Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Hayden Pike, Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais

Additional Tags:

Original Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Time Travel, Protective Shane Hollander, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, Explicit Sexual Content, Sad Ilya Rozanov, Angst, Anxious Shane Hollander, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Author doesn’t really know hockey, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Ilya Rozanov, POV Shane Hollander, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Jealous Shane Hollander, I am making a syllabus, this fic could count as cultural studies course credit, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Player Shane Hollander, Time Travel Fix-It, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), in this fic hockey is in the closet, Same Team, Original Black Female Character(s) - Freeform, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, all the things i know about hockey is from HR fanfics subreddit, Jessica Pearson Apparition, Alternate Universe - Time Travel

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Inspired By... Hollanov

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-30 Updated: 2026-06-28 Words: 35,385 Chapters: 3/4

Past Perfect

Summary

Sent back from 2021 to 2006, Shane is determined to find Ilya and secure their future together. At the same time, he finds himself on an unexpected journey toward self-actualization

Notes

Welcome back!

Remix of Future Tense, but in this version Shane is time-traveling alone. The time travel rules are heavily inspired by the TV show Travelers: time travel does not create divergent timelines or alternate universes. Changes to the past affect the same timeline. Age mismatch itself is not a major issue in this universe. An older mind placed in a younger body does not suddenly become emotionally or romantically confused simply because they are in a teenage body. However, other host-specific issues can carry over; for example, someone sent into the body of a drug addict will have to deal with that body's addiction and physical dependence.
A small hockey bureaucracy disclaimer before we begin (thanks to my very diligent beta reader Witwandwolfbird): this fic is set before 2024, but I'm borrowing the NCAA's 2024 CHL eligibility changes, so Major Junior players can still pursue the NCAA route in this universe. I've also adjusted drafting rules. Players who have graduated high school may be drafted by professional teams at 17, but they cannot make their professional debut until they turn 18.

thanks to my beta readers Witwandwolfbird, and Faithella

Shall we begin?

• Inspired by Future Tense by alidesidero, Rebo758

Chapter 1: New Year, New Me

Chapter Notes

December 23, 2021

It was their first December at the cottage as husband and husband. They would not have chosen to go anywhere else, and even if they had, the snowstorm was paralyzing a large portion of North America. A snowstorm never seen before, even for the more seasoned Canadians and Russians: thick snow, violent winds, and, strangely enough, lightning.

Shane had prepared their retreat at the cottage after the announcement, reinforcing doors and windows, stocking fuel for the backup generator, flashlights, food, and drinks.

A state of emergency and travel ban had been declared across all of Canada and twelve U.S. states, suspending all professional leagues. Only essential car travel was authorized on the roads, and all aircraft were grounded for four days. As announced, day three was the worst.

The windows of the cottage were covered with reinforced wood except for one. Shane and Ilya were wrapped together on the sofa, watching the news and exchanging texts in different group chats: with Yuna and David, with the Centaurs, and with the Pikes. Ilya was also texting Svetlana and Marlow, and Shane was texting Rose.

After an hour of what appeared to be quiet, the relentless storm, already fed ad nauseam by destruction across North America, on land, air, and sea, shifted.

At 7 p.m., all hell broke loose. From the window, the couple could see the sky tearing open with fury: a hypnotic beauty of light parting the clouds, snow dancing violently in the wind. And a sound neither Ilya nor Shane had ever heard, nor could compare to anything—deep, not loud, saturating every sense. Then the feeling of falling out of their own bodies, blinded by light, and... nothing.

December 23, 2006 / Ottawa

Shane—who had woken two hours earlier—was locked in his bedroom on his computer, scrolling endlessly after surviving a full anxiety attack. The house was empty; surely his parents had let him sleep in and left for work.

His mind had gone from this is a Truman Show–style prank to I am in a coma. He had come to accept it: in 2006, he was still in high school, and he had several texts from Jessica, whom he had started dating.

The internet offered no answers about time travel. Nothing on Reddit, even the dark subreddits. As for the academic papers, Shane, an avid reader, was still out of his depth.

But he made his decision: he would do it again. He would find Ilya and do what he had to. Knowing Ilya for more than a decade, he knew he had to proceed carefully, something he was not sure he could do, practicing restraint after years of unrestricted touching and saying, “I love you,” and a few months of doing it out of the closet.

So now he would have to go back to stolen hours and a few weeks each summer. And this, in the best-case scenario, if he could speed up their idiotic communication-skills timeline: secret nights, hiding, leaving—do it all again.

And the worst part: feeling alone. Because at least the first time, he had not known what it was to be with Ilya, to live with him. The mornings, the nights, the domesticity, the planning, the hand on the neck while driving, the little note to remind him to buy cottage cheese, the scent of his clothes...

He had not known before that the fear and anxiety he was living with during those early years (and Ilya’s Ottawa year) were depriving him of so much of a richer and richer life. So he would have to do it again—slightly better, cautious but faster—and not take ten years.

He would have to do it again with the Voyageurs, knowing the team he had given his life to would turn their backs on him. Knowing that perfection and being the golden boy of Canada would not protect him. The truth was that, given a second chance, he wanted Ilya—faster, sooner—but he still wanted Cups, plural.

This thought made him feel something close to shame. He should not think that. He loved Ilya. He should think about how to get him not in ten years but in three months, like Hayden and Jackie. But the truth was, Shane had another deep hunger. He wanted all of it.

He wanted what other players had: to be able to live out loud with a partner, like they did with their wives/girlfriends, while he had to spend years so deep in the closet he could reach Narnia.

He did not want to go to a smaller, less competitive team. And he was not even sure that he did not want to remain Ilya’s rival-ish... not a rival, certainly not a rival, but at least he wanted to play on a team that was a serious contender to Ilya’s. He remembered the thrill of playing against and with Ilya. He remembered all the feelings (even if they became more complicated later), that their names were always linked before they were together on a marriage license: Hollander vs. Rozanov. Hollander and Rozanov. Hollander-Rozanov. The lexicon of who they were. Generational talents.

How could he keep both? Be himself and still be Shane Hollander™?

He had conflicting wants. Less than a year since being outed, he was sometimes anxious and tense when Ilya kissed him in public, his body forgetting. But he wanted it. If he had to do it all again, he would. He had learned how to brace for impact. He would be ready.

After an hour of breathing exercises, retracing what he had learned about himself and others, he opened his Notes app:

Wants:

Ilya

Stanley Cups

Awards

Not Doing:

Dissociating

Making myself small to make others comfortable

Waiting ten fucking years.

Shane felt lucky to have a full day alone for his meltdown. When his parents reappeared at 9 p.m., Shane had time to go over multiple iterations of possible plans. "Roadmap to 1410," he noted. Facebook wasn't popular yet in 2006, and he couldn't find Ilya online, not even on MySpace, so he'd have to wait. The simplest road would be to do a redo, making the timeline faster by avoiding the 2014 Sochi debacle and not leaving after the tuna melt. The ethical question lingered.

Shane was thirty; he couldn't rush and love-bomb Ilya with all the secret information he had about him: his trauma, the way he hid himself. He thought he could give something to Ilya without taking from him—friendship, a safe space, time, and, in his mind, important first dates. When the time came, he would date Ilya properly: going to movie theaters and parties. He knew that what Ilya was jealous of with Rose wasn't possible romance or sex, but the fact that she had a very public dating life with Shane.

He scratched the option to redo things faster. To do what he wanted, he needed to be closer to Ilya and not his arch-rival, but he still wanted the Cup, so absolutely no to Ottawa now. He wanted to be Shane fucking Hollander, the three-time Cup winner, and if he was on the same team as Ilya, they could have three Cups by 2016. It wasn't an exact science, but by 2020, with Boston, they could have four. In all his configurations, only on a team with Ilya did the idea of not being captain sit right with him. They could be a pair.

Shane tapped his encyclopedic hockey knowledge: Boston would have the first draft pick two years in a row—2008 and 2009. He needed to get drafted in 2008; no one in that draft year was close to him. He would go first for sure. He'd be drafted by Boston onto Ilya's team.

A second chance—for him and Ilya, but also for himself, maybe. The horrific outing, the year of fear, anxiety, and antagonism—that was the first and only one he had to endure. If he felt so drawn to Rose, it was because she was kind, easy to talk to, and, outside of hockey, a window into another world. When he was in high school, he remembered scouts from Canadian and U.S. universities, but he was sure that Shane would go to the AHL, with no interest in college or joining a university team. Maybe that hadn't been the wisest choice. The friends his dad made when he played for McGill, and the fact that he was a former hockey player but also a New Yorker reader, showed that it had brought something to him.

Shane looked at an email from his coach: scouts from McGill, Boston University, Minnesota, Harvard, and Seattle would attend some of their games after the break. It wasn't just his grades—just above average—that would get him there, but he could do it at BU or Harvard. For him to be eligible to be drafted, thanks to the rule change in 2005, he needed to be 17 and close to being done with high school, though he still would not be eligible to play until 18. If he were drafted in 2008, he could join their team in the fall, but for that, he would need to graduate high school a year early while continuing to play hockey. That wouldn't be too difficult with all the experience he had.

He'd ask to finish two years at university, maybe get an associate degree or something, and in 2010 would play his first season with Ilya.

His parents must have thought that some New Year's resolution had possessed Shane.

"You want to go to Harvard?" Yuna asked when he explained that he'd spend more time at the library and needed help with a tutor, as he wanted to graduate early.

"Or Boston University. Yes, I think college would be good to expand my horizons. You know, Dad went," Shane said.

It was strange to negotiate permission with your parents as a thirty-year-old in a sixteen-year-old's body.

"McGill is very good, and it's here," David said.

"Yes, but I think I can enter the draft next year, and I'll go first, so I'd better be prepared and acclimated to Boston," Shane replied.

"I'm surprised you said it. Don't be afraid to jinx it," Yuna said.

"It's logical. If it were 2009 with Romanov, I'd be less sure."

"You'd have been first either way," Yuna said.

Shane wanted to say "nope," but just nodded.

"I don't know how I feel about you going so young to the U.S. and college. You're not even eighteen, Shane."

"I billeted at 15. I'll be fine, Mom."

"Aren't you going to miss your girlfriend?" his dad asked.

"We aren't together anymore—just not compatible," Shane said, then quickly changed the subject. "So, you'll both help me with applications and the scouts?"

"Of course, kiddo," David said.

And his parents were true to their promises. His mom asked many questions and was very thoughtful. Both Boston University and Harvard were surprised and more than happy to offer full-ride scholarships. Shane spent his time between the rink, the library, and stalking YouTube videos of Ilya playing. Taking advanced credits, he graduated in May 2008, and in June, he was the first overall pick by Boston.

August 2008 / Cambridge, MA

There were six months to go before his and Ilya's first meeting in person. The horniness of a teenager’s body, combined with his commitment to be loyal to his husband, was relentless. It was torture waiting for his parents to be out of the house so he could jerk off; he couldn't wait to be living on campus.

On move-in day, Shane was still anxious. He'd never had a roommate before, nor did he have siblings. And being a full adult with a kind of unhinged freedom felt strange.

"You gonna be okay, honey?" Yuna asked, putting a small plant in the corner of his window. She was wearing Harvard merch. David was checking the bed and shower. "Do you know when your roommate will arrive?" he asked.

"No, I didn't even see his name," Shane was saying when a slim, tall, boyish-faced person entered the room, followed by a curvy Asian woman talking to the boy in Japanese.

"Good afternoon, I’m Yuna, and this is David. We are Shane's parents," his mom introduced herself first, of course.

The woman said something in Japanese to his mom.

"Yes, but my Japanese is not very good, and neither is Shane's," Yuna answered.

"Yoshimi. This is my son, Iro. Iro, be polite," the woman said, switching to English and shaking David and Shane's hands.

"Hello, nice to meet you. Looks like we have a culturally diverse room," Iro said, just as the most stunning, elegant, confident woman Shane had ever seen entered the room. She was a tall Black woman with long hair, full lips, and a perfectly fitted dress—everything about her screamed expensive, and she wore a scent Shane was sure you had to pay to inhale. She was accompanied by a younger version of herself, more bohemian in style, with long, very small braids. The younger woman crossed the room to Iro and hugged him.

The older woman got a hug from Yoshimi and turned to Shane's parents, who looked as stunned as Shane.

"Jessica Pearson, and this young person who seems to have lost her manners is my daughter, Anita."

"Sorry, nice to meet you. Anita, Iro’s best friend," Anita said, shaking Shane’s parents' hands and kissing Yoshimi’s cheek—they clearly already knew each other.

She turned to Shane.

"No fucking way, you’re rooming with Shane Hollander!" she exclaimed.

"Language, young lady," the older woman said.

Shane was confused; he wasn’t even famous yet.

"Hey, nice to meet you, you’re into hockey?"

"Nah, but my brother is very into it. Everyone says he is going to make it to the MLH."

"Oh, what’s his name?" Shane said.

"Carter Vaughn-Pearson, but patriarchy erased Mom," she said.

"You’re Carter Vaughn’s sister?" Shane asked.

"Yes, twin."

"Yeah, no doubt—he’s going to the MLH."

"Instead of Morehouse," her mom said.

"It’s 5 p.m., we should go for a drink," Yoshimi said.

“Good idea. I’m trying to avoid my ex-husband by any means,” Anita’s mom said.

She turned to Iro and Shane.

"Not you three. Unpack, make friends, and clean up a little. There’s a lot of dust here."

Yuna and David laughed and followed her.

"We’ll meet for dinner, son," David said.

Iro spoke rapidly in Japanese to his mom, saying something funny, which made Yuna chuckle. Iro’s mom just waved her hands and left the room.

"Your mom sounds fun," Shane said.

"She is—and a terror," Iro said.

Iro was tall, with a stillness and all lean lines. They were unpacking while Anita lay on Iro’s bed.

"Here for emotional support. My mom already coerced me into visiting the law school building; she really thinks I’ll change my mind," she said, doing the usual icebreakers.

Iro knew nothing about hockey or sports in general; like Anita, he was a liberal arts person. Shane learned that Iro and Anita had met three years earlier at a summer internship at the New York Public Library.

They were talking when Shane saw Iro unpack several rainbow flags and then a large poster:

"We are here, we are queer."

Iro and Anita must have noticed Shane staring.

"Problem?" Iro said.

“Homophobia looks particularly ugly on pretty boys, Shane,” Anita said.

“Fuck, no, no, I just didn’t know. I didn’t assume, I mean—”

“Okay, okay, relax,” Iro said.

And Shane might have panicked; Anita and Iro were looking at him with eyes that said, If you’re homophobic, we’re going to make your life hell.

So he said, “I’m gay. My parents don’t know yet.”

“Wow, not Harvard doing perfect matchmaking—a Japanese mother and a gay roommate,” Iro said.

“Are we the first people you’ve told?” Anita asked.

“Uh, yes,” Shane said, because what else could he say in this timeline?

“We need to celebrate. First college secret!” Anita said.

“Yes, we should go out after dinner,” Iro said.

“I’m not 21, I’m just 17.”

“We’re 18, so? We’re not going to a club, just a dorm party—after the parents leave and we have our freedom,” Anita said.

*

The dinner location had become a minor battleground before anyone had even unpacked. James, Anita's father, had immediately suggested one of the old Harvard institutions and had spent several minutes explaining why it was a tradition. Jessica, who was also a Harvard alumna, seemed determined to reject every suggestion he made on principle alone.

"Just because we both went here doesn't mean we need to spend the evening acting like Harvard is a personality trait," she had said.

When Yoshimi suggested Henrietta's Table, Jessica agreed instantly.

James looked annoyed. "You agreed awfully fast."

"Because it was Yoshimi's idea," Jessica replied.

Yuna and David, as Canadians who had never attended Harvard, had no stake in the debate. They were simply delighted that their son had gotten in and were happy to eat wherever everyone else decided.

Anita’s father, James, was a Senator from New York. It quickly became clear that he was the kind of girl dad who viewed his daughter as the most extraordinary person ever created. He was attentive to the point of being overbearing, constantly checking whether Anita needed anything, steering conversations back toward her accomplishments, and looking at her as though she had personally hung the moon. Anita, judging by the frequency of her eye-rolls, was thoroughly accustomed to it.

Shane found himself thinking about Carter. Unlike Anita, Carter wasn't at Harvard. He was in hockey. Given everything Jessica had said about expectations, representation, and wanting the best for their children, Shane wondered whether that had ever caused tension between the twins. Whether Carter had ever felt compared to his sister, or Anita to him. Then again, maybe Carter was their mother's favorite.

The thought made Shane immediately grateful to be an only child. Living up to his mother's expectations was enough anxiety on its own. He couldn't imagine having to compete with a genius twin on top of that.

James spent most of the dinner finding increasingly creative ways to explain why he was parenting better than his ex-wife, a claim everyone could see was conveniently impossible to verify. Unlike her legal career, where Jessica's accomplishments spoke for themselves, parenting was the one arena where he could still insist he was winning. He left after starters, dragging David with him to attend a lecture on Treasury policy or something equally thrilling, a prospect David seemed genuinely excited about.

The conversation shifted toward careers, immigration, and children. Yoshimi was every bit as engaged in the conversation as Yuna and Jessica, the three women quickly falling into an animated discussion that largely ignored the existence of their children.

Yoshimi had arrived from Japan in her twenties with little money, limited English, and no family network in California. A year before Iro's father left when Iro was nine, she and her friend Carmen, a Mexican single mother, had opened a tiny ramen shop in Little Tokyo with just four seats and a mostly takeout business. After the separation, the restaurant became the foundation that allowed both women to support their families. After being featured on the Los Angeles Times' list of the city's best ramen spots and developing a loyal following for its straightforward, no-nonsense food, the shop began making enough money from takeout to expand, allowing them to open a second location in Gardena, then a third in Sawtelle, and eventually a fourth in Irvine. Rather than selling franchises, Yoshimi and Carmen kept ownership of every location themselves. Each shop was run by a local managing partner—almost always a single woman who received an ownership stake in the business.

"You make it sound like it was easy," Yuna said.

Yoshimi laughed.

"It was not. I worked seven days a week for ten years. When the first article came out calling us one of the best ramen shops in Los Angeles, I cried in the storage room."

"You earned it," Jessica said.

None of them spoke about sacrifice dramatically. Yuna talked about being one of the few Asian women in her field. Jessica spoke about law school, clerkships, and spending years being the only Black woman in the room. Yoshimi talked about customers refusing to speak to her because of her accent.

"I think people assume confidence comes first," Yuna said.

Jessica laughed.

"You become confident because the alternative is not great at all"

"Exactly," Yoshimi said. "There was no other option."

Yuna raised her glass.

"To having no other option."

Jessica laughed and clinked her glass against hers.

"To developing thick skin."

"Very thick skin," Yoshimi agreed.

"Sorry, I looked you up," Yuna said to Jessica. "You were the first Black woman to serve as a judicial clerk at the Third Circuit Court of Appeals?"

Jessica sighed in a way that suggested she had heard the sentence many times before.

"Yes."

"That must have been a lot of pressure."

"It was. Every mistake felt bigger. But now there are more women coming behind me, which is how it's supposed to work."

"It's important," Yuna said. "For children to see themselves."

Jessica nodded. "It is."

"It is funny," Jessica continued. "My family talks about representation all the time, but when Carter announced he wanted to play hockey, nobody was excited."

Yuna laughed.

"Really? Mine practically threw a party."

"You are from a hockey family."

"Fair."

Jessica shook her head.

"My ex-husband's family wasn't thrilled either. We supported him, of course. But if I'm honest, both of us would probably have preferred a profession where he wasn't immediately the only Black person in the room."

"The Senate?" Yuna asked.

Jessica laughed.

"Hockey somehow manages to be whiter than the United States Senate."

"And law school," Yuna added.

"And law school," Jessica agreed.

The three women laughed.

Jessica continued. "Both of us know what it feels like to spend your life as the minority in every room. It's not something you wish for your child."

Yoshimi nodded. "What saved me was Los Angeles."

Yuna tilted her head. "The Japanese community?"

"The Japanese community, but not only that," Yoshimi said. "But I raised Iro in Gardena. His friends were Mexican, Black, Filipino, Korean. Iro taught me the word global majority." She smiled. "My English was terrible. Maybe that helped. I was too busy trying to understand what people were saying to worry about whether I belonged."

The table laughed.

"But truly," Yoshimi continued, "Iro grew up around people who looked different from each other. He was never the only one."

"I wanted that for Shane too," Yuna said. "Not necessarily diversity for diversity's sake. Just the feeling that there are many ways to be in the world."

Jessica nodded. "And many ways to succeed."

Across the table, Anita, Iro, and Shane exchanged a look. And to be fair, all three had incredible mothers. Women who had worked harder than most people could imagine, who had sacrificed for their children, who loved them fiercely, and who had made their lives easier than their own had ever been. The problem was that those sacrifices came with expectations. Not unfair expectations, exactly. Just enormous ones. They just also needed room to become themselves instead of spending their lives trying to live up to someone else's example.

*

When classes began, he was well prepared to be Shane Hollander on the ice. He had no doubt about that. But he wanted to make the most of these two years of college—the only ones he would ever have—and he took it seriously. His dad had prepped him very well on balancing hockey and class, and he felt ready, if a little self-conscious. He took three courses for the fall semester: Introduction to Russian Literature; Sport, Bodies and Masculinities; and Asianness/Blackness: Race, Identity and Politics in North America.

His mom was impressed by his choices, even if she tried to push marketing and business courses. Shane told her he wanted to read things he did not know. He did not tell her that knowing the future would make things easy when his first MLH checks hit the bank—hire a financial advisor, give them a list of good investments, and even if not, they would have enough money. Money was not one of the things he needed to do better. Expanding his life, that was what mattered. About who he was. Not internally; that part he knew too well, but as someone sharing an identity imposed on him by others. He had spent his previous life being a role model but never fully understanding why he needed to be one.

