Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Mitty (Heated Rivalry), Wilson (Heated Rivalry), Berkes (Heated Rivalry), Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Connors (Heated Rivalry), Sebbin (Heated Rivalry), Patrice Drapeau, Gilbert Comeau, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Kohn (Heated Rivalry), Desjourneys (Heated Rivalry), Brad Hammersmith, Victor St. Simon, Ryan Carmichael

Additional Tags:

Established Relationship, Secret Relationship, Good Parents David Hollander/Yuna Hollander, Yuna Hollander Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Player Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Player Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Has an Eating Disorder, Healthy Relationships, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Protective Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Speaks Russian, Long One Shot, POV Third Person Omniscient, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Devotion, BAMF Ilya Rozanov, BAMF Shane Hollander, Angst and Drama, Fluff, Domestic Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Emotional Roller Coaster, Sneaking Around, Shane Hollander Gets Fed Up, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Supportive Ilya Rozanov, Good Parent Yuna Hollander, Raiders are iconic, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Bashing (Game Changers), Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov in Love, Established Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Fights Over Shane Hollander, Teammates Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, no beta we die like Irina Rozanov, Shane Hollander Leaves the Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros, Shane Hollander Can Fight, The Raiders Have Personalities, Eating Disorder Recovery, Found Family, Hayden Pike Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Revealed as Montreal Jane, David Hollander and Yuna Hollander Love Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-28 Completed: 2026-05-03 Words: 119,673 Chapters: 2/2

Better Days To Come

Summary

Refusing to let Ilya ruin his career by signing with Ottawa, Shane chooses to really give their relationship a try and moves to Boston to live with Ilya and become a Raider. What follows is enough public scrutiny and backlash from his team that it has him questioning if he made the right decision. Until moments with Ilya and the Raiders show him exactly why he chose correctly.

---

Hayden’s eyes flickered to Shane as he sat on the bench, chewing on the edge of his mouth guard.

“Don’t fucking look at him,” Ilya insisted as he bent down for the faceoff.

“Excuse me?” Hayden mumbled, eyes darting back to him.

“You heard me,” he retorted, his tone clipped. “He’s not your teammate anymore; he’s mine. If you think Marlow is a problem to your game, wait until you see what I will do to your team if you hurt anyone on mine again.”

Hayden scoffed, dipping his head as he tried to focus on the game. Something about Ilya’s words still rang through his head though, sounding so definitive that he didn’t want to risk seeing what he was actually referring to when he said that.

The puck dropped again, and Ilya stole it before he could comprehend how quickly it happened.

Chapter 1: Who We Were

Chapter Notes

Guuyys wtf is going on right now? I wrote this is four days and don't even remember half of it. But at least it's done!!!! (And so am I, lmao. I'll be sleeping until noon after this one.)

(Quick side note! I did write an additional 16k and slip that in, so if you're someone who is rereading then A) Omg, hi? Welcome back. And B) you're not crazy, I added new stuff!)

Ilya tipped his foot slightly, brushing it against Shane’s under the blankets they were covered under on the couch. Things had gotten a bit tense from the moment he suggested marrying Svetlana. Which, he would admit, hadn’t been his finest moment. It was an idea crafted by fear, mostly. A desperate attempt to find a way to realize his real dream, which was to be with Shane permanently, even if not publicly.

He knew from the moment Shane looked up, though, that it wouldn’t work. He hadn’t pushed it, since, he was too afraid to cause conflict when they were having such a nice few days together. It felt peaceful. He honestly didn’t know the last time he ever felt that. Or if he had at any point, truly.

Winning the cup brought excitement, sure. A rush of endorphins that could never be mimicked. But being with Shane brought him something different- contentment. He wasn’t ready or willing to give that up, not without it being ripped from him.

“I could move,” Ilya murmured hesitantly. “To Ottawa, I mean. My contract is about to end.”

Shane didn’t need to be reminded; he had pretty much everything about his hockey career memorized by now. From his stats on the ice to his personal achievements and awards outside of it. He also knew Ilya loved the Raiders and that Ottawa was, well, shitty. That was probably an understatement, actually.

“The Centaurs are the worst team in the league, Ilya,” he murmured back, shaking his head as he put his phone down in his lap. “You can’t sign with them.”

It would probably humiliate him publicly, if not destroy the momentum he had been building. It was practically a one-way trip to never winning the cup again. He couldn’t be the reason Ilya started losing games and let him resent him for it.

“I could make them good,” he defended. “I made the Raiders good.”

“You made the Raiders better,” Shane corrected. “They’re a great team consistently and you’re too good to spend your time training other players. You need a team that works for you, not the other way around.”

“Oh, what, like Metros?” Ilya grumbled, rolling his eyes. “I would be kicked out of the locker room before a single practice started.”

He sucked on the inside of his cheek. “Why don’t you just re-sign with the Raiders?” he wondered. “Didn’t they make you an offer? You could probably get them to raise the salary if you wanted, my mom knows a really good manager who could replace-”

“Is not about money,” he interjected, shaking his head. “I have money. I could retire this season and be set for life.”

Maybe he would have to cut back on some expenses, but he wouldn’t need to work ever again. He didn’t play for money; he played because he loved it. Because it made him feel alive and got his heart racing in a way no other experience seemed to manage.

“I’m not letting you ruin your career for me,” Shane insisted, resting his head against the side of he couch as he stared at him with soft eyes. “You’d hate me if I did.”

“I would not hate you,” he assured him firmly. “Could never.” Even if he broke his heart, whatever pieces of it were left would still belong to him.

He sighed, the gesture both comforting him and making his chest ache all at the same time. “Let’s just…go to bed,” he suggested. “We can decide that stuff later.”

Ilya nodded, a bit frustrated over the lack of a real answer but too tired to fight him on it. Sitting up, he shoved the blanket away, reaching for Shane and pulling him up to his feet. “Fine,” he agreed, kissing his neck. “Bed it is.”

He huffed, shoving him away playfully. “Not what I meant,” he grumbled, heading towards the bedroom.

Ilya just kept his hands wrapped around him, trailing behind him closely. “Liar,” he claimed.

Shane hummed, lips quirking into a smile as he pulled Ilya into the bedroom, thoughts still lingering on the concept of their contracts. On the idea of Ilya being devoted enough to move to Canada, to fight for citizenship here when it was so difficult.

It was, to say the least, an act of love. A declaration of devotion, even. He couldn’t let him, of course. And he couldn’t imagine the Metros even being willing to offer him a contract with how steep his price would be. To say nothing of reputation and rivalry.

Even if he claimed it wasn’t about money, that did matter. It had to, at least a little bit. Besides, even if the Metros found the money somehow, his teammates wouldn’t be okay with it. At all. They’d probably start fights the second they saw him in blue.

Still, Shane knew he was right. At least about the distance between them. It was so difficult to be that far apart from each other. Especially now that they had finally admitted to each other that they were truly committed to this relationship. Monogamous. A word he never thought would apply between them.

But it did.

That’s what led Shane to being up early the next morning, kissing Ilya on the cheek and leaving a note beside the bed for him that read, ‘Had to run an errand, I’ll be back before lunch.’.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Knocking on his parents’ door, Shane took a breath to himself, running his thumb over his knuckles in a weak attempt to self-soothe his own nerves. Something he was acutely aware he picked up from watching Ilya do it over the years.

His dad came to the door first, a look of surprise on his face. “Thought you were on a silent retreat or something during break,” he muttered, pushing the door further open to let him in.

Shane let out a nervous huff. “I- Yeah, I am,” he assured him, entering the house. “I just needed to take a break from that for something. Where’s mom?”

David pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “Patio, eating breakfast,” he replied, a curious expression on his face. “Did you need to talk to her?”

He nodded. “Alone, preferably,” he admitted, quickly noticing the shock in his father’s eyes. “It’s nothing bad or anything, I swear,” he added. “Just hockey stuff.”

He looked a bit skeptical, not used to seeing his son nervous over hockey. Not since the draft, anyway. “Alrighty, then…” he mused slowly, closing the front door. “I’ll be in the kitchen making an extra omelet, I guess.”

Shane opened his mouth to tell him not to bother, that he wouldn’t be staying long, but just snapped it shut after a moment. There was no point, really. He was better off just accepting it.

Watching his dad walk into the kitchen, he took another breath, trying to steady himself before making his way to the patio. Sliding the glass door open, he peeked his head outside, where his mom was sitting at the table, picking through a bowl of fruit in search of a strawberry.

Yuna glanced up, looking a bit surprised to see him. “What are you doing here, hon?” she wondered, setting down her bowl and opening one of her arms for a hug.

Shane reached down, giving her a partial hug at the odd angle. “Oh, you know, just…visiting,” he muttered, sitting across the table from her. He could see his dad through the window, busying himself with a few eggs.

She hummed skeptically, noticing the tension in his posture. “Well, did anything specific incite the visit?” she asked curiously, tilting her head a bit.

He cleared his throat a bit, looking away for a moment as he tried to figure out how to say what he wanted to. It was so absurd, after all. He still wasn’t even sure what he was trying to get out of this whole idea, just that it had been rolling around in his head all night as Ilya held him and he couldn’t knock it loose.

“Yeah, there is something,” he confessed, looking her in the eyes. “You know how I have one more season until my contract with the Metros ends?”

Yuna nodded. Of course she did. “I’m already getting in touch with someone about a renewal offer,” she replied. “I figure another five years, maybe a 10% or 15% increase in pay is worth it to them given your history there and all that.”

Shane tensed again, his teeth visibly grinding nervously. “Right, I- I wanted to talk about that, actually,” he told her. “Um…how would you feel if I- if maybe I didn’t re-sign with the Metros?”

She froze, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “Not re-sign with the Metros?” she repeated like she was trying to make sure she heard him correctly.

Why the hell would he not want to re-sign? They were one of the best teams in the league right now, he had an incredible following there, the owner could afford his price, and he had friends amongst the players. Hell, he even mentioned wanting his jersey to hang in their rafters one day.

He panicked a bit, seeing her look so surprised. “I know it sounds a bit crazy-”

“That’s certainly one word for it, sweetheart,” she murmured, sipping her coffee to try to steady herself from the shock. “Wha- I mean why? Is there something going on with them I don’t know about?”

Shane shook his head. “No, no, of course not,” he assured her. “I just think it might be…good to have some change, is all.”

Ilya was already risking so much by committing to him; he was giving up his playboy image which could harm his reputation, he was slowly severing ties with his home, he was fully prepared to lose his career by joining a team that was horrible just to be closer together. The least Shane could do was show him that he was willing to do the same and give just as much up to make their relationship work.

Hockey was temporary, after all, even if he didn’t want it to be. When he eventually retired, it wouldn’t matter what team he had been on, only that he had someone he loved to come home to.

“That’s some change,” Yuna muttered, still confused. “I mean, I’m not judging your decision but…they drafted you, Shane. The fans expect you to re-sign, so does your team, probably.”

“I know,” he stated, nodding. “It’s just- what if I’m not getting everything out of hockey that I could be if I played somewhere else?”

He knew the rink, the entire building by heart, even. He spent more time in the locker rooms than he did at home, most days. He liked the consistency, but if there was even a chance of being able to make his relationship with Ilya stronger, he’d jump on it. And since there was no way the Metros would accept Ilya, the only other option was to hope the Raiders would accept Shane.

She pursed her lips slowly, trying to think things through in her mind. “Okay, I- I can understand that, I suppose,” she murmured, blowing out a breath. “People would be shocked, but whoever you sign with would be thrilled, I’m sure.”

He huffed slightly. “I hope so,” he mumbled, swallowing harshly again.

“Let’s see, there’s Seattle of course,” Yuna suggested, ticking off her finger. “They’re a solid team, looking to make changes I hear. And New York; that could be good since you’re already on good terms with some of the players. Pittsburg has a decent funding, too, they might be approachable.”

Shane nodded slowly, pretending to care about those teams. “What about uh- Boston?” he broached delicately.

“Boston!?” she exclaimed, eyes flying wide open. “Honey, that’s Rozanov’s team.” Not that he needed to be reminded of it, of course. They had only been rivals since before the draft. “I know he’s got a contract ending soon, too, but we can’t bank on him switching teams and the Raiders taking you, instead.”

As smooth as that transition might manage to work if all the stars aligned, there was no way she would take that risk. Rozanov loved the Raiders and there were whispers that he had been approached about a new contract with an even higher salary than before.

“I know, I- I don’t expect him to change teams or anything,” he clarified. “I was thinking of maybe, you know, joining with him as captain.”

If it was possible for Yuna’s eyes to widen any further, they would have. She tried her best to get a grip, though. To think things over logically. But that was, frankly, pretty difficult. Her son just suggested signing to the same team as his sworn enemy, after all.

That was tough to wrap her mind around no matter how hard she tried to break it down in terms that made sense. They were a good team, sure. Strong odds each season, wonderful fans, a tendency to retain players instead of constantly trading them like some did. But it was still Boston.

“Okay, let’s say for some reason you want to do that,” she muttered, reaching out to take his hand. “You wouldn’t be walking into a friendly environment. They would be…hostile, to say the least. And you wouldn’t be captain; you would need to take orders and earn first line again.”

“I know,” Shane assured her, seemingly alright with all of that. “I don’t think they’d be cruel or anything, though. They want to win and anyone helping them do that is probably okay with them.”

Yuna scoffed slightly but composed herself, squeezing his hand a bit harder. “Alright, say that’s true,” she noted hypothetically. “They’re already paying Rozanov top billing and might give him a raise to keep him, not accounting for Marlow or Hammersmith. They just don’t have the money for someone as expensive as you.”

They paid their players well, she knew. And they had a lot of good ones. Carmichael and Connors might not make quite as much as most of their first liners did, but they were still one of the most expensive teams in the league to pay per season. They couldn’t match Shane’s current salary and afford to keep everyone else, let alone raise Rozanov’s salary as well. 

“I know that too,” he insisted, voice firm as if trying to push the matter a bit harder. “But I’m okay taking a pay cut.”

“No, you aren’t,” she replied, shaking her head. “Especially not if your cut is feeding Rozanov’s salary. You’re worth more than he is.” More awards, more cups, her son deserved the higher paycheck, not him.

Shane tried not to roll his eyes, looking a bit frustrated. “Look, I have like eight sponsorships right now,” he reminded her. “You’re probably sitting on three more you don’t want to tell me about, too. My investments are stable, my house is paid off, my savings alone are enough to live on pretty lavishly for a few decades. I don’t need a raise.”

He could easily take an extra commercial or two and make back what he was losing with a salary cut. Besides, he could be gaining something so much better than money if he lived in Boston. If he lived with Ilya. God, it sounded like a dream he was too stubborn to let himself believe in just yet.

Yuna didn’t relent. “But you deserve one! If you’re the best of the best, then you should get paid like it—”

“Mom,” Shane interjected firmly, his tone serious and his eyes reflecting the emotion just as much. “I want to go to Boston. Please, help me make it happen.”

She paused, slowly inhaling as he let go of her hand. She couldn’t understand it. He could have his pick of teams with his reputation. Any coach, any stadium of fans would be thrilled to have him. And he wanted to walk into the one locker room full of players that actively hated him more than anywhere else.

“Okay,” Yuna eventually conceded, nodding. “I will…reach out to someone over there and see what I can figure out.”

Shane’s tension visibly eased, a small smile gracing his lips. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I know it doesn’t seem like it makes much sense—”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” she insisted with a huff of disbelief, rubbing his forehead. “But if it’s what you want, I’ll make it happen for you.” She wasn’t quite sure how, yet, but she would. “Maybe we can spin it for some publicity… ‘Rozanov and Hollander: enemies to allies.’ or something like that.”

She scrunched her nose over it, the fake title already leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She couldn’t even imagine her son in one of those jerseys or think about having to buy Raiders merchandise and actually rooting for that team after a decade of insults and eye rolls thrown at the television set each time they played against Montreal.

Still, she would work it out. For Shane, she always did.

Shane stood up, kissing her cheek. “Thank you,” he repeated, even more sincerely. “I mean it, mom. I really think this is going to be good for me.”

She hummed, smiling back for as long as he glanced at her and then let it drop the second he went back inside to see his dad. Shane as a Raider. She couldn’t fathom it in her head, let alone actively try to make it happen without a pit lodging itself in her stomach. Even so, she had given him her word and would keep it.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Later that night, Shane watched Ilya fuss with the blankets in his lap as he stared at the fire outside again. It wasn’t something he lit very often when he was here alone, but Ilya had liked it so much that didn’t mind building one almost every single night. Besides, he enjoyed watching him jump when the Loons called every once in a while.

Shane hadn’t quite lied when he came back, but didn’t tell him the full truth, either. He said he went to his parents, which was true. He said he talked to his mom, which was also true. He just didn’t mention the topic of it.

“Soo…about this morning,” he muttered, tapping his fingers against his leg anxiously. “I need to tell you something about it.”

Ilya glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Ah, finally,” he mused.

He frowned. “What does that mean?”

Ilya’s glance turned into a glare, gesturing towards him. “You have been jumpy all day,” he explained. “I’m assuming it’s because of your trip to your parents house, yes?”

Shane nodded a bit as he huffed slightly, realizing he might not have been as smooth about it as he hoped to be. “Oh, right,” he murmured awkwardly.

Ilya wasn’t blind or stupid. He could see the way Shane had been a bit tense coming home, how he seemed to keep zoning out during their conversations and needing to be brought back with his name or the snap of his fingers. And how he immediately apologized but never mentioned what he was thinking about. It didn’t take a genius to know something was going on.

“So?” he wondered, covering some of Shane’s legs with the fabric even without being asked. “What is it? Are they suspecting or something?”

He shook his head a bit. “No, I- no,” he muttered, resting his hand on the back of the loveseat and winding one of Ilya’s curls around his finger. “It’s…well, you remember last night, right? When you wanted to move for me?”

Ilya nodded, humming softly. “Did you think about it, more?”

“All night,” Shane confessed, chewing the inside of his cheek as he fussed with his hair. “And I realized that you were already giving up a lot by being with me, and I think maybe it’s time I give something up for you, too.”

He frowned slightly, leaning into his touch. “What do you mean?” he asked, not following along.

Shane exhaled deeply. “I asked my mom today if she would reach out to the Raiders,” he admitted. “I’m going to try to sign with your team.”

Ilya froze. His eyes didn’t widen and his mouth didn’t drop. He seemed too stunned for either of those reactions to happen. Instead, he just stared in shock, searching Shane’s face for any sign of this being a joke of some kind. He looked entirely serious, though.

“Y- you are going to come to Boston?” he repeated, the words making no more sense once saying them out loud. “For me?”

Shane nodded, hand sliding down to cup the side of his neck, his fingers fussing with the nape of his neck. “If my mom doesn’t blow the negotiations,” he murmured. “I thought- I mean your team would want me, right? They’d be okay if I joined them?”

He nearly scoffed. “Are you kidding?” he replied. “You have no idea how much they respect you, Shane. They would love to have you on the team. Not nearly as much as I would, of course, but they would be thrilled.”

He blew out an anxious breath, a bit relieved. “Good,” he whispered to himself. “And I figured if I was living there, maybe I could just…live with you, too? We would take separate cars to practice, obviously, and I’d rent an apartment so everyone thinks I don’t but…we could, if you wanted.”

He held his breath a bit, the offer both managing to see so abrupt and yet so long overdue, all at once. Being in the same city, on the same team was more than enough for him already. But if he was going to uproot his life he might as well go all the way, he figured.

“Yes, yes of course I want to live with you,” Ilya responded immediately, before the question had even fully slipped out of his mouth. He pulled him into a kiss. “I get to play with you on my team and wake up next to you every day? That is better than anything I could have imagined.”

Shane’s lips tugged into a wide smile, pressing his forehead against Ilya’s. “We’ve waited long enough for it, right?” he murmured. “Figured we needed to actually make some changes if we want this to work.”

Ilya nodded in agreement. “I will make it worth it, I swear to you,” he promised him. “You will love Boston. And I can take you places in public without anyone caring.” His voice nearly cracked at the end, the thought of being seen together without fear riddling them both making his chest ache with joy.

They still couldn’t kiss, couldn’t get overly affectionate or slip up on their words. But it was something. And compared to having nothing, something seemed like everything.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Time passed and their contracts came to an end not too far apart. Ilya decided to re-sign with the Raiders to no one’s surprise, even if the media tried to pretend like it was somehow shocking news.

‘Raiders captain Ilya Rozanov to extend his contract for another five years, according to inside sources.’

Shane pursed his lips, staring at the headline as he sat on the bench in his locker room, post practice. He had barely changed before the article was published and if he wasn’t so obsessed with Ilya, maybe he might not have gotten the notification for a few more hours or days. But he googled him frequently enough to get recommendations, he supposed.

Hayden leaned over his shoulder, nudging him slightly. “No shocker there, huh?” he mused, reading the headline over the phone. “Why do they always say ‘sources’ like it’s some massive secret and not purposely announced with everyone permission, anyway?”

Shane shrugged. “More views, I guess,” he murmured, clicking his phone off and shoving it into his bag. He made a mental note to text Ilya later and congratulate him on it.

His best friend hummed, supposing it was a good enough answer. “What about you, then?” he wondered, bending over to tie his laces. “You got your new contract sorted out, yet? I hope you don’t take all that money they scrounged up for you; the rest of us would like raises too.”

It was a joke, of course. Hayden knew Shane got paid the big dollars because he was the face of the Metros, not to mention their captain. But for some reason, his friend seemed to go quiet over the comment, taking it seriously or something.

“You don’t have to worry about it,” he assured him softly, words getting drowned out by the chatter in the locker room as everyone continued packing their stuff up for the day. “I’m not…”

“Not what?” Hayden questioned, furrowing his brows in confusion. “It’s too loud in here; I didn’t catch that.”

Shane wet his bottom lip, not repeating himself for some reason. “Nothing,” he muttered, shaking his head as he brushed it off.

He hadn’t technically signed his new contract yet. But he was pretty much as ready as possible. His mom had managed to get him a three-year contract, at just shy of the money he was currently making. Which, he honestly hadn’t expected given the way their finances were pretty much all accounted for with the current roster.

There had been some financial shuffling, apparently, she said. He wasn’t quite sure where they cut the costs, but they did it. For him. The papers were drafted up and as soon as his mom went over it with the lawyer, he could sign them. Hopefully by the end of the week.

That just left him clueless about what to tell him team. To tell Hayden, especially.

“Are you alright, man?” he questioned, frowning. “You look a little…pale or something.”

Shane snapped his eyes towards him, feeling a bit nauseous. “What? Yeah, totally good,” he assured him.

“Really? You’re not about to faint, then, and that’s just your face for some reason?” Hayden teased.

He felt the lump in his stomach grow larger, unsure how to explain to them exactly what he was planning to do. It was nothing against them, he knew. But they wouldn’t believe that. To them, it would be a blatant betrayal. Walking into their sworn enemy’s city could very well be, in their eyes, unforgivable.

He swallowed harshly, getting even sicker to his stomach. He had known, for months now that this was happening. But there was never a good time to tell them. He even considered letting them find out through the inevitable news articles posted after he green-lit it. That was cruel, though. They deserved better from him.

Shane swallowed harshly, noticing Berkes about to walk out of the locker room. “Berkes!” he shouted, stopping him. “Wait a minute, before you leave.”

He glanced over his shoulder, surprised but not annoyed. “Why?” he wondered, lingering the door. “I thought we were finished for the day.”

He nodded. “We are, I just—” he flexed his fingers nervously. “—have to make an announcement before everyone clears out of here, today.”

Berkes looked a bit skeptical of his tone but dropped his bag by the door and walked a bit further into the locker room. He gestured to him, like he was letting him make his announcement. He figured it was probably about their technique or their lack of enthusiasm, something to criticize.

Shane glanced at Hayden, who looked equally confused. Slowly standing up, he felt his heart hammering harder than it ever seemed to as the other guys quieted their conversation to listen to what he had to say.

“Um…I- I know that everyone here is well aware by now that my contract with the Metros ended,” he started, his voice slow and hesitant. “I’ve been here mostly out of routine and a sense of duty more than anything, lately. Because you guys are- you’re family to me, you know? We’ve won championships on the ice and off the ice I’ve seen some of you get married, have kids, just…grow as people.”

“Why is this sounding like a cheesy goodbye speech?” JJ questioned, his tone teasing and light.

“Yeah, right, like Hollander would ever leave us,” Wilson retorted, huffing in amusement. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Shane just swallowed harshly again, glancing down in silence as he counted his breaths in hopes of keeping it together both emotionally and physically. This was not the place for a panic attack or tears.

Hayden frowned, confused. “Shane?” he muttered, sounding like humor was the last thing on his mind. “T- that’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”

He clenched his jaw, shaking his head for a moment before finally lifting it. “No, it’s not,” he admitted, his voice a bit rough with emotion. “I am…signing with another team.”

They were silent for a moment, more stunned than anything else. It felt like the floor crumbled under their feet in the blink of an eye and Shane, frankly, looked like he wished it would. If for no other reason than being swallowed into the center of the Earth would be preferable to their scrutinizing gazes.

“That’s a joke, right?” Mitty questioned. “You’re jerking our legs before you tell us you’ve already worked things out with management.”

Shane shook his head again, a bit firmer. “No,” he clarified. “I declined their offer to extend my contract two weeks ago.”

They had been approaching him, anyway, trying to offer more money or better perks but it wasn’t working. The only reason that had been kept out of the news was because they were still hoping he would come back to them after looking elsewhere.

“How could you turn them down?” Drapeau asked, his tone confused, if not a bit accusatory. “I mean you- you’re the captain! What could make you walk away from that? Where would you even go?”

“Tell me it’s not New York or some shit,” Compeau added, finding his voice too. It had a bite to it, like he was suddenly more upset than disheartened. They all were.

“It’s not New York,” Shane assured them.

That should have helped calm their nerves, but instead, it just made them more apprehensive. Because Shane wasn’t willingly sharing where he intended to move. He was only explaining where he wasn’t going. And that could only mean he planned to sign with a team that they didn’t like. Which, frankly, was a long list.

“Who are you signing with?” Hayden questioned bluntly, his voice cutting through everyone else’s inquires or clamoring. They played together for over a decade and were best friends off the ice. He was someone Shane would answer; he had to be.

He blew out a breath, contemplating the risks of telling them. They could blab it around before news officially broke and blow up the entire deal. But he doubted they would, they would probably be too busy trying to pretend he was dead to them.

Shane wet his bottom lip, looking at the floor instead of anyone specific. He couldn’t; it was too hard. “Boston,” he whispered under his breath. It was quiet, but in the dead silence, everyone heard it.

And just like that, every friend he had in that room turned into his enemies. Their gazes hardened, their breaths hitched, and their jaws clenched. Everything Shane just said about them being his family was tossed out the window like he hadn’t been their friend and their teammate for years.

“No fucking way,” JJ muttered to himself. He didn’t want to believe it, at first, but given how distraught his former captain looked, he knew it was true.

“You wouldn’t,” Drapeau insisted, his tone harsh and bitter as he shook his head. “You’d rather answer to Ilya fucking Rozanov than be our captain?”

Shane winced, barely lifting his gaze long enough to catch his eye before Drapeau looked away. “It’s not personal,” he insisted. “You guys are always gonna be—”

“No, no, it is personal,” Berkes interjected before he could even finish speaking, pointing his finger at him accusatorily. “We hate the Raiders, Shane. That means we don’t get to be anything to you if you step foot into their locker room.”

“Have you already signed the contract?” Hayden asked, finally breaking his silence.

He was still in a state of shock, frankly. Some part of him was in denial, too. He wanted to believe this was a cruel joke or some temporary lapse in judgement that his best friend would realize was a mistake and correct as quickly as possible. But he knew better. Shane wouldn’t tell them he planned to leave unless he was following though on it.

Shane’s shoulder sagged a bit. “I’m going to,” he replied. “In a few days. The details are just being double checked.”

“What details? Like which fucking parking space is yours?” Comeau snapped. “What wall they’re gonna put your face on at the stadium because you don’t have enough of them here?”

He grew even more uncomfortable, the anxiety physically manifesting as he tensed, his throat working hard just to try to form a single sound. Even when he got one out, it was interrupted by more comments and accusations, all filled with venom.

“You’re such a fucking traitor,” Wilson claimed. “You know the way they play, how they act. They put you in hospital for God’s sake!”

“On accident,” Shane defended weakly, hearing someone scoff amongst the crowd that was starting to grow closer to each other in proximity. It seemed almost like they were forming a wall against him, arms crossed and expressions disgusted.

“You know what, maybe if you can jump teams this easily then you do deserve to be with them,” JJ told him. “You clearly have the same mindset as they do.” That teammates were just that, teammates, meant to be used and discarded.

Hayden opened and closed his mouth, looking between his team and his best friend. He wanted to protect Shane, but he was also just as upset as the others were. And he couldn’t risk them thinking that he was condoning what Shane was planning. So, he kept his lips sealed, his head and heart utterly torn.

“I- I’m sorry that you feel that way,” Shane murmured, trying to fight how badly their words stung. “I thought…never mind.” He huffed lightly, glancing at his bag. “I’ll leave you guys alone.”

He reached for his stuff, grabbing his bag and slinging it over shoulder. He ducked his head, pushing the door open quickly to leave before any of them could say or do anything. Walking out, he felt his breaths quickening as his panic attack began to build back up inside his chest.

It felt constricting, hammering inside of him in a way he couldn’t expel, and it was difficult to tell if it was his body shaking or real tears that made his cheeks feel so warm. Either way, he didn’t stop, just kept walking until he left the rink.

For the last time, he was pretty sure.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Shane stared down at the coffee table with a blank gaze, the stack of papers sitting beside a pen. A few days had passed, the only texts he had received were cruel. That was if the team contacted him at all. 

They hurt, of course, but weren't nearly as brutal as Hayden's silence. He tried to reach out, to apologize and talk, but the only response he got was that he needed time to think and would text him back when he was ready.

“Are you sure about this?” Yuna questioned, sitting across from him in the living room, her hands clasped together as her brows furrowed. He didn’t look as certain as he should, given the circumstances.

He nodded anyway. “Yeah, of course,” he muttered, meeting her eye.

He reached for the pen, clicking it and leaning over the table. He scribbled his name on the bottom of the first page, then flipped it and repeated it on the next and the next, each one getting a bit faster and more determined.

Yuna watched at he seemed to get more comfortable with his choice, almost even excited if she were to guess. Even though she still couldn’t understand why. She had tried to figure it out, ever since he asked. But when she pried, he shut down or gave some answer that was clearly forced and fake.

“No need to get through the whole stack right away,” she reminded him. “You’ll get carpal tunnel or something.”

Shane shrugged, still signing. “It’s fine,” he assured her, flipping to another page.

As much as his brain wanted to think about his team, to guilt him into feeling like traitor the way they called him and be upset over what felt like abandonment, he was also so ready to move forward. To move to Boston, to live with Ilya, to play with a new team beside him. It was making him feel a bit lighter with every signature he gave.

He wasn’t oblivious to the look on his mother’s face, the way she had been confused from the moment he brought up the idea of playing in Massachusetts. She attempted to get an answer a few times, but he never gave her a very clear one. He hoped she would drop it or at least find some assumption and stick with it. That hadn’t happened, yet.

“Okay, I’ll uh- let you finish signing them, then,” she muttered, straightening up a bit in her chair. “After I mail them back to Boston, the Raiders wanted to announce your contract publicly. Is that alright?”

Shane nodded. “Mhm,” he hummed, adding another signature. “Soon as possible would be best.”

She pursed her lips. “I’ll let them know,” she replied, gears in her head spinning with curiosity.

He hadn’t been himself all week, maybe a bit past that, if she was being honest. But the last few days he absolutely refused to mention the Metros, and she could only assume it was because he tried to do the right thing and be honest with them, which probably didn’t go very well.

“You’re staring,” he commented flatly, still not looking up. It was just a feeling he had, knowing what it felt like to have someone’s eyes on him after being in front of so many cameras for so many years.

Yuna cleared her throat a bit. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I was just wondering about your team- old team, technically,” she admitted. “Have you told them yet? About the move, I mean.”

Shane stuck his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “Uh huh,” he responded succinctly.

“How’d they take it?” she pressed a bit, trying to keep her voice gentle in case it was going to upset him.

“Called me a traitor and implied I was self-absorbed and doing it for more attention,” he told her, shrugging again like it was irrelevant information and not something that had been tearing him apart all week.

It wasn’t like he could do anything about it, explain or apologize when no one was speaking to him. And why should he even try to? If they wanted to treat him like a bastard just because he was looking out for himself for a change, then so be it. He could be a traitor in their eyes.

Yuna’s eyes softened, feeling a bit disgusted with the team. “Oh, honey, you know that isn’t—”

“Don’t wanna talk about it, mom,” he interjected, shaking his head as he eventually lifted it, looking her in the eyes. “And I don’t want any sympathy, either. This is a good decision for me, I know it is.”

She paused, the conviction in his voice catching her off guard for some reason. She knew it was hard for him to walk away from the Metros, that he could never do this out of betrayal to them. He loved his team, his city, and his fans.

But there was something about Boston that had him looking more determined than he had been in years.

He was comfortable with the Metros, stable. And now he seemed…excited. Over what, she didn’t know. But something. And it was big enough to cause that look in his eyes, the one he always got when something difficult was something he wanted badly.

“If you think it is, your father and I will support it,” she murmured. There wasn’t much else to say about it, after all. Manager or not, she couldn’t make his choices. “We don’t mind helping you move, if you want. We can come see your apartment and help you unpack, maybe see some of the city.”

Shane seemed to tense a bit, just giving a partial nod like he wasn’t agreeing but also didn’t want to shoot her down, either. “Maybe,” he replied. “It’s a pretty small place, compared to the one I have now, though. And there won’t be a lot of time between moving and practice starting.”

He didn’t have the schedule, yet, but knew Ilya’s typical routine pretty well. The Raiders came back a bit early for informal practices, bonding exercises more than anything, really. The Metros didn’t do that, so much as a few intermittent practices over the course of their yearly break.

Not all of the team showed up, since it wasn’t mandatory, just a few of them practicing to stay sharp and keep from going stir crazy. That’s where he had been when they- well, when he announced his departure. He hadn’t been back since and unless there was a reason, he wouldn’t.

“Oh, well, maybe a later, then?” Yuna suggested. "We can come down for the first game of the season and root for you." 

He nodded more firmly that time. “Yeah, sure,” he agreed. “I’ll let you know once I get the timeline figured out.”

“Sounds good,” she mumbled quietly, watching as he kept blowing through the stack of papers, finishing the contract pretty quickly.

Quicker than most of his others in the past, which he reviewed and sometimes filled out over several days. He tended to be skeptical of new deals, but for some reason that didn’t seem to be the case. He breezed through every page, not even checking the fine print like he somehow knew the Raiders were going to be fair to him.

Finishing the last page, Shane put the pen down and slid the papers back to her with a deep exhale of relief. “Officially a Raider,” he murmured, his voice filled with a tinge of suppressed excitement.

“You are,” Yuna noted, watching him bite back a smile at the thought of it.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

News broke early in the morning. Near seven, if not just before. And as expected, people were shocked. They had every emotion, really. Stunned, angry, confused, elated. It all depended on where they were from and who they supported.

Montreal was pissed and that word, betrayal, came hurtling back at him again. Raiders fans were enthused about it, already commenting on social media about how they were surely going to win the cup back this year, now.

Fans from other teams were a mix of surprised by his decision, perplexed by what caused it, and pissed that Boston now had both of them on the same team, essentially ruining everyone else’s chances for the championship.

“People are going insane; you know this right?” Ilya noted, his voice coming through speaker phone.

Shane set it on the counter in his kitchen, picking up a cardboard box and taping the end of it shut. “I’m trying to stay off the internet,” he replied honestly. He usually did, for his own sake. It made his anxiety flare if he was on it too much. “Don’t have much interest in seeing what my city is saying right now.”

“Hm, yeah, they are not happy,” he confirmed, scrolling through different sports pages, all of which had started scrutinizing the choice. “You should still see what Boston is saying, though. Fans are thrilled and wish you a warm welcome.”

Shane huffed, putting his carefully bubble wrapped appliances into the moving box. “At least one city likes me,” he murmured sarcastically. “Has anyone on the team reached out to you, yet?”

He was curious to know if they were against it or in favor of the decision. At the very least, he hoped for a solid neutral ground, wanting to come in with the opportunity to win their trust. That would be difficult if they hated him right away.

“Group chat is very active but nothing negative so far,” Ilya admitted. “They are mostly confused about the reason for it and a bit upset they weren’t aware of it until it happened. But they agree it’s going to be a good year for us.”

“Good, I just don’t want them to hate me or anything,” he explained, pausing to contemplate his packing a bit.

“No, definitely not seeing anything bad towards you, just management,” Ilya clarified, his tone implying that it was a pretty standard topic for complaint. “I’ll add you to group chat pretty soon, once things settle. They’ll like to text you properly before practice starts.”

“I’ll try to pay attention to this one instead of just muting them,” he replied, used to mostly ignoring the Metros group chat. It was too hectic for him to keep up. “Hey, do you own a KitchenAid?” he asked out of the blue.

“A what?” he wondered, sounding confused.

Shane laughed slightly, wrapping an extra layer of bubble wrap around the heavy machine. “It’s for baking, usually. I didn’t know if you had one or not,” he responded. “I don’t want us to have doubles of a ton of stuff.”

But given he didn’t even know what it was, it was fairly safe to assume he didn’t have one. So, Shane lifted the stand off the counter, placing it into the box on the floor and tucking a few other items inside of it before taping it up as tight as possible. He reached for a sharpie, labeling the box to make sure he remembered what was in it. As if the weight alone wouldn't be enough of an indicator.

“Yeah, no, I don’t have one,” he replied, stating the obvious. “And don’t worry about duplicates of toasters or anything, you can put the spares in your apartment and make it look like you actually live there or something.”

“Hm, clever,” Shane admitted, honestly forgetting about the lease he just signed. It was hard for him to think or care about it when he was only a few days away from actually living with his boyfriend for the first time.

“Yes, I am brilliant,” he retorted with faux arrogance. “You will notice this a lot once we live together.”

He was trying, and mostly failing, to act like he wasn’t equally elated that Shane was moving in. That he didn’t have to set an alarm and sneak away to the airport or worry about someone seeing them having a conversation in public. Hell, they could change each other’s contact names in their phones, now.

“I can’t wait,” Shane told him, enthusiasm coming through in his voice. “I don’t know what we’re going to do in the bathroom, though. Between my skin care and your hair products, we’ll run out of room before—”

He stopped abruptly and all the way in Boston Ilya pulled his phone away from his ear to check that he hadn’t got disconnected. “You got tired of mocking my hair care mid-sentence?” he wondered dubiously.

“Uh- no, sorry,” Shane apologized weakly. “I’m just getting a call from Hayden, is all.”

Ilya was silent for a moment. “You should take it,” he eventually replied after a moment.

Now that caught Shane off guard. Even before things had changed, he didn’t exactly like Hayden. On or off the ice. And since hearing about how he kept his mouth shut while the guys ripped into him, not to mention ghosted him when Shane tried to reach out, Ilya had been even less of a fan if that was possible.

“You think?” he wondered, a bit unsure. “He hasn’t talked to me in eight days.”

“He was shocked, probably, and felt a bit upset,” Ilya reminded him. “Just hear what he says now that he had time to process it; if he’s still and asshole, we will never speak to him again.”

Shane huffed. “Alright, I’ll text you after,” he promised, disconnecting the call to take Hayden’s.

He didn’t speak, just setting down the tape gun he was holding and bracing his hand against the counter as he took the phone off speaker and held it to his ear. For a moment or two he wasn’t even sure if Hayden had meant to call him or not. Maybe it was a fluke or some attempt to reach out that he was quickly regretting. Worst of all, maybe he expected Shane to apologize for something.

Before he could spiral, though, he heard Hayden's’ voice come through. “Hey.”

It wasn’t much, but it was acknowledgment of his existence. “Hi,” Shane replied, voice measured, like he expected the worst at any moment.

“I uh- saw the news,” he muttered awkwardly. “Three years in Boston, huh?”

“Mhm,” Shane hummed defensively.

There was another stretch of silence, and he ran his thumb over the edge of the counter, a bit anxious as he waited for his friend to say something else. Were they even friends anymore? He wasn’t sure, honestly.

“Look I…wanted to apologize for the other day,” Hayden admitted sheepishly. “I should have told the guys to lay off, I was just surprised and I couldn’t- well, that’s not really a good excuse, I guess. I just wanted you to know I don’t agree with them about you being a traitor.”

That served to ease some of his anxiety, but not very much of it, honestly. “Thanks,” he murmured. “I knew they wouldn’t take it well, I just hoped they’d be a bit more supportive.”

“I mean, you did kind of blindside us,” he reminded him gently. “We all thought you were re-signing. And then on top of that, you pick Boston? What could even draw you to that team?”

In Hayden’s mind, it could only be two things. Self-loathing, driving him to do something stupid and put himself in a position where he would be verbally abused by his new captain and team. Or publicity, since his rivalry with Rozanov might not have been cutting it the way it used to and playing for the same team would stir up new topics.

“It’s just a good team, Hayden,” he defended. “A nice city, great fans—”

“Rozanov,” he interjected, the single word being enough of a reason to stay far away from the team in his opinion. “Can you honestly take orders from him without wanting to punch him?”

God, could Shane take orders from him, he thought to himself. It was kind of the basis of their romantic life, not that he could say that to his best friend or anyone else.

“I’ll deal with it,” Shane replied casually. “I know it sounds crazy, but I know he’s a good captain. I’m just looking for a change of pace, something new after so many years of the same routine.”

It was comfortable, sure. He liked the consistency, but he was sick of the sneaking around and tired of only getting a few hours or a single day with his boyfriend for most of the year. He wanted to share a home with him, and play beside him, even if no one knew why they worked so well together.

“I guess…I can maybe understand that,” Hayden admitted. “I’m not saying I agree with the change you’re making, but you’re allowed to want something new after carrying our team for so many years.”

“You really think so?” he wondered, a bit unsure. It was what he wanted, maybe even needed. But it still felt like he was turning his back on his community after they have given him everything.

“Yeah, really,” Hayden assured him, pausing for a moment. “I could maybe…come over, if you want? We can keep talking.”

Shane pursed his lips a bit. “I’m actually packing right now,” he admitted cautiously. “I have a flight to Boston on Wednesday.”

There was silence on the other end, which for a busy house with many kids, was sometimes worse than the noise. He tapped his fingers on the counter of his kitchen, waiting for him to say something else.

“You’re really not wasting any time, huh?” he mumbled, his voice still laced with something a bit bitter. Not necessarily for Shane’s decision to leave, but the irrational part of his brain which felt like he was being left behind for some shiny novelty.

“I just wanted to get used to the city before the season starts,” Shane claimed.

“Okay then,” Hayden told him, tone kind of defeated. “I’ll be over in twenty minutes.”

He froze. “What?”

“To help you pack,” he clarified, keys jingling as he pulled them off the hook and headed for the door. “It’s a big apartment and you have a lot of stuff; you’ll want an extra set of hands.”

Hayden didn’t really give him a chance to decline the offer, not that Shane would have, honestly. The line went dead and he huffed, staring down at his blank screen for a moment. At least there was one Metro that didn’t completely hate him for his decision.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

By the end of the next week, Shane had mostly finished moving. His KitchenAid was perched on the counter, his shoes were in the closest on the side they’d made space for him to have, and some of his favorite paintings and awards were hung on the walls beside Ilya’s.

It felt, quite simply, like home.

Even before getting all of his stuff unpacked, there was something about it that just felt warm. Probably the fact that for the past three nights, he had fallen asleep and woken up in bed with Ilya.

He usually rose with the sound of an alarm clock of the sun in his eyes, but instead he started to wake up to kisses peppered on his cheek and deep Russian murmurs that were so sleepy it was difficult for him to even try to translate them. It felt like everything he thought he was crazy for wanting.

“Mmm, it’s still real?” he mumbled sleepily, blinking awake.

Ilya nodded, another kiss planted on the back of his shoulder blade. “Still real,” he assured him. “How many nights will you fall asleep before you realize you live here?”

Shane huffed lightly, glancing over his shoulder a bit. “Don’t know,” he admitted, inhaling deeply and exhaling. “A lot, probably.”

He had lived this moment before, in his dreams. Where time wasn’t constricting them and he got to reach into a closet for his clothes instead of an overnight bag. He just didn’t expect it to ever be real. It still, frankly, didn’t feel that way sometimes.

Ilya shifted, rolling Shane over to look at him. “Well, I will be happy to remind you just how real this is,” he promised, running a hand through his hair. “For as long as you want me to.”

He hummed in content, burying his face against his neck and closing his eyes again. Despite never really enjoying sleeping in, there was something so peaceful about sharing space with Ilya, about being suffocated by his presence physically and emotionally.

“Want it forever,” he mumbled, hand winding around him to hug him.

“Am just sorry it took so long,” he murmured back, kissing the top of his head. “Sorry for so many things.”

He wished, desperately that Shane could have his parents here. They cared about him so much, wanted to help him move and unpack, and that couldn’t happen for obvious reasons. Instead, Ilya was stuck hearing him on the phone, lying about being at the apartment he rented across town to keep up the pretense.

Hearing him mutter about a leaky pipe that didn’t exist and spotting a sunset that they had watched together hurt, in some ways. In others he reassured him that this—their relationship—was something Shane was truly invested in.

“No more being sorry,” Shane murmured, resting his head against his shoulder and looking up at him from an angle. “We’re done being apologetic. We’re here, right? We’re together.” That was all that mattered to him.

“Mhm,” he hummed in agreement, fussing with his hair a bit. “We’re together.” And that alone was a damn miracle, he thought.

Running his hand up and down Shane’s back, he closed his eyes again just absorbing the moment for as long as he possibly could. He knew this wouldn’t last. That their break would end and they would start to have a hectic routine instead of late mornings cuddling.

They would be grabbing breakfast and rushing out the door to practice, staying late for drill, traveling for long hours on airplanes and sleeping in hotels again. Just like they did individually for a decade.

Only now, they could see each other at those practices, sit next to each other on those planes, and share those hotels instead of sneaking into each other’s rooms. And even if no one knew that, it was something he was looking forward to, anyway.

“I don’t look like I’m playing pretend or anything?” he wondered, still feeling a bit weird in it.

He shook his head. “No,” he replied. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

He hummed skeptically, but turned around to avoid criticizing himself in the mirror any longer. “We’re still driving separately,” he reminded him.

They might have been waking up in the same bed for a week or two, but they needed to get used to also keeping certain things secret. Like showing up to practice in different cars, preferably at separate times, too. Just so no one started thinking they were too close.

At least not this early, when the whole world still thought they were rivals. Maybe after a season or two they could drive together without it being as suspicious. That might be nice.

Ilya nodded. “I know, I know,” he responded, gently running his hand up and down his arm. “No need to be nervous; you’re just meeting the team for a bit of scrimmage.”

They weren’t really going to be in full gear or anything, just home and away jerseys to split them up for a bit of a game this afternoon. It was a ritual before the season started to get back into the swing of things before practice started to become brutal again.

“I’m not nervous,” he bit back defensively, lying through his teeth so badly it wasn’t even remotely convincing.

He looked, sounded, and acted terrified. Because he was. He was going out of his mind with anxiety, a thousands thoughts coursing through his head, most of them negative. Ilya said the team was okay with this, with him.

But Ilya was also their friend and wanted to assume the best from them. They might pretend to be okay with this and then meet him and realize exactly how much they disliked having him infiltrate their space.

Ilya hummed skeptically but didn’t call him out on the lie. Instead, he reached for his own keys off the nightstand. “I’m going to the rink early to meet up with Marlow,” he told him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You will be there soon after, yes?”

He nodded, still feeling his anxiety settling in his chest like a heavy weight. “Yeah, I’m leaving twenty minutes after you.”

That was a good enough space between their arrivals, he figured. No one would automatically assume they arrived together or that they even saw each other since he moved to Boston, yet. Maybe he’d fake introduce himself just for good measure. No, that was ridiculous. He couldn’t push it that far.

Ilya noticed his expression, the one he got when he was overthinking things. “Twenty minutes, then,” he repeated, trying to keep his voice casual so he couldn’t read into it at all. “Looking forward to having you meet everyone.”

Turning, Ilya left the bedroom and Shane blew out a long breath. The idea of actually being a Raider had seemed so much more simple when his mind was just filled with thoughts of having dinner on Ilya’s couch and parking in the same garage.

Now that there were all these other thoughts swirling in his head, he was realizing exactly what he was getting into. An entire shift in his social image. One he had worked insanely hard to try to cultivate to become someone kids looked up to and families bonded over watching on the ice.

The Raiders were amazing, don’t get him wrong, but they weren’t exactly family friendly compared to the Metros. They were known for starting and ending fights, getting thrown in the penalty box more than most players, and avoiding the typical publicity like open practices.

Shane supposed he should be grateful for that last one. If the Raiders did tear him apart this afternoon, there wouldn’t be many witnesses to it.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Shutting his car door, he slung his bag over his shoulder and locked it. He somehow already had his name on a parking space plaque, right beside Connors. His mind, overactive and a bit paranoid, almost wondered if Ilya had asked for it to be done and how suspicious that might come across.

But he calmed himself down, realizing it was probably just something management wanted to do as a way to make a good impression. He didn’t have to worry, he told himself. No one knew anything. This was just a simple afternoon scrimmage match. Friendly and everything.

Walking into Boston’s stadium felt different than it usually did, today. He wasn’t filing in with a group of teammates cursing the very ground they stood on. He was alone, wearing a yellow jersey with their logo on it. And he wasn’t going to the guest locker rooms, either. He was walking straight towards the home team-…his teams locker room he reminded himself.

Bracing himself with a deep breath, Shane pushed open the door, eyes immediately flitting around the room as some of the team stopped what they were doing to look up at him. They stared, silent and tense. He felt his heart pounding, some sort of ice breaker stuck on the tip of his tongue.

“Hollander,” Dubek muttered harshly, still staring at him, unblinking.

This was his worst nightmare, them hating him. Not even wanting him here. Making his life difficult for daring to try to be one of them—

Before he could spiral completely, their straight faced cracked into smiles and Hammersmith walked over, clapping his hand over Shane’s back. “You’re here!” he exclaimed, no malice in his voice.

He stiffened, looking at Ilya for some sort of understanding but he was just smirking to himself as he rifling through his cubby for something, trying not to focus on him too much.

“Sorry about the cold pretense,” Carmichael explained, his expression gentling. “It’s tradition to scare the new guy a bit when we meet officially. Just for fun.”

“Oh, right, yeah,” Shane murmured, huffing slightly as he relaxed a bit.

That was something that he would have liked to know before walking into their locker room feeling more terrified than he was when he thought a hit he took might have ended his career. Ilya probably left it out of their discussions on purpose, not wanting to spoil it.

“It’s nothing personal, we swear. We do it to everyone,” Hammersmith assured him, eyebrows furrowed. “How was the drive? Not too much traffic, I hope.”

“Hm? Wha- no,” he shook his head, fingers clutched a bit tighter around the strap of his bag. “No traffic, surprisingly.” He had just sat in his car for a while, zoning out as he tried to mentally prepare himself for, well, this.

“Good, wouldn’t want you to be exposed to how many horrible drivers we have right away,” Sebbin remarked, tossing his jersey over his head. “You might be running for the hills before the season even starts.”

“You are all so brilliant at being welcoming,” Ilya murmured sarcastically, glancing up at them. “How about ‘Hi, we’re glad you’re here’ or perhaps ‘Good to see you again’ before all the other stuff?”

Mockingly, Marlow straightened up. “Hi, we’re glad you’re here, Shane,” he said extending his hand dramatically. “It’s good to see you again.”

There were a few chuckles and Ilya rolled his eyes. “Группа комиков,” he mumbled to himself, grabbing his jersey off the hanger and pulling it on over a compression shirt.

Just seeing the familiarity of the gesture and hearing the fondness in his teasing helped ease some of the nerves still wound tight in Shane’s gut. So did seeing the relaxed expressions on the guys’ faces, how most of them went back to adjusting their cubbies for the upcoming season the way they did every year they came back.

Marlow huffed in amusement, lowering his hand. “Seriously, though, it is good to see you, Hollander,” he told him earnestly. “It’s nice to know we’ve got you on our side, for a change.”

No one really enjoyed losing to him. Losing in general, really. But there was a specific kind of dread they always shared as a team when it came to facing Montreal. And now, well, that fear had all but disappeared.

“Your cubby is over here, next to mine,” Victor told him, gesturing towards it. There was a sign with his name, but not much else.

Shane set his bag down on the shelf, pulling out a few things that he tended to just keep at his old rink year-round. “Thanks, St-Simon,” he muttered.

He wrinkled his nose. “Vic, is fine,” he replied casually. “I don’t usually respond if you call a pass with my full name.”

He nodded slowly. “Noted,” he responded, filing the information away. “So, uh- away jersey, huh?” He pointed at the colors on his jersey, the scheme different than the one he was wearing right now.

“Yep, still playing against you, I guess,” Vic retorted with a small huff of amusement. “The jersey looks good on you, by the way. I could be biased, though. I think seeing you in anything other than blue is a step up.”

Shane chuckled, glancing around the locker room as the knot in his stomach unwound a bit more. This wasn’t so bad, he realized. They weren’t being standoffish with him or making comments about him being out of place. They were kind of…embracing him, in a way. Exactly like Ilya claimed they would.

And given the self-confident smile he was sporting from his own cubby, Shane would say he was reveling in knowing he had been right.

Putting on just a bit of padding for the sake of safety, everyone laced up their skates and he followed them out onto the ice. The rink wasn’t even fully lit, the upper lights dimmed a bit. Which, honestly kind of made things feel a bit comfortable. There were no screaming fans or bright lights, just some guys getting back to what they loved doing.

“Okay, away jerseys will be on that side of the rink,” Ilya announced, shooing them dramatically towards the other end of it. “Everyone on my team stays here. Five minutes to strategize and Kane will referee today.”

Shane watched as Vic, Varkov, Connors, Kohn and Feller skated off to the other end of the rink, already smacking each other or whispering a little too loudly about their offense plans.

They have played six on six or even seven on seven despite the actual rules of the game if the whole team was there, but some were still enjoying their break, and there was no reason to drag them back early when practice officially started next week.

The others huddled around Ilya and Shane joined them, glancing at Marlow, Hammersmith, Sebbin, and Dubek. He knew them all both professionally and from Ilya’s stories, but it felt different to actually be conversing with them like this. Especially on their side.

“What, no goalies?” Shane wondered, a bit confused.

Dubek shrugged. “We go back and forth of whether we use them,” he admitted. “It generally works better without them, though. Like a team builder— you have to communicate better to keep the puck out of the net if it’s not one person’s designated job.”

He nodded slightly, also adding that to his new and quickly growing file of what he knew about the Raiders. “Oh, makes sense,” he murmured.

“Okay, listen up,” Ilya insisted, his voice low despite the others being too far away to overhear anything. “The plan is three on offense, two on defense. The net is never empty if the puck is in natural area or ours.”

Marlow agreed, “But if it’s in their zone, then all of us are, too. We overwhelm them to keep it there.”

“Take every shot instead of worrying about making them,” Sebbin added like it was some sort of mantra. “The more we take, the more we make.”

“And stay off the boards as much as possible,” Hammersmith noted, like it was a general reminder to them all. “Feller can get the puck out of any pile of players if he’s against them.”

It was normally one hell of a thing to witness on the ice against any other team but now, it would be like just handing them a goal if they got tangled up against the boards.

Shane just listened, absorbing the information as best he could. It wasn’t really instructions, so much as reminders about stuff they all knew about each other that made it a bit more difficult to score against each other.

A few more minutes passed pretty quickly and they broke apart, already skating into position. Ilya glanced at Shane, tilting his head towards the center of the ice, as is gifting him the face off against Feller. He suppressed a smile, making his way towards Kane who was holding the puck.

“As a reminder, the puck needs to stay on the ice as much as possible,” he stated, glaring specifically at Feller. “Coach won’t approve of anyone getting a concussion while not wearing full gear.”

They had helmets and knee pads on, sure, but not much else and if anyone shot the puck too hard or high, they could easily bruise some ribs or cause some even worse damage.

He rolled his eyes. “Fine,” Feller muttered, stick gently hitting the ice as he bent slightly. “Puck stays on the ice. No fast shots.”

With a nod of approval, Kane dropped the puck and the two of them fought for it. Shane came out victorious, immediately passing it to Marlow who sent it towards Ilya.

Shane felt a wave of peace wash over him as he watched him, skating after in an effort to keep Vic off Ilya’s back. They played on the same side exactly once in their careers, and it had been one of the best games he thought he ever had. It was a feeling that landed just under winning the cup, where he felt thrilled to look towards Ilya to pass him the puck, instead of attempting to steal it.

“Varkov, clear!” Connors shouted, skating towards the other end of the rink as Varkov shot the puck across it.

Shane raced after it, trying to beat Connors to it before they could get it anywhere near their net. Getting there first, he got slammed into the boards, shoulder hitting it hard enough to jostle the panels.

Connors paused, reaching his hand out to steady him with a squeeze on his shoulder. “You alright?” he questioned, having rammed into him a bit harder than anticipated with how fast he had been skating.

Shane barely heard him, giving a brief nod. “Sebbin!” he called, the puck nestled against the curve of his stick as he passed it before Connors noticed.

“On it, Hollzy!” he retorted, the puck gliding towards him smoothly as he kept it away from Carmichael.

Connors huffed at him, slightly annoyed. “And to think I was trying to be polite,” he muttered, giving him a small shove before skating off to try to help Carmichael recapture the puck.

Shane went around their net, stopping a few feet away from it and looking towards Hammersmith whose eyes were flitting around as quickly as the puck was. He gripped and regripped his stick, moving it a fraction of an inch at a time like he was anticipating something.

A moment later the puck came sliding back towards their goal and he reached out, stick stopping it cleanly before he smoothing hit it back where it came from in the direction of Ilya. A small smirk graced Hammersmiths lips, waving at Kohn who had shot the goal.

“Fuck you Smitty!” he shouted, middle finger flying up as he turned his back.

Hammersmith cackled, head tilted towards Shane. “Three years ago during a scrimmage, I told him I’d give him a hundred dollars if he got a shot past me,” he explained, biting back his laughter. “He’s still trying to make it happen.”

Shane huffed, teeth baring. “That applicable to everyone or just Kohn?” he wondered curiously.

He raised an eyebrow. “No one else is petty enough to care, usually,” he muttered, shrugging. “But give it a try next time we scrimmage on opposite sides.”

He gave a curt nod. “Maybe I will,” he mused as Marlow skated up, bumping his shoulder on purpose with a gesture towards the other end of the ice.

Right, they were supposed to be switching off on offense and defense positions. Shane skated back towards the center, eyes scanning the ice for the puck and re-inserting himself right back into the game again.

It was surprisingly easy, scrimmaging with them. There wasn’t much trouble calling to them or convincing them to pass the puck to him, he wasn’t fighting for them to trust him like he thought he would be. Even when he blatantly lost the puck, no one complained over it. In fact, Dubek just shrugged and muttered something about that was the way the game worked.

Shane wondered if that easy come-easy go mentality was because this was just for fun or how they actually felt in games against other teams but figured he would find out eventually. In the meantime, he just wanted to keep getting used to the way they played, which was weirdly harmonious. No jealousy over the puck or arrogance over who technically scored it. Assists were praised just as much.

It was different, to say the least, from how the Metros interacted. He thought because they were the family friendly, held to a higher standard of morals team, that they were already communicating well enough. If anything, the rough, so-called aggressive team would be the guys who fight each other to score and argue over the puck.

But they weren’t. It was the complete opposite.

As the scrimmage ended, he expected to hear the same thing he heard from the Metros—the forced congratulations, petty comments, even technicalities called to try to invalidate certain goals.

But all he got was a bump on his helmet and a “That was fun,” from Feller.

“I’ll get that money next time,” Kohn swore, making Hammersmith cackle again as his own expression shifted into a petty grin while nudging him towards the locker room.

“Next time, we’re splitting Roz and Hollzy up to make it more fair,” Sebbin added.

That got a few cheers and Ilya chuckled, falling slightly behind them and bumping his shoulder against Shane. “Told you they would like you,” he murmured softly to him with a soft tone and even softer eyes before heading into the locker room.

Shane had to admit, he was right. The guys had been exceptionally nice to him, not even treating him like an outsider for a single moment. It was the second they were on the ice together, they were already a team who had played for several seasons. And that alone had eased every remaining fear he had about his decision to come to Boston.

Tugging off his jersey, he hung it up in his cubby, feeling a lot better about seeing his number in Raiders colors. “Hey, Sebbin?” he called to the man as he packed his own stuff with Vic between them. “What was with that nickname?” he wondered.

Sebbin stuck his head out, looking around Vic. “I don’t know, just slipped out,” he admitted, shrugging. “Didn’t your team call you that?”

He shook head a bit. “Not really,” he replied. “Usually just Hollander or Shane.” And pretty often, it was captain without his name attached. But that clearly wouldn’t work anymore.

“Hm, I would have thought you’d shorten the name given how natural it sounded,” he muttered. “I can cut it out, though, if you don’t like it.”

Shane was quick to shake his head again. “No, no it was fine,” he assured him. “Felt natural to hear it too, actually.”

A little more so than he could have even hoped for. His eyes scanned the locker room again. His locker room. His team. His boyfriend catching his gaze and giving him a small smile that no one else noticed. All of his fears, he realized, were entirely irrational. This wasn’t just a decent idea, it was a pretty damn good one.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

A few weeks later, practice was in full swing. The remaining players had come back from their breaks and met Shane with equal enthusiasm about his joining the team.

Hours at the rink grew brutal in terms of the drills, but they still managed to keep the tone as light as they could, joking around and smacking each other playfully even when their arms ached. Afterwards, if they weren’t too exhausted, they’d grab drinks at a dive bar a few blocks away and play billiards until someone ran out of cash.

Unlike the Metros no one teased him for not drinking during the season.

“That’s dedication, Hollzy,” Marlow once admitted, contemplating it for a moment before ordering a Ginger Ale instead of a second beer.

Shade, in response, just huffed, watching him try it for the first time in probably three or four years, and remembering that it actually tasted pretty good. To be honest, the nickname, which others started using as well, was pretty comforting to hear.

They weren’t expecting him to bear the weight of the whole team, calling him captain like it meant he had to fix everything all the time. He was just a teammate. And a friend, he liked to think.

Media outlets kept digging deep, though, into both teams. Most thought there was some sort of secret the Metros were hiding, an explanation for the captains sudden departure, but none of Shane’s old teammates made many comments. The ones they did, were usually passive aggressive and indirectly called him a traitor, a liar, or a bad friend. Maybe all of the above.

Reporters staked out the rink, which coach kept closed like usual, not wanting anyone getting in their heads with practices getting so intense. But even so, it was still tough to avoid all the questions entirely. Especially not when they were forced into press events that the team was usually known to skip

“We never have press for picture day,” Ilya muttered, his tone a mix of confusion and annoyance all at once. “I don’t like her.”

Shane glanced at the woman in the corner, taking notes on a pad while Dubek had a few photos and short clips taken for the seasons promotional videos. “She’s not even doing anything right now,” he replied.

“She will,” he stated confidently. “I can feel it.”

He furrowed his brows, watching as the photographer walked around with the camera to show Dubek, then coach for extra assurance that they were good enough. Dubek looked thrilled to finally be done with his. Individual were the worst, for all of them, really. Everyone was always just staring, sometimes heckling a bit playfully in an attempt to make the others break character.

That was another thing Shane had noticed pretty quickly—the Raiders were all phenomenal actors. Annoyed, brutish, assholes because it’s what the league wanted from them, even though together they laughed and joked like every other team did.

Hell, probably more and with better attitudes since their humor didn’t seem to center around truly insulting or attacking anyone, even the other teams.

They’d check the news, comment on some practice videos they saw from New York or Chicago and instead of calling them sloppy or muttering how weak someone looked, they noted how quick one player was and the reaction time of another. They sounded like they had genuine respect for their competitors.

Did the Metros ever do that? Not that Shane could remember. There was some idea that tearing the other teams apart verbally would help bond them emotionally.

“Hollander?” The photographer called.

He snapped his head up, realizing they were all waiting for him to take the group picture. “Oh, sorry,” he murmured, walking over while the assistant’s moved players around according to their heights and who looked best next to each other.

“You alright?” Kane wondered, shuffling a bit to the side as one of the assistants repositioned him.

He nodded. “Yeah, it’s just cold as hell in here,” he replied, rolling his shoulders as the fans blew on them. Kane huffed, nodding in agreement.

In the corner, the reporter jotted something down and Shane felt his stomach churn a bit. Maybe Ilya was right.

One of the assistants turned to her boss. “Do you want Hollander on the left or right?” she questioned.

“Left,” the photographer responded, gesturing towards the other side of Ilya. “We’ll pay homage to their draft picture.”

Ilya huffed, scrubbing his forehead. “Joy,” he murmured in annoyance.

Picture day never was his favorite day; it was all so posed and fake. It made him feel like he was back in elementary school, being touched and primped when he didn’t want anyone’s cold fingertips fussing with his hair.

Marlow moved to the right side of Ilya, letting Shane stand on the left. The photographer nodded, the lineup looking better that way in his eyes. He held his hand up, trying to get them to all pause, standing up straight.

The jokes subsided, smiles dropping into their typical expressions for a moment while the camera went off a few times, the shuttering filling the cold, quiet room.

“I’m getting a drink after this,” Kohn stated through gritted teeth, trying to keep his lips from moving as he had his head angled on his behalf. “Or better yet, ice cream.”

“Me too,” Dubek agreed, holding his breath as the camera shuttered again.

“Place downtown does a twenty scoop bowl,” Carmichael noted, getting his hair pushed a bit further to the side by one of the photographers assistants. “We could split.”

“Team reward for putting up with this bullshit,” Vic agreed. “I’m in.”

Shane’s expression faltered a bit, his attempt at keeping the straight, serious face they asked for failing. He cleared his throat, taking a breath in and trying not to smile as they quietly grumbled through their teeth for the entire photoshoot.

They weren’t his favorite, either. But he was good at them. He had been in enough promotional videos to know how to stand still or when to say his lines.

During Metros pictures, they wanted smiles or laughs that built a sense of comradery for their promos. He was almost so used it that scowling seemed impossible. But he was doing his best.

“Alright, alright, I’ve got enough,” the photographer said, waving them off to dismiss them.

Everyone immediately let out their deep breaths, unflexing their arms, letting their shoulders sag or otherwise relaxing now that he was putting the camera up. Rolling out his neck, Varkov walked over to his bag, checking his phone for a moment.

“Closes at like midnight tonight,” he announced, glancing over his shoulder. To no one's surprise, it seemed. It was downtown Boston, after all. Most places were open until midnight if not later.

There was some clamoring and agreements as everyone started gathering their stuff. Shane huffed, his smile finally breaking through as he tilted his head towards Ilya. “You want to go with them?” he wondered.

He thought about it, shrugging. “Could be interesting,” he admitted, sounding enticed. “I do feel like a reward is deserved after spending five and a half hours here.”

The only time he even had his skates on were for them to take pictures of him lacing them. The suggestion alone had him rolling his eyes and actually going through with it nearly killed him. He would have much rather just spent the day on ice and let them take their pictures that way.

“I could use it, too,” Shane admitted, nodding. “At the very least, I need to spend more time downtown.” Even after two months of living here, he wasn’t very aware of the area and needed to at least try to rectify it.

“We can drive with Connors, then,” Ilya suggested. “Minimal parking downtown and he’s the only one of these idiots I actually trust behind a wheel.”

He loved the guys, really, he did. But they were insane. Even more so than he was himself in the driver’s seat. And if he was going to die, it would not be because of something as stupid as a car crash.

Sane nodded again. They couldn’t drive together alone, but with others in the car, there was no reason for anyone to suspect anything. “Sounds good,” he replied. “Let me just—”

“Mr. Hollander!” the reporter called as he began to turn to gather his stuff.

He winced and Ilya shot him a glare that screamed ‘I told you’ louder than any choice of words possibly could. “—Let me answer that, then I’ll meet up with you,” he muttered, letting out a small sigh as he turned back around, smiling at the reporter with the peppiest grin he could manage.

Ilya grabbed his stuff, leaving with the others but Shane saw him tapping on Connors shoulder, presumably to tell him they had to wait for him. He wasn’t overly shocked that this woman wanted to speak with him, but he had hoped to escape it anyway.

