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, Hayden Pike, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Svetlana Vetrova, Victor St. Simon, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais

Additional Tags:

Major Character Injury, Injury Recovery, Post-Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), Hurt/Comfort, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Panic Attacks, Homophobia, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Player Shane Hollander, Post-Episode: s01e06 The Cottage (Heated Rivalry), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), Depression, Anxiety, I promise there will be a happy ending but everyone is going to work for it

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Good Winter

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-31 Updated: 2026-04-19 Words: 35,070 Chapters: 9/?

Not a New Man (Or Crispy Realization)

Summary

Ilya Rozanov told the hockey gods his plans: sign in Ottawa, start a charity named after his mother, date Shane Hollander, play hockey until the shelves in the trophy room collapse, retire, come out (?), kiss his someday husband in every boring restaurant and boring grocery store and public place imaginable.

After being carted off the ice with a career-threatening injury, Ilya has the distinct feeling he is being laughed at.

Notes

I love hockey, Boston, and Heated Rivalry. I also love giving my favorite characters suitcases of whump. And while I understand LTIR and cap space, plenty of logistics will be handwaved away for the pure fantasy of getting Shane Hollander on the Boston Bears. Don't come for me, I refuse to break out a calculator to write fic.

Title from Re: Stacks by Bon Iver.

Chapter 1: Ilya: January 2018

Chapter Notes

Boston

January, 2018

Ilya knows it's over before he hits the ground. It's an odd feeling, disconnecting his mind from his body. He knows Shane gets this way sometimes, lost somewhere between living and the experience of it. But Ilya? Ilya resides in every tissue, hyperaware of his own existence. Which is why as his knee lurches backwards and something snaps, he feels the agony of losing his career before any physical pain registers.

Shane. Where is Shane? Somewhere out West, he thinks. Vancouver or Edmonton, but he can't remember which game comes first. Is this the early or late one? It's hard to keep track of the road trips, of what time is safe to call once Shane lands and is safely ensconced in his solo hotel room. No more roommates. Thank fuck.

He hopes it's an early game. Hopes Shane is playing, taking a pre-game nap, reviewing tape, anything but watching Ilya's future implode. It's been less than a year since Shane's own injury… Ilya had been present for that: saw him laid out on the ice, visited him in the hospital the next day, crawled out of his skin waiting for updates, wore tracks in the thin hotel carpet.

Maybe this will be easier. Better. Less traumatic. Ilya won't be rendered unconscious on the ice (or maybe he will be once he lands, but the contact was knee to knee and unless he lands wrong.. Is he landing wrong? He should protect his head. He doesn't have time. He's already falling).

He'll walk away from this. Metaphorically speaking.

Fuck. He didn't even make it to free agency. He's still in Boston, the Garden frozen in a silent gasp as they watch their captain, their first line center, their beloved star, collide with the Vegas defenseman. Once they realize he's injured, the sound will become deafening. Jesus. Some of these fans have watched him play every home game for almost a decade. They'll be feral after this. He doesn't envy any Vegas fans in the crowd. 

He wonders if they'd feel the same way knowing he planned to defect to a division rival. It's only January, but the discontented rumbling has picked up as his contract negotiations drag on. It's looking likely he'll be traded after the All-Star Break. Or before. That's always a mindfuck when a player who was voted on from one team shows up playing for another.

How far away is the goddamn ice? Ilya knows where it should be. It's always been reliable, steady under his feet. The only constant he's had his entire life. Not even his relationship with Hollander is as certain. One hot and heavy summer, colored by fraught confessions and a promising glimpse of future domesticity, does not a relationship make. While he's certain Shane is who he wants, it's still so new. It's the first step onto a frozen pond after a week of freezing temperatures — praying for solid ice, wary of cracks. Ilya is unused to wanting something to the point of recklessness. To the point of signing with bottom-feeder Ottawa. 

Management is going to be pissed. Their most valuable trading piece, something that could set them up with a reasonable replacement (no, not replacement. There is no replacing Ilya Rozanov) will be wiped off the board.

He will come back from this. He's only 26, at the top of his game, can negotiate a new contract built on hopes and dreams. He pays people a shit-ton of money to make sure he gets what he's worth, but this is a new challenge. What team will risk it for the off chance he'll ever skate again?

Shane calls it catastrophizing. How is this not katastrofa? He's been injured before, but the sinew stretching and bursting beneath his skin can only mean one thing: months of grueling physical therapy and no guarantees. Certainly not before the trade deadline. Not before his contract expires in June.

Maybe Boston will extend him. He hasn't said he's leaving outright. He hasn’t burned any bridges. Maybe they'll offer him one year on a joke salary just to keep him around. His career isn't over. It's not. People have skated again after worse.

More likely, this is it. Katastrofa.

He'll get surgery. Do rehab. No one will offer him a new contract until he can prove he'll be ready to return. It won't be enough time to keep his visa. He'll have sixty days post-expiration to pack up his life and return to Russia.

No more hockey. No more Ottawa. No more Shane Hollander.

Ilya hits the ice.

Chapter End Notes

I have never posted a half-baked idea before since I'm a chronic "complete the fic before posting" writer, but this one demanded to be let into the universe. We'll see where it goes. Thank you for reading!

Chapter 2: Ilya: January to February, 2018

Chapter Summary

The aftermath.

Chapter Notes

Late January, 2018

The snow melts as soon as it hits the window, creating rivulets that obscure the view from the physician's office. Ilya hates how there's no more good snow. How it's always wet, squelching under his shoes, the damp, windy cold sinking into his bones. What he wouldn't give for months of crisp white blanketing the city. Even if it never truly felt like winters in Russia, there used to at least be stretches of time where he could pretend. Not this year. This year was brutally wet, turning even the most promising storms into icy hellscapes and the streets into a salt and slush pocked no-mans land. It's impossible to walk more than a few steps without hitting a patch that's been frozen, thawed, and refrozen a dozen times in just as many days.

Not that he's doing significant amounts of walking.

ACL. Meniscus. Cartilage. The holy trinity destined to ruin Ilya's life.

The team doctors had stepped into the hallway with the specialists from Mass General to discuss the upcoming surgery, leaving Ilya to stare out the window and mourn. He hates this snow. He hates this stupid American city with their stupid puritan happy hour laws and shitty clubs.

He hates how much he'll miss it when he’s gone

Sveta had dropped him off, but now that she's working for the Bears front office it's a conflict of interest for her to show up at his appointments. Insider information that could affect his contract situation or something equally ridiculous. Ilya doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything at the moment. Can't care about anything — it'll all be over soon enough.

Beside him, his cell phone buzzes. Two short pulses.

David H: Hey kid. Give us a call after your appointment.

David H: Yuna wants to know if you prefer dark or medium roast.

 

Ilya: No preference

 

David H: Thanks. We’ll swing by on Thursday.

David H: Need anything else?

 

Ilya: No

 

David H: Alright. Remember to call.

 

Ilya: Ok

The screen goes dark. He places the phone face down on the exam table, fingers splayed across the back of the case. Protecting it. Habit.

He hadn't answered Shane's father that morning, but David remembered when to check in anyway. How are Shane's parents still being so fucking nice? He expects Shane would've told them about their fight… their fight about exactly this. He doesn't need anyone here. He has the money to hire private drivers, delivery services, whatever the fuck he desires while laid up. It's too risky to have help, especially from his secret boyfriend's family.

Ilya won't be responsible for tanking Shane's career too. It's only a matter of time before some influencer wannabe finds out why the Hollanders are in Boston for an extended stay. Ilya has Google notifications set for all their names and people have already started drawing conclusions.

One week is a visit. Two weeks is a vacation ("Who vacations in Boston in January?" One Reddit user posts under an image of Shane's parents shopping at Star Market). Three weeks starts to raise flags ("Could be working on a brand deal. New Balance, maybe?" is commented on a Twitter thread. "We know it's not Gillette LOL," a stranger replies).

It's been three weeks. He's still one away from surgery. They can't stay; it'll only make it harder once he's gone for good.

He monosyllables his way through the prehab status update, the surgery prep, the questions about pain management. He appreciates the provided Russian translator, but even in his own language the medical jargon means nothing to him.

He calls a car. Doesn't speak to the driver, just swipes away notifications and stares at his reflection in the glass. Tips her $100 on a $40 ride. He declines three calls. One from Yuna. One from Sveta. One from Marlow.

He unlocks the front door.

The light is on in the kitchen. Not the grating track lighting his realtor had gushed about during the house tour, with their timers and dimming and overly cool toned bulbs. It's the little lamp on the far end of the island, the one that looks out of place in his chic, modern interior design but he keeps because Shane prefers the soft, incandescent light.

Flames flicker in the gas fireplace, warming the air past his thermostat settings. When was the last time he truly felt warm? Ilya's been cold for weeks, noticed it making a home in his bones, preparing him for the inevitability of his loneliness.

Oh.

There he is.

Glasses too low on his nose, threatening to slip off if he doesn't fix them. Hair a shaggy mess, an in-between length he gripes about during every call. He's changed out of whatever clothes he travelled in, now comfortable in the sweatshirt and slippers he leaves here, hidden in the back of Ilya's closet. The gray sweatpants might actually be Ilya's, from the way they're ill-fitting at the thighs, pulling at the waistband and exposing a narrow stretch of skin.

Shane.

Shane looks up from his book, meeting Ilya's gaze for just a moment before it slips away to the grey weather outside. Faster than Ilya can comprehend that Shane is here, in his house, the other man has abandoned his reading and crossed the kitchen, reaching out.

"Here, let me help you." He jumps into action, taking Ilya's coat and fussing over his shoes. Ilya stares.

Shane is here. In his house. Not in Dallas, where he's supposed to be attending the All-Star Game. (You were supposed to be there too, Ilya's brain supplies.)