Practice with the team went smoothly. Freshly out of high school, some were bullies at heart, but being in an institution where nerds were the norm meant that things were different. He was named captain after their third week of practice. Shane's natural talent and his years of experience, which he carried over from his previous life, put him in a different league from his teammates. No doubt, Shane would be on his team's roster, be nominated for Rookie of the Year and the All-Star team, and be considered for the Rookie of the Year award in his first season, while maybe two of his college teammates would make it to the MLH—not next year, and not the year after, either.

Shane loved that the campus was so large, with so many different departments, so many people. He could still be there and escape the athlete zone, the fraternity bros, and get lost in the campus museum, in the library, or reading in one of the language departments. Having Iro as a roommate meant that he was often with the liberal arts students.

Thank God the Russian literature course was in English, because it was hard enough. It was a lecture, so he took notes like a tribunal clerk, typing every single word. It was the same for the smaller seminar, Sport, Bodies and Masculinities. Shane was surprised that it was taught by a very gay, à-la-Fabian-Salah man who knew everything about sports—Brian Higgins, Doctor of Sociology, according to Google, from UC Berkeley. He also had a YouTube channel.

The first class was about the significance of the body, the body in public, and the body in the gym. The other students, mostly girls, were very invested and studious. The syllabus was short and had many videos. Who liked this? He did. It was a balance compared to the constitution-length syllabus of the Russian literature lecture with Professor Volkov.

He was with Anita and Iro for his last course of the week, Thursday, 4 to 6 p.m. Asianness/Blackness: Race, Identity and Politics in North America was taught by Professor Brittany Ang.

She introduced herself: undergrad at Spelman College (Shane learned what an HBCU was by having to Google it), Ph.D. at Princeton, father Korean, mother African American. It was her second year as an assistant professor. According to her Facebook (Shane felt like a stalker Googling all his professors), she was twenty-nine. Her syllabus was shorter than Volkov's but still of a respectable length. She was not a fan of long essays and believed in group work. So he would only have to do one final essay.

After a round of presentations—first name, pronouns (Shane learned about that too this week, at a party Iro and Anita brought him to with a large cohort of art students, very versed in pronouns, consent, and boundaries), and heritage if willing to share—he noted two other Japanese students, both with two Japanese parents.

The class was more gender-balanced, and except for four students—two white, two who seemed Middle Eastern—all twenty students were either Black, Asian, or a mix of both. After a small break, Professor Ang introduced the reading for the day, which Shane had done: The Racial Triangulation of Asian Americans by Claire Jean Kim. She asked them to form groups of three who would work together during the semester.

Shane watched people form groups. It had been implied by the assistant coach and other athlete-students that there were “ways” to get the necessary grades to meet student-athlete standards. But Shane was not a cheater. And he knew those “ways” meant a B- or a B. He was not a B person, nor were Anita or Iro.

Shane's semester routine was easily packed: hockey, classes, and social activities with Anita and Iro. They had already started a BIPOC book club and invited him to join. At night, he listened to Iro talk about the new love of his life, whom he had been with for one week. A student from Boston College whom he had met at a party. He showed them a picture: tall, really thin, Korean-German, into dead poets and bird-watching. Anita interjected that this summer program Iro had already had five loves of his life.

Shane was captivated by the difference in worlds he was navigating from morning to afternoon. College hockey was still hockey, very white, very straight-bro. His mornings were full of borderline "jokes", and now in the afternoon, he was in a world of the gays, the girls, and the nerdy, where Iro talked not in a whisper about being in love with a guy, and someone at the next table complained about the forever out-of-order condom distributor in their dorm and another shot to his friend an "oh my god be a little be gay, it's college, everyone gets to be homo in college."

Listening to Iro and Anita complaining about how white Harvard was, Shane realized that his bar for being inclusive and diverse was just a little bit above hell. Harvard was the closest to the United Nations he had ever been. Shane used to react quickly when people called him Asian, correcting them: Asian-Canadian, not just Asian. “I am Canadian, born and raised here.” But he now understands that those footnotes in conversation are useless. The people who say “Asian” to other him do not care about nuance, and the people who say “Asian” to include him in community, like Iro, do not need the correction.

The fall semester was exhilarating and exhausting. Training, competition, mandatory parties with the team, class, more mandatory parties, and the book club with Iro and Anita.

December 23, 2008  /  Saskatchewan

Today was the day.

Watching the clock, the time he had been waiting for was finally there. Time to remind Ilya where the smoking area was.

Shane had been waiting a bit further down for ten minutes already. He had seen Ilya arrive, but he realized he had to calm his nerves—seeing him first from afar—the younger him, his Ilya, the curls, his face. And because even with an older brain, his body was that of a seventeen-year-old, full of too much horniness. So he watched Ilya smoke one cigarette and walked over at the second. He would not witness lung cancer loading into the love of his life. “You’re supposed to smoke over there,” Shane said. Ilya looked at him, paused. Shane thought maybe he had not done a good job of a nonchalant face; he did not recall this pause from the first time.

Ilya was supposed to say something like “What?” but he could not.

“The smoking area is over there,” Shane continued. After a brief pause, he added, “I’m surprised you smoke.”

Ilya: “Okay.”

Oh, Shane thought. It’s good. We’re good. He’s the same. “I wanted to meet you.” He extended his hand. “Shane Hollander. You are an incredible player to watch."

And everything went like the first time, until, before leaving, Shane asked "Are you on Facebook?" and Ilya said: "Yes, of course, internet exists in Russia you know."

"I know. I mean, we could connect there because you know, maybe we will be both in the same team."

"Maybe? I am going first. No, maybe."

"If you say so," Shane said with a grin and left.

The game went as it did the first time. Shane lost. Ilya won. Ilya was back in Moscow the next day and Shane in Ottawa.

***

Back on campus, Shane reached a new degree of popularity among his team. He spent a good amount of time with them, but most of his social life was with Iro and Anita’s circle. They were more extroverted and into parties, but they also enjoyed plans that revolved around being silent, reading, and being on their phones.

Every Tuesday, when he was not away for a game, Anita would pick him up from the athletic center on her way to their book club. And every Tuesday, Davis, Matthew, Norman, Max, and Elias, who all had girlfriends in some capacity, would disastrously try to flirt with her.

Anita was hot, nerdy, and confident, but she had strong ideas about white boys and fetishism. She made it very clear, the long list of conditions for her to even consider sleeping with one. Davis, Matt, and Elias were disqualified. They all came from very bigoted and proud families, and Anita was more of a fantasy for them; the “I’ve never dated or slept with a Black girl before” kind. Norman and Max, who grew up in Philadelphia and Brooklyn neighborhoods, respectively, had a chance, but as Anita said, they were in the “allergic to reading” category.

Feeling generous, Anita invited those five, along with the rest of the team, to her birthday party. They did not need to be convinced. The prospect of being at a party with many humanities students, meaning girls with glasses, nerds, and alcohol that should not be there, was enough for most of them.

And as Shane learned, you can, in fact, be homo in college, as two of those teammates were part of the five loves of Iro’s life. One of them, he remembered, made it to the MLH, playing two or three seasons with San Francisco in his timeline. He did not stay long, and Shane never knew if he was gay or bi. The things you learn.

Anita’s birthday, because she was cool and had a confidence that made people want to be around her, to be liked or loved, or hated outright by her, was everything it promised to be. Different groups mixed, and she was pleased to have her quota of white straight men fulfilled by Shane’s teammates.

Shane reached his peak popularity when Carter Vaughn and Scott Hunter crashed the party to drop off a box of gifts for Anita, as they were playing Boston the next day. Shane’s teammates were beside themselves, crowding Carter and Scott for photos. Without any logic, Shane called Scott “Mr. Hunter” again, and Scott told him, “See you soon, rook.”

Now that they knew that Anita was the little sister, (by 10 minutes) of an MLH player, Davis, Matthew, Norman, Max, and Elias were at their flirty best, googling quotes from books she might like. She was too drunk to care and actually left with the wrestling team's captain.

The following Tuesday, when Anita came to pick Shane up, Max and Norman were on the bench, fake-reading All About Love by bell hooks.

June 2009 - Los Angeles

He was still going gently, keeping his distance from Ilya, scared to rush, but he had a longer-term plan. Shane had started to meet with some Boston beat players in preparation for joining the roster. The coach and GM were adamant that if he was with them, he was ready, but Shane wanted to stick to his plan. The organization treated Shane as a precious treasure, seeing that they had pulled off the deal of the century with him, and surely Ilya, so when he asked if he could go with some people from the team in LA to attend the draft, they were happy to splurge for him on a first-class ticket and hotel room, surely envisioning amazing marketing photos of him and Ilya, who were announced as the faces of the MLH franchise.

Shane was in attendance for the draft pick in June 2009. Ilya was the first overall pick by the Boston Bears. Shane made sure to publicly congratulate Ilya. Shane was there without his parents, with Boston’s coach and management, and he didn’t let Ilya out of his sight, looking at his closed-off face when he was next to his father. Shane felt rage building inside him. Later, he found Ilya holding a glass of champagne.

"You cannot drink, you’re not 21," Shane said.

"Boo, call the police," Ilya said.

"Can’t wait to play with you."

"Even if I beat you again in January?"

"Not happening," Shane said.

The main piece of Shane's plan was the post-draft—the gym. He went down to the gym and started cycling. When Ilya came in, instead of cycling out of frustration, Shane was smiling. And instead of pulling away and being surprised when Ilya touched his hand passing the water bottle, he lingered a little and drank the water a little bit more languorously than necessary, trailing his tongue to his lips. He did run his hand through his hair, too, because he knew by then that Ilya loved seeing his bicep flex with the movement.

"You know where you're gonna live in Boston?" Shane asked

"I have a big signing check, big apartment. And you?"

"With my two friends. I think I want to do it again for a year, then move to a bigger house."

"You don’t have money for a big Boston apartment, Hollander?"

"Fuck off, I do, but it’s good to live with people. Not just hockey people, you know, to be more open."

"Okay."

"So if you don’t want to rush into anything, you can stay with us, you’ll have a room."

"With you and your Harvard friends."

"They’re cool— Iro and Anita. She’s Carter Vaughn’s sister."

"So not really outside of hockey," Ilya teased.

"Whatever, think about it."

"Okay."

In January 2010, Shane won the International Project Cup.

June 2010 - Toronto

Shane had a stellar season at Harvard, even though his team lost the Men's Ice Hockey Tournament final 3-2 to Wisconsin. When he received the invitation to shoot a commercial in Toronto, he conspired not to go with his mother. With his father's help, he told him, "I want to go with Iro and Anita, have a little friends' trip, and stay a few days. It would be strange if Mom were there." Shane’s dad was usually in Yuna’s corner, but he wanted Shane to have a full college experience, so he did his magic, and Yuna let Shane go by himself.

Shane sent a Facebook message to Ilya before: "Hey, coming to Toronto with my friends Iro and Anita. We’ll stay three days for a little trip. It would be cool if you want to join us." Shane knew Ilya would be pissed, since the plan was to end up in room 1410, but Shane was still holding to his ethics: he had his own line, and decided arbitrarily that 2011 would be the decent point to be naked with Ilya. Before that, he said, only friends or last-resort kissing, but nothing more.

To his surprise, Ilya answered "okay."

The CCM shoot was about cooperation, not rivalry, like the first timeline, with both of them as the faces of the MLH.

The shower happened, Ilya said, "Like what you see, Hollander," and Shane said, "Very much," but unlike the first time, he rinsed himself and left the shower. By the time Ilya came out to the locker room with this towel tight so low, Shane could feel the impulse to pin him, and going out to his knee, and he had to channel all his energy to not move. Before Ilya talked, Shane said, "I am in room 1410, you should come knock."  

Shane waited in the room. When Ilya entered and walked toward him, Shane didn’t say it was a bad idea—instead, he waited, and then their lips crashed into each other. Damn, he missed him. He trailed his hand on Ilya’s body, then caught himself and stepped away. “Did you pack?” Shane asked.

"I don’t want to talk about packing, Hollander."

"You should, I mean, pack."

"No, I want you," Ilya said, cornering him.

"Not today," Shane said.

"You're hard," Ilya said, touching him.

"I know, but not today," Shane said. He took Ilya’s hand, pushed him onto the bed, and instead of getting on his knees, lay beside him, face to face, kissing him again, but more softly. "Today we can kiss," Shane said. As Shane looked at Ilya lying on the bed, kissing him, he wondered how oblivious he had been, whether Ilya was just good at hiding, or whether Shane was not good at seeing, that yes they were very horny teens, but had always had something more. Something that definitely had to do with who they were on ice, the fucking fate of amongst all possible pairing, it has to be them. But after years of knowing him, Shane could see the yearning in Ilya’s eyes; the softness, the desire to be held and cared for gently, behind all the walls. And also, looking at Ilya so closely at 19, Shane was aware of his thirty-year-old brain, and if he added the four years he had already spent in this timeline, bringing it to thirty-four, it seemed more ethical to at least let Ilya hit his twenties and leave his teens behind.

And they kissed. Shane was playing a careful game, slowing things down whenever they started getting too heated. He placed Ilya's hand on his back whenever the sensation of it drifting lower threatened to make him forget everything. Breaking the kiss, he pressed kisses to Ilya's cheek, neck, and earlobe, breathing in the scent of his hair. Ilya left two hours later. Two hours of kissing, flirting, rolling over each other a little, but also spending an unreasonable amount of time talking—in the bitchiest way possible—about all the other players who had been selected after the third round of the draft. Shane had to jerk off twice afterward. He couldn't believe he had managed it; he felt like a Jedi master of self-control. And he would have to do it again for the next three days.

The next day, at 9 a.m, Shane was with Iro and Anita, and waited for Ilya in the lobby. Shane had rented an Airbnb for the four of them. He was driving, Ilya in the passenger seat with Iro and Anita in the back. On the way to the Airbnb, Ilya was overtly flirting. Shane too,both of them playing the game. "You are driving so slow, Hollander."

"By now, I thought you get the memo I like to take things slow," Shane answered.

They spent the long weekend visiting museums, going to parties, sleeping late, and waking up even later. Every night, Ilya would come to Shane’s room, and they would kiss, touching over clothes but nothing more. During the day, Iro and Anita acted as buffers. Shane was happy that his friends and Ilya got along, as he wanted to keep all of them in his life. Anita stayed true to her promise, she asked very straightforward questions that could have seemed inappropriate for a first meeting.

Anita pointed at Ilya suddenly. “Okay, but I still have questions.”

Shane groaned. “Here we go.”

“No, seriously,” Anita said. “What’s your family situation? You're moving to Boston alone.”

“Anita,” Shane warned.

“What? I said I’d be direct.”

“That usually means terrible,” Iro muttered.

“I like it,” Ilya said. “Americans and Canadians are so... indirect sometimes. Confusing.”

“You need more Black friends,” she added. “Because Black people can absolutely be too direct.”

“Violently direct,” Iro said.

“My mother died when I was young,” he continued. “My father’s... difficult. And my brother kind of hates me, but he likes my money.”

Anita winced. “That’s a damn shitty situation.”

“Seriously,” Iro said. “That sucks.”

Not the careful softness people usually used, Shane noticed Ilya relax.

“My dad used to terrorize my mom,” Iro said suddenly. “Gambling, screaming, disappearing for days. Then he left and went back to Japan when I was nine. And honestly?” Iro leaned back in his chair. “The day he left was probably one of the best days of my life.”

“I wish my father had done the same,” Ilya said before he could stop himself. “It probably would’ve been the best day of my life, too. Maybe she would still be here.”

The table went quiet.

It was the first time Shane had heard Ilya speak so candidly, so conversationally about his mother, without carefully measuring every word.

“So, Shane and you are the ones with good fathers, then?” Ilya asked Anita after a moment.

“My dad is great, yeah,” Shane said easily.

“Mine is... complicated,” Anita said. “He’s a good father. Overbearing, but a good father. Though I don’t think he liked my mother very much. When I was younger, I thought those things could stay separate. Now that I’m older, I’m not sure they can.”

“How could he not like your mother?” Ilya asked.

“Anita’s mom is stunning,” Shane said immediately.

“And brilliant,” Iro added.

Anita rolled her eyes, but she smiled a little. “They met in law school together. My mother was always the more brilliant one. The one who wanted more.”

She tucked one leg under herself on the couch.

“My mother’s family is normal middle class, but my father’s family is really Black bourgeoisie. Like Black Jack and Jill, very much respectability politics,” Anita said. “I think he was fascinated by her at first, but in a weird way. Like she was something rare he’d found.”

She rolled her eyes. “And it’s crazy because, on my father’s side, the fact that my mom's father, who was literally a surgeon, was the first person in his family to go to college and came from the South was somehow considered a stain. Too newly educated for their Martha’s Vineyard bullshit.” She snorted. “I love Martha’s Vineyard, by the way, but still.”

“Not a person,” Ilya said softly.

“Exactly.” Anita pointed at him. “More like a trophy. A rare bird.” She paused. “And then he tried to shape her.”

Shane stayed quiet. He’d heard versions of this rant before.

“When my mother got pregnant, I think he thought it was his chance to make her smaller somehow, less ambitious.” Anita laughed once, sharp and humorless. “But he was stupid, because my mother has never been ashamed of where she came from. She divorced him fast, even while pregnant.”

“And now that I’m older,” Anita continued, “and I want to be bold and free and become a writer, I keep thinking about that. I never want to end up with a man like my father.” She shook her head. “It also makes me wonder what he really thinks about me. About my ambitions. If he only ever thought my mother’s highest purpose was becoming this educated housewife that he could parade around.”

“And Carter?” Ilya asked. “Does he want to be like your father?”

“Oh, God, no,” Anita said immediately. “They fight constantly.”

“She’s not exaggerating,” Iro added.

“My mom was a little disappointed I’m not going to law school,” Anita admitted. “And she needed time to accept that Carter chose hockey, but she came around. Plus, we have cousins on my mother’s side in the NBA and NFL, so athletics aren’t treated like a moral failure over there.”

“But your dad’s family?” Shane asked.

Anita snorted. “They’re so fucking bougie. My grandmother literally keeps track of which grandchildren aren’t going to college and ranks the colleges the others get into. There’s no respect for anything outside Morehouse, Spelman, Howard, or the Ivies. According to her, Carter and our cousin Monique, who has the audacity to be a perfectly happy waitress, are setting the family back to the Reconstruction era.”

“Damn,” Shane said. “And I thought my mom was intense about representation. You've got a whole dynasty breathing down your neck.”

“My great-great-great-grandfather helped found Morehouse, and one of my great-aunts was the first Black woman board-certified in OB-GYN,” Anita said. “So they treat the family legacy like it’s some sacred institution.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s exhausting.”

“At least Carter's too young, and it's too late for him to be the first Black president,” Anita added.

Ilya laughed. “Not for you. You could still be first Black woman president.”

Anita groaned. “Don't give my dad any ideas, please.”

“I think he's already got your inauguration speech written,” Shane quipped.

The conversation drifted to less heavy topics: fashion, sport, gossip, Iro's love life, Anita and her commitment to "vibing." They followed Shane's itinerary during the day, and at night Ilya would come to Shane room. Shane felt like an archivist—he had so many pictures of him and Ilya: not just the CCM shoot, but them at a bar, before the movie theater, outside. On the last night, after another kissing session, "Did you find an apartment?" Shane asked

"I thought you said I could live in your big house, Hollander."

"You never confirmed."

"Oh, you would let me on the street then. Bad teammate."

"No, I would not. But I have not found the right house yet."

"Do you need money?"

"I have a signing bonus too, and a sponsor, asshole."

“I will rent an apartment with a guest bedroom downtown close to the rink. You can stay there after late games."

“Okay.”

July 2010

Shane found a house that felt perfect for the four of them in Jamaica Plain, just at the edge of Egleston Square. The old Victorian brownstone sat slightly elevated above the street, all deep brick and carved woodwork, its façade softened by climbing ivy and the shade of enormous trees. It had the kind of quiet grandeur that didn’t need to announce itself. Inside, the house unfolded across three expansive floors, filled with original craftsmanship that made it feel less like a luxury renovation and more like something preserved carefully over generations.

The main floor immediately became the heart of the house. The entry opened into a series of interconnected rooms where no two parquet floors matched, intricate wood patterns shifting subtly from room to room beneath impossibly high coffered ceilings. Tall windows pulled in warm afternoon light, catching on old fireplaces with carved mantels and the dark wood trim that framed every doorway. The formal dining room felt almost cinematic in the evenings, especially with the fireplace lit.

But it was the kitchen that sold all of them. A newer addition tucked into the back of the house, it balanced the old Victorian character with massive sliding glass doors that opened directly onto the deck and backyard, blurring the line between inside and outside during the summer. Anita immediately claimed the bedroom closest to the kitchen, saying she wanted to be able to wander barefoot into the kitchen at two in the morning without having to think about stairs, making tea while half-asleep or curling up on the couch when she couldn’t stop writing.

The second floor became Shane’s domain. His room stretched across the back of the house, large enough to hold not just the bed but a sitting area near the windows and shelves. The ensuite bathroom had been renovated recently, all stone tile and brass fixtures, with a soaking tub positioned beneath frosted windows that let in the morning light.

The basement level was where Shane had been the most particular. What had once probably been storage and utility rooms had been transformed into a sprawling private gym, designed almost obsessively to resemble the one in Ottawa. The same black rubber flooring. The same arrangement of weights and benches. Even the lighting had that deliberately dim, focused warmth instead of the harsh brightness of commercial gyms. Heavy bags hung near the exposed brick wall, and mirrors stretched along one side beneath the old timber beams. A side entrance near the back garden let Shane slip in after early morning runs without waking anyone, and glass doors at the rear opened onto the lower patio and ivy-lined backyard. In the summer, the whole level smelled faintly of rain and freshly cut grass drifting in from outside.

