Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Zane Boodram, Wyatt Hayes, Troy Barrett, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Original Male Character(s)

Additional Tags:

Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Team as Family, Homophobic Language, Locker Room Dynamics, Abandonment Issues, Anxiety Disorder, Miscommunication, Lack of Communication, Psychological Trauma, Self-Sacrificing Bullshit ft. Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander is a Mess, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Trying His Best, BDSM, Dom/sub, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Sub Shane Hollander, Subdrop, Shane Hollander in Subdrop, Dissociation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Happily Ever After, Angst with a Happy Ending, Good Boy Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-02 Updated: 2026-09-20 Words: 59,922 Chapters: 12/?

let the sun only shine on me through a falling sky, i’ll be alright

Summary

"I did not realize until you got here, how much they do not realize what a Montreal locker room actually sounds like."

--or, a slight A/U where Shane didn't stay in Montreal after the cottage just because he wanted to or because he thought it was expected of him and those years after he came out to his team had been worse than he lets on

---OR, Shane acquires a Russian duckling, finally sets the record straight with his man, goes full 'protect the rookie' mode when his duckling is checked during a game in Montreal, and learns how to be part of a team again (in that order)

Notes

thought this would be a fun (and a tad less depressing than my other ongoing HR fic, lol) idea to explore, let me know if we're vibing with it

any Russian is from Google translate; a majority of any French is, as well (but not all); apologies in advance

Chapter 1: November 2021

November 2021

Ilya has taken to making a certain genre of joke that really grinds against Shane’s nerves, even if he always brushes it off with nonchalance every time. He wasn’t exactly forthcoming with how Montreal had actually reacted to the news of him simply being gay, the treatment he’d received before his teammates had known Ilya was even involved. Shane had acted like enough of an ass during the time it was only his husband in Ottawa that he thinks he can spare Ilya the details. It’d be making an excuse, whether that’s his intention or not, and Shane doesn’t want to do that.

So, when Ilya makes the that stupid joke, Shane grits his teeth and reaches for the most neutral reactions possible: a roll of the eyes, a scoff. Ilya doesn’t say it often so it still catches Shane off guard most times, but he thinks he’s done a good job so far of keeping his reactions nonchalant.

Shane and Ilya mesh together beautifully for a game-winning goal late in the third against Brooklyn. The team is all over them in celebration the second they all get back to the locker room. Shane allows himself to bask in the praise, head pats, and claps on the shoulder for a bit before he finally steps away to his locker stall.

He’s mid-way through taking his left shinguard off when Troy Barrett opens his mouth.

“It’s insane when you guys play together,” he says to Ilya.

Ilya’s lips quirk.

“Da,” Ilya says with a smug smile. “Rivalry was cover for magic psychic bond, of course.”

“Fuck off,” Barrett says, rolling his eyes.

“We coulda had this two years ago?” Dykstra says, exasperated.

Shane sinks his teeth into his tongue just firmly enough to ground him. He knows what comes next.

“Yes, is true, I almost kidnapped Shane many, many times, wanted to drag him away from Montreal very much,” Ilya says solemnly. “The only reason I did not is because I know he would be very mad.” He swings his gaze to meet Shane’s across the locker room, a slight smile playing on his lips.

Shane pulls a small smile of his own onto his face and holds Ilya’s gaze just long enough to give his husband a playfully annoyed roll of the eyes and shake of the head. He ducks his head back down and removes his other shinguard, pointedly ignoring the way the way he kind of wants to disintegrate into a pile of ash.

It’s a joke derived from an old argument. Shane had always figured it was Ilya’s odd way of making sure they’ve completely let go of the hostility that’d initially been attached to the subject.

Shane will absolutely own the fact that he’d been stupidly oblivious about the fact that, of course, Ilya would choose him, and at the time of that argument, had already very clearly chosen him. He doesn’t have a full explanation for why this took him a narrowly avoided plane crash for him to realize. He thinks it may have just been his difficulty with reading people, that he’d been so busy trying to live up to the expectations of his mother and her diehard love for Montreal, dealing with the consequences of being out as gay in an NHL locker room that definitely wasn’t particularly thrilled about it, and, most importantly, of being enough for the love of his life. Shane thinks sometimes that, maybe, he’d been so preoccupied with making sure Ilya would choose him when the time came that he'd missed the fact that Ilya already had early on.

So, that argument is already a touchy enough subject with all of that on its own. The added factor of Montreal turning out to be what Shane’s coming to realize is one of if not the most homophobic teams in the NHL definitely hasn’t helped. Every time the topic about Shane staying in Montreal as long as he did had come up when he’d first joined the team, he’d had to grit his teeth to stop himself from snapping.

Shane is almost desensitized to hearing the joke at this point. He’d finally stopped grinding his teeth, much to the relief of his jaw and his dentist.

It’s a big ‘almost,’ though. He’s picked up a bad habit. He doesn’t do it every time, less so as time has gone on, but today is one of those days.

He’s formed a habit of following Ilya to bed the night after such a joke and asking Ilya to make him take it and fuck him hard. He clings like if he lets go Ilya will disappear forever afterwards, had cried when Ilya had gotten out of bed to grab something the first time Shane had done this. Ilya had been terrified. He’d told Ilya that he feels emotional after sex sometimes which, while not exactly a lie, isn’t the whole truth. Shane had played it off as happy tears. He still cries sometimes afterwards, but he’s gotten better at gathering that frantic feeling close to the chest and not letting it come rolling down his cheeks.

And, well. Sometimes he cries after sex outside of this bad habit that Shane has acquired, as well. He doesn’t mind it when it happens then, so it can’t really be that big of deal.

It’d taken Shane a few instances of this for him to recognize the pattern. Don’t get him wrong, he does like it when Ilya holds him down and makes him take it, when he fucks Shane fast or hard or rough. When Shane asks for it after Ilya tells one of those stupid jokes, though, he thinks, maybe, that it’s something he does to punish himself. It’s backwards logic, Shane knows. It’s also what happens to settle him best right now when Ilya makes that genre of joke that never fails to remind Shane of the time in his life when the sky had been falling down around him and all he could do was wait.

Shane is weak, so when him and Ilya are in bed later on that night, he tells his husband to fuck him on his knees and that he wants it hard. Ilya is more than happy to oblige, as always.

It’s not like the sex is bad. Sex with Ilya is always, in fact, great. The only thing that really makes this a ‘bad habit’ per say is that there are times when he asks for it even on a night when he otherwise probably would’ve been asking for something more relaxed. And also, maybe, that sometimes the aftercare following the sex is his favorite part of the night.

He doesn’t cry this time afterwards, but he still clings onto Ilya for at least fifteen minutes. He sticks close when they take a shower together and bullies himself into Ilya’s arms when they lay down to go to sleep. Shane feels alright. Ilya falls asleep first and Shane closely after, settled.

Chapter 2: December 2021

Chapter Summary

enter the Russian duckling (believe it or not)

Chapter Notes

please accept my humble offerings, hope y'all enjoy <3

btw, I decided not to put the Russian translations into this work as Shane's Russian is still limited in this fic and there's huge chunks of dialogue, Russian dialogue will appear in italics.

December 2021

Valeriy Novikov is traded from the Montreal Voyageurs to the Ottawa Centaurs a month later. Shane hears about it in the locker room the morning the news breaks and tries not to look as stressed as he suddenly feels.

The only person on the team who’s ever played for Montreal up until now has been Shane, and he’s been more than grateful for it. The team in Montreal had devolved into a caricature of an egregiously homophobic sports team as time had gone on, so much so that by the time Shane had left, it’d become less of a “few bad apples” situation and more of an infectious disease affecting at least two-thirds of the locker room. Shane doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with not wanting to bring that poison into the haven Ottawa has turned out to be so far.

The other cause of his stress is a little more selfish. Ilya doesn’t know the truth about Montreal, none of the Centaurs do, and Shane wants to keep it that way, be it out of shame or embarrassment or idiotic self-sacrifice. Even if Novikov turns out to be one of those guys that simply went along with the majority behavior, his mere presence could be inviting questions that Shane isn’t prepared to answer. He thinks it’s fair for him to want some space so he can lick his wounds in private and everyone knowing the truth wouldn’t exactly afford him that.

Novikov’s arrival in Ottawa is quiet because he himself is quiet. He’s young and has only been out of Russia for a few years at this point, so he still doesn’t know a lot of English. Shane watches the carefully blank look that takes over the kid’s face sometimes when someone is speaking too quickly for him to keep up with and can’t help but think about a baby-faced Ilya doing the same, many years ago, in Boston.

He also sees a bit of himself in the kid, in the way his gaze flicks around the locker room sometimes like he’s waiting for something. Something to happen, Shane’s brain had supplied the first time he’d seen it: a homophobic chirp or slur, a heated argument between teammates, intimidation from the veteran players, something, because an occurrence of such was a nearly daily occurrence back in Montreal. It’s not going to happen, but Val doesn’t know that, and Shane certainly won’t blame him for wanting to be prepared when, if, it does; Shane himself still hasn’t fully stopped bracing himself for the worst.

Shane doesn’t allow himself to feel too bad for the kid, though. He’d slotted into the locker room culture in Montreal just fine, after all. Val hadn’t allowed the pronounced language barrier stop him from throwing around homophobic chirps alongside the likes of Comeau and Drapeau, who at the time had been dominating the social culture of the locker room. Shane had, despite his best efforts, completely lost control of the room by the time Val had joined the team.

Shane, for the most part, avoids Val like he’s the plague, but he’s still observant. Val spends the first couple of weeks in Ottawa seemingly reading the temperature of the room before he finally starts getting friendly with everyone. It’s still difficult for him because of his limited English, but he starts to settle in a bit, just comfortable enough, in fact, to make a misstep so severe that he might as well have just pulled a loaded gun out and waved it at everyone.

Wyatt Hayes, the Centaurs’ large, loveable goalie, tries to give Val a hug in the locker room after practice. It’s mostly a joke, a ‘reward’ for a good practice which is common behavior for the goalie, but Val stiffens and immediately steps away.

“Ah, no, no,” Val says, laughing awkwardly as he pats Hayes on the shoulder. “Am not fag.” He says it like a joke, easy, like he’s said it before. Shane figures he probably has.

The locker room, raucous and playful after a good morning practice, goes deathly silent. Hayes visibly wilts. Everyone has turned to watch but nobody moves. Val looks confused by the reaction, eyes flicking around but not saying anything as he realizes that he fucked up.

Then Ilya is moving, suddenly on his feet and stalking across the locker room with murder in his eyes. He says something in Russian, too quick for Shane to parse out, and then points to the locker room doors. Val goes, shoulders suddenly hunched up at his ears, and Ilya follows right on his heels. What follows is a steady stream of fast, furious Russian that floats in, slightly muffled, from the hallway. The few snippets that Shane catches tell him that Ilya is basically reading Novikov the riot act.

“Is he fucking serious?” Bood hisses, finally breaking the silence. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, Shane thinks he means Ilya, but the logical part of his brain kicks in and he realizes he’s talking about Valeriy.

“Seriously, how would he ever get the idea that that’d be okay to say?” Barrett agrees.

Eyes swing in Shane’s direction, the only other player in the room who’s ever played for Montreal. He pointedly ignores them, sitting back in his stall, comfortable and trusting that Ilya has this taken care of. It’s a nice change, knowing that the responsibility to address issues isn’t on him anymore, not really. The guilt of sitting by and watching it happen in Montreal had eaten him alive every day, his failure at leadership staring at him in the face and spitting in it every time a slur was tossed around.

Logic tells him that, no matter what Shane said or did at that point, there wasn’t going to be any sudden culture shift. Logic tells him that it just so happened that the Voyageurs had an extraordinary number of openly and overtly homophobic men, that there’s only so much one person can do when up against more than a dozen others. His heart and brain still screams failure, sometimes, that the responsibility for what the Voyageurs locker room had devolved into landed solely on him. Maybe if he’d been more personable and less socially awkward, if he didn’t come off as weird or neurotic, maybe it would’ve worked. If it’d been a different version of himself who’d fallen for Ilya, maybe Montreal wouldn’t have cared as much.

Shane has a lot of practice at ignoring those ‘maybes.’ He knows none of that is true, almost completely believes it, but a small and hidden part of himself, even if he doesn’t like to admit it, still believes it.

“Rozanov has it handled,” Shane says, firm even though he’s not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Let him.” It’s simple and succinct, but he channels every bit of NHL captain Shane Hollander into it, portraying the confidence he has that it’ll be taken care of properly while also leaving no room for argument.

His words have the desired effect, even if gradually so. Everyone remains right where they were when they’d practically frozen in shock at Val’s words for a few moments, still reeling, before the spell finally breaks. Conversation starts back up, hesitant at first but then picking up back to something resembling a Centaurs locker room.

Half of the team is already in the shower and the other half still working on removing their gear when Val returns to the locker room, a murderous Ilya Rozanov trailing in after him. Val goes straight to his own stall and begin stripping off his gear with a quick efficiency. He doesn’t look at anyone, eyes fixed either on the floor or on the task at hand. Practically every player in the locker room turns to stare for a moment, but then the moment passes and everyone goes back to their usual locker room doings, even if the mood in the room is still just as tense and awkward.

Ilya appears at Shane’s side as he’s finally removing his last piece of gear.

“Are you okay?” Ilya asks.

“What?” Shane says, surprised. “Yeah, of course, I’m good. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Ilya gives him a look.

“Oh, the slur? Ilya, come on, I came from Montreal’s locker room. It’s not a good thing but I’m not going to fall apart over it,” Shane says, easygoing as he gets to his feet to tuck his helmet onto the top shelf of his locker stall. “It was absolutely unacceptable, obviously, but it’s been addressed and I’m sure it won’t happen again if he values his life.”

“Really?” Ilya says, unconvinced.

“Da, Ilya. I’m okay. You took care of it pretty thoroughly, I believe, correct?” Shane says mildly, switching to Russian.

Ilya smiles then, not exactly joyful, but proud satisfaction mixed with a bit of viciousness.

“Protective bastard,” Shane mutters, but Ilya catches it anyway.

“Your protective bastard,” Ilya says back, grinning.

“Come here,” Shane says, switching back to English. He grabs a fistful of the middle of Ilya’s jersey and pulls him in close.

Ilya goes, something like glee in his eyes, and makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat when Shane takes his lips in a kiss that goes on for several moments longer than any other kiss Shane has allowed in the locker room.

“Goddam, Hollzy,” someone mutters from off to the side.

Shane pulls away and releases Ilya’s jersey. The entire locker room is watching, but there’s satisfaction in their expressions, not annoyance or disgust. Shane had figured it’d be the best way to follow up such a blatant display of homophobia, and he’d been right.

And, well. As far as Shane’s concerned, the jury is still out on whether Novikov is truly a horrible person. Knowing what he knows about the locker room Val had come from, he figures there’s two distinct possibilities: he is actually a homophobic asshole, or he’d gotten caught up in Montreal’s culture and had followed along, be it out of fear or comfort. If it’s the former, though, then he’s hoping that the kiss made Novikov as viscerally uncomfortable as possible.

Ilya looks slightly dazed as he damn near stumbles his way back to his own stall to take off his gear. Shane smirks slightly to himself, smug that he can still elicit such a strong reaction from his husband from something as simple as a kiss.

Val peels out of the locker room in just his base layers the second he has all of his gear off. Shane watches out of the corner of his eye as he makes his way to the showers but doesn’t acknowledge it any further.

Troy Barrett plops down into the stall next to Shane’s once he returns to the room after he’s thoroughly showered.

“You’re oddly calm about all this,” Troy says in observation.

Shane hums, leaning down to tie the laces of his Reeboks. “I’m confident that everything will work out.”

“Okay,” Barrett says, turning away from Shane so he can address the locker room at large. “Who else agrees that this freaky Zen thing that Hollzy does sometimes is actually lowkey terrifying?”

Shane looks up to see his teammates’ reactions, as well, amused. He won’t argue with the description because he does get like that sometimes. It’d been a symptom of his anxiety when he was growing up, his mind going a mile a minute while outwardly he’d appeared calm and composed. Then Montreal had basically trained any severe reaction he has to anything mildly insulting out of him. It’d been the only way to survive it, really, not dignifying them with a reaction because any response Shane gave at the beginning of the downward culture spiral was only used as further ammunition. There’s also the dissociation factor to it, now, another coping mechanism developed in the Voyageurs locker room.

He chalks his reaction to the current situation at hand up to something else this time, though: uncertainty. He doesn’t know what’s true and what’s not.

John Morrison, an older Voyageurs player who’d also happened to take part, albeit less so than most, in the kinds of talk that occurred in Montreal, had reached out to Shane after he’d signed with Ottawa. Morrison had been a last minute addition at the free agency deadline so they only really played together during Shane’s last season with Montreal. He’d been a veteran player on a one year deal that, even though nobody said the quiet part out loud, was because he was old and on the very tail end of his career. He’d apologized, acknowledged that it was likely his last year playing pro hockey and he had needed to not fuck up his place on the team because he needed the contract to save up money for retirement. It’d been Shane’s first introduction to the idea that while someone may say something horrible right to your face within the safety of a group, it didn’t necessarily mean they meant it. That definitely still didn’t make it okay, but it made him understand. Morrison had gone along with the group out of self-preservation rather than a reflection of his true beliefs, and while that still makes him an asshole in this equation, Shane can see why it happened.

Shane thinks of it this way, now. If Gilbert Comeau came to him and gave him a genuine apology, Shane wouldn’t accept it. He’d probably curse the guy out, actually, maybe tell him to fuck off to hell or something. Comeau meant everything he said. But when Morrison apologized, he’d accepted it. Intention matters to Shane, even if he knows plenty of people would disagree.

Valeriy Novikov is young, baby-faced, and comes from a family that isn’t exactly well-off financially. He’s alone in America and surrounded by people who he can’t efficiently communicate with. Shane won’t pretend that he’s well versed in Novikov’s family situation, his financial situation, or his sexuality, so while what he’d said was fucked up and unacceptable, he’s not delivering a verdict on whether to hate the kid or not until he has all the facts.

“No, absolutely,” Bood says in agreement. “It’s freaky.”

“It’s like…you know when dogs freak out before an earthquake happens? Like they sense something we don’t?” Dykstra pipes up. “It’s like the opposite, but with the same ending.”

“Oh my god, whatever, fuck off,” Shane says, rolling his eyes.

Ilya has to stick behind after practice to get his hand checked out by the trainers so they both stick around later than usual. He’d bruised it during their last game and it’s been sore since then, but it’s thankfully nothing serious.

The rest of the team has cleared out by now, so Shane doesn’t have anyone to answer to when he’s on his feet and out of the locker room the second Ilya disappears into the trainer’s office.

Shane finds Val leaning against the wall at the very end of the tunnel leading to the bench and the ice. Shane walks up, footsteps slow and measured, and leans against the wall opposite the younger player. Neither of them speak for a few beats.

“I am not very good at Russian, but I do my best, so give some grace,” Shane finally begins in Russian, quiet enough that he can barely be heard over the background hum of the practice rink. “I know Ilya spoke to you already.”

Val nods immediately.

“Yes, more like yell, I know,” Shane concedes. “I did not realize until you got here, how much they do not realize what a Montreal locker room actually sounds like.”

“It’s like a fairytale here,” Val finally says, voice matching the same private volume of Shane’s as he also speaks in Russian.

Shane nods, lips quirking. “Sometimes, yeah, it feels like that. That is because Ottawa is not Montreal. I think you know this now from how bad you just killed the mood in there.”

Val nods again quickly.

“Listen, Val. If you have problem with the gay thing, it is not fine, but is what it is. But here, in my locker room? You keep that kind of thing to yourself always,” Shane says, jaw clenching. Then, with a slight smirk. “Rozanov and Cliff Marleau teach me to fight this summer, so I have no issue kicking your ass, I am not big captain here like I was there.”

Val’s head jerks to look at Shane full on for the first time since the conversation began.

“No. I do not…have a problem, have never had problem,” he says quickly, almost too quickly for Shane to keep up. “I…Rozanov and I have more in common than I tell people.”

Ilya is just about to step out of the locker room when he hears Shane’s voice in the hallway. He stops just short of the open double doors when he realizes Shane is speaking in Russian because he knows there’s really only one other person Shane would be speaking to in Russian right now. Good, he thinks viciously, give him a piece of your mind, too, Shane.

Back in the hallway, Shane doesn’t even look surprised. He just nods, accepting and listening. “That is fine, you do not need to tell anyone anything you do not want to. I will not tell anyone,” Shane says quietly. “You do not have to…pretend with the team to be safe here. Can just be. Do not have to worry about how you come across to them.”

Tell anyone what, Ilya wants to know. Shane is being…nice, which is certainly not what Ilya had expected to hear.

Val doesn’t say anything for a moment. They watch the Zamboni hum by. “There was always so much pressure, I was always afraid to say the wrong thing,” he says quietly. “The way they treated you, Shane Hollander, best player in the world? If even you were not safe, nobody was.”

What. Ilya knows that the Voyageurs weren’t happy that he and Shane are together but, from the way his husband has made it sound thus far, him being gay hadn’t really been an issue.

“I know,” Shane says. His voice suddenly sounds extremely tired, soul-deep exhausted. “But not here. So relax. Clean slate, okay? Just be who you want to be, as long as it is not a homophobic asshole.”

That gets a huffed laugh out of Val. He nods quickly.

“Yes, yes, I think I can manage this,” he replies.

Ilya quickly ducks back into the locker room and makes like he’d been walking towards his own stall the whole time. Shane walks in first with Val following a few paces behind him. Val visibly shrinks when he sees Ilya there but presses on, changing into his street clothes with a quickness.

Shane meets Ilya at the Russian’s stall and smacks him lightly on the shoulder.

“What is that for?” Ilya hisses as Val practically books it out of the locker room.

“That,” Shane says, pointing to the locker room doors. “Stop with the murder vibes. He already feels bad enough.”

“He should,” Ilya replies.

“Ilya, I am asking you, as your partner and as your alternate-captain, to at least try and tone it down on the hostility,” Shane says as evenly as possible.

“What, so you two go off and have one conversation in broken Russian and suddenly everything is fine, all is forgiven?” Ilya snaps.

“Oh, so now you’re listening in on my conversations?” Shane says, his frustration growing and taking on an edge of anger.

“Not like there was much to overhear, Hollander!” Ilya exclaims, rolling his eyes. “You may as well have told him ‘no harm, no foul’!”

“Well, I’m also asking you as someone who knows the kind of locker room he came from!” Shane shouts back.

Ilya is slightly taken aback by the reaction. Ilya certainly wouldn’t consider himself quick to anger, but Shane is even less so, and definitely not to the extent where he yells.

“And what kind of locker room is that?” Ilya says finally, voice low and serious.

Shane’s eyes flicker all over his face for a moment. He looks away before he speaks again.

“One where it’s safer to say what everyone around you is saying because you’re a third-liner from Russia who barely speaks English and you don’t want anyone to start rumors about you. That kind, Rozanov,” Shane says, his voice cracking at the end.

“You think I am not familiar? That Boston was not similar?”

Shane takes a slow, measured inhale of breath.

“Novikov said it as a joke today, and I’m sure that’s how the guys in Boston said it, too, for the most part, right?” Shane says. Ilya nods but says nothing. “A good day in Montreal was when it was only used as a joke. There weren’t a lot of good days, Ilya.”

“Shane, you were the captain, yes?” Ilya says.

Shane flinches, the words prodding at an old wound that’d never truly healed. All of the wind goes out of his sails. His shoulders drop, visibly defeated as the anger drains out of him, and Ilya wants to take the words back immediately.

“I was the captain in name, sure, but I lost control of the room the second we got outed and I never got it back,” Shane says quietly. “Boston didn’t have a gay captain they were actively trying to excommunicate. Montreal did. They are not the same kind of locker rooms. Please don’t pretend that they are.”

Neither of them say anything for a long, taut moment.

“Just…all I’m say is don’t go out of your way to be mean to him, okay? I don’t know how much you heard, but he didn’t actually mean it,” Shane says finally, hanging his head and not meeting his husband’s eyes. He’s so goddamn tired. “So that’s all I’m asking. I’ll keep an eye on him, you know I will.”

Ilya concedes, mostly because he’s slightly worried about Shane at this point. This is the most information Shane has ever offered about what it’d been like in Montreal after he came out, and it definitely isn’t painting a pretty picture.

‘You were the captain’ rings through Shane’s head for the rest of the day. It follows him into his dreams.

Chapter 3: February 2022

Chapter Notes

next chapter will be up before or during next week, feat. mother duck Shane Hollander coming to terms with the fact that he's 'acquired' a younger player (duckling)

January 2022

They’re out at a gay bar in NYC after an Admirals game when Ilya’s voice cuts through the buzzing conversation going on around them.

“Da, but Hollander eat rabbit food, you see, so of course I use carrot on stick to lure him here,” Ilya says, “took me a while but he made it here in the end.”

He’s sitting at a table with Ilya, Hunter, and Kip. A good handful of their Centaur teammates and a few of the Admirals, as well, are spread out at the other tables around them.

It’s the same joke in a different font, except for some reason this time Shane feels something fracture inside of him, the cracks running and running until he can’t tell where they stop. But he laughs drily along with the rest of the table and quirks his lips with a smile that doesn’t even come close to reaching his eyes. He feels hollow.

He makes the mistake of accidentally making direct eye contact with Scott Hunter of all people. The guy must not like what he sees, because his brow furrows slightly, giving him a questioning look. Shane darts his eyes away quickly and keeps his gaze averted from his general direction.

The conversation quickly moves on. Shane sips at a ginger ale and doesn’t meet anybody’s eyes. He laughs and nods when he’s supposed to, following the words exchanged but feeling slightly disconnected from his body.

He feels off for the rest of the night, unsettled in a way he isn’t familiar with. Later on, when they’re at home and making out in bed, he considers asking for Ilya to fuck him rough. It’s routine for him at this point, general cause and effect, but for some reason he does the opposite.

“Like…like the first time,” is what he says instead, painfully quiet and unable to look Ilya in the eyes as he does.

But Ilya doesn’t mock him or laugh. He visibly softens as does his voice. He drops down from where he’s holding himself up over Shane and practically coos before he presses a delicate kiss to Shane’s lips.

Shane thought maybe it’d make it better, this weird feeling he has. Asking Ilya to be mean hasn’t fixed this situation, so perhaps the opposite would. His eyes go glossy the minute Ilya is finally pressing inside of him, though, and he immediately has a feeling that that isn’t the case.

“Okay?” Ilya asks. Shane smiles softly to himself. That way of Ilya checking in on him, and sometimes Shane on him in turn, has stuck around ever since that very first time, and it still makes him feel warm inside this many years later.

“Yeah,” Shane says back, even though it feels like his heart is in his throat.

Ilya fucks him like he’s something precious, keeping him on his back the entire time rather than keeping it completely true to that first time way back then. Shane is glad because he doesn’t know how well he’d do if he couldn’t see Ilya in his current state.

Ilya tilts his hips just so, readjusts his own hold on Shane’s body, and then his thrusts are hitting Shane right in the spot that makes his bones turn to liquid. Shane gasps against Ilya’s lips and squirms at the feeling.

“Take me so well, my love, like always,” Ilya murmurs, Russian mixing with English. “Always so fucking beautiful, my beautiful Shane.”

The glossiness escalates to tears brimming and then spilling down the sides of Shane’s face, running towards his ears and then down the side of his neck.

“I love you,” Shane gasps, his voice wet and wobbly. “I love you much, ‘lya.”

Ilya pulls his head back just enough to see Shane’s face, searching it for the signs of distress he heard in his voice. Shane is crying and his eyes are bearing some kind of desperate expression that Ilya’s never seen in them before. He slows the movement of his hips slightly, concerned. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” he asks, brushing a sweaty strand of hair off of Shane’s forehead. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong,” Shane groans, head lolling back against the pillow under it. “Feels good, sorry, I don’ know why I’m bein’ like this.”

“We can stop, baby,” Ilya says, hips barely moving at this point. “Is okay.”

“No, no,” Shane says quickly, wrapping a hand around Ilya’s bicep. “I’m okay, ‘lya, it’s good, it’s good, you know this happens sometimes, I’m good.”

Ilya eyes him for a moment longer, but the look in Shane’s eyes when their gazes meet again is a familiar pleading one this time.

“Please, please,” Shane begs, squirming impatiently.

“Okay, okay,” Ilya says finally, moving his hips again. Shane hiccups around a moan at the movement, eyes rolling back slightly, and it’s enough to reassure the Russian to continue.

“’m I good?” Shane says, as Ilya’s dick begins to light him up from the inside once more.

“You are the best,” Ilya replies, gathering Shane’s body closer to his and snapping his hips a little quicker. “My good boy, you are always so good for me, of course you are good, baby.”

Shane keeps crying, a steady stream of tears sliding down the sides of his face no matter how hard he tries to stop it. The topic of it being a kink, people crying during sex, that is, has come up in the past, but both of them had been clear that that’s not something either of them are into, at least not purposely making someone cry. Because of that it’s still a relative rarity within their sex life, something that elicits increased care and attention when it happens rather than it being a turn on. Shane is grateful for this even if it stresses him out in the moment, especially when it’s a time like this and Shane is for some reason reacting to a joke Ilya tells all the time like it’s the equivalent to him pulling out a gun and shooting him pointblank.

Ilya basically fucks him stupid without ever even drifting into the realm of fast or rough, and Shane loves him for it even if it’s simultaneously tearing him apart for some reason.

Shane doesn’t truly break open until after they’ve both come and have transitioned into the aftercare phase of things. Ilya pulls away just enough to probably reach for one of the washcloths they’ve taken to keeping stocked in their nightstand drawers for times like these. Shane flinches bodily and then wraps his limbs around Ilya like he’s hanging off of a cliff.

“No, please don’t leave me,” Shane openly begs, clinging onto Ilya’s body probably too hard. “Please, don’t go, don’t leave me there, please just stay.” It slips out of him unintentionally, that line, like it’s something he’s been thinking about this whole when in reality he’s finally realizing why he cries after indulging in that habit of his.

“Leave you where, baby?” Ilya says. He sounds confused, but he’s still doing what he normally does when Shane gets like this. He allows Shane to cling, rubs his hands up and down his back and coos soft, sweet things into his ear.

Montreal, Shane wants to sob, even if it doesn’t really make sense, because part of him never really left that god forsaken locker room, did it? That’s what this must be about. Part of him is here in Ottawa, and the other part still lives there.

And Ilya doesn’t even know. He has no idea that going back to that place is Shane’s worst nightmare and that every time he tells that joke, it’s like a microdose of him being back there for some reason.

“Don’t leave me here,” Shane forces out, as if in correction of an error rather than what it really is, a bandaid over a bullet hole that’s seeping blood that he, for the first time, can’t seem to stem. He’s bleeding out, right here in their bed, and he can’t stop it but he also can’t make that known, it would ruin all of the work he’s put in so far to keep everything a secret. For Ilya’s sake, he reminds himself, because it was my choice to stay.

“Never, sweetheart,” Ilya says immediately, tightening the hold of his arms around Shane’s body. “I am not going anywhere, solnyshko, will stay right here forever if you need.” He sounds confident and he’s glad that he does, but he can’t help the worry bubbling up in him that something is wrong. Shane cries sometimes, yes, but not quite like…this.

“I love you, I love you so much,” Shane gasps, but it’s not like when he was saying it just a few minutes ago. It sounds like a confession, Ilya thinks, like Shane is admitting to a weakness, like he’s sorry.

“I love you too, sweetheart, more than anything,” Ilya says immediately, pressing a kiss to Shane’s temple. Shane shudders as more tears slip free from his eyes and race down the sides of his face.

It takes Ilya a lot longer than usual to calm Shane down. Shane cries silently for a lot of it, sniffling only when he absolutely has to because he already feels stupid enough for crying like this again. He shakes, too, which is new, a visible tremor running through the rigid line of his body that he can’t seem to stop no matter how hard he tries.

Ilya keeps up a steady, reassuring stream of soft things that he speaks into Shane’s hair and the side of his head. Shane keeps his face pressed firmly into the space above Ilya’s shoulder for all of it, completely overwhelmed, it seems. When his body finally loosens and Ilya ever so tentatively rearranges them so they’re on their sides and under the covers, he catches sight of the smaller man’s eyes, droopy and unfocused. He’s struck by the feeling that Shane had only calmed because he’d been exhausted rather than soothed, and it makes something nervous settle in his gut, because clearly something is wrong even if he won’t tell Ilya what it is.

Shane has never said that before, ‘don’t leave me here.’ He’d corrected himself, but something tells Ilya that he’d meant what he said originally. It makes no sense, though. Like he’d already asked before, he’s still wondering: leave you where?

The look in Shane’s eyes when Ilya had finally manages to get the both of them into the hotel shower tells him that an interrogation about it, at least tonight, is out of the question. Usually once Shane comes out of the drops he gets sometimes after sex, once he’s gotten enough aftercare, usually he snaps completely back to himself. That doesn’t seem to be the case tonight.

So Ilya settles them into bed without pushing. He dotes on Shane a little more than he usually would before bed, but that’s mostly because Shane always gets bent out of shape when he feels like Ilya is babying him, so that also to speaks to just how fragile his husband must be feeling tonight. They settle with Ilya spooned up closely against Shane’s back.

The shivering had stopped halfway through the shower and Ilya is grateful. He’s seen Shane through his fair share of subdrops, the first time unknowingly after their encounter in Vegas before they were even together, and he’s shaken a bit during them, but nothing to this caliber. It’s another check in the “concerning” column.

But Shane seems warm now. Ilya’s like a furnace, Shane has told him so, and Ilya had been sure to tuck the pair of them securely under the covers. The A/C is off, a rarity because, again, Ilya is a furnace and Shane normally runs warm. He’s pressed snugly back against Ilya’s front, body relaxed, so Ilya thinks they’re through the worst of things.

My own boys hurt me, Shane thinks to himself, imagining that he’s saying it to Ilya as they’re lying together in bed, my own team hurt me and I still don’t fully understand why. I don’t know why I stayed, I don’t why I never said anything back then, I don’t even know why I still haven’t told you, you’re my best friend in the whole world and I haven’t told you.

Maybe the explanation is hidden in plain sight, he thinks. I was the captain, me, it was me, and they were my boys. My fault for the distraction and my job to fix it and I couldn’t even manage that, scoring goals was all I was good for, and that’s not how a captain is supposed to be. They’re supposed to be personable, someone you can go to about things, someone you can laugh with, someone you can relate to, someone who sets an example. He’d been none of those things, couldn’t be those things, for some reason, like it’s something fundamental about his character.

That’s what must’ve done this, broken something Shane didn’t even know could break between them. ‘You were the captain, yes?’ It’d been like confirmation, like he’d proven Shane right, like Shane was the common denominator in this situation and that’s an explanation in and of itself. Shane doesn’t know how to fix this broken thing now, either.

Chapter End Notes

sorry Shane baby for putting you thru so much shit lmao. at least this fic of mine doesn't lowkey lull you into a false sense of security like my other one? idk if that reassures any of you

oh and oops I fumbled the dates for the last two chapters, the first two chapters are in the fall of 2021, not 2022. The titles have been edited to reflect that.

Chapter 4: February 2022

Chapter Summary

Shane acknowledges that he's taken a duckling under his wing, Val asks the hard questions because he cares, Ilya worries, we get some background on how Shane managed to keep a secret, and of course some fluffy bits interspersed <3

Chapter Notes

hey y’all, please accept my humble offering, hope it’s alright :3

[I've been in the detail trenches, have literally researched what the common away game swings are for the NHL Ottawa Senators for ~logistics~ in the upcoming chapter, jfc]

I do not, in fact, have an upload schedule and I’m juggling a few different fics all at once bc I’m a mess who can’t just stick to one LMAO, but I DO have an outline, so that’s good. (gimme a break, working out the intricacies of an ENTIRE playoff run for tomhwtnmf has been a TASK)

February 2022

After the homophobic incident in the locker room, Shane inadvertently seems to take Val under his wing. It’d started with a bang when Shane showed up to practice the day after everything happened and made it a point to give Val pointers on the ice and then sit with him during lunch. He’d gotten a lot of strange looks, but Shane had been determined to make sure the kid didn’t burn out of the NHL over something he hadn’t even wanted to do, a kid who could’ve been Ilya in another life, a kid who was acting like a watered down version of Troy Barrett circa his Toronto Guardian days. He’d felt the judgment and the confusion, he still does some days in regards to Val, but he has pointedly ignored it without comment.