"Already on your knees, Hollander?" Ilya's mouth moves on instinct. It's not what he wants to say. It's entirely the wrong move after he's been distant with the most important person in his life, but the impulse to protect himself is overwhelming.

Shane glances up through his impossibly thick lashes. The firelight dances across his freckles. He doesn't rise to the bait, refocusing on his mission. Ilya stays quiet and does what he can to help, stepping out of his disgusting, wet winter boots and accepting the offered house shoes.

Task completed, Shane rises back to his full height. They're only a pace apart — a blank space they usually rush to cross. When Ilya visited Ottawa in December, he'd barely made it through the Hollander's front door before Shane was in his arms.

"Hey," Shane whispers. Tentative, hoarse. The natural downturn of his lips is exaggerated by the hurt on his face.

Mind your own fucking business.

That's the last thing he'd said to Hollander ten days prior, when his partner had started outlining detailed plans for recovery: meal prepping, timetables, recommendations for physical therapists, etc, etc, etc.

I won't take you down with me, is what he'd meant. He loves Shane too much to have him get tangled up in Ilya's mess. He can't be missing games, splitting his attention, sending his family to watch over him. Since then, he's been ignoring all texts and calls from Jane (and the Pikes, and even one from Rose Landry).

But now, Shane is here in front of him… despite Ilya's own stupid defenses that push him away.

"Hey," Ilya responds. His hands tremble. He's not sure he can make them stop. "I thought you were in Dall-?"

"Told them I was sick. Do you want to sit?" Shane asks, motioning back to the couch by the fireplace. He assumes Ilya's cold from the snow. He doesn't know the cold originates under Ilya's skin.

Is my house. I sit if I want.

This time, he manages to keep his mouth shut, locking the mean-spirited words away. He nods, and trails Shane deeper into the room. The silence follows them, only the wet pattering of snow against glass making a sound.

"I am not good at this," Ilya admits, eyes on the fire.

"At what?"

"Apologizing."

"You don't-"

"Yes. I do."

Shane is not looking at him. He wants Shane to look at him but can't bring himself to cross the space separating them. The other man's knee bounces. The flames cast a growing shadow as the weather outside worsens and night falls.

"Cottage rules," Ilya blurts, and that draws Shane's attention back to him. His partner’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, but he holds his ground. Not letting Ilya off easy. "We will be honest with each other, yes? Is easier, when we're together… like this."

Shane's nose scrunches, but nods.

Ilya's head falls back on the edge of the couch. Three weeks. Three weeks of hobbling around, scans, appointments, ice spreading through his veins blotting out any hope for the future. Of one-sided decision making while Shane is far away, helpless to intervene.

The day he was injured, he'd returned to his locker after the initial examination to find twelve missed calls. The first few were from Jane, but the Voyageur's game must have started because the next ten were all from Yuna and Jackie Pike. 

You play like shit when you're worried, Ilya told him later that night while Shane panicked over the phone. Is injury. Inevitable.

I'll be on the next plane, Shane started but was cut off by Ilya's pained laugh.

And do what? Sit here and cry? No. Focus on your team. Win the cup. Don't waste your time.

"I'm sorry," Ilya says now. "It is easy to hurt people, when afraid. I did not mean to hurt you."

Shane's quiet for a moment longer. "I… I think you did mean to, though."

"Push away, yes. Hurt, no."

"Pushing me away fucking kills me, Ilya. I can't do anything if I'm battling you at every turn!" He snaps, before drawing back, hand covering his eyes. "Why are you afraid of me helping you?"

Ilya doesn't answer right away. Cottage rules. He searches for a better reason, buried beneath the gut-punch of terror that comes whenever he looks down and sees his knee in a brace. With every pulse of discomfort, stiffness, and pain that comes with it.

He owes Shane that.

"Doctors confirmed today," he starts, "I will not skate for rest of season. If it were just one thing, I could rest and rehab and be back in September. Still a chance for Ottawa. For our plans."

"But?"

"But cartilage is damaged. They are unsure if it happened together with other injuries, or earlier. Means-"

"A year," Shane says on an exhale. "Or more."

Ilya laughs mirthlessly. "Shit timing."

"Ilya-"

"Management has not decided what to do with me," he confesses. "I will get surgery very soon; prove I am working to come back. My agent thinks best chance is extension. Otherwise…" Ilya waves his hand in the air. "I return to Mother Russia."

"Another team will offer a contract. You're Ilya Rozanov! They'd be lucky to have you," Shane's attention is fully on him now, leaning forward across the cushions. It's the closest they've been since his partner helped him at the door.

"It's too much risk, Hollander. They will wait. See if I am still worth the cost."

"So what? You're just giving up?" Shane pushes.

"Ah? Is that what I am doing?" Ilya doesn't disguise the bitterness in his voice. "Giving up."

"That's not what I meant."

"Is what you said."

"Are you telling me you don't want to play in Canada?"

"What I want does not matter! There is no other way to stay. No work, no visa. I can't marry Svetlana. Can't marry any American, too obvious now."

"Marry me, then," Shane says, his hand finally breaching the gap between them, fingers tightening around Ilya's wrist. "Come home with me. Rehab in Montreal."

His face is so earnest. God, Ilya hasn't kissed Shane since Christmas. He wants nothing more than to smother the beautiful, stupid man in front of him until they're both breathless. Wants to shower Shane with every ounce of affection Ilya's been gifted by him, his family, and his friends who know (even Hayden fucking Pike). He loves him so much.

"I love you," Ilya watches Shane's breath catch as if he hasn't heard it a thousand times since July. "But you know why we can't do that."

Shane's lip quivers and the first tear breaks past the barrier of his waterline. He’s terrified. Ilya can see it. Still, he marches onward: "I'd do it. I would."

"I know," Ilya's hand comes up and swipes away the rogue tear. "But how long until wrong person talks? Marriage license is public. Anyone can find it," he continues to run his thumb across the constellation of freckles dotting Shane's skin. "And then what? Hockey is your life, lyubimyi. I don't want it taken from you too."

Shane leans into the tender touch. To Ilya, it feels like forgiveness — the cut of Shane's cheekbone perfect in the curve of Ilya's palm.

"So, what's the plan?" Shane says, after he collects himself.

"No planning. Not yet."

"But-"

"No plans until Bears make decision. Then you can send me spreadsheet I know you have started — in here," Ilya teases, tapping his pointer finger on his boyfriend's temple.

Shane blushes but does not deny it. His eyebrows are still scrunched, lips almost pursed. Ilya knows that expression. It's the one he inherited directly from Yuna that means he's calculating every scenario. The one that means everything will be alright.

It's too much to resist. Ilya tugs on their linked hands, letting Shane know he wants him closer. Shane acquiesces and rests on top of Ilya, head nestled into his shoulder. He's careful with his weight, making sure he doesn't bump Ilya's injured leg.

The cold subsides. It won't go away, not completely. But here, holding Shane for however long he gets to, he can pretend it'll never return.

He presses a kiss to the top of Shane's head. He knows the other man is still plotting and will continue to until a better solution presents itself.

"Do not do anything drastic, kotik," Ilya murmurs, more to himself than to his partner. "We will find a way."

Shane stays for three days before flying back and rejoining his team in Montreal. His parents leave shortly after, though Yuna makes Ilya promise that he will call if he needs anything at all. He doesn't, but appreciates the gesture nonetheless. 

February, 2018

Ilya finishes his surgeries and spends the following days torturing his teammates and their families, making increasingly wild and specific requests while his mobility is limited. It becomes a game for the team, getting them through the doldrums of early February in New England. He talks to Shane as often as his schedule allows, phone buzzing throughout the day.

He watches the Bears home games from the team box, yearning to be on the ice, frustration bubbling over as they struggle without their captain and lead scorer.

"Hello boys!" He yells after a particularly brutal loss to Anaheim (not the worst team in the league, but pretty fucking close).

"I learned new word today, just for you! Any guesses? No? Atrocious. Ah-Troh-Shus. To use in sentence: your power play is atrocious! Zero shots?" He devolves into Russian while waving a crutch around. It maybe isn't fair, but Poletti needs lead on the ice where Ilya cannot. At this rate, they risk slipping out of the wildcard spot in a wickedly competitive Eastern Conference.

His coach calls him into the office a few days later. Ilya resists shifting in his seat, pushing down the anxiety.

"Rozanov."

"Yes, coach."

"I understand it's been a difficult month." Coach LeClerc does not do pleasantries. If he says it, Ilya knows he means it.

Ilya nods and LeClerc continues.

"You've been with this organization a long time. And, well, the team needs you…. but given your status, we can't afford to keep you-"

Ilya's stomach drops. He thought they’d give him more time. His chest constricts. This is it.

"- at your current salary."

A breath. Hope. For what he doesn't know, but it's a glimmer.

"What does that mean?"

LeClerc sighs and leans back in his chair. "Not a whole damn lot to me. That's for upstairs to hash out with your representation. But make no mistake, I want you around. The players want you around, in whatever capacity you can be. A call is coming for you later tonight."

"Thank you." All semblance of the cocky, young superstar is washed away by relief. The corner of LeClerc's lips twitch upward. As close to a smile as he'll get with the old-timer.

"You won't like the number, but it'll give you time to recover. Consider it."

It’s better than Ilya hoped for: One year. Just above league minimum. The money doesn't matter to him, not right now. It's a motherfucking lighthouse in the shitstorm, offering him one more year in the US to figure out what comes next.

Shane is breathless when Ilya shares the news. 

"Now, you will be my sugar daddy. Yes?" Ilya teases over the phone.

"Who even taught you that one," Shane mumbles, but Ilya laughs over him. "Are you ready for the spreadsheet now?"

"Yes, yes Hollander. Send over whole Google Drive. Don't pretend it does not exist, I saw you invite then uninvite me."

