Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

M/M, Multi

Fandoms:

Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Hayden Pike, Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry

Additional Tags:

Original Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Time Travel, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Protective Shane Hollander, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, Anal Sex, 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, i wrote this instead of writing a book, Team Same Desk, 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, Angry Sex, 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

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Inspired By... Hollanov

Collections:

These are the stories and series that I have at least reread twice., Alidesidero's Hollanov Hall of Fame, my personal wonderland, I need sunshine ☀️🏒 ~ Heated Rivalry (Game Changers) fics, Here is where all the spiritual level fics reside., AHRFC

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-27 Completed: 2026-06-11 Words: 71,851 Chapters: 12/12

Future Tense

Summary

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

want:
Ilya
Stanley Cups
Awards

not doing:
Dissociating
Making myself small to make others comfortable
Waiting ten fucking years

Watching the clock, the time he had been waiting for was finally there.

Time to remind Ilya where the smoking area was."

Or

In 2021, Shane and Ilya are sent back to 2008. And they are determined to do it better this time.

Notes

Note:
Inspired by So It’s Gonna Be Forever by Lila_Mac and many AU time-travel stories, but mainly by the TV show Travelers, which shows that even with technology and knowledge of the future, human feelings, relationships, and desire can still derail the best plan. I placed the story a few months after the wedding; at this point, they haven’t had much time together, and major disagreements, fights, and drift are inevitable. HEA !!

All the smut in this fic have been written by Alidedisero

No beta reader for this first chapter, sorry for any mistakes.

• Inspired by so it's gonna be forever by Lila_Mac

Chapter 1: Snowstorm

Chapter by Rebo758

Chapter Notes

✨️ Edited 04/02/2026: new polished version thanks to EvenCoal. They did fantastic proofreading, corrected tense shifts, and flagged other confusing parts that I then corrected.
Good time for a re-read.

December 23, 2021 / Quebec

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 wind, 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, with the Pikes. Ilya with Svetlana and Marlow, and Shane with 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, 2008  /  Saskatchewan

Ilya woke from the worst kind of migraine, the kind that announced concussion protocol and maybe weeks off the ice. Last night had been strange. That snowstorm had been something else. He couldn’t believe some people still didn’t believe in the climate crisis. But why did his head hurt so much? He had been drinking tea on the sectional, with Shane warm and close beside him, before the noise and the light… and after they… after they…Fuck. He couldn’t remember what happened next. He couldn’t remember anything.

He didn’t open his eyes at first. His brain began noticing: no natural light on his face, unlike every morning at the cottage with its floor-to-ceiling windows; the sheets were not soft and luxurious like the Egyptian cotton Shane used in all their homes; and the bed did not smell like them: the mix of Ilya and Shane, aftershave, deodorant, sweat. When he finally opened his eyes, he was not at the cottage. He was in a hotel room. The strangest part was not that he was somewhere else, but that he somehow knew this room. He turned, and on the other queen bed, Sergei Tchernovanov was sleeping, a much younger version of the Tampa Russian defenseman.

Ilya was strangely calm. His first thought: a vivid dream, one of the ones in which you are aware that you’re dreaming. He liked those dreams. Sometimes he tried to hack them, flying, saying things, but they never lasted and were always strange. This one was stranger. Too material. Too embodied. He reaches for his phone. Again, too material. Ordinarily, he could never read in dreams, which always frustrated him. His phone was not the brand-new iPhone 13 he had bought three months ago--blue for him, black for Shane--but the first iPhone. He had been ecstatic to be an early user when it came out in 2007, when Svetlana had brought one for him. He checked the date. It was that day. The day when, after months of watching videos of Shane Hollander, obsessing over the Canadian prodigy who could take his spot as first in the draft, he met him.

Ilya still did not panic. He entered the bathroom, closed the door, turned on the light, kept his eyes shut, stood before the mirror, and opened his eyes. Then he panicked.

It was him. 2008 him. Smoother skin, real teeth instead of veneers, fuller hair. He removed his T-shirt, his body too: fewer scars, less muscle, less broad, slightly shorter. He checked his phone again. Many news apps were missing. Facebook--2008.

Ilya panicked, but not for the reasons most people would. He did not spiral about time travel being impossible. Ilya had always been inclined toward esotericism. What terrified him was the feeling he had carried all through those later years, the 2010s, the fear he had worked through in therapy: being ripped from what he believed he did not deserve, what he could never have, love from Shane, friends, teammates, in-laws, or people in Russia. Of course, something had to go wrong. Back to this hotel room. Back eventually to his sick and dying father, to his cruel brother.

Not even six months of having Shane. Every day, coming home after practice, after games. Traveling together. Restaurants. Holding hands. Their homes, plural. Planning vacations. Dinners with friends and family. Everything reduced to only a dream. So maybe that was it, not time travel, but the last decades were just a long dream of what he could never have.

Ilya leaned on the sink and felt something close to muscle memory, in body and mind, bringing back Galina’s words:

Breathe in, breathe out. I deserve love. I deserve to be happy. I am worthy of love. Not everyone leaves.
Breathe in, breathe out. I love Shane. Shane loves me.
Breathe in, breathe out. I can sit in uncomfortable feelings and process them.

And slowly, the thought formed:

I have to find Shane.
I will find Shane.
I will do it again. Better. Not only with Shane, but with my friends, with Russia, with Father, with Alexei, with my niece. Closure.

He looked at himself in the mirror.

You did not ruin it the first time, but it was a close call. You will not this time.

He knew where he was supposed to be next. He left the room, armed with a cigarette and a dream.

***

In Building B of the same hotel, where the Canadian team was lodging, Shane--who had woken two hours earlier--was also locked in his bathroom, phone in hand, scrolling endlessly after surviving a full anxiety attack.

His mind had gone from this is a Truman Show–style prank to I am in a coma. He had come to accept it: 2008, the day he met Ilya, and the day he lost the International Prospect Cup’s gold medal. 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.

He was not euphoric. 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, a few weeks each summer. And this, in the best-case scenario, if he could speed up their idiotic communication-skill 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 in 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—not 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 perfection, being the golden boy, would not protect him. The truth: 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 others had. The others, the less good, the not prodigies like Shane or Ilya, the deep-shit players like Comeau, or Drapeau, the fifteenth-best players-- they have/had it:  Cups, wives/girlfriend(s) multiples and sometimes simultaneously, friends, 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 rival, certainly not rival, but at least he wanted to play on a team that is a serious contender to Ilya's. He remembers the thrill of playing against and with Ilya. He remembers 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:

 want:
Ilya
Stanley Cups
Awards

not doing:
Dissociating
Making myself small to make others comfortable
Waiting ten fucking years

Watching the clock, the time he had been waiting for was finally there.

Time to remind Ilya where the smoking area was.

***

Ilya saw Shane approaching. He was smoking a cigarette not for life canon-compliant reasons, but because he needed a cigarette; he had already smoked two.

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 two cigarettes and walked over at the third. 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 managed to get back to himself and said what he recalled having said the first time: “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.” Unlike the first time, Ilya did not stare at him. He immediately took Shane’s hand to shake it.

Ilya did not want to wait. He needed to touch him, even if it was only a handshake. He lingered a little bit, maybe five seconds that felt like thirty, eyes on Shane.

Shane did not remove his hand.

Their eyes locked.

Shane whispered, “Ilya.”

And Ilya answered, “Shane.”

Chapter 2: La Dolce Vita

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane are making a plan in Italy. Very Passolini meets Fellini vibes

Chapter Notes

This chapter was made possible thanks to alidesidero who wrote all the smut!

✨️ Edited 04/02/2026: new polished version thanks to EvenCoal. They did fantastic proofreading, corrected tense shifts, and flagged other confusing parts that I then corrected.
Good time for a re-read.
 

I am a scholar and a leftist. This entire fic, and this chapter in particular, deals with questions of identity, race, class, and citizenship in relation to structures of power, not simply within a “love is enough” bubble. In this chapter, I really wanted to emphasize that Ilya, who becomes a millionaire and comes from a family connected to the Russian government, had a difficult childhood. But that does not erase the structural advantages of money, fame, and proximity to power. Those advantages shape the constraints and possibilities of his choices.

I do not believe everyone has to be an activist...BUT... I do believe that once someone is out, visible, and publicly supported, remaining silent is also a political position. I believe in second chances. The political evolution of Russia between 2008 and 2017, particularly in terms of authoritarianism and repression of civil society, changed the stakes of visibility. In this version of events, Ilya chooses to be more present in the community and more accountable. As Frantz Fanon wrote, “Each generation must, out of relative obscurity, discover its mission, fulfill it, or betray it.”

Major thanks to the people in the subreddit who helped me with hockey rules. Please suspend your disbelief in some parts regarding draft rules and college sport regulations. Some liberties were taken for the sake of the plot. I really like HR and Game Changer, but, in Victoria’s voice in The White Lotus, “I just don't think at this age I'm meant to live an uncomfortable life.” Some people became invested in real-life hockey because of the show. I knew absolutely nothing about hockey and had never had the slightest interest in it before. After reading about it in the news, I realized I actually prefer hockey in fiction. Since I am already invested in soccer and musical genres that are very man-centered so very problematic/violent (with plenty of different “-isms” involved) I cannot add another real-life fandom, who is in addition predomtly white, where I spend half the time being conflicted about the politics of it (league, player and fan), especially when many of the leading figures (cough team U.S.A olympic) involved do not care about your rights, or worse... Babe, already, trying to power through late-stage capitalism, pay rent, and live in the United States while the background noise increasingly includes the possibility of nuclear war. So fictional hockey it is.

At the end, you will find a short syllabus with the articles cited in this chapter.

Their eyes locked.

Shane whispered, “Ilya.”

And Ilya answered, “Shane.”

They both understood they couldn’t rush into each other’s arms in public, even though they both wanted to. So they stepped close, close enough to feel each other, but leaving just enough space for plausible deniability.

“We are together,” Shane said.

“We are,” Ilya answered.

“We can do it.”

“Better this time.”

“I love you.”

“Love you more.”

“Ilya, does it mean we died?"

“I don’t know.”

“But how are we both here… Oh my God, if we died, my parents, Hayden, Sveta, Rose, oh my god we died.”

“No, no, solyshko, we are here. It has not happened yet. It’s for us, a second chance. Doing better.”

“I don’t think time travel is real.”

“Magic, spirits, God, I don’t know. Something is real. We don’t need to understand everything. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I am here with you.”

“You are.”

Shane looked around. It’s 2008. The proliferation of cameras and phones is not as intense as in 2021. He quickly pressed a kiss to Ilya’s cheek. He did not reach for his lips, knowing there would be no restraint if they started slipping tongue.

“We need to talk,” Shane said.

“I am sharing a room. We are in the other building,” Ilya answered.

“Me too, but we can meet in my mom’s hotel room.”

Ilya looked at him indredulously.

Shane quickly followed, “She will be out for two hours. Let’s say an hour and a half. I will take her keys just to be sure, so she will have to call me before coming back.”

“Okay, Mr. Planning. Really hot, time traveler,” Ilya said.

Shane blushed. He would have done it all again, but God, he is happy that he can do it with this actualized version of Ilya.

“Stop it. 512. Take the stairs. In twenty minutes?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” Ilya said, brushing his hand against Shane’s.

Shane checked his phone for the third time in five minutes. Ilya was supposed to be there just about now. The nervous energy mixed with the endless anticipation coursing through Shane’s body was becoming almost unbearable. He paced the small hotel room, running his hands through his hair as he glanced toward the door every few seconds.

The soft knock on the door made Shane’s heart leap. He practically ran to open it, finding Ilya standing in the hallway with flushed cheeks (Russians don’t blush my ass) and curls in disarray. Ilya did not waste one second and dove through the door. There was not enough time, being surrounded by Yuna’s things was less than ideal. But he just did not care! He would make the most of every single second he can get with Shane.

They moved toward each other slowly, drawn by the invisible strings that kept them intertwined 13 years in the past and now here… When Ilya reached up to cup Shane’s face, his thumb brushing across his freckles, reminiscent of so many times before, Shane felt his breath catch.

"I love you," Ilya whispered, the words they'd exchanged countless times in another lifetime now hanging in the air between them.

"I love you more,” Shane replied, and then their lips met.

Their kisses were always a well choreographed dance, a perfect combination of knowledge of the other’s wants and needs, a devotion akin to obsession, and an endless orbit of love and rivalry. Now was no different. The kiss started gentle, almost reverent, but quickly deepened. Ilya devoured Shane as if they had not seen each other for months - not the couple of hours since they woke up. They stumbled backward toward the bed, hands roaming over shoulders and backs, familiar but also like a memory. Their younger bodies still have a ways to go to grow into themselves, not yet as bruised by the many years on the ice.

"Wait," Ilya said suddenly, his hands stilling on Shane’s shoulders. "Are you sure about... I mean, this is Yuna’s bed.” he cringed.

Shane nodded. it was even weirder for him but he would not be denied, not in this lifetime if he can help it. "Just this, just us. Please Ilya.." he said. Ilya's nonexistent defenses crumbled just like that.

Knowing that they will not be having each other fully, not like they want, their kisses turned downright filthy. Shane climbed onto the bed properly, straddling Ilya’s lap. The new position sent heat shooting through both of them, their cocks rock hard against each other through thin layers of fabric. Ilya’s hands settled on Shane’s hips while Shane started a slow grind. Shane could not help the moan as Ilya dug his nails into his ass, pushing their hips impossibly closer and turning the slow grind into a frantic rhythm.

Ilya trailed kisses down Shane’s throat,  "You're so beautiful, moya lyubov” he murmured against Shane’s collarbone. Shane felt the anxiety he felt in the bathroom drain out of him and surrender to Ilya. The friction between them was incredible, even through their clothes, but after having each other without any restraints for so long, it was just not enough. Shane pushed both of their waistbands, fumbling with their underwear to pull out their cocks. It was a little too dry, but they would have to make do. He would not risk bringing lube to his mother's hotel room for fuck's sake, literally.

"Here.." said Ilya, taking Shane's hand and spitting on it. For a second, they looked into each other's eyes, a ghost of a memory passing between them, but they did not stop. Shane was shameless in his urgency, starting to jerk them both off carelessly, completely out of his mind with all the possibilities spread in front of them.

“That's it, moy lyubimyy,” Ilya whispered, “look at how hard you got for me. Always ready for me.”

"Always.." Shane returned. He was dripping now, easing the frantic strokes. Ilya pulled his head with both of his hands, fingers gently cupping his face, but with a strong grip. He started kissing Shane a little more fiercely, now that they were chasing their pleasure together. Sucked his tongue and then reminded Shane who they are with a quick bite on his lower lip.

Shane's hand moved like a drug addict chasing his high. They were breathing together, the kiss lost all of its meaning and turned into mutual harsh breaths. In seconds, almost as a surprise, they came together. Their younger bodies were demanding the release. They sat there for a moment, letting it sink in, the pleasure giving them comfort...

Once they got their breathing under control, Ilya cleaned both of them up while peppering kisses all over Shane's face. Seeing Shane's 17-year-old face, once upon a time innocent and unaware of his effect on Ilya, was doing things to his already mushy heart. They moved to sit together on the couch before it got any weirder, being on Yuna's bed.

Ilya’s head on Shane’s lap on the couch, playing with his curls, placing a gentle kiss on his hair, smelling him. Technically, they were together yesterday at the cottage, but somewhere in his mind and body, he felt they had traveled miles and miles; something in him remembers a long journey in which Ilya was not there.
“I am so happy you are here. The future you,” Shane said.

“Me too," Ilya paused, raised his head, and turned to Shane. "I would have seduced you all over again. I would have told you I love you sooner.”

“How soon?”

“Before Rose. Hmm, no. After my Stanley Cup.”

“Hmm. I think I would not have been ready.”

“I would have been less scared. Not mean to you in Sochi. Talked to you every day.”

“I think... I would have tried to be your friend.”

“With benefits?”

“No… yes. Maybe.”

“I love the benefits. I love you as a friend, but I prefer husband,” Ilya said.

“We need a plan, Ilya. I want you, us, but not like the first time,” Shane said.

Shane did not know how to fully explain that he was grateful they made it. They survived years of scarcity, hiding, miscommunication, outing, and overt and implied homophobia. If he had to do it again, he would. But if he was not obligated, he would prefer something else. He wants another version, something lighter, kinder for his heart. It’s not like he doesn’t remember their previous experience. He wants to be gentler with himself, with Ilya. Also, to be a better friend. Fewer omissions and lies. A better hockey player, of course.

“Do you want to come out from the start?” Ilya asked.

“No!” Shane answered too fast and too strongly.

“You want to hide again?” Ilya asked, worry in his eyes.

“No. I mean, not exactly. I don’t want to come out now, but I don’t want to hide-hide. I can’t explain better,” Shane said. He continued, “I don’t want to be rivals with you.”

“And I don’t want long distance,” Ilya added.

“Me neither.”

“And I think I don’t want to come out yet either. I want to go to Russia, I think.”

“Of course.”

“I want to be on the same team as you. Or close,” Ilya said.

“We will be number one and two picks. For the moment, it will be Boston and Montreal, unless one of us refuses. I can’t see yet how to do it. Damn, it’s a lot,” Shane said, feeling anxiety rising.

“It’s okay, Shane. We don’t need all the answers now. First, I have to beat you later.”

Shane shot him a look. “Please don’t remind me.”

“We will figure it out together. We will find a way.”

“Wait, it’s 2008. The spring program. We should go.”

“Spring program?”

Shane explained to Ilya that they have a spring program for junior athletes in Italy. This year it’s in Turin. One week. If selected, everything is paid. Of course, Ilya, with his useless manager, did not know about this program. But he still has time to get in.

“I will send you the info; your manager just has to write to them. It’s in April. So we will see each other there. One week. And we both come up with a plan and brainstorm. And we start our soft launch friendship.”

“Storm in the brain?” Ilya said.

“Like sharing ideas and making decisions.”

“Stupid English language.”

Shane stepped closer and kissed Ilya on the lips, then along his neck. “I’m going to miss you.”

Ilya responded before giving him a heated kiss. “I miss you already.”

The idea of not seeing Shane for four months, after having the memory of living with him, waking up beside him, but also the memory of not having him, being alone and angry in the house in Moscow he will have to return to, made the kiss more desperate.

“We will Skype every day and text all day long. Four months,” Shane said. “Oh. I don’t have your phone.”

“You don’t know your husband’s phone number? I am disappointed and sad,” Ilya joked.

“I know your phone number, but the US one and the Canadian one. I never had the Russian one.”

“Oh, give me your phone.”

Ilya entered his phone number under Ilya, and under Lilly he added his burner MSN profile.

“We can have both for the moment, while we decide how to do this. But we will be public friends, so I can text you and call you,” Ilya said.

“Okay. But I will miss scrolling through all the messages,” Shane said.

“But we will not need to. Because we will have more. And not apart for long. Together.”

Shane’s phone buzzed. A message popped up. “Hey babe, Cathy’s birthday party next Friday. Don’t forget!”

He frowned.

“What?” Shane said.

“Your girlfriend just texted you, husband,” Ilya said.

“Oh shit. I guess I will have to break up a bit earlier,” Shane said.

“I guess. Not like she will have amazing sex memories to cry over,” Ilya said.

Shane hit him. “Asshole.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

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.

***

January - April 2009

Ilya thought being in the house would be more suffocating. He remembered how much he hated this house, how after joining the MLH he spent as little time there as he could each summer, throwing his body and mind into the same cycle: training, club, bar, sleep, restaurant, training. And when his father was getting worse, he spent more time there physically, but his mind was in the illness, his body like a ghost.

So it was less suffocating than he expected. Maybe because the last time he had been there, he did not know it would be the last. He had thought the day he could not return would come later. He had been adamant about Shane and him coming out, about not being a secret, but he did not know that his father’s funeral would be the final time. He believed that even if nothing was waiting for him, he would still go back, or at least keep the possibility.

He did not yet have a full plan with Shane, but this house, Russia, his father, and Alexei had been recurring topics in his therapy sessions. All the things he wished they had said. What he wished he had said. Done. How he wished he had defended himself. For them, he had a clearer vision of how to redo this time.

He started from the arrival, helped by the gold medal.

His father, of course, did not congratulate him. He only remarked that he had been less lazy and, for once, done what was expected.

At the table, Alexei smirked.

Instead of staying silent like usual and answering his father with “Yes, sir,” Ilya looked at Alexei, who was seated on the sofa.

“At least one of us is doing something for Russia’s honor.”

Of course, Alexei walked toward him, physically threatening him. It was exactly what Ilya had been waiting for. He had to make his point big and early.

Alexei was not small. Ilya was muscular. But in the first timeline, he had been young and reckless. Now he knew how to fight strategically. Years of muscle memory from the MLHand sparring were ready to come into play.

When Alexei approached to shove him, Ilya dodged, hit him in the neck, put him on the floor, and held him there.

Terror and surprise filled Alexei’s eyes. It was the first time Ilya had openly resisted him and beaten him.

Their father, a true believer in men fighting each other and survival of the fittest, at least in private, watched them but did not react.

Ilya leaned down and said quietly, “Touch me again and I will break your skull.”

Then he let him go.

Alexei spat slurs and insults. “Oh, now you won one medal and you think you’re better? I will kick your ass, you little shit.”

Ilya sat across from his father, took a glass of water, and said with perfect composure, “Okay. Then we will explain to Father’s friends and the minister why the captain of the team that made Russia proud has a broken nose.”

Alexei started, “I don’t give a—”

“Enough!” their father interrupted. “Shame on you both for causing trouble in my house.”

Then he looked at Alexei. “Don’t embarrass me.”

He did not say do not beat Ilya or leave him alone, but it was enough for Alexei to understand that Ilya was, at least physically, out of reach.

It was the first installment of his plan.

He knew they would lose the tournament next year, so he needed to secure some Russian equivalent of Shane’s public popularity.

He started strong.

Those months he was constantly present in youth sports centers, giving interviews to multiple media outlets, carefully shaping his discourse around young people, sport, representing Russia, and culture. During years when Russia was trying to change its image and promote tourism, he positioned himself carefully.

By the fourth month, he was invited to multiple events. He tried to avoid official government ones, not wanting to tie his image too closely to the state, but he accepted civil society events, youth organizations, and cultural programs.

This packed schedule helped distract him from missing Shane.

They talked every day. Messages, sexting, video calls. Mostly during the day when neither Polina nor his father was home. Ilya was jerking off at least once a day, sometimes twice if he came across an article about Shane.

At the rare official government events he attended, he received praise. His father accepted it on his behalf, reminding people that he had once been lazy.

Despite his father’s constant need for validation, Ilya noticed small changes. For example, when he received the invitation for the Turin camp, his father did not argue about him going. He was one of only three Russians selected, and the Sports Minister congratulated his father in person.

The day after arriving in Ottawa, Shane met with Jessica. He broke up with her effectively.

“It’s not you, it’s me. I need to focus.”

He blamed it on the loss at the Prospect Cup.

She did not seem heartbroken or devastated. Shane did not tell her "we can be friends." He had been with her for the wrong reasons. He could not say something he hated about her, but neither could he say something he truly loved.

Shane went back to his tight routine, but this time with better knowledge of his body. He even put on a YouTube yoga video, to his parents’ surprise.

At night, he strategized. The locked note on his phone was titled "Plan".

Main questions:

Long distance or close to Ilya
Hayden
Coming out
No hiding

He was doing more extensive research on teams he already knew, stats, and players, but now he was also delving into financial situations, coaching staff, culture, owner politics, and subreddit gossip. He did not want to deal with another Thériault-like situation.

He had a separate note with strategies to deal with the Voyageurs, researching how to foster a non-toxic culture, maybe pushing Comeau and Drappeau out of the team.

Another plan was New York. He could not be the star center there, but he could manage. Or Toronto, but no, with Kent there, definitely no.

His mind was working full-time. His body was relentless. Talks and video-calls with Ilya were daily. But he missed actual sex. He was not eighteen yet, and his credit card was linked to his parents. He was mortified at the idea that they could trace it if he bought a dildo, so he did not.

Jerking off in the morning and sometimes at night. Video calls around 2 p.m., 10 p.m. Moscow time, when his parents were at work. Texting relentlessly. But damn, he missed the sex. The touch. Being filled by Ilya. His hand was not enough. He needed to be fucked.

He was counting the days for Italy.

He would travel with cash, as usual. He will officially be turning 18 in one month and have a separate bank account. So if he had to pay for a hotel room to be with Ilya, he would.

In 14 days, he will definitely get fucked. 

***

April 2009 / Turin

Shane arrived in Turin from Ottawa at 7 a.m. Ilya was set to arrive at 10 a.m. He sent him a message on MSN to let him know where to meet later, though there was no Wi-Fi on board in 2009.

He had to fight his parents not to come with him, arguing that it was more of a youth summer camp than anything else and that he did not want to be babysat. He was turning eighteen. Yuna was not fully convinced, but David supported him, slipping additional cash into his pocket at the airport. Yuna reminded him to take business cards and contact information from the people he met, but to agree to nothing.

Beautiful and joyful chaos. It was the only way to describe the Athena Spring Athlete Camp. One hundred and fifty-five young athletes, only those promised a bright future and large contracts from the highest-paid sports: soccer, golf, tennis, basketball, baseball, racing, boxing, hockey, and American football.

Shane would have preferred a competition-based program, but the week was mostly a capitalist venture; the “camp” was mostly a convention. with sport as the pretext. Yes, it was supported by the European Union and several professional league associations, but most of the money came from sports brands and banks. It was organized around cross-disciplinary sharing, where athletes could learn about other sports, as well as panels on contracts, health, PR, support systems, language adaptation, private banking, and investment. They would also hear talks from star athletes. Zinedine Zidane was the highlight of the keynote speakers, along with Serena Williams. No stakes, but great fun; he still maintained his training routine.

Shane remembered that in the first timeline, he had seen the information about this camp but had not been interested in going. He had hockey to focus on, the loss of the championship still heavy, and being surrounded by strangers with nothing hockey-related at stake had not registered as a want or a need.

Operation seduction was fully functioning in Shane’s head. They were staying at the Hilton in Turin, with easy access to all the facilities that remained from the 2006 Torino Olympic Games. He was used to rooming during sports events. Even in the MLH, only veterans had single rooms. He had been ready for that. But no. In addition to the luxury hotel, they all had private rooms.

His wildest dream. He had to refrain from thinking too much about it to avoid any visible reaction in the hotel lobby while having a polite conversation with a Portuguese soccer player who was set to join Real Madrid soon. Shane had been humbled by the experience. He was a generational hockey talent, promised a bright future. But after Googling Yamal Hernandez and learning the amount of his contract, which was more than most of what Shane would make in Montreal at his peak, and more than most hockey players overall, he reminded himself that men’s professional hockey was well paid, but soccer money was on another level entirely.

Still, Shane’s mind was already in his room.

King-size bed. Private bathroom. A hotel conveniently located across the street from a Jean Coutu-ish convenience store that would usually be embarrassing to enter to buy lube. But the amount of want in his body overpowered any feeling of embarrassment. He would go and buy everything they needed. And then wait patiently for the door to open. 

This was exactly what Ilya needed. A break from Moscow. From the house. From the cold. People. Many people. Cosmopolitan energy. And the sun. At the airport, the organizing team gave them a package containing a complimentary SIM card, a gift card with 400 euros sponsored by one of HSBC’s private banking branches trying to secure soon-to-be wealthy clients, a city map, a badge, and the program. During the ride from the airport to the hotel, he met a cool Brazilian golfer, Bruno Nascimento, and a Japanese-Haitian-American tennis player, Olivia Nomika.

He arrived at the hotel at 11 a.m. and, with little regard for being rude, rushed out of the shuttle to pick up the key to his room. The woman in the coordination group was making a long announcement, already setting meeting times and distributing information.

After four months of what felt like chastity and asceticism (meaning daily jerking off, video sex, and sexting) no weapon forged against him would prosper, and certainly not a boring marketing panel on private banking or gym equipment sponsors.

It was a week with a plan. Of course, the big timeline plan. But first things first. A very specific six-day sex plan. And sure enough, Shane had already teased him, saying he was waiting.

Italy, thank God, was not as tight as the U.S around age and drinking. Not that that had ever stopped him, but he would be able to order wine at an Italian bar. You have to love Europe... the Mediterranean one.

He needs - 2 blowjobs, taking and giving, fucking Shane, at least twice, two glasses of wine, and a big plate of pasta with parmesan. In this order.

The receptionist handed him the key card to Room 510 and a sealed envelope, on the back of the envelope, only the number 1410. Shane. In the elevator, he opened the envelope, unfolded a piece of paper, and found another key card. The page only had the number 316 in Shane's handwriting. Thirty-five minutes after arriving at the hotel, after a careful shower, thoroughly brushing his teeth, slipping travel-size lube and condoms into his pocket, at 12:33 p.m., Ilya opened the door of room 316.

The view that greeted Ilya was both familiar and a shock to his mind and body. Shane and Ilya had a very healthy and active sex life - if you are calling their obsession with each other healthy. There was no shame between them, always attuned to each other, a beautiful balance of give and take. Seeing Shane already naked on the bed, lazily stroking himself, already coated in a thin sheen of sweat, should not have been a surprise for him. But it was. Because this Shane, so very young and innocent looking, was not looking at him like the teenager nervously waiting for his first time. The confident eyes demanding love and attention belonged to his husband. Ilya was mesmerized.

"Started without me?" Ilya questioned.

"Well, you were taking too long" Shane responded, not missing a beat.

"You will stop now."

"Will I?"

Ilya did not wait for an answer and launched toward Shane, getting both his hands away from his cock and restrained over the pillows. Ilyastarted kissing his lips, all over his face, his neck, collarbone.. He was dizzy with arousal after so many months apart.

"Ilya come on.. take of your clothes, don't make me wait any longer," Shane whispered. Ilya got to his feet and got rid of his clothes in what was surely record breaking speed. Then he was back on top of Shane, kissing his way down Shane's body. He needed Shane's cock in his mouth like fucking yesterday. A quick stop at his nipples and then right down to business, swallowing his cock without fanfare. He savoured the moment, the familiar taste of his husband's pre-cum calming him, just a little bit.

"Oh my god Ilya."

"Husband should do it," Ilya responded and then dove back to his enthusiastic sucking.

Shane was already close to coming, anticipating this moment since he arrived at the hotel earlier in the day and waiting for Ilya for hours. He pushed on Ilya's shoulders to warn him, to signal him to stop.

"Ilya stop stop. I am too close, I want to have you in me when I come."

"You will, moya lyubov. Perks of being 18. Now let me have this, I will get you hard and ready to go in no time. I missed you so much sweetheart."

Well Shane had no response to that other than enjoying his husband's mouth on his cock, letting himself stay in the moment and surrender to the pleasure. It did not take too long, him being already on edge. He came moaning Ilya's name and with a flush spreading all over his body.

"I think this time it took longer than your first-first blowjob huh?" Ilya smirked.

"You are still the same asshole, no changes there," he responded. He was breathing hard and a smile was perched upon his words.

Ilya was kissing his body all over again, not ready to let him go after their months-long separation. Shane gently rolled them over, wanting his kisses on Ilya's body as well.

"I missed you so much."

"We have 6 days ahead, we will fuck as much as we can, make up for the lost time."

Shane went on with his kisses, not resisting the urge to slowly go down and starting lapping at Ilya's rock hard cock. He was leaking profusely, more than ready to go. Just waiting for Shane to recover.

It did not take much, sucking his husband's cock was one of Shane's favourite pasttimes. He started to get hard again. Ilya flipped him over, onto his hands and knees. Then, without any warning, went to town on Shane's hole, lapping and sucking, and not giving a moment's reprieve.

"Holy shit! Holy fuck Rozanov!" Shane moaned.

Ilya dragged his tongue up over Shane's hole, not even registering what Shane was babbling. There was too much spit, his chin was completely covered with it. He did not care, he missed it too much to care. He continued licking, asking for entrance with each stab of his tongue.

Minutes passed and Ilya decided to speed things up, his patience reaching its end. He reached out to the bottle of lube Shane left on the bed and squirted a generous amount both on his fingers and Shane's hole, and started fingering him right away. Shane was already almost there from Ilya's tongue work. Still Ilya started with one finger. It was Shane's first time with a man. Ilya would die before he made this experience anything but special for Shane, like it was their first-first time before.

"Ilya I am ready.. Please I cannot take this, I will come again before you are even in me," Shane warned.

"Ok, ok, moya lyubov.. Your wish is my command."

With a kiss on Shane's shoulder blades, Ilya lined himself up and started the slow push into Shane's hole. Shane opened up, already relaxed from his first orgasm and Ilya's careful work. He met no resistance, engulfed in Shane's body in a matter of seconds. If there was a heaven, this was Ilya's, completely lost in pleasure in Shane's body. He picked up a rhythm, wanting to savor this moment after all the hours and miles between them. After missing Shane like crazy.

Shane was quiet, breathing deeply but otherwise not making any sound. Ilya peppered kisses on Shane's back and slowed down to check if he was ok.

"My god Ilya... Don't stop, please don't stop. I need you, please."

That was all Ilya needed to hear. This time he set the pace to Shane's liking, knowing his husband so well after so many years together. He dug his hands into his hips, bruising and claiming what was rightfully his.

"Yes, yes Ilya.. fuuuuck."

"Are you close?"

"Yes, don't stop.. just give it to me. I need it"

As they both approached their orgasms, Ilya lost the rhythm, his pace turning frantic but not less punishing. They both came moaning each other's name. Not worrying who might hear them, utterly lost in their high. They came down slowly, with a lot of caresses and kisses all over each other's bodies, making up for the lost time but knowing this would never be enough.

They did not talk about their plan. It was already time to go downstairs. They did not talk about not talking about the plan either.

They teased each other instead, for different reasons but with the same apprehension: being perceived as not wanting their epic love story enough.

Shane had rehearsed how he would explain his conclusion. Of course, they would have to be friends and not rivals. That part was very feasible. They were supposed to soft-launch their friendship this week, posting on social media, taking pictures at panels, and showing themselves with other athletes. That part was easy.

The most contentious part, the one he feared would revive the darkest moments of their relationship, was that Shane did not want to come out now. He knew Ilya would be inclined to propose Ottawa, but he did not want to join a team still under construction and wait years to be able to win anything, games or the Cup.

He was certain he wanted the Cups at the age he had gotten them the first time. The Rookie of the Year trophy. The Olympics too.

The word that kept coming back to him was undeniable.

He knew part of it was a gesture to repair the harm. But he was not delusional enough to think it would make the league less homophobic or racist when they found out he was gay. Because it was not a matter of if, but when.

He would not stay in the closet.

He would go to Ottawa, but after the Cups.

He knew the conversation would not be easy. He practiced different openings, and logical arguments. In this redo, there were mistakes he did not want to repeat, but he was still attached to the accomplishments he deserved and had worked for. He did not want to choose between Ilya and being Shane fucking Hollander.

This time he was ready to confront the Voyageurs locker room, Comeau, and Drappeau. This time he would be different. He would have the Cups. Not three, two. And after that he would go with Ilya to Ottawa, at a time when they could win the Cup one or two years after, fast, with both of them there.

Seated next to Shane, after live-tweeting their arrival and posting pictures that Shane shared to keep the friendship narrative on track, Ilya’s face seemed absorbed by the panel on fostering team mindset in individual sports, with a tennis player and a golfer speaking. But his mind was elsewhere. The four months in Russia, the weekly visits to his mother’s grave, shutting down Alexei, and maintaining a silent but firm stance with his father had shifted something. But the most important point was the non-plan effect.

His strategy of involvement in youth sport and culture, which had landed him on the cover of the Russian equivalent of Teen Vogue, on radio and TV, had made him meet people he had never known before. Before, he had complained about Russia, pouring his frustration into parties, alcohol, escapism his money could buy, or training.

This time he met people his age. Group conversations. Small acts of subversion. Sometimes bigger ones. Different lives.

So he knew he needed a little more time to be a teenager and young adult in his country with other young adults. A little more time to go back and forth before his father lost control. A little more time for Alexei’s daughter to be born, and for him to build something more than just a trust fund relationship, a seed that could be reignited later.

He also knew he did not want long distance. The only thing he and Shane seemed to agree on was Ottawa around 2018 or 2019.

He loved Shane more than anything and wanted to be with him more than anything. But it was the same logic that had led to the Ottawa situation the first time. It had turned out for the best, but it had been a close call. He had been miserable. And it had been unfair to Shane.

Stupid English language. He would have to find a way to explain.

 ***

On the night of their second day, Ilya asked Shane to go on a date.

They went to a restaurant recommended as a favorite spot for students from the University of Turin. Ilya ordered wine without question. They were on a date. In public. Among people. Other young people like they could have been.

A successful redo.

They took a long walk back to the hotel and found the group of athletes they had met earlier at the bar. They sat with them, sharing jokes in simultaneous conversations and languages. Ilya and Shane did not forget to take pictures and follow the others on social media.

They had posted their dinner earlier without mentioning it was a date. Two bros having a cool spring in Italy.

At 1 a.m., they made it to Ilya’s room and fell asleep in an embrace.

On their last day, the talk was inescapable.

Shane woke up in Ilya’s bed. He had brought his clothes and toiletries. They were not careful at all if people saw them, but they did not care. They were the only hockey players there, and this “camp” felt more like university frosh week, where every night people woke up in rooms that were not theirs for sexual or other reasons.

Ready to go for breakfast, Shane pressed a kiss to Ilya’s lips.

Shane said, “We should talk tonight.”

Ilya answered, “Yes.”

Shane continued, “We can go for a long walk .”

Ilya nodded. “Okay.”

At 7 p.m., they met at the hotel entrance and started walking in silence. When they reached a large park surrounded by fewer people, Shane said, “I’ve been thinking. I want to be with you. Not in ten fucking years. But I want Cups. I deserve it.”

Ilya replied, “You do.”

Shane continued, “So I can’t go to Ottawa now. I want to be with a team that can win soon.”

Ilya said, “Montreal.”

Shane answered, “I think.”

Ilya added, “You will go back to them.”

Shane replied, “It will be different. I am different. I will change the locker room from the start. And I will not stay longer than I need. This time I will be the one using them.”

Ilya asked, “By not being yourself?”

Shane shook his head. “I will be more myself this time too.”

Ilya said, “So it will be the same. Seeing each other four or five times.”

Shane replied, “No, it will be different. I will stay overnight every time, and you will too. I will give you the key to my apartment. I will have yours.”

Ilya said, “Hiding apartments.”

Shane answered, “No. We are public friends. We will go out. Dinner, movies, watching basketball. And we will tell people. I will tell my parents. You will tell Svetlana.”

Ilya tilted his head. “So the same, but less small?”

Shane said, “Ilya, please. I am not scared. I swear, I will not be scared when the time comes. I want to be with you. But I want other things. I want what is mine.”

Ilya stayed silent for a moment, then said, “I will stay in Russia another year.”

Shane stopped walking. “What? Why are you punishing me?”

Ilya replied calmly, “No, Shane. It’s about me. And also about us.”

Shane answered, “How is it about us when we will be on a different continent? I was talking about another team. You’re talking about not even the same league.”

They sat on a bench.

Ilya said, “Listen to me. This time I am less… single. No, that’s not the word. Less individualistic. I met people. Young people. It’s different.”

Shane asked, voice unsure, “Which people? You want to stay there with people? People that I don’t know? Are you leaving me?”

Ilya shook his head. “No. Shane, I am not leaving you. You are my husband here,” he said, touching his heart. “And here,” he added, touching his temple.

Shane pressed, “So how is you being in Moscow better for us than Boston and Montreal?”

Ilya answered, “I will drop the 2009 draft. You will be drafted by Boston because you are the best. In 2010, Boston will also have the first draft pick. I will be drafted, because I am me. Same team.”

Shane said, “But after you stay one year in Moscow.”

Ilya corrected him. “Not even one full year. Eight months. I will come to Boston for training camp. And we are friends, you can visit me in Moscow, a big tourist destination. I will have KHL money, not MLH money, but still good money. I will spend American Christmas with you, and Yuna and David.”

Shane replied, “We won’t even be in the same time zone.”

Ilya nodded. “I know. But after that, we will be on the same team. We will be… roommates. Same apartment, moving to the house I had in Boston. Private, because we are friends. Winning Cups together. I will be the captain."

"Maybe I want to be the captain."

"It is what you want, Hollander?"

"No."

"So, I was saying, I will be the captain, and hold the room, and make it safer. You and me. Undeniable. Together.”

Sad, Shane agreed that Ilya had come up with a better path this time. But Shane was already seeing a way to make it a little bit better.

“I want to start my rookie year with you. I want us to live together, and the award for Rookie of the Year.”

“We can't.”

“We can. Boston will send me to development, I will ask to go in the NCAA. I am sure my mom can make sure it’s Harvard.”

“Mr. Ivy League.”

“Shut up, listen. So you play the season of your life in the KHL. I will play hard at Harvard, too. Then the Bears will have no choice but to send you straight into the MLH in 2010. So we start together.”

“Hm. So competitive. You want to beat me for Rookie of the Year again.”

“Oh my God, Ilya, I am serious. This is a good plan.”

“Okay, but when I win Rookie of the Year, no crying, my love.”

“Not gonna happen.”

They ended the night at a movie screening in the park, wrapped in a duvet bought in a tourist shop, sharing a pizza and a salad. A mini bottle of wine for Ilya. A lemonade for Shane.

Watching La Dolce Vita under the night sky, in a sea of strangers, they kissed.

Chapter End Notes

Olivia Nomika, yes, based on Naomi Osaka

Chapter 3, next week. Questions for y'all :

- Do you want a longer reading list at the end?
- Are you more likely to read a long chapter once a week or shorter chapters twice a week?
- I love fun tag, please offer some funny tags I can add.

Side note: writing this fic is me doing active procrastination on my academic book, so will let you know how it goes. This week, I wrote a good 2000 words.

Readings

Wellard, Ian. Sport, masculinities and the body. Routledge, 2009.