He’s kept up that behavior even up until now, giving simple corrections or praise during practice, sitting with him during meals or team dinners, asking him for things in the locker room like tape or scissors instead of someone like Bood or Barrett. It’d taken a couple of weeks of this for some of the team to slowly follow suit. Younger players started talking to him on the ice again, and it slowly spread to them including Val in conversation off the ice, as well. Some of the older players began to catch on and now, two months later, everyone treats him pretty much the way they already had been before everything happened. That’s not a great spot to be in considering Novikov should have been fully welcomed into the fold by this point in the season had he not said what he said, but it’s definitely an improvement.

This has all occurred mostly begrudgingly, and Shane has a feeling it has everything to do with he himself going out of his way to show that an excommunication of Val is entirely off the table. Shane had done it out of the need to smooth things over in the beginning, but as time has gone on he’s grown quite fond of the younger player. By January Shane was actively having a good time hanging out with Val, and the chirps about him having acquired a rookie in the way that some more seasoned players do sometimes began earlier this month.

Ilya hates all of this. He’d watched the shallow friendship form between Shane and Val with a silent disapproval. Shane has blatantly ignored his displeasure at the situation. If Ilya knew the entire why of the reason Val said what he did, his opinion of the kid would likely change, but Shane will be the last person to ever out anyone, so he’ll probably never know.

They play against Brooklyn and then the Admirals a day later. New York puts up a good fight but loses to the Centaurs 3-5. Shane gets a goal in the first, an assist in the second, and then assists on a powerplay goal by Val in the third. They’d scored amid a partial change between the first and second powerplay lines, so Ilya is forced to celly with Val alongside Shane, Dykstra, and Chouinard after the goal. It’s Val’s first ever powerplay goal in the NHL since the Voyageurs never had him on the ice for one and Wiebe had just moved him to the second powerplay unit barely a month ago. Shane makes sure to grab the puck from the ref before he skates back to the bench for a much needed line change.

He hands the puck to one of the equipment guys, Stew, once he’s on the bench. “First career powerplay!” he says cheerfully.

“Gotcha,” Stew replies, setting it aside somewhere safe. They’ll put hockey tape on it and write it out in Sharpie later. Shane is going to make it a point to get a picture with the kid and the puck, too, because he deserves it and also because he knows it’ll irk Ilya. Shane thinks that his best bet at getting Ilya to like Val may be to just annoy him until he gives in, and it seems to slowly be working.

The rest of the team seems genuinely happy for Val if you go by the smiles and the pats on the helmet he’s receiving. Shane is glad. It’d taken some time, but the team seems to have almost fully come around on the kid, barring Ilya, of course.

Shane does get that picture with Val in the locker room, much to Ilya’s simmering annoyance. They all go out to the bar to celebrate the win after the game.

Shane sits with Ilya on his right side and Val on his left in a large booth big enough to house them and four of their other teammates. He’s sipping at a ginger ale, not particularly in the mood to drink tonight. It’s pretty par for the course for Shane, at this point, so nobody had even blinked when he’d ordered that instead of something alcoholic.

Ilya gets up to go to the bathroom. He stops by another table filled with their younger teammates and responds to something one of them says. A smug smirk creeps onto his face and his voice carries as he, with a sickening familiarity, tells that stupid joke that makes Shane’s insides feel rotten. Shane tunes out the rest of the exchange once it’s clear that that’s what Ilya is saying.

He forces himself to smile and greet Ilya normally once the Russian finally returns to their table. Barrett is almost immediately dragging him away once more to get the next round of drinks for the table, though, so Shane thankfully doesn’t need to perform too much. Shane watches the pair head towards the bar with a faint buzzing in his ears.

“I don’t know why you let him tell that joke,” Val says quietly, in Russian.

“He does not know about Montreal,” Shane replies, also speaking in slightly stilted Russian, not looking at him. “I would like to keep it this way.”

“Why? Why not tell him when hearing him joke about that makes you…like this?”

“Like what, Novikov?” Shane snips back.

“Shane. That joke obviously bothers you, don’t try to tell me it doesn’t. It would bother me, too, if I was you. It bothers me even as me. They speak about Montreal like they were only a team of kindergartners who said some mean things to you.”

Shane doesn’t say anything for a beat, watching as Ilya leans across the bar to order a round for the table.

“He thinks they all turned on me when that video of us came out, not before. I was worried every team was like that, and that if I left they would have no reason to stay quiet anymore, no benefit to them, and that he would get caught up in it. He had just signed with Ottawa, we would not have gotten citizenship fast enough.”

“But the Centaurs aren’t homophobic, Hollander, so why keep it from him once you knew that? And even now?” Val presses.

That’s the crux of the issue, Shane thinks. He can’t even answer that question for himself yet. The possible answers he’s come up with are embarrassing and say too much about him than he likes: that he was punishing himself, that he felt partially responsible, that he felt like he deserved it, feeling that Ilya has already sacrificed too much for Shane to go ahead and make that tough time in their lives about him instead, that the way Montreal treated him hadn’t actually been that bad, that he’d felt a sense of responsibility to stay and fix the things he broke, that he felt pressure from his mother and the city and the hockey world as whole to be who Montreal needed him to be because that is who he always was in Montreal, that the way his team had treated him was a reflection of who Shane is as a leader and a friend and a person. All of it is horrible and no good and he hates it.

“I do not know why yet,” Shane admits. “But the possible reasons are not great.”

“In what way?”

“In the way that a therapist would have fun time picking it apart,” Shane says drily. Val snorts.

“That is…unfortunate,” he says, sipping at the rest of his beer.

“Good way to put it, yes,” Shane agrees, also downing the rest of his ginger ale.

He’d told Ilya to get him something sweet and alcoholic when he’d gone to get the next round. He hadn’t been planning to drink tonight but had changed his mind the minute he’d heard the familiar beginning set up of that stupid fucking joke. Having a few drinks always relaxes him a bit, and if he’s drunk there will be no discussions about sex once he and Ilya get back to their hotel room for the night. Avoiding sex altogether after Ilya tells that joke might be the way to go from now on because Shane doesn’t know if he’ll be able to lie his way through it like he’d barely managed to do the last time.

Ilya comes back to their table with Barrett and Haas at his side, each of them holding several drinks in their hands and arms. He places a strawberry daiquiri in a plain glass in front of Shane and another beer in front of Val.

“Thanks, Roz,” Val says.

Ilya grimaces and doesn’t meet the younger player’s eyes. “Da,” he says before immediately moving on and handing Bood a beer, as well.

“See?” Val says, in English, when Ilya is momentarily out of earshot. “He still hates me.”

Shane nods knowingly. “At least he said something to you this time,” he replies, also in English, shrugging his shoulders. “In Russian, even. Progress.”

That’s a thing Ilya has made it a point to do: he avoids speaking in Russian with Val. He’s stubbornly stuck to English only, even when the younger player is floundering, despite it being both of their native languages. It’s very clearly done out of spite, but Ilya has acted like he has no idea what Shane is talking about every time he’s brought it up.

Shane has responded by making it a point to speak to Val in Russian as often as possible rather than opting for English. He knows he’s supposed to speak English with the kid to encourage him to learn the language, but Shane figures there’s plenty of other people doing that already. The best part is that Ilya can’t even say anything to dissuade Shane because Shane’s Russian has, of course, improved greatly through all the practice and vastly expanded his ability to communicate with Ilya in Russian, as well.

Ilya comes back to the table and slides into his spot next to Shane. He slings a possessive arm over Shane’s shoulder and eyes Val conspicuously while doing so. Val snorts and takes a sip from his drink while Shane rolls his eyes at the behavior.

“So dramatic,” Shane mutters, also taking a long drink from his own glass.

Shane finishes one drink and then another in pretty quick succession considering his limited history with drinking. He cuts himself off at the third, beyond tipsy and in fully drunk territory by the time he’s halfway through it. He’s half slumped into Ilya’s side by the time the team calls it a night and everyone starts to head back to their hotel.

Ilya pulls him into the shower once they’re back in their room. He washes Shane’s hair for him and they make out a little bit, but that’s the extent of their post-bar activities. Ilya tucks them into bed once they’re out of the shower and Shane is out like a light shortly after curling up against the Russian’s chest.

Ilya lies awake for a little while longer than Shane. Shane hasn’t drank like that in a while. It’s not something that the smaller man takes part in often. That paired with the way Shane’s been acting lately…something definitely isn’t right.

***

They play the Toronto Guardians a week later. They’re losing 2-3 late in the third and it sets Shane on edge. The game has been extremely physical as the Guardians always are and the homophobic slurs have been raining down on him all game. The mood in the locker room between the second and the third period was tense and uncomfortable. Games and nights like these have always made Shane nervous, an old, engrained habit from Montreal, and tonight is no different.

He plays nervous, too, unfortunately. For some reason he’s stressed and anxious and constantly bracing himself for an attack, so of course the puck slips right off the blade of his stick and makes its way right onto a Guardian player’s. The turnover results in a goal with only a minute left in the game, making it 2-4 and ending any hopes the Centaurs had of coming back and tying the game to force it into OT.

Shane’s limbs are made of static as he makes his way back to the bench. He doesn’t look at anyone. A player comes back to the bench for a line change a few moments later and bumps into Shane as he sits down. Shane flinches away and quickly plays it off as if he’s shuffling around to make room.

His brain turns it all off the next moment, as it does sometimes. One blink he’s still sitting on the bench, fully in his body, and the next he’s sitting in the locker room, freshly showered with water dripping from his hair and down his back.

He looks around, trying to gauge how much time has passed. This hasn’t happened in a while, only once early in this first season of his with the Centaurs, which is pretty good considering it’d been a nearly weekly occurrence by the time he’d finally left Montreal for good.

They’re gaps in his memory. ‘Dissociative blackouts’ his therapist calls them, from the PTSD that he apparently has. Having a name for it now is kind of nice, but it doesn’t make having them any less fun. He’d been able to relax and stop thinking he was dying of brain cancer or something when he’d learned the name for it and it’s gotten a little easier to manage, but they’d been downright horrifying when they’d first started happening.

What seems like half of the team has already cleared out of the locker room already but plenty are still taking off their gear or returning from the shower, so it luckily couldn’t have been too long.

“You good?” a voice says to his left, in Russian. It’s Val, standing there fully dressed with his backpack on his back.

“Fine,” Shane replies, also in Russian, looking around for his shoes. He needs to put his jacket on, too, and get a move on. He hates being among the last few to board the bus after a game. “Why?”

“Because you just spent the last twenty minutes speaking to me in English,” Val replies. Shane finds his shoes inside the storage under the bench of his stall and sits down heavily to shove his feet into them.

“So?”

Val fixes him with an unimpressed look. “Hollander. Come on. I look at you, you stare straight through me like you are not really there.”

Shane waves a hand at him, stooping down to tie the laces of his sneakers. “Is nothing, barely happens anymore now. I am fine.”

“Anymore?” Val says, now looking more concerned rather than less. “What is it?”

“I check out sometimes, in my head. Never for very long, never on the ice. Like a blackout when you drink too much.”

“Hollander,” Val says, unimpressed and slightly alarmed.

“I talk to doctor, she know, is not big problem anymore. I always remember what I miss after, also. Eventually,” Shane insists.

“So post-trauma stress, da? It’s that?” Val says.

“Listen, I know it is stupid. Montreal was not that bad. I am not soldier or anything like this, is stupid, but that is what doctor say, so yes, I guess.”

“Shane.”

Shane forces himself to focus hard so that this next bit of Russian comes out as clean and polished as he can manage. “It is being handled, Val. I have a doctor. This is only the second time this happened this year, it used to be every week in Montreal. I am a lot better now, so relax.”

“Never on the ice?”

Shane grimaces, caught.

“Once. Playoff game, turnover, Comeau reamed me out on the bench and called me a—you can guess. It was in the second, I came back to myself in my hotel room. Pike caught me and forced me to see a therapist, and so I did, so again, relax,” Shane explains, going back to tying his other shoe. “During blackout, it is like autopilot. Lucky for me, Shane Hollander on autopilot plays pretty decent, safe hockey. Safe enough to keep me medically and psychologically cleared to play despite the gaps.”

Val doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“You are sure it is safe.”

“The only time I felt safe on the ice back then was when we played against Boston, and then Ottawa, because I knew Ilya would be playing. He plays with me, now. I am not worried when I am on the ice anymore,” Shane says slowly, unsure if he’s being too honest. Not worried enough to lose time on the ice, at least, Shane thinks to himself.

“But off of it, you are,” Val says, a statement, not a question.

Shane’s gaze flicks up to Val’s, expression a little to knowing for the younger player’s liking. “You are, too,” Shane replies.

Shane hasn’t been oblivious to the quiet signs of stress Val himself also exhibits around the team at times. The closed off attitude at the beginning and then after the homophobic slur mishap. Less so, now, but it was there and still is sometimes. Eyes that follow movement in the locker room a little too closely. Flinching when someone surprises him. Startling, even if only slightly more dramatically than normal, from a loud noise or sudden movement. It’s not as bad as Shane’s admittedly more frequent reactions, which makes sense considering only Shane was Montreal’s true target, but it’s still there if you know what to look for. It’s been an unspoken thing up until this point, but Val is the one who brought it up.

They stare at each other for a long moment, an impasse.

“Fine. Just…don’t be stupid, Hollander. Ask for help if you need it,” Val finally says, conceding.

“That’s my line,” Shane says drily.

“I’m serious.”

“I know. I will, Val. I would ask,” Shane promises. It sounds flimsy even to his own ears.

Shane tells Ilya that he’s tired on the bus ride back to their hotel, so the couple stay in and order room service rather than accompanying Bood, Dykstra, and Chouinard to an Italian restaurant one of their Toronto buddies had recommended. He picks at his pasta once the food arrives, his appetite nearly nonexistent.

No matter how insistent he was with Val that that blackout was no big deal, it was, in reality, a major backslide, Shane knows. It’s been months since his last one. He’s had plenty of time to acquaint himself with the Centaurs and the inner workings of the team; he should be settled by now, settled enough that he isn’t losing time like a head case. Yet it happened anyway, against a team as insignificant as Toronto in the grand scheme of things, over a turnover that could’ve happened to any of them.

He vows to text his therapist and schedule an earlier appointment than their standing monthly one that’s set to be two weeks from now. He’ll call her in the morning.

Keeping the reality of Montreal’s treatment of him a secret from Ilya hadn’t been an easy feat. Hayden and J.J. had been the biggest hurdle. Hayden may dislike Ilya, but not enough to let it override his concern for Shane. He’d looked at Shane like he was insane when he’d asked if he would keep the details about what’d happened after Shane came out to the Voyagers a secret from Ilya, Shane’s parents, and the general public. Shane had insisted, though, had given a brief if bleak outline of Ilya’s declining mental health, had explained that he needed to protect Ilya as best as he could and keeping the team’s reaction quiet was the best way to do that. His two friends had agreed at the time without too much pushback.

Hayden had revisited the topic once Shane had left the Voyagers to play for the Centaurs, had, reasonably, said that the danger is gone so there’s no reason for Shane to keep it a secret anymore. Shane isn’t proud of it, but he’d essentially begged. He’d talked about shame, and embarrassment, and anxiety, and guilt. Talked about how shitty he’d been treating Ilya without fully realizing it until the man had almost died in a plane crash. Talked about wanting to at least try to keep what little dignity about the Montreal situation he had left.

Hayden hadn’t backed down until Shane had talked it over with his therapist and she’d agreed that not telling Ilya everything, at least for the time being, wouldn’t be detrimental. Shane’s therapist definitely wasn’t particularly thrilled by the idea of her patient keeping the source of what is apparently a ‘major trauma’ from his husband, but had acquiesced under the agreement that it’s only temporary because, while it’s Shane’s life after all, she can’t recommend it as a healthy decision. The temporary support from his therapist had been enough to convince Hayden, and J.J. in turn, to continue keeping Shane’s secrets for him.

He has no idea how his therapist is going to react to hearing the news about this latest setback, but he hopes it’s nothing too bad. Maybe she’ll say something wise about it simply being part of the healing process and absolve him of the guilt that’s now weighing down on him. It’s an interesting dynamic: he’s guilty for not telling Ilya but also guilty enough to make sure it stays a secret. Ilya will be probably be so upset to learn that Shane had kept it from him for this long if he ever finds out, but it seems the guilt about Shane’s past behavior towards his partner before he’d moved to Ottawa has been enough to override this.

Shane still doesn’t know what to do.

“You okay, baby?” Ilya says softly, breaking through Shane’s thoughts. Shane looks over. Ilya’s looking at him with an expression he can’t read.

They’d cleaned up after eating dinner and gone about their nightly routine afterwards. Shane had made sure both of their bags were packed with most of their things except for whatever they’d need out just for the night; he’s never in the mood for a last minute mad scramble the morning they fly out when they’re on the road. Shane had called his parents while Ilya showered and then Ilya had called Marleau to catch up with the guy while Shane did the same. They’d landed in bed, lying side by side, with the TV playing SVU ahead of them as they intermittently scroll through the social media feeds on their phones.

“Huh? Yeah, of course I’m okay. Just really tired. It was a tough game,” Shane replies evenly. “Clarke was targeting me all night.”

“I see, yes, is why I smash his ugly face into glass,” Ilya says, his lips twitching. “Legally, of course, moya lyubov'.”

Shane smiles softly, even if it’s a bit tired looking.

“I love when you call me stuff like that, you know that?” Shane says quietly, the last bit in French.

Ilya’s eyebrows draw together slightly as his brain works through the translation. Then a real, soft smile appears on his lips, one that’s reserved only for Shane and puppies and children. And maybe Luca Haas, Shane thinks, terribly fond.

“Moy malysh, moy milyy, dorogoy, Shanezhka, moy krasivyy, milyy, khoroshiy mal'chik,” Ilya says, curling slightly onto his side towards the smaller man. Shane smiles, his cheeks pinking up. My baby, my sweetheart, darling, Shanezhka, my beautiful, sweet, good boy. Shane was quick at these translations; Ilya’s said all of them countless times at this point.

Shane tips onto his side, as well, instinctively gravitating towards his husband, incredibly charmed.

“Ma vie, ma lumière, mon cœur, mon amour. Mon bébé, mon chéri, mon trésor, mon loup. Mmm, mon oiseau-loup, maybe,” Shane says back in French, taking care to make his words as clear as possible so Ilya can keep up. My life, my light, my heart, my love, my baby, my darling, my treasure, my wolf, my wolf-bird. His smiles sharpens slightly, a glint in his eye. “My adorably terrifying chaos monster, my menace to society. “ He adds the last bit, also in French, as a playful afterthought.

“You call me chaos…monster?” Ilya says after a beat, struggling to catch up.

“Mm, maybe,” Shane says noncommittally, rolling even further towards Ilya so he’s practically smiling into the man’s neck.

“Menace to society?” Ilya continues, poking Shane lighting in the side. Shane laughs and squirms.

“I did say my,” Shane exclaims, shoving and laughing as Ilya continues to poke the soft spots on his body that make him jerk.

Ilya doesn’t drag the teasing out for too long. He’s chuckling slightly when he stops and both of them lay back down, calm once more. He leaves a hand on Shane’s hip and uses the other to tip the smaller man’s chin up so they meet each other’s gaze.

“What was the first part?” Ilya murmurs. “I know baby, treasure, wolf, my love, also. But the rest?”

Shane hums softly, suddenly feeling a little shy. “My life, my light, my heart, my love,” he murmurs back, blushing darker as his eyes dart away.

It’s a little mushier than the things he usually says. Shane also doesn’t use French a lot because Ilya still doesn’t speak it very well. Ilya’s trying, he knows, but he’s also just gotten to a comfortable point with his English and adding a third language on top of that can’t be easy. Shane’s been speaking French and English since he was a kid, so he has a clear advantage. He’s gotten pretty good at Russian as time has gone on, but sometimes he still breaks out the French-Canadian to articulate himself a little better. That and because Ilya loves when he speaks French even if he can’t understand a lot of it. Shane would tease him about it if not for the fact that he’s always felt the same way about Ilya’s Russian.

Ilya makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. Then he’s reaching forward and using his arm to pull Shane closer to him.

“Just like I said,” Ilya says quietly, his lips brushing over Shane’s forehead. “Moy milyy mal'chik.” Shane definitely knows that combination of words, as well. My sweet boy.

Shane melts into him, his body molding against Ilya’s like it’s what it was always meant to do. He presses his lips against Ilya’s and then they’re making out, hot and languid. Their fronts are pressed together so it’s easy to tell when the pair of them both start to get hard rather quickly. Shane hisses when one of Ilya’s hands finally finds it way to the bulge in his underwear.

“Want?” Ilya says, his accent already thickening. His Russian accent, more often than not, becomes increasingly pronounced the more turned on he is, a fact that Shane’s always been amused by when he’s not busy being horny out of his mind over it.

“Da,” Shane murmurs back in Russian, just to see the heated flash that flickers through Ilya’s eyes.

They rut their hips together for a while until Ilya finally shimmies his underwear off and helps Shane do the same. They lay on their sides, pressed against each other, and frot their dicks together until they both come like teenagers. It’s hot and not too much, which is exactly what Shane needed.

Shane hums and make soft, content noises after they’ve come down from the high fully, pleasantly loose and relaxed.

Ilya cleans them up, a job that often falls to him, but it’s not like he minds.  He pulls Shane over top his chest like they most often sleep once he’s done. Shane makes some more of those sweet, tired noises and Ilya smiles to himself, running gentle fingers through his husband’s hair.

“Love you,” Shane murmurs, already fading into unconsciousness.

“I love you too, sweetheart,” Ilya replies, craning his neck to kiss Shane’s head.

Shane falls asleep first but Ilya follows closely behind him.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for the love so far for this one! it’s great seeing all of your lovely comments <3

Next part for this baby is mostly written, just needs some tweaking and a quick edit pass through and it’ll be good to go. Is it gonna be THE chapter? Guess you’ll have to read it to find out :)

and yes I have a threads, it's nothing special tho: @p6trick.5

 

 

oh…and I thought I’d mention that I’m working on a fic listed under Anonymous because I’m not sure if I love it, the subject matter is a little morose, and the writing so far has felt a little lazy on my part (I’m a perfectionist about my fics and my traditional fiction writing in equal amounts, lmao), BUT the style might seem familiar if you happen to stumble upon it so if you do (you probably won't), that’s why, lol

Chapter 5: March 2022, Pt. 1

Chapter Summary

it's time

Chapter Notes

I really didn't want this to read as too dramatic or over the top, so I hope I accomplished that lol

hope y'all enjoy, thanks for the lovely comments! <3

March 2022

Val comes into practice one morning early in the month looking oddly squirrely, in Shane’s opinion. It’s the same stiff set of his shoulders, downcast eyes, and quietness from when Val first joined the team and then again after the homophobic slur mishap. It’d slowly faded as time had gone on and Shane had singlehandedly managed to drag Val into the fold of the team whether the rest of the team liked it or not without saying so much as a direct word about it. Val had gone out to lunch with a couple of the other younger players twice this week, and it wasn’t an oddity, it was a normal occurrence now.

Shane sits down in the stall next to the kid and immediately addresses it.

“Why do you look like that?” Shane asks, speaking in Russian.

Val glances at him but doesn’t stop in the motions of putting his skate socks on. “Like what?”

“Like you want to disappear into background.”

That gets Shane a reaction. Val stops with the sock halfway up his calf and finally turns to looks at him.

“We play Montreal this week,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Did you not realize?”

Shane grimaces. Of course he’d realized. As if that game isn’t marked with a big red circle on the season calendar hanging on his and Ilya’s fridge.

“I know that,” Shane says evenly. “So what? They liked you, it is me they hate.”

“’So what?’ I don’t like what they say about you, either, Shane. It’s awful. Especially when I—” the younger player cuts himself off and looks away without finishing.

Shane knows what he’d meant, though, and why he stopped. “Yes, ‘especially when.’ I know, Val, I know. I wish they would not, but they will. It is what it is, but I will be okay. I have a lot of practice, remember?” He tries to make it a joke, even laughs and smiles, but it’s mostly for Val’s sake and the younger player can tell based on the unamused look he sends Shane.

“Yeah, I remember. I was part of the problem, I remember that, too,” Val says.

“We have beaten that horse to death, Novikov,” Shane says with a heavy sigh. “Give it a rest. That was what it was, too. You’re forgiven by the person whose forgiveness matters most, so stop it.”

“Sorry.”

“None of that, either,” Shane chides gently.

“I’m trying,” Val says with a slight sigh.

“I know.”

“Rozanov still looks at me like he wants to murder me,” Val grumbles.

“Well I think that is good compromise instead of it being the whole team that does,” Shane says drily, patting the younger player on the back. It’s a joke and it does a good job of finally breaking the tension a bit, because they both laugh lightly over it.

He definitely could’ve done without the reminder from Val of exactly who they’ll be playing at the very end of the week. It’s front and center in his mind, now, a constant buzz of wonder at what is going to happen. The Voyagers had spent the first game against them this season casting hushed, venomous chirps Shane’s way, most of them being of the homophobic variety. None of it had ever been loud enough to carry across the ice, to be heard by the officials, or to be picked up by the ice-level mics. Ilya had overheard Comeau say something midway through the second period and damn near knocked his teeth down his throat, but Shane knows that’s not enough to deter someone as deeply hateful as Gilbert Comeau from doing it all over again during this upcoming game.

He’d had a few nightmares leading up to that first game, the unknown scaring his brain into cooking up some truly terrifying scenarios. Finally experiencing it, though, was actually not that bad. It’d actually been a subdued version of how they used to treat him back when he was still their teammate, so if anything he’d felt a little relieved. The logical part of him that knows this, though, has never been able to fully override the irrational part of him, so the stress sets in, anyway.

Dykstra comes up to Shane in the locker room before practice to ask for a spare pair of scissors. Shane has his back turned fully to the room, had been rummaging around in the storage area under his stall’s bench in search of a t-shirt of Ilya’s that he’d stolen weeks ago and wanted to wash so he could wear it again. He taps him on the shoulder and Shane jumps damn near a foot in the air in surprise before rounding on the other player, suddenly furious.

“Jesus fucking christ, Dykstra,” Shane curses. “Warn a guy, huh?”

Dykstra throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Sorry, man. Do you have scissors?”

Shane rolls his eyes and huffs, but he calms down, the momentary anger dissipating faster than it’d appeared. He reaches back into his bench and grabs a pair from his kit bag, handing them over. Dykstra thanks him and goes about his morning, because it hadn’t been that odd of a reaction for an NHL player to have in a locker room from an outside perspective. It’d seemed like Shane was joking when he’d snapped at Dykstra, not that he was actually angry, but it’s most certainly a red flag to the people who know Shane well.

The reaction catches Ilya’s notice and when the Russian looks across the locker room he sees that Novikov is watching Shane carefully now, as well. He watches as the younger player gets to his feet and makes his way to Shane’s stall. He says something in Russian and Shane rolls his eyes and chatters back in his own increasingly smooth Russian. Ilya narrows his eyes slightly; Val knows something that he doesn’t.

Practice starts off fine. Shane and Ilya link up beautifully during a drill midway through. Everyone cheers and Shane rolls his eyes while Ilya basks in the reaction.

“Yes, yes, I know, Hollander and I are magical together,” Ilya says smugly to the group at large.

Wiebe rolls his eyes but is smiling good-naturedly as he blows the whistle for the next group to take a run at the drill.

Ilya and Shane join the short line of the other players who have already completed the drill, Val and Boyle. This time it isn’t a joke to others that makes Shane’s stomach drop, it’s a joke Ilya directs at him.

“Could have had this a long time ago, da?” Ilya says casually, a playful smile on his face. “Should have dragged you away to Ottawa sooner.”

And Shane…Shane is normally able to let this kind of thing roll off of his shoulders. He’s overwhelmed by the sheer weight of everything else when Ilya says it this time, though, the looming game against Montreal, the thing in the locker room with Dykstra, and now this. He loses control of himself for a moment.

“Do you really fucking think that I actually wanted to fucking stay there, Rozanov?” Shane snaps through gritted teeth. It’s contained enough, his voice only loud enough for Ilya and the two nearby players, Boyle and Novikov, to hear, but it’s still definitely not how Shane had meant to react.

“Wh—Shane, what?” Ilya stammers as his blue eyes go wide, completely caught off guard. This is a joke Shane always laughs off, Ilya’s been telling it for ages.

Shane snaps his mouth closes and briefly shuts his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says after barely a moment, voice suddenly perfectly measured and even, “I’m…I’m just tired and I have a headache, I didn’t mean it. I’m alright.” He skates away before Ilya can stop him.

Ilya watches Shane’s retreating form, still in slight shock from his husband’s abnormal reaction. His gaze drifts and he finds himself staring, eyes narrowed, at Novikov. Novikov pointedly looks away and pretends he can’t feel the glare Ilya is burning into the side of his helmet, much to Ilya’s annoyance.

Shane avoids Ilya for the rest of practice, much to Ilya’s increasing concern and annoyance. Ilya catches him in the hallway right outside the locker room when they’re on their way off the ice at the end of practice.

“Are we gonna talk about it?” Ilya asks, trying to get the smaller man to meet his gaze.

“Talk about what?” Shane replies. The nonchalance in his tone is flimsy at best; Ilya sees right through it.

Ilya gives him a look. “You snapping at me over a joke?” he replies, incredulous.

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane says, exasperated but not angry.

“I tell that joke all the time, Hollander, and it’s true! You waited to come here!” Ilya insists.

“I know, Rozanov, I know it’s true, I’m aware, you remind me of that fact with a joke at least once a week,” Shane deadpans.

“No,” Ilya says firmly, shaking his head. “No, now you say ‘no, I didn’t want to stay,’ so which is it?”

“I’m not talking about this here,” Shane says, sidestepping him and heading into the locker room.

Ilya stares as he goes, once again surprised. It wasn’t a complete refusal at least, but it was definitely a temporary redirection. He figures that it’s fair considering Shane has never been one to want to have serious personal conversations at work, but he’s still so damn confused. He’ll leave it alone with Shane for now, but he’s definitely not dropping it.

Shane is already in the shower when Ilya gets into the locker room. Ilya’s focus zeroes in on Val, who up until now has been purposely avoiding looking in his direction since Shane’s mild outburst on the ice. Yeah, the kid definitely knows something. Ilya tries not to stomp as he makes his way to the younger player’s stall.

“You,” Ilya says in Russian. “You know something.”

Val stares back at him in surprise and looking very much like a deer staring into a set of headlights.

“Know what?” he says, clumsy as if he’s never spoken Russian a day in his life.

“Don’t be cute,” Ilya says, undeterred by the feigned ignorance. “About why Shane would not want to stay in Montreal.”

Val fixes him with an unimpressed look as if it to say, ‘are you serous right now?’ “You do remember how they reacted to the news about your relationship, right?” Val says, but he doesn’t meet Ilya’s eyes as he speaks.

“You know what I mean,” Ilya says. “I mean before that.”

“I think he can tell you that himself,” Val says quietly, fiddling with the roll of cloth stick tape in his hands.

“I made that joke for nearly six months, Novikov, and all of sudden he’s not okay with it. The only reason he would say what he just did, would adopt a homophobic puppy like you, is if Montreal wasn’t good even before he and I were outed, right?” Ilya presses, not letting up.

“I’m not homophobic.”

Ilya huffs a humorless laugh. “Ah, I see, so that gay slur, that was just something the entire team hallucinated hearing you say.”

Val squirms slightly under his scrutiny much to Ilya’s satisfaction. “I was confused. I didn’t mean it.”

“Confused?” Ilya says, laughing again. “Confused about what?”

“About what kind of locker room this is, Rozanov,” Novikov bites back, finally expressing some annoyance at the interrogation rather than anxiety.

“Oh? And so you thought it’s the kind of locker room where it’s okay to say things like that? A team with two gay players, the captain and an alternate, who are also openly married to each other?” Ilya quips back with a scoff.

Val raises his head and meets Ilya’s gaze head on, something angry appearing in his eyes. “You think just because a team’s captain is queer that that automatically means the rest of the team isn’t homophobic?” he says, incredulous and with a sort of superiority that makes Ilya’s jaw clench. “Don’t be naïve, Rozanov.”

“So…so what? You said that because you thought it was acceptable?” Ilya says.

“I was worried that it was the kind of locker room where it’s expected,” Novikov says, clearly and evenly, not dropping his gaze. “Expected of you to say things like that and react like everyone else does to things like that, to pick a side and make it known quickly before you become a target. That kind of room, Rozanov.”

Ilya’s face goes blank. Then some understanding begins to dawn, not enough to figure out what the full situation is, but enough to infer.

“And Montreal was like this,” Ilya says, more of a conclusion than a question.

Novikov nods and finally looks away.

“You’re telling me that Shane Hollander allowed this and didn’t say anything,” Ilya says next.

Novikov’s head snaps back in Ilya’s direction, that same anger from before making a reappearance. “My first season with Montreal was the one when you guys were outed. The team already knew he was gay by then. Who else do you think their main target always was?”

Ilya reels back, eyes going wide. “Novikov,” he hisses.

Novikov immediately realizes that he’s said too much. Shane is going to be pissed when he finds out.

“I’m not saying anything else. He’ll be mad at both of us if I do,” Novikov says.

Ilya stares for a beat, then another, the muscle in his jaw jumping as it clenches and unclenches a few times. Then he nods, once, and stalks off towards the showers to take one himself. He passes Shane who’s just coming out as he goes. They don’t look at each other.

Shane clocks the nervous energy radiating off of Val the moment he lays eyes on the kid. He makes quick work of getting dressed in his street clothes so he can plop down in the stall next to the kid’s.

“What is it?” Shane asks.

Val sighs, looking at him miserably. “I’m sorry, I fucked up. Rozanov kept pushing me about Montreal, and I mentioned that the team was already being an asshole to you before you and him were outed.”

A pit forms in Shane’s stomach. He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face, and then looks back over at Val. “Is okay, I know how he can be when he is…determined. Don’t worry, is not a big deal.” He reassures the kid even though his stress levels have just spiked through the roof.

“Are you gonna be alright?” Val says, reading Shane far too well.

Shane huffs out a laugh. “It will be fine, will just suck, probably, but is okay. We will see how it goes.”

“He’s an idiot, Hollander,” Val says, relaxing now that he’s sure that Shane isn’t angry at him for the mistake. “Some people call you the naïve one, but he looked me in my face just now and was shocked by the concept of a team still being homophobic even if their captain is queer.”

“Yes, that has been…a surprise, yeah,” Shane concedes, a bitter smile forming on his face.

“Just keep me updated, Hollander,” Val says just as Ilya comes back to the locker room from the showers.

Ilya drives him and Shane home from the rink. Neither says much during the drive or even once they’ve arrived and are inside the house. Shane microwaves them a pair of the pre-made meals they have in the fridge for lunch. Ilya waits until they’re done eating to finally speak.

“You waited until we were outed to come to Ottawa,” Ilya says carefully, very obviously trying to be as neutral as he can manage. “You wanted to retire in Montreal.”

“I know,” Shane says, getting up to take the reusable glass containers they use for meal prep to the sink. “I just…I didn’t sleep well last night and I had a headache this morning, I didn’t mean to snap at you.” He knows he’s playing dumb right now, but a part of him is still hoping that he can get out of this without having to tell Ilya everything.

“I am not asking because you snapped at me,” Ilya says slowly, staring at Shane’s back. “I’m asking because you said you didn’t actually want to stay, which is not what you’ve said up until now. You meant it, today, yes? Just…just tell me, Shane.”

Shane grips the edge of the sink with both hands, shoulders hiking up towards his ears. He breathes out slowly through his nose and then makes a decision, the responsible one, the one he’s been avoiding for several years. “I meant it today, yes, I didn’t want to stay.”

“Then why tell me you did all this time?” Ilya asks, creeping towards him.

“Because it was easier,” Shane says, not turning around. “I didn’t have to explain why I stayed.” I didn’t have to explain why I’ve waited this long to tell you.

“And why did you stay, malysh?” Ilya says softly, trying not to panic.

“Because I found out what it’s like for your team to know you’re gay in the NHL, and it wasn’t good,” Shane says, tone emotionless. “I knew that the only reason they weren’t blabbing to the rest of the league about it was because I was still useful to them. If I left they would’ve talked, and with all that attention on me, it would’ve led right to you eventually. You… we still didn’t know if they’d terminate your contract if everyone found out, if your visa would get voided, if they’d deport you, if Ottawa really was just as good as they turned out to be. I just…I didn’t know, and I was scared.” Both options had been scary, but at least with the decision to stay silent about it this long he’d been able to hold onto some dignity regarding the situation, Shane thinks, now I won’t even have that.

“So you stayed,” Ilya says.

“So I stayed,” Shane confirms. Even though every day I spent there after coming out to the team had chipped something away from me that I don’t think I’ll ever get back, he thinks to himself.

“But you didn’t want to.”

Shane shuts his eyes and ducks his head down. “But I didn’t want to,” Shane forces himself to say in confirmation.