Trade deadline days are always stressful. Last minute roster changes this far into the season can lead to strange locker-room dynamics even if it's usually the third, fourth line, bottom pairing guys who are shuffled around as teams prepare for playoff runs. It's just part of the sport. You get used to it. Ilya himself is one of only a handful of core players who've managed to stick around for nearly a decade. Face of the franchise and what not.

"Woah."

From the bench next to him, Marlow leans over and shows Ilya a headline.

Hollander Healthy Scratch Against Nashville.

What. The. Fuck.

Ilya resists the urge to fumble for his own phone, fingers flexing against his thighs.

"Jesus. They have to know how that looks," McMichael says from over Marlow's shoulder. "What is Montreal doing?"

"No idea," Ilya says under his breath, controlling his racketing heart. He's not even lying this time; not like when he feigns ignorance about all things Hollander. He truly has zero clue what is happening.

His warning to Shane during his visit in January ricochets in his mind: Don't do anything drastic.

Someone in the training room has the wherewithal to switch the TV in the corner to NESN, where the talking heads are carding through the chaos of the day. A recent photo of Hollander at a charity event is plastered onto the board behind them, the scroll underneath picking up speed. Around the gym, headphones are unplugged, machines stop moving, and all eyes are glued to the TV.

"Volume! Who has the fucking volume?" Ilya yells, prompting the rookie D-Man to scramble for the remote, turning it up for everyone to hear.

The analyst's voice comes into focus, his heavy South Shore accent a familiar cadence to all the athletes in the region. Ilya can't feel his face. His hands are sweating.

"We have to wonder what Montreal is after. They have a legitimate shot at the cup this year, but if speculation pans out and Hollander is on the move, it could shake things up."

"You're absolutely right, Martin. Now, they could be trading flash for depth, as the last month has revealed serious deficiencies in the back end. Losing games while still being one of the highest scoring teams in the league is-"

His sentence cuts off, head tilting. A finger rises to touch the IFB in his ear, information coming in from the producer. His eyes widen. "Alright folks at home, if you're not sitting down, I suggest you do.”

A pause while he verifies his information is correct.

"In an absolute blockbuster of a deal, the Boston Bears have traded veteran forward Antti Salonen and a 2018 first round draft pick to San Jose."

Salonen isn't even with them in the gym. He's in Needham or Wareham or some-ham at his kid's skating clinic. Ilya wonders if he knows yet. There's an audible groan from the assembled players, with Järvinen swearing in Finnish and dropping his weights.

"San Jose, in turn, trades defenseman Julien Lavoie to the Voyageurs."

"That'll certainly shore up their D-Corp! Excellent move for the up and coming phenom," the announcer exclaims, his co-host nodding in agreement before continuing.

"And finally: The Montreal Voyageurs have traded Shane Hollander to the Boston Bears, with Montreal retaining twenty-percent of his cap hit."

The graphic on the TV shifts to a visual of the trade: a triangle with arrows clarifying moves for the audience.

Ilya is not hallucinating… is he? He registers that the people on screen are still speaking, going on and on about 'Boston not giving up on their cup hopes while Rozanov recovers' and 'fan reactions to the news.'

He gradually becomes aware of the complete silence of the room. His teammates stare at him, judging his reaction.

Shane Hollander, Ilya's public archrival, secret love of his life, is a Boston Bear.

Chapter End Notes

Oh wow! Thank you all for the kudos, comments and subscriptions on the first chapter. It's exciting to see I'm not the only one on this train (destination: somewhere?).

Chapter 3: Shane: July 2017 to January 2018

Chapter Summary

What is going on in Montreal?

Chapter Notes

Thank you all for the amazing comments, likes, bookmarks, and subscriptions. I promise I will make my way through and respond to each of you, but the reception to this fic has been so incredible. It really makes me excited to continue (what better thanks than more story?)

Now for today's chapter... a peek behind the curtain that is Shane Hollander (spoiler: he gets whump too). Heads up for the new 'panic attacks' tag.

Enjoy!

July, 2017

The Cottage, Ontario

"You keep a whiteboard… in your cottage… your vacation cottage."

Ilya fights to keep a straight face. The corner of his lips keep twitching upwards, a sure sign that he's approximately 4 seconds away from chirping Shane within an inch of his life. Shane doesn't always realize when he's being made fun of, but he knows Ilya. And Ilya is staring at him with wide, sparkling eyes and a face full of open love.

"Stop," Shane warns, but there's no heat behind the words.

"No, no, please. Bring out your," his voice cracks ever so slightly on the words, "rolling whiteboard to tell me what is on your mind."

"It's useful, alright!" Shane motions helplessly. "I think better when I'm here, can—"

"Can spend summers being coaches' pet," Ilya is losing the battle against his mirth, apples of his cheeks turning bright pink, corners of his eyes crinkling. His hand flies up to cover his mouth, which Shane knows hides a shit-eating grin underneath.

"Just because I'm resting my body doesn't mean the work stops, Rozanov."

Ilya's fingers flip outwards, batting away the words. "Of course. You are right, Hollander. After all, hockey is the only thing you are good at."

"Hey!"

"There is no shame in that," he continues, barely dodging the dry erase marker Shane launches at him. "When I am not here, you cuddle whiteboard, yes?"

And that's one step too far for Shane, who abandons the board and dives onto the couch, smothering his boyfriend (boyfriend!!) with an overly ornate pillow. Ilya, predictably, fights back while cackling loud enough to scare away wildlife. Legs become tangled in the throw, and the two of them tumble to the floor, narrowly missing the glass coffee table. During the battle, Ilya's ends up on top, hands pinning Shane's wrists to the ground.

God, he loves being here, underneath the hottest fucking man on Earth: golden skin from two weeks in the sun, hair a fluffy, tangled mess from the lake water, gaze caught between wonder and worship. How will he go back to real life after knowing what it's like to exist in the same universe as Ilya Rozanov?

"I had a reason for bringing it out, you know…" Shane whispers, but Ilya's eyes are locked on the movement of his lips.

The other man hums, acknowledging that he heard.

"Is urgent?" Ilya asks, lowering his body to drag flush against Shane's.

"No," Shane exhales. Even if it was, it can wait.

It doesn't wait long.

A mortifyingly short amount of time later, Ilya is back on the couch, lounging with nothing on but his underwear. He has the air of a content predator: heavy limbed, energy settled. Humor still flashes in his eyes as Shane steps in front of the empty board, but his teasing had the desired outcome. He should behave now.

Shane at least had the decency to put his clothes back on.

"We need to make a list," he says, the cap of the marker coming off with a squeak.

"I already have list—"

"—If you say positions—"

"— of sex positions."

The cap hits Ilya square in the forehead. He doesn't dodge, only grins.

"Asshole. No. People we want to tell and in what order."

"About us?"

"More or less."

Immediately, Ilya's face shifts. He sits up, giving Shane his full attention. "I thought you did not want to come out?"

Oh, and there is the void of bottomless fear that opens in the pit of his stomach when he thinks about that possibility (eventuality?).

"No!" Shane exclaims, a little too quickly, a little too loudly. "Um, no," he repeats again, at a more moderate level. "I don't want to come out. But there's people who know or at least suspect. And…" he looks down at his hands, "I would feel better, with a plan."

When he manages to look back up, Ilya's body language has once again relaxed. "Okay, if that is what you need. We will plan."

Shane nods and begins to map. Columns with timeframes, rows with levels of information. They go back and forth, filling out the squares.

"If you are adding Hayden Pike to 'Know about Relationship' and 'Before This Season,' I am adding Marly."

"Seriously?"

"Not negotiable. You get shoulder to cry on when you miss me, I get shoulder to cry on when I miss you."

How Ilya can sound like the world's biggest jackass while saying he'll miss Shane during the season is a mystery never to be solved.

Shane points to the box where 'Pikes' and 'Sveta' are written out. "You already have Svetlana on the "Relationship" and "Before the Season" list!"

"And Rose Landry is already in column with your parents."

… Yeah. That's fair. He hadn't told her as much as she put all the pieces together, but it still counts. Shane sighs. "Can you promise Marlow is safe?"

"Definitely," Ilya nods. "Him and Vikky remember early days. Was not picky about gender. Pretty face is pretty face."

"You've picked up men? In public?"

"Eh. Is Boston. No one paid attention to hockey players before Cup win. I got smarter."

Shane can't conceal the sting of jealousy that pinches his expression, and he turns back to the board. "As long as he can keep a secret."

Ilya, always keyed into Shane's moods, rises from the couch and stands with his hands around Shane's waist. He hooks his chin over Shane's shoulder and gives his best wide eyed pout. "You trust me?"

Shane doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

"Good. I trust Marly. He will not make a large deal. Bears are chill about such things. Well, will not be chill about you being you, but sexuality…" Ilya shrugs.

Shane carefully reviews the board. "Did you want to add any other team members to the board? I have J.J. in the 'Sexuality, Not Relationship' and 'Fall' columns, but you don't have anyone else."

Ilya shakes his head. "No. I will only be there one more year. Private business is private business."

Instead of making him overwhelmed and anxious, as he'd feared the discussion might, Shane feels himself relaxing as the whiteboard fills with names. It's nothing more than a rough outline, but he can see the next couple of years laid out in front of him, the gradual reveal of both his sexuality and relationship with Ilya happening in manageable chunks.

They're doing this.

Oh my god, they're really doing this.

January 2018

Vancouver, BC

Shane skates deliberate circles in the partially empty stadium, taking quick shots at his goalie in net. The combination of Vancouver's cold-streak and early start time makes for a quieter crowd. It should pick up by the time the game starts, but it's nothing like playing at home in Montreal. He'll need to keep extra pressure on his teammates to combat the sluggish energy from the Vancouver fans.

"Congratulations, Hollander."

The voice comes from the Vancouver half of the ice. Their captain Otto Larsson, a sharp-eyed Swedish center with a missing font tooth and broad grin, skids over.

