Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow, Hayden Pike, David Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry, J. J. Boiziau, Jackie Pike, Yuna Hollander, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Brandon Wiebe, Zane Boodram, Harris Drover, Evan Dykstra

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Canon Rewrite, Fix-It of Sorts, Communication, Healthy Relationships, Secret Relationship, Beards (Relationships), Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Good Friend Hayden Pike, Good Friend Cliff Marlow, Coming Out, Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog, Shane Hollander Speaks Russian, Shane Hollander Takes Care of Ilya Rozanov, No beta we die like Grigori Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov Relationship Timeline Reveal, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Shane Hollander Leaves the Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros, For Want of a Nail, Translation available in first work of series

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of the coast is clear

Collections:

Subscriptions:Tracking, Prongs_Antlerz favourite hockey yaoi, Fics LunaK does not want to lose track of, My heart is full, heated rivalry for the soul, In this glass house we are free, HR, These are the stories and series that I have at least reread twice., hollanov for the heart <3, Shane or Ilya Play for Non-canon Hockey Teams, No thoughts just gay hockey, The best pairings to bask in, All the faves, favorite love story, Heather rivalary Fics, fics i keep in my pocket 🦇🫀, The Cream of the Crop, Hollanov Hall of Fame, Fics that made my day, Best of Hollanov

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-04 Completed: 2026-03-17 Words: 95,714 Chapters: 14/14

the ten step plan

Summary

In Vegas, after they’d said everything right up to the edge of I love you, Shane and Ilya came up with a plan. It was long term, with many, many steps. There might be a spreadsheet somewhere that Shane won’t admit to.

But it’s a plan, nonetheless. Over the summer of 2014, they tweak it and add things important to the both of them. There are even many, extensive, contingency plans.

OR

Thanks to Shane's small lie the first time they hooked up, Shane and Ilya are together years earlier. Now, they have to figure out what to do about it.

Notes

Heyyyy... remember when I said I would Maybe write a sequel? Well... here we are. This show has eaten my brain. I am incapable of not writing about them every available second of the day. I have accidentally started an entire canon-rewrite that with my luck will be over 30k. We will be moving through the entirety of the first book over the course of this fic. Please send help.

Anyway, hope everyone is doing well!

This fic makes the most sense if you have read the first part, but for anyone who doesn't want to do that or wants a reminder of what happened, see below:

SPOILERS!

In the first installment, Shane lies about the hallway having witnesses the first time the two of them hook up. This means that Ilya stays longer, and the two of them end up spending time every hook up getting to know each other and hanging out... which speeds up their timeline significantly. Before the Olympics, Shane insinuates that there is a "this" and Ilya leaves. During the Vegas awards, Ilya tells Shane they either need to stop seeing each other or figure out a plan... And now we are here!

I hope you all enjoy :)

EDIT: Massive thanks to gravollet for the beautiful cover. They made a cover for this work and its prequel, and everyone should compliment them on how beautiful it is!!

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

Summer 2014

Even though Shane is alone in the cottage, he puts the blinds down and locks his bedroom door. Only then, does he feel secure enough to call Ilya.

“Hey,” Shane says quietly, as the video loads and he sees Ilya’s face in fits and starts of lagging screen. “It’s good to see you.”

The screen settles, and Ilya is sitting on his couch in Moscow. He wears one of his too-tight black tanktops, and even though the resolution isn’t great, Shane can see the curve of his muscle, a faint glimmer that might be sweat.

“Good to see you, he says,” Ilya mocks. “So boring, you do not tell me I look hot?” He raises an arm to flex, kissing a bicep, and Shane bites down on his smile. Then he remembers he doesn’t have to do that anymore, and lets it spread across his face. When Ilya turns back to his screen, Shane almost thinks the phone lags again from the way he freezes. But then Ilya’s shoulders slump just a little, and his smirk morphs into a smile. “Hello, Shane.”

They’ve never called each other before. A strange thing to realize, now that they’ve decided to try to make this thing something real, official. Shane wonders if he should feel nervous about it, uncomfortable. After all, this will be how they go about this thing they’re calling a relationship. Long distance, miles and continents between them, short and desperate meetings that they’ll have to live off of for years.

But Shane remembers how it feels to fall asleep in Ilya’s arms. To be kissed by him, sour morning breath and all, to be held like he is something precious. He remembers not even a week ago, knocking on Ilya’s door in Vegas. How his heart had raced, tripped, stumbled, right up until Ilya wrapped him in an embrace.

Shane knows what it is to have a home. He always has, between his parents, his team, the buildings he’s bought and constructed. But there’s only one place he’s ever felt so at peace, so still. And if he has to look across 7 hours of time zones and a video call to grasp at even a hint of that again, he’ll do it.

“Psh, you look… sentimental'no. I do not know word in English. Too much emotions. Stop it.”

Shane flushes, but that doesn’t make the smile go away. “It’s your fault, asshole. I can be as sappy as I want.”

“Sappy,” Ilya draws out the word. Like he’s tasting it on his tongue. “Is word for tree? Are you telling me you are tree? I think Canada broke brain. No good at hockey anymore.”

“Fuck you,” Shane says, laughing. He rolls to the side and props his phone up against a pillow. It means he can curl his fingers in his sleeves. Which helps him smother the urge to reach out and try to touch Ilya through the screen. “Did you make it to Moscow okay?”

Ilya spreads his arms, looking around himself. “Yes, I think so.” He leans closer to his phone. Shane imagines the sparkle in his eyes, the way Ilya looks right through him. “But where– where are you? Does not look like apartment.”

Shane sits up, bringing the phone with him. “No, I actually had this built.”

Ilya laughs. “Mr. Real Estate. Show me around?”

Shane swallows. He’s not sure what he’s nervous about. His parents are busy today, and no one else even knows that this cottage exists, never mind where to find it. But it feels… vulnerable, to step out of this room.

Maybe he hadn’t thought all of the massive glass windows through.

It’s… fine. Probably.

He stands up, flips the camera to show the dimmed room. “Well, uh, this is the master bedroom. En-suite bathroom, and–”

“That is good bed,” Ilya interrupts. “I will like to see you on this later, yes?”

“Shut up,” Shane snaps. But he can already feel some of the tension in his spine unwinding. “The blinds are on a switch but–” He takes a deep breath and keeps the camera focused toward the lake as the view reveals itself.

At least like this, Shane can watch Ilya’s expression without being observed. It’s strangely comforting, to hide while he bares this part of himself.

Ilya does not disappoint. His eyes go wide, his mouth opening just slightly. “Damn, Hollander.” He’s silent for a long moment. Shane wonders what he’s thinking. “You are… exhibitionist then?”

He should’ve fucking known better than to wonder. “What? No!” He flips the camera so that Ilya can get the full force of his scowl. “I own all the land surrounding this too, it’s super private and isolated, I just wanted a view! Not– Not to–”

Ilya hums. His expression is hungry, a mirror to his usual look when he pins Shane to the bed with a hand on his chest. “Oh? You do not want to be fucked up against the glass? So that whole world can see face you make when you come? It is good face.”

“Fuck off,” Shane spits. But it’s breathy, and his traitorous dick hardens just at the thought.

Ilya smiles. “Maybe someday, I visit mansion. We give lake a show.” And god, does Shane want that. Wants Ilya here, in this space he created out of one of his fantasies. Because now, all of his best fantasies include Ilya too. From the way he’d look sprawled on the dock outside, to the way it would feel to hold the Cup with one hand and kiss Ilya with the other, to faceless, giggling children hiding behind Shane while Ilya lumbers after them with a mock roar.

Shane’s head is so full. There’s only ever been room for hockey and his parents and now Ilya has laid claim to all the open property. Stuck his flag in places that had been abandoned before, and made his home alongside all of the other things Shane lo–

Well.

“You’re ridiculous. It’s a cottage,” Shane deflects. “But maybe we– make it happen, somehow.”

“Somehow,” Ilya echoes. His expression shifts rapidly from hungry to soft and back again. “For now, get on bed.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Ilya says. He leans away from the camera and in one smooth motion pulls off his shirt. “Get on bed. Take off your clothes.”

“You’re insane.” But as he tugs at his shirt, he’s already thinking of the new fantasies spooling out from this moment that will keep him warm and happy for months.

~

In Vegas, after they’d said everything right up to the edge of I love you, Shane and Ilya came up with a plan. It was long term, with many, many steps. There might be a spreadsheet somewhere that Shane won’t admit to.

But it’s a plan, nonetheless. Over the summer of 2014, they tweak it and add things important to the both of them. There are even many, extensive, contingency plans.

The plan looks like this:

Step 1: Figure Out Long Distance

Step 2: The Friendship Agenda

Step 3: The Cottage

Step 4: Beards

Step 5: Assembling Allies

Step 6: Free Agency for Ilya

Step 7: Free Agency for Shane

Step 8: Retire

Step 9: Come Out?

Step 10: Profit

Shane is pretty positive nothing can go wrong. It might take a while to get there, but Shane thinks long term about the things that matter. And Ilya? He matters.

~

Step 1: Figure Out Long Distance

~

Late Summer 2014

“Uncle Ilya, more presents?” Alisochka tugs at his pant leg. It feels like just yesterday that Ilya met her for the first time, Alexei for once not glaring at him, too entranced by the squishy red alien that shared his blood. His brother is nowhere to be found now, which is probably for the best. Alisa’s mother hands Ilya a hastily packed bag. Designer, cute and pink, filled with clothes and toys that Ilya purchased for his niece and had delivered from America.

Ekaterina doesn’t look at him, hardly acknowledges him. She is not a bad woman, as far as Ilya knows, but he doesn’t know what Alexei has said about him. Whatever it is, it ensures she looks at him with nothing but disdain. “Be good for your uncle,” she says, patting Alisa on the head and jogging out the door.

This leaves him with his niece, who continues to look up at him expectantly.

Here, perhaps, is the one thing left in Russia that makes him smile. Little Alisochka, with her light hair and button nose, who is loud and playful and stubborn. Ilya looks at her and sees himself, and—in the right light—his mother on the rare days she was happy.

“Presents?” He teases. Ilya scoops his hands under her armpits. She is as light as a feather when he tosses her into the air. She shrieks and grabs at his hair with a surprisingly strong grip. “Is that all that I am to you? Maybe I should keep all of your presents for myself. No more presents for Alisochka.”

“No! Presents please!” she screeches, before dissolving into a squirming, giggling mass that Ilya struggles to hold onto.

He relents, of course, and finds deep, indescribable joy in the way she tears into the packages, pulling out dolls and a tea party set. His niece is adorable. With a pang, Ilya wonders how long she will be allowed to adore him, before his brother’s poison seeps into her mind.

“Play, uncle,” she demands. So Ilya folds himself to the ground and allows himself to be ordered around by a toddler.

What follows is a complex sequence of tea party etiquette that appears to have more rules and regulations that hockey. In a moment of sentimentality that he intends to hide forever, he wishes Shane was here with a spreadsheet. Ilya would even resist the urge to make fun of him. Not completely, but at least a little, if it meant he could keep track of what was going on.

Ilya has just been allowed to sip from the empty cup, when his phone rings.

Alisochka pouts and crosses her arms. But she doesn’t whine when Ilya raises a finger and slips his phone from his pocket.

Jane flashes across the screen, a FaceTime request. Ilya curses under his breath, in English for the sake of his niece’s ears. When Alexei texted him yesterday to babysit, he’d entirely forgotten to reschedule his call with Shane.

Ilya could ignore it, send him to voicemail, but…

It’s hard enough being apart from Shane. In Vegas, Ilya split open his chest in a bathroom and let Shane choose whether to stomp on it. Because Shane was brave, he’d cradled it instead, clung to Ilya and curled against him in bed. Let Ilya love him, even if Ilya had not found those specific words yet.

Ilya wants to be around him all the time. Wants to love Shane loudly, everywhere. Wants to put a claim on him for the world to see.

But Ilya’s father is sick.

Ilya’s father is sick, and they are only starting their fourth season, and Shane hasn’t won a Cup yet—

He cannot love Shane loudly, not without ruining him.

But Ilya can love him like this, in stolen moments after games, on phone calls that have steadily increased to daily, in the texts that he sends almost automatically. And this is enough. Ilya’s feelings for Shane grow so exponentially that they bridge the distance between them, a link that connects them, cities and continents apart.

Ilya takes the call.

“Hi,” Shane says. He looks sleep-rumpled, pillow creases striping his cheek. Ilya kissed those lines, one of the times they fell asleep together. Traced their bumps with his lips. “Where are you?”

“I’m with–” Ilya starts in Russian. He shakes his head. The beauty of this man jumbles his languages, sometimes. “I’m with my niece. Alexei and his girlfriend are out, they asked me to babysit Alisa.”

At her name, Alisa sits up, suddenly interested in the tangle of words she doesn’t understand.

Shane’s eyes widen and he sits up immediately, scooting back against his headboard. Ilya feels mildly disappointed that he’s wearing a shirt. “What? You’re with your family and you picked up?” he hisses. Ilya can imagine the way he’s fidgeting, restless with panic. He wants to hold Shane’s hand, press him to the bed with his weight until he calms.

Instead, he flips the camera. The angle catches an impatient and nosey Alisa, who is leaning forward imperiously over the coffee table and looking adorable. There is a tutu involved.

Shane coos automatically. He has good taste.

“You can see, she is no rat. Will not be telling the press.”

“You’re so annoying,” Shane complains, but he looks less tense already.

“Alisochka, would you like to say hi to my friend?” Ilya asks.

“Da!” Alisa scrambles to Ilya’s side of the table. She climbs him like furniture. “Who?”

Ilya flips the camera back, and watches Shane straighten, like he is terrified of making a bad impression on a toddler. With a smirk, he says, “Her name is Jane.”

Shane’s eyes narrow. “Ilya–”

“She is girl?” Alisa asks. She furrows her brow. “Ch- Shane?”

Silently, Ilya curses himself. Somehow, he’d forgotten the lack of a native J sound in Russian. So much for ensuring Alisa could not accidentally overshare. If she calls Shane a she it will help obscure the truth and also be deeply funny, but using his actual name defeats the purpose.

“No, no,” Ilya shakes her playfully. “Copy Uncle Ilya. It is like ‘ch’ sound, but more ‘juh’. Try again. Jane.”

“Chane.”

“Jane. Juh- ane. You have your tongue in the right place, but it is louder, with your throat and chest.”

Alisa looks at him like he is insane. Ilya doesn’t know a better way to describe it, and he’s not sure how much of that she can even understand with her tiny little brain. She tries again though, a stubborn Rozanova to the core. “Chane. Chuh-ane. Chuh. Ch…Juh? Juh-ane? Juh-ane!”

If looks could kill, Ilya would be a pile of ashes on the ground. Shane’s glare is fierce enough that it burns through the screen.

“Excellent, you little genius!” Ilya smacks a kiss to the top of her head. “Now say hello to Jane.”

“Privet, Juh-ane!” Alisa waves her little hand close to the camera.

With the little girl looking at him, Shane softens. “Hi, Alisa. Privet.” He repeats her carefully, the Russian less awkward on his tongue than Ilya expects. And then he meets Ilya’s eyes and, expression pleasantly cheerful, demands, “Ilya, what the fuck are you doing?”

Ilya shrugs. He’s not sure why he wants Shane to meet Alisa so bad, why it makes something happy and content curl in his chest to know that two of the people who matter most in the world to him are meeting, but… Maybe he wants Shane to know all the parts of himself that he can give. If Shane is to be his home, Ilya wants to move in all of his things. They might not be together often, but he can share this.

He doesn’t tell Shane this, because finding the English words is too hard, and this is too new to lay that burden on. Instead, he says, “I tell her you are girl named Jane. No one will know different. And you can use big brain to help me understand rules of tea party.”

“Wait, girl? You fucking asshole.”

“Is good cover. I promise I remember you are man. Very much man,” Ilya says, purposefully glancing at the bottom of the screen. He winks.

“I hate you,” Shane grumbles. But Ilya can see the little smile curling his lips. “Put me down somewhere for the tea party. I hope you’re ready to translate.”

Ilya grins. “Go to kitchen and get tea cup. My niece is smart, she will want real thing.”

~

Late Summer 2014

Shane drops his head back onto his pillow, panting and sticky.

“Krasivyy,” Ilya murmurs. His voice crackles over the connection. Shane’s pretty sure that one means beautiful. He’ll look it up later. Ilya better not be insulting him after he just made him come.

“I wish you were here,” Shane says, rolling his head to the side to see the camera. Ilya’s chest rises and falls rapidly. He looks sleepy and sated. Shane would do anything to kiss him, rest his head against his chest, feel the tight band of Ilya’s arm holding him close.

Ilya smiles, closes his eyes. Shane watches the glint of his crucifix, wonders if Ilya’s lungs hurt like this too, like he can’t get a full breath unless they’re together. “I miss your mouth,” Ilya says. He opens his eyes to wink and closes them again.

Shane snorts. But it does make him think. They’d discussed what to do about the distance, in June. After all, they go months without seeing each other during the season. For Shane, that’s not a big deal. He misses Ilya, of course, but he rarely slept with other people between their hookups anyway. For Ilya…

They’d gone back and forth. Ilya insisted it would be fine, that he was more concerned with making sure Shane was happy and that their relationship was good. Shane loved that Ilya cared that much, but he also nurtured the deep and unabiding fear that Ilya would grow to resent him. Maybe it was a stupid anxiety, but Shane worried about Ilya going from sleeping with at least a few women a month to no one at all for long stretches.

He didn’t tell Ilya about his worries, exactly, but he did mention that Ilya had managed all this time to not feel anything about anyone else. At the root of it, Shane wanted Ilya’s… care. His attention and affection. To be the one that Ilya thought about before he fell asleep, the one he got excited to text over little things, the one he wanted to come home to. And before Vegas, before they had the needed conversation… Shane became that anyway. He could trust Ilya, be fine with opening their relationship, as long as he was the only one in Ilya’s heart.

Ilya relented eventually, but Shane still isn’t sure if it was genuine agreement or a desire to move onto a different topic.

He thinks about it now, and tentatively asks, “Have you gone clubbing at all and… you know?”

Ilya opens his eyes. Shane can’t read all of his expressions yet. This one is… unclear. Maybe he’s considering. “Do you really want to know?” Ilya asks.

Shane’s shoulders tense. He releases them with a slow, careful breath. “I– Yes?” He only realizes when he says it that he’s actually not sure.

“Hm.” Ilya props himself up on an elbow. He uses his other hand to trace slow, absentminded shapes on his chest. Shane’s eyes stick there without permission. “You really want to know? To hear about how I go to club, how I have drinks, how pretty women surround me. To hear how I take them back to my apartment, unzip their dress, play with their tits.” Ilya leans closer to the camera, his face blocking out the teasing path of his fingers. “Shane Hollander wants to know how I eat pussy and fuck them until they scream?”

Shane swallows. He can picture it, is the thing. And… well, it doesn’t do anything for him. He was hoping, maybe, that it would be hot. This could be a thing. Ilya could sleep with beautiful women and they could jerk off about it together.

Except, every time Shane tries to think about the woman there, tries to imagine Ilya fucking her… It’s like he can’t focus on her. He knows what Ilya looks like as he fucks, knows the sounds he makes, the way his muscles flex. And Shane has fucked women, even if he’s always, kind of, waiting for it to end.

And yet, he pictures Ilya taking a woman home, and inevitably she transforms somewhere between unzipping her dress into… him. All Shane can do is picture himself there, picture Ilya sucking his dick, fucking him until he screams.

That’s hot to think about, but the woman is… just not there.

Oh.

Holy fuck.

Is Shane… gay?

“Shane?” Ilya’s expression morphs from the hungry one he wears when he wants to take Shane apart to one of concern. “Sorry, is not good?”

Shane shakes his head. Hopes it resettles his brain somewhere else, until he can have a sexuality crisis in private. “Shit, sorry. No it’s… fine.”

“Shane,” Ilya says, voice serious. “I do not have to tell you about it. I want you to be happy.” He sounds so earnest, too.

Shane smiles at him, even if in the background his stomach is busy turning somersaults while his brain connects dots he hadn’t realized were there. “You make me happy,” Shane says.

Ilya studies him, eyes darting back and forth across his face like he can somehow read the truth out of him through the screen. For once, Shane is grateful for the distance between them. “Okay. You tell me if that changes, yes?”

And even though his head is spinning, Shane is utterly certain when he replies, “It won’t.”

~
Fall 2014

Ilya isn’t sure he has ever been so excited for the hockey season to start. Ilya likes hockey, even loves it sometimes, but he is not obsessive like Shane is. This year, he feels like he could vibrate out of his skin. It makes him more aggressive on the ice, faster on his skates and on the puck.

The day of their first game. Cliff knocks their shoulders together. “You keep playing like you have been in pre-season Rozy, we could be taking the Cup home again this year.”

Ilya stretches his arms above his head. His spine pops, a satisfying series of clicks. “What is this could? Sorry, my English bad, but I think it is will.” He exaggerates his accent.

Cliff barks a laugh and ruffles Ilya’s hair, darting out of reach when he makes to swipe at the other man.

And Ilya does play well. Boston wins their first game, and then their second, and then it is three games in a row. When he calls Shane after each game, Ilya gets the impression that his playing is doing something for him. Shane seems hornier. More desperate. Which in turn makes Ilya play harder.

It is written in his hockey DNA, Ilya thinks. To play his best when it is against Shane or for Shane. He wants Shane to see him, to watch him, to be impressed. When Shane gets worked up, Ilya gets worked up. They burn off the energy together, usually. Ilya goes out with the team still, and Shane tells him again and again that it’s okay to find a beautiful woman and Ilya thinks about it.

But he doesn’t look for one.

Sometime, in the past three years, Shane Hollander has ruined him for anyone else. The women are beautiful, Svetlana is beautiful, but after they fuck and recline together on his bed, Ilya is not sated. The only thing that fills the hole inside his chest is Shane. He is ruined, utterly.

Ilya will bring it up, the next time they see each other. Shane wants him to be happy, and Ilya will just have to show him that he finds happiness only in Shane now.

Montreal is the fourth game of the season. An away game, and Ilya’s team doesn’t leave until midafternoon the next day. It’s perfect. A whole night where he can make Shane come, again and again, and hold him in his arms and kiss him. Ilya survived his whole summer thinking, dreaming of this reunion.

He almost forgets that they have to play hockey first.

At the center of the ice, Ilya drops into position. Shane mirrors him. For a moment, they are 18, in a dim rink with cameras flashing. Ilya, then, already knows that he has to have him, knows that he will proposition him in the shower, that he will do anything he can to bite those distracting freckles.

Ilya, now, can’t help his smile. “Hollander. I hope you remember how to play hockey.”

Maybe Shane is thinking about the same thing, because his return smile is giddy. “Fuck off, Rozanov.”

The puck drops. Shane wins the face-off.

Ilya’s hockey streak continues here, too. He plays hard and fast and aggressive. He fights for every minute, every second on the ice. He chirps Shane, Pike, the rest of the Metros. With those warm brown eyes staring him down, challenging him, Ilya plays some of the best goddamn hockey of his life.

Shane plays better.

Ilya will not, cannot tell him this. But tonight, Shane Hollander plays hockey like a fucking god. His passes are precise, he moves faster than he ever has, his checks make Ilya’s teeth vibrate. Ilya watches Shane’s games, of course he does. Shane has had a good season so far, won both games, but this is something else.

It’s hot as hell.

Ilya hadn’t worried about how they would play against each other now. It hadn’t occurred to him to worry. Their entire careers they have been something and it has never affected their playing. But this…

Stupidly, during one of Ilya’s chances to catch his breath on the bench, he thinks that if Shane knew dating would improve his game this much, they would’ve been officially together since their rookie season.

Apparently, dating his rival brings Shane Hollander one step closer to becoming a hockey legend.

In between periods, Ilya rallies the team, tells them to get out there and fight. They roar with approval. And Ilya does fight, fights for every goddamn second.

Shane scores one goal, two, a hat trick.

And when the buzzer rings out a 4-2 Montreal victory, Ilya knows in his bones that Shane Hollander will end this year with a Stanley Cup. Ilya will fight him every step of the way, but he knows down to his fucking bones.

Ilya showers off the game day sweat quickly. Instead of exhausted from the pace of play, he finds the fading adrenaline only adds to his jitters. He waits for the rest of the team to file out to the bus. He’s not sure he’s ever seen adult men drag their feet like this.

“Come on,” he complains. “You move this slow, is why we lose the game.” That gets him some boos, but it also gets them going.

He’s rooming with Cliff, his usual partner on the road. As soon as they get their keys and unlock the room, Ilya claps his hands together. “Well, enjoy room to yourself.” He orders a taxi on his phone.

“You going somewhere?” Cliff asks. Then raises an eyebrow. “Not your Montreal girl, is it?”

Ilya grins. “Da, yes. Montreal girl. Sorry, she does not have friends. Bye for now.”

Cliff’s laughter follows him out into the hallway.

Ilya bounces his knee the entire drive to Shane’s murder building. At the door, he punches in the code and practically bounds up the stairs. For the best that Shane did not meet him at the door, he thinks. Or else Ilya might have had to fuck him in the stairwell and Shane deserves nicer things than that.

He pounds on the door.

“Christ,” Shane complains. “You’re lucky I don’t have neighbors. What’s the–”

And there Shane is. Framed in the warm yellow light of his apartment. An angel. He wears a gray spandex shirt that clings to his chest, shorts that let Ilya admire the strength of his calves, and those fucking freckles.

Shane’s beautiful fucking freckles are runway lights guiding Ilya to a safe landing.

He lunges.

They stumble back through the door. Ilya drops his bag. Shane grabs hold of his hips to steady them both. There is nowhere to go but the floor.

Shane lets out a startled gasp as they fall, but Ilya swallows it with a kiss. He makes sure to protect Shane’s precious skull, though he is more focused on petting him. Yes, even after four months, Shane’s hair is soft, glossy. He tastes the same, like minty toothpaste and spit. And the sounds he makes.

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane groans. Ilya trails his lips across Shane’s jaw, down his throat. He scrapes his teeth over Shane’s collar bone, feels himself grow impossibly harder at the moan Shane can’t muffle.

Ilya rucks up Shane’s shirt to his armpits, but gets distracted before he can pull it off entirely. His chest is a thing of beauty. Ilya wants to leave teeth marks on that perfect skin, wants the entire Metro’s locker room to know Shane is his.

“Off, off,” Shane demands. Ilya freezes, until he realizes Shane has stripped his own shirt and is busy tugging at Ilya’s. Obligingly, he lifts his arms and lets Shane lift himself into a crunch to pull it over his head.

“Krasivyy, okhuyenno krasivyy,” Ilya says. He has no control over what his mouth is doing. Before he damns himself, he puts his energy into kissing Shane senseless.

They fumble with each other’s pants like teenagers. Ilya can’t bring himself to pull away enough to make it easier. He wants to crawl inside Shane’s skin. Live inside him, so that they can never be separated again.

“Lube?” Ilya rasps.

Shane shakes his head. “Too far, I left it upstairs. Give me your hand.”

Obediently, Ilya does. And almost blacks out when Shane spits in it.

There, on the floor of Shane’s apartment, it’s messy and embarrassingly quick for the both of them. Enough to take the edge off, Ilya thinks hazily, as they both stare up at the rafters and gasp for air. Ilya will fuck him, make him scream, but later.

“I–” Shane huffs, and then rolls so his head is on Ilya’s chest. Ilya’s love for this man is a living thing that threatens to strangle him at every opportunity. “I wanted to talk before we fucked, you know.” Ilya thinks it’s cute that he’s trying to sound put out. Like Shane hadn’t left scratches down his back and nearly concussed them both in his eagerness.

“You thought we could talk before I touched your dick?”

“We’re both adults.”

Ilya nods and presses a kiss to the top of Shane’s head. “Adults, yes. Adults that like to touch each other’s dicks.”

“Fuck off,” Shane says. “I do want to talk to you about something though.”

Ilya sighs. This man. Shane cannot even let them bask in the afterglow for fives minutes without his brain running laps.

“Yes, fine. I wanted to talk too.”

Shane stiffens immediately. Ilya rubs the nape of his neck, but the tranquility is well and truly gone. “You do? Is something wrong? Did I–”

“Hush,” Ilya says. “Is not bad. You go first.” Shane loosens a little at his words, but not enough.

“I think I’m too nervous about what you need to tell me now. You go.”

Ilya sighs. He can’t be too annoyed, because most times he finds Shane’s overthinking as endearing as it is infuriating. “Fine.” Ilya sits them both up. It would be better to see Shane’s face for this. “I do not want to sleep with women anymore.”

Shane blinks at him. “Then with other men–”

Ilya covers his mouth with a hand. “No, not men either. I do not want to sleep with anyone but you, Hollander.” Under the palm of his hand, Shane tries to open his mouth. “No, be quiet. Listen. I tried. Slept with beautiful women. Slept with Svetlana, who is goddess. I do not want them. Whole time, I think of boring Canadian hockey player. I wish they are all you. Our calls are enough. I only need you.”

Feeling that he’s spoken his piece, the English practiced, Ilya removes his hand. Shane doesn’t say anything immediately. Then, instead of the push back Ilya is half-expecting, Shane says, “That’s perfect, because I think I’m gay.”

Ilya stares. “What?”

Shane grabs both of his hands. Squeezes, like he thinks he’s delivering serious news. “I– thinking about you sleeping with those women. It made me realize, I think I’m gay.”

“I am confused,” Ilya says. “You realize you are not one sleeping with beautiful women, yes?”

Shane huffs, looking frustrated. “Fine, ignore that part. Ilya, I’m trying to tell you I’m gay.”

It’s the utter seriousness of Shane’s delivery. The way he continues to hold Ilya’s hands like he’s delivering life-altering news. As if he, Shane Hollander, who loves being fucked and sucking dick like no one else Ilya has ever met, who talks about his past girlfriends like unfortunate chores, is telling Ilya something so groundbreaking that he needs to be sitting down.

Ilya can’t help himself. He snorts. Nearly loses control completely enough that he starts laughing and has to look away.

“Ilya!” Shane sounds honestly offended. “I’m being serious!”

Ilya bites the inside of his cheek. Takes a deep breath and then forces himself to look Shane in the eye. “Your lover, who regularly fucks you up the ass, is also being serious. Very serious. So, uh, what makes you think that?”

Shane gapes. Then he scowls. “You’re not gay. Also lover sounds so gross.”

Ilya tilts his head. “No, I am bisexual, you know this. And word lover is too gross when you spit on my dick twenty minutes ago?”

“Listen, this was kind of a big deal to me,” Shane complains.

“Okay, okay,” Ilya sighs. He frees his hands and pulls Shane into a hug. It’s beyond nice to hold him in his arms again. To feel him close and safe. “Your boyfriend is very happy you are gay. Is good thing. If you are straight, maybe we have problem.”

Shane sighs dramatically. “Yeah, okay, maybe it was a little obvious.” He snuggles closer, presses a warm kiss against Ilya’s shoulder.

“Only a little,” Ilya says. “But is okay. You can tell me many obvious things. Like you are gay. I am hot. You are second-best hockey player. I–”

“How about: you’re a fucking asshole.” Shane pulls out of his embrace just to bite at his lips.

Ilya gets lost in it, the gravity that pulls them into orbit, whirling around each other. “Hm, yes,” Ilya says. “I think we go upstairs now.”

“What?” Shane is soft as putty in his hands, eyes dazed from the kisses.

“Up, up.” Ilya bullies them both to their feet, muscles stiff from sitting on the floor. “Some boring man does not keep lube in living room.”

Shane snorts and doesn’t let go of his hand the entire trip up the stairs.

~

Chapter End Notes

Imaginary penny for anyone that successfully guesses my job based off this chapter.

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

Step 2: The Friendship Agenda

Chapter Notes

And we're back! Please ignore the increased chapter count.

I'm not crying about it. I swear.

I appreciate any and all comments and kudos on this fic. You all are the best. The passion for this fandom makes me so happy! I'm having such a blast writing them and especially writing this what-if universe.

Any mistakes are my own fault. And shout out to anyone who guessed my job correctly! I am, in fact, an SLP, though I think it's less obvious this chapter haha.

I hope you all enjoy :)

~
Step 2: The Friendship Agenda
~

January 2015

“So you remember the plan?” Shane asks. It might be the second or third time he’s repeated the question. But he’s nervous, maybe doubly so considering that Ilya has been so calm. Someone needs to be anxious enough for both of them.

“Yes, yes,” Ilya drawls. His phone sits propped against his pillow while Ilya lays on his stomach. Occasionally, Shane catches a glimpse of his bare back, the tantalizing curve of muscle. Mostly, the position lets Ilya be an asshole up close. “Plan is I bend you over bar in front of whole league, yes?”

“Ilya–” Shane fights a smile.

“Hush,” Ilya points a finger. “You have told me my lines many times. I am famous actor now, yes? Ready to put on show.”

“You’d be a terrible actor,” Shane says. “You couldn’t keep a straight face for one serious ad.”

Ilya groans. “I can not escape this. Is not my fault cute Canadian boy staring into eyes made me not straight.”

“That’s not what a straight face means!”

“English is stupid, stupid expressions,” Ilya mutters. “I could be actor if I wanted.”

“I’d have to be an actor too, then,” Shane says, a bit too quickly to catch himself. “I mean–”

Ilya is interested now, leaning close to the camera, almost almost close enough for Shane to see the sparkle in his eyes. “Oh? And you are actor, why?”

There’s no getting out of it now. Besides… Shane raises his chin, refusing to shy away from the ridiculousness. “Because I couldn’t let you just win. I’d have to be your like, acting rival or something.”

Ilya smiles. Toothy and wide and a touch silly. “My acting rival? What is this? I am big role and you are small role with…” Ilya winks. “Performance issues?”

“Fuck you,” Shane laughs. “I should’ve known you would spin it that way, I’m trying to make sure we’re ready for the All Star game.” He’s nervous about it, even if he knows he shouldn’t be. It’s not like they’re planning to come out or anything, and yet…

The All Star game is the perfect forum. Public, a chance for rival teams to mingle. In all honesty, Shane participated in the bare minimum of socializing during past games. He made sure he was seen, talked to a few guys he was friendly with on other teams, but mostly… Mostly, he found excuses to be in his hotel room waiting for Ilya Rozanov to knock on his door. If it got him a bit of a reputation as a shut in, that hadn’t been the worst thing in the world either. But this time…

Shane will sit at the bar, do his normal act of chatting with everyone that comes by. And then Ilya will approach him. Shane, maybe, wrote out an entire script for what Ilya can say. A supportive boyfriend, Ilya read about two sentences before he burst out laughing. “Shane, what is this?” he said. “You think I sound like this? Could say this? ‘Hollander, I would like to put aside our differences and get to know you, player to player.’ Team would… what is word? Talk demons out of me?”

So Shane’s carefully crafted script was discarded. Now, when he asks Ilya what his approach is going to be, the other man refuses to reveal it. Apparently, Shane’s reactions won’t be genuine enough if he’s pre-warned.

Because Shane knows his boyfriend, he’s mildly terrified to experience whatever he comes up with. He’s sure Ilya is going to be insufferable.

Maybe Ilya has the right idea of it though. Shane tries not to think about it too much, but he’s already run dozens of possible outcomes through his head. If Ilya does tell him what his approach is going to be, there’s every chance Shane will agonize and plan enough that his response will be unnatural. And embarrassing.

“Shane, look at me,” Ilya says. His voice is low, serious. When Shane pulls himself out of his head enough to focus on the screen, Ilya’s face softens. “There we go. Will be fine, okay? I will not embarrass you. This is important to me also. Step two, yes?”

Shane squirms. “I know. I’m just–”

“Worrying, because that is what you are. Worrier.” Ilya’s voice is fond, almost unbearably so. “Is one of my favorite parts of you. Right after freckles. And your ass.”

“Yabloko,” Shane mumbles. What he really wants to say is something else entirely. But he can’t do it on the phone, absolutely not.

“Excellent idea, show me?” Ilya says. The video bounces. From his new position, Shane can see the sculpted planes of Ilya’s chest, the trail of hair down to where he has apparently been naked the entire call. Shane’s mouth waters. Phone sex as a concept is new to him, and strangely alluring. Shane feels exposed in a way he doesn’t know what to do with. While nothing beats having Ilya next to him in bed, touching him in person… a video isn’t a terrible substitute. “Shane.”

“What?” Shane blinks.

Ilya stretches, golden and solid. “I know I am distracting, but listen. You say asshole, I say show me.” He makes a circle with two fingers, like he’s hurrying Shane or telling him to roll over.

Then the words process, and Shane flushes. Ilya means both things, probably. And even though Shane protests, they both know he’s already shoving his underwear down.

~

Late January 2015

Cliff makes it onto the All Star team this year. Which is good for Ilya’s friend, but slightly less convenient for step two of Shane and Ilya’s ten step plan. Ilya manages to talk Cliff out of sharing a hotel room with the excuse that they’re millionaires, so at least there’s that.

When Ilya opens his room door to Cliff, he’s still running product through his hair. “The fuck, Roz? Why are you dressed like that?” he pushes past Ilya into the hotel room and eyes Ilya’s outfit like it’s done something to offend him. Ilya doesn’t see the problem. So what if the button up he chose is one he’s worn to clubs before. He only looks overdressed next to fucking Marlow, who’s wearing a ‘nice’ t-shirt. ‘Nice’, Ilya knows, in the sense that it isn’t ripped or covered in comic book characters.

“Like what?” Ilya asks. He glances at the mirror, deeming his hair acceptable. “Like I go places besides gym and couch?”

“Fuck off,” Cliff says. “You know that this thing’s at the hotel bar, right? Not a club?”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Da, yes, I know this. We are in Columbus, where else do we go?”

“Whatever, dude. Sometimes I don’t get you.”

And what else is Ilya supposed to say? ‘Don’t worry about it, I just want to look nice for my boyfriend since it’s been almost a month since the last time I saw him’? That’s not the step of the plan they are at. Quite frankly, Ilya isn’t ready to be at that step of the plan. He likes Cliff. Cliff is absolutely his best friend on the team. But that doesn’t mean Ilya is prepared to come out to him.

In the elevator, Cliff starts talking about the team splits. It’s another Americas versus Europe arrangement, so they won’t even be playing together. “The media really just can’t get enough of the Rozanov-Hollander rivalry,” Cliff scoffs. Then he jostles Ilya’s arm. “Though maybe that’s for the best, huh? I’m not sure you two could work together without killing each other.”

And what an opening. Ilya wonders if the universe likes their plan and is trying to help it along. “Or maybe League is worried Hollander and I crush all competition,” Ilya draws out the thought. As if it’s something he has never considered. He pretends to have a revelation along with it. “Maybe League is afraid we become friends?”

Cliff stares at him. He must recognize the danger in Ilya’s tone. “Roz, I don’t think–”

“I do not listen to League,” Ilya declares. The elevator is only a few floors from the lobby and hotel bar. He times it perfectly. “Hollander and I will be friends now.”

Ilya’s eyes find Shane immediately. The magnet in his chest knows where Shane is at all times. A compass pointing towards true north.

Shane looks ridiculous, of course. Wearing a black Reebok shirt over jeans, because Ilya has never met a man with worse fashion sense. He ignores that half of the other players are also wearing athleisure. They aren’t Ilya’s problem the way that Shane is.

“God help us all,” Cliff mutters. He’s staring between the two of them in something like horror. “Why do you have to be such a fucking asshole, Roz?”

“Who says I will be asshole? Hollander will be my friend, I will be very nice.” Shane’s leaning against the bar, talking to that dinosaur Scott Hunter. Shane still refuses to tell him what their fight had been about a few seasons ago and Ilya doesn’t trust it. He has no interest in playing nice with Hunter. “I will wait, until Hollander is not distracted by fossil.”

Cliff trails him to the bar, following Ilya to the first few groups of players he interrupts for gossip. Ilya’s well-liked by most of the League off-ice. Oh, he’s an asshole who never shuts the fuck up, but buy enough drinks post-game and people tend to loosen up. On the ice, he might be the most hated player in hockey. Shane fights him for the title of best player, yes, but he’s so polite about it. Ilya never wastes an opportunity to chirp and get his teeth knocked in.

Mingling gives him the chance to scope out the space. There’s pool tables, one being used by a couple of guys that play out west, and the other taken over for a game of dice. In the back, a group talks around a dartboard, Vaughn waving his drink around. An ideal set up for what Ilya has in mind.

Hunter drifts away and Shane glances around the room. His gaze locks with Ilya’s for only a second. Later tonight, Ilya will spread him out on the bed, devour him, watch that sharp focus in Shane’s eyes fog. He’ll fuck the words out of him, until Shane can do nothing but gasp for air. Now that they’re dating, Shane after sex is a clingy puddle, who lets Ilya cosset and coddle him. Ilya wants that now. Wants to say fuck the plan, and bully Shane into leaving early.

Ilya swallows down his remaining vodka. Not quite as good as Russian stuff, but bracing. Tonight is about long term benefits. He drops the glass onto the bar.

“Hollander!” Ilya calls, spreading his arms wide. He hears the volume of conversation drop immediately, the weight of a dozen eyes landing on his back. “You are drinking? You are so boring, I did not think you know what this is.”

“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Shane snaps back. But Ilya can tell it’s reflexive, more than anything. Shane’s eyes are slightly too wide as he looks at him. His shoulders pulling up toward his ears, tension obvious in the straightness of his spine. Ilya feels guilty. He knows Shane’s brain, knows how the thoughts tumble and crash and tangle together. A knot of anxiety that only time and reassurance can unpick. But Ilya’s got this. If anyone can draw Shane out, sell a friendship that doesn’t ring false, it’s Ilya. He’s spent enough time daydreaming about this moment.

“Don’t be like that, Hollander,” Ilya says. He slings an arm over Shane’s shoulder. Buries his fingers in that soft, glossy hair in a ruffle that lasts a second too long. Ilya leans into him and then away. He notices Shane relax, lean back like he can’t help himself. “Have decided. We settle rivalry here. Then you admit I am better hockey player, yes?”

“You think we can settle a hockey rivalry off the ice?” The whole room is watching them now. Cliff edges closer, like he thinks he might need to pull them apart.

“Yes,” Ilya claps his hands, steps back from the bar. “We have parts of hockey here, yes? Accuracy,” Ilya points at the dartboard. “Physics,” the pool table. “Strategy,” the dice game.

“What about speed? Reflexes? Endurance?” Shane challenges. He may pretend otherwise, but Ilya can see the way his eyes have sharpened. Competition brings them both alive, pushes them to their peaks. Obviously, hockey is the best competition they have, but Ilya knows it lives in everything they do. From that first night in the gym, working the exercise bikes as hard as they can go, to running up the stairs side by side, to timing who can make the other come first.

“Easy,” Ilya says. He may have started this as a joke, but now it’s serious business. “Endurance is drinking, and we call that my win. Reflexes, we play that slap game.” At Shane’s blank expression, Ilya turns to Cliff. “Marly, give me hand.” When the other man does, Ilya turns his palm to face the ceiling. Then slaps his hand. Hard.

“Ow, what the fuck?”

“Are supposed to pull away,” Ilya shakes his head sadly. “And for speed–”

“I’m sure we could get someone to time us for a sprint,” Shane interrupts. He tips back the rest of his drink. Ilya stares at the line of his throat.

“The fuck is happening?” Someone whispers. The crowd murmurs.

“Hollander, you are not so bad.” Ilya shrugs. “Maybe, after I beat you, we are friends.”

“Maybe after I destroy you, I’ll think about it.”

Ilya sees money start to change hands. As expected, for a bunch of professional athletes. Cliff searches for his wallet, heading towards whoever has been designated as bookie. Ilya will have words for him, if his money isn’t being placed loyally.

Even though it hadn’t been part of his plan, Ilya watches the familiar realm of competition force Shane out of anxiety into focus. They head for the dartboard first, five or ten others trailing behind them.

“I’m putting this on Twitter,” one of the Chicago players announces. Perfect. Free press, without them even having to try.

At the dartboard, Ilya throws first. For all his joking, he’s not about to fake the competition. He clusters his first three darts half decently. The first one went a bit wild, but Ilya put the second one in the outer bullseye and the last in the 20. “Beat that. Though maybe you are good at handling small things, yes?”

Shane shrugs. He looks confident, almost cocky. Ilya wants to bite his cheek, press his teeth into his freckles. “No problem,” Shane says. He pulls the darts from the board, positions himself on the line, and throws. He makes the motion look lazy, even though Ilya can see the powerful flex of his arm. Spandex doesn’t do much to conceal cords of muscle. And then the noise of their observers filters in, and Ilya looks at the board. Three darts, clustered in the inner bullseye. “I’m a little rusty.”

Ilya wants to kiss him. Press him up against the dartboard and show him what that smart mouth should do instead. But that is many steps and years down the line.

Shane wins at darts.

Ilya wins at pool though, and then dice. Shane can’t keep a poker face no matter how hard he tries. Ilya should have won the sprint, but he’s blaming the fact that Shane is far better dressed for running than he is. Yes, the wardrobe is worth it for how Shane cannot keep his eyes to himself, but it is also a handicap.

By the time they are sitting at a table, glaring at each other intensely, most everyone else has lost interest. Ilya turns his hands and slaps in one quick motion. He catches just the fingertip of Shane’s right hand. “Fuck,” Shane curses. He shakes out his hand. “Why’d you have to hit that hard?”

“Oh, so sorry. Did not realize Mr. Hollander is so… what is word, fragile?”

Shane scowls. “Put your hand out, it’s my turn.”

“Christ, there’s two of you,” Cliff groans. He rubs a hand down his face. “I’m not drunk enough to keep babysitting. Kick his ass, Roz.” Cliff claps Ilya on the shoulder and heads for the bar. Shane uses Ilya’s distraction to unleash a stinging slap to the back of his hands.

“Blyat,” Ilya yanks his hands back belatedly. The thin skin is bright red.

“How do you win this game?” Shane asks.

“By giving up first.”

Ilya isn’t sure who calls it quits first. But he waits for at least two other players to be within earshot before he says, “You are not all bad, Hollander. Less boring than expected.”

“Thanks,” Shane says. His eyes dart to the side, clearly just as aware of their audience. “You’re just as much of an asshole as I expected.”

Ilya laughs, loud and unrestrained. He loves the way Shane’s eyes soften. “Is decided. We are friends now. I will beat you tomorrow and for Cup, but we are friends.”

“Lucky me.” And even though the tone is annoyed, Shane nudges their feet together under the table.

Once they finally have a locked door between them and the rest of the hockey world, Ilya shows him just how lucky he really is.

~

March 2015

The fallout from the All Star game is objectively funny, Shane knows. Media headlines can’t decide whether this is simply a new facet of their rivalry or if they’re actually friends. The specific mode of connection Ilya chose doesn’t help matters. Clips of their competitions and commentary from other players explode on Twitter overnight. But so does the way they interacted, competitive but friendly. Nothing incriminating leaks, just photos of them sharing drinks and a table, but Shane checks at least once a day.

It feels so risky to intentionally draw eyes onto their relationship. As if they’re asking for paparazzi to stumble across something they shouldn’t. But nothing comes of it. Other than a general public acknowledgement that maybe Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov don’t hate each other’s guts after all.

More than one player approaches him.

“Are you and Rozanov actually friends now?” A rookie from Toronto demands. Dallas Kent is a decent center, but he’s nearly as mouthy as Ilya. And his chirps toe the line of acceptable, as if he’s biting back something worse. Shane has no interest in mentoring him, even if he’s noticed that Kent leans a bit too far forward when cornering, slowing him down.

“Yeah,” Shane says coolly. “He’s an asshole, but he’s a fantastic player. We get along, off the ice.”

Kent wrinkles his nose and skates away.

While they talk about the friendship strategy on their calls, Shane finds himself distracted. The playoffs creep closer every day, and Shane is determined that this is his year. He will be lifting the Stanley Cup come June.

And if he’s not thinking about hockey, he’s thinking about how hot his boyfriend is. Ilya mailed him a tripod for what’s become regular calls, along with… some other things that Shane is mortified to imagine sitting in his building lobby. They may have used discreet packaging, but Shane is convinced every person from the carrier to his neighbors somehow knew exactly what was in that box.

Ilya teases him about it mercilessly. “So shy, Hollander. But not shy when you scream my name, yes?”

All that to say, while they call regularly and discuss some of the fallout of their opening gambit, Shane and Ilya usually get distracted before they can bring up next steps. Tonight, Shane is determined.

“Such a serious face, sweetheart,” Ilya says, as soon as Shane picks up the call. To remove the temptation, Shane keeps his phone in his hand. Ilya already has his in the tripod, clearly certain of where tonight is going.

He’s shirtless too. Shane unsticks his eyes from Ilya’s chest. He clears his throat. “We keep putting it off,” Shane says. His carefully planned speech flees his mind entirely. Maybe this isn’t as urgent as he thought.

When Shane doesn’t continue, Ilya sighs. “What are you saying, putting off?”

Shane blinks. “Right. We keep procrastinating talking about our next step of the plan.”

“Plan this, plan that. Would rather see my boyfriend’s dick,” Ilya groans. He flops onto his back, arms akimbo. He looks somewhere between appealing and cute.

Shane’s smile is involuntary. “You can have both, you know.”

“Promise?” Ilya whines.

Shane laughs. “I promise! I just think it’s a good idea to talk about starting the process for the charity, you know? Not for this summer, but maybe next summer we can start the camps.”

Ilya waves a hand. “Is so long from now. We deal with it then.”

“We have to decide on a cause still,” Shane says, even if he has some ideas. “And a name. Plus, we need to get people to set it up and create some type of board and–”

“I do not know how to do any of that,” Ilya interrupts. “We hire someone.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “We’ll have to hire several someones. But I was thinking we get my mom involved.” Shane fidgets with the hem of his shirt, out of frame. Thinking about this makes his stomach flutter. “I mean, if that’s okay with you. She’s good at this stuff, we wouldn’t have to worry so much about the behind the scenes.”

For the first time in the call, Ilya’s expression turns serious. “You are sure?” he checks. “We are not telling her about us, yet. You think she will not realize?”

Shane hesitates, but… “No. You should’ve seen her after the All Star game. She thought I was crazy and is still half-convinced someone on the Metros PR team convinced me to do it.” His mom had several other choice words, and it took weeks before she deigned to view Ilya neutrally rather than with rabid hatred. At least his dad came around pretty easily.

“Okay, fine,” Ilya says. “Make your mom do all the work. I like it. Are we done?” One arm shifts. He drags his fingers slowly down his jaw, his neck, his chest.

“Stop it.” Shane feels the heat radiating off his face. “I had an idea for a cause, if you can keep it in your pants for five seconds.”

“And I am asshole?” Ilya demands. “This is cruel.”

“Shut up,” Shane says. “What if we donated to mental health organizations? For suicide prevention, stuff like that.” Unsaid, is why this is a cause that matters to the both of them. Ilya has only shared bits and pieces about his mom. Mostly, as many good pieces as he has, with a general summary of the bad bits.

Ilya’s expression cracks open. His eyes are raw, vulnerable, and abruptly Shane regrets bringing this up over a video call. He wants to be holding Ilya, wants it with a fervor so intense that it hurts. Instead, he has to watch his boyfriend crumble without Shane there to put him back together. Ilya clears his throat. Looks away. “I like it,” he whispers, just loud enough for the mic to pick it up.

“Me too,” Shane says. “We could, uh,” he hesitates, but at this point he might as well follow through, “name it after your mom?”

Ilya tilts his head in the direction of the camera. His eyes glisten. “Irina. Her name was Irina. Fuck, Shane, you have to do this on video?” Ilya’s voice is thick.

His stomach twists. “Sorry, I–”

“Do not apologize. Am only mad I cannot kiss you. You are…” Ilya bites his lip. Turns his face away. “She would have liked you. Almost as much as I like you.”

Against his will, Shane’s own eyes well up. “Fuck, I wish I could kiss you too.” Two weeks until the next Boston-Montreal game. Shane can make it. “Two weeks,” he says out loud for both of them. “Then you can kiss me as long as you want.”

“As long as I want is forever,” Ilya says immediately. “I will kiss you forever.”

“Forever sounds good.” Then—to save them both—Shane adds, “You can show me your dick now, if you want.”

Ilya laughs wetly “Da, yes, I want, you terrible man.”

~

April 2015

The playoffs begin in two weeks. The Metros have continued to dominate, as Shane knew they would. This is going to be his year.

Given Montreal’s record, tonight’s game isn’t important for seeding. Yet, Shane finds his leg bouncing on the team bus, anxious to arrive at TD Garden. Because tonight, Shane sees Ilya again. After the game, Shane will gift Hayden an empty hotel room and make his way to Ilya’s place.

He can almost feel the press of Ilya’s lips, the hot line of his body, the overwhelming security found in his arms. Shane can’t wait to come around Ilya’s cock, but more than that, he can’t wait to fall asleep with him. To wake up on Ilya’s chest, the only place he loves more than the rink.

Shane’s lacing up his skates in the locker room when one of the rookies approaches him. Mikhail Sokolov is a quiet defenseman with good edges, even if he’s still working on his stick handling. As Captain, Shane did his best to get to know him at the start of the season. He found Sokolov to be a bit awkward and unsure of his English. He keeps to himself.

Approaching Shane is unprecedented.

“Sok, what’s up?”

The rookie shuffles his feet, apparently finding them interesting to look at. “Ilya Rozanov is friend, da?”

Shane’s heart skips and gallops in his chest. He’s thankful for his gloves, and the way they hide his sweaty palms. “Yes, we’re friends now.” What else could Sokolov possibly know?”

“Da,” Sokolov nods. “You speak Russian swears?”

Shane stiffens. “Some?” He clears his throat, glad Sokolov isn’t watching him to see how awkward he is when he lies. “I looked some up years ago, to chirp Rozanov on the ice.” Shane’s leg starts to bounce.

At least Sokolov looks just as awkward and uncomfortable as Shane feels. “Maybe website or book bad, da?”

“What do you mean?” Shane stills. He thinks of being eighteen, hooking up with Ilya Rozanov for the first time, laying in bed together and killing time. There’s no way.

“Some words, words do not…” Sokolov hesitates. “I think words do not mean what you want.”

Shane is going to kill him. Bloody, brutal murder. There’s no way Ilya has been fucking with him for five years. There’s no way. “What… uh, what does yabloko actually mean then?”

Sokolov winces. In the time it takes him to answer, Shane remembers every single instance he tossed that word at Ilya on the ice or in bed. Hell, he remembers every time he muttered it under his breath on the ice against other teams. Some of them must have spoken Russian. Can he remember any of their reactions? Any confusion?

Didn’t he teach Hayden to use yabloko their rookie fucking year?

Oblivious to Shane’s crisis, Sokolov says slowly, “Yabloko is… food. Red fruit. What is word?”

Shane wishes he could fall through the floor. “Apple? Are you telling me yabloko means apple?”

Sokolov nods, excited. “Da, that is word. Apple! You think is…”

“Asshole,” Shane says slowly. “Yeah, give me one minute, kid.”

Shane stands up and peels off a glove. Sheltering his phone with his body, he pulls up his message thread with Lily.

I’m going to fucking kill you

The response is quick.

that is spirit

my fucking can kill you later

Shane punches the buttons with his fingers.

No. You are DEAD.

He drops his phone back in his locker, ignoring the incoming notifications. Sokolov continues to stand at the bench, shifting from skate to skate. “Thanks for the heads up, kid. Can you teach me how to actually say asshole? It’s very important.”

Sokolov nods rapidly, “Da! One way is zhopa.”

Shane repeats the word until Sokolov nods. Assuming all of the words Ilya’s taught him over the years are wrong, at least Shane’s gotten better at pronunciation. “Zhopa. Perfect.”

At center ice, bent for the face-off, Ilya smirks at him. Confident and cocky as ever. “Hollander. You ready to lose?”

Shane glares at him. “Fat fucking chance, zhopa.”

Ilya’s eyes widen. Shane wins the face-off.

After the game, a 3-2 victory for Montreal, Shane strips off his gear and showers quickly. It takes ages for the team to make it to the bus, and even longer to fight through Boston traffic to make it to the hotel. Shane collects his and Hayden’s key in the lobby. “Room’s all yours tonight,” Shane says. He ignores Hayden’s leer.

The Uber to Ilya’s place takes eons. Shane hops out at the top of the street and jogs the rest of the way to Ilya’s door. He knocks hard enough that his knuckles sting.

Ilya opens the door, a broad smile on his face. “Hello, sweetheart.”

Shane shoves his way in. “I’m pissed at you.”

“Too pissed to give me kiss?” Ilya puckers his lips. His eyes sparkle.

Shane’s not a monster or a saint. He steals himself a quick, searing kiss before he steps back. “Five years, Ilya!”

“Five years, what? I do not understand.” Ilya calmly walks over to the couch. Sprawling with his legs spread, the way that gets Shane going every time. Shane pointedly looks at the ceiling.

“Don’t play dumb. I’ve been calling you a fucking apple on the ice for five years.”

Ilya bursts into laughter.

When Ilya laughs, really laughs, his whole body is in on it. His head tossed back, his shoulders shaking, his face split by a smile. Shane loves the sound of it, loves the look of it, and against his will, some of his irritation fades. “Oh, I have been waiting. Waiting for five years for this moment,” Ilya gasps. “I wanted to see look on your face. I am robbed.” He quiets enough to look at Shane’s scowl, and then loses it again.

“You’re ridiculous,” Shane says, crossing his arms. As if his lips aren’t twitching. “I feel like a fucking idiot.”

“Yes, yes,” Ilya waves a hand. “You are my fucking idiot. Who did big reveal?” He pats the cushion next to him.

Shane considers resisting, continuing to stand with his arms crossed, one step from a tantrum. And then he sighs and drops down next to his boyfriend. “Fucking Sokolov.”

“Sokolov,” Ilya says slowly, testing the name on his tongue. “Sokolov… Your rookie?”

Shane groans. “Yes! The fucking rookie!”

Ilya loses it again. “Poor child,” he manages. “Fresh off boat, no English, only Captain calling other Captain ugly apple. Must be so confused.”

“I hate you.”

Ilya smothers the laughter long enough to pull Shane into a kiss. “Yes, but is not only thing you feel about me.”

“It is right now,” Shane insists. Except the smile he’s been biting back the entire time makes its entrance into the scene.

Ilya traces his thumb along the curve. His touch is warm, gentle. A claim. When he presses, Shane licks the pad of his finger. Bites, just to see Ilya’s eyes darken with want.

“How about I make it up to you?” Ilya murmurs. “Make you feel something else?”

Shane swallows. His dick, half-mast as soon as Ilya threw his head back to laugh, hardens further. “You can try,” he challenges weakly.

Ilya’s grin is mischievous, hungry. “I do not try, yabloko.”

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

Step 3: The Cottage

Chapter Notes

I continue to be unwell thinking about them.

In all seriousness, thank you all for the response to this fic! Every kudos and comment makes my day. This fandom is a wonderful place to be right now!

All mistakes are my own, and I hope you all enjoy my twist on the cottage in this universe :)

~
Step 3: The Cottage
~

June 2015

Lifting the Stanley Cup feels… like nothing Shane has the words for. He knows the crowd is screaming, his teammates cheering, but Shane can’t hear anything except the blood roaring in his ears. He’s done it. He’s actually fucking done it.

His whole life, he’s been dreaming of this moment. It’s both heavier and lighter than he expected. The moment, and the Cup.

“We fucking did it!” Hayden shouts. He hooks an arm around Shane’s neck, shaking his whole body as the Cup changes hands. “We won the motherfucking Stanley Cup!”

Shane stares at him. His eyes widen and the smile that overtakes his face feels impossible to stop. “We won the motherfucking Stanley Cup!”

The team piles on him again. “That’s right, Capitaine! La putain Stanley Cup!”

When the families spill onto the ice, Shane feels his first emotion outside of euphoria—longing. His mom and dad make their careful way to him on the ice, grinning and thrilled, and all Shane wants is a third person there with him. He wants Ilya there, wants to kiss him at center ice, wants to lift him and spin him around like they aren’t two hundred pound hockey players.

He knows Ilya, knows that his boyfriend must be watching. Maybe the win makes him reckless. Just before his parents reach him, Shane seeks out the nearest camera. He looks deep into the lens and blows it a kiss.

Much, much later that night, Shane stumbles into his apartment door. Considering the special occasion, he couldn’t get out of the champagne or the after party. His team practically filled the Cup and poured it down Shane’s throat.

He’s feeling good, buzzed and a little unsteady, with joy burning a hole in his chest. All Shane wants now is to unlock this stupid door and FaceTime his boyfriend. It’s late. Shane knows it’s late. But he also knows that Ilya will have stayed up for him. Will have been waiting for Shane’s call, even if he knows from experience just how late it might come.

God, Shane loves him.

Finally, Shane manages to shove the key in the lock and stagger inside. His lights are on, both in the hallway and the living room. Did he leave his lights on all day?

Shane kicks off his shoes. He turns the corner and stops dead.

There, sprawled on his couch, is Ilya. Ilya, wearing a blue and red Metros jersey with a C on the chest. Ilya, with bare legs stretched across the cushions, crossed at the ankle. Ilya, who can’t seem to wrestle his smile down into his usual smirk.

“Hello there, Stanley Cup Champion. You have come to claim your prize?”

“You’re here,” Shane says blankly. “How are you here?” And then his body decides to act while his brain reboots. He throws himself at Ilya, nearly falling into him as his foot catches on the coffee table. “Ilya!” Shane’s lips find home, find safety.

Ilya pulls him until Shane is laying on his chest. His bare legs bend at the knee, caging Shane’s body in place. He doesn’t stop kissing Shane for a moment, like he’s trying to lick the champagne out of his mouth. “Fuck, you were gorgeous tonight.” When Ilya pulls back to look him in the eyes, Shane’s bottom lip makes a silly fwip sound as it slips from between Ilya’s teeth. “That little kiss was for me?”

“Only for you,” Shane whispers. He feels dazed, drugged. Like his blood has turned carbonated, little bubbles fizzing up and down his body. “Couldn’t kiss you for real, but I was thinking about it.”

Ilya groans. “Fuck, Shane. I would kiss you at center ice. Dip you, like dancer. Whole world would see how I–” Ilya clears his throat. “How good I make you feel.”