After all, she got quotes from over half the team throughout the day. Maybe he could have managed to wiggle out of it if he had just slipped out a bit faster like Marlow did.

“I just wanted to grab a few quotes from you, if that’s alright?” she wondered.

Saying no wasn’t possible, even if she phrased it like a question.

“Sure,” Shane agreed, planting his hands on his hips and trying to keep a smile on his face like he was always trained to do. “Shoot.”

“Right, well first of all I know a lot of other reporters have asked this but is there any specific reason you chose to sign with the Raiders over extending your contract with the Metros?” she asked, pen gripped tightly in her hand.

He shook his head. “Nope, not really,” he told him. “Same reason I tell everyone else—My contract was up and I wanted a change of pace. I don’t have any resentment towards the team, the management, or the fans. This was just what I felt was best for me.”

“And is it, so far?” she pressed. “You certainly look comfortable in that jersey and with the team too, maybe to a surprising extent.”

Shane shrugged. “It’s a sport where things are always moving and that includes people,” he replied. “The Raiders know that and so do I. We’re all just figuring out a new rhythm and planning to do our best this season.”

She hummed, almost skeptically, looking down to jot something on her notepad. He didn’t quite like that, for some reason, but bit his tongue. Trying to correct or recant his statements always made things worse, never better.

“Do you have any current apprehensions about the upcoming season or your ability to play under Rozanov given your quite public disdain for each other?” she inquired, looking back up. “And if so, could that be a potential weak spot for other teams to exploit?”

Shane nearly scoffed, because animosity was the last thing between his and Ilya. And it showed, when they played. They were in sync, always on the same wave-length, whatever else possibly fit in the area, too.

“Rozanov is and always has been a phenomenal player and a great captain,” he responded earnestly. “I respect that, even if we’ve had our differences in the past. As for weak spots…guess the other teams just have to play us and find out for themselves.”

She nodded slowly, writing it down and underlining it a few times. “So, do you—”

“Actually,” Shane interjected, tilting his head towards the door. “I would really like to get out of here, if that’s alright. My team is waiting on me.”

The woman pursed her lips, flipping the top page of her pad over. “Of course,” she murmured softly. “Thank you for your time.”

He nodded and gave a hum that was lackluster, to say the least, before grabbing his stuff and walking out of the room. Ilya, Connors, and Dubek were there all waiting for him while chatting.

“Sorry, she was grilling me about the upcoming season,” he muttered in annoyance. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting or—”

“It’s fine,” Connors assured him, sensing he was spiraling into a bit of a tizzy over it. “The others are going to wait for us before ordering so the ice cream won’t melt.”

“Really?” Shane wondered, sounding a bit surprised. Usually, if one person was late, no one waited around without being asked. Unless Hayden counted. But even then, he sometimes forgot.

Dubek nodding, slinging his arm over Shane’s shoulder. “Still, we should hurry,” he insisted with mock urgency. “I can drive, if you want. I always cut the GPS time in half—”

“No!” Ilya exclaimed before he even proposed the idea, shaking his head firmly as he glanced at them from the side.

Maybe he should have felt a bit jealous that another man was hanging off Shane, but he didn’t. Because it was Dubek, and he never meant any harm with his pushiness. Besides, for a man who barely tolerated affection from the Metros, Shane was remarkably alright with being shoulder bumped or having his hair messed up by the team.

Ilya liked the smile it brought him. The way he looked so much more relaxed around the Raiders. Content, even.

He knew that was a bit difficult for him, fully relaxing. Shane wasn’t the kind of guy who ever truly let his guard down unless he was completely alone of felt entirely safe. Both were rare. It came from years of being on camera, different angles trying to catch every micro expression he let slip and spin it to make him look angry, afraid, even envious or disgusted.

Shane managed his face as much, if not more than he managed anything else in life. Including his diet, which was always his way of seeking control when everything felt like it was spinning out.

That’s why Ilya had been so surprised to hear his willingness to partake in something as sugary and energy dense as ice cream. If anything, he would usually get sorbet, maybe something fat-free or low calorie. He supposed it was because he didn’t want to feel left out, but didn’t comment on it.

When they got to shop, the bell on the door chimed as they entered, the smell of cream and sugar filing the mostly empty ice cream parlor. The rest of the team was already, there pointing at the board and discussing some topic that ceased the moment they got there.

“Do any of us know how big this thing actually is?” Connors questioned after they had already ordered, taking a seat at a table while the other guys pushed some together so everyone had room to sit down.

“Eh, part of the fun,” Carmichael retorted, one table bumping against the other until he figured there was enough space. He sat beside him, planting his elbows on the table. “Besides, after that shoot, we deserve every scoop.”

Marlow nodded, humming in agreement as he wedged himself between Varkov and Vic. “What even was that?” he wondered, still a bit confused by the entire afternoon. “Coach never lets press watch during team photoshoots.”

Not the first of the season, anyway. Maybe later on, during designated press days when they opened the rink. But they had plenty of advance notice for those and always acted a very specific way in front of the cameras. Like assholes, really.

That was the easiest way to put it, because, frankly, that’s what was expected. The fights, the crude language, the lack of empathy for anyone including each other. And they were happy to provide the material to make those assumptions. They even liked the persona’s, in a way. It made them a lot easier to write off as brutish and cruel instead of clever or conniving.

“Guess Desjourney is trying to capitalize on Hollzy and Roz,” Vic commented, shrugging. “It’s not that surprising, given their history.”

“We don’t believe it for a second, by the way,” Hammersmith clarified, keeping his voice down a bit as he gestured between the two of them. “I mean sure, you’re both competitive. But c’mon, hatred? It’s an act just like our whole team schtick is.”

Ilya blinked, turning to Marlow. “Schtick?” he repeated slowly, the word sounding a bit odd with his accent.

“A deception, basically,” he explained for him. “It means you play up your rivalry for the cameras because people wanted to see it.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes as Marlow described the word. He couldn’t remember a time when that one had been used around him. At least not directly or recently enough for him to add it to his vocabulary. He quietly repeated it to himself, filing it away in his mind.

“Ah.” He nodded as he got it. “Yes, is exaggerated,” he replied, the admission sounding pretty casual. It was. The team always knew it was a ruse, even if not quite to what extent. They knew Ilya respected Shane as the best player in the league, if not one of the greatest of all times.

“I’m sorry he brought a reporter in,” Shane told them apologetically. “I know it wasn’t what you guys wanted.”

And despite talking to most of them, it somehow still seemed like she was mostly there for him. Which gave them every right to be upset with him for ruining what should have been a private, not to mention quick afternoon getting their season roster pictures updated.

Kane gave him a weird look, just shrugging. “So what?” he questioned rhetorically. “We were inconvenienced for a few hours, no big deal.”

“Yeah, besides you can just say no next time,” Dubek added, looking over Shane’s shoulder as the massive bowl of ice cream seemed to grow taller while being prepared.

He blinked, looking around the table. “Wait- I can?” he asked, sounding skeptical.

Sebbin huffed a laugh, nodding his head as he bumped Shane’s arm. “Of course you can,” he responded, nodding. “Raiders are known to be assholes, remember? We decline media all the time because we want our privacy.”

Shane looked like some sort of epiphany had washed over it. “You guys just…say no?” he repeated, still shocked. “Coach allows it? The media crew doesn’t get upset?”

“I mean, it’s not like we have a huge media team anyway,” Kohn reminded him, also shrugging. “It annoys the hell out of the reporters, but they’re used to it. They print all those bullshit headlines about us being cruel to them and that’s kind of funny.”

Coach swung fifty-fifty on whether or not he cared, really. Sometimes, when they really needed some attention, he would cave and allow a bit of press here and there. But usually, he let the team decline or accept whatever was brought up and if Desjourney disagreed, he just got over it.

Especially since even refusing an interview still impacted their reputations, in a way. The way he wanted, no less. It was good when they declined comments or refused to let people watch their practices. It built the illusion of pomp that brought fans to the rink and kept them coming while they tried to unravel the overall mystery of the team dynamics.

“That’s- wow,” Shane murmured in astonishment, wishing he had known that earlier. He would have tried to refuse whoever that journalist was instead of letting her contribute to such a tense afternoon. “I usually don’t get a choice in media; I’m just forced to do it.”

“You don’t ask for it or anything?” Feller wondered, furrowing his eyebrows. “I would have thought you liked it, given all the sponsorships and stuff you do outside the rink.”

He shook his head. “No, I kind of hate the cameras actually,” he confessed, looking down at the table. “It’s just expected that I take all the brand deals and do all the interviews. The Metros always called me a bit self-obsessed for how many I did, actually.”

Ilya wrinkled his nose. “It is not self-obsessed if you are doing it to please management,” he retorted in disagreement. “You don’t want to be plastered on walls; they want it for you and you want them to be happy. Big name draws in a crowd.”

Shane had, especially recently, become more famous as an advertisement than anything else in his career. People associated him with energy drinks, clothing lines, shoe companies, not his stats. Even in the rink, he was the name they put on merchandise and said was having a great year for jersey sales, not the one they talked about being dedicated or disciplined.

“Well, I don’t how much my opinion matters yet,” Vic told him earnestly. “But I think from an outsider perceptive, you have been a brand not a player for far too long. And I for one am excited to see the cutthroat version you were as a rookie come back out.”

“I second that,” Marlow agreed, dipping his head. “We’ll make an athlete out of you again.”

Shane chuckled slightly, feeling a strange tightness coil in his chest for a moment. It wasn’t quite out of anxiety or fear, though, like usual. It was more like the one he got when he was around Ilya. Comfort, perhaps. Or maybe acceptance?

“Oh, here we go!” Sebbin exclaimed, brightening up as a man brought over a massive glass bowl of ice cream, scoops of different flavors piled high and covered in whipped cream and cherries. “This might make all of this afternoon’s discomfort worth it.”

“Mm, what discomfort?” Kohn noted, playing along as it was set down in the middle. “I can’t even remember what happened today.”

A second waiter set down a plethora of spoons, the metal clinking on the table as the guys all reached to grab one like they’d have to fight for it or something. They were already scanning the bowl, trying to figure out what each flavor was based on the color or toppings around it.

Strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, of course. Rocky road and pecan, too. One looked like cotton candy, Shane was pretty sure.

“No one touches the Rum raisin; it’s mine,” Feller insisted, already spinning the massive glass bowl around so his preferred flavor was closer to him. “I’m calling dibs.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about anyone stealing it,” Kohn retorted, already diving into the pistachio. “You’re the only one here who eats that flavor.” Maybe the only person in all of Boston, for that matter.

He shrugged, scraping his spoon against the ice cream. “Can’t tell why,” he replied, bringing his spoon to his mouth. “It’s the best one.”

There were a few grimaces, even downright disagreements as everyone started listing flavors they considered better. Mint chip, butterscotch, even Bubble gum. Shane just watched, nodding slightly whenever he agreed with one of the comments.

Ilya watched him from across the table, taking a small bite of the nearest flavor. Raspberry, he was pretty sure. Made with fresh fruit, too, since there were seeds in it.

“What’s you favorite flavor, Hollzy?” Vic questioned, gesturing to the massive bowl with his spoon that looked ridiculously small in comparison.

He paused for a moment before shrugging. “I uh- don’t eat a lot of ice cream, honestly,” he admitted cautiously, preparing for a comment about his diet the way JJ or Berkes would always make one.

They’d call it bird food or a form of self-loathing, things like that. He never told them, or anyone, technically, but he kind of agreed deep down. He just tried to pretend otherwise.

Kohn perked up a bit, fighting back Sebbin’s spoon for some of the Salted Carmel ice cream. “Do you prefer cake or cookies or something?” he asked curiously. “I make an amazing bannana bread, too, if you want something healthier than that.”

“You do?” he replied, a bit surprised.

He nodded, finally getting a bit of the flavor and bringing his spoon to his mouth. “Yeah, I have a friend who is super into healthy recipes so I always bake him a loaf for his birthday,” he explained. “It’s got yogurt, protein flour, low-cal sugar, all that stuff. But it actually tastes pretty good because I use honey for a little extra sweetness. Don’t blab it around, though. Secret recipe and all that.”

Shane huffed a small laugh, finding himself picking up the last spoon off the table. “I’ll keep it to myself,” he muttered, glancing at the bowl and reaching to try some of the Orea flavor that looked like it had crushed pieces in it. “I typically just watch my calories pretty closely, is all. Ice cream is sort of a special thing.”

He brought a small bite to his lips, having almost forgotten how good ice cream tasted. Ilya’s lips twitched into a small, almost proud smile over it. Even though it didn’t really seem like anything terribly significant, it was important to him to see Shane try it. And even more so to see him not immediately regret it.

“Team bonding definitely counts as a special excuse for it,” Dubek replied, digging into the coconut flavor. “Then again, I think most things are a reason for ice cream. I love it,” he muttered with a very serious expression. “Best fucking dessert to exist, bar none.”

Shane laughed, gravitating towards another bite without even realizing it until the flavor was hitting his tongue again. “So, an ice cream cake for your birthday then?” he questioned.

His eyes lit up and he pointed his spoon at him. “You are my new favorite teammate, Hollzy,” he replied firmly, nodding dramatically.

Hammersmith looked around the team a bit, glancing at the window where a few people had stopped outside of the ice cream parlor and were just staring through the glass like they couldn’t be seen if they didn’t come inside. They did that a lot, actually. Which, he supposed was better than if they trampled in and interrupted their conversations.

“We’re gonna be signing shit in a few minutes,” he warned the table, leading to everyone else looking up at the spectators.

“We’re zoo animals,” Vic commented, mildly annoyed but not truly upset as he went back to the bowl of ice cream.

It was something they had all signed up for, after all. Something they also knew a lot of guys dreamed of having happen to them. People would kill to be in their shoes, and they were aware of it. They were just as grateful for the opportunity to play in the NHL as any other team was, they just acted like they weren’t.

Varkov ignored the flash of the camera going off through the glass, having gotten pretty good at focusing when there was a lot of commotion around him. “We are downtown,” he replied, shrugging. “Hard to get away from it.”

Shane glanced at the group of people outside, a small frown of confusion tugging at his lips as his spoon fell from them. “They’re all just standing there,” he noticed. “Why aren’t they coming inside or anything?”

Ilya spun the bowl around a bit. “They’re being respectful,” he replied like it was obvious.

Well, sort of respectful. He didn’t expect them to act like the entire team being in public together without a media crew or their jerseys was totally normal. It obviously wasn’t. But it was polite of them to wait for them to be done rather than intruding on their space.

“Part of the asshole thing,” Feller explained to Shane with a vague gesture of his hand. “If they barge in or crowd around, we don’t give any autographs or pictures. They know they have to be patient and courteous.”

“Plus, we stay and talk with them more when they’re nice,” Marlow added, scraping his spoon against the side of the bowl. “It’s kind of common knowledge around the city.”

It helped that it extended to the rink, too. They didn’t really have to worry about being spotted if they wanted to see the public parts of the arena they didn’t normally get to visit or they could just walk out into the lobby and parking lot before a game if they were bored and wanted to meet some people.

“No one ever oversteps or anything?” Shane wondered, taking another bite of ice cream.

Vic shrugged. “Not often,” he replied, shaking his head. “Every once in a while someone from a visiting city gets rowdy but it’s usually the other fans that call out the behavior.” They didn’t want to spoil it for everyone else because one person got too pushy and invaded their space.

“You guys basically trained your fanbase by being such jerks that they behave in order to get your autographs?” he summarized in a bit of awe. “That’s kind of brilliant.” And a bit hard to comprehend, honestly.

Usually, if the Metros were anywhere together in public, they’d be bombarded until they were blinded by cell phone lights and overwhelmed with shouting. No one would have waited outside if they were at a restaurant or something; they would have to rent the whole place out to avoid the attention.

The fact that the Raiders could just walk in and people would let them, especially downtown of all places, was astounding to him.

“I can’t believe we finished that,” Sebbin noted, finishing the last of the ice cream.

“I can,” Kane replied with a huff, leaving his spoon in the empty bowl. “And now I’m freezing my ass off.” He was actually looking forward to heading outside where it was a bit warmer and honestly, he was looking forward to meeting some fans, too. He always liked those interactions.

Everyone pulled their wallets out and Shane furrowed his brows slightly in confusion, watching as everyone threw a twenty-dollar bill onto the table and Marlow stacked them neatly together. Some even tossed multiple.

That was like at least a four-hundred-dollar tip. Jeez. Shane didn’t consider himself cheap or anything, but he had no idea the team tipped to that extent.

“C’mon,” Ilya muttered, rising to his feet as he slipped his wallet back into his pocket. “I see them getting antsy.”

There was a chuckle from someone Shane couldn’t quite discern and everyone began following him outside, the bell on the door chiming again slightly as they left. He stared for a second, watching how none of the fans crowded them or shoved pens towards them either.

It was the exact opposite, actually. They all took a few steps back, leaving a respectable distance between them and the team while talking to them. Talking. Not clamoring or screaming or shoving phones in their face. Just chatting.

Marlow shook some guys hand and a teenage boy asked Feller something and he stepped closer to take a picture with the kid. A woman held out a pen towards Ilya with a sheepish expression and he nodded, gesturing for her to turn around so he could sign her shirt. It was so casual and low-key that his brain was kind of struggling to comprehend it, honestly.

“Shane?” Dubek commented, staying behind with him. “You alright?”

“Hm? Yeah,” he replied, nodding. “I was just a bit surprised by how relaxed everyone is.” Usually, a crowd made the Metros act like caged animals.

He glanced at the window again. “They’re pretty good to us,” he agreed, looking back at him. “But I was actually talking about the ice cream.”

Shane frowned slightly, confused. “How so?” he questioned.

Dubek gave him a small look, pulling a chair back out and sitting down for a moment. “It’s none of my business, so feel free to tell me to fuck off,” he prefaced gently. “But I recognize that look in your eyes when you were contemplating eating. The language, too, when you said you count calories. You meant you restrict them, right?”

His expression darkened a bit, not quite getting defensive just get but certainly getting caught off guard. People usually didn’t equate his diet to a problem that quickly. They typically only noticed when they saw him checking something most people didn’t think about like a salad dressing bottle or cooking oil.

“It’s all sort of the same thing, isn’t it?” he retorted, shrugging as he tried to downplay it like he had in the past.

“Look, I’m not assuming I know anything about you or your diet,” Dubek clarified, holding his hands up. “I just know I used to struggle with mine pretty badly—checking calories, cutting out stuff I loved eating, trying to defend my choices even when no one asked me to. And I’ve been told it gave me this hollow look in my eyes, kind of like you were getting when we sat down.”

A look of realization flashed across Shane’s eyes. “You did?” he wondered.

He nodded. “It’s not terribly common knowledge, but the team knows about my problem. I had a really hard season a few years back, lost some weight and struggled to put it back on,” he confessed. “I always wished I had been able to talk about it sooner; maybe it wouldn’t have been so hard to bounce back from it.”

The Raiders had, obviously, supported him through it. They never teased or mocked and tried their best to be gentle with their suggestions about dinner. Desserts especially were treated cautiously, offered occasionally and with no pressure to partake while he recovered.

“I’m sorry you- I didn’t know,” he muttered softly. “I’m glad you feel better.”

“You and me both,” Dubek retorted with a soft laugh. “I guess I just wanted to say that if that is something you might think you’re struggling with…talk about it. With me or with Roz, maybe. He helped me find a dietician that I still talk to every once in a while, when I feel like I’m slipping. No pressure, though. I could be totally off base. Maybe you just prefer pie to ice cream for your sweets.”

It was a bit of cop out, a way for Shane to push him away and drop the subject without either of them feeling bad about it if that’s what he wanted to do. Honestly, with Mitty or Wilson or even Hayden, he might have accepted the out.

But something about how gentle Dubek was approaching it, the sincerity in his concern had Shane feeling like maybe it woudn’t be the worst thing in the world to have someone understand him.

“No, I-I do like ice cream,” Shane admitted, nodding slowly. “Just always makes me feel a bit…”

“Guilty?” he assumed correctly, watching him nod. “For me it was cookies. Kohn would bring them to practice, and everyone would have one while I watched and imagined what they tasted like. Sometimes, I even left the room because they smelled so sweet I couldn’t take it.”

“Yeah, guilty. And I uh- feel proud, I guess?” he added hesitantly, grimacing at how strange it sounded. “If I manage to avoid the sugar during a barbeque or something.”

Dubek hummed, something akin to familiarity in his eyes. “If anyone gets that, I do,” he assured him gently. “And I know it’s probably pretty hard to trust a group of relative strangers, especially after the years we’ve spent as rivals, but these guys have your back on and off the ice. I promise.”

Shane nodded slowly, gazing back at the window where Kohn was laughing at something a fan told him and some of the others were still signing whatever people handed them like it wasn’t even the slightest bit of a bother to them. It probably wasn’t, actually. They looked like they were genuinely enjoying the interactions as more people showed up, still trying to give the team their space.

“Yeah, I’m starting to realize that,” Shane murmured softly.

Dubek followed his gaze for a moment before his lips ticked up into a smile. “Let’s go,” he suggested, leaning forward to gently smack his shoulder as he stood up. “I’m sure the fans want to see their new Raider, too.”

He huffed lightly, getting to his feet and following him outside cautiously. He hadn’t really been overly social yet, still a bit nervous about how Boston as a whole was reacting to his choice to move here. Sure, online they were pretty excited. They wanted to win. But him as a person they ran into on the streets was totally different.

Stepping outside, almost everyone’s head turned and he gave a small wave noticing a few people getting a little excited. No one crowded him, though. No one shouted his name or started taking pictures of him.

One girl just introduced herself. “My dad is going to flip that I met you,” she told him, her voice no louder than it would be in a normal conversation. “He actually loves Montreal. It’s his second favorite team after Boston.”

He shook her hand. “I hope he’s okay with the switch,” he muttered.

“It’s the best news he’s heard all year, I think,” she joked, pushing a strand of dark hair over her ear. “Would you mind signing something for him? He won’t believe I met you otherwise.”

Shane nodded. “Yeah, sure,” he told her, taking a pen that had been passed around the team for a few minutes.

Uncapping it, he signed the hem of her shirt, sharpie staining the fabric as he swooped the letters in his name. Once done, he passed the pen back to Vic who signed someone’s phone case, his eyes flitting up to Ilya in the process. Ilya, unsurprisingly, didn’t look the least bit shocked to see people welcoming him so openly and getting excited by his autograph.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

It was only a few days before the first game of the season that an article dropped, the title reading, ‘Former Metro star dares other teams to “play us and find out” just ahead of first game of the season.’

Shane wouldn’t say he was furious or anything, but he was a bit peeved that his words had been twisted like that. He sounded, well, like a Raider with that kind of tone. Social media hadn’t been quiet since then. Neither had his parents or Hayden, who wouldn’t drop it, even several days later.

“I told you, I didn’t say it like that!” he exclaimed to his mom, who was standing in his apartment while his dad looked around the place. Snooped was a better word, but he wouldn’t use it out of politeness. “I mean, I did. But it was out of context!”

“Well, it doesn’t matter how you meant to say it, honey; it’s what they printed,” Yuna replied gently. “Now, it’s a few days late but if we address it—”

“What? No,” he insisted, shaking his head. “I’m not addressing anything. If that’s what people think I meant, let them.”

She raised an eyebrow, a bit caught off guard not just by reluctance to try to change the narrative but the outright refusal. He was usually just as worried as she was about his public image, always wondering if the sponsorships looked good or if his approval rating were falling.

“Wow, Boston has changed you,” she murmured softly, looking around his apartment a bit. It was small. Very small. And he still wasn’t fully unpacked, for some reason.

“No, it hasn’t,” Shane muttered quietly, shrugging his shoulders. “I just don’t care about a headline as much. I want to play; it’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He forgot that for a while. Becoming a brand had stripped away the part of him that was, at his core, meant to be on the ice not in a studio.

His mom hummed slightly, fingertips still clutched around the handle of her suitcase. “Publicity aside,” she clarified. “Are you going to show us the guest room?”

Shane let out a slow breath, nodding his head and taking her bag from her. “Yeah, it’s down the hall,” he told her, taking her stuff that direction.

“Hm, I’m surprised this place is big enough for a hallway,” she murmured, following him. Rightfully so, too, since his idea of a hallway was a tiny, rather inconvenient corner that blocked off the view of the guest room door.

He put her stuff by the bed, backing out of the room and turning to grab his dad’s bags too. Meanwhile, she looked around a little, her gut telling her something about this whole apartment was off. Shane was clean, sure, but this place looked practically untouched.

And frankly, it was. This was only the third time he had ever actually stepped inside of it since moving to Boston.

The first was to put some spare boxes of things he wouldn’t need after moving in with Ilya, the second was when his parents wanted to facetime and see the place so he had to drive over there, and the third was right now as they planned to stay with him for the week and watch the first few games of the season.

Which meant now, instead of going home to his boyfriend, he was stuck living the apartment he technically rented for the next seven days. Ilya wasn’t exactly pleased about it, but given how much more time they got together these days, he was much more willing to share his time with them.

“Okay, that’s pretty much everything you brought, right?” Shane asked, clasping his hands together. “I know you just got here, but I promised I’d be at the rink early for an extra practice and some strategy before the first game so…”

He didn’t quite tell them he had to leave, but the message was pretty damn clear.

“Go,” David told him, tilting his head towards the door. “It’ll give me time to convince your mom that wearing a Boston shirt won’t kill her.”

She rolled her eyes and Shane huffed. “I think it might,” he admitted, noticing her lingering apprehension. “I’ll see you guys later tonight; everyone should already be expecting you but tell them who you are if they’re being difficult.”

Yuna nodded slightly, wondering exactly who all he told about their visit and what his new teammates thought about it. “See you tonight.”

He grabbed his keys, looking practically thrilled to leave his own apartment as he closed the door behind him with a bit more force than necessary. She knew things had been moving quickly for him, that practice was grueling and his new coach was a piece of work, to say the least. But he was so standoffish from the moment he picked them up from the airport and it was just so strange.

The calls they had with him since he moved to Boston were strange too, usually cut short or sometimes temporarily paused when he started to laugh or hush someone in the background. His team, he claimed, but considering how small his apartment was, it was doubtful he could fit many of them in here.

And not to be called nosey or anything, but his closet didn’t have as many clothes as it should, his favorite shoes weren’t in there either. To say nothing of his awards, which weren’t hanging on the wall. Nothing was. It was practically bare, sans the furniture it came with.

Still, she tried to let it go. She reluctantly wore a Raiders jersey for the first time in her life, which she had sworn repeatedly she would never do and stepped into their stadium with her husband and as much hope as she could manage.

“It’s this way, right?” David murmured, pointing down a hallway towards a restricted area.

“Probably,” she muttered, nodding in agreement as she walked with him.

They passed one man, a security guard, who looked like he was close to telling them to leave before some epiphany dawned on him and stayed put. She guessed Shane really did mention they were coming to watch him play.

Down the hall, there was loud clamoring outside. None of the team were in the locker room quite yet, just standing outside in the corridor and laughing about something.

“No, no, no! That doesn’t fucking count, Sebbin!” Marlow claimed, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “We’re starting again.”

“I didn’t touch it!” Sebbin defended, smacking Feller slightly. “He’s lying to you and you’re all buying it.”

Yuna and David paused, stopping a bit further back and watching them from afar as the entire team stood in a wide circle around each other. Shane was standing in between Marlow and Rozanov, wearing a Raiders hoodie and rolling his eyes like he had already gotten used to their nonsense.

Shane huffed, gesturing towards the soccer ball in Marlow’s arms. “Just kick it,” he insisted, refocusing. “Not at Sebbin, though. He cheats.”

The laughter continued for a moment but as soon as Marlow bumped the soccer ball towards Varkov, it died down. Keeping the ball from hitting the ground, he tapped his heel against it and it bounced towards Kane who smacked it with his elbow in Vic’s direction. They both stepped back, leaving the circle.

Vic shuffled a bit, bending and knocking it off the top of his head. It flew towards Hammersmith who stepped back and kicked it off his knee in the direction of Connors. He made a panicked sound, hitting it off the side of his shoulder before retreating from the circle.

It shot back at Shane who stepped towards it, lifting his leg to kick it off the side of his shoe towards Sebbin. Finally playing by the rules, Sebbin left the circle after he bopped the soccer ball with his elbow towards Ilya, who bounced it on his knee for a moment while glancing around at who was left. He knocked it towards Carmichael, who hit it back towards Dubek with his head. Jumping back, he kicked it with the tip of his toe towards Kohn, who elbowed it towards Feller.

A few more moments and the rest of the guys slowly left the circle until Zadonsky was left. He caught the ball on the tip of his shoe, kicking it into the air and Shane lunged to catch it as the clamoring erupted again.

“Only four tries tonight!” Kane praised, slapping Shane on the back. “Not a bad pregame at all.”

“Better than the night we had to do it seventeen times,” Hammersmith retorted, taking the ball from Shane and tossing it at Sebbin, who caught it and tucked it under his arm.

“That was not my fault!” he exclaimed. “It’s human nature to want to use your hands when something is flying at your face.” They didn’t even wear helmets during their pregame ritual!

Ilya rolled his eyes right until they landed on David and Yuna. He physically stiffened a bit, tapping Shane on the shoulder and motioning towards them. He followed his gesture, noticing them with a look of, well, many things. Excitement, probably. Also a bit of panic since he hadn’t seen them sooner.

He pushed through the team, quickly rushing over to them. “You made it,” he noted, a bit out of breath.

Yuna nodded. “Of course, we said we’d be here early,” she reminded him, glancing over his shoulder at the guys as they began to settle down a bit. “What was all that?”

“Hm? Oh, just a pregame thing,” Shane explained with a shrug. “Everyone has to keep the ball from hitting the ground without using their hands until the entire team has gone.”

It was meant to help them get into some sort of collaborative mood or something, he supposed. He wasn’t quite sure. But it was fun. Way better than the Metros pregame rituals of screaming their energy out in the locker room.  

“Sounds…questionable,” she murmured, contemplating it. Didn’t that wear them out a bit? Should they be playing games before an actual game? The first of the season, no less.

“She means interesting,” David corrected, squeezing her shoulder.

“Uh- right, well did you guys want to meet my team?” Shane wondered, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.

They, honestly, weren’t sure. Yuna wasn’t anyway. Her husband nodded a bit quickly, though, pushing her towards them since her feet wouldn’t move on their own. They were still a bit rowdy, but had calmed down a little, too, seeing them walking over.

She was expecting some of this, the loudness and the foul language. That was pretty standard. She also expected them to force their smiles and maybe awkwardly shake her hand the way some of the Metros did in the past because she was, apparently, a bit intimidating to them.

Instead, though, Kohn was quick to wrap his arms around her in a full-blown hug.

“Oh! Hi?” she murmured, a bit surprised. “It’s…nice to meet you?”

He pulled back. “We love your son, ma’am,” he said firmly. “Or Mrs. Hollander? Do you like Yuna?” he questioned. “Mama Hollzy?”

Varkov smacked him on the back of the head. “Ignore him; he’s always overhyped before a game,” he explained. “But he’s also not wrong, we’re very big fans of your son. And you.”

“Me?” Yuna repeated as they crowded around her a bit.

Shane, she could understand. He was a brilliant player and she liked to think he was an incredible person, too. Even outside of hockey. But her? What on Earth did they know about her to receive this kind of welcome?

“You bargained for his contract with us, right?” Hammersmith muttered, nudging her son’s shoulder. “We get him for three whole years because of you.” His voice was tinged with a mix of enthusiasm and gratitude.

“Yeah, we’re thinking of putting up a statue or hanging a picture in your honor,” Connors noted. “You basically gave us the key to the cup this season.”

“Woah, let’s not get overdramatic,” Ilya interjected, gesturing to himself. “Am still here, you know? We’ve won it before; are not total losers.”

Hollander rolled his eyes again, huffing in amusement as he bumped his shoulder against Ilya’s fondly. “We’re sure as hell not losing this season, though,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. “We’re gonna win it together.”

His own mouth lifted slightly, nodding in agreement. “Of course we are,” he agreed. “Have all the best players in the league on my team. …Plus Sebbin.” There was a loud cackling as Sebbin tried to reach over to hit him. Ilya laughed, shoving his hand away and tugging him towards him to throw his arm over his shoulder. “Kidding! Would not be complete without you, here.”

Shane laughed, fussing with the strands of his Raiders hoodie as he caught his mom and dad’s gazes again. Something in them had shifted from being weary to almost having a realization of sorts, but what exactly they were realizing, he couldn’t be sure.

Maybe just the fact that he was happy. That moments before a game, he was laughing. Not stressing or sitting in silence to prepare for it like he usually did, but joking and kicking a ball around with his team.

From the locker room, someone called out, “Twenty minutes before face off!” without ever leaving it.

“Ah, serious time,” Ilya muttered, unhooking Sebbin and clapping his hands for a moment. “Come on! Let’s get it together and focus,” he insisted, shooing them towards the locker rooms. “First game sets the tone for the whole season, and I want to start it off right this year!” With a win, of course. Nothing else would be acceptable.

Nodding along, they all filtered into the locker room to change into the gear and take a few minutes to actually review their game plan. Not that it was needed, after they had gone over it so many times.

Shane lingered for a moment, unsure what else to say to his parents. “I’ll uh- I’ll meet you after the game, same spot?” he muttered, still fussing with the tassels of his sweatshirt.

They both nodded. “Yeah, of course,” David told him.

With another quick smile, he followed the others into the locker room, shouting something that didn’t quite carry well enough for his parents to hear as the door slammed shut behind them. They caught the tone, though. Light, excited. Something that he never really had before.

Yuna let out a slow breath, turning to her husband. “Well, that was…wow,” she murmured in disbelief.

“I know,” he replied, somehow not needing her to say anything else to understand exactly what she was thinking and feeling.

Their son, who was dedicated to the point of obsession and so hard on himself that hockey had grown into something that made him a bit short-tempered to discuss, was laughing before a game. Not a fake one, either. A real, wide grin. Because of the Raiders.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

The Raiders won that night against Baltimore. They won two days later, too, against Miami.

News articles got published the moment both wins happened, homing in on the teamwork they showed and trying to spin it into some drama that didn’t really need to exist. They questioned if it was skill or luck, if Shane and Ilya were faking their collaboration on the ice or if ten years of publicly hating each other could really dissipate that fast.

Shane didn’t pay attention to most of it, but his mother read every single article.

“Is it a respect thing or a likability thing?” she wondered, pressing a paperback book on top of the suitcase she was packing up as their visit came to an end. “Because likability, I don’t understand. But respect…I also struggle to get.”

He huffed, glancing up from his phone as he texted Ilya. “Both,” he replied. “He’s not that bad, once you know him. It’s all just…kind of an act for the cameras.”

And that was true. It was an act. No one quite understood the extent of it, but he didn’t need them to. They could think what they wanted.

Yuna hummed, still skeptical. “He’s a good leader, I’ll give him that much,” she admitted begrudgingly. “And you did seem to have fun the last two games.”

“I always have fun,” Shane murmured.

She didn’t comment on the response, but she also didn’t need to. They both knew what she was thinking. Not like that. He had a good time, sure. He liked being the best, liked the adrenaline rush, liked the rules. But he hadn’t enjoyed it the way he did this week for a long time.

“Well, I wish we could stay and watch tonight’s game,” she noted in disappointment. “But we’ve monopolized your apartment for long enough, so after breakfast, we’ll be out of your hair.”

That meant he could, finally, drive home to Ilya and sleep in their bed tonight instead of on a stiff, cold mattress he didn’t even like. And even as he tried to hide his relief, it still came through pretty clear.

“Hey, I could- I mean, I could ask Ilya to join us,” he suggested hesitantly. “For breakfast, I mean. He knows downtown better than me, anyway. Might know a good restaurant.”

Yuna froze a bit in the middle of zipping up her suitcase, looking over at her son with a look of surprise. It was their last day in Boston, really just their last few hours, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to spend it having a meal with someone she despised.

“Just…to eat?” she wondered, almost confused. “Are you trying to convince me to like him or something?”

Shane shrugged slightly. “I don’t know, maybe. He’s my captain, now. It’d be nice if you could at least be civil with him,” he admitted. “You don’t have to, though. It was just a suggestion.”

“No, no it- if you want to, then we’ll do it,” she replied cautiously, giving him a slow nod. “If you think he would want to, that is. I wouldn’t want to make him go out of his way—”

“It’s not, he hasn’t eaten yet,” Shane assured her quickly.

She glanced at the phone in his hand, realizing he must have been texting Rozanov the entire time they were talking and not, well, literally anyone else, her mind conjured up. “Alright, then,” she agreed.

Zipping her suitcase the rest of the way up, she tilted it up, feeling a lump of dread begin to form in her stomach. Breakfast with Rozanov. Was that something her son did very often? She knew he was the captain and all that, but that didn’t necessarily mean they had to become buddies.

Or maybe it did. Maybe they were trying to put their rivalry in the past. Maybe being seen with her son would give Rozanov some good publicity for a change and that’s why he was so willing to accept having him on his team.

She wasn’t quite sure. All she knew was that less than half an hour later, she was sitting across from him in a little café with a name too obscure to have found it through an internet search.

Rozanov looked…softer in person, out of his jersey. Like he was relaxed when he wasn’t in front of a dozen cameras or thousands of fans. It was strange, to say the least, to see her son go from avoiding him at events to sitting beside him at the table.

“Just water, please,” Rozanov told the waitress. “Thanks.”

Wow, she thought to herself. A please and thanks. Those were manners she didn’t know he had, especially not towards anyone in customer service.

“So, this is a nice little place,” David muttered, glancing around the restaurant. It was small but not overly crowded. The outdoor patio helped with that. “Do you come here often?”

Rozanov tipped his head back and forth uncertain how to answer. “Not too much,” he admitted. “I usually cook at home, actually. But it’s nice here, good food. One of the first places I found on my own without team recommendations or Zagat guide.”

And at the time, when he moved to Boston, that had been something he took a decent bit of pride in. It was tough to navigate the city in general, even harder when he had barely spoken the language and tended to take a teammate everywhere to help him translate.

“They have amazing waffles,” Shane told his parents, glancing at the menu. “You can get them with anything added.”

David’s eyes widened a bit at the mention of what was typically an item his son refused to eat. He often claimed it had too much sugar and there were too many carbohydrates in them. That it would take too long to burn off the calories, and he would be slow for practice if he ate any.

“Waffles huh?” he repeated, closing his menu. “I do like them.”

His son huffed slightly, nudging Ilya. “Once, when I was kid, my dad and I overfilled the waffle maker so badly we couldn’t open it,” he told him. “And even after unplugging it, it kept burning and the smoke alarms went off while my mom was on a phone call. Furious would be an understatement for her reaction.”

Ilya chuckled, lips tugging into a smile. “Oh, golden boy actually got in trouble for something huh?” he mused with fake surprise. “I didn’t know that was possible.”

Shane snorted, looking back down at the menu for a moment. “Yeah, well, I have my moments,” he clarified, sounding casual about it. Like admitting his flaws wasn’t something overwhelming and nearly impossible. It was just a fact that he wasn’t perfect, even if he had spent a decade trying to prove otherwise.

Yuna stared at him. How calm he looked and how easy it seemed to be to admit to his fallibility and share childhood memories with Rozanov. Did she ever hear him do that with the Metros? Did they know about his hockey scrapbook or his worst fears? Did Rozanov know that, for that matter?

As the waitress came back over, they ordered starting counterclockwise with Yuna and ending with Ilya who took Shane’s menu and handed it back over stacked on his own. She lingered for a moment by their table, her lips pulling into a tight, almost embarrassed line.

“Uh- you probably get this a lot,” the waitress noted. “But I’m a huge fan and I was actually at the game on Wednesday. You were- well, it was a good game, is all. I hope you guys win tonight, too.”

They both smiled, but she turned to take their orders to the kitchen before either of them could say something in response. Hm, they’d just have to thank her later or leave a nice tip. Probably both.

“That was sweet,” Yuna murmured, sipping her coffee.

David furrowed his brows. “Which one of you was she talking about?” he questioned, slightly confused.

Ilya and Shane glanced at each other shrugging at the same time.

“Probably you,” Shane assumed. “She couldn’t be a fan of mine if I’ve been in Montreal for a decade.” Roz had a pretty steady following, after all, since he had been here so long.

Ilya made a sound of disagreement. “You know the second you became a Raider, everyone flipped, right?” he reminded him. “You are big star no matter who you play for, Hollzy.”

He rolled his eyes slightly. “Now you’re calling me that, too?” he wondered.

“I thought you liked that nickname?” Ilya wondered, tilting his head a bit. “Vic called pass with it on Wednesday, and you responded to it on ice.”

Yuna’s eyes bounced back and forth between them. He did? She knew that was something the guys had taken to calling him but had no idea he was that receptive to it. She just heard it once or twice when meeting up with him after the game when the team said their goodbyes for a night. They hadn’t been wearing mics on the ice or else maybe she would have caught the name again.

“No, I do like it,” Shane assured him, nodding. “I just figured you’d stick to Shane or Hollander.”

“Могла бы называть тебя своей любимой,” he murmured, reaching for his water and taking a sip. “Но я не думаю, что вы бы одобрили это публично.”

Shane barely kept his eyes from popping out at the comment. “Probably not,” he agreed in English, staying calm. “At some point, though,” he added, his tone dipping into something that sounded almost disappointed.

His father blinked at him from across the table. “You speak Russian, now?” he wondered.

“Hm? No, I- well, I’m picking it up,” Shane explained weakly. “A lot of the guys know it because Varkov and Kovalev will talk shit to each other in private and they don’t like being left out.”

So did Ilya, for that matter. But he tried not to talk in Russian too much, not because he was being polite but because terms of endearment had always slipped out easier in his mother tongue and he never wanted to risk forgetting there were others on the team who would know what he was saying if it ever came out. It was safer to try to avoid his language for the most part when they were with the team.

“He’s very good at it,” Ilya muttered, nudging him gently. “Say something.”

He huffed, shaking his head. “My pronunciation is really not great,” he insisted. “I know what you’re talking about, not how to respond.”

“Try,” Yuna encouraged, propping her chin against her palm as she watched her son curiously.

“Uh- Я с нетерпением жду возвращения домой сегодня вечером,” Shane said, glancing at Ilya who bit back a smile.

“я тоже,” he murmured. “Pronunciation was almost perfect.”

He pinched his fingers together for emphasis and Shane shrugged lightly, tapping his fingers on the table for a moment or two. Yuna could swear she saw him taking a deep breath, like he was trying to relax for some reason. She had never particularly wished to know Russian until that specific moment, but now she did. Badly.

“Well, I’m certainly impressed,” David muttered with a tinge of pride. “Russian can’t be an easy language to learn.”

Ilya shook his head. “Is very difficult, yes,” he agreed. “All languages are, though, I think. English still has words that are uh- punchy sometimes?”

Or metaphors. He truly hated those for many years. He never knew when to believe one of them was real or when his teammates were just messing with him. Especially when they played in the South.

 “I can imagine,” David noted, nodding slightly.

The waitress came back, four plates balanced on a single tray, and began setting them down for everyone. Yuna’s eyes widened a bit at the size of the waffles her husband and son had both gotten or perhaps more so at how excited Shane looked to take it from the waitress.

She wouldn’t go as far to call her son’s tendencies to restrict himself an eating disorder because, frankly, she worried about the implications of a real diagnosis. But she suspected it for at least two years and with how much worse his limitations got, she seriously considered broaching the subject to him.

But now, well, he was cutting into his waffles like he planned to eat the entire thing. He even knocked Rozanov’s fork away when he tried to steal some.

“You got boring food, deal with it,” Shane mumbled in mock annoyance as he tried to keep Ilya from stealing his food.

Ilya just kept trying to get around his silverware, jabbing his own fork into the waffle. “Just want to try it,” he insisted, murmuring the words quietly. “Learn to share for God’s sake.”

“I share fine when I’m properly asked,” he defended, reaching to grab Ilya’s wrist and keep him from eating the piece he stole. Snatching it off the end of his fork with his teeth, he chewed a bit, talking through a full mouth. “You didn’t ask.”

They usually ate the same thing as eat other for breakfast, but for dinner if they ordered in they’d get separate meals and share. It was probably why Ilya hadn’t thought to request permission to try any of his waffle.

Ilya huffed. “You stole it” he exclaimed in slight disbelief.

“It was my waffle!” he retorted, reaching for his lemonade and sipping it. “It’s delicious, by the way. Crispy edges.”

He rolled his eyes. “Пошёл на хуй,” he complained, gesturing to the plate. “May I have a piece of you waffle please?” He sounded a bit petty over it, like he was doing it to comply not genuinely asking.

Shane nodded, sliding his plate towards Ilya with ease to share it. “Have as much as you want,” he replied, nodding towards his plate. “Can I have some of your eggs?”

Ilya hummed, barely even acknowledging the request.

Yuna watched them squabble a bit, though unlike in the past, there wasn’t any real animosity behind it. They were laughing. Sharing. They almost forgot they weren’t alone, it felt like.

“So, um…the game tonight,” she mentioned, dipping her spoon into the fruit parfait she ordered. “Any idea what the lineup looks like?”

Ilya shook his head. “Not yet,” he replied. “But soon. Before our practice later ends, probably.” Coach would have to give it out before the hard dead line dropped, at least, and usually tried to put it out a bit sooner as a little psychological warfare for the other team.

“I might be late,” Shane added, gesturing across the table. “I was gonna drop them off at the airport.” Even if they insisted, they could grab a cab, he just couldn’t allow it. It felt wrong not saying goodbye to them there. “Probably get there twenty after?”

He nodded, finally pushing his plate back towards him and digging into his own meal. “I’ll tell him,” he replied casually.

Yuna refused to let her eyes widen again because they had already been doing that far too much all morning. All week, really. She saw Boston natives asking for her son’s autograph, thrilled to have him as a Raider, she read the articles praising how well he worked with the team, she heard the commentators complimenting how well the new jersey fit him.

Everything seemed so…picturesque. But she knew how hard coaches could be in the major leagues. Being late to practice wasn’t acceptable, especially not for something as trivial as a trip to the airport.

And yet, Rozanov wasn’t worried about him being late. He wasn’t worried about breaking the news to their coach or being yelled at over it, either. This whole thing just kept her brain spinning in circles she couldn’t quite seem to figure out.

She was pretty sure her mind didn’t settle once for the entire breakfast, not even when Ilya got up to take a phone call from Kohn. It should have, probably. But her son, started to look a little stiff in his absence, glancing up to the keep an eye on him like he’s disappear as he stepped away from the patio even though he was still in eyeline.

It wasn’t until after they paid the check—Rozanov technically, which she wasn’t sure how to feel about—that things seemed to clear up for her.

Shane pulled his jacket on, shoving his hands in his pocket. “I’ll text you when I’m heading towards the rink,” he muttered. “I know you’re not going to see it, though so I don’t know why I’m gonna bother.”

Ilya shrugged. “Because you’re you,” he replied simply, setting down a few twenty-dollar bills for a decent tip. Around 35%, he was pretty sure. “я тебя люблю,” he added, hushing his voice slightly.

Shane glanced at him. “я тоже тебя люблю,” he responded, trying to keep his tone casual, like it was just a normal way to end a conversation.

Maybe he could tell them it was some Russian goodbye he was learning about or something stupid like that. His parents had never even been to Russia, let alone knew anything about the culture or language.

But Yuna didn’t need the words to make sense of them; she heard the repetition, the slight deviation towards the end like he was editing it just a tinge. It was comfortable, sure. But Ilya was expecting a very specific response, too. A declaration, of sorts.

She watched as Rozanov turned and left the restaurant, no doubt heading to the rink earlier than necessary. He was a lot of things, but she would never claim he wasn’t dedicated. And now, she was starting to think he might be in love with her son.

The entire drive to the airport, Yuna was silent. She hummed in response when her son asked something, forced a chuckle when her husband made a joke, did everything she could to act normal. But inside, she felt jittery. Overwhelmed, even.

It all began to make sense in her head, the sudden insistence to switch teams and Shane’s certainty about the Raiders treating him right. Why he hadn’t even checked the contract before signing it and why his apartment looked like it made him uncomfortable to be in.

Shane parked, helping his dad with their bags to keep his mom from carrying anything. The airport was just as busy, if not worse than Montreal’s. They took a lot of international flights, keeping the foot-traffic from every lightning up.

“I’ll check our bags,” David muttered, dragging them towards a long line at the proper counter.

Yuna nodded, watching him step away for a moment before she reached out and gently grasped her son’s shoulder. “Shane,” she murmured, pulling him to the side, towards a quieter corner of the airport. “Can we talk?”

He frowned a bit, nodding. “Sure,” he replied skeptically, noticing the drastic shift in her expression. “About what?”

She inhaled, glancing around them like she was trying extremely hard not to blurt out everything that was on her mind. “Look I- I could be completely wrong, here,” she prefaced. “But everything about your decision to move to Boston and join the Raiders, is it…because of Rozanov?” she questioned softly.

Shane’s face flashed with a mix of emotions, most prominently surprise and, strangely enough, relief. “I- what?” he wondered, sounding caught off guard.

Yuna got the sense that while he wasn’t willing to blatantly advertise it, he was hinting at this for a while, hoping they would notice without needing to be told. Maybe she had just missed the signs he needed her to see a whole lot sooner, like how uncomfortable he felt when a nice girl flirted with him or how he subconsciously angled his body towards Rozanov throughout breakfast.

Hell, even inviting him to breakfast at all had clearly meant something. It might have been called an attempt for them to get to know their son’s new captain, but she was pretty damn sure it was more for them to meet their son’s boyfriend.

“Honey, I’m not going to force you to admit anything,” she assured him, blowing out a slow breath. “Just- can you answer one question for me?”

Shane hesitated, pausing. “Okay,” he responded, his voice barely audible above the clatter around them in the busy airport.

Yuna took a moment, almost unable to even believe she was asking him this at all. “You don’t…live at that apartment, do you?” she whispered.

He practically froze, tension coiling in his shoulders as he mouthed the word, ‘no’, unable to even say it out loud.

She sucked in a deep breath, wrapping her arms around them. “Oh, Shane,” she muttered, squeezing him tightly. She didn’t really know what else to say to him. “Sweetheart, you could have said something,” she muttered. “Your dad and I- we could have made this so much easier for you.”

She could have helped him move. Really move, to wherever he was actually living here in Boston. And maybe she wouldn’t have monopolized him so much, or actually asked Ilya about himself over breakfast and gotten to know him better. Not just as a good player but as someone who her son clearly cared about enough to want to introduce them, even if was under pretense.

He pulled away from the hug, rubbing his eyes. “I’m sorry—”

“No,” she interjected, not even letting him apologize for a single moment. “You have nothing to be sorry for, okay? I should have known. I’m your mom, it’s my job to know who you are and I- I didn’t.”

“Of course you do, mom,” Shane insisted. “You do know me, just not…all of me.”

Yuna squeezed his arm, nodding. “I want to, though. I want to know who you are and who you love,” she assured him, her face twisting as she tried not to cry. “He’s gotta be pretty special to give up everything for.”

Her son got that look in his eyes, perhaps one she never really connected the dots too, before. One he got whenever Rozanov became the topic of conversation. She always thought it was avoidance, like he didn’t want to discuss it. But now she knew she’d been misinterpreting it this whole time. It was only ever fondness.

“That’s just it,” he explained, shaking his head. “I don’t feel like I gave anything up, I feel like I- I got everything I wanted.”

Her shoulders sagged in sudden relief as the pieces all settled into place so well. His attitude, his eating habits, his whole routine was different. And that was intentional. He told her months ago, this would be a good thing for him and she had been skeptical about it at the time. But clearly, she shouldn’t have been.

“That’s all we want,” Yuna promised him. “We want you to be happy and to love hockey instead of feeling like you have to play it because it’s expected because you- you have always done what’s expected. You deserve to do what you want, for a change.”

No matter what that entailed or who it was with.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

That night, the Raiders won again. Three for three in the first few games of the season. And when Shane got home and his parents called to congratulate him, he didn’t leave the room to keep them from hearing Ilya on accident. He didn’t exactly announce he was there, either. But he figured small steps were better than none at all.

And over the next week, he got a bit better about dropping him into conversations, mentioning certain couple-like activities as casually as he could. They developed a pretty steady routine where Ilya did most of the grocery shopping and cooking, whereas Shane cleaned and preferred doing laundry.

Throwing every color in existence into a washing machine and hoping for the best didn’t quite cut it for him, after all.

They lost when traveling to Vancouver but won in Indianapolis and blew New York out of the water on their own rink. Which meant, overall, they still only had one officially loss two weeks into the season. It was a solid start, to say the least.

“I think we deserve a night to ourselves after that game,” Kane admitted, towel drying his hair in the locker room as the arena started to empty out with mostly pleased fans.

“Isn’t every night a night to yourself?” Carmichael retorted, a teasing lilt in his voice as he nudged past him to get to his own locker.

Kane gave him a soft shove as he chuckled, along with a few other teammates. “I meant all of us and you know it,” he countered, rolling his eyes as he reached for a clean shirt and tugged it over his head. “I’ll buy the first round for everyone aside from Carmichael.”

“If my drink is paid for, I’m in,” Hammersmith agreed easily, nodding along as he packed his bag up. “We haven’t really gone out this season, so far.”

Granted they were only six games into the season, but they usually went out around the third just to kick off the season right. He supposed winning so much right off the bat kind of was the celebration, recently, though.

“You’re so easy, Smitty,” Sebbin muttered, laughing under his breath as he laced his shoes up, balancing on one leg. “You’d get an elective surgery for fun if it was already paid for you.”

He shrugged, not disagreeing. “If it gave me a sick scar, sure,” he claimed casually, zipping up his duffle. “I go where the wind blows.”

There were a few more chuckles and Shane shook his head wearily, eyes flitting up and down between the room and his phone as he sent a text to his mom. She was no less strict about checking in now that he was in Boston as she was when he lived in Montreal. Especially since he’d gotten into a bit of a spat with the referee over a penalty he didn’t think he should have had.

But that was neither here nor there.

“What about you?” Vic wondered to him, fussing with his socks as he sat on the bench nearest to their cubbies. “Want to join?”

Shane hesitated, thinking of a polite way to decline. “Clubs and bars aren’t really my thing,” he admitted apologetically. “I don’t drink during the season and it’s kind of tough to be as enthusiastic as everyone when you’re not drunk.”

He shrugged. “Fair enough,” he replied, pulling his shoes on. “But, for the record, we’re never drunk when we go out.”

He scoffed, a disbelieving expression tugging at his lips unintentionally. “No offense, Vic, but I’ve seen videos of you guys celebrating,” he reminded him with a knowing glare. “It’s like a frat party on steroids.”

Vic’s jaw dropped, the comment a bit out of character but very much appreciated. He liked that Shane was getting more comfortable with them, even if it meant taking a few jabs. “I’m serious!” he exclaimed, glancing at the others for some support. “Guys, tell him we don’t get drunk when we go out.”

Varkov nodded, confirming what he was saying as the truth. In fact, Shane watched as all of them nodded. Not just one or two, but the whole room. Convincingly, no less. None of those overexaggerated or joking nods they gave to be funny.

“He’s telling the truth,” Dubek clarified, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “We stick to a pretty strict two drink limit during the season unless it’s a long weekend or a holiday.” Sometimes they also went over limit on someone’s birthday, too. But those were pretty much the only times.

“Seriously?” Shane questioned, putting his phone down on the shelf in his cubby. “But you guys are always so…” he trailed off, grimacing slightly as every word sounded too crass to accuse them of.

“Hammered?” Marlow offered up. “We give that illusion, yeah. It’s mostly a lot of pent-up energy that gets more hectic the later we’re out,” he admitted, shrugging.

“We don’t push two drinks because losing control in public could be bad press,” Varkov explained with a vague gesture of his hand. “And we don’t want to risk stupid drunk injuries or hangovers if we have travel days or practice.”

Shane glanced at Ilya like he was seeking confirmation about it and wasn’t just being teased. The Raiders didn’t really pull off elaborate pranks, though. At least not between each other. He was pretty sure they wouldn’t joke about something like this.

“It looks chaotic to the public because we like it too,” Ilya assured him, his hand in his hair as he scrunched some of his curls that were damp from the post-game shower he just took. “We have fun because we like each other, not because of alcohol.”

“Well, a little alcohol,” Kohn replied, pinching his fingers for emphasis. “Kane is paying, remember?” They couldn’t just let the opportunity pass him by.

“We’ll keep it low-key tonight, in case you choose to join us,” Vic promised earnestly as he finished gathering his stuff up. “Totally optional, though.”

Shane hummed softly, meeting Ilya’s gaze again for a moment. He just shrugged, as if silently conveying that it was his choice. If he wanted to go out with the team, they’d go. If not, they could stay home together and make dinner and watch a movie like they usually did.

“I’ll uh- I mean maybe I can join for a little bit,” he eventually told them, a bit hesitant. “As long as drinking isn’t mandatory or anything.”

Feller wrinkled his nose, shaking his head. “Of course it’s not,” he replied. “People think we’re crazy, it doesn’t mean we are.” Pressuring someone into drinking wasn’t their style, especially not if it was clear they didn’t like doing it.

Shane’s shoulders slouched back a bit, almost relieved in a way a few of them noticed. Including Ilya, of course. He noticed everything these days. It was both an exhilarating and slightly off-putting habit, frankly.

He thought that was the end of it, as they filed out of the locker room, all heading to their cars for the night. But it wasn’t. The second he got home, somehow several minutes after Ilya despite leaving a few minutes earlier, the topic got brought up again.

Shane barely had the chance to set his bag down on the table in their bedroom before he was being questioned about it, the slight relief in his expression from earlier still lingering in Ilya’s mind even after half an hour of traffic.

“Did they pressure you?” he questioned, changing out of his t-shirt into something slightly more appropriate to wear outside of the house. “Metros, I mean? Into drinking when you didn’t want to?”

He let go of the strap of his bag. “Jeez, at least let me put my stuff down before you start the interrogation,” he teased lightly.

He could tell by the expression on Ilya’s face, though, that he wasn’t in much of a teasing mood. That to him, someone trying to convince him to drink when he typically hated the feeling of inebriation was a very big deal. Not one he could sweep under the rug very smoothly.

“Am serious, Shane,” he insisted, turning to look at him completely. “Did they ever make you feel like you had to drink?”

“No, I- not really,” he replied, toeing his shoes off. “I don’t think so, anyway.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow, not entirely sure if he believed him. “You don’t think?” he repeated skeptically. “That does not sound like a convinced answer.”

Shane shrugged, eyes drifting to the shirt he had on for a moment, getting a bit distracted by the silk before he met his gaze again. “They never forced me or anything,” he clarified. “It was just a very…all or nothing environment, I guess.”

He leaned against the dresser, folding his arms. “What does that mean?” he wondered, brows knitting together tightly.

He didn’t exactly need any new reasons to hate the Metros. He already had a list that was several miles long after the years he spent playing them. Their country loved them and frankly so did the United States, for some reason. But to him, they were even bigger posers than the Raiders. Only his team were good people pretending to be otherwise and the Metros were the exact opposite.

“I guess it was just- I had to drink a lot or not at all,” Shane explained, gently. “They didn’t really like that when I did drink, it would only be one because I wasn’t fully emersed or whatever.”

They liked to be stone-cold sober or completely drunk and nothing in between.

If he had to pick one, Shane always picked sober, too afraid of what might happen if he lost control entirely. He could blurt something out that was meant to stay private, he could trip and be taken out of the season, he could just turn into a emotional mess because too much alcohol made his head spin and he hated how it felt.

“That is bullshit,” Ilya told him firmly. “You know that, right?”

He shrugged. “I get it, though. I wasn’t really trying to be apart of the team or anything, just kind of watched them.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he clarified, tone just as unwavering. “You are part of the team whether you have Ginger Ale, Vodka, or some fruit beverage with a little umbrella and they should have treated you like it.”

Shane’s expression softened slightly, the conviction in his voice sinking in slowly. “Is that your way of assuring me I don’t have to drink tonight?” he wondered.

“You already knew it was optional, am just reminding you,” he replied earnestly, uncrossing his arms to put his hands on Shane’s waist. “Whether you have water all night or a sip of a drink or a full one, it doesn’t matter as long as you drink what you want to. And have fun, obviously. That part is important, too.”

He huffed slightly, nodding slowly as he leaned into him. “I’ll try to remember that,” he murmured, eyes fliting back down the shirt he had on. It was, quite frankly, making him want to stay in tonight. But he had already told the team he’d go and he felt bad about backing out at the last minute. “Want to help me find something to wear?”

Ilya’s eyes lit up. “Something that shows you are not confined to suits and gym clothes all the time?” he clarified, already lunging at the opportunity. “I thought the day would never arrive.”

Shane rolled his eyes as Ilya let go of him to rifle through their closet for something that would look nice. He didn’t fully understand what was going on frankly, not overly involved in the social aspect of Ilya’s life.

They talked about the team before he joined it, sure, but he never really questioned where they celebrated wins or what they did because he feared getting jealous if there was some pretty girl involved or something like that. He never really allowed himself to consider what it might feel like to join that atmosphere.

Probably because it filled him with the same type of dread he got when the Metros wrangled him into going out late at night. It was loud and disrupted his schedule, it was usually overly crowded and led to him getting incredibly antsy, especially because he was the only one sober. He felt like a babysitter for a group of guys who wouldn’t even remember what happened the next morning.

But he tried to push those memories and preconceptions away like he had done with the others he formed about the Raiders. They hadn’t just been surprising him the past few weeks but exceeding any fragile hope he had about his decision to move to Boston.

And they kept doing it, too.

Like Vic promised, it was a bit low-key. Still loud, still dark with flashing lights but not so overly obnoxious he couldn’t hear what anyone was saying or see the steps in front of him.

That was in part due to the fact that they were upstairs, where the lights were one solid color, even if they were a bit dim. He glanced over the railing, at the lower level which was significantly louder and brighter as he walked with Sebbin and Marlow towards a pretty wide, circular table.

“I got those little taco things they do,” Carmichael muttered, gesturing to the food sprawled across the table while already biting into one.

Shane huffed, taking a seat. “I didn’t know we were having dinner,” he joked just loud enough to be heard over the music.

Sebbin reached over him cautiously, grabbing an appetizer. “Part of not getting drunk is making sure the alcohol doesn’t hit our stomachs before food does,” he told him, shoving the entire thing into his mouth and chewing for a moment. “Learned the hard way that Feller will lie about eating if we don’t get snacks.”

“I don’t lie!” he exclaimed defensively, raising a finger and talking to Shane directly. “I forgot one time to eat before drinking and they’re never going to let me forget it. Don’t fall for it.”

Shane stifled a laugh. “I don’t know, sounds like something you might do,” he replied, picking up one of the tiny tacos for himself and biting into it.

He hummed slightly, surprised that the food was actually pretty good. He probably shouldn’t have been, though. It was Boston, after all. Every restaurant he had tried so far had been pretty good. He had been talking with Dubek, too, more often about his diet. Or the leeway he was trying to give himself with it.

He didn’t quite consider it recovery because that would imply he had an eating disorder in the first place and he wasn’t ready to fully admit it, yet. But he was trying to loosen up and felt like it was getting easier, especially with the team’s support.

He didn’t outright explain anything, just mentioned very briefly that he had some of the same problems as Dubek. They seemed to understand pretty well what he meant, even though they never pressed for details.

“Have as many as you want,” Kohn told him, nudging his arm gently. “We’ll probably order half the menu before getting the tab.”

“Speaking of the tab!” Kane came back to the table, a tray he managed to coerce away from a waitress in his hands. “The alcohol is on me, not the food,” he clarified, setting them down. “I made no promises to pay for your third and fourth dinners.”

There were a few chuckles as everyone grabbed their drinks off the tray, most of them ordered with specific people in mind because he had learned what they liked over the years.

“You’re a real philanthropist, Kane,” Varkov muttered sarcastically, raising his glass to him. “Always willing to put your credit score on the line for the team.”

“Ha. Ha.” he retorted dryly ignoring him as he picked his own drink up and sipped it for a moment before he gestured to the tray. “I got you a Ginger Ale, Hollzy,” he told him. “I’d drink it fast, though, because Connors might pour into his whiskey if you wait.”

Shane laughed slightly, reaching for the can and popping it open to take a sip. “Thanks,” he told him, the small gesture of getting him his preferred drink even amongst all the alcohol meaning more to him than most of them would understand.

Ilya understood it, though. He knocked Shane’s ankle under the table softly, giving him a small, nearly indiscernible smile from across the booth which he returned just as quietly.

“Why do you make me sound like an alcoholic or something?” Connors questioned, furrowing his eyebrow as he stole the lime off the rim of Marlow’s Margarita. “I’m an opportunity seeker,” he clarified, gesturing to the table. “I exploit what’s offered to me.”

“Oh, is that what you call it?” Ilya wondered, barely suppressing a laugh as he sipped his Vodka. “Here I thought it was just theft. Can’t account for your two drinks if you keep sipping on other peoples.”

He shrugged, not denying the accusation but not agreeing with it, either. “Alcohol is to me what money is to Hammersmith,” he clarified, raising his glass for a moment, the ice clinking around.

Hammersmith scoffed, raising his own and gently tapping it against Connor’s glass before taking another sip of his drink. “Sure, buddy,” he replied with a chuckle, head bopping from side to side to the beat of the music.

Shane nudged Vic’s shoulder softly, pointing across the room for a moment. His head turned, eyebrows furrowing but he stood up anyway, grabbing a soft taco off the large plate before following him through the club.

Was it even a club? The internet reviews weren’t sure and neither were the people who visited, he was pretty sure. It was kind of a mix between one and a bar. Relaxed enough that it wasn’t suffocating to breathe and impossible to move but too upbeat for anyone to fall asleep.

“What’s up?” Vic questioned, wiping the edge of his mouth as he finished his taco. “Wanted something other than Ginger Ale?” That was the only reason he could think of for why they were heading towards the bar right now.

Shane shrugged, still sipping on his drink. “Thinking about it,” he admitted as they navigated towards it. Things weren’t as crowded as he assumed, thankfully, so, it seemed like Vic really had kept his word about the night being low-key.

“You know there’s no pressure, right?” he reminded him, hand reaching to grab his arm and halt his steps just a few feet away from the bar. “You don’t have to drink to be fun. We want you here because you’re our teammate and our friend, regardless of whether you drink.”

He nodded, the hesitation in his chest subsiding slightly. He rarely drank, mostly just because he hated how it made him feel. And when it came to the Metros, he hated it even worse because it felt like he either had to be entirely invested or left out completely.

But here, it felt like he could stick to soda all night and they wouldn’t bat an eye over it.

So, maybe one drink or hell maybe even half of one would be alright to indulge in. He had been indulging in more sugar recently, after all.

“I know,” Shane prefaced. “I just think alcohol might be…I don’t know, another thing on my list, if that makes sense.”

It wasn’t a literal list and definitely not that he really told people about, even if the team did know he was struggling with his relationship with food. It was more of a vague outline of everything he restricted himself from having, seemingly unnecessarily. And maybe it didn’t have to be.

Vic nodded, seeming to understand what he was getting at even without much being said. “Okay,” he replied supportively. “If you want a drink, we’ll grab you one.”

“Maybe uh- like a shallow one,” he added. “So I can mix my soda into it, like Kane was talking about.” Sure, that hadn’t actually been intended for him, but it did sound kind of good now that he was thinking about it.

He nudged him towards the bar. “Shallow one it is,” he agreed, leaning his arms against the counter and signaling to the bartender.

When the man passed him the glass, Shane poured the rest of his soda into it, diluting the drink a bit and swirling it around before taking a sip. He hadn’t had alcohol in so long he kind of forgot the way it burned the back of his throat, if he was being honest.

Regardless, the flavor wasn’t nearly as bad as the stinging was. Probably because he wasn’t trying to drink something entirely stiff just to please JJ or Drapeau.

Sitting back down at the table, no one commented on his drink, even though they noticed it. It wasn’t a big deal, really, whether he drank or not. It wasn’t what made or ruined their night. As long as no one went overboard with their inebriation, it wasn’t anyone’s business who drank what or how much of it.

“Where did Kane and Connor disappear to?” Shane asked, glancing around.

Ilya stuck his thumb over his shoulder, motioning to the crowd of people on the floor below them, barely visible through the balcony around them. “They like this song,” he replied flatly, like it was pretty standard to lose them. “Can’t keep them in their seats when it comes on.”

