home for the winter

Shane was on a mission this summer. It was offseason and he had nothing to distract him. Every morning, his alarm went off at seven, and he pulled on shorts, a t-shirt, and his Ottawa 67s baseball hat. He was out the door by half past seven, stealing a slice of apple from David as he went and waving goodbye to Yuna as she got ready to go to work. His running shoes hit the sidewalk in a jog as he made his way down the street. He followed his usual route through Old Ottawa South, making his way across the Rideau River and towards the canal, where he paused to lean over the railing and watch the water flow down towards the Ottawa River.

He took a picture of the lazily moving water as he caught his breath and opened his text messages.

You’re missing a lot of fun over here, he sent alongside the picture.

Shane shoved his phone back into his pocket and began jogging back to the house. Lunch was lots of protein, vegetables, and enough carbs to power him through the afternoon. That described most of his meals, for that matter. He wanted to bulk up; he always lost muscle mass during the season, and if he wanted the 67s to make it past the first round of the playoffs, he needed to have strength left by next April. With that goal in mind, he headed out to the gym.

In the evening, Shane, Yuna, and David all ate dinner together. It had been a particularly long day. Shane ran into the team trainer at the 67s’ gym, and he had got lost in a new arm exercise that NHL players swore by, or at least that was what the trainer insisted.

Yuna placed a pitcher of water on the dinner table and sat down across from Shane. He watched her pull in the chair before looking away. She usually sat in the chair beside Shane, across from David. The chair across from Shane was supposed to be for someone else come August, but his parents didn’t seem to notice the same rules that Shane did.

“What were you up to today, Shane?” David asked.

“Went for a run, and then the gym,” Shane replied in between bites of chicken.

“You’re really working hard this summer.”

“Are you worried about the draft? Or the World Juniors roster?” Yuna asked.

“No,” Shane said, and then stopped himself. “I mean, yeah, a bit. But I just want the team to do well this year.”

Shane was worried about those things. This year’s NHL draft had barely passed, and articles were already written about keeping an eye on Shane as a potential number one overall pick. It was a lot of pressure for a seventeen-year old. The World Junior Championships in December would be where he was expected to prove himself and show the world and NHL general managers that he was a generational player. He was no stranger to scouting, but expectations had died down after his disastrous first season in the OHL. That was hard in its own way. He had been granted exceptional player status to join the league a year younger than his peers, and by the end of the season, he was widely regarded as a bust. Not all exceptional status players went on to be NHL legends, but he was the first to fail so spectacularly, so quickly. It had cost him a spot on Team Canada at the World Junior Championships last year - he had found his game again with the 67s, but it was too late for his reputation. He was unreliable.

“You’ll be at the World Juniors, trust me,” Yuna said firmly. “And the draft will be fine. After your last season, the only question is whether you’ll go first or second.”

“Trust her, Shane,” David said. “She knows these things.”

Shane smiled and took a drink of his water. He appreciated his parents. They supported him through a game that was rough on his body, through media coverage that often forgot it was speculating about children, and through the never-ending expenses for equipment and registration fees and extra training. They weren’t wrong, either. Shane cared about his personal stats, being named to Team Canada, going first in the draft. He was competitive and driven and hockey was what fueled him.

And he knew he was skilled. He would be an NHL player. Shane wasn’t confident about lots of things, but he was confident about that. In the grand scheme of his life, his junior hockey career and the success of the 67s wouldn’t define him. Shane knew that, and it didn’t matter. The 67s had to do well. Their first round exit in the playoffs last year had sent Ilya home two months early, and Shane was determined to keep him here for as long as he could.

After the dishes had been cleared and Shane retreated to his room, he pulled out his phone and checked the time. 7:06 PM. He sighed. Four more hours until it was morning in Moscow. Even then, Shane wasn’t sure Ilya would be getting up at seven in the morning after the day he had. They usually texted when it was morning for Shane and lunchtime for Ilya, and then they called after Shane’s lunch before Ilya went to sleep, but Ilya had warned him that he would be busy today. His father wanted him to skate with a former coach of his and then come to a work event with him in the evening, where Russian officials were gathering.

Shane opened his laptop and pulled up the game footage from last season. He had asked the 67s management for copies so he could review over the summer. What should’ve been about twenty minutes of ice time to watch per game often ended up nearing forty. It was hard to skip through Ilya’s shifts, even though his face was too far away to be seen clearly. Anyway, Ilya was a great player. One of the best. So Shane didn’t feel too bad about it, maybe he’d learn something.

At 10:02 PM, Shane’s phone vibrated on his desk. He quickly picked it up and accepted the call.

“Ilya!” Shane said breathlessly. “Why are you awake? Isn’t it only six?”

“Yes, is too early,” Ilya’s voice was rough. He must’ve just woken up.

“Do you have a lot to do today?”

“Yes. More sleep.”

“Oh,” Shane said, surprised. “Then why are you awake?”

“This Canadian guy. My big fan. Always wants to call.”

Shane bit his bottom lip. “We can call later.”

“Shane,” Ilya said softly. “Is a joke. I want to call.”

Shane’s face felt hot. Partly because he was embarrassed, and partly because of Ilya’s admission.

“How did the event with your father go?” Shane was still learning the full story of the Rozanov family. He knew that his mother had passed, and that his father and brother weren’t the kindest, but Ilya didn’t like to talk about it too much.

“Was fine. More boring than that canal you sent me.”

Shane recognized the redirection in conversation. He wished he knew how to comfort Ilya, what to do to make things better. He didn’t know if Ilya changed the subject because he didn’t want to talk about it, or if he just didn’t want to burden Shane. Should Shane push the issue, press for more details? Make sure that it really was fine? It wasn’t like there was anyone he could ask for advice. He had to trust him, he decided. Ilya hadn’t lied to him yet.

“Wow, that’s serious, then.”

“Very,” Ilya said through a yawn. “Tell me about today. I am too tired to speak.”

Shane crawled into bed and retold the events of his day, going over routines that Ilya was already familiar with, until Ilya’s breathing grew deeper on the other side of the line. When he was sure he was asleep, Shane closed his own eyes and whispered good night before hanging up.

Sleep well. Have a good day, Shane texted Ilya, who would be awake again in a few hours.

Shane’s twin focuses - Ilya and hockey, hockey and Ilya - were how he spent July. He tried to ignore the countdown of days until August. Spending all his time waiting would only slow down time, but it became impossible to ignore in the last week of July. Yuna and David began mentioning Ilya’s return daily, and Shane tried not to seem too excited. He didn’t think he was fooling anyone. 

“When does Ilya’s flight get in again?” David asked over dinner.

“Saturday evening, at six,” Shane replied. He missed the look shared between Yuna and David.

“I’m glad you two became such good friends,” Yuna said. “I knew it would be good for you to have a teammate stay with us.”

“Mom,” Shane frowned.

“What? It’s true!”

“He’s not here to babysit me,” Shane muttered.

“I know that, honey.”

It was still a sore subject for Shane. He was originally against his parents signing up to be a billet family; he didn’t need a teammate in his house when he would see them daily anyway. He needed his own space, and a teammate living here would disrupt that. But more than that, he resented the fact that his parents were trying to force him into a friendship, trying to fix him. Shane didn’t feel the need to be surrounded by people all the time. He was seen as awkward sometimes, and he didn’t pick up on every social clue or immediately know how to mold himself to fit the culture of a new hockey team. But he had been playing hockey for over a decade; he made friends, he knew how to be a teammate. Maybe it took him longer to get to know someone, and maybe it didn’t look quite like everyone else, but Shane wasn’t incapable. Some days he felt like all his parents saw when they looked at him was the boy from two years ago who had to come crawling back during his first season when he couldn’t handle life away from home. They were just worried, he knew, and they loved him. He just needed them to trust him.

“We’re just glad you have such a good friend on the team,” David said.

Friend. Is that what Shane would call Ilya? They are friends, but they’re also something more. Should they have labelled it by now?

“Right,” Shane replied. He rubbed his forehead. He couldn’t go down that rabbit hole, not tonight.

That night, Shane laid in bed, his brain unable to stop racing. He tapped his phone: 11:24 PM. Probably another hour until Ilya was awake. He didn’t always stay up until morning dawned in Moscow, but tonight he didn’t think he could sleep even if he wanted to. 

It was hard, sometimes, when Shane was left alone to think about his relationship with Ilya. Since Ilya returned to Russia, it felt like they only existed together inside Shane’s head. The 67s administration didn’t know, their teammates didn’t know, their families didn’t know. And Shane wanted it that way, at least for now. They were projected to go in the top five of next year’s NHL draft, and he didn’t want to experiment with how coming out would impact his or Ilya’s chances. That didn’t stop his brain from overthinking what they were. 

Shane was pulled out of his thoughts by the buzzing of his phone. He grabbed it and accepted the video call. 

