the crowd was also on its feet and chanting his name.

Derek threw an arm around him again, steering them toward the bench as a unit. “How you feeling, buddy?” He asked.

Shane sniffed, swiping back the swift insurgence of tears that blurred his vision. “Grateful,” he said thickly.

He bumped fists with his teammates, feeling the swat of sticks on his ass and legs through the padding. There were a couple atta boy’s and let's fucking go’s, encouragement he drifted through. When the referees signaled to center ice, wanting play to continue, Shane arced smoothly back toward the bench.

Ilya came over the boards. He attempted to go around, but nope, Ilya was his mirror and contact was mild, but unavoidable. Shane didn't shrink away from it, thrilled to realize he felt no fear or shame. Ilya was incandescent, gloved hands coming up to grab his shoulders as he knocked their helmets together.

“Beautiful goal, Hollander,” he said, his pouty lips curved upward in a smile that was boyish and genuine.

He couldn't help but grin up at him. “Try to keep up, Rozanov.”

Ilya raised his eyebrows, mouthing a silent little wow and shaking his head, before reaching for Shane's collar and leaning in and there, there was the arrival of his signature flirty, playful grin. He bent down, bushy curls tickling Shane's face as he addressed the microphone there. “Hello everyone watching this at home,” he said into Shane's chest, “You are hearing it here first: Rivalry is not dead.”

“Get off me,” Shane squawked, laughing. “You're losing the bet.”

“I will score hat trick just for you,” Ilya called as he skated away, blowing a kiss over his shoulder.

“Menace,” commented Shane to himself—and to the public, he supposed, because he'd forgotten for a moment that he was micced up.

—

They won the game. How could they not? Buffalo put up a decent fight, they were better than Shane remembered, but Ottawa was a freight train with speed, fucking unstoppable. Shane fulfilled his obligations, and the media behaved themselves—probably under pain of Harris’ ire.

Probably also because they'd heard his comments on the game mic. He'd given them plenty of material to work from.

One reporter, whom Ilya had pointed out to him when he'd signed as being the most senior and trusted among them, waited until the rest of them had asked about the game and the rivalry and the moments that would no doubt be talked about to death and back because Shane still had it (he'd never lost it, even). Some of the best guys who had made the trip from Buffalo had already moved on to Wyatt, who'd gotten an impressive shutout.

Davey—the reporter—looked to Harris, which was a clue in and of itself, which made Shane tense. He seemed to clock it. “Shane,” he began almost gently, “No pressure to answer this one, but was Lily watching?”

The rest of the reporters who had yet to flock around Wyatt leaned back in, phones creeping back toward Shane's face. He ignored them in favor of meeting the reporter's eyes versus something potentially revealing, like looking at Ilya. It was only game one. There would be time for that.

“He was,” Shane smiled.

October was a month for figuring things out. It was for learning how to manage mismatching pregame routines with someone you lived with and compromising about whose car would be taken to the rink (even if both cars were technically Ilya’s). It was about being obvious in plain sight and getting disbelieving looks from the handful of people who knew. It became an exercise in laughing like idiots when Shane tried to sneak his bag into Ilya’s room in Detroit on their first road trip only to get caught in the elevator by Coach Wiebe because how in all those years prior did they avoid being found out?

By the middle of October, they had moved house—easy for Shane, easier for Ilya with Shane and his parents’ involvement, though there were still jobs to be done (Shane wanted a rink in the basement to go with the gym but had compromised with Ilya’s request for actual ice: over the summer they’d install a small plastic rink for stickwork but the more pressing concern was an outdoor rink in the backyard), had the two-day road trip in which Wiebe had caught them, and allowed the media to become deeply invested in their bet. It caused Ilya to really ham it up, a phrase Shane learned he despised(You compare me to pig? Me? Take that back. I am sexy ferocious bear, not pig). By the end of October they were neck and neck, fighting for ice time, pushing each other in a way that Shane had sorely missed.

He couldn't remember the last time he had felt this voracious when it came to playing. It had been a long time.

When it became clear they could end the month with the same number of goals, tiebreaker conditions were established. Points would be the decision-maker, followed by faceoff percentage if they somehow managed to score the same number of points.

In the end, their conditions wouldn't be necessary. On the night of October twenty-ninth, with no more games to play, Shane had nine goals and twelve assists to Ilya’s ten and eight. Ilya had managed to have a two goal night to end the month and had joyfully informed the press at the optional morning skate on October thirtieth that he couldn't wait to see Shane wear his jersey, that there would be ‘so many pictures.’

On the morning of Halloween, just like every other morning since the season began, they woke up together.

Usually Shane rising to brush his teeth was what woke Ilya, but this morning Ilya was most of the way awake, dozy and sweet and cuddled up behind Shane, tucked into the inverted comma of his body, lips pressed his shoulder, eyelashes tickling bare skin with every blink. The scent of morning breath wasn't great, but Shane had managed to tilt his head just right to avoid it. He was comfortable and didn’t want to move.

Being with Ilya like this made his brain quiet in a good way. It was kind of like having a weighted blanket halfway draped over him, literally and otherwise. He relaxed back into Ilya’s embrace.

“No run this morning?”

“Mm,” Shane shrugged. “Day off.”

“I did not know you took those,” Ilya rumbled.

“You’re too comfy,” he slurred.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d drifted back off for—Ilya really was like a sedative, warm and heavy. Skin on skin contact with him was like a drug. When next Shane knew, Ilya was pulling away very carefully, tucking the blanket in around him to prevent the cold air of the room from touching his skin.

“Bood will be here soon with grill and slow cookers,” Ilya said apologetically. “It is whole day production.”

“I’ll get up,” Shane decided, though he hadn’t opened his eyes yet. “What time is it?”

“Nine o’clock,” Lips pressed into his hair. “You still have time if you want to sleep.”

Shane both did and didn’t. On one hand, he was still warm and comfortable, but that would change once Ilya got up and the overwhelming crush of his thoughts pressed in to fill the void. Today was a busy day. There was a lot to be done: coolers to fill and decorations to put up, food to plate and arrange from the chef they’d hired to do the sides and appetizers that took up space in every refrigerator: kitchen, basement wet bar, garage...

Yeah, no. Shane was definitely getting up.

“You’ll hog all the hot water,” he said instead of any of the thoughts in his head, flopping onto his back in anticipation of Ilya’s response.

He wasn’t disappointed.

“What are you talking about?” Ilya whirled back around, hands flying out in front of himself. “Is endless hot water! You wouldn’t shut up about it. ‘We need tankless water heater, Ilya,’” he whined in a not quite parody of Shane. “‘I want it installed before we move, Ilya. I am printsessa, Ilya.’”

“I know I definitely didn’t say that last one,” Shane deadpanned, throwing back the covers and lowering his socked feet to the floor.

“Is no less true,” Ilya insisted. “I am going to brush my teeth now so I can kiss you without you complaining. Then we are going to shower—and only shower, pervert, you will not seduce me—” Shane walked by him and got his ass smacked for the trouble.

“It’s not my fault if you can’t resist me,” he pointed out, looking over his shoulder at Ilya.

Ilya shook his head, following him into their massive master bath. He placed a kiss on Shane’s shoulder as he went to his sink, the one on the far wall, closer to the water closet. “I love this,” he murmured.

A molten sort of warmth filled Shane’s belly despite the goosebumps on his arms from the cool air. He had very specific feelings about thermostats and sleeping temperatures, which Ilya indulged. “Me too. Sometimes it’s like, I don’t know…”

“A dream,” Ilya said around his toothbrush, foamy toothpaste dotting his lower lip. His gaze softened. “Da. Yes, I agree.”

—

True to Ilya’s word, Zane Boodram arrived around ten, which wouldn’t have been an issue if Ilya hadn’t immediately dropped to his knees in the shower, more or less seducing himself. Shane was pretty sure he was going to have to do a lube check to make sure Ilya didn’t have any hidden in random places—again. His dad had found some in the living room hutch that ran behind the couch and it had taken days for Shane to look at it without blushing like a guilty teenager caught out after curfew. Or, at least, that's how he imagined it felt.

Ilya bounded to the door when the bell rang, going outside barefoot without his slides and yelping when his feet touched cold pavement. It was barely five degrees. Shane shook his head and went on with his morning, making his usual coffee. Feeling festive, he hit it with a little bit of cinnamon on top, then put the tiny glass jar back into the spice rack.

By then, Bood was following Ilya inside, the two of them loaded up with bags over their arms and a massive crockpot cradled in each of them.

“Oh shit, hey Hollzy,” Bood greeted him, carefully resting his crockpot on the counter where Ilya indicated despite his surprise. “I didn’t see your car out front.”

“It’s in the garage,” Shane shrugged. It wasn't technically his car at all, but apparently none of their teammates had ever seen Ilya drive it, so Bood could be forgiven for the assumption. “Need any help bringing things in?”

“Nah, we should be good. Just need Roz to open the gate to the back so I can back the trailer in. Most of the meat’s already smoking and the rest is fine to stay marinating in the cooler until I grill it tonight."

“You worry about drink coolers, yes?” Ilya gave him a knowing look. It was his I know you’re particular and have a plan so do your plan look, which currently doubled as a do not worry about our teammate taking over our backyard, I won’t let him fuck with your patio setup look.

Shane had already pulled out his phone and was trying to figure out if a mobile trailer with an in-use meat smoker was safe, much less legal. Did Bood need some sort of license for it? Ontario had all sorts of rules about what qualified as a food truck…

He forced himself to pocket his phone, shaking his head. Ilya was right. He was definitely better off working inside, possibly in the garage where he couldn't see what was happening in the backyard through the windows. “Okay.”

The pair went out through the garage, chatting about music or something, leaving Shane to drain his coffee and set about loading up beer and drinks in the coolers he'd strategically place inside and out. There was a spot on the deck next to the wet sink that was perfect for a bar, but Shane would wait until Ilya and Zane had finished the barbecue set up to bring out the bottles.

Organizing the drinks was a mindless, pleasant task, one that gave Shane a ton of satisfaction. The cans and bottles were lined up in perfect little rows, organized by size, shape, and color. He tucked a sealed plastic bag with foam koozies in the small gap between the final row of drinks and the insulated wall to finish things off, a hosting tip his mom had taught him one Canada Day weekend long, long ago.

Once they were all loaded up, the coolers staying inside stationed throughout the kitchen and living room, and the majority lined up near the back door to go out in the backyard, Shane brought the final one, full of drink boxes and small water bottles for trick or treaters, to the front hall and turned his attention to the Halloween candy Ilya had bought.

There was a lot of it. They lived in a nice neighborhood, the kind parents would drive their kids to for more ‘premium’ trick-or-treating. Ilya, who had spent enough time in affluent Boston neighborhoods to be aware of the concept, had already gone to the bank for money which he usually rolled up and rubberbanded to full sized candy bars.

Shane had vetoed that presentation on account of them not being drug dealers, and ordered some Halloween gift bags, which he stuffed with a pack of hockey cards, a candy bar, and a twenty dollar bill, which was left flat and nicely pressed. He brought a couple boxes full of them to the door and left them by the cooler, along with another plastic bag with a handful of permanent markers for the inevitable autographs they would be asked to sign.

They had discussed how handing out bags to trick or treaters would work throughout the party and agreed that it would be the responsibility of whomever was closest to the door, and Shane was pretty sure Harris was going to have the time of his life recording content, even on what was supposed to be his night off.

He had just pulled the box of pumpkin shaped lanterns that would line the front steps out of the hall closet when he heard footsteps behind him. They were hesitant and uneven, so definitely not Ilya's, tracing a path around the kitchen, pantry door opening and closing before they continued on.

“Everything okay?” He set the box down and headed back toward the kitchen to find Boodram looking into the cabinets under the sink.

Bood straightened, turning to face Shane. “Just looking for some rags, Roz wants to wipe down the adirondack chairs by the fire pit.”

“Laundry room.” He jerked his head in that direction. “Second door on the left, check the cabinets over the sink.” He stopped himself from adding something awkward like I think that’s where I saw them, or that’s where I would have put them. Shane had been the one to put them there, and even though it had been years since he’d been forced to hide on purpose, that instinct had never completely left.

“Thanks, man.” Bood stopped by the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water from the door and guzzling half of it. “I don’t think he’d admit to it, but I think he’s nervous. This is the first time he’s hosted a team gathering.”

Shane leaned against the counter. This he could play dumb about for Ilya's sake. “Really? He likes parties.”

“Yeah, but he was—don’t get me wrong, I love Roz, we all do, but he was pretty hands off, y’know? Like great in the room and obviously on the ice, but the only guy who ever really went to his place was Wyatt because goalie privilege or whatever. I’d never been to his condo.”

“It was fine,” he offered.

“You’ve been there?”

“Yeah. It’s not a big deal.” Shrugging, Shane followed Bood down the hall. “I didn’t exactly host events when I was Montreal’s captain, either,” he said, ignoring the unpleasant twist in his belly at the mention. “Pike hosted all of them.”

“You had your reasons,” Bood tried, aiming for tactfulness.

Shane forced himself not to exhale too loudly, drew it out through his nostrils, accepting that he was probably one of those reasons for Ilya, and even though he couldn’t change the past, he was here now. “I’m sure Roz does, too.”

Bood inclined his head, reaching for the door handle with the one not wrapped around his water bottle. “Touché, Hollzy.”

The laundry room had dark tiled floors and white cabinets that matched the washer and dryer. Bood looked around at the setup, whistling as he took in the rod by the window with a row of neat suit bags hanging over it, dry cleaning tickets secured around the hangars to indicate they were ready to wear. A clean load of laundry—Ilya’s, because Shane always folded his clothing the minute the dryer went off—sat atop the counter beside it.

“I think Cassie—my wife,” he explained, even though Shane hadn’t forgotten meeting her at Bood’s pre-season barbecue the month before, “Has this exact laundry room on a pinterest board somewhere,” he remarked, begrudgingly impressed. “Gotta admit I’m glad she’s on baby duty tonight or she’d spend the whole night trying to convince me we need to renovate with an infant.”

“Well,” Shane joined him in the small room and indicated the basket of unfolded laundry, “It can’t be all that if he doesn’t bother folding.” They both chuckled.

“Yeah, but,” Zane gave him room, poking his head out into the hall as he lowered his voice. “The guys and I figured that was probably something his girl did when she came around. Not that he talks about her.” He paused, sending Shane a wordless glance asking to be proven wrong.

Shane shrugged, which he was pretty sure was the correct response.

“He made this comment about a Montreal girl in the playoffs last year, Jane. We knew he got some, obviously,” Bood rolled his eyes goodnaturedly, “But that was always casual.” He made a little shimmy with his shoulders. “Now he’s got a house. He’s more settled and shit. Some of the guys were talking and we were kind of hoping she’d make an appearance tonight, you know?”

“T-totally,” Shane said.

“To be fair, they ask about your guy, too. Not like, speculation,” Bood was quick to add, “Just that we’d be chill with it, if you brought him around. We’re not really on that dudebro shit like some other teams. Hopefully that’s noticeable.”

Nodding, Shane opened the cupboard and pressed up onto his toes to grab the cleaning rags on the top shelf over the sink. “Yeah, it’s… yeah. I appreciate that. He does, too.”

“Cool. And, I hope you’re not bending over backwards for Roz or anything to smooth things over, yeah? I know it’s like, contentious, but—”

“It’s not,” Shane blurted. “It’s—we’re just competitive.” He sighed. It would be so easy to just say it, but he’d promised Ilya he’d try to make sure they could do it together as a unit, let him get a read on the room. “I’ll, um, bring these out to him,” he decided, ejecting himself from the conversation.

“Oh, um, okay.” Boodram stayed where he was, probably aware of just how awkward Shane was feeling. He seemed like the perpetual dad type, kind of like Hayden: easygoing and quick to catch the vibe, able to roll with it even when things got weird. “I’m gonna take a leak. Meet you guys out back.”

“Okay,” Shane threw over his shoulder. He’d managed to shove his feet into his slides when he heard the slosh-thud of a half-full bottle of water—hopefully closed—hit the hardwood.

Zane Boodram was the first guy to admit he had a damn good life, all things considered. He had a wife he fucking adored, the cutest fucking baby on the planet, and got paid unfathomable amounts of money to play a sport he fucking loved. He’d been in Ottawa for years now, since he’d been drafted. He had roots and shit, especially now that he and Cassie were parents. He wanted to stay here forever. Raise his kid, maybe have another one in a year or two if Cassie was okay with it. He was happy.

Which was why he could see it when guys weren’t. He could tell when it wasn’t the yips or garden variety goalie weirdness that had Hazy worked up but something at home, maybe something his wife was going through while they were on the road that he couldn’t properly support her through on FaceTime. He knew when one of the kids on defense had gone and fallen for a fling of the month even though they’d said it wasn’t that serious and needed some time alone to work through it. His mama had always said he had a lot of empathy.

So he’d known, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that Ilya Rozanov was miserable in Ottawa.

Zane had been so fucking hype in that first training camp after Roz had signed. The team was a massive heap of dog shit, but in signing him they’d acquired a backbone that wouldn’t crumble under the slightest adversity, leaving Zane alone with a bunch of second-rate call ups from the minors and a goalie with a glass groin who could give you a save but would need to go on IR to recover from it.

Roz had been step one, and he’d shown up to camp sluggish and disinterested, yet completely above scrutiny. It had taken him until December that first year, the 2018-2019 season, to lock in and be a problem for other teams to play against. In the meantime, he’d fought with almost everyone: they didn’t try hard enough (funny coming from him but not like anyone could actually call him out on it), they weren’t good enough, and what the fuck was this organization doing? They’d promised him if he signed that they’d be a cup contender within two years so shit or get off the pot already.

Of all the people he’d beefed with, Zane hadn’t been one of them. He’d looked Zane up and down on the powerplay three days before Christmas and said, smarmy and assholish, Try to keep up this time, kid, and Zane had met his cocky little grin, nodded, and proceeded to do it.

They’d been linemates, more or less, ever since. Come coaching changes and temporary roster shakeups, they were damn good together.

They’d been even better once Roz woke up and realized he had the C on his sweater. Zane’s voice had weight because it was one of the more veteran ones in the room, but Roz was the kind of guy you listened to whether you’d been in the show for twelve minutes or twelve years. He was the kind of guy you wanted to get in good with. Once you got through the outer shell of asshole, it was too late. You’d die for him if you could. He was a good guy, somewhere deep down.

In all the years since, Zane had been able to figure out why Roz took the payday from Ottawa when it was clear they’d needed to do a lot of work to make the playoffs, much less contend for a cup. The last three seasons had seen them completely overhaul the team inside and out: acquiring Roz on in free agency in 2018, new GM and coach in 2019, trading for Barrett and Hayes in 2020, polishing up Holmberg, LaPointe, and Young into everyday MLHers, bringing Luca up from the minors to absolutely wreck shop.

And now: Hollander.

It hadn’t made sense at the time. Of course, Zane, like the rest of their team, had been too busy being hyped and astonished when the news hit to think about the reasoning behind it. But when the dust had settled and the offseason made things slow and quiet, somewhere in the neverending cycle of changings and feedings and please, Milo, sleep for more than twenty minutes, baby boy, I’m begging you, he’d realized they didn’t really know why Hollander had decided to come home.

Sure, there had been the press conference, a cheeky half-hour special put on by the Centaurs which said a bunch of things that were actually nothing beyond “Hi, I’m Shane Hollander and I grew up here. You already saw the news so you know where I’ve been. I’ll be playing here now.” There was also, y’know, that night at Monk’s but that had been more about saying hello, not the dirty details.

Zane probably should have realized the dirty details weren’t particularly obscure. Hindsight was twenty-twenty and all that, if ‘all that’ was accidentally opening the door to what he thought was a washroom but was actually a half-assembled trophy room with several very interesting jerseys that did not belong to Boston, Ottawa, or Russia.

The water bottle in his hands flopped to the floor. Thankfully, it stayed closed. He hastily collected it and backed out of the room, closing his eyes tightly as he shut the door. It didn’t matter that he had, it was all superimposed behind his eyes: the cup replicas, the rings, the olympic fucking medals, the trophies he didn’t recognize, and the jerseys, the twenty-four and eighty-one hanging side by side.

“Is everything—oh, shit,” Hollander swore.

Zane flinched away from the door handle like it had burned him. “Wrong door,” he said slowly, forcing eye contact, trying for levity. He could be cool. “Uh, which one’s the washroom?”

All the color had drained from Hollander’s face. “That one,” he said shakily, pointing to the door on the right, just past the laundry room.

Right. It would make sense that they’d share a wall. Plumbing and all that.

And it would make sense that Hollander knew this because his shit was on the wall of Roz’s trophy room, because it wasn’t Roz’s fucking trophy room at all. It was their fucking trophy room. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov’s. Which meant—

Zane sat his ass on the closed toilet seat and put his head in his hands. All the empathy in the goddamn world didn’t do shit if he’d managed to miss his captain—his friend—going through all that.

—

“Shut the fuck up,” Zane told Roz five minutes later, marching across the backyard on a mission, Hollander hot on his heels. “No,” he said over a surprised Russian oath and whatever else he was trying to say to de-escalate. “Just shut the fuck up,” he repeated.

This was probably not the best thing to say. He could practically feel Hollander vibrating with anxiety somewhere behind him, which had probably clued Roz in that something was wrong, but Zane was too busy throwing his arms around Roz and squeezing him within an inch of his fucking life to worry about that at the moment.

“Uh, what is—”

“Trophy room was unlocked,” Hollander sounded sheepish. “He was looking for the washroom.”

“Surprise?” Roz tried joking, but it didn't land. He was rigid in Zane's arms, bracing as if he expected a blow.

Zane hated it. He had just spent five minutes sitting silently on the shitter trying to take stock of how he felt. The breakdown he decided on was thirty percent fury, because Derek Briggs still struggled to look him in the fucking eye after last spring. Luca Haas was cordial, but their chemistry had never completely recovered for Briggs shaped reasons, and seventy percent sadness, because the implication of this, of everything that came with it, was simply beyond any scale Zane could use to measure.

“Fuck,” Zane growled. “I hate that you carried this all alone.”

It was the right thing to say. The honest thing, yes, but more importantly it made Roz sag against him like a puppet with its strings cut. A second later, the sliding door opened and closed. Whether Hollander was trying to give them space or take some for himself, Zane wasn't sure. Roz eventually squeezed him a little too tightly, like he wasn't sure what was too much, then pulled back. Zane made sure to look him in the eye.

“I think,” Roz began, quiet in a way he normally wasn’t, “Maybe we should sit.”

Hollander must have thrown the rags over the back of one of the adirondack chairs when Zane was distracted, the lot of them set in a circle around the massive fire pit they’d prepped for a bonfire, but Roz didn’t bother with those. He gestured back toward the house. The deck was massive, covered, and made for entertaining: a basic grill sat near the kitchen doors near a wet bar and cabinets, the side covered by comfortable looking outdoor furniture: cushioned sectionals and chairs around a fancy looking fire pit. Pyramid heaters flanked the space on stand by. They’d probably be needed for the chilly fall night.

Now that Zane took a good look around, it was pretty obvious that the style here was all Hollander: soothing grays and slates and blue-whites, a pop of color in the cushions and a small army of throw pillows in various outdoor-safe textures. It was more like something you'd see on HGTV. He assumed there was probably a designer responsible.

Roz sat unceremoniously. Zane mirrored him, the fire pit between them. He watched his captain pinch the bridge of his nose and slouch backward, poorly hiding his discomfort.

“So.”

“So,” Roz repeated, blinking.

Zane looked toward the door. “Is, uh, Hollander going to come back?”

“I think so, probably,” He frowned. “He will come back when he is ready.”

Right, Zane thought. “Should we wait, or…”

“Or,” Roz shrugged. “Is me you are upset with. We will talk now.” He exhaled, and flung himself forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I know I have been a shitty captain—”

“Whoa, hey, what the fuck?”

“Is true,” Roz sniffed. “I am trying to be better. Shane—having Shane back makes me want to be better for both of us.” He looked around, located the ashtray and pack of cigarettes behind him on a table, and tapped one out of the pack without lighting it. “You know better than most. I am not proud of it, what happened last year with Derek. He and Luca forgave me, but it is more than that. You know this.”

It was Zane's turn to blink, confused. “I don't?”

“You have picked up slack. More than most alternate captains or veterans. I rarely came to events, never really stayed for long, and always fucked off with women when we went out as a team.”

“Not always,” Zane corrected, folding his fingers together on his lap. “And, I mean, you have—had?” He revised on the fly, “A reputation. It wasn't like we didn't know what we were getting into with you.” He shrugged. “You were fine until, y'know, you weren't.”

“Yes,” Roz said heavily. He rolled the unlit cigarette between his fingers, agitated. “And then I, what is,” he snapped his fingers around the cigarette, “Ah, self-destructed. After Tampa.” Another sniff. He sucked at his teeth, cheeks hollowing on one side as he considered what to say. “During, probably. I opened door that was closed. Figured if I was going to die I should be honest, yes?”

Zane nodded attentively. He felt a pang, a hollow echo in chest at that horrible feeling, that fear he was going to leave his wife and unborn son. He'd never forget it for the rest of his life. He'd been so caught up in that feeling that he'd never even clocked Roz beyond a morose presence chain-smoking on their balcony in that hotel room, the guy who'd stumbled in, blind drunk, yet still managed to put a bottle of water on both their bedside tables before passing out on top of his bed.

“You reached out to Hollander,” he realized. “On the plane.”

“Da. Yes.” Roz sighed. “Was very sappy and dramatic, but honest. Had to be good in case it was my only chance to tell the truth.”

“You guys weren't talking?”

“October of twenty sixteen was last time,” he said. “We reconnected after locker cleanout in May.”

The sliding door slid open. Hollander came out, scooted around the fire pit and sat beside Roz. He pulled a lighter from his pocket and handed it over.

“I thought you were hiding lighter on purpose so I would quit,” Roz teased, plucking it from Hollander's fingers, but there was an anxious tic in his jaw.

Rolling his eyes, Hollander said, “Making you smoke outside is enough compromise for now.”

As Zane watched, Hollander shoved in close, forcing Roz to throw an arm around his shoulders or lean away. He chose the first option, exhaling smoke away from Hollander before putting his face in Hollander's hair and breathing.

“I was in trophy room last," he murmured, sounding pained. “Was looking for the glass wipes. Is my fault.”

“It’s okay, Ilya.” Hollander’s eyes were a little bloodshot, but it was the only indication that he might have had his own reaction to Zane accidentally stumbling on their massive fucking secret. “Obviously,” he continued, looking across the fire pit at Zane, “We didn't want you to find out like that, but we figured people would figure it out eventually.” He fanned his fingers across his lower lip. “Probably. It's not, like, a secret or whatever. There’s a picture of us in the living room.”

The picture he was referencing looked like a hockey ad, but okay.

“Back up,” Zane looked between them. Normally he could just follow the flow of a conversation, but Roz wasn't going to get away from dropping a bomb on him, even if it was followed up by him and Hollander being quietly domestic in a way that—well, he thought, that was kind of the thing. “You said you hadn't talked to Hollzy since October of sixteen.”

“Yes.”

Hollander flushed.

Zane gestured to him. “And then you—”

Roz was quick to take the focus off Hollander, Zane noted. “Yes, we did not speak for four and a half years.”

“But you were…”

“Something,” Hollander confirmed.

When Roz looked over at Hollzy, it felt like someone kneed Zane in the gut. It felt like watching someone fall in love right in fucking front of him, that crazy lurch and free fall feeling projected in front of him like a movie. There was this warmth and softness in his gaze that Zane had never seen before, not even with Haas or the handful of rookies he'd consoled over the couple seasons they'd played together. Roz really needed to work on his self esteem, Zane noted. He wasn't perfect, but he was a much better leader than he gave himself credit for.

“We'd been something for a long time,” Roz murmured. “But you know how league was, and Shane—things had happened. You know.”

Zane nodded.

“And so four years later I send desperate—”

“—no, it was sweet, Ilya—”

“—sappy message and I think ‘Shane will never read this, he does not use Instagram but I want him to know if I die that I have only ever loved him—’”

“Goddamn it, Rozanov,” Hollander sniffled, swiping angrily at his eyes like they've betrayed him.

“And I think, for months, that he does not know this. I think he goes public because of fucking Briggs,” Roz huffed, but he was snuffing out his cigarette to wrap both arms around Hollander, crushing him to his chest so Zane doesn't see him cry, “But it wasn't, because Lily is stupid name I put in his phone with my number in rookie season and he had been taking little piece of me onto ice with him since he fucked off to SHL.”

Holy fuck, Zane thought, but what came out of his mouth was a faint, “Shut up.”

“Is true,” Roz said. He jostled Hollander with the hand wrapped around his shoulder. “He did it for me.”

“I did it for us,” Hollander corrected, voice muffled by Roz’s t-shirt. He pulled back, let Roz swipe away the last of the wetness on his cheeks, and returned to his previous position tucked under Roz’s arm.

“That's why you took a deal to come here.”

“I took the deal to win a cup,” Hollander corrected sternly. “Ilya would've done long distance but it would've fucking killed us. Maybe that's selfish, or whatever, but I'm done being miserable to spare bigots from feeling uncomfortable. We just want a future together. So,” he gestured to himself and Ilya, eyes locked uncomfortably with Zane's as if to dare him to challenge his words, “This is us.”

Ilya patted his thigh. “He is on our side, lyubimyy. No need for claws.”

There was, though. Not because Zane was a homophobe—he wasn't, but because Zane was pretty sure Roz needed defending. He deserved to have someone put him first.

Hollander nodded to him, cool and aloof and yeah, Zane thought maybe he thought so, too. The guy was kind of an ice king, really. That composure, despite crying not even two minutes earlier, was downright frosty.

“What can I do to support you?” He asked. “I mean, obviously you're not telling people.”

“We're not not telling people. We bought house together—”

“I'm sorry, what?”

“—Is both our cars in the garage—”

“They're your cars—”

“And you have stolen Mercedes. Even Bood knows it belongs to you.”

“To be fair,” he pointed out, “I just assumed—”

“Not the point,” Roz interrupted. “If they cannot figure it out when I say do not smoke in our house, Shane will be pissed and then they get too drunk to go home and wake up to you making them old man oatmeal—”

“Jesus Christ, it's regular oatmeal—”

“—On the stove in my hoodie and your slutty little running shorts,” he continued over Hollander's protests that Roz’s sweatshirt was appropriately worn and more comfortable and they were normal running shorts—Zane didn't know that he agreed with that last bit, he'd seen Hollzy on the treadmill last week and even Harris had commented that they were low-key scandalous, “Then they are fucking idiots.”

They were looking into each other's eyes, Hollander's chin tilted up a little, Roz’s down, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Ilya.”

“Shane.”

They were cute together, Zane decided. He told them so.

Hollander went scarlet. Roz laughed. “You are tomato,” he exclaimed, thrilled. “Moy pomidor.”

Somewhere between Boodram sitting on the patio looking like they’d whacked him upside the head with a stick and confirming with Harris that it was okay if he came over early with a photobooth-style setup to take pictures of Shane in his bet-mandated Halloween costume, Shane was pretty sure Ilya had decided he was going to tell the team about them tonight.

Maybe. Probably?

Sometimes it was hard to tell with Ilya. The belligerent tough-guy routine was more likely than not to be a facade, something worn and easy to hide behind when the world asked too much, not his actual personality. The Ilya that Shane knew was sometimes that guy, but deeper down, when it came to his people, he was really fucking considerate.

There may or may not have been have been a two pm freakout about their teammates not having anything they liked to eat, despite the various platters of meat, cheese, and veggies for apps, not to mention several strategically placed bowls of Halloween candy, and the actual meal, which had been carefully reviewed by Ilya with Bood and Shane’s mother (on two separate occasions) to confirm portions were appropriate and dietary restrictions were accommodated. It was kind of cute to see him so obsessive, but also really fucking heartbreaking when Shane got to thinking about it.

