Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Harris Drover, Wyatt Hayes

Additional Tags:

past mentions of Svetlana and Ilya's relationship, hockey typical homophobia, family trauma and grief, past forced outing, Slow Burn, I mean slow I really mean S L O W, Injury healing, Ilya is trying so so hard, Long Form Character Study, Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, Loverboy Ilya Rozanov, Explicit sex scenes, Yearning and pining and crawling, conversations around death and dying, graphic injury explanations, somehow I always end up with a dog coded character, Ilya as a (metaphorical) rescue dog, very slight D/s dynamics, Brushing against sub Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of don't swallow the cap

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-28 Completed: 2026-05-02 Words: 178,180 Chapters: 24/24

I have only two emotions (careful fear and dead devotion)

Summary

Shane disappears from the hockey world between the prospect cup and the draft.

Years later, Ilya ends up playing for Ottawa anyway.

Notes

Yes, hello. Lovely to see all of you here.

I have mostly been working on a personal project lately, but of course I was seized by the hockey boys and I have developed a fic for them. I know, I know. But, trust me with this one.

I hope you guys enjoy this one.

the fic title is from Don't Swallow the Cap by The National. I can't explain it but Ilya is a song by The National. The chapter title is from Slipped by The National.

Hockey is not my sport and everything in this fic is captured from years of my friends talking about hockey and the years long situationship I had with A Hockey Guy.

Chapter 1: prologue - I'm having trouble inside my skin

Svetlana brings over a bottle of vodka - the stuff she only breaks out when things are bad. The last time he saw this particular brand she had just turned down his very poorly timed proposal of marriage. The time before that was when they flew back from Russia together with the knowledge that Ilya might not ever go back. 

Ilya should perhaps be more concerned with his future, but it’s the first drink he’s had since his injury and he’s going to savor it. Even if it is Svetlana’s backwards way of apologizing to him for his life blowing up. For Ilya blowing his own life up. 

They’re silent for a long time - long enough that Ilya has moved onto a second glass - but, Ilya welcomes the silence. 

Silence with Svetlana is different from the silence he’s been suffering with his teammates. A long string of visits that always spiral down into uncomfortable silence that Ilya would have filled before - before he wrecked his season, maybe his career, by spinning out of control for too long. He would have been the life of the party with them before this - before he was relegated to the couch in his mostly impersonal, empty house and informed that despite everything he gave Boston, they would not give him back. 

“Who has called?” 

Ilya ignores her, pouring himself a third glass. 

It’s helping to numb some of the ache in his arm, in his ribs. He’s not had a drink since the accident, but he’s not been taking the pain killers since he got released from the hospital either. They set his teeth on edge and make him feel like he'll never be warm again. He had gritted through it the way he always had, but this injury was not...just an on ice injury. And now that the warmth of this good vodka flooded his system, he has to admit that he was in much more pain than he wanted to face.

He wants to savor this feeling. 

Especially now.

She does not let it drop, demanding this time. “Who has called?”

Ilya knows who has called - or not called him. They’ve called his agent and the list sits in alphabetical order in his inbox. Also listed out by offers. Best to worst. 

Even the best offer is not what he’s worth and he very much does not want to talk about this - he wishes Svetlana had not come to ply him with the good vodka, he wishes that he was not sitting on his couch while his team played a string of games on the West Coast, he wishes that he…that he -

“Tampa?” 

Ilya feels the press of her foot against his thigh, insistent. She will not let this go. 

He does not want to talk about this, it’s such a tangled, horrible ball in his chest of shame. Hatred. 

At himself, at Boston, at his father, at Svetlana maybe too. 

But, that’s not fair because she had said the same to him in the hospital - when he had woken up from surgery, two more pins in his body than had been there before. A headache. A horrible knowledge that he had pushed too far this time. A knowledge that his awards and his championships and his charm would not bail him out of this. 

If I had married you, would you be trying so hard to ruin yourself?

Maybe, he had wanted to say. Maybe I would have ruined us both. But he had been too high to make his mouth work - in English or Russian. And it hadn’t really been fair either. They were not in love. Not the way people would expect them to be in this country. 

Ilya loved her, but he did not…he did not love her romantically. He still doesn’t. Even though his whole life might be better for it - if he could get there with her. 

Ilya sips on the very good - very much a bribe - vodka and nods his head. “Tampa, yes. They are not offering me anything worth moving to Florida.”

There’s a dismissive wave of Svetlana’s hand that makes Ilya smile. A gesture she picked up from him.

God, he wishes he could love her.

“You love Florida.”

He does.

But. 

“They do not have enough money to pay you, of course, but if you -” Ilya waves his hand just like she just did and she stops speaking. She now sighs heavily, turning away from him to look out the window. 

She is probably thinking about it - how he might never be the same player. How he might have to take less money to play somewhere for many years until he can retire. How he has done enough to get him a place on a team that needs some star power and then he can be mediocre - he can help teach the next generation of players. 

Ilya knows what she’s thinking because he thinks it too. Every time his agent reaches out to check in. Every time he is awake in the middle of the night. Every time his physical therapist shows up at his door. He thinks about it constantly. 

A side effect of not just being told that Boston will not offer him another contract, but because he almost died. He almost died and the only person he had to call was a childhood friend who he very likely is holding back from having her own life. 

He may never win another trophy, he may never be called the greatest hockey player. 

Ilya might have thrown all of that away when he crashed his very expensive, stupid car into a fence after a very long, very public spiral of too much partying and bad choices. 

“I have a list,” Ilya finally says, when the silence turns suffocating. “You can tell me what you think.” Except when he pulls his phone off the arm of the couch to pull up the list, his phone is vibrating. 

He does not have the number saved, which really means nothing because he is notoriously bad at saving numbers into his phone, but the thing that makes him pause is that it is a Canadian number. 

Ilya has always…liked Canada. He cannot really explain why, but the lack of Canadian teams on the list from his agent had been a bit hard to accept. 

He squints at it, and averts his eyes away from Svetlana as he slides the little dot to answer it. 

“Hello,” he says, wary. Hoping his voice does not give that away - a weakness. 

“Ilya,” a man’s gentle voice greets him. “This is Brandon Wiebe. Ottawa. I got your number off of Wyatt.” And then a beat. "Hayes."

Wyatt and Ilya had played on the All Star team together last season - when he had mostly had a handle on his himself and the hole in his chest. 

Wyatt is a great goalie and probably a better person. Grounded, is the word. Hayes is grounded. Steady. Maybe because that is the kind of player he is, but also maybe because he was a no one that turned into an All Star after a trade to Ottawa.

Ilya had been a bit jealous of that even though he had been unable to admit it at the time. He hadn’t had the time. Then. But, now…

“I know this is a bit out of the ordinary,” the voice says.

Svetlana pushes his foot into Ilya’s thigh again and he reaches over and squeezes her calf. Someone to hold him down because he is suddenly weirdly hopeful. Over a team that is mostly a running joke - terrible and a flagging fanbase. 

But Wyatt is a good man, and Brandon Wiebe has a soft voice, and it's Canada - Ottawa. A place that Ilya always - 

“I am in Boston,” Coach Wiebe says. “And I have a free afternoon.”

Ottawa is not playing in Boston. Boston is in Seattle tonight. Coach Wiebe is not in Boston for…hockey. Likely. Which means -

“I was hoping we could talk.”

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, the roaring in his chest going out in one exhale. It does not make sense. Right now, he cannot lay it out end over end and understand it. He only knows his response. Both the one Wiebe is waiting for and the one he will have at the end of their conversation. “I will send you my address.” He says, “I am sure you understand, at the moment, driving and I do not get along."

Wiebe's laugh is more of a huff through the phone and Ilya likes it immediately. Irrationally. "Of course, I am already in my car outside my hotel."

Ilya squeezes Svetlana's leg again. 

Ottawa of all places.

Chapter 2: somebody said you disappeared from the crowd

Chapter Summary

Ilya starts with the Centaurs.

Chapter Notes

Hellllooooo,
So, this is a mix of book canon, show canon, and me. Sorry everyone. I try and lay out the bricks for you to follow, but if there's something tripping you up, let me know.

I will likely be slow to update this as I do have other writing projects I have going on, but that's okay because this story is worth telling to me.

Once again, this is slow slow burn. I wrote a slow burn fic last year and was kind of having a menty b about people hating it because it took like 30k for them to touch, but I think this is going to be worse. Except this year, I'm not apologizing about it.

As Ilya would say in this fic. New leaf!

The chapter title is from Pink Rabbits by The National.

Ilya spends the summer cursing his physical therapist and looking at photos of couches and drapes on Svetlana’s laptop. 

He drives two hours north in his new sensible SUV and stays in a questionable hotel so he can skate at the rink there after hours and get yelled at about his form by some ancient Finnish guy who played in the NHL one thousand years ago.

Svetlana hires the crew that packs his things, she finds the art dealer to sell the things not going to his new house - house, because he bought one of those in Canada. Four bedrooms and a basement gym and privacy.

The realtor called it a family home. Ilya had nodded at her in that empty but charming way he can always manage to do.

There’s a box of Ottawa Centaurs merch shipped to him - an iPad, a silly pair of sunglasses, a welcome letter from the owners even though Ilya met them and had dinner with them when he flew up to sign his contract and buy his house and take the press photos.

He fills out paperwork for his lawyer and he pays his too big fine to the state of Massachusetts and he eats the protein breakfast that the nutritionist makes him even though he very much wants a McGriddle.

Ilya does his rehab and he skates and he suffers through a dinner with the Bears where he smiles at each of them as they give him empty words and he hugs them when they talk about their cup win and tell him he will be missed.

The feeling of failure is not new to Ilya. He thinks it’s maybe the first thing he could really pick out of himself as a child. It still stings to look at the faces of his teammates and know that he failed them. 

He had been their leader and he had spiraled too hard into that dark pit in his chest to lead them and he had failed them. 

They are not sad to see him go, he realizes. And he is not particularly sad to go, it’s just that…

It itches - this world, this life he had in Boston. 

The problem is that it itches in Ottawa too. 

Ilya leaves Boston too late in the day, lingering and lingering until Svetlana puts the keys to his new ridiculous SUV in his hand and tells him to leave. It means it’s properly dark when he pulls into the driveway of his new house and when he shuts off the engine, he doesn’t open the door right away. 

The porch light is on and he knows that the house is nearly completely furnished and that all he has to do is grab his duffle bag and go inside, but he still cannot make himself move. 

This is his new leaf. It is what Coach Wiebe had said that day, sitting across from Ilya on a chair Svetlana had pulled into the living room for him. He had said this could be Ilya’s chance at turning over a new leaf. 

Ilya had googled it after he left, and also after he had decided he would accept Ottawa’s offer, and he had liked the sound of it - the feeling of those words. 

New leaf. 

Ilya will come to Ottawa and he will…be better. He will not sleep with so many people, he will not stay out drinking with the rookies in the name of team building, he will be just as cocky as the team needs him to be, but maybe…perhaps, the itch under his skin that has existed nearly his entire life…maybe that could be soothed. 

Maybe he could make a life here. Maybe he could move on from the ghost of his father and the failure of letting down his team and the emptiness that he sometimes felt in his chest when he moved through people on the street in Boston when it was the dead of winter and nights were long and Ilya was lonely.

Svetlana had known in the way she always did and that is why she was so eager to help him with this move. Or maybe she simply wanted him gone so she could finally have her own life. Ilya tries not to consider the second option as much as he does the first. 

Ottawa is risking something on him - on someone who played two games with his team after an injury that was Ilya’s fault. Ottawa is risking money and development opportunities for the next generation to have Ilya here, and maybe it’s the itch and maybe it’s because Ilya nearly lost it all, but he really doesn’t want to fuck it up again. 

Wiebe is nice and Wyatt Hayes has been texting Ilya steadily since it broke that he was going to the Centaurs. 

The woman who made him pose for what felt like hours in his new Centaurs jersey was funny. Beautiful, but also very clearly not impressed with Ilya’s joking - a byproduct of working with hockey players. 

Ilya bought a house that maybe a version of him would have been happier to own. He is on a team who has promised him a lot of things that Boston never did. He bought a sensible SUV that he can drive in the snow instead of risking another one of his ridiculous sports cars to the wrecker. 

The house is there and Ilya should get out of the car and go inside and wind down, make a list of groceries to go pick up tomorrow or send Sveta photos of her immaculately chosen interior design, but it still feels like a house that belongs to someone else, a life that is some other version of him would have. 

There’s a pack of cigarettes in the bottom of his bag and he thinks he can stand outside and smoke one cigarette while he considers the type of person he wants to be under his new leaf. 

It’s what he allows himself. One cigarette’s worth of thoughts. 

At the end of the cigarette, all he can really think of is not me and he does not really think that is an answer. 

He decides to try again tomorrow. 

Ilya wakes early. He fell asleep on his shoulder last night and he’s paying for it - jolted awake as he shifts in his sleep and the ache grows inside his body.

Injuries are not new. Pain is not new. But, something about this injury is lingering with him. In his mind. According to every doctor and specialist, he is fine - maybe better now than he had been before. 

It is just that his mind cannot help but remember the pain - the searing pain of the accident and then the nothingness that followed. 

He decides that he won’t mope in bed. That’s new leaf. 

Today he has to make it to the grocery store. Lingering in Boston means that he only has today to get settled before he is expected at the rink tomorrow. Not for practice, but for all the new things that must be done when you start at a new team. 

Ilya has sat on the sidelines for these things for new players. They would get a tour and then have photos taken and sometimes, if they were lucky, they got to go out on the ice for a bit. Just a lap or two. 

Ilya hopes there will be time for a lap or two. 

If he has one cigarette on his back porch…well, it gives him time to think about what is ahead of him.

Coach Wiebe has called a few times since he signed his contract - updates on training, checking in, letting Ilya know that he had signed all the paperwork the lawyer had sent over to the Centaurs for his visa. It had surprised Ilya - that Wiebe had called him directly. He could maybe count on one hand the number of times that his head coach had called him before. And mostly because Ilya had fucked something up. 

Ilya might be coming off an injury and he had been told that he would have time to ease into the season, but Ilya doesn’t need to ease. Hockey is not the problem. All fears about him never coming back have been put out of his mind. 

He did not take a hit on the ice, so it isn’t like he’s got some fucked up fear of taking another hit. The Finn had put him through paces he hasn’t experienced since Russia. His shoulder aches sometimes, but strangely, it’s made him a more balanced skater. 

No, his fear lies within him. With how he will handle the team. With the people. 

Ilya has always been good at people and he knows he’s charming and funny. An asshole, but like, loveable. It’s what that kid from New York told him the last time Ilya had been at an All Stars game. A loveable asshole.

Ilya was the best before his injury. There was no one that could take him on before. On the ice or in the locker room. He can wind up a room and give a speech and be the star in the room, but he hasn’t done that in a very long time. Not since before his injury. 

He tried. He worked hard to be that guy, but it had been brittle and weak and his team had started to see the cracking underneath the surface. He wonders if this team will be the same. Or perhaps because they don’t know him - only what they’ve seen of him on ice or in the press - he will be able to get away with it. If he can be this less boisterous, less charming version of himself and still be who Ottawa needs him to be. 

Good at hockey, funny enough, asshole to the other team. 

Will that be enough or will they also see what Ilya knows about himself now? Post accident. That he is going through the motions. That hockey is the only thing he knows about himself anymore. That the things he was using to be enough are no longer enough so he stopped doing them. 

The answer is that it has to be. Ilya needs this. He needs this team to work. He needs to find something to carry him through because he needs this. He needs Canada to work for him because he can never go home again - for more than one reason. He needs Canada to work because he needs a home. He needs to find a home and he needs to find people and he needs to find himself.

Ilya smokes another cigarette and he thinks about what he needs to get at the grocery store. That’s easier to do than contemplating how this season will go.

Ilya is freshly showered, his hair still a bit wet, tapping away at the grocery list on his phone when his doorbell rings. Ilya realizes in the next second that he lives in a family neighborhood now and they might come over and greet him, bring him wine or something. 

He is not expecting to see Wyatt Hayes standing on his doorstep holding a branded box that is nearly the size of him. 

“Hey, man,” Wyatt greets, stepping into the house without waiting on Ilya to invite him in. “Good to see you.”

“Hayes,” Ilya says, and then his brain catches up to him. “I hope that is not more Centaurs merch.”

Wyatt laughs, easily and freely and then kind of rattles the box. It clinks. “You got a nice place,” he says, not waiting for Ilya to show him around, just walking down the hallway, probably looking for a place to set the huge box down. “Sorry for just showing up, I was going to just leave it on the doorstep if you weren’t home.”

Ilya trails after him. “So it is not Centaurs hoodies.”

“I got your address from Harris.” Wyatt has still not answered him. “And the cider. A welcome gift.”

They cross into the kitchen and Wyatt heaves the box up onto the island, pushing it away from the ledge. Ilya watches him. 

“Lisa is at the hospital today, and I was thinking to myself, Roz has to be in town already, and I haven’t seen you since I don’t know, almost a year. Wanted to come and see you for myself.”

Ilya nods at him, feeling strangely…touched. 

“By the looks of this place though, you been here awhile?”

“I had a designer help to get the house set up.” That’s easier than dragging Svetlana into this. Letting Wyatt assume things about their relationship. “I need groceries still. Do you know the best grocery store around here?”

Wyatt stands up straight. “Yeah, man. Let’s go to the store.”

Ilya thinks the look on his face gives away his shock. 

“I love the grocery store,” Wyatt says, already heading for the front door. “It’s calming, you know?”

“Okay, Hayes,” Ilya laughs, scooping up the keys he left on the kitchen island. “You will tell me what weird Canadian food to avoid.”

Wyatt makes a noise that might be a laugh. “Do not say that in front of Harris. He will turn it into a YouTube video.”

Ilya has no idea what that means so he just agrees and then locks the front door behind him. 

Wyatt is easy to be around. 

He asks Ilya questions about his house and if the features in Ilya’s ridiculous SUV and what Ilya thinks of other trade news and their upcoming season and Ilya answers him - half truth and half sarcasm, slipping in and out of broken English because he did not sleep last night and his brain is tired, but Wyatt does not call him out for it the way Smythe would have. 

Wyatt does not bring up road hookups or hockey gossip. He tells Ilya about the best grocery stores and he asks him if he owns enough coats and then doesn’t let Ilya answer before he says, “why am I asking a Russian? It is like asking a fish monger if they have fish.”

Ilya does not know what a fish monger is and he does not ask, pulling his car into the parking lot that Wyatt directs him into. 

They get everything on Ilya’s list and then some, Wyatt insisting he try a different brand of jam, different cookies, a new pickle brand. 

Ilya thinks it’s nice - not having to stumble through all of this alone like he had in Boston. No one warned him about bread & butter pickles when he moved to Boston. 

He makes sure the pickles he picks up are dill pickles and Wyatt laughs as Ilya tells him about the evil, sickly sweet pickles he bought and put on his sandwich. Wyatt laughs in the aisle of the grocery store until he’s almost crying. 

It feels good. Not just to make his teammate laugh, but to do it over pickles - during a time where they are not forced to spend time together.

Wyatt is good and Ilya tries to reach back and see if he can remember this happening with Boston. He cannot. 

It makes the rest of the shopping trip go by quickly. Ilya agrees to try the brand of protein powder that Wyatt says is good. They load the back of Ilya’s trunk with the groceries together.

“I can make you lunch?” Ilya offers as Wyatt deposits the last bag of groceries onto the counter. “Teammate bonding.” He gestures between them, puffing up his chest a bit.

“The rest of the guys are already jealous, we can’t upset them too early, yeah?” Wyatt laughs, clapping Ilya on the shoulder. 

Ilya had no idea why the rest of the team would be jealous, but he doesn’t ask. 

“You got the press shit tomorrow?” Wyatt asks, but doesn’t wait for Ilya to confirm. “Might swing by if I have time,” he tells him. “Bood is at some wedding this week in New York or else he’d be here. I told him I would come in tomorrow if I could and make sure Harris doesn’t overwhelm you.”

Ilya thinks it’s time for him to ask. “Harris?”

Wyatt makes a face that Ilya thinks means I am an idiot and then he wiggles his fingers. “He does our social media and oogles us.”

Ilya believed until today that he had a better grasp on the English language. “Oogle…”

Wyatt laughs again, clapping Ilya on the shoulder again. “You’ll see,” he kind of tips an imaginary hat at Ilya and starts to walk backwards. “Whatever you do, do not ask him about music. You will find yourself in possession of more pop music than you even know existed.”

“No music,” Ilya nods grimly even though now he is curious. He likes music. “Got it.”

And just as Wyatt is disappearing around the corner he says, “And if Harris gets to be too much, you can go hide out with Hollzy. He will pull out his spreadsheets and Harris will run away. Allergic to numbers.”

Ilya kind of follows him, suddenly aware that he should let him out of his house, but Wyatt doesn’t seem bothered by Ilya’s…lack of Ilya today and by the time Ilya is at the door, Wyatt is climbing into his car, waving at him. 

That wasn’t horrible. He’s kind of glad Wyatt came over. Ilya knows now that he really needs to turn it up tomorrow when he has to go in and sign more paperwork, take more photos, move his things into the rink. 

Ilya is putting the pickles away - dill, not bread & butter - when he realizes that Wyatt had said he had promised their captain he would try and come tomorrow. Today, he came because…

Maybe this is the new leaf Wiebe meant. 

Ilya puts on a Centaurs shirt. 

It’s thankfully black even though he’s not sure he’s ever seen any of the guys with a black one on. The thought that they special made him a black t-shirt fills him with glee. 

The address of the rink is already in his GPS system - which is all Sveta. He makes a note to send her flowers this week. Maybe a case of vodka. A purse. He knows he needs to do something over the top for her. She deserves it. 

Ilya had not looked up the word oogle, but he doesn’t think he needs to. Not after meeting Harris. 

Ilya likes him immediately. 

His own sexuality has always been a loose fluid thing. He likes who he likes. He likes what he likes. It’s been a secret out of necessity because of Russia and his father and the NHL, but he is now never going home to Russia, his father is dead, and Scott Hunter gay kissed his boyfriend on ice. 

He never really considered it not being a secret though. Even if Scott is gay, it doesn’t really mean the NHL will change overnight. That locker room will be welcoming. That staff would be supportive. 

Which is one of the reasons that he doesn’t really mind the oogling. Not when it feels like another sign. Impossibly. 

A sign that this might be a place for him to be. 

Harris has a gay pride pin on the little bag he’s got slung over his shoulder. He looks at Ilya - a look Ilya has given himself in different settings. He has on a Centaurs shirt from a past pride night and he hugs Ilya as soon as he’s introduced himself. No hesitation. 

“Ilya!” Harris shouts almost directly into his ear. But, not in the asshole if I shout you will understand my English better way that some people still did. It was joy. Ilya could hear it in his voice. “Wow, I am so glad you are here. I have a full schedule for us today.”

“You will want to film?” Ilya asks. “For social media?”

Harris has a warm laugh. “We are still working on summer hours. Last minute vacations. You know.” He kind of manhandles Ilya towards one hallway and Ilya laughs, shocking himself. He likes Harris very much. “I am here to be your personal tour guide.”

“What is first?” Ilya asks, feeling something in his chest loosen. “You have left time for me to skate, yes? Social media will love to see me on home ice.”

Harris laughs - big and loud. “We start and end in the locker room, so yes. You should be able to get some ice time.”

Ilya nods, itching to be on the ice later, but happy to walk along with Harris and check all the boxes. He is being good. He is doing new leaf. 

The locker room is the same as the visitor’s locker room here except that the stalls are a bit bigger. Ilya drops his bag, knows he will be back before the first practice to put everything exactly the way he wants. 

Harris makes a joke about the empty room and how it won’t be empty long as people start to trickle back in from holidays and their summer plans.

Ilya likes him. 

Harris does not make small talk. He only does whole truths. There is no talk of the weather or of Ilya’s move. No. He tells Ilya about his family - the dogs on the farm and the apple cider they produce and Ilya finally puts together why Wyatt brought all that cider over. 

He invites Ilya over easily. Casually. If you ever are free, Sunday dinners are nice. We all bring a dish.

Ilya knows the word for that. Potluck. Harris laughs when he says it. 

They see the kitchen - both the small one down the hall from the locker room that looks more like a storage closet turned kitchen pantry. Ilya knows it’s for the players who have stranger food routines and don’t want to wander down to the proper kitchen underneath them. 

Once they do get down to the proper kitchen, Harris opens an empty fridge to show Ilya. “This is for players. You can store anything you want here. But, if you don’t label it, someone will eat it. Immediately.” He’s laughing. “I once had some sponsorship drinks in here. I mean, for 20 minutes, I left them. I had them in the fridge in my office and realized I forgot my good mic and I didn’t want them to start sweating before the video.”

Harris talks with his hands and Ilya likes him. He makes fast friends with people, Ilya sees that about him. He has never met a stranger and it puts Ilya at such ease. 

“So,” he continues when Ilya nods. “I pop them in here so I can run upstairs and grab my mic and okay, maybe I got momentarily distracted because this photoshoot with Lee Pace came out and I needed to -” Harris huffs out a breath and fans himself and Ilya full body laughs at it. 

Despite his ease with his own sexuality, he has never really spent all that much time with people who are also at ease with theirs. Not in this way. It’s refreshing. 

“I come back, right after, and all those freaks were gathered around, eating toast and drinking our sponsorship drinks.” Harris thumps the side of the fridge. “Let this be your warning.”

Ilya nods, knowing his smile is wide. “I will label everything.”

Harris nods back and points out the door. “Staff floor next?”

Ilya nods, happy to follow Harris and listen to him continue to ramble about the vending machine down the hallway that sometimes sticks and the way he has a little picture book that he laminated that has all the team and staff and their very basic details that he made for new players. He has a copy for Ilya. 

It’s warm and kind and Ilya finds himself smiling easily, laughing in a way that feels real.

They’re meandering back up towards Harris’ office when Harri’s cell phone starts to ring. Loud. Not vibrating like any sensible person. It’s a song that Ilya does not know, but he likes how Harris’ face lights up when he hears it. 

“I…” Harris says, smiling down at the phone he has now silenced, drawing the single letter out. “Might have forgotten I had to take a call?”

Ilya knows his eyebrows are high on his forehead. 

“We sometimes do collabs with the opposing teams' social media and I forgot I set this up.” Harris speaks so freely, but there’s an undercurrent of confidence and Ilya really likes him. 

“I can wait,” Ilya says, and then he leans in, borderline flirting with dark eyes. “Or you can let me skate.”

Harris laughs, grabbing Ilya’s arm and steering him towards an open door. “We are just a bit ahead of schedule for Shane, but he’ll be ready for us anyway.” And then Harris shouts before they’re even close to the door. “Shane!” He doesn’t wait for any response, still herding Ilya towards the open door. “I forgot I had a call, I’m dropping Ilya with you!”

And then Ilya wonders if maybe he’s having some strange coma dream. If perhaps he crashed his car and his brain has created this elaborate life because Shane Hollander is standing in front of him, leaning against the open door. 

He’s older. Of course he’s older. It’s been years since Ilya met him outside of the rink in the freezing cold. Ilya remembers every moment of that meeting - of the time they spent against each other on the ice. 

Ilya remembers it because he had won, but Shane had made him work for it. Not the team. Shane. Shane had chased Ilya down every moment and he had made Ilya work hard. And he had such a sweet smile and kind eyes and everywhere Ilya went that weekend, people spoke about the two of them together. Hollander and Rozanov. 

They were going to go together in the draft. One and two. It was a fact. They weren’t even drafted and people were already speculating what kind of hockey they would play against each other when the time came.

It had excited Ilya. He had gotten his hands on some tape - something he had never done, but his coach seemed to understand that he wanted to look at his competition. See what he could do to make himself better. 

Ilya could not admit that he wanted the tape to learn more about Shane. The soft spoken, awkward boy who had shaken Ilya’s hand and reprimanded him outside the rink and chased Ilya down on the ice like no one else ever had. 

Hollander. The same person that had disappeared from hockey seemingly overnight. No one that Ilya spoke with knew why and Ilya tried to put it out of his mind after the draft - once he had gone number one and he had to work out how to not let his family drain him dry. How to extract himself from them gently. 

He had been mostly successful, but Shane still crossed his mind. Sometimes when he ran into someone from his draft class. Sometimes when he won an award or he heard someone talk about how no one can match him. 

Ilya wondered about him, and here he is. Standing in the open door, a pair of slacks and comfortable sensible shoes and a bit of a wrinkled looking Centaurs polo. 

Gorgeous. 

Which is crazy, but he is. More gorgeous than he had been when they were kids, obviously. He looks grown up and solid and not at all like someone who withered away from hockey because of an injury. 

“Rozanov,” Shane nods at him, dismissive and short. But when his eyes flick over to Harris, he softens. Ilya can see it and it throws him off. 

What happened to you? Where did you go?

“You forgot you had that call,” Shane says, still soft. “I will send him up to you when we’re done. Go.” He nods his head down the hall and then doesn’t wait for Harris to respond or to give Ilya further instructions. He just turns around and Ilya follows him. 

He would not call the space he’s in an office. Ilya’s office in his home could fit this closet inside 12 times over. There’s a desk in the corner, a filing cabinet, a neat stack of boxes branded Hot Cheetos beside the door, two random boxes of cereal stacked on top of that. There are Centaurs jerseys on top of the filing cabinet and the single chair where Ilya thinks he’s meant to sit is occupied by two large bags of gummy bears. 

“Are you the team chef?” Ilya asks, picking up the gummy bears and relocating them to his lap as he sprawls out. “This is a very strange diet. Gummy bears and cereal.”

Shane kind of…glares at him, but doesn’t give him anything beyond that before he turns towards his computer and gives Ilya the perfect opportunity to look at his profile. 

Beautiful and confusing.

And then he picks up glasses and settles them on his face and Ilya’s mouth goes dry. 

It’s mad. 

Shane Hollander is sitting in front of him in Ottawa and he’s…he works for the team somehow and Ilya had no idea how he got here or what it means, but Ilya would really like to know how he ended up here. 

“I printed off a list of your travel requests,” Shane says, his voice is softer than it had been when they had met all those years ago. Or maybe it’s been so long that Ilya cannot remember. It slams Ilya back into the moment and he has to blink. “I just like to check in once players arrive. Sometimes things get lost in translation or things change. Dietary changes come up or -”

“You are the travel -” Ilya interrupts him, and then regrets it because he cannot think of the word he can see in his mind. “You arrange all the travel for the team?”

Shane nods without really looking at Ilya, holding out a single sheet of paper for Ilya to take. Ilya doesn’t even know what’s on this list. He thinks he may have filled one out for Boston and then never thought about it again. 

Ilya wants Shane to look at him. He wants to meet his eyes and look at him.

Shane does not look at him, just keeps holding the paper out, so Ilya gives in and take it from him. Gentle.

He glances over it. 

It lists out the nutrition facts that his nutritionist wanted him to try out post injury and some bullshit he’s pretty sure he did not write about the kind of room he preferred and a note about Ilya’s preferred pre-game snack. 

“This is fine,” Ilya says, shrugging one shoulder and trying to hand the paper back to Shane, regretting that this was all he needed to do - regretting that he seems to be stuck in shock and cannot get out anything of substance. “I am not particular, really.”

Shane’s eyes flick over to Ilya. Something that might be a smile is threatening to break through. “I will put you on rookie duty and tell the caterers that you only eat smoked fish and old toast.”

Ilya laughs, surprised and delighted. “Is that what you think of Russians? Very poor stereotype. I do not eat smoked fish.”

Something strange happens on Shane’s face. He had just been smiling, turning towards Ilya, but Ilya watched it melt away in a breath, replaced by something blank. “No smoked fish.”

It sounds hollow, like Shane isn’t even really inside of his own voice. 

Ilya is still extending the sheet of paper out to Shane and he wishes he was closer so he could lay it on his desk. So he could see Shane’s eyes. 

“Harris always gets carried away with Pat. If you wanted to sneak away and get some skating in, now would be a good time.” Shane plucks the paper away with two fingers, turning back towards his desk, pretending to shuffle things around. 

Ilya wants to sit in the office and look at the things on Shane’s wall. There’s a diploma and a photo that Ilya cannot see and a few other smaller things on a small corkboard. Ilya wants to know because he wants to know what happened to him. He needs to know. 

“You will have at least an hour,” Shane says, not turning to look at Ilya. He understands. Shane is dismissing him in a polite, Canadian way.

Ilya wants to stay, but he’s being dismissed and he really does want to get some skating in. “Thank you,” he says, standing. Not really understanding why he’s thanking him at all, but then he freezes, kind of crouching halfway to standing because Shane turns to look at him, pulling his glasses away from his face. 

It’s the same way he looked at Ilya the day they met. Assessing and a bit nervous. Ilya remembers because it is seared into his memory. 

“You look good, Rozanov.” Shane says, voice still kind of vacant despite the intense look on his face. “Ottawa is lucky to have you.”

Ilya nods, and finishes standing. “See you around, Hollander.”

It’s not at all what he wants to say, but he doesn’t know how to say anything he wants to say. He cannot blame it on English because he’s sure that he wouldn’t be able to find the Russian for it either.

He’s lacing up his skates when the whole thing catches up to him.

Shane Hollander is here - working in the staff wing of his hometown NHL team. Shane Hollander walked away from hockey and still somehow ended up in…hockey. 

He’s stretched out on the ice, the cold seeping into his limbs and his lungs when what he’s really thinking catches up to him. 

You were supposed to be with me at the top. Would it have all been different if I had an equal in this? You were meant to be my equal. 

Ilya uses the ice to try and put that thought behind him. It’s something new and strange he has been doing since his injury - playing what if. He doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like doing that. 

His life had always been what was. What was in front of him, what needed to be done. There was an English saying that Cliff had always said. It is what it is. Ilya had liked it. His life was exactly what it was and there was no changing it, and he had to do what was in front of him, what he had been handed in life.

Maybe it was the near death experience…

He skates - just skates. Just goes and goes until Harris appears, trying his hardest to look cross. 

“Hockey players,” he huffs.

Ilya winks at him, coming to a ridiculous theatrical stop in front of him, spraying ice and spreading his arms out like a figure skater.

“This is what I get for leaving you with Shane. All of you hockey players are the same. Cannot wait to get back on the ice.”

Ilya is sure that what Harris is saying is that…Shane is still a hockey player somehow. Or that Harris considers him a hockey player.

“Hit the showers, Rozanov.” Harris points. “You still have photos and we cannot use you all sweaty and dripping.”

Ilya spins, “This is a trick to get me into the showers. It is okay, Harris. You can be honest here. We are in the safe space.”

Harris’ laughter fills the entire arena and Ilya joins in. 

He might really be okay. He’s going to try. 

Chapter 3: I didn't understand then, I don't understand now

Chapter Summary

Ilya calls for a handyman and somehow ends up spending an afternoon with Shane.

Chapter Notes

So, if you have been around for my other stuff...you will not be shocked by my author's note saying "Oh this will be a slow update" and then me immediately updating.
If you are new to me...well, this is unfortunately a normal occurrence. I cannot shut my little brain up sometimes and right now, I cannot shut my little brain up.

Thank you for all your comments. HR has really been a bright spot for me and I look forward to writing this fic. I think it's going to be really good!

Chapter title is from Pink Rabbits by The National.

Ilya had not considered that buying a house would mean that when something was broken, he would be the one that needed to figure out who to call to fix it. 

In the building he lived in before, there was one phone line for the building crew. He still had to pay an astronomical price for the calls, but it was handled. If the crew that worked for the building could not fix it, they would find someone who could. The number was on a little card he kept in a drawer in his desk. The realtor had given it to him when he moved in and that was that.

But now there is no card because he owns a home independent of all the other homes in this neighborhood and he has to find his own person who can come fix things, but the problem is…Ilya does not even know how to explain what is broken because he does not know. He woke up this morning and there was a clicking but it’s not constant and it’s not consistent and it seems to be coming from all around him at different times.

He first heard it while he was staring at his open fridge and he thought perhaps it was the fridge telling him it had been open too long, so he shut it and ate a banana while he waited for it to cool back off. He looked at the email he received from Wiebe about the following week's training schedule while he ate and then when he got back into the fridge, he did not hear it.

And then he heard it again as he was looking through an unpacked box for a piece of paperwork he knew he had. But, he was in his office and far away from the fridge, so it could not possibly be the fridge that had made the clicking noise. 

Except it stopped almost immediately and Ilya pushed it away again, determined to find the paperwork he needed and then go on a run. He’s been meaning to make a better map in his head of the neighborhood anyway. 

Except he gets back and he hears it again, clicking and clicking and clicking and that’s when he starts to investigate. 

It leads him nowhere, of course, because he doesn’t actually know anything about this house despite living in it for the last week. He’s been treating it a bit like a hotel room. He’s here when he’s here. He exists in it, but he’s barely touched the oven and he’s not even gone in all of the rooms. 

It’s a fruitless effort and he knows it, and he’s not even sure who he would call to come and fix it. The handyman is the word he’s been searching for, but it’s a Sunday and that feels ridiculous to call someone out on a Sunday and ask that they fix something he cannot even find, so he does something that shocks even himself. 

Do you have number for handyman who you trust to come to house when we have practice? 

His English is horrible, he knows, but Hayes has never been an asshole to anyone about their English to Ilya's knowledge and Ilya doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it, deciding now would be a good time to make himself a very…very late lunch and repack his bag for the second time for his first official practice tomorrow.

There’s an excitement simmering in him. An excitement to be back on the ice as there always is for him before a new season starts, but also one for this in particular. The team that is going to need some rebuilding and maybe Ilya can be apart of that. He did it in Boston, maybe he can do it again. 

That’s what he’s busy thinking about when his phone rings, slicing through the music he’s casting to the house speaker system. It’s not Svetlana because she’s flying today - off to London for some music thing with a group of her friends she still keeps up with from her time at boarding school.

“Hayes?” Ilya answers it, wondering if maybe he missed a text back - if there were more questions about Ilya's barely legible text message. 

“What do you need a handyman for?” Wyatt asks, bypassing the greeting in the wy he seems to do. 

Now that the music has stopped, he can hear the clicking. “There is something in my house that is making a noise, but I do not know what it is.”

Wyatt makes a kind of amused noise. “How will you get someone to fix something if you don’t know what’s broken?” Ilya doesn’t have time to answer before Wyatt says, “I have Harris held hostage right now -” and then Ilya hears Harris in the background. Call the police, Ilya. I am a hostage!

Ilya laughs and so does Wyatt and Harris, but there’s another laugh on the other end of the phone. Unfamiliar but warm and Ilya somehow knows immediately - instinctually - that it is Shane. Shane.

“Hi Ilya,” Harris has apparently taken the phone away from Wyatt. His voice is just on this side of flirtatious and Ilya wonders if it’s just the way he talks to people or if Ilya started this and now Harris is pushing as far as he can.

“Hi Harris,” Ilya greets him, allowing some flirtatiousness to seep into his own voice. 

“I think we are coming over to figure out what is broken and maybe save you some money if we can fix it.” Harris says. “You know I am quite handy.”

It startles a laugh out of Ilya because it is so bold and big and Ilya has never been around someone who is so blatantly comfortable with their own sexuality and it feels good. “Oh, I am sure you have been told that.”

Harris laughs too and then his laughter gets further away and Wyatt is back. “We were going to kill some time before practice at the comic book store and smoothies, but this is so much better and also on the way to the rink.” 

There are so many words in there that Ilya knows, but without the proper context, he cannot understand. What practice. What comic book store. Ilya’s house is not on the way to any rink that he knows of. 

“Be there in 10,” Wyatt says, and the phone goes dead in Ilya’s ear. 

And that’s when it registers that he is shirtless and standing in the middle of his completely unpacked hockey bag and Shane Hollander is about to be at his house. He thinks he only has time to handle two of those things so he picks the shirt and the hockey bag.

It’s been a constant thought buzzing around in the back of his head since he was at the rink last week.

Stretches and recovery. Shane Hollander works for the Centaurs. Intervals. Shane Hollander is at Ilya’s new place of work. Ice and an anti-inflammatory. Did Shane expect Ilya to not recognize him? Answer the lawyer about his home ownership. Did Shane expect Ilya to remember him?

He even dreamt of their first meeting the other night. A brief flash of the way Shane had reached for him twice - to shake his hand twice. Polite, but also…Ilya had thought that Shane was like him. Seeking out the hand of someone who intrigued him. The hand of someone beautiful and shaking their hand was an excuse to touch them. How many times had Ilya thought what that might have meant between the first moment they touched and finding out Shane had pulled himself from the draft? 

How many times has Ilya thought about it since Monday?

He ends up pulling a shirt over his head just as his doorbell is going off and if his bag is decidedly not packed…well. 

The first person Ilya sees when he opens the door is Harris. He’s wearing a bit of a ridiculous fuzzy hat for the weather and a smile and he immediately starts to push into the house. Ilya is happy to let him inside, laughing with Harris and with Wyatt, and that’s when his eyes slide right over Wyatt and onto Shane and - 

Ilya wonders again if maybe he’s in some sort of coma. Or if his very near death experience really did change his brain in some way. If when they put him back together, they did it with some new beast of desire in his chest. A place where danger used to sit replaced with something that only perked up and paid attention to soft looking Canadians who very much did not want to know Ilya. Which is frankly ridiculous and embarrassing and something he has to get out of his mind by doing something...else. 

Shane is stepping past him, both of his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, studying Ilya’s face with something that might be confusion and that’s when Ilya realizes he’s not spoken. He’s not said a single word to anyone. 

He hurries to cover it up - the stunned silence he fell into while looking at Shane - by whispering. “We have to be very quiet,” he insists, waving his hands, doing the most to pull the attention to the problem and not the way he can feel Shane’s hesitant eyes on him. “There is a noise.”

Wyatt is frozen in place - a look that Ilya knows is goalie on his face. Harris is also frozen, but in a ridiculous pose - arms out from his body, neck scrunched up. Ilya wants to laugh, but that would undo the whispering he just did. 

Shane is still standing close to the door, his hands still in his pockets, finally looking away from Ilya to dart eyes all over the front hall of Ilya’s ridiculous house. Ilya takes a breath to look at him. To really look at him. 

The light here is much better than it had been in Shane’s cramped closet and Ilya can see that he still has freckles, that his hair is still that shiny black, that his lips are still pink and soft looking, and then Shane’s eyes dart away from the ceiling and land on Ilya. 

It takes everything in him to not look away, to hold Shane’s gaze. Shane looks…startled. It only last a breath and then his face shifts into something neutral. No warmth. 

“Ilya,” Harris says, his voice cracking on a laugh, “I do not hear anything.”

Ilya cannot help but laugh because Harris has some kind of laugh witchcraft, but he does flap his hands around, shushing him again. “It happens a little at a time and then no more and then it will happen again.”

Wyatt is seemingly the most sensible of them all because he turns and walks into the house properly and Ilya realizes that is probably the best move. He has heard it in the house. Not in the little hallway in the front door. 

“Wow,” Harris whistles. “Rozanov, are we paying you this much money? I didn’t know we even had this in the reserves.”

Ilya laughs because no, they aren’t. He has most of everything he has because of Svetlana being a force of nature, but also because he is the best. Everyone has wanted him to the be the face of something at one point and even if that had mostly gone away after his crash, he still has a couple of really good sponsors. Well paying sponsors. And he sold his two most ridiculous sports cars and also a fuck ton of stupid art pieces he bought when he was young and also he isn’t sending money to his brother any longer. 

He doesn’t say any of that though. What he says is, “You know I am best hockey player, yes? I am very expensive.”

Harris laughs and kind of bumps their shoulders together, but Wyatt is already down the hall in the kitchen, Shane trailing behind him, his shoulders in a tense line and Ilya has another flash of it. 

This was meant to be him. 

Ilya can see it.

Shane would have been the face of Rolex. They would have put him on billboards across from Ilya’s Richard Mille campaigns. Ilya can see it. Rolex would have put him in a grey suit and maybe pushed his hair back from his forehead. Ilya’s own campaigns would have gotten riskier. Less clothes, more expensive cars. They would have had back to back fragrance commercials and a poll on ESPN for the best one. 

Ilya would have been on a line with him at All Stars. They wouldn’t have been able to do anything else. The people would have demanded it. Ilya can see it all so clearly. The life Shane should have had. 

Including a house like this in Ottawa where his parents live and one wherever it is that Shane would have played. Montreal - Ilya thinks they had the number two draft pick that year. He would have been at Montreal and maybe he would have made Ilya work for one of his cup wins. Maybe Ilya would have lost one. 

This was meant to be Shane’s life.

Harris bumps him again and nods towards Wyatt who is now standing on Ilya’s kitchen island. 

“I do not think it is your light fixtures,” Wyatt says and Shane is the one that laughs first. 

“Don’t ever change, Hazy Baby.” Shane says, holding his hand out for Wyatt to take so he can climb off the kitchen island. 

Harris peels off towards the office and the great wall of windows that overlook the river. “Once the team knows you have a place like this, they will not stop bothering you until you host a party.”

“Our first win,” Ilya nods, leaning against the counter, watching Harris take it all in, watching Wyatt’s small smile that means he’s overjoyed at Ilya already thinking about wins. He doesn’t look at Shane, but only because Shane is now in the living room and out of sight.

“What was the noise?” Shane calls, apparently giving up on Ilya’s whispering. 

And because Ilya has been possessed, he follows him into the living room. Shane is standing in front of Ilya’s bookshelf, his hands still in his pockets. “A small clicking noise.” He tries to imitate it with his mouth and thinks he does a very poor job, but Shane is studying him as he does it. Like he can work out what in this too large house would make exactly the noise Ilya makes. 

Except Harris turns the corner, holding a little remote up over his head. “I know what it is.” 

Ilya whips his head around.

Harris holds the remote out in front of him and presses one button and then the clicking noise starts again, but all the blinds in the room they’re in start to open. Ilya stares at him wordlessly. He presses the button again and the same clicking, but they close. “That is the noise?”

“They were doing nothing before? No opening, no closing,” Ilya insists, stomping over to Harris to look at the tiny remote. “Where did you find this?”

Harris looks too smug so Ilya takes his hat along with the remote, plopping the hat on top of his head and turning the remote around in his hand. “In the drawer labeled remotes,” Harris answers him, trying to snag his hat back, but Ilya steps firmly out of his reach, still looking down at the little remote. 

“Wyatt, I will need number for handyman.”

Wyatt comes around the corner, carrying three more identical remotes in one hand. “But now you know what the noise is?”

Ilya takes all of the remotes and kind of waves them through the air. “I cannot have smart windows, no. This is too much. I want plain windows. Windows that work without little things I can lose.” He kind of tosses them onto the couch to dig his phone out. “Blinds come out this week.”

Harris gets his hat back, but only because Ilya lets him, holding his phone out for Wyatt to put in the number of a handyman to come and take these from the future blinds out of his home and put in regular person blinds. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Shane very carefully lining up the remotes on the coffee table. Ilya does not turn to look even though he very much would like to. 

The gesture tucks itself tightly in between Ilya’s ribs. Shane doesn’t like mess. Ilya knows it like he knew Shane might have more than just completely heterosexual desires in his head when he shook Ilya’s hand in the cold all those years ago. Shane likes things to be neat. Orderly. He lines up the remotes because on the couch they will absolutely get lost and because spilled all over the couch is not where they belong. 

“This is the one I got from Bood and apparently he can fix anything,” Wyatt says, handing Ilya’s phone back to him, forcing Ilya back down to this conversation. “Although,” Wyatt frowns. “I don’t know if blinds fall under contractor shit.”

Ilya doesn’t know either, but this is a place to start, so he takes his phone back, pocketing it, smiling at Harris and Wyatt. “Thank you for fixing the clicking.”

Wyatt looks at him. “Did you only hear it today?”

Ilya nods. He’s been wearing his headphones a lot or has had the TV on or was talking on speakerphone to Svetlana and oddly one time Cliff. “I have been -” he waves a hand, “getting settled. Testing out the sound system.”

Wyatt and Harris exchange a look and then they both look over to the half packed bag in the corner of the living room. “Well,” Wyatt says the word all drawn out. Long. The way people do when they’re thinking about how to say something. “We were going to the rink. Harris was going to take some photos and I was going to do some work with the new goalie. If you wanted to come with us. Grab some dinner after.”

“Unless you want to rest up for practice tomorrow.” Harris adds quickly. 

And then Shane clears his throat and Ilya has to turn to face him. His arms are now crossed over his chest, he looks like he might be blushing. “I don’t know if Rozanov wants to come sit in on practice with my beer league team. It’s not very exciting.”

Ilya knows the term beer league even though it is a very stupid name. There is no beer on ice and no one pays for beer after the games even. But, he understands immediately that Shane is still playing hockey. He is still playing hockey and Ilya has the chance right now to go and watch him play - or practice. He has the chance to go right now. 

He can feel the deranged, too large smile on his face, but he cannot dim it. “You work with goalie?” He asks Wyatt, turning back towards him. “I work with Hollander here, teach him something.”

Harris is sputtering a laugh again and Ilya turns back towards Shane, letting him see the smile on his face. Push back, he’s think. Come on, push back. 

“Maybe you learn from me,” Shane says, chin jutted out, eyes fiery. “My team, so my rules if you crash practice. When’s the last time you played wing?”

Ilya shrugged but inside of his chest was roaring. It took effort to keep his body from tensing up, from letting himself smile. “A long time,” he nods, “face off for it?”

He thinks he sees the same spark in Shane - the same tiny bit of excitement that Ilya also knows is playing out on his face. 

“Okay,” Harris says loudly, stepping between them. “As the only non hockey pilled person in the room, I should remind everyone that practice for the Centaurs - the team that pays all of our bills - starts tomorrow and maybe we keep this friendly and fun -”

“No chance, Harris,” Shane says at the exact same time Ilya says, “This is friendly.” And then Ilya can really see the way Shane’s lips tug up - a smile so close to breaking free. 

Ilya is tugging on the leash of that beast in his chest because as soon as Ilya tracks the smile, it’s gone. Shane is back to neutrality. A kind of neutrality that Ilya knows well because he perfected it himself. The kind of neutrality that protected him in Russia - the kind of neutrality he could use in painful moments. 

Wyatt sighs. “I guess it’s good I drove, get your shit, Rozy. We have time for smoothies still if we hurry.”

Ilya does not wait to be told twice. Even if Shane is hiding his real emotions, Ilya wants to skate with him, wants the chance to work out some rust tonight, sure. But, really. It’s Shane. He wants to see what he can work out for himself about this. About Shane working for a hockey team and apparently being Captain of his beer league team, but not Ilya’s rival - not his opponent. 

He’s normally meticulous about his bag, but right now, he’s not sure he’ll ever find anything again.

It’s worth it. 

Shane disappears as soon as they arrive at a little rink just outside of the city muttering about unlocking doors and turning on lights. Harris unloads a bag of what Ilya knows is camera equipment. Wyatt and Ilya end up carrying Wyatt’s bag between them, awkwardly trundling towards the building. It reminds Ilya of the one he trained at this summer and he likes it right away. 

It smells like metal inside. Old bleacher seats and hard walls and rafters. It smells a bit like home to Ilya and he lets it sink into his bones. 

There are a couple of guys in the locker room already, but no Shane. Ilya and Wyatt find space in one of the awkward jutting corners of the room. It’s about a third of the size of the Centaurs locker room which means it’s a quarter of the size of the one in Boston. He tries to ignore the stares he can feel on him as he strips, digging through his bag for shit he should know exactly where to find. 

Wyatt is steady, layer by layer. 

Ilya takes care to tape his shoulder even though he doesn’t really need to. His shoulder and his knee and there’s nothing to do for his stupid heart, but that’s everything the wreck took away and it helps his mind. 

He’s sure no one will check him hard at practice today, but then again, he doesn’t plan to go easy on Shane either. 

There’s no room to stretch out here so he and Wyatt make their way down the hall and onto the ice. That is when people start to talk to him. 

Wyatt off to the goal, knocking his helmet against the other goalie’s mask and Ilya is half stretching, half introducing himself to every other person on the ice. Because they all come and greet him, bump gloves, nod, tell him it’s good to have him here. Not just here in Ottawa, but here at practice.

Kindness from them all, a kind of acceptance that rattles Ilya. He’s glad he came here because it feels like another little brick in the foundation of Ottawa. It feels like he’s seeing these people and they genuinely want him here and are excited for him. 

“Okay,” he says, when he’s feeling loose enough to run some drills and skate around a bit, “who wants to go head to head? Winners get tickets to first home game. Losers will also get tickets, but must buy beer for winners.”

That is when Shane appears, of course. 

“Rozanov,” he says, his voice all cool. “I thought we were competing to see who would play wing. Or did you change your mind?”

Ilya pushes off, gliding backwards. “You warm up, would not want you to pull anything before our face off,” and then because he’s feeling bold and because there is one more brick for him to stand on, he winks and watches Shane absolutely, 100% blush. 

Ilya is not going to let a single person in this building tonight beat him. Including Shane. Not if he can see that again. 

Harris is next to Ilya on the bench, barely containing his delighted smile. 

Ilya is also trying very hard to keep his own smile from erupting. There’s an ice pack shoved in between his pads on his shoulder and his helmet is somewhere over there. He doesn’t need it, he’s not going back out on the ice tonight. Not after Harris had screamed about preserving the future of the Ottawa Centaurs playoff bid after Shane checked Ilya into the boards so hard that even Shane had looked contrite and then no one would skate until Ilya was off ice. 

He doesn’t care. Or he does, but maybe he prefers this more. Watching. Watching Shane skate. 

He’s better than he was when they were kids, which is maybe unfair because so is Ilya, but Shane is playing in a rink that is pre-historic and Ilya has had every great hockey legend giving him tips for the last few years. His physical therapist cost more per session than a used car. 

Ilya had skate sponsors and gear sponsors and a lifetime supply of his preferred tape and Shane was maybe better than him anyway. With all of that. Shane was here and he was better and he was flying. 

“They win, yes?” Ilya asks Harris. “No one can beat them?”

It’s not what he wants to ask. He wants to ask why the fuck Shane is wasted here. 

“No one can beat Shane,” Harris hums, clicking the little button on his camera, making a shutter noise. “The league holds a lottery to see who gets him each round and then that team gets to hold onto the cup since it's theirs anyway. It’s kind of ridiculous.”

Ilya thinks he hums in response, but he isn’t sure. He cannot stop looking at Shane. 

“You were in his draft class,” Harris says, like it’s common knowledge. Like people will ask about it, probably. 

Ilya turns when Harris says nothing else and he finds a look that he has not seen from Harris before. Kind of cold, protective. The look of care. 

“He and I became friends in university,” Harris says. “He hadn’t played in a few years and I think he only joined up again because I was crushing on this hockey god and threatening to join the rec league he was playing in as some kind of covert operation to figure out if he would like, stare at my ass in the showers -”

Ilya makes a noise of protest, “Rule one of hockey is that you cannot look at teammate ass in shower,” he slashes his hand through the air. “Penalty box.”

Harris makes like he’s going to shove at Ilya’s shoulder and then immediately thinks better of it, putting his hand back on his camera instead. “I thought rule one of hockey was to put the puck in the net.”

“Welllll,” Ilya makes a face, rocking his hand back and forth, letting the insinuation hang out there. Harris knows it and does that barking great laugh he does and Ilya takes advantage of that time to follow Shane down the ice again. 

“He does not really talk about it,” Harris says when he’s gotten himself under control again. He doesn’t have to qualify who they’re speaking of. “It was a sore spot for so long, and I think maybe you can see that he is…” Harris is searching for a word. “Private,” is finally what he lands on. 

Ilya nods like he understands even though he doesn’t. “He is good hockey player,” is what he finally says. “Is shame that Monteal did not get to draft him. Maybe they would have a cup instead of being almost last in division. Worse than Ottawa,” he says, “worse than Buffalo!”

Harris laughs again, but quieter. “You would have less cups though.”

“Yes,” Ilya says without hesitation, without looking at Harris. “Probably.”

Harris’ camera shutters again and Ilya is suddenly aware that practice will be over soon. 

“Shower,” Ilya tells him just to say it. 

“Yes, because you’re benched,” Harris says without looking at him. “The future of Ottawa is more important than competing with Shane.”