Anderson, Eric. In the game: Gay athletes and the cult of masculinity. State University of New York Press, 2010.

Chapter 3: You can be homo in college

Chapter Summary

Borderline AU college Shane ft. the power of friendship.

Chapter Notes

So the chapter was getting close to 12K words, so we decided to split it, next chapter (longer) this weekend.

Alidesidero. wrote all the smut and beta read and thanks to Kwiewi. who beta-read it.

 

Shane is reconsidering what diversity actually means. Again, please suspend your disbelief about the college-athlete rule and the draft (not possible to drop the draft). It serves the narrative.

 

Anita and Iro are two characters from my previous fic, It takes two to Tango.

“You can be homo in college” comes from episode 5 of the last season of Industry.

Reading list at the end. All works cited are (or inspired by) real articles or books.

✨️ Edited 04/02/2026: new polished version thanks to EvenCoal. They did fantastic proofreading, corrected tense shifts, and flagged other confusing parts that I then corrected.
Good time for a re-read.

The hockey world was surprised but not shocked when Ilya dropped out of the draft. He had planned a perfectly spun statement: he wanted to give his team in Russia one more year, building momentum from the Junior Cup and contributing to a new generation of Russian Cup winners. His patriotic inclination seemed logical to hockey pundits leaning into narratives about Russia and nationalism, highlighting his father’s profile. It was also well received by Russian media. Surprisingly, Alexei, who had spent years in the previous timeline berating Ilya for “leaving,” found another way to call him a failure—this time for being scared to go to the big league. Ilya knew that underneath it was Alexei’s awareness that KHL money was nowhere near MLH money.

In June 2009, Shane was the first overall pick by the Boston Bears. Ilya made sure to publicly congratulate Shane, and Shane answered, making a joke about a totally fictional bet from Turin. Soon, all of hockey internet reminded Ilya that he owed Shane a week in Moscow as a tour guide.

Because Yuna Hollander is the woman she thinks she is, Shane was signed to the Harvard hockey team, and the Boston Bears weighed in the balance so Shane could have his own room. He was not in the mood to share with a bunch of 18-year-old students.

At the beginning of August, Shane moved into his dorm in Cambridge, well prepared to be Shane Hollander on the ice. He had no doubt about that. But he wanted to make the most of this year of college — the only one he would ever have — and he took it seriously. His dad had prepped him very well about balancing hockey and class, and he felt ready, if a little self-conscious.

He took three courses for the spring semester: Introduction to Russian Literature; Sport, Bodies and Masculinities; and Asianess/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 it easy when Ilya’s and his first MLH checks hit the bank — hire a financial advisor, give 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 is what matters. Expanding what he knows about the world. About who he is. Not internally, that part he knows too well, but as someone sharing an identity imposed on him by others. He 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 teammate. No doubt, Shane will be on the roster of his team, be nominated for the Rookie of the Year atAll-Stars, and be considered for the Rookie of the Year award next year, while maybe two of his college teammates would make it to the MLH, and 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.

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 went the same for the smaller seminar, Sport, Bodies and Masculinities. Shane was surprised that it was taught by a very gay, a-la-Fabian-Salah man who knew everything about sport — 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.

His last course of the week , Thursday, 4 to 6 p.m., Asianess/Blackness: Race, Identity and Politics in North America was taught by Professor Brittnay 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 29.

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 that too this week, at the residence get-together 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 with the exception of 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. First week. How do they already know each other? Prior friendships? Summer programs? Not all were freshmen. He saw fewer and fewer options unfolding in real time. How is he supposed to choose semester-long groupmates without knowing anything about them? No stats. No knowledge of work ethic. Only first names, pronouns, and heritage. How is he supposed to build a team to get an A?

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 B- or B.

He was not a B person.

While his anxiety was rising, someone poked his arm.

“Hollander, you’re with us.”

He blinked. The girl next to him, Anita, according to her name tag. Something familiar about her face. And something hockey familiar in the way she said "Hollander", like she was saying “Hollander, you're next.” She must have seen the question in his eyes.

“Anita Vaughn.” She unzipped her Harvard hoodie, revealing a New York Admirals T-shirt.

“Oh, like Carter Vaughn,” Shane said.

“Yes. Younger, cuter, and of course, the favorite sibling.” She laughed.

“Nice to meet you. Yes, I’d like to join you.”

Anita turned to the Asian student next to her. “And this is Iro.”

Shane reached out his hand.

“Hey. I know nothing about hockey, and not looking to. But nice to meet you.”

Shane laughed. They took their seats and started working on possible topics.

They went for coffee after class. Shane learned they had already started a BIPOC book club and invited him to join. When he asked Anita if she was in any sports, she looked at him in horror.

“Absolutely not. I am pure stream of consciousness, memes, and clear skin. My goal is to live off Carter’s money, be the forever-unemployed tortured writer baby sister.”

She said it with fondness. Not Alexei-like, living off his brother. More like: Carter loves me, and I love him, and I am adorable.

Iro talked about the new love of his life, who had been with him for one week. A student from Boston College, whom he met at a party. He showed them a picture: tall, really thin, Korean-German, into dead poets and bird-watching. Anita interjected that they had known each other for two months in a summer program and that 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 get to be homo in college."

Listening to Iro and Anita complaining about how white Harvard was, Anita’s mother went to Spelman, Anita to a private Afro-centric school; Iro grew up in San Francisco and went to a Japanese-American school, Shane realized that his bar for being inclusive and diverse was just a little bit above hell. Because Harvard is the closest to the United Nations he has 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.

They walked to the campus cafeteria, picked up food, put working sessions in their calendars (Shane had no doubt they were A+ student material), and created a group chat. Later, while highlighting a reading for Professor Higgins's class, his phone buzzed with a text from Anita in the group chat.

Anita: Shane, if you drop the Bears for academia, my brother is offering a study in Europe over the summer. You would be so cute as a cultural studies professor. #BlackandAsianSolidarity #FriendshipFirst

Shane: Nope. Career plan: beating the Admirals every season

Iro: European study summer, in Paris, Texas, babe

And just like that, Shane made his first (almost) non-hockey-related friends.

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.

Shane talked to Ilya via text every day, but the everyday call was not feasible. Ilya saved him more than once with his Introduction to Russian Literature class, as Shane found out that the 101 Russian Literature at Harvard was a very light version of the high school program in Russia. Shane would send Google Doc links of his weekly memos about The Role of the Absurd in Gogol’s Stories, and his final paper on Mikhail Lermontov’s A Hero of Our Time, and Ilya would make comments, offering suggestions. Shane wished they could have done it all in Russian. Ilya seemed to enjoy being a personal tutor a bit too much, and of course, they made it into a sex thing. Ilya asked Shane to buy fake glasses, as at this age, he did not need them yet, and promised punishment for being a bad, naughty student.

Shane got an A in the class, received a Christmas gift from his teammate as they made it to #3 in their division by December, and met the five loves of Iro's life.

***

In January 2010, Ilya lost theInternational Prospect Cup, but this time by two goals, better than last time. Still, it was written that he had to lose. And this time, thanks to his plan unfolding for one year now, the Russian press and public were adamant that Ilya was the only one not to blame, the one who saved them from a more shameful loss. He had already proven his commitment to his patria; others had to step up. Nonetheless, his father called him to remind him of the failure and the shame he had brought to Russia. His brother sent only a text: “fucking useless loser.” He cut his father off after one minute, letting him know he had dinner with the team; he was not in the mood for confrontation and did not need validation. He did not answer his brother.

Shane was celebrating with his team, but they had planned to meet the next day. Lucky for them, the Cup was in Ottawa, and Airbnb was a new start-up. Shane rented a secluded cottage, a real one, not his mansion cottage, one hour’s drive from the city, and they would have one night before Ilya had to travel back. He was neither ashamed nor embarrassed to use his celebrity status to bend some rules, but he never used it to berate his teammates. His teammates likely assumed he was frustrated with the loss and had gone to spend time with some girl.

A private car booked by Shane was waiting for Ilya the next day, paid for by Mr. Businessman himself.

The cabin door swung open with a creak that echoed through the pines. Shane stepped inside first, dropping his duffel bag with a thud that sent dust motes dancing through the light streaming through the windows.

"Well," he said, hands on his hips as he surveyed the space, "it's definitely... rustic."

Ilya appeared behind him, and kicked the door shut with his heel. "Is perfect," he said firmly, his accent thicker than usual—something Shane had noticed happened when Ilya was tired or emotional. "No neighbors. No reporters. No one telling us we should hate each other."

When Shane turned around, he found Ilya quietly watching him.

"Ilya" he paused.

"Shane" Ilya returned. He crossed the small space between them and held out his hand. Shane took his hand, let Ilya pull Shane to himself. They stood close enough that Shane could feel the heat radiating from Ilya's body, could see the pulse jumping in his throat.

Slowly but surely, Ilya cupped Shane's face between his hands, gazing into his eyes.

"I missed you so much, moya lyubov."

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

The kiss was nothing like the frantic, desperate press of lips Shane was expecting after so many months apart. This was slow, exploratory. Ilya's lips were soft. He kissed the way he played hockey—with complete focus and devastating precision.

Shane let out a low sound from his throat and felt Ilya smile against his mouth. His hands found their way to Ilya's hips, pulling him closer, and Ilya went willingly, one hand sliding into Shane's hair while the other gripped his shoulder.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Ilya rested his forehead against Shane's.

"Bedroom?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Yeah," Shane agreed. "Definitely bedroom."

The cabin's bedroom was small and simple—a double bed with a faded quilt, a dresser, a window that looked out over the dark lake. They moved together toward the bed, shedding clothes between kisses. Shane's hands shook slightly as he unbuttoned Ilya's shirt, revealing the broad expanse of his chest. Ilya's hands found the hem of Shane's t-shirt, and Shane lifted his arms, letting him pull it off. Ilya's breath hitched. "You are... beautiful."

Shane laughed, embarrassed. "I'm okay."

"No." Ilya's hands spread across Shane's chest, reverent. "Beautiful. The most beautiful man."

They sank onto the bed together, the old springs creaking beneath their weight. The quilt was soft and smelled faintly of cedar. Shane rolled onto his back, pulling Ilya with him, wanting the weight of him, the reality of him. They kissed again, slow and deep, remembering the taste and feel of each other. Ilya's weight settled more fully against him, and Shane gasped at the contact, at the heat of skin on skin. His hands roamed across Ilya's broad back, feeling the shift of muscle, the knobs of his spine.

They moved together with increasing urgency, moments of perfect synchronicity taking over, when they moved as one, when Shane looked up into Ilya's eyes and saw everything he was feeling reflected back at him.

"Look at me," Ilya said, his hand gentle on Shane's jaw. "Want to see you."

Shane did, holding his gaze even when it felt like too much, like he might crack open from the intensity of it. Ilya's expression was fierce and tender all at once, completely focused on him.

Although both of them were enjoying their proximity, the softness and intensity of their reunion, they were also impatient. Ilya made quick work of prepping Shane, the familiar rhythm of their bodies and souls, always in synch, making everything sweeter than it had any right to be.

When Ilya pushed his cock in extremely slowly, Shane's hands fisted in the sheets, his back arching. Ilya pressed his forehead to Shane's shoulder, breathing hard, his whole body trembling with the effort of staying still.

"Okay?" he asked again, his voice wrecked. He would rather die than hurt Shane for a second.

"Move," Shane managed. "Please, Ilya, move."

And Ilya did, setting a rhythm that was somehow both gentle and intense, each movement deliberate and purposeful. Shane wrapped his legs around Ilya's waist, pulling him deeper, closer, needing to feel all of him.

The room filled with the sounds of their breathing, the creak of the bed, the rustle of sheets. Sunlight painted them in orange hues. Shane's hands roamed across Ilya's sweat-slicked back, feeling the flex and release of muscle. Ilya's mouth found his again, swallowing his gasps and moans.

"Shane," Ilya breathed against his lips. "Shane, I'm.."

"I know. Me too. Don't stop."

The pressure built and built. Ilya was hitting his prostate with such precision that Shane felt like he might fly apart.

Shane pulled Ilya down into a kiss, and that was what finally sent him over the edge. He came with Ilya's name on his lips, his whole body tensing and then releasing in waves of pleasure so intense he forgot how to breathe.

Ilya followed moments later with a broken sound that was half-moan, half-sob, his face buried in Shane's neck. He shuddered through it, his arms trembling with the effort of holding himself up, and then he collapsed beside Shane, careful not to crush him.

They lay tangled together, breathing hard, sweat cooling on their skin. Shane felt boneless, wrung out. Ilya's arm was heavy across his chest, his face pressed into the curve of Shane's neck.

Shane laughed softly, running his fingers through Ilya's damp hair. "Let’s get cleaned up."

"In a minute." Ilya tightened his arm around Shane. "Right now I just want to hold you."

They lay there in the sunlight, listening to each other breathe. 

Shane glanced at Ilya’s phone, Alexei. One, two, three… five texts back to back. During their calls, Ilya kept the Alexei topic to a minimum, as he said he kept their interaction minimal. Shane knew that this time, Ilya had all the gains from therapy with Galina and was not a scared teenager anymore, in theory. But he was wondering if, in the same way his body was operating like a teenager’s, Ilya’s brain, this brain that was so treacherous, the same brain that made him sad, was his 19-year-old brain, with no SSRI, responding to triggers. And Alexei was one of them.

Shane thought a lot about his own relationship with his parents, his overbearing momanager, his sometimes oblivious white father. He loved them. They were not perfect, but never, for one minute, did he think that everything they were doing was not out of love for him. He had been scared of disappointing them, but never of them stopping to love or protect him.

Alexei again. Six messages. Shane glanced at it. Numbers, money, tomorrow.

Ilya stepped out of the bathroom, his gorgeous smile, handsome, happy, and Shane knew it would be ruined in the next second. He waited for Ilya to sit at the kitchen counter. He wrapped his arm around his shoulder, pressed a kiss, and, trying to emulate the therapist voice, said, “Alexei is sending a bunch of texts.”

Ilya’s body tensed. He exhaled, looked at his phone, and ground out, “Fucking useless.”

Shane moved to face him. “What is it?”

“Money. Always money. I left for not even ten days, and, surprise, a problem for my father that needs money.”

“You’re going to send it?”

“No. I don’t do this anymore. I don’t let him deal with all of it. I planned better. It’s under control.”

“Is it?”

“I found the clinic and the doctor. They send me invoices, clear and official. He can ask for money for Papa’s medicine. I have everything. Don’t need to go through him.”

“And when you will not be there?”

“I am looking for someone. I have not found it yet, but I’m looking.”

Ilya rested his forehead on Shane’s chest. “I am so tired. I thought it would be easier this time… it is… but it’s still fucking hell with them.”

“I am sorry. Can I help?”

“Nothing you can do. It’s me, I am so stupid."

"Don't say that."

"I thought I didn’t need it, but… I tried to put up walls. I do more, and Alexei hates me more, and my father… it’s…”

“Is he meaner to you?”

“No...worse. It’s like… It’s so close to being different. It was easier before. He was a shitty father. That sucked. I hated him. But now it’s like I can see he could, if he wanted, be different. And sometimes it’s almost close, like he wants to say something, but he’s not… It’s not just that he doesn't know how to be... not even a kind or good father, but nice... he chooses not to.”

Shane felt that the moment was not for him to say something or offer to fix it. He wrapped Ilya tighter, his hand in his hair, letting him feel his feelings, the sadness that in every timeline his father would not give him what he wanted. Shane quieted the anxious panic building inside him. What if this time, Ilya’s depression got worse? What if the time travel messed up the chemicals in his brain? Shane was rushing to make lists and plans to make sure that didn't happen, but he stopped. He had to be present now. He had to be better. This time, if Ilya needed help, he would not learn it after the major clash between them over the phone. He could do that. So he stayed silent. No ten-year plan, no fixing. Just touching and caring for Ilya, giving him space to grieve the desire he had, that he did not allow himself to have, but secretly nurtured, that somehow, somewhere, his father could love him, give him even a crumb, a sign.

Ilya sobbed, small and quiet at first, then ugly and shaking. Shane did not move, repeating, “I love you," "You are so brave," "You are a good son.”

They ate on the couch, the television as background noise, wrapped together, counting the hours they both had before returning to their separate lives tomorrow, Shane to campus, Ilya to Moscow.

The goodbyes were sad and difficult, going back to the routine — text, Skype, phone. Six months without seeing each other until the summer. Because Ilya was not drafted, there were no CCM photoshoots yet, but they had something better: Ilya would stay one week for training purposes in Ottawa following the 2010 draft, followed by Shane visiting for one week in Moscow, officially not of his own will but due to public pressure invested in their friendship and the bet from the draft. Making everyone happy.

***

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. So she made 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 and 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, with a confidence that made people want to be around her, to be liked or loved by her, or hated outright, was everything it promised to be. Different groups mixed together, 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 next season, rook.”

Now they knew that Anita was the little sister 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.

***

In June 2010, Ilya was the first overall draft pick by the Boston Bears. This time, his father did not come with him; signs of the dementia were becoming more and more evident. Svetlana was in the U.S., so she did come; they had fun, and he drank too much champagne. 

As planned, Ilya played the season of his life, and Boston was adamant that they wanted him straight into the season. Shane also had a stellar season at Harvard, even though his team lost the Men's Ice Hockey Tournament final 3-2 to Wisconsin.

The hockey world was talking about the Hollanov Blizzard to come. Boston's preseason revenue was skyrocketing, with pre-orders of both of their jerseys breaking records. The Boston Bears management pulled all the tricks they knew in the U.S. and with their KHL partner to make sure Ilya's visa was ready. Yuna could not yet meet Ilya properly during the week, as interview requests kept piling up. Ilya's agent, Barry, was kept busy with sponsor demands and a CCM photoshoot in February 2011.

Ilya arrived in Ottawa two days after the draft. They would stay at Shane’s parents’ house for ten days. They could have arranged to train with Shane’s trainer in Boston or even rented their own apartment in Ottawa, but it was Operation In-Law Seduction, or In-Law-to-Be Seduction. Shane picked Ilya up at the airport.

This time, he did not wait in a secluded corner of a parking lot; he waited at arrivals, in public. Some people recognized him and asked for an autograph, but not many; he was not yet Shane Hollander, MLH-famous. While waiting for Ilya inside the airport, Shane was thinking how it had once felt so dangerous, perilous, to even park his car near the entrance when Ilya came for the first time to the cottage. And now he could wait for Ilya at the airport, he could hug him in public in a manly way, just lingering a little bit. Ilya would surely slide his hand on Shane's neck. Turin, the movie, the walk, the kiss outside in the middle of others. The feeling was warm, exciting, but it became bitter, and a smooth anger began to build in Shane, a feeling he had been wrestling with since they came back from the future: theft—no, theft was not enough—spoliation.

He had thought that hiding was difficult because of the lie, because of not being able to talk about the person you love at dinner, but the accumulation of small things was the worst: the constant thinking about a gesture, about being seen, the calibration. He recalled Fabian Salah telling him the secret was love; now he saw it, and he was not even out. They were just able to be friends in public. The anger was directed at homophobia, but the more he thought about it, the more he had to reconcile that it was hockey. He was mad at hockey. He was not born in the 1930s. Canada had gay marriage, and soon the U.S. He 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, being out, feel so impossible. The sport, yes. But also the absence, the lack. The lack of friends. Yes, there J.J, but for most of his life, Shane only had 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 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, planned, strategic, but robbed no more. He will be greedy. He wants everything that is his: Ilya, the Cup, the career, the awards, the love, the Irina foundation, his friends, being out. He wants it all.

Fuck rectification, he will get reparation. 

Chapter End Notes

Performative man has entered the chat

Iro character backstory is based on the novel Memorial by Bryan Washington. The novel is about a young gay couple, japanesse-american and an Black American, "A sense of self-estrangement pervades “Memorial,” which centers on the relationship between Mike and his Black boyfriend" (NYT)

Question of the day: Will Shane start a hit list of his nemesis? Keneau Reveeve style?
I love me a fuck that shit Shane, and a lowkey nerd Ilya.
The vision for Anita is Nikki Giovani meets Kelly Rowland

 

Reading
Novel
Memorial by Bryan Washington
The Buddha in the Attic by Julie Otsuka
non fiction
Biting the Hand: Growing Up Asian in Black and White America by Julia Lee

 

academic books
Consuming Russia: Popular Culture, Sex, and Society since Gorbachevedited by Adele Marie Barker
Racial Melancholia, Racial Dissociation: On the Social and Psychic Lives of Asian Americans by David L. Eng and Shinhee Han

Chapter 4: Frequent flyers

Chapter Summary

Oh, Brother!

Chapter Notes

Alidesidero. wrote all the smut and beta read and thanks to Kwiewi. who beta-read it.
CW: homophobia, parental abandonment, exile, Irina's suicide, depression
This chapter includes references to the history of Indigenous genocide in Canada, state violence, and exile

✨️ Edited 04/02/2026: new polished version thanks to EvenCoal. They did fantastic proofreading, corrected tense shifts, and flagged other confusing parts that I then corrected.
Good time for a re-read.

Shane seemed lost, not in the anxiety of too many thoughts that Ilya knew, but Shane had the look Ilya had when he talked to Galina and paused to examine a question. He should ask Shane about it. Shane saw him, hugged him, a manly hug. Ilya let his hand slide a little to his neck and, before breaking their embrace, whispered, “I miss you, my love.”

Ilya was surprised that Shane was not driving some boring Toyota. It was a Mini Cooper Sport, not a Porsche, but more interesting. He looked at Shane. “What? It’s a rental. You like it?”

Ilya smiled. “Would prefer Mercedes, but better.”

“Fuck off. Get in.”

The forty-minute drive to Shane’s parents was about Shane’s plan for the season, with Ilya’s hand on his thigh, sometimes touching his neck, his cheek. Shane described how he had already viewed Ilya’s former apartment, and his mom, who was happy they would be roommates in a very secure building, had already arranged for them to sign the lease in early July and move everything in mid-July. Shane continued talking about how the lease will be sent to Ilya by email, he will just have to fax it back, Shane already received an advance of the Bears money and has the full year ready to be paid, and then "Mr Sugar Daddy" Ilya interrupted. The apartment would be ready when Ilya got back from Moscow. Of course, they would have their bedroom—the one with the ensuite—and Shane will hire an interior designer to make it look like their house in Ottawa—the 2021 one—, but for appearances, Shane would turn his office into a bedroom. He is waiting for Ilya's salary to kick in so they could start buying the plot of land for the cottage, and also Ilya’s Boston house, which did not yet exist on the market. Ilya nodded, grateful to have a Mr. Real Estate husband, using all the planning talk to ease the stress of introducing Ilya to Yuna and David as a friend. Laying the ground for the next year when they would tell them the truth—not the time-travel one, just the fall-in-love, I-am-gay one. Ilya interrupted him in the middle of describing real estate portfolio opportunities that come with the knowledge they have of the future: “It’s going to be okay. They loved me the first time. Favorite son, remember.”

Shane exhaled as he parked: "Ready."
"Always."

Yuna and David welcomed them inside. Shane showed Ilya the house as if he had not spent two years in Ottawa, being there more than Shane. At dinner, Ilya charmed Yuna and David without difficulty. First names came quickly. He brought David a puzzle and flowers for Yuna. They ate chicken parmesan, watched the season highlights, and went to bed at 10 p.m.

Shane closed the door behind him, entered Ilya’s room around midnight, signaled for quiet, and engaged in the most silent blowjob that existed, with Ilya breathing into the pillow.

And that set the rhythm for the ten days.

Morning run, breakfast, training with Shane’s trainer until 2 p.m, making sure to be home around 3 p.m. while Yuna and David were at work, having sex in the too-small bed of Shane’s room or the bathroom, making sure all doors were locked, running the washing machine with all the soiled towles, nap, go for a walk, or visit local attractions, post about their day on social media, dinner with Yuna and David or go out for burgers, one night a movie, and sleep separated by a wall.

They left Ottawa on Friday morning for Montréal, Shane’s rental car packed with luggage. If Shane had been passionate about hotels in his past life, he was now more of an apartment rental person. Living with Ilya had made him long for domesticity.

Anita and Iro were visiting Montréal for the weekend, so they rented an apartment in the same building in Mile End, very hipster and cozy. They planned to spend Friday and Saturday together. Shane was so excited for Ilya to meet his friends. It was different from Hayden. His friendship with Iro and Anita did not start with a big secret, minus time travel. They knew Shane was gay. They knew about Ilya. He did not even have to explain all the “we cannot be out,” as they also knew about Hockey and Russia. Navigating explicit homophonic law was one of the themes of the February book club, with a Kurdish lesbian author from Iran. Shane loved her book about exile, missing home, and queerness. Ilya loved it too.

Ilya and Shane dropped their bags at the apartment, and after what started as cuddling and ended up as blowjobs, they left to meet them in Little Italy for a late lunch.

Ilya promised himself that he would not be irrationally jealous in this life. He did not promise that he would not be jealous, just the irrational part. Shane had spent the last ten months talking about Anita and Iro. Ilya knew more about the two of them than about Shane’s teammates, some of whom would end up in the MLH. In the first life, Shane would do the opposite. He was happy that Shane had other friends who were not hockey-related, who did not take hockey that seriously. He was happy that they knew about him. When he called, they would say, “Hello Ilya.” He was happy that Shane had other people with whom he could be himself. He was excited to meet Anita. He liked Carter Vaughn. He was a good hockey player and a good friend to Hunter, an ally with good taste for women and music, and Ilya thought he was cool. But after stalking Anita’s Facebook for more glimpses of Shane, he concluded that Carter was the least cool of the Vaughn family.

The problem was Iro. When Ilya first heard about him, he thought Iro would be some kind of Harry Potter nerd, and to his horror, he was, yes, a nerd, publicly and openly gay, and a fucking top model. Clark Kent, but with graphic T-shirts. But again, Ilya promised himself he would not be irrationally jealous. He knew Shane had no interest in a twenty-year-old handsome Clark Kent type who could read a 400-page book in one day and fall in love every week.

Still, he went to their brunch with a clear agenda. Making sure that Iro kept falling in love with everyone but his husband. A delicate mission, as he could not be all over Shane like he was in 2021 post-outing. Words, subtlety.

“If it isn't our very own rookies?” Anita said, standing up and putting a kiss on Shane’s cheek, then going to approach Ilya. “Hug? Consent is important.”

Ilya opened his arms. “Love hugging beautiful girls.”

Iro took Shane in a hug, and Ilya too. Well, what about consent, Ilya thought.

Anita started. “So I stalked your Facebook... all of it, so I will keep my questions very straightforward, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, turning to Shane. “She is my favorite Vaughn.”

Turning back, Ilya seized the moment. “We are all straightforward. So Iro, do you plan to fall in love with Shane?”

Shane spat his drink, and Iro and Anita laughed so hard. Iro looked at Ilya, put his hand over Ilya's hand: “With all due respect, I am not into angry kitten with spreadsheet kink.”

Shane protested, “Fuck off, I am not an angry kitten.” And the three of them looked at him, imitating his face. Ilya thought, well, fuck subtlety. But at least the air was clear.

Lunch was lively and fun. Like Shane, Ilya did not have many friends his age that he was not competing against one way or another, to be picked by scouts, to be drafted, or for a better position in the team. And after the fame, the gap that money and a demanding schedule brought made it more difficult to be a carefree 19-year-old. He was sometime reckeless loud but never carefree, his father and Alexei always on his mind.

They continued with museum visits, walking, more drinking, a nap, and went out to a club next to McGill. Around 3 a.m., drunk except Shane, who was just tipsy, eating at a falafel place near Place des Arts, the conversation drifted to more serious things. Anita stayed true to her promise. She asked very straightforward questions that could have seemed inappropriate for a first meeting. Ilya found himself talking about his mother, her death, his father, and his brother. Anita and Iro were not dancing around it like people usually do with “Oh, sorry for your loss.” Instead, they said it was a damn shitty situation and offered their own reflections. Iro talked about his father, who used to terrorize his mother and gamble, leaving her before going back to Japan when Iro was nine. And how Iro can tell people that the day he left was one of the best days of his life.

Anita talked about her mother, who was the best, who died from cancer when she was eleven, and how she and her brother made sure to be the best, to elevate their father’s dedication to them. His sacrifices were so suffocating that they felt they could not grieve, as their father was so dedicated to shielding them from suffering. How he never remarried, always worried, but Anita grew up not afraid of emotional pain, instead afraid that she would not know how to deal with it, so she read a lot about it, and read more until she was obsessed with reading and decided this was what she wanted to do with her life. Shane was listening. He knew all of it from them separately, but the conversation made him realize that he had two very alive parents who loved him. That many people did not have emotionally stable, regulated, non-violent parents. He thought about his Russian literature class and Tolstoy. “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” He hopes Ilya and he will have a happy family.

Saturday flew by. They woke up after one, went to lunch, went for a walk, and ended the night at a concert at the Montréal Jazz Festival.

Sunday morning, Iro and Anita flew back to Boston.

Shane and Ilya flew to Moscow. Ilya arranged for Svetlana to find him a nice apartment to rent in the most trendy neighborhood. Ilya had a whole itinerary planned for Shane: historic places, but also meeting his friends. One party at Svetlana’s house as well. Before Ilya left for the draft, at a dinner at the ministry, his father's colleague mentioned that Ilya should show the best of Moscow to the Canadian prodigy. It must have stuck, as his father did not question why Ilya would stay with his friend for one week, only reminding him not to shame Russia by introducing him to his "depraved and lazy friends." Alexei shot him some looks but said nothing.

Shane had never gone to Moscow. Ilya talked about it; Shane asked about it, but always carefully. It seemed a place of so much hurt. The apartment Ilya rented for the week was beautiful. He did not know 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. Shane wanted to make a good first impression. In the first timeline she had learned about him and Ilya only after Ilya disappeared on her and, hitting rock bottom, called because he needed a friend.

“Shane Hollander,” she said, approaching him, while Ilya kissed her loudly on the cheek.

She offered Shane her hand in a slightly aristocratic way. He hesitated for a second, unsure if he was supposed to kiss it. Instead, he took it carefully. She laughed softly and kissed him on the cheek.

“Nice to meet you. And thank you for the apartment. It’s very nice.”

“You’re welcome. If it were up to Ilyusha, you would be staying in some ugly old people's hotel in the city center. This neighborhood is fun, safe, and young.”

“I’m looking forward to this week.”

“Oh my God, Ilyusha, he is so serious. Hockey genius and serious.”

She settled comfortably on the sofa. Ilya, unusually quiet, went to the kitchen to bring them water. Shane could feel her studying him.

Was this a job interview for the position of Ilya’s secret boyfriend?

Carefully, Shane tried, “Ilya talks a lot about you. You’re his best friend forever.”

“I am.”

Great. She was clearly not planning to make this easier.

“I’m glad he has you here. And also in Boston. You could stop by anytime at our apartment.”

“Our? You are living together?”

“Yes. Roommates. It's good for rookies. It’s very common. And with our salaries we can have a great place, well located.”

She burst out laughing and cut him off. “I’m happy that Ilyusha has a very good, handsome hockey player roommate. I will come. But I will call first... don’t want to... interrupt any activities.”

Shane immediately blushed. She stood up, kissed Ilya on the cheek, and then Shane.

“I’m leaving. Sleep. Tonight we go party.” And she left.

Ilya started laughing, “Oh my God, Ilya, why didn’t you help me?”

“You did great. She loves you.”

“She does?”

“She loves you for me.”

Shane paused. “You told her?”

“She knew when I told her I was dropping the draft. So when she asked for whom, I didn’t lie.”

They slept all day, and at night met Svetlana and went to a bar, met other friends of Ilya, and even though his gaydar was not the best, it was clear that the two girls were in some sort of couple, two literature students running a student magazine on feminism.

The second day, Ilya brought Shane to his mother’s grave. He stayed back at first, then saw Ilya changing flowers, introducing Shane in the most beautiful way, talking to her as if she knew everything—time travel and all—how she was the one who made it happen. Shane advanced. He knew he had to say something. He did not know how. Not something important and deep; he was lost for words. He was not really used to death, tragic death. His grandparents were natural, old-people deaths. The first time the materiality of death happened to Shane was the Centaur flight. But Ilya—he understood death, not as a single event but as something that changes the texture of who you are. So he said, “I am Shane—but you know this. My Russian is not great, but thank you for raising Ilya, for his heart, for making him the person he is now, the best person I know. I will take care of him.” Tears were rolling down his face. Ilya was sobbing silently, and he brushed his hand discreetly against Shane’s.

That night, they made love softly, slowly—not shouting (even if in Moscow they lowered the volume). Ilya whispered promises: “I love you.” “I will stay forever.” “I will always find you.”

The program of the week was simple: daytime tourism and evening parties with Ilya’s friends. They began at Red Square, 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 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’. They used the Moscow Metro, people stopping Ilya for photos and autographs, and strolled the lively cafés of Arbat Street. On day five, they stood beneath the golden domes of the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour, watched the city unfold from Sparrow Hills, and ended quietly among the white walls and reflecting ponds of Novodevichy Convent, feeling as if they had crossed centuries in just a handful of days.

On his last day, Ilya took Shane to an upscale Russian sauna and bath. Shane was used to men in common showers, but as transit, not a final destination. He had never been in this kind of sauna. It made him aware of the strict differences between European and North American culture. He thought he already knew with Ilya—the cheek kissing was very common in many countries—but here, in addition to the sauna and the tea after, the different manhood activities that did not only revolve around sport or typically North American manly thingsstill macho but in different forms—the sauna, the tea room adjacent, only men, talking with friends or business partners. It was the first time as a young adult he had to experience it—naked in the middle of other men, with Ilya seated next to him, not touching but close enough, talking to friends going to a sauna, surrounded by other men with their friends.

That night, Shane went with Ilya to a local junior hockey match. Many pictures were taken of both of them with young players. They were on the terrace of a café close by, with Svetlana, her cousin Igor, and two other friends, when Alexei stopped in front of their table, next to him, Ilya’s father. Shane saw Ilya’s body slightly stiffen. He stood, greeting his father, looked at Alexei, and shot him a cold “Alexei.”

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

Ilya did not respond. Shane stood up, offering a hand to Ilya’s father, and in Russian, said, “Shane Hollander. It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Rozanov.”

Ilya’s father and Alexei did not hide their surprise, taking his hand. “Good Afternoon. Do you speak Russian?”

“I learn, but not too much.”

“Canadian are more disciplne than American, not by much, but a little more...maybe you could influence in the team my son to be less lazy.”

Shane tensed. “Ilya is the most dedicated and hard-working player...person I know.”

Ilya’s father did not respond, told Svetlana to pass his regards to her father, and indicated to Alexei it was time to go. Walking away, Alexei shot a look at Ilya and Shane, as if looking to see something, a missing puzzle piece.

The apartment felt different when they got back. Not bad-different — just the particular quiet of a place that knew something had happened outside it.

Ilya set his keys on the counter and went to the window.

Moscow at this hour was generous with its noise. A group of young men somewhere below, laughing. A tram. The particular hum of a city that had lived through too much. Ilya watched the street. He knew this view from enough angles — the angle from his father’s balcony as a boy, the angle from Svetlana’s building the night of his mother’s funeral, three a.m. and all the lights still burning — and now this one. A rented apartment. Shane Hollander standing somewhere behind him.

His father’s face crossed his mind. 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 didn’t know. I thought I knew you, because I did. I knew about your mom, your father, all of it. But I didn’t know about here. I didn’t know what it looked like when you were easy. When you were yourself in the language you grew up in.” 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. Not a different person. Just more.” He stopped. “I finally get it. What you carry when you leave.”

Ilya was very still.

“And I know what it costs,” Shane continued. “Not just your father and Alexei. What it costs later. What you give up.” He swallowed. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you don’t regret it. I mean that.”

The silence stretched out. Outside, the tram passed.

“Shane.” Ilya’s voice was low. “You think I am giving something up.”

“I don't think. I know that you are.”

“No.” He shook his head, slowly. “You don’t understand. I thought the same thing for a long time. But listen.” He turned toward him fully. “If I stay here and give you up to stay here — that is giving something up. That is the sacrifice. You are not the thing I choose instead of my home.” His eyes were steady. “You are what I choose. That is different.”

He paused for a second.

“If you were not in the world,” Ilya said, “then yes, maybe here is home. But you are in the world. You have always been in the world.” He moved closer, until there was very little space between them. “You are my home, Shane. Not this.” He tilted his head toward the window, toward all that noise and light and history breathing outside. “I love it. I will always love it. But it was always going to be you.”

Shane kissed him first. There was nothing tentative about it. Ilya kissed back with everything he had.

Shane’s hands came up to his face and Ilya let him. The window at his back, Moscow behind the glass — he was aware of both things, the city and Shane, the before and the after, the life he had here and the one he was building somewhere else. Shane kissed him like a man who had been given something and understood exactly what it was.

Ask me anything, Ilya thought. I will tell you everything. I will give you everything.

They moved from the window without discussing it. Jackets, shoes — the small quiet logistics of two people who knew each other’s bodies.

There was something about Ilya in this room, in this city, that Shane was trying to hold. The way he moved when he was home. The loose quality of his shoulders, the way he occupied space differently here — fuller, less contained. Shane had spent years knowing Ilya in arenas and hotels and places of professional hockey, but this was something else. This was Ilya in full.

He pulled back and just looked at him.

“What?” Ilya asked.

“Nothing. Come here.”

Shane’s mouth was on his throat. Ilya tipped his head back and let him.

He worked his way down slowly, mouth and hands, relearning what he already knew by heart: the line of Ilya’s collarbone, the particular sound he made when Shane pressed his lips just below his ear. Every sound Ilya made Shane felt everywhere, low and insistent.

He was thinking about the metro, Ilya laughing at something a kid said in Russian, completely unselfconscious, completely at home. The sauna, Ilya’s body beside his, the men around them who had no idea. The grave, Ilya’s hand barely brushing his in the cold.

All of it was here now, in this room, with him.

He pulled back and looked at Ilya — spread out against the white of the sheets, watching him with dark eyes — and thought, I will not forget this. He pressed a kiss to Ilya’s sternum, his stomach, felt the muscles there tighten.

“Shane.” Ilya’s voice was low, a warning and a request at once.

“I know,” Shane said, against his skin. “I know.”

Shane’s mouth on him was a specific kind of undoing. Ilya had his hands in Shane’s hair and was trying very hard not to make noise — the window was open, the city right outside, and Shane, fully aware of all of this, was taking his time anyway. Being thorough with his kisses and with his touches. Being uncharacteristically patient.

“You are doing this on purpose,” Ilya said.

Shane looked up at him. His expression was unbearably fond. “Yeah.”

When Ilya finally pulled him up by the hair and kissed him, Shane went willingly. He kissed back, hard, and felt Ilya’s hands grip his waist — steadying, directing — and understood immediately what he was being asked for.

He sat up. Straddled him.

Shane above him was a specific kind of thing Ilya would never get used to. The line of him in the low light, the set of his shoulders, the way he looked down at Ilya with an expression that had nothing left in it except want. Ilya ran his hands up Shane’s strong thighs, his sides, just to feel him — the heat of his skin, the muscle underneath. Shane caught his wrists and held them, briefly, a small assertion that made Ilya’s breath stutter.

Then Shane released him, and reached for the nightstand.

Shane started to open himself without leaving his safe space on top of Ilya. He took his time with it. He was aware of Ilya watching him — that focused, patient attention Ilya had when he wanted something and had decided to let it come to him. Shane held his gaze and did not hurry. He worked himself open slowly, one hand braced on Ilya’s chest, feeling the muscle jump beneath his palm every time he exhaled. Ilya’s hands rested on his thighs, not pushing, just present.

Watching. Waiting.

When Shane finally wrapped his hand around Ilya’s cock and guided him, they both went still.

The feeling of sinking into Shane was something Ilya had no language for, in Russian or English or anything else. Slow, inch by inch, Shane taking him completely, the tight heat of him — Ilya’s hands gripped his hips hard and stayed there. He watched Shane’s face. The parted lips, the way his chest rose and fell as he adjusted, settled, made room.

Outside, somewhere in the city, a window opened. A woman’s voice, calling a name. The ordinary sounds of Moscow at night, knowing nothing, carrying on. Oblivious.

“Okay?” Ilya managed.

Shane looked down at him. “More than okay.” He shifted his weight experimentally and they both felt it. “God. Yes.”

He set the pace. Slow rolls at first, deep and deliberate, learning the rhythm, finding what made Ilya’s breath go short.

No, not learning actually... Remembering.

He found it quickly — he knew Ilya’s body the way he knew the layout of his own childhood room, by memory and by feel — and when he hit it Ilya made a sound against his fist, bitten off, the city just outside.

“Shane.” His voice was wrecked already, and they had barely started. Shane above him, riding him with that particular focused intensity he brought to everything, hips rolling in a rhythm that was going to end Ilya entirely. The view of him — flushed, unhurried, completely certain of what he was doing — was almost too much.

Ilya sat up, needing to be closer, needing his hands on more of him. Shane adjusted without breaking rhythm, wrapping his legs around Ilya’s waist, pushing Ilya deeper into his body, and taking away Shane’s higher brain function with it. And now they were chest to chest, breathing each other’s air, Shane’s arms hooked over his shoulders.

“Look at me,” Shane said.

Ilya’s eyes, which had been half-closed, opened fully. The dark of them, the complete attention — Shane felt it everywhere.

He moved faster.

Shane’s hips in his hands, the slick heat of him, the sounds he was making now — small, involuntary things he was trying to keep quiet and failing at — Ilya pressed his face to Shane’s throat and let himself go. He drove up to meet each roll of Shane’s hips, feeling Shane gasp above him, feeling his grip tighten.

“More,” Shane breathed.

Ilya gave him more. Ask me anything. I will give you everything.

The pace became something else entirely. Deep and hard and exactly what Shane wanted, what he’d been wanting since they’d walked back into this apartment tonight and he’d stood at that window and known, finally, the full weight of what Ilya was giving him. He arched his back and took it. Ilya’s mouth was on his collarbone, his shoulder, the side of his neck, and the city outside was still out there, still indifferent, still going about its business — a tram, a voice, a distant horn — all of it irrelevant.