"We haven't won yet," Shane responds, face neutral. Larsson seems like a decent enough guy, but Shane sees him max twice a year. He doesn't know him well enough to determine why he's being congratulated before the game even starts.

Larsson laughs like he just told a joke. "And you won't!" He stays in motion, skating along the red line, Shane travelling parallel to him. "No, on winning the Art Ross. Neither Boyce or Matheson have a chance of keeping up with you this year."

They slide to a stop along the boards. Shane snorts, "Rozanov is only two points behind me and there's a lot of hockey left."

"That's why I’m saying congratulations! Rozanov is out."

Rozanov is out.

The dull noise of the crowd disappears, replaced by the hum of blood rushing through his ears. Pulsing, distant. His chest constricts, breath catching in the hollow of his throat. 

"Hollander?" Larsson's head cocks to the side.

Shane's eyes flicker up to the other captain. He forces his mouth to form words, tongue heavy between his lips. "Out how?"

"Collision. Absolutely rocked, from what I heard. Had to be helped off the ice."

"Oh. Okay." Shane skates away from Larsson without another word.

The game clock suspended above the ice seems to slow, each second dragging longer than the one before it. He frantically searches for Hayden, finding him stretching near the other end. He's moving through molasses to reach him, willing his expression to stay emotionless and calm.

He joins Hayden on the ice, focusing on the memorized warm-ups. He turns both legs out, dipping towards the ice. The world tilts.

"What did Lars—" Hayden's sentence cuts off when he gets a better look at Shane's face. "Holy shit, dude. You alright?"

There's two more minutes of warm ups. Scratch that. Two minutes and forty-seven seconds. Forty-six seconds. Forty-five seconds. He’s trapped. Can't leave the ice before the rest of his team. That's a surefire way to get the media's attention. He's the captain. He has to be here. Be present.

His body moves through stretches on autopilot. He can't fucking breathe.

"Yo, Hollzy?"

It could be nothing. People go to the locker room for a lot of different reasons. Ilya could be just fine. He's probably back in the trainer's room, tormenting the staff until they work faster and let him back on the ice. Yes, that's it. He just tweaked his wrist. Or got a stick under his visor, knocking out a tooth.

Oh god, what if he got a stick under his visor and it hit his eye? But that can't be it — Larsson specifically said 'collision.' Collision with a player? The goal post? The boards? Please, whatever deity might be listening, don't let it be the boards. Shane's seen other players plow into them headfirst, injuring their spines, never playing again. He got lucky last year with just a cracked collarbone and concussion, but what if Ilya is less lucky? What if he doesn't wake up? What if—

 "Shane," Hayden snaps, sharp enough to cut through his spiral. Their eyes meet. "Focus, man."

Two minutes and thirty-four seconds. Thirty-three seconds. Focus. That's a direction he can follow. Focus.

"Rozanov is hurt." Even at a whisper, the words seem to echo.

Hayden blinks twice. "Jesus. How bad?"

"Don't know," Shane answers. He focuses on keeping his voice steady, but it must not work because Hayden's watching him like a hawk. "I think… I think bad." 

Hayden glances up at the scoreboard and then around the arena. "Okay. Here's what we're gonna do," he directs, "You're going to get up, circle twice. Send a couple pucks at Dewey, skate over to those kids right there smiling your biggest endorsement deal smile, toss them a puck, and then leave the ice. I'll be right behind you, distract the media team. Hey!"

Shane, whose attention had drifted towards the game clock, refocuses on Hayden.

"I need verbal confirmation."

"Yes. Okay."

"Great. Let's go, Cap. Up and at 'em."

Sometimes he forgets that Hayden is a dad, a good dad, who has perfected the tone of voice required to keep his kids in line. Normally, he'd be pissed Hayden was turning that voice on him, but given the situation, Shane is grateful for the clear and calm directions.

He doesn't know what he did to deserve a friend like him.

As soon as his skates hit the rubber mats of the hallway, he beelines to his locker, taking his phone out and clears the two missed calls from his mom.

He hits call on 'Lily's' contact, slipping into an empty room off the away-team lockers.

 No answer. He dials three more times. No answer.

Frustrated, he swipes to the browser on his phone and types in 'Rozanov Injury'. Service is shitty this deep in the stadium, but he manages to get the first video that pops up to load.

In halting three-second chunks, the video shows the Vegas defenseman squaring up to challenge Ilya, poke checking the puck away and cutting off his entry into the zone. Ilya turns, eyes following the skidding puck, and is unable to dodge the other player in time. The defenseman's knee connects with the inside corner of Ilya's. In the slow-motion replay, Shane watches Ilya's knee lurch backwards on impact, further than any joint should bend in the wrong direction. The collision throws Ilya off balance, and he tumbles to the ice, sliding several feet on his side. He clutches his knee; face warped in pain. The camera angle catches Ilya's expression, mouth open and eyes watering as Poletti and McMichael crouch above him, waving frantically for help.

The Bears' trainer is there in seconds, kneeling beside Ilya before helping him sit upright. McMichael goes under one arm and Marlow takes over for the AT. In the video, the announcers are drowned out by the Garden applauding as Rozanov skates, one-legged, off the ice.

And there is nothing Shane can do from three thousand miles away. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

He hits call one more time just in case something's changed in the last five minutes, but it goes to voicemail.

"Christ, there you are Hollzy. Coach is looking for you," J.J. sticks his head through the door. "Get off your damn phone, come on!"

"Yeah, yeah. Coming," Shane responds tersely, following his teammate back to the locker room.

Late January, 2018

Montreal

If a healthy Ilya Rozanov is already an unrepentant asshole, injured Ilya may win the award for biggest motherfucker in the league. Shane knew that before they started sleeping together. Why did he expect love to change anything? To soften any of Ilya's jagged edges?

The other man is mercurial, defensive, incapable of accepting help from anyone around him. His misery leeches into Shane, who is increasingly short with his team, testing the patience of his coaches and alternate captains. The drills at practice intensify; his expectations during games are unattainable. Even Hayden, who has complete understanding of the situation, is getting sick of him.

Like Ilya is sick of him. It’s been nine days since they last spoke.

"Hollander has got to get laid. Fucking hell," O'Meara mutters to Comeau, thinking Shane is out of ear shot. The two are breathing heavy, leaning back in their stalls. Usually, he'd let comments like that slide, but the defensemen have been on thin ice since they were a combined -9 in their last game.

"O'Meara" Shane snaps loud enough for the rest of the team to overhear. "If you have energy to run your mouth, you have energy to skate harder."

"Stop riding my ass, Hollander," the other man snarls back. "Whatever's got you twisted up, stop taking it out on us."

"What's got me 'twisted up' is your inability to do the job you're paid 2.5 million dollars for."

"Oh, piss off. You've been bitching about the tiniest fucking errors for days and I'm sick of it,” the defenseman rises to his feet, expression stormy. Shane isn't the smallest man on the team, but he's in a different weight class than the 6'7" bruiser.

Still, he won't be the one to back down. This is his team.

"I'm sorry," Shane starts, "Losing to Buffalo 8-5 is actually great. Completely acceptable. Just a few 'tiny fucking errors,' right?"

O'Meara's eyes narrow but he has no comeback strong enough to combat his last game being thrown in his face.

Shane considers the room. "Who else is happy with our January record?" He waits a few moments, but no one speaks up. Hayden and J.J. share a glance, weighing the pros and cons of getting involved. "What was that record again? Lamonte?"

The young winger looks shocked to be called on but recovers quickly. "Three, six, and one."

"Thank you, Monty. Three. Six. One. Every single one of you is out here playing like you're done. Like you'd rather spend May lounging on a beach instead of proving we are a dynasty."

"Hollzy…" J.J. warns, but Shane is not feeling charitable. His glare is caustic enough to make J.J.'s mouth snap closed.

"We have five days off for the All-Star Break," Shane continues, eyes hard. "Go. Re-lax. Remember what it felt like to be knocked out in first round and consider how much worse it'll be if we miss the playoffs entirely. Ask yourself if you're okay with that. Tell me if the answer is yes."

It lands like a threat. The locker room falls silent, anxious glances exchanged between the players as they hastily change into street clothes. Shane catches Coach Theriault watching him from the doorway: measured, pensive. He gives a single nod to Shane before disappearing into his office.

Halfway from the lockers to the parking garage, a hand snags Shane's coat and pulls him into an empty room.

"Jesus Christ, Piker!" He jumps, pulling his earbuds free. "You're going to give me a heart attack."

"Well maybe answer my texts and I won't have to jump you like a serial killer," Hayden shoots back. "We need to talk."

"About what?"

His friend looks at him like he's stupid. Maybe not stupid, but willfully ignorant. Which he is, but that's not the point.

"Look, man," Hayden starts. "I'm not saying I agree with O'Meara, but do you think going to Dallas is a good idea?"

Shane cocks his head to the side. "I was nominated for the All-Star Game."

"Seriously? You've been to how many of those? Four, Five? I'm just saying, no one needs you there. You need the time off."

"What's that supposed to mean."

"It means you've been wound pretty fucking tight all season and it's gone off the charts since Rozanov's injury."

Shane leans against the wall, letting his head fall back. His instinct is to defend, to hide his vulnerable underbelly, but Hayden is right. They both know he's right. He would be fighting for no reason at all.

"Ok. So what? I just call out sick and stare at my walls for a week?"

"No you dumbass," Hayden rolls his eyes, "you get in your car, drive to whatever multi-million dollar monstrosity your asshole boyfriend lives in and talk to him."

"I promise, Ilya does not want to see me."

 A metal water bottle clangs to the floor. J.J. is in the doorway, eyes wide. Shane freezes, a deer in headlights.