Ilya almost says it’s not, but he doesn’t because that’s insane. “No, Harris.” Ilya says. “I just said first rule of hockey is not staring at teammate ass in shower and mine is very good. Do not want to tempt any of the team.”

He can hear Harris’ laughter all the way down the hall.

Shane offers him one single line on his way into the locker room. “Good practice, Rozanov. With effort, maybe you can be on the same line with me.”

His teammates howl and Ilya waves them off, “Hollander, if you keep this up, I will never let you wear one of my championship rings.”

Shane blushes and then clomps down the hall and Ilya is left to fist bump the rest of the team as they pass. He is very hung up on the blushing.

“We can get them all tickets, yes?” he asks Harris when Wyatt finally deigns to join them.

Harris sighs heavily. “I guess, but that is not my job.”

“You can take me to the ticket office tomorrow,” Ilya elbows him and then claps his hands together. “I am so hungry. What is for dinner?”

Wyatt rolls his eyes and follows the team down the tunnel. 

“Hayes,” he calls, “very hungry. Smoothie is not dinner.”

Dinner ends up being eaten without Shane. He gets a ride home with a guy that Ilya thinks is named Turner. Harris waves at him and says he’ll pick him up with coffee in the morning and tells him to eat something. 

“His car is in the shop,” Harris says. “And Tanner lives on the block over from Shane.”

Tanner.

Ilya wishes he had come to dinner, but he tries very hard not to think about that, instead focusing on Wyatt and what he says to Harris about his comic book YouTube series and about the goalie he was working with tonight and about his wife - Lisa. 

Ilya listens to Harris talk about the space his family is opening soon and how they hope to have events and parties there. He asks about the photos Harris took tonight. 

And then when they turn to him, he tells them tales of parties in LA (losing a sponsorship watch in a game of poker to that member of the boyband - the one with the hair) and the time he got papped with that princess in New York (she told him she was a the daughter of a tech guy and how was he supposed to know) and how he landed that Richard Mille sponsorship (by insulting an ad to their creative director) and the first cup win with Boston (do you know how much shit you take in Russia when you lose in Russia at Olympics, he really had no choice but to win). 

They eat pizza and Ilya drinks one light beer and then switches to Coke and he and Wyatt split an order of fried donuts covered in so much powdered sugar that Ilya somehow gets it in his hair and it feels…easy. 

It’s not until Wyatt has dropped him off and he’s repacking his hockey bag for tomorrow does he really process what Harris said about Shane. How he didn’t play hockey for awhile. How he did step away. How he’s private about it.

Ilya has always considered himself to be private too. He knows what it looks like, but outside of Svetlana, who knows about his mother? And does Svetlana count if she was at the funeral? Outside of Svetlana and the very few guys Ilya has had the pleasure of taking to bed, no one really knows about his sexuality - although that one is more of a secret on purpose.

He has always been private too, and then it nearly killed him. All the private things he's kept boiled up in his chest really nearly killed him, he thinks and maybe...maybe if Ilya spoke with Shane, maybe if instead of Ilya pushing in that way he did, maybe the two of them could really become friends and -

Well, Shane was meant to be his equal. If anyone understands what Shane lost when whatever it is that happened to him, happened to him, it's Ilya. Perhaps Shane could be less private. With someone who understands him.

Ilya should have told him he was a beautiful skater. He should have said it and reached out and asked him to come to dinner anyway and paid for his Uber back to his apartment so that Ilya could tell him that it looks like he had been skating this whole time - that he is better than Ilya. That Shane can talk to him sometime if he wants. 

He should have said all of that at minimum, but tomorrow is the first practice and Shane will be at the rink and Ilya can tell him tomorrow. He can tell him tomorrow. 

Chapter End Notes

I am on Tumblr at wolfiemcwolferson

Chapter 4: I can't get the balance right

Chapter Summary

Ilya meets the team.

Chapter Notes

chapter title from Don't Swallow the Cap by The National

I do want to say that there is a lot of mystery about Shane disappearing and Ilya's accident and that is on purpose. I promise we will absolutely hear from Shane eventually about why he did not play hockey and he will eventually hear from Ilya about his accident. You know he's avoidant. If he doesn't think about it, it isn't real.

With that said, this chapter does give us some brief details about his accident. Mainly how extensive his injuries really were. You can see that I updated the tags. It's nothing too graphic this chapter - a brief mention.

Wow, everyone has been very lovely about this fic. I know it's kind of slow moving and that can be painful, but again, we are on a journey and Ilya has to suffer a little bit before he gets rewarded. And by reward I mean Shane is going to - [I am pulled off stage by my manager and stuffed into a closet]

Ilya remembers walking into the facility at Boston for the first time and he knew exactly what he was meant to be. A savior. A leader. The future. 

He had been walked around and shown off and back then, maybe, because he was sad and looking for something, it had felt like the steadiest thing he had ever been offered. A forever home. And maybe it would have been. If he hadn’t fucked it all away. If he hadn’t twisted his car up in a fence. If his shoulder hadn’t been wrenched from his body, if heart hadn’t stopped and then when it started up again, it was all wrong and broken and looking for…more.

Maybe Boston would have kept him around to be their savior until he retired. Maybe he would have been the face of them all until age had forced him off the ice. 

Which is not really fair. The cleaving had started before the accident. Maybe the moment he signed the contract with them. Maybe it had festered the entire time. Maybe the weight of the NHL are not meant to be placed on the shoulders of an 18 year old who has a single grasp on the language and a family who bleeds his bank account dry. 

Ilya can’t stop himself from thinking it as he moves around his house, one of those protein things in his hand and a shake in his bag and a breakfast sandwich in the toaster oven and -

Ilya remembers the hand on his neck. He can’t even really remember who that hand had belonged to, but he remembers it had felt searing and horrible, too much like the hand of his father might have. 

Maybe for the first time since that moment, Ilya realizes that it had not been a promise of forever. There had never been loyalty for him in Boston. Not anything real. 

It seems ridiculous for him to have this realization now. After Boston dumped him off the first second they had the opportunity and it burns. 

Ilya had delivered. Ilya had given them banners, he thanked them in every single speech he ever gave. He wore their merch, he called them out in interviews. Ilya was the first one to say yes to volunteer days, to show up. Ilya had given them everything and it burns now realizing that nothing they ever said to him - nothing they ever promised him, was real. 

Why the fuck did it take him until now to understand that? To really…feel it in his body?

It seems like maybe it’s that thing Ilya had realized about himself - in the quiet of his Boston home when he was clenching his teeth to keep himself from having to take a pain pill. Maybe Ilya is far more damaged than he lets himself believe. Maybe the ugly mass inside of his chest is something he cannot ignore anymore.

There’s no time for him to dwell on it though. He’s got to be at the rink and he’s got to smile and -

The toaster oven dings. 

Wyatt is standing in the parking lot looking almost as if he has swallowed something disgusting. “Did you know Ottawa is famous for their donuts?” He asks as soon as Ilya is close enough for him to hear. 

“No?” Ilya responds, trying to move around him to swipe his little shiny new badge. “Really?”

Wyatt blows out a little breath. “No, I just made that up. There are donuts in there. Bood brought donuts from this place that he really likes, even though they are not -”

Ilya abandons trying to scan in with his badge and instead touches Hayes on the shoulder. He does not flinch. “We are eating donuts before first practice? Is it Centaur tradition to puke on ice day one?”

A wrinkle develops in between Hayes’ eyebrows. “Is that how they do it in Boston?”

“How many cups has Boston won in the last decade?” Ilya asks, spinning Hayes with his hand so they can both badge in, grinning when he goes easily. 

He thinks he hears Wyatt mutter something about crazy Americans, which has always confused Ilya because Canada is kind of also America, but he knows there is a distinction he cannot really grasp. 

“I will do tradition of puking on ice. Team bonding, you said?” Ilya teases, and then he is promptly met with the sight of…himself. 

Except well -

Someone has printed off a lifesize poster of one of Ilya’s Calvin Klein ads. It’s one of his better ones because they had leaned into the hockey thing. He’s standing in a locker room, surrounded by piles of hockey gear and looking flushed and sweaty, but of course, someone has pinned a Centaurs jersey over his torso and then taped a Centaurs foam finger onto the hand that had been about to strip the underwear.  

It’s ridiculous and comical and Ilya loves it immediately. He wants to put it in his house. 

A door clangs open at the end of the hall and Ilya can’t help the flinch, and then again when he sees that it’s Wiebe. Ilya expects to get shouted out, but instead Wiebe sighs.

“Rozanov,” he says, like he’s tired, but in that kind of overly fond way that Cliff used to use with Ilya. “Come on, let them get this out of the way so I can get my team on ice, yeah? 20 minutes of festivities."

Ilya has no idea what that means, still thinking about the poster of himself, but Hayes is now the one with a hand on his shoulder steering him towards Wiebe and the locker room. 

Which explodes the second Ilya steps foot inside of it. 

There is confetti. Someone is chanting Roz-ah-nov. All English and all wrong, but then everyone joins in and Ilya has given this team nothing - he has given them two photos and half a press conference and someone is handing him a donut with his goddamn face on it and it’s all just very out of control and exhilarating. 

“Okay!” A voice booms out and Ilya knows who this is. Bood. His captain. A man he has only met through a text message. “Enough!” The room falls silent, Ilya with them, still clutching his face donut, blinking away a string of confetti from his face. 

“Rozy,” Bood smiles at him, extending a hand out, “Good to have you, man.”

Ilya nods at him, aware suddenly that his throat feels thick. 

“We got a hell of a pre-season and a hell of a regular season -” and then he pauses to let everyone laugh and Ilya recognizes the cadence of this after so many seasons of doing it himself. “But we got a hell of a star center this season -” And the room devolves into chaos again, someone sets off another little confetti cannon and Ilya cannot even comprehend how this is happening. 

Apparently Wiebe is on the same wavelength. 

“Jesus Christ,” he says, appearing out of nowhere. “I take it back. Practice now. Our star center doesn’t do us a lick of good if we never run a single drill.”

Bood steps onto a bench, takes a deep breath and declares, “to be continued!” and then claps his hands and everyone quickly shifts back into preparing for practice. 

Or mostly. Because Ilya does not get to move from this spot. Everyone around him begins to dress, drifts off to warm up or look for something in the equipment room, but Ilya is greeted by every person in the room. 

Wyatt drifts away eventually because he has to become a wall and that takes time, but Ilya shakes hands or fist bumps everyone, eventually dropping his bag on the ground so he can eat his face donut which is very good actually. 

It feels ridiculous when Bood finally approaches him, picking up his bag and kind of ushering him towards his cubby. Ilya has put away the things he wants to keep here already, but Ilya has things he’s particular about. Just like every hockey player.

“The poster?” Ilya asks. “Can I have?”

Bood laughs, dropping his bag on the bench. It promptly falls off. “Sure, man. Whatever you want, but let’s get on the ice before Coach comes in and gives the C to you.”

Ilya keeps his face very very calm. “Yes, he is just giving early. It will be mine in 12 months anyway.”

There’s another booming laugh and Bood claps him on the shoulder too hard and he points at his cubby. Someone has affixed princess stickers to his helmet and it looks like spray glitter on his practice jersey. “Whatever you say, your highness.”

Ilya…might really like it here. 

They do not skate until they puke, but it is a close thing. Ilya is sure everyone is regretting their Rozanov face donuts, but not Ilya. 

Ilya is not because the Finn worked him harder than this and also because the energy between the team is good. There is gentle teasing and mild tripping and then not so gentle or mild shouting between some of them, but Ilya loves it and he especially loves it when Wiebe throws them a puck and tells them to divide up and scrimmage. 

He especially loves it when Harris appears out of the corner of his eye with a fancy looking camera, but a different one from yesterday and a big smile. “Hello Roz,” he calls out as Ilya is skating in circles around Wyatt’s goal just to annoy him. “Bood says you want to take my poster home.”

“Yes,” Ilya nods, heading towards him, but then stops because Shane appears from the tunnel and Ilya feels something in his chest crack open. Shane looks as though he’s barely slept. He has dark circles under his eyes and even though his clothes are sharp and crisp and his hair is perfect and meticulously placed around his head, he still looks like he hasn’t slept. 

Ilya recovers. “I want to look at my own beautiful face every morning, can you blame me?” He is smiling too widely, being too extra, trying very hard to not look at Shane, who is decidedly not looking at him. 

No, Shane is standing next to Wiebe now, talking softly to him, darting his eyes around the ice. 

Ilya wants to call out to him, but then Dykstra skates into him and hauls him backwards by his jersey, “Bro, are you going to stand here and flirt with Harris or are you going to win us beer -”

"Dykstra," Wiebe sighs.

“Protein shakes,” Dykstra corrects. “Are you going to win us a round of protein shakes at the health food store that is for sure a thing and not something I just made up.”

“Protein shakes,” Ilya says, and he thinks - maybe, maybe possibly - he sees the tiniest smile on Shane’s face. 

“Fuck,” Bood’s shout is almost shrill. “Man, what the fuck, didn’t you like, shatter your shoulder or some shit.”

Ilya is breathing too hard to do anything but smile. He’s going to catch his breath and say something, but Bood is looking at something over Ilya’s shoulder and then he’s skating away and Ilya turns to watch him stop in front of Shane, head leaning in, listening to whatever it is that Shane is telling him, nodding along. 

Shane glances up for just a second and Ilya is caught staring. 

He thinks about last night - about watching Shane skate hard and fast and beautifully. He thinks about how perfect his accuracy seemed to be. He remembers Harris talking about him walking away from hockey. 

Ilya is close to pushing off, going to interrupt and tease Shane about putting on a pair of skates. Ilya skated with him last night, and so Shane needs to return the favor, but -

“Got your ticket now,” Bood points at Ilya, “Where is the fucking puck? Hollzy’s got your number and I’m coming for you.”

Ilya looks away from Bood and back to Shane, beautiful, tired Shane. He definitely sees the smile now. 

He does not stay smiling for long. Ilya lets Bood through but only to learn what he’s learned and then he adjusts. It is the reason he is the best, after all. His ability to adjust and change up his game play to outskate or out handle his opponent. 

It doesn’t last because Shane calls him over again and again and Ilya adjusts. 

Shane gives up on calling Bood over and now is calling out to him from the box, hands on the boards. Not just Bood, but all of them - on both sides of the scrimmage. 

He shouts out in a steady tone, pointing and directing and everyone listens to him, everyone pays attention to his words and Ilya is watching them all adjust around each other. He is watching Wyatt shift, Bood bring in his foot, Dykstra come in sharper.

They’re calling back to him. Asking him for adjustments, calling him Hollzy, demanding he stop helping the other side.

Ilya sneaks a glance at him, but Shane is not looking at Ilya, he’s looking at the puck, and fuck he is beautiful. Which is not something that Ilya would have lingered on…before. Before the accident. Not like this. 

Or maybe. 

Well, maybe that’s a lie. 

Ilya certainly did not linger on people. He took people to bed and he took people out and he occasionally spent a long weekend with someone in a resort, tucked away from prying eyes so he could drink his fill, but it ended there for him. 

Sex. Fun. The ease of making someone feel good and then moving on. 

Ilya liked to look at beautiful people. He liked to enjoy beautiful people and sure, they would laugh together. About sex, about other people, about each other. 

But, he is not sure anyone has ever…had him looking like this. 

Except for Shane. 

Ilya remembers how he had…been stuck on Shane before and back then he had known himself enough to know that it was partly because he knew Shane would…lean into Ilya the same way that Sasha had the year before. He had felt it flare between them.

But, it was also that Shane challenged Ilya then and he’s challenging him now. 

Ilya always liked challenges and he always liked beautiful people. Of course he -

Ilya stands still for half a second too long looking at Shane and the play runs right past him. 

“Pay attention, Rozanov,” Shane says with the same ferocity he was just shouting at Bood to skate faster and Ilya feels a little zip of pleasure down his spine. He doesn’t chase the play, he leans against his stick, obnoxious and in the way of play which is slightly studpid, but this is more important. Teasing Shane gently. Getting him to blush. Telling him that he wants to skate with him again.

“Wiebe,” Ilya calls out, knowing there is too much laughter in his voice, but he doesn’t think it matters. “Hollander is running practice, why is he not coach, hm?”

He watches Shane stiffen just for a breath. Quick enough that no one else would track it, but Ilya sees how his breath catches. He sees how his shoulders go tight. 

“Or better,” Ilya says, trying to show his soft underbelly to Shane - the things he should have said last night when they were on ice together. “You will give him number and he will come on ice and play wing for me. We will be unstoppable,” Ilya says, too loud for just Hollander and Wiebe to hear, but Ilya really wants the team to hear too. He wants them to know. 

He pauses, waiting for Shane to tell him that Ilya would end up on wing just like he had last night, but he says nothing. He just looks at Ilya with something like confusion. Maybe…maybe a tiny bit of fear and Ilya feels all the good he had stored up from today seep out of his bones in one single breath.

This is not how this was meant to go. He was meant to talk to Shane properly and -

Wyatt speaks from behind Ilya and Ilya somehow knows that everyone is now around them. He hadn’t even heard them all go still.

Dangerous. 

Ridiculous. 

“It is true,” Wyatt says carefully. “They were pretty unstoppable on a line together yesterday.”

Ilya watches Shane process that. He can watch him process this in real time and Ilya feels like Shane’s brain is working through every possible answer. 

It’s Harris that saves him. “Until Ilya wanted to play against him and Shane checked him so hard that he needed to ice his shoulder, so maybe we just…don’t today? I do not want to release a statement that our big star has been injured in an incident with…”

“The gummy bear dealer.” Ilya finishes for Harris and that works because everyone laughs. Including Shane. But then there’s no more time for Ilya to look at Shane because Wiebe points at them all. 

“Drills. Bood.”

Ilya watches Harris step up to Shane’s side, slip his hand around Shane’s wrist and kind of squeeze. And then Ilya has to turn because his captain is calling for him. 

When he chances another look, Shane is gone and Harris’ camera is still around his neck. He is watching Ilya with a kind of neutral assessment that feels very similar to how Svetlana watches him when he is being a fucking idiot. 

It’s probably nothing, Ilya says to himself as he chases the puck down the ice. He has to get his head in this. He can speak with Shane later.

There is one more welcome prank - shoes full of coins. Russian coins. 

Ilya laughs about it, dumping them into a hat that someone produces for him to use. “Where did you even get these?”

Wyatt shrugs. “The bank.”

He tries to give the hat back. 

“Oh no, buddy,” Wyatt laughs. “That’s for you.”

Ilya has to duck his head down to see it’s a championship hat from the first year he won. Except someone has taped the Centaurs logo over it. 

He really…might like this team. 

The look on Shane’s face - that tiny flash of fear is still front of mind. Even with a box of donuts with his face on them, even with the poster of himself tucked into the backseat of his car, even with a welcome that was not at all like the one he got in Boston - in the best possible way…that single breath of fear that crossed Shane’s face.

It turns his stomach over and it makes his shoulder ache - which is that thing. Psychose - no. Psychosomatic…Maybe. He will have to google it later. 

“You headed home?” Wyatt asks and Ilya almost jumps. He had said all his good-byes already, had fist bumped and hugged and thanked.

Ilya tries to smile. “One last thing and then yes.”

Hayes nods, shifts his gigantic fucking bag on his shoulder. “Good skate today,” And then softer. “Good skate last night too.”

Ilya must be so transparent. He is the most transparent. 

“See ya, Roz,” he calls over his shoulder and Ilya waits until he hears the door bang shut before he moves. He leaves all of his stuff right where it is and makes the long trek out the hall and down and around towards the staff offices. 

The flash of fear. 

Ilya knows what fear is like. He knows the feeling, the look. He knows and -

Shane’s door is closed and the little window at the top of his door emits no light. Ilya does not need to knock to know he is not there and he won’t be anywhere here. 

Ilya stares at the door for a very very long time, trying very hard to convince himself that Shane’s fear and his disappearance and Ilya’s failure do not twist his shitty, seemingly broken heart up into something that makes it hard to breathe. 

Which is crazy. 

Ilya is acting insane. 

He goes home and he watches three boring Canadian movies while he eats a very boring dinner and he calls Svetlana but does not leave her a voicemail because she won’t listen to it and he thinks about that email he sent last night to Belov asking if he had the film for the International Prospect Cup game. From the year they won.

Chapter 5: in those days we were the same

Chapter Summary

A chance encounter leaves Ilya with a lot to reflect on and an opportunity he cannot pass up.

Chapter Notes

Chapter title from Hard to Find by The National

I want to say again that this is a very slow burn. Ilya has a long way to go before he's ready for Shane and Shane has a long way to go before - well. Before.
I can promise you that the payoff is going to be worth it.
For now, Ilya is going to pine after something he doesn't understand and we're going to be supportive of him.

I hope you guys like this one.

Ilya is used to being on his own. 

After - after he was alone, he spent days and days on his own inside of his family home. He had practice and school, but there was no one waiting at home for him. There was no one to speak to. He taught himself how to cook the first winter, tired of relying on what could be eaten cold and missing the comfort of his mother and a warm meal.

He was on his own in Boston, even with Svetlana around. It was not uncommon for them to go days without speaking. Especially during times when Svetlana had big projects due at school or when she was allowing some ridiculous frat boy to entertain her for a few weeks. He was on the road so much, but on slow days - on days when the place he lived began to press down on him and the ghosts of his childhood seemed like they were closer to catching him than he could deal with, he would get in his fastest car and drive to that little deli well outside of Boston that had a little cooler of food that was astronomically priced, but was…

Ilya was used to being on his own and when he starts to feel like the aloneness might catch up to him, he leans into what that first year felt like. Ilya had been on his own, but he had watched English television shows that he bought off a friend’s cousin who studied in New York for a bit and he would eat prepackaged cookies and dream of a time when he would not be on his own. 

He craves those same prepackaged cookies, but now things are very different. Instead of feeling the freedom of the English shows that felt new and exciting - Ilya saying words or phrases out loud to an empty house, dreaming of getting out - he prefers watching television in Russian. A balm to his exhausted brain. 

He’s feeling exceedingly alone on a Sunday, standing in the foyer of his too big home with plain blinds that don’t require a remote and a silence that he has not felt pressing down on him since - since he became well and truly alone in this world. 

The thing about grief that Ilya is still working to accept is that he cannot ever just feel grief for one thing. He does not get to choose what he grieves. The death of his mother comes rolling in like a familiar, predictable wave, but then he’s is slammed by the wave of - no going home again, no one to turn to, no family, never having experienced the type of love he so craves, being in another new country hoping it works it might be his last chance to restart and hope it works. 

There is never just one type of grief. It is all of them all at once and it never ends. 

Ilya has the address buried deep in his GPS. Svetlana had saved it for him. Just in case, she had said and Ilya thinks it is now firmly just in case time. 

The selection is subpar, but Ilya will maybe ask the owner if they can order some specific things. They had done that for him in Boston. Maybe because of who he was - what he did for Boston, but maybe…

Ilya turns towards the end of the aisle, scanning for the jam he likes the best when - 

“Oh,” Shane Hollander says, his eyes wide like a frightened animal, his mouth in a tight little line. “Hi,” he says because he’s polite and nice and probably cannot physically leave this spot until he’s made small talk with someone he has been avoiding for the last week. “I -” but then he stops himself, looking pained and Ilya should say something. He should make a joke and put Shane out of his misery, but Ilya feels a bit like crying for a reason he doesn’t want to look too closely at. 

Not now. Not when he’s been dealing with that alone feeling. 

“This is a great international supermarket,” Shane says, too fast. “I am glad you found it.”

Ilya surveys Shane’s cart. It’s mostly full of junk food. Food that Ilya is sure Shane does not eat. There’s at least ten bags of some sort of chip with the word jerk on them. “Are you having a party, Hollander?”

Shane glances at his cart - still so nervous - and then back at Ilya. “No, um.” he pushes the hair off his forehead with a hand. “I -” 

He is so gorgeous. Blushing furiously and head tilted down and Ilya has the urge to reach out and take his wrist in his hand and squeeze down - to ground Shane to this moment. 

“Hockey players.” Shane says weakly and then makes another pained face - like he’s embarrassed and wants the earth underneath to swallow him up. This is a very different Shane than Ilya has seen before and it makes him feel off balance. Like he’s not sure what he can do at the moment to make this…better. He doesn’t know what he can do to put Shane at ease. 

He decides the best path forward is to…be the bravado, cocky, sure Ilya that Shane expects him to be. Even though Ilya wants to ask him if he’s been avoiding him. Even though he desperately wants to know why he’s been avoiding him. 

Ilya crosses his arms over his chest, smiling like he does - his eyes squinted up and his head tilted. “Hockey players…”

Shane picks up a bag of the chips and lets them go immediately. “Cannot find these everywhere and they are part of some of the guys - uh, their pre-game ritual.” He waves his hand over the cart. “Part of my job. Making sure travel runs smoothly.”

It is not part of his job. Ilya knows that. Shane’s job is to ensure the hotels are booked and there’s catering and that there are contingency travel plans in place and if there is truly some sort of emergency for a player, to sort out travel. His job is not to make sure players have access to their pre-game ritual snacks or to buy them on a Sunday. 

Ilya looks at the cart again. More gummy bears and Ilya smiles, reaching into the cart to dig them out, holding them up with one raised eyebrow. Shane snags them away quickly, glaring. Cute. 

“It is my job,” Shane repeats, but this time it’s weaker. 

“The team is lucky to have you,” Ilya says, too much bleeding honesty in it, so he backtracks immediately. “You did not ask me though.” He turns his smile up until it’s too bright. Too wide. “Is my pre-game ritual not important to you?”

Shane is still glaring. “You eat peanut butter, Rozanov. You can get peanut butter in any rink in any country in the world.”

Something ridiculous and childish uncurls inside of Ilya. He cannot keep the smile off his face. “Yes, but if I wanted special Russian peanut butter, would you get it for me?”

He finds it almost too cute how Shane runs through so many things in a handful of seconds. Ilya can see him thinking. “If that was important to you.” Shane finally says. “I would find it for you. Just like I get the too spicy chips and the gummy bears.” But Ilya doesn’t miss the way Shane is scanning the contents of Ilya’s basket like he’s looking for the non-existent Russian peanut butter. 

Ilya takes mercy on him and plucks a packet of cookies from his basket and extends them to Shane. “I do not want to be left out,” he says, winking. 

Shane takes them, staring at the package, still thinking too fast, too quickly. “Are these…important? Do you need them or -”

“Yes and no,” Ilya says and then snorts because Shane glares at him again. Like he remembered he was meant to be glaring. Ilya wishes he had the opportunity to talk to him last week…to explain to him…the glaring bothers him more than he wants to let on. “What is the word? Feeling like I used to.”

“Nostaglic.” Shane offers, setting the package down very gently. Soft. Precious. 

“They are nostalgic.” Ilya says. “Sometimes when I miss -” he pauses. Not home. Russia is not his home anymore. “Sometimes it is hard to have to figure out everything all over again and they are comforting to have.”

Shane winces and Ilya watches his mouth twist up again. “Yes,” he finally says, “my mom -” he takes a deep breath. “My mom talks about that sometimes. Remembers what it was like to come here and have nothing be the same.”

Oh. Ilya looks at the cart of snacks. At Shane. Turning over what he’s just said. The care he is…giving to the team. Not Ilya. Not…yet.

“Things are better now, of course, for her. I remember when this place opened. I was…maybe 10?” Shane is looking at Ilya, unblinking. This is the most open he’s been with Ilya. The most open Ilya has seen him. “I remember her crying holding a little box of tea and I did not understand then, but…” he shrugs one shoulder. “It is hard and I should have -” he blows out a breath and Ilya feels his throat go tight. 

Something about Shane beating himself up for something that happened when he was a kid…

Shane shakes himself - a barely there movement, blinking and settling that unflinching gaze back on Ilya. He’s going to say something, Ilya can see him building up whatever it is. 

He suddenly very much does not want Shane to say it. Not when Ilya already feels scraped out and raw inside. 

“I got my blinds replaced,” Ilya tells him. “I think probably I paid too much because when I told my neighbor how much it was, she told me that he ripped me off.” Ilya tries to pitch his voice into that flat Canadian accent she has and very much fails. “No more clicking.”

Shane shifts on his feet, looking at the ground like it has called him a bad hockey player. “Good. Not that you overpaid, but that you have regular blinds.”

Ilya thinks that Shane is not done speaking based on his expression, so he waits. 

“Are you -” Shane takes a big, heaving breath. “Do you have anything else you need? Not here, but in the city? I mean - I grew up here. I have lived in Ottawa all…” the sentence hitches and Ilya thinks Shane is about to say all my life, but that’s not true because he played in - “most of my life,” Shane says. 

He would have said all my life. Ilya knows immediately. If Shane had been talking to someone who didn’t know about hockey, he would have omitted it. He would have erased the time he spent away from Ottawa. 

“If there is something else you need, I could…” he waves his hand out from his body and finally looks up at Ilya, his eyes softer. Quieter. Something small shifting between them that Ilya desperately wishes he could wrap his hands around. A hockey stick of something that he could control and know and understand. 

Ilya wants to ask him to take him back to that rink out past Ilya’s house and skate with him until collapse. He wants to ask him to come over and sit on his couch and tell Ilya about leaving hockey. He wants to ask him for the tea that made his mom cry. 

Madness. Utter fucking madness. 

“I need a place to run,” Ilya says, “Not inside. I need to -” he touches his head, pulling his hand away. Get out of my head. 

Shane’s eyes flicker down to his leg. Ilya is suddenly acutely aware that Shane is thinking of his crash. The injuries. He says nothing though. Maybe because he trusts Ilya to know what he can do.

“I know of a place,” Shane says each word very slowly. “I could meet you there tomorrow morning.” And then he adds much quicker. “I go early and I will not wait for you.”

Pure delight is flooding him. Ilya has been handed the perfect opportunity to tell Shane what he thinks about his skating - about his game. His mind. He somehow knows Shane will outrun him and it will delight him and then Ilya can tell him. 

“Before work?” Ilya asks and Shane nods back. “Do not make me drive around in the dark, Hollander,” Ilya says. “I will pick you up. You will show me.”

If Ilya was not watching him closely, he would have missed the smile. Barely there and then gone. “I am not getting in that yellow monstrosity -”

“It is orange,” Ilya says immediately. “I sold my Porsche. That one was yellow.”

Shane says, nodding slowly. “Are you sure you only have one yellow car? I heard this rumor that you had a rented garage in Boston for just cars.”

Ilya wants to smile so badly, but he doesn’t. “It is a good rumor,” he wobbles his head. “Kind of true, but no. I -” he clears his throat. “I sold most of them. When I came here. I have two of my favorites, but the rest did not seem…”

Shane’s face kind of morphs into a slow horror, like he’s realized that Ilya almost died in a car and now he’s teasing him about them. 

“I gave third favorite car to my friend, Svetlana, and I sold the rest,” Ilya says, keeping his voice steady, aware suddenly that they’re still standing in the aisle of this supermarket. “I am trying to settle.” Which is not the way to say it, so he tries again. “It is maybe young hockey star dream to need a garage for all of your cars. It is old hockey star dream to have two very fast cars, one very boring slow car, and a team that wants him, yes?”

He can feel his English slipping away in embarrassing increments - desperate for Shane to see and understand him. 

Shane’s eyes roam over him. It’s slow and assessing and not entirely clinical. Not heat. Not heat in the way Ilya knows Shane is capable of. 

“The trail,” Shane says when his eyes get back to Ilya’s face. Ilya watches him. He lets him know that he knows Shane was watching him. “It is out towards my rink. I could pick you up. Since I drive by your neighborhood and then I could drop you off and -” his breath hitches again. “It would have to be pretty early though so I could drop you off and get to the rink and double check that everything is -”

“Or we could just ride to the rink together,” Ilya interrupts him. “I will bring bag and then make Wyatt drive me home after.”

Shane’s jaw makes an audible clicking noise. “I drive a very boring car,” he says and Ilya thinks Shane is making a joke.

“I also have boring car, Hollander. Riding in your boring car will only make me into boring Canadian faster. You will need to write the government. They will give me citizenship faster.”

Ilya watches that wash over Shane. A confusion turning into something sharper. A look that was on his face as he was watching Ilya on the ice. It delights him. That Shane is looking at him like that. Not while they are on ice, but now - in a grocery store. Like if he looks at Ilya long enough, he will know him. 

“Give me your phone,” Ilya says, holding his hand out. 

Shane’s hand twitches. “I know where you live,” he says.

Ilya sighs. “Give.”

There is a phone in his hand, already open so that Ilya can type his phone number in, saving his contact for Shane. He does not go into his text messages to send himself a message. That feels like a step too far. Instead he locks the phone and flips it back to Shane.

“Tell me what time you will be at my house,” he says. “I will be waiting.”

Shane takes the phone, staring at it in his hand. “I will not go easy on you, Rozanov.”

Ilya cannot help the smile on his face. “Hollander, if you ever go easy on me, I will think you are dying or the world is ending or that I have hit my head and am hallucinating.”

“Okay,” Shane says through a smile, his nose wrinkled up. “I should -” and then he waves towards the aisle. “I have a few more things to pick up, but I will let you know what time I will be over,” he nods. “See you, Rozanov.”

Ilya tries out the words. “See you, Hollander.”

Shane stuffs the phone in his pocket and turns away from the aisle, pushing his cart away. 

Ilya forgets what he was even looking for when he turned around - thinking about digging out those leggings that…well, maybe he can get Shane to blush again.

Shane texts Ilya late. Late enough that Ilya was beginning to believe the text would not come. 

Who said you were the best hockey player in the world and why on earth would you think I would leave that as your contact name?

And then immediately, I will be there around 6 AM

I am best hockey player in world.

Ilya types and deletes I will save you as Second Best Hockey Player in the World because he thinks that he should stick to his plan. Instead he sends, I will see you tomorrow morning.

Shane does not respond. Even if Ilya stares at the screen of his phone for too long. 

“Hollander, it is 5:45.” Ilya says, pulling the back door of Shane’s very boring SUV open and stuffing his hockey bag in the backseat.

Shane says nothing, waiting on Ilya to open the front door and climb in, but when Ilya does…The light in the ceiling of the car makes Shane look all golden and unfairly gorgeous for 5:45 in the morning. Ilya has to shake himself

“Were you going to sit here until 6 AM and then tell me you are here?”

Shane is back to glaring and maybe Ilya does not mind the glaring so much. Ilya can think in complete English sentences when he glares. “No,” Shane huffs, “I said around six. It is around 6.” And then he adds quickly, “And you were the one standing on your front porch.”

Ilya feels how wide his grin is. “Yes, I did not think you would wait on me. If I was not ready, you would leave me here.”

Shane is holding his body kind of stiffly, but he’s here and he offered this out to Ilya and Ilya should maybe not be teasing him the way he is, but he cannot help it. Ilya realizes he’s waiting on Ilya to put his seatbelt on before they move. 

He makes a show of reaching behind him and pulling the seatbelt across his body, twisting so he can click the seatbelt. “Okay, I am ready,” Ilya declares. “Take me away in your very boring car.”

Shane forgets to glare as he very carefully backs out of Ilya’s driveway and Ilya forgets to tease because Shane does the thing - putting his hand on the back of Ilya’s headrest to twist around and fuck. 

Shane doesn’t speak and Ilya can see that he’s a careful driver and Ilya decides to pretend he is not a morning person, half slumped against the door of the car but in a way that he can watch Shane.

“It’s about 10 minutes away,” Shane says, sparing a glance over at Ilya, but immediately looking back at the road.

“Okay,” Ilya nods and then turns more fully towards Shane and does not hide the way he is looking at him. 

Ilya had thought about his own body a lot in the hospital and the weeks after his accident. He had thought about the bones that were repaired and he had thought about the things the surgeons saw inside of him and how none of those things were things that mattered. Not really. 

His bones mattered to the people of Boston - even if they hadn’t mattered to them for very long after the accident. His heart mattered to children who had posters of him hanging up in their bedrooms. His shoulder mattered to people who made bets about how many points he would get that season. 

The doctors cared how that would all knit back together and be whole again. The physiotherapists who came by with strength training bands and infrared lights and scar cream all cared about how the muscles around his body came back together and if he felt discomfort when he extended his knee or elbow or breathed. 

Ilya had thought about it a lot then - how people had opened up his body and seen bits of him that should have always been inside of him. But, they did not see the fragile way he had been holding himself for years. They did not see the way his heart slowed to a breaking point in the days before he had to go back to Russia every year since he left. They did not see the emptiness in his stomach that no amount of warm meals could beat away. 

He had all of these unknowable, unseeable things in his body and he had spent a long time trying to flay them open to observe them for the first time in his life. 

And Ilya thinks of them now, sitting in the passenger seat of Shane’s car, watching him hold himself so very carefully, like he is unsure what he can unfurl for Ilya to see. What is safe. 

Ilya knows it’s him. It’s just that Ilya is the one in the car with him. Shane has friends - seemingly good ones. He is a local hockey league legend. Shane is not this curled up animal all of the time, and for the first time since Ilya came crashing back into the orbit of Shane Hollander, does Ilya wonder if maybe…maybe Shane got the better end of the stick. 

If there is a universe out there where Ilya is Shane. 

Shane the star, Shane standing up high in a completely untouchable place but all alone. Except. Well. Ilya remembers Shane sitting in the arena with his parents when he snuck into Ilya’s practice when they were kids, so maybe not alone. Maybe…he is lucky in every universe. Maybe he is still the lucky one here.

Ilya doesn’t know, but the thought crosses his mind and Ilya…wonders if Shane looks at Ilya and considers himself to be the lucky one.

Ilya should call Svetlana. He is bordering on a level of morose he has not been in months. 

“You are staring,” Shane says, his voice a tiny ball of tightness. 

“And you drive like you are afraid that Bambi will jump out in the road at any second.” Ilya tells him. “I will drive next time.”

Shane turns to glare at him. “I will not get in -”

Ilya waves him off. “I will drive the boring car, Hollander. No sports cars.” And then because he is feeling exposed already, “unless, of course, you do not trust me to drive.”

“Your public track record is not great.” Shane says and then horror flashes over his face, but it’s too late, Ilya is laughing. “I am so sorry, that was -” Shane is trying to say, but Ilya reaches over the little console and sets his hand on Shane’s shoulder. It’s overly familiar for their relationship and strange and Ilya kind of wants to redo it, but that would make it more strange so he pats him awkwardly and then takes his hand back. “That was not -”

“It is true,” Ilya cuts him off from apologizing again. “The great state of Massachusetts made a good deal of money from me while I lived there. It is probably good that I left America. I was about to have to -” he stops to look for the words, “license fee?”

Shane shakes his head, “I do not know what that means.”

Ilya knows there’s a word for it. “I was going to have to pay them to keep my driver’s license. Very silly.”

“Okay, well I am never getting in the car with you. Thanks for the confirmation that I made the right decision.” Shane has placed his hands on the wheel in very even intervals, and even though he’s still tense, there’s a lightness in his voice that wasn’t there before. 

“Eh,” Ilya shrugs. “I will be very careful with you. Who will buy the team gummy bears?”

“Yes, and who will be their multi-million dollar star center?” Shane’s voice goes kind of squeaky. Ilya thinks he might shout if they weren’t in a car. 

“Gummy bears very important for morale,” Ilya leans in, enjoying this far too much.

Shane makes a noise of distress and his hands tighten on the wheel. “I am not having this conversation and also we are here.” And then says, “And I am still not going easy on you.”

“I am taller than you,” Ilya says, “my legs are longer.”

Shane crinkles his nose up again and mutters, “barely,” but then slams the car into park and throws the door open. “Do not go easy on me either.”

The door slams before Ilya can say something inappropriate. Which is probably definitely for the better. 

“Fuck you,” Shane spits from his place on the ground and Ilya would laugh, but he can’t breathe, isn’t positive that he can skate later and only marginally sure he can make it back to Shane’s car. “I had you.”

Shane did have him, Ilya had made peace with losing to Shane Hollander, but then he remembered the check into the boards and Ilya had decided that Shane was not winning. Not as long as Ilya was breathing. 

“I hope you are not talking because you’re winded and not because you’re hurt because Wiebe will absolutely kill me if you’re -”

“I won,” Ilya pants out, standing up before immediately bending back over, trying hard to get his lungs to expand and will the oxygen back into his body. “I will let you buy me a smoothie as a prize.”

Ilya would guess that Shane laughs, but he’s still not sure because they’re both still not really breathing. 

“It will make coach happy that I am eating healthy things when I tell him that I pulled my ass beating you.” Ilya says and then wheezes because Shane does shout, sitting up, “No, no, Hollander. I am joking.” Shane falls back like someone has cut his strings and Ilya finally gets enough air in his lungs that he thinks he can manage to run for the car. “I will buy smoothies and then you will tell coach I pulled my ass.”

Ilya does have to run for the car, but it’s worth it because Shane throws his head back and laughs, free and easy and all for Ilya to see. “I think you are horrible,” Shane says from the driver’s seat. “I will tell Harris to give you a horrible social media edit.”

Ilya is now completely out of gas and can do nothing but hum and lean back in the seat, the smile on his face too big to hide. “I am buying you a smoothie and you would damage my perfect image as revenge?”

“Perfect,” Shane grumbles, but he’s doing the reverse thing with the car again so Ilya is very glad he doesn’t say anything that deserves a response. He very much wants to pretend the heat from Shane’s hand is something he could feel. Something he might deserve to feel. 

Ilya does pay for the smoothies and a little shot of something green and acrid smelling that Shane drinks in one single gulp and that is when he decides to bring up hockey. 

“Thank you for letting me skate with your team,” Ilya says, his voice barely audible over the soft nonsense pop music playing in Shane’s car. “I had a good time.”

It was good to wait because Shane smiles, free and wild. He is relaxed now. “Temp is going to hold it over Bood forever that he skated with you first.”

Ilya thinks he remembers Temp - obviously not his real name. He doesn’t ask though. What he does ask turns into not a question as it’s tumbling out of his mouth. “Do you know you more beautiful than me? On the ice.”

Shane’s sharp little inhale is maybe a warning sign. “You have more power than me,” Shane says, but his voice sounds hollow and odd, eyes trained on the traffic ahead of them. “You are one of the most powerful skaters in the league.”

Ilya knows that. It is not what he said. “I know that,” he says, “It is why I am the best.”

“You’re the best because you are powerful and accurate.” Shane says and Ilya truly wishes he could know the depth of Shane’s hockey knowledge. “That’s why you are the best.”

Ilya tries to smile. They’re at a light and Shane turns to look at him and Ilya should smile and laugh and thank him and move them along, but Shane is being so sincere and Ilya feels flayed open. “It does not mean as much as I thought it would,” he tells Shane, watching Shane’s eyes linger on his face. “I did not have an equal.”

Shane looks away from Ilya. the light has not changed. They are not yet moving. Ilya doesn’t miss the way he blinks slowly. 

“I did not have anyone who could challenge me,” Ilya says. “I was at the top, but what does it matter when you are alone.” 

Shane’s mouth twists up and Ilya watches him, waiting for him to protest - to tell Ilya he is not alone.

“If you had been there?” Ilya says, “Maybe it would mean more to be best because you would have taken many things from me, I think.”

“Roza -” Shane starts to say, voice tight again. Ilya pushed too hard. 

“Less trophies for me, but the ones I had would have been mine. Mine to have earned.” Ilya doesn’t know why he cuts Shane off to say something he’s already said in a different way, but maybe he doesn’t want Shane to tell him that he would not have trophies. Maybe he doesn’t want Shane to tell him that Ilya would still be alone at the top.

Shane says nothing and Ilya says nothing and the silence in the car is still better than the silence in Ilya’s house. 

Even if Ilya somehow fucked this conversation up too. They had a really good time. He saw parts of Shane that he hadn’t before and it has left him wanting more. It has left him…wanting to know him more, and then it washes over him - Ilya looking at the rink coming into view. 

Ilya is likely never leaving Ottawa - not as long as he’s playing hockey - and Shane’s whole life is here and…Ilya exhales and feels the drum of time marching forward on and on go a bit quieter. Because he has time to know Shane. He has time to talk with him and know him and maybe someday get on the ice with him again and tell him in the moment. 

You are the most beautiful skater I have ever seen. 

Ilya has time to fix it and he has time to understand and hopefully to be understood. 

It’s new and terrifying and Ilya wants it. He wants.

“I will go ice my ass if anyone is looking for me,” Ilya says as Shane parks in the player lot.

Shane sighs, but when he turns to look at Ilya, there is no hesitancy, just a very small quiver in his voice - like there are things he is holding back. “Thanks for the run, Rozanov. See you around.”

He doesn’t wait for Ilya to climb out or gather his things before he is out of the car, yanking his own bag from the backseat. Ilya can see the tight set of his shoulders and Ilya sits in the passenger seat of Shane’s car as he walks towards the rink without looking back. 

Ilya has no idea if this is better or worse than last week, but it’s only week two and he has months to try again.

Years.

Chapter End Notes

Shane close to apologizing to Ilya for not telling him about the international supermarket he knew existed that has Russian snacks available and Ilya like, "Oh no, he feels bad for not being a good son. How silly and sweet of him."

Chapter 6: if I stay here, I'll never leave

Chapter Summary

The season begins

Chapter Notes

This chapter is very introspective and Ilya does a lot of thinking. About his mom and her canonical death and how that shaped him.
And there's like a very mild moment where Ilya's anxiety is getting the better of him, but it passes.
He's a mess in this chapter. A lot is happening.

Chapter title from Sea of Love by The National which is the perfect song for the last scene of this chapter.

As for all of you, the readers, thank you for loving this fic the way you do. It's a very slow burn and I know new fic is being uploaded like every hour here and I am so happy you have given this one a shot.

Also, as our sweet baby feral said, fuck AI, fuck it to death.
There will never be AI in my shit and I block people you use it. Bye.

Ilya is halfway through packing his bag for the pre-season road trip - lamenting that it’s called a roadie when they fucking fly everywhere which is another stupid English thing he doesn’t understand - when his phone rings. 

He only knows his phone is ringing because the music cuts out and that means he ends up missing the call because he can't find his phone. The song restarts. 

Ilya curses and upends his mostly packed bag. It's in the bottom of his bag - the phone. Which means he’ll have to start over, which is probably for the best because one of the shirts he pulls out is definitely a Boston shirt and he can’t wear that. 

It’s Svetlana and he sighs, knowing she’s going to be extra snarky about him missing the first call. He’s going to call her back when the music cuts out again and in the next second, the phone is vibrating in his hand again. 

“You have not gone to see the therapist that I found for you,” Svetlana says without greeting. Which is something Ilya did not know he would miss so much when more and more Russians fell away from his regular circle. What he did not miss was Svetlana’s -

“You are stalking me now?”

She makes a kind of…non-committal noise. “I maybe checked your account for a charge.”

Ilya is suddenly remembering that porn site charge from three nights ago when he was feeling raw and wired and couldn’t sleep and nothing he owned was doing it for him. He hadn’t even finished the video. The girl kept saying daddy and Ilya is really down for almost anything, but even he can admit he has far too many parental figure issues to find that hot. 

He doesn’t have to feel guilty about the porn, but he maybe has to feel guilty about the therapist. 

“She is Russian,” Sveta reminds him. “Do you know how many numbers I called -”

“I could have paid cash,” Ilya offers, which is ridiculous and he knows before it’s even out of his mouth. The snort in his ear makes him squeeze his eyes shut, abandon the packing, and starfish onto his bed, breathing slow and deep. He knows she can hear it on the other side of the call, but she says nothing so he says nothing. 

If he wills it, maybe she will appear in his bedroom and force him to call the therapist and leave a message about a new appointment, but she deserves more than that. Not enough for him to not be a shit about it for two more minutes.

He sighs again, but in a way to alert her that he’s about to be a shit. She’s known him her whole life. She knew it would not be this simple. “I am not even sure I need to go.”

“Svetalana,” Sveta is now doing a very bad imitation of him. “I know we are not in love, but maybe we could be. If we tried harder. If we got married, we could -”

“Okay okay okay,” Ilya shouts. “That was not my best moment, but I was very high and I did die.”

This is an argument they had in the hospital, and then when he got home from the hospital, and then just once more when she told him about the therapist she found for him. 

“Also,” he adds, “I apologized to you.”

She makes that dismissive noise again and because Ilya already has his eyes closed, he can picture her - standing in her kitchen, making a drink or dinner, waving her hand and glaring at the phone on the counter. “Yes, you apologize to me by not making me worry.”

Ilya nods to himself. He can do that. For all the fucking up he’s done, Svetalana deserves for him to not make her worry. “I have been -” and then he uses the English phrase because he thinks it’s funny, “on the straight and narrow.”

“You have to stop watching American teenager shows, Ilya.” Sveta says and then he voice goes much softer, “but I do believe you. I know you -”

Ilya’s throat feels tight and he very much feels like he might cry. Which would probably not work in his favor to convince Svetlana that he is doing just fine here. “When will you come and visit?”

“Soon,” Svetlana says, allowing him to change the subject. Allowing him to steer them away. “I will be away all next month.”

“Home?”

“Germany,” she answers him. “Business. I will record your games and send you notes.”

He would expect nothing less and it makes him happy. “You will come to practice. We will be coached by you and by Shane Hollander and Wiebe will have nothing to do. We will win a cup by next season.”

Fuck.

“Shane Hollander,” Svetlana says the name slowly, turning it over and over, searching for how she knows it. 

Ilya isn’t sure he can talk about Shane to Sveta. Not because…because he doesn’t want to, but because Shane isn’t for anyone else. Some wild, feral part of Ilya wants to protect Shane from everything, and apparently that also includes Svetlana. 

Especially because Ilya cannot get the vision of Shane walking away from him, his shoulders hunched, his hands in his pockets, out of his head. 

He had said see you around and then had very pointedly ignored Ilya, avoided Ilya. He had said see you around and maybe it’s because the wild, feral wounded part of Ilya recognized the wild, feral, wounded part of Shane and he wants to give him time and space to work out for himself that Ilya is not a danger to him -

Part of that protection means protecting Shane’s hurt from Svetlana’s knowing prying eyes. At least for now. 

“Is it bad form if I pack Boston shirts?” He asks to break her out of her spiral. “It is just all of the Centaurs things are blue and -”

“Oh my god, you will never outgrow being a diva.” Svetlana sighs and Ilya laughs and the conversation slips into something much lighter and easier. 

Sveta makes her dinner. Ilya packs his bag. At the end of the call, he promises to call the therapist. Tells her he loves her.

But the difference is that when he hangs up the phone, he actually pulls up the contact and calls. He leaves a message - vague details, no name. He vows to answer when the office calls him back. 

The wild, feral animal inside of Ilya Rozanov is a fucking idiot. 

Shane Hollander is standing in the parking lot beside the team bus, his arms crossed over his chest, a pair of stupid cute sunglasses on his face. He’s smiling at Bood who has a cardboard box in his hands - one Shane just handed to him. And now they’re talking. 

Ilya is too far away and too busy pretending to listen to something Wyatt is saying to him to know what the two of them are talking about, but Shane is smiling so easily at Bood when Shane has not even looked at Ilya for two weeks. 

The thought that he could be…jealous arises and he laughs. Which is good because Wyatt laughs and points and says, “yes, see! I knew it was funny! Lisa did not find it funny.”

Ilya is an ass. “You are one of the funniest guys I know,” Ilya pats him on the shoulder. “And I know a lot of guys.”

Wyatt laughs again and Ilya is saved by Harris clearing his throat but yelling really. Loudly. “Time to go!” He does a kind of directing motion - like someone would for an airplane. 

“No,” Bood says, lifting the box to point at Harris. “Not you!” Everyone else begins to boo. 

Ilya has missed out on some tradition. 

Wyatt starts it. Hollzy, hollzy, hollzy.

Shane is blushing. Ilya can see him blushing from here. It doesn’t keep Shane from taking a step forward, holding his hands in front of his body, when he opens his mouth, Ilya feels like his heart might burst. “Hello, Ottawa Centaurs,” his voice is not his own. It’s odd and round and ridiculous. He gestures stiffly. “It is your cruise director, Shane Hollander, speaking.” He pauses. The whole team loses their minds. Ilya feels like he’s having a religious experience. “Your accommodations have been lovingly selected -” and then he has to properly shout and the accent is abandoned, “and your dietary preferences have been noted.”

Ilya is smiling too wide to join in on the cheering.

“Thank you for cruising with Club Centaur!” Shane shouts. “Let’s have a great season!”

That seems to be the sign everyone was waiting on because the team is all out screaming now and muscling each other out of the way to get on the bus and Ilya has just seconds to steel himself before he starts walking and has to walk past Harris and Shane. Harris who is offering fist bumps to everyone - Shane who is nodding at them all. 

Ilya expects Shane to look away. That’s what he’s been doing every time he’s popped into practice. He looks away from Ilya. He doesn’t acknowledge Ilya’s plays. He doesn’t shout out to Ilya to fix his hold even when Ilya fucks it up on purpose. Ilya will take his fistbump from Harris and get on the bus and ask Dykstra to tell him a story about something. 

He also downloaded every season of One Tree Hill from Svetlana’s Hulu account just to annoy her into texting him about it. (Which she did, so he won.) If it comes to having to entertain himself, he can do that too. Ignore the sinking feeling in his chest when Shane ignores him again. 

Harris says his name all drawn out. “Illllllyyyyaaaaaa.” Too many syllables like American’s always do. Too many syllables, but full of kindness. Harris holds his fist out. Ilya gives him a fist bump and then -

“Rozanov,” Shane says, nodding. Quick, efficient. Like he did for everyone on the team before him and will do for everyone getting on the bus after him. 

But, he said it. Rozanov. He said his name. Rozanov. 

Ilya has no idea what he’s been reduced to, but he guesses it’s the stupid feral animal in his chest. 

Ilya is squished into a window seat, knees askew and a can of sweating coke on the tray table beside a package of cookies with a sticky note, thinking about this interaction he had with a young Boston fan once. He had to have been 21 - yeah, because he and Marlow had been laughing about how it was the first time he could buy beer legally in Boston. 

He had been a little tipsy, stumbling through the street with Marlow and a rookie and someone else - Tim? The equipment guy that they had for one singular season before he got married and moved to Utah. Ilya remembers looking it up on a map to make sure he wasn’t misunderstanding him. It turned out to be a religious thing. Which is why Tim was the only sober one, carrying a bag of shit they were given in the locker room when they did a gear swap with the baseball team. 

Ilya had been laughing loud and free, and then this kid had been in his way. Eyes big, the way they do when you meet someone that feels like a god. He had a shaky weak voice and Marlow and Tim had kept walking, but Ilya was fixed to the spot, staring at this kid who was wearing a hockey camp shirt and holding out his hand. His shaking hand and his shaking voice. 

“Hi Mr. Rozanov,” the kid had said, “I am a big fan, I want to be just like you when I grow up.”

That was not unusual. Ilya met a lot of kids and he had heard that dozens of times, but then two men had stepped up behind the kid and introduced themselves as his dad’s. Simple and easy. 

The kid who admired him while in a hockey shirt and had two dads, stopping him in the street while he was drunk to tell him - that he wanted to be just like him. 

Ilya remembers signing something, taking a picture, blinking a bit too much at the men who were being so attentive to their son and telling Ilya how they were never into hockey before the first junior hockey camp.

He remembers he had caught up with his group at another bar and then excused himself to get a cab back to his apartment. It had killed him in a way he was not in a place to fully explore. 

Choice. 

Ilya was fucked up and it was a fundamental part of himself that he understood. Even young. He knew. Part of that was the way in which his parents fucked him up. 

His mom had tried - she had tried. But even then he had understood that leaving was the only choice she had ever made for herself. She had been too young, too afraid. Too…everything. Leaving had been a choice. Heartbreaking and world ending and yes, Ilya had suffered for it. 

His father had made lots of choices too - lots of choices for Ilya. Until Ilya had a contract in Boston, he had the illusion of choice but no actual power. 

And he had grown up believing that his life would continue to be like that - happening to him in increments, in tragedies. He would maybe, someday have a child, but it would maybe not be on purpose. He might stumble into someone to marry, or perhaps he would get himself in a bind and Sveta would offer. 