This room. This man. This night.

He felt Shane getting close — the way his movements became less controlled, the breathless sounds, the clutch of his hands in Ilya’s hair. Ilya shifted the angle slightly, deliberately, and Shane made a noise that was almost a word and wasn’t.

“I love you,” Ilya said, against the damp skin of his throat. It came out rough, stripped of anything careful.

Those words hit Shane low in his stomach. He pulled back just enough to look at Ilya — really look at him, this man in this city in this room that the world outside would never understand — and felt everything crest at once.

“I know,” he managed. “I know — Ilya—”

Shane came apart above him beautifully. Ilya held him through it, kept moving, watched his face go unguarded and open in the way it only ever did here, in private, with no one watching — and then the clench of him, the shaking, the heat, the sound of his name in Shane’s mouth pulled Ilya over with him.

He buried himself deep and let go.

For a long moment, the room was only their breathing and the city outside, carrying on.

Ilya’s arms came around him immediately, pulling him down and holding him there against his chest. Shane went without resistance. He was wrung out, completely loose, his face pressed into the curve of Ilya’s neck.

Shane’s weight on his chest. The open window. Moscow, breathing in.

He pressed his lips to the side of Shane’s head and stayed there.

When he finally lifted himself up and looked at Ilya, something settled in him — quiet and certain, the feeling he always got after, the one that said: yes. This. Him. Always.

He wanted to remember Ilya’s face. Here. In Moscow. His.

Afterwards, the city was quieter, or they were less aware of it.

Shane traced something on his shoulder — not quite words, not quite nothing. Ilya stared at the ceiling and thought about his mother’s grave. Shane standing there, tears on his face, saying thank you for raising him in careful, imperfect Russian. It was the most Russian thing Shane had ever done — not learning the language, not drinking the vodka, not appreciating the ballet — that. Standing at a grave and speaking to someone who couldn’t answer.

“Tell me something about Moscow,” he said. “Something you’ve never told me.”

Ilya was quiet for a moment.

“My mother used to take me to Novodevichy. You remember, we went.” Shane nodded. “In winter. The ponds freeze over. She liked to watch the light on the ice. She said it was the most beautiful thing in Moscow.” A pause. “She was right. Second most beautiful.”

Shane looked at him. “What’s first?”

Ilya met his eyes and said nothing.

“You can say it,” Shane said.

“You’ll get arrogant.”

“I won’t.”

“This is true.” Ilya looked back at the ceiling. “You.”

Shane was quiet for a long moment. Then: “Okay. Yeah. I’ll take that.”

They made love again, slowly this time. No urgency, no attempt to stop the clock — because time had never been kind to either of them and they both knew better than to negotiate with it. It was simply what they chose to do with the hours they had.

“I love you,” Ilya said quietly.

“I know,” Shane said. And then: “I love you too.” Both statements factual. Both complete.

There was something he wanted to say that he didn’t have 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 had to carry the absence of Ilya, which was enormous, but he had never had to grieve a country.

He didn’t say it. He thought maybe Ilya knew.

They slept with the window slightly open, Moscow still breathing into the room.

Ilya didn’t sleep right away.

Shane’s weight against him was steady, his breathing settled, and Ilya stayed still. Outside, the city did what it did at three in the morning — distant sirens, someone’s music three floors up, the particular quality of quiet that wasn’t quiet at all. He had been hearing these sounds his whole life. They were written into him the way language was.

One week, he thought. One week of Shane in Moscow — more than the first life ever gave them. In that life Shane had never come here. Never met Svetlana as someone who already knew his name. Never stood at his mother’s grave and made promises to a woman he had never met.

It was enough. It had to be enough, and it was.

He pressed his lips briefly to the top of Shane’s head. Shane didn’t wake.

Four weeks, Ilya thought. Then Boston.

The light in morning arrived as a deepening rather than a breaking, the sky going from grey to silver to something almost warm.

Shane woke to that light and to Ilya already watching him.

“Morning.” Shane said.

“Morning.”

They looked at each other. The whole day was already in the room with them — the flight, the suitcases, the airport, the four weeks. Shane reached for him.

This was not loss. He wanted to be clear with himself: the morning was not loss. He had a plan. He had four weeks of his father’s affairs and Veronika and the apartment for Alexei and then he would board a plane to Boston and walk into the apartment Shane had already made ready for them. He knew the address. He knew the layout. He knew which bedroom had the ensuite and which closet was going to be his. This was not loss. This was an interval.

The morning was unhurried in the way that the previous night had been unhurried — both choosing the pace deliberately, neither pretending the clock wasn’t running. The knowledge was present the way the city was present: acknowledged, not feared. Afterward the shower. His hands in Shane’s hair. Shane’s lips mapping every crevice.

They packed. They were efficient about it — two people who knew how to pack, who had been doing it since they were sixteen, who could move through the logistics without looking. Shane’s two extra suitcases. The things Ilya had quietly assembled across the week — the decorative items, the artcraft, the magazine cover with Ilya’s face that Shane had asked for without explaining why. Then Ilya carefully placed two small glass containers into the bag.

Shane held very still.

“For the apartment,” Ilya said simply.

Shane nodded and didn’t trust his voice to add anything.

At the door, they stood for a moment with the luggage between them and Moscow beyond the window in the early light.

“Four weeks,” Shane said.

“Four weeks,” Ilya confirmed.

Shane took his face in both hands and kissed him — not desperate, not a final thing, a promise with a specific delivery date. Ilya kissed him back the same way. It was enough. It was exactly enough.

Then they took the luggage down to the car, and Ilya drove Shane to the airport, his hand on Shane’s thigh, Moscow passing outside the windows for the last time.

They drove mostly in silence. Moscow passed outside the windows — the cafés, the Cyrillic signs, the particular quality of light that Shane had spent a week learning and would now have to carry in memory.

"I'm sorry," Shane said. "For not getting it sooner. The first time."

Ilya's hand was on his thigh. "You never came. You didn't know."

"I knew enough to know I should have asked more."

Ilya glanced at him briefly, then back at the road.

"I used to think Canada saved you," Shane said. "That the whole equation was: Russia bad, leave, Canada good, safe. I never thought about what it cost you to stay gone. Or that the people here — Svetlana, your friends — they're not just waiting around for things to get better. They're doing things. I never made room for that."

"No," Ilya said. "You didn't."

Not unkindly. Just true.

"And Sochi," Shane said quietly. "I keep thinking about Sochi."

"Don't."

"Ilya—"

"Not today." Ilya's hand pressed once, gently, into his thigh. "Today is just the drive to the airport."

Shane looked at him. The set of his jaw, the steadiness he had when he was driving, Moscow moving in the window behind him like something being slowly folded away.

"I want to do more," Ilya said, after a moment. "This time. The first time I was too focused on surviving. I had to be. But now—" A pause. "I want to leave something here. For people who can't leave."

"You already are."

"It's not enough."

"It's a start." Shane turned his hand palm-up on his own knee. Ilya took it without looking. "I'm proud of you."

They drove the rest of the way like that.

Ilya walked him to the priority line at security and gave him a Russian embrace. Shane settled into the first-class seat, thinking about how before, it was Ilya is Russian, information that materialized with language and also status, protection issues, but never Shane linking Ilya is Russian with someone who grew up in a place with other young people like him, trying to do things, who loved the place, had difficult and beautiful memories, the ease of Ilya’s laugh, the way he moved his body surrounded by a language and culture he understood. And Shane was thinking of the many years Ilya had to live in a country, the U.S., that had major tension with Russia, but also Canada, where Ilya was the face of a charity project. And Sochi. Shane thought about how he had thought about hockey and Russia’s homophobia, but never the bigger scale, the relationship between Russia and Western countries, the pressure on Ilya, and the political context. He did not have to because he was Canadian. Canada, the self-proclaimed good guy country. He never had to answer questions about the Canadian government—not when they were involved in military intervention, not when remains of Indigenous children were found in Catholic residential schools. If he had answered, he might have lost PR points. But Ilya had to answer to different expectations, and all of them could result in legal consequences in his home countries, the old and the new.

Drifting off to sleep, Shane thought about Sochi in two years, about Ilya’s father’s health declining. His heart clenched. He was mad at hockey and at the historical denouement that led to Russia and the West.

But in four weeks, Ilya will be home.

Ilya spent his last weeks doing the most logistical planning. He had gone over all possible solutions for his father’s situation, useless Polina and Alexei included. He could not resolve himself to do what a Western son would do: pay a stranger to assist his father or plan for him to go into a facility. It would have been reasonable but not culturally Russian. It had to be family, but this family, of two sons, one in the U.S. and the other a corrupt drug addict, was not it.

For six months, Ilya had been reviewing his father’s side of the family living in Moscow, in search of someone competent. More useless, money-obsessed, and corrupt men appeared. He did not trust Polina’s family. When he thought it was a lost cause, Polina told him that his cousin Veronika, daughter of his father’s oldest brother and goddaughter of his father, had moved back to Moscow after four years in Finland, where she finished nursing and was looking for a job, and maybe Ilya could help with all his connections.

Ilya did not wait. He sat down with Veronika, long dark hair, petite, 25, direct, restrained, but warm. The last time they saw each other was at Ilya’s mother’s funeral. She had gone to Finland to finish nursing school and “live a little bit,” as she put it. Ilya’s unclewas the same as his father, but luckily for her, in her own words, he died when she was a teenager, and her mother was a kind woman. She had experience in a children’s hospital. The Finnish work permit had been an ordeal, especially for Russians, and the Moscow job market had been brutal since she returned six months ago. The situation was stressing her out, her savings thinner by the day, but Ilya saw his chance.

He offered her a job caring for his father part-time. At this time his father’s condition was not bad enough for him to accept full time help, but he had, as old men do, other problems, hypertension, aching bones, and so on. Ilya would pay her well above a full-time salary at any Moscow hospital.

He knew Alexei, and presenting this solution wasn't an option, since Alexei would resist it to maintain his access to Ilya’s money transfers. So lucky for him, Veronika liked going to church, and his father liked being seen going to church. Ilya went that Sunday and offered a Sunday lunch. Veronika was family, so it was acceptable to present to his father and Polina that she would handle all medical matters. She was a nurse; it was more than acceptable. Gregori 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.

Ilya moved fast, renting a small apartment ten minutes’ walk from the house for Veronika, making sure to introduce her to all the doctors with Polina and his father. He set up a computer with Skype and a webcam, as he needed a weekly video call with his father.

Ilya made sure that the very expensive, exclusive private clinic where his father was being treated had him listed as a contact. His father accepted that all notes were shared with him. Ilya put his banking information there and asked them to send all the bills to him.

Ilya smoothed things with his father beforehand. He had given 10,000 USD to the hockey team in Gregori'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. The name of the grant was Anastasia Rozanov, Ilya’s paternal grandmother. Ilya loved her. She was 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 dad was beside himself, showered with compliments from officials, his favorite kind of compliments, praising him for having a son taking care of the legacy. It helped Ilya buy points. He knew that in a few years, when he would relinquish his citizenship and be out, all the goodwill would be forgotten by the press and the government, but not by the people, at least not by all of them. Even if they could not say it publicly in Russia, they would say it on anonymous sites, in pamphlets, and in cryptic humor posts.

On the first timeline, people loved his sports accomplishments and defended him on principle. He wanted to give more, to be remembered by anonymous kids whose lives changed in small ways. To live in Russia beyond MLH accomplishments, beyond his father and brother, beyond state-sanctioned homophobia. In people’s memory of him, as he remembered his mother’s kindness.

Ilya had been Machiavellian in his plan. Three weeks ago, he had given Alexei 5,000 USD, knowing it would send him into a binge of cocaine, partying, and gambling. By the time Alexei reappeared five days before Ilya would leave for Boston, he walked into lunch with Veronika, Polina, Ilya, and his father and saw the family reorganizing without him.

Alexei was mean and cruel, but not totally dumb. He could not berate Veronika, whose father had been even more respected than their father and had maintained many friends who were actually Alexei’s bosses.

All through lunch, there were silent glances, Alexei understanding that his father’s health would not be leveraged to ask Ilya for money. The house was paid for, Polina received an allowance, and she was not the type to ask for more. Veronika would handle the medical side, and Ilya would receive all invoices and documents. If he needed money, he would have to beg for it himself.

Alexei cornered Ilya at the end of lunch, pushing him against the wall, slurs and more slurs, he was crying from anger, left with nothing, not even guilt to weaponize against Ilya. Ilya let him. Alexei did not try to hit him, and Ilya was not scared. When he was done and panting, Ilya firmly shoved Alexei away:

“I will send you money once a month, the same amount. I don’t care what you do with it. But don’t call me for more. There will not be more. If you call me for more, I will stop sending it.”

“How much?”

“Two thousand dollars”

“How dare you, you piece of shit.”

“It’s more than your salary...It's more than your boss's salary... It’s a lot for doing nothing.”

"My wife is pregnant, I'm having a fucking kid! A girl! You will have a niece, and you don't fucking care if she can't eat."

"I bought an apartment, a three-bedroom. My niece's bedroom is already furnished."

Ilya did not tell him that he planned to give him the apartment; at this point, with their father still alive, a short leash on Alexei was better than nothing.

"Oh, how generous, so I will not be on the street, while you are living your millionaire life. And my daughter, I will have to present all the money for daycare. Do you think my wife can stay home and not work? While you're driving a Porsche and drinking with your whore."

"You can put her in the fancy daycare, next to the theater. I already talked to the director; she owes me a favor. You will not have to pay for my niece, and when she's ready to go to school, I will pay the international school too."

"Now you're making decisions for my family, with your shitty money."

"If you don't want, I can also not pay, your choice."

“You are fucking useless, piece of shit, you bring Veronika, and you push me aside? I was not consulted. He is my father too; you can't make the decision alone.”

“It’s done!" Ilya raises his voice, "I know you are dumb, but not stupid. Everyone knows. Your boss, father’s friends. She will be taking care of Father. Do you know what happens if word gets out that you tried to bully the daughter of the beloved Igor Rozanov?”

“Fucking fa…”

“Shut your mouth. We are past that. Maybe you should consider rehab or being more financially responsible. More savings, less drugs.”

“You took everything from me, everything.”

“What did I ever take from you?" He raises his voice again, "Less cocaine? Gambling opportunities? I gave everything to this family, even now that I know the end.”

“What do you know?”

“Nothing. And fuck you.”

Alexei was silent, defeated.

Ilya thought about saying something. That Alexei was stuck in Russia, that even with Veronika, he would be the one first seeing their father forget, that his life was shit, that he did not choose it, that he hated that Ilya could leave and had left, that he was stuck in their father’s shadow. Alexei would never be their father, renowned and respected at work. Everyone knew he was corrupt and unprofessional.

He wanted to say something.

But Ilya knew now, after years of meeting other people with less fortune, with families actually victims of Grigori or Alexei or their colleagues, with no money, bad families, more violence, that other people made different choices. Alexei’s daily choice was to be cruel. Their mother was not.

“I wish you could have been my brother, Alexei.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Are you leaving for the U.S. and changing family too? Should not be surprised, you don't even blink abandoning your family.”

Ilya looked at him. A memory crossed his mind. He was six, and Alexei bought him a bunny with his Christmas money, hiding it from their father. Ilya called the bunny Sputnik.

“You remember Sputnik, Alexei?”

“No,” he lied. “I don’t give a fuck about Sputnik. You are a fucking traitor.”

“I wish that the Alexei who gave me Sputnik was my brother." And turning his back to Alexei, "The keys to the apartment are on the kitchen table. Veronika will tell you how to get there.” Ilya said, returning inside.

On the day of his flight to Boston, Ilya entered his father’s office, letting him know he would be back for Christmas, the Russian one, that he would call every week with the video, but that Gregori could call him anytime. His father repeated that he should have stayed in Russia, that he had abandoned his country, that the KHL was better, and that he should not bring shame to the family.

Ilya gave him an embrace. His father was surprised; he tapped Ilya on the shoulder: “Christmas. Close the door, I have work to do.”

On his way to the car, there was a box with his name on it in the living room. Alexei had dropped it off the day before. Among a bunch of junk, a book, The Brothers Karamazov, the text highlighted, notes in the margins, Alexei's handwriting, pages cornered, and what seemed like a bookmark, but it was a small picture taken at their grandparents’ house. Ilya, with Sputnik in hand, Alexei’s arm wrapped around him, smiling, and their mother standing behind them.

He left the picture on the coffee table and put the book in his bag

Chapter End Notes

🗣I don't believe “a picture is worth 1000 words.” I think photography tells us something happened, but not what happened. So many abusive families/workplaces/couples/institutions have beautiful pictures, and pictures are weaponized (especially in the digital era) to tell stories about one’s happiness, building narratives about women being liars when they try to denounce abuse, adult children having to go to family dinners: “look how you were happy.”

I am a firm believer that strong best friendships happen in the capacity of going through the most dull childhood trauma, unscripted, in the middle of the night, and I have a kink for self-actualization and Shane realizing that he was also under a Western PR spell.

 

❓️Question of the day: Did Alexei have a soft moment, or did he just give up on the Alexei who gave Sputnik to Ilya? Did Ilya let go of Alexei?

😑😑
I had to moderate comments after receiving a long and intellectually lazy one about the fic having a hidden woke agenda, and comments about the courses mentioned being useless and not getting people jobs. First, I want to clarify that this fic does not have any hidden woke agenda. It has a very, very explicit super-woke, Wokistan narrative, politics, and subtext. Don’t like it, don’t read. For the second point, many people who took those “useless” courses, me included, are very employed and are actually the raison d’être of this platform: writers, directors, screenwriters, from the ones who create the original material that people make fanfic about or the ones writing the very well-written canon like fics, the podfics creators..
And also, it’s with those ideas that we have to put in preambles of fic, “I do not use AI” when people think knowledge is useless or should only serve the purpose of getting a job, while we are actually witnessing late-stage capitalism falling down, putting us in misery, and the rise of fascism globally. Fuck jobs. We want zero-hour work weeks.
Don't Like, Don't read.

⏭️Chapter 5 is already done, so it will be published on time on Friday
🫂Looking for extra beta reading, as word count is going up.

📕 Reading

Novel
The book mentioned about the Kurdish woman in Iran is Daughters of Smoke and Fire by Ava Homa.

Academic books

Suffer the Little Children: Genocide, Indigenous Nations, and the Canadian State by Tamara Starblanket

Blood of Extraction: Canadian Imperialism in Latin America by Todd Gordon and Jeffrey R. Webber

Policing Black Lives, Revised and Expanded Edition: State Violence in Canada from Slavery to the Present by Robyn Maynard

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

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

Chapter 5: And they were roommates

Chapter Summary

Hidden in plain sight and tongues out

Chapter Notes

I am an Ilya front-line defender and a Shane apologist. The court is biased, the judge is biased, and the jury is biased.

YouTube, Wikipedia, and reading the transcripts of two full hockey games to write this short hockey scene as a challenge. Been there, done that, as an overachiever, let's say I am in my healing era. Never again. Hockey is officially back in the closet in this fic, wins, losses, and fights only.

Alidesidero. wrote all the smut and beta read and thanks to Kwiewi. who beta-read it.

✨️ Edited 04/02/2026: new polished version thanks to EvenCoal. They did fantastic proofreading, corrected tense shifts, and flagged other confusing parts that I then corrected.
Good time for a re-read.

August 2010 / Boston

Ilya landed in Boston at 2 p.m. on Sunday, welcomed by VIP treatment powered by the Boston Bears. Someone was waiting for him at the gate, passing immigration inspection in a separate section, his luggage retrieved for him. In the first timeline, it was not like this, but since Yuna cultivated a close relationship with Ilya's manager, Barry, his service standard had changed dramatically for the better.

He knew that Shane would not be at the apartment, with training camp approaching and commitments to sponsors and the team piling up. It was strange to be greeted by the concierge with a welcome when it was his apartment, the same concierge who used to give a good end-of-year bonus. He let Ilya into the apartment.

It was the same apartment, but so different. He removed his shoes at the entrance, putting them in the shoe rack that he had not had before. The open-floor kitchen was the same in general, but it was fuller: mugs from Harvard and the Boston Bears, plates and teacups that they had bought in Moscow and Turin. The organization of the kitchen counter was the same as in their Ottawa house in 2017: a coffee machine and a smoothie maker.

On the countertop, a note: “Sandwich and chicken parmesan in the fridge.”

On the fridge, a calendar already marked, very Shane. The fridge was stocked with Coke, and the freezer with two very expensive vodkas that Ilya loved.

The living room had a large rug they had found at an Iranian shop in Moscow that Ilya had sent in a separate shipment, a coffee table with large photography books: Tokyo, Moscow, Bodies in Sport, and an Allen Iverson photo book, Ilya's favorite athlete. A plaid from Shane's parents, oddly, it was large enough for two bodies. 

On the media console, below the large flat screen and audio system, were pictures. Shane as a child, Shane with his parents, Shane with his teammates at Harvard, with Anita and Iro, then Shane and Ilya in Turin, Ilya at the draft, Shane at the draft, Shane and Ilya in Moscow, with Svetlana, with Ilya’s friends, with Anita and Iro in Montréal. Next were pictures of Ilya that Shane had found in Moscow: Ilya as a child, Ilya’s mother, Ilya’s mother with Ilya, Ilya in his first skates, and the 2009 Press Russia cover of Ilya with the title “Youth Forward.” Shane had rightly guessed that he did not want a picture of his father here. The thought of him was enough of a burden. 

Ilya was overwhelmed. He had been scared of this roommate situation, of it being a bigger closet, of carefulness. Scared because he still needed to go back to Russia and still wanted more with Shane. But Shane had made this apartment their home. It was both of them, their lives intertwined. In the past life, they had only had four months of living together, but this was the most he had ever gotten. Because already, in plain sight, there were so many traces of them, in public and in private, of their lives being intertwined not by hockey rivalry but by memories.

He took The Brothers Karamazov from his bag and put it next to his mother’s picture because he still loved the Alexei who wrote in the book's margin.

He brought his suitcase into the bedroom, which smelled like Shane for now. Shane’s bedside table was neat: Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami, a glass of water, a charger, a notebook, an alarm clock, and a pen.

He opened the drawer. Lube, more lube, condoms, two dildos, and one plug. His naughty husband.

Ilya’s side of the bed had a little note: “Welcome home. Love you.”

The ensuite bathroom already had everything Ilya needed: his preferred electric toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, aftershave, and luxurious towels.

Ilya unpacked, showered, ate the chicken parmesan, put on his sweats, and went to bed. Shane had his location, so if he did not text, he knew he was busy.

He texted him: “Home. Love you.”

On August 2nd, 2010, at 4:16 p.m., Ilya descended into the most restful sleep he'd had since 2017.

The apartment was quiet when Shane got in. His key in the lock, the familiar give of the door, and then — Ilya's shoes at the entrance, placed neatly in the rack Shane had bought because he remembered how Ilya left his shoes.

He stood in the hallway for a moment. He had spent three weeks building this place and had not fully understood what he was doing until now, seeing it through the lens of Ilya actually being here.

Four months. That was all they'd had, the first time. Four months of waking up in their own house, of keys in the same bowl by the door, of knowing without checking that the other person was somewhere in the next room. Four months before the storm took it. Shane had spent a year and a half rebuilding it in secret, piece by piece, and now Ilya was here, and the shoes were in the rack, and the apartment smelled faintly of the chicken parmesan he'd left in the fridge.

He found him in the bedroom, asleep on top of the covers in his sweats, one arm thrown over his face. Shane leaned in the doorway. He wasn't ready to stop looking yet.

He didn't turn the lamp on. The room was warm and dim, the last of the evening light coming through the curtains, and Shane moved carefully onto the bed. He eased Ilya's sweats down slowly, enough to free him, and took him in hand first — just held him, feeling the warmth of him, watching his face for any sign of waking. Nothing yet. Just the slow, steady rhythm of sleep.

Shane stroked him unhurriedly until he felt him begin to stir and thicken, and only then leaned down.

He started easy. Lips first, learning the shape of him again after four weeks — the weight of him on his tongue, the particular way Ilya's breathing shifted even in sleep when Shane found the right pressure. He worked slowly up and down, one hand wrapped around the base, the other flat on Ilya's hip, keeping him still. He was in no rush. Four weeks he had been waiting to do this in their own bed, and he intended to take every second of it.

He took him deeper, felt Ilya's hand move in his sleep — searching, finding his hair, fingers curling loosely without waking. Shane held still for a moment, just that, Ilya's hand heavy and warm on his head.

Then he got serious about it.

Long, slow pulls, working him thoroughly, his tongue tracing the underside on every stroke. He could feel Ilya fully hard now, could feel the tension beginning to gather in the muscles of his thigh under Shane's palm. He varied the pressure deliberately — slower when Ilya's breathing quickened, deeper when it steadied — drawing it out, keeping him right at the edge of waking without quite getting him there.

He knew this body. That was the thing. Eighteen months of learning it again in stolen rooms and locked doors, but underneath that, years and years of knowing it in another life. He knew exactly what Ilya needed before Ilya did. He took him as deep as he could and held there. That was what did it.

Ilya came up slowly from the deepest sleep he'd had in years. There was warmth, and heat, and pressure — a mouth around him, unhurried and thorough — and something so familiar it had crossed into dream before he understood it was real. He surfaced slowly, his hand moving instinctively, finding hair thick and soft under his palm.

Shane. Boston. Home.

He lay still for a moment, just feeling it. The room around him was theirs — he could tell without opening his eyes, could feel it in the quality of the quiet, the weight of the duvet beneath him, the particular smell of Shane that had soaked into the pillow. In the four months they'd had in 2021, he had learned to take this for granted, and losing it had taught him he never should have. Waking up to Shane in their own bed. The specific luxury of it.

Shane took him deeper, and Ilya's breath left him entirely. He opened his eyes. The ceiling of their bedroom was dimly lit. 

He looked down. Shane looked up.

Something moved in Ilya's chest that he didn't have a name for in either language. He reached down, found Shane's shoulder, and pulled.

Ilya's hand on his shoulder — not stopping him, pulling him up — and Shane went, moving up the length of him until they were face to face in the dim room, Ilya's hands cupping his jaw.

Ilya looked at him for a long moment. Just looked, the way he did when he was making sure something was real.

"Hi," Shane said.

"Hi." Ilya's voice was wrecked already, rough from sleep and everything else.

He kissed him then — slow and thorough, both hands still framing Shane's face. Shane felt the last four weeks dissolve somewhere around the second breath. He held Shane's face in his hands and kissed him properly, the way he hadn't been able to in four weeks, the way that required a room that was theirs and a door that was closed and nowhere either of them had to be. Shane kissed back with everything he had.

When they broke apart, Ilya looked at him again. Still making sure. Still real.

"Don't stop," Ilya said.

Shane understood immediately. He kissed the corner of Ilya's jaw, his throat, worked his way back down slowly — taking his time about it, letting Ilya feel every inch of it — until he was back where he'd started.

He took him in hand first, stroked him once, and felt how close Ilya already was. Then he leaned down and swallowed him without warning.

No more drawing it out. No more teasing. He worked him with intent now — deep and steady, his hand and mouth moving together, giving Ilya everything at once. Ilya's hand came back to his hair, gripping this time rather than resting, and Shane let him.

Ilya had his head tipped back and his eyes closed and Shane's mouth around his cock and all of it — the apartment, the four weeks, the months before that, their bed, finally their bed — collapsed into a single point.

He said Shane's name once as warning. Shane didn't stop.

Ilya came with his hand tight in Shane's hair and his whole body arching off the mattress, not quietly, not carefully. Just free. Just his.

Shane did not waste a single drop, stayed until Ilya was completely finished, then pressed a kiss to his hip and moved back up beside him. Ilya was staring at the ceiling, breathing.

"Hi," Shane said again.

Ilya laughed — low, helpless. He reached out without looking and pulled Shane in by the front of his shirt. Then his hand traveled down, deliberate and certain.

"Your turn," he said.

The particular way Ilya touched him had always made Shane's brain go completely quiet. He stopped thinking about training camp, about the schedule on the fridge, about the four weeks and the year before that and the ten years before that. There was only this: Ilya's hand on him in their room, Ilya's mouth finding his throat, Ilya murmuring something in Russian too low to catch, Ilya’s hand reaching for his cock just the way that drove him to orgasm with precision.

He was already most of the way there. It didn't take long.

"Ilya—" His voice came out unsteady.

"I know," Ilya said. "I have you, just let go"

Ilya watched Shane come apart and felt something loosen in his chest that had been tight for weeks. Shane's hand fisted in his shirt. He said Ilya's name once, quietly, and Ilya kept going until he was certain Shane had nothing left.

Afterwards they lay in the dim room, catching their breath. Shane's hand found his.

"I missed you," Ilya breathed.

"You are home now." Shane smiled and Ilya felt it against his shoulder.

Shane heated the chicken parmesan while Ilya sat on the counter in his sweats, not helping, supervising. Shane told him about the week, the sponsor call with Yuna and Barry, the Bears' preseason schedule. Ilya told him about the flight, his parting with his brother.

They ate at the kitchen island. Ilya's elbow on the counter, their knees touching. The city outside the windows, the soft noise of the building around them.

At some point, without discussing it, they moved back to the bedroom.

He fell asleep before Shane did — he could feel it happening, the weight behind his eyes — and for once he didn't fight it. Shane's arm came across him in the dark, solid and familiar.

Ilya thought briefly about the four months they'd had. About all the mornings there would have been, the dinners, the ordinary evenings taken from them by the storm. He was not angry about it. He had stopped being angry about it somewhere in the middle of the last eighteen months, when he understood that the storm had also given them this: the chance to be better, to do it right, to build something from the beginning instead of stumbling into it after ten years of damage.

It was not the life they were supposed to have. But it was theirs.

He closed his eyes. Boston at night, Shane breathing beside him, their apartment settling around them. He slept.

Shane labeled this first week a flexication; they had one week left before training camp, but they had so much to do to get settled. Shane felt like he had waited so long for this moment, since December 2008 in this timeline, but also all the years from the previous one, living with Ilya. He made so many lists of everything needed, practically, but mainly to calm his own anxiety. He knew he had to be careful not to overdo it, burying them in plans and steps, so flexication it was. As Ilya was not a morning type, he planned every appointment after 2 p.m., giving them time for slow mornings and lunch together.

Monday was for money, appointments with private banking. Ilya and Shane had separate bank accounts, but they opened a joint checking and savings account. It’s not like their banker needed to know the details of why they needed it, and even if he did, he was highly paid to not ask. It would be their bank account, the one they would use, and transfer a large part of their salaries and sponsor money into. They followed with a meeting at an investment bank, handpicked and pre-approved by Yuna. She was so proud of Shane for being so considerate with money and investments. They signed all the necessary papers for their joint venture in investment and real estate, Hollanov Inc.

Tuesday was for lawyers. Shane could not forget the Tampa incident. If the plane had crashed, what would have happened? If Ilya was hurt, could he make decisions? He would have had to wait with the commoners, even if he was publicly Ilya's friend, even his best friend. They had already added each other as emergency contacts. Shane put his parents and Ilya, and Ilya put Yuna, Svetlana, and Shane. But it was not enough to ease Shane's mind. They met with a lawyer provided by Barry. Shane didn’t want his mother to know about it yet, as they signed powers of attorney for each other. They informed Farah, Shane’s agent, and Barry, “Just in case.” They went up to the third floor of the expensive law firm, where Ilya met with an immigration lawyer to begin gathering all the documentation to apply for an extraordinary ability Green Card. It was part of his deal with Boston; they would cover the immigration lawyer’s fees at the end of his first year.

Wednesday was for transport. In the off-season, black car services and the subway could work, but next week they would need cars. This part was handled by Ilya. Shane was ready to go to the first car dealer that came up, but Ilya had loyalty to people who did not yet know him. Shane went for a sensible SUV first, but Ilya coerced him into upgrading to a more sophisticated one. Still an SUV, good for snow, but a Land Rover. Ilya was eyeing a McLaren, and, surely reading the deadly look from Shane, he went for a not less flashy but at least less highway-to-premature-death orange Porsche. And because Ilya did not believe in having only one car, even though they had only three parking spots, he also took what he considered a sensible SUV: a Mercedes.

Thursday was for sponsors. Yuna and Barry went over everything with them on Skype, reviewing all the deal propositions, many of which included both of them: Apple, Reebok, Under Armour, Ralph Lauren, and, because of their frequent travel posts, Pullman.

Friday was establishing routine services: cleaning, groceries, dry cleaning, etc. Ilya had his favorite spots in the neighborhood, and Shane had his favorite spots, but near Cambridge. They spent the day going through their own lists and checking the vibe. They kept Ilya’s cleaning service for the apartment, three times a week. Shane’s dry cleaning and tailoring place was more high-end than Ilya’s, even though it was farther away, but they offered pickup and delivery. They kept Ilya’s grocery service, which delivered, and had a private shopper.

And finally, the weekend came, and it was for them.

They passed training camp as a formality, flying above any expectations, their chemistry on the next level. Ilya used all the knowledge he had to smooth things over with their new teammates, being kind and warm with those they knew would never make it.

After a tight negotiation, they agreed in advance that Ilya could host parties in their apartment up to 4 times a month, excluding game-watching, and that he had to make sure the cleaning service came first thing in the morning. This arrangement automatically made Shane hang out with the team more than he ever had before, living in an apartment that was always full of beer and had a carpet that needed professional cleaning once a month. Ilya would hang out with the guys more than Shane, video game afternoons at Cliff’s, or car racing with Svetlana.

When the season started, Ilya and Cliff were locked in as best friends second, as everyone accepted that it was Hollanov above all, so Shane was the first best friend. Shane and St. Simon were the other duo. St. Simon liked quieter hangouts, so he would tag along with Shane, Anita, and Iro for their do-nothing hangouts. These consisted of crashing on the large sectional, with phones or books, interrupted by short conversations or gossip. Low-intensity hangouts were a concept they coined, and they often joked about trademarking it.

Shane connected with Hayden. He had his number from Juniors, and they started talking, even if it took more effort on Shane’s part, as Hayden was very invested in the Montreal/Boston rivalry. He thought about contacting J.J., but he did not feel like it. He was revisiting their friendship and decided to give himself time to process the feelings of betrayal, in retrospect. In any case, Hayden would probably bring him along eventually. Shane was surprised by how comfortable he was with the idea that he had maybe forgiven J.J. too quickly, too soon. Now he knew that Anita and Iro would never have done that, and neither would Hayden. In any situation, they would always give him the benefit of the doubt, if not stand up for him outright. He thought about the many times he had seen his teammates—Hayden included—extend that same “benefit of the doubt” to players accused of domestic violence, sexual assault, or even those they had personally witnessed being homophobic or racist. That, somehow, could be explained away, minimized, or folded back into the team's logic.

But a consensual relationship with a teammate on an opposing team? That, apparently, was where the line was drawn—the real moral catastrophe, the ultimate breach of trust. Yes, it would have been nice if, in the locker room, J.J. had stood up for him, not only coming to terms after, with apologies and mild understanding.

All this bliss did not make Shane want less. Quite the opposite. He wanted fucking more.

In his mind, it would be an addition. If they played their cards right, he would have the things he loved in the previous life, plus more. But it was not like that. He did not yet understand that life, relationships, and communities are not simply about binding two separate spaces together. Each connection expands into new ones, bringing new knowledge about others and about himself. An afternoon strolling with St. Simon and Anita led him to learn that his teammate had also struggled with anxiety and had been on medication in the AHL. Spending more time with Ilya and his teammates, he heard not only loud jokes about girls and women, but also paralyzing fears about marrying too soon, families skimming money, jealousy during away games, regrets, and the quiet dread of what came after hockey.

Rose had been the only woman friend Shane had, and it did not start as a friendship but with the painful memory of disastrous sex. Friendship with Anita was different. First, she had not been the one gently guiding him out of the closet. Second, he was older now, so he had some wisdom to offer, while she had more wisdom to offer him about not giving a fuck about being good.

He had never had a sibling, and it was the closest thing he had to having one. As a joke, he told her that if Carter did not want to finance her unemployed writer endeavors, she could live off him. But he was actually very serious, even though it was clear Carter would finance anything she wanted. 

If their teammates were the most oblivious individuals to ever exist, his parents were not. The first weekend they came, staying in the guest bedroom, they both made not-so-subtle comments about how blended the apartment felt, how Shane’s bedroom felt a bit uninhabited. Shane and Ilya took the cue but not the bait. This summer, they would tell them properly.

They entered the season off a dominant preseason, and the Hollanov Blizzard was already working.

October 12. Montreal. TD Garden is loud from puck drop. The first shift told Ilya enough. Comeau, now captain, barking early, pushing contact. Drapeau from the crease, chirping between whistles. Shane at center, Marleau left, Ilya right. Clean breakout, Marleau along the boards, quick touch to Shane through the middle, Ilya wide. Turnover. 

Shane stripped it in neutral ice, cut inside, drew two defenders, slipped the pass. Ilya finished, one touch, glove side. 1–0. No celebration. They kept going. Marleau drove the forecheck, forcing rushed clears. Shane controlled the middle, resetting the play. Ilya attacked space, finished every shift with contact. Montreal tried to answer but Boston’s goalie shut it down, no rebounds, reset every time. After that, it tilted. Every lane closed. Every puck contested. They finished hits. Hard. Except Pike. Except J.J. Ilya drove Couillard into the boards, then Schneider on the glass. Marleau kept the cycle low, Shane worked the middle, traffic building. 2–0. Montreal started chasing. 

Then it got louder, not the crowd, them. Slurs, now clear, from the ice and the bench. Comeau loud, Drapeau laughing. Thierault yelling, trying to pull it back. No one listened. Next rush, Shane through center, Ilya matching him on the right, Marleau far post. Cross-ice. Shot. In. 3–0. The worse it got, the uglier they got. Ilya felt it settle, cold, precise. Not anger. Recognition. Montreal pushed back, one clean look, but Boston’s goalie held it. Next shift, Schneider again. Ilya lined him up. 

Clean hit. Late whistle. Gloves dropped behind him, Marleau already in it, the Garden roaring. Ilya didn’t turn. He passed Comeau close enough to hear the next one. Next shift, Shane answered. Full speed. Shoulder through Comeau. Glass shaking. Comeau got up, still talking. Montreal got one back after the chaos. 3–1. It didn’t change anything.

At the post-game press conference, a reporter tried. “Starting the season with rivalry at the center?”

Ilya cut in. “Is it a rivalry if one team, us, is here to win, and the other is not?”

Shane leaned forward, less careful than he used to be. “To echo what Ilya said, our team from preseason to now is setting the tone and expectation. Playoffs. And the Cup.”

On the same night of October 12, it was October 13 in Russia, Alexei and Katarina’s daughter, named Ana Irina, was born. Ilya did not learn about it through Alexei but from Veronika. In November, Ilya received a package letter from Moscow containing three photos of Ana, sent by Katarina. No note, just the photos. Shane saw Ilya’s face light up with surprise and fondness. In his previous life, he had never received pictures, anything, even if he sent money. A new picture in their little gallery of this new life. Two weeks later, during his weekly Skype with Veronika and his father, Katarina appeared with Ana in her arms. She did not say much to Ilya, only talked to the baby, “Look, it’s uncle.” Shane caught some words about presenting him the baby, "grateful for the apartment, and everything".

Those weekly Skype calls felt like some penitence ritual. Ilya could not miss them and always ended up tired afterward. But this time it was less tiring.

“She is very cute,” Shane said after Ilya ended the call, where his father seemed unhappy about Ilya not being captain yet.

“She is.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just… I don’t know. I thought the trust fund—you know I did it—and thought it was good… but I never talked to Katarina before. More than five words the first time.”

It was not like this time: Ilya talked to her every day, but during his last year in Moscow, he went out of his way to talk to her to avoid Alexei at family lunches and dinners.

He learned about her job, something he did not know before. She was a Russian-English translator. She did not watch sports but loved poetry. She wanted to be a literary translator, but there were no jobs, so she translated meetings for the tourism and culture ministry.

Ilya could tell she was struggling with some kind of addiction. Not alcohol, maybe pills or cocaine. He asked Veronika, who had become more and more Ilya’s ears and eyes in his own family, about it. She said Katarina had been clean since the pregnancy.

Ilya suspected that Alexei did not know and that she did not want him to know about it. Visiting Gregori was a good cover. And it became regular. Every other week, she would be on Skype with Ana for a few minutes.

It was amazing how a seemingly inconsequential change in Ilya’s behavior had such a dramatic impact. Ten minutes at a time, every lunch, talking to Katarina led to receiving pictures of Ana, and to Ana appearing on Skype, giggling at him. In his previous life, he had set up the trust fund for his niece as a matter of familial obligation. He loved his niece as someone connected to him by blood, as he loved children in general, and wanted to protect them. Now he loved her as Ana. He was fascinated by her changes in a matter of weeks—her questioning eyes, her growing understanding of the world.

Ilya saw Ana’s first smile on Skype on December 15th. 

***

Shane went back to his parents' for Christmas. He invited Hayden to Christmas dinner with them. He missed his former best friend—even if he would not have the same place in Shane’s life now, he still wanted him in his first circle. Shane kept thinking about the cultural shock to come when Hayden met Iro and Anita. It would be fun. He also still hoped to subtly plant some seeds about a possible trade to Boston. It wasn’t like Montreal had any real chance at the Cup without Shane—mid-tier at best now—while Boston, with both him and Ilya, was already a top contender in their division.

Ilya went on a very short six-day trip to Moscow. His father’s dementia was becoming more visible. His work put him in early retirement. Veronika now spent more time with him. And unsurprisingly, the cost of paying for an apartment for Veronika, Veronika's salary, a specialized clinic, medications, expenses for Alexei’s apartment, and expenses for Polina for his father’s home was still cheaper than what he had spent on Alexei in the previous life. In money. In mental space. In Anger.