“Why didn’t you want to, Shane? I know wanting to play with me is a reason, and also that they were upset about me, but this is something else, I know it is,” Ilya says, back to the gentle prodding from before. This is the most he’s ever gotten out of Shane about Montreal and it’s worse than he’d ever feared. “What happened, malysh?”

Shane laughs once, a dry, humorless thing. “Exactly what I was afraid of,” he grits out.

Ilya says nothing. Instead, he waits. Shane’s shoulders are tense and hunched up near his ears, the entire line body screaming ‘uncomfortable’ and ‘stressed.’ His husband seems like one push too far will make him snap, and Ilya doesn’t want to force the issue.

“What you’ve probably imagined before yourself,” Shane finally murmurs, still not turning around. “It started right after I came out to them, before they found about you, not after. They said stuff they wouldn’t dare say in front of their families, let alone in front of a camera. They’d say it around me or behind my back, either about me or directly to my face. Other than that they stopped talking to me unless it was to yell. They stopped listening to me as a captain, they treated the C like it was a joke. They…” he trails off, voice dead and devoid of emotion.

Ilya finally closes the gap between them, taking a risk and resting a cautious hand against the small of Shane’s back. Shane shivers slightly from the contact but doesn’t pull away. He still doesn’t look at Ilya, either.

“They started pulling pranks on me like you would in juniors. They didn’t want me showering with the team anymore and always had something to say about it. They’d get in my face and just scream at me after practice or after games. They’d pick apart every mistake I made on the ice,” Shane continues after a moment. His eyes slide back open and he stares straight ahead. “Every loss was my fault. Every turnover or missed pass was just another reason to…to h-hate me.” His voice cracks and wavers at the end and his hands tightens against the edge of the sink as he gets a hold of himself.

“Shane…” Ilya says quietly, brushing a thumb up and down Shane’s back.

“And I tried to fix everything, I really did, but no matter what I tried nothing ever…nothing ever worked. I, uh, I was the captain, and I couldn’t fix it no matter how much I wanted to.”

Oh fuck, Ilya thinks to himself, his stomach dropping, oh no, I fucked up.

He’d been the one to bring up the fact that Shane was the captain back in Montreal. It'd been something that he hadn’t even meant to say, said in a moment of irritation at Shane’s lukewarm reaction to one of their younger players using a homophobic slur in their locker room. He’d meant it in a playful way, a tease at Shane’s ability to command a locker room even from a young age, something Ilya struggled with a lot when he’d first been given the C. There’d been a gap in maturity expectations that Ilya had had to bridge rather quickly at the time because he knew Boston management would murder him if he hadn’t. Shane has always spoken about his remaining time in Montreal like it was only an annoyance once he’d gotten past the initial heartbreak of his team turning on him, not the hostile war zone he’s just described to Ilya. It’s clear now that Ilya’s words had likely come across as critical, instead.

“Shane, sweetheart,” Ilya tries again, his mouth and throat suddenly completely dry, his stomach at his feet.

“I didn’t wanna stay, Ilya,” Shane says again, staring down into the sink with blank eyes. “But I had to.”

This is the ‘something’ that’s been wrong, Ilya thinks, at a loss for words. This is not something that he ever expected Shane to tell him. Shane has aways laughed about the major homophobes in Montreal, has snorted and rolled his eyes and offered his own mild-mannered chirps about the likes of Comeau and Drapeau and Andropov. He’d been his normal level of calm with a touch of typical Shane-anxiety during the Centaurs’ first game against the Voyagers this season which, while it had surprised Ilya slightly, it hadn’t alarmed him.

Ilya can’t take it any longer, so he turns Shane towards him and pulls him into his arms all in the same motion. Shane goes without a fight, resting his forehead on Ilya’s shoulder and not meeting his eyes and allowing Ilya to sway them slightly back and forth. He’s still rigid in Ilya’s arms, his body a mass of tense muscles, but at least he allows it.

“Maybe if I’d been better at it, you know, like how you and Hunter are? Your teams like you guys, they always do, so maybe things would’ve gone differently. I’m annoying sometimes, and weird about stuff, I know I am,” Shane barrels on in the same bleak, lifeless tone. “I guess I thought…I guess I thought that Montreal liked me for more than just getting them wins, but, um, it turns out I was wrong.” Shane’s voice finally wavers, low and so quiet it’s barely there, the words wobbling out of his mouth and sounding like he’d choked on them on their way out of his throat.

Ilya’s heart is breaking. Saying what he’d said in the heat of the moment probably had more of an impact on Shane than the Canadian will ever admit to. Based on what Ilya’s heard so far, it’d been damn near the equivalent of peering into Shane’s soul, picking out his most tender insecurity at the heart of the Montreal issue, and throwing it in his face to mock him.

They’ve talked about hard things before, of course they have. Getting together officially, then deciding how they can be together, then the tumultuous time in their relationship before Shane came to Ottawa where they were arguing over things that probably could’ve been solved with some increased communication, things about Ilya’s childhood, Ilya’s mom, Ilya’s depression, Shane’s anxiety, their less-than-vanilla sex life, through all of these difficult conversations Shane had been to look him in the eye.

Shane can’t even seem to look at him right now, let alone meet his gaze. He’s wound so tight he’s nearly shaking from the tension. This is bad, Ilya’s brain supplies.

Ilya swallows thickly. “No, sweetheart,” Ilya say softly, holding him tighter. “No, baby, you did everything right. There isn’t anything you could’ve done, Shane.”

Shane shakes his head slightly against his chest. When he speaks, his voice is terribly small and unsure. “I was…I was the—” he begins.

“You were the captain?” Ilya finishes for him. Shane goes silent and nods once, a tiny thing. “Who cares? Captain of a professional sports team is not captain in military or something, baby. Players are not legally required to listen to them. Shane, you were one person against dozens.”

Shane doesn’t say anything or react at all. It’s terrifying.

“I know that I said something about it a few months ago when we argued, that you were the captain, but I did not mean it that way. I was angry, it came out wrong. I meant it like…like ‘you are Shane Hollander, master at sarcasm, I’m sure you read them to filth whenever they said things,’ not like it was your job to fix or that it was your fault.”

“It feels like my fault,” Shane whispers. “I can’t make it stop.”

“So many people have told you it is,” Ilya murmurs, rubbing one of the hands he has wrapped around Shane up and down his back. “I even did without meaning to, without realizing. It will take time, I think, to feel differently.”

“But it wasn’t my fault,” Shane mumbles, tone flat, a question posed as a statement.

“No, sweetheart, none of it was your fault,” Ilya says, clearly and firmly, doing what little he’s able to do to try and help Shane internalize it.

Shane’s arms twitch where they’ve been hanging lifelessly at his sides and then, finally, raise to loop loosely around Ilya’s neck. Ilya holds him even tighter as Shane moves his head from its spot against Ilya’s shoulder to the crook of his neck. Shane starts to shake slightly with tears, the only other indicator that he’s crying being the wetness on Ilya’s skin where Shane’s face is pressed into his neck because the smaller man is otherwise entirely silent. Shane’s arms around Ilya’s top half tighten until he’s clinging. Ilya holds him through it, mind running a mile a minute. Shane looks small in his arms in a way the professional athlete shouldn’t.

How much damage has already been done? Ilya thinks to himself, continuing the soothing up and down movement of his hand against Shane’s back, how deep does it run?

“Do you promise?” Shane says, soft and wobbly and painfully unsure.

A lot of damage, Ilya decides immediately at the sound, heartbroken, it must run very deep.

“Yes, baby, da, I promise it was not your fault,” Ilya says, his voice thick as his eyes sting with tears of his own. “YA obeshchayu, je, um, ah, je le promets, that’s it in French, right, sweetheart?”

Shane nods, says nothing, and continues to cling. Ilya holds on tightly, as well, an anchor in the storm he’d had no idea Shane has been trapped in all this time.

Chapter End Notes

next update will be the game against MTL (the 'protect the rookie' moment finally) and some more

and Shane hasn't told Ilya nearly everything here, this was his surface level explanation and both of them know that. details about what MTL did are going to be a slow burn of sorts until we reach a pressure point later on

Chapter 6: March 2022, Pt. 2

Chapter Summary

the centaurs face off with montreal for the second time this season, someone threatens Shane's cub and Shane responds, said cub returns the favor

Chapter Notes

ik it's been a bit, please enjoy lol

March 2022, Pt. 2

They board the dreaded bus ride to Montreal a few days later. The time between now and the conversation they’d had has passed with a fragile calmness. Shane had clammed up about the issue the morning after and Ilya hasn’t pushed, afraid even a little pressure might be catastrophic.

Shane had shared a little bit with Ilya the night of that conversation. They’d been lying in bed together, Ilya curled closely against the curve of Shane’s back with an arm thrown securely over the smaller man’s waist and his face close enough to his husband’s head that he could smell Shane’s shampoo. It was Ilya’s shampoo, actually; Ilya had drawn them a bath after watching Shane shiver with exhausted tremors for too long. It’d taken some coaxing, but Shane had eventually, finally, melted against Ilya where he’d been situated between the Russian’s legs in the tub of warm, sudsy water.

Not having to look people in the face seems to be something that makes Shane braver, Ilya thinks. He knows Shane struggles with eye contact and has never really minded, but this Montreal situation seems to have brought something out of Shane, something…ashamed.

When they’d finally settled, warm and close in bed, tucked away together in the dark, Shane had talked.

It hadn’t been much, Ilya definitely still has what feels like a million questions, but it was more than he thought he’d get out of Shane so soon after the initial conversation.

“I’m sorry I never told you,” Shane had said quietly, carefully neutral. “I don’t know why I didn’t once we knew Ottawa was okay, I just…I don’t know why yet, but I’m sorry I did, it was kinda dumb.”

Ilya had been momentarily surprised by the sudden admission, so it’d taken him a few moments to respond. “I think I have some ideas of why you would,” he’d admitted, leaning his head forward so that his nose was brushing against Shane’s neck. “But I am not angry, so there is no pressure to figure it out. Would be helpful to you, I think, but I am okay either way, sweetheart.”

Shane had sucked in a breath, surprised, it’d seemed, by Ilya’s response. Then he’d relaxed even further into  Ilya’s hold, much to Ilya’s adoration. He’d fallen asleep shortly after.

That’s the extent of the information that Ilya knows.

He finds himself tracking Val around the room more often. He’d started at practice the day following Shane’s confession and it’s carried on to today during team lunch. It’s not out of anger and disgust anymore, but rather some kind of wary concern. Val would clearly know the answers to a lot of the questions Ilya has, answers it may take a while to wheedle out of Shane, and the not knowing is stressing Ilya out. He’s never seen Shane react to a heavy conversation like that before, a quiet implosion rather than the usual obvious explosions he experiences during things like his occasional panic attacks or the uncommon subdrop. It worries Ilya even though he knows what’s wrong now; it feels like there’s something more coming and he wishes he could be better prepared for it, whatever it is.

Ilya’s also been watching Val because it seems that, against his will, his opinion for the younger player is changing. Ilya had only gotten a rough description of how Montreal had treated Shane, but it’d been miles beyond how cruel Ilya had thought the team had been towards him. Unbidden, the words he’d heard Shane say to Val in the hallway have been replaying his head lately, things like ‘that’s fine, you don’t have to tell anyone’ and ‘you don’t have to pretend to be safe here’ and, more recently, Val’s own voice saying, resolute and like he has a personal point to prove, “I’m not homophobic.” If all of that adds up to what Ilya has a feeling it may be, then he might be forced to change his regard for the kid entirely. He’s not exactly happy about it.

Wiebe plays Ilya at first line center and Shane as the same for the second line. He’d done the same for the first game the Centaurs had played against Montreal this season but had opted to have the second string start and Shane, in turn, had ended up with the opening face-off. Shane is relieved that Wiebe had decided against that this time around; he didn’t like the odd pressure that’s on him to perform spectacularly against his former team then and he certainly still doesn’t now.

Ilya takes the opening face-off against Comeau. Theriault had quickly slotted Comeau into first line center spot once Shane had left Montreal. He’d also left Hayden on the same line as Gil’s left-wing, much to Hayden’s displeasure. He’d told Shane over the summer that he was trying to find a way out of Montreal because of how insane the locker room has gotten. Shane can only imagine that it’s gotten worse since he’d left and, considering Hayden had always been his only true ally in the Voyageurs’ locker room, it probably hasn’t been great for Hayden specifically. He’d signed an eight year deal two years before Shane had moved to Ottawa, so he still has six years left on his contract with the Voyageurs who, despite the team’s vocal hatred of Hayden Pike, have been steadfast in their refusal to move him anywhere. Hayden’s been adamant about it and his agent is still working on it, but he’ll be staying put in Montreal for the time being at the very least.

Ilya wins the face off by a wide margin, much to Comeau’s disgust, and they’re off. Ilya puts a goal in, five hole, on Drapeau shortly after the opening face-off. Troy Barrett scores five minutes later on a breakaway. Shane sends his winger LaPointe a pass that leads to a pile up at the net and ends with the puck rebounding into the net, much to Drapeau’s ire.

The Centaurs are leading 3-0 late in the first period. The Voyageurs have been playing angry since the third goal which also means they’re playing sloppy and increasingly aggressive. There’s plenty of chirps flying from either side, but nothing has edged into “out-of-line” territory quite yet, much to Shane’s relief as well as surprise.

Val plays on the third line except for his occasional appearances on the second powerplay unit, but he and Shane end up on the ice at the same time during a partial line change mid-play. Shane is exhausted and definitely needs the change, but the Voyageurs are pressuring him in the Centaurs’ defensive zone so he’s stuck out on the ice instead.

J.J. turns over the puck and it goes from Young’s stick to Shane’s. Re-energized, Shane takes off for the Voyageurs’ zone with Val following close behind on his wing. Shane has to let the puck go to him moments after they cross the blue line because of pressure from J.J. Gagnon, a player who had never really like Shane to begin with, let alone after Shane came out, comes flying in and, without so much as an attempt at slowing down, slams Val hard into the boards. It’s basically charging, a penalty rarely called these days in the league because most guys aren’t stupid enough to be so reckless.

Val’s legs buckle and he crumbles quickly to the ice from the hit. Shane is watching the puck but also his teammate, who doesn’t immediately pop back up to his feet like he always does.

“What, you forget how to take a check, Novikov?” Gagnon hisses, grinning down at Val.

The refs finally blow the whistle, stopping the play as Val still hasn’t gotten to his feet yet. Shane’s already moving toward the heap of Val and the far too gleeful Gagnon now that the play’s dead, so he hears the next bit that the Voyageurs player leans down to spit at Val loud and clear.

“Guess being on the faggiest team in the league has had its effect.”

Shane’s body goes cold like someone has dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. Then heat roars through him, a flush that starts in his face and spreads down to his toes. He sees red, no longer thinking with any leadership or responsibility in mind but instead fueled solely by an all-encompassing rage that he’s never felt on the ice before, and Val is still down on the ice—

“What the fuck was that?” Shane shouts, darting forward and shoving Gagnon away from the younger player below him who is, thank god, finally pushing himself up so that he’s upright on his knees. He continues in French, “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, espèce de putain de pédé,” Gagnon snaps back, rolling his eyes.

Shane isn’t listening anymore. His ears are ringing. His gloves are on his hands one minute and shaken down onto the ice the next. He grabs Gagnon by the neck of his jersey and hauls him in close, right hand already curled into a fist, his thumb untucked so he doesn’t dislocate it just like he’d been taught, and he doesn’t wait for the other player to react as he draws his arm back.

Maybe I’ll break my hand, Shane thinks, or at least a finger, a small price to pay either way.

He swings.

He starts throwing the punch right around the time Gagnon realizes that Shane is fighting him so the Voyageurs player is just managing to shake his own gloves off to defend himself by the time Shane’s fist connects with his face. Shane had seen the delayed reaction and used it to his advantage, getting in a jab on Gagnon’s nose and then another one right after on his jaw. His helmet falls off.

Gagnon finally grabs hold of Shane, as well, and now they’re well and truly fighting. He swings wildly, grazing Shane’s cheek once and then landing a pretty hard punch to Shane’s visor. The plastic of the visor cracks and Shane immediately knows he’s cut from it but that doesn’t deter him in the slightest. His helmet falls to the ice from the impact, as well.

“You are out of your fucking mind,” Shane hisses in French, yanking Gagnon around slightly by his jersey and dodging the man’s next punch.

Gagnon has fought before, but he certainly isn’t an enforcer or a player Shane would consider good at fighting. Shane doesn’t consider himself a fighter, either, but based on size and experience in the league alone, Gagnon should definitely still have the advantage. Shane is fueled by some insane kind of blackout rage, though, which seems to be enough to outweigh his weaknesses. The Voyageurs player is holding his own, but Shane is clearly overpowering him in a way no one, including Shane himself, would have ever expected.

Shane lands another hit on Gagnon’s nose and something pops this time. Gagnon curses, rearing back as blood streams quickly from his nose, and loses his footing when he does. He slips slightly, dropping to one knee and continuing to throw punches wildly. One grazes Shane’s jaw but that’s hardly anything compared to the state of the Voyageur player’s face. Shane doesn’t swing down because he still has half a mind to pay attention to NHL fight etiquette, be he does shove Gagnon the rest of the way down so that the man is fully kneeling. The refs descend then and start yanking them apart.

“Look at that, Gagnon! Look who’s on his knees for this fucking fag now, huh?” Shane shouts down at Gagnon over the shoulder of the ref who’s steering him away. The other man’s eyes blaze and Shane smirks, now skating with the refs rather than against them as they guide him towards the Centaurs bench.

Shane heads straight to the locker room, passing a swarm of his teammates who pat him on the shoulder and shout praise as he goes. Ilya is arguing with the refs at the ref circle, probably over what kind of penalties are about to be handed down. It was a clean enough fight that Shane highly doubts he’s going to get an instigator penalty, but maybe they’ll make the right call in regards to the hit on Val rather than ignore it like they’ve been doing for the rest of the questionable hits so far tonight.

Either way, Shane needs a clean jersey that doesn’t have blood on it and a check-in with medical before he can return to the ice. There’s only six minutes left in the period, though, so he highly doubts he’ll make it back out before it ends.

Training staff and medical has just finished assessing Val and clearing him for play when Shane clamors into the trainers’ room, red-faced and slightly out of breath.

“Holy shit,” Val curses at the sight of him. He switches to Russian when he continues, “Christ, Hollander, you didn’t need to go that hard, I’m okay.”

“I do not do things by halves, Novikov,” Shane says drily in response, pulling his jersey over his head when prompted by the head trainer. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, just had the wind knocked out of me,” Val replies. “I think you broke his nose, Hollander.”

“That is the least he deserves,” Shane says darkly, wincing slightly as their head trainer prods at a cut on his forehead.

Val snorts and shakes his head.

The final bill is a split lip covered generously with liquid bandaid, two stitches that their team doctor throws into his forehead with a quick precision from where he got nicked by his broken visor, some liquid bandaid over the split skin of his knuckles, and some bruising that’s blooming quickly on his eye and jaw. They give him a shot of Toradol and send him on his way back to the locker room.

The period had ended during his time with medical so the team is in the locker room when he emerges from the trainers’ room. A glance at the clock on the wall tells him they’re midway through the first intermission, so not too bad on timing.

All in all, it certainly could’ve been worse. Shane probably would’ve broken his hand and gotten himself ejected from the game if Gagnon’s chirp had been about Ilya, he’s pretty sure. The thought should scare him, but something in him is instead deeply satisfied at this new development, the understanding that he, Shane Hollander, can in fact actually fight, and fight pretty alright, it seems. He never really understood why some players actively seek out the “I will take no shit” reputation in the league, but he thinks he does now a little bit; it feels powerful.

Shane is, of course, questioned by his teammates about his exchange with Gagnon during the intermission. Rather than ducking his head and mumbling something noncommittal, he finds himself leaning into it. The adrenaline is still humming through his body, less so than during the actual fight but still enough to have him feeling a little bold.

“He told me to shut up and called me a ‘fucking fag,’” Shane says, tone far too chipper for what he’s saying. “I didn’t really like that, as you can tell.”

“Fuck sake, Hollander,” Val says from his right, shaking head. “Careful, some of them look like they’re about to go into cardiac arrest from the slur your just dropped.”

“I subscribe to the…uh, fuck, what is word in Russian? Reclamation! Da. Big supporter of that. If I am gonna be attacked with it, I damn well have the right to use it myself.”

“And that, too,” Barrett pipes up, gesturing between Shane and Val, “he hit your rookie.”

“Novikov is hardly a rookie,” Shane replies, rolling his eyes and accepting the ice pack Ilya hands him.

Ilya seats himself on the bench next to his husband, his eyes scanning Shane for any signs of distress. Shane doesn’t really fight, and certainly not to the magnitude that just occurred out on the ice. He’d watched from the bench as the altercation began, had seen the way Shane’s eyes had gone black with rage. This is a lot of strong emotions for his husband to be going through, especially considering they’re playing against his former team, the one that Ilya has just learned far too recently had essentially abused Shane.

“Doesn’t matter,” Bood chimes in. “Barrett’s right. A younger player with a veteran bestie is automatically their rookie, so Val’s your rookie.”

“’Besties,’” Ilya repeats with a scoff. Shane kicks his shinguard with the toe of his skate.

“Be nice to my rookie, Rozanov,” Shane quips.

“Oh, so now you are okay with him being your rookie?” Ilya says, playfully exasperated. “Five seconds ago you disagree.”

“You have to be nice to him if he’s my rookie,” Shane insists, pressing the ice pack firmer against his right hand as he directs a lazy smile at his husband. Ilya is unimpressed.

“Kid follows you around like a fucking lost duckling,” Ilya mutters, ducking down to re-tie his skate laces as the minutes tick down on the clock towards the beginning of the second period.

“Yes, thank you for describing to me what a rookie is, Rozanov, I’m glad you know,” Shane says, not giving in.

Ilya sighs, long-sufferingly, but says nothing more. Shane smiles slightly, feeling a bit like he’s won something.

“That would make you mama duck, Shane, just to remind you,” Val says mildly.

“I can live with that,” Shane replies immediately. Val snorts.

“Quack quack,” Val says, the sound already funny with the deadpan way he says it but elevated to hilarious by the thick Russian accent Val still has.

The team erupts into laughter.

Ilya watches Shane carefully like he had earlier, he can’t help it. This is the first extended conversation Shane has had with the team where he’s the center of attention since Shane told him about what happened in Montreal. He’s trying his best to not be too obvious about it, but he can’t help the way his entire view of Shane’s relationships with their teammates has restructured after that horribly heartbreaking conversation in their kitchen.

Shane’s face is relaxed, if a little pink, from the chirping and the gentle ribbing. He looks like he’s having fun, Ilya thinks. The Russian relaxes ever so slightly.

“You shouted something at Gagnon as the refs pulled you away,” Chouinard says slowly, suddenly speaking up, curious. “He looked like he wanted to kill you after. What the fuck did you say?”

Shane tries to school his face, but a smug grin spreads across it anyways.

“I reminded him that he basically just got on his knees for me after calling me the fucking fag,” Shane says after a suspended moment.

Bood whistles. Ilya makes a strangled noise from beside him. Val looks skyward, shaking his head. Barrett barks out a disbelieving laugh.

“Holy shit, Hollzy,” Barrett says, voicing what everyone was thinking. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“No, I kiss another man, actually, so it’s fitting,” Shane deadpans. The locker room dissolves into laughter once more.

Not during a single second of this exchange did Shane feel afraid, or worried, or anxious about how the team would react to him. He’s spent so much time this past season, be it subconsciously or not, obsessing over the way he acts around the Centaurs. He’s more aware of it these days and does his best to relax in that regard, but it definitely still happens.

It still doesn’t feel like much of a victory, because his feet feel kind of numb and his entire body is buzzing like there’s static hidden underneath his skin. All the injuries he just sustained, even with the mild pain relieving effects of the Toradol he’d gotten, should hurt a lot more than they presently do. It’s anxiety turned to dissociation, not a full blown episode, thankfully, but some of the mid-level symptoms he gets regularly.

So, he feels fine in the locker room, great, but a surface level conversation with Ilya about Montreal and a bruising fight with Gagnon definitely hasn’t fixed him.

“You okay, moya lyubov’?” Ilya asks once the normal locker room chatter starts back up, nudging Shane’s knee with his own.

Shane looks over. Ilya’s eyebrows are drawn together slightly out of genuine concern. Shane softens, offering his husband a small smile and a nod.

“Hand hurts like a bitch, but yes, I’m okay,” Shane replies in Russian. “Also did not think I could fight, but here we are.”

Ilya’s lips quirk slightly. “Mm, yes, my little enforcer, huh?”

Shane snorts and shoves Ilya slightly. Ilya allows it, laughing as he leans into Shane’s space. “Oh, yeah, definitely, like Tie fucking Domi, that’s me,” Shane says, playfully deadpan but fighting an amused smile all the while.

They head back out to the ice for the start of the second period a few minutes later. Shane is feeling okay. Nothing hurts too much. His hand kind of throbs where it’s shoved into his hockey glove, but medical had confirmed via x-ray that it isn’t broken so he just needs to avoid getting into another fight for the next few games and it should be just fine. That’s easier said than done against his former team, to be honest, but Shane thinks he can manage it.

“Had no idea you were so sensitive about words, Hollywood,” Laine chirps from across a face-off dot midway through the period. ‘Hollywood’ had been a “nickname” that the team had started using after Shane came out, a jab at all of the brand deals Shane does as well as the whole ‘gay theatre kid’ thing. It isn’t particularly original but had certainly irked him back then. “Should’ve known, though, of course you’re soft, all of you fags are.” The homophobic slur tumbles clumsily out of the younger player’s mouth, much to Shane’s amusement. That, the way that Laine had said it like a kid who was trying to impress his friends by using a swear word for the first time, has a corner of Shane’s mouth quirking.

The ref circles up with the puck in hand for the face-off. Shane and Laine ready themselves for the drop.

“Was that baby’s first gay slur?” Shane says, cool and calm without even sparing Laine a glance as the ref squats, puck in hand. “Fuck, Laine, I’m embarrassed for you. Might wanna practice in front of a mirror before our next game.”

The ref drops the puck. Shane wins the face-off.

Bood takes a two minute minor penalty for tripping a few minutes later and heads to the box. The Cens are still leading 3-0, so all they have to do is kill the penalty and either put another goal in the net or stifle Montreal for the rest of the period so the team can regroup during the next intermission.

The Centaurs are doing a good job of killing the penalty. They’ve managed to eat up half of it when Comeau crushes Shane into the boards. Shane lands in a heap on the ice, the entire right side of his body absolutely aching. For a moment the pain is all he can focus on, the noise of the arena suddenly muffled as he struggles to regain his bearings.

Ilya doesn’t hesitate. He’s flying across the ice towards the French-Canadian player with his dumb smirk and ugly face before the refs even blow the whistle to stop the play. He checks Comeau away from Shane’s struggling but very clearly alive form, ready to send the Voyageurs player home on a liquid diet from a broken jaw at the very least.

“What’s the matter, Rozanov, that’s where he belongs!” Comeau says with a laugh. “Bet if he stayed in Montreal longer he would’ve gotten on his knees for us eventually, he wanted us to like him so bad.”

There’s a roaring in Ilya’s ears, but two Centaurs players are immediately pushing him away from the Voyageurs player whose jaw he wants to break. They’d been mid-change between the first and second penalty kill units, so it’s Dykstra and also Novikov redirecting him away from Comeau.

Shane climbs to his feet, still speaking to the trainer in front of him. He’s nodding when his eyes flick across the ice and meet Ilya’s.

‘I’m okay,’ Shane mouths to him. It’s the only reason Ilya relaxes and allows himself to be guided to the face-off circle inside the Voyageurs’ defensive zone.

Shane heads to the bench and Wiebe gestures to leave the players that are on the ice currently right where they are. Alright. Novikov is Shane’s rookie, officially now, much to Ilya’s annoyance; he can at the very least play with the kid.

They all position for the face-off. Ilya stares across the dot at Comeau with murder in his eyes, the feeling only magnified by the smug expression on the man’s face. The ref drops the puck.

The puck is mid-air, yet to even make contact with the ice, when a flurry of movement occurs behind Ilya back where the wingers, Novikov including, are crouched. There’s shouting, and Ilya turns around just in time to see Valeriy Novikov grab a handful of Gilbert Comeau’s jersey and, without any hesitation, start throwing punches. Comeau is clearly surprised because it takes three hits from Novikov for him to catch up and start fighting back, cursing up a storm.

Ilya watches, stunned, as the young player absolutely loses his shit on a player of the sheer size and stature that Comeau is. Comeau begins to fight back, but the handful of hits that Val had managed to get in before the Voyageurs player could react have clearly taken their toll. His first NHL fight, Ilya thinks to himself, almost fond, and then he’s surprised by the thought afterwards.

Comeau manages to hit Val a couple of times, once in the mouth and then again on the cheek, but Novikov continues on like he doesn’t even feel it. The refs finally drag them apart when Val, far shorter than his foe who’s built like a fucking light house, gets low and uses the leverage to shove Comeau to the ground. Two refs immediately have their hands on the young player’s jersey because he doesn’t slow down at all, instead funneling his energy into shouting down at the former teammate glaring up at him.

“Say it again, Comeau!” Val shouts in clear, enraged English, the sound carrying across the rink to where Ilya’s still standing back near the face-off dot. “Say it loud enough for the mics to hear if you are so fucking proud of it!”

“Fuck you, bro, you’re a fucking bitch!” Comeau shouts back, as generic of a chirp as it gets.

“That is what I fucking thought, that’s right!” Val calls as the refs start dragging him in the direction of the penalty box despite his resistance. “You were always too much of a bitch to own up to anything, Comeau!”

Well, shit. Well. I guess maybe I could be a little nicer to him, Ilya thinks to himself. His eyes flick to the stands. The fans are losing their minds, because of course they are. The exchange before the face-off between him and Comeau, then the fight right off the rip out of seemingly nowhere from Val, all of it has turned the intensity dial of the game way up to an eleven. He wonders how they’d react if they’d been able to hear the words exchanged between the two teams in the last few minutes.

The refs assess both Comeau and Val matching five minute major penalties for fighting, forgoing any penalties for instigating or unsportsmanlike conduct. Ilya figures it definitely could’ve shaken out worse.

Ilya bullies his way into the space beside his husband once he manages to get back to the bench for a line change.

“I’m okay, I swear,” Shane immediately without any prompting. “I was just winded, nothing is broken, all good.”

Ilya’s eyes still flick all over his husband’s body, assessing for any signs of pain or injury. He relaxes incrementally when he finds nothing concerning.

The Centaurs win the game by a wide margin of 6-2 in regulation. The team goes out for a team dinner that night and then heads back to the hotel after. They’re set to fly home to Ottawa the next morning.

Ilya makes it a point to truly check in with Shane once they’re back in the seclusion of their hotel room.

“You’re okay?” he asks once they’ve settled into bed after a joint shower. They’re tucked neatly under the covers side by side, scrolling through their phone while a police drama plays on the TV.

Shane would like to pretend like he doesn’t know what Ilya is talking about, talk carefully around the issue like he always used to, but that’s not an option anymore. Ilya’s right to be wary of how Shane reacts to playing Montreal now, especially after a game like the one they just had tonight.

He looks over and makes it a point to make eye contact with Ilya when he does. Ilya is already looking at him, phone still in hand probably out of some attempt at nonchalance but eyes focused and evaluating nonetheless.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Shane replies, even managing a weak little smile.

“Was…intense game, da?” Ilya says.

“I think it was, uh, maybe intense in a good way this time, actually,” Shane says. “Always wanted to punch Gagnon in the face.”

“They always talked to you like that?”

Shane grimaces. “I mean, not all of them, but yeah, a good chunk of them did.,” he admits. “Comeau, Drapeau, Gagnon, Andropov, Wilson, Olsson, they never shut the fuck up.”

“So we fucked up a few of them tonight?” Ilya says, lips quirking slightly.

Shane laughs lightly, nodding. “Yeah, we did,” he agrees. He gets serious for a moment, laying a hand on Ilya’s thigh over the blanket. “I’m gonna tell you about it, I swear, I just…need some time. It might not, uh, come out all at once, it’s just, I don’t know, it’s just a lot, y’know?”

Ilya sobers, as well. “Yes, I would think it’s not easy, is okay, malysh,” he replies, nodding his head. “I think I just want you to know that…I’m here, if you need, if you want, for anything, okay? No pressure, you don’t pressure me about my things.”

Shane smiles slightly. “I know, Ilya,” he murmurs, listing sideways so he can place a hand on the side of Ilya’s face and press a soft kiss to his husband’s lips. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Their phones vibrate in unison and their attention is drawn to where the group chat they have with their inner circle of sorts on the team has received a text.

Troy: are we finally gonna acknowledge the absolute psychological warfare Hollzy has put us thru to make us like Val again?

Haysey: yeah what the fuck is this Hollander voodoo magic literally

Shane snorts, shaking his head as he types out a reply.

Hollzy: I have no idea what you’re talking about :)

Troy: fuck off with that

Evan: yeah be ffr Hollzy

Bood: it was kind of weird from u, you know, considering uh everything

Hollzy: yeah so

Hollzy: I never sat the team down and explained things or anything, but the gist is he said it because in the locker rooms he’s been in in the past it was smthg expected as ‘proof’ that you aren’t gay or else they targeted you

Hollzy: he’s young and in a foreign country, he barely speaks the language

Hollzy: plus some other things that u don’t need to worry about

Hollzy: not an excuse, doesn’t mean he deserved instant forgiveness, but it’s an explanation

Hollzy: he’ll never say it again, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to

Hollzy: don’t think he’d be buddy buddy with ‘super gay’ Shane Hollander if he was actually homophobic, right?

Roz: thought you were just regular gay

Shane shoots his husband a look. Ilya pointedly doesn’t look up from his phone screen.

Hollzy: oh so now you agree with me, convenient

Troy: Hollander you CAN’T be srs with this ‘he didn’t mean it’ shit, like come on

Hollzy: Barrett YOU can’t be serious, aren’t you our first homophobe in recovery?? you literally acted the same way less than 5 years ago???

Nicky: oh shit

Haysey: queer on queer crime

Bood: what locker rooms were like this?

Hollzy: literally every Russian locker room he’s ever been in

Hollzy: his rookie season in vegas

Troy: sure you’re not leaving any out on that list Hollzy?

Troy: also wtf does ‘some other stuff’ we don’t need to worry about mean???

Hollzy: does it matter? either way that’s the reason

Hollzy: if you really want to know u can ask him directly, Barrett, but I don’t have permission to talk about it

Bood: Russian locker rooms are like that Roz?

Roz: not every one is obvious like this, but yes, is dangerous if someone starts rumor

Nicky: well fuck

Hollzy: he’s a good kid, I wouldn’t lie to u guys

Troy: ughhh finneeee

(Roz liked this message)

Shane thinks he’s taken care of the issue just fine. He closes the chat and almost locks his phone to go to bed for the night, suddenly exhausted, but a text from Troy Barrett comes through. He sighs slightly and opens the thread.

Troy: there’s something you aren’t saying

Shane: yeah ik I gave that disclosure, remember?

Shane: not my stuff to share

Troy: you’re really gonna make me say it?

Shane: i’m not making you say anything

Shane: only thing I wanna make u do is pause and think about how shitty it’d feel if a teammate were to hop into a private message with another teammate just to start speculating about YOU

Troy: so it is what I’m thinking

Shane: idk Barrett, I can’t read ur fucking mind

Troy: fine ok ur right

Troy: fuck

Troy: ok fine, but what about that locker room bit

Troy: u were way too calm when everything went down

Troy: MTL was one of those rooms, wasn’t it?

Shane: wow, you’ve rlly blown the case wide open, huh

Troy: Hollander come on man for real

Shane: yes mtl was like that, not at the beginning, but after they knew I was gay yeah they turned into one of those rooms

Shane: the first time Val said that word after being traded to mtl he looked like he wanted to throw up

Shane: and he spoke even less English than he does now

Shane: and yes, ‘other reasons’

Shane: so forgive me for giving the scared nineteen year old kid some fucking grace

Troy: how bad was it?

Shane: i'm still unpacking that myself

Shane: but not good, probably bad

Shane: don’t worry abt me, I have Ilya and my parents, worry about Val

Troy: he doesn’t have his parents?

Shane hesitates, his fingers hovering over the keyboard for a moment before he begins to type out a response. What he really wants to say is ‘he does, for now,’ but that’s too on the nose and would invade Val’s privacy. Val is under no obligation to come out in any way, and Shane is not going to say anything that would nudge him in either direction as far as that decision goes.

