Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

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, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

svetlana is mentioned, hollanov as junior hockey teammates

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of youth in ottawa

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-11 Words: 12,215 Chapters: 1/1

billeted with you

Summary

Stepping off of the plane, Ilya was still surprised that he made it here. His father was never fond of North American hockey leagues, but Ilya was determined to play junior hockey in Canada.

He spotted his billet family - Yuna and David Hollander, who he would be living with for the next eight months, along with Shane Hollander, his new teammate.

He knew of the famous active OHL players, and Shane Hollander was certainly one of them, but Ilya wasn’t prepared for freckles and beautiful eyes.

Notes

additional additional tags:
- the author thinks hockey players and their slang are silly
- the author was a mediocre (and not silly!) hockey player for 10+ years

for the uninitiated: Ontario Hockey League (OHL) players are 16 to 20 years old. Exceptional player status is given in very rare cases to highly skilled players so that they can be drafted younger than 16. Many (not all) NHLers played in the OHL before they were drafted to the NHL. I was never anywhere close to the level of an OHL player, obviously. my apologies to all the hundreds of OHL players that are surely reading this fic for any inaccuracies.

Stepping off of the plane, Ilya was still surprised that he made it here. It had taken months of slow persuasion. His father was never fond of North American hockey leagues, full of arrogant Americans and soft Canadians.

Ilya had enlisted Alexei’s help with the promise that his stipend would be sent straight to his bank account every month. Ilya knew that once he saw the meagre amount he’d receive as a junior player, he’d regret putting his neck on the line to convince their father. Damn Canadians who thought they loved hockey more than anyone couldn’t even offer him minimum wage.

That was a problem for another day. He had gone first in the import draft and now he was here. Away from his father’s expectations, his brother’s disdain, constant reminders of his mother’s death.

He collected his bags and made his way through security, only to find himself faced with a big sign with his name written in big, sloppy Cyrillic letters, and then again in smaller Latin ones. The sign shifted and Ilya saw an Asian woman waving to him and a calm white man beside her.

His billet family.

He walked over, hockey bag slung over one shoulder and suitcase rolling behind him.

“Hello, I am Ilya Rozanov,” he said awkwardly. He began working on his English when he was drafted by the Ottawa 67s, but he had yet to use it with a native speaker.

“Ilya! It’s so nice to meet you! I’m Yuna, and this is my husband David.”

“Yes, is nice to meet you,” Ilya shook David’s hand and as Yuna pulled him into a hug, he stood still, hands hovering over her back without making contact.

He wasn’t used to this kind of parent anymore.

They trundled out of the airport and into the car. Yuna turned around from the front passenger seat to look at Ilya.

“Shane - you remember Shane, of course - he’s at the arena today, but he’ll be home for dinner.”

Ilya did know Shane, Yuna and David’s son and Ilya’s new teammate. The North Bay Battalion drafted Shane last year. Exceptional player status, the internet had said. Drafted a year younger than everyone else, hockey’s next prodigy.

Shane had an explosive start, with 28 points in 23 games, before his offence inexplicably stuttered to a stop. By the last stretch of the season, Shane was off the starting roster and away for personal reasons. In July, he was traded to the Ottawa 67s.

Why Yuna and David signed up to be a billet family when their own son had returned to live at home, Ilya didn’t know.

The ride was spent with Yuna chatting about the 67s, the coach, the first team they’re playing once the season starts. David chimed in occasionally to point out what Ilya guessed were supposed to be interesting landmarks - a river, a university campus, the road that leads to the arena where the NHL teams play.

Ilya leaned his head against the car window and let the still unfamiliar sounds of English blur through his ears.

When they arrived, Ilya was shown through the modest house and up the stairs to his new room. It wasn’t huge, but it had a bed, a desk, a dresser. Ilya didn’t expect to spend much time in here anyway.

He turned to see Yuna loitering in the doorway.

“Is very nice. Thank you,” Ilya offered.

Yuna smiled, “I’ll let you settle in before dinner.”

Ilya sat on the bed and stared at the blue checkered duvet. His billet family seemed nice enough. Or at least, Yuna and David were nice. Ilya had yet to meet Shane, his billet-family-slash-teammate.

He knew of the famous active OHL players, and Shane Hollander was certainly one of them. He had seen clips of him online, blurry videos taken as a U16 AAA player and better quality videos of his first season with the Battalion. There was something mesmerizing about his playing, his quiet confidence even when facing off against players older than him.

If Ilya wanted to stay in Canada and live as far from his father’s reach as he could get, he needed to be the best in this league. And Ilya knew that no matter what really happened at the end of last season, no matter the media speculation, Shane Hollander was the player he had to surpass.

What Ilya wasn’t prepared for was walking down the stairs at Yuna’s call for dinner, entering the kitchen, and coming face to face with freckles and beautiful eyes. No pixelated video of Shane could have done him justice.

Ilya heard, distantly, Yuna talking to him. Probably introducing Shane, or maybe introducing Ilya to her son. But Ilya was lost in observing Shane, seeing his eyes widen as he took in Ilya’s tank top and exposed arms, his swallow and abrupt bowing of his head as he looked down at the chicken and salad in front of him on the dinner table.

Yuna’s hand was suddenly on Ilya’s shoulder, bringing him to sit beside David and across from Shane.

“I can drive you boys to the rink tomorrow morning,” Yuna offered excitedly.

“No, Mom, it’s okay,” Shane sighed. “The team already said they’d pick us up, remember?”

Yuna sat back in her chair, absently poking at a piece of lettuce on her plate.

“I know, I just thought I could chat a bit with Coach Taylor.”

As Shane put his fork down and opened his mouth, Yuna quickly added: “For Ilya! He hasn’t met Taylor, or any of the assistant coaches or trainers."

Ilya didn’t need to be fluent in English to know that there was more to this conversation than the exact definition of the words themselves. Maybe Shane didn’t want Ilya here, maybe Yuna wanted to make sure Ilya knew she had to report to the 67s regarding his behaviour and wellbeing. Ilya knew about North American hockey; he wasn’t expecting to escape the stereotypes of lazy, arrogant, troublemaking Russian players. Anyway, Ilya had heard those comments from his father once it became clear around age six that Ilya had a natural talent that his friends didn’t.

He put a bite of chicken in his mouth, content to continue observing.

David turned to him and asked, “How’s the food, Ilya? To your liking?”

Ilya nodded, “Yes, is very good. Taste is like chef.”

David smiled and patted him twice on the shoulder before turning back to his own meal.

Shane kept his eyes on his plate as he said, “We’ll go with the team tomorrow.”

Ilya looked between Shane and Yuna.

“We go meet teammates first, yes, Hollander?” Ilya smiled at Yuna, while nudging Shane’s foot under the table. “Is - what you call? Make friends.”

“Yeah, we should join in with the guys before the season starts,” Shane glanced up at Ilya before looking back at his plate and shoving a forkful of salad into his mouth.

The next morning, Ilya awoke to brown eyes, freckles, and a plush mouth hovering right above him. He might’ve thought he was dreaming, but he wouldn’t have dreamt a face this pretty with a frown. He had a better imagination than that.

“Get up!” the mouth said, “I won’t wait for you if you miss our ride!”

Ilya blinked, and suddenly the pretty face leaned back, leaving him with a view of a popcorn ceiling.

He turned his head on his pillow to see Shane Hollander, wearing a backwards baseball cap, a 67s-branded t-shirt, and shorts.

“Fuck it, I’m going downstairs.”

With that, Shane was gone. Ilya lay in bed a few moments longer before sitting up, pulling on whatever athletic wear his hand touched first in his suitcase, and stumbling downstairs. Shane stood at the front door, looking out the window as Yuna spoke to him in English far too fast for Ilya to understand at 7 in the morning.