Shane presses in for another kiss, desperate to hide his eyes when Ilya has reached into his chest and wrapped a fist around his heart. “Are you wearing my jersey?” he asks, after he’s caught his breath.

To his dismay, Ilya pushes them up. Forces Shane to sit on the couch, so that he can turn and show Shane the name on his back.

Hollander

24

The moan claws its way out of Shane’s throat. He isn’t expecting how fucking sexy it is, to see his name on Ilya’s back. It looks like, feels like a claim. Like Ilya belongs to him.

“I am hot, yes? When I win Cup next year, I want my name on your back.” Ilya stretches, arms above his head, and it lifts the hemline enough for Shane to realize he isn’t wearing anything underneath.

Christ.

They end up fucking right there. Shane doesn’t think he’ll be able to ride, not after playing a hockey game and then going to an hours-long afterparty. But he surprises himself. The glimpses he gets over Ilya’s shoulder—of his name branded on the back of the man he loves—it’s a shot of adrenaline straight to his veins.

When he comes, the euphoria takes him right back to lifting the Cup. He’s not sure which feels better, and he decides it doesn’t matter.

“You should get this dry cleaned,” Shane says. He collapses, squishes himself between Ilya’s body and the back of the couch. He can’t stop tracing the Captain’s C on the front of the jersey.

Ilya hums. He nuzzles into Shane’s hair, dropping kisses lightly as if Shane isn’t specially attuned to every single one. “Why dry cleaned? One time use only, yes?”

Shane jabs a finger into the bend of the C, ignoring Ilya’s yelp. “You’ll need it again for next year, of course.”

“My boyfriend is so sexy when he is wrong.”

~

Late June 2015

Ilya spots Shane immediately. He just looks for the most boring car parked in the garage and puts on an extra burst of speed. In case anyone is watching, Ilya keeps his head down, but the hat and shades make him feel even more conspicuous.

He must be wearing a sign. Famous hockey player, best in world, on way to sexcation with second best hockey player and archrival.

Ilya tries to remember to call it that in front of Shane. A sexcation. He thinks it will make Shane laugh and maybe turn bright red. And then Ilya can bite his freckles.

Shane opens the trunk for him as soon as Ilya reaches the car. He tosses his suitcase in and makes his way to the passenger seat. Both sun visors are pulled down.

“Hi,” Shane says. He looks like he’s trying to stop himself from smiling. Ilya wants to press his lips upward with his fingers. Wants to make Shane smile all the time, wants to make happy his default state.

Instead of doing something embarrassing, Ilya says, “Hello, Shane. Why is your car so boring?”

Shane’s scowl is almost as cute as his smile. “It’s a Land Rover! It’s good in the snow.”

“I do not see snow.” Ilya glances pointedly out the window. “You should drive nicer car.”

“Not all of us have a car fetish.”

“No,” Ilya says, turning in his seat so he can watch Shane back out of the spot, his hands draped over the steering wheel. “You have different fetish I think.”

And there is that flush, beautiful and creeping down Shane’s neck. A shame that they are driving. Ilya knows his boyfriend is too anxious to take Ilya distracting him well. He can be patient.

Even if Shane makes it so hard. He babbles, about stopping for food, about how private the cottage is. “I had motion sensor cameras installed at the top of the drive. We’re set pretty far back from the road, and it will send me an alert if anyone pulls in. Which should be enough time to hide you.” Shane’s gnawing at the inside of his cheek. Ilya can see the tension in his clenched jaw.

He takes a risk.

Like he is afraid of spooking a shy animal, Ilya reaches forward slowly. Traces a finger over the soft curve of Shane’s cheek, back toward his ear and then the line of his jaw. Shane relaxes. He can’t help it, Ilya knows. Because Ilya holds the trick to unwinding him, to easing him down into a space where he is calm and safe.

It is so much trust. Ilya–

Ilya loves him so much.

“We will be fine,” Ilya says. “What did you tell your parents?”

Shane shifts in his seat. Glances at Ilya out of the corner of his eye. “I, uh. Well I already had my Cup day, and they spent most of it with me.”

Ilya smiles. “I know. You sent picture. Very cute.”

“Shut up,” Shane says. “After, I told them I was doing a silent retreat. Like a meditation thing. To get my head in the game for another Cup.”

Ilya snorts and tries his best to stop it from becoming full laughter.

“What? Does that sound fake?” Shane clearly can’t stop his own smile either.

“It would if it was anyone but you,” Ilya says.

A decent plan. An excuse for Shane’s parents to leave him alone for two weeks and a warning system in case they come by anyway.

Thirteen days. That’s when Ilya’s flight to Boston Logan airport is scheduled, and then from there onto Moscow. He told his brother and father that the team had press requirements and meetings, and it was the earliest he could slip away. Two weeks isn’t enough time, but it’s more than they’ve ever had before. Ilya will make it enough.

The cottage is just as large and un-cottage-like as Ilya suspected. Last summer, Shane toured him around on video several times. In fact, Ilya got to see Shane in many positions, in every room of the house. It’s still different to see it now.

They tussle over Ilya’s suitcase. Shane looks so pleased when he comes away with it that Ilya lets him win. Shane ushers him inside, locking the door even though the only things nearby are trees and moose.

Ilya whistles, admiring the massive windows overlooking the lake. “Nice,” he says.

Shane rubs the back of his neck. “The Montreal PR team wants me to film a special this summer. Show off the cottage, give the public a look into what I do during the off season.”

“Ah,” Ilya steps closer. “You will show them all places where your handsome Russian boyfriend fucked you?”

Ilya studies the bob of Shane’s throat as he swallows. “I wouldn’t be showing them anywhere then. Yet.”

“Yet,” Ilya says, like a promise.

They’re close enough now that Ilya can see the flutter of Shane’s eyelashes. The incremental shifts of his face. Ilya feels the soft puff of his breath. “I can give you a tour, if you’d like.”

Ilya shakes his head. “You have given me tour already, many times. I think now, we map locations for documentary, yes?”

“Right, yes,” Shane says. And kisses him.

They create several landmarks, on the couch, on the kitchen counter, on Shane’s massive bed. Ilya can’t wait to watch the special and imagine all the things they have done in each spot. He just knows that Shane will spend the entire recording flustered and flushed.

But the thing he will think of most of all is this moment, Shane dozing on his bare chest, sunlight outlining his body like he is something godly.

Ilya is not a religious man. And yet. Here is something he worships.

~

Having Ilya at the cottage is something out of Shane’s dreams. Every time he turns and catches a glimpse of his profile or wakes up to the warmth of Ilya’s body curled around his, Shane pinches himself. This can’t be real, can’t be something he’s allowed to have.

Ilya looks so right here, is the thing. In the kitchen, in the backyard, in the lake, it’s like all of these places that Shane built for himself were incomplete until Ilya was there. And now, now that Shane’s boyfriend is in the cottage, the cottage is whole.

Shane doesn’t tell Ilya this, because it seems like the type of thing he’ll be laughed at for.

Even though Ilya knows where most things are, Shane delights in showing off each room. Persuading Ilya to play pool with him, kick a soccer ball in the backyard, slip into the freezing lake water. If Ilya is bored by Shane’s eagerness, he doesn’t show it. In fact, Shane likes to think Ilya finds these things as exciting as he does.

Especially when he pulls Shane into the water.

The water is fucking cold this early in the summer. Shane shrieks, a bit.

Ilya smothers the sound with his cold, wet lips. “Don’t be baby. Is not that bad.”

Under the water, Ilya’s hand rubs firmly up and down Shane’s spine. He arches back into the touch, unable to stop himself from showing Ilya all the neediness that lives inside him. “Sh-shut up,” Shane chatters. “I-I can s-see your goosebumps.”

“Goosebumps?” Ilya repeats the word, kissing a line of heat down Shane’s neck. The water is up to their chests, but shallow enough that Shane can stand on the rocky bottom. “What is this? Goose, like bird?”

Shane tilts his head back. Leaves his throat open to Ilya’s attention and tries to focus his hazy gaze on the sky. “N-no. G-goosebumps are the little bumps on your skin, when you’re c-cold.”

“Ah. Is stupid name. Russians say murashki po kozhe.” Ilya’s teeth scrape over Shane’s collarbone.

Shane rises up onto his toes, unable to stop himself from pressing closer. The water still feels cold, but Ilya is a beacon of warmth. “Wh-What’s that mean?”

“Is like…” Ilya’s free hand taps a pattern up Shane’s arm. “How do you say, little ants, climbing on skin.”

Shane shivers. “That’s not any better than geese.”

“Ants do not make annoying sound and shit everywhere. Public Garden in summer is–” Ilya shakes his head. “But I do not want to talk about shitting birds.”

“No?”

“No,” Ilya says, and finally slips his hand inside Shane’s swim trunks.

Shane is chilled, but happy by the time they stumble toward the cottage. He’ll be even happier to have Ilya on his knees in a warm shower.

They’ve made it to the back porch when Shane’s phone lets out a distinctive chirp. He freezes for only a second.

It’s been buzzing on and off most of the day, friends and teammates blowing up group chats to brag about their summers, social media mentions still off the charts since the finals win. But that sound is specific. Specifically, the sound he’s programmed for the motion sensor cameras.

“Oh, shit,” Shane breathes. And then starts shoving Ilya inside. “You have to hide.”

He pulls up the camera and confirms his suspicions. That’s his dad’s car turning onto the drive, and soon he’ll be able to hear the rumble of the engine.

Ilya’s eyes widen. He doesn’t look as worried as Shane feels like he should, but he nods. “You are one with plan. Where do I go?”

“Shit, fuck,” Shane curses. He snags Ilya’s Raiders sweatshirt from the back of the couch and sprints to the door to scoop up his conspicuously not-Reebok shoes. He shoves both into Ilya’s arms. There’s nothing else obvious Shane can see, so it will have to be good enough. “Come on, my room.”

Ilya jogs after him.

There’s little to no chance that Shane’s parents would come up to his bedroom. But Shane takes one look at the wide open space, the floor to ceiling windows, and feels a tingle of panicked exposure. One other option.

“Please don’t hate me for this,” Shane begs, and yanks open the closet door.

It’s a large walk-in closet, plenty big enough for the both of them. But Ilya still peers at it incredulously before looking back at Shane. “You are serious? You are putting me in closet?”

“I’m sorry, I’m stupid, I know, I just–”

Ilya cuts him off with a kiss. “Breathe. Is okay. I will be fine. You and your family will be fine. Is all fine. Okay?”

Shane takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

Ilya steps in and closes the door.

Shane hurries downstairs. He looks around the space again, and tries to imagine it through his parents’ eyes. Is it obvious that two people have been sitting on the couch, leaving two different indents? Is it suspicious that Shane has this many coffee mugs by his sink?

A car door slams. Shane hears the key turning in the lock.

Or maybe the two sets of wet footprints is the obvious tell.

“Fuck,” Shane whispers. He does his best to slide over the floor like an idiot, obscuring the path he and Ilya took from outside as quickly as he can.

“Shane?” his dad’s voice calls.

“Dad?”

David Hollander steps into the cottage. He’s wearing a sheepish expression and has both hands up in apology. At least he’s alone. If there’s any truth in this universe, it’s that Yuna Hollander can see straight through Shane’s bullshit. Most likely, the only reason he and Ilya haven’t been found out is that Yuna’s never really seen them interact in person outside of press junkets.

“Sorry, I know you didn’t want to be disturbed.” His dad rubs the back of his neck. “But you weren’t picking up your phone and I left my charger here.”

“What?” Shane blinks. His heart races so fast that it might climb out of his mouth. “I mean, it’s fine. Where is it?”

Shane’s dad waves him off. He heads for the sunken living room area and the powerstrip by the lamp. “Right here. I totally forgot about it, your mother had to remind me where I left it.”

“Glad you found it,” Shane says. There are no thoughts in his head. Not a single one, as his dad climbs back into the main area and claps Shane’s shoulder.

“Were you swimming? I think the lake is still too cold for it.” Shane’s dad studies him, like he can tell something is off, but not what.

“Yeah, um. It was part of the meditation thing?” Shane winces internally. Why did he have to make it sound like a question? “I didn’t have my phone with me, sorry. Must have missed your call.” It’s a lie, but his dad must have been buried under other notifications. He won’t let that happen again, not while Ilya is here.

“No big deal,” his dad shrugs. “It gave me an excuse to check in on you. Your mother and I were a little worried about this silent retreat.” A hand rises to ruffle his hair, affectionate and teasing. “We thought maybe it was code for something, and that you were getting up to no good here.”

It’s clearly meant as a joke. His entire life, Shane has been a rule follower. To a comic degree at times, to the extent his parents sat him down in high school and told him it was okay if he wanted to go to parties, as long as he was smart about it. Both his parents must find the idea of Shane sneaking around to be a funny little joke, for the absurdity of it. He should laugh.

Instead, Shane almost chokes. He turns it into a cough. Abruptly, he remembers he’s shirtless. He’s shirtless in front of his dad, and he and Ilya haven’t even showered yet after fooling around in the lake. God, does he have a hickey right now? Try as he might, Shane can’t remember. If he does, please, god, let his dad assume it’s a weird hockey bruise.

“Only up to good here!” Shane grins. He tries to make his voice upbeat and casual, but he’s pretty sure it just comes out weird. “Just, really focused on winning the Cup again next year. Trying to get in the zone.”

“Of course.” And David Hollander must be an angel, because he doesn’t push. “Make sure you take time to relax too. We’re so proud of you.”

“Thanks, dad.”

“Do you need anything? Groceries or meals? Your mother and I would be happy to drop something off, we won’t even come inside.”

Shane relaxes, just a hair. It’s impossible to stay tense around his dad. Not when everything he does just reminds Shane how much he loves him. He wishes they didn’t have to hide. Wishes he could bring Ilya out right now and show him off to his dad and tell him ‘No need to worry about meals, he makes me as many tuna melts as I want.’

But that’s not the world Shane lives in. Not only do his parents not know he’s gay, they absolutely don’t know that Shane is dating his rival. That Shane has been officially dating his rival for over a year, and hooking up with him for five. And was it ever just hooking up? Even that first time, when Shane lied and tricked Ilya into staying and they lay together for hours? They might not have been exclusive, but Shane knows it was more than casual sex, even back then.

Someday, Shane’s parents will know. It’s loose, exactly where in the plan he’ll tell them. Maybe around when they both retire? Or after they’ve played on the same team for a few years? Definitely before they tell the world.

Shane ignores the churning in his stomach. It’s a long time from now. They’re in the early prime of their careers, and Shane can see them playing another decade, possibly two. Can they really keep this secret for so long without it tearing them apart?

“I’m good, dad. Thanks,” Shane says, instead of any of the things he wants to say.

“Alright, I’ll get out of your hair then. Go warm up.” He starts walking toward the door. “And maybe put a towel down? It looks like you dripped everywhere. I don’t want you to slip.”

Shane’s face burns.

He waits until he hears the car pull away, and then waits some more. Shane still feels like his heart is going to leap out of his chest. If he wasn’t damp from the lake, he’s sure his palms would be sweating.

“Holy shit,” Shane whispers. And then he remembers Ilya.

When Shane opens the closet door, he finds Ilya inspecting his clothes, a serious look on his face.

“This is crime,” Ilya says. “You own clothes for gym and team merchandise. Where are your other clothes?” He looks at Shane expectantly.

“What? I don’t have other clothes, really. What else would I need?” Shane’s relieved to see Ilya doesn’t look angry or hurt at least.

Ilya tsks. “Fact that you ask this, is not good sign. We solve this problem later.” He’s across the space in seconds. Then Ilya cradles the side of his face. It’s so tender and so gentle that Shane feels the last of his panic recede. “Went okay? No problems with your father?”

Shane sighs. Closes his eyes and leans into the touch. “It was fine. He didn’t suspect anything. He just left his charger here a few days ago.”

“I told you, would be fine.” Ilya kisses him, quick and fleeting. “Can I come out of closet now?”

Shane snorts. “I don’t think we’re at that part of the plan yet. You might just have to stay in this closet for another decade.”

“Ah, well.” Ilya steps back and stretches his arms over his head. “If it is Shane Hollander’s closet, maybe I do not mind.”

I love you, Shane thinks. And the thought rocks him to his core. Fucking hell. Is that what this is? This agonizing, clawing sensation in his chest every time they’re apart, every time he sees Ilya do something so perfectly, annoyingly him?

What is Shane supposed to do with this feeling?

They’re dating. Falling in love shouldn’t be a surprise, but… It feels momentous, monumental.

“I need you to fuck me,” Shane says.

Ilya drops his arms. “Before or after shower?”

“Before,” Shane demands. “Right now.”

Ilya’s smile is wicked. He walks towards Shane and Shane moves backward in sync. Together, they step out of the closet and into the light.

“You like to be bad,” Ilya purrs.

Shane swallows. The backs of his knees hit the bed. Shane sits and then sprawls out when Ilya pushes. Ilya crawls up his body, hovering over him. It is really fucking hot. The taste of the forbidden, the danger of it. But…

“That’s not what this is, you know that right?” Shane needs Ilya to understand. He raises a hand, runs his fingers through Ilya’s curls. Unable to help himself, Shane curls upward and kisses the tip of his nose. “Maybe it started that way, but it hasn’t been about that for a long time.”

Shane gets a front row seat to Ilya softening. The vulnerability in his eyes, the emotion that Shane hopes matches the one eating him alive.

“I know, moy dorogoy.” Ilya kisses him, long and sweet and slow. “I still want to fuck you, yes?”

“Yes,” Shane says. That fizzing feeling from the night he won the Stanley Cup is back. And this time, he doesn’t have the champagne as an excuse.

~

As the days pass, Ilya tries to ignore the dread creeping over everything. Two weeks sounds like so much time, when they’ve never had more than two days. But it only makes Ilya greedier. He doesn’t want two weeks, he wants two months, two years, two lifetimes spent at Shane’s side. Now that he knows what it’s like to wake up next to him, how is Ilya ever going to sleep without him?

The last afternoon and evening, Ilya knows he’s sullen. Quieter, clingier. Thinking about leaving makes him sad, a deep, aching pain in his chest. He knows Shane can tell, but he doesn’t call him out on it. Maybe Shane feels it too, because he clings back just as tightly.

Ilya makes love to him, their last night. He can’t call it fucking, not in good faith. Ilya kisses every inch of Shane’s body he can reach, maps his constellations of freckles. When he pushes inside Shane, Ilya closes his eyes just to focus on feeling it. Then he closes his eyes later to stop the insistent pulse of tears.

Shane falls asleep first. Sated and warm in Ilya’s arms, the most precious thing he’s ever been trusted with. And Ilya can’t sleep.

Initially, because he’s not ready to let this dream go. To wake up the next day and have to give this up. If Ilya stays awake, tomorrow never has to come. He can live in this moment, in this place forever, fuck what the rest of the world has to say.

Then, Ilya doesn’t sleep because he’s thinking. Shane is the thinker of the two of them. Ilya is smart, he knows this. Ilya is brilliant, actually. At people, at strategy, at wordplay in his second fucking language. Yet, Ilya can usually turn his brain off. Whether it’s the result of his childhood or not, Ilya can force himself away from things.

It’s what he’d done about Shane, before Sochi. Ilya denied his feelings, denied the situation so hard that he stopped thinking about it altogether. When he’s not ready to think about something, he simply… doesn’t. Shane, on the other hand, can’t let things go. He’s Ilya’s opposite, thinking about things so much he ties himself in knots.

But, this last night, Ilya lies awake thinking. He thinks about Shane. The way he smiles when he knows he’s said something funny. Shane’s freckles in the sunlight. Shane reaching for Ilya, drawn to him like a magnet no matter where they are. Shane’s eyes, when he’s brave enough to stare back. The way Shane plans and plans and plans, relentlessly and meticulously. His determination to make things work, no matter how many years and steps it takes.

Ilya thinks of how Shane holds him. How, for the first time since his mother died, Ilya feels like someone is in his corner. How he tells Ilya that this is more than rebellion, more than casual, as if he’s not terrified at all of baring his soul. Shane opened not only his heart, but his home for Ilya.

Can Ilya leave without telling him what that’s meant? Can Ilya walk away tomorrow to keep these words behind his teeth for another two months, another year?

Can Ilya stop thinking about this?

“Shane,” Ilya whispers. “Shane, hello. Wake up.” He strokes that soft hair, nudges Shane’s shoulder.

“Ilya, what–” Shane’s voice is groggy. The light from the moon is not enough to see him. Ilya slaps at a lamp until it turns on.

Shane has pillow creases down one half of his face. He squints as if the light is blinding him. He’s never been so gorgeous.

“Shh, I know is late,” Ilya murmurs. “But I have something to say.”

“It–” Shane yawns. He props his head up on a hand, stares at Ilya blearily. “It can’t wait til the morning?”

Ilya shakes his head. Presses a kiss to Shane’s forehead, just because it’s there. “No. It has waited long enough.” Ilya cradles Shane’s face in one hand. He strokes his thumb back and forth. “Ya tebya lyublyu, Shane Hollander. I love you.”

Shane jerks abruptly awake. The shift is almost funny, except Ilya is terrified. This feels like the moments in hockey, where Ilya is skating so fast, faster than he usually manages. And then he wobbles. And he doesn’t know if he’s going to keep his edge or hit the ice hard.

“Holy shit,” Shane says. Ilya tries to be patient, tries to remind himself that it’s the middle of the night. But what if– “I love you too.”

And Ilya’s edge holds. “Fuck, Hollander.” Ilya’s eyes burn, and he tucks his head into Shane’s shoulder. But Shane doesn’t let him hide.

Instead, Shane gazes at him like he’s something marvelous. Like Ilya’s done something miraculous just by speaking a truth into the universe. “Oh my god, I love you so much.”

There’s no way Ilya can survive another moment without kissing him. He doesn’t even try. He kisses Shane until his lips are numb, until he feels himself becoming sloppy and uncoordinated with exhaustion. Then he kisses him more.

When Shane finally pulls away, it’s only to ask, “Can you teach me that in Russian? The real words this time please.” And Ilya does.

Chapter 4

Chapter Summary

Step 4: Beards

... part one

Chapter Notes

Me every time the chapter count goes up: I'm fine this is fine everything is fine

Anyway, welcome back! In case you couldn't tell, this chapter/step needed to be split into two parts, because it's already the longest chapter and there are still several more scenes that have to get written. Unfortunately, I am only partially in control of the narrative. And Shane and Ilya just don't shut up.

I completed my third or fourth rewatch yesterday. I'm totally fine and not down bad about this goddamn show.

Thank you all for all the comments and kudos! I'm having the time of my life returning to my fan era. And I'm honored so many of you are enjoying it with me! All mistakes are my own.

Let me know your thoughts, and I hope you like this chapter!

~
Step 4: Beards
~

Fall 2015

Shane calls Ilya on the way back from practice. He’s gotten bolder, since they first started dating. Less terrified about talking to Ilya outside of the house, more willing to do anything to steal the time they can.

They’re both careful, of course. Extensively, exhaustively careful for the sake of Ilya’s visa if nothing else. While it’s unlikely Russia would force him home, it’s not impossible. And at least for now, Ilya needs to return each summer to check on his father.

Contingency plans A through F deal with different situations where they’re outed. Shane hopes they never need to use any of them. Considering G through L involve what they should do if one of them is ever injured, Shane would actually prefer they never use a contingency plan at all.

“How was practice?” Ilya asks. Shane takes his eyes off the road for a daring second to see Ilya moving around his kitchen. Getting to see his boyfriend doing normal chores like cooking always makes Shane’s chest warm. He feels the hundreds of kilometers a little less, can almost imagine Ilya close enough to touch.

“Okay,” Shane wrinkles his nose. “Everyone partied a little hard this summer, I think. They’re not skating at half the speed they were in June.”

“Ah yes,” Ilya nods knowingly, “silly to party. Is only Stanley Cup.”

Shane rolls his eyes, but Ilya’s tone makes him smile. Everything about Ilya makes him smile. “I’d like to make it two Stanley Cups.”

Ilya snorts. “Maybe, try again next year. Boston is winning in June.”

“So sure of that, are you?”

Ilya spins toward his phone, pointing a threatening finger. He doesn’t do a great job selling it, considering his smile. “I do not listen to disrespect. I am right, always, about everything.”

“Fuck off,” Shane laughs. He wishes he could kiss Ilya right now. The apron tests his self-control.

“I love you too,” Ilya replies, before turning back to the sauce that looks horrifyingly creamy and carb-loaded.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane says, just to see Ilya melt.

Once he’s home, Ilya stays on the line while Shane makes his own post-practice dinner. Ilya insists on waiting until Shane’s is ready, so they can eat together over the call. He must be feeling sappy, because he only chirps Shane one time about his salad.

“Bedroom, now,” Ilya orders as soon as Shane’s done washing the dishes. With incredible self-control, Shane ignores the unwashed pots and pans he can see behind Ilya. He’ll be distracted soon anyway.

When they are both sated and laying on top of rumpled blankets, Shane clears his throat. “You know, we haven’t talked about the next step of our plan.”

Ilya groans. He mutters something in Russian, too quiet for Shane to hear, and then complains, “Cannot believe this. You have fetish?”

“What?”

Ilya half-rolls, curls flopping over his forehead. “I ask, you have fetish? Because always, you are bringing up plan after we fuck. Does your spreadsheet make you hard?”

Of course, Ilya knows about the spreadsheet. Shane pretends he can’t feel the heat creeping across his face and neck. “Shut up. I’m not thinking about the spreadsheet during… you know.”

“You can say sex, Shane. Is allowed.”

“Anyway,” Shane continues. Ilya’s laugh is low and deep. “The next step was beards.”

Ilya falls silent. Though the screen is small, Shane reads the conflict on Ilya’s face. He feels the same way. Part of this step was created with the idea that they were sleeping with other people. Which had maybe been unrealistic of Shane, though he hadn’t realized it. And now, after more than a year of exclusivity, of knowing that Ilya is his and his alone… Shane doesn’t want to go back.

“I am not sleeping with women. Not even for the plan,” Ilya says, voice heavy.

Shane swallows. “Me either. My team’s matchmaking is getting out of control though.”

Ilya winces. “Yes. Marly keeps asking if I am broken.” Shane stares at him blankly. “If my dick is broken,” Ilya clarifies.

“Definitely not,” Shane says, without thinking.

Ilya smiles, even as his face shifts back to something more serious. “I have… one idea. But I am not sure you will like it.”

“Try me.”

“Svetlana,” Ilya starts, and Shane tries to keep his expression neutral. It’s not that he has anything against Ilya’s oldest friend. But something in his hindbrain never lets him forget that she’s seen Ilya naked. That she’s the one other person Ilya has ever come close to dating, even if he insists they could never have lasted. “Stop doing face, Hollander. Listen.”

“Sorry.”

“Svetlana is good friend, yes? She knows I am with ‘Jane’ now, does not cross line. She could be beard.”

Jealousy curls through Shane. Gnaws at his stomach in a way he can rationalize as unfair, without changing a single thing about the way he feels. He takes a deep breath. “Would she be willing?”

Ilya hesitates. “Yes, but…”

“But?”

“Svetlana is not stupid. Will ask questions, about why,” Ilya says, slowly. “Would have to tell her you are a man. Maybe I do not say your name, but…”

“Oh,” Shane says. He tries to picture it, Ilya telling her that he’s dating a man. Would she put the pieces together? From everything Shane knows about her, she’s as passionate about hockey as Shane’s mom, possibly more so. And part of the long term plan was their friendship, which has taken off. The media still can’t exactly decide how to spin it, even after they announced their charity at the end of the summer.

They’ve managed more than a year of keeping this secret, five years of keeping secrets altogether. Not a single other soul knows what they are to each other. Maybe–

“You trust her?” Shane checks.

“With my life,” Ilya says, solemn. “Svetlana is family.”

“You should tell her then.” Ilya’s eyes widen. “I mean it. If she can keep a secret, tell her about us. It’s better than her guessing.”

“Shane, sweetheart. Are you sure?”

Shane nods. He tries not to crawl out of his skin, or at least tries not to make it obvious to the camera. “Yes. If you trust her, I trust her.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya whispers. Even with the months since the cottage, the words feel like magic every time Shane hears them.

“I love you too, so much.”

“She will want to meet you,” Ilya warns.

Shane shrugs. “I want to meet her too. She’s important to you.” Seeing that Ilya needs a second to get himself under control, Shane continues. “So that’s you taken care of, beard-wise. I’m still left with Hayd and JJ never leaving me alone.”

Ilya’s expression turns contemplative. “I have idea. Will let you know, if it works.” Considering that the last part of the plan Ilya improvised turned out well, Shane’s going to try not to stress. Instead, he yawns. Ilya catches it, of course. “Go to sleep, moy dorogoy. Will keep you updated, yes?”

“Fine,” Shane grumbles. Then, unwilling to hang up just yet, Shane whispers, “Will you stay on the call? Just until I fall asleep.”

“Of course.”

~

Svetlana comes over for dinner the next time she’s in town. Ilya picks up food from an Italian restaurant in the North End, along with a nice bottle of wine. He’s perfectly aware that cooking to Svetlana’s tastes is not within his skills. Ilya wants to soften her up, not poison her.

Ilya isn’t nervous. Svetlana has seen him in every possible embarrassing situation. When they were kids, she knew about Ilya and Sasha practically before he did. Ilya is certain she won’t care about him dating a man.

That man being Shane Hollander is a little more complicated. Svetlana approaches hockey with unmatched ferocity. In his planning for tonight, Ilya spent some time lining up arguments about how he and Shane have never thrown a game, never played each other at anything but their best.

Still, Ilya isn’t as worried about the boyfriend part or the Shane Hollander part as he is the rest of it. Asking Svetlana to be his fake girlfriend feels… rude, almost. And while Ilya is often rude, he tries not to treat the people that matter to him that way. And if asking Svetlana to be his beard feels rude, then the rest of it is–

Worse.

Definitely worse.

Svetlana lets herself into Ilya’s place. Her heels thud against his wall as she kicks them off. She pads barefoot into his kitchen and kisses his cheek when he turns to greet her.

“Privet, Ilya. The food smells delicious.” The sound of her Russian is familiar, comforting.

“I picked it up from that place you like, in the North End.” Ilya hugs her quickly, because he really has missed her.

Svetlana hums, patting his cheek when he steps away. “Carmelina’s? You’re spoiling me.”

“Only the best for you.”

While Ilya plates their food, Svetlana pours the wine. She takes a sip, eyebrows raising. “This wine is suspiciously good. Did you and ‘Jane’ break up? Are you crawling back to me?” Her voice is teasing, but her brown eyes are sharp. That hardly took long at all. Svetlana remains one of two people alive who can truly read him.

Ilya snorts. He puts both plates down at the table and pulls out her chair. Once she’s sitting, he pushes her in before dropping into his own seat. “The opposite, really,” Ilya says. He takes a sip of his wine before she can push any further.

Over the meal, Svetlana never stops shooting him curious glances. She lets him eat in peace, mercifully, saving her interrogation for later. Instead, she regales him with tales of her most recent travels. Svetlana is terrifyingly good at her job, which involves talking people into spending obscene amounts of money on cars. She’s always been good at talking Ilya into things, too.

By the time they’re sitting on the couch, half-empty wine bottle on the coffee table, she’s clearly out of patience. “Out with it, Ilyusha. You’re acting like a child afraid to admit they broke a vase.”

“Rude,” Ilya says. But she’s not wrong. “I want you to meet Jane.”

Svetlana straightens. She claps once, delighted. “Finally! I’ve been waiting to find out what woman is special enough to make Ilya Rozanov settle down. You’ve kept her from me for too long.”

Ilya clears his throat. “Da, I have been cruel,” he says dryly. He takes a deep breath. Once he admits the next thing, there’s no going back. “Except. I have not been entirely honest. Jane is… not a woman.”

Svetlana blinks, but she hardly looks surprised. “Then I can’t wait to meet him. You know I would never put you in danger, Ilyusha.”

Ilya nods. “Da, I know. If it was as simple as him being a man, I would have introduced you two immediately. The issue is–”

Svetlana clicks her tongue. Ilya can see her connecting the dots. “He’s another player, isn’t he? You do like to get yourself into trouble. But who… Not Marlow?”

Ilya wrinkles his nose. “Absolutely not. Marlow steals the blankets.” An unfortunate fact Ilya knows personally, after one too many nights drinking and collapsing together on the nearest horizontal surface.

Svetlana’s first guess was only half-serious. She sits silently now, clearly trying to work it out. When her face just barely starts to open with realization, Ilya interrupts, “Jane is… Shane.”

“My God,” Svetlana whispers. Her mouth falls open, just a little. “You’re dating Shane Hollander?”

“Da,” Ilya confirms and lets her process. Ilya’s never been one for fidgeting, not the way that Shane is. Ilya’s half-convinced his boyfriend keeps his wardrobe so limited because he’s always wearing holes through his hems with anxious fingers. But right now, waiting for his best and oldest friend to make her judgement, Ilya tangles his fingers in his shirt. It makes him feel closer to Shane.

“I see it,” Svetlana says finally. “I knew there was something strange about the whole friendship thing last year. It was way too sudden, but I never thought of this.” She shakes her head. “I did think that Jane could be a man, but not Shane Hollander.”

Ilya swallows. Sets his jaw, so that her next response can’t hurt him. “Are you mad at me?”

Svetlana leans forward to squeeze his forearm. “Absolutely furious,” she says. But the touch relaxes him anyway.

“We don’t cheat. I’m pretty sure Shane would never let me touch him again if I ever threw a game. And besides, we both care about hockey too much. It’s fun beating–” Ilya finds himself surprisingly desperate to curtail the criticism both he and Shane worry about the most.

“Oh, I’m not concerned about that. You both care about winning too much. Statistically, you both play your best hockey against each other in terms of goals and assists. No,” Svetlana crosses her arms. She tilts her chin, looking every ounce the haughty princess she is. “I’m furious you took that man off the market. Shane Hollander is the best player in the NHL right now, and the hottest–”

“Second best!” Ilya protests. “Though I do agree on the hotness. He’s even sexier with his clothes off.”

Svetlana rolls her eyes. She prods Ilya in the chest with a finger. “Enough. I can’t believe you’re dating Shane Hollander. I would have called dibs if I knew he was looking for an attractive Russian.”

“You’re the worst,” Ilya scowls. “Besides, Shane is too gay for that to ever work.”

“A pity,” she says. “Good catch, Ilyusha. I am excited to meet him, and to make sure he knows to treat you right. Like a fragile baby.” She pats his cheek.

“You’ll like him,” Ilya decides. “He’s almost as obsessed with hockey as you.”

And Ilya considers leaving it there. Considers not bringing up the fake partnership, letting it rest for days or weeks or just never bringing it up at all.

“What else aren’t you saying?” Svetlana asks. And that’s why he could never let it rest. She would see right through him and intuit everything he’s keeping secret.

“Shane and I, we came up with a plan,” Ilya hedges. “To help us keep our relationship quiet until we’re ready to come out, but also for us to ensure we’re together as much as possible. We’ve completed a few of the steps already. I visited him at his cottage last summer and we’re developing the public friendship right now, but…”

Svetlana watches him steadily. If she knows what Ilya is dancing around, she’s either hiding her reaction or truly unphased.

“One thing we considered was the need to throw the media off our scent. It’s unlikely they would jump to us dating, especially considering my reputation, but never impossible. And if that happens, I can never go back to Russia.”

Svetlana lets out a long aah sound. “I think I know where this is going. You two discussed the need for a sham relationship, didn’t you?”

Ilya nods. “Da. And there is only one person I trust enough to know why a sham is necessary.” He waits.

To his immense relief, Svetlana laughs. “Ilya Rozanov, are you asking me to be your beard?” She says the last word in English, exaggerated.

“Perhaps,” Ilya says. “But only if you would be okay with it. I don’t want to interfere with any relationships or aspects of your life–”

Svetlana waves a hand. “I am not seeing anyone right now. I would not mind helping for a little while, at least. Even if we are together on and off in public, that will do a good job dispelling rumors without us needing to confirm anything.”

Relief sinks into Ilya’s bones. There truly are very few people they could trust with something like this. Ilya was almost sure Svetlana would help, but it’s nice to have the confirmation. “Thank you.” This next thing is the tricky part, the layer Ilya hasn’t even shared with Shane. “But, if you agree, I think there’s even an additional protection you could offer us. If you don’t mind a little drama.”

“What is it?” Svetlana asks, leaning forward. “I love drama, Ilyusha, you know this. Don’t leave me in suspense.”

Ilya takes a deep breath. “How do you feel about being both of our beards?”

~

February 2016

Shane hesitates outside the restaurant. Bistro du Midi was Ilya’s recommendation, after he cited Svetlana’s ‘expensive tastes.’ Even though Shane would rather still be curled around Ilya in bed, he’s lucky Svetlana agreed to this.

There’s no backing out now.

Shane was beyond nervous the first time they met back in December. He paced around Ilya’s kitchen, only settling when Ilya held him in place. “What if she doesn’t like me?” he asked. Ilya reassured him again and again with his words and his touch, but meeting his boyfriend’s oldest friend was still nervewracking.

Svetlana was gorgeous, smart, and clearly protective of Ilya. Shane spent the entire meeting feeling like he was taking a test he’d forgotten to study for. They shared an amiable dinner, discussed the details of Svetlana posing as both of their beards, and then she was gone.

“She liked you,” Ilya told him. But Shane wasn’t so sure then, and definitely isn’t sure now.

But, again, it’s too late to back out.

Shane opens the door.

“Table for Hollander,” he tells the maître d'. The man is dressed in a full suit, which makes Shane glad he packed his dress pants along with a nice button up. They have a short conversation in French about how Shane is finding the city. He’s led to the second floor and a table by the window. It overlooks the Public Garden, as requested, and provides the most possible exposure for this venture.

Shane orders a several hundred dollar bottle of wine for the table, again on Ilya’s recommendation. Their next game isn’t for two days, but Shane resolves to have a single glass. Just enough to keep on Svetlana’s good side.

“Do you have ginger ale?” Shane asks.

The waiter stares, appearing utterly baffled. “No, sir. Can I offer you a ginger beer?”

Shane waves him off. He hopes the embarrassment hasn’t turned his cheeks pink. “No, that’s alright. Thank you.” He’ll stick to water following the wine.

Svetlana arrives exactly ten minutes after the agreed upon time. Ilya told Shane to expect this, that she likes to make an entrance. Her only concession to the cold weather is a luxurious white fur coat. The burgundy dress clings to each and every curve and her eyelids sparkle when she blinks.

If Shane wasn’t sure he was gay before this, he’s certain now. Ilya calls Svetlana a goddess regularly, and Shane can see and appreciate that fact now, without feeling a single ounce of attraction.

“Hello again, Shane,” she purrs as she approaches the table.

Manners his mother drilled into him have Shane standing to pull out her chair. He helps her out of her jacket, and, aware of the picture they present, presses a kiss to her cheek. “It’s good to see you.”

As soon as Shane sits in his own chair, any and all topics of conversation flee his mind. Svetlana doesn’t seem inclined to help him. She hums appreciatively when the waiter appears to pour their wine and politely clinks her glass with his in a toast. But otherwise, she studies him in silence.

Fuck. She’s just as intimidating as she was the first time they met, and now Shane doesn’t even have Ilya as a buffer.

What does she think of him? She probably hates him, Shane reasons. After all, he’s done nothing but make Ilya’s life more difficult. And, essentially, stole him away from her. It must kill her to have to sit here and look at him. Shane certainly wouldn’t be so mature interacting with someone that took Ilya.

“I–” Shane starts. Then he takes a deep breath and tries again. “Um. Thank you. For doing this, I mean. It really means a lot to me. And to Ilya.” There, that wasn’t too bad of an opener.

“I would do anything for Ilya,” Svetlana says, voice cool.

“Same,” Shane rushes, “I mean, me too. I would do anything for him, I mean.”

“Ilya deserves the best,” Svetlana continues, like he hasn’t spoken. “He is one of the kindest people I know. Truly kind, even if he pretends to be an asshole.”

“He’s definitely an asshole, but he’s the best one I know,” Shane says without thinking. Then winces. “That came out wrong. I meant… I love all the parts of him, you know? Whether he’s being a jerk, or a secret romantic, or an idiot. He deserves everything.”

Shane’s not even sure what he’s saying. All the years of media training didn’t prepare him for this moment. Didn’t prepare him to split open his chest for Ilya’s best friend, to show her Ilya Rozanov carved on all his ribs. He hopes she can hear his sincerity, hear that, even if his words aren’t as refined as the absolute poetry Ilya spouts when he’s in a mood, he means them with everything he is.

Svetlana taps her nail on the stem of her wine glass. “And you think you are the right person to give him what he deserves?”

Shane flinches. But he sets his shoulders and forces himself to look her in the eyes. “I’m not perfect. But I do everything I can to be good for him. And I’ll keep working at it, everyday, for the rest of our lives.”

Svetlana looks at him for a long, long moment. And then she softens. Almost imperceptibly. “You are very sweet,” she tells him. “A bit awkward, but sweet. Ilyusha needs someone who can be sweet to him.”

Shane flushes. “Thank you, I think?”

The waiter returns with impeccable timing. Svetlana places her order without looking at the menu and Shane is relieved he can do the same. He spent at least an hour studying the website last night and figuring out what meal he can fit into his diet plan. He adds salmon to his salad for extra protein.

“Now that I am done interrogating you,” Svetlana starts. Shane tries not to slump in relief. Thank god. “We can make this look like a date, rather than hostage situation, yes?”

“Please,” Shane breathes. She looks at him expectantly. Shit, is he supposed to start the conversation? Shane casts around for topics. Pretty much the only thing he ever talks about is hockey, which doesn’t seem like appropriate date conversation. He usually lets someone else lead in social situations, chiming in just often enough to remind them he’s there. “Um. Nice weather we’re having, huh?”

“It is February,” Svetlana says slowly, “in Boston.”

So, not the best choice. Shane tries to rally. “What do you like to do for fun in the city?”

She sighs, like Shane is the most exhausting person she’s ever had to interact with. He would be offended, if he couldn’t see her lips twitching in a reluctant smile. “Dumb hockey boys,” she says, possibly to herself. “You are the best player in the NHL, Shane Hollander. I do not want to make small talk, I want to hear what you think about Rask’s goaltending now that his defensive line is shit.”

Shane blinks. Oh. He remembers Ilya saying, over and over again, that Svetlana loves hockey more than anyone else he knows. He’s such an idiot.

By the time the waiter returns with their food, they have each drunk two glasses of wine. The table has been turned into a mock hockey rink, with both of their wine glasses serving as goals, and scraps from the label of the bottle serving as players. Shane’s elbows are on the table. He leans close, studying the way Svetlana adjusts each line.

“–and if they get rid of Zullo and put someone on first line who stops racking up the penalty minutes–”

“Team morale would be better too,” Shane interjects. “Zullo’s an asshole, I swear half the time he’s on the ice Vaughny’s about to drop gloves.”

“Yes, yes,” Svetlana shushes him. “But if they got someone really good, like Jalo–”

“You think Jalo would leave Tampa?”

“If it meant he could win somewhere else, obviously,” Svetlana says, voice certain.

Someone clears their throat. Shane and Svetlana both startle. Their waiter stares at them in confusion, balancing both their plates and eyeing the mess they’ve made of the wine bottle. “Excusez-moi, I have your meals.”

“Shit,” Shane says, disrupting their makeshift rink despite Svetlana’s sharp look. “Go ahead.”

The hockey talk has done an excellent job of distracting Shane from the fact this is supposed to be a date. Such an excellent job, that Shane only now notices half the eyes in the restaurant returning regularly to their table and the occasional gawker on the sidewalk. He stiffens.

Svetlana cuts into her caviar omelette. She notices Shane’s sudden tension and sighs. It sounds almost… wistful? “I will be having words with Ilya,” she mutters and then adds something under her breath in Russian too quietly for Shane to catch. “Tell me more of your hockey opinions, Shane. You are much smarter than Ilyusha.”

Consciously relaxing his shoulders, Shane does.

~

The fall out of Shane and Svetlana’s brunch is immediate and overwhelming. Ilya’s made sure to be seen in public with Svetlana frequently since the fall. She’s come to several post-game celebrations on his arm and they’ve chosen to eat-out rather than pick-up food every time she’s in Boston.

Hockey players are not as prominently in the public eye as other celebrities, but Boston is rabid about sports. And Ilya is the best player in the league. Several of the guys in the locker room chirp him about going steady with a girl, and Ilya sees quite a few gossip articles about their ‘relationship.’

The day after The Brunch, capital letters necessary, Ilya walks into a silent locker room. The rookies look scared shitless, and even some of the older players are quiet. “What? Why are you idiots looking like that?” Ilya demands.

Clearly, Cliff was nominated to take one for the team. He steps up to Ilya’s locker like he’s delivering a death sentence. “Roz, I guess you haven’t seen the news then?”

“What news?” Ilya asks. He’s already generated a dozen worst case scenarios, most of which start and end with something horrible happening to Shane.

“I know you’re buddy-buddy with Hollander now,” Cliff starts, doing absolutely nothing to knock Ilya out of his panic, “but you might want to reconsider.”

“What?” And then Ilya actually looks at the screen Marlow’s shoving in his face.

It’s an excellent picture, all things considered. It’s probably one of the best pictures ever, considering it shows both of Ilya’s favorite people. The warm lighting of the restaurant frames their faces perfectly, and Svetlana’s clearly enjoying the conversation judging by the way she’s gesturing with her fork. And Shane…

Instead of the anxiety and tension Ilya was assuming dominated their brunch, Shane looks… relaxed. His eyes are narrowed in focus as he listens to Svetlana talk, and Ilya can imagine him nodding along. The button-up that Ilya told him to pack hugs his arms nicely. There’s even wine in both of their glasses, not just Svetlana’s.

Fuck, Ilya loves him. They probably spent the entire meal talking about hockey. He’s so boring.

The headline reads: Rivalry Redux? Hollander Spotted with Rozanov’s Girlfriend in Shocking New Pictures

Cliff clears his throat. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, Ilya. Hollander’s a real piece of work, stealing your girl like that.”

And Cliff sounds so genuine, the rest of the locker room so serious. Ilya expected reactions, of course. In fact, he was looking forward to the chaos this move was sure to cause. But the true regret and anger on his team’s face is simply too much.

Ilya laughs once, and then finds himself doubled over with his hands on his knees, trying desperately to catch his breath. The rest of the team just stares.

“Fuck, Marly. You are killing me. You think Shane Hollander stole my girlfriend?” Ilya wheezes.

“Yes?”

Ilya cackles. “Okay, okay. Let me get one thing straight. No woman leaves best player in league for second best player, you understand?” When Cliff doesn’t nod, Ilya takes a deep breath. Tries to arrange his face into something serious. After all, this assumption is the whole point of this farce. He can’t ruin it completely. “Team calls Svetlana my girlfriend. Is not accurate. We are, what is American term, friends with sex?”

David Marchand, affectionately known as ‘Marchy,’ a left wing from Maine, clears his throat. “You mean… friends with benefits?”

Ilya snaps his fingers. “Yes! That is term. Svetlana and I, we are not exclusive. I let you all assume, because is fucking funny, but she is her own woman.”

“You’re serious?” Cliff demands. “This doesn’t piss you off at all?”

Ilya shrugs. “No. But maybe I pretend it does. Text Hollander later that I am coming for his head. If he still has one after surviving Svetlana.” And then he winks.

The locker room rings out in a chorus of boos and jeers. While Ilya’s team continues to be baffled by the dissolution of the rivalry, they haven’t given him a hard time about it. If there’s one thing athletes from Boston understand, it’s playing things up for the camera. Of course, not everyone is willing to be convinced so easily.

Cliff remains leaning against Ilya’s locker. The look in his eyes is curious, unswayed by Ilya’s prevaricating. Stubborn. Probably why Marly’s his best friend on the team. “You sure you’re not mad?” Cliff tries.

Ilya claps his shoulder. “Is very nice, that you come to my defense. But I promise, no drama.”

“No drama,” Marlow echoes, but Ilya can see him working away at the mystery. Ilya wishes him luck. The reality is far too strange to believe.

Shane’s call that night proves him to be entirely less sanguine about this entire thing than Ilya.

“I fucking hate you,” Shane says, as soon as Ilya hits accept.

“Ouch,” Ilya says, clutching a hand to his heart. “My boyfriend is so mean to me. Maybe I find new one. Is Boiziau looking?” Even joking about dating Pike is too far.

“Shut up,” Shane snaps. His hair sticks up everywhere, like he’s been running his hands through it non-stop. There’s a tuft by his left ear that Ilya’s fingers itch to smooth back. “I never should have agreed to this.”

“You did not enjoy brunch with Svetlana?” Ilya teases. He raises his eyebrows. “She had nice things to say about you, but maybe not so much after I tell her this.”

“She did?” Shane asks. Ilya watches him perk up, like a child excited to show off a good test grade. “Wait, don’t distract me. You know exactly what I mean.”

Ilya can’t help but drag it out. “I do not know. My English is not so good, maybe you explain in small words.”

“Fuck off,” Shane snaps. “I literally caught you reading Jane Austen two days ago, don’t be an asshole.”

“Her romance is good,” Ilya allows. “I like Mr. Darcy. I am also attractive and rich and brooding,” Ilya pronounces the final word with care.

Finally, Shane breaks. He covers his smile with a hand, but not fast enough. “I think you mean rude, not brooding,” Shane teases.

“Maybe I mean both,” Ilya shrugs. “But okay, okay. Tell me about mean Montreal locker room. Who am I checking into boards next game?”

Shane sighs, his head dropping out of frame. It gives Ilya a nice view of his kitchen. There are grocery bags on the counter. He hears the thump of Shane’s skull meeting granite. “That’s the worst part,” Shane complains. He still hasn’t come back into the frame. “They spent all of practice congratulating me.”

Ilya snorts. “For man who earned respect of his locker room, you sound miserable,” Ilya observes. “Sit up. Stop hiding your freckles from me.”

Groaning, Shane comes back into view. Ilya wishes he could kiss the reddened little circle of skin where his head met the table. “I don’t want to be congratulated for being a cheater,” Shane sneers.

“Then you tell them what I told Raiders,” Ilya suggests. “Svetlana is not my girlfriend. Only friend with benefits. There is no cheating.”

“I tried that!” Shane throws up his hands. “They told me they’d pass it on to their girlfriends, but that they still ‘knew the truth.’”

Ilya winces. “I think you are being destroyed in WAGs chat. Metros are weird team.”

Assholes, is what Ilya wants to say. He knows that Shane loves them, loves playing for Montreal, loved winning the Cup last year. But Ilya’s also played his share of games against the Metros. He knows that Drapeau’s got almost as much of a mouth on him as Comeau. That part of the reason their plan involves coming out after retirement is the culture of Montreal’s locker room. The Boston Raiders are no angels. Ilya’s shut down his share of slurs in his time as Captain. But the team knows he won’t tolerate that shit. And they listen, because they respect his leadership and know the coaches will back him.

Shane doesn’t have that kind of support. The Metros respect him as a player, obey him on the ice, but… whether it’s due to a management who cares only about winning or the fact that Shane’s still fending off microaggressions from his own teammates… the culture hasn’t shifted. So yes, Ilya thinks the Montreal Metros are largely assholes.

Pike is alright, even if he’s a mediocre hockey player. And Boiziau is fine. But Ilya would happily punch every other Metro in the face if it would make Shane smile.

“This is a mess,” Shane says, miserable.

“Shh,” Ilya tries. “I know is annoying now. But plan is working, yes? Hockey world is focused on this drama. They will never think we are sucking each other’s dicks.”

“I guess,” Shane grumbles. “Except it gets worse.”

“Worse?”

“My mom called me,” Shane says. His face tells Ilya this is a terrible thing. “She wanted to know if we needed a back up plan for this whole charity thing.”

“Why back up plan?” Ilya asks.

“Since our whole friendship must have fallen through. She literally asked me why I couldn’t have done this before we announced the camps for this summer.” Shane’s expression is priceless.

Ilya snorts. Rubs a hand over his face until he’s sure he’s gotten his smile under control. “Your mother thinks you are–”

“No!” Shane interrupts. “I mean, no, she took my word for it after I said things were,” Shane cringes, “casual, on all sides. But she did say the media thinks we hate each other again.”

Ilya waves that away. “No big deal. Tell your mother that you and your good friend Rozanov will fix that before camps start.”

“We will?” Shane asks, voice wary.

“Yes, of course,” Ilya says. “We cannot go backward in plan. I have idea.”

“I think I’m starting to hate your ideas.”

Ilya winks, as salaciously as he can. “Is not true. You certainly do not hate all of them.”

~

Chapter End Notes

coming soon to a theater near you... beards, part 2

Chapter 5

Chapter Summary

Step 4: Beards

Part two!

Chapter Notes

Hi again! I am back, with Beards pt 2! Somehow, even though I split this step into 2... this is still my longest chapter. Please save me from my inability to stop writing them. They have too much to say.

I feel like I should maybe apologize for this one as well... it would maybe be accurate to call it a roller coaster... sorry?

Thank you all so much for all of the wonderful comments! I read and reread them all, and I love how much you're all enjoying this idea. You're all the best, seriously.

All mistakes are my own. I hope you all enjoy my take on this :) And if you're in the path of the massive winter storm in the US, stay warm!

Slight warnings for some themes from The Long Game book. Not really direct spoilers, so you'll be fine if you haven't read it, but I am drawing on it for Ilya's headspace.

April 2016

“This is a terrible idea,” Shane says flatly. He takes back everything he ever thought, about Ilya being good at plans. The All-Star game must have been a fluke. Because even Shane, who spends so little time on social media that his mom just keeps track of his passwords for him, knows this is going to solve absolutely nothing.

“This is perfect idea,” Ilya drawls. He leans back in his chair, balancing it on two legs, and Shane bites down on his instinct to scold him. Let Ilya hit the ground. Maybe that will knock some sense into him.

“Ilya,” Shane hisses. He glances around the restaurant, accidentally catching the eye of several different patrons who quickly look away. Shane imagines his mother at his shoulder, telling him very firmly to be aware of his face, and tries to smile. It comes out as more of a grimace. “People are going to get the wrong idea, you have to know that.”

Ilya tuts. “I have to know nothing. People will get right idea, that we are still friends.”

The front door of the restaurant swings open. Svetlana enters, wearing a gorgeous black dress with large sequins. She’s wearing a short jacket and heels that make her legs go on for miles. Shane literally hears the restaurant fall silent, before a slightly too loud murmur replaces the idle chatter of before. Shane wants to walk out of the restaurant and possibly right into the Charles River. He’s heard it used to be toxic or something. If nothing else, it’s almost definitely still cold enough to douse the fire overtaking his skin. “Ilya, that is not the idea people are going to get. Please tell me you know this, I’m begging you.”

Ilya smirks. “That is not type of begging I like from you, Hollander,” Ilya says, so low and quiet that Shane can barely hear him.

“Boys,” Svetlana greets. Her lips are curled in almost as big of a smirk as Shane’s idiot boyfriend. Shane knows her well enough now to understand that she loves chaos as much as Ilya does.

“Svetlana!” Ilya cheers, arms open wide.

“Good to see you again, Svetlana,” Shane says over him. He prays to his mother’s training that his face is doing what it should be.

The murmur of the restaurant grows louder. Neither of them help matters when they both stand to pull out Svetlana’s chair at the same time. Both Ilya and Svetlana are clearly delighted. If only his boyfriend would choke on whatever chirp he’s clearly formulating.

Because she must hate him, Svetlana speaks first. “Great game last night, boys. Shane scored more goals though, so he gets my first hello.” And then she leans forward and kisses him on the lips.

It’s barely more than a brush of skin, the type of kiss you give a friend or family member. But Shane knows that’s not going to matter one whit. He pictures the locker room tomorrow. The silence of men with absolutely nothing to say.

Well, only if he’s lucky. Otherwise Comeau’s going to say something sexist enough that he gets hit. Especially since Svetlana pats his cheek and turns to Ilya to give him the same treatment.

The burst of jealousy is short-lived and irrational. There’s not a single difference in the way Svetlana kissed Ilya compared to how she kissed Shane. But Shane finds that he doesn’t like it. Even knowing that all three of them are going into this with their eyes open, that Ilya is Shane’s and no one else’s… He doesn’t like it.

At least if anyone snaps a picture of his current expression, they’ll assume he’s jealous of Ilya, not Svetlana.

They place their orders. Or, more accurately, Ilya orders for all three of them because Shane can’t get himself together enough to generate a sentence and Ilya just apparently knows what Svetlana would choose. It’s a pretty good choice for him, Shane thinks, mostly within his diet, even though Ilya keeps telling him he takes the restrictions too far.

When words return, Shane ensures his voice is quiet. “You both realize the entire world just decided we’re having a threesome,” he hisses. Ilya shrugs. Svetlana sips from her wine. “I’m the only one concerned about that?”

Svetlana pats his shoulder. “I would, but Ilyusha tells me you are not interested. Pity.”

“I do not share,” Ilya affirms.

Svetlana tilts her hand back and forth. “Well, is not completely true. Do you remember…” and then she’s off in a burst of Russian too fast for Shane to catch. He’s been studying and practicing every chance he gets, but he’s not conversationally fluent yet. Ilya insists he’s pretty good, but Shane knows his limits.

Unfortunately, Shane translates just enough of the words to blush a bright, undeniable red. “Fucking hell,” he whispers to himself.

Ilya nods along, serious and apparently unperturbed by the filthy memory Svetlana recounts in agonizing detail. “Da, you are right. Let me try again. I do not share Shane.”

If there truly is a god out there, Shane hopes to have a conversation with them someday. He’d really, truly, like to know what action of his warranted this.

“Reasonable,” Svetlana allows. “I would not share him either. He is too good at hockey.”

“Can we please move on?” Shane asks. “To literally any other topic?”

“Okay,” Svetlana says. “I have been wondering. Do you want to kiss me on the ice, after Montreal wins the Cup this year?”

Well, apparently there’s actually one topic Shane would like to talk about less. Good on her for finding it. He feels the hovering presence of jinx, even if Shane is pretty sure Montreal’s going to take it all the way once the playoffs start. “I–”

“Hey!” Ilya smacks the table with the palm of his hand. Not particularly hard, but it’s still loud enough that anyone not watching their spectacle finds an excuse to tune in. “I’m winning the Cup this year. Boston is going to fucking win.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Svetlana says. And then she turns her entire body to talk to Shane instead.

Ilya’s expression is so exaggerated, so outraged, that Shane loses the last crumbling pieces of his composure. He laughs, free and unrestrained, and nearly tears up at the way Ilya’s entire face softens.

He’s definitely being punished for something, and Ilya is absolutely not allowed to have ideas in the future, but unfortunately… Shane wouldn’t change a single thing.

~

Early August 2016

As the last kid files off the ice, Ilya breathes a sigh of relief. The first year of the Game Changers hockey camps was an absolute success, but he is deeply relieved that they’re done. Ilya, perhaps, underestimated how stressful it would be to work with Shane and keep their relationship a secret. It feels like the time they get together is so limited, so short. Being near the man he loves and being expressly forbidden to touch him cracks something inside him.

Especially since Ilya needs Shane more than ever.

He is not really sure that relationships are supposed to work this way. Ilya’s only ever done the one this serious, where he actually loves the other person. From the way his teammates talk, long term relationships ‘cool off.’ He’s supposed to lose that all-consuming obsession, that drive to be in each other’s pockets all the damn time. If that’s true, Ilya would appreciate it kicking in.

Instead, every single year Ilya has with this man, every single second he gets to love him, he falls harder. Shane is like a fucking sunrise. The longer it goes on, the more beautiful it gets. All Ilya ever wants is more time, more moments to let Shane light up his entire world.

They’ve only been together officially a little over two years. How is Ilya supposed to survive this? Ilya knows himself, knows his body, knows he’s got a bare minimum of another decade of hockey in him. How does he survive another decade of this distance? Of loving Shane so quietly, when this feeling is the loudest thing he’s ever known?

It rips him up, sometimes, when he thinks of it. Ilya loves hockey, loves Boston, loves Shane, and he worries that one of these things is going to kill him. Worries that he might just let it.

Maybe Ilya should talk to Shane. But there is no magic solution for this situation, for this feeling. And Ilya, selfishly, doesn’t want to make Shane sad too.

It probably doesn’t help things, that this summer has been mostly shit. With several outfit changes and temporary hair dye, Ilya managed to sneak out to Washington to surprise Shane in his hotel room after the Cup win. It was maybe the riskiest thing either of them have ever done, relying on Hayden Pike and the rest of the Metros to stay out partying. But they stole that time.

Then. One week, of sunshine and joy and privacy, at the cottage. A week where Ilya got to fall asleep holding Shane every night, wake every morning with him on his chest, spend every day holding his hand. They had two close calls this time, once with Shane’s dad again, and another with Shane’s mom. The second involved a very awkward sequence of confirming Irina Foundation and hockey camp details over email because ‘his service was too bad to call,’ all while Yuna Hollander talked Shane’s ear off downstairs waiting for his replies.

Somehow, Ilya has dodged meeting either of Shane’s parents. Shane acts as a go-between for anything involving the charity. It’s for the best, even though Ilya knows Shane wants them to meet, even though Ilya would crawl inside Shane’s skin just to know everything about him. But Ilya knows mothers, knows the way his own used to see right through him as a child. Unless Shane is ready to come out, his parents can’t see them in a room together.

One week of happiness at the cottage, and then Ilya flew back to Russia. It was a compromise, cutting their time short so that he could return to the States early enough for the Boston hockey camp. An awful fucking compromise.

Ilya’s father is… not doing well. He requires care that his wife can’t or won’t provide. Ilya starts paying Alexei to look after him, toward the middle of July. Which is not asking much, considering the way Ilya funds everything in Moscow. But according to Alexei, it is just one more crime to Ilya’s name, one more way he is a terrible son, terrible brother, terrible uncle.

When Alexei heard about Ilya’s charity, his honoring of their mother’s name, it did nothing to assuage his conviction that Ilya killed her in the first place. All it did, in fact, was earn Ilya a black eye. Ilya’s only rock over his hellish summer in Russia was Shane.