Shane: it’s complicated

Shane: but either way he doesn’t get to see them until the offseason, they work a lot, so not really there for him

Shane: he was never super close with guys in mtl or vegas

Shane: so be a good teammate and don’t be an ass, got it, Barrett?

Troy: jesus christ

Troy: aye aye captain🙄

“Who’s that?” Ilya asks, leaning against Shane to look at his phone screen.

“Troy Barrett, interrogating me about Novikov,” Shane says, finally locking his phone and leaning across Ilya to plug his phone in on the nightstand.

Ilya traps him with an arm against his back, leaning forward and refusing to let go until Shane rolls his eyes and kisses him. They make out for a bit, Shane relaxing incrementally until he’s basically a puddle against Ilya’s front. Ilya pulls away long enough to make sure his alarm is set for the morning and plug his own phone in, as well, quickly replacing his hands against Shane’s back. He pets the skin there now with soothing up and down motions, shushing Shane when the smaller man makes a protesting noise.

“Close your eyes and go to sleep, sweetheart,” Ilya murmurs, pressing a kiss to his hair.

Shane sighs again, but he doesn’t put up a fight. “G’night ‘lya,” he mumbles.

Ilya smiles softly, closing his eyes as well. “Good night, moya lyubov’.”

Chapter End Notes

things after this have a vague road map with a few things already written but nothing concrete, so bear with me as far as future updates, will likely be around every 3 weeks or a bit less. My other ongoing fic is basically completely outlined so that one will likely be much more frequent :)

on another note i should be going back to playing hockey for the first time in a long while this coming week, im stressed af lmao, here we gooo, maybe it'll inspire me

Chapter 7: March 2022, Pt. 3

Chapter Summary

Shane has a tough conversation with Ilya

Chapter Notes

it's been a while, sorry about that :/ hope y'all enjoy, your kudos and comments are always appreciated and enjoyed <3 :)

March 2022, Pt. 3

Shane and Ilya go on a walk during an off day back in Ottawa a few days later. It’s a nature trail that they both often use for their runs or to take Anya for her walks. Anya was knocked out in her bed when they’d woken up this morning, though, so it’s just the two of them.

“I know you have a lot of questions,” Shane says, kicking at a rock on the ground as they walk just so he has something to do. “I know I haven’t been exactly forthcoming about things.”

“I think I…get why, but yes, is true,” Ilya says, nodding in agreement, hands in his pockets. “But this isn’t, ah, a simple thing, so we go at your pace.”

“I…alright, okay, listen, this is another thing I’m sorry for not telling you about, but it wasn’t because of you, it was because of the same reason I lied about Montreal, okay?” Shane begins as a preface, waiting until Ilya gestures for him to go on before he continues. “I’ve had a therapist for a while, a couple years at this point. I didn’t start seeing her because I wanted to, I started seeing her because Hayden forced me to.”

“Hayden what?”

“He saw how, uh, unwell I was, he was worried about me, and he threatened to call my parents if I didn’t. I’m glad he did, even if I wasn’t at the time. I was so caught up in keeping the lie going, and I knew my parents would tell you if Hayden went to them, and that there would be so many questions, and I just…I figured it’d be easier to just shut him up and go, so I did,” Shane rambles. “And it has been helpful, even if I didn’t think I needed it at the time. But, uh, I’ve been talking to her about telling you everything for a while, and then this week because of, uh, everything, obviously. She thought this would be a good first step, telling you I see her, or like, not even a ‘first’ step, it’s like half a first step, but still.”

Ilya takes a moment to process this. He knows the immediate thought most people on the outside of their relationship would think of is that Shane keeping this bit of information from him made it infinitely harder for Ilya himself to disclose that he also has a therapist, but he doesn’t agree with this sentiment. Most of that was about shame, about being ill and not being enough for Shane, and—yeah…that’s probably a big reason Shane didn’t want to tell him, as well.

So, Ilya takes a breath and thinks before he speaks, the same way Shane does when they’re discussing Ilya’s mental health.

“What’s her name?” he says finally.

Shane makes a surprised noise. He hadn’t been expecting that to be the first thing Ilya asked about after his confession.

“Ramona,” Shane says quietly. “She’s…pretty cool, actually. It took a couple tries to find one I liked, but she’s been good.”

“I’m glad, Shane, really.”

“I know there’s, like, a lot of work that I have to do. I’ve been avoiding it, so it’s all piled up and now it’s just…it’s just a lot. Like, it’s probably a good idea that we put both of ours in contact, because, I mean, let’s face it, the two of us are a mess emotionally, especially me more recently, so having them collaborate to figure out the best way to…to fix this is probably a good idea. I’m not an idiot. I know I hurt you by lying about this. There’s probably stuff I do that you don’t even realize is my way of compensating for how fucked I am.”

“What do you mean?”

Shane hesitates. Heavily. Ilya, of course, notices.

“Like I said, having our therapists on board is probably gonna be the best way to talk all of it out, like, in a healthy productive way. A lot of it is gonna upset you, and I’m—” he stops, because he to, because it suddenly kind of feels like he’s choking.

Ilya stops walking, placing a hand on Shane’s arm to stop him as well. Shane stops but keeps his gaze firmly trained on the ground in front of him. “Hey, hey, Shane,” Ilya say, turning fully towards his husband so he can also place a hand on Shane’s waist.

“I’m scared,” Shane says hoarsely. “Of fucking up parts of our relationship that we both really like, of hurting you even more, of…of losing you.”

Ilya has no idea what Shane could be talking about as far as ‘parts of their relationship.’ It unsettles him tremendously.

“Shane, sweetheart, just breathe for me for a second,” Ilya says. “You are not going to lose me, okay? You are stuck with me for life, remember?

It’s all running through Shane’s head, though, the sex most of all. He can’t imagine that Ilya is going to react well to finding out that Shane was using the sex they have to essentially punish himself. One of Ilya’s greatest fears is becoming like his father, becoming somebody who hurts other people, and Shane basically forced his husband to do so without him even knowing about it, no matter if Shane’s initial intentions were to simply get out of his head or not. That will crush Ilya. Shane is terrified that that would be enough to break them completely. He’s also resigned, though, because it’s not like he wouldn’t deserve it.

Then there’s the dissociation episodes. Ilya will flip his lid when he finds out about it, that Shane is playing hockey during them without looping team medical in on it.

There’s also the crux of the issue, which is why Shane decided to lie in the first place. The initial decision to lie when he was still in Montreal was truly, at least for the most part, about safety and out of a desire to protect Ilya; Shane can’t say the same for after he’d signed with Ottawa. Why didn’t Shane tell Ilya everything after he’d left Montreal? He’s thought of the possible explanations and he hadn’t been lying when he’d told Val that they all sucked.

The bulk of everything, the way Montreal treated him, will somehow be the easiest part of all of this. That at least has a clear victim, which unfortunately happens to be him. It won’t be easy to tell Ilya about, but at least there won’t be the added worry of Ilya being angry at Shane over it.

“Even if I hurt you by accidentally letting you hurt me?”

Ilya rears back, his hand leaving Shane’s waist as he leans back slightly so he can see his husband’s face. Shane feels the loss of contact like a missing limb.

“What. Shane, what?”

“Maybe I should just get this part out of the way now before everything else, so you can decide if you still wanna stay after and we don’t waste our time if you don’t,” Shane mutters, partially to himself.

“Shanya, you’re scaring me, now,” Ilya says, heart in his throat, brows furrowed and eyes so, so sad. “If you…if you’re worried about me leaving because of it, that is ridiculous, but maybe you should tell me now, so I can make it clear to you that I am not going anywhere.”

Shane nods, putting on a brave face even though Ilya can see the wet sheen over his eyes.

“Have you…have you ever noticed after you, uh, after you tell that joke, have you ever noticed what kind of sex we always have afterwards?”

Ilya’s stomach falls to his feet.

“What do you mean?”

“You tell the joke, I laugh, and we go home and I ask you to fuck me hard and rough. Not every time. But most of the time.” Shane’s voice is resigned, tired, ashamed.  “I cry. I refuse to let you out of my sight afterwards, I hold onto to you like a child.”

Ilya is at a loss for words. He has no idea what to say. He’s horrified.

“It wasn’t…it wasn’t on purpose, when I started doing it. Sex like that takes me out of my head most of the time, it makes me all floaty and relaxed. That’s how it started,” Shane explains further, wringing his hands together. “But, um, over time I think it turned into a way for me to punish myself. For lying to you. For treating you like shit in those years after we got together and you were alone in Ottawa. For staying in Montreal as long as I did.”

Ilya, stunned, thinks back to the last joke he’d told, the one before everything about Montreal had finally come to light. Shane had…Shane had asked Ilya to fuck him like he had during their first time years ago back in Shane’s Montreal condo. Shane had cried the whole time, completely overwhelmed. Ilya had been concerned, was nervous about the devastated look on Shane’s face, but Shane had insisted he was okay. And then that comment. ‘Don’t leave me there.’ It makes sense now, too. Don’t leave me in Montreal is what Shane had meant, Ilya realizes.

It has him trying to think back to other times like that. Shane would cry, yes, he’d be desperate to keep Ilya as close to him as possible. Shane would also beg afterwards sometimes, beg Ilya not to leave him, apologize over and over again for nothing in particular.

“Last time you didn’t ask for this,” Ilya croaks. “Last time you asked for opposite.”

“It really did start as a way to make me feel better, and it worked for a while, but eventually it just—it just didn’t,” Shane says. “So, that last time I thought maybe the opposite would work.”

That lands just as heavily as the confession that he’d used sex to punish himself, if not more so, because not only was Shane doing that, it hadn’t even been working.

“It being like a sort of punishment wasn’t…wasn’t on purpose, it just—it just stopped helping after a while, but I kept doing it, anyway.” Shane’s eyes truly well up with tears now and his face screws up. “I’m so sorry, Ilya, I’m so fucking sorry. I shouldn’t have used you like that, I shouldn’t have lied like that, we’re always so careful with negotiating and consent when we play like that but those times I just…I just wasn’t.”

“Shane. Shane. Hey, look at me, baby,” Ilya says. “I am not leaving you. I’m not leaving. You were worried I would leave because of this? Don’t be. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

“You should hate me,” Shane insists. “One of your worst fears is hurting people, and I let you do that, Ilya.”

“Did you do this on purpose?” Ilya says. “Did you ask for this kind of sex thinking that you were hurting me by doing it?”

“No, only…”

“Only yourself.”

Shane sucks in a breath but doesn’t say anything to the contrary. “At the end, yeah, kind of.”

“Right, so you can see maybe how I am more worried about you than angry, yes?” Ilya says softly.

“But you are angry, then, right?”

“I do not like that this is what was happening, no, but you did not do it to hurt me on purpose, yes?” Shane shakes his head. “So yes, it was not a good choice you made, it does affect me, and we will need to fully renegotiate any kink aspect of our relationship before we do any kind of scening again, but that doesn’t mean I hate you, or that I’m leaving, okay, Shane?”

“Just renegotiate?” Shane says in disbelief. “You’d trust me enough to scene with me again?”

“This is not the first time one of us has fucked up with kink things, remember?”

“Vegas was before we were together, it isn’t the same,” Shane says, shaking his head. “It didn’t mean the same thing.”

“I think you and I both know we both felt a lot for each other already, even that early,” Ilya says, not budging. “I pursue full on sex with you for years, finally get to have it with you, and then I don’t speak to you for six months. I lie and tell you in Sochi that you don’t mean anything to me, and then I show up to Vegas awards after you have been patient and forgiving and I put you in subspace for the first time in your life, I was cold to you the whole time, and then I had you show yourself out right after.”

“Well, yeah, fine, it was fuckin’ shitty, you got me there, Rozanov,” Shane says, huffing wetly. “But those are still two different situations.”

“Shane. What else would you call the kind of sex we had that night? I didn’t want to be so mean to you, so harsh, but I did anyway because I was trying to distance you from me because I did not think I could give you a real relationship, a relationship you deserved,” Ilya says slowly. “I used you to hurt myself, and you didn’t know at the time, and I ended up hurting you by doing it, as well.”

“That was before—” Shane begins.

“Shame doesn’t disappear just because you are in a relationship!” Ilya cuts him off, raising his voice slightly. He takes a deep breath to calm himself before he continues. “A decade of lying to ourselves about how we felt, how the other feels about us, that thinking does not magically go away, Shane. Is part of the reason we are both in therapy, da? To finally stop being terrified that one of us will leave.”

“Okay…okay, alright, you’re right,” Shane says finally, quickly biting off the instinctual ‘I’m sorry’ that he almost tacks onto the end of the sentence.

“Yes, good, you can cancel the imaginary divorce you have thought up in your head now,” Ilya says, tentatively teasing. “You are stuck with me, Hollander, could not get rid of me even if you tried.”

Shane laughs, now, wet and congested but amused nonetheless. “Good, that’s good,” he says absently, rubbing his face.

“We’re okay, Shanya, we’ll work on the hard parts like we always do,” Ilya says, driving the point home so he’s sure Shane has actually registered it.

“Right, yes, of course, anything, Ilya,” Shane agrees. He pauses, gaze finally flickering back to Ilya’s face for the first time in a while, and then continues. “Can I—” He stops himself there, the words dying in his throat.

Ilya sees his body language, though, the subtle shift of his legs and the sway towards him, and recognizes what Shane had meant to say.

“Come here,” Ilya says immediately, pulling his husband in and wrapping his arms firmly around his back.

Shane responds immediately, sliding his arms over Ilya’s shoulders and holding on tight. ‘Can I have a hug?’ is what Shane had been trying to say. He’s seen Shane ask for the same things dozens of times before, it’s one of his tells that Ilya has picked up on over the years, the look on his face and the way he’ll already be leaning towards Ilya slightly.

“This isn’t….this isn’t what I meant to talk to you about today,” Shane mumbles into his neck.

“Is still early, have entire afternoon and evening to talk, have tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that, too, have forever, really, Shane,” Ilya says, teasing but sincere as he runs a hand up and down his husband’s back. “This is the one that scared you, though, yes?”

Shane nods jerkily against his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah it was.”

“Still scared?”

Shane shakes his head quickly. “No, not…not anymore.”

Ilya finds himself smiling for some reason. He feels like he’s heard someone say those words before but he can’t remember who. “Good,” he says. “Let’s go have lunch now.”

Shane, despite himself, snorts. Ilya really has a way of breaking up tense moments.

They have lunch and lift weights afterwards. They share a cozy shower and then curl up together on the couch to watch a movie. Shane decides to broach the topic of what he’d initially meant to tell Ilya about while the man in question is scrolling through the TV in search of something else to watch after the movie has ended.

“What happened that day you found out the truth is what I meant to tell you about,” Shane says softly, watching husband click through the TV guide without any shortage of fondness. “Why I finally snapped.”

Ilya’s attention is immediately on him once he speaks, TV long forgotten as his head turns to look at Shane. “Oh?” he says neutrally.

“Yeah, uh, Val was looking all stressed when I came in, I asked him why, and he reminded me we were playing Montreal at the end of the week like I didn’t already know. I’d been trying not to think about it, but after he brought it up I was thinking about it on and off all day. Dykstra came up behind me in the locker room to ask for a spare pair of scissors, and it kind of scared the daylights out of me.”

“I notice you react a bit odd, yes,” Ilya says thoughtfully, nodding his head..

“Yeah, I did. Guys, uh, some guys in Montreal were bigger assholes than most of them, and they’d do that. Come up behind me to startle me, or more often come over and get right in my face so they could say shit to me or if they were really pissed they would yell,” Shane explains further, picking absently at the blanket Ilya had thrown over them. “It didn’t start that way, it really did start with stupid stuff. Juniors stuff, you know, glitter in my gloves because ‘I’m a fairy,’ IcyHot in my jock, heavier checks on the ice, that kind of thing, but it just started to escalate and then after we were outed it was the worst it’d ever been.”

“That’s harassment,” Ilya says, gentle but matter-of-fact.

“I know,” Shane says, equally matter-of-fact. This has been a topic with his therapist, as well. “But it’s a tolerable level of harassment considering how guys in the league normally act and compared to how much worse it got later.”

“I hope your therapist told you that that’s bullshit,” Ilya says plainly.

“She has,” Shane confirms, nodding his head. “She does, whenever it comes up, so she’s got you covered there.”

“You don’t believe it, though,” Ilya says, an observation rather than a question.

“I’m…working on it,” Shane replies. “But anyway, I was on edge because of that, and you said what you always say, and Montreal was fresh on my mind, so I snapped at you before I could stop myself.”

“Montreal did other things, yes?” Ilya says softly, brushing some of Shane’s hair back from his temple.

Shane’s face does something complicated. A shadow passes over his face, something dulls in his eyes, but then it goes back to the mild expression they’ve both been wearing since the beginning of this conversation. Ilya notices.

“Yes, they did,” is what Shane finally says in response. “I’m working on sharing that stuff, too. That’s why this was, uh, the first baby step. Half was telling you I have a therapist, this bit about that day at practice is the other half. There’s other stuff that affects other things, you’ll probably start to notice it more now that I’ve mentioned it. Like…I’m distant from, you know, the team. I haven’t meshed in as well as I should have. I’m quiet and reserved and I’m not close with any of our teammates except Val. I still haven’t really warmed up to Coach Wiebe like I should’ve by now. A lot of what happened was normal Montreal shit, which isn’t normal for most other teams, I’m aware, but it started as the typical shit I’ve been dealing with since I was rookie. My brain thinks that means it can happen anywhere since it getting as bad as it did crept up on me gradually, it wasn’t like a switch flipped.”

Ilya’s expression goes inquisitive, looking at Shane like he’s realizing he has the pieces to a much larger puzzle he had no idea existed until now. Shane figures his husband will eventually piece some things together, knows he would eventually now that he has the general truth, and he finds he’s not stressed out by it. Ilya has the context now so the worst thing that could happen is his husband coming to understand Shane a little better.

“Val shares some of that with you, doesn’t he?” Ilya says quietly. Shane is slightly surprised by the shift in topic towards the young player considering Ilya’s clear distaste for the kid.

“That’s a hard question to answer while also maintaining his privacy,” Shane says honestly. A lot of the reason Val was long-term affected by Montreal is because he also happens to be queer like Shane; the homophobic attacks towards Shane had felt like attacks on Val himself even though they weren’t aimed at him. “But, there are a few things I can say, like the way Therriault would run practices. He’s a harsh coach, not much positivity ever came from him. A lot of that was directed at me, yeah, but he was also an asshole to everyone else. Bag-skates for bad losses or those odd practices where nothing seems to be clicking, but also sometimes just because he can. Playing through injuries under threat of being demoted to a lower league. He would make examples of players for the most minor shit.”

Bag-skates until someone passed out, bag-skates that kept going for far longer than healthy, a trash can pulled onto the ice because “you don’t get to stop just because you puked!,” bag-skates where puking into that trash can was an expectation rather an unpleasant side effect, solo-bag skates while the whole team watched—

“—it’s a bone bruise, Novikov, not a severed fucking limb, get your ass back on the fucking ice before I ship you back to Russia for good, so help me—”

Heavy checking drills that rattled your teeth and bruised something awful, no breaks, “get back on your fucking feet, Hollander!”—

Sidelong glances directed his way as everyone gets on the line after an exhausting practice that’s already run over by an hour, his legs feel like jelly, his left eye is already bruised purple and aches after the punch Comeau had thrown this morning, “You can all thank Hollander for this team building exercise!”, the whistle blowing over and over and over and over and over—

His throat burns, the acidity smarts at his sinuses, this is the third time he’s puked in a week, is Therriault trying to fucking kill them?—

“So, um,” Shane continues, voice suddenly hoarse at the onslaught of memories, “that all sucks on its own, so, yeah, Val carries some of it with him just like me. I just ended up being the specific target of stuff like that towards the end is where it divides.”

“This is why he is your Russian duckling,” Ilya says.

Shane snorts and rolls his eyes, lolling his head towards Ilya’s shoulder. “No, that explanation I told the guys in the group chat was really the truth. We weren’t friends in Montreal, the only friends I had was Hayden and maybe sometimes J.J. He was just like the other younger kids, the ones who didn’t really involve themselves in the overt homophobia of the more veteran players and all of my drama but would chip in their own bullshit if the spotlight was suddenly on them,” Shane explains, thinking back to how young Val looked when he’d first landed in Montreal. “His explanation made sense and sounded genuine. After this long, I know it was genuine, but when I’d taken him ‘under my wing’ or whatever, I just figured he deserved a chance.”

“And now he is best friend, maybe more than Hayden,” Ilya says, something amused dancing in his eyes.

“No, you are my best friend,” Shane corrects. “Then it’s a toss-up between the two.”

“So you admit!” Ilya crows, smiling widely.

“I didn’t admit anything,” Shane replies, rolling his eyes. “But, yeah, that’s why I don’t really feed into the whole ‘he’s my rookie’ thing. He is, but he’s also actually more like my equal. There isn’t a slanted power dynamic, you know, like the whole rookie and veteran thing. He’s my friend, I’m his friend, we talk about stuff, we call each other on our shit, and we actually both kind of teach each other hockey things. There’s no hero worship. If anything that kid terrorizes me more than the older guys do.”

“Oh?” Ilya says, actually thoroughly surprised. He’d always figured the whole rookie and veteran player cliché is what their dynamic is like. He thinks about what Shane potentially means by ‘terrorizing’ him and finds himself smiling. “He terrorizes you about me, yes?”

Shane narrows his eyes and is practically grumbling when he replies. “Yeah, he’s a fuckin’ pest, actually.”

“What does he say?” Ilya presses, because he just can’t help himself. It seems the younger player really is growing on him.

Shane sighs, knowing he’s caught and that he can’t really get out of explaining this now that he’s brought it up. “Well, when he got here and realized I hadn’t told anyone what had gone down in Montreal, including you, he never let me forget how stupid of a decision it was,” he says, twirling his finger in the drawstring of Ilya’s hoodie. “When he first heard you make a joke about me staying there and saw me just, I don’t know, take it, he told me to stop being an idiot and to say something already. He said something like that every time after that, too, so, if anything, he should be, like, your best friend.”

Ilya scoffs even though he doesn’t find himself disagreeing. “Don’t know about best friend, but I do not hate him anymore, no,” Ilya concedes. “Maybe even like him, a little bit. He seems…like a good kid.”

“Holy shit, I can’t wait to tell him that you said that!” Shane exclaims, a wide smile bursting onto his face.

“You will do no such thing!” Ilya says back, poking at Shane’s sides and grinning widely when his husband squirms away, ticklish and batting at his hands. “I have reputation to uphold, Hollander, you will not expose me like this!”

“’Heartwarming: Russian Machine Ilya Rozanov forgives misunderstood Russian rookie,’” Shane says, narrating as if it’s the title of an article as Ilya continues his assault on the spots that make him writhe away.

The exchanges evolves into them semi-wrestling until Shane is on his back under Ilya who’s seated easily on his hips. They’re grinning like idiots. Ilya’s hands are wrapped firmly around Shane’s wrists. Shane finds himself relaxing under his husband’s watchful eyes. He’s been so worried that everything they’ve talked about today would break them, that he would finally be telling Ilya something that would make the Russian turn his back. He feels a bit lighter, maybe. Maybe this is what it feels like for Ilya when he takes Shane up on ‘sharing the load’ in regards to the Russian’s depression. Everything isn’t perfect, no, but things feel better at the very least.

It’s…nice.

I’m an idiot, Shane thinks to himself.

I could’ve had this the whole time, he thinks.

Don’t focus on the ‘should’s’ and the ‘could’s,’ focus on how things feel now, that’s his therapist’s voice, you can’t go back in time.

“You are thinking very loudly,” Ilya says softly, letting go of one of Shane’s wrists so he can brush a thumb over the freckles on his husband’s cheek.

“I’m an idiot,” Shane says, but he’s smiling as he speaks. “I was so worried, I hid this for so long…” he trails off, gaze drifting away from Ilya’s.

“Yes, hid for so long and turns out people knowing is not as bad as you thought,” Ilya finishes for him anyways. “Sounds like someone you know.” Yes, right, Ilya’s depression.

“Well, whatever, I’m glad you know now,” Shane says, meeting his eyes once again. “I’m…the bits I haven’t told you are the hard parts, the ones that are gonna suck, but we’ll get there eventually.”

“Am glad also, sweetheart,” Ilya says, the same content sort of softness in his eyes. He leans down and presses his lips to Shane’s, who’s surprised at first but kisses back just as enthusiastically.

That single kiss turns into Ilya kissing and then biting his way down Shane’s neck. Shane was sort of expecting Ilya to pull back after learning he’d used sex as punishment for himself, had figured it’d be fair for Ilya to do after breaking that trust. Maybe it was a silly thing to expect, though, because kinky sex in reality only makes up maybe forty percent of their sex life. Sex on its own, the vanilla type and the sort that, in some people’s opinion, skirts the line between that and something more BDSM related, that stuff has always come naturally to them as a couple.

Ilya leaves hickies and Shane welcomes them without any protest or hesitation for the first time in a while. Shane has loosened the reigns in that regard as he’s slowly gotten more and more comfortable with his new team. He’s definitely not at the point where he’s comfortable with flaunting them on purpose, but he finds he’s okay with the idea of their teammates catching a glimpse of the ones Ilya has sucked into his collarbones.

They pause long enough to have a very simple and to-the-point discussion about their expectations for sex. Shane agrees readily to the stipulations: open his mouth and say something if he’s slipping away into his own head, if something makes him feel bad even if he doesn’t know what that ‘something’ is, and no pushing through anything. They’re the same things Shane had been thinking of suggesting because they all make sense, so it’s easy for him to agree to.

Ilya sucks his dick on the couch after and then chases him up the stairs to their bedroom. He takes his time prepping Shane until he’s a squirming, whining mess. They have easy, relaxed sex, the kind they have most often, and it’s just as good as usual. Shane can’t help the rush of relief he feels after. The fear that he’d ruin everything by dropping the ‘punishment sex’ bomb has been hanging over him for such a long time.

He and Ilya share a shower afterwards and then order dinner. They settle back on the couch to wait for their food to arrive. Shane texts Val while Ilya finds them a movie to watch.

Shane: good news

Shane: I don’t think Roz wants you dead anymore! :D

Val: what did u do hollander

Shane: I did what you told me to novikov

Shane: I told him about mtl

Shane: and we had feelings about it

Shane: and I guess he realized he’s been an asshole to u, bc he has

Val: he had a good reason to

Shane: we’ve been over this

Shane: do I need to send you that list of therapist recommendations again?

Val: no jfc holz I’m good

Val: actually do u think Roz would be able to make list of Russian therapists? since he no longer wants me dead and all

Shane: you know that’s probably something I could swing

Shane: I’ll ask

Shane: I also told him to cool it on the duckling shit

Shane: bc apparently he didn’t realize that we’re not the friends the way he and Haas are

Val: aw he thinks you are mentor and I am starstruck baby? willing to do anything to win your favor, even suck your dick?

Shane: he did, yeah, but not anymore

Val: yeah good because I really do not think baby Haas tells Roz he’s full of shit as much as I do to you

Val: actually I think Roz would pass out if Haas did, from shock

Shane: I call u on shit too you fucker

Val: exactly

Val: but the duckling thing is actually kind of funny

Val: Dykstra gave me keychain he found in airport of duck, we both laughed so hard

Val: they mean it as a joke here, not an insult

Val: light heart?

Shane: light-hearted, yeah

Val: right yes

Val: so quack quack you have duckling whether you want him or not Hollander

Val: or should I say mother duck shane hollander :)

Shane: I stg

Val: is fine I will get you matching keychain holzy you can put on your travel backpack also

Shane: you’re insufferable

Val: yes well seems to be your type, friends and men, hate to break to you hollander

Shane: jesus christ

Val: do not be mean to me I am your child

Shane: VAL

Val: 🤷😘 🦆

Chapter End Notes

kind of a weak chapter but a conversation that needed to happen either way

upcoming in this fic: playoffs where I've decided they'll be playing MTL in the first round ;) (like all my fics rn lmao, I just can't help myself); considering a beat where Ilya talks to the boys about Shane and Val (ya know, how MTL abused them 💀) but undecided; Ilya will later but soon be confronted with just how scary MTL got and the ongoing consequences in a terrifying way ;)

[update on my other ongoing WIP (the old me hides) will be this week for those interested <3]

 

 

on a personal note: ((i'm still waiting for playing hockey to be, you know, fun; it's been like five years at this point (granted i've had to take a good few breaks during that time) and I've never wanted to be at least average at something so bad in my life LOL but I just suck it's like so embarrassing bro lmao)) but I digress

Chapter 8: March 2022, Pt. 4

Chapter Summary

OTT in STL, ilya trying to figure out a way to help Shane & Val, Val and Shane make a list + discuss Ilya's conflicted opinion of Val, Shane and Ilya renegotiate.

Chapter Notes

ik this one is slower update-wise than my other fic, I beefed up the outline this past weekend and I'm trying to get ahead (obv easier said than done)

 

ANYWAY hi. thanks for reading :3 please enjoy my humble offering, hope it's alright. thanks for your comments they give me life <3

March 2022, Pt. 4

Ilya: was playing for toronto bad?

Troy: wow what a way to start a conversation Roz

Troy: but yes it sucked

Troy: why do you ask

Ilya: montreal are assholes

Ilya: who the fuck still bagskates a team??

Ilya: like often???

Troy: mtl did that too? yeah those suck man

Troy: damn

Ilya: there’s more

Ilya: I just do not know what it is

Ilya: Shane is trying his best but is slow getting info from him

Ilya: but I know why he and Val act all weird now

Troy: I thought it was just me that noticed that wow

Troy: yeah they do

Ilya: when did you notice??

Troy: right when they joined the team

Troy: takes one to know one ig

Troy: it takes a while for guys who come from teams like that to adjust

Troy: I thought boston was more traditional too? bc of the whole original 6 team thing

Ilya: traditional about values, but not coaching no

Troy: oh damn, well that’s lucky

Troy: hey wait so Shane wasn’t bullshitting us when he said Val didn’t mean to be homophobic???

Ilya rolls his eyes and shakes his head, tapping away from his texts with Troy and navigating back to his other threads. He scrolls and his eyes land on Hayden Pike’s name. They’ve had each other’s number saved in their phones for a couple years at this point, but it’s more as a ‘just in case’ thing so it’s not like they talk regularly.

There have been several moments over the last few weeks that Ilya has been tempted to cave and text the man. Pike obviously has a good deal of knowledge on the inner workings of the Montreal Voyageurs and it’s extremely likely that he knows how they’d treated Shane, as well. Ilya knows better than to go behind Shane’s back and demand information from Pike, but it’s an idea that he thinks might be worth bringing up to Shane. It’s becoming painfully clear that Shane no longer trusts his memory when it comes to his last few years in Montreal, so Ilya figures that it might be beneficial for Shane to learn that even third party accounts of that time line up with how he remembers it.

His eyes flick sideways to where Val is sitting directly across the aisle from him. The kid has made it clear over the past few months that he’s essentially Shane’s right-hand man, sworn to secrecy and everything, and Ilya has come to not only respect that but also appreciate it. Hayden Pike has been a good friend overall, but the man continues to somehow manage to drop the ball over and over when it comes to things about Ilya or Ilya and Shane as a unit. Shane had seen Novikov drowning and, with his seemingly bottomless well of compassion, had decided to scoop the young player up and make sure he didn’t burn out of the league. Somewhere along the way they’d both metaphorically adopted each other and are essentially a bonded pair at this point. Ilya is glad, too; Shane deserves to have someone he can confide in and count on other than just his husband.

He averts his eyes. He’s got to stop staring at the kid, it must be freaking him out. There’s just something about Novikov, though, something that Ilya still can’t quite name. It’s not something bad, but it just seems like the kid is…carrying something, maybe? Ilya doesn’t know what that something is, though, and the question mark in his brain has the added side effect of making him more observant of Val than he is with the other younger players.

Shane’s phone vibrates in his lap from where he’s sitting to Ilya’s left. They’re on the plane during an early morning flight to St. Louis to play the Mudpuppies tomorrow night. What seems like the entire team had already been half-awake when they’d arrived at the airport and it seems the flight crew had caught onto the overall sleepy mood of everyone because they’ve kept the cabin lighting dim since takeoff. A good half of the team is fast asleep, a quarter dozing in and out, and the other quarter has been wide awake since they left the airport. Shane is in that dozing category, so he makes a soft noise and hums drowsily as he sits up slightly to look at his phone. Ilya smiles softly, always a fan of how adorable Shane is when he’s tired or half awake.

Shane squints down at his screen and unlocks his phone, clicking on the notification for the text that just came through. It’s from Val, and Shane has to restrain a laugh once he reads it.

Val: he keeps looking at me

Val: why he keep looking Shane

Val: did I do something

Val: u would tell me yes, i thought i was supposed to be duckling u are supposed to protect me shanya

Val: I thought me and him were almost cool now hollander what fuck

Shane: I think he’s worried or something

Val: about what??

Shane: how montreal was lol

Val: oh wow

Val: so the Russian Machine does have a heart

Shane: novikov

Val: SORRY DAD

Shane: STOP CALLING ME DAD

Shane: he’s not letting this mtl issue go

Val: well yes, you look a little scary when your brain goes away

Shane: it doesn’t do that anymore

Val: wow a good few months without and suddenly you are cured

Val: I did not know you were magic hollander

Val: are you bringing your magic to the playoffs?

Val: can u share some with your child? i also would like brain fix magic

Shane: literally fuck off

Shane: I mean it

Val: so do I shane

Val: look in your eyes when you are like that and it is like no one is there

Val: smile is all weird

Val: and once you know why it’s worse

Shane stiffens slightly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He cuts his eyes sideways briefly to glance at the younger player sitting across the aisle, but Val doesn’t budge, his gaze locked firmly on his phone. Shane huffs through his nose slightly, turning his own attention back to his screen.

Shane: well sorry

Shane: not like I have any fucking control over it

Val: fuck sake hollander I know this, we just do not want to see u like that

Shane: fuck I know

Shane: sorry

Shane: again

Shane: i just hate being dramatic, he really did give up everything for me you know

Shane: and i was an asshole to him afterward for a while

Val: okay???? and asshole because why????

Val: why were u acting like asshole????

Val: is not like you were being harass every day by your old friends and u had to hide it to keep the love of your life safe????

Val: is definitely not that right??

Val: shut up hollander

Val: just stop being stupid

Val: that man love you more than life itself

Val: let him care about you

Shane and Val are clearly having some kind of intense conversation over text considering the look his husband shot the younger player’s way followed by both of them furiously typing away. Ilya glances at Shane out of the corner of his eye and he doesn’t seem distressed, just mildly annoyed. Hm. He looks back at his own phone to where he’d been typing out a response to Marly.

Roz: I kind of want to talk to team about it

Roz: but that seems like overkill, no?

Marly: I mean, are they acting in a way that’s obvious to the team?

Roz: Troy said yes, but he also said he saw because toronto was like that for him also

Roz: so I dont know

Roz: but even if they do, what do I even say? they are not kids who need to be managed special

Marly: that’s true

Marly: but there’s probably small stupid stuff that idk would help?

Roz: like?

Marly: idk from what you told me it sounds like they never got the rookie treatments

Roz: rookie treatment?

Marly: yeah? like when you were a rookie and we patted your head and told you you were doing a good job all the time?

Roz: ….that is not just because I am so loveable?

Marly: ROZ 😂😂😂

Marly: yeah man you were, but you were also a rookie, so were EXTRA nice about it, most teams do it!

Roz: I think ik what you mean now

Roz: is how we treat baby luca

Roz: and he gets all embarrassed about it but secretly he likes it we all know

Marly: yes exactly that

Roz: you think it would be good idea to treat Shane Hollander and accused homophobe russian player like baby rookies?

Marly: I thought you said you like novikov now bro, wtf???

Roz: IS WHY I SAY ACCUSE NOT EX

Marly: jesus christ

Marly: well either way, yeah I am

Marly: from what it sounds like Hollzy never got the rookie treatment, and novikov didn’t either

Marly: I think considering you’re gonna ask them for permission to talk to the team about it they’ll KNOW what you guys are doing and why

Marly: but they might enjoy it and it might help idk 🤷

Marly: this is why I never wanna be captain bro this is stressful

Marly: btw considering everything u know now, are the bears finally allowed to just put mtl on our hit list yet???

Roz: …yes

Roz: but don’t let Shane find out I said so

Marly: got it

Marly: I haven’t punched anyone in a while, we play them next week

Roz: 😂😂😂

The Centaurs land in St. Louis and head straight to the practice rink for a late morning practice. It’s a slog of a skate but they get through it and are released to their own devices until tomorrow morning for early morning skate. Shane and Ilya have lunch with a bunch of the guys and then everyone parts ways after. The couple head back to their hotel room for a mid-afternoon nap to try and catch up on sleep.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Ilya says as they’re stripping down to their underwear.