As he descended down the last step, Yuna turned to him.

“Ilya, good, you’re awake. I was just telling Shane that you boys need to put in extra effort today,” she said. “Make sure you’re engaged in what the coach is saying, and take initiative with your teammates.”

“Okay,” Ilya offered, not totally sure what he was agreeing to, but Yuna seemed satisfied enough.

“We’re going to take initiative by waiting outside,” Shane said and stepped out the door.

Ilya smiled awkwardly at Yuna as he followed him out. The August air was warm, even early in the morning.

“What are we taking?” Ilya asked Shane as he closed the door behind him.

“Nothing,” Shane muttered.

“Ah,” Ilya said. “You keep secret from new Russian teammate. Not nice. I will speak only Russian to team then, you will be very confused.”

“You’re the only one on the team who speaks Russian, idiot.”

But Shane was smiling as the 67s staff pulled into their driveway, so Ilya considered it a win.

The morning sped past Ilya in a blur of new faces and handshakes and papers. When the assistant coach finally stood from his desk and walked them towards his office door, Ilya wanted to cheer. 

“Where is gym?” Ilya asked.

The assistant coach began another rambling monologue, filled with words that Ilya knew weren’t relevant to directions. He raised his index finger, and the coach stopped mid-sentence with a confused look on his face.

“Gym is this way, yes?” Ilya gestured somewhere over his shoulder. “I go there now, thank you.”

He turned and began wandering down the hallway. He came across a staircase and went down, only to find himself standing at the top of the arena’s lower bowl. He turned right and wandered past shuttered concession stands until he found the next staircase down. He looked down the hallway of nondescript doors and poked his head into the first one he reached.

Three boys (men? Ilya was big for 16 but they seemed fully grown) sat on a couch in the same t-shirt Shane was wearing this morning.

“Who the fuck is that?” The boy closest to Ilya said.

“That’s Rozanov, the new Russian guy,” another replied. “Have you had too many concussions or can you just not keep up?”

The first boy rolled his eyes. “Fuckin’ whatever. What do you want, rookie?”

Ilya stepped into the room.

“Gym,” he replied. “Or a cigarette.”

The boys laughed, and one of them stood and walked over to slap him on the back.

“You’re a funny kid, Rozanov. Good luck sneaking cigarettes without your billets catching you.”

“What else? Want us to find you a chick to fuck too?” One of the boys on the couch sneered.

Ilya shrugged. “Can do that alone. Finding gym is harder.”

They laughed again, and one slung his arm around Ilya’s neck as he led him back out into the hall. The other two caught up, shoving and trying to trip each other as they went. As they made their way to what Ilya hoped was finally the gym, a door opened and Shane stepped out. His eyes widened as he took in Ilya and their teammates, and he stood still in front of the door as they walked towards him.

“Hey, Hollzy!” One of the boys shouted. Shane said nothing.

“Come on, Hollzy,” another said. “We’re taking Rozanov to play sting pong.”

Shane shook his head. “Uh, that’s okay, I was going to go on the bikes.”

“Jesus, live a little.”

“Roz, don’t take Hollander to pick up girls, okay? He’ll just bore them to death.”

Ilya shook his head, “I think taking Hollander is better. I go with you and girls think I go with my father.”

His teammate laughed and shoved at the back of Ilya’s head. “Fuck you, Roz! I’m only three years older than you!”

As they dragged him further down the hall, Ilya glanced at Shane’s face and saw him smiling. He felt himself wishing he was headed to the exercise bikes for the first time in his life.

The rest of August passed by in similar fashion. Ilya and Shane lived together and rode to the rink together, but as soon as they walked through the door Shane would seemingly disappear until it was time to get dressed for practice. Ilya got used to their teammates, finding some that weren’t bad to hang out with and having fun pissing off the others. But he was most curious about Shane, who remained awkward and guarded no matter where Ilya interacted with him.

Before long, it was their last practice before their first preseason game the next evening. A whistle blew, and Ilya glided over to centre ice where the coach stood. He didn’t mind Coach Taylor. He seemed to care about the team’s success, and although he was more on the strict side, Ilya could accept it if it got them results. The 67s were expected to be better this year, but not excellent. Ilya needed to be excellent.

“We’re doing a shootout. Campbell, Isotalo, pick a net,” the coach ordered. “Offence has been sloppy today, from both the D-men and the forwards. Anyone who doesn’t score is bag skating.”

Ilya sighed. His offence hadn’t been sloppy, but pointing that out would only earn him more bag skating, not less. He looked around as he skated to the bench. And then he found him: Shane was already on the home team’s bench, changing his gloves. That made Ilya smile. Shane came to every practice with two extra pairs of gloves. Ilya didn’t understand personally; he didn’t mind his sweat-dampened gloves, which were more flexible than they were when dry. He found Shane’s habits endearing nonetheless.

Ilya arrived at the bench and plopped down. He squirted some water in his mouth as two teammates stood at centre ice waiting for the coach’s whistle. Six players each take their shootout attempts, all entering the zone slowly and excessively stick handling until they run out of space and force tight shots that are easily saved by the goalie. The seventh player to shoot, a shutdown defenseman whose skills lay more in shot blocking than scoring, mishandled the puck into the corner without getting a shot off, and Ilya could see Coach Taylor growing more and more frustrated.

Ilya hopped over the boards next and skated over to centre ice. At the whistle, he took the puck and skated down towards Campbell in net, taking a slightly wide approach near the boards. If these Canadians were so into fancy puck handling, he could play along. As he neared the net, he took the puck across the front of the net to the right, and as Campbell slid right with him, Ilya moved the puck left and gently tapped it in the empty net with his backhand.

“Rozanov, you’re free to go,” Coach Taylor bellowed from centre ice.

Ilya skated by the bench full of his teammates and gave an exaggerated bow. He could hear some chirping him - “Fuck off, Roz!” and “Really, Roz? The Forsberg? Get your own moves!” - and some cheering him on - “What a fucking beauty, Rozy!” - but Ilya wasn’t paying attention. He winked at Shane as he passed by, and he felt heat pool in his stomach at the fierce look in Shane’s eyes and small smirk on his face.

The trainer opened the gate for him as he headed off the ice, and Ilya began making his way down the tunnel. He pushed the door open to the dressing room and hurried over to his stall, peeling off his jersey and equipment at record speed. He ignored the showers and threw on his street clothes. Ilya was still out of breath as he jogged up into the stands and flopped into a seat. Based on the still-full bench, no one had scored since Ilya left a few minutes ago. He leaned back with his eyes closed and took a deep breath as one of the 67s missed on his shootout attempt.

Ilya opened his eyes and sat up abruptly as Coach Taylor barked, “Hollander! You’re up!”

Shane hopped the boards and glided to centre ice. The whistle blew, and Shane picked up the puck with speed and flew straight down the centre of the ice surface. At the hash marks, Shane whipped the puck off the toe of his blade and the ping as it hit the crossbar and went bar-down into the net reached Ilya in the stands. Without any further fanfare, Shane made his way off the ice. Ilya was reluctantly impressed.

It wasn’t long until the remaining few 67s finished the shootout and the bag skating began. Ilya pulled out his phone as the team started skating up and down the ice. Nothing from Svetlana, but Ilya hadn’t expected much. It was already deep into the night in Russia. He scrolled mindlessly until he noticed a head of black hair a few rows in front of him.

Ilya smirked and made his way down to sit beside Shane.

“Nice shot, Hollander,” Ilya said.

Shane turned to look at him skeptically.

“No, really. Was fucking good shot. Not shit like those bastards.”

“Wow,” Shane said. “It didn’t take long for you to pick up every English swear word you could.”