Shane, who woke up early every day to call him. Shane, who forced him to ice his eye. Shane, who sat in on yet another elaborate play session with Alisochka, assuring her with complete sincerity that yes his name was Jane and he was a girl. Shane, who listened to Ilya’s slow collapse, in a jumble of English and Russian that even he couldn’t make sense of.

Shane, Shane, Shane.

The camps are over now. Two weeks, two cities. And even though Shane is kicking into high-gear for his pre-season training, now Ilya gets to have him. For at least a little while, they can be together, without risky trips between hotel rooms.

Except that Shane tries to get out of bed in the morning. To ‘go for a run’ with his ‘best friend.’ An absolutely ridiculous excuse.

“Ilya, come on.” Shane shoves at his arm. Ilya has him wrapped up pretty well. Minimal room for movement or stupidity, like going for a run at 6am. “I need to get up.”

“I am sleeping,” Ilya mutters in cranky Russian. “A sleeping man cannot move.”

Ilya can practically feel Shane translating. His accent is terribly Canadian when he replies, “A sleeping man cannot talk. Get up.”

Shane thinks his Russian is terrible. Ilya thinks his boyfriend is a perfectionist. His Russian is serviceable. It’s only gotten better since he’s befriended Svetlana. “Nyet.”

“Ilya,” Shane says sternly. Despite himself, Ilya perks up at the tone. Shane so rarely puts his foot down, or tells Ilya no. Shane lets him get away with a lot. But apparently not this. “If I don’t get up, Hayden is going to assume I need medical assistance. Best case scenario, he calls a wellness check. Worst case scenario, he uses his spare key to find us in bed together.”

Gross. Ilya doesn’t think anyone else should get to see Shane like this. He lifts his arm. Shane wiggles free and rewards him with a kiss.

To his distaste, Ilya can’t fall back asleep with Shane gone. He has no trouble sleeping in when he’s in Boston, but something in his subconscious revolts if there’s even a small possibility Shane could be in his arms.

Ilya uses the time to make them both breakfast, and Shane one of those disgusting smoothies he insists on. Ilya adds enough ingredients for one person only, because he doesn’t have a reason to butter Shane up by drinking one.

The front door opens at the same time Ilya receives a text.

It’s from Svetlana, asking to talk whenever both he and Shane get a chance. Ilya responds, checking that it’s not an emergency, and then accepts Shane’s kiss. “I like you sweaty for other reasons,” Ilya informs him.

Shane stands in the kitchen, moisture-wicking fabric clinging to his chest. There’s a flush to his cheeks and his pulse thuds against the thin skin of his neck. Ilya wants to bite him, taste him. So he does, bullying Shane back against the counter. He licks a strip along the side of Shane’s throat. He tastes salt and something uniquely, wonderfully Shane.

“That’s gross,” Shane complains, but he doesn’t push him away. Far from it, when Ilya can feel him leaning closer, pressing their skin together.

So Ilya doesn’t bother to answer him, only adjusts his mouth. Waits until he can feel Shane’s heartbeat thumping underneath his lips, his life offered up to Ilya with nothing but trust. And then he bites.

“Fuck!” Shane gasps. Ilya’s ready for the way his knees wobble, even as he loosens his teeth. Over the years, Ilya has gotten very, very good at not leaving a mark. At least not where others can see.

Ilya drops to his knees on the kitchen tile and takes Shane’s slutty little running shorts down with him.

By the time Shane is pushing him away, Ilya has left them both a nice little memory trail of marks along the insides of Shane’s thighs. Ilya presses a kiss to a particularly well-shaped one and stands. He makes sure to keep a hand on Shane’s hip, just in case.

“Do you, um,” Shane gasps. Ilya loves him like this, flustered, breathless. “Do you want–?”

Ilya nudges himself between Shane’s legs. Lets Shane taste himself on Ilya’s tongue. Kisses him long and slow and deep. Kisses him until his lips go numb and Shane switches from pulling at his hair to running gentle fingers through it. And then Ilya steps back. He presses his thumb to the red swell of Shane’s bottom lip. Then he admires the glassy sheen of Shane’s eyes as he tries to suck it in.

“Later,” Ilya says, voice a gravelly rumble, “I want to fuck you in the shower. Dirty you up and then clean you off.” Shane whines. His eyelashes flutter. “But first, you eat the breakfast I made. Drink your stupid smoothie.”

“Can’t it wait?”

Ilya kisses the tip of Shane’s nose and removes his thumb. “Absolutely not, moy lyubimyy. You must eat, bulk up for season, yes?”

Shane grumbles, but listens. The first orgasm of the day helps with Shane’s agreeableness, usually.

The second, washed away by the shower, helps relax him into a puddle.

Ilya dries Shane off first, lets the tenderness that lives inside him escape that way. Then, he bullies Shane into underwear, a tshirt, and new socks. When Shane rests against the headboard of his bed, clean and satisfied, Ilya towels himself off roughly, tugs on underwear, and throws himself down beside him.

“I love you,” Shane tells him, once the bed stops shaking.

Inexplicably, Ilya’s eyes burn. He hides it with a lazy stretch, arms above his head. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

Shane scoots down the mattress, until they can curl together. Two puzzle pieces, locked into their perfect fit.

Ilya remembers Svetlana’s text mid-morning. Shane dozes lightly against his chest, as Ilya swipes through his phone. Svetlana confirmed that it wasn’t an emergency, but sent a follow-up 40 minutes ago wondering when Ilya would get back to her.

Sorry, Ilya types. Fucked back to sleep. Ready soon.

Five minutes later, he receives the thumbs down emoji in response. He smiles at his phone, even as he starts tracing shapes into Shane’s back. Shane stirs right away, which Ilya takes as evidence that his nap would have ended soon enough anyway.

“What?” Shane mumbles. His lips brush Ilya’s chest.

“Svetlana wants to call,” Ilya tells him. “I have kept her waiting.”

“Dangerous game,” Shane says. He rolls to the side, stretching. Ilya misses his weight immediately. Tugging at Shane’s arm, Ilya doesn’t let up until he’s tucked back against him. It must not be too much of a trial for Shane either, because he sighs happily.

Ilya bends his knee, propping up his phone and arm, and opens FaceTime.

“Wait, why can’t you just use audio–” Shane starts.

“Because she deserves to see beautiful face.” In the ringing screen, Ilya watches Shane’s blush. “Mine, I mean. Yours is alright.”

“Asshole,” Shane grumbles. He presses a kiss to Ilya’s shoulder.

“Shane! Ilya!” Svetlana grins. She looks well, smiling on her couch in a tanktop. As Ilya expected, her eyes flick down to Ilya’s chest. The smile turns wicked. “I see you boys have been having fun.”

While Shane initiates his season by working out with friends and teammates, Ilya doesn’t return to Boston for another two weeks. Which is plenty of time for hickeys to bloom and fade. A fact he made sure to inform Shane of.

The evidence of their love tracks its way across Ilya’s chest and the flush on Shane’s cheeks. God, Ilya adores him.

“You both are out to ruin my life,” Shane mutters. It’s been a frequent complaint since April.

Following their extremely public dinner, all three of them had dialed the outings up to eleven. Because Ilya wasn’t entirely oblivious, he didn’t insist on another shared dinner. Stoking speculation is funny, and necessary to prove there’s no bad blood, but the subsection of fans on the internet invested in the threesome was a bit much. Worse, it danced too close to the truth in a way that could get Ilya in trouble if someone in Russia felt bitter. They kept up a constant cycle of appearances separately though, and kept their responses to the press short and consistent.

“No comment.”

“Svetlana is a good friend.”

“No, I am not jealous of Hollander.”

“I am absolutely not jealous of Rozanov.”

Personally, Ilya thinks it isn’t particularly convincing. If he witnessed a public debacle like this, he would absolutely be assuming at least a little latent queerness. But the general public remains too caught up in the straightness of it all.

Though Ilya dislikes this step of the plan the most, for what it was initially meant to be if nothing else, he likes letting Svetlana in on the truth. Two years of dating, plus three years of something… letting someone into their world has been nice. Sometimes, Ilya convinces himself that he’s dreaming. That he’s made up this man and this relationship, because there is no way he deserves to be loved like this.

Svetlana knowing feels like… documentation, maybe. A confirmation that this is real.

Best of all, Ilya’s two favorite people bonded. They enjoy each other’s company, irrespective of the machinations behind it. And it’s something for Ilya to hold onto, when he’s in his Boston apartment crushed under the weight of loneliness.

“Shane,” Svetlana begins. Her Russian slows and grows crisper, to make it easier to translate. “You told Ilya to put on pants, right?”

Shane nods. “Da, I said pants are…” he hesitates, searching for the word. Then says in English, “mandatory?”

“Obyazatel'ny,” Svetlana offers, because she knows Shane shouldn’t trust Ilya to tell him the accurate word. She found The Great Apple Fight hilarious. “Very good.”

“I do not need pants,” Ilya objects. “Svetlana saw dick before, yes?”

Shane shoves a pointy elbow into his ribs. “Don’t remind me.”

“Yes, Ilyusha, don’t remind him.”

“Okay, okay,” Ilya laughs. “Why do you ask to call, Sveta?”

She pauses. The expression on her face is one Ilya sees so rarely. Guilt? “Because I want to stop being your beards.”

Ilya blinks. He turns his head to lock eyes with Shane. Sees exactly what he expects, a mirror to Ilya’s own feelings. He shrugs. “Okay. We stop.” Shane’s nod makes his hair tickle Ilya’s shoulder.

“What?” Svetlana asks. “I say this, and you do not ask why, do not try to convince me?”

Shane levers himself more upright with a hand on Ilya’s chest. “Svetlana, you did us a favor by even agreeing in the first place. You more than have the right to stop any time, whether you have a reason or not.” He sounds so earnest, Ilya thinks fondly. So Canadian.

“You are too good, Shane Hollander,” Svetlana says seriously. “Ilyusha?”

“Da, what he says, I agree.” Then Ilya smirks. “Anyway, this is enough drama to last years, yes? We will be straight for long time now.” Surprisingly, the thought makes Ilya’s chest hurt. Ten years, fifteen years. Straight friends, who keep their love a secret. It sounds like a prison.

At least, they are done with this step now. Ilya doesn’t have to listen to the world speculating about his boyfriend loving someone else. This has been his least favorite step of Shane’s elaborate plan, and Ilya will not miss it.

Svetlana looks emotional. It makes Ilya’s skin itch. He says, “But I am not Shane. I want to know why. Is there man in your life, Sveta?”

That wipes the excess emotion from her expression. And Ilya gets to the spend the rest of the early afternoon holding the man he loves, while listening to his best friend talk about the new guy at work.

Maybe Ilya is not always happy. Maybe this rips him apart sometimes. But when he gets to have moments like these, it all feels worth it.

~

November 2016

Shane’s phone buzzes for the third time in five minutes and he groans.

“That is not sexy sound,” Ilya observes. Shane has his phone on a stand at the center of the kitchen table. He’d gotten sick of propping it up on random items and now there may or may not be a stand for every room. In each and every condo and apartment. Ilya tells him he’s ridiculous, but this is just how Shane shows his love.

“JJ won’t stop texting me,” Shane complains. He drops his fork onto his mostly empty plate. “He keeps saying I never spend time with the team anymore.”

Ilya hums. “Da, you are too busy spending time with hot boyfriend.”

Shane scowls. “Clearly you aren’t too busy spending time with your hot boyfriend. I saw those pictures from last week.”

“Ah, I know this thing!” Ilya snaps his fingers. “You put Google Alert on my name, yes?”

The actual answer is yes, of course. Shane has Google Alerts set up for Ilya Rozanov, Boston Raiders, and, at his mom’s insistence, Shane Hollander. But Ilya doesn’t need to know that. “Shut up.”

“But you were boring before being my boyfriend,” Ilya continues. “I am not boring. If I do not go out, my team thinks I am sick. You are just being normal, perfect Shane Hollander.”

He’s not wrong, is the thing. Although Shane never spent much time drinking with the team, he used to make an effort occasionally. He hasn’t been out this season yet.

JJ tried especially hard to convince him out in Boston, last week. But Shane brushed him off firmly in favor of curling up with Ilya on his couch and eating tuna melts. They’d even managed to spend the night together, a rarity during the season.

“The rookies think I’m a teetotaler,” Shane admits.

Ilya frowns, puzzled. Shane longs to kiss the expression away. “T-totaler?” he repeats. “Is this joke about Boston subway?”

“No, a teetotaler doesn’t drink alcohol. Like at all, ever,” Shane says.

Ilya tilts his hand from side-to-side. “Is sort of you. But you are not dry other ways, so is okay.”

It takes a second for the words to land. Then Shane pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck you, seriously.”

“In a few weeks, yes,” Ilya says. “But maybe you go tonight, celebrate with team.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Is good for team synergy, yes?” Ilya presses.

Shane’s chest warms. “Synergy?” he teases. “That’s a new one.” Something about Ilya throwing out fancy English words gets Shane going every time.

“Yes, yes,” Ilya waves him off. “I am sexy and smart. But am also serious. Go out with team. Drink beer. Make Boiziau stop wondering why you are so lame.”

Even though Shane continues to complain, he lets Ilya’s conviction bully him out the door. It wouldn’t be the worst thing, to go out for a few drinks. He can stretch his diet for a beer at least. Besides, once he actually opens his texts, he sees JJ fanboying over the cast of the new X-Squad movie being there.

Shane spends a lot of time on planes, watching movies. So does Ilya. If Shane can actually meet someone famous tonight, maybe even Rose Landry, he can lord it over Ilya’s head forever.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” JJ shouts as soon as he walks in the door. “Mon capitaine, out at a bar?”

A few of the rookies, along with Berkes, Couillard, and Gagnon cheer when Shane gets to the table. Jesus, maybe it really has been too long since he went out with the team, if this is their reaction.

A group of this size isn’t exactly Shane’s forte. It’s too much to keep track of, too difficult to hear individual voices over the music, and too much of a challenge to start a conversation. Instead, he hovers on the outskirts, laughing in the right places and nodding along. Every now and then JJ slings an arm over his shoulder and draws him close, prodding him into contributing. Shane knows JJ means it kindly, and it definitely helps, but…

Shane uses the second that JJ’s attention shifts to someone else to slip away and head for the bar. The bartender is attractive and all smiles. He leans close when he slides Shane his drink, and Shane smothers a frown. The lean put the man’s elbows directly into some leftover ice and can’t be comfortable.

“Rose Landry’s here, man,” the guy says, conspiratorial.

Excitement fizzes under Shane’s skin. Sure, that had been part of JJ’s lure, but Shane hasn’t seen her yet. It’s bizarre to think he could meet one of his favorite actresses. The bartender gestures to the booth seating. Shane raises his beer in acknowledgement. “Wish me luck.”

Trying not to feel like too much of an awkward fanboy, Shane slides into the booth across from her. She looks as pretty in person as she does on screen.

“I’m Rose, by the way,” she says, sticking out her hand.

“I’m Shane,” he says, and then ducks his head. “Wow, I’m, uh, a big fan.” He sounds like an idiot. He can imagine Ilya’s voice, teasing him. Cannot talk to anyone, Hollander, and you think you can talk to famous actress?

When he tells Ilya this story later, he’s going to leave out the way he struggled to get words out. Ilya will never let him live it down otherwise.

To Shane’s surprise and delight, Rose Landry isn’t just a famous actress. She’s funny, fills Shane’s silences, and, most importantly, cares about hockey. What follows is the most surreal conversation of Shane’s life. She matches him beat for beat, and it turns out one of her brothers is in the AHL. It’s actually fascinating to hear about the filming side of movie production. Fascinating, and absolutely Shane’s personal hell.

At one point, when she’s running to the bathroom, Shane finds himself comparing his conversations with Rose and Svetlana to all of his poor attempts at girlfriends. Maybe if any of those girls had been half as interested in hockey, Shane never would have figured out he’s gay. As it is, tonight does nothing but affirm the fact that he’s not even a little bit bi. Quite frankly, if Rose Landry can’t turn his head, no one will.

He opens a text from Lily.

You are still out? I am so proud. You are almost not boring.

Shane smiles. He wishes Ilya were here, wishes he could introduce his boyfriend to the coolest famous person he’s ever met. Instead, he texts back,

Yep. And wait until you hear who I met.

Rose returns, and he stuffs his phone back in his pocket before he can read Ilya’s response.

While the conversation continues to flow the rest of the night, including when Shane invites Rose to meet the rest of the Metros, it also turns… strange. JJ keeps giving him wide-eyed looks and a subtle thumbs-up. Rose lightly touches his forearm each time he makes her laugh. Once, she even bumps their shoulders together in a touch that feels weirdly intimate for a stranger. She also studies Shane when he isn’t looking. He can feel her eyes on the side of his face.

Even given the slightly bizarre ending, he’s delighted to hand over his phone when Rose demands it. “You’re painfully sweet, Shane Hollander,” she says after she programs her number in. “I’d love to see you again. Maybe we can get coffee?”

Holy shit. Shane made a friend. He’s not sure that he’s done this in the wild since… possibly Ilya? Svetlana was a scaffolded friendship, and both Hayden and JJ were friends of chance on his team. Shane buzzes with pride, as Rose heads out first. Somehow, the remaining Metros must know it’s a big deal too, because they thump his back and cheer.

I’m home, Shane texts as soon as his apartment door closes behind him. He tries not to get his hopes up. Ilya could easily be asleep by now.

Shane should have known better. His phone immediately starts vibrating with a FaceTime request. He accepts immediately.

“Privet, moyo yabloko,” Ilya greets. He’s laying on his side in bed, shirtless. Despite himself, a bolt of lust runs down Shane’s spine. “Did you have fun with boring team? Leaving me here alone all night?”

“Shut up,” Shane says. He heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth and slots his phone into the stand. “You’re the one that made me go in the first place.”

“Yes, yes. I do not care. Tell me who you met, I have been thinking all night. Is someone boring I do not know?”

Shane spits toothpaste into the sink. “I guess I’m not sure. Have you heard of Rose Landry?”

The silence almost deafens him. Shane glances at his phone and finds his boyfriend, speechless for once in his life. “You are joking?” Ilya finally manages. “Have found sense of humor, and made joke for first time in your life?”

“Nope,” Shane says, smug. “I met the Rose Landry. And guess what?” He bounces on his toes a little.

“What?”

“She likes hockey!” Shane grins. He massages his face wash into his skin.

Ilya laughs. “You are serious?” he asks, when Shane doesn’t laugh along.

“So serious,” Shane says. “We talked about hockey half the night, her youngest brother’s in the AHL.”

“Ah, I see,” Ilya hums. “Hockey is your friendship strategy. Works on Svetlana and now on Rose Landry. Maybe I learn from you.”

“Asshole.” Shane pats his face dry with a towel. He brings his phone into the bedroom, stripping down quickly and changing into pajamas. Even though Ilya complains, he doesn’t let him see. Mostly, because he wants to finish this conversation instead of getting distracted by phone sex. “I did get her number, we’re going to get coffee sometime.”

Shane can’t see the screen, so he has no context for Ilya’s silence. When he speaks, his voice sounds strange. “You got her number? You are getting coffee?”

Frowning, Shane drops onto the bed and grabs his phone. Even with the video, he’s not sure how to interpret the expression on Ilya’s face. “Yeah, I think we’re going to be friends,” Shane says. “But I don’t know, the guys on the team were being weird about it. And then things ended a little strange.”

Ilya’s eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline. “Maybe start from beginning, yes?”

By the time Shane finishes explaining, Ilya scrubs a hand down his face. “Moy lyubimyy, I think maybe there are things you need to hear before you go on coffee date with Rose Landry, yes?”

“Like what?” Shane asks, confused.

And then Ilya explains.

~

Shane meets Rose for coffee a week later. It’s an unseasonably warm day for November, so when Shane suggests they take their drinks and walk around the park, she agrees.

Thank god, because Shane does not want to have this conversation in a crowded café.

When Ilya pointed out the obvious, that Rose was flirting with him and asked him out on a date, Shane felt like an absolute idiot. He rushed to reassure Ilya that he wasn’t trying to flirt back, that he hadn’t noticed, and Ilya had the audacity to laugh.

He said, “Shane, I love you. But you are gayest man I know. And after hearing this, I do not think you would notice woman flirting if she wore sign.”

So now, armed with the knowledge that Shane misinterpreted their entire first interaction, he’s vibrating out of his skin.

They find a bench out of the way in La Fontaine Park, hands cupped around their drinks. Apparently, Shane’s been doing a bad job of casual small talk, because Rose sighs. “Uh oh, this looks serious.” She puts her coffee down, turning her body to face Shane. “What’s going on?”

“I, um,” Shane starts. He puts his coffee down too, and then picks it back up because having his hands empty is worse. “The thing is I–” When he tries to remember the script he came up with for this moment, he blanks.

“Shane,” Rose says, and she sounds so kind. She even lays a hand on his forearm again. And if Shane wasn’t so concerned that she meant it in a flirty way again, it would even be nice. “It’s okay.”

“I’m seeing someone!” Shane blurts.

“Oh!” Rose says. Her hand falls off his arm.

“Sorry,” Shane winces. “That was kind of– I mean, I didn’t realize last week and–”

“It’s okay, I shouldn’t have assumed,” Rose waves him off. To her credit, her smile is genuine. “I’m sure she wasn’t pleased to hear we were hanging out again, then? I’d love to hear about her!”

And that type of response isn’t in Shane’s script either. He wants to tell her that actually, his boyfriend found the situation hilarious and spent at least an hour making fun of him last night, but that’s not exactly something he can say. Shane assumed that Rose would hear he was in a relationship and then… leave? That seems stupid now.

The silence has clearly stretched too long, because Rose’s face falls. “Sorry, is that weird? I just thought–”

“No!” Shane interrupts. “No, it’s not weird at all, it’s just–” He cuts himself off, unsure how to explain without spilling his secrets to a near stranger.

“Wait,” Rose says slowly. She examines Shane. Her stare makes him feel like he’s under a microscope. “Unless… she’s not a she at all?”

The blood drains from Shane’s face. His pulse kicks into high gear and his lungs tighten. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He knows he’s not reacting the way he should, knows every second the silence stretches, every second he visibly panics is just another nail in the coffin. But his mind is utterly empty of anything except… except fear.

No one has ever asked him like that, not really. Not seriously, with an expression that says they already know the answer. Shane kind of wants to throw up.

“Hey, hey,” Rose raises her hands. Her face shifts from knowing to worried. “Don’t freak out, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Shane whispers. His breath whistles in and out, strained and strangled.

“Yes, it totally is!” Rose hurries. “I’m an actress, Shane. I’m friends with so many gay people, out or not. 70% of my boyfriends left me for other men, it’s not a big deal!”

Shane’s head spins. “It’s a really, really big deal. Rose, I–” He swallows, hard.

Rose lowers her hands to her lap. “Okay, maybe it is a big deal. I take it there’s not any out gay hockey players?”

Shane shakes his head.

“Okay,” she huffs a breath. “I swear I won’t say anything. I know you have no reason to trust me, but I promise I won’t.”

Shane tries to nod. Nod, like he believes her. He’s not sure it’s convincing.

“I’d love to hear about him though, really,” she continues. “It sounds like you maybe don’t have a lot of people to talk to about these things? I know we don’t know each other that well, but I really like you Shane. I think we could be good friends, best friends even.”

“I can’t, I mean,” Shane takes a deep breath. “I think we could be friends too. But I can’t really tell you about him. He’s not out either, and it’s not safe. No one can know we’re together.”

Rose winces. “That sounds… lonely.”

Shane shrugs. His heart rate is settling, still a bit fast, but slowing. “Not really, not when I have him.”

“That’s sweet,” Rose smiles. Then she tilts her head. “Wait, weren’t you with that woman recently? Rozanov’s girl, Svetlana something? Was she–” Her eyes widen. “Was she your beard?”

Fuck. “Kind of,” Shane hedges, “but not anymore.”

Rose laughs. “Damn. I’ve spent a little too long being an accidental beard, or else I would offer my services. I’m apparently great at it, after all.”

Shane manages a laugh. “I would never ask that. I mean, you saw how much shit Svetlana got. Hockey fans can be crazy.”

“Definitely,” Rose says. “Can we though? Be friends?”

“You really want to be?” Shane asks.

“Hell yes, I do.” Rose squeezes his forearm, and somehow the gesture feels more platonic than it did before. “Do you know how many actors care about hockey? None. I’m on my own, and I want free tickets to Metros games.”

Shane laughs, and finally, truly, relaxes.

~

December 2016

The first picture appears shortly after Shane’s accidental coffee date. Ilya snorts when he sees it, sees the speculation about Shane Hollander’s rebound to Rose Landry. Especially since Shane managed to out himself as gay without even trying.

Ilya is still surprised Shane didn’t have a full panic attack right there and, instead, walked away with a genuine friend. He knows his boyfriend is charming. Endearing, really, in a way that wiggles through people’s defenses, but still.

So Shane’s new best friend is Rose Landry. Ilya can live with that.

Except. Except, except, except.

The pictures don’t stop. The speculation doesn’t stop. And it starts to wriggle under Ilya’s skin.

They’re truly in the depths of the season now. Which means they don’t see each other, and even their calls become a little less frequent, a little less constant. They always handled it before, but this year, Ilya itches. He doesn’t want to be away from his boyfriend. He doesn’t want to choose between hockey and Shane every day, and inevitably be forced into choosing hockey. He wants to kiss his boyfriend. Wants to hold his boyfriend. Wants to tell the world about his wonderful, beautiful, boring boyfriend.

And instead, Ilya plays hockey and pretends that calls are enough.

Maybe, he could have faked it. Maybe he could have kept right on wearing a mask without ruining everything.

Except.

Rose fucking Landry.

“Damn, Roz, have you seen this?” Cliff steps up to Ilya’s exercise bike, brandishing his phone. On the screen, another fucking picture of Rose and Shane eating brunch. Ilya knows it’s platonic. Can see it all over the fucking image, from Shane’s posture, to the look on both of their faces, but the damn headline still reads: New It Couple? No Comment from Rose Landry’s Team Starting to Look Like Confirmation.

Ilya grips the handles of the bike harder.

Cliff continues, oblivious. “Think you could ask Hollander if she’s got any single friends?”

“No,” Ilya says, stiff. He stumbles off the bike, unsure why his skin is crawling. Why, if he’s being honest with himself, his eyes are burning.

At least he can blame the latter on stubbing his fucking toe.

Ilya should just talk to Shane about it. He knows he should. But they get such limited time to talk to each other. And Ilya doesn’t want to sour it.

It feels like he’s accumulating a whole list of things he’s holding back from his boyfriend. The loneliness, the sadness, the way the closet is starting to feel like a noose. And now this. His jealousy of Shane’s friendship with a beautiful woman. Or, more accurately, his jealousy at the fact the rest of the world thinks it’s more.

Maybe the worst part is that Ilya wonders if it’s all intentional. They agreed on no more beards after Svetlana. But they haven’t moved onto Step 5 yet. What if Shane decided to just go for it? To stir up this media shit storm without asking Ilya about it? Does Ilya even have any right to be upset about this?

The thought makes Ilya nauseous. He turns down Cliff’s invite out clubbing, for the third time this month.

Shane calls him, at least. Except.

Except he wants to tell him about brunch with Rose, and her filming schedule’s been extended to March, isn’t that great?

“Sorry,” Ilya interrupts. “Marly just texted me, he is outside. I need to deal with him.”

Shane frowns. He looks so disappointed. Ilya hates himself. “Oh, okay. I can’t call tomorrow night, I’m sharing a room with Hayden. But we’re still on for–?”

“Yes, yes,” Ilya says. “I would say good luck on game, but you do not need it.”

“Asshole,” Shane says, voice fond. His expression softens. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Ilya smiles. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

He hangs up the call, and tries not to feel like he’s falling apart, alone in his empty fucking house.

~

Chapter 6

Chapter Summary

Step 5: Assembling Allies

Chapter Notes

We're back! With an early update courtesy of the storm that crushed most of the US the past few days. I hope everyone stayed warm and safe!

This chapter is another long one, despite my delusional belief that it wouldn't be. I refused to split it into two. All mistakes are my own.

We're gearing up for some of my larger canon shifts... And I am beyond excited.

I hope you all enjoy!

~
Step 5: Assembling Allies
~

Early January 2017

They aren’t able to make the holidays work. Rationally, Ilya knows they’ve never spent them together before. The timing is too challenging, and Shane usually spends them with his family. This shouldn’t bother Ilya.

But everything bothers him right now. From Cliff—hovering, concerned, asking questions that Ilya can’t answer—to hockey—everything feels wrong, Ilya’s off his game, missing shots he shouldn’t—to fucking Russia.

It’s this last one that makes him long for Shane the most. Over the summer, Shane held him together, even if it was from a distance. Kept him from falling to pieces over the looming specter of his father’s death, his brother’s hatred, the loss of the country that birthed him. Now, as his brother’s calls come more frequently, as his father deteriorates and crumbles and steps further and further from the bastard he’d been–

Ilya doesn’t know how to ask Shane for help. Doesn’t know how to admit that he needs him.

He thinks of all the time they’ve spent communicating, and communicating well. Tries to remember what that felt like. Fails.

The plane lands on time in Montreal. Cliff keeps shooting him worried looks, but he’s at least stopped asking since Ilya responded a little too harshly. Cliff is a good friend. Ilya knows, deep down, that he could tell Cliff about what’s going on, from his father all the way to Shane, and he wouldn’t lose him. But he doesn’t.

Ilya’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He makes himself check it.

From Jane: are you coming over before the game? or just after

Shane will take one look at Ilya and know that something is wrong. Shane knows him too well, knows all the insecurities and fears that Ilya hides behind a chirp and a smile. But Ilya can’t avoid him. He can push Shane away when all it takes is pressing a button, shortening a call, but… Hiding, when he could have Shane’s arms around him? Ilya isn’t strong enough for that.

after, he texts back.

Shane sends a blue heart emoji in response and nothing else.

At center ice, crouched for their first face-off, Shane’s forehead wrinkles. He studies Ilya like there’s no helmets and padding between them. “Hey,” Shane says under his breath. He barely moves his lips, so that the cameras can’t decipher what he’s saying. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, Hollander,” Ilya says. And then, in Russian, “Do not worry.”

“I am worried,” Shane says, stiltedly, in the same language. “Your game is off. What’s wrong?”

“Not here,” Ilya says. It tastes like Sochi, like words offered as a flimsy shield against the monster inside his chest.

Shane frowns. “Okay.” He wins the face-off.

Frankly, Ilya plays as if his skates were replaced with cinderblocks and his stick with a pool noodle. It’s not entirely out of place with how he’s been performing the past several weeks, but it’s humiliating. Especially since he can sense Shane’s concern, growing exponentially with each lackluster pass.

The team trainer pulls him aside after the first period. “Are you hiding an injury?” the man demands. “Because if you are, Rozanov, I’ll–”

“Not injured,” Ilya insists. And then, because he has some pride, “Maybe I am not feeling well?”

The trainer pulls out a thermometer, one of the fancy ones that reads from the forehead. “No temperature,” he muses. “If you start to feel worse, tell me. We’ll pull you from the game.”

Absolutely not happening. First, Ilya feels fine, besides the exhaustion he can’t blame on a bad night’s sleep. Second, Shane may actually lose his mind if he’s pulled from the game. Ilya prefers not to give his boyfriend a heart attack. The scolding is not worth it.

Ilya gets through the game. Loses terribly because Shane’s playing at his best, but he manages a point off an assist. A better showing than last week. Even when Ilya’s stuck in his own head, just being in the same country as Shane helps a little.

Cliff claps his shoulder, as they strip their pads off. “You’ll shake this slump, Roz. Give it time.”

“Slump? I do not slump, Marly,” Ilya shoves at him. “Russians–”

Every teammate in earshot, including that traitor Cliff, finishes his statement.

“–do not do this!”

“This team is full of assholes,” Ilya complains. No one is sympathetic.

At the hotel, Ilya changes. His roommate for the away series, Connors, does the same. “Coming out with us, Cap? Me and the guys are hitting up this club, called Ciel I think.”

For one delirious moment, Ilya imagines it. Imagines avoiding whatever confrontation with Shane he knows is coming, imagines distracting himself with drinks and dancing. Imagines doing all that, knowing he has a worried boyfriend he barely gets to see waiting for him to come home. He sighs, and does the responsible thing.

“Can’t,” he says. “Have plans already. Do not do anything I would not do.”

Connors laughs. “So, basically anything?”

“Fuck off,” Ilya tells him cheerfully.

His taxi drops him off a block from Shane’s condo. Ilya’s antsy, uncertain. Hesitant, in a way he hasn’t truly felt since they worked things out in Vegas. He stands outside of the entrance, hovering. He knows the code. Even if he didn’t, he could text Shane that he’s here.

Instead, Ilya freezes, because the idea of finally addressing everything he’s been putting off makes his heart race.

Shane takes the decision out of his hands. The door jerks open, casting Ilya in warm yellow light. Shane props it open with a hip, arms crossed and expression unimpressed. “I got tired of waiting for you to come inside,” he says.

Ilya shifts from foot to foot. “How did you–”

Shane rolls his eyes. “We’ve had each other on Find My Friends for two years, Ilya.”

“Right,” Ilya says dumbly. Because there’s no more space to run, he steps in. Ilya’s not sure what to do with his hands, wants to pull Shane toward himself, wants to bury himself in his arms. Wants to kiss him.

Shane studies him, forehead furrowing deeper and deeper as Ilya stands there. “Come here,” Shane whispers. When Ilya doesn’t move, Shane drags a hand up Ilya’s back, forcefully enough that he feels it through his jacket, all the way into his hair. He cups Ilya’s head with a tenderness he doesn’t deserve and tugs him into a kiss.

Soft, warm, safe. This is not the post-game passion so familiar to Ilya. This is the quiet thing that belongs to summers in the cottage, to lazy mornings waking up in each other’s arms. If their usual kisses are fire, burning and fierce, then this is a cozy blanket, wrapping Ilya in the love he’s too scared to ask for.

Shane pulls away first. Embarrassingly, Ilya sways after him. “Upstairs,” Shane instructs.

Ilya swallows. Nods. Follows Shane into their home.

He kicks off his shoes and trails Shane to the living room. His boyfriend plops down on one side of the couch, and it should be so easy to fall into the space next to him. To wrap him up in his arms. Instead, Ilya hovers.

“Are you breaking up with me?” Shane demands.

Ilya staggers. Is that really what Shane thinks? Has Ilya been such a terrible boyfriend that–

No. No, he can’t dwell on that. He needs to say–

“Nyet! Of course not. I would never–”

“Then,” Shane interrupts, “you can sit on the couch like a normal person and let me hold my boyfriend.”

Ilya crumbles. He feels himself fold inward, turn small and fragile like the boy he once was, struggling to stand under the weight of his father’s expectations. Small and fragile, like the man whose father doesn’t remember his name but remembers enough to be disappointed in him all the same.

He sits next to Shane. It’s too far away. He crawls into his arms.

This is an inversion of their usual dynamic. Usually, Ilya holds Shane, offers himself as comfort, takes comfort, even, in being the one to provide it. Shane nudges and adjusts, until Ilya lays against his chest. Then he brings up his knees, pressing inward, squeezing Ilya’s ribs.

Ilya startles. A strange noise escapes him. “Shh,” Shane murmurs. “We don’t have to talk yet.”

Oh. Okay then. Ilya melts.

Shane lets the silence sit, doesn’t push. Only rubs small circles along Ilya’s spine, drops sporadic kisses into Ilya’s curls. Only reminds Ilya, over and over and over again, how loved he is, how precious.

Ilya hasn’t given Shane any context, any hints to what’s bothering him, and yet he still knows exactly what to do. Ilya loves him so fucking much.

He draws on all the courage that love gives him, and whispers into Shane’s t-shirt, “I have been doing…Not good. Probably bad.”

“You’ve been pulling away,” Shane says quietly. If he’s hurt, he manages to keep it out of his voice and Ilya feels too vulnerable to examine his face.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says. His voice cracks. “I did not mean– I did not want–” To his horror, Ilya notices himself trembling only when Shane’s grip tightens. His eyes burn.

“Deep breath,” Shane orders. Helplessly, Ilya obeys. “I could tell something was off, but I was afraid to push.”

“My fault,” Ilya rasps. “I am feeling…” he makes a sound of distress. The English words flee him. It’s hard enough to explain, without dealing with the clumsiness of his second language. “I do not know how to say.”

“You can tell me in Russian, if that helps,” Shane offers. He presses a lingering kiss into Ilya’s hair. Ilya can feel the tickle of Shane breathing him in like so much oxygen. “I’ve been practicing with Svetlana a lot. Listening to podcasts.”

That breaks through Ilya’s melancholy. He smiles, unbearably fond. “Nerd.”

“Asshole.”

Ilya swallows. “You do not mind?”

“I would listen to you in any language,” Shane says.

“Okay, okay.” Ilya takes a deep breath. “I think I’ve been struggling. My father, he keeps getting worse. I told you over the summer that I’m paying Alexei to take care of him but… He keeps calling me and calling me. My father barely remembers who I am, and my brother doesn’t take it seriously, and I’m not there to fix it. And he blames me.

“My brother, he always hated me. And I know why, but it kills me. I pay for everything. I give them everything, but I feel fucking empty. I never want to go back to Russia. I fucking hate it there.”

Ilya raises a hand to scrub roughly at his eyes, but Shane beats him to it. He brushes away the tears so gently, so much kinder than Ilya ever bothers to be to himself. “Keep going, Ilyusha,” Shane whispers. “I know there is more.”

Ilya laughs, snotty. “Everything feels wrong right now. Everything. I miss you so much, Shane,” Ilya’s voice breaks. He heaves a shuddering breath. “I thought it would get easier, being apart, missing you. But it just keeps getting harder. I miss you all the time, I think about you all the time, and it’s killing me.”

Shane makes a wounded sound. But Ilya’s committed to this now. He has to get it out, or he never will. “And there’s nothing we can do about it. I didn’t want to talk to you about it, because I know there’s nothing we can do. We both have ten, fifteen years until retirement, until I can tell the world you are mine. It makes me so fucking sad and I don’t want you to feel sad too.”

“No,” Shane interrupts. His voice is firm. “That is not how our relationship works. If you feel happy or sad or scared, I want to know. We are a team, Ilyusha. We cannot try to find a… solution, if you do not say there is a problem.”

Ilya shakes his head. Ignoring the fact that his eyes must be puffy and red, he lifts his chin. Lets Shane see his face. “There is no solution. The plan–”

“Fuck the plan,” Shane snaps, fierce. He’s clearly too worked up to translate the words to Russian. “You’re more important to me than any fucking plan. Ilya, I’ve been half in love with you since we were 17. My whole adult life has been about you, in every way that matters. This situation fucking sucks, alright? But you mean more to me than anything. We can find a different way.”

Before Ilya’s visions blurs, he sees Shane’s eyes well up alongside him. The two of them. What a fucking mess. “I do not know how–”

Shane interrupts him. “Maybe we can’t come out yet. But we can push up the timeline. We can figure something out. I need you to not give up on us,” Shane begs. He sounds half-frantic.

Ilya sniffles. “I will never give up on us,” he swears. “Never. I just feel– I just feel really fucking lonely sometimes, and sad. It scares me. I love my mother, but I do not want to be sad like she was.”

“Oh, baby,” Shane whispers. It’s so fucking heartbroken that Ilya needs to hide his face away again.

Shane’s grip never wavers. He holds Ilya together. Fuck hockey, this is what Shane Hollander is best at. They stay like that for a long time. Until Ilya almost feels like he’s got himself under control again.

At some point, Shane ventures, “Have you considered talking to someone? Professionally, I mean.”

Ilya flinches, instinctively. Then judges that flinch, tries to examine it, remove the bias trained into him since childhood. “No. I do not know. Maybe.”

“And we can call more,” Shane continues. He has that tone, his problem-solving tone, that tells Ilya he spent their silence thinking instead of letting himself feel it. “Our next step is to tell a few more trusted people, anyway. If I bring Hayden in, I can call you from hotels easier, and if you tell Cliff–”

That sounds… better. But– “Are we at this step?” Ilya asks bluntly. “Because I think we are still at beards.” His voice is more frustrated than he means it to be. He lifts his head to watch Shane’s reaction.

Shane looks confused, and he’s terrible at feigning emotions. A small piece of Ilya, braced for betrayal, relaxes. “What? We decided after Svetlana that we were done with beards.”

“We did,” Ilya allows. He ensures his tone is neutral this time. “But then you make friends with Rose Landry. And now…”

Shane blanches. “She’s not a beard!” he protests. “I would’ve talked to you about it. Didn’t I tell you that she doesn’t want to be a beard?”

Ilya hunches. He doesn’t break eye contact though, even when he wants to. “Yes, you tell me this. But this past month, media does nothing but say you are in relationship. Say how much you must love her. What am I supposed to think?” Ilya’s bitterness seeps along the edges of his voice.

“Ilya. I’m gay,” Shane stresses.

Ilya snorts, a sound of frustration. He tries to sit up, but Shane doesn’t let him. He uses that hockey strength in a way he so rarely does to pin Ilya to his chest. Ilya gives in. “Da, I know this. But…” He huffs, and switches to Russian. “I can’t tell the world you are mine. I know this. But I hate that they think you are someone else’s. This step, it makes me feel worse, like I’ll never get to have you. That someone else would be better.”

“Never,” Shane says. “Ilya, never. You’re the only one for me. I didn’t realize–” He breaks off. One hand falls off of Ilya’s back to fumble in the space between them. Shane emerges with his phone. “PR has been screening questions about Rose, at my request. But I’ll tell them to let some through, so I can deny it. I’m texting her now to tell her team–”

“You don’t have to,” Ilya objects. He feels embarrassed, to have made this into something it wasn’t, vulnerable.

“I do,” Shane says firmly. “I’m texting Rose now, to make sure her team denies it too.”

Ilya pretends the relief isn’t swallowing him whole. “Okay.”

Shane’s phone vibrates quickly, for a Friday night. He snorts. “Rose is clubbing right now. She says she’ll pass the message on to her team. And that she can take someone home tonight if it’ll help.”

Ilya shakes his head. “She does not have to–”

Shane’s phone vibrates again. “Apparently, she has her eyes set on someone already,” Shane says wryly. “She also says if she doesn’t respond for the rest of the night, I know why.”

Reluctantly, Ilya smiles. “She is good friend,” he admits. “I am glad you met her.”

“Me too.” Shane tosses his phone onto the coffee table and wraps Ilya back up in both of his arms. “But I wish you told me before that the beard thing bothered you.”

Ilya shrugs. “At first, did not. With Svetlana, was okay. But near end, I started to feel… unhappy. I should have said.”

“Yes, you should have.”

Ilya is an idiot. Mostly, for how much lighter he already feels. So much of the tension and pressure suffocating him has lessened. He should’ve talked to Shane sooner, gotten out of his head.

“But I should have checked on you more,” Shane says abruptly. He continues quickly, clearly aware of Ilya’s growing objection. “No. I know this summer was hard, and I could tell something was wrong. I got too distracted with the season and making a new friend. I should have–”

Ilya can’t let him self-flagellate. They can’t both be a mess. “Fine, we both should have. And next time we will. Okay?”

Shane sighs. “Okay.” And then: “I love you, so much.”

Ilya pushes up, and this time Shane lets him. He kisses Shane, even though they both need to wash their faces. He ignores the salt, the dampness, the snot. He projects all of his complicated, overwhelming emotions into the kiss. “I love you too. You are my favorite boyfriend.”

Shane’s smile is small. Beautiful. “I’m your only boyfriend.”

“Yes, thank god,” Ilya deadpans. “One is enough work.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Shane says. “I’ll tell Hayden soon, okay? We’ll talk all the time. I won’t let you be lonely.”

“Is not that easy,” Ilya warns. “But okay.”

“And you’ll tell me? The next time you need me?” Shane checks.

Ilya nods. “I will.” Or at least, he’ll try. And maybe, just maybe, he’ll start looking around for a Russian speaking therapist.

~

Mid-January 2017

Shane feels like a shitty fucking boyfriend. He knows that’s not fair to himself, really. He and Ilya talked it out, admitted ways both of them fucked up. But Shane’s not sure he’ll ever get the image of Ilya crying out of his head. He agonizes over it, on the nights they fall asleep separately. How broken and sad and small Ilya looked.

Shane’s never seen him that way before, not really.

This summer was hard. Shane knows it was, talked Ilya off several emotional ledges thousands of miles apart. But the Ilya of this summer was angry mostly, hurt and frustrated, but primarily angry. A sad Ilya breaks his fucking heart.

Maybe the plan is unrealistic. Ten or fifteen years is a long time. But if they can get themselves traded onto the same team, or even teams closer–

Shane stuns himself, shocked to realize he would leave Montreal. He would leave Montreal in a heartbeat to be closer to Ilya, even after winning Cups the past two seasons. That’s always been an option in the plan as well, when he enters free agency in a few years. But selfishly, he’s been hoping that Ilya, whose contract ends first, would manage to get himself closer. Close enough that Shane could finish his career in Montreal, hang more pennants from the rafters of the Bell Center.

Now… Now, after holding his crying boyfriend, after seeing how much the distance is ripping Ilya to pieces… Shane can unclench his fingers from that future. Can imagine a world where he lets it go, if it means their happiness.

They have a string of home games after Boston. Shane’s sent to the press following their win against Tampa. As he requested, a reporter calls from the back,

“Hollander! Can you comment on your relationship with Rose Landry?”

Shane drags his fingers through his sweaty hair. “Rose and I are good friends, nothing more.” He hopes Ilya sees this, hopes that it helps. “Anyone have questions about hockey?”

He enters the locker room to boos and jeers. “Man, you fumbled Rose fucking Landry?” Drapeau shouts.

“Capitaine, I can give you advice for the ladies, if you need it. Maybe a diagram?” JJ offers. “There’s this spot women love–”

That sends the rest of the French speakers room into a tizzy.

“Va te faire foutre,” Shane snaps, shoving JJ away from his locker. It does approximately nothing to stop his laughter.

Hayden claps his shoulder, his face sympathetic rather than teasing. “Sorry, dude. You want to come over for dinner? Talk about it?”

Well, Shane’s been waiting for an opportunity to talk to Hayden. He might as well do it with Jackie there, since he knows the information would end up shared anyway. “That sounds nice.”

Dinner with the Pikes is organized chaos. Jackie’s pregnant again, due sometime in April or May, which means extra hands are more than welcome. After all, Ruby and Jade alone are a nightmare to handle, and Arthur hates being put down for more than a minute. Shane finds himself saddled with a sleepy Arthur for most of dinner, and doesn’t complain.

Arthur is quiet for a one and a half year old. He’s also more than capable of sitting in a high chair, but he eats better sitting on Shane’s lap. Though Arthur doesn’t talk much yet, he observes the rest of the family and Shane with intense scrutiny. He reminds Shane of himself, a bit, when he was younger. Always watching, listening, trying to pick up on the dynamics everyone else understood intrinsically.

Shane changes his shirt after dinner, half-covered in pureed food as it is.

“Thanks for your help, Shane,” Jackie says. She presses a kiss to his cheek as he brings the plates to the sink. “You’re so great with Arthur.”

“He’s a good kid.” Shane ducks his head, like that will hide his blush.

“And thank god for that,” Jackie laughs. “If he was anything like the twins, I think we’d have to hire a live-in nanny.” She pats her round stomach. “Here’s hoping this one is a little angel.”

“With half of Hayden’s genes?” Shane teases. “Keep dreaming.”

They finish cleaning up the kitchen. By the time they’ve settled on the couch, Hayden has finished putting the other three kids to sleep.

“Okay, buddy.” Hayden drops into the space they left between them. He bullies Jackie into dropping her swollen feet into his lap so that he can rub at them. Yet, all of Hayden’s attention remains fixed on Shane. “You look like you have something to say.”

Shane swallows. He can’t hold Hayden’s gaze. His hands tremble, so he presses them together between his knees. How does he start? What does he say?

“Shane? Are you okay, sweetie?” Jackie asks, when the silence begins to stretch.

“I’m fine,” Shane says immediately. “I just–” he glances in both of their directions, avoiding eye contact. “Rose and I aren’t dating. We never were.”

“Okay?” Hayden sounds confused. Shane risks a glance at Jackie’s face, and sees the moment her eyes widen. Jesus, is he that obvious?

“I, um,” Shane takes a deep breath. “I wasn’t dating Svetlana either. Or sleeping with her. I’m sorry I let you think I was.”

“Wait, what? You dealt with that media shitstorm for nothing?” Hayden asks. He looks like he’s waiting for Shane to say he’s joking.

Jackie’s softened entirely now. “You don’t have to explain, Shane. It’s alright.”

“No,” Shane shakes his head. “No, I want to tell you. I trust you, Hayden. I want you both to know.”

“Know what?”

“Hayden, I–” and then Shane says it. The words he’s only given to Ilya. “I’m gay.”

“Oh,” Hayden says, and then nothing else. Jackie smacks his shoulder. “Oh! I mean, thank you for telling me. Sorry, I’m processing.” He stares into the middle distance, like he’s reevaluating every moment they’ve spent together.

Shane kind of wants to throw up.

“What Hayden means to say,” Jackie tells him, nails digging into Hayden’s arm, “is that we support you. We’ll never tell anyone. And we have your back.”

“Of course we do!” Hayden says indignantly. It’s like her words forcibly rebooted him. “I don’t care if you like men or whatever. Totally fine.” He leans forward and hooks an arm around Shane’s neck, pulling him into a side hug. “You’re my best friend. Uncle to my kids. Nothing will ever change that.”

Shane leans into the contact. Tension seeps from his shoulders. Then he snorts. “You might want to hear the rest before you say that.”

“The rest?” Jackie asks.

Hayden doesn’t move his arm, which gives Shane an excuse not to look at him. “Yeah. I’m, um, seeing someone.”

Hayden’s arm tightens on reflex. “Like, you have a boyfriend?”

“Yes,” Shane admits. “It’s… serious. I love him.” And those words emerge easier. Maybe because they’re the one secret Shane never really wanted to keep. In fact, he would scream it from the rooftops.

“Holy shit,” Hayden manages.

Jackie rolls her eyes, apparently fed up with her husband’s reactions. Even though it looks awkward, she leans forward around her stomach to squeeze Shane’s forearm. “I’m so happy for you. Have you guys been together long?”

The question brings heat rushing to Shane’s face. “Um, yeah. You could say that.”

“How long?” Hayden demands. Then his arm drops away. Apparently Hayden’s brain has come back online after all. “Wait, does this have to do with Boston Lily?”

Jackie makes a sound of recognition. “Oh, that girl Shane’s been texting since rookie season?” And then: “Oh. I’m assuming Lily was a code name?”

“You’ve been dating this guy since rookie season, and you never said anything?” Hayden asks. He sounds hurt.

Shane winces. “We weren’t always dating,” he defends. “It was just hooking up for a while. But… we started dating for real the summer of 2014.”

“Wow,” Jackie says. Her expression is shocked. “That’s almost three years, Shane. What’s his name? Is he… out?”

Shane shakes his head. “No. No, he can’t be, it wouldn’t be safe.”

“No,” Hayden whispers. “You’re kidding, right?”

Of course, Hayden would make the leap. All the pieces are there, and he’s probably one of the only people who can connect them.

“Do you know who it is?” Jackie asks, curious. “Is it another player or something?”

Hayden flinches. “I’m going to be sick,” he says faintly. “Do I have to be nice to him now?”

Shane snorts despite himself. When he recaps the night’s events for Ilya, he’ll find this reaction hilarious. “Yeah,” he says, looking at Jackie. “He’s another player. Lily was a code name for Ilya.”

To her credit, Jackie puts it together immediately. After all, she watches plenty of hockey. “Ilya Rozanov?!”

“There weren’t any other men?” Hayden begs.

Shane shakes his head. The smile spreads across his face. “Sorry, Hayd. He’s kind of the love of my life.”

“Shane,” Jackie says, voice serious. “You’re going to tell me absolutely everything. Don’t spare any details.” She pauses. “Well, maybe some.”

Hayden groans so loud that Shane finally loses his fight to laughter.

~

The conversation with Shane leaves Ilya feeling better, settled in his skin. Everything is still hard, overwhelmingly so, but now that he’s not isolating himself from his biggest support system… it’s manageable.

At Shane’s cautious prodding, he’s even reached out to a Russian-speaking therapist in the Greater Boston area. He has his first appointment next week.

Seeing the speculation about Shane and Rose Landry fade from the press helps. Calling Shane more frequently when he’s on the road helps even more. They obviously don’t have phone sex with Pike in the room, but that wasn’t the piece Ilya missed. No, he’s been longing for the domesticity of it. Telling Shane about his day, eating dinner together over video, sitting in silence with him as they fall asleep.

He’s heard Pike complaining about it in the background a bit—“Jesus, man, I don’t even talk to Jackie this much”—but Shane is remarkably unperturbed. It makes Ilya love him fiercely, to see how willing he is to put up with shit for Ilya’s sake.

Now that Boston has their own string of away games coming up, Ilya knows it’s his turn. He finds their travel coordinator before practice.

“Hello, Maria. You are having good day?” Ilya smiles charmingly.

Maria, a short, gray, 60-year-old woman, looks over her glasses at him. Ilya has no idea what he’s done to deserve her expression. “I was. Is that about to change?”

Ilya grabs at his chest. Feigns a mortal wound. “Since when do I make trouble for you? I am–”

“A pain in my ass?” Maria cuts in. “Yes, yes you are. What do you need, Rozanov?”

Ilya sighs. Maria may appear like she wants him dead, but Ilya’s come to accept that this is how Bostonians show their love. Very similar to Russians. “I want to change room assignment.”

Maria nods. “Fine, for who?” She starts clicking away at her computer.

“For me. I know usually, I say: I am good captain, share me around so everyone gets a piece, but…” Ilya spreads his hands wide. “Would like to room with Marly again, only.”

“Are you kidding me, Rozanov?” Maria demands. “Why did you bother changing things last spring then? You told me Marlow snored!”

Ilya winces. He had, in fact, swapped from being Cliff’s regular road roommate last spring. His excuse to his friend was that he wanted the chance to establish stronger relationships with the rest of the team. In reality, Ilya started to suspect that Cliff was putting some inconvenient pieces together. From the times he slipped away from the room in Montreal, to a handful of hastily ended video calls to the whole Svetlana thing… Ilya couldn’t take the risk. Cliff studied him carefully when he explained his reasoning and let him get away with it.

In retrospect, Ilya was being foolish. At least now, he can come clean.

After practice, he sits on the bench by his locker and waits for Cliff to emerge from the showers. He kicks at his ankle once he’s in range. “Marly, you are coming to my place for drinks tonight.”

Cliff rolls his eyes. Knocks away Ilya’s foot when he starts to aim for a second strike. “Fuck off, maybe I have plans.”

“You do not,” Ilya tells him. “I know your life, you are very boring during week. Less boring on weekends.”

“Shut up,” Cliff grumbles. “Fine, what time? We fly out tomorrow at noon, I don’t want to be out too late.”

“Bor-ing!” Ilya sing-songs. “Come at 7, will feed you.”

Ilya orders two pizzas, and, thinking of Shane’s scowl, requests extra vegetables on one. He snaps a picture and texts it to his boyfriend.

there, this is meal plan yes?

Shane responds quickly. Putting mushrooms on something doesn’t make it healthy, asshole.

Smiling, Ilya types, sounds fake but okay.

Who taught you that? Nevermind. Good luck with Marlow.

i do not need luck. or to be taught memes

Just for that, Ilya hands the extra vegetable pizza to Cliff and keeps the regular for himself. “The fuck, Roz?” Cliff stares at it in dismay.

“Is good for you. Think you are getting slow.”

“You’re the fucking worst,” Cliff complains, but eats the pizza anyway because it’s free. Ilya gets him a beer, because he is not a complete asshole, and puts on Montreal’s home game.

After his first slice, Ilya clears his throat. Nerves crawl under his skin and he wonders if this is how Shane feels all the time. Ilya does not like feeling anxious, much prefers brash confidence. “So. You have made All-Star Game this year, yes?”

“Yeah.” Cliff turns from the game to eye him suspiciously. “You know this.”

Ilya ignores him. “First time we both go since 2015. Are you excited?”

“I guess. Tampa will be nice at least, to get away from this shitty fucking weather.”

Another thing Ilya has learned about Boston. Almost all weather is shitty fucking weather, except for two perfect weeks in the fall and one or two days during the summer. These people are so hard to please. “Maybe we find you hot girl,” he offers.

“Maybe we should find you a hot girl, Roz,” Cliff counters. “I’m genuinely starting to worry, man. When was the last time you got laid?”

“Two weeks ago,” Ilya says immediately.

Cliff’s eyes widen. “Oh. Montreal Jane? Is she the one who knocked you out of your slump?”

“In a way, yes,” Ilya says. “Do you want to meet Jane?”

Cliff drops his pizza. Thankfully, he has the box in his lap. Ilya pays someone to clean his place every so often, but he’s not sure tomato sauce comes out of fabric that well. Shane would complain, the next time he visited. “Are you kidding?” Cliff blurts. “You’ve kept this girl hidden so well I was starting to think she doesn’t exist!”

“Jane exists.” Ilya smirks. “So, what is answer?”

“Yes, obviously,” Cliff says. “I’ve been asking for years.”

“Great,” Ilya says. He takes a massive bite of pizza. “Jane will be at All-Star game.”

“What, really? That’s a big step,” Cliff sounds impressed. “You must be getting serious with this girl then.”

“Oh, very serious,” Ilya tells him. He waits until Cliff takes another bite of pizza, starts to chew. “But Jane is not at All-Star Game for me. He is playing.”

Cliff chokes. Coughs so dramatically that Ilya thumps his back. Then Cliff chugs from his beer like it will make the world right again. “Sorry, I must have heard you wrong. Did you say ‘he’?”

Ilya puts his box on the coffee table. He presses his hands to his thighs, firm and grounding. “Yes, Jane is man.”

“What the actual fuck?” Cliff whispers. His eyes rove around Ilya’s face frantically, like he’s searching for the lie. “Are you coming out to me right now?”

Ilya pretends his heart isn’t fucking racing. “Yes, brilliant, Marly. You understand English.”

“Roz,” Cliff shakes his head. “Ilya. You’re not messing with me?” He’s clearly wrestled his expression under control. Cliff doesn’t really have a soft setting, but he manages open and neutral well enough.

“I am not messing with you, Cliff,” Ilya confirms quietly. This might be the most serious and honest they’ve ever been with each other. “I am bisexual.”

“Well, shit man,” Cliff breathes. He claps Ilya’s shoulder. It’s aggressively bro, but Ilya appreciates it. “Congratulations, I think?”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “I do not need congratulations for sexuality, Marly. But I will accept congratulations on my hot boyfriend.”

Cliff freezes. Ilya can see the gears turning as he thinks back. “He’s a hockey player and he’ll be at the All-Star Game? Who…”

On the screen, the buzzer lights up. Pike piles on top of Shane, knocking their helmets together while the banner flashes with Montreal Goal.

Excellent timing, Ilya thinks, as if the universe wants to make this smoother for them. He points at the screen. “I think you recognize him. Second best hockey player, after me, yes?”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Cliff says flatly.

“No, kidding. Yes, fucking,” Ilya drawls. He winks at Cliff, gesturing again at the screen. “He is very good at scoring, but I am better.”

“Oh my god,” Cliff whispers. He moves his pizza box out of the way and buries his face in his hands. “You two are going to break the league.”

Ilya makes a sharp sound. “Hey, no,” he lets a bit of threat creep into his voice, sharpen his tone. “We do not break league, because we do not tell league. I am trusting you with this. I will know who to blame, if word gets out.”

Cliff jerks upright. “Roz, no. I would never say anything. You can trust me.” That open expression returns.

“Good.” Ilya nods.

“I just can’t figure out when the fuck…” Cliff goes still. His face shifts to something like shock and horror. “No. Rozanov, tell me right now that I wasn’t your fucking wingman to pick up Shane Hollander.”

It takes Ilya a second to realize what he must mean. 2015. The Friendship gambit. The laughter bursts out of him. In the time he takes to get himself under control, Cliff has turned chalk-white. “No, you are safe, Marly. We were dating before. Only, wanted to be friends publicly. Makes things easier.” Ilya is not willing to explain Shane’s spreadsheet minutes after coming out.

“Thank god,” Cliff whispers. “I’m not sure I could handle being responsible for that.”

So dramatic. Ilya doesn’t understand how Cliff has the energy for it and hockey. “So you will meet him? During All-Star weekend? Pike is coming too, four of us can eat lunch.”

“Sure, why not.” Cliff’s face twists. “Wait, are you telling me I have to be nice to Shane Hollander and Hayden Pike?”

Ilya snorts. “Shane, probably yes, I think so. Pike? Absolutely not.” Ilya certainly doesn’t intend to be.

“This is going to be a fucking disaster,” Cliff says. He sounds resigned to it.

“Yes, I think so.” Ilya’s heart finally starts to slow. That was nowhere near as bad as he expected. He remembers the last detail. “Oh, and we are rooming together again on road. Now that you know about hot boyfriend.”

“Please don’t have phone sex with me in the room.”

Ilya shrugs. “No promises.”

~

Late January 2017

Tampa Bay is hot and humid and packed with hockey players. Shane finds he doesn’t mind it at all. Not when he gets to play hockey on the same team as his boyfriend, for once. Not when two more people know about their relationship and haven’t condemned them for it. And not, he’s realizing, when his boyfriend looks really fucking hot in a Hawaiian shirt.

“Staring,” Ilya teases. His voice is quiet in deference to the fact they’re in public. “I know I am pretty, but if you keep looking at me like that we might have problem.”

Shane shifts in his chair. The warm metal bites into his thighs. Though no one sits at the tables next to them, he can see the hotel pool from here. Along with most of the best players in the league. “What kind of problem?” he asks.

Ilya’s gaze darkens. “Kind of problem we need locked door for.”

“Right,” Shane swallows. He looks around desperately for a distraction. For better or for worse, he finds one. Cliff Marlow, striding toward their table like a man heading for the gallows. “Jesus, does he have to look so miserable?”

Ilya snorts. “At least he does not look like Pike.” Shane turns, sees Hayden approaching from the other direction, looking faintly green. “Is he going to throw up?”

