Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike & Ilya Rozanov, Wyatt Hayes & Ilya Rozanov, Zane Boodram & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Hayden Pike, Wyatt Hayes, Zane Boodram, Luca Haas, Troy Barrett, Scott Hunter (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Dreams and Nightmares, PTSD, Trauma Recovery, Panic Attacks, Homophobia, Anxious Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Is Bad at Feelings, Ilya Rozanov Has PTSD, Good Friend Hayden Pike, Hockey, Religious Guilt, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, Paranoia, Minor Troy Barrett/Harris Drover, Introspection, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Social Media, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Timeline What Timeline

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of This is Love

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-10 Completed: 2026-03-28 Words: 30,679 Chapters: 12/12

The Knife You Turn Inside Yourself

Summary

They're soulmates. They're out to the world, for better or worse. Ilya is safe and learning to heal. Everything should be good.
And yet.

 

SEQUAL to Safer in Chains than to be Free

Chapter 1

Shane, March 2015

Shane settles into his seat, belt fastened securely across his hips. He smiles to himself. Flying is something of a necessary evil for professional hockey players, but when the end of the flight means forty-eight precious hours of Ilya and ignoring the chaotic world around them, it doesn’t seem so bad.

He should maybe text his mom that he made it, and the flight is on time, but she’s neurotic enough to know already. Besides, he’s already shut his phone off, and is absolutely not prepared for the barrage of texts and missed calls that will inevitable assault him once he turns it back on.

Thirty minutes ago, Ilya announced their relationship to the world. Ilya claimed him, publicly, as his soulmate. Ilya also, in a move that was both extremely brave and incredibly attractive, called out the Russian government for his inhumane incarceration last year.

Ilya still isn’t back to how he was before. Probably he never will be. But this is a sign of healing, and Shane loves him for it. Shane loves him for a lot of things. 

“Attention passengers, you will notice that the pilot has chosen to leave the seatbelt sign on. We are just going through a small patch of turbulence, and this should be resolved shortly. Thank you for your cooperation.”

The announcement doesn’t make any difference to Shane, who keeps his seatbelt on no matter what, whenever he is sitting down. Shrugging, he pulls on his headphones and closes his eyes, head leaning against the window.

“Excuse me, sir,” says a voice, and Shane sits up, turning to see who it is. A flight attendant is standing by his seat, pushing a cart. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“What?” Shane asks, eyes widening. The flight attendant smiles impossibly large. 

“I asked,” she says, tone sickly sweet, “if I could get you anything to drink? Coffee? Water?”

“Oh,” Shane says, shaking himself, “sorry. Yeah. Do you have any ginger ale?”

The plane shutters a bit. The lights flicker. Glass bottles rattle in the cart.

“No, our carbonated products are reserved for customers.” The flight attendant says it like it makes sense. Shane squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. Opens them. Nothing has changed.

“Um, okay. Am I not a customer?”

“Mr. Hollander, you know full well you’re only in first class because you fucked your way here.”

“What? No! I paid for this seat.” The lights flicker again. The flight attendant’s eyes are too large. She has too many teeth. The plane groans.

“I can get you coffee or water,” the attendant says, and Shane’s too confused to fight it.

“Water is fine.” 

The sound of liquid filling the flimsy plastic cup. A baby cries somewhere further in the plane. A ding.

Shane grips the cup and looks up. The seatbelt sign pulses red.

“What does that mean?” he asks. The flight attendant is gone. The plane shudders.

Shane grips the cup so tightly the water spills over the top, soaking his fist.

He sighs, knocking his head against the window. From the point where his head made contact, a spiderweb of cracks bloom. His eyebrows shoot up. He should call somebody about this.

He raises his arm to hit the call button, and the lights flicker again. Then, the plane dips abruptly. The windows blow out.

Wind rushes in, cold and painful. Shane looks at his hand and instead of being covered in water, it’s soaked in blood.

Around him, people pull oxygen masks to their mouths. Shane looks up at the ceiling of the plane, and he can’t find one for him.

The flight attendant is back.

“Where is my mask?” he gasps out.

“Sorry, Mr Hollander, why exactly do you think you deserve one?” 

Shane can’t think of an answer and so he curls forward in the brace position like they tell you to do. He wraps his arms around his knees and leans forward and then the plane is breaking apart and he is falling and spinning and spiraling and-

Shane blinks his eyes open. A hand is on his shoulder. “Sorry, sir, but you need to be awake for landing.” 

Half awake, he nods at the man. “Yeah, sure, thanks.” 

Shane swallows, clenching his fists. 

It takes him a moment longer than it should to shake off the nightmare, but by the time they’re pulling into the Ottawa terminal, Shane’s pulse is back to normal.

He gets a taxi to Ilya’s place, tipping the driver profusely. It’s a little past eight pm, and the lights are on. Shane suspects Ilya probably has company over, or at least Hayes and Boodram - for emotional support and to help him stay offline. 

Shane steps up to the door, bag in hand, and knocks, even though he doesn’t have to. It will be worth it to see Ilya’s face when he opens the door.

And then Wyatt Hayes answers the door instead. “Hollander!” he looks surprised for half a second before pulling Shane into a hug. “Fucking good to see you! Aren’t you supposed to be in Montreal?”

“We have a few days before our next game and honestly, I kind of want to avoid my team while the first wave of crazy blows over.”

“Oh yeah, man I hear you. Rozy’s phone is in Bood’s car for safekeeping but mine has been going fucking nuts asking if I knew about you guys.”

Hayes starts walking into the house, and Shane follows.

“Is the pizza here already?” Bood asks.

“Man I wish,” Hayes replies. On the couch, Shane watches Ilya crane his neck to see them. There it is.

A blinding smile takes over Ilya’s face, and he vaults over the back of the couch. In half a second he’s in Shane’s arms, and it’s like the world has fallen into place. 

“Shane,” Ilya says into his shoulder, “you’re here.”

“Of course I’m here,” Shane replies, resting his head on top of Ilya’s,“of course.”

Ilya walks them backwards until they hit the couch, pulling Shane to sit half in his lap. Once Shane is seated, he notices Boodram in an armchair, giving them an amused look. He smiles in greeting, and Bood nods.

“Hey Hollander, good to see you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

“We watched your game last night. That goal in the second was a beauty.”

“That goal in the second,” Hayes adds, “was the stuff of my fucking nightmares.”

“Yeah, well,” Shane grins, because he’s not going to apologize for it - it was a great goal. Smooth and fast and impossible to see coming.

“Was also very hot,” Ilya adds with a smirk.

“Shut up.”

“Oh so it’s fine when they give you compliments, but when I do it you don’t like it?” Ilya teases. Shane elbows him in the stomach, but he’s still smiling. He had been worried that coming out would make Ilya anxious and panicky, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. For now, at least, in this protective bubble, he seems safe from the outside world and the fear that comes with it.

The pizza arrives, and Hayes and Boodram head to the kitchen leaving Shane alone with Ilya. He tangles their hands together. 

“Are you nervous?” he asks softly.

Ilya hums. “Not like I expected to be. The team will be good I think, and after this year…I do not care so much about the rest of the world.” A soft kiss. “Are you?”

“I mean,” Shane hesitates, “yeah. Part of me thinks I should have at least warned my team about everything, but I just told them I was flying to visit my parents and left. Hayden especially, I…” he sighs, “I think he’s probably going to be angry at first, that I didn’t tell him.”

Ilya stills against him, frowning. “Pike does not know? I thought you told him.”

“I mean, I told him that I’m in love. I told him about finding my soulmate. But I didn’t tell him the rest. I wanted to ease him into it.”

“Shane,” Ilya is looking properly upset now, “I could have waited another few days to post, given you time to tell him properly.”

“Hey,” Shane soothes, “hey, no. This was good timing, and he’s my best friend. Things might be awkward for a bit, but we’ll be fine. I’ll talk to him when I get back to Montreal, before practice.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, but he doesn’t look convinced. Shane swings around so he is fully sitting on Ilya’s lap, a leg on either side of his body. They wrap their arms around each other, and Shane pulls him in for a kiss. 

Ilya tastes like beer and perfection. Shane can’t get enough of it. He forgets that there are other people in the house, deepening the kiss as much as he can, desperately trying to explore every corner of Ilya’s mouth. It's been weeks since they’ve held each other, and he needs to make up for lost time. Ilya’s hands squeeze at his hips, moving around to grab his ass.

Bood ruins everything by clearing his throat awkwardly, and Shane feels his face heat up as he pulls away from Ilya. They’re both breathing a little heavier than normal, and Ilya’s eyes are blown wide with arousal. 

“Sorry, guys, um,” Bood, to his credit, looks embarrassed as well, “just wanted to see if you were wanting any of the pizza. If not, me and Hazy can just put it in the fridge and, uh, leave you guys to it.”

“I will get some,” Ilya says, and Shane moves to get off him, but then Ilya is standing, picking him up in the process.

“Hey!” Shane says indignantly, “I can walk you know.”

“Okay,” Ilya kisses him on the cheek and then drops him back on the couch.

Two days with Ilya pass in a haze of warmth and comfort. They’re always clingy, when together like this, but the weight of everything they’re ignoring intensifies the need to be together. To hold each other and never let go. When Shane finally has to leave, Ilya drives him to the airport. They kiss in the terminal. A kid in a Cens jersey stares in shock. 

The eyes on them send a wave of fear to Shane’s brain, and he has to remind himself that everyone knows. They don’t have to hide anymore. If he can’t kiss his soulmate before getting on the plane, what was even the point of telling the world?

“Fly safe,” Ilya whispers, lips brushing his ear.

“I love you,” Shane replies, and then he’s gone.

Shane gets off the plane in Montreal and calls a cab straight to Hayden’s. His best friend has tried to call him forty-seven times, apparently. As the car turns onto Hayden’s street, Shane can admit that maybe this wasn’t the best way to handle everything. He has a whole script planned out in his head for how he will apologise for not saying anything earlier.

The script goes out the window when Hayden wrenches the door open before Shane can even knock. “What the actual fuck Shane?”

“Hayd-”

“No. Fuck. Get in here.” Hayden grabs his arm and pulls him in. Shane stands uselessly in the hall. “What- Shane-” 

Shane realises with no small amount of shock that Hayden’s eyes are wet. 

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

“Hayden, I-”

“Fuck you! Like actually fuck you so much dude what even… I had to find out from JJ sending me Rozanov’s fucking post!” Hayden yells, pacing in front of him, “ And now he’s pissed at me because he thinks I knew, and I wish I had, but I didn’t, and I don’t get why because like. Fine. I get why you wouldn’t tell me about Rozanov. Thats fucking crazy, but whatever.” He crouches down, breathing hard, hands over his face. Shane just stares. He’s never seen Hayden this mad.  “But you could have at least told me you were into guys. Like, fuck, did you think I’d not be good with it? Your my best fucking friend Shane, and I just want you to be happy, and when you told me you’d found your soulmate I was so fucking relieved because I worry about you, okay? I do. But you told me about her- him. Fuck. And I just. I thought. I really thought you trusted me.”

The rant ends quietly, and almost pitifully. Hayden is still on the floor in his entryway. Shane swallows.

“Hayd I am so sorry,” he says, voice low, “I do trust you. You know I do, but you have to understand. I was, hell I am, scared. And I knew that even if it was rough for you, you would forgive me for it.”

Hayden sighs. “I know. And I'm not actually angry with you, because I do get why you didn’t tell me, but. I’m just angry.”

“How has the rest of the team reacted?” Shane asks, because he wants to have an idea of what he’s stepping into when he opens the group chat, or walks into the locker room tomorrow. Hayden bites his lip.

“I mean, it could definitely be worse, but it’s not great. People are surprised, obviously. Some of them have said shit, more about Rozanov than the gay thing honestly. Nobody is calling for your head on a stick or anything.”

“Okay,” Shane says, pulling Hayden back to standing.

“It’s conflicting for them, you know? Because I think they want to be really fucking gross about it but they can’t, cause, well, it’s not like you chose this. Fate did. You can’t help that he’s your soulmate.”

“I mean…” Shane wants to say that even if Ilya wasn’t his soulmate, he would have loved him anyway. Chosen him anyway. He wants to, but is it even true? Would he have come out if they weren’t cosmically linked? 

Probably not. Not at this stage, at least. They haven’t even been properly together for a year.

He won’t push it. Not today, at least. He’ll give Hayden some time to adjust to everything first.

“Come on, man,” Shane says, “we’re going to have a manly hug, and then we’re going to talk about literally anything else for the next three hours.”

Hayden laughs, clapping him on the shoulder.

“I’ll have your back, you know” he says, “with the team. If any of them give you shit…”

“I know.”

Shane doesn’t let himself spiral. He doesn’t let himself check his social media. He doesn’t let himself check the news. It doesn’t matter what anyone is saying. It doesn’t matter what anyone else will say. It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t.

It doesn’t.

It doesn’t.

Chapter 2

Shane, March

Shane walks into the locker room confidently. He needs to prove to his team that nothing has changed with him. He needs to prove that he is still just as dedicated a captain. He needs to remind them that they’re going to the playoffs in three weeks, and seriously need to focus if the Cup is even going to be a possibility. The Metros haven’t even made the playoffs in a decade, never mind one the Cup, but Shane thinks that if they can really work together, it might be possible to win the whole thing.

When he pushes the door open, half the team is already there. It’s intentional. Typically, Shane likes to be the first guy in the room and the last out, but today he’s playing it safe. As people notice his arrival, Shane feels more than hears a ripple of whispers cross the room. Immediately, he’s fed up. This is actually ridiculous. “Listen up,”Shane says, turning on his authoritative captain voice, “I know you all know. If you have a problem with me, you can keep it between yourselves. It’s too close to the playoffs to lose focus, so I don’t want to see anyone get distracted by my personal life.”

He glares at the room, flicking his eyes from player to player. Some of them look like they want to protest, but he doesn’t let them. Then, Comeau, muttering like Shane isn’t really supposed to hear.

“And what if we’re worried about him getting distracted? We’re on the ice and all he’s thinking about is sucking cock…” 

Shane spins on his heel until he is face to face with the defenseman. He wracks his brain for something to say that will be clever and cutting and shut this whole thing down before it can escalate. And then, from across the room Hayden starts talking.

“I don’t know man,” he says, and Shane's brain is just a running line of dear god please shut up, but it doesn't work and he's still talking. “Shane's been sucking Rozanov's cock for years and he's ten times the player you are, dude. Maybe it's worth a try.”

“Hayden!” Shane admonishes his friend. He regrets the night before when, after significant prodding, he had caved and given Hayden the rough timeline of his and Ilya’s relationship. He had really only done it to explain the Boston Lily of it all. 

The rest of the team is looking similarly scandalized, but probably for very different reasons. Comeau, at least, seems shocked to silence.

“Just,” Shane sighs, “let's get on the ice.”

After practice, JJ corners him in the parking lot. Shane stiffens a little, because things have definitely been awkward between them today. “Capitaine,” he says, and the honorific makes Shane relax a little, “look, man, I just wanted to say sorry.”

“Sorry?” Shane asks.

“Yes, man, shit, I mean, what Comeau said was fucked.”

“Oh, yeah, well. I didn’t really expect everyone to be nice about it.”

“Still. Stupid fucking idea, that you’re distracted on the ice. You are probably the most focused guy in the fucking league. And it’s not your fault fate fucked you over.”

“What?” This conversation, Shane thinks, had been going so well.

“I mean, tabarnak Hollander, it makes sense that you are Rozanov are, well, you know. But it must fucking suck, I mean, we all hate the guy. Hell, you even hate him. He’s such an asshole.”

“I don’t hate him,” Shane protests.

“Look,” JJ replies, “I get that he is probably the only guy in the league who is at your level. And clearly, from his post, he’s in love with you. And apparently you’ve been fucking for years.” He is pacing in front of Shane’s car now, blocking his route to the door. “But I know you, man, and I’m sure you only started fucking to like. Get in his head.” JJ has always been an expressive talker, and this is no different. His arms wave wildly as he gesticulates. Shane can’t fully comprehend what he’s hearing. This is crazy. “And now, he’s had all this drama and you’re stuck with him.” JJ stops pacing, placing his hands on Shane’s shoulders. “It’s okay! It is. Not everybody ends up with their soulmate, you know. I am sure, somehow, we can find you a nice guy here in Montreal to make you forget all about this mess.”

“JJ,” Shane says, and he means it to come out annoyed, but it ends up just sounding tired. “JJ, I’m not stuck with him. I…” he pauses. He’s still in his compression shirt, still sweaty from practice. He had skipped the shower, and his skin is itching off his body for it, but it was easier than trying to decide if he should wear a patch or not today. He’s run out of the nicely invisible ones he’s been using all season, so it’d have to be one that Ilya left lying around, which are cheaper and pretty obvious. Everyone would know what name he was hiding. 

Suddenly, hiding anything at all feels incredibly pointless. “I fucking love him back,” he practically spits, grabbing at the collar of his shirt and pulling it tight to just reveal the line of Cyrillic. JJ’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything. Shane pushes him to the side, finally getting in his car. “See you tomorrow,” he says, and JJ nods numbly. 

As Shane drives, he remembers the plan. Get his team a Cup. Reward Montreal for its loyalty to him. Thank them for signing him. Prove to the world that this changes nothing.

Prove to Ilya that this changes everything.

How hard can it be?

***

Ilya, March

The first game Ottawa plays after his post is against Boston, because fucking of course it is. The Cens had already played the Raiders once, very early on in the season. The day before that game, Ilya had not-so-unintentionally pushed himself too hard in practice, and his barely healed ribs had protested. Wiebe had lectured him that in the future, if he wasn’t feeling mentally present enough for a game, he should take measures less drastic than reaggravating old injuries. He had avoided the Boston trip, though, and at the time that had felt good.

Now, it just feels like it delayed the inevitable. 

With everything going on, Ilya is surprised that he has the emotional capacity to feel crushing guilt, but somehow, he does. It’s been nine months since he returned to North America. Seven since he returned to the public eye. Over a year since he disappeared. It’s also been over a year since he’s spoken to either of his two best friends, and that’s where the guilt comes in.

Since the start of the season, it’s been slowly eating him alive. At first, Ilya had told himself the only reason he hadn’t reached out was because he didn’t have their numbers. In the days after the news of him playing for the Cens dropped, however, both Cliff and Sveta had sent him long strings of Instagram and Twitter DMs. They had both been sending him increasingly desperate DMs since February. Where are you and is everything ok and what the fuck is going on. 

Cliff’s last message to him, prior to the start of the preseason, came a few days before Ilya was able to re-log in to his account.  Connors thinks you’re dead. The next message had been sent before Ilya’s first game back was even in intermission. Okay so fuck you. Before the first game against Boston there had been one more: Don’t get me wrong I’m still fucking pissed but you can make it up to me with a drink.

Sveta’s texts had been similar: a confusing mix of anger, confusion, and a willingness to reconcile. Whatever is going on, I just hope you’re safe. She has sent him a message after every single game, without fail. 