“Sure,” Shane replies, trying not to freak out. “What’s up?”

“I think maybe talking to the team about Montreal is a good idea, but did not want to do without making sure you and Novikov would be okay with it,” Ilya replies, balling up the t-shirt in his hands and tossing it in the vague direction of his suitcase.

“Oh,” Shane says, genuinely surprised by the request. Then, “What would you even talk to them about?”

“There are obviously things that bother you both, make it harder for you,” Ilya says quietly, watching his husband carefully for his reaction. “Marly had some small ideas, would be nothing big.”

“I don’t want to make a big deal, and I don’t think Val would either, but if it’s small stuff, then I guess…” Shane trails off, hands pausing where he’d been unbuttoning his jeans. He looks off the side away from Ilya for a moment and doesn’t speak until he looks back over. “I’ll ask Val about it first and if he agrees, you can talk to them, but only if whatever you guys decide to do goes through us before you start.”

“I figured, yes, absolutely,” Ilya agrees immediately.

“Okay,” Shane says, nodding his head. He undoes the zipper of his jeans and kicks them off, folding them carefully as he continues, “I’ll talk to Val and let you know, okay?”

“Da,” Ilya says.

They settle into bed together a few minutes later. Shane plugs his cell phone in to charge and sets an alarm for eight to make sure they both wake up for dinner. Ilya channel surfs until he lands on one playing old reruns of the medical drama ER. Shane smiles softly; it’s a show they often have on in the background even at home, the many seasons and familiarity having unintentionally become a comfort over the past couple of years. Shane can quote some of the episodes from memory at this point.

Shane curls onto his side, half-sprawled across Ilya’s chest so he can lay on his husband but also see the TV. It should be an uncomfortable position, but Ilya’s gotten used to the contortion-like ways Shane sits sometimes that would leave most other guys bedridden from pain for weeks.

“I think he and I will decide what you can tell them, too,” Shane says after a while. “You still don’t know a lot, and Val might have things that bother him that I don’t think of.”

“Is good idea,” Ilya says in agreement, running his hand through Shane’s hair.

“I’ll make a list,” Shane continues, the pads of his fingers dragging lightly against Ilya’s chest. His lips quirk slightly. “Maybe I’ll even borrow those glitter pens from Dillon and make it pretty, too. I bet seeing ‘bagskates until everyone pukes at least once’ written in sparkly dark green would soften the blow.”

Ilya huffs a laugh even as his stomach twists slightly. Now is clearly not the time for an in depth conversation about the abuses of Montreal, but what the fuck. Seemingly every coach in the NHL employs bagskates in some way, but Ilya’s never heard of it being used like that. Using it as a conditioning drill? Absolutely. Punishments for a shitty performance? Sure. Calling it a team-building exercise is a stretch, but Ilya would even accept that. Skating suicides until every player has vomited? That’s plain abuse and Ilya won’t hear anything to the contrary. Ilya knows it’s possible that it may happen every once in a while throughout the league, but the casual tone in which Shane had said it makes it clear that it was likely a regular occurrence, which is most certainly not normal.

Instead of saying all of that, Ilya runs a hand over Shane’s curled back. “Is not actually bad idea,” Ilya says in response. “I know you secretly like glitter.”

“I what?” Shane says, taken off guard. He cranes his head back to get a look at his husband’s face.

“Every time we go to craft store for Pike kids, you look very excited when we look through the glitter, is very cute,” Ilya replies.

“Fuck off, no I do not!” Shane exclaims, but his lips curl upwards.

“Mm, you do, dorogoy, sorry to break this to you,” Ilya replies, his owns lips tugging into a smug smile. “Shane Hollander has a glitter obsession, is a sickness truly.”

“I do not have an obsession!” Shane says, sitting up and grabbing a spare pillow from near the head of the bed. He swats Ilya with it who squawks loudly in response, playfully affronted. “I don’t even own any glitter, Rozanov!”

“Da, but you want to, Shenya,” Ilya replies, patting Shane on the thigh when the smaller man pauses.

Shane hits him with the pillow again.

“Ah! Hollander, is okay! Everyone has their weaknesses!” Ilya says around his laughter, weakly fending off the attack from his adorable husband. He remembers something with a start, though, and he freezes.

Shane stops, as well, but he only looks confused. “What?” he asks, eyebrows drawing together. “What’s wrong?”

“I just, ah, remember what you told me the other day, about Montreal putting glitter in your gloves,” Ilya murmurs, feeling like a huge asshole.

But Shane only snorts in response, throwing Ilya for a loop. “Ilya, relax. Chirping me for liking glitter doesn’t bother me. That was stupid kid shit, it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Was a big deal,” Ilya insists.

“Okay, fine, it’s a big deal but it’s not something that bothers me, okay? There are plenty of other things that do, I will acknowledge that, but glitter is not one of them, so fucking relax, Rozanov,” Shane says, rolling his eyes.

“Sorry,” Ilya murmurs, eyes dropping to the blanket thrown over them.

“Don’t be sorry,” Shane says immediately. “Just…listen, you’re allowed to ask, okay? I can’t guarantee I’ll answer you that exact moment, but I can promise that I’ll try. I’d rather you ask than avoid things you don’t have to. I don’t wanna be babied. Well. I don’t want to be babied unless it’s when we’re doing it on purpose, but you know what I mean, yeah?”

“I know what you mean,” Ilya says, because he does. It makes perfect sense, too. It’d piss him off to no end if Shane made adjustments to how he interacts with Ilya based on the Russian’s past without asking first, as well. “I will ask, I promise.”

Shane relaxes, putting the pillow down and settling back against Ilya’s chest once more. He’s quiet for a while and they’ve both already been absorbed back into the medical show on TV when he speaks again, a low murmur that Ilya barely catches.

“I do really like glitter, actually.”

A laugh is startled out of Ilya, loud and bright. “I will get you some glitter pens,” he says, pressing a kiss to Shane’s hair. “And maybe next time we go down glitter aisle we will take something home.”

Shane scoffs slightly. “It’s not like I wanna wear it or something, I just like looking at it. What am I even gonna do with it?”

“Hm,” Ilya hums, genuinely giving it a thought. “You mentioned you used to paint those ceramic things with your mom when you were a kid. You still like, yes? Maybe you could do those.”

“That…is actually a totally reasonable and interesting answer,” Shane says, slightly surprised. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I will not be offended either way,” Ilya says, shrugging his shoulder. “Is not me with the glitter sickness.”

“Rozanov, I swear to god.”

***

Shane texts Val about Ilya’s suggestion when they wake up from their nap. He kicks Ilya out to go have dinner with Troy and Bood so he and Val can order room service in the room and brainstorm the ‘list.’

“He is serious?” Val says once Ilya’s left the room for the evening.

“Dead serious,” Shane says with a nod, flopping down onto the bed.

Val visibly hesitates at the other side of the bed. Shane notices and is confused for a second before he rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Fucking relax, Novikov, the only thing Rozanov and I have done in this bed is sleep.”

Val shrugs but finally sits down and gets comfortable. “Can never be too sure, Hollander,” he says drily. “Sometimes you guys eye fuck each other so aggressive I think you might just go at it right then and there.”

Shane scowls. “Literally fuck off.”

“But we cannot write our list of Montreal horrors if I fuck off, Shanya,” he says, deadpan and innocent in a way that makes Shane narrow his eyes.

They bicker back and forth for a bit until they finally get to the issue at hand. Shane has always traveled with a plain composition notebook since his rookie year, a ‘just in case’ item that he sometimes utilizes for to-do lists or drawing plays. It’ll work for this purpose, as well, even if he doesn’t have any shimmery gel pens to write with right now.

It proves to be a trickier task than they’d expected it to be. There are certain things where they don’t want to specify whether it was Shane or Val who had experienced it but also certain things that they’d prefer to specify exactly that, details they’re willing to offer and details they’re not, things that Ilya can know but can’t tell the team, things that Shane still isn’t ready to even tell Ilya. It also quickly becomes obvious that splitting this list into two categories is called for, because there is a huge difference between systemic, coach-driven practices and player-to-player interactions.

They brainstorm some potential solutions to the things on the list once they have it written out and decide to make it clear to Ilya (and the team in turn) that they’re simply possible suggestions, not requirements or requests. They don’t even know how the suggestions will pan out in actual practice and they are already feeling dramatic enough doing this entire list exercise to begin with, so they want to make it clear that they’re only vague possibilities.

“This is the last thing I expect to do when I get traded here,” Val says once they’re finally done with the lists. “They are so obsessed with…feelings.”

“I think this might be the normal amount of attention on feelings, we’re just too fucked in the head to realize,” Shane says grimly. Val snorts. “This is also the last thing I expected Ilya to want to do when I finally told him how shitty Montreal was, so I feel you there, Valera.” Shane heaves a sigh as he closes the composition notebook and sets it aside on the nightstand.

“Is sweet, I think,” Val says. “I am almost used to his staring now, also, because I think you are right and is just worry. Very Russian kind of worry, but still worry.”

Shane snorts. “Yeah, you make him feel conflicted,” Shane says in agreement, nodding his head. “Hated you for the slur, then forced to tolerate you because of me, and now he’s some kind of watchful indifferent because he has his theories and worries.”

“’His theories’?” Val parrots, brow furrowed.

“He’s not an idiot, Val. The explanation I gave him for why I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt about the slur was pretty weak and I was a little too confident that you weren’t homophobic after only a single conversation with you. There’s not a lot of reasons someone would be convinced so quickly in that situation that don’t imply you’re queer in some way.”

“It has taken him this long to figure that out?” Val says, laughing lightly.

“Well, I haven’t exactly been forthcoming with him on that topic because it’s really none of his business, so the best he can do is guess,” Shane says drily. “But he’s a queer hockey player from Russia, Novikov, so I think if there’s anyone familiar with a Russian player keeping his sexuality a secret, it’s him.”

“I wish he would just say this instead of giving me dagger eyes all the time,” Val mutters.

“I think it’s just kind of hard to switch straight from ‘I hate you and only tolerate you because of my husband’ mode to ‘sorry for being an asshole, I have empathy for you now’ mode.”

“Well, feel free to let him know he can just open mouth and say,” Val says, pulling out his phone to check his texts. “Could even say exactly what you just did, I do not care, even this would be better than the eyes. I feel like prey animal sometimes, Hollander, is very stressful.”

Shane laughs, his smile turning playfully smug. “Well that would make sense, considering you’re my duckling and all, yeah?”

“That would make you a prey animal in this situation as well, Hollander.”

“I’m aware,” Shane says, completely straight-faced. “He doesn’t just call me ‘malen'kiy zaychik’ because I’m adorable, Novikov. Only difference between you and me is I enjoy going pliant and docile for him.” Little bunny.

“Boooooo!” Val says loudly, grabbing the same pillow Shane had hit Ilya with earlier today and repeatedly smacking him in the shoulder with it. He pauses long enough to whine, “Too much information, Hollander, why do you do this to me?”

“Consider it payback for asking me if I ever fucked Scott Hunter last week,” Shane replies with a shrug.

The hotel room door beeps and Ilya walks in just as Shane says it. The Russian’s face goes slack as the words hits him, and Shane glares openly at Val while Ilya looks back and forth between the pair with disbelieving eyes.

“You—what? You ask what?” he says, incredulous. “I am…offended, Novikov, truly.”

“Fuck sake, Rozanov, I told him ‘no,’ relax,” Shane huffs, crossing his arms.

“If it helps, he laugh for full two minutes after I ask. Like, tears in eyes, could not breathe,” Val chimes in. Ilya’s eyes dart to him, locking on and not wavering. Val tries not to squirm under the harsh gaze as he continues. “Then he say, ‘What, do you think he’s my sugar daddy or something? He’s, like, a hundred years old.”

The anecdote has the obvious desired effect. A startled laugh falls out of Ilya’s mouth, and then another, the tension breaking as the man laughs and Shane and Val join in. It’s one of the most casual moments the two Russian men have ever experienced together. Maybe there’s a future where Ilya and Val can be some sort of friends after all.

***

Shane and Ilya make time to renegotiate the BDSM aspects of their relationship on their next day off. They wait until after they’ve had breakfast and their morning workouts before they sit down on the couch for the conversation, Shane’s thigh pressed right alongside Ilya’s.

“So,” Ilya says awkwardly. “Should just start, I think.”

“Right. Well, I guess the major thing is consent and consent checks,” Shane says quietly, fiddling with a loose thread on his sweatpants. “I want to make it clear that there’s never been a time I had sex with you when I didn’t want to. There was never a time when I would’ve safeworded but didn’t, either, so the basic aspect of consent hasn’t changed at any point. Do you have any, uh, specific suggestions with that in mind?”

“Even when you would cry like that?” Ilya says, unconvinced and watching Shane very carefully. “Never wanted to stop even when you cry like that?”

Shane shakes his head immediately. “That was kind of, um, cathartic, I think? That’s where you get, like, this big emotional release basically, which is similar to the feeling I get when I cry sometimes during, you know, normal sex. I never pushed myself to have sex when I didn’t actually want to, I promise.”

“Alright. Okay, Shanya, I believe you. I have just been…trying to think of way I could check that you’re not doing things to punish yourself, that is my biggest worry, and I haven’t figured anything out,” Ilya says quietly, nodding his head a couple of times.

“Well, I don’t know if it will help, but it never happened outside of the times after you’d tell one of those jokes. It became kind of like a routine, I guess? Like, um, like ‘Ilya told that joke, it reminded me of Montreal, now everything hurts, sex like this will make it not hurt,’” Shane tries to explain, speaking slowly as he tries to organize his thoughts into words. “It was only reminders of Montreal alongside being reminded that you thought I wanted to stay there that sent me to that place in my head, and I don’t think that’s going to happen anymore, obviously.”

“You mean this?” Ilya says, eyes flicking between both of Shane’s. “Only ever asked for it those times, never any other?”

“Never any other time, no, Ilya,” Shane says seriously, desperately maintaining eye contact. “But I don’t know how to reassure you of that other than telling you I’m okay if you ask. I can’t even promise I won’t cry, because, like I said, it feels good most of the time for me. I…hold so much in around everyone else and you’re the only person I allow myself to just completely, um, let go with.”

“I believe you, sweetheart,” Ilya says softly. “I do, I really do, okay? I am just trying to figure out way to remind myself when we get deep in those headspaces.”

“I, uhhh…..maybe I have an idea,” Shane begins, a thought striking him. “When I was like that, when I was, you know, uh, punishing myself, I wasn’t able to answer you in Russian, even if you had asked me to. Outside of that, though, I can speak Russian whenever I normally go down for you.”

“Da?” Ilya says, brows furrowing in surprise.

Shane blushes slightly. “Yeah, when I go down I go down for you,” he murmurs. A small smile forms on Ilya’s face at the sight of Shane’s sudden shyness. “But when I was doing it after a joke, my mind was always kind of stuck in Montreal, back before we got married and really starting doing, you know, kink stuff for real, so my ‘space or whatever would be shakier than normal.”

Ilya eyes him, something smug dancing in his eyes. “You internalized Russian for me so much that it is part of your subspace now?” he says.

“Ilyaaaaaaaa,” Shane whines, blushing even further as he shoves Ilya lightly.

Ilya catches Shane’s arm and holds him close before he can retreat. “There he is,” Ilya says, brushing some of Shane’s hair back. “My sweet Shane.”

“Yeah?” Shane mumbles, looking up at Ilya through his lashes. “Still?”

Ilya stoops his head down so he can look Shane directly in the eyes. “Yes, Shane, still. Always, solnyshko.”

“Really?” Shane says, biting his lip nervously. “Even after I lied? And I hurt you?”

Ilya sobers and his smile turns sad. “Even then,” he says thickly. He cocks his head and the playful glint in his eyes returns. “I also think that you and I love each other so much that we would both forgive each other for just about anything. And also that I have been in therapy long enough that unknowingly hurting someone’s brain in a way that is not at all in my control does not affect me the way it would have many years ago, instead it has just made me worry, and sad.”

“M’sorry,” Shane whispers, dropping Ilya’s gaze as his eyes fall to his lap.

“I know you are sorry,” Ilya say softly, brushing his thumb across Shane’s cheek. “But you do not need to be sorry anymore because I forgive you.”

Shane’s eyes flick back up to look at him. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Ilya says with a nod. “Because I said so. No arguments allowed.”

Shane’s lips twitch. “Okay,” he says. Then, after a moment. “Yes, sir.”

Ilya pokes his sides in response and Shane jerks, barking out a startled laugh. “Evil, my good boy is also evil,” he says with a grin. He waits for them to settle again before he continues. “Okay, okay. So that sounds like a plan, yes? If I am worried above you, I will ask for Russian color, if you can’t answer we pause and go from there, okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” Shane says in agreement. “Thank you.”

“Don’t have to thank me, dorogoy, this conversation, talking things out, nobody yelling or just arguing, this is all bare minimum,” Ilya says, eyes locking onto Shane’s face to see the way his husband responds to his words. This is something Shane used to tell Ilya a lot back when they’d first gotten together, but Ilya hadn’t been lying when he’d said that therapy has helped the way he reacts to things.

Ilya was raised in what the people close to him and healthcare professionals alike have called an ‘abusive household,’ which, yeah, obviously, but the part of that that Galina had needed to really hammer home is that it hadn’t just been physical abuse, it had also been emotional abuse. That had been the more difficult part to internalize and understand, but Ilya thinks he’s gotten to a pretty good place with that. It’s moments like this one right now, ones where Shane seems to have forgotten that he doesn’t need to people please and always be ‘on’ and perfect 24/7, that make Ilya wonder how he hadn’t noticed something was wrong sooner. Shane never used to tack unnecessary thank you’s and sorry’s and please’s onto the end of every conversation or interaction.

The mental dots Ilya believes he has connected are confirmed when Shane opens his mouth after a moment and says, “It’s kind of like a habit, I think,” in a small, cracked voice.

“That’s okay,” Ilya says lightly. “I will just remind you every time that you don’t have to thank someone or apologize for something you don’t actually need to, and I will tell you why, like you used to do for me.”

Shane smiles, a tiny, wobbly thing, but it’s there nonetheless. Ilya’s right, Shane did used to do that exact thing for Ilya. That’d been back when he was trying his best to help Ilya start healing from the emotional scar the Rozanov family had left, though. Is that how bad this has gotten?, Shane thinks to himself, bad enough that the same reassurance tactic I used on a fucking abuse victim is now being turned around and used to help me? Jesus christ. Shane squeezes his eyes shut momentarily before opening them and leaning towards Ilya, overcome by the mere idea; it’s an intimate act of patience and guidance, something Shane had never even hesitated to do for Ilya, and now it’s Ilya’s turn and he doesn’t even flinch, either.

“Ty moya rod—rodstvennaya dusha,” Shane breathes, barely audible and painfully shy. He’d looked up the closest translation to ‘soulmate’ in Russian years ago, back when things were falling apart in Montreal and he was trying his best to hold onto the good things. He’d tucked the translation away for safe keeping, too afraid to say it, and yet here it is now, spilling out of his mouth without thought. You are my soulmate.

“Shenya,” Ilya says, his eyes suddenly shining. He has to pause to swallow thickly before he can continue. “Da, solnyshko, YA tvoya rodstvennaya dusha, ty moya rodstvennaya dusha,” I am your soulmate, you are my soulmate.

Their eyes lock and Shane couldn’t look away even if he tried. His mouth drops open and moves as if to speak of its own accord. Things all of a sudden feel very intense in a way he definitely wasn’t expecting, but it’s not bad, it’s just…a lot. He is feeling a lot of things all at once, enough that he can’t name them all, and his lips finally lock around words as he begins to speak. “Nous, um…” Shane begins, but he quickly loses steam and cuts himself off as he realizes with a start what he was about to say.

“What, sweetheart?” Ilya says. “I am not great with French, we know this, but if you go slow I can try.”

“It’s nothing, it’s kind of corny,” Shane says, his eyes flicking away momentarily but quickly finding their way back to Ilya like the man’s magnetic. He shrugs his shoulders. “I just watched a buncha those space movies with Hayden a few years ago and I got all, uh, sappy about it in my head, or, ahm, whatever.”

Ilya’s eyes have never left Shane, so he sees the array of emotions that flash across the smaller man’s face. Whatever Shane had been about to say may be sappy, sure, but it’s clear by his reaction that it means something to him. “Tell me anyway,” Ilya says quietly. As if I’m going to let it go after an explanation like that, Ilya wants to scoff. “I want to hear, please, baby.”

Shane’s cheeks warm before he even begins to speak, quiet and shaky. “Nous partageons une seule âm. Je te retrouverai dans chaque vie,” he begins in low, tentative French. Ilya is watching his lips intently, mouthing the words back to himself with a slight furrow in his brow. Shane pauses to draw in a quivering breath and his voice is even quieter when he continues. “Jusq—jusqu'à ce qu'on devienne poussière d'étoiles, et—et au-delà.”

Ilya continues to simply stare for a moment once Shane has finished. Then, “Your French is very pretty, Shanyechka, but I did not understand most of that, I am sorry.”

Shane laughs shakily and he smiles. “That’s okay, I have magical Russian powers, remember? I can—I can translate it for you.”

The fact that Shane is pointedly not repeating it in English doesn’t escape Ilya’s notice, but he doesn’t comment. Shane doesn’t avoid doing things for no reason and Ilya’s willing to bet it’s simply because he’s too shy to say it in plain English. That’s okay; they both share that particular tendency. “Okay,” he says simply, smiling and nodding encouragingly.

“U...u nas odna dusha na dvoikh. Ya budu nakhodit' tebya v, um, v kazhdoy zhizni, poka my ne stanem zvezdnoy pyl'yu, i dazhe posle etogo.” We share one soul. I will find you in every lifetime, until we turn into stardust, and even after that.

There it is, Shane thinks to himself, when I said ‘soulmate’ I meant it as deeply as these words I’ve just offered you, Ilya, I know I’m kind of crazy.

“It’s, uh—I know it’s kinda like…mushy, but we were on the road at the time and Hayden would watch nothing but movies set in space all week, so I was a little drunk and I-I missed you and, fuck, those movies make you contemplate your existence whether you want to or not, okay?” Shane begins after a short beat of silence, rambling as he mistakes Ilya’s lack of response for a negative reaction.

“Hey, hey,” Ilya says, placing a palm against the side of Shane’s face. “I am not laughing, Hollander, you do not need to explain or apologize—”

“I just know we don’t really just say stuff like that—”

The hand on the side of his face shifts so that it’s now holding his jaw in a firm but painless grip. Shane stops speaking in an instant. “Shane,” Ilya says. Shane’s eyes dart back to his and they’re…oh, Ilya’s eyes are kind of wet, but not sad? “Listen to me. Stop freaking out. What you say is very sweet and is so sweet that my brain disconnect for a moment, yes? But listen when I say absolutely, Shanya, yes, we share a soul and we always will. I love you so much, Shane, more than you can imagine.”

Shane takes his time processing this, but then his face slides into an easy, pleased smile. “Me too.” And then, because he’s feeling incredibly soft right now, he leans forward and wraps Ilya in a hug, arms tucked under Ilya’s and chin hooked over the man’s shoulder.

Ilya hugs him back just as tightly. He pecks kisses to the side of Shane’s head, his ear, his temple, and all Shane is able to do in response is smile and lean into it.

“Anything else we should negotiate?” Shane says after a while.

Ilya hums quietly. “Nothing specific, I don’t think,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders. “Anything new we haven’t tried? Or something we have not done in a while?”

“Not that I can think of,” Shane says, shaking his head. “Probably shouldn’t add new things right now, anyway. Give it some time before we do.”

“Good idea, yes,” Ilya says in agreement. “Always so smart, Shanyechka.”

They relax on the couch, a silent agreement that that’s enough negotiating for right now. Shane begins to doze in and out at a certain point and only tunes back in when Ilya squeezes one of the feet the Canadian has in his lap.

“You and Novikov make a list?” Ilya asks.

Shane hums. “Hm, yeah. It was kind of fun in a fucked up sort of way, actually. Like, I think writing it out like that made us acknowledge how ridiculously insane some of it was.”

“You will show me and explain everything, yes?” Ilya says, and Shane is endlessly endeared at how seriously Ilya is taking all of this.

He nods. “Yes, Ilya, I’ll sit down and explain it, but for today I just wanna relax. Is that okay?”

“Da, sweetheart, that’s more than okay.”

Chapter End Notes

come yell at me in the comments or on threads if you so please, I always love to hear from y'all!! 🤗

was planning to move onto April in this chapter but once i took a look at the timeline, we're gonna chill in March for another chapter or two :)

next up shall be: Ilya talking to Bood and Barrett about MTL, then expands to the veteran players, and then eventually the entire team

Chapter 9: March 2022, Pt. 5

Chapter Summary

Ilya gets lunch with Bood and Troy to discuss the details of the lists, Bood and Troy feel out the attitude the other more vet players have towards the lists, Ilya sits the team down for a discussion about the lists and the possible plans they can have going forward

Chapter Notes

I know it's been a while, sorry about that! life got in the way lol. the good news is the next chapter is already 85% written, so shouldn't be too long before the next update :)

hope y'all enjoy, i appreciate all the kudos and comments! <3

March 2022, Pt. 5

“Bood, Barrett,” Ilya calls in the locker room after a late morning skate, throwing a ball of clear tape in the latter’s direction. “We are going to lunch, captain’s orders.”

Bood turns to Barrett, an eyebrow raised. “Looks like we’re going to lunch.”

“It would appear so,” Barrett says in agreement, nodding his head in cautious confusion.

Shane snorts and shakes his head from his own stall across the room.

“What is he planning?” Val asks in Russian from his side.

“Remember when I asked you if it was okay that he talks to the team about Montreal? And uses the list?” Shane replies, also speaking in Russian. “He was serious.”

“Damn,” Val says, quietly surprised. “Was it really that bad? I don’t mean how they treated you specifically, but everything else?”

“He acts like it was,” Shane replies. He’s been thinking the same thing himself for years. His therapist has been telling him this for ages and so has Hayden, and now Ilya, as well, but it’s still kind of hard to believe. He’s still working on reconciling with the fact that the behavior that’d been going on openly since his rookie season isn’t actually acceptable conduct in the NHL.

“Were you ever on a team in Russia that was like Montreal?”

“Of course,” Val replies. His brow furrows. “But not in the same way, if that makes sense. It was less…in your face with it? And Montreal is in shiny perfect North America, so it’s still probably not normal, I think.”

Ilya stalks up as they’re speaking. Val and Shane turn to him expectantly.

“I will feed him if that’s what you’re worried about, Rozanov,” Val says mildly. “Go have your super-secret leadership lunch.”

Ilya stares for a moment longer before nodding. “Something with actual carbs, he had an apple for breakfast.”

“Pasta it is,” Val says with a nod.

“Spasibo, Val,” Ilya says quietly, and the interaction damn near qualifies as pleasant. Shane is over the moon already when Ilya turns his attention fully to him. “Should be home by two, solnyshko.”

Shane blushes at the Russian petname and nods his head, feeling just a touch shy all of a sudden.

Ilya ducks his head and kisses him goodbye before waving and heading out of the locker room with Bood and Barrett in tow. Shane resumes getting dressed in his street clothes and pointedly ignores the younger player in the stall next to him.

“So, solnyshko, huh?” Val says anyway as Shane is sitting down to tie his shoes, finally breaking the silence.

Shane groans quietly. “Fuck off, Novikov.”

“You’re his little sunshiiiiine,” Val singsongs.

“I can still go tell him to take ‘bagskates’ off that list, you insufferable fuck,” Shane mutters, shaking his head as he stoops down to finally tie his shoes.

“You would not hurt your child like that, Hollander, I am not worried,” Val says, waving a dismissive hand Shane’s way as he slips his shoes on.

“I’m getting the adoption voided.”

“There is a no return policy,” Val says cheerfully.

“Of course there fucking is.”

So Shane and Val go to an Italian place the younger player frequents and they don’t leave until he’s satisfied that Shane is thoroughly full of pasta. Ilya, Barrett, and Bood, meanwhile, head back to Ilya and Shane’s house for sandwiches and a difficult conversation.

“Okay, man, you’ve successfully kidnapped us,” Bood says, watching expectantly as Ilya pulls sandwiches out of the plastic take-out bag the shop had given them. “What’s going on?”

“Why you think something is going on?” Ilya says innocently, eyeing him as he hands over Troy’s food.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the way you’ve looked like you want to murder someone all morning,” Troy says, incredulous.

“Like that’s anything new,” Bood replies, rolling his eyes before leaning forward and snatching his own food out of the bag. His eyes flick to Ilya and he looks him up and down for a moment before he continues. “But you might be onto something. What’s up, Rozy?”

“Same thing I was texting you about the other day, Barrett,” Ilya replies, turning around to grab them drinks from the fridge.

There’s an assortment of different sodas, seltzers, and alcohol in his and Shane’s fridge, a collection that has only grown as the season has worn on. Their pantry houses even more, and it’s a mix of their teammates’ various favorites.

Shane brought something up to him the other day that’d made his heart swell and drop at the same time. Shane had been half-awake and in the sleepy in-between they both often find themselves in right before one of them slips into sleep. He’d spoken about gathering from talking with other players on other teams over the years that a lot of captains in the league have a tendency to become something like ‘team parents.’ It’s a lot less serious of a title in practice, but Ilya had known what he was talking about immediately. Neither of them had been named captains of their respective rookie teams until a few years into playing, which is typical, but while Shane’s captain was apparently a major asshole, the veteran Bears captain before Ilya was this to a T. Team dinners, holiday parties, an open invitation to show up at the captain’s house if you need help or to talk to someone or even just because.

Shane hasn’t made it a secret that he really does like his Centaurs teammates, even if he’s still working on not being nervous and, more rarely these days, sometimes afraid around them. It had still surprised Ilya, though, to learn that Shane had imagined himself being captain as something like that, a ‘team parent’ with a house that functions as a second home for his teammates when the need arises. Montreal had never seemed interested in this, so he’d quashed the desire and quickly moved on.

Ilya had acted a bit like a team parent back when he was captain in Boston, but he definitely hadn’t exactly been a shining beacon of responsibility back then. Shane had also mentioned that the Centaurs call them ‘mom’ and ‘dad’ sometimes, switching between who gets what title at random, sure, but the sentiment is there. They break up stupid bickering arguments between the older players. The younger players reach out to them for things they need help with, even stuff in their personal life.

Shane had said all of that and then disclaimed it immediately in the resigned tone Ilya has gotten used to hearing from his husband. ‘I’m too much of a mess to manage all that now, probably won’t be able to ever handle it anymore, but when I was a kid that’s how I used to think I’d want it to be,’ is what Shane had said, his words sleepily linked together ever so slightly. Ilya had pressed just a bit, and Shane had offered, ‘You know, open door policy, no questions asked unless they want me to, a pantry full of snacks that I don’t eat and a fridge with drinks I don’t drink, just in case one of them comes by.”

There were, of course, a lot of caveats to that. Nobody would’ve gotten a key to the place, and there’d need to be some form of communication before they just appear out of thin air because he’s still an adult that does things like have sex with his partner and definitely still needs a solid block of alone time, but the general spirit of it is still there even with these mild stipulations.

Ilya thinks sometimes about what Shane would’ve been like as a captain if he’d been drafted to a completely different team. He’d have flourished in Boston, that’s for sure. The ‘hockey robot’ stereotype of his husband has always bothered him, and this admission by Shane when he’d been half-asleep and completely unguarded had done nothing but cement his quiet belief that Shane actually does understand how people work and enjoys taking care of others, he just doesn’t know how to express it easily. That and the fact that it seems that Montreal had beaten the spirit out of him young, both mentally and also physically judging by the things on the lists that Shane had grudgingly handed over.

“So they’re both okay with it?” Troy asks, accepting the bottle of blue Gatorade that Ilya hands him.

“Who’s okay with what?” Bood says, clueless and looking between the two like he’s missed part of the conversation.

“I mention this to Troy already, but basically the way Montreal treated Shane after he came out was worse than he first told me and the way they treat players in general was, ah, very bad.”

“Damn, really? That’s fucked up,” Bood says, shaking his head. “So what are we doing now, beating the shit out of them next game? I’m down.”

“Shane and Val gave me a list,” Ilya replies, trying not to look as sick as he felt when he’d first laid eyes on the thing. “And permission to talk to team about it. Figured I would start with you two, go from there.”

“A list of what?”

“All the fucked up things that still bother them,” Ilya replies. “Short list, but a loud list.”

A heavy silence follows that the three fill by finally unwrapping their sandwiches and digging in. The topic at hand may be nausea-inducing, but they’re still professional athletes that just got out of a long practice, so hunger trumps emotions in this case.

“So you call him Val now, huh?” Troy says after a while, eyeing Ilya from the opposite side of the L-shaped couch.

Ilya glares. “He’s…Shane is right, he is a good kid,” Ilya says begrudgingly, taking another bite of his sandwich like it’s personally offended him. “Stupid about what he say sometimes, yes, but good.”

“What’s on the list?” Bood asks.

Ilya grimaces slightly, then reaches into the pocket of his joggers and pulls out the page Shane had ripped it out of his notebook and handed over. Shane had kept his promise and explained everything on it, a conversation that’d clearly been a struggle for the smaller man, not because of the subject matter but more, as it’s become obvious to Ilya, because Shane still struggles with feeling like he’s ‘making a big deal out of nothing.’

“Two lists, one for us, and one for coaching staff mainly. Still have not convinced either of them to let me talk to Wiebe, but I, hm, may push because some of the stuff on that list he still does. Not in the same way as Montreal, but from how it was described, would probably be good for him to know either way,” Ilya explains, unfolding the paper and smoothing it out.

“Jesus christ,” Bood curses.

Ilya nods grimly. “Most of the stuff on list none of us actually do, but, like I said, good to know either way, yes?”

“Yeah, good idea,” Troy says in agreement, nodding his head. “Hit us with it.”

“Will start with easy things, hm? Stuff we already don’t do. Injuries is one. Seems basically that when someone was injured, they would be, hm, word Shane used was ‘interrogated,’ so interrogated about when they are coming back, told they are being dramatic, being pressured to come back early, so a lot of attention on that is, um, not good.”

“So now even well-meaning questions…” Bood begins, trailing off.

“Makes them nervous,” Troy finishes.

“Da.”

“Next there’s basically, ah, leave their stuff the fuck alone. Do not touch their gear or their bag or their clothes,” Ilya says, reading the next point.

“The fuck did they do in Montreal? Hide their clothes? What, are the Voyageurs in fucking Juniors? Jesus christ,” Barrett rants, shaking his head.

All three of them spend some time ragging on the Voyageurs for the sheer immaturity it requires to stoop that low. NHL players are supposed to be professionals, a fact that it’s now common practice for a team’s social media team to drill into incoming rookies relentlessly. The behavior of a team’s players, be it hockey-related or not, speaks for the team itself as a brand, as well. The idea of a team as well established as an original six team like Montreal choosing to ignore not only the blatant lack of professionalism within it’s team but also the harassment and abuse it’s players are subjected to is absolutely absurd.

Ilya moves to the next item on the list a few minutes later. “Next bit is one they both said affects Val mostly now, because Shane is with me, but in Montreal, especially after Shane came out, they used to, hm, harass people about why they do not have a girlfriend or why don’t they ever fuck women. Vets would grab young players’ phone, look through it, or watch what they are texting, stuff like this.”

“That sounds pretty targeted,” Bood says, looking disturbed and genuinely angry. “Did that start before or after Shane came out?”

Ilya grimaces. “They said it happened before, but became big problem after Shane came out.”

“Yeah, so their reasoning behind it was pretty fucking obvious,” Troy says with a nod.

Ilya’s brow furrows when he looks down and reads the next point. Shane nor Val had offered any form of explanation for this particular issue. “This one I don’t know details, but they say is…not good to corner them, or go out of your way to get them alone for something without asking first.”

“You don’t know who that one is about?” Bood says quietly.

“No, but Shane looked…well, he had a look when he explained this bit. Could mean nothing, could mean both of them, I don’t know,” Ilya replies, shrugging helplessly.

“How many more?” Barrett asks, eying the list in Ilya’s hands.

“Two more. First, Montreal are immature children and used to make a big deal about Shane showering with them in locker room,” Ilya says, reading the last two bullet points on the list. “And when Shane basically told them to fuck off, as he should, they would complain and try to startle him so he slipped. Is not really a big issue for him anymore, he say, and it seems like this is true, but he did say that sometimes he still just decides not to shower at the rink and he’d prefer if no one say anything to him about it or make a big deal.”

“That’s especially fucked,” Barrett says. “Montreal is a team of a bunch of fucking children.”