“Hey,” Shane said, cheeks flushing slightly at how breathless he sounded. 

“Mm,” Ilya mumbled. He was still in his bed, lying shirtless as he rubbed his eyes. He must’ve just woken up. 

“What are you doing today?”

“Don’t know,” Ilya yawned. 

“You have ice time today, right?”

“Ah,” Ilya said. “You know, so why ask?”

“It’s called a conversation, Ilya,” Shane laughed. “Did you end up trying that edge work drill I mentioned?”

“Drill? Edge? I don’t know this English,” Ilya said, but Shane could see the smile he was trying to hide. 

“Very funny,” Shane said. “Playing dumb doesn’t work with me.”

“I didn’t try it,” Ilya said, smile now evident on his face. 

“I figured,” Shane sighed, but his expression was fond. “Have you packed yet?”

Ilya rolled onto his side. “So many questions.”

“Sorry.”

“Is fine,” Ilya said softly. “People don’t ask about me, here.”

“Oh,” Shane said. “I just… I mean, your dad is still okay with you coming back, right?”

“Yes. I will be there soon,” Ilya said definitively. 

“Soon,” Shane echoed softly. 

Ilya’s arrival didn’t feel soon. The final days until his flight felt like every second lasted an hour. But, eventually, it was Saturday, and Ilya was almost in Ottawa. 

“I can drive to the airport myself,” Shane tried to keep his tone light and nonchalant.

“I don’t want you driving alone on the highway,” Yuna frowned. 

“Mom,” Shane sighed. “I have my license. I’ve driven on the highway before.”

“Not your full license,” Yuna argued. 

“Shane, buddy,” David interjected before Shane could reply. “The airport gets a bit crazy. And we’re excited to see Ilya, too.”

Shane just sighed. He sat in the back seat and stared out the window as Yuna and David shuffled into the front. He understood his parents, but their presence meant even longer before he would get Ilya to himself. His annoyance soon faded away as his heart began racing. He pulled out his phone - nothing. Ilya hadn’t texted. He switched to the browser and refreshed the flight status. It hadn’t landed yet. 

Shane rested his head on the window. It was fine, they were still half an hour away from the airport. Ten minutes and six checks of his phone later, a message from Ilya finally came in. 

Ottawa is still boring, came the first text. And then: Is that why you are boring? 

Asshole, Shane sent back, but he was smiling. He could feel the excitement rising in his chest. 

“How close are we?” Shane asked.

“About twenty minutes away,” David replied. 

“Ilya’s flight just landed.”

“He still has to go through customs and get his bags,” Yuna said. “We’ll be there when he walks out.”

Shane received a few more intermittent texts from Ilya as he navigated through the airport, and each one made Shane more impatient. Once they finally arrived at the airport, Shane flung his door open and headed straight for arrivals. He heard Yuna call after him, but he didn’t turn back. They knew where they were going, and Shane couldn’t wait any longer. 

He stepped through the automatic doors and stopped in front of the arrivals gate. He drummed his fingers against the railing as David and Yuna approached behind him.

“No one come out yet?” David said. 

Shane just shook his head. It felt like forever before the first passenger walked through the door, and with each person who wasn’t Ilya, Shane’s anticipation grew. He looked down to check if Ilya had texted him when he heard Yuna’s voice. 

“Ilya! Over here!”

Shane’s head snapped up, and there he was. Ilya was in athletic shorts and a t-shirt, carrying his hockey bag over one shoulder and rolling a suitcase with a backpack stacked on top behind him. He looked tired. He also looked more handsome in person than Shane remembered, if that was possible. Shane’s heart was in his throat. He wanted nothing more than to run to Ilya and kiss him, but he knew he couldn’t. 

He walked with his parents over to where Ilya was exiting, Yuna waving her arm above her head and Ilya awkwardly waving back. 

“Ilya, it’s so good to see you,” Yuna said as he got closer. “It’s been so long!”

“Yes, is good to see you,” Ilya replied, but his gaze didn’t leave Shane’s face. 

Yuna pulled him into a hug, and David patted him on the back. Shane felt like he was going to combust. He didn’t know how to interact with Ilya in front of his parents anymore. Not now that he had spent months talking to Ilya in the privacy of his own bedroom. 

“Shane?” Yuna said hesitantly, as Shane and Ilya just stared at each other. 

“Oh,” Shane said. “Um, hi.”

“Hi,” Ilya said back. 

“It’s been a while,” Shane offered. 

“Yes, long time. Do you still suck at hockey?”

The tension broke, and Shane was stepping forward and pulling Ilya into a hug before his brain registered. 

“You asshole,” Shane laughed. 

Ilya was warm, and his hands gripped onto Shane’s back. He had just gotten off a plane; it was gross to be hugging him, Shane noted, but he didn’t care. 

“Let me take your luggage, son,” David said, and then Ilya was pulling back. 

“No, no,” Ilya said, reaching for his suitcase. “I can do it.”

“I got it, you just worry about your equipment,” David waved him off. 

“No, really, is okay,” Ilya said. 

“I got it,” David repeated. “I’m not that old, don’t count me out yet.”

David and Yuna turned to walk to the car, and Ilya shifted his hockey bag on his shoulder. 

“It’s okay,” Shane said quietly. “He really doesn’t mind.”

“Okay,” Ilya said, but he seemed unconvinced. 

They followed after Yuna and David. Shane felt giddy, like he couldn’t stop smiling or glancing over at Ilya as they walked. Ilya, for his part, was better at keeping a straight face, but his hands revealed his true emotions: fingers poking Shane’s shoulder, a hand squeezing the back of his neck, and then a palm trailing down his back. Shane didn’t know what to do with the rush of emotions bursting against his chest. 

Shane slid into the backseat, trying to keep his face relaxed as Yuna looked at him through the rearview mirror. He could hear David chatting casually as Ilya stuffed his hockey bag and suitcase into the trunk. Then Ilya climbed into the seat beside him and dropped his backpack in the seat between them, and Shane felt the energy in his body start to buzz again. 

Shane readjusted the backpack, and as he slipped his hand between the bag and the seat, he felt warmth flow through him when Ilya’s hand grasped his. Ilya was here. There was a part of Shane that was worried he wouldn’t return, that his father would decide that he was wasting his time in Ottawa. But Ilya had told him he would be back, and now he was here. 

When the car pulled into the Hollanders’ driveway, Shane waited impatiently with the backpack as Ilya dropped his hockey bag in the garage to be brought to the arena later. Ilya turned, and Shane couldn’t help but smile and look at his feet as they made eye contact. 

“Ilya, are you hungry?” David asked as they entered the house. 

“Ah, no,” Ilya replied. “Plane had lots of food, but thank you.”

“We cleaned up your room,” Yuna said. “I left a towel on your desk, and the windows are open. If you get cold at night, you can close them. And-“

“Mom,” Shane interrupted. “He’s been travelling for twenty hours, and he’s been here before.”

“I’m just happy to have him back, honey.”

“I know,” Shane said, trying to search for the last of his patience. And then, turning to Ilya: “You should go put your suitcase upstairs. It’s, uh, it’s in the way down here. Someone could get hurt.”

“Yes, it would be very bad if Shane Hollander was out for whole season after suitcase attack.”

Shane gave Ilya a look as he picked up his suitcase and began climbing up the stairs. He turned back to Yuna, who was watching him with an amused look. 

“What?” Shane muttered. 

“Nothing,” Yuna said. 

Shane went against every instinct and walked towards the kitchen. He wanted to race upstairs after Ilya, but he knew he was already acting strange in front of his parents. He drank a glass of water and counted to ten. Fuck, that was long enough, right?

He tried to walk slowly, keep his steps measured as he climbed up the stairs and ignored his parents’ gaze. He opened his own bedroom door and closed it without entering, before sneaking across the hall and gently pushing Ilya’s door open. 

“Hi,” Shane whispered to Ilya, who stood leaned against the windowsill. 

“You have another Russian to kiss down there?”

“Definitely,” Shane rolled his eyes. “Who are you again?”

Ilya didn’t reply: he just stepped forward, cupped Shane’s face in his hands, and kissed him. It was rushed, and Shane felt like he couldn’t get close enough. He pushed his hands under Ilya’s shirt, sliding around to press into the muscles of his back and pull him even closer. 

“He is better kisser than me? Better hockey player?” Ilya whispered in between kisses. 

“Huh?” Shane mumbled, leaning in after Ilya’s mouth. 

“Your other Russian.”

“It was a joke, Ilya.”

Ilya just hummed as he kissed across Shane’s jawline. 

“You should shower,” Shane said but didn’t pull away. “You just got off a plane.”

“I need help,” Ilya said into Shane’s ear. “So tired. I don’t remember where is the bathroom. Or how to turn on the shower.”

“Nice try.”

“So mean to me, Shane,” Ilya pouted. 