Both of Ilya’s friends have been holding the door open to their friendships for months, and he has done absolutely nothing in return. 

At first, he hadn’t been ready for anyone to know he was back at all. Then, he had wanted to get his bearings with the Cens before talking to anyone else. By the time he had felt ready, it had seemed too late. Too late to talk to these people who knew him Before. Shane is the only person in Ilya’s life who knows both versions of him, and he isn’t stupid. Ilya knows he’s changed. He knows that After Ilya is jumpier, and touchier, and less repressed than Before Ilya had been. He also knows that Sveta and Cliff had liked him, when he was Before Ilya. Maybe Shane liked both versions, but he only fell in love with After Ilya, and so maybe this is the trade off. The universe won’t let Ilya have too many nice things, and so if he wants to be loved by Shane, he must lose his friends in Boston.

Or maybe this is all extremely stupid, and Ilya’s friends won’t hate him even if he is traumatized now.

Since posting, and telling the truth, finally, for the world to know and judge, they’ve both sent him messages again. From Cliff, I’m so fucking sorry Roz. I’m in your corner. From Sveta, I was in fucking Volga on vacation in the spring. I was right there. I will never forgive those monsters. 

Ilya really needs to stop ignoring people who, supposedly, care about him. He thinks about what his therapist had suggested: baby steps. Recovery is a series of baby steps. And those steps are allowed to be clumsy, because a baby is taking them.

Sveta is a lot. Sveta reminds him of his childhood and his mother and Russia. Sveta can wait. He should give her something, though. He hearts the message. He’ll text back, next time.

Cliff is easier. Their friendship has always existed in hockey, and hockey is easy. Hockey is fun. When Ilya pictures meeting with Cliff again, neither of them get tears in their eyes or sad little smiles. Ilya has had enough sad little smiles. Plus, he’s going to see the man on the ice in three days anyway. We fly in night before our game. Drinks? On me.

Ilya shuts off his phone and puts it down, but it vibrates with a notification as soon as he lets it go. Holy shit yes of course just tell me where and when. A minute later. It’s really good to hear from you cap.

Ilya finds a booth at the back of the bar, pulling his hoodie over his head. It’s not a popular place, or even a very nice one, and that’s by design. Crowds still make him nervous, even if he can play in front of them just fine. He orders a beer for Cliff and another just so he can pick at the label, and checks his phone. Cliff should be here soon. Ilya taps his foot against the sticky floor of the bar and closes his eyes. He’s fine. 

His back is to the wall, the bathroom is on his left, the emergency exit beside it. The main door is in front of him, close to the bar. Windows all along the front wall. There are some people mingling, and some chairs, but he could probably get out of here in thirty seconds. Twenty, if the people got out of his way. Ilya knows where the exits are, and he has a route and three backup routes planned in his head. This strategy gets him through most of his social outings these days. 

Ilya meets Cliff’s eyes the second the man walks into the bar. He tilts his head to the tide, beckoning, and then Cliff is sitting across from him. “Roz,”he says, tone crestfallen. It’s unsettling. 

“Marly,” he replies, sliding one of the drinks across the table, “before anything else, I need you to promise something.”

“Of course, brother. Anything.” Cliff nods, looking at Ilya like he might disappear at any moment. Like he might break. Ilya hates it when people look at him like that.

“I need you to lose tomorrow. Winning would make me happy, but Ottawa is kind of shit, so…”

Cliff’s face lights up and he lets out a loud laugh.

“Fucking hell Roz,” he says, taking a sip of the offered beer. He looks relieved. Good. Ilya doesn’t think either of them know how to interact if they’re being completely serious.

“So you will do it then?”

“You fucking know I won’t.”

“Mhm, was worth a try.”

“It was worth a try…” Cliff repeats, shaking his head. “We fucking miss you over here, man.”  

Ilya doesn’t know what to say to that. Does he miss them back? Probably. 

“Do you know-” Ilya stops himself. He doesn’t actually know how Cliff will take this news, if he doesn’t already know it.

“Know what?”

“Why I didn’t come back to Boston.”

Cliff looks surprised. “Well, I mean nobody’s told us anything. But with what I know now, I totally get it. You wanted a fresh start after everything.”

“That is not why.”

“What?” Cliff frowns, “then why?”

“Boston didn’t think I was reliable anymore.”

“Because you disappeared? Did they know why? If they knew-”

“They did. But no, I told myself this was why but I think really, they meant that I am unreliable up here.” Ilya taps his head with a finger. “They weren’t wrong,” he adds, smiling ruefully. Marlow looks wrongfooted at the comment though. Unsure, again. “Is a fucking joke, Marly. Mostly.”

“I’m sorry,” Cliff says, and for a moment Ilya thinks he is about to confirm all the fears that have been swirling in his brain for months. “I’m trying to be, like, chill about this, but holy fucking shit I can’t. I mean. You were in a fucking Russian gulag, Roz, and that is crazy levels of fucked up. And then you just went back to your life? If it were me I’d still be shaking in a corner somewhere but you just seem,” he gestures at Ilya, “like normal? Like I don’t even know.”

“Was not a gulag,” Ilya says, “those do not exist anymore. This was just a different secret Russian prison.”

“Oh so huge difference then.”

“Fuck off,” Ilya grows more serious, “and for the record, I am not normal. Sometimes I am shaking in the corner somewhere. Sometimes it is like now, where I can have a conversation in public, but… my heart is racing, Marly.” Ilya holds up his beer, “I am not going to drink this, because then I might have a nightmare where a Russian agent secretly poisoned it.” He puts the beer back down. “You have heard of the Cens new hand signals on the ice?”

“Yeah, coach was talking about trying that out actually. Not having to yell across the ice all the time would be great.”

“Yes, well, this is because of me.”

“Oh?”

“Sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes, the noise of the crowd is too much. I have ear plugs for when I’m on the bench, to help. The hand signals are so I don’t miss the shift changes.”

“Oh,” Cliff thinks on that for a minute, “then maybe... it’s a good thing you ended up in Ottawa. It’s good you have a team that supports you like that.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, “yes it is.”

Ottawa beats Boston in overtime, and in the handshake line, every member of the Raiders taps Ilya’s glove with an “I love you.” It’s a callback to how he would tap them off the ice after a loss. A sign that they stand with him. He has friends here, still. Cliff, bringing up the end of the line, pulls him into a massive hug. 

“Stay in touch, man. No fucking ghosting me again.”

“I won’t.”

Chapter 3

Ilya, June

He’s kneeling on the pavement and the concrete is rough. Ilya looks up, and in front of him, an oil barrel with flames coming out the top. 

Pain flashes across his spine. He looks down at the ground, tears welling in his eyes.

“Please,” the word leaves his lips in a broken gasp and he doesn’t even know what he’s begging for anymore.

A snap, leather meets flesh, warm trails of blood drip down his back and onto his calves.

Ilya’s head jerks up.

The barrel is gone. Instead another man is kneeling in front of him.

Bullet hole in his head, dirt in his hair and in the lines of his skin. Half his skull is visible through rotted flesh.

He reaches a hand towards Ilya, who flinches back, inadvertently pressing into the belt as it meets his body.

Ilya squeezes his eyes tight.

“You dug my grave, you know,” says the man. 

Eyes open, and the man is different. Now, it's Shane.

Covered in blood, missing half his face.

“Shane,” Ilya says, “why are you here?”

“You brought me here, Ilya.”

“I never wanted this,” Ilya responds with a whisper. 

Shane doesn’t seem angry about it. He kneels across from Ilya, impassive to the blows still raining down. 

He’s wearing Ilya’s mother’s cross, the pendant clutched between his teeth.

Gold turned crimson.

“Are you a man of god?” The words come from nowhere. Go nowhere. Mean nothing. Mean everything.

“I have nothing to confess,” Ilya mumbles. He takes a breath. It’s about thirty seconds before he realizes that he is awake. He forces his eyelids open, and Shane’s face stares back at him, brow furrowed in concern.

Ilya lifts a hand to his soulmate’s face, feeling the warm, intact skin. This is real. There is no dirt and no blood and no pain. 

“Hi,” he breathes. Shane smiles softly then.

“Good morning. Sorry if I woke you but…”

“No,” Ilya shakes his head, “was good. This is much better than sleep.”

It is. Shane is glowing. The sunlight streams in through the partially open curtains in the Montreal apartment. His eyes are bright. He is probably going to win the Stanley Cup today.

“How long have you been awake?” Ilya asks, propping himself up on his arms.

“Since five. It’s only six now, but I have to head out, and I wanted to talk to you before I left.”

“Okay,” Ilya kisses him softly, “and I will see you after the game?”

“I’ll be home by ten if we lose. Maybe midnight if we win.”

“You will win,” Ilya assures him, and he believes it with every fiber of his being. The Metros have been playing like a well-oiled machine all season. There had been a few rough games right after they came out, but all in all, Montreal hasn’t let it affect their play.

Ilya knows they are letting it affect their locker room, but Shane never complains. Shane is also, Ilya thinks, the only reason the Metros have gotten this far. He has scored nearly two thirds of all their playoff games. Since coming out, the rest of the team has continued to play in their existing, slightly above average way, but Shane has been playing like a man possessed. A man with something to prove.

It’s really fucking hot to watch. So much so that Ilya isn’t even upset the Cens didn’t make the playoffs. There’s always next year, and for now, he can certainly appreciate having all this time to watch his attractive soulmate play the best hockey of his life. It’s only a little tragic that Shane doesn’t feel comfortable enough with his team for Ilya to come down to the ice with the rest of the families if the win.

“When does Svetlana get in?” Shane asks.

“Around one.”

After exchanging a handful of stilted text messages over the past months, Ilya had finally decided that enough was enough, and sent Sveta plane tickets to watch the game. Technically, it is only game six, so it’s possible that Shane will have to play again tomorrow, but with the way San Jose has been playing, that seems unlikely. They’re going to get lunch tomorrow, the three of them. 

Today it will just be Ilya and Sveta, and hopefully they will finally have a chance to catch up. From her texts, Sveta seems more mad at Russia than anything, and so Ilya isn’t as nervous for this meeting as he might have been otherwise.

“I love you,” Ilya kisses Shane deeply, swiping his tongue across his soulmate’s mouth. Shane responds with a happy little sigh and a smile. “Win.”

“I love you.”

And then he’s gone.

Sveta saunters up to him by the baggage claim of the Montreal airport. When they meet, she throws her arms around his neck, standing up on her tiptoes.

“It’s so good so see you Ilusha,” She says into his collarbone, and he laughs, holding her just as tightly. The Russian does something funny to his head. It’s the first time he’s heard it properly, directed at him, since his escape. Sveta’s texts had been in Russian too, but this is different.

“It’s so good to see you too,” he replies in English, because it feels safer like that. Sveta raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment.

They walk back to his car, and Ilya has a flash of deja-vu. This is the same route he took nearly a year ago, waiting for Shane to come pick him up. He hadn’t been sure Shane would come at all. His eyes linger on the spot where they had finally embraced.

“Ilya?” Sveta says questioningly, her eyes searching. Ilya shakes his head.

“Nothing. Sorry.”

At that, Sveta grins, “Wow. ‘Sorry?’ Shane Hollander is really rubbing off on you with those Canadian manners.”

Ilya smirks. “He’s rubbing off on me with better things than that.”

She cackles, elbowing him as they walk, “Yes, yes, your fancy serious relationship, we’ve all heard about it. Old news, honestly.” Her smile fades then, growing more serious. They reach the car. “But seriously, Ilya, I am happy for you. The shit you’ve been through… I don’t even know what to say. I’m glad you have him.”

“I am too,” Ilya looks at her over the console of the car before adding, “he wants to meet you.”

“Really?”

“He made a lunch reservation for tomorrow.”

“He might have a game tomorrow.”

“He won’t though. You know it. San Jose is too injured.”

“Does Shane Hollander know you’re running around jinxing him like this?”

“Nothing I do can make Shane Hollander a worse player.”

After a while, Ilya pulls into the parking lot of the hotel he booked for Sveta. It’s conveniently located next to the Centre Bell, and cost half a fortune, but it’s worth it. Shane has a guest room, but Ilya knows that he would be too nervous to fuck if Sveta was down the hall, and Stanley Cup sex is worth a hundred overpriced hotel rooms.

“Tell me something,” Sveta says once they reach her room. Ilya looks at her.

“What?”

“I don’t know. Anything. Talk about Hollander, talk about Ottawa, talk about…” She trails off vaguely. 

“You can say it, Sveta. I am not so fragile.”

“You won’t even speak to me in Russian, Ilya. How can I believe that?”

It’s a fair point. Ilya leans into her side.

“Shane is amazing, at everything, all of the time. It’s annoying. It’s been almost a year of being serious with him and I love him, Sveta. So much.” Ilya pulls up a picture he took of the two of them a few days ago, Shane’s head on his bare chest, a sleepy smile on his face. Sveta examines the picture like the precious thing that it is. “Ottawa,” Ilya continues, “is a good city. Very calm, but calm is not so bad these days. It’s good for my head. The team is shit, but very nice. Very Canadian. And lots of potential. Bood is a good captain.” He leans back against the headboard of the bed with a sigh. Sveta passes him back the phone.

“Potential?”

“Yes, I know, it surprised me too. But we have a first round draft pick this summer, and maybe they will give me the A, and maybe we will not be so bad in five years.”

“Fuck Boston for trading you.”

“I’m glad they did,” Ilya admits, and Sveta looks at him in shock.

“Was a good team, but a very busy city. And like I said, the calm is nice, now.” He swallows. “Russia was very bad, Sveta,” the confession makes his voice crack. “It was… it was like the old stories they tell kids to get them to behave, only worse. It was real. Sometimes,” Ilya pauses, pulling Sveta to sit beside him, “sometimes I notice that my heart is still beating and I am surprised.”

Sveta wraps her arms around him comfortingly, one hand on the back of her neck. After a moment, she frowns against him and pulls back. “Where is-” as soon as the words leave her mouth she seems to regret them. “They took it, I guess. Your mother’s…”

Ilya nods miserably. “It was all I had left of her,” he whispers, feeling a bit pathetic. Sveta shakes her head.

“You have your memories, Ilya. She is safe in your heart.”

Ilya pulls her closer, grateful to have his oldest friend back in his life.

In their seats at the game, Ilya wears a San Jose jersey and a shit eating grin. His initial plan had been to get his hands on a Hollander jersey, “just like all the other WAGs”, but Shane had shot that down with a flushed face and an angry little pout. Ilya knows that the implication was that he should avoid team merch all together, but that was boring. And Shane plays better when he’s a little annoyed. Fucks better, too. Win, win.

He and Sveta are on the jumbotron suddenly, and a wave of cheers and boos fills the arena. It’s more cheers than he’s ever gotten in this building before, and honestly kind of strange. Ilya laughs, waving a hand. The screen splits, and now half of it is showing Ilya and Sveta while the other half displays Shane on the ice, talking with Hayden. Hayden must notice, because he quirks an eyebrow and Shane turns on the ice to look up. Ilya can pinpoint the exact moment when Shane realizes what he’s wearing. An irritated look that Ilya wishes he could kiss off his soulmate’s face. He blows a kiss instead, and Shane smiles reluctantly, shaking his head. “For luck,” Ilya mouths.

Shane Hollander then goes on to score a hat trick and win the fucking Stanley Cup, so Ilya thinks the luck worked.

***

Shane, July

The one thing Shane missed out on last summer was getting to go to his cottage. He had spent it instead helping Ilya recover, and doesn’t regret that for a second, but it does mean that it’s been two years since he got to properly relax in this place.

Having Ilya here with him now makes it a million times better. They’re nine days into three magical weeks here, and already Shane thinks that if he ever has to stop playing hockey, he will happily live out the rest of his days like this. Sunsets and warm bodies and good food. Getting to spend so much time with Ilya uninterrupted is amazing. They had this last summer too, but so much of that had been spent drowned in worry and fear and the newness of it all that Shane hadn’t really been able to appreciate it. 

He’s appreciating it now.

With the distance, it’s been hard to tell how Ilya is actually doing: if he was just putting on a front when they were together, or if his recovery was actually progressing well. Shane is beginning to believe that it is. The nightmares, he had already known about. They seem to come in waves, and then Ilya has an extra meeting with Galina and things tamper down for a bit. The panic attacks, the jumpiness, these things are also, apparently, getting better. Ilya cites the quiet of the lake, the isolation. Shane supposes that makes sense.

Tonight, his parents are coming over for dinner tomorrow. He is teaching Ilya to barbecue, and his soulmate’s arms are wrapped around his waist. They’re wearing each other's clothes, the sun is shining, and the air is crisp. Shane is a Stanley Cup champion in an amazing relationship with a perfect, if at times annoying, man, who his parents are starting to see as a second son.

In his pocket, Shane’s phone vibrates. His hands are not exactly clean and so he twists around in Ilya’s arms. “Can you check that?” he asks.

“If you want me to touch your ass you do not need to make up excuses,” Ilya jokes, but complies. Shane thinks his soulmate probably spends a minute too long with his hand in his pocket, but isn’t about to complain. Ilya hums. “It’s JJ,” he says.

Shane frowns. “Open it?” He's unsure why JJ would be texting him in the off season. Things between them had been awkward. Things with most of the team had been awkward, really. JJ still can’t seem to accept that Shane isn’t interested in ignoring his soul bond with Ilya, while the rest of the Metros seem to fall somewhere on a line from homophobic to pitying. Only Hayden is really on his side these days, and it fucking sucks. Shane had been hoping that after winning the Cup, things would get back to normal, but if the group chat activity is anything to go off, the upcoming season will probably be just as unpleasant. If he can get his team to one Cup with half of them hating his guts, he can do it again. It doesn’t mean the social aspect isn’t going to suck.

Behind him, Ilya has gone silent, staring at his phone.

“Is everything okay? What does JJ want?”

“Shane,” Ilya says softly, and looking horribly, gut wrenchingly sad, “why is JJ sending you articles on breaking soul bonds?”

And, well, Shane has honestly never considered what Ilya would think of his team’s attitude towards their bond. Aside from JJ, it’s the part of the whole thing that seems to bother people the least, and so he’s never really talked about it. But now Ilya is looking at him like a kicked puppy and suddenly, he absolutely has to talk about it.

“Because he’s a fucking idiot,” Shane says definitively. Ilya relaxes just a fraction. “He’s in a serious relationship with someone who isn’t his soulmate, and he has this whole philosophy about choosing who you love for yourself, not letting fate do it. It’s bullshit. I keep telling him to drop it.” Ilya’s still looking distraught, so Shane adds, explicitly, “I love you, and I don’t want to break our bond. Ever. Okay?”

“Would you still love me if it wasn’t fate?” Ilya asks. Shane frowns. What kind of question even was that? There was no world where the two of them weren't fated to be together. Two stars on a collision path in every universe, destined to meet and create something new and earth shattering and beautiful. “Never mind,” Ilya says softly, “stupid question.” He places the phone back in Shane’s pocket. 