Veronika sent very detailed notes about what was going on. In the previous life, he had learned brutal news about his father in fragments, too late to do anything. Now he thought he was prepared, but being aware of the slow, inevitable decline was a different kind of dread.

Alexei made sure he was nowhere be found during Ilya’s time in Moscow. And it was not like he did not know. Ilya was all over the news and magazines, announcing he would give gifts to orphans on the 30th, and being seen at a book festival on the 29th. On the day of Russian Christmas, Alexei finally appeared at the family lunch. No words were exchanged between the two. Alexei excused himself just after dessert, allegedly for a work imperative. Alexei was gone for five minutes when Katarina relaxed and handed him Ana. Ilya spent the afternoon playing with Ana and feeding her while Katarina was in the next room reading. Before she left, she took a picture of the two of them in the middle of the many gifts Ilya had brought Ana with an argentic camera. 

“I have to go… You know Alexei. He will not like it if I stay too long,” she said.

“Is he doing things ?” Ilya ventured.

“Oh no… nothing like that. He has a temper. He just talks harshly. I don’t want him to yell and scare her,” she said.

“Nothing like that?” Ilya said.

Ilya's father also did “nothing like that.” He never physically touched his mother. But the psychological terror was constant. No marks, no proof, nothing to publicly complain about. Even with marks, it is not like her word would count. Ilya had seen women with marks, and it was not enough to leave, especially to leave a man working for the police, who was “providing” for his family.

“Take my number. If you need anything, call me, or ask Veronika to call,” Ilya said.

“Thank you. You know I am better… for her. I am not taking anything anymore.”

“That’s good.”

She left, and Ilya realized that he had just met someone new. 

Before leaving for the airport, Ilya gave his father a silver ring that he bought at an auction. It had been owned by a very popular Soviet aviator. His father only said, “A hero. Never abandoned his country for America.” But he seemed to like it. That was the most important thing for Ilya. His father would wear it all the time, even at night. Ilya had paid a good amount of money to add a nano tracker to the ring, linked to an app that let him track his father's location. He had specific memories of a ten-hour disappearance that Ilya did not want to live again. Consent? He did not care.

In mid-January, Ilya received a letter from Moscow, three pictures of Ana and him, the first he had ever had, in all his lives. He ordered a photo album and decided to start The Book of Ana. 

***

In February, they flew to Toronto for the CCM photoshoot. They planned to make the best use of one of the hotel rooms. Shane convinced his mom not to bother coming by strategically surprising his parents with a one-week vacation in Turks and Caicos as a break from the Ontario winter. The weekend was supposed to be fun.

But it went off the rails.

After the photoshoot, they went to dinner, signed some autographs, and took pictures with waitresses at the restaurant. Back at the hotel, what was supposed to naturally lead to a hot night of sex took another turn.

“I was thinking,” Shane started.

The caution in his voice alerted Ilya that he had been thinking about this for a long time and had waited for the perfect moment.

“Yes…” Ilya said.

“You know, since we came back… your media coverage is different.”

“Do you want to be my rival?”

“Oh fuck no. I mean, it’s good that you are doing so many good things and you are still a menace in the press room and chirp on the ice,” Shane said.

“Thank you.”

“I mean, before you were also often in other media… with people… women,” Shane said.

“Oh, you mean I lost my top womanizer status. I know many women in Boston are missing the best night of their lives. So what about it?”

“I mean, if we want to carry out our plan for all these years… I think we can’t both… you know, people will start asking questions.”

“Let them ask.”

“Ilya, we can’t. We have to have more cover.”

“You want me to pick up women and sleep with them? Last time I remember, this conversation did not go well.”

“Absolutely no. You don’t need to sleep with them. I mean, I got photographed so many times with Rose after we broke up, and people speculated about it. You just need to be seen with people.”

“You want me to be photographed with women at clubs?”

“I mean, you are going out more than me, with the team. Don't put your tongue in their mouths. Just be photographed with them.”

“No.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I don’t want to be a ladies' man. Because you are my husband, and I am not a cheater.”

“But you will not be cheating, and I know it will be for appearances.”

“So why aren’t you doing it?”

“Listen, Ilya, my image is very private, and before people asked, but not that much. But we can just be two relationshipless, sexless roommates.”

“So I have to be the ladies' man”

“It’s strategic. It’s for our plan.”

“Why are my feelings not more important than your plan?” Ilya’s voice rose.

“Our plan. Our fucking plan,” Shane matched his voice. “Can you, for once, just think about the broader picture?”

“Oh, the broader picture of me in media as a manwhore. So your friends, my friends, and your parents, who do not know about us yet, can say I am a ladies' man.”

“We will tell them that it’s just for the media. They will understand. It’s simple. It’s for us to be able to go the long run without people looking around. Fuck, Ilya, it makes no sense that a hot 20-year-old millionaire hockey player who's extroverted like you isn’t seen with anyone.”

“I have been seen with Svetlana.”

“It’s worse. I said being seen with different people. Not you being shipped and speculation of being ready for marriage with your gorgeous best friend, that happens to be the daughter of the goalie legend of our team.”

“And after, when we are out, what are we going to say? That I was cheating on you?”

“No, because you will never confirm any relationship.”

“Oh, I fake lying and after I say the truth to hide fucking lying for years, to tell the truth about us.”

“Fuck, Ilya, you are acting like a fucking toddler. We are not going through the disaster of the first time by risking getting outed.”

“You think I don’t know? You think it was only you who suffered it? But why do you have to be the mysterious one, and me faking having relationships?”

“The people who count will know that’s not true. Svetlana, Iro, Anita, even Hayden, my parents.”

“But I count too, Shane. I fucking count.”

“You are so fucking unbelievable. We are building something, given a second chance, and you don’t want to do something a little unconventional for it.”

“Troy spent years in the closet and in a relationship.”

“Troy was never the fucking face of a franchise, Ilya. Was Troy Cosmopolitan’s #2 hottest man? Did he ever do a cover of Men’s Health?”

Shane put his coat back on and headed for the door.

“Oh, great. Here we go again. Two lifetimes and you are fucking leaving,” Ilya shot back.

“I am going for a fucking walk. Unlike you, I committed to not making the same mistakes.”

And Shane left.

The flight back to Boston was silent, with only strictly necessary information exchanged. Back at their apartment, the same.

It was fascinating what time could do. Before, they would disappear, ghost each other. Now, living together, technically married for two years, they learned you can actually ghost someone while living with them.

Wake up. Shower. Sleep in the same bed. Eat. Play games.

Still silent treatment.

And because they were professionals, they played joylessly but were still locked in.

Ilya did it partly out of spite, but also to hurt Shane. He was not ashamed of his reputation as a womanizer. It had been a choice he made, informed by his need to escape his thoughts, for less loneliness. Most of the time, he enjoyed it. When he stopped enjoying it, when his feelings for Shane came, he stopped sleeping with people.

And now he was supposed to fake it.

He knew it was fake, but he did not want to fake it.

Yes, there was a risk that people would ask questions about them being roommates. But part of him wanted people to wonder.

In the past months, he became obsessed with the mailbox, letters from banks and real estate agencies with Shane's and his names, their living room, and the team named the apartment the Hollanov HQ. Shane’s friends were sending him messages for surprise gifts for Shane’s birthday. The media was calling them the Hollanov Blizzard.

He wanted it.

But he wanted to go back to Russia. Not only for his father now, but also for Ana.

He was scared those conflicting wants would become more untenable, and he would be the one postponing things. The goal was to stay in the closet until his father’s funeral. Years from now.

Their closet was larger, fuller, happier, more fun, but still a closet in plain sight.

Ilya was mad at Shane, so he complied out of spite because he knew Shane. Strategic Shane. The Shane he knew would never be cool and strategic with seeing Ilya with women, even for a fake media operation. Or would he? Had he changed that much?

Ilya had changed, and he was happy about Shane's changes. His better, cooler friends, more openness, and even being more assertive with his mom.

But Ilya still wanted his possessive, angry-kitten Shane.

Now he would comply with Shane’s idea and figure it out.

The week they came back to Boston, Ilya went out with the team every night from Tuesday to Friday. Each time, the next day, there were pictures of Ilya with a beautiful woman leaving the club with him.

Shane did not go out with the team. He went home or out with his friends.

The first day, it was okay. They were still on speaking terms, but only minimally.

They woke up, showered, and managed to be naked around each other without either of them making the first move. Shane made coffee in the morning. Ilya still made breakfast. They still cooked enough for two.

Ilya still drove them to practice and picked up the mail. Shane still made sure all follow-ups with their financial advisors were done.

But still not talking.

At night, they slept in the same bed. Still not talking. Not cuddling.

The second day was less okay.

Shane always woke up before Ilya. He opened social media. He had made a burner account to follow all the subreddits and accounts around hockey gossip.

Another picture of Ilya leaving a club with another woman.

Shane knew it was nothing. Ilya always came home at the same time.

Shane studied the picture. They were close but not touching. He knew Ilya. He could never not-touch someone he was close to. Lover, friend, teammate, even Shane’s parents.

He could do this. It was for the bigger plan.

But the comments were worse. About how good they looked together. Ilya’s taste. People imagining their future children.

The third day was totally not okay.

The first two women were random models. But now Ilya was with a very famous TV anchor. The pictures were not of them leaving the club, but at the bar. They were talking, and Ilya was laughing.

That night, Ilya came home a little later than usual.

The fourth day there was a picture with another famous woman, this time an actress.

It totally fucked up Shane’s day.

For the first time, he left a comment, with his dburner account: “I don’t see anything here. A man and a woman can talk.”

Again, the picture was just them talking in some kind of intense conversation.

Shane did not know why the feeling was worse than it had been on that infamous night at the club in Montreal.

Because this time, he was the one who sent Ilya.

He could not be mad at him.

He had asked him to do it.

But why did people have to make so many comments?

He hated it.

The locker room talk after the game against Toronto was excruciating. They lost 2–1, but all his teammates seemed able to talk about was Ilya’s roster of hot girls.

“Roz, you are a fucking legend.”

Shane was furious, hoping his face masked it.

When St. Simon shot, “Hollzy seems tense. Lack of sleep. Guess you are shopping for soundproof walls,” everyone laughed except him.

Ilya looked at him. Usually, he would step in to mitigate conversations around Shane. But he did not.

Worse, with a dark smirk, Ilya added, “I like ladies’ houses. They always make breakfast.”

Yes. It was worse than that night at Ciel.

Shane was furious and, against all logic, decided to go out with the team that night.

At the club, he sat in the VIP booth nursing a beer. He did not want to admit it, but he hoped it would make Ilya stop without Shane having to tell him and without admitting that maybe it was not a good idea.

The first two hours went well.

But then Ilya moved toward the bar, and the woman Heidi Klein, the TV anchor, was there.

She was laughing, hugging Ilya, her head down, touching his forearm. And then Ilya touched her hand back.

Shane wanted to throw up.

Before he could do something he would definitely regret, and obviously was not drunk enough to justify, he told Cliff he was out and took a cab home.

He hit the shower and scrubbed himself to remove everything from the club.

He lay in bed, knowing he would not sleep.

One hour passed.

He took his phone and started typing a text to Ilya.

“Home. Enjoy your night. Big geopolitical convo, I guess.”

He erased it.

He typed again.

“Home.”

But before pressing send, he heard the front door open.

Ilya entered the bedroom.

“Didn’t see when you left.”

Shane answered, “I bet.”

Ilya opened his mouth to say something, stopped, and headed to the ensuite bathroom.

He came back to bed in his boxer briefs and turned off his side lamp.

The misplaced anger in Shane’s body had nowhere to go. He needed to get it out of his body one way or another, but he did not decide to be the one starting the conversation. He was discovering a new feeling: misplaced jealousy. He knew he was wrong, that he could say it, yes, bad idea, but he did not want to. He wanted to be able to have it both ways, be wrong but also have Ilya come back crawling to him, with, “I miss you,” “I want to be with you,” and it was even more nonsensical, a dark madness, that he was the architect of this genius plan, and because not even for one second, he felt insecurity, the idea that Ilya could leave him or did not love him or would do something, did not crossed his mind.

He was furious at Ilya, and yet there was nothing, nothing real, he could hold against him, which only made the anger worse. Shane was maybe used to being the one on the right side of history—Sochi, Las Vegas, Las Vegas again. Yes, of course, the tuna meltdown, and Ottawa’s early years, but still. In the great scheme of their relationship, in his own mental math, he was the one who proposed, who made the invitation to the cottage, who set things in motion.

So, logically, he should have had one free pass, to skip the formal apology, to not talk about it, to let it pass like that, with Ilya stopping it, and still have the right to be possessive and jealous. It was 1:30 a.m., and the time for emotional maturity was long past. So he decided to indulge himself in the most unhinged way possible. When you have a half-naked, super-hot husband next to you in your bed, acknowledging you were wrong was not an option.

The room was dark, and the silence between them was its own kind of noise.

Shane lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, and thought about Heidi Klein's hand on Ilya's forearm and the way Ilya had touched her hand back.

He knew what it was. He knew what Ilya was doing, and why, and that every photo had been exactly what Shane had asked for. He knew all of this. His body did not care. He moved without deciding to.

He shifted his body and put his hand inside Ilya’s briefs tentatively.

Ilya did not push him away.

Pressure. Soft, soft-hard, then very hard.

Ilya heard Shane shift on the mattress and kept his breathing even. Waiting. He was still angry. The anger sat in his chest like something with weight, but underneath it, or alongside it, or threaded all the way through it, were the days of Shane not touching him. Of sleeping in the same bed without Shane's hand finding him in the dark, the way it always did.

He felt Shane move closer. Felt the duvet shift. He didn't move away.

Shane pulled the duvet back. He took Ilya's briefs down in one slow movement and heard Ilya's breath change and that was enough.

He went down without preamble.

No ease into it this time. No starting slow, no drawing it out. He took Ilya in his mouth with intent, his hand wrapped around the base, and worked him with the focused efficiency of someone with something to prove. Not to Ilya. To himself. To the particular part of his brain that had been showing him Heidi Klein's face for the last few hours.

Shane's mouth on him in the dark, angry and deliberate. He had his arm thrown over his eyes and his jaw clenched and he was not going to give Shane the satisfaction of a sound.

He lasted about thirty seconds before he gave Shane the sound. His hand came down, found Shane's hair. He didn't guide him. Just held on.

Shane worked Ilya until he could feel him getting close — the particular tension, the way his breathing changed — and then he stopped.

Ilya made a sound of protest, low and involuntary, and Shane felt something sharp and satisfied move through his chest.

He reached past Ilya for the nightstand. Found the bottle. Ilya watched him in the dark without speaking.

Shane got his own briefs off, slicked his fingers, and reached behind himself without ceremony. One finger first, working himself open with the same focused efficiency he'd brought to everything tonight. He kept his eyes on Ilya's face while he did it. Ilya's jaw was tight, his chest rising and falling, watching Shane's arm move and understanding exactly what he was watching.

Shane added a second finger, felt the stretch of it, worked himself through it. He was not patient about it, the way he might have been another night. He was thorough. He opened himself until he was certain, added a third, felt his own breath go unsteady for the first time tonight.

Ilya had not moved. Had not looked away. He watched Shane prepare himself in the dark, methodical and without performance, and felt the heat of it low in his stomach. Shane's face was unreadable. His arm kept moving. His eyes stayed on Ilya's.

Neither of them said anything.

When he was ready, he pulled his fingers free, slicked Ilya with his hand — heard him exhale sharply — and swung his leg over. He lined them up and sank down slowly, taking Ilya in inch by inch, his palm flat on Ilya's chest for balance. He felt every inch of it. His jaw clenched. He kept going until he had taken all of him, until he was fully seated, until there was nothing left to take.

He stayed there for a moment. Both of them were breathing. Then he started to move.

The feeling of Shane around him — the tight heat of him, the deliberate roll of his hips — Ilya had his hands on Shane's thighs, and his head pressed back, and he was completely done pretending he had any control over this situation whatsoever.

He gripped harder and thrust up to meet him. Shane made a sound and pressed down harder.

The anger was still there. It didn't go away. He rode it alongside the other thing — both of them present, inseparable — his hands braced on Ilya's chest, his hips finding a rhythm that was harder than anything tender, and he did not want tender. He wanted this. He wanted to feel Ilya everywhere, wanted Ilya to feel him, wanted to burn the last four days out of both of them through sheer friction.

Ilya's thumbs were digging into his hip bones. Shane felt the marks they'd leave and didn't care.

He changed the angle, felt Ilya hit deeper, felt his own breath stutter.

Four days of photographs. Four days of Shane asking him to do this, and then four days of Shane barely able to look at him. And now Shane above him in the dark, taking him apart with furious precision, his face still tight with something that was not quite anger anymore and not quite anything else either.

Ilya thrust up harder. Shane's head dropped back.

He could feel Ilya everywhere, could feel the anger burning off into something rawer and simpler, could feel Ilya getting close from the way his grip was tightening, the way his rhythm was losing its steadiness.

He worked him harder. Deeper. His own thighs burning.

"Shane—" The only word Ilya said all night. A warning.

Shane didn’t stop. He moved his hand and took advantage of Ilya’s panting to slip two fingers into his mouth. Ilya sucked them. 

He came with his hands clutching Shane's hips hard enough to bruise and his back arching off the mattress, not quietly, Shane riding him through all of it without slowing, taking everything Ilya had until there was nothing left.

He felt Ilya finish beneath him and pulled off. Ilya was still catching his breath, chest heaving, eyes half-closed in the dark, wrecked and undone.

Shane looked at him.

The jealousy was still there. All four days of it, sitting right behind his sternum. Heidi Klein's face. The locker room. Roz, you are a fucking legend.

He wrapped his hand around himself and moved over Ilya, one knee on either side of his chest.

Ilya understood immediately. He tipped his head back against the pillow and looked up at Shane and said nothing. Let him have it. The full unambiguous weight of what this was — Shane above him, jaw tight, working himself with single-minded focus, eyes dark and fixed on Ilya's face. 

Marking territory he couldn't claim in public.

Ilya held still and let him.

He took his jaw, applying slight pressure to make him open his mouth, and said, “Tongue out.” He came with his hand braced on the headboard, his eyes on Ilya's upturned face, the particular vicious satisfaction of it moving through him like something finally breaking loose. He came all over Ilya’s face.

Afterwards, the room was very quiet.

He lay still for a moment. Then he got up, went to the bathroom, cleaned himself, and came back with a cloth. He cleaned Shane and set the cloth aside.

He got back into bed.

They rolled to their own sides. The distance between them exactly what it had been before.

Shane did not reach for Ilya. Ilya did not reach for Shane.

They did not even kiss.

Chapter End Notes

✨️ Trying something new: instead of giving my thoughts here directly, I will edit the comment name "placeholder" in 2 days. I love all your comments and views on the fic, and I don't want to disclose mine first.

⏭️ Next chapter Friday

📕 Reading:

AI- The Yverson Book by Gary Land

Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami

The Right to Sex by Amia Srinivasan

The Politics of Friendship by Jacques Derrida

"Openly gay athletes: Contesting hegemonic masculinity in a homophobic environment." Gender & society 16.6 (2002): 860-877. by Eric Andreson

Chapter 6: Surviving in part

Chapter by Rebo758

Chapter Summary

Geography of exiles x Adult children and their parents.

Chapter Notes

Big feelings.

Alidesidero. and Witwandwolfbird. who beta-read it.

✨️ Edited 04/02/2026: new polished version thanks to EvenCoal. They did fantastic proofreading, corrected tense shifts, and flagged other confusing parts that I then corrected.
Good time for a re-read.

“Being on the wrong side of history.” Ilya’s education in Russia had made the most of it, pointing to several nations and, by comparison, to how Russia—the USSR—stayed on the right side of history. Ilya was not sure that feeling was something nations had, maybe more a general feeling, like Russia feeling like an outcast after saving Europe, the U.S. feeling it could march over the world in boots, Western Europe feeling it owned the concepts of culture, democracy, freedom, civilization, and wine.

In any case, this morning, as he emerged from sleep later than usual, he knew it was late. He could feel the sun, and Shane’s side of the bed was cold—not warm-cold as usual because he would wake up one hour before Ilya, just cold. Ilya had the strange feeling of being on the right side of History—and yes, History with an uppercase H, because they traveled back in time, so a little respect.

Saying that last night Shane rode him would be a pure euphemism, a vile mischaracterization. Shane rolled over him, like a steamroller, draining his energy and his soul, back and forth out of time. Ilya knew what it was about. Of course, Shane was jealous, but not the same jealousy—not the possessiveness of an angry kitten, glossy eyes. This new configuration of their relationship, sharing a secret bigger than being in the very large closet—time travel, being married, knowing each other—had unlocked things in both of them. And last night, he discovered Shane using angry sex as a way to avoid apologizing. It was Ilya’s specialty—passionate sex instead of talking, sex as a wall for feelings. Ilya had messed up so many times with Shane, but also with others, using sex to avoid things.

But truly, this morning, he felt like, yes, he had managed the situation better than Shane. He wished he could tell him, I am better than you. But for that, he would have to talk to him, and make it easier for Shane to apologize, acknowledge that this part of his plan was a fiasco—and Ilya had no intention of making the task easy.

Last night was the first sign of capitulation. He already knew that Shane would break today. All the stars aligned: a day off, snow and wind outside, fridge packed, no reason to go out. And Ilya would, for sure, not stay in the bedroom or another room. He would be very much in Shane’s periphery—and savor the apology.

Was Ilya sad that they did not kiss? Of course. He loved kissing Shane above all, loved hugging him afterward. But it had been six days of cold shoulder. He was mad, too. And last night, he got something out of it. A partial fulfillment of his neediness. Shane was the one he made beg for it in bed, but Ilya knew he was the clingy one. Every time Shane touched him, whispered, "I love you," and looked at him, saying "Ilya," his heart swelled–being wanted and claimed by Shane was everything.

And yesterday, the toxicity and messiness of it were, to be honest, very hot. Something echoing their early years, but without scarcity, no fear of fleeing or leaving, just learning to navigate being out of sync and mad at each other. When Shane rode him and put two fingers in his mouth, looked him in the eyes, Ilya tried not to say his name. But Shane went harder, and Ilya abdicated. He saw in Shane’s eyes a warning, a reminder: You are mine. I will make you say my name. And Ilya answered in his head: Yes, I am yours. Make me.

No surprise that, unlike most of the time, he came before Shane. It was so hot, he thought it was the apogee. But Shane pulled himself up, dripping on Ilya’s stomach, then touched his hand on Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya had never dreamed of something so exciting—his Shane so powerful, claiming him, reducing him to pure need, ruined. And he said, “Tongue out.” Nothing more.

Ilya rolled in the bed, sniffing Shane’s pillow, becoming hard at the thought of last night and the prospect of having an apologetic Shane later. He took out his phone.

Svetlana: Did you make peace with Shane
Svetlana: Why are you still sleeping

Ilya: Just woke up. He fucked the life out of me, but we did not talk… or kiss

Svetlana: Men…
Svetlana: But it seems hot. Angry sex, my top 3 favorite

Ilya: He is jealous but does not want to apologize and say he was wrong

Svetlana: Are you talking about yourself in the third person now

Ilya: Fuck you

Svetlana: You are going to torture him, are you?

Ilya: Just a little

Svetlana: Going for lunch. If your place is free of crossfire, I can stop by for tea. I have a cool friend you need to meet.

Ilya decided that being the bigger person was exciting; he went all in. After a long shower, he changed the bedsheets, made the bed, sorted the dirty clothes in the bathroom for the cleaning service, wiped the nightstands, and threw away two empty bottles of lube and water. And because being righteous and sexy was maybe his new personality, he put on sweatpants with nothing under, a T-shirt that he knew Shane loved on him, and made his way to the kitchen at 10:30.

No rest for the wicked, but God, according to Boston Catholics, rewards the brave. The kitchen smelled like coffee and freshly made blinis. And unlike the previous week of cold shoulder and minimal talk, Shane looked at him with a guilty smile and said,

“Hey, sorry, I didn’t want to wake you up.”

When Shane saw Ilya emerging from the corridor on his way to the kitchen, the guilt came back. He had woken up at 6, his body aching. Last night was… what was it? He was totally possessed. He ravaged Ilya, and he liked it. Every time he thought about it, there was a pulse in his dick, but his brain told him he should be ashamed to have let that immature, impulsive jealousy take over instead of talking to Ilya and acknowledging he was wrong.

But God, it was so hot. When Ilya resisted moaning and talking, and Shane won, when Ilya finally could not take it anymore and said, “Shane.” Damn. Shane was so fucked up. His morning workout, forty minutes on the treadmill, did nothing to burn off the tension in his body. But he knew he needed more than that. This could not happen again. The situation was untenable.

Last night, Shane should have apologized, but instead, he went for a full sex tantrum. He planned his apologies this morning, make Ilya’s favorite late breakfast, kiss him passionately, say it was a bad idea, and talk.

This plan did not come smoothly. On the treadmill, doing a light run while talking, he had been on the phone with Iro, recounting all the elements that led to this. He thought that giving full details—while avoiding the time travel part—would maybe help him find a loophole where he could apologize but still be a bit innocent.

No surprise, Iro’s preamble was: “Oh lord, hockey… so much unnecessary turmoil, is it a Victorian novel?” And then he proceeded to a full fault judgment: “You are definitely the drama. But I support gay rights and gay wrongs.”

Shane was definitely gay wrong.

He showered in the other bathroom and started cooking. He rehearsed his apology, the bad plan, the jealousy, the cold shoulder, and the no-kiss angry sex. Still, in the back of his head, he was thinking that he would like to do this again—if it could be reproduced without the toxic feeling. Marvelous. Shane was thinking even as he prepared his apology.

Still, they were moving toward resolution. Ilya would accept the apology, sure. It had been a week of building tension, but at no point had he felt the abyss of before—the time of maybe this was the last time, maybe he would never answer his texts, maybe he would find a girlfriend, or maybe he would almost die in a plane crash.

It had not been a good week. And the cherry on top was messy. But it was not a miserable week. They went through it. Not in a perfect or mature way. But they did it.

Ilya went over to the stove and smelled the blini. Shane took a step closer to him. “I ordered croissants from the French bakery you like.”

“Mmh, so nice to me. What did I do to deserve it?”

Shane looked at him. He had planned to apologize, but the words stuck. Not yet. He leaned in instead, brushing a kiss against Ilya’s mouth—soft at first, almost careful—then deeper, more urgent. Ilya’s back hit the fridge. Shane kissed him for yesterday, for the whole past week. Ilya pressed his thigh against Shane.

Shane pulled back, breathing harder. “I’m sorry. I… we didn’t kiss last night.”

“No, we didn’t.”

“It was my fault, the very angry sex.”

“You mean you angry fucked me, and then came on my face.”

Shane let out a breath. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I mean… I liked it. But not the no kiss. That part… wasn’t right.”

“I liked it too,” Ilya said, quieter now. “But I prefer when we kiss. And cuddle. And touch.”

“Me too.”

A pause stretched between them.

“I was mad. And jealous. Because I was wrong,” Shane said, his voice lower.

But Ilya didn’t let him off.

“I’m going to need more words, Shane. Wrong about what…? You’re a very detail-oriented person,” he said, taking a bite of blini, watching him.

Shane exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Oh, God. Okay. I was wrong. You being seen with other women—it was a bad idea. Maybe on paper it made sense, for cover, but I couldn’t take it. I know you didn’t do anything. I know you wouldn’t. But I don’t want people thinking you’re with anyone else but me. I hated it. And last night…” He hesitated. “You know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Do I have to say it?”

“Yes. That’s kind of the point. We’re trying to be… emotionally intelligent, right?”

Shane nodded once. “Last night I was jealous. Of you, with Heidi or whatever. And I wanted to claim you.” His voice dropped. “It was possessive. Immature. And not kissing you after—that was wrong. I know how it feels. So… I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

Ilya held his gaze, then spoke more quietly. “It hurt me when you asked me to do it. Our story for the public is already… lies by omission. And I get it. It’s necessary. But I don’t want more lies.”

Shane swallowed.

Ilya continued: “I want that, when we’re older, and our kids look at pictures in Cosmopolitan, at the hottest men in sport, we can tell them we’ve loved each other since 2008. Not have them see you—or me—with other people.”

“I want that too.”

“And also, no kiss is very bad,” Ilya added, softer now. “Don’t do it again. Ever. But I know it’s not like Vegas. We’re not the same anymore. I knew you weren’t going to run, or disappear, as I did.” He looked away from Shane. “I’ll always be sorry for that.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too.”

Ilya got his redo in the afternoon. Shane did the same as last night, ridding him, but this time, full of kisses and talk. Shane asked him, "Tell me you belong to me." "I'm ruined for anyone else," and cum in his face, panting, "You are so beautiful, Ilya."

Shane was still doing his post-sex nap when Svetlana arrived with her friend, slightly taller than her, brown skin lighter than Anita’s, with light brown eyes.

“Ilyusha, this is Zahra. Zahra, Ilyusha.”

“Hello, welcome to our home… no, our apartment, as Shane says.”

“Hello. So glad to meet the hockey prince, benefactor of the unfortunate.”

Zahra smiled, a little amused at herself. Ilya recognized a very Saint Petersburg Russian accent and thought she might be a model.

They settled in the living room.

“So,” Svetlana said, while Ilya was serving them glasses of an expensive wine—because he was spiritually too old to drink cheap wine—dropping into the couch, “tell him. He loves complicated biographies.”

Zahra rolled her eyes slightly. “There’s nothing complicated.”

“You say that because you lived it,” Svetlana shot back.

Zahra sighed, then looked at Ilya. “Russian-Sudanese. Born in Belgium, raised in Saint Petersburg. Belgian passport—very useful.”

“Lucky,” Ilya said.

“Accidental,” she replied. “My parents didn’t plan anything… as a general rule.”

“It’s okay, it’s a safe space for people with at least one fucked-up parent,” Svetlana said.

“What do they do?” Ilya asked.

“Academics. Political,” she said. “They met at Moscow University. Soviet times. My mother came from Sudan to study. My father is Russian. After that… they moved a lot. Cuba, Burkina Faso, Greece. Then back to Saint Petersburg, both professors.”

“She is being modest,” Svetlana cut in. “Her mother is a big deal philosopher. Marxist, feminist theory.”

Zahra shrugged. “And my father is a political scientist. So… a lot of opinions at home.”

“I can imagine,” Ilya said, smiling.

“My father got deep into opposition work, publicly, etc…”

“Aleksandr Tchernovanov!” Svetlana said.

“Your father is Tchernovanov. He had to leave Russia,” Ilya said. Of course, he knew the name—the prominent academic, winner of several prizes, books praised around the world, who refused positions at Oxford and Stanford to stay in Saint Petersburg. But they had to make an example of him. When his stance on freedom of speech and intellectual life became too much, when his stance on feminism, ethnic, and sexual minorities went too far, they arrested him one night, and the next thing, he was gone.

“Exile,” Zahra corrected. “They live in Spain now. And they hate that I’m here.”

“In the U.S.?” Ilya asked.

“In the U.S., yes. Especially here.” She paused. “MIT.”

“You like it?” he asked.

Zahra made a small face. “I’m good at it. Easy option.” Like Ilya was good at hockey, finding the first exit possible—but she, with a Belgian passport, could have gone elsewhere. Maybe she saw the question in his eyes.

“I chose engineering and MIT out of spite,” Zahra said.

“Most people go do drugs and drop out of school to anger their parents… not MIT,” Ilya said.

Svetlana laughed. “Lack of ambition.”

Zahra said, “I don’t want to end up like them.” There was no softness in it. “Depending on institutions, political networks, and universities that underpay you while telling you that you’re important. Having no savings, leaving my house in 24 hours,” she added. “If I could, I would go for literature and open a coffee shop. Polyglot, in the busiest street of Saint Petersburg. Books, languages, people passing through… but I can’t. I can’t even go back now.”

“You could have something like it. Not the same… but still. That sounds better than an out-of-spite life,” Ilya said.

“It would be nice. I can’t have it because they won't retire in Saint Petersburg. We will never get our house back. So I need to think about it—taking care of them later,” she said.

“You are a model too?” Ilya asked, remembering what Svetlana had said.

Zahra grimaced. “Sometimes. Not really. It pays.”

“She hates it,” Svetlana said.

“I don’t hate it,” Zahra corrected. “I just don’t want it. A bunch of perv managers, photographers, stylists, all obsessed with my bone structure. Fucking eugenicists.”

There was a pause, then Zahra leaned back slightly, her voice softer.

“I don’t look like what people expect from a Russian. And I’ve never really been to Sudan, and I miss home every day. Sometimes I think I will just take a flight and go, but I know they could use it against my father. And I love them, despite all… they did amazing things, for the greater good… maybe not enough for me.”

Ilya said nothing, because his father and his brother were on the side of the people who pushed Zahra’s father away. They did nothing good, for him or for the greater good.

“Maybe in a few years it will be better,” she added.

Ilya looked at her, just for a second. He knew it would not. But that was not something you said. Ilya could not tell her he already knew what it meant not to be able to go back. And when Zahra said maybe in a few years it would be better, he could not tell her that every year it would get worse, that even in the future, there was no return in sight for political opponents.

They shifted to easier things—Russia, the U.S., language, food. When Shane arrived one hour later, Ilya introduced him, making a funny summary of the newest member of their Tolstoy dysfunctional family club. Shane asked many questions about Zahra’s parents and engineering. He was already planning hangouts with Anita and Iro in his head, talking about their book club, and that Anita surely knew Zahra’s mother’s books.

They did not talk about Ilya’s hand on Shane’s thigh, or Shane’s small kiss on Ilya’s head when going for snacks. It was their new way, with people they knew were safe and non-hockey, living.

Shane asked, pointing at Zahra’s ankle, “Oh, your tattoo is nice. Is it in relief ?"

"Yes, the dots are, it's a special technique, like scars, I like to touch them."

"What does it mean?” Ilya asks in Russian

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

Without a world, Shane took Ilya's hand and squeezed it.

***

Summer 2011

Ilya and Shane went into the rest of the season locked in, precise. Boston made the playoffs but was eliminated by Philadelphia in Game 6. Montreal was a wild card but did not even last five games. Shane won Rookie of the Year. Ilya applauded and gave him a dramatic smack during the ceremony. Ilya was the first person Shane thanked in his speech, as “the best half of Hollanov.”

Shane and Ilya went to Ottawa for the summer. No cottage yet, so they only spent ten days at Shane’s parents’ cottage. Shane came out to his parents separately. He had already had the dramatic—being walked in on by his father while making out with his secret rival lover coming out. He wanted something quieter.

He started with his dad while they were shopping. Ilya was there, in the car ride, while they were talking about new suits for an upcoming wedding, Shane, trying to convince his dad not to go for dark green, just said, “I think we will just buy you a suit for our wedding.”

David glanced. “Our, as in Ilya and your wedding?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, and how soon?”

“Not now. In a few years.”

“Serious roommates situation then,” David said, smiling.

“Very serious. Very ‘in love since 2008’ situation.”

“I believe it,” David said, tapping Shane’s shoulder and sending a smile to Ilya in the back. “I don’t think I need to do a re-welcome to the family. You’re already part of it, Ilya.”

“Thank you. I love Shane very much.”

“Oh, we know,” David said, and continued, “You will talk to your mom.”

“Yes, I plan to go for a walk with her,” Shane said.

“Special treatment? Should I be jealous?”

“Dad, I told you first. To compensate, I have to tell her—let’s say—with better packaging. And also I want to talk with her about, you know, me, sponsors, etc.”

“Got it, son.”

And that was not dramatic or spectacular.

In the afternoon, he went for a walk with Yuna. David and Ilya pretexted an important puzzle to stay in. Twenty minutes in, Shane started:

“Mom, I need to tell you something.”

“Of course, honey.”

“So I am gay, but I know you know.”

“I do, but I appreciate that you told me. And I am proud of you for telling me,” Yuna said.

“And I am in love with Ilya, and we are together. He is not gay, he is bi,” Shane said.

Yuna looked at him and said, “I know I seem old, but my generation invented ‘they were roommates.’ Your dad and I figured it out with the entry closet. You would never have accepted having your coats mixed with a roommate’s.”

“True.”

“You love him. I mean, you look at him like you love him.”

“So much,” Shane said.

“And how long? Since you lived together, or before?”

“Since the Cup in 2008.”

“Wow. So you had a very long-distance relationship.”

“We did, but we made it work,” Shane said.

“So what is 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, compared to 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, he wanted to explore with more independence, more time to do more things.

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

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

“Not forever. And it’s also for us. We want to win many things and do things. We have a plan,” Shane said.

He laid out the plan: being out to their friends, moving to Ottawa together in 2016, the Irina Foundation, getting married, and coming out in 2017.

Yuna was speechless. She stopped walking. “I have to say, it’s a very, very good and sophisticated plan.”

Surely Yuna thought that she and David had done amazing work to have a son—and his boyfriend—be so well organized. If only she knew the mess of the first time.

“It is. We are hiding in plain sight, and we are both doing so many things outside of hockey. We might invest in a coffee shop bookstore soon,” 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. And 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 not million-dollar contracts or two Canadians 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 after I think it will be harder for the kids 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 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 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, for me it is not the same, but having so many people, millions, having an opinion about what I should be, for whom, and all contradicting, I can’t, I will not.”

“I just want you to be protected.”

“It 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, and I will just be an Asian man not good enough for men’s sport, and I love men.”

“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 in hockey not 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 themself, and do what they like.”

“Okay.”

“I still want some brand deals and interviews, but I don’t want the spin of the 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.”

***

Back in Boston, Shane was true to his promises. After some heavy lifting, his relationship with Hayden took off, and he got his best friend back. They talked weekly. Shane even came out to him. He invited him to spend the weekend in Boston, found a nice Airbnb— Ilya would never accept having Hayden in their apartment and pretend to have separate rooms.

They had bro time. Hayden had just met Jackie and thought she was the one. On Saturday, Shane brought him to a BBQ Anita organized for one of her best friends. Iro was there. Hayden seemed to be having fun, dancing, and at some point, Shane found him alone, seated in a chair.

“You okay, buddy?”

“Oh yes… it’s just… You know… I love big families, I have a big family… but I don’t have many non-hockey friends… not even girls.”

“Yes, I like that. It’s good, you know, to be less intense about all hockey culture.”

A silence lingered as Hayden wanted to say something, looking for words.

“And I bet you don’t have many non-hockey friends where you’re one of the only white men… oh no, Ilya is there, only two.”

“Yeah, no, I mean it’s cool, I like to be included, people are so nice, etc. Just… yeah, it’s the first time… you know… okay, it’s… You know.”

Shane knew. And he was happy to experience this version of Hayden—where, after spending years in spaces where Shane was the minority, Hayden was learning to live with the very time-limited, contextual experience of being a minority. Iro told him he had to buy him one of the cookies from the BIPOC student union at Boston College, the big one in full caps: “ALLY COOKIE.”

For the first time in their lives, both of them, they had a summer vacation with friends.

Seven days in Barcelona—with Svetlana, Zahra, Hayden, Jackie, Iro, and Anita. It was everything—a European movie about being young and carefree should be. They rented—meaning Ilya, Shane, Anita’s sister, and Hayden paid—a large house. Tourist hard, party harder. No one knew how to speak Spanish.

Ilya went to meet Zahra’s parents on the side. They could not be seen publicly with them. They were everything that Zahra had said—very committed to the people—and he saw how Zahra felt jealous of something she should not: the idea of freedom, justice. But she just wanted parents, and they wanted to change the world. The kind of loneliness you can’t say out loud.

Shane knew that Jackie knew that he and Ilya were more than bros, but Hayden seemed so oblivious that before they left for Barcelona, Shane had to sit down with him to tell him that they were more than best friends. Contrary to the first timeline, and because he had come out to him before, the surprise was more about Ilya’s bisexuality. Shane had no doubt that—staying away from fan mail—Hayden would keep the secret, all pride to be family.

His main question was now, “So it does count as best friend… so between Iro and me, who is your number one best friend?”

“You don’t count Anita?”

“Dude, Jackie, who knows you for five minutes, clocked Ilya and you. I’m not competing with women in friendship spots; they have superpowers.”

Shane laughed. “You are both my best friends, different sides. I can talk about everything hockey and straight culture with you. You are my dad-side best friend.”

***

After one week of pure chaos in Barcelona, Ilya went to Russia for four weeks. As expected, dread waited for him, but also tenderness. At ten months now, Ana was all over the apartment. He spent more time with her. How funny—he went from a life of secret relationships, stolen two-hour hotel meetings with Shane, to now stealing two hours in his father’s house to see his niece without his brother knowing.

His brother was still in silent treatment mode, not speaking even at family lunches, but never rejecting his monthly wire, or changing his daughter’s daycare. His father was increasingly lost. The decline was less rapid than in the past life, but still, when Ilya saw him upon his arrival from Barcelona, he asked him why he had taken so long with the bread and why his mother was never ready on time for dinner. Ilya learned not to correct his reality, just said the bread was in the kitchen. By the time he went to the kitchen, he remembered again that Irina had died—hours and hours with his father, never knowing what was worse: when he forgot, or when he remembered. Moscow without Svetlana, who stayed in Europe, was not the same.

No alcohol to drown in sorrow—sober in reality, in commitment, in relationships. He met more young people, inaugurated a renovated rink next to a social housing building, tried to fill the silence of the house, trapped with bad memories, ghosts, and absence, with the few hours a week he spent with Ana. At some point, he wished he had Alexei to fight back, someone to scream at, to lash out at.

When Ilya came back to Boston in early August, he and Shane took one week in Martha’s Vineyard together, renting a beautiful house with private access to the beach. Shane spent all his time cooking, nurturing Ilya, talking to him, putting him back together after those four weeks in Moscow. At the end of their week, Shane said, “We should buy a house here, he can have friends, and get away.”

Ilya said, “Yes, please, I want that.”