“Is my second best skill. After being best hockey player,” Ilya smirked.

“You wish,” Shane rolled his eyes.

“Let’s go,” Ilya said and stood.

“What? Where are you going? The car isn’t taking us back for another hour.”

“Come on, Hollander. We are going.”

Ilya grabbed Shane’s wrist and pulled him up, trying to ignore the feeling of his soft skin under his hands. He dragged him to the back exit of the arena and down the steps as Shane spluttered. He regrettably let go as they reached the sidewalk.

“What is fun here?” Ilya asked.

“Well,” Shane said, “the canal is nice. Parliament Hill is further downtown.”

“Do you know English? I want fun, not boring.”

“Fuck off,” Shane huffed.

“Ah! He said swear word!” Ilya mock gasped.

He could see Shane trying not to smile.

“You’re the one with the dirty mouth. I swear when it’s appropriate.”

“Mm, I don’t know what that means,” Ilya waved a hand in the air. “But I like you talking about my mouth.”

Ilya relished in Shane’s pink cheeks, his freckles standing out even more.

“Shut up, Rozanov. It was your idea to come out here, you find a place to go.”

“Okay, fine. We go to canal.”

Shane led them away from the arena. It was still warm out, but the late August air no longer held the same intensity. Ilya stopped, confused, as Shane sat suddenly on a bench alongside the sidewalk.

“We’re here.”

Ilya looked around, trying to figure out where here was.

“What the fuck is here?”

“The canal, dumbass,” Shane said.

Ilya stared, but Shane’s face gave nothing away. He looked around again. There was a sidewalk with a bike lane, some trees. A car drove by.

“Is this dumb Canadian joke?”

“No,” Shane laughed. “The canal is right there.”

He pointed behind Ilya, who walked across the sidewalk and looked over the railing found there. Below, a river flowed by; a dark and uninviting colour.

Ilya turned around, and something on his face must’ve betrayed his thoughts because Shane started laughing again.

“What did you think a canal was?”

Ilya sat down beside Shane and sighed. He tried to keep a straight face as Shane’s giggles died down.

“You like the team?” Ilya asked.

Shane took a moment before replying: “They’re okay. I’ll get used to them eventually, I think.”

Ilya nodded and tapped the side of his shoe against Shane’s running shoes.

“What about you? Do you like it here?”

“Yes, is good,” Ilya replied. “But I miss someone. Svetlana.”

Shane stiffened slightly beside him, but his voice remained flat: “Your girlfriend?”

“No. Just friend.”

Shane nodded, and they sat in comfortable silence until it was time to walk back to the arena to catch their ride.

As they walked through the front entrance to the arena to grab their bags, a man dressed in black stepped in front of them.

“The arena is closed today, boys. You’ll have to come back with tickets on a game day.”

“What? We are on hockey team, we go in now,” Ilya said.

The man looked between him and Shane. “Both of you are?”

Ilya huffed, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, both,” he said firmly.

He put his arm around Shane’s shoulders and walked past the security guard.

“Fucking dumb, that guy,” Ilya growled.

Shane remained silent, so Ilya kept his arm on his shoulder all the way back to the dressing room. He snuck a look at him briefly, but the red flush on his face didn’t give him the same giddy feeling as before. Instead, it made Ilya fume with anger.

That night found Ilya standing in front of Shane’s bedroom door. He had been quiet at dinner, but still answered Yuna and David’s questions. Most of the conversation centred around Yuna’s thoughts on their first preseason game tomorrow night. The Kingston Frontenacs were a competitive team this year, but Yuna was convinced that they had put all their focus on their offence and didn’t have a goalie who could stop a beach ball from going in the net. Shane had kicked Ilya under the table when he snorted at Yuna’s insistence that Kingston’s goalie left his five hole exposed even with his pads on the ice. (Ilya kicked him back. It wasn’t Ilya’s fault that North Americans had the funniest hockey slang.) It hadn’t gone by unnoticed by Yuna and David, but when David commented that he was glad that they were getting along, Shane pulled his feet back abruptly and kept his gaze on his plate.

Ilya sighed and crossed the hall into his own bedroom, closing the door behind him.

The next morning, Ilya shoved his hockey bag into the team bus’s storage and climbed on board. He looked around and spotted Shane three rows from the front, book in his hands and cap sitting backwards on his head. Before Ilya could sit, one of the older boys pushed him forward.

“Rozy, come here, bud,” the older boy said. “Lemme show you real hockey bus culture.”

Ilya rolled his eyes as he was pulled down into a seat near the back of the bus. Hockey bus culture was probably just a dumb game of cards and uncreative slang. It certainly didn’t elevate their hockey, because the 67s were steamrolled 6 to 2 by the Frontenacs.

Ilya trudged back to the visitor’s dressing room after the final buzzer. He had one assist, which wouldn’t satisfy his father even if they had won the game. Shane’s line had struggled; the left winger seemed to think he could deke through the entire team himself (he couldn’t), and the right winger had three shot attempts and not a single one hit the net. Shane, for his part, played well but cautiously. Ilya wanted to see that same fire in his eyes from when he winked at him after scoring during practice.

The rest of the preseason passed by in similar fashion. The 67s won two games but lost four. Ilya enjoyed reading Svetlana’s increasingly frustrated texts the morning after each game, where she brutally yet accurately broke down every giveaway and missed play. She only had ten-minute highlights to watch online, but she didn’t need to see the whole game to know that the 67s were disjointed. He wished she could be there for their upcoming season opener, but the start of September meant school. Ilya had attended his first day at a Canadian high school, and he was immediately glad that hockey would give him opportunities to learn remotely. He could half-ass his way through a bundle of lessons on the road, but having to sit and listen to teachers drone on in English was torture. Turns out all the hockey slang and cursing he had learned in August wasn’t exactly appropriate for the classroom. He spent most days in class wishing Shane would give up on those university-level classes and join his classes, or at least the non-ESL classes. There was no way Ilya was crazy enough to wish himself into Shane’s classes - he saw the thick stack of paper he was sent on the road with - but he wanted to be able to zone out while staring at freckles or poke Shane with the end of his pencil when he got restless.

Ilya knew his goal in Canada wasn’t to be studious. Sure, he’d hear a scolding from his father if his marks fell, but at least the report card was written in English that his father would likely scoff at and ignore. What was non-negotiable was doing well in hockey. As long as he did well enough in school to stay on the team, his father wouldn’t force him back to Russia. A disastrous season, on the other hand, would send him home early, and his father’s bar for what was considered disastrous was low.

Ilya’s foot tapped impatiently as the teammates in front of him took forever to load their bags into the bus. Their first official game was in Peterborough against the Petes. Yuna and David were driving three hours each way to see their first game, despite the 67s playing their home opener in Ottawa two days later. As Ilya finally stuffed his bag into the bus storage, he turned and came face to face with the social media intern.

“First game of the season! What do you have to say to fans?” The intern asked, camera pointed at him and handing him a mini stick with a mic clipped to the blade.

“Uh, we will go win?” Ilya offered.

The camera remained pointed at him expectantly. Ilya looked around, thinking of what else he could say, when saw a head of black hair taking a wide berth around the social media intern. He reached out and grabbed the sleeve of Shane’s track jacket and pulled him into frame.

“Hollander and I will score many goal for fans,” Ilya smirked at Shane’s irritated expression.

Shane just huffed and started inching away, so Ilya moved the mini stick mic closer to his face and looped an arm around his shoulders.

“Maybe Hollander score hat trick tonight!” Ilya grinned wider as Shane glared at him.

“Stop jinxing me, Rozanov,” Shane muttered, before turning to the camera.

Ilya listened to the sound of Shane’s voice as he gave a flat answer about playing a 200-foot game and working hard for the fans, but he was too distracted by the warmth of Shane under his arm to register the words.