Shane smiles at him, and Ilya smiles back, but something is off. He can’t help but feel that he has made some unconscious misstep in this conversation, somewhere. 

It’s okay, they’ll figure it out.

They have time.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

this chapter is low key just one very long panic attack and then a little bit after but I promise its relevant

Ilya, September

“Would you still love me if it wasn’t fate?”

Shane would. Shane probably would. Shane maybe probably definitely wouldn’t not love him. And that’s why Ilya hasn’t worried about the way Shane hadn’t really answered the question. It doesn’t really matter, anyway, because Shane does love him. That’s the point.

“Would you still love me if it wasn’t fate?”

“I mean, probably not. That would be pretty stupid. Think of what a mess it would cause, Jesus christ it’d be horrible Ilya.”

“Oh.”

Inside the living room, Ilya leans against Shane’s side and Shane is warm but he doesn’t hold Ilya like he usually does.

A thumping sound from the next room. Something is wrong.

“Did you hear that?”

“I’m sure it’s just the wind, Ilya, chill the fuck out. I thought you’d be over this by now.”

A smashing sound. Shane doesn’t react. 

“Something is wrong.”

Ilya tries to get off the couch, Shane holds him back.

“Nothing is wrong, just relax.”

And so Ilya sits back down and tries to lean back in, but there are men.

Hands.

Yelling.

Ilya presses his palms into his eyes and when he pulls them away they aren’t at the cottage anymore, they’re somewhere worse.

It’s cold. 

The floor is made of concrete. Shane sits across the metal table from Ilya, shirtless and wide eyed. His face and torso are covered in blooming bruises. He’s handcuffed to the table.

This is familiar.

Ilya isn’t handcuffed to anything, and that is not.

He looks down at himself and he’s wearing a suit.

This is wrong.

This is wrong.

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Shane whispers,and he’s right. A hole blooms in between his eyes and blood begins to trickle down his face and he doesn’t seem surprised. The blood drips to his lips. He hasn’t done anything wrong. Why is he here? Why did they take him? Why-

“Ilya, man, hey buddy.” Hayes. Wyatt Hayes. Wyatt’s voice rings in Ilya’s ears, and a hand is loosely on his shoulder. Someone presses water into his hands. Eyes still closed, Ilya sits up and raises the bottle to his lips, fingers shaking. “Small sips, yeah, just breathe,” Wyatt coaches him. The reminder to breath is needed, and Ilya takes in a gasp of air. The goalie has gotten good at this, at managing him when he has a bad nightmare. Last season, they had been roommates almost every night, and it had been good for Ilya to have that safety net - someone that knows how rough it can get, and how to help him through it. 

Ilya thinks, as the initial haze of panic fades, that Wyatt hadn’t been his roommate tonight. As the two Alternate Captains, they had decided it would be better to room separately for this road trip. This way, one of them can always be rooming with the Cens new rookie, Luca Haas. Haas is Swiss, quiet, and really fucking fast. Haas was also most certainly Ilya’s roommate tonight. 

“I’m sorry for waking you, I just saw him like that and…”

“Nah kid, you did the right thing.”

“Does this, like, happen often?”

“Less and less.”

“I mean I know what happened to him, but-”

“You don’t.”

“What?”

“None of us do, not really. The gist, sure, but no. But just because we don’t know, doesn’t mean we can’t be there for him.”

The conversation is low, and they probably don’t mean for Ilya to overhear. It’s very kind of Wyatt to counsel Haas like this, on how to help him. Wyatt is a good A. He never traumatizes their rookie or anything. And Haas had been so adorably starstruck by Ilya too. Just goes to show: never meet your heroes. Especially if your hero is Ilya Rozanov.

Ilya pries his eyes open, and Haas notices, standing abruptly. 

“Rozanov, hey, are you, um, better?”

And Ilya is, only Haas’s accent curls the consonants, pushing them deeper than a native speaker would. And he says Ilya’s name properly, because he’s European and knows these things. And then Ilya isn’t better anymore.

The hotel room blends with another room, in Berlin, white sheets and weeks spent waiting and hurting and walking the line between throwing up and stuffing his stomach with food.

Ilya is in Toronto and Ilya is in Berlin and Haas is staring him down and walking closer and he says “Rozanov,” the same way they did. Ilya wonders if his lungs have ever worked, because he can’t seem to remember what that was like.

He is two people. Ilya is himself, on the bed, looking at the concerned face of his teammates. Ilya is himself, on the bed, looking at a threat. A threat. 

It’s Russia.

Of course it’s Russia.

How had he missed this? He speaks out against Russia, and four months later the Cens coincidentally draft a kid who’s from Europe? Hell, Ilya realized with frenzied horror, Haas has been to Moscow, they had a whole conversation about it even.

Haas is here to kill him. To bring him back. To remind him that no matter what he does, or where he goes, he will never be free. Not really. 

They followed him on the train and they followed him to Berlin and they've never stopped following him.

At least, Ilya thinks hysterically, if Haas is here, he is coming for Ilya, not Shane. What if they came for Shane? Shane who didn’t sign up for Ilya’s international drama. Who is perfect. Who doesn’t deserve to be taken back to that horrible place.

Maybe if Ilya goes quietly, they won’t hurt Shane. He’s already ruined Shane’s life enough. Ruined his friendships. Maybe it would be better if Ilya goes with Haas now, and hopefully Haas will make it quick. Or at least not too painful.

Seconds pass or maybe hours, and it’s hard to tell. Haas is still standing there and Wyatt is talking on the phone, looking afraid. Has Russia threatened him too? Wyatt has a wife… a good life. That’s not fair. 

Wyatt is talking to Haas, and then he’s talking to Ilya, probably, but words have lost their meaning and the edges of the world are fraying, welcoming blackness encroaching at the corners of Ilya’s vision. Is this death? Surprising of Russia to kill him so gently. 

Wyatt pushes his phone right in front of Ilya’s face, unavoidable, and-

Shane.

Shane’s face is on the screen, and he’s wearing his cute little glasses. He’s in bed, it looks like. Not at his place in Montreal, though. A hotel too? 

Kind of Wyatt to let Ilya see him one last time. Ilya should say something.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

Goodbye.

Shane is talking, and he looks really bad. His eyes are wide, and his brow is furrowed, and then he’s saying something off to the side. 

Maybe Russia does have him. Maybe there were two agents.

“I love you,” the words cut through everything as they ring through the tinny phone speaker. “I love you, Ilya, and I need you to breathe, okay? You’re safe. You’re safe, and I love you.”

Is he safe? Haas is gone. Wyatt has a hand on his knee. Shane is on the phone. 

“Are you?” he finally gasps out, throat dry and aching. Shane looks immediately confused, but quickly smooths his expression.

“Yes, Ilya, yes I’m okay too. I’m safe.”

Shane is safe. He wouldn’t lie to Ilya, and so it’s true. 

“You’re safe,” Ilya whispers, and slowly reality fades back in.

He’s in Toronto and nowhere else.

He takes another sip of the water, letting out a long exhale. Groans.

“Fuck.”

Ilya is absolutely exhausted, and horribly embarrassed. Wyatt lets out a relieved, breathy laugh. Shane, on the phone, looks like shit. Ilya imagines he looks similar. 

Whatever that was, it wasn’t normal. It hasn’t happened before. He’s never had a panic attack where he so completely lost hold of reality. 

“Is Haas…” he trails off, unsure how to end the question.

“I sent him to my room. Told him to get a few more hours of sleep. I’ll stay here.” 

Ilya nods. Good. “What happened?” he asks, because he’s not entirely sure. Wyatt shakes his head.

“You just, like, froze. You weren’t breathing or blinking or anything. It was fucking scary. I tried to help you out of it, but it wasn’t working so, well,” he indicates the phone.

Shane is still there. He hasn’t hung up. He’s in Vancouver, and already played a game tonight, and must be so fucking tired, but he hasn’t left. 

“You should wear your glasses more,” Ilya tells him, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

“What?” Shane laughs, startled. 

“You look very cute like this. But it must be very late over there.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Really? Shane Hollander doesn’t mind something that interrupts his sleep schedule?” Ilya asks incredulously. 

“Not when something is the love of my life.”

Oh. 

“I’m the love of your life?” He hates how cautious the words sound coming out of his mouth.

“Obviously,” Shane replies, shaking his head a little like Ilya should have known this already. Maybe he should have.

October

“And has anything like that happened since?” Galina asks. Ilya shakes his head. It’s his first therapy appointment since coming back from the roadie. Probably, he could have scheduled an online appointment earlier, but since moving to in-person sessions, the online ones feel so much harder.

“No, just that one time. But it was so… I don’t even know. I was awake, but nothing was real.”

Galina hums. “You experienced this, I’m going to call it an episode, just so we know what I’m referring to, you experienced this episode last week?”

“Ten days ago.”

“Okay, and since, there hasn’t been anything else like this, but have there been other things? Things that are maybe out of the norm?”

Ilya tries to think. He’s certainly been jumpier again, but he’s chalked it up to getting back in the swing of the season, and shaking off the lingering effects of the episode.

“Maybe, but nothing so bad. Just more paranoid than usual.”

“Okay,” Galina says, “so it could be nothing, but I do think there’s a risk that this is actually being caused by your medication.”

“I thought the medication was supposed to make me less crazy, not more.”

“Sometimes, especially with drugs like Zoloft, patients might find that they actually trigger manic episodes.”

“But I wasn’t manic,” Ilya points out, “Wyatt said I wasn’t even blinking.”

“On the outside, sure,” Galina affirms, “but from what you’ve told me, inside your head was a different story.”

It’s true enough.

“Okay,” Ilya says, “so then what? I try a different drug?”

“Yes,” she nods, “but also, I want you to consider something else.” She passes him a pamphlet. He stares at the bold heading.

“A service dog?” he asks dubiously.

“Therapy and medication are great for preventing panic, and for working through it afterwards, but in the moment, you need to have a plan in place. Hopefully, changing your meds will mean you don’t experience an episode again, but if you do, you need to have supports.”

“I…” Ilya can’t quite place how the prospect makes him feel.

“What if it happens again, and Wyatt isn’t there? What if Shane can’t come to the phone?” 

It’s a fair point. More than fair. Ilya nods.

“Okay.”

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

POV me when I've been neglecting my actual work to write fic at a truly insane pace....

December, Ilya

Ilya walks into Wiebe’s office, and Bood and Hayes are already there.

“Do you know what this is about?”

“We were kinda hoping you would,” Bood says, and Wyatt shakes his head. The only chair left in the room is Wiebe’s, and so Ilya stands behind his teammates.

They make pleasant small talk about the upcoming Cens Christmas party. Bood is hosting, and Ilya is really looking forward to it. Shane has agreed to drive up from Montreal for the night, and it will technically be the first party they attend as a couple. 

Wiebe walks in, nodding in greeting. His expression is unreadable, and he pulls up something on his computer, swinging the monitor around so they can see. Ilya recognizes the video in half a second, but watches it again anyway.

The Toronto arena. An open practice. Dallas Kent talks to some other Toronto players by the boards. They laugh at something Kent says, but then Troy Barrett comes out of fucking nowhere, slamming into Kent. 

“Shut your fucking mouth you rapist,” he snarls, and the rest of the players look at him in shock. He punches Kent in the face and his fist comes away bloody.

The clip ends.

Ilya looks up at Wiebe. “Barrett finally grew balls and did what I’ve been trying to do for years. Why are we having a meeting about it?”

“This video has gone viral in the two days since it was leaked,” Wiebe explains, “even more viral than the actual posts accusing Kent of sexual assault. Toronto doesn’t like it.”

“Doesn’t like that their star center is a rapist?” Bood asks, “I wouldn’t expect them to.”

Wiebe presses his mouth into a line. “Toronto doesn’t like that Barrett started talking about it.”

“They’re taking Kent’s side?” Wyatt raises his eyebrows. Wiebe nods.

“That’s fucking stupid,” Ilya says bluntly.

“They want Barrett gone. Yesterday. And management worked out some crazy deal, I don’t even know actually, but, uh, he’s coming here.”

“Here?” Bood confirms, eyebrow raised.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Wiebe says, “but it’s not the worst. He’s a good winger.”

“He’s not a good person,” Hayes points out, “some of the shit I’ve heard him say on the ice, it’s no better than Kent.”

“Which is why I pulled the three of you in here. This season has been good for us, and the team is really clicking. I trust you guys to keep it that way. If Barrett is a problem, I want you to come straight to me, yeah?” The coach makes eye contact with Ilya as he speaks. Nods all across the room. 

Wyatt and Bood stand up and leave, and Ilya goes to follow them, but Wiebe calls him back.

“Rozaonv,” 

“Yes?”

“It must have taken guts for him to call out his captain like that. I know he’s said some homophobic shit, but just try and see what he’s like away from Kent before hating him? I have a dream of putting him on your line.”

“I will try,” Ilya offers, “because I can respect punching Kent. But no promises.”

“That’s all I ask.” 

Ilya nods, and heads to practice.

Three days later Troy Barrett is in Ilya’s locker room. He barely says two words, and doesn’t acknowledge anyone, and plays like fucking trash. The rest of the team, Ilya can tell, have no idea what to do with him. They’re a friendly group, usually, but after Wyatt, Dykstra, and Haas all find their assorted attempts at olive branches rejected, the energy is stilted. 

Ilya leaves practice irritable, because it’s already getting hard to not hate Barrett a little bit. Apparently, the guy’s capacity for being nice starts and ends at punching Dallas Kent, and like Ilya told Wiebe, he can respect that. He is going to need Barrett to raise the bar a little bit if he’s ever going to like him, never mind play on the same line. They had tried some passing drills at practice, but Barrett had steadfastly refused to so much as look at Ilya, and that had made it difficult for any of their passes to connect. 

When he gets to his car, Ilya’s irritation only grows, because he doesn’t have his keys. They must still be in his locker. With a sigh, he turns on his heel. It’s four in the afternoon. Shane has a game at five. If traffic is good, Ilya might be able to get home before it starts. If not, there’s always the radio.

Ilya pushes open the door to the locker room, expecting it to be empty. It isn’t.

Barrett is still there, sitting on one of the benches with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. When Ilya walks in, he whips his head up like he’s been caught doing something wrong. He almost seems to shrink into himself. Strange. 

Ilya holds up his hands in surrender. “Do not worry, Barrett, I am just here for my keys. Then I will leave you to,” he waves his hand at the other man, “whatever this is.”

He walks over to his locker, and sure enough, there they are. He’s got this stupid keychain with Montreal Metros, 2015 Stanley Cup Champions stamped on the front. Shane had given it to him as a joke, but had smiled genuinely when Ilya had slipped it on his key ring, and so it stays.

Barrett is still watching him, and it’s an unnerving shift from the rest of the day when the man had seemingly thought that laying eyes on Ilya would cause him physical pain. Now, he just stares and clenches his jaw. 

Ilya reaches the door, pushing it open.

“I’m not a fucking homophobe,”

Ilya lets the door fall shut again, turning around.

“Okay.” It’s all he says because it’s all he has the energy to offer Barrett right now. Especially when he hasn’t done anything to prove it.

“I know you think I am, and I know I deserve it, but I just. I’m not like that.”

Ilya raises his eyebrows, projecting I don’t care about your weird guilt complex across his face. “I believe you.”

“No, like,” and wow, Barrett is almost desperate, “like I’m really not like that. Fuck.” He sighs, burying his head in his hands. Ilya pauses his irritation for a moment to consider what is actually happening here. He tries to configure his face into something less pissed off, because that’s what a good leader does. “I have a fucking boyfriend, okay?”

Holy shit. 

“You?” Ilya confirms. Barrett nods. He looks almost miserable about it. Ilya huffs out a laugh, covering his mouth with his hand. “So,” Ilya can’t resist chirping the man, “when you called me a cocksucker that time in September you were, what, jealous?” 

Barrett doesn’t seem to think it’s funny. If anything, it just makes him more miserable. “Look, man, it’s just been fucking rough. And Dallas, I always knew he was a shithead, but I didn’t know really. Not at first. But then I read those accusations and it was just like. Yeah. The guy was probably my closest friend and I believed those women right away. And I just thought, well, this is something I shouldn’t just keep my mouth shut about. I let him affect how I acted for way too long.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. Privately, he’s reeling. Troy Barrett is into guys? It was not something he could have seen coming. Probably good news for the team though, not having to worry about him being bigoted. “So, this boyfriend…”

Barrett sighs. “We’ve been together for two years. He’s also, uh, you know. Not out. He’s an actor in Vancouver, so we don’t see each other often. It's not, like, we don’t think we’ll be together forever or anything. We aren’t soulmates. But, yeah.”

“Wow, Barrett,” Ilya says, “you do not talk about this very often, do you? You are very awkward.”

“No,” he replies, “nobody knows.”

“Well I won’t tell anybody,” Ilya assures him, “but I am going to need you to not be an asshole. Even if you are going through it finally learning that Kent is fucking evil. Bad for the team dynamic.”

“I- yeah. Yeah, okay.” Barrett agrees, and Ilya nods. It’s definitely too late to make it home before Shane’s game. 

“See you tomorrow,” Ilya calls over his shoulder, finally walking out the door.

Troy fucking Barrett. Who knew?

“You’re sure it’s not weird of me to be here?” Shane asks, and Ilya thinks that it’s a little too late, because they’re already walking up Bood’s driveway.

“Why would it be weird? It's a Christmas party.  Everyone brings their WAGs.”

“I’m not your WAG, Ilya. And I’m the captain of a different team. What if they think I’m, like, spying or something?”

“Shane,” Ilya stops their progression up the drive, planting hands on both of his soulmate’s shoulders, “just because the Metros are assholes does not mean everyone is.”

“They aren’t-”

“They are. But that’s not the point. I love you, my team loves me, and this isn’t a hockey party, it's a Christmas party. We are just people today.”

Shane sighs, knocking their heads together. “You’re right. Let’s go. But if this is awkward I’ll  spend the whole night bothering Hayes and not talk to anyone else.”

Ilya grins, kissing him quickly, and pulling him the rest of the way up the drive and into the house. 

“Rozy!” Bood greats Ilya enthusiastically as they step into the open concept home, “And Hollander, great to see you man.” Shane awkwardly waves, and Ilya snorts. 

“Who’s here already?” he asks.

“Most of the guys, I think. Wyatt’s running a bit late, and Chouinard’s girlfriend is sick so he’s not coming.”

Ilya nods, dragging Shane deeper into the house. They speak to a few players and their WAGs, and then Ilya gets a very good, or possibly very stupid idea. 

“Follow me,” he says in Shane’s ear. His soulmate raises an eyebrow questioningly, but follows. Ilya leads him to a quieter part of the house. Nobody is around.

“Ilya,” Shane says, voice low and warning. He can clearly guess where this is going.

“Relax, Hollander. I’m not going to fuck you in Bood’s hallway. But…”

“No ‘but’!” Shane insists, “we can’t just- your team is around!” He sounds adorably scandalized. 