“Shower,” Shane said, “and then I’ll be as nice as you want.”

The next morning, Shane snuck back into his bedroom as his alarm went off. He got dressed and shuffled into the kitchen, where David was stirring his oatmeal. 

“Morning,” David said, and Shane just nodded. He hadn’t slept much, too caught up in finally having Ilya in his arms. 

“I assume Ilya’s sleeping in today,” David mused aloud. “Your mom and I are going grocery shopping and then stopping by your grandparents’ place. Want to come?”

“I’m okay. I’m going for a run in a minute.”

“Alright, kiddo.”

As David and Yuna shut the front door behind them, Shane stopped filling up his water bottle and hurried back upstairs. He slowly opened the door to Ilya’s room, where he was sleeping with his mouth open and an arm above his head. Shane crawled into bed beside him, tucking his head under his arm. 

“No run?” Ilya mumbled, half asleep and voice raspy. 

“How’d you know?”

“Running is boring. You are boring every day.”

Shane smacked Ilya on the chest lightly. “Asshole.”

They stayed in bed far longer than Shane’s routine allowed, but he could make an exception this once. The next morning forced them both up for a team meeting; Shane half-dragged a groggy Ilya out of bed and into the bathroom to get ready. 

“You boys ready for today?” David asked as he set a bowl of fruit on the table in front of them. 

“It’s just a meeting, Dad.”

“Meetings are important,” Yuna said. “You need to pay attention. Teams talk, and NHL teams want to hear that you’re punctual and take these things seriously.”

Ilya nodded as he shoved a slice of pear into his mouth, and Shane just took a sip of water. 

“Your new teammates will be there too,” Yuna continued. “It’s not your rookie season anymore. You should be there early to help them.”

“Yes, take initiative,” Ilya said proudly, mouth still full of pear. “Let’s go, Shane.”

Shane looked from Yuna’s pleased smile to Ilya, who grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards the door. They slid into the car and Shane put it into drive, thankful that his parents had agreed to help him buy a used car for his birthday. 

“Initiative? Why has your vocabulary gotten better since you left Canada?”

Ilya just shrugged and grabbed Shane’s hand, kissing the back of it. “I talked to this guy all summer. He is not very smart, he only speaks English. I have no choice.”

“Fuck you, I speak French too,” Shane said. 

“Wow,” Ilya said. “How do you say boring in French?”

“Not telling,” Shane laughed. 

As they parked behind the arena, Ilya leaned over and kissed Shane on the cheek. 

“What was that for?” 

“I like you,” Ilya said simply, and Shane felt himself melt. He looked around, making sure they were alone in the parking lot, and then kissed Ilya quickly on the mouth. 

“I like you, too,” Shane whispered. 

They climbed the steps into the arena and walked towards the meeting room. Shane looked forward to the start of the season every year; after months without proper hockey, he got restless. But he didn’t usually enjoy August, when he had to get to know teammates that were traded over the summer and find his rhythm with the team again. Now, August was associated with Ilya’s arrival. It was hard to dread the month that brought Ilya to him. 

The meeting was typical for the start of the season: administrative reminders regarding rules and expectations, introductions for new players and staff, the schedule for training camp at the end of the month and the medical and fitness testing that came with it. It marked the start of reinvigorated training, though Shane knew he would be on the starting line up. It was different than last August, now that he and Ilya were… whatever they were. It meant that Shane had to resist the temptation to skip his morning workout to stay in bed with Ilya, or leave the arena early to be alone with Ilya before his parents got home, or eat beavertails instead of salad so he could taste the sugar on Ilya’s tongue. It also meant that Shane was driven to push harder, to lift more than Ilya, to win every face off in practice against Ilya, and to score more goals in exhibition games than Ilya. 

The 67s were playing well overall in their exhibition games. They had won every one so far, with Ilya and Shane’s offence leading the way and several new additions over the summer adding to the team’s depth. On the night of their last exhibition game, the dressing room was loud as they got ready to play in Barrie against the Colts. 

“I can’t hear myself think,” Shane shouted to Ilya over the noise of the EDM track playing on the speaker. 

“What?” Ilya shouted back. “You said I am going to score more than you?”

“Fuck off, you know that’s not what I said!”

Ilya winked and pulled out his phone. Shane picked his own up and a text from Ilya popped up on the screen: Bathroom. 

Shane looked over at Ilya, who had already began walking towards the door. He sighed and grabbed his stick, pulling the tape of the blade and turning to the teammate beside him. 

“Do you have any white tape?” Shane asked, knowing that teammate only used black tape. 

“Nah, but I saw the trainer with some earlier.”

“Thanks,” Shane said as he walked out of the dressing room. Instead of walking towards the table where the tape was stacked beside the sports drinks, Shane entered the washroom and locked the door behind him. Ilya was leaning against the sink, smirking at him. 

“The game is going to start soon. This is a bad idea.”

“But you are here,” Ilya said. 

“Yeah,” Shane said and kissed him. 

Ilya opened his mouth to deepen the kiss, and Shane closed his eyes as he got lost in the heat of Ilya’s body. 

“Wait,” Shane said breathlessly as Ilya’s fingertips slipped under the waistband of his pants. 

Ilya groaned and leaned back. “What?”

“We can’t right now. Not here.”

“Fuck,” Ilya sighed.

“After, okay?”

“Wow,” Ilya said. “Fuck after? On the bus? Wild, Hollander.”

Shane looked at the mirth in his eyes and couldn’t help but kiss him once more. “You know what I mean.”

In the first period, the 67s started well. They won the opening face off and had a quality scoring chance that shift, but the Colts got a lucky breakaway two shifts later and scored on their first shot. Less than a minute later, a shot went in off a 67s defenceman and suddenly they were down by two for the first time in their exhibition games. The first period ended 3-0 as the Colts got another goal in the dying seconds. 

The dressing room was quiet as the 67s filed in during the intermission. Shane looked around at his teammates as the coach ripped into them. They looked shellshocked, most guys staring off into the distance. It was only the first period, yet the team looked like they had already lost. If this is what happened when they faced a challenging opponent in the preseason, they would be in trouble when the season officially started. As the coach stormed out of the room after his speech, the room fell into silence. 

“Come on, boys. We still have two periods to play,” a teammate said half heartedly. 

Some other boys in the room offered mumbled agreements, but the room quickly fell back into silence.

Ilya leaned over to whisper, “I am going to be loud, now.”

“What?” Shane whispered back, but Ilya was already standing. 

“Fucking wake up!” Ilya said loudly with a clap of his hands. “Is only preseason, and you fuckers are crying already?”

“I didn’t see you score any fucking goals out there, Roz,” a veteran teammate spoke up. 

“No, because I am not done fucking playing,” Ilya replied. “I don’t even know what the fuck town is Barrie, and I don’t fucking give a shit. I only care about fucking winning. The first period is done. Doesn’t matter. We have scored more fucking goals than this, so we go score some fucking goals.”

A few other 67s stood and joined in, smacking each other on the back and ass, yelling and hyping each other up. Ilya sat back down beside Shane, nudging him with his shoulder. 

“Good?” Ilya asked over the noise of their teammates. 

“Yeah, it was amazing,” Shane said, captivated by the spark in Ilya’s eyes. You’re amazing, he wanted to say. And then, because he didn’t know what to do with the rush of emotions flowing through him, not when they were surrounded by teammates, he added, “I don’t think you said fuck enough, though.”

“Yes, only you will want more fuck,” Ilya said quietly, smirk on his face. 

“Fuck off,” Shane said, continuing before Ilya could comment: “You need to get ready. Intermission is almost over.”

He avoided Ilya’s gaze and pulled on his helmet, hoping his face wasn’t flushed. 

In the second period, the 67s came out with more energy, but the Colts were still motivated by their dominant first period performance. It was a tight game until just past the halfway mark of the second period, when Shane won the face off back to the defenceman, who passed it across the line to his partner. As the puck was shot towards the Barrie goalie from the point, Shane tipped it down and under the goalie’s pads for the 67s’ first goal of the game. Ottawa scored another before the end of the second, and Shane slid a pass across the slot to Ilya for a power play goal early in the third. The Colts were scrambling after losing their three-goal lead, and Ilya intercepted the puck in the neutral zone for a breakaway, scoring to put the 67s up by one with five minutes remaining. They held on as Barrie pulled their goalie for an extra attacker, and the team flooded onto the ice at the final buzzer to celebrate. 

It was only a preseason game, but it gave Shane hope that the team would make it farther in the playoffs this year. He watched as the team took turns knocking their helmet into Ilya’s, proud.

Two days before the 67s’ season opener, Shane was called into a meeting. He opened the door to the head coach’s office and saw him sitting with the assistant coaches and a 67s jersey in his hands. 

“Hollander!” The head coach said. “Come in, have a seat.”