“Yes, and like children they do not know how to keep their hands to themselves, it seems, because the last thing on the list is that there were many physical fights in the locker room going back to when Shane was a rookie, he could not give me a number. He said it got worse after he came out, but he wasn’t specific about whether it was him or Val who’d gotten into a fight.”

“I was afraid you were going to say this,” Bood says quietly, shaking his head. “I would say I can’t believe this was just allowed to go on, but the NHL really is just this shitty, huh?”

“Yes, really is,” Ilya agrees, nodding grimly. “Not many details, but they both say they flinch sometimes, or will jump if you surprise them, so suggestion is to, ah, try not to do that.”

“He couldn’t remember how many fights?” Barrett says.

Ilya shakes his head. “No, he says definitely more than ten, at least five after he came out, so…was definitely at least one for every season, which is, well—"

“Already insane?” Barrett finishes for him.

Ilya nods. “Da.”

“Yeah, that’s nuts, I’ve seen, like, three in my whole career,” Bood says in agreement.

“Same in Boston, also,” Ilya says. “So, as you hear, most of these things we do not do. Some of them happen by accident, maybe. But is good information for the team to have, I think. Is also good reminder that neither of them got their rookie treatments, skipped right over.”

“Well, that’s just a crime,” Bood says, exasperated and genuinely offended. “Montreal didn’t give Shane Hollander his rookie treatment? That’s, like, sacrilegious.”

“Is definitely a crime,” Ilya says, nodding as his lips start to pull up into a small smile. “Marleau thought maybe giving them both their rookie treatment would be a good idea. Make adjustments about the other stuff, yes, but this also.”

“Shane would murder you,” Bood says immediately, shaking his head.

“I promised I would get their permission before anybody changes anything,” Ilya replies easily.

“They wouldn’t want anything crazy anyway, would they?” Barrett guesses.

“No, definitely no. Head pats, helmet taps, tell them they do good job on the ice, go nuts when they score like it is baby’s first scrimmage goal. None of the stupid ‘pay your due’ nonsense, that seems to be only part Montreal did not miss. So, yes, this would very, ah, lowkey thing.”

“That makes sense to me,” Bood says with a nod.

“You think the rest of the team will go for this?” Ilya asks, looking between his two friends. “Need to know if even one person would not want to take part, or would think this is annoying.”

Bood and Troy look at each other and both shake their heads. “No, all that stuff you told us is absolutely fucked, I don’t think any of the other guys would be bothered. If anything it might help them get closer to the team, so everyone will be thrilled because, well, you remember how excited we all were about getting Shane, so it was a little…surprising when he showed up super, uh, reserved, you know? Quiet. Everyone adjusted and were fine about it! But yeah.” Troy says.

“And you know everyone loves an excuse to razz a rookie,” Bood adds.

“This is also true,” Troy says, gesturing towards Bood with a hand.

Ilya nods, considering all of this new information. The two players in his and Shane’s inner circle had reacted the same way Ilya had to hearing everything about Montreal and are not only receptive to the idea of doing something about it but also confident the rest of the team will be, as well.

“Would you mind speaking to a few other players about this? Dykstra, Chouinard, Hayes? Older guys like this. Let me know what they think and we will go from there,” Ilya says after a moment. “Shane and Val think I am being dramatic about being so concerned, so I worry I am being dramatic. Also took some convincing to get them to agree to me even speaking to you about this.”

“You’re not being dramatic, Roz,” Bood says, shaking his head. “This isn’t shit that should be happening on a professional NHL team. It shouldn’t be happening anywhere, really.”

“Seriously, Ilya, not dramatic by a long shot,” Troy says in agreement.

Ilya nods, finally confident in his decision to seriously address this giant glaring issue.

***

Troy creates a group chat for him, Bood, and Ilya in order to keep the Russian updated on their progress as they begin to loop a handful of the other veteran and older players as they go. It’s humorlessly titled ‘Super-Secret Cens 🐎’

Troy: chouinard is appalled and wants to kick comeau’s teeth in

Ilya: i never specify anything about that ugly french man

Troy: 🤷 it’s the principle of it, he just picked one

Bood: haysey also wants to murder a voyageur

Ilya: excellent

Troy: bro were gonna have to warn wiebs before we play mtl next 😭 its gonna be a blood bath

Ilya: perfect

(Bood liked this message.)

***

A new group chat pops up in Shane’s phone the evening before Ilya is set to speak to the team about everything. Ilya created it, and it only contains him, Shane, and Val.

Ilya: you will go to adorable tiny rink instead of practice tomorrow with shanya, novikov

Val: uh

Val: okay

Shane: ilya wtf

Shane: how insanely cryptic of you

Ilya: [link to a small community rink in Ottawa]

Val: sounds good

Ilya: i have things to do

Val: this is also uh cryptic yes?

Shane: 🤦

Shane: da valya that’s the right word

“Oh, so you are actually teaching him some English,” Ilya quips, looking up from his phone to meet Shane’s gaze.

Shane rolls his eyes. “That whole thing where I only spoke to him in Russian around you was literally just to piss you off,” he says. “Figured you’d eventually relax and stop being an ass to him all the time, but only if I basically didn’t make it optional.”

“Evil, Shanya,” he says, nudging Shane playfully with his foot.

“You love it,” Shane replies, pulling up the text thread he has with Val alone.

Val: i am laughing at the texts roz sent

Val: how…is ominous the word?

Shane: yeah that’s the word

Shane: i told him not to be so dramatic, but whatever, not my issue

Val: yes we go to community rink and fool around instead

Shane: ilya was too excited when he found it online

Shane: and it seems a lot more fun than that team meeting so 🤷

Val: i hope it does not become weird

Shane: that was the first thing i told him basically, so i've got u covered there

***

The entire team is already gathered in the locker room when Ilya arrives at the arena. Their attention collectively falls to him the moment he enters the room.

Bood appears at his side and shuts the doors to the locker room behind them. Ilya had spoken to Wiebe about having this little players’ only meeting, but he’d been sure to make it clear it’s about a personal matter and not in regards to some issue they have with the team’s staff.

“Hello, Centaurs,” Ilya says to begin, looking around at his teammates as he crosses the room and takes a seat in his stall. This is a conversation between teammates, so Ilya is going to act like it’s just that. “I am sure you are all wondering why I have gathered you here.”

“Jesus christ, Roz,” Bood says, rolling his eyes and shaking his head in mild exasperation.

“What a way to start,” Hayes says in agreement.

“We are here because there is a problem, and that problem is the Montreal Voyageurs,” Ilya says, barreling right along. “They were very much not good when Shane came out and then especially after we were outed as a couple, and there are also things that went on that affected his Russian duckling, as well.”

“Weren’t good?” Boyle says, brow furrowed.

Ilya nods. “They’ve given me permission to discuss it with you, because there are things that still bother them now sometimes.”

So Ilya tells them everything that he’d already told Troy and Bood. He simultaneously gauges everyone’s reactions to what he has to say and is relieved and encouraged by the disturbed looks on his teammates’ faces.

“That’s absolutely insane,” LaPointe says once Ilya has finished speaking.

Several guys nod in agreement. Ilya does, as well. “Yes, Marly said the same thing when I asked him about it, and he reminded me of something, also.”

Troy’s face breaks out into a grin because he already knows exactly what Ilya is about it say.

“Hollander and Novikov did not ever have their rookie treatment,” Ilya reveals. His teammates look as surprised as he’d felt when he’d learned this particular fact.

“So…you think treating them like rookies would help?” Dykstra pipes up.

“Maybe not help, but think they deserve, maybe, would be nice at least,” Ilya replies, shrugging his shoulders. “Would not be some big thing, though, just small stuff.”

“Head pats, overly enthusiastic cellies, praise for simple stuff, treats left in their stall, things like that,” Troy lists enthusiastically from his left. “None of the shit where you make them pay for dinner or do errands for you or fuck around with them, though, speaking from experience they’ve had more than enough of that coming from a team like Montreal.”

“Did you get your rookie experience, Barrett?” Hayes calls, narrowing his eyes.

Troy wags a finger at him. “I’ll stop you right there, Haysey, I was more than thoroughly babied as a rookie, I can assure you,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m all set.”

“Well, that seems like something we can do, yeah?” Chouinard says, glancing around at the teammates seated nearby him. They nod their heads in agreement, some shrugging like it’s no big deal and a few even looking downright delighted at the prospect of treating Shane Hollander like a rookie.

“I already know what I’m gonna do,” Dillon says with a grin.

“Oh? Please share with the class, then,” Ilya says, raising his eyebrows and gesturing for the player to continue speaking.

“First goal they score next, practice, during a game, I don’t care, I’m gonna go absolutely nuts on the bench,” he replies.

“Oh my god, how about both? Next practice and next game?” Dykstra says in agreement.

“I have a bunch of leftover foil star stickers from when we potty trained Emma,” Boyle says suddenly. “How about we give ‘em stickers when they do a good job sometimes?”

Ilya grins to himself, watching with a deep satisfaction as conversation kicks up about how exactly they’re going to collectively go about rectifying a wrong done many years ago. It’s all with an earnestness that he’d feared they’d lack when he was considering explaining to them all in some detail about how Montreal was not just as a team but as an organization. He’d had enough faith in his teammates to risk doing so despite his doubts, and he’s glad that he’d gone through it.

He releases them all onto the ice to start practice only after everyone agrees to not make this a big deal, making it clear that this was Shane and Val’s main concern regarding all of this. They’re grown men, not children, and a big issue they both already share is not wanting to draw too much attention to themselves. Everyone is in agreement, thankfully.

“That went better than I thought it would,” Ilya says to Troy as he trudges along after his best friend towards the ice.

“Honestly, me too,” he replies, swinging back to look at Ilya briefly. “I figured they’d be okay with it all, sure, but not that they’d start throwing out their own suggestions like that.”

“Is good sign,” Ilya replies.

“Yeah, man, definitely.”

They clomp further along the tunnel in silence for a few beats. Then, “So Toronto really gave you rookie treatment?” Ilya asks.

Troy sighs, loud and exasperated. “Yes, Ilya! I swear. Toronto was a bitch of a team, but they were all about traditions, even silly ones like that.”

Ilya considers this for a moment. “I will be verifying this, Barrett,” he says, a smirk tugging at his mouth. He nudges his best friend with a gloved hand against the back. “For peace of mind, of course.”

“You’re a fucking menace, Rozanov.”

“A loveable menace.”

Chapter End Notes

next chapter will feature the Centaurs giving S&V that rookie treatment as promised, and shane and ilya scening for the first time since shane told ilya the truth :)

Chapter 10: March 2022, Pt. 6

Chapter Summary

Shane and Val begin to experience the team's 'rookie treatment,' Shane engages in some PDA in the locker room because he gets. shit. done., the following practice is in prep to play Toronto so Shane and Val have a tough time, Ilya comforts Shane after and Shane makes a request when asked how Ilya can make it better

Chapter Notes

thanks for all your lovely comments and kudos! <3 hope y'all enjoy this one :)

March 2022, Pt. 6

Shane and Val were warned ahead of time about what the team had decided to do in regards to Ilya’s meeting with them about the things they’d written on the list about Montreal. They’d had plenty of warning, actually. Ilya had told Shane, who’d immediately texted Val in turn, on the evening of the team meeting and there wasn’t any mandatory practice scheduled for the following two days. Two days, more than enough time to get familiar with the idea of your teammates treating you like a rookie all of a sudden, right? Definitely not, the pair quickly finds.

It starts simple. Shane finds one of his favorite flavor of the protein bar he eats, the one that’s hard to find stocked in-store, waiting for him on the bench of his stall when he comes into the locker room the next time they have mandatory practice. He looks around at the other few players that’ve already arrived and everyone shrugs like they have no idea but it very much looks like a couple of them are trying to hide a smile. Shane picks the bar up and casts a narrow-eyed look at all of them, but sits down on the bench and rips open the packaging because, yeah, he hasn’t had one in ages.

Val shows up a little while later and gives Shane a questioning look.

Shane shrugs, crumbling up the wrapper from the protein bar in his hand. “Seems normal enough so far,” he says in Russian.

“So you get treats, now? Where’s my rookie treat?” Val says, gesturing to the wrapper in Shane’s hand.

Shane snorts, raising an eyebrow. “Kind of hard to get you a treat when none of them know a lot about you.”

“You know damn well they asked Rozanov what protein bar you like rather than figuring it out themselves, Hollander.”

Shane turns to him, unimpressed but very much amused. “Are you asking me to give them hints? Am I your point of connection for them?”

Val practically pouts. “Will you?”

Shane laughs out loud, but he nods. “Da, Valya, I’ll make sure you get some Girl Scout cookies.” Girl Scout cookies, any flavor but particularly the ones of the Samoa variety, quickly became one of Val’s biggest dietary weaknesses ever since he first arrived in Canada, apparently. Shane had been incredibly endeared to find out this fact, and he’d filed it away for future use such as a situation like right now.

They all get ready for practice and nobody is acting out of the ordinary other than the extra few glances in his or Val’s direction, much to Shane’s surprise. He’s glad, sure, but definitely surprised.

Practice starts and things are just like normal. Warmups are as lively as they always are. Wiebe is none the wiser to Ilya’s initiative to help Shane and Val ‘relive’ their rookie season, so their head coach obviously doesn’t act any differently. Shane knows that Ilya wants to speak to their coach about the second list that he and Val had written out, but considering he already feels dramatic enough about the whole intervention-style meeting his husband just had with their entire team, he thinks he’s going to hold off, at least for right now.

“Hey, Shane?” Val says, skating over after only fifteen minutes of practice has gone by.

“Hey, Val,” Shane replies.

“Bood just pat me on the head and told me good job after that drill,” Val says, the look on his face screaming mildly bewildered.

“So it begins,” Shane says, nodding his head knowingly. “Rookie shit, remember?”

Val nods along with Shane, but he still looked slightly alarmed. “I will be real with you, I did not think they would actually do it,” Val says after a moment.

Shane laughs. “Yeah, honestly, me neither, but here we are, so,” he says with a shrug. “Is it bothering you? They’ll stop if it is.”

Val shakes his head. “No, no, not bothering, just…weird.”

“Yeah, it’s definitely weird. But I guess it’s kind of fun,” Shane agrees. He continues in Russian, a small smile playing on his lips. “Besides, you will get treats out of it. Seems like good deal.”

Val huffs and skates away back to his group.

They end practice with a shoot-out drill, just one of them at a time trying to sneak a puck past Wyatt Hayes. Val misses and so does Ilya. Shane goes damn near last and when he sends the puck soaring over the goalie’s glove hand, the bench absolutely explodes. He rounds the back of the net and watches with barely-contained amusement as he approaches the bench at the sight of his teammates losing their minds over something as meaningless as a drill during practice.

He’s practically accosted once he glides within arm’s reach, peppered with head pats and slaps on the shoulders. Shane laughs and allows it, patient and slightly embarrassed by all of the attention. He meets Val’s eyes at one point, who shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders helplessly.

Shane had been worried it would be weird with the team knowing everything and his husband being dramatic and sitting them all down to talk to them about it, like Shane needs to be managed for fuck sake—but luckily nothing seems to have changed too much. Ilya had told him it’d be like that, but it’d been kind of hard to believe.

“Not too much?” Ilya asks, standing at the exit to the bench as the rest of their team files off towards the locker room at the end of practice. Most of the guys pause to pat the top of Shane’s helmet again, much to his reluctant amusement.

“No, it’s actually kind of…fun, I think,” Shane replies, shaking his head.

Ilya smiles, the soft kind reserved only for Shane and kids and pets. Shane smiles right back, small but sure. They head back to the locker room together, walking side by side.

Shane hadn’t been lying to Val when he’d said he’s going to make sure the younger player gets some treats. He knows how he’s going to have to disperse the information about Val’s favorite things, though, so he decides to lay it on a little thick.

He waits until he and Ilya are both changed out of their gear and showered before coming right up to the front of the larger man’s stall. Ilya stares up, surprised and endlessly patient. He certainly isn’t expecting Shane to climb far too gracefully into his lap, right on the bench of his locker room stall.

“Oh, hello,” Ilya practically purrs, smiling down at his husband and enjoying the rare public display of affection.

“Hi, baby,” Shane replies in practiced Russian, smiling sweetly back at him. If Ilya didn’t know any better he’d say that Shane is batting his eyelashes. “Do you think you could do me a favor, Ilyusha?”

Ilya, charmed, is helpless to do anything but nod very seriously. “Da, solnyshko, anything, just tell me.”

Shane leans forward a bit. “Apparently rookie treatment involves treats, da? So I got a very nice treat this morning, but the team does not know Val’s favorites, and that needs to be fixed because if it isn’t then my duckling is not getting the full rookie experience, right?”

Ilya’s mouth pops open slightly in surprise. “This is the favor? You want me to slip information to the rest of the team about your pet Russian duckling?”

Shane damn near pouts, and Ilya thinks that that’s just incredibly unfair. “You did say ‘anything,’ didn’t you, Rozanov?” he quips, smiling innocently.

Ilya lets off a string of Russian curse words and then tips his head back slightly, amused and impressed by just how well his husband knows how to get his way. “Okay, Hollander, I tell them, but only because you asked so nicely,” Ilya concedes, leaning forward and smushing a kiss to Shane’s forehead. “Will you give me list?”

“Da,” Shane says, a gleam in his eyes.

Ilya swats him playfully on the ass when he slides off his lap to go and grab his shower stuff. Val is openly staring at the display when Shane turns around to make his way back to his own stall.

“I told you I am getting you those fucking Girl Scout cookies, Novikov,” Shane says, walking past the younger player to get to his stall.

“I was half joking!” Val replies, exasperated, as Shane grabs his towel.

Shane gives Val an unimpressed look and then walks away towards the locker room showers. “You’re not fooling anybody, Valya,” he calls back over his shoulder.

***

They win at home against Vancouver and have practice scheduled the day after before they’re set to fly out to Toronto the following morning for a game against the Guardians. It’s the practice before a game against Toronto, so Wiebe doesn’t skirt around the fact that most of the drills today are going to be heavy checking drills as preparation against the overtly physical team.

Shane and Val share a look upon hearing the news. The entire team is already on the ice and just finished warmups. Wiebe is now drawing a drill on the whiteboard in front of them and, yeah, he hadn’t been lying when he’d delivered the disclaimer regarding the theme of the day. It makes sense to want to prepare this way, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Shane braces himself for what’s to come, just like he’s always done.

Val comes to a stop at Rozanov’s side as they get in line to start the first drill of the day. “Today is not a good day for the adorable rookie treatment,” he says in quiet, measured Russian. Ilya glances over, mildly surprised. “All the extra attention wouldn’t be good during a practice like this. For either of us.” He adds the last part as a second thought, surprising even himself. He and Rozanov aren’t exactly close, after all.

“You think?” Ilya replies, glancing across the ice at where Shane is standing and, hm, staring down at his skates like he wants the ice beneath them to swallow him whole.

“I know,” Val says, avoiding Ilya’s gaze when the man turns his head back towards him. “Today will be hard enough, for him a lot, but for me, also, even if it’s not, ah, the same situation. I can’t…I can’t reliably look out for him today.” What he just said is incredibly candid of him; he hadn’t meant to make it personal towards himself. It’s the realest he’s been with the older player regarding Val himself since they’ve met.

Ilya nods once and then leans over to speak into Bood’s ear. Val figures he’s relaying the message, and if there’s anybody who will get the word about such a topic out quickly and efficiently, it’s Zane Boodram. He’s able to relax, then, if only by a fraction. Ottawa really isn’t anything like Montreal, and he’s thankful every day for that.

Ottawa also isn’t anything like Russia, either. Practices like these were commonplace in Russia, sure, but what had gone on in Montreal never occurred as frequently in Russia. That’s why he’s never downplayed what had gone on with the Voyageurs: it’d been like every issue a Russian team could have but magnified to a degree that it’d quickly became excessive and harmful. Val struggles with heavy checking drills like these for a different reason than Shane entirely, one completely separate from Montreal, but that doesn’t mean Val can’t see why being targeted specifically for something like it would leave its mark.

Shane grinds his teeth and weathers his way through the first half of practice. It’s definitely not fun and none of the other guys seem to be enjoying it much, either, so he’s in good company there. He feels his mind shift, though, like his brain has loosened it’s grasp on the controls of his body. It’s a marked improvement from the way it used to step back and let go of them completely so a detached autopilot could take over, so Shane allows himself to appreciate the little things.

The most blatant difference on the ice between Ottawa and Montreal is that the Centaurs would never throw checks intended to actually harm someone, and today is nothing if not a test drive of this exact assertion that Shane is still training his brain to accept as an absolute fact. If he makes it through the second half of practice unscathed he thinks he might manage to get himself to at least, hm, 80% of the way there? Considering he’d walked into his first interaction with the Centaurs at a chilly 30%, he thinks that may damn near be a reason to celebrate.

Val glides over during a water break before the second half of practice.

“Okay, Shanya?” he asks, knocking a puck towards the blade of Shane’s stick.

Shane blinks, startling out of the zoned-out state he’d found himself in. “Sure,” he replies, also in Russian.

“You have that look on your face, is why I ask,” Val says, casual but knowing.

Shane narrows his eyes at the younger player. “’That look’?” he repeats.

Val levels him with a resoundingly unimpressed look. “Yes, Hollander, the one where it looks like the lights are on but no one is home, that is the English expression, yes?”

“Yeah, that’s the right expression,” Shane mutters, knocking the puck back towards Val. “I have not blacked out in months, dissociate is not the same thing. So, yes, I am dissociating sometimes today, but I am still in control and I know what is going on.”

“Mm, I figured based on the almost-fluent Russian you’re speaking in,” Val says mildly, cutting his eyes sideways towards the older player.

Shane scoffs, playfully offended. “Okay, you try learning a third language, how about that, Novikov? French was my first, not English!”

Val rolls his eyes, the picture of a brat. “Excuses, Hollander.”

This light conversation with his ‘rookie’ is pretty much the brightest spot of practice. Shane grits his teeth, puts his head down, and pushes through the second half of it the best that he can. He hadn’t been lying to Val; he knows what’s going on, he’s present enough in his body even if it there are moments where he feels like he’s seeing everything from outside of himself. This is all progress according to his therapist, which is kind of depressing to think about considering how much all of this still totally sucks, but he’d take these mild reactions over a complete amnesic episode any day of the week.

Shane leans against the boards beside Ilya to see their teammates off the ice at the end of practice. Wiebe had given a ‘good job, I know it sucked’ speech to wrap it up, something Therriault would never be caught doing, and that’d warmed Shane’s towards the man a little bit. It’s no giant revelation, that’s for sure, but if Shane’s learned one thing about himself through all of this, it’s that his brain likes to take it’s time settling into any sense of security.

He watches as a handful of guys give Val head pats, much gentler than usual, as they all skate in a flock towards the exit that leads to the locker room. Val smiles placatingly and with a soft amusement Shane is sure the younger player would kill him for ever directly acknowledging, so Shane rests easy in knowing he doesn’t have to worry about him.

That same group of guys do the same with Shane, delivering endearingly soft and gentle pats as they make their way past him.

“You got me good there with that one drill, Hollzy,” Bood says as he goes by, shaking Shane’s helmet with a gloved hand against his visor. Shane scrunches his nose and his lips curl upwards in amusement.

“Thanks, Bood,” he replies.

Bood smiles back and nods, continuing on his way.

“All good?” Ilya asks as they, too, make their way to the locker room.

“I’m okay,” Shane replies, nodding his head. He glances at Ilya and intentionally meets his gaze to try to really convey his sincerity even further. “Just tired.”

“We go home, have dinner, and do whatever you want, how does that sound, malysh?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

They make quick work of their post-practice showers and make themselves scarce to head home shortly after. Ilya plays the joint Spotify playlist they each contribute to periodically that’s mostly reserved for their drives home after tough games. It makes a lazy smile slide onto Shane’s face and he allows himself to lay his head back and relax by a fraction. He follows closely behind Ilya into the house once they park in the driveway.

They let themselves in, take off their shoes, and then there’s a pause where they stop and simply stand in the foyer. They’re standing close together, close enough that Shane can smell the bodywash that Ilya uses at the rink.

Shane feels something inside him give way and he leans forward so he can wrap his arms around Ilya’s middle, the rest of his body following after a short, hesitant pause. Ilya responds immediately, winding his own arms around his husband and pulling him in close.

“What do you need from me? Or even just want?” Ilya says, running a hand through Shane’s hair.

“This,” Shane mumbles into Ilya’s shoulder. “Shower.”

“Mm, anything else?” Ilya hums, running a hand up and down his husband’s back.

Shane pauses long enough that Ilya realizes it’s hesitation rather than a simple lack of anything to add. He waits.

“Yeah, there’s something else,” Shane finally manages to say. “I just don’t know if I’m allowed to ask for it.”

“There’s no such thing as ‘allowed,’ dorogoy,” Ilya replies, shaking his head. “You can ask me. What is worst I can say, ‘no’?”

Shane hesitates again but then begins to speak, quiet and like he’s already decided what the answer is going to be. “Maybe you could…maybe you could put me down tonight?” he says, keeping his face tucked safely into his husband’s shoulder. “It’s—it’s been a long time, and I miss it, and you just, uh, make me feel so safe when you do, you know?” His voice is barely a whisper by the time he finishes speaking.

“We can do that, sweetheart,” Ilyas says, which catches Shane completely off guard.

Shane pulls back a bit so he can look at Ilya’s face and meet his eyes. “Really?”

Ilya smiles softly. “Yes. I was not lying when I say we pause, renegotiate, and go from there. I enjoy it just as much as you do, Shane. I just want to make sure we do it right, and I think we can manage that, yes?”

Shane nods immediately. “Yes, we can. I guess I’m just…surprised you’re okay with it, you know, so soon after I told you everything.”

“We have added a few, ah, safety nets, yes? So as long as you are asking because you want it, and you want it just because it makes you feel good, not to punish yourself, then yes, I am okay with it.”

“I might cry,” Shane says in warning.

“And I will check in, but you warned me about this already, solnyshko, so I am prepared,” Ilya replies, smoothing some hair back from Shane’s forehead. “So, shower first or after?”

Shane seriously considers the question. “First? So I can just, you know, hang out after.”

“Mm, yes, so you can enjoy how quiet your head gets while you float, makes sense,” Ilya says, nodding in agreement. “Always so sweet and adorable when you are like that, is treat for me, also.”

Shane blushes and ducks his head, hooking his jaw over’s Ilya’s shoulder. “Shut up,” he mumbles half-heartedly.

They eat an intentionally simple dinner and then take a long shower afterwards. Ilya presses Shane back against the tiled wall at the tail end of the shower and takes his time placing kisses all over his body. They make out for a while, slow and sensual, until Ilya finally pulls away and shuts the water off. They dry off and then Ilya basically herds Shane back towards their bed.

Shane goes without any form of protest. The languid make out session in the shower already has him halfway to subspace, and he has a feeling that that’s by design by his dom. Ilya knows him so well, and Shane allows himself to relax even further once he’s laid back against the covers of their bed. Ilya wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of gentling Shane towards ‘space like that if he was still feeling iffy about scening with him. He really means it when he says he still trusts Shane; the realization makes his eyes go misty.

Ilya gazes down at him and cocks his head to the side. “Tears already?” he says, surprised but completely non-judgmental. He’s speaking in Russian when he continues, “Are you okay, baby?”

“Da, I’m okay,” Shane replies, also in Russian. “It’s…I can’t explain it. But I feel good, Ilya.”

Ilya smiles and nods.

They don’t do anything special. Ilya fingers Shane open and then slides inside of him. He holds him down by a large hand wrapped around both of Shane’s wrists and sets a pace that isn’t quite mean but also isn’t soft or gentle.

“Good, Shanya?” Ilya asks, sliding in to the hilt and pausing to simply grind into the man who’s spread out on his back beneath him.

“Y-yeah,” Shane stammers, nodding his head vigorously as he digs his nails into Ilya’s shoulders.

“Good, malysh,” Ilya says in Russian, beginning to thrust his hips again. “You were a good boy today, did so good in practice even when I know it was hard. Was it hard, baby? I want you to answer me.”

“Yeah, was hard,” Shane says around a hiccup, face screwing up slightly when Ilya shifts his hips.

“But you were good,” Ilya says, ducking his head down and pressing his lips to Shane’s. Shane kisses him back eagerly, moaning slightly against Ilya’s lips when he snaps his hips particularly harshly. “You were good, yes? Answer.”

Ilya is really using this as an opportunity to make me work through things, oh my god, Shane thinks to himself, incredulous while also slightly charmed. He pants, staring up at Ilya with dark, hazy eyes. “Yeah,” he manages, his voice unsteady as Ilya’s hips continue to move.

“Yeah, you were,” Ilya says, nodding his head. He reaches a hand down and gives Shane’s dick a single stroke. Shane’s hips jerk and he whines slightly in the back of his throat. “You were so good, sweetheart. Skazhi eto.” Say it.

Dammit, Ilya. “Ilya…” he says weakly.

“Is just the truth, Shane,” Ilya says, not letting up and if anything fucking his dick even faster into his husband below him.

Shane’s face scrunches up. “Please, ‘lya,” he mumbles, overwhelmed and helpless.

“I’m asking you to say the truth, dorogoy, that is all,” Ilya insists, meeting his eyes dead on. “Even if you don’t believe it, even if you disagree, it still counts.”

Shane’s eyes grow wet again and his head tips back when Ilya starts jerking him off, slowing his hips slightly so the movements are timed with each other. Ilya drops his head down so he’s speaking inches from Shane’s face, drilling his dick into the smaller man harshly as he quietly says, “I won’t let you come until you say it. Give me a color if it’s too much, but if not you know what to do.”

Ilya picks up the pace and Shane’s mouth falls open as he looks down their fronts. “I was—” Shane begins, cutting himself off and making a frustrated noise.

“You were what?” Ilya says, not letting up but also watching his husband’s face carefully for any signs of genuine distress.

I’m gonna come, I have to say it, Shane thinks desperately. “I was—I was good, okay, Ilya?” he stammers out.

Ilya’s eyes blaze. “You are good,” he says fiercely, the hand around Shane’s wrists tightening and pressing down harder.

Tears brim in Shane’s eyes from the struggle of holding himself back from tumbling right over the edge. “I’m good,” he mumbles.

Ilya gives him a wicked smile, eyes shining with pride, and he nods in agreement. “Yes, you are,” he says, speeding up so now he’s basically pounding into Shane, so much so that the smaller man makes tiny hurt noises with every snap of Ilya’s hips. “Come, solnyshko.”

Shane’s head snaps back and his eyes slam closed as he comes messily between their bodies and all over Ilya’s hand, crying out in a way that sounds like he’d truly been trying to hold it back. His mind whites out and he’s set adrift as Ilya strokes him through it, thrusting into him until he himself comes, as well.

Ilya takes his time catching his breath as he releases the hold he has on Shane’s wrists and pulls his completely slack arms down to his sides. He rubs his thumbs gently into each wrist, making sure he hadn’t held them too tightly and maintaining as much physical contact with Shane as possible at the same time. Shane watches him, eyes opened to mere slits, but he doesn’t say anything. Ilya smiles softly when he notices him watching, knowing that the smaller man is most certainly flying high right now.

He waits as long as possible before finally pulling out, tossing the condom, and cleaning Shane up. He doesn’t leave the bed because he knows Shane doesn’t react very well to distance that can be interpreted by his brain as being left behind after regular sex, let alone a scene. His husband only reacts with quiet hums and soft, content noises as Ilya cleans them both up. Ilya flops down beside him once he’s done so they’re lying naked side-by-side on top of their bed’s covers.

Ilya gets a surprise, then, a surprise he knows Shane very likely hadn’t been planning on giving him.

Shane’s lips gets loose in the same way they often do when he’s half-awake, post-orgasm, or still enjoying the lingering tendrils of subspace. Ilya’s realized by now that Shane’s brain is probably processing everything that happened to him in Montreal, truly processing, at least, for the first time now that everything is out in the open. Shane’s late night confessions about such horrible things are probably timed with the order in which he’s working through all the many bits and pieces, and Ilya is more than happy to hear them if it means his husband is healing even if a lot of it makes him want to commit several felonies.

His eyes are fully closed and his words slur slightly when he breaks the comfortable aftercare silence and says, “Coach in Montreal used to do practices like today all the time. It’d be bad, though, dangerous. He wanted all our hits to hurt, y’know?”

Ilya hums softly, turning onto his side and running a hand up and down Shane’s bare shoulder. He doesn’t say much if anything at all whenever Shane’s brain decides it’s trauma sharing time, almost as if doing so would tempt fate and startle Shane out of the comfortably open state of mind.

“Was always like that, since my rookie year, but then one day he noticed the guys throwin’ hits like that on me during regular practice, too, after I came out. He started doing heavy checking drills like that more often after tha’.”

Shane always says this stuff in a very specific tone, too, Ilya has noticed. Matter-of-fact, amused, lips slightly quirked like he’s fighting off a smile. It’s a form of resignation, Ilya thinks, but also maybe humor at the idea of how ridiculously unacceptable a lot of the things that happened to him had been. Ilya can relate. Being told his mom died in an accident, an accident that involved her swallowing a whole bottle of pills? It was a ridiculous attempt to cover the truth, and yet it remains the story on public record. His brother who lives in Russia refusing to take care of their aging father? The eldest Rozanov brother who also happened to be their father’s favorite? Both bits of information about Ilya’s life are so insane it’s basically hilarious.

“I wound up down on the ice at one point one of those days, could barely see straight Wilson had checked me so hard, an’ Coach skated over and said—” Shane pauses, laughing wetly and licking his lips before he continues, “He said, ‘christ, I know you like it on your knees, Hollander, but at least try to play like an actual NHL player, huh?’”

Ilya makes a little hurt noise, reaching up to brush the pad of his thumb against the apple of Shane’s cheek. Shane smiles, wobbly but definitely there.

“An’ then he called me into his office for a ‘leadership meeting’ and screamed a’ me for ten minutes,” Shane says, a slight finality to his tone that tells Ilya his husband has come to the end of his sharing for the night.

“You have been so very strong, Shanyechka, I am always so proud of you,” Ilya says in slow, reverent Russian, cupping the side of Shane’s face.

Shane’s eyes flutter open and he smiles fully, soft and adorable, when his gaze meets Ilya’s. “Ya tebya lybulyu,” he murmurs, clumsy and endearing.

Ilya beams. “I love you, too, baby.”

Ilya takes care of officially setting them up in bed for the night before arranging them together under the covers in bed. Shane curls into his side, an arm over his chest and his entire leg thrown over Ilya’s. Ilya runs an absent hand through Shane’s hair and feels the moment the smaller man’s breathing evens out into sleep.

Ilya lies there awake for a little while. The little bit Shane had said tonight had only been a preview into how awful Montreal’s coaching staff specifically had been towards Shane, and that definitely doesn’t fill Ilya with confidence in regards to the details his husband has yet to share. Shane had shared it, though, volunteered it without any prompting, even, so Ilya thinks it may be time to bring up the idea of him speaking to Wiebe about that second list Shane and Val had written out.

Chapter End Notes

This chapter has the first hint towards Val's backstory, but it's blink and you'll miss it (shane and val dislike heavy checking drills for different reasons)
I was back and forth on what kind of history I wanted to give Val, and what I landed on I was iffy about because I hate reusing themes over and over in every fic I write but I think it fits his character so far (and offers an even better explanation as to why Val would do anything to avoid being accused of being gay in a locker room). I also don't want to spend too much time on him since he is a side character after all, but 🤷 if y'all wanna read it i'll write it lol. the 3rd person POV is super flux in this fic if you haven't realized 😂 and we got our first true *Val POV* in this chapter, even if it was brief. anyways, lemme know

next chapter we will FINALLY break into April 2022!

Chapter 11: April 2022, Pt. 1

Chapter Summary

Shane has a conversation with Ilya and it's very mature of him, Val is confronted by the past and it resolves in a way he never expected it would, Ilya talks to Wiebe, the playoffs are looming

Chapter Notes

hey y'all! i've teased Val's backstory in previous chapters via his cryptic breadcrumbs, that will continue, but here we get a real glimpse for the first time (and so do Shane AND Ilya). let me know what you think, read the end notes for some more info on that

thanks for all of your lovely comments/kudos. thanks for the reads, hope you enjoy 😇 i know, big gap in posts, the AO3 curse got me perhaps, my life is a disaster 😂

April 2022, Pt. 1

The playoffs are looming and Shane has been keeping a close eye on the league-wide standings. It is starting to look like a very real possibility that the Centaurs are going to face the Voyageurs in either the first or second round depending on what each team’s final rank is. Facing Montreal in isolated regular season games is something Shane would like to say that he can face with relative ease, but a full playoff series, one that could potentially go on for seven whole games, that’s something completely different. He knows it will wear him down, the constant onslaught, and he knows what his clever brain likes to do when it’s overwhelmed like that sometimes.