This event meant a lot to Ilya, something beyond a housewarming slash halloween slash possible coming out party. This was how he cared about his people. Fiercely. Obsessively. Shane couldn’t help but think of Ilya bent over his counter in Boston, carefully putting together tuna melts with a shoulder high stack of tupperware beside him, making sure everything he put on Shane’s was just right, that the presentation was perfect.

God, he was such an idiot when he was younger. Looking back, it was obvious. It had probably always been.

“I sent Bood out back to build bonfire,” Ilya said when Shane found him in the kitchen, fiddling with the arrangement of the snack trays. Harris would be arriving in an hour and it was probably a little too early to pull everything out, but Shane helped Ilya with a stack of appetizers anyway. “After, he will use downstairs bathroom to shower and put on costume.

“Did you tell him that the towels—”

“Are in the closet next to sink and to put used towel in towel hamper in laundry room? Yes.”

Shane smiled at him. He fucking loved being domestic with Ilya, loved it almost as much as playing hockey on the same team, which was a lot, if he was being honest. He was pretty sure the only things that would top it were playing on the same line, having sex, and winning a cup together.

There was still time for items one and three.

They worked in silence, Ilya removing lids from the round trays and exchanging them with Shane for tongs no one would use but were important to have anyway. They’d had a few renegade tomatoes that jumped off the platters and tried to run away, but it had become a little competition to see who could get to them first and shove them into the other’s mouth. When everything was set up, Shane pulled him toward the stairs.

“We should get a caterer for next time. Someone who can do all this for us,” he told Ilya. “Then you don’t have to worry.”

Ilya frowned. “I am not worried,” he insisted, glowering at Shane as if insulted he would accuse him of such an emotion. “Party will be good.”

“You’re a good host,” Shane said instead of arguing.

“You have done at least half the work,” Ilya gestured to the decorated foyer as they passed through.

“I think that’s how relationships work,” he shrugged. “Come on, let’s get our costumes on before Harris gets here.”

They weren’t particularly fancy costumes, all told. It was more about one of them wearing the other’s jersey, if anything, so the rest of it was all pretty low effort. Considering the surplus of jerseys in their house, Shane had raided their closet instead of asking the pro shop to provide him with another. Ilya gleefully selected one and laid it out on the bed before going back into the walk-in and rifling through the rest of them.

“I am honestly surprised that first time we are doing this is not sex thing.”

Shane traced the letters on the back of Ilya's jersey and huffed, “I don’t know that I’d be into that.”

“I think I could convince you,” Ilya teased, voice sultry. “You would do it for me.”

He wasn’t wrong. Shane probably would.

A moment later, Ilya emerged from their closet a second time, holding up the Centaurs jersey that had been given to Shane when he signed. “Is okay to wear?”

“I thought you were doing the whole sheet-toga thing,” Shane said, but he was nodding. “I heard you telling Dykstra—”

“Meh, I have done this many times. Is boring.” Ilya frowned. “Bad boring,” he clarified.

“Of course,” Shane allowed. “You’re going to go as me, even though I’m the one who lost the bet?”

He shrugged. “Guys will think is funny and Harris will get to take so many pictures. Will be good for social media. Besides: I got eye liner to make freckles, just in case.”

“All I have is a wig.” It wasn’t a very good wig, either. Very Dollarama halloween, but it wasn’t like he’d be wearing it for more than pictures. Just looking at it made Shane’s head itch. “I should have gotten some concealer to cover mine.”

“Wig is enough,” Ilya declared. “Freckles must stay.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Shane felt the smile on his face as he shoved his sweatpants down his legs and kicked them into the hamper in the closet. “So,” he hedged, shimmying into his jeans, “Is this, like, a couples’ costume?”

Ilya pursed his lips as Shane threw a pair of jeans at him. They were about the same color as the ones Shane had just finished buttoning, something Ilya very quickly recognized, looking between Shane and the denim bundle in his arms.

“Maybe, probably, I don’t know.” He paused. “Do you want it to be?”

Shane eyed him. He looked tense. “I just meant that it’s okay if it is, you know?”

“Yes.” Ilya sighed like he was about to admit to something he’d done wrong.

Shane had been ready to go public from the moment he’d sent Ilya that first text in four and a half years. It would have been ugly and stressful and probably not the most comfortable way to go public with a relationship, certainly not the safest way for Ilya, either, but if Ilya had insisted upon it despite the risks, Shane would have done it.

The hardest part had been the separation. The league would probably have its opinions, same with the fans—they hadn’t played in Montreal yet, and Shane was pretty sure it would be an exercise in delayed misery—but there was only one person whose opinion mattered in all this. Shane had controlled the narrative when it came to him and Ilya long enough. Ilya deserved to make this choice for himself.

“I’ll do this however you want,” he said. “Doesn’t have to be perfect or planned.”

“This is what worries me.” Ilya's face fell, fracturing his stoicism. “I do not want you to regret it.”

Shane circled, plucking Ilya’s fingers from the jersey he’d been thoughtlessly smoothing out on the bed. “You could tell people on twitter right now and I wouldn’t regret it,” he began, each word slow and heavy, “I’ll never regret falling in love with you.” He paused long enough to link their hands together at their sides. “Not then, not now, and not ever.” He thunked the knuckles of his free hand against Ilya’s chest, over his heart. “I don’t care how it happens as long as we’re together. Okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya whispered, but he searched Shane’s eyes for a long moment, as if expecting him to add some condition or take it back. When Shane didn’t, he tried for humor. “But if I told Twitter that I am Lily and we are dating you would be very annoyed.”

“I’d delete the app from my phone after retweeting your post,” Shane agreed, “But that’s your call.”

He blinked. “You would really let me do this?”

“I don’t think anyone lets you do anything,” Shane corrected, which couldn’t be any more true.

Ilya needed time to think about it, which was fine. They took turns fixing each other’s costumes: Shane by studying Ilya’s drawn on freckles and adding more on his nose before sidling him with a baseball hat that had to be adjusted for his hair, not to mention his slightly larger head, and Ilya by fussing with Shane’s very sad looking wig.

“I do not think I want to tell whole world today,” Ilya decided, when they were ready to go downstairs again, “But I would like to maybe not be so careful around team. Is not like they’ve noticed anyway and some of them know…”

“Fine, but I draw the line at kissing with tongue in front of our teammates.”

Ilya groaned like Shane had outlawed PDA entirely. “Fine,” he drawled, “No tongue unless we are alone.” He pursed his lips in a familiar invitation. Shane leaned in, shaking his head ruefully at the exaggerated mwah Ilya made as their lips touched. “Ah, caveat for if I am drunk. I will not be able to resist you.”

“Incredible foreshadowing,” Shane remarked, a tiny smile on his face.

“For-what?”

“It’s when you hint that something’s going to happen before it does,” he explained. “How do you know caveat but not foreshadowing?”

“English is stupid,” Ilya deadpanned, reaching for the Hollander jersey on the bed as he mouthed the word to himself to ensure he'd remember it.

—

Later, much later, Ilya was indeed drunk. Not sloppy drunk, but somewhere just past the point of tipsy where he felt good and loose and affectionate. Shane knew this because he found himself with Ilya in his lap, sprawled sideways across an adirondack chair at the cost of his not quite finished can of ginger ale. Shane accepted a wet, smacking kiss that glanced off the corner of his mouth and smelled like an indistinguishable combination of beer and liquor. In front of them, the bonfire that Bood had built and tended for most of the night roared on, a comforting balm against the chilly autumn night.

“Having fun?” Ilya asked. He spoke a little too loudly for how close they were. The flickering firelight bounced off his face, revealing the lack of drawn-on freckles. Shane wasn’t surprised that they hadn’t lasted, Ilya had been running around all night, excitable in a way that had Harris comparing him to his overgrown puppy, Chiron.

Shane nodded. “I am. Are you?”

“I feel fucking amazing,” he grinned against Shane's neck, letting him feel the shape of it.

Earlier, Harris had spent over an hour taking pictures. First he’d posed Shane in front of one of the trees in the back yard with a hockey stick, making him cycle through silly faces (all of which Shane made poorly) from a bunch of popular memes people posted of Ilya to satisfy the conditions of the bet. After, he’d been thrilled to snap a couple of them together, getting several in what he called ‘prom pose.’ Neither Shane nor Ilya had gone to prom, but Harris had insisted. Shane was pretty sure one of them would become Ilya’s phone wallpaper.

Their not-quite impromptu photography session had quickly devolved into madness as the rest of the guys started to trickle in wearing low effort costumes. Thankfully, Harris had brought props while he’d not been planning to work, he’d posted a compilation of their favorites to the team’s socials before logging out for the evening.

The rest of the party had gone well, but was mostly winding down. Some of the guys had already left, going home or moving on to other parties with their significant others if they'd brought them, and a lot of the younger ones had opted to stay inside to take advantage of close proximity to the bar and Ilya’s Switch. Shane could just barely make out the aggressive sounds of Mario Kart being played in the living room, led by Young and LaPointe.

Everyone else was out by the fire.

Beside them, Luca laughed. “You drunk, Cap?”

“I think that's the pot calling the kettle, baby,” Derek cut between their shared chair and Luca’s, offering his boyfriend a bottle of water. He had another in his hand which he indicated with a little shake, but Shane waved it off before Ilya could swat it away like an angry cat.

“I'm not that drunk,” Luca pouted, which made Ilya snicker into Shane’s neck. His slur was significant. “I destroyed you at Mario Kart and beer pong!”

“You won pong because you played with me,” Ilya commented dryly. “You finished fifth in Mario Kart because you got blue-shelled while doing lap three shot with Pointer and gave up when everyone passed you.”

“I would have won if not for the blue shell,” Luca said sadly. “Derek’s bad at video games.”

Derek flinched. “How am I catching strays?”

Amused, Shane murmured in Ilya’s ear, “You're such a bad influence.”

Cheek pressed to Shane’s chest, Ilya looked up at him and replied teasingly, “You love me.”

Eyes still trained on the fire, Shane couldn't help but smile, sinking a hand into Ilya's hair and cradling the back of his head. It made Ilya go even more boneless against him. If he wasn’t drunk, Ilya probably would have told Shane he was being unfair.

“I really do,” he pecked Ilya on the forehead and looked down.

Ilya looked up at him adoringly, which was one of Shane’s favorite expressions even with Ilya’s eyes a little overbright and bloodshot from a combination of alcohol and edibles.

“Uh,” Derek interrupted their moment by murmuring not so eloquently in Shane’s direction, “Are you drunk, too?”

Shane shook his head. “No?” He replied, not sure why he’d made it sound like a question. He’d split a gummy with Ilya—Wyatt had offered when he joined them at the fire, but that was about it.

“Is fine,” Ilya said lazily. “Go back to losing at Mario Kart or Chel or whatever they are playing inside. Take Luca with you before he falls asleep out here. I am too drunk to carry him to guest room. Again.”

Luca had indeed gone a little too hard the last time they'd had him and Derek over, back in Ilya's old place. In his defense, Ilya had goaded him into it, which he was probably thinking about given the look on his face.

“Thanks, dad,” Luca rolled his eyes like a brooding teenager but let Derek peel him out of his seat and lead him in a mostly controlled stumble toward the house.

“Don’t forget to drink your water, malchik,” Ilya called after him. He got a middle finger in response, which betrayed just how wasted Luca actually was. He’d probably be mortified if he remembered in the morning.

With the younger players gone, things quieted down. The fire crackled and spat sparks up into the sky. They looked kind of like little lightning bugs, but it was far too late in the season for that. It still sent a pang of longing through Shane, a desire for warm summer nights at his cottage. Maybe this summer they could invite the team, whoever didn’t have somewhere to go for Canada Day. He wondered if Ilya would like that. Between his place and his parents’, they'd have enough room for everyone, or people could bring tents and camp out by the dock if they wanted…

He looked down, watched Ilya watch the fire, and decided to ask him when they got closer to the end of the season.

It was Harris who broke the silence. “Alright, am I hallucinating or did that,” he gestured at Shane and Ilya, "Just happen?”

Shane took stock. They were definitely getting some strange looks from Dykstra and Chouinard across the fire, but they weren’t hostile, just curious. Wyatt, who had plunked himself on the cold, dewy ground despite the excessive number of chairs that had been set out, winked at Shane but continued to roast and distribute marshmallows to the group as if nothing of note was happening.

“I mean,” Troy’s voice was thick with inebriation, which made sense given his proximity to the cooler full of cider he and Harris had contributed, “Yeah, he’s in Shane’s lap, babe, but Roz’s always been a clingy drunk.

“I am not!”

“You definitely are,” Shane teased quietly, poking him in the cheek. “Like an octopus.”

Possibly offended or just pretending to be, Ilya tried to get up, but Shane held firm.

“I didn’t say you had to get up, I was just making a point.”

“Guys,” Harris stressed, arms flailing wildly in their direction. “I'm serious!”

Dykstra made a popping sound with his lips. “Okay, but there’s no way, right? They're fucking with us.”

“Agreed,” Tanner Dillon chimed in around a mouthful of burnt marshmallow, which was still lava hot on the inside. He washed it down with a couple swallows of the nearest drink, which was Troy’s cider.

“Hey!”

Wyatt, who was sitting on the ground beside Shane and Ilya, looked up to Shane and jerked his chin toward the sugary confection in invitation. It immediately caught fire, as if punishing Hazy for looking away.

“Shit.”

“I'll still eat it,” Shane said.

“I thought you didn't eat garbage food,” Troy leaned around Harris, looking longingly at the blackened confection.

“Give it to Troy,” Shane said, rolling his eyes, “I'll have the next one.”

Ilya snorted into his neck as the skewered marshmallow was passed down.

“There's like eighty sticks here,” Wyatt pointed out. They were all in a bucket, which sat next to a little cooler that had everything one needed for s'mores. “You guys are just as close to the fire as I am, you could do it yourselves.”

“Yeah, but Hollzy’s hands are full,” Bood pointed out, winking at Shane, who offered back a quick smile despite the sudden rush of heat to his cheeks that had nothing to do with the fire..

“You make them better,” Dillon added.

A hand flung out from their tangled pile on the chair, Ilya groping around in Wyatt's direction. He managed to find Wyatt's shoulder with his grabby hand gesture. “Give,” he ordered. “I will make.”

“This’ll be good,” Chouinard said.

“Don't do it, Wyatt!”

“Harris,” Ilya sounded annoyed. He had one eye open, which was probably a point for Harris in terms of trusting Ilya to cook anything over an open fire. “I am capable of roasting little ’shmallow.”

Shane hid a smile against the knob of Ilya’s shoulder. Over the summer Shane had told him that he'd called them that as a child, which Ilya had both adored and promptly adopted. In his accent, it came out dramatically Eastern European. Schmah-lohw.

“Dont think I don't see you being a tease over there, Rozanov,” Harris puffed up his chest, gesturing over his shoulder. “You're obviously copying me and Troy.”

“Is my house! I can sit wherever I want!”

“Ragebaiter,” Shane murmured.

Ilya was too pleased to look smug. He wriggled and shifted and somehow managed to land between Shane's feet on the ground. “Give me marshmallow and stick.”

“Hazy, do not—”

“Hazy,” Wyatt referred to himself in the third person, “Knows everything.” He handed over a roasting stick, marshmallow already attached, and looked to Shane. “I'm guessing you want a s'more with the all natural peanut butter cups I found in here?”

Shane's stomach gurgled appreciatively, not that anyone else could hear it. It could also have something to do with the gummy. “Damn right.”

“You have healthy s'mores?” Troy sounded devastated.

“You could have another one, babe,” Harris said easily.

“There are like six bags of marshmallows over here,” Wyatt volunteered. “I don't think the kids ever found them.”

“Derek and Luca know where they are,” Ilya waved toward the house with the hand holding Shane's fireball of a marshmallow.

“Oh my God, put that out before you set someone on fire,” Shane ordered, nudging Ilya's hip with his sneaker and forgetting what he'd wanted to say about Derek and Luca having made s'mores on the patio instead. This bonfire setup was a one time thing, soon to be replaced with an outdoor rink.

“Your ’shmallow,” Ilya declared proudly, holding it up over his head for Shane to blow out in complete disregard for his own safety.

“Menace,” Shane said, willing away the eight different nightmare scenarios offered up by his anxious brain.

Once the marshmallow was put out, Ilya turned his head to the side and pressed a kiss to the inside of Shane's knee.

“Guys, please,” Harris was on his feet now and maybe just a little wobbly. Troy reached for his hips to make sure he didn't tip toward the fire, making Shane kind of wish he maybe hadn’t suggested a bonfire altogether. Maybe after this s’more they should go up on the patio where the little firepit was smaller and less of a hazard. “I'm just saying—”

A weight pressed against Shane's leg from the knee down, warm and grounding. It soothed the more anxious trend of his thoughts. Ilya was good at knowing when Shane needed that, to the point where sometimes he didn’t even notice he was doing it. His boyfriend was a damn near devastating combination of thoughtful and instinctive.

Somewhere along the way Ilya had been freed from making Shane a s’more, most likely thanks to Wyatt’s intervention (because he did really know everything, Shane was convinced). Shane pressed the leg Ilya wasn't leaning against a little closer, bracketing him in a weird little leg cocoon. A warm hand wrapped around Shane's left ankle, the one closer to Wyatt.

“It's obvious, right? Is what you said.” Ilya set his gaze on the fire.

“I said you were a copy cat,” Harris corrected.

“Leave ‘em alone,” Bood said, tipping the neck of his beer in their direction. “It’s nobody's business.”

Wyatt turned a gleeful look toward Ilya, but said nothing, as if he was going to play stupid until Ilya gave him the okay. Bood, too, who was all in on defending them, even from his teammates, despite the fact that Shane’s situation had accidentally fucked up the team's dynamics last spring. The other guys’ questioning wasn't mean, either. They had just watched Shane and Ilya kiss and cuddle and whatever and rolled with whatever excuse they were given.

And Harris? He just wanted to be excited for them. Shane didn't even need to rack his brain to figure that out.

“Fuck,” Shane blurted, which had nothing to do with the absolutely delectable looking smore Wyatt had just passed to him over Ilya's head. “I am so glad I signed in Ottawa.”

And, well, yeah. That happened. Shane felt himself turning bright red and hoped the fire didn't totally light up his face.

“It's just a s’more, Hollzy.” Wyatt chirped lightly.

Ilya's hand squeezed Shane’s ankle. “You are good friend to cover for us, Hazy,” he said, looking in Wyatt's direction.

“You know too?” Bood looked stunned.

“Kind of obvious, if you keep up with hockey news,” Wyatt offered easily. “You?”

“He wound up in trophy room this morning,” Ilya commented to Wyatt before turning back to Harris. “Yes, Harris, is real, you are only normal cider drunk. Shane and I are together.”

Harris’ sound of excitement was kind of cute, Shane supposed. His drunken teetering not so much but Troy pulled him back down, blinking a little wide-eyed in their direction. Shane was pretty sure he'd just mouthed holy shit, but Dykstra pulled his attention over to the other side of the fire.

“How?”

“When two people like each other very much—” Boodram began, only to be immediately shoved by Chewie.

“Idiot means to say congratulations but also we're confused because you said you had a Montreal girl in playoffs—” he smacked himself in the forehead. “Fucking codenames,” Chewie realized. “Tabarnak.”

“Yes, so smart no one guessed for years and years,” Ilya tipped his head back to look at Shane.

“So why—”

“They don't owe you an explanation,” Wyatt said firmly. It was probably goalie intuition or whatever.

Ilya rolled his head toward Shane's left knee. “Is okay, Hazy.”

“Does Derek know?” Troy had one hand around Harris' waist like a seatbelt, and his usually soft voice was a little gruff.

“He knows.” Ilya swiveled his head back, nose pressed to Shane's jeans. “I maybe accidentally demanded he give Shane's number to me when we were not talking.”

“Accidentally,” Dykstra and Chouinard echoed with air quotes Shane saw out of the corner of his eye.

“Quiet, peanut gallery,” Bood ordered.

“We are good. I was asshole, but he forgave me because he is too nice for his own good, like Shane.”

“You called me an asshole like six times today,” Shane pointed out.

“Potato tomato.”

“That's not the saying and you know it.”

“Yes,” Ilya sniffed, “But I like it better.” Shane's shin received a placating pat. “Anyway,” he continued, as though he was terribly inconvenienced by their banter, “I was terribly jealous and stupid because there is no way Derek could ever handle Shane—”

“Roz, what the fuck?” Derek said. Shane hadn't heard him come back outside. Neither had the others, going by Dykstra’s slack jaw and the squeak that had come from either Troy or Harris..

“He is like baby me, raised by Hollander: no chirps and shittier hands.”

“Ilya!”

“No no, that's fine, shit-talking is how he shows affection,” Derek waved a hand and sat in the perfectly good seat Wyatt had ignored while Ilya gestured at him as if to say See? Someone gets it. Derek continued, “I made sure everyone who left took an Uber, but Luca passed out on the couch. I'll take him home later.”

“You will sleep over,” Ilya insisted, then gestured to Bood, who sat next to the massive drink cooler. “Give him a beer. He is done babysitting for the evening.”

Derek accepted the light beer Bood handed over with a thankful nod. He probably realized that anyone else would've given him an IPA or one of Harris’ family's ciders.

“As I was saying,” Ilya drew everyone's attention back to him, “Derek knows because I am lovesick fool.”

“Actually, Derek—” he sighed as though reliving something unpleasant. Ilya smothered a snort against Shane's leg, “I know because Luca told me. I try to stay out of people's business.”

“Smart man,” Wyatt said, offering his can to clink against Derek's bottle.

“Anyway, now everything is good. We are on same team, we bought beautiful house, Shane is driving my nice car and turning our back yard into ice rink—”

“Hollzy lives here too?”

“Isn't that, like, kind of fast?” Chouinard asked. “No offense?”

“None taken,” Shane told him, “But no, it's not fast at all.” He shrugged helplessly. “I love him.”

“Enough to fight for us to have future,” Ilya added, craning his head back at a comical angle to look at Shane like he was the only other person in the world.

November, 2021
Montreal, QC

The Centaurs didn’t have their first game against Montreal until mid-November, which had almost certainly been done on purpose by the league, either in the hopes that the discourse around Shane's accusations in the spring would die down or maybe to drum up more discourse in the event that there needed to be more eyes on the sport after the initial bump that was Shane’s return in October.

Maybe that was a little conceited or presumptuous, but if it couldn’t be said about this game, one could definitely look at the rest of the series: their next game against Montreal was scheduled just before the trade deadline and the final two—a home and home series—scheduled at the end of March. Anyone with half a mind for the sport could tell it had been done on purpose to orchestrate what the league liked to refer to as ‘storylines.’ Shane had had enough time and distance from the league to accept that he fucking hated that kind of manufactured drama. At least with Ilya and the rivalry there had been an element of competition to drive it.

(It sucked that Shane could already pencil in both March games as ‘scheduled maintenance’ because Coach Wiebe was definitely going to rest him for both, especially if the games went the way the league insiders suggested it was. Sentiment wasn't good, the Metros were worse, and some rough and tumble minor-league-lifer would almost definitely try to end Shane’s career for his five minutes of fame. That was just business.)

Despite the external factors, it was nice to roll into their first game against Montreal knowing that the guys were in on their (not quite a) secret. Shane wasn't stupid enough to think that every guy on the team was progressive and accepting, but the team’s management and core guys were.

It was more than Shane had hoped for despite trying not to expect anything one way or another. He was pretty sure he always had, despite his better judgment. It had happened despite all that scorched earth, grown roots in locker rooms and buses and trains across Sweden, newly out and no longer hiding himself, not that most people there particularly cared about an athlete who wasn’t a footballer, had come up like a weed and refused to die no matter how many times Shane tried to hack at it with more realistic expectations.

Anyway, Shane understood what he was: Asian (the half part both did and didn’t factor into it, depending on who you asked), gay, and in a position that people expected him to use as a platform for social reform. He had to comport himself in a specific way, and had to accept that no matter what he did, he would be held to a certain (different, unfair) standard because of his race and his orientation. Like his mom had told him at the beginning of his professional career, kids like him didn’t see themselves in sport, and even if he just wanted to go out there and play his game, he had to be mindful that the past informed the future. His actions mattered.

So while his teammates answered the Montreal media’s intrusive, non-hockey related questions about Shane’s life choices, Shane himself sat in the visitors lounge and watched the whole thing happen live on the Centaurs’ YouTube channel.

They asked every guy they got in pre-game availability if they’d met ‘the man known as Lily,’ which had sent Ilya into a fit of laughter because, “What are they, fucking stupid? Entire world knows Shane Hollander is gay, obviously secret boyfriend is boyfriend, even if he is named after delicate flower.”

Bood, who was always a media darling—according to Harris, but also Shane’s mom, which was about as glowing a review as one could get—had shrugged and said, “Yeah, I mean, I’ve most of my teammates’ partners. That’s kind of standard when you’re a close knit team like ours.”

Dykstra, who had been the only one Shane, and Ilya, though he’d never admit it, had been worried about, had thrown his head back and laughed. “Dude’s a riot,” he’d said. “Met him a while back.” At their follow up about what Lily was like, he smirked. “Hollzy’s got his hands full.”

They’d been a little harsher on Derek, who had insisted he be made available, which Harris had looked slightly conflicted about, citing what he called ‘the ginger ale incident,’ which had been sweet and a little hilarious because Shane knew Derek didn’t like ginger ale. He preferred Seven Up, which Shane hated because it tasted like rockets, which were a powder-slash-texture thing he’d hated since he was a little kid.

When Derek scrummed, they asked if he’d purposely tried to take heat off Shane last season: “I didn’t,” he'd lied, “But you guys certainly tried to connect the dots, huh,” if he’d known Lily’s identity the entire time: “Shane is a great teammate, the best mentor a guy like me could hope for, and someone I consider family. That means I respect his privacy,” and, possibly more offensively, if he had a problem with it: “Queer people have been involved in sport since long before the MLH was formed, Martin. Not everyone has a public coming out moment, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t here, playing for your favorite teams or rivals.”

“Oh my god,” Luca said, leaning into Ilya to see the coverage on Shane’s ipad. Around them, the visitors lounge had gone silent.

Ilya, as expected really, had been the one to break the silence. “Do you think he knows he just made himself into a headline? He basically came out to fucking Montreal. They are like soap opera journalism,” he snapped his fingers, trying to recall the correct word for what he was trying to describe.

“Tabeloids,” Chouinard called out.

“I could do the same in post game,” Barrett murmured from a lounger in the corner, watching on his phone, though he’d muted it when Ilya complained that the feeds were slightly out of sync. “Harris would probably kill me, but—”

“I think you should do it for yourself,” Ilya said. “Not to protect Derek. He is big boy, yes? Montreal accused him of being with Shane last year, kind of, and he is not like us. He has always been out, just not vocal about it.”

“That’s because he just doesn’t know when to shut his mouth when he does talk,” Luca pointed out. “He means well, though.”

“I know you guys were roommates and played together before,” Chouinard addressed Shane from where he sat at one of the tables near the catering setup with his absolutely disgusting pregame meal, “And obviously media were brutal to him because of,” he gestured with his fork at the Metros logos plastered all over everything in the lounge, “But, I did not know you guys were that close.”

“We are,” Shane said. “He’s a special kid.”

“He’s putting up numbers,” Chouinard pointed out around a mouthful of his usual pasta-based pre-game atrocity that Shane tried very hard not to think about. “He's gonna get that bag next contract.”

“Damn straight,” Luca concurred.

“I think you’re biased, Haasy,” Troy pointed out.

Maybe Haas was, but frankly, the league had a short memory when it came to prospects who dropped out of the draft and came up through other channels years later. At final check, he'd been projected to go in the second round of the 2014 draft, but some scouts had projected him to go eight or ninth, citing a massive ceiling and calling him a sleeper agent. Based on his play, Shane thought he probably would’ve gone in the late twenties if he'd made it to the combine. Unfortunately, his development had been squandered, though not by any fault of his own.

But that wasn’t Shane’s story to tell.

—

Hours later, the Centaurs had won and Shane gave the most boring, bland, and uninformative post game commentary ever recorded. At least, Shane was pretty sure he had. Half of what he was asked was given a very dead-eyed stare, he could feel it in his face, the way it was slack, like he was half asleep, and he’d answered nearly every question (or its follow up) with a firm, “No comment.”

Part of that was an agreement in his settlement not to speak poorly of the franchise he’d successfully held accountable for their actions, even if it was merited. The media still tried in their subtly vindictive way, the same as they always did. They asked questions about his personal life and the settlement and the person he was now, as if he wasn’t the same guy who had played for them for seven seasons, but not about the things that actually mattered.

They didn’t ask about the Montreal fans who came to the game early during warmups in his jersey with their pride flags and signs, how Ilya had pointed out and Derek had shoved Shane toward them with a smile. They didn’t ask about the désolé Hollander chants that rained down when he'd gone to take his first face off of the night and carried on for nearly ten minutes before being contested and later swallowed up by fans calling him a slur when he’d scored against his former team.

It would have accented how the league needed to take a better stance to defend its players against hatred it had allowed to fester and take root, would have been something Shane wouldn't have been able to speak on anyway, but it was still the principle of the thing. Instead, Montreal’s journalists had been too busy asking in indirect, obtuse ways if Shane felt remorse about the Metros being at the bottom of the division and losing their first round pick that could have been the first overall they so desperately needed to rebuild as a result of the accusations that had been brought against the organization.

Ilya had spoken after him, and his scrum hadn’t gone much better. His usual swagger had melted away in favor of something sharper and defensive.

Shane hadn’t heard what he’d said, but he knew that Harris had intervened, cutting Ilya off mid-sentence and indicating that the press was no longer welcome in the visitor’s locker room.

“I don’t want to speak to them again unless we play them in the playoffs,” Shane said when the last reporter had been sent down the hall and Harris had finally taken his hands off his hips in the doorway to consult his ever-present clipboard, which was held together by stickers and pride tape in a rainbow themed explosion.

“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best to keep them away from you,” Harris agreed before turning his attention to Ilya, who hadn’t even made a comment about how there was no way in hell that they’d drag themselves into a wildcard spot based on how shitty they’d become. “You okay, Roz?”

“Angry,” Ilya responded, throwing his bundled up, sweat soaked socks into the laundry bin in the middle of the room with a little too much force behind it. “I will shower,” he decided, stripping down and stalking off in the direction of the showers like a frustrated predator.

“What’d they say to him?” Shane asked Harris, who flinched.

“Mostly the same as they asked the guys earlier, but,” he shrugged. “I think it was just a little much.”

“They were saying shit all game,” Bood agreed, coming out of the showers in a towel. Luca wasn’t far behind him, pale hair plastered to his head like he’d all but ran out of there once Ilya entered. It was probably for the best to give him some space.

“We knew to expect it though,” Shane pointed out.

It hadn’t been as bad as he had been expecting, if he was being honest with himself. The attention on him was normal, but the guys had done a really good job of deflecting, answering the media’s questions without giving them anything. The Metros who remembered playing with him had been a mixed bag: some blatantly ignored him, others snuck looks when they thought he wasn’t paying attention, and a few of the ones who had always had things to say had been vocal. The Metros organization was old school. Just because they’d had a change at the top didn’t mean the effects had trickled down quite yet. There wasn't any headhunting, which Shane had been anticipating.

“Yeah, but you’re… you,” Harris pointed out, mindful of the other staff milling about the room.

When Ilya emerged ten minutes later, skin pink from too-hot water and scowl smoothing his face into something distant and aloof, Shane patted the bench next to his stall and waited for Ilya to throw himself down in a chaotic, towel-clad heap. He pressed his face into Shane’s neck, wet curls dripping onto Shane’s suit, and breathed, raggedly.

“You deserved so much better,” Ilya murmured, letting his head rest on Shane’s shoulder. He sounded heartbroken.