He had lived a life of waiting and somehow he had looked at a little boy with two dads who chose to be together - which, Ilya remembers being told in some briefing about Boston that some tiny intern had given him at 18 - it had been told to him then that Massachusetts was the first state to legalize gay marriage. Ilya had wanted to laugh. Like that fact alone would make every Boston player less homophobic - would make hockey more accepting.

Sure, the union he had seen that night was legal in one state, but if one of them was away on work and got in an accident, would that matter? Ilya didn’t know. But they were choosing that anyway. The two men with the son they choose to have - to raise - between them. The son in the sport they didn’t even follow until he had an interest in it. 

Ilya from back then had gone home and just felt uncomfortable, not really understanding why the sight of that happy family had stung. 

But, now he understands that it was the choices - the millions of choices that they had made together.

Ilya sits on the plane with a team he chose, listening to everyone fight about who has the best plane snack from the box, staring at a sticky note on a package of cookies that he placed in Shane Hollander’s cart. Like a choice. 

Good luck on your first roadie with the team, Rozanov.

Shane’s handwriting is…neat and small. Except the loop on the y. It’s curly and too much. And if Ilya traces it with a shaky hand…if he carefully unsticks the note from the front of his package of cookies and tucks it even more carefully between the pages of the book he brought in his backpack…

Well, that is a choice. And he is determined to start making more of them. 

Athletes are freaks and Ilya is not exempt from that category. And maybe Ilya has the…bias - conformation bias? This was a term on the word calendar on the desk of his team doctor in Boston. Confirmation. Confirmation bias. Maybe Ilya is just full of confirmation bias that hockey players are the freakiest freaks of all athletes. 

He is currently learning all of the freak that his new team has. Which apparently includes Bood eating a peanut butter sandwich while sitting crosslegged on the floor while Wyatt tells him about something called nightwing - Ilya stopped listening because Dykstra is singing something awful and grating and claiming it is his lucky song. 

Ilya sits in his stall, elbows on his knees and he watches. If there’s a single cookie in one of his hands…

“Hey,” Coach Wiebe says from the place he just appeared. “We got a fucking hockey game to win or are we just going to talk about comic books and sing the worst radio country hits of the last decade?”

“Coach,” Dykstra says, one hand on his bare chest. “You are fucking with my mojo.”

Ilya likes the word mojo. It makes him smile. 

“Eat your cookie, Rozanov -” Coach says and then sighs because -

The locker room erupts and Ilya gives them all one of his most salacious grins as he carefully takes a bite of his cookie. “Let’s win a fucking hockey game,” Ilya says and the shouting is very different this time. His grin morphs into something brighter, more true. 

It feels good.

They don’t win. 

Ilya has a goal and an assist and Wyatt was unbelievable, but it wasn’t enough. Which is okay. Ilya didn’t think they would win tonight, but he did think he would maybe not have so much emotion. 

He’s hiding it well enough, probably. Sandwiched between Wyatt and Wiebe at the bar in the hotel lobby that they have officially taken over. It’s one of those rooftop bars with space heaters and trees in pots and sparkly little lights and Ilya hates it for reasons he can’t really articulate. 

Maybe if the bar was inside - maybe he would have a better handle on his emotions, but he feels exhausted - like his body is not his own. He felt that a lot - after the injury - and it spikes his anxiety high high high and out here there is no roof for it to rest against. It floats up and up and he can’t reel it back in. 

His shoulder aches. Maybe because it’s in his head and maybe because he got slammed into the boards and maybe because when Mattison had skated past him after scoring, he had said can’t believe Ottawa bought a broken man to save them. 

Ilya knew he wasn’t broken and he knew Ottawa hadn’t…bought him. He knew that this was a choice he made, but it still made him feel like if he could choose, he would choose to follow his anxiety up into the sky - float away until the team couldn’t see him any longer - until the air became thin and cold. 

But no one can know and he can’t float away, so he sips at the single beer he allows himself to have and he smiles at everyone and he laughs and when Wyatt steps close to him and says, “look at our team, man” while holding out his phone -

Shane is frozen in time on Wyatt’s screen. The photo has obviously been edited because it’s black and white and the edges of the photo look softer. He’s sitting on a couch, his knees pulled up underneath him - looking impossibly small. A hoodie - one string in his mouth, eyes locked on something in front of him but before Ilya can stop Wyatt, he scrolls and the next photo is of Shane again, but he’s noticed that someone is taking a photo of him and he’s squinting like he’s annoyed, but his mouth is soft and -

Wyatt scrolls again. A selfie of Harris with their game in the background. The next photo is of a crowd of people. Ilya recognizes them. The support staff - gathered together to watch them. 

Which is…

Boston had a viewing area for staff in their building. Ilya had been there once when he had embarrassingly gotten an inner ear infection and couldn’t fly. Some intern had shown up to fetch him and bring him in to show everyone that he was fine and not concussed like the media was saying. But, it had been a party. No one had watched the game. Everyone had stood around and eaten catered food and drank free booze and Ilya had been annoyed because he wanted to be at home on his couch watching his team so he could give them notes at practice. 

But, this party is not at the rink, it’s in someone’s house and they’re all gathered there - together. To watch them play a game. For love of them or each other or hockey in general or Ottawa pride, Ilya doesn’t really care which. 

“Harris posted them,” Wyatt says, taking his phone back, scrolling back to the start - which Ilya did not see because it’s a photo of Shane holding up a tray of cold vegetables in a little kitchen, the smile on his face is so soft. “It feels good, you know? To play for a place that is so proud of us.”

Ilya looks at Wyatt - remembers he rode a bench before he got here. Probably never got trotted out for sponsors to make sure he was not concussed. 

Ilya looks back at Wyatt’s phone so he can try and see the little name for Harris. Which is just HarrisDrover - Ilya could have worked that out for himself. And then he puts his beer down, the anxiety respooling itself in a second. Like someone pressed the button and it comes back into his body, returned from the heavens and nestled inside of him where he knows how to manage it. 

“We will do no more losing,” he says, “We have people who love us? We will not lose.”

Wyatt’s laugh is half there. “Man, I love the energy, but you know -” he pockets his phone without locking it and turns towards Ilya. “We don’t even sell out the first home game normally. It’s not -” 

Wyatt does this thing with his hand sometimes when he thinks. Like he’s turning a puck over. Even when he doesn’t have one. 

“We don’t like to lose either, but -”

Ilya puts his hands on Wyatt’s shoulders and says, clearly, plainly. “Then we stop. Will we win every game? No, but we will stop expecting to lose because we are better than that.”

Wyatt’s brows move - nothing more than a twitch. “Okay, Rozy. We got a long way to go, you know.”

Ilya is used to long way. Long way does not scare him. “Okay, we have long way.” He shrugs, picks his beer back up. “Let me go get a drink, and I will go with you to bother Bood about his bad puck handling.”

“Oh my god,” Wyatt sighs, “You are going to be a terror, I knew things were going too good.” But he’s smiling so Ilya also smiles, waving him off. 

He does go and order a Coke from the bar, but he also pulls his phone out and searches for Harris’ account on Instagram. It’s private, but he requests to follow anyway, going back to his homepage to look at whatever new outfit Sveta has posted - except he can’t even get over to her page before Harris has accepted his request. 

When Ilya clicks on the little notification, it takes him directly to Harris’s page - Shane right there. Shane smiling. 

Later…Ilya will look at that photo. When he’s not on this rooftop bar with no ceiling, surrounded by a team that he likes very much and it’s not like - he is sure they would likely be…fine with him being bisexual, but it’s not just -

He forces himself to look away from the photo, going to message Harris because he does not have his number. 

Can we talk to someone when i get back about doing some promotions 

And then because that’s not clear

To sell tickets to first home game

And then because he’s insane

I will sign anything buy them myself talk to charity whatever

And then because he is a rabid dog, he adds

Party looks fun

He shoves his phone into his pocket because the bartender gets around to setting his coke down in front of him, and then he does go harass Bood - until Wiebe makes them talk about the travel day tomorrow instead. 

Which bleeds into Wiebe talking about his time in the AHL on buses and Wyatt talks about having to drive himself to games a few times and then Ilya strangles the conversation into how he hates calling them roadie’s and Wyatt says they can’t call them flyie’s with so much conviction that Ilya’s vision starts to go black around the edges of his laughter. 

It feels better - much looser. The anxiety starts to float away, but it’s in wisps of smoke and bits of cord cut away by the night sky and the card he pulls from his wallet to pay for everyone’s drinks and the chorus of thanks Rozy baby from his team and…

And when Ilya is pressed against the elevator wall, scrolling through the notifications that piled up on his phone in the last day, he sees one from Harris. Only a phone number. 

Ilya adds it to his contacts and then he goes back to Harris’ profile and he looks at the soft smile on Shane’s face until the elevator spits him out on the second floor, walking silently next to Bood - who is down the hall from him. 

“Hey,” Bood says, stopped in front of his own door, but turned towards Ilya who is frozen in the middle of the hall. “You know we all count ourselves lucky to have you here, right? Your -” but Ilya holds his hand up, stopping him. 

“I am lucky,” Ilya says, his voice unwavering. “I want to be here, Bood. I want to be on this team.” The words are truth in his mouth and between them. “Good game, Cap,” he says, “We win the next one.”

Bood’s eyes are steady, his voice firm. “We win the next one.”

Ilya turns away from him, goes back to his room, showers again and brushes his teeth too hard and when he closes his eyes, he can see that black and white photo of Shane on his eyelids. 

Nothing makes sense anymore. Ilya is free falling into something he can’t understand - has no control over. 

Not hockey, not his own head, not Shane fucking Hollander. 

The anxiety balloons and fills the spaces of this unfamiliar hotel room and - 

Ilya slips into sleep somewhere between planning what he wants to ask to be highlighted during video review and what he’s going to ask Harris to do. Well, and also Shane’s smile. 

Is it any surprise he dreams of Shane Hollander.

Ilya comes back to consciousness in bursts. 

A bright light, a hiss of a voice, a pleading voice. Nothing. 

Ilya has long since abandoned any belief that there is a god watching over him, but it almost feels like there might be a god in the room with him, the fervent whispering in a language he can’t make sense of that he can track to his side - it sounds as though someone is conversing with god - passion, belief. It slips away before he can ask for them to include him in their prayers. 

A sharp pain that is too insistent on being felt, a cry that maybe comes from him. A hand on his cheek that settles something inside of him. There is a flurry of people around him. Ilya only has a moment to think that he’s been here before it all slips into blackness. 

Open your eyes. 

Before - before they were Russian, sharp and hard and demanding. Svetlana telling him that he would wake up. 

They’re English words now. Softly spoken and pled out like it’s the only thing that can keep him - Shane - on this side of living. 

“Open your eyes, Ilya,” he says again and Ilya - because it’s Shane asking, Shane praying prayers he learned in that fancy French primary school he attended, Shane holding his face and begging him to stay with him, Shane asking Ilya to open his eyes. 

Ilya opens his eyes. Everything hurts. Breathing hurts, blinking hurts, existing hurts. And something comes back to him in a rush. 

Shane blinking through tears - an argument that is a rehashing of an argument they had before and will likely have again - Ilya being mean and broken and needing to breathe, shrugging off the hand Shane extends to him - driving too fast, unbreakable, always unbreakable, but realizing with his foot on the gas and his heart pounding that actually he was very breakable and maybe breaking wasn’t so bad and the only soft place he had to land was Shane and if he went home right now and -

Ilya waking up in the hospital to Shane’s clumsy praying and his hands and his commands. Ilya broke and Shane is here as he always is. Always will be. 

“You can never die again,” Shane says, “You are not allowed to ever die on me again, I go first,” he demands, angry and pouting and so sure that Ilya would not follow him into the darkness immediately - his heart would simply give up. He knows that about himself. 

Ilya tries to open his mouth to tell him that, but his throat is so dry and everything fucking hurts. Shane is there, still crying, but now holding an ice chip on the tips of his fingers, slipping it between Ilya’s parched lips, soft and gentle. 

He is over Ilya now, his eyelashes against his cheeks when he tries to blink away the tears, the dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. He’s wearing one of Ilya’s Boston hoodies and he’s so beautiful that Ilya will always be surprised that he’s his. 

“Never,” Shane says, one of his stubborn tears escaping. 

Ilya will manage it now, to tell him he will never be this stupid again. He will let Shane buy him one of those very boring cars he likes to drive and they will drive the speed limit everywhere even though the speed limit is too slow. 

Except when he opens his mouth, what he says is, “Marry me.” And Shane’s sharp inhale is the last thing Ilya sees before he rips himself out of this strange reality, pushing himself up to a sitting position, chest heaving, his body full of phantom aches that he left behind in Boston. 

“Ilya,” he says out loud to himself and the dark room and the ghost of insanity he can feel chasing him, “You have to stop this.”

It’s already 4 AM and he won’t go back to sleep because he can’t risk going back to that place - where he was someone to Shane Hollander - someone Shane would sit beside in the hospital and - no…

Ilya gets out of bed, clicking on the lamp before rolling out the mat he carries with him everywhere, throwing himself into the physio mandated yoga routine, pushing that out of his mind with everything he has. 

“Get it together, Rozanov,” he says to himself again, but this time in the mirror as he packs his toiletry bag. 

The thing is…he’s not sure he wants to get it together. Not really. Not when…Shane’s hand had been so warm. But, worse somehow. Ilya has never been touched like that. Not like he was something reverent. And the first time it happens, it happens in his head - something he didn’t know he needed and something he isn’t sure he can forget knowing.

Chapter End Notes

Ilya Rozanov is Nathan Scott's biggest fan and Harris Drover's instagram used to be filter heavy and you can't convince me otherwise.

Anyway, king of no chillandia is here and he's not going anywhere.

(Editing to add two words to the last scene to hopefully clarify that Ilya is DREAMING. He woke up in a hospital bed in Boston after his accident and asked Svetlana to marry him. He’s now dreaming that same reality, he’s just…superimposed Shane Hollander over Svetlana. He’s not insane (in that way), he’s just searching for comfort and the feeling of home and a capital Y yearner.)

Chapter 7: I don't need any help to be breakable

Chapter Summary

The season begins and Ilya has to keep moving forward. Even when it's hard.

Chapter Notes

Chapter title from Slipped by The National

This chapter is fun because it's up and down and Ilya is up and down and inside out and we just have to go through the horrors a little bit because healing is hard and you never have your feet completely underneath you.

I feel like as a pre-warning, there is not a lot of Shane/Ilya interactions in this chapter. We are still building groundwork for Ilya's character and their relationship. It is coming. I have written a loooooot of fic and I don't leave you guys hanging and I always make sure there's a good payoff. I promise.

They come home to an empty parking lot which is not Ilya’s norm. Even in the worst of Boston winters, there were a couple of diehards hanging around, waiting. Ilya had one of them he liked in particular - a reseller. A stout man in his 50’s with an accent that Ilya could never place and a fresh jersey every time. 

Some of the veterans warned Ilya off him his rookie season, but after a delayed flight put them in at 3 AM, Ilya had looked up to find him where he always was and Ilya could always respect dedication and hustle and he had dedication and hustle. Arnold - or at least what he used as a name. 

It’s not 3 AM now - it’s the middle of the afternoon. 

“Video review tomorrow,” Coach says as Ilya is shuffling towards his car, already thinking about picking up something unhealthy and ridiculous for an early dinner. He can eat his weight in cheeseburgers and then tomorrow he will work it off by convincing someone to skate with him. 

It feels like…a small bad decision. Cheeseburgers are better than going to some club and getting bottle service and fucking some girl just to feel something. 

Not that Ilya ever really obsessed over his nutrition. Not like some of the other guys on the team - but Ilya does try. Vodka is probably less calories, but cheeseburgers and a milkshake is something that will hurt his heart a lot less. 

Ilya sits in his car and looks at the empty parking lot and he pulls up Harris’ contact that he carefully saved early this morning. 

We have video review tomorrow morning. Can we talk about promotions?

Okay, so maybe the empty parking lot really bothers him. Absolutely not that weird ass dream he had.

It’s the parking lot. And the losing. 

Harris doesn’t have time to see Ilya until the late afternoon, which means Ilya has plenty of time to skate after video review. 

It’s half the team on the ice and bullshit competitions that result in more trash talking than probably necessary, but Ilya finds that it works to undo some of the misery from the day before. 

The Centaurs genuinely enjoy each other’s company and Ilya knows that it would be really easy to slip into their dynamic and play up his own persona - loud and brash and funny, but something about Wyatt’s quiet thoughtfulness and Bood’s careful leadership and Boyle’s quiet quips that land at the perfect time make Ilya want to belong in the real way. 

Not that he’s ready to pull out the nasty bits of his past, but it feels like perhaps they would be safe if he needed to - like maybe if he had been here when things fell apart, he would not have spun out in a way that was detrimental to his body and his career. 

He tries to push that away as he stands under the warm spray of the shower - because it does him no good. 

Harris helps to dissolve it completely, standing up when Ilya pushes into his office with two coffees from the lounge. Ilya’s full of sugar and Harris’ full of cream and sugar. Harris is already smiling and looking genuinely happy to see Ilya. “You do know what my job is, right?”

Ilya waves him off and then sets the cup of coffee onto Harris’ desk, in between two precariously tall stacks of paper. “You do twitter.”

“I know you’re fucking with me,” Harris says, his hands on his hips. 

“Yes,” Ilya confirms, throwing himself into a chair, taking a careful sip of his coffee. “It is just that you are nice,” Ilya admits. 

Something complicated happens on Harris’ face. “Everyone that works here is nice,” he says, but his voice is wobbly. “And you have the flipbook of faces.”

Ilya nods, scratching his thumbnail over the little ridges on the bottom of his cup. He can feel how tight his mouth is, and he knows Americans find it disconcerting, but he can’t force himself to relax. “I sometimes do not say things the right way,” Ilya admits, “I can sound…mean.”

Harris blinks very rapidly and Ilya kind of likes that he can see Harris processing that information. “I think you are direct,” Harris says, “I know you are translating everything -”

“I think it is good to have someone here who cares for the team,” Ilya cuts him off, unwilling to talk about himself and his nonsense. “Who knows I want the best for the team.” And then he leans his head down and smiles - very much too flirty. “And you will be with us for twitter, yes? What good is promotion without pretty video for social media?”

Harris, who Ilya has decided has no idea that Ilya is bisexual, laughs in his face, finally sitting down behind his desk and reaching for his coffee. “Okay, run me through what you are thinking before Julia arrives?”

Ilya takes a deep breath and stumbles through his many many ideas that he’s mostly ripping off from his time in Boston, but that is fine. The point is to get people in the door, the point is to embed him into the Centaurs and make Ottawa fall in love with him. 

Harris listens, and then Julia listens when she comes in, a bag over her shoulder like she is on the way out for the day. She takes notes on a little yellow pad and she hums frequently and when she cuts in with questions, Harris is there to answer them in an extremely diplomatic way. 

“We should set something up formally,” Julia says to Harris - not Ilya. “Run some of this by Cal.” Her phone is in her hand. “I know next week you’ll be slammed with content from the Children’s Hospital, but could -”

“Children’s Hospital?” Ilya sits up, darting his eyes over to Harris. 

He visited Children’s hospitals and regular hospitals and once very horribly a hospice center with Boston, but no one has said anything to him about the Centaurs going.

“Next week,” Harris says, “We try and go once a month, rotate out. We do some content with Chuck.”

Ilya looks back at Julia, “We can do tickets?” He sits up straighter, “The families? Doctors and nurses? Can you get me some tickets for that”

Julia blinks at him and she processes things much slower than Harris does because she’s still thinking when Harris says, “Good press is always good for Cal.”

“It is good cause,” Ilya says, “And they will fill our seats.” And then Ilya says very quietly, surprising even himself, “Doctors are -” he wiggles his fingers. “I did not get to do anything like this in Boston for team who took care of me.”

Julia is writing very quickly now. “We could do a medical worker night,” she is not talking to Ilya or even looking at him, she’s talking to Harris. “Physical therapists, doctors, nurses, EMT’s, a lottery system or -” she shakes her head, “we could do drop-in’s with players for social media and -”

“Like we did for teacher’s,” Harris finishes her thought, “it won’t be near as cute.”

“Won’t matter,” Julia says, she’s pulling her laptop out of her bag now, moving one of Harris’ stacks of paper aside to make room, “Everyone has a medical worker in their family and everyone has a loved one who had a scary health thing -”

“I will need to workshop a hashtag,” Harris says over her and Ilya is very aware that he is no longer needed in the room. 

“I will let you work,” Ilya says, standing up and taking one step back. “Harris, let me know about the hospital visit, yes?”

Harris looks up to dismiss him, but then kind of startles and forces himself to meet Ilya’s gaze. He has such kind eyes, Ilya thinks to himself. “This is good,” Harris says, “This is a really good thing.”

Not idea. A thing. Ilya knows he means the meaning behind it - Ilya wanting to look after the team, but also do it in a meaningful way. It makes Ilya feel flayed open. 

“I will text you,” Harris says, “About the hospital.”

Ilya nods, feeling like he did something right here, like he might just have an effect here. Maybe. 

Of course, he runs directly into Shane as he’s coming out of Harris’ office. 

“Oh,” Shane kind of squeaks. “Rozanov, I thought -” he shakes his head and steadies himself against the wall with a hand. He’s got a duffle bag and a pair of car keys in his hand. 

“Sorry,” Ilya says, wishing he didn’t have a coffee in his hand and he could stuff his hands in his pockets because he very much would like to reach out and steady Shane himself. Which is just leftover confusion over his weird dream. Probably. “Are you looking for Harris?”

Shane looks past Ilya towards the door, sucking his lower lip between his teeth, he gives a sharp nod. Ilya looks at him. He looks…tired. He has dark circles under his eyes. “I thought he would be done,” Shane says, shrugging the shoulder without the duffle bag. He pulls off the wall and twists to look Ilya straight on. 

“I think I am going to give him a long night,” Ilya tells him, letting some light into his voice, watching Shane’s eyebrows come together. 

“Did someone leak your nudes?” Shane shoots back, lifting his chin, making a joke. 

Ilya barks out a laugh because it’s delightful and unexpected - for Shane to be…teasing him. After the way he’s been skirting him. “No,” Ilya tilts his chin up. “My nudes are safe for now.”

“Oh my god,” Shane groans, “Don’t tell me anything else, okay. When some girl decides to tweet out your dick, I want to make sure I can mean it when I tell Harris I knew nothing about it.”

It’s so nice. That’s the only English word Ilya has for it. Nice. It’s nice that Shane is joking with him even though it kind of...tugs at his chest. Ilya has been careful with his nudes. To girls and to guys. But, he can ignore that because Shane is joking with him. Ilya knows he’s smiling too widely, but he cannot stop. “Believe it or not, Hollander,” Ilya leans in again, unable to resist pressing in when Shane is smiling at him, when he’s playing. “I have good ideas for Harris and Julia and now I am afraid they will have to work late.”

Shane’s face goes back to that careful neutrality. “Julia? Promotions Julia?”

Ilya tries to shrug one shoulder the same way Shane had. “Yes, we will maybe have a medical worker night. Give tickets away to doctors and nurses and also maybe families at the children’s hospital. But, probably those are two separate nights.” He taps his temple. “I am just idea man.”

Shane is processing, his mouth parted, looking at Ilya like if he studies him hard enough, he’ll be able to look into Ilya’s brain and see all of his thoughts. Maybe he will be able to. Maybe he is right now because he clears his throat and takes a step back, that mask going back up. Ilya watches him pack himself away. 

He wants to understand what he did this time. Desperately, he wants to understand. 

“I was just coming by to see if he wanted to go to practice with me, but I’ll leave him to work,” Shane is already turning away. Ilya wishes he understood. “Good to see you, Rozanov,” he says and Ilya watches him walk away, hefting the bag on his shoulder unnecessarily. 

Ilya, he thinks. Call me Ilya. 

He finds the nearest trash can for his cup and then he takes a long lap around the underbelly of the rink before retrieving his bag from the locker room and heading for his own car. 

Maybe he could get a dog. He always wanted a dog. Probably selfish, he thinks. He’s gone too much. 

Ilya makes plans to go have dinner with Wyatt and his wife Lisa at this out of the way Italian place the night before the hospital visit and he spends the entire night smiling. It’s easy and light and he eats more pasta than he has in a long time. 

Ilya listens to Lisa talk about her work and how welcoming Ottawa has been to her - how the work she does is good work, meaningful. She doesn’t have to say it, but she knows about the medical worker night that was announced to the locker room two days ago. They had updated media schedules because of it and Ilya feels…proud. He feels proud and he feels prouder listening to Lisa talk about the people she works with. 

Ilya tries to remember if he ever just went to dinner with a couple in Boston - not like this. There was an awards thing, but that hardly counts. 

And it’s natural when Lisa asks if he’s seeing anyone. Ilya opens his mouth to answer her, has a blinding moment of panic where he considers coming out to them both then telling them about Svetlana as an overcorrection, but ends up shaking his head slowly. 

He expects a joke. His reputation is far and wide and Ilya knows Wyatt heard some of it at All Stars, but he says nothing, just leans into Lisa and kisses her cheek very gently. Tender. It makes Ilya’s eyes burn. “You will meet someone,” Wyatt says. “Someone will snag you up.”

Ilya swallows hard, tries to imagine being snagged up - not for a night, not to brag, but to keep. To be cherished. “I am still settling in,” Ilya says, using a phrase that he quite likes. Settling. It’s an easy way to get some space. People respect settling in. 

Lisa squints at him. She can see through him too. “Until then, you’ll have to put up with us, I’m afraid.” She does not leave room for him to protest, to say he doesn’t need someone to look after him, because she leans forward, her hands under her chin. “Wyatt says you take personal offense to bread and butter pickles. I will make sure to keep some dill in the fridge.”

Ilya takes a bite of pasta to keep himself from doing something embarrassing like crying. 

“I’m partial to sandwiches after practice,” Wyatt says. “A good sandwich will solve 90% of  your problems.” Ilya looks at him wondering how to respond, but Wyatt pokes at Ilya’s arm over the table. “I have to tell you about this thing that Shane did at practice last night.”

And then Ilya is desperate for the story - for contact, for information. 

He hasn’t spoken to Shane since the run-in outside of Harris’ office and he is sure that Shane only spoke to him then because they physically ran into each other. Shane has not reached out to him to run, and Ilya has not run into him on the trail, and he has been absent from practice the last week. 

Shane is avoiding him and Ilya wishes he understood, but -

Ilya leans forward, listening to Wyatt tell him about Shane and his magic hockey skills that are wasted in a rec league. He listens to Wyatt talk about Shane. Ilya hangs onto every word, tucking it away into that place in his chest where all of Shane goes - the hockey and the mystery and the dream he had and the confusion. 

He listens and he packs it away so that he can hug them both at the entrance of the restaurant half an hour later and thank them for the invitation and promise that they will do it again and mean it. 

Because he thinks maybe, really truly, he could be okay here. With this team. 

Ilya is watching his hopes to win the Mario Kart tournament dissolve on the screen and it takes everything in his person to keep himself from smiling. “Cheat!” he is shouting, waving his hands, rolling around on the little carpet in between the couches and the projector screen. “Cheater!” he says again. “I will prove it! You cheat!”

Harris is filming and Young is standing in the doorway of the media room with wide eyes watching Ilya Rozanov throw himself around on the floor for children’s amusement. 

Ilya does it because when he does lose and he hides himself under a mountain of stuffed animals to sob loudly and theatrically, the entire room is laughing so loud they drown him out. He does it because they all smile at him when he comes around, still mopping up fake tears, to take photos with them and congratulate them on besting them. He does it because as they’re walking out of the double doors - leaving every family with tickets and food vouchers for a game two months from now - Harris says, “Ilya, I think you might be a secret softie.”

Ilya smiles at him instead of denying it, shrugging. “Children are very easy to be soft for,” he says, half dismissive, but the words burrow their way into Ilya’s heart anyway. The truth of them. The way he yearns to be understood. 

Yes, he thinks, I am kind of a secret softie.

“I will have to step up my children’s hospital game,” Wyatt says. “They will get bored of comic books and demand more Rozy.”

“I am afraid he will be more popular than Chuck,” Harris says. Ahead of them, Chuck nods his head vigorously, staying mute. 

Ilya laughs and waves them off and changes the subject to where they’re getting dinner. Which is apparently a bar they all frequent - Monk’s. Ilya agrees to go. Happily. Even when Harris ducks out saying he’s got plans. Ilya still goes, has one beer and a coke and kills Bood at pool, shares pizza and wings and goes home smiling and lighter. 

Impossibly lighter than he started the day.

Ilya goes to therapy for the first time on a Wednesday afternoon. It seems like very bad timing because he has to leave practice an hour early and that requires him to have a half conversation with Wiebe and Bood where they both tell him to let them know about any future appointments - that he can have the time. He knows they know. They allow him to have his secrecy anyway.

It feels like bruised ribs. That’s what he decides. Having people care about him. It’s always there, uncomfortable and unrelenting. He knows what it’s like because of Svetlana, but that was tolerable. The two of them had seen each other through the horrors of adolescence in a place that was brutal. 

But, now Harris tags him in replies on social media, talking about how many hours Ilya spent playing Mario Kart with the kids. Wyatt texts him a photo of Lisa holding up a jar or pickles like a game show. Kira - the sweet Russian bakery owner - touches his face when he comes in for the first time and makes him promise to come in every single week, demanding to know his favorites. 

And now Bood, telling him that he can go to any appointment that he needs, that he needs to take care of himself always. 

The care is uncomfortable in his chest - learning to breathe around something that is different and wrong. 

They talk about nothing really, but also everything. 

Galina asks very careful questions in exacting Russian and he doesn’t realize how much he’s told her about himself until the words are out of his mouth. 

“You are good,” he leans forward, smiling at her, genuinely delighted at this.

“Therapy is not easy,” Galina says, “But it is easier when the person you are talking to is good at talking.”

Ilya huffs. “I thought you were meant to listen.”

Galina makes a face that Svetlana has absolutely made at Ilya. “Sometimes listening is being good at talking. You are nervous, you have never done this before, you are Russian -”

“And Russians do not have emotion.” Ilya says, half joking.

“I would say…” Galina says slowly, the words very precise. “That being Russian, being a professional athlete, being someone who has been in high pressure positions, being someone who has a complicated relationship with their family - all of those things make it hard for anyone.”

“To have emotion?”

“No,” Galina says, still slow, like she wants him to listen to every word. Deliberate. Gentle. “No, to have emotion is human. It is everything else that comes with it that is hard.”

It’s like bruised ribs. Breathing through bruised ribs. 

Bruised ribs are a constant in hockey. It was the first injury he got - he fell into the net himself and got tangled up and someone fell into him - but, he was young and since then, it’s happened over and over again. 

The thing is…he breathes around them enough and he stops feeling them eventually. Eventually they heal. Maybe…this can be like that. 

“I think it would be even harder,” Ilya says, being brave, trusting this, trusting himself, “if your mother killed herself when you were a child and your father died from dementia and it was the only time he was kind to you.”

Galina blinks. It kind of delights him. That he’s shocked her. 

“And also I spiraled out of control and technically died in a car accident and lost my team and decided to never go home to Russia.”

“You have come to Canada to stay? For citizenship?” Galina asks, tapping her pen on her notepad. One, two. Ilya nods. “Anything else?”

Ilya takes a deep breath. There are lots of things. How empty he feels, how he worries he will impulsively get a dog and not be equipped to handle it, how he likes his teammates a lot and that scares him, how he had that completely fucked up dream about Svetlana but not Svetlana because it was Shane and how he can’t stop thinking about this guy who should be playing hockey with him in the NHL but is instead booking their travel and Ilya is developing what he knows to be a crush on him. Like a teenager. 

“That is a lot to start with, yes?” Ilya asks, laughing. It will bleed through, he’s sure. He can’t talk about his family without discussing his sexuality. He can’t talk about his mama without talking about how he’s afraid to be alone sometimes. He knows they’ll get there. Just like his bruised ribs always heal. 

Galina taps her pen. Once. Final. “Yes, it is plenty to start with.”

Bruised ribs. He breathes through them. 

The home opener isn’t sold out and Ilya hates it. 

He knows Shane’s team is there because Wyatt hauls Ilya out to the hallway where they’re standing around with lanyards around their necks and smiles on all their faces. 

“Cap is in his office,” one of them says. Temp. That one is Temp. “But we wanted to come say thanks again.” He claps Ilya on the shoulder. “Gotta come watch us. Our VIP treatment is a bit different though.”

Ilya promises he and Wyatt will come to a game soon. They take a photo together. It feels nice and Ilya manages to convince himself that Shane is in his office because he had a real work thing to fix and not because he was trying to avoid Ilya again. 

Ilya plays hard, hard and punishing. Every shift on the ice is full push and he knows he’s going to have to be sensible and ice his…whole body later. Definitely his shoulder. 

They lose, but they lose in the last seconds of the game and Ilya thinks maybe that’s worse than losing from the start. There was hope flowing through the arena and it’s cut off with one breakaway play. 

Ilya talks to the media because he’s the new star, the fresh face. He keeps it brief. Light. Fine. He makes a joke about the late goal - adding a fourth period at home for the fans. He knows it’ll make a good soundbite. He’s good at those. 

Shane’s team is outside in the players lot, talking with Wyatt and Harris and Shane - his hands in his pockets, his shoulders up to his ears. “We’re going to Monks,” Wyatt calls out. “You coming?”

It would be good for him to go - to be part of the team and show that he is still here when they lose. He's building something here. But, Shane’s got that scared look on his face. He should decline. He’s going to decline. 

He starts to adjust the ice pack he’s got taped to his shoulder, the excuse right there. Subtly reminding them that he should go home and take care of his body, but then Shane speaks. “They make us ice packs.” He says, rushed out. “At Monk’s. It’s a service they provide for the best team in the league and also the Ottawa Centaurs.”

Everyone’s laughter tugs on Ilya’s ability to be sensible, but he’s feeling raw and wounded. His shoulder aches. They lost the game. Shane avoided him earlier - not that he owes Ilya anything, it’s just…

“I should go home and sleep it off,” Ilya tells them. “Next time, yes? Round on me.”

He waves at them, throws his bag in his car - sees Shane watching him. Ilya waves at the group through the windshield of his car, swallows hard. 

Shane is still watching him. 

Ilya forces himself to leave that behind in the parking lot. There’s no space in his chest for Shane Hollander tonight. Not when it hurts. Not when he’s full up on hurt. 

It’s hard to have a real routine as a professional hockey player. 

Ilya knows it’s part of the draw of settling down. There’s someone to come home to, someone to help manage the groceries in your house and the bills that need to get paid and the stress of a schedule that shifts every day. 

But it is just Ilya in his house and he ends up throwing away food that he didn’t get around to eating because he stayed late at practice and got a burger on the way home instead of going home to his sad leftovers. 

The person doing his laundry is the cleaning service that comes once a week and Ilya feels himself falling into the thrum of the hockey season. 

Check calendar when waking up to make sure nothing changed overnight, eat, train, skate, eat, train, shower, push, travel maybe, emails definitely, eat, maybe pack, skate, play a game, recover, answer Svetlana’s text, don’t leave a mess for the cleaning service, shower, eat, repack if necessary, check calendar for next day, make sure proper alarm is set, sleep, repeat. 

There’s small deviations. Wyatt invites him to dinner with Lisa. Harris interrupts him while he’s making coffee in the lounge to ask him about a social media thing he wants Ilya to do and they end up sitting on the couch, drinking coffee together and looking at photos of Harris’ family dog. Ilya bounces around in practice when Shane arrives and they exchange standard banter - Shane corrects Ilya’s lazy grip and Ilya goads him about coming out onto the ice, but it all feels surface level - small. Nothing more than that. 

Until Ilya attends one of Shane’s beer league games with Wyatt and Harris. Ilya watches him fly over the ice, barely listening to Harris talk about the other guys on the team or this celebrity he wants to see in concert or how the plans for Medical Worker night are coming . 

Shane is on the ice and Ilya watches. After - when they stand in the parking lot - Shane invites them out to drinks with the team and when Ilya buys them a round, Shane takes two sips of the vodka and then sets it down, moving for the bar. 

Ilya follows him because it might be his first chance in weeks to speak to him and it’s a tug in his chest to go. Shane is asking the bartender for a ginger ale. Ilya should not find it cute. He has no permission to find it cute.

“Thanks for the drink,” Shane says, looking at a place over Ilya’s shoulder. “Thanks for the tickets for the guys and for coming tonight and -” he shifts his body away from Ilya, but looks at him, his mouth pinched. 

“They are good guys,” Ilya says, trying to take some of the obvious pressure off of Shane. Casual. Talk about his team. 

But Shane shakes his head and Ilya understands. He isn’t here for Shane to make small talk. “I have been avoiding you,” Shane says. “And you’ve been really nice about it.”

The discomfort is rolling off him. Present and real and suffocating. Ilya sees how his breathing has picked up. Anxiety. “Hollander -”

“No,” Shane cuts him off, standing to his full height - still not as tall as Ilya, but taller than before. “I am trying to apologize to you. You’re…” he waves a hand, “you’re nothing like I expected.”

Ilya squeezes the glass in his hand, forces himself not to look away, not to make some joke. He wants to protest that. 

“There’s -” Shane starts, but stops, and Ilya watches him flinch. Before Ilya can stop himself, he’s reaching out, one hand on Shane’s arm, squeezing and present. Shane exhales, his shoulders coming down. “I am sorry that I have been avoiding you.”

Ilya shrugs one shoulder. He doesn’t have words right now - not to assure Shane, not to assure himself. He’s done a very good job of not remembering what Shane’s touch felt like in that dream. And now he’s not even touching his skin - his hoodie is soft underneath his hand, but it’s not the same and isn’t that kind of fucked up anyway. 

Shane is acknowledging that he’s been avoiding him and there’s a reason and Ilya should open his stupid mouth and tell him it’s fine or that he understands or make some joke. 

He could do it easily - tease Shane about the missed goal tonight, or how he could have sent him a text to invite him to drinks without needing the rouse of his teammates. He could make a joke, but Shane’s gentleness…

“It’s nice you’re here,” Shane says and it seems like he might say something else, but the bartender sets a can of ginger ale in front of him and Shane looks away. 

Ilya removes his hand from Shane’s arm, clears his throat to say anything. Anything. 

But then Shane holds his hand out like he did all those years ago outside the rink. “Shane Hollander,” he says, his head tilted down, his eyelashes brushing the tops of his freckles. Ilya feels faint. “It’s good to work with you.” 

Ilya takes his hand because what else is he meant to do. “Ilya Rozanov,” he responds, ridiculous and silly. Shane’s hand is warm and dry and -

“I know we aren’t…friends,” Shane says, “but -”

“Rozy!” Temp calls from across the bar, “Come set these fuckers straight, will ya! I know what I’m talking about.”

Shane is the first to pull away. His hand wrapping around the ginger ale on the bar. “Thanks,” he says again, but offers no other qualifiers. 

“It is nothing, Hollander,” Ilya says, taking a long sip of his vodka. Shane nods tensely and then nods towards their group before turning away. 

Ilya doesn’t know if that exchange makes him feel better or worse. 

Two days later they fly to Texas. There’s a post it note on his package of cookies for the first time since the start of the season. 

Miller being out has hit morale hard. Their defense is weak. Repeat?

Ilya tucks this one into his Centaurs branded notebook, next to the notes he was making as he watched the last game Dallas played without Miller. Of course Shane would remember the last time Ilya played Dallas, he had a hat trick. 

He doesn’t repeat it, but Harris tags him in the video he cuts together of Ilya’s two goals and Ilya knows he gave it his all. It’s not enough to win, but maybe it’s enough for him to breathe. To not feel like he’s being crushed. 

They’re not friends, but it’s better than it was.

Shane corrects his lazy grip in practice, but he adds, “I know you aren’t lazy, Rozanov.” 

Ilya makes coffee in the lounge and when he runs into Harris and Shane in the hallway, Ilya doesn’t feel like he has to run away - they stand and bicker about the game last night and if Pittsburgh will ever get it together. 

Ilya sinks into the thrum of the season and the beat of the team working together and he films content for Harris and he goes to lunch with Wyatt and he goes to therapy with Galina where he leaves feeling like she’s slit his belly open and tugged out some of his insides, and he FaceTimes with Svetlana and promises her he’s eating well and doing his physiotherapy and Ilya realizes that all of it is him trying to learn how to live. 

Not just exist. 

Wyatt has hung a sign around Ilya’s neck that reads, I am Bryan O’Connor from Fast & Furious

Ilya thinks it defeats the purpose of his costume because no one can see the logo of his shirt that he bought off eBay, but maybe it’s for the best because he has had to explain to everyone he’s spoken to tonight that no, he did not show up as himself. Ilya would never wear a shirt this big.

He thought it was original. Much more original than showing up as a superhero or some country singer that Ilya is pretty sure is dead. 

It’s maybe especially a good idea because Ilya is sliding very quickly into being drunk and he gets kind of mouthy and mean in English when he’s drunk. 

Or, he normally does. At the moment, he feels…floaty. Happy. Even though he’s cold. 

Wyatt appears with a very warm looking blanket to drape over Ilya and he leans his head against the chair he’s sprawled in, smiling up at the sky. “Thank you,” he says, maybe in English. 

“I thought Russians were immune to cold,” Wyatt says, flopping down into the chair next to Ilya. “Or is that another myth. Like you are all grumpy motherfuckers.”

“We are grumpy,” Ilya tries to scowl, but Wyatt laughs in his face. Rude. “Besides,” Ilya sighs. “I am trying to become Canadian. I am practicing being nice.”

Wyatt sits up straighter, leans over the arm of his chair. “Rozanov,” he whispers, “man, I hate to break this to you, but you are nice.”

Ilya can’t stop himself from laughing, covering his face with one hand. “You will ruin my reputation, you know too much.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Wyatt says, sounding far too smug. “We could get you half Canadian citizenship?” He’s also looking at the sky now. “You can keep being Russian and marry some nice Canadian girl? Is that a thing?”

Ilya shakes his head, too much, too fast. Fuck.

“There are lots of single doctors,” Wyatt continues to the sky. “Lisa’s girlfriends are always asking her to set them up with hockey players. Which is wild because Lisa always complains about having to treat me after games.” His voice is so fond. “My own personal hot doctor.” And then he says too loudly, “you could have your own personal hot doctor.”

Ilya tilts his head back to look at the sky too, taking a deep breath. He makes a humming noise and then he says to Wyatt - brave. “I need to become Canadian, because it is not -” he waves his hand towards Russia - one hand out towards the place he is always aware of its relation to his current location. “I will not go home again.”

Wyatt sits up and leans across the chair arm again and Ilya tilts his face over to look at him. “Because of your dad?”

Ilya is brave. “Yes,” he answers. “I - I do not have any family that wants me there. It is complicated.” Brave. “Russia is not safe for me - for people like me.”

Wyatt is thinking hard and Ilya watches the understanding wash over him. “The team would be cool about it, man. We have the gayest support staff in the -”

“It would be a little different, yes?” Ilya wobbles his head back and forth which makes him kind of dizzy. 

“Wait,” Wyatt says, speaking faster than he’s ever spoken in front of Ilya. “Is this like, why you left Boston? Did someone say something to. you about this?”

“No,” Ilya shakes his head again, inhaling long to try and settle the spinning. “The team did not know about me. I have always -” he exhales shakily. “I am bisexual. It is not an act,” he makes a movement that he thinks shows Wyatt that he means all of him. “I fucked up in Boston and now want to have a real life. Honest life.”

Words are harder now than they were mere moments ago. 

“This team is good for that,” Wyatt pats his arm, hard and clumsy. “They helped me love hockey again. Believe.” And then he says, “Also, they would be cool. About the bisexual thing.”

Ilya nods, words completely gone now. Not ones he could get out without choking on emotion. Because he agrees. They would likely be cool about the bisexual thing, but really it’s that they’ve already started to allow him to love hockey again. To believe in something more than himself. 

Ilya tips his head back to look at the stars and snuggles deeper into the warm blanket. “We should call cab,” he says, and Wyatt hums in response, but it sounds distant. 

Bood won’t let them freeze to death on his deck so Ilya doesn’t force them up. He’s safe here. 

Chapter End Notes

Connor Storrie as Brian O'Connor's kid in the futuristic Fast & Furious reboot they do in two years, please and thank you.

Chapter 8: I know this changes everything

Chapter Summary

The tides shift. Ilya doesn't really understand why.

Chapter Notes

Hello hello friends.
I am back with more insanity.

Also, as I will not pretend to be an expert on languages (if you knew me you would know how funny this is), I do not put any more Russian in my fic than absolutely neccessary. Years of writing european fuckers has taught me to minimize it.
If it's Svetlana or Galina, they are speaking Russian unless otherwise noted. I just respect all of us too much to pretend I could pull that off.

We are firmly moving into friendssssssssss. Or. Well, the first olive branch is extended.
I chose this line from "This is the Last Time" because...everything is changing in this chapter. It's just maybe not obvious to Ilya.

Ilya wants a dog. He briefly considered a dog in his first year of the NHL, but one of the veterans wisely told him that he shouldn’t get anything he had to take care of until he was in his third season. No wives, no girlfriends, no pets. Ilya had amended it in his mind immediately to no relationships, no pets, and it’s something he parrots now to the rookies every season. 

Not that they listen. He’s been to more weddings for 21 year olds than he would have liked to attend, but if they’re so determined to fuck up their lives by getting married when they can barely legally drink in the USA - well, that’s not his business. 

He had not gotten a dog and then he had become Captain and that had helped for a bit. It had settled something in him. He still ached to have something to love him unconditionally - be excited to see him when he came home every night and every roadie, but being busy and being responsible for rookies (which was a bit like caring for a puppy, Ilya could admit) had made it quiet in his mind. 

But, now he is in a house with a yard, in a neighborhood where he watches people walk their dogs. He is alone and he is bored and maybe it’s a bit selfish for him to adopt a dog with the explicit purpose to love him, but Ilya would give any dog the best life possible. 

Ilya is responsible and brings it up to Galina when she asks him what he wants to discuss today. 

“I want a dog,” he tells her and then before she can stop him, he gives a very long list of things that he would buy this dog that is not his yet. He has been thorough. He even thought about how there is a vet office a few miles away from his house. 

Galina allows him to finish his list and then she asks if he wants her to talk him into or out of it and then he laughs. 

“I do not know,” Ilya huffs, putting his hands in between his knees to keep from fidgeting. “I think I would feel very guilty to leave a dog so much. I would have to find dog hotel or something. It would not be fair.”

Galina nods slowly and then taps her pen like she does. “That is the only reason?” She raises one eyebrow and it’s infuriating that she can read him like she does. Ilya knows he’s glaring so he looks at his knee instead.

“I think a bit of it is that I do not want to be alone.” 

Ilya would have rather taken a little pocketknife and carved a piece of flesh from his arm and offered it up to her. He has never been good at admitting what he wants, but this is dangerous somehow. Like saying it aloud, makes it real and horrible and alone. Like he will now go home after this session and be very very alone. The words pulling the ghosts he’s been keeping around out of the rooms and the shadows. 

“I have been alone for a very long time,” he tells her, because Ilya Rozanov has never ever done anything halfway. “I have been alone since maybe my mother’s death,” he exhales, squeezes his knees tightly. “But I had other things.”

“What things?”

Ilya looks at her, aches for a cigarette. She doesn’t flinch away from his displeased face, but then again, she is Russian. It doesn’t frighten her like it might some soft Canadian woman. “In Russia, I liked danger,” he says, which is a bit like skirting the truth of it, but he doesn’t think detailing his horrible decision making with Sasha is the thing she’s really asking him about. “And in Boston, I had…” he wavers his hand back and forth. “I did not have good habits.”

“You are not talking about your diet,” Galina says, flat and bland. 

“My teammates knew I was a good time - the few friends I managed to make outside of hockey knew that too. We would go to parties, sleep with people that I did not really want, be someone I was not really, drive too fast.”

Galina nods just once, understanding. “And now you are here,” her eyes dart over his body, Tracking. Knee, shoulder, chest. That killed you, she’s saying. Those habits killed you. 

The room is silent. 

“Did you do anything else? Anything you enjoyed?”

Sometimes she does this. Asks him to follow her down a path of questioning he doesn’t really understand, but he goes with her because he trusts her. “I like to work out - not just for hockey,” he admits. Because his body is something he can control. “I like music.” He thinks. “My friend Svetlana. Sometimes we would cook together. That is something I liked to do very much.”

“What if,” Galina starts, very slowly, “we made a plan for you to find a hobby until the summer? Something like cooking, something not connected to hockey. And we see if the desire for a dog lessens?”

Ilya takes a deep breath, trying to understand. He knows his face is confused. 

“You are lonely,” she says, not quite as gently as Ilya would have liked, “you are bored.” Still not gentle. “And perhaps if you are less bored, and you are doing something you like very much, you will not want a dog so much. Or you still do and that means this is something to make space for, yes?”

Ilya thinks. He thinks about the things he liked to do before. Before he was lonely and chasing anything that made him feel good. 

The books his mama used to read him - big, leather bound books and yellowing paperback novels she would exchange with friends at the cafe. Not like the books he reads now - hockey books and books that are on that list he downloaded that will improve his English and shitty spy novels that somehow always feature some Russian brut as a bad guy but are always for sale in airports. 

He thinks about those books and how the words used to make him feel even though he could not really understand them then. Not really. 

But, he doesn’t think reading huge Russian novels is what Galina means. She wants him to do something. 

“I could cook,” he says. 

“Something you do not know,” she tells him. “You learn something new like pasta and we talk about the dog, plan for the dog, see how you feel in the summer.”

Ilya stops squeezing his knees together, running his palms down his thighs. “I think that is reasonable,” he says. 

Galina smiles at him. Ilya can make some fucking pasta he guesses. 

Ilya used to have to plan for traffic into his home game plan. If they had an afternoon game, he got to the rink early early and he stayed there - had lunch in catering and hung out with the rookies and let them bullshit with him. 

If it was a weekend game, he was for sure going to the rink and staying for many hours before the game. It was necessary and he began to love it - the space and quiet and the way he could wander up to the production box sometimes and chat with Dan - the Ukrainian immigrant who worked the lights. 

Ottawa moves…more slowly. 

Ilya kind of loves it. 

There are many many things about Boston that he will miss for the rest of his career - someday when he’s old and retired and grey and his hands will barely close because of arthritis, he will go show his face at a Boston game once a year, wearing a suit that makes him look slimmer and more beautiful than he really is, and they will all cheer for him. 

By then everyone will have forgotten what he did - how he lost his goddamn mind and let the team fall apart under his captainage. He will be a cup winner amongst them and they will cheer his name. 

But, there is something creeping into the edges of that fantasy. 

Ottawa and the bathroom in the players hallway that isn’t quite functional like ever and the player’s fridge that has 12 kinds of natural peanut butter all labeled with stick tape and an apple that Ilya keeps thinking someone will eat or throw away. 

Wiebe shuts himself in his office and FaceTimes his kids and wife. Bood drifts in circles around the lower level, going to greet the visiting team's captain like the good man he is. If Lisa is not at the hospital, she brings tupperware containers of home cooked food and she and Wyatt sit together in the lounge, eating their meal and laughing together in that soft, gentle way people who love each other do. 

Ilya likes it - he shows up early today because he is meant to go see Harris, and somehow he ends up eating tupperware food with Lisa and Wyatt. 

There’s some kind of pasta in a white sauce with peas and that weird white broccoli that Ilya thinks is not really something that can be cooked - it’s either still very crunchy or it is mush. This is very crunchy. But, considering he was going to eat a protein bar and maybe that wrinkly apple…beggars cannot choose. 

“Peas are a good source of protein,” Hazy says in the way that only shockingly happy married men can talk. 

Ilya stares at the pea on the end of his fork. “No,” he says, “this I do not believe.”

It’s so small and green. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks there was a protein drink he used to like that said pea protein on it. It had to contain two thousand peas. 

Lisa is smiling at him - in the way that only shockingly happy people can look at you when they’re thinking about all their single friends. Ilya is familiar with that look. 

“You are now the most popular Centaur,” Lisa says, “At the hospital at least.”

Ilya beams at her. This he can handle. “I will have to come and visit all of my favorite fans,” he says, “I have been practicing.”

Wyatt leans in, “Did you go buy -”

“Yes,” Ilya says, “I said I would be back. I have been practicing. I have gotten very good.”

Wyatt laughs and Ilya takes a very large bite of the white broccoli. 

“I have to hurry,” Ilya says, “I have to make latte for Harris.”

Lisa sits up straighter. “Harris?”

Wyatt pokes a piece of his white broccoli. “Scheduling?”

Ilya nods at him, shoveling a too big bite into his mouth, suddenly conscious of how long he’s been sitting here with them. 

“Why are we taking him a latte?” Lisa asks. Ilya has always wondered why people use that when they talk. We are not doing anything. 

“He is always nicer when you bring latte,” Ilya tells her around his food. “Much nicer.”

Lisa is looking at him, probably wondering how Harris could be nicer. 

“Rozy means that if you bring him a latte, he suddenly isn’t so interested in making you come in at 7 AM to shoot promo.”

“It is magic,” Ilya tells her, firmly. “You have latte? 11 AM, 2 PM, anytime you have free minute. You have nothing? 7 AM.”

Lisa’s smile is very feline. Ilya feels as though he is being examined on a level that is not natural. “Thank you for eating lunch with us, Ilya.”

Ilya shrugs one shoulder, more crunchy white broccoli in his mouth. “It is home cooked meal. It is no -” he chews and looks for the word. “Hardship.”

Lisa is still smiling at him. “The real cook in the family is Adriana,” Lisa says, “Wyatt’s sister’s wife. The next time they all come out, you will have to come over for dinner.”

Explaining who she was - instead of just leaning on the familial relation - Lisa had called attention to Wyatt’s gay relatives. That they are welcome. That Ilya is welcome. 

“They bring my nephew,” Wyatt says, “He’s too little to do anything, but he’s still cute.”

Ilya’s fork clatters into his mostly empty tupperware. “Show me baby, Hazy, what the fuck.”

Wyatt huffs, already digging in his pocket for his phone. 

Ilya never expected Wyatt to keep it from Lisa - the bisexuality thing. He understands now that this meal was a quiet acceptance. Lisa and Wyatt telling him that he could belong here with all of them as his truest self. 

The baby is squishy and too small to really do anything - Ilya knows when they are that small they really only sleep and eat and sleep some more. “When are they coming,” he demands. “I will hold this tiny baby and eat dinner?”

“After the first of the year,” Wyatt tells him. 

Ilya blows a raspberry with his mouth. “He will be doing things by then.” Bood chooses this moment to walk in. “Bood,” Ilya demands. “When will you have baby? Team needs tiny baby. For morale.”

Bood blinks at him. “I think there are more reliable ways to get captain jersey?”

It takes two seconds for Ilya to understand and then they’re all laughing. “No,” Ilya finally says, “Sorry, but you are not my type.” 

Lisa laughs the hardest. Bood looks at him like he’s trying to understand the joke. 

“I have to go see Harris,” he declares, standing up, putting the lid on his mostly eaten pasta. “Thank you for pasta,” Ilya winks at Lisa. 

“Take a latte!” Bood calls as he heads back out the door to continue his laps.

Ilya goes over to the coffee machine to start the latte - feeling better than he has in days. 

They’re playing music in the arena already. It drifts through the ancient sound system that is fed back to this part of the rink. 

It’s something Ilya has just learned is considered yacht rock which is ridiculous because the type of people who listen to this music do not typically have yachts, but no one ever consults him about stupid english phrases. 

Ilya is balancing his phone on top of Harris’ latte so he can use his elbow to open door into his office, his bag of cookies - that he will not admit have become part of his pre-game ritual - in his other hand. “Haaaarrrriiiissss,” he sings, obnoxious and loud. “I have latte for you,” and then he almost drops it because Shane Hollander is sitting in the bean bag chair that Harris has shoved in the corner of his office. 