“Guess we’ll find out,” Shane mutters and stands. He grabs Hayden in a back-pounding hug, faintly aware of Ilya doing the same to Cliff. Shane lets go. They’re all left staring at each other. Marlow and Hayden look like two alley cats, debating whether it’s worth scrapping.

Marlow speaks first. “Hollander. Pike.” He nods in both of their directions. Shane can’t get a read on his expression.

Hayden straightens, the way he does right before he starts a Jackie-assigned, unpleasant chore. “Rozanov. Marlow.”

Shane stifles a sigh.

Ilya claps once, a sarcastic smile firmly in place. “Great. We all know each other’s names. Only took 7 years of hockey, but maybe concussions make us stupid.”

“Ilya–” Shane starts.

“Ah, sorry,” Ilya amends. “Make everyone stupid except Shane. He is very smart.” Then he winks. Shane flushes, just a little.

Hayden fakes a gag. “Is this how you two flirt?”

Marlow winces. “I’m rethinking my entire life.”

“Oh, shut up,” Shane snaps. “Can we sit down? People are starting to stare.”

That is, perhaps, an understatement. They make a bizarre sight. Two Raiders and two Metros walk into a bar, the bartender says…

“Can I get y’all anything?” The waitress stands behind Hayden’s shoulder. She looks entirely unimpressed at whatever picture they make.

Shane cringes and drops into his seat. The rest of them follow suit at least. Ilya, more accurately, sprawls. Entirely too pleased with himself for Shane’s sanity.

“What is your best vodka?” Ilya asks. “You have Russian brand?”

The waitress stares. Then, in a flat voice that screams she does not get paid enough for this, says, “We have Tito’s.”

Ilya winces. “A beer, then. You have Corona?” At the waitresses nod, Ilya gestures to Shane. “And he will have a ginger–”

“A Corona too, actually,” Shane interrupts. Ilya’s eyebrows fly upward. Shane shifts. Sue him, but he doesn’t think he can get through this lunch without at least a little alcohol.

“Just make it a round for the table,” Hayden says. Marlow tips his head in acceptance and the waitress hurries away.

Ilya’s smirk is a warning, but Shane can’t stop him. Maybe he’ll behave, like they discussed on the phone last night. “Am surprised you do not order birth control drink, Pike. Your wife is pregnant again with one thousandth child, no?”

Shane winces. He should have known better.

“Fuck you!” Hayden snaps. “At least the world knows my dick works–” He cuts himself off, nauseous once more.

“Watch it, Pike,” Marlow drawls. His gaze flits to Shane, steady, assessing. “Or your buddy here might have to share just how much Roz’s dick works.”

“Can we please stop talking about Ilya’s dick?” Shane asks, as if there’s any real chance of redirecting them.

Ilya winks. “That’s not what you said last night.”

“I hate you,” Shane complains.

“No,” Ilya says, his smile softening, “You love me.”

“Against my will,” Shane returns. But he can’t stop his lips from twitching upward.

“Christ,” Marlow groans. “I think I liked it better when you two were tearing each other apart on the ice.”

Hayden nods in agreement.

“Oh, we do that always,” Ilya waves it away. “Is after that is… fun.”

“Gross,” Hayden whispers.

“Ilya,” Shane warns.

Ilya raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I stop. Besides, you will hate us playing together more.”

Both Marlow and Hayden wince. “It can’t be that bad,” Marlow protests weakly. “It’s not like you two’ve had many chances to play with rather than against each other.”

Shane snorts and looks down at the table when all three of their eyes turn to him. Not that Ilya’s have ever left.

“I don’t like that sound,” Hayden says warily. “Shane, buddy, I don’t like that sound at all. When–”

“Have you been to Hollander’s cottage, Pike?” Ilya asks. He rocks his chair back onto two legs. “Is very nice. The building next door even has synthetic rink, for practice.”

Hayden and Marlow both pale.

“Oh, we’re fucked,” Hayden says faintly.

“So fucked,” Marlow echoes.

Shane bites his lip to smother the besotted smile fighting its way forward. Ilya doesn’t bother. They grin stupidly at each other. The two best players in the league, at the All-Star Game, at lunch with their two best friends. What a fucking life.

They’re absolutely winning tomorrow. Really, Shane feels like he’s winning all the time.

~

Chapter End Notes

I made the decision that Shane and Ilya would be much better communicators in this universe. For one, they've been together a long time. Shane has been there to support Ilya through his father's decline in a way that he wasn't in canon, which I think opens the door for a lot more comfort with vulnerability. And, importantly, they really only had each other for two full years. With both of them forced to rely on only each other, I really do think communicating becomes more essential. Combine that with a softer start... and! This is a fix-it. Of sorts.

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

Next up... we have a slightly different chapter. Also known as the planned Interlude~ >:)

Chapter 7

Chapter Summary

The Interlude

Chapter Notes

Hi again! I'm back again with another chapter! Or... more specifically, The Interlude.

I absolutely adored all of your comments and reactions to last chapter. The love this story is getting is just incredible. I get too overwhelmed to respond to comments, but please know I read every single one and obsess over them all. The passion for this universe is what makes writing it so easy and so enjoyable!

This chapter is a little different. It really is meant to be an interlude, so it's thematically and stylistically a bit different. It's a turning point for the narrative though. See end notes for trigger warnings, though they aren't graphic and might be spoilers.

I hope you enjoy!

~
Interlude
~

“Last call for priority boarding.”

Ilya jolts. He must have missed the first announcement, his mind sluggish, only half-aware of the world moving around him. He creaks to his feet.

He boards the plane.

~

They crushed the other teams during the All-Star game. Ilya thought he knew what his best hockey looked like. Remembered vividly his hot streak following the Olympics, the fiercest he’s ever played in his entire life. He dreamed of it sometimes, the perfect feeling of his stick against the puck as he slapped a shot into the back of the net.

Playing with Shane was better. On the ice, they shared one brain, one strategy. Ilya knew where Shane was at all times, knew where to slip a pass to his boyfriend through traffic. They were fucking unbeatable.

Ilya smacked a kiss to the side of Shane’s helmet in full view of the cameras. He wanted to make it his lock screen. Maybe someday.

“They can never let this happen again,” Pike complained. “This should be illegal.”

~

Ilya has booked himself a window seat in first class. There’s no one sitting beside him. Plenty of leg room. He stretches out, watches the bustle on the tarmac. He checks the time on his phone, sees the dozens of unread texts.

He powers his phone off and closes his eyes.

~

After the All-Star game, they went back to their routine. It was good, surprisingly. Better for the both of them, to have someone in on the secret. The first time Hammersmith razzed him about his Montreal girl, Cliff stepped in.

“Don’t talk shit about Jane,” he said. “I met her. She’s way too good for Rozy here.”

The rest of the team cackled, thumping Ilya on the back. Thank you, he mouthed to Cliff. And Marly only rolled his eyes.

He told Shane about it, who must’ve passed it on to Pike, because the next thing Ilya knew he was listening to his boyfriend complain about the fit JJ threw. “He’s pissed that Hayden met you before he did, and that I’m still not sharing pictures,” Shane grumbled.

“Maybe you think about telling him, yes?”

“Maybe.”

~

Ilya falls asleep, somehow. Exhaustion has been his constant companion this past week. The dark circles under his eyes, the soreness of his muscles, the restless jitter of his limbs. Even when Ilya tries, sleep doesn’t come easily.

But he manages, on the plane. Sleeps away the turbulence, the jarring strangeness of liminal space. He sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps.

He wakes to the announcement that they’re touching down in thirty minutes. He does not feel any less tired.

~

Boston played Montreal in March. He convinced Shane to come over before the game. Shane used his code to let himself in and something in Ilya’s chest warmed. Even though it was Ilya’s house, a large enough part of Shane viewed it as home. They fucked, fast and frantic with the time spent apart. And then, best of all, Ilya held him. Wrapped his arms around Shane and tucked him close. Reminded both of them how precious this thing they had was.

As the day crept later, Ilya had never wanted to play hockey less. From the way Shane refused to let him up, he had the sneaking suspicion it was mutual. The two of them had ruined each other. How could they have been so careless, so irresponsible?

“You will come back after game?” Ilya asked, muffling the words in Shane’s hair.

“Of course, Ilyusha,” Shane said. “I fly out early for Detroit though.”

“Is okay,” Ilya told him. “I take all of the time you give me.”

“I would give it all to you, if I could,” Shane whispered. Ilya pretended not to hear him. Otherwise, he’d have to admit the way his heart cracked.

~

Fogginess makes Ilya slow. It takes several minutes to get his bearings in the airport. There are people. So many people. And the lights are bright, the conversation loud, the signs confusing. Ilya feels lost at sea and a little like he wants to lock himself in a small, dark room.

He wonders if Shane feels like this all the time.

Thinking about Shane restarts the tremor in his hands. Ilya forces his thoughts away, forces his way through the crowds of people to his next gate.

He makes his flight. He boards the plane.

~

Boston won the game. Playing with Shane was electric but playing against him was an old hat. Ilya spent so much of his life crouched at center ice, staring down Shane Hollander. So many important memories spiraled from this scene. He could reduce his person down to a collage of moments and they would all come back to this.

He saw Shane’s frustration at losing the game, chirped him in the handshake line, all the while knowing he would get to taste that scowl again. They hadn’t bet anything specific on this game, but Shane was feistier when he lost. As if he was trying to prove something to both of them. Ilya loved it.

In the locker room, Ilya checked his phone. He’d already done post-game press and presumably Shane would be finished soon too. Then he just needed to check into his room with Hayden and sneak back out. He wondered what he could text to get Shane moving faster. Wondered what would get him in Ilya’s bed sooner.

Ilya had three missed calls. All from Alexei.

His stomach swooped. A complicated, weighty tangle that he couldn’t look at directly. His phone vibrated in his hand before he’d decided what to do.

Ilya answered.

~

Sleep doesn’t come easily on this leg of the journey. Ilya fidgets, wants to pace, but knows he can’t. Somehow these first class seats feel smaller. He hasn’t turned his phone back on. Doesn’t want to deal with it all, frankly, not the calls from Boston management, not the texts piling up from his teammates, not Svetlana’s offer of support.

Even Shane’s messages–

They hurt too much to look at. Not when Ilya craves something he can’t have, longs for Shane’s arms wrapped around him so badly that it must be written on his forehead. Ilya can’t look, can’t make this ache worse.

He can’t focus on a movie either. He has no book. Ilya sits as still as he can, and stares out the window into the vast expanse of nothing.

~

“Shane,” Ilya said. Distantly, he admired the levelness of his voice. The calm neutrality while his mind spun out of control. “You cannot come over tonight.”

“What?” Shane sounded peeved. It was quiet, wherever he was. He must be– “I just got to the room with Hayden. I’m about to leave. What’s going on?”

“You cannot come over,” Ilya repeated. His words came like a failing engine, juddering stops and starts. “I will not be there.”

“Ilya, you’re scaring me,” Shane said quietly. “Please, are you okay?”

“My father is dead,” he said. And then he sat down. Right there, on the cold pavement of the player parking garage. He said it again in Russian, because it felt necessary. “My father is dead.”

“Fuck,” Shane breathed. The silence between them sat, an uncomfortable, jagged thing. “Fuck, baby, I’m so sorry. What do you need?”

“I–” Ilya swallowed. He wanted to turn it into a joke, say your tight hole, Hollander. He wanted to keep his promise, say I need you, I need you more than I’ve ever needed you. He wanted to say nothing at all. “I am on first flight to Moscow. In three hours. I will pack and leave.”

Shane made a wounded sound. “I would come with you. You know that, right? Say the word, I’ll tell my coach it’s a family emergency, and–”

Yes, please, I want that. Ilya hunched. Brought his knees to his chest. “We can’t do that, Shane.”

“Fuck off, if you need me–”

“I need you here,” Ilya forced out. “If you came with me, I could not–” The words stopped coming.

Shane understood, because he was the one person in Ilya’s life who truly could. Who Ilya let understand him this way. “Okay. Okay, fine. But you’re calling me every day, I don’t care what happens. You call, or I hop on a flight to Moscow.”

Ilya hummed. Shane’s order hooked into his chest, something stable to cling to. Call Shane every day. Ilya could do that, keep doing that, until he clawed his way back out of his home country.

“Da,” Ilya whispered. “I promise. Stay on call with me?”

“Of course,” Shane said. “As long as you want.”

Forever, Ilya didn’t say.

~

“Can I get you anything?” a stewardess asks. She’s pushing a cart that takes up the entire aisle. Ilya must look like shit. He feels like shit. At least she doesn’t seem to notice.

“You have ginger ale?” Ilya checks.

The stewardess nods. “I’ll be right back with that, sir.”

She returns with a plastic cup filled with ice and an open can of Canada Dry. Ilya snorts. He wants to take a picture for Shane, but he can’t bring himself to turn his phone back on. Instead, he pours some of the can over the ice. Listens to the fizz and pop of the bubbles.

He sips.

It tastes like Shane. Like home.

~

Moscow itched at his skin. Uncomfortable. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome.

Ilya arranged the funeral. Paid for all of the expenses, for the tomb next to Ilya’s mother, for the family dinner afterward. Paid to settle his father’s medical expenses, paid to settle his estate, paid for fucking clothes for everyone to wear to the funeral. Ilya paid and paid and paid.

He hugged Alisochka. So big now, so wise.

He hugged Svetlana. Or she hugged him. As if she could squeeze the void in his chest away, fill it with the love of his best friend.

He punched Alexei in his fat fucking face. Spilled the words he’d kept to himself for years. I never want to hear from you again.

But mostly, in Moscow, Ilya called Shane.

He called him sitting drunk on the floor of his apartment. He called him from behind the church they laid his father to rest in. He called him while walking off the fight with his brother.

And every time, Shane answered. From his condo, from hotel rooms, from outside the fucking Metros locker room. Ilya called and Shane answered and Ilya had never been loved like this before.

Somehow, Shane knew what he needed. He wore his sexy glasses to distract Ilya, asked questions about logistics when Ilya couldn’t keep his responsibilities straight, said hello to Alisochka out of earshot of her parents.

Mostly, he listened. To Ilya’s Russian diatribes against his dumbass fucking brother and his greedy relatives. To his fumbling, uncertain feelings about losing his father, losing the chance to make him proud, losing the possibility of him ever seeing Ilya.

Shane listened and listened and listened.

And Ilya missed him. Missed him so much that it made his hands shake and his eyes well up any time he thought about it too long.

He booked his flight home.

~

Ilya finishes two ginger ales before the plane lands. He gathers his things, waits impatiently at the carousel for his luggage to arrive. There’s so much of it. Two big, overfilled suitcases with the only things he cared to take from Russia.

The world passes him by like some kind of strange dream. He feels tired. He feels lost. He feels achingly, unbearably lonely.

Ilya hails a taxi. Gives the address in a half-aware daze.

The streetlights spin past. A dizzying, nauseating swirl of light and motion. Ilya closes his eyes.

~

“Mama,” Ilya said. He knelt on the cold, browned grass and traced a finger over the portrait etched into stone. He had always thought it cruel, that she looked so happy here when she had been so sad. “Mama, I’m sorry it’s been so long since I visited you.”

The cemetery was quiet, peaceful. Ilya’s knees numbed quickly. He stopped shivering. “I think about you all the time. Maybe more than I used to, even, now that I’m so happy. I wish you could see me happy like this.”

“Papa is dead, Mama. He barely knew who I was at the end. I wasn’t there for it. I don’t think he ever really saw me.” Ilya traced her beautiful smile, once, twice. He lay his hand flat, as if it could help him avoid her gaze.

“I will not speak to Alexei again. He has no place in my life. Svetlana says she’ll pass messages to Alisochka for me, help her call me whenever she’s back in Russia.” Ilya hesitated. But he’d never been able to lie to his mother. Not as a child and not now. “I’m not coming back, Mama. My life is not in Russia, now. I cannot be happy here. I don’t think I ever could be, really. I hope you aren’t mad at me–” Ilya’s voice broke. His breath shuddered on its way in. It started a series of tremors that he soon couldn’t stop.

“Mama,” Ilya started. He looked around, double checked once more that there were no onlookers, no nosey eavesdroppers. He was alone. “Mama, I’m bisexual. I’m in love with a man. He’s the love of my life, my soulmate, and I would do anything for him. You would love him too, I think. He makes me so happy.”

Ilya imagined his mother’s face. Closed his eyes to focus, tried to envision how she’d react to the news. In this fantasy, she was surprised, of course. He remembered the way her eyebrows would raise nearly to her hairline, the shocked parting of her lips. But then, Ilya wanted to think, she would smile. That large, beautiful smile, captured so poorly on her gravestone. The one that lit up entire rooms, softened even the hard line of his father’s jaw. Irina Rozanova was so beautiful, when she was happy.

Ilya imagined her happiness. Confusion at first, maybe, but even his mind couldn’t be so cruel to dream of anything but acceptance. She would hold him, kiss his cheeks, fuss with his curls. And then she would demand to meet Shane. To investigate whether he was good enough for her son.

Ilya knew the answer would be yes. There was no reality where Irina was alive to meet Shane and didn’t love him.

“I love him so much, Mama,” Ilya said again. The frigid air turned his tears icy against his cheeks. “And that means I can’t come back to Russia. That means I can’t visit you again. Please don’t be angry with me.”

A gust of wind ruffled his curls. For a heartbeat, it felt like fingers carding through his hair. His mother’s hand, offering the only comfort he’d known as a child.

“He can’t come to meet you,” Ilya whispered. “It isn’t safe. But I thought maybe I could call him? So you could hear his voice and hear how much he loves me.”

Ilya pulled out his phone. His fingers were so cold that the screen took eons to respond. He’d warned Shane that he might be calling him. When the FaceTime went through, Shane looked nervous.

Ilya’s heart skipped. His boyfriend was in a suit. Neat collar, tie, jacket over it all. He’d clearly taken special care with his hair. It was almost eight am in Moscow, which meant it was nearly midnight in Montreal. Past Shane’s usual bedtime. And not only was his boyfriend awake, but he’d gone to the trouble of looking nice. Like he was really meeting Ilya’s mother instead of humoring Ilya’s insane request to talk to a tombstone.

“You dressed up for this?” Ilya asked.

Shane blushed, but nodded anyway. His Russian came surer and surer every day. “Da, I want to make a good impression.”

“I love you,” Ilya said in English.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane replied. “Please introduce me to your mother, Ilyusha. And then go inside. You look cold.”

Ilya laughed, a wet sound. He shifted off his knees, ignoring the sharp pain, and sat back against the stone. It left both him and his mother’s portrait in the camera frame. “Da, my love. Mama, I would like you to meet my boyfriend, Shane Hollander. He is a hockey player, like me, but more boring with a weak backhand.”

“Ilyusha!” Shane scolded. “You cannot say that to your mother!”

Ilya shrugged. His lips twitched. “I am giving an honest introduction. Everything I say is true.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “It’s really nice to meet you, Mrs. Rozanov.”

“You do not have to be so formal,” Ilya teased.

Shane ignored him. “I practiced this, so that I could say it right.” Ilya’s heart ached. “I want to thank you, for raising such an amazing son. He’s everything to me, perfect for me in every way, and I know all the best parts of him came from you.” Shane’s voice was so earnest, so sincere. His accent was better for this dialogue, like he really had practiced the words again and again, until they were as close as he could get, just to impress Ilya’s dead mother. “I know it must have been so hard, watching him grow up without you. I wanted to tell you that he’s not alone anymore. I’m taking care of him now, and I will keep taking care of him for the rest of our lives. You don’t have to worry.”

Ilya’s eyes burned. A sob caught in his throat. He wanted Shane here so badly. Wanted his mother alive, just so he could see his two favorite people hold each other. “Shane–” Ilya whispered.

“Hush, I’m almost done,” Shane cleared his throat. “I love your son so much. I’m going to marry him someday. I wish you could be there to see it, but I know you’re watching over him. I hope you know how great he is.” Shane sniffled. Even through his own tears and a phone screen, Ilya could see how red his boyfriend’s eyes were. “Okay, I’m done.”

“She would have loved you,” Ilya managed. He’d said it before, but he needed to say it again. “She would have loved you so much.”

“Not as much as she loved you,” Shane said, certain. “We would have had that in common.”

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya whispered. He scrubbed at his face with numb fingers.

“I know, baby.” Shane reached out toward his phone, as if he could somehow cup Ilya’s face. “Now, can you come out of the cold for me?”

Ilya trembled. For a second, he wasn’t sure he could get up. Wasn’t sure this was a goodbye he knew how to survive.

But Shane asked him to go inside. To keep himself healthy and safe. And if Ilya didn’t always have the energy to do that work just for the sake of it, he could make himself do it for Shane.

He stood. He wobbled, legs sore and frozen, before something seemed to steady him. He imagined his mother. Her arms tight around him, until he was ready to walk on his own.

Ilya left his mother’s grave for the last time.

~

Ilya stumbles out of the taxi. He drags both of his suitcases behind him, desperate to get inside now that he’s so close. It takes him two tries to put in the code for the outer door.

He leaves the suitcases in the entry. He doesn’t care enough to bring them in. At the top of the stairs, he freezes.

Ilya doesn’t have his keys. In the rush of packing, he left them in Boston. Now, exhausted from almost a full day of travel, he can’t remember where the spare is hidden.

Ilya thinks about knocking. Then he powers on his phone instead. It buzzes and buzzes and buzzes. Continuous for almost a minute, showing missed calls from his coach, from Svetlana, from Shane. His texts are more of the same. He knows pushing back his Boston return date on short notice would stir things up. Ilya just doesn’t care.

He finds his message thread with Jane. Doesn’t read the flood of messages, increasing in concern, sent regularly over the course of the past 24 hours.

Only types, can you get door? i forgot keys.

There’s a thud, from inside the condo. Then the sound of rushing feet.

Shane yanks open the door. His eyes widen when they land on Ilya, mouth gaping. “Ilya? How–”

“I said I would say,” Ilya starts, “next time I need you.” Time stills. They are frozen, watching each other. Ilya’s voice cracks. “Shane, I need you.”

Shane’s face crumbles. He reaches out and grabs Ilya’s wrist. Pulls him into his arms. Brings him home.

~

Chapter End Notes

Trigger warnings: death of a parent, grief, discussion of past parental death from suicide

Chapter 8

Chapter Summary

Step 6: Free Agency for Ilya
Contingency Plans: C, H

Chapter Notes

Hi again!

I just want to say I'm honored by the response to last chapter. I'm so glad it worked for everyone, even though the style was different. Sorry not sorry for making everyone emotional! I treasured all of your comments and reactions. I spent all week reading and rereading them <3

And now we are back! I hope you all enjoy this chapter. Disclaimer that I am not a lawyer and all of the Russian comes from google translate, so please suspend your disbelief for the former but feel free to correct me on the latter. All mistakes are my own.

Brief content warning for discussion of parental death and mental health. Take care of yourselves!

~
Step 6: Free Agency for Ilya
Contingency Plans: C, H
~

March 2017

Shane wakes first. Hardly surprising, considering the dark circles Ilya arrived with last night. He’d only been half-coherent, falling into Shane’s arms. A mess, crafted by unprocessed grief and almost 24 hours of travel.

He needed Shane to hold him, kiss him, love him, before he settled. Thankfully, these are all things that Shane treasures doing. Yes, Ilya might be the more romantic one, better with flashy words and silly gestures, but Shane prides himself on being what his boyfriend needs.

Sometimes, their wires cross. They don’t talk when they should, or say what they mean. Sometimes, they fight. But if almost ten years of knowing each other is good for anything, it’s that Shane sees Ilya. He doesn’t always have the words, in any of the languages he claims, but he sees Ilya scraped raw and bare and vulnerable. And Shane understands him.

Ilya lies flat on his back. One arm loops under Shane, surely numb by now, but still securing him to Ilya’s chest. Shane’s head rests in his favorite spot, half on Ilya’s shoulder and half tucked under his chin. His skin is warm and alive.

Shane spreads his fingers where his hand rests over Ilya’s pectoral muscle. His boyfriend’s heart beats slow and strong, a rhythm Shane can sink into. He’s tempted to go back to sleep, just like that.

Instead, he stretches carefully. He grabs his phone from the bedside table without disturbing Ilya, which should be some kind of impossible. Ilya sleeps lightly, most of the time. Sensitive to every bit of Shane’s movement and stirring. If Shane were to get out of bed and start his morning routine, Ilya would wake near instantaneously.

As if he has an internal proximity alarm that warns when Shane moves out of reach.

Ilya needs the rest. So does Shane after a day spent worrying at his lack of contact. More importantly, Shane can’t stomach letting him out of his sight just yet.

He pulls up his chat with Theriault and sends a quick message. Then he texts the Metros groupchat, reminds them to work hard in practice, and that he’ll see them for the home game tomorrow.

Shane so rarely misses practice that his coach hardly questions him. Just tells him to rest up and feel better so that he’s ready for the game. Easy enough.

Next, Shane emails Farah, his agent. While his mom handles a lot of brand outreach, scheduling, and management, it got to be too much for one person as Shane’s star continued to rise. Yuna coordinates closely with Farah, who handles all of Shane’s contracts. They’re a dream team, and Shane is more than happy to let them do their thing and go where he’s told.

Realistically, both Farah and his mom should know about his relationship with Ilya. Not only is it an incredibly important part of Shane’s life, but it’s also a scandal in the making. Shane’s entire brand and image could be shot to hell if they’re ever outed. He probably owes them some kind of disclosure.

Except.

Except Yuna is his mom. Telling her is not just disclosing something to a third party manager, it’s coming out to his family. His parents don’t hate gay people. Or at least, Shane is pretty sure about that. Over the years, they’ve more than once emphasized that they’ll love Shane ‘no matter what.’

But…

Ilya shifts. Sighs out a long breath. Shane presses a kiss to his chest. “Sh, baby,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

Ilya’s arm tightens. He listens and settles.

Thinking about coming out to his parents makes Shane’s palms sweat. This relationship with Ilya has been so serious for so long that it’s worse, now. Not only would he be telling his parents he’s gay. No, Shane would be telling them that he’s gay and dating another player in the league. Not just any player, but the one he’s famously had a rivalry with his entire career. And oh yeah, it’s not new, but he’s been lying to them since his rookie season and also been in a committed relationship for three years.

Shane’s not as worried about them being angry as he is about them being hurt. And he doesn’t exactly know how to fix that. Besides going back in time.

He sends the email to Farah anyway. Highlights that this is a conversation for the two of them and not to mention it to Yuna. Another betrayal to add to the list. She replies twenty minutes later and confirms a time for that afternoon.

Finally, Shane opens his text thread with Svetlana. His brain takes a moment to translate the Cyrillic into words he understands, this early in the morning. But Shane needs someone to practice with.

They’d texted back and forth all day yesterday, checking whether either of them had heard from Ilya. Shane feels a wave of guilt that he didn’t text Svetlana last night, after Ilya showed up on his doorstep. In his defense, he was a bit busy keeping his boyfriend in one piece.

Илюша у меня, приехал вчера вечером. С ним всё в порядке. Думаю, у него был выключен телефон. (Ilyusha's at my place, [he] showed up last night. He’s okay. I think his phone was off.)

Svetlana’s name immediately lights up his phone. Shane hits decline, checking to make sure Ilya hasn’t stirred.

He texts quickly in English, too afraid of Svetlana to take the time to translate.

Sorry! Ilya’s asleep

He looks exhausted, I don’t want to wake him.

Svetlana’s text bubble pops up and then disappears. Finally, she responds:

Всё в порядке. Скажи ему, чтобы позвонил мне, когда проснётся. Я ужасно злюсь на этого идиота. (It’s okay. Tell him to call me when he wakes up. I’m pissed at the fucking idiot.)

Shane takes a few minutes to translate the message. He smothers a snort. Better for Svetlana to be pissed at Ilya, not him. His phone vibrates again.

Спасибо, что позаботился о нём. (Thank you for taking care of him.)

Shane responds quickly. Всегда. (Always.)

He tosses his phone over his hip, onto the bed behind him. Shane would prefer to check that Ilya took care of things on his end with the Raiders, but his boyfriend’s phone is lost somewhere in the living room. Most likely out of battery too. Shane can be content with this degree of organizing for now, if it means letting Ilya sleep.

He drifts in and out of a light doze. It’s hard to stay awake, when laying with Ilya is the place Shane feels safest. His brain and his body go limp, relaxed. Even without a complimentary orgasm.

It’s late morning by the time Ilya stirs and can’t be soothed back to sleep. Shane props his chin on Ilya’s chest. Watches his nose scrunch and his eyelashes flutter. In the sunlight, Ilya softens. From sharp, forbidding lines, to something gorgeous just for Shane. He’s beyond lucky, to be loved by Ilya.

Ilya’s eyes are fuzzy, unfocused. They catch on Shane and the sleepy smile that spreads across his face should be illegal. It splits something open inside Shane’s chest.

“Dobroye utro, dorogoy,” Ilya murmurs.

Shane squirms up the bed, unphased by the ridiculousness and their morning breath. He presses their lips together. A tender, closed mouth kiss. “Good morning, moy lyubimyy.”

Ilya lights up at the Russian pet name. Shane’s grateful that all his practice has paid off, if it can make Ilya look like that. It also earns him another kiss, one that sharply veers away from chaste.

Ilya’s hand stops where it’s tracing a warm path down Shane’s spine. Their lips disconnect with a wet sound. “Wait. You have practice, yes? Are you late?” His voice is so worried.

Shane bites at the point of his chin. “No practice. I texted Coach that I was sick. Our game tomorrow is a home game anyway, so,” Shane shrugs.

Ilya pushes up on his elbows. Shane grunts, displeased with the fact he’s been moved, and also newly aware that he hasn’t used the bathroom yet. “What is this?” Ilya demands. “Shane Hollander is replaced by imposter? You have never missed practice a day in your life.”

“I’ve missed practice before!” Shane protests. “That time last season–”

“When you had food poisoning, I remember,” Ilya drawls. “You were not so sexy throwing up, but is okay.”

“Asshole,” Shane groans. He shoves at Ilya’s shoulder. “You needed me. I wasn’t going to go to practice and leave you here to wake up alone.”

The return to solemnity takes the wind out from Ilya’s sails. He slumps, a little. Something unspeakably raw on his face, hidden in the quiver of his jaw, the widening of his eyes. “You didn’t have to–”

“I did,” Shane interrupts. He’s not interested in hearing Ilya’s protests. “You actually did what I asked, and told me that you needed me, so. Reward for good behavior?”

Ilya snorts. Some of the vulnerability fades. It’s replaced by that cocky smirk Shane pretends he can’t stand. “Oh, I am your dog now?” Ilya teases. “I think I want different reward. Maybe you suck my dick instead?”

Shane flushes. The heat creeps down his neck, mapped by the hungry sweep of Ilya’s eyes. “Bathroom, first,” Shane says. He hopes the squeak to his voice goes unnoticed. “And toothpaste. And then maybe I’ll do more than suck your dick.”

Ilya throws his head back into the pillow. Laughs, and it’s like Shane can hear the stress falling away. “My boyfriend is a tease now,” Ilya tells the ceiling. “Skips practice, says sex words. I think he is kidnapped by aliens.”

“Abducted,” Shane offers.

Ilya rolls his eyes and pushes all the way upright. He takes Shane with him, lifting him off the bed onto his feet. Fuck, but that’s hot. Hockey does wonderful things to men’s bodies. Particularly to Ilya Rozanov’s body. And Shane feels greedily thankful that he’s the only one reaping the reward. “Maybe I abduct you. Take you back to Boston and…” Ilya’s hand squeezes Shane’s ass. “Probe?”

“Ew, that’s gross,” Shane winces. “How the fuck do you know the word probe but not abduct?”

Ilya wiggles his eyebrows. Squeezes again. “I watch special videos to help me learn English.”

Shane groans. “I thought you read the New Yorker.”

Ilya shrugs. He uses his hand to tug Shane close enough to bite at his neck. His teeth drag over Shane’s jugular, and he can’t help his shiver. “New Yorker is for fancy words. Like compatible. Decadent. Beguiling.”

Embarrassingly, Shane moans.

Ilya leans back, smug and satisfied. “I learn other words from weird porn. Americans have strange fetishes.”

“I hate you,” Shane says fervently. “Brush your teeth and then fuck me, or you’re sleeping on the couch.”

Ilya sketches a bow. The lines around his eyes have loosened. “Whatever you say, Hollander.”

~

Just being around Shane has Ilya feeling remarkably more stable. Waking up in his bed shakes loose the fog dogging his steps, and fucking him into the mattress almost makes his thoughts shut up. He’s not sure what his new therapist would think about this. Ilya hasn’t shared that he even has a boyfriend, yet, but he has a sneaking suspicion this isn’t the most long-term coping mechanism.

Which is. Fine. He’s working on it.

It’s almost noon by the time Ilya trails Shane to the kitchen. He watches his boyfriend pull out pre-cut vegetables to throw into omelets. Disappointingly, Shane insisted on both of them putting on clothes. It ruins the fantasy a little, but not completely. Ilya pouts until Shane adds extra cheese to his. “Such a good housewife.”

“Shut up,” Shane snaps. But he opens his mouth for a bite from Ilya’s fork anyway.

Ilya does the dishes, while Shane clatters around in the living room. He emerges, patting his hands dry on the sweatpants borrowed from Shane, to find the room in disarray.

Ilya must have missed the sound of the door opening and closing, because his suitcases have made their way inside. Shane’s laptop is open on the coffee table, with the video call application up and running. Before he notices the empty call, Ilya almost drops to the floor to avoid the camera range. “Shane, what–?” His boyfriend stands at the outlet by the television. He’s connected to the wall via charging cable, Ilya’s phone in his hand. Maybe Ilya should be bothered by this. Instead, he finds the wrinkle between Shane’s eyebrows incredibly cute. “Are you looking at my dick pics? For inspiration?”

Shane’s head jerks up. “What? No! I was making sure you weren’t ignoring any important notifications. And considering all the calls from your coach…”

Ilya sighs. He nudges himself up behind Shane, hooks his chin over his shoulder. There are, in fact, several missed calls from LeClaire. Shane opens his text messages, tilting the screen for Ilya to see better.

Rozanov, call me when you get this.

“Team tells me to take two weeks. I say no, I take one. Now I change my mind, ask for two weeks and it is problem?” Ilya complains.

“When did you change your mind?” Shane asks.

Ilya squeezes Shane. Wishes he could crawl inside him. “Yesterday. Or maybe two days ago? Time difference is confusing.”

“You’re a menace,” Shane says fondly. His free hand drops to cover Ilya’s. “Maybe call your coach back, once we’re done. And also Svetlana. I texted her this morning, but you’re in deep shit with her.”

Ilya groans. He buries his face in the nape of Shane’s neck. Quite frankly, he doesn’t want to talk to anyone besides Shane. Doesn’t want to answer questions about how he’s doing, pretend that he’s fine or not fine or whatever the appropriate thing he’s supposed to be feeling is. If Ilya had his way, he would spend the rest of his days locked up in Shane’s condo. Maybe he could be a sexy little housewife.

He ignores all of the very reasonable and relevant portions of Shane’s speech to ask, “Done with what?” Shane stiffens. Ilya only notices because they’re pressed together, head to toe. “Shane. What did you do?”

His boyfriend’s hand drifts away from Ilya’s forearm to his fingers. He begins to fidget with them, which Ilya feels hopelessly endeared by. At least he’s sturdier than Shane’s shirt hems. “Well, I didn’t go to practice today, obviously. But I still woke up early, my body is just used to routine, you know? And then I started thinking about how things are different now, and I figured I should get things in motion, but I maybe should have waited for you to wake up first to see what you wanted. Sorry.”

Shane practically vibrates in his arms. Ilya mulls the words over. It takes him a minute, since there were so very many of them. “Something about The Plan?” Ilya guesses, even if he’s not sure exactly what that could be.

“Yeah,” Shane admits. He relaxes back into Ilya when there’s no scolding forthcoming. As if Ilya would scold him for trying to keep them together. “It’s just… with your father dead, and what you said about Russia. It seemed like we should be activating Contingency Plan C?”

Ilya racks his brain. Shane has his spreadsheet, but Ilya didn’t do anything as useful as write the steps down. He has Shane for that. Still, at least the first ten or so contingency plans are themed. “I am not outed?” Ilya hazards. “Unless I missed very important news on plane. Is possible, but–”

“No, don’t even joke about that.” Shane huffs. “Our relationship is still a secret, but you kind of…” and then Shane says something so hurried and quiet that Ilya misses it entirely.

“Shane, please,” Ilya says. “My English is good now, but not at light speed.”

Shane slumps. “You don’t have to go back to Russia again, if you don’t want to,” Shane says. The words are much slower, clearer. It still takes long seconds for them to sink in.

Oh. It’s true, is the thing. After all, Ilya said goodbye to his mother, said farewell to his birth country for the last time. And really, the only thing tying him there had been his dying father. He’ll miss seeing Alisochka grow up, but… “You are saying I can apply for green card.”

Shane spins in his grasp, eyes searching Ilya’s face. “There’s no pressure, and I’m sorry for springing this on you. It would just be so much safer, if you didn’t have to worry about your visa. And that way if we were outed–”

Ilya kisses him. He keeps it on the shorter side, to avoid derailing them both entirely, but it still serves its purpose. Shane calms. “Is good idea,” Ilya soothes. “I do not want to be American citizen, but for now, until maybe I am eligible to be Canadian…” he trails off. He lets himself imagine it. Shane, in a tuxedo, holding his hands in front of a minister. Kissing him, the people they love cheering. Dipping him during a first-dance that Shane fumbles horribly.

Not yet. Neither of them are quite ready for that, since it would surely mean coming out. But someday.

“Yes, until then,” Shane repeats. His eyes are far away. Ilya hopes he’s thinking of a similar future.

Ilya steps back and claps once. “Okay then,” he says. “What is plan?”

Shane shifts from foot to foot. “I think we should tell Farah. And maybe she can take you on as a client, so you aren’t associated with your Russian agent anymore? Immigration law isn’t her area, but I think she could also refer us to someone who can help.”

Ilya blinks. “You want to come out to your agent?”

Shane nods once.

This decision is momentous. Once Ilya makes it, there’s no going back. He’ll go from Russian hero to another traitor, seduced by the West.

It’s the easiest decision he’s ever made. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

~

April 2017

“You’re seriously going over to his place now?” Hayden demands. “We have to be on the ice for warm-ups in two hours!”

Shane scowls. It’s hardly his fault that their flight was delayed due to high winds in Montreal. He should have had plenty of time to go to Ilya’s and make it back to the hotel. “I’ll be quick,” he says.

Hayden winces. “Ew. TMI, dude.”

Shane sighs, “That’s not what I–” He shakes his head. “Never mind. I’m surrounded by children.”

Hayden’s laughter follows him out the door.

The truth is, Shane needs to lay eyes on Ilya with frightening desperation. It’s been a month since Ilya’s father passed. He hasn’t pulled away, not like he did during the Rose misunderstanding, but… Ilya’s quieter, more subdued. Shane knows he’s been seeing his therapist more frequently, sleeping extra, going out with his team less. He asks Shane to stay on the line until he falls asleep almost every night.

Shane worries. Ilya isn’t isolated. He has supports in Svetlana, in Cliff, in his therapist, but… Shane wishes he could be there. Wishes, at least, that they didn’t spend so much of their time concealing their secret instead of being together.

The Uber drops him a street over from Ilya’s place. Shane pulls his hood up and ducks his head for the short walk. He lets himself in, kicking off his shoes. “Ilya?” he calls.

There’s a thud from the direction of the living room, followed by rapid footfalls. Ilya appears at the head of the short entry hallway. His eyes are wide. “You still came? I thought your flight was delayed too late.”

Ilya looks better than the last time Shane saw him. Though that’s hardly an accomplishment, considering how shattered he was after Moscow. Still, the circles under his eyes have almost faded, the hollowness of his cheeks lessened. He’s shirtless, gray sweatpants hung low on his hips. “I had to,” Shane says. He lets his tone turn teasing. “Can’t mess with my pregame routine, you know? Very important, to get a blowjob before every away game.”

Ilya snorts. He stalks closer, clearly struggling to keep his smile under wraps while he purrs, “You get blowjobs before every away game? Give me names. I will kill them.”

“They’re innocent!” Shane protests. He lets Ilya bully him up against the floor to ceiling windows. “Just trying to keep me at the top of my game.”

Ilya bites his cheek. It’s so unexpected that Shane laughs. Getting back into character feels impossible. “You are not ‘top’ at anything,” Ilya tells him. His hand snakes down Shane’s body to squeeze his ass firmly. “You know this, yes?”

“Fuck you,” Shane gasps.

Ilya tsks, “Maybe later, yabloko. We are small on time, yes? For now, I will make you forget all other pregame blowjobs. I am only one who sucks this dick.” Ilya’s hand moves from Shane’s back to his front, squeezing firmly.

Shane moans. “Short,” he manages.

Ilya releases a highly offended sound. “Short? I am taller than you–”

“No,” Shane clears his throat. “It’s, um. Not small on time. Short on time.” His thoughts scatter away from him.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “This stupid language,” he grumbles in Russian. “I will give you something else to focus on.” And then he drops to his knees.

Shane throws his head back against the glass. Ilya knocks the breath out of him more than any hit on the ice ever has.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

~

Shane looks over his shoulder. Smiles.

It happens in slow motion.

He smiles. Ilya smiles back. Feels a love so profound, so deep that it defies words, explanation, reason.

And then.

Cliff, barreling towards Shane. The way Shane doesn’t see him. The way Cliff realizes, tries to slow. The way he fails.

The way Shane hits the boards, crumbles.

Doesn’t get up.

And everything.

Stops.

~

Shane goes down and Ilya’s mind goes blank. He’s half aware of Pike shoving Cliff in the chest once, twice. But he can’t tear his eyes from Shane. A fear that he’s felt only once before in his life, young and naive and twelve, creeps along his nerves, up each limb, burrowing under his skin.

Mama was still, like this.

When Ilya knocked on her door, disappointed at the lack of his usual post-practice snack, there had been nothing overtly wrong. Her back was to him, and she was laying on top of the covers like she’d simply tipped over for a nap. With the benefit of hindsight, Ilya imagines that the very energy of the room warned him. There was something off, some slight smell or clue in the positioning of her body that said this is very wrong. But he was so young and so naive and Mama had kissed his forehead just that morning and said that she would always be proud of him.

Ilya rounded the bed. He reached for her hand. Felt it cold and limp, before he ever looked at her face. And then he knew she was dead. Just from holding her hand, Ilya knew she was gone.

He’s frozen on the ice. Every thought in his head, every muscle in his body screams to go to Shane, to hold his hand, to make sure he’s alright.

But his back is to Ilya. Is the energy of TD Garden off? He can’t tell over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. What if, when Ilya kneels beside Shane on the ice, removes his gloves, takes his hand– What if it’s cold? Limp?

What if Ilya takes his hand and discovers right there and then that Shane is dead? That the pieces of himself that Ilya managed to drag together since the loss of his mother have shattered irrevocably once more?

He can’t do it. He can’t.

Someone else gets there first. Team trainers, medics. The refs wave the players off the ice. There’s a spinal board. Ilya doesn’t move, or he does, but it’s tight circles, like there’s a bubble between Ilya and his heart. A barrier preventing him from glimpsing Shane’s face and the truth of it.

A gloved hand rests firmly on the center of Ilya’s chest. Long seconds pass, as Ilya eyes trace up the arm to the helmeted head. Pike’s mouth is moving. There’s another hand from behind him, on his shoulder.

“-nov? Ilya, fuck, come on man,” Pike’s saying. “What do you have to do?”

“What?” Ilya forces out. The word chokes him, a rock lodged in his throat, chipping his teeth and tearing red wounds along his palate as it falls to the ice between them.

The hand on his shoulder jostles him. Not hard, not meanly, but like it can shake life and sense back into him. Ilya recognizes Marly without looking. Maybe he should be angry, spitting mad for the hurt he dealt, but Ilya can’t think or breathe enough to feel anything but terror.

“Focus,” Pike snaps. “They’re going to take him off the ice soon. I know you and Shane have that crazy ass plan with all the steps and contingencies. What did he tell you to do if this happened?”

“This was not supposed to happen,” Ilya whispers. “I–”

Pike is right. They have multiple contingencies related injuries on and off the ice, against each other and against different teams, differing by level of severity. Ilya loves Shane’s meticulous nature. Loves the way his brain works and inspects a problem from every angle until he finds the ideal solution, the ideal balance. But right now, Ilya can’t remember the plan. Can’t remember when he’s supposed to say fuck it and out them as necessary, or when he’s supposed to pretend like everything’s fine even if it’s not. He can’t remember. Does Shane want him to go to him? He can’t remember.

“I can’t remember,” Ilya chokes out. “I– I can’t remember. There are different, different options for how hurt, but I can’t remember–”

“Okay, Rozy,” Cliff sounds gutted. “Breathe, brother. You can’t lose it right now.”

Pike shoots a venomous glare over Ilya’s shoulder, but he hardly notices. He’s focused on the way they’re moving Shane, arranging him like he’s a doll. “Pike, please,” Ilya begs. “Is he–”

Pike curses. A long, creative stream, before he pivots and skates as close to the medics as he dares. A ref blows his whistle, pushing Pike away and Cliff tugs Ilya another step. Away from Shane. A broken noise escapes Ilya’s throat.

Then Pike turns back toward them, skates in their direction and starts pushing Ilya even further, toward the bench. “His eyes were open,” Pike says in a rush. “The medics were talking to him. He sounds groggy, a little slurred, but I’m pretty sure he was insisting that he’s fine.”

Ilya’s mind latches on. Awake. Talking. Fine? A miniscule amount of panic dissipates. “Is okay?” Ilya repeats.

Pike hesitates and then nods. “Yeah, I think he’s okay. The medics have him. And I’m pretty sure Boston has some of the best medical facilities in the world, right?”

“Right,” Ilya nods. He takes a steadying breath, gathers his wits about him. “Yes. I think this is Contingency Plan… H.”

“H? Jesus Christ,” Cliff mutters. “How many fucking plans do you guys have?”

Both Ilya and Pike ignore him. Pike asks, “What does that mean?”

“That means,” Ilya tests the words on his tongue. Reflects on whether he can accept them. “I finish game. Then I go to hospital, file paperwork, and do not leave his side.”

“What paperwork?” Cliff wonders.

But Pike watches him levelly, evaluating something Ilya is too panic-stricken to care about. Finally, he says, “Okay. We finish the game. I’ll ask the team trainer what hospital they took him to, and then we can go together right after.”

“Da. Yes. Okay,” Ilya affirms.

“But right now,” Cliff says, voice firm and unforgiving, “we need to get our asses on the bench before we get sent to the penalty box.” Ilya lets himself be tugged away. His eyes don’t leave Shane until he’s disappeared into the tunnel. He’s not sure he made the right choice, isn’t sure that he’s not the worst boyfriend in the fucking world but. What’s done is done.

Ilya finishes the game.

He plays like absolute shit. True, unmitigated garbage. He doesn’t care. Montreal’s a mess without their star player, and everyone on the ice is slower, more careful, visibly shaken. No one wants to see someone go down like that. Even though Cliff’s hit was clean, objectively, no one celebrates another player getting hurt. Ilya thinks it reminds them that they’re all one bad day from a career-ending injury.

Not that this is going to end Shane’s career. Ilya won’t let it. Shane won’t let it. Hell, he knows for a fact that Yuna Hollander won’t let it. From how Shane describes her, she’d sooner build him a robot body suit to help him keep playing than let him give up.

Shane will play again. This is just a… bump. A bump in the street, or whatever idiotic English saying exists for these moments. Just a bump.

Boston wins, but it feels like a hollow victory. Cliff stays close to him whenever they aren’t on shift. He doesn’t talk, which Ilya appreciates, but he seems to know when to nudge Ilya into paying attention.

As soon as Ilya is off the ice, he strips his gear as quickly as he can. He avoids post-game press with a look at their PR director that’s so sharp the woman visibly steps back. Barely lingering in the shower long enough to wash the sweat off, Carmichael still manages to catch him at his locker.

“Hollander’s your pal, right, Roz?” For a hulking man who acts one part frat bro and one part grumpy asshole, Carmichael sounds surprisingly solemn.

Because his back is to the room, Ilya lets himself react to the words. Pal. His face screws up before he sets his jaw. Hearing his boyfriend, the love of his fucking life, described as his ‘pal’ makes him want to hit something. If he doesn’t, it’s only because he can’t handle a single other complication.

“Sure,” he bites out instead. “My pal.”

“Hope he’s okay, man,” Carmichael continues, oblivious. He claps Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya bravely doesn’t break his wrist.

“He will be fine,” Ilya snaps. Maybe if he says it enough, he can force the universe to listen.

Ilya sticks his hand into the side pocket of his duffle bag. His fingers graze paper. For a breath, he lingers in the relief that he doesn’t need to run home for the forms. Then he sends a text to Pike with directions to the player parking garage. Pike likes the message immediately. Clearly he’s hurried through his own post-game routine.

“Text me later!” Cliff calls as Ilya leaves the locker room at a half-jog. Ilya waves a dismissive hand in his direction.

Pike makes it to the entrance before him. He’s leaning against the wall, thumbs flying over the screen of his phone. At the sound of Ilya’s footsteps, Pike looks up.

“He’s at Mass General,” Pike informs him. “Perkins handed over his records and stayed until he got news he was stable, apparently. But no one from the Metros is there now.”

“He is stable?” Ilya asks, voice cracking.

Pike has the decency not to chirp him about it. “Yeah, but I don’t know details.”

“Let’s go. We use this exit, but we walk. Is only 15 minutes if you are slow.” They will not be slow. Avoiding Boston traffic, parking, and the flashiness of his sports car is worth adding a minute or two.

Pike follows him obediently. He doesn’t try to make small talk, only zips his jacket over his game day suit. Ilya does the same and pulls his hood up for good measure. If they walk quickly, Bostonians will mind their own business, usually.

Ilya keeps up his fast walk until they approach the entrance of the hospital. Then he slows enough for Pike to appear at his shoulder. “You do talking,” Ilya orders. “Get us to more private place, and I can take care of rest.”

Pike opens his mouth. He sees something on Ilya’s face that silences him. “Fine.”

It’s for the best, that Ilya avoids the talking part. Despite the hours since Shane was hit, panicked adrenaline has left him prickly. Pike must be capable of some kind of charm, because it takes less than ten minutes before he’s waving Ilya away from his spot against the wall. He follows Pike and a harried looking nurse to a smaller waiting room. The entire time, it feels like he’s under surveillance, dozens of eyes scraping him raw. The room is deserted, quiet.

The nurse puts her hands on her hips. She’s an older woman, with short, graying hair, and an expression that says she’s put up with a lot of shit in her life. The impression proves accurate, when she immediately scolds them. “Now, I appreciate that you two boys want to check on your friend. But I know reception already told you he’s stable, and that’s just about all the information I can give you. Visiting hours start tomorrow at 9. You’re welcome to come back then.”

Ilya shakes his head. He drops his duffle to the ground and kneels. He rises with a small stack of paper in his hands, folded and paperclipped neatly together. First, Ilya removes his travel documents and visa, tucking them under one arm. Then he separates out the HIPAA release and the medical proxy forms.

Ilya passes the former to the nurse. Her badge lists her name as Marjorie, with an added clip reading Charge Nurse. “I have release of information form,” Ilya says. Pike coughs, strangled, and Marjorie’s eyebrows lift. “Is notarized and signed by Shane here, see?” Securing the notary several years ago required an entire process and several NDAs.

“I do,” Marjorie says slowly.

“Is so I can know more about his injuries,” Ilya continues. “We do not file in advance, because it would cause scandal. But this,” he gestures between them, “is protected by HIPAA, yes?”

“Of course,” Marjorie agrees. She’s studying him. Likely, she’s coming to several inconvenient, but accurate conclusions.

Might as well go all in, then. Ilya tilts the second stack of papers in her direction, but doesn’t hand them over. “I also have medical proxy form. But this, I do not want to file unless absolute emergency. His mother, Yuna Hollander, is proxy now, yes? We want to keep it that way, if we can.”

Marjorie nods. Ilya can’t tell what she’s thinking.

“I need to see him,” Ilya whispers. Begs. “Please, Marjorie, I really need to see him.”

Marjorie sighs. “Mr. Rozanov,” she starts. Ah, so she did recognize him. That either makes this better or worse. “Excuse me if this is unprofessional. Are you implying that you’re in some kind of relationship with Mr. Hollander? Your rival?” Her tone is incredulous, which is better than disgusted, at least.

“He’s my boyfriend,” Ilya admits. Saying it out loud is a release. A freedom.

“Well, shit,” Marjorie says. She presses a hand over her eyes for a moment. When she removes it, she once more looks stoic and unbothered. “I take it that this is a secret?” At Ilya’s nod, she sighs. “Visiting hours are over, technically. But…” She gestures at Ilya’s hood. “I imagine being caught by the media is a concern?”

Ilya nods. He tries not to hope. “Yes. We are friends now in public, but it is still… risky.”

“Okay,” Marjorie says. “I will let you, and only you, in to see him. You can stay as long as you’d like–”

“The whole night,” Ilya interrupts.

She winces, but dips her chin “Fine. I can understand extenuating circumstances. But you will not get in the way of my nurses. Understood?”

“Yes, of course.” Ilya would agree to anything if it meant staying with Shane.

“Keep me updated?” Pike asks quietly. Ilya startles. He’s forgotten the other man is there. When he turns, Pike looks a strange mix of shell-shocked and resigned. “I can keep his parents in the loop. Give you a heads up when they’re on their way.” Ilya hadn’t even thought of that. Something to discuss with Shane, once he wakes up.

“I will. Thank you.” Ilya hesitates. But it has to be said. “You are a good friend, Pike. Bad at hockey, yes, but a good friend.”

Pike flushes. “You’re such an asshole,” he complains. “I have no idea what he sees in you.” But Ilya can hear fondness softening his tone.

Ilya follows Marjorie deeper into the hospital, a series of turns that he loses track of immediately. Good thing that he plans to hide in Shane’s room. “Here we are, Mr. Rozanov,” Marjorie says. She stops outside a door. “He has a private room and you can draw the blinds. I checked his chart. He’ll likely sleep until the morning.”

“Thank you,” Ilya says. He hopes he conveys even an ounce of his overwhelming gratitude. “I cannot say enough, how much this means.”

“Just doing my job,” Marjorie dismisses, but she looks pleased. Right before she leaves, she smirks in a way that’s surprisingly sly. “My wife texted me the score earlier. Glad you managed a win for Boston, but she said you played like shit tonight. Maybe you should put in some extra practice hours.”

Ilya laughs, startled and honest. It feels good. He wasn’t sure he remembered how. “I will do that,” he promises.

Then he slips inside Shane’s room. He draws the blinds, enclosing them in a semblance of privacy, before he allows himself to turn to his boyfriend.

Shane’s attached to a variety of monitors. Early bruising darkens the bridge of his nose. It hides his freckles in a way that knocks something loose in Ilya’s chest. Shane is so small, in a hospital gown and sling. Even in sleep, he looks uncomfortable, pained.

Ilya’s vision blurs, and he stubbornly blinks back the tears. All of the panic and fear he’s been suppressing for hours rushes back. He stumbles toward the bed. Frames Shane’s face with a shaking hand, his touch featherlight to avoid waking him. Ilya wants to think he leans into him anyway, just a little.

“Solnyshko, you scared me,” Ilya whispers. Shane doesn’t stir.

Ilya presses a kiss to his forehead and sinks into a waiting chair. And then, heart racing, he takes Shane’s good hand.

Warm.

Soft.

Alive.

Ilya bows his head, presses Shane’s palm to his face, and finally, finally, lets go.

~

Chapter End Notes

Next chapter is where we really start to go off the rails and earn that canon divergence tag >:) I hope you're all ready!

Chapter 9

Chapter Summary

Step 6: Free Agency for Ilya
Step 6: Come Out.

...part 1

Chapter Notes

Hi again everyone! As always, I am beyond flattered and happy at the response to this fic. I treasure all your excitement and trust in the direction I'm going and absolutely reread all your comments. Thank you for coming on this (far longer than intended) journey with me!

Let's all pretend I haven't increased the chapter count again :( Unfortunately, I had way too much to say, so you all get to enjoy another two-parter. This chapter is special to me.

All mistakes are my own, and I hope you all enjoy! I love this fandom.

Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day!

~
Step 6: Free Agency for Ilya
Step 6: Come Out.
~

April 2017

Shane wakes up fuzzy. He doesn’t know how else to describe it. His brain feels fuzzy, soft and blurry at the edges. Beneath the cotton layering over everything, there’s the vague knowledge that something is wrong with his body. Things hurt, somewhere, but he’s not particularly bothered by it.

Shane is bothered by the bed. He’s so fuzzy and soft but whatever bed he’s in sucks. It’s like a weird rock tilted so he’s almost sitting. Who would design a bed like that? Stupid.

Unfortunately, Shane also feels cold. Apparently this bed-rock—bedrock?—has the worst blankets knitted in human history. They probably aren’t even knit. Maybe they’re 3D printed. 3D printed blankets would probably suck. Just like these blankets suck. Outside of his fuzzy head, everything else is kind of miserable, Shane decides, before even opening his eyes. Except one thing.

One of his arms kind of feels like a block of concrete. Or maybe like it’s encased in a block of concrete. Shane barely knows where it is, nevermind how to tell it to move. But the other feels warm and safe and soft. A better soft, even, than his head. He wants to see what’s making his arm so perfect.

So Shane opens his eyes.

He’s immediately assaulted. Sunlight is so violent. Why does the sun do that? Shane doesn’t think he’s done anything to make it mad but it’s like a fork digging into his eyeballs. Ew. That’s so gross.

Shane squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers. But now even closing his eyes hurts because his nose hurts and he still hasn’t figured out why his arm is the only part of him that isn’t miserable. Heroically, he opens his eyes again. Maybe if Shane figures out the magic happening he can make it happen to his whole body and then nothing will hurt anymore.

Shane endures the sunlight with unwavering strength and determination. His head pounds, but eventually his vision clears. He’s not at home. Not at any of his homes. That makes sense, because Shane would never own a bed this terrible. He tries to sit up more to look around, but moving his shoulder and neck hurts worse than the sunlight ever could. Ouch. First nature and now his own body turns against him? Unfair.

Then he notices the gown. Shane’s not sure how he missed it before. It’s so… scratchy. He can feel every seam. The strings tying it together are bunched up under his back, like a pebble in his shoe that he can’t get rid of. Finally, the pieces slot together. Shane is in the hospital.

Why? He ponders the question the best he can when his brain feels like warm mush. Probably because he’s hurt. But how did he get hurt? Did he get in a fight? That doesn’t seem right. Shane knows how to throw a punch but he doesn’t like doing it. It’s too much work.

Oh! His arm! The good one that isn’t concrete! How did he forget?

Carefully, so carefully, Shane tilts his head to look. Then he blinks. He’s growing fur?

In the spot where Shane is pretty sure he used to have a hand, there’s now blonde curly fur. That’s strange. People don’t usually do that. Can Shane play hockey like that? Probably yes, right? It’s the part of him that hurts the least, so maybe he’s going to grow fur everywhere. Would he be a werewolf?

“Am I a werewolf?” Shane croaks. He waits for the universe to answer. Or maybe not the universe. Will the moon tell him?

To his shock and horror, the fur moves on its own. Sentient fur sounds really scary. Except then the fur detaches and sits up to reveal the most beautiful man Shane has ever seen.

Faint marks in the shape of Shane’s fingers are imprinted on the man’s cheek. His curls are golden sunlight, sunlight that doesn’t hurt to stare at. Eyes that Shane could fall into forever if they stayed open. Lips that Shane wants to bite.

Oh! It’s Ilya!

Shane’s boyfriend is here!

“Ilya,” Shane says. Or tries to say. It sounds kind of weird. “You’re here!”

Ilya’s eyes are abruptly very, very open. Such a pretty color. “Shane,” Ilya breathes. His voice is so pretty too. Shane wants to roll in it. “You are awake? How do you feel? Fuck, Shane, I was so scared. I love you so much.”

Wow. That’s a lot of words. Shane answers the important ones. “I love you too. And I’m not a werewolf! This is so great.”

Ilya releases his hand. Shane kind of wants to cry about it, but then both of Ilya’s hands are on Shane’s face. So big, so soft, so gentle. He moved so fast too, like Shane glitched and his position changed. Very cool. “Not a… werewolf? Like howl at the moon werewolf?”

Shane thinks about nodding, but remembers how much moving hurt. He settles for smiling. “Yeah. I’m not a werewolf. Thank god, that sounds like a lot of work.” Ilya stares at him. “Wow, you’re so pretty,” Shane marvels. “Do I say that enough? You’re really, really pretty.”

“Blyat,” Ilya says. His face changes so fast but still so pretty. Shane stares at his lips, which are quivering like he’s trying not to cackle. “You are very high. They give you good drugs, yes?”

Shane frowns. “Don’t do drugs,” he tells his boyfriend. “That’s bad.”

Ilya laughs. It’s a little loud and kind of makes Shane’s head hurt worse, but the sound is one of his favorites, so it’s worth it. Then Ilya drops his forehead on Shane’s good shoulder and that’s even better because he’s close enough for Shane to kiss his hair without straining. After a moment, Ilya sits back up. He’s so far away. “I will call nurse now, yes? Tell them you are awake.”

“Okay,” Shane whines. “But kiss first?” He puckers his lips, and pouts when Ilya hesitates. “Please?”

“Little kiss,” Ilya concedes. The kiss is not very little. Nothing about Ilya is little. And he didn’t even get to enjoy that yesterday!

Shane is very cooperative when the nurses poke and prod him. They make him answer a bunch of silly questions and even though a distant part of Shane knows it’s concussion protocol, he also feels like a dog doing tricks. He tells Ilya that when they leave. He doesn’t want to hurt their feelings.

“You would be very cute dog, moy lyubimyy.”

“Nooo,” Shane whines. “I don’t want to be a dog! Or a werewolf. No fur in bed.”

Ilya snorts. “Okay, okay.” But Shane doesn’t protest when Ilya starts stroking his hair. He feels a little like a dog, but a very happy one.