Shane wasn’t sad. Maybe he should have been; Maybe that was why Ilya was sad for him. It hurt Shane more that Ilya was distraught than it ever would to hear the Montreal crowd call him a faggot.

“I have it,” he told Ilya, looking around the room, at the guys who had their backs. “Here. With you, and our team.”

“Fuck you, Hollzy,” Dykstra yelled across the room, sniffling.

The rest of the guys seemed to echo the sentiment.

They weren’t about to set any records, but the Centaurs were second in the Atlantic division and third in the conference at the end of the month. Shane had even gotten to spend a night with Hayden, Jackie, and their kids in Boston around American Thanksgiving, which had been emotional in a good way, even though Ilya had told anyone who would listen that Shane was ‘fraternizing with the enemy,’ like he wasn’t just as excited to get time with Marley and Svetlana, who had also been invited to the Pike’s first American turkey-day celebration, as the kids called it.

The schedule this time of year always felt compressed, games smashed close together between the American holiday at the end of November which the league half-celebrated, half-ignored due to football, and the league’s mandatory travel restrictions around Christmas which made everything more difficult despite the player’s association fighting for the day off.

So naturally, the Centaurs ended the month of November with a western roadtrip.

Admittedly, of all the games Shane would play in what Ilya and some of the guys joked around as being Shane’s welcome back tour—partially because several teams, like Boston, New York, and Washington, had finished games with the kind of handshake line saved for the end of a playoff series or a guy’s final game in the league, their captains lingering awkwardly at center ice trying to catch Shane’s eye, wave him over for the obligatory hand clasps and shoulder pats—the one Shane was actually kind of nervous for was Colorado.

Not because of their team, which was good—the Centaurs would have their work cut out for them with Colorado's defense—but because it meant he couldn't avoid the inevitable.

Colorado’s social media manager, a very nice woman named Steph, had FaceTimed Harris the day before to ask about doing a reunion video in which JJ would be waiting for Shane when the Centaurs’ bus arrived at the Denver arena for pre-game skate. She’d pitched it as being a very natural thing, no sound bites required. When Shane declined, she'd offered not to have audio at all.

That hadn't changed Shane's answer. He understood that JJ was a beloved veteran in Colorado’s room, that it would even be good press for them both. JJ had more cups now than Shane now, having been with Shane for two, then off to Colorado to win one on his own. As he'd tried to explain to Harris, he didn’t owe anybody that kind of access to his relationships.

Things with JJ were complicated. They hadn’t really parted on good terms—or at least, Shane had parted with him the same way he had with everyone else: complete withdrawal without so much as a word. JJ hadn't taken it well. Like Hayden, he’d lit up Shane on Instagram. The difference lay in his messages, which had started with sad, disbelieving rants and quickly became aggressive, rage-filled missives that eventually petered out into something worse: a massive guilt trip.

JJ had touched upon a wound with his words, made it seem like Shane owed him something: an explanation, a reason, as if Shane could only pull away if he justified it first. He had no idea what Shane had gone through back then, but now that he did, because Shane’s life had been made public in the pursuit of something greater, JJ and his team wanted the whole world to see… what, exactly? What kind of reunion would it be if Shane went through with it? He wasn't even sure he wanted to speak to JJ, if he was being honest.

Shane knew he hadn't been the greatest friend and that the messages were years old, that he probably should let them go, but it was different when it was someone he'd cared about accusing him of not caring enough for the people around him. Maybe he hadn't done things the right way, but wasn't like he'd wanted to isolate himself. All he'd been trying to do was keep JJ and Hayden, his closest friends, from losing their careers by association.

But of course, there JJ was, waiting in the parking lot when the bus pulled up outside Ball Arena.

It pissed Shane off more than the media circus that was Montreal. Ilya, who had been chatting with Haas across the aisle, closed his hand over Shane's. It wasn't enough to soothe him.

Of course, when he realized why Shane was angry, spotting Dejenais leaning against the building in his suit, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, he met Shane on his level. It probably wasn't a good thing.

“Do you want me to handle it?” Ilya whispered.

Shane shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

“I am your captain,” Ilya reasoned. “Would not be abnormal—”

“I'm pretty sure he’s figured us out.”

“Did Hayden say?”

“Nope,” the word felt full of bees, buzzy and wrong in Shane's mouth. “He's not talking to Hayden right now.” There were very few reasons why JJ would simultaneously pull away from Hayden’s attempts at mediation and press Shane through external, unavoidable methods of communication, he thought, but couldn't bring himself to say.

“Fuck,” Ilya murmured, thunking his head against Shane's shoulder, probably figuring it out for himself.

“I have to deal with it, I guess,” Shane said, hating the feeling of pressure and confrontation. It reminded him of Montreal, not that first conversation with management, where he'd expected the best, but the last ones, the ones where he'd known he was marching to an execution, expected to validate someone else's unrealistic expectations because to them he was a commodity, not a person.

And once again, he'd have to fucking do it, or else some security guard or random media person with a press badge and a cell phone would spin him as the asshole.

“Someone could distract him so you could get away,” Ilya tried. He always tried so hard to fix Shane's problems for him.

“I don't want to have it out on the ice on fucking national TV. That'd make it worse.” Shane blew out a sigh. “At least their social team listened to my requests and there aren't any cameras.” At least not any that Shane could see, anyway.

“Okay,” Ilya said, lips pressed to the knob of his shoulder. He didn't sound like it was. “You will call if you need me.”

Shane nodded.

What followed was Ilya wrangling the team off the bus like there was a prize waiting for them in the visitor's locker room. There wasn't. Colorado's in-arena restaurant was the same as all the other arenas around the league when it came to pre-game catering, so pasta and dried out chicken breasts it was, assuming they didn't take their chances with the hotel restaurant.

He took up the rear, jerking his head to indicate that the guys should indeed follow Ilya and not linger with him. Derek was the only one who protested, pressing a hand to the small of Luca's back to ensure he moved on.

“Go with them.”

“I see what's happening here,” Derek said. Together he and Shane stepped off the asphalt and up onto the curb. “I don't think you should be—”

Shane turned his head to the side and hoped his bland look said everything Derek needed to know.

“Shane? Shane!”

It was too late.

JJ had decided enough of the team had gone into the building. He pushed himself off the exterior brick wall, snuffing out his cigarette and flicking it into a strand of Christmas lights illuminating the landscaping, already making his approach.

“It's okay,” Shane told Derek. It wasn't, and Derek was looking at him like he knew it wasn't, but there was nothing else to be done.

“I know what that asshole said to you,” he said loud enough for JJ to hear.

Softer, Shane replied, “I know.”

Derek had, for better or worse, had a front row seat to a lot of Shane’s business, though the incident in question had been an accident. There had been a phone mixup early in their Swedish cohabitation that had resulted in some very nasty messages from JJ finding their way in front of Derek’s eyeballs.

“It’s none of your business, little man,” JJ called out, nearly upon them. “It was years ago.”

“What a fucking joke,” Derek spat at the ground between them.

Up ahead, Chouinard looked back at them from the doors to the player entrance, concerned. Shane shook his head. He took a second to make sure nobody else was watching, then jerked his head toward Chewie and the closing doors between them in a silent gesture to please just leave it. The sooner everyone left, the sooner this would be over with.

Sensing that Derek wasn't going to listen—his temper wasn’t easy to spark and even harder to stamp out—Shane put a hand on his shoulder and pushed gently in the direction of the door. “Go on, Derek. I’ll catch up in a minute.”

“Yes, listen to your maman,” instigated JJ, because he'd always been good at picking at people.

“You don’t get to talk to him like that,” Shane said as Derek bristled, shoulders rising toward his ears but obeyed.

“Why not? Sources say you two are like family.”

The words felt wrong. They sounded slimy, like Shane had done something wrong, but that didn’t make sense. There was nothing wrong with him being close to Derek, and that closeness had absolutely nothing to do with the league they played in now. If anything, the opposite was true.

Changing the subject was easier than trying to figure out what JJ wasn’t saying, though, so Shane started over. “I thought I said no to this,” he said. He felt his voice waver and tried to figure out if it was anxiety or some other emotion. He wasn’t sure.

JJ shrugged. “You said no to the video.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Not to talking.”

Shane waited until he couldn't see his teammates through the doors, then started in that direction. He knew JJ would follow him. “Did you consider that maybe I said no to the video because I didn't want to talk?”

“Too busy with Boston Lily to make time for your friends?”

Reeling, Shane snapped, “What the—is that what this is about?”

Whirling around, Shane willed himself not to shove JJ to the brick just outside the entrance and tell him to shut his face. The little tunnel-like overhang near the player entrance cast shadows that made it seem private, but sound carried, and Shane knew anyone who pulled into the lot could see them.

JJ continued, purposely trying to goad him. “Hayden was convenient, but I must have been too far out of your way.”

“We're done here,” Shane forced himself to say. He could feel his chest heaving. He hated confrontation, needed to disengage. He’d gotten the door open when JJ grabbed his wrist.

“No we're not.” JJ held firm, the two of them suspended, half inside, half out. “Tabarnak,” He cursed. “Hayden might think you can do no wrong, but I thought we were friends. Friends do not fuck off without a word, for no fucking reason. Friends stand up for each other. You didn’t even give us the chance.”

The words were, in a way, both better and worse than what Shane had been expecting. Better, because they weren’t terribly unfamiliar. Worse, because they hadn’t changed, despite everything.

“I don't owe you an explanation,” Shane told him, managing to use the place where they were joined to tug them both fully inside. Their eyes met and it hurt. It felt like spikes, making it almost physically painful to hold JJ’s furious gaze. “I’m sorry if that upsets you, but you have no idea what I've been through.”

“That is not true,” JJ insisted. His voice echoed sharply down the hall. “Everyone knows what you have been through because you gave them a front row seat. Told the whole world, but not your friends when it counted. We had years together and I had to find out like a fucking idiot that Lily—”

Ice flooded Shane’s veins. It was like he blinked and his hand was clamped over JJ’s mouth like a vice. He didn't remember thinking about it. “No,” he said flatly. He removed his hand when JJ stilled. “You don’t get to do that.”

“I don't? You kept that from the whole world, too, even if they do not know about it.” JJ didn't seem to care about what Shane wanted, but rather his own hurts. “Are you afraid he won’t come out and defend you?”

“I don’t need him to defend me.” Shane looked him up and down and decided that JJ, for how shitty he was behaving, probably wasn’t shitty enough to out Ilya. At least, he hoped. “Was this how you were going to have this conversation with cameras on us?”

“At least if the cameras were on you, you might have talked,” JJ admitted. He shoved his hands in his pockets, his disappointment a weight in his tone. “I just wanted to know why.”

“I’m not allowed to talk about it,” he told JJ. The cresting wave of emotion, the horror-shock-anger of confrontation had yielded, leaving the frenetic energy that was nerves or anxiety or whatever the fuck it was Shane was feeling with nowhere to go. “Even if I wanted to tell you, which I don’t.”

JJ nodded, jaw working. “So that is it? Goodbye to years of friendship?”

He could feel his lips trembling, hated the feeling that he was disappointing someone, even if whatever friendship they’d had felt so far removed from where they were now. “I guess,” he said. “You’re the one who gave it conditions.”

Walking away felt about as terrible as JJ scoffing at his back, but it had to be done. Pretending it was fine would have been worse.

It was funny, Shane thought, sliding into the dressing room on autopilot and lowering himself to the bench in front of his stall, letting his head drop into the curved bowl of his hands. People always talked about sticking up for yourself as being this thing that always felt so good and empowering, but they rarely talked about the feelings of inadequacy or disappointment that came from establishing boundaries and learning that the people you cared about didn’t care for you in the same way, that their love and friendship had conditions, that maybe they weren’t the people you thought they were, and no amount of time or distance would ever really change it.

—

It was no surprise Shane played terribly in their game that evening. He’d spent the afternoon before the game half-present, Derek and Ilya losing their collective shit in a way that had Luca sitting beside Shane, looking concerned by the weird protectiveness that had taken root in them.

His focus was fucked, his mind simultaneously stuck, half frozen, and bouncing off the walls of his skull like a pinball, unstoppable motion. He had no idea how he played—or, that wasn't right—he knew how he played, the memory of it just didn't stick. It was the wrong side of instinct. The survival side of it, not the competitive edge, had been what propelled him through the game and its aftermath.

Sometime later, he came back to himself—not that he’d left, but his mind had gone quiet and distant for a while the way it did when things got to be too much—in his and Ilya’s hotel room, Derek sitting on the bed beside him, an ice pack on his hand, Ilya pacing by the window, Wyatt and Luca playing cards at the table like this was a normal hangout on any other roadie. A part of him was distantly annoyed by it all. He didn't want to be seen like this or have to deal with other people, but another, quieter part of him realized it didn't have anything to do with him at all. They—Luca and Hayes—were here for Ilya and Derek, because Shane wasn't the only person here who needed someone in his corner tonight.

The game hadn’t been especially brutal, but it had been charged with emotion. Those emotions had mostly bounced off Shane, but that didn’t mean others needed time for them to run their course.

“I don't want to fucking hear it, Hayden!” Ilya was raving, the hand not holding his phone to his ear slashing aggressively through the air in front of him. “Saying sorry is empty words. He wasn't sorry enough to show Shane even a little fucking respect and now he feels bad. Is not Shane's problem he is shitty person.”

He fell silent as Hayden responded, words a blur of familiar tone and cadence from Shane's spot on the bed. Ilya's sharp motions ceased so he could focus on what was being said, though when he turned around and noticed Shane looking at him, he approached.

Instead of touching, which Shane wasn't sure he wanted right now, everything feeling a bit too intense, Ilya pulled the ice off Derek's hand. “One second, Hayden,” he interrupted. “Off for twenty,” he instructed Derek, handing him the melted bag of ice. Over his shoulder he added, "Haasy, where is your timer? I have been on phone for half an hour.”

Luca set his hand face down on the table, reaching for his phone. “Shit, I thought I set it. Sorry, Derek.”

“It’s okay,” Derek said. “I’m going to refill the ice bucket.”

Shane felt the mattress shift when Derek rose, his body bobbing with the motion like a buoy in a lake, tethered but unsteady. Seconds later, it dipped again, but with a heavy sigh and warm skin that pressed firmly against Shane’s arm.

He could smell Ilya’s cologne layered over the scent of the usual not quite unscented three-in-one that was in every locker room in every arena, and turned his head toward it. If they were alone, he’d have shoved his head under Ilya’s chin.

“I am going now,” Ilya said into the phone. “I will text you. Tell that fucker—” Ilya looked toward the ceiling and said something in Russian, but Hayden was already interrupting. He listened for a moment and then, “Yes. Thank you, Pike.” He paused, fingers finding Shane’s knee and squeezing gently. “Goodbye.”

“Should we—”

Ilya tossed his phone up toward the headboard. “We should eat something,” he looked to Wyatt. “Room service?”

“Hotel restaurant closed an hour ago.”

“Boo,” Ilya jeered, jostling Shane, just a little. “Is anywhere within walking distance?”

“You want to walk somewhere?” Haas asked. “It’s fucking freezing out.”

“We play sport on ice.”

“It’s climate controlled,” Luca protested.

Shane snorted softly. It was loud to him, but probably more like a slightly exaggerated exhale.

Ilya’s lips brushed his temple. “He is being baby, ah?”

The lopsided shrug Shane offered in response made Ilya rock against him shoulder to shoulder.

A clicking sound followed by the whir of a small motor signalled Derek’s return from the hall. He stepped in and offered Ilya his keycard back, then dropped the refilled ice bucket on the table by Haas and Hayes’ forgotten card game.

Another kiss landed in Shane’s hair. It didn’t feel heavy or uncomfortable, but to be fair, Shane was pretty sure Ilya’s presence never had. They watched Luca and Derek wriggle around, the pair of them too big for the rickety chair Luca had previously been occupying alone.

Lips found the shell of his ear next. “Hungry?”

Shane hadn’t eaten anything since long before the game, which was not ideal, but his stomach had been as unsettled as the rest of him since arriving to the arena. This sort of thing used to happen a lot more often. Today was an uncomfortable exception, which Shane probably should have expected and warned Ilya about.

He had a sneaking suspicion that someone who also knew what Shane was like when he was overwhelmed—several someones, actually, considering Ilya’s call to Hayden—had provided him with coaching, or maybe just information.

Or maybe Ilya just knew him really fucking well.

“I could eat,” Shane decided, knowing that the yawning void in his stomach didn’t bother him now, but it probably would when he tried to sleep. He didn’t feel nauseous or anything, so that was as good a sign as any. “Are you okay?”

Ilya’s lips found his shoulder again. “I am angry,” he admitted, “At situation. Hayden is handling it. Derek did not break anything when he punched that asshole,” he very pointedly did not say JJ’s name, Shane noticed, “which is only reason I am not angry at him, too.”

“His face looked punchable,” Derek protested, “You said it yourself.”

“Yes, but I was going to do it!”

“Nobody should have done it,” Shane said. He shivered, still feeling a little weird and out of place.

Ilya seemed to consider something. He tugged his hoodie over his head and dropped it into Shane’s lap.

It smelled good and was warm. Shane wriggled into it. “Derek give you tips?”

“You wear Derek’s hoodies?” Ilya’s attention focused on Shane in a way that felt sharp.

From the other side of the room, Derek corrected, groaning, “Wore, Roz, please. It’s not like that. It happened maybe twice?”

“I will give you every hoodie I own,” Ilya decided.

“Are we eating or are we eating?” Hayes spoke over him, instantly de-escalating the situation. “There’s a Wild Wings and a McDonalds.”

“The McRib is back,” Luca commented. “Young and Bergy were talking about it.”

Shane could practically hear Ilya licking his chops. Neither place sounded particularly great, and he would probably bitch about how gross he felt tomorrow—

“That is not healthy enough,” Ilya argued on his behalf.

“Like wings are any better?” Wyatt asked.

—but, if he was being honest with himself (and he was trying very hard to do that instead of shoving all of his thoughts and feelings down and letting the world tell him how he ought to live his life), “Last time Ilya ordered McDonalds, he ate all the chicken mcnuggets before I got one.”

Ilya jumped up, hand pressed dramatically to his chest. “You said you didn’t want any!” He exclaimed, before promptly doing a one-eighty, his expression smoothing into something serious. “Okay, boys, go get your jackets. Meet in the lobby in ten.”

—

“I'm sorry.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. When Shane’s expression remained serious, he took another step, coming fully out of the steamy bathroom. “You are sorry for what? Stinking up bathroom? McDonald's shit has nothing on that awful fucking protein powder you tried over the summer.”

While Shane was generally adverse to toilet humor, pun intended in this case, it probably would've made him crack. Maybe. Hard to tell. People didn't talk about what living together is like in that regard: that your partner is also human and disgusting bodily functions will be happening in close proximity to your person, which also has disgusting bodily functions because, again, human.

“I was apologizing for last night,” Shane explained, gently shaking his head. “I saw JJ’s post game.”

Ilya made a strangled sound, as if his anger and concern were fighting each other. “Why would you watch that? You were despot—despondent?” Shane nodded, “Despondent,” Ilya stressed, “Most of yesterday. Do not worry about him.”

“He knows about us.” To be clear, Shane had told Ilya this yesterday afternoon, long before JJ told the media, I hope he and Boston Lily are happy together, in a begrudging post game statement that had instantly garnered the entire hockey world’s attention. He was sporting a black eye and a cut on his cheekbone from a combination of his visor and Derek's knuckles.

“And? He is small, pathetic man who does not deserve your friendship. Pike is furious, says he will murder him. They play in Boston in three weeks.” He grinned. “Marley says he is looking forward to it.”

“Great. Because Hayden fighting JJ will definitely convince people to let it go,” Shane grumbled. His head wound up in his hands.

“Ah, no no no, none of that.” Ilya dropped his towel on the floor and plunked his knees on top of it—hotel floors were disgusting and Shane had ranted about it more than once—to worm his way into Shane's line of sight. “Boston Lily could be a lot of guys. Marley and Hayden will distract press. Even Yuna thought Marley was Lily and she is smartest person we know.”

“Amazing,” Shane groaned, shaking his head.

Ilya's eyes softened. “Hey,” he said gently, squeezing Shane's hands, “Shane. It’s okay if JJ’s stupid comment is what outs me. Is not like it is really a secret.”

It was true. Shane knew it was. “I want you to be able to make that decision for yourself.”

Shrugging, Ilya brought their hands together and kissed the top of Shane's palms. “You want for me to have what you did not. Is kind, but unnecessary. All I want is you. I do not care who knows this or how they find out as long as it is still you and me together.”

Shane's smile was small. Ilya matched it.

“There will never be a perfect time,” he continued. “Is why I agreed to the world finding out when they find out, why you did not make crazy plan. It doesn't work that way.” He shook their combined hands for emphasis. “This belongs to us.”

Shane added that to the bank of mantras in his head, the ones he needed and the ones he didn't. We don't owe them anything and This belongs to us weren't quite the same thing. One was more possessive, more protective, like cupping your hands around a candle to protect it from blowing out in the wind.

It wasn't like Shane didn't know these things, but it was difficult to rise above the noise sometimes, especially when people were pushing in on all sides, Shane being a public figure first, and not a person to the vast majority of those who knew of him.

He sighed, let his head thunk forward, gently headbutting Ilya so they rested forehead to forehead. He was folded over in an awkward position, but it didn't matter.

“You're right,” he murmured. “I think I needed to hear that.”

Ilya's hands came up to stroke his cheeks. “I am very wise,” his voice was warm, like his fingers. “Is about time you noticed.”

Shane huffed, lifting his chin and sneaking a kiss to Ilya's forehead. “Did you save me any hot water, wise one?”

“Mm, no,” he teased. “Hotel is out. Only cold showers.”

December, 2021
Ottawa, ON

If Ilya was surprised to find Derek on one of the couches in their living room, wrapped in the soft blanket he’d had someone ship over from his place in Sweden and drinking the lavender mint tea Shane preferred to coffee when he was anxious and couldn’t stomach caffeine while watching ESPN analysts talk about football, he didn't say anything.

They, meaning Shane and Derek, had been in and out of optional skate early, off the ice before the bulk of the team showed up and in the weight room while Ilya and Bood teamed up to help the coaches with drills. Luca had been fine, laughing and joking with the younger players like usual when Shane saw him in passing. None of them had noticed that Derek was being distant, which meant he’d been using Shane as cover.

That had been enough to tip Shane off to the fact that Derek was not sharing necessary information with his partner, but he’d been polite enough not to call him out on it at the practice facility. Unfortunately for Derek, Shane’s politeness translated to a silent, added pressure that forced him to crack just as soon as practice was over, hence his presence on the couch, wrapped in the blanket he’d tried to steal from Shane when he’d left for Canada the summer before last.

Ilya didn't push, going to the fridge to pull out a premade recovery shake—whoever got home from practice made two. Judging by the rattling around he was also dumping one of the bottles of nesquik he kept in the door into it because he didn’t trust Shane to make them sweet enough.

It was an affront to Shane’s ethically sourced cocoa powder, but relationships were built on compromise.

“Is too early to be that day, yes?” Ilya called from the kitchen. He emerged frowning at his phone, swiping loudly at it one handed a welcome reprieve from the analysts onscreen discussing a sport Shane positively loathed. “We played Admirals in New York like… two days before Barrett was traded from Toronto and freed from homophobic prison.”

Derek offered a shuddery exhale. “You are way more perceptive than people give you credit for,” he murmured.

“No, no, I am mean captain,” Ilya rather dramatically pressed the hand with his phone in it to his heart. “And you only feel comfortable saying this because Shane is here to protect you,” he needled. He placed his sweating shaker bottle on the coffee table directly next to the little coaster rack.

“You’re going to need protection from me if you don’t use a coaster, asshole,” Shane retorted, glaring at his drink and the tiny halo of condensation pooling around it. Ilya waggled his eyebrows because he loved getting bitched at, even though he complied. That handled, Shane saved Derek from having to explain himself. “Front Office sent an email about the fathers trip last night.”

Ilya pulled a face. “Around Christmastime again? We should be at hospital doing fun holiday activities with sick children. I will complain to Harris to get it rescheduled.” His eyebrows dipped, drawing closer together as he stabbed at his phone some more.

“It’s a little late for that,” Shane told him, patting the seat beside him so Ilya would stop looming between the couches like a weird referee. “Trip announcement’s already on social media. Marketing made a reel this morning and blindsided him by asking who he was bringing,” Shane finished, tipping his head in Derek’s direction.

“And I clammed up,” Derek winced.

The skin around Ilya’s eyes tightened as he squinted in confusion. “Clammed? What?”

Shane mimicked a clamshell folding inward with his hands, the base of his palms acting as a hinge.

“Ah. Another stupid English thing.” Ilya threw himself at the far side of the couch, just out of Shane’s reach. “Not that you are unwelcome here,” he broached carefully, “But why are you not talking to Luca about this?”

Derek wilted. “He’s excited to have his dad come over from Switzerland. He’s already talking to his family about them coming to Ottawa to meet them after the trip and stay for the holidays.”

Confused, Ilya looked to Shane, and when Shane’s face didn’t give him anything to go on, he focused on Derek again. “Is that not a good thing? Is family. Will be nice time.”

“I don’t,” a sigh. “I'm really bad at family things,” Derek told him. “It's like, I don't know how to fit in and I just feel like an outsider. It's unpleasant.” He winced again. “I mean, I want to meet Luca’s family and I'm sure they're nice—”

“Nobody’s doubting that,” Shane cut in, unwilling to let Derek spiral about it

He wouldn’t pretend he understood in practice, but he kind of got what Derek was saying. His parents hadn’t come for those kinds of events when they played in Sweden, and outside of Rose joining once for a mentor's weekend (never again), they’d hung out together while the other guys had their parents or siblings to entertain. It was awkward to have everyone around you be with someone they were related to or close with while you were alone. It amplified the feeling, even for someone like Shane, who had a very supportive immediate family.

“Is not fun for me, either,” Ilya admitted, a little tentative. “Bood and I have arrangement.” He kept his words light as he continued, “I make rounds to keep up appearances, but,” Ilya's smile didn't meet his eyes, “Bood is in charge of family things.” As if remembering it wasn’t just him anymore, he looked to Shane. “Is David—”

Shane shook his head. “No. They’re going on that cruise over the holidays, remember?” He rubbed his chin as he thought about it. Last night he'd marked himself as not bringing anyone without much thought and considered it done. “But, um, even if they weren’t, I think it would be really awkward, given everything, and I don’t want to put them in an uncomfortable position.”

That seemed to relax Ilya a little, enough to joke, “It would be funny to see Yuna tell the league to fuck off on the mother’s trip.”

“It would, and then I’d be fined within an inch of my life and probably get kicked out for someone in my camp violating the non-disparagement clause of my very public settlement.”

Ilya made a psh sound with his lips.

Shane rolled his eyes. “You’re such a child.”

Derek huffed quietly into his blanket.

They received a raspberry in response.

“Can we please get back to the subject at hand?” Shane pleaded, though he made a mental note to have his mom tell Ilya about how bitchy she’d found the other Metros’ moms, leading to her ‘accidental’ blocking of the moms’ group chat following a disastrous mini golfing excursion in the spring of 2013.

“Don’t rush on my account,” Derek slurped at his tea. When they didn’t continue rubbing each other, he groaned. “I’d like to be distracted instead of dealing with our upcoming road trip weekend and its extremely poor timing, followed by several weeks of living with my boyfriend’s immediate family celebrating holidays that are very painful for me.”

“You do not have to do this,” Ilya pointed out. “You could talk to Luca.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “And say what? Luca’s already excited about it. He wants all his favorite people together.”

“But you should still tell Luca that it is hard for you and that you will need space,” Ilya pointed out. “His family can stay at hotel.”

Ilya picked at his cuticles, which was something Shane hadn’t seen him do before.

“Is difficult with families who are good, sometimes,” he continued. “Yuna and David were very gentle with me about last few years, because we have all gone through same thing, but Shane asked them not to talk to me about family things—”

Wow, Shane thought, unable to help the wave of affection he felt. Not just as Ilya’s boyfriend, but as a teammate, as family in the sense of their sport, the captain of their team. He was such an incredible person, peeling back the rough armor, and exposing his fragile insides to help someone who was experiencing something not so different, even though it had to hurt to dredge it up from behind the walls he’d built to keep it from tearing him apart. Shane didn’t know how he did it.

Ilya went on. “But it does not stop them from asking. Probably they are curious, but is also how they show care. They do not understand, and that is good for them. They are lucky not to,” he added quietly, “But this does not make it suck any less.”

Swallowing, Shane kicked a leg out to nudge against Ilya’s thigh since he was out of arm’s reach. Ilya’s hand closed over his ankle bone, thumb swiping over the ridges of his crew socks. A little selfishly, he hoped that all this talking would help Derek without making Ilya feel worse. That line of thinking didn't stop Shane from adding, “My mom brought up everything I asked her not to by the fifth time we had dinner with them?” Ilya nodded once in Shane’s periphery. It had been late in the summer. “We fought about it. You’ve met my mom, so you can imagine how well she took that.”

The hand around his ankle stilled as Derek winced. Both were probably the correct response.

To say Yuna hadn’t taken it well was an understatement, but Shane had been very clear when he said Do not bring up Ilya’s brother or how he feels about Ilya’s life choices. Family in general is a difficult subject, so let’s just avoid it, okay?

In Yuna Hollander fashion, not only had she broached the subject of Alexei, but she’d also asked about Ilya’s mom. Ilya had very bravely told them the truth, which Shane hadn’t known, nevermind his parents. Ilya hadn’t owed it to them.

It was safe to say that Shane had never wanted to scream at his mother as much as he had in that moment.

Instead of doing so, Shane had cut the visit short, taken Ilya back to the condo, and sat with him on the back patio, rubbing his back as he chain smoked an entire pack of cigarettes in horrifying silence.

The next day when Ilya had gone to the team’s practice facility for his workout, Shane called his mom and had a very sharply worded argument about boundaries and respecting his partner, even though she’d probably learned her lesson: She'd had a front row seat to the man advertised as hockey’s sexy, charming bad boy begging them not to think his mother was weak for taking her own life.

Some indeterminable amount of time later, Ilya’s hand clamped tight around Shane’s ankle, drawing him out of his reverie and back to Derek, who despite his big frame, looked hopelessly small and young on their couch. His face was scrunched in concentration, probably trying to picture how a conversation like that would go for him.

Shane liked Luca, but—

Ilya confirmed Shane's concern as if reading his mind. “Luca does not know better.” He exhaled deeply, like he would if he were having a cigarette. “He is very young and home life is good.” His face did something complicated. “It does not get easier if you ignore it.”

Ilya had a good point. Luca was twenty and bright. His world view was wonderfully optimistic. Derek was a little further ahead in that regard, both in terms of age and experience. He’d experienced horrible things, been forced to make impossible decisions.

Leaning forward to set his phone face down on the coffee table, Ilya lifted his chin, all of it a sign he meant business. “Think it over, yes? You can stay as long as you need. We can talk or watch terrible movies and you can tell me to fuck off at any time,” he continued easily.

Swallowing, Derek shook his head, though he looked surprised that Ilya had been the one to offer, not Shane. “I wouldn’t do that.”

Ilya huffed, halfway amused. “No,” he agreed. “You would not. You probably should have ages ago.”

Derek gave him a half smile that hurt Shane’s chest. He thought back to the summer, to midnight drives and talking about stumbling blindly through the hard parts of their relationship together and wished that Derek had that.

It wasn’t Luca’s fault. In some other universe, or whatever, there was probably some version of Shane who was blissfully ignorant and less capable of supporting Ilya the way he should. Hell, even now Shane worried that he wasn't supportive enough.

If someone were to surgery the room, Shane would be the outlier. He was pretty sure that Ilya would be the more valuable person to talk to about this sort of thing and it might be easier if Shane and his downright picturesque childhood weren’t lording over them. “Same for me,” he offered belatedly. “If, you know—”

“Shane is also too nice for his own good,” Ilya commented dryly. “Stay, please. Unless Derek kicks you out.”