"Okay, I was trying to find a better time to let you know I was here, but then I heard you use "boyfriend" and "Ilya" in consecutive sentences and just blacked out for a second," J.J. holds the back of his own neck awkwardly, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against his spine. "And I mean, cool, yeah, I know a few Ilyas, though one of them spells their name with an 'I' and not the way I think you're spelling it, mentally, and he's a cool dude. Very chill. Great Ilia. Would make a great boyfriend. I think. Not that I'd know, personally, because, you know…"

"Close the damn door, J.J.," Hayden orders, cutting off their friend's hopeless rambling.

"Should've done that before having private conversations at work," J.J. snipes in response, but does as asked, stepping fully into the space and locking the door behind him.

"I thought everyone was gone."

"I stayed behind to check on Shane."

Shane, who has his hands covering his eyes, fingers digging into the pressure points on the bridge of his nose and his temples. Shane, who has been approximately seven seconds from losing it for a month, who had his first real, horrible fight with his partner nine days ago, who is getting information second hand from his parents who'd dropped everything to support Ilya in Boston. Shane, who can't fucking take this right now and is so tired of lying through his teeth every day when he's worried that the person he loves is a few months away from being forced to leave the continent. Shane, who has been watching the floor fall out from under him, every plan he'd made at the cottage crumbling into dust. Shane, whose carefully envisioned future is slipping through his fingers while He. Can't. Do. Anything.

His back skids down the wall, tailbone landing hard on the linoleum flooring. He has to keep it together. He has to—

Bodies settle on either side of him, grounding and warm.

"That bad, huh." Shane hears J.J. ask Hayden over his head, which he has firmly tucked between his knees.

"You don't know the half of it," Hayden sighs.

"No. I don't."

And the bitterness in J.J.'s voice cracks something behind Shane's sternum. He tries to muffle the sob. Tears stream down his cheeks, but if he doesn't look up they won't know. They won't know….

"Tabarnak," J.J. swears under his breath, large hand resting lightly on Shane's back. He pats slowly, continuing in low, stressed-out French. "Hé. Respire. On t’a."

"I… I'm sorry," Shane says between halting breaths, "I just… need… a minute…"

Now that they're coming, the tears won't slow no matter how hard he tries. He tightens his grip on his elbows, presses his feet into the ground, positive he's being torn apart from the inside out. His body trembles with the effort of keeping quiet.

"I'm sorry," he repeats.

Hayden leans his whole side into him as J.J. continues slow circles on his back. The contact is simultaneously comforting while being just over the line of too much, but he doesn't have the words to tell his friends. So, he accepts the physical touch and lets his body purge the emotions that need to be released.

It could have been one minute, five, or ten; there are no clocks or windows in the office. When the worst of Shane’s shaking has subsided, J.J. pulls back.

"Je suis vraiment désolé," J.J. apologizes before switching back to English. "I'm still hurt that you felt you could tell Piker and not me about… Rozanov, but I don't think that's important right now."

"No shit," Hayden says from where he is still pressed into Shane's side.

Shane takes a chance and peeks over his crossed arms. "Swear jar," he jokes halfheartedly, his voice phlegmy and rough.

He's rewarded by a shove and tiny smile. "Vegas rules, Hollzy. What happens here, stays here."

The last statement, he aims over Shane's head.

"Welcome to the 'Hollander Relationship Club,'" Shane flips his head to the other side to look at J.J.. "It's a great time."

J.J. doesn’t quite smile, but he doesn't seem angry either. "I can see that... For what it's worth, I also think you should skip Dallas. You've been really fucking stressed, man."

Shane winces. That means J.J. probably heard his entire conversation with Hayden. He’s too emotionally drained to care. Cat's out of the bag.

"He doesn't want me there," he repeats. "Told me to fuck off last time we talked."

J.J.'s eyebrows knit together, expression going thunderous, but before he can say anything Hayden interjects. "That's the biggest crock of bullshit I've ever heard. Does he love you?"

Shane nods.

"Then he wants you with him. He's injured, alone, and trying to play 'big, strong, Slavic man' to spare your feelings. And god dammit I can't believe I'm saying this, but if this relationship is going to last, he's going to have to get over himself."

J.J.'s hands flex: open, closed. "So, this is serious, then. You two."

"Eight years," Shane mutters.

"Eight!"

"Dude!"

"What! Eight years is a really long fucking time!"

"Yeah and you don't need to be announcing it to the entire stadium!"

And there, caught between his puck-brained, loud-mouth best friends, Shane starts to feel a little steadier. Until he talks to Ilya nothing will be 'fine,' but it's a single step towards it.

Fuck the All-Star Game. Fuck Dallas. He's going to Boston.

Chapter End Notes

Now what on earth happened in the month between the All-Star break and the Trade Deadline? You'll just have to wait and find out at the same time as Ilya next chapter 😉

Also, apologies to any French/Québécois speakers. If anything J.J. says makes no sense, Google failed me. Please let me know and I am happy to fix it.

Chapter 4: Ilya & Shane: February, 2018

Chapter Notes

Well that took longer than I'd hoped, but I'm finally happy with this chapter. Canon-typical Montreal fuckery present, but otherwise enjoy :)

Ilya

Late February, 2018

Boston

Ilya has to make a decision, and quickly. His teammates watch him with hawk-like focus, letting him choose how to handle this tectonic shift.

Option One: What Ilya wants to do.

Pull out his phone and call Shane immediately. Ask him, point blank, if 'drastic decision' means something different in English than it does in Russian. Ignore the triumphant emotion leaping behind his ribs at the idea of him and Shane being together now. Not in some distant future, but now. Ignore the equally powerful despair threatening to swallow the triumph whole, because here doesn't mean together. He knows it'll be harder than ever to hide what, or who, they are to each other.

Option Two: What the media expects him to do.

Lose his shit. Channel the fear and confusion coursing through his veins into an external show of anger. Manufacture drama, create a scene, and ensure that the locker room is as hostile to Shane as Montreal would be to Ilya, if the situation was reversed.

This is not something Ilya has done or ever would do. Has he kicked shitty people and players out of his locker room before? Absolutely. But Shane Hollander is Canada's golden boy; the closest he’s brushed controversy is starting a fight with Scott Hunter. It would be extremely unpopular to ice him out over imagined slights. Ilya's long-term position with the team is shaky enough without ostracizing their new superstar.

Option Three: What his team thinks he'll do.

Nearly every player is traded at least once during their career. No one wants Hollander to be public enemy #1 and team chemistry matters just as much as skill. Still, they probably expect bitching and negativity from Ilya, especially in the wake of his injury — for him to be visibly pissed that management would shove Hollander into the Rozanov shaped hole in their roster. It would be extremely easy to fall into the well-worn narrative blanket that's protected them for eight years.

Part of Ilya wants to, if only to have an outlet for his turbulent emotions.  

Option Four: His job.

Ilya is a passionate player. He's a menace on the ice and isn't likeable to anyone not worth his time. His reputation is earned with every chirp, rude dismissal, and violent win that proves he deserves to be placed above the common man. He fucks around (fucked around, past tense), starts fights, and pisses off the public with glee.

But that is not why he was given the "C." Outsiders don't get to see the Rozanov that spends extra hours with the coaches, always last on the ice, first in the gym, running drills with the team until they're a well-oiled machine. They don't see the gentleness he has with his teammates' children or the patience he has for players who put in the work to make themselves better, stronger, faster. He does not suffer fools. More than one person has left the Bears griping about Rozanov's impossible expectations and grating demeanor, but that's only strengthened their core. They play better because they are better.

Ilya makes his decision. It was never really a choice, was it? He shoves every emotion, positive and negative, into the overflowing shelf in his mind labelled 'to deal with never' and does his job.

"Vikky," he says, and St-Simon nearly jumps out of his skin. He was not expecting his name to be the first words out of Ilya's mouth. "Have Anita call Salonen's wife. Make sure they are good. That they have what is needed from team services… And Louie, keep your nose up."

Their goalie stares blankly at his phone. Luukas Järvinen hasn't played in the MLH without Salonen by his side. It's hard to lose an idol and harder to lose a friend, especially since the veteran player will leave without getting a chance to say goodbye. 

"It's chin, in English," Louie corrects with a bone-weary sigh. "I know you'll call him anyway Roz, but can I? First?"

Ilya agrees. "Okay."

That's Salonen sorted for now. Which leaves the 180cm, 90kg Canadian elephant in the room.

"Fuck this," Leo Poletti swears, leaning against the squat rack. "They can't just-"

"Can't do what, exactly?" Ilya cuts him off. "Trade for top scorer in league? You are not GM. Your opinion does not matter."

"Can't just replace you!" He finishes anyway, scowling. He’s legitimately upset, arms crossed tightly over his chest. The Swiss winger has only been on the Bears for three years but has made himself an invaluable leader in that time, earning the A after the first season. He complements Ilya's brashness with media perfect quips and aura of calm in chaos. It's a different relationship than the one Ilya has with St-Simon, his other A, who's known him since he was drafted and has witnessed every high and low since. With Polly, it's a partnership uncomplicated by history. Ilya is grateful to have him as his right hand.

This is more heated than Polly gets about anything. He'd be flattered if it wasn't entirely misplaced.

Ilya leans backward, enough space to lift his immobilized knee over the weight bench. He motions for the physical therapist to hand him his crutches and gingerly stands, keeping all his weight on his good leg.

"Replace me?" Ilya asks, testily. "So, you think I am replaceable?"

"Hardly."

"Good. Remember this. I am not replaceable. Not by Hollander. Not by anyone. I only care about one thing: winning. If you or anyone else on this team fucks up our playoff chances because you think you're protecting… what? My honor? Hah! I will send you to farm team so fast, you will not have chance to kiss your puck bunnies goodnight."

"Jesus, Roz," Vik swears.

"Quiet and listen. Hollander is on team now. Fantastic. Great. What - ever. He does not need to be your friend. You do not have to like him. But I swear to God, you will use him to get me another Cup."