Some of the high wears off, as the morning goes on. Not all of it, but enough that Shane notices that Ilya looks like shit. He pouts until Ilya changes out of his suit in the bathroom. Losing him even for that short time sucks, but then his boyfriend is marginally more human so it’s a fair trade off.

There’s a knock on the door. “Come in,” Ilya calls. His nose is wrinkled, like he bit into something sour. A lemon maybe. Lemons are sour.

Something great happens. Hayden pokes his head around the door. “Hayden!” Shane cheers. He ignores Ilya’s huff. Half of it is for show, Shane knows.

“Shane!” Hayden cheers back. He’s such a good friend, matching his energy. He steps fully into the room. “You’re awake! How are you feeling, bud?”

“Concussion and a fractured collarbone, out for the playoffs but…” Shane trails off.

“Could have been worse,” Ilya mutters, even if he sounds grumpy about it.

“Could have been worse,” Shane repeats. Hayden’s face does that thing where he looks particularly sad and pathetic. All of his many children have learned the same trick. It’s painfully effective on Shane, so he waves him closer. “I’m really okay, Hayd, I swear.”

Standing at the foot of the bed, Hayden squeezes Shane’s ankle. Reassurance for both of them. “It looked bad, Shane. You scared me.”

“Sorry,” Shane says automatically. Then he finally notices the figure still hovering in the doorway. “Marlow?”

“Don’t fucking apologize, Hollander,” Marlow says. And actually, Ilya isn’t the only Raider looking like shit this morning. Marlow has dark circles under his eyes big enough that they could be bruises. “I’m the one that’s sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Shh,” Shane flaps his hand at him. “It’s not your fault. We all get our bell rung eventually.”

“I’m still really fucking sorry, “ Marlow insists.

“You should be,” Ilya grumbles. It’s not so different from the way he’s been responding the whole time their sanctuary has been breached, but it clicks for Shane. This is a hostage situation. Shane is responsible for people’s lives right now.

“Ilya, no,” Shane says, firm and scolding. “No killing Marlow. He said he’s sorry and you need him on your wing. Also I think you’d be really bad at hiding a body. And I can’t look at screens to make a spreadsheet for it.”

Hayden starts laughing hard enough that he shakes Shane’s ankle. Marlow snorts. And Ilya just brings Shane’s hand up to his mouth to press a kiss to his fingertips. “I will tell them to lower dose more,” Ilya says ruefully. “You are danger to society like this with no filter.”

Shane is struck by the insane urge to stick his tongue out at his boyfriend. So he does. It only makes the laughter worse.

Ultimately, it’s a good thing that Shane’s pain medication is reduced. First, because if he says anything else embarrassing he may just have to retire and retreat to the cottage forever. Second, because Shane’s parents are on the way.

Hayden updates them once Marlow leaves. Apparently, his mom and dad were going to catch the first flight out, but the windy conditions have only worsened since yesterday. Instead, they decided to drive, and left first thing that morning. This is honestly more convenient in the long run. Shane can drive home with them, rather than deal with Logan airport while concussed. They’ll be arriving early afternoon, per the ETA they texted Hayden.

“I would stay if I could, bud,” Hayden apologizes, “but our flight to Colorado leaves in a couple hours.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Shane says. “Kick their asses for me, okay?”

Ilya waits to bring it up. Shane’s hyperaware of his attention, especially as the high really wears off and everything starts to ache. Right when Shane’s mind feels perfectly, embarrassingly clear, Ilya asks, “You are sober? Thinking clearly?”

“Unfortunately,” Shane groans. There’s the lingering fog of the concussion, of course, but his thoughts are following a logical progression again and he’s in control of his words.

“Good,” Ilya says. He squeezes Shane’s hand, comforting. “Then I think we should talk, and talk fast. What do you want to do about your parents?”

Shane swallows. He pretends to be thinking it over for the first time, like he hasn’t been agonizing since Hayden brought it up. “I’ll probably drive back with them to Ottawa,” Shane says, playing dumb.

Ilya is having none of it. “Shane.”

“I don’t know,” Shane admits in a whisper. “I, um. You could leave before they get here, but if they don’t know…” he hesitates. “I’m not supposed to look at screens for a while and I’ll probably be staying with them. I couldn’t–” Couldn’t call, couldn’t live in Ilya’s pocket over video like they usually do nowadays. And that feels terrible, considering the six months they’ve had. He’s still so worried about Ilya, about not being there for him. Shane doesn’t want to go without him for his own sake either.

“We could be more sneaky,” Ilya offers. “Talk less.” His tone is infuriatingly neutral.

“I don’t want that,” Shane says. “I really, really don’t.” He takes a deep breath. Maybe this isn’t the type of decision to be making while freshly concussed. Shane doesn’t care. It’s time. “I think I want to tell them.” The words feel, simultaneously, like the greatest freedom Shane’s ever known and also like he’s having a panic attack. “Oh god.”

“Deep breaths,” Ilya orders. He rests his free hand on Shane’s chest. Determined, Shane fills his lungs and releases the air slowly. “Good boy. Are you sure? You do not have to, not like this.”

Shane thinks about it. Really, truly thinks about it. The thing is, he’s had practice now. Three years ago, the idea of coming out to anyone was anathema to him. Something so far out of his comfort zone that they’d slotted it into the second to last step of their decades long plan. But now…

Shane has practiced. He’s come out to people. To Rose, to Hayden and Jackie, to Farah. And each time, the words get easier. The panic lessens. He’s made the choice himself—multiple choices—and nothing’s gone wrong. He knows he can do this.

“I want to tell them,” Shane decides.

Ilya smiles, even though he looks serious. “Okay, dorogoy. About being gay? About me?”

“All of it. I’m going to tell them all of it,” Shane says. He forcibly relaxes his muscles, settling deeper into the uncomfortable bed. “At least if I’m injured they can’t be too mad, right?” he jokes. “You can’t yell at someone who has a concussion.”

“You think they will yell?” Ilya asks. He sounds so worried.

Shane frees his hand in order to cup Ilya’s jaw. “No,” he says. His dad has never been a yeller, and his mother only yells in extreme circumstances. Like the Stanley Cup or when the refs didn’t call dirty hits when he was a kid. “Will you wait in the bathroom or something until I finish explaining? I want you to meet them.” Shane hurries to add, “And this will be the last time I ask you to hide.”

Ilya’s expression shifts to something raw. “You want me to meet them today? We do not have to–”

“Yes,” Shane interrupts. “I want you to meet them. And you guys need to swap numbers so they can keep you updated.”

“Okay,” Ilya concedes. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane echoes. He ignores the nerves and anxiety eating him alive.

Ilya waits until the last possible second to slip into the bathroom. He leaves the door cracked. Maybe Shane should be annoyed that his boyfriend clearly intends to eavesdrop on the entire conversation he’s about to have with his parents, but instead… It warms something in his chest. Which at least distracts him from his anxiety.

“It will be fine!” Ilya calls from the bathroom. His finely tuned radar must sense Shane’s discomfort.

Yuna Hollander enters the room without knocking. She’s a flurry of movement and poorly concealed stress. Shane can see that she didn’t sleep well, and his heart aches with guilt. He hates worrying his mom. And he’s been particularly good at doing so since he laced up his first skates.

“Shane!” she gasps. His mom turns and shoves her purse at Shane’s dad, only a step behind her. Then she’s on him. Despite her speed, his mom’s hands are unfailingly gentle as she cups his face and strokes his hair away from his forehead. “Oh, sweetheart, are you okay?” Her eyes glisten, and it’s enough for Shane to bite back his own tears.

He raises his good hand to squeeze her wrist. “I’m okay, mom. Really.”

“We were watching the game, of course,” his dad says. He appears on Shane’s other side and manages to slip his hand in too, flattening down the hair his mom missed. “I’m so glad you’re okay, son. You worried us.” Shane can hear the fear lingering in his voice. He feels like a terrible son.

His mom steps back, scrubs quickly at her eyes. Then, like she can’t help herself, she leans forward to kiss his forehead. Shane’s cheeks burn. “We’re here now and we’ll take care of everything. What did the doctors say? Do you have a discharge plan already?” She sounds business-like, almost brusque. Maybe someone else would feel offended, but he recognizes himself in her. Shane finds comfort in organizing and planning when things get too much. At the end of the day, he’s his mother’s son.

“Concussion and a fractured collarbone,” Shane reports dutifully. He’s sure that Hayden already texted them this, but he humors her. “I’m out for the rest of the season. I think they said to use the sling all the time for the first 3 or 4 weeks and go from there? Limited screen time for now.”

“Right,” his mom nods. She pulls out her phone and types rapidly. “That lines up with what I read. Have they sent a referral for a physiotherapist yet? It would be best to get started with that right away once we’re back in Canada.”

“She was googling recovery timelines the entire drive,” his dad tells him. He sounds fond. “Went down a rabbit hole. I’m pretty sure she’s already got a spreadsheet going to keep track of it all.”

Shane laughs. He turns it into a cough at his mother’s glare. “It’s best to be on top of these things,” she says primly. His dad hides a smile. “I’ll see if I can go find your doctor. I want to check when you’ll be discharged.”

“Wait,” Shane says quickly. If he doesn’t catch her now, he can easily picture the next hour lost to her organizing. And the bathroom is not that big. “Before you do that, can we talk?”

His mom frowns, but it’s his dad that asks, “Talk about what, Shane? Did something else happen?”

Shane swallows. There’s no going back now. He’s grateful that the nurses disconnected his monitors a few hours ago, because he can feel his heart racing. Shane’s not going to have a panic attack. He’s not. He can do this. “Nothing happened,” he hedges. “But there’s something I’d really like to talk to you guys about.”

“This looks serious,” his mom says warily.

“Just–” Shane takes a steadying breath. “Would you sit, please?” When neither of them move, he insists, “Both of you. Please.”

After a shared, loaded glance, his parents listen. Shane notices his mom’s gaze catch on the two black duffels in the corner of the room. There’s nothing identifying, to hint that one of them is Ilya’s, but still. He should have told Ilya to bring it into the bathroom with him. “What’s going on, sweetheart?” his mom asks.

“I, um,” Shane stops. He wipes his good hand on the mattress as subtly as he can. The texture of the blankets is still awful. “There’s something I, uh, haven’t told you guys.”

“About your injury?” his dad offers.

Shane closes his eyes. He shakes his head just slightly, painfully aware of his growing headache. “No.” He tries to think of another way to start. “You know how you guys were trying to convince me to go to Wimbledon after the season?”

His mother sighs, “Honey, I already told you it’s okay, we don’t have to–”

Shane interrupts, “I mean, what you said about that princess?”

Both of his parents go very, very still. Shane can’t bring himself to look at either of them. He stares at his feet instead. He’s wearing a clean pair of socks. Ilya swapped them out that morning. “Yes,” his mother says quietly.

“I said no,” Shane matches her volume. Quiet, but loud enough for them to understand. “For a couple reasons, but one is…” he flicks his eyes up for a heartbeat. Just long enough to memorize their faces, the open concern and anticipation, in case it’s replaced by disgust for the rest of his life. Shane wants to remember them like this. Then he refocuses on his feet and releases a long, slow breath. “I’m gay.”

Silence. For a heartbeat, for an hour. Shane isn’t sure.

“Oh,” his mom whispers.

His dad’s hand drops onto the top of his head. Shane blinks furiously, forcing himself to see his dad’s reaction.

David Hollander’s face is wide open for Shane to read. And Shane’s good shoulder slumps. There’s no disgust, no anger. Only pride, the way he looked when Shane brought home a good report card, or won a hockey game, or got drafted by Montreal. When he notices Shane’s gaze, he smiles. “Thank you for telling us. We love you. No matter what.” Then he swipes away a tear Shane can’t stop with his thumb.

A smothered sniffle makes Shane turn his head. His mother is swiping roughly at her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan. Shane’s stomach drops. Their eyes meet for only a second. Then she looks away, the sound of her breathing so loud. Shane’s panic, lulled by his dad’s calm reaction, ratchets up again.

Shane thinks of his mother. The way she cheered so loud for him, at every game, even when he was so young that the team didn’t keep track of the score. The way she held his face and told him to ignore the shit that the other kids spewed on the ice, but that if he couldn’t, it was okay to hit back. The way she promised him that his drafting would mean so much to other Asian-Canadian kids like him, that he would be a role model and a game changer.

Shane thinks, guiltily, that he’s throwing it back in her face. Just one more difference, just one more complication that could wipe out all of the good she wants him to do.

“Mom, um,” Shane’s voice wobbles. His good hand rises to tug at the threading of his sling. “I need you to know that I did really try. I tried really hard, but um. I just can’t help it.” He stares at his socks. Thinks of how Ilya was an inevitability. Thinks of how, no matter what happens next, he wouldn’t change a thing. His voice breaks. “I– I’m sorry.”

He hears her gasp. The sound of her chair scraping against the floor. He can’t–

Then her hands are on his face. As gentle as when she first arrived. “Oh, no,” she breathes. She tries to duck into his field of vision, but stubbornly, overwhelmed, Shane refuses. “You have nothing to apologize for. Look at me.” Her voice is as shaky as his was. “Look at me,” she repeats. And when Shane doesn’t, still can’t bring himself to, her voice firms into a register he can’t ignore, “Look at me.”

Shane looks. Her eyes are red, watering. But she isn’t disgusted, isn’t grimacing the way she does when she really hates someone. His mom’s face is pained, devastated, but not angry. “I’m sorry,” she says, deliberate, careful. “That I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me.”

Her words crack something in his chest. It aches, blotting out the pain in his head and shoulder. Shane loses his battle with his tears. She wipes them away, even as Shane can see them streaking down her face too. He takes a shaky breath.

“I’m so, so proud of you,” she tells him. And then, carefully, she hugs him. For the first time, he regrets doing this in a hospital bed while injured. It hurts too much to sit up, so they have to settle for pressing their foreheads together, her arm gentle around the back of his neck. Shane fists his hand in her sweater and tries to breathe. He feels so small, so safe. When he was younger, he used to think his mom was a superhero. There was no other explanation. She solved problems before they started, helped Shane find his feet in every kind of situation. She had to be some kind of hero. He knows better now. Knows that she’s human, that she makes mistakes like anybody else. That sometimes she does too much, oversteps. But here, like this, Shane thinks maybe he never really stopped believing it. After all, superheroes are humans too.

He sniffles.

“Please forgive me,” she whispers.

“I forgive you, mom,” Shane rasps. He tries, automatically, to pull her closer. They stay like that, breathing the same air. It can’t be comfortable for her, half-hunched over his bed. But she doesn’t complain. Only holds him like he’s precious.

When she finally pulls back, Shane’s dad hands them both tissues. His mom laughs, wet and rueful. Unashamed, she blows her nose. Shane swipes away the tears, tries to steady himself. The crying made his headache worse, but he doesn’t regret it.

“Well,” his mom says finally. Her eyes are still red, but she looks settled. “I don’t know what you knocked loose when you hit the boards, but I am so, so happy you told us.”

Shane laughs. “I didn’t knock anything loose,” he protests. “It just felt like it was time.” But that’s not the whole truth. He remembers Ilya sitting in the bathroom still, listening to all of this. His cheeks heat. “There’s, uh, also something else.”

“Christ, kid,” his dad snorts. “You don’t do anything by halves, huh?”

Shane’s not offended. Maybe dropping this news back to back is a little much. But it’s too late now, and he really, really doesn’t want to go without Ilya for even a day. “Nope,” he says.

“What is it?” his mom asks. She looks like she’s bracing herself.

Shane takes the plunge. “I’m, um. Seeing someone.”

“What?” Their voices overlap. Somehow, this seems to be the more shocking news. Shane’s not sure if he should be offended or not.

“For how long?” his mother demands.

Shane winces. There’s nothing for it. “A long time,” he says vaguely. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you guys. I’ve been working up to it, I just was…”

“Scared,” his mom says grimly. “I hate that we did something to make you think we were homophobic, honey. I can put a sticker on my car, reach out to your brands–”

“No, no,” Shane interrupts. He can’t let her think– “I mean, I was scared. But you guys haven’t given me a reason. It was just a lot.” And then, reluctantly, Shane continues, “With who I’m dating though, it just made it more complicated.”

“More complicated?” his dad asks, voice wary. Shane can practically see him readying himself for terrible news.

“Not in a bad way!” Shane hurries out. “You’ll like him, I promise. He’s amazing. But well… it might be… shocking?”

“This isn’t one of those throuple things with Hayden and Jackie, is it?” his mom presses. “Because of course we’ll support you, and we love Hayden, of course, but I think–”

Shane chokes. “Ew! No!” The thought is uniquely horrifying. And worst of all, Ilya definitely heard her say it. This moment will haunt him the rest of his life. “Hayden is like a brother to me, and very, very straight. I promise I’m not dating Hayden.”

“Okay, then who?” his dad asks.

Shane hesitates. Does he just… say it? What if they don’t believe him? It sounds crazy, and Shane’s had almost three years (seven, depending on how he counts) to get used to it. “I want you to meet him,” Shane says instead. “Today, even. I can’t look at my phone for a few days and I know he’ll be worrying, so I would like it if you two could…”

“We’re more than happy to keep him updated, honey,” she says. “And of course, we’ll meet him. I’m sorry, this has all just been a lot to process. Can he come by the hospital before you’re discharged?”

Shane winces. “About that.” He thinks of just saying it, just blurting out I’m dating Ilya Rozanov and I’ve been in love with him since practically our rookie season and he’s the reason I realized I’m gay actually. But somehow, those words feel harder than confessing his sexuality. He opts for the easy way out, instead. He raises his voice, trying not to flinch at the increased pressure against his skull, and calls, “You can come in.”

Ilya must have been waiting for his cue. The bathroom door swings open immediately. Before he schools his expression, Shane can see the cracked open vulnerability in his eyes. He hadn’t thought of what it would be like for Ilya. To hear Shane come out to his parents and be met with love, to know he was being held by his mother. For a second, Shane lets himself close his eyes and picture Irina’s grave. Her beautiful portrait. They’ll love him too, he thinks to her memory. He hopes that somewhere, somehow she can hear him. They’ll never be you, but they’ll love him as much as they love me.

Shane opens his eyes to silence. His parents stare at Ilya, mouths dropped open. And Ilya– Ilya looks nervous. He has his hands folded in front of him like he expects to be scolded. Shane watches him shift from foot to foot. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Ilya look nervous like this. Usually, he radiates cocky confidence regardless of how he actually feels. But apparently, he can’t or won’t put on that mask for Shane’s parents.

“Hello,” Ilya breaks the silence. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Hollander.”

Shane notices for the first time that Ilya’s wearing a Raiders t-shirt. Of course he is. He came straight from the stadium with only the contents of his game bag. Shane winces.

“Is this a joke?” his mom asks. Her voice is faint. She stops staring at Ilya to make intense eye contact with Shane’s dad. Then to look at Shane in disbelief.

“No!” Shane says. “Not a joke at all. Mom, dad. I’d like you to meet my boyfriend Ilya,” and then, mind blank, he tacks on, “Rozanov. Ilya Rozanov.”

“We know who he is, son,” his dad says. “We absolutely, completely know who he is.”

“Right,” Shane says lamely. He’s not sure what else to say. He wishes that he could hold Ilya’s hand, but his mom is in the way.

“I love Shane very much,” Ilya says. He sounds so earnest. Half-deliriously, he wonders if Ilya practiced this too, the way Shane practiced for Irina. “I know this is a surprise. But we take good care of each other. And I would never damage his reputation, or risk our performance on the ice. I only want him to be happy.” That settles it. He must have practiced, after listening carefully to everything Shane has ever said about his mother. Otherwise, how could he have known exactly what fears to address?

“That’s… nice,” his dad tries, clearly still thrown. “Uh, how long has this been going on exactly?” He turns to Shane.

Before he can even begin to think of an answer, his mom whips her head around. “Wait,” she starts, voice outraged, “is this why you insisted on being the go-between for the Foundation? You never let me talk to him! Even when I needed his approval for things or wanted to brainstorm!”

Shane flinches at her volume. He tries to think of what to say. But unfortunately, Ilya beats him to it.

“Shane is bad liar, when you know him. He could not keep secret if you met me,” Ilya defends. Which is a good point, actually. And then he ruins it, “But do not worry. I heard you talk about ideas last summer, before camps.”

Shane’s mom freezes. She turns slowly in her chair to fix Ilya in her sights. “You… heard?”

Ilya continues, willfully oblivious, “Yes, heard. When you came to the cottage while I was visiting Shane.”

“Not helpful,” Shane cuts in, but it’s too late.

“You visited Shane at his cottage?” His dad asks. “When was this?”

“I visited past two summers,” Ilya says.

“Were you hiding somewhere?” His mom demands.

“Ilya–” Shane pleads.

But Ilya answers anyway, “Yes, Shane put me in his closet.”

“In the closet?” she exclaims. The glare she sends in Shane’s direction is lethal.

“It’s a big closet!” Shane defends. “It’s not like I was locking him in or anything either!”

“Is true.” Ilya shrugs. “I do not mind. Closet is very big, because Shane owns no clothes.”

Shane drops his head backward on the pillow and regrets the motion immediately. Ouch. “Please, not this again,” he begs.

Shane’s dad starts to laugh. “I really can’t wait to hear the whole story,” he manages between chuckles. “It’s nice to meet you, Rozanov. Even if this is all pretty strange.”

“Ilya, please.”

“Ilya, then,” his mom allows. And Shane relaxes. Truly relaxes, for maybe the first time in seven years. The weight of his secrets lessens.

As his parents start to carefully chat with Ilya, Shane breathes. Each time, coming out feels easier. And each time, strangely, it feels… better. Like more and more of the air he breathes is fresh, like the eyes on him at all times have looked away.

Like maybe this piece of himself, this big, essential piece of his soul, isn’t so shameful after all.

~

June 2017

After the Raiders lose the Conference finals, Ilya flies to Ottawa. He tells the rest of the team that it’s administrative shit for his charity and no one questions it. He’ll have to fly back to the US for the NHL awards in a few weeks, but Ilya is greedy for every second of Shane’s time. If it means extra traveling, it’s more than worth it.

Shane’s still in the sling, which means David Hollander picks him up from the airport. Shane isn’t in the passenger seat either. Ilya must do a poor job of hiding his disappointment, because David pats him on the shoulder. “No Shane, I’m afraid. He has a physio appointment, and Yuna wouldn’t let him reschedule it just to sit in the car.” At least he sounds sympathetic.

“Is okay,” Ilya shrugs. “We can get to know each other, yes?” Ilya is greedy for Shane’s time, but he’s even more greedy for every scrap of knowledge about his boyfriend. Every childhood story, every mannerism he inherited from his father, everything.

David is absolutely where Shane gets his nice from. Not that Yuna isn’t nice, but even from their brief in-person hospital meeting, Ilya would rather describe her as intense. David is… relaxed. He tells Ilya about playing hockey for McGill, and meeting this beautiful woman in a bar who criticized his edges and told him to work on his backhand. He laughs, as he says it, and Ilya basks in the warmth of parents that love each other.

He hears about a tiny Shane, so quiet and shy, right up until he stepped onto the ice. To Ilya’s delight, Shane apparently spent half his childhood getting into arguments with refs who didn’t know the rules well enough. “I swear to god,” David snorts, “The local Ottawa league put their volunteers through some strict training after a few years. I think they got tired of being outsmarted by an eight year old.”

Ilya listens and listens and wonders if he’ll ever reach his limit for loving Shane. He doesn’t think so. Instead, he imagines himself ballooning out with that love until it floats him into the air. Shane wouldn’t let him drift, though. He would pull Ilya right back to earth.

He certainly tries to take Ilya to the ground, when David finally parks the car. Ilya has barely stepped through the front door before Shane is on him. Apparently, separation wipes away any self-consciousness Shane has about PDA around his parents. Ilya throws a hand out to catch the wall. His desperate grasp manages to keep them both upright, even while Shane tries to climb inside him.

“I missed you so much,” Shane gasps in Russian, once he’s detached his lips from Ilya’s. “I love you.”

“I love you too. I missed you too,” Ilya echoes. He presses a kiss to Shane’s temple. “But maybe, we do not scandalize your parents, yes? I’m sure they have seen worse, but…” Shane snorts, but he puts a more appropriate distance between their bodies. Ilya wishes he hadn’t, but he did ask for it. Then Shane punches his shoulder. “Ow!”

“That’s for playing with your ribs. They’re bruised, aren’t they?” Shane demands.

Ilya winces. With his excitement to see Shane, he’s almost forgotten. But they are bruised, and don’t particularly appreciate the hour-long car ride and rough handling by his boyfriend. “My ribs are fine,” he lies. Maybe Shane won’t call him on it, will let him save face in front of his parents.

“Liar,” Shane says. Or not.

“Can I get you an ice pack, Ilya?” Ilya looks past his very distracting boyfriend to find Yuna Hollander leaning around the wall that separates the living room from the kitchen and dining room. Her expression is amused and pleased around the edges. Ilya has gotten to know her a bit, know them both, over FaceTime with Shane. Apparently he’s softened her at least a little.

“I don’t mean to be trouble,” Ilya starts.

“You’re no trouble at all,” David says from behind him. He squeezes Ilya’s shoulder as he passes. In his rush to see Shane, Ilya realizes he didn’t even grab his bag. Now David has it and Ilya frowns.

“Sorry, I forgot my bag. I can take that,” he says, reaching for the strap.

David pulls it out of reach. “No, thank you. Your ribs are bruised. Take the ice pack, I’ll just run this upstairs to Shane’s room.” Though he would never admit to it, Ilya blushes. Shane kisses his cheek and sticks the freezing cold pack against his ribs.

The next week and a half are something out of Ilya’s wildest fantasies. The Hollanders are the type of family unit he dreamed of as a child. One where they all actually like each other and listen to each other and build each other up instead of tearing each other down. And Shane is so happy. Ilya loves him, loves seeing him like this. So relaxed and content to let his parents into this part of his life.

“I wanted them to meet you so badly,” Shane admits to him, after they’ve turned off the lights one night. Ilya hums. Pretends the words don’t rattle his very bones as he trails kisses down Shane’s neck. “No, I mean it. This is everything I wanted.”

“You are everything I want,” Ilya says. The words are more serious than he means them to be.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane murmurs.

It’s not just that the Hollanders love each other, either. It’s that, slowly but surely, they open up to Ilya too. Yuna cooks him pancakes in the morning even when Shane’s drinking a disgusting protein shake. David asks him to help with a puzzle and they assemble it in record time. Day by day, they make space for Ilya, they offer him a home.

By the time the last game of the Cup series rolls around, Ilya feels… settled. On the couch, with Shane tucked under his arm and Yuna and David seated opposite, Ilya wonders if this can be forever.

“It’s Hunter’s year,” Yuna comments. The Admirals are playing good hockey, not that Ilya cares.

“His year to go to nursing home, maybe,” Ilya says.

David snorts, but Shane kicks at his ankle. “Don’t be rude, Hunter’s a nice guy!”

“He is only player you have ever dropped gloves with,” Ilya reminds him. “I tried many times, but you never hit me.”

“Probably because I wouldn’t be able to stop with one hit,” Shane snaps back.

Ilya loves it when Shane gets snippy. He rewards him with a loud, smacking kiss to the top of his head. “You love me,” he drawls.

“Unfortunately.”

Yuna’s right, of course. The Admirals win the game and the Cup. If Ilya’s being entirely honest, Hunter isn’t the worst person to finally get a Cup, if it can’t be him or Shane. Even the elderly deserve nice things every now and then. And Hunter’s expression when he lifts the Cup above his head and skates his lap… Ilya remembers perfectly how it felt. There’s nothing quite like it.

“What’s he doing?”

Ilya glances up from his texts with Cliff about the game. Hunter is alone on the ice, surrounded by teammates hugging their families. He’s an orphan, like Ilya. No one had come to congratulate him in 2014 either. But now… Hunter skates to the edge of the rink, gesturing to someone in the crowd.

Ilya stills. Under his arm, Shane does the same. David and Yuna are talking, but Ilya can’t hear them. There’s this feeling. Tingling beneath Ilya’s skin, scratching the vertebrae of his spine. Screaming watch, listen, change. Maybe it’s the way Hunter’s shifting from skate to skate, the nervous expression on his face. Maybe it’s the way the man he’s waving down hesitates each step like Hunter might signal him to stop.

“You don’t think…” Shane whispers.

Ilya’s throat clogs. With fear, with hope, with disbelief. He shakes his head once, twice.

The man is attractive. Ilya will give him that. As Hunter helps him onto the ice, Ilya’s surroundings darken, tunnel. He’s aware of three things only. The pounding of his heart, Shane’s warmth, and Scott Hunter’s hands on a man’s face on live TV.

And then.

Stanley Cup Champion Scott Hunter kisses a man in full view of thousands of people, broadcast to millions.

“Holy shit,” Shane breathes. “Ilya, fuck. Is this happening?”

“Shane,” Ilya says. His own words sound muffled. Is he outside his body, staring down? Ilya’s face feels strangely wet. “Shane.”

Shane slips from his grasp. Everything is moving too distantly, too quickly, for Ilya to react in time. But then Shane straddles his lap and it’s all okay anyway. Shane’s mouth hangs open, just slightly. Usually, Ilya would make a joke. Humor is out of reach.

“We’ll just give you boys a moment,” David says, somewhere.

“You’re crying,” Shane marvels. He swipes at Ilya’s face with his thumb.

Ilya hiccups. “I did not think I would ever see this,” he confesses. His voice cracks. “A hockey player kissing a man on tv.”

Shane’s eyes fill. He’s so beautiful like this. The most beautiful man Ilya’s ever seen. “Me either.”

They watch each other. Ilya wonders what Shane is thinking, wonders if he’s thinking anything at all. Ilya’s brain is so loud and so full that he can’t complete a thought. Does Shane feel like that too? Like everything he thought he knew has shifted, like the future he’d resigned himself too has begun to tilt toward a lighter path. Like maybe Ilya can hope and dream of–

Of–

“We could come out,” Shane says, slow and deliberate. As if he’s waiting for the universe to forbid it. “Ilya, I think, maybe–”

Ilya cups the back of his neck and tugs him into a kiss. He needs to feel him. Needs Shane close. Needs to steal the air from his lungs for himself, replace Shane’s saliva with his own, crawl inside every space Shane allows him.

And Ilya needs to stop Shane from taking it back. He wants to live, love, die in that moment, that heartbeat, where Shane said We could come out and really truly meant it. Because until Shane voiced it, Ilya had no idea how fucking badly he longed for it.

Now he does. And he’s not sure how he can ever move on.

~

Chapter End Notes

I did actually make myself cry writing this chapter. I kept almost all of Shane's conversation with his mom the same, because that scene is very, very special to me. Thank you Jacob Tierney for bringing it into existence.

I'm so excited to share what comes next with you all soon <3

Chapter 10

Chapter Summary

Step 6: Come Out.

pt 2!

Chapter Notes

Welcome back! As always, thank you all so much for the comments and kudos and love for this story. Every time someone says that this fic makes them happy my heart grows six sizes.

Currently posting this on airplane wifi, but I didn’t want to keep you all waiting any longer! Any and all mistakes are my own, but I will blame the plane this time. We’re exploring some more themes and moments from The Long Game here. I wouldn’t consider it spoilers per se, but some heavy inspiration.

This chapter and last chapter are near and dear to my heart, so I really hope you all enjoy! And that you like our special guest :)

Warnings for: discussion of past/potential homophobia and homophobic language

~

June 2017

Shane wakes up in a world where a Stanley Cup champion is gay. And it’s not him. And, even more unbelievably, that champion is out to the entire fucking planet.

The adrenaline crash from last night hit Ilya hard. He’s dead to the world, even as Shane carefully adjusts to sit against his headboard. Ilya’s eyes are still a little puffy.

Shane’s seen Ilya in a lot of different moods. Especially since the misunderstanding with Rose and the loss of his father, Ilya has lowered his walls enough for Shane to touch the heart of him. The messy, struggling heart of him. This is the first time he’s witnessed Ilya react like that though.

Like everything he thought he understood about the world had shifted. Like he’d resigned himself to something dark and terrible only to be given a stay of execution at the last moment. Like he’d remembered what it felt like to hope.

Shane feels like a terrible boyfriend, to have not known how badly Ilya needed this. How badly he needed to see an out gay hockey player, to see them kiss their boyfriend and not be immediately kicked out of the league.

Shane needed it too, of course. His entire life, he’s been waiting for someone to represent him in the NHL. Instead, he’s had to do half the work himself as one of the only Asian players. But now, Shane doesn’t have to take up the mantle of the only gay player too. Doesn’t have to break this barrier because no one else will. It’s oddly freeing. He’ll have to send Scott a nice email about it.

For Ilya, though… Shane knows how much hiding hurts him. They talked about it after the disaster of the beards, about how Ilya wants more than anything to claim Shane for his own. About how thinking of the many long years ahead of secrecy and lying eats him up. There wasn’t any comfort Shane could give, except that he would love Ilya the whole way through. Even given the recently discovered joy of coming out, Shane’s always been a private person. The lingering fear of being outed isn’t nice, but he’s more than happy keeping his relationship to himself. Hoarding every scrap of Ilya he can.

But for Ilya…

Shane wasn’t thinking, last night. Not really. Caught up in the moment, stunned and grateful and slightly jealous, he voiced the type of unrealistic dream that seemed a little more possible. Shane said, we could come out. And he meant, we could come out one day and not be the first.

But he said it, and the second it passed his lips, he knew that wasn’t what Ilya heard. His beautiful, loving boyfriend heard, we can stop hiding now. And Shane can never take that moment back. Not when he saw it land, saw Ilya’s heart yawning in his eyes, golden hope finally patching all the cracks his life had left behind. Not when he saw Ilya imagine it and want it so desperately, so purely, that Shane almost cried.

Not when he saw Ilya suppress it, bury himself in Shane’s lips, all to hide how much the idea affected him.

Last night, Shane opened Pandora’s box. There’s no closing it again.

Ilya won’t push. In fact, Shane is certain Ilya will never bring it up again if Shane doesn’t first. That’s worse, almost. It feels like regression, a step back from practicing honesty. But Shane can’t bring it up unless he plans to follow through. Not now that he knows a rejection would shatter Ilya’s fragile heart.

So. Can Shane mean it?

He ponders the question throughout their slow, lazy morning. Ilya helps him do his PT exercises, rewarding him with a kiss for each completed set. His mom makes him a smoothie and Ilya an omelet, all while chattering away about some brand shoots for later in the summer.

And throughout it all, Shane thinks.

The next step of their plan, rightly, is Ilya entering free agency next summer. They want to get onto teams closer to each other, even if they can’t manage the same team. Given the salary cap, the same team would be a challenge if they’re at all competitive for the Cup. There are several New York area options, which could put them in the same city. Long term though, Ilya doesn’t want American citizenship. And obtaining Canadian citizenship is easier if Ilya lives here year round. Toronto’s out, given the racist and homophobic shit Kent and his lackeys regularly spew. There’s Edmonton, Calgary, Vancouver, and Winnipeg, but those are farther away than Boston. That leaves Ottawa.

Ottawa is… well. Not competitive would be putting it lightly. But that means they have room. Potentially for both of them, if one or two of their veterans retire over the next several years. Getting them both on the team is still a longshot, but even if Shane stays in Montreal they’ll at least be closer.

Shane knows Ottawa is Ilya’s preferred option, for convenience, if nothing else. And that makes Shane feel… horribly guilty, really. Ilya insists it’s fine, that he just wants to be near Shane, but he would be giving up so much. His teammates, his city, his chances at a second Cup without having to build another team from the ground up. Shane knows Ilya loves him enough to do it anyway. But for him to do it, all for Shane to keep everything, all for Ilya to remain a dirty little secret?

So. Can they reorder their plan? Move step 9 all the way up to step 6? Shane would have to renumber the spreadsheet.

The idea terrifies him. There hasn’t been much time to really evaluate the public’s reaction to Scott’s kiss, but Shane knows for certain it won’t all be good. And a gay Scott Hunter is an easier pill to swallow than Shane and Ilya. There will be accusations of cheating, Shane knows, both relationship wise because of their very public beards, and professionally. People will call for them to be tossed from the league.

When Shane thinks about the people closer to them, their teams…

A bitter, sad part of him knows that things won’t go well in Montreal. Shane’s done his best to shut down blatant bigotry in the locker room, but he knows they mostly just wait for him to be out of earshot. And always, always, he fears pushing too hard. Like telling the guys to stop calling someone a cocksucker will paint a shining GAY on his forehead. Shane muted the Metros groupchat last night, after the first Scott Hunter joke came through.

Beyond the locker room though… he doesn’t think that Montreal’s management will love it either. Shane’s always remembered draft night, being touted as a diversity hire, like it was somehow more important than the fact that he was really fucking good at hockey. He thinks now of the way Theriault likes to throw around words like sissies and fairies when the pucks aren’t connecting at practice.

And Ilya…

He always says he has the Boston locker room under control. That the guys know better than to be bigots on his team if they want to keep their remaining teeth. But can he really know? Can he be certain about how things would play out?

The entire morning, all Shane does is come up with a series of cons. Reasons it makes so much more sense to shut themselves up in the closet and lock the door. But there are pros.

No more hiding. They could go on dates in public, hold hands, kiss, without worrying about it ripping apart their lives. They could care openly, as more than just the friends that the media has reluctantly accepted. They could call each other and talk about each other and love each other without measuring things out in palatable doses. Ilya could stop running, could own who he is. No more beards, no more pretending, no more lies.

Shane could marry him one day. Have a wedding with all of their friends and family, one where it isn’t secret. Maybe buy another house. Adopt children.

There are so many cons. But the pros… the pros are things Shane has barely dared to dream of before.

And… There is something addicting, about coming out. About making the choice, getting to claim Ilya as his to other people. A greedy, possessive part of Shane’s soul, that he didn’t know was there before, adores it. What would it be like for the whole world to know?

“You are being very quiet today, dorogoy,” Ilya says after lunch. They’re curled together in the living room, Shane’s father at work and his mom out running errands. It’s just the two of them. Shane’s sling is discarded for now, Ilya’s arm careful over his shoulders. Shane blinks, and notices for the first time that Ilya’s turned off ESPN to watch a cooking show.

“Sorry,” Shane says automatically. He reaches for Ilya to fidget with his fingers. Ilya already knows what he wants and meets him halfway. Offers his hand. “I’ve just been thinking.”

“Ah,” Ilya says, voice knowing. “This is very dangerous for you, yes? You invent new things to worry about.

Shane rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he says, but his heart isn’t in it. Ilya leans forward carefully—as if Shane can’t see him wince at the strain on his ribs—to press a kiss to the side of Shane’s head.

“What’s wrong?” Ilya asks.

Shane hesitates. He turns enough to see Ilya’s face. He looks open, expectant. Shane forges on, “About last night…”

Something deep in Ilya’s eyes shutters. Shane wouldn’t have noticed, if he wasn’t looking so closely. But he sees it, the moment Ilya smothers something that was burning. And well… maybe this decision isn’t really a decision at all.

“Ah,” Ilya says lightly. “Do not worry your pretty little head. Was very overwhelming, yes? Emotions ran high.”

“No,” Shane shakes his head. “I mean yes, it was overwhelming, and it had me feeling a lot of things, but what I said wasn’t bad.” He takes a deep breath. “I meant it.”

“Shane…” Ilya warns.

“Ilya,” Shane says. Then, in a mirror of their position last night, he straddles Ilya’s lap. Automatically, Ilya’s hands fall to Shane’s hips. Their faces are so close. There’s nowhere to hide. “We could come out.”

Ilya shakes his head. When he speaks, his voice is already rough. “Don’t. Don’t do this.”

“Why not?” Shane demands. “We wouldn’t be the first. Safety in numbers right? We could come out, and then we wouldn’t have to pretend–”

“Shane, please,” Ilya says, begs. “Do not do this.”

“Why?” Shane repeats.

“Because,” Ilya’s volume rises, “You do not mean it!”

“I mean it,” Shane protests.

Ilya shakes his head, the motion curt. “No, no, Shane. You say this, but you want to throw away plan? Open us up to everyone’s comments and opinions and judgement? You want to risk hockey for this?”

Shane flinches. Ilya knows how to cut to the heart of him without even trying. “Ilya–”

Ilya continues, desperate now, “And I can’t bear it, Shane. You know I want this, and I cannot bear–” he breaks off. Under his hands, Ilya’s chest rises and falls. His eyes are wet. “Please, I am begging. Do not offer this thing, unless you will do it.”

“Oh, baby,” Shane breathes. Ilya closes his eyes. Shane kisses each lid, tastes salt on his lips. He tugs Ilya forward into his chest, cradles the back of his head like the precious treasure he is. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I know this is so important to you.” Ilya tries to pull away, but Shane holds him firm. “No, listen. It’s my turn to talk.”

“Bossy,” Ilya mumbles.

Shane ignores him. “I’ve been thinking about it all morning. Really thinking about it. I know it would be hard, that it maybe wouldn’t go well with the fans, with the league, with our teams. But this past year…” Shane takes a deep breath. “I’ve kind of liked coming out, you know? It was so scary, it’s still terrifying really, but it also feels good. And getting to call you mine, having the whole world know…” He tilts his head down, gets a noseful of Ilya’s curls. “I really, really like that.”

“Shane,” Ilya gasps wetly.

“And I just keep thinking,” Shane continues, voice wobbling, “that this is our chance, you know? I felt it last night, a feeling like everything was changing, like the league was changing. It was almost a sign from the universe.”

“Hunter is gay messiah. Gross,” Ilya mutters.

“Hush. If you’re not ready, that’s one thing. I’m not really ready either, but I also don’t know when we’ll get a shot like this again. But if you are…” Shane swallows. “Maybe we could edit the spreadsheet?”

Ilya laughs. A snotty, nasal thing. When he pulls away this time, Shane lets him. His face is teary, but that light behind his eyes is seeping through the cracks. A sunrise, right before it crests the horizon. “I love you,” Ilya says.

“I love you too. So much.”

Ilya nods. Closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Shane echoes. He hardly believes it. Realizes, belatedly, that he just talked them both into this thing he isn’t even sure about.

“Okay,” Ilya repeats. “Let’s come out.”

~

Late June 2017

As always, Vegas is loud and bright and chaotic. Ilya sets his jaw on the red carpet, controlling everything down to the muscles of his eyes so that he doesn’t flinch at the flashes. Camera after camera, paparazzi shouting. Why so many people care about the NHL awards ceremony, he’ll never understand. Americans only care about hockey a quarter as much as Canadians. Would there be blood sacrifices, should the awards ever be in Montreal?

Ilya almost canceled his attendance this year. There’s something especially grim about showing up to the awards without Shane, knowing that Ilya left him safe at home. Their entire careers, they’ve been at every award show together. Half the time, nominated and beating each other out for the same trophies, or presenting together, or pretending they weren’t staring longingly at each other across the room.

Ilya feels… bereft, almost. Only a few other Raiders have made the trip this year, given their curtailed playoff run. It’s Ilya, St. Simon, and a rookie the team calls Griff. The organizers grouped them at a table, but Ilya’s here for one reason and one reason only. To speak to Scott Hunter.

~

Now that the sling is off permanently, Shane can drive again. He still has to be careful with weightbearing and lifting his arms above his head, but he’s closer and closer to normal every day. His parents are understanding of the fact that Shane and Ilya start staying at the cottage. The space and privacy are good for everyone’s sake, given the number of… close calls. Once Ilya’s on his plane to Vegas, Shane texts JJ.

Hey! Are you still in Montreal?

It takes JJ over an hour to respond, during which Shane almost loses his nerve five separate times.

yeah where else would i be lol. whats up?

Shane takes a deep breath. Want to watch the awards at your place? I’ve got something I wanted to talk to you about.

JJ responds immediately. aye aye capitaine!

~

Ilya regrets coming to Vegas, again, when Scott Hunter wins the Hart. First, because apparently dinosaurs are allowed to win awards now. And second, because Hunter gets on stage and accepts the trophy and says words that cut right to Ilya’s fucking core.

“When you have a secret that you work as hard as I did to protect, it’s exhausting. It’s a non-stop effort. And it’s also really, really lonely.”

Fuck Scott Hunter for speaking the truth that eats Ilya alive at night. That saps some of the joy out of every moment he’s with Shane. But mostly, fuck Scott Hunter for doing it when Ilya has to sit in public. When he can’t let those words rip him open, because too many people would see him cry.

Scott Hunter is an asshole.

But, god, did Ilya need to hear someone else acknowledge that feeling.

~

JJ lets him in with a cheer. “Capitaine! The off-season has been treating you well? You’re recovered?”

Shane slips into Québécois happily. “Mostly. Still doing some PT for my collarbone, but it’s much better.”

“Good!” JJ says. He claps Shane’s good shoulder gently. “Come in, come in. I’m getting you a beer now that the season is over. No excuses!”

Shane grimaces, but accepts the bottle JJ hands him. He’ll nurse this single drink for as long as he can. Ilya likes to tease him about being a lightweight. It’s unfortunately true, since Shane only indulges in the occasional drink. Just in case, Shane wants to be good to drive back to his Montreal apartment. JJ probably won’t be terrible. No one has been terrible so far, but…

“Thanks, man,” Shane says. “Can we sit?”

“Yes, yes.” JJ gestures at the couch with his bottle. “Sit. You’ve been here before, you know. And I’m dying to know what big secret you want to talk about that has you emerging from your cottage in June.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Shut up.” But he sits.

~

At least the awards after-party is less stifling. Would be much more fun if Shane was there, but Ilya can drink and float to groups of players he doesn’t see often. Off the ice, it’s nice to see friendships are still there. He gets a few condolences on the early exit from the playoffs, one or two inquiries into ‘how your pal Hollander is doing,’ and several awkwardly hedging conversations assessing his reaction to Hunter. One such conversation is from an obviously homophobic owner, another from a weirdly shifty Troy Barrett, and a third from a cheerfully oblivious defenseman out of Minnesota who seems strangely invested in whether Ilya being in the same room as Hunter will get him deported.

Hockey players, Ilya thinks ruefully. Not a subtle or tactful bone in their bodies.

The entire night, Ilya keeps Hunter in his peripheral vision. Hunter is the man of the hour, of course. Besieged by players and owners alike. From Shane’s description of the feeding frenzy he endured as the first Asian-Canadian Calder winner, Hunter’s probably drowning in a sea of congratulations on both his sexuality and his hockey. Along with his fair share of veiled reprimands for the increase in publicity.

Finally, Ilya sees Hunter peel off from a gaggle of admirers. Rather than heading to the bar for another drink, he wanders faux-casually toward the staircase. Ilya swallows back a flash of amusement. Remembers being fresh off his rookie year, escaping to the roof for some air, only to be hunted down by a young Shane Hollander.

Well, he might as well reenact the past. At least it will be private.

~

“So.”

Shane pauses. JJ’s watching him expectantly. Shane fiddles with the label on his bottle, lifting the edge away from the glass.

“So?” JJ prods.

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” Shane says. “Not because I didn’t trust you. I hope you’ll be cool with it, but it’s kind of a big deal.” He hesitates. “If you’re not okay with it, I understand.”

“Are you getting traded?” JJ demands. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Don’t you have a no-trade clause? Has Montreal lost their fucking minds?”

“I’m not getting traded!” Shane defends. “It’s personal, okay. But it’s going to be public soon, and I wanted you to know from me, before that happens.” Shane swallows. Drums his fingers on the neck of his bottle.

“Capitaine,” JJ says seriously. “You are killing me. Please just tell me.”

“Je suis gay,” Shane blurts. And wow. He hasn’t said it in French, before. Somehow, it feels different.

JJ blinks. Then he scrubs a hand down his face, hiding his expression. Shane’s heart pounds. “Ah. I should have guessed. I am still processing that this is an option now, for hockey players.” JJ reveals his face, and he looks surprisingly unfazed. “I am feeling like an idiot, I think. It is so obvious, now that you say it. You fumbled Rose Landry. You look horrified every time someone on the team tries to set you up. You’ve never once shared a sex story.” JJ freezes, looking horrified. “Wait. You have had sex, right? Please tell me you’re not a sad gay virgin.”

Shane groans. He should’ve known this would be JJ’s reaction. “No, JJ,” Shane says wearily. “I’m not a virgin.”

~

The rooftop is deserted, much like last time. Spotting Hunter is easy. He’s leaning against the railing, phone in hand. A smile curves his lips. He must be texting his boytoy. Ilya doesn’t know anything else that can make an old person so happy. Bingo, maybe?

Hunter flinches at the sound of the door clanging shut. The expression on his face shutters. He regards Ilya carefully, clearly trying to assess friend from foe.

“Rozanov,” Hunter greets. His voice is wary.

“Hunter!” Ilya raises his eyebrows. “You are out here to mope after winning big award?”

“I’m not moping,” Hunter snaps. “I just needed some air.”

Ilya nods sagely, “Ah yes. You are so old you forget that air exists inside too, yes?”

“Fuck off,” Hunter returns. “The hell do you want, Rozanov?”

Ilya sighs. Steels himself for the hardest words he’ll ever have to say. “About what you did on the ice, after winning Cup.” He watches Hunter stiffen, a block of unmoving stone, braced for impact. “I wanted to say thank you.”

“What?” Hunter asks. His mouth hangs open. He looks so stupid.

“I will not say it again,” Ilya warns. “But what you did was a very good thing.” He crosses his arms and waits.

~

“Thank god,” JJ says. “I have some friends who know some gay guys. I can pass along your number?”

Well. An underwhelming reaction, if Shane’s being honest. Much less dramatic than coming out to Rose, or Hayden, or his parents. That’s alright. This next part will likely be explosive anyway. “That’s okay,” Shane says. “The thing is, I’m actually, uh. In a relationship already?”

JJ’s mouth falls open. “What, really? Who’s the lucky man?”

Shane takes a deep breath. He can’t avoid the words forever. “It’s Ilya Rozanov.”

For a long, long moment, JJ says nothing. He doesn’t move, his expression doesn’t shift, he just continues to watch Shane steadily. Then, almost conversationally, he says, “Sorry, I think I misheard you. Did you say Ilya Rozanov?”

“Yes,” Shane confirms, nervous.

JJ continues, “Ilya fucking Rozanov, like your archrival Ilya Rozanov? Like the biggest asshole in hockey, Ilya Rozanov? Like the Captain of our worst fucking enemy, Ilya Rozanov?” With each question, JJ’s grows louder. By the last word, he’s almost shouting.

This is the reaction Shane half-anticipated from Hayden. Maybe Jackie’s presence mediated it, but JJ doesn’t have a Jackie for that. Shane refuses to be cowed, refuses to feel shame about the most beautiful and important thing in his life. “Yep,” Shane says in English. He pops the p. “That Ilya fucking Rozanov.”

~

“Thank you, I think,” Hunter says finally. He still looks poleaxed, and like he half-expects Ilya to take his words back and declare it all a prank. “I appreciate your support.” The words sound automatic, a platitude Hunter’s gotten so used to spitting back that it’s lost all meaning.

Ilya scoffs. “I do not support you, Hunter,” Ilya denies. “You are old and only okay at hockey. Will be retired soon anyway. I am saying, is good thing you did for other queer hockey players.” Ilya looks him straight in the eyes. “For me.”

Hunter staggers. Thankfully, the motion brings him further away from the railing instead of over it. “Excuse me?” his voice cracks.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Yes, Hunter. I am saying that I, Ilya Rozanov, am sexy bisexual man. I give great head to all genders and I do not discriminate. Is this clear enough for you? I have heard hearing starts to go in the elderly.” Ilya racks his brain for that article in the New Yorker David shared with him. “Presbycusis, it is called.”

“Presby–” Hunter shakes his head. “You know what, nevermind. You’re actually telling me that you’re bi, right now?” At Ilya’s nod, Hunter manages a strangled, “What the fuck?”

Because he can be nice, Ilya looks out over the strip as Scott Hunter comes to terms with being only the second most attractive queer man in the league. Technically, he’s third, but Ilya hasn’t mentioned Shane yet. Possibly fourth, judging by the squirrelly way Troy Barret was acting. First to fourth is a big downgrade in one night.

“Wait,” Hunter breathes. “Wait, wait, wait. There’s no way.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow.

Hunter continues doggedly. “Does this mean, when you and Hollander were rookies you two actually…”

Oh. In retrospect, Hunter had more of the pieces than Ilya realized. They weren’t exactly subtle, whispering Russian numbers on the ice at the All Star game. And Shane always half-wondered if Hunter knew somehow.

Ilya smirks, “Hollander and I did many things as rookies, yes. But we did commercial summer before rookie season together too, did you know?”

“What the fuck,” Hunter whispers. Then louder, “No, what the fuck?! I thought I was imagining things for years!”

~

“Were you two fucking cheating?” JJ demands in English. His accent is heavy. “Throwing games?”

“Fuck you, no,” Shane snaps. “How could you even ask me that?” He means to sound angry and offended, but a tiny bit of hurt seeps into his voice too.

“Well I don’t fucking know!” JJ throws up his hands. Shane locks his spine to stop himself from flinching. “I am supposed to believe you play as hard against him as you did before you started hooking up? It was one thing when you two became ‘friends’ but this…”

“I would rather die than let him win!” Shane hears the waver in his voice. He scrambles for something, anything, to draw attention away from the fact that he’s crumbling. “And good luck finding a fucking difference, considering we’ve been hooking up since before our rookie year.”

JJ chokes. His beer is on the table, and he hasn’t taken a sip from it, so Shane doesn’t know what he could be choking on. A little meanly, he wonders, is it his own stupidity? “You’ve been together the entire time?” JJ asks. His volume drops several decibels.

“Yeah,” Shane admits. He’s not sure oversharing their timeline was the right call, but it’s too late to take it back now. “I promise, we’ve never let it impact our playing. Beating him is one of my favorite things.”

“Jesus Christ,” JJ whispers. He buries his face in his hands. “The entire fucking time. Who else knows?”

~

Ilya shrugs. “No, you were right about this one thing. Must have realized before your vision started to go. Shane also says thanks, but I think he is sending weird email, too.” The last part comes out reluctantly fond. Shane Hollander and his excessive media training.

“I got his email,” Hunter says automatically. He still looks like he needs to sit down. “It was very awkward and very nice.”

“That is Shane,” Ilya allows.

Hunter’s eyebrows scrunch. “Wait,” he says again, like it is one of the few words remaining in his vocabulary after dementia has hit. “It’s kind of sounding like… Are you two together?”

Ilya actually stares at him. Speechless. Then he rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. “Wow,” he drawls. “Usually, I am chirping when I say your mind has gone. But actually, I do not understand how you ever find puck, if your head is this empty during games. Are you just handling stick with your eyes closed and hoping?”

“For the love of god. Shut up, Rozanov,” Hunter groans. But Ilya can see the embarrassed flush to his cheeks. “Answer the question.”

“Yes,” Ilya concedes. Because while he likes fucking with Hunter, that’s hardly the reason he came to Vegas. “Shane and I are together. Dating. We have been for many years.”

“Holy shit,” Hunter breathes. “So it wasn’t just hate-fucking?”

Ilya scoffs. “I am impressed dinosaur knows this word, but no. We never hated each other. Rivalry is good foreplay though.”

~

Shane sighs. “For a long time, no one,” he admits. “We had a whole plan for how to make our relationship work. We only started telling people recently. Ilya told his friend Svetlana first, last year–”

“That Russian girl you were both dating?” JJ interrupts. Then he wrinkles his nose, looking reluctantly impressed. “Damn, were you having a threesome?”

“No!” Shane protests. “Svetlana was just being a good friend, acting as a beard.”

JJ blinks. “You got a woman that beautiful to be your beard?” he demands. “Jesus Christ, I guess straight men are lucky you prefer dick if you can pull her while gay. And wait, what about Rose Landry?”

Shane winces. “Rose was never a beard intentionally. I did tell her I was gay, but we get along really well as friends. She doesn’t know about Ilya, specifically.” Though Shane wouldn’t be surprised if she guessed. The thought doesn’t bother him as much as it should. That feels like growth.

“Okay, then who else knows,” JJ presses.

“I told Hayden and Jackie back in January,” Shane says. “Ilya told his best friend on the Raiders, Marlow, around the same time. My parents found out in the hospital after I got hurt. Ilya’s telling Hunter tonight. That’s it.”

Maybe it’s because the other coming outs have been so recent, but JJ doesn’t look offended that he was left out until now. Instead, he scowls, “Marlow knew, and still hit you like that?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “I already said, man. Our relationship doesn’t affect the ice. Hockey is hockey. He felt bad though.”

JJ mutters something in French too quiet for Shane to hear. “I guess Rozanov did look fucked up about you going down,” he says reluctantly. “I thought it was just because you guys are ‘friends,’ but now I understand why Marlow and Hayden were all over him.”

“He was pretty shaken up,” Shane admits.

~

“This is insane,” Hunter says. “You know that right? What the fuck, man?” Then he shakes his head. “I mean, thank you for trusting me, I guess. You’re an asshole, but Hollander’s a good kid.”

“He is an asshole too,” Ilya protests. No one ever believes him, but Shane can be a bigger asshole than Ilya sometimes. “It was his idea to steal your spotlight.”

“Steal my spotlight?” Hunter repeats, slowly. “What–”

Rather than suffer through an elderly man trying to connect dots without his reading glasses, Ilya continues, “We are coming out soon, possibly this summer. Just waiting for my green card.”

Hunter coughs. His eyebrows climb into his hairline. “You’re doing what? Are you serious? The league will–”

Ilya snorts. “The league is falling over trying to say how much they love gays, since your kiss on the ice. Will look very bad if they reprimand us now,” Ilya says. Once he allowed himself to believe Shane really wanted to come out, he realized this really was the best chance they had. The general positive publicity will hopefully help cushion some of the blow. Their response to Ilya and Shane will be implicitly linked to their response to Hunter. Any punishment will look like condemnation of all queer players, rather than just the rivals that bucked their narrative. “Besides, we have been keeping secret for very long time. What is it you said? ‘It’s exhausting. It’s a non-stop effort. And it’s also really, really lonely.’”

“Shit,” Hunter says. And then, “Did you just fucking quote me?”

“It was a good speech,” Ilya admits, even though the words taste like battery acid. “But your moment is over. Younger, prettier players get spotlight now.”

~

“Hold on,” JJ says. He sits upright, eyes Shane seriously. “Before you started, you said–” And then he switches to French, like English is too exposed, vulnerable, “You said you’re going public? As gay? Or as dating–” JJ swallows, nose scrunching as if he bit into a lemon, “Rozanov.”

“Both,” Shane answers in kind. “We’re done hiding. I’m tired of keeping this a secret.”

JJ scrubs a hand down his face. “Merde. People will not react like they did to Hunter. You know that, right? And Montreal–” he breaks off.

Shane nods, even though agreeing hurts. “I know. We’re hoping splitting the publicity will help. But it will always be bad, whether we do it now or wait ten years.” Then, curious, he hedges, “The groupchat’s been rough then? I muted it after the Cup.” Shane muted the chat, and also was too nervous to ask Hayden about it. He felt like he was better off not knowing, lest he talk himself out of coming out.

“Yeah, it’s bad,” JJ admits. “Hayden’s been trying to shut it down, which makes sense now I guess. But at least some of the guys won’t be a fan of sharing the locker room with you. Especially considering the Rozanov of it all.”

Shane nods. Hopes he keeps his heartbreak off his face. “Right. We’re still doing it. I don’t expect you to have my back, but I wanted you to know before we told anyone else–”

“What?” JJ’s voice is incredulous. By the time he continues, he’s transitioned to pissed off, “You think I won’t have your back?”

“JJ–”

“No, fuck that,” JJ spits. “I’m not going to lie and say I’m completely okay with this. I don’t give a fuck about you being gay. But it’s going to take me a bit to wrap my head around you and Rozanov. He’s been public enemy number one for years and he’s a major fucking asshole. That doesn’t mean I don’t still have your back, Capitaine. And I’ll get there. Maybe I’ll talk to Hayden about it, or something.”

“Thank you, JJ,” Shane manages. His voice catches in his throat.

“Don’t mention it,” JJ waves him off. “No, seriously, don’t mention it. Let’s stop talking about it until I can go somewhere private to process this shit.”

~

“Okay,” Hunter sighs. “Well, this certainly wasn’t how I was expecting the rest of my summer to go. But you guys have my support, of course.”

Ilya’s struck by an idea. “If you are free, before season, you could come coach at our hockey camps,” Ilya offers. “I’m sure your boyfriend could find something interesting to do in Boston or Montreal.”

“Oh,” Hunter blinks. Annoyingly, he looks flattered. “I’ll, um. Think about it? And talk it over with Kip.”

“Good,” Ilya says. He finds himself entirely ready for this conversation to be over. For this whole night to be over. Ilya wants to be on a plane back to Ottawa more than he’s ever wanted anything. He hopes Shane’s own conversation went as well as this one. “Now we go back to party, yes? You are man of the hour.”

Hunter groans. Before he can speak, Ilya smirks, “But formal after-party is almost done, yes? Then all of the best players can leave and go to Scott Hunter night.”

“What’s that?” Hunter asks, clearly wary.

What a joy, to be able to do this service for the elderly. Ilya’s a philanthropist. “Only theme night that gay club will ever have about you. Later this summer, it will all be Rozanov-Hollander night. You should enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Fuck off,” Hunter says automatically. Ilya takes pure joy in the discomfort on his face.

~

By mutual agreement, they put the NHL awards on. They haven’t missed much, and Shane’s not sure how this is particularly distracting. Half of the commentary seems to be about Scott Hunter and his extremely public kiss. At least they can still roll their eyes at some of the nominations.

“Killion for the Byng?” JJ scoffs. “Just because his slurs are in a different language, does not mean they are not slurs.”

But then, finally, the Hart is awarded. Scott Hunter steps onto the stage to accept it to raucous cheers. Shane pretends he isn’t leaning forward in his seat to listen.

“Thankfully, I found the person who changes everything,” Hunter says.

And all Shane can picture is Ilya. Ilya, nineteen, crouched over the puck and incapable of keeping a straight face. Ilya, looking at him so seriously in the Vegas bathroom. Ilya, asleep with warm morning light streaking over his face. Ilya, kissing him, Ilya, fucking him, Ilya, loving him.