“Pretty sure he knows all my business,” Derek said, setting his mug on its coaster with a small clatter like a punctuation mark.

“Ah, he is very easy to talk to, yes? Even if he looks like he is not reacting, it is all in the eyes.” Ilya gestured at Shane’s face, and Derek nodded. “So,” Ilya continued, when it was clear that they were all staying put, Derek on one couch, Shane and Ilya on the other, and nobody was trying to turn on the TV, “What do you think? You will talk to Luca?”

Derek, to his credit, took his time putting together a response rather than denying Ilya outright.

“I don’t want to ruin this for him. He missed the trip last year because of that shoulder thing, and I wasn’t asked because I was on the verge of getting sent to Bellevue to play in the minors for the first three months of the season.”

“Ah. You do not want to be difficult,” Ilya nodded understandingly. “I could take you on trip as my son. We could make silly social media posts about it. Harris would probably love the content.”

“I’m right here,” Shane cut in, frowning. His arms crossed over his chest. If anyone was going to act as—

“You will have him for mothers trip,” Ilya interrupted his thoughts. “It could be whole bit.”

“No thanks,” Derek said with a grimace. “Maybe it’ll be funny someday, but,” he shook his head. “Not right now.”

“Okay,” Ilya agreed, not broaching the contradictory subject that was Shane’s name in his phone. He patted Shane’s ankle as if to indicate they would discuss it later, like he knew Shane had missed something. “Since talking is out, I give you Hollander-style plan instead: Tell your agent to talk to team. Make them intermediary for communications, yes?” He pursed his lips and gestured shoving an imaginary problem at someone else.

Derek nodded.

“They will handle, tell team not to surprise you with unpleasant topics.” With a sneaky grin, he added, “Damage is done now, but if nothing else it will probably encourage team to talk to agent about resigning you. They are behind. I have already complained to Carlton.”

Derek’s confusion was obvious in his tone, but he gladly took the change of subject. “I’m a RFA in July. It's not exactly a rush.”

“You have not heard of offer sheet? GMs are getting smarter.” Ilya shrugged. “Is called having cake and eating it. They sign you now, you don’t get poached with fancy offer sheet over summer then have to deal with me complaining because my boyfriend is so sad to lose his little protege and is making it my problem.”

“What Ilya’s trying to say,” Shane added patiently, “Is that you’ve got value. As a person and a player. If you tell your agent to talk to the team, they’ll leave you alone about family weekends so you won't have any more surprises like today. As for Luca, that’s up to you. We,” he turned to Ilya, who nodded, a fierce look in his eye, “are a terrible example of how to communicate. It took us thirteen years to be honest with each other.”

Ilya snorted. “That is not where I thought you were going, Hollander, but yes. We are terrible.”

Terribly disgusting, the look on Derek’s face read, but he remained silent.

“Can it, Rozanov,” Shane grunted at him. He returned his focus to Derek, trying to be supportive. “You can, like, learn from our mistakes and whatever. Tell him a little bit—”

“Tell him what you feel comfortable with,” Ilya cut in. “It will probably be messy—”

“Not helping—”

“Yes it is,” Ilya interrupted, “Is honest. It will be messy, Briggsy. People are. Is nothing wrong with protecting yourself.” His eyes hardened. “And if Luca gives you problem or you need space, you come to us. Door is always open. I will talk to him—” Derek looked horrified at the prospect, “If you want me to. No details, just,” he shrugged. “I will tell him is not always easy to be around happy family.”

Derek nodded, but it wasn’t the kind of nod that seemed convincing.

In fact, when Derek had finished his tea and decided he would go, voicing his thanks but avoiding their eyes, Ilya followed him to the door, waving Shane off when he tried to follow. They spoke in quiet tones for several minutes. Shane couldn’t quite make out the words.

When he came back to the couch, Ilya draped himself over Shane and exhaled against his thigh. “This is not going to go well,” he murmured. “Is it?”

Shane’s thumb rubbed Ilya’s cheek. He refused to lie. “Luca knows he doesn’t have family from a throwaway comment from Tampa, last year. That’s all Derek’s said to him about it.”

“Motherfucker,” Ilya said, with feeling. “I know we were that stupid,” he admitted. “Stupider, maybe, but—”

“It’s hard to watch,” Shane finished.

“Yes. It is.”

December, 2021
Columbus, Ohio

Derek had always been avoidant. For the first few weeks after he’d moved in with Shane back in Sweden, a lot of the time it was as if Shane still lived alone. Derek hung his lone suit but otherwise lived out of his suitcase, as if afraid to occupy space despite landing a contract and making the roster. Getting too comfortable was something that had scared him: something which Shane had only learned when it became clear they got along quite well.

Looking back, it was actually quite fortunate for their relationship that Shane was often uncomfortably blunt, especially when he decided he liked someone. It meant that Shane called him out and asked questions, like why Derek didn't use the perfectly good towels in the linen closet and why Derek avoided him after they lost because it was a team game and everyone had off nights and why he was so skittish after breaking over the decorative vase in the entryway, he'd cleaned up the mess right afterward and nobody’d been injured. When it became clear that Derek needed rules and boundaries to feel secure in their shared space, they sat down, worked through it, and came out stronger.

Five seasons later, his usual tactics might work on a highly distracted Luca, but not Shane. Not Ilya, either.

So when Derek played like a monster in the home stand leading up to the fathers trip, sharp and aggressive and hyperfocused in a way Shane and Ilya both recognized, he couldn’t quite escape their oversight. When he put in long hours at the training facility and arena all week between games, Ilya started staying out with him after practice, pretending he needed to work on a random shooting drill just to make sure Derek wasn't being too stupid or pushing himself in an effort to work off his emotions.

When it became clear he needed something more to chew on, Ilya challenged Derek to a little scrimmage, which was an exercise in learning what Shane had recognized in him years earlier: the kid was versatile and playing nowhere near his ceiling. There was a reason he was playing right around nineteen minutes a night with Shane, why he featured prominently on the team's second power play unit and was trusted to kill penalties if the guys on the third line needed a change. He was a big boy, yet fast and more agile than people expected. Most importantly, he played sharp when he was with sharp players.

Unfortunately, Luca wound up having trouble keeping up with them. It wasn't a skill issue, but one related to experience and tenure, which was a tragic sort of irony. Like Derek, Luca was only in his second MLH season but Derek had been playing pro for far longer. It was an experience gap, a need for time and space to grow. With Derek and Shane heating up, pushing each other—far be it from Shane to avoid rising to an occasion, especially on the ice—their line had become a little lopsided so Wiebe had mixed things up.

Swapping lines with Boodram neither looked nor felt like the demotion it kind of was. Their first and second lines could be whatever they were on paper, Shane knew which of them generated more points on average and it was his second line, thank you very much. Moving Bood down to the second line and Luca up only served to further distract him from what was actually going on.

Six days later, they were in Winnipeg following game one of two of the Fathers Trip—they’d fly to Philadelphia tomorrow afternoon for a fancy dinner and play a one o’clock game the following day. Harris was manic, running around and collecting b-roll footage at a sports bar on the same block as their hotel before the impromptu, unavoidable pub crawl that always cropped up on these themed weekends.

The team had separated into two very distinct groups: the boys with father-figures present and those without, which included Troy, Ilya, Derek, and Shane. The latter group was scattered. Troy had experienced a bit of an uncomfortable situation with his father earlier in the day, which had already been handled. He’d played incredibly tonight, the whole team had, but afterward he’d gone right back to his and Harris’ room to call his mother rather than join the team for drinks.

Ilya, on the other hand, had forced himself to make the rounds, introducing himself to everyone’s guests. He saved Luca’s father, Elias, for last. The man was a warm, softspoken man with the same white-blonde hair and bright eyes as his son. Shane had introduced himself at the airport at the start of the trip, trying and failing to hold Derek’s gaze long enough to see if he needed an excuse to be pulled out of their interaction.

The man was exceptionally kind, which, according to Ilya, probably made it worse. Shane could see the slightly glazed look on Derek’s face as he tried to stay engaged in the conversation without letting his emotions get the better of him.

It didn’t take a genius to tell he hadn’t told Luca a goddamn thing about what was going on. If he had, he was pretty sure Luca would have told him not to force himself to go out on this little pub crawl experience.

Since he hadn't, Ilya was unsubtly dragging him away, citing team business or whatever, ignoring the confused look on Luca’s face, the way his head swiveled to watch them walk away.

“Are you hungry?” He read on Ilya’s lips as they walked toward Shane at the bar. Derek was shaking his head.

“Then we will go to hotel. Is past Shane’s bedtime,” he said, looking up at Shane with mirth in his eyes.

“You don’t seem to complain about going to bed early,” Shane chirped back. “I let you watch TV in bed.”

“Wow,” Derek muttered. “So wild.”

“Can it, Bigrig.” Shane snipped, heatless.

“Yes. Wild is for the sex, Briggsy,” Ilya reassured him. “Boring is for everything else.”

“Ugh,” grumbled Shane, “Stop talking about our sex life.”

“Make me,” Ilya said, even though he didn’t say anything else.

Shane rolled his eyes. “We’re going to watch reruns of Love It Or List It while I bitch about the housing market. He fucking loves it. Don't let him fool you.”

“Fine, fine,” Ilya waved a hand. “Is true.” He pursed his lips and revised, “Unless Masterchef is on.”

“What?”

“You know, show about amateur chefs with Gordon Ramsey. Is only time he isn’t total asshole.”

Shane huffed. “It’s his second favorite Ramsey show, but he’s not allowed to watch Kitchen Nightmares in my presence because he knows I’ll never go out to eat with him ever again if I see what restaurant kitchens actually look like.”

He shuddered as Ilya tittered quietly into his shoulder, a combination brought on by the thought of watching that disgusting show and the cold outside.

“Anyway, our room has two beds, and we only need one as long as Ilya doesn’t bring up our sex life again. You could text Luca that you’re having a sleepover. Give him and his dad some bonding time.”

“Yes, whose idea was it to have the dads share a room with their kids? I know owners are rich. Seems very cheap,” Ilya tapped his cheek consideringly.

Derek crossed his arms. His tone was suspicious. “I already have my own room for this exact reason.”

“So? We aren’t fucking tonight. Did that this morning—”

“Ilya, I swear to god—”

“—so you take the extra bed. Is stupid to be alone tonight and you know it.”

Derek bit his lip, unsure.

They made it back to the hotel and parted ways, which they’d have to do no matter what, given all of Derek’s belongings were in his room. Ilya exhaled frustratedly at Derek’s silence but didn’t push.

“We’re in two-two-three,” Shane told him, thumb jerking in their room’s direction when they parted ways. “Seriously, come hang out.”

He didn’t. Shane waited up until one just in case, but Derek had decided to spend the night alone.

—

“Derek's avoiding me.”

Shane, despite flinching at the sharp interruption piercing his very comfortable silence in the team’s weight room, did not falter, stacking his weight over his left leg high on the box before hopping back down. He was at rep seven of ten on the right leg, he told himself mentally. He’d done the left side first.

“Hello to you too, Luca.”

“Shit. Sorry, Shane.” Luca went over to the rack and picked up a kettlebell.

He didn’t seem particularly interested in doing anything other than holding it, so Shane went back to the box and finished the last three reps before picking up the box and putting it back in its place in the corner.

“Do you know where he is?”

Shane plucked the kettlebell from Luca’s hand since he wasn’t using it and he needed it for the next exercise in his workout, as well as the shortest box in the set. “He’s with Ilya at the Humane Society.”

Frowning, Luca blurted, “Why?”

Deciding not to answer, he said, “Set me a timer, would you?”

“What?”

“Timer,” Shane pressed. “One minute, please.”

“Ask Siri?”

“My phone’s in my bag. Yours isn’t. Time me, and I’ll time you. We can swap.”

Giving Luca a task was the right choice. When Shane focused on moving side to side, shifting hands on the kettlebell so fast it seemed like it was barely moving, he could tell Luca had locked in. Guys loved to work on strength, but Shane had found that pylometrics and mobility were more useful than a PR at the squat rack. He finished the set and traded places with Luca, who handed over his phone.

Another minute later, breathing a little unsteady, Luca asked, “Isn’t that loud and um, dirty? From all the animals? That doesn’t seem like his thing at all.”

It wasn’t, Shane supposed. Ilya went whenever he had a free day, even if it was only for an hour or two. He didn’t make a big deal about it, and while his visits did make their way onto social media it was more organic: a shaky video of Ilya with an older dog asking Ottawans to open their home for Mister Bubbles or whatever crazy name the volunteers came up with. Shane was all in favor of helping animals in need, but unlike Ilya, he couldn’t handle the sensory overload that came with the shelter. He was pretty sure that it was going to be a point used against him once Ilya found a dog he wanted to bring home with him for real.

Ilya would probably bring home every dog he saw if Shane let him, but Shane planned to negotiate for one which would probably wind up meaning less than three. At least he’d agreed to table pet discussions until the summer, when they were home and able to commit time to training.

But anyways, Derek.

“Ilya invited him.”

“Why?” Luca wondered aloud. “He’s always inviting me to stuff, not Derek.”

Was Luca jealous? Shane tried to figure it out by looking at Luca’s face, but even with eye contact he couldn’t tell. “Aren’t your family here to visit?”

“Yeah, but we could’ve all gone together. Ilya said they always need volunteers, especially this time of year. My sister loves animals.” He made a face. “Derek never skips optional skate and he also never hangs out with Roz. They kind of famously had a whole big argument last year about, you know.”

Yeah, Shane thought. “I mean, we’re all friends now. We did the whole double date thing in August. The brunches, or whatever. You guys come over all the time.”

“I guess.” Luca didn’t seem convinced.

Shane motioned Luca toward the line of rowers that looked out over the parking lot from three floors above.

Reluctantly, Luca trailed along behind him. “But you do know he’s avoiding me, don’t you? He has been since the fathers trip.” He frowned. “Not obviously. He still answers my messages and we live together, you know? It's just, it’s like he's ghosting me, even though he's right there. He promised me he wouldn't do that after last year, and I feel like he's found a way around it somehow.”

Focusing on the motion of rowing gave Shane a couple seconds to put together his thoughts and decide that talking while using the rowing machine was kind of a pain in the ass. He should’ve chosen the bike instead. “I think,” he exhaled slowly and started again. “I think you should talk to Derek if you have concerns about your relationship.”

“I’m trying. He’s been telling me that everything’s fine. My parents think he doesn’t like them or something,” he murmured. “They already have thoughts about how much older he is.”

Well, shit. “Did they say this in front of him?”

“Not really. They kind of hinted at it? My sister thought it was funny, but not in a mean way. I told them to knock it off, though.”

“Right.” Shane resisted the truly overwhelming urge to roll his eyes. Derek and Shane were alike in their overthinking and anxious tendencies, but Derek was better at hiding his anxiety than he was at pretending like he didn’t avoid any whiff of confrontation. He was hypersensitive to potential problems. There was no way in hell he hadn’t noticed and taken it personally. “Look, I’m not really the person to go to for relationship advice, kid.”

“Maybe not,” Luca allowed, “But you know him better than anyone. He has literally said you’re family to him.”

And that was the rub, wasn’t it? It wasn’t like Derek expected Shane to step in and fulfill any role, jokey contact labels be damned, but there was a shred of truth in there. Shane was what Derek had, what he’d kind of chosen for himself after proximity had brought them together.

He slowed to a stop on the rower and Luca followed suit beside him. The words he tried to put together were clumsy in his mind and even worse held behind his teeth. “You’re right,” he began, looking Luca in the eye. “And he’d be furious with me if I told you his business, which is why I’m telling you to talk to him.”

“I’m trying,” insisted Luca. “He keeps lying and saying everything’s okay but it’s like he’s trying to keep busy to stay away from my family and I can’t keep playing intermediary.”

“Have you told him that?”

“Of course not. I don’t want to fight with him.”

Privately, Shane doubted they would fight. Derek would rather internalize his feelings until he could ignore them. He kept that to himself.

“Ilya and I never talked about, well,” he shrugged. “Anything, really. We’d accidentally hurt each other over and over again because we were too stubborn and scared to talk to each other. So if you want advice—which you clearly do,” he looked Luca up and down, “I’m telling you to try. Be patient with him, if you can, and if you can’t, that’s,” he shrugged. “You guys are young—” when Luca bristled, he shook his head. “No, I mean, the both of you are. Not everybody meets the guy they want to spend the rest of their lives with as a teenager, and even if they do it doesn’t mean it’s destined to work out.”

Shane met Luca’s eyes again and startled. They were wet. “What the fuck?”

“Shit,” He tried not to match Luca’s now obvious panic. “I don’t mean that your relationship is doomed or anything, I just,” he looked up to the ceiling, trying to force his thoughts into something useful. “I’m so terrible at this,” he admitted. “What I’m trying to say is that you should try and hear him out when he’s ready to be heard. If you know something’s bothering him, all you can do is try and be understanding, whatever it is. But if you’ve got concerns, you also need to tell him about them. Neither of you can like, read minds or whatever, so you have to talk to each other.”

—

“So.”

Shane looked up, over the top of his iPad, glasses on. Ilya had just come in from the garage. He wasn’t smiling. Almost immediately, Shane’s free hand landed on his knee, fingers tapping against the top of the joint in an attempt to self-soothe: one two three four five, five four three two one.

“What happened?”

“Luca called me,” Ilya said carefully, kicking off his boots, which he placed on the drying mat next to the rug.

Shane took off his glasses and only just resisted the impulse to bite on the plastic guard that was meant to keep the edge of the frame arms from digging into his skin. “Oh fuck,” he breathed. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”

Ilya frowned. “What? No.” He shoved his gloves into his pockets and hung his jacket on the hook next to the garage door. “Luca called because he and his family showed up at Humane Society unannounced to volunteer and Derek did not answer his phone.”

“Fuck. I told him to talk to Derek, not sic his family on him.” He shoved off his usual stool at the counter. “How bad is it?”

“Bad.” He sighed. “I am going to take shower because I was helping them bathe big dogs who need help getting into tub and you hate wet animal smell. Come upstairs?”

“After you,” he said. He caught a little bit of that wet fur smell Ilya was talking about, but at least he didn’t smell like dog piss again. It was the only downside of Ilya sending him pictures covered in puppies, in Shane’s opinion.

Ilya didn’t speak again until he’d stripped naked and stepped in the shower, Shane taking his clothes to the washer downstairs before coming back up with a fresh towel for the warming rack. “Derek is trying too hard,” he told Shane. “It makes me angry at Luca.”

“It’s not his fault.”

“I know this.” Ilya aggressively pumped body wash onto Shane’s loofah without so much as a comment about how loofahs were for old people, even though he’d taken to using it daily.

Shane leaned against the bathroom sink and waited.

“How do you live with someone and not notice this is difficult subject? He does not have family, he does not talk about family—”

“Luca literally just told me he was talking to me because I’m the closest thing Derek has to family.”

“Fuck,” Ilya groaned. “How is he so smart on the ice and such a fucking idiot?”

“Technically the frontal lobe of our brains doesn’t fully develop until we’re in our mid to late twenties,” Shane pointed out. “It takes longer for men.”

Ilya flicked water out of the shower at him. “What the fuck? How is that helpful?”

“It’s literally unhelpful,” Shane countered blandly. “That’s the point I’m making.”

“Ugh. Enough talk of brains.” Ilya turned off the water and held a hand out for his towel. Shane chucked it at his head instead, but it only earned him a subtle crack of a smile and not the whole thing. “Luca’s family does not leave until the night of the twenty-fifth. We have another week of this.”

There was something else too. “Did Derek say anything to you about things?”

“He said he knows he is making it awkward.”

“Nothing about being too old for Luca?”

“Luca is young, yes, but he is professional hockey player, not a child.”

“I know.” Shane watch Ilya half heartedly dry his curls. “His family said something about the age gap, which Luca insists he smoothed over, but—”

“But Derek is very sensitive about answering his boyfriend’s family’s concerns because he wants to make good impression.”

They held eye contact for a bit too long. “Fuck,” Shane said, catching on to the parallel. “I’m sorry—”

“No no no, none of that.” Ilya looped the towel over the rack to dry and bullied himself into Shane’s personal space. “Is over now. Yuna apologized and we talked it out, we are good.” He pressed a kiss to the tip of Shane’s nose, watched his face scrunch, sensitive. “Luca is mama’s boy, like you, but,” he hissed out a breath. “Is not—you did not feel like you had to choose, right?”

“It wasn’t a choice.”

Ilya thunked their foreheads together. “I hate you. You are Mr Romantic. Always perfect words.”

“I don’t know who you’re confusing me with, but that’s definitely not true.” Shane kissed his forehead, then led him out into their cooler bedroom, pulling out Ilya’s usual loungewear and tossing it at the bed. “I fuck up all the time, as you know. I’ve been putting spinach in your smoothies for weeks.”

“I knew they tasted worse than usual!” Ilya bleated.

“Shut up, you need to eat more vegetables.” He grabbed one of his own hole-riddled and stretched-out hoodies to finish the ensemble.

Ilya snatched it up, bringing the front of it to his face like he’d remembered Shane had worn it the other day but not long enough for it to be considered dirty, seeking out traces of his cologne. He must have found some because he sagged a little, comforted. Shane understood. He was wearing one of Ilya’s hoodies himself.

“Anyway, not to go back to my accidental romantic gesture, but—”

“I already gave you credit,” Ilya pointed out, then held his hands up in surrender when Shane glared at him.

“Do you ever think that we’d have been fucked if we got together sooner?” Shane bit his lip. “Not 2017, but like, earlier than that. If I’d gotten my shit together.”

“We never would have. I was not ready.”

“I know that, and neither was I, but…”

Ilya seemed to think about it. “It would have been a disaster. It was bad enough fucking each other semi-regularly and having tree feelings—”

“Tree feelings,” Shane repeated dubiously.

“You know, the big—” he mimed out a triangle with an inarticulate sound. “Pine trees,” he explained. “Pining.”

Shane couldn’t help himself. He yanked Ilya’s face down just enough to kiss him hard on the lips. “I fucking love you,” he said, smiling softly as they parted. He shook his head almost disbelievingly. “Tree feelings. You’re such a weirdo.”

“Ah, but I am your weirdo, yes? What does that say about you?”

“So many things,” he admitted, letting Ilya wrap him up in an embrace just to send them toppling onto the bed.

Ilya could get dressed later.

January, 2022
Los Angeles, CA

Derek and Luca seemed to get their shit together around Christmas, coincidentally around the time Luca's family returned to Europe. Seemed was the correct word, Shane thought, because Derek very staunchly did not speak another word on the subject after telling Shane that he and Luca were fine, status quo restored.

So while the rapid resolution still nagged at them—Ilya especially, for whatever reason, Shane was content to let it lie. Ilya was correct in reminding them both that they couldn’t fight the kids’ battles for them, and they quickly found themselves distracted by the passing of the season and the upcoming All Star Break.

The whole thing was a lot less dramatic than Shane had been expecting.

It wasn’t some horrible, vindictive revenge plot by the league. He wasn’t getting sidled with captaining a team full of his former Montreal teammates or being excluded because of some secret clause in his settlement—he’d read all one hundred seventy eight pages of legalese that had come out of mediation and memorized most of it.

Instead it was all business: he’d been excluded from the initial selection because the Writers Association had only been allowed to vote for players who had participated in the previous season. Shane had been relegated to the fan vote for one of the twelve remaining spots.

It was all boringly—in the derogatory sense—standard. Teams would be “randomly” selected to the League's satisfaction and the game would be played three on three like glorified pond hockey. The guys who were invited voted for who they wanted to captain, and Ilya won, because of course he did. When it became clear that Shane would be top twelve in voting, he was immediately confirmed as the first fan-voted addition to the other team—captained by Carter Vaughn—and given a letter.

The Centaurs' locker room thought this was hilarious.

“Wise decision by the league,” Chewie joked with reporters in a post practice scrum. “We were worried they were becoming too friendly.”

“I talked to Hayden Pike, actually,” Wyatt said, before a home game against Boston. “He’s really excited about playing on a line with Rozanov.”

Ilya had screamed across the room about lies and slander, which had the media—and thus the fans—laughing about it for a week. It made the rounds in the group chat with the added point that he’d been bare assed when Wyatt had not so accidentally eviscerated him.

To be fair, Hayden was looking forward to playing with him. He’d never admit it, but Shane could tell. They were talking in the group chat about lines way too much for people who didn’t care, and like Shane, Wyatt also tended to lurk in the chat and react when Svetlana ripped on someone for a stupid comment.

The local media wouldn’t be going out to LA for the weekend, but seemed content with Shane’s usual, “I’m looking forward to it. It’s a great weekend for the fans and I’m grateful to have their votes and be able to participate.”

It was true. Shane liked All Star Weekend. It was just enough time to mingle with other players and teams without experiencing massive burnout. An added bonus now, as opposed to before, was that he was mostly unplugged from a lot of the goings. Ilya was, of course, a well-informed gossip magnet, but he mostly enjoyed dunking on stupid decisions and only occasionally provided actual updates relayed to him by veterans across the league.

Actually, there were other bonuses, too. He didn’t have a million brand deals to appease, extra spots or interviews lined up for him by CCM or Reebok or whatever crappy tasting electrolyte they pretended was in the water bottles with their logo on them but was actually water or gatorade. The League wanted to drum up drama by pitting him and Ilya against one another, and that was… fine, honestly.

In their final scrum before the trip, Ilya vowed to the reporters that he would score at least five goals on Hazy despite having Hayden on his line, to which Hazy said Shane would score a double hat trick, which wasn’t really a thing but would be cool to do anyway.

Shane had likewise doubled down, vowing to send Wyatt an Edible Arrangement that looked like Captain America’s shield if he managed to shut Ilya out—a very tall order given the game format, but it got Wyatt weirdly fired up. Ilya had complained that that was unfair, but he was grinning ear to ear as he said it.

After all, the All Star Game was supposed to be fun for everybody, wasn’t it?

—

“Remind me to give you my room number in front of Hunter tomorrow for old time’s sake,” Ilya said as they made their way down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast.

Shane shoved him into the elevator. “We’re in the same room.”

The doors closed behind them and Shane smacked Ilya’s hand away from the elevator buttons. They would be going to the rooftop restaurant, not the one in the lobby. Hayden and Cliff were probably already waiting.

“So? I want to see if he noticed all those years ago.” With nothing to do and his hand outstretched, Ilya grabbed his ass instead, pinching it. “Like science experiment.”

“You’re such a menace.”

“I am going to have to pretend to be your best friend for our adoring public,” Ilya said to his reflection in the mirrored doors of the elevator. The cab hummed as it began its descent. “Your ass will be lonely.”

“My ass will be just fine because you will get to see it tonight—” Ilya perked up, “If you behave.”

He immediately deflated. “No. This is impossible task. I am on a team with Hayden and Scott fucking Hunter—”

“And you will behave or I will sleep in my hotel room alone.”

Ilya shook his head ruefully, like Shane had told a hilarious joke. “You’re a terrible fucking liar, malysh. You will get all bashful about sneaking into my hotel room—”

“Will I?” Shane raised his eyebrows, which seemed to be a new thing that got Ilya hot and bothered. Maybe it was the combination of his chirping and the eyebrows. Could also be the note of challenge in his voice. Either way, “Maybe I’ll go up first and get ready for you.” He pursed his lips and gestured between them with his hand as if weighing his options. “Or I could pack up my toys and go—”

Ilya looked at the little screen on the wall that displayed the floor they were on, decided to risk it and shoved Shane against the wall, kissing him fiercely. “You are a terrible person.”

“Maybe,” Shane grinned, grinding their pelvises together.

Ilya nipped at his throat and muttered, a little breathless, “Definitely. I am going to do terrible—” the cab dinged to signal it was stopping several floors early. They jumped apart as the doors opened, Ilya trying and failing to casually readjust himself, Shane's cheeks splotched color that made his freckles even more obvious.

“Jesus Christ,” Scott Hunter growled, stubble dark on his jaw and eyes dead in the way of one who desperately required coffee. He stepped into the elevator car, evaluated their destination and jabbed the button that read ‘lobby’ as if he'd rather be anywhere they weren't. “You two have never been subtle, have you?”

“Pretty sure that’s just your gaydar, Hunter,” Shane said dryly.

He wouldn't pretend like he had gaydar himself, but a lot of queer people did. Also, straight people—men, especially—were allergic to noticing the most obvious things. Ilya had been in Shane's lap on Halloween, kissing him, and the guys had thought it was a prank, for fuck’s sake. A gay man would notice because he knew what to look for, obviously. Shane thought so at least.

“Oh my god, Hollander,” Ilya guffawed, swatting at Shane’s shoulder. “This is going to be the best fucking weekend.”

Scott sighed and hung his head.

—

The media was given what was, according to the very bubbly League handler who stuck to Shane like glue, the most robust press sheet outlining topics Shane would not be covering in interviews.

Shane had taken a peek at it over her shoulder, because, the woman was five feet with shoes on and Shane was head and shoulders taller than her. They would have been better putting what Shane could talk about on it.

Mostly, the media wanted to know about the rivalry.

Shane had given them several sound bites about how the rivalry was alive and well—hadn’t they seen what happened in October? As for Shane’s thoughts on playing against him, he’d touched on how Ilya was such a special player and one he’d loved playing against and was looking forward to putting in his place for old times’ sake, how the guys back in Ottawa had placed bets on who would score more points, with the proceeds going to a charity of the winners choice in the city and he looked forward to winning.

Otherwise, he kept his points relatively light, briefly commenting about how important it was for inclusion and visibility to have queer players on each of the teams before questions pivoted towards the reception in the room. He mentioned the warm reception he received from guys like Marleau and Vaughn while leaving out the couple of guys who avoided him as if they could catch homosexuality like a disease.

Nobody dared say anything to him directly, probably afraid of Shane wielding lawyers like a weapon—because nothing discouraged outward bigotry and discrimination in rich people quite like the threat of legal action—but there were guys on the team (Comeau, Gagnon, some nobody defenseman from Florida) who favored loaded glances and uptight silences in Shane's general vicinity. The good outweighed the bad, and whomever was handling the Montreal contingent had clearly told them to play neutral if they couldn't play nice.

And of course, Cliff was almost as much of a shadow as the tiny PR wrangler, which Shane had asked Ilya about afterward. Ilya denied it, but Hayden had told on him almost immediately, the two of them bent over a dry erase board stolen from one of the assistant coaches. Hayden mostly said it to take back control of the dry erase marker Ilya was hogging while they waited for their meals in the Chilis built into the hotel lobby.

“I mean, maybe I beat up Roz to defend your honor, Hollzy,” Cliff said slyly over Ilya's disgruntled outburst about the hockey gods torturing him with a team full of goody two shoes and tattle tales.

“I should have taken fine for skipping,” Ilya grumbled. “First you beat me in speed competition—”

“Told you I would,” Shane gloated.

“ —Now you are sending your new teammates to beat me up…”

“You are full of shit,” Shane huffed. “I heard you and Cliff pre-arranging a fight last week. You didn’t even try to be subtle about it.”

“We’re giving the fans what they want!” and “We haven't fought each other since October of 2018,” they complained over each other in tandem, which sent Hayden into a fit of laughter.

“The last one was less orchestrated, da?” Svetlana rounded out their little group. She had seated herself between Ilya and Shane in the corner booth, which was made for eight people but barely sat four hockey players and one woman comfortably. He pulled his legs closer to himself because he was pretty sure that was Cliff's leg he'd been touching.

“I was angry,” Cliff agreed. “Sue me.”

“I have a reputation now,” Shane remarked. “Don't tempt me.” Everyone erupted into laughter around him.

Svetlana's long fingernails bit into his shoulder as she shook it to indicate just how funny she'd found his words. She'd been surprised at his dry humor when they met in November, the way it contradicted the buttoned up, media trained version of Shane people knew from scrums and scattered interviews.