Shane is not a small man. Ilya is not really a big man either - not in comparison to some of the hockey players he has played with - but he seems bigger than he is. A newspaper had written a few lines about him that he instructed Svetlana to put on his tombstone. Ilya Rozanov might not be the largest man on the ice, but you would never know that. Not with the way he walks through a media scrum. Every eye on him always. Every other player shrinks in comparison - both in talent and aura. 

He has always made himself bigger than everyone else and that was part survival, and he wonders if maybe the way Shane appears to make himself smaller is the same. 

Shane is not small, but at the sight of Ilya in the doorway - large and imposing and loud and singing - he appears to melt backwards into the bean bag chair and Ilya feels all the joy he was just feeling seeps from him like he’s been squeezed. The pores of his skin unable to contain it. 

“Hello,” Harris says, smiling at him from behind a stack of magazines, unaware of what is happening to the other two people in the room. “You brought me coffee.”

Ilya flicks his eyes from Harris over to Shane and back to Harris. “Yes, I was going to talk to you about the puck signing thing, but I can come back later.” He forces that smile. 

Harris makes a grabby hand for the latte and Ilya has to step forward, extending the latte and his phone out, ignoring Shane. “This won’t take long,” Harris says, picking up Ilya’s phone, removing the latte from his hand, and putting the phone back into Ilya’s grip. “Just a quick thing.”

Shane makes a noise like he has something stuck in his throat, but Ilya cannot even look at him before Harris is off and talking. Ilya has to fumble his calendar open. 

Harris was right, it is very quick. Ilya no longer has a day off next week, but he thinks that signing pucks while answering social media questions for Harris is not so bad. He can work out in the gym after and then maybe ask Wyatt if he wants to go to that comic book store. He was talking about buying more comics for their next hospital visit and Ilya wants to help out. 

He doesn’t even get to glance at Shane again - who is sitting still as a mouse. But, then Harris says, “Oh before you go, start thinking about your YouTube series.”

Ilya has been an English speaker longer than he hasn’t at this point, but - 

Harris laughs, realizing he’s done that thing where he skips many many steps in a conversation. Ilya finds it endearing and also maddening. “We want to do a YouTube series with you!” He’s laughing still. “Think about whatever hobby you have and how we can convert that into some series. I can help you -”

He stops talking because Ilya has put his cookies and his phone on top of the magazine and is now standing on the chair to look into the air conditioning vent. “Okay,” he says, “Where is camera?”

“Camera?”

Ilya climbs off the chair and points at Harris, unable to not see Shane’s confusion. “You are working with Galina, where is microphone? Camera?” He laughs as he picks up a little bobblehead of some musician he doesn’t know. He looks underneath it. “I did not ask her why she is in Canada. Maybe she is your cousin. Do you have Russian cousins?”

Harris saves the bobblehead from Ilya’s hands and says to it, “Sorry, Shania.” And then to Ilya. “Is Galina your girlfriend?” There’s far too much interest in that question for Ilya’s comfort and he laughs - loudly and perhaps a bit meanly. 

“No,” he tells him, picking his bag of cookies off the magazine and pulling apart the little crinkly plastic. He first takes one for himself and then offers one to Harris who waves him off and it’s only natural for him to turn and offer one to Shane. It’s awkward. He has to walk around the desk and bend down, but Shane doesn’t flinch away from his gaze and he very carefully takes one of the cookies.

Ilya is very stupid. Shane is still beautiful and Ilya is not immune to that. He also very much wishes that this was easy. That it was an easy interaction. 

“She is my therapist,” Ilya says, forcing himself to turn and look at Harris. “She wants me to have hobby outside of hockey. We talked about it last time. You are spy now?”

Harris blinks at him and then puts one hand up. Ilya thinks he wants a cookie now so he kind of…shoves the package between them, but Harris waves him off. “Sorry,” he says, breathlessly. “I just had like, a hard reset.”

“Because I have therapist?” Ilya knows it’s sassy, but he can’t help himself it seems, throwing himself down into the chair across from Harris. Ilya decides in that moment that someday he will tell Harris he is bisexual just to watch him hard reset. 

“Because -” Harris blinks again and finally looks at Ilya. “I think because you’re you. Wow, I am being incredibly judgemental right now, please do not hold this against me, I have just never heard a hockey player casually mention therapy - which is great!!” 

Ilya decides to put him out of his misery. “Yes,” he agrees. “Hockey not great at feelings, but I have -” he makes that same gesture he did with Wyatt - the one that means all of me - he vaguely wishes Shane were not here to watch this because it somehow feels especially vulnerable in front of him, but… “I have not had easy life, sometimes. I was maybe not healthy in Boston. Ottawa is new leaf.”

Harris blinks again and then inhales sharply. “New leaf. Great. What is new leaf hobby?”

“I do not know.” Ilya sighs, tapping the cookie on his knee. “Galina mentioned cooking, maybe. I might learn how to make pasta."

Harris’ smile is one Ilya has never seen before. It’s soft and his eyes are kind of watery. “Invite me over so I can film it and also the team over so they can eat it.”

“Yes, so it can be used as evidence when I make whole team sick? No.” He takes a bite of his perfect cookie and glances over at Shane who is nibbling on his cookie and it should not mean so much to Ilya, but it does. 

“What about Russian?” Shane asks, voice steady, taking up more space than he was when Ilya walked in. Ilya hears Harris’ chair squeak. “You are the only Russian on the team,” Shane says. “The only Russian we have had in awhile and it could be fun? Do some hockey phrases -”

“No swear words,” Harris says in that voice of his that means he’s off and going. Making plans. 

Ilya laughs because he cannot help himself. “And how would you know? I could tell you that it means bag skate and you would not know.”

“This is a horrible idea,” Harris says, tone flat, “But also maybe brilliant.” And then he says, “Okay, no more. We are due at Monk’s -” he waves between his body and Shane and then points at Ilya. “You have to go get ready. We can talk more when we are setting up for puck signing.”

Ilya knows when he’s being dismissed. “You are watching game at Monk’s?”

“With my team,” Shane says and Ilya can’t stop from smiling at him because he’s a fool.

Ilya, because he is a shit who cannot stop when he has a good thing in front of him, smiles like he’s got a secret. “Tell Temp I will win game for him.”

He’s probably making up the way Shane’s eyes narrow at him. Probably. 

It hurts to breathe, but they won. 

It’s not the first win of the season, and it won’t be the last, but something about tonight…they all clicked together. Passes connected, Wyatt was a brick house. It was wonderful and worth the hit he took for the last goal of the game. It was worth it.

Until -

“Rozanov!” Terry shouts, looking grumpier than usual. Ilya isn’t even too his stall yet, taking his time, pretending to talk with Bood at his stall so he can catch his breath. Every turns to look at Terry and then Roz. 

“Dad’s mad about the hit,” Bood whispers and everyone laughs. Including Ilya, but then he has to stop because, yeah okay. Maybe he’s definitely bruised. 

Terry definitely sees his wince. “Office, man. Don’t make me chase you.”

Ilya sighs, half as dramatic as he would normally be because wow okay - the adrenaline is quickly draining from his body. 

Terry is quick about it. Pokes around, seems to be happy with what Ilya tells him - makes him get an x-ray anyway - wraps him in ice and tells him no practice tomorrow. To stay home. 

Ilya won’t stay home. Terry can keep him off the ice, but not out of practice. He doesn’t fight it tonight. Nods, takes the ice pack that Terry gives him. 

It’s not until he checks his phone - in the mostly quiet locker room - does he really find that he cannot breathe. 

That was stupid.

We already won, what good is another point tonight if you get taken out by that brute ass motherfucker.

I am texting Terry. Someone has to make sure a shard of rib doesn’t puncture your lung in the middle of the night and kill you.

He says he’s putting you on rest for tomorrow. STAY HOME. Coach can use someone to watch tape. Make yourself useful.

Ilya stares at the messages on his phone. They’re taking up his entire screen. 

Shane. 

Shane - sitting at Monk’s with his team - with Harris and…texting Ilya. With concern. 

“You good, Rozy?” Wyatt asks and Ilya nods, turning slowly. 

“Benched for tomorrow,” he says, “Will ask Coach if I can stay home and do tape.”

Wyatt snorts. “Man, you should just sleep.”

Ilya knows he expects for him to say something ridiculous back, but…Shane has absolutely wrecked him. After so long of…nothing? This? 

Ilya thinks about it as he changes, as he talks to Coach about his day off, as he drives himself home and eases himself into a second shower. 

Shane reached out. Shane…is showing concern about Ilya?

Will not die

cannot believe you told dad on me

Ilya stares at the messages until the phone goes black in his hand and then he decides to be very smart, take a muscle relaxer, and put himself to bed. 

Ilya is awake at 4 AM. 

It’s a side effect of the muscle relaxers. They make him thirsty. They always make his mouth feel disgusting and horrible and it wakes him up violently. 

Of course, that makes him ache and he decides if he’s up and hurting, he might as well go and get one of his little ice packs. And then he might as well eat something because he did not when he got home and that is not good for recovery or whatever and he hates to eat in bed, so he stands at the sink and eats a turkey sandwich and scrolls through all the notifications he ignored. 

One from Harris - he clicks on it immediately. Harris tagged him in his Instagram story. Him and many other people. 

And how about that goal from our very own @IlyaRozanovOfficial 

The short video is of the crowded bar cheering. For him. 

Ilya taps the screen and watches it again. Because that is Shane, right in the corner of the frame. One hand on his mouth, watching the TV so intently. He doesn’t even really cheer. His mouth gets small, his eyes get intense, he does the tiniest fist pump. 

And he’s also tagged. Tiny and annoying enough that the first time Ilya tries to click on the tag, it taps away from the story and he has to go back in and try again - his turkey sandwich abandoned on the plate now. 

Shane’s profile is private. @shanewatcheshockey Which should not be as cute as Ilya finds it to be. There is nothing in his bio and the profile photo is of Shane in nature somewhere - surrounded by huge trees and all green. Ilya wishes he could click on it and make it bigger. 

Ilya stares at the little follow button. 

They’re friends, he reasons. Shane has never sent him texts about the game and in that little video he had a ginger ale in front of him, so it is very unlikely he was drunk and brave. No, something…changed. 

Ilya presses the follow button and stares at it before realizing it is 4:30 in the morning and Shane will be asleep. He will most certainly not be accepting Ilya’s request on Instagram right now. 

He finishes his sandwich, takes another muscle relaxer, and goes back to bed. He will not obsess. He is not someone who obsesses. 

The first thing he does after chugging two glasses of water is check Instagram. 

@shanewatcheshockey has accepted your follow request!

Ilya, because he is greedy and insatiable, clicks on his profile immediately. 

He clicks on the first photo and starts to scroll - greedy and insatiable. 

Shane hiking with friends, people Ilya doesn’t know crowded in front of the movie poster somewhere, Shane and Harris surrounded by Ottawa merch in a little room that looks familiar, Shane with his hockey team - all of them in gear. 

The captions are funny, Ilya admits to himself. 

Bury us here says the one of him and Harris. If you give a mouse a cookie, he’s going to ask for a glass of milk says one under a photo of Bood holding a hand out for the beer in the corner of the frame, a full plate of food in his other hand - some holiday party. Ilya has no idea what that means, but now he very much wants to see how long he can get away with calling Bood a mouse in Russian.

There’s a photo of who have to be Shane’s parents - the three of them bundled up for the winter, standing in front of the tree in New York. Ilya knows that tree. He’s been at that tree. There is no caption other than three hearts. 

Ilya scrolls and he looks and he puts all of it in that little Shane box he keeps. 

And then he freezes - his face feeling hot and it’s very dramatic. Even for him. To be so…bothered by it. 

Shane stands in a sea of people. Someone who takes photos took this photo. Everyone and everything around Shane is a blur of color and rainbow flags. Well, except for the other guy - who has his arm wrapped firmly around Shane’s waist. 

That guy touching Shane isn’t even looking at the camera. He’s looking at Shane. Soft and fond and the way you look at someone you adore. 

Proud, finally. 

The caption makes something ugly turn over in Ilya’s stomach and he feels…disgusted with himself for being jealous? Jealous is a new emotion for him and jealous over a man who has not appeared in Shane’s instagram since this photo - Ilya locks his phone and leaves it facedown on the counter. 

Shane offered him a hand - he is friendly with him. He is kind to him. He treats him like a friend - like any of the other guys and Ilya gets all possessive and weird over an Instagram post that is three years old and -

He briefly considers going into practice anyway. They haven’t started yet. If he left now he could make it with time to stop for coffee, but…but maybe he needs to get his head on straight. Maybe watching tape and icing his ribs and staying off fucking Instagram (and not running into Shane at the rink) is the answer. 

Yeah, Ilya can do all of those things.

Chapter End Notes

Shania Twain and Carly Rae Jepsen - Harris loves them.

Not to tease you all, but the next chapter...has one of my favorite scenes.

Chapter 9: I know I was a lot of things

Chapter Summary

Ilya gets an invitation and it has unexpected consequences.

Chapter Notes

What better way to spend a weekend anticipating snow.

Chapter Title from I Need My Girl - this is theeeee turning point for them, y'all.

We get to see some prime neurodivergent Shane in this chapter.

Enjoy

Svetlana sends him a link to a YouTube channel. It's a pretty girl who speaks Russian with the kind of accent that Ilya knows means at least one of her parents came here before she was born. Her kitchen is bright and white and clean the way Ilya’s is when the cleaners come. 

She has a series about making pasta. 

Ilya watches the first video before he remembers to respond to Svetlana and thank her for finding this for him. Everything is so much easier to learn if he’s not translating it too. 

He should buy her a plane ticket. He has access to her work calendar if he can remember how to get to it and he could find time for her to come out or maybe he can ask Wiebe if he could make his own way to Boston and curl up in Svetlana’s very impersonal apartment she only lives in a few months of the year and listen to her make business deals. 

Thank you he says and then adds I will perfect pasta for when you visit

She responds with a link to a restaurant in Ottawa and Ilya laughs out loud and then winces. He can take her to some ridiculous restaurant instead. That’s easy. 

He starts the video back over so he can make a list of things he needs because he absolutely does not have 00 flour or even know what that is and that’s when the second message comes in. 

Twitter is saying you are home from practice with injury but that cannot be right because you have said nothing. 

Ilya sighs and taps into her contact to call her. She won’t let him have any peace about this. But, it feels good to remember that she cares. 

Ilya doesn’t know if they’re going to let him play tonight. Terry had sent him a text and told him not to come to morning skate and to come to the rink around lunch to get checked out. 

He’s fine, but he has learned that Ottawa takes injury seriously. It’s unlike any team he has ever played for. They’re cautious and if Wiebe suspects you’re not being honest, you sit. 

It’s shocking and strange and sometimes it takes Ilya’s breath. To feel like they’re more concerned with health than anything else - even using their star center in a game they have a chance at winning. 

Ilya is early because he went to that international grocery store and found everything on the list from the pasta series - including a little pasta roller that he has to attach to his countertop with a big clamp. 

He also bought some tea. Green little leaves that go in this teapot he bought and maybe Ottawa is making him crazy. Weird and stalkerish. He's trying really hard not to think too much about it.

He has an iced coffee and he’s wandering around the admin hall because he’s determined to remember everyone’s names and a little bit because he hopes he runs into -

“I have had fan accounts trying to follow me for two days,” Shane says from behind Ilya. The ice in his coffee clanks around rather rudely - exposing the fact that it made him jump. Shane is smiling when Ilya turns towards him. “I have never been so popular on Instagram.”

Ilya speaks before he can censor himself - before he can decide how much he wants to give away. “You deprive the fan accounts of silly photos of Bood and behind the scenes photos of you and Harris working? Not very nice, Hollander.”

Shane’s smile doesn’t dim like Ilya expects. He’s still just standing there, his arms crossed over his chest, looking at Ilya in an assessing way. “How are your ribs?”

Ilya leans against the wall because he doesn’t know what to do and he thinks it will keep him from fidgeting. “Okay,” he tells him, and watches Shane slip into glaring at him. “They are still sore, but I have played through worse.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Oh, like you have never played through a little injury.” Ilya tilts his head. It comes out bitchier than he means it too, but Shane laughs. He laughs and raises his hands in defeat. “Yes, i thought so.” Ilya says, and then swirls his iced coffee obnoxiously and watches Shane’s face twist up. The way it did in the bar before he told Ilya he was not like he thought he would be. 

He’s going to say something devastating and horrible and Ilya would really like that to not happen right at this very moment. 

Harris saves him. “Ilyaaaaa,” he calls, just as obnoxious as Ilya had said his name when Ilya had pushed his way into his office. “You are just the person I am looking for.”

Ilya looks over Shane’s shoulder at Harris as Shane shifts closer to the wall, leaning against it with his back to make space for Harris. “I am here, am I in trouble?” Ilya wonders, “Do I have to do little video to prove to internet I am not dead?”

Harris laughs that loud laugh of his and says, “No, this is a social question.”

Ilya risks looking at Shane. His face is back into that careful neutrality and Ilya wishes he would smile again. He really likes it when Shane smiles. 

“I don’t know if you have plans on Saturday -” Harris says, and then Shane makes a little noise and Ilya twists to look at him completely. Harris stops talking and looks at him too.

Shane sighs and wiggles his fingers at Harris. “I do not want to -” Shane is speaking to Harris. “It is maybe not something he can do,” Shane says, gesturing to Ilya. His mouth is that tiny little line. “Russia.”

He winces when he says Russia. 

Ilya very much would like to know what Harris was about to invite him to do. Harris looks apologetic when he says, “I did not even think about that, I’m sorry, Ilya.”

“Is fine,” Ilya tries to stress the word fine. It is not the time for him to tell them that he has no intentions of ever going back there if he can help it. “Where are we going on Saturday?” He is desperate for this opportunity - he is desperate to see Shane outside of work and see if there is really friendship now between them - that he has not scared it away again. 

“We have this extra ticket to this show -” Harris is talking very quickly. Ilya has to watch him carefully. “I have this kind of friend from Toronto who was supposed to come in for a work thing, but now he’s not coming and I was going to ask Wyatt because he actually knows who Fabian is, but Lisa is off this weekend and he said that I should ask you, which I thought was a great idea so I wanted to know if you wanted to come? Some of Shane’s teammates past and present will be there, so there are hockey people, but it’ll mostly be friends from university and -” Shane kicks out his foot - gentle - but it makes Harris laugh. He takes a deep breath and places an open palm to his chest. “Sorry,” he laughs again, softer. “It’s a gay bar, is the thing. Which maybe I should have not assumed you would be comfortable with that. Or you could do that, maybe.” He finishes with a wince and Ilya knows he’s smirking, but he can’t help it. 

Shane is looking directly at him, his face crinkled up like he’s desperate to say something. Ilya wants to save him from the obvious torment he’s putting himself through.

“I went out with Scott Hunter,” Ilya tells Harris - forcing his voice flat. “After NHL awards when they had big party for him in Vegas.” He takes joy in Harris’ inability to hide his shock. “And have been to Kingfisher in New York. Gay bar does not bother me.”

Harris blinks and nods and is once again in hard reset. “I would very much like to go to the Kingfisher,” he says, his voice kind of distant. 

“Very boring,” Ilya tells him. “Kip is nice though. I do not know what he sees in ancient dinosaur, but that is not my business.”

Shane laughs again and that seems to shake Harris out of whatever stupor he is in because he says very seriously, “Hunter is not that old.”

“Sure,” Ilya shakes his iced coffee again. “And Hollander is bad hockey player and Harris is very bad at his job and I should retire.” And then he winks. 

“Oh my god,” Harris huffs. “Has anyone ever told you that you are like, the ragebaiter in the NHL?”

Ilya flips through the dictionary of English words in his head as fast as he can. 

“It means you provoke people on purpose,” Shane says quietly, leaning in even though Harris can absolutely hear them. “You provoke people into being mad.”

Ilya does not have to fake the wide smile on his face. “Yes,” he confirms. “Me.”

Shane’s freckles are stupid and Ilya knows he can never be any sort of intoxicated in his presence. He will trace them with the tip of his finger and tell him exactly how beautiful they are. “Yes,” Shane huffs, “You.” And then he hesitates and says, “It really is okay if you can’t. There might be photos of you, or -”

Ilya wants to reach out and touch him, so he does. One hand on his bicep. “I am allowed to go out with my friends. And I am not so famous in Ottawa yet. They will not pay any attention to me. I am there with Ottawa’s best hockey player.” And then he releases his arm because he cannot hang onto him. Because that’s too much. He does poke him once and then promptly sticks his hand into the pocket of his pants. “Besides,” he turns to smile at Harris, “I have no plans! Sign hockey pucks in afternoon, and go home to try and make pasta with little machine that scares me? No. I will go.”

Harris is looking at him with thinly veiled confusion. “Okay, great. I’ll text the group chat.” And then he walks off, rather uncharacteristically still and quiet. 

“Bye Harris,” Ilya calls after him, laughing when Harris waves over his shoulder and then he turns back to Shane who has come off the wall, standing up with his hands in his pockets. Ilya has a flash of - oh no, he might not have wanted me to come.

“You’re headed to see Terry?” Shane asks, looking at Ilya with his head tilted down and Ilya is not doing well. “I will walk with you. I need him to look at something.”

Ilya huffs. “Do you have bruised ribs too, Hollander?”

“Shut up,” he says too quickly and Ilya snickers. Shane sighs, heavy and put out. “It’s my shoulder. I fucking -” he rolls it. “I just need him to look at it.”

Ilya bites back a reply about how he should not be playing hurt because he’s overtaken by how nice it is - that Shane is sharing with him and that he’s walking with him and how they’re going to see each other socially. “I have very good shoulder wrap,” Ilya says. “For ice packs. “I will bring you one.”

Shane’s mouth is twisted up. He nods quickly. “Thank you,” he says, voice tight, but when he turns to look at Ilya, he’s smiling. Small. Barely there. His voice comes out much softer. Round at the edges. “I would appreciate that.”

Ilya reaches for the door to the staircase first, holding it open with his foot for Shane to walk past him. It’s an excuse for Ilya to look at his face for just another moment. Just a blink. 

They walk down the stairs, one by one, next to each other, Shane getting the door at the bottom of the stairs, but just as he’s reaching for it, he stops and he turns to look at Ilya. 

Ilya wonders if anyone has ever told Shane how expressive he is, if anyone has ever taken the pad of their thumb and soothed the little line in between his eyebrows away. 

“If it would be…bad,” Shane says, “For you. I know you said you have been out with Scott, but that’s still hockey and I would never want you to be in danger. That’s not -”

Ilya touches him again - unable to stop himself. Just his bicep. Not the little wrinkle in between his eyebrows. “I am not in danger,” he assures him. “I will go out with my friends. We are there to see musician? Perhaps I am big fan. I know it is hard to believe, but Russians do have music -”

“Oh my god,” Shane wheezes, “you are impossible.” 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees easily, smiling. “Thank you for checking,” he says. “You are kind, Shane Hollander.” 

Ilya doesn’t tell him that the only other person who cares about his wellbeing is Svetlana. His voice has too much bleeding honesty in it though. It shows on Shane’s face - that Ilya was being too sincere. 

Shane nods, stiff and robotic and then turns and reaches for the door again. “Yeah, man. It’s nothing.”

Ilya bites down on his smile as he walks through the door. 

Yes, Ilya decides. They are friends now.

Ilya does something he hasn’t done in awhile. 

He gets dressed the fuck up. 

It’s cold as hell, but he doesn’t put on a hat because he wants his hair to stay all gelled and perfect. He leaves more buttons undone than necessary. He wears a pair of designer, tailored, tight as fuck pants. His gold cross sits on his chest. He adds that necklace Svetlana made him buy - the rectangular cut emerald in the chunky gold chain. It brings out your eyes, she had said.

It’s a little bit armor, and it’s a little bit that Ilya has not done this since before the accident and it feels like a safe place to try this back on. He won’t be the flashiest person in the room.

He even leaves his SUV in the garage and plucks the keys for favorite car off the rack.

Ilya. He feels like Ilya. 

Harris has the ticket he refused to let Ilya send him money for when they had spoken about it this afternoon while Ilya signed one million pucks. He’s meant to meet him in front of the bar that Ilya looked up on Instagram and decided was much more like a club - but it is Ottawa and the nightlife here is mild in comparison to some of the places he’s been.

Ilya parks in the lot around the corner, his black wool coat flapping around him. He has a cigarette in the corner of the parking lot with the parking attendant. He doesn’t ask where Ilya is going, but he does tell him that they’re technically not supposed to smoke outside. Ilya laughs and leaves him with his lighter because he doesn’t have one. Ilya buys them six at a time and he’s sure he has another one in his car. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket - texts. One and then another right after and Ilya decides it’s rude to be five minutes late and walks a little faster, ready to apologize to Harris for making him wait out in the cold, but then it is not Harris standing outside on the sidewalk. It’s Shane, curled in on himself. 

Ilya wonders just how good Shane is at making himself smaller. 

Despite the puffy jacket and the fact he’s larger than most of the other people on the sidewalk, he looks smaller, shoulders curled in and staring down at the phone in his hand. 

Ilya wants to walk right up to him, catch his eye, make a joke, but he takes a moment to pull his phone from his pocket. 

I have your ticket

Me, Shane, sorry

Ilya huffs. Like he would not have Shane’s number saved or he would think aliens came down and kidnapped Shane and replace him or -

He should keep walking, go to him, but something about Shane’s jacket is…familiar. That frozen scene in the back of Ilya’s mind he thinks about far too often. Surely not. 

He’s staring at Shane - unmoving - and of course that is when Shane stops scowling at his phone and up at Ilya - locking eyes with him - and something magical and strange and unexplainable happens.

Ilya watches Shane relax. He exhales - a puff of breath in front of his face - and his head comes up, his shoulders straighten. He’s looking at Ilya like he is relieved to see him. 

There’s something wrong. It’s not about a ticket or being five minutes late. Ilya knows it somehow - an anxiety pouring off of Shane that Ilya grew up with. It makes his stomach turn over. He wonders if Shane will tell him - if he asks. If Shane will allow Ilya in.

He takes a step, something shifting in his brain. 

There’s a box of Shane - a desire to understand why he left hockey, a knowledge that Shane is one of the most beautiful people Ilya has ever seen. But, it is more than that, Ilya realizes as he steps right up to Shane and scans the worry on his face. 

Shane’s bottom lip is bitten raw, he looks - Ilya realizes - like he could very well cry, and Ilya wants to be someone Shane trusts in this moment, but also all the moments. Someone like Svetlana. Reliable and there and constant.

Ilya wants Shane to trust him and smile at him and it’s not about the way he disappeared from hockey - or that’s a bit of it, of course it is. Ilya will never not wonder what could have been for him - for Shane too. But, it is about this man in front of him. This one who loves his job and loves hockey and is friends with Harris and is complicated.

The little box of Shane is far too empty. Ilya wants to know it all. Something about Shane has wrapped itself around Ilya’s lungs and now he wants. 

It’s a thing he wants and that burns in his throat. Wanting. Wanting something he doesn’t even understand. 

“Hey,” Shane says, holding his phone up. “You ready to go in? Harris sent me your ticket because he’s -” And then Ilya watches him completely crumble.

He squeezes his eyes shut and he swallows hard and Ilya can see his hand is shaking and Ilya decides they should not be standing right in front of the entrance. He grabs the sleeve of Shane’s coat and starts to tug him gently off towards a patch of sidewalk that is not quite as crowded as the one they were previously occupied. “Hollander,” Ilya says, his voice very soft, unfamiliar and soothing to the burn in his throat. “What is -”

“Sorry,” Shane is apologizing, tugging on his sleeve to curl into himself and Ilya is unwilling to let go. Shane’s eyes are wide. “I am so sorry. I can send you the ticket and then I will just -”

Ilya knows panic. Intimately. Something sharp and nasty rolls around in the back of his brain - a panic he witnessed as a child that has hung over him like a cloud since. “Shane,” Ilya says, And Shane’s eyes snap to his. It’s dark on the sidewalk and there’s music and people, but the way Shane looks at him - it is just the two of them here. “What is wrong?”

Shane takes a shaky breath, his eyes still locked on to Ilya’s. Ilya wants to hug him. He tightens the hold on his jacket sleeve instead. “This is very stupid,” Shane says and there’s enough belief in the words that Ilya feels sick. 

“Is not,” Ilya tells him, wishing words were enough - knowing they’re not. “Is never stupid if it hurts you.”

It makes Shane flinch, but he takes another shuddering breath. “I need to not be here,” he says. “God, this is so embarrassing.” He finally squeezes his eyes shut and Ilya thinks maybe he really is going to cry and then Ilya will do something dramatic. “I’m sorry,” he says with his eyes still squeezed shut. “I just really need to not be here.”

Ilya tugs on his jacket sleeve hoping Shane opens his eyes to look at him, but when he doesn’t, Ilya says, “Okay.”

Shane opens his eyes then, still looking teary and Ilya really is going to do something dramatic. Shane takes a shuddering breath and Ilya has to bite down on his cheek to keep his hands to himself. 

“I told Harris I was going home, but I wanted to make sure you got the ticket and that you knew I wasn’t avoiding you again.” Shane is not talking fast, but he is not giving Ilya an opening to speak. “I am very sorry about that, by the way. I put all this shit on you that you did not deserve. So, I want you to go and meet my friends and hang out with Harris and -”

“Shane,” Ilya says too loudly, but Shane’s jaw snaps shut and he glares instead of looking like he’s a blink away from becoming a puddle. He is sure someone is looking at the two of them. “Have you had dinner?”

“What?” Shane inhales sharply, blinking once. “No?”

Ilya nods. “There is very fancy restaurant, right up there." He nods his head behind Shane. "Probably very overpriced and probably I will hate the food, but my friend Svetlana says it is very good.”

Shane is still looking at him like he doesn’t understand. 

“I do not have reservation, but that will not be problem. I have very fancy credit card and I am very good hockey player, we are going to very fancy restaurant.” Shane is still staring at him. “You do not want to be here, okay, we are not here.”

Shane opens his mouth and then closes it. Ilya can be patient. He tries again. “But the show?”

“Yes, looks fun. Fabian is dazzling. He will have another show. I will meet everyone some other time.” Ilya decides that he is just going to…lead. He tugs on Shane again, but this time he turns them around and then releases his sleeve so he can very gently steer him down the street. Not really touching, just hovering. “Anything that makes you feel that bad is not worth it.”

Shane mumbles something that Ilya cannot make out. He keeps steering. He hopes there’s some kind of very loud, bright sign because Ilya only remembers that when he added the pin to his maps, that the restaurant pin he added was about two blocks away - north. 

“Svetlana,” Ilya says, because Shane is shaking, he realizes when his hand lands on the small of Shane’s back, “She loves to go to the restaurants with little tiny plates.” Ilya turns towards Shane fully while they wait at the corner of the block for the light to change. “She is friend from Russia,” he explains when he sees Shane’s little frown. 

“She lives here?”

“No,” Ilya shakes his head. “She does not really live anywhere,” he laughs. “Her father is very famous Soviet goalie, so she spends time in Russia, but she has place in Boston, and her mama lives in Carolina, and she went to boarding school in Europe for a little bit so she stays with friends there.” He is gesturing too wildly. “Socialite. That is the word.”

Shane raises one eyebrow at him and it’s so cutting that Ilya has to keep himself from laughing. 

“Every time we go to dinner, she always wants to eat little plates of food like I am not hockey player and want to eat big meals.” Ilya says and then the little walking guy changes and Ilya tugs on the back of Shane’s coat to keep him from stepping off the sidewalk until Ilya can look both ways. 

Shane makes a noise like a cat might if Ilya had snatched them up by the back of their neck and Ilya is very normal about it. 

“I think this place is not so small and more normal,” Ilya assures him. “Because I have complained so much and she knows I am getting older and grumpier.”

“Is that what you are?” Shane asks, his tone flat and this time Ilya does not keep himself from laughing. 

He knows his smile is too bright. “Yes, I am very grumpy Russian normally and it gets worse every time I must eat two bites of fish air.”

Shane looks so confused that most of the anxiety has completely melted out of his body. He’s still holding himself rather stiffly and his eyes still look shiny, but he doesn’t look like he’s one wrong breath away from shattering. 

There is a bright sign and Ilya points at it. “There,” he pulls Shane along faster, “it is fucking cold.”

“Well, you’re the one dressed like a -” Shane pauses, and then he mumbles, “some cocaine porn star.”

Ilya has to stop walking because he is so delighted he’s afraid he will simply float away if he does not anchor himself to the ground with both feet. Shane takes two more steps before freezing and very slowly twisting to look back at Ilya. 

The sign is making Shane’s head glow. Like an angel. Ridiculous. 

“Cocaine porn star?” Ilya questions and Shane sighs, like he’s annoyed at himself and Ilya and also god for allowing him to be here at this moment. “What exactly is a cocaine porn star, Hollander? Is this something you are -”

“Oh my god,” Shane wheezes, turning away and stomping towards the restaurant, but speaking to him over his shoulder. “Are you coming? I thought you were cold.”

Ilya bites down on his smile because Shane is so committed to the frown on his face, but it doesn’t feel real because when Ilya opens the door to the restaurant, Shane slips by him close enough for his shoulder to brush Ilya’s chest. He’s sure it’s not real because after they shrug off their coats while the maitre d is scrambling to prepare a private table for Mr. Rozanov and his guest, Shane doesn’t move nervously away. He stands close enough to Ilya that when Ilya breathes - his shoulders expanding - he feels Shane next to him. 

“I should text Harris,” Shane whispers and some of that anxiety is creeping back into his voice.

Ilya digs his phone from his pocket immediately. “Me,” he says, “I will tell him we have been taken by Montreal fans and are held hostage.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are strange?” Shane whispers again.

“Yes,” Ilya assures him, tapping into the thread with Harris. He reads the message aloud while he types. Shane can likely see the screen, but this makes Ilya feel better. “Have kidnapped Hollander for dinner instead of show. Will get Cinderella home before pumpkin time.”

Shane makes an annoyed noise and then says something that sounds like cinderella, but the maitre d is there to show them to their table. Ilya’s phone buzzes in his pocket, but he won’t look at it again until they leave. 

He was looking forward to going out with Shane and Harris and meeting more people in Ottawa. He was looking forward to looking at beautiful Fabian and maybe telling Harris he is bisexual, but this is better. This is what he wanted, really. Shane on his own, Shane placing very precious trust in Ilya’s hands. 

Ilya does not understand what happened and maybe he doesn’t need to know. Shane did not push him away, he apologized to Ilya for avoiding him. Maybe Ilya doesn’t need to know right now. Not when Shane settles into the chair across from him, his hands in his lap - so polite as he asks the waiter for ginger ale. 

Ilya orders a coke and has to keep himself from sneering at the server who asks if he would like to order a bottle of wine instead. He likes wine just fine, but he thinks that Shane is already going to protest to climbing into Ilya’s car. He’s not going to give him a reason to get a taxi. 

“You could,” Shane says as soon as they’re alone in this very private alcove. “Order wine if you want.”

“No,” Ilya says. “I do not want to drink tonight.”

There’s a candle in between them - one of those great round ones with more than one wick. Shane is staring at the flames. “You called me Shane,” he says, his eyes flicking up to Ilya for hardly a breath. 

Ilya freezes, his napkin half in his lap. “Yes.”

“It was nice,” Shane leans away from the table, still staring at the candle. He doesn’t offer anything else. Not for a long time. The two of them sit in silence. Shane looking at the candle. Ilya looking at Shane. The noise of the restaurant barely able to wrap around them. 

It is nice to say it. Shane. Shane. He wants to ask him to call him Ilya, but Shane stops looking at the fire. 

“You probably want to know why I was freaking out.” He says freaking out like it’s a moral failing. Ilya cannot help but notice that Shane’s body is drawing anxiety back into it like a sponge.

Ilya decides to be direct and intense. “I want to know many things about you, Shane, but we are new friends. You maybe do not want to share this with me, yet. Is okay.”

Shane’s eyes close. Ilya watches him breathe, his chest heaving under that very soft looking blue sweater he’s got on. “Ilya,” he says Ilya’s name and Ilya squeezes his hands into fists. 

But then their server comes back with their drinks and Shane is back to staring at the candle. 

“Can I get you two any appetizers?” The server asks and Shane picks up his menu for the first time, frantically scanning. “The caviar, or the snow crab perhaps? Both chef recommendations.”

They have not ordered wine and now they will be forced to listen to every option that is the most expensive on the menu. Ilya has eaten at too many places just like this. 

“Shane,” he leans forward, ignoring their server completely, because they’re here because Shane was having a panic attack outside of the club on the sidewalk and Ilya will not allow anything to disrupt the comfort he’s working to create. “You would like the salad, yes? Not the caesar.” Ilya remembers him with a little container of salad in the admin hall before.

Shane reads through the description and his shoulders come down. “Yes,” he nods at Ilya. “I do.”

The server nods and then looks expectedly at Ilya. “Two,” he says. He does not think he will like the salad - not when he would actually really like snow crab, but now he is in a stand off with this man and cannot allow him to have the upperhand. 

The server has realized Ilya is not going to make small talk, so he scampers off quickly and they are once again alone. 

“That is nice too,” Shane says, his voice cracking on the last word. 

“The salad?” Ilya asks, like an idiot.

“Calling you Ilya.”

Ilya has to squeeze his fists shut again. He doesn’t trust his voice, so he nods. Just once. He knows his face probably does not look like he thinks it’s nice, but -

“My ex was there,” Shane leans in, once again with his eyes trained on the candle. 

His voice is haunted. Ragged. Familiar in the back of Ilya’s mouth. He is angry. It must show on his face because something horrible happens. Shane meets his eyes and he flinches. 

Ilya knows why Shane would flinch away from anger. Ilya trained himself out of doing it young. There’s a roaring in his head. Ilya doesn’t take kindly to people who abuse their partners, but for a sickening moment, Shane looked at him and saw someone who was not safe. 

He has to force his body to relax. He has to force his face into softness. It’s a long moment of Ilya feeling like he wishes the floor would swallow him up, but eventually Shane leans forward and kind of reaches for Ilya. His hand stretched out towards him on the table. Not really reaching, but a show of trust. 

“I am sorry,” Ilya breathes. “I feel like I am always -” he stops himself. He wants to understand Shane and he wants to be his friend and he doesn’t want to constantly be walking on a…balance beam. Tightrope. 

Shane’s fingers flex against the table and he says, his voice clear and strong. “I am phenomenally bad at picking boyfriends,” he says and when Ilya meets his eyes, he is delighted to find that he’s smirking at him. It helps him feel as though he’s not going to slip down into a dark place of shame.

“Okay,” Ilya says cautiously. 

“This ex is not even that horrible?” He says, and that makes Ilya feel even more violent than before. He keeps it off his face. “No, I mean. He was horrible, but I guess when he compare him to the others, not so horrible, and he wasn’t supposed to be there, so I had no time to prepare to see him, and clubs are already hard for me.” Shane chews on his bottom lip.

“Hard?” Ilya questions. 

Shane makes a kind of wounded noise. “I have a hard time in crowds sometimes. I don’t love loud places and -” Shane blows out a very long, slow breath. “That ex in particular…he made me feel sometimes like I did not belong.”

“With him?” Ilya asks because how could anyone who had Shane Hollander in their hands do anything but love him completely? Anyone who makes him feel as though he doesn't belong with him is a fool.

Shane makes a pained face. “No,” he is breathing deeply again. “I am gay.”

Ilya makes a little surprised noise. Not because this is particularly surprising, but because Shane is telling him at all. Shane responds by throwing himself back into the chair and picking up his drink, taking a long sip. He’s waiting for Ilya to say something. “Okay, you are gay.”

“It was a very long and kind of horrible path for me to get here - to be comfortable with myself.”

Ilya takes that in, tries to make all the pieces fit together. He remembers that instagram caption. He wonders if that’s the same guy. If Shane leaving it up is some kind of defiance - him being proud of himself despite who he was with - how he made him feel.

“I panicked because I have been feeling kind of bad about the way I treated you - punishing you for other people’s mistakes - and then I was nervous about tonight and then he was there and it all just got to be too much.”

Ilya is the one to stretch his arm across the table, snagging one finger in the sleeve of Shane’s very soft sweater. “I am not the boss of gay people, but I do not think there is such a thing as not gay enough. If you are gay, you are gay.”

Shane’s smiling at him, all pleased and crinkled up and that’s when the salads come out. 

Ilya knows his face is unimpressed because Shane is back to glaring at him and giving the server very placating smiles. 

“I am giving this place one start review,” Ilya says as soon as he disappears again. 

Shane says, “Okay, maybe I rescind my apology.” His voice full of venom, but he’s smiling.

Ilya hums. “No, not possible.” He’s smiling too. 

“Authority,” Shane says after a moment of them just...smiling at each other. “You meant authority.”

“Yes,” Ilya nods. “Authority, yes, thank you. I am not authority of gay people, but if you are even a little bit gay, that still makes you gay.” 

Shane is pushing a vegetable around on his plate with the back of his fork. He’s not looking at Ilya.  

“I sleep with women,” Ilya says and Shane stops moving. “I also sleep with men.” Shane still does not move. “I am still gay enough for the gay bar with all your friends. Fuck anyone who has ever made you feel like you were not gay enough.”

Shane gets a beet on the end of the fork and kind of points it to Ilya. “I cannot believe Harris still thinks you are straight.”

Ilya laughs - free and huge. “I planned to tell him tonight, but -” he gestures between the two of them and picks up his own fork. 

Shane tilts his head. “I am sorry. I -” he exhales. “You are honest and you say what you mean and I really like that. It’s refreshing.”

“I am asshole,” Ilya tells him, and Shane is opening his mouth to protest, but Ilya holds up a finger. “I am asshole, but I am not mean. I will never make you feel like you are less.”

Shane puts his whole fork down, beet still attached. “I want to be friends, Ilya.” He wrinkles up his nose. “I can be…difficult - closed off. It is hard for me to open up and talk about things.”

Ilya knows what he means without him having to say it. He nods. He has something he needs to say, but - "I can be too," he tells him. "It is hard for me to talk about things in my life, but maybe someday, I will talk about my family and Boston and you will talk about hockey."

Shane squeezes his eyes shut and he nods. “Like hockey,” he confirms. “Someday, we’ll talk about it. Because we’re friends.”

But Ilya has one more thing to say about hockey. “Someday, yes, but today I need you to know that I thought about you.” Shane is breathing hard. “I am patient man, we will talk about it when you are ready, but I did think about you.”

“I don’t know why,” Shane says, “But that helps. That I was…someone even when I wasn’t anyone.”

“No,” Ilya corrects him. “You were never -” fucking english. 

“Ilya,” Shane reaches out and this time Ilya does not hesitate to take his hand. It’s too much for friends, but maybe not if Ilya has known Shane since they were 17. Maybe not if he traces them back to being children - the mirror of him. Then and somehow also now. “Thank you.” Shane says. 

He might mean for dinner or for the panic attack or for caring or for accepting his apology. Ilya doesn’t really care. “Okay, yes. Thank you, you are welcome. We should eat this salad that should be soup, and then order dinner and we can talk about season or how I think pasta making is very scary or anything you want.”

Shane’s smile is so sweet. Ilya wants him to always have that smile. “Why should this be soup?”

“Borscht,” Ilya says spearing one of the beets and holding it up. “Very good, will make it for you sometime.”

“Okay,” Shane says, nodding once. 

“Okay,” Ilya repeats, finally taking a bite of his salad. Unwilling to admit that it’s actually not bad. “Tell me, Shane. What did you get your degree in? Canadian school has diplomas in hockey travel?”

Shane huffs around his own bite of salad, but he is still smiling. Ilya has never been so glad to have missed a chance to go to a club.

“Of course you drove that,” Shane huffs, glaring at Ilya’s car. 

“Shane,” Ilya steps in front of him. It’s maybe a little bit flirty, but Ilya is always a little bit flirty. “Most eligible bachelor in all of Ottawa -” Shane starts to cackle in the way that makes Ilya feel like he might float away. “Do not laugh at me, Shane.”

It’s addictive. Ilya is addicted to saying his name. 

“I am rich, and I am handsome,” Shane is doubled over laughing, Ilya keeps talking anyway. “I am into men and women so I everyone has chance -”

“But they have to be into cocaine pornstar,” Shane is still laughing, but now it’s because Ilya is frowning. “It does not work for everyone, you know.”

Ilya tilts his head down, sassy. “I think it does.”

Shane shakes his head just the tiniest bit, the corners of his lips upturned into a smile. “Sure, okay. I will leave you to your delusions.” And then he brushes past Ilya and walks around the back of the car. 

“I will drive speed limit,” Ilya says, hand on his heart and then he watches Shane freeze, spin around, look at him in that stricken way he does. 

He’s thinking about the wreck. About Ilya and the wreck and -

“Shane,” Ilya says, ‘I know you did not mean it. Not like that.” He nods towards the car and he gets in, waiting on Shane to climb in before he says, “I think part of being friends is not apologizing for teasing all the time, yes?”

“Yes,” Shane sighs. 

“But now you must pick music for drive,” Ilya unlocks his phone, tapping into his music app and flipping the phone over to Shane’s horrified face. 

“Remember how I said I was bad at being gay?” Shane says, staring at the phone. 

Ilya snorts. “I think only requirement of being good at being gay is liking cock, no?”

Shane pulls the phone from his hand in a huff. Ilya starts the car and immediately starts to pull out of the spot. 

“I am not so good at music,” Shane admits. “As in, I don’t listen to much of it. Which is something gay men think makes you bad at being gay.”

Ilya cannot fathom not listening to music, but he thinks Shane is allowed to be a little strange. “Again, the only thing that makes you good at being gay is liking cock, you like cock, yes?”

“Oh my god,” Shane groans. 

“I have changed positions,” Ilya says at the same time Shane aggressively taps something on Ilya’s phone. “I am now authority on gay people. You, Shane Hollander, are very gay. Even if you do not like music and wear coats from over decade ago that were not even fashionable then.”

Shane leans forward to put his elbows on his knees and his hands in his face and he groans. “Wait,” he sits back up. “You remember my coat? From the prospect cup?”

Ilya pretends to be very invested in the red light. “I told you, I thought about you many times over the years.”

He hears the little sharp inhale as the light goes green. “Oh,” Shane says. And then he says, “I am glad we went to dinner,”

Ilya nods, reaches over and taps the phone still on Shane’s lap. “Yes, I am too. Was fun, even though you ordered very boring fish -”

“Fuck off, it was great.”

“Put your address in GPS, Shane. Next time we go to dinner, we go someplace you cannot order boring fish.”

Shane is quiet while he puts in his address, and then he says, “I know you do not like small plates.” He twists around as much as he can in the seat. “There is this Japanese restaurant that does family style.”

Maybe it’s not the same for Shane - maybe that is not home in the same way that it would be for Ilya to take Shane to that little deli and feed him Russian pastries. But it still feels wonderful. 

“I don’t know if you like Japanese food, but -”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Yes, no small plates and I very much like that - it is same in Indian food, but not same at all -”

“Curry,” Shane supplies. “They do a good curry, but it is nothing like the one my dad makes.”

“Your father?” Ilya sounds just as shocked as he is.

Shane snorts. “My dad learned from my mom’s family. And he does most of the cooking anyway. My mom is decent, but -" And then he pauses. Likely thinking about what Ilya had said. About his family. "This is not your experience, is it? With your parents?”

Ilya has to think to keep his breathing normal. “No,” he says. “My mom did all cooking at home.”

If Shane picks up on Ilya using the past tense…well, he likely considers it a result of Ilya fumbling his English. Or maybe he’s just kind because he asks, “Ilya, can you please tell me what to put on? This is -”

Ilya grins at him, risking a glance. “Oh, you do not want to listen to bossanova?”

“I do not know what that is and I do not want you to elaborate.”

Instead of putting him out of his misery, Ilya turns it up, laughing over Shane’s emphatic oh my fucking god. Ilya laughs and laughs and so does Shane. It feels good. 

“Text me when you get home?” Shane says, halfway out of the car, twisted around awkwardly and smiling. “So I know you’re safe.”

It feels good to be cared about. It’s so shocking and warm. “I will,” he promises. And then he flings his door open, shouting. "Shane, wait!" he pops the trunk with the button and pulls the shoulder wrap he brought for him, jumping the curb and holding it out. "For your shoulder."

Shane wraps his hand around it, smiling down at it. "Thank you," he says again. "Text me," he says as he turns awaya.

Ilya stands on the curb until Shane is inside his building and the door has shut behind him. And then he counts to 10. And then he gets back in his car to drive home. 

Made it home, Ilya texts Shane while he’s standing in the doorway between his garage and the mudroom. He doesn’t stare at it though. He clicks over to Harris’ messages. 

Thank you for looking out for him

You’re a good guy, Ilya. I don’t care what anyone says about you

He sends a thumbs up and locks his phone to head inside, toeing off his boots. He’ll have to get the salt off them tomorrow. He hangs up his coat, wishing a bit that he was still out. Not in this too big house that has bedrooms that his realtor said would be good for children someday. 

I really did enjoy dinner, Ilya. Thank you for caring. I will see you when you get home from the roadie.

Ilya locks his phone and he gets a glass of water from the little fridge dispenser and thinks about home - about Ottawa being his home. That's why he's here. In this house. On this team. A place to build a home. Maybe a place for a family some day. One on purpose and chosen. 

His throat feels tight with it. He decides to text Shane back instead of thinking about that any longer.

I will make your playlist of bossanova so you can learn music. Goodnight Shane.

Goodnight Ilya

Ilya watches the screen go black and then he goes upstairs to take a shower. He will need to text Svetlana and thank her for the restaurant link. Or maybe...maybe he is not yet ready to let anyone into the careful friendship he has managed to build. It has been a long time since Ilya has had something to guard with his heart. And he thinks Shane is very much worth doing that. 

Chapter End Notes

Yes, He wore that shirt.

Chapter 10: I'll be a friend and a fuck-up

Chapter Summary

Post-it notes and pasta failings and curry.

Chapter Notes

chapter title from Slipped by The National

Hiiii, I am so sorry. I really wanted to get this out on Friday, but I got a big project at work and worked like a 60 hour week on top of my original work writing goals and my chronic illness. Well, you can imagine.

This one is fun.

Ilya starts the roadie by tucking a new post-it note from Shane Hollander into the pocket of his team iPad and he ends the roadie by reading out coaching texts from Shane Hollander to a locker room full of Centaurs. 

“So, you and Hollzy?” Wyatt asks the next day when they’re sitting next to each other on the plane - Ilya untangling his charging cord for his phone. “I think that’s -” Wyatt does this waving gesture. “Now that he knows you’ll terrorize us while we’re on the road, he’s never going to stop.”

Ilya has the very distinct impression that Wyatt was not at all going to say that, but he forces himself to laugh anyway. 

The edge of the post-it note is visible in the case of his iPad. 

He waits until Wyatt is distracted by some new superhero show before he pulls the edge back to look at it.

What does pasta dough and my shoulder have in common? You have to wrap them up and let them rest

Ilya thinks Shane Hollander is the funniest person he’s ever met and no one knows it. 

After the accident and before he stopped refusing the pain killers, Ilya got it into his head that he should quit playing hockey.

He had snuck his phone into the bathroom and took a little quiz to tell him what he would be good at. Inexplicably, it told him to become a teacher. But, Ilya did not think they let ex-hockey players stay in the US to become teachers. And also, Ilya had thought darkly to himself, schools in America were probably more dangerous than playing hockey. 

Svetlana had found him sniffling into his hoodie about how he did not want to teach American teenagers the rules of English because they were all stupid anyway - the rules, not the teenagers - and she had called him an idiot and put him to bed and he had tried very hard to forget that he spent one whole night trying to decide what a teacher would even wear to school. 

Ilya is thinking about it now. 

He thinks the school system in Canada is probably safer. They might let him coach hockey at least. That’s something you do when you retire. Coach your kids in junior hockey and since Ilya might never have any kids, he could borrow some other kids. 

That has to be a better option than what he’s currently doing - which is hiding in a storage closet on the visitor’s side of the rink. 

Ilya has sat in this closet before. He came in here when they played Ottawa one year. His father had been calling and calling and calling and Ilya had just needed a quiet dark place to talk to him - to explain to him that he should have been sleeping and that Ilya was not coming home. He remembered it and he was sure no one would come looking for him here. 

It’s cowardly, maybe, definitely. But, Ilya had not considered certain things about coming to a new team and starting over with people and this all would have been much easier if the Centaurs wasn’t a team packed full of good, kind people who saw right through his bullshit. 

In Boston, everyone had known that Ilya did not do family weekends. In his first year, he joked about how his father would not travel unless Ilya won something - a big bravado joke about making him proud with gold. No one asked about his mother because he very pointedly only spoke of his father. 

The next year he had said that his was flying out for Christmas instead and could not make two trips so close together. He hadn’t come out for Christmas, of course, but no one on the team knew that. They had let it go and introduced them to their parents with a smile. 

But, then his father had died and everyone in the league knew it because he had missed multiple games and then when he put his car through a fence, TMZ posted the photos of his car and the fence and somehow dug up a source from Russia who was willing to talk about his mother’s suicide and everyone spent 48 hours wondering if Ilya was trying to kill himself on purpose and now he cannot laugh and joke about his family not being present for family weekend because everyone knows and everyone here cares. 

He can see it all over them. He can see it on their parent’s faces. The mothers want to coddle him and the fathers say something awkward about being proud to have him on the same team as their son - like Ilya is a prize and he…is hiding in a closet, with his head between his knees, listening to the little pops of his coke in the can. 

Ilya runs through the schedule in his head and calculates when he can slip out of this closet and go home and thinks if he gets up and leaves right now, he can come back for brunch tomorrow and be a person about all of this. 

And then the doorknob rattles and Ilya hears Shane’s voice mutter, goddamn motherfucking fuck which Ilya finds far too endearing even if he doesn’t know how he could possibly have been found out. 

He takes pity on Shane and reaches out, tugging the door handle down so when Shane pushes against it again, he nearly falls in. 

Ilya did not mean to almost kill him, but Shane is capable and fast and is standing with an oversized box in his hands, staring down at Ilya before Ilya can shift his legs around to make room for Shane to put the big box. 

“Hi?” Shane says, looking down at Ilya. The door behind him clicks shut and it’s much darker than it had just been. “Wow, this is teenage Shane Hollander’s worst nightmare.”

Ilya’s brain is fuzzy after thinking about becoming a teacher for so long and also thinking about his mother. “Only teenage Shane Hollander? Not adult Shane Hollander?”

Shane shoves the box onto a shelf that absolutely does not have room for it and then gracefully sinks down next to Ilya. He’s probably blocking the door a little bit, but he’s pressed up onto Ilya - shoulder to hip to knee. “Did Russian teenagers play seven minutes in heaven?” 

“I watched this on One Tree Hill.”

“What?” Shane laughs, leaning his head against the wall, looking up and not at Ilya. “Okay, sure.” He swallows and Ilya watches his throat. 

It’s not like he’s not seen Shane. He saw Shane a few days ago when they got home from the airport and he was standing in the parking lot with Harris because they were waiting on Wyatt because they were giving him a ride home. He saw Shane in Instagram photos. He saw Shane this morning as he dropped off a box of muffins with Harris with money taped to the bottom since Harris was being stubborn about Ilya paying him back for the unused ticket. 

Shane has not been this close to him though. Ilya is going to look. 

“Seven minutes in heaven.” Ilya says. “Very silly game.”

Shane hums. 

Ilya wonders if Shane’s nightmare was being stuck in here with a girl having to kiss her or if it was being stuck with a boy and wanting to. He thinks…probably the wanting to. It’s worse to want and never have. 

Ilya sighs and decides to mirror Shane, head leaned back, eyes up. He doesn’t really want to roll over and allow Shane to see his hurt. Not today. It doesn’t feel like he’ll be able to pack it back up.

He hopes Shane doesn’t ask. Because he would have to lie and he doesn’t want to do that. Not to a friend.

This also leaves Ilya without an opening to ask Shane why he’s here. But, he guesses it doesn’t matter. Not when they’re sitting together in silence. That is until Shane starts to dig in the pocket of his Centaurs branded hoodie. 

It is that crinkly plastic noise that the little bags that Ilya hates makes and Shane makes a pleased noise when he wrestles them out of the front of his hoodie. 