Shane sat across from the coaches, folding his hands in his lap. 

“No need to be worried,” one of the assistant coaches said, and Shane offered a tight-lipped smile. 

He was worried. He had been asked to meet with the coach with no further explanation, and his mind had started racing. He had pulled Ilya into a storage closet and rattled off all of the worst-case scenarios he had come up with: he was off the starting roster, he was being traded, his contract was being terminated, his relationship with Ilya had been discovered. Ilya had just hugged him tightly and called him crazy. 

(“You are second best player on the team, Shane. They are probably going to give you award for first good hockey player to be born in this boring city.”

“Hey, Ottawa has tons of great players. Denis Potvin is from here! My parents loved him.”

“Who?”

“He- never mind.”)

Now, sitting in a room across from the coaches, all of Shane’s anxiety came rushing back. 

“We brought you here because we wanted to tell you first before we told the whole team.”

“Okay,” Shane swallowed. 

“Congratulations, Captain!” The head coach exclaimed, holding up the 67s jersey with a C on the front. He turned it to show Hollander written across the back, before sliding it across the table. 

“Wow,” Shane said, looking down at the jersey in front of him. “I mean, wow, that’s crazy,” he added, trying to add some excitement to his voice. 

He knew the captaincy was vacant after their former captain was drafted and moved to the AHL, but Shane hadn’t expected it to be him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be captain, he was ambitious and determined to propel the 67s to success. But his strength was leading by example; he was dedicated and consistent, he wasn’t one to give speeches and build close bonds with all his teammates. 

“You seem surprised,” an assistant coach commented. 

“It’s a huge honour,” Shane said. “I didn’t expect it, honestly.”

“Who were you thinking would be captain?”

“Barbeau, maybe. He’s a great veteran player. Or Rozanov, he’s an amazing leader. I mean, he really knows how to rally the team.”

“Barbeau doesn’t have the drive. Rozanov could’ve been a good choice, but his English…” the head coach trailed off. 

“His English is really good, especially since he’s only been here for a year,” Shane said defensively. “No one on the team has a problem understanding him.”

“The captain needs to be able to communicate with everyone. Not just hockey talk in the room with the team.”

Shane opened his mouth to reply, but the coach cut him off. 

“I’m surprised, Hollander. You don’t seem to want the C.”

“No, that’s not it,” Shane said and took a deep breath. “Sorry, I really am honoured, and thankful. I just want to make sure it’s going to the right person. For the team.”

“I understand. That dedication to the team is part of why we chose you. And,” the head coach said, lowering his voice slightly, “we think it’s great that you’re Asian-Canadian. The organization is proud to have you represent our team.”

Shane blinked, trying to process what he just heard. Before he could respond, the head coach was standing and patting him on the shoulder. 

“Come on, Hollander. Let’s go introduce the captain to his team.”

Later that night, after a celebratory dinner with Yuna and David, the door to Shane’s bedroom opened slightly and Ilya slid through. 

“Hi,” Shane whispered as Ilya crawled into bed beside him. 

“Hi,” Ilya whispered back, kissing his cheek. “Are you okay?”

“Is it obvious?” Shane muttered, pushing his face into Ilya’s neck. 

“To me, yes.”

Shane remained silent. He didn’t know how to explain what he was feeling, and he didn’t know who to talk to. There was his mother, who would get that look on her face if Shane relayed the conversation in the coach’s office, the one where she relived every loaded comment she’s ever heard through the perspective of her son. There was his dad, who would try to give them the benefit of the doubt in a well-intentioned but futile attempt to will it out of existence. And then there was Ilya, who didn’t deserve to hear what the coaches had said about him, especially not through Shane’s voice.

“It should’ve been you,” Shane whispered, finally. 

Ilya’s hand, which had been brushing through Shane’s hair, paused for a moment, and then continued a second later as Ilya breathed out a laugh. 

“Why are you laughing?” Shane asked grumpily. 

“Because you are funny,” Ilya said simply. 

“I’m being serious, asshole.”

“I know,” Ilya said. “Is why you are funny.”

Shane huffed and sat up, Ilya sitting up alongside him. 

“I am happy you are captain,” Ilya said, turning Shane’s face towards him with a hand on his chin. “You will be a great captain.”

“I can’t do what you do. I can’t give big speeches to inspire people.”

“Good. I am here to do that. You need to do what you do.”

Shane leaned his head on Ilya’s shoulder. 

“I don’t know what that is,” he admitted. 

“You are Shane. You want to win. You work hard, you practice, you are always ready. You are calm.”

“Are you trying to call me boring?” Shane said with a smile. 

“No, I do not try to do that. I just say you are boring. But boring is good,” Ilya said, pulling Shane back to lie down again. “I can’t yell at those motherfuckers every game. Would be fun, but they will stop listening.”

“Don’t sell yourself short to make me feel better,” Shane said, linking his fingers with Ilya’s. “You would make a great captain.”

“Yes, obviously.”

Shane laughed and closed his eyes. He fell asleep to the soft rise and fall of Ilya’s chest under their linked hands. 

As the season started, the 67s continued to win. They were first in their division and second in their conference through October, and Shane was getting used to being captain. He overthought interactions with his teammates sometimes, not always sure how to blend being captain with being friends with the guys on the team, but he was finding his footing. The 67s were becoming clear playoff contenders early in the season, and Shane had never played hockey so well. Ilya would have to stay longer in the spring for playoffs this year, Shane was sure of it. 

It was a cold day at the end of November when Shane got a call: he had been named to Canada’s roster for the World Juniors, and he would be heading to Saskatoon in mid-December. He hadn’t forgotten, but his mind was busy with the 67s. And Ilya. Shane already knew he was likely to get a spot on Team Canada after his performance last season and strong start this year; the professional hockey world was small, and word travelled. 

The next day, as Ilya excused himself before dinner to report to his father over the phone, Shane felt uneasy as David and Yuna sat in the chairs across from his seat on the couch. 

“Shane,” Yuna started carefully, “I got an email today.”

“Okay,” Shane said, already dreading this conversation. 

“It was from Team Canada, congratulating you on making the team for the World Juniors this year.”

When Shane stayed quiet, David spoke: “Why didn’t you tell us when you found out?”

“I don’t know,” Shane mumbled. “I forgot, I guess.”

“You forgot,” Yuna said incredulously. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I just… don’t want to make it a big deal.”

David and Yuna looked at each other for a moment. 

“Is this because of Ilya?” Yuna asked. 

“No,” Shane said quickly, and then added, “Well, not entirely. But he won’t get to play, because, y’know.”

“Shane,” David said gently. “Your mom and I have noticed that you and Ilya are very close this year.”

“We’re teammates,” Shane said, his heart starting to race. 

“That’s all?” Yuna asked. 

“Yes,” Shane said firmly, though it made him nauseous. “He’s going to be down soon. You can’t mention any of this to him, okay?”

“He’s going to find out you’re going to Saskatoon.”

“I know, I’m going to tell him that. I just mean…” Shane trailed off, trying to find the words. “Don’t bring up anything about him and me. Not to him, or anyone else. And definitely not when I’m in Saskatoon. Please.”

Shane opened his eyes, not sure when he had closed them in the first place. He knew he had essentially confirmed that there was a Shane and Ilya, despite his denial. From the way his parents were looking at him, he knew they hadn’t missed it either. He stood abruptly from the couch. 

“I’m going to set the table.”

“We won’t say anything, Shane,” Yuna said. 

“You know we love you, right?” David asked. 

“Yeah, I do. Thanks,” Shane said before fleeing into the kitchen. He stood in front of the sink, hands on the counter, and tried to breathe.  

Dinner that evening was awkward, even though Yuna and David were trying to pretend nothing had changed. Ilya’s foot tapped Shane’s under the table, and he tapped back, trying to reassure him. When they climbed the stairs after dinner, Ilya wasted no time before following Shane into his bedroom. 

“What’s going on?” Ilya asked. 

“You’re too perceptive,” Shane sighed. 

“Perceptive?” 

“You’re good at noticing stuff. How was the call with your father?”

“Fine. I am perceptive that you are stressed.”

Shane bit his lip. He didn’t want to keep anything from Ilya, but he didn’t know how to tell him his parents had figured them out. Not when Shane had to leave Ottawa in a few weeks, leaving him alone to deal with it. Shane would tell him when he got back, he decided. When they could handle it together. 

“I’m going to Saskatoon in two weeks,” Shane started. “For the World Juniors.”

“What the fuck is Saskatoon?”

Shane opened his mouth, and then closed it. That was not what he was expecting. 

“A city in Saskatchewan,” Shane said, laughter bubbling out of him. 

“Ah, yes. Of course. Fucking Canadians.”

“What do you think we should name it then?” Shane asked, still laughing at the unimpressed look on Ilya’s face. 

“A good name. Like Moscow,” Ilya said, trying to keep his face straight. 