“And he gave me the confidence and the strength and the need to be honest about who I am.”

When Shane straddled his lap, gazed into Ilya’s eyes, and realized he could give his most important person the thing he needed most. Something more than a vague ‘we can push the timeline up’ offered desperately, while his boyfriend cried in his arms. Ilya, who let Shane discover how good it feels to come out, to own who he is. Ilya, who helped Shane feel less afraid, less ashamed.

“Fear is a powerful thing. But then, I found the one thing that is more powerful.”

Because Shane has never known joy like he finds in Ilya’s arms. Holding the Stanley Cup is incredible. He loves hockey, loves winning games, loves the cold snap of the air and the burn in his muscles. But all of these things are nothing, nothing compared to Ilya. Compared to the love that burns Shane up, that starts and ends his every day, that calls him home.

“You have made me better in every conceivable way.”

Yeah. Ilya spends a lot of time chirping Scott Hunter. But Hunter put words to something so Shane didn’t have to. He’s so fucking grateful.

He’ll have to send him another email.

~

July 2017

Ilya’s green card arrives on a Wednesday in early July. He set up mail forwarding for the summer, just in case. The law firm Farah connected him with specializes in immigration law. They helped him file under EB-1A, as an athlete with extraordinary abilities, collected and prepared a variety of evidence to justify his case, and advised him to pay for premium processing. Ilya received his approval before the playoffs even started, but the actual issuance took longer.

This is still fast, for anything to do with the US immigration system. It helps, probably, that Ilya is white, rich, and extremely good at hockey. When he opens the envelope and reads Permanent Resident, he sits down, right there on the floor.

After about ten minutes, Shane finds him. Of course, as soon as Shane sees what’s in his hand, he sits down hard too. “Holy shit,” Shane whispers, “is that…”

“Da.”

They stare at it together, like it’s a loaded gun, but also the most amazing thing either of them have ever seen. The relief hits Ilya after a few minutes. He’s… safe. At least for now, if Russia tries to punish him for coming out, he has legal status in the US. For the first time in his life, loving who he loves won’t get him imprisoned or worse. Ilya blinks hard, to keep the tears at bay.

When he looks at Shane, his boyfriend is a mix of excited and terrified. Ilya’s stomach turns. “Moy lyubimyy,” Ilya starts. “It is okay, if you are not ready. I know I said–” Ilya swallows, forces himself to continue, “But is okay. I would never force you. And knowing you would go this far…”

Shane takes a deep breath. It rattles in his lungs. “No,” Shane says finally. “No, I want to do this.” Despite the pallor of his skin, he sounds sure, determined. Ilya scoots over to him on his ass, until he’s close enough to wrap Shane up in his arms. They stay there for a long moment, just holding each other.

The next hour is a whirlwind. Shane sets up a conference call with Farah and his parents, reviews their planned response to every possible type of pushback. They draft the statement together, arguing back and forth about wording, about how much of their relationship they’re willing to expose to public scrutiny. Surprisingly, Shane is in favor of sharing more than Ilya thought.

“JJ didn’t react great, at first,” Shane explains. “I really think it helped to know that Ilya and I were together in some way our entire careers. It stopped him from thinking I was going easy on him, at least.”

“Should they call their teams and management?” Yuna asks. “Give them a day or so of heads up before the storm hits?”

Farah hesitates. Her response is… careful. “I think it depends,” she hedges. “If you think the reaction will be neutral to positive, yes, that’s fine. But if there’s a chance that your management will order you not to do it, I would suggest waiting until the last minute. That way, if they try to argue that you’ve ignored their guidance…”

What goes unsaid is that this is mostly about Montreal. Shane huddles closer to Ilya, even though it’s extremely obvious on the video. “Maybe just an email, sent right before we hit post,” Shane says, finally. “And I’ll send a text to the team groupchat.”

“I will do the same,” Ilya offers. Not because he thinks Boston would really try to stop him, but so Shane feels less alone.

“Excellent,” Farah says. “I’ll draft something up.”

After a day of planning, of fine-tuning, Shane and Ilya sit next to each other on the couch the next morning. Ilya opens his chat with the Raiders.

Good morning assholes, he types. I am about to share with world something very exciting, very big. No, not my dick pics. But I think I should tell you first. I am bisexual and I am dating Shane Hollander. No, this is not new. No, we do not cheat. Yes, he is Montreal Jane. Yes, I pulled that. Any questions or problems I do not fucking care. Enjoy your summer.

Ilya looks over at Shane’s drafted message. It is much more professional, much more polite. To each their own. “Are you ready?” he asks.

Shane glances at him. He looks terrified and exhilarated and relieved all at once. He looks like the most beautiful man Ilya has ever seen. “Nope,” Shane says.

“Me either,” Ilya says. And then he grins. “But we do it anyway, yes?”

Shane laughs. Leans forward and brushes their lips together. “We do it anyway,” he agrees.

They hit send.

~

@OfficialShaneHollander

I will start by thanking @ScottHunterHockey for his bravery this past June. Coming out is not an easy thing, but he paved the way for many current and future queer hockey players.

I would like to announce, officially, that @ilyarozanov81 and I are in a committed, romantic relationship. We know that this will be difficult for a lot of people to accept and understand. We have never let our personal relationship interfere with our competitiveness on the ice, and we believe our career achievements show that very clearly. We’ve always kept personal and professional separate, and we hope our teams, our fans, and the league can do the same.

While we were not exclusive until 2014, we have been involved in some capacity for every game we played professionally, since before our rookie year. Though we never hated each other, our rivalry has been deeply important for our development as players and our intensity on the ice. Thank you to our friends and family for their support. We look forward to continuing to play our best hockey next season and fighting for the Cup.

@ilyarozanov81 replied

the Cup is mine next year, мой любимый

@OfficialShaneHollander replied to @ilyarozanov81

Keep dreaming, яблоко

~

Chapter End Notes

We did it!!! I hope the way I explored Shane’s mindset here rang true for you all. I really do think the Skip kiss is inherently pivotal in their story no matter what, and with our timeline shifted… the possibilities shift too!

And, frankly, this fic is meant to be a kinder, softer take on the original story. Shane never really got a lot of opportunities to come out and practice coming out in the original. Really, he only had the Voyageurs, which was not a particularly encouraging experience. With the space to come into himself and with a longer foundation of healthy communication… I really do think Shane could get there. As a fellow queer person, it does feel easier the more positive self-disclosure experiences you have!

Also on a different note, major props to all of the social media fic writers out there. Just doing the relatively easy html for one single post almost took me out.

Thank you all so much for reading, and see you next time for the ~fallout~ 😈

Chapter 11

Chapter Summary

Step 7: Free Agency for Shane
Step 7: The Trade

Chapter Notes

Welcome back!!

I swear, I am more blown away every chapter with the response to this story. I love being and writing in an active fandom. You guys are the best!!! A million thanks for every comment and kudos. You all seriously make my day.

I saw a comment with someone asking about a social media companion fic. I'll say again that I think social media fic writers are stronger than marines for dealing with that formatting. It's not out of the question, because I definitely have ideas but... it will not be soon. (Probably) Everyone is more than welcome to take inspiration though, I don't mind!

As always, all mistakes are my own. This chapter is a bit of a heavier one, so warnings for that. No explicit spoilers for The Long Game, I think, but inspiration and allusions ahead. This chapter is also excessively long because I refused to change the chapter count again... and also there was no great place to split it between mini arcs. Sorry but also you're welcome?

Enjoy!

Warnings for: homophobia, homophobic slurs, discrimination

~
Step 7: Free Agency for Shane
Step 7: The Trade
~

July 2017

~

Breaking News: Long Time Hockey Rivals Hollander and Rozanov Reveal Relationship

The Shock of the Summer: Real Life Enemies to Lovers?

Why is Hockey Gay Now? Disgruntled Fans Chime In

Understanding the Fallout of the Hollander-Rozanov Announcement

Since Their Rookie Season? One Reporter’s Analysis of Hollander-Rozanov Game Data

~

To say the initial reaction is explosive would be an understatement. Ilya and Shane are under strict orders to like each other’s posts, comment, and then log out of their socials. Farah and Yuna are tag-teaming the initial media response. Together, they’ll compile a summary of the general reactions and next steps without either Shane or Ilya having to wade through the sewage.

Ilya is painfully grateful for them, considering Shane’s immediate response to hitting post is the worst panic attack Ilya has ever witnessed. It takes everything Ilya has, to talk him down. They sit on the ground, Shane’s back to Ilya’s chest, while he breathes for both of them. Shane trembles. Ilya presses kisses to the crown of his head, the nape of his neck, his shoulder, every single part of his boyfriend that he can reach. Somewhere on the coffee table, their silenced phones light up with non-stop calls and texts. There’s almost a strobe effect, that Ilya wishes he had the forethought to turn them away from.

“I’m okay,” Shane croaks. “I’m– I’m fine. You c-can let me go.” His grip on Ilya’s wrist contradicts his words. Good thing Ilya has no plans of moving.

Ilya hushes him. “I will never let you go,” Ilya promises. “Not even to play hockey. We will be newest NHL creation, one body, four skates, two sticks. Whole league will fear us.”

Shane snorts. He sounds congested, shaky, but at least Ilya can still make him laugh. Not everything is lost yet. “I don’t regret it, you know,” Shane says. He clears his throat. “I know this was kind of an embarrassing overreaction, but I still don’t regret it. I want to be out with you.”

Ilya’s eyes burn. He presses his forehead to Shane’s shoulder, lets the fabric absorb any wetness. “I love you,” Ilya says. “So fucking much, Shane.”

Shane leans backward, snuggling in. Ilya brings up his knees to squeeze Shane’s ribs, knowing the pressure settles them both.

When they manage to let go of each other, Ilya heads for their phones while Shane heads for a shower. It took some prodding from Ilya, but they both know he needs to breathe before diving in.

Ilya checks his texts first. Unsurprisingly, the Raiders groupchat has hundreds of messages. He scrolls way, way up, holding onto the screen so the new texts don’t bring him down to the bottom. The responses to his initial message seem to be mostly question marks and laughter at Ilya’s ‘prank.’ He can tell the moment they must have seen the Instagram posts. Because the accusations of pranks fall off to be replaced by practically incoherent messages. Half the chatter seems to be new guys chiming in at the flurry of notifications and then having the situation explained to them. Ten minutes after the post, Cliff responds with,

Yeah, I knew about Hollander. He’s a nice guy, way too nice for Rozy. This team will have both their backs, understood?

While a decent chunk of the guys Like the message, another chunk immediately remembers Marly’s hit.

Saint: u knocked Hollander on his ass like that and Roz let u live?

Caramel: Did you guys start beef or something Marly?

CC: were you still working thru it that game orrrr

There’s more chirping, someone brings up Montreal Jane and they all get a kick out of it. Some assholes try to play amateur detective and figure out when and where they hooked up. Apparently reading comprehension is not a skill Boston screens for.

To Ilya’s relief, there’s nothing negative in the main chat. He knows not all of the guys will be cool with it, but they’re hopefully the minority. Any disagreement will most likely be kept to private chats, rather than aired to the whole team. Ilya can live with that.

He has some scattered texts from other players that he’s friendly with. Hunter created a groupchat with both of them where he offered his support, especially if ‘the league or Crowell try anything.’ Kenzy, a defenseman out of LA that Ilya’s always chatted with at league events sent him nothing but a bunch of thumbs up emojis. Anything from an unsaved number, Ilya sends to junk, even if the preview looks positive. That goes for any reaction he judges to be potentially negative as well. Dallas Kent—Ilya must have forgotten to remove his contact after that one unfortunate All Star game they played on the same team—has sent him a wall of slurs and accusations that Ilya screenshots before he deletes. You never know when something like that could come in handy.

In another interesting turn of events, there’s a message from Troy Barrett. Ilya swapped numbers with him in an effort to maybe help Barrett step out of Kent’s shadow. Apparently, he’s already been more successful than he expected. It’s not a confession, but Barrett’s texted: You and Hollander are brave, man. Congrats. That’s no small thing.

Ilya skims his emails for anything important. There have already been an outpouring of requests from media outlets for comments. He forwards all of them to Yuna and Farah without opening them, and decides they can handle it. More recently, there’s one from the NHL Commissioner’s Office. Ilya and Shane are both cc’d, requesting an in-person meeting at their earliest convenience. Ilya flags this email as high priority and forwards it along. Definitely something for their agent with a law background to handle.

A new text appears at the top of his screen. From LeClaire.

Rozanov, I’m sure your phone is blowing up right now. When you get this, give me a call. Management would like a word on how to handle this.

Rather than call right away, Ilya hesitates. He’s always liked LeClaire. Born and raised outside Boston, LeClaire’s not a particularly nice man, but he’s kind. When the locker room gets out of hand, he backs Ilya up when it comes to keeping the guys in line. He cares about his players as more than just bodies, asks after their families, checks in when anyone seems off. Hell, LeClaire even pulled Ilya aside last winter during the Rose situation. Checked if he needed anything. After his father passed, he gave Ilya the minimum amount of shit for extending his leave.

Ilya wants to trust that LeClaire will be good about this. Wants to believe Boston will have his back. It’s why, rather than immediately forwarding the request to Farah, Ilya responds: Hi Coach. Should my lawyer call in too?

LeClaire responds immediately, rapid fire:

Christ kid

You don’t need your lawyer. We aren’t cutting you or punishing you. Thought you knew us better than that

Ilya sighs and presses a hand over his eyes. He was pretty sure, yes. But not as sure as he acts in front of Shane. His boyfriend has been stressed enough that hearing Ilya worry may have sent him over the edge.

The noise of the shower cuts off. Shane’s skin care routine takes an incredibly long time, especially when he’s anxious. Ilya hits call.

“Rozanov,” LeClaire answers. “How are you holding up?”

“Management on the line yet?” Ilya checks.

“No, kid.”

“Then I will be honest, Coach,” Ilya says. “I am very scared. But I am also happier than I have ever been. This was big secret. Very, very, big secret. Would get me arrested or killed in Russia. But I have a green card in the US now, and I can tell the world about most important person in my life.”

“You love him then,” LeClaire says. His voice is gruff, but not angry.

“Yes, Coach.”

“Good,” LeClaire says. “You’ve had a rough go of it, Rozanov. I won’t pretend otherwise. And this is not going to be easy. But when you find someone like that, you hold on. Understand?”

Ilya smiles. “Yes, Coach.”

‘Management,’ in this case, apparently consists of five people. The owner of the Raiders, an older billionaire named Chris who has owned the team since the 70s. The General Manager, Greg Maguire. Harriett Vinnicent, Vice President of Communication and Content who once politely asked Ilya to stop getting featured on TMZ. The President of TD Garden, who Ilya can’t for the life of him remember the name of. And LeClaire.

“Well, Rozanov, you sure like to make things interesting,” Maguire says, voice wry.

“Yes, sir,” Ilya says.

“And you swear this hasn’t affected your hockey?” Chris demands. “No thrown games, no cheating scandals we should be aware of?”

“Absolutely not,” Ilya says firmly.

“Okay then,” Maguire says. “How do you want us to play this, then, Rozanov?”

Ilya blinks. “Excuse me?” He wishes he could see their faces.

“We met this morning, before we called you,” Harriett says. “The story is out there, no taking it back. Boston will stand behind our players.”

“This isn’t Texas,” Maguire adds. “We represent Boston. If anything, we expect this to drive up revenue from the local, ah,” his pause is delicate, somewhat awkward, “gay scene. Lots of college kids in the area too. Liberal arts schools,” he says, voice pointed.

Ilya barely stops himself from snorting. They’re not wrong. Boston is a fairly queer city. It was the first state to legalize gay marriage way back in 2004. He wouldn’t say there’s a gay scene, per se, not like San Francisco, but it’s normalized, with pockets in every neighborhood. Even if management is supporting him for purely financial reasons, they’re still supporting him. Old Guard Boston sports fans can be rabid, homophobic, racist, and horrible to anyone they deem outsiders, but… when they view a player as their own, they are also fiercely protective. Particularly if they help the team win.

Ilya’s heart clenches. He does love Boston, even if long term, it’s not right for him or Shane.

“I will connect you to my agent, Farah. And Yuna Hollander,” Ilya manages, once his eyes stop burning. “They are handling media responses and coordination.”

Harriett whistles. “I’ve heard that Yuna Hollander is… dedicated.”

“That is one word, yes,” Ilya allows. “They are more help than me. I think we all know I am not person to give publicity advice.”

That earns him a round of chuckles. “Now Rozanov, we won’t keep you long,” Maguire starts. “But we did want to get an idea of your plans.”

“My plans?”

“For next season,” Maguire clarifies.

“I will win Boston another Cup,” Ilya promises. He means it, too.

Chris laughs, “That’s the attitude I like to hear.”

“And after that?” Maguire pushes. “You’re a free agent next summer. Usually we would open contract negotiations soon for a re-signing. Is that on the table?” At least the man knows how to be appropriately blunt, when needed.

Ilya hesitates. “You will have to talk to my agent,” he starts. “I cannot say anything right now. I love Boston. I love this team. I love Shane Hollander more. I will do what I can to be with him.”

That stuns the call into silence. For a long moment, no one says anything, and then LeClaire clears his throat. “Hard to argue with that.”

Maguire’s voice is resigned, almost regretful, “I wish we had the cap space, kid. Hollander’s got years on his contract yet, but I doubt he’s getting any cheaper.”

“Probably not,” Ilya admits. “He is second best player in league, after all.”

They end the call soon after. Shane still hasn’t come downstairs. Ilya basks, just for a moment, in the feeling of support. Of a management team that has his back, that tells him to report any misconduct in the locker room immediately, that will work with his agent and his boyfriend’s mother to make this smooth.

God, does he hope that Shane can have the same. Hopes that Montreal will surprise them all by being decent human beings. If only Ilya could trick himself into believing it.

~

Boston Raiders Speak Out in Support of Rozanov, Announce Pride Night Date in February

Silence from the Metros Camp

Fans and Players Around the Country Show Love for ‘Hollanov’

‘Were They Throwing Games the Whole Time?’ NHL Star Asks What We’ve All Been Thinking

~

Shane parks outside the practice rink. Ilya insisted on making the drive with him back to Montreal, but Shane convinced him to wait at the apartment. Not that it mattered anymore, if they were seen in public together, but Shane didn’t want to give his team anymore ammunition. It took twenty minutes and a blowjob for Ilya to finally give in.

And now that he’s here, sitting in the parking lot, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, Shane regrets it. Ilya knows him, down to his bones. Knows exactly how to unspool Shane’s anxiety to something manageable. This would be easier if Ilya was here.

But Shane needs to stop. Needs to stop leaning on his boyfriend like a crutch, expecting him to shield Shane from the fallout. Over the past several days… Ilya has just been there. Talking Shane out of his spirals, in arm’s reach at almost all times, screening the texts on Shane’s phone so that he didn’t have to look. Ilya’s done most of the coordinating with Farah and Yuna. They made the leap together, to come out, to give up hiding. And instead, Ilya keeps taking one look at Shane’s face and carving out space for Shane to still hide. To avoid. To shy away from their new reality.

Shane doesn’t regret their choice. Doesn’t regret Ilya. So he needs to stop being so reliant on his boyfriend and deal with things himself, like an adult.

Distantly, he knows Ilya would disapprove of this reasoning. Shane can even recognize the hypocrisy in it, considering how often he tells Ilya to lean on him. But that doesn’t matter. Shane’s brain doesn’t usually listen to him.

The parking lot is eerily empty, in the middle of the off-season. As soon as he steps inside, Shane sees Farah, patiently waiting by the door. She’s dressed sharply, a dark pantsuit, leather briefcase held at her hip. But it’s her expression that disturbs Shane the most. Farah looks ready for war.

Yet, her voice is still warm as she holds out a hand. “Shane, good to see you. No Ilya?”

“Hi, Farah,” Shane says. He manages to keep his tone steady, hides the tremble deep in his lungs. “Thanks for coming. But no, I convinced him to wait at home.”

“Probably a good decision,” she admits. “He can be a bit of a wild card.”

Shane agrees emphatically.

The hallways echo strangely as Shane navigates them to the management office. He has no idea who to expect behind the door. According to Ilya, his own similar meeting—that he warned no one about and apparently joined impulsively by himself—included his Coach, the owner, the GM, the president of TD Garden, and VP of Communications. Shane knows those people in Montreal. Theriault, Jacques Pelletier, Robert Collier, Thom Harrison, and Margie Collins. He doesn’t know how Collins will react, specifically, or Harrison. But he has a sinking feeling about the first three.

“Deep breaths, Shane,” Farah says. They settle into chairs outside the conference room on the admin floor. Waiting to be called in. “I’ll be doing most of the talking.”

“Right.” It doesn’t help.

The door swings open. Theriault stands in the opening, looking him up and down. Shane can’t read his face. He wishes for a clue about what Theriault’s thinking. Is he disgusted? Furious? Completely unbothered? “Hollander. Who’s this?”

Shane stands. Thinks about offering a handshake, but Theriault has done nothing to move closer. “This is, uh,” he clears his throat, “my agent. Farah Jalali.”

Farah steps forward, breaching the barrier Shane can’t. She holds out her hand, “Nice to meet you, Coach Theriault.”

Theriault eyes her outstretched palm, and turns away. A shock jolts through Shane’s chest.

Oh. This is bad.

“Hollander’s brought his lawyer,” Theriault calls into the room. There’s a murmur that Shane can’t catch a word of. “Come in then,” Theriault says, dismissive. He disappears behind the door.

Farah drops her hand. For a second, her professional mask cracks, and she wrinkles her nose. She looks disgusted, angry even, before she locks it away. “So that’s how it’ll be,” she says mildly.

“Bad?” Shane asks. His heart, gradually, starts to pick up speed.

“I have it under control,” Farah says. She pats his shoulder. Then she strides into the room like she owns it.

The group is smaller than Shane expected. Theriault, and the GM Robert Collier. But there’s no ownership presence, no marketing. Only an unfamiliar woman, who carries herself like Farah does, like an attorney. “Take a seat,” Collier orders.

Shane and Farah sit. They are the only ones on their side of the long table. Silence lays heavy for one minute, two. Shane’s not sure who is supposed to start this meeting, but he’s sure it won’t be him.

Collier speaks, finally. “You dropped a hell of a bomb on us, Hollander. With little to no warning.” Even though he’s clearly fighting to sound neutral, Shane knows he’s not imagining the annoyance.

Farah replies before Shane can apologize. “Nowhere in my client’s contract does it say he is required to receive team approval prior to disclosing personal information to the public.”

Theriault scoffs, but it’s the unknown woman who says, “While that’s true, Hollander’s contract does have a morality clause like all athletes–”

“Sorry,” Farah interrupts, “are you implying that my client’s sexual orientation violates that clause? Because that sounds like workplace discrimination and grounds for a lawsuit.”

The other lawyer clenches her jaw, but by the way she doesn’t offer a rebuttal, she must realize the threat is genuine. Shane’s stomach turns. He doesn’t want to sue his team. In fact, that sounds like his worst fucking nightmare.

“Enough with this legal bullshit,” Collier barks. “Your… actions reflect on this team, this organization. And now the whole league knows Montreal’s star player bends over for his opponents.”

“Mr. Collier–” his lawyer begins, flustered.

Farah sounds pissed. “Excuse me–”

“Enough,” Collier snaps. “I want to hear from Hollander. Unless you’re going to let this woman speak for you?”

Shane’s face feels hot. He can’t decide whether the reaction is panic, anger, or embarrassment. “I have never done anything to shame this team,” Shane says, picking his way through his words carefully, each syllable a minefield. “My relationship doesn’t affect my performance on the ice. I won this organization two Cups all while dating Ilya.” Shane doesn’t miss the way Theriault’s nose wrinkles at the name.

“Those Cups are soured now,” Theriault argues. “Half the league is convinced Rozanov let you win.”

Again, that same rush of anger from when JJ offered a similar accusation. Why is everyone’s first thought that they throw games for each other? Do they not know Shane at all? Hell, have they not met Ilya? Even knowing it’s been their entire fucking careers, it doesn’t seem to matter.

“My clients have not let their personal relationship interfere with games,” Farah asserts. Her tone is chilly. “I took the liberty of generating a statistical analysis, and the data clearly shows that they perform better in games against each other, on average.”

“Also,” Shane adds, because even though his lungs are burning, his stomach twisting, he can’t help himself, “Cup finals are never against Boston. We’re in the same Conference.”

That earns him a dirty look from Theriault.

“You clearly let him distract you on the ice,” Collier continues, like no one else has said anything. “Considering what happened in April.”

In April? What–?

With dawning betrayal, Shane realizes what Collier’s referencing.

“You’re not implying that my client was injured on purpose?” Farah asks, voice dangerous.

Collier rolls his eyes. The attorney at his elbow shifts, nervous, as if the man’s disregarded all of her carefully packaged company lines. “No one wants to go down like that,” Collier dismisses. Shane dares to relax. He regrets it immediately. “But Theriault and I watched the tapes. Hollander went down because he was too busy staring at his boyfriend.”

Shane flushes, and this time it’s mortification. He protests on instinct, off-balance, “I was checking his positioning on the ice!” Theriault scoffs, but Shane presses on, “Ilya’s fast. I knew he would get me against the boards before I could–”

“It was sloppy,” Theriault interrupts. “Don’t make excuses, Hollander. You got yourself knocked out of the playoffs because you were distracted.”

It’s not true. Shane knows it’s not true. He can understand somewhere distantly, rationally, that this is all a part of management’s strategy. That they are crafting a narrative right here, in this room. Trialing it, before the rest of the world starts to poke holes. But, shaky, surprised that they found a line of questioning Shane never expected, he wonders if they’re right.

On the ice, Shane and Ilya are competitors. They would never throw games, they fight each other fiercely and there’s data to back it up. But… is Shane playing distracted? His games with Ilya are some of his most satisfying, his most fun, but does that mean he’s making himself a liability?

Abruptly, Shane wishes for his cottage. To be alone, hidden in the woods, no eyes on him, no judgment. He needs to think. He doesn’t want to think.

“Baseless accusations,” Farah says. At least she doesn’t sound rattled. All of Shane’s bravado has left him.

Collier shrugs. “To add that we don’t know what Hollander’s recovery will look like…”

“I’ve been cleared for full practices and games,” Shane protests. His lips are numb. “My PT is almost finished–”

“You didn’t use a team PT,” Theriault points out. “We have no evidence that’s true.”

“We can forward his medical records following this meeting,” Farah says smoothly. “But why don’t we get to the point, gentlemen?”

Collier clasps his hands on the table. He exchanges a glance with the attorney, receives a short nod. “Yes, let's. I’m going to be frank, Hollander. After discussion with ownership, we do not think your future is in Montreal.”

The words land like lead in Shane’s stomach. Blood rushes in his ears. A cacophony that drowns out his ability to hear, think, breathe, anything. It’s his worst fear, brought to life. It’s, bizarrely, a relief. Shane doesn’t know how to untangle or understand either. “I see,” he says, shakily.

“Understand,” Collier continues. These next words are practiced, clearly back on a script prepared for this meeting. “This is not about you being a… homosexual. While this is a new development for the league, the stance on Hunter and other homosexual players will be positive. Diversity and all that. We would have preferred you keep the information in-house, so you didn’t distract from hockey, but we could still come back from that.”

Distract from hockey. Of course.

“The real issue is the relationship with Rozanov,” Collier clarifies. “Ownership, legal, and profit margins agree. This is a serious conflict of interest that brings undue financial and competitive risk to this organization. You’re a phenomenal player, Hollander,” Collier allows, begrudgingly. “But hockey is not just about technical skill.”

Shane can think of several, a dozen, comebacks. He could point out the hypocrisy of accusing him of distracting from hockey, but then saying hockey is more than the ice. Calling him a phenomenal player right after saying he got himself hurt because of his boyfriend.

Theriault speaks before Shane can gather the words. “Hockey is a team sport, Hollander. And you fractured the team.” Shane flinches. But Theriault continues, merciless, “I won’t name names, but several players have already reached out with concerns about locker room unity. Men are uncomfortable with the thought of shared showers, of trusting your leadership after knowing you’ve lied to them for so long. We can’t win games without a solid locker room.”

Blow after blow. The messages in the main Metros chat slowed after a day. Ilya checked them regularly, but Shane never looked. He knows they were bad. But not that bad. The idea that his teammates, men he viewed as friends, men he attended weddings for, christenings, birthday parties. The same men he trusted to have his back every day on the ice. They, what, think Shane is some kind of lying predator now?

“As a Coach, it is your responsibility to shut that down,” Farah says. She’s still calm, collected. How? Shane wants to ask for tips.

Thierault shrugs. “I can’t convince them that they don’t have a point. That would be lying.”

Christ. Christ. Shane resists the urge to press his forehead to the table. He might actually be sick. Out of sight, Farah puts her hand on his knee. Squeezes. “I would like to remind you all that my client has a No-Trade Clause in his contract.”

The attorney clears her throat. “We’re aware. It went into delayed effect following the completion of Hollander’s seventh professional season in June.”

“Awfully convenient timing,” Theriault mutters under his breath. Saliva fills Shane’s mouth.

“So that makes it your responsibility to clean up your organization,” Farah says.

“We’d prefer Hollander consent to waive the clause,” the attorney says, “but we are willing to place him on waivers otherwise.”

Shane’s jaw drops. Considering the tone of the meeting, he’d been expecting a request to waive his no-trade. The worst case scenario, of course, but expected. To threaten to place him on waivers? That would mean offering him up to the entire league for essentially no benefit. All the other team would have to do is have the cap space for his contract.

Worse, waivers can only happen right before the regular season begins. That would mean months of an uncertain future. Months for Montreal to shape the narrative, make it so no team wants to take him on.

“You would place Shane Hollander on waivers? Are you intending to commit career suicide?” Farah asks, incredulous.

“We’d prefer to trade him. Provide the best outcome for all parties,” Collier says. “I think you did a damned stupid thing, Hollander. Threw away your best years. But you won this organization two Cups. We’d rather offer you some dignity.”

Dignity. Dignity? Like being thrown away by the team that drafted him—despite his No-Trade Clause, despite the eight year contract that he’s only halfway through—can ever be less horrifying, less embarrassing.

Shane doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation. He knows he nods along, agrees with whatever Farah says, but he doesn’t process it at all. The world moves in slow motion. Shane blinks, and Collier is nodding, clearly reluctant. Shane blinks, and they are in the hallway, walking quickly away from the conference room. Shane blinks, and he is standing outside the practice rink, Farah’s hand on his arm.

“We’re not making any decisions now,” Farah tells him. Shane stares at her, mind entirely blank. “I want you to go home, talk over the options with Ilya. I told them already, we’ll reconvene in a week, after we’ve spoken with Crowell.”

“Options?” Shane croaks. He’s not sure what options he even has.

Farah studies him, examines his face for something Shane doesn’t know how to give her. She sighs. “I’ll call you tomorrow, so we can recap the meeting. I think you need to go home for now, Shane.”

“Home,” Shane echoes. “Okay.” His head spins. He sees a trash can hugging the side of the building. Unsteady but quick, he makes his way over. Hunches, and throws up everything in his stomach. It doesn’t help. Farah’s hand is on his back. Shane’s not going to have a panic attack. Not in front of anyone except Ilya. Even throwing up is embarrassing. “Sorry,” he manages. “Must’ve eaten something bad.”

Farah sighs. At least she hides any pity she must be feeling. “Chin up, you’re still Shane fucking Hollander,” she advises. She hands him a water bottle. Shane doesn’t ask where she got it. Only swishes and spits. It helps a little. “I was going to ask if you were okay to drive, but I’m just going to say the answer is no. What’s your address?”

~

Rumors of Tension between Hollander and Metros

Have We Already Forgotten Scott Hunter?

NHL Commissioner’s Office Purportedly ‘Unhappy’ about Hollander-Rozanov, Source Shares

Hockey’s Newest Power Couple!: Every Award Hollander and Rozanov Have Won

Is Hollander’s Injury Recovery Not Going As Well As Expected? Scoop from an Inside Source

~

Ilya paces for the first hour. Maybe it’s excessive, but the second Shane walked out that door, Ilya knew he was a fool. He never should have let Shane convince him he could go alone. Montreal is full of bastards. Bastards who don’t understand a good thing when it skates in front of their face and hands them two Cups.

The sinking feeling in Ilya’s stomach tells him this meeting will not go well. It will not go well, and Ilya’s boyfriend—who has spent the past week half of a breath from a panic attack at all times—will be alone.

Shane is precious. Ilya’s treasure. Every day, Ilya feels so grateful that Shane lets him in like this. Lets him see the scared, broken parts of himself that he hides behind his media mask. Shane’s vulnerability, offered so shyly, is the exact reason Ilya can be vulnerable. This past week has broken Ilya’s heart, but also made him happier, more secure in their relationship than ever before.

And he let Shane go to the rink alone.

Three separate times, Ilya opens his phone to call an Uber. They drove up together, so there’s no extra car like at the cottage. He could always call a car though, hover outside, or better yet force his way into the rink and tuck Shane safely behind him.

Three separate times, Ilya closes out of the app and returns to check out the window. He can’t risk going and missing Shane in a strange twist of fate. So he paces instead.

When Ilya gets tired of pacing, he drags one of Shane’s kitchen chairs to the big window overlooking the parking lot. That way he can see the exact moment his boyfriend arrives. Maybe Ilya will run out to meet him, sweep him into his arms.

Except, Ilya almost misses his arrival all together. The car that pulls into the lot is unfamiliar, not the sturdy, boring Jeep they took from the cottage. A red BMW stops right outside their door. A surprisingly sexy car, though Ilya owns better. And then Shane Hollander climbs out of the passenger seat.

Even from a distance, Ilya knows something is wrong. Shane moves with none of his usual leonine grace, none of that steady surety in what to expect from the world. Instead, he’s jerky, stilted, body lagging like it's taking too long for his brain to send orders. Objectively, Ilya should not be able to tell so much from so far away. But almost half his life has been spent watching this man. Making a study of Shane Hollander, every quirk and tic and beautiful freckle. He could be a mile away and still tell that Shane’s breathing is off.

Ilya’s stomach drops.

He jogs across the apartment, stuffing his feet into slides and yanking open the door. The stairs are faster than the elevator. Either Shane really is moving that slow, or Farah stops him to talk, because Ilya reaches the front door at the same time.

Shane steps inside. The healthy flush left on his cheeks after the morning blowjob is nowhere to be seen. His boyfriend is pale, eyes reddened, hunched in on himself. Ilya hates it. Wants to walk right past him out the door, march over to Montreal management, and beat them with his bare hands.

Their eyes meet, and Shane slumps further. “Ilya,” Shane whispers. He sounds exhausted.

“Come here, dorogoy,” Ilya tells him. He opens his arms. Shane hesitates for only a second. Then he drags his feet until his head thumps against Ilya’s chest.

Ilya wraps him in a hug, squeezing tight. Shane goes so syrupy sweet, when Ilya provides that deep pressure. They’ve never talked about it, but Ilya bought him a weighted blanket years ago for when they have to be apart. Ilya squeezes and sways back and forth. Shane melts.

When Shane stops trembling, Ilya noses at his hair. He can smell sweat, and the barest edge of sickness. His stomach drops further. Ilya leans back, just enough to get his thumb and index finger on Shane’s chin. He tilts his head up, and dips down like he means to claim Shane’s lips.

Shane turns his head away. “Sorry, um. I need to brush my teeth.”

“Sweetheart,” Ilya breathes. In his chest, his heart twists, an aching, painful thing. “You threw up?”

“Must have eaten something bad,” Shane lies. He looks a breath away from crying. Ilya lets him pretend and pulls him over to the elevator.

Back in the apartment, Ilya herds Shane to the bathroom. Hovers obnoxiously while he brushes his teeth. As soon as he rinses, Ilya claims a kiss. Makes it slow and sweet, comfort tangled with love wrapped in care. Shane’s mouth is minty fresh, desperately clinging to Ilya. When Ilya leans back, he peppers kisses over Shane’s face. His cheeks, his chin, his hairline, the bridge of his nose, the arch of each eyebrow. He doesn’t stop until Shane snorts a tiny laugh.

“What happened?” Ilya finally asks.

Shane directs his gaze to their feet. Clearly trying to hide his expression. But Ilya can see the tremble of his lip in the bathroom mirror. The juddering lump in his boyfriend’s throat as he swallows. “I, uh.” Ilya drags a hand up Shane’s back, firm and sure. “I think I lied to JJ.”

Ilya frowns. “What?

“Sorry,” Shane whispers. And then louder, unsteady, “Sorry, I, um. I don’t know how to say it.”

“It was bad?” Ilya offers, quietly.

Shane nods, a jerky thing. “Really bad. They, um,” Shane hesitates. His rib cage expands against Ilya’s hand with his deep gasping breath. “They said I can either agree to a trade or they’ll put me on waivers.”

Ilya freezes. For one long, stretching moment, he’s speechless. The words are so idiotic, so unbelievable, that Ilya can’t comprehend them. “Waivers?” he repeats, aghast. “Shane Hollander on waivers?” When Shane only nods, Ilya curses. Vicious and graphic, in a mix of Boston-flavored English and angry Russian. “Are they fucking idiots? Shane fucking Hollander, best player in league, on waivers because he sucks dick?”

“Ilya–” Shane tries.

“Nyet,” Ilya cuts him off. “You will not defend them. They are morons. Metros are nothing without you. You built this fucking team, handed them two Cups and they want you to leave?”

“They said I’m a liability,” Shane says quietly. “That I got myself hurt, because I’m too distracted by you on the ice.”

Ilya snarls. He wasn’t, in fact, aware that he could make a noise like that. “That is–” English fails him. “That is the stupidest fucking thing I have ever heard,” Ilya spits in Russian. “We know the stats, you play your best hockey against me. You were checking where I was so I couldn’t steal the fucking puck! And they think, what, that you were too busy thinking about fucking me, so you let Marlow crush you against the boards? Are you supposed to have eyes on the side of your head?”

Shane curls forward, tucks his forehead against the bend of Ilya’s neck. Despite the fury coursing through his veins, Ilya holds him gently, tenderly. Scratches his nails lightly against Shane’s scalp. “We will not let them put you on waivers,” Ilya promises in English.

“Okay,” Shane mumbles. His voice is so listless, so defeated.

Guilt tries to swallow Ilya whole. This, he knows, is the reason Shane didn’t want to come out. The reason he wanted to wait for retirement in his original plan. And yet Shane did it anyway, for Ilya’s sake.

No. No, Ilya will not feel guilty about this. Will not feel guilty about loving the most important person in his life, about being a normal fucking boyfriend even if the rest of the world doesn’t understand. There is no one that can take this away from them. Not their relationship, not their careers, and not all of their fucking achievements.

Ilya… has an idea.

He thinks he knows what Shane needs, after all these years, but he asks anyway. “What do you need, moy lyubimyy?”

For a long moment, Shane says nothing. And then he sighs. “Will you, um… get me out of my head?”

Yes, Ilya knows his boyfriend very well.

“Of course, sweetheart,” Ilya purrs. He bends his knees and hikes Shane up into his arms in one easy movement.

“Shit!” Shane gasps. Already, there’s more life in his voice than there has been since he got home. “What the fuck? Put me down!”

“No,” Ilya tells him. Shane is heavy, thick with muscle and off-season bulking. But Ilya is strong. They can both do this, lift each other, throw each other around. Being a professional athlete is good for something, at least.

Shane grumbles, but doesn’t start really protesting until Ilya carries him past the bed. “What? Where are we going?”

Ilya grunts. Did he mention Shane is fucking heavy? Especially when he squirms? “Stop moving,” Ilya complains. “Or only action your ass gets is from floor. Very different wood.”

“Fuck off,” Shane snaps. But he stops moving at least.

The door to Shane’s trophy room is cracked. Ilya nudges it fully open with his foot. He went in here earlier, partially out of nosiness, and partially to prepare for this eventuality. The wide leather chair Shane keeps by the window has been moved closer to his trophies. His Stanley Cup replicas, his medals, his award plaques. Ilya positioned things so that the back of the chair faces all of his achievements. Even better, he left himself a bottle of lube and a towel tucked away.

“Why–?” Shane starts.

But then Ilya carefully drops into the chair. Shane’s hands fly out to grab the back for balance. He’s left straddling Ilya’s lap, in the perfect position to see all the fruits of his labors. All the years of hard work, talent, focus. Staring back at him, a reminder of just who he is.

“You are Shane fucking Hollander,” Ilya says tenderly. Shane’s not looking at him, eyes locked on his trophies, his awards. Ilya strokes the back of his fingers along Shane’s cheek. Exactly where the bruise had been in April. Exactly where Ilya has kissed once, twice, a million times. Exactly where he will kiss again, mapping freckles like they are his only way home. “You are second best hockey player in entire league. You won back-to-back Stanley Cups, Rookie of the Year, the Hart, and so many other awards I don’t remember the name of. You will win so many more, you will need second room. Will you forget this? Will they make you forget?”

Before Ilya’s very eyes, Shane’s jaw firms. A spark of fire, of anger, behind those beautiful dark lashes. Yes, that is the look Ilya wants. The one he craves, crouched over center ice. The ferocious hunger that so many choose to ignore in favor of Canadian politeness.

“No,” Shane says. And then, again, louder, surer, “No. I won’t forget. I’m…” Shane pauses. He rolls his eyes and finally gives in. “I’m Shane fucking Hollander.”

“Yes!” Ilya cheers. He cranes his neck to kiss the point of Shane’s chin. “My boyfriend is very talented, and very sexy, and whole world knows this.”

Shane laughs. He leans down to kiss Ilya’s forehead. “Thank you,” he says. “No, seriously. Thank you, for not letting me forget.”

“Anything for you,” Ilya says, the truth his universe spins around. But any more sincerity risks turning them both maudlin. He slaps Shane’s ass instead, and revels in his yelp. “But if you really want to say thanks, you will ride my dick.”

“Here?” Shane demands, scandalized. “We don’t even have–”

Ilya dangles a hand over the chair and emerges with a bottle of lube. “Yes, we do.”

“You planned this,” Shane accuses. He looks so cute when he’s annoyed.

Ilya shrugs. “I know you, Shane. I know what you need.”

Shane softens. The love in his eyes should be a banned substance, given the strength of the high it ignites in Ilya. “You do.” He kisses Ilya, sweet with just a bit of bite.

“Take off your clothes,” Ilya tells him, lowly. “And do not take your eyes off of your trophies.”

Shane swallows. Presses a hand to the bulge at the front of his shorts. And he listens.

~

Hockey is for Everyone: And Why I’m Starting to Believe It

Injury, Image, Legacy: Let’s Call Montreal’s Silence What It Is—Homophobia

The Irina Foundation: Update on Montreal Camp

Why is the Response to Hollander-Rozanov So Different from Scott Hunter? I’ll Give You One Guess.

Hollanov Cheating Scandal: What About Rose Landry?

~

In the week leading up to Shane’s second meeting with Montreal, his entire life rearranges itself.

Farah calls the next day and Ilya shamelessly joins in. Since the previous afternoon, when Shane almost shattered apart, Ilya has hardly let him out of arm’s reach. Maybe Shane should feel smothered. Instead, he’s painfully grateful. Farah outlines Shane’s options, which, frankly, aren’t many.

“If they really did put you on waivers, we could file a discrimination suit,” Farah argues. “We have documentation that you’re fully recovered from your injury, regardless of what rumors the media team is pushing.”

“I don’t want to sue them,” Shane says, for what feels like the millionth time. “If I sue them, there’s no team in their right mind that would be willing to sign me.”

Farah huffs, and Ilya pinches his thigh, but she drops the idea. “Your best option is a trade then. I put out some subtle feelers, asked my contacts who would be interested, so you know your options.”

“Does it matter?” Shane asks. “Players don’t usually get a say in where they’re traded.” The thought terrifies him. That was the entire point of his NTC, to avoid the chance of his life being uprooted on a whim.

“This is a unique situation,” Farah explains. “We have all the leverage. If we want to waive the clause for one or two specific teams, we can do that. Essentially, we can choose where you go. I don’t think the Metros GM will protest much, if it means getting something for you instead of nothing.”

“Okay,” Shane breathes. Ilya presses a kiss behind his ear. “Who’s interested then? Did they get back to you?”

“Yes,” Farah says. “So far, I’ve heard that LA would be open to trading one of their second year defensemen and their backup goalie.” Shane blinks, because LA is a serious Cup contender. They’ve dominated the Western Conference the past few years. Shane defeated them for his first Cup. While they don’t have a star center, they’re a well-rounded team. “I’ve also heard interest from Vancouver and Chicago.” Two teams that tend to hover in the middle of the rankings. Shane could probably bring them into serious playoff contention next season, if the team chemistry is good.

But…

They’re all far. Far from Boston, far from Ilya. And Shane knows that they don’t have the cap space for another star center next summer. LA would be better, because at least California has multiple teams, but Ilya doesn’t want American citizenship. Calgary and Edmonton are a minimum ten hour drive from Vancouver. None of those are ideal.

Farah must understand his expression over video call, because she smiles. “And,” she finishes, “I’ve heard definite interest from Ottawa. They have a new coach starting this year. I don’t have a name yet, but rumor is he mentioned your name. They’d be willing to part with their draft pick and at least one vet. I think Williamson is planning to retire after this season as well.”

Oh. That’s…

Shane’s heart races. Ilya draws a slow circle on the side of his thumb. It feels almost too perfect. There could even be space for Ilya, next year. Too perfect, if Shane ignores the fact that Ottawa is the worst team in the Conference. There would be no playoffs next year, not even if Shane played the best hockey of his life. He would be building a team from the ground up again.

“Why don’t you two talk it over and get back to me?” Farah offers.

Ilya nudges Shane until they’re sitting on opposite ends of the couch, their feet pressed together. “Tell me what you are thinking, moy lyubimyy.”

“Ottawa would be…” Shane pauses. “Perfect, in terms of the next step in our plan. When you’re a free agent, you could maybe even–” He cuts himself off, too afraid to jinx it.

“Da,” Ilya says. He pushes his feet more firmly into Shane’s. “But it would be sacrifice, for you.”

Shane blinks. “I don’t–”

Ilya shakes his head, “No, do not pretend. Ottawa will not win Cup next year. LA, Vancouver, Chicago… you could have real chance.”

“I know,” Shane admits. He swallows.

Ilya looks at him steadily. “You know I would never ask you to give up your career. You are a good player. You deserve–”

“That’s not fair, though,” Shane interrupts. “In our original plan, you were going to try to get yourself signed to Ottawa anyway.”

Ilya shrugs. “Yes, but is different for me. I love hockey, love winning, but… nowhere near as much as I love you.”

Shane flinches, stung. He pushes back on Ilya’s feet, roughly, like he’s trying to prove a point. “That’s not fair,” he says again quietly. “Do you think I don’t love you more than hockey?”

Ilya’s expression cracks. He tries to smooth over the edges, but it’s too late. Shane has seen. And he aches for it. Aches for the way he can tell Ilya how much he matters time after time, and still be faced with this disbelief. Shane draws his knees up to his chest to better crawl into Ilya’s lap. Shane places his palms on Ilya’s cheeks. Tilts his face until their eyes are locked together. “Listen to me,” he says, very seriously. “I love hockey. Hockey has been my life for so long, since I was a kid. I want to play until my knees give out and I can’t hold a stick.” Shane takes a deep breath. Makes sure Ilya’s listening. “I love you more. I would choose you, every time. I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you, Ilya.” Shane’s voice cracks.

Ilya’s eyes well up, wet, raw, torn open. “Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya croaks.

After that, the meeting with Crowell is… unpleasant. Shane gets the sense that it would have been worse without Farah there with the silent threat of a lawsuit. Crowell tries to convince them to tell the world it was all a prank, but Farah shuts that down so quickly it barely registers. Every time he insinuates something about professionalism or distracting from hockey, Farah responds viciously enough that he abandons the argument.

Frankly, all Shane and Ilya need to do is sit quietly and let her work. She ties them explicitly to the league’s response to Scott Hunter, which makes Crowell faintly purple, and then casually reminds him that any attempt at censure is an easy lawsuit in the making. Shane walks out fairly certain that he would have bungled that meeting without Farah, and set both of them up for retaliation down the line. While Crowell doesn’t promise any type of endorsement, he also won’t be leveling any type of punishment. Can’t, without walking back their already public support of Hunter.

Shane will take what he can get.

They decide to spend the entire intervening week in Montreal. Even though they would both rather be at the cottage, it seems silly to keep going back and forth. Shane doesn’t mind as much as he thought he would. He has Ilya with him, and that softens any blow.

The day before Shane’s second meeting with the Metros, his mom FaceTimes them both. “Are you ready for tomorrow, honey?” she asks.

Shane shrugs, “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

His mom took Montreal’s reaction hard. Her entire life, she’s rooted for the Metros. On draft day, Shane made her dreams come true by signing with her favorite team. And now…

Shane tried to say it was okay, he wouldn’t be offended if she kept cheering them on. But his mom looked at him like he was insane. After the way they were treating him, she told him, they should count themselves lucky that she wasn’t constructing a pyre in the backyard.

Even though Shane said it didn’t matter, he can’t deny the glow in his chest. At the end of the day, he wants his mom to be on his side. To be cheering for him. And she is. No matter how many drastic changes and reveals Shane has sprung on her these past few months, she’s on his side no matter what.

His choice of new team doesn’t hurt matters either.

“It’ll be fine,” she says. “I wanted to talk to you both, though. About the hockey camps.”

Shane winces. Now that she brings it up, he’s annoyed with himself for forgetting. Initially, they didn’t plan for any impact of their coming out on the camps, besides maybe a bit more media attention and fewer students, but now that Shane won’t be playing for Montreal…

“Boston camp is first, yes?” Ilya checks. As if he isn’t the one who argued that order, specifically so that he and Shane could go straight to the cottage following the Montreal camp.

“Yes,” she says warily.

“Then maybe we worry after tomorrow,” Ilya decides. “We can try to move second camp to Shane’s new city.”

“That will definitely impact the budget,” she says. “Considering a last minute location change and lodging for the coaches and equipment rentals–”

Ilya rolls his eyes. He makes the gesture fond, at least. Shane would never be allowed to get away with that, but Yuna just smiles. “Is okay,” Ilya responds. “If we need extra money, I sell one of my sports cars. Will be hard, but I will take picture to remember it by.”

Shane smacks him. “You’re not selling your cars,” he protests. “I might hate them, but they’re important to you. Besides, do you have any idea how much sponsorship revenue I generate yearly? I think we’ll be fine.”

“Mr. Sponsorships,” Ilya teases. “Mr. Millionnaire Rich Man. Very sexy.”

“Ilya!” Shane gapes at him. “My mom is–”

Laughing, apparently. Eyes crinkled up with humor, almost cackling in a way Shane wants to hide from.

Everyone is against him.

The next morning, his thought is proven right. His ringing phone wakes them both at an ungodly hour. Shane fumbles at his nightstand.

“Please, make it stop,” Ilya whines into his chest. His Russian is slurred, sleepy.

“I’m trying,” Shane replies.

He squints at the screen, until he realizes it’s Hayden. To Ilya’s dismay, he picks up the call. “Hayd? Is something wrong?”

“Shane!” Hayden says. He sounds worried and very, very wide awake. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t realize what time it was. I’ve been up with Amber for hours dude.”

“Tell Pike it is too early to hear about his million children,” Ilya complains.

“Tell Rozanov to shut up,” Hayden says immediately. Ilya is pretty close to the speaker after all, given his position on Shane’s chest.

“Can you two not?” Shane begs. “Seriously, Hayden. What’s going on?”

Hayden’s voice sobers. “One of the rookies reached out to me and JJ last night. Royce.”

Shane’s stomach curdles. He feels abruptly awake. “Okay?”

“Apparently,” Hayden continues. He sounds surprisingly bitter. It’s not a tone Shane is used to hearing from his best friend. “The rest of the guys got sick of me and JJ defending you in the main chat. They created a separate groupchat, with everyone except me, you, and JJ.”

“Fuck,” Shane groans. He rubs a hand down his face.

“I will kill them,” Ilya spits. Unfortunately, the conversation was enough to force them both awake.

“For once, I agree with you Rozanov,” Hayden says. “Royce told me not all of the younger guys agree with the likes of Comeau and Drapeau, but they aren’t exactly comfortable speaking up.”

“Of course not,” Shane dismisses. It’s nice to hear, though. That not everyone he trusted on the team hates him entirely. Shane knows he’s not the most sociable, even if thinks he does a good job as captain. While he might not party with them all, or might be just a bit too awkward to have gotten close, he does pour a lot of time into rookie development. Royce, in particular, he’d come in early to practice with several times this season.

Ilya makes a face like he disagrees, but at least he stays silent.

“Anyway…” Hayden trails off. Then he speaks all in a rush, “They’re going to ambush you today.”

“What?” Shane blinks. “Like, jump me?” Along his side, Ilya stiffens. Shane recognizes the dangerous tilt of his head from the ice, right before he drops gloves.

“Not technically,” Hayden tries. But he sounds pissed. “They do plan on confronting you in the locker room after your meeting though, and having it out.” After a beat, he adds, “They clearly didn’t want me and JJ there. They have to know we wouldn’t stand for it.”

Both JJ and Hayden were devastated to hear about the ultimatum Shane was given. JJ treated him to at least five minutes of graphic French swearing, before pulling him in for a surprising hug. Hayden looked so sad that Jackie checked him for a fever.

Shane drops his head back onto his pillow. Exhausted, he pinches the bridge of his nose. It was too much to hope for, clearly, to get out of any real confrontation from the Metros. He knows Ilya blocked several of their numbers following a slew of rude messages, but Shane didn’t even read them. Of course, they want to make sure he knows exactly what they think of him.

“Thanks for the heads up, Hayd,” Shane finally says. “Maybe if I let them get it out of their system, they won’t be total assholes to play next season.”

“You’re still going to go?” Hayden demands.

“Not exactly a meeting I can skip,” Shane says ruefully. “And I need to clean out my locker anyway.”

Hayden groans. “Fine,” he complains. “But I’m calling JJ.” Then he hangs up.

“I’m coming with you,” Ilya tells him. From his tone, Shane knows he’s not budging on this. And honestly, Shane doesn’t really want him to.

Last time, he came out of that practice rink wrecked in more ways than one. It would have been beyond nice for Ilya to have been waiting for him there. Instead, Shane had to suffer an entire car ride before he was safe in his boyfriend’s arms.

“Fine, but you’re waiting in the car.” Then he amends, “Or outside of the car at least, it’s too hot to sit inside without it running.”

“Perfect,” Ilya says and kisses the tip of his nose.

With Farah on his side, Montreal management agrees to his trade terms without a fuss. Collier looks at him like he’s insane, when he hears in person which team Shane is willing to be traded to, but he gets the other GM on the phone. Once Shane made his decision several days ago, Farah spent all week coordinating with both team offices. It’s not like this is a surprise to anybody. That means it all happens faster than Shane knows what to do with.

In less than an hour, he walks out of Collier’s office and he’s no longer a Metro. It’s… surreal. Shane will definitely be having feelings about it, later tonight. But for now, he shakes Farah’s hand outside the locker room and wishes her a nice weekend. Once she’s turned the corner, Shane closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. His last time, stepping into this locker room. He’ll return to the city as an enemy.

Might as well find out how much of one.

When Shane pushes open the door, he finds that 16 members of the 23 person roster are waiting for him. Conversation immediately quiets.

Hayden and JJ are there, arms crossed and clearly pissed. They’ve taken up positions in front of Shane’s locker, like they’re trying to protect his gear. Good friends, Shane thinks absently. Everyone else looks poised to attack.

Gilbert Comeau and Patrice Drapeau are dressed down in Metros gear and shorts. Most of the team is actually. They’ve chosen to sit on a bench toward the center of the locker room, facing the door. Shane scans the room, sees Couillard, Berkes, and Gagnon. Laine and Roy are standing by their lockers. Royce is there, along with two other rookies that look nervous. Shane notes that Miitka isn’t here, though maybe he just wasn’t willing to travel from Finland. He doesn’t let himself hope that any of the other absent players are on his side.

“I must have missed the memo about a team meeting,” Shane says, voice flat. “Funny, I thought captains were responsible for scheduling those.”

“You’re not our captain any fucking longer, Hollander,” Comeau spits. Then he crosses his arms. “And thank god for that. I don’t follow orders from a faggot.”

The word lands in the room like a boulder. Hardly the first time Shane’s heard it, and not the first time in his direction either. The first time that the person saying it knows it’s accurate though, and maybe that makes it feel different.

But Shane doesn’t flinch. He thought, before this, that he would. But he doesn’t. Instead, he looks around the room again. At these men he viewed as extended family, who might as well be strangers. He sees both JJ and Hayden jolt forward.

“Don’t you fucking–” Hayden starts.

Shane holds up a hand to stop them. They settle, clearly reluctant.

“Well, Gil,” Shane says mildly. “I hate to break it you, but you’ve been following a faggot’s orders for the past five seasons.” Ever since Shane got the C.

Comeau’s face flushes red. But it’s Gagnon who speaks next. “Whatever, you’re gay. Kind of weird and I don’t love it,” he says generously. “But why are you fucking Rozanov? Do you give up team secrets when he sucks your dick?”

There’s a general murmur of agreement. Apparently, even Metros aren’t as quick to throw themselves behind a slur as they are accusations of cheating. How lovely.

“Ilya and I have never shared any information about strategies or games. We keep hockey and our relationship separate,” Shane says.

“Bullshit,” Drapeau snaps. “You expect us to believe that crap?”

Shane swallows. He wonders at the fact that his voice is steady, his palms dry. “I don’t give a shit if you believe it, because it’s the truth.” He looks around the room again. Does it help, that he’s staying calm in the face of their vitriol? No, probably not. “Go ahead, say the rest of it,” Shane dares. “I’d rather air this shit now, than on the ice next season.”

“How many games did you guys throw?” Royce calls out. Shane glances at him quickly and sees it for the chance it is.

“None. Next?”

“Word is you got yourself hurt because you were too distracted by your boyfriend,” Drapeau sneers. “Decided to tank our playoff chances just like that? Give Rozanov a chance for another Cup?”

A week out, the accusation makes him angrier. Shane debates letting it show, but decides on rolling his eyes. He doesn’t want to give Drapeau the satisfaction. “Right,” he says flatly instead. “Because only gay people get checked in hockey. Remind me how many of you got a concussion at least once last season? Oh wait, you don’t have to, because it was my job to know as your captain. Berkes, Laine–”

“That wasn’t the fucking question,” Berkes protests.

“No,” Shane clarifies. “I didn’t get hurt on purpose, and I didn’t get hurt because I was distracted. I don’t actually have eyes in the back of my head. Next?”

“Enough with this fucking press conference shit!” Comeau shouts. He slams his fist on the bench. The sound of it echoes. Shane keeps his flinch as subtle as he can. Tucks his hands into his pockets to make the movement look intentional. “We were your fucking team, and you fucking lied to us for years! What the fuck do you have to say for yourself?”

Shane straightens. He’s thought about this one. Talked about it with Ilya, with Rose, and briefly and awkwardly, with Scott Hunter. “I don’t consider it lying,” he says softly. “My sexual orientation is my business. Are you saying everyone who doesn’t come out is a liar?”

“You–”

“But with fucking Rozanov–”

“And,” Shane continues, raising his voice to be heard, “you expect me to trust you all with that information when this is how you react?” He catches as many of their eyes as he can. “We’re supposed to be a team. A family. And I knew none of you would have my back.” Except for Hayden and JJ, he amends mentally. But that would maybe lessen the impact.

The room falls silent. Shane doesn’t kid himself. None of the guys look remorseful or guilty outside of the rookies. The best expression he sees is uncomfortable, compared to open disgust and anger.

But honestly, why is Shane even wasting his time? Five months ago, he thought he would at least finish his contract out in Montreal. Five years ago, he thought he would retire here. Now, Shane realizes he’s done. Done with this team, with this management, with this treatment. Honestly, most of the fans have been okay, outside of a few outraged at the Rozanov of it all. Shane will be sorry to leave them. But the rest of it…

“I think we’re done here,” Shane says into the silence. He strides purposefully toward his locker. JJ and Hayden let him through, with Hayden clasping his shoulder and JJ turning his glare to the room. Shane’s methodical, tossing everything into two duffel bags. He’s careful when he peels his photos off the back. One with his parents, one with the Pike kids. Next season, he’ll have one of Ilya. Fuck what anyone else says.

“That’s it, we’re just ‘done’?” Drapeau demands.

Shane straightens. He turns, both duffels in one hand. He levels Drapeau with a blank stare. “Yeah, we’re done. I don’t know if you heard, but I’m not a Metro anymore. Your opinions don’t matter.”

Drapeau takes a step back. Shane makes it almost the rest of the way to the door, Hayden and JJ on each shoulder, before Comeau calls after him. His voice is nasty, provoking. “I’m glad, Hollander. Now I can stop worrying about you stealing a look in the shower.”

Shane thinks about leaving it. But it’s like he can hear Ilya’s voice in his head, whispering exactly what he should say instead. He turns. “I don’t know if you noticed, Gil,” Shane says. “But I’m dating Ilya fucking Rozanov. You think I have any interest in looking at you?” He flicks his eyes down Comeau’s body, quick and pointed.

“You fucking–” Comeau starts forward, but Shane is already out the door.

JJ cackles as soon as they hit the hallway. “Putain de merde!” JJ bends at the waist. “Hollzy, what was that?”

Hayden starts laughing too. “Honestly, I’m with JJ. What the hell, Shane?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Shane deflects. Heat rushes to his cheeks.

“Capitaine,” JJ says. “In all our years playing together, I have never heard you chirp. Or I guess, I have not heard you chirp well.”

Shane wonders if he should be offended. But they stood by him today. He can give them this. “Promise not to laugh?” When they both nod, Shane sighs. “I practiced with Ilya,” he admits. “I didn’t want to sound like an idiot in there, or panic. So he pretended to be an asshole and made me practice responding.”

“He doesn’t need to pretend,” Hayden mutters.

“Damn,” JJ looks at him, admiring. “Maybe he is not all bad, if Rozanov can get you chirping like that.”