“Ah,” he muttered, having another small sip of his drink and twisting a bit to search the crowd for them. “Makes sense.”

Even if the place wasn’t packed to the point of suffocation, it was busy enough that spotting them was a bit like playing Where’s Waldo. Still, he was pretty sure he could spot the shirt Kane was wearing, the shade of blue pretty obvious even as the lights changed colors down below.

“Oh! Someone take a picture,” Kohn suggested, snapping his fingers in realization. “It’s our first night out with Shane; we have to document it.”

He grimaced slightly, laughing. “Please don’t make me pretend to be drunk like you guys do,” he pleaded slightly as Feller pulled his phone out.

“Alright, it’ll be uh- whatever stage of drinking we’re in currently,” he replied, flagging down a waitress. “Buzzed? Tiddly?”

“What the fuck is tiddly?” Ilya questioned, blinking in confusion.

“It’s British,” Marlow told him, sipping through his straw. “Means tipsy or something like that.”

Shane watched as Marlow pulled the tiny umbrella out of the glass and tried to sneak it into Sebbin’s hair without him noticing. He did, of course. But he also didn’t yank it out, just pushing further behind his ear as he

“Why are you using British words?” Ilya asked, looking disgusted by the vocabulary, maybe even offended. It was hard enough for him to learn English in Boston of all places when he first moved; they didn’t have start confusing him with other versions of the same language, too.

Feller shrugged. “Why not?” he retorted, passing his phone to the waitress and immediately jumping on the Vic at the end of the boot.

He leaned on him so hard, his drink nearly spilled as he laid further back to try to make room for him not to fall off. As Vic pressed into him, Shane laughed, lifting his drink a bit higher to keep it from sloshing as he tipped backwards against Dubek.

“Sorry,” he apologized, still chuckling a bit as he accidentally forced him back a bit.

Dubek rolled his eyes fondly, willingly trying to lean into Carmichael as the man tipped towards Ilya who just threw his arm around Marlow.

“At least act like you like us, Sebbin,” Marlow insisted, pulling further into frame.

“Yeah, I want to be in the picture,” Hammersmith replied, squishing himself against him as to not be cut out of the photograph.

Varkov just moved out of the booth walking around it and leaning over the back to be included without as much hassle. He sipped his drink, idly poking at Carmichael to try to annoy him. Not that he even really noticed it.

Vic tipped his head to the side, trying to talk to Shane amidst the chaos. “I told you,” he reminded him. “We don’t get drunk, just seem to always unintentionally act like.”

It was a mix of being away from the rink that allowed them to cut loose and the energy they gave each other that always magnified further and further as the night went on that had them acting so differently. Well, alright, maybe not that differently.

“Yeah, that part is starting to make sense,” Shane muttered, halfway through another laugh as the waitress took a few pictures for them, most of which Ilya were scowling in just because he could.

As she handed Feller his phone back, he attempted to straighten up, letting Vic sit back up in the booth. He set his drink down now that it was finally safe and reached for another Taco.

“Thank you very much,” Feller murmured to the waitress, pulling a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and handing her the tip for taking the time to oblige their request.

“Damn, I could have taken it for you and made some cash,” Varkov murmured, leaning even further forward between Marlow and Sebbin to set his drink down on the table.

He pressed his hand into the edge of the booth, hopping over the back of it and expecting them both to move before getting crushed.

They did, of course. Quick enough they accidentally nudged Ilya a bit too harshly and caused his drink to splash over the rim. He glared at them for a moment before grabbing a napkin and passing it to Carmichael, who he had spilled on.

“If you’re going to be obnoxious, do it downstairs,” he requested, shooing them away with his hand dramatically. “Tons of clumsy idiots down there.”

“Wow, now that there’s no camera on us, you’re back to being an asshole,” Kohn joked, sipping on his drink.

“Yes, I despise each of you,” Ilya confessed sarcastically, pointing at the menu. “Someone order more food, yes? Feller is about to eat the last taco.”

Even if they weren’t starving, the night didn’t feel complete without munching. It might have honestly been his favorite part of every time they went out. Besides, once the others came back, they’d be plenty hungry and an empty table wouldn’t go over very well with them.

“On it,” Vic replied, grabbing it off the table and jumping back up to get someone’s attention.

Watching him wander off, Shane turned to the rest of the table. “I think I’m gonna try to find Kane and Connors,” he admitted, setting down his own drink a few sips shy of finishing it.

Ilya raised an eyebrow, a mix of surprise and pride warring on his face. “How strong was that drink?” he teased, glancing down at it.

He knew it wasn’t very strong, frankly. Probably less than half a drink. Which was fine. He just wasn’t expecting Shane to immerse himself so fully he was willingly suggesting going towards the more crowded section of the place. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t glad to see it, though.

Shane kicked him under the table, just hard enough that he laughed over it. “I can like music too,” he retorted, nudging Dubek. “Want to come with me?”

He shrugged, finishing his drink off quickly. “Might as well,” he replied, following Shane as he stood up from the table. “Last one to find Kane has to be on his team for scrimmage.”

Shane huffed, shooting Ilya one last glance before he headed downstairs with Dubek to find the others. He watched, of course, eyes tracking his for as long as they could before they disappeared into the crowd of people. Even so, Ilya could see find them if he focused.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

The days following Shane’s departure from the Metros had been rough for them. Some players took it harder than others, pretending he didn’t exist to them anymore or insulting him to the team at every given opportunity. It was hard not to be pissed off when they had been betrayed so brutally. Made to look like fools in the process, no less.

They were facing media like never before, being asked about the reason he left and scrutinized by the fans for losing him. It only got worse when they started seeing pictures of Shane in his Raiders Jersey, the post about officially updating their roster to include his number had been expected but hurt worse than they thought it would.

And if seeing him as a Raider in his first few games had been a slap in the face, then seeing him partying with the team outside of the game was a fucking punch to the gut. One none of them ever thought could bruise so badly.

“It’s barely the first few games of the season,” Mitty mumbled in annoyance, grimacing at his phone as he sat on the bench in the locker room before an early morning practice. “How can they already be staying out late to get drunk?”

Wilson shrugged, pulling his shirt off and reaching for his jersey. “Winning makes them even more obnoxious than they usually are,” he surmised, tugging it over his head and fussing with the material. “My question is how the hell did they drag Hollander with them?”

Drapeau scoffed as he tied his laces on. “He doesn’t even drink,” he added, tone laced with bitterness. “He should be home with a fucking salad or something.”

Berkes chuckled sardonically. “Probably part of their plan to plaster him everywhere until everyone forgets he was ours first,” he complained, running a hand through his hair. “Did you see that bullshit picture of the team outside some ice cream shop a while back? How much do you want to bet it was staged?”

“Oh, it had to be,” JJ agreed, nodding. “What are the chances they all just randomly went out in public and actually believed they wouldn’t be noticed? I bet media set it up to back up that article about him ‘figuring out a rhythm with the team’ or whatever it was he said.”

Hayden furrowed his eyebrows, just staring down at his phone in the corner of the locker room as he tried not to pay too much attention to their conversation. He scrolled through the pictures online, mostly posted by Feller and then reposted by everyone on the team, including their main social media page. And even Shane, who notoriously never reposted anything unless it related to his sponsorships.

He looked so…immersed in it. The dynamic, that was. He was laughing, a drink in his hand as they all squeezed together around the table for a few pictures. It didn’t even look like sparkling water or something non-alcoholic in a nice glass. He was actually drinking.

And singing too. With Kane, Connors, and Dubek to some song that was so loud the music could barely even be heard through the phone’s speakers. It was mostly just him leaning into Kane, who was bouncing around like a ball of energy who hadn’t just won a pretty intense game of hockey.

“Drunk Hollander was never that fun with us,” Berkes muttered, leaning over Mitty’s phone as he kept scrolling through the pictures and videos from last night. “He usually got all mopey and shit, then went home with Hayden.”

He glanced up when he heard his name, humming in affirmation. “Yeah, alcohol makes him sleepy, usually,” he murmured, tone a bit contemplative, like he was trying to figure out why he wasn’t acting that way with the Raiders.

Clicking through the end of Feller’s stories quickly, he paused a few from the end and let them play again. The team was filtering out of the…bar? Club? He wasn’t even sure where they could have been. Regardless, they left, still just as hyperactive as they walked through the parking lot.

Shane stumbled over the curb, laughing as Varkov dragged him upright again and patted his shoulder firmly with a smile tugging at his lips. They looked absolutely hammered, to say the least.

Half of the team was bouncing around, still enthused even though it was at least one in the morning and the other half were shoving each other around harder and harder in the background while Feller gave a recap of the food. Apparently, the tacos were amazing, the mozzarella sticks decent, and the bruschetta was overly healthy.

Shane leaned over Feller’s shoulder a bit, bumping him slightly. “Don’t forget about the French fries,” he reminded him, pointing at the camera. “They were seasoned with the good stuff.”

Hayden barely even caught his voice, the volume on his phone so low it was hard to make much out. He was pretending not to care about seeing his best friend hanging out with the same guys they used to make fun of, but honestly had no idea if it was working.

Wilson apparently had a good enough set of ears to hear what was being said, too, since he leaned closer to Hayden with a wrinkled nose. “Since when does he consume anything fried?” he questioned, scoffing.

“Yeah, didn’t he once say French fries were an unhealthy carbohydrate or something?” Comeau questioned. “And that eating them would mean he had to run an extra half hour the next morning?”

Mitty laughed, nodding as he remembered that night. “Then he pulled out those stupid apple slices and ate them instead,” he recalled, rolling his eyes. “Fucking bird food, man. At least we don’t have to accommodate his ridiculous diet anymore.”

“Not that he’s even on it anymore, apparently,” Berkes grumbled, tossing his phone into his bag. “Boston got him off that micro-whatever it was called pretty fast. Ice cream, French fries. He’s probably trying to bulk up so he doesn’t look so tiny compared to Marlow and Rozanov.”

“Oh, please don’t say Satan’s name,” JJ pretended to plead, holding his hands up like a prayer. “I can’t think of him and then go smile for the cameras, it’s too difficult.”

Wilson laughed, grabbing his gloves from his cubby. “Fair point,” he mused with a smirk. “Someone has to keep the league looking respectable while the Raiders gallivant around and curse out every reporter who comes near them.”

Hayden’s jaw ticked quietly enough, no one noticed it as he clicked out of Feller’s social media and opened his texts. Shane used to be at the top, messages so frequent that the only person he texted more often was Jackie. He had rapidly slid to the bottom, though, right beside the spare babysitter they used when the one they liked wasn’t able to make it.

He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to text Shane. It wasn’t like he knew the whole team was talking shit about him behind his back. If anything, texting him out of the blue might have actually made it more conspicuous than anything else.

But still, he sent a quick message—something about seeing Feller’s post and being glad he looked so happy. A mostly true sentiment, even though it kind of made his chest ache with a strange sense of jealousy to see him become friends with the Raiders so quickly.

Once the text went though, he clicked his phone off and slid it into his bag. “C’mon,” he muttered, tilting his head towards the door. “People expect the team to actually show up to the practices they come to see.”

There was a chorus of annoyed groans; early practice was the last thing anyone was interested in having right now. They followed him, though. He was the captain now, after all. They couldn’t exactly say no, even if none of them really wanted to face a crowd after the shit show of a game they had had the night before when they played and lost against Baltimore.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Shane truly liked being able to decline the media. It wasn’t that he was cruel about it or took joy in refusing to comment when they approached him outside of practice, it was just nice not having to sit and smile for them all the time.

He still chose to give a few interviews, mostly after games. Partially because it felt weird not to and also because his mother borderline threatened him into it in the name ‘controlling the narrative’ as she put it. Still, he found himself being a lot more invested in their questions now that he only did one a week or so.

That’s why when their media coordinator asked about keeping a mic on him during the game he hesitated but eventually agreed. On the condition that he didn’t have to do post-game interviews for the following week, of course. They agreed and he allowed himself to be put in what most players considered a pretty uncomfortable position.

It wasn’t his first time having the mic on him during the game and wouldn’t be the last, either, probably. Still, the others were a little cautious around him. That was typical. No one wanted to say something out of pocket or spill team secrets in front of millions of people watch their game on television.

“I’m sitting on the other side of the bench,” Kane muttered to him, patting his shoulder before sitting as far away as he possibly could from Shane.

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Can’t keep your mouth shut around a mic for one night?” he teased, earning a gloved middle finger from his teammate. He laughed lightly, nudging Shane beside him. “You are the plague tonight,” he informed him. “Very avoidable.”

He huffed, nodding. “I kind of figured that part out already,” he admitted, glancing at the clock.

They were only a few minutes into the first period of their game against Asbury, but ever since their media team hooked him up with a mic pack under his jersey, the team had been cautious. They were trying to find that space between staying jerks for the cameras and also not pushing too far to the point people actually got mad at them. It was a fine line to walk, to say the least.  

Desjourney tapped Shane on top of his helmet just enough to grab his attention before gesturing towards the ice. “Take over for Hammersmith,” he told him.

He perked up immediately, reaching for his stick as he saw Hammersmith skating over to the bench. Tightening his grip on it, he stood up and braced himself against the edge of the rink, just waiting for the moment he could hop over it.

Hammersmith skidded to a stop, out of breath. “Go get ‘em, Hollzy,” he muttered as coach opened the door to let him into their area.

Shane just jumped over the ledge, skates hitting the ice with a soft sound as he took off towards the other end of the rink.

He’d been watching the puck from the bench, acutely aware of where it had been the whole time. For the most part it was with his team, which was a good thing. Now, they just had to make sure it actually made it into the net.

“Hard around!” Varkov warned him, dropping the puck behind their own net.

Shane was quick to keep it close, skating around to the front of their end zone and crossing into the other team’s side. “Marly!” he shouted, shooting it towards him as a player caught up and tried to crowd him.

It was just a bit too late, though, and the puck had already disappeared into Marlow’s care. The player didn’t fully back off, but loosened slightly, his attention split between the two of them as equally as possible.

Marlow tried to get puck closer to the other team’s net but didn’t get terribly far as one of their players slammed into him. An annoyed sound escaped his lips as he gritted his teeth against his mouth guard, trying to pin the puck down.

Someone else skated up, attempting to help their teammate and he felt an elbow jabbing into his ribs hard enough to feel it through the padding he wore.

“Watch it,” he snapped, pushing back against the player as he kept the puck nailed to the wall to keep them from getting it.

“Give it up, Marlow,” the man retorted, referring to the puck as he shoved him harder to try to get him away from it to get the disc out from behind his stick. “That’s our puck.”

“I didn’t see your name on it,” Marlow replied sarcastically, pushing them over the edge.

That was, quite frankly, not a very difficult thing to do in hockey. Emotions ran high all the time with how much adrenaline they had coursing through their veins. And the Raiders were known for starting disputes and causing trouble. It was expected to the point other teams would fight them over chirps that no one on the team ever took very seriously.

Of them broke away from the boards, going after him and Marlow couldn’t say he was surprised by it. The other player got the puck away from him at last as he was forced away from it, but Shane slammed into the man before he made it anywhere.

Tripping, the man hit the ice and the puck slid away from all of them as Shane yanked at the player attacking his teammate. “Get the fuck off him!” he shouted, pulling him away and giving him a harsh shove.

The player skidded a bit back but came back for another hit, this time against him. Marlow tried to stop it but wasn’t fast enough and he winced as the man’s glove connected to the side of Shane’s helmet, jostling it.

“Fuck you, golden boy!” he spit back. “You think wearing a Raiders jersey makes you one?”

Shane didn’t even respond, just threw a punch right back, effectively starting a brawl between them. The rest of both teams stopped entirely as the refs skated over, trying to break them apart. That was easier said than done, as they were tangled in a mix of limbs that were tough to distinguish from each other.

“Cool it, Hollzy,” Carmichael called, tugging his arm back from throwing another punch, managing to get his attention when the refs were failing. “He’s not worth it.”

Huffing loudly, Shane reared back and gave his teammate a small nod as if to assure him he was done and Carmichael could let go of him. He looked pissed, frankly. Maybe even furious. It was a look he rarely had around them, so far. And probably one that was pretty uncommon in general.

Shane was always known to be someone who didn’t really start fights. He barely got involved with them if benches cleared, either, more concerned with trying to keep everyone out of the penalty box. Around the Metros anyway. Clearly, that mentality had shifted.

Or maybe it was always how he wanted to react and he just never allowed himself too, busy trying to maintain his brand as a family-friendly player and a good role model. Carmichael wasn’t quite sure and didn’t really care if he was being honest.

Anyone who threw fists for them was their brother, after all.

“Sorry,” he murmured apologetically to them.

Carmichael shrugged, nudging his arm. “Don’t apologize for protecting your team,” he told him earnestly. “See you in a bit.”

Shane scoffed, nodding slightly as he followed the ref to the penalty box. A place he rarely visited, usually.

Unhooking his helmet, he set it on the bench and stared at the other player in his box across the ice. At least he hadn’t been taken there alone.

The minutes of his penalty ticked down slower than they would in any other circumstances and he waited patiently to be let back on the ice. Alright, impatiently. His leg was jostling the entire time.

But even so, he stayed on the bench instead of standing and banging on the glass the way he was tempted to when he saw the other team trying to rough up Kohn out of nowhere.

When he did finally get out of the penalty box, the first thing he did was skate back over to Marlow who was trying to get a shot off the other team’s goalie. He was pretty close, too. If only the other players weren’t doing such a damn good job of blocking his shots.

Kohn and Connors were trying to keep them occupied, at the very least making it more difficult for them to keep track of Marlow and he and Carmichael passed the puck back and forth to each other while waiting for an opening.

Shane whistled, gesturing towards them and Marlow passed him the puck. He tried his best to break up some of the stagnant positions they had been forced into, taking the disc a bit further away from the net on purpose to try to lure some of the other team’s players into following him.

He knew he couldn’t make the shot. There was no chance it hell he’d get it through them. He wasn’t really trying to, though. He just wanted to get them away from their net to actually give Marlow or Carmichael a fighting chance of scoring.

With another sharp whistle, he passed it back to Carmichael. “Shoot it!” he shouted, unable to see very much aside from the behemoth of a man in front of him.

Shane did, however, hear the sound of the groan’s collective frustration ringing out. When they were in their own rink, that might have been a gut-wrenching sound but while they were at another arena, it was practically music.

Their goal music played a second later and Shane caught sight of Carmichael skating around to click his helmet against Marlow’s before coming towards him, as well. “Thanks for the assist,” he muttered, bumping his head on Shane’s appreciatively.

He clicked his tongue, shrugging like it was no big deal. “Gotta pull my weight around here,” he joked. “Especially after being cooped up in the penalty box.”

Carmichael grimaced, rolling his eyes. “Don’t sweat it,” he assured him. “That asshole deserved to be roughed up, anyway.”

Shane’s eyes widened and he smacked him gently, gesturing to himself. “Still have a mic on, dumbass,” he reminded him with a huff of laughter.

Apparently, with all the excitement they forgot about the fact that everything he was saying and everything the mic picked up from the others was being played live. Not to mention recorded for everyone who had the game taped.  

“Oh, sorry, let me just say it closer,” he replied seriously, leaning into him to repeat himself even louder and more clearly. “The asshole deserved it!”

Shane shoved him away, laughing. “You are so getting quoted in an article next week,” he muttered, shaking his head exasperatedly. He wasn’t even sure what kind, just knew at least a few of what they said tonight would wind up being used online.

Carmichael shrugged. “Eh, so what?” he wondered, skating over to the face off as Marlow set up in the middle of it. “I’m colorful, they should be used it by now.”

“Colorful? Is that what we’re calling it?” he wondered, tone tinged with amusement as he lowered his voice to focus on the game. “I like it.”

Shane redirected his attention back towards the face off, giving Marlow a small nod of assurance as the ref dropped the puck and he fought for it. Losing it, the other team escaped with the disc, and they automatically fell back towards their own goal to try to protect it before they tried to get any shots in.

He crowded around another player, trying to sweep the puck away from him and failing at it as the man passed it towards someone else.

“Slot the net Hollzy!” Connors yelled at him, urging him to swap positions and be where he wanted him at.

Why he wanted him there, Shane wasn’t sure. But he listened to him, anyway, skating closer to their goalie and propping himself into a position their defensemen usually took. His eyes flitted around him, mind going a mile a minute as he tried to keep up with the play.

A few seconds later, the puck came barreling towards their net and Shane blocked it as fast he possibly could, shooting it back before even thinking to aim it anywhere specific. The player who shot it had already skated past, but another teammate grabbed the puck for a moment or two.

Shane watched Marlow slam the man against the boards, stick fighting to grab the puck back. He passed it towards Kohn, who let out a whistle. “Switch!”

Connors skidded towards Shane. “Play it back to their side,” he muttered to him softly, bumping him in the arm gently to get him to head towards Kohn as he passed the puck back and forth with Carmichael.

With a small nod, Shane left his spot. Making his way back towards the others, he stayed on the other side of the ice, eyes bouncing around to the others as he tried to align himself with them.

He tapped his stick on the ice, catching Carmichael’s attention as the other team tried to grab the puck back before they crossed out of the neutral and into the other end zone. Carmichael passed it across the ice, trying to get some of the guys to lay off him.

Shane snatched it, glancing at the net and then at Marlow, who had raced to position himself just beside the opposing team’s net. “Marly!” he shouted, puck already in motion as he passed it towards him.

The players nearby broke off. They tended to do whenever they saw the puck disappearing and as they did, Shane tapped the ice again while inching a bit closer. Marlow caught the puck, skating around the net like he was planning to shoot it before changing course at the last minute and passing it back to Shane.

The disc slammed against his stick, breaking up the inertia for barely a second before it was flying off the curve of the wood again. Shane shot it towards the net, watching the goalie reach to stop it. And it did hit the man, technically. Just not hard enough.

The puck skimmed the top of the goalie’s glove, flying just over it before hitting the back of the net and Shane could swear he heard Marlow’s enthusiasm before he heard the official sound of their goal ring out. Regardless, both were nice sounds.

Marlow skated over, gloved hand finding Shane’s arm and giving him a firm shake. “A goal and an assist in the first period?” he wondered, slightly out of breath. “Good night for you, huh?”

“I’d call it luck but I’m not that modest,” he kidded as he caught his breath. Sparing a glance over his shoulder, he could see Desjourney calling him back to the bench. “Looks like I’m getting a break,” he added, bumping his helmet against Marlow’s quickly before he headed over to the team.

He didn’t really feel like he needed one, having already spent a few minutes in the penalty box. That was a break in itself, for the most part. But he could tell from the fact that he was the only one standing that Ilya was the one taking his place and he, quite frankly, looked antsy for his turn.

It wasn’t intentional by any means, but the way he was tapping against the edge of the barrier came across as impatient as Shane skated over to him. “Same team and yet we are never on the ice at the same time,” he joked, hopping over the ledge at last. “Maybe next period, yes?”

“Hopefully,” he replied, raising his arm and tapping against Ilya’s lightly before he entered the Raiders area, taking a seat on the bench and reaching for his water bottle.

Shane watched as Ilya caught up with Carmichael and Marlow, muttering something between them before he bent down for the face off. He chugged his water in the meantime, eyes just flitting around to keep track of the puck in case coach happened to put him back in before the period concluded.

“What’d he say to you?” Vic wondered, moving over an inch to give him extra space on the bench. “The uh- asshole, as Carmichael put it.”

He huffed slightly, wiping his mouth as his heart rate started to come back down. “You heard that from all the way over here?” he replied, a bit surprised.

“It wasn’t hard, what with the yelling of it and all,” he replied as he scooted forward a bit and interlinked his hands while watching the game. “I’m just curious, since you don’t rile up that easily.” At least, he never used to be.

They kind of liked this side of him, honestly. Vic did, anyway. The part of him that got upset, that became protective and didn’t let the other team walk all over him, that was. It was how he used to play long before he had to inhibit himself and become someone who didn’t promote violence for the sake of being someone kids looked up to.

Shane shrugged. “Nothing worth bringing up with I’m attached to a mic,” he told him, voice tinged with something akin to frustration or perhaps restraint.

Vic could tell he really did want to talk about it and was just biting his tongue, the way he was expected to. Sighing, he leaned over, silently slipping his hand around Shane’s back and flipping the mic pack off for a moment.

“There,” he murmured, tone laced with self-satisfaction. “Now they can’t hear.”

Shane’s eyes widened a bit. “You can’t do that, Vic!” he exclaimed.

“Why not?” he replied, sounding like he would need a pretty good response if he was going to actually flip it back on. “They’ll probably just think it’s interference for a few minutes. I’ll turn it back on before they actually notice.”

Even if they did notice, they couldn’t do anything about it. Coach wouldn’t yell at them for it since he never liked having them mic’d up, anyway, concerned about their behavior for some reason. And the media team couldn’t bully them back into it, either. Not when nearly everyone on the team was in favor of leaving it off.

Shane let out another huff, disappointed in himself for bothering to be surprised by the action. “Look, I really was only trying to get him off Marlow,” he admitted, shoulders rolling slightly. “Then he said some shit about the jersey not making me a real Raider and…yeah, I punched him back.”

It felt good, too. To just give in to the feeling of wanting to defend himself and his team instead of trying to settle things civilly. He used to have a motto about getting even though the scoreboard not fights, which the Metros constantly quoted in a mocking tone.

Shane, quite frankly, agreed with how stupid it was but didn’t have any choice aside from abiding by it.

Vic took his eyes off the game for a moment, just long enough to glance at him better and get a read on how that had made him feel. He supposed he kind of already knew, given he served time in the box for the fight. Still, that wasn’t the kind of comment that rolled off the back easily.

“He’s not wrong,” he told him simply.

Shane blinked, his heart dropping for some reason. “He’s not?” he repeated.

“The jersey doesn’t automatically make you a Raider,” Vic affirmed, shaking his head. “Commitment and loyalty to the players does. And you don’t have to worry about either, believe me.”

At the end of the day, the Raiders were a brand. They were an organization and label that was over one-hundred years old. It was the players that brought it to life, though. They were the ones that made it what it was and kept it alive by breathing life into it with each game they played.

Shane clicked his tongue softly. “I doubt many people would agree with you on that, right now,” he mused, taking another sip of his water.

He bumped into his shoulder lightly. “Hey, I just told you—You’re a raider, Shane. That means we don’t listen or care about other people’s perceptions of us,” he reminded him firmly. “Besides, we’re a lifetime membership kind of crew. Once you’re one of us, it doesn’t matter if you’re traded, sign with another team, or retire. You’re still family.”

Regardless of what the Metros seemed to believe these days, Shane was a loyal person. He was there to pick someone up for practice when their car stalled, to bring them an ice pack if their arm got bruised too badly, to call them and pretend to have an emergency to help them out of an awkward situation.

He was always at the rink early and usually the last to leave, too. He was neck and neck with Ilya in terms of dedication, to say the least.

“Mushy,” Shane muttered, shoving him back playfully.

“Eugh, I’m trying to be nice,” Vic retorted, rolling his eyes. “You want me to turn your mic pack back on or just wait to see how long it takes the media crew to figure out their tech isn’t the problem?”

He chuckled, shrugging. “We can let ‘em sweat a bit longer,” he admitted after a moment of contemplation.

That probably would invalidate the deal he had made with the team and also result in him going back to giving one or two interviews a week again. But it was worth it to have some peace for a bit. Feeling like he could relax again, at least marginally, he turned his gaze back to the ice, watching Ilya glide across it like it was as easy as breathing for him.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

After the game, Shane stood in the back of the hotels elevator and listened to the clamor of some of the guys on the team recapping their favorite moments from it. His tussle was up there, of course, right next to Feller ‘accidentally’ launching the puck so hard it got lodged in the goalie’s mask.

That was, in his opinion, way more interesting.

“Ooh, wait! First thing tomorrow we’re grabbing breakfast before the airport, right?” Dubek questioned, his hand covering the sensor to keep the doors from closing as he, Kane, and Varkov got off on the fourth floor.

“For sure,” Feller agreed, nodding his head. “We were gonna try that restaurant a few blocks away that Hammersmith found during intermission.”

That was apparently his new thing, this season. Instead of constantly losing to Carmichael in poker, he preferred to search for local places to eat in the cities they were visiting.

Content in the response, Dubek muttered a quick “Yes!” in satisfaction under his breath before clearing his throat. “Uh- I meant good night. See you guys tomorrow.”

Kovalev hummed skeptically. “Uh huh,” he retorted, watching him let go of the sensor and allow the doors to close behind them. He stepped into the newly freed up space they made by leaving the elevator and leaned against the wall, yawning as the day began catching up with him.

Even though he had gotten a decent amount of sleep, it never seemed to feel like enough when they were travelling. The jet lag always hit him worst out of anyone on the team and by the team he got over it, they were back on the plane heading home or to another city.

“Tired?” Marlow questioned, his own sleepiness starting to kick it as well once the majority of the team had already disbanded to head to their rooms for the night.

He nodded, blinking slowly. “I’ll be awake for breakfast but I’m sleeping the entire flight back to Boston,” he murmured as the bell dinged and the doors opened to the fifth floor of their hotel.

“This is us Kov,” Connors reminded him, giving him a small nudge as he got off the elevator.

He was looking forward to getting some sleep, too. So much so that he made it a few feet down the corridor before he realized he was walking alone. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see Ilya holding the door open and glaring at him, gesturing to Kovalev whose eyes had closed completely.

“Forgetting something?” Ilya questioned, raising an eyebrow as he nodded towards his teammate who was nearly asleep.

Connors’ shoulders deflated in exhaustion and Marlow huffed, moving to pull Kovalev off the wall. “C’mon, I’ll tuck you into bed before I head to my own room,” he teased, jostling him awake a bit to keep him upright until there was an actual mattress underneath them. “I’ll be up in a bit, Feller.”

The man just nodded, chuckling as he watched the three of them wandering down the hallway for a moment before the elevator closed again. They stood in silence for the most part, the doors opening a short moment later on the sixth floor. Why they were all so spread out, no one was quite sure. Booking errors, apparently.

“Goodnight guys,” Feller muttered, giving a weak, fatigued wave goodbye as he got off and headed towards his room.

The doors closed again and Shane looked towards Ilya. “And then there were two,” he mumbled softly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Mhm, just two,” he mirrored, nodding slightly. “Want to come tuck me into bed, too?” he joked.

He rolled his eyes and if he had the energy for it, he might have smacked him for the comment too. Instead, he just hummed, waiting for the doors to open again on their floor. “Tempting,” he muttered, playing along.

When the elevator finally stopped at their floor, they stepped off and made their way down the corridor towards the end of the long hall. Ilya took out his copy of the keycard, opening the door first and walking in before holding it a bit longer for Shane.

The second the door closed behind them, he was groaning, tossing his bag on the chair in the corner. “Was such a long day,” he complained, rolling his shoulders like it might help expel some of the tension that had accumulated in his muscles.

“Yeah, but a good one,” Shane added, setting his own stuff down much more gently before toeing off his shoes. “Vic said I was apart of the Raiders family, tonight.”

He glanced up, a slightly ironic expression playing across his face. “You didn’t already know that?” he wondered, confused.

He scoffed, reaching for the nearest pillow and throwing it across the room at him. “Of course I did, it was just- I don’t know, it was nice to hear it so overtly.”

There was no assumption that he could gleam as much by paying attention to how they treated him or acted around him. It was just a clear statement, just like the one Dubek gave him a while ago. He didn’t have to work for their friendship; he already had it. A lifetime membership to their circle, even if he swapped teams again.

Though, he honestly couldn’t see himself leaving willingly.

Ilya caught the pillow, lowering it as he let out a soft hum of understanding. “They are not overly sappy very often, but they will always have your back,” he assured him. “So will I.”

His eyes softened, stepping closer to wrap his arms around his neck. “Thanks,” he murmured. “For sharing your team with me and your house, and…your life, I guess.”

A small huff of amusement slipped past his lips before it turned into a smile. “Thank you for wanting me to share it,” he replied softly, leaning in to capture his lips in a gentle kiss. “Never thought I had a life worth being envious of, honestly. But now- well, how could I wish for more?”

The trophies were great, don’t get him wrong. The awards and the cup were the third most important thing in his life, but even so, they still fell short compared to his devotion to his team and his love for Shane. Hockey had given him his family and for that he would love it eternally, but the ice wasn’t all he lived for anymore and there was no contest about which he cared about more.

“Do you want to take another shower?” Shane mumbled against his lips, breaking their kiss for a split second before he was already leaning back in, not even giving him time to answer.

Their post-game one was rushed, at best. And not nearly as satisfying when they purposely stayed on opposite sides to keep from accidently staring at each other.

He nodded, hands sliding lower down his back to get a firmer grip on him before he lifted him off the ground. “Definitely,” he rasped, Shane’s weight settling against his arms securely as he walked them towards the bathroom. “I deserve something nice after barely even playing with you all night.”

Shane laughed, shaking his head as he pulled away from the kiss, fussing with his curls. “Can you even go one day without an innuendo?” he questioned dubiously.

Ilya’s face contorted as he feigned confusion. “Innuendo?” he repeated, pretending like he had no idea what it was. “Never heard that word in English. No idea what it means.”

He just scoffed again, lips tugging into a smile as he leaned back down to kiss him again. His back pressed to the glass of the shower as Ilya haphazardly opened the door and turned the water on, refusing to put him down or break the kiss in the process. Then, it was just a matter of time until both of them had shed their clothes, leaving them sprawled across the tiles.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

The next few games went similarly to their first few and Shane was more than pleased with how their season was starting out. He knew that logically, it was because the Raiders were great players, competitive and driven to succeed.

But he also liked to think it had something to do with their attitudes, too. How none of them were in the game to please the press or the public. They were only ever trying to make each other and themselves proud.

If their games had been going good, Shane would say his personal life both with the team and with Ilya had been great. So good, in fact, that it almost made him forget about his old team for a few full days in a row.

Until there was a reason to bring them up, that was.

“Have you seen it?” Marlow wondered, running a towel over the top of his head as he tried to cool down from the last-minute practice coach demanded in preparation for their game on Friday.

“Seen what?” Shane wondered, still a bit out of breath as he chugged some of his water, trying to cool down enough that a warm shower wouldn’t make him faint.

He passed him his phone, the screen already open to a news article. “Comeau got sent to the hospital half-way through their afternoon game against Portland,” he explained. “I didn’t watch the footage, but the article said he took a pretty hard hit to the head without a helmet on.”

He felt his heart plumet, eyes scanning the text but not really comprehending much of it. “I- no, I didn’t see that,” he muttered, passing the phone back to him and immediately digging through his bag to find his own.

“Calling Hayden?” Ilya questioned, watching him open his phone as fast he possibly could. It wasn’t surprising that it would be his first reaction.

No matter how tense things were between him and the Metros these days, Shane was first and foremost a compassionate person. The kind of player who could put aside his feelings for the sake of ensuring someone was safe even if that person hadn’t spoken to him in weeks.

Shane lifted his head, nodding. “Yeah, I wanna check in,” he responded, hitting call before he could even process it. “I’ll be in the hall, guys,” he added as the line began to ring.

“Take your time,” Hammersmith assured him. “We’ll try to keep in down in here, for you.”

Whether or not Shane actually heard that, none of them were quite sure. But regardless, they went about their business a bit quieter than usual. Okay, a lot more, technically.

Usually, they were rowdy enough to be heard, even through the door or down the hall. But they moved so gently, practically murmuring to each other instead of speaking, trying not to let the sound carry outside of the room and distract him.

Outside, Shane paced the hallway a bit, his phone ringing too many times for his liking. Things with Hayden were honestly still tense, he had to admit. They didn’t clear things up as much as he would have liked to, when he came to help him pack his things, and they hadn’t really called each other much since, either.

Things were fragile between them, at best. And about to shatter, at worst.

Still, Hayden picked up like Shane hoped he would.

“I figured you’d call,” he murmured. “Didn’t think it would take this long, through.”

There was a distinct bite in his tone but Shane ignored it, pausing his pacing for a moment. “I was in practice,” he replied. “I didn’t even see the news until a second ago. How is Comeau?”

“Stable,” Hayden replied earnestly. “They suspect a brain bleed but we’re waiting on his doctors to actually read the scans and tell us.”

He blew out a breath of relief, running his hand through his hair and leaning against the wall to steady himself as his nerves settled. Well, lessened, anyway. They were certainly still their. Head injuries had always been a big deal in this game. One concussion too many and it could end a career.

“Marlow said he wasn’t wearing a helmet when he got hit?” Shane wondered, confused. “How the hell did that even happen?”

“Marlow needs his eyesight checked,” he retorted sharply. “Comeau got bashed into the boards and his helmet got knocked off, then he tripped over the other teams stick and hit his head on the ice.”

It was freak accident, really. Nothing malicious or planned. The other player even apologized as they carried Comeau off the ice. Not that it had meant much to any of the Metros or helped ease their worry about their teammate.

“I didn’t say he read the whole article, just summed it up for me,” Shane explained, feeling a bit defensive over the way his friend had said Marlow’s name like an insult or something. “Is he allowed to be near a screen? Can I talk to him?”

“He’s uh—” Hayden hesitated for a moment. “—no, sorry. I don’t think he can.”

He paused, letting the silence fill the space for a moment. “Can’t or won’t?” he asked bluntly. When he didn’t respond right away, he got the feeling he had his answer but wanted to hear it anyway. “Hayden, did Comeau refuse to talk me?”

There was some rustling, the sound of him getting up from a hospital chair followed by the sound Comeau’s door closing while he stepped out into the hallway for a but more privacy. It was tough, trying to not piss off a sick man or his friend all at once.

“It’s not personal,” he muttered walking off to find a vending machine or something. “He just said he- he didn’t want to bother you after practice.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Shane spat with more venom than either of them expected, feeling his frustration flare. “I know when you’re not telling me the truth. What did he actually say when you saw me calling?”

Hayden sighed. “He said ‘I don’t want to talk to that traitor’, technically,” he admitted, already regretting his choice of honesty.

He was silent for a moment longer, just staring at the floor while his mind raced. He was worried, is all. That’s why he called. And he hated to admit it, but now he was fucking pissed.

His own so-called friend was still calling him a traitor as he repeatedly tried to reach out to each Metro individually the first week he was in Boston? They were still acting like he had personally betrayed them all by signing to a team they didn’t know the first thing about aside from hating them? How the fuck was that fair?

“Wow that…is cruel, is for you guys,” Shane confessed with a sardonic laugh as he scrubbed his face.

“Even for us? What is that supposed to mean?” Hayden wondered, getting equally as defensive right back.

“Oh c’mon, Hayden,” he retorted, pushing off the wall to pace again. “I gave you guys everything. My blood, sweat, and tears for ten fucking years. I covered for everyone’s mistakes, I pushed for them to be better, I won you multiple goddamn trophies!”

“Now, wait a minute—” he insisted. “We earned those cups, too, you know? It wasn’t like we were just slacking off while you carried us to victory or anything.”

Maybe not directly, but he scored more goals than any of them ever had, even the oldest guy on the team with added years of experience. He was the face of their team for a reason and it wasn’t just his looks.

“I drove myself into the ground!” Shane exclaimed, trying to get it through his head. “I was fucking starving myself to try to stay on that ice for the Metros. And now that I’m finally playing this game for myself and not a group of ungrateful, undedicated, selfish assholes you want to play the fucking victim? You want to act like I abandoned you just because I couldn’t put up with it?”

The constant quips and chirps about his diet, his personal life, his fucking personality that they didn’t realize hurt him. Badly. To say nothing of the neediness and the blame. The way everything good was their achievement and every single loss was his because he was the captain and the buck stopped with him no matter who was truly to blame.

He put up with it because he didn’t feel like there was another choice; that was his group. He was where everyone wanted to be and even if it was killing him, he would have been an idiot to try to leave. But he had done exactly that and every single day that passed he grew more grateful he finally had the courage to because it was one of the best things he had ever done for himself.

“Shane—” Hayden tried to interject.

“And I still tried to reach out, too,” he added in disbelief over his own stupidity. “I texted everyone, I apologized because you were my family and I didn’t want to lose that. But I didn’t do anything wrong, Hayden. I’m not some villain you get to blame because none of you can handle your own emotions and I’m done trying to get you guys to see that.”

Shane didn’t even bother telling him that he hoped Comeau felt better. If the guy couldn’t be bothered to hear it directly from him, then he didn’t need to hear it at all. He just hung up the phone, clutching it in his palm tightly as he felt his anger begin to subside into sadness.

If anyone had been betrayed in the situation, it was him. His family gave up on him long before he left to become a Raider; he just didn’t know it until that moment.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Shane was playing harder than usual. It was pretty clear to everyone, even the fans in the highest seats of the stadium, which had been packed consistently since he moved to Boston. And while not everyone knew why he was hyper focused, the team did.

They had overheard most of his conversation and despite not mentioning it, they sure as hell discussed it amongst themselves. To them, his crash out was rather reasonable. He had, after all, carried them to the championships on multiple occasions. To say nothing of the time he spent working his way up to captain and the dedication he gave them off the ice, too.

He was at every wedding, birthday, or relative’s funeral, they asked him to attend, always with a gift or a few words of support. It wasn’t like he had cursed his team out and left or purposely tried to screw them over before the start of the season. He simply chose to sign with another team.

The Metros were, simply put, overreacting. But the Raiders didn’t care. Hell, they were benefitting from it. From the spiteful, pissed off version of their captain they had abandoned who seemed to be playing against Wichita like every second of the game could be his last on the ice.

Marlow watched as Shane slammed himself against the boards, trying to snatch the puck before a ref dared to call it icing. He had shot back down the center before the other forward even got to him and was gone before he could turn around.

Ilya was the first to reach it, shooting towards Kane who didn’t even think before smacking the puck as hard as he could. The goalie lunged to catch it but he missed, the puck hitting the top corner of the net before the clock ran out in the second period.

Kane turned towards Ilya; a mix of relief and confusion sprawled across his face as his captain skated. “I’m fucking defense,” he reminded him. “How the hell did that get passed to me?”

He shrugged, glancing around the ice to place everyone on his team. “Shane was too far, Marlow didn’t have the angle,” he replied. “Varkov was keeping someone off my back.”

Ilya frowned at the man as he mentioned him, noticing Varkov rolling his neck from being a bit too abrasive with the other team. Shane skated over from the other end, joining them as they exited the ice for the intermission.

They were up now. Well, had been and continued to be. An extra goal never hurt, though. And somehow, Shane still wasn’t calm. He sat down in the locker room, taking a breath as he watched Kane get tapped for a quick interview.

“What? No, I don’t want to,” he complained in between drinks of his water. “It’s intermission.”

“When you score the goal, they want to hear you talk about scoring the goal,” Ilya reminded him, patting him on his back hard enough he could feel the impact through his gear as he began shrugging it off to get a bit of a breather.

He huffed, grabbing a towel and dousing it in fresh, cold water before wrapping it around his neck. “You passed it and screamed at me to shoot it so I did!” he exclaimed. “There wasn’t much thinking behind it.”

“Same as usual, then?” Hammersmith mumbled, earning a few laughs as Kane grumbled something else under his breath and left for the interview.

It wasn’t like they were ever very long or for that matter terribly interesting, either. But the fans liked them and they had all put up with it at some point or another. Lord knows Ilya had done hundreds over his career and any chance he had to actually rest during intermission instead of trying not to pant over a microphone was a blessing to him.

He sat beside Shane who was tugging off some of his padding to try to breathe a bit better for the next few minutes. “You alright?” he murmured.

He nodded unconvincingly. “Fine,” he replied. “Just wanna win this, is all. Keep our momentum.”

Glancing back up at the clock, he squinted, waiting for the seconds to tick by faster. He didn’t want or need to take a break. In fact, he was pretty sure it would only inhibit him. He had been so focused, and intermission could ruin it if his heart rate dropped and he started getting comfortable.

Ilya hummed. “Is seventh game of the season,” he reminded him gently. “We don’t need to play like our lives depend on it when we’re up by two right now.” The season was long and grueling, there was no reason to exhaust themselves before they even began playing the harder teams in the league.

“Getting cocky is how you get blindsided,” he retorted, bouncing his knee anxiously in an attempt to stay in motion until their intermission ended.

“Shane,” he stated, reaching over and setting his hand on his knee in front of everyone, trying to settle it. No one noticed or read into it, but he tensed anyway, keeping the touch brief. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

He turned to look at him, his leg staying still even after his hand left it. “What?”

Ilya lowered his voice. “You do not have to prove anything,” he repeated slower, heavily enunciating himself to make sure it was crystal clear for him.

Shane seemed to hear that one a bit better, his shoulders sagging slightly as his words set in. “I know,” he murmured.

His glare harshened into something only someone who truly knew him could give. It was the kind he reserved for times when he knew, with absolute certainty, that Shane was deflecting. That he didn’t believe something that was already true and well-known to everyone else but him.

“You do not have to be player of the game every night or set records to prove to anyone that you were the heart of the Metros,” he assured him. “You don’t need to prove they’re suffering without you or that you’re doing better without them. Everyone knows this.”

Ilya knew he was afraid of people thinking he made a mistake by joining the Raiders. That maybe he left a prominent team and great position for no good reason. And with him officially cutting ties to the team, sans Hayden in very small increments, he wanted everyone to know they were a weaker team without him. He just couldn’t admit it without feeling like an asshole.

He huffed, pressed his hands against his face. “Do they?” he wondered, not quite sure if that sentiment was shared by as many people as his boyfriend seemed to think.

Ilya nodded without hesitation. “Yes,” he stated firmly. “And you are already demonstrating that just by playing the way you normally do. Stop killing yourself out there and just enjoy the game.”

Shane rubbed his arm, where he had purposely slammed into the boards to stop himself instead of even trying to slow down.

Maybe Ilya was right. He left the Metros to enjoy hockey, not feel this anger that was currently swelling inside him.

Sighing, he stood up and stretched his arms over his head, humming softly. “Speed Poker before intermission ends?” he questioned softly, shrugging as he suggested it.

Ilya glanced at the clock, checking how long they had before they needed to be back on the ice. “Alright, until we have two minutes left,” he agreed, reaching for them out of his cubby. He chucked them across the room, hitting his teammate on the head. “Dubek, deal the cards!” he shouted.

Bending over, he snatched the cards, pulling them out. “You coulda’ just asked, Roz,” he replied, already shuffling them. “No need to get violent.”

Shane huffed, extending his hand with the palm open and waiting for his cards to be placed in them. Maybe playing poker in between periods wasn’t the wisest choice when they could be strategizing, but they would get to the stressful stuff later in the season. Right now, they were ahead and Ilya was right, loving the game would keep them there.

In the meantime, the stress of only having fifteen seconds for a turn in poker would keep Shane’s mind busy as the intermission clock ticked down.

And it was indeed stressful, with yelling and countdowns and a distracting amount of laughter as some of the guys who weren’t playing peeked at everyone else’s cards. There wasn’t even time to read into anyone’s facial expressions or mumbling like in a normal round of poker, too busy just deciding whether to call, check, or fold altogether.

“Pair of eights beats a pair of six!” Carmichael shouted, throwing his hand up. “I win again!”

“Thank God, we don’t do this for money,” Kovalev muttered with a huff, patting Carmichael on the back. “Good game, man.”

Shane clicked his tongue, a bit disappointed to have lost but even so, he could still feel his nerves settling a bit. Even with the chaos, the team still functioned like one, congratulating Carmichael instead of complaining about losing.

That was the most refreshing part of the Raiders dynamics, Shane thought.

They teased when it was actually light-hearted, never crossed boundaries, and always tried to be good winners around each other. On ice was a separate story, of course. But that was publicity, nothing more.

“Alright, we’re all proud of your victory but we have another game to win, now,” Ilya reminded them, thumb pointing towards the door as the intermission clock began to get dangerously low.

They clamored, putting their padding back on and getting a few more sips of water in before heading back out onto the ice. Shane took a deep breath as he did, reminding himself he could still play to win without losing his love for the game.

Desjouney seemed pretty thrilled about his attitude for the most part, though, sending him out for the face off as the third period started. He bent down, letting his nerves wash over him and escape rather than storing them.

He saw the puck drop and raced to get to it first, just trying to get it to Ilya or Marlow before the other team did. Hitting it toward Marlow, he passed it back to Kane who skated it around the back of their net and towards Varkov.

And just like that, his blinders were off. He remembered he had a team and could work with them instead of racing around the ice on his own, with the intent of getting everywhere faster and harder than the others.

Minutes ticked by and the score remained the same static number they had been at. 5-3. It was better than letting the other team score, at least, even if he wished they could snatch another goal before the game ended soon.

Shane winced, seeing his shot bounce off the post of the goal instead of hit the net. The puck hit the ice, and another player from the other team grabbed it, trying to get it out of their end zone and towards the Raiders instead.

Shane raced after him, noticing Ilya on the other side, trying to grab the puck with his stick.

The rest happened fast. Too quick for his mind to fully process, if he was being honest. All he knew was that in between trying to get the puck back and skating into their end zone, Ilya had somehow got slammed against the boards. Hard. And it wasn’t a clean hit.

Shane skidded to a stop, the puck slipping past him as he reached out on instinct, grabbing onto the players jersey as shoving him back against the board while Ilya grabbed his side. The others caught up, crowding around as the player shoved him back and Shane felt himself throwing a punch before he could fully comprehend it.

The other team tried to pry him off their teammate and Marlow shoved one of them to get their hands off Shane, too as Ilya yanked them away from his boyfriend too from the other side.

The other player persisted, face inches from Shane’s as he screamed at him. “That was clean!”

Shane, to his credit screamed back, “No, it wasn’t you fucking idiot!”

The whistle blew as the refs dragged them apart from each other, both of them being ushered across the ice and towards the penalty box. Good, Shane thought. If he wasn’t getting a penalty for that hit, he would at least make sure that he got it for some roughing.

Sitting on the bench in the penalty box, he pulled his helmet off and caught his breath, leaning forward to keep his eyes on the game. It restarted on the Raiders side of the ice, Ilya taking the face off as he raced the puck to the other end of the rink.

Shane hit his stick against the glass, shouting through it at him to take the shot before the other team crowded around their goal too much to let him get a clear angle. He watched him do exactly that, shooting the puck the moment he saw an opening and landing it directly in the net.

The screamed and Shane could admit he did too, standing up quickly to pound on the side of the penalty box as his team rose to their feet too on the bench beside him. Skating all the way around the other teams net as the goal sign lit up, Ilya glanced at Shane, giving him a small nod.

Desjourney clicked his tongue. “That kills the penalty,” he muttered, shoving a tablet in Shane’s hands as he took a seat on the bench next to him.

“I’ve got ninety seconds,” he muttered. “It won’t be unfair for long.”

He nodded once, curt and final. “It better not be.”

They reset for another face off and Shane looked down at the tablet in his hands, studying the live film on it as the commentators went to town on the game from their perspective. He lifted the headphones to his ear, tilting one side to hear it without putting it on completely.

‘Whatever bad blood these two had seems to be ancient history by now,’ their commentator remarked. ‘Not only did Hollander jump in and rough up McGinnis for that check against Rozanov but you can see him still cheering from the penalty box. There definitely wasn’t an ounce of regret as he got hauled off the ice.’

‘Exactly, you can just tell that was personal to him from how fast he snapped, letting the puck slide right past him in order to go after McGinnis. And I mean, we get that, don’t we? You don’t get away with that kind of behavior, especially not against the Raiders captain,’ the other replied, agreeing. ‘The whole team is notoriously defensive over Rozanov and clearly that extends to Hollander despite not being apart of the lineup for very long.’

Shane huffed slightly, keeping his eyes on the clock as he listened to their commentary. It ticked backwards quickly and he passed the tablet back to Desjourney, pulling the headphones off and hooking his helmet back on.

The second his penalty ended, he was back on the ice, finding Marlow and crowding beside him to try to keep the other team from getting a clear shot at their net or goalie. He stayed in their way as much as possible, just eating time up as the last minute played out.

Periods always felt faster when Shane spent part of them watching from the box. Though, he wasn’t exactly known for landing himself in it all that often. It was a newer experience; one he found himself starting to make a habit since it was multiple games in a row now.

Still, as the clock buzzed to signal the end of the game, with a 6-3 score, he skated to a slow stop and leaned against Kane lightly. “Good game, man,” he muttered, bumping his helmet against his.

“Back at you,” he replied. “I especially liked the entertainment.”

Scoffing, he bumped his head against Marlow too, then Varkov’s, Kohns, Connors, Hammersmiths, Vic’s, etc. Pretty much the whole team one by one until his head was practically vibrating from at the jostling against the hard shell of his helmet.

Following them off the ice, Ilya gave him one last bump, his a bit lighter compared to the others. “That was very attractive,” he whispered to him, voice barely audible over the teams clamoring and the sound of the fans still cheering.

Nudging him back, Shane urged him towards the locker room to get off the ice.

They filed into the locker room, making a few more comments over putting away another win or noting small details of each other’s plays. Another habit they had, to try to acknowledge each other even when the media liked to try to focus on one of them per day specifically.

“That was a good save earlier, Varkov,” Feller noted, nodding at him as he tugged his jersey over his head and unhooked his padding. “Kept the game from tying in the first period.”

“Says the guy who stopped a puck with his body on accident,” he retorted, gesturing to his arm. “Think it’ll bruise?”

He shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Shane watched, untying his skates on the bench as they passed compliments around. With one skate off, he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned, seeing the media coordinator beckoning for him to come into the hallway for a post-game interview.

He sighed wearily, nodding after a second. “Give me a minute,” he muttered, bending back over to finish untying the other side of laces as well.

“Good luck with the wolves,” Vic told him, ruffling his hair as he pulled his stuff out of his cubby and headed towards the showers.

He hummed, figuring he’d need it if the snippet of the commentator’s discussion was any indication of the kind of questions they’d ask. Pulling on his regular shoes, he wiped his face and neck down, sticking to his jersey. There was no point in getting his other clothes dirty before he got to take his post-game shower.

Shane bumped Ilya’s arm on the way out intentionally, mouthing something to him with a glare as he followed the coordinator out. There were a few reporters, all buzzing with more energy than he honestly had himself after that game.

Clearing his throat, he stepped in front of them, the bright lights of their camera’s flashing in his eyes as he tried to get his vision to adjust to them quickly. There was microphone in his face before he even got a pick a reporter to answer.

A woman with blonde hair was first, her head tilted curiously as she asked, “McGinnis claims that check against Rozanov was entirely fair, do you believe that?”

Shane scoffed, shaking his head. “No. Not for a second,” he told her, planting his hands on his hips. “Rewatch it and you’ll see he went for the head on purpose, Roz just managed to move out of the way.”

That hadn’t kept him from getting checked at all, but it at least prevented him from a much worse hit than the one he took to his ribs when he hit the boards.

“Follow up question,” she called before he could take a different question. “Was there a moment you decided to defend Rozanov or were you just looking for a fight?” He had been playing pretty aggressively all night, after all. Some guys just wanted an outlet regardless of who they went after.

“Neither,” he replied with a slight frown. “I don’t fight unless I have a reason to and protecting my team is one of those reasons. I didn’t decide to, it’s what you do if you teammate is in trouble. Especially if the refs aren't doing their job and calling penalties that deserve it.”

She withdrew her microphone as another reporter, a man with short brown hair leapt in with another question. “Last week you got thrown in the penalty box for defending Marlow as well,” he noted. “Given your emerging pattern, do you think the other guys would also do the same for you?”

Shane nodded immediately and firmly. “Yeah, of course they would,” he stated.

There was no doubt in his mind they would, if the opportunity arose. It probably would, at that, but for now people were still avoiding starting fights with him. They had always done that for the majority of his career, actually.

He supposed it was the reputation he had cultivated as a polite player that made them think twice, not wanting to get called out if they got physical with him. Not that he ever took it half as personally as the fan always tended to.

“You work so well with the Raiders that a newer fan to hockey might think they’ve been your team this whole time,” another man noted, slightly impressed. “Is there something that makes that connection work?”

Shane tugged his lips to the side, thinking about it before he shrugged slightly. “I guess it’s just trust and respect, honestly,” he admitted, not sure what else to say. “We try to play for us first and foremost and it makes a world of difference.”

It wasn’t about making the fans proud or pleasing management; Ilya wanted to win. The guys wanted to win, too. They all wanted that for themselves and each other, not outside sources that made each loss feel twice as devastating as it normally would have been.

A red-headed woman piped up, “You play Montreal next week, is there any apprehension about seeing the team?”

He was quick to shake his head again. “Not really, we’ve had a strong start to our season,” he reminded them. “Hopefully we’ll keep it up no matter who we’re up against.”

Sure, the personal aspect didn’t make it easier, but he wasn’t expecting it to make it more challenging, either. They knew him, at one point. Knew how he played and all his tells. But he had been learning new things since joining the Raiders and doubted even a decade of teamwork would help them figure out his plays.

“By now you must have heard about your former teammates injury,” she added, tone softening slightly out of respect. “Have you been in touch with Comeau since his accident?”

Shane blinked for a moment, his mind racing to decide whether or not he should lie about the phone call. For a second, he almost did. It was the polite thing to do to protect everyone’s reputations. But then again, the Metros hadn’t had much loyalty towards him, so he figured he wasn’t required to have it for them, either.

“Uh- no, I haven’t spoken with him,” he admitted earnestly, shaking his head.

Her eyes widened, like he had surprised her with that answer for some reason. “You said you haven’t reached out to him?” she tried to double check, microphone inching a bit closer to him to make sure it picked up his words correctly.

“No, I said I didn’t speak to him,” he clarified. “I reached out the moment I found out about it. It’s a horrible thing to have happen to any player, especially so early in the season. I’m wishing him a fast recovery.”

And that much was still true. He never wanted to see anyone on his old team or any other team get seriously hurt. He knew from experience that it was terrifying, not to mention gut-wrenching in an emotional aspect to lay in a hospital and know people relying on you couldn’t anymore.

“You’re saying he couldn’t or wouldn’t speak with you then?” a different reporter asked, now joining in on that specific topic after realizing it was a bit more interesting than the standard ‘yes, we spoke, he’s doing well’ answer that everyone expected.

Shane shook his head, bending closer to the microphone for emphasis. “He wouldn’t speak to me, that’s correct,” he told them. “I tried, but was told he refused to accept my call.”

The blonde woman from before chimed back in, “Have you kept in touch with any of the team since deciding to sign with Boston instead this year?”

He made a so-so gesture with his head, huffing slightly. “Uh- not really,” he confessed looking more exasperated than anything else. “Pike and I still talk, technically. But no, the rest of the team hasn’t spoken to me since I told them about my decision.”

He could practically see them doing that mental math in their heads, even though it was pretty tough. He signed at a different date than he made the decision too, and no one knew the exact day his relationship with the Metros came to a full stop. It was at least two months ago, though. If not longer.

The man with short brown hair was shoving his microphone back towards him as another question popped into his head. “They refused to comment on it but amidst your departure there were rumors of your former teammates calling you a traitor for walking away from them,” he mentioned. “Can you confirm or deny those in any way?”

Shane hummed, nodding. “Oh, yeah, they definitely called me a traitor,” he affirmed without hesitation. “As well as a liar and backstabber, before entirely refusing to speak to me.”  

And maybe that was a bit cruel to reveal, but it was the truth. It had all been said and a bit more if he was being honest. Before completely ghosting him, some bothered to leave a parting insult, which he technically still had buried somewhere in his texts.

Not that he cared enough to show them to anyone, it was just his own way of reminding himself why he shouldn’t reach out each time he got the urge to try to fix things.

“What’s it like having so much animosity build between you and the Metros so quickly?” the red-headed reporter questioned.

He huffed a bit, shrugging. “I mean, honestly? It’s one-sided,” he told them indifferently. “They were like my family and I’m always going to love Montreal for everything it’s given me; I wish them the absolute best this season.”

He had hoped they felt the same about him, but if they wanted to feel victimized and claim he was the reason why they had been a wreck during the first few games, then that was fine with him. Maybe a joint enemy would unite them like it had when they spent their days tearing into the Raiders before games.

“Do you have any plans to make further attempts to mend this rift with the Metros?” she tacked on, voice tinged with curiosity.

Shane shook his head immediately. “No, I won’t. The Metros were a big part of my life and they’re why I am where I am, but they’re also in the past,” he admitted, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. “I’m focusing on my future, and it’s got an R on it, right now.”

The media coordinator waved his hand, signaling he’d only let one more person ask a question before wrapping things up. Thank God for that, frankly. Shane was getting a bit tired in front of all the lights.

One last reporter piped up, the question relatively tame as they asked, “Do you have anything to say to your former teammates in anticipation of the upcoming game against them?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Just that they should bring their A-game, because we plan to,” he replied. “Thank you guys,” he murmured to the reporters, stepping away.

The media coordinator kept them away, shielding Shane as he headed back to the locker room to finally start recovering after that game. He wanted to check on Ilya’s ribs, too, after seeing him clutch them earlier. But knowing him, he’d claim they were fine no matter how bad they hurt.

He’d probably have to seduce him later at home in order to get him to ice them.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Shane sat at the kitchen counter, watching Ilya scrape some eggs onto two plates in the morning before their game against Montreal. He scrolled through his phone, the headlines looking relatively similar to how they had since their game against Wichita.

Stuff like Metros under fire after former player reveals cruel parting words from teammates. and Hollander exposes teammates malicious opinions about his decision to leave the Metros during post-game interview, was everywhere.

Some were a bit more dramatic than others, but all in all, they tended to say the same thing. And for the most part, were alarmingly accurate for websites that tended to spin everything a player said into something else.

He watched in real time as the fans rallied behind their behavior, agreeing they had every right to feel betrayed. He also watched as fans of pretty much every other team in the league came to his defense saying that no matter who he signed with, they had to respect his choice.

“Put your phone down and eat,” Ilya muttered, plate clinking in front of him as he set down some French toast, fruit, and eggs for breakfast.

He hummed, setting his phone on the counter and grabbing his fork. “Bossy today,” he replied, stabbing a strawberry on the edge of the prong.

“You like me that way,” he retorted, leaning against the counter as he cut a piece of his French toast with his fork. They sat in silent for a moment or two before he spoke up again. “Sooo, how are you feeling?”

Shane shrugged. “It’s a game like any other,” he replied, scooping up some eggs on his plate. “Just have to play our best and make sure we don’t lose on our own ice.”

The past few days, they had beat San Francisco, lost in Dallas, then won against Vancouver. To say they had been having a good season would be a massive understatement. They had only lost two out of twelve games so far, which was more consistent than almost any other team in the league currently.

Especially the Metros who were either winning big or crashing hard in their games. They had five out of twelve wins, including their most recent against Ottawa. But frankly, they were starting to clean up their act a bit offensively speaking and he worried they might have gotten their shit together just in time for tonight.

What a humiliating way it would be to lose if they allowed that to happen.

“We won’t,” Ilya retorted confidently, shaking his head. “Guys already agreed we’re winning this one for you specifically.”

He huffed in amusement, lips twitching. “Thanks,” he murmured, cutting into his own French toast. “I just hope I’ve got my head on right, tonight, you know? I don’t wanna choke out there.”

He nodded in understanding. “You love the game, yes? You love our team, too?” he questioned, shrugging. “Then you are already in the right frame of mind, just have to stay there. Don’t let your history with them control how you play.”

Shane bit back a scoff, stabbing his plate a bit too hard as he took another piece of French toast off it. “Oh, trust me, our history is driving this game,” he responded bitterly. “Just not in a good way.”

Ilya watched him closely, humming with a tinge of skepticism.

He knew tonight would be, uh- interesting, to say the least. He wasn’t worried about how Shane or the rest of the team would play, though. They were solid right now. Good defense and amazing offensive plays throughout the first few games.

What worried him, was how Montreal would play. Not if they were good or bad, necessarily, but if they were fair. He had, frankly, already worried about that before Shane’s interview reopened the controversy of his departure from the Metros.

But now he was even more concerned with how many articles were floating around and how much of the community was turning on the team. He didn’t want them taking it out on Shane, blaming him for their bad publicity just because he was honest about what happened between them.

That sinking feeling in Ilya’s stomach never quite lifted throughout the day, only worsening as the hours passed and they left the house to drive to the rink. Separately, of course. Throughout an early practice and a late lunch with the team, the knot loosened and tightened periodically depending on how distracted he was.

But the moment he sat on the bench in the locker room, tying on his skates, he felt it for sure. Constrictive and nearly painful with how hard it felt for him to breathe. He wondered if this was what Shane’s anxiety made him feel like and if so, he was astounded that he managed to live like this so long.

“You ready Hollzy?” Vic wondered, standing next to him at their cubby’s as he checked his phone for a moment before setting it down and giving his teammate his full attention.

He shrugged. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” he mumbled with weak sarcasm.

“Not really, no,” he replied gently, lips tugging to the side. “Look, just remember you can love the Metros without respecting what they stand for, anymore, okay? People change all the time.”

Hammersmith nodded his head in agreement. “We’ve all lost teammates, that doesn’t mean anyone who walks away from our team isn’t our friend just because they chose what’s best for themselves,” he stated. “We still talk to the guys who were traded or who decided to sign with other teams.”

They had all left on good terms, with disappointed goodbyes even when they were the ones choosing to leave willingly. And why wouldn’t they? The team loved each other; they were a family. No matter who came through those doors and who walked out of them, that wouldn’t change.

The fact that the Metros could dismiss Shane so quickly from the group he practically built from the ground up wasn’t just astounding, it was disrespectful in Hammersmiths opinion.

“I met up with Price over break,” Carmichael reminded them with a shrug. “He’s doing great in Buffalo.”

Not that he wasn’t looking forward to destroying his team on the ice next week, when they played in New York. But he wasn’t gunning for the man with some personal vendetta or anything. That was how this game should be, he thought. Rivalries, sure, never true hatred.

“I traveled with a few guys who left our team willingly when I was gone,” Kovalov added, nodding. “It’s not difficult to respect them even if they’ve changed teams.” They were still good people, and they had history from playing together even if was only two or three seasons.

“Point is, if the Metros can’t support you as a Raider, they were never your friends to start with,” Marlow told him, shrugging. “A real team wants you to succeed no matter where you play or who its with.”

Shane felt something settle in his chest as a wave of realization seemed to wash over him. They were right, after all. The Raiders had shown him more trust, respect, and compassion in a few months than his old team had for a full decade. He didn’t need to go out there feeling like a former Metro, just trust that everyone on his team knew he was a Raider.

Nodding slightly, he strapped his helmet on. “Yeah, you guys are right,” he murmured.

“Of course we are,” Feller quipped, shrugging as he patted him on the back. “Why don’t we go show them how you play when you’ve actually got a good team, huh?”

With a huff, Shane’s lips lifted into a smile. “Let’s do it,” he agreed, following Ilya out of the locker room.

Hitting the ice for warmups, it seemed like the stadium was already packed. Not that it was unusual for them to sell out the place these days, especially tonight, but the fans usually trickled in. They got snacks and walked around during warm ups, then took their seats for the face off.

Not tonight, though. It felt like every seat was already filled and no one dared to get up even though the game hadn’t even technically started yet.

Skating around their half of the ice, Shane’s eyes flitted towards the other side where the Metros were practicing a bit harder than he usually saw them try. He almost felt a bit happy about it, that they felt intimidated enough to need to put the extra effort into it.

“Thinking of Italian for a late dinner,” Kohn mumbled as they warmed up. Sure, they had all had a group lunch like three hours ago, but by the time they finished playing and left the stadium, they’d be hungry again. He would be, at least.

Sebbin laughed slightly, gently gliding around the ice with a puck. “I’m getting Mexican,” he replied. “Nothing beats the taco truck by my apartment when I’m starving at ten pm.”

Varkov hummed, nodding as the puck got passed to him. “I want Indian,” he added. “Extra spicy curry with a side of rice from the good place downtown.” They practically knew his order by now with often he was there.

Shane listened to them discuss the random meals they planned to eat for dinner once they finished the game, barely concerned with the other team at all, and it brought him an odd sense of comfort to know how unbothered they all were. He thought about what he and Ilya would have when they headed home. Probably Chinese, if he had to guess. That always seemed to sound good.

Ilya broke away from them for a moment, skating over the bench where Desjourney had called for him. He perched his gloves on the side of the railing, talking with him for a moment before glancing over his shoulder. Coach pointed at Shane specifically and Ilya nodded for a moment, then shook his head, then nodded again.

If Shane had been a bit closer he might have been able to hear what he was saying, but since he didn’t want to look overly conspicuous, he just stayed with the others and occasionally glanced over there as the two of them talked. It felt, admittedly, like a much longer conversation than it actually was.