“I needed a good punch in the face to get my head on straight, Marley. And you were not trying to commit murder anyway.”

“I wasn't pulling punches—”

“No, I know,” Ilya ripped the marker from Hayden’s hand, “You broke my nose.”

Hands cupped around her mouth, Svetlana whispered into his ear, “You will need to control them, Hollander—”

“Anyone with a black eye or broken nose from fighting will be uninvited to go out with Rose after the game,” he told them.

Boos erupted, as was to be expected.

Marleau gestured to Shane and Svetlana though he’d turned to better face Ilya. “This team-up is fucked, brother. It's over. We’re never gonna win again.”

Hayden chuckled to himself.

“What is so funny, Pike?”

He was typing rapidly on his phone, but stopped and looked up long enough to answer. “Jacks is so pissed off she’s missing this. Chicken pox 2.0 is ruining our house, so I’ve been giving her the play-by-play.”

“She wanted to meet Rose?”

“I mean, yeah,” Hayden shrugged, “But also child-free weekend and whatever shenanigans come from your side of the table.”

“I would have taken her shopping,” Ilya said, sighing. It quickly became a cough when Svetlana's elbow dug into his ribs. “We,” he revised, gasping. “Sveta, please.”

“Rose and I were going to go shopping tomorrow after the game, before we go out,” Shane mentioned. He was blowing off the league after-party for it. “You can come with us if you want.”

“Shane Hollander,” she drawled, turning to him as if her tiny frame could block out Ilya's plaintive whining.

“Nooo, Hollander, I want to go shopping too,” Ilya complained.

Shane was struck by how much he liked hearing his name spoken by someone with a Russian accent, even if Ilya was being overly dramatic.

Svetlana continued, “You are speaking my language.”

“This is betrayal,” Ilya lamented.

“Dude,” Hayden had abandoned messaging Jackie to flick condensation from his drink onto the dry erase board. He wiped it most of the way clean with a napkin. “Let them go shopping. Trust me.”

“Since when the fuck do I do that?” Ilya demanded.

Hayden’s raised eyebrows and thin lipped smile that said he knew exactly when trust between them had started. “Did Shane pack an outfit for the club?” he asked.

Ilya exhaled sharply.

“Thought so,” Hayden smirked. “Let them go.”

“You are so down bad, Rozy,” Cliff cut in, laughing.

“I hate you all,” pouted Ilya.

“Aww,” Svetlana reached over to ruffle Ilya’s messy curls. “Poor baby.”

Shane was pulled by the hand into the club, people making sounds of awe and recognition all around him—mostly in Rose’s direction, thankfully. It was Svetlana who tugged him along, Rose at her side, the two of them with sinister grins on their faces as they stared down the pulsing lights and heavy thrum of bass as though surveying their kingdom. It really wasn’t Shane’s scene. He knew it was theirs, though, and he had spent a good chunk of his twenties going to clubs and pretending like he fit in there.

It was a little easier now when it wasn’t really expected of him and his presence was treated like the rarity it was. Ilya, Cliff, and Hayden had arrived earlier, heading up to the VIP area Rose’s people had arranged for them. He always gave her shit for it, but if they hadn’t, he would’ve called Farah and had whoever managed him on her behalf do the same.

His phone buzzed as he let himself be dragged to the bar on the upper level, the one away from the casual club-goers. He checked it when his hand was released.

MLH ALERT: Shane Hollander has been fined $10,000, the maximum allowed under the collective bargaining agreement, for failure to comply with post-game media procedures following Sunday afternoon’s All Star Game.

“Something wrong?”

Sveta was leaning over the bar and gesturing high up, no doubt to where the best vodka was kept out of reach. It had been Rose that spoke.

Shane pocketed his phone and looked Rose in the eye. They narrowed as he shook his head, eyebrows pulled in closer together. She was good at reading people—it was part of why she could work with literally any actor in Hollywood and beyond, why she was one of the masters of her craft.

“Reallly. I’m good.”

She ducked her chin. “It’s not Ilya, is it? I know you said he might be a little,” she trailed off, making a face Shane couldn’t quite translate into a mood or action.

“No, um, it’s nothing. Work drama,” he summarized. That’s what non-hockey people called this sort of thing, right?

“Okay,” she supposed. “Though work drama for you is something entirely different, all things considered. ”

He thumbed at his lower lip. “I assume someone caught wind of us shopping in Beverly Hills,” he said, motioning to his shirt, which Rose had actually bought for him in Rio while doing reshoots for some X-Force spinoff-slash-sequel over the holidays and gifted to him earlier. “I got fined for blowing off post game media.”

“I thought you said you were let go.”

“Apparently the league felt differently,” he shrugged. It must have been because he’d showered and left before the media cleared out of the locker room. There was a thirty minute window after games where the media was expected to be in the room, but not that every guy was expected to speak every game and Shane had done press the day before. “Farah will handle it.”

She held his gaze for a long moment, searching for something. If he was sure, maybe. Shane was. While he did try his best to remain humble, losing ten thousand dollars was pocket change to him. He’d just spent way more money in the span of a couple hours.

Rose ducked her head. “Shane?” A hand was waved in front of his face. “Hello?”

He shook his head to reset. “Sorry, I was thinking about something else.” He paused, holding her gaze again, realizing he must have looked away when he’d gotten caught up in his head. “It’s fine. Anyway—”

Sveta reinserted herself, handing them both a shot glass and ending the conversation. “Quickly, so we can tell Ilya we started without him,” she wore a cunning grin.

They clinked glasses and drank.

The vodka was cold, which was about the only good thing about it. Shane didn’t enjoy shots, but they were better than spending an hour half-heartedly sipping at a drink he hated given to him by someone intending to be polite. Sveta plucked their glasses out of their hands and they were moving again. The floor buzzed with the thrum of bass from a song he didn’t know, and the lights on the dancefloor to his right were simultaneously neon bright and dark.

Shane felt his shoulders drop as Ilya came into view. The club was hot and humid from all the bodies which made Ilya’s curls a little more defined, but Shane had noticed his shirt first: It was black, nearly see-through, and gauzy with brown and white abstract shapes on it in no conceivable pattern as far as Shane could tell. Ilya was laughing, his head tipped back and one arm slung around Cliff.

Hayden noticed them first, waving to Shane and gesturing to the not quite private alcove that had been reserved for them, but Ilya rose, shuffling around Cliff’s massive legs to loom before them.

“Hello Ilya,” Rose greeted, extending a hand.

She hadn't even given him time to admire Shane's outfit, which she'd picked out.

“Rose Landry,” he drawled, unimpressed. With a raised eyebrow, he looked down at it, then back up at her face. He begrudgingly wrapped his massive hand around hers and shook it. Greeting done, he set about appraising Shane’s pale purple shirt, which lacked sleeves and the ability to cover a strip of his lower abdomen, and well-tailored pants. One eyebrow lowered to its usual height but the other kept its elegant lifted arch. “You look pretty.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Please be nice to my friend,” he grumbled, flushing under the weight of Ilya’s attention. “She’s been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Do not ruin my friendship with Rose, Ilya,” Sveta insisted, kissing his cheek as she snuck between them to take Ilya’s seat beside Cliff, who tasked himself with flagging down a roving server.

Rose laughed. “You literally can’t,” she promised, “And also I can say with complete certainty that I will win Ilya over. I have stories about Shane getting drunk on box wine. I will barter them to earn your friendship.”

Flinging his arms out, Shane gestured between the two of them as he deftly scooted away. “See? You both love to embarrass me. Please bond about it while I hang out with Hayden.”

—

To his credit, Ilya didn’t immediately seek Shane out the second he’d established a truce—Shane was barely convinced that was the correct word for it but their interactions seemed non-hostile so he’d take it as a win. Instead, he pulled Svetlana onto the dancefloor, Cliff following along with a backwards glance at Rose, who waved him off with a serene smile and disappeared into the roiling throng of bodies.

“You could not pay me to do that,” Hayden said, shaking his head ruefully as he watched them go.

Rose gave him a funny look. “Really? Shane told me you met your wife at a place like this.”

Pulled back into the conversation by name, Shane was rewarded with the sight of Hayden’s face going blank, then sad. “Oh my god, I’m an old man,” he lamented pitifully. “Shane, please dance with me—”

“Not on your life,” Shane replied instantly. “Rose?”

“Sorry,” she winced. “You would be accused of cheating on your wife so fast,” she looked between herself and Hayden. “Actually, you should probably move further away. I swear the internet thinks anyone I breathe around is actually a secret lover.”

“Sounds terrible.”

“I mean,” she rolled her eyes skyward, “Obviously, yes, I’m very lucky to be a successful as I am, I don’t, like, want you to think I’m an ungrateful bitch—”

“Shane would never be friends with someone like that,” Hayden pointed out. He leaned forward, setting his drink down. “So? Did everything go good on your little shopping trip?”

Rose’s entire face lit up.

“Yeah,” Shane said, looking out at the dance floor. He thought he caught sight of Ilya’s curls, but the strobe lights made it difficult. “Mission accomplished.”

Hayden sighed. “Buddy,” he drawled. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to give me?”

“Svetlana punched him—”

“Oh shit—”

“In the shoulder! Jesus, Rose,” Shane shook his head. A server came by to collect the abandoned glasses on their table, Hayden making a circle with his finger to insinuate refills were in order.

When the server left, Rose went on. “It was really sweet. She was so surprised.”

Shane failed to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Are you going to date Svetlana or something? She might agree if you offer her your closet.”

“Oh, she would definitely agree,” Hayden said. “Between her and my wife, I've been hearing about your style for weeks.”

“I wish,” Rose huffed. “Being straight is my most toxic trait.”

Shane laughed. Only Rose would find being straight to be challenging. “I think your type not being straight men is your most toxic trait,” he corrected.

“Ugh!” She reached her fingers into her drink, fished out an ice cube, and threw it at him. “You’re literally the worst gay best friend,” she said. “I’m going to have to promote Miles.”

“As long as you don’t call him to come out.” Shane was instantly on guard. “I know Ilya is… prickly—”

“Like a very angry cactus, yes,” Rose interjected.

“But he’s trying. I don’t think he’d handle Miles well at all.”

“Considering Miles never got over you,” Rose waved a hand. “I would never do that to either of them. Miles is an idiot himbo—I love him to pieces, but he’s got no self preservation whatsoever. He’d probably want to sleep with both of you—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh my God,” Hayden leaned in, recognizing the name-dropped celebrity being mentioned. “You’re talking about Miles—”

“Yes,” Both he and Rose hissed in unison.

“Shane, buddy, I know you’re not on the market, but I need to appreciate your game—”

“On the ice, and nowhere else,” A very sharp, unamused Ilya said from behind them. He had a bottle tucked under his arms and two stacks of glasses.

“You guys weren’t gone long.”

“I figure I need to get Shane drunk if he’s going to dance,” Ilya said playfully, even though Shane had told him at least ten times he would not be dancing.

Hayden, who didn’t need a conversation to understand that Shane would rather be bag skated than endure one song on a dancefloor, gave Ilya a pointed look and cut directly to the heart of the issue. “You know you have nothing to worry about, right?” He said carefully.

“Mm, yes,” Ilya set the bottle down on the table and distributed shot glasses, then wiped condensation from the bottle off on Hayden’s sleeve without so much as a smirk. “I know this logically, yes,” he dropped onto the cushion beside Shane, their thighs touching, “But this takes longer to catch up,” he tapped at his chest and looked up at Rose. “Is nothing personal.”

“God, you’re such a dad, Hayd,” Shane cut in, unwilling to let Ilya explain himself further. He was trying. That was enough.

And Rose, because she’d always been good at people, accepted this with a short nod and immediately changed the subject. “Shots?”

“Shots,” Ilya agreed. He poured hers first.

—

Unlike Rose, Shane was not a giggly drunk when crowds were involved. She was still laughing, cackling loudly—like a hyena, Svetlana had said just moments earlier—at something Cliff and Hayden were arguing about. There were a lot of empty shot glasses. The one in front of Shane still had a little left in the bottom of it, a couple drops he’d failed to drain even though he couldn’t feel the burn of the liquor anymore.

Shane was more likely to withdraw when drunk in social situations like this one. The haze of intoxication made it easier to tune out the more overwhelming things that grated upon his senses: the lights, the wall of noise, being surrounded on all sides by people, even in the VIP area, but the tradeoff was that he was more likely to lose himself in the slow, sluggish stream of his thoughts.

Take right now for example: Shane was not quite snuggled up against Ilya, but there were several points of contact. Shane’s right side touched Ilya’s left at the ankle, knee and thigh. Ilya’s left arm was slung across the back of the lounger, his fingers occasionally brushing Shane’s left shoulder at random, his arm a warm bar across Shane’s shoulderblades otherwise. Shane liked that warmth. The more rational voice in his head—the one that was easily ignorable in this pleasantly bleary state which he would likely regret tomorrow—had lingering concerns about his IQ being drained away by the steady stream of alcohol because he usually didn’t let himself get too caught up in sensations outside of the bedroom, but—

“Are you drunk enough to dance with me yet, kotik?”

His head tipped sideways, the rest of his upper body following with it, increasing the pressure of Ilya’s arm against his back. “Still no,” he said thickly, not quite slurring his words.

Ilya grinned, and drew a circle in mid air with his pointer finger. “Pour, Marley.”

“This is coercion,” Shane protested, even though Cliff hadn't moved yet.

“Drink or dance,” Ilya insisted.

“Mm, but I’m so bad at it,” he gestured at Rose, “Tell him, Rose. I’m such a bad dancer.”

“You might be better at it with a man?”

Sveta laughed, which sent Cliff and Hayden into giggles of their own. Ilya squeezed his shoulder.

“Ugh, you all suck.” He leaned forward and popped the top off the bottle of vodka himself. It rolled onto the floor near Hayden’s foot. Shane felt his brow furrow, his forehead feeling a little tingly, which was a bad sign for his future self. He poured them—himself and Ilya, because the rest of them had perfectly working hands—each a shot, some of the liquid sloshing over the rim of the glass from his sloppy aim. “Drink, Rozanov,” he growled, kicking his heel against Ilya’s.

“Yes dear,” Ilya’s eyes were a little too bright, the only sign that he was drunk. It was frankly unfair, Shane thought to himself.

They clinked their glasses together, tapped them against the table in front of them, and swallowed the liquid down. Ilya smacked a wet, aggressive kiss against his cheek.

“Careful,” Shane cautioned.

“I don’t care unless you do.”

“Buddy—” Ilya mouthed the word after Shane spoke, seemingly amused at his word choice, “This is all at your pace,” he gestured around them. “I don’t give a single fuck about what anyone thinks when it comes to you. You're mine.”

“Oh wow,” breathed Hayden, somewhere that wasn’t directly in front of Shane, which was where Ilya’s face was. Their noses were only like an inch—maybe less, his depth perception was fucked right now—from touching. “He’s super drunk.”

“How can you tell?” Cliff asked.

“No filter,” Hayden and Rose confirmed.

Ilya’s smile grew teeth, but the effort it took for him not to laugh made him look boyish and handsome, rather than whatever roguish, sexy bit he usually tried for in these situations.

“New favorite Hollander, da?”

Shane could feel just how pink his cheeks were.

“Oh my god,” Rose squealed. “Ilya totally—”

“You are maybe right about skipping the dance floor,” he murmured, leaning to the side and nudging Shane’s chin to the left so he could speak into Shane’s ear without the others reading his lips. “I bet you would embarrass yourself in,” he paused for emphasis, “Other ways if I danced with you.” Now the grin grew serious, a hook of heat catching in Shane’s belly and pulling tight.

“I don’t know about that,” Shane said, distantly aware he was about to get goaded into doing something he’d insisted he did not want to do. In his defense, when Ilya described it that way, it didn’t sound so bad. Sure, he’d probably feel some level of horrified about his poor dancing or possibly the exhibitionism Ilya was definitely suggesting, but this was Ilya’s world. Or at least, it had been.

And the last time they’d been at the same club was in the top five worst days of his life. This could never come close to that.

“I am a really bad dancer,” Shane pressed.

“I remember,” Ilya smirked, gaze flicking to Rose and back. “I will make you look like pro.”

“I thought you were going to embarrass me.”

The smirk lost its edge. “That too, a little. We will dance and when you are done we will go back to hotel room. I will do anything you want.”

“You are so fucking whipped, brother.”

Ilya turned away from Shane, though he held his hand out and pulled Shane up with him. He looked down at Cliff with a helpless expression. “This is true,” he agreed, accepting the chirp like an award.

“You’re unbelievable,” Shane said, nudging him with his hip. Only Ilya could make being whipped sound like something to aspire toward. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

“Nooo, Shane, not ‘get this over with,’” he pouted. “Will be fun. You will forget about everyone but me and we will dance all night long.”

“Two songs, if you’re lucky,” Shane barted.

“At least three!”

Once again, Shane thought unbelievable, even as he yielded, “Maybe.”

“I drooled on your shoulder,” Shane complained, blinking himself awake to a throbbing headache and the dull roar of a commercial flight. A baby was crying back in economy and the sound rattled around his skull like a pinball pinging between gray matter and bone.

Ilya’s very unhelpful response was a soft snore. His fingers, limply tangled with Shane's and tucked discreetly between their thighs, twitched reflexively as he dreamed.

Smoothing his thumb over the back of Ilya's hand, Shane let his head fall back against Ilya's shoulder, careful to avoid his earlier drool patch. He was grateful for the frequent travel required in his line of work, because it meant he could fall asleep on any method of transportation.

He desperately needed that sleep. They hadn't gotten back to their hotel until nearly five in the morning, which had given them enough time to shower, slug down electrolytes, and get in an uber to LAX. Shane had drunkenly told Ilya that it was like that time he’d won the cup in Colorado back in 2016 and partied all night, going directly from the bar to the airport, except this was better, on account of the company. Ilya had been pointed out how much dancing they'd done, too, which Shane insisted he had been tricked into under duress, while Ilya rubbed their noses together and insisted, ‘you liked it, didn't you?’

It felt like Shane blinked and they were landing in Chicago. Layovers sucked, especially in large cities like Chicago or New York, but Ilya made it easy, grabbing both their bags and bullying Shane to a burger place on the concourse he swore would cure their hangovers way better than a sub-par smoothie full of added sugar from Jamba Juice.

One incredibly greasy burger, a couple stolen tater tots, and ginger ale later, Shane found Ilya was right: he helt decidedly more human. It wouldn't change the fact that he would not be removing his sunglasses and planned to be in bed as soon as they got home and showered off the unpleasant film of travel from their skin, but he didn't feel like his phone screen was going to blind him when he looked at it anymore and that was something.

“There are pictures from the club,” Ilya remarked, sliding his phone across the small table mid scroll. The wrappers from their burgers had been nearly tucked into the bag they'd been delivered in. “None of us dancing, though.”

He sounded disappointed. “Is,” Shane swallowed, considering the concept of ordering more tater tots for the salt alone and steered his brain toward an overpriced packet of liquid IV and bottle of water at whatever Hudson News stall they happened to pass on their way to their gate. “Is that what you wanted to happen?”

Ilya didn’t even try to hide behind a lie. “Is not not what I wanted to happen,” he supposed, and yeah, he was definitely pouting about it. “I know it is stupid, but they are still writing articles about you and Rose, even though you told the world you are in relationship with someone else. Some of them think you are lying because they have not seen your partner.”

“You are literally with me everywhere, Ilya.”

Ilya's eyes narrowed. “Yes, but they don’t know I am with you like that, Shane.”

Shane searched Ilya’s eyes, trying to figure out what the play was. Drunk as he’d been, he hadn’t been kidding last night. If Ilya wanted to go public, Shane was with him. The fact that they hadn’t been caught making out on the dancefloor of the club and photographed from every angle was frankly astonishing. Shane had been too drunk to care or pay attention to anyone who wasn’t Ilya once they got going, but they had been surrounded by people the whole time. Surely someone had recognized them, right?

Then again, it wasn’t like they’d been in Ottawa or Montreal. One of the good things LA had going for it was that nobody really cared about anyone who wasn’t an A-list celebrity, and Canadian hockey players simply didn’t make that cut. Without Rose directly beside them, they were basically anonymous.

Besides: Did Shane really want their relationship made public via sloppy photos taken in some dimly lit club or clambering into the back of an Uber that smelled like weed? Not really, but it wasn’t like there was any way they could go public that wouldn’t make waves in the hockey world. It was another reason Shane had refused to make a plan for it, had offered to do it Ilya’s way. He didn’t want to have expectations.

What was the point of making himself sick trying to control public opinion? He’d already learned that lesson the hard way. People would think what they wanted and it would suck or it wouldn’t, and the world would spin on regardless.

With that in mind, Shane pushed himself up from their shared table, walking their grease-splotched bag of wadded food wrappers and napkins to the nearest receptacle before coming back to grab his rollerbag. “You want them to know?”

Ilya’s face did something complicated, like Shane had dangled something he desperately wanted in front of him but planned to take it away if he reached for it.

It wasn’t the first time Shane had seen this expression, nor the first time something cold and angry settled in his gut because of it. Whoever had taught Ilya to expect something so terrible, Shane didn't know, but he had his suspicions. Privately, he was glad Ilya was no longer exposed to them, regardless of the reason.

Even if they were family.

“I do,” he admitted, carefully. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but didn't allow himself to.

Shane nodded and offered Ilya his hand to pull him up. Ilya took it, letting go when he got to his feet.

“What do you think the chances are of us getting spotted in the Chicago airport?” Shane asked him.

Ilya’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “I don’t know…” he trailed off, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and reaching for his rollerbag. “There are many bored people waiting for planes. Why?”

“Want to find out?” He held out his hand again, wiggling his fingers.

Ilya eyed them dubiously.

“You want to hold hands in the airport.”

“Well, we’ve done everything but PDA—except last night,” he corrected, because there were some blurry memories of very public, borderline indecent displays of affection in his brain, “And nobody seems to have figured it out. So we either find out if hand holding is a bro activity or they’ll know. Mom says the fandom is pretty sure we’re a thing, which horrifies me because why is she on Tumblr—”

“How do you know what Tumblr is?” Ilya cut in, looking at Shane like he’d never seen him before.

“Derek, by way of Luca,” He held out his hands to declare himself innocent. “Wait, why do you?”

“Not important.” Ilya claimed his left hand, their fingers lacing together on autopilot. Shane allowed Ilya to distract him. “So we just do this and people maybe figure it out?”

“Do you have a better idea—” Ilya perked up, but Shane continued, “That doesn’t involve TSA detaining us for public indecency?”

“I’m sure we could get out of it by signing autographs,” he said, like that was a reasonable way to skirt the law. “Chicago’s hockey team has been shit for years now.”

Shane yanked hard on their combined hands in mock rebuke, taking advantage of Ilya swaying his way to peck his cheek.

Ilya froze.

“Okay?” Shane looked over at him in time to see his surprise give way to delightedness. It was like watching sunshine break through clouds.

“Can we make out at gate?” Ilya begged. “Would be great pre-flight entertainment for the other passengers.”

Rolling his eyes, Shane tugged on their hands to get him to follow along. “That’s gross, Ilya,” he grumbled, but he was smiling too widely to convince Ilya to drop it.

—

That afternoon, five photos had been posted of Shane and Ilya walking between terminals at Chicago O’Hare, their hands linked and swinging idly between them (which Shane recalled because he’d been there, but someone had also recorded a video of it while whispering, holy shit, babe, are you seeing this?) to Twitter.

Ilya was over the moon about it. First and foremost, despite the fact that they were hungover in the way Shane almost exclusively saved for championship wins, they did look very cute together: Ilya in all black, backwards baseball cap on his head to tame his frizzy curls, Shane wearing a red Centaurs hoodie with the team’s name in stylized cursive rather than the team’s criminally ugly logo and the extra soft joggers he typically never wore in public but Ilya had thrown at him when he’d gotten out of the shower that morning because he had been irritated by the hotel’s scratchy towels, both of them in matching sunglasses despite the fact that they were indoors and Chicago O’Hare was dimly lit at best.

Secondly, the video had caught them mid-conversation, Ilya facing away, Shane more visible. They passed perpendicular to whomever recorded the video, Shane huffing before he smiled at whatever Ilya had said—which hadn’t made the video beyond the usual semi-harsh curl of his accent around English. That was probably a good thing. He had probably been begging Shane to make out with him at the gate. He hadn't stopped until they’d gotten on the plane (mostly because he’d fallen asleep while the flight attendants did their safety announcements).

“Alright,” Harris said, ignoring Ilya’s swanning around the locker room on their first practice back from the All Star break because unlike everyone who had muted the group chat to go on vacation or generally enjoy their time off, his job didn’t allow for a break when there were no games and he’d seen the pictures almost as soon as they’d been posted. “I won the coin toss with the PR team so… Shane, Ilya, we need to chat before you go out on the ice.”

Shane was pretty sure this was more of a communications matter anyways. Farah and his mom had also sent the posts to them in a panic because they hadn’t told anyone to expect them to go public at one pm central on a Monday. He was pretty sure they'd also been in touch with Harris, trying to look out for Shane and Ilya's best interests. Optics-wise, it wasn’t exactly the best timing, but Shane was pretty sure there were no best case scenarios when it came to this sort of thing.

Harris’ office was too small for two adults, much less two adult hockey players and Harris, so he led them to Wiebe’s office instead. Ilya cast a weary look up at the lights, but Shane shrugged. He’d been back in the coach’s office a couple times over the season and it was better now. He didn’t associate the yellowy lights with that horrible time in his life as much. A therapist would probably call it growth. Shane’s sport psychologist certainly did.

“Alright,” Harris said again, sitting on Wiebe’s desk instead of in the man’s desk chair. “Off the record—” he made a shrill sound. “Very exciting—unless this was an accident and we’re not—” They both shook their heads, and Harris grinned. “Thank fuck,” he breathed, then clapped his hands. “Okay, back to business: Are we making a statement or…” He looked between them, but mostly at Shane, hands spread to indicate he needed them to fill in the blank.

Shane looked to Ilya. “Your call.”

It wasn’t like most people who’d followed the sport for the last few years couldn’t put two and two together. Technically they didn’t have to say anything.

Still, Ilya chewed his lip. “I want to make statement, I think. Probably.”

Probably my ass, Shane thought. Ilya hadn’t been particularly stealthy about the drafts in his notes app, which he’d been working on since landing in YOW and learning that photos had hit the internet while taxiing to their gate. They'd discussed it in the car on the way home, trying to find common ground between Shane's belief that no straight players had to confirm their relationships so why should they and Ilya's need to be seen as more than a pseudonym on Shane's hockey stick.

“Nothing formal, though,” Ilya insisted. “I can just tell media after practice or game, yes?”

“You could post on socials too,” Harris helpfully pointed out. “An instagram post seems formal these days, but it really isn’t. Then you wouldn’t have to answer a bunch of questions.”

Ilya blew a raspberry in Harris’ direction. “You forget who you are talking to. I want to answer all their questions. I want to brag about how sexy and beautiful my boyfriend is—”

Shane gave him a look.

“Within reason, of course,” he corrected.

“Right,” Harris said, with a relieved glance in Shane’s direction, not that Shane could actually control Ilya like the people who knew about their relationship seemed to think he could. “Carlton noted that there’d probably be some blowback from the powers that be, so expect him to meet with you after practice today. Nobody’s in trouble and he’s not mad because you disclosed it to him—thank you for doing that, by the way, I just about had a heart attack when I found out about the pictures, but management said they were shocked you held out this long.”

“I think we're more shocked that the masses didn't figure it out,” Shane said. “We've been seen everywhere together.”

“You give straight men too much credit,” Harris commented dryly. Ilya nodded along like this was sage wisdom every queer person knew, and yeah, maybe it was. “They could see you kiss—with tongue—and find a way to explain it away as some kind of dude-bro masculinity thing.”

“Ugh,” Shane muttered.

—

That evening, Ilya tagged Shane in an Instagram post like Harris suggested.

It made Shane feel a little antsy and unsettled not to be in control, even though it was what he'd wanted: at least, in that he wanted Ilya to do this for himself, on his terms. Loving Ilya, knowing that he was and would always be Shane's person, meant accepting the chaos he came with, including the excessive sharing that was Shane's very antithesis.

The lineup of photos wasn't as cliched as Shane expected, though he suspected that was to do with the fact that the vast majority of photos of them prior to 2021 included Shane in a Metros sweater.

The first was a picture of them from Christmas, arms wrapped around each other by the fireplace at his parents’ house, which Shane distinctly remembered his mom snapping so she could add it to the photo wall in the hallway. Next, a candid Hayden had taken of them arguing about something over American Thanksgiving, their noses nearly touching, followed by an obligatory photo of them facing off against each other, but in practice: Shane in a white sweater, Ilya in black and red. After that, a photo Ilya had sent Hayden last May, their hands grasping each other tightly, coffees slightly out of focus in the dim light of the cafe.

The post itself had no caption, but then again, it didn't need one.

The last photo in the carousel was a screenshot of their Instagram messages, Ilya's truth laid bare for the whole world to see.

Shane blinked tears down his cheeks when he saw it.

The first time he'd seen those messages, just over a year ago now, the entire world had shifted on its axis. Ilya's words had told him there was still something to fight for, so he’d made a plan and been single-minded in its execution, his return. They'd been an eye opener, told him he'd been wrong when he thought he was waiting for his life to begin because it was already fucking happening without him.

It still hurt his heart to look at them. Shane had come so close to losing Ilya without ever acknowledging this thing between them, this love that Shane would not compromise for.

That was why he knew he wouldn't be able to wait. Maybe it was too fast or too soon, and it definitely wasn't to plan—because he’d wanted to for this. He'd had ideas about the cottage, firelight casting a golden glow over Ilya's cheeks, the summer sky an inky smudge reflected in the lake, Shane pretending to go get them more beers from inside when he was actually retrieving the ring he’d collected from the jeweler with Rose and Svetlana after the All-Star Game from its still to be determined hiding place—

Conceptually, it was a nice idea. Perfect, even.

Except it was never going to be perfect, and neither was he. All he could do was be honest. With himself, and with Ilya. That was what mattered.

And truthfully? Shane had learned his lesson.

He was done waiting for his life to happen to him.

February, 2022
Ottawa, ON

Ilya patted his chest when one of Harris’ assistants grabbed him after morning skate, fingers sliding over the smooth moisture-wicking material of his club hoodie. Shane watched from afar as his eyes crinkled at the corners when he felt the outline of his necklace beneath the material, his expression softening momentarily before Slavic composure replaced it.

This, Ilya had said the morning after his Instagram post had all but broken the hockey-loving corner of the internet and compelled Shane to a rare act of spontaneity, wasn’t for the world, but for them.

It wasn’t about secrets, but rather getting to experience joy without outsiders trying to capitalize on it for their own gains.

Shane waited for Ilya down the hall, just outside the doors to the Centaurs’ press room. Carlton was already addressing the media with a quick statement on behalf of the owners. He would be staying to moderate the media’s questions for Shane and Ilya afterward.

“Ready?”

“Ready,” Ilya confirmed. His hair was still wet. “I am surprised they did not want us in suits.”

“It’s not a trial.”

Ilya muttered a terse, “Not yet,” under his breath. He looked like he was marching to his execution.

Shane couldn’t blame him for the feeling. He might have shared it if not for the events of the year previous.

The League was unhappy with them. It didn't take a genius to figure out why.

Even this semi-new regime couldn’t necessarily flip from its exceedingly conservative values just because there had been legal trouble the season before. Carlton, the Centaurs’ General Manager, had been quick to explain that not every owner was as morally sound as the siblings who owned the Cents after they revealed their relationship to Wiebe in October.

The League tolerated Shane being gay because legally they had no choice, and Scott Hunter had doubled down on that decision in an incredibly public way. The handful of other players who had quietly come after that were nothing by comparison, barely blips on their radar. In terms of professional sports, only hardcore fans followed individual players who weren't franchise superstars.