The game was underwhelming through the first and second periods, with neither team scoring. Ilya had made a clean but hard hit at the start of the third, and laughed to himself as the fans booed him as he retrieved the puck. Maybe the Ontario league could be fun, if he got reactions like that. And his father would be glad to see he wasn’t going soft.

He passed the puck to his winger, who sent it back to the defenceman on the point. His laughter didn’t last long, as the defenceman took a shot that bounced off the opposing team’s shin pad and into neutral ice, sending the player away on a breakaway. Ilya pumped his arms as he chased after the Petes player, passing his own defenceman doing the same. It was a futile effort, as the other team shot the puck over the goalie’s shoulder and into the net. 1-0, and Ottawa was losing.

With under two minutes left in the third and Ottawa still down a goal, Ilya watched from the bench as Shane got set for a face-off in the Peterborough zone. He won it back to the defenceman, Ottawa’s goalie dashed towards the net, and Coach Taylor tapped Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya hopped the boards as the extra attacker and skated into the other team’s zone. He got the puck from the defenceman at the blue line and passed it to Shane along the boards. Ilya then skated behind the net and snuck behind the other team’s defenceman in front of the net. Shane deked around a player, eyes on the net, but instead of shooting he sent it flat across the ice to Ilya’s stick, who directed it in.

The whistle blew, and Ilya heard distantly as the crowd groaned in disappointment, but he was exhilarated. He looked away from the puck in the back of the net and saw Shane launch himself at him, grinning.

“Fuck yes!” Shane yelled as they crashed into the boards.

The other 67s on the ice came skating over, throwing arms around them, yelling and patting their helmets, but Ilya couldn’t look away from Shane’s face.

“Nice apple, Hollander,” Ilya said, just to see Shane laugh.

“Who taught you that? Just call it an assist, you sound like an asshole!” But Shane kept laughing and didn’t turn away until they had to skate back to their bench.

The third period ended on a tie. The game would be decided through five minutes of sudden death, 3-on-3 overtime. Coach Taylor was barking orders on the bench, and then turned to Shane and Ilya.

“Hollzy, you start on centre. Roz, you take the wing. Barbeau, you’re on for defence.”

Ilya felt a nudge from beside him, where Shane was smirking.

“Wing, eh, Rozanov? Guess we know who the better centre is now.”

“And you call me asshole?” Ilya tried to glare, but he was sure his amusement bled through. “Is because I am very good at all positions.”

Shane blushed and shoved his shoulder before skating to centre ice. Ilya skated after him and took his place on the wing for the face off. The puck dropped and the face off was a scramble, and the Petes were able to knock the puck back to their defenceman. They entered the zone and got a shot on the Ottawa net, but the goalie blockered it into the corner and Shane retrieved it. He passed up to Ilya, who skated into neutral ice and dropped the puck back to Shane, who was following behind him. Ilya stalled at the offensive blue line as Shane entered the Peterborough zone with the puck. As Ilya neared the net, Shane passed him the puck through the legs of a Petes player, but instead of shooting, Ilya quickly sent it back to Shane. Shane rifled it into the net before the goalie could slide across the crease, and the game was over.

Ilya rushed to Shane and smacked a kiss on the side of his helmet. Shane looked down at his skates with red cheeks as Barbeau, the 67s’s defenceman on the ice, threw his arms around them both. Ilya had admittedly forgotten he was on the ice with them, but before long the entire team was on the ice and joining in on the celebration. The 67s got undressed, showered, and changed in a good mood. Shane left the dressing room first with his hockey bag and sticks, and Ilya hurriedly threw his sweatpants and hoodie on and followed after him. He dropped his bag off at the bus and saw Shane sitting on the steps to the arena. As Ilya jogged past him and back into the arena, Shane looked at him, confused. Ilya skid to a stop in front of a concession stand, where a teenaged girl was cleaning up.

“Hi,” Ilya said. “Fries, please.”

The girl turned to look at him and Ilya winked. She stuttered something quietly and turned the fryer back on. Soon she came back over with a basket of fries, and Ilya opened up his wallet.

She shook her head quickly, “No, it’s on me. But I was wondering if, maybe, you had Instagram?”

Ilya wasn’t dumb, but playing the clueless foreigner often came in handy, even if he normally hated his thick Russian accent.

“Huh?” He said, sliding a five dollar bill onto the counter. Hopefully Alexei didn’t notice a few dollars shaved off his meagre stipend this month. “Sorry, bad English. Thank you!”

He took the fries and rushed back to the arena exit, where he had left Shane. He didn’t have time to spare; if the rest of the team came out to the bus, Shane would become cautious with his words. And they would steal his fries, which was almost as bad as losing time alone with Shane. For two boys who live in the same house, go to the same school, and play on the same team, Ilya felt like he never got enough time with just Shane.

He plopped down on the stair beside Shane and triumphantly shoved a fry in his mouth before offering the basket to Shane.

“Really? French fries?”

“Is to celebrate. Me and you, we fucking won!”

Shane huffed, but he took a french fry, so Ilya considered it a success.

“We didn’t win, the team won.”

“Because of us,” Ilya insisted. “Anyway, team is half asshole.”

Shane put another fry in his mouth. “I thought you liked the team.”

“Eh,” Ilya shrugged. “They are okay. There is one guy, he gives me good pass tonight. He’s not bad.”

“Asshole. See if I give you any more passes,” Shane muttered, voice flat but the smile on his face giving him away. “I guess I got a good pass tonight too.”

“I saw that pass. Was from best hockey player on the team, yes?”

“You must’ve been watching a different game.”

Ilya discarded the empty basket of fries on the stairs beside him and slouched forwards over his knees, groaning.

“Hollander, you hurt me!”

Shane just laughed and shoved his shoulder. Before either of them could say anything else, the arena doors opened and some other boys on the team came spilling out towards the bus. Ilya sighed as Shane stood to get ready to board the bus after them. Ilya climbed on board as Shane sat down in his usual seat, three rows from the front.

“Roz, back here!” A teammate called from the back of the bus.

“Ah, no. I sit here, where goal scorers sit,” Ilya said and promptly sat down in the seat beside Shane. He could hear teammates chirping him from the back of the bus, but he was too busy looking at Shane’s small smile. Ilya smiled back, and Shane tapped the side of his foot against Ilya’s. Content and tired from the game, Ilya leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and rested his foot against Shane’s. Shane didn’t move away.

A few days later, the Ottawa 67s won their home opener too. Yuna and David drove them home after, where David had baked a red velvet cake with vanilla icing - to match the team colours, he said proudly. As Yuna and David shuffled around in the kitchen, looking for a knife to cut the cake, Ilya swiped a finger through the vanilla icing and stuck it in his mouth, closing his eyes. Suddenly, he felt cool pressure against his cheek, and Shane’s laughter echoed through the living room, one damning finger covered in frosting on his right hand.

Ilya silently stuck his finger back into the frosting and advanced towards Shane, who was still laughing as he backed up.

“Rozanov, stop, I already showered!”

Ilya kept advancing until Shane’s back hit the living room wall. Shane tried to whack his hand away, but Ilya grabbed his wrist and moved closer. Their laughter died down. Ilya’s eyes lowered to Shane’s mouth, and then his throat as he swallowed. Heat emanated from Shane’s body and his breath was slightly uneven, maybe from laughing so hard a minute ago, but Ilya hoped it was because of him. Shane’s face was closer now, his eyes bright and freckles highlighted by his flushed cheeks. Had Shane leaned in, or had Ilya?

It didn’t matter, because the moment was shattered as footsteps approached the living room and they jumped apart.