Back in Boston, they attended a very important conference organized by Anita’s department, where she would do the introduction. It was Toni Morrison. Ilya knew who she was because even President Barack Obama was a fan of her. It was the first time Ilya went to a book event that seemed to have more people than a concert. They were in the fourth row, Shane and Iro sending support to Anita. That was what she said: “one of the culmination of my life, my intellectual endeavor being vindicated.” Carter came, and her father too.

She was so brilliant and funny, and at some point, she talked about grief. Ilya did not know that she had lost one of her sons.

" What do you say? There really are no words for that. There really aren’t. Somebody tries to say, ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’ People say that to me. There’s no language for it. Sorry doesn’t do it. I think you should just hug people and mop their floor or something. I don't want closure. “It’s such an American thing. I want what I got. They say it’s about the living, it’s not, it’s about the dead... I want to feel what I feel. Even if it's not happiness."

Ilya spent so much time not wanting to feel, not feeling anything but pushing everything else away. And here, a second time, he was still battling with the fact that he should be happier. He knew better, of course—the depression—but he had another feeling, that his father was already dead. He had felt all this; he had gone through it already. Why did he feel sadness for a man who had given him nothing twice?

“So how do you make it through this time?” the interviewer on stage asked.

"It's a nice, big, fat, western philosophical question: how do you get through? Sometimes you don't survive whole, you just survive in part. But the grandeur of life is that attempt. It's not about that solution. It is about being as fearless as one can, and behaving as beautifully as one can, under completely impossible circumstances. It's that, that makes it elegant. Good is just more interesting, more complex, more demanding. We are already born; we are going to die. So you have to do something interesting that you respect in between."

This woman, born in a different country, who could have been his grandmother, who did not know of his existence, who had lived a life so far from his, said everything—gave words to the dread of his existence. The summer in Russia, the absence of the rest of the year, his mother always there and yet not there, the abyss he knew was somewhere, the guilt, Shane’s love that made his life better, but could not make this better.

She said it all—that he could not be whole, that he could not return to a version of himself with a mother who did not die by suicide, with a father who would not die of dementia, never hearing him say “I love you,” “I’m proud of you,” with a brother who did not despise him.

Between being born and dying, Ilya would make sure he did good. To attempt.

***

2011-2013

Da'Shaun Washington was a mama’s boy, but not the usual one; he was a mama’s boy of a very FTK mom. His mom was a menace. People didn’t believe it at first, how a principal of an elementary school in Philly could be a menace; then they met her, and they got it. What they didn’t get is how his very nerdy dad was so infatuated with his mom.

When Da'Shaun decided, of all the sports available in Philly, that he wanted to do hockey, his mom made an appointment with the doctor, because she had no explanation for why her son chose the whitest place on earth when basketball, football, soccer, or even golf existed if he wanted to be a minority so much. But she let him, and because Ava Coleman’s son would never be a loser, she made sure he had everything. Did she roast all the other kids and moms about how lame the parties were? absolutely. Did she, once in high school, out of spite because one mom had commented about “more urban sports,” show up with the Eagles' quarterback? She did.

By the time he was drafted, Da'Shaun had made a very balanced rule about hockey: he liked it, but those people were his co-workers. He had enough friends and family in Philly and did not have to interact with them much or ask them to love him. And as a matter of fact, that made them like him more. They wanted him to be their cool Black friend. It was funny because Da'Shaun was the uncool cousin and friend in every Black group.

He liked hockey. He hoped to be drafted by New York, going third overall, because Harv Murdock was a fucking legend. But because Da'Shaun had to be very good, he was the 1st overall pick in 2007 by wannabe-New York aka Toronto. As someone from Philly, "fuck New York" was a matter of general principle. Even if you would have loved to play for the Admirals, "fuck wannabe New York" was second nature.

The Toronto team was everything they said was bad about it. Da'Shaun was a forward, not a defenseman, but he guessed a tall Black man meant, for them, making people scared. In the first few months, he employed the same strategy: first fucking joke about “gang connections” or casual N-word, Da'Shaun shot a look that let them deploy all the anti-Black imagination about the scary Black man, when in fact Da'Shaun would call his mom. And he did. And because his mom knew everybody one way or another, in this case somebody who knew somebody who knew the owner, the next thing you knew, the core four douchebags and their jokes had a conversation with the coach.

That did not make him seem cooler; they ignored him, and he was cool with that. In the U.S., he knew how to find his own group outside the rink. But Toronto was not a city he liked. And playing on a team that didn't only throw insults at you, but also at anyone on the ice, makes hockey not fun anymore. After two years of this regimen, Da'Shaun called his mom again, and before the trade deadline, he was leaning into the idea that he would be traded. He hoped to go back to New York, but he guessed that two Black players and a Black coach in the MLH would start to look too “urban.”

He was going to Boston. It was okay, closer to Philly, and he had a decent amount of friends and cousins. The Hollanovs were impressive. Hollander seemed nice, even if people were talking shit about him allegedly banging Vaugn’s sister, allegedly.

During training camp, they had a party with the team and family. His parents came, as did his uncle Jacob and his husband, because he had many fun facts to share about Boston and the history of segregation. No surprise his mom and Rozanov clicked very well, so he knew that the man was not all bad, because his mom is a menace, but she is the best. Hollander was nice too.

Before pre-season started, they organized a party at Hollanov HQ for the team and friends. It was the first time he was in the Hollanov apartment. It was way nicer and more chic than the one he had, but they were way richer in contracts and deals, which made sense. The room was so neat that he thought his uncle Gregori would like Shane.

The party was going well. Rozanov and Hollander had many different friends, and surprisingly many non-white friends and girls, not like girls invited to be some kind of currency of the players, but actual friends. Da'Shaun met Carter Vaugn’s sister. She was arguing loudly with St. Simon about Mad Maid being a dumb TV show. She was funny, bright, and bold.

They talked, and Da'Shaun used to be the smart one in hockey. His father and aunt Janine forced him to read books, even taking online classes when he went pro “to keep open-minded,” but he was not Anita smart, things that would allow him some “wow I never thought about that” landed so flat with Anita, like she was considering if it was the first time he had a complex thought.

At the end of pre-season games, making his routine in the team, he considered he could be friends with most of them, minus three who seemed to be unhappy that Rozanov was made captain and did not like Hollander because, allegedly, “he thinks he is smarter than everyone else and spends his time with college fag,” allegedly.

Going into December, he saw her more. Did he arrange to be where she was? Absolutely. Did he insert himself in their low-intensity hangouts? Also yes. In November, they went on a date, ended up at his place, and dated casually for a few weeks.

In December, he was ready for the “what are we” conversation. Usually, it was the women he dated who asked about it, but she did not, so he asked. And she just said, “We are vibing.” He did not understand the vibes. All his teammates met girls, once they met the one that clicked, fiancée, married, professional athlete life, locking in young is better for your career.

But she was vibing. He should have known. She was never interested in posting him or attending games. When she did come, she would wear Hollander’s jersey, except if it was New York, when she would wear her brother’s jersey.

Da'Shaun did not want to vibe. At the ripe hockey age of 23, he was ready to settle down. So he pushed for the conversation, but she said straight up that she had no desire to be in a committed relationship, especially one that led to being a WAG, but they could still see each other casually.

Da'Shaun thought, "Okay, it was cool. What man is not up for casual? No problem." But it went downhill from there. She would just be unavailable for days, come by and be the highlight of his days, be kind, and then, poof, go on with her life.

In February, Da'Shaun was the one calling it off, and the worst thing was she was understanding: “I think you will have so many choices of women who want this life, and you–you are a very great guy.”

Not even a year in Boston, Da'Shaun learned many things:

He did not need to call his mama that often.

That teammates could be friends.

That Rozanov and Hollander looked at each other in the locker room the way his uncle Jacob and his husband did in spaces that aren't Queer-friendly.

That the Hollanov HQ looked more like a couple’s apartment than teammates’ apartment, but it was none of his business to say.

That not every beautiful woman in Boston wanted to be a WAG.

That he was in love with Anita Vaugn.

***

Life was good, hockey was good, and gossip was also good. Of course, Ilya clocked Washington’s big crush on Anita; everyone did, but Ilya also clocked that he would get his heart broken. Washington wanted a Hayden-and-Jackie kind of life—right girl, marriage, a bunch of kids—and Anita was like Svetlana or Zahra. Her sense of self was very, very individual. Men were nice and fun, but she had no investment in them. Even with Shane and Iro, she would straight up tell them she was not engaging in men's shenanigans. So no, she would not be a WAG. Or maybe one, but more like the Wyatts' future wife, Lisa—but for that, Washington would need to want to be someone else. It was sad to watch, so Ilya took him for a beer. Now that he was more emotionally responsible, in his previous life, he would have told him to find other girls to fuck, or enjoy what he could, but he told him he had to let go, because he wanted more, and just a little would be worse than nothing. Washington did what players do—he drowned his sorrow in hockey. He drank a bit too much when Anita was at parties with Shane. Character development.

Life was good; Ilya liked Washington and his mother. She was like him, perceptive and didn't give a single fuck about what people thought. She came to one of their NBA games. She liked fancy cars, and she also had a boring husband she loved who liked boring cars. A woman with taste, who knew how to chirp, and whom Roger Crowell tried to avoid at all costs.

Life was good, and his life with Shane was on track. Yes, they fought sometimes, but nothing dramatic, and life felt lighter when you lied to fewer people, more mental space to deal with his father.

Life was good as they celebrated their first anniversary of living together for real. Because Ilya was rich and romantic, he bought them a house in Martha’s Vineyard. It had four rooms and direct access to the beach. They bought most of the furniture from the previous owner—really good taste. From their apartment, it was less than a two-and-a-half-hour drive, and the ferry, or the private boat, to get there. And because every excuse was a good one to have another car, Ilya bought an electric luxury car, which he left in a garage near the dock for when they were there. The cottage was really Shane's; this house was Ilya's. Some weekends, their friends came with them.

Life was good. Ilya was happy; hockey was good; Ana was good; he was the captain; and it was their year. They made it to the playoffs. Shane hired a chef to make their meals. Macro dieting was joyless for Shane, and Ilya was high-protein with carbs, because life was good. Not rooming together on the road was not a penitence but 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. And the City of Boston was theirs.

Life was good as they partied, answered interviews, did media shows for one week, and Ilya won MVP, and Shane congratulated him all night.

Life was good because after one week in the Martha’s Vineyard house, they went to their now traditional friends' vacation—one week in Mexico—and St. Simon and his girlfriend, and Marleau came.

Life was good when they spent one week at Shane’s parents’ cottage and saw the first work for their future cottage.

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

Life was good, even if Ilya's summer in Moscow was haunted by his father’s health and the country’s political climate. Life was good when he taught Ana to ride a small tricycle, and she called him uncle.

Life was good when Shane was happy that Hayden was traded to Boston and moved with pregnant Jackie during the summer.

Life was good when he came back home to Shane for conditioning and pre-season training, and then, in October 2012, he received his green card.

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

Life was good, even when his sessions with his therapist, who was not Galina, were exhausting.

Life was more than good when Katarina was visiting New York with the Russian tourism delegation from Sochi and came with Ana.

Life was perfect when Shane and Ilya spent two days with Ana.

Life was good, even if he learned while in Moscow for the summer that Alexei had been discreetly fired from his job, trying to racket the wrong person with the right connections.

Life was good—until that night in September 2013, when Ilya found Shane sitting on the couch at 2 a.m., Ilya joined him, and Shane cried in Ilya's neck: “The closet, it is killing me, Ilya.”

Chapter End Notes

🤍 In memoriam of Toni Morrison (1931–2019). We miss you. But still, we attempt.

✨️The actress who played Svetlana in the show is bi-racial (Russian-Trini), but not in the book, and nothing is made of it in the show, so I followed the book canon.

yes, Da'Shaun is Ava and O'Shon's son from Abbott Elementary ( and yes, it's because Janelle James (Ava) was so nice with Connor Storrie during the SAG announcement despite a weird journalist's question )

Would like to have a fan art for the new group of friends in Barcelona.

📕 Reading:
The quotes are a blend of two from Toni Morrison (we miss her every day): Interview: Toni Morrison on Trauma, Survival, and Finding Meaning at The Connecticut Forum, in conversation with Frank McCourt and moderator Juan Williams, May 4, 2001; and Toni Morrison: “I want to feel what I feel. Even if it’s not happiness” by Emma Brockes, The Guardian: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2012/apr/13/toni-morrison-home-son-love

Salt by Nayyirah Waheed

“Histories of Color: Blackness and Africanness in the Soviet Union,” by Hilary Lynd and Loyd Thom, Slavic Review 81.2 (2022): 394–417.

“The Free Officers and the Comrades: The Sudanese Communist Party and Nimeiri Face-to-Face, 1969–1971,” by Alain Gresh, International Journal of Middle East Studies 21.3 (1989): 393–409.

Chapter 7: Stuck in Narnia

Chapter by Rebo758

Chapter Summary

A bigger closet is still a closet

Chapter Notes

As always thanks to Alidesidero. who wrote the smut/beta-read and Witwandwolfbird. who beta-read and edited this chaper.

When did it start? Shane could not tell. Everything was good. They won the Cup, they had friends, he had difficult conversations with his parents, they went on vacation, they had a good team, and still.

Maybe it was at the camp party with friends and family, the first crack inside Shane. Da’Shaun’s family came: his uncle with his husband, and Shane could not stop thinking about them, those two men, the uncle and husband of an adult hockey player. They were invited to family parties and were part of other people’s lives. Da’Shaun had always known his uncle as gay, no big announcement.

He thought about it. Now Hayden’s children would always know them as Uncle Shane and Ilya, in love with each other. But for the outside world, Shane was, according to MLH rumors, in a years-long secret hook-up relationship with Carter Vaughn’s sister. According to the internet, it was because both of their families were against this specific interracial relationship, or because Vaughn’s sister was not WAG material, or because Shane was a fuckboy. The closest to the truth came from random teenagers on Tumblr and Reddit, thinking Anita was his beard and that he was in a long-term relationship with Ilya.

After that, it was the parties in their apartment, the way he sometimes almost forgot that he could not just kiss Ilya on the temple to tell him to grab something, call him “baby,” or slide his hand into his hair. He could not do that in his own home when larger groups were there.

So team parties became insufferable. The ones with players’ partners, or mixed-gender groups, were the worst, seeing them kissing and touching, while he was forbidden to do the same in his own home, meters away from the bed he spent every night with Ilya.

The venom spread outside. Shane only saw all the spaces he could not exist in, not touching in certain ways, not speaking too loudly. Yes, they always went out together, to restaurants and movies, but only in the dark could they hold hands. They could not walk hand in hand in restaurants. No kisses at MLH awards, no hands at All-Star parties, no kisses in the All-Star pool.

He thought about moving, going to the house, Ilya’s house, maybe it was already ready, but it was only a larger closet, farther away. So the crack grew. All he registered: all the signs of “not authorized,” no touching, no words, the restrictions.

So Shane became callous sometimes. He tested the limits, a hand in a farmer’s market, a kiss on the cheek at some restaurant, mischief, trying to push the walls, the borders of their luxurious life, NDAs, multiple houses, private helicopters, a tight friend group, a closet.

The mischief was worse every time they came back from vacation, far away from North America, where no one knew them, where they walked hand in hand in public, where they went to movie theaters together. Shane came back to Boston or Ottawa feeling trapped in his golden cage.

How could he have done that for so many years before? Now the worst was not being out, but knowing how it felt to be out. To be so close to the sun, as if you could feel its warmth on your face, but not see the light.

2012 went slowly. More of the same, but they had the Cup, the celebration, the legitimate masculine body crushing to ease him, could hold, kiss on the cheek, pile publicly on Ilya.

But 2013 was an excruciating season. No Cup, so much time to think about what he could not do, and again vacations, freedom, the house at Martha’s Vineyard. But still, Shane, who was adamant about his fortress of solitude, did not want to be that private anymore. He wanted to go to live concerts and kiss Ilya’s neck. He wanted to be seen at Wimbledon, not next to each other as bros, but as a unit, his husband. He wanted to get married tomorrow.

But everything was cautious, not authorized. He could not stand parties, players, and families. And the same parties in their house with their friends, who had become reminders. He could not escape it.

He could not sleep at night because he had hugged Ilya but wanted to hug him outside, on their way home after a run. He wanted to say in a sentence, “Oh yes, my husband hates this,” but no, he had to be cautious. Trying to stay upright with no firm ground. It was only 2013. They had to go until 2017.

Shane had dark thoughts and guilt. He wished for a moment that Ilya’s father could die earlier to free them. He hated himself for thinking that. He hated himself for not seeing how miserable he was, and Ilya was in an even darker closet in the first timeline. He wished he did not know what being freer felt like. Now it was too late. He had tasted it, not even during summer with their friends, rationed, and he could not have it.

He scared himself, staring at Ilya in public with the thought that he would say “fuck it,” stand up, and kiss him in public, for people to take pictures and sell them to TMZ. He felt unsteady.

He was tired of being cautious. So he cried that night in September in Ilya’s arms. He told him all of it, how he did not know how he would go until 2017, the guilt because he knew Ilya needed to go to his father’s funeral, that he wanted everything now.

Ilya held him, told him it was okay to want it, that it was hard, and would be hard. He decided to go to therapy, to talk to someone. As the season unfolded and Sochi was approaching, he and Ilya were two shattered pieces. He viewed therapy with Dr. Jeanna Ang as a challenge he could win. It took time. He could not win therapy. It was so frustrating.

If the closet at home was terrible, the road to Sochi was the seventh circle of hell. He and Ilya traveled with their separate teams, with minimal contact. Ilya was bracing himself for the loss and still worked so much harder to prevent it. They lost to Latvia by one goal instead of three, but still. Shane wanted to hug him, to tell him it was okay, but he could not.

When they were back, they threw themselves into hockey, Ilya to repair Sochi, him to not think about all the things he said in therapy. He needed control, his relationship with food, these intrusive thoughts about non-accidental/accidental outing, his guilt of wishing for Ilya’s father’s faster death.

“I only felt anger, so much anger. I didn’t know what to do with it,” he told his therapist. He told her how, before, he was the one, careful to death about staying in the closet, but now so many things were different. “I know he will receive a lot of shit from the league, the fans, other players, but now it’s so different. It’s not that I don’t care; they're not so important. I have a life outside of them.”

Dr. Ang asked him, "Why are you so uncomfortable with feeling anger. You said it’s unfair, but being at the other end of homophobia or racism is more than unfair, Shane. You can be angry and talk to your partner, who seems to understand.”

Yes, he could. He did talk to Ilya, and Ilya understood because he was in that position. But Shane had it easy, three of his best friends lived less than thirty minutes away from him and knew about Ilya, his parents were in Boston every two months, and knew about Ilya. Anxiety was something Shane knew, how it paralyzed him, made him focused and controlled, but anger, he did not know what to do with. All the petty envy over his teammates and their partners–he could not take any more PDA.

“What was I supposed to do, tell him, oh, I have a notebook where I am counting the days for your father to die? Every day I had to fight myself not to out us in public and make it impossible for you to go back for your father’s funeral, and I didn’t even feel sorry about the idea.”

“No, of course not, but you know it’s not what you want. It’s just the solution you saw in front of you, and you were stuck in this anger and shame, so we needed to get you out of it. You said you can’t be out while your partner’s father is alive, and you told me he is sick and has a few years left. What if you are looking for a way to make those years of waiting not like staying in the closet, but more like a path to getting out of it,” Dr. Ang had said.

It got worse before it got better. In March, Ilya did not want to get out of bed. He knew the signs. Ilya thought he could fight back better this time; he had a great Russian-speaking therapist. But without alcohol and sex to drown the things he didn't want to think about, he only had time to stew in his own emotions. So he went on medication. Therapy for him, therapy and medication for Ilya, made them go through the rough path of their separate battles and common one. They had to learn how to adjust to things that always worked between them, sex, and what to do when it did not work anymore. Their lives were so different from the first time, more open. When it was too much, and he needed a break, he could ask Marleau, Svetlana, or Zahra to stop by to spend time with Ilya, since they knew he was on antidepressants. He could go spend time with Hayden and Jackie, Anita and Iro, or be alone.

Shane applied Dr. Ang’s advice: instead of a macabre countdown, he followed a roadmap. Every day became a step toward coming out. They started attending women’s hockey games, supporting Boston Prestige in their Premier Hockey Federation games, spending time with the players, and gradually becoming more visible as women allies. Shane used his Instagram to post monthly reviews of the books he was reading, and half of them were by queer authors.

They made it to the end of the season. They won the Cup, driven by Ilya’s determination to erase Sochi. Ilya won his second MVP. Despite all the work done with Dr. Ang, at the 2014 MLH awards, Shane could not help it. He joined Ilya on the terrace, the same where, in the first timeline, he broke the kiss—“we are in public,” he had said. This time, he was the one who cornered Ilya, kissing him, slipping his hand into Ilya’s pants, and started jerking him off. 

“Shane, we are in public,” Ilya was panting in his mouth.

“Yes, maybe I want everyone to see how crazy I am about you, that you are mine."

"Shane, you gonna make me.."

"Maybe I want you to fuck me in the penthouse against the glass. You would like that?"

"Yes, I would love it."

"For everyone will know that the two best players of the league, generational talents, went home every night, that cum in your mouth, on your face, and that you fucked me so hard and so well that I forgot my name every time.” Shane's hands moved faster. "They will know that you made me cry your name with your tongue in my hole."

And Ilya came in his pants.

The elevator was too slow.

Ilya had his hand flat on the small of Shane's back and did not move it. They stood shoulder to shoulder in the mirrored car. Ilya's rumpled shirt where Shane had fisted the lapel, the dark line of his jacket, the stillness of two people holding themselves very carefully in place. The door opened. Twenty feet of hallway. Ilya already had the keycard.

Inside, Las Vegas spread before them through the floor-to-ceiling glass — two in the morning, lit like a fever dream, every light below part of the same enormous wanting. Shane walked directly to the window and pressed both palms flat against the glass.

Ilya came up behind him.

"You meant what you said." Not a question.

"Every word."

Ilya's hands settled on his hips, and Shane leaned back into him. The contact–a relief that was almost pain. He could feel that Ilya was already getting hard again.

"I want them to know," Shane said, low. "I want to put my hand on you at the gala and have it mean something. I want to kiss you in front of all of them."

"Shane."

"I know." He exhaled. "I know. Just..." He turned.

Ilya kissed him.

Not the way it had been the first time in a room like this one — Las Vegas, a penthouse, after an awards ceremony where they both already knew how it would end. That first time, Ilya had been efficient about it. Purposeful. He had not kissed Shane once.

This time, Ilya kissed him like he had something to apologize for.

Shane's back hit the window. The glass was cool; Ilya was warm and pressing closer, and Shane pulled him in by the lapels and kissed him harder. Ilya pulled back. His hands found Shane's face.

"The first time," he stopped. Started again. "Every time you were close, I found a reason to pull back. Or I made you leave." His thumb moved along Shane's jaw. "I kept you at a distance on purpose. Every time I let myself think about you, really think — I put something between us."

"I noticed," Shane said.

"I was afraid." The admission was direct, without drama. "I knew what it was. What I felt. And I could not see a way, a version where we could be anything other than a secret to be ashamed of. So I told myself you did not actually want me. That it was convenient. That someone like you could not want someone like me in any real way."

Ilya's voice dropped. "I thought if I took something, I could control it. Keep it small enough to survive." A pause. "I was wrong about what I could survive."

"You should have kissed me," Shane said. Simple. "I wanted you to kiss me."

"I know." He shook his head. "In any life, any version of this, I would have found my way back to you. I would always find my way back." His hands moved into Shane's hair. "Not again."

Shane kissed him to make him stop talking, because if he kept going, something would break open completely, and they needed to keep moving. He kissed him until Ilya's hands tightened, until the cool glass at his back was the only fixed point left.

They undressed each other in the dark.

Ilya kept his mouth on Shane the entire time. He crouched to get Shane's trousers off and pressed his mouth to the inside of his knee on the way back up, and then to the jut of his hip bone, and then lower, and Shane's head dropped back against the glass.

"Ilya—"

"I know." He kissed the crease of his thigh. "I know what you want."

He stood, looked at Shane bare against the window with Las Vegas spread out behind him, and something moved through his face that Shane didn't have words for. Like being seen. Like finally being seen.

"Turn around," Ilya said.

Shane turned. His palms found the glass.

He heard Ilya walk to the bedroom area to get what they needed from the nightstand — barely enough presence of mind for that — and then Ilya was behind him, kissing the back of his neck, and two fingers pushed inside him, slow and deliberate. Shane exhaled through it. Ilya worked him open with patient thoroughness, his free hand flat on Shane's stomach, holding him back against him, curling his fingers until Shane was rocking back to chase the pressure, making sounds he was only barely managing to keep quiet.

"Don't," Ilya said against his ear. "I want to hear you."

By the time Ilya replaced his fingers with his cock, pushing in slowly with his forehead pressed to the back of Shane's neck, Shane had already lost track of what he was supposed to be managing. He let out a long breath. Ilya gave him a moment, then started to move. It was deep and even, his arm coming around Shane's chest to hold him flush against him.

The angle was perfect. The weight of Ilya behind him was perfect. The whole lit sprawl of Las Vegas, forty floors below, was perfect. All those thousands of people who had no idea. Shane pressed his cheek to the glass and felt himself come apart in layers.

"This is what I wanted," he said. His breath fogged the glass. "For everyone to see…"

"I know." Ilya's hand wrapped around his cock, stroked him in a slow rhythm that matched his hips. "I know what you want. I know all of it."

He fucked him harder, the rhythm breaking apart, and Shane braced his palm against the window and let himself be taken apart. Ilya's mouth was at his jaw, kissing him wherever he could reach, saying his name low against his skin like it was something worth saying carefully. Shane. Shane. His hand tightened.

"Mine," Ilya said.

"Yes." No hesitation. "Yours. Always yours."

Shane came with his cheek against the glass and the city burning below, shaking, barely making any sound at all. Ilya fucked him through it and followed not long after, hips stuttering, grip bruising, his exhale ragged and unguarded against Shane's neck.

After Ilya turned him around.

He kissed him, thorough and unhurried, putting no space between them. Shane stood in the window light, his forehead against Ilya's shoulder, and felt his heart loud in his ears, and let himself be held. Ilya's hand moved in his hair, smoothed it back, and stayed there.

"Mine," Shane said.

Ilya pulled back enough to look at him.

"Always," he said. "Every time."

Shane closed his eyes. Below them, the city kept burning, indifferent and bright, and for once that was enough. Just this room, just the two of them, the one secret the whole lit world couldn't see. For now.

His name came back to him slowly.

It always did.

They made it to summer vacation, to their friend trip in Bangkok, to Ilya going back to Moscow for the summer, to their first week in the newly built cottage.

They moved to Ilya’s former house in August and entered the 2014-2015 season with clearer hands but sore hearts— two and a half years to go. Dallas Kent and Troy Barrett joined Montreal; They knew what would unfold, and they had to navigate seeing it. Troy was the wingman of the worst kind of person, knowing he was hiding a secret relationship and would end up with Harris. They sent anonymous emails to the press about Kent but had no proof. He had MLH protection; no one cared. They remembered the names of the women who came forward at the end, but Shane knew better that they were not in a place to play savior, nor were they in a Minority Report remake.

At the 2015 All-Star weekend, Shane was heading to their room, to Ilya’s room, officially, when he saw J.J. at the bar.

“Hey man, you good?” Shane said.

“Hollander, all good,” J.J. said, but his usual happiness was not in his tone, something underlying.

“How’s Montreal?” Shane asked.

“You know, not seeing a Cup in the near future, but they said new additions will get us there.”

“Oh, and how are the new additions… adding?” Shane said.

J.J. stayed silent for a moment, considering.

“More subtracting, but not on ice, so not important,” J.J. finally said.

“The not-on-ice part of a team is sometimes the most important,” Shane said.

“Yeah, heard that the not-on-ice part in Boston is pretty lit.”

“It’s good. Nowhere is perfect, but it’s good. We made space for people, you know,” Shane said.

“Yeah, I heard. So how is it, you and Vaughn’s sister?” J.J. said, clearly changing the subject.

“We are friends, best friends.”

“Oh, she is hot. Heard she was a nerd too, beauty and brains.”

“She is, and she is my friend,” Shane said.

“Do I stand a chance?” J.J. said.

“Don’t get your hopes too high,” Shane laughed.

They continued the weekend talking about everything and anything, and went to dinner together. Having Ilya full-time at home meant he did not have to script every minute and could spend time with other players when they were away. Even on road games, they did not room together, bonding with others, and gathering new material to talk about with each other.

This All-Star weekend became his J.J. weekend. They spent so much time together, quality time. At their last dinner, they made plans for him to come to the cottage that summer. This year, they would host a friend group vacation there.

“Wow, that would be sick, I saw the ESPN special,” J.J. said.

“Yeah, you will love it. We are a good group. You will have to share a room with Marleau, who snores, but you will survive,” Shane said.

“I will.”

“Hope it will not be too much with your team, you know, being friends with Boston players. I know you are already friends with Hayden, but different.”

“Oh, it does not matter. I…” J.J. started. “It’s not public, and you can’t tell.”

“Yes, you can trust me. I would not,” Shane said.

“I will not stay. Don’t like the culture that much,” J.J. said.

“The locker room?”

“Yes, but also the parties, some weird things. I don’t know. Nothing happened, but it feels like it could,” J.J. said.

“Oh, I see.”

“I do not know yet where I am heading, but I hope somewhere warm. But yes, this summer, I hope you will introduce me to your lady who is definitely not Vaughn’s sister.”

“Her name is Anita, and I don’t have a lady. Actually, I am not into ladies,” Shane said.

“Oh wow, okay man, thanks for telling me. I will not tell,” J.J. said.

“Thank you.”

“But I have names, fine men from Montreal.”

“Oh God, you are quick,” Shane said.

***

No Cup for them in 2015. Too many injuries, two retirements, it was not their year. The Cup went to San Francisco, and J.J. was announced to go somewhere south, but not warm, Philadelphia.

Shane continued his roadmap with Ilya and his perspective superpower with knowledge of the future. By the end of summer, two-thirds of the Boston roster knew about them and were committed to keeping the secret. The others were known to be unredeemable believers—even if they knew better than to talk about it within the team—of -isms and phobias; racism, sexism, homophobia, name it. It was common knowledge that a group of five had a separate group chat and wished to be on a team with "real men like Kent and Barrett". But it was Boston, not the Voyageurs, and all the big mouths of them never translated in the locker room or on the ice, because at the end of the day, Ilya and Shane enjoyed being cocksuckers and excelled at it. But those five were riding the virtual dick of their captain, and wished they were close to Shane.

They disclosed their relationship to their coach, general management, and the owner. Whether it was queer allyship or capitalist rationality, they were very accommodating. Boston was one of the most profitable franchises, with record revenues, and the Hollanov had the most media exposure any hockey player received in the mainstream press, meaning free marketing for the Bears. As the owner had stated, “We want you to be happy here, together.” The owner knew they had no desire to be separated, but he also knew that free agency would come, and that many teams would trade half of their roster if they had a chance to get the duo.

Before heading to the cottage with all their friends, Shane went to J.J.’s last round party in Montreal, where Kent, Comeau, and Drapeau were not invited. Hayden and Jackie were there.

Looking for time alone from the noise, as expected and one year 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.”

And Rose looked 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. He could not wait for next year for her to meet Iro and Anita. He showed her the picture of their master’s graduation at Harvard in May. Iro and Anita were still roommates; Iro was heading to start his Ph.D. in History at Northwestern, and Anita, who got a writer's fellowship, was working on her first novel. Shane told her general information about Ilya, without saying his name, and promised to introduce her to him when she came to visit in October, even though he was sure she would clock them past the entryway.

Shane gave up the plan, and now they were following what he called the “roadmap to freedom.” They agreed to launch the Irina Foundation in the summer. This time, there was no need to spin a new narrative. It was titled by ESPN “Big Heart Hollanov.” They decided to make the first camp in 2016, in Boston and Ottawa. Yuna would oversee all operations from Ottawa. This time, as they were richer—investments that could have been labeled insider trading—they made the gala more lavish and held it in Boston. Rose came, and with her, much of the mainstream press. And, allegedly, Shane dumped Anita for Rose, and allegedly, Carter Vaughn wanted his head. Even if Carter, Scott, and half of the Admirals came to the gala, no one from the Voyageurs came, except J.J., but he was not technically one anymore. Many Premier Hockey Federation and the National Women's Hockey League players came along, with the Boston roster, staff, and other players from the league.

They 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. Ilya’s brother sent messages and voice notes full of anger about Ilya using their mother’s name. His father made one call, but forgot about it most of the time. Ilya decided that he would run what would surely be the only summer camp in July 2016 with KHL players in Moscow, with the help of Svetlana, a last round of hooray.

Shane had to admit that life without a secret relationship with your rival and a lot of money was uneventful.

The irony was so cruel. He had spent most of his past life doing everything to hide and pass for straight, splitting himself, lost in moral battles, lying to himself and to others, and now he felt he was doing in public the most gay shit ever. He had been living with a man since his rookie year, never confirming any relationship with women, even in college, had a publicly gay best friend, was posting monthly books about young gay men, liking posts of Pride games, sharing pictures of the sports chart at the Boston Pride, being in all handouts with many Boston Prestige players and their wives, and no one had a fucking clue. The closet door was made of glass, and still no one wanted to look inside. “It is the Dennis Rodman effect, Shane,” Anita told him. “ So gay, but still no kissing, and straight-passing, basically, you and Ilya are just little subversive straight men, too on top to care. Only Marriage or a sex tape would get you out of Narnia at this point.”

The rumor in the MLH was that it was a performative social-justice-warrior thing, because he was Asian-Canadian and wanted to push diversity. The joke wrote itself. The investment from everyone, the league, the fans, the players, and the public in him being straight, he had never thought about it.

The only way they would come out was a video of him with Ilya, and even then, someone would find another explanation.

In August, everything was ready for their week-long friend vacation. The basement turned into a dorm for St. Simon, Marleau, Da’Shaun with a healed heart, J.J., Anita, Iro Svetlana, Zahra, Hayden, and Jackie, who left the twins with Jackie’s parents in Montreal.

Shane was the master of plan calculation and was obsessed with all the differences between the two timelines, in hockey, in people, in relationships, the things that changed and the things that did not change. He was sure he covered all the basics, only to realize that Jackie Pike was not pregnant on July 24, 2015.

Chapter End Notes

At this point, if we are doing the addition first, timeline and this one, they are 35...

📕 Reading

Disorienting Sexuality: Psychoanalytic Reappraisals of Sexual Identities , edited by T. Domenici and RC Lesser RC,

"A Very Straight Gay: Masculinity, Homosexual Experience, and the Dynamics of Gender." by Robert William Connet, in American sociological review (1992): p735-751.

Against the Closet: Black Political Longing and the Erotics of Race by Aliyyah Abdur-Rahman,

🎬 Also, I just watched the movie Cactus Pears by Rohan Kanawade, recommended by Mick Pilgrim on Instagram, I cried (not depressing ending, very tender), it's queer film about a closeted man living in a conservative rural village in India, "slow burn romance that begins with death and transcends into a delicate and cathartic sense of rebirth."

✨️ new polished version of chapter 1 to 6 thanks to EvenCoal. They did fantastic proofreading, corrected tense shifts, and flagged other confusing parts that I then corrected.
Good time for a re-read.

And in other news, I wrote 30K-words of my next fic. I will start posting it when I reach the last chapters of this fic.

Chapter 8: Mothers

Chapter by Rebo758

Chapter Notes

As always thanks to Alidesidero. and Witwandwolfbird. who beta-read and edited this chaper.

✨️ published a new fic Going Broke and Broken in this series (self-indulge HR x Industry, x Voyageurs downfall x Same team AU) , just click next, hope you like it.

When Jackie was 14, she was part of the school press club, which had a radio broadcast, and she was also the students’ president. Her mom had also been president when she was in middle school and high school. Her mom had loved school so much that she became a teacher in a private high school, like her dad. Jackie was a pretty girl who liked sports and was outspoken, so even though she was in a relatively disadvantaged position as the daughter of faculty at the private elite high school, she still made friends. Not the mean ones, just the normal rich girls.

When it was time to go to college, Jackie wanted to go to Vanderbilt, Dartmouth, Vassar, Barnard, Amherst, or Wesleyan, where most of the girls in the liberal arts track of her high school were going, because it was where their parents had gone and donated a lot of money to pursue a legacy.

But Jackie wanted some fresh air. She went on vacation at 17 in New York and just realized how homogeneous her life had been, the same kind of people, not diverse. She did not speak another language, was not good in Spanish or French, but her grandmother was Canadian, and she had inherited Canadian citizenship. McGill or Concordia would do it for her. She did not feel ready to go to Europe. Her mom told her about one summer semester she had spent at Oxford to encourage her, but Montreal would be good enough.

When she started her journalism program with a concentration in radio and joined the volleyball team, she saw the future ahead of her: maybe she would end up as a producer at NPR. She loved the behind-the-scenes work that created ambiance in radio, voice, making people see with their ears. She loved college life, and college life loved her. She lived, partied, made friends, visited her grandmother in Toronto, and her parents visited.

She was in the debate club. She tried the McGill Press Club, but writing was not for her. Radio was her gem: production, orchestrating live broadcasts, or building a full radio documentary.

When she met Hayden at a party there, she was drunk enough to make out in the middle of the dance floor, but sober enough to know what was going on. Everything went so quickly. He was so cute, funny, and gentle, and looked at her as if she were the best thing in the world. And everything went so quickly after that, as if she were entering another life. Her high school friends, at 22, were ready to go to grad school. Most of them would go to the Ivy League, study law, medicine, or other liberal arts fields, more likely to meet their future husbands at some party for half of them, and the other half would become girl bosses in C-suites. But at 22, after graduating with her bachelor’s degree, she was preparing for her wedding to a professional athlete and planning a short break to decide between grad school and a job, when she soon became pregnant and moved to Boston.

She did not recall making the decision to be a WAG. It was just such a thing to do. You would think being married to a three-million-a-year contract would give you time, but all Jackie’s life was around Hayden’s schedule, and when the twins arrived, around the house, the twins, and the WAG life. Her life was hockey. In Montreal, she ruled the WAG culture, the different factions, the behind-the-scenes of all the families, the resentment over the different player contracts and incomes, the separation between the working WAGs who were not at all into the events and did not care for catered cooking and event planning, the stay-at-home, deemed “normal” wives, high school sweethearts, and finally the infamous “gold digger,” model-like trophy wife.

She learned the unspoken rules, how people stopped inviting the divorced wife, how no one talked about the fact that their husbands told them which player ended up the night with another woman, no mention of the article about the serial cheater, no, we could not not invite the player accused of domestic violence, no talking about the divorce of a retired player from his 40-year wife to remarry a 20-year-old and contest alimony. She also learned the logic of scarcity, how every other woman was supposedly a threat to WAG status.

Jackie felt so lucky to have Hayden, not a cheater, a good man who loved her to death, even if he kept his socks everywhere and never remembered any passwords or bank information. And Hayden had these great friends, Shane, yes, but Shane’s friends too. When she went with them to Barcelona, before her wedding, it was the most fun she had ever had. Not that some WAGs of Montreal were not nice, and she still had a friend from college, but it was so different. Because sure, everyone often talked about how bigoted hockey was and the players, but they often let the wives and girlfriends off the hook, and one thing Jackie learned was that you could be both victim and perpetrator, because some of the WAGs, behind their pretty lipstick and family box seats, were as racist, sexist, and homophobic as their husbands. They just preferred the “oh babee” laugh instead of the slur. Jackie was not delusional enough to think that, since she was no longer in college, the world had not shrunk.

Jackie was grateful that, one year later, she had moved to Boston, and she had spent more time texting in the group chat with Zahra, Svetlana, and Anita. Now she was seeing them more often, even after the twins came. A few months after giving birth to the twins, she started socializing more.

The Boston Bears' WAGs were different from Montreal's. More of them were working wives, and because their star players, Shane and Ilya, had no known partners, the competition was less acute than in Montreal. But still, she preferred hanging out with the trio of Zahra, Anita, and Svetlana. It was always fun, and even if one was an MLH player's sister and the other was the most knowledgeable person in hockey Jackie had ever met, the conversation was never just about hockey or player-related things, and the range was impeccable. She could hang out with the twins without having to apologize for feeding them or asking for specific help. It was so easy and nice. And maybe it was that specific kind of easy and nice that made everything different.

She started seeing everything that was not nice and easy. It started with the ease with which Anita said she was not interested in a relationship with Da’Shaun, who, in addition to being a very handsome man, was sweet and polite, and again, very handsome, but it seemed not enough. Anita told them in one of their coffee times, “The bar is in hell. Like, yes, he is very nice and hot, but can a girl have other priorities in life?” And Jackie’s first reflex was to say that it was difficult to find a good man, and Anita did not even blink. “I already found myself. I am okay with the idea of not having a man in my life.”

Jackie did not know if she had thought about that. Of course, she was okay being single or had been, but the way Anita said it, and the way Svetlana and Zahra agreed with it, the idea that she could live a life without ever being in a long relationship with a man, while she was a straight woman, a beautiful, brilliant straight woman, made her uncomfortable in a way she couldn't name. Did Jackie believe that the natural destiny of a cute girl was to find a cute man and get married?

The nice, easy mirror continued. The more time she spent in their apartments and hangouts, the more she realized she had spent many years in women-only spaces, including WAGs, but those spaces were centered around men. There were no men present, but everything about those spaces was about men: what they wanted, what women had to do, how to keep them, how to talk to them, how to meet them. It was the first time she had been in a women’s space. The conversations were rarely about men; mostly about sports, Svetlana’s car, geopolitics, the last book they were reading, fashion, gossip, and relationships with their parents.

The realization made Jackie’s mind race: those three women were the ones surrounded by the most men in their professional lives. Svetlana in luxury cars and an MBA program, Zahra at MIT, Anita at Harvard. Jackie was the one at WAG meetings, WAG hangouts, and still her life was saturated by husbands, boyfriends, men, by managing her man for the MHL, not stressing him sometimes, but also by the network of WAGs, which was mostly an enterprise to ease players and make the only thing about them okay.