Skating back over, Ilya reached for Shane’s arm, nudging him even though he already knew he had been watching them. “Coach wanted to know if you would be in the right place for opening faceoff,” he told him.

Shane glanced at Desjourney, then at the Metros and back to Ilya before he nodded firmly, once and only once. “Yeah, of course I am,” he assured him firmly.

His lips twitched as he tapped his arm in approval. “Good,” he replied, reaching out to take the puck from him and slide it over to Kane. “That’s what I lobbied for.”

With a huff, he watched Ilya skate back over to the goalie, muttering with him for a moment like he always did. He seemed to enjoy his routine of individually talking to everyone as they warmed up, giving small suggestions about their game or a few compliments if that’s what he felt like they needed to boost their spirit before the game.

Tonight, though, it didn’t really feel like anyone needed to be given a pep talk. They were antsy to get the game started, to play and beat Montreal.

When warmups ended, they got their wish.

Shane skated towards the middle, lights flashing for a moment to signal the start of the game. He saw Hayden coming to meet him, bending down slightly. He stared at him, looking like wanted to say something for a moment.

Eventually, though, he decided to bite back whatever comment was planning to make. “Good luck,” he murmured instead, blowing out a breath.

Shane kept his eyes on the ice, not his friend. “Don’t need it,” he retorted.

The puck dropped and he caught it first, smacking it away from Hayden before he could even fight for it. Slipping past him, Marlow caught it immediately, heading directly into the Metros side of the ice.

Shane followed him, eyes on Mitty and JJ who were trying to snatch the puck back. He slammed into Mitty, pushing him against the board to keep him away from Marlow who spun around JJ before he got too close. He shot the puck towards Drapeau at the net, just missing as it bounced off him.

Ricocheting back, Ilya swept it up before Hayden got to the puck, passing it to Shane who shot again. This time, it made it past Drapeau, hitting the back of the net. The sign behind it lit up, the familiar red confirming his goal.

The crowd roared and Marlow bumped his helmet against Shane’s. “Nice one Hollzy,” he praised with his lips tipped upwards into a smile.

JJ grimaced, glancing between them. “Hollzy?” he repeated, tone mocking.

Shane ignored the comment as Marlow skated off to say something to Vic and Feller. He wasn’t really sure how public that nickname was or not anymore, but if they were shocked by it, that wasn’t his problem.

He raised his arm, bumping it against Ilya’s. “Thanks for the pass,” he murmured as both teams reset for another faceoff.

He shrugged. “Figured it’d do you good,” he replied, heading into the circle to take the next faceoff himself.

Bending, he met Mitty’s eyes as a small smirk crossed his lips. This puck would be too easy to win, he thought, stick inches from the ice while waiting for the ref to drop it.

It fell after a moment and he was quick to smack the ice, stick getting caught against Mitty’s for a split second before shoving it away and passing the puck towards Shane who JJ was crowding around a bit too closely.

He passed it to Feller, puck flying through the air to reach him in the corner. Catching it with the end of his stick, he past it towards Marlow who got slammed into the wall by Wilson, losing the puck to him.

Above the ice and even above the crowd, the commentators were enjoying the game, their usual discussion of play statistics put on the back burner while discussing the teams instead.

‘We’re less than a minute into the game and it’s Raider one, Metros zero in the thirteenth game of the season,’ one announced. ‘This team has already been on fire this season so far, but I would argue that this is probably the most anticipated game yet. People are dying to see how Hollander copes on the ice against his former team.’

‘With that shot against Drapeau, I’d say he’s coping pretty well,’ he other noted, laughing a bit. ‘Of course, a great assist from Rozanov to make that goal work out as efficiently as it did, too. The pair have been absolutely racking up points by working together as well as they do.’

He nodded in agreement. ‘There was definitely some apprehension bout Desjourney’s decision to put Hollander on first line with Rozanov and Marlow the first time he did it,’ he remembered. ‘But clearly that was the right decision and even though it’s still early in the season, I honestly can’t see him changing their specific lineup right now.’

‘Well, that would be foolish, if he did,’ was the response. ‘The three of them have such a great rhythm out there, especially when their defensemen do such a great job of manipulating the other team. I mean, you see it right now in the way Vic is just annoying the hell out of Wilson to keep him off Hollander.’

Vic crowded the man, never doing anything against the rules like tripping or grabbing him, but skating so close that he was blocking Wilson’s view of the ice. Hollander moved around them, his shoulder smacking into JJ but he stayed upright long enough to clear the puck.

He would rather get called out for icing than let them take the puck willingly.

“Feller, it’s long!” he shouted as he stumbled, eyes finding JJ already skating away from what was technically a clean hit.

In an instant, Feller was on it, trying to beat him to the other end of the rink before the refs tried to call the penalty. He hit the boards at the same time as JJ, both of them getting stuck against them as they both tried to scrape it back towards them.

Hayden crowded around too, trying to help JJ but it didn’t matter. Eventually, Feller came away with it, either way. He always did. It was practically his own personal superpower.

Stick slamming into the edge of the puck, he shot it all the way across the ice through the air, directly towards Ilya who was seemingly waiting for it. He caught the puck, immediately discarding it to Shane who only made it a few feet towards the net before Mitty’s stick was in his way, trying to grab it back.

Tripping over it, he tumbled forward, headfirst into the boards hard enough to shake them.

Ilya’s eyes widened, glancing at the nearest ref who either didn’t notice or didn’t care enough to call the penalty. He would have gone after Mitty in heartbeat if Marlow hadn’t beat him to him, starting a fight before Shane even had the chance to try to stand up.

Shoving Mitty away from Shane, he shouted at him for the tripping, only getting a few words out before he was tackling him back. Pushed onto the ice, they slipped and Vic tried to separate them before things got too out of hand. They couldn’t risk letting the Metros score on a power play right now.

Shane stood up, watching the referee intervene and push both of them away from each other. He glanced at Ilya, slightly frustrated but he just mouthed something to him, shaking his head like he was silently telling him to let it go. Marlow was making a point and Shane didn’t need to blame himself for it.

He blew out a breath, grabbing his stick off the ice and glaring at Mitty without saying anything as he skated over to the bench, taking a seat for a moment.

‘And we’re seeing Hollander going to take a breather on the bench, now. Maybe get his head checked real quick after that hit to the head,’ the commentator noted. ‘Meanwhile it’s seeming like Marlow is going to be penalized for roughing and Mitty will also be given two minutes for tripping.’

Shane scrubbed his eyes, blinking harshly for a few moments down on the bench, muttering something under his breath. Desjourney tried to get him to take his helmet off, wanting their doctor to at least make sure there wasn’t a delay with his vision. Shane refused, though, shoving coaches hand away a bit.

“I’m good,” he insisted, keeping his helmet on. “Just need a second.”

With a huff of annoyance and perhaps respect, he nodded, tapping on Hammersmith who quickly hopped over the ledge, taking his place as they reset for another face off. Down a player wasn’t nearly as bad when the other team also had a disadvantage, but Ilya still would have preferred not to lose Marlow, even if he knew it was for a good reason.

He could see Hayden’s eyes flicker to Shane as he sat on the bench, chewing on the edge of his mouth guard. “Don’t fucking look at him,” Ilya insisted, bent down for the faceoff.

“Excuse me?” Hayden mumbled, eyes darting back to him.

“You heard me,” he retorted, his tone clipped. “He’s not your teammate anymore; he’s mine. If you think Marlow is a problem to your game, wait until you see what I will do to your team if you hurt anyone on mine again.”

He scoffed, dipping his head as he tried to focus on the game. Something about Ilya’s words still rang through his head though, sounding so definitive that he didn’t want to risk seeing what he was actually referring to when he said that.

The puck dropped again, and Ilya stole it before he could comprehend how quickly it happened.

That seemed to be the theme of the game, if he was being honest. The fact that had scored at all against their goalie was actually kind of impressive. Or it would be, if they weren’t still losing 2-1 at the end of the first period thanks to a rather angry play produced by Marlow once he was let out of the penalty box.

It was like the whole team was letting him have it, passing the puck to him as soon as possible, letting him shoot against Drapeau with a little under a minute until the clock ran down. After that, they were just eating time, wasting seconds to keep the Metros from even getting the chance to take a shot.

The clock buzzed as the period ended and Hayden watched as they circled around the bench, muttering amongst themselves for a few seconds before heading into their locker rooms. And maybe he was just hallucinating it, but he could have sworn he heard one of them mention the words ‘poker’ and something about ‘wearing a crown’ before they left.

Following his team off the ice, Hayden blew out a breath as he entered the guest locker rooms.

He’d been in them dozens of times before, of course, but there was something different about being in them without Shane. About knowing that he didn’t currently have that feeling a player always got when they were reevaluating their game at intermission after spending the first period losing.

“They threw us on defense before we even reached their half of the ice once,” Wilson complained, throwing his gloves onto the bench in annoyance.

“What the fuck was that Hollzy shit, too?” JJ wondered, rolling his eyes. “Did you hear all those passes they called with it?”

Drapeau nodded, huffing as he leaned against the guest cubby he was using. “Mitty shouldn’t have even been penalized; it was accident,” he retorted. “Marlow’s a fucking guard dog, trying to stir shit up for no reason.”

Hayden just drank some of his water, trying his best not to let his anger get the best of him. Because accident or not, Mitty did trip Shane and it was a penalty. And Marlow overreacted but it was damn clear why.

“I hate their ‘teamwork makes the dream work’ attitude this season,” Berkes noted with a mocking tone. “Rozanov was practically giving his team those shots like a farmer dishing out his animal’s food.”

“Enough, guys,” Hayden insisted, sick of their whining. “Stop bitching about the fact that we’re losing and start playing like we actually want to win.”

It was easier said than done of course. He wasn’t an idiot; he saw exactly how in sync they were playing a few minutes ago. Hell, he probably spent more of the intermission thinking about the Raiders game than he had his own.

Mostly because it made him cringe to think back to the way Wilson and Mitty had lost the puck because neither called it and they smacked into each other while Feller skated off with it.

Still, he tried to clear his head before the second period. Tried, being the operative word there. Because whatever chance of actually clearing it he had disappeared the moment he saw Shane leaving their locker rooms while laughing so hard about something he had to hold onto Ilya to keep from tripping.

What hurt more than seeing them being teammates was how blatantly obvious it was that they were friends now, too. Shane and the same man who taunted him, who insulted the Metros, who their team bonded over hating. It felt wrong.

The Metros coach sent JJ to the faceoff to start the second period while Marlow took it for the Raiders. On either side of him, Ilya and Shane glanced at each other, giving a small nod, almost like they were expecting something very specific to happen.

What that was, Hayden wasn’t quite sure.

He glanced back at the face off where the puck dropped and Marlow hit his stick against the ice in one motion, not moving it. JJ took the puck as he made no attempt to steal it. Hayden looked back up, confused, and saw the Raiders already skating towards their own goal.

Something felt off about it in his gut, but his mind was just trying to keep up with the game and racing into their endzone where they were all crowded around the net. At least, he thought they were. He hadn’t counted, just saw enough Raiders jerseys to think the whole team was there.

JJ passed the puck to Berkes who Vic skated past without trying to stop him from passing the puck to Hayden. He had an open shot. Despite every Raider being in front of the net, none of them were clustered tight enough to block him.

The right angle and he’d score.

But he didn’t.

The puck bounced off the net, towards Shane who caught it and turned, shooting it across the ice. Hayden’s face furrowed, head twisting to try to see what the hell he was doing. In his mind, that had to be an icing penalty since there was no one over there.

But as his eyes caught up, he saw Feller standing in the neutral zone, an inch away from the line.

Catching the puck Shane shot towards him, Feller twisted, keeping the puck in motion and aiming it at Drapeau who lunged to catch it and missed. The crowd deafened Hayden’s ears as he tried to figure out what just happened.

“What the fuck was that!” JJ exclaimed to no one in particular.

He wasn’t sure how something so shoddy could have worked. Or how none of them seemed overly astounded by their own luck, almost looking smug about it. Like it had been planned that way.

Shane bumped his forearm against Ilya’s, grinning at him. “Nice play,” he murmured with a tinge of pride in his voice.

He shrugged, gesturing to the goal they had scored while five of their players were in the opposite end zone. “Gotta keep them interesting,” he replied cockily, smirking at Hayden as he passed him.

The crowd hadn’t quite calmed down, and he doubted they would for a bit longer, but either way, they set up for another face off. There was something almost ludicrous about all of them having to skate to the other end of the rink for it since that’s where the goal had been scored, even if none of them were over there.

Feller wasn’t either, technically. He sixty-four fucking feet away from the goal.

Vic bumped Feller’s helmet, beaming with pride. “Knew we picked the right man for that,” he murmured. “No one makes a puck fly like you do.”

“And to think you accuse me of needing to play with the puck on the ice more often,” he retorted with an arrogant expression, raising his gloves as he reset for the face off.

The next face off, the Raiders actually fought for it. That’s why they won. And frankly, if they hadn’t tried to win it, Hayden was pretty sure JJ would know better than to take it a second time. There was no way they would get away with that kind of play again. At least not against the Metros.

Feller passed the puck towards Ilya, who took the shot against Drapeau and missed it. It slid into the corner and Berkes grabbed it, passing it to Hayden who shot it towards the far end of the rink, wanting it out of their end zone as fast as possible.

Shane went after it and Wilson raced after him, trying to get to the puck before the ref could call them out on icing. He glanced over at his former teammate, his stick outstretched to try to reach the puck first.

Slamming into the boards at nearly the same time, Shane felt one of Wilson’s hands jostling him a bit, trying to push him away. He pushed back with his shoulder, trying to trap the puck before he got it out. Wilson, clearly pissed, used both hands to shove him and Shane knew from how much force he used that he didn’t give a damn about the puck anymore.

Wilson lunged at him, but before either of them fully comprehended it, Ilya was appearing in between them. He shoved Wilson away, forearm pressing into the base of the man’s throat as he slammed him against the boards with an expression that could only be described as furious.

Wilson pushed back of course, knocking Ilya towards the net. He felt the bar hit him, but it didn’t stop their tussle even as the referees pulled them apart. Wilson shouting something at him, calling him insane for quite literally going for his throat.

The referee put his hand over Wilson’s chest, pushing him further away from Ilya to keep them from starting something again and he reluctantly went with the ref to the penalty box. Ilya glanced at Shane for a moment, eyes catching his with an indiscernible expression before he turned and let the other referee guide him towards the penalty box, too.

Passing Hayden, who was skating to a stop, he pointed directly at him. “I fucking warned you, Pike,” he reminded him. “Tell your damn team to play fair or I’ll keep them from playing at all.”

The ref gave Ilya a shove and he snapped at him, too, before throwing his hands up defensively and entering the penalty box with a mostly willing attitude.

Hayden blinked, watching it play out for a moment before his eyes scanned the ice for Shane who was nodding at something Marlow was telling him, looking as pissed as his captain was. He skated over hesitantly, bending down for the face off and Shane did the same.

“I’m sorry about Wilson,” he clarified. “That wasn’t okay.”

“I don’t need your apologies,” Shane retorted bitterly. “Just shut your mouth and play the game.”

Hayden let out a breath, the pit coiling in his stomach a bit tighter over his defensiveness. He watched the puck drop, trying to get to it but failing as Shane snatched it, immediately shoving past him with a hard smack against his shoulder.

From the penalty box Ilya was watching the game with concentration, his eyes focused on Shane who was following Marlow as he naturally stepped into the captain position on ice like he did every time Ilya got thrown in the box.

He wouldn’t exactly call it a good thing that each time they got penalized, the Metros also did, which effectively cancelled each other out. But he would still take it over them having an advantage any day of the week.

Even once Ilya was out of the penalty box, they didn’t score for the rest of the period.

They came close, but Drapeau had seemingly gotten his shit together at some point because he wasn’t letting their shots get past him, even if the rest of the Metros were sloppy enough that they were outshooting them by double right now.

It was aggravating, to say the least.

As the clock ran down and the buzzer rang out, Ilya huffed in annoyance. He skidded to a stop, looking up at the rafters and letting the lights blind him on purpose for a few moment while catching his breath. They had been so close to that goal, too. A few more seconds and they could have had it.

Vic bumped his shoulder. “Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s grab some water.”

Looking back down from the rafters, he nodded, leaving the ice. They were still up, 3-1, if nothing else.

Entering the locker room, Ilya glanced around, finding Shane already chugging his water like he had spent the week in a desert without it. He knew the feeling, frankly. He was dying for some water, too.

Shane extended his own bottle before Ilya was even all the way across the room, still catching his breath after the last few minutes of the second period. They were a bit more brutal than they had needed to be, for some reason.

“Thanks, for earlier,” he murmured, pulling his towel around the back of his neck to try to cool down a bit quicker.

Ilya shrugged. “Knew from the way he was skating that he was going to pull something like that,” he admitted.

Or maybe he had just been expecting it out of all the Metros and was just finally proven right. There was no way to know for certain, really.

“I thought he was going to rip my head off for sure before you showed up.” Or at the very least give him a concussion. “You came out of nowhere,” Shane huffed, a bit astounded.

Truthfully, Ilya couldn’t recall a time since they were playing the championships that he had gotten anywhere that fast. That he had genuinely been screaming at himself in his mind to move even quicker, even if he tore something or risked tripping.

But at that moment, he just needed to be there, in between them, keeping that man from starting a fight that he knew Shane could have finished but didn’t need to.

“I just wished we did better during the second half of that period,” he admitted, sounding a bit disappointed.

Shane nudged his arm. “We’re up by two,” he reminded him. “And we at the very least blew their minds with Feller’s goal.”

He huffed, nodding in agreement. “Understatement,” he muttered, tipping his head towards Feller in appreciation. It had been a spectacular goal. “But I still want more goals and points.”

Shane, in his opinion, deserved that. He didn’t want to win with a few goals over Montreal, he wanted to fucking obliterate them. He wanted them to see exactly what the rest of the Raiders season was going to look like and feel terrified for the next time they had to play against his team.

“Like you said a week ago—” Shane took his water bottle back from him, fingers brushing. “—Stop killing yourself out there and just enjoy the game.”

It was the best way to win for them. Not when they were stressed and panicking about technical stuff, but when they were just having fun. Hockey was called a game for a reason, after all.

Ilya rolled his eyes, lips tugging into a smile as he nodded. “I am a very wise man,” he mused, reluctantly, blowing out a breath as he started to cool down both physically and emotionally. “So, then, poker or charades?”

“Charades!” Marlow shouted from across the room before anyone had a chance to chime in. “I’m not losing to Carmichael again two intermissions in a row.”

“Cowards,” Carmichael replied, unbothered as he balanced his plastic crown on his head regardless of the game they were playing.

Huffing, they set up for a brief game. One with slightly different rules, just like how they adapted poker to be playable in such a short amount of time. It was a bit harder, mostly because the teams always wound up stacked in some way or another, even though they drew names randomly from slips of paper.

They still enjoyed it though. It was a good way to clear their heads for a few minutes and still stay in motion, so their muscles didn’t get cold waiting around for the third period to start.

When the game did restart, Ilya found something about the horrible energy around the Metros pretty satisfying. He didn’t know what had happened during their intermission that was so terrible, but they looked both pissed off and reclusive all at once.

The smirk on Ilya’s face probably worsened it, frankly, not that he cared.

Hayden watched as Rozanov muttered something to his teammates and they all nodded, bumping their forearms against his like some kind of promise or deal as they broke apart to set up for another face off.

“Уничтожьте его,” Ilya said to Shane specifically with a knowing look.

Shane nodded. “Я буду,” he replied, gaze lingering before he bent down in front of Hayden in the middle of the ice.

Hayden narrowed his eyes a bit, his concentration flitting between Rozanov’s protective glare and Shane’s concentrated one. “You speak Russian all of a sudden?”

His eyes flitted up at him, giving a half-assed shrug. “Have for a while,” he admitted, lowering his stick as much as allowed, waiting for the ref to drop the puck.

It fell, and their sticks clattered as Shane managed to pry it loose, passing it towards Marlow who was a bit less protected. He supposed they were banking on him relying on Ilya for some reason, given a few of their past plays.

Marlow shot the puck long and Ilya managed to lose the Metros crowding around him, skating towards the corner where it was discarded before Berkes could get there. That was one of the problems with being a big man, he was also a slower one.

He skated away with it, Berkes on right beside him trying to snatch it. Focus divided between what was going on behind and in front of him, he barely noticed Mitty in time to switch directions, stick covering the other side of the puck from his attempt to grab it.

Ilya turned sharply and Berkes ran into his teammate, grabbing onto Mitty to steady himself. “Tailgaters,” he muttered in annoyance as he skated around them and shot the puck towards Drapeau.

It hit the edge of the net, bouncing in just before the goalie could try to stop it.

Ilya pumped his fist into the air, feeling a rush of relief wash over him. That was the goal he’d been trying to get all night so far. Don’t get him wrong, he had no problem assisting Shane or Marlow, even Feller if need be. But he still wanted a shot or two for himself, as well. Individual points still counted in Hockey, after all.

Vic bumped his head against his captain. “No assists?” he wondered in mock annoyance. “Don’t even need us out here, huh?”

“Of course I need you,” he replied, slapping the side of his arm. “You’re my shield to keep me from getting body checked every five seconds.”

Huffing, he gave a quick congratulation and skated off for the next face off. Ilya set up, too, nodding towards Marlow to take it.

They stayed at a pretty consistent 4-1 for the majority of the third period too as players came and went off the bench throughout it. Connors made it off the bench for a bit, taking over for Shane for a bit and Carmichael went out in place of Ilya, too.

They sat on the bench, side by side, eyes glued to the ice as they muttered to each other every once in a while. It was pretty clear they didn’t actually want to be sitting out, but coach had pulled them and they couldn’t exactly go against his wishes even if they wanted to.

“They’re in our end zone too much,” Ilya commented, shaking his head in irritation. “They’ll score with how many shots we’re letting them take.”

Desjourney rapped his knuckles on top of Ilya’s helmet as he stood behind him. “Commentators get paid to comment, you get paid to play,” he reminded him.

He rolled his eyes. “And yet I have time to comment because I am not busy playing,” he retorted, gesturing to the ice. “Is offensive to keep us both here.”

One of them was bad enough, but him and Shane together on the bench felt they were being punished for something they weren’t even being told about. And he could tell by how Shane was bouncing his knee that he wasn’t comfortable sitting here there. Every time Hayden or JJ got too close to their net, his entire body lurched like he could somehow stop them from getting any further.

“You’re sitting here so you can play the end of the game,” Desjourney replied, putting his hand on Shane’s shoulder. “I want a strong finish.”

He nodded slightly, understanding the logic, even if he wasn’t a fan of it. He sat there, watching as players came and went, the Metros also seeming to have a similar theory as they pulled Hayden out after a while.

Shane stared at him from their bench, a mix of emotions he could figure out swelling inside of his chest. He was, compared to the others, playing fair. And well, too. A stubborn part of him wanted to see that, wanted his friend to do well and feel bad about their current situation. The other part of him was still pissed at the rest of the team so much so that it extended to Hayden just because he kept associating with them.

Vic entered the Raiders bench area and Varkov hopped the ledge, taking over as defenseman for him. On the other side, Theriault pulled JJ out, sending Taylor in his place.

“I don’t like all the switching,” Shane murmured under his breath, growing uncomfortable as the minutes ticked down and he waited for the moment Desjourney would eventually let him back on the ice.

“Me neither,” Ilya agreed, just as antsy as he watched the game continue. Some might call the bench a ringside seat of sorts, but he didn’t want the second-best seats or any for that matter. He wanted to be in the game.

He resisted the urge to reach over and squeeze his hand, knowing that was pushing things too far in front of everyone. Instead, he spread his legs just slightly, pressing the side of his leg against Shane’s. He breathed out slowly, trying to stay invested in the game as he felt Shane nudge his leg back gently.

“I want you both out there when the clock hits three minutes,” Desjourney muttered.

They glanced at him, nodding, then shared a look between themselves. There was no telling exactly what coach wanted in those last few minutes, but they were pretty sure he was expecting something showy, even if it wasn’t a goal.

The clock ticked down, big red letters moving slower than they ever had before as the sound of skating cutting up the ice rang out amidst the players shouting at each other to pass or clear the puck. Shane felt himself getting even more antsy, standing up and pressing his hand to the edge of the rail like he didn’t plan to waste a single second of the time coach gave him once he got back into the game.

The moment they saw Connors and Carmichael approaching them, Ilya and Shane were hopping over the edge, finally getting back on the ice.

They exchanged a glance, skating away from each other as Shane went after the puck Feller had ahold of and Ilya headed towards Marlow to try to coordinate the best he could. Mostly to tell him they weren’t eating time anymore, that coach expected them to do something with the last few minutes, even if there were only three of them left.

Feller skated the puck around their own net as Taylor tried to grab it and Shane slammed him into the board, keeping him off his teammates back as best he could. He wasn’t sure at one point coach made it so they were defending their own defensemen, but that’s how things had seemed to work out the last few minutes.

With a groan, Taylor skated off, back to the Metros bench and JJ came back on the ice.

“If we’re doing something, we need to do it fast,” Shane told Feller, skating beside him towards the net. “They’re putting Hayden back in the game, too.”

Feller glanced up at the bench, trying not to let the changes get to him, even though they admittedly had been doing that a bit.

“Passing it,” Feller muttered, gliding the puck towards Shane as he saw JJ approaching.

Grabbing it, Shane broke away, looking around for his options. Which, he honestly didn’t see many of. Hayden practically snuck up on him, stealing the puck with a quick glance that might have been apologetic if it weren’t for the fact that they were losing.

Hayden headed towards the Raiders goal, getting cut off by Varkov who shoved him into the boards and tried to get it away from him. Feller was on them in a second, stealing it away, even as Mitty tried to help Hayden keep it in Raider’s end zone.

Feller shot it into the neutral zone and Shane got to it quickly, keeping it away from JJ by passing it to Marlow with a harsh smack.

He felt the impact before he heard the crack, his stick snapping in half after a few too many aggressive hits all night.

Marlow froze, unsure what to do as Shane glanced around like he was trying to figure out in the blink of an eye how much time he needed to get a replacement stick and how that time stacked up to the dwindling clock.

Before he had time to even try it, they both heard Ilya shouting at them.

“Pass it back!” he screamed at Marlow, already in motion and heading towards Shane at the same time Wilson was.

Marlow’s brain probably wasn’t thinking as fast as he needed it to, but he listened and shot the puck back towards Shane without hesitation anyway. Ilya skated past him, shoving his own stick into Shane’s arms before giving him time to think about it.

Shane tightened his hand around Ilya’s stick, barely tapping it against the ice before the puck slammed into the curve of it. A different curve. Not the one he was used to or liked to play with. But that didn’t really matter right now.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the number on the back of Ilya’s jersey as he body checked Wilson, keeping the man from trying to steal the puck back. The clock on the wall ticked down and without thinking, Shane took off.

There wasn’t time to pass it back to Marlow or to wait for Varkov to cover him; he just had to try to take one more shot before the game ended. Even if it was a long one. Skating down the middle as fast as he could, Shane came to an abrupt stop a few feet away from the Metros net, ice kicking up as he shot the puck as hard as he could.

Drapeau leapt for it, reaching at the perfect angle to catch it but moving a little too early.

The puck flew over his head, slamming into the back of the net and lighting up the goal sign a bright red just before the clock ran out. Shane sucked in a deep breath, two or three seconds passing before the buzzer rang out, signaling the end of the game.

He dropped his head, huffing a laugh for a moment and he shook it in utter disbelief.

Shane felt the impact as Marlow came up behind him, nearly tackling him to the floor. Varkov, Feller, and Ilya weren’t far behind. He got crushed by them as their bench cleared and the others joined him on the ice to also bump helmets and get in on the clamoring.

“That was fucking crazy, Hollzy,” Connors told him, knocking him on the back.

He just looked at Ilya. “No, he was fucking crazy!” he exclaimed, lifting his stick. “Why the hell did you do that?”

“We were going to run out of time! I couldn’t turn around fast enough to catch the puck and Marlow didn’t have anywhere else to shoot,” he defended, taking his stick back into his own grasp. “Is good stick, no?”

Shane just laughed in disbelief, wrapping his arm over Ilya’s shoulder to keep from having his legs give out after the exhaustion and shock crashed over him all at once. “I like my own better,” he retorted.

“Yours is being picked up in pieces by referees, right now,” Feller told him, pointing across the rink at the larger chunks of wood that were being grabbed.

Shane chuckled again, his gaze drifting away from the referees and towards the Metros, who were already leaving the ice without even bothering to congratulate any of them. That was a pretty shitty thing to do, but he didn’t really expect much else from them, either.

Hayden lingered a moment longer than the rest of the team, but still turned and looked away, leaving the ice to head back to the locker room. Shane looked back at his own team, forcing a bit of a smile back onto his lips. That had been a good play and he knew it. A great game by anyone’s standards.

Even coach looked happy, which was pretty tough to achieve.

Filing back into the locker room, Shane felt more slaps and nudges against his back. There were a few comments for Ilya, too, still questioning how his brain managed to move fast enough to decide to give his stick away rather than go after the puck himself. He shrugged most of them off, just repeating himself.

“Is called trust!” he insisted as he ran his hand through his curls, damp from the game and compressed from his helmet. “I trusted Shane to make the goal for us. Clearly, I was right.”

“Would you trust me enough to pass me your stick if mine broke?” Sebbin wondered, tugging his jersey off and unhooking his padding.

Ilya tugged his lips to the side. “Do not ask questions you don’t actually want to know the answer to,” was his response.

Sebbin’s mouth dropped open in mock offense, huffing. “Roz, I’m gut wrenched,” he claimed, clutching his chest. “Physically ill over your lack of faith.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, rolling his eyes. He glanced over at Shane, who wasn’t exactly thrilled about the win. Even with a 5-1 score, there was still something about the game that had his heart aching a bit.

Shane untied his skates, taking his time as he pulled them off. He knew what the Metros were doing right now and it was blaming him. For their heads not being in the game, or their passes getting disrupted, or his presence on the Raiders stacking the odds. They always found a reason to blame the other team or the ref or the ice. Anything but the way they played.

“Looking forward to your Italian food?” he muttered, looking up at Kohn for a moment.

He nodded. “Oh yeah, getting a massive piece of tiramisu after that game,” he replied. “You planning on ordering in when you get back home or stopping somewhere?”

“Probably ordering in,” Shane responded, shrugging. “I don’t think I have the energy to order in person without making up a new language in the process.”

Kohn chuckled. “Fair enough,” he agreed, patting his arm. “Get yourself some sustenance, though. You deserve cheesecake or something after that game.”

He walked into the locker room for a quick shower and Shane hummed, hauling himself to his feet and putting his gear into his bag. His phone, beside his bag, lit up and he reached for it. Hayden’s name popped up on the screen, a single message popping up on it—Can we talk?

Shane stared at the text for a moment before typing back, telling him he’d be waiting by the storage closet down the hallway. He finished packing his bag before slinging it over his shoulder.

“Heading out already?” Dubek asked, noticing him darting towards the door.

Shane turned, nodding his head. “I’m dead tired,” he admitted, sounding a bit weary. “Just want to head home and sleep until nine for a change.”

He huffed a laugh as he accepted that answer and Shane glanced at Ilya for a moment, mouthing something to him before heading out of the locker room. There were already reporters waiting if he went in one direction and hoping to avoid them, he walked the other direction before they noticed him.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t be in too much trouble for skipping the post-game interview they were probably going to have him do. He had scored two of the five goals, after all, and it was his former team they beat. But they could yank Ilya or Feller out, instead, he figured.

Approaching the storage closet, Shane dropped his bag on the floor and leaned against the wall, sighing heavily as he shut his eyes. He really was exhausted after that game. He couldn’t fucking wait to go home and go to bed.

Footsteps echoed from the opposite direction and he opened his eyes, spotting Hayden’s figure in the dim lighting. “You came,” he murmured, almost surprised.

“I asked you to meet, remember?” he replied, setting his own bag down next to his on the floor.

Shane shrugged. “Could have been fucking with me,” he noted with a sardonic tone, almost like he expected him not to show. To just waste his time like the team had done so many times in the past.

“Stop,” Hayden mumbled, shaking his head. “You can hate the team, okay? I get that, I really do. I kind of wanted to knock them around a bit tonight, too. But me? Shane, you’re like family to me.”

His lips quirked and he glanced down. “Wish I believed that.” Truly, he did. He wished beyond anything that he could.

It wasn’t that Hayden had done anything in particular to make Shane feel abandoned by him. Sure, there were comments about his diet or his personality that never felt right, but compared to the stuff the others said, it was always tolerable.

It was the fact that he never stood up for him, that made Shane pull away. That while JJ, Wilson, Mitty, Berkes, and the rest of the team called him a traitor, he kept his mouth shut. His silence hurt.

“You never answered my calls after what happened with Comeau,” Hayden murmured, trying to prove that he really had tried. “I texted, too. Even talked to Yuna.”

His gaze snapped towards him. “You talked to my mom?” he questioned. “About what?”

He gestured weakly at his entire body. “About you,” he replied meekly. “About you moving to Boston.”

Shane’s eyes widened, suddenly looking a bit panicked. “What did she say?” he demanded. “She- just hockey right? She told you it was a good contract?”

Hayden furrowed his eyebrows a bit, confused about his sudden defensiveness. “Sorta, yeah,” he replied hesitantly. “She said you were going through some stuff that no one knew about and that being here was really helping you.”

He knew, now, about Shane’s problem with food. It was something he had sort of noticed but never really realized the extent of until the phone call where his friend yelled at him about starving himself. He felt like an utter idiot for not seeing it sooner or doing anything to help him with it.

“Oh.” Shane leaned back against the wall, looking a bit relieved that she hadn’t accidentally mentioned anything along the lines of his relationship with Ilya.

“I- look, I know I tried to be supportive quietly by helping you move but I should have been more supportive publicly, too. Regardless of what the team thought,” he added, pursing his lips slightly. “Yuna said you were doing better here and with everything I saw tonight, I agree with her.”

“You do?” he asked, squinting a bit.

Hayden nodded. “Yeah, you look…lighter when you were playing,” he muttered earnestly. “Sort of like you did when you were younger, all excited for the game and laughing. Until stuff got intense, I mean.”

He huffed slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “That was uh- unintentional,” he admitted. “The guys just get protective and then I feel like I’m to blame for it and- I’m sorry that I told you to shut your mouth.”

He shrugged. “I deserved it,” he replied honestly. “And it’s good that they’re protective, you deserve to have a team like that, who fights for you. Metros didn’t do that as much.” Or at all, really.

Shane wasn’t the type to fight very often so they mostly figured he wouldn’t want anyone to start anything on his behalf. Hayden had still done it a few times, like when Marlow sent him to the hospital and he attacked him before a ref pulled him back.

He could have done it more, though. Could have made sure everyone knew Shane couldn’t be roughed up without consequences and was a player worth losing several minutes to the penalty box for.

“Yeah, they’re good to me,” he confirmed, nodding softly.

“Even Rozanov, apparently,” Hayden noted, slightly impressed. “That last goal was, well, it made our loss far more humiliating for starters. But it was also kind of incredible. A lot of those goals were.”

His lips quirked slightly. “Thanks,” he muttered quietly.

“No, seriously, what the fuck was that with Feller?” Hayden questioned a bit more banter fading into his voice, mind still reeling from it.

Shane let out a chuckle, feeling another fraction of his frustration dissipate. “Just something we came up in between rounds of poker,” he admitted.

His eyes widened. “Wait- I heard you guys correctly, then, when someone mentioned poker before intermission?” he wondered, mouth falling open a bit. “Is that actually what you guys do during breaks while the other teams are trying to rearrange their game plans?”

Shane nodded, clarifying it was speed poker for more efficiency and Hayden let out a disbelieving huff, that bordered on hysterical. He scrubbed his face, trying to process how relaxed of an environment their locker rooms must be in order to play games during intermission instead of talking shit about the other team or panic over plays.

“That’s insane,” he stated decisively. “I kind of need to know what the hell else happens during intermissions now, is there also Gin or Uno?”

“Just poker and charades, usually,” Shane replied. “Carmichael somehow wins almost every hand so we got him a plastic crown; he takes it very seriously now.”

“Because nothing screams serious quite like a grown man wearing a plastic crown,” he noted, huffing again. “Man you- they sound like the team you deserve.”

He wished the Metros could have been that team, but after Shane left, he started to realize exactly how rose-colored his glasses had been the entire time. The guys were, in a way, still his brothers. But they weren’t the saints he always considered them to be. And they sure as hell weren’t very loyal.

“I know it’s crazy, but I- I really do love it here, Hayden,” he told him. “I forgot why I liked hockey, couldn’t even go to practice without dreading it. And now, well, practice still sucks—it’s harder here than in Montreal—but the guys make it fun.”

“You don’t have to convince me it’s great,” he assured him, a small, saddened smile tugging at his lips. “I saw it all night long.” He paused, reaching for his bag as he realized how late it was getting. “I just hope…maybe next time we play in Boston we can hang out without the forty thousand witnesses.”

Shane scoffed slightly in amusement. “I’d like that, yeah,” he agreed. “I could show you around, if you wanted.”

Hayden nodded in agreement. “I’ll hold you to it,” he responded, reaching an arm out for a tentative hug. When he wasn’t immediately pushed away, he took it and gave him a quick embrace, patting him on the back. “Answer my calls, too. Please.”

“I will,” he promised, pulling away from the hug.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Unlocking the door to his house, Shane slipped inside and locked it. The lights were out in the kitchen but he could hear the television still playing from within the bedroom. He peered through the door, watching Ilya pout at the screen as he laid in bed, the remote perched under his chin.

It didn’t take him very long to notice Shane, though, immediately lowering the volume on the television. “There you are,” he murmured. “Where have you been? Your text was vague.”

Something along the lines of needing to fix something and telling him he’d see him at home.

“I was with Hayden,” he confessed, sliding his shoes off by the door and setting his bag down beside Ilya’s. “We were trying to work things out.”

To his credit, Ilya didn’t look as disgusted by the mention of his name as usual. Winning always put him in a nicer mood, after all. “And?” he wondered. “Did you talk things over and realize he is slightly more tolerable Metro than others?”

Shane nodded slightly, leaning against the dresser. “Yeah, I think so,” he replied. “It’s not like we’re back to best friends or anything but…we might get back there.”

Or hopefully someplace a bit better than that, honestly. To a place where Shane could actually be himself around Hayden and not worry about some secret slipping out or being judged over aspects of his life he couldn’t control.

“Good,” he responded with a remarkable amount of sincerity. “You should be able to keep in touch with at least one of your old teammates.”

Even if he wasn’t a huge fan of Pikes, he knew how much Shane had always relied on him and how much he considered Jackie and the kids his own family. He wasn’t cruel enough to want him to lose out on that, even if he did think some of the comments Pike had made in the past were less than acceptable.

“Have you eaten?” Shane wondered, his stomach growling slightly. He had been exhausted the entire drive home but now that he was shrugging off his hoodie, he began to remember how long it had been since he last ate.

Ilya shook his head. “Was waiting for you,” he admitted, sitting up a bit more in bed. “Go shower, I’ll get the food.”

“Don’t you mean the takeout menus?” he muttered, crossing the room towards the bathroom.

“Nooo, I mean the food,” he repeated, getting out of bed. “I ordered Chinese and picked it up on the way home. It’s in the fridge.”

He blinked, pursing his lips. “Oh.”

Ilya hummed, shooing him towards the door with his hand as he left to go warm up the food for both of them. Shane bit back a smile, closing the bathroom door behind himself and turning on the water before he tugged his shirt off.

Washing off the dirt, sweat, and frankly, every negative part of the day that was still clinging to him, Shane could hear the television in the bedroom begin to play again. It was the same broadcast as before, the one Ilya always recorded so he could watch their own games back and critique it from a different angle.

Getting out of the shower, he changed into his pajamas and walked back into the bedroom. “What’s it going to take for you to shut that off?” he wondered.

Ilya hummed dramatically, lifting his head from where he rested it on his hand. “My boyfriend, in bed with me,” he replied.

Shane pulled back the sheets. “Done and done, then,” he replied, crawling into bed and kissing his cheek for a moment. “Do you want to watch the Great British Bake Off while we eat?”

His eyes lit up slightly. “There is new episode!” he remembered, smacking Shane’s leg softly. “You are you are so smart. I cannot believe I forgot about that.”

He shook his head, disappointed in himself as he clicked through their streaming channels and clicked on the latest episode. Settling the remote down, he pulled the reheated food off the side table and passed one to Shane.

“Extra Chicken?” he asked, already taking a bite.

Ilya nodded, scooting over a bit until their arms were touching. “I wouldn’t dare forget,” he replied, turning to kiss Shane’s shoulder briefly. “Love you, you know that?”

He hummed, tilting into him more as the opening of the episode played out. “I love you too,” he murmured, leaning over to kiss his lips for a moment.

Pulling away after a second, he turned, sighing as they lay there. It wasn’t anything special, in retrospect. Just a cheesy show, soft blankets, and some takeout food after a hard-won game. But for some reason, it felt that way to Shane. To be in love and be able to make it work despite how many factors made it feel impossible had to be something extraordinary, he thought.

Chapter End Notes

I just wanted to jump on the Metro hate train after writing such an uplifting(ish) fic about them last time, yk? I love the revenge trope and I don't think there's any better type than a character majorly succeeding after leaving a person/place.

Also! I mistagged a fic with Shane as a Raider a while back and I really hope the person who I disappointed sees this and knows I had them in mind while writing it <3

Chapter 2: Who We've Become

Chapter Notes

Soooo, here we are again, huh? I would like to preface this by saying I (typically!) use fake teams/fake players because I *personally* do not feel comfortable using real teams and real players in a setting like this. It feels invasive. PLEASE stop commenting about the cities or people I name not being real; I am well aware of it. (I gave you Tampa and Dallas, etc. in this just to get people to move on.)

Shane let his eyes rake over the cabinet in the bathroom, searching for something he could use for his hair, which was damp from his shower. The problem, unfortunately, wasn’t finding a product. It was sorting through the dozens they already owned.

Ilya had a strange habit of collecting them, despite claiming he used all of them. Creams, oils, leave in conditioners, and multiple dry shampoo brands were all littered along the shelves without much rhyme or reason.

Shane would argue harder for him to pick a few he preferred and throw the others away, but he knew it would be futile. Ilya would just try to argue he needed them all.

Reaching for the first one that didn’t look overly complicated, he ran a small amount of it through his hair, trying to be quick about it. If Ilya ever caught him using it, he’d launch into an explanation about what oils it had and how it protected the hair. He just hoped he didn’t recognize the scent of it, somehow.

Closing the cabinet, he walked out of the bathroom and grabbed his keys off the dresser in the bedroom, slipping them into his pocket before looking for his jacket. It wasn’t quite noon, yet, but he didn’t like being late anywhere.

“Ilya, do you know if sixth street has decent parking?” he questioned, one arm through his jacket as he wandered into the living room. “I can’t decide if I wanted to steal your pass and park in the garage or—”

Before he could finish his sentence, he spotted Ilya waving his arm towards him harshly, trying to get him to close his mouth. He paused, snapping his lips closed and frowning. Ilya gestured widely at the phone he was holding up to ear, continuing the pacing he had temporarily halted in an attempt to shut him up.

“Мы можем перенести тренировки на час позже,” he said, tone contemplative. “Или мы можем начать без тебя и просто задержаться допоздна. Хотя парням это может не понравиться.”

Shane rested his hand on the back of the couch, tilting his head as he listened to one side of the conversation. It was a bit quicker than he was used to hearing. When he and Ilya and spoke in Russian, it was usually slower to help him learn.

And when someone at the rink said something, it was usually just a few words instead of full sentences. Still, it had to do with practice; he was pretty sure. He also mentioned the guys not being happy. Or maybe he had just said likewise and he misheard it. He wasn’t positive.

“Who is it?” he whispered, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Ilya shot him a look, covering the mic on his phone. “Kovalev,” he muttered before returning to his conversation. “Сообщите мне до завтра, чтобы никто не пришел не вовремя.” He hummed over something, laughing slightly. “Я бы не удивился, если бы они сделали вид, что не получили сообщение.”

Shane furrowed his eyebrows, leaning to prop his arms on the couch. He was half focusing on trying to translate what was being said and half just listening to the way his voice changed. It was always intense in Russian, which was saying something considering how deep it already was in English.

He liked it better, though. Even if he couldn’t always understand everything, he was saying.

Ilya nodded to himself, adding something else before he hung up the phone and set it down on the coffee table. Shane perked up, pushing off the back of the couch and watching him walk into the kitchen.

“Well?” he wondered, both eyebrows raised like he expected a complete rundown of the conversation. “What did Kov want?”

“He had something come up and couldn’t make practice tomorrow,” Ilya responded with a vague gesture of his hand. “I told him to get back to me with a time frame so I can move things around.”

Shane pulled out the seat at the counter and sat down. “I was right then,” he mused, a little proud of himself. “I thought I heard you say training. You just talk so fast when you’re with him or Varkov that it’s hard to know for sure sometimes.”

“I couldn’t exactly slow down without him asking me why,” he muttered. “Besides, snooping is an invasion of privacy. What if I was talking about you or something?”

He hummed skeptically. “Oh, I’m sure you’ve probably had a few conversations about me in Russian,” he retorted. “I’ve seen Kov looking at me weird too many times for you to only ever be talking about the game with him.”

Ilya shrugged dramatically. “Guess you won’t know until you’re fluent,” he teased, turning to pull the notepad off the front of the fridge and grabbing a pen out of the drawer.

Shane watched him open their pantry, glancing at the methodically organized shelves for a moment. He reached for a shook the jar of protein powder before setting it back down and jotting something on the notepad. He counted their energy bars and made a similar note.

“Grocery shopping?” he assumed, barely able to read the Cyrillic that he preferred to write in when the list was for himself only instead of both of them.

Ilya nodded, tugging at the door of their fridge. “Do you think I should buy any fruits or vegetables?” he asked, tugging his lips to the side as he considered it. “I don’t know if we have time to eat them before leaving town.”

They had a few upcoming games that would require travel and usually didn’t bother stocking their fridge or freezer as much when they knew they wouldn’t be there to eat everything.

“We’re only gone for two games, though, not three or four,” he reminded him. “Maybe buy enough for dinner the next few days and then just stock up on nonperishables. We’ll get new milk and eggs when we’re home.”

Ilya nodded, closing the fridge and leaning over the counter to jot down a few things worth grabbing while he was out. Things that they would either eat immediately or that could last a while before expiring.

“You look nice,” he murmured, glancing up for a brief moment before going back to his list. “Do you have a date with someone else or something?”

Shane huffed, shaking his head. “No, just lunch with Kane today,” he replied. “That’s what I was trying to ask you about a second ago when I got shushed.” Not that he didn’t understand why, of course.

His eyebrows cinched together, trying to remember what he had been trying to ask. Frankly, his mind had just told him to focus on keeping Kovalev from hearing Shane’s voice. “What were you wondering?”

“Parking on sixth street,” Shane clarified. “It’s some burger restaurant, I think, and I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to find something nearby or if I should just steal your parking pass and walk a few blocks from the main garage.”

Ilya racked his brain for a moment, trying to think of the places he had eaten downtown in the past. “Ah, is the new place, yes?” he wondered, pretty sure he knew what he was referring to. “It replaced the barbeque restaurant a few months before you moved here. Has its own parking lot as long as you are eating there.”

He tore his list off the notepad and pinning the magnet back onto the front of the fridge, glancing over his shoulder at Shane, who was still staring at the paper. He looked back at it, noticing it was slightly crooked and adjusting it to line up evenly. That helped ease the disgruntled expression Shane was wearing.

“Wow a restaurant downtown with its own parking lot,” he mused pushing off the counter as he stood up. “Must have been a bidding war when the owners sold it.”

Ilya scoffed lightly. “You joke, but there was,” he replied, folding his list up and sliding it into his wallet. “It made the news.”

It was a pretty prime location, after all, always doing good business. If the owners weren’t desperate to move closer to their family, they probably would have stayed for several more years, if not longer.

“Of course it did,” Shane mumbled, shaking his head softly. “Will you be home the rest of the day after going to the store?”

He nodded. “Just going to brush up on some broadcasts from last nights game,” he replied, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Enjoy lunch with Kane, but not as much as you would enjoy it with me, yes?”

“Uh huh,” he teased, pulling back from him and heading towards the garage. “I’ll enjoy it a decent amount but not too much!” he shouted over his shoulder.

· ─ ·✶· ─ ·

Less than an hour later, Shane lifted a French fry off the edge of his plate, taking a bite of it as he listened to Kane recount some story of how he had spent his day off at the mechanic last week because his car wouldn’t start. A place he had been in the past which, apparently, decided to overcharge him this time.

“I don’t know why, either,” Kane claimed, tapping the saltshaker over his own fries. “It was a dead battery and they’re acting like they had to personally rebuild the car.”

He hummed, watching him oversalt the hell out of his food. “Labor prices?” he suggested. “Could be charging you for the effort it takes to replace it more than the part.”

Shane glanced out at the street where people were walking past the restaurant. The weather was nice, for the middle of November, anyway.

He scowled, shrugging as he finally set the ceramic shaker down. “Who knows with those places, right?” he murmured, picking up his burger and taking a massive bite out of it. “So, wh…th…in…il?”

Shane blinked, grimacing as he tried to talk through a full mouth. “I couldn’t hear any of that,” he told him, huffing a small laugh as he reached for his soda and took a sip of it. “Swallow and try again.”

Kane rolled his eyes, grabbing his own drink for a moment to clear his throat. “I was asking about that interview with you and Ilya,” he clarified, setting the cup down. “It’s soon, right?”

He nodded, lifting his own burger up. “Yeah, day after tomorrow. We’re doing it a few hours before the game,” he told him, biting into his meal.

The bread was sweet, the meat flooded with flavor, and the toppings crunchy. Everything he used to never allow himself to have. A tinge of guilt sometimes remained, if he was being entirely honest, but he could push it away for the most part.

All he had to do was remind himself that any meal which he wanted to eat was something he was allowed to enjoy having. Plus, it helped seeing how enthusiastic Kane was about his own meal. He always was a foodie, so to speak and invited Shane out for lunch more than anyone else did, always wanting to try a new restaurant he found.

“I don’t want to say you’re breaking the team tradition or anything,” Kane prefaced with a teasing tone. “But why the hell did you two agree to sit down with a reporter in the first place?”

The usual broadcasters were bad enough, harping on them before and after a game. But an actual journalist meant nice clothes, studio lighting, cue cards. Everything they tried incredibly hard to avoid.

“Would you believe me if I told you coach actually said please?” he wondered, raising an eyebrow.

He frowned dubiously, shaking his head. “No,” he replied. “No, I would not.” That man barely kept an inside voice unless he was having a good enough day. “Bribery, I would believe. Or threats, maybe."

Shane chuckled, reaching for another fry. “No bribes, just an alarmingly polite offer,” he clarified, raising his hands defensively. “He said there’s a chance it impacts a sponsor that the team is trying to pick up.”

“Now that makes sense,” Kane retorted, eyes sparkling with amusement. “He never misses a chance to exploit us for more money.” It fed his salary too, after all.

He shrugged, not overly bothered by it. He did so few interviews since signing with the Raiders that being asked every once in a while didn’t bother him terribly much. Besides, it was kind of humorous watching Desjourney’s face turn purple while he was trying to remember how to ask for a favor instead of demanding one.

“It’s one hour of my life, not the end of the world or anything,” Shane responded. “Plus, I get out of my skates for an afternoon while you guys are stuck doing drills before the game.”

He snorted lightly. “Now that is a cruel response,” he muttered, eating one of his overly salty fries without noticing it. “I’m very proud of you, Hollzy.”

His lips tugged upwards. “Glad I live up to expectation,” he admitted.

When he first moved to Boston, his head had been filled with fears about being ostracized by the team or respected as player but not as a person. And despite those worries quickly being put to bed, he was quietly relieved each time someone reminded him why those thoughts were so ridiculous in the first place.

“Oh, you surpass them, don’t worry,” Kane admitted, wiping the edge of his mouth with a napkin. “I mean, I always knew you were a great player, but you’ve got way more personality that you let on.”

He wasn’t the rigid square everyone acted like he was on social media, including the Metros’ own reporters. Shane was actually pretty funny. Kind and reliable, too, of course. But he could tease and joke just as much as any of them. It just took a minute or two for him to get comfortable, which was pretty clear after the first time they officially met.

“It was sort of hard to balance my actual personality while pretending to be the role model everyone wanted,” Shane confessed, shrugging. “It’s easier, now that you guys don’t put that kind of pressure on me.”

Kane nodded understandingly. “You were censored; I get it.” He reached for another fry, biting off the end of it. “And I’m going to sound selfish, but I’m actually glad the Metros treated you like that, because otherwise you never would have joined our team.”

He let out a genuine laugh over the comment, head tilting back slightly for a moment. “Super selfish,” he agreed, biting back his smile. “But hey, no one ever said being selfless was a mandatory trait for the Raiders.”

“Very true,” he agreed, lifting up his soda like it was a mock toast before sipping it.  

Despite Shane telling them he didn’t care, some of the guys were still a bit cautious when it came to bringing up the Metros. They thought he might get defensive or upset over it if they accidentally made a comment, which was why he always appreciated Kane’s bluntness.

It wasn’t like the Raiders ever really insulted other teams anyway since they didn’t believe in it. But if they would, the Metros would be the team they chose. Not because they had anything against how they played in the past, but because the more they learned about Shane’s experience over there, the more they all started to have personal grudges against the team.

“So, how’s the apartment hunting going for you?” Shane asked, lifting his burger up but not yet taking another bite. “Still struggling?”

He nodded, shoulders sagging slightly. “It’s hard to find somewhere close enough to rink on such short notice,” he admitted, sounding annoyed. “I’m going to drag Connors with me next week, though. There’s a place on Sunshine Lane that looks promising.”

Shane pursed his lips, biting back a laugh. “You’re seriously going to live somewhere called Sunshine Lane?” he questioned, the words already coming across humorous to him just in his tone alone.

Kane shot him a glare. “When your landlord abruptly decides to sell the building to a company that plans to put a wrecking ball though your kitchen, you stop caring about the trivial details,” he replied seriously. “Besides, think of all the puns I could make. I can literally tell people I’m walking on Sunshine.”

That had a snort slipping out before he could help it and he ducked his head down, nodding in amusement. He knew it wasn’t a very funny situation. Kane had been a good tenant and loved his apartment for the past six years he had it. It wasn’t his fault the landlord wanted to make a quick buck by letting it get torn down.

Still, Shane could appreciate that he was taking it in stride and trying to find the humor in the situation.

“Glad you’re in good spirit,” he mused. “I don’t think I’d be this calm if I was about to be homeless.”

Kane shrugged. “I’ve got like two more weeks to figure it out,” he replied. “Besides, I wouldn’t really be homeless unless our entire team suddenly dropped dead. Any of them would let me crash on their couch if I asked. Some already offered.”

He just didn’t feel the need to put them in that position, yet. He could probably find something before the actual move out day came and if not, he would cross that bridge when he got to it. No need to stress until he truly had to.

Shane nodded slightly. “Huh, I didn’t actually consider that,” he confessed, almost embarrassed the thought hadn’t crossed his mind.

Sure, if Kane asked he would gladly give him the spare key to his own apartment, but he didn’t realize anyone already offered up their own like that. He probably shouldn’t have been surprised, though. They were all supportive when Kane came into practice late, grumbling about having to find a new place.

“That’s because your subconscious is still stuck thinking your team is working against you; it’ll catch up, eventually,” he told him, watching him furrow his brows slightly. “What? I took like three weeks of a psychology class in university before I got drafted and dropped out.”

Shane gave him a puzzled look, brain fighting to catch up. Both with his assessment and the revelation that Kane used to take psych courses. “You were a psychology major before the NHL?” he questioned.

Kane shrugged. “I had to have a plan in case I didn’t get picked up,” he replied. “But it worked out, so I left. Thank God, too. I didn’t want to have to take stats.”

He huffed, finishing off his French fries. “God, I feel like I’m playing catch up 24/7 around you guys,” he confessed, shaking his head in mild frustration. “I wish your Wikipedia pages included this shit.”

He understood it, of course. They had bonded over years of playing beside each other and he couldn’t expect to just miraculously know everything there was to learn about them just because they accepted him as a Raider. It was still difficult sometimes, though, knowing he could only hear about their stories after they had already happened.

“Wait- did you seriously read our Wikipedia pages before joining the team?” Kane questioned, laughing.

“Of course I did!” he exclaimed defensively. “I study anyone I’m going to meet.”

He did it before joining the Metros, and again when he played the All-Star game. It helped him understand the people around him better. Or it was supposed to. Clearly, the information was a bit lacking.

Kane’s laughter grew louder but wasn’t mocking by any means. “I’m flattered you bothered to take the time,” he admitted, finally composing himself. “Was mine interesting?” He didn’t really Google himself that often, surprisingly.

Shane shrugged. “Wasn’t boring or anything,” he replied. “It didn’t mention you dropping out of college, though.”

He crumpled up his napkin and tossed it onto his empty plate. “Well, I doubt it was exactly a top priority on a page about my stats on the ice,” he reminded him. “But if you want the rundown on any of us, just ask. We don’t keep secrets or anything.”

Not from each other, anyway. From the public, they kept plenty. But the moment someone actually joined the team; they also joined a code of silence that became a safe space for anything and everything—mental and physical health, family problems, other burdens they weren’t sure how to cope with.

Hell, if one of them needed help covering up a crime, he doubted anyone would refuse.

“I know you guys would open up, it’s just sort of weird to ask you to,” Shane explained, scrunching his nose. “I’m not familiar with a team being so…authentic.”

It was a word he had never really considered using when referring to the Raiders before but also felt like the only one that was accurate, too. They put on a pretty convincing act but around each other they were more genuine than he ever could have imagined.

“Well, try to get used to it,” Kane suggested, kicking his foot lightly under the table. “Because there’s no way coach is going to let you go now that he’s got his claws in you.”

He tugged his lips to the side. “There’s worse things in life than job security,” he joked.

Kane nodded in agreement before he tilted his head towards the check that a waiter had dropped at the end of the table. “Did we ask to split it?” he asked. “I don’t remember them checking with us.”

Shane plucked the check off the table, flipping it open. “They didn’t,” he responded in mild annoyance, already glancing around to see if he could find their waiter to have him correct the error.

Before he could wave the man down, though, Kane was already reaching over to snatch the bill out of his hands. He frowned, watching him enclose his credit card in it and prop it back on the end of the table again.

“I’ve got it,” he assured him, shrugging. “It’s not like we had a twelve-course meal or something.” Just a few burgers and fries. Both of which were worth every penny after the rough week they.

Shane just stared at him securitizing him for a moment. “See, this is why you confuse me,” he admitted, leaning back in his chair. “The team teases you about being cheap, then you cover the bill without asking or tip stupidly well whenever possible.”

It was contradictory, to say the least. And he honestly couldn’t tell if it was intentional or not.

The waiter came back, grabbing and disappearing with the check for a moment to run the credit card. “Eh, it’s more of a running joke than anything,” he clarified, propping his elbows on the table. “Plus, there’s a big difference between covering lunch and paying the tab for the bill we run up after a night out.”

“Fair enough, I guess,” Shane murmured, aware those bills could easily break a thousand dollars. “You know I’m going to pay you back though, right?”

He scoffed in disagreement, maybe even in offense. “Not happening,” he replied, shaking his head firmly.

He could respect the gesture of it, of course, but truly didn’t care about a few dollars. He had invited Shane to lunch, after all. If anyone should cover the check, it was him.

“I’ll literally sneak the money into your cubby, if I have to,” he insisted, hating to take advantage of anyone or be indebted. Especially not a teammate. Maybe that was just because Mitty still owed him upwards of two-hundred dollars after borrowing a bit of cash here and there without ever repaying it.

“Try it,” Kane dared, lifting his chin. “I’ll find a way to slip it back into yours before practice ends tomorrow.”

Shane rolled his eyes, somehow believing him despite how ridiculous it was to actually deny being paid back. The waiter came back, dropping their copy of the check-off and Kane crumpled it up before he got the chance to grab it, just in case he tried to double check how much his half of the meal cost.

Huffing, Shane raised his hands in defeat. “Fine, be generous,” he conceded with faux irritation. “Next lunch is still on me.”

Kane hummed, nodding in agreement. “Now that, I’ll allow,” he told him.

Their chairs scraped across the patio as they stood up, getting ready to leave and Shane reached for his soda, finishing it off and setting it back down. He gestured towards the exit, following Kane out of the restaurant and back to the lot where their cars were parked beside each other’s.

· ─ ·✶· ─ ·

The day after next was the last game they had in Boston before leaving the following morning bright and early. Shane was already packed, if he was honest. A few shirts tucked away in a suitcase he left in the corner of the bedroom to avoid having to pull his stuff together after the game left him exhausted.

If the interview didn’t achieve that first, of course.

He knew, from the hesitation coach showed when asking, that it would be bad. Not one of those quick ones that reporters clamored for in the hallways after games, but the sit-down kind with proper lighting and nice clothes.

A while back he would have accepted without complaint and sat through the entire thing with a smile on his face the entire time. These days, however, he felt a bit more claustrophobic sitting in a studio as someone tried to touch him to adjust the microphone hooked to him.

Shane pulled away from the woman, a slight grimace on his face. “I can fit it, thanks,” he murmured, fussing with it for a moment or two before she seemed to accept it enough to leave him alone.

Blowing out a breath, he shifted in his chair. It was one of those deep seats, soft blue cushions made of velvet that were meant to be comfortable. It wasn’t.

“Just relax,” Ilya murmured to him, equally stiff sitting in the chair beside him but doing a better job of covering it. “They can’t hold us hostage; we have a game tonight.”

In just under four hours, technically. That left plenty of time to be grilled by media, in Shane’s opinion. At least they weren’t at practice, getting winded from running drills all afternoon.

They had done that yesterday, though, after accommodating Kovalev’s abrupt schedule change. It left them at the rink until nearly ten at night. Shane blamed it for the reason he was so tired, wishing desperately he had time for a nap in-between the interview and tonight’s game.

“Anything specific we need to avoid?” Shane asked him quietly, angling his body towards him to try to ensure no one would overhear them.

He shrugged. “Same things we usually do,” he replied. Their relationship, of course. The teams’ personal secrets and anything that directly contradicted the way the press viewed them, too.

Shane hummed softly to himself, fiddling with his thumbs. It was his first real sit-down interview as a Raider, despite the media teams and his mom’s attempts to get him to do extra press. Usually, he was just answering a couple of post-game questions.

“I feel like I’m gonna slip back into old habits,” he admitted under his breath, sounding reluctant to even imagine it. “Media training is hard to forget.” Especially when he had been going through it from such a young age. The moment the attention was on him, so was a smile, authentic or not.

“I’ll just kick you if I see you starting to be a people pleaser,” Ilya retorted, only half joking.

They both glanced around a bit more, getting impatient. They had already been in the building for an hour, mostly just waiting to get started. Ilya was hungry, frankly, the large breakfast he had seemed like a distant memory at this point.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” a woman told them, shrugging off her blazer and passing it off to someone whose name she didn’t know. She set down her cup of coffee, extending her hand. “I’m Shannon Williams.”

Shane shook her hand for a moment, giving her a small smile. “I know,” he replied, having already gotten her name from Desjourney as part of his conditions for doing this.

He had spent the past few nights watching some of the interviews she had done with other teams in league, including the Admirals and Guardians. She was, overall, a pretty decent reporter. Good at getting to the root of things, even at the expense of player’s not wanting to disclose certain details.

“Nice to meet you,” Ilya murmured, also shaking her hand and watching her sit down to get comfortable in her own chair. “Is good coffee shop,” he added, gesturing to her cup whose label he recognized.

She nodded, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “It is, yeah,” she agreed, crossing her legs. “I usually stop and grab a cup midday when I’m lagging a little.” She glanced over her shoulder as someone brought her some cards with questions on them. “Are you both ready to start?”

Shane nodded, eyes flitting to the cameraman. “Go for it,” he told her, watching as the red light atop it began to blink.

She glanced at the cards in her hands, shuffling through them for a moment. It was clear that she was used to being on camera and unafraid to force the editing team to cut out wasted time. That was the good thing about this being taped instead of given live, Shane supposed—he wouldn’t have to worry about screwing up without any chance of taking his words back.

“It’s been a little while since you traded in your blue jersey for a gold one, effectively sending the entire hockey community into a panic,” Shannon began, looking towards Shane. “Did you anticipate or intend to cause so much commotion?”

He clasped his hands together, posture staying tall despite the chair making it easy to slide back into comfortably. “I definitely knew it was going to be shocking but I didn’t expect everyone to be so opinionated on it, no,” he confessed.

“It’s safe to say there were a lot of thoughts being thrown around,” she noted lightly. “In past interviews you’ve clarified your former team wasn’t very supportive about your decision to move to Boston, but Ilya is there anything you want to say about the Raiders reaction? How did you all come to hear the news?”

He thought about it carefully for a moment. “We found out like everyone else, though headlines and twitter posts,” he confessed.

Shannon nodded slowly, humming curiously. “Coach didn’t give you any indication that Shane would be signing with your team, then?” she clarified. “It must have been pretty easy to feel blindsided by that news. Was there any concern about the decision or perhaps judgement?”

Ilya shook his head. “No.”

She blinked for a moment, pausing as she waited for him to say something else or elaborate in some way. He just blinked back, his one-word response seeming like the only one he intended to give. Pursing her lips, she glanced back down at the cards again, shuffling through them for a moment.

“The Raiders are notorious for having closed practices, even when traveling for games,” she prefaced, switching gears. “How did those first few meetings go, trying to get to know so many new people after having a rather consistent group of teammates for such a long time? Was there any tension or uncertainty walking into the Boston arena?”

Shane hesitated, feeling a bit trapped by the question. If he told her there was, she probably would dig deeper into something untrue. But if he told her they had welcomed him with ease, it wouldn’t align with what most people considered their typical behavior. Neither was a great option.

“There’s always a bit of uncertainty at the start of a new season, even with the same team. Players come and go all the time,” Shane reminded her. “I just tried my best to be as open with them as possible right away and start building the kind of trust that’s needed in a game like this.”

“And would you say the guys were receptive to that honesty, Ilya?” she asked. “Or were you hesitant given your relationship with Shane?”

He shook his head a bit. “No, not really,” he admitted.

Again, he stopped after a rather short answer. This time, though, the reporter didn’t allow him to get away with it and made a small gesture with her hand, urging him to elaborate on the comment, much to his disappointment.

“I may not have considered Shane a friend, but talent recognizes talent,” Ilya told her, shrugging. “I have always known he was an amazing player, and I respected him as a rival long before he became my teammate. The guys feel the same as I do.”

Shannon smiled softly, as though she liked the answer. Ilya wasn’t known to make sentimental statements often, so she knew it would make a good headline. Their dynamics were already going to pull the attention of every current viewer she had and probably double it after this released without the marketing, they planned to ramp up before releasing it.

“As closed off as your team tends is, usually, we have been able to notice a few instances where Shane seems to be speaking Russian around Varkov, Kovalev, and yourself during games or fan interactions,” she added, leaning in slightly. “Is that something you’ve been teaching him? If so, is there any specific reason why and do other members of your team also speak the language?”

Shane wet his bottom lip, her question towards Ilya catching him off guard. It was a pretty normal thing to ask about him, he supposed. He had only lived in Boston for a short while, after all. But he forgot, or maybe just didn’t realize at all, that the general public wasn’t aware the rest of the team had been learning Russian for years.

Most of them were able to carry a conversation or at the very least understand their Russian players, if nothing else. It was the reason Ilya was so cautious about using it at the rink around him, terrified to let a term of endearment slip like he used in private or when they were in public but sheltered enough to let it slip.

“He’s been picking it up, yes,” Ilya admitted, nodding. “I wouldn’t say any of us teach him, it’s more of a- what do you call it? Experienced learning?”

“Immersion?” Shannon offered, head tilted curiously.

“Yes, that,” he agreed, tipping his head in appreciation for the word that had been alluding him. “We use enough words here and there that they become part of the conversation even if no one really knows how it happened. It’s not speaking Russian so much as speaking Raiders, if that makes sense.”

She chuckled and Shane felt something strange tugging at his heart as he heard Ilya lie, the blatant dishonesty so different than how honest the Metros had to be with the news. He had been learning Russian for years at this point and technically did have lessons with Kovalev and Varkov while picking them up from their houses or helping them build the random furniture they bought at IKEA.