“We didn’t find the cake knife, but-“ Yuna paused as she took in Ilya’s face. “Ilya, honey, how did you get frosting on your face?”

Ilya just shrugged. Without looking away from Yuna, he raised his still-frosted finger and left a stripe of icing along Shane’s cheek. David burst into laughter, and Ilya could hear Shane huff a laugh even as he rolled his eyes.

“Boys, please. You’re sixteen, not six,” Yuna sighed, but she couldn’t hide the smile on her face either.

When they had each enjoyed a slice of cake and headed up the stairs, Shane paused outside his bedroom with his hand on the door handle.

“Good night,” Shane said quietly.

“Spakoynay nochi.”

“Huh?”

“Good night. In Russian.”

“Oh, right,” Shane shifted his feet. “Spa- what was it again?”

Ilya grinned at him. “Spakoynay nochi,” he said slowly.

“Spakoynay nochi,” Shane stumbled through the unfamiliar words.

Ilya nodded. He should’ve laughed at Shane’s terrible pronunciation, but something about how earnestly he said it made Ilya unable to do anything but smile softly, chest warm.

He fell asleep that night thinking of how much he wished he could’ve kissed Shane in the living room. But he was woken a few hours later to the sound of his phone buzzing beside him. He squinted at the screen, seeing the clock only said one in the morning. He put his phone down, only for it to light up again with another call from his father.

Ilya accepted the call and put the phone to his ear. “Hello, Papa,” he said in Russian.

“Ah, he finally answers.”

“It’s past midnight here. I was sleeping.”

“How can you sleep after the way you started your season? Why did you play wing for that Canadian boy in overtime? You can’t just give up your position like that. What will the scouts think?”

“They’ll think I have a variety of skills and am a good team player,” Ilya rubbed a hand over his face.

“A good team player,” his father spat. “They can pick up any boy with skates on the side of the road if they want that. You need to be the best player, and you need to focus on yourself. Stop passing to silly Canadians and score some goddamn goals yourself.”

Ilya kept his eyes closed and listened as his father continued his tirade.

“At least your first game had something worth critiquing. You might as well have not been on the ice last night. I’ll give Coach Popov your number and tell him to call you. He was your coach two years ago, remember? He knows how to coach strong hockey players.”

“I remember. Thank you, Papa.”

It felt like Ilya didn’t sleep at all by the time his alarm went off. Maybe he hadn’t, at least not after his father called. Sometimes he wondered how his mother ended up with his father. She never lied to him, but Ilya knew that she downplayed things; even with what his father put her through, she didn’t want Ilya to hate him. Perhaps she knew that, one day, his father could be the only parent he had left. Too bad Ilya’s father didn’t care whether or not he hated him.

Ilya got out of bed and stumbled downstairs. Shane was already sitting at the table, and Ilya could hear David moving around in the kitchen. He slid into his chair across from Shane. (When did he start considering it his chair? He would be back in Russia come the end of the season.) He rubbed his dry eyes and felt a tap on his calf. He looked up to see Shane looking at him with a frown.

“You okay?” Shane asked.

“Mm. Yes, just tired,” Ilya said, which wasn’t entirely a lie.

Shane nodded slowly as David entered the room with cut fruit and toast. His billet family was responsible for feeding him three meals a day, and David and Yuna took it very seriously. Coach Taylor had called Ilya into his office at the start of September, asking him how he was settling in with the Hollander family. There wasn’t much more Ilya could want, if he was being honest. When David gave Shane advice on whatever ridiculous math assignment he was working on, he’d turn to Ilya and ask what homework he was given. It was usually ESL lessons, and David would look at his worksheets before turning them over. Ilya didn’t need worksheets, he would say (“You’re smart; you’ll learn from engaging with the language, not filling in blanks. Tell me about your day instead”). On game nights, Yuna alternated between Hollander and Rozanov jerseys. She must’ve been the first to buy a 67s jersey with Rozanov on the back. Who else in Ottawa would buy his jersey without even seeing him play his first game in Canada?

After a few bites of toast, Ilya realized that Shane kept looking over at him even as David spoke to him and Yuna entered the room. He was worried. Ilya looked away from him, feeling guilty, and his gaze landed on Yuna grasping David’s hand over the table, smiles on both their faces. Ilya averted his eyes and took another bite of toast.

Would he know how to be that sweet to Shane if they were together for decades? Or would Ilya become bitter and angry, like his father? It had happened to Alexei; his older brother who used to sneak two hockey sticks and a puck into their Moscow apartment so they could practice passing now looked at him in contempt. One day, when they were passing the puck back and forth in the hallway, their father came home early from work and caught them. Seven-year old Ilya braced for a scolding. They were probably scratching the wood floors, and Ilya had already noticed a black smudge against the white baseboards from a puck passed too hard. But their father didn’t even look at Ilya, he stormed over to Alexei and grabbed his arm, yelling at him. Telling him he was going to teach Ilya bad habits in hockey. Couldn’t Alexei see that Ilya was going somewhere, that he would represent Russia on the ice someday? Alexei stopped playing hockey with Ilya after that, stopped hanging out with him at all.

Ilya would probably grow bitter one day, like a rite of passage. And Shane would either know his worth and leave, or Ilya would turn him bitter too.

But what was he even thinking? He and Shane weren’t together, not even close. And they couldn’t be, no matter how much Ilya wanted it, because this wasn’t Ilya’s life. Ilya was going back to Russia in the summer, and who knows whether his father would approve another season in the OHL.

The cloud over Ilya’s head hovered for the next week. He tried to keep up his cocky locker room attitude, and he couldn’t not interact with Shane. The storm reached its peak a week later on a Sunday morning. The team was scheduled for dryland training in the gym; Ilya was doing ladder drills when a teammate poked his head in the door.

“Roz, your damn phone won’t stop ringing in here! Fuckin’ pick it up, would you?”

Ilya pulled the bottom of his shirt up to wipe his forehead and made his way to his stall in the dressing room. Shane was sitting on the bench in front of his stall, taping his stick. He picked up his phone just as another call came through. Alexei.

Ilya closed his eyes and answered the call. “Hello,” he said quietly in Russian.

“Did you forget our deal?” His brother’s voice came through the line, rough and slurred.

“Are you drinking?”

“Don’t fucking start with me. The money, you haven’t sent anything.”

“The season just started. I haven’t-“

“I already heard about the shitty start to your season from Papa.”

“It wasn’t shitty.”

“Fuck, Ilya!” Alexei’s voice boomed through the phone, causing Ilya to open his eyes and pull it away from his ear in surprise. Shane and another teammate looked at Ilya.

Ilya stepped out of the dressing room and into the hallway.

“I don’t care about hockey! Transfer me whatever that fucking league pays you,” his brother demanded.

“Okay, I will, on my way home today.” Ilya leaned his forehead against the cool brick wall.

“Was that so hard? You don’t need to be a bitch about it next time.”

And with that, Alexei ended the call. Ilya took a deep breath and stepped back in the dressing room to put his phone away. Shane’s eyes followed him across the room, but he didn’t say anything.

“You have some sort of drama there, Roz?” A teammate asked.

“No. No drama,” Ilya said as he put his phone down and turned towards the door to the washrooms. “Is just your girlfriend. She always call me, ask me why you are shit at hockey. Is embarrassing, I think.”

“Oh, fuck you, Rozanov!”

Ilya just shrugged and walked into the washroom.

He shut the door and leaned against the wall. After a minute, the door pushed open and Shane stood in the doorway, hesitating, before walking in and closing the door. Ilya watched silently as Shane checked under the stall doors and returned to stand in front of him.

He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath before speaking.

“You can talk to me, if you want.”

“Oh, good. I did not know.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean, don't be an asshole.”

“I know nothing,” Ilya said, not moving from his spot against the wall.