“Please Shane,” Ilya all but begs, “you just got here, and you have to leave first thing in the morning, and we’re going to spend most of the night at this party. I just want to kiss you properly.”

It works, and Shane’s features soften. He rolls his eyes. Ilya smiles victoriously to himself, but Shane snaps him out of it by grabbing roughly at his hair and pulling him in for a bruising kiss. It is fantastic, as kissing Shane always is. Ilya wraps one arm around Shane’s waist, using the other to hold them up against the wall. When they eventually break apart, they’re both a little giddy. 

“‘We can’t’? Hollander, where is your commitment?” Ilya jokes. Shane shoves him back, laughing.

“Oh I’m plenty fucking committed Rozanov.”

“Oh yeah? Prove it.” 

And then Shane’s tongue is down his throat again and everything is right with the world. It’s always electric when they come together like this, hot and fast and messy. As much as Ilya likes to slow down sometimes, this is good. It lets him show Shane just how desperate he is. It makes him feel like he’s less likely to crumble to pieces at any given moment.

“Um-” the sound of someone awkwardly clearing their throat snaps them out of their bubble. Shane springs away from Ilya, immediately looking absolutely mortified to have been caught making out. Troy Barrett is standing there, looking almost as embarrassed. “I just, um, the bathroom.” He gestures at the door they had been making out against. 

Ilya moves forward, letting him through. 

Later, when food has been distributed and the house is full of pleasantly buzzed hockey players, Ilya can’t help but notice that Shane is still tense. Not around everyone, but certainly some people. Barrett has been awkwardly on the periphery of the group all night, clearly not yet sure where he fits within the various social circles. Ilya wants to bring him in on a discussion, just to give the guy a sense of purpose, but Shane keeps looking at him nervously. It’s horrible to watch. Ilya understands why: he has kept his word to Barrett, not telling anyone that he’s into guys. So Shane doesn’t know anything about the guy other than the fact that he knows lots of homophobic slurs, and until recently was best friends with Dallas Kent. 

Eventually, Ilya can’t take it anymore. He grabs Barrett by the elbow and pulls him into a spare bedroom.

“Rozanov? What’s going on?”

“I know I told you I wouldn’t say anything, but Shane is fucking freaking out because he thinks you’re going to beat me up for making out with him. You have to tell him. Or let me tell him. It does not matter. He will be freaking out a lot less once he knows.” 

Barrett looks surprised. “I assumed he already knew.”

“I said I would not tell anybody. I am not a liar.”

“I know, I just figured… I don’t know. Yeah. I’ll tell him.”

Ilya nods, and sends Shane a quick text to come to the room. A minute later, the door opens. Shane’s face quickly goes from confusion, and maybe exasperation, to something way too close to fear for Ilya’s liking. His eyes dart between them.

“Barrett, hey, look, if this is about, um, earlier, I’m really sorry about that and-”

“Chill out Hollander,” Barrett interrupts Shane’s rambling, “I don’t have any problem with it.”

“You can admit it,” Ilya smirks, “it was hot.”

Barrett looks horrifically embarrassed, and Shane looks like he’s about to combust, and Ilya is having way too much fun with this. To Shane, he adds, “Barrett is just like us.”

“What?”

“Us last year. Big gay secret.”

Shane’s eyes go wide. “Actually?”

Barrett nods. “Actually.”

Shane shakes his head abruptly, eyebrows raised. “Okay then. Okay. Wait-” he turns to Ilya. “Just like us? He’s not, like, fucking Dallas Kent. Is he?”

“Fuck no.” Barrett spits out. He looks disgusted by the mere thought. 

Ilya nods to the door. “We should go back,” he says, “big party happening out there.”

Chapter 6

Ilya, January 2016

Ilya hops the boards, and is on the puck in half a second. He passes to Barrett, who manages to weave between two burly Detroit players unscathed, shooting it off to Bood. Bood takes the puck back onto their side, swinging behind the net and building momentum, but he’s checked into the glass by #45, a Defenseman named Sergiev, and loses the puck. Sergiev takes it, sprinting across the ice towards Wyatt, and Ilya follows, quick on his heels. 

He catches up quickly because Sergiev isn’t that fast, ramming his shoulder into the Detroit player. Sergiev doesn’t fall down, but it distracts him enough that Ilya is able to regain possession. Tearing back down the ice, Ilya spares a glance up to the scoreboard. Five minutes left. Tied 2:2. If this goes into overtime, he’s going to get home too late to call Shane, and that is simply unacceptable. 

Ilya passes back to Barrett, dodges Sergiev’s attempts to push him into a corner, and winds up largely alone, not ten feet from the net. He locks eyes with Barrett, and then the puck is on his stick. He grins. Sergiev is coming at him, but not quick enough, and Ilya flicks the puck into the net with a quick backhand shot. 

The goal horns blare, and the home crowd cheers. Ottawa has been, inexplicably, fantastic recently. With Barrett as Ilya’s left wing, they’ve been scoring more and connecting even better. On the second line, Haas is finally coming into his own at center. The team is working together like they never have before.

Ilya raises a hand triumphantly, smirking at Sergiev, who glares.

“You see that?” he chirps, “that was a goal. I know it is hard for you, but you want to score those.”

Sergiev’s face turns ugly, a smile creeping up his face that is anything but friendly. 

“You’re a pain in my ass, Rozanov. Maybe I should call some friends back home,” he bites, “they’ll know someone who can put you back in your cage.”

The words are uttered in Russian, and they drain everything out of Ilya in an instant. He feels his heart rate start to increase, his breathing grows fast. After two minutes of high exertion, it won’t take much to get him on the brink of passing out. He needs to get to the bench. He has to stay calm. He can’t panic, not here, not where the whole world can watch him fall apart on TV.

Ilya’s distress must be obvious, because in a moment, Barrett is there. He takes half a look at Ilya’s wide eyes, and reels on Sergiev.

“The fuck did you do to him?” he yells, shoving the Detroit player. 

Sergiev laughs, “I did nothing. Just said the truth. I know people who could put him back where he belongs.”

Troy’s face shifts as he realizes what that means. “Oh you motherfucker-” and then he drops his gloves and punches Sergiev squarely in the jaw.

Ilya realizes there’s a hand on his shoulder, and Bood is there. He looks at Ilya with concern, nodding towards the bench. Shakily, Ilya returns with a nod of his own, and they skate away from the ensuing fight. 

On the bench it is no better, and Ilya is losing the fight to control his heart and lungs. Everything is so loud, and the lights are so harsh, and there are people and cameras and he knows that there’s probably only three minutes left in the game but it's too much. Wiebe seems to notice, walking over to him.

“Roz, everything good?” 

And it isn’t, and Ilya has promised his coach on numerous occasions that he wouldn’t lie about his mental wellbeing, and this seems like a good time to start following through on that. He shakes his head.

“I need to get out of here,” his voice ragged, “I can’t.” 

If Wiebe is upset, he doesn’t show it. “Okay, yeah, game’s basically over anyways, just,” he waves over a Centaurs staffer whose name Ilya can’t quite place, “go with Brian, and take some time, yeah?”

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, schooling his face into something that doesn’t look like he’s having a mental breakdown. “Yeah,” he mutters, and goes to follow Brian. A few players send him questioning looks, and he forces a tight smile on his face. It’s supposed to be reassuring but Ilya doesn’t think it works very well. Oh well.  He’s probably having some sort of repressed panic attack, they’ll get over it.

He winds up in a hallway near the locker room, getting his skates, helmet and gloves off before giving up. Ilya’s on the floor, knees pulled to his chest. Sergiev was just chirping. Sergiev, likely, probably, doesn’t actually know anyone who could get to Ilya here. He has refugee status. Canada would help him if Russia tried to extradite him. Ilya runs through the logic of why he’s safe, counting his breaths like Galina taught him. It’s still so loud. 

He can’t call Shane, and his team is on the ice. Brian the Cens staffer is still there, hovering awkwardly. Watching. Ilya wants to claw out of his own skin. He tears off his jersey and shoulder pads, and it helps a little bit but not enough. He looks up at Brian.

“Can you get- In Wiebe’s office- please.” Ilya is wheezing, and the oxygen isn’t going where he needs it to, but if Brian can understand what he’s saying, then-

“Shit. Yeah. I’ll be right back.”

Then he’s alone in the hallway and the goal horn blares again. If it was Detroit, that means the game will probably go into overtime. There can’t be more than a few seconds of regulation play left.

Ilya places his head between his knees. He’s here. He’s in the arena, in a hallway. It’s a hallway he knows well, after a year and a half with the Centaurs. The floor is rubber so as not to damage any skates, and it comes with a smell that Ilya has experienced since childhood.  When the game ends, this hallway will be filled with his teammates, his friends. He’ll go with them to the locker room and get his phone and call Shane, and hopefully it won’t be too late. 

He hears footsteps, but doesn’t move. Moving feels dangerous - like it could shock  his mind out of the semi-calm state he’s lured it into. There’s a warm presence between his legs, and something soft against his face, and Ilya cracks his eyes open to see Anya. He flicks his head up, sending Brian half a nod in thanks. Anya presses her small body against him. She’s a comforting presence.

This is only the second game he’s brought her to. At first, he had kept her at home all together. It had felt like some sort of concession, to have a service dog at all. Ilya had been wanting a dog for years, never quite able to justify it, and now he goes a little bit crazy and suddenly everyone thinks it’s a great idea. It’s been an adjustment,but Galina has helped. Ilya has slowly expanded what he does with Anya. First, he would just have her around the house and bring her to therapy appointments. Then, at the start of the month, he had brought her to practice. The team had quickly taken a liking to her, and since Ilya is usually fine, she hadn’t needed to do very much at all, just appreciate all the attention. Bringing Anya to home games is supposed to be the practice for taking her to away games, which is really the reason he has her at all: to help him after nightmares at home and on the road. Ilya is grateful to have her today. It’s not often that she has to do anything special, but when she does, it’s always a relief.

Ilya has a hand buried in Anya’s fur, her body against his chest, and he finally feels his body start to regulate itself. He needs to go to sleep. Panic always saps the energy from him. Eventually, Ilya finds the strength in his legs to make it the rest of the way to the locker room, changing into sweats instead of his typical gameday suit. He wants to go home, but he should really wait until the game is over and he can talk with his team. And he definitely isn’t in a state to be driving right now.

The team files into the locker room ten minutes later, smiles on their faces. While they clearly clock Ilya sitting in his stall, Anya between his feet, they don’t say anything. Troy comes over, a bruise spreading slowly across his cheek.

“Hey, man. Just wanted to say that what Sergiev said back there was fucked.”

“You punched him,” Ilya said softly, the memory surfacing distantly.

“He had it coming,” Troy smirks.

“Yeah,” Ilya replies, too tired to say anything else.

On his other side, Wyatt strips off his gear, and then turns to look at Ilya.

“You’re okay?” he asks.

“Enough,” Ilya grimaces, but he is feeling much better. He had been able to calm the panic attack before it got too bad.

“And you never…” Wyatt doesn’t seem to want to say it, not here, but Ilya understands. And you never lost hold of reality? 

“No,” he murmurs, “and I had Anya too, so…”

“Glad to know I can be replaced by a dog,” Wyatt jokes, and Ilya cracks a smile.

“Do not worry, Hazy, you are a much better goalie than she will ever be.”

Wyatt smiles back, but his eyes are still a little pinched, serious.

“Stay with us tonight?” he offers, “You’ve never- I mean, you’ve never panicked on the ice before. And even if you have Anya, you shouldn’t be alone tonight. Lisa won’t mind.”

It’s an incredibly kind offer, and it does make sense. 

“Okay,” Ilya agrees, “but only because I like hanging out with your wife. Lisa  is an excellent woman.”

“You don’t have to tell me that,” Wyatt claps him on the shoulder, “come on. My couch awaits.”

Shane, January 2016

Shane has a flight to LA for a brand shoot at six in the morning. He doesn’t normally do shoots during the season, and certainly not ones on the other side of the country, but his mother had convinced him this one was a good idea. That remains to be seen. 

His flight leaves at six in the morning, so he has to get to the airport for four in the morning. Assuming he cuts his routine short, he’ll need thirty minutes to work out, twenty minutes to eat breakfast, and ten minutes to shower. In order to get to the airport for four in the morning, he needs to leave the house by three, just in case traffic is bad. If he is leaving at three, he needs to wake up, at the latest, at two. Shane likes to get a bare minimum of six hours of sleep each night, and so being awake at nine pm is already pushing it. He should have gone to bed already, since as it is, he’ll be getting at best five hours of sleep.

If only it were so simple. On the TV, Ilya is playing some pretty fantastic hockey. It’s one of the only things in life that can get Shane to sacrifice his sleep schedule. Recently, the Centaurs have actually been a really good team, and it’s looking like they might snag a wildcard spot in the playoffs, which would be incredible. After the came, Ilya has promised to call, provided it isn’t too late. Privately, Shane thinks that he would pick up the phone no matter how late Ilya calls, but his soulmate is too considerate. Ilya knows all about his flight tomorrow, and how early he needs to get up. 

The game is tied, and it’s late in the third period. Overtime, probably. Shane sighs. He’ll watch to the end of the regulation game, and then go to bed. If Ilya calls, he’ll have his ringer on, but Ilya probably won’t. He’ll get home and look at the clock and decide that Shane wouldn’t be awake anymore. Shane holds out hope anyway.

Ilya is on the ice in probably his last shift of the regulation game, and Shane sees the play half a second before it unfolds. Ilya is by Detroit’s net, unguarded. Barrett has the puck. The closest defenseman is miles away. Barrett passes and Ilya receives it, flicking it into the net. Shane grins. Maybe they’ll get to call after all. 

On the screen, Ilya skates up to the Detroit player who had been on his heels for half the game. He chirps, and Shane can’t tell what he says but it’s evidently something Ilya thinks is very clever, because his eyes are lit up in that mischievous way. The Detroit player says something back, though, and Ilya freezes. Shane frowns at the screen, standing up to see closer. Ilya’s face is pale, and he looks thrown. He doesn’t move. Barrett slides up to the two, looking between them. Detroit says something, again, and from a new camera angle, Shane can see the cruel smirk on his face. Ilya is still standing, ramrod straight. Barrett must not like what he hears, because he’s dropping his gloves. The camera zooms to follow the fight, but Shane would much rather it focus on Ilya, so he could see what’s going on.

In the corner of the screen, Bood is helping Ilya back to the bench. Ilya still isn’t looking great, and Shane realizes with horror that he’s having a panic attack. On the ice, on national television. He’s barely holding it together. Shane’s heart aches for him. 

This is bad. The cameras might not be focusing on it, but people will undoubtedly be talking. Shane wishes he could talk to Ilya, but he doesn’t know who he could even call to make that happen. Instead he goes online.

Sure enough, everyone on twitter is already talking about it. 

     WTF did Sergiev say to Rozy to make Barrett punch him in the face???

     OK but is anyone checking on Roz because buddy is having war flashbacks lol

               Wait I just remembered holy shit i take back that joke

      Barrett fighting is lowkey hot

     Like I get why Rozanov is an A but after whatever that was I get why he doesn’t have the C

     Is it just me or is Rozy still freaking tf out on the bench

The comments flood across Shane’s screen. It’s horrible. Here he is, stuck in Montreal, unable to do anything. If he were more like his mother, maybe Shane would be able to control the narrative. Put out a statement. He opens and closes his drafts three times. He shouldn’t say anything without talking to Ilya. He can’t talk to Ilya. 

On the screen, Ilya leaves the bench, half leaning on some staffer, heading for the tunnel.

     Sergiev didn’t hit him or anything right? Like he isn’t hurt

     Bad look for an A to ditch the game in the last seconds. Roz needs to get over himself. It’s hockey, people say shit. Hell, he was chirping Sergiev first.

Shane calls. It’s irrational and he knows that Ilya won’t pick up, but he calls anyway. Then he calls Hayes, who is even more sure not to pick up, since Shane can see him actively playing the game on TV. Nothing. Shane scrolls through social media for a bit longer, but it only makes him feel more like shit. People are always talking about them. It’s a fact of life. But Ilya is vulnerable right now, and people are being assholes online. 

On the TV, Detroit scores on Hayes with only four seconds on the clock. It’s tied again, 3:3. No news from Ilya, but lots of speculation from the internet. Great. Fantastic. Shane sits back down on the couch. This is a disaster. The whole world is wondering what happened to him, and it’s none of their fucking business, but Shane is too media trained to say it. Or maybe too scared. He hates it. Powerless to stop the wave of public rumor-mongering, all he can do is stand witness and start thinking about statements Ilya can post to put an end to it.

The game finally ends seven minutes into OT, with a clumsy but undeniably effective goal from Haas. Shane calls again. He hopes Ilya is okay. Hopes that it isn’t like that one time in October where Ilya’s panic had been so overwhelming that he had lost touch with reality. At least this time Ilya has Anya. While Shane has never been a huge fan of dogs, he can’t deny that Anya has been good for Ilya, especially on nights where he’s alone. Ilya brought her to the game today - he had sent Shane a picture of her in a Cens dog sweater. Ilya is probably alright. 

In the post-game press conference, Bood dodges three separate questions about what happened with Ilya. Shane approves of the man’s protective nature, but also wishes he had said something. They need to control the narrative. They can’t just let people think whatever, say whatever. Shane has seven different statements typed up in his notes app. He calls Hayes again. No answer. Calls Ilya. No answer. This is hell. This is actual hell. Ilya needed him and he wasn’t there and the one thing he could have done to help was post something online to shut down the speculation but he hadn’t. Whatever Sergiev said after the goal had paralyzed Ilya on the ice, and it had also paralyzed Shane in his living room. 

He calls. Nothing. It's one in the morning. Deletes all seven of his useless drafts. Calls. It’s one thirty. He has to wake up at two so he can workout until two thirty so he can be showered by two forty-five so he can be out the door by three so he can be at the airport by four so he can catch his flight at six. 

His day is fucking ruined, and he still doesn’t know if Ilya is okay. He sends a text.

Tried calling but I guess you’re pretty tired after the game. Let me know when you see this. Love you.

When his flight lands, he hasn’t slept in over twenty-four hours. The only redeeming factor of his day is that there’s a message waiting for him. Ilya.

Sorry I didn’t see your calls. Stayed the night with Wyatt and you know his no phones after a game thing. I’m okay. Better now. Love you.

Shane smiles faintly, typing back a response, and readies himself for a day of hell.

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

2 whole days with no update??? this is how you know the semester is getting to me

Shane, January 

He calls Ilya from his hotel in LA. Shane is leaning up against the headboard of his hotel bed, back from the irritating photoshoot for some cologne he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. He should really get some sleep: in the morning he flies straight to Dallas for a game. Unfortunately, most of his time not spent in front of cameras has been spent on his phone. The internet is still running wild with Ilya’s panic attack last night, though most people aren’t going so far as to call it that. They call Ilya a bad A, and speculate about what Sergiev could have possibly said, and, of course, they bring Shane himself into it. 