“Sounds boring.”

“Hollander, no,” Ilya said dramatically, falling onto Shane’s bed. “How can you say this to me?”

Shane just laughed, sitting down beside him. 

“World Juniors will be fun,” Ilya said, sitting up and shifting to face Shane. 

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You do not want to go?”

“No, I do,” Shane said honestly. “I, uh- I’m sorry you can’t come.”

“The war is your fault?”

“What? No,” Shane said. 

“Then no need to be sorry. Is Russia’s fault.”

“Still,” Shane insisted, putting his hand on Ilya’s thigh. 

“I will cheer for you. Just you, not Canada.”

“What, you want the US or Sweden to win?”

“No, of course not.”

Shane felt warmth pooling in his chest. Ilya liked to sneak his affection in between wit and jokes, but Shane recognized it for what it was. He leaned over and kissed Ilya softly, once, and then twice. 

“I’m going to miss you,” Shane said quietly. 

“Yes, me too,” Ilya brushed a hand across Shane’s cheek. 

December sped by as the 67s won four of their last six games. Before Shane’s flight to Saskatoon, he snuck into Ilya’s room and pulled him into a kiss. It felt counterintuitive for Shane to be leaving Ilya, not when he had waited all spring and summer for him to come back. Yuna would be travelling with him, while David stayed in Ottawa with Ilya. He wished Ilya could at least come to watch, but he had games to play with the 67s still. Anyway, it probably wouldn’t be fair to ask Ilya to attend just to watch a tournament he was more than talented enough to play in.  

“Do we have time to get you Canadian citizenship?” Shane asked breathlessly. 

“Hm,” Ilya pretended to think. “I think I want Czech passport. I will play against you and win, that way.”

“Wow,” Shane said. “Funny that you think any team other than Canada will win.”

“And what team has most medals?” 

“Whatever, Canada has the most gold medals,” Shane said, and then pulled Ilya into a hug. “I wish you were coming.”

“Me too,” Ilya said, squeezing Shane tighter for a moment before letting go. 

When Shane and Yuna landed in Saskatoon, he was ushered off to the arena to meet his teammates. He recognized most of them, either players from the OHL or well-known names in junior hockey. It was strange to be in a room with people he had played against a few weeks ago as opponents. 

After a few days of practice and exhibition games, Shane was ushered into a room, where three cameras sat pointing at a chair sitting against a white backdrop. A staff member with a headset hurried over, explaining to Shane that they were going to film a video for YouTube for fans to get to know the team. There were boards prepared with questions, and Shane just had to pick which player on Team Canada was most applicable. He sat stiffly in the chair as staff adjusted cameras. The questions weren’t bad; Shane didn’t think his answers were the most interesting, just choosing whichever teammate came to mind first. 

He was handed the next board and laughed when he read it: Teammate most likely to say they could beat you in a race, even though they can’t. 

He thought back to a 67s practice a few weeks ago. Ilya had insisted that he was faster than Shane, and he wouldn’t let it go until Shane agreed to race him one lap around the rink at the end of practice. 

“You ready, Hollander?” Ilya had called out as they lined up on opposite blue lines. 

“Ready to win,” Shane called back. 

The coaches stood at centre ice, and the head coach counted down before blowing the whistle. Shane and Ilya took off; Shane could hear chirping from the teammates who stuck around to watch, but he was focused on pumping his arms and crossovers as he circled behind the net. He didn’t look around to see how where Ilya was, unwilling to be distracted. He finished his lap and turned to see Ilya cross the blue line a second later. 

“Hell yeah!” Shane cheered, as the coach confirmed he crossed the line first. “Sorry, Rozanov. Better luck next time.”

“Not fair,” Ilya said, shaking his head. “Hollander started early.”

Shane hadn’t cheated, and he knew Ilya knew that. Ilya wouldn’t stop asking him for a rematch anyway, adamant that he could win. 

Sitting in a chair in front of cameras, Shane laughed at the memory. At the producer’s confused look, he said, “Sorry. There’s this guy on the 67s - Rozanov. He claims he’s faster than me, but he can’t beat me in a race. He’ll probably be asking me for a rematch when I get back.”

Shane held up the board to the camera and named a Team Canada member, then moved on to the next question. As the tournament started, Shane quickly forgot about the video and dove headfirst into hockey. Canada won their first two round robin games, and Shane retreated back to his hotel room to call Ilya. 

“Hey,” Shane said when Ilya’s face appeared on his screen. 

“Hey,” Ilya said back. “Mr. Game Winning Goal.”

Shane smiled. “You watched?”

“Yes. No choice, David said so,” Ilya teased. “Was a nice goal though. Too bad for Czechia.”

“Still want a Czech passport?”

“Hm, no.” A smirk spread across Ilya’s face as he said, “I am part of Team Canada now, yes?”

“What?”

“Your video. Why did no one tell me I am your Canadian teammate? I will take first flight tomorrow.”

Shane’s face flushed. He put the phone down, hearing Ilya laugh as he grabbed his laptop and pulled up the video on YouTube. He skimmed through until he found it: he was smiling down at the board without reading it aloud, before he looked up and started talking about Ilya. He groaned and picked his phone back up to see Ilya’s smug face. 

“I thought they would cut that out,” Shane muttered, one hand covering his face. 

“Was cute,” Ilya said. 

“Are you watching videos of me while I’m gone? You miss me that much, Rozanov?”

“Is hard,” Ilya pouted. “My boyfriend is gone. I can’t sleep, so I listen to boring Canadians.”

Shane’s heart stopped. 

“Boyfriend?” He asked quietly. 

“Yes, I think so,” Ilya said softly. 

“Boyfriend,” Shane said again, just to hear it aloud. “I wish my boyfriend was here.”

“I wish that too.”

The tournament continued to go well, as Canada ended the round robin stage at the top of their pool and moved past the quarterfinals. Getting ready for the semifinal game against Sweden, Shane’s phone pinged. He opened the text from Ilya to see a link to an article: Hollander and Rozanov: Will the scoring duo take the 67s to the top?

Shane opened the link and read through the article, written by a small Ottawa newspaper. It was mostly about the 67s’ success this season and the back-and-forth between Shane and Ilya for top scorer in the league. While Shane was at the World Juniors, the 67s had two games scheduled. They had won the first thanks to a hat trick from Ilya, and the second was in a few days. (Shane had called Ilya after the 67s game to talk about it, and Ilya had told him that he owed him a hat. Shane pointed out that even if he was there, he would’ve been wearing a helmet, but Ilya insisted.) At the end of the article, there was a mention of Shane’s response in the YouTube video, and Shane felt his face heat. It sounded like nothing more than banter between teammates, he told himself. 

You read the news now?, Shane texted back. 

Only if I am in it, Ilya responded. 

Shane smiled and put his phone down. He really should be focusing on the semifinals. As he bent over to tie his skates, a teammate called out to him. 

“What are you smiling about, Hollzy?”

Shane felt his heart rate pick up. It was almost easier last season, when Ilya was just an unfairly attractive teammate. It had been painful in its own way to have Ilya flirting with him before they were together; Shane could brush it off as Ilya trying to mess with him like he did with everyone else, and that hurt, but he wasn’t losing anything. Now that it was real, that they were real, Shane didn’t know how to go back to a life without him. If people found out what they were… 

“Just Ottawa teammates trying to chirp me in the group chat,” Shane said, hoping his tone was casual. He was glad no other 67s players had made Team Canada. Lying was easier that way. 

Canada won the semifinal game, though it was close. The gold medal game was in two days, and all Shane wanted to do was pass out in his hotel room. The World Juniors meant lots of high-intensity hockey over a tight timeline, and his body was feeling the exhaustion. Ilya was asleep by the time Shane collapsed into bed. He scrolled through the texts Ilya had sent during the game: grand declarations that he could in fact beat Shane in a race, teasing about a slashing penalty Shane took, and then at the end, Canada is lucky you are there. 

I’m lucky to have you, Shane sent back. 

He looked at the message for a moment, and then abruptly put his phone face down on the bedside table and shoved his face into the pillow. He was so sappy this trip. Their relationship had always been marked by teasing, and Shane liked that. It really shouldn’t be that difficult to be apart, not when they had gone months while Ilya was in Russia. Somehow, it was worse knowing Ilya was in Canada, in Shane’s house, while Shane was two provinces away. 

In the gold medal game against the US, the game was still tied 2-2 at the end of regulation. Shane tried to catch his breath as the coach explained their strategy for overtime. It was a lot of pressure to be representing Canada on home ice, with the stands full of red jerseys and cameras broadcasting every play. The World Juniors didn’t always mean a lot in other countries, but it meant a lot to Canadian hockey fans. The first ten minutes of overtime were tight - neither team wanted to take a risk that could go wrong and give their opponent a chance to score. At the whistle, Shane hopped over the boards to take the defensive zone face off. He won the puck back, but Team Canada couldn’t get the puck out of their zone. Shane blocked a shot on the inside of his calf, ignoring the faint throbbing where there would surely be a bruise tomorrow, and chased after the puck as it slid towards the boards. Two American players raced alongside him, and as Shane reached his stick out to get the puck, one of the American players fell. Shane barely avoided tripping over him, knocking the puck out of their zone as the whistle blew. He turned, confused, to see the ref with one arm up and the other pointing directly at him. 