The top floor held the rooms for Iro and Ilya. The ceilings angled gently under the roofline, giving the spaces a quieter, more secluded feeling compared to the openness downstairs. Shane thought about being on the same floor as Ilya, but he knew that his dedication to letting Ilya have his own experiences had its limits. He didn’t want to risk hearing Ilya coming home with someone else.

As a good teammate and future husband, Shane picked up Ilya from the airport in his sensible, secondhand Jeep, paid for with his own signed check. This time, he didn't wait in a secluded corner of the parking lot; he waited at arrivals, out in the open. Three people recognized him and asked for autographs—he wasn't yet Shane Hollander, MLH-famous, but he was getting there.

While waiting for Ilya inside the airport, Shane thought about how, once, it had felt so dangerous—so perilous—just to park near the entrance when Ilya first came to the cottage. Now, he could wait for Ilya at the airport and hug him in public in a way that was still "manly;" not quite what Shane truly wanted, but more than he'd dared hope for in his previous life. The feeling was warm and exciting, until it turned bitter, a slow anger welling up inside him. It was an emotion he'd wrestled with since returning from the future: not just theft, but spoliation.

Since coming back, especially since moving into the dorm with Iro, Shane has experienced so much more—real friendships, a queer group, and even joining an Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage affinity group. Iro had even started a discussion group on masculinity with students from other universities.

The spoliation Shane felt was for his own youth. He watched Iro living a life that, when Shane was that age, had always belonged to someone else. Back then, he told himself it was because he was focused on hockey. Then came Ilya, and that was another excuse—"he was just curious." By the time Shane finally admitted not only being Ilya-curious but actually being gay, he was twenty-five. Not old, but old enough to wish he'd had what Iro had: the fever of the early twenties, experimentation, crushes, going out on bad dates, and talking about them afterward.

He'd thought that hiding was difficult because of the lying because he couldn't talk about the person he loved at dinner, but really, it was the accumulation of small things that hurt most. The constant calculation before every gesture, the worry about being seen, and the endless calibration. He remembered Fabian Salah telling him the secret was love; now Shane understood, even though he wasn't even out yet. They were just able to be friends in public.

He told himself his anger was about homophobia, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized it was also about hockey. He was angry at hockey. He hadn't been born in the 1930s; Canada had legalized gay marriage, and soon the U.S. would, too. He'd lived in two very progressive Canadian cities.

But alas, hockey has its own cartography, its own morals and ethics, separated from the cities it inhabits by an invisible border. Montréal is Montréal, but hockey Montréal is something else entirely. 

How the fuck could they have done that to Shane? The more he thinks about it, the angrier he becomes. Was it a cult? Isn't that what cults are like, people living in the modern world but abiding by a completely different set of rules, trapped in an echo chamber of their own making? He tries to piece it together, all the elements that made coming out, and being out, feel so impossible. The sport, yes. But also the absence, the lack. The lack of friends. Yes, he had J.J., but for most of his life, Shane had only white friends, who themselves mostly had white friends. And yet in a few months, he has met so many people living at the intersection of Asian and something else, Asian and queer, Asian and political, Asian and loud about it. He was the only Asian-Canadian in the MLH, and somehow, somewhere, he built a world where he was the only Asian in Canada. Ever.

So he had been a victim of spoliation. He was mad at hockey. Not that it would have been easier in other leagues, except the one deemed more open to gay men. But in other leagues, like soccer, he would not have had to be a double-minority exception. He had been spoiled, more than Ilya, from small gestures, from ease, from the ability to try. His attraction to Ilya had been so strong that it made him try. But if it had never happened, would he have waited until forty to have a relationship? Would he have been in a relationship with someone, and would that have made him hide? Would he have chosen someone non-famous, like Kip, and tried to tell him, “You don’t know how it is?" He could not use this with Ilya because he knew what hockey was like, and Ilya was the one willing to lose more, a whole country, for their relationship.

He is mad at hockey. But because hockey is Shane Hollander, and Shane Hollander is hockey, he is also mad at himself. Shane will not let the same things take over his life again, not this time. He will be cautious and strategic, but robbed no more. He will be greedy. He wants everything that is his: Ilya, the Cups, the career, the awards, the love, the Irina foundation, his friends, being out. He wants it all.

Fuck rectification; he will get reparation. 

"Hollander, they sent the second-best rookie to welcome me."

"You wish. Good to see you too."

And Ilya did hug him, in a mannish, macho way, but he let his hand linger on Shane's neck longer than necessary. God, Shane missed him; his scent, his touch, his arms, his always-too-hot body in their bed in the mornings. How clingy he got when they had to leave the house. His sleepy face in the morning.

"This is your car?" Ilya asked.

"It's a good car—handles snow well. Get in," Shane said.

"Okay," Ilya said.

"You don't have much luggage," Shane said.

"I'll buy new things to fill my big room in the house," Ilya said.

"It's not that big. I have the largest one," Shane said.

"Of course you do, Mr. Landlord," Ilya teased.

"We're roommates. I'm not your landlord—you're not even paying rent," Shane said, rolling his eyes.

When they arrived, Shane gave Ilya a tour.

"It's a good investment, even if it's only for two years, until Anita and Iro graduate," Shane said.

"Mr. Real Estate," Ilya said, pushing Shane against the door and kissing him again.

"Come on, I'll show you Anita's rules," Shane said, grinning.

Anita’s rules were the house rules because, as she liked to say, “Good friends make good roommates.” The rules covered responsibilities: no leaving messes behind, a twelve-hour warning before parties, and no smoking inside. Since Shane had paid for the house, Anita and Iro split all utilities, and Ilya took the cleaning service, hired a chef for meal prep, and paid the yearly property taxes.

Shane could see it on Ilya’s face more than anything else: he was happy, and he felt safe. Safe not to have to do everything alone. Shane knew how difficult it had been for Ilya to come to a new country, uncomfortable with the language, alone, and still forced to put on a brave face every day. This was what Shane wanted to give Ilya in this life: somewhere safe, where he could be soft, somewhere he was always welcome. From now on, friendship—with kisses.

August-December 2010

Ilya had always thought that the most exciting moment of his life would be playing in the MLH during his first season. Leaving Russia and going to Boston. He had prepared himself, toughened up, ready to display a perfectly curated persona: menace on the ice, European fashion, womanizer. He knew he would have to face his recurring loneliness, the moments when his brain overpowered him, managing Alexei and his father from afar, but he would have money, could go out, drink, and be surrounded by beautiful women. It had all been part of the vision.

But then Shane Hollander happened, or maybe he happened to Shane Hollander. Hollander made him curious. Ilya kept seeking him out: at the gym the night of his draft, during the CCM shoot. He wanted to strip him naked. His obsession with Hollander made no sense. Shane was the first and only person Ilya had ever pursued for that long: kissing, not even fooling around. He could tell Shane wanted more, was always hard around him, but for one weekend in Toronto, they had only kissed. And for Ilya, that had been the most exciting, exhilarating thing in all his already extensive intimate experience.

Now they were living together. Why they were living together was another mystery. Ilya had never wanted roommates; he had said no to billets. But Shane Hollander, with his big eyes, had asked him to come live with him and his friends, and Ilya had not found it in himself to say no. He thought he would regret it. Or maybe he had said yes because he wanted to be closer, hoping they would eventually get to second base. But when he arrived, Hollander, no, Shane, because of course he had said, “We are roommates and on the same team, and kisses mean first-name basis is okay,”showed him his room. Shane had already bought him a bed and amazing dark blue sheets, Ilya’s favorite color.

By the time the first game of the season arrived, after he and Shane had passed training camp almost as a formality, flying above expectations with chemistry already on another level, things had changed between them. They entered the season off a dominant preseason, and the “Hollanov Blizzard” was already working. Hockey was exciting, but the most exciting part was going home with Shane.

They were roommates, teammates, and they kissed and slept in the same bed and cuddled and talked. Shane made him talk so much. Ilya had never talked that much before. Not only to Shane, but Iro and Anita too. They liked talking—not the “getting laid” conversations from the locker room with Marleau and St-Simone, but conversations about childhood trauma and serious things.

Ilya had spent a little more than half his life in a house where only one person, his mother, loved him unconditionally. The rest had been filled with his brother’s resentment and his father’s cruelty. It was the first time he had lived with people his own age who were not hockey players and who cared about things beyond the sport. People came and went from the house constantly: classmates, teammates, friends, family members; for him, only Svetlana fit into the last category.

He surprised himself by sometimes going to Muay Thai classes with Anita. And one thing Ilya quickly realized was that Anita Vaughn might have had the most movie-worthy family he had ever encountered. In addition to her mother, who looked as though she had stepped straight out of a fever dream, Ilya had the distinct displeasure of meeting her uncle two months after moving in. Displeasure, because the man unsettled him immediately. Fascination, because he also represented something dangerously alluring.

“Anita's uncle is coming. Brace yourself,” Shane had warned. Ilya thought himself prepared—until a 2007 Aston Martin DB9 rolled up outside. Out stepped a man who looked like he belonged in a gentleman-gangster film, his suit so fine it could cost an arm and a leg. His confidence was palpable. Ilya remembered meeting Anita's mother, and leaving with the chilling impression that he'd encountered someone he should have paid to share a room with.

Shane opened the door. “Mr. Specter.”

“Shane, nice to see you again. And you must be Ilya," Harvey said.

"Yes, nice to meet you," Ilya responded.

Harvey passed by Shane, entered the living room, and, without removing his shoes, settled into the couch, arms spread as if he owned it.

“Anita is getting ready,” Ilya said.

“I know. I’m early and Anita is never late,” Harvey said, his gaze steady. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Sit,” he said, as if he were in his own office, not Ilya's home. Shane murmured, “Good luck,” before disappearing upstairs.

Ilya tried to keep his cool, but Harvey possessed a kind of nonchalance that outmatched his own. He was older, richer, and smoother. His style was understated, almost dull in color, but undeniably polished for an American.

“Funny story, Ilya. I was reading the sports section with my friends from the boxing club, and saw some interesting coverage of you.”

“Yes, I score many goals.”

“Not that coverage, the other one, with company.”

“Oh yes, ladies love me. I have plenty of beautiful women in Boston.”

“Indeed. Among them is my goddaughter.”

“She is beautiful, yes.”

“Yes, she is,” Harvey replied, offering nothing more. The silence between them spoke volumes.

“We’re friends and roommates,” Ilya managed, acutely aware of the pressure in Harvey’s gaze.

“Good. This is good, and I hope it stays good.” Harvey stood just as Anita emerged from her room.

“Uncle Harvey, you didn’t play the patriarchal terror? It's not the Victorian era,” Anita teased.

“I didn’t. Did I, Ilya?”

“Nope.”

And then, they left together.

One night, Ilya returned late and could have sworn he heard someone having sex, thankfully, not Shane. The moaning was coming from Anita's room.

In the morning, a Black man with light skin and long locs emerged from Anita’s room, doing the walk of shame. Anita escorted him to the door. "Will call you," Anita said.

"You have my number?" The man asked.

"Don't worry, I will find it," she said, and shut the door.

“Great night?” Ilya called from the kitchen as Anita came in to make coffee.

“Good.”

“Spending the night getting banged,” he joked.

“I do not engage in being banged,” she said, quoting him with a smirk.

“You totally got banged. And you'll never call him. Would you do it again?”

She shot Ilya a look.

“You sound pretty when you get banged. Very sophisticated, Harvard moan bang,” Ilya teased.

She turned to him, placed her hand gently on Ilya’s shoulder—she was as tall as he was—and patted his chest as if to fix his collar. “Ilya, I want you to go ahead and say ‘bang’ to my face, one more time.”

“I will not say it, but not because I am scared. I am Russian; Russians do not get scared.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, white boy,” Anita said, tapping his chest gently before leaving the kitchen. Ilya realized he had a type in women friends: sophisticated women whose specialty was bullying men.

At first, he had been suspicious of Iro. He knew he had no right to be. Iro made no secret of the fact that he was gay. But eventually, Ilya realized they were truly just friends. Still, Iro had many friends and threw parties, and Shane spent more time going out with Iro and Anita than with the team. Not clubs, but apartment parties.

What truly tested his composure was the afternoon when he overheard Iro and Shane talking in Iro's room. Iro was telling a funny story about a man he had slept with, describing him as “the best bottom in the universe.” Then, to Ilya’s horror, Shane answered with a story about the time he had tried using a plug and how badly it had gone. Ilya spent the rest of the week in an execrable mood, taking out his frustration during games against Montreal and Minnesota, much to Coach LeClaire’s delight.

They were still only kissing, and technically, Ilya was still just a roommate who mostly lived in Shane’s room.

One night in September, after practice, they fell asleep in Shane's bed together while watching a game. Ilya woke in the middle of the night. He could have gone back to his own room, but instead, he took off his clothes down to his boxers and slipped back into bed beside Shane.

At first, he found excuses to stay late in Shane’s bedroom, to fall asleep there, and to kiss. After a while, they stopped pretending. Instead of finishing movies or games, they would just end up in bed, the covers pulled over their heads, talking quietly in the dark.

“Where did you get this scar?” Shane asked one night, tracing the pale mark near Ilya’s shoulder.

“I had to rescue Sputnik.”

Shane laughed softly. “Sputnik?”

“My favorite teddy bear. My brother bought him for me.”

“Oh. That was nice of him.”

“Yeah,” Ilya said after a pause. “He was nice before our mother died. After that, he wasn’t anymore.”

Shane stayed quiet for a second. “Do you think one day things could get better?”

“No,” Ilya answered honestly. “I think we passed that point. Now he hates me even more because I’m here and he has to stay with our father, who isn’t kind to either of us.”

“Tell me something about your mother,” Shane said softly. “Something you liked.”

Ilya smiled faintly in the dark.

“She used to replay cartoons while cooking for Alexei and me. She’d redo scenes from them in the kitchen, but make them funnier.”

By then, his head was resting on Shane’s chest, Shane’s hand buried in his hair. Not long after, Ilya fell asleep.

Under the covers slowly became Ilya’s confessional, and Shane’s too.

“Girls,” Ilya asked one night. “Do you like them?”

“As friends?” Shane said. “Yeah. But I’m gay. One hundred percent.”

“I like them,” Ilya admitted after a beat. “I like men too.”

“I could tell,” Shane answered dryly.

Ilya laughed quietly.

“You spend more time with Iro and Anita than going out with the team,” he said. “The guys are cool.”

“Yeah, I know. But sometimes I’m tired of being the only one.”

“You are not the only one with a weak backhand,” Ilya said with a grin.

“Fuck you,” Shane shot back, laughing. “I mean, the only minority. Hockey is very white. When I’m with Iro and Anita, things feel more diverse, more normal. And honestly, having friends outside hockey gives me perspective.”

“About what?”

“About me. About being gay and Asian, mostly.” Shane exhaled slowly. “I used to be so scared that I didn’t even want to think about being gay.”

“You are not even twenty. It’s okay to be scared as a teenager.”

Shane snorted. “You figured out you liked men in Russia while hooking up with your coach’s son.”

“Hm. Maybe I like trouble. Auto-destructive.”

“Self-destructive,” Shane corrected automatically.

“Same thing.”

Shane smiled into the dark before growing serious again.

“I was scared because I already dealt with so much shit growing up. Racism, comments, all of that since juniors. And hockey was everything to me. All my friends, my whole future.” He paused. “I thought if people knew, I could lose everything.”

Ilya listened quietly.

“But having things outside hockey helps,” Shane continued. “It makes it easier to remember hockey is still just a job. A passion, too, obviously, but not my entire life anymore. I have people outside of it now. Friends I can complain to. People who remind me that outside hockey, there are jobs where being openly gay doesn’t mean ending up in the commissioner’s office.”

“Do you want to come out?” Ilya asked softly.

“Not now,” Shane answered after a moment. “Not yet.”

Now Ilya's toothbrush was in Shane’s bathroom, and his shampoo too. Ilya’s room existed mostly as clothes storage.

When Ilya went with them to parties, it was exactly what he had feared: rooms packed with young, horny, attractive students, and so many queer men openly flirting with Shane. Ilya felt like a hypocrite. Up until the infamous night one week ago, every now and then, he still craved release. He would go out with the team and end up at his downtown apartment with someone. He never slept there. The relief never lasted long, and guilt built up quickly afterward. He would shower, change clothes, go back to the house, brush his teeth a second time, put on pajamas, and sleep in his own bed. But by morning, before Shane woke up, he'd crawl into Shane’s bed. It felt like cheating. But why?

He had slept with Svetlana and never felt guilty when they both slept with other people. So why couldn't Shane simply be a good friend he sometimes fooled around with? He knew the answer: because the idea of Shane being touched by anyone else made him sick.

The infamous night — December 1st, 2010

Him, again.

Shane was at a house party hosted by Kauanoe, from the Harvard hockey team, who had chosen, instead of going to the AHL, to stay in college, with plans to graduate and go into engineering. He had been the only other non-white teammate on the hockey team; he was Indigenous Hawaiian and had many non-hockey friends because his life was so diverse.

Shane saw him again. Jin. The first time he had met him was three weeks ago, at one of Iro’s book club slash tea time slash meetup slash unofficial therapy group evenings in their living room. He had come home from exhausting practice, half thinking about what was going on with Ilya, their little arrangement, unspoken — Ilya coming into his bed almost every night, sleeping there, preceded by kissing.

Shane needed to wake up early to release all the sexual tension, but also to do breathing exercises when Ilya wasn’t there. Shane was conflicted between pure rage and also a quiet reassurance that Ilya, for once, was never sleeping outside the house, and when he did go out and sleep with someone, he had the decency, in their non-nothing arrangement as roommates, to sleep in his own bedroom.

But here he was. Jin. It had been three weeks since whatever was building in Shane’s mind and body had been building up.

When he met Jin, he saw how beautiful he was; tall, broad, athletic. Shane had eyes. Yes, he had committed himself to waiting for Ilya, to getting his husband back in this life, but waiting did not suddenly make men unattractive. Many men were hot. He could admit that.

He also indulged in porn more than ever.

But it was different to generally think someone was hot than whatever was happening now. The kind of attraction that reminded him of the showers in Toronto with Ilya. The way that, when he talked to Jin for the first time, he wanted him to want him. Wanted to taste his skin.

Shane put it down to the horniness of now three years of celibacy, powered by kissing and nothing more with the hottest man he knew, Ilya, who also happened to be the love of his life.

All of this could have been normal horniness, normal desire. It happened to other people even when they were in relationships.

But something was bothering Shane. Was it guilt, because it felt like cheating? No. It was not that, or not completely. He knew he would never act on it, and he could very much look at this handsome man from afar.

Something else. A little voice was saying something, but he could not hear it clearly. He only knew it was important and new, like some part of his brain he had never considered before.

To make things worse, Ilya had chosen to be at this party too, so Shane’s attention was divided between watching Jin — perfect body, perfect smile, tenor voice — and trailing Ilya and the many people throwing themselves at him.

“Shane, you're here? I didn't know parties were your thing,” Jin said.

Shane hadn't even noticed him come up beside him.

“They're usually not,” Shane admitted. “But Kauanoe's been a friend since my team days. How do you know him? Or are you here with Iro?”

“His brother, Keao, and I interned at the same architecture firm this summer.”

“Oh, nice. So you're studying architecture?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh. I always thought you were some kind of athlete.”

Jin laughed. “I get that a lot. I do Muay Thai—same gym as Anita—but architecture's my actual thing.”

“Got it. Wait, Kauanoe has a brother? I didn't know he had family at Harvard.”

“We're at BU,” Jin corrected. “And no, Keao's not here.”

“How come?”

“Thankfully.” Jin took a sip of his drink. “We didn't exactly end on good terms.”

Shane frowned. “Wait. End? Were you two dating?”

“Briefly,” Jin said. “Very briefly.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

It was not like Shane had never considered the possibility that such a polished, good-smelling, handsome man, the kind of man that women always seemed very comfortable around and who never made any weird comments, might be gay or bi.

But being that close to him, and having confirmation that he was, and potentially single, did something to Shane.

And as he stood close enough to smell him, to look closely at the shape of his abs and biceps under a perfectly tailored and pressed cotton T-shirt, Shane caught sight of Ilya on the sofa.

The party was packed, but he could still see the woman almost sitting on his lap.

Their eyes met briefly.

But Shane had neither the energy nor the mental space to deal with that when he felt Jin’s bicep brush against him and electricity go through his body.

*

Fuck. Ilya had not meant for Shane to see that. He had not even meant to do anything with her. He was just pissed that Shane was not giving him any attention, too mesmerized by the fucking model-like man on the other side of the living room.

And now Shane had seen her almost on his lap while he had been gently explaining that he was not up for anything tonight.

Maybe this was why Shane did not want to go past kissing. Maybe he knew what Ilya was doing despite always coming back to the house. Ilya could not live knowing Shane was with someone else, being touched by someone else. He blocked the image every time it entered his mind. Always coming home and checking if Shane was in his room. And when he was not, Ilya waited. Most of the time, Shane came back with Anita and Iro.

But during the last three weeks, Shane had pulled away. Or no, he had not pulled away completely. He just was not totally there anymore during their ritual of kissing each other to sleep. Maybe Ilya should have seen it coming. Someone else. Someone from one of those book clubs or affinity groups.

Ten days ago, Ilya had made up his mind. He would stop sleeping with other people. Not that it would really be a loss. Before that, he had barely been able to get hard, paralyzed by guilt and remorse.

What Shane Hollander had reduced him to was almost ridiculous: exchanging a super-hot sex life for cuddling, kissing, talking for hours, watching movies and hockey games together, listening to Shane read excerpts from books he liked, and spending entire afternoons helping Iro make flashcards about Japanese history in California. That last part fascinated Ilya. Through Iro, he had learned about yet another crime of the United States: the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II. He also helped Anita make flashcards for her political philosophy class. Most of the names were European anyway — Habermas, Adorno, Berdyaev — though Ilya still wasn’t entirely sure how Nikolai Berdyaev had somehow ended up in an American university syllabus.