The weight room is silent in response, teammates thoroughly chastised. They don't miss the unspoken element of anxiety underneath it all: the specter of Ilya's injury and this being their last best chance to win with their captain still on the team. Next year is never guaranteed.

As usual, it's Marly who comes to his rescue, breaking the tense atmosphere.

"Come on, Rozy," he says, "Syd's expecting us to help with dinner today."

Cliff's wife is not expecting Ilya, and has never once asked for help cooking, but he knows an out when he sees one.

"Yes, yes, into your boring car," he grumbles, maneuvering towards the door. If only it was easier to look cool while on crutches. He does his best, hobbling forward with as much grace as he can muster, and refuses to look back. Let the rest of the guys figure out their emotions and get to tomorrow’s morning skate ready for business.

"Mm-hmm. My boring hundred-thousand-dollar SUV that can handle this shit weather and has space for your bum leg. Right. Come on, grandpa, let's get you to bed."

"I will bury you. Your wife will never find the body," Ilya threatens loudly, but accepts Cliff's help opening the door and hitting the button for the elevators. Once inside, Cliff's face changes, going from neutral to worried, and he readies to speak.

"Not here," Ilya scolds.

Cliff's mouth clicks shut. It remains shut until they settle in said SUV, at which point the dam breaks. "What the fuck is happening, man?"

"You think I know? I am telling the truth! I did not know this was happening!" Ilya has a death grip on his phone. He's afraid to look, inundated by notifications from dozens of numbers, only half he has saved. "I didn't know," he repeats again, softer this time.

He has no reason to lie to Cliff. Marly knows everything, has since August when Ilya took him aside and swore him to secrecy. Ilya's lack of gender preference was old news, but the truth of who his partner was hadn't been an easy one. Cliff got over the shock faster than he did the guilt of having injured his friend's boyfriend. That too faded with time.

Cliff's eyebrows draw together, jaw clenching. Arguing with himself. They're well into the slushy Boston streets by the time he speaks again. "What are you going to do?"

"Nothing," Ilya responds. Obviously. "Hollander is regular player on regular team. I cannot treat him differently."

"People will expect you to."

"Thankfully, I’m already an asshole to everyone."

"Yeah, well, at least you have that going for you," he mutters. "And your relationship?"

"We have been keeping this secret for eight years, Marly. We are not rookies making out in showers."

"Oh, fuck off, Roz," Cliff sighs, but his tone has gone from anxious to defeated. "Has he called?"

Ilya hasn't opened his phone yet. If it stays locked, then this could all be a dream. As soon as he looks, it’ll become real.

Shane is likely already on a flight to Boston. It's already real. 

He unlocks his phone: 4 missed calls, 67 new unread messages (joining the 40 or so older unread messages), and over a hundred twitter and google alerts. Shit. He had turned off notifications for himself years ago but hadn't thought of disabling them for news about Hollander. He clears the latter and scrolls through the messages.

Most are from current teammates who hadn't been in the gym with them or former teammates he's on good terms with. Two messages are from his agent, as well as one of the calls. The other three calls are from the Bear's PR Manager.

Nothing from Shane.

There is, however, a text from Yuna Hollander. He opens it, expecting the usual textbook length instruction manuals she sends (out of love, ostensibly). It's only three sentences.

>Yuna: His plane lands at 7:30pm. He’s booked at the Four Seasons until he can find an apartment. Please, be gentle with him.

Please, be gentle.

It's not a request from Mrs. Hollander, the tireless shark of a manager who Ilya fears and respects in equal measure. It's a plea from an anxious mother to take care of the thing she treasures most in the world.

He remembers his own mother fighting with his first hockey coach, a harsh Soviet superstar, after five-year-old Ilya finished practice with a black eye and broken nose. He doesn't recall the words exchanged, muffled as they were behind an icepack held to his face, but he does remember the way she'd held him upon returning home. When he closes his eyes, he can still feel her fingers carding through his wet curls. Rubbing circles on his back.

"My kind, gentle bear," she'd whispered. A secret, just for them. "Don't let them steal your sweetness."

"My honey!" Ilya had giggled back to her, and Irina Rozanova kissed his forehead.

"Exactly, little bear. Someday you will be big, and strong —"

"Like papa."

Irina recovered quickly, plastering her smile back on — false and sad. Ilya understands now why the expression always looked strained. At the time, it was only his mother smiling. "Of course… but your papa is not a bear; he has no honey to protect. When you are big and strong, my Ilyushenka, all the goodness in the world will live, safe, right here."

She poked his chest, over his heart. Someday, Ilya would get a bear tattooed in the same spot, a constant reminder inked to the left of where her gold cross always hangs. "Sometimes, you must hide it, protect it. But never, ever let anyone take it away."

Please, be gentle.

Ilya's breath stutters, and the screen blurs. A take-out napkin appears between him and his phone. Cliff holds one end, keeping his gaze resolutely ahead.

"Sydney said there's enough chicken for the three of us, but that you're eating what she prepped for leftovers. So, you should definitely grovel." His eyes never leave the road, even as Ilya takes the make-shift tissue. "I have no idea what else she’s making, but she and Anita are in a competition to see who can whip up the weirdest shit within the nutritionist's guidelines."

"Anita will win. You know this, yes?" Ilya responds once he's wiped all evidence of emotion away. Sydney Marlow is an above average cook, but Anita St-Simon went to culinary school. There's no competition.

"I am legally obligated to disagree."

"But you know."

"I plead the fifth."

"Fifth? Why do you plead for number?"

"The fifth amendment? Against self-incrimination?"

"Okay, now you are fucking with me. That is not word. What the hell is 'een-creem-ih-NAY-shun'?"

And Cliff finally looks over, a playful grin spreading across his face. "Oh, bud. Something you'll need to learn all about before Hollander shows up tomorrow."

This might be the worst idea Ilya's ever had.

Scratch that. The 'worst idea' award belongs to performatively jerking off in the shower next to a freckled Canadian wunderkind circa 2010.

On second thought, that might be the only good decision Ilya's ever made. 

It's public. It's so fucking public and he has no good excuse to be sneaking through the hallways of the Back Bay Four Seasons. There's no expectation for a captain to drop in on newly traded players. A call, sure. A brief 'welcome to the team, anything you need, see you at practice.' Certainly not showing up at the hotel where they're staying.

Shane texted him the room number when he arrived. There was nothing else in the message, but Ilya could read between the lines. An olive branch. It would have been much safer for Shane to leave the hotel and get a car to his place, but Ilya can't fault him for wanting a neutral location for the conversation at hand.

Marly is a fucking saint. He'd pulled his car behind the service entrance, found a bellhop on a smoke break, and revealed an NDA stashed in the glove compartment.

At Ilya's incredulous look, Cliff shrugs. "Lawyer family. I'm always prepared. Wait here."

Ilya watches as he speaks with the kid, hands waving around in the way only Westerners can get away with. After a moment, the bellhop shrugs, stamps out the cigarette, and signs the paper.

Marlow slides back into the driver's seat. "Alright. You're good. He'll take you up to the eighth floor. All it took was a signed jersey and two rink-side seats to the next Toronto match up. Honestly, I was prepared to offer a lot more than that."

Ilya's known Marlow for seven years and every day he learns something new.

"Come on, move your ass," his teammate prods. "I'm exhausted and we have an early skate tomorrow. Only one of us will actually be on the ice."

"Fuck you, Marlow," Ilya says, carefully exiting one legged until he gets his crutches under his arms.  I love you, he means.

"Fuck you too, Rozanov," Marlow says back. Love you too, Ilya hears.

Room 806. Thankfully Ilya hadn't run into anyone else in his rapid hop from the freight elevator. As soon as he arrives, the door swings open. Shane must've been waiting for him just on the other side.

It never fails. Every time he sees his partner, it's like taking a breath after diving underwater for too long. His lungs expand. The thorny brambles of love and fear, excitement and dread, all untangle from his ribcage, leaving him empty for Shane to pour his devotion into.

He waits until the door locks behind him. Then, Ilya drops his crutches and frantically wraps his arms around Shane. Shane. Shane. He's unbalanced, not able to put any pressure on his braced leg, but Shane is strong. He keeps them steady, letting Ilya envelop him completely.

"Moy lyubímyy. Moy Sheynusha," he whispers the adoring diminutive into Shane's hair. There's a barrage of questions he wants to ask. What did he do? Why is he here? What does this mean?

Please, be gentle with him.

Yuna's request steers him in another direction.

"Tell me you are okay," he says. Not 'are you okay' because he knows the answer is a resounding 'no.' Instead, a clear direction: say that it’s okay, recognize that it doesn't matter what happens next because Shane will always be safe with him.

"I am now," Shane speaks into Ilya's collarbone, before pressing his lips repeatedly into the column of his throat. They maneuver further into the suite, where Shane grabs a chair from the small kitchen table for Ilya. It's a thoughtful accommodation, easier to rise from than the overly stuffed sofa across from the television.

After getting Ilya settled, Shane slumps into the sofa. He picks at a loose cuticle, foot bouncing on the floor. "So..." he trails off.

Ilya lets him struggle to find the words before assisting. "So, Boston?"

His partner blushes deep red. Embarrassment. Shame, maybe. It's hard to distinguish between the two.

"I didn't mean for this to happen."

"Your contract has a no-trade clause. You had to mean it a little," Ilya pokes. It's a light joke, hopefully enough to get Shane talking without spooking him.

"No, I mean, getting traded. I didn't… I wanted to call you, but it happened so fast." His face goes hard and turns away from Ilya. "They didn't give me a choice."

"Who? Montreal?"

"Yes."

Ilya wishes he had full control of his body. Wants to stand and pace, to release the overwhelming anger that rushes over him. It takes everything in him to keep his voice low and even. "Tell me what happened."

Shane flinches.