The sound of the crowd booing faded away as white noise flooded Shane’s ears. He skated over to the ref. 

“I didn’t touch him,” Shane said, but the ref ignored him and skated towards the penalty box. 

“I didn’t fucking touch him!” Shane shouted, following after the referee. He couldn’t believe what was happening. There were five minutes left in overtime with the gold medal on the line, and he was being sent to the penalty box. 

“I know everyone says this,” Shane said, getting more and more desperate, “but I didn’t fucking do anything!”

“Get in the box, or I’ll add unsportsmanlike on top,” the ref said firmly. 

Shane closed his mouth and stepped into the box, sitting on the bench and watching the replay on the jumbotron in disbelief as the American player stepped onto the stick of his teammate and fell. 

“Team Canada, number twenty-four,” the ref said into his mic. “Two minutes for tripping.”

Shane tried to take deep breaths. He didn’t need to have a panic attack in front of thousands of fans in the arena and who knows how many watching on television. It certainly wasn’t his first penalty, but fuck. He watched, feeling like he might vomit any second, as Team USA controlled the puck and took shot after shot. Finally, a Canadian defenceman intercepted the puck and shot it down the ice. Thirty seconds left in the penalty. Team USA got one more shot on net, and then Shane was out of the box. He skated towards his own net, but as his teammate got control of the puck in the corner, he made a sharp turn towards the opposing net. His teammate sent the puck between the two American defencemen and down the ice to Shane, who was in alone against the American goalie. He deked to the right, swung back to the left, and backhanded the puck above the goalie’s shoulder and into the back of the net. 

The arena was explosive, the goal horn blared, and Shane’s teammates came flying at him, jumping and crashing against him along the boards. Through it all, Shane wondered if Ilya had stayed up to watch despite the time difference. 

He didn’t manage to check his phone after the medals were handed out and he returned to the dressing room, as his teammates immediately dumped a cooler of water on his head. 

“Holy shit, Hollander!”

“We’re going to the fucking club, boys!”

“I’m only seventeen,” Shane reminded, even though he knew they were aware. 

“Who gives a shit? We’ll talk to the bouncer. He’s not going to say no to Hollzy after that goal.”

“Guys,” Shane sighed, “I’m not going to go drinking.”

The team continued to groan and nag Shane, but he just shrugged them off. They would all go with or without him, and Shane wasn’t going to risk probation in the OHL to be miserable in a club. He still had plans with the 67s; he and Ilya were going to win the championship, and Shane would keep him in Canada as long as he could. 

In the car back to the hotel, Shane was finally able to check his phone. He ignored the countless notifications and congratulatory messages, and instead opened his chat with Ilya. A string of at least twenty messages had been sent over the course of the last four hours. Shane smiled as he read through Ilya’s commentary on the game, and then he replied: Almost at the hotel. 

Exiting the conversation, he scrolled through his messages and stopped on one from his dad. The most recent message congratulated him on the goal, telling him how proud he was, and the message before read I hope you weren’t the one to teach Ilya his vocabulary. 

Thanks Dad, he sent back. And then: What did Ilya say?

Once Shane arrived in his hotel room, he changed into flannel pants and a baggy t-shirt before calling Ilya. 

“Hi,” Ilya said, the top half of his face visible and the rest of the screen taken up by his pillow. 

“Hi,” Shane said. “Were you asleep? I can call you tomorrow instead, before my flight.”

“No,” Ilya said. “Not sleeping, just waiting.”

“I might be asleep soon,” Shane said as he propped his phone against the bathroom mirror and began brushing his teeth. 

“Wow, this is fun.”

Shane shot him a look and finished brushing his teeth before speaking. 

“The team wanted me to go clubbing.”

“And you said ‘no, I am too boring’, yes?” 

Shane could see Ilya’s cheekbones rising as he smiled. 

“Show me your whole face,” he complained, waiting until Ilya adjusted his camera before continuing. “And no, I told them I’m not an idiot.”

Shane picked up his phone and turned off the lights, then crawled into bed. 

“What, I see teeth but not getting changed?” Ilya groaned. 

“I already changed. It’s your punishment for calling me boring.”

“You are a bad boy now,” Ilya said. “You will trip me too? Like American player?”

“Fuck,” Shane bit out. “It was so obvious that I didn’t even touch him. He tripped on his own! I can’t believe that ref, such an asshole.”

“Hey,” Ilya said, frowning. “Don’t call him that.”

“Since when you do care about being polite to the ref?”

“I do not,” Ilya said, waving a hand in the air. “I care that you call other men assholes.”

Shane laughed and rolled onto his side. “You’re jealous that I called the ref an asshole?”

“Yes,” Ilya said firmly. “You always call me that.”

“Being called an asshole isn’t a good thing.”

“Is good if it’s from you. You call me asshole because you like me.”

Shane’s laughter died down. He was right, in a sense; it was often a cover to hide the full depth of Shane’s fondness for Ilya. 

“Okay, you’re the only asshole, then.”

“Good,” Ilya said, winking at Shane. 

Shane just looked at him for a moment, taking in his face through the screen. 

“My flight lands at noon tomorrow.”

“I know,” Ilya replied. 

Shane didn’t remember falling asleep, but when he woke up to his alarm early the next morning, he found unread messages on his phone. 

Good night, from Ilya. 

And then from David, a string of messages:

Words I cannot repeat. 

When you got that penalty, I couldn’t believe what was coming out of his mouth. 

And then when you scored, he somehow still had new words to say. 

Can’t wait to see you, bud. 

Shane laughed and climbed out of bed. He met Yuna in the hotel lobby to catch their taxi to the airport, smile still on his face. 

It was weird to walk out of the arrivals gate in the Ottawa airport and see Ilya waiting on the other side with David. The car ride home was as slow as usual, though. Shane gripped on to Ilya’s hand under his coat on the seat in between them, glancing over at him when Ilya squeezed his hand back. He was testing the limits of his patience: when they arrived at home, David had prepared a cake for them to celebrate with, and then Yuna wanted to discuss each detail of the gold medal game, and then Yuna asked Ilya for updates on how the 67s had been playing, even though she had kept track from Saskatoon. Shane tapped his foot against Ilya’s, hoping he would wrap it up, but he indulged Yuna for a few more minutes. And then, finally, they were walking upstairs alone. 

As soon as the door to Ilya’s bedroom closed behind him, Shane was being kissed, Ilya’s hands framing either side of his face. 

“Hi,” he whispered when Ilya pulled back slightly. Ilya didn’t answer; he kissed Shane once more before tugging his own shirt off and then Shane’s, tossing them on the dresser. The flutter of Shane’s red Team Canada t-shirt caught his eye, and he nudged Ilya’s mouth away from his neck. 

“Ilya, wait,” he said breathlessly. He turned and cracked open the door, peeking down the hallway, and sneaking across to his own bedroom. He dug around in his backpack until he found a plastic bag, and then snuck back across the hall. When he closed the door behind him and turned to Ilya, he burst out laughing at the unimpressed expression on his face. 

“I have something for you,” he explained. 

“Is your gold medal?”

“No, it’s better.”

Ilya raised his eyebrows and took the bag, sticking his hand in and pulling out a red hat. On the front, a white maple leaf was surrounded by the words “Saskatoon, Saskatchewan”. Shane bit his lip in an attempt to keep a straight face. 

“Wow,” Ilya said, voice flat. “My favourite city.”

“So you love it?” Shane asked, taking the hat and fitting it on his head, brushing a few of Ilya’s curls off his forehead. 

“I did not mean this when I said you owed me a hat.”

Shane laughed, and looped his arms around Ilya’s shoulders to pull him into a kiss. 

The next day, Shane was too busy laughing as Ilya walked down the stairs wearing his new hat to notice David and Yuna sharing a look across the table. 

After Shane’s first practice back with the 67s, he climbed into the car and waited for Ilya to buckle his seatbelt before pulling out of the arena parking lot. When he turned right instead of left at the lights, Ilya looked at him. 

“Where are we going?”

“I, uh,” Shane stuttered, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “Somewhere we can be alone, I guess.”

He drove through downtown Ottawa and pulled into a side street to park. He saw Ilya looking around as they got out, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. 

“This way,” Shane said, walking down the sidewalk. 

“National Gallery of Canada,” Ilya read out from a sign. “What the fuck?”

Shane huffed out a laugh. “We’re not going in there.”