It made Shane and Ilya stick out that much more. A single, high profile queer player was one thing, but two queer players, in a relationship, on the same team? The League felt it was a major issue, one potentially requiring intervention.

Shane was grateful that Derek and Luca evaded scrutiny mostly by way of plausible deniability and the long shadows cast by their mentors. The owners around the league were more concerned with the veteran players with a storied past, whom the League had consistently billed as rivals since the moment their paths crossed more than a decade earlier. Maybe set apart, it wouldn’t be an issue if they were both queer.

The problem was that the top two players in the league—of a generation, really—were queer together. Apparently that was enough for the League to make accusations.

Thus: Here they stood, about to be paraded in front of the media not to share their joy, but to defend themselves. So much for avoiding a press conference and keeping it to the usual media scrums.

“I’m not worried,” Shane said.

“Mm, no, of course not,” Ilya grinned. “You have good lawyers.”

“We have good lawyers,” he corrected. “And Farah.”

“And Farah,” Ilya agreed.

Shane was just glad Ilya had decided to bring her on as his agent at the beginning of the season. Every action they took would be held under a microscope for the foreseeable future, and it was nice to know they had the same point of contact for things.

A moment later they were marched out to the flashbang of cameras, which was unpleasant but expected, and walked along the narrow, raised platform to the seats beside the podium where Carlton had turned to greet them. He shook each of their hands, his expression neutral, but his eyes kind.

Carlton was a guy who loved the game but had never played, a stats nerd with an eye for the game who wasn’t afraid to be creative about sourcing players. With them, he was genuine if a little awkward, and while a lot of teams positioned their general manager as the big bad wolf, the guy who only called when you fucked up or if he planned to trade you, Carlton was like the rest of the Centaurs’ organization in that he was way more present. He met with his players often to make sure he had his finger on the pulse of the team and its needs.

“Ilya and Shane have graciously agreed to answer your questions,” Carlton said when they sat down in their respective rickety, yet padded folding chairs. Ilya sprawled in a slouch while Shane kept his spine perfectly straight. “I’ll be here to moderate and direct traffic.”

Leaning forward, Ilya fiddled with the base of the little stand mic. Shane looked over at him, but he shook his head.

“Gentlemen, are you ready to get started?”

They both nodded. A massive camera in the back of the room swung toward them as its operator zoomed in.

“Let’s go Trace first, then Angelo, unless…” Carlton looked over at them briefly.

Shane nodded sharply. Best to cut them off at the pass, as his dad liked to say.

Under the table, hidden from curious eyes, Ilya’s hand found his and squeezed before it skated up his thigh and disengaged.

Before, that sort of thing might have been panic inducing, but all Shane felt was calm. Settled. He didn't like going up in front of the media, but knowing that Ilya loved him, knowing he wanted forever with Shane, well, it kind of made Shane feel like he could run through a wall. He leaned forward, toward the microphone.

“Um,” he began, inelegantly, “Obviously all of you are aware that the League announced that they’re investigating Ilya and me, as well as the Ottawa Centaurs Organization. We've spoken to Centaurs leadership, the PA, and our agent and fully intend to comply with their investigation.”

He looked over at Ilya, who was gazing into the middle distance with that angry-looking gaze that meant he was trying not to let real emotion show. He nodded dispassionately.

“Thank you, Shane,” Carlton said. “Trace, you're up.”

They looked around the room for the short man from the Athletic. Shane knew him for obvious reasons, but Ilya hadn't seen him before—he was a former Montreal reporter who now worked out of Vancouver.

“Trace McDonagh with the Athletic,” he announced himself into the wireless microphone handed to him by the team’s staffer. “For Ilya,” he began, when Ilya’s eyes landed on him. “You’ve been the captain of this team for four seasons now. How do you feel about the accusation that you and your team engaged in tampering to secure a deal with Shane?”

Ilya’s knee nudged Shane's under the table. He’d been slouching back but he leaned forward, their postures matching. “They are entitled to due diligence, but I think it is stupid,” he said flatly. “The Centaurs have built good organization. Strong culture, strong team. They do not need to cheat to convince players to sign.”

Shane nodded his agreement. It was strange to see Ilya so serious in the public eye. It was clear he thought the whole thing was bullshit, but he took his role with the team seriously. Shane was the hometown boy, but Ilya was the face of this franchise: its captain and all time top performer.

Satisfied, Trace handed the microphone off to one of the Centaurs’ PR people who ducked as they ran down the aisle, mostly out of the camera’s view. A man two rows up received the microphone next.

“Angelo Williams, Ottawa Herald,” he introduced himself. “For both of you: What was your reaction to the League's concerns about match fixing? You've been considered rivals since before the draft, and the Montreal-Boston rivalry has been ongoing for decades.”

“Ilya?”

“You go,” Ilya deferred sharply.

Shane shrugged. “To quote Ilya’s earlier response, ‘it’s stupid.’”

There was a quiet exhale, a silent laugh from reporters. Ilya sniffed just loud enough for his mic to pick it up. The room waited for Shane to continue.

“The thing about Ilya, the reason he's so well regarded in every locker room and team he's played for is because he has integrity.” He surveyed the room, front teeth pressing into his lower lip. “He’s an asshole, and I'll be the first to say it, but more than that he's a good captain and an even better person.”

Ilya kicked him under the table. When Shane looked over at him, his head was turned away.

“Both of us have always strived to bring our best to every game we play,” Shane continued. “I'll admit that it's easier to do when the competition is fiercer, and there's nobody I wanted to beat more than Ilya when we were on opposing teams. Even though I'll never forgive him for it, there's a reason he went first in our draft year. And I think,” he scratched his chin, “Everybody in this room can see it.”

They did, Shane knew. Ilya's number would hang from the fucking rafters here and in Boston, if not everywhere else.

He licked his lips. “So I guess, to answer your question, I'm angry that the League would even consider that to be a possibility. We both led our respective teams to cups in the 2010s, and regardless of what we were or weren't to each other at that time, it's an insult to think that either of us would give anything less than our all. We wouldn’t be sitting here talking about this if we were siblings who’d played on rival teams.”

Ilya's chair scratched beside Shane. “If I were able to decide games by myself, Ottawa would have made playoffs before last season,” he said dryly before turning to Carlton. “No offense.”

Mostly amused, Carlton shook his head and leaned in toward his mic. “Philip Dupont.”

“For Ilya, please,” Philip murmured with a Quebecois accent. “How has this—being outed, or coming out, I’m not sure how you’d put it,” Ilya snorted just inside the mic’s range as the man finished, “Impacted your relationship with your home country?”

Ilya’s sigh was heavy. They’d both expected this question would come up. If anything it was surprising this hadn’t been the first thing, rather than the investigation itself.

“Russia is Russia,” he said carefully. The topic was tenuous at best, and Ilya treated it seriously. “I have not heard anything but their stand—stance,” he corrected, “On homosexuality is not positive. I have been in North America many years, yes? Ottawa is my home now.”

He finished with a glance to Carlton and received a microscopic nod. Less was more with the Russia situation. Getting into citizenship and residency would only provoke Russia to make an example out of him.

“Thank you.”

Ilya nodded. Carlton moved on. “Darren.”

Darren Middleton, a tall, lanky man with bright red hair and a black jacket with the ESPN logo reached past nearly three people to take the mic from the staffer in the aisle. His wingspan was weirdly impressive. “Hi guys,” he said, in a raspy voice, “This one’s for Shane.”

Shane nodded.

“The last year has had a lot of ups and downs for you in terms of your relationship with the league. Could you expand upon that?”

“I mean,” Ilya’s foot tapped against Shane’s gently, giving him pause.

“I think everyone knows that Shane Hollander has had difficult relationship with MLH,” Ilya interjected.

“Fair,” Middleton agreed. The reporter squared his shoulders. “I mean this in terms of,” he looked back to Shane, “Trust. Do you trust that the League has your best interests at heart?”

Shane didn’t let himself look at Ilya, who shifted in his periphery, and he resisted the urge to shrug lest someone try and do some weird deep-dive analysis about his body language. Shane had tried trusting the league once and look what had happened. The League only had its own best interests at heart, but Shane could hardly voice that thought verbatim.

“I don’t think trust enters into it,” he answered, as close to honest as he dared to be. “The League is taking action to ensure that my actions are above board. They’re entitled to their due diligence.”

The reporter’s lips parted, likely about to ask a follow up but Carlton seamlessly intervened.

“Let’s give others a turn, please,” he said placidly.

And really, what could Shane say if asked point blank about how he felt or reacted? That he and Ilya had been on a Zoom call together with their agent and the League representative while they gave their bullshit summation of ‘we’re investigating your relationship because we think it’s wrong and this is the only possible way we can get rid of you without ruining our reputation’ and Ilya’s eyes had gone wide as saucers in disbelief that they wanted to investigate everything from 2010 to now while Shane mentally scoffed and thought about just how much money in jersey sales they’d made off him and especially Ilya, not to mention if the Board of Governors actually fucking realized just what they were authorizing the League to do.

Shane’s real answer was actually that he’d nodded when they asked for compliance and told them that any further discussion would happen with Farah and their lawyers present, then disconnected them from the Zoom call while Ilya threw every throw pillow from his side of the couch at the wall instead of Shane’s iPad. His on the record response to any further questions would have been something along the lines of ‘Like I said earlier, we told them we’ll comply with their investigation,’ followed by a load bearing ‘no comment’ to whatever bullshit they were asked next.

Ultimately, Carlton or not, the whole thing was bound to run away from them eventually. The media had a job to do, and it wasn’t always one Shane appreciated. Besides, Shane and Ilya were technically employees. Well paid ones, obviously, but they worked for the MLH and were still beholden to its wishes, which included being made available to the media.

While he’d been lost in thought, the mic went to Davey, one of the regulars in the Centaurs locker room. He, at very least, started with levity. “Been a pretty hectic week for you guys, eh?”

“Maybe a little,” Ilya allowed, bracing his chin with a palm, elbow resting on the table. “Good thing for you, yes?”

Davey smiled at them. “Maybe a little,” he repeated, a little cheeky.

Ilya shook his head, still in his palm, and huffed. “Ask your question, Davey, we would like to go home and nap before game tonight.”

“Fair,” he said. “Shane, I’d like you to take us through the last week. First you’re fined at the All Star Game, then you’re photographed in clubs and airports across the US, your relationship with Ilya is made public, and now this. You’ve always been reserved with the media, even before the events that transpired last spring. A lot of folks are reporting that you’re in your bad boy era. Can you maybe speak to that, about how the last while has been for you in terms of perception?”

Wow. That was a question, Shane thought, kind of actually furious about it. He understood why Davey was asking, but wondered if he knew just how much good will he stood to lose. Ilya was practically vibrating beside him, ready to jump to his defense.

It wouldn’t be useful, Shane thought, so he stepped pointedly on the toes of Ilya’s Jordans to redirect his anger and attention.

“Well,” he exhaled slowly, forcing himself to keep his tone light, “At least you summarized the last week so I don’t have to.”

There was another smattering of laughter, which bought him time to collect his thoughts. Even though Ilya always spoke highly of this reporter, he still had a job to do, which was investigative journalism, even if he was just investigating the lives and performances of hockey players. He wasn’t their friend, no matter how friendly or good of a person he was.

“I wouldn’t say I’m in my ‘bad boy era’ or whatever,” he airquoted, “I’m just being myself. I’m not perfect. I don’t always have a perfect answer to give,” he gestured to himself as if indicating his current response. “And in terms of perception,” he pressed his lips together. “I want to be known as a good hockey player and a good person. Sometimes I mess up: I left the locker room before media wrapped at All Stars and got fined. That’s on me. That night I went out to a club and there were pictures taken. The next day I was traveling home with my partner and more pictures were taken.” He allowed himself a long overdue shrug. “I’m not the only guy who does these things, I’m just the guy people are talking about because my partner is a man who’s also my teammate.”

He looked over at Ilya, who instantly sensed his gaze. Their eyes met. There was just something about being here with him, even if they were barely touching, that just… made him want to be brave. He let his eyes flutter closed, took a deep breath. Opened them again. Ilya gave him a barely perceptible nod, a little check in.

“I think,” Ilya added before Shane could continue, “People think the access they are given to public figures means they know them as person. Is not true. We are people just like anyone else, we are just good at hockey and you want us to bring home championship for you.” He frowned, “Or you should. Because we are going to.”

“Agreed,” Shane took over. “When Ilya and I told the organization we were together, Ilya told them that we don’t owe anyone else our truth.” He noticed, out of the corner of his eye that Ilya’s thumb was stroking at the added weight on his necklace. “I don’t think that makes me a villain, but if someone does think that,” he shook his head microscopically, lips pursed together as he processed how to finish his statement, “Fine.”

The next question was asked by an insider who more or less worked for the team. A softball question: “You were the top anticipated free agent this summer. Were you always going to play here or were there other contenders?”

Even though he’d been asked it practically a hundred times, Shane looked at the table for a moment to collect his thoughts, just in case. “Ottawa’s home. I grew up here. If I’m being honest, there were only two teams in the League I ever wanted to play for: the one that drafted me, and the one I grew up cheering for. The first option isn’t available to me, and I was ready to come home.”

One of their other regulars, from some podcast Ilya insisted was hoaky and cliched but very fun, asked if they expected to be benched.

They hadn’t been told they would be and Shane really fucking hoped not.

“Last question,” Carlton called out. “Shae Woods.”

The woman at the back of the room had an inviting smile that was a touch too genuine for the average reporter. “Shae Woods, TSN,” she introduced herself. “For both Shane and Ilya: To piggyback off Shane’s earlier answer, your relationship is new to a lot of folks who only watch men’s professional sports. Female athletes have been out and played with each other in soccer and basketball, even hockey. Do you feel like the league could take note of this? It’s hardly a new precedent.”

“Absolutely,” Shane agreed. “I think the thing people don’t want to acknowledge is that queer people have always been in sport, but yes. There’s definitely precedent in women’s athletics.”

She nodded, looking amused at his emphatic answer. Just as quickly, she tipped her head to the side to regard Ilya.

“Shae Woods, yes?”

Ilya pronounced her name carefully, hand clamped over Shane’s knee under the table before sliding up, his fingers toying with the coarse hair above the joint as the reporter nodded. Ilya swallowed, lips thinning as he thought through how he wanted to respond.

“The League should, how you say, take note,” the words came out harsher in his accent, the consonants harder. His eyes narrowed, roving over the faces of the reporters facing them with their hand held devices before resting on the camera.

“I think MLH and Players Association should consider better resources for queer players—whether they are out or not. Women's sports does this. Men like to think they are better than women and yet women take far better care of each other than men do.” He paused. “By the way, I am big fan. You wrote great article about equal pay in women’s sport last year. I did not read it,” some of the reporters laughed, but Ilya glared at them until they realized he wasn’t making a joke. “But I listened to you discuss it with Meaghan and Tessa on Cleats and Curls podcast last year. Was great episode. Should be talked about more.”

People tended to forget that Ilya, despite his actual reputation as a bad boy and his assholish exterior on the ice, was incredibly intelligent. He pretended otherwise, but for a man who acted like reading was his enemy and would rather sleep through a documentary, he listened to a lot of podcasts. He said it helped him with his English, especially in those first few years in North America and then it had just been a thing he did. Sometimes, he’d put a podcast on while they were home and they’d talk about it after. It was possibly one of Shane’s favorite couple things that they did (aside from the obvious).

Idly, Shane wondered just how many of these reporters would leave here surprised at Ilya’s well-informed feelings on the subject.

Shae blinked, but recovered quickly enough. “Wow. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Ilya returned. “Is important to talk about these things.”

She shrugged. “That’s why I’m here. To talk about important issues and hold people accountable.”

Carlton stopped the conversation there. He thanked Ilya, Shane, and the reporters for their time, and then it was over.

As they were led away, Ilya looked over his shoulder at the departing reporters and murmured, “If we ever decide to do big interview, I want it to be with her. Fuck the rest of them.”

Shane snorted. “Fine by me,” he agreed, though in that moment he’d have been fine with never doing media ever again.

The investigation itself was a farce. Shane knew it, Ilya knew it, their agent and lawyers knew it, but it was allowed through several very weak contractual clauses and something that they ultimately had to deal with by nature of being the first out couple in men’s professional hockey. They didn’t get benched, but they were interviewed by league officials with their lawyers and Farah present, first together, then separately, then together again.

They were asked about random games Ilya didn’t remember but Shane did because he had a mind for that sort of thing, were shown game footage of penalties and faceoffs and asked but why did you do that and do you remember what you said here, meanwhile their representation argued, how would they possibly remember what they said to one another on some random Tuesday in April, 2013, and Shane would say, Ilya told me he saw that one cologne commercial I had, that I must really like wearing makeup and walking around without a shirt, did my mom think I looked pretty? He wanted to distract me so he’d win the faceoff.

The whole thing was offensive: they were grown men, they’d only played each other fourteen times in the playoffs over seven years, and the league truly had nothing on them other than a disdain for queer players—they tried for homosexual but Shane had insisted they use the word queer because he’d been reading up on the concept of bi-erasure.

Worst of all, it was just… uncomfortably invasive.

They didn’t owe anybody the details of how long it’d been since they’d first had relations, much less how long they’d been in a relationship, how they defined it. They certainly didn’t owe it to the League, who would just as soon slap progress flags over their shoulders and pretend like they’d always been LGBTQ+ friendly if they thought it would make them more money.

Shane was, not for the first time, glad he’d separated his love of hockey from the league he played in. The league was a business, and its players were independent contractors. That mindset helped him. His past experiences with MLH leadership likewise helped. He knew to expect the worst, and come prepared, even though anyone not blinded by bigotry or ignorance could tell their investigation would only prove that queer players could absolutely be the best in sport.

So yeah, even though it was more or less wrapped in ten days, the investigation deemed resolved like the League could just sweep it under the rug and pretend like they’d never said anything, it was a rough start to February. Especially for Ilya.

Anybody would struggle with that level of scrutiny. While Ilya had come out on his own terms, and there were a lot of good things happening in their personal lives, the news was public. People wanted a piece of him: news outlets and sponsors and fans, all of which had their own demands. They wanted to know about his decisions, about Russia, all the little details he’d only scratched the surface of in their press conference getting carried into pre and post game sessions. What did his family think? Did he have anyone back home? Did they accept him?

It had been a fucking nightmare for watch Ilya go through.

In hindsight, Shane definitely should have seen this coming.

Ilya had bad days sometimes. Shane had quickly discovered he couldn’t always predict them. Over the summer there had been fun, lazy days swimming off the dock followed by days where Ilya was half present and foggy, sleeping for ages or unwilling to move from the couch or bed, where he either didn’t have much to say or snapped at Shane over stupid things as if testing to see what kind of space he’d be given, if he could actually drive Shane away.

Sometimes Shane could figure out it was coming by watching the curl of his shoulders or the tightness in the corner of his eyes, but—

But, at least in Shane’s experience, it had never been this bad. It was completely normal, and again, he should have expected Ilya to have a bad day. It wasn’t great, and Shane certainly didn’t want him to feel this way, but there wasn’t anything wrong with feeling low sometimes, right? Except, this wasn’t just a bad day. It was a barely get out of bed for practice and games but also maybe not sleep for at least thirty-six hours kind of day that maybe became a day and a half. The team wasn’t playing great either, which certainly didn’t help.

And then Ilya had one of these days, then another (and another and another and another and—) back to back.

Shane definitely wasn’t panicking about it to their friends in a separate group chat.

Ilya didn’t seem to notice the state he was in until a morning halfway through the month. Shane hadn’t been able to get him out of bed for morning skate, so he’d messaged coach to say they weren’t feeling well but would rally for the game tonight and hoped he wasn’t lying. When Ilya woke up it was nearly noon, and Shane was still in bed with him, sitting up against the headboard, book in hand.

He flinched when he saw the time, looking up at Shane without commenting on his glasses—which scared Shane, if he was honest with himself—and murmuring a soft, “We have game today?”

Shane hummed an affirmative, and Ilya rolled onto his back from the curled up ball he’d been on his side of the bed with a muttered curse. “I texted Wiebe that we weren’t feeling great but we’d rally for the game. He said to check in by four or text medical if we needed someone to come to the house.”

All of it just kind of slipped over Ilya. The first part registered, but the rest seemed to be too much detail.

The worst part of bad days, well, when Ilya realized they were happening, at least, was the way he apologized, like he was doing something wrong by feeling the way he did, like he could somehow control it. Shane was pretty sure nobody asked to feel the way he did, and Shane didn’t know how to fix it. He’d do anything it took to make it better, if he did. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like Ilya knew what to do about it, either, so they were left with a single option: to wait for the dark cloud that seemed to hang over him to pass.

“There is something wrong with me, I think,” Ilya said quietly.

Shane wasn’t sure he’d be able to hear his words if he’d flipped the page of his book at the same time.

“Probably. I don’t know. I feel,” he exhaled, and fell silent, dragging himself over to the other side of their bed to rest his head in Shane’s lap like it took all the energy he had to do so. “I don’t know the word for this. Heavy? Is not right, but,” He sighed, out of words.

Shane shoved his book on the nightstand without a bookmark, stacking his glasses on top of it. His hand found Ilya’s hair and smoothed it around his ears. “It’s okay if that’s how you feel.”

“It fucking isn’t,” Ilya snapped. “You don’t have to show up in six hours and be the captain of our fucking team—” he seemed to realize what he was saying, or more importantly how he was saying it as he spoke and promptly cut himself off. “Sorry,” he shook his head into the meat of Shane’s thigh. “I’m sorry.”

“S’okay,” Shane assured him, swiping at a tear that had broken free and trailed sideways down Ilya’s cheek and mentally revised that this was in fact the worst part. Ilya cried like he was losing a battle, like it was a catastrophic defeat, not a release.

“It’s not.”

“I’m not going to take it personally,” Shane clarified. “What can I do to help? Stay? Give you space? I could leave—”

“No,” He sounded panicked by the prospect. “Stay. Always stay.” His arms came around Shane’s waist awkwardly considering he was halfway sprawled across Shane’s lap and twisted awkwardly in the bedsheets.

Shane wriggled his way out of the embrace, righting the bedsheets and pulling Ilya halfway on top of him. He did not smell great, but at the knob of his shoulder and the line of his stubbled jaw, he smelled less like unwashed body and more like home. He mentally rebuked himself for trying to remember if it was yesterday or the day before when Ilya had showered last, recalling that he had rinsed off after their last practice but not well enough and the sheets definitely needed to be washed, but it wasn’t important right now. “Okay, well, now you’re on top of me and I can’t go anywhere. What else?”

Ilya made a sound into Shane’s bare chest that sounded a lot like he didn’t know, but he was shoving his face between Shane’s pecs and nuzzling there, taking hot, humid breaths against Shane’s skin. Shane smoothed back greasy curls when they made a valiant effort to get into his mouth and nose before resting both hands in a loose clasp on Ilya’s back.

Unsure of what to do—and unwilling to research it not because he didn’t care but because it was a gateway to overstepping and doing more harm than good (Svetlana’s words, backed up emphatically by Hayden at six this morning when Ilya had finally fallen asleep for the first time in nearly two days), Shane made the only neutral suggestion he could think of: “Do you think maybe this is something you should talk to Terry about?”

The nuzzling stopped. Ilya was immediately defensive, lifting his head. His eyes were dull and the bags beneath them weren’t as dark as they’d been, but Shane could still see them. “Terry is medical doctor, not fucking therapist. What is he going to do, huh? I won’t take fucking happy pills, whatever the fuck you call them, so why bother?”

Mentally channeling Svetlana’s encouragement not to rise to the bait and get defensive back, he let the words sit between them for a couple seconds longer than he’d have liked to, tipping his head back so that Ilya was forced to look at his chin and not glare into his eyes.

“Well,” he began slowly, eyes trained on the orange peel texture of their bedroom ceiling, “He could help you find someone who is, if you thought talking would help.”

“If I wanted to talk,” Ilya argued, “I would just talk to you.” He shifted on top of Shane as if to pull away, cross and ring bobbling against Shane’s chest as he lifted his head, but when Shane’s arms stayed firmly closed around him, the resistance had him wilting. It was clear he wasn’t actually trying to escape, but rather confirm he was being held, that Shane wasn’t going to let him go even if he was mean.

Shane was pretty sure he’d never forgive himself from walking away from Ilya all those years ago. Every time Ilya tested him like this, it felt like someone took a hammer to his ribcage. Even so, Shane would bear it. He deserved to remember this feeling, just like Ilya deserved to know he was worth it.

“I mean, you can talk to me, if you want.” Shane was pretty sure he didn’t, not because he didn’t like, love Shane or anything, he obviously did, but because it was hard to put your thoughts together and then spit them out at someone and expect them to just… take them on. It was why Shane was the kind of guy to plan most things and dial in on routines rather than float nebulously through his existence. He needed a morning run or an evening yoga flow to shove the stupid thoughts from his head and make what he wanted to say somewhat sayable. “But to be fair, I don’t exactly speak your language. Not that you’re not great at speaking English, but—”

“Is not easy to explain in Russian, either.” His brow furrowed as he pressed a frown into Shane’s chest. The animosity had abandoned him. A begrudging sort of weariness had taken its place.

Shane shrugged. “It’s probably easier though.”

“You will not say that when therapist says depression is genetic,” Ilya retorted flatly, “That I am maybe a little too much like my mother—” He stopped himself with a microscopic shake of his head, pouty lips parting. “I—”

It was like invisible goosebumps prickled Shane’s skin from head to toe, or maybe he’d licked an exposed wire or—or something. Everything felt white, tingly, electric. Fear warred with panic in a battle he would ultimately lose if he didn’t get himself together immediately. His jaw worked and words didn’t want to come, but Shane knew he couldn’t let Ilya take this back.

“Ilya.”

Ilya didn’t answer him, too busy turning his head to look away.

“Ilya,” Shane spoke sternly, “Look at me, please.”

“No.” His voice was thick. “Sometimes I think you would be better off without—what the fuck?”

Shane had flipped them without thinking about it, rolled Ilya underneath him, elbows planted on Ilya’s chest, hands firmly cupping his face. Ilya blinked up at him, stunned.

He really hated that he knew what Ilya was going to say, the way he’d wanted to finish that sentence.

“There is no way, in any fucking universe,” It was like Shane was both whispering and shouting all at once, his voice an odd combination of quiet and serious, “That I would ever be better off without you. So you tell whatever fucking whatever in your head has you thinking that to fuck off because that’s just not true, okay?”

His face crumpled as he spoke, and the words themselves were inadequate, barely scratching the surface of the things Shane would say if he were a more eloquent person. By the end of it, his lips were trembling ever so slightly more than his hands, which were hooked around the edge of Ilya’s jaw, and he could feel the sting of tears welling up along his lower eyelid, threatening to fall.

“Okay,” Ilya murmured, one of his hands coming up to swipe at the tears that inevitably spilled down Shane’s cheeks before pressing it over his necklace, the engagement ring that hung beside his mother’s crucifix, pushing the weight of it into his skin. “I will talk to Terry.”

Shane blinked. More tears slid down his face.

They laid there for a long time, mostly just holding onto each other, occasionally trading half-spoken words of apology and devotion until the other shushed them. Shane thought about how Ilya had admitted just how dark of a place he’d been in those months Shane had kept his silence, about the way Cliff and occasionally Hayden called Ilya and didn’t hang up until he laughed, how Svetlana had shown up after the father’s trip, announcing that she’d gotten an unexpected holiday and decided she wanted to skate the canal and she’d already picked out which guest room belonged to her in the basement so she wouldn’t have to listen to them have sex, how Wyatt always seemed to know when it was time to watch Deadpool for the eightieth time instead of whatever latest Marvel show he obsessed with.

Shane wondered how long it had been going on, if it had just felt manageable before for the most part, or if like Shane, Ilya was agreeing to try and fight for himself because he finally had something he wanted to keep, someone who wanted to keep him, someone he wanted to horde for himself because their broken edges only matched each other’s and it was agony to be separated.

—

The Centaurs did not play well in February. They had lost four games out of their last five. It wasn’t quite catastrophic yet, but they were missing out on much needed points in the standings coming up to the trade deadline and something had to give.

Ilya had pulled himself together somewhat, a combination of time, the team and organization rallying around their captain, protecting him from media whenever possible, and the weird boost that sometimes came with taking action. He’d met with two therapists, vetoed the first outright and reluctantly agreed to meet the second in person when they returned from their weird one-off roadie in Vancouver.

Vancouver was a different kind of beast. They were having a bad season and they were miserable with it. The game should have been over before it began, yet it festered. The first period felt like it had been two hours, like they should have been back at the hotel already.

Their opponent was playing angry. Bood called it the low and slow kind that had been given time to grow teeth, become hungry. They couldn’t win the regular way, which meant things got ugly.

And of course, the Centaurs weren’t exactly playing the greatest hockey themselves: a combination of injury, a long season, and everything else that came with it. Ilya was still struggling, but he hated being handled with care by anyone but Shane, so he’d taken to aggressively overcorrecting in the locker room and on the ice. He played kind of like Vancouver did: pissed off at the world and sloppy because of it.

It made sense that Wiebe started mixing up the lines in the second, trying different combinations to see what would spark. First up was swapping back Haas and Bood, because Barrett could keep up with Ilya, when he went full tilt, but Luca wasn’t ready for how gritty and aggressive his style of play had become. It wasn’t a mark against him, but rather a mark against Ilya, who was playing with the kind of devil may care attitude that could get him injured if he wasn’t careful.

Their play didn’t get worse, but it didn’t improve, either. Wiebe kept it up, tapping shoulders, changing things up on the fly. Shane got thrown in with a couple of third liners, LaPointe and Goodwin, both of whom were fine, but not really able to keep up with him. Vancouver didn’t really know what to do with that, and Shane was pretty sure he could keep it up for another minute so he shook his head when he skated by with the puck and Wiebe slapped Ilya’s shoulder to send him over the boards on Shane’s wing.

They had run lines together in practice, spent a lot of time working power play drills. It would have been stupid not to, even if the plan was not to regularly play together until necessity demanded it or playoffs required the team to step it up a level. This was not intended to be that, but rather a quick double shift for Shane before he swapped out for whomever the coaching staff dubbed to be next.

He took the puck into the zone, dodging the winger that tried to pinch him at the blue line, dropping it back to Ilya, who flubbed the pass. Bood grabbed it, but the puck had gone over the line and they had to tag up. Shane’s shift was over, one of the assistant coaches tapping Derek, who came out the gate as Shane hopped up, straddling the boards.

Derek carried the puck in this time, leaving it at the top of the slot for Ilya to collect. Young ended up with it in the corner, fighting with two of the Vancouver players to come out with possession. He managed to throw it to Holmberg, who had taken Bood’s place. Bergy sauced a beautiful no-look pass to Ilya, who charged the net, shouldering through traffic to get a shot on goal that was ultimately stopped by the goaltender and covered up for an o-zone faceoff.

Ilya circled the net as the whistle went. Valkov, Vancouver’s top centre, grabbed his sweater and pushed him into the corner, and the obligatory scrum broke out.

The linesmen separated them quickly. Ilya had mostly grabbed and held Valkov, his expression drawn. Scanning the rest of the guys out there, Shane saw Derek come in close to his captain, but Ilya shook his head, so he backed off. Neither team changed, so it was Valkov and Ilya in the dot.

Valkov was running his mouth. Shane couldn’t hear what he was saying, and he was pretty sure it was in Russian, but the referee blew his whistle and leaned in. There was no mistaking what Valkov said next. “Since you’re no longer Russian maybe I should say in English, huh? Soft fucking fa—”

The referee should have called a penalty for unsportsmanlike conduct, but plenty of shit was left to stand on the ice, especially if the broadcasts couldn’t hear it. The puck dropped as usual. Ilya won the faceoff, hurtling the puck diagonally across ice for Chewie to collect while he broke left for the opposite faceoff dot. He got the puck back behind the net, and Shane saw Valkov accelerate, lining up the hit.