Ilya can see that it’s a bag of gummy bears. “Okay,” Ilya says, “Will you ever tell me why you -” he pokes at the bag, watching it swing from Shane’s grasp. “Did you come into closet to eat gummy bears in silence?”

Shane glares at him. “Lisa made these tote bags for the visiting team social media people and sent me down here to bring it.” The bag makes that unzipping noise. 

“And the gummy bears?” 

But then Shane turns to look at him. There’s that same kind of haunting sadness.

Ilya hums again, deciding for them both that they will hide here together. “I think we can have…seven minutes of hiding.”

Shane’s laugh is softer, gentler. Something intimate and small and Ilya tucks it away like he does the post-it’s. Somewhere safe. He then watches Shane dump out a handful of gummy bears onto his palm, picking through them carefully, collecting one, two, three, four, five of one color before holding them out to Ilya. “Here,” he says, allowing his fingers to rest in Ilya’s palm before he opens them up. Careful and soft so the gummy bears fall into the center of his awaiting palm. “These are pineapple. They’re the best flavor.”

Ilya doesn’t want to be a teacher. He wants to be right here.

He eats one and then another, chewing slowly. He’s never really been a fan of the way gummy candy gets caught in his molars. He always feels it’s a risk - to eat sticky things. A filling or a cap will come off in his mouth before he knows what’s happening, but the pineapple gummy bears are good and he would never tell Shane he wouldn’t eat them. 

“Thank you,” he says, his voice too close to cracking. 

Shane picks out another gummy bear and holds it out. “Cherry,” he says quietly. 

Ilya takes it from him, bites directly into it. Has to think about it. “Shane,” he says, clear and calm. “This one is horrible.”

“Yes,” he laughs, still quiet and small and intimate. “It’s the worst flavor.”

“After I let you into my closet of hiding? This is compensation?” It’s not near as loud or mouthy or bright as it would be with the team, but Shane beams at him anyway. 

“Repay,” Shane whispers, picking another white gummy bear from his hand and holding it out to Ilya. “This is how you repay me.”

Ilya takes the gummy bear. Squishes it between his pointer finger and thumb, holds it up to the little bulb in the corner of the room that he thinks is an emergency light. 

Shane nudges him with his elbow. “Mango,” he tells him. Ilya takes that one too and when he settles back, he presses his arm a bit more firmly against Shane’s. It’s the only way he knows how to say thank you in the moment. 

Bood clomps past Ilya and nudges him. “Stick around, yeah? Need your help with something.”

Ilya nods at him and goes back to stripping down. Bood is kind of strange, but the team has a lot of respect for him and Ilya does too. He wonders if maybe he’s going to ask him for help with the Christmas party. Ilya is one of the only single guys on the team and could host the Christmas party at his house without disrupting WAG’s and kids. 

It is one of the reasons he did it so often in Boston, but then he tugs his shirt out of his cubby so he can put his gloves there and money falls onto the ground. 

“Harris,” he groans, bending to pick it up as the room laughs. “I must find new way,” he shakes the cash. “Help me pay this stubborn man.”

“Give it up, Roz.” Wyatt says from the doorway into the showers. “You aren’t winning this one.”

Ilya huffs and shoves the cash underneath his shirt. He’ll deal with it after he helps Bood do whatever he needs to do. 

It is not about the Christmas Party. 

Ilya sits on the bench while Bood takes the longest shower in the history of all locker rooms and he fucks around on his phone. 

Sveta sends him a link to a bag that costs an eye watering amount of money and the accompanying text informs him that he already bought it for her for Christmas. He tells her she’s welcome and that he loves her and he’ll call her later. 

The pasta youtuber has posted a new video about a cake that is a concerning shade of green and Ilya screenshots the thumbnail and texts it to Shane. Like grass, good for you to eat, yes?

ESPN, an Instagram message from Marlow, three emails that should be with his agent that he forwards through. And finally Bood is sitting on the bench in front of him, dressed and looking tense. 

Ilya is forced to reckon with the fact that he’s about to receive bad news. 

“Okay,” Ilya says, locking his phone and tossing it down on the bench next to him. “Say it.”

Bood runs a hand through his damp hair. He looks like he might cry and Ilya will have to flee. “I need to apologize to you,” Bood sighs. 

“Oh, did you tell Harris to give me money back?”

“Dude,” Bood hisses. “I’m like, trying here. I’ve been kind of a shit captain to you. You came to us after all that shit Boston put you through and we’re supposed to be looking out for you - I’m supposed to be looking out for you.”

Ilya is very very rapidly trying to string all of these words and emotions together and failing. Horribly. What he manages to say is, “what?”

He hopes the confusion is evident on his face because Bood snaps his gaze up from the floor and looks at Ilya, still looking wrecked. “With family weekend, Rozy!” He runs his hands through his hair again. “I had my own shit with my mom and I didn’t even fucking check on you, man. That was really fucking shitty of me. And then you ditched that show with Harris -”

Ilya laughs, because no and then realizes he’s going to have to explain, so he sighs, rolls his eyes. “Concert with Harris…” Ilya gestures vaguely. “I ended up in very nice restaurant with friend. Not sad about how night went.”

“But family weekend,” Bood stresses. 

Family weekend was a nightmare, but Bood letting the guilt of it eat him alive is just as bad he thinks. “You worried? This means you are good captain,” Ilya tells him. “You do much for team and for staff. I was…a little sad. I am okay. I will be a little sad sometimes. Other players will be a little sad. You are there when you can. We all trust you, myshka.”

Bood is still looking at him all miserable. “What does that mean? Myshka?”

He butchers it, but Ilya doesn’t care. “Captain,” he tells him, smiling. “You are good captain.”

“Kind of a shit friend, though,” Bood says, his nose wrinkled up. “Captain shit aside. I failed you and I should have given you space to talk about your parents if you needed it.”

It’s unfathomable, really, but Ilya allows himself to nod. To believe it. He takes a shaky breath. “I am okay,” he tells him and then he can’t look at him to say the next part. “I think…I wish everyone did not know about my mother.” He swallows and feels like he should stop talking, but then he remembers Galina talking about letting people in. 

“Not because I am ashamed,” he says quickly. “She was…kind. Beautiful. Funny. Now many people have opinions about her without knowing and -”

“Roz,” Bood says, sharp. Ilya’s lungs freeze but he can’t stop himself from looking up at him. He looks…like he does when he’s giving some rousing captain speech. “If she had half your kindness and half your humor, she had to have been so good, man.”

Ilya tries to swim through the thickness that is now pressing down on him, and maybe Bood sees that because he’s across the room, hauling Ilya up by his arm to throw his stupid big arms around him, squeezing him hard. Ilya feels like he might be the one crying. 

“You gotta learn to cut yourself some slack, Rozy,” squeezing him again, jostling him around, “want to come over and help me put googly eyes on all the pucks I stole from the rink?”

Ilya laughs. It sounds a little wet, but Bood doesn’t call it out when Ilya shoves him off and says with venom, “Idiot. Cannot put eyes on pucks. They will fall off and make zamboni sick.”

Bood deflates. 

“We talk George into giving us all practice jersey’s and go buy spray glitter.” He pokes Bood in the chest. “And then you buy dinner, yes?”

“Dude, you got a deal,” Bood pushes his finger away. “Let’s go find George.”

Ilya scrubs his hand over his face and follows his captain. 

Turns out that having pasta instructions in Russian doesn’t actually make pasta making…easier. Ilya thinks maybe it’s making it worse. Somehow. 

It cannot be him. 

Ilya is competent and he taught himself how to cook as a child and he’s the best hockey player in the world and he will not be bested by some fucking flour and eggs. More eggs than he thought he would need actually. More eggs than he would normally eat in a day. He is going to practice and telling everyone pasta is protein. 

He’s maybe added one too many eggs. Or maybe too much water. It’s a sticky mess. He is a sticky mess. 

And he isn’t quite sure how he’s going to clean up his sticky mess without touching anything -

“Why pasta,” Ilya mutters to himself, trying to unglue his fingers from the ball of decidedly not pasta dough in his hand. “Curry maybe, cookies. Cookies can be hard and do not require touching dough.”

He didn’t even get to use the terrifying pasta machine. He clamped it to his counter and everything. But, he is sure that if he tries to put this through the rollers, it will have to buy a new machine and he is maybe a bit reckless with his money, but he is not wasteful.

Of course, that is when his phone rings. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. No one calls him unless it’s serious so he worries immediately and then doubles that when he sees it’s Dykstra. “Wait,” he shouts when he manages to tap the call to connect, and then has to use his knuckle - which is double the size of what a knuckle should be on a normal person - to top the speakerphone button twice before it takes. 

“Rozy,” Dykstra is saying when the call switches over to speaker, “Man, hey, what’s up?”

Ilya blinks at his phone. There’s a tiny speck of dough on his phone screen. He doesn’t know how to answer that question. Failing at therapy. Failing at dough. Neither of those answers will make sense to Dykstra. “I am home.”

Dykstra makes a noise that might be a laugh and then says, “I am coming over. Do you have a grill?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, now looking at the dough that is making his fingers look like frog hands. “I have grill.”

“I also have Chouinard.” Dykstra continues, “And these steaks that I spent too much money on. Do you like movies?”

Ilya has no idea what’s happening. “Sweet,” Dykstra shouts, “See you in 20 minutes, Rozy.” And then the phone call ends and Ilya’s phone immediately goes dark. Even with the little sticky bit of dough on it. 

He’s not even sure he can work the grill. He’s also not sure he can clean up his horrible dough mess in 20 minutes. 

He supposes he has to try. 

It’s not that Ilya forgot about his secret santa gift. He didn’t. 

He was going to handle that tomorrow. He lives in a major city. A boring one, maybe, but there has to be something in this city that will make a great secret santa gift. 

What he does not account for is the conversation he has with Dykstra and Chouinard. 

“It’s got his fuckin name on it,” Chouinard says, again. Trying to zoom further in on the photo Dykstra is showing them. “How’d you get them to put his name on it?”

“Asked nice,” Dykstra laughs, taking his phone back and tossing it onto the couch cushion in between the two of them. 

Ilya has not yet joined in on this conversation because of the rules, but really it’s because he is panicking. Whatever bullshit half gift he was planning on pulling out is simply not going to cut it. Not when Dykstra has gotten Dillon a golf bag with his name on it and Chouinard has a case of Young’s favorite whiskey that he had shipped from Nashville. 

No, Ilya is the new guy and the new guy can’t give the shittiest gift. 

Dykstra’s phone starts to vibrate between the cushion and he gets that dopey stupid look people in love get. “I gotta go, man. I love you, but you won’t hold me at night.”

Ilya laughs and then waggles his eyebrows. “You can ask.”

Chouinard groans, throwing himself out of the chair. “Stop flirting, Roz. You’re too pretty. It will break him.”

It’s so…not homophobic that Ilya doesn’t really know what to do except to laugh again, covering his hand with his face. “Thank you for dinner,” he says when he thinks he can talk. “And company.”

They wave him off and then wave him off again when he tries to get up from the couch, patting him on the shoulders rather roughly instead as they pass. “See you at practice,” Dykstra promises and Ilya watches them elbow at each other as they clomp out of the living room, chatting to each other in rapid English as they slip on boots and jackets. 

Ilya is full of steak and beer and feeling like he belongs. It makes him feel kind of floaty and free - like he’s happy. 

He intends on pulling his phone out to maybe see if Harris has done some legwork for him and posted about Bood’s favorite restaurant on social media before, but a message from Shane appears on his phone. 

Ilya is quick to tap it open. 

They’ve been texting more. It’s different than the kind of texting he does with Svetlana, but he knows what he has with her is strange and their relationship predates texting anyway. 

Shane sends him random photos - photos of his boring coffee order, new blades, gummy bears, a dog that Ilya is very jealous Shane gets to see so often, a little black cat that is curled up on a cushion. 

He also reaches out - not just about hockey. He reminds Ilya it’s going to snow, he asks Ilya if he’s had breakfast because there’s bagels in the lounge if he hurries, he asks Ilya if he’s seen some artsy movie Ilya has never heard of. 

Ilya knows they’re friends. He knows they’re friends and even though Ilya forgets sometimes when Shane is in front of him because it strikes him stupid how gorgeous Shane is, Ilya really wants to be a good friend to Shane. And Shane feels the same way. Based on the way they haven’t spoken about the closet thing. 

Ilya does not need to talk to him about the closet thing and Shane somehow just understands that. 

Tonight’s text is a link to a video about Russian diminutives. We have to talk about this is Shane’s accompanying text and Ilya has no idea why Shane is even watching videos about Russian language - he is too much of a coward to ask - and instead decides to concentrate on his problem. 

Help he responds and then watches the little texting bubbles come up - disappear - come back and then his phone is ringing. Shane.

“Are you being kidnapped right now?” Shane says over Ilya’s greeting. 

Ilya cannot contain the stupid smile on his face. “No,” he says, “I am home. Not kidnapped.”

Shane makes one of his noises. Ilya is coming to understand this one is annoyance, but Shane isn’t ever truly annoyed. It’s kind of pretend for him. “You respond to me with help and I am going to think something is wrong, Ilya.”

It makes the center of his chest warm and gooey and Ilya should hate it. “I am asking for help from King of Ottawa -”

“I told you not to call me that,” Shane says so fast that Ilya cannot even get out the rest of his sentence before they’re both giggling into their phones and it’s so ridiculous and silly and Ilya had failed at pasta and he was so sure it was going to ruin his night and somehow he’s here instead. Full and happy and giggling about Shane’s silly insistence that Ilya not call him the King of Ottawa. 

“What is it you need help with?” Shane asks, “do you have a new rich person problem? Your oven has started playing music every time you open it?”

No one appreciates Shane’s humor. “I need help with secret santa gift,” Ilya confesses. “I think maybe Boston had…different ideas about this tradition.”

Shane makes a considering noise. “What did you do in Boston?”

“I got English dictionary one year,” Ilya tells him, “Tickets to a duck boat tour, a Harvard sweater. But that is because I told some Boston hockey player to fuck off at a bar -”

“Ilya,” Shane says, gently and Ilya stops. “They bought you an english dictionary? As a Christmas gift?”

He knows he’s done that thing he tries very hard not to do - he’s revealed something that makes someone else uncomfortable. “It was rookie year. My English was not so good.”

He waits for Shane to press. He doesn’t. “This is technically cheating,” Shane says, voice still gentle, like he knows Ilya is on edge. “But if you tell me who you are buying for, I can maybe…” he pauses and the next time he speaks, Ilya knows he’s been put on speakerphone. “I am texting my parents right now to cancel brunch.”

“Hollander -” Ilya starts.

Shane does not stop. “That gives us plenty of time to find something and maybe grab some lunch before I have to go to this thing at a friend’s place.”

Ilya presses his fingers into his eyes. He doesn’t want Shane to cancel with his parents. 

“Although,” Shane says slowly. “I know dinner was private and this…wouldn’t be, so I could just tell you -”

Ilya rips his hand away, sitting up. “Oh no, Shane,” he says. Shane Shane Shane. “You have already offered and sent sweet text to your parents. What will I tell Bood when I have to give him bad santa gift?”

“You got Zane? Oh my god, Ilya. I know what to do. And it’s even by that restaurant I told you about.” And then he pauses. “If you’re sure when we might get -”

That ugly twisting is happening in Ilya’s stomach. Something wrong has happened. “What time will you pick me up?”

Shane huffs. “11? I can pick you up at 11?”

“11,” Ilya repeats, letting his body further relax into the couch. “Sorry for making you think I was being kidnapped. Silly. I would fight off kidnappers.”

“Okay, Ilya,” Shane says, “Whatever you say,” and then he doesn’t let him respond before he says, “Explain diminutives to me. I fell down a YouTube rabbit hole.”

Ilya is so stupid. It is not just in person when he is reminded Shane is the most beautiful person. It is also now. When he is so…Shane. “It is very long, but I will try.” And then he starts to talk and Shane’s voice gets increasingly slower and his questions come less frequently until Ilya’s phone tells him the battery is dying and Shane doesn’t respond at all when Ilya tries to tell him. There’s only deep breaths on the other end of the line. 

“Goodnight, Shane, see you tomorrow,” Ilya whispers and then he stares at his ceiling for two more minutes before he hangs up. 

It was a really good day. 

Sorry for falling asleep on you

Is okay, you had big day being king of ottawa. Need your beauty sleep.

Fuck you, I’m always beautiful. 

And I told you not to call me that.

Okay, Prince of Ottawa, see you at 11

Okay sure, see you at 11

Ilya is standing on his porch in the freezing cold at 10:58 AM when Shane pulls into his driveway. He’s looking at the Ottawa Animal Shelter website and thinking about a dog. 

Shane waves at him, reserved and that nervousness on his face that he seems to carry around with him. Ilya slides into the front seat, grinning at him because he’s also nervous. 

“Hi,” Shane says as soon as Ilya finishes putting on his seatbelt. 

Shane’s car smells like the rink and the little air freshener he has hanging from his mirror and Ilya wonders how a person like Shane Hollander can exist. 

“Hi,” Ilya smiles at him. “Thank you for this.”

Shane huffs, finally turning away from Ilya to start to back out of his driveway. “I cannot let you have a horrible Secret Santa experience, Ilya.”

Ilya kind of hums, much more interested in watching Shane back out of the spot. He likes the way Shane does things. It’s purposeful. Everything gets his entire undivided attention. He backs out of the spot like he plucks out gummy bears from his palm and like he chases a puck down the ice. 

He’s not motivated to talk, not when he knows that he can exist next to Shane comfortably. He should ask him how he is or what he’s doing after this errand, but Shane makes a noise like he’s going to speak and then cuts himself off and Ilya knows he will wait on him now. 

Shane doesn’t speak unless he’s sure. It’s something Ilya has noticed about him. He needs to be sure of what he’s going to say and maybe that means he takes a little longer to speak. Ilya is patient. 

When he speaks, it’s not at all what Ilya thought he was going to say. 

“Do you like camping?”

Ilya can’t help the little laugh that bubbles out of him. “Mmm,” he shakes his head even though Shane is driving and not looking at him. “I do not know.”

Shane’s laughter is louder, more sure. “You don’t know? You’ve never been camping?”

Whatever Ilya did in the wilderness could not be considered camping. There were some…summer parties at a friend's distant uncle’s cabin that did not really have water or heat, but they weren’t there to camp. They were there to fuck and drink and jump in the lake in the middle of the night naked. 

They went out and back in 24 hours and that was the extent of anything he could consider camping. 

“No,” Ilya confirms for him, mostly so Shane stops frowning and pulling his eyebrows in tight. “Never.”

Shane exhales - risks glancing over at Ilya. “I used to camp with my dad a lot,” he says. “Before hockey and then -” a pause. Ilya knows what he’s going to say, and for a moment he thinks he won’t say it. “And then after hockey, it was something I got back into. Not that I have much time now, but I try and go out with some friends once a year. We do some hiking,” he shrugs one shoulder. Not the one that’s been bothering him. 

They’re sharing apparently, but Ilya is not about to start talking about his father. “We could go camping,” Ilya offers. “In a house.”

Shane laughs again, louder and brighter and so full. “Ilya, that defeats the purpose of camping.”

“I am not sure,” Ilya leans in, whispering, unable to push the joy in his chest down, “I would be a uh…happy camper.”

Shane is still laughing. “Oh, you’re a diva.”

“Probably,” Ilya doesn’t deny it. The very limited knowledge he has of camping leads him to believe he would not love it. He likes hot showers and soft beds. It’s not that he doesn’t like being outside. He doesn’t mind that, but the other stuff about camping. 

“Is it being outside or -” Shane trails off and waits for Ilya to answer him.

Ilya puts one elbow on the console and his chin in his hand. “I think I like my bed,” he laughs, “or maybe not my bed, but I like to be comfortable to sleep. I like long hot showers.”

Shane’s nose crinkles up. “What is wrong with your bed?”

“I had help setting up the Ottawa house,” Ilya tells him, “Sveta ordered the mattress I had in the guest room of Boston house. Not…comfortable the way I want.”

“Oh,” Shane nods, “you should order a new one. If it bothers you. Sleeping is important for recovery.”

Ilya wants to laugh, but he bites it back. “Okay, sure,” he says softly. “For recovery.”

He’s happy to let the conversation go dead because he very much is enjoying his view of Shane’s profile, but -

“How was your morning?” Shane asks him.

“Was fine,” Ilya nods. “Worked out, ate disgusting breakfast to make nutritionist happy.”

Shane’s eyes are full of joy when he glances at Ilya. “I saved Harris from a one night stand and if you promise to be good, I will tell you about it.”

Ilya sits up, one hand on his chest, “Shane,” he says solemnly. “Who do you think I am?”

“An asshole,” Shane says, but he’s still smiling. 

“Okay, tell me anyway,” Ilya demands and Shane immediately tells. 

Harris calling at 5 AM about the guy in his kitchen making himself a smoothie and asking if he can use Harris’ apartment gym and if he can wear one of Harris’ sweaters afterwards and Shane hauling himself away from his own workout to go and save him. 

“Next time,” Ilya interrupts Shane telling him he was pretending to be Harris’ boyfriend, “you will call me and I will come be big, scary boyfriend.”

Shane glares. “I am scary.”

“Yes,” Ilya nods. “With hockey puck and gloves. Like this,” he gestures to include all of you right now, “not so much.”

“Oh my god,” Shane half shouts, turning into the parking lot of a very large building with a lot of kayak’s in the parking lot, “I totally scared that guy off?”

Ilya thinks if he tells Shane that he’s cute, Shane will push him out of the car. It’s not moving anymore, but it would be humiliating. Mostly because Ilya would let him do it. 

“Big scary Canadian hockey player, yes okay.” Ilya tries to say seriously, but Shane’s expression gets more kittenish as each word comes out of Ilya’s mouth and by the end he’s laughing. 

“I cannot believe I’m helping you and this is how you repay me.” Shane says, but he pulls the keys out of the ignition. “What would you have done?”

“No, Hollander,” Ilya insists, “you did it all. We could have been -” he gestures between the two of them and then out like he’s trying to encompass Harris. 

“A throuple,” Shane says flatly. “You would scare the guy off by pretending to be a throuple?”

Ilya knows he’s smiling like a lunatic. “Yes.”

Shane still looks like an angry kitten. 

“You do not want to share me with Harris?” Ilya puts a hand on his heart, fluttering his eyelashes. “Hollander, you just have to say -”

“Oh my god,” Shane pleads and then turns and gets out of the car, slamming the door on Ilya’s continued laughter, standing in the parking lot, hunched over and glaring at Ilya until he gets out of the car. 

He’s going to say something - Shane. He’s going to say something devastating. Ilya decides to beat him to it. 

“You know you can call, yes?” Ilya is offering something up that would potentially kill him. “If there is ever…” he waves his hand. “I will be anyone you need.”

Shane is studying him, his eyes roaming Ilya’s face - looking for…something. Something he doesn’t find because his shoulders come back to level and he gives Ilya the barest of nods. “I don’t find myself in those situations.” Ilya can hear the forced lightness in his voice. “But, I’ll pass it along to Harris?”

Ilya nods and then nods towards the outdoor store. “Is this why you asked about camping?”

Shane’s smile is truer and wider. “Bood loves to camp,” he explains. “In fact, he was asking me about camping stoves a few weeks ago. He wants to buy a new one next season.”

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya points at him, “You are saving my ass.”

“Yes,” he says. “I am.”

They’re at lunch before the phone call from the night before comes up.

Ilya is scooping more of the curry sauce onto Shane’s plate because Shane seems to really like it and Ilya likes the little pleased face he makes when he takes a bite of it. He had been protesting earlier, telling Ilya that the fish dish he ordered was healthier, but Ilya will not listen to that. 

“I’m sorry I fell asleep last night,” Shane says, shredding a bite of fish until it’s nothing. The tone of his voice is enough for Ilya to understand that it’s been eating at him. 

Shane, he’s discovering, is very hard on himself. 

“It was late,” Ilya says, “Russian names very boring.”

Shane wrinkles his nose up. “No,” he says, there is no more fish to shred, so he’s kind of poking at the bits of fish the ends of his chopsticks, moving them around. “I was trying to work out the masculine/feminine thing, but I got lost somewhere in nicknames instead.”

“Russian can be…complicated,” Ilya offers, “even easy things like nicknames can be complicated.”

“Complicated is a good word,” Shane smiles at him and then the curry sauce starts to encroach on the fish pulp and he seemingly realizes that Ilya has given him more food. 

Ilya tries to redirect. “My niece would be -”

Shane sits up straighter. “You have a niece?”

It distracts him from the food, but maybe this is not the distraction Ilya meant to create. He works hard not to wince. 

Because it’s Shane, he sees it anyway. He winces. “Sorry, I -”

But, they’re friends and Ilya can tell Shane about this because Shane has shown over and over that he is safe. Ilya reaches over and taps the edge of Shane’s plate with one finger asking Shane to eat something and says, “my brother is not…he is not a good man.”

Shane nods, looking down at his plate - chasing a carrot through the curry sauce. 

“He is…” Ilya has no idea what Shane knows of Russia. Western media has done a very good job of making them all criminals and idiots. “He is police,” he finally says. “I have given him…” Ilya does not like admitting this. “Probably more than a million dollars.”

“American?” Shane wheezes.”

It makes Ilya smile for some reason. “Yes,” he confirms but doesn’t elaborate. “When our father died, he is angry with me. For all reasons. Some good,” his voice shakes and he waves Shane off from protesting that. Ilya was not in Russia. He left them all there to handle his sick, cruel, dying father. He would be angry too. “Some bad,” he says, because he did not deserve…everything else. 

Shane nods, takes a bite of his curry. He’s listening. 

“At father’s funeral,” Ilya realizes for the first time that he’s never had to verbalize this before. Svetlana was there. No one else knows this. “We fought,” it hurts. Ilya is surprised it hurts. “I tell him,” he swallows, “he can have my apartment. I fix everything with lawyers. My niece has trust she will get when she is 18. No more money. No more contact.”

His throat burns. He wants a cigarette. 

“You don’t get to talk to her,” Shane correctly guesses. “Not until she’s an adult.”

Ilya tries to shrug off the discomfort. “I could, but…” now he’s the one poking at his food. “I do not want her to speak to me because of…” he is looking for the word. 

“Obligation,” Shane offers.

“Yes,” Ilya nods. “The trust is because I love her,” Ilya tells him. “I love her. I want to give her options. Love is given for free, yes? I do not expect her to call because of money.”

Shane doesn’t respond right away and Ilya is thankful because it feels safe. Shane doesn’t apologize to him, which is Ilya’s worst nightmare - people apologizing to him for something no one would willingly choose. How is he meant to respond to that? By saying yes, I am very sorry my family is horrible too?

“My dad’s parents,” Shane says, soft, careful, “they did not like my mom.”

The way he says it, Ilya knows it is not about Yuna as a person. It is about Yuna’s heritage. 

“We did not see them much when I was a kid,” Shane tells him. “And then when I was 13…we didn’t see them at all.” Ilya looks up at him. Shane is leaning over the table. His eyes are soft. “When my grandfather died, he left us some money, a house, but he also left us these letters.”

Ilya blinks. 

“It helped my dad - to know that he wanted to apologize in the end, but that my grandfather - that he did not want to cause more harm to us.” He inhales sharply and sits back in his chair. He stays looking at Ilya, unwavering. “Maybe you could write her a letter. Explain to her that you left, but you wanted to know her. Tell her what the money is for. That you love her.”

Ilya has to swallow down the burn in his throat. “Thank you,” he says because he doesn’t know what else he can say. He doesn’t know how to explain to Shane how much he needed to hear that. 

“For -”

“For listening,” Ilya answers him before he can finish “For being you.”

“Ilya,” Shane whispers, his lips doing that wobble thing. “You cannot get out of explaining to me Russian nicknames. I want to use something deeply embarrassing for you in front of the team.”

Ilya sighs, exaggerated and overextended. “Okay, but only if you start calling Bood myshka.”

Shane repeats it, slowly. “Myshka. What does that mean?”

“He thinks it means captain.”

Shane levels him with a look. “What does it actually mean?”

“Mouse, like your instagram caption.” Ilya knows most of his teeth are on display in that feral, too wide smile, but Shane is hunched over giggling and Ilya doesn’t feel the need to tone it down at all. 

Shane is going to a baby shower and he says Ilya cannot come even though Ilya kills at a baby shower. 

“Thank you for taking me to outdoor store,” Ilya nods at him, “and for lunch.”

Ilya had fought him on the bill, but Shane had glared at him in a way that was very much not angry kitten. Much fiercer. 

“I cannot even think about how much money you spent on that dinner we went to,” Shane says, his head leaned against the headrest. Ilya wonders if he knows that it makes his throat…like that. “I think I’ll have to buy three or four more lunches before we’re even.”

Ilya makes an offended noise. “No, this I do not agree. I buy next time, no matter what.”

Shane glares at him again in the same way he did in the restaurant, but he says nothing. He needs to go and Ilya knows that, but it’s nice to…linger. To pretend that nothing outside of this car exists. Like he could be selfish and have more of Shane’s time and attention. 

“Wait,” Shane says, tapping Ilya’s arm so he will lift his elbow off the console. He pops it open and presents Ilya with a plastic bag of yellow gummy bears - mango. “They seemed like your favorite.”

Ilya takes the bag from Shane. “Thank you,” he tells him. “They are best flavor.”

Shane beams and then he sighs. “Do you need help with the camping stove?”

Ilya shakes his head, “I can carry. Big scary hockey player, yes?”

“Big scary hockey player who should not injure himself off the ice, idiot.” Shane glares and his face turns red with effort. 

Ilya laughs and throws himself out of the car before he can do something really stupid like brush a finger over Shane’s freckles. 

He takes his gummy bears and the camping stove into his house, waving fingers at Shane from his porch, watching him back out of his driveway. 

He is barely inside before he’s tugging his phone out of his pocket. He needs to know the best way to send his lawyer in Russia a letter for his niece. 

Bood hugs Ilya for maybe a full minute and Harris is barely containing his glee behind the camera. 

It only doubles when Ilya opens up a bottle of very good Russian vodka that Wyatt has somehow sourced for him and Ilya exclaims loudly and animatedly. 

“Hollander,” Wyatt says later when Ilya corners him to ask him how the hell he got his hands on it because he didn’t even think he could find this in Canada. “His dad does something in government. Has an embassy hookup.”

It nearly stops Ilya’s heart. 

“You wanna get dinner?” Wyatt asks, carefully tucking a comic book in a little glass box, into his bag. “Lisa is on call and I want to drown my sorrows in something beige and greasy.”

Ilya is still trying to work out…Shane asking his father to get Ilya a bottle of Russian vodka somehow. “Sure, man,” he says when he realizes Wyatt is staring at him. “We will lie. Tell Lisa we had salad and vegetable pizza.”

Wyatt snorts and Ilya has no idea why. “Come on, Rozy. Let’s go eat.”

Ilya slings his bag over his shoulder and waves him off. “One second,” he says, pulling his phone out. 

Hollander. Sneaky sneaky.

That is the right brand?

Best brand. Thank you.

Glad I could both facilitate your gift and the gift you gave.

Ilya wants to invite him over for vodka and dinner and more of Shane’s talking. He pockets his phone and follows after Wyatt instead.

Chapter End Notes

me and Ilya rozanov - chaotic diva bisexuals forced to be in love with gay men who love to be outside with no good reason to do so

Chapter 11: you were beautiful and close and young

Chapter Summary

Two Christmases and the internet.

Chapter Notes

Chapter title from Hard to Find by The National

I really was worried this chapter was going to be 20K because there's a very specific emotional beat that we needed to hit here, but then halfway through the chapter, Ilya was already there and I just went "oh okay" so here is the chapter. Way sooner than I thought we were going to get it.

I do read all of your comments and cry a little and then don't know what to say because it's all so nice and you're all so cool and I am just a little guy in my house, trying to write in between work and designated nighttime reading.
Thank you for being so kind.

"Ilya,” Harris’ voice stops Ilya halfway towards the staircase that will carry him up to the admin hallway. He was hoping to slip out without -

He turns and Harris has a little microphone and the camera, Ilya sighs, knows this is part of his media duties, and Harris always makes things far less painful than they could be anyway. Ilya tucks the gift in his hand behind his back and smiles. “Hello, Harris.”

Harris grins at him, “one last video before break?” His eyes dart over Ilya’s shoulder to the door that Ilya was heading for. “I’ll be quick?”

Ilya huffs, but hopes it’s more fond than anything. He takes one large step towards Harris who immediately responds, scrambling the rest of the way towards Ilya and holding the mic out for him to take. 

“Just about your holiday plans,” Harris tells him, “Softball question.”

Ilya blinks at him. 

Harris winces. “Easy question,” And then he pauses. “Which is dumb now that I think about it. Softballs are like, huge and hard. A very stupid saying.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, even though he’s not sure he even knows what a softball is. “English is full of very stupid sayings.”

He has the little microphone in his hand and he waits for Harris to stop fiddling with the little nobs on his camera. He debates with himself about what exactly he’s going to say he’s doing over the break. 

He doesn’t have long. Harris holds the camera up and asks, “So, how will you be spending your holiday?”

Ilya checks that the smile on his face is his polite boy media smile - the one he’s tried to adopt since he joined the Centaurs, and he says, “I will stay inside my house and sleep and eat sugar and sleep more.”

And then he hands the microphone back to Harris and as he twists away, he brings the wrapped gift around to his front. To protect it from Harris’ video even though he will likely cut it off right after Ilya starts to hand the mic back. 

The wrapping paper is kind of fucked up. Ilya had wrapped this one last and it was obvious that he was feeling sloppy and exhausted by scissors and tape. The wrapping paper has little cartoon hockey players on it because Ilya is funny. 

Ilya finds Shane in his office, packing his work bag with his laptop and some folders and Ilya stands in the doorway for probably too long before he finally clears his throat. 

Shane jumps and for half a breath looks terrified, but then he registers it’s Ilya and he smiles. 

Ilya is not stupid. He knows that he’s sliding into something that is completely foreign to him. He does not do this. He does not pine after people. He does not stand around and wish he could look at them do menial tasks like pack their bag in their office. He knows what’s happening and for the first time in Ilya’s life he does not have the urge to run.

“Hey,” Shane says, his voice light. Genuinely happy to see Ilya standing in the doorway of his office. “How was practice? I know you were worried about -” and then he stops talking because Ilya holds his poorly wrapped gift out between them. Ilya doesn’t take his eyes off Shane’s face. It’s probably obvious. 

He’s here with a gift and he’s staring and he has done nothing but think about Shane and his freckles and the little post it notes and how Ilya bought a package of gummy bears in a gas station the other day and then threw them out because they were the wrong brand and they weren’t as soft as the ones Shane has. 

“Is this for me?” Shane asks, already reaching his hand out for it. 

Shane’s office is so small that he doesn’t need to step closer to Ilya to take it, to hold it up to look at the corner where Ilya has written Shane in smelly permanent marker. 

What Ilya did not account for - when he had impulsively bought this gift for Shane when he was out shopping last week - was that Shane would look at him like that. Like Ilya has saved a bus full of children from a cliff and then written Shane a sonnet. 

Ilya wants to take it back and go home. 

“Do I open it now -” Shane asks, flipping it over and now they are back on solid ground. 

“Is bad luck,” Ilya is trying hard not to laugh at the way Shane’s face goes very serious. “To open gifts before Christmas.” And then for emphasis, he adds, "Russian tradition.”

Shane nods his head, solemn and trusting. “Oh,” he twists a bit to set it on his desk. “Thank you,” he says, and then he twists back around very quickly, narrowing his eyes at Ilya. “What are you doing for Christmas? You never said.”

“Eat takeout.” he answers even though that’s only a half truth. “Do you know good place open for Christmas?”

Shane is that saying in English - an open book. Ilya can see the war happening inside wondering if he should answer him or if he should push back. 

“I will sleep,” Ilya continues, hoping to dissuade Shane from doing something that Ilya will not survive - like invite him to Christmas. “I do not sleep enough in the season. Will be nice to have a few days, yes?”

It’s another long pause while Shane works out what to say, but Ilya watches his shoulders come down and he says, “I will ask my mom about this place she and my dad like. I think they’re open on Christmas. I’ll text you the website?”

“Yuna.” Ilya says, because he remembers her. “I met her at the prospect cup.” Ilya leans in like he’s telling him a secret. “She was terrifying.”

Shane’s nose wrinkles up like he’s trying hard not to laugh. “She can be a bit, yeah.” And then he frowns at the ground. “I cannot tell her you will be alone on Christmas, she will abduct you.”

Ilya believes it, and he thinks he might have to fess up about his plans, but he decides to divert. “Orthodox Christmas is January seven, so I will not be alone on my Christmas.”

If it’s possible, Shane’s frown gets more dramatic. “You have a game that day.” He finally looks up at Ilya and Ilya is so so stupid. “In LA.”

Ilya can tell it’s eating him up. That Ilya has to play a game on his Christmas. “I am Orthodox in the way Buffalo is hockey team,” Ilya tells him, trying to soothe away that little wrinkle in his forehead.

It doesn’t work. Shane will not be deterred. Ilya should have known. “You wear that crucifix everyday.”

He’s asking about it without asking a question. Why would Ilya wear that religiously if it didn’t mean something to him. Ilya is always giving so much away with Shane. “Yes,” Ilya says gently, touching the crucifix on instinct - checking to make sure it’s weight is still around his neck. “It is not so much about religion.”

It’s a way around the truth of it and Shane sees it because the little wrinkle in his forehead disappears and he says, “I will text you about takeout.”

Ilya wants to hug him, but he’s never hugged him before and he thinks it might be too much for today. “Have a nice Christmas, Shane.”

Shane doesn’t say it back. Now that he knows it’s not Ilya’s Christmas, he won’t. He’s considerate and attentive like that. He does say, “enjoy your sleep.” And then his smile goes silly. “On your bad mattress.” Ilya rolls his eyes and turns to leave, but Shane darts his hand out, looking alarmed. “You’re fucking with me, right? About the luck.”

Ilya knows the kind of smile he gives him, lavish and very much flirtatious. “Yes, Shane. I was fucking with you.”

He gets his own eye roll in response and he’s too busy laughing to say anything else - too busy watching Shane’s fingers slide between the tape and the folded paper. End over end until Shane is laughing with his eyes crinkled up and his shoulders shaking and Ilya could not look away if there was an asteroid headed for this exact spot. 

Shane tries to straighten his face out and look stern - something he uses on the ice. “And here I was, feeling guilty I did not get you anything.” 

Ilya leans across the space and taps the title. Hockey Coaching for Dummies. “Shane, is good gift? I am looking out for you. Wiebe could use you.” He winks and Shane brushes his hand away from the book, losing the battle to his smile. “Merry Christmas, Shane.”

How many times can he say Shane’s name in one minute? Well - he could definitely say it more, but the circumstances would be very different. He decides to leave before he does something stupid. 

He waves over his shoulder, doesn’t turn around when Shane says softly, “see you after the break, Ilya.”

It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. 

Ilya is staring at little balls of dough that are maybe…too firm. He does not understand how so little water can cause this drastic of a difference, and yet! This dough is maybe going to break his pasta machine in a different way. He’s committed to doing it anyway. He has a pot of salted water on his stove and sauce in a little pot next to it because manifestation or something. 

He has a box of dried pasta as a back up if this really fails, but he is determined to not fail. Pasta will not defeat him. He has multiple Stanley cups and can bumble his way through more Slavic languages than most people will ever even be exposed to. He can make some fucking pasta. 

He’s still staring down the rather hard ball of dough when his phone buzzes against the counter. Once and then twice. 

Somehow he knows it’s Shane before he leans over his phone to look, tapping open the messages. 

Mom says this place is really good

The second message is a link to the website.

Ilya glances over at his puck of dough and decides it can wait. 

Thank Yuna for me. Enjoy your holiday with your parents.

Ilya cannot even put his phone down before there’s a photo coming through of a table full of cookies - spread out and cooling on little racks. They are shaped sugar cookies and Ilya zooms in to look at the little shapes. Stars and stockings and fat little people shapes. 

Changed my mind. Yuna can kidnap me.

If you’re nice, i will bring you one.

Ilya smiles at his phone like it’s going to save him from eating this dry pasta. 

I will be waiting for my cookie

🙄

Ilya laughs out loud about the emoji use. Shane doesn’t seem like he uses many emojis and he cannot say anything back that isn’t…too much so he locks his phone and stares at the pasta puck. He pokes at it and there is no give. 

There’s a box of dried pasta to save him tonight. He will try again next week. 

Ilya wakes up on Christmas Eve feeling well rested and stiff, and there are seven photos of Svetlana in a new bikini in every photo, lounging around on the sand and the loungers and the bed. 

Pay attention to your boyfriend, Ilya texts her back, but then zooms in to make sure she’s smiling in the photos. Because he needs to know she’s happy. And he will be able to tell. 

She looks happy. She looks like she’s exactly where she wants to be - with that new guy she won’t let Ilya meet yet, but they’ve always been weird about that with each other. Some unspoken agreement that if they loop the other one in, it’s because it’s serious.

Sveta doesn’t text back and Ilya doesn’t expect her to. She has escaped the freezing cold and is lounging in the sun and he kind of wishes that he was too. If the break was longer, he would have tried to get away with it.

He does his work out in his basement gym, he takes a long long shower where he uses that scrub that Sveta buys and always leaves with him because she knows he likes it. 

There’s cereal and coffee and he’s settling down into the couch to turn on the stream he managed to wrangle of the prospect cup and that’s when his phone lights up. 

Not my boyfriend. 

Ilya huffs and flips it over on the couch and presses play on the stream. 

There’s a hard drive shoved into a drawer in his desk. 

He had ordered it on a plane, tracked its delivery carefully, transferred the videos over from the dropbox he got, and then promptly put it into his desk drawer and decided he would not go in there because it was going to make it worse. 

Except now Ilya is sitting on his couch, empty bowl in front of him, watching kids skate around and he itches to go pull it out and see. 

He just wants to know if it’s possible that he and Shane were ever this young. Or well. Shane. It cannot be. Ilya remembers that cup so clearly, maybe more clearly than he remembers his second Stanley, and he does not remember Shane looking this young or wobbly. 

It’s not possible. 

It’s also not possible that they were this…uncertain on their skates, that they hesitated like this for easy, clear shots. 

Ilya wonders if there’s a universe in which he and Shane sit on his couch and watch the prospect cup together, giggling about the baby players, talking about how they were never this tiny, right? Their cereal bowls on the coffee table because they can’t be bothered to get up and take them into the kitchen because Shane’s legs are thrown over his lap and Ilya has his hand wrapped around Shane’s ankle, rubbing his thumb against the thin skin of Shane’s bone. 

He wonders if there’s a universe in which he and Shane bicker about who had the best showing at their cup - who deserved to go first in the draft. 

Ilya doesn’t know what’s wrong with his brain - drifting off into things that don’t exist. A coping mechanism he has never indulged in before. 

He needs to anchor himself into this reality, into today. His phone is within reach and before he can stop himself, he’s opening his messages. 

Wow we were never this uncertain on ice

It’s a ridiculous message with no context and he’s sure Shane is with his family, having breakfast or hanging Christmas lights or doing the crossword with pen because he’s smart and perfect and sure of himself. 

Ilya doesn’t expect to hear from Shane - he sends the text because he’s restless and because Shane is in his phone and this reality is one of friendship and easy jokes that land mostly right and a burn in his chest when he thinks about Shane’s discomfort when Ilya gets too close to something he’s not ready to talk about. 

This is Ilya’s life. He and Shane are not curled up together, Shane is not his, he and Shane will not sit on the couch together and giggle about who might be drafted to their team in the coming years. Ilya doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him. 

And he doesn’t have time to figure it out because his phone starts to buzz against his thigh and when he turns it over, the screen is filled with Shane, the photo Ilya assigned to his contact one he maybe stole off his Instagram and Ilya blinks at it. Surely, it is some kind of mistake.

He opened Ilya’s message and then got distracted with it in his hand and now he’s accidentally calling him. It’s the only explanation. 

Ilya answers it anyway. “Shane?”

“Are you watching the prospect cup right now?” Shane sounds delighted. A bit breathless like maybe he scrambled out of the room specifically to call Ilya. Not an accident. On purpose. “Ilya,” Shane’s voice is kind of rough, like he’s not spoken today or maybe he’s still waking up. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

He sounds fond and exasperated and it’s not doing anything good for Ilya’s little fantasies that he’s storing up. “Shane, are you calling to talk about prospect cup? On Christmas Eve?”

Shane’s laughter is gorgeous and soft and Ilya wonders if maybe in his fantasy land, he could curl up with his head in Shane’s lap and listen to him laugh like that. Ilya can’t help but join him, laughing at Shane’s laugh - maybe a bit at himself. 

“I am maybe using this phone call as an excuse to hide,” Shane says when he gets done laughing. “Mom is insistent we decorate the tree even though we took photos back home.”

Ilya feels himself frown. “Are you not…home?”

Shane makes a noise. “We are at the cottage. It was a last minute thing so…”

“So, you are hiding from Terrifying Yuna by calling to talk of hockey? Will you be in trouble for working on Christmas Eve?”

“You’re the one working,” Shane shoots back, quick and kind of sharp. Maybe Ilya has brushed against something he didn’t mean to, but then Shane’s voice goes tentative and Ilya thinks Shane realizes what he’s done - apologizing. “You were meant to be resting, you know. You said you were resting.”

There’s concern there too. Ilya tries not to let it balloon in his chest. “This is rest,” he insists. “Potential draft picks? Very relaxing to think of good talent joining our team.”

“This is captain behavior.”

Ilya hums. “Yes, maybe. It is habit, maybe, but…” he chews on his lower lip. Another kid lets a good shot go - too nervous. Shane waits. “I want to be here. I want to win here.”

It’s half of what he wants to say, but the rest of it is too much. 

Shane doesn’t push because he never pushes. He just lets it sit for a long moment. Ilya watches kids play hockey on ice he’s never been on before and Shane sits in his family cottage miles away from him and they share a moment of…whatever this is. 

“Luca Haas,” Shane says, “We want Luca Haas.”

Ilya blinks. “Luca? I will see.”

“Turst me,” Shane says, and before Ilya can say something embarrassing like I trust you with everything, he adds, “Okay, Terrifying Yuna says I have to come help with the tree or I can’t have any cookies, but let me know what you think about Luca, yeah? And also,” he adds, quickly. “Rest, okay?”

“Rest,” Ilya promises. 

“Talk to you later,” Shane says, but the phone is already far away and before the call disconnects, Ilya hears him say, “it’s Ilya, we were -” before the phone makes that beeping noise when it disconnects.

And now Ilya gets to obsess about whatever it is that Shane was about to say about what they were doing. 

He knows the answer. They were talking about hockey. They were working, kind of. But, to Ilya…

Ilya pauses the game on the television, takes his bowl to the sink and rinses it out, thinking about Shane and the tree and Terrifying Yuna and the prospect cup that Ilya thought was the beginning of everything for the two of them. 

He decides to take a break, goes upstairs and puts on real clothes, packs his car for tomorrow, makes himself a latte with real sugar in his milk the way Sveta likes. 

It takes him awhile to wander back towards hockey, but once he does - once he’s pulled up video after video -

So the book was not a joke. You are scout.

No, just know a good hockey player when I see one. Potential.

Shown coach this?

No, but you should. I know he’s on the radar, but not sure how high.

Oh so you want me to look good? This is your gift?

Well, now I’m definitely taking credit

You are funny, Hollander. 

Not fast enough. I am texting now

Ilya, it Christmas Eve! 

Okay? Merry Christmas to Weibe. 

Oh my god

Go rest

Be a menace in two days

I think you like menace 😈

Oh my god

Bye Ilya. I am going to cook dinner with my dad, go do something not hockey.

Bye Shane. Tell David hello

Ilya rereads the messages and then he goes to do something not hockey and realizes that maybe Galina is really onto something with needing a hobby. 

Ilya is sure that the floor of the hospital cafeteria is not the most disgusting surface he’s ever been sat upon, but it might be a close second. 

It’s worth it though. He cannot pretend otherwise. 

He is sure some of this will end up online even if there’s no official hospital staff here with a camera - the families all have phones, taking photo after photo of their children crowded around Ilya as he passes out gifts.

They’re all labeled in that same smelly permanent marker that he used for Shane’s gift, and perhaps he could have been more organized or accepted the hospital’s offer of help, but that help was going to come with a camera and an official social media statement. Ilya is not a fool. This will end up online in some way or another, but he minds it less if it’s a parent posting photos of their children smiling and laughing. 

“Ms. Sophie,” Ilya coos, tugging the art set he bought for her - meticulously checking and rechecking the list the hospital provided him. “And her beautiful sister, Ms. Bridgette.” There’s a baby doll with a little baby carrier inside her package. 

Sophie is the one in the hospital, but Ilya wanted this to be a Christmas for the whole family. If one of them is truly too sick to go home for Christmas, Ilya had wanted them all to have a Christmas. Besides, he imagines it might be very hard for the siblings - to not only have a brother or sister so sick, but even to feel as though they are less important. 

There are a few gifts that won’t be given out over lunch, some of the children too sick to even leave their rooms and come down to eat catered lunch and for them, Ilya will spend some extra time, he will linger in their rooms, linger with their siblings and their parents. 

“Mr. Ilya,” one of the children that has already unwrapped his gift - a new video game clutched in his tiny hands. He says Ilya’s name the way kids do, so many syllables and emphasis on the back of it. “Will you play with me?”

“Ah, not today,” Ilya tells him, ensuring he’s apologetic and sincere. He is taking more than enough of their time today, he wants them to have family time too. “But!” he smiles, holding up a hand when he starts to pout a bit, “I will be back with my team in -” he holds up both hands and closes and opens them twice before holding up three fingers, “23 days.”

Ilya remembers his name, remembers what gift he bought and has no idea why he’s stuck here over Christmas. He knows it’s not right, but he barely looks sick. 

“Is not so long,” Ilya insists, and then leans in to whisper, “You will be very very good when we come back for visit and beat us all, yes?” He taps on the game, winking, watching the kid’s smile curl up in the corners. It makes Ilya ache. 

The boy reaches for his parents and they’re quick to sweep him up between them, take him back to the table they’re occupying. Ilya greets the next child, has to put the heartache aside when he sees how pale she is. 

Her little name tag says Ama and Ilya bought her a set of books about children of god’s. “Ama,” he smiles, “I have good gift for you,” he finds it easily and presents it to her in a flourish and then realizes she is so weak that she is struggling to hold it up. “Where do you sit? I will bring it with us?” and then he walks carefully with her over to a table where a woman sits alone, looking at Ama fondly, but also looking exhausted. 

Ilya determines to remember her and call the very nice hospital social worker who helped set this up and ask after her - after them both. 

He doesn’t dwell today though, they’re having a meal together on Christmas. There are lights in the windows and some volunteers helping some of the children decorate cookies that they probably won’t be able to eat much of based on the sheer amount of icing that is piled on top of them. 

Ilya feels…proud to be involved in this, proud when he looks around at the little balls of wrapping paper with cartoon hockey players on it.

“Okay,” he sits back down in the place he vacated. “Who is next? Is it Mr. Thomas? You have waited so quiet like mouse, see what we have.” 

Thomas smiles at him and nods and Ilya decides he’s having the best Western Christmas he’s ever had. 

Ilya ordered more Chinese food than was really necessary and he’s sure he won’t be able to eat his way through all of this, but the woman who had helped him place the order had been so kind, recommending three dishes and a soup and some dumplings and Ilya had ordered it all, waiting patiently in the little chair beside the door, watching the patrons of the restaurant, feeling a bit as if he belonged with them here - the few people on this continent that were not at home with their families exchanging gifts and taking photos with a Christmas tree. 

He hears clips of Russian somewhere - quietly. A thing he can pick out in any room he’s ever in if there’s a whisper of it. 

It unsettles him a bit - the reminder of a home he technically still has, but feels no pull towards. He considers checking his phone. He’s not looked at any of the notifications since he left his house mid-morning and it’s only continuing to buzz in his pocket. 

There’s a crinkly paper sack before him - just in time to keep him losing himself in the spiral. “Food ready for you,” the nice woman says, smiling. Her hands are wrinkly and there’s a small golden wedding band on his fingers. Ilya takes the food, thanking her. 

He’s out the door and sitting in his car before he takes a moment to glance at his phone, and as soon as he does, he knows why he was waiting. 

Shane’s name is at the top of his notification list. He doesn’t open it yet. He knows he’ll sit in this parking lot and text and text and text until the food is cold, so he tosses his phone into the passenger seat and works to get himself home safely - not a hard feat in his very sensible SUV - the one that made the most sense for him to drive because the backseats could be folded down and he could easily fit the boxes and boxes of gifts from this morning. 

He plans to respond to messages slowly, spread out on the coffee table with his too many entrees and his hockey notebook and a prospect cup game playing on the television. 

Marlow, Svetlana, Wyatt (shockingly), Harris (even more shocking). Two emails that he swipes away, Instagram notifications he doesn’t check. He saves Shane’s message for last. A photo of their Christmas tree, a fireplace just beside it. No accompanying message - a bid for connection. 

Ilya is happy to send one back. 

Merry Christmas, Shane

He locks his phone to keep himself from staring at the message thread. It’s been over an hour since Shane sent that photo. He’s likely moved onto something else. Ilya tries to move onto something else too, picking at the onion in the chicken dish, making small notes about the German goalie - not that they need a goalie or even a backup goalie, but they should keep an eye on that kid. 

He loses himself in the push and pull of the game. Maybe it’s because he spent all day with kids, but he’s enjoying this game more than he was enjoying them yesterday. He remembers the feeling of that week - the desperation to prove himself, to be a stand out. He can see it play out on screen.

This game and then the next. 

Ilya packs away his food, places it in his fridge, pulls out a coke, but ends up on the floor, stretching out his shoulder and his knee and his back before he allows himself to settle back into the couch. 

And then his phone is ringing and Shane is calling and Ilya pauses the game, fumbling and frantic as he answers the call. 

“Hi,” Ilya sounds breathless - because he is. Because he’s living a life he doesn’t really recognize and he’s having one of those moments where it all comes crashing in. 

“Hi, Ilya,” Shane says, but he sounds…sleepy. Quiet. “Sorry, are you busy?”

Ilya hums, can’t help himself. “You are interrupting my meeting with prime minister, but for you -”

Shane huffs out a laugh and then a groan. “I regret this already.”

“Mmmm, no.” Ilya tells him. “I do not think so.”

It’s that borderline too much that he keeps toeing, but Shane doesn’t put it to a stop and so Ilya will keep toeing. He thinks he hears Shane’s breath hitch. It’s probably something with the line. 

“I watch this movie on Christmas,” Shane says after a beat of silence. “My parents go to bed early and I watch this movie, and I wanted to call you before I started it.” And then he adds so quickly that it’s mostly one word, “To see how your day was.”

Ilya takes a deep breath, tries to imagine what movie Shane has pulled up, if he’s got tea or hot cocoa or if he’s wearing soft pajama pants curled up on his parents couch. “My day…” Ilya starts. “Very good,” he tells Shane. He could go on about it, but something about Shane’s ability to take the least amount of words and understand…Ilya doesn’t need to go on. 

Shane sighs, “Have you been online?”

Something about the tone of his voice makes Ilya sit up a bit, concerned suddenly. He knows it’s Christmas, but if it was very very bad, he’s sure his agent would call him. The new one - the one he hired after is good, maybe too good. 

“No,” Ilya says the word carefully, “Is there -”

“No,” Shane says, too quickly, maybe realizing that he’s made Ilya think there’s something wrong. “Sorry, I just…there are like, a lot of photos of you. And they’re…not…” Shane’s voice is tight. “You don’t seem to know they’re being taken? You with kids, and then there’s one of you in a parking lot.”

Ilya waits. He’s not quite sure what Shane is saying. 

“They were taken without you knowing.”

Ilya is famous enough for paparazzi occasionally - not near the level he was when he was winning back to back Stanley cups and acting a fool in clubs. In Boston, he could hardly leave his block without being stopped for a photo from a fan. 