Things in Jackie’s life started to become less cute, less funny, and more unnerving. She started noticing how many times she had to pick up after Hayden, how many times he asked her for passwords for the bank and subscriptions, how she could spend an hour being an invested and active listener to his drama with the team, and how his response would be “great babe” when she was telling him something, how she had to do for him a rundown and breakdown of why something was culturally inappropriate to say regarding Shane and Ilya’s relationship, mostly. The first time she snapped was in November 2014. The twins were two years old. She had had a crazy week involving vomit, fever, and the destruction of her couch by cranky toddlers. Hayden had one week of away games, but when he came back, he was alarmed because, “Babe, why didn’t you remind me about Aunt Isabel’s birthday? I saw the picture on my cousin’s page. We did not send the card.”

Jackie saw red. Yes, he was in an away game, but he was not in the playoffs. He had spent most of the nights partying after the game with Marleau and St. Simon, while she was covered with vomit, running on three hours of sleep. But she was mad at herself, too, wondering when and why she had normalized knowing his family's birthdays. It was his aunt, whom she had met three times, but still, she was the one making sure Hayden looked like a good, thoughtful nephew, grandson, or cousin, sending cards, signing them, putting money in them. “I don’t know, Hayden, maybe because I was fucking tired and it is your aunt.”

Hayden, as always, was quick to apologize. Usually it worked because he was so sincere, but it did not that time, because she was seeing all the architecture of her life she had built around being the general manager of his life, how “I don’t know how I will function without you” when he talked about all the things she was managing at home was not that cute, because in fact he did know how to manage his life before marriage. Now he could not find the cleaning service's phone number.

Jackie made a notebook with a Post-it and handed it to him. “Here, because you’re always asking the same question, so birthdays and passcodes are here,” she told him.

He reached for her. “But I liked it when you told me, babe,” he answered.

“I don’t,” Jackie said, and left to take care of Jade and Ruby.

In January, she received a text from Anita.

Anita: Jackie S.O.S. Our radio producer had to travel for a family emergency. We have a big week of broadcasts for our Festival of Ideas week: 5 live broadcasts and 1 radio documentary. Can you help? The money is trash, but we will make sure to cover babysitting for the cuties. Pleeeassssseeee.

It was the first time in years someone had asked her for help that did not revolve around cooking, hosting, child care, flower arrangements, yoga mats, listening, a cheating husband, or unofficial couple therapy. She had talked to Anita about her passion for and degree in radio, and she remembered that Anita had sent her a well-produced radio broadcast. Anita had even asked about canceling the noise in the note. No one seemed to remember that. Most of the time, people, even Hayden or Hayden’s friends, asked about the kids, about Hayden, about her parents, and about when she would feed the team. No one remembered that Jackie knew how to make a one-hour radio broadcast that made you feel like you were traveling. But Anita, Zahra, and Svetlana remembered.

Jackie: Yes! I would love to. Don’t worry about babysitting, we have our person.

That night, she was buzzing with excitement and started making a plan. It would take one month, mostly three days a week. It was for a student-run, Boston, non-profit radio station. They would have one week of scholars, writers, and artists at different events across seven colleges with interviews on the radio, documentary sonore, and Anita on the organizing committee. It was so exciting. She told Hayden about it as soon as he came back from practice.

“That’s great, babe, you will be awesome. I will listen to all of them,” he told her.

“I am so excited. I already called Mrs. Williams to take care of the kids, and the cleaning lady will come three times a week. I think I will need more time at night to go over files.”

The month flew by. There were some bumps in the road, a stomach bug Ruby caught, and wires got crossed with the nanny, but it was an amazing month for Jackie. She was proud of the final work. She was tired, but her mind raced at night with ideas on how to make it better. She listened to people from all over the world with big ideas and poetic visions. She cried with one poet talking about grief. When it ended, the radio team had a party and thanked her.

She went back to her life and the routine. Some WAGs made comments about “how you got a little working-wife moment, Jackie; we thought we lost you,” or about not “letting the nanny raise her kids.” This comment was the funniest for Jackie. Her mom and grandmother had both always worked. Also, it was not as if most people in Boston and in the U.S. could live on one salary, and women were playing Bree Van de Kamp. So, sure, Hayden did not have Shane or Ilya’s contract, but her kids would have survived going to daycare.

She started thinking about returning to work and finding a part-time position at a radio station again. She was scared that,with a three-year resume gap and no experience since graduating in 2011, a month at a student-run radio station would not make the cut.

But in March, she received a call from a woman at NPR's Boston public radio partner. She had loved her production, and Anita had given her Jackie’s number. She had a part-time position on a daily one-hour literature show that included one report and an in-studio live interview with an author.

“I had an offer for part-time,” she told Hayden that night.

“Really, that’s great, honey.”

“Yes, it’s just one show, afternoon, but it’s good.”

It was very encouraging, and then he had to ruin it by saying,

“I am sure you will miss the girls.”

“It’s just three hours a day, only 30 minutes from here. I am not traveling to San Francisco, you know.”

“No, no, of course. I am just saying, as they always do with you, you know.”

“Yeah, but maybe I missed myself, too.”

“Oh, I am sorry, I feel like I said the wrong thing. I am happy for you, babe, and I’m proud of you.”

Jackie put it to rest, but it still kept bothering her. She was the one rearranging the schedule and decided that it would be good for Jade and Ruby to be around other kids, so she enrolled them in a fancy daycare for the afternoon, the same one other working WAGs used. Jackie was still the one handling most of the morning, managing the schedule for the cleaning service, grocery delivery, dry cleaning, the kids’ medical visits, and medical reminder visits for Hayden.

Her radio work was great. Everyone was happy with her, and she loved working for public radio. She also had more work-related events. She did panels about producing and was invited on campus to talk about her career. Jade and Ruby came to see her at work with what they called her “magic headphones.” Automatically, she became the Venmo WAG, the one who wasn't planning hangouts but only came to some events, though she tried to go often.

At the end of April, Jackie knew she was pregnant, unplanned, as it had been the first time, but unlike the first time, she did not tell Hayden right away. She was waiting. She did not know for what, but she did not tell him. And unlike the first time, she did not feel overwhelmed by excitement and joy. She just said “fuck,” because she felt that it was going to be the next chapter of her life, finding another layer of herself, being a mom, a producer, a wife, a friend, a colleague, but now she did not know if she could go back to the previous setting. A newborn meant at least six months off; her gig contract had no maternity leave, so someone else would take over the programs that she had built, so she said nothing.

Two weeks later, they offered her a permanent position producing two shows, from 15 to nearly 25 hours a week, and she said yes on the spot; it was on her way home in her car that she remembered she was pregnant.

She told Hayden about the offer and what it meant for them with his schedule, and Hayden, as usual, said, “This is great. Ruby and Jade loved the daycare, and they seemed even more comfortable around other people. So we just put in more hours, or whatever works, babe. I trust you. Tell me what to do.”

“Whatever works.” It was this, whatever that made the laundry machine work, the payment of the nanny, the rotation of babysitters, whatever the grocery ordering required, the cleaning service, the medical appointments, the bank fees, the daycare request for more hours in one of the most demanded daycares in Boston, whatever it took to make sure the car service was done. Jackie saw the whole “whatever works” list she would have to do with this new position and a newborn, and how to return to work after, and while pregnant, with Hayden on the road, and the “tell me what to do.”

Why did she always have to tell him what to do? The socks, the appointments, the hours, the checking, her mind was a checklist, and she just realized that she was more tired of the to-do when he was home, because at least when he was on the road, she knew what to do and did it, micro-decisions and lists, “tell Hayden to do this.” Why did she have to be the one to know what to do? They were both adults, both 25, but everyone seemed to agree that he was just one grown teenager and she was the wise mid-life adult. How many notebooks with passcodes, to-do lists, and dates would she have had to make to ensure she did not burn herself out? And she thought about the running joke, “Oh, you will have a kid because you’re bored at home.”

And how funny it had been for her before, rolling her eyes and joking with other WAGs about their manchild husbands with multimillion-dollar contracts, but who did not know they needed to schedule an appointment for medical care or not put porcelain in the dishwasher. But magically, they had known how to do it in their rookie year when living alone, mainly by hiring services, or Shane and Ilya seemed to know how to do it. And all those manchildren with administrative phobia when it was for dealing with the house, many of them knew how to do it when they reached 50 and wanted to divorce to marry a 22-year-old. No phobia anymore.

She was lost in her thoughts when Hayden told her,

“Oh, we have to send money to Shane for the boat for this summer, but I don’t remember how much,”

As if he were not the one on Shane's team, Jackie was the one who had to remember the amount for the boat he had the idea to rent, the amount that Svetlana had already shared in the group chat, the amount that he could have searched himself in the same group chat on his phone. She loved Hayden. He was kind, he loved her, and he was a good dad. She did not want to divorce. She was honest about not being able to do it. She did not have it in her to be a divorced mom. But she knew that undoing years of what had been normal would take time for her to reach a place where she would not be resentful, tired, and repeating herself. That undoing was also her own undoing, because she had been the one who, at some point, had taken pride and status in being the person everyone turned to for anything and everything. But she could not do this undoing while pregnant with two children under four. She knew she could not. And she wanted to stay married to Hayden, but not at the cost of herself. They would have to work on the undoing, and they would.

“It is in the group chat, just do a search,” she responded.

“Oh yes, thanks, babe, didn’t think about it.”

The next day, Hayden left for a five-day road trip for away games at 6 a.m. At 9, after dropping off the twin at daycare, Jackie went to Planned Parenthood at 8 a.m., took the first pill, then the second 24 hours later, and the third 48 hours later. By the time Hayden came back, she was no longer pregnant and looking forward to the summer.

***

January 2016

Three consecutive days off, no practice, no games, no sponsor engagement, a taste of paradise. But Shane's paradise also included workouts. He forced Ilya to wake up at 7 a.m. for a run. They came back, ate, showered, and went back to bed. Ilya was buying a new, expensive, colorful shirt, while Shane was looking at a 3D rendering of an interior design.

“It’s the bookshop plan?” Ilya asked.

“It’s amazing; the vision is great. Anita and Zahra asked me for comments, but I don’t have any. Look at those chairs, the appliances, the counter. It’s in the center,” Shane said, turning the screen to Ilya.

“I love mezzanines. Maybe one day I could fuck you there in the summer, with the light.”

“Absolutely not.”

“So the investor has no rights or privileges,” Ilya said.

“Not those ones, no. We can have free coffee. And also, our summer schedule is crazy,” Shane said.

And it was. Zahra and Anita had joined forces to bring Zahra's vision, Babel, to life: a bookshop and coffee shop during the day, and a wine bar starting at 5 p.m. After working for a year at an engineering company on a high six-figure salary and being miserable, Zahra had decided to follow what she once thought was a pipe dream. Anita was following her own life vision, being a writer, still on her writing fellowship for her first novel, and with recurring contributions to The New Yorker, Vanity Fair, and Rolling Stone. Shane’s dad had once asked him for her autograph on a long piece she had written about the future of the American novel. She brought her talent for curating artistic and literary events and applied for a grant, shaping the vision around their shared agenda: from talks with authors to book clubs, author talks, 'Scholars and Sips" night–Iro's idea where people would eat and drink while a scholar present their work in a seminar format, and "single wanna mingle" nights with a book theme.

The duo found the perfect space: a retail spot next to the Irina Foundation office in Boston, near the Boston Central Library. Even before receiving a perfectly neat business plan that included investment from Carter Vaughn to cover all operational costs for two years, Shane and Ilya had already been on board. That night, while drunk Zahra and Anita had sketched their dream on a napkin at their local bar. Ilya was ready to sign a check at 1 a.m., when Zahra talked about the extensive Russian literature section and the daily offering of Russian pastries from his favorite spot.

Zahra and Anita were the co-owners and operators, with investment from Hollanov Inc. and Carter Vaughn. That summer, they would have the opening Anita described as “the vibes of the Harlem Renaissance meets justice for Anna Karenina,” before the Boston Game Changer camp, followed by the Ottawa camp, one week of break at the cottage, then leaving for Moscow for the summer camp with KHL players, Marlowe, St. Simon, and Shane. Ilya would stay two additional weeks with his father. After that, they would meet in Helsinki for a one-week vacation, just the two of them, then return to Boston for a week with friends at the Martha’s Vineyard house. And then it would be time for the pre-season.

“Is it summer break if I’m already tired?” Ilya asked.

“I know, but it’s exciting. Look, we will own a bookshop with our friends. The chairs and tables are beautiful.”

“Yes, Russian women have amazing taste.”

“It’s both Zahra and Anita, Ilya.”

“But it’s my friend’s vision, because Russians are visionaries.”

“Whatever. I can’t believe we are part of it, and the space is a great investment.”

“Are you hard looking at a communal table in a coffee shop and a designer chair?”

“Fuck off, I’m just saying,” Shane said.

Ilya looked at him, rolled onto his side, and said, “I am happy.”

“I am happy too. I love our life. I love you,” Shane answered, kissing him.

“You should marry me then,” Ilya said.

“Yes, it’s the plan, you know, after your father.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to wait. We should do it right after.”

“What do you mean?”

“I already know it will be bad, and I will be bad, so I want to have something to look forward to when I come back.”

“Okay.”

“So I will buy you the ring this time, and when I get the phone call, and I will not be good, and I will have to go, you will stay, and you will plan for us to get married.”

“With our friends? And go public?”

“No, we should leave that to dinosaur Hunter. It’s, how do they say, a canon event. He has to be the first. I think something more secret, no party, just you, me, and maybe two or three friends signing the papers in Canada.”

“But I want a party, with all my friends and family, and pictures,” Shane said.

“For our ten year, in 2018, we will have a tasteful wedding. Fabian will sing his sexy songs, we will have fancy drinks, I will fuck you in the bathroom during the party, and after, and before also. And we will drive a new McLaren,” Ilya said.

“I like this, minus the car.”

“And we are going public with the hottest pictures of our tasteful party. We will be the standard, not a boring dinosaur wedding,” Ilya said.

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“Are you hard, thinking about it?” Ilya said, trailing his hand down Shane’s stomach.

"Maybe... Yes."

Ilya started kissing him, trailing down his jaw, neck, chest, and stomach. Shane settled more comfortably, pushing the pillow up to have a perfect view of Ilya. He exhaled loudly when Ilya's tongue touched his cock, and swallowed him. He had his hand in Ilya's hair, "Fuck Ilya, you are so good," when the doorbell rang, not the portal door but the front door, meaning someone who had the first code.

"Fuck" Shane said

"Don't answer, we are not here," Ilya said, and went back to sucking Shane, but next Shane's phone rang, Hayden, and the doorbell rang again. Shane answered the phone, some deja vu from the first timeline, but this time, he was the one who stopped Ilya.

"Hey"

"Shane, I am at your house, need to talk, it's about Jackie," Hayden said with distress in his voice. The sound of Hayden sobbing killed Shane's erection.

"Are you okay? Never mind, I am coming."  

Ilya shot him a murderous look. "What the fuck, Shane?"

"He is crying, Ilya," Shane was putting his pants and t-shirt on, kissing Ilya, telling him in his mouth, "I will do the best I can to be quick, and I will apologize to you, on my knees."

It had been one hour since Hayden had been pacing in Shane’s living room, repeating the same bits of information, totally panicked and stressed out. Jackie was mad at him and had not been talking to him for a week. Shane had politely said that he was not disturbing him, even if he had been getting a delicious head from Ilya, promising a mind-blowing fuck.

Ilya came out of the bedroom; he had the time to properly jerk off while Shane had had to calm his boner with deep breaths.

“Good morning, is it bad husband intervention?” Ilya said.

“Oh no, I can’t talk in front of him, can we go to your office?” Hayden said.

“Hayd, you should focus. Ilya is in his house, where he slept in his bed with me, and not pacing in his friend’s house because his partner is mad at him,” Shane said.

“Fuck, I don’t know what I did, and it can’t be because of my mom’s birthday; she loves my mom,” Hayden said.

Shane knew what he had done—not only the mom’s birthday issue, but all of it, even things Hayden did not know, like the abortion.

Shane had known Jackie had had an abortion; he learned it months ago, after summer vacation, back in Boston. Jackie, Anita, and Svetlana had come over while Ilya was out for therapy, before a pre-season party planned at their house. Shane tentatively asked her, “So, no new baby for you and Hayden,” with the most nonchalant tone he could manage—not the one that would say, my godson Arthur should be born by now.

Jackie only answered, “Nope.” Then there was a silence, and she continued, “Went to Planned Parenthood before summer.”

It took Shane a moment to reconcile the information—Planned Parenthood—his surprise and shock surely written on his face, because Anita and Svetlana sent him a murderous look, and Svetlana said, “A problem, Shane?”

Shane fumbled, “No, no problem. Your body, your choice.” And Anita added, “I know that’s right.”

So Shane continued, “And you are okay?” And as soon as he finished, he knew he was wrong.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Come on, not like it’s the first time,” Jackie said, and Shane’s face turned redder. He could not believe he was having this conversation. Actually, he had never had any conversation about this kind of health. He did not have a sister. His mom had talked him through consent, condoms, and pregnancy, sure—but it was in this life that, for the first time, while still at Harvard, Anita had sent him to buy packs of pads and tampons, that he had ever been close to it. And now they were talking very casually about abortion, and he felt that making it a big deal was not it, so he tried to be more delicate—and remembered when Anita had told him, after they watched a player talking about how women were not meant to be in pro sports before the PWHL launched, “Shane, I’ve spent too much time with you. You'd better never embarrass me with cis men bullshit in your post-game press. Don’t be a liability.”

“So, not ready with Hayden, because of work or Boston?” he asked.

“Hayden doesn’t know,” Jackie said.

“And he will never know,” Anita added, looking at Shane with threatening eyes. Shane nodded rapidly—I’m not a liability, he tried to convey.

“You know how you have to remind him of a bunch of things when you are on the road, or to do things,” Jackie said. And yes, Shane was basically making sure Hayden did not black out, forget half his things in hotel rooms, and reminding him of deadlines.

“Yeah, he can be a little all over the place,” Shane said.

“But at least you get to get home,” Jackie said.

“So, just not the right time for me. I am happy with the girls and with the radio production. You know, it’s the first time—last year—that people at parties asked me about something else, not related to being a mom, a hockey wife, or Pilates and yoga,” Jackie said.

And Shane could not argue. All those years in his past life, and he had never known Jackie liked radio production that much. He remembered the first timeline, the postpartum depression after Amber—Hayden had told him how difficult it was.

Shane saw it in Jackie’s eyes, the way she talked about this new idea for her broadcast. Jackie and the radio were not something from this timeline. The Jackie from the previous timeline had gone to McGill for journalism, too, but over all those years of friendship, they had never talked about it. They had talked about her hobbies —the kids, mostly: Hayden, hockey, Shane, Shane and Ilya; the outings, the Voyageurs, his diet—but never that. He had never known she could talk for hours about the intricacies of building a show, that when she talked about the science of a good interview, her face lit up, that she could make bedtime stories for the twins by mixing something she learned in interviews with a book.

Shane did not know, and it was bothering him. The Jackie of this timeline was the same in terms of character and nature, but she was so different. His Jackie had been Jackie the WAG, her identity for him always linked to hockey, to Hayden, to the kids, to the friend she tried to match him with—but he did not know her.

There was something there, something of her as an individual. Something that reminded Shane of himself, of when he decided to make decisions not to fit people’s image or because it was the logical thing to do, when he decided he would try a new way, a scary one for himself. Jackie made decisions for herself. And he had to admit, he did not know that was possible—because she was already the best mom—but now she was an even better mom, and a great friend.

So Shane said, “That’s good… I’m really glad you’re happy, Jackie.” And because Anita and Svetlana believed in bullying men into feminism, they gave him a look that meant, look at you, being evolved.

Shane was listening to Hayden, while he knew that Jackie had not gone out to dinner alone, but had gone for a girls’ night with Svetlana and Zahra after she left the twins with Hayden’s mom. So when Hayden came, pacing, he understood, because he too had boxed Jackie into the small, hockey-specific place everyone had to play: player, WAG, momager, coach, coach’s wife—specific roles with expectations, especially in Montreal’s family-value dogma.

It had been more than six months since Jackie had been in her position at the radio. She was happy in it, and Shane knew from both Hayden and Jackie that she had made several demands for Hayden to step up, but every time Hayden had the same answer: “Tell me what to do.” The frustration had reached a climax when Hayden’s mother came to the Pike house for her birthday. Jackie had thought it was unannounced and unplanned, but that was not like Hayden’s mother; Hayden had only forgotten to tell Jackie.

“I know I forgot to tell her, but you know I don’t care. I did not ask her to cook or throw a party. I was at the rink, so I told her to order something, and she just hung up,” Hayden said.

“So you forgot, your mom arrived, you were at the rink, and instead of ordering food yourself, you asked her to do it, after she was the one dropping the kids at daycare and coming from her job?”

“Okay, you’re saying it like I was a douchebag. It’s just that she knows better how to order food that everyone likes.”

“Is it not your mom?” Ilya shot from the other side of the living room.

“Ilya,” Shane glanced at him.

“I am trying to wrap it up so we can continue our planned activity, my love,” Ilya answered, licking his lips.

“Hayden, what did you do when she started the new position last year?” Shane said.

“I told her I was proud of her, and it was great. You know I am not a caveman. I support women working. She is happy.”

“Okay, so how did you support her?”

“What do you mean? She handles all her finances, you know, paying for the cleaning lady, daycare, babysitter, and also groceries. I even told her she should hire a chef to meal prep once a week,” Hayden said.

“So basically you supported her by giving her a to-do list of things to do so she could support herself,” Shane said.

Hayden stayed silent for a moment.

“But I am just not good at it. I would do it badly.”

“You are doing hockey badly and still coming every day,” Ilya said. Shane shot him a look, and Ilya mimed sealing his lips.

“Hayden, you’re a grown man, an adult with two children. You know how to use a search bar in any random city. You can learn how to look for a cleaning service, a caterer, and put reminders on your phone.”

“Fuck, fuck, I fucked up. I am nothing without her,” Hayden said.

“Yeah, maybe that’s the problem.”

“Why? Ilya says that about you, often.”

“Yes, but when he says it, it’s not for the logistical part of our life together, and I know you love Jackie, and you are a good dad, but you need to be a better husband, and you will be a better dad, because the twins will have a happier mom.”

“What should I do? I bought flowers. I bought her a new necklace. Should I buy a new car?” Hayden said.

“I will show you how to put reminders on your phone, and you will learn by heart all the dates for important household things, and maybe when you feel the need to ask Jackie for something, you breathe first, look if you can find the answer by yourself first,” Shane said.

Ilya could not resist and said, "Pike, your brain, it's underused too much."

They had lunch together. Ilya was on his best behavior. Hayden left with a notes app, a to-do list, and an appointment to buy Jackie a new car.

“I will miss Arthur,” Shane said.

“I know, me too. Maybe we will have Amber,” Ilya said.

“Maybe. I am happy for Jackie to know this version of Jackie.”

“Anita did her good. Maybe someone will change her heart and make her love Da’Shaun back.”

“Stop it. It’s not her fault if Da’Shaun wanted a WAG, and he seemed over it now.”

“He is over it as I was over it when you were with Rose Landry.”

“I support Anita, right and wrong, sorry.”

“Let’s go back to what we were doing before your manchild friend came.”

***

March 2016

Ilya received a call from an unknown number before boarding their flight home from Toronto, after losing a game 2–1. He was not in the mood to talk, especially to someone he did not know. He called back the next day.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

The person answered in Russian. He knew the voice. It was Alexei’s wife.

“Katarina, you are in the U.S.? I did not know it was you.”

“Yes, in Boston, and I wanted to know if you have time for a coffee today or tomorrow,” Katarina said.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes, yes. If you have no time, no problem.”

“No, no, I can today. I will send you the address of the café.”

“Thanks. I just have an appointment for work after, so I need to be close to the Public Library on Boylston Street.”

Shane dropped Ilya at the coffee shop at 4 p.m. on his way to see the Pike kids.

“Katarina,” Ilya said, standing from the table and taking her in a hug.

“Ilya, thank you. I did not know if you were busy. I checked before, you don’t have a game, but I know you have a lot to do.”

“No, no, I am happy to see you. Are you here again for work? I thought after Sochi, there was not much tourism from Russia here.”

“Yes, for work, but not for tourism. I found a job here.”

“Here? In Boston? Or in Russia?”

“No, with the library.”

In all the developments of this life, Ilya had imagined many things, but not this one. He had not seen it coming. They ordered coffee and pastries, and Katarina told him that after she had come here in 2011, she had started talking to contacts who lived there about jobs.

“And I learned that I needed a master’s level to be able to get something with a work visa,” she said.

So she had gone back to university, enrolled in an online program with the American University in Boston, studying at night and during breaks. She thought she could do it in one year because she already had a bachelor’s, but Ana, Alexei, and Ilya’s father, whom she had to help sometimes, made it take longer. She got her M.A. in literature applied to library and conservation last year.

“But it is very long to find a job here from Russia, and interviews,” she said.

She finally found a position in a new program in Slavic conservation, literature, and translation, made possible by UNESCO and private patronage at the Boston Public Library, and it took another five months to obtain an H-1 B visa.

“I wanted to tell you thank you. With all the help, and also the school for Ana, and the apartment, I wanted to do something better for me, for her, for her to have an example.”

“Where is Ana?” Ilya asked.

“She is at after-school activities.”

“Already? When did you arrive?”

“Two months ago.”

“Two months? Why did you not call me? Where are you living? Who picked you up? Does Alexei know?”

“Many questions. Alexei does not know yet. But he will not soon, so I wanted to tell you before. And also, I left the apartment.”

“Why does he not know?”

“He was fired, and then he started being with people, private security, and traveling. He left for four months for a contract. And Ana already had the visa from last time, so I did not need his signature.”

“So he will learn when he comes back.”

“Yes. I’m not ungrateful, but Alexei is not good to me, and he is not good for Ana either. He is always angry, drinking, the drrugs, and his friends are constantly in the apartment. One time, me and Ana came back a day early from visiting my parents and found him there with another woman.”

“Alexei is such a little shit, but you, you are very brave.”

“I try, but it is difficult.”

“Your colleagues, are they good? Ana and the school?”

“Ana is happy. You know the school you paid for, she has perfect English now, and the public school is good. My colleagues are very nice, and I love the job. I am seeing hundred-year-old manuscripts. It is very quiet. It helps me focus.”

“Can I see her?”

“Yes, of course. I did not want to intrude or impose, so I wanted to see you first and ask for your help. I am sorry, I know you helped a lot, and I tried to find another solution. I tried to do many things by myself, but…”

“Katarina, stop. Anything. Ask anything.”

“I came with my savings, not that much, 5,000 USD, but I had to buy a car and things for Ana and me. A colleague had a friend who let us stay, house-sitting in his house. It is a very nice, family-friendly neighborhood, and Ana loves it there. But I do not have enough pay stubs or savings yet, and I do not want to change her school. So I wanted to know if you can be our guarantor.”

Ilya wished she had asked for money, a lot of it, a house, even. He would have given it to her. His niece, the one he had had to leave behind after his father’s funeral, was in Boston. She was in Boston because, in a strange way, Ilya had inspired Katarina to leave Alexei, to move to a city where she knew Ilya could help. He would have a niece, like Shane had the Pike children, that he could pick up from school, teach to skate, take for ice cream, and throw lavish birthday parties for. Ana, who had her mother’s eyes. In the strange balance of the universe, of all the things they had changed for themselves and others, they had lost people and found others.

“Where is the school?”

“Roslindale.”

“Send me the address. When do you have to move out?”

“In one month.”

“Okay. Do not worry about anything, okay? Shane and I will take care of it.”

“Shane Hollander, your teammate?”

Ilya paused. Teammate, love, future husband, boyfriend, partner, roommate.

“We are friends and roommates,” Ilya said.

“ I do not want to be a burden. I will not be an Alexei in your life. Ana loves you, and it is nice to know you are here.”

“You and Ana are not a burden. You are my family.”

“I found a Russian Orthodox church, and they have meetings for Alcoholics Anonymous. I am at 1,510 days. I have a favorite coffee shop and flower shop.”

“It is good. You are not alone. I am here. Svetlana and I have another Russian friend, Zahra. She loves books also. She wants to open a bookshop,” Ilya said.

They left the coffee shop. Ilya was stopped for autographs and walked Katarina to her car.

“This is your car?”

“Yes. Best you can get for four thousand dollars. Manual AC, rolling windows,” she laughed.

“My niece cannot be in this car. It is not safe.”

“I do not drive every day, anyway. I have to go, thank you for everything, I will bring Ana next time.”

“No, thank you,” Ilya said.

Ilya waited for Shane to pick him up.

“Ana is in Boston,” Ilya said, entering the car.

“Hello, love of my life, happy to see you again, too. My time with the twins was great, thank you for asking,” Shane said, ironizing.

“Yes, yes. Ana and Katarina. She left Alexei. She is working at the library. Ana is at school.”

“Oh my God, this is huge.”

“It is, Shane. She needs help. She has no apartment yet, needs a guarantor.”

“Do you want them to live with us? The house is big.”

“No. I like having you for myself. And also, can you ask a six-year-old to keep a secret from Alexei? He could use it. He does not know yet that she left. She left divorce papers in the apartment. He will be so mad. He will blame me.”

“Yes, he will. I am sorry.”

“Oh no, it is better. I do not give a fuck. Ana is here, Shane. I will throw a big party for her birthday, and we will go skate, and Zahra, and Svetlana, and the twins, and Anita and Iro…”

“Okay, okay. Before planning to spoil Ana, they need housing.”

“Yes. In one month, Roslindale. She said she only needs a guarantor.”

“I mean, it will be easier for us to just buy something, you know, add to our portfolio. It does not need to be big.”

“She did not want to depend on me, but her car is shit and dangerous. It does not have AC, and the heat is not working well.”

“Okay, we can buy a small two-bedroom house, and she will pay utilities.”

“I love you, my brilliant husband. I will call the realtor. And we need to buy things for Martha's Vineyard house.”

"We already have, Ilya, for Ruby and Jade," Shane said

"We need more. Ana is almost 6, the twins are 3, with different needs."

"You just want to buy more things."

"Yes."

One week later, Ilya had a sensible Honda delivered to Katarina, complete with the latest car seat for a four-year-old. They planned a team time at their house, a family day. Teammates came with their kids. Anita, Zahra, Iro, and Svetlana came. Katarina came with Ana, who already had two best friends from school.

Ilya had the time of his life. He did the most: catering, candy cart, hot dogs, and dozens of children running everywhere. They also hired five babysitters to give parents a break. Ana spent time following Zahra and Svetlana like a shadow, trying to sit like them and tell stories from Moscow.

On their way out, Svetlana and Zahra sought Ilya out for a talk.

“You are happy,” Svetlana said.

“I am more than happy. This is the best kid party ever,” Ilya said.

“I think Katarina is struggling a little. We will call her,” Zahra said.

“What do you mean?”

“Single mom, here, you helped, but you know this country, it is different, immigrant drop, after the high of finally getting in...” Svetlana said.

“And with your brother, I do not know how much back and forth she could do, even if she had the money, once the divorce is finalized, so realizing that this is now her life, this country where she will also have an accent,” Zahra said.

Ilya had no doubt that when Alexei came back and found his wife and daughter gone, he would go apeshit. Ilya had already convinced Katarina to accept the lawyer he found in Moscow. The good news was that Alexei's being fired from the police limited his ability to act against Katarina’s visa. He had enough shame to feel for people helping him, but he still could manage casualties. That was his specialty.

“Yes, thank you,” Ilya said.

“Ana is so cute,” Svetlana said.

Their realtor found a cute two-bedroom house with a small backyard. They signed on the spot, and they could move in three weeks. Ilya had already ordered most of the furniture and installation service to create a princess room for Ana.

They moved into the house in April. Katarina put Ilya as the emergency contact at Ana’s school. In his free time, Ilya would pick her up. She would spend some weekends with Shane and him in their house. One weekend, when Katarina had to go to a conference in New York, and they did not have games, they went with her, Zahra, and Svetlana to Martha’s Vineyard. Shane called it his Russian-immersion weekend, since he was the only one who wasn't Russian.

***

June 2016

They won their third Stanley Cup in 2016. They were coming back from the MHL Awards in Vegas, where Shane had won his first MVP, when he turned on his phone after landing in Boston. Several missed calls. Elena, their housekeeper.

“I have ten missed calls from Elena,” Shane said while they were picking their carry-on bags.

“Me too,” Ilya said.

The phone rang. Elena answered in Russian.

“Mr. Rozanov, are you at the airport?”

“Yes. What is wrong?”

“Not the house, but a problem. Please come fast. It is better if you are here.”

“You are stressing me out, Elena. What is it?”

“It is your niece, Ana.”

“What about her?”

“I cannot go home. She is here.”

“Oh, it is not a problem. Katarina and Ana can stay and wait for us; you can go home. Can you give Katarina the phone, please?”

“No, Mr. Rozanov, this is the problem. Ana is here alone. Her mom dropped her off with a bag four hours ago.”

“What? Is she okay? Did she say something?”

“Yes, she is okay. I gave her food and drink, she said her mom told her she was going to stay there like a vacation with you and Mr. Hollander.”

“Elena, please stay a little longer, we are coming.”

Ilya was already walking faster.

“What is it?” Shane asked.

“Ana is home. Her mom left her there with a bag. I am calling Katarina.”

They walked quickly toward the parking garage.

“I am driving,” Shane said, reaching the car.

Katarina’s phone rang, but there was no answer. He tried 8 times.

He went into his texts and saw a message buried in the notifications.

Katarina: I can’t. I am not good for her. I tried. I am sorry.

Last week marked the 20th anniversary of Twitter (RIP, now a hellscape), this tweet that has been living rent-free in my head for years. 

Chapter End Notes

I know many people have, have had, or will have strong feelings about no-Arthur (my sacrificial lamb), but I wanted to go to the uncomfortable place of what it means for women to have a life that is expended toward a sense of self not linked to a specific subculture (Hockey) norm. I also wanted to give Jackie more texture than the book's recurring sentence, “she’s bored at home, so she has kids.” She is under 30 and has four children, two of whom were born 1 year apart.

This fic engages with structure, particularly the social-reproduction work of WAGs as an architecture through which the patriarchal norms of sport transfer domestic labor as a form of stabilization for manchild. Marrying young, wives turned caretakers who absorb the 'business of hockey', for example, same-day trade and moving across countries, and do not have to worry about packing, settling, because someone will deal with it, but also the blind side to the violence, abuse, and financial distress that often accompany serial cheating.

So here comes the question of weaponized incompetence. Hayden, the “nice guy™” under patriarchy, is the bare minimum under water. It is not cute, not funny, to be with a man-child. Within this structure, she cannot have both. So she makes a reasonable choice as a 25-year-old with two children, who wants to stay married to a man (heterosexuality, such a scam for women, as theorized by Marxist feminist, a transfer of wealth via labor exploitation/extraction from one gender to another, but Jackie is very much, even if slightly pushing back, attached to white womanhood TM).
I write from a reproductive justice perspective (not “pro-choice” as a label, but bodily autonomy as a broader political framework), meaning that the life and fulfillment of women matter more than potential children. If men want big families, they should also be ready to be fully accountable adults. As I said, I am not a “pro-choice” person. I am for reproductive justice because the first thing some “pro-choice” people will do is start repeating anti-abortion rhetoric: “We can’t be nonchalant about abortion.” Babe, send this kid back and go take a drink with your friends. saw a comment in another fic, someone asking for a tag "TW abortion", chile I have been a Black feminist for long enough to recognize an anti-abortion activist trying to be slick when I spotted one, abortion=health care, what next TW: Tylenol?!

Going full uncles and nieces.

And also, as the iconic tweet said, "I do not support all women. Some of you bitches are very dumb!!!" Many of those WAGs are as yt supremacist as their husbands/boyfriends.

✨️Don't forget to check my new fic Going Broke and Broken or click next.

 

📕 Reading

Alone in Paradise: Exploring the Intersections of Gender, Ethnicity, Single Motherhood, Social Class, and Immigration, by Gia Lam, Sandra Collins, Gina Wong, Canadian Journal of Counselling and Psychotherapy, 56(1), 70–107.

The Ethnographic Process of Gender Management: Doing the “Right” Masculinity With Wives of Professional Athletes, by S. M. Ortiz, Qualitative Inquiry, 11(2), 265–290.

Footballers’ Wives: The Role of the Soccer Player’s Partner in the Construction of Idealized Masculinity, by B. Clayton, J. Harris, Soccer &Society, 5(3), 317–335.

Becoming More Than “Hockey’s Daughter” and “Football’s Wife”, by Bette McKenzie, Inside Sports, 1999, 225.
Social Reproduction Theory, by Silvia Federici, Radical Philosophy, 2(4), 55–57.

Reproductive Justice: An Introduction, by Loretta Ross, Rickie Solinger.

Women Are Sharing the Worst Weaponized Incompetence They’ve Seen From Their Male Partners, by Shelby Heinrich, BuzzFeed

Chapter 9: Inhale/Exhale

Chapter by Rebo758

Chapter Notes

thanks to Witwandwolfbird. who beta-read and edited this chaper.

1603 days. Ilya made the math in his head. Today was Katarina’s 1603rd day of sobriety. In those 1603 days, she had Ana, survived marrying Alexei, went back to school, got a new degree, found a job, crossed the Atlantic, and left Alexei with divorce papers to find.

Ilya compared it to his own 1603 days in this timeline. He had done a lot—many things involving working on himself, his body, and his community—but in comparison to Katarina, to Ana, using neither his money nor his knowledge of the future, not even Shane… his 1603 days felt small. Glommed. 1603 days, and one movement.

Ilya knew all body movements. It was his job as a hockey player—every muscle: traction, retraction, pushing, pulling, fast, slow, controlled. Sitting across the table from Katarina, he was looking for movement. He had a Coke in front of him but wasn’t drinking it. He watched Katarina, who was fixing the distance between her hand and the glass in front of her.

It had been twenty minutes since Ilya had crossed the door of the bar.

Not the kind of bar he went to anymore, but one he used to go to. The kind with taciturn bartenders, strong enough to kick out drunks. No fancy cocktails. Cash only. Dark corners where you could drown all your sorrow and retell mythology about the life you didn’t have, the life you wished for—making promises about not coming back, throwing up in not-clean toilets.

He’d been in those bars in the previous timeline, when he didn’t want to drown himself in forty-dollar shots at fancy places surrounded by paparazzi and people there to be seen.

Here, you could disappear.

One ten-dollar bill at a time.

Whiskey neat, vodka, some pistachios sitting there too long, tap beer, and the sound of the same playlist and sports games. The kind of bar that was never empty but never full. Always half. Not quiet, like the patrons—not at rock bottom, not unable to pay for their drinks, but not doing well enough that they didn’t need to be there.

It had been twenty minutes.

When he entered, he glanced around and saw Katarina at a table in the back. He stopped at the bar, asked for a Coke, breathed, then sat across from her.

She didn’t look up.

“Hello,” he said.

She kept staring at the space between her hand and the drink.

“She likes multicolor cereal in the morning,” she said, as if they were continuing a conversation.

Ilya had come directly from home. Shane stayed with Ana, who was completely oblivious to the situation. She was just happy about this unplanned vacation at what she called “the fancy castle for Uncles Ilya and Shane.”

Ilya had tried to reach Katarina again without success. He’d texted Svetlana and Zahra; they’d tried to call her. At least her phone was on. At some point, Svetlana suggested he check the car portal—the car was in his name, linked to his account, and Katarina had been adamant about not taking ownership, only borrowing it for the time being. The car had an anti-theft system with geolocation.

Ana was in the living room playing with the toys they kept for her. Elena had already left.

He took a quick shower, told Ana he’d be back, and kissed Shane at the door. Shane told him in a low voice, “You’re gonna find her. It’s gonna be okay.”

When he arrived where the car was parked and parked on the adjacent street, it didn’t take long to find Ryverson in the middle of this semi-industrial, residential neighborhood—corner stores, a small bakery, and the local bar that also sold cigarettes.

He wished he wasn’t too late.

It had been six hours since she’d left Ana at their home. He didn’t know how long she’d been here.

When he saw her, with a glass of what seemed to be vodka, untouched, he exhaled.

Ilya knew what it felt like to drown in alcohol, but he didn’t know what alcoholism was. He could always pull out of it, fix himself with hockey. He didn’t know what it took for Katarina to reach 1603 days without drinking—for 1400 of those days in a country where vodka was part of the culture, so casual, living with Alexei, who hadn’t spent one day without drinking since he was at least sixteen.

He stayed silent across from her and sent a quick text to Shane, Svetlana, and Zahra:

I found her. She hasn’t touched the drink.

Svetlana answered:

You can try to convince her not to, but you shouldn’t physically restrain her. It has to be her choice.

Svetlana, who had grown up with a mundane alcoholic mother—the kind who drank martinis, always glassy, very tipsy, always in a state of a little something. They had never been close. She was an actress who didn’t make it big but was obsessed with what she was, wanted Svetlana to be a girly girl. Svetlana was never thin enough, too much of a hockey girl—should’ve gone into modeling. But no, she chose hockey and car sports. Her mother never made the choice to stop; her father tried to constrain her, but it never worked.

“I was so stupid,” Katarina said.

“Don’t say that. Talk to me. What happened?” Ilya asked, tentatively reaching for her hand.

“I’m not good for her. I’ll ruin everything,” she said, still not looking at him.

“You’re an amazing mother. You’re very brave, and Ana loves you. You’re an amazing parent, Katarina. Amazing.”

She finally lifted her head and looked at him. “No, I’m not. I’m not. When she finds out what a terrible person I am—”

Her phone was on the table, face down, silent the whole time. She turned it over. The screen was on a text thread. She pushed the phone toward Ilya.