“So where?”

“That bridge,” Shane pointed to a long bridge spanning across the Ottawa River. 

“You are taking me to a bridge. To be alone.”

“I want to talk without my parents around, so I told them I was taking you to the Alexandra Bridge after practice.”

“Shane,” Ilya said. “Is called lying. You say we go to the boring bridge, but we do not actually go.”

“Whatever,” Shane said. 

They made their way onto the bridge. There were a few pedestrians further down, but it was too cold in January for most to venture out on foot. 

“So,” Ilya prompted. 

“So,” Shane repeated, stalling. “I think… well, I’m pretty sure my parents know about us.”

“What?” Ilya stopped, turning to face him. 

“Yeah. Before the World Juniors, they said we were really close.”

“Is true.”

“Yeah, but…” Shane trailed off, rubbing at one of his eyes. “My mom asked if we were more than teammates.”

“Ah,” Ilya said, face unreadable. 

“I said we were just teammates,” Shane said hurriedly. “I just… I don’t think they believed me.”

Ilya looked at Shane and nodded. He turned back towards the car, waving at Shane to follow him. It was quiet on the way back, except for the pounding of Shane’s heart in his ears. They hadn’t discussed coming out - it was such an impossibility for them that Shane didn’t know what there would be to say - but now he wished they had, even just so he could guess at what was going through Ilya’s head. 

In the car, Shane silently put on his seatbelt and went to put the key in the ignition, but Ilya’s hand grabbed his and pulled it into his lap. Shane looked at their clasped hands and waited. 

“Are they okay? With this?” Ilya asked, gesturing vaguely between them with his free hand.  

“I don’t know,” Shane said after a moment. “They’re not homophobic, or whatever.”

“Will they tell?” Ilya turned to look at Shane. 

“I told them they couldn’t say anything about it,” Shane replied. “I don’t think they will.”

“I can’t go home, if they tell.”

“To Russia?”

“Yes.”

“Is it…” Shane trailed off. 

“It is not safe. I need to have other passport, before people know.”

Shane felt anxiety swirl through his stomach and into his chest. He squeezed Ilya’s hand tightly. 

“I will be fine, Shane,” Ilya said, kissing the back of his hand. “I am fine.”

It didn’t fully relieve Shane’s anxiety, and a layer of guilt fell overtop. It was Ilya’s life, Ilya’s family, Ilya’s country, and yet Shane was making it about his own emotions. He took a deep breath. 

“Maybe…” Shane began weakly, trying to steel himself. He needed to be unselfish. “Is it too risky? We haven’t even been drafted yet. Maybe we should… stop.”

“No,” Ilya said immediately. “Shane, not because of that.”

“If it means you would be safe, then-”

“No,” Ilya cut him off. “Do you want to stop?”

“No, obviously not,” Shane exhaled in frustration. “But it’s not about us, it’s about things bigger than us.”

“Trust me. I will be eighteen this summer and have NHL contract. We will start there with a plan,” Ilya said firmly. 

“Okay,” Shane said quietly. “I don’t want you to think that I don’t want this. And I’m not ready to come out, either. I’m just… scared, I guess.”

“I know,” Ilya said softly, reaching out to stroke Shane’s cheek. “I did not mean to scare you. We can tell your parents. You are shit at lying. Just not everyone else.”

“I can lie when I need to!”

“Okay,” Ilya placated him, patting his cheek. 

“Whatever,” Shane huffed. “We don’t need to tell my parents. It’s better if no one knows.”

“Maybe we do something in the middle.”

“Like what?” Shane asked. “It’s yes or no. We tell them we’re dating or we don’t.”

“We will find something,” Ilya said. 

When Ilya looked down at their hands in his lap without elaborating, Shane said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when it happened. I just needed time to process. And then I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable when I was gone and only my dad was here.”

“Okay,” Ilya said, kissing the back of Shane’s hand again. “Tell me things, yes? Everything.”

“I will,” Shane promised. “I’m sorry.”

“Is okay,” Ilya said, smiling at Shane and intertwining their fingers. “My English is shit, but I am perceptive, you know?”

“Your English is amazing. I wish I spoke Russian.”

Ilya said something in Russian, and Shane waited for a translation, but Ilya just looked at him. 

“Are you not going to tell me what that means?”

“Nope,” Ilya said. “If you learn Russian, you will know.” 

“Fine, no problem,” Shane said. “It better not have been an insult.”

Ilya just laughed, shaking his head. 

Shane took in the smile on his face, then added: “And I know I’m not very perceptive, but you can talk to me about anything, too, okay?”

“You know me,” Ilya said simply. “But I have something to say.”

“Yeah?” Shane sat up a bit, shifting to look at Ilya better. 

“I am so fucking cold. Can we go?”

Shane laughed and kissed Ilya’s cheek. 

“Yeah, let’s go.”

They spent the next week discussing what they would tell David and Yuna, eventually deciding to talk to them Friday evening after practice. The 67s had a road game in Sarnia on Saturday, and Shane wanted to have the weekend out of Ottawa in case the conversation didn’t go well. 

As they pulled into the Hollanders’ driveway on Friday, Shane’s hand hesitated on the door handle. 

“Ilya, wait. Should I just go through it one more time?”

“You did it three times after practice. You will be great,” Ilya said. He undid his seatbelt but looked over at Shane, who was still unmoving in the driver’s seat. “Okay, one more.”

Ilya sat patiently as Shane practiced what he would say to Yuna and David. When he finished and looked at Ilya expectantly, Ilya just clapped. 

“Fuck off,” Shane huffed. “Was it okay?”

“Yes, was great. You are great.”

Shane ignored the heat in his cheeks and nodded, stepping out of the car. 

“Mom, Dad,” Shane called out as they entered the house. “Are you busy?”

“In here,” Yuna called back from the living room. She sat on the couch with David, pausing the highlights video of an Ottawa Centaurs game. Shane sat gingerly on one of the armchairs, Ilya taking the other. 

“What’s up?” David asked. 

“You remember that conversation we had,” Shane began, his voice a bit flat and stilted. “The one before I left for Saskatoon.”

“We do,” Yuna said, looking at David briefly and straightening up in her seat. 

“I just wanted-“ Shane’s voice cracked, and he took a breath before continuing. “I just wanted to tell you that Ilya and I are teammates.”

“Right,” Yuna said. She looked between Shane and Ilya before landing on Shane. 

“It’s really dangerous for Ilya if, uh, if there are rumours.”

“What rumours?” David asked. 

“Gay ones,” Ilya replied casually. Shane closed his eyes and took another deep breath. That wasn’t in the script. 

“You boys know you can trust us, right?” David said. 

“I know, Dad,” Shane said. “That’s why I’m telling you this. Ilya and I are good teammates, and we want to be able to keep hanging out, or whatever. Which is why I’m telling you this. That we’re teammates.”

Shane felt embarrassment creep up his neck. This wasn’t going the way Shane wanted, and the more off track it got, the more his brain scrambled up his words. He looked up and saw confusion all over David’s face and sighed. He was right, either they tell his parents that they’re dating or they don’t. Trying to imply some sort of vague message wasn’t going to work. 

But then, Yuna spoke: “So because you’re such good teammates, and you want a future together as… former teammates, you’re here to tell us that there’s nothing going on.” 

“Yes,” Ilya said, clearly amused. “Maybe when I have good NHL contract and new passport, we will be more than teammates.”

“More than teammates?” David asked. 

“Friends, maybe,” Ilya offered. His voice was serious, but Shane knew better - he was having too much fun with this. 

“Okay,” Yuna laughed. “I understand.”

“Understand what?” David said, but Yuna just patted his hand.

“Later. Let’s get dinner ready,” Yuna said. 

As Yuna and David left the living room, Shane slumped back in his chair and looked at Ilya. 

“You enjoyed that way too much.”

“Was funny,” Ilya shrugged.

“I can’t even tell if that was successful.”

“It was, I think.”

When Shane walked into his room on Sunday, after the 67s won their game in Sarnia, he saw a plastic bag on his bedside table. Ilya slipped in behind him and closed the door. 

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know,” Shane replied. He dumped the bag out on his desk and immediately covered his face once he saw its contents. 

“What?” Ilya asked, looping his arms around Shane’s waist to look over his shoulder. 

At the sound of Ilya’s bright laughter, Shane dropped his hands from his face. He stared silently at the lube and box of condoms on his desk and a note that read “For safe teammates” in Yuna’s handwriting. 

“We should’ve gone with my plan and just completely denied it,” Shane muttered.

As January turned into February, the 67s continued to play well. Shane had retaken the spot as top scorer this season, but Ilya was only two goals behind him. They started March with a four-game homestand, and they won all but one. Their spot in the playoffs was clinched; now all that was left was to see who their opponent would be in the first round. 