The deceit felt weird to him, but at the same time, he realized he really didn’t care if the media knew that or not. Or if they knew that team all spoke it or knew Marlow could even read Russian after years of rooming with Ilya and stealing books off his shelf at home.

“It sounds like you guys have a pretty unique group of guys,” she commented, voice tinged with interest, like she was searching for an angle. “Do all those personalities ever clash, either in the locker room or on ice?”

Shane shook his head. “No, we’re all really good at reading each other during a game, I think,” he told her. “There’s no jealousy or anything.”

“None?” Shannon questioned, sounding and looking surprised. “I know the Raiders are known for being very collaborative and this season especially you guys are practically gifting each other goals, but there has to be some sort of emotion you feel when you’re not the one scoring.”

He stared at her blankly, shrugging. “Pride?” he retorted with a scoff, like it was the obvious answer. “What else would I feel?”

“I- well, I don’t know, maybe a bit of disappointment that it couldn’t have been your goal?” she suggested, unsure. “That’s certainly easy enough to understand, especially in a competitive environment.”

“Competitive with the other teams in the league, not each other,” Shane corrected. “I’ve scored sixteen goals in the first twenty-four games of the season and I’m sure by the time this airs, it’ll be higher. Assisting my teammates doesn’t mean I don’t get the puck, I’m just not stupid enough to hog it and try to do everything myself.”

Ilya kicked his foot softly, the tone of his voice a bit too rough compared to how he usually acted. It was a bit strange, hearing Shane sound so annoyed or baffled when he had been worried about falling back into his old habits by tacking a ‘ma’am’ to the end of his answers and smiling too much.

He didn’t hate it, though. In fact, he would probably let him keep going if it weren’t for the fact that he knew once they left the studio Shane would have a small freak out after realizing he spoke a bit too harshly.

Shannon cleared her throat lightly, fussing with her cards for a moment. “So, um- it’s certainly true that your stats at this point so far are some of the highest of your career, only outdone by your record breaking fourth season with the Metros,” she noted, trying to get back on track. “Would you say it’s been luck or some way of trying to prove your worth to the new team? Or is it something entirely different?”

Shane ran his thumb over his knuckles, thinking about it for a moment. “I wouldn’t call it luck, no,” he replied, shaking his head. “We’re just really damn good at what we do.” And they enjoyed doing it, too, which made all the difference in his opinion.

Ilya shifted in his seat slightly, not quite uncomfortable but easily able to notice the way Shane was eyeing the exit like he might contemplate leaving. That was always an option, after all. A great way to solidify the whole cruel, standoffish attitude that they loved to portray themselves with.

But he also worried that letting Shane do that might cause a problem with Desjourney. This was a favor to their coach, after all. An attempt at getting some sponsor to invest some extra money. As much as Ilya didn’t care about it, he knew they’d both get an earful if they left before the cameras cut.

“I’m sure a lot of people will be glad to hear you speak so highly of the Raiders, but that bond you’ve been forming with them doesn’t seem to be very well accepted by the rest of the league right now,” Shannon added. “In fact, we know from some footage during your time being mic’d up that it’s a source of conflict.”

He huffed slightly, rubbing his temple for a moment as he nodded. “I guess so,” he replied without much effort, clasping his hands together again loosely.

“Despite some technical problems that occurred later in the game, your mic did pick up some words exchanged during a scuffle,” she reminded him. “It was implied that your jersey didn’t really make you part of the team. What was going through your head when you heard that?”

Anger, if he was being honest. He knew the team shared that sentiment, too. But she had very conveniently chosen to ignore the part where Carmichael acknowledged the guy who said it was an asshole and he figured bringing it up wouldn’t go over very well. Not with his mom or with Desjourney, anyway. The Raiders would probably love to hear his unfiltered comments.

He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek for a moment. “I think people are just so used to seeing my in blue that they can’t accept that I’ve moved on from that part of my career,” he admitted. “They like to act like I made some rash decision but it’s not true.”

“It’s understandable for other teams to still be getting used to this, considering how strong your Montreal roots have been for the past ten years,” she replied, tilting her head slightly. “How long do you think it’s going to take before this really starts to set in for everyone?”

Shane just shrugged. “I don’t really know how long it’s going to take for them to understand, considering I’ve been pretty clear about it,” he answered honestly, voice tinged with annoyance. “But uh- if that’s how they want to see me, then it’s not my job to fix their perception.”

“Ilya, do you think you or your team has had any impact on how the public views Shane lately?” Shannon questioned, realizing she had been neglecting his presence a little. Which, he frankly seemed to prefer.

He blinked once, then twice, feeling a little defensive if not offended over her question. “You are implying what, exactly?” he replied.

He wasn’t sure what she was really saying, but it seemed clear that she was trying to point him in a specific direction. Probably trying to get him to admit the Raiders the reason Shane seemed to be acting differently the past few weeks.

“I only mean to say that Shane is known as a rather stable player. He doesn’t start fights or decline press very often,” she elaborated gently. “Your team on the other hand is known to do both and now he’s also been exhibiting those patterns. Is it possible your teams’ unusual…dynamics have been rubbing off on him?”

His lips twisted into something almost disgusted. “Shane acts however he wants because his behavior isn’t being dictated anymore,” he retorted, shaking his head. “We don’t tell him who to talk to or rebuke him when he chooses not to.”

“You’re saying the way he acted with the Metros was a bit more restrained because that’s what management wanted from him?” she summarized, brows raised with curiosity.

“I am saying that we are hockey players not puppets,” Ilya clarified, enunciating slowly. “Shane is capable of making his own decisions and we will support his choice to refuse reporters whenever he wants to just like we will support and protect him on the ice if things get aggressive. We do that for anyone on our team; it’s our job.”

It was Shane turn to nudge his shoe against Ilya’s, glancing at him for a moment with an expression that he attempted to keep relatively indiscernible. Still, there was something in it that he could see even if the cameras didn’t quite know what to pick up.

“The Raiders dynamics, as you put it, are just fine,” Shane told her, look back. “We simply choose to prioritize each other over your expectations of us in a game that demands we don’t. Of course, our actions will be viewed as defiance when no one else pushes back because they’re too afraid of the press.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ilya taking a breath as he tried to reel his own emotions back in. It wasn’t the first time he had snapped a reporter and probably wouldn’t be his last, either. But Shane couldn’t say he blamed him for it. She was digging for drama, trying to figure out how their team functioned when the Raiders had purposefully spent years trying to keep the press from understanding it.

“Surely you must admit some of the behavior exhibited by the team over the years has been a little more than disrespectful,” Shannon pressed, lowering her cards.

Shane shook his head in disagreement. “I fail to see how refusing to answer your questions is viewed as more disrespectful than the ones you’re choosing to ask us,” he confessed, shrugging. “My job is to represent Boston on the ice and make the city proud, which I do. It is not, however, my job to dance around your studio and entertain you at the expense of me and my teammates personal lives.”

Ilya’s lips tugged up, a small smirk gracing his face just prominent to be noticeable. He couldn’t have said it any better, even if he tried. And that was saying something, since he had already imagined his own choice of words before Shane beat him to it.

She glanced at Ilya, clearing her throat. “I believe this has proven my point,” she joked weakly, expression faltering.

He tilted his head to the side slightly. “Oh?” he wondered with curiosity. “What point was that again? That we are, what, brutish and cruel? Perhaps undeserving of public platforms just because we do not enjoy jumping through your endless hoops?”

Shannon shook her head, looking like she was malfunctioning slightly as he turned it back on her. “N-no, I wasn’t saying either of those things,” she clarified. “Just that you- well, as whole your team is…”

Ilya gestured with his hand prompting her further. “We are…?” he repeated, giving her the chance to finish her thought. “Go on Miss Williams, use your words. Believe me, we are more accepting of your criticism than you are of ours.”

He glanced at Shane, as if to see if that last comment was a bit too far in his eyes. But he seemed to be waiting with equal curiosity to see if she could come up with a response when put on the spot. It wasn’t unusual to walk away from their reporters, of course, but he had never interrogated one back in this way before.

Frankly, he thought it was about time one of them faced the same level of scrutiny they had been putting athlete through for years.

· ─ ·✶· ─ ·

The day the interview was released Hayden was at JJ’s house. His kids had watched a musical the previous night and then promptly spent the following hours before their bedtime singing the wrong lyrics over and over until they were so engrained in Hayden’s brain that he forgot the real ones.

Waking up hadn’t deterred them, either. Which was why he felt pretty strongly about his decision to change their meeting to JJ’s house instead of his own, which was currently an out of tune, way off Broadway act.

“I love your kids, Hayden, truly,” JJ prefaced, passing him a cold drink and bottle opener. “But I don’t think I could have one, let alone four without ripping my beautiful hair out of my skull a few times every day.”

He wrapped his hand around the cold bottle. “The good parts outweigh the bad, but they definitely drive you a bit crazy,” he admitted, popping the lid off as the beer fizzled slightly.

JJ covered the lid with his palm, pulling it off the counter and tossing it in the trash. “You sure you weren’t already crazy when you decided to have them?” he replied, brow raised skeptically. “I mean, you have suffered a lot of brain damage from work.”

Hayden chuckled, shaking his head. “Fuck off,” he muttered, sipping his drink. “I have less brain damage than you and half the idiots on our team.”

He leaned against the kitchen counter, shrugging. “If you say so,” he responded skeptically.

He was pretty sure there wasn’t a single one of them that didn’t have at least a few concussions, if not more serious conditions, as a result of some rougher hits. It was his favorite past time, though, to blame anything and everything he could on it.

“So, how pissed off do you think the guys will be if I start asking for an extra two practices each week?” Hayden wondered cautiously, glancing down at the calendar on his phone.

“I think for your safety, you should have your own room when we fly to Florida,” JJ replied earnestly, the idea already sounding like a bad idea. “When would there even be time for them?”

Hayden wrinkled his nose. “Good point,” he mumbled quietly, contemplating it as he tried to look over his schedule and figure out how he could move things around.

It was already nearly full. There were normal practices, flights, home and away games mixed with the twins’ school talent show, his son’s dentist appoint, or Amber’s pediatrician visit keeping his time occupied.

He had already been busy enough that his entire life was planned out, even on his days away from the rink. But now, after getting promoted to captain, he couldn’t even find the time to eat breakfast unless stale muffins scarfed down in the car at red lights counted.

“Maybe we can extend our current practices but keep the days the same,” JJ suggested, sipping his own beer as he pulled out of his phone to glance at his calendar. “Not that you’d be praised for that either.”

He huffed, well aware that regardless of how he managed the schedule, the guys would still have complaints. “I’m trying to help us win,” he reminded him. “How come I’m the bad guy for forcing them to do the job they get paid millions for?”

He shrugged. “Captain is a thankless position,” he murmured, phone clattering against the table as he set it down.

Hayden hummed in agreement. That was one way to put it. He might have taken it a bit further and called it a bit of a rip-off, in all regards.

He got a bit more power, perhaps some respect to go with it. But he also suddenly became their scapegoat for everything and had to plan everything when he would prefer to just go along with whatever someone else came up with.

“If we’re extending practices we should start two hours earlier and leave an hour later,” he told him. “Or instead of adding two normal practices we can add an extra-long one.”

JJ shook his head, waving off that idea. “No, there’s no way that’ll go over well with the guys,” he replied. “Let’s just start with longer hours and if that’s not fixing things we can add more days.”  

They weren’t exactly in the trenches just yet, but they could definitely be heading in that direction if they didn’t get their shit together quickly. People had been joking that the team flipped a coin to choose whether they actually wanted to play or not each night. And it wasn’t that much of an exaggeration.

They were acting more like one of those sporadic teams with amazing wins and dreadful losses instead of presenting their usual stability. As much as it would piss some guys off to need even longer practices, it was necessary.

“I’ll double check the hours don’t overlap with any press or anything, then let everyone know,” Hayden told him. “You’ll pretend it’s a great idea, right?” He needed at least one of his teammates to be on his side.

He nodded. “I’m not thrilled over it, but we’ve gotta do whatever works,” he murmured. “I don’t want to play another game like the one last week.”

Hayden grimaced at the thought of how badly they played, losing the puck and running into each other, tripping and missing shots when the net was literally empty. Social media had been having a field day

“That’s not happening again anytime soon,” Hayden insisted like he simply wouldn’t allow it. “I’m genuinely shocked they didn’t throw tomatoes with how humiliating it was.”

No matter how supportive his wife was, assuring him every team had bad days, he felt responsible for the loss. All of their recent losses, actually. It was his job to keep things running smoothly, yet he kept falling short.

JJ hummed in agreement, feeling upset all over again, just thinking about it. He took another sip of his drink, his phone chiming on the counter. “Oh, speak of humiliating,” he added, voice tinged with annoyance as he pushed it a bit further away as if trying to distance himself from it.

“What?” he questioned, sitting up straighter in his chair so he could lean over and look at his phone. “Shane’s interview is out?”

JJ glanced at him, brows furrowed. “You knew he was doing one?” he asked, caught off guard by how casual his captain looked over the notification popping up.

Hayden blinked for a moment, temporarily forgetting that he had been trying to keep his friendship with Shane a bit quiet lately. He figured they all knew he was still talking to him as he tried to keep them from having the chance to comment on it. But maybe they really did believe he had cut off his best friend.

“Yeah, I mean he’s my friend, JJ,’ he told him. “He was yours once, too.”

He let out a small huff, not quite as bitter as it used to sound. “That was before he embarrassed all of us by walking away,” he replied. “Not to mention insulting us on live television and doing a complete 180 on his personality.”

It was hard not to feel betrayed by Shane’s abrupt exit. But even if he had, for whatever reason felt compelled to sign with Boston, the way he acted after moving there caused enough extra damage. He was going out with them in public, drinking, partying, doing things he complained about doing with the Metros.

“He didn’t insult,” Hayden defended. “We did call him a traitor and Comeau did refuse to speak to him. It sucked hearing him tell people that, but if we didn’t want him saying it maybe we shouldn’t have said it in the first place.”

He looked at his friend like he had grown a second head. “Are you actually defending him?” he questioned in disbelief.

“I shouldn’t have to, but apparently I am,” he retorted with a weak shrug. “Shane left us, alright? I get that it hurt and we were all shocked, but he’s happy in Boston. If you cared about him, that would be more important than your pride.”

Hayden was stunned, too, at first. But he was trying to get over it. And he liked to think that after clearing the air in Boston, he and Shane were actually closer than before.

He was certainly lighter during conversations over the phone, likely due to the amount of laughter in the background. He was honestly glad that his best friend had such a strong team supporting him, despite what the others thought, even if it wasn’t the one he expected him to sign with.

JJ pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, shaking his head for a moment in fatigue. Most days, he just tried to pretend Shane didn’t exist anymore. “Of course, I care about him,” he replied. “But Boston is- it’s the Raiders hometown. Out of every team he could have picked, why that one?”

Hayden wasn’t sure. “I don’t, man,” he admitted, shrugging weakly. “He called it a change of pace but he’s the only one who really knows, I think.”

Lily was always a factor that sprung to mind. It was actually his first thought when he first heard the news, but he had been so blindsided he didn’t have the chance to ask. Then, things had gotten so tense that he and Shane weren’t talking at all.

Even after reconciling, he was a bit worried about broaching the subject in case he was way off base and ruined their progress, so he kept his theory to himself.

JJ tapped his fingers against the side of the cold bottle, like he was reluctantly considering Hayden’s words. “Still, an interview in an actual studio is weird,” he muttered, even though he only saw the thumbnail of it. “Isn’t he like, all about refusing the press these days or something?”

“Like you wouldn’t avoid it too, if you were given the option,” he countered with a knowing glare. “I’d love to get out of it. Hell, we could start closing our practices off, too. I wouldn’t complain.” He’d probably cheer; they all would. 

“Not the point I was making, and you know it,” he murmured, sipping his beer as he dragged his phone off the counter and unlocked it. “I just can’t understand what’s going on with him anymore.”

He didn’t like feeling so out of touch when he used to be able to read Shane so well. He thought he could, anyway. But after that sudden announcement in the locker room, whatever illusion of friendship he imagined seemed to shatter.

“You could always, you know, reach out?” Hayden suggested, the rational option seeming a bit tough to comprehend for some reason. “He’d pick up the phone.”

If he was near it, anyway. He tended to keep pretty busy, these days.

JJ clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “No, he wouldn’t,” he assumed. “I was too cruel.” Both on the ice and off it. He didn’t know which would have hurt him worse, but both were bad.

His shoulders slouched and Hayden tugged his lips to the side. “Trust me, JJ,” he insisted firmly. “He would answer if you actually wanted to talk to him.”

He knew that despite acting completely fine with it, Shane still missed the feeling of friendship he tricked himself into believing the Metros offered him. And Hayden would be the first to tell him not to fall for it if Mitty or Drapeau started reaching out.

But JJ was another story.

JJ really was his friend; he just didn’t know how to cope with Shane’s absence any other way beside pretending he no longer existed. A shitty mistake on his part, but human error influenced by emotion more than any actual disdain for Shane.

“Even after I called him a fucking traitor?” JJ questioned, his own words sounding so harsh. He wanted to grimace at the thought of Shane hearing them, let alone thinking he meant it.

“Hey, I didn’t say he’d forgive you right away,” he clarified, raising his hands defensively. “He definitely didn’t excuse the way I acted, but we’re getting past it.” Slowly and steadily through more conversations and plans to meet up next time they played against each other.

“And that’s working?” he wondered skeptically, a bit worried that if he did call Shane, it would only result in him bringing up his recent and rather foul behavior before hanging up.

Hayden nodded. “I think so, yeah,” he admitted. “This version of him is- he’s different but in a good way. I feel like it might be who he’s always been, deep down, and we were just holding him back from it.”

He wished, pretty badly, that he might have been able to notice sooner how miserable Shane was. Maybe he could have straightened the team out, gotten them to lay off their quips about his diet or his personal choices, and kept him as their captain for a few more years. But even if he had managed it, he still didn’t think Shane would be nearly as happy as he was now.

· ─ ·✶· ─ ·

Later that night, Hayden had checked off most of the items on his to do list for the day. He had sorted out the scheduling mess, picked up the dry-cleaning Jackie requested he grab, stopped by the grocery store and helped her make dinner.

He even found a bit of time to spare so he could watch the interview Shane gave with Ilya, folding the laundry in the living room as he did. It was, well, interesting, to say the least. Not at all the kind of thing he had expected from his friend and exactly the kind of thing he expected from Rozanov.

Hayden laid another of Jade’s shirts on top of the stack he had been folding before reaching for another, his attention split between the laundry and his best friends growing frustration over the reporter’s questions. He could admit they were pretty accusatory, the kind asked with a clear motive behind them.

Ilya was about to respond to one of her questions about the team when Hayden’s phone froze. He frowned, glancing back at it as he spotted Shane’s name at the top of it. He reached for it, answering.

“Hey, I was just watching your interview,” he noted, setting another shirt down on the pile. “That reporter was a real piece of work, huh?”

On the other end of the phone, Shane’s huff came across loud and clear. “Yeah, the afternoon didn’t go quite as well as any of us hoped,” he admitted, wrinkling his nose. “How much of it did you see?”

“The first few minutes, so far,” he replied, turning some socks inside out and trying to find the one it matched. “Why? Is there some part of it that I shouldn’t see or something?”

He didn’t think it would be the kind of interview where they brought up the Metros, considering it was supposed to focus on Shane’s adjustment to the Raiders. But aside from the team, he couldn’t think of anything his best friend would be worried about him watching.

There was a slight hesitation. “No, no it’s all fine, mostly,” Shane told him, sounding a little uncertain in his own belief. “I didn’t call to talk about it, anyway.”

“Oh. Why’d you call, then?” he wondered, eyes glancing over the array of mismatched socks as he kept searching for the right one. He honestly had no idea how six people could have so many.

“I uh- I got a call from JJ earlier today,” he admitted, voice tinged with hesitance. “And he didn’t exactly say it, but I had a suspicion that you were the reason for it.”

He couldn’t fathom anyone else on the team talking him into it since Hayden was the only was he was still in contact with and after some of the stuff JJ said and did he also struggled to believe he would just decide to call him on his own. Especially because JJ was known to prefer texting unless someone insisted on actually talking on the phone.

“I might have…suggested it when I was at his house earlier today,” Hayden confessed after a moment, grimacing to himself. “Are you pissed at me?”

He didn’t respond right away, but when he did, he didn’t sound angry. “No, I was just caught off guard, is all,” he replied. “We actually talked for like an hour.” It was the first time in months they had really spoken to each other.

“And?” he questioned with a tentative amount of hope in his voice. “Do you think you’re going to be able to work things out?”

God, he wasn’t sure at what point the three of them had their friendship start to resemble a group of middle school girl’s drama, but he really hated it. He didn’t want to talk to them individually and hide conversations or mend their arguments. He just wanted things to be normal again. Well, whatever the new normal was with Shane living in Boston.

“I can’t immediately get over it,” he admitted, wishing he could. “But he apologized and that’s definitely a step in the right direction.”

“I know it’s not an excuse, but he really does feel horrible,” Hayden assured him as he went back to sorting the laundry. “He probably would have called sooner if he wasn’t so afraid that you wouldn’t pick up. He hates rejection.”

Which made it all the more ironic that their rift had stemmed from JJ rejecting Shane’s attempt to leave the team on good terms. Not that he wanted to bring that back up just when they were finally starting to move on.

“I know he does,” Shane admitted earnestly. “Thanks for talking him into it, anyway.”

“Is this the part where I say, ‘that’s what friends are for’ or something?” he joked, hearing him chuckle weakly on the other side of the phone. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually had the chance to use it, before.”

“I think we can skip that part,” he replied. “I’ll keep in mind your desire to recite cheesy one liners, though. Maybe you can use that material next time you come to Boston.”

“One can only ever dream,” Hayden deadpanned a little too effectively. “So, back to that interview of yours—why did you sound so concerned about how much of it I’ve watched?”

He might have been several hundreds of miles away, but he could still recognize his tone, even over the phone. It was the one he got whenever he wanted to avoid the topic or try to inconspicuously gleam a little bit of information.

Shane huffed softly. “I wasn’t concerned,” he lied poorly. “I was just, you know, asking. It’s not even that interesting of an interview.”

Now that, he didn’t believe for a single second. He had been very enthralled up until the moment his phone rang, breaking his concentration on the video.

“Uh huh,” he hummed dubiously, not believing him for a single moment. “What’s the real reason?”

“Okay, fine, I just don’t want you to judge me for some of the stuff I say towards the end of it,” Shane confessed. “It wasn’t my finest moment or anything.”

In fact, some might actually call it his worst, he was pretty sure. If someone with absolutely no information on the NHL watched it, they would probably assume he was a rookie in dire need of media training and anger management classes.

Hayden’s expression grew more intrigued. “Like what?” he questioned curiously. “You were already inadvertently calling her an idiot for some of those questions. I especially liked the disgusted tone you had when she was asking how you feel watching the other players score goals.”

“It was a stupid question,” Shane retorted defensively. “And that’s actually probably one of my better responses, I think.”

“Seriously?” he wondered. “What were some of the worse ones, then?”

He cleared his throat, a little uncomfortable. “I’m not positive or anything, but I might have crossed a line when I said she interviewed people as a way to compensate for her own inability to produce anything worth being praised for.”

Hayden paused, blinking before he let out a harsh laugh of disbelief. He honestly couldn’t imagine what kind of question someone could ask to make Shane respond with that kind of insult but was definitely looking forward to watching the rest of the interview to find out.

“You actually said that?” he asked in shock, sitting down on the couch to process it better. “And they left it in?”

“Apparently!” Shane exclaimed, scrubbing his face. “I swear I thought they’d take it out before it aired. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have said it. But it can’t be that bad, right? They would have cut it if it was going too far.”

Hayden was mostly silent, pursing his lips as he tried to think of the best way to answer that question. “Uh- no, it’s pretty bad,” he answered honestly. “But I- wow, I’m face timing you.”

He frowned to himself. “Huh? You’re wha—”

Before Shane could protest, Hayden had already hung up on him and recalled. He was pretty sure he could already envision his expression but needed to see his face after that declaration, just to be certain.

Shane picked up, standing in front of the nearest white wall for some reason. He was already glaring at him in annoyance over being cut off so abruptly, but Hayden didn’t care. He just leaned his phone against the laundry basket, trying to hide his own amusement over the situation.

“So, you were telling me about how you insulted the hell out that reporter?” he summed up, gesturing for him to elaborate. “Continue.”

Share rolled his eyes. “I didn’t mean to, she just kept asking worse and worse questions,” he clarified. “Every time Ilya or I tried to get back on track, she’d bring something else up that pissed us both off.”

“What did Ilya say about it?” Hayden asked, still trying to get used to using his first name around his friend. “He’s pretty used to having his interviews go off the rails, isn’t he?”

There were compilation videos about him snapping at journalists, after all. Some of which were actually pretty fair or funny. And he was pretty sure if he actually searched for it, he could find a tally of how many times he walked out mid interviews, too.

“He says they left stuff in because it would draw views,” he replied, shrugging. “And that it’s fine because it fits with the Raiders reputation, so I shouldn’t worry about it.”

“He’s not totally wrong, honestly,” Hayden admitted, unintentionally towing a pretty fine line between comforting him and insulting him all at once. “It’s probably going to fit right into a folder of things Marlow or Feller have said to the press, too.”

“I know it will, I just- do you think I’ve changed?” he asked, looking slightly concerned over the potential answer. “In a bad way, that is. Have I become mean?”

No one had outright said it to him, yet, but he felt like that was how the press had started to view him. And he didn’t care much about what the reporters thought, but he hated to think his fans might no longer see him as appreciative of their support. Because he was. So much more than they could ever possibly know.

“You’re definitely different,” Hayden confessed, nodding. “But I don’t think you’re meaner, just…more honest. And I think most of the league would act the same way the Raiders do, if our coaches let us.”

He huffed slightly. “Funny enough I said that in the interview too,” he mused, wrinkling his nose.

“Oh, I cannot wait to finish it, now,” he told him honestly. “This call is just preventing the inevitable, Shane.”

Shane grimaced. “Just remember you said I wasn’t mean, when you do,” he replied. “You’ve already made that decision and can’t take it back after seeing the rest of it.”

Hayden chuckled, but his laugh quickly died down as he saw Shane’s eyes widen slightly. He watched him glance away from the camera for a moment, seeming freaked out for a second before looking back. He wouldn’t say the look of panic hadn’t entirely faded, either, but he was at least a little calmer.

“You alright?” he wondered, voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and concern.

Shane nodded. “Yeah, fine,” he replied, eyes flitting up and back down for a quick moment. “I was checking the time. I should be making dinner by now.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Hayden muttered, shrugging. “I’ve been wanting to see your apartment for a while, anyway.”

For some reason, Shane seemed weirdly protective of it. He mostly preferred phone calls to facetime and even when he did manage to get him on a video call, he was always in front of the same while wall, somewhere in a hallway, he assumed.

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Give me a second,” he murmured, lowering his phone as he carried it through his home.

Hayden squinted, trying to make out whatever shapes of furniture he could from it. The camera was too jostled, unfortunately, to see much of anything as Shane’s hand kept ‘accidentally’ covering it. Shane was clever but not nearly as smooth as he believed and if Hayden hadn’t been working so damn hard to earn back his trust and friendship, he might have commented on secrecy.

But he wasn’t going to risk ruining things after they had finally got back into a place where they could banter and talk with relatively little tension. Instead, he just waited patiently, watching him prop up the phone against something on the counter.

“Satisfied?” Shane questioned sarcastically, gesturing around himself.

Only his kitchen was on display, but it was more than Hayden had seen so far, and he would take whatever he could get. “Nice cabinets, I guess,” he mused, shrugging. “Very…pristine.”

He huffed a laugh. “I didn’t exactly pick the color,” he reminded him.

Hayden watched as he seemed to notice something out of the corner of his eye. Shane reached out, grabbing the notepad off the fridge and putting it into the nearest drawer before he could even figure out why.

Rather than mentioning the strange behavior and making his friend uncomfortable, he chose to ignore it, just watching him pull out some ingredients from the fridge as he started making his dinner. “So, are you going to make time for a visit when you come back to Canada for Christmas?” he asked. “The kids miss you.” He did, too. But that was a little overly sappy.

Shane paused halfway through rolling up his sleeves. “I- actually, I’m not coming home this year,” he confessed after a few seconds. “I’ll still send the kids gifts, though. Have they been asking for anything specific or are they still changing their minds every few days?”

Hayden blinked a bit, caught off guard. “They’re…still changing their minds like usual, yeah,” he eventually responded. “I’ll let you know when they narrow it down.”

He nodded, preheating his oven and turning on the faucet to wash some vegetables under the water before laying them out on a chopping board. Hayden watched him grab a knife out of the block and begin to dice the butternut squash.

“Just give me enough time to wrap and ship it so you don’t have to tell them Santa forgot it and sent it late,” Shane teased, eyes so focused on the vegetables that he couldn’t see how hard his friend was staring at him.

He hummed lightly. “Of course,” he murmured softly, wondering if he should let it go or keep prying for more information. “Does uh- do your parents know? That you’re not coming back, I mean.”

He glanced up for a slip second, giving a brief nod. “I told them last week,” he replied, snatching a small piece off the board and biting into the raw vegetable to try it. “They’re coming down to Boston next month and staying until the 28^th.”

Again, Hayden felt himself caught off guard. “They are?”

“Yeah, they’d stay longer but we’re traveling on the 29^th and playing in New York on the 30^th, so there’s no reason for them to stick around,” he explained, shrugging. “I think they’ll like Boston in the winter, though. The guys keep telling me it’s beautiful.”

They also said it was freezing and made the traffic even worse. But that could be said of a lot of places during December and January. He was still looking forward to his first official Christmas with Ilya despite it.

“That sounds nice,” Hayden mused softly.

He stayed quiet for a while, just watching Shane chop up the rest of his vegetables and toss them into a glass pan. Maybe he was reading into things, but it seemed like too many to be a single portion. And staying in Boston for the holidays seemed like the kind of thing someone did if there was someone worth staying for.

“Are you alright?” he questioned, noticing how silent he had gone for a full minute or two.

“Hm? Oh, I’m fine,” he assured him, not sounding terribly confident about it. “I was just…thinking.”

“Ouch, wouldn’t want you to strain your brain,” Shane teased, rinsing off the chopping board. “Everyone knows those muscles aren’t as strong as the ones in your legs.”

Hayden huffed a laugh, the comment breaking up some of the hazy thoughts that had come over him for the past few moments. It was funny, sure. He wasn’t upset over the joke or anything. It just seemed a little familiar for some reason, like a quip he might have heard from someone on his team at some point.

“Can I ask you something?” Hayden wondered cautiously. “While keeping in mind that we’re friends and I want to know about your life even when it’s a sensitive subject like Boston, that is.”

He wiped his hands on a towel, nodding slightly as he slowed down. “Of course you can,” he replied.

He wasn’t sure if it was Hayden’s tone or his expression that made him worry, but both of them combined made it sound like his question wasn’t going to be a one off that he could answer and then move past. He leaned his hands on the counter, trying to offer his full attention.

“I’ve just been wondering about something for a while and I uh- I didn’t want to imply anything in case I was totally wrong,” Hayden confessed, hesitating for a while. “But did you…move for Lily?”

Shane blinked. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting him to ask, but it wasn’t that. He thought it might have been about his relationship with the Metros or the Raiders or something like that which was an equally delicate topic at the moment.

He didn’t respond right away. The answer was far more complicated than either of them seemed to want it to be. Eventually, though, he nodded. It was slow at first, just a weak gesture of admittance.

“Yeah, I did,” he muttered softly.

Hayden blew out a slow breath. It wasn’t relief, per say, but he felt a little bit lighter after realizing he had been correct the whole time. “I- why didn’t you tell us that?” he asked softly. “Or me, at least. I would have been thrilled for you.”

He had known for years that his best friend was pining over that girl. That he was self-sabotaging every date or relationship he had because he was totally infatuated with Lily. It wasn’t surprising that part of the reason he seemed so happy these days was because he had finally admitted to himself that he needed to be with her more than a night or two every few weeks.

Shane shrugged lightly, brushing it off. “It wasn’t a huge deal,” he murmured. “We’ve just been—”

“In love for nearly as long as I’ve known you,” Hayden interjected, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’m glad you finally got things figured out with her.”

He dipped his head, huffing as his shoulder sagged. “Me too,” he admitted, voice tinged with relief and a tenderness that was rare to hear from him.

Hayden stared at him for a moment, still sensing something wrong with his response. It was genuine, that much he knew for sure. But it was also restrained, somehow. Like there was more behind it that he wasn’t saying for some reason.

“I haven’t seen anything about the two of you in the news, lately,” he noted astutely. “Does she like her privacy?” He deserved that, too, frankly. It was just pretty tough to get for someone that the press enjoyed following around so much.

Shane’s expression twisted into something unreadable, like he was agreeing and denying it all at once. “H-she’s not a huge fan of the media,” he explained slowly, tapping his fingers on the counter.

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself just as much as he was trying to convince Hayden, but he didn’t call him out on it. “Fair enough, they can be pretty annoying,” he murmured. “It’s good you’ve found someone who feels the same way about the paparazzi as—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Shane was pushing off his counter and turning away. Hayden froze, unsure what he had said wrong that was currently making him scrub him face with a rather upset expression.

“I can’t do it, Hayd, I- I just can’t,” he muttered as he sighed in frustration.

He nodded quickly, trying to reel his curiosity back in to an acceptable degree. “O-okay, I’m sorry,” he apology. “I didn’t mean to pry. We can talk about something else.”

Shane scrunched his nose, shaking his head. “No, no it’s not that, I swear,” he replied, trying to think of the easiest way to explain it. “I just can’t handle you being all supportive while I feel like such an asshole for not being honest with you.”

Hayden narrowed his eyes, growing even more confused. “You’re talking about your girlfriend with me,” he replied. “That’s pretty honest, in my opinion.”

Maybe for some people, it would be the bare minimum. A casual topic, even. But he knew how hard it was for Shane to understand his own feelings, sometimes, let alone voice them.

Aside from briefly mentioning her once or twice, everything he knew about Lily came from accidentally reading his notifications when they shared a room or making assumptions that Shane didn’t overtly shut down. This was the first time he actually admitted they were even in a relationship out loud in the years he had known about them seeing each other.

That made this entire conversation pretty monumental to Hayden. He didn’t want to screw it up or make him feel like he had to share more than he was willing to.

“It’s not honest, though,” Shane muttered in disagreement. “I’m not.”

He slouched, somehow feeling even worse about his lies when Hayden acted so understanding. It was easier to lie when there had been this emotional safety wall between them, so to speak. They talked about hockey, the kids, and other easy topics.

But their last fight tore it down to the point they had to talk about some personal stuff for the sake of their friendship surviving and neither were attempting to rebuild it once the conflict ceased. In fact, they had actually felt closer. Shane did, anyway. It made lying far more difficult.

“I don’t know what that means,” Hayden clarified gently. “But whatever it is, you don’t have to talk about it unless you want to.”

“I know, I just…we’ve been trying to be more truthful, haven’t we?” he murmured. “And I really like feeling like I can talk to you again, without all the locker room noise.”

It felt like they were finally being sincere around each other instead of being teammates first and friends second. Shane didn’t realize how big of a difference there was until he stopped associating Hayden with practice and the logistics of their respective titles in the organization.

He nodded slowly, trying to follow his train of thought. “We’re being more sincere, yeah,” he agreed. “Jackie says it’s how normal friendships are supposed to work and that we’re just not used to them because of our typical work environment.”

Shane huffed a laugh. “She’s probably right.”

“She’s always right,” he retorted, glancing over his shoulder like she might appear behind him as if summoned by the praise. She didn’t, thankfully, probably still reading the kids their bedtime stories. “What’s your point, though?”

He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek for a moment, contemplating. “I just…don’t want to keep lying to you,” he admitted. “I’m finally really happy and I want someone to know why.”

Someone besides his parents, that was. They didn’t even really know the extent of his relationship yet, either. The person closest to understanding the full extent of it was probably Rose and her work schedule was so damn busy they could hardly even text each other back sometimes.

“You mean that you’re happy because of Lily?” Hayden surmised. That didn’t seem like the kind of thing he needed to be told. It was pretty obvious.

Shane hesitated, shaking his head for a moment. “No,” he confessed quietly, his chest tightening nervously. “That I’m happy because of Ilya.”

He blinked, confused. “Ilya?” he repeated, the name catching him off guard as it was thrown into the middle of a rather personal conversation. “As in Ilya Rozanov?”

He nodded slowly, swallowing harshly. “I moved for him,” he confessed earnestly. “He’s Lily.”

Hayden felt like he was going through all five stages of grief in a matter of seconds, his brain malfunctioning a bit. Still, some rational part of his brain was still telling him he needed to focus on his friend before he figured out his own emotions. Shane looked like he was regretting his decision to be honest, a wave of panic crossing his face and making him seem pale.

“He’s what?” he asked. “He’s…her?”

Shane nodded again, even more cautiously. “Always has been,” he muttered, his heart thudding a little faster as he watched his best friend try to figure out what to say.

“Ilya is Lily,” he repeated like it would help it make more sense. He blinked a few times, shaking himself out of his stupor. “T-that…makes way more sense once I say it out loud,”

“It does?” Shane questioned, voice tight with cautious.

It struck Hayden, rather suddenly, that his friend didn’t just look panicked. He looked like he was mentally preparing for something. For his feelings to be ridiculed or his identity invalidated.

Which, he then realized were probably pretty valid fears for a closeted hockey player. Especially one who was romantically involved with his biggest rival. Past rival, he supposed. No wonder they seemed to work so well together on the ice. Everyone thought it was professionalism when it was probably their relationship manifesting through trust in the rink.

“Yeah,” Hayden admitted, nodding even as he still felt a bit stunned. “Always meeting up in Boston should have probably been a bigger clue, I guess. And he has always seemed obsessed with you, in a way. I just thought it was that creepy rival behavior or something.”

Clearly, he was wrong.

Shane shook his head. “No, I-I’m pretty much the same way about him,” he confessed before grimacing slightly like he regretted how quickly the admission slipped out. He still didn’t know if it was technically something Hayden was okay with and shouldn’t push it by mentioning anything too personal or romantic.

Hayden scrubbed his hand over his face, years’ worth of memories reemerging as he sorted through them in the blink of an eye. “I- I’m sorry I…this is just giving me whiplash,” he confessed.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, leaning against the counter to steady himself. “I know it’s a lot.”

That was one hell of an understatement in Hayden’s opinion, but at least Shane wasn’t rushing him for a response. He wasn’t really sure what kind he would even have. Acceptance, sure. He didn’t really care about his friend’s sexuality or anything like that.

It was more of the general shock of hearing him say Ilya was Lily that had his mind reeling, wondering how many nights he snuck out of their hotel to meet him or how many times Shane hid his phone because that’s who he was texting. God, Hayden felt like such an idiot for not seeing it sooner.

“So, um…Ilya, huh?” Hayden mused with a huff of disbelief. “How the hell did you- I mean, he’s so…” he trailed off, unsure what word would fit best. Arrogant and abrasive were probably not words that would be appreciated right now. “…emotionally reserved?”

Shane shrugged. “I- I don’t really know, honestly,” he muttered earnestly. “We met before the draft and just sort of clicked, I guess.”

He blew out a deep breath, nodding as he did his best to understand. “And you moved to be with him? That was the change of pace you wanted.” He wasn’t running away from Montreal or abandoning the Metros, he just wanted to be with his boyfriend. “Does anyone else know?”

“My parents found out at the start of the season,” Shane admitted. “But the team doesn’t know, if that’s what you mean.”

It might have been a little self-centered, but Hayden was kind of glad he learned about it before any of the Raider or other Metro’s. It made him feel like Shane really did trust him. That the decade of friendship between them hadn’t been completely erased by the distance between them.

“David and Yuna just found out?” he repeated, a bit shocked. “You guys really have been keeping it a secret.”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t really like we had a choice,” he muttered, sounding a little disappointed. “And I don’t think either of us ever thought we’d actually be together. Not long term or anything, just in moments.”

Hayden’s heart ached slightly at the thought of his happiness needing to be constantly contained in order protect his reputation and career. It didn’t seem fair that something as simple and pure as love had to be monitored and hidden like it wasn’t such a universal feeling.

“Woah, wait a minute- do you live with him?” he questioned abruptly, sitting up straighter.

Shane blinked, laughing slightly. “Did you just connect those dots?” he teased, trying to get some semblance of lightness back into the conversation.

Hayden’s eyes widened a bit. “I’m sorry, I was still trying to wrap my head around you being in love with the devil of hockey,” he retorted tenderly with a huff. “You said you moved for him, not moved in with him.” He squinted, staring at the screen. “Is that his kitchen?”

“Ours, yeah,” he corrected lightly, tapping his fingers on the counter for a moment before reluctantly pulling the drawer open and taking the notepad back out to stick it to the fridge.

Hayden could see the scribbles on the front of it, but wasn’t able to make out anything they said. Probably because they weren’t actually written in English, he realized. Not entirely, at least. There was a smattering of it, along with Russan beside it. No wonder Shane had rushed to hide it.

He looked away from the camera, feeling stupider than he did when he failed math in high school. “You speak fucking Russian for him,” he realized out loud, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus, how dumb was I?”

“That one is actually pretty easy to come up with excuses for,” Shane admitted. “The whole team speaks it to some extent and whenever someone asks, I just say it’s because of Kovalev and Varkov too.”

“But you learned for him, first, didn’t you?” Hayden assumed; his tone was far more accepting than either of them were expecting it to be.

He paused, nodding after a minute. “Technically,” he revealed. “I just like being able to know what he’s saying when he mumbles in Russian, is all.”

And when his brain forgot English the first few minutes after he woke up each morning, it was nice to hear his sleepy thoughts and actually know what they meant.

Hayden shook his head softly as everything started to finally settle a bit in his mind. “Wow, I- I was just trying to watch you insult another reporter while I sorted the laundry,” he muttered. “I didn’t think we were gonna get into…this.”

He winced slightly, pursing his lips with worry. “Are you mad?” he asked.

He hesitated, trying to figure out the right words. “No, no, it’s not that,” he assured him. “It’s more like surprised. And a little disappointed it took so long for you to tell me, but I understand why you kept it a secret.”

The more people who knew, the bigger the risk of their secret getting out. Even if Hayden would never intentionally do anything to out either of them, there was still a chance he could fuck up when he was drunk or accidentally say the wrong pronouns. He’d never forgive himself if either happened.

“I thought about telling you, a lot,” Shane admitted, tipping his head to the side. “It just took me a long time to understand it myself and once I did, I didn’t want to risk anything changing.”

Not with the Metros or with Ilya. But now, everything was different anyway. One more confession wouldn’t kill him, even if this specific one had been lingering over his head like the blade of a guillotine for years.

“I get it,” he replied with a firm nod. “I mean, I don’t entirely, but I understand enough. You know this is going to keep me up all night thinking of things I missed, right?”

“You’re always up with the baby, anyway,” Shane retorted, chuckling slightly.

“You aren’t going to find it funny when you wake up to a three-page document of questions I come up with,” Hayden retorted, trying to wipe the smile off his face. “Including but not limited to my curiosity about the teams closed practices and that game several weeks ago where neither of you were there.”

He might have thought he was kidding, but Hayden could already see the list forming in his mind. Some questions he had were about their relationship’s longevity, but others were just about Ilya in general. Things he always wondered about him or his cars that he couldn’t find the answers to online.

Shane furrowed his eyebrows. “We were sick and had to stay in bed,” he explained. “But closed practices have virtually nothing to do with Ilya and I,” he added in confusion. “Why do you want to know about those?”

Hayden shrugged. “Morbid curiosity and a tinge of envy,” he replied. “Also, show me the house.”

Shane blinked, caught off guard by the sudden deamnd. “What?”

“Your house, I want to see it,” he clarified, waving his hand around in a vague gesture. “You’re always in front of that stupid white wall as a way to hide the rest of it, so I’m assuming you guys have pictures up or something you didn’t want anyone noticing.”

He huffed softly. “Where was that detective work the past decade?” he wondered curiously, picking his phone up and walking out of the kitchen.

Hayden shrugged. “Hybernating, probably,” he replied. “Does Ilya have a shrine dedicated to himself, somewhere? That’s what I’m imagining right now.”

Shane scoffed, shaking his head. “No shrine, just a wall dedicated to awards,” he replied, even though that might have been close enough in his opinion. “I can show you around really quickly, but then I actually have to finish making dinner before he gets back from a meeting with Desjourney.”

It was likely over the interview they gave, now that the final version was released, but neither of them actually knew. Coach asked for both of them but before agreeing, Ilya made up some lie about Shane needing to help Connors with something and being unavailable. Thank God for it, too. He didn’t know if he could take another minute of having to think about, let alone discuss that woman’s questions.

“Fine, I’ll accept a brief walkthrough,” Hayden conceded. “Start with the shrine, though.”

Shane huffed a laugh, nodding his head and flipping the camera around. He was sure Ilya would be home soon, but he could spare a few extra minutes to show Hayden the house. It was kind of nice, actually, finally having someone see where he really lived.

· ─ ·✶· ─ ·

A few weeks later, Shane reached for his phone on the nightstand beside the bed, checking the time. He hadn’t meant to sleep so late, honestly. He was just so exhausted from the game last night he needed to turn off all of his alarms before falling asleep.

And alright, maybe he was tired from other things, too. He felt one of Ilya’s hands tugging his shoulder back, trying to get him to put his phone down before he could use it for anything.

He groaned slightly, annoyed and sleepy. “Оставайтесь в постели,” he grumbled in Russian, his mind always going to his first language right after he woke up. “Ещё слишком рано меня игнорировать.”

Shane huffed lightly, rolling back towards him but keeping ahold of his phone anyway. “It’s almost ten,” he reminded him, rubbing his eyes. “My parents flight gets in at noon.”

Ilya pulled him closer, nuzzling his nose against his neck as he closed his eyes again. “Времени предостаточно,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to his skin.

Time to relax, time to cuddle, time to do other things. Whatever they could get away with in the next two hours would work for him. Unfortunately, Shane seemed less than agreeable with the idea, already giving him that look he got whenever he was about to turn him down.

He scrunched his nose, internally fighting with himself for a moment or two before he eventually pushed him away lightly. “We can’t,” he stated, trying to make himself sound firm even though his willpower wasn’t very strong. “I need to get dressed so I can meet them.”

No matter where he lived, that was not up for debate. It was a tradition for him to always meet them at baggage claim when they came to see him in Montreal and he had done it last time they visited Boston, too. Of course, last time they came to visit, he was also pretending to live across town. And this time, he wasn’t.

Ilya allowed himself, reluctantly, to be pushed away. He even went so far as to fall a bit further back against the pillows rather dramatically to emphasize it with a disappointed sigh. “Fine,” he conceded, pouting slightly. “What am I supposed to do, in the meantime?”

Shrugging, Shane pushed the blankets off, reaching for his clothes. “I don’t know, maybe dust or something?” He heard him snort a laugh before trying to hide it behind his hand. “I’m serious! I don’t want them thinking you’re a slob or anything.”

He furrowed his brows. “I am not a slob,” he retorted, almost offended. “I kept my house very clean before you moved in, was just not uh- what’s that word? For spotless and stuff.”

“Pristine?” Shane suggested, raising an eyebrow.

He snapped his fingers, nodding in agreement. “Yes, that,” he noted. “It was clean but not like a museum. Not like you and your weird obsession with making it look like model home.”

Shane glared at him, the gaze causing him to crack a small smile as he fussed with the blankets, pulling them up higher to cover his waist. “Well, then just…plan dinner for tomorrow, maybe? Or double check there’s nothing scandalous they could find when we get back.”

Ilya snorted again, doing a poor job of pretending like he hadn’t. “Fine,” he grumbled, watching him disappear into the bathroom. “I will keep myself busy while you go the airport.”

He let out a small sigh, settling back against the pillows more firmly while one of his hands fussed idly with his earlobe. He knew this was important to Shane. And to him, too, frankly.

He had met David and Yuna, sure. Both as Shane’s rival and as his captain. But he had never really met them as his boyfriend before. Not officially, anyway. They might have come away from breakfast a few months ago knowing their relationship was more than just platonic, but they certainly didn’t go into it with that knowledge or spend the morning being aware of it.

Hell, he was pretty sure David didn’t actually know until he and Yuna were already in the air, heading back to Ottawa.

Tugging his lips side to side, Ilya pushed off the blankets and stood up. He figured he should at least get dressed, make the bed, probably eat something. Normal things, even if his stomach felt like it was kind of in shambles. That wasn’t a sensation he was terribly used to, if he was honest.

Maybe from time to time, he got anxious before a big game. The playoffs, usually. But not for things like this. Personal and important to him emotionally. It was strange. He knew Shane’s parents weren’t big fans of his, especially Yuna, but he wanted them to like him. Wanted them to believe he was trying his best to be worthy of their son’s love.

“Our shower pressure is acting weird,” Shane muttered, still running a small towel over his hair as he exited the bathroom a little while later. “Should we call some—wait, are you primping?” he questioned, huffing in amusement.

He glanced over his shoulder from where he was, in fact, meticulously staring at his appearance in the mirror. “What? No,” he retorted, frowning as he shook his head. “I was just making sure glass was clean.”

“Uh huh,” he mused skeptically, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You want to look nice for parents,” he teased.

Ilya’s lips tightened in annoyance. “So what? Is my first time meeting them as your boyfriend!” he exclaimed defensively. “Is it a crime to want to look nice?”

He had dressed similarly last time he met them but wanted to make sure he looked even better this time. Like he was normal and not an asshole the way they believed he was for so long. Button ups did that, he thought. As long as they weren’t unbuttoned too low. Then it gave the opposite effect.

Shane’s expression softened slightly, seeing how quickly he got a bit protective. It was nerves; he could tell. And it was sweet, in his opinion. “You look fine,” he assured him, returning to the bathroom to hang his towel up.

Ilya hummed dubiously, looking back at himself in the mirror and tugging at the collar of the shirt to try to keep it crisp. “Maybe,” he muttered, not nearly as convinced. “Doesn’t hurt to try to look…nondouchbagish.”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s not a word,” he teased, turning him away from his reflection and glancing up and down at his clothes. “I know it’s hard but trust me, they’re coming around to the idea of us. And once they meet you again, officially, they’re going to love you. Just like I do.”

Ilya’s lips tipped downwards. “You think so?” he wondered. “They are not going to hold everything I’ve ever said against me?”

He wasn’t a fool; he knew he was a bit difficult for some people to understand. Most people, really. He didn’t allow himself to be known very often outside of his team. Especially not parents. He didn’t do very well with his own, let alone someone else’s.

He had never in his life wanted to, for that matter, and certainly never actually tried actually make a good impression on someone’s family. His hookups never got to that point and if they had, he was pretty sure he would have sent them running for the hills.

Shane reached for the bottom of his shirt, untucking it from his jeans to make it look a little bit more like him in a way. “They’re going to be incredibly civil,” he assured him. “You know why? Because they understand how important you are to me.”

And no matter how they felt about Ilya, they wouldn’t bring that kind of history up. Not when they wanted him to be happy and could see that Ilya was a key part of that.

He tugged his lips to the side, nodding slightly. He tried to believe him. Needed to, even. “Okay,” he murmured softly, leaning in to nudge their noses against each other’s. “I should um…clean, I guess. To make you happy.”

And perhaps help settle his own nerves, too. But that part could stay unspoken.

Shane huffed a bit, tipping his head to kiss his jaw. “Thank you,” he muttered quietly, pecking him a second time. “It’ll make me feel a lot calmer, I swear.”

“One of needs to be calm, that’s for sure,” he mused, shaking his head a bit. “And it will definitely not be me, so…” he trailed off, but the implication was clear enough.

“It’ll be me, today. I can handle that for both of us,” Shane assured him, glancing over his shoulder at the clock. “I should go, in case there’s traffic,” he told him. “We’ll probably be back around one-thirty after we make a stop at my- well, the apartment for them to put their bags away. But I’ll text you when we’re on our way home.”

It was clear now, to both of his parents, that he didn’t live at the apartment he rented. And there was something so relieving about them knowing that. He had no idea it was weighing so heavily on him to pretend during phone calls and face times until he stopped doing it. Both with them and with Hayden.

Ilya nodded, not thrilled about being given so much time to stir and be restless but realizing there weren’t many other choices. “I’ll double-check reservations at the restaurant, too,” he added. “Make sure it’s a table in the back to try for more privacy.”

It wasn’t like they would get very much of it, but he would do what he could to at least try to help soothe his nerves about being spotted. The two of them being seen together made more sense these days; it wasn’t uncommon for them just like Dubek and Shane were seen together or Ilya and Hammersmith were.

But Yuna and David were another thing altogether. They were personal. Emotional. It meant something for Ilya to meet them and even though it technically wasn’t the first time, it felt like they were tempting fate each time they tried to do something so…familial.

“Alright, I’m off, then,” Shane noted, breaking away from him to grab his car keys off the dresser and kissing the side of his cheek.

Ilya quickly turned, capturing his lips for a short kiss that he had no choice but to melt into before eventually pulling back. Shane glared slightly, the look of someone being tempted into doing something they didn’t have time for. He held strong, though, walking out of the bedroom with a noticeable pep in his step.

Ilya had no clue if it was caused by excitement, nerves, or both. Regardless, he tried to shove it into the back of his mind and looked back at himself in the mirror, unable to stop himself from primping slightly.

He knew how scrutinizing Yuna could be about players, contracts, and pretty much anything, even remotely important to her son. There was no telling how she would react to his company now that she knew he wasn’t just Shane’s captain.

· ─ ·✶· ─ ·

Ilya was in the middle of scrubbing down the stovetop for the second time in two hours when he heard Shane’s car pull into the garage, where he kept his just in case someone recognized the vehicle for some reason. The first time he cleaned it was because it needed to be done.

And by that, it was more so of him worrying that Yuna and David would see the single spec of dirt on the burner and think he was a slob.

The second time, however, was because he had already made the bed, fluffed the pillows, vacuumed the house, cleaned the mirrors, shined some trophies, and wiped down the counters. He was, frankly, out of things to clean, and it left him with very little else to do. 

Ilya felt his heart rate speed up a little bit, looking down at the sponge in his hand and panicking. What if he seemed like he was trying too hard by actively going out of his way to this extent? He set the sponge down behind the sink and moved some stuff into the middle of the counter.

Then, he immediately grimaced and moved them back, unsure if cluttering it would make things seem more natural or just messy. Probably the latter. And regardless, Shane wouldn’t like random items stacked where he usually ate breakfast.

“Ilya?” Shane called, walking in through the garage. “We’re back.”

He tensed hearing his voice as he, presumably, tried to give him a chance to prepare himself before letting his parents in. “I- uh…in the kitchen!” he replied, trying to remind himself how English worked.

Hell, how thoughts in general worked regardless of the language they were spoken in.

He blew out a breath, running his hand through his hair one last time and planting his hands on the edge of the squeaky-clean counter with a tighter grip than necessary. Shane rounded the corner with a cautious expression, eyes darting around the house to check that it was actually a bit tidier than when he left.

To his surprise, things were so clean it looked like he might have been the one to do it.

Yuna and David followed their son, gazing around the house as well with even more curiosity than him. Ilya suddenly felt like he was being judged. Harshly. Like his ability to fluff a pillow or put the remote on the coffee table instead of the couch would directly translate to how he treated Shane.

“You remember my parents, right?” Shane murmured, gesturing towards them as they stopped in the kitchen.

He nodded, lips sealed tightly as he stared, unsure whether a handshake, hug, or neither would be the correct approach. He couldn’t even remember what he did last time, frankly. It was so tense he blocked out the first half of the breakfast until he got comfortable enough to actually talk to them.

“It’s nice to meet you in a…different capacity,” David eventually told him with a polite smile, sticking close to his wife.

Yuna just kept blinking, unsure how to proceed. She spent the whole plane ride over thinking about it. Then, the whole car ride, too. She still couldn’t figure it out.

Don’t get it wrong, she had nothing against her son’s sexuality or his decision to live with Ilya. It was just such a well-guarded secret that she still didn’t fully understand it, even after knowing about it for a few months.

She was trying to give Shane time to unravel everything on his own terms, but that was increasingly difficult. Especially when she was now standing in front of said secret boyfriend who, for a decade, she was committed to loathing on her son’s behalf since she figured he was too nice for it.

“Is good to see you again, too,” Ilya replied, nodding as his grip on the counter tightened even further. “Plane was good, yes? Not bumpy or anything?”

Shane’s dad glanced at Yuna who didn’t look entirely invested in the chit chat. “No, it was pretty smooth,” he answered, taking over a bit. “You have a nice house, good lighting.”

He blew out a small breath, looking relieved that the conversation was currently sticking to the boring topics. “Thank you,” he murmured, glancing around his own place. “It’s not custom-built or anything, like Shane’s home in Ottawa was but I like it. Tall ceilings, lots of space, nice neighborhood.”

Shane tugged his lips to the side a bit. “Было бы хорошо воспитывать детей в,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly as he thought out loud.

Ilya’s brain took a second to realize he was speaking Russian, then an even longer one to comprehend what he was saying. And even if David and Yuna didn’t speak Russian, he still felt panic swell inside of him.

“Oh, and look—KitchenAid is here, now,” he noted, glancing at it to avoid Shane. “We bake cinnamon rolls with it sometimes; I’ll try to find our recipe while you are here.”

He furrowed his eyebrows, barely suppressing a laugh as he watched Ilya try to change the subject quickly. “What, was my pronunciation off or something?” he teased.

Maybe that was a bit cruel to say, honestly. He knew damn well his Russian had only gotten better in the past few months once he finally had an excuse to practice and use it more often. Sometimes, he would grab lunch with Varkov just to seek some help with it instead of bugging Ilya about it.

Ilya wasn’t quite freaking out, but there was definitely something in his expression that he was trying to tamp down. “Не начинай,” he retorted firmly, releasing his death grip on the counter to point at him. “Я стараюсь произвести хорошее впечатление.”

He raised his hands. “I’m not stopping you,” he defended, chuckling weakly. Yeah, definitely cruel. But also a little hilarious.

And fair payback, in his opinion, since last week Ilya had kept purposely muttering in Russian to Kovalev during practice and whatever he said was something Shane hadn’t learned yet. And it was also, he assumed, about him, given Kovalev couldn’t stop staring at him all day and laughing to himself.

Ilya blew out a breath, settling his hand back on the counter and clearing his throat. “Uh- anyway…I hope you like Iranian food. There is wonderful restaurant downtown,” he explained. “Very lively.”

Yuna stared at how tightly he was gripping the counter. And at his shirt that looked recently pressed with how crisp it was. He looked more nervous than the last time they met him, which she supposed she could understand.

“That sounds lovely,” she eventually replied, nodding. “We already dropped our things off at Shane’s- uh…the apartment,” she amended, well aware her son didn’t live there. “We’re free all afternoon.”

This was a bit intimidating for her too, honestly, for entirely different reasons. Her son had already hidden so much that she was acutely aware of the impact this trip would have. If she and David weren’t accepting enough or gave off the wrong signals, Shane might never open up.

Or worse, he might shut down completely and choose his relationship with Ilya over them.

Months ago, she would never have thought that was even possible. But he was certainly willing to leave the Metros for Ilya. There was no telling how he would react if he felt like she wasn’t fully on board with their relationship.

“I’ll grab my coat,” Ilya murmured, finally releasing the counter as he glanced at Shane. “You want to drive, yes?” he assumed.

Given his own car was brightly colored, loud, and extremely fast, he figured it would be better for them to take the Jeep. It was sensible and all that.

He nodded, fingers brushing against the keys he had shoved into his pocket. “I think that’d be good, yeah,” he agreed, voice laced with something familiar sort of like a joke that was only between them. “I have to grab something too, before we leave.”

Ilya furrowed his brows, confused about what he could need. Regardless, he fell in step with him as they walked past Yuna and David, leaving them there to scrutinize the house and draw whatever conclusions they saw fit.

Pushing open the bedroom door, Ilya went directly towards the closet, pulling it open and rusting through the hangers for a jacket. One that wasn’t worn enough that he looked like he didn’t care about how he dressed but also looked nice without being overly expensive to make him look frivolous. It was a difficult middle point, to say the least.

“What about this one?” he muttered, showing Shane a dark blue jacket in contrast to his shirt. “Too matchy?”

Shane looked a bit busier analyzing the bedroom but spared him a glance. “Hm? It’s fine,” he assured him with a small nod before gesturing around. “Did you actually clean in here, too?” he wondered.

Ilya tore the jacket off the hanger, putting the empty plastic back in the closet and closing it. “You said to clean, so I cleaned!” he retorted defensively. “What, you think I did too well of a job or something?”

It was just supposed to take a quick few minutes to make the bed and throw a load of laundry into the washer. But then he got carried away a bit, noticing dust on the dresser and wiping it down. That made him rearrange some of the pictures they kept on top of it, which led him to also reorganize their nightstands.

He huffed, shrugging. “I don’t know, I didn’t expect you to organize my stuff,” he admitted, a bit surprised. “It’s kind of sweet, though. You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

He glared at him, annoyed. “I am not nervous,” he reiterated from earlier, even though it was clearly bullshit since he could barely get his hand through the hole of his jacket.

“Ilya, you nearly broke the counter with how hard you were gripping it,” Shane reminded him, shooting back a glare just as strong. “Did you actually think I needed something from in here? I just wanted to make sure you weren’t panicking.”

In the living room, Yuna and David could make out almost every other word. Enough to understand the gist of their conversation, at least. To know that it was about them and their presence here. It wasn’t hard to figure out why that might cause problems, given the secrecy behind their relationship.

Yuna tried her best not to eavesdrop, instead choosing to focus on their home. She looked at the décor on the walls, half of which she recognized as her sons. His framed awards were hanging right next to Ilya’s in an even amount, like they were equal not competing for who had more of them.

No wonder the apartment he rented was so bare. Everything he cared about was here, on these walls.

His picture of him winning the cup was next to Ilya’s too, right beside a picture of a woman she didn’t recognize. A beautiful one, she could admit. With long blonde hair and dimples. She was laughing outside, in the snow, with a child in her arms.

A young Ilya, she realized after staring at him for a moment. It must have been him and his mother. Yuna was pretty sure she had never seen a picture of him as a kid before. Not this young, anyway. Certainly not giggling as his mom lifted him up in a puffy snow jacket.

And then, as quickly as she focused on the picture, her attention was stolen again when she heard Ilya steadfastly refusing to admit he was uncomfortable and her son trying to prove he was.

“I am not panicking either,” Ilya pretended, shrugging a bit too heavily for it to be natural. “Not nervous, not panicking, not anything. Just fine…totally fine.”

“Uh huh,” Shane hummed skeptically, pointing to his jacket. “That’s the wrong arm, baby.”

Ilya froze, realizing why he was having so much trouble putting it on. Slowly pulling it off, he let out a slow breath. “This means nothing,” he insisted stubbornly, putting it on correctly.

He rolled his eyes, knowing that despite the refusal to admit he was concerned about David and Yuna being here, he wasn’t trying to snap or start a fight. He had just never done this before. Meeting parents, worrying about making a good impression.

Those were things for stable, straight men to worry about, he thought. Not closeted ones with enough mental and parental problems to be a therapist’s personal case study.

“We’re just having lunch,” Shane reminded him gently, reaching out to fuss with his curls in an attempt to soothe him a little. “And I know it’s tough, but just think about how much easier it’s going to be if we just get through one uncomfortable day.”

Yuna had all but given up on her attempt not to eavesdrop, which she only considered acceptable since her husband hadn’t even tried not to. He was doing the opposite, actually, trying to listen harder while she snooped around.

It hurt beyond words that her son considered spending time with them to be uncomfortable, even if she knew it wasn’t them specifically so much as the situation. The tension of untangling lies that she didn’t even understand the depth of, yet.

Ilya hummed, lowering his head for a moment before nodding slowly and looking into his eye. “I’m trying to get through it for you,” he assured him. “I really am.”

“I know,” he muttered, leaning in so he could press a gentle kiss on his cheek. “It means everything to me that you are, even though I know you would rather be anywhere else right now.”

He huffed, nodding earnestly. He really wished he could be. He would take a grueling practice, a flat tire on the side of the highway, a snowstorm hitting them despite the winter weather being remarkably gentle lately over a full afternoon with David and Yuna.

At least last time, they immediately hopped on a plane and left the state. This time, they were meeting at the beginning of their trip, which meant if things went poorly he and Shane would both have to cope with it for the rest of the week they spent in Boston.

“моя любовь?” he murmured, hesitating as he leaned into his hand to let him play with his curls. “Do not check the cabinets in the bathroom until later, okay?”

Shane furrowed his eyebrows, slightly confused for a second before realization dawned on him. “You organized the cabinets?” he questioned in disbelief.

His lips twisted in reluctant admittance. “Maybe,” he confessed, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal.

He huffed slightly, more amused than anything. “You mocked me for alphabetizing our spices but the moment my parents visit you’re turning into me,” he noted. “You see the irony, right?”

“Do not laugh at me,” Ilya insisted, frowning. “I was anxious and needed to stay busy,” he defended. “You know I play hockey to help get my energy out. There is no fucking ice rink in the backyard, and I had no time to drive all the way there—”

“Okay, okay, sorry for teasing you,” Shane interjected before he got riled up again. “I’m glad it helped keep your mind occupied for a while, I really am.” He squeezed his arm firmly. “Maybe I’ll buy you a backyard ice rink for Christmas or something.”

That didn’t seem impossible. Expensive and impractical, absolutely, but not impossible. Some figure skaters had them, after all. He was sure he could find a way to make one for Ilya, too. Especially as the weather grew colder throughout the month.

“I can’t tell if that is a joke or not,” Ilya admitted, looking a bit confused. At least his mind was taken off the other things making him anxious.

Shane shrugged. “Guess you’ll find out soon enough,” he replied, tugging him backwards a bit, towards the door. “C’mon, my mom is going to find all the shit you hid in the closet if we leave her alone to snoop any longer.”

His mother was nothing if not predictable, much like himself, and when they walked back out of the bedroom, she was straightening up from peeking inside the cabinets under the television consol in the living room.

Yuna clasped her hands together, trying to act like she hadn’t been trying to gleam information about Ilya from the pictures on his walls and the temperature he kept his thermostat at. “Ready for lunch?” she wondered curiously.

Shane nodded, pulling his keys out of his pocket. “Yeah, we’re ready,” he answered on behalf of both of them, sparing Ilya a small glance.

He was trying to silently reassure him that things would be just fine as long as they were the right amount of cautious and honest. Whatever that level was, he wasn’t quite sure, though. He figured they’d know it when they hit it.

Heading back through the house, Yuna let her eyes linger on the picture of Ilya and his mom on the wall for a few more seconds before trailing behind her husband and son.

Ilya, to her surprise, easily offered her the front seat despite her assuming he would want it. Perhaps even take it out of habit. Did they drive places together these days? She wasn’t quite sure. They must. Probably not all the time, considering the public still questioned if they actually liked working together or just happened to be good at it. But occasionally, she figured.

When they got downtown, traffic slowed as expected. Shane didn’t look terribly uncomfortable in it, though, despite all the horrible drivers.

They were rude, in her opinion. Honking and cutting him off. He just tapped the steering wheel in a slow rhythm waiting for the light to turn green, even if he could have gotten through it if a car didn’t cut in front of him first.

“You know the area pretty well, already,” David noted from the backseat, glancing out of the window at the tall buildings and busy sidewalks.

His son kind of shrugged. “It’s actually really small, once you get around it a few times,” he admitted, voice a little distracted as he made sure not to hit any pedestrians heading through the crosswalk. “Just walking the blocks helped.”

“It’s beautiful despite the weather,” Yuna mused, spotting all the trees wrapped in lights and painted storefronts, that were celebrating the winter season.

Ilya hummed in agreement. “Isn’t terribly cold yet, this year,” he muttered. “January is worse, usually.”

For now, the ground was still clear and a regular jacket would work without needing to pull out the thick, insulated ones. Not that either of them were strangers to the colder temperatures. At least in Boston, the snow wasn’t typically bad enough for him to need chains on his tires or purchase something sensible to drive.

Shane turned the car into a parking garage, pausing in front of the machine and reaching his hand behind his seat. “Parking pass, please,” he requested.

He tutted slightly in amusement as he pulled the card out of his wallet. “Is not that expensive for a yearly pass,” he reminded him, placing it in his palm. “We can both have one.”