"I am not angry at you, Sheynka. I want to understand."

Shane takes a deep breath and balls his fists in his lap. "Okay, just… bear with me. It sort of started during the All-Star Break…"

Shane

Late January, 2018

Boston

It's snowing properly, large fluffy flakes that stick to the windows and muffle all noise from the city outside. Ilya's residential neighborhood is always on the quieter side, but it's silent now, everyone hunkered down until the worst of the storm clears.

The gas fireplace radiates heat. Even so, Shane keeps the blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders and both hands around the mug of ginger tea steaming away in his lap.

He'd tried going back to sleep after waking up before the sun, but his thoughts are too loud. They race from one idea to another across his mental roadmap, creating and discarding theories in quick succession, travelling down possible futures until they run into blocks or are otherwise scrapped.

He doesn’t want Ilya to lose his visa. At best, assuming the Bears offer him a contract extension, they have a year and half to figure out how to get Ilya residency in Canada. At worst, they have six months.

Hockey is Shane Hollander's life. It has been from the first day he put on skates and lost his heart to the game. If he could, he would play forever and anything that puts his career at risk sets off alarm bells in every one of his cells.

Ilya also loves hockey but truly prizes the things surrounding the game: the euphoria of victory, the camaraderie of his teammates, the rewards of talent, and most importantly, the ability to leave Russia. For good, if possible. Like they'd talked about at the cottage. 

Now, with the last piece in question, Shane has to stop and think, really think, about what he's willing to do to not lose Ilya Rozanov. One path keeps appearing on the roadmap. No matter how many times he casts it aside as not an option, never an option, it returns. It stretches ahead of him, littered with perilous drops and blind curves.

What does he want? 

Here, sequestered away and protected by the storm, the answer is easy. Shane can pretend he and Ilya are the only two people on earth, that their actions — their truth — will have no effect on their lives. He'd have a career with the Voyageurs that lands him in the Hall of Fame. He'd have Ilya on the ice, facing off against him year after year after year. He'd have Ilya at home, to make them sugary breakfasts, to travel the world with, to fuck until breathless. He'd have it all and everything would make sense.

For the very first time since watching the Cup final in May, Shane fully understands Scott Hunter’s choice to kiss his partner on the ice.

He can't give up on either dream. It'd break his heart. Hockey or Ilya? It's both. It's always been both. He can't believe it's taken the threat of Ilya's visa expiring to make him recognize it. Playing hockey wouldn't be the same without Ilya. Dating Ilya would be an empty victory without hockey.

"Is too early for so serious faces," Ilya slurs, eyes barely open, before continuing in Russian. Shane slides over and sets his tea aside, allowing his boyfriend to stretch onto the couch. Ilya's head finds a comfortable spot on Shane's lap, the blanket cascading onto his shoulders. "No big thoughts in dark," he continues in heavily accented English, breath already deepening. "Save for sunny day."

"Da, moyó sólnyshko," Shane teases in response, running his hands through Ilya's hair. His Russian is rudimentary at best, but my sunshine is simple enough, even with his accent. He thought he'd have more time to learn. He will have more time to learn.

Ilya's lips curve into a smile against his thigh, sleep claiming him.

The rugged path appears once again in Shane's mind. Maybe, there's a way he can have both outside of this room. He’ll need to move his timeline forward significantly, carefully reveal information, gauge people's reactions and have them be on his side. The thought of coming out to anyone makes Shane want to puke, but it's a necessary step before revealing the Rozanov of it all. By July they'll know where Ilya ends up. If another contract falls through, Shane will do whatever it takes to keep Ilya by his side.

February, 2018

Montreal

"That is, undoubtedly, the worst idea you've ever had."

Hayden is right, Shane knows, but he didn't expect the vehemence with which his friend says it. He thought he'd outlined his coming out timeline logically: first to management and the team, then publicly after the season. Then he'd hopefully have time to space out the 'dating my rival' reveal, but if push came to shove, he'd do that in July too.  

"Tell him how you really feel," J.J. mumbles into his pre-game yogurt.

Hayden shoots an exasperated sneer at their friend before returning his attention to Shane.

"I'm serious, dude. Catastrophically bad idea."

"Scott Hunter already did it," Shane argues.

"Scott Hunter was designed in a lab as a poster-boy for MLH inclusivity," Hayden retorts.

Shane knows he doesn't mean anything by it, but Hayden’s comment rubs him the wrong way. What Hunter did was the most courageous thing Shane’s ever seen in his entire life. Just because the MLH is capitalizing on it now doesn't take away from his bravery. 

Hayden charges forward, oblivious to Shane's discomfort. "He's white, conventionally attractive, charmingly safe, undeniably masculine —"

"Sounds like you’re the one trying to date him," J.J. interjects.

" — in a long-term, committed relationship with a non-athlete, just won the cup and MVP, and most importantly is near the end of his career."

"Plus," J.J. says, licking the plastic spoon. "No one could bury his coming out. You're trying to play it by the book, but that could just as easily backfire."

"You'd rather I kiss Ilya on center ice?"

Both men make exaggerated gagging sounds, to which Shane rolls his eyes.

"I'd rather gouge out my own eyes," J.J. shudders. "Not in a homophobic way. In a, why is my friend being defiled by Rozanov, way."

"Not useful," Shane grits his teeth. He doesn't need flippant commentary. He needs them to recognize how serious he's being and help. "Tell me what I'm missing."

A quick glance flashes between the other two. J.J. has an acceptable poker face, but Hayden is an open book. Something else is upsetting him.

"Tell me."

"Look, man," Hayden starts, "It wasn't important when it happened —"

"Just tell me," Shane snaps.

"Well, when you were out of town, Comeau and Dillon had a private meeting with Coach," J.J. shares tentatively.

That doesn't seem like a big deal to Shane. "They're both Alternate Captains. Of course they met with Coach during the off week."

"Except it was explicitly about you."

"Me?"

"Yeah, you," Hayden rubs a hand over his face. "I only heard about it later, but apparently a...uh... particular collection of teammates complained to Comeau."

"Fucking rats," J.J. hisses.

 Shane knows exactly the clique Hayden's referring to. It used to be just a couple vets who never really vibed with him, but hockey is hockey. They've mostly remained professional. In the past year, however, several new players aligned themselves more openly with Comeau, regularly challenging Shane's leadership. It's one of the reasons their team is a mess. Getting half of them to listen is harder than pulling teeth.

"Okay? So they talked with Coach. What are they going to do?"

"Them? Nothing," J.J. takes over the narration, "but Coach can, if he goes with majority rules. You need to be careful. Everyone is on thin ice right now. Anything that Theriault or the GM sees as a distraction is a risk."

"How is me being gay a distraction? I'm here to play hockey! It shouldn't fucking matter."

"Not my words! Jesus, Shane. I'm trying to help you!"

"Yeah, really feeling the love J.J."

"Both of you chill out," Hayden warns. "I know you're freaked about Rozanov, but the vibes are not good, man. Management is making changes and I'd much rather Comeau, Dillon, and their goons get shipped off than see you take the fall."

"I'm the highest point leader in the league. I don't think I'm the replaceable one."

Hayden claps his hand on Shane's shoulder, but his eyes remain worried. "I don't think you have to scrap your plan entirely… But maybe just wait until we start winning again. Then we'll revisit. And no matter what, we have your back."

J.J. nods in agreement. "With any luck, Comeau will be gone before the deadline."

Shane stays quiet. The Voyageurs continue to lose. As their February record ties for worst in the past ten years, the gulf between Shane and the team grows wider. He’s on an ice flow, drifting further away from shore with each loss. He tallies two, three, four points a game, but it's never enough. Every loss, they're trailing by five or more goals.

Shane isn't a defenseman. He's not even a particularly strong two-way forward. His role is to outscore every other player on the ice. And he does. Which makes the cold attitudes of every player not named Pike or Boiziau incomprehensible.

 So, Shane listens to Hayden's advice. Keeps his head down, eyes on his own game and only his game. Scores goals. Tallies points. Runs routine practices. Gives up on trying to make chemistry happen on a team that is determined to lock him out for some imagined slight. He's been accused of being a hockey robot before but never has he embodied that identity so fully.

The C on his chest feels more like a joke than any indicator of authority.  

At least Ilya's received confirmation that Boston will keep him on for another year. It's better than six months. Shane can work with a year and a half.

"Hollander," Coach Theriault catches his attention from down the hall. Most of the team had already left after morning skate, but Shane always put in a workout afterwards for conditioning. What else is he supposed to do? Rest? His hair is still damp from the showers, but Coach isn't someone to ask twice.

He opens the door to his office and waves Shane in.

Oh.

Shane doesn't remember getting hit in the playoffs versus Boston last year. Already down on the ice, he'd blinked awake to incomprehensible lights and colors with no memory of how he got there. Then he remembers the hospital. Nothing in between.

He wonders if it had the same breathless impact as stepping into a room with his coach, GM, and agent sitting around a desk.

For what it's worth, Farrah looks absolutely furious.

"Coach. Mr. Leblanc. Ms. Jalali." Shane's voice has already gone monotone. When all else fails, professionalism is reliable. There's safety in procedure: a familiar dance in which he can pantomime all the right steps.

"Shane. Thank you for joining us. Come on in and take a seat," Leblanc instructs, motioning to a chair across from him.

"Of course."

"Can you believe it's been almost nine years since we drafted you? Wow. How time flies! I know I certainly had more hair back then," The GM grins, wide and friendly. Shane recalls how Leblanc triumphantly announced his name into the microphone. Number two. A consolation prize. "We got lucky with you, you know. An absolute gem of a player. A superstar, destined for the Hall of Fame. That's why we signed you for eight years after your ELC. We really, truly believed you were the future of our organization."

Neither Theriault or Farrah's expressions have changed. It's striking to pair Farrah's stormy glare and Theriault's stone-cold neutrality against Leblanc's jubilant tone.