It was Alexei.

Ilya scrolled, recognizing Alexei’s tone—the slur, the lack of punctuation, the demands. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty messages at all hours. No answers from Katarina.

The divorce lawyer Ilya had hired for her in Moscow had told her not to engage.

But the messages—

“I took you from the gutter; you stole my child.”
“You’re fucking this fucking fag, Ilya.”
“I know him.”
“You think you’re better.”
“I still have the photos.”
“Should’ve never married a whore.”
“I will get my child back.”

Disgusting.

There were voice messages too. And requests for money. Alexei had no shame—after sending all those messages, asking her to send him money while she was taking care of their child on a decent but not fancy salary. He didn’t even know she wasn’t paying for housing.

His brother reached a new low.

In his past life, he had always used Katarina and Ana as excuses to ask Ilya for money. Ilya had left him the apartment for that. But now, he was living in the apartment rent-free and asking the mother of his child—whom he refused to divorce—for money while threatening her with photos.

“Katarina, listen to me. Alexei is a horrible, horrible human being. Don’t listen to him. He’ll never use the photos he has, whatever they are.”

“How do you know? He hates me. He said he’ll never divorce. He wants me to come back with Ana. He wants me to do things.”

“What kind of things, Katarina?”

“For money. Do things to you,” she said.

“Like lying to me?”

“Yes. Asking you for money for things I don’t need, or finding things for him to use to ask you for money.”

Ilya looked horrified.

“I would never...never. I told him I’ll never be that person again. I can’t do this to Ana. You’re the best family I’ve ever had. You and Shane, and Svetlana and Zahra, you make me being here, better.”

“You make me being here better, too. You and Ana,” Ilya said. “Katarina… Alexei is my brother, and I know him. I know he has this… this power to tell you things that mess you up.”

And he did. When he told Ilya that he took their mother away. That Ilya was weak like her. That Ilya abandoned them. So much of the voice in the dark days in his head—in this life and the other—was a mix of his father and Grigori. But Ilya also knew something else. Alexei had a specific kind of pride.

He would never, no matter how angry he was, publicize pictures of the woman he married and the mother of his child. Alexei, like Grigori, lived in a narrow land of private terror and very public protection. Ilya knew that. And the fact that Alexei’s messages went quickly from fury to “come back with the child” to using Katarina as a financial access point to Ilya told him something else: Alexei didn’t really want her back. He didn’t want the divorce, but she was his safety line for money. A parasite. Living in Ilya’s apartment, receiving U.S. dollar transfers.

Still, Alexei knew how to crush someone. And surely, he knew things about Katarina—about when she was a student, modeling, and how she became entangled with alcohol. Ilya knew parts of the story. Katarina had opened up in fragments since March.

She came from a destitute St. Petersburg aristocratic family—the kind who lived off one apartment, some relics of expensive furniture, silverware, and access to certain government jobs, but no liquidity. A carnet d’adresse, a last name, and knowledge of how to exist—that was all they had.

Katarina had been beautiful, young, with a good name.

Ilya understood Alexei. Working for the police, without Grigori’s accomplishments, still young—having Katarina on his arm, intoxicated by Moscow life, by access, not money, but position.

Alexei had wanted her like a rare bird. To keep her in a hopeless place with him. Marrying her. But she broke free. She did it under his nose. She broke free while Alexei spiraled enough to be fired from one of the most corrupt institutions in Russia.

“I abandoned her,” Katarina said.

“No, you didn’t. You left her with her uncles. To have a vacation. She doesn’t know anything. You’re such a good mom that you’re fighting the vile person Alexei is, and she doesn’t know anything. Everything is okay.”

“I just couldn’t take it. You know, I knew if I took one, I wouldn’t stop. And I couldn’t let her see me like that. She’s never seen me like that. Only Alexei… but she didn’t know me like that. Never.”

“Look, you didn’t do it. You left, what, six hours ago, and you didn’t drink, right?”

“No. I drove around for hours. I got tired and came here.”

“Yeah, you’re just tired. It’s a lot. And listen, I’m sorry. I should’ve helped more.”

“No, you helped so much. So much, Ilya.”

“I should’ve given you more time. But now I will. Will you let me help you?”

“Yes… But I’m not strong enough for Ana right now. To keep face.”

“You’re just tired. You need a break. Listen to me—I spend all my time with grown men who have mental breakdowns over losing a puck. It’s okay to break. And you knew to find help, to keep Ana safe.”

“You and Shane are good… You are good together,” she said.

Ilya and Shane had never done a big coming out to her, but they hadn’t hidden it carefully either. She had spent enough time with them—Sunday lunches, invitations to parties—to know. And the fact that she let Ana stay with them for weekends, long ones in Martha’s Vineyard, told them everything about her comfort level around it.

“Do you want to go home?”

“I don’t want to be alone, but I can’t see Ana now.”

“Svetlana has a guest room, and she’d want you to stay. Ana has a week of vacation and you too. A break.”

“I don’t want to impose.”

“Katarina, you know Svetlana. Do you think someone can impose on her?”

Katarina chuckled. “No. But Ana… I ruined her summer. She loved the summer camp. I saved to pay for it. I ruined it.”

“Ana has a babysitter when you work, right?”

“Yes. She picks her up from summer camp every day.”

“You’ll give her my contact, and with Shane, we’ll make sure Ana goes to summer camp all week.”

“It’s on the other side of your house.”

“Shane wakes up at 5:30 every morning. We don’t mind driving. We’ll drop her off, and the babysitter will come to our place in the afternoon. We’ll take care of the Uber. It’s a good plan. How do you feel about it?”

“Good… The church they have a meeting at 5:30.”

“This is what we’re going to do. You didn’t fail, Katarina. You just need a break. You need family and friends. Ana will stay with me and Shane for the week. You’ll stay with Svetlana. She knows all the spas, and you’ll go to the meeting. You take a break to take care of yourself, okay?”

“Okay.”

“But to do that, you can’t have Alexei sending messages. You can’t.”

“I know… but I don’t want him to say I blocked him from talking to his daughter.”

“I didn’t see him ask to talk to her. Did he?”

“Once. I let her talk on the phone.”

“Once. And after that, it’s been money and insults. You can block him—everywhere. Tell him to contact the lawyer to fix times to talk to Ana.”

“He’ll be so mad.”

“Yes, he will. But I’ll take care of him, Katarina. I promise. I’m going to Moscow in three weeks, and I’ll make him sign the divorce papers.”

“How?”

“Don’t worry. You don’t worry about me. I’m a big, strong hockey player, and I’ve known Alexei since I was born. So don’t think about him. Will you block him?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

Katarina took her bag. Neither she nor Ilya touched their drinks. Ilya left a fifty-dollar bill on the bar. The bartender shot him a look, then turned to Katarina.

“You deserve the token. Hold on.”

Katarina drove to the church, followed by Ilya’s car.

Ilya had never been to this church. Katarina went downstairs for the meeting. Ilya entered the church—some candles were scattered. He lit candles before the icons of the Virgin Mary, then sat in the third row and said a prayer—not to God, but to his mother, touching his cross.

“Mama, I’m sorry, but I had to let go of Alexei. I believe it was you who gave me this chance with Shane. I can’t save Alexei, Mama. I’m sorry. But Ana… she has your eyes. I can protect her. Katarina is good. I love you.”

He moved to sit in the church garden and texted Shane.

Ilya: At the church. She’s at the AA meeting. Waiting for her to be done, then I’ll drop her off at Svetlana’s.
Shane: How is she
Ilya: Alexei. It’s all Alexei. She needs a break, but she’ll be okay. Ana will stay with us this week.
Shane: Waiting for you. I love you

Then he wrote in his group chat with Zahra and Svetlana:

Ilya: Svetlana, we’re at the church. She’s at the meeting. She didn’t drink.
Svetlana: Thank God
Ilya: Can she stay in your guest room for a week? She needs a break and not to be alone.
Svetlana: Of course. I’ll make sure to remove all alcohol before you arrive.
Ilya: Alexei… he pushed her to the verge. I think she needs help—mental health—but not like my therapist. Maybe a woman who knows about single mothers.
Zahra: I know one. She works with Russian immigrant women here. She’s good. She’s from Samara.
Ilya: I thought they only made civilian aviation and space industry engineers over there.
Ilya: Thanks.
Zahra: You did well.
Svetlana: Yes, very. How is Ana?
Ilya: She thinks it’s an impromptu vacation.
Zahra: Bless her.
Ilya: I didn’t know what I was doing. I was so scared she’d drink it. I would have, for less than that.
Svetlana: As they say, the eyes are afraid, but the hands are still doing it.

***

A week with a six-year-old was a lot. They had both been used to babysitting, the longest time being a weekend, but there had always been other adults around. Living with a six-year-old was something else entirely. They learned that the morning was not a given when, on the second day, they dropped Ana off at summer camp 40 minutes late because neither of them had been able to get her ready in time, having indulged her with a too-late bedtime the night before.

But they also learned how funny kids were when they wanted to coerce you into bending the rules. Green beans prepared by their chef were magically too green, grilled cheese tasted like fish, and ice cream somehow also tasted like ice cream. The other side of it was the limited hours to get laid. During the day, they were both busy outside preparing for the many summer activities and the coffee shop opening, and when they came home, the babysitter, Nina, a Russian student at UMass Boston, was there with Ana.

When she left, they had to do the bath, dinner, listen to a story about the day at summer camp, call Katarina, who was still at Svetlana’s, and finally, the fight over the bedtime story. They had to wait a good hour to be sure she was knocked out, and not like they learned on day three, when she woke up ready to ask for some water she did not need and ended up sleeping with them.

Katarina was reunited with Ana at Babel’s inauguration, which was everything Zahra had promised — writers, editors. Vaughn came with Hunter, and Iro announced that he had a fiancée, a Jamaican-American librarian. Shane didn't have Ilya's perceptiveness on it, but he could tell something was going on between Zahra and Anita that went beyond co-owning a coffee shop, and Svetlana and Marleau also seemed really touchy lately. He made a mental note to share his observations with Ilya when they got home.

The summer passed in a frenetic mood. The Boston Game Changer camp brought mostly New York, Philadelphia, and Boston coaches from the MHL and PWNL, followed by the Ottawa camp, where Ilya put everything he had into getting Ryan Price, Zane Boodram, and Wyatt Hayes. He had missed them deeply, and it was nice to have their antics back. During the Ottawa week, they also spent more time with Shane’s parents, laying out the plans for a small civil wedding the following year. Then Ilya flew to Moscow with Marleau, Shane, and St. Simon for the summer camp with KHL and ZhHL players. Svetlana had done an amazing job coordinating everything in Moscow through her father’s contacts. He had been thrilled to have it, and the Boston players brought him a special gift from management.

In Moscow, they were joined on the ice by eight coaches, four women, Elizaveta Karimova who played for Volga Zvezda Kazan, Daria Kolesnikova from Sibirskaya Korona Novosibirsk, Alina Chernykh from Baltika Aurora Kaliningrad, and Ksenia Morozova from Neva Stal Saint Petersburg, and four men, Mikhail Baranov from Arktika Arkhangelsk, Egor Sokolov from Rubin Tyumen, Nikita Gusev from Baltic Fleet Kaliningrad, and Artem Minulin from Red Banner Omsk. Unlike in Ottawa and Boston, the number of kids had doubled. The city had given them two rinks to use, arranged through Svetlana’s father, so they ran sessions back-to-back without stopping. A team of eight interpreters rotated between Marleau, Shane, and St. Simon, carrying everything across languages, from instructions to jokes.

Because he wanted his friends and teammates to see Moscow the way he loved it, he made sure to go out with the other coaches and do the same tourist tour. Funnily enough, Shane was acting like a connoisseur. "Oh yes, this coffee is nice," he said. Ilya’s heart grew fond.

Always cautious, they rented a building with several apartments for the coaches who were not living in Moscow, one coach per apartment. The two apartments on the top floor had a communicating door. Every night, Ilya opened the door and went to spend the night in Shane’s bed, talking through everything he had thought about during the day. And every night, Ilya tasted Shane. Ilya fucked him, knowing it was probably the last time he would have him in Moscow. Some nights slow, some with passion and rage. One night, he let Shane ride him; two nights, they only kissed, touched, and cuddled, and others, they just cuddled.

Since he came back, he had gone to see his father in the mornings, checked in with Veronika, and had small talk with Polina, but his father had been in no state to see people, looking skinnier.

He waited for Shane, St. Simon, and Marleau to be on the plane before going to the apartment. He had been ready to wait an hour in his car if needed, but chose to go early in the morning, sure that Alexei would be hungover. He rang the bell twice, and the door opened — it wasn't Alexei, but a woman who seemed to be living there. He asked her if anyone else was there. The good thing about being Ilya was that she seemed to know he was Alexei’s brother. "No, only your brother," she said, passing him and leaving behind the scent of a night of weed, alcohol, and sex.

Ilya entered the apartment, which looked more like a squat than anything else, opened the window, and sat on the couch. He was glad he had stopped for a coffee beforehand because he would not even have had a glass of water in that dump. He could hear Alexei in the bedroom, waking up, maybe going to the bathroom. He might have thought the charming lady was waiting for him. He was surprised to find Ilya seated, legs crossed, in his living room.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Alexei said, surprise in his eyes.

"Last time I checked, this is my apartment, and you’re not paying rent. Be lucky I didn’t use my key... your friend let me in on her way out. Guess it wasn’t a memorable night."

"Get the fuck out of here. Your American friends left, so now you’re here?"

"I’m here for Ana and Katarina."

"Shut the fuck up. You know nothing. They’ll be back."

Alexei ran at him, grabbed his collar, and they started fighting. Ilya did not know how Alexei kept his strength with a lifestyle powered by alcohol, drugs, and short nights. Ilya overpowered him and made him stop.

"If you make me, I’ll break all your teeth... I’ve always wanted to. Get off." Ilya said

Alexei was on the corner.

"You’re going to sign the divorce papers tomorrow, in Katarina’s lawyer’s office," Ilya said as he cleaned the blood in his split lips

"Who the fuck do you think you are? I won’t sign. I’ll go to the judge and say she kidnapped my kid to the U.S."

"No, you're not. I know you, Alexei. The slight possibility of being able to turn someone into a cash machine and live your life in this apartment without any financial responsibility for your wife and kid, with no one seeing how shitty you are; you like it."

"Fuck you, I’m not signing, now get out."

"As I said, it’s my apartment. I can have you sleeping on the street by tonight, or you can go back to living with Father, so he can call you by his brother's name in the morning because he doesn’t know who you are, and at night remember what a failure you are. You’d like that?"

"I’ll kill you."

"Easy, you are not in the police anymore, and I am a Russian prodigy and generous son. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’ll sign the divorce papers tomorrow; full custody to Katarina, authorization for travel, and a visa for Ana. In 10 days, when it’s signed and approved by the judge, and you can’t back out, because you’re a little shit with no morals, I’ll transfer this apartment into your name and give you a $100,000 final payment. If you’re not signing, you’ll go back to live at home with Father, and the wire I send you every month will be gone too."

"Do you think I’ll give up on my daughter for an apartment and money?"

"You already gave up on her for spending nights being high and drunk with no money!"

Ilya stood up and walked to the door.

"I’m leaving in two weeks, Alexei. If everything isn’t settled by then, you’ll have nothing. Katarina and Ana aren’t coming back."

The day before Ilya had to fly to Helsinki for his week of vacation with Shane, Katarina sent him a text letting him know that the lawyer had sent her a scan of all the documents — the divorce by mutual consent and the guardianship — which had been signed by Alexei and accepted by the judge. He sent an email to his notary, with Alexei in copy, to let him know that Alexei would come to sign the property transfer documents Ilya had already signed and to collect the check Ilya had left in his name.

In Helsinki, they were more cautious than in a non-hockey country, but they spent a week in Helsinki, mornings stretching into coffee afternoons into long walks with no real plan— Shane's chagrin. 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 Zahra and Anita as inspiration. Another day, they took a ferry without checking where it was going, just to be out on the water.

Ilya could feel a tension in Shane, a tension that had already been there in Moscow, and he knew the reason. Shane had once come to Ilya’s father’s house in Moscow and had seen the good care Veronika took of him.

At night, in their luxurious penthouse hotel room, Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane."Whatever happens, I’ll marry you next year, we’ll go public after Hunter, whatever happens, my love."

"Ilya."

"I know, you’ve been thinking about it... that I’ll push it down and wait for my father to pass away. But I’m okay even if I can’t go to the funeral. I won’t wait for us. Whatever happens, we’re not staying in the closet, Shane. I want this more than anything."

Then they returned to Boston for a week with friends at the Martha’s Vineyard house. A week in the cottage that definitively confirmed that Zahra and Anita were a thing, and Svetlana and Marleau too, and that Rose’s new boyfriend Allen would not last long.

***

On the 22nd of March 2017, at 10 p.m., Ilya received a call from Veronika. His father had been admitted to the hospital after a stroke. It was three days before the call he had received in his previous life from Alexei. His father was still alive, but not for long. He thanked Veronika and sat for a moment. Shane was next to him; they had been watching a game recap at home. He breathed. He had to reconcile that a part of him had hoped he had changed things, that his father would have lived longer, but another part of him wondered why. There it was — the end of the road, the end of the experiment. Even with all the changes, his father, who he was, his death had not been in the cards in the grand scheme of the universe to be changed. Shane waited; he did not rush Ilya. Ilya put his head on Shane's lap and said, "It's time." Shane said, "I'm sorry." Ilya cried quietly, watching the screen but not processing what was happening. Shane held him tight, and at some point, Ilya must have fallen asleep.

He did not remember them going to their bedroom, but there it was — he woke up, and the clock said 3 a.m. In the corner of the room, he saw his carry-on, already open and packed with clothes, and his suit bag too. Shane had sorted everything. He went to the living room with his phone, ready to book a flight, when he found a text from Shane. Shane had booked the flights through a private flight company — a seat for Ilya, Svetlana, Katarina, and Ana, with a round trip to Boston for Katarina and Ana, but a return to Ottawa for Ilya. Shane had already written to the coach to let him know that Ilya would be gone for a week and that Shane would take three days off, suing them for the secret wedding preparation.

Ilya cried harder, not for his father, but for knowing what he had not had before. What it felt like to not be alone, to see how Shane had let him doze off and had taken care of everything so that all Ilya had to deal with was getting there. He did not sleep again. The flight was at 8 a.m. Shane woke up at 5 a.m., found him in the kitchen, wrapped his arms around him, and kissed him. "I’ll see you in Ottawa," Shane said when they separated at the airport.

Ilya had received an appointment a month ago for his U.S. citizenship ceremony. He had postponed it twice already. He did not know why, but he felt like he wanted one more time to go to Russia with his Russian passport, passing through the line for Russian nationals. His passport was set to expire in 7 months. After that, if he were a U.S. citizen, he could not renew it. He would have to request a Russian visa on a U.S. passport as an openly bisexual, married athlete and public figure.

Katarina, Ana, Ilya, and Alexei were in the hospital room. Grigori had been taken off intubation. It was now a matter of hours before he had to go. Ana was the only one who remembered a man who had been funny and kind, even if "Papushka forgets sometimes." Ana was happy to see her father. Alexei also seemed glad, though he could not look Katarina in the eyes. They all knew what he had accepted in exchange for signing the divorce papers. Maybe he knew shame after all.

Grigori did not regain consciousness and died peacefully on the 25th of March at 8 a.m. The funeral was on the 26th, pretty much the same as the first time, but this time there was no reason to fight with Alexei, and still, Ilya went to find him outside, smoking.

"Did you cry?" Ilya asked.

"Why would I?" Alexei asked (or retorted).

"I cried, not for him. I don’t know, maybe a little."

"Good for you."

"Is that what you want, Alexei, when it’s your turn?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"When it’s you, do you want Ana not knowing whether she cried for you or not?"

"You know nothing about being a father."

"I know a lot about being the son of a shitty father. Maybe give Ana a reason to be sad when you die."

***

Ilya flew to Ottawa with Svetlana. They stayed at Shane’s cottage with Anita, Marleau, Zahra, Hayden, Jackie, J.J., Rose, and Iro.

The next morning, they dressed simply. They entered City Hall one hour before opening, through a back door, and were guided into a private office. In the small room, their friends sat behind them alongside their parents.

After the officiant completed the formalities, Svetlana signed as a witness for Ilya, and Iro signed as a witness for Shane.

It mattered to them, more than they said out loud, to be married before Hunter’s moment, before everything became public, before their story would belong to everyone else. This, at least, would be theirs, on the record.

No one would ever be able to say it had just been a roommate situation since his rookie season. No one would get to rewrite it later. When they came out the following year, it would not be a sudden revelation, not a convenient narrative. They had been together since 2010. They had built this quietly, year by year. There would be no debate about the timeline.

Another wedding, a public one this time, happened in May — Iro and Damian's, who was an African-American librarian who worked with Katarina. Iro’s mother was there, as were both of Damian’s parents and his 4 siblings. Shane and Anita were Iro’s witnesses, and it was the first time Shane had given a speech at a gay wedding, and of course, he cried— Ilya too. The party was at Babel, which had closed for it, and Shane had the best time with the best music ever. He took notes for their own wedding. He just had to keep an eye on Ilya, who had discovered oxtails and seemed not to know how to behave around them without eating like a toddler.

At some point, Shane cornered Ilya. “Please leave some for the other guests. And if you keep eating like that, you’re gonna make it everywhere.”
Ilya glanced down at the small barbecue sauce stain on his jacket and grinned. “Oops. I guess I need to go to the bathroom and clean myself up.”
“You think you can pull that off and not make it worth it?” Shane said, taking the bait.

“Not sure. Maybe I need help,” Ilya said.

“The one next to the office?”

“Yes.”

“Ten minutes.”

Ilya walked slowly to the bathroom, which was in the non-public part of the coffee shop, next to the office. He had the code. It had a small shower and a comfortable sink. Not even 6 minutes later, Shane entered and closed the door. He spotted a small bottle of lube and a condom on the sink.
“Where did you find this?” he asked.
“You think I’d come to a wedding unprepared, when I have such a hot husband? We’re still in the honeymoon phase,” Ilya answered.

They started kissing hungrily, and Shane said against his mouth, “I can’t soil myself, I have to give a toast.”
“Okay, so don’t come. I want to come fucking you, but I’ll make you come with my mouth.”
“Fuck, Ilya.”

Shane sank to his knees, opened Ilya’s pants, and put his mouth to work.

“ Yes, my love, like this, you are so good.”

Ilya pulled him back. "We have no time, I will take my time with you at home. Pants off, bend for me." Shane bent over the sink, and Ilya opened him slowly, his first finger slick with lube, then two, and Shane started to make noise. "The music is loud, but you are almost louder, sweetheart." "Ilya, come inside, please."

"Yes, my love, yes." Ilya only had time to put the condom on and slide inside Shane, slowly, one quarter, half, and a last push, and he was fully inside. Shane put one hand over his mouth to muffle his scream of "Ilya."

"Fuck me fast and hard, Ilya," and Ilya started the rhythm, going faster and harder. "Fuck, you are so good. Love taking you fast, such a slut for my cock."

"Yes, more more.”

Shane tried to touch himself, but Ilya removed his hand.

"No, don’t come. Remember the toast."
Ilya went faster, one hand on Shane’s hip, another in his hair, making him look at the mirror above the sink. “Look at you, so pretty being fucked by your husband.”

Shane moaned louder and no longer cared about the noise. “I’m gonna come,” Ilya said. Four strokes later, he came, his forehead dropping to Shane’s back. He caught his breath, removed the condom, and cleaned himself quickly with paper. “Turn around,” he ordered Shane.
And Ilya sank to his knees. The floor was cold, but it would not be for long. Two minutes later, Shane came in his mouth, grasping his hair. “Fuck, fuck.”

"That was insane," Shane said, putting his pants back on.

“And I clean very well,” Ilya said.

Ilya returned to the party, and Shane came 10 minutes later, his face flushed, and sat next to Ilya. He caught Iro sending him an amused look. Iro came to their table and said, “Good for you, Shane,” and winked.

***

Because they knew about the canon event, they decided to celebrate Ilya's birthday during the 2017 Stanley Cup Final. Of course, their teammates were weirded out about watching someone other than them take the cup, but Ilya and Shane knew what a historical moment it was. The house was full, the barbecue ready for after. Everyone was there, even Rose, who had taken 2 days off from an X-Squad shoot in Montreal. Zahra and Anita were so much of a couple that they were not there, but in New York, in a family box, watching the final with Svetlana and her dog boyfriend Marleau. Rose had finally found a man who was not shallow — Xavier, an Ecuadorian book publisher she had met at one of Babel's private parties for the Irina Foundation.

Even Da'Shaun was in love with a junior lawyer at a big law firm in New York, Rachel Elizabeth Zane — she smelled like private school and a daddy's girl. Her father was an Admiral's lawyer, and she worked for the Pearson Specter Litt firm, which represented the Boston Bears in their franchise acquisition. All these kids were there — the Pike twins, Ana, St. Simon's kids, plus Yuna and David. Yuna, without knowledge of the future, had already declared it was a New York year.

Ilya was happy as he watched the game unfold in his memory. He was sitting next to Shane, their hands laced together, waiting. New York won the Stanley Cup, and as everyone started moving around for drinks and to turn on the barbecue, Shane and Ilya stayed put.
“Auntie Anita,” Jade yelled, in unison with Ana, who shouted “Aunty Zahra” in Russian when the two joined Carter on the ice.

They watched Scott call someone over for the ceremony, then watched that person approach. People in their house started noticing.

“What’s he doing?” Svetlana said. Kip walked toward Hunter, and then finally, the kiss. Their house, full of twenty-five people, erupted. Shane and Ilya smiled and kissed. While everyone was buzzing and commenting, surprised, "Good for him." "Damn, the man is hot," Iro said. "Hunter is hot too," Svetlana said.

"Someone needs to take Ilya’s cake out of the fridge," J.J. yelled.

"You just wanna eat it," Hayden shouted.

Ilya looked around at his house. Ana rushed to him, "They’re in love like you and Uncle Shane."

"Yes, but we were first," Ilya said.

Ilya was happy; his life was full of happiness, love, and people. He knew he had to be brave again, to fight against old habits, against all odds, and have the conversation with Shane, the one he had postponed because of his father, the wedding, and the season. Two months ago, he had finally scheduled his oath ceremony to become a U.S. citizen.

He would have the conversation. He would tell Shane. Now, he looked at his husband, not scared, not anxious, reminding people to use a coaster, leaning in to place a casual kiss on Ilya’s neck. At the cottage, Ilya would tell him that he did not want to go to Ottawa or play in the MHL at all.

Chapter End Notes

Here are my many thoughts, and you still have the right not to give a damn.

I know everyone was waiting for an adoption fic, but you know me, I have a thing about women having opportunities and support, and the right to mess up, so here, instead of just throwing money at a situation or being dads by accident, they gave someone time, which is sometimes what women actually need.

I was also surprised that, with all the ship speculation, no one saw Anita and Zahra coming. And yes, Da’Shaun ended up with Rachel from Suits (I don’t care about Mike; Ilya is the only white man I care about), because she fits what he wanted. She’s independent and has a Black father, but she’s also positioned differently from Anita. Anita is more deliberately opposed to the cis-het patriarchy norm, while Rachel is more reform-oriented, so they work well together. She won’t be a typical WAG, but she will absolutely know how to hire full catering for a fancy Easter party between two Supreme Court hearings.

I feel like Anita would be the kind of woman who would never live with a man she’s in a relationship with, team separate houses

Not much detail about cis-het couples because… I don’t really care about them lol.

I know a lot of fics do something with Ilya’s citizenship, especially making him Canadian, but I went back to canon, and I don’t think there’s anything about him being a U.S. citizen, especially in the context of him thinking about marrying Svetlana. It feels more like a plot device in TLG that overlooks how U.S. immigration law actually works.

Realistically, Ilya could be a permanent resident and then become a citizen. In this fic, he’s a permanent resident in 2013, so five years later makes sense, especially with money, lawyers, and “alien of extraordinary ability” status.

Also, I don’t really believe in the emotional attachment to nation-states the way it’s often portrayed. I know enough people who have changed citizenship, and not everyone gets emotional at those ceremonies. In migration studies, the emotional weight is usually about what people go through to get there, sometimes decades in limbo, and finally being able to move, travel, or just exist freely. And also, let’s be real, wealthy people are often just collecting passports.

 

One chapter left, see you next week (maybe a little late, I had 1 Ph.D. dissertations and 2 M.A. theses to read before their defense on April 30th)

✨️Don't forget to check my new fic Going Broke and Broken or click next.

 

📕 Reading

The Light and the Dark by Mikhail Shishkin

“Globalization, naturalization and identity: The case of borderless elite athletes in Japan.” by Naoki Chiba, Ebihihara Osamu, and Shinji Morino. International Review for the Sociology of Sport 36.2 (2001): 203–221.

“Neither justice nor protection: women’s experiences of post-separation violence.” by Cathy Humphreys and Thiara Ravi K, Journal of Social Welfare and Family Law 25.3 (2003): 195–214.

Chapter 10: Back to the Future

Chapter Notes

As always thanks to Alidesidero. who wrote the smut/beta-read and Witwandwolfbird. who beta-read and edited this chaper.

I follow the book canon narrative with COVID-19.
Danielle Yu is based on the actual Boston Mayor Michelle Wu, and two weeks ago, soccer genius Yamine Lamal became the youngest athlete to win two Career Laureus Awards.

April 2024 - London

“Have you seen where the cuffs are?” Shane yelled.

Ilya was in the bathroom of the penthouse suite, which was right across from Big Ben.

“I put them in the front pocket of my bag,” Ilya answered from the bathroom.

Shane wanted everything to be perfect for the ceremony. He went for full Valentino, while Ilya stayed loyal to his favorite Tom Ford. They were both golden and diamond, each with a custom-made brooch ordered from Svetlana, who was somewhere in the city with Marleau. Shane’s parents were at the same hotel but decided to make the most of their four days in London, surely attending a reception before the 8 p.m. gala. It was only five, so they had time. Shane could not believe they were there. They had crossed into what they called the "known-point." Beyond December 2017, they didn't know anything about the future. By this time, so much had changed in their lives that their present felt transformed. Boston: Ilya’s niece, Anita, and Iro, Marleau, and Svetlana; the Pike in Boston; Pike only with the twins.

He was grateful for this life, even the bumpy parts. Seven years ago, at the cottage, Ilya had told him he wanted to retire from the MHL. Shane had expected Ilya to ask them to stay in Boston, and frankly, he had been happy with that prospect—the chance for more cups, a city that loved them, a full and comfortable life. But the announcement of retirement had come as a shock. As with all unexpected changes, Shane had not reacted well. His first feeling had been abandonment. Ilya had been very careful to approach the topic, circling it during their first week, and one night after watching a movie, "I think... no... I want to retire soon," he had said

"What do you mean, retire? From what?"

"From MHL"

"Wait, wait, when we said you don't want to go to Ottawa, you meant you don't want to play anymore?"

"Yes"

"And what are you gonna do?"

"I want to coach teenagers."

"We are already doing it, the summer camp."

"I want to do it full time."

"So you want to leave to coach kids? Are you serious?"

"I am very serious, Shane."

"You don't care about the team? About the Cup? You're 26!"

"First, technically, we are reaching 40, Shane, and I said in three years."

"Your body is 26, in three years you will be 29. You have so many years, Hunter is still playing."

"I don't want to play until my body can't. I've had enough hockey—past life and this life."

"How can you say something like this?" Shane raised his voice

"Because it's me, I love hockey, and loved it more playing with you, but I think I love more what I can do outside of MHL."

"Why do you want to abandon me?" When he had heard his own words, he had been surprised by the hurt.

"I'm not, my love. We're married. We live together. I'll be there. I'll watch you out, and you come home to me."

"But you won't be there, on the ice or in the locker room. We won't play as husbands."

"We already are, Shane."

"But only our friends know!" Shane said, left the couch, and went upstairs. Ilya didn't follow, giving him space. Later, Ilya came to bed, cautious of leaving the distance between them, but Shane reached out and put his head on Ilya's chest. "I thought we would do it together, retire together," Shane said, tears in his voice.

"We will play together still— just not at the same time, my love,"

"I dreamt about it, Ilya, both of us in the Hall of Fame, our Jersey retired together. I was always supposed to be us, together at the top."

"We did it. We are doing it, Shane, and I want to do it off the ice, off the MHL: us, bigger."

Shane held Ilya tighter. "I love you, but I'm not okay. I need time, it's a lot."

"Okay"

They were not fighting, but both were in cautious silence. Ilya had tried to explain that he wanted something else, something different, though still with hockey, while Shane had questioned if the summer camps weren't enough. He had tried to come up with new plans to convince Ilya to do both or to wait until retirement. They had had a difficult end to the summer and had decided they needed help, felt stuck in translation, so they had gone to couples therapy with Dr. Haake, referred by Shane’s therapist, Dr. Ang.

"I told him I'm not retiring tomorrow. I have to plan ahead. I want to retire in 2020; we'll have three seasons," Ilya said.

"And only two as out as husbands, two chances to win a cup if there aren't any injuries, roster problems, or better teams."

"You're both different people than you were at 18, or even five years ago. You can change and adapt your vision while keeping what's important. What's important for you in this plan, Shane?"

"Being married around our friends, being the best with my husband, and doing our Tea Time Program at Babel."

"And you, Ilya?"

"Being with him, married, surrounded by friends and family, being public, and doing more for communities."

"So it seems to me that you both agree on what's important. The last point you mentioned is about you as individuals. Shane, you want hockey for as many years as you can because it's important to you, and Ilya, you want hockey as a way to do something else. It's good that you've both developed individual goals and aspirations that overlap, but you also have to agree to let them be independent."

At the end of the seven sessions, they came closer, and Shane told him, "We can change things for the wedding and be out."

"Yes."

Shane contacted his mother to let her know that they wanted to get married in December during the Christmas break. "It would be very cold for a cottage wedding," he said.

"About that, we're going to do a destination wedding in Cabo."

When they told their friends, Rose called back four minutes later, already bookmarking a compound in Cabo. In this life, they had always had friends at the cottage every summer. It had always been a sacred place for their love, but not unique; they had memories in Boston, Martha’s Vineyard, and many cities from friends’ vacations or romantic getaways. Changing the plan and vision to do it elsewhere wasn't an abdication.

They let Rose and Yuna work their magic. They didn't want a complicated wedding—just one week with all the people they loved, good food, and an open bar. Ilya's only request was oxtail and top-quality vodka. Rose found the perfect luxury compound to privatize: 20 private bungalows and a central villa for the wedding.

Carter, Scott, and Cliff pooled money together for a charter flight from Boston to Cabo. Carter, his girlfriend, an actress who was also friends with Rose, Scott, and Kip, flew out with Anita, Iro, Damian, Katarina, Ana, Hayden, J.J. his girlfriend, Jackie, Da’Shaun, Rachel, the twins, Svetlana, Marleau, Carmy, his girlfriend, St-Simon, his wife and kids, Connor, Hammersmith, his wife and kids, Coach LeClaire, his wife, and Zahra. Rose and her parents came on a separate flight.

Ilya had done the impossible, making a trip to Toronto to hire Fabian, and also convincing Ryan—who had already been a coach at the camp—to come with Boodram, Hayes, and the players from the PWHL.

The wedding had been simple—as simple as a forty-person ceremony could be. With Jade and Ruby as flower girls and Ana carrying the rings. Rose conducted the ceremony, and this time, they had written their own vows. Ilya went first.

"Shane, you're the best thing that's happened in all my lives—yeah, plural. You made me brave. You made me believe I could be more, that I could do anything. You made me feel safe. You loved me with care, with passion, and sometimes with a kind of beautiful craziness only you have. You're the best teammate I've ever had. And I can say that in front of our friends and family… but I won't repeat it too often. Still, it's true, you're the best player in the league. Better than me. You made my heart larger, fuller. You gave me space to find myself, to be kind to myself. You didn't just change my life, you extended it. I've loved you since I was eighteen. And I'll love you until I'm a hundred because you made me stop smoking. And if I had to live it all again, I'd choose the same path every time. Because every time, I'd find you. And every time, I'd love you."

Shane took two deep breaths before starting: 

"Asshole, you had to make me cry before it's even my turn. I love you, Ilya. I love you so much that it overpowered my anxiety and my fear. I love you more than hockey, and I love you even without hockey. All I want is to spend the rest of my life waking up next to you when I'm not on the road, reminding you to drive under the speed limit in your stupid sports car. I love that I can talk to you about everything and anything. That I always find you, on the ice and off it. That your heart is so kind, so big. That you came into this life with so many reasons to be hard, but you never were. You always had that light in your eyes, and you let me in. You carved the most beautiful place on earth for me, a place in your heart."

They did not wait for Rose to tell them. They kissed, soft at first, then laughing through tears as the room filled with sobs and applause.

"Okay, okay, let's do it again. Fuck my makeup," Rose said. "By the power vested in me, you're now spouses again. Renewed."

The food had been an extraordinary buffet, Fabian’s performance had been otherworldly, and the rest of the five days with their friends had been everything they wanted.

The party had not yet ended — they could still hear it, a faint blur of music and voices through the bungalow walls. Fabian was still playing. They didn’t care.

By the time Ilya closed the door, Shane had four buttons off his shirt. He folded his shirt over the back of the chair — carefully, out of old habit — and reached for the cufflinks on the nightstand, the custom ones from Svetlana, the ones he’d spent ten frantic minutes searching for that afternoon.

“There,” he said, to no one in particular.

Ilya was still in his Tom Ford, tie slightly loosened, watching Shane from the door with that intense attention he sometimes had — the kind that looked like memorization, like he was fixing something against the possibility of forgetting.

“Come here,” Shane said.

Ilya crossed the room and kissed him. Slow and unhurried, the way they kissed when they had nowhere to be. Shane’s hands found his lapels and straightened something that didn’t need straightening.

“You made me cry,” Shane said against his mouth. “Before I even started.”

“Good.” Ilya kissed him again. “You were beautiful, crying.”

Shane pulled back enough to look at him properly. Ilya’s eyes were soft, darker than usual in the low light, something still moving through them from the evening. The ceremony, the vows, forty-five people watching them without looking away, made something move within.

“I want to see your face,” Shane said. “Tonight. I want — I want to see you.”

It wasn’t something he said often. Ilya understood immediately.

They undressed each other without urgency. Ilya’s hands were steady; Shane’s were less so, not from nerves but from something like excess, too much in him to contain in any one motion. The Tom Ford jacket joined Shane's on the chair. Ilya kissed him through most of it, his mouth at Shane’s throat, at the corner of his jaw, patient in a way that made Shane’s breath go uneven.

When Ilya lay him down and moved over him, Shane looked up and kept his eyes open.

“My husband,” Ilya said quietly. Not performing it. Stating a fact that had just been said out loud in front of everyone they loved, and would be said again soon in every language the internet ran on.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Still getting used to the public version.”

Ilya smiled — the small one, the one that had always been Shane’s. He kissed down Shane’s throat, took his time, and worked him open slowly with his fingers while Shane made noise into the pillow and reached for his hand. Ilya let him take it. Two fingers, then three, slow, Shane’s breath catching on each push of it.

“I’ve got you,” Ilya said.

“I know.”

When Ilya finally pushed inside him, Shane kept his eyes open. He watched Ilya’s face. The careful attention in it, the tenderness Ilya sometimes wore as it cost him something, and the slight furrow of concentration at the effort of going slow when he didn’t want to be.

“You can move,” Shane said.

“Not yet.”

After a couple of beats, Ilya moved in him anyway, deep and even, one hand splayed flat on Shane’s chest above his heart. Shane felt it everywhere. The fullness of it and the weight of Ilya above him were intoxicating. Forty-five people who had watched them stand in front of each other and say it out loud.

He came with Ilya’s name in his mouth, his hands gripping Ilya’s shoulders, and felt Ilya follow a few strokes later — his forehead dropping to Shane’s collarbone, his breath ragged and warm against Shane’s skin.

They lay still for a long time. Outside, Fabian kept playing.

“We should go back,” Shane said, without moving.

“In a while,” Ilya said.

“They’ll know.”

“Everyone already knows. We are married.”

Shane turned toward him, and they stayed like that. The party was still audible, neither of them moving to return to it, and married in a way that was finally, fully theirs to keep.

The vision for coming out had also changed. They thought about a post like last time, but this time it was on their own terms and their own date. They felt their love story was entangled with so many other lives that they’d touched that it should be different. Anita came up with the perfect idea: "Hollonov love, story told by their loved ones." She pitched the idea to her friend at Out Magazine, and they jumped on it.

If Shane and Ilya were worried about leaks, they were reassured, as the magazine treated the information like Watergate; only the head editor and the journalist could discuss it. They were more anxious about the story being stolen by TMZ and sapping the potential for a massive sellout buzz.

The magazine was out on January 7th 2018, at 8 a.m.; by 8:10, notifications were piling in. The Boston Bear was aware and published a statement at the same time to support them.

Out Magazine · Issue 456

What Was Always There: The Long, Private Life of Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander

By Jay Cuervo

 

There are photographs that arrive late to their own history. In one, taken on a washed-out afternoon along the Ligurian coast, Shane Hollander is turned slightly away from the camera, his expression caught somewhere between distraction and amusement. Behind him, the sea is almost colorless in the heat. Ilya Rozanov stands close—closer than teammates might, though nothing in the frame insists upon explanation. The image was taken in the summer of 2014, though it would not be shared publicly until much later, when its meaning had already long since settled into fact.

By then, nearly everyone who mattered had known.

Inside the Boston Bears organization, their relationship was not so much revealed slowly uncovered over time. The general manager knew. The coaching staff knew. What is striking, in retrospect, is not that it was concealed, but that it never quite became a subject.

“They were not a secret,” Coach LeClaire says, “They were private,—that was the agreement.”

The agreement, if it can be called that, seems to have begun without formal articulation. At Harvard University, Hollander's closest friend, Iro Hiragami, does not recalls a confession, “I always knew him with Ilya as Ilya's boyfriend and then husband.”