That’s why he decides that he’s finally going to tell Ilya about his dissociation problem. The good, the bad, and the ugly. It would be irresponsible not to.

Shane waits until they have a morning to themselves. They choose to watch a movie in their bedroom, enjoying a truly lazy day for what may be the last time in a while once the playoffs start. It’s a movie they’ve both seen before and they’re both intermittently playing with their phones or dozing, so it’s not too jarring when Shane tells Ilya he wants to talk to him about something.

“You know how sometimes I get a little, uh, distant?” Shane says softly, avoiding Ilya’s eyes in a way that immediately tells the Russian man that he’s bringing up something about what happened in Montreal. “Like, I get super quiet, I seem to be, um, going through the motions?”

Ilya finds himself nodding agreement, because he has seen this behavior. He knows Shane gets overstimulated or anxious sometimes. Ilya gets quiet like this, as well, but from the way Shane is saying this it doesn’t sound like this is about depression or sensory overload.

“Yes, I’ve seen this,” Ilya says in agreement.

“Right. Well, uh, sometimes, when things were really bad in Montreal, I would just, uh, slip away. My mind would just, um, go somewhere else for a little while.”

“’Go somewhere else’?” Ilya repeats, brow furrowing.

“My therapist is aware and everything, but, uh, it’s called ‘dissociation.’ This is actually why Hayden was able to force me to go to therapy,” Shane explains slowly, playing with Ilya’s fingers. “My official diagnosis is PTSD with dissociative symptoms. Sometimes those symptoms include dissociative amnesia, which basically means that I, uh, black out, you know, like when you drink too much? I lose time. That part doesn’t really happen anymore because I’m in Ottawa now, but I wanted to make sure you knew about it because it’s the scariest part.”

“You…lose time?” Ilya repeats. “Shanya, fuck, that sounds terrifying, sweetheart.”

“It was, it really was. It happened during a game, when Hayden finally noticed. One second I was on the ice, and we were losing, and everyone was pissed at me. The next, I was standing over my bed in our hotel room after a shower. I didn’t remember anything in between that for a few days. Hayden was super freaked out.”

“Sounds very scary for you, too,” Ilya says softly, eyes sad.

“It is, but like I said, it doesn’t really happen anymore. I do have regular dissociation, though, but only the kind where I’m still mentally there. It’s mostly part of my regular anxiety disorder, but, uh, sometimes, yeah, it can be from the post-traumatic stress. That part’s not scary, it just kind of sucks,” Shane explains, nodding his head. “That…that practice when we did all the checking, I did that, you know? Pulled back a little to make it easier. I don’t do it on purpose, it just kind of happens and it’s annoying, but it isn’t scary.”

“Has this ever happened here, in Ottawa? The scary kind?” Ilya asks.

Shane doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Not in a while,” he says finally. “But yes.”

“A few times, during games at the very beginning of the season, I would look into your eyes and it was like no one is there.”

Shane grimaces and looks distinctly ashamed for a moment before the expression smooths out. “Yes, those were probably those, um, those scary versions, where I lost a little bit of time” Shane confirms.

“You dissociated because of Montreal,” Ilya says.

“Because I was scared,” Shane murmurs, his voice barely audible as he tangles his fingers in Ilya’s once again, “of what was going to happen to me.”

It’s then that the true seriousness of these amnesia episodes Shane is describing to him finally sets in. Shane had had gaps in his memory because of how horribly Montreal treated him. And this, Shane being so afraid of what was going to happen to him that his brain started deciding the best option was to completely check out? Ilya is at a loss for words.

“I know that Ottawa isn’t like Montreal. I knew at the start of the season, logically, that they weren’t, as well, but it was hard when I first got here. I don’t black out anymore, but sometimes if we’re losing a game, or I’m super tired or not feeling well, or just randomly even, sometimes I still get nervous. You know that part considering the whole list thing and all.”

“Nervous because of how they treated you in Montreal for all those years,” Ilya rasps.

“Yes, and it was my choice to stay there, Ilya, so I’m not telling you this to try and make you feel bad, I’m telling you because we take care of each other and this is something that could still potentially affect me sometimes. We’re probably going to see them in the playoffs this year. Blacking out isn’t something I’ve done in a while, but it’s still a possibility, even it’s really small.”

There’s a pause. “You said your therapist knows about these episodes,” Ilya says slowly. “How did you get cleared to play if you have them?”

That’s a fair question. “I didn’t tell her about the severity of them until I had finally left Montreal because I knew I’d get benched. I had to be episode-free for several months before she decided it was considered safe, which was just enough time before I started in Ottawa,” Shane explains, looking sheepish all of a sudden. “Those few episodes earlier this season I never mentioned to her. They were really short and I knew it was only because of the adjustment, but that was irresponsible of me, I know that already, you don’t have to tell me. The most recent one I thought I’d had I told her about and after we talked it through I realized it wasn’t actually a blackout, it was just really bad, uh, depersonalization because I hadn’t actually blacked out. I thought I had, in the moment, but it hadn’t felt like all those other times and it’s because I hadn’t actually disconnected all the way.”

“You were right, I’m glad you tell me this, Shanya,” Ilya says quietly after a brief moment of silence. “Is there anything that helps?”

“Not anything that I know of, no,” Shane replies, shaking his head. “That’s something I plan to work on in therapy, but it’s kind of taken a backseat ever since I told you about what happened in Montreal.”

“I want to help you if I can, solnyshko,” Ilya says, curling towards Shane to brush this thumb over the freckles under his eye. “Like you help me.”

“I know,” Shane says, lips sliding into an easy smile. “Once I know something, I’ll let you know.”

***

Val was drafted to the Winnipeg Snowbirds and played his first two seasons with them. He’d harassed one of his teammates into showing him how to set up Google alerts on his phone the moment he had learned enough English to do so early in his rookie season. There have been three names that have been set to send him a notification whenever they appear anywhere online ever since then.

Daniil Melnik.

Roman Kozlov.

Matvey Novikov.

His ex-boyfriend, the grown man who’d ruined Val’s life when he was sixteen, and Val’s thirteen year old brother.

There hasn’t been any news regarding Kozlov in over a year, much to Val’s relief. He’d been twenty years old and lacking interest from any major professional leagues when Val had played with him back in the MHL, Russia’s Junior league. Val had gone on to finish out his second season in the MHL before signing with a team in the KHL at seventeen. Kozlov managed to get a one year contract with a KHL team the year Val flew to Canada for the NHL draft, but they’d opted not to resign him at the end of the season so the only alerts Val has gotten regarding the man have been miscellaneous nonsense, thankfully. Val sincerely doesn’t believe that Kozlov would ever cut it in the NHL when it comes to the man’s skill-level alone, but he knows that crazier contracts have been signed before and he’d prefer a warning if the impossible were to ever happen.

Val gets a notification about Matvey every couple of months or so these days. They haven’t spoken since Val landed in Canada for the draft and promptly decided to never set foot in Russia ever again the very same day. Their parents had been irate and Matvey isn’t allowed to speak to Val anymore, but Val’s relationship with his brother has been complicated since Val was, well, around sixteen years old. Val keeps tabs on his little brother regardless, though, because Matvey’s already being scouted by the bigger leagues and Val is intimately aware of the kind of trouble that can potentially bring.

Danya’s name is the one that had been staring back at him one morning when he’d been up before the sun to get ready for an early morning practice this past March. It’d been right before the playoff-eligibility deadline, but there it was either way.

[Google Alerts]: New results for “Daniil Melnik”:

BREAKING: NHL’s Quebec Nordiques sign KHL’s Daniil Melnik (UFA) to 2-year entry-level contract right before March playoff deadline.

The Centaurs had played one final regular season game against the Nordiques after Danya had signed with them, but the player had been a scratch for the game due to an undisclosed upper-body injury. It’s probably his wrist, Val had reasoned. Danya’s left wrist had never been quite right ever since he’d broken it back when they were seventeen. Val had felt relieved but also slightly let down when all the build up to seeing his ex-boyfriend after so much time had dissipated into nothing during something as mundane as a roster announcement before the game. He’d quickly convinced himself that it was better that way, anyways. He doesn’t even know what he’d been expecting. Some big, tear-jerking reunion? Unlikely.

The regular season is almost officially over, though, and the playoff brackets are working out in a way that means Ottawa could potentially be facing Quebec in the second round. Val has suddenly found himself woefully unprepared, because he’d truly thought that the chances of him having to play against Daniil again after their final regular season game tomorrow had been pretty much zero.

***

Ilya: i think there is something going on with Val

Shane’s eyes cut from the screen of his cell phone to Ilya where he’s sitting in the aisle seat to Shane’s right. They’re on the plane headed to Quebec for one of their last few games of the regular season.

Shane: i thought so too, but it was super subtle so i kind of figured i was imagining it

Ilya: no, not imagining it. did you see his face when he found we might play quebec in the playoffs?

Shane: yes

Shane: he had a similar look our last regular season game against them, too, up until the game actually started, at least

Shane: maybe it’s just the city?

Ilya: maybe

Ilya: its definitely something though

Shane: agreed

***

Val pointedly avoids looking at Danya from the very start of the game. He knows seeing him so close after all this time will be a shock, and he doesn’t know if he’d be able to play it off as ‘just buddies’ even with the threat of being on live television.

He catches Daniil looking, though. Val sees him not-so-subtly staring across the centerline during pregame warmups. His eyes follow him across the ice when Val is getting back on the bench for a shift change during a commercial break in the first period.

Val makes it through the first period without a confrontation. Shane gives him a look during the intermission that Val chooses not to think too hard about; he has enough going on without worrying about what the hell to tell Shane about it.

Danya makes keeping it a secret kind of hard, though, when he keeps staring like that. He does so blatantly enough during a TV timeout early in the second period that Val makes the mistake of accidentally meeting his gaze. Cold alarm floods through him and he drops his eyes down to his skates immediately. It’s definitely not a spectacle but it’s still enough that Shane finally says something.

“Someone you know?” Shane says in Russian, nonchalant but also in a way that makes it obvious that he already knows the answer.

“Yes,” Val says, not looking up. “From…long time ago. Back in Russia.”

“I see,” Shane says. “In the way Roz is someone I know?”

Val tries to be surprised that Shane has read him so easily. “Without happy ending, but yes,” Val replies.

“What happened?”

“Russia happened. Someone started a rumor about him and he got into a fight in the locker room about it. We ended it that night. I got drafted to the NHL and signed with Winnipeg, he stayed there in the KHL and Phoenix eventually renounced his draft rights, so I was never sure if he’d ever even make it here, but…”

“But here he is,” Shane finishes for him.

“Da,” Val says drily.

“Is this the first time you’ve seen him in a while?”

“This is the first time we’ve seen each other since we were eighteen, except for a couple games where we ignored each other the entire time after he got himself traded,” Val replies, sniffing and looking off to the side.

“He got himself traded away from you?”

“Our team traded him a week after we broke up. He pretended like he’d had no idea, but he told me it was for the best before he left,” Val says quietly.

“That is fucking awful, Val,” Shane says seriously, leaning the side of his body slightly against Val’s.

“I wanted to argue when we broke up but, well, it was kind of hard to argue about whether it was dangerous to be together when his face was still bruised from a fight with our bigot of a teammate hours before.”

“He signed a two year contract, Novikov, so he’s not here on unofficial loan, he’s probably here to stay,” Shane says quietly after a moment of silence, trying his hardest not to be pushy. These are things that he needs to be sure the younger player has truly realized, though, because knowing them as facts and acknowledging the ramifications of it all are two completely different things. “Stay in Canada, that is. Where he could, if he wanted to, apply for residency and then citizenship. If he wanted.”

“So?” Val says flatly, even though he knows where Shane is going with this.

“So that may have changed things, if it’s something you want to find out,” Shane says softly.

Val scoffs lightly. “Rozanov stayed with you even when he knew Russia would be a problem, Hollander. We’re not the same.”

“Rozanov decided to stay with me after his dad died and he had no reason to go back to Russia anymore, not before that. And it wasn’t ‘staying’ with me, it was the smallest baby step of admitting we had feelings for each other, so you two are light-years ahead of us on that. Me and Ilya getting together only became a possibility when we figured out a plan to secure him citizenship so he wouldn’t be deported,” Shane says, shaking his head in disagreement. “It is not the same exactly, no, but it is similar, Val.”

Val looks at Shane and doesn’t speak for a few beats. The ice crew skates by with their shovels full of snow. Shane thinks it looks like Val is trying really hard not to look angry but is failing miserably.

“Why are you pushing this so hard?” he asks a little hotly.

“I’m not pushing anything, I swear, Val. I just want to make sure whatever you decide to do is an informed decision,” Shane replies. A small, sad smile appears on his lips before he continues. “It’s easy to lose perspective sometimes.”

Val doesn’t say anything for a few beats as some kind of internal battle plays out behind his eyes. Shane waits. “He, uh, he did always talk about getting the fuck out of there,” Val says finally, hesitant in a way the younger player very rarely allows others to see. “I don’t know if he meant….never going back ever again like me, but I guess maybe it’s possible.”

Shane smiles. “Yeah?”

“Maybe. I guess…maybe I could try to talk to him.”

“Only if you want to, Val. Don’t let me be the reason, it’s your life. I’m really not trying to sway you one way or the other. Sometimes it’s good to get a reminder that you still have that option, to try. If me and Ilya had known we could do that at your age, we would’ve been together years ago.”

“Years?” Val says, head finally jerking to the side as he meets Shane’s gaze. “You guys have never said how long, you know.”

Shane’s smile goes even softer. “We met in 2008 at the WJC and hooked up for the first time in 2010. We count that as the start, 2010, the summer before our rookie season.”

Val looks genuinely shocked. Most people do when they find out. It’s kind of a fun game he and Ilya play now, dropping that bit of lore on others just to see what reaction it elicits.

“That long?”

“Da. And we did not officially get together until 2017. You and yours are ahead of us on that, you’ve already dated. We didn’t say we loved each other for seven years, even when we felt it way before that, because we were afraid and didn’t know trying was an option. That’s why I wanted you to know trying is an option.”

“Okay, Hollander,” Val says after a moment. “We will see.”

Making eye contact with Danya had been a mistake, because that combined with his conversation with Shane emboldens Val to finally say something when they’re both crouched side by side before a puck drop.

“Congratulations on your contract,” Val says stiffly in Russian, gaze fix firmly on the face-off that’s about to take place a few feet in front of him.

“Valya,” Danya says, the single word sounding slightly wounded.

“Really,” Val insists, eyes flicking sideways to the meet the gaze of the man beside him for the briefest, breath-taking moment before they drop back to the ice. “I’m happy for you, Danya.”

The ref blows the whistle and drops the puck before Daniil can reply. Shane wins the faceoff, snapping it away from the circle with ease. The puck skitters towards Val and he moves quickly to gain possession of it, his movements robotic and unthinking but efficient nonetheless.

Val avoids Melnik for the rest of the game. Playing professional ice hockey is already hard enough without the added stressor of your ex-boyfriend lurking around. If Danya wants to be this determined, he can do it when they’re not in the middle of a game.

The Centaurs win the game 4-1, but it’s no thanks to Val. His mind had been elsewhere since the moment he’d stepped on the ice. He trudges along back to the locker room and focuses his attention on taking his gear off and getting himself back to the hotel in one piece.

Troy approaches Ilya after almost the entire team has already showered. Ilya’s getting dressed and chattering on to Hayes about his goal from the third period when his friend comes to a stop before him with a skeptical expression on his face.

“There’s a Nordiques player in the hallway, Cap,” Troy informs him, nodding with his head in the direction of the locker room doors.

“What do they want?” Ilya replies.

Troy shifts restlessly from foot to foot. “He wants to talk to Novikov.”

That genuinely throws Ilya for a loop. “Oh?”

“Yeah, it’s number twenty-eight, Melnik,” Troy says, nodding his head.

Ilya agrees to let Val know and then makes his way to the younger player’s stall. He’s just emerged from the shower and is pulling on the pair of dress pants he’d worn to the arena tonight when Ilya approaches.

“There is a stray Quebec player lingering outside of our locker room, Valya,” Ilya says in greeting.

Val looks up in surprise and briefly looks like a deer in the headlights. “What?”

“Melnik is in the hallway and wants to talk to you,” Ilya replies, opting to cut to the chase rather than torture the younger player with the unknown. This isn’t the kind of things Ilya is about to mess around with.

“Oh,” Val says, thoroughly caught off guard. “Okay.”

Ilya accompanies Val to the hallway, a half-step behind but wary of what the opposing player wants from Shane’s duckling. Val comes to an abrupt stop a few paces past the locker room doors and Ilya nearly runs into him. He steps to the side but keeps his attention on the looming Quebec player before them. Daniil Melnik is 6’4”, a winger who’s built like a defenseman, and distinctly Russian, of course.

“What do you want, Melnik?” Ilya says, beating Val to the punch.

Val huffs but allows it, seemingly deciding that waiting for the answer to Ilya’s question is better than figuring out what he himself should say first.

“I just wanted to talk to him, Rozanov,” Melnik replies, narrowing his eyes at Ilya. He turns his gaze back to Val and his expression noticeably softens. “Please, malen'kiy medved'.”

Val’s eyes snap to the larger man as an incredibly vulnerable expression takes over his face. It’s the youngest Ilya thinks he’s ever seen him appear. The look fades quickly, though, and is replaced by something carefully neutral.

“I have time before the bus back to the hotel,” Val says quietly, eyes darting away from Melnik. “Ten minutes.”

“Yes, thank you,” Melnik says, looking slightly relieved.

Val turns to Ilya. “Thanks, Rozanov, but I’ve got it from here. I’ll see you back in the locker room in ten minutes.”

Ilya looks from Val to Melnik and then back for a moment before nodding. Val seems level-headed and, based on his reaction to the Russian term of endearment the Nordiques player had just let slip, at the very least trusts this man to some degree. Val knows how to ask for help.

“I will see you then,” Ilya says in agreement, nodding his head once as he turns and heads back into the locker room.

Val waits a few moments until he’s sure they’re alone before he speaks. He uses those few seconds to figure out what he wants to say, eventually deciding on the option that will hopefully cause him the least damage.

“Are you ever going back?” Val asks, cutting to the chase. “To Russia.”

“What, Val?”

“I don’t know what you want from me right now, but if it’s you trying to be friends or…or whatever again, don’t bother if you’re not planning on applying for residency outside of Russia at the very least. I’m not going to…I’m not going to put you at risk like that.”

“Being your friend wouldn’t put me at risk, Valya,” Danya says, brow furrowing slightly.

“Yes it would, Danya. I defected, remember? After being, for all intents and purposes, disowned by my family at sixteen. You know why they did,” Val shakes, shaking his head sharply. “I don’t want you to tie yourself to that if you being deported to Russia because of it is a possibility.”

Danya takes a small step closer to him and Val allows it. “I always planned on applying for residency if I had a reason to stay,” he says softly, reaching out a hand towards Val. Val stares but doesn’t pull away or protest as Daniil clasps theirs hands together.

“I’m not…I’m not going to be the only reason you leave your entire family behind in Russia, Melnik. Don’t do that to me,” he mutters, keeping his gaze on their clasped hands, their first instance of direct physical contact in years. Fuck, he’s missed it so much.

“And if I say I haven’t spoken to most of them in a year?”

Val gaze jumps up and meets Danya’s in surprise. “Did something happen?”

“I wasn’t supposed to sign my KHL contract, I was supposed to sign with Phoenix, but my KHL team and then…and then also my parents, they all, well, they all heavily suggested that I sign a deal with the KHL instead. I decided I wouldn’t be resigning at the end of my contract this year because I, you know, I wanted to play in the NHL. My parents weren’t happy, and neither was my team.”

Val stares for a moment, unsure of where to go from here. He definitely doesn’t want to get overly idealistic here.

“We can talk for real if you want,” he says finally, his gaze on Daniil assessing but amendable nonetheless. “Not here and right now, though.”

“Well, I would offer to have you over to my place but I kind of live with the captain right now, so…”

Val huffs out a laugh. “I think maybe that wouldn’t be a good idea, no,” he replies, a fond smile playing on his lips. “You could, uh, come to my hotel room if you want. I’m sharing with LaPointe but he’s cool and will be out late tonight anyways.”

“Okay. You still have my number?” Danya says in agreement, a tentative smile forming on his own face, as well. Val nods. “Text me the time and place and I’ll be there, Valya.”

They part ways, Danya to the players parking lot and Val back to the away team locker room where Rozanov and Shane are still sitting around awaiting his return when he enters the room.

“Okay?” Shane asks the moment he lays eyes on the younger player.

Val gives him a wry smile. “I’m okay, Shanya,” he says quietly, waving his worry off. “We just talk. If I can get LaPointe to give me the room for an hour we will talk more.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Shane says, gathering his things and getting to his feet. “He’s been begging Chouinard for a sleepover for weeks and Chewy owes me a favor, I’ll text him.”

The younger player shakes his head in amusement but allows Shane to do so without protest. Ilya meets his gaze and tilts his head. Val nods back. Ilya, satisfied by the kid’s demeanor, follows along behind them and a couple of their teammates as they make their way to the team bus.

“Me and Rozanov are in room 1208 if you need anything, Valya,” Shane tells Val, hanging towards the back of the team as they all file off the bus and make their way into the hotel lobby.

A small smile appears on Val’s face. “I’ll be okay, Shane.”

Shane gives him a look.

“But I will text you if I’m not,” Val amends.

Shane nods, satisfied, and they all part ways once the elevator spits them out onto their collective floor. He tries his best not to be too worried. Val isn’t a baby, he’s an adult who’s definitely proven he knows how to take care of himself, but Shane can’t seem to help the flare of protective instincts this entire situation is dragging up. Val spoke about Melnik fondly, but Shane still has very limited details on everything that had gone down between the two men, so sue him for being wary.

Shane has always figured there’s a lot more than meets the eye when it comes Val and his history. It’s an objective truth, really, considering Val is queer but Shane is the only person on the team who knows about it. The younger player isn’t exactly an open book but he’s also never indicated that there are things that are off limits. A secret ex-boyfriend definitely wasn’t something entirely unexpected, but the mysterious air around the details of their breakup admittedly makes Shane a little nervous. It’s none of his business unless Val decides to make it that, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to let his guard down.

Val lets himself into his hotel room. Shane must’ve texted LaPointe on the drive to the hotel because he’s noticeably absent. He sits down on the edge of the bed and just stops for a moment. What a turn of events. He’d gone from avoiding Danya like the plague upon hearing he’d signed in the NHL to terrified to see him at the game tonight to inviting him to talk in his hotel room.

He remembers the last conversation he had with Daniil. Danya had a cast on his broken wrist at that point so while he definitely wasn’t playing he was still attending practices. He’d pulled Val aside at the end of a morning skate a week after their breakup and broken the news about the trade. Val had been heartbroken, yes, but he’d also been relieved. They’d broken up because being together was dangerous, not because they’d fallen out of love with each other. The week following their breakup had felt like an odd sort of torture, being around each other but having to avoid each other. Val knew a trade would keep them safe and that it’d make the breakup…smoother, at the very least, so yes, he’d been relieved.

That didn’t stop Val from feeling Danya’s absence like a missing limb, though.

Someone knocks on the door way sooner than Val had been expecting. He checks the peephole to verify that it’s Daniil before he opens it. The Quebec player steps into the room just enough for Val to step around him and re-lock the door. Val turns, back towards the door, and then they both simply stop and stand there. The moment stretches, eyes on each other as they just stare.

Danya breaks the silence. “Moy medvezhonok,” he begins finally.

Val’s breath catches. He can’t help it. He doesn’t even remember the exact last time he’d heard it, it’s been so long.

‘My cub.’

It has the same effect as when Danya had dropped the ‘little bear’ petname back in the hallway at the arena. Something like nostalgia aches in his chest. His lip wobbles; it doesn’t normally do that. The small, sad smile that appears on his face wobbles, as well. “Moy yastreb,” he says quietly.

‘My hawk.’

They’d met in the MHL, the Russian equivalent to Juniors in Canada. They both signed with the same KHL team when they were seventeen. They lived together in a shared player apartment.

Belye Medvedi. The White Bears.

Avangard Omsk. The Hawks.

Danya extends a hand, slow but sure. Val looks at it for a moment before his face crumbles and he moves, closing the gap between them and practically throwing himself into his ex-boyfriend’s arms. Daniil doesn’t flinch, though, catching him easily just like he always used to do, even back when they were just kids. He wraps his arms around Val like it’s what they were made to do.

“Danya—” Val chokes out.

“I know, Valya, I know, I’m so sorry,” the larger man says thickly, brushing a hand through Val’s hair.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” Val mumbles.

“I’m so sorry, Val, I’m sorry I left,” Danya says, pulling away just enough that they can look at each other. A tremor runs through his hand as he raises it to rest against the side of Val’s face. “I didn’t want to leave you there, but I didn’t know what else to do. I was so afraid you would get dragged into it, and you have already been hurt so badly. They were already planning to try to get rid of me after the fight, but I didn’t try to stop them, either.”

Val’s face is wet. When he draws his next breath in, it sounds wet, as well. “You were trying to keep me safe, Danyusha. I knew you would’ve stayed if you could.”

“Yes, yes I would’ve. Is a relationship with me something you’d ever want again at some point? Because if it is, then I’m here to stay in Canada. That was always the plan, Valyusha. The plan was MHL, KHL, NHL, and then together forever, but the path between KHL and NHL got all fucked up.”

A corner of Val’s mouth twitches. “’Together forever’?” he repeats.

Danya’s cheeks go rosy. “Well, I made the plan when we were sixteen, so give me a break.”

“Sixteen? Okay,” Val says, a horribly endeared feeling spreading through him. “That’s actually really interesting, because I had a similar plan back then, too.”

Danya smiles softly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Val replies, smiling back. “So obviously I want a relationship with you again.”

The smile on Daniil’s face expands. “Really?”

Val nods. “Yes, yes, really. It will, ah, probably take a while to figure everything out, for everything to feel, uh, normal again, but let’s not rush it, yes? I think most important part is that it’s a relationship.”

“Yes,” Daniil says quickly, nodding as well. “Just you and me, Valya.”

Val simply stares at his face for a moment, not quite able to believe he has everything he’s wanted for years suddenly right in his grasp. The adrenaline must wear off at the settling realization, because his face screws up and he’s entirely unable to stop the tears that’d been brimming in his eyes from finally falling down his face. “I missed you so much, Danya.”

“I missed you so much, too, Valya,” Daniil replies, and then he scoops Val up like he weighs nothing, the larger man carrying him over to the bed in the room without even a hint of a struggle. “Every day.”

“Every day?” Val echoes, allowing himself to be deposited in Daniil’s lap. He can’t remember the last he got to sit with Danya like this, and he’s suddenly realizing just how much he’s missed it.

There hadn’t been anyone after Daniil. Val had been too heartbroken after the breakup up until around the end of his second season in the NHL. It’d become more manageable around then, especially considering the fact that Val knew he was never stepping foot in Russia again and it appeared at the time that Daniil Melnik would not be pursuing a career in the NHL. The day he realized he’d probably never see Danya again had ended with Val drunk on his bathroom floor. It takes a lot to get him drunk, but he was finally mourning their relationship after a delay of several years. He’d thought up until that point that he and Daniil would somehow find their way back to each other, but hearing that Phoenix had relinquished Danya’s NHL rights had forced Val to realize that they were probably never going to see each other again.

Val hadn’t been with anyone even after accepting this, though. He definitely isn’t someone anyone would consider built for casual sex. He knew he wasn’t emotionally available to date, either, and with one-night-stands and hook-ups off the table, Val hasn’t had sex since he was eighteen. It’s definitely not something he’s proud of. If anything he’s embarrassed by it even though he knows he probably shouldn’t be, but he does know why, at least. The North American internet calls it ‘demisexuality.’ Val calls it ‘I never experienced sexual attraction to someone until my best friend and teammate Daniil Melnik when we were sixteen.’

“Every single day,” Danya says firmly, nodding his head. His hands lower and rest on Val’s hips.

“Do you still love me?” Val whispers, unable to help himself. He needs to know.

Daniil’s eyes go a little misty. “Of course I still love you, malen'kiy medved',” he says, swallowing thickly. “I never stopped.”

‘Little bear.’

Val sniffs. “Neither did I.”

***

“He called him ‘malen'kiy medved',’” Ilya says when he and Shane are lying in bed before they go to sleep. “’Little bear.’”

Shane’s smiles softly. “Melnik is his ex-boyfriend from when they were kids,” he says quietly, shifting around slightly against Ilya’s chest. “Someone accused Melnik of being gay and he got into a fight, which was apparently bad enough that he got traded afterwards. They broke up before he left.”

“So that’s why he act like that all night.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, his smile twisting slightly. “They haven’t seen each other since they were eighteen. Val thought he was never gonna see him again.”

There’s a pause where neither of them say anything for a moment. “That is…very sad,” Ilya says finally.

Shane sighs softly. “Yeah, it is.”

Another pause. Then, “Melnik was very gentle with him,” Ilya says quietly, thinking back to the short scene in the hallway outside the locker room. “Melnik still loves him, I can tell.”

“So does Val.”

“Maybe…?” Ilya murmurs, trailing off.

“Maybe.”

***

The Centaurs win their last game of the regular season against Philadelphia. The final standings come out a day later and it reveals that Ottawa will be facing Montreal in the first round. Ilya tries not to fret about it because he knows that Shane is no doubt already overthinking it enough for the both of them.

The team has kept up their ‘rookie treatment’ of Shane and Val. Both players have settled nicely into it. They hang out with other players after practice or on the road on their own sometimes now. Val’s finally started offering personal anecdotes during conversations like normal people do. There is also, of course, plenty of holographic star stickers, sweet treats, head pats, and overzealous praise.

Coaching staff has noticed the shift in attitude, because of course they have. A few days of it is one thing, but a sustained pattern of behavior is another. Wiebe lasts longer without commenting on it than Ilya had expected the man to. He approaches Ilya after a practice between the end of the regular season and the looming start of the post-season.

“Rozanov, can I have your ear for a moment?” Wiebe calls, gesturing with a hand towards his office. It was a long but successful practice and Ilya’s sweaty and yet to shower as he follows his coaches into the room.

“Hi, coach,” Ilya says, sinking into the seat in front of the man’s desk. Wiebe sits in the seat across from him.

“I just wanted to check in on the team,” Wiebe says as he sits down. “I couldn’t help but notice everyone suddenly treating a couple specific players very…nicely, loudly nicely.”

Ilya snorts, nodding his head. “I have actually been meaning to speak to you about that,” he replies.

Wiebe’s eyebrows raise. “Yeah? Lay it on me.”

“It’s nothing bad, they are both okay with it,” Ilya begins.

Wiebe waves a dismissive hand in the air. “I wasn’t saying it was, I just thought it might be a little…odd.”

“Shane finally told me about the way Montreal runs their team, and it was not good. A lot of it was because he came out as gay, and then everyone found about me, but there were things Therriault did that were, well, abusive. If you ask Shane himself he wouldn’t call it abusive, neither would Novikov, but that is what it was.”

“So the rest of the guys really have been treating the both of them like they treat the really young rookies,” Wiebe says, sounding relieved. “I was worried I was imagining it.”

Ilya laughs lightly. “Yes, they are. Novikov and Shane allowed me to speak to team about it, because if you pay attention to either of them long enough, Shane especially but also the kid, you will see it eventually. It is a lot better now so probably harder to spot, but when they both first get here they spent many months…nervous, that is probably best way to explain it, nervous in a bad way.”

“So of course you boys’ grand idea was to treat them like rookies,” Wiebe says, endlessly amused.

“They agreed to it!” Ilya says defensively. “They say they think it’s funny, and I think they do, but I also think it’s fixing it.”

“Fixing what?”

“Helps them remember what it is like to be on a team,” Ilya says, quiet and suddenly very serious. “Help them fall back in love with hockey again.”

Wiebe’s eyebrows go soaring damn near into his hair when they raise this time. “You think they fell out of love with hockey?”

Ilya says nothing for a moment. A shadow passes over his face before he continues. “There are things they have not told me. They have been up front with the fact that they left things out of what they told me, and I respect this, yes, but it worries me. There are things they did tell me without details that worry me, and to know there are worse things is…what they already describe was bad enough, hockey was not a fun thing for them by the time they left,” he says quietly, the muscle in his jaw jumping when he clenches it as he pauses for a moment. “To put simply, Novikov put head down because he was terrified of being sent back to Russia, and Shane disconnect from everything because he felt he had no choice but to stay there when my citizenship was still not official.”

“Christ, Rozanov, that’s…wow, okay. I think I see what you mean now.”

Ilya’s mouth closes with a click and he nods, swallowing thickly. His eyes flick away from the man and back. “They wrote lists, two. One for players, which I went over with the team with permission, but there is another for coaching staff. I am trying to convince them to let me tell you, but I will not unless they say is okay. They feel all of this is…is dramatic, but, Coach, is very much not.”

“Can I ask what kind of things are on it?”

“Phrases Therriault used to say that seem, ah, normal, but meant something very different in Montreal. Some coaching things that are pretty normal but not with how, hm, extreme it was,” Ilya hedges, shifting uncomfortably. He really doesn’t want to accidentally say too much. Some days he’s still shocked he’d even managed to get Shane and Val to sit down and write a list for him like they had.

“Alright, well, if they do ever agree, then please do come tell me, because I don’t like the sound of that,” Wiebe says, looking genuinely troubled by even the limited information Ilya has just given him.

Ilya nods immediately in agreement. “Of course, Coach, da.”

“Alright,” Wiebe says, nodding himself albeit a little distractedly. “That was all, thanks for sitting down with me, Roz.”

He heads back out into the locker room and Shane looks up the second he walks in, clearly very curious to know what it is that their head coach had needed to speak to his husband about. His heart squeezes slightly at the sight of six shiny gold star stickers stuck to the front of the helmet he’s already tucked away onto the top shelf of Shane’s locker stall. Shane had peeled the stickers off at the end of practices and stuck them to the wall of his stall back when this whole rookie treatment thing first began, but he’s taken to leaving the stickers on his helmet the last few days. Ilya figures it likely has to do with the way Shane has seemingly relaxed and gotten familiar with the new kind of attention he’s been getting, and Ilya is so glad. Shane had been quick to inform Ilya that he’d be taking them all off before an actual game when the Russian had gently brought it up, eternally endeared, but his cheeks had gone rosy at the mention.

Ilya makes his way out of the locker room and down the hall.

“Val,” he says, walking up to where the younger player is seated in the players’ lounge digging into his lunch. “I have a question for you.”

Val raises his eyebrows but gestures for him to sit in the seat across the table from him with a nod of his head. He stabs at the grilled chicken on his plate and takes as big bite, eyeing Ilya warily.

“There is a thing at the end of the second list, the one you two gave me about what coaching staff did. There’s no information.”

“What part?” Novikov replies, but he drops Ilya’s gaze to look at his plate, a reaction that Ilya absolutely notices.

“The part about Therriault getting players to ‘gang up’ on one player,” Ilya replies, not letting Val’s change in demeanor deter him. They’d both at the very least disclosed that this particular thing on the list applied to Shane only, not Val, and that’d done nothing to assuage Ilya’s worry about it. If anything, it’s increased it tenfold to know that this was something done to Shane specifically.

Val shakes his head. “No, Rozanov.”

“No?” Ilya repeats.

“That story has to come from Hollander and Hollander alone. It’s not a good thing, Rozanov. He needs to tell you about it himself,” Val replies, shaking his head again and meeting Ilya’s eye with an unwavering firmness. He softens slightly at the sight of Ilya’s very clearly stressed expression, though. “It’s not something that would ever happen here in Ottawa, okay, Ilya? Never in a million years, so you don’t need to worry about it accidentally happening. You just need to let him come to you on this one, Ilyukha.”

Ilya considers this for a moment. He tempers his immediate reaction, which is the desire to push for more information. He nods, instead. “Okay, Val. I respect it.” And he really means it, too. Shane having someone to confide in and rely on has done wonders for him.

He brings up the topic of speaking to Wiebe about the list to Shane a few hours later.

“Can I ask you about something?” Ilya says, trying his best to sound casual about it.

Shane hums, turning his head away from the TV so it’s tipped back in Ilya’s lap. They’d headed home after practice, eaten lunch, worked out in their home gym, and then ate a quick dinner before retiring to laze around on the couch.

“What’s up?” he asks, gazing up at Ilya’s face.