Lately, though, Svetlana had started coming over more and more often. More often than not, she and Anita disappeared into Anita’s room with the door closed, Anita’s white-noise machine running, and a conveniently timed lo-fi playlist playing in the background, supposedly to study or to help Anita with her braids. Ilya highly doubted they were spending all that time doing flashcards. And while he was hardly an expert on Black women’s hair, Anita’s braids looked remarkably similar after every session.

But now Shane had seen this, and surely would never lift the embargo on sex.

It had now been thirty minutes since Shane had been talking to Jin, trying to focus on the genuinely interesting conversation about architecture. Shane had told him about his vision — or memory — of the cottage, and they had spent fifteen minutes talking about wood and natural-light construction.

But Shane’s mind kept drifting. To Jin's neck. To the softness of his hands when he touched Shane’s forearm while laughing. To the way he put his long hair into a bun and the skin of his stomach briefly appeared. Shane could not take any more.

“I have to go. Early practice. See you around, I guess,” Shane said.

Jin looked disappointed.

“Yeah. I have a language exchange with Iro at your place.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. Japanese-Korean. I think he’s working on Korean minorities in Japan.”

“Oh. Right, right. See you there, I guess. Though it’s the season, so maybe I’ll be on the road.” Shane noticed he had not said "we," as in him and Ilya, the two hockey roommates in the house. Only "I".

“Hope I won’t miss you, then,” Jin said.

Shane left the party. He did not go to retrieve Ilya, who seemed busy, but surprisingly, he was not rushing with heated jealous rage over Ilya. He was overwhelmed by his hard-on. By the conversation with Jin and by that lingering feeling, that interrogation, that question. Yes, Jin was hot, but there was something else, too. Shane made the thirty-five-minute walk home in twenty. He drank water, took off his clothes, and stepped into the shower.

And for the first time in years, he jerked off to the image of a real person instead of porn. To someone who was not Ilya Rozanov.

The idea of being pushed against a wall again, pressed into a mattress, tasting Jin’s lips, Jin bending him over, Jin's cock in his mouth. It was exhilarating. It felt good. Until the feeling that had lingered for the past weeks finally revealed itself. When Shane pictured Jin and his body, he realized something. It was the first time, in either timeline, that he had been strongly attracted to an Asian man, to an Asian person. His erection left his body instantly, replaced by shame.

Ilya did not notice when Shane left the party. At first, he panicked, thinking Shane had left with the handsome man, but then he saw tthat he man was still there. When Ilya arrived home, Shane was awake in bed, not reading but staring at the ceiling.

“You left without me,” Ilya said.

“Yeah. Sorry. But you were in good company,” Shane said.

And Ilya’s stomach flinched because Shane’s voice was detached, not angry, not jealous in that kittenish way. He said it while clearly thinking about something else. Someone else.

“Not really,” Ilya said quickly. “She was all over me, but I wasn’t interested.” Ilya tried to offer reassurance? Defend himself or clarification, what he wanted to say was "I did not do anything, I was waiting for you, I wanted to go home with you, I will stop doing anything with anyone just to kiss you."

“Okay,” Shane said. Still not engaging. That was worse than him being mad. Ilya wondered if Shane had finally given up on him. Ilya went to the bathroom, changed, brushed his teeth, and then came into Shane’s bed. But the light was already off, even if Shane was clearly not sleeping.

Tonight, they rolled onto opposite sides. Shane did not reach for Ilya. Ilya did not reach for Shane. They did not pull the cover over their heads to tell stories.

They did not even kiss.

Chapter End Notes

For this version, I twisted more than a few things compared to Future Tense.

Because Shane is time-traveling alone, the scope of his world (and how far it can expand) will be more limited. Consider it a reminder that building with others (plans, life, friendships, revolutions) takes you farther and allows you to dream bigger than going it alone. And yes, they were roommates. And if you're interested, this is their house.

For those who read Future Tense and know the drill, Iro's backstory is inspired by Memorial by Bryan Washington. The novel follows a young gay couple, one Japanese American and one Black American. As The New York Times wrote: "A sense of self-estrangement pervades Memorial, which centers on the relationship between Mike and his Black boyfriend."

Instead of Ava, we have another badass: Jessica Pearson as Anita and Carter's mom. As for Anita's family, her father's side is very much inspired by the Kirkland family in The Gilded Age. Her mother's side, through Jessica Pearson, is closer to Peggy Scott's family. Helen Octavia Dickens was the first Black woman to receive b
oard certification in obstetrics and gynecology in 1945. And Anita herself? She's very much like Toni Morrison: a baddie, a legend.

Suits fans have probably spotted the scene between Harvey and Jessica. I also don't know why, but I've always thought of Harvey as the American, Ivy League version of Ilya: cocky, carrying a ton of trauma, charming, surprisingly good at maintaining friendships with women, and somehow always getting away with it.

Reading

Novels

• Memorial by Bryan Washington
• The Buddha in the Attic by Julie Otsuka

Nonfiction

• Biting the Hand: Growing Up Asian in Black and White America by Julia Lee
• All About Love by bell hooks

Academic

• Racial Melancholia, Racial Dissociation: On the Social and Psychic Lives of Asian Americans by David L. Eng and Shinhee Han
• A View from the Bottom: Asian American Masculinity and Sexual Representation by Nguyen Tan Hoang

Chapter 2: Lacanian Desires

Chapter Notes

I wrote this while listening to Self Control by Frank Ocean. Also, all of my Catholicism came back at the end. Repent, repent, repent.

thanks to my beta readers Witwandwolfbird, and Faithella

Happy Pride Month, the people 

                                                                   .  

January-July 2011

"So I think I have a problem," Shane said. He had waited until Ilya was out of the house. Anita looked up from her laptop.

"I met someone."

"I thought you and Ilya were in the middle of a situationship evolving." Iro blinked.

"We are."

"Then what's the problem?" Anita asked.

"Nothing happened. But I wanted something to happen."

"Oh," Anita said.

"Who is he?" Iro asked.

"Jin."

"Oh, fucking hot Jin?" Anita said immediately.

Shane groaned. "Can we not call him that?"

"We cannot."

"Unfortunately, she's right," Iro said.

"He's Korean," Shane added.

Anita pointed at him. "That's the problem?"

Shane looked away.

"Oh my God," Iro said, "Is this the first Asian guy you've ever been attracted to?"

"...Yes."

"No!" Iro said.

"No, seriously?" Anita asked.

"Seriously."

"Wait, wait, wait." Iro sat forward. "Have you ever been attracted to anybody who wasn't some dirty blond guy with hazel eyes?"

"Fuck you."

"That's not an answer."

"Yes, obviously. I'm not some racist weirdo."

"This feels less Jim Crow and more Lacan-Fanon," Iro said

"That was low, man," Anita said.

"Thank you," Iro answered

"Fuck both of you."

"So you obviously love Ilya. You've spent years pining after him. You were basically a fucking monk in college. In the entire history of gay people, I've never seen anything like it." Iro said.

"And the question isn't whether you can love an Asian guy," Anita said

"The question is why this realization is freaking you out so much," Iro said, and Anita hummed; they were both acting as if they were in a Glass Onion episode.

Shane didn't answer.

"Hockey very much like those Abercrombie ads where everyone in the same demographic," Anita said

"Not everyone," Shane said.

"Ninety percent of them. The other ten percent were my brother, you and Boizeau from Montreal... Oh, the guy in Ottawa, Bood."

"And now you're having an existential crisis because maybe your imagination had a default setting," Iro said.

Shane rubbed his face.

"That sounds so bad."

"Better than most people," Anita said. "Most people never question who they're attracted to."

"But you two don't have this problem," Shane said.

"Not really the same thing; we are not in the same industry as you," Anita said.

"And also, I am a Black woman, and I can navigate the world like you. I don't really do white boys. Once, maybe. Life's too short to spend it wondering whether some guy is acting out a racial fantasy."

"Jesus."

"I'm serious. I like Black people. All shades. If they're mixed, preferably with a Black mom. That's where my attractions landed."

Shane blinked.

"That's weirdly specific.
"What about you?" Shane asked Iro.

Iro leaned back.

"I grew up in Gardena. My first crush was Filipino. Then my mom's business partner's son. Then Damian, who's Jamaican American."

He counted on his fingers.

"A couple of Latino guys. Many Koreans and Japanese Americans."

"And white people?"

Iro thought for a second.

"The Argentinian."

"Oh."

"Look, babe. What we're saying is that you're the one bothered by this," Anita said.

"You've spent years without thinking about it," Iro continued. "Then one hot Korean guy shows up, and suddenly you're having an identity crisis."

"There's probably something worth examining," Anita said 

Shane groaned.

"I hate this conversation."

"But it's good, because people love saying attraction is just preference, as preference appears out of thin air. People act like they woke up one morning and naturally preferred thin over fat, lighter skin over darker skin, blond hair over black hair, white guys over everybody else."

"Isn't that attraction fake?" Iro said. "Is that attraction happens inside a society, not out of the blue."

"And most people never ask where their tastes came from," Anita said.

"But you are," Iro added. "Which means you already think there's something there," Iro said. 

"Also," Anita said, "Jin is still ridiculously hot."

"He is," Iro said 

"He is extremely hot," Shane said 

"Yo, you should come Tuesday," Iro said.

"To what?"

"The Asian Men and Masculinities group."

Shane stared. "The what?"

"It's basically group therapy."

"Absolutely not."

"It's literally run by a therapist."

"No."

"You're already having the identity crisis," Anita said. "You might as well get the free snacks."

"Tuesday at seven," Iro added.

"I'm not going."

"See you Tuesday," Iro said, leaving the kitchen. 

The group met in a seminar room at Boston University. One of the facilitators, Dr. Park, was both a clinical therapist and a professor there, and the Asian Men and Masculinities group was part support group, part discussion space, and part community.

Seventeen men sat in a circle. Korean, Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, Thai, Indian, and Vietnamese; half of them were bi-racial. Shane guessed most were between twenty and thirty. At least five were openly queer. He recognized Hot Jin immediately, though here he acted less like the impossibly attractive architect who had caused Shane's identity crisis and more like a facilitator. Jin explained that he volunteered through Boston University's Asian affinity association, helping run discussion groups even though he wasn't in the psychology department.

Unfortunately.

"I know some of you are here because you wanted to be," Mike said, earning a few laughs. "And some of you are here because somebody in your life suggested it."

"Same thing happened to me," Jin said. "So before we start, one piece of homework."

And he opened a box and gave each of them a book, Racial Melancholia and Racial Dissociation: On the Social and Psychic Lives of Asian Americans, by David Eng and Shinhee Han.

Mike noticed the collective groan. "Not because we need everybody becoming little academics."

"Thank God," somebody muttered.

"But because a lot of us spend years feeling things before we have language for them. The book is about what happens when you're told you belong and don't belong at the same time. About what gets lost trying to fit in."

The first session mostly became introductions. There was a Chinese American engineering student, a half-Korean actor, a Filipino nurse, an Indian law student, and a Vietnamese software developer. People talked about their families, growing up Asian in Boston or not growing up in Boston, the model minority myth, and being expected to excel academically.

Toward the end of the session, a guy named Alex mentioned that he had never dated an Asian woman.

"Why?" Mike asked.

"They look like my sister," Alex said.

A few people nodded. A few visibly did not.

"Interesting," Jin said. And then they moved on.

The following week, Mike projected photographs onto a screen. Barack and Michelle Obama. Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony. David and Victoria Beckham. Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively. The room filled with immediate reactions.

"Power couple."

"Hot."

"Goals."

"Successful."

Nobody hesitated.

After about a dozen celebrity couples, Mike switched off the projector and turned back toward the group. "Let's circle back to last week." The room immediately knew where this was going.

"You said dating Asian women feels like dating your sister," Mike said.

"Yeah," Alex responded.

Mike gestured toward the screen. "Did any of those couples look like siblings?"

"No."

"Obviously not."

"Not really."

Mike nodded. "Interesting. Because none of you thought Barack and Michelle Obama looked related. Nobody thought Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony looked related either."

Alex stared at the floor. "Many of you also said during introductions that one of your earliest experiences with racism was people assuming you were related to other Asian kids, even when they weren't from the same country as you."

"So," Jin said gently, "It's interesting to look at one of the things you pointed to that has harmed you; is the same narrative applied to your romantic life?"

Something shifted inside Shane; suddenly, he remembered Lucy Wong. She had been in his sixth-grade class. Chinese Canadian. Funny and as bad as him in math. They had eaten lunch together for months, partnered on school projects, and walked home together often enough that people had started teasing them. Once they had held hands on the walk back from school. Two boys from his hockey team had seen them. One of them had laughed.

"Dude, why are you holding hands with your sister?"

The other had laughed too. And Shane remembered laughing with them. Pretending it was funny. Pretending it didn't bother him. The next day he stopped sitting with Lucy. He had never told anyone that story.

Now the memory returned fully formed: Lucy standing alone in the cafeteria, looking confused when he chose another table instead of sitting beside her. For the first time in almost fifteen years, Shane felt ashamed. Not because he had been twelve. Because he had never thought about it again.

By the fourth or fifth session, Shane had started noticing that not everybody in the room had the same relationship to attraction. There were men like Alex, who had admitted he had never dated an Asian woman because they reminded him of his sister. There was the Korean American law student who openly talked about spending most of college chasing white men. Others joked that their dating histories looked like Abercrombie catalogs.

But there was also a smaller group that seemed genuinely puzzled by those conversations. Iro was one of them. Jin was another. Two of the straight men, a Filipino American teacher and a Vietnamese American software engineer, were the same. They all had different lives, different professions, different family histories, but they shared one thing: they had grown up in neighborhoods that were overwhelmingly non-white.

One evening Mike asked the group whether they remembered the first time race had mattered in attraction. The answers split almost immediately. The Korean law student talked about wanting to look like white actors. Alex talked about realizing that every woman he had ever had crushes on was white. A Chinese American participant admitted that until college he had genuinely believed white men were simply more attractive. Then Mike turned toward the other side of the room.

"What about you?"

The Filipino teacher looked confused.

"I don't know. I grew up in Daly City. Everybody was Filipino, Chinese, Samoan, Mexican, Black. There were like three white kids in my high school."

The room laughed.

"So who were your crushes?" Mike asked.

The man shrugged.

"Filipina girls. Then a Mexican girl. Then another Filipina girl."

"Why?"

He looked genuinely puzzled.

"Because they were around?"

That got another round of laughter.

"Same. I grew up in San Gabriel. Everybody was Asian. My wife is Chinese American. Before that, I dated a Vietnamese girl and a Korean girl. I never really thought about it," The Vietnamese engineer said.

That conversation stayed with Shane because it was the first time he understood that everybody in the room was Asian American, or in his case Asian Canadian. They had all grown up in North America. They had all been exposed to the same broad culture. Yet their attractions weren't identical. Their neighborhoods weren't identical. Their schools weren't identical. Their friend groups weren't identical. The pattern wasn't as simple as white supremacy in, white preference out. But it wasn't random either.

By the end of the thirteen sessions, the conversations had shifted from attraction to family and recognition. One evening, while another participant talked about feeling embarrassed by his immigrant parents, Shane found himself remembering something he had not thought about in years.

When he was younger, especially when he was alone with David, he used to say "Dad" far more often than necessary.

"Dad, do you want anything from the concession stand?"

"Dad, look at this."

"Dad, should we go this way?"

At the time, he had thought he was simply being affectionate. Now he understood there was something else underneath it. He had wanted people to know. He had wanted strangers to look at them and immediately understand that David Hollander was his father. Not a coach. Not a family friend. Not some random white man standing beside him. His father. Because people sometimes assumed otherwise. Not often. But enough. Enough that he remembered it and had worried about it. Enough that part of him had desperately wanted people to know that he wasn't adopted, that he was half white, that he belonged.

Looking back, the realization made him uncomfortable. Not because he had loved his father. Because he understood now what he had wanted from the world. Recognition. Legibility. The possibility that people might be a little kinder if they understood where he fit.

The group gave him language for other things too. For years he had thought being good at hockey had somehow insulated him from a lot of what other Asian men described. Hockey was masculinity. Not just masculinity, but one of the most culturally approved forms of masculinity available in Canada. He had never had to confront stereotypes about Asian men being weak, passive, nerdy, or feminine in the same way some of the others had.

Or at least that was what he had thought.

By the end of the semester, he realized those stereotypes had shaped him too. He had simply learned to navigate them differently. He was IQ Hockey. The strategist. The cerebral forward. The player who saw the ice three steps ahead. Reporters called him brilliant, calculating, analytical. At first, he had assumed that was simply because he was hockey-smart. Then the group discussions and some of the readings made him pay closer attention to how different players were discussed.

Black players rarely received the same language. When commentators discussed them, they talked about power, speed, athleticism, explosiveness, physical dominance. They broke down what they did far less often than how they did it. Questions about systems, strategy, leadership, or hockey IQ seemed to gravitate toward white players and, occasionally, players like Shane. Black players were expected to perform, not necessarily to explain. Even when they were among the smartest players on the ice, the conversation often returned to their bodies.

The same thing happened away from the rink. Shane thought about how much attention people paid to style whenever a Black player walked into an arena. The suits. The jewelry. The sneakers, the hair. The confidence. JJ had joked once that the league acted terrified of becoming the NBA while simultaneously envying everything that made the NBA culturally relevant. The comment had gotten a laugh at the time, but Shane understood it differently now. Black players were constantly scrutinized for how they dressed, how they celebrated, how they spoke, whether they were too flashy or too loud, while the league eagerly borrowed the attention and cultural cachet that came with them.

When Scott made a difficult play, people called him instinctive. A born leader. When a Black player made the same play, the praise often drifted toward athletic gifts. When Shane made it, the praise drifted toward intelligence. Different players could arrive at the same result and still be understood through entirely different stories.

Shane began to notice how often he had been praised in terms of intelligence rather than instinct or intuition.

Even his politeness looked different now. The careful answers. The media training. The diplomacy. The way people always described him as mature, responsible, articulate. He began to wonder how much of Shane Hollander, model captain and perfect teammate, had been genuine and how much had been the version of himself that people found easiest to accept.

In the end, Iro and Anita had been right. The group had never really been about Ilya.

Or rather, it had been about Ilya only in the sense that loving him had forced Shane to start asking questions he had spent most of his life avoiding. The sessions gave him a clearer understanding of himself independent of his relationship, but they also helped him understand that relationship better. They helped him understand why he had been afraid. Why he had always been so careful. Why some risks felt larger than they appeared.

The racism was real. The homophobia was real. The costs were real. What changed was not his understanding of that reality but his understanding of himself inside it.

6 months later, he felt more prepared now. More capable of choosing when to comply, when to resist, when to ignore, and when to fight. More capable of recognizing that belonging offered on conditions was not really belonging at all.

If membership depended on performing the right version of himself, then it had never truly belonged to him.

And if that was true, then he could finally stop being afraid of losing it.

***

July 2011

Ilya would never have been able to sit on this terrace and have it feel the same again. Shane was there, in Moscow, drinking tea. Ilya knew that people visited Moscow as tourists—many people did—but he had never imagined friends, teammates, and certainly not the man he had been sleeping with exclusively for six months and kissing for a year visiting.

The most surprising thing was the sheer baseness of his fear, the greediness of it. They had never talked about what was happening between them. They only knew they weren't seeing other people. They were roommates and teammates. After a month of heated kissing, in January, at the All-Star Game, Shane had told him quietly outside the locker room, after Ilya's European team had beaten the American team, "You should stop by my room later."

Yes, he had planned on stopping by anyway.

Ilya went to Shane's room, and Shane let him take him into his mouth. Ilya tasted Shane as if he had been wandering through a desert, and Shane's cock was water. He was already used to Shane's little sounds when they kissed, but this was the best song he had ever heard. For years, he had carried these images in his head, even before the draft—running his hand over Shane's abs, putting his fingers in his mouth. Shane came quickly, and Ilya savored every bit of it.

"I want to fuck you," Ilya said.

"Not today."

"Why? I can make you come twice."

"Not today. Let me take care of you."

"Why? Scared Grandpa Hunter next door will hear us?"

"No. Not today, for your own good."

"My own good?"

"Your own good is fucking me at home while Iro and Anita are still away on winter break. Your own good is hearing how loud I can be when I come. Your own good is taking your time because it'll be my first time."

"First time?"

"Yes. You'll be the first, Ilya."

"Fuck, you can't say things like that," Ilya said before crashing his lips into Shane's and kissing him hard. "Fuck, I'm so hard. I want more."

Shane dropped to his knees beside the bed.

It was more than Ilya had ever dreamed of. His mouth was perfect, using exactly the right amount of pressure, trailing down to his balls, careful and filthy at the same time. And his eyes never left Ilya.

Shane Hollander had ruined him.

When they flew back to Boston, Ilya's leg bounced for the entire flight. Shane sat beside him, pretending to be completely unbothered and absorbed in his novel, and Ilya knew he enjoyed the act. When they arrived home, Ilya barely let Shane make it past the stairs before cornering him near the couch.

"I want to shower," Shane said.

Ilya groaned. He knew it had to be done.

"I'm coming with you," Ilya said.

"No. Go shower in your bathroom and meet me in my room after."

Shane kissed him, a promise hidden in it.

"Bossy," Ilya replied.

Ilya had planned to rush through the shower, but then he reminded himself that it would be the first time. After months of waiting, he would finally have Shane Hollander, and he would be the first man, the only man. So he took his time, cleaning himself thoroughly, trying not to touch his already hard cock, breathing through it, pressing against the base to kill the erection and saving everything for Shane.