So could Derek, who turned on the jets, dropped his man, and plastered Valkov to the boards just beside Ilya with the force of a freight train. Shane saw Derek’s face as he’d lowered his shoulder and knew Valkov was quickly learning that Derek had earned his nickname. At the same time, Ilya rang the puck around the boards and up to Bergy, whose shot wound up in the goaltender’s glove, not that anyone was paying attention.

Valkov had gotten back to his feet and thrown his gloves to the ice, making a beeline for Derek, who’d left him to collect himself. “Rozanov is not man enough to fight anymore, eh?” he was shouting. “Game is too hard for weak little faggots.”

Derek whirled around, got one glove off and popped Valkov in the jaw. His head snapped back. Derek shook the second one free, grabbed the collar of Valkov’s sweater, and proceeded to beat the absolute shit out of him. When he finally went down, Derek was on top.

“This faggot just kicked your ass,” he snarled as the linesman pulled him off Valkov. It took the other man a moment to struggle to his feet, “So what does that make you?” He tried to come back for more, and the referee swooped in to prevent a second altercation. Derek managed to jab a finger into Valkov’s chest all the same. “Keep his name out of your fucking mouth.”

Fights were a part of the game, one that when leveraged effectively, could get one or even both teams going. There was something primal about it, a show of dominance that lit up parts of their hindbrain, that weird animal part of a person and made them lock in, refuse to cede ground from that point onward because whatever was going on was so tense and charged that someone had thrown hands about it.

In this case, it backfired spectacularly for Valkov and Vancouver. Valkov went down the tunnel with five for fighting and a game misconduct, the zebras finally realizing they had clocked in tonight and needed to work the game. Derek would miss the rest of the second period and about a minute of the third, but Valkov was done for the night, which meant Vancouver was short their first line centre. Ottawa’s lineup was far more versatile and had no shortage of guys who could switch between forward positions if necessary.

Derek remained unnaturally coiled and still as he was directed toward the penalty box, expression frosty as Ilya herded his discarded gloves in that direction with his stick, Derek’s tucked under his arm. They exchanged a few words when he got there, which left both of them shaking their heads ruefully as Ilya glided back to the bench.

Wiebe was waiting. “You good, Roz?”

“Yes,” he replied with an annoyed sounding sigh, like he couldn’t believe he’d been asked. To be fair, a lot of teams wouldn’t bother. “Briggsy is too, if you were wondering.”

“Good. You’ve got forty seconds to breathe and I’m sending you back out.”

“I am ready to go now,” Ilya argued, but Shane hopped the boards.

“Too bad,” he and Wiebe said in unison, which had the guys chuckling. “What’d you say to Derek?”

“Ah, no.” Ilya shrugged a single shoulder. “Is what your delinquent son said to me.”

Shane could only imagine what Derek had said. It could range from tender to testy. Derek was unpredictable when angry. “Which was?”

“He told me we were trying new things tonight. Said he picked fighting, so I should try scoring a goal for a change.” Ilya was shaking his head again. “Can you fucking it?”

“What an asshole,” Shane commiserated, but he could see the slightest twinge in Ilya’s lips, like he wanted to smile, and made an executive decision to chirp the shit out of him as well. “It’s only been six games.”

Ilya’s surprised expression was photo-worthy. “Oh, now you are ganging up on me,” he glowered.

“I mean,” Dillon chimed in, closing the gate behind him and thumping Ilya on the shin with his stick as he skated toward the offensive zone. “Why the fuck hadn’t you thought of that, Roz?”

“Fuck you both very much.”

Tanner threw a gloved hand over his shoulder in a middle finger that wasn’t—it was impossible to properly make that gesture with gloves on. “Come on Hollzy, we gotta remind him what a goal looks like.”

“I cannot believe this,” Ilya was complaining as he finally returned to the bench. “You are all ganging up on me.”

Nobody denied it. A couple of guys were definitely pretending to talk to the assistant coaches so they could turn away or otherwise hiding their laughs behind sweaty gloves.

“I mean, it's fine if you can't keep up in the scoring race…”

“Shane Hollander. What did you just say to me?”

Shane gave him a cheeky grin. “You heard me, Rozanov.”

And that was the other thing the fight had done, the real reason why Valkov and Vancouver had sealed their fate by targeting Ottawa’s captain—it had drawn the Centaurs’ attention inward. They weren’t chirping Ilya because they thought he wasn’t performing, but because it was the distraction he needed to tune out what had happened. Shane had read the guys’ faces, seen the way Derek’s words had unlocked something in them.

Ilya was the heart and soul of this team and someone had thought they could get away with trying to hurt him. The Centaurs were going to utterly ruin them in their own fucking building.

Shane was absolutely sure of it.

March, 2022
St. Paul, MN

The trade deadline came and went in the first week of March. The Centaurs didn’t do much in terms of movement: their lineup—at least in terms of offense—was stacked in a way it hadn’t been in years previous. Making the playoffs was all but guaranteed. The team’s only major announcement came in the form of a five year, four million dollar extension for Derek. They came out of their February slump while other teams floundered, making changes they hoped would propel them to games played after the second week of April.

Even though they’d gotten their footing, Coach Wiebe still kept at it with the fucking blender.

It was annoying to Shane, who preferred structure. He knew which guys he played best with, and the instability of that changing night over night grated upon him. He understood why it was happening. They needed to know what they had before the playoffs came and depth was necessary. Besides, the Admirals were having a historic season, having already clinched the eastern conference if not the league standings overall. Only Colorado came close, and Shane could already tell they wouldn’t overtake the Admirals in points. The New York team was determined to ride the momentum of last year’s cup, let it take them into dynasty territory if they could.

So Shane got used to playing with guys and providing detailed notes to the coaching staff afterward: Stafford’s puck handling was sub-par but he might work if his ice time coincided with a stay at home defenseman like Dykstra to collect his giveaways. Linden was too slow for Shane and just as reckless as Ilya. Charpentier, on the other hand, needed more games—the bones were there but it wasn’t a given that he’d be able to step it up if they called upon him after the first round when things got tight.

“Still at it?” Ilya asked, interrupting his train of thought. “It has been nearly an hour. You barely played sixteen minutes tonight.”

“Don’t remind me.” Shane glowered up at him over the rim of his glasses, displeased by the reminder. His minutes were being managed so that he wouldn’t go into playoffs tired, but it chafed, feeling an awful lot like coddling. His body felt good in a way it rarely did this late in the season. He didn’t want to lock up or go cold. “You can turn on the tv if you’re bored.”

Rolling his eyes, Ilya took his journal and shoved it into the side pocket of his duffel which was lying haphazardly at the foot of the hotel bed.

They were wrapping up what Shane had taken to calling homework, which they’d begun doing almost every night: Shane reviewing film and taking meticulous notes while Ilya did the journaling his third therapist had not so subtly recommended. Ilya had rankled at the prospect of it at first, telling Shane about how he’d nearly fired her on the spot when she suggested it because he wasn’t going to write down all his thoughts and feelings for her to dissect, only for her to say, rip out the pages and burn them when you are finished for all I care. It is not my journal. Paper has no feelings.

He pretended otherwise, but Shane was pretty sure Ilya liked Therapist #3 three quite a bit. It had been almost three weeks of her, the numbers lining up in a way that made Shane’s brain itch in a good way, and while Ilya tended to be tired and withdrawn after their sessions, they seemed to be helping. He was having more good days than bad ones. Maybe it was just that it wasn’t making things worse, but Shane was trying to think positive.

Therapist #3 had actually grown up in Russia, which meant she’d passed some kind of unspoken test. Two days ago, Ilya had even referred to her by name after their session, which in Shane's eyes was a glowing endorsement.

Ilya's chin hooked over his thigh, pulling Shane from his thoughts. “You are distracted,” he commented.

“Just thinking about you.” He set his iPad and notebook on the too big side table in his side of the bed and leaned down to kiss the top of Ilya's head.

“Mm,” Ilya rolled onto his back, looking up at Shane’s face. His legs hung sideways off the bed. “I am very sexy and distracting.”

Of course, Shane thought, not allowing the deflection. “I was actually thinking that you're really fucking brave.”

He groaned. “No, your line is, ‘Yes, Ilya, I am finished with my homework and need to suck your cock.’”

Shane smirked down at him. “Is it now?”

“Mhm, yes. Keep up,” he chided, eyes creasing at the corners in a secret smile.

He reached up. Shane grabbed his hand, pressed his lips to Ilya's knuckles, then sandwiched his hand between Shane's hand and chest, against his heart.

Telling Ilya that he was impressed with how diligent he was about working on his mental health would get shrugged off, but even before this Shane had always been impressed by the way Ilya applied himself to whatever he set out to accomplish, both on the ice and off it. He was a good person—the best, really, even when accounting for all the cocksure, assholish, arrogant parts—because of his imperfections. He was someone who tried very, very hard, even if he pretended otherwise.

“Okay, I’ll bite.”

“Kinky.”

“You are unbelievable,” Shane said, already slipping out from underneath Ilya’s head to slide down the bed and settle between his partner’s thighs.

Admiration could be shown in many ways and all that.

After, they returned to their previous position—Ilya using Shane's thigh like a pillow, though both of them were wearing far less clothing—Ilya peered up at his phone while Shane texted casually with Hayden, who was two hours behind and bored on the Raiders’ one and only California road trip of the season.

Ilya sniffed, which would mean he wanted Shane to pet his head again, but that sniff was followed by him rolling onto his back and smooshing his cheek against Shane's skin.

Instead of the pouting and sex-rumpled attention seeking look Shane was expecting when he looked down, Ilya was frowning at something on his phone. “Do you check your Instagram messages?”

That was an odd question. “I mean, I look at them sometimes, yeah, but not regularly.” Shane didn't do social media, but Ilya knew that. “Why? Did we, like, break the Internet or something?”

“Not today,” a smile tried to break through, but it didn't reach Ilya's eyes. “Have you looked recently?”

A thrum of instinct sent Shane's nerves jangling, discordant. “Should I?”

“I think so,” he murmured. “Could be nothing, but,” he trailed off, frowning at his screen again. “Does the name Mason Briggs mean anything to you?”

Ilya's eyes found his. Shane didn't even have to say anything. His face apparently said enough.

“Bylat,” he swore.

“What'd he say?”

“I was checking profile. I haven't looked.” Ilya levered himself upright and tucked himself against Shane's side. “Do you have one too?”

“No.”

“Did you check?”

“Don't have to.” Shane navigated to his Instagram account and pulled up the list of blocked users.

Ironically enough, user @mbriggs29 was listed right before @metrosmlh.

Ilya scoffed at the sight of the Montreal handle—probably mentally cursing the whole city and its terrible team—and tapped the message request. Someone else might say it sounded disbelieving, but Shane knew better.

He watched Ilya read the words on the screen, his eyes darting back and forth in aggressive micro movements, nostrils flaring in a way that suggested emotional control. When he finished, he handed the phone to Shane.

On the first read, it sounded nice but something about it nagged at him.

Hi,
Sorry for the weird message, but I'm trying to get in touch with my brother Derek, who plays on the Centaurs. It's been years since he's talked to our family and our parents and grandparents are getting older you know? What happened was years ago and I forgive him. Could you relay the msg and tell him to contact me? My number is 814-XXX-XXX. Thanks man.

PS: your one of my favorite players.

Shane read it twice more and tried to figure out what it was that bothered him. “The forgiveness thing is weird,” he eventually decided, instead of mentioning the lack of grammar at the end of the message or the weird, potentially manipulative ego stroking in the end note.

“That is one word for it.” Ilya's jaw flexed. “I think you should call Derek.”

Shane checked the hotel clock. It was four minutes off. He’d checked earlier. Still, “It's almost midnight.”

Ilya must have seen Shane's reluctance—yes, Shane was somewhere along the lines of concerned, angry, and unsettled by the development, but there was nothing to be done about it tonight. Even so, Ilya prodded at his phone, then held it up to his ear. It rang out, leaving them with the soft baritone of Derek's voicemail greeting.

“Call me when you get this, Derek.” He paused, considering something. “You are not in trouble, I just got a stupid message on Instagram from your brother.” He didn't bother saying goodbye, ending the call and depositing his phone on the bedside table.

Shane sighed. “He’s gonna freak out when he hears that.”

“I just told him he is not in trouble!”

“You first-named him.”

“You ‘first-name’ him all the time!”

—

Ilya covertly tipped his phone screen in Derek's direction while Luca asked Shane about his decision to fake a pass on the Minnesota goaltender over breakfast in the hotel restaurant. It was earlier than the continental breakfast was supposed to be available so Shane was drinking half burned sludgy drip coffee and eating a banana while he waited for the hot food to come out, Luca tittering softly in his mild accent as he reasoned through how Shane had read the play.

Thankfully Luca propped up the conversation easily himself, fingers of the hand not holding a pastry sliding around film from the game, trying to hone in on what Shane had seen.

Shane dutifully pointed out the subtle flick of the goalie's eyes downward paired with the way his shoulders were curved in—things that pointed to low confidence, which meant he was more likely to bite in an attempt to be defensively conscious—while Derek's face fell across the table. Ilya casually tapped at a couple things on his phone, Derek leaning in apprehensively.

To the world, it probably looked like a captain taking a player aside to give them some pointers or a more experienced linemate providing feedback, but all Shane saw was the blankness in Ilya's eyes and the tight line of Derek's shoulders that remained once his own expression smoothed out into something well versed at handling unpleasantness. It made his chest ache.

“Shane?”

Right. Now was not the time to get lost in his thoughts.

Out loud he said, “Shit. Sorry, Luca. Not awake yet.” It was a lie. He'd already been up and in the hotel gym, burning off anxiety on the treadmill while Ilya grumbled, pedaling on the bike next to him after refusing to stay in bed alone. He sold the bit by taking another sip of his coffee and leaning in, trying to be more engaged. “Say again?”

“Just,” Luca flushed. “Wondering how he compares to Renaud in Pittsburg. We only play them twice and I haven't figured out how to crack their goaltender. Analysts say they're similar.”

“Which analysts?” Wyatt had a beanie on, looking weirdly thin in joggers and a thermal shirt, a brandless black hoodie unzipped and partially hanging off of him. He pulled out a seat before he realized he'd have to get up to make his own coffee and hovered beside it instead “If it's Hank, fine, but the rest don't get a say.”

“Why not?”

Bood made a beeline for the coffee bar, waving Hazy into his seat. “Because,” he gestured to Hazy, “Only tendies can really comment on tendies. The rest don't know shit.”

Wyatt nodded approvingly.

Luca looked between them, nose scrunched with confusion. “Wait, so I should ask Hazy?”

“No, of course not,” Wyatt waved a hand, then stopped, distracted by Bood, who was dumping sugar packets into their coffee and realized how he'd sounded belatedly. “I mean, you can definitely ask for advice, of course, kid.” He tapped his cheek. “I just mean not to take analysts too seriously. You're in the game now, so rely on people who actually know puck. Like, the state of it now. If Hollzy says Renaud is like Parazza, then believe him. If he doesn't…” Wyatt looked to Shane expectantly.

Shane was happy to offer his opinion. “Yeah, that's bullshit. Renaud is more like Miitka in San Jose: Never learned to mind the gap between blocker and torso. Shoot low blocker, but if you make him think you'll go glove, he’ll drop early to try and play it so fake him out and you can tuck it in five hole if you're quick enough.”

“Câllise, Hollzy, you are so brutal,” Chouinard said, taking the vacant seat next to Shane. “Please do not tell me what you think about me, ever. I will assume you think I am traffic cone.”

Shane frowned. “Come on, I'm not that bad, I'm just honest.”

“Truth hurts, Nick,” Bood said, plunking Wyatt’s coffee down in front of him and rolling his eyes at Wyatt’s confession of eternal love and adoration. “But it's easier to hear from someone who wants you to improve.”

Luca nodded along. “Yeah, Shane’s been super helpful with drills and stuff to get my speed up. I still need to work on my hands.”

“Don't say that too loud,” Shane stage whispered, “Ilya will get jealous.”

“I have never been jealous in my entire life,” Ilya lied, dragged into the conversation because he could never resist denying any accusation that suggested he had ever experienced an emotion.

Shane raised his eyebrows.

Ilya did not raise his back, which was a sign to drop it. He went back to speaking quietly with Derek, angling himself toward the younger man, propping his cheek on his palm. With his elbow pressed to the table and fingers curled upward, his mouth was obscured. Whatever he said, Derek nodded along with.

A moment later, he stood, jerking his head toward the lobby. Derek followed suit. “I need something better than rubber eggs and miserable coffee. Bigrig has drawn short straw and will be gopher for donuts and whatever else I decide to gift you fucks.” He swept his gaze around the room, only to flinch as he made eye contact with a server carrying a hot pan full of scrambled eggs to the buffet table. “No offense.”

Naturally, the guys broke into jeers, booing him, but the server wasn’t phased. The younger man—probably Luca’s age, though Shane wouldn’t pretend to be a good judge of that sort of thing—dropped the tray into the chafing setup, looked back at Ilya over his shoulder, and shrugged.

“You're good, bro,” he said mildly. “People eat ‘em because they’re free. We know they're terrible.”

Ilya’s eyebrows practically disappeared into his hairline, but he recovered quickly enough. “See, he knows!”

Shane was almost a hundred percent certain the kid had no idea who he'd just called bro, so he muffled his laugh in his elbow, using his free one to text Ilya a request for an actual coffee to free him from the burnt sludge in the cup in front of him.

When they had gone, Luca nudged Shane with his elbow. “I know, Shane,” he murmured quietly, eyes still trained on the iPad. “Mason messaged me, too. I won’t pretend that I get it, but,” he let one shoulder drop in the impression of a shrug. “We’ve talked about it. I know family’s tricky for him.”

Somehow, it didn’t feel like the relief it should have been.

The Centaurs clinched a playoff berth in the third week of March.

It was a little later than the organization had wanted, but they had just about four weeks to prepare. That was great. Shane would never be upset at the opportunity to play more hockey.

But once a team had made the playoffs, once they were more or less locked into their spot in the standings, it became less about getting points and moving up in the standings and more about being ready for a deep run. For Shane, that escalated beyond pouring hours into tape review and grinding his mouthguard to plastic dust at Coach Wiebe constantly breaking out the blender in games like they were a bottom-dweller incapable of creating momentum and became synonymous with diminished minutes and increased hounding from coaches and trainers about being rested before playoffs.

Shane typically hated this part. It was part of the game, but it was all logistics. And not the good kind.

He’d expected to feel unpleasant about it this season, but despite himself, he didn’t. Sure, all those things were annoying, but Shane was distracted by their practices.

Coach Wiebe had stopped pretending like there wouldn’t come a time when their first and second lines would converge, meaning that Shane got a lot of time centering Ilya. At least, way more than before.

The intention early on had been for the Centaurs to lure their opponents into a false sense of security. That had been a resounding success: Despite their now public relationship, the rivalry was alive and well (see Shane’s vehement refusal to rest with Ilya only a half dozen goals ahead of him in the scoring race), thus the lack of playing time on the first line suggested to most that they didn’t mesh well together.

The media had taken this information and run wild, suggesting everything from it being Shane’s sense for the game that had him telling Wiebe not to put them together for compatibility reasons to Ilya’s ego in refusing to believe Shane had ‘given’ him anything. A couple of guys, hometown ones, had suggested maybe they weren’t showing their hand yet, but nobody trusted the bias of the few guys who worked for local blogs, insisting they were just hyping up the fanbase about their favorites.

There were some idiots—analysts from a certain network, with a certain reputation for saying the most insane shit (Harris’ words, not Shane’s, though he certainly echoed them)—who thought that maybe their relationship wouldn’t survive them playing on the same line. They said things like Can you imagine? You miss a pass and next thing you know you’re sleeping on the couch, and Hollander probably puts Rozanov in the doghouse if he takes a stupid penalty, no wonder he’s been playing so much smarter, like Shane was a fucking hockey robot and Ilya some talentless enforcer, nevermind that their combined PIMs were sitting at eighteen minutes, Ilya with one minor more than Shane in seventy-ish bouts.

Shane’s dwindling patience for braindead analysts who can fuck right off when they start making suggestions about his and Ilya’s relationship aside, he was glad that the general sentiment was that the two of them on the same line would be a sort of crisis-induced situation. He liked that they were so wrong, that it couldn’t be further from the truth.

Because the truth was that playing with Ilya on the same line was like coming up from being underwater. Like breathing, like playing with some other piece of himself he hadn’t realized he’d been missing all this time. It was addictive.

He was pretty sure if they’d gone this hard playing together in practice earlier in the season, he’d have been begging Coach to let them have this well before All Stars.

It was like being a kid again, like realizing he might have a fucking shot at making it all the way to the top.

Ilya felt the same. He was always smiling, always trying the most ridiculous shit, the two of them just knowing where the other one would be, like there was some crazy telepathic link between them.

The problem became who could keep up. Bood was probably the obvious pick, but he lacked the speed that Shane and Ilya had when they were dialed, and it kind of threw them off. Barrett had speed but couldn’t play left wing to save his life, and while Luca had found himself being way more versatile in that regard, he would’ve had a much better shot of keeping up if he’d been on the right.

Which left one (well, maybe one and a half maybe, if you counted Boodram) option. Thankfully, Ilya and Shane had discussed it at length and were in agreement.

“Briggs will play left,” Ilya told the coaching staff, one morning at practice, when they were wavering between options.

The boys were fanned out in a wide horseshoe around the bench, Wiebe sitting on the boards with the rest of the assistant coaches on either side of him. For a moment, nobody said anything.

“What?”

“You can keep up,” Ilya insisted. “You and Shane have chemistry, and you’ve played well with me for the last few weeks.” He looked Derek up and down. “And you can take hits. Shane is delicate.”

“Shane taught me how to throw a punch,” Derek pointed out.

This bit of information seemed to delight Ilya. “You will tell me everything about this later,” he ordered over the amused grumbling coming from Troy and Bood.

“Derek is a utility player. He can play wherever we put him,” Wiebe pointed out. To his left, the powerplay coach, a man named Morgan with a ridiculously bushy mustache murmured something. “If he’s on the first line with you two, who’s centering the second line? Barrett?”

“Definitely not,” Barrett blurted. “I’m shit at center.”

“Agreed,” Shane said, then winced as he heard himself, “No offense.” Barrett was great on the wing, but Shane had seen him try to play centre on the Guardians. It had been a fucking disaster. “So, what about Haas? You’ll need to ride him at the position through the end of the season so he can adjust, but—”

“But,” Ilya interrupted, “We have switched when we practice together sometimes. Is good to teach plays from both perspectives.” Turning to Luca, he continued, “You can do this, kid. I know it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Shane saw Derek swat Luca’s shin with his stick. The pink flags of color on the young man’s pale cheeks that had nothing to do with the temperature controlled rink or exertion—practice had barely started.

The pair of them, Derek and Luca, looked at one another. A silent conversation seemed to happen there, something Shane couldn’t read but Ilya seemed very intently focused on.

“Okay,” Luca nodded twice, the first a little shaky, the second more resolute. “If you think I can do it…” he trailed off, looking into each of their faces in turn. “I’ll do it.”

The decision put Luca on the clock, but he had an appetite for learning, and playing at centre during his formative years would set him up for a lengthy career. Privately, Shane thought he needed an excuse to rise to the occasion. Being stuck behind Shane and Ilya and the massive shadows they cast in terms of legacy could hinder his growth if he wasn’t careful. Sure, playing on a good line was great, but he needed to learn how to drive a line on his own.

Not that they were planning to retire anytime soon, but Shane and Ilya wouldn’t be playing professionally forever. When Ilya retired, Haas was almost definitely going to be passed the captaincy, which meant he needed to learn how to lead now, when he had the safety net of experienced veterans to help him navigate the game in front of him.

“Briggs?”

“If they want a second liner on their first line—”

“Yeah, that’s not what you are, dumbass,” Boodram elbowed Derek right between the pads, getting his ribs. “You make me feel old watching you run lines with them. That’s your fucking spot. You earned it.”

“Jesus Christ, Bood, if you feel old, Ilya and I must be ancient,” Shane cut in, trying to take the heat off Derek, whose face had crumpled a little at the direct praise.

It was no secret that his place on the team last year had been tenuous at best, and while he insisted he harbored no hard feelings about what happened, Derek had always suffered from low self esteem. Shane wondered if Zane had noticed, too.

“Ancient is for dinosaurs and Scott Hunter will never play for this fucking team,” Ilya scowled at them.

“Alright, alright,” Wiebe held up both hands, one of which had a clipboard in it. “Let’s run Briggs, Hollander, Rozanov, then Bood, Haas, Barrett. Third and forth lines we’ll leave the same and cycle through the rest after we get a couple reps in.”

—

“Do you ever think,” Ilya began as he shuffled into the kitchen after his post-practice physiotherapy session a week later, dropping his keys on the far end of the counter for Shane to return to their hook by the garage door later when the inherent chaos of communal living got to him—

“All the time,” Shane quipped before he finished the thought, grinning.

The smile that stole over Ilya’s face was worth the muttered shut up he pressed against Shane’s lips in greeting. “Your problem is that you do not know how to stop thinking, yes?”

“Sounds about right,” Shane supposed.

“Yes. Which is why I would like for you to focus, and then you can do the thinking, okay?”

“Okay…” Shane could hear how dubious he sounded. To be fair, Ilya had moved to lean back against the counter by the sink, which had kind of become his spot for asking Shane insane questions. If they were especially difficult or if Ilya was feeling a little too vulnerable, he’d look out the window over the sink that faced the back yard and let Shane talk to his back until he felt a little less exposed.

He was facing the room though, so Shane was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be some sort of existential crisis inducing conversation topic.

“Do you ever think about getting married?”

“What?” Shane felt himself rock forward, forearms braced on the counter of the kitchen island where he sat at one of the stools.

Ilya repeated himself. The question came out a little accusatory, “Do you ever think about getting married? Is not a difficult question.”

“I mean, yeah, it’s not,” Shane was well and truly confused as he continued, “And obviously.” He jerked his chin toward Ilya, though more specifically toward the inlaid diamond ring Ilya kept on his chain. Shane had agonized over its design with the jeweler for like, six weeks at least. “Pretty sure I asked you.”

“You did,” Ilya’s fist closed around the combination of his mother’s cross and Shane’s ring, but he didn't look relieved. “I am not asking right,” he decided. “You asked me to marry you.”

Shane nodded.

“And?”

“And what?”

“And how did you think this would go?”

“Well, I hoped you’d say yes,” Shane hedged. Ilya was totally losing him here, even though he gestured with both hands for Shane to continue. “And then I guess,” his shoulders scrunched upward, “We’d get married at some point?”

Was that not the logical conclusion based on the part where Shane proposed?

“When?”

“I don’t know,” Shane admitted, which judging by the frown on Ilya’s face was not the answer he’d been hoping for. “To be fair, I had planned to propose to you over the summer when we would’ve had time to talk and maybe plan something, but you kind of make me crazy.”

That earned him a smile, lessening some of Ilya’s natural severity. Shane was struck by just how attractive he was and forced himself to stay put or else Ilya would try to finish this discussion at midnight when he remembered he still had things to say on the subject.

“When do you want to get married?” He asked.

They had been engaged for nearly two months. Shane had forced himself early on not to count how many days had passed since he’d asked that very important question.

“Before playoffs,” Ilya said sharply, which would have made Shane laugh, but the look in his eyes matched his tone. He was serious.

Holy shit.

“Ilya, that’s less than three weeks away.”

“Yeah, Shane, I know.” His lips thinned as he pressed them together.

“You to submit an application for a—”

“It can be done online,” Ilya finished for him. There was a defensive tilt to his posture, his hands unsure if they should be propped on his hips or gesticulating wildly between them. “I looked it up.”

Well then.

Shane swallowed. Light filtered in from the west facing window, and he almost wanted to reach for his phone. He wasn't a picture taking kind of guy, but he really wanted to commit this to memory. Ilya was, in a way, asking Shane to marry him.

There were logistics to consider, and he was pretty sure his mother (and Svetlana, who was he kidding) would murder them, but he filed all of that away in the box in his mind labeled details.

Truth be told, Shane didn't give a flying fuck about a wedding. What he cared about was spending the rest of his life with Ilya.

“It's faster if we, like, go in person.” He tilted his head, watching Ilya's face scrunch in confusion. “They can issue a marriage license the same day and we can make an appointment while we're there or find a church or something.” He could research later.

Ilya gave an unreadable look to the wall clock by the pantry. “City Hall closes in two hours,” he told it, trying not to get his hopes up.

“Should be enough time, if—”

“I will go get our passports,” Ilya interrupted, practically jogging toward the staircase. He made it halfway down the hall before he turned back, stalking with purpose toward Shane and kissing him fiercely.

“You gonna buy me a ring, Rozanov?”

Ilya's grin was too happy, too excited to be smug. “Who is to say I did not already do this?”

Shane shook his head ruefully because his fiance was ridiculous, but more than that he’d come to realize he mostly didn’t mind being surprised when it was Ilya. “We're hyphenating, right?”

“Obviously. I went first in draft so you can be first on paperwork.”

His smile was probably blinding, a counterpoint to his sarcastic tone. “How generous.”

“Marriage is about compromise,” Ilya said genially as he slunk backward out of the room, unwilling to drop the conversation despite his impatience to get the prerequisite forms of ID from their bedroom safe. “Hollander-Rozanov sounds better anyway.”

“Of course.”

Shane kept his comments about the added paperwork and legal fees required for them to hyphenate to himself.

—

“Hollander-Rozanov is too long for our jerseys,” Ilya informed him as they walked through the parking lot at City Hall, fingers brushing together every few steps. “I already asked. Mickey said the letters would be too small.”

“You told our equipment manager we’re getting married?”

“Of course not,” Ilya yelled from the stairs. “I said I was thinking about proposing and wondered about custom jersey.”

“Before or after I asked you?”

The massive eye roll Ilya cast skyward gave him away, suggesting before, which, “Oh my God. Were you?”

“You proposed to me,” he countered. “Why is me proposing so shocking?”

“Uh,” Shane said inelegantly. “We've only been together like nine months—”

“Almost ten,” Ilya corrected.

Shane had a feeling that Ilya might know more than a couple ways of recounting the metrics of their relationship.

“That is good though, yes? We were both sure.”

“I mean, yeah.” They stepped up the curb, and Shane added, because he'd learned over the course of those ten months that if he wondered if Ilya knew something, he owed it to his partner to say it, “I don't really care how we do this.” He tapped his fingers against the ring Ilya had moved from his necklace to his ring finger somewhere between the kitchen and their bedroom earlier. “I just want to be with you. Forever.”

Ilya stilled. He held Shane's gaze for a long moment, the two of them there on the sidewalk outside city hall, his expression intense, yet unreadable, their hands linked between them. “You will not make me cry at City Hall,” he said eventually. “I refuse. You are always making me cry with your fucking romantic bullshit.”

A smile tugged at Shane’s lips. “You love it,” he replied, doubling down.

“I do,” he said intently, shifting both of Shane’s hands to free his right, head on a swivel as he looked around and took a half step backward at the same time.

Shane frowned at him, confused by the strange shuffle considering the door was behind Shane and to his right, but then Ilya was taking a knee on the cracked sidewalk and pulling a ring out of his jacket pocket, ducking his head and tilting his chin forward all at once as if anticipating a challenge or staring him down before a faceoff.

“Didn’t I already do this?”

“Oh my god, Hollander,” Ilya rolled his eyes, “Shut up and let me propose.”

In the car, on the drive to City Hall, Shane thought about calling his parents. It was a fleeting thought, a passing consideration for his mom, who had been weirdly upset she hadn't been consulted before he'd asked Ilya to marry him. He quickly decided against it.