Rozanov has gone soft since he started sucking Hollander’s dick.

Shane tells himself it shouldn’t matter, but he doesn’t believe it. It’s been almost a full day since the rumors started, and Ilya still hasn’t put out a statement, which is driving Shane crazy.

It’s not just this game either. I mean, how many times do we think Roz let Hollander score on him? They’re fucking soulmates so there's no way it hasn’t happened at least once.

Shane would put out a statement of his own, if he could. He’s offered. Ilya had texted him back not to. No explanation. Shane simply does not understand. All these people saying all this shit, and Ilya doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to correct the narrative. It’s infuriating, honestly. The rumors affect Shane too, but because they’re centered on Ilya, he can’t even say anything.

Ottawa took a huge fucking risk signing Rozanov and all I’m saying is that after last night, those guys in head office are probably regretting it. He’s a fucking embarrassment.

Ilya picks up on the third ring.

“Shane, hi,” his voice seeps through the speaker, fond. Shane smiles.

“Hi. I just wanted to talk to you. After…”

“I’m fine, my love.”

“Are you sure? Because last night looked bad. I’ve been worried.”

Ilya sighs. “I’m sorry. I should have called you but-”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Shane interrupts.

“Still…” a pause, “I was okay. Even when I was panicking, I didn’t feel unsafe or anything. Just… panic.”

“Oh,” Shane says, unsure what that even means, “okay well that’s good then, right?”

Ilya hums, “Yes, I think. Very good.”

“Okay, um, so when are you going to make a statement?” Shane asks, because he needs to figure out how he can best help manage the story around last night on his end.

“Statement?” Ilya seems confused, “Why would I need a statement?”

Shane frowns. Obviously Ilya needs to say something. Unless-

“Have you been online since the game? People are talking about it.”

“I’ve seen.” 

Okay, then, what? If Ilya knows what people are saying, why is he so unconcerned?

“Ilya, they’re wrong,” Shane points out, speaking slowly, “you need to control the narrative, because people are starting to actually believe the shit they’re saying.”

Ilya says nothing for a second, before “So?”

“What do you mean, ‘so?’” Shane imitates Ilya’s inflection, “So obviously you can’t let them think these things about you.”

“Why not?” Ilya says it like it’s a simple question, and what the actual fuck because they clearly can’t let this go on, that would be insanity. Shane can handle people talking about him, if he must, but people being wrong about him is where he draws the line.

“Because-” Shane sputters, trying to find a way to say it that will get through to Ilya, “Because our reputations are already like, so fucked, and shit like this will only make it worse. You know they’re saying you don’t even care about-”

“Our reputations?” Ilya stops him, and he’s hard to read through the phone but he sounds upset. “So your reputation, you mean. Your reputation is fucked.”

“I-” Shane doesn’t know how to respond to that, because yes, evidently his reputation is fucked. His team doesn’t look at him the same, reporters don’t talk to him the same, and every second question he’s asked has more to do with Ilya than hockey. That’s the definition of fucked. But Ilya seems to interpret it differently, and Shane can’t even fathom what a different interpretation would look like.

“Your reputation is fucked because of me,” Ilya says, voice clearly bitter now, “because of my name on your chest.” 

“I mean, shit, Ilya, I’m not saying-” Shane stops, tries again, “Yes. But it’s not like I regret it. You’re my soulmate.” he pauses for a breath, unfairly strong emotions that he can’t quite understand washing over him. Ilya scoffs, and Shane wishes he knew why. “I just think that it would be good for both of us if you were to post something and just give a brief explanation of what happened. So that people will stop talking about it.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to the internet every time they are reminded that I’m traumatized,” Ilya argues, and Shane flinches at the bluntness. They are getting nowhere with this conversation. He’s so fucking tired.

“I just wish you’d start acting like you give a shit what people think of you. I know when you were sleeping around you could brush this stuff off, but your reputation fucking matters now.”

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya’s voice is raised through the tiny phone speaker, and if he wasn’t angry before, he is now, “don’t you fucking get it?” 

And Shane doesn’t get it. He really, really doesn’t. He says nothing, ignoring the tears that well up in his eyes. When Ilya speaks again, he isn’t loud anymore. He’s calm, and quiet, and horribly distraught. 

“The whole world can be wrong about me. I don’t care.There is only one person whose thoughts matter, and- fuck.” Ilya takes a shaky breath, “And he’s so afraid of the world knowing anything, he won’t even let me inside his mind.”

Shane blows out a breath. He hates that they’re having this conversation, this fight, over the phone. He wishes he could hold Ilya right now. He knows what he should do. He should say something perfect and loving, something that would fix whatever is going on in Ilya’s head. But he can’t think of anything good enough, and then,

“Goodnight, Shane,” Ilya’s words are heartbreaking and defeated.

The line clicks. Fuck.

Ilya, January

Ilya drives to Montreal. Shane will be back from Colorado in a few hours, and they haven’t talked since the disastrous phone call, nearly a week ago. It’s horrible. He’s driving, and it’s dark, and he must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, because Ilya is in a forest. 

He blinks. The car is gone. 

He pulls out his phone to call somebody, probably Shane, and ask for a ride home. His hand finds only an empty pocket. It comes away bloody.

Ilya frowns, inspecting his leg. The fabric of the pants is all torn up, pinpricks or red visible through the holes. 

In the distance, men yell. The thundering sound of traincars on rails. 

Ilya moves towards the sound. 

As he approaches the train yard, he realizes that this is bad. This is the wrong side of the border. He’s still in Russia. 

Then, “Ilya, over here,” says a voice. 

He knows that voice.

Shane is crouched in one of the traincars. He beacons Ilya over.

Ilya starts towards Shane’s hiding place, not even caring that the guards could see. Shane shouldn’t be here. 

A whistle shrieks and Shane’s train starts moving. Ilya runs, trying to catch up.

Blood flows freely down his leg.

He wants to tell Shane to jump, to run from the train before it drags him deeper into Russia. He wants to but he can’t yell too loudly or the guards will hear and lock him up. Even if he risked it, Shane probably wouldn’t hear. Shane can’t hear anything, Ilya doesn’t think.

The train picks up speed, and a horn blares. Ilya can’t watch this. Can’t watch Shane disappear forever like this. He closes his eyes as the horn blares again.

When he opens his eyes the horn is still blaring, but this time it’s a goal horn. Hockey. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

Crimson dots on the ice. 

Ilya looks up. Shane has scored a goal. 

The Metros crowd around him, cheering, clapping him on the back. Shane grins widely. Ilya is happy for him.

He is still bleeding out, though. It would be nice if somebody would notice that.

It would be nice if Shane noticed.

The edges of  his vision go blurry.

Why won’t Shane look at him? He’s dying.

A banner: Shane, shirtless, some Calvin Klein advertisement. No name on his chest.

Of course.

Shane doesn’t love him. That would explain it.

“Would you still love me if it wasn’t fate?”

Of course he fucking wouldn’t.

Ilya feels the blood pool around his skate’s, a sluggish mess on the ice. And then he’s falling. And then he’s afraid. And then there is blissful nothing and Ilya isn’t anything anymore.

When he wakes up from the dream, Haas is asleep in the bed to his left. Thank fuck. The last thing Ilya wants to do is scar his best rookie. Again.

Anya is asleep on the floor, and Ilya shakily gets out of bed to sit on the ground next to her. She stirs, and he pulls her into his arms. He exhales deeply into her fur.

Ilya really fucking needs to talk to Shane. He can’t, though. Since their fight, they’ve texted briefly, and agreed to talk in person after their respective road trips. The tension is killing Ilya. He doesn’t even care that he’s mad at Shane, he just wants to see him. Hold him. Anything.

Two more days. Ilya is in New York tonight, and Shane is in Colorado, and after that one of them will drive to meet the other and they will fix whatever is going on between them. Hopefully. Ilya doesn’t even really understand what Shane’s problem is; he’s always been a bit of a control freak, with his crazy schedule and diets and shit, but this level of care over what random people on the internet think seems excessive. Ilya wonders, in the stupid, unkind part of his mind,if Shane regrets coming out. If Shane resents the attention brought down on him by being Ilya’s soulmate. Part of him is scared to see Shane again, because he knows he’ll be staring at Shane’s soulmark obsessively, trying to decide if it’s beginning to fade. It isn’t. Of course it isn’t. Shane loves him. He loves Shane.

Would Shane still love him if they weren’t soulmates? Ilya has never received a concrete answer. When he asked, that one time, Shane had fixed him with a look so unreadable it could have meant anything from of course, always to don’t be stupid, definitely not.

The Cens beat the Admirals in overtime and the hockey world isn’t as shocked as they would have been if this had happened last year, or even a few months ago. Having Troy, Bood, and Ilya on a line together has really done wonders for the team, and they’ve been connecting well. Troy, Ilya thinks, is still dealing with some shit - fallout from what happened in Toronto, but also maybe something else. He hasn’t said anything, and Ilya hasn’t asked, but he is concerned for his wing. He deigns to bring it up after this trip, once they’re back in Ottawa.

There’s a knock on Ilya’s hotel room door, and he groans, getting up from the bed. It’s nine pm and he was quite comfortable where he was, scrolling on his phone with Anya on his chest. The guys are good about giving him space to mentally recoup after games, and so he hadn’t been expecting anyone. Maybe Haas forgot his wallet or keycard or something, and needs it before heading out to the fancy New York club the rookies had been planning to visit. If that’s the case, Ilya’s actually quite pleased Haas is knocking now, rather than at two in the morning when Ilya is sound asleep.

He pads to the door in his sweats and not much else, prepared to chirp Haas for forgetting whatever he’s forgotten. Instead, Ilya is met with Scott Hunter. Captain of the New York Admirals. At his hotel room. Looking, inexplicably, nervous. 

“Hunter,” Ilya says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Scott Hunter is not a man Ilya has any particular qualms with, but he is fun to tease. This doesn’t feel like a time to be annoying.

“Rozanov,” Hunter replies stiffly, “Look, can I come in?” 

Confused, Ilya steps aside, letting Hunter in. He grabs a discarded hoodie from where it lies on the back of a chair. Anya looks up from her spot on the bed with interest.

Hunter is just standing in the room, hands awkwardly at his sides, and Ilya can confidently say that he has absolutely no idea what is going on.

“That’s a dog,” Hunter says. Ilya huffs out a laugh.

“Ah, so this is why you are here? You want to hang out with my dog.”

“No, I just-” Hunter sighs, and looks genuinely upset. Ilya frowns. 

“Sit down Hunter.”

“What?”

“I don’t know what the fuck this is, but you are freaking out. It is a bad look for me if opposing Captain is passed out in my hotel room.” Ilya juts his chin at the armchair, “sit.” 

Hunter sits and immediately buries his face in his hands. Ilya goes to sit on the bed, facing him. Anya looks at Ilya, and if she wasn’t a dog and therefore incapable of facial expressions, Ilya would say her look is questioning.

“Are you allergic?” he asks. Hunter looks surprised at the question, but shakes his head. Ilya takes that as a sign, and picks Anya, placing her in his lap.

“I said I wasn’t here to hang out with your dog.”

“I know,” Ilya said, sitting and relaxing against the headboard, “but you can. She is very smart. Trained, you know,” Ilya hesitates, because this is the kind of thing he probably shouldn’t be telling Scott Hunter of all people, but the man is here for some undiscernible reason and Ilya doesn’t really care. “She travels with the team so she can help me if my brain goes all…” Ilya trails off, gesturing at his head. Hunter pinches his eyebrows together.

“Like a service dog?”

“Yes. Like I said, a professional.”

Hunter seems to accept that, and holds Anya for a few minutes. Ilya lets him, even though all he wants to do is kick Hunter out and go to bed. Or interrogate Hunter as to why he’s here. 

“I have a question,” Hunter finally says, and Ilya looks up with interest.

“A question?”

“Yes.” Hunter clears his throat. Ilya nods at him. “Um, so let's say I have this friend. And my friend, he’s a pretty successful guy, right? Like. He’s good at what he does. And everyone he works with generally agrees, more or less.”

“Okay, so you have a friend. Why do I care?”

“My, uh, friend. He’s gay.” The words tumble out of Hunter’s mouth and Ilya wonders if he’s ever said them before, in this context. Because Ilya knows exactly what they’re really talking about here, and holy shit. Scott Hunter hadn’t even been on his ‘maybe’ list of queer players.

“Ah,” Ilya says, and he tries to make his face into something non-mocking, but with Scott Hunter that’s really hard to do.

“Yeah,” Hunter continues, “and like, that was fine. And my friend, he was okay with just waiting until his career was over before coming out, quietly, irrelevantly. That would have been fine.”

“But it is not fine anymore?” Suddenly, Ilya can see where this is going.

“No,” Hunter replies bluntly, “it isn’t.”

Ilya raising an eyebrow. Hunter sighs, looking up from Anya’s body.

“My friend, he did something really fucking stupid.”

“Oh?” Did Scott Hunter have the ability to do stupid things? Ilya kind of thinks not.

“He fell in love.”

“That is not stupid,” Ilya says immediately, frown growing across his face, “complicated, yes, but not stupid.”

“Yeah, well, maybe for some people but-” Hunter throws his head back and squeezes his eyes shut, “but we aren’t soulmates.”

Any pretense of anonymity is gone. Ilya doesn’t flinch. Not at that, at least. The thought of being in love with someone who wasn’t your soulmate, though… It’s not uncommon, and Ilya knows that, but it just sounds so odd.

“And you are sure?” Ilya asks, because he has to. Hunter nods miserably.

“His soulmate died. Before we met. And my mark - it faded. A long time ago.”

“Oh,” Ilya says, and even though he is horribly, morbidly curious, he doesn’t ask what either of those experiences were like. “Is that a problem? For him or you?”

“No,” Hunter replies assuredly, “no I love him, and he loves me, and we’re really happy together. I just wish that I could prove to him that I love him more than anything else in the world. And so, well,”

“And so you are thinking of coming out.”

“Is it a really fucking bad idea?”

“It is not exactly fun, with the league. And depending on your team, it could be worse. The Cens are very good to me, but in Montreal, they are not so good to Shane.” 

Ilya stands, walking to Hunter. “But I would not trade it for the world. I like that we do not have to hide anymore.”

“Okay,” Hunter breathes out, “okay.”

“If you do, Shane and I, we can support. A statement or whatever. We can release a sextape at the same time to take attention off.”

“Please don’t.”

Ilya smirks. “I don’t think Shane would like it either. Such a shame.”

Scott Hunter leaves soon after, and Ilya’s mind is spinning. Hunter isn’t bound to his boyfriend, Kip, by fate. They just love each other. Hunter is going to make big sacrifices to his personal and professional lives for Kip. Hunter clearly chooses Kip, even though, technically, he does have a soulmate out there somewhere. 

Thinking about it does something strange to Ilya’s head. He sleeps poorly. He really fucking needs to talk to Shane.

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

lil baby chapter for funsies (plot resolution???)

Ilya

Ilya knocks on the door of Shane’s Montreal apartment. He has a key, but it’s late, and with the way they’ve left things, he isn’t sure if he should be using it. When Shane opens the door, he’s wearing sweats, and his hair is damp like he just got out of the shower. He looks beautiful.

“Hi,” he says, and his smile is cautious. It’s horrible. 

“Hi,” Ilya walks in, toeing off his shoes. He sighs. “I know we’re about to continue this fucking fight,” he says, “but can I kiss you first?” He feels a bit pathetic to ask, but Shane’s face splits into an open, relieved expression.

“Please,” Shane steps closer, putting a hand on Ilya’s arm, “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.”

Ilya pulls Shane all the way in, their chests pressed together. He places a hand on the back of Shane’s head, guiding their lips together. This kiss is messy and desperate; Ilya can taste the swirl of emotions on Shane’s lips. Shane’s free hand comes up to the nape of Ilya’s neck, playing with his hair. It feels amazing. Ilya longs to push this, take Shane to bed where they can absolutely destroy each other in all the best ways. Shane would probably let him. They absolutely cannot. 

As much as whatever is about to happen terrifies Ilya, it does have to happen. Now.

Ilya breaks the kiss, and holds Shane’s face between his palms. They’re still so close. “I love you,” he says, because he’s hoping Shane will say it back, giving him some sort of clue as to whether he’s lying or not.

“I love you too,” Shane says, and Ilya doesn’t think there was any hesitation there at all. 

“Should we sit, maybe?” Ilya thinks if they’re sitting, they’re less likely to start yelling again.

“Yeah, okay.” Shane takes him by the hand, leading them to the couch. Ilya leans against the back, and Shane sits sideways, squished in one corner, facing him. There is too much distance, but Shane chose this, so Ilya won’t push. 

Now that they’re here, Ilya doesn’t really know what to say. Do you actually love me or are you just doing it because you feel like you have to feels like too much to say. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane says softly, and Ilya frowns. “For pushing, before. You obviously don’t owe anyone an explanation. About anything. I just thought-” Shane shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“No,” Ilya speaks with more force than was strictly necessary, “no more of that. If we are thinking things, we should say them.”

Shane looks at him, eyes wet. “I just thought that if it was me, I’d want to control what people were thinking. I feel like…” he exhales slowly, “I feel like we’re both going through a lot of shit right now. And for me, that’s with my team, but for you, it's like. The whole world. And I can’t really do anything about the Metros but I thought maybe I could do something about the world. I just want to be able to help you.” The words get quieter as Shane says them, eventually no more than a whisper.

It makes sense, Ilya thinks, that Shane would see things like this. “I know,” he keeps his voice measured, “that it is hard for you. When you can’t control things.” He covers his mouth with his hand, closing his eyes. “And I know that this probably makes this, us, difficult. Because you can’t control who your soulmate is. And I am… a very messy person, I think. Not easy. You didn’t choose this. Fate did. And now you are just trying to control what you can, and I am being, I don’t know. Not good about it.”

Ilya’s eyes are wet too, now. He doesn’t look at Shane, staring forwards. To his side, he hears a shaky inhale.

“Ilya, um, what the fuck?” Shane sounds upset. More so than before. “Why would you think that?”

The couch shifts, and then Shane is right there, their shoulders touching. Shane tangles their fingers together, and Ilya turns his head, staring into Shane’s eyes.

“Because it is true,” Ilya replies simply. “You didn’t choose any of this. I just showed up with all my problems and your name on my chest, and you had to adapt.”

“Of course I fucking chose this, you. I chose to come out with you, even though we could have hidden that part. Fuck, I mean, I brought you to my actual apartment from the airport, before I even knew we were soulmates.”

Oh. 

“You didn’t know?” Ilya asked, trying to hide his shock. Somehow, they’ve never talked about this. He knew that Shane’s mark had appeared after Sochi, but by the first morning they spent together that summer, his name had been there, Cyrillic lettering stark against skin.

Shane shakes his head. “It only showed that night, after you fell asleep on top of me.”

“So then why didn’t you answer me?” Ilya asks before he can think it through. He feels pathetic even saying the words out loud. 

Shane furrows his brow, “Answer what?”