“Wiebe asked me about why the entire team has been extra super nice to you and Val lately. I told him that Montreal sucked and the team wanted to make up for it. I also mentioned the second list you guys made, but I did not tell him specifics,” Ilya says quietly, watching Shane’s face carefully. There’s no panic or anger, just a patient openness. “He said he would definitely like to know if there are things he does that bother you two, and I told him I’d ask.”

“So you wanna know if you can show Wiebs the list,” Shane summarizes. Ilya nods. Shane looks conflicted for a moment before the expression smooths back out a moment later. “I’ll ask Val first, but he’ll probably say yes.”

“And you?”

Shane grimaces slightly. “I don’t love it, but it makes sense and I understand why it’d be good for him to know. That’s pretty much the same way Val feels,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders slightly. “So, to answer your question: yes, you can talk to Wiebe, pending Val’s approval, which you’ll most likely get.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, brushing some of Shane’s stray bangs back from his face. “Thank you, dorogoy.”

Shane’s eyes slide shut as Ilya begins running his fingers through his hair with steady movements, his lips sliding into a small smile.

“You take such good care of me,” he mumbles in lazy, imperfect Russian.

Ilya laughs lightly and ducks his head to press an adoring kiss to his husband’s forehead.

***

Ilya knocks on the door to Wiebe’s door after their next practice and asks to speak to him. Wiebe directs him to close the door for some privacy when Ilya tells him what he wants to talk to him about. The Russian decides not to dance around the issue and instead jumps right into the things written down on the list clutched in his hand.

“Therriault used bagskates as a punishment. He would skate them so hard that many of them would be throwing up or a few passing out, and he did this often. There were many times where throwing up was a requirement and he would not let them stop until everyone had thrown up at least once. He made them skate specifically until someone passed out at least one time that Shane and Val remember,” Ilya reads off the list, doing his best to keep his voice neutral and even despite how sick it all makes him feel. “Sometimes this was targeted at one player only, and Therriault would make the team watch, to make an example.”

“Ilya…” Wiebe begins, trailing off and looking completely taken off guard.

“Making an example of a player was big theme, it seems,” Ilya says mildly, eyes flicking up to his coach and back down to the list. “Like I say, Coach, this is not…none of this is good.”

“You’re damn right none of this is good, jesus fucking christ,” Wiebe swears, leaning back slightly in his chair. Ilya empathizes.

“Tape review was sometimes used as same thing, target one player and make example of them,” Ilya continues. “Their coach would also run a whole practice full of very heavy checking drills as punishment to team or as punishment to a specific player. Sometimes the specific player would be one who is already nursing an injury. As far as Shane specifically, Therriault noticed his teammates checking him hard on ice after he came out and would do practices like this on purpose because of this, also.”

“You said there were specific phrases, also?”

“Da, I do not, ah, have many details on one of them. ‘Take the day,’ is something their coach would say to players who had pissed him off somehow, mostly when they are tired and is obvious, so he would send them home early to be ‘nice’ but apparently next practice Therriault targets them to make example. I do not know what that means, but I did not like the look on Shane’s face when he said it.”

“That could mean anything,” Wiebe says in agreement.

“Yes, I know,” Ilya replies. He clears his throat before continuing. “Other phrase was pulling Shane into office for ‘leadership meeting,’ because this was really just code for him attacking him verbally about anything and everything.”

“Well, I’m glad I’ve never said that, then, my god, Rozanov,” Wiebe says, shaking his head.

“And, ah, last thing, is thing on this list that maybe worries me most, if I am being honest.”

“Let me hear it.”

“Very limited information. Is same theme as making an example of players, but Shane’s specific phrasing was that Therriault would sometimes encourage the team to ‘gang up’ on one player. That was all he would say, and he looked off enough when he said it that I asked Val about it, and Val refused to tell me anything, said that would need to come from Shane directly, but his face definitely did not look good either. So, ah, I think whatever it is is probably very bad.”

A moment of tense silence passes between them. “Yeah, I think you’re probably right about that,” Wiebe says after a beat, shaking his head. “I really don’t like the idea of anything that could be related to.”

“Neither do I, Coach,” Ilya says grimly, shaking his head.

The ‘off’ look on Shane’s face when he’d gone over this last bit on the list hadn’t been the same resigned, betrayed, irritated, infuriated, ashamed expression he’d been wearing for everything else. Those are emotions that Ilya had been expecting after hearing about how abusive and shitty Montreal was. When Ilya had pressed for information that night Shane had first gone over the lists with him on this particular bullet point, the look that had flashed across his face, there and gone so fast Ilya had almost missed it, was fear. Shane hadn’t mentioned fear up until that point, had emphasized shame, betrayal, and defeat for the most part, but never true fear. With this, though, there is fear. Something had happened with his team and his coach that had scared him. Not knowing what it is terrifies Ilya, but he knows Val is right. He’ll just have to wait until Shane comes to him about it.

Chapter End Notes

:) so that's Val :) i have written several traditional fiction novels (unpublished obviously, i'm not some grand author i PROMISE 😂) so i go pretty hard when it comes to character development 🤷. I already had to flesh out val's backstory to make sure the details make sense, so i already have the info and figured i may as well use it 🤷. if it gets too much, yell at me here or on threads and we'll go from there. that backstory has enough info that it's basically already a companion piece in essence, and if people want it i'll make it happen, but this is, after all, a fic about Shane and Ilya, not Val and Danya.

next chapter is that pressure point i was telling y'all about, you know, the part where ilya finally gets a look at the seriousness of how MTL affects Shane. it will hurt everyone but we're gonna get so much out of it, so i'll see you back here in a week or so :3 thanks for reading!

Chapter 12: April 2022, Pt. 2

Chapter Summary

Game 1 of round 1 of the playoffs against MTL, an injury, an unexpected reaction, Shanebug's people rally around him

Chapter Notes

hellooooo, sorry for the long wait! medical stuff means more technical writing, so it be like that sometimes. if I'm gonna write it I'm gonna make it as accurate as possible or not at all bc I'm a stubborn man 😂

hope it's okay! thanks for all your comments <3

April 2022, Pt. 2

Shane does his best to prepare himself for a playoffs series against Montreal, but he knows in reality that there really isn’t much he can do. He can recognize that he’s made a lot of progress in the past few months, but that doesn’t mean his brain automatically listens to him without fail all of a sudden. His brain yanked the emergency brake and took his conscious mind out of the equation in Montreal enough times in the past that Shane won’t be reckless enough to pretend that something similar happening even a year later is 100% out of the question. Like he’d told Ilya, an isolated game in the regular season is completely different than the beast a multi-game playoffs series is.

He’s prepared for the dirty looks shot his way across the centerline during warmups, prepared for the chirp about bending over when he takes his first faceoff against Young a minute into the first period, prepared for the gay slur Drapeau tosses out at him when he gets tangled up in front of the net after a whistle at the beginning of the second. Therriault isn’t a factor anymore, though, so that’s at least a positive on the long list of negatives stacked against Shane right now. He has no reason to be afraid of the man, mostly because he can’t do jack shit to him anymore. His ex-teammates are a different story, of course, but that’s to be expected.

The Centaurs are playing well. LaPointe scores a goal early in the first period to bring the score to 1-0. They’re 3-2 going into the second period and tensions are running even higher than when the game had first begun. The period is winding down into the final minute when Shane takes the ice during a line change.

Shane isn’t expecting the hit. A mass of a body collides with him from behind and sends him soaring into the boards. He hits the glass visor-first and then slams his head into the ice during the subsequent fall. He doesn’t move for a second when he first comes to a standstill, mentally taking inventory of his body. Nothing feels broken except maybe his head.

He rolls onto his knees with considerable effort, eyes squinted shut against the arena lights that are suddenly blinding in a way that feels all too familiar.

His eyes catch on something. Red. Voyageurs jerseys. He’s in Montreal?

“Hayd?” he croaks, confused, as he swings his head from left to right in search of the man. His hearing is slightly muffled. The mass of red Voyageurs is moving. “Hayd’n!”

Ilya appears, skating up with speed.

“Ilya?” Shane mumbles, squinting up at him. “What’r’you doin’ here?”

A trainer shows up and kneels down next to Shane on the ice. “Stop moving around,” he orders, and Shane listens without question. Everything is too bright, too loud, too much, but Shane still isn’t confused enough to fail the neurological check the trainer runs him through.

Or so he thought, because he gets the year wrong.

And when they ask the last team he played against, he says he can’t remember.

He catches onto the fact that these aren’t the right answers pretty quickly, and he starts to remember why. They ask where they’re playing right now, and he says “Ottawa,” but it sounds more like a question than a definitive answer on his part.

Another player skates up and comes to a stop beside Ilya. Shane glances up and catches sight of his face. It’s Novikov. Several other Voyageurs players are also lurking in the background over his shoulder.

“Woah, easy, Shane, relax,” the trainer at his side says, steadying Shane when he jerks and almost knocks himself off balance. His breathing starts to rattle into his lungs as panic starts to take over. Why are they acting like his answers to what year it is are wrong? Novikov is right there.

“Okay, help me move him, Rozanov,” the trainer says, speaking over Shane’s head.

Shane doesn’t protest as Ilya and the trainer lift him from the ice with hands under his armpits and then skate him off to the tunnel. Ilya is here right now for whatever reason, Shane will find it in himself to worry about why later.

“’lya, I need Hayden,” Shane slurs slightly as he’s settled onto one of the rehab tables in the trainers’ office.

“I know, sweetheart, he’ll come see you when he can,” Ilya tries to soothe as his hands start to work on taking Shane’s gear off alongside their head trainer.

They both stop immediately, though, because Shane flinches like he’s been struck from the contact and makes a horrible noise.

“No, stop, I need ‘im, Il’ya, please,” Shane says, a hand reaching forward to grasp Ilya’s jersey. His eyes are wide with a terror Ilya’s never seen in them, one he immediately decides he never wants to see there again. “Il me protège, il me protège, s'il te plaît, Ilya.”

“Shane, Stewie needs to look at you to make sure you’re okay. You hit your head on the ice, remember? That’s all we’re doing, solnyshko,” Ilya says softly, trying his best to break through to whatever horrifying state Shane’s disorientation has brought him to.

Shane, ever the good boy, does what he’s asked. He allows Ilya, and only Ilya, to remove the top half of his gear. He sits still and allows the more detailed neuro exam to take place. The consensus is that he needs to go to the ER, apparently, and by ambulance, as well, because he’s ‘still so altered.’

He asks about Hayden again. Ilya isn’t getting it.

“I need ‘im, Ilya, you don’t get it, I need ‘im,” Shane insists. Then, horribly, he starts to cry. “Ilya, please, I need ‘im here, they’re gon’ find me, I don’ wanna die.”

The room goes still aside from the jerky movements of Shane’s chest as it shakes with silent sobs of what everyone is now realizing is real, genuine distress.

“What the hell is he talking about, Ilya?” Shane hears distantly.

“I do not know,” Ilya replies, stepping forward and pulling Shane against his chest slightly.

“He’s talking about the Voyageurs, Rozanov,” a voice says in Russian from just outside the medical room a few moments later. Val, who’s purposely making himself heard but not visible. “Pike was the only safe person, for him. In a lot of ways.”

“That doesn’t explain why he thinks he’s going to die, Novikov,” Ilya bites back.

“He’s confused and thinks he still plays for them,” Val replies. Resigned. Grim. Horrified. “And he’s afraid because he can’t defend himself right now.”

Ilya considers this. Then, “Go get Pike.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Is intermission, Val, so go grab Pike,” Ilya says again. “Pike’s name is the only coherent thing he’s said so far.”

Val goes. Ilya stays right where he is while Shane, it seems, quietly loses his mind a little bit.

Val reappears with Hayden in tow not long after, thankfully. “What’s wrong?” he asks Ilya.

“Talk to him,” Ilya says, stepping back from his husband. “He’s confused, he was asking for you.”

Hayden looks extremely confused, as well, because it’s a well-known fact that Ilya is Shane’s favorite person, but he crouches down before Shane and does so, anyways. “Hey, bud, you’re alright,” he says softly, trying his very best not to look as ill as he suddenly feels at the look of fear in his best friend’s eyes.

“Hayd,” Shane says, eyes widening for a moment. “Hayden.”

“Yeah, man, it’s me,” Hayden says, chuckling lightly despite the drastic situation. “What’s going on, Shane? What’s wrong?”

“My head, m’ head hurts, everything s’ blurry. Ilya is here, an’ they hate him, you know? They’re gon’ be so mad.”

“Who, Shane?”

“The team!” Shane exclaims in frustration. “The team s’gonna kill me, you need t’stay, please, Hayden, please don’ leave me by myself.” He dissolves back into tears again, much to everyone’s horror.

Hayden stares, mouth dropping open in blatant shock. Then he swallows thickly and steels himself, finally having an idea of what’s going on, and speaks again. “Hey, hey, relax, Shane, it’s okay,” he says as evenly as he can manage. His voice still shakes slightly. He feels vaguely like he’s going to throw up. “Ilya’s gonna go to the hospital with you, and nobody can get to you when he’s with you, right?”

Shane stares. Earnest. Big, trusting eyes, leveled directly at Hayden. “Yeah…”

Hayden smiles. “Right, so I’ll stay here and make sure the team doesn’t bother you guys while you go, and everything will be alright. How’s that sound?”

“Can you…c’you come with us?” Shane says in a small voice.

Hayden glances back at Ilya for a moment looking terribly torn before he turns back to his best friend. “I can’t ride with you right away, but I’ll be there as soon as I can, I promise.”

“You promise?” Shane mumbles miserably.

“I promise, Shane, yes, I’ll be there,” he says seriously, nodding his head.

Shane stares for another moment, visibly wary and unsure. “Okay,” he says finally. “Ilya’s…’lya’s gonna go with me, though?”

“Yes, Shane. He’s going with you,” Hayden confirms, nodding his head. He rocks forward a bit where he’s crouched down and then offers his brother a small smile, his voice lowering into a conspiratorial stage whisper before he continues, “Besides, I don’t know if you know this, but that man is kind of insanely in love with you, so I don’t think he’s gonna let you out of his sight.”

And Shane is so out of it and unaware of both the temperature of the room and the serious nature of the situation that he smiles, soft and crooked, and nods back slightly.

Hayden stands back up and glances towards the door leading back to the locker room to where J.J. and Val are standing rigidly, out of Shane’s sight, with matching grim expressions on their faces. The two Voyageurs head back to the visitors’ locker room begrudgingly without a word, leaving Val right where he is.

Shane forgets during the ride to the hospital what Hayden had told him before they’d left. “Is he coming back?” he asks as one of the paramedics starts an IV in his arm.

“Yes, baby, he’s coming back,” Ilya says quietly, holding on tightly to Shane’s opposite hand. “You’ll see him soon, okay?”

“They all hate me, ‘lya, they’re always s’mad,” Shane mumbles, shaking his head. He’s not crying anymore, but a leftover tear breaks free from his waterline and streaks down his cheek. His eyes jump to the side to look at Ilya. “Hayd’s coming back, righ’?”

Ilya swallows thickly and nods. “Yes, solnyshko, he’ll be there.”

They arrive at the hospital and Shane is whisked away to radiology for imaging of his head pretty quickly. Ilya is directed to the room they assigned Shane and he sits down to wait for his husband to come back. He hunches over and stares at the floor, terrified and heartbroken.

***

Maxime Gagnon receives a match penalty for deliberately boarding Shane. Bood beats the shit out of Gilbert Comeau simply out of principle when they’re tied 3-3 early in the third, and it gets Ottawa’s bench buzzing enough that they score one more and defend their lead until the final buzzer.

Val disappears from the bench the moment the time runs down to zero and makes quick work of stripping out of his gear. He drags casual street clothes on over his disgustingly sweaty skin and is digging around in his locker for his car keys before the rest of his teammates have so much as entered the locker room showers. None of his teammates question his mad dash and instead offer their well wishes and request updates when possible as he leaves the locker room. It’s a testament to how visibly ‘best friends’ he and Shane have become, and the realization makes Val’s stomach flip. It’s a good flip, though, he thinks, like when he was sixteen and suddenly realized, all at once, that Danya had somehow become his best friend without either of them even having to consciously try.

He joins Ilya in Shane’s ER room once he arrives at the hospital. Shane is getting a CT scan, Rozanov tells him, which Val figures makes sense. He’s seen his fair share of head injuries during his career so a scan to check for a bleed is expected considering how altered Shane had been on the ice after the hit.

Shane is clearly still out of it when he’s wheeled back into the room, but he’s, reassuringly, definitely still in one piece. Ilya draws in a long breath at the sight, slightly dizzy with relief, so he’s obviously distracted when Val practically dives behind a curtain. He viscerally and miserably remembers Shane’s reaction to seeing him on the ice and he doesn’t want to trigger another episode if he can help it.

“Il-ya,” Shane mumbles, reaching out a hand.

Ilya nearly trips over his own feet getting to his husband’s side as quickly as possible. He takes Shane’s hand and squeezes it lightly to let him know he’s there, brushing some of his sweaty brown hair away from his eyes with gentle fingers.

“I’m here, solnyshko,” Ilya says softly. He looks to the side and notices Val’s absence, his brow furrowing in confusion until his eyes fall to the sight of two feet standing behind the hospital curtain. Ah, he thinks to himself, remembering the way Shane had gotten upset when he’d seen the younger player right after the hit. “Shanya, your baby duckling is here, too. Do you want to see him?”

“Rozanov—” Val begins in a warning whisper.

“Val?” Shane says, unknowingly cutting his rookie off. A small smile slides onto his face as he gazes up hazily at his husband. “Yeahhh, is he okay?”

“Get your ass over here, Novikov,” Ilya says, smiling softly back at Shane as he speaks.

Val steps around the curtain and approaches the side of Shane’s bed cautiously. He throws Ilya a questioning look but the man just motions with his head towards Shane with a ‘stop acting so fucking weird’ expression on his face.

“You are okay, Shanya, yes?” Val says quietly, slightly pale and solemn.

“Yeah, Val, ‘m good,” Shane replies. “That kinda sucked, right?”

Val chokes out a wobbly laugh and nods back enthusiastically. “Yeah, Hollander, it did. I am glad you’re okay.”

A nurse comes into the room and introduces herself to them all before doing an assessment on Shane. The doctor comes by a few minutes later to inform them that Shane’s CT was negative for a bleed or anything serious like that. He runs Shane through a typical neurological exam which he does relatively well on. He goes over the standard care instructions they all always get after a concussion, explains they’ll hold Shane overnight for observation and that he’ll be re-assessed before they discharge him in the morning. Ilya nods along and takes notes all the while, which Val finds disgustingly endearing.

Ilya calls Shane’s mother to update the Hollander parents on how their son is doing. They both offer to come see Shane in the hospital but decide to stay home considering Shane is stable, comfortable, and only allowed a limited number of visitors. Ilya reassures them that he’ll call if anything with Shane changes and they hang up after agreeing to meet the couple at their house after discharge tomorrow morning.

Shane falls asleep shortly after the doctor leaves and Ilya simply sits and stares at him for a few minutes, trying to tell his brain that Shane is right here and just fine, that he’s not still down on the ice all crumpled and confused.

Val pulls one of the chairs in the room close to Ilya and then basically nudges the older man into it. Ilya sits without arguing, keeping his hand firmly in Shane’s.

Val sits in a chair on the other side of the stretcher Shane’s on. Rozanov’s eyes are wet when he looks up after a while and he gives Val a murderous look when he notices the younger player looking.

“Relax, Rozanov, it’s hard to see him like this, I get it,” Val says quietly in Russian, turning his head to look back at Shane’s sleeping face.

“You get it?” Ilya echoes, raising an eyebrow.

Val sighs softly and looks away, clasping his hands together and staring down at them. “Yeah, you know, tonight as a concept. My, uh, Melnik broke his wrist when we were seventeen back in the KHL. It was awful, and they drugged him up good once I got him to the hospital,” Val says quietly, careful to keep his eyes down to avoid meeting Rozanov’s gaze.

“Why were you getting him to the hospital? Was it during a game?”

Val’s lips twitch. “No, it was after a fight with a few teammates,” Val replies, shaking his head. “But anyways, like I was saying, I’ve been there. It sucks sitting here and not being able to do anything.”

“Melnik is the ex-boyfriend in Quebec, yes?” Ilya guesses, and Val nods. He knows that Shane had told Ilya this information back when they’d played the Nordiques in Quebec.

“Yeah, we, uh—he broke up with me that night in the hospital and got himself traded to a different team a week later,” Val murmurs. “Someone—the worst part of what happened is that the teammate who accused Danya had absolutely no proof but instead had just made a lucky guess. He confronted Danya about it in the locker room and it, uh, it got ugly really fast. It’s been years at this point so I understand that he was doing it to keep me safe, but at the time it hurt like hell.”

They lapse into a loaded silence, allowing everything Val had just said to absorb fully.

“So you sat at his bedside in the hospital for hours to make sure he was okay, and then at the end of a shitty day like that he broke up with you?” Ilya says finally, incredulous on Val’s behalf and slightly emotional at the mere idea of experiencing tonight and then losing Shane to a breakup at the end of it.

A tiny, bitter smile forms on Val’s face and he finally dares to look up. “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” he replies, nodding his head once as he meet Ilya’s gaze. “And a week after that was the last time I really spoke to him until that game this year.”

Ilya studies Val’s face for a moment. The younger player tries his best not to squirm under the scrutiny. “You’re talking to him again now, yes?”

Val’s cheeks warm. “Da. Exclusive, and we’re talking, but, ah, nothing crazy. We’re working on it.”

“Good,” Ilya says, nodding his head in approval, “You should keep working on it, yes?”

Val blushes further and his gaze falls to his hands. “Yeah, I think we’re going to.”

Val and Ilya sit for a while after that and simply watch Shane sleep.

Shane stirs about fifteen minutes later. He’s happy to see Val once again, so it’s obvious to the younger player that the harsh reaction Hollander had had to his presence earlier tonight on the ice had been solely because of disorientation as to the present time and situation. He’d barely managed to keep his dinner down as he’d skated in the final period of the game, nauseated with guilt.

He only stays awake long enough for his nurse to come by and run him through a neuro exam before he drifts off back to sleep. The nurse informs them on her way out that he’ll be transferred to the ER’s observation unit in a little while where he’ll stay overnight. Ilya sends Val home for the night then, captain’s orders, he says.

“You can check on him tomorrow morning when he’ll actually remember it, and I’ll remind him you were here, but you need to get some sleep,” the veteran player says, kind but stern.

Val goes without much protest. He is really tired and visiting hours are up in roughly an hour so he should free up his spot for someone else to squeak a last minute visit in if need be. Hayden Pike had looked particularly distraught at the state Shane had been in on the ice, so it’s not a stretch of the imagination to assume the Voyageurs player might want to check in on his longtime best friend.

***

Hayden comes by after Shane has been settled in his room on the quieter observation unit for about half an hour.

“Hayd!” Shane exclaims at the sight of him when he first walks in. “’m so glad you’re here.”

Pike smiles, a soft expression appearing on his face that Ilya’s come to the conclusion over the years is reserved specifically for Jackie Pike, the Pike children, and Shane. Ilya gets it; it’s kind of hard to look at Shane Hollander and not want to smile.

“Hey buddy,” he says, sliding into the empty chair opposite Ilya. “How’re you feeling?”

“Oh, they gave me something for m’head, so I’m gooood,” Shane mumbles loosely back.

Hayden laughs but the breezy emotion doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I can see that, bud,” he says, giving his best friend a soft smile that falters and turns into a slight grimace. “Do you remember what happened?”

Shane’s eyebrows draw together slightly. “I got hit on the ice, hit my head.”

“Right, do you remember what happened after that?” Hayden says, nodding his head encouragingly. Ilya recognizes what Shane’s best friend is trying to do right now and feels a rush of gratitude flood through him because yeah, they definitely need to address that and Ilya has a feeling it might be better coming from an ex-teammate rather than Shane’s husband.

Shane turns his head towards Hayden, looking him up and down. His gaze is slightly hazy and it takes a little longer than normal for him to focus, so it’s clear the concussion is most certainly still a factor in the current conversation. “Wh’dya mean?”

“On the ice, Shane,” Hayden says, not letting up. He glances back towards Ilya, a silent request for permission to keep pushing like he is right now that makes Ilya’s respect for the man increase tenfold. He meets Pike’s gaze and nods seriously.

Ilya has never hated Hayden Pike, contrary to popular belief. If anything he’d been kind of jealous of the man back before he and Shane got together officially. Pike had unfettered access to Shane Hollander for years while Ilya only got to see him a few times a year if he was lucky, not to mention the hidden-in-plain-sight crush Pike had on Shane at least back then. Ilya can tell the affection Pike holds for his husband has transformed in some way since Ilya came into the picture as Shane’s romantic partner, but the jury’s still out on whether that crush is gone or simply dormant. Either way, today is, if anything, another opportunity to see just how good of a friend Hayden Pike is to Shane. Ilya definitely isn’t…disappointed so far at the very least.

“Da, solnyshko,” Ilya says, resting a hand on Shane’s leg. “Before we took you off the ice and then to the ambulance, do you remember?”

“I…I asked for Hayden, right?” Shane says slowly, eyes flicking slowly between Ilya and Hayden with a question mark in them.

“Yeah, bud, your, uh, your duckling came and grabbed me,” Hayden says, and the smile he offers Shane now is distinctly sad. Ilya empathizes.

An adorable smile spreads lazily across Shane’s face and his eyes brighten at the mention of the younger player. “You met Val?” he says, head lolling in Hayden’s direction. “He’s sooo great, right? He’s like my you in Ottawa, ‘cept you’re my brother an’ all, but he’s my second best friend. Did Il’ya tell you the team gives us gold stars now?”

Ilya’s heart does something funny in his chest. Hayden looks at Ilya, an eyebrow raised. “Gold stars?”

“On m’ helmet,” Shane says with a hum and a pleased nod.

“The team decided giving him and Val a, ah, belated rookie treatment was needed after finding out how Montreal treats their players,” Ilya says in explanation, trying not to look as sheepish as he suddenly feels. “Apparently Winnipeg is also, hm, lazy about the tradition, also.”

Hayden laughs, sounding thoroughly amused. “Wow, you guys in Ottawa don’t do things by halves, do you?” he says, turning back towards Shane. “I love that for you, man, seriously. And yeah, I met Val and he seems like a good guy.”

Shane goes still and an odd look appears on his face, the smile dissipating as his eyes dim. He looks from Ilya and back to Hayden like he’s trying to find an answer for something. “He is,” he says quietly, picking at the blanket under his free hand. His gaze drops to stare at the blanket and Ilya finds himself wondering what the hell just happened in his husband’s head. “I, uhh, I forgot what year it was on the ice, right? Tha’s what you’re askin’ about.”

Ilya feels a little like he has whiplash and judging by the look Hayden shares with him he feels the same way. Some connection clearly just occurred in Shane’s concussed mind, but neither of them know what it is.

“Yeah, you did,” Hayden says, nodding his head. Shane’s eyes lift and stay raised at the sound of Hayden’s voice, his gaze still hazy but with a definite dullness that Ilya can’t not notice. “None of us, uh, none of us know what happened with, you know, all of that, so I was just wondering if you remember enough to give us an idea.”

Shane meets Hayden’s eyes and even from Ilya’s vantage point he can tell that the look he levels Pike with is kind of…unnerving. It’s maybe the ‘off-ness’ that Shane had told Ilya he struggles with back when it became official that they’d be playing Montreal in the playoffs.

“Got hurt and couldn’ get up, even when I tried, like back then. When I looked up I saw Montreal jerseys, and I got even more confused,” Shane says finally, eyes dropping down to his hand where it’s playing with the crappy hospital blanket again. “I thought I still played for em’, so I was looking for you.”

“That’s why you were worried that Ilya was there,” Hayden says, nodding his head patiently even as his expression goes slightly grim.

“’s what they always had the most t’say about, they hate him,” Shane says, nodding his head. He lays his head back against the pillow and visibly deflates, blinking heavily. “And then I saw Val and he really is a good kid, Hayd, I swear, but I thou’ since he was there that I was right an’ I still played for the Voy’geurs.”

“Aw, fuck, Shane,” Hayden curses, shaking his head. “That must’ve sucked.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, nodding his head jerkily. He blinks sleepily. “D’int know where you were,” he mumbles.

“I know, bud, you did exactly what you used to do back in Montreal by looking for me, right?” Hayden says, nodding his head quickly. Ilya realizes with a start that the pair are currently referencing something that he knows nothing about, something that happened in Montreal and contributed in some way to Shane’s episode of concussed disorientation on the ice. “You didn’t do anything wrong, man. We were just worried and a little confused.”

Shane nods, eyes falling shut all the way. “M’tired,” he mumbles.

“Then sleep, bud,” Hayden says easily.

Shane takes his best friend up on the suggestion and drifts off a few moments later. He’d been fading ever since his eyes started to droop, Ilya knows, and considering the head injury he’d sustained Ilya isn’t surprised. Hayden stays, anyways. Ilya takes this time to bring the man up to speed on everything the doctor had said about Shane’s condition.

Ilya also tells Pike about the two lists Shane and Val had written and the way the team has been treating them lately. The ‘rookie treatment’ part gets a smile and some laughter out of the man, but the smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Ilya figures that probably has something to do with hearing that an entire team of grown men and their coach had heard how Montreal treats their players and had been absolutely disturbed by it.

They both fall silent for a moment. Hayden watches Shane sleep, eyes on the smaller man’s chest as it rises and falls with his breathing.

Hayden is the one to break the silence. “There was one time after you two were outed where Comeau tripped him when he was coming out of the showers. Shane almost fell and his towel came off. I was already pissed but I lost my shit when Shane told him to ‘stop fucking doing that already,’ because it meant Comeau had already done it before. I said something to him about it and he made a joke about Shane always wanting to be on his knees anyways, and I punched him in the face. When we got back to the hotel Shane spent an hour throwing up in the bathroom.”

Ilya looks over at the other player but Hayden keeps his gaze firmly locked on his best friend. His eyes have gone slightly distant, and Ilya swallows thickly and braces himself.

“Wilson shoved Shane once after practice while he was basically screaming in his face. I came into the locker room just as Wilson threw a punch. All three of us had black eyes for a while and everyone just…pretended it didn’t happen. That happened a couple times with Comeau, as well. Shane would be pissed off after, mostly. One day, though—” Hayden continues, but his voice breaks slightly so he pauses for a moment. “One day he called me and sounded all weird. He asked me if he was…if he was a good person. I went over to his place and let myself in, and I found him sitting on the floor of his bedroom closet. He looked so…young, you know? It took me a while to get the story out of him, but basically that morning during an optional practice that I hadn’t gone to, they’d cornered him afterwards and pushed him around and said all kinds of nasty shit about him and about you. That was one of the few times I saw him scared after something happened with the team. I noticed he’d started sticking closer to me after he’d come out to the team, but I realized then that it’d become something he did because he was afraid.”

“That’s why he asked for you on the ice,” Ilya says quietly.

“Yeah, it was,” Hayden says, nodding his head and rubbing his hands together. “Yeah, uh, nobody ever put their hands on him when I was around.”

“You took care of him,” Ilya says.

Hayden’s eyes finally jump over to look at Ilya across Shane’s hospital bed. Ilya notices the slightly red rims of them as they hold each other’s gaze for a moment. Hayden looks away again.

“I tried, yeah,” Hayden agrees. “I did what I could. After that day I went to every practice he went to, I made sure he skipped optional skates I couldn’t go to because of something with the kids or an injury, made sure we showered at the same time, you know, just tried to make sure he wasn’t alone as much as I could.”

“Thank you for that, Hayden,” Ilya says seriously. “Really, thank you.”

“Of course man, he’s like my—he’s like my brother, you know?” Hayden says, voice thinning slightly. “It’s the only reason I didn’t tell you about everything Montreal did myself, because he made me promise I wouldn’t. When it started to get worse I brought it up a few times to him, but I let it go because his therapist approved of his decision, at least for the time being.”

Ilya nods. “If I found this out maybe a year ago I probably would have bit your head off, I will be honest, but now I understand why you didn’t. Val…Val is same way. Used to bother me a little bit, that there are bad things that I do not know about, but Shane deserves someone he can tell things to that isn’t his husband, yes? Makes sense, everyone does.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Pike says, nodding and blowing out a shaky breath.

“He was working on it, you know?” Ilya says, because he obviously doesn’t really get many opportunities to brag about his husband’s commitment to therapy. He also, surprising himself, thinks that Hayden Pike most certainly deserves to know about the positive impact his caretaking and protection had on Shane. Hayden looks over again but this time he doesn’t look away. “Telling me everything that happened. Has been slow, but he has told me many things already. This one…tonight was just, unlucky, I think. This was what Val warned me was bad but would not tell me anything about himself, and I think Shane was close to doing that.”

“Well, that’s definitely shitty luck, then, yeah” Hayden says, nodding his head. “Wait, you said this is what Val warned you about?”

“Yes?” Ilya replies, a question in his voice as he raises an eyebrow. “They wrote the lists, remember? At the bottom of the one about coaches, he wrote Montreal coach makes you guys ‘gang up’ on one person sometimes. The way Shane said it, uh, spooked me a tiny bit.”

Ilya really doesn’t like the confused crease that’s appeared in Hayden’s brow just now. He thought this was the big thing, that most of the bad stuff is out in the open now.

“This is…Ilya, I’m talking about the time a group of players cornered him after practice, not something that involved Therriault,” Hayden says slowly, growing alarm appearing in his eyes as he must be noticing the discrepancy that Ilya is, as well. “I mean, I remember Coach shit-talking and harping on one guy in particular depending on the day, and he likes to do the whole ‘group punishment for one guy’s mistake’ thing, but I’ve never seen him, like, tell guys to gang up on each other.”

A chill sweeps through Ilya’s body as something occurs to him. “When he was explaining what happened on the ice, he said that he fell and couldn’t get up from the ice like—'like back then,’” he points out, gaze sliding to where his sweet, terribly earnest husband is still sleeping soundly in bed. A hospital bed, one that one of his ex-teammates put him in. “He got more confused when he saw that Val was there.”

“But Val wasn’t involved in what he told me about, obviously, because he’d hate the kid if he was,” Hayden says, face paling by a few shades as the pair simultaneously come to the same conclusion.

“There is something that happened that neither of us know about,” Ilya says, speaking it out loud even though both of them have clearly realized this. “Something like what you said, but…”

“But worse, probably,” Hayden finishes for him as Ilya trails off. “They attacked him like this twice.”

Ilya tries not to openly stare as the Voyageurs player’s face goes from the vaguely ill color it’d turned to an unnatural red. Rage, Ilya would be willing to bet, anger that’s building up and has nowhere to go. Pike’s jaw clicks closed and the muscle in it jumps as he clenches his teeth.

“I asked for a trade at the start of the season,” he says suddenly, shaking his head. “I want out, but management refuses. GM had a smug fucking look on his face when he said I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. I thought if I had to play with these guys after all of their bullshit with Shane that I’d end up with a criminal record. I’ve had some close calls, I won’t lie, but this is the closest I’ve ever gotten to saying fuck it and, I don’t know, just walking right up to Comeau and punching him in the face? Publicly requesting a trade and doing some insane interview on the locker room culture? As long as that fucking team burns.”

Ilya snorts even though he feels the rage bubbling up inside himself, as well. “Well, I think there would be a lot of teams interested in Montreal’s best player, if that helps,” he says, a corner of his mouth tugging upwards with a slight smirk. The funny part about this genre of chirp this time around is that he’s actually being honest for once. Hayden getting on board with the fact that Ilya’s chirps aren’t meant to be taken seriously really was the turning point in their not-quite friendship, Ilya thinks.

Pike raises an eyebrow. “Montreal’s ‘best player,’ huh?” he says.

“Don’t know what you expected me to say, Pike,” Ilya says, shrugging his shoulders. “With my Shane here in Ottawa now, you are obviously number one player in Montreal, is simple math when you remember Shane Hollander counts as fourteen players on your garbage team.”

“Of course,” Hayden says mildly, nodding in agreement even as his own lips twitch with amusement.

Hayden heads home a little while later. Shane is still asleep when he leaves, but Ilya promises to keep him updated and Hayden, strangely, finds himself feeling somewhat…lighter as he makes his way out of the hospital.

Chapter End Notes

next chapter will be Shane's concussion recovery amid round 1 of the playoffs PLUS a conversation that Shane needed delivered by none other than his (traumatized, surprise! and sorry in advance) russian duckling

if y'all are still digging Val & Danya let me know because then i'll go ahead and keep including their occasional bits and pieces going forward. the contrast between them and shane & ilya does function pretty well in the draft so far....:) (plus there's an insane smut piece in a later chapter that is basically a mirror of each couple starting a power exchange with the same root but applying it to their dynamic differently, which i think is kinda fun idk)