When he entered Shane's room, Shane was wearing the soft loungewear he always wore.

"You should've stayed naked," Ilya said. He had rushed over with only a towel around his waist.

"I like undressing in front of you," Shane said.

"Hmm. Reminds you of the locker room?"

Ilya kissed him hungrily, but with a surprising softness, sliding his hands beneath Shane's shirt before pulling it off. Shane pushed him onto the bed. Then, as Ilya had witnessed every night since they had started living together, Shane removed his pants and carefully folded them.

Ilya spotted the lube and condoms on the bedside table.

"Very prepared, Shane."

Shane climbed onto the bed beside him. Ilya rolled over him, kissing him, licking along his stomach.

"I wanted this so much," Shane said.

"Me too. I'll make you feel so good."

Ilya moved lower, pulling Shane's legs apart. When his tongue touched Shane, he heard him cry out. Shane had been right, doing this at home, alone, had been the right call. The sounds he made, the pleasure on his face when Ilya finally entered him for the first time...

"You're a dream, Shane."

"Fuck, Ilya. I missed you so much."

Even though they had spent the entire week together.

"You okay?" Ilya asked as he moved faster.

"Yes."

Ilya kissed him harder, messy and desperate.

"Give me more," Shane said.

"Turn over."

And what a view.

Bent over in front of him, Shane was breathtaking. Ilya could watch every movement, his hand resting on Shane's neck, leaning down every so often to kiss him.

"You're doing so well, Shane."

"More, Ilya. More."

Shane had never remembered coming that hard. And afterward, polite as ever, he still managed a soft, "Thank you."

After showering and changing the sheets, they curled up together in bed.

"That was so hot," Shane said.

"You killed me, Shane."

Shane kissed him.

Wasn't this supposed to be the moment of post-sex clarity?

Instead, Ilya found himself thinking that they had three days off, ten days alone before Iro and Anita came back, and that he wanted this every day. Every day they weren't on the road. Shane Hollander had him under some kind of spell, because Ilya didn't know why he said it, only that he couldn't stop himself.

"I haven't slept with anyone since December."

"Why?"

"Because I'm lazy," he said, deflecting.

"You're one of the hardest-working people I know, Ilya. So why?"

"Because it wasn't as good as kissing you?" Ilya said quietly.

"You're very good at kissing."

Not what Ilya wanted him to say. Not what he meant.

But Shane was making him say it.

"Are you seeing someone on Tuesdays?"

"On Tuesdays? Why Tuesdays?"

"You leave every Tuesday when we're home and not playing. Same time every week. Same time coming back."

"Oh. It's a group. A place where I can talk with other men. About me."

"Oh."

"So no. I'm not sleeping with anyone. I told you—you were my first. I wanted it to be you."

Ilya had the sudden urge to kiss him again.

"I don't want you to have a second."

Shane laughed.

"I don't want you to have a millionth, I guess."

"You think I've slept with a million people?"

"Don't want to know."

"I won't sleep with anyone else," Ilya said.

"Okay then. Me neither."

"I like you," Ilya said.

Shane didn't answer immediately. He just kissed him.

The ten days that followed, minus the three days of away games, were the best time of Ilya's life. They fucked in the bedroom, the gym, and on the couch. Shane made them clean everything before Anita and Iro came back.

"Oh, do you think Svetlana wasn't fucking Anita on the couch when we weren't here?" Ilya had said.

"How do you know they sleep together?"

"Oh my God, Shane. How many flashcards can they possibly go over with the door closed? And why does Svetlana always need a shower afterward?"

Ilya wanted to ask Shane if they were boyfriends, but he felt it might be too much. They already lived together, were exclusive, were on the same team, and Shane didn't want to come out. Ilya absolutely could not come out with his Russian passport. Their house, their bubble, was perfect. Anita and Iro didn't make a fuss about them. Only Iro had said, "I'm happy to have the upstairs bathroom to myself now."

In May, Boston made it to the first round of the playoffs but not the second. It had been an amazing first season for Shane and Ilya, who had both started on the second line, Shane at center and Ilya at left wing, and ended with Shane on the first line and Ilya centering the second. Shane had scored 43 goals; Ilya, 41.

Svetlana had announced it while they were hosting a playoff watch party at their house with some teammates.

"Anita is coming to visit Moscow this summer," she told him in Russian in the kitchen.

"What?"

"Mother's firm represents Novikov's businesses, you know. So when she told her she wanted to come, her mother contacted him, and he was like, 'Don't worry, I'll handle everything.' I'm sure she'll be in some fancy-ass mansion in Moscow," she said.

Novikov was a billionaire metallurgist who was making many acquisitions of companies in the United States.

"So this is serious between you two?" Ilya had asked.

"I wish. She's very much into vibing and not into monogamy."

"You're not into monogamy."

"Acquired a taste for it," Svetlana said.

"What are you talking about?" Anita said, coming into the kitchen with an empty bowl, followed by Shane.

"That you're coming to Moscow sponsored by a billionaire," Svetlana said.

"You're going to Moscow?" Shane said, almost yelling.

"Yep. New adventure, after my Black girls trip in Cartagena. Carter has plans with his girlfriend. Iro is going to Japan for two full months. Svetlana will be my tour guide, and one of my mom's big clients was really happy with Harvey's work. He even said I could use his jet. His daughter is coming back for the summer, too."

"Can I come?" Shane said.

Ilya nearly spit out his beer.

"What?" Ilya said.

"Yeah. I've never been. I can go do some tourism stuff too," Shane had said.

"Yeah, sure. No problem," Anita had said.

"Oh my God, it's going to be so fun. We'll have the best time," Svetlana said.

One week after Shane won Rookie of the Year in Vegas, when they were on the rooftop, Ilya said, "Going home in three days." Shane answered, "Yeah, and I'll be there in one week."

Ilya felt the despair and dread he usually associated with Moscow become lighter. Shane would be in Moscow for almost two weeks, in his city.

"Congratulations," he told Shane, genuinely happy for him but still aware of the disappointment of his father.

He closed the gap between them and kissed him on the rooftop. He thought Shane would push him away, scared someone might be there, but instead Shane turned him, pinned Ilya against the wall, and kissed him harder.

"Always wanted to kiss you under the night sky," Shane said.

"I have to do one more round and say goodnight to my parents. Wait for me," Shane said, slipping a key card into his pocket.

Ilya didn't need to know the room number because they had both requested Penthouse 1 and Penthouse 2.

Shane and Anita flew to Moscow on a private jet with the billionaire's daughter. The man, who was, of course, a hockey fan and an acquaintance of Svetlana's father, had happily let them stay in a "little something," as he called it. It was a luxurious two-level penthouse in one of Moscow's trendiest neighborhoods.

Ilya and Svetlana had a full itinerary planned for them: historical sites, as well as meetings with his friends. There would be one party at Svetlana's house as well. Before Ilya left for the draft, at a dinner at the ministry, one of his father's colleagues had suggested that Ilya show the Canadian prodigy the best of Moscow. It must have stuck because his father didn't question why Ilya would stay with his friend, only reminding him not to shame Russia by introducing him to his "depraved and lazy friends." Alexei had shot him a look but said nothing.

Shane had never been to Moscow. Ilya talked about it, and Shane asked about it, but always carefully. It seemed like a place tied to so much hurt. The apartment they were staying in was beautiful. He hadn't known that Russia had its own hipster vibes.

Svetlana had sent a car to pick them up at the airport. She was already waiting for them at the apartment.

"Tonight we party," she said before taking Anita's hand. "Let me show you the best room to stay in."

Ilya took Shane's hand to show him the other best room.

They slept all day, and at night they went to a bar, met other friends of Ilya's, and even though Shane's gaydar wasn't the best, it was clear that the two girls were some sort of couple—two literature students running a student magazine on feminism.

The second day, Shane woke up and asked Ilya, "Do you go see your mother when you're here?"

"Yes," Ilya answered.

"Can I go with you?" Shane asked.

Ilya brought Shane to his mother's grave. Shane stayed back at first, then watched Ilya change the flowers. Eventually, Shane stepped forward. He knew he had to say something. He didn't know what. Not something important or profound; he was at a loss for words. He wasn't really used to death, tragic death. His grandparents had died natural old-people deaths. The first time the materiality of death had happened to Shane was the Centaur flight. But Ilya—he understood death not as a single event but as something that changed the texture of who you were.

So he said, "I'm Shane—but you know that. My Russian isn't great, but thank you for raising Ilya, for his heart, for making him the person he is now, the best person I know."

Tears rolled down Ilya's face.

That night, Ilya fucked him softly and slowly—not shouting. They kept the volume down, not interested in being heard by Svetlana and Anita upstairs.

The week's program was simple: daytime sightseeing and evening parties with Ilya's friends. They began at Red Square, their breath caught between history and spectacle, the candy-colored domes of Saint Basil's Cathedral glowing beside the fortified walls of the Moscow Kremlin, before pausing at Lenin's Mausoleum and wandering through the glass-roofed galleries of GUM. One evening, they dressed for the ballet at the Bolshoi Theatre with Svetlana and four friends, including Sasha. He stayed polite, looked at Ilya with questioning eyes, and said nothing. They went overdressed to a party at one of Svetlana's friends' homes.

They used the Moscow Metro, with people stopping Ilya for photos and autographs, and strolled through the lively cafés of Arbat Street. On day five, they stood beneath the golden domes of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, watched the city unfold from Sparrow Hills, and ended quietly among the white walls and reflecting ponds of Novodevichy Convent, feeling as though they had crossed centuries in just a handful of days.

On his last day, Ilya took Shane to an upscale Russian sauna and bathhouse. Shane was used to men in communal showers, but as a transition, not a destination. He had never been in this kind of sauna. It made him aware of the differences between European and North American culture. He thought he already knew because of Ilya—the cheek kissing was common in many countries—but here, in addition to the sauna and the tea afterward, there were different forms of male bonding that did not revolve solely around sports or stereotypical North American ideas of masculinity.

There was the sauna, the adjoining tea room, and groups of men talking with friends or business partners. It was the first time as a young adult that Shane had experienced being naked among other men outside a locker room setting, with Ilya sitting beside him, not touching but close enough, surrounded by men talking with friends in the same way.

That night, Shane went with Ilya to a local junior hockey game. Many pictures were taken of both of them with young players. They were sitting on the terrace of a nearby café with Svetlana, her cousin Igor, and two other friends when Alexei stopped in front of their table. Beside him stood Ilya's father.

Shane saw Ilya's body stiffen slightly.

He stood, greeted his father, looked at Alexei, and gave him a cold, "Alexei."

Alexei said in Russian, "Too busy with your fancy friend to spend time with your family?"

Ilya didn't respond.

Shane and Anita stood and offered their hands to Ilya's father.

"Shane Hollander. It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Rozanov," Shane said in Russian.

Ilya, his father, and Alexei did not hide their surprise as they shook his hand.

"Good afternoon. Do you speak Russian?" Ilya's father said.

"I learned a few sentences," Shane said, lying, because he knew more than a few sentences. Since coming back from the future, he had doubled down on learning Russian.

"Canadians are more disciplined than Americans. Not by much, but a little more. Maybe you could influence the team, and my son, to be less lazy."

Shane tensed.

"Ilya is the most dedicated and hard-working player... person I know."

Ilya's father didn't respond. He told Svetlana to pass along his regards to her father and told Alexei it was time to go. As they walked away, Alexei shot a look at Ilya and Shane, as if trying to see something, a missing puzzle piece.

When they made it back to the apartment, Ilya could only think about his father’s face. Not the surprise at Shane’s Russian — though that had been something — but the rest. The weight of Alexei beside him. The way his father still managed to land a comment in the middle of a café terrace in the most ordinary, devastating way, the same way he always had. He will learn to be less lazy. Twenty years of that sentence in different forms. And Shane, without hesitating, without looking to Ilya for permission: He is the most dedicated and hard-working person I know.

Ilya pressed his forehead briefly to the glass.

Shane watched him for a moment before he moved.

He didn’t touch Ilya. Just stood beside him at the window, both of them looking out at the street below. After a moment: “Ilya.”

“Mmm.”

“I need to say something.”

Ilya turned to look at him, something careful in his expression. Braced maybe.

“Thank you,” Shane said. “For this week. For— the grave. For Svetlana. The metro, the sauna, the ballet, all of it.”

He paused, finding the right words.

“I am so glad to be able to see you here.” He held Ilya’s gaze. “I’ve been thinking about it since the grave. Since the sauna. Since watching you on the metro with those kids asking for a photo — you were different.”

Ilya was very still. "I am happy you are here."

Shane kissed him first.

There was nothing tentative about it.

Ilya kissed back with everything he had.

Ilya was on top of Shane, kissing him, when he said in Russian, "Fuck, I love you." He hid behind the language, not yet ready to make the leap that those words demanded. Not yet ready to face what it meant: loving Shane, being in bed with him only a few kilometers from his father's house, in Russia. Risking everything, yet intoxicated by it at the same time. The danger, the desire, the freedom—they all blurred together until he couldn't tell where one ended and the next began.

Shane thought he said it first, just like the previous time. In every life, he loved Ilya, and Ilya loved him. And this time they had it. He had given it to Ilya: a relationship built on care, time, and more than scattered hours stolen between obligations.

Shane took Ilya by the neck, looked him in the eyes, and said, "I love you too."

Then he watched the surprise in Ilya's eyes. Ilya had not considered that Shane had learned another thing in Russian besides "Good afternoon" and "Nice to meet you."

Ilya kissed him hard and abandoned the slow pace, thrusting faster.

"Fuck, I love you so much, Shane."

There was something Shane wanted to say that he didn't have the language for yet—about watching Ilya move through his city, about understanding for the first time that the grief of leaving a place was not smaller than the grief of losing a person. That Ilya had always been carrying both. That Shane had only ever carried the absence of Ilya, which was enormous, but he had never had to grieve a country.

Ilya didn't fall asleep right away. Shane was in Moscow, and the city felt brighter. His life did too. Shane woke to Ilya watching him.

"Morning," Shane said.

"Morning. I love you," Ilya said.

"I love you too."

Shane packed two extra suitcases. The things Shane had insisted Ilya bring home to make the house feel more his. The decorative items, the artwork, a magazine cover with Ilya's face on it that Shane had requested without explaining why.

Then Ilya carefully placed four small glass containers into one of the bags.

"For the house," Ilya said simply.

Shane nodded and didn't trust his voice enough to add anything. At the bedroom door, they stood for a moment with the luggage between them and kissed one last time. Anita had already left earlier. She had a spa appointment with Svetlana before the flight and would meet Shane at the airport. Then they carried the luggage down to the car, and Ilya drove Shane to the airport, his hand resting on Shane's thigh while Moscow passed outside the windows for the last time.

"I'm sorry," Shane said.

Ilya's hand remained on his thigh.

"For what?"

"I feel like I was a little ignorant when I met you, you know. I used to think coming to America saved you," Shane said. "That the whole equation was simple: Russia bad, leave, MLH safe. I never thought about what it cost you to stay away. Or that there were people here and places here that mattered this much. That it must be so difficult to live so far away."

"It's not easy, but I'm not alone. It's good to live with other people. With you," Ilya said.

"I want to tell my parents about us," Shane said.

"Really? We want to tell them that I am your boyfriend?"

"Boyfriend?" Shane said, thinking that some things did not change.

"Yes."

"I want them to know that I'm in love and that I have a boyfriend."

"Okay."

Ilya walked him to the priority security line and gave him a Russian embrace.

"See you at the end of summer, Rozanov," Shane said.

"Yes, Hollander," Ilya replied, his eyes smiling.

Shane settled into his first-class seat beside Anita, thinking about how, before, "Ilya is Russian" had been information. Something that materialized through language, immigration status, and security concerns. But

now he connected it to something else entirely.

Someone who had grown up somewhere. Someone who had friends there, memories there, difficult and beautiful experiences there. He thought about the ease of Ilya's laughter in Moscow, the way he moved through a language and culture he understood instinctively. And Shane thought about the many years Ilya had spent living in the United States, a country with constant tensions with Russia. He thought about Canada, too, where Ilya had become the face of a charity project.

And Sochi. Shane realized he had spent years thinking about hockey and Russia's homophobia without considering the larger picture: the relationship between Russia and Western countries, the pressure on Ilya, the political context surrounding everything.

He had never needed to. He was Canadian. Canada, the self-proclaimed good-guy country. No one ever expected him to answer questions about the Canadian government. Not about military interventions. Not about the remains of Indigenous children discovered at residential schools. And if he had refused to answer, the consequences would have been measured in public relations.

For Ilya, the consequences could be legal, in both of his countries—the old one and the new one. As he drifted off to sleep, Shane thought about Sochi in two years. About Ilya's father's declining health. His heart clenched. He was angry at hockey and at the long chain of history that had brought Russia and the West to this point.

***

There was no cottage yet, so Shane spent the rest of his summer at his parents' cottage. Shane came out to his parents separately, which felt necessary. While he was still in college, his mother had made several comments about a Haitian-Japanese tennis player and how "it was disgusting that people from her own Japanese family were racist toward her."

Shane had understood the message. His mother, who he suspected had a small competency crush on Anita's mom, had completely convinced herself that he and Anita were together and was signaling that she would be very pleased with that outcome. Then, a few months ago, she had a revelation and started sending him articles and videos about gay Japanese athlete couples. Apparently, Iro had become the new stand-in.

Shane had already had the dramatic coming-out experience: being walked in on while making out with his secret rival-lover. He wanted something quieter this time. He started with his father. They were in the car talking about suits for an upcoming wedding. Shane was trying to convince his father not to wear dark green.

"I think when I get married, I'll wear blue," Shane said. "But my husband would have to match the color."

David glanced at him.

"Husband? With a man?"

"Yes."

"Oh. I see. I think you'll look handsome, son."

"But not now. In a few years."

"You already have someone in mind?" David asked with a smile.

"Yes."

"A certain Russian roommate, maybe?" David said, tapping Shane's shoulder.

"Yes."

"You'll tell your mom?"

"Yes. I plan to take a walk with her."

David laughed.

"Special treatment? Should I be jealous?"

"Dad, I told you first. To compensate, I have to tell her with better packaging. And I also want to talk to her about sponsors and everything."

"Got it, son."

That afternoon, he went for a walk with Yuna. David had conveniently discovered an important puzzle he needed to finish and stayed home. Twenty minutes into the walk, Shane started.

"Mom, I need to tell you something."

"Of course, honey."

"So, I'm gay. But I know you know."

"I do. But I appreciate that you told me. And I'm proud of you for telling me," Yuna said.

"And I'm in love with someone. And we're together."

Yuna looked at him. "I know I seem old, but my generation invented 'they were roommates.' You and Iro are very good together."

"No, it's not Iro. He's my friend. My best friend. It's Ilya. He's not gay, he's bi," Shane said.

"Oh."

"I love him so much," Shane said.

"And how long has this been going on? Since you started living together, or before?"

"A little before. But it's complicated. It's not safe for him to be out."

"So what's the plan? You know... hockey?"

Shane knew. Looking at his mom making all the risk-mitigation calculations—in case of forced or consented outing, brand deals—he knew the conversation would have to shift to their relationship. In the first year he came back, he had wanted to tackle the topic first, but with so many things to plan, he let his momager take the lead.

He felt like he saw her differently. How hard it must have been for her—to be Japanese, to carry a Japanese family name. Shane had felt the surprise, sometimes the disappointment, when people discovered that Shane Hollander was not what they thought a Hollander looked like. He knew that people spoke to him differently when he was with his father than when he was with his mother.

Yuna was a force to be reckoned with because she had to be assertive from the very first meeting, leaving no doubt she was not a compliant or silent doll. David got to be the introvert; maybe she would have loved to be an introvert, but did she have a choice? Shane knew the pressure; the expectations she put on him were so far from the ones she had growing up, the ones she put on herself. She had wanted someone to look up to as she grew up—a role model—to make it easier, to show a path.

Shane could see that he had been acting with a kind of arrested development at 20, compared to Ilya and Iro. He was not a troubled kid: he was serious, but all inconveniences were transferred to his parents—hockey ones to his mom, logistical ones to his dad. And it was not like he had no capacity, because when it was time to buy a sex building, organize secret rendezvous, or fake retreats, he knew how to deal with things. He had an overbearing mother, but to be honest, he had spent a lot of time comfortably being a mama’s boy.

But in this life, because he was different—still anxious, but evolved—his mom was no longer the only Asian person close to him. And because he did not have to separate parts of his life from them, he now had a fuller life and wanted to explore with more independence, with more time to do more things.

“I don’t want to come out yet. It’s not safe for Ilya with Russia, and he needs to be able to go back for now,” Shane said.

“Oh, I am sorry for him. So both of you will wait.”

“Not forever,” Shane said. “It is...we are hiding in plain sight,” Shane said.

“I can see many possibilities, potential brands that would love this, before and after you come out. We can pick specifically, and also for all the people at intersections…”

“Mom,” Shane interrupted, “I also want to talk about sponsors and brand deals.”

“What about them?”

“You know I love you, and all you and Dad did—are doing—for me. Everything. But I don’t think I want to be a role model anymore,” Shane said.

“What do you mean? You want a bad boy image? It’s not you. You are a good kid.”

“I know. But I am not only that. I am human. I made, and will make, mistakes.”

“But so many kids that look like you—or even those who don’t—don’t see themselves.”

“I know. But I think I can do it differently. More than just being the perfect golden-boy Asian. I think for all those kids to know that they don’t have to be perfect, always polite, silent, and grateful to be seen and respected, and to belong to this country—that’s important,” Shane said.

"But it isn't how it works, Shane,” Yuna said.

“But we can do things differently,” Shane replied.

Yuna tensed a little. “You are already doing it. You represent something different, Shane. And I know it can be a lot of pressure, but there are so many kids and people who grew up here with a lot of pressure and don't have million-dollar contracts or two Canadian parents or a white father.”