“I’ll have you know, that last one was all me,” Shane protests. “Really, like Comeau would ever be my type?” He smiles. “I’d have to wear my glasses.”

Hayden coughs. JJ laughs so hard he has to sit down.

Yeah. Maybe coming out isn’t going exactly the way Shane hoped it would. Maybe it means change and goodbyes and terrifying new beginnings.

But, as he exits the Montreal practice rink with JJ and Hayden for the last time and sees Ilya pacing the lot, Shane thinks he hasn’t lost anything that matters. Everything he loves, he’s holding onto.

After all…

He’s Shane fucking Hollander.

~

Breaking News: Shane Hollander, Former Captain of Montreal Metros, Waives No-Trade Clause

Did Montreal Just Ruin Their Chance at a Dynasty? Yes, Or At Least, These Metros Fans Think So

Bringing the Focus Back to Hockey: How the Hollander Trade will Revitalize Montreal

Behind the Net reports: Anonymous Source Says ‘Toxic’ Metros Locker Room

Coming Out and Coming Home: Ottawa Welcomes Hometown Hero, Shane Hollander

~

Chapter End Notes

Please excuse any inaccuracies with the Hockey of it all. I spent a while on forums and NHL websites for a lot of this information, but please suspend your disbelief!

And yes... the entirety of this fic has been plotted this whole time. The way I cracked myself up with JJ's dialogue last chapter... I have been Planting Seeds. I hope you all enjoyed, and that this wasn't a bad surprise!

Next chapter is the last 'plot' heavy chapter. Our final chapter is more of an epilogue. I'm so excited to finish this fic and share two of the scenes that inspired the sequel in the first place!

Chapter 12

Chapter Summary

Step 8: Retire
Step 8: Free Agency for Ilya

... part 1

Chapter Notes

Hi again and welcome back! I hope you all survived the ao3 shutdown okay. It brought me back to Ye Olde Days, when ao3 was down basically every other month. Thank god we're back though, because I still don't know how to handle it even after all this time.

As you probably noticed, our chapter count went up again. I was apparently a fool to think I could force this chapter to stay one part. Please know I was very, very determined, but I hit 12k and still had two major scenes, so I surrendered. More than 12k just felt too bulky for one chapter. That means the scene I practically wrote this entire fic for is next chapter rather than this one, but it's fine! I ended up loving this chapter, and I hope you all do too.

As always, all mistakes are my own. Thank you for all of your kudos and amazing comments. I read them all, and sometimes get very emotional. Someone even followed me here from my other (possibly neglected but who's to say) WIPs in other fandoms, which makes me feel insanely grateful. Seriously, this fandom is so kind and supportive of its authors. I appreciate you all so much.

Just a quick note on the timeline with SPOILERS ahead for The Long Game. Because this fic takes place in 2017-18, we have pretty limited information on who would be on the Centaurs at this time. There are some people that just aren't there yet. I did take some creative liberty with two characters who I really, really wanted to be there, and hopefully you guys can forgive me my in-fic justification.

Also, while I have read The Long Game, I've been too hyperfixated on writing this fic to read Role Model yet. If any of my characterizations are wonky from the limited source material I've consumed, my apologies! I might come back and fix it once I finally get around to reading Role Model.

Sorry, for the essay. Enjoy!

Step 8: Retire
Step 8: Free Agency for Ilya
~

Early Fall 2017

The first day of practice, Ilya arrives early to the rink. He heads for LeClaire’s office and accepts his handshake.

“Alright then, Rozanov?” LeClaire asks. For all that his tone is casual, his eyes are scrutinizing, intense, looking for cracks Ilya couldn’t patch.

Except, frankly, there are none to see. Beyond what Ilya has lived with since he was 12, Ilya feels… content, happy. After Shane officially signed with Ottawa, they went back to the cottage. Just the two of them. Long, syrupy summer days. And, in a new wonderful twist, Ilya got to spend time with the older, cooler Hollanders as well. Shane and Ilya even went into town together to get groceries.

The media outreach never stopped. Yuna and Farah sent select press outlets a few carefully worded statements, but they decided not to sit for an interview. It was hard enough to abandon the cottage for a few days when Shane’s sponsorships came calling.

No. Summer was for them. If the rest of the league burned down in their absence, so be it. It wasn’t Ilya or Shane’s job to hold their hand. Queer people exist, big deal. Ilya thinks the real story is how fucking hot they both are.

“All good, Coach,” Ilya says. And he means it.

LeClaire clears his throat. He, somehow, sounds even more awkward when he adds, “Damn stupid thing Montreal did. Hope your boy is alright.”

Ilya smiles. By the look on LeClaire’s face, there must be something wrong with his expression. As if even the mention of Shane softens him unrecognizably. Ilya fights to don his usual cocky neutrality. “He will be okay. Montreal though…” Ilya bares his teeth. “We will destroy them.”

“Damn fucking right, Captain,” LeClaire says. He claps Ilya on the shoulder.

Since Ilya didn’t attend the development camp, LeClaire and the other assistant coaches spend the next few hours catching him up on new additions and line breakdowns. Most of the lineup is the same, though they’re planning to trial a rookie on third line right wing. None of the other coaches mention Shane, or Ilya’s very public coming out. There are a few assessing looks, but that’s all. Ilya can’t decide if Boston really doesn’t care, or if they all met prior to his arrival and got told to stay in their lane.

The real test, of course, is not the coaches. Ilya believes they will be professional, since that’s what Maguire and LeClaire expect. But the rest of the guys…

Cliff has been Ilya’s inside man. He swears that the overall reaction was confused, surprised, and relatively unbothered. Though Cliff never says so, Ilya has the sinking suspicion that Cliff took care of anyone who didn’t fall in those three categories. Which is only his job as Alternate if Ilya squints.

But now, he gets to see for himself. To judge whether he’ll be winning the Cup this year alone, or with a team behind him.

Ilya pushes into the locker room.

As usual, the room is a wall of sound. Players getting changed into their gear and talking shit, half the room shirtless and distracted by whatever dumb conversation they started. A stream of water from someone’s water bottle misses its target and hits a rookie in the face. When Ilya enters, at least half turn to watch and the sound level dips. He scans their faces.

Blatant curiosity, wariness, neutrality, amusement. A whole spectrum of emotions, but no disgust, at least. Ilya meets Cliff’s gaze across the room. Cliff rolls his eyes. The noise in the room climbs back to deafening in a way that’s almost determined, overeager.

Stupid hockey boys, Ilya thinks, rueful and grateful all in one.

“Okay!” Ilya calls over the din. He claps his hands. “Okay, assholes, listen up!”

For all that they clearly practiced feigning nonchalance, the locker room quiets eerily fast. Ilya strides into the middle of the benches, center stage. Maybe someone else would feel intimidated, in this position. But Ilya stands here every game. Has stood here during the Stanley Cup finals, demanding a win from this team, for this city. The weight of captaincy, of responsibility is familiar. And Ilya isn’t ashamed. Isn’t scared or nervous about his teammates’ opinions. If they want to think trash about him, they can think trash about him. They won’t have time to keep thinking it for long, considering the work needed this season.

“You are listening?” Ilya checks. A few of the younger guys nod obediently. Adorable. “Good.”

“You assholes all got my text, yes? Saw my very exciting and surprising announcement?” Ilya asks. Victor rolls his eyes and Connors scoffs. “I just wanted to check, because it was small news. Very small, no media coverage at all.”

That earns him a few laughs. Even some of the older vets—Sebbin and Varkov, the most neutral expressions of the bunch—crack. Ilya forges on. “Shane,” he starts and watches the name ripple across their faces. As if they thought he would shy away, pretend to a distance the two of them so thoroughly eradicated, “Thinks I should let you ask questions. ‘Clear air’ or some stupid English phrase.” Ilya glances around the room, half-turns to make eye contact with every player who dares look back. LeClaire leans in the doorway. Face bland, assessing.

“I think this is bullshit,” Ilya says firmly. “I am your fucking captain. In this locker room, on the ice, we are a team. I do not care if you have a problem with me and who I date. You can be a homophobe when you are all alone at home. All alone because you are too big of asshole to pick up women.” Ilya locks eyes with Sebbin and Varkov. “We are here to play fucking hockey and win another Stanley Cup. Do you understand?”

Their expressions shift to something bordering resigned approval. That’s right. Ilya knows his fucking team, knows what the hold-out’s complaints would be. What was Montreal management’s bullshit line? Distract from hockey?

Absolutely not. Ilya has plans for this season, for June. And that means playing the best hockey of his fucking life.

“Yes, Roz,” his team calls.

“I said,” Ilya repeats, louder. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Captain!” And the floor trembles a little.

“The only questions I will answer are hockey questions,” Ilya continues. “All you assholes need to know about my relationship is this. I have loved Shane Hollander since I was a teenager. I will love him until I am old and dead in ground. And I will beat him on the ice every single fucking chance I get. Understood?”

“Yes, Captain!” It’s a little less loud, this time, a little more shocked. Ilya can allow that. This is a side of himself he keeps for Shane, for their small circle of close friends and people. But he doesn’t have to anymore. There is no more hiding, no more secrets. For the first time in his life, Ilya can own who he is in front of the entire fucking world.

Apparently, the Raiders don’t screen for reading or listening comprehension, because just as normal chatter starts to spread, Kane calls out, “Wait, Roz! Did the Metros seriously axe Hollander over being gay or whatever?”

Kane is a third-year defenseman. He’s had a lot of head injuries. Ilya reminds himself to be a generous, kind Captain, and restrains himself to only rolling his eyes rather than rattling Kane’s skull. “I just said hockey questions only, for fuck’s sake.” But it’s too late, because the room is quiet again, curious. “Yes,” Ilya concedes. “Montreal is that fucking stupid. They will say Shane was recovering from injury slower than expected, and Shane is too Canadian to be rude to press, but know that is big fucking lie. When we play Montreal in three months, there will be blood on the ice.”

The room roars. A good handful of the guys look surprisingly pissed off. Cliff and Victor and Connors and Carmichael, the rookies who probably had posters of Shane Hollander on their walls. Good. Ilya is pissed off too, and he’ll be taking his revenge even if Shane won’t.

“Now, can we fucking–” Ilya starts.

But it’s Sebbin that interrupts, this time. And as he speaks, Ilya realizes his problem is not at all Ilya’s sexuality. “Roz, I gotta ask, man. You’re a free agent this summer. You coming back? Or you leaving us for Hollander?”

Complete silence. Even quieter than it was initially. Ilya winces when he sees the dawning realization on their faces. Not many of them had thought that far ahead clearly. Now they are, and they don’t seem to like it.

“Fucking fine,” Ilya snaps. “If you want real speech, I will give real speech Sebby.”

He looks at his teammates. The men he has sweat and bled and screamed with for seven years. The men who watched Ilya become a man. Who held the Cup with him, who fought with him, who cheered him on as he won award after award. Who drank with him and danced with him and threw up doing the bag skates he ordered.

“Boston has been my home for seven fucking years,” Ilya says. His voice is calm, level. “This city is in my bones. This city fucking built me. I love stupid duck boats, terrible drivers, the godawful T, and cannolis from North End. I love TD Garden and I love these fucking fans.” Ilya takes a deep breath and shouts, “I love this fucking team!”

His men, his team, screams back.

Ilya glares at them, hopes they can see the fire in his eyes, hear the ferocious honesty in his voice, feel the spark arcing from his skin. “I do not know what happens next year. I do not fucking care. Part of me will be in Boston always, no matter what.” Ilya snaps the fingers of one hand, makes sure they’re all paying attention. “But listen the fuck up! If this is my last year in Boston, then it will be best year of hockey I ever play. It will be best year of hockey you ever play. If I leave Boston, it will be with another fucking banner in those rafters! We are winning the fucking Cup this year, assholes. Do you understand me?” Ilya doesn’t wait for the response. Only bellows, from deep in his chest, lungs quaking and heart racing, “I said do you fucking understand?”

“Yes, Captain!”

And this, this is what Ilya loves about hockey. Winning is phenomenal, pulling off a tricky shot is lightning in his veins, but this? Rallying a locker room behind him? Bringing together a group of people in pursuit of one goal? This is what Ilya loves.

“Then stop whining and lets play some fucking hockey!” Ilya roars.

He is Ilya fucking Rozanov and he is on top of the fucking world.

~

Shane opens his text thread with Ilya. There, an hour ago, his boyfriend sent, Good luck today, мой любимый.

Shane has already responded, of course. And Ilya must be busy by now, with his own first practice and coaches’ meeting. But Shane needs to read his words again. Remind himself he is loved. That everything will be okay.

Ten minutes to go. Shane shifts behind the steering wheel. Walking into the Centaurs’ practice rink feels like the closing of one chapter. Shane hopes it will be the opening of another.

Shane can’t wait any longer. He climbs out of his car, duffel over one shoulder, and heads for the entrance.

He’s only been to the practice rink once before, to sign his new contract and get his measurements done for his jersey. As a kid, Shane went to plenty of games at CTC, or the Palladium as it was called then. But the practice rink is new territory.

Shane steps into the lobby area and abruptly realizes he has no idea where he’s supposed to be. He received an email about meeting with the new coach prior to practice, as well as with Zane Boodram, the man Shane is stealing the C from and his new Alternate, but… Shane doesn’t know where to find either of those people.

Before he can agonize about it too much, a blond man steps out from a connecting hallway, head down as he taps rapidly at his phone. There’s nothing for it then. “Uh, hello?”

The man jumps. “Jesus!” he spins to face Shane, eyes wide. He’s attractive, and, in a surprisingly encouraging turn of events, wearing a pride pin on his lanyard. Shane wonders if it’s some type of show of support for the new player, or if he’s not as alone in Ottawa as he thought.

“Sorry,” Shane says. “I’m–”

“Shane Hollander,” the man says blankly. Then he blinks. “Sorry, that was rude.” He closes the space between them quickly, holds out a hand. “I’m Harris Drover, intern with the communications department. We’re really happy to have you on the team, Shane! I’ve always been a big fan.” Shane shakes his hand, committing his face to memory. Maybe his nerves are visible, or his eyes linger too long on the pin, because Harris’s smile softens. He taps the rainbow flag with one finger and winks, “A real shame you’re a taken man, but I can still appreciate the scenery.”

Shane flushes, but his shoulders lower. He’s not alone, then. That still feels monumental in the world of hockey. “Could you maybe help me find the coach’s office? I, uh, don’t really know where I’m going yet.”

Harris beams. “Absolutely! I only just started a few weeks ago, so I’m still getting the lay of the land myself.” As he tours Shane around the halls, he keeps up a comforting wave of chatter. Harris is in his senior year at the University of Ottawa, where he studies marketing. He’s doing a part-time internship with the Centaurs to finish up his graduation requirements. “But honestly,” he whispers, like he’s sharing an important secret, “I would love to stay on next year. I’ve always loved hockey, and the Centaurs are a great organization.”

“That would be cool,” Shane says, hoping he sounds earnest rather than awkward.

Harris nods, so Shane must not have done too bad of a job. They spend the rest of the short walk bonding over growing up in Ottawa. They’re far enough apart in age and the city big enough that they never overlapped, but it’s still pleasant. He deposits Shane outside an office still missing its placard. “I’ll see you around, Shane!”

Well, Harris did a good job of distracting him. He barely has time to start worrying again before he knocks on the door.

“Come in!” A voice calls.

Shane takes a deep breath and pushes inside.

Shane’s first impression of Brandon Wiebe is that he’s young. Technically, Shane knew that already. He spent the summer since Wiebe’s hiring watching his old game tapes from his time in the NHL. Still, it feels different to see it in person. Wiebe retired in 2011, but Shane never played a game with him on the ice. It’s strange to look at Wiebe, only 38, and realize that Shane wants to still be playing at his age. Hopes to still be winning Cups, even.

Wiebe smiles, and Shane’s second impression is that he’s… kind. Surprisingly laid-back, at least at first meeting. Theriault almost never smiled at his players, almost never smiled at all. If Shane stretched, he could probably picture Theriault smiling with the Stanley Cup both times, and never again. It seems like Wiebe won’t be like that. Shane didn’t realize he was bracing for a blow until it never came.

They shake hands. “Hollander, it’s a pleasure,” Wiebe says. “You play hockey like it was meant to be played. Watching you makes me wish I was still lacing up my skates.”

Shane ducks his head. “Thank you, Coach. You were a good player.”

Wiebe snorts. “That’s kind of you, but I was nothing special. A handful, more than anything, really. But enough about me. Please, take a seat.”

They both sit. Wiebe studies Shane over the desk, and that is when the third impression hits. Wiebe is… attractive?

Shane knows that he’s gay. Despite the circuitous route he took to get there, Shane can acknowledge that he’s only ever been attracted to men. But… he doesn’t often find random men attractive, as a rule. When he chirped Comeau in the locker room, he wasn’t kidding. Why bother looking at anyone else, when he’s dating one of the hottest men in the league? But something about Brandon Wiebe… Maybe it’s knowing he can hold his own on the ice, maybe it’s the faintest bit of gray starting at his temples…

Ilya can never know. Frankly, Shane wishes he could sink into the floor and forget this realization ever happened.

“I wasn’t planning to start coaching any time soon,” Wiebe says, abruptly. “I’m friendly with Ottawa’s GM, and he’s been on me for almost three years to consider coaching, but I wasn’t interested.” Wiebe snorts. “Not yet at least. I’ve been enjoying retirement and spending time with my family.”

Shane blinks. “That’s, um. Good?” He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say here.

Wiebe shakes his head, “I’m not saying this the right way.” He sighs. “In the spirit of this year, and all the changes the past six months brought the league, I’m going to tell you something personal. Can I trust you to keep it to yourself?”

Shane nods. His pulse picks up, his palms sweat. This meeting has already thrown him off-kilter, on a day he hardly knew what to expect. “Of course, Coach.”

Wiebe nods. Then he tips Shane’s world off its axis. “When I was playing my second season, in Detroit, I had a thing with one of my teammates. It doesn’t matter who, and I’m not going to tell you, but we got drunk and fooled around one night during a road trip and then… kept doing it for a few months.”

Holy shit.

Shane looks down at his lap and blinks furiously. Wiebe’s words hit him like a punch to the chest. Something so unexpected, so inconceivable that Shane doesn’t know what to think, how to feel. Other players being queer, sure, Shane knows the statistics. But other players hooking up with each other?

Maybe Shane knew, rationally, that he and Ilya couldn’t have been the first. But it has always felt like they were. Like they were the first ones to break this ground, take this step. And it was so fucking scary to be those people. To know, however Wiebe’s story ends, that they weren’t the first? It’s something priceless that Shane hardly knows what to do with.

“What happened?” Shane asks quietly.

Wiebe sighs. “It didn’t end well. I was half in love with him before we hooked up the first time, and after, I fell the rest of the way. When I told him how I felt… he didn’t take it well. He didn’t feel the same way. I ended up being sent down to the AHL for a while after that, and then he was traded over the summer. Haven’t spoken to him since.”

Shane winces. It’s like looking at a strange, distorted mirror. He thinks of Vegas, all those years ago. Of Ilya holding his face in the bathroom and asking him to choose them or walk. Thinks of before that, laying in bed and calling things a ‘this’ and scaring Ilya enough that he ran. So, so easily, Shane and Ilya could’ve been the actors in Wiebe’s story. But…

“That almost happened to us,” Shane confesses. “When things started getting… real. But we didn’t let each other hide from it.”

Wiebe smiles. “And that’s why I agreed to coach,” he says. Shane’s mouth drops open, a little. “If we’d been a real couple, trying to hide, I can imagine how hard that would have been. What you and Rozanov managed to do, all while holding onto each other… It’s impressive, Hollander.”

“Thank you, I think.”

Wiebe shakes his head. “As a bisexual man, I was excited as anybody to see Hunter come out. But the two of you… I see myself in you. I knew I couldn’t sit back. I wanted to help you stay great, so that someday the next kids like us will have it easier.” Wiebe laughs. “Christ, I hope I didn’t scare you off. What I’m trying to say, Hollander, is that I have your back. With the team, with the league, however I can help. I know I’m just a rookie coach, but…”

“Thank you,” Shane says. And this time, he makes sure to fit in some of the overwhelming feeling crawling up his throat. “It really does mean a lot,” Shane hesitates, and decides to offer honesty for honesty. “I’m sure you know that I didn’t get this type of reception or support in Montreal. Hearing that from a coach… I appreciate it.”

“Montreal’s loss is Ottawa’s gain,” Wiebe says. “And between you and me? I think Ottawa has big things coming.”

Shane nods. “I’ll make it happen,” he promises.

“No,” Wiebe says, “We will.”

After that rollercoaster of a meeting, Shane doesn’t have the energy to stress about Zane Boodram.

It turns out he doesn’t need to. The other man greets him warmly, shaking his hand and telling Shane, “Call me Bood, everyone does.”

“Nice to meet you,” Shane says. Then, cautiously, adds, “I hope there are no hard feelings?”

Bood tilts his head back in a laugh. “Absolutely not, Hollzy. Holly? Is there one you like better?”

Shane shrugs, “Hollzy, I guess?”

Bood nods. “Hollzy. I was only getting the C because Betty left. I’m more than happy to stick around as Alternate.”

By Betty, Bood presumably means Alex Bettencourt, the Centaurs’ long time Captain who retired over the summer. Shane shakes his head, “No, I’ve seen you on the ice. You would make a great Captain. I hope you’ll be willing to work with me.”

Bood’s smile shifts from excessively friendly to something more real. “Damn,” he says, almost disbelieving. “You’re actually just that nice, huh? What the hell was Montreal thinking?”

The warm welcome continues into the locker room. Shane meets Evan Dykstra, a defenseman who seems to take Shane’s lack of music taste personally. Then, Tanner Dillon, who Shane is itching to give some tips on stick handling after watching hours of game tape this summer. Nick Chouinard greets him cheerfully and asks him how he’s liking moving back to his hometown.

All and all, as Shane changes out and not a single person awkwardly hints for him to do so in another room, he thinks this team is… very different. Kind and open and utterly unbothered in a way Montreal never could be. Instead of being suspicious of a new openly gay guy on the team, they all seem far more focused on the fact that he’s Shane Hollander the hockey player, rather than Ilya Rozanov’s boyfriend.

Ottawa might be at the bottom of the rankings but… that’s fixable, Shane thinks. If they’re really all as nice and willing to work as it seems…

Shane can build something here. And next year, maybe, if they’re lucky…

They can both build something here.

~

Mid-October 2017

“Rozanov! Rozanov, over here!”

“Mr. Rozanov, excellent showing for the season opener. You really set the pace with two goals and an assist. How are the Raiders feeling about the new season?”

Ilya smirks. As always, the press scrum is chaotic, claustrophobic. Post-game, Ilya knows he’s still sweaty, curls plastered to his skull. Considering Shane will be watching, he opts to do the interview shirtless. “We are feeling good. Playing better. Rested from the off-season, yes?”

Another reporter calls, “So you are feeling positive about the team this year? Should we expect the Raiders to be Cup contenders?”

It is far, far too early to ask a question like that. They’ve barely remembered how to put one skate in front of the other after months of rest, never mind knowing whether they can win the Cup. But Ilya doesn’t believe in boring, scripted answers. Instead, he winks. “I have promised many people Boston will win Cup this year. I am no liar.”

The camera flashes escalate, almost blinding him. That answer will be talked about by sports pundits for days, no doubt.

“Rozanov! Over the summer, you and rival Shane Hollander revealed a long term romantic relationship that shocked the hockey world. Do you have any comment?”

Ilya can’t see who called out that question, but he rolls his eyes. If the cameras catch the motion, oh well. “Sorry, what is question? Do I have any comment about my boyfriend, second-best hockey player in the league?”

The reporters churn, uncertain. “Yes?”

“November 9th is first Ottawa game,” Ilya drawls. He looks directly into the lens a foot from his face. “This message is for Hollander. The Raiders will crush you. I will send you to our home crying.” He drags his finger down his cheek in exaggerated sorrow. Then he lets his face soften, just slightly, “Ya tebya lyublyu, moyo yabloko.”

~

“Shane!”

“Shane! Hollander!”

“Shane, let me be the first to say welcome to Ottawa. I know the city is thrilled to have you. What’s it like, playing for your hometown team?”

Shane smiles his best media-trained smile. He hates press outside the locker room, hates that they caught him before he could shower, while the sweat dries tacky on his skin. His uniform and under armor are already stiffening, chilling. The flashes make the space behind his eyes pound.

“It’s an honor,” Shane says easily. “I grew up watching the Centaurs. Playing for my hometown team is something special. I know my parents are grateful to have a shorter drive for games, too.” He repeats the answer in French.

That earns him a few laughs, with the less bloodthirsty reporters. “What’s it like playing on a different team?” a reporter asks. “You spent your whole career up until now with Montreal, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one shocked to see you in different colors tonight.”

Shane laughs, “I keep doing double-takes myself. It’s been an adjustment, but the Centaurs are a great group of guys. They’ve really made me feel welcome. I think there’s something special here.”

Apparently the rest of the team is paying more attention to his interview than their gear, because he hears the locker room cheer.

“Shane,” another reporter starts, voice sickly sweet. “It must be so hard to go from Montreal’s dynasty to losing the season opener. Does it feel like a step back?”

It’s a shitty, rude question. Shane keeps his media-trained smile steady with a force of will. “I would hardly call a three point game a step back for me personally,” Shane says mildly. While they lost 5-3, it wasn’t for lack of fighting. If anything, the opener was encouraging. A sign to Shane that there was something here he could work with. “I think we’re still finding our rhythm as a unit. But we’ll get there.” And then, feeling reckless and free and just a little bit angry, he adds, “Besides, I heard Montreal lost their opener a few days ago. The beginning of the season doesn’t really mean anything, even for generational teams.”

That earns him a round of titters. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Harris hovering with the social media manager. The man offers him a thumbs up, so he must not have been too rude.

“Any comment on your surprising trade, Shane? You’re clearly in great shape following your injury last April. It makes the fans wonder.”

It’s such an obviously leading question that Shane fights not to roll his eyes. If he wanted to, he could expose the Metros here and now. Start up a frantic round of he said-she said. But, frankly, he thinks that their actions and his performance speak for themselves. At the end of the day, Shane wants to play hockey. That’s what he’s good at, that’s what he loves. The press, the controversy, the management of it all—he could care less. Even though he knows he can’t avoid it entirely, Shane doesn’t want his actual career to become a footnote to the drama.

“The fans will have to keep wondering,” Shane says firmly. “I’m just here to play hockey and put some pucks in the net.”

They drop the line of questioning once it’s clear Shane means it. But they don’t really stick to hockey.

“Shane, I’m not sure if you saw Ilya Rozanov’s viral interview following the Raiders’ season opener. Any comment?”

Shane’s smile becomes a bit more fixed. He saw the interview alright. He watched Ilya’s game at his parents’ house, finally able to share his immense pride as his boyfriend dominated on the ice. Ilya plays beautiful fucking hockey. Different than Shane, rougher and more instinctive, but beautiful. And that night, Ilya played like everything was on the line, like it was already the playoffs and this was the most important game of the season. The rest of the Raiders rose to match him.

Beautiful hockey.

Of course, his boyfriend had to ruin it by being an asshole on television. Never mind the fact that he was shirtless and sweaty and that Shane wanted to lick him. Ilya’s blatant challenge reminds Shane of being 19 year old rookies, chasing each other to 50 goals.

“It was a good game,” Shane allows. And then, letting the media mask crack for one of the first times ever, Shane rolls his eyes, “But Ilya’s got another thing coming if he thinks he’s beating me that easily. He should check our face-off stats again.” But because he’s no monster, Shane tacks on a quick, “I love you too, asshole,” in Russian.

Unfortunately, he forgot that the public didn’t know how fluent his Russian language skills are, and it sets off an entirely different round of questioning.

~

Late October 2017

“I hope you don’t mind a roommate, Hollzy,” Bood says. “I know vets usually get a room to themselves if they want it, but they figured with you being new to the team and all…” He sounds sheepish and a little nervous, like he really thinks Shane will give him push back.

The Centaurs seem… surprised, by Shane’s actual personality. Shane isn’t sure if they were expecting him to be a secret asshole or diva or what, but his general quietness, disinterest in partying, and, call it what is, awkwardness, seems to have taken them all off-guard.

It also means that they’ve all decided to be aggressively welcoming. Shane wonders if they usually do quite this many laidback barbecues at Bood’s place, or if it’s just to make it easier on him. Shane’s not complaining, since it’s a lot more openness than he anticipated. And less stressful than Metros’ gatherings in crowded bars. Especially since Bood’s wife Cassie always makes sure to have something relatively healthy set aside for him.

“Of course not,” Shane reassures him. Then he thinks of his phone, burning a hole in his pocket. Ilya should be home from practice soon. “Just, do you mind if I call Ilya? Uh, Rozanov?”

Bood blinks, mouth opening. Then he nods frantically, as if to make up for his slow reaction time, “Yeah, of course! I call Cassie sometimes too. Do you want me to give you the room for a bit?” A smirk creeps across his lips.

Shane shakes his head. He hopes he’s imagining the heat in his cheeks. “No! It’s not like that. Or I mean, uh, maybe sometimes? But Ilya and I, we try to call every day. Just to talk, spend time together, you know?” Shane shrugs, wishing he could sink through the floor. “We don’t see each other much during the season.”

Bood winces. “That must be so fucking hard. I can’t imagine going that long without seeing Cassie.” Which, ouch. Yeah, it’s fucking hard. Harder and harder every day, now that they can let others see the strain, now that their future is almost close enough to grasp. “You guys really call every day though?”

“Yeah,” Shane says. “I’ll keep my headphones on. And I can always find somewhere else to be if it’s too much.” Last year, after Shane came out to Hayden and Ilya finally confessed how he was feeling, they began calling almost constantly. On road trips, Hayden said it was like having a third, virtual roommate.

“It won’t be too much,” Bood promises. “I won’t kick you out of your own room. I love love.”

After they check out of the last hotel, finally done with their first three-game road trip, Bood grasps Shane’s shoulder. “I say this very seriously, from a place of love and respect,” Bood starts. Shane stiffens, frantically scrambling for whatever misstep he must have made. “But I don’t think I’ve ever met two more codependent people in my life. I’m happy for you, but holy shit.”

“I’m so sorry,” Shane says, mortified. “I can stop–”

“No!” Bood interrupts. He shakes Shane lightly. “I never said that. Stop looking like a kicked puppy, Hollzy. Keep calling your boyfriend, Roz seems much cooler than I expected. I just… how do you two survive long distance if you’re like that?”

Shane supposes they’re a little much, from the outside. But so what, if he sets Ilya’s video call up in the bathroom while he’s doing his skin care? So what if they wait to eat their meals together on FaceTime? Are they really that much different from other couples? “I don’t know? We just like talking to each other, I guess.”

Bood shakes his head. “I like talking to Cassie. I love talking to her, even. She would cut off my balls if I tried calling her that much.”

Bizarre. Shane can’t imagine ever being mad at Ilya wanting to talk to him. They would live in each other’s pockets, if they could. Maybe it’s a straight person thing. Hayden thought they were strange too, after all.

“Let me know if it gets to be too much,” Shane says. “Seriously, Bood, we’ll figure something else out.” Like maybe putting pressure on the travel coordinator for a private room.

Bood shakes his head, even more emphatically this time. “Nope. Keep calling your boyfriend, Hollander. I feel like I’m a background character in the greatest love story of the 21st century, or something.” Then he turns very serious. “But after our first game with Boston, you better bring Rozanov by to meet the team. I’ll host.”

Shane sighs, resigned. Sharing any of their precious time together sounds terrible, actually, but this is what coming out gets them. Maybe they can stop at Shane’s place first, and turn up fashionably late. “Fine.”

~

Early November 2017

“Ready to face your boy, Roz?” Connors claps Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya cranes his neck awkwardly to catch his smile. Connors leans over the back of Ilya’s seat on the bus. His elbow slips. He just misses giving Cliff, Ilya’s lucky seatmate, a concussion.

“Motherfucker,” Cliff spits. He flings up an arm and pushes his hand at the center of Connors’ face. The other man drops back into his seat with a laugh.

“I am ready,” Ilya says, mildly. “I am ready to win.”

“Fuck yeah!” Carmichael shouts. The Raiders have been on a tear, though it’s still early in the season. They’ve only lost two games so far, both roadies.

“Seriously though, how does this even work for you guys?” Kane asks. He must be kneeling on his seat further up the bus to meet Ilya’s eyes. “Don’t you get like, pissed? If the other person wins?”

Ilya smirks. “Da, yes. Sometimes.” Cliff groans, but Kane continues to look confused. Ilya sighs, and says, very, very patiently, “I think maybe, your sex life is too boring to understand, Kaney. I would offer to help, but I am taken man.”

That earns Ilya a round of boos, but also some considering looks. “You know,” Victor says, slowly. “I never thought about it before, but that’s kind of hot.”

“Think less,” Ilya advises. “Because if you think too much about my boyfriend naked, I will knock out your remaining teeth.”

For all that Ottawa is a bottom of the barrel team, the arena is packed. Ilya knows, from his boyfriend, that game attendance is at an all time high even if they aren’t doing great in the standings. It certainly looks sold out tonight. While both teams warm up, Ilya catches the older members of the Centaurs staring up at the stands, bewildered.

Ilya squints at a sign with a suspicious number of colors. Then he deciphers the writing and stops dead.

We LOVE Hollanov!

Only a few seats over, he sees: 81 x 24 = 3 Cups and Counting. And next to that, in rainbow colors: Hockey is for Everyone.

The more Ilya searches, the more he realizes that the arena is sold-out for them. The fans aren’t here just to see the Centaurs play. They’re here to see Shane and Ilya play. First Boyfriends of Hockey one sign reads.

“Shit man,” Cliff whistles. He skates to a stop next to Ilya, sprays him with snow. “Even Boston didn’t turn out like this.”

“Give them time,” Ilya says, but he feels very far away from his body. This is too surreal, too good, too perfect, to be true. “We have not had home game with Ottawa yet.”

Ilya catches sight of Shane, hovering by the center line while he finishes his stretches. They discussed this, last night. About acting like things were business as usual today during the game. But Ilya’s watching Ottawa turn out in droves in favor of two queer players, in favor of him, and fuck their plan.

He skates over. “Shane. Dorogoy, get up.” The crowd realizes what’s happening and roars.

“Ilya, what are you doing?” Shane asks, wary. He climbs to his feet anyway, because at heart he is Ilya’s good boy.

“Did you know this was happening?” Ilya demands. His heart beats fast, hard, in his chest. His lungs are filled with too much air, ballooning outwards like they’ll hang him from the rafters, Ottawa’s very first banner.

Shane looks around the stadium. Ilya wishes he could tear his eyes from his boyfriend’s face, so that he could figure out which slogan made him soften like that. Ilya will tattoo whatever it is on his chest. “No. I mean, there have been people with signs since the start of the season. But nothing like this.” He turns back to Ilya, smiling. Then his eyes widen, “Are you crying?”

“Absolutely not,” Ilya barks. He wills away the burning, baffled by the strength of his own reaction. “Russians do not do this.”

Shane rolls his eyes, “That doesn’t work on me, you big crybaby. I know better.”

“Shut up,” Ilya grumbles. Then, desperate for a distraction, he says, “I want to kiss you.”

Shane’s eyes bulge. “What, now?” He shakes his head. “Did it slip your mind that we’re about to play a game against each other? Like, as opponents?”

“How could I forget,” Ilya purrs, “when I am already thinking about shoving you against boards.”

Shane licks his lips. His voice is reluctant. “We agreed to stay professional on the ice.”

“Just tiny little kiss?” Ilya wheedles. “Is only warm-ups. Look at the fans. You will not give them what they want?”

Shane wavers. Then he sighs. “Not on the lips. You’ll have to do something really special to earn that one,” he warns.

“I am saving it for June,” Ilya promises. At the barest dip of Shane’s chin, a tiny nod, Ilya reaches out and hauls him in for a smacking kiss to his helmet.

The arena goes fucking wild. Christ, Ilya hasn’t heard noise like this since the last time he won the Stanley Cup. Shane shoves him away, but he’s laughing. “Don’t think this means I’ll go easy on you.”

“I would never forgive you if you did,” Ilya says.

Then they are where they began. The crowd screaming, the whistle blowing, cold air biting their lungs. Ilya crouches for the puck drop. Shane’s face is different almost ten years later, less anxious, older, more settled in himself. But he’s no less lovely, no less familiar. For all of Ilya’s adult life, he has known this face better than his own. Every quirk, every expression. Most importantly, every precious freckle.

Ilya loves him.

“You’re going down, yabloko,” Shane says. He sounds fierce, determined.

“No,” Ilya teases. “That will be you, later.”

Shane wins the face-off.

The Centaurs put up a hell of a fight. For at least a little while, it’s like they forget that they’re a last place team. Shane fights for the puck as fiercely as he ever has, dogging Ilya across the ice, technically perfect footwork getting him close enough to fire shot after shot at the Raiders’ goal.

But Ilya isn’t pulling his punches either. He meant it, when he promised Boston another Cup. And if it means boarding his boyfriend, so be it.

When they crash into the boards together, scrabbling for the puck, the entire arena gasps. Ilya manages to steal the puck away and send it across the ice to Cliff before he and Shane go down in a tangle.

“Ouch,” Shane says, nonplussed.

Ilya snorts.

At the end of the first period, Ilya enters the locker room to find everyone except Cliff staring at him like has three heads. “What? What is the matter? We are winning, no?”

“You…” Sebbin of all people trails off. “You do actually like him, right?”

“Excuse me?” Ilya asks, affronted.

“It’s just, you two aren’t pulling any punches out there, Roz,” Connors says carefully. “If I treated my girl like that…”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Good thing Hollander is not girl then. For fuck’s sake, I said we do not let relationship interfere with hockey. What did you assholes think–”

“Oh my god!” Kane interrupts. He sounds like he’s put together two brain cells to make a thought. An entirely unfamiliar tone for him. “It’s foreplay.”

Ilya hesitates. He hesitates long enough that it might as well be an answer.

“I hate you,” Sebbin says flatly. He looks nauseous.

The Raiders win, of course. Shane and the Centaurs never give up, with Shane managing both of the night’s goals off assists from Bood. But, frankly, the Centaurs’ goalie is shit. Ilya racks up two goals and an assist, which puts him ahead of Shane in points for the game. That means he sweeps their personal bet. He leaves the locker room in a brilliant mood.

Even with a home team loss, the crowd never thins. They scream for Shane and they scream for Ilya. A tiny, secret part of him wonders if the fans realize. If they realize that Ilya could very soon be calling Ottawa home too. It’s a thought he won’t voice, not even to Shane, for fear of jinxing it.

By the time he parks outside of Shane’s new place, Ilya feels very pleased with himself. And then Shane drops to his knees and sucks Ilya’s cock like he’s dying for it. Head thrown back against the front door, Ilya is, in fact, certain that he’s never been happier.

Outside of Zane Boodram’s house, Shane drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Are you, uh, sure you want to do this?”

Ilya blinks. “Is a little late to ask, yes? We are already here.”

Shane groans. “Sorry. I know. I just… we’ve never done something like this as a couple before.”

“Like what?” Ilya prods. “It will be fine. Unless you want me to wait in car?”

Shane sighs. “Of course not. Let’s just… do it, then.”

Considering how long it’s been since they’ve seen each other, Ilya thinks they managed to be fairly speedy at sucking each other off. They’re still the last ones to arrive. Shane leads Ilya to the front door and Ilya takes the chance to lace their fingers together. When Shane knocks, the door is yanked open almost immediately.

“Hollzy! You finally made it!” Boodram cheers. He smiles easily at Ilya and waves them both inside. “And you brought Rozanov. Good to meet you for real, man.” The entryway is a big space and practically overflowing with shoes. Either the entire Centaurs team showed up, or the Boodrams have a very weird fetish.

“Yes, nice to meet you,” Ilya says. He bends to unlace his sneakers one-handed as Shane does the same. “I have heard many things about your grill.”

Boodram laughs. “It’s a little too cold now for grilling, but I promise Cassie and I can cook regular food. We decided on fajitas, easy for a crowd. I put two portions aside of some plain chicken strips.”

Ilya groans. He jiggles Shane’s hand lightly where they haven’t let go. “Don’t tell me your boring diet traps me too. I will die.”

“It’s not boring, it’s healthy,” Shane protests. But he doesn’t continue the argument further. “Ilya will eat the normal food, or else I’ll have to listen to him complain all night.”

“You love my complaining.”

“Maybe I hit you too hard during the game,” Shane says. “Did you get checked out by the trainers?”

“Only person who gets to check me out is you,” Ilya declares. He leans in for a chaste kiss, barely a brush of lips. Ilya moves slowly, half-expecting Shane to push him away or present his cheek. But instead… his boyfriend lets it happen. Lets his teammate and alternate captain see him be kissed.

Ilya marvels. Either Shane’s experienced a personality switch, or Ottawa really has relaxed him.

Boodram snorts. “Tonight is going to be amazing.”

“Stop hogging them, Bood!” A voice calls from deeper in the house. “We want to meet the Captain’s boyfriend!”

They follow the voices, and the next few hours are a whirlwind.

Cassie and Bood are, in fact, good cooks. The fajitas are delicious, and there’s plenty to feed a hoard of hungry, post-game hockey players. Even better is that Shane’s new team is truly decent.

He’s told Ilya as much, of course. But Shane doesn’t usually share when things are bad, out of both misplaced guilt about seeming difficult and conviction that he’s exaggerating. Ilya trusts him, with everything… except for his own opinion on how he should be treated. After being passed around an entire team who seems nothing but pleased to have Shane as Captain and relatively unphased by Ilya’s presence, Ilya reevaluates. Maybe all Shane needed was to confront Montreal in order to realize his own value. Ilya will remind him, if he ever forgets again.

“Rozanov!” Evan Dykstra says. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you.” He’s grinning as shakes Ilya’s hand, a beautiful woman on his arm. Dykstra was friendly, the one other time Ilya ran into him at a league event. Ilya vaguely remembers an exhausting conversation about fishing.

“You would pick bone with me instead of introducing me to this beauty?” Ilya asks. He winks at the woman, pretending not to feel Shane pressing closer.

“Paws off,” Dykstra warns, but he laughs. “This is my fiancée, Caitlin.”

“Nice to meet you,” she winks back.

In the exact turn of events Ilya is hoping for, Shane’s arm slips around his waist. He tucks himself into Ilya’s side, a line of jealous heat. Ilya loves him so much.

“Don’t distract me,” Dykstra says. “I need to know how you let Hollander go this long so musically uneducated.”

“Not this again,” Shane huffs.

But Ilya’s happy to have met an ally. “You do not know how I struggled,” Ilya says, serious. “I tried for years. He is not interested. He works out in silence most days, is unnatural.”

“Right!” Dykstra exclaims.

Shane interrupts them both, “Oh, please. You gave up immediately when I insulted your weird rap.”

“Weird rap?” Ilya demands. “You are xenophobe now? Hate Russian music?”

“It gives me a headache,” Shane says grumpily.

“He doesn’t like country either,” Dykstra complains.

“Thank god,” Ilya says under his breath.

Shane protests, pointing at Dykstra. “I like that one guy you introduced me to!” He turns to Ilya. “He has this song that reminds me of us.”

“What song?” Ilya asks, half-fearing the answer.

Shane hums. He doesn’t sing, because Ilya has never heard him sing anything but the Canadian National Anthem, but the tune sounds familiar. It couldn’t be–

“I can’t believe the only musician you walked away knowing is Ed Sheeran,” Dykstra whines. “He’s not even country!”

Ilya blinks. “An Ed Sheeran song reminds you of us?”

“I’ll make you listen later,” Shane promises, like Ilya hasn’t heard most of Sheeran’s music simply by existing in the world.

To Ilya’s shock, it’s not only players at the party. Shane introduces him to a social media intern named Harris, who compliments him on his ‘incredible press conferences.’ And even more surprisingly, the Centaurs’ new coach, Brandon Wiebe.

Wiebe shakes his hand firmly. “I wanted to say it to you myself. You did a very important thing this summer, Rozanov. Thank you.”

Ilya hides his confusion behind a long look at Shane. “Ah, you’re welcome?”

Wiebe turns his attention to Shane as well. “You didn’t tell him?”

Shane shakes his head. “No, uh. You didn’t say I could, and it seemed private?”

Wiebe squeezes Shane’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, Hollander.” Then he meets Ilya’s eyes, very intentionally. “I was in a similar situation, once,” he says vaguely. “I wouldn’t change it for the world, since I love my wife and kids, but…”

Ilya has no idea what to say. He’ll process this later. “I see,” he says.

“Like I said, thank you.”

By the end of the night, Ilya’s both exhilarated and terrified. Once they’ve buckled their seatbelts, he shifts awkwardly to sit sideways and stare at Shane.

“Shane.”

“Yeah?”

Ilya says, very seriously. “I love Boston. The boys have been great. But if I do not get to play on this team with you, I think I will quit hockey. I would be good Centaurs WAG, I think.”

And Ilya’s beautiful boyfriend laughs so hard that Ilya just has to kiss him.

~

Chapter End Notes

I have become unbearably fond of the Raiders. Anyway.

Next chapter will star the first Ottawa-Montreal game 😉 among other things!

Chapter 13

Chapter Summary

Step 8: Free Agency for Ilya

~part 2~

Chapter Notes

Hi again and welcome back!

I continue to be awed by the response to this fic. I have gotten some of the kindest comments in all my time writing fic, and I am constantly awed by this fandom's love for its creators. Someone even created cover art for Kindle readers that you can find in the first fic! Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart. I wasn't expecting to be swept up into a hyperfixation the likes of which I haven't experienced since high school, but I've loved every second of it. And I love you all for coming on this journey with me.

Welcome to the last 'plot' chapter, since the final chapter serves as more of an epilogue (that is also 5k words but whatever). I hope you all enjoy the direction I take it! At heart, this fic is a kinder, softer, indulgent reimagining of the universe, and I hope it can bring everyone some peace during these hellish times.

Deepest apologies for any hockey inaccuracies. I’m a very casual hockey fan, but I listened to thirty minutes of goal compilation commentary on my commute to try to get in the spirit. Any and all mistakes are my own.

Enjoy!

Trigger Warnings/Mild Spoilers: use of homophobic slurs, homophobia, mention of mental health/suicide, mild violence

~

Late November 2017

Shane has never been inside the Montreal away locker room before. It’s not as nice as the Metros’ space, unsurprisingly. And the amount of blue and red both nauseates and unbalances him.

“Alright, Hollzy?” Dykstra asks. He drops down beside Shane on the bench to lace up his skates.

“Been better,” Shane admits. Even though it’s only been two months with this team, the vulnerability doesn’t feel like it did in Montreal, like an inevitable mistake, like a glowing arrow pointing to all his soft spots and shouting ‘strike here.’

“We’ll crush ‘em.”

“Damn right!” Bood says. He squeezes onto the bench on the other side of Shane. For a second, the dual pressure wavers between claustrophobic and comforting. Thankfully, it settles as positive. This trip won’t be all bad. Shane’s getting drinks with Hayden and JJ after the game, and heading over to the Pike’s for breakfast before the team’s flight. He missed Jackie and the kids.

“Speech?” Dillon calls.

“Speech,” Shane agrees. He stands, because he has to. He’s always hated this part of being a captain, felt like he lacked the big personality to make the speeches stick. Shane knows he’s a good captain, a phenomenal one actually, but his strengths lie in his feedback and coaching, not this. He usually lets Bood rally the team. But tonight…

Shane makes an exception.

“Alright,” Shane clears his throat. “You guys know that I didn’t leave Montreal on the best terms. It’s going to get ugly out there tonight. They’re going to say shit that will cross the line, about me and Ilya specifically. We have to ignore it.”

The protests are immediate, a wave of sound that Shane doesn’t flinch from. “Quiet!” He shakes his head. “We have to ignore it, because they want an excuse. They want us sloppy, they want us angry, they want the fucking powerplay. We’re not going to give it to them.” Shane meets their eyes. “We are a better fucking team,” he says, honest. “Better in every single way. We’re getting this fucking win.”

The roar of approval takes Shane off-guard. Bood rises to his feet and slings an arm around Shane’s shoulder, shaking him lightly. The contact itches, but fades to acceptable faster than Shane expects. “We’re fucking destroying them, boys!”

“And besides,” Shane says. His voice is quiet, low, so he doesn’t expect anyone to hear him. But the room hushes. “If anyone gets to throw a punch tonight, it’s me.”

That earns a mix of laughs and cheers. Bood’s warm breath brushes his ear. “You’ve had, what, one fight? In your whole career?”

Shane shrugs. “Haven’t had a good enough reason.”

~

1

Shane wins the first face-off against Montreal’s new center. Polk is a fast skater, but his reaction time doesn’t touch Shane’s for puck drop. The home crowd is predominantly booing, but he hears an occasional scattered cheer. Plenty of posters calling him a traitor, but the rare Welcome Home Shane!

The game is scrappy from the start. Though scrappy might be a generous description. Ilya would probably call it dirty and fucking violent.

During Shane’s second shift on the ice, Laine misjudges a pass and the puck clips Dykstra’s skate. The bounce is wild toward center ice. Shane’s after it immediately, heaving in air and leaving JJ in the dust.

He comes in hot, laser focused on Drapeau, ignoring the sound of JJ’s cursing as he gives chase. There’s nothing between Shane and the net. Except for a goalie that Shane trained with for seven years.

Drapeau knows Shane, knows his style of play, how he shoots the puck, all his little tells. And Shane leverages that. He angles his stick, like he’s aiming top-shelf, over Drapeau’s left shoulder. As soon as Drapeau starts rising off the ice, glove moving into position, Shane knocks the puck straight through the five-hole.

The goal lights up red.

“Holy fuck, Hollander!” Bood screams, slamming into him from the side. “What a fucking beaut!”

The rest of the line piles on, raucous and delighted. When they finally disperse, heading for the bench, Shane’s the last.

It puts him in the perfect position to hear Drapeau spit, “Fucking faggot.”

~

2

They’re tied up at the start of the second period. After the intermission, Montreal comes out meaner. Checking harder, sticks drifting higher, barely low enough to avoid getting called. Bood fights for the puck against the boards, stick cracking against Gagnon’s while Shane hovers on the far side of the goal.

Bood’s shoulders jerk, and it’s like Shane can see it before it happens. Bood slaps the puck and it rides the boards into the trapezoid. Shane meets it behind the net, stick outstretched. He cuts hard, skating around the goal like he means to tuck the puck right in the corner. Drapeau moves to cover the gap, and Shane blows past him. He flips the puck over Drapeau’s outstretched far leg into the back of the net.

The team mobs him. Shane can’t make out any words, because they’re shouting so loudly. Bood knocks their helmets together hard enough to rattle his teeth.

When the celly breaks up, Gagnon finds his way into Shane’s path. Their shoulders slam together. “Hope Rozanov’s dick was worth playing on the worst team in the fucking league.”

Shane’s surprised by the anger that flares in his gut. He smothers it immediately. Something about hearing Ilya’s name in Montreal’s mouth bothers him more than he thought it would. But Shane meant it, when he said the Metros wanted them sloppy.

Instead of putting his hands on Gagnon’s chest and shoving, Shane calls over his shoulder, “Worst team in the league is up a point, in case you didn’t notice.”

~

3

By halfway through the third, the Centaurs are up by 2. Shane got the assist, which is nice, but he has his sights set on one more goal. It would be the perfect revenge, he thinks, to score a hat trick during his return to Montreal.

Dykstra sets him up, a clean pass out of the zone that earns him a breakaway. Sloppy, for Montreal to allow him two in the same game. Shane rifles through possibilities. Can’t repeat the same maneuver from the first, since Drapeau will be looking for it. Doesn’t want to risk getting in too close.

Then, Shane realizes the perfect shot. The most satisfying punctuation he could put on this night.

Shane switches to his backhand.

Hours upon hours of Ilya’s game tapes flash through his mind. He can picture his boyfriend so vividly, smirking, stick raised in victory. He hopes the rest of the Metros recognize this moment for what it is. A declaration.

The Rozanov.

Shane fakes the backhand shot, leaves the puck where it is, as Drapeau moves to cover. Then, heart racing, he swaps to a forehand and smacks the puck over Drapeau’s shoulder.

The goal lights up.

“You fucking legend!”

And, despite the fact that this is no longer Shane’s home, no longer his city… Hats still hit the ice.

Comeau blocks his return to the bench, as the crews start cleaning up. He has an ugly, vindictive look on his face. Shane braces.

“Un-fucking-believable,” Comeau spits. “Did you suck his fucking cock just to steal his shot?”

“Move, Gil,” Shane says. In his peripheral, he sees a ref drift closer, clearly scenting trouble.

“No,” Comeau continues. “I don’t listen to you. I already told you I’m done taking orders from a fucking faggot.”

Shane rolls his eyes. He turns to skate around Comeau, since he won’t move. But Comeau continues, in a sneering, terrible voice, “Did his mother find out he was a cocksucker? Is that why she killed herself?”

A rage like none Shane has ever known before. His vision reddens, his ears ring.

Shane’s gloves hit the ice.

He barely feels Comeau’s fist glance off his face. No, Shane’s focus narrows to his tight grip on Comeau’s jersey, as he throws one punch, two, three.

His knuckles ache, split. But it’s nothing compared to the sheer euphoria of Comeau’s nose breaking. The spurt of blood. His wide-eyed surprise.

Shane doesn’t fight. Fuck everyone, from the fans to the league to every fucking player, who equated ‘doesn’t’ with ‘can’t’. Shane has played hockey since he was four years old. He knows how to throw a punch and make it count.

Comeau stumbles backward, jerking out of Shane’s grip with one last clumsy swing that clips Shane’s shoulder. Then he hits the ice in an awkward pile.

Shane raises his hands, immediately skates backward instead of following him down. The ref places a hand in the center of his chest to keep him away, but Shane knows the rules. He’ll take the 5 minute major, but he’s pretty sure the ref was close enough to hear Comeau instigate.

He’s right. Shane skates to the penalty box, even as trainers evaluate Comeau’s face. Comeau earns himself a minor for instigating, a major for fighting, and a ten minute misconduct. Shane’s somewhat surprised the refs follow through on home ice, but he doesn’t question the kindness. They’d always been good to him, as a captain.

The Centaurs win 4-1. And Shane nets both a regular hat trick, and his first ever Gordie Howe.

The real victory, though, is Gilbert Comeau’s broken nose.

~

Late January 2018

“How do you want to play this?” Shane asks.

Ilya bites down on his small smile. Even now, their plan thoroughly thrown out the window and the world aware of what they mean to each other, Shane still tries to strategize. He’s so cute. It’s something of a crime, considering what it does to Ilya’s focus. “Hopefully on the same team,” Ilya says innocently. “Heard they are doing split by Division, so unless Ottawa got up and walked to new place…”

“Shut up,” Shane groans. “You know what I mean.”

“Sorry, I am not mind reader,” Ilya teases. “This is like when I put groceries away wrong and you don’t tell me why you are mad.”

Ilya’s phone, placed in one of Shane’s tripods on Ilya’s kitchen table, gives him a full view of his boyfriend’s expression. Ilya watches him open his mouth, clearly prepared to revive the argument about proper shelf division for canned and non-canned goods. But instead, Shane closes his eyes and sighs, “Am I being ridiculous?”

Ilya gives it up. Shane should only sigh when Ilya wins things, or does something very right inside him. “Only a little bit,” Ilya concedes. “I know you are nervous about our first hockey event as a couple.”

“It’s stupid,” Shane says. He lays his arms on his own kitchen table and drops his chin down. At least he’s letting Ilya see his beautiful eyes. He rarely hides anymore. “The whole world knows now. It just… doesn’t feel real, sometimes.”

“I know, moy lyubimyy,” Ilya says, soft. “We can play things however you want. Keep it professional like during games. Or I can fuck you at center ice for whole league to see.” Ilya shrugs, “I am okay with either.”

Shane snorts. “Not the second one, not even in your wildest dreams,” he says, like a boring person.

“Dream Shane likes it.”

Shane studies him very seriously, “There’s no way. The ice is so dirty. Spit and sweat and–” Shane shudders. “You should make Dream Shane more realistic.”

Of course his problem is sanitary, rather than the cold or public exposure. Loving someone this much hurts, in all the best ways. Ilya wonders if this is why Shakespeare wrote tragic romances, because the feeling is terminal. “My mistake,” Ilya says. “I will tell brain to do better.”

“I don’t want to ignore you either,” Shane says abruptly. “Or pretend like we aren’t a couple. People bring girlfriends and wives to the All-Star Game all the time. No one gives them shit.”

Which is not exactly true, considering how many players Ilya has chirped about their pretty wives who were much too good for them, but he understands what Shane means. Ilya’s boyfriend has come so far, from that scared teenager asking Ilya not to tell. So far, even, from that scared man who decided they could love each other with a spreadsheet or not at all.

“Okay. Then I will hold your hand the entire weekend,” Ilya declares. “I will tell everyone about my sexy boyfriend who is second-best hockey player. I will hide all chairs so you have to sit on my lap. I will kiss you a million times on the ice, so much they will keep score of that, and forget about game.”

“Oh my god,” Shane mumbles, burying his face in his hands. “You’re insufferable.”

Shane may have thought Ilya was joking, but he’s gotten very good at following specific steps in a long-term plan.

They schedule their flights to arrive within hours of each other at LAX. Ilya catches sight of Shane exiting the baggage claim area at the same time Shane sees him sitting at a small café table. To Ilya’s delight, Shane approaches at a light jog, suitcase dragging behind him.

“Hey,” Shane says. He stops just outside of touching range.

Ilya rolls his eyes. He telegraphs his movements, gives Shane time to pull back. Instead Shane’s cheeks flush. He leans in for a kiss that turns briefly indecent. When Ilya allows him to step away, Shane’s eyes dart around the airport. No one is watching them. Americans, frankly, don’t care that much about hockey.

They share a car to the hotel the NHL booked. Once they’ve freed their suitcases from the trunk, Ilya grabs Shane’s hand and laces their fingers together. “You are stuck now,” Ilya tells him.

At the front desk, they’re informed that the league has booked them two separate rooms. “Which room has better view?” Ilya asks the beleaguered receptionist.

“Uh,” the man blinks. “That would be your room, Mr. Rozanov.”

“Okay,” Ilya nods. “Which room has less people nearby? Fewer guests.”

“Ilya!” Shane hisses.

“Um.” The poor man looks truly flustered now. “That would be Mr. Hollander’s room. He has a corner suite.”

“Excellent,” Ilya says. “We will take two keys for Mr. Hollander’s room. I do not need my room, give it away, or however this thing works.”

The receptionist miserably does what Ilya asked. Shane’s flush doesn’t recede until they’ve closed the door to their room behind them. “I can’t believe you, you–”

Ilya pins him against the door. Shane gasps into his mouth. His hands squeeze Ilya’s hips, a delicious pressure, before rising to tug at Ilya’s curls. Ilya smiles into the kiss, pleased by how easily Shane bends to him. As he pulls back, Shane bites down on his bottom lip. The slow drag of his teeth as Ilya pulls away makes him want to drop to his knees right there. “Thought we could take trip down memory lane,” Ilya says, voice rough. “Want you to suck my dick, Hollander. Then I can show you how it’s really done. Teach you some new tricks, yes?”

Shane moans. His skull thuds against the door. “Going to jerk off in the public shower too, Rozanov? Organize a whole photo shoot just to see me again?”

Ilya makes a sound, deep in his chest. The curve of Shane’s neck, the bump of his Adam’s apple. It’s all utterly irresistible. Ilya sets his teeth to the thin skin beneath Shane’s jaw. Then, he scrapes downward, reveling in Shane’s gasps, the tug on his curls. “Maybe. But I don’t care whether the hallway really is empty or not. Let them hear.”

“Fuck!” Shane cries out. Finally, Ilya stops bracing him. Since he knows exactly where he belongs, Shane drops to his knees.

That night, they manage to make it out of their room for a late dinner. Down at the hotel bar, half the room turns to stare when they walk in. Hand in hand, because Ilya was serious about that. The added benefit, of course, is that he can feel Shane start shaking, just barely. Ilya squeezes tighter until Shane steadies.

“Shane!” And that’s JJ Boiziau on his way over. Shane consents to the one-armed hug. Boiziau steps back and looks Ilya up and down. Ilya watches his eyes catch on their tangled hands, the unconscious tilt of their bodies toward each other. A series of emotions flash over his face. Unable to glimpse them all, Ilya sees surprise, resignation, and finally reluctant acceptance. Boiziau sticks out a hand. “Rozanov.”

Ilya shakes it firmly. “Boiziau.”

They’re saved from having to make small talk by the appearance of Cliff. “Roz! There you are. Hollander, good to see you again.”

“Marlow,” Shane smiles. “You guys are having a great season.”

“Thanks,” Cliff says grinning. “It helps that our biggest Division rival neutered themselves.” To Ilya’s delight, he realizes Boiziau stands in their little group only after speaking. “No offense.”

Boiziau shakes his head. “No, no, is accurate. Montréal est pleine de crétins.” He’s the only Montreal representative this year for a reason. Offense can’t get it together. Pike’s probably their best forward, and that’s saying something. When Boston played their first Montreal game, they crushed them. Ilya may have also crushed some noses, but Ottawa’s version was much sexier.

Shane snorts.

Mostly, Ilya’s on his best behavior all night. Even though he was serious about hiding chairs, he decides to save it for after the game, when Shane will maybe loosen up enough for a few drinks.

Rather than circulate like both of them used to, they snag a high-top table and let people come to them. Neither of them is particularly interested in playing Guess Who is Homophobic. Let them identify themselves.

While there are a few standouts, most players at least say hi. A few spend the entire conversation watching them like a zoo exhibit, but it could be worse. At least at All-Stars, the other players have all worked almost as hard. They can respect their hockey, even if they would never have Ilya and Shane over for dinner.

At one point, Hunter makes his way over with his far too attractive boyfriend under his arm. “Rook, it’s good to see you,” Hunter greets. He claps Shane’s shoulder with a grin. When he turns to Ilya, his expression is longsuffering, exasperated in advance. “Rozanov.”

“Do you see how he treats me?” Ilya complains to his boyfriend. He bumps their shoulders together. “He acts like I burned his bingo cards and broke his walker.”