They cost a bit, sure. But they were downtown for the food, the music, to meet the team for drinks, etc. It was worth it, in his opinion, to have one instead of paying each time they came downtown. Besides, it wasn’t like either of them were exactly struggling financially.

Yuna watched her son wrinkle his nose, shaking his head in disagreement. She wondered how she could have made it through nearly an entire breakfast with them before noticing all the little telltale signs of fondness in his eyes and voice.

“Why would I spend the money, though, when I can just use yours?” he replied, leaning out of the window for a moment to swipe the card through the machine. It beeped and the bar gate lifted. “It’s more efficient to share.”

Ilya tugged his pass back out of his hand, sliding it back into his wallet as Shane pulled forward. “Uh huh,” he responded skeptically. “I think you just enjoy taking advantage.”

A smirk tugged at his lips, shrugging without a verbal response as he parked in the first open spot he saw and turned the car off. He got out, tugging open Ilya’s door politely.

Or it would have been polite if there wasn’t a constant competition between them to see who could open the most doors for each other.

Ilya scowled slightly and Shane closed it, the sound echoing through the parking garage. “The restaurant is East, right?” he questioned, ignoring the look.

He nodded. “Only a block from here,” he affirmed, pointing towards the street before he lowered his voice and whispered to him, “You will be walking behind when we get there.” He wouldn’t allow him to get any extra points in their little contest, even if they technically didn’t count them. Mostly.

“Over my dead body,” he replied under his breath. “I’m on a winning streak right now.” The door to the rink, the pub they went to with the team afterwards, and now the car door. He wasn’t giving up that lead.

Ilya rolled his eyes as they walked out of the parking garage and down the sidewalk. His attention was, as usual, split between the company he was with and the plethora of people around him.

Christmas was around the corner that meant shopping crowds, along with everyone too lazy to go buy groceries and cook their own meals until after New Years Day passed. It made an already busy city even more hectic, and he couldn’t tell if that brought him more comfort or anxiety.

He didn’t want to be paranoid about who might be nearby, listening to their conversations or making assumptions just from seeing them together. But he was. If the two of them were alone, it would be different. But Yuna and David made it so much more difficult to come up with hypothetical reasons the four of them were together.

Spotting the restaurant, Ilya and Shane both reached for the door, hands clasped around the handle for a moment as they glared at each other. David just paused, tilting his head curiously.

“I will stand here for an hour,” Ilya warned, waiting for him to let go.

He scrunched his nose, contemplating for a moment before eventually sighing and giving in. “Fine,” he conceded in annoyance. “You’re exactly one door closer to catching up to me.”

Yuna heard him mumble something under his breath but couldn’t catch what it was. She wasn’t even sure if it was in English, frankly. Either way, her son definitely heard it enough to huff in amusement as he followed him inside the restaurant.

Ilya wasn’t kidding when he called the place lively earlier. She could see strands of lights hanging along the ceiling and hand painted murals on the walls. It smelled wonderful, too. The spices were potent enough to carry out of the kitchen and envelop the entire restaurant.

He and Shane sat on the same side of the booth, both preferring to have a better view of the space despite having a table closer to the back. There was something comforting about being able to notice where everyone was and spot someone staring long enough to recognize one or both of them.

“I think I want the lamb kabobs,” Ilya murmured, barely glancing over the menu before he set it back down on the table with little intention of needing it.

“You always order those,” Shane replied, eyes still raking over his own options. “Try something new for once.”

He sighed dramatically, lifting his menu back up. “Fine.” He tugged his lips to side for a moment or two. “I will get the Sabzi, instead,” he decided, putting it back down and glancing at Shane.

“That’s just a different version of lamb, isn’t it?” he questioned, watching Ilya nod with a smile. He rolled his eyes, giving up. “Alright, eat your lamb. I’m getting the Mirza Ghasemi with rice.”

Ilya hummed, like he approved of the choice. Not that he had ever had it. Eggplant wasn’t his favorite vegetable, despite using the emoji quite often. He preferred squash or even cucumber.

They waited a few minutes for David and Yuna to figure out what they wanted as well before a waiter came over, taking their orders. Ilya passed his menu to Shane, who stacked them and passed them back politely before lowering his hands into his lap and staring at his parents.

Now that the actual food had been ordered, there wasn’t much to do aside from talk to them. He had done that, of course, the past few months. More honestly than he had in years, if he was being totally honest. But it was still a bit tense.

He tried to spare a lot of details that involved Ilya, not wanting to accidentally push them too far. They had been trying so hard to accept them, already. He didn’t want them knowing more than they could handle or risk grossing them out if they ever witnessed them being overly romantic with a hug or a kiss or something.

Hence the public restaurant where they were forced to not even brush hands, let alone hold them.

“Well, I uh- I’m very happy to have a chance to finally get to know a bit more about you,” Yuna told Ilya, sincerity in her voice. “Shane mentions you sometimes, but we don’t really have a lot of details on…this.”

She gestured between them discreetly and she could swear she saw her son blushing. She had really only ever met one of his past partners, a girl named Jessica who he wasn’t with for very long and didn’t seem terribly broken up when it ended. It was safe to say Shane didn’t talk to her about it afterwards. Or any other partner he had, for that matter.

For all she knew, there could have been other boyfriends she wasn’t informed about or perhaps this was his first one. She had no idea and the part of her that was used to having all the details was screaming a little bit internally from the lack of understanding.

“You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to,” Shane assured him quickly, already sensing his discomfort. “They can be pushy sometimes, is all.”

God, could they be. He knew all too well how scrutinizing his mother was. And his father, despite what some believed, wasn’t much better. He was just a silent intellectual. Which, Shane might argue, was worse because he never knew what his dad was thinking.

“No, no, of course not,” David agreed as well. “We just want to get to know you outside of, well, what we thought we knew if that makes sense. We’ve had a pretty static image of you for so long and now that’s been shattered.”

He nodded slightly, a bit tense. “I’m sorry if you were caught off guard by this, by me,” he admitted apologetically. “Was never my intention to have Shane lie. I know he hated it. I just…there are circumstances that make this difficult.”

Yuna hummed softly. “I can imagine,” she muttered softly.

The NHL was already a pretty brutal place to exist as a queer person inside of, but she couldn’t imagine the pressure of having an entire country rejecting someone’s very existence because of the gender of the person they loved. To call it unfair would be a grave understatement.

“If it’s alright, can I ask how this happened?” David wondered gently. “Given the nature of your work it seems a bit difficult to understand how you both…figured the other out, so to speak.”

It was clear he wasn’t any more comfortable than Shane or Ilya was, the topic alone already confusing without all the external factors convoluting in even worse. He was just trying his best to understand and not accidentally say or do anything that pushed his son away or made him sound as old as he really was.

Ilya gave an uncomfortable chuckle, glancing down. “Uh- small looks, I guess,” he admitted, shrugging. “Lots of them, just here and there when we played against each other.”

And some other, more personal things. But he had no intention of airing those details in front of the Hollander’s.

“Well, they were definitely subtle,” Yuna agreed, nodding. “We thought you hated each other, no offense. Everyone did.”

“It was intentional,” her son clarified. “And pretty easy, too, since everyone already wanted to believe it.”

It seemed easier for them to believe Ilya and Shane hated each other than liked each other, even now that they were playing on the same team, frankly. They chalked it up to professionalism, curtesy, publicity. Rarely just a true enjoyment of each other’s company despite them being seen together pretty frequently.

“So, did you just text a lot since you were always apart or- I’m sorry, it’s just been very difficult to wrap my head around all of this,” his mom admitted, trying not to get ahead of herself. “I really want to give you both time to explain when you feel comfortable doing so, not because we want answers.”

Ilya glanced at Shane. “Я думаю, мне никогда не будет комфортно,” he confessed to him earnestly, the tone soft despite the language sounding rather harsh on its own. “Я не очень хорошо разбираюсь в чувствах. И в честности тоже.”

He tugged his lips to the side, trying to translate what he said in his head. He knew Russian, sure. Considered himself pretty good at it, too. But it still took him a minute to catch up and formulate a response.

“Вы просто не привыкли к тому, чтобы вам позволяли быть честным,” he replied, gesturing to himself softly. “Я тоже.”

Yuna glanced between them, mind spinning with theories she couldn’t confirm without their help. She didn’t want to push her son away. Or Rozanov either, oddly enough. But she just had so many questions that she had been forcing herself not to ask for a few months. Like how they even started dating when they barely saw each other as competitors or if anyone aside from them knew about it.

“What I’m struggling to understand is just the extent of this, I suppose,” she confessed, trying to figure out how to frame her words. “Shane’s Russian sounds so good it couldn’t be something newer he just picked up and you don’t switch teams on a whim, let alone…you know.”

She wouldn’t be stupid enough to say they lived together in public, but that was the sentiment. Her son had moved his entire life to America for Ilya. That wasn’t an easy decision to make, let alone one that happened after a few weeks or even months of a relationship. It left her wondering just how long they had been in the dark about this whole thing between them.

And if she wasn’t so terrified of her son shutting down, she might have dared to ask sooner. But it didn’t really seem like the kind of conversation to have over the phone, no matter how badly she wanted the details.

Ilya scratched at his neck, finding the table rather interesting for the time being. Meanwhile, Shane just sipped his water like he was trying to come up with a way to say something he knew she wouldn’t like hearing.

“Shane,” his father muttered softly. “We completely support you no matter what,” he reaffirmed with more looming behind his words. “But we’ve also been incredibly patient trying to let you sort things out. It would be nice to be…let in a little bit more.”

He wasn’t asking for a chronological breakdown of every single step in their relationship or anything ridiculous like that. He just wanted to understand a bit more. To figure out if they should also be learning Russian or not.

“This is uh- not new,” Shane eventually murmured, blowing out a slow breath. “Or casual.”

Yuna nodded slowly. “I think we assumed as much,” she explained gently, trying not to push him too hard, even as he restated what they were already aware of. “Is there a point when things changed? Or was the rivalry always…fake?”

“No, it- we are competitive,” Ilya clarified firmly. “Just played it up for media. Whole time was more of us enjoying the deception.”

It was nice to have something private, something no one could have an opinion on or ruin the way the media always tried to.

“And by whole time you mean…?” David gestured vaguely with his hands, silently asking for elaboration.

“Dad, he means the whole time,” Shane clarified, putting emphasis on it. “Since before the draft.”

Their eyes both widened a bit and he watched them freeze, like they were realizing in real time that whatever timeline they refused to admit they created in their minds was much longer. That it wasn’t something they were working through the beginning of or planned to tell many people about willingly.

“So…so the last uh- what, ten years? Longer?” Yuna muttered out loud, not really needing confirmation, just trying to settle the thoughts in her mind into something resembling calm or rational when both felt out of reach. “That’s…a very long time to hide this.”

Ilya swallowed harshly. “Was not easy,” he clarified. “We did not lie because it was fun, even if the ruse was sometimes entertaining.”

“It didn’t really seem possible to ever actually exist like this,” Shane told them softly. “Like you guys do.”

His words were vague but carried enough emotion that they understood what he was trying to say—they never believed they could actually be together in any real way. Nothing beyond text messages and what Yuna assumed must have been clandestine meetings before or after they played hockey, anyway.

They had believed, for a long time, that their love was confined to strange schedules and secret declarations. Nothing tangible or lasting. It, frankly, broke her heart wide open all over again just like it had when she first found out.

Ilya nodded in agreement. “We would take the break before training as the closest we would get to being a normal…” Couple.

“And now you guys are playing for the same team,” David mused as things settled into place and he realized this was their way of making it work, of being together even the world still considered them teammates and nothing else.

“I just wish I would have moved sooner,” Shane admitted bashfully. “And I wish I would have told you both more honestly. I just- at first, I didn’t really know what was happening and as things kept getting more serious it felt like…” He trailed off, unsure what he was even trying to say.

“Like it was the only thing either of us had control over,” Ilya finished on his behalf. “When everyone demanded more of us or when things were falling apart, we wer- are a safe place for each other.”

Shane was somewhere soft to land after a nasty article, a bad injury, or a death in the family. And Ilya was somewhere the harsh edges of the world couldn’t get in and cause more damage after a bad game or a cruel comment from his former team.

Yuna watched her son nod, a barely indescribable sigh escaping him as Ilya seemed to read his thoughts perfectly. It looked so sweet from the outside, his ability to understand him so well. She always worried that maybe Shane wouldn’t find someone capable of it, the way she had found David.

Now, she felt almost foolish for ever thinking that in the first place. For ever being concerned about him not being social enough to date when he had found his soulmate a long time ago and was just trying to find a way to make it work out since then.

“You have no idea how much I want that for Shane,” she murmured earnestly. “It’s all a mother ever wants, I think. For her child to be safe and loved.” Everything else seemed to pale in comparison.

Ilya nodded softly. “Is all I want for him, too,” he confessed.

Yuna felt something tug at her heart, her mind flashing to the picture she saw of Ilya’s mother on his wall. She wanted to ask about her, about where she was or if she knew about them, but before she got the chance the waiter came back with their food.

She was so distracted by the conversation that she had honestly forgotten they were there for lunch, let alone that she was starving when they first walked in. The plates were set down in front of them, piping hot and smelling delicious. Enough spices that her hunger was reignited the moment the waiter walked away from their table.

Yuna dug in, using the food as a small respite from the weight of the conversation. It had gotten heavier than intended, but she didn’t regret any part of it. These were the answers she had been seeking since she said goodbye to her son at the airport two months ago, after all.

“So…the season has been going well,” she noted in between bites, picking what she considered a pretty safe topic to dive back into the conversation. “I bet Desjourney is happy with your current wins.”

Ilya nodded slightly, also trying to shift gears to something more tolerable for him. “He’s a hard man to please,” he replied earnestly. “But he’s not yelling very much.”

Not as often as he would if they were losing terribly often or by bad margins the way some of the other teams had been. He was well aware the Raiders had been really putting pressure on the rest of the league, forcing them to put their best forward each night they played.

“That’s good,” David mused, tapping his fingertips over his knuckles. “And you guys got that new sponsor recently, right?”

Shane hummed in affirmation. “We weren’t sure we would after the interview got derailed,” he confessed. “Apparently, they liked it, though. Said it was authentic or something and our behavior matched their brand.”

Yuna’s lips quirked. “I really hated that woman’s questions,” he admitted, shaking her head in annoyance. “It was unprofessional to dig like that.”

Ilya nodded in agreement, cutting into his lamb and immediately putting some of it onto Shane’s plate before snatching some of the rice out of his bowl. Unlike last time, he didn’t fight him on it or force him to ask first. He just sipped his water before trying the lamb and mumbling about it being cooked well.

“I like the fundraiser from a few weeks ago,” David muttered, the short-lived silence bothering him for some reason. “Raiders don’t sell signed pucks very often; I’d bet fans were really excited. That was a nice charity to donate to, as well.”

He couldn’t even think of the name, right now, honestly. But he knew it was something for Veterans experiencing PTSD, which he thought was a good cause.

“Was media’s idea,” Ilya murmured, shrugging. “We spent a few hours just signing them, it wasn’t very much work.”

Not as much as the people who individually wrapped them had put into it, anyway. He just felt bad for whoever bought the ones he signed after his hand began to cramp several hours into the process. They probably wouldn’t even know it was his signature if they weren’t told.

“Still, it was a nice gesture,” Yuna agreed. “I think it’s good to do those kinds of things when you have such a public platform.”

It wasn’t uncommon for teams to dedicate nights to raising money for certain places, people, or overall illnesses. The Metros did it all the time. Majority of teams did, actually.

The Raiders just had a tendency to avoid that kind of stuff, usually. They didn’t visit the children’s hospital in their jerseys or read to third graders at their schools like the Admirals liked to every single year like clockwork.

“The Raiders actually do a lot of charity work, mom,” Shane replied. “It’s all just kept very quiet to maintain our image.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly, a bit caught off guard. Not only by the fact that they apparently did charity work but also by the fact that they would actually want to keep it private. Publicity was how the team earned sponsors, how they got more fans to show up, how they stayed in the media’s good graces.

It was important to have it and for it to be good. And charity work was one of the easiest ways to win people over. She knew, according to Shane, that the team was very different privately than they were in front of cameras or on the ice. But still, she couldn’t understand why something like that would be kept secret.

“They do?” she asked, shaking her head quickly as she caught her own mistake. “I mean, you do?” The team as a whole, which now included him.

He nodded, shrugging. “Not like actively; that’s kind of hard with our schedules,” he clarified, despite wishing he had time for it. “But a third of the profits from our individual merchandise sales are sent to a number of different organizations.”

Yuna furrowed her eyebrows. “That wasn’t in your contract.”

In fact, the one he signed had specifically stated that 65% of the merchandise in his name would go to him, which was far more than most teams would allow. She remembered reading over it very carefully and double checking it with a lawyer before even showing it to him.

Her son grimaced slightly. “That’s because I didn’t know it was something they did,” he admitted earnestly. “I only found out a few weeks into practice when the guys were talking about it. It’s not something they force or anything; I went to management separately to talk about it.”

“They are not really even involved, either, aside from ensuring the legality of it,” Ilya added.

She blinked, propping her elbows on the table. “O-okay, hold on,” she murmured, taking a moment to let her brain catch up. “Walk me through this slower. You, what, signed a second contract? What does it do? Who did you clear it with?”

It couldn’t have been their usual lawyer since he would have told Yuna if Shane came to him with any documents, he needed proofread or explained to him. Which meant he either used a lawyer he didn’t know or didn’t even bother to use one at all.

“I checked it with the lawyer the guys have for the project,” Shane clarified before she had an aneurism thinking he had been stupid enough to sign a legal document without someone checking it. “All it does is move thirty percent of any sale made regarding my merch—like jerseys or hats—to a bigger fund with everyone else’s percent for the month, too.”

She flattened her palm on the table, stunned. “That- who even started this?” she asked. “How long has it been going on?”

“About five years, I think. Is not new or anything,” Ilya answered, doing the math in his head. “Originally it was just Dubek who gave a portion of his sales to…” he trailed off, not wanting to spill any secrets. “Let’s just say there was a charity he cared about and contributed to privately for a while.”

“Then Varkov found out and wanted to do the same with his percent of the sales because he had a charity that was important to him, too,” Shane added with a vague hand gesture as they explained. “And after a few more players got on board, they realized they could just have a contract drafted to automatically move the money instead of independently calculating it each month on their own.”

“It all gets put into a joint account with a legal representative for the team to control the funds,” Ilya clarified. “We decide, as a group, where the money goes. Youth camps, cancer foundations, homeless shelters. Places like that.”

They bounced around a few of the same charities, of course. Places that were important to them for specific reasons, like how Dubek preferred funding awareness for eating disorders and Varkov liked giving the money to pro bono lawyers who represented immigrants and refugees. They still gathered together once a month to discuss it, though, in case anything new came up or they decided to split the funds in a different order.

“And none of this is tied back to your team?” David double checked, getting hung up on that detail for some reason.

He thought it was rather noble, in a way, but knew his wife was practically malfunctioning at the thought of such good press slipping past them.

Shane nodded. “Donations are listed as completely anonymous,” he confirmed.

“But…why?” Yuna questioned, words failing her as she struggled to understand why they wouldn’t want people to know they were giving up so much of the money that technically was supposed to belong to them.

They’d all be so much more eligible for the King Clancy award, if nothing else. And the press would love it, too. They could earn so much more funding if fans knew and contributed.

“Because we don’t want attention for it,” Ilya jumped in to respond, shaking his head firmly. “We have no interest in boasting about being good people just for giving away some money. We are not philanthropists, just hockey players who care about the city we live in.”

And the country, too, really. A lot of organizations they donated to were national ones, representing different cities in California, New York, Detroit, etc.

“Besides, if a lot of people knew, they might try to monetize what we’re doing. That would make it harder to control our own assets,” her son tacked on. “We like picking where the funds go personally because they’re places that are important us, not because the brass says it’s good for our image.”

Yuna blew out a slow breath, a mix of pride and disbelief warring inside of her. The part of her that was used to managing and seeing publicity everywhere she went was appalled at the idea of letting the opportunity slip away. But the mother in her was beyond proud that her son was trying to make a difference out of the goodness of his heart.

“So, w-where do you two give it too, then?” she wondered, folding her hands over each other as she tried to become a little less concerned and a bit more curious.

They glanced at each other, as if silently deciding if their answers were acceptable enough to tell them about out loud. It wasn’t necessarily that they were ashamed of them, but Shane knew how personal it was for Ilya to talk about and he could understand why he might feel uncomfortable about it.

“There’s a program called Project Heal that I like,” Shane eventually explained, tapping his finger on the top of his spoon. “They have recovery plans for eating disorders, anything from group therapy to full-time inpatient care. It can cost a lot for people with the more severe ones, and they try to take care of the costs for as many people as possible so if we send a few thousand dollars it helps pays for their recovery.”

He wasn’t sure how the charity split the money up, honestly. He didn’t know if the funds went to covering a lot of individual therapy to stretch it out or if it was applied to just a few people’s intensive treatments and the salary of their dieticians. Either way, he knew the money was going somewhere important.

A place he hadn’t even heard of until he found out it was the charity that started everything. The one Dubek regularly donated to it until setting off a whole chain reaction that led to their current, rather elaborate, set up.

David’s eyes softened slightly, nodding in understanding. “It sounds like an important place,” he murmured, not wanting to directly correlate it to his son, even though it was pretty clear why Shane felt so strongly about it.

“What about you, Ilya?” Yuna asked, using his first name.

She didn’t do that often, even when she was on the phone with Shane. She still called him Rozanov because no matter the connection to her son, he still felt like a relative stranger in her mind.

Up until getting off the plane, she still felt that way. But once she had actually been to his home, seen the walls of his life without the faux bravado, and heard how he spoke about her son, it seemed abundantly clear that this man was no longer a visitor to Shane’s life. Or to her own, either.

Shane noticed the immediate buffering in his expression and was quick to remind him it wasn’t necessary to bear his soul right now. “You don’t have to say anything,” he assured him. “It’s alright to leave it at my answer.”

Ilya cleared his throat a bit. “No, no, is fine,” he muttered, hesitating for a moment. “I prefer mental health centers, and uh- helping pay for children and adults to get treatments paid for,” he confessed slowly. “It is expensive to receive medications, and a lot of insurances do not cover therapy.”

Yuna’s lips tugged into a small smile at the response. “That sounds like a very worthy cause,” she agreed. “Is there a reason it’s important to you?”

“Mom,” her son all but snapped, staring at her with an expression that told her she had overstepped without meaning to or even realizing it. “That’s not the kind of question you get to ask.”

He shook his head firmly, trying to get her to back off but Ilya turned slightly, mumbling something to him gently. She presumed it was some sort of assurance, since Shane quickly loosened up afterwards, going back to eating his lunch. The way he tried to shut down her question wasn’t lost on her though, nor was the defensiveness in his tone.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to offend you,” Yuna promised sincerely, feeling like she had once again managed to stumble into a bear trap during what she hoped would just be a honest conversation.

“It’s alright, really,” Ilya replied gently. “He gets defensive since it is- I don’t talk very often about it, is all.” He took a sip of his water. “The charity is important to me because I lost my mother to suicide when I was a kid.”

There was a chance that a prescription or therapy, some sort of real help, could have kept her from overdosing on sleeping pills, but he would never really know. All he knew was that for millions of people with depression, it already did help save them.

And if his donations could provide help for even one or two people, to keep other kids from experiencing his pain, he would give every cent he ever made to try to make it happen.

Yuna sucked in a deep breath. “I had no idea,” she confessed.

“It’s not very common knowledge,” Ilya assured her earnestly. “My father was a strict man, and we were not allowed to discuss those kinds of thoughts or feelings. It’s behavior I am working to unlearn.”

At least she hadn’t apologized for his loss, he thought to himself. That was usually the default phrase when people found out she died, even if they didn’t know how. And maybe the first or second time, it had been nice to hear, but it lost its ability to comfort him rather quickly.

Ilya had heard it dozens of times at his mom’s funeral, from strangers, no less. People who never knew her smile or heard her laugh because she never did either when she was standing beside his father or forced to meet people that didn’t accept her kind of vivacious joy.

Shane nudged his knee against Ilya’s under the table, unsure what he was even trying to do. Provide some sort of comfort, maybe. “You’re doing a good job of it,” he mumbled.

The unlearning part, he meant. He knew how difficult it sometimes was for Ilya to be honest about his feelings. About his family. Heaven forbid some sort of memory that involved both at once. But he had been trying so hard, especially lately, to get better at it.

Ilya bumped his leg back softly, lips twisting. “No one can know I am a sap,” he responded, voice tinged with a teasing lilt. “Would ruin my reputation.”

David huffed a laugh, leaning his elbows against the table. “You have a pretty unique one, that’s for certain,” he agreed.

Yuna nodded slowly, the realization that Shane didn’t just love Ilya but had loved the side of him no one else got to see finally sinking in for her. “Unique has never been a bad thing,” she muttered. “Better than boring.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. It was never really intentional to become known for my attitude,” he confessed. “When I came to Boston, I had never left home before and didn’t speak much English so I stayed quiet and uh- spoke with my actions, I guess.”

People quickly began to associate him with being pompous because he didn’t speak to others and thought he was rude since he was quiet when he was really just trying not to make a fool of himself by pronouncing things incorrectly. He knew he was a good player and hoped showing it would negate the need for small talk and interviews.

Instead, he just got labeled as aggressive on the ice. There were worse things to be called, though, so he leaned into it. Even when his English got better, he stuck with his old habits. The press would have probably called him fake if he acted any other way, these days.

“You really didn’t have anyone, when you got here, did you?” Yuna recalled.

She couldn’t imagine how hard that must have been on him when he was just seventeen years old. Shane had struggled and he was playing for his own country just a few hours away from his childhood home. Moving across the world without the vocabulary, let alone support system necessary for it must have been incredibly difficult. Not to mention isolating.

Ilya nodded. “I had a friend back home I kept in touch with, but very few in Boston at first,” he admitted. “Thankfully, Marlow talked enough for both of us. I picked up the language from him.”

“That explain so much about the way you talk,” Shane teased. “You latched onto the guy with the thickest Boston accent possible.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t dispute it. “If I moved somewhere else, I might have learned differently. But I don’t regret it,” he clarified. “Marlow still translates, sometimes, if there is a strange word or idiom I don’t know.”

Shane snorted a laugh. “Like tiddly?”

His shoulders rolled back like a bad memory hit him in the face. “I spent a decade learning English in America. America, Shane. Not Australia or Canada or wherever else they speak it,” he reminded him, still peeved. “Feller purposely confuses me with stupid British words.”

It wasn’t the first time he did it and probably wouldn’t be the last either. Sometimes, Ilya could swear they the team expanded their own vocabulary just to fuck with him and act like he should know what nidificate means.

“It’s a normal word, Ilya,” he defended on Feller’s behalf, even though he could count on one hand the number of times he had actually heard it used in conversation.

“No, it is not,” Ilya insisted, shaking his head. “You are a liar. Both of you. This is why I don’t trust anyone on the team when they tell me stupid metaphors about fat kids eating cake and cats being stuck in bags at first. Marlow is the only one who is truthful.”

Yuna glanced at her husband, noticing his own suppressed laughter. She couldn’t blame him for it. She was pretty sure she had to reach deep into her mind to remember what that word even meant, let alone figure out a sentence it might fit into.

“So, you’ll trust me enough to pass me your stick if mine breaks but you won’t believe me if I tell you about a metaphor you haven’t heard of?” Shane clarified skeptically.

Ilya paused, thinking it through, then tipped his head in agreement. “Exactly,” he replied after a moment. “Not until I ask Marlow or look it up first.”

“Wow. You’ve known me longer but trust him more,” he accused, sipping his water. “Sounds like favoritism to me.”

“I- no, don’t twist my words like that,” Ilya retorted in slight annoyance, shaking his head. “I merely believe him because he has never made fun of me for not understanding a word. He’s also never tried to convince me that a stupid word is normal when it isn’t.”

He glared at Shane, very clearly trying to remind him of a time or two when he pretended some rather complex words were completely common ones that he just couldn’t pronounce correctly. Yuna saw her son grimace sheepishly, looking away from the direct gaze and going back to eating his lunch.

“I have never done that before,” he pretended, feigning his innocence poorly.

“Stop lying in front of your parents,” Ilya insisted, gesturing to them. “They are right there. They raised you better than that and you’re disappointing them—”

Before he could further berate him, one of their phones began to ring. The similar sounds drew both of their attention, and they set their forks down, reaching to check which one of them was being called.

Shane pulled his phone out of his pocket, the screen still black. “Not mine,” he muttered, glancing at Ilya’s whose was lighting up. He leaned over, trying to see the caller ID. “Who is it?”

“Vic,” he replied briefly, showing him his screen. “I forgot I promised to give him January’s practice schedule early so he can check what dates correlate to some volunteer work.”

He hummed, tilting his head towards the door. “Take it,” he encouraged him. “Also ask him about where he hid the tape last week after he used it. I wanted it for my knee yesterday and couldn’t find it.”

“Because that is easy to drop into a conversation about something entirely unrelated,” Ilya teased, rising from the booth as he answered the phone, pressing it against his ear.

As he walked off, Shane waited until he saw him grab his coat by the front door and leave the restaurant before attempting to steal some of the lamb off his plate. He sliced off another piece of it, moving it to his own dish before biting into it.

Yuna and David stared, his mom’s stare especially judgmental over the theft.

“It’ll get cold,” he defended, shrugging as he bit the lamb off the end of his fork. “He’d let me have it, anyway.”

She didn’t doubt it, considering Ilya had already willingly given him some earlier without even being prompted. “Hon,” she murmured gently, reaching over the table to touch his wrist. “We didn’t know.”

Shane looked up at her, slowly lowering his fork “What?” he questioned, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“That is had been going on this long,” Yuna clarified quietly. “We didn’t realize your history with each other was this…extensive.”

That was putting it mildly, of course. A decade was more than just extensive; it was the kind of milestone that couples would celebrate with elaborate parties. But she couldn’t allow herself to think of it that way, too afraid her eyes might swell with tears if she thought about all the moments, she missed out on.

“Oh, that.” He suddenly looked down, expression shifting to one that resembled shame or remorse. “I- we would have told you.” He wanted to, anyway. At some point.

“Why didn’t you?” David wondered, head tilting gently.

His son opened and closed his mouth, like he was searching for words he wasn’t sure existed. “I just…kept waiting for the right time, I guess,” he admitted. “There wasn’t one.”

He thought after figuring out his sexuality, he could explain it better. But he wasn’t able to tell them how he knew without mentioning Ilya. He thought after becoming exclusive, he could come clean. But he worried they might break up and wanted to make sure they were stable, first. He thought after living together for a while, there would be enough proof of their commitment to make it easier to be honest. But it wasn’t.

“Any time that you wanted to tell us, could have been the right time,” he assured him. “For anything. Ever. We’ll always listen.” Even if it was a hard conversation to have or one that, frankly, left him feeling like he didn’t truly know his own son.

Yuna ran her thumb back and forth over his arm for a moment. “Your father and I are still learning,” she said softly. “But we’re trying our best to make sense of everything and be there for you. We just need you to let us.”

Her worst fear had always been watching him get seriously injured on the ice, losing him to what he loved more than anything else. She never realized she would also have to fear being pushed away because he fell for what he considered the wrong person for such a long time.

Shane nodded slightly. “I’m trying,” he promised. “It’s just…a lot harder than I thought it would be.” He felt like even after they found out, he was still keeping them at a distance. Like maybe the concept of him being gay was alright but the person he chose wasn’t.

“Hard things are usually the ones most worth it in the end,” his mom reminded him.

Shane glanced over her shoulder, eyes finding the door as Ilya walked back into the restaurant. He pulled his coat off, hanging it up again before heading back to their table. Yuna looked back as well, pulling her hand away as Ilya sat back down.

She wasn’t blind. She could see the way his body immediately tilted into her son’s, as if compelled by some gravitational pull before he corrected himself. They had to do that a lot, she suspected, in order to keep up the pretense.

“Vic is single handedly ruining our team image by teaching kids to play hockey at some camp in Bridgewater,” Ilya muttered, laying his napkin back over his lap. “It better not wind up in the news or fans will start thinking we’re good people.”

Shane huffed a laugh. “I think it’s great that he wants to get involved,” he muttered earnestly. “I also think you’re secretly encouraging him by changing our schedule to accommodate the commute.”

He narrowed his eyes at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replied, shrugging with strangely convincing deception. “I’ve had the practice schedule laid out since last month, I just gave it to him early. Dates happened to align well.”

Shame hummed skeptically. “So, I didn’t see you spend half the flight to Anaheim googling the distance from our rink to the camp to figure out how long Vic would be driving every day?” he wondered. “And I also didn’t see you crossing days out on the original schedule you keep on the desk, moving things a few hours later than they’d typically be?”

Ilya pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, blinking at him. “You are alarmingly astute, sometimes,” he replied. “It’s unsettling.”

His lips lifted into a small smile as he shook his head softly, dropping the subject. If he wanted to pretend like it was all a massive coincidence that their practices were going match up with the exact dates Vic told Ilya he would be volunteering, then they could pretend.

But everyone at the table and everyone on the Raiders team knew the only reasons those times aligned so perfectly was because Ilya spent three days figuring out how to make it work for his friend.

· ─ ·✶· ─ ·

The next day, Yuna and David spent the majority of their afternoon at some historical museum they had wanted to see the last time they were in town but missed out on. Or at least, David wanted to see it. Yuna mostly went along because staying cooped up in the apartment wasn’t an option according to her husband.

Regardless, she went and pretended to have at least some semblance of interest for his sake.

Then, as night fell, they made their way to the stadium an hour before the game started. Early, yes, but then again, they always were for their son’s games. It didn’t matter which city he played in, that wasn’t going to change.

And this time, Yuna didn’t have quite so much trouble wearing something gold. She might have even felt a little excited about it, after discovering a few secrets about her sons’ past teammates during the last couple of months.

“I think I like these seats better than the ones in Montreal,” David admitted, gesturing towards the row to let his wife go first.

“They’re definitely closer,” she agreed as she sat down, crossing her legs and scanning the rink with her eyes.

The first time they had visited, the stadium and its fans were still getting used to the idea of Shane playing here. There were a few pictures of him up, though it was tough to find a place for him to fit in when the murals were already painted and the crowd mostly still wore their jerseys with Rozanov, Marlow, or Dubek on the back of it.

Now, Yuna could notice the difference. The way they had repainted their walls and hung vertical banners above the escalators just like they did with Sebbin or Hammersmiths picture. There were far more jerseys with his name on the back, too, intermingled with other players’ names.

“Think he’d respond if we texted?” her husband questioned, only partially teasing her.

Yuna furrowed her eyebrows, looking in his direction. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Try it?”

Usually, he was so busy before a game that he was impossible to reach for several hours, let alone just one. But he was also typically a lot more stressed than he had been in the past few months.

Playing games before the faceoff and apparently during the intermissions as well seemed to actually help him relax, somehow, instead of making him anxious like she thought it would have.

She leaned over her husband’s shoulder, watching him send a text to Shane that they were already in their seats. It was read almost immediately and a few bubbles popped up as he texted back. Before anything came through, however, they disappeared.

“Guess he’s busy after all,” David murmured, shrugging as he set his phone down in his lap. “Maybe Boston hasn’t changed everything.”

“It’s changed enough, though,” she replied earnestly, fingertips twitching against her knee. “In a good way, I think.”

He nodded. “Definitely in a good way,” he agreed. “I can’t remember the last time I saw him as happy as he’s been lately.” Honestly, it might not have been that much of a reach to assume he truly never had been this happy before.

The energy in the Raiders stadium felt different than in Montreal. But he liked it better, for some reason she couldn’t explain. Maybe it was his imagination, but he felt like the fans here appreciated their son more.

They expected a lot, still, of course. But he never saw them immediately taking their outrage to social media if the Raiders lost a game because Shane missed a goal or had a bad night. They seemed to notice when he looked tired and gave him space when they asked for an autograph on the street.

David’s phone buzzed and he picked it back up, frowning slightly as he clicked on the text Shane had sent back.

“Did he respond?” Yuna questioned, sounding a little surprised. She couldn’t think of why it would take him so long if he had been able to read the text so quickly in the first place.

“Uh- sorta.” He nodded, tilting his screen towards her for a moment.

She leaned closer to the phone, realizing their son’s response had been a picture of the stadium taken from somewhere pretty far away. It was zoomed in on their row, as close as possible to a photo of them he could manage to take.

“Wha- where is he?” she wondered, slightly confused as she looked around the rink. There were already a few thousand fans finding their seats and it would only get busier as the face off grew closer.

Her husband tapped her arm gently. “There he is,” he muttered, pointing towards the tunnel the team came out of.

Shane was trying his best to be discreet about it, tucked away but waiting for them to notice him. He wasn’t in full gear yet, but enough of it to make it clear he had dashed out of the locker room before he finished getting ready.

Yuna huffed, pulling out her own phone and calling him. She watched him in real time as he noticed his phone started to ring and pick up. “What are you doing?” she wondered, voice tinged with amusement.

Across the rink, he shrugged. “You guys texted me first, remember?” he replied. “Dad asked what I was doing.” He gestured to himself, as if it was the answer.

“I don’t think we asked you to run into the tunnel, hon,” she muttered, even though she was secretly a little glad he had gone out of his way to wave to them. “You should be playing whatever that game is before the faceoff or something. Where’s your team?”

“Uh- pretty sure they’re running down here, too?” Shane admitted, sounding a bit uncertain.

He lowered his phone for a moment, turning to peer down the tunnel as he heard a bit of clamoring. The kind that was usually reserved for the locker room or the hallway outside of it before the game started.

David squinted his eyes as Yuna put her phone on speaker, propping it between them in hopes it would still be possible to hear despite the growing commotion around them as more people found their seats. They could see Kohn, Sebbin, and Connors bounding towards their son. They craned their heads, peering out of the tunnel far less inconspicuously as they searched the crowd.

“Where are your parents?” Sebbin wondered, trying to spot them amongst the thousands of people filling their stadium.

Shane pointed to the row they were in. “Over there,” he replied before he glanced at him. “How did you know I was coming out here to see them?” 

“Because you told us they were coming to the game tonight multiple times, then you got a text and ran off?” Connors reminded him, spotting the phone in his hand. “Oh! Is that them?”

He nodded, pulling the phone away from his ear and putting it on speaker to let them say something to either of them if they wanted to.

Immediately they did, voices overlapping as they told them hello and said they were glad to see them again. Kohn even got a bit too close to the edge of the tunnel, waving until Connors tugged him back to keep the rest of crowd from noticing them.

“Hi mama Hollzy,” Kohn greeted, voice light and sing-songy. “We hope your flight yesterday was good. Shane’s been bugging us nonstop for the last week about your visit, so we wanted to see you guys.”

He smacked his teammate against the chest softly. “I have not,” he retorted defensively. “I mentioned it like twice.”

“Six times,” Sebbin corrected. “Once when you suggested they spend Christmas in Boston, again when they booked their plane tickets, twice at practice the day before they got in, another time in the group chat yesterday, and tonight when you got to the rink.”

Shane glared at him in annoyance, but he just shrugged. In his own defense, he had been pretty excited for them to visit again now that they knew about him and Ilya. He really wanted the chance for them to get to know him the way he did and love him enough so that they would fully accept the relationship.

“It’s nice to see you too,” David muttered, still squinting. “Sort of see you, anyway.” He didn’t realize he needed to bring his glasses to a hockey game. Usually, the screens were big enough that he could see everything pretty well.

“Shouldn’t you guys be heading back to the locker room?” Yuna wondered, leaning closer to the speaker of her phone to talk over the commotion. “Warmups start soon.”

At a distance, she could see Connors shrugging dramatically as he leaned against Kohn. He looked like actually getting ready for the game they paid him to play wasn’t the highest item on his list of priorities right now.

“We’ve got a few more minutes until Roz realizes he lost track of us,” Sebbin assumed. “Plus, that atmosphere was getting way too intense for me.”

Kohn hummed in agreement. “It’s always weird in there when we play Tampa because of how aggressive they are,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose. “They hate every team, but I think they’ve got something against us specifically because we can actually handle what they dish out.”

And give it right back, too, which Tampa hated but the fans loved. It was almost a given that before the night was over, one or two of them would have a new concussion or bruised ribs, if nothing else. And if they were going to come out of this game with injuries, they sure as hell were going to send the other team home with a few of their own.

Shane rolled his eyes. “Maybe don’t mention how blood thirsty their players are to my parents who worry if I trip off a curb,” he suggested. “We’ll handle them, just gotta be more focused than usual.”

“Oh, oops. Sorry,” Connors muttered sheepishly, leaning towards his phone. “It’s gonna be totally fine, Mr. and Mrs. Hollander. We always beat Tampa. Haven’t lost to them in four consecutive years.”

Yuna somehow didn’t feel put at ease when she heard that, given what she knew about Tampa off the top of her head. They were a pretty aggressive team, much like the Raiders were. But they also didn’t favor clean hits and fair plays as much as her sons’ teammates did. It was concerning, to say the least.

“Soon to be five,” Kohn added with a little too much confidence, wanting another full season without losing to them. “It’s over my dead body they beat us on our own ice.”

Sebbin nodded in agreement. “Your dead body? Try all of our dead bodies,” he muttered. “Leave one sheep and all that.”

He knew some guys on their team had more or less respect for specific teams; it depended on their personal feelings towards the players. But he was pretty sure that as a collective they didn’t have this much disdain for any other team in the league aside from the Metros.

“It’s gonna be an interesting night, that’s for sure,” Shane mumbled, growing a bit antsy as he saw the rows of seats still filling up.

“At least we’re getting dinner afterwards, no matter what happens,” Connors noted, nudging him slightly before pausing in realization. “Wait- are you coming out with us afterwards?”

“Uh—” He honestly forgot about their tradition to always celebrate after games against Tampa because he had only played them once this season. “—I don’t know,” he confessed, tilting his head towards his parents. “Probably just grabbing something to eat with my parents.”

Kohn frowned, not a fan of that answer. “Oh, come on, you can’t skip out on celebrating another successful victory against Tampa,” he insisted. “That’s the best part of playing them.”

That and seeing how pissed they look when they had to leave the ice. Sometimes, if it was a bad enough beatdown, one of their players would snap a stick-on purpose.

Shane huffed. “We haven’t even beaten them, yet,” he replied.

“Yet,” Sebbin emphasized. “But we will and then we’re going to that steakhouse on North end and getting a really nice bottle of wine. C’mon, you love their food, Shane. And their dessert, too. Remember how good the berry pavlova is?”

He let out a dramatic sigh, nodding his head. “It’s delicious, yes,” he conceded. “But I’m not abandoning my parents after—”

“Invite them, then,” Connors interjected before he could finish his sentence. “Kane knows the owner, we can add them to the reservation without a problem.”

Shane opened and closed his mouth, tilting his head to look back out of the tunnel. He could see, even from a distance, that his parents were looking at each other. Probably with skeptical glances. Aside from meeting the team briefly before and after games, they never really spent much time with them.

They never spent much time with the Metros, either, for that matter. Maybe they met a few at a time, every once in a while, and knew Hayden pretty well. But they actually got dinner with the whole group or anything.

Frankly, it was because he worried about his teammate making a joke at his expense in front of them. But he was fully confident that he wouldn’t have to worry about the Raiders doing that.

“I mean I- I guess that’s true,” Shane admitted. “Would you guys want to come with us?” he questioned cautiously, waiting for an answer.

Yuna and David just stared at each other, like they were both waiting for the other to respond so they could just agree with whatever was said. There was some floundering, admittedly. A mix of shaking and nodding their heads in a circle that didn’t really answer anything.

“Uh- sure,” David eventually agreed slowly, watching his wife’s expression closely to make sure he hadn’t said the wrong thing. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“No problem at all,” Kohn assured them. “We’ll let Kane know.”

He was the one who seemed to know every restaurant in the city, after all. And just as many owners or head waiters to be on decent terms with a majority of them.

“We should go,” Shane muttered, head tilted back towards the locker room. “I’ll see you guys after the game.”

Yuna nodded, even though she was fairly certain he couldn’t see it and let him hang up. She put her phone away, taking a deep breath to settle her nerves about the game. And apparently about dinner, too.

· ─ ·✶· ─ ·

The game was rough, to say the least. That wasn’t to imply the Raiders were losing, though. Because they weren’t. It was a fairly decent score of 3-2 in their favor as they approached the halfway point in the third period.

A lead, yes, but not one as overwhelmingly successful as any of them hoped for.

It wasn’t the number of goals scored, however, that caused both Yuna and David to worry throughout it. It was watching the other team attack their son, repeatedly. Multiple Raiders, technically. Including Ilya, Varkov, and Feller, too.

Yuna winced, watching a player hit Feller in the face with the end of his stick. The refs weren’t calling it a penalty, for some reason, but she was fairly certain it hadn’t been an accident. Not with the way the player didn’t look shocked by the injury, let alone remorseful.

Feller dipped his head, hurt too badly to even engage in a fight with the man. They saw Vic go after the guy, anyway, though. Shoving him against the boards, he snapped at the player who promptly took a swing and David tensed.

He could feel his wife’s nails digging into his arm, leaving marks as they watched the two of them getting more aggressive. Carmichael stood up from his place on the bench, shouting some inaudible to anyone except the other players.

“What’s he saying?” David wondered, trying and failing to read his lips at such a distance.

She squinted. “I don’t know,” she confessed, watching their son point at the ref and scream something at him. “Seems like Shane agrees, though.”

He hummed, lips twisting as he saw Vic get knocked to ground and drag the player who hurt Feller with him until they were brawling on the floor.

Shane kept his attention half on Vic and half on the referees as he tapped his stick against the wall along with the rest of the team. “Do your fucking job!” he shouted.

There was more clamoring from the bench. “They wouldn’t be fighting if you called that penalty like you were supposed to!” Dubek snapped, stuck watching his teammate fight while he was still on the bench.

Feller leaned over the rail with his head in his hands and Shane let go of his stick to tend to him. Patting him on the shoulder as he groaned, he helped him get his helmet off, letting it clatter against the ground.

“Get the team doctor,” he insisted, looking over his shoulder at Desjourney who was already sending someone to grab him.

Why they didn’t have him wait closer to the rink when they played Tampa, he wasn’t sure. It seemed like they had a pretty consistent pattern of needing him.

“That fucking hurt,” Feller grumbled, trying to breathe through the pain as he raised his head.

Shane grimaced, noticing the blood on his face. “Bright side? Vic is definitely roughing up Gericault worse than he got you,” he murmured, trying to bring him a little bit of comfort as the referees finally tried to break up the brawl that was still going.

He huffed weakly, nodding. “Good,” he replied.

Keeping one hand planted on his arm firmly, he helped Feller get off the ice and take a seat on the bench. Carmichael picked up his helmet, resting it beside him as Kovalev, on the ice, passed them Feller’s discarded stick from a few moments ago. Hammersmith leaned it against the wall.

“You guys hate to give me a night off, don’t you?” their doctor asked, finally emerging from his office. “How you feeling, Feller?”  he wondered, squeezing his arm gently as he knelt in front of him.

“Like I got hit in the face with a blunt hockey stick,” he deadpanned, wincing in pain as an eyeroll hurt worse than expected.

He nodded, checking his face carefully. “Seems like he got you right under the eye,” he muttered, pressing his thumb against the bruise lightly. “Any higher and we’d be looking at a very different injury.”

“Speaking of injuries, you’ve got another skating disaster getting time in the penalty box,” Dubek muttered, motioning to Vic who was settling in pretty quickly.

Their doctor glanced at him. He looked banged up, cheek bloodied but was probably more pissed off than anything else. The adrenaline helped to numb the pain a bit, but the ringing in his ears persisted anyway.

“Let me check there wasn’t too much damage here, first,” he insisted, already fussing with Feller more than he liked having done. “I’ll check on Vic in a second, make sure there isn’t any problems with his cognition.”

Desjourney tapped Shane’s arm, nodding towards the ice. Even with Vic in the box, they’d still have to replace Feller. “Get out there,” he muttered before redirecting his attention to his injured players.

Shane grabbed his stuff, strapping his helmet on before he hopped over the railing. He wasn’t even sure what the point of wearing it was, though, if the other team was going to keep fucking tearing them off every time they got into a fight.

He skated over to Ilya, who was alarmingly silent. Contemplating, perhaps. Or just planning the most efficient way to rip someone’s head clean off their shoulders without getting arrested for it. It was hard to tell, frankly.

“How is Feller?” he murmured, eyes still trained on someone from the other team.

Shane shrugged. “Bruised up, but doc didn’t look overly worried about it,” he replied, slowly setting up for a face off as things settled down even though the tension remained.

Ilya hummed softly. “Let’s just try to get through the rest of the game without any other emergencies,” he suggested.

His gaze flitted towards his boyfriend’s jersey for a moment like he was scrutinizing something about it or what was under it. He let it go, though, blowing out a breath and he stood across from Hammersmith.

They exchanged glances quietly, mostly unreadable despite the anger simmering below the surface. Kane was the only one who really looked like he was about to lose it, pissed about working overtime as their only defenseman on the ice right now.

Tampa won the face off, but they didn’t let them get far with the puck, chasing after it quickly. One of their players shot it across the rink and Hammersmith was quick to block it before it even got to their goalie, passing it back towards Kane.

Shane watched him get checked against the boards, glass rattling as the puck was stolen. If anyone who didn’t know Kane personally saw him at that particular moment, they’d think he was the most aggressive man alive with how red in the face he was. Shane understood the feeling, pretty damn frustrated himself. Not with their own game, but the other teams.

Shane hurried after one of Tampa’s forwards as their team skated into their end zone. He didn’t get the puck back but managed to knock it off course, in the direction of Hammersmith, before getting shoved against the boards himself.

He winced, forcing the player off him harshly. Probably with more vigor than was necessary, if he was being honest. But he wasn’t looking for a tussle or anything, just wanted a bit of distance between them. He felt borderline claustrophobic around the other team tonight, the proximity wearing his patience thin.

Even if it could have been easy to move on from the shove Shane had given, the other player didn’t let it go. They never seemed to let anything go when they played the Raiders, for that matter. And in seconds, the man had pushed him back like he was trying to start a fight thirty seconds after the last one ended.

“Oh, for fucks sake,” Shane snapped, his stick clattering to the ground as his gloved pressed into the guy’s jersey, trying to push him off before things escalated to a full-blown brawl.

There had certainly been plenty of those all night, but he really didn’t want another right now, and before the player could elicit a rise out of Shane, Ilya was breaking the scuffle up.

He shoved the man away, pointing at him. “Can’t go one minute without starting shit, can you, Pressly?” he accused, shaking his head in annoyance as he gestured towards Tampa’s captain. “Go back to your damn ringleader before you get us both thrown in the penalty box.”

And he would, in fact, get himself tossed into it if they kept going after his team. He was trying to be civil, not because he gave a shit about breaking one of their noses but because he actually wanted this game to end before they had the chance to hospitalize any of the Raiders.

The man scoffed, rolling his eyes and falling back towards his team as a referee skated up to him, likely questioning the spat. Ilya just hoped he was wise enough to brush it off instead of trying to pin it on Shane.

“Why do I feel like they’re trying to break the record for most fights in a single hockey game?” Shane wondered, furrowing his eyebrows as he watched the player shake his head at the ref.

“They’re probably not far off from it,” he admitted with a half-assed shrug, still pushing down his own temper before it exploded. “How are your ribs?”

He frowned slightly before trying to school the expression. “Fine,” he replied. “He barely touched them.”

They all seemed a lot more interested in going for the face and head tonight, for some reason, despite knowing it would get them into even worse trouble than a normal fight would.

Ilya glared at him for a moment. “Not what I was referring to,” he retorted, shaking his head. “But I want to win, so, for now, we’ll pretend like you didn’t bruise them when you got punched in the stomach earlier.”

It had been one of the first fights of the night and Ilya should have known from how violently they started it, that tonight would be difficult. He was just trying to keep his team in one piece, frankly. Easier said than done when they were just as willing to engage in a fight as he was.

“Glad we’re on the same page,” Shane muttered, conveniently ignoring the ache that had been killing him all night as he skated back towards Kane.

He knew there was no way he could convince Shane to sit down, especially after he just came off the bench. No matter how sore he was, he would insist on playing through it. Ilya would just need to make sure he got them checked after the game.  

· ─ ·✶· ─ ·

When the clock ran down and the Raiders officially won against Tampa, several players on both teams were injured. There was varying severity, from split lips caused by fist fights to concussions caused by tripping. Shane considered himself pretty lucky to only have some bruises on his ribs, even if the others disagreed.

“Cooperate Hollander,” Dubek insisted, using his full last name instead of his usual nickname to fully cement how serious he was. “It’s not going to be tight if you keep fidgeting.”

He sighed, sitting on the bench in the locker room as his teammate wrapped his ribs for him. It was compromise, after he refused to let anyone call the team doctor and everyone else refused to let him leave without any medical attention. He still felt like he somehow drew the short straw, so to speak.

“I can’t fucking believe you hid this all game,” Connors insisted, gesturing to the bruising on his skin that was already darkening after being not being tended to for over an hour. “How were you not dying?”

Shane met Ilya’s gaze, the glare unescapable as he just shrugged. “It didn’t hurt that badly,” he promised. “And they look worse than they are; my ribs have always bruised easily.”

He was pretty much bruised with the slightest impact, which always left him covered in marks that looked more intense than they truly felt. Granted he actually was in quite a bit of pain tonight, but even so, they still won, and that’s what was important.

Kovalev hummed skeptically, changing into a nicer shirt after his shower. “You look like a plum,” he muttered, buttoning his shirt up.

“Thank, Kov,” Shane murmured back sarcastically with an equally tight smile.

Dubek tore the bandage off the roll, pressing it against the wrap as it self-adhered to it. The fact that Shane tried and failed to hide a wince of pain wasn’t lost on him, but he ignored it, having already chewed him out for pretending to be fine all night.

“There,” he stated, letting Shane grab his stuff “Just take it easy for the next few days.”

He nodded in agreement, slipping his shirt over his head. Thankfully, it was their last game before Christmas break, and they would all have plenty of time to recover from their injuries. And they could also take a little bit of joy in knowing Tampa would also be resting up after getting a few wounds of their own.

Kane was hanging his jersey back up as Shane leaned beside his cubby. “Thanks for getting my parents added to the team’s reservation,” he muttered, watching him zip up his bag.

He just shrugged. “No big deal,” he replied. “I’m glad you’re not ditching us tonight. It’s gonna be a good dinner.”

Any meal after they won always was and their appetites would probably be massive after the game they just played. He knew he intended to eat enough for two people, at least. To say nothing of the dessert menu.

“Yeah, me too,” Shane admitted. “I haven’t had that pavlova in so long I think it’s more of a fever dream.”

Alright, it had been three weirdly long weeks. He ate it after the last time they played Tampa. But still, the memory of it lingered.

Kane slung his bag over his shoulder, nudging his shoulder. “Let’s get out of here,” he muttered.

The team filed out and Varkov shut the lights off behind them as they spilled out into the hallway. Reporters were waiting for them, as they aways were. Yuna and David were standing there, too. Between the choices, Shane’s parents received a much warmer welcome.

“There you guys are,” Carmichael exclaimed, shaking David’s hand. “Good to see you, again.”

“Likewise,” Shane’s dad muttered, voice tinged with worry and pride as he accepted the handshake. “That was a pretty rough game out there.”

Kovalev shrugged, not disputing it. “They’re always hostile towards us,” he muttered, giving Yuna a gentle hug. “Nothing we can do except give them the same treatment.”

“You certainly did that,” David affirmed.

Yuna hummed in agreement, nodding as she glanced around, mentally tallying some of their injuries. Feller’s face had bruised and the cut on Vic’s cheek had stopped bleeding but still looked raw and painful.

“I don’t condone violence, but that wasn’t a fair hit,” she murmured to quietly Vic. “You did the right thing.” Even if it had given her a small heart attack to watch.

He bit back a laugh, tipping his head slightly. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Yuna reached to tip Feller’s face to the side like she was scrutinizing a child’s injury. “And you,” she stated firmly. “You need to make sure you keep some ice on that tonight to help with the swelling.”

Feller nodded his head in agreement. “I plan to, Mrs. Hollander,” he assured her, already thinking about the bag of ice he kept in his freezer.

Shane grimaced as the reporters tried to interrupt; cameras already pointed towards his team and his parents. It seemed like they were incapable of giving any of them personal space or reading the room. Or perhaps they could but just didn’t care.

Regardless, he gestured to the exit, eager to get out of the stadium. “Let’s go,” he suggested, finger tapping against the strap of his bag. “I’m starving.”

Marlow hummed, nodding in agreement. “Me too,” he agreed.

“Me three,” Varkov tacked on, wrapping his arm around Sebbin and using him like a crutch after getting his leg smacked by a stick that flew out of someone hand previously in the game.

He already knew it was bruising from the color distortion he noticed during his post-game shower but was trying his best not to think about how much worse it would get over the next few days.

Shane nudged his mom’s shoulder gently as they all walked away from the reporters, ignoring their attempts to ask questions or get their attention. “Are you guys really okay getting dinner with everyone?” he asked softly.

The last thing he wanted to do was force them to waste one of their nights here hanging out with his team after just watching them play. They probably would have preferred a quiet dinner at a casual restaurant or at his and Ilya’s house so they could keep getting to know him. A steakhouse wasn’t part of their plans, that was for sure.

Yuna nodded her head. “Of course we’re fine with it, hon,” he muttered in response. “We love that you enjoy going out with them.”

It was actually something that brought her a lot of peace, really. Instead of refusing to celebrate and heading home to wind down like he used to in Montreal, he was willingly staying out and looking forward to joining his team for things he could do alone. That was more important to her than he could have realized.

Shane gave a small nod, not entirely seeming to believe her but accepting the answer anyway. He tapped Connors on the arm, pulling him out a conversation with Marlow. “Who are you driving?” he questioned, figuring they’d probably condense themselves into a few vehicles to make the parking less of a hassle.

He huffed, shrugging. “Whoever follows me to my car, I guess,” he replied in amusement. “I don’t know how I became the designated driver in this group. I got like three tickets last year.”

“You’re the only one who doesn’t try to mimic a Fast and Furious movie, that’s how,” Shane told him. “Besides, do parking tickets really count?”

It was definitely impressive when someone who lived so close to the center of Boston didn’t have tickets, but no one really expected it to happen very often. The parking regulations were so unnecessarily convoluted that a few parking tickets really weren’t a big deal.

It was the speeding tickets that always had Shane’s jaw dropping, confused how any of them could manage to get up to eighty-five or ninety when the speed limits were so much lower. Especially with all the traffic constantly getting backed up.

“Notice how I stay away from Ilya or Dubek when they want to drive?” Kohn questioned. “That’s intentional.” He pointed toward Kovalev. “Only three guys in this entire group I trust behind the wheel and it’s Connors, Kov, or you Hollzy.”

“Hey, I’m a good driver!” Dubek insisted, giving him a gentle shove. “I just tend to disagree with the maps estimated time of arrival, is all.”

Kovalev shook his head. “Not a thing to be proud of,” he retorted, rolling his eyes. “I’m glad Kohn at least recognizes that he’s a public safety hazard on the roads.” Now if he could just get the others to admit their own habits were questionable, they might actually get somewhere.

“Oh! Hollzy’s car is an option?” Hammersmith questioned, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t know that.”

“I’m pretty sure he’ll be driving his own parents, Smitty,” Ilya retorted, patting his shoulder. “Maybe you could lay in the trunk, though?”

There were a few chuckles and Hammersmith shoved him hard enough that he stumbled into Marlow, laughing harder as he claimed abuse. He pushed Ilya upright as they left the stadium, the air outside was cold and crisp.

They could see their laughter in the air in front of them with each huff as Dubek tipped his head towards his car as an open invitation to anyone who wanted to drive with him. “See you at the restaurant,” he muttered.

Kane, Feller, and Vic followed after him. One of them made some stupid joke that had the others groaning loud enough it carried across the parking lot.

“Varkov and I drove together,” Kovalev reminded the others, pointing towards his car. “But anyone is free to come with us.”

Kohn immediately shot his hand into the air. “Dibs,” he exclaimed, glancing at Ilya. “Sorry, cap, but I’m looking forward to my steak. I don’t want to die before getting it.”

Ilya scoffed, watching Kohn and Carmichael fall in step with Varkov as Kovalev pulled his car keys out of his bag and unlocked it from a distance. He was slightly insulted, admittedly.

“What is it that makes everything think I am a horrible driver?” he wondered, gesturing to himself as they walked away. “I haven’t gotten a ticket in like eight months.”

“Kov hasn’t had one in three years!” Carmichael shouted over his shoulder.

Ilya blinked, his lips tugging to the side slightly. “Alright, that might be a decent reason,” he confessed, shrugging it off. “Maybe.”

Connors chuckled, patting him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, if I was bleeding out on the side of the road, there would be no one I trust more to break traffic violations and get me to the hospital than you, Roz,” he assured him with a straight face.

Marlow nodded slightly. “He’s not wrong,” he mused in agreement. “You’d be a great EMS driver.”

“Ах, спасибо. Огромное спасибо,” Ilya muttered, taking a dramatic bow for a moment before he straightened up and pointed across the parking lot. “А теперь убирайся от меня.”

Marlow chuckled, waving over his shoulder as he turned to follow Sebbin and Hammersmith to Connors car. Ilya huffed, shaking his head in annoyance as he shoved his hand into the pocket of his coat while mumbling something else under his breath.

Shane let out a soft whistle and Ilya turned, realizing he was holding his keys out for him. He didn’t want to drive with his ribs feeling so sore and knew his parents weren’t used to navigating the kind of traffic they had in Boston. Besides, taking Ilya’s car wasn’t an option when it only seated two.

“Don’t crash my car, please,” he muttered, handing over his keys. “I just had it washed.”

Ilya took them from him. “I have never crashed any car!” he exclaimed in confusion. “You know who has? Kovalev! His second week in Boston he wrapped it around a tree and was so panicked that he forgot English for an hour. His host family had to call me because they couldn’t understand him. I had to translate for the police and insurance company.”

Yet everyone seemed to think he was such a brilliant driver, for some reason.

“He’s never had a single accident since then, though,” Shane reminded him, waiting for him to open the car before sliding into the passenger seat. “It’s all about learning from your mistakes.”

Yuna and David opened their own doors, getting into the back seat of the car as they silently watched their conversation play out.

“I have no mistakes to learn from because I am a good driver!” Ilya insisted, starting the car. “You are the one who nearly got pulled over because you forgot we use miles per hour here, instead of kilometers per hour.”

His mouth opened and closed a few times and he buckled his seatbelt. “That’s on the American customary system being stupid, not my ability to drive,” he defended, pointing at his speedometer.

He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “Is that seriously what it’s called?” he wondered dubiously. “The customary system?” He had never once heard someone say that before and he had lived here a long time.

Shane turned to stare at him, blinking. “You don’t even know what system of measurement you use?” he questioned in disbelief.

“I call it the American system!” he defended, shrugging.  

He snorted, leaning his head back on the chair. “Yeah, alright,” he muttered skeptically. “Just drive, Colonel Sanders.”

Ilya frowned in annoyance but put the car into drive and pulled out of the parking lot. He even kept both hands on the wheel the whole time, instead of just using one, the way he was used to. He didn’t want Yuna or David to think he was reckless or anything. He just had a tendency to accidentally drive a little quicker than the speed limits allowed sometimes.

Yuna tapped her fingers on her jeans, feeling like she should say or do something. She didn’t really know what, though. Their conversations seemed so easy and natural that she wasn’t really sure how to fit into it if she wasn’t being honest.

“I saw how you tried to break things up between Shane and Pressly,” Yuna noted after a while, bored of looking out of the window. “You were very…efficient.”

Ilya couldn’t look back, of course, eyes focused on the road. “He is like a yappy puppy who wants to be a Rottweiler,” he muttered, shrugging. “Just following his captains orders.”

Had it been one of the other players on the team, he might have actually been worried. Especially since Shane was already in pain with his ribs. But he knew that even if he hadn’t broken it up, Shane could have handled it himself against Pressley. Ilya just didn’t want him to have to.

“Do you ever have your team do that?” David questioned curiously. “Start fights, I mean. The press kind of makes it seem like you do, but clearly, they’re wrong about a lot of things when it comes to you.”

“That is an understatement, I would say,” Ilya muttered. “And no, I never tell them to start fights. They do that because they want to. Usually, to protect each other when it seems like the other team is getting uh- rowdy.”

“Like when Marlow went after Tampa’s captain for messing with Varkov in the second period,” Yuna assumed.

He had served two minutes for it, only because the fight was mutual and they both got torn away from each other before it could get out of hand. She suspected, though, that if no one got involved, it would have lasted longer.

He nodded to himself. “Marly is very loyal. Very protective too,” he told them, voice tinged with respect. “Probably more than any of us, even me.”

And that was saying something since Ilya was pretty damn defensive when it came to his teammates. He was always more than willing to start or finish a fight if someone hurt any of them, sometimes even said something that he thought crossed a line. Insults about race or nationality.

The one time he heard some hick player from Texas calling Kovalev a Soviet boot licker, he felt a level of disgust he couldn’t describe. But before he even had the chance to make the man pay for it, Marlow nearly put him in the hospital all by himself.

“Those are important qualities,” David muttered in agreement.

Ilya nodded as the car slowed to a stopped at a red light when they got closer to the restaurant. His phone buzzing in his pocket and he reached for it, spotting Carmichaels name for a brief moment before it was immediately snatched out of his hand.

“Eyes on the road,” Shane told him firmly.

He blinked, gesturing to the light. “It’s red,” he reminded him in confusion. “Do you want me to just stare at it with anticipation?”

“Yes,” he responded succinctly.

His answer elicited a sigh of defeat from Ilya, who just tapped his fingers against the steering wheel as he watched the light, waiting for it to turn green. Shane unlocked his phone and opened his text messages, tapping on the most recent one. He huffed a soft laugh and Ilya frowned, glancing over at him.

“What did Carmichael say?” Ilya wondered as the light changed colors and he drove through it. He could hear the sound of him typing a response out, sending it. “Are you responding on my phone? What are you texting?”

“Relax, it’s not the first time I’ve texted him from your phone,” he reminded him. “I know how to sound like you.”

Yuna’s eyebrows shot up slightly, leaning forward slightly to try to read over her son’s shoulder as he sent a message to Carmichael without hesitation. There was a word or two purposely taken out of it, an acronym Shane would never use, and an emoji added to the end. She supposed that’s how Ilya texted.

“That does not answer my first question,” he replied, furrowing his eyebrows. “Also, when have you texted him from my phone?”

“When you were too busy diffusing your curls to send a response last month, remember?” Shane recalled. “He just wanted to let you know they stopped outside the restaurant because they ran into some fans.” The phone beeped again. “He also wants to know if you have a pen because no one else does and they feel bad not being able to sign stuff.”

“I don’t,” Ilya muttered, shaking his head. “I should start carrying one, though. A sharpie or something.” He got asked for an autograph often enough that he probably had a good reason to keep one on him. Or in his bag, at least.

“I have one you could use,” Yuna chimed in, trying her best to be helpful. “It’s in my purse somewhere.”

Her son nodded, deleting the text he had been typing and sending a different one, instead. “Telling him now,” he muttered, shutting off Ilya’s phone as sliding it back into his pocket for him.

As they pulled into a parking spot on the street, Ilya shut off the car and passed the keys back to Shane. David could hear him muttering something in Russian, a joke or some sort of comment that made their son chuckle before unbuckling. He got out of the car, closing the door softly and getting out of the road.

“Give me a few dollars,” Ilya muttered, holding his palm out as he stood beside the parking meter. He already bought the parking pass they both shared, he wasn’t going to shell out more money for street parking, too.

Shane huffed, reaching for his wallet and passing him some cash without complaining. “How much time are you putting on it?” he wondered, hand lingering on an extra dollar, unsure if they needed it.

“Two and a half hours?” he assumed, shrugging. “Why, should I make it three?”

Yuna watched her son tip his head side to side contemplating it for a moment before pulling out the extra dollar he had been deciding on. “Might as well,” he told him, handing it over. “We’re always out later than we think we will be.”

They always faced the same, annoying problem of actually enjoying being with their team outside of the rink. No matter what time they planned to leave, they stayed later, not wanting to miss out on the conversation and shenanigans. Usually, the group broke apart hours after they intended to.