“I know, Mom, but it’s still my life, and listen, I want to do positive things, but not just by being perfect. And I think it will be harder for the kids after me to be expected to be perfect… Come on, Mom, close to half, if you are being conservative, of MLH players are fucking douchebags, not even talking about the ones that will surely end up in jail.”

“Because they can, and why would you want to be this mediocre? Because whatever they do, it is only them as individuals. It will not be a discussion about entire communities, from Japanese to Indian, about who can play a sport.”

“Yes, but it should not be. I can still be something positive without having to be the one representing and responsible for millions of people. I am fucking glad I am playing in the U.S. and not in Canada; at least I will not ruin it for Asian Canadians, I guess.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Mom, I know that you had to face many things, and that with Dad and me it is not the same. But having so many people, millions of them, having an opinion about what I should be, and for whom, it all contradicts each other. And I can’t, I will not do it.”

“I just want you to be protected.”

“I won't, Mom. I can be as good as possible, winning two or even three Cups, but when the time comes, they will throw everything in my face. I will just be an Asian man not good enough for men’s sports, and a gay man they don't want in the locker room.”

“You can sue them and rearrange brands and media outside of hockey.”

“Mom, we can’t spin our way out of racism and homophobia. But you know what I can do? Surround myself with people you love, and I love, and be ready to face it.”

“I wanted it to be different for you.”

“It is different for me, Mom. I did not have to translate parent-teacher meetings. I didn’t have to see both of my parents be humiliated because of language. It is different. And you are so exceptional, but still you had to deal with so much shit.”

“I want you to belong here, to feel like you belong in hockey.”

“I am not in hockey to fit in, but also to take all the space I want. I can do both, Mom. And I think a kid in rural Alberta will be happy to know that they can do both too—be themselves, and do what they like.”

“Okay.”

“I still want some brand deals and interviews, but I don’t want the spin of perfect golden boy. I can be authentic, and with relief, you know. And also answer difficult questions about representation, diversity, and facing racism. I think it’s only fair to put myself out there, as I will also need people to stand up for me in a few years. We might have a plan, but it’s still hockey and—”

“It will be ugly.”

“And also, I want more free time. During the season, fewer things. And during the summer, I can have two weeks post-season doing all brand promotion, but after that, I need time to spend with you, Ilya, and my friends, and also alone.”

“Of course, honey,” she said, her face still tight.

“I love you, Mom. Thank you for everything.”

“When did you become such a wise and handsome young man?”

“I am an old soul.”

***

2010-2013 / Svetlana

Svetlana had a few things in life that she was absolutely certain about—about the world and about herself. She was her father's daughter. She was stunning. She was smart. She knew more about hockey than ninety-nine percent of people, and she enjoyed terrorizing men. When her father decided to return to Russia when she was eight, her mother reluctantly followed before eventually divorcing him. Before they left, her grandmother, who was Trinidadian, and her grandfather, who was African American, sat her down.

"We know your mom lives in her own world, so you have to be the best version of yourself. Never keep your head down, even if you're the only one."

It was a gentle way of addressing a much harsher reality: her mother's inability to cope with the collapse of her acting career. First came the resentment, then the socialite tipsiness she used to dull it, followed by the boredom of WAG life—a husband at the peak of his career, an independent daughter who spent most of her free time obsessing over hockey, and a growing sense that neither of them truly needed her. As her mother liked to say to her father, with equal parts affection and annoyance, "that daughter of yours."

There was also her mother's quiet disappointment. Svetlana was too much like her father. Too interested in hockey and statistics, far too uninterested in using her looks the way her mother thought she should—through acting, modeling, and all the opportunities beauty could open up—or any of the pursuits her mother considered proper uses of beauty. Not that Svetlana wasn't beautiful—she was. She simply found hockey and selling cars far more interesting. Being stunning was a bonus, not a vocation.

Back in Moscow, it went as well as it could have for her mother, who didn't speak Russian and was a Black woman. At least Svetlana spoke Russian, and for her own protection she acted like the spoiled cosmopolitan child she was. Her Americanness became her first line of defense against anti-Blackness. And there was Ilya, her best friend, her partner in crime and discovery, the non-judgmental side of her life.

They certainly did things they were probably too young for, wanting to get away from everything: virginity, alcohol, parties, traveling. Ilya was now close enough; New York to Boston being a short drive by American standards, or a train ride. She had been surprised that Ilya had chosen not to go for a penthouse with his salary. Hadn't they spent all their teenage years talking about how he would be rich and famous and they would live a rich and famous life in America? When she arrived at his roommate arrangement, she understood why and how: Shane Hollander. Svetlana was an Ilya-ologist, always able to see through the layers of carefully built personas, concealed interests, lingering attraction to trouble. She knew him because she had been there when the layers were built after his mother died, and she had known him before the layers existed. This housing arrangement was completely transparent to her. The attraction between them, the sexual tension she spotted first, and then Ilya stopping fooling around with her—or with anyone else, really—a few months into it. Ilya, whose bed she never slept in in that house, only in his downtown apartment.

Svetlana would have mourned the loss of a good, safe, and convenient lay that Ilya had been if it hadn't been for the one who would become the object of her ruin: Anita Vaughn-Pearson. Svetlana knew, as a concept, that there always came a time when the master of nonchalance ended up meeting someone who beat them at their own game or made their game ineffective, much like Hollander seemed to have done with his big brown eyes, freckles, very hot body, and status as the best player next to Ilya. But he was only a distant concept to her. She was not a man, and men and their weaknesses, their neediness, were not her concern. So she advanced willingly toward her own ruin.

Flirting overtly with Anita every time she came to "see" Ilya, whom she wasn't really seeing, or stopping by when she knew practice was happening. To her grandmother's regret, she had never learned how to braid her own hair, yet she could spend hours helping Anita take hers out. Not that she needed an excuse. Anita didn't play that cat-and-mouse game with her. As soon as Svetlana showed interest, Anita matched her energy. And God, what energy. The smell of her skin, a mixture of her own shea butter blend, lemongrass, and expensive essential oils imported from Spain.

Everything about her was softness and determination. The way she spoke, walked, laughed, danced. No hesitation. She moved through the world like Svetlana did, with the same assurance of being who she thought she was, but with another layer that Svetlana didn't have, something she only understood later. Anita knew who she was, but she also understood other people and their place in the wider world. Svetlana was much more a privileged child, the daughter of a Russian minister, living a cosmopolitan socialite life. Anita was determined to keep both feet planted firmly in the soil. When Svetlana met her mother at the Boston-New York game, she understood the difference between them. Anita had never been a disappointment to anyone, neither her father nor her mother. That was her actual older twin, and Svetlana had to push away several highly inappropriate thoughts about Jessica Pearson.

It was all fun, hot sex, and closed doors until something grew inside Svetlana. After the first year of their on-and-off casual arrangement, she didn't want to be casual anymore. She was the empress of casuality, but Anita seemed to be its rightful owner. "I like that we're vibing so well together," Anita would say, lying in bed after Svetlana had given everything she had to make her come using only her mouth. "Yeah, that's cool," Svetlana would answer, though she wasn't cool with it at all. But Svetlana wasn't a man.

She didn't beg, sulk, or become possessive. So she went back to being nonchalant with others: the men who wanted her as a trophy, a beautiful woman on their arm when they went out, attractive men with little conversation, men who couldn't follow Anita from political theory to sports to poetry to gossip. People who didn't smell like heaven on earth, whose laughter didn't make Svetlana's heart beat faster.

It went on like that, and when Svetlana moved to Boston from New York to continue her MBA in 2012, it got worse. More time together, and more time outside the bedroom. Now she would come to the house without even pretending she was there to see Ilya. She would come knowing he was away on a road trip. She was ready to accept this thing in her heart, the "vibing" that wasn't really vibing, if it hadn't been for this fucking Saint Petersburg woman, Zahra fucking Tchernovanova.

"Hello, people. Meet my friend Zahra," Anita had said as she entered the living room in September 2012. It was Iro's birthday party, still early enough that Svetlana was the only person there who didn't live in the house. And then there was Zahra.

"Hello, hello," she said in both English and Russian.

Svetlana hated her as soon as she saw her. Fitted white T-shirt, chino pants, white sneakers, long locs. She was lighter-skinned than Anita but not as light as Svetlana, and taller. And of course all the roommates had to be welcoming.

"Hello, welcome to our home," Ilya said in Russian.

"Thanks for having me," she answered also in Russian.

Svetlana immediately recognized a Saint Petersburg accent.

"So," Anita said, dropping onto the couch, "tell them. They love complicated biographies."

Zahra rolled her eyes slightly. "There's nothing complicated."

"You say that because you lived it," Anita shot back, poking her arm, and Svetlana thought she might actually die.

Zahra sighed. "Russian-Sudanese. Born in Philly, raised in Saint Petersburg. My parents met at Moscow University during Soviet times. My mother came from Sudan to study. My father is Russian. After that... they moved around a lot. Then we settled back in Saint Petersburg. They're both professors."

"She's being modest," Anita cut in. "Her mother is a big-deal philosopher. Marxist theory, feminist theory. And her father is a political scientist."

"Aleksandr Tchernovanov," Anita added.

"Your father is Tchernovanov? He had to leave Russia, no? Didn't your grandfather work on Sputnik mathematics?" Ilya asked.

Of course. She had to have fancy intellectual dissident parents. The prominent academic, winner of several prizes, books praised around the world, who had refused positions at Oxford and Stanford to stay in Saint Petersburg. But eventually they had made an example of him. When his positions on freedom of speech and intellectual life became too much, when his support for feminism, people from Tartar and sexual minorities went too far, they arrested him one night, and the next thing anyone knew, he was gone.

"Exile," Zahra corrected. "My parents live in Spain now."

"How did you meet?" Iro asked.

"She was an intern this summer at my mother's firm, and my mother was basically like, 'My daughter knows other Russians, even a Black one.'"

"How many Black biracial Russians do we need to know exactly?" Svetlana asked, making no effort to hide her annoyance. She still hadn't addressed Zahra directly.

"As many as possible," Anita said with a wide smile, and Svetlana couldn't help smiling back.

"Anita told me you're in luxury cars or something," Zahra said.

"Yes. People need fancy cars, not just lawyers," Svetlana answered.

"I'd say us Russians have plenty of the former and not enough of the latter," Zahra replied.

Then Shane had to say something to break the growing tension, "The more, the merrier. So you're going to do corporate law?"

"I don't think so. I wanted to see it firsthand to be sure, but I want to do immigration law," Zahra said.

"Not just immigration law. She's working with organizations that help queer immigrants process asylum claims and everything else," Anita added.

Svetlana laughed. "Of course."

Zahra looked over. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing. You just sound exactly like someone from Saint Petersburg."

"And what does someone from Saint Petersburg sound like?"

"Poetry and deep concern for the fate of humanity."

"Humanity is usually worth being concerned about."

"There it is," Svetlana said, pointing at her.

"And you sound exactly like someone from Moscow."

"How tragic for me. What do you think happens in Moscow? We spend our evenings burning books and counting oil money?" Svetlana asked.

"You know, as Brodsky said, 'There are worse crimes than burning books. One of them is not reading them,'" Zahra replied.

Svetlana groaned and muttered in Russian, "Of course she quotes Brodsky. Of fucking course she does."

"Luxury cars and hockey," Zahra said.

"What's wrong with hockey?"

"Just very Moscow, measuring social status by square footage."

"And you people measure it by how many dead Russian authors you've read."

Shane nearly choked on his Canada Dry, and Iro took a more comfortable seat to watch the confrontation.

"Some of us have jobs that actually make money." Svetlana continued, "At least my family produced something useful."

Zahra raised an eyebrow. "Are we measuring usefulness by Stanley Cups now?"

"It's a better metric than publishing another book nobody reads."

"I can't believe you're both actually doing Moscow versus Saint Petersburg," Ilya said.

"She started it," Svetlana said immediately.

"You looked at me like I'd personally murdered Pushkin. You know, the poet? They still teach him in Moscow, don't they?"

Svetlana was ready to say something shady when Shane interrupted, pointing at Zahra's ankle. "Oh, your tattoo is nice. Is it in relief?"

"Yes, the dots are. It's a special technique, kind of like scarification. I like touching them."

"What does it mean?" Ilya asked.

"It's the shape of Saint Petersburg, with a poem by Nayyirah Waheed written in Braille. It says: 'Both. I want to stay. I want to leave. I am three oceans away from my soul. Lost.'"

Svetlana had always despised Saint Petersburg and the people from there who thought they were above everyone else, more cultured, more refined. Zahra was simply the final nail in the coffin. She also had to be into fucking poetry, attend Harvard Law School, help queer immigrants. What else? Svetlana was already fuming when Ilya, the traitor, decided to make things worse.

"Funny. Side by side, you and Anita look like a younger version of Amanda and her wife," Ilya said.

He didn't need to specify which Amanda. Everyone knew he meant the star player on New York's WNBA team and her A-list actress wife. Svetlana shot him a murderous look. She knew that when she and Anita were out together, people assumed they were just friends. Two feminine women could be affectionate without raising questions. But Zahra was unmistakably a Stud, and it didn't require much imagination for people to assume she and Anita were together.

"I need a cigarette. Come on," Svetlana said, dragging Ilya outside.

"What the fuck is your problem?" She demanded as soon as the patio door closed behind them.

"What? Me? People are in my house. I'm being a good host."

"Looks like Amanda and her wife? What the fuck was that?"

"I'm just saying. Zahra seems nice and cool. You two have a lot in common."

"I don't fuck with people from Saint Petersburg."

"Or people from Saint Petersburg who happen to be hot and close to Anita."

"Shut up. So you're just going to let her invade your house?"

"Invade? Svet. I'm the only white guy in that house. I'm not getting involved in some weird biracial Russian feud. Anita says I've got a real shot at being invited to her family's cookout. Why would I risk that for you?"

"Traitor."

"You know, maybe you should just talk to Anita. Tell her you don't want to keep vibing. Tell her you want to be exclusive. That's what I did with Shane. Well, technically I was the Anita in that situation, but still. Try to be honest about your feelings and what you want."

"Fuck my fucking life. Getting relationship advice from Ilya Rozanov. Fuck my life."

After that, Svetlana tried to pull the same tricks on Anita that she used on men: posting photos before going to parties, disappearing for hours, and making herself unavailable. But Anita wasn't a fucking man. She would just reply, "Enjoy, babe. You look hot." And every time, Zahra was somewhere nearby. At the library with them, at the house, and, as if Boston didn't have any hairdressers, Zahra came to Anita to get her locs retwisted, which led to entire afternoons of just the two of them together.

Finally, when Anita announced that she wanted to go to Spain with Zahra and another friend in the summer of 2013, Svetlana had had enough.

"Oh, a couple's vacation?" she said.

They were lying in Anita's bed.

"What? We're not a couple."

"So what are you? You're always together. Everyone thinks you two are a cute Black lesbian couple."

"Oh, bi erasure," Anita said, and continued, "we're not. And why don't you like her? It's giving light-skin drama."

"She's all over you."

"No, she's not. We're just friends. And it's not about her, is it? Is this about us?"

"Us? And what us? The 'vibing'?" Svetlana asked.

Anita rolled over so she was facing her.

"Svetlana Vetrova, are you telling me you don't want to vibe anymore and want something more?"

"Do you?"

"No, no. I asked first, so you need to answer."

"Yes."

"Great. We're doing it. Now stop being mean to Zahra. No biracial-on-biracial crime on my watch."

In Boston, Svetlana learned many things:

She couldn't stand Saint Petersburg.

Ilya would be okay.

That she was in love with Anita Vaughn-Pearson. And fuck Dostoevsky.

***

2011-2013/ Shane

Life was good, coming back from Moscow; he and Ilya spent a week together in Martha's Vineyard, renting a beautiful house with private beach access. Shane spent all his time cooking, taking care of Ilya, talking to him, and putting him back together after those four weeks in Moscow. At the end of their stay, Shane said, "You should buy a house here. We can have friends over and get away."

Life was good because Ilya listened to Shane and hired an immigration attorney in September 2011, starting his green card application.

Life was good because Shane had connected with JJ and Hayden at the MLH All-Star, and he might have strategically asked Anita to come to lure JJ into dropping his guard against Boston.

Life was good in January 2012 as they celebrated their first anniversary as boyfriends. Because Shane and Ilya were rich, and because Ilya was romantic, he bought them a house in Martha's Vineyard. It had four bedrooms and direct beach access. They bought most of the furniture from the previous owner, who had really good taste. From their apartment, it was less than a two-and-a-half-hour drive, plus the ferry—or the private boat—to get there. And because any excuse was a good excuse to buy another car, Ilya purchased a luxury electric vehicle, which he kept in a garage near the dock for when they visited. The cottage had always been Shane's; this house was Ilya's. Some weekends, their friends came with them.

Life was more than good when Ilya received his green card in February 2012, and Shane could tell it put him at ease.

Life was good. Shane was happy. Hockey was good. Ilya was the captain. It was their year. They made it to the playoffs. Not rooming together on the road was no longer a punishment; it simply gave them more stories to tell. Pillow gossip was the best, even if Shane lacked follow-up question skills.

Life was good and tiring.

They reached the Stanley Cup Final against San Francisco in May 2012 and won Game 7 on home ice. The city of Boston was theirs.

Life was good as they partied, gave interviews, appeared on media shows for a week, and celebrated Ilya's MVP win. Shane congratulated him all night.

Life was good when they spent a week at Shane's parents' cottage and reviewed the initial plans for Shane's future cottage.

Life was more than good when they went to London together for a week, where no one knew them.

Life was good when Shane happily went on a boys' trip with Iro, Hayden, and JJ while Ilya was in Moscow during the summer of 2012. And Shane came out to them.

Life was good, even though they lost in the playoffs in May 2013. Shane still won the sportsmanship award at the 2013 MLH Awards.

Life was good, if a little sad, when Iro moved out in the summer of 2013 to live with his boyfriend, Damian, so he could be closer to Northeastern for his Ph.D. Anita also moved into her own apartment, sponsored by Carter, a five-minute walk from Svetlana. She was ready to enter her "serious writer era," having received a one-year writing fellowship to pursue her debut novel after landing a piece in The New Yorker and enduring many rejection letters.

Life was good when Shane sold the house and asked Ilya to move into a new one before he went to Moscow—the house Ilya had owned in a previous life—and they bought it together. Shane spent the summer working with an interior designer and an architect while Ilya was on FaceTime, redesigning the house to make it feel more like theirs, waiting for Ilya to come back from Moscow.

Life was so good when Shane went to J.J.’s birthday party in Montreal. Looking for time alone from the noise, unexpected and three years earlier, that night, he met Rose. He wanted to tell her, “Would you be my fourth best friend, please,” but did not want to seem weird, so their conversation went almost exactly the same as before, but this time he slightly mentioned, “You are a fanatic of French fries, like my boyfriend.”  Rose said looking at him with pure amazement and joy, “Tell me everything.”

Just like that, a woman was not traumatized by the worst sex ever with Shane—his contribution to feminism.

***

August 2013 / Ilya

He did not mean to, or maybe he did. It was self-destructive. He had told Shane about his fooling around with Sasha, but this night it was not self-destruction he wanted. He wanted clarity. He wanted to go back to the place he knew, the safety of familiar sadness. Since his teenage years, he had mapped the shapes and textures of his loneliness: the void, the reassurance of Svetlana's friendship, the momentary release of losing himself in another body, the focus and certainty of winning, of making it to the MLH. But the map had become dislocated, every corner swept away, replaced by new fears. Fears deeper than being alone, deeper than being a disappointment to his father, deeper than being hated by his father. Losing. Losing Shane Hollander.

It had been four weeks since he came back to Moscow. He had left Shane in London. Four weeks, and every day his runs diverged toward familiar places, passing in front of the terrace where Shane had sat when he visited. Four weeks, and the texts and FaceTimes did not bridge the distance or explain what was happening inside Ilya. This life—the life he had trained his brain, his heart, his ambitions to face—his family, Russia, all of it had come undone because now there was another life. The one in Boston.

The one where Shane had made them move into a new house. The one where he woke up with a solid body pressed against his back. A life where other people knew him, the other him. A small circle, but still. A life where he was handled gently and loved by Shane. Shane had made it seem possible to have more than scraps, more than the shallow life of a dandy hockey player.

But back here, all his brain told him was: mirage. Delusion. He will leave you for someone easier. If people in Russia knew, you would never be able to come back. You already abandoned your father.

"I love you," Shane had said yesterday at the end of their call.

All Ilya heard was, "For now."

Everything fell back into the old ways because the new ways were terrifying. Because his heart did not know how to deal with any of it—with Shane, with love, with distance, with Russia. Even if he were now a permanent resident, maybe an American passport in a few years, he could not risk losing the ability to return. To his father. The father who asked for his mother. The father who only seemed to remember Ilya to be cruel to him, and the brother who resented him and had to take care of their father.

It was just photos on Instagram. Shane, Iro, Anita at Iro's mother's ramen joint in Los Angeles. Then came the videos. There are numerous videos and photos of Shane Hollander engaged in deep conversation with actress Rose Landry, sparking speculation that they might be the hottest couple and whether they should date.

Yes, Ilya felt jealous. Irrationally so. He knew Shane was gay, incredibly gay, and painfully loyal. But Rose could have it. Of course she could. Of course Shane Hollander, Golden Boy of Canada, exile in the U.S., was meant for Rose Landry and her All-American family, not Ilya Rozanov.

Ilya Rozanov and his shitty family. His passport that meant he could never be fully out. His dying father. His mother who had committed suicide. The sadness that came and went, the same sadness his mother had carried.

Ilya Rozanov was meant for volatile, sexy relationships. Not relationships with depth. Not the kind where Shane read him fun facts before bed. Not the kind where Shane's friends had become his own friends. Where he now spent hours talking to Zahra about propaganda laws. Where Anita came to watch boxing matches with him.