“I asked you, a while ago. If you would still love me, even if it wasn’t fate. You didn’t answer.”

“Is that what you meant when you said that I don’t tell you what I’m thinking?” Shane asks, and he looks surprised. Ilya feels embarrassed, and he hates it. He nods. Shane sighs, “I didn’t answer because I was surprised you even had to ask. It threw me.” Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand.  “But obviously I would love you. I don’t choose you because you’re my soulmate, Ilya, you’re my soulmate because I choose you.”

Ilya is crying now. The tears drip down his face quietly. Shane loves him. Shane loves him enough to say the words he needs to hear. “I don’t think that’s how it works,” he mumbles.

Shane smiles. “It is for me.”

February

Troy Barrett shows up on Ilya’s doorstep the night he gets back from All Stars. He looks like shit. Wordlessly, Ilya steps aside to let him in. Troy goes straight to Ilya’s fridge and picks out two beers, twisting the cap off one of them and sitting at the kitchen island.

“Is Hollander here?”

“He left a few hours ago.” 

Troy nods. “You know how I told you I had a boyfriend?” he asks, tone bitter.

Ilya can see where this is going. “Yes.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t anymore.”

“Oh,” Ilya cracks the other beer, “was he an asshole?”

Troy bites out a harsh laugh. “Yeah, he fucking was.” Ilya raises an eyebrow. Troy looks at his drink. “He just came out. And announced his engagement. To a guy he’s been dating, apparently, for nine months.”

“Shit, Barrett.” Ilya watches his winger down the entirety of the beer. “You did not know?”

“Nope.” Troy pops the p. “I didn’t know anything. And it’s not like I thought we would be together forever or any of that, but like. Nine months. He could have said something.”

“He should have, yes.”

“And, like, if the new guy was his soulmate or whatever I would maybe get it a little more. Like okay, leave me for him. But they aren’t! They made it a whole part of the announcement! Just, fuck, at least have the decency tell me, you know? I had to find out through his fucking instagram post.”

“Fuck,” Ilya says, because this guy does sound like a massive douchebag. He passes Troy a second beer. It’s that kind of day.

“Yeah.” Troy takes a sip. “And he’s not a low profile guy either. Every time I go to the fucking grocery store, I have to see his face on magazines.”

“Well,” Ilya thinks, “he sucks. You can do better. I will help.”

Troy scoffs at that. “Sure, Roz, you find any single guys interested in a closeted hockey player, send them my way.”

“I will,” Ilya nods seriously. And he means it. He’s grown fond of Troy, and wants the guy to be happy.

Wiebe calls Ilya into his office two weeks later. Bood is out this week with a bad shoulder injury, and Ilya is wearing the C while he’s gone. In the room, Wiebe is laughing with some guy in a jean jacket. Ilya awkwardly knocks on the frame of the open door, interrupting whatever they had been talking about. 

“Rozanov,” Wiebe grins, waving him in, “I want you to meet Harris Drover. He’s going to be running the team's social media.”

Jean jacket guy smiles, offering a hand. “It’s really great to meet you, Mr. Rozanov.”

Ilya laughs, shaking it. “Ilya, please. Or really anything but that.” 

“Ilya, okay,” Harris is blushing. It’s quite endearing, in a way. “Would you be down to shoot some clips for social media today? If you’re busy, that’s fine, but I’m eager to get started.” 

“Oh,” Ilya scratches the back of his head, “I can, but usually when I am on social media, the comments get…” he grimaces. The Cens haven’t really posted much with him outside of highlight reels, and even those tend to get flooded with discussions of his personal life. Since last month, he’s been trying to be a bit more aware of what people are saying online, for Shane. As much as he truly doesn’t give a shit what people are saying, Shane does, and at the end of the day, what people say about Ilya affects Shane. And he wants the man he loves to be happy, or at least less stressed.  

“Okay,” Harris replies easily, “Well, I’ll go through the other posts just to get an idea of what the comment sections are like, and maybe I’ll start with someone else?”

Ilya nods. “Yes. Wyatt Hayes would be good. He-” Ilya spots a prominent rainbow pin on Harris’s jacket, and gets a wonderful, meddlesome idea. “Actually,” he says, “talk to Barrett. He is much nicer to look at, for the internet.”

Wiebe chuckles at Ilya’s reasoning, and Harris flushes again, skin turning a deep red. Despite the implausibility of anything ever coming of it, Ilya hopes Barrett is pleased. As promised, he is sending his winger a hot, (possibly) single gay guy. And based on the appreciative way Harris looked Ilya up and down, he definitely doesn’t have anything against hockey players. 

Ilya walks out of the office, and for the first time in a while, he isn’t worried. Shane loves him. Ilya is working on helping Shane feel more in control of their lives, because he’s a good partner like that. The team is phenomenal, both on and off the ice. Ilya feels his most emotionally secure since Sochi.

Everything is settled, like dust after a storm. The remnants of the chaos remain, tangible in the air, but it’s manageable. It’s okay.

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

hmmm is it the other shoe? did i drop it? maybe a little? but only because this plot point is so precious (read: insane) to me.

Ilya, March

Ilya watches some super hero movie over Wyatt’s shoulder. The goalie has earbuds in, so Ilya can’t hear anything, but he reads the subtitles. The plot is incomprehensible, though based on Wyatt’s confused expression, the audio wouldn’t help much with that.

With only a few weeks left in the regular season, tensions are high. They aren’t locked in for a wildcard slot yet, but it isn’t off the table. While other teams are able to start relaxing, the Cens still have to be at the top of  their game.

They won their game today, but in a few hours they’ll be touching down in Minnesota for the last stop on their roadtrip. After that, Ilya is flying to Montreal while the rest of the team returns to Ottawa: they have a miraculous three days off, and he is going to spend them with Shane. 

The seatbelt sign clicks on, and a flight attendant asks them to hang tight for a few minutes. Unexpected turbulence. Nothing to worry about.

On Wyatt’s phone, a blue man punches a robot in the face, knocking its head off. 

Ilya surveys his team. Bood, in the back of the plane and back from IR, entertaining the rookies. Chouinard and Dykstra having some sort of arm wrestling competition that is more cheating than anything else. A few rows back and across the aisle, Harris is working away on his laptop. The last social media person hadn’t normally come on roadtrips, but Harris is dedicated to the job. Troy sits beside Harris, and Ilya smirks to himself. He doesn’t know if they’ve done anything more than flirt, but the flirting they have done is really obvious. Obvious, and adorably sincere.

The plane wobbles. Somebody yelps in surprise, and the guys around him rib him for it. The metal robot on Wyatt’s screen picks up its head and puts it back on.

“Is this supposed to be scary?” Ilya asks.

Wyatt shakes his head, “Man, I hope not. This whole scene wasn’t even in the source material. It’s fucking stupid.”

Ilya laughs. Wyatt is such a nerd. He goes to say something else, but then the plane drops out of the fucking sky.

For half a second, everything is weightless, and then it very much isn’t. Everything goes flying. People are screaming. Ilya assesses himself, searching for the beginnings of panic. He finds none. At his feet, in her carrier, Anya appears to be unhurt, but is freaking out as much as any of the grown men on the plane, skating slightly. 

The front of the plane is angled steeply downward, and when Ilya looks out the window, the wing of the plane is on fire. He closes the shade so he doesn’t have to look at it anymore.

People are still screaming, but Ilya isn’t. He forces himself to breathe. He reaches for his collarbone, fingers coming up empty, as they have every time in the last few years that he has reached for his mother.

If this plane crashes, Ilya wonders if he will die. He wonders if, in death, he will be able to see his mother again. Would she be happy to see him? Would she love him, knowing the name he bears on his chest? Ilya thinks she would. Despite, or maybe because of the way she lived, Ilya’s mother had always been incredibly kind.

He scratches at the skin where the cross used to lie. Are you a man of god? Not really. Not the way she had been. Not in the way where he believes that a few confessions can absolve him of his many sins. Ilya doesn’t believe in any god, but he does believe in salvation.

Salvation has always come to him through love. His mother’s love, a salvation from his father’s cruel words. His own love for hockey, a salvation from his grief.

Shane.

Love for Shane was his salvation when he needed it most. When he was kneeling and bloody and a fractured shell of a man, it was thoughts of Shane that kept him alive. When everything else was stripped from him - his mother, his sport, his life, the one thing they could never take away from him was his soulmate. 

Ilya’s hand moves lower, to press on Shane’s name. 

When he hears about this, Shane is going to be distraught. Ilya wishes he could fix this somehow. He wishes he could do something to make everything less bad. 

The lights in the plane go out. Blackness. Ilya grabs his phone.

If Ilya dies, Shane will have to deal with yet another wave of insane media scrutiny. And losing your soulmate… people say it destroys you. Would Shane keep playing hockey? Would the Metros even let him take time to grieve?

Ilya opens their Instagram conversation. They don’t use it often, just when one of them is on a plane really. Shane won’t even see this until it’s too late. 

Of all the ways Ilya has expected to die, this was never one of them. 

I’m sorry.

He deletes it. If those are his last words, Shane will never forgive him. 

I love you.

Delete. It doesn’t say enough. It doesn’t encapsulate everything.

Loving you has been the best part of my life.

Send. Ilya’s hands are shaking. 

Most people aren’t screaming anymore, but the noises of the plane are still deafening. 

Ilya desperately thinks that there are supposed to be oxygen masks, but none appear. 

He keeps typing, hands shaking.

Thank you.

Good enough. Send.

Whatever happens, I am safe with you. Safe in your heart, and in your soul. I believe it.

Send.

I - 

Oxygen masks finally drop down, and Ilya pulls one over his head. He watches to make sure the rest of his team is doing the same. 

The plane lurches again, and his phone is gone, somewhere on the floor.

Anya whimpers, and Ilya wishes he had a mask for her. Hopefully she will be okay.

His eyes are wet. Wyatt leans across him and frantically shoves the shade of the window back up and oh fuck the ground is close. 

Like, really close.

The fire that Ilya hadn’t wanted to think about now covers most of the wing. Wyatt pales. 

Ilya’s mother had been a smart woman. Maybe she had been right about god. Maybe-

Ilya closes his eyes and tries to remember the old prayers that had bored him so thoroughly as a child. It can’t hurt. 

Please, he begs the universe and whoever might be listening, I just need us to get home.

Now that the window is uncovered, it’s like he can’t look away. Ilya’s hands are clenched into fists so tight that pinpricks of blood well up where his nails bite into skin.

The ground rushes up at them, far faster than it should.

“Brace positions,” says a voice on the intercom, along with other words that Ilya can’t be bothered to translate right now. Wyatt is sitting ramrod straight, hand shaking where it still grips his phone. Ilya places a hand on his shoulder, guiding him into the position. His earbuds come unplugged from his phone, and the quiet sounds of two robots swordfighting emanate from the device. 

Ilya leans forward, arms to his knees. 

The plane screeches. 

He can’t see out the window anymore and it’s probably for the best.

He is very hot and very cold and the metallic clinks of swords is the only thing he can pay attention to.

A horrible, lurching reunion with the ground. Ilya feels his knees press into his lungs, squeezing all the air out. The plane rocks. It leans on one side, and Ilya half falls into Wyatt, as the world is suddenly on a 45 degree tilt.

Silence.

Everyone takes in a collective breath of air. 

“Is anyone hurt?” Bood calls out. 

Dykstra has a nosebleed, but otherwise they don’t seem to have acquired any injuries. 

The plane is still on fire though.

A flight attendant stands shakily, and moves to the door of the plane. She pops it open, and cold air rushes in.

A massive yellow slide inflates, connecting the door to the ground. 

Outside, Ilya can see flashing lights. Firetrucks, probably. 

This feels like the sort of thing you call firetrucks for.

He makes sure to be one of the last guys off the plane. While Ilya is seated towards the front, it enables him to scrutinize the faces of the other players, searching for anyone having a harder than usual time. Most of them are. Anya had gone with Haas, and as Ilya steps off the slide, he can see the rookie holding her tightly. She seems to be alright with the attention. 

Three hours later, they’re all in a hotel in Grand Rapids, Michigan, which had been the nearest city to where the plane had landed. Not crashed. If Ilya thinks of it as a crash, his grasp on his emotions is going to fail him, and this is not the time. 

He’s at the bar with half the team, buying rounds of whatever they want. The game tomorrow has been postponed, and they will be heading back to Ottawa instead. The league taking mercy on them, or something.

Wyatt walks in, eyes red, phone in hand.

“Lisa is okay?” Ilya asks him. Wyatt nods. 

“Yeah. She was really scared. The press was reporting that we crashed, but not-” Wyatt’s words are cut off by his phone ringing again. On the screen, Hollander (Roz). “It’s your man, Rozy. He probably gave up on reaching you on yours.”

Ilya’s phone is still somewhere in the plane. There hadn’t exactly been time to search for it in the deplaning. Evacuation. Whatever.

Ilya gratefully accepts the device, grinning at how Shane’s contact is saved. 

“You have him in here with the WAG format?” he asks.

Wyatt grins sheepishly, “I mean, it feels more relevant who he is as a guy than as a player, it’d be weird to put his team in there too.”

“Sure, Hazy.” Ilya turns to take the call in privacy, but over his shoulder he adds, “Please tell him this. He will be so angry. Very cute.”

In the hallway of the hotel, Ilya finally answers the call.

“Hayes, thank fuck. I saw the news and I’ve been trying to reach Ilya but his phone goes straight to voicemail and they’re saying that certain players sustained injuries and the severity is unknown and if anyone is going to get hurt in a fucking plane crash you know it’s going to be him, with his luck, and I mean-”

“Shane, I’m okay.” Ilya cuts him off from his anxious monologue. 

“Ilya?” Shane’s voice is fragile. Cautious.

“Yes, my love. I’m here.”

“You’re okay?” The words are so small. Ilya can hear Shane’s soft breathing though the phone.

“I’m okay. We all are. Dykstra broke his nose, maybe, and somebody else twisted their ankle getting off the place, but. Yes. Okay.”

“Oh thank god,” Shane exhales, relief clear in every word. “I thought I was going to lose you, and those texts holy fuck I mean,” a wet chuckle, “Ilya you are never allowed to do that to me again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry, that’s stupid. But I just… I felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest. I thought.” He swallows audibly, “I thought I would never see you again. Or hold you. And-” Shane cuts himself off with a sob.

“Hey,” Ilya says softly, “hey, Shane, you will. Our game is postponed, so I was able to get a sooner flight to Montreal. I will be there tomorrow. You will see me, and hold me, and it will be okay.”

In the background, someone is saying something to Shane, and Ilya is filled with a wave of gratitude that his soulmate isn’t alone right now.

“Okay,” Shane eventually replies.

“I love you,” Ilya reminds him, “so much. I would never leave you like that.”

“I don’t think that's how that works.”

“It is for me.”

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

new chapter count??? I keep getting sidetracked but it's fine. Anyways here's the real reason I had to crash the plane... also fun fact this chapter contains the fraction of a scene that got me to write this entire series (I couldn't work it into the first part but here we are)

Shane, March

Hayden Pike had opted out of today’s optional practice to attend his daughters’ dance recital. Shane supports it, because Hayden is a good dad like that, but also Hayden is sort of the only thing keeping him sane with the team. Not having his best friend and A at his side really sucks. It’s been a year now. Since coming out with Ilya. Since bearing his soul to the whole world. The team still doesn’t know what to do with him.

The guys who don’t hate him for homophobic reasons still avoid him like the plague. Like maybe loving Ilya Rozanov could be contagious. They look at him with pity, like being Ilya’s soulmate is some horrible hardship, and not the best part of Shane’s life. It makes him want to scream. 

Shane misses when these guys were his friends. Especially JJ, who while by no means the worst of them, has done precious little to suggest that he would ever be happy for Shane.Hayden is the only buffer between Shaw and the slurs thrown at him in his own locker room, and it’s horrible. The guys don’t respect him off the ice, and only listen to him on it because coach tells them to. And the only reason coach tells them to is because the Metros can’t make any changes to Shane’s employment, because it would be considered soulmate-based discrimination.  

So things aren’t great, but without Hayden, they’re definitely worse.

After practice, Shane keeps his head down. He quickly unlaces his skates and arranges his gear in his stall, careful as always not to look at any of the homophobic guys in any way they could possibly notice. 

When most of his teammates are done in the showers, Shane rinses off quickly, just enough to get home, where he can shower again. He dresses quickly, and shoves his phone in his pocket without looking. 

Shane steps into the hallway, and, unexpectedly, JJ is there.

“Hollander,” he says, and he looks stressed. Less carefree than usual. “I don’t know if you have seen the news, but I wanted to make sure you were doing alright.”

Shane frowns, both because he can’t imagine what news JJ could possibly be alluding to, and because JJ is expressing care for his personal life, a subject they have been steadfastly ignoring since the summer.

“What news?” he asks, because that probably matters more than why do you care?

JJ’s face falls. “Shit. You haven’t.” He’s nervous, Shane can tell. It’s unsettling. “There was an accident.”

“An accident?” Shane’s mind is immediately racing. Hayden? It must be. Who else would JJ be talking about, to look this serious. 

“The Centaurs,” JJ says, “Their plane, there were… problems.”

Shane’s heart rate skyrockets in the half second it takes him to comprehend what JJ is saying. The Centaurs. Ilya.

“Problems,” he repeats faintly, “what kind of problems, JJ?”

“I don’t know, man, some places are saying emergency landing, others are saying…” he looks like he regrets the words coming out of his mouth, “others are saying crash.”

Shane blinks, and then JJ’s arm is around his shoulder, holding him up. 

“Show me the news,” he demands, because now that the word crash is in his brain, he needs to know. He needs to see. For once, he really, desperately hopes that people are talking about Ilya, because that’s the only way he can find out what is going on. 

“Capitaine,” JJ says, “I will. But I think we should not do this here. My apartment is close-”

“No,” Shane refuses. His soulmate was just in a fucking plane crash and he feels like the ground has fallen out from under him: there is no way in hell he’s going anywhere but home. “We can go to mine.”

“Whatever you say, man.”

Twenty minutes later, Shane unlocks his front door and lets JJ inside. He still hasn’t seen any news, because JJ has insisted that it’s best if he waits until he’s somewhere private. JJ is absolutely right, but Shane doesn’t appreciate it right now.

“Fucking show me JJ,” he all but orders the second the door shuts. JJ passes Shane his phone. An article is pulled up. Injuries Reported After Ottawa Centaurs Plane Crash. 

Shane clicks in.

Ottawa, ON — A plane carrying members of the Ottawa Centaurs hockey organization reportedly crashed earlier today while traveling between away games, preliminary reports from aviation authorities say.

Emergency responders were dispatched to the crash site shortly after the aircraft went down in rural Michigan. Officials have confirmed that players, coaching staff, and crew were on board at the time of the incident.

At this stage, the severity of injuries remains unknown. First responders are currently working to extinguish a small fire and transport the injured to nearby hospitals. Authorities have not yet released the number of casualties, if any.