“Which way is the restaurant?” David wondered, pulling his jacket back on after spending most of the hockey game not wearing it inside.  

Shane gestured down the sidewalk. “It’s this way,” he replied, staying on the outside of it as his mom walked beside him.

“I don’t hear any screaming fans,” she teased, rifling through her purse as she searched the pen she knew had somewhere inside of it. She really did need to clean it out more often, apparently.

“You won’t, either,” her son explained as they strolled the pavement a bit further. “They’re never loud enough to cause a scene.”

Yuna furrowed her eyebrows, lifting her head as she finally found her pen. She looked further down the street, spotting a decent sized crowd lingering around a restaurant. Maybe twenty or thirty people were standing around on the sidewalk, some taking pictures but most of them just chatting.

David made a curious sound as they got closer. “Huh…” He tilted his head, watching Feller point up at the sky with his hands, seemingly deep into telling a story.  

Shane snatched the pen from his mom, muttering quick thanks for it before he and Ilya immersed themselves in the crowd. Everyone shifted a bit, moving to make more space for them. Yuna blinked, watching her son wave while Ilya shook someone’s hand politely.

“Did you ever find the puck?” some girl asked Feller, wanting to hear the rest of the tale.

Kovalev huffed. “Oh, we found it,” he assured her, nodding. “It got lodged in the rafters for an hour until it eventually came loose.” He tapped his own head. “It nearly gave me a concussion when it fell on me during practice.”

She covered her mouth in surprise, but Feller just shrugged, looking more amused than remorseful. In his defense, it had been long ago enough that most of them found it more funny than annoying. Aside from Kovalev, of course. But that was only because he was the one it hit.

“Do you guys know anything about the All-Star game yet?” a tall man asked curiously. “Is Rozanov going again?”

Ilya shrugged, unsure. “I think voting starts early January, like fourth or fifth?” he presumed. “I’d be glad to go, if enough people want me there.” They had to vote for him to attend, though.

“Do you actually enjoy playing with guys from the other teams?” the man’s wife wondered, leaning against him.

He nodded. “Of course I do,” he muttered. “It’s nice to get a break from the stress of the normal season and I have a lot of respect for the players that attend. Some of them like me better than others, but they all have to deal with me for the week. I try to make it tolerable for them.”

There were a few chuckles. “Yeah, imagine how unlucky we feel dealing with him every single day,” Dubek commented, purposely messing up his curls. “It’s been years and he’s never once woken up on the right side of the bed.”

Ilya shot him a glare of mock annoyance, fixing his hair for a moment.

Yuna and David wandered a little closer, just lingering by their son as Shane laughed over something someone said. He uncapped the pen his mom gave him, watching someone try to balance on one leg so he could sign her shoe.

He held the girl’s ankle, trying to make sure she didn’t trip as he wrote his autograph on the side of her Converse. “I like these shoes,” he muttered, putting her foot down with a huff. “They’re a cool color.” He didn’t even know they sold them in Lavender.

She chuckled softly, looking down at her own shoe. “Sorry if that was a super weird request,” she apologized. “I don’t have anything else on me.”

Shane shrugged, unbothered by it. “I’ve signed some pretty strange things before,” he told her. “That definitely wasn’t anywhere close to the weirdest.”

He passed the pen towards Marlow, who barely even noticed it, just took it while still keeping a conversation with some guy who was telling him that he flew across the country to watch them in the championship the year they won the cup.

“That’s amazing,” Marlow muttered in awe, always pleasantly shocked by how many people made the trip. “Thank you for being there for it.”

“Thanks for making it worth missing work,” the man replied with a chuckle, holding out the hem of his shirt to have it signed.

Yuna turned towards her husband for a moment. “They’re so…polite,” she whispered, covering her mouth with her hand, eyes still glued to the interactions.

He nodded slowly, seeing it too. The lack of shoving, and cameras flashing. The way they were just chatting, taking pictures when asked and even letting their fans look at it and ask for a redo if they were blinking

“Woah, it’s gonna be permeant?” Vic questioned, the pen hovering over someone’s arm. “Shit, now I’m scared. I don’t want you to get an ugly tattoo.” He bit down on his lip, concentrating as he drew.

David’s eyes widened a bit, his attention dragged to Vic as he doodled on a woman’s arm so she could get it turned into real ink. Then, just as fast he heard another question being asked and had his attention yanked to it, instead.

“There was an article a while back that said Connors was mad at Carmichael because they weren’t sitting next to each other on the bench like usual,” some red head mentioned, voice tinged with skeptical amusement, as if she didn’t believe it but wanted to ask anyway. “Was there actually a fight?”

They frowned, glancing at each other like they were both trying to remember what night the press could have been trying to twist for the sake of drama. It was pretty hard to remember, frankly, so they both just shook their heads.

“No, I don’t think we were ever—Oh! Wait- yes, I do remember that,” Carmichael realized, smacking Connors lightly. “We got in trouble for accidentally laughing when they were playing the National Anthem that night and coach separated us for the rest of the night.”

“Ohhhh, right!” Connors remembered, nodding his head in agreement. “We weren’t fighting, the whole team just kept having to pull us away because we were unintentionally trying to sit beside each other like we normally do.”

“So, do you guys ever actually get on each other’s nerves?” some guy asked, head tilted with intrigue. “Or is it always just banter and publicity?”

“Uh- yes, and no?” Sebbin replied, head bobbing from side to side. “Sometimes, when we’re travelling and we’re tired we can sometimes get a bit snippy and need more space from each other. Usually, we’re pretty close, though.”

They saw each other way too much to actually have any hostility towards each other linger. He knew that wasn’t always the case for teams, especially in hockey. The Raiders were, by all accounts, incredibly lucky. But he honestly couldn’t imagine being on a team where he didn’t love every single teammate he had, let alone actively despised any or all of them.

“How do you guys make up after a real fight, then?” a blonde woman questioned.

“I will only accept a dozen red stemmed roses and a heartfelt note,” Hammersmith deadpanned a little too well. “Seriously, though? We just apologize to each other and sometimes we’ll buy the other a drink or something.”

“When we fight, it’s out of stress or because of a misunderstanding usually,” Feller added, the pen winding up in his hand somehow. “None of want to stay mad at each other.” He bent over, signing someone’s water bottle as they passed it to him.

“Because of the game?” she questioned.

He shrugged slightly, passing the pen towards whoever wanted it. “The game is always part of it,” he agreed. “But these guys are also my best friends. I hope I get to keep playing beside them until I retire, but either way it’s way more important for me to have them as my family than my teammates.”

Yuna already liked the answer before Feller reached out to nudge her son’s arm. But the emotion grew when she saw how he was effectively including Shane in that statement despite only knowing him for a few months. It made her heart swell with appreciation for Feller. For the whole team, really.

She couldn’t believe she had been so apprehensive about Shane’s decision. That she was foolish enough to believe what the media said about the Raiders and their fans when it was clearly all bullshit.

“Thank you guys for stopping and hanging out with us, but we’re starving after the game,” Kane told them politely, pointing towards the restaurant behind them. “So, unless anyone has anything else to ask or have signed, we’re going to head inside.”

Yuna expected the crowd to groan, complain, maybe push back and ask for more of their time and attention. Instead, they all nodded, putting away the things they had gotten autographed.

Some of them shook Kohn or Feller’s hands again as a way to say goodbye. Then, they just went on their way, continuing their evenings without any fussing or grumbling. It was so alarmingly respectful.

She just blinked, tugging her son’s arm to keep him from walking inside. “Is that normal?” she asked in confusion. “I mean, I know you said they didn’t make a scene but that- they really didn’t make a scene.”

Shane nodded. “Yeah, they’re really sweet,” he muttered.

Yuna just glanced back at her husband, who looked equally surprised but also pleased by how courteous they all had been. She just huffed, figuring she’d ask a few more questions later on, either when they were back in the car or tomorrow over breakfast.

“Uh- excuse me?” someone called, before they had all gone inside for dinner.

Ilya paused. Hammersmith, Dubek, Kane, Carmichael, Vic, and Kohn were already inside by the time he heard it. He turned. “Yes?” he wondered, noticing the young woman still standing there.

She’d been there the whole time; he was pretty sure. She had been standing next to the married couple without saying anything, but was definitely there, practically from the start.

“I- sorry, I know I should have asked a second ago when everyone else was,” she admitted, a little tense. “I just got a little nervous and I- could I, please? Have an autograph, I mean.”

Yuna froze, eyes flitting between him and the girl, feeling bad for her. She was going to suggest he take another moment to sign something. It really wouldn’t take long, after all. Before she could, though, Ilya was already nodding.

He let the door to the restaurant close. “Of course,” he muttered, stepping towards her extending his hand to take whatever she wanted signed.

He was sure the others would be asking why the rest of them weren’t following behind, the way they should have been, but they had already waited all night for their dinner. They could wait an extra minute or two longer.

She let out a short breath, digging through her bag and handing him a rather thick stack of stapled papers. “Thank you so much,” she murmured, wringing her hands anxiously.

“No problem,” Ilya assured her as he signed the blank backside. Curious, he flipped it over, studying it for a moment before frowning. “Math homework?” he questioned curiously, looking at the equations.

She nodded. “Yeah, for my calculus class,” she confessed. “I’m obviously not handing it in, now, though. I’ll redo it.”

He chuckled, letting his eyes rake over it for a moment. Math never was his strongest subject, despite passing it with pretty high marks. He had no deep hatred of it, the way he knew many people did. It just didn’t interest him very much.

Ilya handed her back her math homework. “Do you go to UMass” he questioned, gesturing in a vague but general direction.

She shook her head. “Tufts, actually,” she replied. “For international relations. I’m taking Russian for my foreign language elective because you.”

His eyes widened slightly, perking up in surprise. “Really?” he wondered, voice tinged with appreciation as he gestured to himself. “Me?”

“Him?” Kovalev noted, exchanging a look of mock envy with Varkov. 

She nodded. “I saw this interview you did once in your first or second season and they asked you about why you liked hockey and you answered in Russian,” she explained. “I remember thinking it was such a pretty language even though everyone says its harsh.”

Ilya listened with rapt attention, remembering the conversation she was talking about. He hadn’t been in America for very long and most of his interviews were kept short at the time because he couldn’t answer as well as they liked and he refused to be embarrassed in front of a camera.

That day had only been his third attempt at a much longer, more formal interview in a studio and he wasn’t able to think of a single word in English that could express how he felt about hockey properly.

He didn’t even try, really. Just explained in Russian and had the staff translate everything with subtitles before releasing it.

“It is a beautiful language, yes,” he agreed, nodding. “Have you been learning it long?”

“Just two semesters,” she admitted. “I think I could spend ten years learning and still not be fluent.”

Ilya shrugged, pointing to himself again. “Ten years in America and I still learn new words every week,” he told her, waving off the concern as natural. “Would you want to try to say something?” he suggested gently, giving her time to speak.

She looked a bit sheepish, hesitating for a moment. “Uh- Меня зовут Amelia,” she introduced slowly, pointing to herself. “Приятно познакомиться.”

She hadn’t been planning to meet him at all, let alone introduce herself in his native language. It was, admittedly, terrifying. It felt like months and months’ worth of homework and classes had suddenly flown out the window, leaving her mind blank to the most basic of words.

Kovalev beamed. “Мне тоже приятно познакомиться,” he replied. “That was really good. Can you say anything else?”

Yuna smile softly, her attention originally on the girl switching to her son. Or rather, the fond expression he was wearing as he watched some of their reactions. They seemed overjoyed at hearing someone just trying to say hello in Russian.

She racked her brain trying to think of something when her mind was blanking in front of all of them. “I- oh! Я много лет являюсь поклонником этой команды, но никогда не был на матче,” she told them, a look of concentration on her face. “And…Смотрю по телевизору. Вместо? Вместо этого я смотрю по телевизору?”

She shook her head a bit, scrubbing her forehead as she got a little confused towards the end. If she had a bit of time to actually plan and practice what she was going to say, it might have sounded smoother. At least, she hoped it would have. There was no point in imagining it now.

Varkov nodded slightly. “Yes, bместо means instead,” he assured her, gently.

Ilya frowned, looking a bit disappointed. “I don’t like that,” he muttered, watching her expression immediately drop. “Oh, sorry, not the Russian! Your Russian is very good. I mean I don’t like that you’ve never been able to come to a game,” he clarified quickly. “Why is that?”

She opened and closed her mouth for a moment. “It’s just expensive,” she admitted bashfully. “And I’m enrolled in a lot of credits, so I don’t have the money or the time. I’m really sorry. I’d love to—”

He shook his head. “No, no, do not feel sorry,” he insisted, waving his hand. “Our tickets should be affordable. We play for you to be able to watch it.”

What was the point of even having a stadium if fans couldn’t come and join them? He didn’t understand why someone who had been watching them play for years, who didn’t live terribly far from the stadium, either, couldn’t come see them. It seemed like she should at least be able to afford seats on the upper floors, even if it wasn’t a VIP spot.

“Well, they’re reasonable at first but then they sell out and people resell them for hundreds of dollars more,” she explained with an apologetic expression.

Ilya hated the tone in her voice, as if she was somehow blaming herself. Or worse, considering herself less of a fan just because she couldn’t attend their games in person. That wasn’t true at all in his mind.  

He bristled slightly; a mix of befuddlement and annoyance sprawled across his face. “You said your name was Amelia, right?” he wondered, watching her nod. “What is your last name?”

“Uh- Charles. Amelia Charles,” she told him, voice tinged with confusion.

Ilya filed the information away as he glanced around to see who had wound up with the pen. “Yuna, may I have your pen again?” he asked politely. “And something to write on, if you have it.”

She blinked once before nodding, fishing it back out of her purse. She couldn’t find a blank sheet of paper; her notebook recently filled to the brim before she had the chance to replace it. Instead, she found an old receipt in her bag, handing that to him.

“Will that work?” she asked curiously, head tilting as she watched to figure out what he was doing. He clearly had some sort of intention.

He nodded, passing both to Amelia. “Here, write down your information and I will find you tickets for home game after break,” he told her. “Sometime in early January. Maybe against Winnipeg? Those games are always interesting.”

Her eyes widened, taking the pen from him. “Really?” she questioned, looking down to jot something on the paper.

“You have classes on week days, I assume,” Ilya noted. “You could make a weekend game, though, yes?”

Something on a late Friday or a Saturday afternoon, so she could still manage to get homework done. That seemed plausible to him.

“I- yeah, please,” she muttered, handing him the receipt back. “Thank you so much.”

Yuna nudged her son gently, giving him an inquisitive glance. She wasn’t sure if he was technically allowed to just give people tickets, unless it was the personal seats they offered to friends and family of the players.

Shane just shrugged, though, like he wasn’t overly surprised to hear his boyfriend offering them.

“Everybody should see hockey live once,” Ilya told her firmly, folding up the paper and sliding it into his pocket so he could give it to someone later. “It’s much better in person.”

“I- would it be okay…?” she couldn’t quite finish her sentence, but the vague gesturing was there enough that he understood what she was asking.

Nodding, Ilya gave her a quick hug, practically towering over her for a moment. “Don’t tell anyone I’m nice,” he muttered, pulling back. “Media thinks I’m an asshole and we’re going to keep it that way.”

She nodded again, letting out a disbelieving laugh. “I promise no one will hear about it,” she told him.

David then watched as the girl double checked her autograph was tucked away safely before leaving, a small squeal escaping herself when she was much further down the street. Ilya chuckled, gesturing towards the door where half the team was still waiting on him.

“What? She was nice,” he stated defensively before they could say anything. Which they would, he was sure.

“Uh huh,” Marlow hummed, glaring at him with a knowing look.

Ilya ignored it and just brushed past him. “Just go inside,” he demanded, tugging at the handle and holding the door open for him.

With a huff, the rest of his team wandered inside. Shane, Yuna, and David trailed behind them, and he couldn’t exactly tell what the expression on his mom’s face was, but there was definitely something behind her eyes when she met his.

Letting the door close behind himself, Ilya followed them through the restaurant, towards the back where there was a more private room. Half of the guys were already seated as the others pulled their coats off, hanging them on the rack in the corner beside the long table.

Unsurprisingly, Kane had already ordered two bottles of wine.

“Wow, you guys took forever,” Carmichael joked, fussing with the edge of his menu. “I’ll let you in on a secret, the door was a pull not a push.”

Feller smacked him on the back of the head lightly, walking around to sit beside him. “Ilya got caught up with another fan,” he explained, tone implying it happened pretty frequently. “Said he’d arrange for her to see one of the games next month.”

Kohn’s head lolled to the side. “Really, Roz?” he muttered. “How many times are you going to do that this month? Four? Five?”

“It’s Christmas, Kohn! Let me give people things,” he defended, sitting down beside Shane and picking up his menu.  

“Wait- I’m a little confused,” Yuna admitted, sounding a little perplexed as David pulled out a chair for her. “You do this often? Give people tickets when you meet them?”

There was an immediate clamor of agreement and her eyes widened slightly. Glancing at them all, pretty much every single one of them began nodding their heads with a mix of amusement and exasperation, like the answer was obvious.

“I mean, we all do it here and there,” Sebbin admitted, shrugging. “Ilya just has even less self-control than the rest of us.”

She let out a small huff, watching Ilya roll his eyes and pour himself a small glass of wine while he acted indifferent to the comment. “How come I’ve never heard that before?” she wondered. “Wouldn’t the news mention it at some point?”

It would be great publicity. No wonder they didn’t take advantage of it; they hated receiving that for some reason.

“The fact that we keep our interactions away from the media is part of what gives us a strong community,” Vic explained with a vague gesture of his hand. “We’re not taking advantage of them by putting them on tv and making ourselves look good.”

Marlow nodded. “They feel like we’re people they can actually talk to, that we care about them and what they say.” Which they did. “And they give so much to us that we feel like we should at least try to give something back occasionally.”

Plus, the more publicized it got, the more likely it was that people who didn’t even like hockey would actually ask or beg for free tickets. They didn’t want anything to disrupt the dynamics they had cultivated with their fans already.

“Yeah, some of us just give back a little more frequently than the others,” Connors noted, staring directly at Ilya. He was seriously going to get in trouble one day for some of his decisions.

“In Ilya’s defense, the people want to see us play; they just can’t always afford it,” Shane added, pouring himself a glass of wine. “That’s not their fault.”

He knew extremely well how well off they both were in terms of financial stability. They had no mortgages on their houses, no down payments on their car, no loans of any kind that they had to pay off. But even the people without debt were still often living paycheck to paycheck and couldn’t scrounge up enough money to devote a full day to hockey.

Ilya gestured to him. “Exactly,” he agreed. “It’s not fair that fans who have followed our team for years can’t see us play but VIPs get a special area despite knowing absolutely nothing about hockey or who any of us are,” he insisted, shaking his head in annoyance. “I don’t want to play for rich snobs; I want to play for the people who want to be there.”

“We can talk to the lawyers,” Kovalev suggested, shrugging. “If we convince them price jacking is preventing actual fans from getting tickets, they might cancel their deals that allow it.” It would negatively impact the stadium, too, not just their team’s energy.

“You think they’d listen to you?” David asked curiously.

He was somewhat under the impression that teams were supposed to play, not manage these kinds of decisions. That’s what he had seen from the Metros, anyway. Sometimes, management didn’t even allow them to voice their opinions, let alone actually lobby for some kind of real change.

Kane shrugged, elbows propped on the table. “If they don’t want us causing a problem for them, they will,” he assumed. “We can be very…persuasive when we feel strongly about something.”

“He means we argue and they threaten us until they eventually realize we know better than their greedy, bootlicking, cooperate administration when it comes to certain things,” Dubek interpreted, sipping his wine. “It’s a finely honed system.”

It was pretty damn difficult to replace an entire hockey team in general, let alone one with such expensive players. Their brand was nothing without them and they were more than willing to threaten to walk out as a group if push came to shove.

“Okay, okay, we’ll discuss doing stupid things tomorrow,” Kohn suggested, pouring a glass of wine for anyone who didn’t already have one. “Tonight, let’s just celebrate a good win and make some toasts.”

There was a moment of quiet as they hushed down, glancing around to see who would speak first.

Hammersmith eventually raised his glass first. “Alright, then I would propose the first toast to Vic who very gallantly bruised his beautiful face in Feller’s honor,” he declared. “It was a beautiful brawl and well worth your time in the penalty box.”

Everyone nodded, sipping their wine. Some of them even tapped their hands against the table like they were trying to clap, even though it didn’t work out terribly well.

“I would also suggest a toast to every injury any of us sustained tonight,” Varkov added. “They might have hurt but they’re the reason we sent Tampa home as losers and I, for one, know the bruises were worth it.”

There was a round of agreement, the cheering louder from the other end of the table. Yuna pursed her lips, taking a sip from her own glass. It was sweet in a somewhat dark way, she supposed. The kind of compliment that really only made sense in sports.

“And one more toast,” Shane insisted, keeping his glass raised. “To the dedication everyone here has for the game and each other. You guys gave your all tonight, like you always do, and it’s always a privilege to watch and be part of it.”

There was some awing, partially mocking but mostly sincere. Ilya bumped his shoulder gently, mouthing something to him silently as he sipped his own glass.

“Now, let’s order a lot of food, please!” Kane suggested, eagerly browsing his menu.

David chuckled, lifting his own to look over the array of options as the quiet moment faded. It was replaced by the same kind of commotion and overlapping voices as before, but in a way, he almost felt like it was warm. Less chaotic and more like a family gathering, full of banter and discussion. And he wasn’t quite sure what he felt, but something certainly tugged at his heart seeing his son in the middle of it.  

· ─ ·✶· ─ ·

The rest of Yuna and David’s trip played out similarly to their first two days in Boston, sightseeing on their own and having a meal with Shane and Ilya whenever they were free for a few hours.

That was rare, apparently, with how often the team invited them to do stuff. But they made it work, declining some stuff and still attending other things. Shane was able to get away with it far more than Ilya could, but he tried, anyway, to be around Yuna and David as much as possible.

He even left Kane’s housewarming party, after he finally got everything moved into his new apartment. Really, it was more of him forcing the entire team to assemble his new furniture for three hours while they complained but complained.

When Christmas finally came around, Yuna had to admit, she was a little disappointed to be nearing the end of their trip. She hadn’t expected to like Boston as much as she did. Or to like Ilya, either. But she did.

“Do Hollanders always do Christmas this early?” Ilya questioned, still half asleep as he leaned against the kitchen counter in his pajamas.

Shane nodded, like it was expected, but also made him a bit tired. He was still enjoying his break, short as it was. “We like to celebrate in the morning,” he explained. “We usually visit family or something later in the day. Or go for walks.”

He practically groaned, barely biting it back because he was in the presence of Shane’s parents. “Exercise, even in winter and on a holiday,” he murmured with a tight smile. “I should not be surprised.”

Yuna chuckled, patting his shoulder. “Why don’t I make those cinnamon rolls while you rest?” she questioned.

Ilya wrinkled his nose, straightening up quickly. “No.” He shook his head. “I can do it, I’m up and partaking in things.”

Even if he hadn’t expected her and David to show up on his porch at the absolute crack of dawn, it still didn’t feel right to have her lift a finger while she was in his house. They were guests and he should at least try to be somewhat of a host to them. They had gone out of their way to spend Christmas in Boston, after all.

“Don’t get the ingredients mixed up because you’re too sleepy to read the labels,” Shane insisted firmly, separating the salt and sugar as far as he could. “I’m gonna see what dad’s gotten himself into with how quiet the living room it.”

Ilya raised his hands defensively, as if promising he wouldn’t make such an error, and watched him walk out of the kitchen before lowering them again.

“I’m assuming that’s happened before?” Yuna wondered with a pointed look. “Using salt instead of sugar?”

He floundered for a moment before eventually shrugging. “Once or twice, yes,” he confessed sheepishly. “In my defense, who needs to store salt like this? It comes in its own box; it’s like he wanted to trick me.”

She watched him hold up and shake a jar of salt that easily two or three bottles combined. “That is a lot of salt,” she agreed. “I’m surprised you let him move so much around. Didn’t you like how your stuff was before?”

Ilya shrugged, putting the salt down and flipping open the cookbook. “Liked my stuff, yes. Love Shane more, though,” he muttered, looking for the recipe. “Organizing makes his life easier, and I can always get used to a new system.”

Yuna took a sip of the coffee they had just made, imagining how that scene might play out between her and her husband. She probably wouldn’t be able to stand it if David decided to rearrange her pantry or suddenly start labeling things that technically already had them in some way.

“Well, it’s sweet of you,” she told him, tapping her fingertips against the side of the mug. “So is this coffee, actually. Is that you both normally brew?”

Shane usually didn’t like his coffee to be overly sweet. No sugar and rarely any creamer, just a bit of oat milk.

“Ah, is good, right?” he replied with a nod. “I get it from this marketplace that pops up every once in a while. Shane was so disappointed when we ran out the first time and he realized I could not just go buy more. We buy extra, now. Only drink it occasionally, though, so it’s a treat.”

Yuna hummed, glancing down at it like she was studying the components of its flavor. She couldn’t really describe how she felt, picturing such domesticity from her son. Shared chores and disputes. It brought her joy, of course, to see his. But it also felt like more than that. Relief, maybe, that he had found someone he felt safe enough around to allow his rigid structure to loosen.

“Can I ask you something, Ilya?” she wondered after a moment or two of silence.

He nodded, eyes flitting between her and a measuring cup as he made sure to scoop the sugar instead of the salt again on accident. “Of course,” he muttered, having gotten pretty used to her inquires over the past few days.

“I know your family is…complicated,” Yuna commented, her tone gently. “I was just wondering about your holidays with them, if you had any traditions or things you used to do.”

It seemed a little unfair that she and David had been bringing up all of their family’s traditions without asking about his. She wasn’t sure what he did for Christmas or how he liked to celebrate it. Even when she asked Shane, he didn’t seem to know very much, either.

Ilya paused, pursing his lips before he shook his head slightly. “Not many, no,” he told her earnestly. “It’s not a very big holiday in Russia. We don’t even celebrate in December, actually. It’s January seventh, for us.”

She straightened up in her seat a bit. “Oh, I- I didn’t know that,” she admitted. “What would you do on the seventh?”

He shrugged, thinking about it as he turned the KitchenAid on for a moment to mix the sugar and butter together. She could practically see his mind turning, like he was siphoning through childhood memories and trying to remember how he spent them. It looked, honestly, like he was more interested in forgetting them.

Ilya shut off the machine for a moment. “We would go to Church in the morning and uh-my brother and I got a few gifts, later in the day, I guess,” he told her. “Then, mostly just prepared for the party my parents would throw. Wore suits from the time we were five or six years old, I think. Stood by the buffet, mostly, eating tiny cakes until we got yelled at.”

“And after your mother passed away?” Yuna questioned hesitantly.

He hesitated, the memories feeling a little depressing for what should have been a happy day. “Much of the same, minus the gifts,” he replied, shrugging. “I would sneak out of whatever event my father hosted or attended, sometimes. Usually got caught and grounded for it. After he died…there was never a reason to go back for another Christmas.”

Yuna furrowed her eyebrows a little, the images her mind conjured seeming less festive than the holidays she and David had tried to give Shane growing up. They always started the morning with waffles or pancakes, opened gifts and watched him play with them before he inevitably wanted to go outside and play in the snow or skate on the frozen pond.

Her face twisted with sadness on his behalf. “What about your brother and his family?” she asked. “Don’t you have a niece in Russia?”

Ilya nodded, sucking on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “I do, but uh- they don’t invite me, anymore,” he confessed with a shrug. “Alexi and I fought at my father’s funeral, and I haven’t seen his since. I send gifts to my niece, and I know she gets them. That’s enough for me.”

Alexi may loath him for his opinions of their father, his sexuality, and about a hundred other small things, but he still loved his daughter. He would give her whatever gifts Ilya sent, whatever dresses he bought her or letters he mailed.

It wasn’t the same as really being there, but he knew that if he was, it wouldn’t end well. Even before their father died, the two of them had always fought on Christmas.

“You’ve just been celebrating alone since he passed away?” Yuna asked, seeming to abhor the notion. It seemed so lonely, in her eyes. And he could shrug, pretending it didn’t hurt all he wanted to, but she knew it was a lie. He did care, at least in some way.

“I wish,” Ilya huffed, only half joking. “Marlow has insisted on dragging me to his families Christmas dinner every year since my father died. I sit between him and his sister at the table, usually. They make me wear one of their ugly matching sweaters and force me into the pictures they take in them. Very uh- Hallmark?”

She chuckled lightly, sipping her coffee again as she imagined him in an itchy sweater, scowling as Marlow probably smacked him until he smiled for a picture. “That’s sweet of him.”

His lips tugged to the side in reluctant agreement. “Yes, it is,” he admitted, nodding softly. “I think of Christmas as a break from hockey, really. But he likes it and I…do not mind being included, I guess. He was very disappointed when I said I would not go this year.”

Yuna frowned slightly. She hadn’t realized, until that moment, that by spending Christmas with them, Ilya might be abandoning a different family.

“You still could,” she suggested gently. “We can eat early and you can go with him for a few hours.”

Ilya hesitated, shaking his head. “It’s alright,” he assured. “He’s just being dramatic about it, is all. He’ll understand.”

Yuna’s shoulders sagged as she leaned forward a bit. “Ilya, if you see his family every year, then that is a tradition, hon,” she told him. “And we’ll understand if you want to visit with them. You can have multiple celebrations.”

He blinked, the thought seeming a bit difficult to comprehend. “I can?”

He frankly, never even enjoyed having one Christmas. Not after his mother passed away, at least. Having two, now, felt a little greedy. And what’s worse is that he didn’t quite care about it making him feel that way, because he wanted both.

She nodded in affirmation. “Of course you can multiple,” she replied. “We’ve spent all week with you and have a few more days before we leave. A couple of hours with the Marlow’s doesn’t exclude you from Christmas with us.”

Ilya tipped his head slightly in realization. “Oh.”

Yuna chuckled, setting her coffee down before sliding off the barstool. “C’mon, I’ll help,” she insisted. She walked around the counter, rolling up her sleeves and washing her hands. “I think we’ve probably lost Shane to whatever his father dragged him into, anyway.”

He huffed, searching for him and nodding in agreement after a moment. “Seems so,” he agreed. “I will…text Marly really quickly, I guess, to see if I am still allowed to visit.”

She hummed in agreement, watching him step back from the counter so he could pull his phone out of his pocket. He looked a bit lighter, sending a quick message to Marlow that, if he was still welcome, he would like to drop by later.

She assumed, due to the quiet chime of his notifications, that Marlow texted him back immediately. “Well?” she wondered, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Ilya glanced up, putting his phone away. “Marly says I am still welcome to come by,” he told her, a slight grimace on his lips. “And that this year’s sweaters are particularly bad.” Which made him a little more nervous than he cared to admit.

Yuna laughed softly, trying her best to not absolutely plead with him to send her a picture of it once he had it on. She could probably just bother Shane for it in a few days, anyway. Once they were back in Ottawa and safely out of range of Ilya’s glaring.

“I knew he’d be alright with it,” she muttered, as if it was obvious that their friendship ran deep enough the offer would always stand. “I think the media is sorely mistaken in their interpretation of Marlow. The whole team, really.”

He nodded. “Probably,” he agreed. “Definitely, actually.”

They often considered him so pretty or so brutish that he was automatically unintelligent. Or that he was a follower, not a leader, despite being the alternate captain for several years. Neither were true. Marlow had always been incredibly smart, quick and clever both on and off the ice.

He was also just exceptionally good at hiding how calculating he was, which the whole team knew and appreciated. But Ilya, especially, never got bored of watching people underestimate him.

“Why is that?” Yuna wondered. “That you all act so…differently in front of the cameras, than you do alone or with fans, I mean,” she elaborated, choosing her words very carefully. “I know you said you don’t want anyone dictating the charities you donate too, but that’s just one little detail to keep private. You guys hide, well, a lot.”

Maybe not quite everything, since they did thank their fans during interviews, as rare as they were for them to willingly participate in. But they hid enough about themselves.

Ilya shrugged. “Is how we’ve always been, I guess,” he responded. “Hockey is not uh- overly emotional sport. A team like ours, that truly care about each other and lean on each other during personal hardship isn’t what they want. They want bullies and rivalries with the other teams, the kind of attitude that sells.”

“You certainly pull it off,” she murmured, thinking back to how long she fell for it without ever considering there could be more to him. “Your fans seem to know the truth, though. Local ones, at least.”

He nodded, expression turning into one of pride. “Is too hard to keep the pretenses in front of them,” he admitted. “Press is deserving of our behavior, but the fans just want autographs or pictures or taken. We can’t treat them cruelly. Wouldn’t want to, either.”

“You seem to care about them a lot,” Yuna noted, the cinnamon rolls long forgotten about as she leaned against the counter, ignoring the mixer.

“They are part of the reason I love this city so much,” he confessed earnestly. “They are so enthusiastic and protective, like we actually have some sort of impact on their lives aside from just being entertainment for them.”

There were a lot of teams with fans that could be cruel. They fought amongst themselves about which players were better, pleaded for certain ones to get traded, even insulted the team when they were on a losing streak. They turned, to say the least. Quickly.

Ilya had never seen that here, though. He saw loyalty from them. Saw them respecting their team’s boundaries, showing up with energy at the rink, sending letters and cards that told them how much their games meant to people.

“It seems like you do, from what I’ve seen,” she admitted. “Boston has a strong community.”

Probably one of the strongest she had ever seen, if she was being honest. It wasn’t easy to get fans to reign in their impulses and act rationally around one or two players, let alone the whole team. But the Raiders didn’t seem to have any trouble with it, even enjoying the spontaneous meet and greets instead of it interrupting their plans.

He hummed in agreement. “We have a saying, sometimes, for whenever we feel tired or discouraged. We say if our fans can show up for us, we can show up for them,” he told her. “Helps us remember that we don’t play for management or a paycheck. We play for each other and for the people who support us.”

Not that he would ever say no to the large paychecks, of course. But if it came down to it, he’d take a pay cut to keep his team exactly as they were. Most, if not all of them would. They’d rather play beside each other for less, than leave for the bigger bucks.

“Shane said something similar in an interview, a while back,” Yuna muttered, recalling the fallout of it. “That you play for yourselves first and anyone else after. It’s a good mindset. Probably part of the reason you’ve been winning so often this season.”

“Talent helps a little, too,” he joked. “We don’t believe in luck, terribly much, though. Dangerous to get into the habit of relying on the universe or God for help.”

She huffed a laugh, nodding in agreement. “I can understand that,” she told him, gesturing to his neck. “Why do you wear that, if you’re not very religious?”

Ilya immediately reached for his necklace, fingertips grazing the cool metal cross that sat over his shirt. He didn’t even realize it was untucked, for a change. Usually, he always made sure nothing, but the chain was visible.

“It was my mother’s,” he explained. “I may not believe in God the same way she did, but I like knowing that I have part of her with me.”

He wasn’t a frequent churchgoer, or even a true believer in most ways. But he did, sometimes, think that if there was a God, he must have sent him Shane. Perhaps as an apology for taking his mother so early, to give him someone else that made him feel capable of being loved.

Yuna’s eyes softened slightly, her heart aching each time he mentioned Irina, whose name she only recently learned. “I’m sure she’s very proud of you, Ilya,” she stated firmly. “Any mother would be.”

He pulled his lips into a tight line, like he wasn’t sure how to let his face respond. “Thank you.”

She knew it was a bit presumptuous to start envisioning him and Shane getting married, since they were still so new living together, but her mind couldn’t help but conjure ideas. If she was being honest, she didn’t think she would mind being Ilya’s mother-in-law.

She might even be looking forward to it, a bit.

· ─ ·✶· ─ ·

Shane loved Christmas, don’t get him wrong. He liked having his parents visit, liked having them meet his team and come to appreciate Ilya more. But he was, at his core, unable to rest very long.

Which meant the second they came back from break, he was twice as energic and eager to win. To the point he was being compared to Kohn in terms of how damn hyper he was, nearly bouncing off the walls in a locker room that didn’t even belong to them.

“I resent the comparison,” Shane stated, trying to roll his shoulders out to calm some of his energy out. “I’m nowhere near as energetic as him.”

“I agree, Kohn added, nodding towards his teammate. “You haven’t even left the locker room to run laps yet.”

He wrinkled his nose. “And I don’t plan to,” he told him.

Although, he had been pacing. A fact he didn’t even realize until it was pointed out to him with a silent gesture from Hammersmith. He paused, sitting down to try to pretend like he hadn’t been about to tred a pathway into the rug underneath them.

“He’s just excited to be back,” Kovalev noted, ruffling his hair as he passed by him. “Aren’t we all?”

They were coming back to a pretty good winning streak, after all. They were looking forward to keeping it up, even if they weren’t playing in their home rink.

Sebbin nodded his head in agreement, tugging a tight compression shirt over his head. “A win against the Admirals and we get to spend New Year’s Eve in New York?” he muttered, sounding gleeful. “I know Christmas just passed, but this is the best gift I got.”

“Don’t jinx us!” Kane insisted, immediately knocking on the side of his guest cubby. The sound echoed as a few other players did the same thing.

They were always superstitious, like most teams were. But their little habits seemed to become even more important when they were winning, as if missing even one might cause them to lose.

“Sorry!” he apologized quickly, throwing his hands up defensively. He hadn’t meant to jump the gun; he was just elated to be back on the ice. “But regardless of how the game plays out, New York itself is still a gift.”

A slightly foul scented one, most of the time. But a gift, nevertheless.

“Oh, should I take back the incredibly expensive Ninja slushie maker I got you, then?” Dubek wondered, head tilted accusatorily.

“You couldn’t if you tried,” he replied, shaking his head smugly. “I’ve already used it like six times.” And it had been worth every cent he knew his friend paid for it. “Plus, I’d take back your gift, too.”

Vic huffed a laugh, sitting beside Shane and sharing a small look of amusement with him. “The concept of gift giving is completely lost on them,” he murmured under his breath.

He nodded slightly in agreement, just tugging on his skates. “Just a little,” he whispered.

They might have liked to banter about it, but at the end of the day, they did both give each other some very pricy gifts. Thoughtful ones, too, since Sebbin had been complaining about his slushie maker breaking for a few weeks straight.

The whole team had given each other gifts, actually. Stuff that everyone mentioned at some point or another, like new headphones for Feller and a signed book for Varkov. Shane didn’t quite know them well enough to be as personal as he wished he could have been, but Kane and Vic had both helped him out, giving him suggestions about things everyone might like.

“Think you’ll come out after the game?” Vic asked him, rolling the edges of his socks down a quarter of an inch. His own pregame superstition.

Shane shrugged. “Probably,” he admitted after a second. “It is New Years Eve, after all. Sitting in a hotel room alone while fireworks keep me awake would be pretty pathetic.”

“Hey, it’s what I did last year,” he replied, scoffing. “But it should be fun this year. There’s a rooftop place you can see the ball drop from, according to Connors. Plus, there’s some stupid specialty drink he wants to try.”

“Leave it to him to find alcohol before we find the hotel in every other city,” Shane murmured, laughing quietly.

He tied his laces, starting with the left foot before moving to the right. Then, he pulled them lose and retied them a bit tighter before standing up and giving either side a single stomp to make sure they felt good.

Vic stood. “You must admit it’s a talent.”

Shane snorted, nodding his head. “It’s something,” he replied, glancing around the room for Ilya, who was discussing something with Carmichael.

He had his arms crossed, back leaned against the cubbies as he nodded intently in response to whatever his teammate was saying. After a moment, he nodded, the focused expression on his face breaking into one of amusement.

Carmichael tapped his shoulder before disappearing from the locker room and Ilya turned, spotting Shane’s curious eyes. It wasn’t hard to tell that he had been trying to eavesdrop. Probably failing, too, since they were so far away.

“He’s just going to make a phone call,” Ilya told him before he even got the chance to ask, like he knew he would. “No need to be nosey.”

Shane shrugged. “I can’t help it, I like knowing what’s going on,” he responded. “Which reminds me, actually, about a question. Have you talked to Coach about the faceoff?”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Oh my God, you are an addict,” he teased, shaking his head in disbelief. “You can’t wait for one to fall in your lap? You need the opener? Greedy.”

He dropped his shoulders, glaring at him. “It’s the first one after break,” he reminded him defensively. “I don’t wanna wait until someone is penalized to get a reset.”

Shane stared at him a little bit longer, like he was silently trying to goad him into admitting who coach had asked for. He would have to tell them at some point. In like four minutes, technically. He could do it earlier.

“He wanted Marlow for opener and you to have the first faceoff in the second period,” Ilya eventually conceded with a small sigh. “But I’m sure if you both agreed to swap places, coach would allow it.”

He was immediately glancing around the locker room. “Marlow!” he exclaimed, getting his attention from across the room. “Can I take the opening face off in the first period from you?”

Marlow just shrugged. “Go for it, man,” he responded without thinking twice, turning back to Hammersmith.

Shane’s lips tugged upwards, refocusing his attention on Ilya. “Done deal, then,” he muttered. “I’m opening.”

Ilya let out another breath, a mix of exasperation and fondness rolled into one. “Fine,” he agreed, poking him in the chest. “You are a junky, though.”

He didn’t even try to dispute it, just turned to tease Kohn about his bouncing around as if he hadn’t been doing the exact same thing a few minutes ago. And he probably still would be, too, if it wasn’t for the blades strapped to his feet, keeping him from pacing any longer.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait much longer to get his energy out. Carmichael came back from his phone call pretty quickly and Ilya lobbied for coach to let Shane and Marlow swap out so he could have the first face off the night.

Desjourney agreed with a rather gruff response about not giving a shit who opened, as long as they won it, which led Shane to be the first in the center. The crowd was loud and even if it wasn’t him they were cheering for, he missed the volume.

Breaks were already difficult for him to take when he was struggling to connect with his old team, but they were damn insufferable now that he actually looked forward to their practices and games.

“You look like you’re about to jump out of your skin,” Scott noted, bending down in front of Shane.

“Just looking forward to having a good game,” he retorted, lips tugged into a small, less than friendly smile. “It’s a great crowd. Too bad they have to watch you lose at your own rink.”

“Chirps before the game even starts?” he murmured, lips twisting into something akin to amusement. “Guess you really are turning into a Raider.”

Shane shrugged, his grip tightening against his stick. “Guess so,” he replied without a tinge of remorse for it.

The puck fell and the sound of it clattering against the ice was quickly covered up by the sound of their sticks hitting each other’s. Shane could feel Scott encroaching on his personal space a bit further, trying to leverage the disc away from him.

He didn’t allow it, though, reciprocating by bumping into him with enough force to knock him down.

Scott hit the ice, eyes narrowing behind the visor of his helmet as he stared up at Shane, who was already passing the puck to Ilya. He had never been a particularly nice man, but there was something unimaginably smug on Rozanovs face as he got the puck. Like his normal arrogance had been multiplied by twenty, maybe even thirty percent.

He supposed there was a reason for it. If the Admirals had managed to sign Hollander for a single season, let alone three, they’d also be pretty damn elated about it.

· ─ ·✶· ─ ·

After the game, well, slaughter, as their commentators called it on live television, the guys packed up their things. If they weren’t terribly welcome before, they definitely weren’t welcome after ending the game 3-1.

Shane was pretty sure the way other teams treated theirs was one of the only changes in his life he wasn’t fond of. Whatever he thought or said about the Metro’s, he knew other teams would separate the players from the game. They’d talk briefly during warmups or catch up in the hallways after the building emptied out.

That didn’t happen anymore. In fact, there was always this strange sense of urgency to leave. Flee, almost. Like they’d be kicked out if they didn’t willingly get the hell out as fast as they knew how to.

“Just the way the world works when people think your team is full of bullies, unfortunately,” Kane muttered. “On the bright side, we fulfilled part of Sebbin’s belated Christmas gift.”

“Because the other twenty he got from us weren’t enough?” Connors questioned, bumping Sebbin’s arm intentionally as they filed out of the locker room and made their way down the corridor together.

“I can never receive enough gifts,” Sebbin proclaimed firmly. “But I appreciate everyone’s contributions to this one.” His lips quirked to the side. “Now, you guys just have to make New Year’s Eve interesting.”

“We make any night out interesting,” Dubek insisted, rolling his eyes. “But I’ll buy you one drink because I’m in a good mood after that game.”

Shane watched Sebbin pump his fist in enthusiasm, like having a single drink bought for him lifted the weight of a nonexistent financial burden.

Marlow pushed the door to the building open and walked outside. “It’s cold as shit,” he complained, hands tucking even tighter into his pockets. “Are you really going to make me stand outside at night in this weather?”

“It’s a rooftop bar,” Hammersmith replied, tone implying it was somehow entirely different. “We’re not standing in a snowstorm or anything.”

“It actually could snow, though, according to the forecast,” Carmichael muttered, glancing at his phone. “Just saying.”

“You guys wouldn’t last one month in Russia during winter,” Ilya claimed, gesturing towards Shane. “Or Canada.”

“He’s not wrong,” Shane agreed, nodding his head. “You’d probably get sick of it after a few days and try to fly to Florda or something.”

Not that the thought hadn’t crossed his own mind a few times, frankly. He was used to the snow, sure. Even liked how beautiful a fresh blanket of it looked in the early morning. But he didn’t exactly love shoveling it off his porch in Ottawa or trying to drive anywhere in Montreal, especially if the ice was bad.

“That’s just straight up bullying, now,” Kohn stated defensively. “We could absolutely handle it.”

“Uh huh,” Varkov murmured dubiously. “Sure, you would.”

“Our ability to endure the weather aside,” Connors said, changing the subject smoothly. “What time are we meeting back up? I assume we are, anyway. To keep Feller from getting there early to get drunk alone.”

“It happened one time!” Feller exclaimed for what felt the seventh or eighth time they had brought it up. “Get over it!”

Ilya chuckled, shaking his head. “Not happening,” he told him earnestly, just shrugging in amusement. “Say ten in the hotel lobby?”

The good part about afternoon games, in his opinion, was their ability to do something with the rest of the evening. Whether that was going out for dinner, sightseeing, or just getting extra sleep.

Kovalev nodded, humming with approval. “Это даст мне время вздремнуть.”

Shane snorted a small laugh but said nothing. He understood, pretty well, the urge to rest after a game. He usually preferred decompressing when he got back to the hotel or home, then just went to bed early most of the time.

Lately, though, he had been trying to take naps more often.

He used to never even consider throwing off his circadian rhythm like that, but Ilya made them look so appealing when he fell asleep on the couch during the afternoon or before dinner out. And if the thought of laying in his arms wasn’t already appealing enough, the shorter days in winter certainly did.

The sun was already partially set by the time they got back to their hotel room, which made it even easier for Shane to kick off his shoes and crawl into bed where Ilya had already dramatically fallen onto it. He laughed, arms wrapping around him before he buried his face against his neck and closed his eyes.

They napped longer than expected, not that Shane cared. It was always Ilya who took longer to get ready, claiming his hair needed more attention. He would bite his tongue and just sit and watch him, instead of mocking the routine after learning how important it actually was to him.

Irina used to fuss over his curls. Used to wind them around her fingertips one by one when his hair was damp after a bath and make sure they looked nice before family portraits were taken.

For a while, after she passed, Ilya didn’t touch them. Didn’t try to take care of them, let alone put any real effort into it. He didn’t put a lot of effort into himself in general, for that matter. Until he started to feel worthy of letting himself.

“You are staring,” Ilya murmured, meeting Shane’s eyes in the mirror as he fussed with a strand that seemed to refuse to act properly.

He nodded. “Yep,” he replied, jaw pressed against his palm as he waited patiently for him to finished. “I like watching you.”

“Voyer,” he accused with a small huff, his lips quirking in annoyance as his hair tried to split his curl in half. “Завиток не завивается…what good is it?” he whispered to himself.

Shane stood, entering the small bathroom they were sharing until they left town the next day. “Let me try,” he insisted, pulling his hand away from his hair.

Ilya’s shoulders slouched in annoyance, facing him to let him try to fix the curl. Shane wet his fingertips, trying to smooth out the strand before winding his finger around it and blowing on it for a moment or two.

“I should cut them,” he muttered absentmindedly, most out of irritation more than sincerity.

“You make that threat often enough that I know you don’t mean it,” Shane clarified, standing nearly toe to toe with him. “But if you ever do actually cut them, I’ll leave you.”

Ilya let out an involuntary laugh, rather abruptly. “Possessive over my hair, huh?” he mused, trying to fight back an endeared smile.

He nodded softly. “You in general, mostly,” he clarified. “But yeah, the hair is part of it. It makes you…look like you.” And he really liked how he looked.

Slowly unwinding the strand from around his fingertip, Shane nudged it into place with the others and tilted his jaw towards the mirror so Ilya could approve of it. He seemed to, since he stopped focusing on that one damn curl compared to all of them as a whole.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “Looks nicer, now.”

Shane hummed, kissing his cheek. “Can we go, now?” he questioned, head tilted curiously. “I’m afraid the guy’s will beat down our door if we’re late.”

Nodding, Ilya flipped off the bathroom lights and gathered his things. “They’d use Connors as the battering ram, probably,” he mused, sliding his wallet into his pocket.

He pulled open the door for him, making a show of it, as if proving he once again was up in their unofficial game of who was more chivalrous. Shane wasn’t thrilled about it, frankly, but allowed it anyway.

Meeting up with the others in the lobby, they left the hotel as a group and walked towards the bar. It was always lively in New York, the few times each year Shane visited. It was called the city that never slept, for a reason, he supposed.

But tonight, things were even more bustling than usual. People were out in herds on the sidewalks, celebrating the new year. And if there were a lot of them at eye level, the number of them clustered together from above was something else entirely.

He knew people had probably been waiting around for the ball to drop since they first started setting up early in the morning, but even so, he couldn’t really comprehend the number of people he saw in the crowd.

“Here,” Sebbin offered, passing Shane a crystal glass. “It’s 90% ginger ale, 10% whiskey. On the rocks, obviously.”

“Thanks,” he murmured, taking it from him and sipping it.

He had gotten a bit more used to drinking during the season in the past few months. Not frequently or in high amounts, but a glass of wine with dinner or a drink after a game didn’t feel like a huge deal anymore.

Mostly because they made sure it wasn’t. There was no hurrah if he drank, no fuss if he didn’t. They just asked him beforehand and brought him whatever he requested.

“You look contemplative,” Sebbin told him, leaning against the railing a bit to mimic his posture. “More so than usual, I mean.”

He shrugged, pressing his lips against the glass again. “I’m just watching the city,” he admitted. “It’s pretty at night.”

“It’s definitely a more tolerable sight than watching Kane losing horrendously to Carmichael at pool,” Sebbin agreed with a small nod as he sipped his own drink. “We should keep him away from the ledge in case he tries to jump after the game ends.”

Shane glanced over his shoulder, watching as Kane rested his forehead against the end of his cue dramatically while Carmichael cleared three solid-colored balls with a single shot. Most of the team that was watching didn’t look shocked over it, more like just sympathetic towards Kane.

“God, he’s a pool shark and a card shark,” he muttered in disbelief, adding it to the list of things he now knew Carmichael had a knack for such as poker, gin, and darts.

“Ironically, he doesn’t like water very much,” Sebbin noted, glancing away from the nauseating sight of him taking more money from his teammate as he cleared the last ball. “Maybe one of us could beat him in swimming or something.”

That seemed to be the only thing, aside from hockey, that they had any real shot at outdoing him in.

Shane laughed quietly, redirecting his focus to the city. “I wouldn’t put money on it,” he clarified, tipping his head towards Sebbin’s drink. “What are you having?” he wondered, realizing it wasn’t his normal glass of bourbon.

He lifted it slightly to show him. “It’s a woo woo.”

“You made that up,” Shane claimed accusatorily, looking at the pink tinged drink. “It sounds like something Marlow would drink.” Minus the tiny umbrella, that was.

Sebbin shrugged. “Probably because he ordered it for me,” he muttered, drinking from it again. “It’s pretty good, though. Vodka and some peach schnapps with cranberry juice. Wanna try?”

He wrinkled his nose, pulling the glass from his hand to try it. The ice clattered softly as he took a sip. It wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be, but it was definitely sweet for an alcoholic beverage.

“It’s not terrible,” he admitted, passing it back to him. “I’ll stick to mine, though.”

Sebbin nodded understandingly. “I’d expect nothing less,” he replied earnestly. “I actually really appreciate your consistency. It’s comforting, in a way.”

“Yeah?” Shane questioned dubiously, his face contorting slightly. “Not boring or anything?”

He shook his head. “You think you’re boring?” he asked, sounding surprised. “No way. You’re…I don’t know- your mind works interestingly, is all. It’s fun to see it work, sometimes. Especially on the ice.”

His lips quirked to the side. “Thanks,” he murmured. “I’ve been told by some people that they wished it worked normally.”

Sebbin scoffed, as if offended on his teammate’s behalf. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he wondered, looking confused.

Shane shrugged, just sipping his drink. “No idea,” he told him. It was an insult, though, he was pretty sure. The tone had been pretty damn demeaning, even if it was said as a joke.

Sebbin didn’t even bother to ask who would say something like that to him, pretty sure he already knew exactly what group he’d been around when it was said.

“Well, I like your mind,” he clarified, tapping Shane on the head softly. “And not just because it’s part of the reason why we’ve been winning.” That helped, though.

They weren’t the kind of team who would ever turn on each other if they started losing, but the victories definitely made their dynamics smoother. It was easier to joke around and enjoy their days away from the rink when they weren’t constantly thinking about what was around the corner.

“Can I ask you something?” Shane questioned, turning to rest his back against the railing and staring at the rest of the team. “Without being mocked for sounding overly sappy, that is?”

Sebbin did the same. “Sure,” he replied with a nod, watching him curiously to see where he was taking things.

“Do you believe that people can change you? Quickly, I mean. Not gradually, but in a sudden moment?” he asked. “Like…things just click and you become aware that you’re different and it’s because you have something you didn’t realize you needed?”

He blinked for a moment, not answering immediately. He sipped his drink, really thinking it through for a moment. Eventually, though, he nodded. Firmly and without judgement.

“Like life doesn’t feel like a solitary responsibly, anymore? And maybe everyone was always wrong about you being difficult or weird, but you needed the right group of people to make you understand that?” Sebbin added. “Yeah, I know that feeling.”

“Do you think everyone here does?” Shane wondered, eyes flitting from Feller who chalking his pool cue to Kane, who was resting against the bar and ordering another drink.  

He shrugged. “We’ve never sat in a friendship circle and discussed it, but yeah, I’ve heard most of them say it at some point,” he answered sincerely. “I never know what’s going to happen in this game, you know? I could get hit next week and end my career without warning. But I know I’m still going to have them in my life forever, even if I don’t have them on the ice. So will you.”

That was, in his opinion, a lot more important.

Shane hummed contemplatively. “Sounds nice,” he confessed.

He glanced down at his glass for a moment or two before finishing off his drink. The burning of the alcohol went down smoother with the sweetness of the soda and the two of them stood there for a while before Sebbin eventually finished his glass too.

“I’m going to grab my second drink,” he told him, taking Shane’s empty glass to be polite. “Do you want one?”

He shook his head. “I’m alright with one,” he replied.

Nodding, Sebbin left. Shane watched him place both glasses on the counter, gesturing to his own and saying something to the bartender before the woman nodded and took them.

Hammersmith came over and rested against it beside him. His head tilted as he started a conversation by pointing over his shoulder at Carmicheal, who was now beating Feller in pool. Whatever he said must have been funny, since Sebbin began laughing, his shoulders shaking gently as he nodded in agreement.

“You better not be leering at him,” Ilya murmured quietly, sneaking up beside him rather effectively.

Shane nearly jumped, eyes quickly straying from the bar. “Jealous?” he replied, voice tinged with smug curiosity.

“Of Sebbin? No, not really,” he responded, tipping his head slightly to look Hammersmith up and down. “Smitty on the other hand really works out his glute muscles—”

He cut him off, smacking him against the chest with the back of his hand. “Don’t even start,” he told him, rolling his eyes. “I’ll lock you out of our room and make you go knock on someone else’s door.”

Ilya chuckled, dropping the joke with ease. “Alright, alright, no jokes,” he promised, nodding his head towards the exit with a barely noticeable gesture. “C’mon, let’s go.”

He furrowed his brows, straightening up a bit. “Go where?” he wondered.

Ilya didn’t respond, though, just pushing off the railing and making his way through the bar. Shane didn’t even hesitate to do the same, following him. They passed some of their teammates, along with strangers they didn’t know, until reaching the door.

Shane beat him to it, opening it first.

“I let you do that,” Ilya lied, walking past him.

They left the bar, entering the hallway outside of it which was practically empty aside from a couple who were standing by the elevators, waiting for it. After a moment, though, the doors opened and they left.

Shane squinted, glancing around in confusion. “What are we doing?” he asked, once they were alone.

“This.” He planted his hand on Shane’s hip, pushing him against the expensive wallpaper and kissing him.

Shane hummed for a moment, melting into it at first as their lips pressed together. He could taste the Vodka on Ilya’s tongue, his hand reaching up to tangle in the perfect curls he had spent twenty minutes obsessing over a few hours ago.

After a second, though, he broke away, trying to shove him off. “What the hell?” he questioned. “We’re in public!”

Ilya made a sound of skeptical disagreement. “Technically, there is no one around,” he stated, like it was a loophole. His eyes turned into a sad pout. “It’s about to be midnight and I want to kiss you. Is tradition.”

Shane huffed, softening as he leaned his head back against the wall and stared at him with fondness. “Our first real New Year’s Eve kiss?” he questioned, the thought of it sounding rather appealing.

He nodded, lifting his hand off his hip to check his watch. “In thirteen seconds,” he told him. “Twelve seconds, eleven seconds—”

Shane didn’t let him finish, kissing him again even though it wasn’t midnight yet. Ilya stiffed in surprise before immediately reciprocating. Forgetting all about his watch, he pressed his palm against his cheek, holding it gently.

Shane’s own grip became firmer in his hair again, fingers threading through his blonde strands to pull him closer. He tipped his own jaw upwards, seeking more from him and he could feel Ilya’s thumb swiping over his cheek as he deepened the kiss.

Ilya’s lungs started to lose oxygen, and he was pretty sure the clock had already struck midnight, making it the new year. It was such a perfect way to start it, in his opinion. Even if his lungs burned the way they did when he ran out of breath during a game.

Shane slid his spare hand under Ilya’s shirt, desperate to feel the warmth of skin instead of the material he was wearing. His fingertips pressed against the defined ridges with ease, already aware of every crevasse and dip he had in his muscles.

“…Ahem?”

There was a sudden throat clearing and Shane’s eyes shot wide open, the sound breaking through his hazy mind. Without meaning to, he was automatically shoving Ilya away as hard as he could.

Ilya, didn’t try to stay put either, willingly stepping far away from Shane to put distance between them. He knew that wouldn’t undo anything, though. What they had been doing was obvious.

Marlow and Vic were standing there, both blinking at them with wide, confused gazes that kept bouncing between their teammate and captain.

“Uh…” Vic opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to find the right words. Any words, actually. “W- we were just…” Looking for them, he was trying and failing to say.

“This isn’t what it looks like it,” Shane said, shaking his head quickly as he tried to catch his breath for the kiss they had interrupted. “We- I mean it wasn’t—”

Shane looked like he was going to recoil, more uncomfortable than he had been in such a long time as he stood there. It killed Ilya to see, to know that he was the cause of it.

The answer didn’t clarify much, though. Their gazes stayed stuck, scrutinizing the two of them.

“You were…” Kissing. “…why?” Marlow questioned, eventually remembering how to blink after his eyes became so dry he felt like he needed it.

He knew they had gotten close. Fast. Quicker than Ilya pretty much accepted anyone who joined their team in the past. But he had chalked it up to a respect thing. Shane was a great player and a good person, so it wasn’t hard to be enamored by his company.

“Why?” Ilya repeated, like it might help him think of a reason. He glanced at Shane, who was probably fighting the urge to wipe his mouth and hide any evidence of their kiss, even if it was invisible. “I- It was me. I pushed myself on him. Too much alcohol.”

It was technically the truth. The first part, anyway. He started it, even though they were still in a public enough place that he shouldn’t have. He had been known to be a flirt, too. At least once upon a time, he was. It wasn’t a stretch to get most people to think he was enough of an asshole to also force himself on someone.

Except, Vic and Marlow weren’t most people. They were his friends and they didn’t look horrified by his response, so much as skeptical of it. Like they needed Shane to confirm it before they believed it.

Shane snapped his head to the side, staring at Ilya for a moment. The way the lie slipped out with such ease made him feel sick. So did the thought of them believing him, somehow.

More than that, though, it made him realize how quick Ilya was to demeane himself. To paint himself as the problem just to let him stay in the closet a little longer, even if that meant pretending he was the kind of man who would kiss someone without their consent.  

“That’s not true,” Shane clarified before he could help himself.

He wasn’t sure what he was doing, just knew that letting them think Ilya could be capable of that wasn’t an option. And frankly, neither was letting them think he didn’t want to be kissing him back. Because he did. Really fucking badly.

Ilya glared at him, as if silently urging him to accept the easy way out that he was offering. “Shane—”

“No,” he interjected, shaking his head. “Don’t fucking lie like that, Ilya. You’ve never done that before, you wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, I’m sort of with Shane on that one,” Marlow admitted, still a bit dazed from what he just saw. “That was uh- it looked reciprocal.”

“It was,” Shane confessed, swallowing harshly.

He felt like his mouth was spitting out words before his mind could decide whether he should allow them to come out or not and oddly enough, it wasn’t the worst feeling in the world. It might have actually felt a bit good to get it off his chest.

“Shane, knock it off,” Ilya insisted through gritted teeth. “One drink is clearly too many for you. We’re both probably drunk. We’ll chalk it up to a mistake and move on.”

As much as the idea of ever calling one of their kisses a mistake killed him internally, it was the easiest option. He didn’t want Shane to wake up tomorrow and realize he had said or done something he would regret just because he felt backed into a corner currently.

“We’re not drunk, though,” Shane reminded him, shifting slightly to look at him. “We were kissing because we…we love each other, that’s not-…it’s not a bad thing.” His words grew quieter, like a realization had dawned on him as his stiff shoulders slouched back.

Ilya looked at him, eyes filled with a mix of surprise and cautious hope, both of which were tender and fond. Perhaps more than he had ever shown to another person in front of other people.

He already knew how Shane felt. He said and showed it constantly. But actually saying it in front of their teammates made his legs feel weak.  

“L-love?” Vic repeated, sounding confused. “You guys are in love?”

Ilya tore his gaze away, reluctantly meeting his teammates’ eyes for a moment before he nodded in affirmation. He could see the deep inhale Vic took, like he wasn’t sure how to process that information.

“Wh- I mean, how?” Vic questioned, trying to wrap his head around it. “I know you guys have never really been enemies, but love is…that’s a deep fucking emotion, Roz. Not something you say about someone you’ve been on a team with for two months.”

It wasn’t his sexuality, throwing him for a loop, if he was being honest. Ilya was the kind of guy who was always appreciating anybody’s beauty regardless of gender, then playing it off as an observation not attraction.

No, it was the definitive word love that caught him off guard. And, well, Shane. Because he, frankly, screamed straight, for some reason.

Ilya wet his bottom lip, glancing at Shane like he was trying to understand how he was feeling and what he was thinking. He was pretty good at reading his expressions, by now, but felt clueless currently.

“It’s been a few months of us playing on the same team, not knowing each other,” Shane reminded them uncomfortably. “We’re- we’ve been…together longer.”

“How much longer?” Marlow asked, eyes drilling into Ilya’s like he wasn’t going to look away until things started to make sense. “Months? A year? Longer than a year?”

“A decade, okay?” Ilya eventually confessed, practically tossing his hands up in exasperation. “I have been stupidly in love with him for a decade and he is- I don’t know how long he has felt that way in return, but we have been hiding it for a long time—”

“Roz,” Marlow tried to interject.

He ignored it. “And no, I could not have told you because no one was supposed to know and it wasn’t supposed to be serious,” he clarified. “Until it suddenly was and he decided to move so we could be closer—”

He tried again; his hand raised in a placating manner. “Ilya.”

“I’m sorry if having a bisexual captain and a gay teammate is embarrassing or you cannot fathom it for some reason,” Ilya went on, gesturing between them both weakly. “But it’s not something we can control and—”

“Ilyusha!” Marlow exclaimed, reaching out to grab his arm and shake him.

The movement didn’t catch him off guard as much as the name did, though. He rarely heard Marlow use that nickname. It was mostly reserved for family members. His mama, exclusively, really.

“What?” he murmured, voice quieter, almost afraid.

Marlow let go of his arm. “I don’t give a fuck about my captain or teammate,” he stated firmly, shaking his head. “I care about my friends.”

“…Oh,” was his only response, quiet and slow. Almost like out of all the reactions he had expected to receive, that wasn’t one of them.

Marlow eventually let out a breath, still feeling overwhelmed. Not to mention stunned and admittedly a little disheartened that his best friend could have hid something for so long, let alone believe that sharing something like this would be met with a negative response.

He would have thought Ilya knew by now that homophobia wasn’t his style. But he supposed fear could be a powerful thing and between his career and his country, there were enough reasons not to risk coming out.

“C’mon, man, you’ve known me a long time,” Marlow reminded him. “Do you honestly think liking a guy would suddenly change things?”

He hesitated, giving a weak shrug with one arm. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It could.”

Maybe not for him specifically, but there were a lot of people around the world that didn’t agree with same sex relationships. Even in places where it was legal, like America, there was still discrimination.

Marlow just let his head loll to the side a little, giving him a stern glare. “It doesn’t,” he clarified, in case there was any residual doubts. “I mean, it’s Hollzy,” he added, gesturing to him. “You won the fucking lottery.”

Shane huffed softly, still mentally reeling more than he cared to admit. “Thanks?” he murmured, a bit unsure what about him made him think that. No that he’d complain about the compliment.

Ilya scrubbed his face for a moment; the seemingly stressed gesture was actually done in relief. “I know I did,” he admitted, lips tugging to the side.

Vic cleared his throat. “So…you signed with us just for Roz?” he questioned after a moment or two.

Shane pursed his lips, nodding his head gently. “Not just, I was- sorta,” he confessed. “It was for him originally because long distance was just- it was tough. But leaving Montreal was good for me for other reasons, too. You guys are all important now.”

He contemplated his answer for a moment before smiling slightly. “Good,” he stated. “We better not just be your cover story or something. I don’t do fake friends.”

He snorted. “Me neither,” he assured him. “I left those in Canada, I swear.”

Vic believed him, when he said that. Even if he might have been more interested in Boston for Ilya, not the Raiders, he knew Shane wasn’t the kind of guy to lie and go out of his way to make friends with all of them if he didn’t mean it.

“God, this explains so much,” he murmured as the pieces all started to fall into place. “No wonder you learned Russian so fast; you had me thinking you were some fucking prodigy. I was so insecure hearing you speak it.”

Shane grimaced.

Ilya laughed, shaking his head vigorously. “Was not a prodigy, believe me,” he told him. “His pronunciation made me want to scratch my ears off. Then, he threw things at me when I corrected him.”

“I threw one thing,” Shane corrected. “And you didn’t correct me, you said you would rather endure a firing squad than a conversation in Russian with me.” There was a massive difference.

“Such a romantic, Roz,” Marlow muttered in amusement, patting his arm gently.

“Agh.” Ilya shoved his arm away. “You would have said it too if you heard him a few years ago. Worse than when you first started learning. That’s saying something because you were horrible too.”

Shane was so used to being the best at everything, or at the very least good, that when he fumbled through his pronunciation or forgot words, he grew incredibly frustrated. It was actually funny, in some ways. Until a spoon flew at Ilya’s head. Then, he learned to stop heckling and just keep his mouth shut if he couldn’t find any polite way to criticize.

“I just- wow, for every one thing that starts to make sense, I think of like six more questions,” Vic admitted, still trying to understand. “Who started this? When did it happen? Who knows?”

“Ilya, summer before we were rookies, and pretty much no one except my parents,” Shane responded, ticking the answers off on his fingers. “And I told Hayden last month, too. He’s the only one from the Metros who knows.”

“And now you, too,” Ilya stated bluntly, still looking a little apprehensive over it. “So, maybe don’t…you know…”

“What, tell anyone?” Marlow assumed. “You know we wouldn’t do that. To either of you.”

“But for the record, you could tell the team,” Vic added. “I’m not saying you have to; that’s your choice and we’ll keep this a secret regardless, but they won’t judge you for being happy.”