He was an imposter. Borrowing a life that was never meant for him.

So Ilya did what seemed logical.

The next night he went out. A club. KHL players he knew. The VIP section, where people gave him exactly what he deserved: shallow and empty admiration for the persona. For Ilya Rozanov, number 81, first draft pick, captain of the Russian team. Women threw themselves at him. Bar managers offered more bottles of the finest vodka. People who claimed they were friends with the great Ilya Rozanov knew nothing about him.

They did not know he liked pillow talk with a man covered in freckles. They did not know the woman his best friend loved had converted him to white-noise machines. They did not know that sometimes, when Iro's mother talked about his father, he saw the same look in Iro's eyes that he carried himself. They did not know they both understood.

They did not know Marleau knew all his favorite orders, and had probably figured out Shane and him but never said a word. They did not know he liked going to the movies to watch fast cars and horror films. They did not know Svetlana called him on his bullshit. That was the other Ilya. Boston Ilya. Jamaica Plain house Ilya. Shane's Ilya.

The Ilya who got to have Shane.

Ilya did not know when the woman appeared. He was dozing or dancing, maybe a glass in his hand. He had spent at least ten thousand dollars that night, buying rounds, making the nightclub find him sushi at two in the morning because he could ask and they did.

She danced close to him, her arms around his neck. Then she turned, grinding against him. Ilya kept dancing. He was there and not there. This is what, where, and who I am supposed to be. Not being held in a quiet room, fingers in his hair, being told he was the most beautiful man on earth.

So he separated himself. Let go of Boston Ilya. Because Shane was not here. Because this city was where, only two years ago, Shane had walked beside him. Because they could never have what Anita's mother and her clients had buffers and protections for. Because Svetlana and Anita had cover. It was a mirage this Moscow trip. And Boston Ilya was only a longer mirage.

Ilya let go. Accepted that this was the life he deserved. An empty one. A life of disappointment. A life where the only thing he could have was release, keeping people at a distance. People crowded around him. Ilya let his hand settle on the woman's waist. It felt strange. It had been more than two years since he had touched someone like this. The lack of muscle. The lack of Shane's strong body. The absence of hard abs beneath his palm. But still he let his hand travel upward.

Then he kissed her neck.

Everything was wrong. The smell was wrong—not seaweed and mint and expensive cream and Shane's fragrance. The sound she made was wrong. Her head did not fall back the way Shane's did. Her body did not lean into him the way Shane always had. Her fingers threaded through his hair the wrong way, not like Shane's, who always started at the nape of his neck before turning his head to kiss him and say, "Hi."

Ilya stepped back. And left.

The next morning, when he woke up to find the pictures and videos everywhere, he opened his messages with Shane. He was expecting missed calls, or cursing texts, but nothing, nothing. Only three texts.

Svetlana: What the actual fuck?! [picture]

Iro: I know the father shit and all, but that's fucked up, Ilya. [picture]

Marleau: Man don't over do it in Moscow

But nothing from Shane. He didn't write to Shane either.

The next day, nothing,

and the next day, nothing,

and the next day, nothing,

and the next day, nothing,

and it was time for him to get back to Boston. When he arrived at the house, filled with remorse, guilt, and still, because Ilya was griddy, all he wanted was to be welcome like a soldier caming back from the frontline, was for Shane to wrap him in his arms, take him to bed, pull the covers over them and tell stories, and kiss him, and then let Ilya press his body against Shane's, to have Shane tell him he would love him forever, never leave him.

Before putting the key in the lock, he inhaled and exhaled, fixed his cross, and put on the mask, the nonchalant mask.

Shane was in the living room.

"Hello," Ilya said.

"Sit," Shane said.

Ilya tried a bold move, tried to corner Shane, to go back to what he knew: physical contact, sex, but Shane pushed him away and made him sit.

"Missed me?" Ilya said.

"I did," Shane said, and stayed silent.

"It's about the picture. It's nothing. Didn't even kiss her on the mouth, Hollander, relax. Just dancing," Ilya said, trying to keep his composure, and then he saw Shane's eyes, the hurt in them. He did it, because it's what Ilya did. Hurt people. Better Shane knew it. He would leave, and Ilya would be alone, what he deserved.

"Did you sleep with her?"

"No, I told you, didn't even kiss her on the mouth." Now Ilya's voice was less assured.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you do it?"

"I was just in a club, having fun. You know, fun. Not a big deal."

"Is it? No big deal for you?"

"I didn't do anything," Ilya said, but the guilt in his voice could be heard.

"Oh fucking fantastic. I called you every day for four weeks. I told you I loved you every day. You told me you loved me. You said we were boyfriends, we were not seeing other people, but this," Shane said, showing the video on his phone, "this is not a big deal, Ilya?"

And the love, the softness usually in Shane's eyes, was gone. Now Shane's eyes were pure rage.

"I was drunk." A semi-lie, because he wasn't that drunk. "I'm sorry, okay?"

"Me too. I'm sorry. Sorry that I'm in love, gave everything I have in my heart to a fucking liar," Shane said, hard. It would have been easier for Ilya if he were yelling.

"I, I don't know what to say. I fucked up. I'm fucked up. This is this," Ilya said.

"This? You mean us living together? Us spending the last two years waking up together? Now it's this?" Shane said.

"I can't have it, Shane. It's not possible."

"Fuck, I can't believe it. You know when I saw it, I almost took a flight to Moscow, but then remembered I didn't have a visa and would kill you, and then I thought you would call, say sorry, explain yourself, but instead you treated me like I'm disposable, like shit."

"No, not you, me. I'm the one. I'm shit. I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Ilya said. Now everything hit him. Fuck, what had he done? He wanted to cry, or maybe he was already crying. Now he saw the possibility of Shane leaving, that he had broken his heart and Shane would leave him, but whether he could live without him was another question, and Ilya did not like the answer.

"Being sorry isn't enough, Ilya. You hurt me. And it's not like I don't know why you did it, but still."

"No, you don't know."

"Oh, you think I don't know? You think I don't know that you tried to push me away because you think you don't deserve to be happy, to have love? I know. And I tried, every day, to tell you I loved you more than anything, that you deserved me and everything, and you just did this."

"I didn't sleep with her. I didn't."

"It's worse. You just hurt me for nothing. Nothing."

"I'm sorry, Shane. Please," Ilya said, reaching for Shane's hand, but Shane pulled away and stood up.

"Either you want to be in this relationship or not. No stepping in or out," Shane said, leaving the living room.

"Are you leaving me?" Ilya said, pathetic, pleading.

"I'm going for a fucking walk. Can I have that? Walking? I can't look at you right now."

"Shane, please, we can talk."

"Fuck no. Six days fucking late to talk, Ilya. Call your friends and talk to them."

"Will you come back?"

"I live here, Ilya. We bought a house together. I told you I loved you and made a life with you, around you, and I'm not a liar," Shane said, and he left.

After Ilya spent an hour crying in the living room, he called Svetlana and was met with no coddling.

"You told him that? That it was nothing because it wasn't on the mouth, Ilya?"

"I didn't know what to say," Ilya said.

"Fuck, that's worse."

"I don't want to lose him, Sveta. It's Moscow. It's not good for me when I'm in that house. My brain tells me things."

"I know, I know, Ilya, but you need to take care of it, to talk to someone who isn't Shane, so you don't hurt yourself and him. You don't deserve this, and he doesn't either. That video was fucked up, Ilya. I would've killed you if I were in an exclusive relationship with you."

Shane came back three hours later. Ilya learned you could actually ghost someone while living with them. Wake up. Shower. Sleep in the same bed. Eat. Play games.

Shane even kissed him, but it was dulled. It was the worst, empty kisses. They had sex. Ilya gave everything, taking his time, trying to apologize with every touch, saying "I love you" through his hands and mouth, but Shane only moaned, didn't say it back, didn't hold him afterward. Their conversations were empty too. And because they were professionals, they played pre-season games, joylessly, but still locked in.

Shane went out every night with Anita and Iro, or sometimes with the team. Ilya went home every night, imposing self-punishment on himself.

And it went like this. They woke up, showered, and managed to be naked around each other. Shane made coffee in the morning. Ilya still made breakfast. Ilya still drove them to practice and picked up the mail.

At night, they slept in the same bed. Ilya would cuddle Shane, but instead of the strong grip Shane used to give, there was only a light hand. Usually unconscious in his sleep, Ilya would feel Shane reaching harder for him, his body remembering before his mind did, and Ilya took it.

On day 10, Ilya decided to go to a party where Rose Landry would be, along with Svetlana, Anita, and some of the guys from the team.

At the club named "Skyline", he sat in the VIP booth nursing his vodka. He had decided to cut back on drinking. The first hour went well, but then Shane moved to another dance section behind the bar. He was dancing with Rose and Anita at first, but Ilya lost track of him for a minute, distracted by the back-and-forth between St. Simon and Marleau about whether they had a chance with Rose Landry.

Ilya stood up to see where Shane was, and he saw him. He was still dancing close to Anita and Rose, but he was talking with a man, broad-shouldered, with long curly hair.

He was laughing, his head lowered, touching Shane's forearm, moving closer as they danced. They were still at a respectable distance, and then they danced closer. Shane was still out of sight of the rest of the team. The man said something in Shane's ear, and Shane turned and caught Ilya's eye. Ilya didn't move, couldn't move.

Surely Shane would stop and come to him. But he didn't.

Shane kept his eyes on Ilya and danced closer to the man, his back still brushing Rose's as she danced with Anita and Svetlana. Then the man reached for Shane's waist and moved closer. Ilya wanted to throw up and burn the place to the ground. Shane was still eyes on Ilya.

Now, Shane and the man were both in profile, and Ilya saw it in slow motion, their faces getting closer and closer. They were going to kiss. Shane was going to kiss this man. They came closer and closer, but at the last moment Shane lowered his head and looked back at Ilya. And Ilya exhaled as if someone had been choking him. Shane stepped away from the man, said something to Rose, kissed Anita and Svetlana on the cheek, and walked toward the exit.

Ilya couldn't move for a good fifteen minutes, and by the time he did, Shane was already gone. Ilya told Cliff he was heading out and had to wait another fifteen minutes to find a cab home. When he arrived home, Shane was in the living room, smelling like a fresh shower. He wasn't in pajamas but had a towel draped around his waist.

Ilya sat next to him on the couch and dropped his head into Shane's lap. "Shane, please, please come back to me. I'm so sorry. You need to forgive me." And he was sorry, more than sorry, but he couldn't live in the purgatory he was in. It had been sixteen days since he had heard Shane tell him he loved him. He was ready to do anything, everything.

Two days ago, he had been thinking about the time he told Anita, "This is some very utopian idea for utopian people," when she told him about her new venture around prison abolition and the idea that punishment wasn't restorative justice. If he knew anything now, he knew misery.

He had learned it. But he hadn't known how much he could suffer. Living with Shane was the worst part, a reminder every minute of what he had lost. That Shane hadn't kissed this man, not on the lips, not on the neck, and still Ilya had thought he would die. But he had kissed that woman on the neck. He had put his hand on her body.

Shane trailed his fingers through Ilya's hair.

"Get on your knees," Shane said.

Ilya did, and Shane kissed him, really kissed him, like before, and Ilya felt as if life had been poured back into his body. He moaned. He was already hard. He felt like he could have come from the kiss alone.

Shane unwrapped the towel from around his waist, revealing his erection. He spread his legs on both sides of Ilya and placed a hand behind Ilya's head, guiding him closer. Ilya took him in his mouth with a hunger he hadn't realized he possessed. It was supposed to be a slow, romantic reconciliation, but they couldn't manage it; it was filthy and intense. Shane said, "Yes, take it." Ilya went harder, spit everywhere, his hand gripping Shane's pec, Shane's hand on his. Shane let himself thrust into Ilya's mouth. "This is what you're good for, Ilya, taking me deep," Shane said. Ilya went faster, his own hand now on his cock.

He stopped to catch his breath for a moment, hoping he could finger Shane and fuck him, but Shane spread his legs even wider and put his heels on the couch. The position was obscene, Ilya’s heaven. "Where do you think you're going, Ilya? Eat," Shane said, now in the perfect position for Ilya to put his tongue on his hole. Ilya ate Shane, and the sounds Shane made let him forget everything: the club, the man, the neck—everything. "Fuck, Ilya, you're too good."

He licked, he pushed; he trailed up and down. Took one ball, and the second one. Shane cried out, "Fuck Ilya, fuck. Only you can give me this." Ilya did it again, more pressure with his tongue because yes, only I can give you this, sweetheart, don't leave me, I will give to you every day. He pushed his tongue inside Shane's hole, abandoning his own cock reach, open Shane more with both hands, all his face was moist. Feeling Shane shaking, he knew it was close. "Fuck I am coming, Ilya, fuck you're so good." Yes, come for me, my love, come.

And Shane came, all over his stomach. Ilya was still hard, and Shane was breathing heavily. Then he looked down. "Look at the mess you've made. Clean it," Shane said, and Ilya licked all of it up with precision and dedication, still stroking himself. When he finished, Shane looked down at him and kissed him, hungry and tender, his hand in his hair. "I love you," he said, and Ilya gasped—God, he had missed it. All Ilya could say was, "Say it again, say it again."

Shane bent more to Ilya, who was still on the floor, and wrapped his hand around Ilya's cock, still kissing him, now, face, neck. "I love you so much, you are beautiful, you are mine." Shane repeated, "I love you. I've only ever loved you. I love you, forever, Ilya. You are mine forever." Shane continued stroking him. Ilya was still on his knees on the floor between Shane's legs, saying, "Shane, I'm sorry. I love you. I will never do it again. I'm yours, please forgive me." Shane said, "I forgive you, Ilya. I love you. Come for me, Ilya."

And Ilya came, crying, "I love you."

And there, covered in cum, on his knees before Shane, at the altar of his love, a church he had willingly entered, he was absolved. All sins washed away. Every kiss from Shane, every whispered "I love you," fell over him like redemption.

For sixteen days he had wandered through his own private purgatory, carrying guilt like a penitent dragging chains behind him. He put his head on Shane's left, Shane's hands in his hair.

He had crossed to the other side. The sinner forgiven.

Born again.

Svetlana was  like                                               

                                                 .         

While Anita was like                

Chapter End Notes

I originally planned to end the chapter with the club scene, but I had already dropped a massive emotional brick at the end of the first chapter.

The first section of this chapter draws heavily from the readings listed below. Some of these works include interviews and focus groups with Asian men, and I found myself reworking many of those themes into the chapter.

There is a gap between my own beliefs about attraction, race, and desire and what appears in the story. Across my fiction, I usually try to push romance protagonists toward greater consciousness and political awareness without fundamentally transforming who they are. I think that, given his history, this is probably as far as Shane can go. In another genre I might have taken him further, but this story is already closer to drama than conventional romance. I also do not want this to become a social theory essay. In an academic piece, I would have written much more directly about attraction, race, sexual politics, whiteness, and what Da'Shaun Harrison calls "desire capital" in The Belly of the Beast.

Reading

Academic Books

A View from the Bottom: Asian American Masculinity and Sexual Representation by Nguyen Tan Hoang

Shock Therapy: Psychology, Precarity, and Well-Being in Postsocialist Russia by Tomas Matza

Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times by Jasbir K. Puar

Racist Love: Asian Abstraction and the Pleasures of Fantasy by Leslie Bow

Racial Erotics: Gay Men of Color, Sexual Racism, and the Politics of Desire by C. Winter Han

Suffer the Little Children: Genocide, Indigenous Nations, and the Canadian State by Tamara Starblanket

Asian Americans in an Anti-Black World by Claire Jean Kim

Journal Articles / Book Chapters

"No Fats, Femmes, or Asians: The Utility of Critical Race Theory in Examining the Role of Gay Stock Stories in the Marginalization of Gay Asian Men" by Chong-suk Han. Contemporary Justice Review, vol. 11, no. 1, 2008, pp. 11–22.

"They Don't Want to Cruise Your Type: Gay Men of Color and the Racial Politics of Exclusion" by Chong-suk Han. Social Identities, vol. 13, no. 1, 2007, pp. 51–67.

"Asian Girls Are Prettier: Gendered Presentations as Stigma Management Among Gay Asian Men" by Chong-suk Han. Symbolic Interaction, vol. 32, no. 2, 2009, pp. 106–122.

"The Racial Triangulation of Asian Americans" by Claire Jean Kim. Politics & Society, vol. 27, no. 1, 1999, pp. 105–138.

"Looking for My Penis: The Eroticized Asian in Gay Video Porn" by Richard Fung. In Asian American Sexualities, pp. 181–198.

"Asian Canadian Studies Now: Directions and Challenges" by Gordon Pon et al. In Asian Canadian Studies Reader, pp. 3–28.

"Cartographies of Violence: Creating Carceral Spaces and Expelling Japanese Canadians from the Nation" by Mona Oikawa. In Asian Canadian Studies Reader, pp. 103–128.

Chapter 3: Fathers

Chapter Summary

When he had been younger, Ilya had thought the problem was that his father had never wanted children. Now he understood the opposite. His father had wanted to have children. He had wanted to have sons. The way he had wanted medals on his uniform, the house, the accolades. He wanted to have them, to possess them. Being a parent had never interested him for its own sake. He had wanted sons as extensions of his own discipline, extensions of himself—satellites orbiting him, much like the Soviet Union's partner states in the Eastern Bloc: nominally autonomous, but never truly independent.

Maybe it would have been easier if his father had never wanted children at all. Then he would not have invested himself so completely in Ilya's life, following him relentlessly, calling after every match, every loss, every trophy—from the junior leagues to the MLH. What a life, Ilya had thought, wishing he had been the son of a deadbeat father while sitting stiffly beside the one he actually had.

Chapter Notes

thanks to my beta readers Witwandwolfbird, and Faithella

2013-2015

Life was good because, after the night at Skyline and the days that followed, when Shane and Ilya constantly made out, they found each other again, their commitment to each other stronger. They talked about their plan, not Shane's plan, but one that made sense for both of them: waiting for Ilya's citizenship, a small circle of people knowing, not hiding that they were close, and when the time came, this part Shane could not say, Ilya said, when his father's situation, without precision, Shane knew when, "March 2017", they would just soft launch their relation, only one interview, with one magazine, no PR, no post, just being photographed as a couple, they would let the MLH, team, and coaches know beforehand and after that they would not go back to it. Shane had said September was better because he knew he wanted to wait for Hunter's big gesture.

Life was good as Shane watched Ilya consistently attend sessions with his therapist, Lydia, a Russian-speaking therapist whom he had stuck with after accepting her suggestion that he start antidepressants. The beginning had been hard, but he adapted well to the medication and kept showing up to therapy, even if the sessions were exhausting. And Ilya changed managers to hire Farah.

Life was good because Shane made up an excuse to go to New York with Anita and hang out more with Scott and Carter.

Life was more than good because even after Sochi, Ilya didn't crash out or pull away. Instead, he carried the team to another Stanley Cup, winning their second championship in 2014, and Ilya won MVP.

Life was good because the cottage was ready in March 2014, the same, except for a small addition: a sauna for Ilya.

Life was good—until that night at the cottage, one week after the 2015 MLH Awards. Shane found him sitting alone on the deck at two in the morning. Shane joined him, and Ilya buried his face in Shane's neck. Ilya cried, "I don't want to go to Russia, Shane."

***

January 2017

It was a first for Ilya: an ashes ceremony. It was for Iro's father; they were due in Tampa for the All-Star Game in two days. Still, Shane and Ilya flew to California, joined by Damian, Anita, and Svetlana, to stand on a beach with Iro and his mother and spread his father's ashes. No discourse and no last words. Iro's mother gently tapped him on the shoulder and said something in his ear. After that, they went to a restaurant his father loved: a small mom-and-pop taco truck. They drove back to the large Airbnb they had rented for the weekend; Iro drove them and stayed a little while, and, at some point, he sat alone on the sofa while the others buzzed among themselves outside. Ilya came to sit next to him.

"Are you okay?"

"I guess. I don't know. It just finished. Now I have to clean the mess I made," Iro said, and the mess was not small. Iro had left three months ago when he learned that his father was in the final stage of cancer; he left the day after announcing it to Damian, with no more explanation about how long he would stay, just saying he needed to be there. One week became one month; Iro sent short updates about his life: the small island where his father had his small bookshop and tea shop, which helped him. The people he met. Shane and Ilya checked in with Damian; they weren't close, but they could still imagine one leaving the spot without a date of return. Damian was there today, and Iro would be back in Boston, where he had left his life.

"He wasn't even nice to me," Iro said, breaking the silence, and Ilya knew what he meant; he wasn't nice, even if he did this big gesture. This was among the many things Ilya had learned over the past year. The main thing they did not tell Ilya was that healing and confronting your trauma would, at some point, make the known unbearable. It was what made him cry alone when Shane had found him that night in 2015, two weeks before leaving for Moscow.

At this point, he had been in therapy for two years: a long road behind him, a long road ahead. He had wanted to quit multiple times: when Lydia suggested pills, when the pills had resulted in a two-month dry spell, when they uncovered his underlying anger with his mother and the statue of a saint he had elevated her into, his tendency to run toward sabotage, or even suspecting something would go wrong with Shane. Still, in general, he could tell he was a different person. And that means he was different when he went back to Moscow; the house was more unbearable. He had been used to Alexei's comments and his father's disappointment, but now, living in Boston, surrounded by love, by friends, by teammates, even while living in the closet, the gap felt like a descent into an abyss.

The distance that he had built with Shane helped slowly; when Shane made sure to be close every time Alexei called, an arm wrapped around Ilya's head on his chest, a grounding presence, calming, reminding him he was there. "You don't have to answer or look at his calls when you're not ready for it," Shane had told him.