Witnesses in the area reported seeing the aircraft descending rapidly before impact - 

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Shane clicks out. He’s read enough. Enough to know that nobody knows anything. He pulls out his own phone and calls Ilya. Straight to voicemail. It’s fine. It doesn’t mean anything.

Would Shane know if Ilya died? Would he feel it? Some people say that losing your soulmate is the worst pain imaginable, but do they mean that literally? Shane presses on Ilya’s name across his heart, and it feels the same as always. Maybe that’s a good sign. He calls again, even though he doesn’t expect a different result. Paces. Back and forth and back and forth in front of his couch.

JJ watches him, brow furrowed. He opens his mouth as though to say something, and then changes his mind.

Casualties, if any. What the fuck. What the fuck. If any. Shane calls Farah, who knows nothing. He calls Ilya again. No answer. No nothing. No-

His mother calls, Mom flashing across the screen. Shane declines the call. If Farah doesn’t know what’s going on, she won’t either, and Shane doesn’t need her panic to build off his own. 

Shane opens Instagram, in case there are any updates on the Cens’ official page, which sometimes updates faster than anywhere else. Nothing. Oddly, Shane does have some unread DMs, which makes no sense since everyone who knows him also knows to only text him on his number. The only person who ever DMs him is. Ilya.

Shane opens the messages.

Loving you has been the best part of my life.

Thank you.

Whatever happens, I am safe with you. Safe in your heart, and in your soul. I believe it.

Shane looks at the time the messages were sent, and he wants to throw up. Ilya must have sent them from the plane, probably once things started to go bad. Once whatever caused the plane to go down happened. 

JJ disappears, and then returns to the living room with two beers and a ginger ale in his hands, offering Shane either drink. Ginger ale would be smart. Beer is tempting. But this is so fucking horrible. This is unimaginable. Ilya could be dead. Right now. He could be grievously injured. Even if he isn’t physically hurt, by some miracle, his mental state is probably in shambles. He has his team, and he has Anya, but what if he doesn’t? What if something happened to Ilya’s support system, and he’s all alone, and he’s scared?

At the end of the day, that's the thing that gets Shane. Somehow the thought of Ilya being scared and alone is worse than just about anything else he can imagine. 

Loving you has been the best part of my life.

Shane shakes his head at both drinks, and gets a bottle of Ilya’s fancy Russian vodka from the freezer. He doubts his soulmate will mind. JJ raises an eyebrow, but says nothing as Shane pours them both a healthy portion, downing his own in one go. It’s strong, and so he grimaces, but it also tastes like Ilya and that makes Shane want to cry. 

JJ sips, and raises his eyebrows appreciatively. “Shit, man, this is good stuff. Where did you even get this?”

Shane swallows around the taste in his mouth. “It’s Ilya’s. He has a friend, Sveta, she gets it for him when she goes back.”

“Back?” JJ appears to think for half a second, “Oh.”

“They fucking tortured him you know,” Shane bites out the words with more anger than he knows what to do with.

JJ blinks at him. It’s not public knowledge. It’s not hard to guess, either. Especially if you’ve seen a picture of Ilya shirtless. “I…” JJ doesn’t seem to know what to do with this change in Shane’s behaviour. It’s fair. Shane doesn’t know what to do with it either.

“He survived so fucking much, JJ, and if this his how he- how he fucking dies?” Shane refuses to acknowledge the way his voice cracks on the last word. 

He leaves his glass on the kitchen counter and sinks to the floor. “It’s just not fair,” he whispers, burying his face in his hands. The anger is gone as quick as it started.

Thank you.

JJ crouches in front of him. “Look, Hollander,” JJ is a blunt guy, and in this moment Shane appreciates it, “We don’t know anything right now. Rozanov- Ilya,” he corrects himself with only a minor show of discomfort, “is a tough fucking guy. And he’s like, really in love with you. As soon as he can, he’s going to be blowing up your phone, and until then, there’s nothing to do.”

Shane looks at him miserably. He hates when there’s nothing to do. Hates when there’s nothing he can do to fix, or at least manage a situation. JJ is right, though. Shane can’t make the information materialize any faster, and even if he could, he’d much rather people focus on helping Ilya and the Cens than answer his calls.

“Here is what is going to happen,” JJ says, “We are going to sit on your couch. We are going to put on a bad movie. We are going to call Hayden to bring takeout when his kids’ thing is done, and then when he gets here, we will wait with you until you get news.”

“I can’t eat-” Shane starts to protest the part of this plan that scares him the least.

“You just downed like three shots of vodka, Shane. I think you can handle a burger.”

It’s a fair judgement. Shane nods, and JJ helps him to his feet, steering him to the couch. “Put on something shitty,” he tosses Shane the remote and goes to get them water, typing on his phone. Hayden, probably. 

Shane risks a glance at Twitter, ignoring the instruction for now. Usually, seeing what people are saying online makes him want to scratch his skin off, doubly so when it’s because of something speculative, but right now, he doesn’t really care. All that matters is Ilya. More so than the nobodies on the internet, or the hockey gossip podcasters, or the sports reporters, Shane cares about Ilya. 

Am I the only one freaking tf out right now??? Cens plane crash??? On our only winning streak ever??? If a single one of them is hurt I’ll kms I swear to god.

It’s not by any means a unique post on Shane’s feed, which is almost entirely composed of hockey updates, but something about it sticks out. He does something stupid. He replies.

You’re definitely not the only one freaking out. 

Post.

Why the fuck not? If Ilya is dead nothing matters anymore, and if Ilya is alive, then he is the only thing that matters. This: silly commentary from people half a continent away with nothing better to do, it means nothing. Compared to Ilya, nothing means anything. If Shane never gets to hold him again, what will he do? 

He considers a future where he never gets to thread a hand through Ilya’s hair and wrap their arms around each other. Never gets to feel the quiet rumble of laughter against his chest. Never gets to hear Ilya’s teasing voice when they’re competing against each other. Shane imagines that the last time he touched Ilya was the last time, that the last time he tasted his soulmate was the last taste of perfection he’ll ever get. 

He wonders what he could possibly say at the funeral. He is everything that I love in one perfect person. It’s true. Ilya is competition and quiet mornings and soft understanding and bright, hot passion. Sometimes Shane thinks he even loves hockey because of Ilya. He would still be playing,obviously, without him, but one without the other is wrong. They’ve spent their entire professional careers intertwined, in bed and in the press. The NHL has never known Hollander without Rozanov: even when Ilya was missing Shane was the one the sports reporters were asking about it. 

That doesn’t feel like the kind of thing you say at funerals. Probably just I loved him, in the past tense, as though love is only for the living. 

Whatever happens, I am safe with you. Safe in your heart, and in your soul. I believe it.

“Shane?” JJ. Standing in front of him. Shane frowns. When did he get there? “Capitaine, you with us?” 

“Us?” Shane asks distantly.

“Hey, man,” Hayden says with a wave and a pinched expression. He’s still wearing his coat and clutching a bag that - unfortunately - smells fantastic. 

Time must have passed, but Shane isn’t sure how much. If Hayden just got here, it can’t have been too long, maybe an hour. Maybe more. Maybe there’s more news and when Shane next checks his phone it’ll be to an announcement that Ilya is dead, or in critical condition, or-

There’s a burger pressed into his hands and Shane eats it without thinking. It’s maybe the best burger of his life. He looks up at Hayden gratefully.

Hayden and JJ plop down in Shane’s armchairs.

“I assume you haven’t heard anything?” Hayden asks sympathetically. Shane shakes his head, and JJ leans to grab the remote from the couch.

“We are going to eat this food and watch something until Shane’s loverboy calls us.”

“JJ,” Shane warns, too stressed to deal with this, “don’t. Please.”

“Hey, woah,” JJ holds up his hands in surrender, “I didn’t mean it like that. I just-” a beat. JJ looks almost panicked, “I know I was an asshole when I first found out about you too, and I won’t pretend to love the guy, but I get it.”

“You get it?” Shane parrots, surprised.

“I have not been so good at showing it, but Hollander, I want you to be happy and play good hockey. And Rozanov gets you to do both so…” JJ shrugs, smiling, “I can’t complain.”

“Oh,” Shane says faintly. He stares too hard at his burger. He wishes his phone would ring. 

Hayden puts on some reality TV show that features a lot of women in not a lot of clothing. It’s good, because neither Hayden nor JJ expects Shane to follow it, and he can just let the bad soundtrack and worse editing wash over him.

They’re somewhere through a plot where three women are crying over somebody kissing somebody else when Shane gets a phenomenal idea. 

He whips his phone out of his pocket, ignoring the news alerts that still aren’t saying anything at all. Hayden notices, raising an eyebrow. Shane opens his contacts and scrolls until he finds W.Hayes (Ilya). Hayes is probably the most consistent guy in Ilya’s life, and if anyone is going to know what’s going on with Ilya, it’s him. Shane slams the call button, bringing the phone up to his ear.

It rings for what feels like forever. Forever and a half. Then, a click. Thank god. 

Shane starts talking the second the call connects, words tumbling out of his mouth faster than he can think them.

“Hayes, thank fuck. I saw the news and I’ve been trying to reach Ilya but his phone goes straight to voicemail and they’re saying that certain players sustained injuries and the severity is unknown and if anyone is going to get hurt in a fucking plane crash you know it’s going to be him, with his luck, and I mean-”

“Shane, I’m okay.” Ilya. Ilya’s voice. It's a beautiful voice. Shane thought he might never hear it again.

“Ilya?” Shane feels like he’s on the verge of breaking down entirely. He hadn't expected calling Hayes to be so effective.

“Yes, my love. I’m here,” Ilya reassures him, and Shane lets out a breath of air, curling into himself on the couch, clutching the phone like a lifeline. JJ turns the show off, and he and Hayden both look at him questioningly.

 Is he okay? Hayden mouths, and Shane smiles.

Yeah.

“You’re okay?” Shane has to ask, has to make sure. Through the phone, he can hear Ilya’s footsteps. He’s moving. Not in a hospital bed. Not dead. Alive. Alive. Alive.

“I’m okay,” Ilya responds, “We all are. Dykstra broke his nose, maybe, and somebody else twisted their ankle getting off the place, but. Yes. Okay.”

“Oh thank god,” Shane gasps, that was not nearly as bad as it could have been. “I thought I was going to lose you, and those texts holy fuck I mean,” he’s crying now, but he tries to hide it in his voice, “Ilya you are never allowed to do that to me again.” 

Shane hopes Ilya doesn’t think he’s actually mad. 

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says, and Shane feels his heart break. Ilya goes through hell, and he still is trying to make Shane feel better.

“No, don’t be sorry, that’s stupid,” its not like Ilya tried to be in a fucking plane crash, “But I just… I felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest. I thought.” Shane takes a moment, collecting himself as much as he can, “I thought I would never see you again,” he confesses, “Or hold you. And-” Nope. All his self restraint is gone. Shane lets out a sob, body lurching with the force of it. Hayden gets up and walks to Shane’s side. His hand hovers over Shane’s shoulders, asking permission. Shane appreciates it, and nods. Hayden leaves his hand there, a comforting presence. Hayden has always been a good friend like that.

“Hey,” Ilya’s voice flows through the phone, “hey, Shane, you will. Our game is postponed, so I was able to get a sooner flight to Montreal. I will be there tomorrow. You will see me and hold me and it will be okay.”

Shane nods even though Ilya can’t see him.

“Shane, buddy, yeah. Just breathe. He’s okay.” Hayden keeps his presence steady and his voice low, grounding Shane while he tries to pull himself together. It’s a struggle. Shane is filled with a confusing mixture of relief and lingering fear. 

Eventually, finally, Shane manages to eke out a response. “Okay.”

“I love you so much.” Ilya says, and the words build something warm in Shane’s chest. “I would never leave you like that.”

“I don’t think that's how that works,” Shane points out. It’s not like Ilya would have a choice.

“It is for me.”

The words are said with so much conviction that Shane even believes them.

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

Its been 50 million days (like 3? 4?) anyways the semester is killing me and people need to stop coming into my work so that I can write fanfic instead.......
But only one chapter left!! crazy actually.

Shane 

Shane had opted out of optional practice for the first time in his life, and had spent the better part of the day doing absolutely nothing. Even now, knowing that Ilya is safe, he can’t fully believe it. Ilya is supposed to be landing in Montreal today, but Shane isn’t sure exactly when. Probably pretty late, since Ilya wouldn’t have wanted to leave his team before they were nicely situated on their own flight back to Ottawa.

The fact that Ilya has to fly at all makes Shane absolutely fucking terrified. He never wants his soulmate to leave the ground again. He had asked Ilya to only call him once the flight was over, because Shane knows in his head that it will be alright, but if he’s aware of the exact time that Ilya is on a plane again, he might actually lose his shit. This time, his friends won’t be there to help, since they are at the optional practice. Unfortunately, the unintended consequence of not knowing when Ilya’s flight leaves is that Shane’s brain has decided to believe that Ilya is in the air at all times. Which is kind of horrible.

He’s interrupted from his thoughts by a knock on the door. Shane rolls off the couch, smoothing out his shirt. If he has to talk to whoever this is, he might as well not look like he’s spent the past eighteen hours losing his shit. He turns the deadbolt and opens the door with a false expression plastered on his face, and then his brain shorts out.

Ilya.

Shane’s jaw drops a little and he brings a hand up to gently poke at Ilya’s chest, as though confirming he’s real. Ilya feels real, certainly. Shane can’t take his eyes off his soulmate. Ilya, somehow, looks okay. He isn’t bruised or shaking or moving like half his ribs are broken. He just stands there, at Shane’s doorstep, hands at his sides. They stare at each other for an impossible amount of time.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya finally breathes, and Shane snaps.

He springs forward, grabbing Ilya by the shoulders and pulling him in, pressing every inch of their bodies as close as possible. He shoves his face in the crook of Ilya’s neck, one hand in his soulmate’s hair and the other clinging to his jacket. “Shut the fuck up,” he mumbles, the words muffled by Ilya’s skin. He clutches at Ilya like his life depends on it, and maybe it does.

Ilya just laughs in response, just a little bit, and Shane feels something cosmic slide into place. This is how it should be. Ilya, in his arms, safe. 

Eventually they make it inside, Shane walking backwards and tumbling onto the couch. He drags Ilya down with him, unwilling to let them be separated for any length of time.

Ilya’s weight over Shane’s body is a comfort, and Shane groans softly at the feeling. Ilya places a hand on Shane’s chin, tilting him up into a bruising kiss. Shane goes willingly, happily allowing Ilya’s tongue entry to his mouth. 

Eventually, Shane realizes that this is not enough, and he starts fumbling with the buttons of Ilya’s shirt. Breaking the kiss for a moment, he whines “off, Ilya, please,” and Ilya graciously follows the order before hastily reattaching their lips. 

Shane presses a palm against Ilya’s pec, feeling where his own name lies etched over Ilya’s heart. Ilya loves it when he does this, and moans into Shane’s mouth. Ilya adjusts his legs so that they bracket one of Shane’s, and it quickly becomes clear just how hard they both are in their pants.

“Fuck,” Ilya gasps as Shane bites into his lip, bucking his hips up at the same time, “you’re so fucking good at this.”

Shane hums appreciatively, licking his swollen lips while they both catch their breath for a moment. “I’m good at other things too,” he replies, trying his best to sound suggestive. It works. Ilya grins down at him, and Shane feels like he’s won some fantastic prize. 

Ilya is his. Ilya is People magazine’s sexiest man alive, and Ilya is easily a once in a generation hockey player, and Ilya is his. When Ilya looks at Shane like this, wide and unburdened and happy, it feels like everything. 

Ilya rolls off him, standing in front of the couch and extending a hand, “Other things? I think you will need to demonstrate, Hollander.”

Shane grins stupidly, taking the hand with ease, “I mean,” he allows Ilya to pull him to his feet, “if you insist.”

“Oh I insist,” Ilya smirks, and then fixes Shane with a look that tells him exactly how fantastic the sex is about to be. 

Ilya

Wyatt Hayes turns in his seat to fix Ilya with a glare. Blood streams out of his eyes and the bullet hole in his forehead. 

The plane is falling out of the sky.

Wyatt spits in Ilya’s face, “you dug my grave, Rozanov, don’t you want to lie in it with me?”

Ilya doesn’t know how to speak or move or do anything at all.

Haas, across the aisle, smiles too widely at him. His young face is half rotted away. He seems unbothered.

Ilya wants to yell at him, shake him, make him see that this is bad, but he can’t. 

He can’t do anything.

The plane is falling out of the sky.

Wyatt leans across him, wrenching the window shade up, and the wind of the plane is on fire. Ilya lets the light dance in front of him. 

It’s a little bit beautiful. 

Somewhere, Bood is saying something. Probably telling everyone to stay calm. He’s a good captain like that. 

Ilya stares at the flames, watching them curl around the metal, melting the decals on the wing.

He blinks.

The fire fills everything.

The fire fills the barrel.

Burning in the barrel is a jersey. A Cens jersey, not Team Russia.

Ilya holds the matchbox.

He doesn’t need to be told to get on his knees. He does so without complaint. He bows his head to the burning fabric and waits for the pain he knows he deserves.

He did this.

The inferno grows. The barrel melts. Fire spills out and creeps through dead grass until it’s nearly touching Ilya. 

He can’t move. 

White hot pain, everywhere. From the whip or the flames he can’t possibly know.

The fire consumes everything but oblivion never comes

He blinks.

The fire is all Ilya can see but he isn’t on his knees, he’s in his seat. 

The plane crashes into the fucking earth, nose piercing the ground like it’s nothing. 

Everything is thrown upside down as the plane goes end over end.

Ilya feels every bone in his body snap, and the fire only gets closer.

He wakes up and can tell in a heartbeat that a panic attack is only seconds away. Even this much advance notice is more than his body usually affords him. 6:34 pm. They must have passed out somewhere after round three, worn out from both the physical and emotional aspects of the day. Shane is asleep, half curled into Ilya’s side. Shane had been so happy to see him, and Ilya had been so relieved to be seeing anything at all, and so he’d been able to keep a handle on everything. He’d been able to keep himself from the colossal panic that will surely catch up to him eventually. That is currently catching up to him.

During the crash, and in the immediate aftermath, Ilya had forced himself to stay calm for the team. There’s a part of him that still needs to prove Boston wrong: he is a reliable player, and a strong leader. He’d barely held it together, but he had done it somehow.

Then, on the phone with Shane, he had been ready to break down right there in the hallway. He had been ready, but Shane hadn’t been. Shane had been terrified and stressed and so far away, and so Ilya had kept his mind intact for his soulmate. There was very little Ilya wouldn’t do for Shane, even at cost to himself. Repressing his panic for nearly twenty-four hours now definitely falls under that category.

The initial high of reuniting with Shane had dulled the thrum of horrible fear, at first. The sex had certainly helped Ilya take his mind off it too. Now, awake after a nap, in the quiet safety of Shane’s Montreal apartment, there is nobody to be strong for. Even Shane is asleep. Ilya can freak the fuck out and it won’t make anything worse.