“Okay, whatever,” Shane huffed and walked back towards the door, but Ilya stuck his arm out in front of him.

Ilya sighed. “Thanks, Hollander.”

Shane stood beside him, hand on the doorknob. Ilya let his arm fall to his side and took in Shane's damn backwards baseball hat. It was something all the Canadian players seemed to wear, but something about seeing Shane’s face without any hair obscuring it made Ilya a little crazy.

“I meant it, you know.”

“I know.”

Shane nodded after a moment, before leaving. Ilya knew it meant something to Shane, coming in here after Ilya. He never seemed quite settled with the other boys on the team. It was like he was constantly aware of himself, aware of everyone and everything else. Whenever he talked in the dressing room, and it wasn’t too often, his words were precise. Not like when Ilya could get him alone, and he seemed to lose that measured outer shell.

“Fuck,” Ilya whispered to himself in Russian. He splashed water on his face in the sink and headed back out into the dressing room. Shane wasn’t there.

He ignored his other teammates and walked back to the gym. And- there he was, on the exercise bikes. Ilya walked over and swung a leg over the bike beside Shane and began peddling. Shane glanced at him but didn’t say anything, just peddled harder. Ilya turned up the resistance on his bike in response, and soon they were out of breath trying to outlast the other. Ilya could see the amusement in Shane’s eyes, beneath the fierce spark of competitiveness.

“Hollander,” Ilya puffed. “Is okay, you can stop now.”

“I’m not done yet,” Shane breathed out a laugh.

“We stop together then, yes?”

“Fine, on three,” Shane said, legs still pedalling as hard as they could. “One, two, three.”

Neither of them stopped pedalling. Shane laughed, reaching an arm out to smack Ilya’s shoulder. Despite breathing heavily from the bike, Ilya’s chest felt lighter. He hoped Shane’s did too.

Ilya’s mood improved over the next few days. A call from Svetlana helped, too; being able to speak Russian without arguing was a comfort to him. The 67s continued to improve on the ice. The team settled into each other as fall turned to winter. They weren’t at the top of the standings, but they were comfortably in a playoff position. Whatever disjointed playing they had in the preseason was long gone. Ilya liked to think it was because of him and Shane; they centred the first and second lines, and the team had grown more accustomed to two young players powering the team’s offence as Shane and Ilya continued to prove themselves.

In the first week of December, Ilya stood beside Shane as they waited with their equipment bags for the bus to pull up before braving the cold. Ilya pulled a toque over his curls, and they made their way out to the bus. The team was driving west to play the Oshawa Generals, and returning back to Ottawa after the game. Ilya shoved his bag in the bus storage, and turned to see a mic clipped to a mini stick held up to his face.

“Who is your bus buddy this season?” The social media intern asked.

Ilya didn’t mind the content they made for the fans, but he knew Shane dreaded it. It was usually internet trends, and Shane’s hobbies didn’t include social media, or anything outside of playing hockey, watching hockey, and reading about hockey. Ilya picked up some of the trends from the other boys on the team, but his social media was almost entirely Russian. He needed some escape from being nonstop immersed in English.

“Bus buddy?” Ilya asked, as the intern waved Shane over to answer next.

“Your favourite person to sit with on the bus,” the intern explained.

“Ah, is hard choice,” Ilya said. “I like fun, so not Hollander.”

Beside him, Shane rolled his eyes. “We agree then. I need to focus, which is impossible with Rozanov trying to fight over a game of cards.”

“Is not true! He is a liar,” Ilya retorted. “Only when there is cheater.”

“You accuse everyone of cheating every time you lose.”

Ilya looked at Shane’s bright smile, the way his freckles shifted as his nose crinkled. Shane grabbed the mini stick mic and held it up to Ilya.

“Cat got your tongue, Rozanov?” Shane asked.

Ilya was mesmerized by Shane’s eyes, the way his hair stuck out from under his toque. There were no words left in Ilya’s brain, neither Russian nor English. Certainly nothing left to try and understand why Shane was asking him about cats. Instead, he reached out and pulled Shane’s toque over his eyes and dashed for the door of the bus. He heard Shane make a disgruntled noise and the sound of his boots crunching through the snow after him.

(When the video is posted to the 67s’s Instagram, Shane and Ilya’s segment ends by cutting to a video of the bus window, slowly zooming in to show them settling into seats beside each other.)

The good mood didn’t last. The 67s took too many penalties, and Oshawa took advantage. As the score reached 3-0 for the Generals, the 67s only got more frustrated, which lead to undisciplined penalties. Shane managed five shots in the game but couldn’t get one past the goalie, and Ilya’s shot in the third was tipped in for the 67s’s only goal. The final score would end at 5-1 for Oshawa. All teams had off games, but it didn’t make it any more enjoyable.

Ilya pulled a t-shirt over his wet hair after showering and sat down on the bench in the visitor’s dressing room. Shane stepped back in the room with a towel around his waist, and Ilya’s mouth went dry. It was far from the first time he had seen Shane shirtless - sharing a dressing room meant he’d seen everyone on the team in various stages of undress - but he still wasn’t used to it. Ilya wanted to touch, to see if he had any freckles beyond his cheekbones, to feel the muscle that he witnessed watching Shane on the ice.

His eyes moved back up to Shane’s face, and he smirked at the blush he found there. Oops. He’d been caught, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be embarrassed. Ilya wasn’t the only one, anyway. Shane was always distracted when Ilya forewent the 67s-branded athletic t-shirt in favour of a tight fitting tank top. Shane had walked into the weight room one afternoon, where Ilya was using the trap bar deadlift, and froze mid-step. Ilya hadn’t let the opportunity go by: he raised his eyebrows at Shane and lifted the hem of his tank top to wipe the sweat off his face. Shane’s eyes had lingered on Ilya’s abdomen even after the tank top fell back into place, and his eyes trailed up his arms before reaching his face. Ilya had smirked, and Shane abruptly turned and left the room.

Ilya’s appreciation of Shane’s muscles was interrupted by an assistant coach coming into the dressing room.

“Bad news, boys. Snowstorm’s hit, and the bus isn’t making it back to Ottawa tonight.”

The team groaned. Hotels meant sharing a room and an early morning drive back to Ottawa. Ilya looked back at Shane and was disappointed to find that he had already changed into sweats and a hoodie. The team shuffled through the blizzard onto the bus, and the bus crawled down the empty streets towards the hotel. Shane was quiet beside Ilya, streetlights occasionally illuminating his face as he looked out the window. Once they arrived at the hotel, the team gathered in the lobby.

“Okay, boys,” Coach Taylor said. “Two beds a room. Pair up and come get a key.”

Ilya turned to Shane, but he was looking down at his shoes, standing rigidly still. Ilya turned around and picked up a room key from the coach before returning to Shane.

“Let’s go, Hollander,” Ilya said, but Shane didn’t react. “I have key.”

“Hollander?” He asked again, and touched Shane’s arm.

At his touch, Shane flinched and pulled back.

“Sorry,” Shane said. “Let’s go.”

Ilya led the way to the elevator. They rode up in silence, Shane standing perfectly still and Ilya shuffling his feet. Ilya stepped out first at their floor and Shane followed him to their room. Inside, Ilya dropped his coat on the bed next to the window. Shane had yet to move from the doorway.

“You okay?” Ilya asked.

“Yeah, uh… Yeah,” Shane stuttered. “I didn’t bring my toothbrush.”

Ilya blinked. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that.

“Ah, me neither. Hotel probably has one.”

“Right, right. But, um, I don’t have anything to sleep in, either.”

“Just sleep in boxers. I don’t mind.”