"But what if you have an emergency with my father?"

"I think you should call back, but on your own terms, and maybe when you go back, find someone else, someone less..."

"Less, Alexei."

"Yes."

"I..." he added. He placed Alexei on the restraint list; he could see his missed calls but not the calls themselves. "Why do you feel the urge to answer if you know how and why he would talk to you?" Lydia had asked him, and the only thing was guilt, but also the pull to replay a dance that they knew: Alexei yelling, Ilya yelling, neither of them able to yell at the person they wanted, their father.

He now limited his conversations with Alexei to text messages; he was still answering his father. But now, he was not waiting for Alexei to call; he was the one choosing when to call Alexei, always when Shane wasn't far away. His favorite was when he put the phone on speaker, his head on his chest, Shane's hand in his hair, tracing small circles, and nothing Alexei could say stuck, like it was not sent back into the house, the memories, the multiple layers of resentment. Alexei must have realized he needed to change tactics because, even after a humiliating defeat in Sochi, he stopped randomly calling to ask for money with insults and started sending texts instead.

Before heading to Sochi, Ilya started looking for someone to take care of his father, someone other than Alexei and Polina. He found one of his cousins, Veronika, a nurse returning from Helsinki. Before heading back to the US and being showered with insults and reprimands from his father over the loss, he had planned everything with Veronika, with Svetlana's help. Veronika, the daughter of his father's brother, had moved back to Moscow after four years in Finland, where she had finished nursing and was looking for a job. The family had asked if maybe Ilya could help with his connections.

He offered her a job caring for his father full-time, even if his father's condition was not bad enough to require it, because Ilya did not want to deal with Alexei. And to his surprise, even his father did not want to deal with Alexei, because Ilya was the one his father had listed as having medical power of attorney. Veronika was family, so it was acceptable to present her to his father and Polina. She was a nurse; it was more than acceptable. Grigori could present it as him caring for his beloved brother's legacy, who had been a government military man. He, of course, did not miss the occasion to berate Veronika's mother's family as ungrateful.

Svetlana helped him rent an apartment for Veronika, a ten-minute walk from the house, and Ilya made sure to introduce her to all the doctors by phone. He had only two days after Sochi and needed to stop in Moscow before returning to Boston to do this, but it was both necessary and worth it, all thanks to Shane's planning. Shane, whom he could not talk to or interact with in Sochi outside of meetings with other teammates. Shane had told him he should buy a computer with Skype and a webcam, as he needed a way to video call his father, and there was no need for Alexei. And Svetlana, with the help of her father's contacts, found Ilya a spot in a very expensive, exclusive private clinic, which, unlike Alexei's, didn't send messages saying, "I need [insert outrageous amount]," but instead had an online portal with notes and invoices.

Ilya thought it would be much more difficult to make his father accept this situation without calling it shameful to be cared for by someone else, not his sons.

"Maybe you should do something for his image. You said he's very proud and nationalist. You know, smooth things over," Shane had said.

"He'll never be proud of me."

"I know, but if you do something for him to get recognition or be proud of himself, he might forget about Veronika."

The idea came from Iro. "Nothing a pervert narcissist father loves more than seeing their name attached to something that represents values they don't have," he had said, talking about his father giving money in Japan to support father-son initiatives.

Ilya smoothed things over with his father beforehand by giving 50,000 USD to the hockey team in Grigori's hometown for scholarships for both male and female players. The school director, mayor, and sports officials were all present for a very official ceremony. Ilya went with Grigori and Veronika; he did not invite Alexei. The grant was named after Anastasia Rozanov, Ilya's paternal grandmother. Ilya loved her. She had been tender—the opposite of his grandfather. It seemed that Rozanov men had a type: tender women whom they spent their lives destroying. Hopefully, Alexei would be the last.

His father had been beside himself, showered with compliments from officials—the kind he cherished most. They praised him for having a son who was carrying on the legacy. In his father's eyes, Ilya saw the closest thing he could ever expect to acknowledgment. Not gratitude—his father expected him to do these things; they were his duty. But Ilya could see that, contrary to the draft or the MLH, his father was only Ilya's father, not his entire world. Part of Ilya had wanted to give that to his father. One last victory. One last picture of respectability and order. Grigori would probably forget the moment itself, but he would keep the photograph framed somewhere in the house. At the ceremony, surrounded by officials—some in uniform, some former colleagues—his father could indulge in what had never held any value in the MLH or in Ilya's world. They spoke about Russian values, lamented the younger generation's lack of loyalty, and, with practiced false humility, accepted the sympathy of former statesmen whose own children had scattered across Europe and North America.

"They don't even earn money like your son," one of them had said. "They just spend ours with their American friends. They don't care about Russia."

Grigori had answered with quiet pride disguised as modesty. "We started early to instill a sense of duty to the Party. Discipline."

It had been less a thank-you to Ilya than a vindication of Grigori's parenting. Even more so when another man, glancing at Ilya and Svetlana, sighed, "I don't even know if I'll have Russian grandchildren."

When he had been younger, Ilya had thought the problem was that his father had never wanted children. Now he understood the opposite. His father had wanted to have children. He had wanted to have sons. The way he had wanted medals on his uniform, the house, the accolades. He wanted to have them, to possess them. Being a parent had never interested him for its own sake. He had wanted sons as extensions of his own discipline, extensions of himself—satellites orbiting him, much like the Soviet Union's partner states in the Eastern Bloc: nominally autonomous, but never truly independent.

Maybe it would have been easier if his father had never wanted children at all. Then he would not have invested himself so completely in Ilya's life, following him relentlessly, calling after every match, every loss, every trophy—from the junior leagues to the MLH. What a life, Ilya had thought, wishing he had been the son of a deadbeat father while sitting stiffly beside the one he actually had.

After Veronika was installed in her role, Alexei's requests for money went from Father's medicine to his daughter's school, summer program, clothes, and activities, but the amount could not be the same. Ilya, with the help of a therapist, had decided to set up a limit; he could not bring himself to cut off his brother because he was still the one closest to their father, even with Veronika there. He set up a recurring 3,000 USD monthly payment, did not answer Alexei's phone calls, angry voice messages, or text messages. He knew that if something happened to his father, Veronika would let him know.

All this peace of mind and stability resulted in one unexpected thing: Moscow seemed gloomier. Before, the expectation of being verbally berated and abused in his father's house had never been a question. It was simply something he braced himself for, like entering a place with contaminated air. He put on the best mask he could, knowing he would still be infected, just not fatally, like the men he had seen in documentaries who entered Chernobyl on a mission.

Returning was more difficult, returning to what? The more therapy he had, the less guilt he had; the less will he had to prove himself to Alexei or Grigori. He wanted to go back to see friends because he loved Moscow as a city, but there was no Moscow without his father's house. His father's house was the pit where all of himself was meant to die.

The year before, Shane, always with a plan, had tried to mitigate it by renting a house on Martha's Vineyard. They stayed there one week before he left for Moscow; he loved the house so much that he bought it for them. Shane had told him he could stay for a shorter trip and waited for him at the cottage, where they had a magnificent three weeks.

But this year, even the thought of going was unbearable. Living with Shane had kept Ilya in a constant high; he became obsessed with mail, their names on envelopes. If Ilya almost closed his eyes while looking at a letter, both of their names could, in illusion, be on the same line: Hollander-Rozanov. But his mind was going places it should not go. He was still a Russian citizen, living with Shane. Being on the same team was a gift from God; he could not want more.

But he wanted more, because now, whenever they were out with their teammates—the ones who were not in on the secret of their relationship—all he wanted was to be home, or with their other friends who knew. He wanted Shane touching him, kissing his cheek, like during the long weekend they spent at the cottage in April 2014 with Iro, Svetlana, Anita, Zahra, Marleau, Hayden, JJ, Jackie, and Pike's children. For Ilya, it had been a fortunate coincidence that Hayden was due to spend 10 days with his parents. He had made sure to look sad about it, though Shane had not been convinced.

The last night, they were in bed when Shane had said casually, though not casually:

"It would be a better investment if we had an LLC, you know."

"Mr. Businessman," Ilya said.

"I mean, you could put this house, the cottage, the house in Martha's Vineyard in it, and it would belong to both of us, and even other things," Shane said.

"You want things to be both of us."

"Yes, I want that, and I also want more," Shane said.

"More like what?"

"You know, if I have an accident or something, that you're the one they call."

"You're my emergency contact already, Shane."

"Yes, and you're mine too, but it's not the same. Like if a big decision had to be made, or something happened."

"Not your parents?"

"I love my parents, but I'm an adult, and I want to share my life with you. You know me differently."

Ilya didn't know when Shane got so much faith in him, wanting him to be the one making the call for important decisions. All he could say was, "Okay," and try not to cry.

A few weeks later, Hollanov Inc. was created, and powers of attorney were signed mutually for both of them. Behind closed doors, and legally, they were something. They were everything. They had proof.

So all the planning, therapy, and changes Ilya had done led him to one sentence. "I don't want to go to Moscow," Ilya had said.

Shane let him cry.

"You don't have to if you don't want to, but do you think you'll regret it?"

"I don't know. It's bad. The house is bad. Even in my apartment, it's bad. Not, you know, partying, drinking, sex to forget. And Svetlana doesn't stay as long now. She's vacationing with Anita. And more and more of the friends I have left have no jobs. Bad political situation."

"Maybe you don't have to stay seven weeks. You can go for one week to see your father and Veronika and deal with things, and we can meet somewhere, only you and me, so you'll have something to look forward to."

"I would like that, but it's my life, Shane. It's... I don't know, empty," Ilya said.

He felt Shane tense; the hand in his hair stopped.

"What do you mean?"

"I have you, hockey, friends, and houses, but you have other things. With Iro and Anita. Me, I just party and go to Russia and spend money on cars," Ilya said.

Because Shane had, over the last year, started, with Anita and Iro, investing through Hollanov Inc. and money from Anita's parents and brother in a literary coffee shop named Babel. It was a medium-sized space, a well-designed coffee shop during the day, a wine bar at night, and a bookstore, with three full-time employees, a manager, and events. It was already considered one of the cool spots in Boston. Anita had installed her writing office there on the mezzanine.

Shane had started a series, Books and Sports. He wasn't the one presenting, but he promoted it, and a professional player would come talk with the author of a book about their sport. It was well attended. Zahra organized mutual aid for queer asylum seekers, where pro bono lawyers and law students helped them file their cases.

The truth was that Ilya's mind was clearer, less busy with family problems, money demands from Alexei, lovelessness, and depression managed through pills and a space to talk every week in therapy. The life of a twenty-four-millionaire felt shallow. Not when he was with his teammates, but every time he was at an event at Babel or talking to Zahra, he felt like he wasn't doing enough, that he should do more. Shane, even without wanting to be out front, was doing so many things. Iro's youth program on queer and trans history at Babel every month. Hollanov Inc.'s investment in the Boston team of the National Women's Hockey League.

Ilya always said yes to Shane's business ideas because he ended up thinking Shane had some psychic ability for knowing what was about to happen.

"You should invest in this startup," Shane would say, and a year later they would make multiples of their investment. Shane had them merge everything into a single investment account, and with Farah and Yuna in Ilya's corner, his bank account flourished.

"You're already helping, like Zahra's initiative," Shane said.

Through Shane, Ilya had donated, unable to do so publicly, to Zahra's new program helping queer asylum seekers in the US and Canada from countries with anti-LGBT laws like Russia. Zahra had become the face of the initiative. She now worked for a queer nonprofit focused on queer and trans migrant advocacy and was causing a major stir in Russian media, which wanted to strip her of her Russianness because she was not a "true Russian" because she was Black, while also insisting that racism only existed in America, like queerness.

"What would you like to do?" Shane asked.

"I don't know. I want to participate in changing people's lives the way you changed mine, like Zahra is doing, small or big, but not just signing a check. Though I'll still be signing a check."

"Okay, we can think about it together. We can make a list, so you have something to think about if you go to Moscow. Let's go to bed now," Shane said, taking his hand.

"Sit," he had told him, pointing to the bed.

Ilya removed his boxer briefs. Shane was already lying on the bed, enjoying the view. Ilya stroked himself; Shane moved, crawled to Ilya, who was still standing, and Ilya stopped him. "No. I'll take care of you." Then Ilya dropped to his knees next to the bed and took Shane in his mouth. Shane moaned, "Ilya." Ilya didn't go fast; he took his time, his hand on Shane's stomach, reaching for his pec. Shane fell back on the mattress. After 15 minutes of this slow pace, "I'm going to cum," he said, so Ilya stopped. "Not yet. I'm going to fuck you," Ilya said, standing.

Shane sat on the bed, and Ilya reached for his head. Shane took him in his mouth, and he devoured him. He tried to reach for his own cock, but Ilya stopped him. "You're so good, Shane, so good to me." Ilya pulled out and reached for the lube on the nightstand. "Lie on the bed. I want to see you. I'm going to fuck you slow."

Ilya went back to Shane, played with Shane's rim with his tongue, and slid in a finger. "Ohh, Ilya, more, give me more."
Ilya put in a second finger. "Be loud for me, Shane."

"Yes, Ilya, I like it, I want more." He was breathing hard. Ilya put on the condom with one hand and placed himself at Shane's entrance, pushing his knee up. He entered slowly. "I am ready, Ilya, come all the way, please," and he pushed. One thrust and Shane screamed, "Oh fuck." He did what he had promised; it was slow but still deep and hard. He kissed him on the neck, earlobe, mouth, and cheek.

"Talk to me, Shane."

"It's so good, you are so good. I love you, Ilya."

Ilya would never get tired of those words, hearing them every day, reading them in text messages, and now facing Shane, inside of him, smelling his sweat, tasting him. All of this, he would have to leave it for the summer, to go back to his family's misery, to a man who despised him, a country that could not know who he was; he wanted to cry, to kiss him, and break something all at once. "I don't want to let you go. I love you." Ilya said, now going faster.

"Mark me," Shane breathed. Ilya kissed him hard, creating hickeys on his chest and neck. Ilya accelerated his pace toward the end, still talking, reclaiming words to Shane, telling him how good he was, how good he was taking it. They came together, sweating and panting.

Shane looked up at him with glassy eyes, "I love you," and Ilya buried his face in his neck, "I love you so much."
"Me too."

"I don't want to go."

"But you have to, because you're a good son."

A few days later, Ilya went to Moscow only for 10 days this time; when he met Shane in Helsinki, they were more cautious than in a non-hockey country, but they spent a week there, mornings stretching into coffee, afternoons into long walks with no real plan. They tried the saunas, the one by the water everyone talked about, and smaller, quieter ones. Ilya thought the ones in Russia were better. They wandered through Teurastamo, stayed out late in Kallio, moving from one bar to another, and one morning they ended up in the Oodi library. They took many photos to send to their friends."I wanted to do something for kids, not small kids, like teenagers or preteens who don't have the same opportunities," Ilya said, lying naked with Shane on him.

"That sounds great. You would be great at it. Like what?"

"Hockey, it's what I know how to do."

"We can have a foundation, do summer camps, and we can give money to an organization for mental health, for example."

"Yes, yes, this."

"But I want not only rich kids at the summer camp, but I also want kids who can't afford it."

"Okay, maybe we can have two branches, one for summer camp where people are paying a lot of money, and the other one, something for kids all year, and then join the summer camp with a scholarship," Shane said.

"How can we do it?"

"I'm sure my mom would be happy to set it up and make it run, and maybe Svetlana would like to be involved too, you know, for organizing a gala and things like that."

And Shane always kept his promises to Ilya. Sometimes Ilya was still scared to want too much, ask too much. He would look at him, but Shane always gave him more, would stare back and say something ridiculously romantic, like the night he said, "I can't fucking believe it."

Ilya had asked what. He was on top of him.

"That the most beautiful and hot man that exists is mine."

And Ilya had blushed so hard and hidden his face in Shane's neck before kissing him. Shane told him, "I love you." Shane always and often said it. He was annoying on purpose, sat on his lap, and let his guard down with Shane.

The year after their Helsinki vacation, "I'm gonna sleep for two weeks," Shane had said when they passed through the door of the cottage, three hours after landing at Ottawa Airport from Ibiza, where they had gone for one week after Ilya's short trip to Moscow to see his father.

It had been the most eventful summer of Ilya's life because, of course, Shane had transformed the conversation they had had one year before, him crying, into something, something that mattered, but also something that Ilya had put time and effort into independently. Ilya was following what he called the "Do the Right Thing" approach. (He had to admit that dinosaur Scott Hunter was living in the best MLH city, even with no Cup since forever, the city with the best people like Spike Lee.)

In June, it was the first summer camp of the Irina Foundation in Boston before going to Shane's hometown, Ottawa. The Irina Foundation, as with everything about Ilya and Shane, was always Hollander and Rozanov; people talked about them as a unit, so the announcement had been seen as an extension of their chemistry on the ice, chemistry that had brought a legacy to Boston: the Foundation and their third Stanley Cup. When they announced the Foundation, ESPN dubbed it "Big Heart Hollanov."

Yuna oversaw all operations from Ottawa. The Foundation bought a small building and had an office for the Foundation in Boston, run by Jody Horn, a retired NWHL player, with a small team of four people, including Svetlana, who oversaw special events, meaning all the fancy, glamorous side, and she did.

The opening gala was lavish and held in Boston. Rose came, and with her, much of the mainstream press. Allegedly, Shane dumped Anita for Rose, and allegedly, Carter Vaughn wanted his head, even though Carter, Scott, and half of the Admirals came to the gala. J.J. and Hayden were there too. Many Premier Hockey Federation and National Women's Hockey League players came along, with the Foundation board, staff, and other players from the league. Ilya's brother sent messages and voice notes full of anger about Ilya's use of their mother's name. His father made one call, but forgot about it most of the time. They had the first hockey summer camp in June.

The Foundation had a summer hockey camp, but the main program, Ilya's baby, was year-long: the Wolfbird Program.

The first year of the Wolfbird Program had been funded 60 percent through a donation from Ilya, with the remaining costs covered by grants and municipal tax incentives. The program welcomed children between the ages of three and seven, with tuition determined on a sliding scale based on household income. For some families, it was completely free, while the highest monthly fee was less than $300.

"If you only use a sliding payment scale and first-come, first-served registration," she had told him, "you'll mostly attract middle-class families. The people who need the program the most either won't hear about it or they'll assume it isn't really for them. And there are already organizations doing this work. Don't reinvent the wheel."

Instead of creating a new outreach network from scratch, Miriam had proposed partnering with trusted community organizations across Greater Boston, especially in lower-income neighborhoods and surrounding cities. Those organizations already had long track records of working with children and families. They would recommend children for the program, and whenever applications exceeded the available spots, admission would be decided by lottery rather than subjective criteria, ensuring fairness and avoiding bias.

The approach had won support from the Boston Sports Commission, the mayor's office, and several neighboring municipalities, helping secure additional grants. Those funds paid for transportation, recognizing that many parents worked long hours and could not spend afternoons driving their children to practices and games.

By the end of the first year, the Wolfbird Program had fielded six teams—girls' and boys' teams at the U10, U12, and U14 levels—creating one of the largest affordable youth hockey development programs in the Boston metropolitan area.

Ilya had himself supervised the hiring of the head coach, a top professional from an all-women's team. The summer camps were a success, and the start of Wolfbird's first season was promising.

Sitting next to Iro, Ilya was thinking about all what he learned to detach himself from his family. Iro, was the one  who understood his relationship with his father the most, and in some way Ilya and Iro dealt with their fathers the same way. But Iro had been there for his father, unlike Ilya. Iro had left everything, taken a flight to Japan to be with of his dying father, while Ilya was still in Boston, also with a dying father in the other side of the world. Veronika's notes were not encouraging. Every week brought a new problem in top of dementia: blood pressure, arrhythmia, and bones. Now Grigori spent more time in his hospital bed. His bedroom looked more like a hospital room than the bedroom Ilya had never felt comfortable entering.

"I am sorry," Iro said next to him.

"For what?"

"You know, I hoped I could tell you. Oh yeah, at the end, he said something huge, meaningful: 'I loved you, I was wrong, I regret it, that it was different.' But you know what he told me that was meaningful and true?"

"What?"

"He told me that he did not know me, that he did not know who I was," Iro said.

Ilya stayed silent.

"But it was true. How could he? He just knew that I liked books, maybe because of him, that I was gay, but he didn't want to talk about it, and that I left my life, my fiancé, and he was just like, 'I didn't tell you to come. Leave me alone.'"

"Did you regret going?"

"No. I'm sad for the kid that I was, but I am not a kid anymore, so I'm gonna be okay, I think."

"Yes, you have family and friends; we are here. You're not alone."

"Thank you, but you know, when it's your time, there's nothing we could have done. It is what it is," Iro said.

Iro's head dropped onto Ilya's shoulder, both looking nowhere in particular, two sons haunted by a dead and a dying father, who had spent good chunks of their adult lives hoping to be loved back, building confidence and excellence out of spite, but still in domains that their fathers respected, to have proximity, yet never reaching closeness. Two sons with fathers on other continents, after crossing many borders to feel something, even small, only to find out that their fathers' love remained the most foreign territory of their lives.

"It is what it is," Ilya said, lowering his head to Iro's head.

Chapter End Notes

Chapter note:

As a proud member of CUF Club (Children of Useless Father Club), happy belated Father's Day.

Reading

"Fathers and patriarchs" by Sergei Kukhterin in Gender, state and society in Soviet and post-Soviet Russia, Routledge, 2012. 71-89.

The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love, by bell hooks

The Brothers Karamazov, by Fiodor Dostoievski

The revolution will not be funded: Beyond the non-profit industrial complex by INCITE!, Women of Color Against Violence.

“ICE Threw Thousands of Kids in Detention, Many For Longer Than Court-Prescribed Limit” by Anna Flagg and Shannon Heffernan, The Marshall Project