He carefully extracts himself from Shane’s warm arms, not wanting to bother his love with the panic attack he can feel beginning to overwhelm his senses. 

Ilya shakily stumbles into the bathroom, and wonders if he might be able to stave off the attack by splashing water on his face. That’s worked, once or twice.

But Ilya has never had a panic attack after a nightmare with Shane. Usually, his soulmate’s mere presence is enough to keep them away. The fact that this one is sneaking past the protective force that is Shane Hollander probably means that it’s unavoidable.

Ilya has half a mind to call Wyatt, but that seems stupid. Wyatt had been properly freaked out by everything, and doesn’t want to hear that Ilya’s having problems. Wyatt is always dealing with Ilya’s fucking problems.

All Ilya ever does is cause problems. 

He sinks to the floor of the bathroom, not even managing to turn on the light.

The team is doing great - better than they ever have before, really, but it isn’t enough.

Ilya doesn’t think he will ever be enough. No matter what, his team will always be dragged around by his reputation.

They can never be the Ottawa Centaurs again. They will always be the Team That Took Rozanov Back. Everything Ilya does, every choice and mistake, it all reflects back on the team.

And Ilya makes more mistakes than most.

Sure, the team is playing better hockey, but has Ilya made them a better team? As people? Probably not.

Definitely not.

Ilya isn’t a good person. He never has been. He’s dug graves and been grateful for the deaths of men he never cared to know. He’s committed felonies, in Russia. Escaping from the camp, yes, but loving Shane, too. 

He can confess this, now. 

Ilya isn’t a good person but he knows how to love.

Even if most of the things Ilya loves die.

His mother.

His pride for his country

His team, nearly.

Shane?

The pattern would suggest its coming. 

Ilya wonders if it will be his fault when Shane dies. Ilya wonders if Shane will forgive him for it. Probably. Shane loves him like that. Shane loves him even when it's stupid. Shane-

Shane is right here.

At some point, Ilya’s eyes must have closed, but he feels a hand on his jaw and then he’s opening them.

Shane is crouched in front of Ilya, eyes wide with fear. He’s saying something, but Ilya can’t hear it over the sound of his own heartbeat. He places a hand on Ilya’s chest and it feels like it’s crushing him. Ilya jerks backwards, and Shane quickly withdraws his hand.

Fuck. It’s already starting. Shane is already learning how fucked Ilya is. It will be too much, maybe, and he will fall out of love.

Ilya doesn’t think he would survive that.

But Shane hasn’t left yet, he’s still here, kneeling in front of Ilya. Afraid. Ilya did this. He made his soulmate scared, twice in as many days. He has to fix this, has to get this under control, has to be strong.

He forces a gasping breath into his lungs and Shane gets a little relieved smile on his face. Good. Ilya can tell from the way Shane’s hands twitch at his sides that Shane wants to touch him again. 

Now that he’s got his lungs functioning again, that doesn’t feel like the worst thing ever. Ilya reaches out a hand while his other arm remains wrapped around his knees, and grabs at Shane, his fingers latching  in the neckline of Shane’s hoodie. Shane startles, but lets Ilya pull him in. 

Ilya brings his legs down from his chest and guides Shane into his lap. He curls into him, breathing deeply. Shane smells like eucalyptus and perfection. 

“I’m so sorry,” Ilya eventually manages to choke out the words, and even though he means them he doesn’t think Shane will like to hear it. He’s sorry for causing Shane so much stress and he’s sorry for being so broken and he’s sorry that someone as perfect as Shane has to be bound to someone as flawed as him.

Shane pulls his head out of Ilya’s lap and cradles Ilya’s face. He’s crying. “No, Ilya,” he says softly, “you never have  to apologise. Not for this.”

Ilya shakes his head, exhaling slowly. “I made you scared again,” he whispers.

“Only because I didn’t know how to help,” Shane responds in the same tone, “I’ve never seen…” he pauses, “I know that you have panic attacks. But I’ve never been here for something like that. Fuck, Ilya, that was- I thought that I’d seen you panic but that was something else.”

“They are usually worse after nightmares,” Ilya admits, “And I never had nightmares with you.”

“But you did tonight?” Shane looks guilty, almost. Like he’s analyzing everything that’s happened to figure out what went wrong.

“Yes,” Ilya says, “Since the plane I have felt it, but I had to- I couldn’t. For the team. And,” Ilya looks at Shane sheepishly, “And for you. I wanted to be strong, because everyone around me needed that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Shane breathes.

“I think I did, a little. But it is not possible to be strong when you are panicking. So when I stopped having to be strong…”

“Ah.”

“Is okay,” Ilya murmurs, “I would rather panic on the floor of your bathroom than in front of the rookies.” 

Shane is still looking at him like he could fall apart at any moment. “I would rather you didn’t panic at all,” he says, “I don’t like that I didn’t know how to help you.”

Ilya offers him a small smile. “You helped me, Shane. You stayed. Usually, this is all I need.”

“I wish I could do more. I wish I could be with you whenever you panic. I wish…”

Ilya brings his hand to Shane’s face, brushing his thumb against Shane’s freckles. “One day, my love. You will be.”

“Really?” Shane seems almost surprised.

“Well yes,” Ilya says because it’s obvious, “I will not play hockey forever. Probably you will not either. No reason to live apart other than that.”

“Oh.”

“You do want this, yes?” Ilya feels a sudden terrible concern.

“Of course I want this. All I want is this. You are, fuck,” Shane knocks his head into Ilya’s collarbone, “you are everything, Ilya.” His voice breaks. Ilya just holds him tighter.

“I love you,” Ilya says the words like they can fix things. They can, a little. “More than I know anything else, I know this.”

With Shane, maybe, he doesn’t have to be strong. They can be a little broken together. The universe put them together for a reason, after all.

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

Ilya, May
The Ottawa Centaurs got knocked out in the second round of the playoffs, but that's further than they’ve ever gone before, and Ilya is confident they can get even further next year. It’s disappointing, but the team is in good spirits. Ilya, selfishly, is a little bit grateful, too. If they had won the round, they would have had to play in the Conference Final against Montreal. Against Shane. As much as Ilya loves to compete against his soulmate, it would have been rough to do it in such a high stakes environment. Shane, Ilya knows, would have felt a lot of pressure from Montreal as well. 

This way, Ilya can sit in the comfort of his own home and watch Shane annihilate Florida on his TV screen. Or he can drive out to Montreal to watch the home games in person. Or, he can do something he might regret later, and host a Conference Finals game seven watch party at his house. With the team. And their wives.

He sends the text out to the team group chat knowing full well that aside from Bood and Wyatt, nobody has ever been to his house before. Ilya hasn’t minded that. It has let him grow comfortable and safe in Ottawa. As time has passed, however, he has started to feel safe around the team. Especially after the plane crash, Ilya has seen just how closely the team has bonded. Hosting a party like this is something Ilya would have done before Russia, back when he was still with Boston. Back when he could go to clubs and get blackout drunk and not feel afraid.

Ilya invites his team and within minutes he has received a half dozen incredibly enthusiastic RSVPs. He can do this. He can host a party and organize a good time and not freak out about it. Shane knows about the party, and even though he’s probably stressed out of his mind down in Florida, he still manages to be an amazing partner, calling Ilya the night before.

It feels a little stupid that Ilya’s worrying over a social event with his friends while Shane is worrying about the Conference Finals, but Shane never makes it feel like that. Shane is the perfect soulmate, and slowly Ilya is beginning to believe that perfection is something he deserves.

Wyatt shows up three hours early to help Ilya prepare, and together they run to the store to buy far too much alcohol and snacks. The Cens’ season is over now, so this is the type of indulgence that Ilya, personally, thinks is completely acceptable. 

By six pm, Ilya’s house is crammed with hockey players, hockey players' wives, and other members of the Cens staff team. Bood has taken over the makeshift bar, inventing terrible cocktails on the spot. Luca Haas is sitting on Ilya’s floor with Anya, looking around like he can’t really believe whose house he is in. Chouinard, Dykstra, and Wyatt are all engaged in some sort of debate as to the correct subway order. 

Ilya stands on the periphery, analysing himself. This is okay. This is good. On the TV, the puck is about to drop, and conversations lull while everyone watches Shane skate up to the faceoff circle. Ilya presses into his chest where Shane’s name lies, as though it could telegraph some sort of message. The ref drops the puck, and Shane is on it before the Tampa center can react, tearing down the ice like a man possessed. 

Ilya has a lovesick expression on his face, and somebody notices, chirping him lightly. Ilya just laughs. He reclines on his couch, slinging an arm over Haas’s shoulder, the rookie having moved up from the floor. “Watch closely,” Ilya tells him, “this will be us next year.”

Haas looks up at Ilya, disbelieving. “You can’t know that,” he protests.

Ilya hums in response, a smirk on his face “Yes I can,” he says. He moves his hand up to ruffle Haas’s hair because doing so makes the rookie flush an endearing shade of red. “I am getting a drink. You want?” he asks.

“Oh,” Haas nods, “year just a beer would be great.”

Shane finishes his shift on the ice and Ilya seizes the opportunity to run and grab the drinks. Bood has abandoned his post in favour of the game, and so Ilya opens the fridge to grab what he needs. There are still a few beers, and so he pulls one out for Haas, but Ilya had been hoping to get some vodka for himself, and there doesn’t appear to be a bottle left. Luckily, Ilya has more in the pantry. 

He puts the beer down on the counter, and goes around the corner, approaching the pantry door. The light is already on, which is weird, because Shane has conditioned Ilya to keep the lights off when he’s not in a space.

 Ilya opens the door, and finds Troy Barrett making out with Harris against his dry goods. All three men freeze. Troy pulls his tongue out of Harris’s mouth, eyes wide. “We  were just-” he starts, but doesn’t seem to be able to get much further than that. 

“Oh I know what you were ‘just’”, Ilya tries really hard not to laugh and mostly succeeds, “do not stop for me, I am just here to get more drinks.” He reaches around them to grab a few bottles. Ilya makes to leave and spare Troy and Harris from the embarrassment they are clearly feeling, when he gets a fantastic little idea. He grabs a ceramic jar from the top shelf of the space, and opens it, pulling out a string of condoms. After the second time Shane let Ilya suck him off in here, it had been necessary to keep a stash somewhere nearby. Ilya tucks the condoms in the pocket of Troy’s shift with a grin, and replaces the jar in its spot. He picks up the bottles again, and turns away. “Please turn off the light when you are done,” he calls over his shoulder.

Half a second too late, he hears Harris’s meek reply, “okay.”

Ilya smiles to himself like this was somehow his doing. Maybe it was. Good. Troy needs someone who isn’t an asshole, and Harris, though Ilya doesn’t know him very well yet, seems to be a solid guy. Ilya wonders if they’re soulmates. He wonders if they know yet.

He returns to the living room just in time to watch Shane hop the boards, and within thirty seconds he’s scored a goal, pushing Montreal out to a 3:1 lead. There isn’t much time left in the game, and so with all likelihood Shane will be heading to the finals for a second year in a row. As much as Ilya hates Montreal, he really hopes they win. Winning would prove to Shane that even after an entire season of being out, he is still a phenomenal player. Ilya worries that Shane forgets sometimes how valuable he is to Montreal. A back to back Stanley Cup win would prove it once and for all. It would also, for the first time in a while, give the hockey corner of the internet something to care about that isn’t Shane and Ilya’s relationship.

When, five minutes later, the Metros win the game, Ilya can’t help the goofy expression that takes over his face. His soulmate is so good at hockey. His Shane is everything.

Game six of the Stanley Cup finals is in Montreal, and there’s a very real chance that Shane will end the night as a two time Cup champion. Ilya is sitting with Jackie Pike in regular seats, because some of the Montreal WAGs still seem to kind of hate his guts and Ilya isn’t looking to get into any sort of fight in the family suite tonight. And it’s not like the seats are bad, either. They have a great view of the ice, and Ilya is able to watch Shane’s face on the bench as well. 

Jackie didn’t have to be here with him, and they don’t exactly know each other well, but apparently Shane had let slip that Sveta couldn’t make it like she did last year, and Jackie had immediately suggested she keep him company. It’s nice. A lot of things have been nice, lately. 

Really, there’s only one part of Ilya’s life that isn’t nice, and it has a whole lot to do with the arena Ilya finds himself in.

Shane, as much as he tries to pretend otherwise, is fucking miserable in Montreal. Unlike Ilya, his team isn’t supportive. He only has Hayden, really. Maybe JJ, from what Ilya’s heard lately, though it doesn’t seem like JJ has actually apologised for his actions either. Ilya knows that Shane is too loyal to ever complain about how he gets treated in the locker room, but it’s impossible to ignore the way Shane’s face falls whenever it’s time for him to return to this place.

With the end of this season, Shane’s contract will be up, and he will enter free agency. Despite everything, Montreal will probably try to sign him again, as the man who led the team to back to back Stanley Cups. Shane might even agree. 

Ilya desperately hopes he doesn’t. Even if Shane ends up somewhere further away, Ilya would rather he be with a team that doesn’t treat him like shit. 

The thing is, Shane doesn’t have to end up somewhere further away. He could actually wind up somewhere really close. Really, really close.

Ilya is wearing a custom Cens’ jersey with Hollander across the back. It’s just a suggestion. A really good suggestion, that he hopes Shane considers. Shane probably will. With a few guys retiring this year, there’s room in Ottawa for Shane and his impressive salary. 

Despite the way Ilya is trying not to pressure Shane, there is nothing on earth he wants more.

***

“This is the second year in a row that Montreal has been in the Stanley cup final,” says a commentator, warmups just beginning on the ice. A camera shows Ilya sitting in his seat, chatting animatedly with Jackie, “and it’s also the second year in a row that Ilya Rozanov has shown up in a different team’s jersey. Rozanov and Hollander are of course, quite infamously soulmates, though they’re very private about their personal lives. It makes you wonder if they are actually a couple at all, the way Rozanov won’t even wear his soulmate’s jersey at a game this important.”

“Very true,” replies a second anchor, “I think since Rozanov’s post over a year ago, the biggest hint we’ve gotten that they are, in fact, in a real relationship, beyond paparazzi shots of course, is the single comment Hollander left on a post when the Cens plane crashed.”

“Yeah. They’re private guys for sure. Last year, Roz wore a San Jose jersey, San Jose of course being the team the Metros would go on to beat for the cup. This year, he’s still not supporting the Metros, but he is making quite the statement.”

“Oh you can say that again. He’s wearing an Ottawa jersey-  his own team, but with Hollander’s name across the back.” 

“Josh, I think the message is pretty clear.”

“It absolutely is,” the man chuckles,  “Roz is saying that he supports his soulmate, and would much prefer to have him on his own team”

“I can’t say I’m surprised there, Chris. Rumors around Montreal locker room dynamics since Hollander and Rozanov came out have not been great.”

“Could you imagine it? Hollander and Rozanov on the same team? The same line?”

“That’s one way to get the Cens a cup.”

***

Shane, May

Shane had told himself, once, that he owed the Metros a cup. The ultimate win was a due he had to pay, a gratitude he had to express to the team that drafted him. That had been a year ago. 

He had gotten Montreal that cup. Despite everything, he had pulled it off. He had worked his ass off for this team, dragging them to glory kicking and screaming and for what? This whole season has been hell. He had given the Metros everything he had, and they had given him nothing in return but pity and hostility and anger. 

Shane is beginning to realize that nothing he does will ever be enough for this team. No amount of goals or passes or leadership will ever let them forget that in addition to being the best player in the league, Shane Hollander is in love with Ilya Rozanov.

Shane is also beginning to realize that maybe he doesn’t care anymore, what this team thinks of him. Maybe he doesn’t care about the team at all. Obviously, Shane cares about Hayden, and JJ. Obviously, Shane is proud of how he has led this team over the years. Shane will never stop caring about hockey. But maybe, at some point in the last year, he stopped caring about playing hockey with the Metros.

He has free agency coming up, and half the teams in the league have reached out. It’s nice to know that not everyone hates him the way guys like Comeau and Drapeau seem to hate him.

Shane hasn’t told anyone yet, but he’s already decided not to resign with Montreal, no matter what they offer him. He has a top choice for a new team too. After the Centaurs’ performance this year, it isn’t even that much of a downgrade in teams.

When the game ends, Shane is on the bench. They won. They fucking won. 

Shane wishes it felt as good as it did the first time, back when Shane actually believed that things with the guys would smooth over. Back when Shane thought that winning might change something. Still, he vaults over the boards and pulls Hayden into a crushing hug. 

When they pull apart, Hayden’s eyes are wet. Shane thinks Hayden probably knows that this was the last game he would ever play in Montreal’s blue and red. They’ll talk more, later. 

Shane has to shake hands with Roger Crowell as league officials pass him the Cup, and he can’t decide which of them is more uncomfortable about it. It’s survivable though, because Shane knows that after this the ice will flood with families. With Ilya. 

Ilya hadn’t come down to the ice last year because Shane had been too afraid. He had been worried about how Montreal would react to such a blatant reminder of who Shane loved. Well, fuck Montreal. Shane is going to kiss his soulmate just like any other guy would, and he would like to see Roger fucking Crowell try to stop him.

As white women with slickbacks and children in Metros jerseys flood the ice, Shane stands with Hayden and searches for the love of his life. Ilya is hard to miss. 

Shane watches as Ilya and Jackie make their way towards where he stands with Hayden. The Pike children are at home, Shane remembers Hayden saying, since last year the game had lasted to double overtime and there is school tomorrow.

Once Ilya is in front of him, Shane can’t wipe the grin off his face. He pinches the fabric of Ilya’s jersey between his fingers, raising an eyebrow. “Real subtle,” he quips. Ilya just smiles up at him.

“Is just an idea… And I could not have people thinking I supported Montreal.”

Shane places one hand on Ilya’s waist and another between his shoulders and pulls him into a crushing hug.

Ilya stiffens for a second, surprised, before quickly relaxing into the embrace and holding Shane just as tightly. With Shane in skates and Ilya in runners, they have a wonderful height difference that kind of means everything to Shane.

 “I’m done,” he says into Ilya’s ear.

 “What?” Ilya pulls them apart, just a fraction. Hands on Shane’s arms. 

“I’m done,” Shane repeats, “With this team. With being apart from you. I know you said that we could be together once we’re done with hockey, but I told myself I’d get the team that drafted me a Cup, and now they have two, and it’s enough.” Shane takes a minute to catch his breath. Ilya’s eyes are wet, and he has this little smile that looks almost relieved.

“Where are you going to go?” Ilya breathes. Shane kisses him, right there on the ice. They both know the answer in that moment. When they separate, lips red and eyes shining, Shane answers anyways.

 “Ottawa,” he says, and then, “They’re kind of bad, but there’s this one center who is nice to look at, and he’s turning things around.”

“Oh really?”

“Really.”

Chapter End Notes

all done! yippeee. now i need to take a break from fic and lock in for finals but maybe i will return.......
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