“For fuck’s sake, Ilya,” Shane pinches the bridge of his nose.

Hunter’s boyfriend startles all three of them by bursting out laughing. “Sorry, sorry!” he flaps a hand. “I just– Really thought Scott was exaggerating, when he said how you chirp him. I’m Kip Grady, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Kip,” Shane says warmly, shaking his hand.

Ilya does the same, unable to resist adding, “Yes. You must be very nice, to overlook Hunter’s status as ‘National Historic Landmark.’ He is wrong type of NHL, see?”

Hunter’s lips twitch, even as he tells Kip conversationally, “I could never exaggerate how big of an asshole Rozanov is. I undersold it, probably.”

“He’s not that old!” Kip protests, grinning as he speaks.

“Don’t bother,” Shane tells him. “Ilya doesn’t really care about accuracy when he thinks he’s being funny.”

“Lies and slander,” Ilya says. He pretends to release Shane’s hand as punishment. To his delight, Shane’s hand chases after his, twining their fingers together once more.

“I feel like I should say thank you, for shifting the attention off us this summer,” Kip jokes.

Ilya inclines his head. “Can’t let Hunter have his moment for too long,” he says graciously. “Shane and I make better TV because we are younger and hotter. I will be taking the Cup this year, too.”

The actual All-Stars activities are less entertaining. The Skills Competition kicks off the next day. Apparently the league has a poor read on what fans want, because Ilya and Shane are placed in separate competitions. Ilya takes Fastest Skater easily, two whole seconds ahead of the rest of the pack. Shane manages the newly returned Puck Control Relay without breaking a sweat. When he returns to Ilya’s side, flush with victory, Ilya rewards him with a kiss to his helmet.

“Good job, dorogoy,” Ilya says. “I would be faster on cone portion, but you did okay.”

Shane scowls. He shoves him roughly, to the laughter of the bench. “Shut the fuck up, asshole.”

During the actual games, Shane and Ilya are careful not to hog the puck. Hockey is a team sport that’s never been particularly forgiving of players who forget that. Ironic, considering how willing some teams are to turn their backs on their teammates. Shane and Ilya make sure every player gets enough time with the puck. As captain, Ilya decides when to finally turn up the heat.

“Okay,” he says, in their short intermission between periods. “It is time to get very serious. We cannot lose to Scott Hunter.”

And they don’t, of course. The Atlantic Division beats the Metropolitan Division handily, once Shane and Ilya start really trying to connect passes. Playing in the same jersey is a thrill that Ilya never tires of. His brain is so wired to Shane, after countless hours watching game tape and fucking him through the mattress. Dropped in a foreign country, Ilya could find his way home just by following the magnet in his chest.

After each goal, Ilya collides with his boyfriend first. Smacks a kiss to every part of his helmet even as the rest of their teammates cheer. If the jumbotron isn’t counting the kisses, that’s their loss.

The Atlantic Division wins the entire tournament. Maybe the league was onto something, not letting them play together for so long. This is embarrassing for everyone else.

At the hotel bar, Ilya waits for Shane to head for the bathroom to quickly shove his chair around a different table. When he returns and sees Ilya’s smirk, Shane sighs, “I’m not getting out of this one, am I?”

“You don’t want to,” Ilya says. And they both know he’s right.

~

Early March 2018

It takes until the final Ottawa-Boston game of the season, for their schedules to line up. The Centaurs play the Raiders on a Saturday. Both of their next games aren't until Tuesday. When Shane asks Wiebe permission to fly back separately from the rest of the team, more than a month in advance, the coach gives it with a smile. “Just be back in time for practice on Monday afternoon, Hollander.”

It’s strange to think that this will be their last game of the season. Besides the previous year, when Shane was injured, he hasn’t missed the playoffs once. Usually that meant a potential matchup with Boston somewhere down the line. Ending the season at the beginning of April feels… wrong.

The Centaurs are currently doing better in the Division standings than they have in the past two decades. But they’re too many games back to be a threat for a Wild Card spot. Even though they fought hard, it wasn’t meant to be this year. Shane has high hopes for next year, especially since their starting goalie is retiring.

Shane’s seen their backup goalie, who management has been considering as the new starter. When it came up in a meeting with Wiebe, Shane leapt at the chance to show him footage of Wyatt Hayes in Toronto. The man is under-utilized, frankly, a star in the making if he was given more ice time. Wiebe told him they’d take it under consideration, at least, so Shane’s keeping his fingers crossed.

Despite the premature end to the season, Shane feels better about it than he thought he would. While losing sucks, it’s been validating to see the Metros fall behind even the Centaurs as the team fractures from within. And Shane can still feel the seeds of something great here. A dynasty he would be proud to be a part of.

All that to say, Shane is excited to spend more than one night with his boyfriend. Even though they make it work, being away from each other is torture. The Raiders have already clinched a spot in the playoffs. Shane plans to ask Ilya if staying with him in Boston for the post-season would be too much of a distraction. He hopes Ilya okays it. That would give them almost five months together, even if free agency doesn’t go as planned.

Shane makes it through the game without jumping Ilya on the ice. Sure, he’s hard in his cup for the first two periods because of the thing Ilya whispered at center ice that Shane desperately wishes he couldn’t translate, but at this point that’s practically a given.

The Centaurs lose. Everyone’s in a good mood regardless. Boston flooded the stands to support both teams, in an utterly confusing turn of events. Not many people are wearing Centaurs’ jerseys, the signs have a lot more swears, and Shane definitely saw one saying Love Wins but the Centaurs Better Lose (sorry). But, bizarrely, the fan support is starting to feel familiar, comforting. Even if it’s only Boston and Ottawa, that’s two more places than Shane expected.

They spend Sunday lazing in bed and fucking in every room of Ilya’s house, until even Ilya begs for mercy. Then, shaky and freshly showered, they collapse on Ilya’s bare mattress for a nap while the washing machine spins.

Shane wakes to soft lips, fluttering over the bridge of his nose, his cheeks. When he blinks open his eyes, it’s to find Ilya already watching him. Shane thinks that if he wanted, he could touch the air between them, and find the love exuding a tangible thing. “Dobroye utro, dorogoy,” Ilya whispers. He kisses the tip of Shane’s nose.

“I love you,” Shane says. “But I think it’s long past morning.”

“Yes, it has come and gone,” Ilya says, winking. Shane smacks his shoulder in retaliation and Ilya doesn’t even sway. “We have to start getting ready, or we’ll be late.”

Shane freezes. “Late? For what?” He doesn’t have anything in his calendar, and he doesn’t remember talking about this last night. Half-panicked, he glances at Ilya’s bedside clock, in case they somehow slept 16 hours and Shane’s about to miss his flight. But it’s only 5 o’clock.

Ilya looks… almost nervous. “I am hoping, if you are okay with it,” he starts. Then he takes a breath, deep enough that Shane feels Ilya’s chest expand against his own. “Can I take you on a date?”

“A date?” Shane asks. And suddenly, he’s… breathless. What a strange feeling. In June, they’ll have been dating officially for four years. And in all that time, they’ve never been on an official date. Not just them, at least. They managed a mutated version, with Svetlana between them, or with awkward fourth wheels in Hayden and Marlow. But alone in public…

Over the summer, they were so focused on soaking each other in at the cottage, Ilya continuing to get to know Shane’s parents. During the season, they don’t have time together, outside of the All-Star break. Which itself is a curated schedule.

“A date, yes,” Ilya confirms. “If it is okay?”

Shane blinks rapidly. “Yes, it’s okay.” His stomach flutters. He feels… nervous. Scared, for a reason he can’t name, but also desperately excited. It’s ridiculous.

The doorbell rings, while Shane is straightening his shirt cuffs. “Wait here,” Ilya says, pressing a kiss behind Shane’s ear. He returns five minutes later with a bouquet. “Lilies.” Ilya winks. But Shane knows the set of his shoulders when he’s hiding his nerves, the tension in his jaw.

Shane steps closer, bending slightly to smell the flowers. He glances up at Ilya through his lashes. “My favorite,” Shane says quietly. “They’re beautiful. Thank you, baby.”

Ilya’s cheeks redden. He pushes the flowers into Shane’s hands and he takes them gladly. Then he places them on the bed. Hands now free, Shane rubs his thumb over the hot skin of Ilya’s face. He smiles, and pulls Ilya down for a kiss.

Ilya drives them. He refuses to tell Shane where they’re going, but Shane finds he doesn’t mind. Somehow, letting Ilya be in control of this first date feels natural. They park in the Haymarket garage. As soon as they’re out of the car, Ilya offers his hand.

This is different. Shane allowed himself affection in front of the Centaurs, because they’re really just that trustworthy. His comfort with them came first, PDA second. At the All-Star Game, Shane tricked his brain into viewing Ilya’s joking comment as a concrete plan. It made holding Ilya’s hand, receiving a deluge of helmet kisses, and even sitting on his lap feel manageable. But this is… more. Spontaneous and long-lasting and not part of an agenda. Just them, together, out, on the streets of Boston.

Shane wants it. Shane surprises himself with how much he wants it, actually. So he reaches out and takes it. Lets himself have this. Shane’s done his time. Lived years in the closet, hiding the best and most important thing he’s ever known. And he doesn’t have to do it anymore.

March isn’t the best time of year for Boston. The day itself was overcast and gray, and now at 6pm the windchill makes it feel barely above freezing. Shane doesn’t notice. He tucks his free hand in his pocket, but the hand Ilya holds is blazingly warm. The walk is less than ten minutes, including when Ilya pauses to point out the Paul Revere House.

“You’ve been there?” Shane asks, surprised.

Ilya snorts. “No, too boring. I like Science Museum. They have musical stairs and dinosaurs that I take pictures of and send to Scott Hunter. But you are boring, so I thought you would like.”

“Asshole,” Shane says, but he squeezes Ilya’s hand.

The restaurant Ilya leads him to is overlooking the same square as the Paul Revere House. Mamma Maria charms at first glance, green and gold facade with gorgeous windows. Ilya checks them in and a waitress leads them to the front of the restaurant. That beautiful window right behind their table, so that anyone walking by could see them.

When Shane chose the brunch restaurant with Svetlana, he did so for intentional exposure. To help craft the narrative of her as his beard. This is not that. Instead, Shane thinks Ilya chose this as a declaration, staking a claim for everyone to see, without allowing himself to seem ashamed.

Ilya is still holding his hand. So Shane can be brave. He sits facing the window, so that the entire city, the entire world can see him loving his boyfriend. He hopes they do see. Everyone should know about the love that sends Shane’s brain spinning.

“This is okay, yes?” Ilya checks. His thumb runs over Shane’s knuckles.

“Perfect,” Shane says. And he means it.

Since it’s only a practice tomorrow, Shane finds himself less bothered by stepping outside his diet than he expected. He orders the beet salad as an appetizer, and the halibut daily special as his main course. Ilya orders buffalo mozzarella with cherry tomatoes and the bolognese with no regret. Even though Shane winces at the amount of dairy and carbs, he lets Ilya feed him a bite of each without complaining. Everything is painfully delicious.

“You’re spoiling me,” Shane observes.

“You deserve to be spoiled,” Ilya says, like it’s obvious.

Shane refuses dessert, but steals a forkful of Ilya’s tiramisu, since it looks incredible. He’s right.

“How are you feeling about the playoffs?” Shane asks.

Ilya smirks. “What is this? Shane Hollander, asking about playoffs before season ends? I thought this was a jinx?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “The Raiders already clinched a spot, asshole.”

“I am feeling good,” Ilya says, relenting. He takes a long time dragging the fork out of his mouth, lips pressed to the metal. “I told you in July, I am winning Boston the Cup this year.”

“Don’t get cocky,” Shane warns. But the smug certainty in Ilya’s voice makes him squirm just slightly in his seat.

“Not cockiness,” Ilya asserts, “is skill. And determination. I have big plans for on-the-ice celebration.”

“You want to upstage Scott Hunter, don’t you,” Shane says flatly. He already knows the answer.

“Yes, of course,” Ilya says immediately. “We cannot let that fossil be what people remember, when they think about iconic Cup celebrations.”

Shane laughs. “We?” he asks. “Are you saying you want me there on the ice, if the Raiders win?”

Ilya looks at him like he’s said something idiotic. “Yes. Unless you don’t want–”

The last thing Shane wants is to make Ilya doubt how much he loves him. “Of course I want. My parents will come too, if you have extra tickets.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Is important for my plan.”

“What exactly are you thinking?” Shane asks warily.

“A surprise,” Ilya says. Then he hesitates. “You are okay, if I surprise you? I promise it will be good, but if it is too much…”

Shane thinks about it. Really thinks about it. He’s sure Ilya is planning some type of dramatic kiss, maybe even with more tongue than Hunter’s. For a heartbeat, Shane gets a strange image of Ilya lifting him above his head, like they’re figure skaters. That would be bizarre, and probably dangerous, but a Cup win is a big deal. Shane would allow it, this once. Really, Shane would allow him anything.

“As long as you don’t try to fuck me at center ice on live television, I think I’ll be fine,” Shane says dryly. After all, Shane has his own plans, if his boyfriend follows through with his playoff domination. His own little surprise.

“No,” Ilya says, very serious. He brings Shane’s left hand up to his mouth, places a kiss on his fingers. “That sight is only for me. No one else.”

“Good,” Shane whispers, out of breath. Ilya’s eyes darken.

They call for the check, and chase each other to the car. Shane barely gets the door shut before they’re making out like teenagers in the back seat.

~

Early June 2018

The 2018 post-season is like none Ilya has ever played before.

He approaches the ice with the same attitude he did after Sochi four years ago. A burning need to win, something far beyond desire. It means the ice becomes crystal clear, a mirrored reflection of each game, of what could happen the next play, the next, the next. Ilya’s passes are sharper, his shots more precise, his checks harder.

Historically, players tend to run out of steam in the playoffs. Injuries increase. Almost 8 months straight of hockey starts to catch up and break down tired bodies. Carrying a ferocious season into the month of May is no simple thing.

This year, Ilya feels himself picking up steam, rather than losing it. He can taste the Cup, knows that this year is his year, Boston’s year. Only one other time has he felt this way, so perfectly convinced that he will be taking a lap in June.

Ilya was right in 2014. He will be right again.

But his escalating excellence on the ice is not what makes this post-season different. No. This time? Ilya has fun.

In 2014, fresh from an Olympic humiliation, winning was half statement, half apology, and all promise that he deserved his own reputation. Off the ice, Ilya was consumed with thoughts of Shane. Of how he ran when Shane hinted at a this, of his freckles that Ilya dreamed of each time he fell asleep, of the way holding Shane had become almost better than fucking him. Ilya remembers hoisting the Cup over his head, watching his teammates’ families spill onto the ice, and wondering whether Hollander would let himself be kissed there. Imagining Hollander showing up for Ilya, cheering for him, loving him.

He’d felt beyond pathetic at the time. But now…

Shane stays with Ilya in Boston, once the Centaurs officially end their season. He flies out a few times for sponsorship commitments or meetings with his team, but mostly, he stays with Ilya. When Ilya comes home with bruises after a rough practice, Shane rubs arnica gel into his skin. When Ilya’s legs wobble after a grueling stretch of game time, Shane coaxes him into a piggy-back ride that almost ends in two concussions. When Ilya steps through the door buzzing with sleep-deprived adrenaline after a plane ride and an away game win, Shane drops to his knees in the entryway, bends over the couch, lets himself be tossed onto their bed.

And Shane comes to every home game. Every single one.

Ilya’s never had someone do that for him before, not since his mother when he was small. Svetlana comes to a few games each season, his father would show up to important games in Russia, but Shane sits in the stands for them all. He informs Ilya tartly that he won’t be wearing any Raiders’ gear, because he’s not a traitor, but the jumbotron shows him cheering for Ilya’s goals. Pumping his fist for each win.

Ilya forgot how good hockey could feel, playing for someone he loves. Knowing that each victory is a gift for another person.

The guys chirp him about it. Half of them due to the fact that Shane refuses his jersey, but Victor asks very seriously if they should be ‘adding Hollander to the WAGs groupchat.’ Ilya considers it for a long second, but decides not to risk Shane kicking him to the couch.

Ilya gets to introduce Shane to his team. He hosts, to give his boyfriend the comfort of familiar territory, and enjoys watching Shane talk shop with the Raiders. Almost everyone shows up, even though they should all be resting in between series. Cliff acts as a bridge to the rest of the group, joking around with Shane and pulling out his deadpan humor.

Ilya spends most of the party sneaking in PDA just to watch his team’s utter bafflement. Shane allows it so easily too, lets Ilya drop kisses on his cheek as he passes by, leans back into his chest when Ilya hugs him from behind. Staying in Boston has given them more and more opportunities to practice being a couple in public. Shane still hesitates, looks around for a threat, but he always takes the step. Ilya loves him for it.

Really, the only downside to Shane being around all the time is that it makes planning for June tricky. Ilya starts dragging himself out of bed as soon as Shane leaves for his run, just so he can call Yuna and David privately, talk to Farah, without Shane catching wind of it all. He invents a few coaches’ meetings just to sneak in errands and trips to Cliff’s. Given Shane’s general obliviousness, Ilya could probably do away with the subtlety and be just fine, but he’s not risking it.

By the time the Stanley Cup series rolls around, Ilya is buzzing with anticipation. He wakes the morning of Game 5—a home game with the Raiders up 3-1 in the series—to Shane’s lips wrapped around his cock. It’s a perfect way to start the day, and Ilya knows without a doubt that the end of the night will beat even this.

“You don’t need it, but good luck,” Shane says, as Ilya readies to leave the house. “I’m picking my parents up from the airport around 3. We’ll drop their stuff off at the hotel, and then head to the Garden.” Ilya offered to host them, but Yuna and David had shared a look and said they’d rather give them their privacy. Probably a good choice, all told.

“Okay,” Ilya says. He’s struck by a sudden wave of nerves, of doubt. “And is still okay?” he checks. “If I make a very big scene on the ice, and show world how much I love you?”

Shane softens. With a smile, he steps into Ilya’s personal space and cups the nape of his neck. The kiss is slow, sweet, and sure. “Yes, Ilyusha. Whatever you want.”

“You,” Ilya says immediately. “Just you.”

“You have me.”

Ilya steps into the Raiders locker room with a sense of finality. Nothing has been decided yet, of course. Free agency doesn’t begin until July 1. They could still have to play Game 6. But Ilya knows. He is stepping into this locker room as Captain of the Boston Raiders for the last time. This will be his last pre-game speech, his last time lacing up his skates. Here, in this room and this city that built him, Ilya walks toward the ending. The epilogue, of a book he’ll treasure for the rest of his life.

Maybe his teammates are thinking it too. Underneath the nerves and excitement, Ilya sees a level of seriousness that seems out of place. A type of measured solemnity, a preparatory grief. Rather than regret, Ilya only loves them more for it.

Dressed and ready, Ilya stands in the center of the benches. The volume of the room is almost painfully low for a Stanley Cup game. When Ilya takes his place, it quiets entirely. He notices LeClaire step into the room, followed by the assistant coaches and the other people who make this team function. They line the walls by the door, a sign of respect Ilya didn’t know to expect but appreciates more than he can say.

Ilya takes a deep breath to steady himself. “I told this room, nine fucking months ago. I told you all. This year would be the best fucking hockey of my life. Of all our lives. Did I fucking lie?”

“No, Captain!” they shout back.

“I told you all, we will win motherfucking Stanley Cup. Did I fucking lie?”

“No, Captain!”

“That’s fucking right,” Ilya says. “I don’t fucking lie about this, boys. We are going to win this Cup and hang another banner from those rafters.” He looks around the room, meets their eyes. Cliff, pride shining on his face. Connors and Victor and Carmichael. Kane. Sebbin and Varkov. “And I didn’t lie about loving this fucking city. This year…”

Ilya centers himself, because this is not when he can lose it. Not here. Not now. “This year, I threw big pile of shit in your lap. I do not regret it, I do not regret who I love. But you could have lost faith in me as Captain, as a player. You boys did not. Instead you fought harder, you cheered louder, you had my fucking back. This is something I will never forget, as long as I live.”

Cliff roars, rapping his gloved hand on the locker behind him. The rest of the team follows, an absolutely cacophony of sound, chaotic and metallic and loud.

“That’s fucking right!” Ilya shouts. He paces now, careful of the blades on his feet. “You had my fucking back! If this is last time I lace up in this room, last game I skate as a Raider, as your Captain, I will never forget. I will always be a Raider here,” Ilya thumps his chest, over his heart. “Because this city gave me fucking everything! We are winning this Cup for Boston, yes, but I am winning this Cup for you. For my,” Ilya raises his fist, “fucking,” he tilts his head back, “team!” he bellows the last word, watches it rattle through their bones.

Usually, when Ilya finishes a speech, the noise crescendos and they file onto the ice. This time, more than 20 grown men flood the center of the room. They mob him, ruffling his hair, thumping his back, jostling him back and forth like he’s already scored the game winning goal, already clinched the Cup.

“Proud of you, kid,” someone says, squeezing Ilya’s shoulder. He realizes the coaches have entered the scrum too, because LeClaire stands there looking distinctly misty. Ilya grins, a real true smile, without any of the arrogance he dons as a shield.

The team refuses to leave until Ilya agrees to stand by the door. Usually, he bumps fists with them as they leave the ice. But after the Cup will be chaotic, hardly an orderly exit. So Ilya does it now. Knocks gloves with each of his boys, each of the men he’s come to see as family. “I love you,” he tells them.

They say it back. Each and every one.

~

1

Ilya’s first goal comes off of Cliff’s rebound. It’s dirty, too many sticks and skates and bodies crashing together outside the net. But the puck hits Ilya’s stick just right for him to send it off the crossbar and light the goal up red.

“Fuck yes, Rozy!” Cliff crows. They slam together, rattling the glass as other Raiders join. The home crowd screams like they’ve already won it all.

Ilya glances up at the jumbotron in time to see the camera pan to Shane. He’s shouting and clapping, bending to say something in Svetlana’s ear. His parents are cheering too, even if all three of the Hollanders are dressed in neutral colors.

The decision is abrupt. “I’m scoring a hat trick tonight,” Ilya tells Cliff.

His friend laughs. “Wouldn’t expect anything less, Roz. That’s better than flowers for the two of you.”

~

2

Ilya nets his second goal with 20 seconds left in the first. The Raiders are on the power play after an idiotic trip from LA. To their credit, the kill shift is doing a good job defending the net, hounding Ilya’s line even though they’re a man down.

He recognizes what Connors’ is about to do in the heartbeat before he does it. Connors fakes a shot on net, low and fast. At the last second, he turns his stick and passes it to Ilya. The puck comes in hot, but Ilya doesn’t pause to settle it. He one-times it over the goalie’s shoulder into the back of the net.

Connors slams into him, and Ilya spins them both. “Nice fucking passing, CC!” Ilya shouts in his ear.

“Nice fucking shooting, Rozy!”

~

3

The final goal doesn’t come until halfway through the third period. While the second period is scoreless for both teams, the Raiders still enter the last up 2-1. LA knows that they have to win it here to have a chance at tying up the series. Being down by one makes them play faster, harder. Ilya takes a puck to the shin blocking a tricky angle on net. Victor slams into the boards going after the puck so hard that both he and the other player take a second to get up.

Then, a wild pass sends the puck skittering toward the other side of the ice. And Ilya didn’t win Fastest Skater for nothing.

He’s alone on the breakaway. Heading full tilt for LA’s net. And, well.

If he’s going to leave his mark on this city, he might as well give it everything he has.

He switches to his backhand.

The hats hit the ice one after the other, TD Garden shaking in its very foundation. Crowds have always loved The Rozanov, but when Ilya blows a kiss in the general direction of where Shane sits in the stands, the noise reaches eardrum-shattering levels.

His team mobs him, every man on the ice piling on and screaming. Ilya can see the home bench drumming their sticks on the boards. He loves this team. Loves this fucking city.

He just loves Shane Hollander more.

~

After that, the game is a foregone conclusion. LA pulls their goalie in the last five minutes, desperate to knock a puck in with the man advantage. It doesn’t work. In fact, Cliff manages to clear the puck so decisively that the empty goal lights up red.

The buzzer blares and victory has never tasted so sweet. Helmets fly everywhere as the bench clears into a pile of sweaty, screaming, joy. Ilya’s screaming right there along with them, as the Cup is brought out. Crowell looks like he’s bitten into a lemon as he presents it. Ilya could care less. He hoists the Cup over his head, aware of the cameras focused on his face, feeling the warmth of his team behind him.

He skates the lap. Sees the posters proclaiming their love for him, for Hollanov, for his team. Hears the crowd chanting “Roz-a-nov! Roz-a-nov!”

When they gather for the team photo, Ilya’s grinning so broadly he can barely breathe. Dozens of cameras point at their faces, capturing the moment forever. “For you, Boston!” Ilya shouts, as loud as he can. He hopes the cameras catch it. He means the city, but, even more, he means the team that stood behind him.

Just before the families file onto the ice, Ilya looks at his team. “You remember the plan, yes?”

“Yes, Rozy,” Carmichael groans. It’s ineffective considering he can’t stop smiling.

Cliff makes his way back from the bench. He nods at Ilya’s inquiring expression. Perfect.

The first people walk out of the tunnel onto the ice. Ilya waits very patiently for the kids to slip and slide to their fathers. Grins at Sebbin’s daughter’s disgust at his sweaty hug. He sees Svetlana first. She has thick black and gold lines painted on her cheeks and jogs easily across the ice. “I have to get my hug in now, before you’re distracted,” she says shamelessly. She squeezes him tightly. “I am so proud of you, Ilyusha.”

“Spasibo,” Ilya whispers. She steps back.

And Ilya sees him.

What a national embarrassment it would be, if Ilya tripped and fell on his face now, after winning the fucking Stanely Cup. But he wobbles and almost does anyway.

Because Shane fucking Hollander is standing there on the ice, wearing a Raiders jersey with a gold C on the chest.

Ilya knows he wasn’t wearing it earlier. Knows Shane must have carried it in, for just this eventuality. Memory rushes through him, of sprawling out on Shane’s couch. Of stripping down to nothing and pulling Shane’s jersey over his head. Of touching himself, bringing himself to the brink again and again while he waited. Of sneaking into Shane’s hotel room in a wig to do it all again.

They weren’t together yet, the last time Ilya won the Cup. He hasn’t experienced this before. His name on Shane’s back, like a brand.

“Ilyusha, for fuck’s sake,” Svetlana groans. “Close your mouth and go kiss him already.”

Right. He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring, awestruck, but tripping might have been less embarrassing. Ilya meets Shane at center ice, cups his bare hands around Shane’s face. His boyfriend is flushed, freckles gloriously prominent. “You look like I hit you over the head,” is the first thing Shane says. Not ‘congratulations,’ not ‘good game,’ not ‘that hat trick was sexy.’

Ilya loves him so fucking much. He doesn’t defend himself though, only says, in a voice dark with promise, “This is why you made me swear not to fuck you at center ice, hm?”

Shane shivers. His gaze drops to Ilya’s lips, even as he slowly licks his own. “Maybe,” he hedges.

“This is cruel,” Ilya tells him. “I did not torture you like this.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, just kiss me already.”

Ilya obliges. He fulfills his promise of three years. He locks their lips together and dips Shane like a dancer. Shane makes a sound of surprise against Ilya’s mouth and he swallows it whole. Revels in the way Shane’s arms fly up to cling to Ilya’s back, his head. But Ilya won’t drop him. He’s incapable of it, of letting go of this most precious thing.

He kisses Shane like he’s always wanted to, deep and claiming in front of the entire world. Fresh off a win, sweaty with victory. Shane tugs him closer, closer. Licks into Ilya’s mouth like he can map their way home. Ilya wants to tell him there’s no need. They are already home. Here, together. Anywhere can be home.

The wolf-whistles of his team finally reach such a pitch that Ilya can’t ignore it. He slowly raises them to standing. Shane’s eyes are glazed, stunned. Like Ilya fucked him at center ice after all, instead of just kissing him.

When Ilya finally manages to look away, he finds that the Raiders have surrounded them in a loose ring. Family tucked under their arms, massive grins on their faces. Yuna and David stand in the circle too, hands clasped together and knowing expressions.

Cliff catches his eye and beams. It’s so bizarre on his face that Ilya almost laughs. Instead, he dips his chin.

Cliff breaks the circle to skate forward. He has the Cup in his hands, and he presents it to Ilya dramatically. “Thought you might be needing this,” Cliff says, with mock solemnity.

Ilya takes it, careful to keep the bowl tilted away from Shane. He sees a flash of purple nestled at the bottom. “Thank you, Marly,” Ilya says. And he means for more than this. For everything, since he was a terrified teenager, more spite than an entire roster.

“Anything for you, Roz,” Cliff says. He skates backward to retake his place in the circle.

When Ilya looks back to his boyfriend, Shane has shaken off his dazedness in favor of confusion. His eyes travel between Ilya’s face and the Stanley Cup, as if a new clue will reveal itself.

Ilya doesn’t make him wait long.

He drops to one knee and tilts the bowl of the Cup in Shane’s direction. Sees the moment his eyes catch on the velvet box at the bottom and fly wide. As one, the Raiders start drumming their sticks on the ice. A sequence of rhythmic tapping that drowns out the noise of the rapidly quieting crowd.

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya says. Like a puppet on a string, Shane’s gaze drags itself up to Ilya’s face. “Four years ago, we agreed to make this thing work. It was hard and it was scary. Our plans changed and changed again. But I have never regretted a single moment. Not from the first time I shook your hand outside a rink in Saskatchewan.”

Ilya blinks furiously, wills the tears to hold off for just a little longer. “I have loved you for so long that I can’t remember what it was like not to. I don’t want to remember. I want to keep loving you for the rest of our lives.” Ilya puts his entire heart into his eyes, hopes Shane understands. “Shane Hollander,” Ilya repeats. Then: “Will you marry me, dorogoy?”

Shane’s mouth opens in a gasp. Ilya can’t hear it though, over the pounding of his heart and the smack of the sticks. Ilya can see the tremble in Shane’s hands as he reaches into the Stanley Cup for the velvet box. He flips the lid, and Ilya knows what’s there. A simple gold band, with the engraving in Russian, Я выбираю тебя.

Shane removes the ring carefully. Meets Ilya’s eyes as he slides it onto his left ring finger. It fits perfectly. Svetlana’s advice about the string while he slept clearly paid off.

“Yes,” Shane says. Then louder, “Yes, you absolute fucking lunatic. Put the Cup down and kiss me.”

Ilya practically throws the Cup to the side. Shane doesn’t let him get very far. He tackles Ilya, taking them both down to the ice in aggressive exuberance that Ilya so rarely sees from him. The Raiders cheer, louder, even, than when they won the Cup. TD Garden goes fucking wild. Ilya doesn’t notice any of it. Not when Shane’s kissing him like he’s the air he needs to breathe. Not when both of their faces are wet, and Ilya doesn’t care who’s responsible. Not when Ilya has never been this perfectly, incandescently happy before.

“I love you,” Shane gasps between kisses, “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“I love you too. I love you,” Ilya murmurs in response.

When Shane finally leans back, his eyes are bright with the tears he so rarely sheds. He looks so beautiful. “Promise me this wasn’t just about one-upping Scott Hunter?” he asks wetly.

Ilya kisses the tip of his nose. “Of course not,” he says, very seriously. “Is also about Canadian citizenship. Much easier when we are married.”

“You fucking asshole,” Shane laughs.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “Your asshole.” Then, tentative, he adds, “This seemed right, for us. Hockey is where we started. Hockey is best gift I can give you. Was it okay?”

Shane stares at him. There’s that look again, like Ilya is the biggest idiot he’s ever encountered. “Okay?” Shane demands. “Ilya, baby. This was Perfect.” Shane smirks, a surprisingly smug expression stealing across his face. “Besides, no one’s been proposed to with the Cup before. There’s no beating that, ever.”

Ilya snorts. He and Shane climb to their feet, leaning on each other the whole way. Yuna has tears in her eyes and his teammates are grinning like mad. With a smile so wide it hurts, he grabs Shane’s wrist and raises it to the rafters. Gold glints on his finger.

“Let’s fucking go!” Ilya shouts. And, one last time, his team mobs both Ilya and his new fiancé.

~

Chapter End Notes

SURPRISE!!! Made myself cry with this chapter too, sorry.

The whole fic has been building toward this moment. It was so fun dropping subtle easter eggs and foreshadowing along the way. While the prequel started out as just a butterfly-effect/for-want-of-a-nail exploration of one tiny change, I realized immediately that this fic would be so much more. I wanted to take space for conversations that should have happened between Shane and Ilya. I wanted for them both to showcase their strengths in making this thing work. I wanted resolutions and moments with side characters that we didn’t fully explore in the books or the show (so far). And mostly, I wanted them to enter their futures together on equal footing, with choices they each made on their own time without being forced into it. Because they chose each other, over and over again.

And Ilya deserved another Cup, sue me.

Anyway, fun fact, apparently a hat trick and Gordie Howe in a single game is incredibly rare but HAS been done before! I also couldn’t resist having Shane steal Ilya’s signature move and went back to The Long Game to get it right. And hat tricks in the finals also happen! (occasionally)

Hope you all enjoyed ❤️

Chapter 14

Chapter Summary

Step 9: Come Out?
Step 9: Marriage

the epilogue

Chapter Notes

Hi everyone! It’s your lucky day (this is funny, because it’s St. Patrick’s Day for me). Early and final update with the epilogue of our story!

I am so glad and so relieved that the Cup proposal rang true/worked for you all. I was pretty nervous about it actually striking the chord I wanted it to. But all of your reactions to last chapter truly blew me away. Thank you, seriously.

A few people have commented on how sad they are for this fic to end, and me too! This is where this particular fic was always meant to end, in parallel with the books. But I do have some ideas for both a companion social media piece and/or a continuation either looking at their next season OR the 20-21 season in brief. I don’t make any promises though. For now I will be marking ‘the coast is clear’ as complete, but you can feel free to subscribe to the series!

Frankly, between unofficial nanowrimo in November and this fic I have literally never written this much in a five month span. I fought to keep this under 100k but my fingers are still falling off. When I recover from this fic, I plan to be back with more Hollanov! Possibly a continuation, or possibly a Sentinel/Guide AU. Who knows!

I hope you all enjoy the final chapter <3

Step 9: Come Out?
Step 9: Marriage
~

Early August 2018

The night before their wedding, Shane wakes in a cold sweat. He sits up against the headboard, arguing with himself. Is this worth nudging Ilya awake? He can’t stop turning it over in his mind, worrying away at it. Shane knows he won’t fall asleep without checking. Dark circles are a bad look in wedding pictures.

He gives in.

“Ilya, hey,” Shane whispers. He shakes Ilya’s shoulder, trailing his fingers up his neck into those soft curls he loves so much. “Wake up.” He scratches at Ilya’s scalp.

Ilya hums. He buries his face in the pillow before groaning and rolling onto his back. In the moonlight peeking through their curtains, Ilya squints blearily. “Shane?” Ilya asks in groggy Russian. “What’s wrong?”

Shane presses a kiss to Ilya’s forehead in apology. “Just, I couldn’t remember. Did we order chairs?”

A beat of silence. “Shane.”

Shane winces. “Sorry. I just woke up thinking–”

Instead of annoyance, Ilya responds with laughter. Shoulders shaking, he rolls over until he’s crushing Shane to the mattress. Immediately, the warm weight unwinds Shane’s muscles. He goes limp. Ilya props his chin up on Shane’s chest, digging into his pectoral. “Shane, moy lyubimyy. You think wedding planned by your mother would forget chairs?”

Oh. That’s… fair.

“Don’t tell her I asked,” Shane says, wincing.

“I will not, because I am very generous future husband,” Ilya teases. “Chairs and tables will be delivered and set up in morning by same company as caterers. No need to worry.”

“Right, okay,” Shane sighs.

A backyard wedding has more moving pieces than Shane thought it would. A venue might have been easier, but they both wanted to be married before the new season and Ilya’s debut as a Centaur. While Ilya had gotten some of the pieces moving prior to his proposal, he told Shane that he didn’t want to leave him out of the process entirely. Which he appreciated. But it meant their options were limited in terms of location and they scrambled to get things together in less than three months.

Thankfully—according to Ilya—Shane’s Ottawa house is ridiculous. Massive for one person even if it’s soon to be two, the real appeal is the backyard. The property includes almost 5 acres of land, lined by trees for privacy. Shane paid someone to come out and do the landscaping, as well as build a small practice rink set back from the house. It means they have plenty of space to host their own wedding. Even if the guest list feels impressively large.

“We can go back to sleep now, yes?” Ilya asks. By the slow drag of his words, he’s already most of the way there.

Shane brushes his lips over Ilya’s curls. Sleep calls to him too. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Big day tomorrow.” The thought makes him smile.

Shane’s parents arrive at the crack of dawn. Or at least, it feels that way. Thankfully, Shane and Ilya are both too nervous to sleep in, and have enough time for lazy morning blowjobs and a shower before they let themselves in.

Ilya’s still pulling on a shirt when Shane hears the door open.

“Mom, I told you to knock!” Shane calls. He jogs down the stairs to take the bags from his mom’s hands.

“But we have a key! We didn’t want to disturb you if you were still in bed,” she says.

Shane flushes. He tries to think of how to dance around the idea without dooming them to future disaster. “Well–”

“Honey,” his dad says. “I think that’s what Shane’s worried about.”

His mom frowns. Then her eyebrows fly upward, “Oh! That’s– I’ll knock next time.”

“Thank you,” Shane says fervently. Not even 7am and he already wants the ground to open up.

Thankfully, his mom chooses that moment to bustle into the kitchen. “Bring the bags in here, Shane! I picked up breakfast.”

Shane exchanges a look with his dad, but they’re both too well trained not to listen to Yuna Hollander on a mission.

Most of the food she picked up makes Shane wince and Ilya smile delightedly. Ilya piles his plate with chocolate chip pancakes, bacon, and half of an omelet. Because she understands him, his mom slides Shane a container of oatmeal with nuts, honey, and fresh fruit that, frankly, looks delicious.

“What time are Hayden and his family getting here?” she asks.

“I think they said 9.”

“And your friend, Ilya? Svetlana, right?”

Ilya swallows his bite of pancake. “Yes, Svetlana. She should be here around then too. She does not like mornings, so be careful.”

While Hayden and Jackie decided to drive over the morning of, most of Shane and Ilya’s other guests booked hotels around the city. This year, they swapped the order of the charity camps so that Boston came first. The Ottawa camp finished two days ago, meaning their coaches could just stay in town rather than make a separate trip.

Their guest list ended up… surprisingly long. Between the entire Centaurs roster and most of the Raiders, that already brought them over 60 people including plus ones. Besides Hayden and JJ, Shane only reached out to a few people from his time in Montreal, including the rookies who hadn’t been in the position to push back. Most declined, but Royce will be making the trip.

And then, when Shane includes their friends from other teams, Foundation coaches like Max Riley and Leah Campbell, the few—if limited in number—non-hockey friends…

Their backyard would have to fit over a hundred people.

Ilya’s hand lands heavy on the back of Shane’s neck. “You are worrying,” he says. Shane glances up. Ilya’s mouth twitches. “Is very cute, but everything is all set. Okay?”

“Right. Okay.”

By the time the caterers have set up the dozen tables and many more chairs, Shane realizes he’s actually getting married. Here. Today.

“And there it is,” Hayden says. He raises his hand to ruffle Shane’s carefully gelled hair before visibly thinking better of it. “You’re freaking out now, aren’t you bud?”

“I’m not freaking out!” Shane protests.

“Definitely freaking out,” his mom says fondly. She straightens Shane’s bowtie for the fifth time.

Once they got closer to go-time, Shane’s mom and Hayden bullied him into a separate part of the house to get ready. Svetlana tugged Ilya away, even as he dramatically blew kisses and lamented in Shane’s general direction. He’s such a dork, sometimes. Shane loves him for it, more than words can say. His dad followed behind them shaking his head, effectively splitting the available parental guidance.

“Just,” Shane fumbles for words. “You don’t think he’ll regret it, right? I’m not trapping him?”

“Shane, honey,” his mom says slowly. “You do remember he proposed to you?”

Shane ducks his head. “I know, I know. I just–”

“Shane, buddy.” Hayden’s hands land on his shoulders, squeezing. Shane looks up to see the same long-suffering expression Hayden wears when Ruby and Jade are painting his toe nails. “Regrettably for me, that man is absolutely obsessed with you. If this is a trap, he walked himself in and threw away the key. Stop stressing.”

Shane slumps. “Right. Is it time yet? I feel like I need to just get it over with.”

Hayden snorts. “Wow, yeah. Definitely don’t say that in front of him, that doesn’t exactly scream ‘I can’t wait to be together for the rest of our lives.’”

“Shut up.”

They’d opted not to set up an aisle to walk down. Instead, they stood in front of the clustered tables. Svetlana and Hayden take their positions on the subtle white golf tees Shane’s mom meticulously spaced that morning. And then, Shane on his mom’s arm and Ilya on Shane’s father’s, they meet in the middle.

All of the eyes on Shane, all of the nerves, all of it falls away. He only sees Ilya. Ilya, in his deep burgundy tuxedo, a contrast to Shane’s light gray. Ilya, his curls neatly falling around his face. Ilya, his eyes glowing with happiness, lips twitching like he physically can’t keep from smiling.

“Hi,” Shane says. He only remembers their audience when they laugh. Right. They literally saw each other two hours ago.

Ilya doesn’t laugh though. Instead, he beams. “Hello. You come here often?” More laughter.

Shane rolls his eyes. “Asshole,” he says, fondly.

“Yes,” Ilya nods. “Your asshole.”

Shane wants to fire back a crisp, don’t talk about my asshole in front of more than a hundred people if you ever want to see it again, but that would probably make things worse.

“Well this is a first for me,” their justice of the peace, Nancy, jokes. “Not sure I’ve ever had a couple insult each other at the altar.”

“It’s how they show affection!” Someone, probably Bood, calls from the audience.

“Alright, then,” Nancy says with a laugh. “Should we get started?”

Shane doesn’t hear a word of the opening speech. Like a lot of the time he and Ilya are in the same space, it’s impossible to tear his attention away. Ilya is the loudest, brightest thing in every room. Even outside, the sun doesn’t hold a candle.

“Shane?” Nancy says. Shane blinks. Right, the vows.

They talked this part over. Whether to use canned vows or write their own. While Ilya is great at being romantic, Shane always feels like he can’t say what he wants to. Ilya insists that isn’t true, that Shane can be perfectly romantic when he tries, but Shane isn’t so sure. In the end, though, Shane wanted more than just a script. He wanted to try, at least, to put a little of what he feels into words, for Ilya and for everyone else who was ever confused or doubtful about their relationship.

His vows have gone through many, many drafts. He tried not to practice them too much, for fear of sounding more like a press release than a romantic speech. But Shane’s turned the words over and over in his head regardless.

“Ilya,” Shane starts. His voice immediately cracks. Fuck. Off to a great start. He takes a deep, steadying breath. “When I first saw you outside that rink in Regina, I never could have dreamed we would end up here. I watched your tapes. I knew you were fast and dangerous on the ice. I knew you were probably the only person in our draft year that posed me any threat. I knew you had to feel the same way I did about hockey. But I didn’t know you.”

“When we shook hands, I knew I was in trouble. When we faced each other on the ice for the first time, I knew it was more than that. By the time we filmed that ad before rookie season, I had already given in.” Shane smiles, sheepish. Ilya returns the smile, even if his is distinctly watery. “I never told you this, but that first night I was so enamored with you that I lied about there being people in the hallway. You could have left, but even then I was so desperate to spend more time around you that I was willing to do anything.”

“I’m so grateful,” Shane continues. His voice cracks again, “And so, so lucky to have you in my life. To be given the chance to love you the way you deserve to be loved. I want to keep loving you, every day of the rest of our lives. I want to wake up in your arms every morning and fall asleep staring at your face every night. I want to play hockey with you until our knees give out. I want to compete over everything, from Yahtzee to chores to most points in a season. I want to keep shaking each other awake in the middle of the night to talk about things that could definitely wait for sunlight. I want to do it all, as long as it’s with you.”

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya whispers. He scrubs his eyes. “I want to kiss you so bad right now.”

“Not yet, god, Ilya. Didn’t you read the schedule my mom printed?” Shane teases, voice choked.

Their audience laughs. Shane doesn’t dare to look over at the crowd of them, but he manages to tear his gaze away from Ilya to check Svetlana and his dad’s faces. Svetlana grins, when she sees him looking, even if her mascara’s a little smudged. His dad shoots him a subtle thumbs up.

“I love you,” Shane says. He tries to cram all his feelings into the words. “Ya tebya lyublyu. Je t’aime.” Shane clears his throat. “Okay. Uh, I’m done.”

Ilya’s expression is so open, so vulnerable. Even Shane sees this side of him only rarely. Ilya, for all his romance and care and love, guards the fragile parts of himself fiercely. Hoards them like a precious thing. For so long, he protected himself alone. Now Shane will never let him be alone again.

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head a little. When he opens them, he’s settled. Not closed off, never closed off from Shane anymore, but less raw. “Wow,” he says, in that voice that carries without even trying, “My fiancé says he is not romantic. Can you believe this? I have to follow up this speech!”

More laughter and jeering from the audience. Shane is pretty sure one of the loudest people is Marlow, which sounds about right.

“I think you’ll be fine,” Shane says dryly.

Ilya winks at him. “I have many pretty words to say. But first I am afraid I have to tell you, you are wrong about one thing.”

“Excuse me?” Shane demands, offended. “How can my wedding vows be wrong?”

Ilya shrugs. “You said very nice things, about lying to keep me all to yourself. But I knew you were lying the whole time.”

“You did not.”

“I did!” Ilya says, putting his hands up. “Shane, dorogoy, moy lyubimyy. You are a very bad liar.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to bully me in your wedding vows,” Shane says. Even if he knows Ilya is kind of right. Once, when he was a kid, he tried lying to his parents about a classmate’s birthday party being cancelled. Really, the kid was a massive asshole to Shane, even at age 10, and he’d gotten a pity invite that would’ve led to a day of torment. Within three hours, Shane felt so guilty that he confessed it all to his parents in tears. They already knew, of course, because Shane had written out a script to memorize for the lie and left his final draft at the top of the trash can.

“You like it,” Ilya says. Then he continues, “But it is true. I knew you were lying, but I wanted to stay longer, too. And except for second time, I lied also. I did not say ‘the coast is clear, Hollander,’” Ilya exaggerates his last words, as if he’s delivering a line in a film, “because I wanted more of you, always.”

“Damn,” Shane says. He’s vaguely disappointed. “Okay, fine. You win this one. Get on with the vows.”

Shane hears a snort to his right. Nancy looks between them both in fascination. “I have never officiated a wedding quite like this one. But yes, please ‘get on with the vows.’”

“Okay,” Ilya says, smirking. But then the expression softens and Shane realizes he’s doomed. “Shane, sweetheart. The first time I met you, I was so scared. Very shocking, I know. But I was just a kid, out of Russia for the first time. Hockey was fun, hockey was easy, but now it was this thing that could change my life. I needed it to change my life so badly. To get me into the NHL. To get me out of my country that would hate me if they knew. It was a lot of pressure.”

Then Ilya steps close, takes his hand. Both of their palms are so sweaty. It’s kind of gross, if Shane is being honest. But he needs the anchor more than he cares about the sensation. Ilya continues, and it’s like the world falls away. It’s just the two of them, alone together. “Then, a pretty Canadian with the most beautiful freckles comes up to yell at me about smoking in front of no-smoking sign. And suddenly, I was not so scared. Not when it meant I could see him again.”

“There are things I can say that you already know. That I felt very alone before you. That there were very few people in my life who knew me like you do. That I was so afraid to let you in. And even when I let you in,” Ilya’s smile turns sad. Shane knows what he must be thinking about, “I was too afraid to ask for help because it might scare you away. But it didn’t. I ran to you, when I had nowhere else to go, and you didn’t send me away. Instead you kept me.”

Shane takes a shaky breath.

Ilya raises a hand, and he’s so gentle as he swipes a thumb underneath Shane’s eyes. “You gave me so much. Love, yes. But also the chance to be myself, with you, with our friends, with the whole world. You chose me over everything, Shane. No one has ever put me first like that.” He pauses, and that infuriating smirk flickers back. “Except for in draft, of course.”

“Oh my god, you asshole,” Shane mutters, but he’s smiling too.

“Can never let you forget,” Ilya says, before he turns serious once more. “You are my equal Shane Hollander. In everything. I never thought I would have this. But now that I do, I am never letting you go. I will be attached to you, one body, four skates–”

“Two sticks,” Shane finishes. He winces. “That sounds worse out of context,” he whispers just for Ilya.

And Ilya laughs, loud and bright. “And here you are,” he says fondly, “making me laugh and knocking words out of my head. I am so excited to be your husband. I will never forget how lucky I am, and I will never let anyone else forget either. I will be insufferable.”

“No different from usual!” One of the Raiders calls out. Connors, maybe.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Shane Hollander,” he says. “I will love you for the rest of my life. I will love you until the stars go cold, until the world has forgotten us, until people don’t even remember what hockey is. And I will still be loving you and your beautiful freckles and your weak backhand. Ya tebya lyublyu. Je t’aime. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Shane chokes out. He looks at Nancy desperately. “Fucking hell. Can I kiss him now?”

She laughs. At least she looks charmed by them, rather than annoyed. “Almost.”

The formal statement and exchange of rings are a blur. Shane and Ilya don’t let go of each other and don’t look away either. They are poised on a precipice right up until Nancy says, “You may now share a kiss as a symbol of your love.”

“Thank Christ,” Shane says and meets Ilya in the middle.

It’s both like all of their other kisses and entirely different. Shane is kissing his husband, not his boyfriend, not his fiancé. Their friends and family cheer, the sun shines down on them, and Shane has never been so perfectly happy before. Ilya strokes his spine and Shane gives into the urge to bury his fingers in those well-loved curls. It takes an escalating series of wolf-whistles to break them apart.

“Why did we invite these people?” Ilya grumbles under his breath. Hopefully quiet enough that Nancy can’t hear. “I want to fuck you right here, right now.”

“Dirt,” Shane protests. “And bugs.”

“Would make it worth your while,” Ilya sing-songs.

Shane considers it, for just a second. There are many things Shane will try, when Ilya is the one asking. This is probably one of them. If their backyard wasn’t filled with more than a hundred people, that is. “Ask me later,” Shane says finally.

Ilya’s grin is all teeth.

The paperwork is boring, but they say farewell to Nancy and thank her for her time. When they step back outside, it’s to a party in full swing and an impatient Svetlana.

“Finally! You two took so long I thought you decided to start your honeymoon early,” she complains.

Shane feels himself flush, but Ilya only smirks. “I’m not going to say I wasn’t tempted, Sveta.”

“Please stop.”

Svetlana tsks. “Enough. Pose nicely please. I want to have a picture to show Alisochka when I bring her presents.”

Immediately, Shane sobers. He sees Ilya frown, before his husband asks, “Is she okay? I miss her.”

“She’s okay,” Svetlana promises. “And she is a smart girl. I don’t think she understands the details, but she knows you did not abandon her by choice. I’ll try to arrange a phone call if I can.”

Shane surprises himself with the intensity of his own, “Spasibo,” in sync with Ilya’s. He misses the summer tea parties with her more than he thought he would, especially when Ruby and Jade drag him into theirs.

Shane and Ilya have no interest in sitting at a separate table, the focus of everyone’s attention. Instead, they join the table with their family. Yuna, David, Svetlana, the Pikes, and Cliff Marlow. A strange collection of people, to be sure. If there was one more chair, it would probably go to Rose Landry, which is even stranger.

The food is delicious, but Shane couldn’t describe it to save his life. He’s too busy watching Ilya, the brilliant smile he never quite loses, the way the shade of the massive white tent sharpens his cheekbones in all the right places. He’s so beautiful that Shane even lets him feed Shane a bite of cake. Really, the presence of children is the only thing that stops Shane from sucking the frosting off his husband’s fingers. Instead of a traditional topper of two grooms, they went the silly route. There are, in fact, small action figures of the two of them, crouched for a face-off.

After the cake, they’re pulled apart by the line of well-wishers.

Ilya is swallowed up by his crowd of adoring Raiders, still lamenting losing him for the next season. Surprising to Shane is the fact that LeClaire came. Wiebe is here too, talking very seriously to Shane’s parents, but Wiebe is a breed of his own. LeClaire? Here, knowing Rozanov is already considered a traitor to the city of Boston?

Theriault would never.

It’s Scott Hunter and Kip that waylay Shane first.

“Never thought I’d see the day, rook,” Scott says. He pulls Shane into a distinctly bro hug, with extra claps to the back. “Still think I’m dreaming half the time. That whole Stanley Cup stunt was Rozanov’s idea, I take it?”

“Obviously,” Shane rolls his eyes, but the gesture is fond. “Glad you two could stick around after the end of the camp. Nice to see you again, Kip.”

“You too!” Kip says. “Your vows were beautiful, by the way. Very… you two.”

“I had to give Ilya rules,” Shane explains, tired. “It took a lot of convincing to get him to leave out any mention of our sex lives.”

Kip cackles. “I thought he was going to eat you alive with that kiss, so maybe he was making up for it.”

Shane carefully does not say that it was a fairly tame kiss, compared to their usual. It is, in fact, none of their business.

A burst of laughter turns Shane’s head. To his surprise, he finds Marlow and JJ hunched over one of their phones. JJ points at something, other hand moving animatedly. Marlow nods along. Ilya stands to the side, watching them with unabashed horror. Huh. That isn’t a friendship Shane anticipated.

“Shane!” Bood calls, and his attention shifts again. He makes his excuses and lets himself be pulled into the cluster of Centaurs. They pass him around for hugs and back claps.

“Very happy for you, man,” Bood grins. “I’ve never met two people more married in my life, even before he proposed.”

“We really don’t call that much.” But he knows it’s a losing battle.

“Can’t believe you didn’t let me DJ,,” Dykstra complains. “I’ve been working so hard.”

“Sorry,” Shane says, genuinely remorseful. At least if Dykstra had curated the playlist, he probably would have recognized more of the music. “Ilya said that if I let you DJ, he’d call off the wedding.”

As the rest of the Centaurs cackle, Shane nudges Harris with his elbow. The man cleans up well, and he’s been snapping pictures all night for Shane-and-Ilya-approved social media posts. “Congrats, by the way. I’m excited you’ll be here next year.”

Harris beams. “Thank you! I was so happy to get the call. Though I think I should be the one doing the congratulating.”

“Thanks,” Shane says, “it means a lot to both of us that everyone came.”

“Oh,” Harris waves his hand dismissively. “I mean definitely congrats on the wedding, but I more meant congrats on locking down a man that looks like that.” Shane follows the line of his gaze to see that Ilya has Connors in a chokehold, the long line of his throat on display as he tilts his head back to laugh. Shane’s mouth goes dry.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, a bit stupid.

“I’m just relieved that I can go back to rooming alone now, Hollzy.” Bood slings his arm over Shane’s shoulders. The distraction probably stops him from doing something foolish, like pulling Ilya behind a tree and dropping to his knees. “No offense, but I signed up for one roommate, not two.” Shane knows he doesn’t mean it in a bad way, but he still takes pleasure in driving his elbow very precisely into Bood’s diaphragm. Bood staggers away, coughing and laughing until his face turns red.

“Thanks for inviting me, Hollander,” Wyatt Hayes says. “I know we’re practically strangers.”

The Centaurs acquired Hayes in June, before free agency started. They traded quite a few semi-expensive contracts away, partially for Hayes but also for cap space for Ilya. The move apparently came as a surprise to Hayes, but one he was grateful for. Shane doesn’t know the details. He gets the sense that the Toronto locker room isn’t a great place to be.

Of course, Shane cares more about the fact that Wyatt Hayes is an incredibly underutilized talent who could skyrocket this team to stardom. When he and Ilya were finalizing the guest list, Shane felt a bit odd about inviting the entire Centaurs roster and leaving out a new teammate. JJ and Hayes were already friends though, and after confirming with JJ that Hayes wasn’t a secret asshole or homophobe, Shane figured what the hell. There would already be far more people in his backyard than he really wanted anyway.

“Happy to have you Hayes,” Shane says with a shrug. “You’re a Centaur now. JJ vouched for you. And this is practically a team event, at this point.”

Hayes smiles. “The Centaurs are a very different team, I think.”

“Yeah. But hopefully, someday, we won’t be the only ones like this.”

“Retweet, man,” Hayes says with a laugh.

“Shane!” yet another voice calls. Though by the widening of Hayes’s eyes, he has a feeling he knows who this particular well-wisher is.

“Hey, Rose,” Shane greets, accepting her enthusiastic hug. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” she says seriously. “You’re one of my best friends, Shane. I’ll take any excuse to come see you.”

Despite the initial media response, Rose really didn’t let them fall out of touch. They couldn’t get together that often—especially once Shane moved to the far less popular filming location of Ottawa—but whenever they were in the same city, they made it a point to catch up. Rose thrived off hockey talk, and Shane also had to admit that it was nice to have a friend who wasn’t as deep into the world as he was. It meant he could shit on the league and his old teammates without feeling like he was committing a betrayal.

Rose’s attention turns to a staring Hayes. “Oh! Is this the new goalie you were telling me about? Wyatt Hayes, from Toronto right?”

“I love your movies,” Hayes blurts. He proceeds to turn a bright, embarrassed, red. “I collect X-Squad comics, actually, and my wife and I went to the midnight premiere last year. What did you think about the adaptation? It was a really interesting choice they made with Goldspeed’s character–”

Rose laughs, but Shane misses what she says next, because Ilya’s arm is busy snaking around his waist. “Hello, what is this? My husband is already leaving me for famous actress?”

“Yes,” Shane says, turning to press a kiss to Ilya’s jaw. “Your very gay is husband is definitely leaving you for an actress. How could you compete?”

Ilya growls playfully, his grip tightening on Shane’s hip.

To be honest, Ilya still hasn’t quite gotten over his Rose hang up. He obviously knows Shane is gay, knows that the media confusion was just that—confusion. But his possessiveness in Rose’s presence always reaches new heights. Shane would talk to him about it, but… it’s actually really, really hot. The last time the three of them hung out, Shane walked funny for two whole days after. Ilya will get over it at some point, but for now, Shane enjoys the side effects.

“Yuna told me it is time for our dance, moy lyubimyy,” Ilya says. “Are you ready?”

Shane swallows his nerves. “Of course.” He lets Ilya lead him by the hand to the portable dance floor. Shane will definitely have to pay the landscapers to come back and rescue their poor grass after this.

The setting sun casts everything in a rosy glow. When their guests realize what’s happening, the hush falls unnaturally quick. His mom stands by the speakers with a massive grin on her face that Shane can’t bring himself to look at too long. Seeing his mom so happy for him makes his insides squirm.

Ilya looks out at their guests. “I need everyone to know, my husband picked this song,” he calls, voice carrying with the ease of a hockey captain. “He knows very little music, so this is big for him. No chirps!”

Shane frowns. Ilya thought he was joking, when he suggested it. Shane doesn’t really understand why. “Perfect” by Ed Sheeran is a ballad that almost perfectly describes their relationship. Sure, the pronouns are off, but falling in love as kids, fighting against all odds? That’s them. And it’s a newer song, too, so it probably isn’t that popular for first dances. People usually go with old songs, or at least Shane assumes that’s the case. He wouldn’t know, considering he never recognizes the playlists anyway and it’s been a few years since his last wedding.

Ilya gave in pretty quickly, so it couldn’t have been that bad of a choice. Though he insisted on the ‘Beyoncé version’ that came out in December. Even Shane knows who she is though, so it’s no burden.

They take their positions, Ilya’s hands at Shane’s hips, Shane’s looped around Ilya’s neck. As the opening cords ring out, they start a slow, leisurely sway. Shane thought he would be terrible at this. But Ilya guides his hips, and his body has always known how to move with Ilya’s. It’s as instinctive as breathing.

And then Shane isn’t thinking about where to put his feet. All he’s thinking about is Ilya. This man that he’s loved since he was a teenager, that’s defined so much of his life. Maybe some people would consider that a problem. Instead, Shane thinks it’s the greatest gift he’s ever known.

He hopes that their names are written together in history. That there is never one of them without the other, no matter how many lifetimes go by. Their memories forever entangled.

The distance between them feels too large. Shane rests his head on Ilya’s shoulder. His eyes flutter close. Ilya’s lips brush his hair. “I love you,” Shane whispers.

“I love you too.”

As the song fades, Ilya speaks quietly. “I do not know if I ever said it in so many words. But, in Vegas… thank you, for knocking.”

Shane lifts his head. Lets Ilya see his smile. “Thank you for answering.”

The sun dips below the horizon. For once, it doesn’t feel like an ending.

Only a new beginning.

~

We are still kids, but we're so in love
Fightin' against all odds
I know we'll be alright this time

~

Step 10?

Absolutely Still Profit.

Chapter End Notes

My song choice? Truly, at heart, I have Shane’s relationship to music. I don’t really listen to a ton and I am terrible at picking appropriate songs/having taste. So I figured Ed Sheeran is a classic that even he would probably have listened to and would also be romantic. (I have an entire edit to this song mentally drafted in my head but I do not have video skills) Plus, this was the chance to do the funniest thing ever. Because “Perfect” was released on Sheeran’s album in spring of 2017, then as a single in the fall, and became extremely popular in December 2017 with the Beyoncé duet. Shane’s ‘niche’ summer 2018 wedding song is about to be the most popular first dance song for, oh, the next five years. Everyone except him is completely aware of this.

Though I also imagine that in this universe, because of their wedding, “Perfect” actually becomes a queer wedding staple.

Anyway, to better envision the wedding, I found a fake house for them that is in fact 20 minutes from the relevant stadiums with 5 acres of land. Yes, I wasted time on this. But if you’re curious: https://www.realtor.ca/real-estate/29408100/1757-corkery-road-ottawa-9103-huntley-ward-north-west

Once again, thank you all from the bottom of my heart for all of your love and excitement. It’s been such a pleasure reading through your reactions and feeling the pure joy of this fandom. I hope this was as healing for you all to read as it was for me to write.

Much love <3
~WTTN