He’s been photographed eating and drinking and shopping for apples and all of that has made its way to the internet in some way. His giving children gifts and going to get take out on Christmas is maybe the most flattering thing he’s been photographed doing. 

“Is okay,” Ilya tells Shane, still feeling a bit lost. “Parents take pictures of happy children, they want to show happy children with handsome hockey player -”

“Oh my god,” Shane mutters and Ilya thinks Shane saying oh my god is some kind of tell. He’s under Shane’s skin. “So, you’re okay with it being online?”

Ilya rests his head against the back of the couch, blinks at his ceiling. It’s strange, he thinks. The way Shane is preoccupied with this, but then again, Shane is not a celebrity, and it crashes over Ilya how that would be foreign to him, how that would be invasive and uncomfortable, and some ridiculous, hopeful future Ilya had been building in his head is upended in a breath. 

The warmth of the day draining out of that hole in the bottom of Ilya’s soul. 

Not that Ilya could…be out and open. Not until he’s done with Russia for good - when he doesn’t have a Russian passport - and not that Shane would ever…but, if they did, if Ilya somehow tricked Shane into stepping into his life in the way Ilya has been haunted by since that fucking dream - Shane would end up on some update account and hate it. 

He’s been silent too long, trying to dig through his emotions and get back to the conversation somehow. But, Shane is patient and understanding. 

“I do not mind, Shane,” he says, soft, but firm. “For this, I do not mind.”

He hears Shane’s exhale, a rustling over the phone. Ilya imagines him settling into the couch. “It was a good thing for you to do.”

Ilya hums. “I wanted to, was good way to spend Christmas. Maybe a bit selfish too - to do something nice for other people.”

It’s a simple, broken down explanation, but it is enough because Shane says, “Okay.”

He thinks Shane is poking at him a bit, but Ilya is happy to let him. 

“You know you’re a good guy, right?” Shane asks, that steely surety that Ilya sees in him sometimes. A stubbornness that shocks Ilya. “You can brush it off and distract, but you are…” he pauses long enough that Ilya wants to make a joke, but he can’t because that little hole in his soul is getting smaller. “I think maybe you don’t hear that enough,” Shane says the words like they don’t gut him. “That you’re a really good guy.”

Ilya has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep himself from saying something stupid. He swallows and decides to move on entirely. “What movie do you watch on Christmas?”

There’s more rustling and then Shane’s voice comes out different, like he’s moved the call to speakerphone. “It’s called The Shop Around the Corner. It’s old, but it’s the best Christmas movie that will ever be made.”

Ilya makes a noise. “I have never seen this, what is it about?”

There’s even more rustling and now Shane’s voice is impossibly closer, like he’s speaking directly into the microphone. “It’s about these two co-workers who can’t stand each other, but they’re actually falling in love through anonymous letters. They based You’ve Got Mail around it.”

“I do not know this movie,” Ilya tells him, already trying to find this movie on his television, “You’ve Got Mail,” he specifies. 

Shane makes a soft noise, “You should watch it sometime, it’s not bad,” but then he says with much more force, “But watch The Shop Around the Corner first. It’s better.”

“I will watch now,” Ilya tells him, already putting his pin in to purchase the movie digitally. “We will watch other one together?”

He hears Shane make another noise and Ilya considers bashing his phone against the wall. “We can watch them both together?” 

Ilya considers how angry Shane would be if he drove very very fast to wherever the hell he is right now and then he realizes he means right now - the two of them on the phone. “I will press play when you do?”

“On three,” Shane says, and then counts one, two, and the softest three Ilya presses play to keep himself from going in search of his keys. 

Ilya doesn’t watch many films in black and white. He has vague memories of one that he watched with his mama as a child, but it was Russian and he is sure he’ll never be able to find it again. 

And the films he watches now are very different from this - and maybe he’s been missing out on something. 

Shane doesn’t really talk, it sounds at moments like he’s saying lines with the characters, and there’s a few tiny bursts of laughter and Ilya wishes Shane was on the couch with him so Ilya could watch his face. 

“Thank you for keeping me company,” Shane says, halfway through the movie, Ilya knows because he checked the time. 

“Yes,” Ilya says, too sincere, moving to stretch out, placing the phone on his shoulder. “Anytime.”

It’s too much and too telling, but Shane says nothing and Ilya watches Alfred And Klara love each other without knowing and Ilya’s chest aches, he watches the red carnation pinned on a lapel and he hears Shane’s sleepy satisfied noise and Ilya is in agony. 

“I hope you had a good Christmas that wasn’t Christmas at all,” Shane says the second the screen goes dark. 

Ilya wants to tell him it’s the best Christmas - Western or Orthodox - he’s had since his mama died and took the warmth of the holiday with her. What he says instead is, “Good day, but now I think we should sleep? Is late.”

Shane doesn’t fight him. He says so easily, “Goodnight, Ilya.”

“Goodnight, Shane,” Ilya responds, hoping his voice sounds flat and unaffected. 

“See you in two days,” Shane tells him, and then the line goes dead and Ilya presses his palms into his eyes and tries to breathe. 

That night he dreams that he slips a letter under Shane’s office door - a letter detailing the way he picks at his cuticles and has a serious face when he’s reading something and loves his friends in ways Ilya didn’t even know was possible and is a pillar to the team even if he doesn’t seek it out. 

He dreams he puts it all in a letter and then Shane walks past him, looking at him the way he did when Ilya first came to Ottawa - distrusting and cautious. Ilya can see the letter gripped in his hand, can hear him whisper to Harris about how his secret admirer must be the new one and Ilya realizes in a sinking second that Shane does not mean Ilya. 

He dreams that he watches Shane flirt with a faceless player - tall and black hair and broad and his heart breaks in real time when Shane looks over the shoulder of that player and sneers at Ilya. 

He goes for a run that might be considered punishment and then sprawls in the floor of his gym and he tries so desperately to get a handle on this.

Monk’s is nearly cleared out at this point and Ilya thinks it’s maybe their fault - rowdy hockey players all bordering on too drunk and now well rested after a few days off. 

Ilya is comfortably drunk, nursing a beer and listening to Wyatt tell him a winding non linear timeline of some comic book character that is getting a tv show. Wyatt is not happy about the tv show, but that’s all Ilya really understands at this point.

The alcohol is a bad idea. Wiebe is going to make them work for it when they show up for practice the day after next, but Ilya had shown up to find that someone had brought a plastic golden crown and Bood had settled in on top of Ilya’s head and said “for the reformed prince.”

But it hadn’t been a barb and it didn’t land sharply the way it might have a year ago to hear internet titles spoken back at him. 

Hockey twitter had deemed Ilya the Reformed Prince and now it’s on ESPN and Ilya thinks maybe it’s not so bad, for people to see him in this light - for people to see maybe that he’s a little squishy. For people to speculate that dying had changed him, because it did. 

It changed him and he wants to be reformed. Svetlana had sent him a tweet calling him a rescue dog and maybe that’s what he is. A thing so sure that he will have nothing more than loneliness and what he can scrap for, reformed into something soft and gentle with a bit of love and attention. 

It’s only been a few months, but it’s already happened. Ottawa has turned him into a reformed prince. Drinking responsibly, talking to his teammate about comic books, carefully checking his phone for a text message from a guy that he wants for much more than one night, and then this:

Young saying, sudden and rushed, wincing through the burn of a shot, “Sarah’s pregnant and I think I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

Ilya grabbing his face, shaking his whole body, “Fuck yeah, you are, man. You love her.”

Wyatt clapping his on the back, nodding. 

Young is a child, so young and so scared, but Ilya throws an arm around his shoulders when he lets go of his face. “Big wedding,” he says, “Bigger baby shower. Best of everything for Sarah. We help.”

“Yeah,” Bood says, passing Young another shot from the tray at the center of the table. “Family, right?”

Ilya tries very hard to not let anyone see how much that effects him. 

Young is removed from his grip, Dykstra there to chatter at him about rings. Ilya pulls his phone out, can’t stop himself from texting Shane back - the last message sitting there from hours ago, a have fun in response to Ilya telling him about the team outing. 

There is baby shower soon, you will come and see I am good at them

Satisfied with knowing he will impress Shane with his ability to estimate the length of toilet paper strips, he pockets his phone and looks at his team - feels for the first time in his career that he is really truly safe. Out of the clutches of Russia, out of the clutches of his brother, out of the clutches of himself even. 

“A baby,” Young says, voice vacant, but a smile on his face. “I’m going to be a dad.”

Ilya taps the table. “I will get celebration bottle, be back.”

They’re all going to puke for sure when they go back to practice. 

Ilya can’t be bothered to care. 

Ilya begins his Christmas with reading Shane’s very clearly google translated message wishing him a happy Christmas. Ilya had beamed at it for too long. Shane must have added a cyrillic keyboard to his phone specifically for this and it makes Ilya feel young and foolish. He debates calling him just to ask, but he instead switches his own keyboard to cyrillic and then thinks for far too long about what to say - how it might be read by whatever translator Shane uses. 

He settles on telling Shane that he should go home from work on account of it being Christmas and that he hopes he is going to stay up late to watch the Centaurs kill LA in their own barn. And then he goes because he isn’t strong enough to deal with Shane and Russian and all that in between. 

There’s a plan to go down to the beach with Bood and Wyatt and eat breakfast and find a smoothie shop and a souvenir place so they can buy an embarrassing baby onesie for Young before they’re due for a practice and dinner at the rink. 

Ilya eats a mountain sized portion of eggs and potatoes and laughs at Bood’s recounting of his stumbling home drunk and trying to tell Cassie that Young’s girl was pregnant, but just kept insisting it was Young. 

It’s so easy to laugh with them and buy half a dozen baby onesies while sipping on some overly sweet smoothie with protein powder and enjoying the sun. 

Ilya doesn’t have to think about the game later because the last few days of practice have been different. 

He told Shane they were going to win and he knows they will because something has shifted - the team clicking in a way that it hasn’t before. 

They’re still missing important elements - line depth, a backup goalie that is hungry for it - but between the team, there’s a solidarity that Ilya has never had on any other team and it’s going to translate. He knows it will. 

They get stopped by a fan who asks them for a photo, Ilya takes a photo of the beach and posts it on Instagram, he texts Sveta about coming to LA with him in the summer - the last time they were here they had so much fun together. He would like to do that when he doesn’t have to play a game to interrupt their meandering. 

It’s the same kind of quiet Christmas that he’s had since he moved to America - a normal day - but, somehow still better. 

He repacks his bag at the hotel before the team bus because their flight tomorrow morning is early, he pretends to be asleep against the bus window while Young talks softly to Sarah on the phone, he pushes himself on the ice in practice because it feels good to push and to feel like his body is his own. 

And then it all slides out from underneath his feet when he walks into catering to find that instead of pasta or salmon or half baked chickens, the room smells like home. 

Home - Russia. Russia in the moments it wasn’t horrible and dark. 

“Merry Christmas, Rozy,” Dykstra walks past him with a plate full of food, and Ilya stares after him. 

He wants to walk a long loop around the room and eat buns with his hands and also he wants to get on a plane to Ottawa and hug Shane Hollander and swear some kind of oath to him. 

Ilya stands in a room that smells like his childhood home, and maybe for the first time since his mama died, this food means that someone has shown a care for him that he doesn’t know how to ever repay. 

“Don’t load up on pastries,” Wiebe says, coming to stand next to Ilya. “We still have a game.” And then he says softer, “they’re going to box them all up for the team after dinner. They’ll go with us to Seattle.”

“This is Russian fuel,” Ilya tells him, all bravado and loud. “I will have best game of career tonight and then Shane will be forced to find Russian restaurant in every city for team.”

He realizes too late what he’s said, what he’s revealed. “Shane.” Wiebe repeats, too much emphasis. He shakes his head a bit, but it’s not angry. It’s disbelieving. “Shane,” he laughs and then he shoulders Ilya and goes to look at the overflowing table of pastries. 

Ilya forces himself to follow, trying very hard to craft what he is going to say to Shane later, the realization settling over him as he stares at his pelmeni that he is worse than some rescue dog, content to have warmth and care. 

All that warmth and care has opened up into a pit of want - of desire - for things he’s never wanted before. And much like some rescue dog, he has no idea what to do with that. 

He pulls his phone out before he can think too much about it. 

Thank you. 

English words do not do enough to say thank you, Shane. 

Hat trick for you tonight. Only you.

Ilya munches on the corner of a sweet bun while filing onto the bus and that’s when he gets brave enough to look at the reply from Shane. 

Merry Christmas, Ilya.

I hope it was really good even if we both had to work. 

Two goals and an assist is a hat trick if we bend the rules a bit. Tell the team they played beautifully. If we had more line depth, we would be unstoppable. (don’t tell them that part) Good game. 

By the way, I know I don’t know Russian, but if you ever want to tell me things when the English is wrong, you can. I will always listen to what you have to say. 

Ilya says nothing to the team because he doesn’t trust his voice. 

He scarfs down his sweet bun, wraps his hand around a bottle of water that Terry hands out and he ignores the raging inside his chest. The one that wants to call Shane and tell him - in Russian - exactly what he wanted to say when he walked in to see what he had done for him. 

I will lay down at your feet, I will wait for you, I will curl up on your couch and watch black and white films with you because you know the words and I want to watch you, please please please, let me come inside and be next to you and watch you make spreadsheets and tape your sticks and I will learn to make pasta for you and the world can call me a reformed prince but you and I will both know what I am. Reformed because of desperation and then changed in a new way because of care, because of risk, let me in, let me make you smile, let me make you happy. 

Ilya opens up his headphone case and looks at this roadie’s post-it note instead. 

You should ask for holiday pay from the league, make the union put it in your contract. Good luck, Ilya

He’s endured everything. He can endure the heartsick feeling that engulfs him. At least he knows his heart is still working.

Chapter End Notes

Me, finding Ilya Rozanov: Yessssss, another dog boy to add to my collection.

Me, starting this fic: Going to be the most normal about this and my personal belie- oh, he's comparing himself to a dog again.

 

Also we are so so very close to Knowing. I promise.

Chapter 12: tunnel vision lights my way

Chapter Summary

Ilya comes home from a roadie.
Shane is sick.

Chapter Notes

Chapter title from Humiliation by The National

Okay guys, this is a big pivotal chapter and because of that, I want to do a little warnings about what to expect. I will put them in the end notes if you want some spoilers or warnings.

Anyway, this wasn't the way this chapter was meant to go. I had to make lots of changes to the rest of the fic because Ilya and Shane are now in charge. I'm not apologizing.

Ilya is about 12 pages deep into that luxury car website he looks at sometimes and he thinks it’s probably some kind of cry for help. 

He’s looking at Ducati’s which is certainly a choice from someone who vowed to not drive things at an enormously high speed any longer and he thinks that even thinking about a Ducati is breaking a part of that vow. 

It’s just that he is not going to All-Stars - which he knew he wouldn’t be - but it’s still so strange. He’s sat out on two occasions. Injury and the one year he drove to that funeral he doesn’t really like to think about too much because it seems like it might be too much of a look into his own future. 

The call from his agent came this afternoon before the game against Vancouver and it made him play sloppy and then Shane had sent him a dozen messages, but none about Ilya’s play which made him feel like maybe he could tell Ilya was upset and could put enough pieces together that he could figure it out.

All of it is making him feel swirly and strange and so fucking unlike any version of himself he’s ever known and so he’s looking at Ducati’s when he lives in fucking Canada and could only drive the damn thing for four or five months a year if he was really really lucky and it’s probably good that Svetlana calls him while the phone is in his hand and he’s about to click onto the 13th page. 

“Ilya,” Sveta’s voice is gentle, like she knows he’s twisted up in notes about Shane Hollander and Russian pastries and a romantic comedy that Ilya ordered two copies of just to be safe and buying a motorcycle he can’t even drive. “I miss you, is it too late to accept your proposal of marriage? Come back to Boston.”

Ilya laughs because he can’t help himself. But, also because he checked on her little iphone dot earlier this morning to find she was in Singapore. He attempts to do some time zone math and fails. “You are not even in Boston,” he reminds her. “You want me to be your housewife? Stuck inside while you jet around the world and make all the money? Very boring for us both.”

“You could always start a very intense affair with the maid,” Svata offers. “Or the pool boy.”

Ilya makes an unimpressed noise. “I would be horrible at throwing parties.”

Sveta finally cracks, laughing. “This is true, you are very bad at matching napkins and centerpieces, but now that you mention parties, you remind me why I called.”

She’s about to ask him to some gala and because she’s brilliant and competent and terrifying, she’s already checked his schedule and has booked him flights and picked out what he’s meant to wear. But then she surprises him.

“I am thinking it has been too long since I have seen you,” she tells him. “I will come up for All-Star break, come with you to the team party.”

Ilya frowns at his ceiling. 

“You insufferable man,” Sveta sighs. “Do not make me worry about you.”

It makes something very small and ugly crack inside of Ilya’s chest. 

“More than I already do,” Sveta adds and oh. That helps a bit. Yes, she worries about him. 

He knows that. It’s obvious. It still feels so good to hear - to know. 

“I will send you my flights. Do not send a car. I deserve more than a car.” Sveta says, and then she pivots again. “Tell me what you were doing, I am bored and time zones are evil.”

Ilya decides he cannot tell her about the Ducati thing. “I think you will have to help me with the pasta.”

The sigh is fond, the way she says his name is fond. 

Ilya is fond. 

Their flight lands late because no matter what, the time zones flying towards the East Coast are not kind. 

Ilya is now used to there not being fans in the parking lot, but he would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t hope to see Shane. Even though it’s very late and Shane is probably at practice himself and Ilya should go home and try and get back on schedule because he has therapy very early in the morning.

He does not have time to obsess over Shane and how he has considered a hundred different ways he could tell him in Russian just what this all meant to him - in Russian because he is a coward. 

No, he does respond to his text about having a safe flight and he goes home and runs on his treadmill until he’s exhausted and eats a little container of food and then goes to bed and sets his alarm for therapy. 

He has already decided that he will speak with Galina about…about Shane. About how much Shane has become a centerpoint for him. How scary that is for Ilya.

It’s probably why he dreams of Shane - Shane on the ice, beautiful and competent and fast - flying down the ice in a rink that never ends as Ilya chases after him. They’re laughing at first - Shane is teasing him about catching up, but they keep skating and skating and things get darker and the rink won’t end and Shane starts to look back less and Ilya pushes harder, but he starts to fall back and -

Ilya doesn’t taste the coffee he makes the next morning, doesn’t really feel like he’s in his own body as he goes through the motions of getting ready for his day. 

“Ilya,” Galina’s door opens and she smiles at him and Ilya pockets his phone and goes to therapy, prepared for Galina to ask him about pasta and his holiday and then wait patiently for Ilya to bring up whatever it is that he wants to talk about today, but as soon as Ilya sits down, it comes spilling out of him - a dam blown apart.

“I think I have feelings for someone,” he says, a sentence of half truths she can apparently read on him because she raises one eyebrow and waits. “I have feelings for someone,” he amends. “He might be the best person I have ever known.”

Galina’s tiny intake of breath is all the shock she allows herself. He prepares himself to hear that he doesn’t need to be thinking about a relationship with someone when he is still so broken. He waits for her to laugh - for her to say that Ilya cannot have feelings for someone good and whole and wonderful when he could not even tell her for months that he is bisexual and that he still hasn’t even really spoken to her about his parents deaths. 

“I would love to hear about him,” she says, “He must be really special.”

Ilya feels his lungs tighten - like the oxygen in the room is poison. He cannot possibly speak about Shane and do him justice, he cannot talk about him to Galina when he might be making all of this up - the way Shane speaks to him sometimes, like Ilya is a soft, gentle thing that deserves something soft and gentle. 

But then Galina says, “Maybe start with how you met, and then we can go from there.”

Shane at 17, Shane at 17 in that coat he still owns because he’s financially responsibly probably and the freckles and the way he said Ilya’s whole name without hesitation or fear and the way Ilya had thought about him for years, wondering about him, wondering if Ilya maybe wouldn’t have been so miserable in the darker moments, if being the best hockey player in the NHL would have meant something bigger than what it did. 

He has no idea how to connect all of that to the man who somehow got budget approval for a tiny Russian restaurant in LA to cater a game night meal or watched old black and white movies and knew all the words and told Ilya he was a better man than he let himself believe.

He doesn’t know how to say any of that, so he does what she suggests. 

He starts at the beginning. 

“We met at the prospect cup, when I was 17,” Ilya tells her, “He came over and introduced himself to me and told me I was not standing in the smoking section and then I did not see him again until my first day at Ottawa.”

Galina nods, writes something down, and Ilya doesn’t wait for more prompting. 

He keeps going and going and going and he talks for an hour about Shane Hollander and the slow way he’s being unraveled by him. 

“Ilya,” Galina says when Ilya realizes they’re 10 minutes over and tries to apologize. “He sounds like someone really good for you.”

Ilya feels like a star collapsing, the middle of his chest becoming nothing and sucking the rest of his body through atom by atom. 

“A good friend, at minimum,” she says, “More, possibly.”

“Can it be more?” Ilya asks. Mostly to himself. “I do not see how it could be more.”

“I think that’s up to him, yes?” 

Ilya blinks and his chest stops caving in. It is up to Shane. It’s maybe always been up to Shane. Since that first parking lot meeting. “Thank you,” Ilya tells her. “For not -” he waves a hand, but doesn’t know how to finish it. 

“Make some pasta, Ilya.” Galina laughs, “Ask the boy you’re crushing on out on a date, you’re doing good, keep going.”

It’s terrifying, but that’s what he’s trying to do. 

Ilya goes in search of Shane even though it’s obvious that’s where he’s going and he knows Wyatt is watching him with too knowing eyes.

It’s just that Galina’s words are banging around in his head. Ask the boy you’re crushing on out on a date. 

He’s sure he’s not going to ask. He’s going to thank him for the Christmas food and maybe hug him. He’s not going to ask him out. Ilya needs to make a list. Like, a list of things he can say and a list of things they could do because he has never actually asked anyone on a real date before and he’s suddenly turned into someone who makes fucking lists. 

Except Shane’s office is shut and the lights are off and Ilya stares at the door because Shane never goes out for lunch and he’s always in his office if he’s at the rink and he didn’t say he would be gone. Which okay. Ilya isn’t his keeper. He doesn’t need for Shane to tell him where he is even if that little thrill of having his little dot on his phone to look at when he’s morose and alone and looking at Svetlana’s dot on the map of the world is intoxicating. 

He texts Shane while standing directly in front of his office door. 

I was looking for gummy bears

The message is delivered and he pockets it before he can do something like ask Shane where he is. 

He’s saved from taking his phone out of his pocket and sending a second text anyway by Harris appearing at the end of the hallway with a latte in his hand, looking a little frazzled and like maybe he should not be drinking the latte in his hand. 

“Hi Ilya,” he says absently, walking down the hall towards him. “That save you made in Vancouver was beautiful - it’s doing numbers on Twitter. Stupid, maybe. You know you’re not a goalie, right?”

Ilya has to do a roundabout spin like a fucking car in New England to follow Harris as he walks past him and then Harris fully freezes just a few steps past the place Ilya has done a full spin and he spins quickly.

Some of Harris’ latte slops out of the rim of the mug and onto his hand and he hisses, starting to immediately juggle his mug and suck the hot coffee from his skin and Ilya watches him with raised eyebrows. He considers prying the mug from Harris, but knows that would probably make it worse somehow. 

“Sorry,” Harris shakes his head and wipes his hand on his pants and blinks at Ilya a couple of times. “Things are -” he waves a hand. “I was sick over break and it seems to be taking out everyone and I’m trying to do social stuff and also answer the phones and -” Harris huffs and kind of slumps his shoulders. 

Ilya really likes Harris. Harris is funny and kind and he works really hard and he always makes edits of Ilya to really hot songs. What he doesn’t love is his penchant for rambling when someone is trying to get information out of him. 

Ilya wants to see Shane and maybe ask him to come over for pasta and to watch You’ve Got Mail - which Ilya realizes is maybe the perfect date for someone like Shane who is very concerned with Ilya being photographed out and about and also because Shane is very interested in showing this movie to Ilya. 

But, Ilya remembers Shane’s gentle words over the phone and Ilya takes a deep breath. “How can I help?”

Harris sighs and then says, “There is something you could do for me but it is a huge favor and you can say no.”

“Okay,” Ilya says slowly. Already thinking about how he’s going to have to drive flats of cider out to Hawkesbury or something, but he will do this because Harris has started vibrating like one of Wyatt’s superheroes would before their powers collapse. “But, you also have to do a favor for me.”

“No,” Harris says flatly, “I am not posting anything to you with that Kendrick Lamar song, I already told you -”

Ilya decides to take drastic measures. He reaches over and takes the mug from Harris’ hand. “You do not see my vision, but favor is no more coffee. Not until you eat something…carbs. You need carbs.”

Harris looks mournfully at the mug in Ilya’s hands and wrinkles his nose. “Can you take Shane some cold medicine? He doesn’t keep anything in his apartment because he’s ridiculous and I told him I would bring him some when I got through my work.” 

It’s hilarious. That Harris considers this a huge favor when he is actually making Ilya’s entire life. 

“I know it’s out of your way,” Harris continues to talk. “I wouldn’t ask, but I really do have -”

“Harris,” Ilya stops him, “I will go, yes? Cold medicine? Nothing else?”

“God, you are saving my whole life,” Harris sighs. “Wow, I can like, venmo -” and then he stops because Ilya probably looks like he’s going to dump the latte over Harris’ head. “Okay,” Harris holds his hands out, “We shouldn’t start another war.”

It makes Ilya laugh a little. “No war. I will take Shane cold medicine and you will finish your work and eat a carb, okay? For me? Favorite player on Centaurs? Best player in all of NHL?”

Harris laughs one of his silly loud laughs and Ilya can’t help but smile at him. “Can I have that back?” Harris reaches for the mug and Ilya is much much faster, pivoting away. “I hate you, Ilya Rozanov.”

“You do not,” Ilya sings at him, heading for the lounge so he can dump the latte and wash it out and then go buy every cold medicine available and go to Shane’s apartment. 

Today is really looking up. 

Ilya sits in the player’s parking lot and texts Shane that he’s coming over and he needs Shane’s apartment number and then he drives out to the liquor store on the edge of Ottawa and buys a bottle of decent-ish Russian vodka and walks over to the little pharmacy that is next door and buys every single cold medicine they have and everything the very nice pharmacist recommends for him to buy including some throat spray stuff and then stops at that japanese restaurant Shane took him too and tells the woman at the counter that his friend who really likes this place is sick and she rings him up without another word and then waves him away to sit until she comes back with two tubs of broth with the soup ingredients separate and a very large bag of what Ilya thinks is tea leaves with shaky English instructions taped to the front and something that she describes as medicine and then waves him away with a smile.

Ilya maybe is ridiculous, but he can’t help himself from falling over himself to do this because Shane is wonderful, of course, and Ilya is full up of want for things he doesn’t really understand, but also because Ilya feels like maybe it will be easier to say what he needs to say to him when he has the ability to show Shane care. 

Maybe it will be easier for Ilya to put his heart on a little platter if he can bring Shane rocks in the form of cold and flu medicine like he is one of those suit penguins. Emperor. Emperor penguins. 

Ilya puts the vodka and the cold medicine into his backpack and pays the little parking meter app for four hours and then very carefully balances the food and the bag through the front door of the building and up the elevator. And then he ends up begging Shane to let him into his apartment through a closed door. 

“I cannot get you sick,” Shane insists, but Ilya can hear his voice wavering already. “You have a game in two days, and I will be damned if Dallas Kent -”

“Shane,” Ilya gives in and rests his forehead against the door. “I would have to be dead for Dallas Kent to win against me. A little cold will not kill me.”

This is wildly irresponsible because Ilya should go home and save himself from getting sick, but he won’t because he is an idiot and because he wants to eat soup with Shane on his couch and -

“Please,” he says and he hears Shane grumble - something unintelligible through the door, but it works and Ilya only has enough time to jump back from the door before it’s swinging open and the sight of Shane makes Ilya’s head feel like it detaches from his body. 

He has spent a good amount of time fantasizing about Shane Hollander in his life. As a kid it was about beating him - being better than him. Winning, going first in the draft. And then it was…still beating him, still winning against him, but it was about having competition. He wanted competition.

Since he landed himself in Ottawa, the competition fantasy had lingered, but they had also slid into more. Shane’s flushed face if Ilya could wrap a hand around his cock. Shane whispering to him in the dark - sometimes filthy, sometimes just saying Ilya’s name. Shane sitting at the counter in Ilya’s kitchen as he made them breakfast, maybe Shane in Ilya’s favorite black hoodie that was fraying on one of the sleeves because he wore it so often. 

But, he was a fool for never considering this. Truly a fool when he considers what it was like for him to let Svetlana care for him - what it was like to let her in when she was one of the only people in his life that had ever really cared for him at all. 

If Svetlana had not been his soulmate before, she was stuck with him now.

Ilya had never considered what it might be like to stand in front of a Shane who was so clearly miserably sick and allowing Ilya to look at him - to care for him. 

It feels like a gift that Ilya does not deserve, but will take anyway. 

He’s suddenly biting down on saying sweetheart, and instead says so carefully that the word almost breaks apart in his mouth. “Shane.”

Shane honest to god whimpers and Ilya thinks he could fight a fucking lion for Shane if he asked. “You should not be here.”

Ilya holds up the bag of food and shoos Shane back inside and ignores him, tries to breathe through the way he’s feeling about being in Shane’s space. 

“I do not want to get you sick,” Shane says again, but weaker, following behind Ilya as Ilya makes his way towards the small kitchen in the back corner of the great room. 

Shane’s apartment is neat. Small in a way that doesn’t feel crowded. A row of built-in bookshelves and a TV on the wall and a couch that looks very comfortable and two doors against one wall that Ilya knows must be the bathroom and the singular bedroom. The kitchen is also clean except for a teapot that is clearly in use and two mugs in the sink and Ilya realizes he should have taken off his shoes.

So he does. Setting the food down on the counter next to the teapot and his backpack on the floor and then crossing back towards the door to toe off his shoes, all while Shane stands leaning against the wall, blinking at Ilya like he might not be real. 

“Hello, Shane,” Ilya says, stopping in front of Shane, wanting to reach out and squeeze him. “How are you feeling?”

Shane rolls his eyes and Ilya decides he can touch - as long as it’s to tease, so that’s what he does - cupping Shane’s face with one hand to lay the other on his forehead like his mama used to do for him, humming when Shane squawks and tries to bat him away and then immediately turning into a puddle of boneless goo when Shane leans into the touch and sighs. “Feels nice.” Shane murmurs. “Cold.”

He’s definitely feverish and Ilya has to take a step back to save them both. “Come, Shane,” Ilya nods towards the little kitchen and doesn’t wait to see if Shane is following him. 

He doesn’t speak as he starts to pull little boxes out of his bag, and only smiles when Shane makes a noise of distress and says, “I am hallucinating this.”

Ilya shakes one of the little bottles and only then realizes it says for children on the label, “I did not know what you were sick with. I bought one of everything.”

Shane makes the same noise of distress. “I think someone should put you on a budget.”

“Mmm,” Ilya nods at him, “Sveta is always saying this, but I am smart. This is fuck off money. My accountant has to give me money to be stupid with or I buy cars and pinball machines.”

“I worry about you,” Shane grumbles, but he swipes up one of the bottles of pills and tries valiantly to defeat the little foil seal before growling and holding it out to Ilya with an honest to god pout on his face. 

Ilya remembers reading that it only took a few inches of water to drown. The cups of soup broth are definitely more than a few inches. Maybe that would be a kinder death than having to die by Shane’s pout. “I worry about you,” Ilya insists. “You do not keep medicine in apartment? Not very smart, Hollander. What will second best hockey player in Ottawa do when he has to sit out from work and also beer league games?”

Shane is still glaring, but he has his hand held out for Ilya to drop two little pills in, but Ilya doesn’t. He turns around and opens the fridge, finds one of Shane’s little pale electrolyte drinks that don’t have artificial color like Gatorade does and first twists the cap off and then hands that and the pills over to Shane.

He peels the little label back from the bottle to find that Shane can take them every six hours, so that’s what he sets his alarm for, and then finally does he look up at Shane - only to find Shane all curled in on himself, looking uncertain. Sick and uncertain. 

Ilya decides that he is going to apologize to him for crashing, explain everything he brought over, and then he is going to leave, but before he can do that, Shane mumbles, “I have a game recorded if you wanted to stay for a little bit.” And then he glances up at Ilya, his eyes steady on Ilya’s face, brave and bold and so beautiful that Ilya already knows he’s going to say yes. “I know I said you should go, but it would be nice to see you for a bit.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, because it’s breathing. Saying yes to him. “Are you hungry now? I brought soup from the restaurant you took me to.”

“You went and got me ramen?” Shane sounds breathless and weird. Lost. 

Ilya hums. “I told nice lady at the restaurant that my friend was sick. She gave me all the things in this bag.” He turns and now starts to unload it. Even though there’s not exactly room for it. Two tubs of broth, two containers of stuff. The tea leaves, the white, waxy bag of something he hands directly to Shane who immediately untwists the top and pulls out a tiny piece of yellow something. 

“Ilya,” Shane whispers and then he puts the yellow thing back in the bag, sets the bag down on the counter and takes one step towards Ilya before Ilya realizes he’s about to be hugged and he doesn’t have enough time to panic before Shane is on him - holding him so tightly, his arms around Ilya’s shoulders, his face in Ilya’s collarbone. 

Shane has unraveled him so completely and Ilya wants to kiss his temple and tell him that he’s beautiful even when he’s sick, but he can’t because - because Shane has never hugged him before and Ilya can hardly breathe let alone speak.

He hugs him back, his arms wrapped around Shane’s body, breathing so forcibly slowly while he tries to remember every single moment of this. 

“This is so kind of you,” Shane says, and Ilya thinks that if he wasn’t feverish, this wouldn’t be happening, but Ilya will take it. He has to take it. 

“Yes,” Ilya manages to rasp out. Mostly because he knows it will make Shane laugh, but he also decides to…not ask Shane out - not right now - but, maybe to be brave about something else. Maybe a little honesty about what the entirety of the Christmas stretch had meant to Ilya…

Shane squeezes him and then takes a step back, but Ilya snags his wrist, tries to swallow around the panic. 

“Shane,” he says careful, slow. “I did not do this to…” he looks for the word, wishes there had been a way for him to practice this somehow. “I am not repaying you. I could not, but I -”

“If this is about LA -” Shane says, squinting and Ilya squeezes his wrist. Tight enough that Shane stops, blinks at him. 

Shane likely knows about Ilya’s mother. There had been enough headlines about it. He knows he has to know, but…Ilya also needs to say it. 

“My mama,” he starts, and then breathes. “I have not had a Christmas dinner since she died.”

Shane inhales sharply, like a bolt of pain in his own body. Like he can somehow feel the one in Ilya’s chest. 

“I wanted to come and thank you, but Harris said you are sick. This is…not enough, but it is something.”

Shane’s eyes are shiny. Ilya is fucking this up. 

“We are friends, I know.” Ilya tries to soothe it over. Whatever it is that he’s said that has upset Shane. “Friendship means that you do things for each other, yes. I know this. But, Shane, I -”

And then Shane is hugging him again and Ilya is for sure going to be sick in a few days, but he clings to Shane anyway, holds on tight. “No more of that, okay. Come watch hockey with me,” Shane demands. “It will make me feel better.”

Ilya knows he should let go, but he can’t because this is better than any fantasy Ilya has cooked up in his head that features Shane and he missed him and Ilya wants to take him on a real date and kiss him softly and learn Shane one slow soft moment at a time. “Okay,” he whispers and he lets Shane slip out of his arms. “What games did you record?”

And if Ilya expected the sickness and the fever to soften Shane’s sharpness over hockey, he was a fool. “I want to talk about Peters and whatever the fuck he said to you on the ice that shook you up and made you play like shit in the second period.”

“I didn’t play like shit,” Ilya grumbles.

Shane takes all the containers for soup and puts them in the fridge and then starts to measure out tea leaves for tea and even though he moves a little slower than he normally does, his edges softer and sweeter, he doesn’t mince his words. He’s shifted back into hockey and Ilya is kind of glad for it. 

This is easy and simple and so so very normal. 

“I know he’s a homophobic piece of shit,” Shane says like it’s a fact. “But, you have to know he’s jealous of you. That’s why he said whatever he said.”

It stuns Ilya. The very thought of him being jealous. It must be all over his face.

Shane clicks his little electric kettle on and then crosses his arms across his chest. Ilya tries not to stare. He is, as they say, just a man. 

“If I tweaked my shoulder in my rookie season and got traded away from Chicago the year before their cup win and had to scrap my way through a series of teams with zero hope for a cup and then a much more handsome version of me almost died and went to a team that immediately started playing better as a result, I would be jealous as fuck too.”

Ilya blinks at him. “You are scary sometimes, yes?”

Shane’s smile is sharp and beautiful. “Yes,” he nods and then he sniffs and points at a box of tissue on the end of the counter that Ilya immediately fetches and holds out for him. It should not be endearing to watch a man blow his nose. What has Ilya been reduced to. 

“I will turn on hockey?” Ilya asks, just so he can flee. 

“I will finish the tea,” Shane nods, smiling and Ilya is so fucked. 

The tea feels strange across Ilya’s tongue, smooth and light and not at all smoky and full. Shane drinks the whole pot of it and then takes a few sips of his electrolyte drink and Ilya watches him out of the corner of his eye and interprets Shane’s various hockey related grunts and hand motions because Shane’s starting to properly sound congested and stuffy and Ilya should not be as pleased with himself for knowing what it is that Shane is trying to say. 

The cold medicine helps because Shane throws off the little blanket and it probably means he’s not feverish at the moment until, of course, Ilya is all boneless against the corner of Shane’s couch and the recorded game is cut away for an update about what is happening ahead of the Colorado game that was at the same time and Ilya steps on a landmine. 

“Is there a team with worse draft luck?” Ilya thinks out loud, his head lulling over to look at Shane. “Do you remember that idiot in our draft class? Roy?”

Ilya is maybe not the smartest person in the world, but he is not stupid. 

Shane remembers Roy. Ilya would even go as far as saying that Shane remembers Roy more than he remembered Ilya. 

Shane is looking at the television still, but he’s not seeing it. He’s not upset. He’s just. Stopped. Shut down. Ilya would be more concerned, maybe, if he didn’t know Shane needs time to process things sometimes. 

The words come out slow and measured. “I guess I am out of time to not tell you.”

The world around Shane fizzles out in a blink. Ilya is speed running everything he knows about Roy - the forward from Canada who went 18th in the draft and had one whole season with Colorado before not even his famous hockey player father could keep him there. Ilya thinks he does commentary in Texas now. Which is…embarrassing. For a Canadian. No one in Texas gives a fuck about hockey. You have to be a really bad hockey player to end up doing commentary in Texas. 

But, he has something to do with Shane and the reason he doesn’t play hockey and Ilya has to keep a lid on it before his emotions leak all over the room because Shane blinks and stops looking so blank and instead looks…resigned. Like he’s sad. 

“You have to tell me nothing,” Ilya says with meaning. It’s not great, he realizes. He knew it would not be great, of course, but something in him was still holding out that like…Shane just fell out of love with hockey. That happened sometimes. To athletes who played their whole lives. Ilya had been clinging to that hope, because the other option that wasn’t injury was that Shane was…that something bad happened to him. 

Ilya can hold it together - he can listen and hold it together because this isn’t about him, but as it burns down his throat - the realization that Shane maybe walked away because of something that was done to him…

Ilya reaches out like he’s going to wrap his hand around Shane’s socked ankle, but then stops. Maybe…maybe Shane doesn’t want him to touch him, so he freezes, his hand hovering, and he looks up - right at Shane’s beautiful, sad face. “You do not have to tell me anything you do not want to. Ever.”

Shane swallows and then he closes his eyes, tips his head back to the back of the couch and exhales, his chest caving in with it, pushing all the air from his lungs until he’s empty. 

He nods, his throat stretching, and then he sniffs and lifts his head and looks at Ilya like he is a gentle thing. “I do though,” he tells Ilya. “This is something you need to know.”

“Okay,” Ilya nods. And then he very slowly lowers his hand down onto Shane’s ankle, touches him gently. “I will always listen.”

Shane deflates and Ilya is selfish and mean because he wishes things were different and he could scoop Shane close and hold him and brush his fingers across his freckles and make him feel safer, smaller but not in the way Shane makes himself smaller. Smaller like...like he can exist in Ilya's space with nothing else to do except exist. Safe. Small. 

“He looked at me sometimes,” Shane says, still looking at Ilya with so much bravery. “It started at camp when we were 15 and I don’t think I understood that I was looking back until -” he sighs out the tiniest laugh and then he bashes Ilya against a rock by saying, “until I met you and I realized that I definitely wanted to look back.”

Ilya lets go of Shane’s ankle and presses that hand to his chest, wide eyed. “Shane Hollander,” he giggles and Shane giggles and fuck that feels good. Obviously, this is upsetting, but Shane is laughing and it feels so good. “Are you saying I was your gay awakening?”

“Yes,” Shane says, sure and firm. “You were absolutely my gay awakening.”

This is the best thing that has ever happened to him. “I need to put this in will,” Ilya makes like he’s going to dig his phone from his pocket. “I will have this written in my biography. Every biography. I need it recorded.”

Shane leans over and pulls Ilya’s phone from his hand and sends it clattering across the coffee table. “No one is putting that in any biography about you, oh my god.”

“Very important facts,” Ilya counters. “First hockey award, Gay Awakening of Shane Hollander, Second Best hockey player in Ottawa.”

And then - because Ilya is insane and crazy and full up on fantasy - he considers why that might actually end up in his biography. A world in which there is a whole chapter dedicated to Shane Hollander because he has become so important to Ilya that he cannot be untangled from who he is going to be in the second half of his career. 

“Okay,” Shane says, forcing him back down to earth, “Sure, you were my gay awakening.” And then he hesitates and Ilya realizes this might not have been the best time to be making jokes, but Shane slides a bit closer to him on the couch - not close enough to touch, but close enough that Ilya can see the dry skin on Shane’s bottom lip. “Roy kissed me though, when we got home.”

Ilya exhales and forces himself still and looks at Shane’s face, nodding once. 

“Nothing happened, really,” he says, his voice wavering. “We kissed a couple of times, he wanted -” he sighs, and Ilya waves his hand to say you don’t have to, I understand. “He wanted more,” Shane settles on saying. “But, I was really young and looking back, thank god it was just kissing, but there was apparently like,” his lip curls up, “A nanny camera. His parents had a nanny camera in his room.”

“Holy fuck,” Ilya can’t stop himself from saying because who the fuck does that and -

“There wasn’t sound, just…the video so he didn’t hear what we talked about, just me all over him and…” He stops and Ilya puts his hand back around Shane’s ankle because he needs to touch him and to anchor him on this couch and Ilya fucking wants to hold him. Shane nods once, his eyes closed. “When his dad confronted him about it, he said it was me.”

Sick dread crawls up Ilya’s spine. Being outed was a fear he carried around his entire life and for some massive NHL star to have…Ilya understands so much more about Shane now.

“My parents were…horrified.” And then his eyes fly open and he holds out a hand and says, “not about it being a guy.”

“That you were recorded.” Ilya confirms.

“They wanted to sue him,” Shane tells him. “But if they did…it would have…”

“Hockey is small,” Ilya understood. “But Canada…the laws? They would protect you? Victim something, yes?”

Shane exhales. “Yes, probably, but it really…fucked me up.” He says and of course it did. Ilya doesn’t know how it could not fuck him up. “I tried to get a girlfriend,” he kind of wrinkles up his nose. “Which is maybe fine, because she’s now my best friend…but, Montreal backed out of my interview because I was skipping a lot of training because Roy was there and I kind of stopped eating -”

Ilya inhales slowly. 

“I sort of collapsed,” Shane finishes, sad, soft. “I just collapsed and I pulled out of the draft. We tried to make it quiet. I think someone said I was injured, which wasn’t a lie really. I just couldn’t bring myself to play.”

Ilya thinks about what Harris said. About him going back to hockey in university for Harris. Because of course it would have been for someone else. Shane would not have let himself have something that hurt him so deeply. He thinks about that Instagram caption from just a few years ago. Finally, he had said. Finally. Like he had to claw for it - like he had to crawl towards being proud of who he was because it had cost him so much. 

He thinks about the photo anxiety and how he dated a string of asshole men and his career and future were taken from him by some asshole hockey player because his son was more important and Ilya looks at Shane’s face -his gentle, lovely face. The one Ilya wants to cup and kiss and touch and learn. And he knows that he cannot tell Shane how he feels about him. Not yet. 

Shane is going to have to be the one to take that step. He is going to need to be the one who reaches for Ilya because so much has been decided for him and Ilya is patient and he can wait. He can buy soup and cold meds and answer phone calls and watch movies and he can wait until Shane gets comfortable enough to reach for him. He can be good. He can show Shane - prove to him - that he will not betray him, that he will not hurt him. He will not be an asshole. He will not break something so precious. 

He’s been silent too long and his face must look angry because Shane is trying to soothe it away. “I am happy now, Ilya. It took me a long time. I had to do this kind of inpatient therapy thing and I got this nutritionist who made me eat gummy bears every day and I worked at this coffee shop down the road from my parents house and I didn’t do anything hockey for two years before I enrolled in university and I found my friends and I dated some people and I spent some time on set with Rose and I got…” he exhales, his cadence slowing. “I am very lucky to have so much. I am happy. I have the life I was meant to have, I think.”

Ilya has so much to say but maybe none of those things are truly for Shane. Maybe they’re for Ilya to work through later. “You are happy here? Truly?”

“Yes,” Shane confirms without hesitating and Ilya feels the grip on his throat relax. Shane does not say things he doesn’t mean. “Aren’t you…happy here?”

Ilya nods. “Very.” He means it.

Shane visibly relaxes, he flexes his foot underneath Ilya’s touch. “Will you help me heat up the ramen? We can start You’ve Got Mail, maybe? If you -” his forehead wrinkles. “Sorry, I didn’t even ask if you had plans, I just trapped you here.”

“Shane,” Ilya says, “I want to be here.”

It’s probably too much, but Shane smiles at him and nods and says, “I will probably fall asleep after I eat.”

“Shane,” Ilya repeats, “I want to be here.”

Shane rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling so Ilya gets up and starts to head over to the kitchen before he pauses and does a double take at a photo on the wall. “Shane Hollander,” Ilya puts his hands on his hips. “When you say you got a girlfriend…”

Ilya turns and Shane has his hands pressed to his face. “Oh god.”

“Did you date Rose fucking Landry after I made you gay?”

“Fuck off, oh my god,” Shane groans, throwing himself backwards on the couch. “You didn’t make me gay, Ilya. And, also I can never introduce the two of you. You will join forces and I will never have another moment of peace.”

Ilya waves at him over his shoulder and goes to pull the little soup things from the fridge. “I think we are probably past that.”

Shane joins him in the kitchen, grumbling to himself. Something about Ottawa and asshole Russians and meddling ex-girlfriends. Ilya hums to himself and pretends not to be absolutely delighted by Shane’s angry kitten face. 

Shane eats half his ramen, curls up on the couch with his feet in Ilya’s lap, and promptly falls asleep. 

Ilya allows himself to run his thumb over Shane’s ankle bone and doesn’t watch a single second of the movie. He will need to watch it when he gets home so he can talk to Shane about it. 

He has to renew his parking, he has to pay double because it lapsed. 

He very quietly cleans the dishes in the sink and packs up Shane’s ramen and puts the pack of ginger ale on the counter into the fridge and then he very gently wakes Shane up with two more little pills in his hand and makes him promise to set an alarm for six hours and take more. 

“Ilya,” Shane says as Ilya is shoving his feet back into his shoes, his backpack slung over his good shoulder. 

Ilya turns to look at him - the way he’s still bundled up in his couch blanket, his hair askew. 

“I am happy,” he says, “I love my job. I love to be the behind the scenes guy and I love my beer league guys and I love my life,” and then he looks up and into Ilya’s face and Ilya thinks he might be in danger of crying. “But sometimes I would watch you and wonder what it would have been like. To have a life where you and I -” He sighs. “I would have loved playing against you, I think.”

Ilya is the one that moves in for the hug, wrapping Shane up and drawing him close, but not close enough. Ilya has kept a lid on it because it wasn’t about him and his feelings. Nothing that happened to Shane was about Ilya. He can unpack all that later, but for one single second he thinks it flares out. It engulfs them. Maybe Shane can feel the fire that would have burnt down the Roy family for Shane. 

He knows what he has to let happen but in the moment of weakness, Ilya turns his head and presses a firm kiss to Shane’s temple. “Yes,” he says, his lips lingering against Shane’s skin and it softens him, “that would have been wonderful, but maybe…” he says, full of careful devotion, “maybe this could be…” he doesn’t want to say better because he doesn't think it would be better, but maybe...maybe he means, just as good.

Shane understands anyway, stepping back from Ilya, his whole face flushed and warm. “Goodnight, Ilya.”

Ilya runs one finger down Shane’s arm. “Goodnight, Shane.”

And then he turns and flees Shane’s apartment and waits until he gets home to let himself cry. Rage and heartbreak pouring out of him in a way he isn’t sure he really understands. 

You’ve Got Mail doesn’t hold his attention any more the second time through tonight, so he puts on The Shop Around the Corner instead and then he watches an episode of Gossip Girl because he’s committed to annoying Svetlana with it. 

He is still up when his alarm goes off for Shane to take more cold medication. He texts him about it and then he waits until Shane sends him a thumbs up and a smiley emoji and that’s when he finally puts his phone on do not disturb and tries to get a couple of hours of sleep. 

It’s mostly unsuccessful which means the next day of practice is ass. Ilya is dragging and he punishes himself for it - staying late and forcing himself to work harder and that means he doesn’t sleep well again and that’s probably why he isn’t looking when Dallas Kent sends him into the boards and subsequently into the back of an ambulance. 

Chapter End Notes

We earn the forced outings tag. There's a brush against eating disorder talk, but my intention is not to give Shane an eating disorder but it's more close to stress and devastation making it hard to eat.
Ilya feels violent and he yearns.

Also sorry for the cliffhanger but not really

Chapter 13: it takes a lot of pain to pick me up

Chapter Summary

Ilya deals with his injury. He's fine. Really.

Chapter Notes

Sorry about the cliffhanger in the last chapter. I was going for shock, but I didn't mean to kill you guys.

The chapter title is from This is the Last Time by The National.

Every time I'm like "I won't finish the chapter", something happens and I do indeed finish the chapter.
This week I got distracted because Sol decided to read the Captive Prince and somehow got me involved so then we lost our minds for four days straight about these stupid series we somehow never read.
We survived but we're very emotionally damaged and once again - we are ruined by an evil blonde man.

I really hope you guys like this chapter even though it's all just...set up - a sentence that could mean nothing.

“This is bullshit,” Ilya says, staring at the ceiling of this little room. 

Harris makes a noise that could either be yes, it is bullshit or yes, you have said 100 times. Ilya chooses to believe he’s agreeing with him. 

“I am fine,” Ilya says.

Harris makes the same noise. 

“I am secret son of long dead Russian royal and I devised plot to become best hockey player in the world to avoid detection,” Ilya tries. 

Harris makes the same noise, but then he stops tapping on his phone and looks at Ilya, squinting at him. “No,” he says firmly. 

Ilya rolls his eyes and goes back to looking at the ceiling. 

His arm is fine. Everyone is being overly cautious with him because of the time he died and they had to make his shoulder work again, but as he said, it wasn’t even really his shoulder. It was his elbow, which okay, might not be as perfect as it was this morning, but the little loud tube thing with the stupid initials has confirmed that it’s just a sprain and Ilya is fine and he didn’t even need Harris to come sit with him, but Terry was with Bood somewhere else in this hospital making sure his knee isn’t busted and the coaching staff is a little thin because of the flu apparently, so here they sit. 

Harris tapping on his phone, Ilya coming up with increasingly elaborate scenarios where they break him out of this…curtained off room and he gets to go home and sleep in his bed. 

He’s a little averse to hospital beds and he doesn’t think he can be blamed for that. 

They had called Svetlana on the little phone that someone brought him from the desk and she had yelled at him thoroughly and completely and she had only not gotten on a plane because she is coming very soon anyway and Ilya had promised to call her many many times a day. 

“They said -” Harris is still tapping and Ilya knows he’s working and wishes that he was not making this all harder for Harris, and also secretly wishing that Shane was well and had been at the game and had been the employee sent to sit with Ilya and drive him home and maybe Ilya should insist again that Harris text someone and ask for his things from the rink so Ilya can tell Shane he’s fine because he was probably watching at home and okay, Ilya is probably a little high, which he hates and -

“Ilya,” Harris is now standing up, waving his hand. 

Fuck.

“Sorry,” Ilya inhales, blinking rapidly. Not offering anything else up. 

“I am just going to say back soon,” Harris says, and Ilya nods at him, makes a noise he hopes means sounds good and not very bad idea, Harris. Harris makes a pleased noise immediately after and then locks his phone and shoves it into his pocket. “Okay,” he nods. “Wyatt is bringing your stuff and is also going to drive your car home so it’s there. And he wants to know if you are fine and need to hire a sexy nurse.” And then Harris clarifies. “He used the words sexy nurse.”

It makes Ilya giggle and then he immediately sobers because he starts thinking about Shane again - how he took Shane soup and medicine and how they had watched hockey together and Ilya thinks that would make him feel better. And he is sexy. All freckled and flushing and a bad haircut. 

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No sexy nurse. I will maybe not be so good at cooking, but -”

“Oh, the WAGs are doing a meal thing,” Harris says. “They always do it for the single guys.” And then Harris flops backwards onto the chair. “Well, the WAGs and me, but it’s just practice,” Harris winks. “Someday I will fulfill my true calling and I will become a WAG.”

Ilya remembers a conversation he had in Boston one night - after Scott Hunter kissed a guy on ice. Debating what the Admiral’s were going to use. Not WAGs. Not anymore. Ilya had tried to insist on HAGs and then someone had explained to him the English use of the word HAG and he had spent a lot of time drunkenly apologizing to Marlow’s girlfriend. 

“You can be my WAG,” Ilya winks because it’s kind of automatic to flirt a little bit, and also he is layering the impact for Harris when he finds out that Ilya is bisexual. 

Which is apparently going to be right now because Harris leans in and pats Ilya’s hand like he’s a silly child and says, “I bet you have devastated so many lovely men by being so sweet and so sincere. I remember when I was scared of you.”

And Ilya can’t stop himself from saying, “Harris,” and then putting on his best American accent - which is shaky at best when he’s not moderately high and in pain, “I am literally bisexual.”

Ilya is afraid he’s killed him. Based on the strangled choking noise Harris makes and then he stops fucking breathing and Ilya is all tucked tightly into this bed and he’s got a sling on his arm, but it can’t take him all that much time to break out - oh, he has a button. He can press the button if Harris doesn’t take a breath in the next few seconds. 

He’s reaching for it.

Ready.

“Oh,” Harris wheezes. “You are…”

He’s not looking at Ilya, but now Ilya knows he’s not going to die and he can’t help but laugh - half a breath of laughter. “Shane very much wanted to see your face when you found out. If I had my stupid phone I would take a photo.”

“Shane knew?” Harris hisses, his body coming back online finally, his head whipped around to look at Ilya with far too much understanding, but Ilya is saved by all of that because the little corner of his curtain room is peeled away and standing there, looking very much like Ilya broke his favorite toy, is Troy fucking Barrett. 

Ilya cannot believe he’s going to be grateful to this idiot man for saving him from saying something incriminating about the crush he has on Shane Hollander. Ilya is maybe more sure than ever that he actually did die and he somehow tricked his way into that heaven his mama believed in because weird things keep happening to him. Weird, but very good. 

Weird, but good like Troy stepping into the curtain room and saying so softly that it’s almost lost in the noise of all the other curtain rooms. “I am sorry,” he pauses. “I wanted to come and apologize and -” he waves towards Ilya, his eyes caught on the sling. “I know that was the arm you…I just wanted to apologize.”

“Sure, Barrett,” Ilya nods, “Thank you.” 