They looked happy, anyway, before they interrupted it by accident. And maybe Vic didn’t fully understand this, yet. Maybe he still had questions, and his ego was still slightly bruised by the fact that he was oblivious this whole time to their relationship.

But he wasn’t a monster. Let alone a homophobe. He didn’t find it fair that they had to sneak off to kiss or pretend to be friends when they clearly meant so much to either.

“We just- we don’t want things to impact the team,” Shane explained. “We’re in a really good place and there’s no reason to risk messing it up by coming out.”

Vic honestly couldn’t tell if he was referring to their games or their relationship. He always knew they were dedicated players, but to put it above being able to be open about loving each other was a whole other level of devotion to hockey.

“I’m not suggesting you come out to the whole world,” he said. “I’m saying… every single guy in there loves you two. They’d commit crimes to keep you safe, and this isn’t going to change that. So, just think about it, alright?”

The guys would understand. They might be a bit caught off guard, like he and Marlow had been, but they’d understand. He knew that, deep in his bones, without any uncertainty or doubt.

Ilya nodded slowly. “We’ll consider it,” he assured him. “In the meantime, are we…okay?”

The question was pretty simple, but they both looked a bit nervous anyway, like they had been hiding this for so damn long that they truly worried about what might happen now that they found out.

Marlow and Vic nodded at pretty much the same time, both agreeing easily.

“Of course we are,” Marlow told him, as though it should have been obvious. “I’m honestly just shocked you had your boyfriend on the team for two whole months before you slipped up. Kinda glad you did, though.”

Marlow couldn’t imagine how long they would have kept hiding it, if not. Pretending to be enemies when they played on separate teams was one thing but acting like teammates when they were more than that was just ridiculous to him. They couldn’t possibly keep up the charade for the full season, let alone the next few. At least, he really hoped they wouldn’t try.

“C’mon, they’re gonna send out a search party for us if we stay out here much longer,” Vic muttered, tilting his head towards the doors. “And I don’t have any excuses that would explain what the four of us are doing out here.”

“You would think of something, I’m sure,” Shane noted. “You’re pretty good at escaping the presses questioning.”

“Ah, the press, yes. I hate them. My friends aren’t as easy to lie to, though,” Vic clarified the difference, wrapping his arm around Shane’s neck. “But for you guys, I’ll suffer through it.”

His lips tugged upwards into a smile, still feeling his heart beating a bit quicker than it needed to, given their quick acceptance. Glancing at Ilya, there was a similar expression on face. Something along the lines of relief and contemplation, like maybe they really should consider telling the others the truth. Maybe they deserved to know.

· ─ ·✶· ─ ·

A little over a week later, they were back home in Boston, playing against Dallas. They were, frankly, playing better than the Raiders anticipated given the team’s recent track record. It wasn’t impressive, to say the least.

But they had apparently gotten their shit together for tonight’s game, making Hammersmith work twice as hard for the only goal they had scored in the first period.

“Is it just me, or are they actually kind of…good tonight?” Connors questioned, his tone a little incredulous as they entered the locker room as intermission began.

Kovalev nodded in agreement. “It’s weird, yeah,” he affirmed, unhooking his helmet and running his hand through his hair. “Makes me wonder if we actually have to get serious to beat them.” What a horrifying thought.

“They’ll burn out next period,” Kohn predicted, sounding overly confident about it as he pulled his padding off to try to cool down a bit quicker. “We just have to wait for them to tire out, then swoop in.”

“Yes, wait and hope is a great strategy,” Dubek teased with a sardonic tone. “Or we could just score some fucking goals next period instead of barely tying the game.”

“At least no one can say we handed them that goal,” Varkov insisted, patting the sweat off his neck with a damp towel. “We’re making it just as hard for them as they’re making it for us.”

“Anything you want to throw in, captain?” Hammersmith questioned, chin tilted towards Ilya who was sitting on the bench beside his cubby and scrolling through his phone.

He didn’t even bother glancing up, just shaking his head. “Think Dubek covered it,” he retorted, his voice rather monotone as he kept his eyes glued to his screen. “Score goals, win game.”

Shane stared at him for a second before glancing away. He caught Vic’s eyes. It wasn’t hard to do when their cubbies were right beside each other, but he could tell there was something different in his gaze. Acknowledgment, maybe.

Not the smug kind someone got when they had leverage, but the understanding kind when someone felt like they finally fully knew a person.

“What’s got you more invested in your phone than us?” Sebbin wondered, frowning at his captain’s laser focus on his device. “Don’t tell me you’re texting a girl.”

Ilya’s gaze flickered up, meeting Sebbin’s before he rolled his eyes. “No, dumbass, I’m not,” he clarified, turning his phone around. “I’m keeping up with pissed off fans.”

“What?” Feller questioned in confusion, crossing the room to look at his screen better.

“They are mad at us,” he muttered, pausing before he shrugged. “Well, mad at higher ups, technically. We are just the face of their frustration, I think.”

He clicked his volume up a few notches, some man’s voice coming through the speakers a bit more clearly. Calling his tone furious might have actually been an understatement as he ranted about how horrible it was to attend their games because of the parking and entry lines.

“Woah, we seriously only let them come through the South and East entrance?” Feller asked, looking surprised. “What about the other dozens of doors we have around the West and North? Can’t they come in through those?”

“Ah, he gets to that,” Ilya muttered, holding up his finger as if asking them to wait for a moment.

Sure enough, another few seconds later, the man mentioned how understaffed the doors were, which made things take even longer. He said something about factoring in an extra two or three hours to find parking and just entering the building before Ilya shut off his phone, looking somewhat stumped but mostly just irritated.

He loved hockey for the game, not the politics behind it. But he wasn’t a fool. He knew they made the company a lot of money every year. A lot. There was no excuse for them not spending at least some of it to pay their employees and fully staff the building.

“First the ticket prices, now this, and yet they accuse us of fucking sabotaging our fanbase?” Dubek commented, sounding disgusted. “Do they even want people to come see us play?”

Hammersmith shook his head. “Seems like they don’t,” he admitted. If they actually wanted the fans to come see them, they wouldn’t be scrimping to the point people posted videos in outrage.

“I don’t like this,” Ilya murmured, pressing the edge of his phone under his chin as he stared at the carpet in contemplation. “It feels…bureaucratic.”

If someone who didn’t know English had been present, they might have thought he just used a slur with the tone his voice took. As though bureaucracy was the worst thing in the world. In his mind, it kind of was. Or at the very least, it was pretty up there.

“What’s going on in your head, Roz?” Connors questioned, almost nervous to ask.

Anytime he got that look in his eyes, there was almost always a plan of some kind behind it. Usually a half-baked, or hell, maybe a completely raw one.

Ilya clicked his tongue softly, gears whirring in his head. “Oh nothing,” he pretended coyly, setting his phone down and standing up. “I was just thinking that if we don’t know these things because management won’t tell us, maybe we should go directly to the source of this distress for information?”

“You want to talk to the fans, you mean?” Carmichael assumed, shaking his head softly. “That kind of post won’t go over well. They’ll tell you to take it down.” Not before a few million people saw it, though.

Ilya shot him a look that suggested he should know better than to doubt him after so many years. “Who said anything about a post?”

Marlow followed his gaze towards the clock on the wall, then huffed. “You’re gonna talk to them right now,” he realized, pausing for a moment. “Or we are gonna talk to them right now, I suppose. Aren’t we?”

He shrugged, already heading for the door. “If you want to come with me,” he told them, pushing it open. “You’re more than welcome to stay and rest until next period.”

Kohn was rolling his eyes before the statement even left his mouth, already crossing the locker room to catch up. “Like hell I’m missing a chance to get some energy out, piss of the brass, and talk to fans.” It was like his perfect trifecta.

With a bit of clamoring, the rest of the room quickly shed whatever gear they needed to and chased after them, not letting the door close. Even if it probably wasn’t the wisest idea, especially given their time constraints, they were still going to do it. Because, well, why not?

The hallway was filled with reporters, as usual, all of whom turned to look their way as if expecting an interview even after all this time. They could probably tell, though, from how many of them had come out of the locker room, that they were doing something. And it had absolutely nothing to do with them.

“Excuse me,” one woman called, walking beside them. “Is there a reason you’re leaving the locker rooms during intermission?”

Kane gave her a tight-lipped smile that most would call petty. “No comment,” he told her, hand gently pushing the camera in another direction to get it out of his face as they rushed past the reporters.

They all stared at each other, pausing for a moment as the team continued down the corridor at a brisk pace until they broke out into a complete run. It was hard to know which one them had started it, but considering Ilya was still in front, they could assume it was him.

One of the reporters gestured to the cameraman, pointing down the hallway as if telling him to follow them. There was no point in waiting for them to come back, after all, since they’d just be ignored again.

At least if they went after the team, they might get some footage of them for a change, instead of just seeing them shoving the cameras away.

Once one of them did it, the other reporters also did the same, hoping for the same story as each other. Whatever it was. With the Raiders, they never got much, which made anything better than nothing.

Racing upstairs, Ilya halted his steps once he started to see people that weren’t employees allowed in the restricted area. He honestly had no clue what section of the stadium they were in, too used to being on the ice to know where the different sections were.

People stopped, immediately, as expected.

One woman was able to notice sooner than some of the other fans who were still standing in line for concessions or refilling their soda’s. “Y-you’re—” she didn’t even bother finishing her sentence, just stopping abruptly.

Sebbin gave a small, awkward wave. “Hi,” he muttered politely, glancing around a bit at the part of the stadium he never got to see. “Ooh, they sell smoothies?”

The lady behind the counter, dressed in a uniform, nodded slowly as she pointed to their menu. He eyed it curiously, contemplating it for a moment. But before he could actually decide to order one, he heard Ilya let out a rather sharp whistle. The kind that always bruised ear drums.

“Sorry to interrupt your intermission, but we wanted to say hello and talk to some of you,” he explained, gesturing for them to be quiet. “We don’t have a lot of time, though, clearly, so we’d really appreciate it if you could settle down a bit.”

Shane furrowed his brows as one guy pushed a bit closer, bumping into a woman and nearly making her drop her bag of popcorn. “Hey, no shoving,” he stated, shaking his head. “Apologize to her.”

Ilya’s head snapped in that direction; a look of equal annoyance sprawled across it. “Yes, don’t do that to each other,” he concurred. “That’s very rude, we don’t like when you do that.”

“We don’t like camera’s, either,” Kane added, waving his hand at someone who was already trying to film them without permission. “We have enough of them on us from the press. Put the phones down, please.”

He knew they were mostly alright with boundaries, that a cluster or two of fans on the street was smart enough to give them room to breathe. But a crowd this large became a bit harder to manage and they didn’t really have time to set them straight if they didn’t listen the first time.

A security guard, positioned in front of one of the doors perked up, looking like he was getting ready to move. Having anyone from team up here wasn’t common, let alone all of them. He didn’t even know if it was allowed, frankly.

Kovalev shook his head. “We’re fine,” he assured him respectfully, trying to send him back to his post. “We know it’s your job, but you can stand further back. Thank you.”

No one here was going to hurt them, even if they sometimes got a little overzealous.

“Excuse me,” someone called, her hand halfway raised as if stuck between hesitance and opportunity. “Can I get a picture?”

Ilya nodded, gesturing for her to come closer. “Yeah, of course,” he muttered, hand hovering near her instead of touching her when he was still sweating from the first period. Or perhaps the jog upstairs.

“We’re all happy to take pictures or sign things, but please don’t push,” Vic told them gently.

A pen had already somehow made its way into his hand without him even realizing someone gave it to him, and he probably shouldn’t have been shocked by it. Just going along with it, he jotted his signature down on the replica jersey someone had with his name on it.

“Finally, they do something worth filming,” one of the reporters muttered, catching up with them. She pointed at some of them, sending her cameraman to get a better angle.

Marlow, who had been signing something for a little boy, glanced at the cameras, his eyes narrowing in annoyance. “Get that out of his face, now,” he insisted firmly.

He gently moved the boy a bit further back, closer to his father, not wanting to put a child in that position. The lights were hard on the eyes, the lack of space irritating, and the overall invasion of privacy unacceptable for someone so young.

“He’s just doing his job,” the reporter assured him, already eyeing the boy like she was going to interrogate him.

“And we’re doing ours,” Hammersmith retorted, stepping in between her and the kid, pointing towards the security guard. “Now, back the hell up or we’ll ask him to do his.”

When she didn’t immediately move, as directed, Hammersmith gave a nod towards the guard, letting him handle her. He moved from the door, hand covering the camera lens as he turned it the other direction and told the reporter to step back.

As the security guard made them leave, another showed up, presumably because word spread quickly enough that someone left their post to come ensure things were kept in check. They both kept the rest of the reporters away, trying to send them back to the hallway where they usually dwelled.

“We have press badges,” one of them reminded the man. “We’re supposed to capture these kinds of moments. It’s—”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s your job to harass the players,” the security guard interjected, rolling his eyes. “Keep moving; I don’t wanna see any of you bothering these people.” That went for the Raiders and the fans.

Ilya hummed. “I like that man,” he murmured to Varkov. “Remind me to ask him his name so I can make sure he gets a late Christmas bonus.” Or a second, higher one, more likely.

He knew they at least gave most of their staff an extra check around the holidays. Not vendors, usually, but security and janitorial members. People that were constantly here and had been for years. Some even longer than he had played here. But he also knew it wasn’t as high as it could or should have been.

Another thing he eventually planned to rectify if he got his way.

Varkov huffed, unsurprised as he gave a nod. “Got it,” he promised. “Now, were you actually planning to discuss this whole malfunctioning stadium thing or…”

His eyes flickered as he remembered that was what he had intended to do all along before getting sidetracked with fans, like usual. “Ah, yes, uh- can you all listen for a little bit?” he requested, projecting his voice rather loudly.

When they didn’t immediately quiet down, Shane chimed in, “Shh, please. Just a few moments of your time and we’ll keep signing things, I swear.” That would get their attention.

After a few more seconds, they slowly stopped clamoring, quieting down until they could literally hear the music playing over the speakers in the actual rink during the intermission. It was rare that the stadium was ever so silent when people were in it. Nicer, though, too. The team could at least think a little better.

“It’s been brought to our attention recently that the ticket prices have been far higher than what we think you should be paying and that there are issues with the entry lines being too long,” Ilya explained remorsefully. “We want you to know that we’re working on a way to fix that for you.”

“It’s unfortunately not something we have much control over, typically,” Kohn told them with dismay. “But we’re talking about it with management and trying to get it sorted out. There’s no reason any of you should wait in line for three hours to have a ticket scanned.”

That was earlier than the team even got here, usually. It was absolutely ridiculous to ask their fans to waste that kind of time when they should just be able to show proof, they have a ticket and walk right in within a few minutes.

“In the meantime, are there any other complaints or problems that we can fix to make you guys enjoy our games more?” Carmichael asked, trying to make sure he gave everyone an equal amount of eye contact and attention.

“Excluding the fact that you want us to win more, of course,” Kovalev commented, hands raised in clarification. “We’d like that too but can’t make any promises on how the rest of the season goes.”

It was silent for a moment before some guy eventually spoke up, “Uh- just like any problems?”

Ilya nodded immediately, eyes briefly glancing at the clock to make sure they still had enough time. “This rink belongs to all of you just as much as it does us,” he told them with conviction. “And we’re not always aware of the problems with ticket prices or entry problems because they keep us separate from it.”

It was a very deliberate choice, too. He knew that as a fact. They wanted their players to focus on the game, not the socioeconomics behind pricing their merch or making it more difficult for fans to actually support them.

It never stopped the team before, though. And it certainly wasn’t going to stop them now.

“Well, parking is kind of hard,” one woman confessed hesitantly. “I found a garage a mile away and then walked.” Which of course, had made her late by a few minutes.

Kane glanced down at the chucky black heels she had on. “In those shoes, really?” he wondered, slightly impressed. “That must have killed your feet.”

She nodded sheepishly. “The lot here is really expensive, but even though I’m still willing to pay, I can’t because they closed a third of it for some reason.”

There just wasn’t space for all of their cars.

Ilya wrinkled his nose. “It shouldn’t be closed,” he clarified. “We’ll look into it and figure out why they’re doing that.” Probably due to their staffing problem, again. Just like the damn doors.

Honestly, he always knew they were a money hungry corporation. They made everything incredibly expensive for the fans, then cut corners for the staff and building renovations in order to pay the athletes and send all the spare money to people so high up the chain that Ilya would probably never even meet before his career ended.

But he had never seen it impact people firsthand the way he was witnessing it currently. It was infuriating, to say the least.

“The food is also pretty pricey,” a guy told them, shrugging slightly. “I know all sporting areas upcharge, but I can’t afford it anymore. I just eat before the game starts.”

“Oh c’mon, eating during the game is like the best part of it,” Feller insisted, shaking his head in annoyance. “I’d do it, if coach didn’t slap me on the bench.”

There were a few chuckles, the—partial—joke still landing even amidst the topic of conversation being rather serious.

“Concessions name their own prices,” Dubek noted, eyes glancing at the expensive menus. “These companies are too big to change their minds if we talk to them, but we can get in touch with some local vendors who might want to sell their food here.”

They usually charged less since they weren’t corporate, yet. Besides, it would be a good opportunity to support the businesses around them, instead of having fans spend minimum wage for a single damn bottle of water.

“One of the escalators on the third floor has been out of order since the start of the season,” another guy said. “I have bad knees, so I had to walk around the building to the other one, then walk back to where my seat was.”

Connors frowned, the older man’s confession was probably the most upsetting one so far. To him, at least. “We’ll get maintenance on it,” he assured him confidently.

They would have to fight for lower prices, probably haggle if not threaten just to make someone listen to him. But they could handle a broken escalator by just discussing it with someone on their normal staff.

“Thank you for telling us about these things,” Shane muttered appreciatively. “We know this stuff can discourage you from coming back if it gets out of hand, but we don’t have any intention of letting this go without at least trying to fix as much as possible.”

Ilya nodded in agreement. “We want you to enjoy coming here and feel like this space is the best atmosphere for you because you all make it feel like that for us,” he told them earnestly, gesturing to the entire team. “You all spend your hard-earned money, you take days off work, you give us so much of your time and your energy and we want to make that worth it for you.”

“…wow, you’re so much nicer in person,” a blonde woman whispered, her voice a little too loud unintentionally.

He let out a chuckle that turned her cheeks bright red. “Thank you,” he replied with a smile, eyes flitting back to the clock again. “I wish we could stay longer, but intermission is ending soon, so we can offer you guys a few more pictures and autographs if you want but they need to be quick, yes?”

Almost instantly, their fans snapped out of conversational mode and started reaching for their phones or asking to have stuff signed.

There wasn’t much time for proper introductions or long conversations, the way they tended to prefer, but they were able to get through a majority of the crowd, even if some of their signatures got a bit sloppy as they rushed through as many as they could in a short amount of time.

“Alright, alright, we have to be back on the ice in less than two minutes!” Vic called out, waving his hands to get them to all halt what they were doing. “If we’re not there when the second period starts, we’re blaming you guys.”

Everyone on the team immediately started to back away, turning to leave as quickly as they could when they realized how close they were cutting it. They had to run practically the entire way back, including rushing past the same reporters that were meddling earlier.

Still, they managed to get back to the locker room with a bit of time to spare, grabbing their stuff as fast as they knew how to. They were probably the only team in history to be more exhausted as intermission ended than they were when it started.

“Sebbin, where the hell did you get that smoothie from?” Varkov asked, frowning in confusion as he ran a hand through his hair to settle the out of place strands before putting his helmet back on.

He hadn’t even seen him ask for it, let alone jog all the way back downstairs with it. How the lid hadn’t slipped off and caused a massive disaster, he wasn’t sure. But it was a damn good thing it was secure, otherwise they’d be in even more trouble than they were already going to be in when coach found out about their stunt.

He blinked, sipping it before giving a pleased hum at the flavor. “The vendor gave it to me,” he stated, shrugging as he set it down in his cubby. “I’m gonna drink next intermission.”

Shane huffed a disbelieving laugh as he managed to strap the last of his padding back on just before someone came to grab them, telling them they were needed back on the ice. “Never change, Sebbin,” he urged.

“Why would I?” he questioned, a goofy grin of faux arrogance on his lips. “I’m already perfect.”

Shane hummed in agreement, giving him a shove towards the tunnel. He followed the guys out, still fussing with part of his gear to try to make sure it was on properly before they stepped back into the rink and the lights grew astronomically brighter above them.

· ─ ·✶· ─ ·

The next day, Shane’s phone was bombarded with texts from Hayden, JJ, and his own mother. All of them were curious about the photos going viral of the Raiders hanging out with their fan’s mid intermission. Yuna even said she was hoping he was finally getting the team to accept the possibility of good publicity.

They weren’t, of course. That disappointed her greatly, but she had given up on being surprised, if nothing else.

“You’re going to get hit by a car if you don’t look up once in a while,” Ilya murmured, only partially joking as he grabbed the back of his boyfriend’s shirt and tugged him back.

She looked up from his phone, realizing the crosswalk was still red and there were cars that would run him over if he kept going. “It’s downtown, they’re always trying to kill pedestrians,” he muttered, glancing back down.

“Doesn’t mean you need to make it easier for them,” he replied, letting the fabric of his shirt slip through his fingers. “How is Yuna?” he wondered, pressing the crosswalk button a few extra times before peering over his shoulder at their texts.

“Fine,” Shane answered, shrugging. “She’s pressing for details about last night’s intermission; thinks we might get in trouble with management since were criticizing the way they run things.”

“What are they going to do, fire us?” he teased, rolling his eyes. “We’ll be fine.”

Besides, they only criticized them because there was something worth complaining about in the first place. If the arena had been properly staffed, the parking lots were fully open, and the prices kept reasonable, the fans wouldn’t have ever gotten upset in the first place.

If anything, the Raiders were just cleaning up the mess that their brass had made.

“That’s what I’m telling her,” Shane assured him, sending another text. “She’s still skeptical.”

“Good quality to have, but unnecessary at the moment,” he responded, gesturing to the walk light they had. “Remind her that we’ve done this before and have like a total of seventeen lawyers who are useful in helping us get what we want.”

He hummed dubiously. “I know, I know. You guy’s love keeping them on retainer,” he recalled, stepping off the curb and glancing back down at his phone.

He didn’t quite send his mom those exact words but something similar, hoping it would help ease her mind. He wasn’t terribly worried about things, either, if he was being honest. The fans were forthcoming in their concerns and all of them seemed valid, if not pretty easy to fix for a corporation that cultivated millions of dollars per year.

“Another step,” Ilya stated, hand wrapping around Shane’s arm to drag him up it before he tripped.

“Hm? Oh.” He hopped back up onto the sidewalk, feeling Ilya’s grip loosen as soon as it was safe to let go. “Thanks.”

“Please put the phone away before I have to steer you the entire walk,” he requested politely, with a tinge of linger exasperation. “I thought I was supposed to be the one attached to a screen, not you.”

He would have gladly kept holding Shane’s hand the rest of the way if he could have, but even occasionally guiding him away from the edge of the sidewalk seemed a bit too risky. Instead, he just shoved his hand back into the pocket of his coat, warming up his cold fingertips.

“I’m not attached to it,” Shane defended, his thumbs still typing another text as he talked. “I have lower screen time than most of the guys on the team. Especially you.”

Ilya shrugged. “Could have fooled me,” he teased. “And Kovalev does even more boring puzzles and Sudoku than you do, his screen time is always lowest.”

Huffing, he sent one final text to his mom and slid his phone back into his pocket. “There, it’s gone,” he muttered, dramatically wiping his hands against each other. “You have my undivided attention until we get to the car.”

Ilya’s expression blanked as he gestured to the parking garage they were about to walk into, where Shane’s car was immediately coming into view. “You mean that car, right there?” he asked. “The one we are already at?”

Shane made a half surprised, half apologetic sound, like he genuinely hadn’t realized they walked the entire way back while he mostly responded to the messages he ignored during their breakfast. In his defense, the restaurant hadn’t been that far in the first place.

“Okay, you uh- can have half of my attention while I drive to the rink?” he offered, pulling his car keys out. “And then my full attention again for like the three-minute walk inside?”

Even though he was still cautious about the amount of time people saw them spend together, he had given in and let them start driving to practice together every once in a while. Usually no more than twice a week, though.

“Uh huh.” Ilya rolled his eyes in mock annoyance, walking around and climbing into the passage seat. “A whole three minutes, wow.”

He pulled his seatbelt on, watching Shane double check his mirror and the settings on his heater like he always did before reversing out of the spot and driving out of the garage. He tapped his fingers against his knee, half paying attention to the road and mostly just staring at Shane with curious eyes.

“What?” he wondered after a few moments, able to see his gaze out of the corner of his eye. “Are you upset that I nearly walked into traffic? Because you’ve done that too, before. More often than I have.”

Ilya huffed softly, head lolling to the side a bit to stare out the window. “No, am not mad at anything,” he assured him. “I’m glad your mom cares so much about you, really. I was thinking of other stuff, is all.”

Shane narrowed his eyes slightly, lightly stepping on the brakes as they came to a red light. “What stuff?” he asked, one hand falling from the wheel as he pivoted his body to look at him better.

He gave a weak shrug. “Just about what Marly said on New Year’s Eve,” he confessed. “About the team not judging us for being happy if we ever…you know.” Came out to them.

“Oh.” Shane glanced back at the road as the light shifted colors quickly, slowly rolling through it. “Do you want to? Tell them, I mean.”

“I don’t know, maybe,” Ilya murmured contemplatively. “It was one thing lying when you were in Canada but now…I feel guilty with you so close. Especially for making Marlow and Vic lie for us.”

Even if they assured both of them, multiple times, that they were going to, it felt selfish to put them in that kind of position. It also felt disrespectful to the rest of the team to let two of them know and keep everyone else in the dark about it. How long were they even planning on hiding it, anyway?

The Raiders always preached loyalty, privacy, and respect towards each other. This was no different than keeping Dubek’s eating disorder under wraps or hiding the fact that Carmichael missed a few games due to family problems last season.

Ilya didn’t fear their rejection, even if he was a bit anxious thinking about their reactions. He worried they would feel betrayed by how long he had hid this from them, all while claiming they were his family and closest confidants. Which, they were, for everything else.

“I think…if we did tell them, it would be okay,” Shane confessed. “Like Vic and Marly said.”

He furrowed his eyebrows a bit, nodding. “I think so, too. It’s just- I don’t want them to feel deceived by us. Me, especially.”

Shane at least had a good excuse, given how recent his move still was. He couldn’t have come out to a team he wasn’t on for the past decade. And when he got to Boston, there was no way he would make that kind of confession to a group of people he only knew in small increments over the years the first few times they hung out. But Ilya was like their brother. He didn’t have those excuses.

“Ilya, you have chosen the Raiders at every turn for ten fucking years,” Shane reminded him. “You turned away other contracts, showed up to support their personal issues, hell you’ve taken pay cuts to keep everyone together.”

“Your point?” he questioned, feeling like none of those things were particular special. It was just what a good captain did for his team.

“They know exactly where your loyalty is,” Shane stated decisively. “That’s my point.”

The Raiders weren’t like the Metros, quick to jump to conclusions and hurl insults around. They would understand why Ilya hid this from them, why he had to for so many years even when it was isolating and painful.

Ilya’s lips tugged to the side slightly. “I am loyal, yes?” he murmured, as if trying to convince himself.

He nodded in agreement. “Like a Golden Retriever with softer curls,” he replied.

Ilya huffed, running his thumb over his bottom lip as he contemplated it. “Maybe,” he mumbled quietly.

He did go to bat for Connors when he heard Desjourney contemplating trading him last season, threatening not to resign once his own contract ended if he did. And he spent the night in the hospital with Kohn after he got into a car crash and was on painkillers for hours, waking up periodically when a night nurse came to check on his condition.

They wouldn’t forget those moments, right? They couldn’t somehow mean nothing just because he hadn’t been honest with them about his sexuality and his relationship with Shane.

“It’s up to you,” Shane assured him, reaching over to put his hand on his leg. “But if it’s just their judgement you’re worried about, then you really don’t have anything to fear.”

He placed his hand over Shane’s squeezing it. “You would be okay with it?” he wondered. “If I wanted them to know about us, you would come out to them with me?” That’s what it sounded like he was saying, anyway.

He hesitated for a moment before nodding slightly. “I think so, yeah,” he admitted. “I trust them. And you.”

Ilya pursed his lips. “Hmmm,” was his only response, quiet and thoughtful.  

He studied Shane’s side profile for a moment, watching him pull into his designated parking spot. He pulled his hand away from his leg to put the car in park, head tilting to look at Ilya like the silence wasn’t quite the answer he had wanted or expected to hear.

“Okay, I know I’ve said this before,” Shane prefaced. “But I really don’t like when you go silent mid conversation because it makes me feel uncomfortable and I—”

Before he could finish speaking, Ilya was kissing him gently, lips pressed to his as he bent over the arm rest between them. Shane softened into it, humming quietly as he kissed him back for a moment. His mind, temporarily relaxed enough to forget they were in the parking lot, in front of their arena.

“Thank you,” Ilya murmured, eventually pulling away.

“For…?” he trailed off, looking a bit dazed and confused.

“Just reassuring me that all the scary thoughts in my head are total bullshit,” Ilya replied earnestly. “I love that you can do that so easily.”

They spiraled, sometimes. Often, actually. They grew dark and manipulative, telling him they would never be happy or truly together in the sense that other couples were. Or worse, they told him Shane would get sick of him, eventually wake up and realize he could do so much better and leave him.

But those thoughts were ridiculous, he knew. They were far from true and he was reminded of it often.

Shane shrugged. “You do it for me all the time,” he reminded him. “Guess we’re both overthinkers.”

“Is easy to stress when there’s so much to lose,” he admitted, head tipping to the side. “But maybe there is also a lot to gain, too.” He paused for a moment, shaking his head gently. “I don’t want to force you to come out just because I can’t stand being in the closet anymore. Either we both want it or we don’t do it.”

Shane’s lips quirked into an appreciative smile. “I told you, I trust them,” he reminded him. “And I know it’s internally killing Vic to lie to the guys.”

Ilya huffed a laugh. “We should never come out, then,” he joked. “It’s amusing watching him try to not look between us when we are in the locker room.”

“You’ve noticed that too?” he wondered, chuckling as he unbuckled his seatbelt. Reaching into the back seat, he pulled both of their duffle bags up front.

Ilya nodded, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he got out of the car. Slamming the door shut, it closed just hard enough that Shane glared at him for it, contemplating a reminder about being gentle with the doors before he eventually decided against it.

“Of course I have,” he said, leaning his arm on the top of the car and looking at him over it. “He looks like he is trying to solve the mysteries of the universe whenever we’re talking to each other.”

“We’re that fascinating, I guess,” Shane mumbled, locking his car as they walked towards the door of the rink. He stopped in front of it, turning to look at Ilya. “Wait- are we really going to tell them, then? Like…today?”

Ilya paused too, as if the full implications hadn’t fully sunk in for him yet either. “I think…yes, right?” he muttered cautiously, as if seeking reassurance that Shane wanted the same thing.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, right,” he murmured, pulling the door open. “It’ll be fine.”

He said it mostly to and for himself, needing to mentally remind himself that the team would be supportive. Marlow and Vic already were, even if he could tell they still had questions they were just a bit hesitant to ask out of fear that they might accidentally offend or push him and Ilya away.

Walking into the locker room, things seemed normal. They were, by all standards, aside from the occasional glance he got from Vic that felt sort of like he was being looked at in a new light. He’d been getting that look a lot lately, but it wasn’t as invasive as it might have seemed. More like understanding, in a way.

Like the last layer of Shane’s self-protection had been stripped away and there was nowhere else to hide his authentic self. It was an odd mix of terrifying and liberating.

“You need to stop going to that dry cleaner, Smitty,” Varkov muttered, looping his laces around tightly. “I’m telling you, they’re taking advantage of you.”

“But they’re so close to my apartment,” Hammersmith defended. “I don’t want to drive seven miles to pick up a suit like you do. I barely wear them often enough to go to the one down the block anyway.”

“I will literally pick them up for you,” he insisted firmly, glancing up the look at him as he finished tying his skates on. “Just stop wasting your money on a mediocre presser.”

Hammersmith rolled his eyes, gesturing to Varkov’s overall appearance, which was easily cleaner than half the guys on the team. “That’s the European in you, always needing to look overdressed,” he teased. “You’d think it would have worn off with how long you’ve lived here. You don’t see Kov spending hundreds of dollars on his dry cleaning.”

Varkov shoved his hand away playfully. “That’s because he’s a traitor who likes sweatpants and jeans,” he accused. “Roz hasn’t changed, though. He still puts the effort in to look nice when it’s necessary.”

Conners let out a snort of amusement, patting Kovalev on the back as he made an offended sound and wore the expression to match it.

“If it’s acceptable and convenient, why can’t I wear them?” Kovalev questioned in confusion. “I would get stranger looks nice clothing than I would in jeans.”

He had, actually, in the past. When he first moved to Boston, he had heard American’s were casual in their attire but didn’t fully understand how much so until going to the grocery store earned him odd looks.

“It’s just the principle of the matter,” Roz agreed, tugging his shirt off to start changing. “Sweatpants are comfortable, yes but I would not be caught dead leaving the house in them.”

Varkov gave an ‘I told you so’ look towards Kov that practically burned the title of a bad Russian onto his forehead without ever stepping towards him.

Shane glanced down at his cubby, the easy banter helping to settle his nerves a bit as they continued to get ready for practice. He and Ilya hadn’t discussed when they would tell the team or how. Clearly it wasn’t now, though, as they finished getting ready without any massive secrets coming out from anyone.

Practice was closed, as always. They found they worked better without feeling the need to perform for an audience, like the rest of the league always had to put up with. Besides, they could mess around far more when they weren’t expected to look and act professionally in front of the fans.

“Do not even think about it!” Marlow shouted, finger pointed at Feller. “I swear to God, Feller, I’ll key your fucking car if you hit me with that puck!”

Feller looked borderline offended. “Don’t be so dramatic, Marly,” he replied, tone overly blasé. “I’m just going to hit the other puck off your hand. Hold it still.”

“And you hit me, then what?” he shouted back, practically at the other end of the rink, too far away from him for Feller to have enough control over the disc. “It’s still going to hurt, even though my glove.”

“Only if I actually hit you, which I won’t!” Feller called, hand cupped at the edge of his mouth so his words would carry.. “…I don’t think,” he added under his breath quietly, tapping the edge of his stick on the ice while eyeing the distance between it and Marlow.

“Did you just say you don’t think!?” he exclaimed, arm wavering as he somehow still kept the puck on the palm of glove for reason’s unknown.

Kane’s singular semester of psych classes would probably say something like it was his subconscious trusting his teammate, but Marlow was pretty sure he was just an idiot who would probably stand in front of a firing squad if someone pointed him in the direction of it.

There was a loud echo as Feller slammed his stick against the puck and Marlow grimaced, glancing away. Most of the team did the same, reluctantly watching without any clue how things had even escalated to this point anyway.

Flying through the air, the puck knocked the other one out of Marlow’s hand and they both went clattering to the ice.

Marlow let out a relieved sigh, glaring at Feller, who just shrugged as if he wasn’t sure why everyone was so worried.

“I told you I wouldn’t hit you!” he shouted, ice crackling under his skates as he glided over to pick them both up. “I should shoot the next one off your head.”

“Over my dead body,” Marlow retorted, disagreeing firmly. “Use someone else as your dummie.”

“Oh, c’mon, I’d let you put your helmet on,” he offered with a shrug, as if that made the risk disappear entirely. “You’re acting like you don’t even trust me.” Marlow scoffed, shaking his head gently and skating away without saying anything. “Is that a no!?” he shouted after him.

“Give it a rest, Feller,” Ilya called out, glaring at him from the edge of the rink where he was resting his back against the boards. “This is hardly even practice anymore, just a bunch of children being paid to play with expensive toys.”

“You’re the captain; it’s your fault if you can’t control them,” Shane reminded him, nudging him gently.

He hummed, lips tugging to the side. “No wonder you do not miss being captain,” he muttered. “You get all the fun of being on the team without any of the responsibility to keep them in line.”

He nodded. “Exactly,” he agreed without hesitation.

It was no secret that he felt a lot freer after losing his status, even if it might have been viewed as a bad thing to the general public. Some people, most in fact, considered it a step down from his previous position.

But being captain was stressful. He was in charge of drills, practice, and a dozen little details that stressed him out worse than dealing with his own schedule did. Besides, every failure or mistake they made was his problem, too. That was a lot of pressure to put on anyone.

So, no, he didn’t miss it. He actually loved having Ilya as his captain and having the Raiders as just teammates, not necessarily responsibilities.

“Alright, enough of the tomfoolery,” Ilya declared, making a large sweeping motion with his hand. “We’ve done plenty for this afternoon.”

He hadn’t, apparently, killed them too badly with drills if they were still playful enough to fuck around so vivaciously. Still, they had managed to find time to actually get some work done and that was enough for the day. He’d just make sure they skated until they passed out next practice.

“Wow, seriously Roz?” Kohn questioned, sounding a bit surprised as he skidded to a stop. “That sounds so weird coming from your mouth.”

He frowned at them. “I can be nice,” he defended, gesturing to himself. “Am not always a cruel captain.” Just most of the time.

“No, not that,” he replied, shaking his head. “The other thing- tomfoolery? Way too colloquial for you.”

Ilya blinked, head jutting forward as if he didn’t hear the word. “Huh?” he questioned, furrowing his brows in confusion and looking around for Marlow quickly. “Marly, translate please.”

He glanced up from where he was dropping his gloves over the side of the wall, tossing them lazily on their team bench. He was so used to Roz needing him as a human dictionary that it didn’t catch him off guard anymore. In fact, he kind of feared the day he became outmoded by Shane in his role.

“It means informal,” he replied, barely lifting his head. “Like slang that everyone understands. He’s calling you overly conversational.”

Ilya nodded slowly, filing the word away. “Ah, right,” he murmured, pretending like he already knew that and just needed to be reminded. “I changed my mind, more drills now because of Kohn.”

“What? I was complimenting you!” he exclaimed, met with a skeptically raised eyebrow. “Okay, I wasn’t. But that’s still unfair!”

He pretended to contemplate it for a moment as if unsure whether to let the comment go or make them do a few extra laps just for the hell of it. Some of the guys gave him a mix of glares and pleading looks, but he really never had any intention of keeping them any later in the first place.

“Alright, fine,” he muttered, hands raised to concede. “Original statement stands. We’re done for the day.”

“Yes! I get to walk out of here instead of crawl for a change,” Carmichael realized in relief, already trying to leave before he could change his mind.

“Wait a minute!” Ilya called, reaching for the fabric of his jersey and dragging him back a little bit. “We’re not done.”

He looked practically betrayed. “But you just said—”

“I said we are done with practice, not done,” Ilya clarified, his tone a bit softer than one might expect. “I need to talk to everyone about something.”

Shane’s head snapped to the side, suddenly remembering their earlier decision. He hadn’t really forgotten about it at all in first place, actually. It had just settled in the back of his mind as something that Ilya might have decided not to go through with out of fear or concern about their reactions.

“Now?” he wondered, heart immediately starting to thud a bit harder as his brain started to file through the potential consequences of going through with it.

“We agreed, yes?” he replied, a flicker of confusion and panic flashing across his eyes.

“No, yes, I know,” Shane muttered, nodding. “I just- yeah, now. Now is good.” Better than later, he figured.

They’d understand, he was sure. He told Ilya as much earlier. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t feel a little bit of duplicity at first. Maybe even disgust or resentment before it settled into the realization that they were the same people. That’s what happened with JJ, at least. And maybe even Hayden, though he still denied it.

Dubek squinted slightly, glancing between them as if trying to figure out what was going on. “Uh- everything alright?” he questioned. “It’s not about management or anything, is it?”

“Hm? No, no they’re still silent about everything,” Ilya replied quickly. “It’s about Shane and I, actually.”

Meeting Marlow’s eye for a moment, it was abundantly clear from look in them that he knew exactly where Ilya planned to take this conversation. A small, reassuring smile tugged at the edge of his lips and his head tipped ever so slightly.

“Are you guys, okay?” Kane asked, raking over both of them for a brief moment to check neither were concealing any injuries or benchable illnesses they didn’t want to admit to having.

Shane shook his head. “We’re fine, we just um—” He let out a soft, anxious huff of laughter. “—how do we…?” he trailed off, unsure what to tell them. It seemed so much easier in theory than in actuality, he supposed.

“For quite a while- several years, actually, Shane and I have been…in a relationship,” Ilya eventually explained, his voice tentative and his words slow to make sure they understood him.

There was silence. A lot of it. Blinking eyes and blank expressions as the majority of them seemed to malfunction for a few moments, unable to think of words let alone force them to come out coherently.

Ilya hoped, maybe even prayed to his mama’s God that they wouldn’t laugh or get upset. The only thing worse than them being angry was thinking he was joking.

If they rejected their relationship, that would mean they had to at least acknowledge it was real first. If they didn’t believe that he was bisexual or Shane was gay, then they were hurting him by denying his existence the same way his brother, Alexi, always had.

“Like…like dating?” Connors eventually asked cautiously. “Each other?”

Shane nodded slowly. “Yeah, each other,” he confirmed quietly, swallowing harshly.

Their expressions began to shift, still stuck in confusion but also trying to make sense of things as quickly as possible. That was clear from how hard they appeared to be thinking, trying to piece things together and make sense of the confession.

“So, you’re both um—” Kane made a strangled sound, not wanting to use the wrong term or offend them by mistake. “—queer?”

Ilya pointed to himself. “Bisexual.” He pointed at Shane. “Gay.”

“Oh, duh, right. Sort of implied in the relationship thing, huh?” he muttered, glancing away awkwardly. “Sorry.”

Ilya’s lips tugged downward, shaking his head. “No, no I don’t want anyone to be sorry,” he clarified. “I- we wanted to be honest with you because we trust you. Lying feels wrong. It always has; there was just not much opportunity to tell you when he was with the Metros.”

Hammersmith blinked, something obvious clicking in his mind. “He moved for you.” It wasn’t a question, not even a skeptical sentence. Just an epiphany about his motives.

No wonder he always gave the press some bullshit excuse about needing a change of pace or wanting a fresh start. He couldn’t exactly tell them he was gay and moving to a new country for his boyfriend. Jeez, Roz as a boyfriend. He never thought he’d live to see the day.

“But he likes us, he swears,” Vic chimed in with a gentle pat on Shane’s shoulder, squeezing it to remind him that he was in a safe place and settle his nerves a bit. “Even said he was glad to leave Montreal for us.” Sort of. He was paraphrasing.

“Wait- you knew!” Kovalev exclaimed, head whipping towards Vic with wide eyes.

“Er- for like not even two weeks,” he replied, shoulders raising defensively. “They didn’t tell us or anything, it was an accident.”

He didn’t want them to assume there was any favoritism towards him or mistrust towards the others, because the only reason he knew at all was from being in the right place at the right time. Well, maybe the wrong place and wrong time. He wasn’t quite sure.

“Us? Who the fuck is ‘us’, Vic?” Carmichael insisted, glancing around the group like there was some kind of spy hiding among them. “Who else knows?”

Marlow grimaced slightly, hand barely raising just enough to be noticeable. “It was just the two of us who found them- um…together,” he explained, shrugging. “We promised we wouldn’t say anything.”

“We asked them not to say anything, they didn’t want to lie,” Shane assured them, skipping over the part where Marly implied a rather inappropriate way to be found out about. “They’re also the reason we’re coming out to you guys, because they believed you wouldn’t judge us.”

“Good, because we’re not judging,” Dubek responded, head tilting for a moment. “It’s just…sort of confusing, is all. Even without actually hating each other, you guys used to see each other for like what, forty-eight hours at most? How did you make it work for- wait, did you say years?”

Ilya nodded in confirmation. “About ten of them, give or take,” he elaborated before they could ask how many of them. “And we just, I don’t know, treated every hour we could like it was important.”

They were, even if they always seemed to be shorter than a normal sixty-minute duration should be. And even if there was drama between teams or other outside factors that should have stressed them out, they ignored them as much as they could when they were together to keep their time feeling special.

“Wow, telling us this while we’re still on skates was diabolical, Roz,” Kane confessed, his legs feeling a bit weak as the depth of their relation really began to wash over him. “So, you’ve just been sort of together but doing long distance for a decade?”

Shane wrinkled his nose slightly, tipping his head back and forth. “It- we…have sort of, yeah,” he eventually said, unsure exactly how much they should divulge.

“That sounds…awful,” Dubek admitted with an expression of pity. “Having to hide like that is ridiculous. Especially with the way they used to pit you against each other.”

It was better these days, but to say it had disappeared entirely would be a lie. Fans and broadcasters still did it, even if it was to a lesser extent.

“We got used to it,” Shane replied with a weak shrug. “Just tried to separate the game from each other.”

It wasn’t what they liked or wanted, but it was what they delt with. At the end of the day, he would have rather put up with the scrutiny and secrecy to keep Ilya in his life than cave to the league’s expectations and push him away just to maintain his social image.

“I can understand why we wouldn’t know about you, Shane, having absolutely no attachment to us for so long,” Sebbin stated. “But Ilya, you’re like family. Why did you never say anything? Not even about him, just about you.”

If nothing else, knowing their captain was bisexual seemed like the kind of thing they should know about him if they were really friends. He felt a bit sick to think they hadn’t made him feel comfortable enough to confess that kind of thing.

He knew hockey could be the kind of sport that threw around insults and slurs, but the Raiders were strictly against that kind of stuff. They could chirp at someone just fine without needing to go after something as personal and private as sexuality, religion, or family.

Ilya pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, trying to think of a decent answer and struggling to come up with one. “It wasn’t- I couldn’t,” he eventually said. “Hockey makes it complicated; Russia makes it even worse. I thought- yes, this part of me, but I never thought I could let it be.”

He could sleep around, enjoy the company of a few men if he trusted them or knew for a fact that they had never watched hockey a day in their lives. But he could never allow it to last or be anything meaningful and long term.

Nothing like what he knew he wanted with Shane since their fourth or fifth time hooking up.

He always thought he’d eventually have his last tryst with a guy, then find a nice woman to settle down with. It wouldn’t kill him or anything. It wasn’t supposed to, anyway. He liked women, found them attractive and enjoyed their company.

And if he truly believed they had no future, as he did for a long time, then there was no point in telling his team anything.

“Черт, Россия действительно все усложняет,” Varkov murmured sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Roz. I wish you could have felt comfortable enough to tell us.”

“I do trust you,” he responded firmly. “I do. I just…couldn’t come clean about it.”

Kohn perked up a bit. “Hold on- if you weren’t going to tell us because you didn’t think things could last, but now you are telling us, does that mean…” he trailed off, letting the implication linger.

They glanced at each other for a moment before Shane eventually nodded slightly, clearly biting back some sort of relieved or happy expression. “Yeah, we’re planning to make it work,” he told them. “Sort of already doing that, technically.”

“Moving teams for him is insane, Hollzy,” Dubek noted. “Not that any of us are complaining about benefiting from it, though.”

“Moving…” Kane furrowed his brows for a moment before his eyes widened, getting excited. “Oh! Oh!” he exclaimed, physically bopping up and down on his skates, the blades clicking against the ice as he did so. “It makes so much sense!”

The others immediately moved a few inches away from him, the sudden outburst catching them off guard far more than it should have for someone known to enjoy sporadic movement. They knew he did that before games, sure, on solid ground. But this was just unsettling.

“You’re getting way too high off the ice,” Marlow muttered, cautiously reaching out to grab his shoulder and try to get him to calm down before he accidentally hurt himself or worse, one of them. “Calm down a bit, buddy. What makes sense?

“Right, right, sorry,” he apologized without any sincerity as his skates clacked one last time. “Don’t you guys get it?” he wondered, gesturing between Shane and Ilya. “They live together, too.”

The two of them blinked, not saying anything to deny it but also not affirming his realization, either.

“How the hell did you know that?” Ilya questioned, squinting in confusion.

“How the hell did we not know sooner, is a better question,” Kane replied as if it was obvious. “I’ve been to Shane’s apartment and it’s super tiny despite him telling us repeatedly about how spacious his apartment in Montreal was because he hates feeling claustrophobic in his own home.”

“Plus, Roz has conveniently had an excuse every single time any of us have asked to come over for the past two and a half months,” Hammersmith realized, as a lightbulb went off in his head. “Which is when Shane joined the team.”

He also went out of his way to meet up with them if they had to discuss or return something, even if Kohn or Varkov could have just dropped by way faster.

God, it was so obvious now that they thought about it. The way they worked so well together on the ice, the way Ilya was so damn quick to break up fights before they started when Shane was involved, how he seemed more tense than anyone else when Yuna and David visited the first time.

“Okay, yes, we live together,” Shane confessed, waving one hand around vaguely. “It’s not a big deal or anything.”

“Are you kidding? It’s a huge deal,” Carmichael replied in disagreement. “You guys are like that figure skating pair from the Olympics that’s actually a couple off the ice, too, only with hockey.”

Ilya blinked. “And gayer,” he reminded him slowly, gesturing between him and Shane as if that part had slipped his mind somehow.

“Well, yeah, duh,” he muttered. “But c’mon, that’s not a huge deal. A Stanley cup winner dating another Stanley cup winner is what’s impressive.”

Though, neither of them had technically been winners at all when they got together, he supposed. They hadn’t even been captains, yet, either. Just a couple of rookies that happened to be more attracted to each other than the league liked to allow.

“So, wait- is liking guys just a requirement for winning the cup or something?” Kane asked, thinking back a few seasons. “Hunter won it, we’ve won it, Hollzy won it multiple times…I’m sensing a pattern.”

“Or maybe it’s just overcompensation to ensure we’re valuable enough that they can’t force us into retirement if we ever come out,” Shane noted. “Since, you know, I’ve worried about my entire career ending over this and Ilya has to make sure his whole country doesn’t disown him for our relationship.”

That might have come across a bit harsher than he intended, by mistake. He didn’t really mean to say it that bluntly. If anything, he supposed he should be thrilled they seemed so accepting of their relationship that they didn’t even need to fully understand it. But he still needed them to realize that there were several very good reasons why no one else knew about them for so long.

“And now I feel like a horrible human being,” Kane murmured softly, looking apologetic.

“He didn’t mean it like that,” Ilya assured them. “It’s just…we have a lot to lose if this gets out and we’ve spent years making sure no one knows, making sure we aren’t seen together too much or using fake names—”

“Oh my God, he’s Jane,” Connors realized, putting his hand against his forehead for a moment. “Right? He is, isn’t he? From Montreal. I can’t believe we didn’t think of that the second you said you were together.”

He huffed, nodding after a moment. “He’s my Jane, yes,” he admitted, head tipping towards Shane. “We changed our contacts a few months ago.”

It had brought an unexpected amount of relief to both of them, especially Shane, to be able to have their real names in their phones. It was nice to open his texts and see Ilya’s name, knowing there was less risk if someone saw it because he could easily play it off as just talking to his captain about practice.  

“We have so much to tell you, now that we know you’re her, Shane,” Feller claimed. “Because he’s been whipped for Jane for years and we’ve all had to hear about it—”

“Oh, look at the time! We’ve been here so long,” Ilya interjected, grabbing his shoulder and digging his thumb into it hard enough that he wouldn’t dare say another word. “Everyone good with us dating, yes? That’s sort of the only thing we needed to discuss so we can go home.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll drop it,” he conceded, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Seriously, though, Roz, we are alright with it. We’re just, you know, trying to wrap our heads around it, is all.”

Ilya nodded softly. “I get it,” he murmured. “Not easy to find out you’ve been lied to by someone you thought you knew.”

Kovalev frowned. “Is that what you think we think?” he questioned, shaking his head firmly. “Roz, we get why you kept it from us. You had every reason to, for both of your sakes.”

Their careers could be on the line if this came out. Their sponsors and their reputations were at risk, not to mention Ilya’s ability to return home when he wanted to. As rare as that was, it was still an option he should have.

He and Varkov didn’t have much left in Russia, with far more support in America than they had back home. But they knew that’s his mama was buried and the thought of not being able to see her ever again probably lingered somewhere in the back of Ilya’s mind.

“It would take some serious arrogance to try to make this a sob story about feeling ‘betrayed’ or something, just because you were protecting yourselves and each other,” Kane added.

Duebk nodded. “We’re disappointed for you, not with you,” he agreed. “We wish you guys didn’t have to be afraid to tell us.”

Because even if they would later deny being apprehensive, he could see it on their faces that they were. That they didn’t expect but irrationally feared their judgement and the repercussions of coming out. One word to the press and their whole lives could implode.

“Thank you guys,” Shane muttered. “For just…accepting this. Us.”

Sebbin nudged his arm softly. “I told you, we’re gonna be in your life forever,” he reminded him, almost like a threat. “You won’t get rid of any of us that easily. Try confessing to a crime or something next, you’ll see.”

He dipped his head, letting out a small chuckle that was tinged with relief. “I don’t currently have any,” he said. “But if I accidentally kill someone, you’ll be my first call.”

“Go for it, I’ve got a massive rug that a body would hide in perfectly,” he assured him.

Shane laughed again. Hiding a body might have been at the end of a rather extreme scale, but he knew if his car broke down or he found himself in a crash, Sebbin would pick up at any hour of the night. He’d show up with jumper cable or call whoever he needed to, just like they all would. He supposed he really didn’t need to worry about that changing now that they knew the truth, the way he feared.

“Okay, I’ve got a genuine question that you can’t laugh at me for,” Marlow prefaced. “Now that we’re all aware of your relationship…are we allowed to come over to your house again?”

Even if he tried to pretend otherwise, he secretly had been a bit upset at how often Ilya came up with an excuse to keep him from dropping by just to visit. It used to be sort of like a tradition that he was allowed to come over for a drink and watch a game if they weren’t playing. He had been missing it, lately.

Ilya huffed. “Yes, you can come over,” he conceded. “Just don’t be annoying about it, ringing the bell every other second.”

“When am I ever annoying?” he retorted sarcastically, gesturing to himself. “I’m a very polite guest.”

“Uh huh,” he replied, rolling his eyes with fondness. “But Shane really doesn’t like a messy house, so you have to actually use the coasters, Marly. I’m serious about that.” Truly, he was.

“Oh, so you know it drives me crazy to have those little rings on the table and just do it anyway?” Shane questioned, glancing at him with an accusatory expression. “Because I’ve wiped the coffee table like three times this week.”

Ilya blinked, lips tugging back to bare his teeth sheepishly. “I decline to comment,” he replied, giving his standard media response.

It wasn’t lost on anyone the way his tone was still tender. It wasn’t unusual, despite what the public believed. He sounded gentle more often than he didn’t. But there was something uniquely soft about his tone when it was aimed at Shane, unlike in the past when he had tried to keep it civil.

“Adorable domestic disputes aside, I want you guys to know that as far as I’m concerned, no one outside of this rink right now will ever know about you two,” Connors assured them both. “Aside from Shane’s parents, that is.”

“And Hayden Pike for some reason?” Varkov muttered with a slightly confused expression. “But if he accepts it, then we like him.”

Or tolerate him, at least, despite still not being a huge fan of him after how he treated Shane for several weeks after news broke about his contract being signed. As long as they didn’t suddenly have to start forgiving the rest of the Metros, they would be able to handle one, maybe two of them being alright.

Shane huffed gently. “Yeah, he’s okay with it,” he assured them. “Mostly just stunned more than anything else.”

“Understandable,” Kane muttered, gesturing to his skates. “I’m still feeling a bit numb, myself.” Kovalev bent slightly, smacking him in the leg. “Ow! What was that for?”

“To test how numb you felt,” he remarked, shrugging. “Clearly, it’s not that bad.”

“I said ‘a bit’ for a reason!” Kane defended, hitting him back just as hard, if not even harder.

“Nuh uh, no smacking each other,” Ilya stated, reaching out to grab Kov’s arm before he could hit Kane again. “I would like to have a team left for the game tomorrow.”

And he was still the captain, despite them occasionally, if not often forgetting that. Which meant he had to keep them from accidentally hurting each other, even if it was supposed to be playful.

“Fine, no hitting,” Kovalev muttered, raising his hands in defeat but shooting Kane a look anyway. “I’ll save it for when we’re carpooling next week.”

Ilya huffed, rolling his eyes. “And I think that concludes this conversation, yes? No one else has anything else to ask or say that actually has to do with Shane and I or our relationship?” he wondered.

“Not really,” Carmichael admitted. “But keep your notifications on, I might think of something when I’m trying to fall asleep later tonight.”

Shane snorted a laugh, nodding. “We’ll check the chat in the morning,” he replied.

They did that anyway, frankly. It was a lot more amusing to scroll through than the Metros group texts had been. Instead of articles bashing players and teams, there were inquiries about whether anyone was free to see a movie and questions about someone needing to borrow a mop.

Then of course, there were the follow up texts, wondering what kind of twenty-six-year-old didn’t already own one.

“Try to get some sleep,” Ilya insisted firmly. “I need everyone awake and ready to play tomorrow night.”

“On it, Roz,” Hammersmith assured him with a mock salute. “I’ll drink half a bottle of Nyquil if that’s what it takes.”

He threw his hands up. “Группа комиков,” he grumbled, overly used to calling them that if he was being honest. It fit, if nothing else.

As they dispersed, gathering their stuff up, Shane leaned against the boards a bit to relax. It hadn’t been so hard, he realized, coming out to them. It was actually getting easier each time he did it, not that he had any desire to try it for a fifth time. The first four had been more than enough for him.

The worst of them, oddly, had been when he came out to Ilya, for some reason. Perhaps that just felt the scariest because he thought he had the most to lose that night.

“That went…pretty well, I think,” Shane admitted quietly, watching as Sebbin gave Connors a small shove and he dramatically fell over the rail, staying down for a moment before he popped back up.

Ilya nodded in agreement. “Guess Marlow and Vic were right,” he muttered, leaning his head on Shane’s shoulder. “No judgement from family.”

He hummed, turning to kiss the top of his head gently. He was sure they would probably get a few more questions and maybe have to explain a couple of things that happened when they had been struggling to figure out what they meant to each other, but for now, it was all alright.

“So, what exactly did Feller mean when he said they had to listen to you talk about Jane?” Shane joked, voice tinged with an inquisitiveness that couldn’t be ignored.

Ilya groaned quietly, raising his head and shaking it. “Nope, not happening,” he stated firmly, already skating away. “You could not torture that out of me.”

“Oh c’mon!” he exclaimed, skating after him. “I’ll just text Feller if you don’t tell me!”

Reaching out, his hand barely grazed the hem of Ilya’s jersey before he was just a bit too far out of range to actually grab onto it.  

“Don’t you dare text him!” Ilya shouted, pointing at him as he turned around, blades still gently crackling against the ice. “He will humiliate me.”

Shane huffed a laugh, chasing him around the empty rink. “It can’t be that bad,” he insisted, head lolling to the side. “Just tell me what you told him.”

“No!” he retorted, shaking his head as his cheeks turned slightly redder for reasons had nothing to do with the temperature inside of the rink. “You are going to be insufferable.”

Grasping for him again, Shane wrapped his arms around Ilya despite his faux attempts to escape the grip. “And here I thought you loved me too much to think that,” he teased fondly.

Ilya tugged his lips to the side, not fully stopping but allowing his momentum to slow down greatly. “I do love you,” he murmured, hand cupping the side of his neck gently. “Very much.”

More than he knew how to properly express in any language, be it English or Russian or even the French that he was reluctantly trying to learn for Shane despite considering it foolish to need to know three of them.

“So…you’ll tell me what you’ve said to them about Jane?” Shane questioned quietly.

“Absolutely,” he replied with a straight face. “If your sloppy footwork can catch me before I get to the locker room,” he added, pulling away.

Shane’s eyes widened, feeling Ilya’s grip loosen until it was gone altogether and he was skating back across the rink even faster. With a huff, he took off after him, trying to catch up before he managed to reach other side.

· ─ ·✶· ─ ·

The next day, Shane was resting his head in Ilya’s lap for one of the naps he had greatly come to enjoy taking in the middle of the afternoon. He was still thinking about what Feller had said, if he was being honest. But he didn’t mention it again.

That was just because he was already secretly planning to find out on his own, though, since Ilya seemed so reluctant to come clean about what he told the team over the years. In the meantime, he just enjoyed knowing that they were technically out to everyone whose opinions they actually cared about.

“Did you use my leave in conditioner last night?” Ilya questioned, his voice barely a sleep mumble as he ran his fingertips through Shane’s hair.

He hummed, eyes fluttering up for a moment or two. “Maybe,” he murmured, not fully answering him.

He huffed weakly, still running his hands through his dark strands, the repetitive action bringing him just as much comfort. “I smell the Jasmine in it,” he told him, voice slightly teasing. “You are not sneaky.”

“Wasn’t trying to be,” Shane claimed, turning his head a bit to nuzzle against his shirt. “I just like your stuff.”

“You should; it costs eighty dollars per bottle,” he muttered, tipping his own head back against the couch as he felt himself starting to drift off to sleep.

It was always so much easier to sleep when Shane was nearby, for some reason. And after very cunningly luring him into a few traps, Ilya had managed to make him appreciate naps just as much if not more than he did.

He could practically hear Shane’s breaths growing shallower and steadier as he nearly fell asleep, not far behind until the doorbell suddenly rang, waking them both up.

Shane made a disgruntled sound, blinking his eyes a few times. “Who the hell is that?” he asked, slightly annoyed.

Ilya shook his head as he raised it and squinted in the direction of the door. “I have no idea,” he confessed, before hearing it go off a few more times in rather quick succession. “Ohhh, it’s Marly,” he realized.

“I’m gonna kill him,” he grumbled, reluctantly sitting up.

“Ah, well we can always call Sebbin and ask for his rug,” Ilya commented dryly, groaning as he had to stand up, stretching his arms over his head.

His shirt rode up slightly and Shane stared for a moment. It was far from intentional, but he couldn’t really help it. A few short seconds later, he tore his gaze away, blinking harshly as he tried to wake himself up.

He hadn’t even really been asleep in the first place, but he was close enough that he was still dazed from the abrupt interruption anyway.

“I’ll get my phone out to let him know,” Shane joked back, rubbing his eyes for a moment and swinging his legs over the side of the couch.

Ilya padded over to the door, pulling it open in an effort to get Marlow to stop ringing the bell every two seconds. His eyes widened slightly before he glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t bother,” he called to Shane. “Sebbin is here.”

He frowned. “I thought you said it was Marlow?” he wondered, knowing Marly had an affinity for continuously ringing the bell from all the times he had a phone call with Ilya interrupted by it.

Ilya nodded. “It is,” he confirmed, pushing the door all the way open so he could see. “And everyone else.”

Marlow waved, stepping into the house. He was quickly followed by Sebbin, Carmichael, Connors, and every other person on the team too. They were all looking around, as if none of them had ever been over before.

“What are you guy’s doing here?” Shane asked, standing up.

“You said we were allowed to come over again now that we knew about your relationship,” Marlow reminded them, shrugging. “So, we’re here. And we brought you gifts.”

Ilya furrowed his eyebrows, closing the door behind everyone as he realized they had in fact been carrying things—a potted cactus, a picture frame, a pack of Ginger Ale, from what he could see.

“Not that I’m complaining about free soda or anything, but why are we getting gifts?” Shane questioned as they set things down on the kitchen counter.

“Housewarming,” Dubek told them, shrugging as he put down an expensive looking fruit basket that he had practically been hiding behind due to the sheer size of it.

Ilya blinked, glancing at Marlow. “Hовоселье?” he questioned, seeing him nod in confirmation. “But it’s not a new house? I’ve lived here for almost eleven years.”

“It’s also for when people move in, though,” Connors reminded him, gesturing to the lovely purple Orchid, he brought them. “We figured since we missed helping you guys actually move boxes, we could at least give you guys the party part.”

They had lost count of how many times they had all moved into new places over the years, either apartments after their leases ended or houses once they finally decided to purchase one. It was pretty typical that they would all pitch in to help tape boxes and unpack things. They felt a little bad about not being able to do that for Shane.

“I brought the best gift, clearly,” Vic stated, gently pushing the pack of Ginger Ale across the counter in Shane’s direction.

“Oh please, once he drinks them, they’re gone,” Kovalev responded, gesturing to his gift. “Mine can last for years.”

He held up a framed picture that had been taken during their first win of the season, when they were all clustered together, jumping up and down, knocking helmets and bumping shoulders.

Huffing, Shane opened the side of it, pulling a can out. “How the hell did you get that so fast?” he questioned in amusement, cracking open the tab and taking a sip of his drink.

“I skipped my morning Sudoku,” he explained. “It’ll look good in here, yeah?”

He hadn’t been over in a little while, for newly obvious reasons, but he remembered the color of some of the other picture frames on the wall pretty well. Enough so to pick one that matched, at least.

Ilya nodded. “Extremely nice, yes,” he agreed. “Thank you, Kov.”

Hammersmith nudged Shane. “I brought you a cactus, but you can’t let Ilya anywhere near it,” he warned, pushing the pokey potted succulent towards him. “He kills every plant he has.”

“I heard that,” Ilya stated in annoyance, reaching for one of the Giner Ales. “And I do not kill them; they are defective when I buy them.”

Sebbin tilted his head skeptically, blinking at him. “Uh huh.”

He popped open the soda tab, bringing the edge of the can to his lips as his eyes roamed the other gifts they had brought over. Most of them were actually very thoughtful. Either useful things like fluffy blankets or edible things like a freshly baked loaf of bread with Rosemary on top of it.

“This is all really sweet of you guys,” Shane told them earnestly.

Kohn shrugged, leaning against the counter. “It’s the least we could do after Ilya has helped us move a dozen times,” he replied. “And hey! You helped Kane move, too. This is just repayment.”

“I’m thinking with everything here, we’ve got stuff for a pretty decent meal,” Kane remarked, gesturing to the different food items that had been brought over. “How about I make lunch?”

Ilya glanced at Shane for a moment before nodding his head. “You know your way around my kitchen,” he replied, giving him a go-ahead gesture. “Have at it.”

They had time, after all, until the game later. And they were going to have to eat at some point, anyway. It would be nice to have a freshly cooked meal. Especially when Kane was the one making it.

“I’ll look for a good place for the cactus,” Hammersmith noted, picking it up and glancing around for some sort of ledge or table where it could go.

Connors grabbed the Orchid off the counter, holding the pot carefully. “I’ll come with you,” he agreed. “This needs a good source of indirect sunlight.”

“I’m going to find a space on the wall for this picture,” Kov added, already scanning them for any free space where it might fit nicely.

“Ooh, I want to see what Shane’s hung up since moving in,” Feller agreed.

They more or less dispersed, either trying to find places for all of their gifts to go or just openly snooping around the house as if they had never seen it before. Ilya thought about telling them it had barely changed, aside from a few extra things and better organization, but decided against it.

They wouldn’t believe him, probably. Even if they did, they’d still get nosey anyway.

Vic sat on one of the barstools, getting comfortable as he asked Marlow something about the gift he brought and Varkov helped Kane start cooking.

Dubek wandered into the living room, looking for the remote to put the afternoon game with Dallas versus Tampa. Kohn just stuck a stick of pineapple out of the fruit basket, munching on it as if it belonged to him.

Shane looked towards Ilya, who wore an expression that was a mix of appreciation and amusement. “We’re having a housewarming party,” he murmured under his breath.

He hummed, nodding slowly. “Apparently, we are,” he noted.

He pursed his lips, leaning against him. “It’s nice,” he admitted, his eyes flitted around their home that was now crowded with their friends. “Having them know. Makes me feel like…we’re gonna be okay.”

The game, the team, their relationship. Everything that had once worried him would be alright.

“We will be more than okay. We'll be happy,” Ilya whispered in agreement, his voice so quiet it was hard to hear. “…Just like we are right now.”

Shane tore his gaze away from the sudden business of their home, raising his Ginger Ale fractionally. Ilya’s lips twitched into a smile, clicking his own can against it before taking another sip from it.

He let his eyes roam freely amongst the chaos as everyone made themselves at home, feeling the warmth, their presence brought settle in his chest. A place that had used to be empty and cold, guarded by fear of rejection and loss, which now felt fuller than he knew was possible.

Chapter End Notes

This took forever because finals have literally been kicking my ass to the point I think falling down a flight of stairs would hurt less than my exams (I'm surviving, dw). But this has lowkey been an anchor to keep me sane, so I hope you enjoyed it because I really enjoyed writing it!!