Svetlana Vetrova—who had known Rozanov since childhood, and whose father’s legacy in Boston hockey made the city feel like home to both of them, noted “'Shane and Ilya have the greatest love story that I know of. When they are in a room, you can see it. Maybe people in hockey, in public — they just choose not to.'" she says.

By 2010, they were living together, an arrangement of note to those around them. Cliff Marleau remembers the absence of friction more than any particular moment of realization. “There wasn’t a meeting about it,” he says. “No speech. It was just there, we are together, and everything clicked, and you just like, oh, of course they are.”
Erick Heennsy, the owner of the Boston Bears, reflecting on those years, “We had two generational talents,” he says. “That’s rare enough. And two who wanted to stay on the same team, in our city, who won us the Cup,.You must be sure we will never let them go of our own will. We are Boston, and it is an open city. It mattered that we acted like it.”

Outside the arena, their lives extended in directions that seemed almost deliberately modest. A coffee shop investment, co-owned with Zahra Tchernovanova and Anita Vaughn, became one of the few places where they could move without the distortions of recognition.

“They liked the early hours,” Tchernovanova says. “Mostly Shane. Ilya liked happy hour and talking to people.”

To assemble a coherent account of their relationship now requires a certain discipline of listening—an ability to register not just what is said, but how carefully it is said. Author National Book Prize winner Anita Vaughn, sister of the Admiral's Carter Vaughn, who has gathered recollections from those in their orbit, describes the process as one of arrangement. “No one person has the whole story,” she says. “This is their story, and we are part of it, and they are part of us.”

From actress Rose Landry come images of summer vacations, long phone calls with Shane, and organizing travel for those busy millennial schedules. Former Montreal players J.J. Boizeau and Hayden Pike recall they were first surprised by the idea, but after, they never knew them otherwise, "It was always heart-eyes Ilya looking at Shane."

They had a small civil ceremony in March 2017 after the passing of Rozanov's father. Three months later, the public landscape shifted. When Scott Hunter kissed his partner on the Stanley Cup stage, the moment was received as unprecedented—an opening where none had existed before. Yet for Rozanov and Hollander, and for those who had known them, it registered differently: not as a beginning, but as an echo.

Hunter recalls the message he received afterward. “They told me I wasn’t the first,” he says. “Not in a way that took anything away. Just… that there had been something before. That it was possible to live like that.”

What remains, in speaking to those closest to them, is less a sense of revelation than of continuity.

For Hollander’s parents, Yuna Hollander and David Hollander, the relationship introduced no rupture into the narrative of their son’s life. In December of 2017, they had a bigger celebration in Cabo. The ceremony was small, its details held within the same perimeter that had long defined their lives together. The photographs from that day—now released alongside earlier images from Italy, their cottage near Ottawa, their house in Martha's Vineyard, and Moscow, show memories of them spanning from 2009 to 2017.

Perhaps that is why the photographs feel the way they do—less like artifacts than like extensions. In them, nothing is being announced. Nothing is being hidden. The frame holds, simply, what was already there: two lives, aligned early.

At 9 a.m., they were summoned by Crowell for a Skype meeting. The meeting went very differently from last time; there was nothing he could do or hold against them. Their team knew, the owner knew, the coach knew, and they were married before Hunter. Crowell didn't linger long for politeness

"Gentlemen, one thing I cannot stand is surprise, especially in my league, but it seems lately everyone has some surprise announcement to make and we are the last to know."

"It was not a surprise for our team," Shane said

"I don't know how Boston deals with distraction, but I'm sure going to have a conversation with the GM," Crowell had and continued, "If I understand, this thing" he gestured between them on the screen "has been going since your rookie season, so why's it gotta be loud? You had it good and quiet before."

"Because we wanna come to the ice as we are. And it wasn't a secret, we were private," Ilya said

Crowell tried another angle. "Ilya, I'm surprised about Russia. Let me ask.."

"I'm a U.S. citizen since June, I guess I forgot to update my MHL file," Ilya said with a smile.

And Crowell’s face went blank. There was nothing he could do:

"Well, I hope you can see the possible consequence of it."

"Winning more Cups, as husbands," Shane said.

"I think we are done here."

"Yes, sir," Ilya said.

In the afternoon, the MHL issued a very vague statement on supporting all their players.

After Shane had come on board with Ilya's early retirement, and despite the grief and the vision he had held of playing ten more years with his husband, he had been Ilya’s rock and motivator when Ilya had enrolled in an online program at UMass Boston in Sport and Education. He had worked through revision plans with him, had turned road games on buses and flights into study sessions, and had quizzed Ilya before exams. Anita and Iro sent him tips on how to read 100 pages a week and skim academic articles. Shane had sat beside him while he had pulled all-nighters to submit papers at 11:59 p.m. Converting Ilya to color-coded highlighting, sticky notes, and Excel had been a new high for Shane. The final impetus for Ilya's success in all his B.A. exams came from Anya's heartfelt support while Shane was away on the road, as they diligently maintained a close relationship with Harris through Irina's foundation. Anya became part of their family early in 2021, when Ilya naively asked whether Harris knew of any dogs in need of adoption. 

Of course, many reactions were homophobic, racist, xenophobic, or a mix of the three on the ice. Look at the MHL awards and All-Star games, and even some silent judgment of a minority of players in the locker room still cut through them, but it was their city, so if someone could not take it, they would have to find another team. But unlike in their first timeline, because their public persona extended beyond hockey, the comments from the hockey bubble didn’t overpower the broader cultural conversation. The Hollonov warriors on Reddit and Twitter had their day of vindication. Even for Ilya, it was different. In the first timeline, the video and outing had led to a smear campaign in Russia. This time, there were public statements about the corruption of North America, but something else happened: the press relayed that everywhere in Moscow and other big cities, the number 81 was tagged on walls, and young people took to wearing the number—without his name—as a sign of support, without needing to say his name.

It spread so widely that the government began punishing people. No bar or venue could display 81, according to the propaganda, so people started wearing increasingly complex mathematical formulas that yielded 81. Full subreddits were created dedicated to algebra, with the number shown in other scripts, and even a website that could generate algebraic expressions.

To his surprise, the initiative Ilya supported had not been dismantled. One assembly member tried, but public opposition in poorer areas made officials prefer silence and ignorance. Ilya received a call from the Russian embassy, letting him know that, as a U.S. citizen, if he went to Russia and kept quiet, he would not be bothered.

Surprisingly, Ilya did not receive any insulting messages from his brother. The last time they had heard from him, Katarina had said he had moved to Mexico and was working as head of training for a private security company serving wealthy families afraid of kidnapping. He seemed to have stopped drinking and using drugs and had called every week for an hour, not to talk to her, but to their daughter.

"Ilya, we've gotta leave in 30 minutes," Shane said. He was already dressed, sending a quick email to the GM of the Boston PWHL team, since Ilya and he were now majority owners with 51% of the shares. He locked his phone screen, which showed a picture of him and Ilya kissing after the 2019 Stanley Cup. ESPN had titled it 'The First Husbands of Hockey.' It was their last cup together before Ilya’s final season. Ilya retired in May 2020, under a 20-minute standing ovation as his jersey was raised at TD Garden; a year later, his number would be retired. Shane cried before Ilya’s last game, and after—at least it was at TD Garden, after a fourth-round playoff run that ended with their elimination by Philadelphia. All the Philadelphia players—J.J. first—hugged Ilya when the time for handshakes came at the end of the game.

Before leaving, Ilya had spent a year investing all his time in Luca Haas. He made sure Boston drafted him first overall in 2018, and during Luca's time in the AHL, Ilya offered private sessions. Luca became part of their household as part of Ilya's secret plan. Luca was ready to enter the regular roster in October 2019 and have one season with Ilya, but he was truly Shane’s rookie and right winger.

Shane had stepped up as captain after Ilya left. The first year without Ilya was difficult, the reality of losing his best friend, his person on and off the ice. Shane felt like they were back to living apart, even if it wasn’t the same. Everyone knew he was married; his husband was at home, but not sharing this part of his life with Ilya had been a change.

At first, he didn’t know what kind of captain he wanted to be—not the one he had been in Montreal in the previous timeline. Those teammates had known him for years, but a different version of him: one with memories of Montreal, one who had always been more open, one who had always had Ilya and a life outside of hockey, one who hadn’t felt the need to be perfect. They had known his life; he’d been funny, open, sometimes bitchy with them. But Ilya had been the extrovert—the roaring force who made speeches that galvanized them, who told them “I love you” after every game. He had also been a shield for Shane, letting him stay laser-focused without needing to be perfectly composed in the locker room.

For the first three months, Shane experimented, but by midseason he found his voice and his style: one-on-one meetings at a coffee shop when he needed to go over something with a teammate; a quick “good game” and a bump; speeches with fewer “fucks” than Ilya’s, but still filled with Shane’s dry humor; and a new tradition of bookmarks with quotes from books that fit the mood.

Shane and Ilya still coached together at the Game Changer Camp, and Shane spent more time at the Babel coffee shop with the Tea Time program he ran with Iro, where teens came to talk with the author about the history of queer and trans people of color. His favorite guests were two 80-year-old Chinese lesbian women, together since they were 18 and married in 2016.

Still, sometimes he felt alone, and he had to reconcile himself to the fact that, after ten years of going to the rink together, Ilya wasn’t there. No more chit-chat on the way to the rink, no more playlist debates, no more silent conversations—exchanging glances in the locker room, soft touches.

He had to learn the difference: coming home from a game, the rink, or an away trip, and talking about what had happened to catch Ilya up. And also learning about Ilya’s life outside of him—the colleagues they didn’t share, the new teammates Ilya would only know from parties or by looking at the roster.

Time travel had given Shane the chance to change things and to play many more years of hockey. Now, at 33, he felt he still had more to give—but wondered if he could, like Ilya, walk away from the ice.

Now, four years later, it was really his locker room, his team. When Ilya came to watch games at home and stepped into the locker room, he could feel it.

But there was another kiss when, in 2023, Shane won his first Stanley Cup as captain of the Boston Bears—the first with Luca.

After the win, the Cup was in their living room; it had arrived an hour before Shane did, in the custody of Hammersmith, who had handed it over with the gravity of a man who understood exactly what he was delivering and to whom. Ilya had met him at the door in sweatpants and nothing else, signed for it as though it were a package, and set it on the coffee table.

He had watched every game of the final round, but the final night had been different. That night, Ilya had stood in the TD Garden and watched his husband receive the Cup from the commissioner’s hands, and the sound that had left his own mouth had surprised him. Not a shout. Just a breath. Something long held, finally released.

Shane came through the door still damp from the locker room shower, in a team t-shirt, carrying the particular look he got after a win — lose and electric, the adrenaline still moving under his skin. He stopped when he saw Ilya.

“Is it here?” Shane said.

“Hammersmith just brought it,” Ilya said.

Shane set his bag down. Ilya crossed the room in two strides and kissed him before he finished the motion — both hands in Shane’s hair, no patience in it. Shane made a low sound against his mouth and grabbed the back of his neck.

“The Cup is in the living room,” Shane said, slightly breathless.

“I know. I put it there.”

“In sweatpants?”

“I also signed for it. Very official.” Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him. His expression was something Shane could only rarely read — Ilya fully undone, the composure laid flat, everything underneath it visible. “Shane.”

“Yeah.”

“My captain.”

Said plainly, without performance, and Shane felt it move through him like a current. He reached for Ilya and pulled him forward.

They didn’t make it far. The couch. Shane, on his hands and knees with the Cup in his eyeline, Ilya behind him, taking him apart with his fingers in long, slow strokes that were deliberate to the point of cruelty.

“Ilya.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want you inside me. Now. Come on.”

Ilya withdrew his fingers and pushed inside him in one long, slow stroke, and Shane gripped the arm of the couch and lost the word he’d been about to say. Ilya let him adjust for exactly as long as he needed, and then he started to move — hard, steady, one hand gripping Shane’s hip.

“You were so good,” Ilya said, low. “All season. The whole playoffs. I watched you become it, Shane. Everything.” He thrust forward and paused. “All of it.”

Shane pressed back against him, and Ilya understood, picked up the rhythm again, harder. Shane looked at the Cup. He’d already held it that night on the ice, in front of thousands, on live television, but this was what it felt like to have won. Ilya’s hand coming around to wrap around his cock, Ilya’s voice breaking at its edges, Ilya entirely undone by something that was Shane’s.

“I’ve got you,” Ilya said. Same as always.

“Yeah,” Shane managed.

“Come for me.” A stroke in time. “Captain.”

Shane came with his forehead pressed to the cushion, Ilya following a few beats after with a sharp exhale, his grip tightening.

They lay tangled on the couch for a long time. The Cup sat where Ilya had placed it, catching the light.

“Two days,” Shane said eventually.

Ilya glanced at him. “What?”

“I want it here for two days.”

“The Cup?”

“The Cup.” Shane met his eye. “And you.”

Ilya looked at the trophy, then back at him. The small smile.

“Done,” he said.

This night stood among the greatest celebrations of the Stanley Cup that Shane had ever had, among all the Cups he had won and all the celebrations he had known, matched only by the time they fucked in front of the Cup for two days in 2014. A week later, Shane received the Key to the City from Mayor Yu, who gave a speech that to this day his mom knew by heart and made a print copy of:

“As Boston’s first Asian American mayor and as a woman, it means so much to see this city embrace your leadership. You led your team to victory as an Asian Canadian player, one of the few to reach such heights in the MHL. You came to Boston at 18, studied at Harvard, and built lasting friendships here. You became part of a community that includes remarkable voices like National Book Prize winner Anita Vaughn. Alongside your husband, former Boston Bears' captain Ilya Rozanov, you have shown what leadership, partnership, and commitment to this city truly look like.

Today, you continue to give back. As an owner of the Boston team in the PWHL, you have helped shape the future of the game. Through Babel, a Black-women-owned business, you have created a cultural home in Boston, a place to gather, read, share tea, and build community. Its weekly youth program celebrates the stories of queer and trans people of color, creating space, visibility, and joy.

That same spirit lives in the Irina Foundation and its Game Changer Summer Camp, reflecting your belief that sport and community can uplift, include, and inspire the next generation.

Tonight, my message is: whoever you are, know that you are welcome in Boston. Look at Shane Hollander and see what this city represents. Boston is not an ivory tower; it is a community. A city that grows stronger because people like you push it forward. Through welcoming and inclusion, we remain the best because we are Boston.

You came here for sport. You loved sport. You excelled in it. And in doing so, you gave something back that goes far beyond the game.

Shane Hollander, accept the Key to the City. You already hold the heart of a Bostonian, and now you are part of our legacy. We are Boston.”

If this life has taught them anything, it's that gaining something new often requires letting go of other things, but that doesn't mean those things disappear. Troy Barrett joined Ottawa, and with the addition of other players and some smart choices from Wiebe, the things that were meant to happen did happen. Troy came out with Harris. Shane and Ilya followed their love story via Boodram and Hayes during Game Changer Camp. In April 2024, Ottawa was among the top contenders for the Stanley Cup.

Shane and Ilya took the elevator to the ballroom, running ten minutes late because Ilya’s curls wouldn't cooperate. They found their table: his parents, Svetlana, Cliff, and Zahra.

“Are you stressed?” David asked Ilya.

“Russians don’t get stressed,” Zahra, Svetlana, and Ilya said in concert.

The ceremony was going on—speeches, music, and awards. At another table, well-known athletes: tennis, soccer, and golf. When Ilya’s award finally came, the presenter was Boston Mayor Danielle Yu.

Good evening.

I am the Mayor of the great city of Boston, and today it's my honor to deliver this award to a Bostonian. Tonight, we honor a career that, at first glance, seems to belong entirely to the mythology of sport—and yet, upon closer attention, extends far beyond it.

When Ilya Rozanov was selected first overall in 2010, he entered professional hockey not simply as a prodigious talent but as a player who would come to redefine the scope of his position and perhaps the expectations placed upon it. Over the next decade, with the Boston Bears, he would anchor a generation—four Stanley Cups, a style of play at once exacting and instinctive, and a presence that seemed to reorder the game around him. He made Boston proud.

But careers, even extraordinary ones, are rarely singular in their meaning.

In 2020, Ilya Rozanov chose to retire—not compelled by injury nor decline, but by decision. By then, he had already begun the work that would come to define his second life: completing a degree in education and turning his attention toward structures that exist outside the arena, but are no less consequential.

In Boston, in partnership with City Hall, he helped establish the Loon Team: a program for young people on juvenile probation, built not only around hockey, but around care—coaches working alongside psychologists and social workers, with boys and girls given equal space on the ice.

Last year, the boys won the Massachusetts under-14 championship. This year, the girls matched them.

When Ilya started this program, I came to see my administration in it. I had just been elected the mayor of Boston, and I thought, yes—let’s try something new. Ilya was clear: it was not enough to make hockey inclusive; we had to make sure that the youth who needed it most did not disappear because of a lack of resources or prejudice. So we started early. It began at thirteen; now the Loon Team has eight levels, from ages seven to fifteen. It is a program supported by the city, but largely funded by Ilya and his husband, the Captain of the Boston Bears, Shane Hollander. Other cities now want to implement it with different sports. This is what Boston is about.

This award recognizes Ilya Rozanov as the first hockey player to receive this honor—but more than that, it acknowledges a broader idea: that sport, at its highest level, is not only the site of individual achievement, but a point of departure.

Professional sport is visible. It is celebrated. But it is made possible, sustained, in fact, by something larger: amateur leagues, youth programs, volunteers, families, and fans. Ilya Rozanov understood that. And he chose to return to it. Tonight, we honor not only what he achieved on the ice—but what he has made possible beyond it. Before Ilya Rozanov joins us on stage, we would like to share a short video message from one of the young people whose life he has impacted through the Loon Team program.

“You knew about this?” Ilya asked Shane.

“Maybe… hush, hush,” Shane said.

The video began. A teenage boy with dark hair, wearing a sweat The Loon team and an orthodx cross on his neck, sat slightly off-center.

My name is Mikhail Ivitch. I’m 18. I’m from Brockton. When I first got sent to the Loon Team, I thought it was a joke. Like… another thing rich people do so they can feel good about kids like me. Broken family, bad part of the city, in and out of juvie..you know the whole story. I didn’t trust it. I didn’t trust them. I definitely didn’t trust him. But I stayed. Two years. And Ilya… he saw me. Like, really saw me. Which was annoying at first, honestly. I used to draw, but I’d hide it. Where I’m from, you don’t do that. You learn early that feelings are for girls, or for gay people, and if you’re not that, then all you get is anger and rage. That’s what you’re allowed. But he didn’t buy that.

He kept pushing me, calling my bullshit when I tried to act tough, telling me he was proud when I did something right, and telling me straight up when I was being a little shit. He never gave up on me. He taught me how to be a good teammate, a good friend..a better person, I guess. I know he’s getting some big award tonight. And yeah, he deserves it. But I just want people to know...what he gave us… it’s bigger than that. He gave us a chance, for me, it was the first chance I was given.

One week ago, I got my acceptance letter to Berkeley, not even to play hockey, to do art. Because he made me believe that my portfolio was something worth doing and sending. So… thank you Coach Ilya.

You’re the brother I wish I had growing up. And… I hope, maybe, now, you can be my brother.

The light came back on as the screen faded. Mayor Yu continued, "Please join me in honoring not only a remarkable career but also a life that continues to broaden the meaning of sport, as we welcome him on stage, the first hockey player to receive the Career Laureus Awards, Ilya Rozanov."


Tears rolled down Shane’s cheek as he watched Ilya walk onto the stage after he kissed him—his husband, larger than life, larger than hockey. His heart had always been so big, always wanting to find a place to give it all. He was about to take a picture of Ilya walking on the stage when an email notification popped up.

Your adoption application has been approved by the Massachusetts Department of Children and Families.

Fin.
💕

Edit 05/30/26 💜💜 New fic: Past Perfect; this time Shane travels back in time alone.

Chapter End Notes

✨️✨️Dear Gentle Readers

I really want to thank everyone who stuck with it over these past 11 weeks. Honestly, posting this as a WIP kept me going more than I expected. What started as “active procrastination” (avoiding writing the academic book I need for tenure review 🙃) ended up reminding me of what brought me to grad school years ago to be a scholar. Beyond peer reviewers, editors, and rejections, writing can actually be fun. I loved all your comments. I’ve added one extra chapter with all the references. I don't know yet about a sequel. I have another idea for Hollanov (❓️ What trope should I try next?), but subscribe... we never know.

Huge thanks as well to this HR Fanfic Subreddit and the GC library Discord, where I found my beta readers; you made this so much better. 💜
Alidesidero, who wrote most of the smut in this fic and beta-read
Kwiewi, who beta-read and edited chapters 2 to 5
Witwandwolfbird, who beta-read and edited chapters 6 to 10
EvenCoal, who, in March, polished and proofread chapters 1 to 6

I know the fandom’s been kind of in drama mode lately, but honestly, aside from some comments about “wokeness” (fair, I’m guilty 😈), I really enjoyed the interaction here. Getting many comments on each chapter meant a lot and made the whole thing way more rewarding.

That said… I am on my Cardi B energy. When they go low, I go to hell.: So, for the loser, you sent me a long ass comment about me needing to be nuanced on chapter 4 about Canada colonialism x Indigenous people and that my fic had "promising premise let down by author insert and bad writing", what about (1) you get off my dick and (2)stop recommending books written by authors who "wanted to debunk the idea that America was stolen." Land back, all empires must fall. 'One hero, the people.'

 
💜💜 New fics in the series Counting Summers, a thriller with many cliffhangers, more like a TV show, waiting for you there
and Public Record where Shane is Mayor of Boston and they met later in life (10 years after the tuna melt)
Going Broke and Broken the Montreal Voyageurs filed for bankupcy

Chapter 11: Readings

Chapter by Rebo758

⚠️Bonus chapter after this one

Edit 05/30/26 💜💜 New fic: Past Perfect; this time Shane travels back in time alone.

💕 Reading suggested by reader in comments section 

Academic Books 

• Aliyyah Abdur-Rahman. Against the Closet: Black Political Longing and the Erotics of Race
• Eric Anderson. In the Game: Gay Athletes and the Cult of Masculinity
• Adele Marie Barker (ed.). Consuming Russia: Popular Culture, Sex, and Society since Gorbachev
• T. Domenici and R. C. Lesser (eds.). Disorienting Sexuality: Psychoanalytic Reappraisals of Sexual Identities
• Jacques Derrida. The Politics of Friendship
• David L. Eng and Shinhee Han. Racial Melancholia, Racial Dissociation: On the Social and Psychic Lives of Asian Americans
• bell hooks. All About Love 
• Todd Gordon and Jeffrey R. Webber. Blood of Extraction: Canadian Imperialism in Latin America
• Tomas Matza. Shock Therapy: Psychology, Precarity, and Well-Being in Postsocialist Russia
• Robyn Maynard. Policing Black Lives, Revised and Expanded Edition: State Violence in Canada from Slavery to the Present
• Jasbir K. Puar. Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times
• Amia Srinivasan. The Right to Sex
• Tamara Starblanket. Suffer the Little Children: Genocide, Indigenous Nations, and the Canadian State
• Denise Tse-Shang Tang. Everyday Erotics: Older Chinese Women and Same-Sex Desire 
• Ian Wellard. Sport, Masculinities and the Body

Academic Articles

• Eric Anderson. “Openly gay athletes: Contesting hegemonic masculinity in a homophobic environment.” Gender & Society 16.6 (2002): 860–877.
• Naoki Chiba, Osamu Ebihara, and Shinji Morino. “Globalization, naturalization and identity: The case of borderless elite athletes in Japan.” International Review for the Sociology of Sport 36.2 (2001): 203–221.
• B. Clayton and J. Harris. “Footballers’ wives: The role of the soccer player’s partner in the construction of idealized masculinity.” Soccer & Society 5.3: 317–335.
• Robert William Connell. “A very straight gay: Masculinity, homosexual experience, and the dynamics of gender.” American Sociological Review (1992): 735–751.
• Silvia Federici. “Social Reproduction Theory.” Radical Philosophy 2(4): 55–57.
• Alain Gresh. “The Free Officers and the Comrades: The Sudanese Communist Party and Nimeiri Face-to-Face, 1969–1971.” International Journal of Middle East Studies 21.3 (1989): 393–409.
• Cathy Humphreys and Ravi K. Thiara. “Neither justice nor protection: women’s experiences of post-separation violence.” Journal of Social Welfare and Family Law 25.3 (2003): 195–214.
• Gia Lam, Sandra Collins, and Gina Wong. “Alone in Paradise: Exploring the Intersections of Gender, Ethnicity, Single Motherhood, Social Class, and Immigration.” Canadian Journal of Counselling and Psychotherapy 56(1): 70–107.
• Hilary Lynd and Loyd Thom. “Histories of Color: Blackness and Africanness in the Soviet Union.” Slavic Review 81.2 (2022): 394–417.
• Bette McKenzie. “Becoming More Than ‘Hockey’s Daughter’ and ‘Football’s Wife’.” Inside Sports (1999): 225.
• S. M. Ortiz. “The ethnographic process of gender management: Doing the ‘right’ masculinity with wives of professional athletes.” Qualitative Inquiry 11.2: 265–290.

Novels

• Brit Bennett. The Vanishing Half 
• Ava Homa. Daughters of Smoke and Fire
• Haruki Murakami. Kafka on the Shore
• Julie Otsuka. The Buddha in the Attic
• Mikhail Shishkin. The Light and the Dark
• Bryan Washington. Memorial

Essays

• Gord Hill. The 500 Years of Resistance Comic Book 💕
• Gary Land. AI – The Yverson Book
• Julia Lee. Biting the Hand: Growing Up Asian in Black and White America
• Loretta Ross and Rickie Solinger. Reproductive Justice: An Introduction
• Ma-Nee Chacaby, with Mary Louisa Plummer. A Two-Spirit Journey: The Autobiography of a Lesbian Ojibwa-Cree Elder 
• Miss Major Griffin-Gracy and Toshio Meronek. Miss Major Speaks: Conversations with a Black Trans Revolutionary 
•  

Media/ Itw

• Emma Brockes. “Toni Morrison: ‘I want to feel what I feel. Even if it’s not happiness.’” The Guardian: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2012/apr/13/toni-morrison-home-son-love
• Toni Morrison. Interview: Toni Morrison on Trauma, Survival, and Finding Meaning, The Connecticut Forum, May 4, 2001
• Shelby Heinrich. “Women Are Sharing the Worst Weaponized Incompetence They’ve Seen From Their Male Partners.” BuzzFeed

Poetry

• Nayyirah Waheed. Salt

film

• Rohan Kanawade. Cactus Pears

Chapter 12: Bonus: Jin

Chapter by Rebo758

Chapter Summary

Extra scene: The new addition to the Boston Bears wants Ilya and doesn't seem particularly concerned that Shane is his husband.
Unfortunately, Shane has a problem of his own: a crush on the ridiculously hot Korean-American, Jin

Chapter Notes

Takes place after the end of Chapter 9, somewhere in 2018 (event told in Chapter 10)

January 2018

"Shane, don't change the subject," Ilya said.

Was he changing the subject? Shane knew he was, yes, maybe a little, but that didn't mean he wasn't right.

"I am not changing the subject. You want to talk about people attracted to me, but Newman is off-limits?"

Shane was now sitting at the other end of the sofa. The snowstorm was still going at full strength outside. It was the second day they had been locked inside, all games canceled. Maybe Shane could have talked about Newman earlier, three months earlier.

Jack Newman had been traded to the Boston Bears four months ago to join the third line as right wing. He was fast—not as fast as Lucas—and, among other things, he was very attractive. After months around him, it had become clear that he was very attracted to Ilya and seemed not to give a single fuck that Shane and Ilya were together.

When he had been traded, Shane had mostly been concerned with figuring out whether Newman could be trusted with the open secret of his and Ilya's relationship. That problem had been replaced pretty quickly by the realization that Newman was far from a homophobic concern.

Quite the opposite. He was very openly gay on the team. The first time he came to a team party, he brought his two best friends and introduced one of them as his ex.

Learning that Shane and Ilya were together, then coming to their house and seeing they were in a very serious, long-term, monogamous relationship, had not stopped him.

It would have been easier if he had been aggressively flirtatious, but he wasn't. He was tasteful. Like a hunter. Just close enough. A compliment here and there. Always right on the border, always maintaining plausible deniability. The team had clearly adopted him, and Shane was frustrated that he was jealous of a twenty-four-year-old when he himself felt, at least in his own brain, closer to forty, and had been with Ilya for nearly two decades by now.

But he was annoyed by fucking Jack Newman all the same.

Over time, Shane started noticing that Newman always found reasons to talk to Ilya. At first it had been hockey, which made sense. Ilya was the captain, one of the best players in the league, and Newman was twenty-four and trying to establish himself.

But after a while, the conversations became less about hockey and more about whatever interested Ilya. Newman read books because Ilya mentioned them once. He asked questions about Russia that had nothing to do with politics or stereotypes. One afternoon after practice, Shane walked past the players' lounge and found Newman asking Ilya about a Russian novel he had never managed to get through, despite hearing about it for years.

Only the accumulation of hundreds of small moments. A conversation that lasted longer than necessary. A look that lingered a little too long. The man seemed happiest when Ilya was paying attention to him.

Two months ago, Shane had finally had enough.

"I don't want you to be alone with him. Ever." Shane had said, his head resting on Ilya's chest.

"You don't trust me."

"I do, but it's him. He knew we were together and kept doing it right in front of my face. I don't care if you think I'm insecure. I don't want you to be alone with him, to sit next to him on a plane, ever, or to text him. I don't care."

"Okay," Ilya had said.

He knew that Newman was into him. Yes, it was very ego-boosting, but he wasn't interested at all, and Shane's comfort was the most important thing.

Newman was a good addition to the team and was very professional, but yes, it was kind of shitty to try, not very subtly, to go after your teammate's long-term partner. Shane was an alternate captain and the future captain, as Ilya was on his way out. It was messy behavior. Plus, Ilya loved when Shane was possessive; the tighter the leash, the better.

"Thank you," Shane had said, happy that they were in a place in their relationship where he didn't have to tiptoe around his feelings or what he needed from Ilya. He was also glad he could simply ask for it, even if they weren't publicly out.

"That was two months ago, Shane, and I did what you asked. I kept my distance, and it wasn't the same. Why don't you want to admit it?" Ilya said.

"What do you want me to admit? Am I on trial?" Shane asked, because it felt like it, and somehow he felt like he deserved it too.

"It's not a trial. Just say that you're attracted to Jin," Ilya said.

"I've met plenty of attractive men. I have eyes."

"I know. Me too, I have eyes. But you know it wasn't that kind of attraction," Ilya said.

Shane couldn't argue with that because it was the truth.

Shane had met Jin at one of Iro's house parties, at the home he shared with his husband. Everyone from their close circle in Boston had been there, along with many of Iro's friends from the universities and Damian from the library.

Shane was standing in the kitchen while Ilya was with Zahra and a group of Russian friends in the living room. Shane had been looking for white wine, a rare treat during the season, though over the years he had become a little more relaxed about his diet. Years of therapy had also softened some of his need for control.

Jin entered the kitchen. Shane immediately noticed how beautiful he was: tall, broad-shouldered, athletic. Shane had eyes. Yes, he had committed himself to waiting for Ilya, to his husband across two lives, but that commitment didn't suddenly make other men unattractive. Plenty of men were hot. He could admit that. He and Ilya often talked about who they found attractive and even watched porn together.

But this was different. There was a difference between generally thinking someone was attractive and whatever was happening now. This was the kind of attraction that reminded him of the showers in Toronto with Ilya. The kind that made him want Jin to want him. Want Jin to desire him. Want to taste his skin.

It must have been the wine, Shane thought. All of this could have been normal horniness, normal desire. It happened to other people, even when they were in relationships, especially long ones.

"Shane Hollande, right? I'm Jin, Iro's friend. We never got the chance to meet. I was traveling during Iro's wedding," Jin said.

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

"Yes, nice to meet you," Shane said. "You're a colleague of Iro's from Northeastern?"

"No. I'm an architect. My ex, Alex, was in grad school with him. He's in California now, but I'm still friends with Iro."

It wasn't as though Shane hadn't considered the possibility. Given that Jin was one of Iro's friends—and that ninety percent of Iro's social circle consisted of queer people—it wasn't exactly unlikely that such a polished, good-smelling, handsome man might be gay or bi.

He was the kind of man women always seemed comfortable around. The kind who never made weird comments. Still, standing that close to him and having confirmation did something to Shane.

They continued talking about architecture, Iro, and Korea, since Jin was Korean American and often traveled there. Then Ilya came to stand beside Shane. They weren't publicly out yet, but in spaces like Iro's parties, they didn't hide.

Ilya leaned over and pressed a kiss to Shane's cheek.

"They have grilled chicken. Do you want some?" Ilya asked.

"Oh, yes," Shane said.

Then he turned quickly toward Jin. "This is Jin, Iro's friend. He's an architect," Shane said, trying not to show how unsettled he felt.

"Nice to meet you, Ilya."

"Nice to meet you too. Big fan of the Bears, and of the Hollanov," Jin said.

Shane was tense next to Ilya, trying to train his eyes not to look at Jin's mouth, Adam's apple, arms, or fit body.

While Jin and Ilya talked animatedly, both sharing a passion for McLaren, another man joined them at some point.

"This is my husband, Keao."

"Hey," said the man, who looked like a younger version of Jason Momoa. He was wearing a sleeveless top that showed off the tattoos on his arms, the kind Shane had seen on New Zealand rugby players.

"Those tattoos are sick," Ilya said.

"Traditional Indigenous Hawaiian tattoos," Keao replied.

"You're an architect too?" Shane asked.

He didn't know why, but Jin having a hot boyfriend bothered him.

"Civil engineering. I make sure the big skyscrapers Jin designs stay standing. We work at the same firm," Keao said.

Ilya draped an arm around Shane.

"Working with your husband is the best."

"It is," Jin said, pressing a kiss to Keao's temple.

The party had been last week, and Shane thought he had done a pretty good job managing himself, even if his mind had drifted quickly back to Jin while he was alone in the shower the next day.

Of course, Ilya had noticed. Ilya noticed everything. It didn't bother him that Shane found a ridiculously hot man attractive. What bothered him was Shane's refusal to acknowledge it.

On the Uber ride home from the party, Ilya had said, "Jin is fucking hot."

And Shane had vaguely replied, "Oh yeah? You think?"

Ilya had known immediately.

There was no way his husband didn't have eyes. And there was certainly no way Shane's taste was so terrible that he couldn't recognize how attractive Jin was.

So Ilya started paying closer attention. He knew every expression Shane Hollander had: angry, jealous, confused, overwhelmed, horny, sad. And recently, he had learned a new one: Confused. But Ilya could not tell what exactly, but he could feel it: the way Shane grabbed him when they fuck three days ago, running after being let out of his head, chasing complete sex blackout, asking more "tell me you love me", "tell me i am yours", pushing Ilya to be pinned, to ravage him. Shane wanted more than usual to be fucked hard in front of the large mirror, over the kitchen counter. Kissing Ilya more, being clingy even, but Ilya could not complain; he loved it.

Shane was wrestling with himself because he had developed an attraction—or maybe a crush—on a very hot man. Ilya had no doubts about Shane's loyalty. Shane was the most loyal man he had ever known.

And because Jin didn't seem anything like Newman and maintained a respectful distance, Ilya knew he wasn't flirting with Shane, especially considering he had a very hot Hawaiian husband. So Ilya knew jealousy wasn't really the issue.

The novelty of it was. They had been stuck inside for three days because of the storm. There was nowhere to go and no one coming over, so Ilya returned to the subject as they sat on the sofa.

"Do you want us to talk about it in therapy?" Ilya asked.

They were still attending couples therapy to help Shane. Ilya also wanted to discuss leaving the MHL.

"No. No, why? It's not a big deal," Shane said.

"Okay. So why can't you just say he's hot and you're attracted to him?" Ilya asked.

"He's hot. Happy?"

"And?"

"And..." Shane began.

But he couldn't say the rest. It wasn't just that he was attracted to Jin to a degree he hadn't felt in years. Over the past week, he had been investigating the feeling that had been bothering him. Was it guilt because it felt like cheating? A little.But no. That wasn't it. Or at least not entirely. He knew he would never act on it. He could admire a handsome man from afar. There was something else. A small voice kept trying to tell him something, but he couldn't hear it clearly. He only knew it felt important and new, as though it belonged to a part of his brain he had never examined before. Everything had clicked two days earlier while he was talking to Iro.

Iro was cleaning up tagged photos of himself on Facebook at Babel, and they had been joking about all of Iro's exes. Shane had been looking through pictures of Iro with Marc, Kahlil, Antonio, Keanu, Elijah, Ren, Marc again, Sato, De'Andre, Jiho, Abou, Marc again, and so on.

And suddenly Shane understood where his mind had been going. He had spent days imagining Jin: pressed close to him, kissing him, touching him. Then he realized something. For the first time in either timeline, he had developed a strong attraction to an Asian man. To an Asian person. The realization hit him so hard that all desire vanished instantly, replaced by shame.

His face must have changed because Iro looked up from his phone.

"What? Too much of Marc?" Iro asked.

"You've never been with a white man," Shane said.

"Uh... is this about me or about Jin?"

"What? Why? What did he say?"

"Relax. Nothing. But I saw the way you were looking at him. No shame. He's ridiculously hot. Even Damian said he'd be a hall pass."

"Fuck, yes, he's hot. But it's more than that. It's the first time."

"The first time you've had a crush? It's not like you're cheating. And Jin is completely infatuated with his equally hot husband. You don't have a chance anyway. Safe to look."

"No. First time it's been this intense, yes. But... a man like him."

"Oh my God," Iro said.

Then he paused.

"Is this the first Asian guy you've ever been attracted to?"

Shane nodded.

"Okay, first, I am so offended that you never had a crush on me, because I am hot. But that's a discussion for another time," Iro said.

"It's serious."

"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.

"Fuck you."

"So, obviously, you love your husband. Amazing love story. Not counting that you said no to polyamory while you were in college. In the entire history of gay people, I've never seen anything like it. The question is why this realization is freaking you out so much," Iro said.

"Yeah, it's weird."

"You should talk to your therapist."

"In couples therapy?"

"No, your own therapist. Honestly, it feels like something you should unpack by yourself before bringing it into the couples therapy that's supposed to help you deal with Ilya leaving the MHL."

"This is embarrassing. You didn't need any of this," Shane said.

Iro leaned back.

"We're different, Shane. I grew up in Gardena. My first crush was Filipino. Then my mom's business partner's son. Then a couple of Latino guys, African Americans, plenty of Koreans and Japanese Americans. Wait, there was even a white Argentine."

"True citizen of the world."

"Look, Shane. What I'm saying is that you're the one bothered by this. 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."

Shane groaned.

"I hate this conversation."

"But it's a good conversation, because people love saying attraction is just preference, as if preference appears out of thin air. It doesn't. Attraction happens inside a society, not out of the blue," Iro said. "Most people never stop to ask where their tastes came from. Also, Jin is still ridiculously hot."

"He is extremely hot," Shane admitted.

Shane's session with his therapist was scheduled for the following week, and he had already prepared bullet points to discuss. But now, cornered by Ilya only two days after his realization, he felt like he couldn't avoid it anymore.

So he started again.

"And... it's more complicated."

"How?" Ilya asked.

"I don't want to sleep with him. I would never."

"I know," Ilya said.

"It's just... it's the first time that I have..."

"A crush? A sexual crush?"

"Whatever. It's the first time I've felt this way about an Asian man, and that's what's weird when I think about it. I don't know why. So I can't really talk about it yet because it makes me feel weird."

"Why?"

"Because it does, Ilya. In this life or the other one, I've never felt a strong attraction to an Asian man. Or even really noticed that I hadn't. That's kind of the problem."

Shane rubbed his face.

"I talked to Iro, and I think he's right. I need to figure out why."

"Why does that have anything to do with being with me?"

"It's not about you. I mean, yes, a little, because everything is somehow connected to you. But it's more about me. About how I see myself."

He sighed.

"So yes. That's why I didn't want to admit it. I'm sorry. I need to talk to my therapist first, and maybe after that we can talk about it in couples therapy if we need to."

Ilya was quiet for a moment.

"You know you're very hot, the most pretty man alive, right? And Jin is very hot. And there are a lot of very hot Asian men."

"Yes, I know. Which is even more reason to figure out why I had this epiphany at almost technically forty years old, plus existential crisis."

Ilya opened his arms. Shane immediately moved across the couch and settled against him, resting his head on Ilya's chest.

"Okay, my love. I love you."

"Love you too," Shane said.

"Whatever your therapist says, I remain very open to a foursome with Jin and his husband."

In Shane's mind flashed the image: a California bed, him being fucked by Jin, Ilya railing Keao, Ilya bending over to kiss Shane, saying, "You're taking it so well, my love", but he shook his head; he cannot sexual fantasize his way out of his existential identity crisis.

"Ilya, no," Shane said, hoping Ilya did not catch his dick going semi-hard, but he knew his husband always caught everything.

Chapter End Notes

A quick additional scene inspired by a surprisingly productive discussion in the comments of my other time-travel fic, Past Perfectwhere Shane travels back in time alone. If you're interested in the race/attraction side of this chapter, Chapter 2 has Shane discussing race (internalized racism), masculinity, and attraction in group therapy (plus a reading list).

Jealous Ilya and Jealous Shane are common fandom tags, but I wanted to explore what that looks like in a secure relationship after nearly twenty years together. Less angry stares and angry sex, more uncomfortable conversations on a couch. I also wanted to write about something that feels very normal to me: developing a crush, attraction, or fantasies about someone else while remaining deeply committed to a monogamous relationship, and being able to talk about it honestly with your partner.
(Though, given enough time, I do think these two could have talked themselves into a foursome.)

Works inspired by this one

Past Perfect by Rebo758