Barrett starts staring at the floor very hard. 

“Just come to hospital to…” Ilya waves his good arm. “You have appointment here for transplant?”

Barrett doesn’t lift his head, only his eyes. A kicked puppy. “Transplant?”

Ilya taps his own head. “New brain?”

Something very ugly happens on Barrett’s face. Which is a shame because he really is a stunner of a man. 

“Sorry,” Barrett mumbles, “I just wanted to check on you and Bood and -” he’s scooting backwards, trying to snag the curtain wall to slip out, but Ilya can’t let him do that yet. 

“Troy,” he says, low and slow. His captain’s voice. Troy immediately stops reaching for the curtain - immediately stops breathing. He doesn’t look up. “You ever want to stop being Dallas’ lap dog and you want a fresh start, have your agent reach out.”

Harris’ chair squeaks, but Ilya doesn’t take his eyes off Troy - at the hitch of his breath. 

“See you around, Rozanov.” Troy says, and then he’s apologizing to someone outside the curtain and his feet carry him away.

Ilya watches the curtain until it stops swinging and that’s when he looks over to Harris who is still looking at the corner where Troy appeared. “Okay,” Harris says, “what the fuck?”

He turns wide eyed to Ilya and motions like, answer me, and Ilya realizes he does not mean Troy’s arrival, but Ilya’s offer. 

Ilya points at the corner, “You are not captain,” he points to his own chest. “You do not come to hospital to see another player who is also not captain who is here because of -” he points back to the corner, “asshole best friend and then say sorry to someone in the hall if you are bad man.”

Harris kind of glares at Ilya. “Okay, I am being a judgemental asshole, but really? They’re both -”

Ilya wags his finger. “I have heard him say some bad shit, but never heard bad behavior. Maybe he needs a good influence.”

“Yes,” Harris laughs, kind of disbelieving. “And who better to be a good influence if not our reformed prince.”

Ilya groans and throws his head back, swallows hard and says, “Sveta, the one who -”

“Is very scary?” Harris laughs, “yes.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “Very scary.” He waves his hand out. “She said I was like rescue dog. Maybe Troy is also rescue dog.”

Harris groans, “No, don’t. I’ll get all attached to the idea of him and he’s hot enough on his own without making me care about him and wondering if he’s eating or had his shots.”

Ilya laughs - far too loud for the little curtain room, but he can’t stop himself. “Kinky,” he says and then Harris bats at him and Ilya curses because it does actually hurt to be jostled around, which only makes the two of them laugh harder and of course that is when Wyatt appears in the corner of Ilya’s little curtain room with Ilya’s bag slung over his shoulder and a folder that Ilya suspects in discharge paperwork. 

“Are they just giving out good drugs in here or -” Wyatt starts to ask, but Harris snorts and it sets Ilya off again and it’s so ridiculous for Ilya to feel happy right now, but he is. 

Harris manages to get it together enough to tug the folder from Wyatt’s hand and flip through it. “We have to stop at the pharmacy,” he confirms. 

“For my shots?” Ilya asks, and Harris honest to god starts crying.

“I don’t wanna fucking know,” Wyatt whispers and then sits down in the little chair against the curtain wall. 

Ilya waves for him to come help him get himself out of his blanket prison. “I want to go home,” he says, and he finds that the idea is…comforting. And not at all scary like it would have been before. 

Ilya waits until he gets home before he pulls his phone out of the bag it’s in. 

Mostly because he knows that once he’s got it in his hand, he won’t do anything else except text Svetlana and then Shane and he needs to try and hold himself still and also listen to Harris talk to him about the vocabulary he’s been pulling from the internet for Ilya to cover for his Russian YouTube videos. The plan is that he will come in on an off day and shoot for about an hour and Harris will cut that into six or seven episodes to post over the summer. 

It’s a good plan and Ilya is glad that this is something that can be done all at once instead of the cooking videos Harris had suggested. This is much less of a thing. 

Which is extra good right now because Ilya’s pain meds are starting to wear off and his brain is slipping out of that fuzzy state and into something sharper and angrier. 

Ilya hums in all the right places, allows Harris to come inside with him so they can open the garage for Wyatt and then lay out the medication that Ilya won’t take and ask him 100 times if Ilya is really okay by himself. 

“I will shower,” Ilya insists because he is disgusting still from the bit of the game he played, “and go right to sleep.” He draws a little x over his heart with his fingertip and Wyatt snorts. 

“Come on, man,” Wyatt grips Harris’ shoulder. “You’re not the one he wants to help him shower.”

Harris laughs because he’s lovely and he does that and then allows Wyatt to steer him out of the house while he shouts about meal delivery. It’s not until the front door shuts does Ilya realize what Wyatt was saying. 

If he had more energy, he would be embarrassed about being so transparent, or maybe prickly because Ilya did not really ever talk about people - not like that. In Boston, he had some regular hook-ups in other cities, but they were never consistent. Svetlana - but that was…nothing. He brought her to a couple of things, but then had to stop because the whole team decided she was responsible for the case of yips Connors developed after she tried to correct his hip alignment one night at a party. 

Ilya sticks his hand in his bag, grips his phone and the bottle of water out of the side of his bag and starts to trudge up the stairs. 

Shane has sent him…mulitple messages, but Ilya values his life and calls Sveta first, promising over and over that he’s fine, it’s a sprain, he will call her tomorrow, he will eat, he will rest. He listens to her rapid fire Russian and shimmies out of his compression pants and then puts her on speaker and starts in on the straps of his sling. 

It’s not great because he can’t really reach the one around his back well and he’s not sure how he’s going to get it done back up after his shower, but that’s a problem for him after he’s not smelling of sweat and hospital. 

Sveta is still talking when he does manage to get naked, biting back on the hiss of pain when he has to tug his compression shirt off so he carries the phone into the shower and puts it on the little ledge that is probably not meant for a phone, but Ilya doesn’t really fucking care. 

She’s moved on from his game and the way she thinks Dallas Kent should be fed to a pack of wild dogs and is now telling him about some trade deal she’s brokering in a few hours. 

She’s talking for her own benefit. When Ilya sticks his head under the water, he can’t really hear what she’s saying, but it’s comforting to him to have her voice and it’s comforting to her because it was probably traumatic. 

“Sveta,” he says, his forehead pressed into the cool tile next to his phone. She abruptly stops speaking. “Sorry,” he says it in English because he feels fragile and horrible. 

He’s home now and he’s okay and his arm fucking hurts and it’s going to be worse tomorrow and it is crashing over him now that he’s rattled. This shook him up. He scared her, he knows, and he really wishes he wasn’t alone right now. 

“No,” Sveta says, her voice blazing and hard and Ilya is certain that she could go toe to toe with god and walk away. “You are okay,” she insists and then much quieter. “Do you want me to stay on the line?”

Ilya shakes his head because he doesn’t want that. He wants her to sleep again because she’s somewhere across the world brokering a deal and Ilya needs to let her go. “Sleep,” he tells her. “I will call when I am up in the morning.”

She grumbles something that Ilya cannot make out over the sound of the water and then says, “I love you, you will kill me,” and then she hangs up the phone and Ilya huffs out a laugh against the tile. 

He considers attempting to wrangle himself dry with a towel, considers standing in his bathroom naked until he’s dry, and considers getting directly into his bed the way he is and paying for it tomorrow. 

He decides to be responsible which means he half dries himself with a towel, wrestles underwear and a shirt onto his still damp skin because the sling will chafe if he doesn’t, and then makes his best effort to secure the sling back to his body. 

He’s brushing his teeth before he allows himself to look at the messages. 

There are messages from the team, Wiebe, Harris, Marlow - surprisingly - and an unknown number, but he doesn’t open any of them. Only Shane’s. 

There are 13 of them. 

I know I don’t drink gatorade, but I had this cucumber lime flavor on vacation once and I think about it all the time. 

Wyatt has a new helmet

Why would Wyatt get a new helmet mid season does he not respect the hockey gods

Fuck I hate Dallas Kent

If he says anything homophobic on the ice, I’m going to file a complaint with the league, he’s creating a hostile work environment.

I bet I could convince Bood to do it. 

Fuck

Ilya

Call me when you can

I’m going to drop him in an ice fishing hole

I’m trying to be chill, but I really just need to know if you’re okay

I’m sorry, you don’t owe me a call or anything, but are you okay?
Harris said they’re taking you home, please rest, I am so glad you are okay

Ilya reads them three times and feels guilty for not texting him right away. He’s obviously worried. He was watching the game and saw Ilya carried off the ice and then nothing. For hours.

Ilya gets toothpaste on his sling. 

That’s never going to come out.

Home now, Ilya types and pauses before hitting send

Sorry i had to shower. wash Dallas Kent away

Sorry for scaring you

He wishes he could unsend that last message. Shane did not explicitly say that he was scared so maybe that wasn’t fair of Ilya to say, but the messages do not even click over to read before Shane is calling him. 

“Shane?” Ilya hates how his voice shakes. 

“Sorry,” Shane says, fast. “I know you’re probably in bed, but I just wanted to call and…” he trails off. 

He was scared. Ilya can hear it in his voice. It makes his throat hurt. “I am glad you called,” Ilya tells him, because now that he’s sure Shane was scared, now that Shane is on the line and Ilya is thinking about how he wanted to have him at the hospital with him… 

Shane makes a kind of sniffling noise and Ilya reminds his stupid brain that Shane was not at the game because he was sick. He’s not crying. That would be insane. “Harris said it was just a sprain,” Shane whispers. “Sling, out for a couple of weeks, back after All-Star break likely.”

“Yes,” Ilya confirms and then switches the call over to speaker so he can get his bed ready - the pillows arranged right, the duvet pulled down. He sets his phone next to the bottle of water he brought up. “I will maybe go insane,” Ilya confesses. “I am not sure I will be good person to be around.”

Ilya hates himself for saying it. He doesn’t even know why he says it. 

But then Shane says, “If I wasn’t sick, I would have come. I would have come to sit with you so you weren’t…alone.” His voice softens. “I was worried you were alone.”

He wants to say Harris was there, or do not be concerned about me, or bye, Shane, you are breaking my heart. 

What he says is, “I was scared to be alone,” Ilya admits. “Harris came to save me, but I -” his stomach twists and he doesn’t want to admit anything - make Shane uncomfortable. “I need to sleep, but I do not know if I can.”

“Pain?” Shane asks. “Did they give you -”

“I do not like them,” Ilya says. Too quickly. “I do not like to take them unless it is very very bad.” He needs Shane to understand. “And I think maybe,” he says slowly, fumbling to plug his phone in so he has something to do with his hand, clicking the lamp off, sliding back into the cocoon of pillows, “I will probably dream of hospital.”

He hears Shane sigh over the phone, loud and crackly. “Are you in bed? Are you comfortable?”

Ilya is not comfortable, but he thinks this is the best it’s going to get. “Yes,” he tells him. 

Shane sighs again and says, “Do you want me to tell you about the first women’s university hockey team? I am reading about them right now and I could tell you.”

“I will fall asleep,” Ilya tells him, his throat tightening with unshed tears - with a wail that he doesn’t understand. 

“I know,” if Ilya closed his eyes he would be able to perfectly picture the little nod Shane would give him. “But, you will be thinking about this instead of the hospital, right?”

Shane is probably most right, but - “Do you know about anything that is not hockey? To talk about?”

It’s a laugh over the phone now. “This is very grandson in the Princess Bride of you. Can you trust me? It’s not really about hockey.”

Ilya wrinkles his nose up. “What is this? The princess bride?”

“Oh my god,” Shane says, and Ilya only ever wants to say things that make Shane say oh my god. “Well, now I have to plan to show it to you. You will love it. I know you will. Anyway, shut up and listen to my hockey story that isn’t about hockey and fall asleep so your body can heal and you can get back to being beaten by a beer league hockey player.”

Ilya knows his voice is full of his smile. “Best undrafted hockey player that has ever lived.”

“Okay so,” Shane all but shouts and Ilya knows he’s going to start and Ilya expects to lay awake until Shane gets done talking, but his eyes drift shut immediately and he can’t help but think about how much lighter Shane sounds and how much lighter Ilya feels. 

Ilya is holding a very small, sleeping baby and he is going to quit his job and change career paths. No teaching. He will be a nanny. Surely there is a demand for retired hockey players who can teach tiny children Russian and skating. 

Maybe he could even let Svetlana do more with his money and he wouldn’t even need to be paid to do this. He would do it for free. 

“Ilya, do you want me to take him back?” Adriana is asking maybe because dinner is ready and Ilya only has one arm anyway and he is sure no one will volunteer to feed him, but he very much does not want to let go of this baby. 

Ilya makes a noise of distress, but he knows he’s been a baby hog since he got here and he knows that he does need to eat and probably visit with Wyatt and Lisa, but Ilya had been handed a tiny wide-eyed baby as soon as Wyatt had settled him in the corner of the couch with a pillow for his elbow and then that baby had babbled at him and patted his arm and Ilya had experienced that same uncomfortable stretch inside of his body. 

Svetlana had asked him once - back when they were very young and she was still in school and still deciding who she was going to be. She asked him if they would be good parents. Maybe together. Maybe apart. They were both fucked up by their complicated family and she had wondered if that would matter if they had children someday. 

Would the sins of their fathers haunt any children they brought into the world. 

Ilya had laughed at her - the sting of his mother’s departure had felt like a fresh cut until he had been 24 and realized he had spent just as much time without her and maybe he couldn’t let that kill him too. Back then he could not comprehend ever even wanting his own children. Even though he always loved them. Children were honest and unfailingly kind and mostly sweet. 

He loved children, volunteered for every child's interaction with the team, but the idea of the tiny ones, the vulnerable ones - it had never seemed like something that would fit into his life. Drinking and fucking and fast cars and something that would happen far out and on accident, but then Ilya had been given a glass of sparkling juice that he didn’t touch and a baby that fell asleep against him like he trusted him and something unfolded in front of his eyes that he couldn’t stop. 

A real future. A baby. A partner. A soft dinner party that is full of sparkling juice and gentle laughter amongst a family that genuinely like each other and Ilya looks up at Adrianna, ready to hand her son back, but she stops him, one hand on his arm. 

“Dinner won’t be ready for 10 more minutes and you know what they say, never wake a sleeping babe, yeah?”

Ilya has to swallow hard, nodding. 

Lisa comes in behind her - not to take Anthony - but to take a photo of Ilya, promising to send it to him, and then she nudges his juice out of the way and sits down on the coffee table, gentle fingers brushing over Anthony’s tiny fingers. 

“Sorry for taking him all night,” Ilya apologizes. He knows they’re only here for a few days. 

“No,” Lisa whispers, still leaning into Ilya’s space to look at the tiny baby in Ilya’s arms. “Don’t apologize. Babies…settle you.” She is still brushing her fingers over Anthony’s tiny arm. “We used to go hold the little babies in the NICU in med school. We could volunteer to hold them if their parents lived far away from the hospital or they couldn’t come visit, and it always helped us.”

Ilya imagines that it had to have helped. Although it would have probably also made him sad - to have tiny, sick babies with no parents around. 

“You did a good thing, Ilya.” 

Something prickles around his chest. “By holding -”

Lisa shakes her head and her hair swishes around her shoulders. “For what you did for Ama and her mom.”

Ilya blinks at her. Wants to tell her that he has no idea what she’s talking about, but he can’t make his mouth work. 

She looks up at Ilya’s face, her hand squeezing his before sitting back up. “The next time we see him, he’ll probably be crawling, but you’ll be healthy and can chase after him.”

“I will,” Ilya promises. “I will also bring him Rozanov jersey. And poster. And every card since draft.”

Lisa’s laugh is soft, and she holds her arms out. “Let me have him. You go eat and tell Wyatt your plan.”

Ilya hates to part with him, but he lets Lisa scoop him out of his arm and he clambers to his feet and towards the laughter in the kitchen. 

“Here,” Wyatt says, holding a fork out to Ilya as soon as he’s through the doorway. “Try this.”

Ilya keeps himself from wrinkling up his nose. He’s not a fan of the tiny cabbage things that are an affront to actual cabbage, but he takes the fork from Wyatt anyway and pops the whole thing in his mouth. 

“They’re disgusting unless you cook them right,” Adriana says, stirring a saucepan with vigor. 

“How do you cook them?” Ilya asks through his bite because it’s the best baby cabbage he’s ever had. “I want them like this every time.”

Wyatt sighs, his arms crossed over his chest and downtrodden. “You deep fry them,” he answers. 

Adriana is laughing and Ilya joins in too because these are surely not on anyone’s diet plan, but he holds his now empty fork out. “Another please?”

He is given another baby cabbage and eats it immediately. Wyatt and Adriana are talking now about some restaurant in their hometown and Ilya has to nod along, but they're including him - asking him if he likes prime rib (no) or iced tea (okay, not great) or sugar pie (which sounds fake but is not, apparently). 

Ilya is given another baby cabbage and then is pulled into a conversation about learning English from television shows and old movies with Adriana’s wife and he realizes that he hasn’t had time to mope about his sprained elbow or missing the last couple of games before the All-Star break. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out even though it’s rude. 

If flu lungs are anything like smoker’s lungs, I have never been more impressed with you than I am right now. I am GASSED after practice. Have fun with Hazy! Tell him hi. 

Ilya doesn’t allow himself to respond, just slides his phone back into his pocket, but he sees Wyatt looking at him with his all seeing goalie eyes. 

“Shane says hi,” he admits, waiting for Wyatt to push back, to look startled - to look at him with pity. 

Wyatt’s smile is soft. Ilya can feel Adriana’s eyes on him. “Harris mentioned you took him some cold meds.”

Ilya doesn’t want to talk about that day because it feels too precious, too private. “Yes,” he says, but doesn’t go on. Wyatt knows because he nods just the once. 

“Okay, dinner,” Adriana says and they all move into the dining room and Ilya tries very hard not to think about the text on his phone that he will return as soon as he’s back home. 

He’s mostly successful because it’s a very good night. 

Ilya accepts a food rotation from WAG’s and a constant stream of check-in phone calls by his teammates and he does his physical therapy and he doesn’t make pasta because of his stupid elbow and he calls Svetlana and he watches every hockey game he can record and most importantly - he and Shane talk on the phone twice. 

Once when Ilya sends Shane a text that was absolutely ragebait about Minnesota firing their head coach which means Shane calls and then begins a 30 minute rant about how teams can’t force a coach that has a coaching style that doesn’t fit the room into the role and then fire them if management won’t give them the support to make changes. It ends with Shane taking Ilya to the grocery store with him and asking Ilya to tell him about Boston.

Ilya tells him about coffee and the time the team got to tour the museum with the glass flowers after hours at some benefit thing and how he would drive to different neighborhoods to run in the spring because he wanted to see more of the city and how the Boston Marathon is very strange.

Shane asks questions and he listens and he occasionally interrupts to tell Ilya about some food thing that he has found and it’s not until they hang up does Ilya realize he’s not spent a lot of time reminiscing about the good parts of Boston since his dad died and he went crazy - the parts of Boston that he loved. 

It makes him consider crazy things. Like taking Shane to Boston with him and forcing him to suffer through one of those tiny bite places with Svetlana and driving him north and north to look at lighthouses because Ilya thinks they’re fascinating and horrible because he fell down a long pit of learning about lighthouses in his second season when he was stuck in Boston for a roadie because he got that inner ear infection and couldn’t fly. 

And the second call comes in late the night the team leaves for their game in New York and the night before Harris and Shane are meant to come to Ilya’s for dinner and to watch the game.

Shane opens the call with “Do you think if I called and asked really nicely, they would give me a new set of lungs, because it has been too long and I -” and then he makes a noise and Ilya has to press his fingertips into his eyes to keep himself from laughing or throwing himself out the window of his bedroom from…cute. And also, maybe Shane could ask nicely and Ilya could bribe a hospital official. 

“Hi, Shane,” Ilya blinks up at his ceiling. “How was first game back? Your lungs okay? You did not push too hard, yes?”

Shane groans. “I’m fine, but I’m being good and I’m going to respect the limited ice time mandate and I will…be grumpy when I show up tomorrow” He pauses, “About the ice time.”

Ilya knows what Shane means because he’s a bitch when he’s sick and can’t play to his full capacity and he knows Shane will be the same. He knows Shane will be the same because Shane is the same about hockey as Ilya is. 

This conversation is shorter and slower and it winds around in loops between hockey and Ilya’s too clean house that smells like peppermint and how Shane likes lavender scented sheets and how Ilya is watching Gossip Girl and then Ilya has to explain to Shane the entire first season of Gossip Girl because it turns out Shane does not watch television really and sometime around Ilya insisting that he knows how much real estate costs in New York City and no one who lives in a loft apartment like that is that poor, he realizes that Shane has fallen asleep. 

“Goodnight, Shane,” Ilya whispers and then he counts to one hundred and five before he hangs up and he sits in his pillow throne and thinks about the baby he held and how he wanted to go so badly to Shane’s game, but was worried about being photographed in his sling. He thinks about Shane coming to his house tomorrow and how Ilya just wants to see him. 

That’s what he’s thinking about when he falls asleep and that’s why he has another dream about Shane.

It’s Shane standing in Ilya’s house, holding a casserole in a disposable pan, looking at Ilya so fondly. “You have to tell them to stop,” Dream Shane says to Dream Ilya. “I’ve already filled the freezer in the mud room. At this rate, we won’t have to cook for a year.”

“Yes, is the point of friends, Shane.” Dream Ilya laughs, and he’s so happy. He can feel it even in the dream. How happy he is. “We will eat this one.” Dream Ilya says, reaching out for the pan, but before he gets there - before he can lean across the foil and kiss Shane, he jolts awake, a dull throbbing pain insistent and demanding because he’s moved some of his pillows and he’s sideways. 

Ilya rearranges himself and tries to hang onto a tendril of that dream - a missing piece of something - but all he can really remember is Shane Shane Shane in his house. In his life. 

Ilya will have that so very soon and he’s so greedy for it that he can almost convince himself that having him here as a friend who brings over dinner is enough.

Harris comes through the door first, a pie in one hand and a grocery bag in the other. He’s already talking quickly about the ice cream he needs to put in the freezer and Ilya can hardly hear him over the sight of Shane’s smile. 

It’s not even particularly bright - one of the smaller ones where his mouth is barely tugged up, but his eyes are bright and he’s looking at Ilya with those bright eyes. 

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Ilya says back because for this very second, all Ilya can think is I missed him. 

He’s not seen him in days because of the sickness and Ilya having a constant stream of teammates checking on him, but not Shane and Shane is the one he wanted to see. Shane is the one he really wanted to see. 

“I have vegetables,” Shane says, holding up another pie tin. Ilya eyes it warily, but waves Shane in, trailing after him into the kitchen. Harris is going through his drawers looking for something. 

“Do you have a pie -” Harris makes a scooping motion, “thingy?”

Ilya hums and makes like he’s going to seriously join Harris in his endeavor before he says, “No, Harris, I have no pie thingy.”

Shane laughs and then starts to dig one of his hands into the grocery bag Harris brought in. “I brought two.”

He produces two of those pie server things and smiles about it and Ilya wants to congratulate him, but realizes Harris will absolutely realize that Ilya is gone on Shane, and then realizes he doesn’t care. 

“Shane!” Ilya says, taking them both. “You think of everything.” He’s beaming at Shane, watching him blush. “Show me the vegetables you will make me eat.”

He expects Shane to say something about how he needs to be eating omega blue’s from starberries to heal the funny bone, but instead he shoves one finger into Ilya’s chest, right above the place his hand is held immobile and says, “You will not complain or I will go home and leave you here with Harris.”

Ilya squints at him. “Harris is my friend. He sat with me in hospital and we bonded over bodysnatched Troy Barrett.”

Shane raises one eyebrow and says, “Yes, but I will take the pie.”

The noise Ilya makes is all exaggerated gasping and if he wasn’t already injured he would fall to the ground, but he is injured and also Harris says, “Troy Barrett, who would have thought.”

Shane takes the pie thingies back from Ilya and turns towards Harris who is now unloading salad things from the grocery bag. “Maybe he just needs a good influence,” Shane offers up. 

Ilya half laughs and then slides around the kitchen island to sit down in one of the little chairs. “That is what I said.”

Harris looks at him like he’s unimpressed. “He is hot, but -”

“No,” Ilya cuts him off, slapping his palm against the counter. “He will come here and I will make him Reformed Prince Two and then you can be head WAG!”

Shane starts to laugh, high and with glee. “You told him you want to be a WAG?”

Harris is making a face that would be a pout if he wasn’t smiling so widely. “Okay, well I think we have to be realistic here. Not every NHL bad boy who wants to be reformed can be into guys.” And then he turns bodily towards Shane and points, “Which by the way, I handled that information with the utmost grace and completely -”

“You stopped breathing,” Ilya supplied and Harris puts a hand up between their bodies and continues to talk.

“The fact that you wanted to see my face means you had no trust that I could find out Ilya Rozanov has at minimum thought had enough gay thoughts to -”

“I have had more than a gay thought,” Ilya says and Harris makes a kind of strangled noise and drops his hand. Shane is still laughing. 

Harris looks conflicted. “I only mean that I don’t want to assume you’ve -” he waves a hand through the air and then starts to unbutton his coat. He’s wearing a shirt with very young looking boys that look too alike to be anything other than brothers on it. “I know with Russia and the NHL and -” he waves his hand again.

What happened to Shane grows in the room. He’s sure Harris knows. He thinks probably Wyatt knows too. Based on the way people have acted with him. He thinks probably it’s something Shane does talk about with enough trust. And Harris would know. He trusts Harris with something like this. 

“I have been careful,” Ilya tells him. “I learned what I liked in Russia with someone who had just as much to lose as I did and because I like both…” he does a back and forth motion with his free hand. “When I allowed myself…I was careful. Went places I was likely not to be known, but there is no one serious who…”

“So, no exes to crawl out of the woodworks and sell a story?” Harris finishes for him. 

Ilya shakes his head. “I was wary of anyone,” he admits. “I…” he thinks about his family. “My parents did not have good marriage and my brother does not have good marriage and I was afraid that I would not have good marriage - that we were just cursed.”

He can feel Shane’s eyes on him. He can always feel Shane’s eyes on him, but he’s only looking at Harris now. Harris who is looking at him with a kind of sadness that Ilya is familiar with. It’s not pity. It’s like he’s understanding something he had no context for before now. It stretches on and on until finally he says, “Yes, but then you can be an idiot with two happily married parents and still pick the biggest idiots to date.”

“Oh fuck off,” Shane huffs and then tosses a little potato at Harris. It pings off his face and goes rolling towards Ilya who traps it under his hand, laughing a bit at Shane’s ire. 

“You?” Harris’ voice is all pitched up. “I was talking about me, but now that you mention it…” and then he bats away another tiny potato. And that’s when Ilya gives himself permission to look at Shane.

Shane is grinning and not looking at all put out by Harris telling him he has bad exes because Ilya remembers that panic in Shane’s entire body outside the club the night they went to dinner and Ilya successfully made them friends. 

“Yes,” Shane laughs again, “You and me both. Worst taste in men.”

And only because Ilya is looking at him, does he see Shane’s tiny glance at Ilya, at the tiny wince on his face. Ilya is mad and drunk with the possibility of that tiny look. Not you, it said. I don’t mean you.

Harris is gathering the potatoes back up into a little pile and asking Ilya where the cutting board is and Shane is preheating the oven and the conversation slips into something much easier, much safer. 

Harris talks about some drama with the San Jose and the Seattle social media people - something about a mutual ex and how he thinks it’s going to crop up a real rivalry. Shane tells them both about being back on the ice after his flu and how he is just now really feeling himself today. Ilya tells them about Svetlana coming into town for the break and how excited he is because she hasn’t been to see him yet and then they are both giving him a list of things he can take her to do. 

“I know she likes the small bite places,” Shane says as he’s mixing the potatoes in a mixture of herbs and oil, “but she might like this steakhouse that I went to once. They have a very…creative menu. It’s kind of hard to get into, but I could -”

Harris makes a mean face. “No, Shane. Don’t.”

Ilya feels how high his eyebrows are. “What is wrong?”

Harris is still making the mean face. “Shane went on a date with the wine guy there and the guy hounded Shane for months afterwards and still sometimes calls him and I love you Ilya and I’m sure the dinner would be great, but I won’t let -”

Ilya knows his face is doing something unpleasant because when he lifts his fingers to say that’s enough, Harris promptly stops talking. “She probably has a list of places for me to take her already,” he says, which isn’t a lie. She will have made all the calls and done all the research and thrown his name and credit card around if needed. “I will not put Shane in harm’s way.”

Which is probably a little insane and a lot intense, but Harris snorts and Ilya looks at him, eyes even harder, knowing he’s all curled up like a violent prey animal. “If you could see this guy, you would know why that’s so funny.” 

Shane is bright red. A little beet. “Oh my god,” he mutters and then dumps the potatoes onto the baking tray with so much force two of them bounce off and roll onto the floor. “Harris, what if I start telling Ilya about your sexual preferences, hm?”

Ilya wants to know all of Shane’s sexual preferences, but he can tell that Shane would maybe leave the country if Ilya said that out loud, so he deflects. “No, no. Harris, please. I will need to know these so I can set you up for success with Troy Barrett.”

It works. Harris laughs and Shane joins in a beat too late and an octave off, but it’s still there and it’s a victory. 

Shane steers them firmly away from dating by asking Ilya how pasta making is going and Ilya groans and sets his head on the countertop. 

“That good, huh?” Shane laughs. 

“I have not tried again because of stupid elbow,” he tells him. “I have to be healthy to knead pasta dough.”

Shane makes a kind of contemplative noise. “I have been thinking about trying something new. I would like to be better in the kitchen.”

Harris says, “you’re better than me.”

“I only have what I learned in therapy,” Shane admits. “I never branched out and maybe I should, you know? A new cuisine or just new.”

“You could do that blog thing, but maybe not french cooking because it would kill you.” Harris says, talking fast. “But maybe like that. One cookbook and you make your way through it.”

Shane makes that same noise and is promptly interrupted by Harris saying damn and holding up his phone. “This is the Admiral's social media guy, I need -” 

“There’s an office through there,” Ilya points down the hall and Harris scampers off and when the door clicks shut, Ilya cannot look away from Shane’s face - because Shane is staring back at him. 

There is silence between them, but it’s not uncomfortable and Ilya doesn’t need to talk to fill it. He doesn’t want to. He’s looking at Shane’s face - the ease he’s holding himself with in Ilya’s kitchen, the way he’s got on a sweater that looks soft and hugs his chest and Ilya wants to kiss him because Shane deserves to be kissed and also because it’s making him ache - to keep himself anchored to this spot. 

He had been so sure he could keep himself from Shane until Shane stepped forward and offered his hand and told Ilya what he wanted, but Ilya missed him and he’s standing in Ilya’s kitchen looking so sweet and at home and Ilya wants to kiss him. 

“I have been thinking about your pasta,” Shane says slowly, like he too doesn’t want to break the silence. “And what you said about missing speaking Russian with other people who were native speakers.”

Ilya is trying to flip through everything he said to Shane about Russian, but he cannot recall this conversation. 

“You said it to Harris,” Shane admits, turning his eyes down to Ilya’s counter, wiping at something tiny with his thumb. “When he brought you home from the hospital.”

“Oh,” Ilya says because he doesn’t know what else to say. 

“I don’t know how you feel about Russian literature?” Shane makes it a question and Ilya wishes he could lie about this, or maybe not have such a rare look of shock on his face. 

He was in the habit of not talking about his mother before the articles about her death, and he’s even stricter about it after them, but with Shane - it’s always with Shane…

“My mama loved to read,” he tells him. “She used to read me passages out of her books at night before bed and we used to go to this little cafe across from the training center and she would let me get a treat and would exchange books with the shopkeeper.” It feels like a different person lived that life. “I did too, but when I leave Russia, I…tried to read things to help me. English and culture.”

Shane leans across the counter, his arms braced under him, his phone in his hand out towards Ilya. “What if you could take a class about Russian literature and speak with other Russian speakers about them?”

There’s a university page pulled up and Ilya keeps himself from reaching for it because…it feels strange. 

“I know you are making pasta, but it seems like maybe you don’t love it and I think Galina meant for you to find something you really like, and this isn’t connected to hockey -” he takes the phone back and clicks around while continuing to talk, “and I don’t know if you would love Russian literature either - I read Anna Karenina once and was just really confused why they were eating French food -”

Ilya starts to laugh because how can he not. Shane rewards him with one of those smiles free of his self control. It’s all squinty eyed and teeth and joy. 

“They do a course every summer and they require Russian to be spoken in class.” He flips the phone back around and the bolded text at the top reads Russian Literature & Russian Language credit option - Summer Course.

Ilya feels like he can’t breathe. “I barely finished school,” he admits. Not that he isn’t smart, but he was headed for the NHL and he had to concentrate on that. He only didn’t drop out fully because of his mama. 

Shane takes the phone back and does some more tapping. “You are a millionaire and a very famous hockey player in Canada. If you give them some money and attend a clinic with their hockey team, I bet they’d let you teach the class.” He turns the phone around and the bolded text at the top reads Application to attend classes for non-credit hours. “You can pay to attend the class to learn.”

Ilya blinks at the webpage, feeling like Shane has cut down to the core of him without even trying, but that has been Shane since Ilya saw him for the first time all those years ago. He has cut down to the core of him maybe because he’s always been at the core of Ilya. Maybe all that has ever existed inside of him was Shane Hollander and it’s so easy for him to do because he was already in there - next to Ilya’s beating heart. 

“Can you send me that?”

Shane smiles at him again, but it’s softer. “The dates for the summer course line up with hockey pretty well.” And then Ilya’s phone buzzes in his pocket. 

He’s going to bundle Shane up in his arms and never let him go, it’s impossible that Ilya feels this much for someone that he’s not so much as kissed. It’s going to unravel him. 

Shane glances down at the watch on his wrist and points towards the living room. “We should go put on the pre-game. When the potatoes come out, I’ll warm dinner up and we can eat during first period.”

Ilya wants to kiss him still, and he’s going to take his opportunity when there’s not a kitchen island between them - not to kiss him, but maybe to touch his hand, maybe to say his name slow and sweet. Shane. Maybe to stand close to him and say, I missed you. Shane will understand in that way he always seems to understand Ilya. 

Harris comes out of the office with a cackle and Ilya exhales, steadying himself for the rest of the night where he has to keep a calculated distance from Shane. 

It works until they’re leaving - Harris hugging Ilya carefully around his sling, making Ilya promise that he will take Svetlana to the ceramics shop Harris told him about and telling him he can’t wait to meet her at the party at Bood’s and then Shane…Shane who doesn’t really hug him. He leans in, pressing his cheek into Ilya’s, one hand wrapped around Ilya’s bicep, Ilya’s hand at Shane’s waist. It’s more intimate than a hug somehow. It makes Ilya feel like he could fight god and also like his very bones might splinter apart. 

“I missed you,” Shane whispers, low enough that Harris has definitely not heard. And then he’s walking through the door while Ilya is still standing there - stunned, his hand still meant to be holding onto Shane’s waist. “See you and Svetlana at the party, I am looking forward to meeting her. I know she's important to you.” He nods and then he’s walking down the path towards Harris’ truck, waving once he’s climbed into the passenger’s seat. Harris joining him. 

I missed you echoes in his head as he forces himself to lift his hand to wave back. He understands though. Shane definitely wants to kiss him too.

Chapter End Notes

in case you were wondering, I think I'm the funniest, cleverest bitch that's ever lived.

Chapter 14: I tried to call you from the party

Chapter Summary

Svetlana comes to visit and Ilya's world's come crashing together.

Chapter Notes

Chapter title from I Need My Girl by The National

Helllllooooo, I know I am days and days early on this chapter if I am following my very unofficial chapter posting schedule, but I am done with this and happy with it and I just really want you guys to have this one

Ilya sends a car to pick Svetlana up because she would fuss about his elbow if he drove and would complain about his manners if he let her rent a car. 

It’s fine with him because it allows him to watch her open the pearl earrings he bought her with his full attention. 

“I love you,” she says, touching one of the earrings carefully. “These are beautiful.”

Ilya presses a kiss to her cheek. “They are,” he agrees because it would displease her for him to not agree. “It’s much less than you deserve, of course.”

She glares at him as she folds herself into the kitchen stool. She’s got on expensive looking leggings and her hair is pulled up high - a very relaxed travel outfit for an overnight flight. “I did not sleep on my flight,” she tells him. “But, we can go out if you want.”

Ilya nods towards the living room. “We can rest today,” he offers and then adds. “I have not deleted a single Ottawa game.”

“It is too bad I am not here to help with practice,” Svetlana sighs, sliding off her stool with grace. “I would make you a room of winners.”

Ilya vaguely fears introducing her to Shane - not because she will take one look at the way Ilya looks at him and know, but because the two of them might start talking about hockey and then Ilya would never be able to separate them from one another and his entire life would suddenly revolve around feeding them and shuffling them from place to place while they talked endlessly about hockey and nothing else. Not even him. 

“Yes,” Ilya says stiffly. “And we have to talk about the party. You cannot -”

She sighs and throws her hands around on the way to the couch, lamenting loudly in English and Russian about being stifled. 

“I bought you a matching necklace. I’ll give it to you if you promise to not scare any of them.” 

“You were going to give it to me anyway,” Svetalana says sharply. Unwilling to entertain his nonsense. 

“But the bracelet too?” Ilya asks, patting the cushion next to him on the couch. 

She glares at him as she leans back, kicking her slender feet up into his lap. “You are the worst type of man.”

“I know,” Ilya says, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice, pointing at the remote next to her on the coffee table. “Give me that so you can continue to tell me how my left side is weak.”

“It is weak,” Svetlana says, pulling the remote from the coffee table and Ilya settles in for a long day of expert analysis from one of his favorite people that has ever lived. 

The first day of her visit is a blur of that. Hockey and Chinese take out from that place Shane told him about that he’s grown quite fond of and then Ilya showing her the tapes he managed to find of Luca Haas and listening to her thoughts on him - which are positive enough that he texts Coach about it asking if he has thought about him any more. 

They go shopping on Sunday. Ilya sits in the passenger seat and allows her to pick out three suits meant for game day for him and then he buys her a dress that she looks stunning in. They have lunch in this little bistro that asks Ilya to sign a plate so they can hang it on the wall and Svetlana beams at him in a way that seems uncharacteristic until he sees the way her eyes have gone a bit watery. 

When they get home, he’s subjected to one of her closet cleanouts where he has to fight her to keep every sentimental hoodie he has tucked into drawers and wave away whatever of the suit pieces she wants him to replace. 

She goes to therapy with him on Monday. Galina says she doesn’t do couples therapy and Svetlana laughs and then sits down on the couch anyway and says, “I am not here for therapy,” with a raised eyebrow. “I am here to make sure he is okay.”

This time last year it would have turned Ilya’s stomach - to talk so plainly like this. He’s almost shocked that all he can do is laugh and sit down next to her, reaching for her hand. “Galina, this is Svetlana,” he doesn’t bother with her full name because Galina knows all about Svetlana. They’ve talked about her at length. “She is visiting for the week.”

Galina smiles at Svetlana. “I would need Ilya’s permission -”

“Anything,” Ilya says, “She can know anything we’ve talked about.”

“Okay,” Galina says very carefully, looking away from Svetlana and back to Ilya. “You mentioned in your notes for this session you wanted to talk about literature classes?”

Svetlana squeezes his hand, like an impulse she can’t stop herself from making. She knows about his mother, of course. She knows everything. Ilya swallows and says, “Shane found that the university here has classes for Russian speakers in the summer. They allow you to take the class for non-credit. I am thinking of applying.”

“Shane?” Galina, of course, latches onto that and Ilya watches it happen in slow motion. The knowledge that Sveta is going to flay him for this later is deep in his bones. “The Shane you -”

“Yes,” Ilya cuts her off, hating how it’s all over his face. “That is the Shane, my Shane.”

Svetlana makes a noise like she’s choking and Ilya knows what he’s said and he can’t stop it now. 

“And I know we spoke last session about asking him out, but I learned some things about him…” he takes a deep breath. Galina is his therapist and she can’t tell anyone about this, but Svetlana…well, he likely would have told Svetlana anyway. Because she would not understand why he was not pursuing him. She would have misunderstood at first, she would have encouraged him to try to get him out of his system the way he did with anyone he wanted to fuck. 

He would have needed to find a way to make her understand - he really truly wanted more and because of what happened with Shane - how hockey was ripped away from him - he could not just fuck him. 

Ilya hates that he’s doing it, but he tells Galina - Svetlana looking on, her hand a steady press against his as he speaks. As he talks it through. The way Shane had told him without really looking at him and the way Ilya had worked it over in his mind after he drove home. And the way they had spoken to each other since that night - the panic in the texts when Ilya was hurt and the food and the way he had pressed their cheeks together in the doorway of Ilya’s house and said I missed you like it was a secret. 

He finishes with, “I do not understand really, why I feel so strongly about him, but I cannot hurt him. He deserves…” he loses the words. There aren’t enough words to describe how much Shane deserves happiness and softness and care. So, he says, “I cannot stand the thought of hurting him.”

Svetlana sniffs and Ilya whips his head around in horror. The last time she cried - 

“He is okay,” Galina says, but she’s not speaking to Ilya. 

“Yes,” Svetlana says, “I can see that very clearly.”

Ilya lifts her hand and kisses the back of it and thinks back to that afternoon where Wiebe had come to see him - had shook his hand and talked to him gently about a new life he could build in Canada. 

“I am okay,” Ilya echoes and then the three of them sit in silence as Svetlana dries her tears on a tissue that Galina hands over. He is okay. He really believes it. 

They make it to that ceramics shop on Tuesday in the middle of another shopping spree (this time for home goods that Svetlana insists she got wrong when she was working off photos of the house) and Ilya comes home with a Japanese teapot and makes some of that tea he bought. Svetlana tells him he’s doing it wrong and the pot she makes is much nicer somehow. The water temperature was a crucial detail he thought meant nothing. 

And that’s when they finally talk about it.

Shane. 

“You are the most loyal person I know,” Svetlana says carefully. “It is something in you that I have always loved - worried about, maybe.” She takes a careful sip of tea and then nods to herself. “Yes, I have worried sometimes.”

Ilya doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t. 

“Even when someone doesn’t deserve your loyalty,” Svetlana says the words slowly, the way she does when she wants Ilya to really listen to her. “You would rather die than seemingly betray them.”

It feels as though she is poking at bits of him that he’s always hated. The money to his brother. The way he spent time caring for the father who looked at him and saw his weak mother. The way Boston let him go and then it had nearly killed what little hope he had left. The feeling that sometimes he did not have enough room in his heart for more people because he wanted more of the people he had somehow. 

“I would like to know he is someone worthy of your loyalty.”

Ilya has to swallow down the panic. “You will meet him at the party this weekend.”

Svetlana wrinkles her nose. “Okay, but next time I come visit, it will be proper. Here. Just us.”

Ilya knows what she means. She wants to talk to him when she can really get to know him, she wants to see him away from other people. She wants to see the way he looks at Ilya when he is comfortable. 

“He has to ask me out first,” Ilya reminds her. 

She levels him with a look and then tells him cooly that they have dinner reservations in ninety minutes and Ilya should go and shower if they want to make it. 

“You have to come and help with my sling,” he says and then trudges up the stairs. “And pick out what you want me to wear. I will not play your guessing games tonight, Sveta.”

She cackles in delight. 

Ilya gets in the tube and then gets his sling off and then he walks Svetlana across the street and straight into the social worker’s office at the children’s hospital who has stashed away dozens of makeup kits and nail polish sets and lego kits and books and very expensive markers that the girl at the art supply store told him were the best and they take their loot up to the resident floor and Ilya passes the whole afternoon sitting in the floor of the entertainment room while Svetlana teaches most of the girls and one of the boys how best to do their makeup, using Ilya as her model. 

He’s going to have mascara on his eyelashes until the end times and he’s got 10 different colors of nail polish on, all of them shaky coats done by shaky hands, but when they ride the elevator down with just a few things left in the little wagon they borrowed from the social worker, Svetlana loops her arm through his and leans her head on his shoulder.

“I think it is not that you are reformed, Ilyusha.”

Ilya laughs. “What is it then? Are you going to compare me to a dog again?”

Svetlana laughs and pats his cheek and never elaborates - just leaves him to wonder what it is that he is. What she sees in him now. 

Svetlana helps him make pasta. It’s joyful and she knows immediately what he’s been doing wrong even though she’s never made pasta because she is scarily competent and he is having so much fun he forgets to be afraid of his pasta machine. 

The noodles are chewy and perfect and he tells her he’s not sure he’ll be able to do it without her and she puts her fork down and then her wine glass is moved to the coffee table and she scoots very close to him. She says softly, “You are doing so good, please tell me you see that.”

He has to stare at her wrist for a long time and think. Think about how he feels today - not because Svetlana is here, but because he has a home to show her and he has a kind of hobby that maybe isn’t entirely successful, but he’s trying and even though he’s lonely in this big house, he held a baby and thought about one of his own - one that is planned for and celebrated. 

He thinks about how he had thought that night on the drive home about the kind of father he would be. Nothing like his father, of course. He would be gentle and attentive and he would put skates on wobbly toddler legs because it’s what he knows, but only until his child could tell him what they wanted and then Ilya would learn about drawing or javelin throwing or theatre and he would do it with the same single-minded focus he learned hockey. 

Because that is what children deserve.

He thinks about the Russian literature classes and how he already looked up an old syllabus and ordered the books on it. 

He thinks about therapy and cookies from the international grocery store and post-it notes and gummy bears in shades of white and yellow and how he wants to go to beer league games with the guys on his team and how he does really still want a dog and how he has a favorite Chinese food place and he has half the team calling Bood myshka and he wants to see the Centaurs draft Luca Haas and stay late with him and be his leader. 

He thinks about the way he is thinking about renovating one of the guest rooms upstairs to be less of a room and more of a library so he can buy one of those oversized chairs and a fake fireplace and he can go there to remember his mother and one day he might take his child in the room and shut the door and show them that single photo he has of her and tell them about her kindness and how she used to read to him when he was a child. 

He thinks about how none of that had any space to exist in Boston.

“I see it,” Ilya promises her. 

And he means it. 

Svetlana forces him to text Bood to clarify the dress code when he insists there isn’t one and this is meant to be casual and most of the guys will be in jeans and hoodies, and then huffs when Bood sends back 15 laugh crying emoji’s and the fuck man, I guess your girl can dress up if she wants?

She gets that mean glint in her eye. ‘I just want to impress your Shane.” She says his name all twisted around. Russian and crazy and he glares at her until she retreats to her room - which feels…strange. 

He had maybe seen the surprise in her face when he had put her in the guest room with the attached en suite instead of his room. It’s not like they’ve slept together in years at this point, but she had still slept beside him in bed every single night between the accident and him leaving. 

And it would have been just that. Sleeping. But…well, Ilya had been hoping for a couple of late night phone calls from Shane as it had become at least a weekly ritual between them, but Shane has been uncharacteristically quiet over the visit. He had sent sporadic texts - hoping Ilya was having a good visit, a string of expletives about an interview Dallas Kent gave about All-Stars and Ilya not being there, an apology for being asleep the night before when Ilya got back home from the movie theater with Svetlana and had asked Shane if he wanted to talk about the game he had played that night - all the way in Toronto, some kind of providence thing that Shane had explained to him, but Ilya had not really understood since his grasp on the way Canada is cut up is shaky at best without throwing in beer league lines. 

A text this morning from Shane that Ilya had been unable to respond to for at least an hour after he saw it on his preview screen. I am really looking forward to seeing you tonight.

Ilya had typed back each letter slowly. I am too, Shane.

Svetlana has on a sweater that Ilya thinks is a gorgeous color on her, every bit of new pearl jewelry he purchased for her, and boots that very nearly disappear into her skirt. She looks expensive and it only softens when she smiles at him. Melting from something untouchable to the girl who has been his best friend and fiercest protector.

“Are you sure we take nothing?”

Ilya wrinkles up his nose. “I have some vodka in the car, but we do not have to bring food, you will see.”

Svetlana is silent as she climbs into the passenger seat and it doesn’t ring any of Ilya’s alarm bells until the GPS is chirping at them about being halfway there. 

“So, your Shane.” She doesn’t say it as a question even though it is. 

Ilya nods, feeling the way she’s raking her gaze over him. The sweater he put on because the color is good with his eyes and he thought about Shane noticing. The hair gel. His favorite watch. 

She shifts around in her seat and Ilya waits and waits, but nothing else comes and he wonders if she’s nervous. It’s not something he’s overly familiar with when it comes to Svetlana. The last time he saw her truly truly nervous was the first time they fucked and it was only because it was her first time and even then he only knew she was nervous because her hand was shaking. 

Angry, worried, rightfully concerned, frustrated. All of those things Ilya knows how to deal with, but nervousness is not on the list. 

It’s vulnerable and strange and it makes Ilya feel like laughing, but he values his life so he doesn’t. 

He decides the best course of action is to tell her a few things he didn’t cover with Galina - to let her hear some about Shane.

“He was very determined not to like me,” Ilya tells her, which seems like maybe a misstep if she is truly worried about Ilya’s penchant for being loyal to people he shouldn’t, but Ilya hopes she sees it for what he believes it to be - Shane being charmed by him, Shane forming one opinion about Ilya and being willing to unravel it with enough evidence. “Back then, maybe, but also when I came here. He was very determined to not like me.”

Svetlana pinches his cheek and it pulls his head around. “Yes, but no one can resist dear Ilyusha when he sets his mind to something.”

“Okay okay,” Ilya bats her away, but he’s smiling and it could slip away, but maybe he really wants her to understand because he needs her to help him tonight. “It feels like he was inevitable,” Ilya says. “Like no matter what happened or who I was…I was always going to crash into him.”

“Ilya,” Svetlana whispers, her voice all crackly and it’s a testament to how much he’s shocked her. 

“It’s like you,” he tells her. “Somehow it was always going to be…this.”

Svetlana says nothing else and neither does Ilya because there’s nothing else to say. Not when Ilya has made probably the strongest declaration of his life.

“Vodka?” Sveta asks when they pull into the driveway and Ilya parks behind Shane’s SUV. At the very least Shane will have to talk to Ilya to ask him to move his car. 

Ilya waves his hand in a way that definitely means leave it and they fall into step, Svetlana’s arm in his, her coat flapping around them and he knows what the two of them look like together. 

Is it any surprise that Bood throws the door open before they’re even properly on the sidewalk and then makes a kind of strangled noise?

His first observation is, “Sling free, bro,” and his second is, “Instagram doesn’t do you justice, Svetlana.”

He says her name like a real true Canadian does. All wrong and drawn out. 

Svetlana makes a pleased noise and Ilya already regrets not having some kind of PSA in the group chat. “Thank you,” she says at the same time that Ilya asks, “why are you stalking her Instagram, Bood? Does Cassie know this?”

Bood gives him a flat look and then holds his arm out for Svetlana to take. Which she does, slipping out of her coat and throwing it towards Ilya - which thank god he has two hands now so he manages to catch it and then sling it over the stack of coats right inside the door on a table thing. 

“She helped, of course,” Bood says to Ilya and then to Svetlana, “Drinks are at the bar, friends are on the back deck, food will be ready shortly. Ilya says you know everything about hockey, but we have our own Will Hunting of hockey inside. We’ll pit you against each other later.”

Sveta laughs and Bood laughs because men tend to do that around her. Even happily married men. But she’s laughing and Ilya is laughing because he’s talking about Shane of course and Ilya knows Svetlana is already planning on grilling him on hockey knowledge. 

“I look forward to it,” Svetlana tells him, patting his arm gently and pointing at the bar they pass. “I think I will get a glass of something.”

“For sure,” Bood immediately drops her arm. “You good from here, Rozy? You drinking tonight?”

Ilya shakes his head no because he really is a stickler these days for drinking and driving and also he wants to be on his best behavior for - 

Shane is out on the back deck. He’s got on a very thick cream sweater and his cheeks are all flushed like he might be warm, but Ilya wonders if he’s had a drink. He doesn’t see Ilya of course because he’s deeply invested in whatever it is that Young is saying to him. 

“That him?” Sveta asks without turning to look at Ilya. He scowls at her. “You’re looking all love sick,” she claims and then winks at him, unscrewing the lid of some whiskey bottle. 

“I hate you,” he assures her and then gets promptly distracted because Shane is smiling and fuck, Ilya really did not realize he could miss someone the way he misses Shane. 

He thought himself incapable. 

There were regular people in cities he visited that he would hook up with. He never missed them. He never even missed the girls he made half attempts to date and that’s always why it fell apart in the end, of course. 

He missed Svetlana. And his mama. There was just never going to be anyone else. Until he’s looking at Shane through a pane of glass and being humbled by his smile and the way Ilya missed looking at him - talking to him. 

“Come and show me off,” Sveta tells him and then waits at the door for him to open it because she likes it when he does that. 

She steps out first, Ilya with his hand on her back because it’s Svetlana and he doesn’t realize the kind of opinion everyone has already formed about this until Young says, “Damn, Rozy, no wonder you’ve been hiding your girlfriend from us.”

Svetlana - full of grace and poise and snark - says, “I am too good for him, but do not worry, he knows this.”

And then everyone laughs, including Ilya, but when he looks at Shane, his laugh is smaller, his eyes have gone elsewhere and Ilya was going to let them make a round, but Ilya takes hold of Svetlana’s very expensive sweater and all but drags her over to the group of people standing with Shane. 

“Hello,” Ilya calls to the group, but he’s looking at Shane, smiling his best smile that makes him look a little deranged. “This is my childhood friend, Svetlana Petrova. She is visiting for the week.”

Sveta looks at him out of the corner of her eye like he’s lost his mind, but Young is blinking at her a bit in shock and then his girlfriend - fiancee - says, “That is a beautiful necklace you have on.”

“Thank you,” Sveta says, bringing the hand with the bracelet up to touch it. “Ilya bought them for me. An apology for taking a bad hit and making me worry.”

It’s a joke and everyone laughs, but Ilya wonders how it’s hitting Shane - how this looks to him. Not that Ilya thinks Shane is watching them and assuming they’ve spent the week in bed together, and Ilya would never want things to change with Svetlana. She is his in the same way a sister is. He will lavish her forever because he doesn’t know how else to show his love. Not really. It’s the only way he’s ever been able to do it for anyone he has loved.

But Young’s fiance is looking at her with a kind of awe and Shane is still looking at the ground and just as Ilya is going to redirect this whole thing to ask Shane a question about literally anything or to ask Young and his fiancee how the pregnancy is going, Wyatt and Lisa walk up and Young says, “Hazy, have you met Ilya’s girl?”

Wyatt and Lisa do not look startled or ask, they just introduce themselves and that’s when Shane says, “I think I’ll go get another drink.” His beer is still half full. “It is so nice to meet you,” he says to Svetlana. “Ilya speaks so fondly of you.”

And Ilya is left watching Shane slip into the house and then he can’t see him again. 

Young is talking to Svetlana about Boston and Wyatt and Lisa are interjecting because apparently Lisa almost took a job there and then Young starts talking about how he almost went to New York in the draft, and Ilya is standing there spiraling down down down. 

He’s hardly heard from Shane this week - not like normal and they had that dinner at Ilya’s and Shane had told him he missed him and now Svetlana is here and everyone is assuming they’re together - which, okay. Ilya has hid behind that in the past and he’s let people assume and it’s never bothered him before because people were always going to misunderstand the two of them and his love life wasn’t anyone’s business, but he’s also never…wanted something more with someone. 

There’s never been someone like Shane - someone that is so good and kind and lovely and - someone that has been jerked around by asshole hockey players and used and -

Shane knows that Svetlana is not his girlfriend and he knows that Ilya considers her his closest, oldest friend, but it still probably doesn’t feel great - for people to assume. To see the person that you have feelings for stand next to a woman and get grouped together when that person hasn’t…told you how they feel. 

When your first kiss was a guy who later said he didn’t even want you and blamed you - when you dated people who made you feel small and like you weren’t enough - and it falls into place for him.

Shane might need to know that he is someone’s choice even when it wasn’t the default or convenient and sure, they had a lot of shit to work through, but Ilya wanted to pick Shane and he wanted him to know that. 