Ilya and Shane stuck around on the ice after practice formally ended, playing keepaway and practicing trick shots. Shane passed a puck to Ilya, who one-timed it into the empty net. 

“Are you nervous?” Ilya asked. 

“About the playoffs?”

Ilya nodded and sent the puck back to Shane. 

“Maybe a little bit,” Shane said. “I think I’m mostly sad that the season is ending.”

“Wow. First player to not want to go to playoffs,” Ilya said as he received the puck back from Shane and tried to bounce it on his stick a few times. 

“It just means that spring is almost here,” Shane said. He skated over and tried to bat the puck out of the air before it landed back on Ilya’s stick. 

“Yes, I know,” Ilya said. “I want to see what Shane Hollander looks like in spring.”

Shane breathed in sharply. He hated the prickling he felt in his eyes; it was a simple statement, it shouldn’t make him cry. Or maybe it was that it he also resented that he only saw Ilya in harsh arena lighting or the darkness of winter months. 

“We’re going to make it to the championships,” Shane promised. 

The first round against the Peterborough Petes was dominated by the 67s. They won the first three games, and after losing the fourth game in overtime, they won the fifth and eliminated the Petes. The second round against the Sudbury Wolves would prove to be more difficult. The 67s won the first game, but lost the next two. The teams traded wins and sent the series to a seventh and final game in Ottawa. 

The night before the game, Ilya snuck across the hall and slid under the covers beside Shane. There was no doubt that Yuna knew, but they all kept up the same thin guise of secrecy anyway. Shane turned onto his side and kissed Ilya’s shoulder before resting his head there.

“If we don’t win, we won’t see each other until the draft in June,” Shane whispered. 

“We will win, then,” Ilya said. He ran a gentle hand across Shane’s back. 

Shane hesitated, but he couldn’t hold it in: “We won’t be drafted to the same team.”

Ilya’s hand paused before continuing. “No. Will you be mad when I beat you?”

“No chance,” Shane said. “Who ended the regular season with more goals? I’ll be beating you.”

Shane felt Ilya shake his head in response, but he stayed quiet. He loved competing with Ilya, with someone who could match his level of skill and strength. More than that, though, he simply loved playing with Ilya. Power plays, overtime, 6-on-5 at the end of a game with their goalie pulled - the moments where Shane and Ilya were put on the ice together were electric. But they were projected to go first or second in the NHL draft, and the same team can’t get both those picks. It was a fact: they would be on different teams come June.

“It will be like summer,” Ilya said. “We know how to be not together.”

“I wish we didn’t,” Shane muttered. “If we’re drafted to different conferences, we’ll only see each other twice a year.”

“I will say to the league that we have to be in same division.”

“It doesn’t work like that, asshole,” Shane shifted so he could see Ilya, settling on the same pillow. 

“Okay,” Ilya said, moving his hand to Shane’s hair. “If we are too far, after my entry level contract is done, I will leave. Find a new team.”

“You’re not throwing your career away,” Shane said, poking Ilya in the chest. “Anyway, you don’t just leave the team that drafted you. Not that fast, at least.”

“Hm. Then I will play like shit, and they will trade me.”

“I just said you’re not throwing away your career,” Shane huffed.

“Is not throwing it,” Ilya said. “Me playing like shit is still better than everyone else.”

“You don’t have to do anything alone, okay? We’ll find a way. Together.”

Ilya just looked at him for a moment, his features lit only by the streetlight outside Shane’s window. 

“I would do it, for you,” Ilya said. “But okay. Together.”

Shane felt the sting of tears in his eyes. He didn’t know what he had done to deserve Ilya. The weight of their secret was heavy, and they spent months apart every year, but somehow that was nothing compared to the happiness Ilya brought him. 

“I love you,” Shane blurted out. He held his breath, looking at Ilya’s eyes widen. 

“I love you, too,” Ilya said and kissed him. He placed a hand on the back of Shane’s neck and tugged him on top of him. 

“Took you a long time,” Ilya mumbled in the small space between their lips. 

“You could have said it first,” Shane said. He kissed Ilya again, toes curling at the heat of his mouth and tongue. 

“I did.”

“What?” Shane asked, leaning back to look at Ilya. “No, you didn’t. When?”

“At boring fucking bridge,” Ilya replied. 

“No, you didn’t,” Shane repeated. “I wouldn’t have forgotten that.”

“I thought you will learn Russian.”

“You said it in Russian?” Shane said incredulously. “That doesn’t count! I didn’t know!”

“It counts! I said it,” Ilya insisted, and then, “Ya tebya lyublyu. I love you.”

“Not fair,” Shane sighed. “Say it again, slower.”

Ilya repeated each syllable slowly, but at Shane’s attempt to repeat it after him, he burst into laughter. 

“Asshole,” Shane muttered, face flushed. 

“Is very cute,” Ilya said, laughter still tinging his voice. 

Shane just buried his head in Ilya’s neck. 

The next day, the 67s won game seven against Sudbury and moved on to the third round. They won their first three games against the Brantford Bulldogs, but their top defenceman hit the boards awkwardly in game four, and the Bulldogs took advantage to win the next two. Shane was determined to win game six and avoid another game seven. He tied the game late in the third, and they returned to the dressing room as the zamboni flooded the ice before overtime. 

“Not going to trip anyone, yes, Hollander?” Ilya nudged him with his elbow. 

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane said. “Maybe you should focus on trying to score.”

Another teammate jumped in, chirping at a 67s player who had missed a wide open net seconds before Shane had scored the game-tying goal. As they lined up to return to the ice for overtime, Ilya winked at Shane. He went on to score on his first shift in overtime, and Shane was too elated to care about the smug grin Ilya sent his way, hopping over the boards and flying into Ilya’s arms as their teammates crashed into them. It was May, and Ilya was still here. 

Two days later, they arrived in Sault Ste. Marie to face the Soo Greyhounds in the OHL championship series. Shane was talking with the head coach in the lobby of their hotel when he got an alert on his phone. He glanced at it and then did a double take. 

“Sorry,” he said to the coach. “I have to go.”

He rushed towards the elevator, jamming the button and waiting impatiently, energy rushing through his body. It was taking too long. He turned to the stairwell and climbed the stairs two at a time until he reached the third floor, jogging down the hallway and knocking on Ilya’s door. 

Ilya opened the door, looking at Shane with raised eyebrows as he tried to catch his breath. 

“Sorry,” Shane panted. 

“Do I need to run?” Ilya asked. 

“Boston got the first pick in the draft,” Shane got out, ignoring Ilya’s comment. 

“Okay,” Ilya said slowly. “Good for Boston.”

“Montreal got second, and Tampa Bay third.”

“Same division,” Ilya said. “The league listens to me.”

“Ilya,” Shane said, “how are you so calm?”

“Because I am happy,” he replied, kissing Shane’s cheek and then his forehead. “Same division, like I asked.”

“Shut up,” Shane huffed. “Be serious.”

“I am happy,” Ilya said. “Is good news. But we will be okay no matter what, yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, hugging Ilya tightly. “No matter what.”

The 67s were eliminated by the Greyhounds in game five, ending their season in mid-May. Shane sat on the stairs leading up to the Hollanders’ porch, watching as his neighbour across the street planted flowers in their front yard. He had accomplished a lot of what he set out to do this season, but he was finding it difficult to be positive. If they had beaten the Greyhounds and won the OHL championship, they’d be heading to the Memorial Cup to compete there against the best teams in the Canadian Hockey League. It would have been a triumphant end to his tumultuous junior hockey career, and he would’ve had Ilya for three more weeks. More than anything, Shane realized how precious time could be.

Ilya sat down beside him, stretching his legs out. “He said no.”

“Okay,” Shane said softly. “I’m sorry if asking made things difficult for you.”

“Was my idea,” Ilya shrugged. “I want to stay, but my father is… you know.”

“Yeah. Did you book your flight?”

“Yes, is in three days. Saturday.” 

“Okay,” Shane said. 

Ilya shifted to lean his back against the railing so he was facing Shane. 

“You look good in spring,” Ilya said. 

Shane felt his chin quiver, eyes watering. Ilya always turned him into such a crybaby. It wasn’t fair that they had to separate, and yet there was nothing he could do. 

“Shane,” Ilya said softly. “I will come back in June, for draft.”

Shane nodded, and Ilya continued: “And then in summer, for training camp. And then in fall, I will beat you at hockey.”

“Good luck with that,” Shane laughed wetly. 

“Thank you,” Ilya replied. He tapped Shane’s calf with his foot. “I will always come back.”

“Let’s go inside,” Shane said, wiping at his eyes. 

“Why? Is nice out here. Warm.”

“I’m not kissing you in front of my neighbours,” Shane said flatly, standing and heading for the front door. 

“Ah, okay,” Ilya said, getting up quickly. “Let’s go.”

End Notes

and they live happily ever after ❤️