He loved his parents. They were so supportive and caring, they had raised him into the man he was. It was just that Shane wasn't willing to perform, to do what his mom—or anyone else, for that matter—expected of him in this moment, even though he was pretty sure nobody would have expected this situation in the first place. This wasn't for them, or for some sponsor, or for his team. This was for himself and for Ilya.

Like any government office, the inside was dated, smelling like old paperwork and slightly burnt coffee. This late in the day it was largely dead. Most people made appointments online so they didn't have to wait in a queue. They strode hand in hand through the atrium, following the little wall plaques that read Client Services Centre in English and French with arrows pointing them in the right direction.

At their destination they earned a few double takes, but the general hush of provincial bureaucracy combined with the bilingual no cell phones permitted signage kept most people from approaching them. They waited their turn—no more than three minutes, which they'd spent clinking their rings together in their combined hands—it had only been twenty minutes, but it was going to be a thing—Ilya wearing his ring on his right hand and always standing to Shane's left.

When their number was called, they approached a kiosk guarded by a clerk wearing glasses on a beaded chain. Her eyes twinkled mischievously as she asked for their documents rather than the reason for their presence. She inspected them thoroughly while her fellows leaned over the half walls separating their stations.

“Mind your own business, Shannon,” the clerk rebuked, carefully comparing the notarized translation of Ilya's birth record to the original. She reached into a file cabinet at her feet and pulled out an application. “Whoever has better handwriting can fill this out,” she said, passing it to them.

All in all, it took maybe ten minutes—prolonged by Ilya being very concerned that Shane's tiny, blocky handwriting would be difficult for the clerk and her massive readers, to which the clerk laughed and said, “I used to do medical transcription in the eighties. Nothing either of you write could come close to a doctor closing out a call on no sleep and three litres of coffee.”

“I like you,” Ilya murmured while Shane finished checking boxes. “What is your name?”

“Nadine,” Nadine said, lifting her watery blue eyes over the edge of her cerulean framed readers.

“I am Ilya, and this is Shane.”

“I did gather as much from the paperwork,” she returned wryly.

Shane glanced up at the clock, which read three fifty two, and then at Ilya, who had leaned forward in focus, practically perched on the edge of what had to be nineteen ninety-six’s most offensively patterned office chair. He was snorting at the dry humor of Nadine the clerk, and Shane couldn't help but smile at him in profile as he slid the completed application toward the pile of documents she'd copied between them.

“Can we make an appointment?” Shane asked her.

Ilya was all but vibrating as she took the completed application and scanned it before clicking several times and printing out a very official looking marriage license.

“You may,” Nadine supposed.

Boldly, Ilya inquired, “Is it possible to do same day?”

“Ilya—”

Ilya turned in his seat, the chair groaning ominously under the weight of a hockey player. “There is no wait period after getting license,” he argued. “I read the website.”

“That's how you know he's serious,” Shane advised the clerk, who was more amused by Ilya's mock-betrayed expression than his reading comprehension.

“Of course,” she replied, semi-stern and matriarchal. “If he had continued reading after the paragraph about Ontario’s lack of waiting period, he would have arrived at the following part that indicates ceremonies must be requested in advance.”

Ilya's face fell, which he tried to pretend hadn't happened by sniffing loudly and pursing his lips in Slavic self preservation.

“Then we would like next available appointment, please,” he told Nadine flatly, unwilling to concede defeat.

Behind Nadine, with her sharp and twinkling blue eyes and silver white hair, a small crowd had gathered. “You heard them, peanut gallery,” she called over her shoulder, aborting her rather spectacular eye roll in favor of winking at them. “Someone check with Bob or Frankie to see if they have a moment, would you?”

One of the younger clerks, in heels and a series of several necklaces that was probably very fashionable, not that Shane could tell, shot a puzzled look in their direction. “Not Jacques?”

Nadine sighed. “You lot know who these two are, so why am I the one explaining that he,” she jerked her thumb at Ilya, who blinked owlishly, “Doesn’t want to do this in French?”

“I don't know, could be fun,” Ilya supposed gamely, earning himself another Nadine eye roll.

Shane was pretty sure Ilya would take the first qualified person available who could marry them, language barrier or not.

“Hop to it,” Nadine barked, pausing briefly before swiveling in her rolling chair to face the cluster of her cohorts. “And for Christ’s sake, stay off your cell phones, eh? If this ends up on the internet before they break the news themselves I will fire the whole lot of you.”

She turned back to them, smiling serenely as she tapped her little name plaque with a gold pen dotted with red maple leafs.

Ms. Nadine Smithing, Sr Court Clerk, Supervisor, it read.

Ilya squeezed Shane's hand. “I like Ms Nadine very much,” he murmured, leaning in close to whisper directly in Shane's ear. “When your mom insists we have big party to celebrate, she will be invited.”

“I can't tell if you're impatient to be married or just want to cause an office scandal.”

“What if I do both?”

Shane shook his head. “Of course.”

He looked up in time to catch the wry expression on Nadine's face. “Don't look at me for help,” she said blandly. “This is the most fun I've had in years.”

—

“You know,” Shane said as they walked back to the car, hands linked, rings clinking with each step in a way that felt weirdly right, “Harris should make you do a fake undercover series. You could, like, go to an office or something. It'd be hilarious.”

“I bet Nadine would love this,” Ilya answered brightly. “I got her number.”

“You got a woman's number at our wedding,” Shane kept his voice as flat as possible and made sure to look away as he said it, because there was no way he'd be able to keep a straight face. “What a way to start our lives together.”

Ilya bumped their shoulders together. When Shane looked back at him, his half smirk, half disbelieving smile had Ilya exhaling in what seemed to be some measure of relief.

Their rings clinked, more sensation than sound. Even though they'd reached the car, neither of them made any effort to pull away so they could actually get into it.

“I wasn't jealous,” Shane insisted.

Ilya pretended to think about that, tapping his cheek. “Mm, I am not so sure.”

“She's probably someone's grandma.”

“So?”

Shane couldn't even imagine that as a concept. He shuddered. “That's gross, Ilya.”

“No kink shaming, moy muzh.”

Frowning, he lifted his gaze to look Ilya in the eye. Ilya stared back, serious and intent, eyes crinkling just a little on the outer corner to betray his joy. Nowhere on his face was a clue as to what that meant, so Shane had no choice but to ask.

“What’s that?” He tried to repeat it, but the words were clumsy on his tongue. Most Russian words were. He really needed to get a tutor, because Ilya’s tutelage seemed to be limited to very inappropriate things, terms of endearment, and the odd vocabulary word turned into a term of endearment. He’d called Shane his toaster last week, for some incomprehensible reason.

With a pointed glance down at their hands, he tapped Shane’s ring finger.

“Your accent is terrible,” he tutted, shaking his head.

It would have been embarrassing if anyone were around to witness just how long it took them to separate in the parking lot, but after a lot of staring at each other and their rings like fucking idiots—newlywed fucking idiots, thank you very much—they managed to get back into the car. The real world didn’t wait to remind them that life indeed went on outside of their very jubilant bubble of bliss.

They’d barely gotten back on the Queensway when Shane’s phone began buzzing in the cupholder, a call lighting up the infotainment display.

“Ignore it,” he told Ilya, glancing at the incoming call screen on the dash. “I’ll call Derek later, when—”

In typical Ilya fashion, Ilya tapped the accept button instead, answering boisterously. “Hi Bri—”

“Shane?” Derek’s voice over the bluetooth was very, very small.

Shane’s stomach lurched, his ears feeling hot and prickly. Derek’s panic grated against his nerves like a physical thing. He swallowed, refusing to take his eyes off the road as he spoke.

Thankfully, Ilya took over before he could start. “Derek,” he said firmly, “We are both here. Shane is driving. What is wrong?”

“They’re here,” Derek murmured, voice tinny and muffled over the phone. “At our house.”

“What?” Ilya’s mouth promptly closed as he realized what Derek was trying to say.

Shane, however, knew what he’d meant immediately.

“Fuck,” he said over Ilya’s kneejerk response.

Ilya muttered a quiet Gospodi, bozhe moy that was a little too quiet for the car’s microphone to pick up. While the translation wasn’t known to Shane, it was a foreboding sounding oath. Louder, Ilya demanded, maybe a little too sharp, “Derek. Are you safe?”

“I’m safe.”

Nodding instead of answering, Shane saw Ilya’s shoulders loosen out of the corner of his eye. “You call police?”

“No.”

“I will call from my phone,” he said. “You will stay on the line. We are—”

Shane had already pushed up on the indicator stalk, signalling right to take the next exit. “We’re on the Queensway,” he cut in. “I’m turning around now. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Ten minutes was pushing it considering the mess of one-way streets in Centreville, but Shane, despite his usual commitment to safe driving, could be flexible when the people he cared about were in trouble.

“Is Luca with you?” He asked. A sidelong glance confirmed Ilya had his phone up to his ear, but he nodded as if to insinuate Shane’s question was a good one.

“Yes,” Derek answered. He sounded shaky. Shane could feel a weird sort of adrenaline-fueled sympathy flutter in his own chest. “He’s here. He answered the door. He—”

“Yes, hello?” Ilya’s voice was firm, slicing through the conversation like a nice. “I need police, please.” He waited less than ten seconds and then continued. “There are trespassers at my friend’s house. Two people. He does not feel safe and they will not leave.” He waited. “Yes,” he said. “Address is—” he rattled off the address of Derek and Luca’s little walk-up they’d been sharing for the last eight months, then waited a moment for dispatch to confirm, making a curt sound of acknowledgement.

To Derek, he said, “They are still there, yes?”

“They just barged in,” Derek murmured. “I told them to leave. They refused. I don't know how they got our address, but—” he exhaled shakily. “I-I'm bigger than them and I don't want trouble. They’re not—not dangerous like that, but—”

“You heard, yes?” Ilya's voice had a sharp edge, which lessened slightly as he turned to regard Shane with an incredulous, if slightly distracted look.

In Shane's defense, he'd barely run that red light. It was practically yellow still.

Ilya was talking again. “His name? Derek Briggs. Mine is Ilya Rozanov.” He paused. “Yes, him.” His tone was not polite. “No, no kidding. I will buy you box for playoff game if officers get there before I do.” There was no way in hell that was possible.

“You don't have to—”

“No arguments, kid,” Shane said as Ilya thanked the dispatcher and hung up. “We'll call your agent once they're gone, see if we can get a restraining order or something.”

“Okay.”

Ilya gave him a sharp look. “Is them who will want restraining order from me,” he scoffed.

Shane only just held back a cutting remark that Ilya would have to get in line. It wouldn't help Derek, who was definitely having a panic attack. He reached across the center console to squeeze Ilya’s hand.

“Are they talking to Luca now?”

“Yes,” Derek’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I can hear them talking in the kitchen. My mom’s doing what she always does, playing the fucking victim.”

The hissing sound Ilya made was severe. Accusatory.

Shane could picture the way Derek was shaking his head. “He’s asked them to leave three different times, he’s just too polite for them to actually listen. My dad is—” he broke off.

“Your dad or…”

“Ilya.”

Ilya glanced over.

“Not helping,” Shane told him.

He threw his blinker on and parallel parked on their street with only mild regard for traffic, which would probably be a turn on for Ilya in just about any other situation.

“We just parked,” Ilya updated Derek. “Do you want us to wait for police or—”

“Or,” Derek interrupted. “Please. They won’t—they’re not dangerous like that, I wouldn’t have left Luca alone with them. They just,” he exhaled, but it was strained. “I couldn’t—”

“You do not need to explain to me,” Ilya told him, gentle in a way he rarely was. “We are hanging up now. See you in two minutes.” He exhaled. “It will be okay.”

“Okay,” Derek said.

Shane tapped the button on the steering wheel to hang up. He wished he had something encouraging to say, but he was pretty sure there was nothing good to say about the situation.

Besides, Ilya already had the passenger door open. He huffed a noisy breath through his nose. “Let’s go.”

Shane nodded and got out of the car.

Shane edged in front of Ilya at the last second, casting a meaningful, if probably unhelpful look over his shoulder at his husband of about half an hour. “Let me,” he said, opening the front door to Derek’s rental with the keycode. He didn’t bother knocking, either.

Normally, he’d never be so rude.

The voices in the kitchen cut off abruptly. Judging by the tone, it had been Derek’s mother speaking. Shane looked at Ilya and jerked his head toward the bedroom. “Go.”

“You do not have to—”

“If you thought for even a second I’d let either of you talk to them…” He let the words hang. The severity of his own voice surprised him. He sounded angry in a way he wasn’t expecting to be, especially considering just how quietly he spoke.

“Who’s there?” Luca called. He sounded a little rattled, but in control.

“Shane and Ilya,” Shane called back. “We were in the neighborhood,” which had kind of been true for part of the afternoon, but truthfulness didn’t really matter in this instance. Quieter, to Ilya, he murmured. “Go, please. I’ve got this.”

He wasn’t going to let his husband confront someone else’s abusive parents. He didn’t need the specifics: he knew enough to know that there was enough overlap for this to be very uncomfortable for Ilya. Shane couldn’t fix the past, but he could do this much, at least.

Ilya kicked off his sneakers in the doorway and went, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.”

How easy he went said almost as much as the way he paused in the hallway, just outside the bedroom, lifting his arms and letting them drop, trying to remove the tension from his frame. Shane watched Derek’s door open at the end of the hall, a slip of light spilling out in a wedge shape that was eventually eclipsed by Ilya slipping inside.

Shane looked back and there was a woman, Derek’s mother, presumably, standing in the doorway. “He called you, didn’t he? We’re not going to fucking hurt him.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane said coolly, sidestepping her words like an overzealous journalist’s question at MLH media day, “Have we met?” His mild tone most definitely had an edge.

“Jenny Briggs,” she said. She didn’t offer Shane her hand. “I’m Derek’s mom. I don’t know what he told you, but—”

“I’m pretty sure you’re trespassing,” he pressed, interrupting.

He saw her face change, though he couldn’t place the emotion behind it.

“Jen,” a man’s voice warned from deeper in the kitchen. Something about it concerned him. It reminded him of a fourth liner, a guy who seemed calm but had a short fuse and a hot head, always feeling like the little guy despite towering over others. A bully, Shane realized. This guy sounded like a bully. Like he was going to be a problem if they weren’t careful.

Luca’s head poked out. He looked frazzled, pink-cheeked and wild eyed and way too young to deal with whatever the hell this was. “Shane,” he started, sounding wary. “I—”

“It’s alright, Luca.” He jerked his head toward the bedroom, but didn’t look away from Derek’s mother as he added, “Why don’t you go check on Derek and Ilya?”

Luca all but flew out of the kitchen and down the hall, squeezing Shane’s wrist as he went, looking jittery all of a sudden, his control snapping now that there was someone to yield it to. He looked so torn and confused, and Shane wanted to reassure him, but he didn’t think he could. These were not the kinds of people you gave an inch.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Shane insisted, unable to keep his voice soft or soothing enough to calm Luca’s nerves. “It’s fine.” Again, his voice was too sharp, but Luca scrambled for the hallway behind him so it would have to do. To Derek’s mother, whose arms had crossed over her chest while she glared, he continued: “Why are you here?”

“I know who you are,” Jenny said, arms crossed over her chest. “He called you,” she repeated. This time it wasn’t a question.

“I don’t think that’s the point, ma’am,” Shane replied, careful to come across as polite, despite his anger. He gave her a wide berth, the same way Luca had. “Why are you here?”

She looked back over her shoulder before scoffing quietly. “We have a right to see our son.”

The hell they did, Shane thought, followed by, what excellent timing to make a trip.

He didn’t say any of that aloud. “You weren’t invited,” he told her instead. He pitched his voice louder, though it probably wasn’t necessary. “Either of you. You bullied your way inside,” he spoke over her protests, “And refused to leave.” He shrugged. “Sounds like trespassing to me.”

“Whatever horrible things he’s told you about us, they aren’t true. If they were, we wouldn’t be here. He’s our son. We love him—”

Shane forced himself to take a deep breath as she continued to spout her nonsense. The part of his brain that normally despised conflict and confrontation was nowhere to be found. In its place was something sharper, a mix of anger and protectiveness that had him pressing harder than he normally would. Sure, this wasn’t how he wanted to spend today, all things considered, but more than that, this wasn’t a situation that Derek deserved to deal with. So yeah: Shane could handle unpleasant and uncomfortable things to protect the people he cared about.

A sharp rap on the door behind him brought Mrs Briggs’ rambling to a halt.

Another door, this one the bedroom, opened. Familiar footsteps followed as Ilya marched out into the living room and toward the front door with purpose.

“I will handle it,” he told Shane quickly, casting a quick glance toward them as he went, eyes snagging on Derek’s mother.

Shane wondered what he saw. They didn’t look much alike. Derek’s eyes were a surprisingly emotive green, his hair dark, but not quite black. His mother’s eyes were blue and her hair was the same color as Luca’s. Artificial, probably, Shane decided, like her faux concerned personality.

He might not be a master of emotional responses, but he was still Yuna Hollander’s son. He’d been taught at a very young age to recognize what a money hungry bitch looked like.

The sound of voices at the door was quiet, but unmistakable as the officers introduced themselves to Ilya.

At the prospect of consequences, the older woman whirled around to face her husband. “Marc—”

“I’ve got it Jenny,” said Derek’s father, or, maybe more correctly, the man who had raised him. It wasn’t Shanne’s place to decide what he was.

Unlike his wife, Marcus Briggs was a bit more reactive. He came around the table and grabbed Shane by the collar. Shane’s t-shirt stretched spectacularly. He’d probably never be able to wear it again.

Shane hadn’t noticed, distracted by his first glimpse of the man who had raised his friend. The man looked nothing like Derek. At least in his mother, he could see some of the facial structure. The curve of his nose, his forehead. Logically, Shane understood why that was, but the difference was so stark up close.

Spittle hit Shane’s cheek as the man bellowed, “You called the cops you little—”

“Nevermind police,” Ilya seethed, suddenly behind him. The hands twisted in Shane’s shirt relented, though he couldn’t say for sure if it was because of Ilya or the two peace officers that flanked him. Marcus Briggs stepped back, sizing them up. “My Shane has very,” Ilya emphasized the word menacingly, “very good lawyers. I would be careful who I decide to threaten if I were you.”

—

It didn’t feel like things were resolved quickly, but all told, it was maybe forty-five minutes before the police had made their report and departed. It had taken even less to witness Marcus and Jenny Briggs playing the part of concerned parents, have the police remind them that their son was an adult upon whose rental property they were tresspassing, listen to their futile arguments, and then gently but firmly herd them off the property and into an Uber with directions that their business in Canada was concluded and they’d be wise to fly home as soon as possible unless they’d prefer to be placed under arrest for trespassing and impeding the work of a peace officer.

Maybe five minutes after that, Ilya had instructed Derek and Luca to pack a bag with whatever they’d need for the next few days, knocking the pair of them out of the odd fugue state they’d fallen into and giving them a task to focus on now that the police were no longer there to direct traffic.

“Derek does not feel safe here,” Ilya said, when the bedroom door had closed behind the Haas-Briggs duo. “We can take them to hotel, but—”

“They should come home with us,” Shane finished the thought for him. They were sitting kitty corner to one another on a couch and chair, their socked feet touching. “I know it’s not the most glamorous wedding night…”

Ilya picked up where he’d left off, “We have whole lifetime to have best sex in the universe.”

“Jeez, no pressure.” Shane rolled his eyes. “We probably shouldn’t mention the whole—”

“No,” Ilya agreed. “We should tell your parents though. As soon as they are settled in. Yuna will murder me if she finds out from someone else.” He paused for only a second for adding, maybe a little bit too serious, “And I almost told that asshole to keep his filthy hands off my fucking husband before I killed him.”

“I don’t think the police would let—”

“I think they would have let me beat him up if I gave them season tickets.”

“You can’t buy the police, Ilya,” Shane pointed out.

Ilya patted him on the head like he was a child who had no idea how the police worked. “My father was police. My brother, too.” He looked away. “Maybe these ones are good, but not all of them are. I will pay whatever it takes if it means they do their jobs.”

“That's why you offered to buy them a box on the phone,” Shane realized.

He didn't answer.

“Hey.”

Ilya was still shaking his head when Shane decided to climb into his lap. He tried to apologize, managing to mouth a sorry against Shane's shoulder. Shane didn't accept it. He guided Ilya's chin up and kissed him, feeling the way his face seemed to spasm under Shane's palms as he fought for his composure.

“It's okay,” Shane told him, rather ineffectively. He tried again. “I know this is hard.”

He didn't have to understand the reason or know the specifics to understand that much. Ilya had been oddly calm since Derek had called them, his usual chaos refined into something sharp-edged but even. At a glance it was fiercely protective, but Shane knew Ilya pretty well. He could see that there was something else going on.

He didn't want to assume that Ilya felt the same way he did, that he wished that someone had been there to stick up for him, to protect him the way that they were Derek. Hell, Shane knew Svetlana had been a godsend for most of their lives, Ilya insisting he would probably be dead if not for her intervention.

“Later,” Ilya said, their foreheads pressed together. “Is not about me.” At Shane's furrowed brow, he added, “I do not want to—not now. Please.”

“Okay,” Shane relented. He took a deep breath and set the complicated tangle of his thoughts—nebulous plans for Derek, a gentle recommendation that maybe Ilya should call Galina if he thought it would help, a deeply seated desire to get to the bottom of just how Derek’s parents had found their way here—aside. Ilya copied him, at least for the breathing part. “Okay.”

He clinked their rings together.

“Fuck,” Ilya swore, blinking tears from his eyes.

“Shit,” Shane panicked, throwing his arms around Ilya again. He wasn’t sure there was anything he could do that wouldn’t make Ilya upset. “It's okay. The good outweighs the bad on this one. Even with,” he paused, fully aware that he was babbling, but tried to go on anyway, “Y’know—”

Ilya's face was tucked into Shane's neck, and it was kind of teary and snotty and gross but Shane loved him and that made it tolerable for the time being. Thickly, Ilya complained, “You are terrible at this. Worst pep talk ever.”

“Fuck you.”

Ilya huffed, sniffling and Shane did his best not to pull away at the feeling of what was definitely a snot bubble popping against his skin.

With an incredible show of will power, Shane redirected, teasing, “You're the one who dragged me to Town Hall.”

“You drove,” Ilya pointed out, but he sounded more whiny than teary-eyed and miserable. “And now you are stuck with me. Legally.”

“Oh, so now I dragged you to Town Hall and forced you to marry me,” Shane whispered into the messy curls that tickled his chin. “I see how it is.”

Ilya sniffed again, still wetly, but he exhaled his amusement against Shane's collarbone and eventually gave in to quiet laughter.

Shane rocked him, feeling Ilya's hands lace together across the middle of his back, holding on tight. Ilya allowed himself the comfort for roughly ten seconds before grumbling, “You can get off me now.”

“I dunno,” Shane mused, “I'm pretty comfortable.”

Ilya groaned theatrically. “The couch is lumpy. Is same one from their last apartment.”

“You sure it's the couch and not a bottle of lube between the couch cushions?” That was Ilya's current favorite hiding spot, which Shane knew was both a leaking disaster waiting to happen and a ticking time bomb. His father would almost certainly notice it the next time he came over and Shane would want the earth to swallow him when it did.

It would be better than his mom making the discovery, but barely.

“Whoa, hey—” He was unseated by a wriggling Ilya, narrowly avoiding the coffee table as he landed on his ass on the carpet. “Ilya, what the fuck?”

Ilya was too busy feeling around the inside the couch to answer him.

“Hey, seriously, quit it.” Shane righted himself and grabbed Ilya's shoulder. “Now is not the time to—”

“If you must know,” Luca's ever-polite, neutrally European tone slanted in subdued amusement, which was contrasted by the ruddy coloring of his cheeks, “We keep our supplies in the coffee table so nosey visitors don’t find them. The top lifts up.”

Ilya wiped his face on his hoodie sleeve (which: ewww) as he turned around, glee in his eyes.

“Absolutely not,” Shane said. “My dad would accidentally locate it in like two seconds.”

“David is very good at finding things,” Ilya allowed. “I am surprised he has not found our new hiding place yet.”

“I'm not,” Shane grunted, because he made sure to sit on that specific couch cushion and keep the tv remote on the other side of the sofa, not that it was a foolproof system. “Anyway,” he added sharply, spotting Derek’s meek form lingering behind Luca, “Let’s get out of here.”

—

Their homecoming was a subdued affair. Luca seemed at war with himself over what to do for his partner, but Derek had solved that with a kiss to Luca’s temple and a muttered, “I just need to decompress. I'll be out in a bit.” He gave a half hearted shrug. “Unless I fall asleep.”

The look on his face said he hoped he fell asleep.

“If you're sure,” Luca supposed warily.

“I am. ’S okay,” he insisted. “Really.” He'd nearly made it to the basement stairs, heading to his and Luca’s usual guest room before he turned back, shuffling over to Shane and Ilya.

Shane wrapped his arms around him. The kid melted into him, weary, but held on tight.

“Thank you.” He sounded hoarse, lifting his chin to acknowledge Ilya. “I just,” he shook his head into Shane’s shoulder.

“We know,” Shane replied, acutely aware of how difficult it was to voice emotions, especially when things were overwhelming.

“You're good here,” added Ilya. “Go.”

Derek went, taking their duffels down with him. The quiet snick of the door closing from the floor below was loud in the silence.

Then it was just them and Luca.

“Come, we will sit in the kitchen.” Ilya's invitation had the edge of an order. It wasn't captainly, either, lacking the subtle hint of warmth Luca was used to when dealing with his mentor. Ilya had a soft spot for the kid, even when he was angry and yelling.

Looking at him now, Shane didn't think anyone would have been able to tell. He wondered if this was how Derek had felt last year, or if it had been worse, but knew he'd never be able to ask anyone who knew Ilya well enough to tell.

“Tell me you didn't invite them.”

Ilya had waited for Luca to gingerly side onto a stool at the counter, taking up his usual contemplation spot beside the sink. His back was to the window, his fists clenched into fists tucked under the opposite elbow, arms crossed just below the swell of his pecs.

Startled, Luca’s palm impacted the counter with a muted thwack.

“No!” His voice was a high pitched bleat, clipped and precise sounding despite the emotion behind it. “I would never!”

Jaw working, Ilya nodded, though he peered down at Luca in a weirdly accusing manner. The tension radiating from him rendered the kitchen hostile.

“You are sure.” He paused, visibly trying to control himself. “People make mistakes.”

“Ilya,” Shane warned.

“They do,” Ilya doubled down.

Shane saw the faint gleam of diamond and gold on his finger glinting in the dim light cast by the small lighting fixtures inlaid under the cabinets. He seemed to thumb at it from inside his palm, knuckles rippling with the self-soothing motion. His nostrils flared.

“People are terrible. They manipulate you, tell you they are poor, sad victims who just want their son back in their lives, that you are doing him a favor, that they will be soooo grateful.” By the time he'd finished the words were deceptively soft, a whisper.

“I'm not fucking stupid, Ilya.” Luca's face was red. “I don't need a blow by blow of Derek's whole life story to know they’re monsters.” He exhaled sharply. “His brother wasn't the first person to reach out to me, he's just the first one stupid enough to message you as well.”

“I,” Ilya swallowed, the tension sliced clean through. “I just needed to be sure.” He looked so lonely across the room, small in a way that conflicted with his physical size.

Shane pushed himself off the wall he'd been leaning against, no longer a neutral third party. He rounded the island, fingers brushing against Ilya's stomach through his shirt, making him twitch involuntarily. Shane wedged himself between Ilya and the small, pull-out spice cabinet. Their arms touched. Ilya had chucked his hoodie on the couch at some point so they were skin to skin. Shane leeched some of Ilya's furnace-like warmth where their arms touched, leaning into it.

“I think,” he cast a quick, sideways glance at Ilya, then looked over at Luca, whose head was creeping steadily toward his hands, “We all know something here doesn't add up.”

“His parents told police they were invited,” Ilya pointed out, his gaze sharpening on the counter as his mind worked. He leaned a little harder against Shane as he thought things over. “They insisted Luca told them it was alright.”

“The only thing I said was alright was them sitting in the kitchen while I hoped Derek called the police.” His breath was audible as he exhaled through his nose. “He called you guys, which was just as good.” Running his hands through his hair and groaning, he added, “I don't know what to do. How do I even…” he buried his face in his hands.

“We start small,” Shane told them. “This isn't,” he sighed. He just had to say it. “The only reason those assholes showed up now is because Derek is about to make millions of dollars. They don't care about him as a person,” Shane very pointedly ignored Ilya as he said it, for both their sakes. “Anyway. You twp are closest with Holmberg, LaPointe, and Young. Maybe we ask them if they've gotten any weird messages?”

“We should have done this from the start. I told him—”

“It's kind of a lot to share,” Luca murmured, cutting Ilya off as he tapped at his phone. “I know,” he exhaled. “He didn't even want to tell me, but I pushed him. Normally he could handle it on his own, but now,” His lips pressed together in a thin line. “They said awful things about him, but like—”

“Let me guess,” Ilya provided a three minute reenactment of guilt trip about practice and sports leagues and coaches, about disappointment and people watching, always. He omitted the parts about Russia, but Shane knew these were the words he'd been told as a child.

(He was very, very grateful that Grigori Rozanov was dead, which was not something he'd normally say about a person, but this guy deserved it. Anybody who told their child these things didn't deserve to have one.)

When Luca said he’d call the guys, Shane filled the kettle and set it to boil for tea. Ilya, accepting the wordless instruction there, made a beeline for the cupboards. He was going to make the good kind, the kind Shane had tried to make following a futile search for ‘Russian tea’ to surprise him on a bad day months earlier.

He'd done a bad job, but that hadn't mattered. Ilya had taught him how to make it the way his mother did. It wasn't anything fancy, but that wasn't the point. The point was comfort.

Shane grabbed the jam from the refrigerator while Ilya pulled down mugs, earning a quick squeeze and a kiss to the temple.

Behind them, Luca spoke quietly to LaPointe on the phone.

“Please stop talking over each other,” Luca was saying. A quiet beep indicated that he'd put the call on speaker.

“Haasy what the fuck?” That was Holmberg. For a man who was normally placid and easygoing, he sounded furious. “Where the hell are you guys? We can be there in—”

“With me,” Ilya said sharply, rendering the overlapping voices on the other end of the phone silent. “Luca, what did they say?”

“We just checked. We all got weird messages from this Mason guy, Roz, but it's not like we check message requests unprompted. That's media literacy 101. Harris would murder us.” LaPointe was serious in a way he usually wasn't.

“Yeah, I'm not interested in causing a scandal, but also, fuck those guys,” Young added. “It's none of our business what's up, but nobody fucks with my friend.”

“Yeah!” The other two bellowed.

“Okay, okay, we all love Derek,” Ilya rubbed his forehead with his thumb. “Calm down.”

“We all?” Chaos erupted.

“I knew you'd come around once you played on the same line!”

“Guys.” They quieted quickly at the sound of Shane's voice. “None of you spoke to anyone claiming to be related to Derek, correct?” He looked at Ilya. He was not going to like what Shane said next. “I'm serious. If you did, it's okay, we just need to know.”

The complicated shift of Ilya's expression was about what Shane expected. Of course it wasn't okay, but knowing was the most important part. It was kind of like how Ilya had tried to tee up a confession from Luca not too long ago.

“Yeah, no offense Hollzy, it's kind of shitty that you'd even think that. I know he’s your son or whatever, spiritually, but—”

“We don't think that,” Luca assured Holmberg quickly, understanding what Shane was trying to do, “But we need to be sure.” He flicked a glance in Ilya's direction, possibly on purpose. “Things happen. People make mistakes.”

“Rub it in,” Ilya muttered under his breath. He added jam to a mug and stirred.

“You needed to know,” Shane reminded him. Ilya exhaled, looking at Luca who was busy promising his friends he'd text them later. “You're not going to like what I think actually happened,” he told Ilya.

“No,” Ilya agreed, “Because I am probably thinking the same thing.”