Shane nodded, but he had yet to move from the door. Ilya knew he was missing something, but he didn’t know what. He hated his limited English. He knew how to read people, but the nuances of the language often went over his head and made him confused.

Ilya walked to the bathroom and dug through the complementary soaps and toiletries. He triumphantly picked up a cheap, plastic-wrapped toothbrush and walked back out. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Shane, still standing where he left him, with teary eyes, a bowed head, and shaking hands.

“Hollander?” Ilya said, panicked.

“Hey, Hollander,” Ilya said again. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t even know what was wrong. He reached out but stopped before his hand made contact with Shane’s shoulder, remembering the reaction to his touch in the lobby. What else could he do? He crouched down slightly to look at his eyes, but Shane averted his gaze immediately. Right. Shane rarely made direct eye contact on a regular day.

At a loss, Ilya whispered, “Shane?”

That earned him a brief glance, and Shane’s lip trembled.

“I’m sorry,” Shane’s voice cracked.

“No, no sorry,” Ilya insisted. “Can you take breath? Long one, like me.”

Ilya took a deep breath in and then let it out. He breathed in deeply again, and he saw Shane take a shaky breath in.

“I’m okay. It’s stupid,” Shane sniffled. “It’s just… We were supposed to go home. And it doesn’t matter. But I was shit out there tonight. And I didn’t bring any of my stuff.”

Shane wiped at his eyes roughly. Ilya waited.

“It’s stupid,” Shane repeated.

“Not stupid,” Ilya said.

“I can stay at a hotel. It’s just that I was stressed about the game, and I wasn’t expecting it. I don’t really do well with… change, I guess.”

Ilya nodded. “Okay, we will make like home then. What side is your bed?”

“Huh?”

“At home. Your bed, which side?”

“It’s against the wall under a window.”

Ilya nodded and walked over to the far bed beside the window. He picked up his coat and threw it on the other bed, then turned to Shane expectantly.

“You don’t have to do this,” Shane said, but his voice was still quivering slightly.

“No, but I want to. Pillow?”

“Three. At home.”

Ilya picked up one of the two pillows on his bed and held it over Shane’s bed. He paused before putting it down, looking over his shoulder at Shane. That seemed to spur Shane into moving for the first time since they had entered the hotel room. He approached the bed and Ilya offered him the pillow. Once they were done with the bed, they walked through Shane’s nighttime routine and recreated it as closely as they could.

As Shane moved to get into his bed, Ilya spoke up.

“Wait, one more thing.”

“What?”

Ilya straightened out his t-shirt and cleared his throat, walking to stand beside Shane.

“Good night, son,” Ilya said in his best impression of David.

Shane blinked at him and then burst into laughter.

“Is that supposed to be my dad?”

“Yes, obviously,” Ilya replied. He then reached his arms out to hover on either side of Shane’s body and made gentle patting motions in the air.

“What are you doing now?”

“David gives you hug at night. But you don’t like my touch, so we do like this,” Ilya replied, patting the air again.

Shane bit his lip. “It wasn’t you or your touch. I was just… feeling too much.”

“Is okay. I get it.”

Shane looked conflicted, like he had more to say but didn’t know if he should. Ilya stood still and waited.

“You can touch me. If you want,” Shane mumbled. “Only if you want.”

Ilya did want to. More than he wanted to admit. He stepped forward slowly, raising his arms again. He paused, and Shane just nodded. Ilya gently wrapped his arms around Shane, holding him loosely, but Shane looped his arms around Ilya’s shoulders and pulled him closer, tucking his face into Ilya’s neck.

“Thank you, Ilya,” Shane whispered.

Ilya didn’t know how long they stood between the hotel beds hugging. However long it was, it wasn’t long enough. Shane’s 67s t-shirt was soft and thin, and Ilya could feel the heat of his body and puffs of breath against his neck. He resisted a shiver, not wanting to spook Shane. Eventually, they pulled apart, and Ilya saw a faint blush on Shane’s cheeks. They got into their beds, quietly. Ilya thought Shane had fallen asleep when he heard him roll over onto his back.

“Ilya?” He whispered.

“Shane?” Ilya whispered back.

“You’re not sleeping?”

“No.”

It was quiet for a moment, with only the sound of their breathing.

“Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer.”

“Okay.”

“Are you… are you happy here?”

Ilya didn’t know what to say. Happiness was complex for Ilya. He knew times he was happy: when he was on the ice, when he was hanging out with Svetlana… When his brother used to spend time with him, when his mother would read him stories at night. He also knew what the absence of happiness was like. He saw it in his mother. He saw it in himself, sometimes, and that scared him. But he also saw himself at the dinner table with David and Yuna, and scoring goals with the 67s. He recognized the feeling that seemed like it would explode out of his chest when he sat with Shane on the bus, when he made him laugh, when they played hockey and everything made sense. Maybe that was something more than happiness, something Ilya wasn’t ready to name, but the happiness was there nonetheless.

“Sometimes… things are hard. But I am happy. Happy here, with you.”

Shane took a deep breath before whispering, “Me too.”

A moment of silence opened up between them. Ilya shifted on his pillow, looking over at Shane in the darkness.

“Last season,” Shane began hesitantly, “I didn’t know if I could make it in this league. What happened tonight… it happened then, too. But worse.”

“Worse how?”

“It just kept building up, I guess. I started with this great billet family, but they had a family emergency and I had to move to a billet family who would shuffle me between rooms in the house when different people came to visit. And they liked to… be fun? Like they’d come into my room in the mornings and find different ways to wake me up, or I would come home and they’d have hidden one of my belongings as a prank.”

“That does not sound fun.”

“No, I didn’t think so either,” Shane laughed. "But it wasn’t mean-spirited, I think they just wanted me to open up a bit. Be more like a teenager. I didn’t know how to talk to them about it politely. I didn’t want to be rude.”

“Fuck polite. So you go home?”

“It started affecting my game. I couldn’t focus, and I was constantly on edge. Then I had a really bad panic attack, like tonight but so much worse. So they had to send me home. I’m lucky the 67s traded for me, otherwise my career would probably be over.”

“Impossible. You are second best hockey player, all teams would be lucky.”

Shane laughed and smacked him with a pillow. Ilya fell asleep with a smile on his face, soothed by the rhythmic sound of Shane’s breathing.

Something was different after that night. December passed by normally; the 67s won their next game after the disappointing loss in Oshawa, and they headed into the Christmas break after winning two in a row. But things with Shane felt different. They were different. A good different. Ilya still teased Shane, and Shane would roll his eyes, but there was something softer under it all. A sense of knowing, like they could look at each other in the dressing room, surrounded by twenty other teenage boys, and understand each other.

The Christmas break was set to be busy, mostly for Yuna and David. Shane had used Ilya as the perfect excuse to avoid the some of the gatherings. As a result, they found themselves heading back to the canal, now frozen and open for skating.

“I still think canal is boring,” Ilya muttered as he tied his skates.

“Oh, come on. This will be fun!”

Ilya, though he wouldn’t admit it, did have fun. It was the first time in years that he had skated without hockey equipment on and a stick in his hand. Shane’s face was rosy from the cold, and he didn’t stop smiling. Ilya had never seen anything more beautiful. Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Behind him was a young girl and an even younger boy.

“You guys play for the 67s, right?” The girl asked.

Ilya and Shane looked at each other. OHL teams certainly had fans at every game, but no one had ever recognized them outside of the arena and with no 67s branding to be seen. Before they could reply, a middle aged woman skated up behind the children.

“Sorry about them,” she said.

“Mom, they play for the 67s! Look at them!”

The mother looked back at Shane and Ilya, and Ilya nodded hesitantly. They had no pen and nothing to sign, so they agreed to take a picture with the two children.

“How’d they even recognize us?” Shane wondered.