“Good to see you ready to be back, Rozy,” Young says, slapping him on the shoulder like hockey players do, forcing Ilya back into the conversation before he goes in search of something and then it’s just Svetlana, Wyatt, and Lisa and Ilya realizes he’s missed a lot of the conversation. 

Before he can apologize, Wyatt says, “Bro.”

Ilya winces. 

“Go talk to him,” Svetlana hisses in his ear and then shoves him towards the house. “Men are dense,” she says to Lisa and then adds, “And when they’re hockey players -”

Ilya can’t see the gesture she makes, but it’s probably at his expense, but he really doesn’t care. Not right now. 

Ilya thought he was doing the right thing - letting it go between them, letting Shane come to him, letting Shane decide the pace and when he would step up and ask - but, Ilya had not considered that he might be taking that option away from him if he didn’t…say it. He didn’t think about this moment - the hurt it might cause for everyone to see Ilya with a woman and immediately assume and for Shane to never be in that consideration - okay, Ilya is not responsible for heteronormativity - which is a word he looked up after he hooked up with this really hot professor in Vancouver four years ago - but, Shane had looked uncomfortable and then he went somewhere. 

And maybe Ilya has nothing to do with whatever Shane looked upset about. Maybe his game went poorly, but Ilya hasn’t heard his voice in a week and because Svetlana was here and he was all distracted, he didn’t realize how much he missed him and now -

“Hey, Cassie,” Ilya sees Shane’s half empty beer on the counter - he knows it’s his because there’s a napkin wrapped around the bottom, “have you seen Shane?”

Cassie is transferring potatoes from a baking tray into a bowl. “Might check the basement?” she pauses to point towards a hall. “Stairs at the end.”

“Thank you,” he says, and then scampers as fast as he can down the hall towards the stairs. He goes quietly, hoping both to not startle Shane, but also to maybe catch him unaware. Maybe to catch him so Ilya can assess how much this is hurting him. 

The noise from the party disappears completely at the bottom of the stairs and there he is, leaning against a table with his arms crossed across his chest, worrying his bottom lip. 

Shane.

The basement is all lit up blue which is absurd and makes their skin look strange and sickly, but Ilya doesn’t know where the lights are so he doesn’t try and fight it. 

Ilya thinks he’ll have to say something, but Shane knows he’s there of course, turning his head to look at him, standing up straight, soft and dismissive when he speaks. “Hi,” His voice is all off. “I just needed a minute, sometimes it can get -”

It’s frantic - this desire to make Shane understand how much he’s wanted. Ilya waves away Shane’s excuses and tells him - direct and firm. “I should have made it more clear to everyone that Sveta is just my friend.”

Shane blinks at him. His face is still trying to hide his emotion, flickering through tiny thoughts. Ilya lets him do it. “No, Ilya, that’s not…You know how it is.” He shrugs one shoulder and it’s obvious that it’s not fine. 

Ilya wants to reach out and hold him, but he risks taking a step closer to him. He’s still very far away. Too far to touch. Ilya needs to be precise. “I should have been more clear because I am interested in someone else.”

Shane exhales. “Ilya -” but he doesn’t back up so Ilya takes three more big steps and whatever it is that Shane was going to say, dies in his throat. 

He’s still not quite close enough to touch, but he says, “I thought -” he takes a deep breath, “I thought I would not push you - let you decide, let you choose.”

“What do you mean?” Shane’s voice is a little higher than it normally is and he starts to hold himself in a weird way and Ilya is fucking this all up. 

“I do not want to be another asshole hockey player to you. I thought what is right for you is to tell me, for you to be the one who tells me, but -” Ilya holds his hand out. A risk. “I want to take you on dates. I want to talk to you late at night. I know things with work are maybe complication, but we can…date - until we figure out what we have, and then we talk about team or work or -”

But then he is the one who falters because Shane bypasses his outstretched hand completely and steps into Ilya’s space enough that he can lay his hand on Ilya’s chest. Right over his stupid, wasted heart. He looks strange under the blue light but still so fucking beautiful Ilya wonders how anyone looks at him head on. Ilya doesn’t know how he’s ever looked at Shane head on and held himself back.

Shane darts his tongue out, roves his eyes all over Ilya’s face - looking for something. A lie. A trick. “You want to take me on a date?”

“Yes,” Ilya tells him. “I want to take you on many dates,” he wraps a hand around Shane’s waist and wants to cry at the feel of him. Solid and warm and here. “I want to walk you up to your apartment - kiss you goodnight, call you when I get home and talk until you fall asleep.” 

Shane is still looking at him like he cannot believe it, so Ilya continues. “Watch hockey with you on your couch, take you to my awful bed, eat gummy bears with you -”

“Ilya,” Shane says, fast. Ilya understands he wants Ilya to stop talking. He does. 

Shane licks his lips again and Ilya squeezes his waist. Waiting. 

“Do you think you could kiss me right now? And then take me on a date later? We can do all that later, but I have been waiting on you to kiss me since I was 17, I don’t think I can wait.”

It makes Ilya quake - like a 13 year old again - facing the possibility of his first kiss. He hadn’t wanted anyone to see how terrified he was of it - of fucking it up. 

He’s terrified again, but not of fucking it up, because it feels like it’s going to change everything. Something silly like as soon as he kisses Shane, his life will fracture over that moment and it’ll just be B.S. and A.S. 

Ilya is all cracked open anyway. What’s one more truth. “I am scared,” he tells Shane. 

“Of me?” Shane asks, but he’s already leaning in, his eyes on Ilya’s mouth still. 

“What if you decide it is like kissing your brother?” Ilya asks, half in joke, but also…

Shane shakes his head, he smirks. “I don’t have a brother, Ilya.” And how can Ilya resist him. How can he do anything except close the distance and finally kiss him. 

It’s close lipped for a second, just Ilya pressing his lips to Shane’s, taking in the little tremble of Shane’s body when it happens. It’s a respectable first kiss. Ilya could lean back and end it and take Shane on a date, but Shane had said he’s been waiting on this since he was 17 and really, so has Ilya really so he lets his stupid little adolescent brain out of the box and he runs his tongue along the seam of Shane’s mouth and slides his hand around Shane’s waist so he can haul them together properly and then he’s kissing him. Kissing Shane is better than any kiss he’s ever had in his life. 

Shane makes a delicious noise - a whimper - and Ilya has to stop this because he cannot hear Shane make that noise again before he’s taken him on a date and done something to show Shane that he’s choosing him and he wants him for more than just a hookup. 

“Shane,” Ilya gasps, pulling back, tilting his body away from Shane, but Shane has a fist in his sweater and he’s got a shiny bottom lip and Ilya has truly never felt this wild. “Do you have practice on Wednesday?"

“What?” Shane’s voice is wrecked from a kiss and Ilya is going to die on the floor of Bood’s basement floor. “Wednesday? No.”

Ilya hums, brushes his knuckles over Shane’s cheek, watches his eyes flutter open and Ilya wants to take him home. “We go out Wednesday. Me and you.”

Shane is thinking very hard. “You have a game on Tuesday and Thursday.”

Ilya squeezes his waist again. “I cannot wait. I need to - I want to take you out.”

Before Shane can answer, Wyatt’s voice calling out for them sends Ilya taking two large steps back and he looks at the doorway, waiting. 

He appears, casual and maybe a bit louder than he would normally be. “Bood is going on about food being ready.”

“Be right up,” Ilya smiles at him the best he can, but he doesn’t want food. He also wants Wyatt to go away. “Thank you.”

Wyatt looks between the two of them - the distance between them and also likely the stupid expression on Ilya’s face. He says nothing, but he does turn around and stomp back up the stairs. 

Ilya doesn’t step back into Shane’s space even though he wants to. He’s worried he really won’t be able to let him go. 

“I do not care if Hazy knows,” Ilya says, “He knows I am bisexual and I am sure that he has put it together that I am very stupid over you,” Ilya scrubs at his eyes. “But, I will not do that to you.”

Shane looks…younger somehow - the way he’s smiling at Ilya makes him look younger. “You are stupid over me?”

Ilya snorts. “Is that not very obvious?”

Shane shakes his head a tiny bit, but the way he’s smiling tells Ilya everything he needs to know. 

He makes his way back into Shane’s space, one hand back on his waist, one on his cheek. Shane goes boneless under his touch and Ilya is normal. “I am absolutely stupid over you, Shane Hollander. I thought you knew when I came over with a pharmacy and fancy soup when you had the flu.”

Shane tilts his head and forces Ilya to hold up his face. It squishes his cheek and Ilya needs to get the fuck out of this room before he does something very stupid like throw Shane Hollander over his shoulder and run all the way home with him. “When you take me on a date, will you make me wait until you walk me up to kiss me?”

“I am a gentleman, so yes.”

“Gentleman,” Shane repeats back, like he cannot believe Ilya would use that word to describe himself. “Better kiss me again then. To hold me over.”

“Fuck,” Ilya says, with feeling, and then he does it anyway - kissing Shane with his tongue and his feelings and his hand on his face and with the pleased sigh Shane gives him playing on a loop in his ears. 

“Okay, we have to go because if Harris catches us, I will never live it down,” Shane pants as he extracts himself with great effort from Ilya’s hands and Ilya has to close his eyes and take a deep breath and think of ice fishing and the prevalence of mooses in Canada? Meeses? There’s a word for -

“What’s the word for more than one moose?” Ilya asks.

Shane is looking at him like he just kicked a puppy. “What?”

“Shane,” Ilya gestures at his very tight pants and then can’t stop himself from smiling when Shane cackles delightedly. 

“It’s just…Moose? Herd?” Shane tells him, taking his duty very seriously. “You say there are three moose, but also there is a herd of moose, I don’t know how many there have to be to be a herd though. There’s probably a rule about that.”

Ilya likes him so much it’s embarrassing. 

“Good?” Shane smirks. 

“No,” Ilya promises him. “You look very pretty and I have missed you and now I know how you sound when I kiss you.”

Shane is looking at him like he’s a puffed up kitten and it’s not helping. “You are going to be a problem.”

“Yes,” Ilya laughs and then takes Shane’s hand, bringing it up to his mouth, kissing his knuckles one by one. “I will behave, but you will…I know we cannot really talk until later, but you are not angry with me? With Svetlana and -”

“Ilya,” Shane’s face is so soft, his voice equally soft. “I am pretty stupid over you too. Rose is planning an intervention. I talk about you so much.” 

It melts some last remaining fear inside of Ilya’s chest. “Can you do me a favor? Can you mention to Svetlana that your best friend is Rose Landry?”

“Will it make her like me more?” Shane asks, tugging Ilya towards the stairs because they really should go before someone comes looking for them that won’t give them the courtesy of being loud as hell down the stairs. 

“She was planning an intervention of her own.” He admits and then has to brace himself because Shane twists and kisses him hard and fast and still so so sweet. 

“Okay, no more,” Shane huffs, twisting away and dropping Ilya’s hand. “Wednesday.”

Ilya has to take a deep breath. “Wednesday.”

Shane smiles and Ilya has to stop himself from reaching out to touch and then Shane says, “I missed you this week, I was trying to give you…space to be with Svetlana, I know you’ve not seen her.”

It’s considerate. It’s sweet. “I missed you, but you should go and speak with Sveta. She was looking forward to meeting you. And Bood wants to pit the two of you against each other in hockey knowledge battle.”

Shane is a step ahead of him on the stairs and twists around to look at Ilya and Ilya feels so happy he could simply burst. “I will go apologize now,” he says, “before the game starts.”

Ilya wants to tell him there’s nothing to apologize for, but Bood appears at the top of the stairs and demands they come up and it slips away. 

It starts innocently enough - Hayes asking casually what year Chicago first won a cup, and Shane answers him without thinking and Ilya watches Svetlana narrow his eyes at him and Ilya knows it’s done for - it’s on. 

Ilya sits back and watches, Shane sitting in a chair directly across from Svetlana and Ilya is glad for it because he can look at Shane’s face as he twists it around and thinks and groans when his challenge to Svetlana’s answer for the points let in by a goalie in the Western Conference last year is shot down on a technicality and maybe Ilya is a nasty sick freak because it’s turning him on, and then he remembers the way the two of them could easily meld into one mega hockey mind and never think of him again and he tries to break it up. 

He’s shushed. Vigorously. By both of them.

Everyone laughs and Ilya avoids Wyatt’s smirk. 

Ilya thinks he can read it anyway. Oh, this is your type, huh? Beautiful and dark hair and more hockey knowledge than any human should possess. I see you.

The problem is that Ilya is being seen in this moment because Shane and Svetlana are arguing about his record his rookie year in Boston, and he has to confirm for Svetlana that Shane is the one who’s right and when Svetlana stands up to curse at him and the sky, Ilya has to cover his face and laugh. 

“Sveta,” Ilya calls, dramatically hanging out of his chair towards where she’s stalked off, “I am sorry, my light.”

“Fuck off, Ilya!” 

He starts laughing because he knows she’s mostly joking, but it does break up the hockey quizzing, the conversations floating off into something else. 

Ilya is thinking about going to find a coke or to pick at some more of that corn salad that Cassie made when Harris flops down next to him, jostling him to show him the photos he took on his camera. “I will send you some, but I might use some for the break video.”

“She will sign,” Ilya confirms and then has to do a double take because he realizes Shane has gone after Svetlana and the two of them are standing together at the edge of the deck, heads down, looking at something on Shane’s phone. 

Harris jostles him again to get his attention back. “It’s good for him to not be the smartest person in the room, don’t worry about his ego.”

Ilya isn’t worried about Shane’s ego, he’s worried about Svetlana telling him something deeply embarrassing about Ilya as a child or the two of them bonding and doing something devastating like talking about Ilya as a child when deeply embarrassing stories aren’t involved. 

Which is…what happens to friends and hopeful lovers, but Ilya doesn’t know if his heart can handle it - the people he wants to protect being all…together.

Sveta starts to laugh, and points at her own mouth and Ilya forces himself to look back at Harris, to slap him on the thigh in that obnoxious way. “What did you do on break, Harris? Sveta and I went to your ceramics shop together and she took card - very excited to have them ship client gifts.”

Harris makes a delighted noise and then he’s off and talking about the owner being someone his sister went to school with and apparently Harris made them a baby blanket last year. Ilya thinks it’s nice - it’s not something he ever experienced. 

In Moscow, people know each other through cousins sometimes, sometimes work, but Ilya left so young, he does not speak to anyone there anymore and there are no shops that belong to childhood friends or a friend of a friend who makes pies for a roadside stand. 

It wasn’t like that in Boston either. Some of the WAG’s, yes. The team would sometimes end up in a bar that was owned by their girlfriend’s brother’s best friend from high school and they would drink for free because of it. But, Ilya did not have what Marlow called roots. 

Ilya was Russian by birth and only birth, but he was never quite Bostonian because he fled Boston in the summers and the breaks and he never had a relationship that held him down. He had teammates. He had the little Russian deli. He had Svetlana. But, it is not the same for Harris here. Ilya did not have a life there because something inside of him knew that was not going to be his home forever. He would stay as long as Boston wanted him and likely no more. 

And now he listens to Harris get distracted by telling Ilya about his high school coach who is somehow connected to ceramics owner and Ilya aches.

Beyond Harris, Sveta touches Shane’s arm - smiles at him - Ilya wants roots. 

The game is uneventful. The best part is that everyone boos Dallas Kent every time they show his face and it delights Ilya. 

Dallas has always been an asshole, but he remembers there was always one guy in Boston at all times who would say something like, he plays good hockey, you have to respect it. Ilya did not respect it. 

There was no such player here. Maybe it’s because he took Ilya out, but Ilya is starting to think it’s something to do with the people. 

Sveta wanders back to his side during one of the breaks and that’s when Dykstra comes over to formally introduce Caitlin to them both and she tells them that she’s still getting settled, but is doing a lot of work with a charity for victims of sexual assault. 

The people here are different. 

Ilya can feel it. 

Shane sits next to Ilya on the little loveseat that he’s been left on. Maybe Svetlana could see the way Ilya was tracking Shane around and around and drug him over here and left him here to give them a chance to have a quiet moment. 

She’s smart like that. 

“Hi,” Shane says, and Ilya hides his stupid, goofy grin behind his hand. “I’m going to take off soon.”

Ilya wants to follow him home. “Us too,” he says. “Sveta’s flight is early.”

Shane hums. “I could call you tomorrow? After I get home from practice?”

They’re not quite close enough to touch. Ilya would have to do some big wiggling in his seat to get his body against Shane’s, but he’s close enough that Ilya can pretend - that he can smell the way Shane smells. Cold air and something soft. He’s close enough that Ilya can see his freckles and the way his eyelashes connect with his cheek when he blinks. 

“If you wanted?”

Ilya realizes he’s not spoken. “I want,” he confirms. “I would like that.”

Shane takes a deep breath. “I would invite you to practice, but I think that wouldn’t work.”

“Why?” Ilya asks even though he thinks he knows the answer. He just wants Shane to say it. Now that he knows. He wants to hear it all the time. 

Shane gives him a bitchy look instead. Ilya wants to kiss it off his stupid face. “You will text later? When you get home?”

Ilya leans in - makes it natural because he is getting up. “I wish I could kiss you goodnight instead,” he whispers, and then once he’s standing, gazing down at Shane’s blush, he tells him. “I will text you later, Shane.”

Shane nods, his mouth all pinched together, trying hard not to smile. “Bye, drive safe.”

Ilya winks at him and then turns back to the dwindling crowd. “Bood, come and see Sveta and I out, yes? I have to get Princess home for her very long flight very early in the morning.”

He deserves it when Sveta calls him a mean name. He really does. 

They don’t talk about Shane, not until they’re home and showered and Ilya is sitting in Sveta’s bed while she haphazardly packs and he waits. 

“He is fierce,” she says, tucking the sweater she had on in the little garment bag. “He is fierce about you.”

Ilya doesn’t really know what that means, so he says nothing. It makes him feel strange and mushy. 

She stops zipping and looks him in the eyes. Waits.

“I like him so much,” he tells her, unable to say anything else. Nothing else matters. He likes him. He wants him. He wants to take him to dinner and take him home and take him with him everywhere. “What did you two talk about?”

“You,” she tells him, going back to her packing and Ilya watches her - wonders what else he should say - what else he can say. Sveta always understands him. “I will kill him if he breaks your heart.”

It makes him wince. “Do you -”

“He is fierce about you, Ilyusha.” She says, but much softer. “I am only worried you will call and tell me you have married him in Vegas.”

It makes Ilya laugh.

“Now, what gift will you bring him on your date? Where are you taking him?”

That makes Ilya wince. He had not thought much further than…date with Shane. 

Sveta hauls her half packed suitcase off the bed and shimmies under the covers, picking her phone up from the bedside table. “It is good I have looked at all the restaurants here.”

Ilya would be useless without her. 

“And for the gift, you should get some of those -”

“I know what I will get him,” Ilya answers quickly, hoping she doesn’t dig. It’s private. 

She doesn’t. “There is a Japanese place, but it is omakase if that might be a problem?”

Ilya thinks about it, about Shane’s…food rules he doesn’t understand and the thing he said about therapy and how he likes to be in control. “No,’ he tells her. “Something maybe less…production? I want to go out. Normal. Let him pick his own meal and not have fussy server back and forth and talking.”

She grumbles, but changes to a new tab. He considers telling her they kissed - that he told Shane that he wants him, but that still feels like…theirs. It’s too fresh. It’s too new. He wants another kiss and a conversation and then maybe more of that and he wants it to stay theirs for just a little while. He’s jealous of that. Something he’s never had. 

“You like him,” Sveta says, and Ilya slumps down in the bed, covers his head with the blanket while Sveta giggles and Ilya wants this life - wants this all - wants to play for this team and take Shane on dates and live.

Chapter End Notes

Sooo...how are we feelingggggggg

Chapter 15: now there is no running from it

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane have their date.

Chapter Notes

Helllloooooo, my friends.
Wow, the reaction to the last chapter was staggering and then I saw someone rec me on Reddit which killed me (in the good way) and it's just so lovely. Thank you.

I hope you guys really think this chapter was worth the wait. I am believing that I had the gift of foresight last week when I posted that chapter early and did not have to battle the ao3 outage.

I will warn you, the chapters are going to be chunky from here on out. There's still a lot of ground to cover. (and then I'll likely end up splitting at least one chapter up even though I love the idea of 24 chapters, I know some people don't like 10k+ chapters.)

Chapter title from Demon by The National

Ilya has been trained well for this moment. Not by his father, of course. He’s pretty sure the…romance between his father and stepmother was not anything to aspire to. 

It’s been years of Svetlana - Sveta who had a father who was into grand romantic gestures for his love interests, but also doted endlessly on his only daughter. Gifts and money and care and interest. 

And somehow along the way, it had become the way Ilya cared for her. Opening doors, showing up with gifts, remembering to always keep silk pillowcases in every place he lived for her hair, stocking her favorite wine, and on and on and on.

Ilya had been trained slowly over years to really romance someone.

He did not account for how nervous he would be. 

It feels a bit ridiculous, but maybe that’s just how he’s going to feel with Shane - a little ridiculous and a little on edge of fucking it up. Ilya has never really done this before. Maybe this is normal. 

He’s been oscillating between low level anxiety and some sort of dread that curls up in his gut since he dropped Svetlana off at the airport and that means he’s playing a bit reckless and not really sleeping. 

It’s different than it was in Boston - obviously. Boston was like…like Ilya had been pulled apart at the seams of his soul, like the only way he could keep living was to push and push and push and never ever stop or look back or think. 

But, now all Ilya can do is think.

Think about the call with Shane on Sunday night where Shane fell asleep midway through Ilya telling him about his first cup run. Think about the look Wyatt has been giving him since morning skate on Monday. Think about the photo of Shane and Svetlana on the Centaurs official Instagram page from the All-Stars Party post - the two of them leaning together and laughing about something. Think about how Ilya had spent six hours sorting gummy bears at his kitchen table on Monday night.

He wants to live in this moment forever and he also wants Wednesday to be here and he also wants to wake up on Thursday. 

It’s like the anticipation of his first NHL game, the days before the last series in a cup run - there’s nothing he can really do to prepare, there’s nothing he can do to face it, but the fear of fucking it up…of being the thing that sours it…Ilya dreads it. And he hates himself for it. 

He wants to cherish Shane. He wants to cherish this date and this night and he wants Shane to feel romanced - even if Ilya has already kissed him. 

And maybe he’s overthinking it, but at 6 AM on Wednesday morning, he’s fully convinced himself that the romance he’s been trained for, is not the romance that would make Shane comfortable. 

And Ilya wants him to be comfortable. He wants him to be comfortable - to laugh, to talk to Ilya. He wants Shane to kiss him again the way he had in Bood’s basement and Ilya knows if they go out to dinner…

There’s a team workout this morning and Ilya hauls himself out of his house two full hours before he’s meant to be at the gym because now he needs to maybe pivot and he wants to talk to Shane about it. 

Despite the fact that Ilya has seen Shane at work on Monday and Tuesday, they’ve not actually discussed the date at work - maybe a way to keep space between them until the date, maybe a way to keep their personal lives separate. 

But this morning, Ilya drives to that silly smoothie shop and gets Shane a smoothie and then he texts him to tell him he’s coming in early to talk to coach and he’s bringing him a smoothie from that place he likes and he shoves his phone deep in his bag and drives directly to the rink. 

Shane is in his office, a cup of tea with curling steam on his desk, a bag of gummy bears open on the edge with the top folded back and open and tilted out towards the little chair in the corner - an invitation to anyone who comes to visit him to take a few. 

Ilya watches him for a moment, allows the anticipation to flare and then Shane twists away from his computer and looks at Ilya and it all just…evaporates. Cold water on hot asphalt. Ilya is churning around and around about restaurants and making sure Shane is so comfortable and that the night is perfect and romantic, and Shane smiles at him and the water stills.

“Hi,” Shane says, one corner of his mouth tugged up like he’s fighting it and Ilya takes two steps into Shane’s office and then watches him for any sign to stop as he very carefully nudges the door shut, slow slow slow until it clicks.

“Hi,” Ilya says, setting the smoothie on the edge of Shane’s desk and then moving to sit in the little chair, all spread out and taking up space, watching Shane look him over. 

“Thank you,” Shane says, darting his eyes over to the smoothie and then back to Ilya’s face. “You didn’t have to -”

“I wanted to,” Ilya stops him. “I wanted to speak to you about tonight.”

If he hadn’t spent the last six months studying Shane’s face he would have missed it. The frown. “We can do it this weekend, I know you are -”

“Shane,” Ilya cuts him off again and winces. He’s an asshole, but he can’t stand to listen to Shane assume that Ilya is here to move their date. “I will say many things all at once, okay?”

Shane’s eyebrows pinch, but he nods - probably still assuming Ilya is going to cancel. 

“I made two sets of reservations so you could pick the place you wanted and I have a very sexy shirt that makes me look like a cocaine cowboy and not a cocaine pornstar.”

Shane laughs, his eyes crinkled up, leaning back in his chair. It makes Ilya feel like he could win a hockey game on his own if he had to be the only man on the ice. 

Ilya hates to maybe go on and for him to misunderstand. 

“I want to take you to dinner,” Ilya tells him and watches Shane’s laughter fade from his face in a blink. “I am not ashamed to go out with you - for pictures to be on Twitter or whatever. I am not ashamed. We are friends and that goes far for cover until we know each other more.”

He pauses, watches Shane think that through. He nods, just once. He’s ready for Ilya to continue.

“I can take you to very nice restaurant and pull out your chair and buy fancy wine and give you big flowers because that is all I know how to do,” Ilya needs to say it. “Or I could come over to your apartment and cook you dinner.”

Shane blinks and Ilya watches as Shane watches him. “You want to come over and…cook me dinner?”

Ilya leans forward, elbows on his knees, hoping Shane can hear it in his voice. “I do not want you to worry about pictures, I do not want to take you to a place that is loud or the server is nosy. I want to talk and I want to have -” he kind of pushes the air down with an open palm. 

“No pressure?”

Ilya huffs. “I think there is little pressure no matter what.”

Shane raises an eyebrow at him - challenging. 

He wishes he could say all this better. Or maybe that he was braver. Or maybe he could believe that Shane was in this the way Ilya is. 

“I want to take you on big date,” Ilya says again, “but I want to also make you dinner and listen to you talk about…your life or your hockey team or university. I like to listen to you talk and if that is more comfortable at home, that is what I want.”

Shane’s mouth is doing something complicated again. “Why my house?”

“You will be more comfortable there?” And then Ilya adds, “I also like your apartment. It is very you.”

There’s a long silence and Shane has started to look at the condensation on his smoothie cup. Ilya is watching him think. “You really would not mind pictures of us online? It could be…” He trails off and Ilya once again thinks about paying someone to invent a time machine. There is someone he would like to disappear. 

“I do not care.” Ilya says again, trying to put every bit of feeling into his words. “We would be very handsome, all the people in the room would be lucky to be seen with us.”

Shane looks up at him, there’s something there. He takes a deep breath. “My first real boyfriend was trying to make it in the AHL and we never…he would not go anywhere with me in public unless we were with a group.”

Ilya keeps fucking this up somehow - stumbling into landmines in Shane’s life. He also adds another person to the list of people he would shove in a time machine and send flying through the ages. “He is not player in NHL now? I will -”

“Oh, I am sure you would find some very creative way to make his life miserable, but no.” Shane looks almost amused. “He is coaching kids in Calgary last I heard.”

“Calgary,” Ilya laughs, “wow, okay, he is suffering enough.” 

Shane rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

“I am not ashamed to be seen with you, Shane.” Ilya assures him. “Tonight is because I am jealous and want you to myself and I can learn more about you at your home.”

That is what makes Shane freeze and Ilya decides, fuck it. He’s already kissed him. He spent six hours sorting out wholesale sized bags of gummy bears. He spent an hour before the game yesterday laying on the couch in the lounge looking up reviews to the restaurants Svetlana helped him pick to see if they were quiet. 

He is in deep and maybe that is what he needs to show - to roll over and show Shane his belly and once he’s started to think of himself as some kind of stray dog, it’s very hard to stop. 

“What do you want? Whatever it is that you want, that is what we will do.”

It’s so close to the truth of it - that Ilya will do anything Shane wants. He only has to ask it. 

Shane picks up the smoothie, half spins the cup in his hand and then - because he is a demon - he takes a long sip of the smoothie through the stupid blue straw that Ilya stuck in the top of it. “What will you cook for me?”

Ilya has to take a deep breath, remember they are technically at work. “Boring athlete food,” Ilya promises. “I can do rice and vegetables with shrimp or rice and vegetables with chicken or rice and vegetables with fish and then toppings to make it interesting. Salsa, kimchi, chimichurri.”

“I would really like it if you made me dinner,” Shane tells him, his nose wrinkled up to keep his smile away. “At my apartment.”

It feels right. It feels like this is what should be happening. 

“And now you have to go,” Shane says, “To catch Coach before your workout.”

Ilya decides at this moment that he will spend the rest of the day teasing Shane. That he will push all of his buttons slow and gentle and insistent. 

He stands and then he bends forward at the waist, eyes wide open. He watches Shane’s reaction the whole way, watches his eyes flutter shut and then his head tip back and at the very last second before he is close enough to Shane to kiss him and the only thing he can see is the freckles on Shane’s cheek and he runs the tip of his nose up the edge of Shane’s jaw.

“There is no meeting, Shane.”

“Oh my god,” Shane chokes out, reaching up and moving Ilya firmly out of his space, glaring at him. “You are going to be a problem.”

Ilya knows he cannot hide anything on his face. “Yes,” he promises. 

“I will see you at six?” Shane softens immediately. “Is that okay?”

“Do not worry about anything,” Ilya tells him. “I will bring everything.”

Shane nods at him once. “Get out of my office, please. I do have actual work to do.” Ilya starts to turn away to give him what he has demanded but Shane says, “Wait.”

Ilya stops. Waits. 

“If we will be in my apartment all night…you will make me wait until the end of the date for a goodnight kiss?”

“Maybe,” Ilya says the word slowly because he did think about this too. About…holding Shane close on the couch like he had ached to do. He knows that if he does get to hold him close, he will not be able to hold off on kissing him until the end of the night. “Maybe.”

Shane is doing the puffed up kitten thing again. “Bye, Ilya. Don’t be late.”

Ilya smiles at him as he backs out of the office, opening the door only enough so he can slip out. “I will be gentleman all night,” Ilya says with a wink right before he slips out of the door and pulls it shut behind him. 

And then he turns and comes face to face with Wyatt, holding two cardboard cups from the coffee shop near the rink and trying very hard to have a neutral expression on his face. He is failing. “Hi, Rozy. Hollander here?”

“Yep,” Ilya is also trying to look very neutral. “Lots of work today.”

Wyatt raises one eyebrow. “I bet.”

Ilya nods and then walks off without saying another word because Wyatt has weird goalie powers and Ilya doesn’t need him to understand anything else. 

He has time before he needs to change. He should go curl up in the lounge and make a grocery list, but Coach is standing at the end of the hallway with Bood and waves him closer. “Good, you’re here. We want to talk about the power play.”

Ilya allows himself to be pulled into the media room and he tries to make a list in his head while also being deeply invested in what Bood and Coach are saying.

It’s very hard when he’s thinking about how Shane’s cologne seems to be lingering and he’s counting and recounting the hours to six o'clock. 

Shane answers the door with damp hair and a nervous look on his face and that does nothing to quell Ilya’s own anxiety, except maybe it does a bit because when Shane wordlessly moves aside to let Ilya in, watching him toe off his shoes next to Shane’s careful line of shoes with his lip between his teeth, the rest of the night unfolds itself end over end until Ilya only has to take the first step.

He sets the grocery bags on the ground and then takes a large step into Shane’s space - one hand on his waist, one hand on his jaw. “Hi,” he says, but he doesn’t lean in and kiss him. Not yet. 

Shane’s eyes are darting all over his face. His body relaxes as he exhales deeply, one hand covers Ilya’s heart again. “I’m glad you’re here,” Shane admits. “This was a good idea.”

He means that they’re here together in his apartment - that Ilya didn’t drag him out to dinner and try and hold his hand in front of other people when they’ve barely really spoken about the kiss and what that looks like for the two of them. It doesn’t bother Ilya that Shane’s anxiety has flared up. He’s just glad he inadvertently kept them from first date disaster. 

“I am full of good ideas,” Ilya says, squeezing Shane’s waist, brushing his thumb over the best of Shane’s freckles. Shane wrinkles up his nose, but he doesn’t respond and Ilya decides the next best thing to do to break Shane out of whatever it is that has him trapped is to give him a task. “Come help? I am slow chopper.”

Shane wrinkles his nose up again, but there’s a barely there smile. “I am too.”

“Okay, so both of us, we are like one good chopper.” Ilya steps back and makes a stupid chopping motion with his hands just to see that - Shane’s smile that he is unable to hide. 

“I thought you were meant to make me dinner.” Shane sticks his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. “Impress me.”

It’s working already. “And what if I want to be impressed, Hollander?” Ilya picks up the grocery bags and heads for the little corner kitchen. “You think you can keep me around with your endless hockey knowledge and skating pretty?”

Ilya isn’t expecting Shane to walk past Ilya and heave himself up onto the counter, twisted around so his back is against the wall, his knee hiked up on the counter so it’s half sticking into the sink. “Yes, actually, I did think that.”

It’s delightful and Ilya likes him so much. “What is this? I ask for help and you think sitting on the counter and looking all pretty is help?”

Shane blushes, crimson and deep, averting his eyes down for a breath. The truth is that if that’s all Shane wanted to do tonight, Ilya would order more groceries to be delivered. He would cook 10 meals if Shane wanted to watch him and sit right there. 

And he miscalculated. Because he has been watching Shane for months now, cataloguing all of him - his expressions, his voice, his movements. But, Shane has been doing the same to him.

“Yes,” Shane says, that nervousness swirled away. No more anxiety shaking his voice. “I think you prefer this actually.”

And fuck if he’s not right. Shane watches him, tilting his head back, waiting. He is…beautiful. And this is…domestic. 

This is new. Ilya standing in a kitchen, preparing to cook a meal for someone he wants to watch and get to know. Ilya is in jeans, but they’re his softest pair - ones he normally only wears at home. It’s all very domestic and easy and Shane can see it all over him. 

Ilya takes a deep breath. “I think you are the problem, no? Tell me where your cutting board is or we will never eat.”

Shane’s laugh is soft and his eyes are softer. “Drawer at the end, right underneath you. Cutting board, knives on the wall.”

Ilya nods and then busies himself with pulling things from bags and looking around Shane’s apartment. 

Sportscenter is on the TV - muted. There’s a teacup on the coffee table on top of a stack of papers. One of those little scent stick things was not there last time, but now that Ilya is looking at it, he can smell something warm and spicy that wasn’t here before. 

It’s still neat and tidy and so very Shane. 

Shane watches Ilya unpack his bags (mostly) and Ilya rearranges everything and then glances over at Shane and washes his hands in Shane’s sink. They don’t speak and it’s so…achingly comfortable. 

Ilya takes up space. 

He’s very good at taking up space. It’s why he’s so good in the room. He can pull people in, make people feel like they’re best friends. He’s good in a club, happy to dance and flirt his way through anything. He spreads his arms and legs across a couch and looks intimidating or sexy or obnoxious, but people love it and Ilya knows what to do. 

He knows how to make himself big on the ice and how to draw attention and become Ilya Rozanov - star hockey player. 

But, there’s something very strange happening in this singular moment in Shane Hollander’s kitchen. Shane is watching him put the onion next to the garlic next to the bell pepper he bought and he exhales and Ilya doesn’t need to take up space, he doesn’t need to put on a show. He is standing in this kitchen because he wanted this. He wanted a quiet night where neither of them felt like they needed to perform or were on display and he just…sinks into it. 

His hand trembles a bit when he reaches out for a knife on the little magnet strip against the back wall. It embarrasses him for half a second because it feels like the emotion bursting from him in an uncontainable way.

Ilya got here in spite of it all. Ilya fucked it away - the life he was given - and then he made a new one and there’s a beautiful boy on the counter watching him cook him dinner and Ilya won a game last night and he intends on doing the same tomorrow and -

“Shane,” Ilya says, pressing his palms to counter, looking at the onion and then finally Shane’s face. His beautiful face that Ilya wants to map and know. “I am very glad we decided to stay in.”

Shane’s nod is almost imperceptible. “Me too.”

Ilya cannot stand here and stare at him all night, so he winks at him and then reaches for the knife and the onion first. “How was your day at work?”

“Oh, Wyatt absolutely knows something is up,” Shane cackles and it’s not fear or discomfort. “He kept saying over and over that I must have been really craving that smoothie - to go out of my way for it.”

Ilya smiles down at the onion as he cuts off the end. “I told you, he can see I am crazy about you. We will not be able to hide it from him for long.”

Shane makes a kind of quiet humming noise and then shifts around on the counter and Ilya makes the decision right then. 

“I was thinking,” he says, being very careful with the knife in his hand, not looking away from it.

He pauses too long because Shane says, “You? Thinking?”

Ilya laughs, a little burst of breath and shakes his head, still looking at the onion. “I was thinking,” he repeats, “you could tell me what your exes did because I do not want you to feel…bad. I want to not make same mistake.”

That earns him a sharp intake of breath and Shane clearing his throat. “I was kind of freaking out when you got here,” Shane tells him. Which was…obvious. “I can tell you, but what about you? I don’t want to -” Ilya sees him gesture out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t want to trip up either. Upset you.”

Ilya gives him a ridiculous look. “Short list. We can talk about that if you want, but there is not…” he doesn’t want to fuck this up - the english slipping through his hands, the word he’s looking for. “I do not have same experiences as you. I was not really…ever with someone for real.”

Shane has an adorable wrinkle between his eyebrows. 

Ilya can tell him all of it. The Boston of it all. Maybe he should, but what he says instead is, “I like you, Shane. I do not want to fuck this up.”

Shane’s shoulders come down, he takes a deep breath. “You are miles above any other hockey player I have ever dated.”

Ilya raises his eyebrows and Shane laughs at him or maybe himself. “You have only ever dated hockey players? Okay, I am starting to feel not as special -” Ilya taps himself on the chest with his onion hand.

Shane groans and leans back against the wall. “There was one guy who wasn’t a hockey player,” Shane admits. “And then we broke up because of hockey.”

Ilya can’t help but laugh. “Okay, he sucks. Bye, Not Hockey Player.”

“He wasn’t…he wasn’t bad,” Shane says, but it’s not in defense of him. It’s just a fact. “He was the only out guy I was with and that was…good for me. I didn’t…” Shane is struggling with the words. “I didn’t tolerate the same shit after him - the…ignoring me in public like we didn’t know each other. I didn't let guys ask me to lie to my parents about them.” Shane swallows hard and Ilya curses his onion hands as he abandons his knife and his onion and goes to crowd against Shane, one hand on his thigh, one on his forearm.

“Shane,” Ilya says, shaking him a little, begging him to look at him. “I will not ask to kiss you at work or at a restaurant, not because I want us to hide, but because what we are doing between us is new, yes?” Shane’s eyes are staring through to the core of him. “I want to know you, I want us to know what we mean to each other before we let nosy hockey players in -” and then he laughs, “Or nosy Harris.”

Shane laughs at that, one hand coming up to cover it up and Ilya almost tugs it away. 

“Do not lie to your parents for me, do not think I will act like I do not know you in public. I am not out to the world - is very complicated, or has been. But, I could be someday. If there was…” he doesn’t finish that. If there was someone. 

Even though right now, Ilya would stand on top of the rafters and scream about Shane Hollander if he asked him to. Even now. When Ilya has kissed him less than a handful of times and chopped half an onion in his presence. 

Shane is looking glassy eyed - like he might cry. Which would devastate Ilya beyond repair. “Gimme kiss,” he demands, leaned up and obnoxious - smacking a too loud, theatrical kiss to Shane’s lips when he leans down. Shane huffs, clearly wanting more, but Ilya tsks him when Shane tries to capture him. “I need to make dinner, solnyshko. Come and help me for real.”

Ilya backs away and then watches Shane slink down from the counter. “What can I do?”

“Help me with these,” Ilya pats the veggies. “I did not want to buy the pre cut ones.” He wrinkles his nose. “Yuck.”

Shane beams at him. Clearly pleased with that decision. “Yuck,” he agrees and then digs around another cutting board from a cabinet and gets a little knife to start peeling garlic from its pods. They work side by side, Shane tossing the garlic bits into a bowl he’s set on the counter for their extra pieces after he’s washed his own hands.

Ilya almost asks if Shane wants to turn on some music, but then Shane says, “Hockey is such a big part of my life.”

“Yes,” Ilya nods, happy with the size of his onion pieces and moving onto the bell pepper. “Mine too.”

“But,” Shane says, setting another naked garlic pod down. “The reason I mostly dated hockey players is because when I meet guys away from the ice, they see my size and hear about hockey and they would assume that I would want to throw them around a little bit.”

Ilya might die in this apartment. “Oh,” he says and stops cutting because he doesn’t trust the knife in his hand. If he cuts off the end of his finger, he really won’t be able to explain to the team how that happened. 

“I don’t really like that,” Shane admits, picking at a pod of garlic in a very unserious way. Just something to do with his hands. “I prefer to be, uh…”

Ilya has to breathe and think and convince himself to not throw Shane around right now. They can order pizza and Ilya can feed it to Shane in his bed, naked and messy. 

“Ilya?” Shane’s voice is breathy. “Are you -”

Ilya’s head snaps up and whatever it is that Shane finds there is enough that he puts the garlic and the little knife down and takes a step back and a gulping breath. “The rule is that you only need two moose to be considered a herd. So one moose, and then anything else is technically a herd of moose.”

It takes Ilya an embarrassingly long time to swim through his thoughts of licking cheese off Shane’s fingertips to realize that he’s looked up the rule about moose and what makes a herd. He laughs, but it’s sideways and weak. 

“I looked it up,” Shane grins. “I needed to know.”

Ilya takes a deep breath. “Go sit on one of your stools, Shane. Please.”

Shane, a demon from hell, kind of flutters his eyelashes. “I thought I was helping.”

“Please, Shane.” Ilya presses his forearm into his eyes. “I am being gentleman, yes?” He can’t see Shane, but he can hear his breath catch. He moves his arm and then regrets it because Shane tilts his head, smiling at him. 

“Maybe we should have gone out to dinner.”

“So you can tell me you like to be thrown around in public?” Ilya feels insane. “You want me to kill whole restaurant of people?”

Shane giggles. Giggles and bumps his knee against Ilya’s. “You are a gentleman.”

“Go,” Ilya points at the other side of the counter. “I am not strong when it comes to you.”

Shane makes a considering noise and then he leans in, wraps one hand around Ilya’s chin. “Wrong,” he says, his pupils blown, “I think you’re very wrong about that.” And then he kisses him. One firm press of lips against Ilya’s. An exhale and then he moves away, beaming, before he plops into the stool directly across from Ilya. 

“Tell me about your day,” Ilya means to demand, but it comes out weak and too emotional for his liking. When he looks up from his mutilated bell pepper, he finds Shane smiling at him, that private smile, one hand propping up his chin. 

“It started with this crazy guy I work with bringing me my favorite smoothie and terrorizing me while I was trying to book travel for the sibs to go see them play in Florida next week and then immediately after this other crazy guy I work with brought me my favorite tea and wouldn’t stop asking about the first guy.”

Ilya slides his ruined bell pepper to one side of the board and picks up the garlic. “Wow, so many gorgeous men bringing you things you love. Must be very hard life.”

“Extremely,” Shane bites. “Now, listen, after both of those idiots left me alone, I got a call from this third idiot we work with to ask me if he could come over tonight and watch tape with me because this crazy girl that came to a team party told him that he was losing time when he was forced to come in on the left and now he’s paranoid.”

“Damnit,” Ilya laughs, ‘I told her to stay away from the team. She fucked up Connors so bad we had to bench him for a week until we got a head doctor to fix him.”

Shane throws himself backwards to laugh. “Well, unfortunately she’s right about Young. He wants me to come in early tomorrow and review with him.”

The question is right there. Ilya could ask him why the fuck he doesn’t ask Weibe for a video job. He would give it over. Shane could take his exams. He could coach. He could be on the ice with them - travel to all the games. 

It’s right there. But Ilya remembers what he said. He loves his life. He gets his beer league hockey and he gets professional hockey in a way. Ilya won’t poke. Not about this. Not now.

“How did you two meet?” Shane asks and Ilya knows he means Svetlana. 

Ilya smiles at the garlic because he’s remembering it - the way Svetlana came crashing into his life. 

“Her father,” Ilya begins to tell him, “he -”

“Played hockey,” Shane cuts in. “I know who Sergei Petrov is, Ilya.”

Ilya laughs, “Yes, yes, of course you do. She spent time here in North America with him when he played, sometimes with her mama, but a lot of time in Russia with her father’s family. Because it was important to Sergei that she be Russian.”

Shane leans forward. “Yes, my mom’s cousin was always trying to convince her to send me to Japan for the summer. I sometimes wish I had gone.”

It feels…significant. Something golden and private. 

“Sveta would be in Russia, her father would be traveling for hockey, her aunt would maybe not watch her so well and she missed her papa. I am nine and look up at the little sitting area from ice to find my mama and she is with Sveta, but then she is gone before I am done changing.”

Shane nods. 

“She comes back the next day and this time stays until we are done changing and tells me that I was good, but I could be faster if I would skate with her at night.”

“So that is just always been her personality?” Shane smiles.

“Yes,” Ilya laughs, “Always. I told her no in the beginning because who is she to tell me that I am slow?” Ilya begins to strip the herbs, “but she comes the next day and then every day the next week and says over and over that if I would skate with her, I would be better.”

“So you went,” Shane makes the correct assumption, he looks delighted. “Wow, so you two are just alike.”

Ilya pouts.

“You came back around again and again until I caved and decided to like you.”

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya shouts, “I made you gay!”

“Oh my god,” Shane lays his head on the counter. “You did not make me gay, Ilya.” But Ilya can hear him laughing and he can’t stop himself from smiling. 

“Tell me about Rose,” Ilya demands, moving to pull a pot off Shane’s little hanger so he can wash the rice. “How did you end up with movie star girlfriend that is now your best friend?”

Shane huffs. “I met her that fall, before you.” Shane is all slumped over on the counter, his eyes are locked on what Ilya is doing, following him as he moves around. His words come out slow and measured. “I went to this restaurant with a guy I played with the year, but he got picked up by the AHL and he was being…the worst, so I went outside to -”

Ilya makes a surprised noise. “You met Rose Landry in some dark alley outside a restaurant?”

“It was in the parking lot, actually.” Shane says flatly. 

“Oh, much better,” Ilya smiles at him. “The parking lot.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “It was. She was on her way to a set and her flight got diverted into Ottawa and they put her in a hotel right beside the restaurant and she asked me for a cigarette.”

Ilya gasps, “Hollander, there is a pattern in the way you try and pick people up. I do not feel special.”

“I regret telling you this.”

Ilya blows him a kiss and stirs his rice water around and around with his hand. 

“She gave me her number and then we…I don’t know. We hung out a couple of times and I did not realize she was…flirting with me -”

“You are so gay,” Ilya tells him. 

“Fuck off,” Shane tells him. “Do you want to hear this or not?”

Ilya starts to pour the water out of the pot, keeping the rice in with his knuckles. 

“And after everything that happened…I didn’t tell her, but we went to dinner, I was sad, she kissed me - later she told me she thought I was sad because her movie was wrapping and she was going back to LA.” Shane smiles, but it’s soft and fond. Like he’s remembering that conversation with Rose. The look is so familiar to the way he smiles about Sveta.

“I can tell you love her.”

“Yes,” Shane nods and it makes Ilya so happy. To know Shane has experienced a love like he has with Sveta. “She is the first person who told me that I was…that it was okay that I wasn’t okay. She helped me tell my parents.” Shane looks again like he might cry. “We don’t get to see each other as often as we would like, but she might come in for my birthday this year if she can get the time off.”

Ilya is a shit. “She could not introduce you to men who were not hockey players who would want to throw you around a bit?”

Something pings off the back of his head as Ilya is placing the pot of rice on the stove, twisting the little knob, and Ilya twists to glare at the square of bell pepper on the floor. “Do you want me to call her? Ask?” Shane is taunting him, reaching like he’s going into his pocket. Ilya hasn’t seen his phone but it doesn’t mean it’s not there. 

“Hollander,” Ilya warns. “We have established I am jealous.”

Shane gives him a look that means have we, can I press on it?

Ilya picks the piece of bell pepper up, tosses it in the bowl. “Tell me something else about herds of moose, Shane. I need to put this in the oven so I can feed you.”

“I am out of moose facts, I’m afraid.” Shane tells him. “But I do have some great bird facts.”

What has Ilya become? 

“Start talking,” Ilya waves at him, “We have 20 minutes once this goes in the oven.”

Shane hops up and goes to get one of his books. “I have a book.”

Ilya is obsessed with a man who has a bird book and is secretly friends with the hottest movie star of their generation. This is just his life now. 

“Did you ever watch Fly Away Home?”

“No?” Ilya tosses all the veggies on a sheet tray. “What is this? Another Chrismtas movie?”

Shane winces. “We will watch it. Okay, so geese -”

Ilya is right where he wants to be. 

They eat side by side on the couch, Shane has unmuted the Nashville game but has turned the volume down so low that Ilya can’t hear half the commentary. He wonders if hearing loss is one of those post concussion things. He thinks he read that it was. In one of those pamphlets they send home when you’re concussed. 

The food is fine, Shane is so impressed by Ilya’s chimichurri - that feels like a win - that he’s enjoying something that Ilya made for him while they wound around and around about safe topics - Shane with his book about birds, hockey this week, hockey last week, Shane telling Ilya about the first time he booked travel for the siblings and put them in the same hotel as the team because of a misunderstanding. 

Ilya is mostly done, almost too nervous to really eat the way he might at home, and he can see the way Shane is mostly pushing the little bell pepper pieces around his bowl plate combination. Ilya should have asked if he would eat bell pepper before he bought it. 

Shane stops his bell pepper chase and puts his fork against the side of his bowl. When he sprawls backwards, his knee digs into Ilya’s thigh and it makes Ilya smile. He ends his own picking and sprawls out too, lifting his leg up on the couch and patting his thigh so Shane will tangle up with him. It’s too intimate, but Shane doesn’t hesitate and it’s another zap of domesticity that he doesn’t understand. 

There’s a hundred nights like this available for the taking here. Shane and Ilya eating together, talking, the quiet cocooning them in something soft and gentle and Ilya wants. 

“What moment in your life were you the happiest?” Shane asks. His face is doing that thinking thing and it blows Ilya away really - how much Shane’s face can really say. 

Ilya doesn’t really know how to answer that question without giving too much away. He has to swallow and then he leans up, rearranges their knees so they’re still touching. He has two answers, he realizes. 

He tells Shane the safest one.

“I was eight,” he says slowly. “My papa and my brother went to see a kind of aunt out of the city, and my mama…” Ilya reaches up and presses his palm against her necklace, looks at the ceiling of Shane’s apartment. “She let me stay up with her after bedtime. She bought sweet buns from the bakery and we ate them with tea and we watched this very old Russian movie that was her favorite and I remember thinking she had never been happier.”

Ilya blinks. That was the last time he ever saw her free - unburdened. He should look at Shane, but he can’t because he’ll be the one to cry and he doesn’t want to do that. What he does is press his leg against Shane’s hard. 

“I think that is a very good answer,” Shane says, but then doesn’t go on. Waits and waits until Ilya blinks and knows that the tears are not going to fall. He kind of sits up. “What is yours?”

Shane throws a hand over his head so it’s resting against the arm of his couch and the sight of him like this is making Ilya a little insane - the way he’s…laid out like this. Ilya wants to touch him. “Mine is this moment in university.”

Ilya nods and waits. 

“Harris and I were really becoming friends, not just people who orbited the same friend group, and Rose had a break from this film she was doing in Toronto and drove up for the weekend.” Shane closes his eyes, like he’s reliving this. Ilya loves to watch him talk. “It was my first rec league game, and I was on the ice for warmup and I looked up and it was Harris and Rose and a couple of friends and I realized that hockey…hockey didn’t have to go away. It was different, but it was fun and I was having fun.”

Ilya doesn’t have words for that. Shane doesn’t want Ilya’s apology about the end of his professional hockey career, but Ilya feels selfish for wanting to apologize anyway. What he says is, “it makes me happy you found your way back to hockey that way.”

“It gave me the courage to apply to the Centaurs office,” Shane tells him, like it’s nothing. Like it wasn’t fate. “I worried when the opening came up - that it would hurt, but then I thought about that day on the ice and how I had thought hockey was gone forever, until I was having fun.”

“I speak for entire team when I say that there is no better travel director -”

“Coordinator,” Shane interrupts.

“You should be director, they will pay you more. I will tell sibs - we make playoffs next season and I say, okay everyone in office gets raise.”

Shane is looking at him, his careful eyes. He is probably seeing all of Ilya’s…fear. “Do you want to order dessert? I think if we do it - Ilya?”

Ilya is off the couch with their bowl plates to put them in the kitchen sink and pulling the huge bag of gummy bears from his bag before Shane is even properly sitting up on the couch. 

“This is my date gift,” Ilya explains, stepping over the couch while Shane squawks. “And also dessert.”

Shane looks between the bag of gummy bears and Ilya’s beaming smile. “You brought me…gummy bears.”

“No, Shane,” Ilya scoffs, pulling the zipper of the bag apart and holding it underneath Shane’s face, waiting for him to realize. 

He thinks he’ll be able to tell from smell alone, but apparently not because he reaches in and picks up a few gummy bears and then looks at them - pinched between the ends of his fingers. 

Ilya waits.

Shane immediately reaches back in the bag and pulls an entire handful out and stares at them. Hard. “Ilya?”

He’s holding himself in that fragile wrong way again. 

“What is this?”

Ilya picks one of the gummy bears from his hand and pops it in his mouth, smiling and chewing obnoxiously. “I bought big bags and sorted with big bowls. I left the other flavors in my locker at the rink. The guys will eat them. Pineapple, your favorite flavor.”

Shane’s lip wobbles. “You -” he squeezes his eyes shut. Ilya is going to die. He fucked this up somehow. 

He slides close enough to Shane that they’re pressed together, hip to hip. Shane is still and silent. 

“Shane, I am sorry, I do not want you to be -” but Ilya stops talking because Shane dumps the handful of gummy bears back into the bag and leans forward to put the bag on the coffee table and then he leans back and then lays his palms flat on his thighs. He takes a deep breath.

Ilya wants to touch him, but he thinks that might be the wrong thing to do. 

Shane’s voice is hoarse and desperate. “Ilya,” he says and then he twists his body and before Ilya can even put the pieces together, Shane is in his fucking lap, knees bracketing his hips, warm hands on Ilya’s face.

He reaches up and holds onto Shane’s waist because why wouldn’t he touch when Shane is touching him. How could he not. 

“You sorted those out for me.” Shane whispers, his thumb making a tiny path from the corner of Ilya’s mouth to the tip of his chin, his eyes making that same path. “Ilya.”

“Shane,” Ilya says back to him because it feels good to say and because Shane is touching him like he’s never touched him before - like no one has ever touched him before. The words get caught in his throat. I am stupid over you. I would do it again. Tell me what else you like and I’ll bring it for you. Let me feed you gummy bears while you sit in my lap and gaze down at me like I am worthy of you.

Shane exhales - sweet and short - and then he leans in, his head tilted and he fits their mouths together, melting down into the kiss immediately. Ilya runs his hands up the back of Shane’s spine and Shane makes a hungry noise in response, dragging his teeth over Ilya’s bottom lip. 

It would take almost nothing for this to go on, but Ilya needs to -

“Wait,” he pants out, planting one hand on Shane’s chest to get a bit of space between their bodies. “Shane, I need to tell you something before we -”

Shane wrenches himself out of Ilya’ lap, his eyes wide and terrified as he makes himself one with the corner of his couch. “I’m sorry,” Shane says, “You’ve done this before, right? With men…”