As Ilya opened his mouth to reply, a teenage boy skated over to them.

“Are you guys famous?” He asked.

The picture taking must’ve stood out to other skaters on the canal. This boy might not have known who they were, but he figured out that they meant something to those children.

“I am big movie star,” Ilya said, crossing his arms haughtily in front of his chest. “This guy, he is my assistant.”

“I don’t get paid enough to be your assistant,” Shane retorted flatly.

The boy looked between them, unimpressed. He shook his head and skated away.

“Shane, what the hell? You scare my fan away!”

“You wish you had fans.”

Ilya clutched at his chest dramatically, and Shane smacked his shoulder, laughing. They skated further down the canal until Shane stopped at a small wooden hut along the edge of the ice. He grabbed Ilya’s sleeve with a gloved hand and pulled him over.

“You have to try a beaver tail,” Shane insisted excitedly.

“A what?”

“That thing,” Shane pointed to a flat piece of fried dough, covered in what looked like endless sugar. “Which one do you want?”

Ilya studied the menu. He pointed to one covered in chocolate sauce and powdered sugar. Shane ordered and they stepped off the ice and untied their skates as they waited. Boots on and skates away in their backpacks, their order was called from the small shop. Shane returned with Ilya’s chocolate beaver tail and one covered simply in cinnamon and sugar.

“Ah, you get the boring one,” Ilya teased.

“Asshole,” Shane said, but he was smiling.

They climbed up from the canal to the sidewalk and meandered down the street until they reached a bridge that spanned across the canal. They sat down under the bridge on a metal bench and ate their beaver tails quietly. Ilya savoured his last bite before wiping his face with a napkin and shoving it in his pocket. He looked out over the canal. There were no skaters this far down, and the sidewalks were empty. It was quiet, and Ilya felt at peace. Maybe he could get over how boring the canal was, since it gave him this moment.

“Thank you,” he said. “For taking me here.”

Shane swallowed his last bite of pastry and replied, “Thank you for coming with me.”

Ilya turned to look at Shane and barked out a laugh. “All over your face, there is sugar.”

Shane flushed and began wiping at his mouth with his glove. Ilya grabbed his wrist with one hand, and used his bare hand to gently wipe small granules of sugar from Shane’s cheeks. His skin was soft and hot compared to the frigid winter air. He leaned in slightly, drawn in by Shane’s pink mouth and adorable freckles. He paused, centimetres from Shane’s face, and looked up from his mouth to see his eyes. There was something heated there, a desire that Shane was usually quick to hide as best he could. But today, Shane wasn’t hiding, or maybe he simply felt too much to hide. Ilya looked back down at Shane’s mouth, which was now slightly parted, hot breaths of air visible in the cold.

Just as Ilya didn’t think he could hold back any longer, Shane leaned in and kissed him.

It was sweet, at first. Like the sugar that lingered on both their tongues. Shane pulled back slightly, but Ilya followed and they were kissing again.

Ilya had thought a lot about kissing Shane. Would he be hesitant, quiet like he was in crowds? Or would he be fierce, competing against Ilya like they were trying to outdo each other on the ice? Somehow it was better than Ilya could’ve imagined. The kiss was soft; it wasn’t a fight against Ilya, yet it was filled with the desire that Ilya felt within himself. Ilya opened his mouth and Shane reciprocated, hand pushing Ilya’s toque off and tangling in his curls.

A car rumbled across the bridge above them, and they pulled apart. Ilya watched, transfixed, as a thin string of saliva stretched between them before snapping back against Shane’s swollen mouth.

“We should…” Shane trailed off, gaze still hazy from the kiss.

“Yes, home.”

Ilya picked up his toque, pulled on his gloves, and grabbed Shane’s arm. He leaned in and kissed Shane, then once more, before standing up. They rushed home, sneaking giddy looks at each other and laughing. Shane unlocked the door to the house and cautiously stepped inside. The lights were off, and shoes were missing from the rack; David and Yuna weren’t home yet. Ilya pulled off his shoes and coat, haphazardly shoving his gloves and hat in his coat pocket. Shane, as usual, hung his coat up in the closet and folded his gloves into the pocket, but his shaking hands betrayed his emotions.

Ilya couldn’t stop smiling. Smiling at Shane, his tousled hair from the wind, the red flush to his cheeks. Once Shane turned to face him, Ilya grabbed his chin and kissed him again.

“My room,” Shane whispered in between kisses.

They stumbled up the stairs, kissing and grabbing at each other. As they entered Shane’s room, Ilya pushed him down on the bed and climbed on top, pushing up Shane’s hoodie and groaning.

“Wait,” Shane said, breathless. Ilya leaned back and looked at him. “The door. Ilya, lock the door.”

He kissed him once, twice, locked the door, and was back to kiss him again.

The rest of Ilya’s first season in the OHL was spent warm in Shane’s bed, teasing him, kissing him everywhere. They left to go to school, to the arena, to road games. But Ilya never completely left that room. He was transported back there when he saw Shane peel off his shirt to shower after practice, or when he saw Shane’s fierce eyes during a game, or when Shane’s foot pressed against his under the dinner table.

One night, after a call from Ilya’s father, he crept across the hall and quietly slid into Shane’s room. He climbed into bed as Shane stirred.

“Ilya?” Shane mumbled.

“Yes, sorry. Is me.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes. Well, no,” Ilya corrected. He was working on being more honest with Shane. “Call from my father. But I am okay now.”

Shane hummed and found Ilya’s hand in the dark. After a moment of silence, he spoke.

“When do you have to go back to Russia?” Shane whispered.

“When season ends,” Ilya whispered back.

“But you’ll be back? In August?” Shane’s voice wobbled slightly, and Ilya kissed his cheek.

“I will be back,” Ilya said firmly.

On the ice, the 67s were propelled by Shane and Ilya’s unmatched offence. It led them to the playoffs, but their season ended in the first round. Their goalie had gotten hurt in the second game of the series, and Ilya and Shane’s goal scoring couldn’t compensate. They were a young team, analysts said. They did better than expected, they should be proud. But for Ilya, it signalled the end of his time with Shane. He packed up his room in the Hollander residence in between frantic kisses and touches. Every night, he snuck across the hall to have every last moment he could in Shane’s arms. Too soon, it was time for Ilya to return to Russia.

The car ride to the airport was quiet. David chatted about the NHL playoffs to fill the silence as he drove, and Yuna joined in with her predictions from the front seat.

Shane and Ilya were quiet, their fingers intertwined behind Ilya’s backpack on the seat between them.

David, Yuna, and Shane walked with him to drop off his bags and then to security, where they had to say goodbye.

Yuna grabbed his hand first. “We loved having you with us this year, Ilya. We’ll see you in August, okay?”

Ilya nodded, “Yes, August. Thank you for everything.”

Yuna pulled him into a hug, and David clapped his shoulder.

Ilya pulled back and turned to Shane, whose eyes were watering. They had said their goodbyes in Shane’s room, whispered in the minuscule space between their lips. It was supposed to be enough, so that they could play their role as teammates and friends in front of Shane’s parents.

It wasn’t enough.

Ilya stepped towards Shane and pulled him into a tight hug. Shane’s hands gripped his jacket. Ilya forced himself to pull away.

“See you next season,” Ilya promised.

“See you next season,” Shane said back.

Ilya turned around and headed straight for security before his teary eyes gave him away. Or before he did something drastic, like kiss Shane in front of his parents and the Ottawa airport and never let go.

His phone buzzed in his pocket as he took a shuddering breath. He pulled it out and looked at the screen.

I miss you, Shane wrote.

He wouldn’t let anything stop him from returning to Canada next season. Whatever it took, Ilya would do it.

I miss you too, Ilya sent back. August couldn’t come soon enough.