"But eight years. A lot can change in that time — I mean, if we could see the future there'd be no fun, right? No excitement!"

He pauses, expectantly. Shane doesn't know what else to do, so he nods and agrees. "Yes, sir."

That's enough for Leblanc to continue. "See! I always knew you were a smart kid. Smartest player on the ice. Always have been. It's so good to be understood, without having to go into such… excruciating detail."

Here, Farrah scoffs and cuts in. "Unfortunately, sir, excruciating detail is my job description. I would appreciate you laying out for Shane exactly what it is you're implying."

"You're being traded, Hollander." It's Theriault who says it. No hidden agenda, no mess of words that Shane's brain can't follow. It's why they've gotten along well over the years. "San Jose."

Odd. There's no panic that overwhelms him. No anxiety that makes his heart race. Only dull acceptance.

"You need me to wave my no trade clause," Shane states. Everyone knows it, but he has to say it out loud. To confirm that what he is hearing is true.

Leblanc sighs and puts both hands on the table. "Yes, exactly. That's why we're having this friendly conversation. Between colleagues." He smiles at Farrah. She smiles back, all lips, no teeth. "You've brought Montreal two cups in less than nine years. I'd say that's a hell of a career in one place. It's time to bring that magic to a team that needs it."

San Jose isn't a bad team. They've made it to the playoffs several times and even broken into the second-round last year. They have a solid goalie tandem and lots of promising young talent, but a lack of experience. With a player like Shane on their roster, they could make a decent push. Conference Finals or better. It's a fair offer.

"What happens if I don't," Shane asks, keeping his eyes on Farrah to gauge her reactions. "Wave it, I mean."

"Which you are fully in your right to do," Leblanc says, but his voice has lost some of the exaggerated warmth. His grin is too wide. "But —”

Theriault raises a finger, cutting him off. Leblanc cedes the floor. "You're a generational talent, Hollander. No one can deny that. But right now, we don't need talent, we need cohesion. If you don’t wave, we scratch you."

"Coach, I’ve been working hard to —"

"Working hard is not the problem. You're not a culture fit."

Farrah's eyebrows nearly hit her hairline. "Do you want to extrapolate on that, Coach Theriault?"

Shane isn't good at reading tiny expression changes. Never has been. But he would have had to have his eyes closed and back turned to miss the way Leblanc’s face contorts into open panic. 

"No, I think that covers it," he laughs, high and reedy. An incongruous sound from the large man's body. "Things don't work out between players and teams for a variety of reasons. It's just... the right time." 

All eyes land on Shane. His attention is on the stack of papers lying on the desk. With one signature he'd be sent to the other side of the continent. Further away from Ilya, from his parents, than he'd ever been. He'd maybe see Ilya for a week or two in the summer. No more than twice during the season… no, only once. If Ilya wasn't back on active roster by the time the Bears play in San Jose, he wouldn't travel with the team.

Once.

Once isn't enough. Shane Hollander's ‘expediated back up plan to keep Rozanov in North America forever’ crumbles to dust.

"May we discuss this privately before coming to a decision?" Farrah asks. Shane doesn't pay her enough.

Theriault raises an eyebrow and Leblanc shrugs. "Alright by me but work fast. The trade window closes tomorrow at 3pm and San Jose is the best offer on the table."

Shane's hair is still wet. It's dripping down the back of his neck, shirt damp where the rivulets have run together.

"We'll be in contact before the deadline," Farrah rises. She lightly taps the back of Shane's chair, a silent instruction to follow.

"Yes, we will." Shane parrots, before trailing Farrah through the halls. He grabs his bag and phone from the locker room. He accepts her offer to drive them back to his apartment. 

He thinks about panicking. He thinks he should be panicking. Three PM, tomorrow. That gives him twenty four… plus five… just under thirty hours. No. Less actually. If there's a trade on the table, the Sharks are giving up a haul to get him. They could decide to withdraw the offer if it seems there's no movement. He doesn't want to leave Montreal, but being benched is his worst nightmare. Management knows that. They don't want to bench him; he'd be the most expensive scratch in franchise history. But is he confident enough to call their bluff?

"We're here." Farrah says from the driver's seat. Sure enough, Shane's apartment complex looms overhead. "We'll game plan inside."

Why does he even want to stay with the Voyageurs? Hayden is his best friend, and he'd miss him like a limb, but it's a miracle they've been able to play together this long. There's the chance if Shane doesn't wave his NTC, they'd trade Pike away instead. Along with several other pieces to match what San Jose is offering. Maybe even J.J. If Shane isn’t safe, no one is safe.

The team here barely tolerates him. It's possible he'd have an easier time coming out in California. Definitely easier with a team that has less history playing against Rozanov… But what's the use? He only was planning on it because it would be a softer blow for their relationship to be revealed. And then no one would panic when they got married. And holy shit what if Ilya doesn't want to get married he hasn't even asked him and now he's going to the other side of the country and Ilya will realize they've been living in a fever dream for a decade. Coming out doesn't mean anything if he can't even keep his fucking boyfriend.

"I can't go to San Jose," Shane says aloud. The ginger ale beside him has gone warm and flat. He can't remember how long it's been out, but the February sun is much lower in the sky than when they’d arrived from the rink.

Farrah stops her furious typing. Shane's dining room table is a poor set up compared to her downtown office, but he appreciates that she hadn't left him alone with his thoughts.

She shuts her laptop and gives Shane her full attention. "I assumed as much. Your options are limited, though. There are a few teams that could put together a decent return package for you, but few have the cap space. Those that do… well, they're not winning a cup anytime soon."

Shane wipes his hands across his face. "I can't be picky about that right now. I just have to stay in the Eastern Conference."

"That doesn't rule out Florida."

"I am not going to Florida. For so many reasons."

For the first time that day, Farrah genuinely laughs, "I would never."

"I know. I know…" He groans and drops his head to the counter. "I don't understand how you handle your job."

"I promise, it's rarely this exciting. I will do my absolute best to find a solution, but Shane, you have to recognize the risks of declining this move."

"I do. But I can't go through with it. I need to be closer to Boston right now. Not… forever, but at least until…"

Farrah catches his dropped thought. "Understood. Rozanov, first priority."

His heart twinges painfully. He hadn't thought of it that way. Had never considered that anything would supersede hockey's place in his life, but Ilya's injury forced him to shift perspective.

"Yeah," He agrees. "I guess so."

"It's a shame Boston and Montreal would both burn to the ground before trading with each other. With Rozanov on LTIR, they can almost afford you," she mutters, flipping her laptop back open and chewing on her bottom lip.

Shane nearly drops the can lifted to his lips. Boston. Why on earth hadn’t he considered Boston? It would solve everything.

He lunges for his phone, the sudden change of energy startling Farrah.

"Shane?"

He doesn’t respond, single-mindedly scrolling through his contacts. He knows he has it. In case of emergencies, she'd explained when they saw each other in January.

Yes! He hits the video call button with far more force than necessary for the delicate touch screen and sets it to speaker phone.

Pick up pick up pick up pick up.

The call connects.

"What would it take to get me to Boston?" Shane asks, before the person on the other end has a chance to speak.

Two seconds of silence.

"Oh, Jane," Svetlana Vetrova answers, Cheshire-cat grin revealing all her perfectly white teeth. "I thought you'd never ask."

Chapter End Notes

And as is her place, Svetlana is here to save the day! I had a scene from their phone call written out, but it ended up being way too much hockey talk so it got cut hahaha. As always, I speak three languages but Russian is not one of them. Please forgive any glaring errors.

 

It is taking everything in my body to not info dump on all 23 Boston Bears OCs. You will meet them all SLOWLY and at a NARRATIVELY APPROPRIATE pace. I love them, your honor.

In this chapter you got to officially meet (meet again?):
#91- Leo Poletti (A), aka "Polly". Swiss first line LW and (usually) the coolest cucumber on a team full of Boston meatheads.
#7 - Cliff Marlow, aka "Marly." American first line RW and Ilya's best friend. Married to Sydney Marlow, an executive assistant worth her weight in gold.
#5 - Viktor St-Simon (A), aka "Vik." Canadian first pair Defenseman and unwilling accomplice to Ilya's brand of insanity. Married to Anita St-Simon, head WAG and private pastry chef.
#31 - Luukas Järvinen, aka “Louie." Finnish goalie, quiet and business-first. Generally keeps to himself, but good natured and friendly.

Chapter 5: Ilya & Shane: February, 2018

Chapter Summary

Shane's first day as a Boston Bear.

Chapter Notes

February 2018, Boston

Ilya

The lamp is still on, off-yellow glow illuminating the hotel room. The wind has picked up overnight, a muted whistle as it sneaks through tiny gaps in the old window frames, turning condensation to frost. Shane sleeps. He curls towards Ilya, unconsciously seeking warmth.

Ilya would turn the light off; would turn the heat higher. Neither option is worth waking Shane. He'll have to before long, the threat of sunrise imminent. Already the edges of the sky have turned pink, refracting off the buildings outside.

He should've left already (shouldn't have stayed at all), but the pure panic in Shane's eyes after he finished recounting the events of the past six weeks overrode Ilya's common sense. No, not quite. The urge to protect their relationship from prying eyes is ever-present, but his priority is Shane. He wasn't about to let him face his first night in a new city all alone. He barely fell asleep as it was, adrenaline refusing to settle.

They'd talked for hours, wrapped together underneath the crisp white hotel sheets. Eventually, Shane's breath evened, sentences petering out into half-formed words against Ilya's skin.

Ilya's own anxieties hover close to the surface, weightier than Shane's head on his chest. He wants to sleep. He's exhausted, wrung out, eyes scratchy and dry. But he can't seem to cross the final threshold and let go. Every time his eyelids drift shut, he's thrown into memories of the All-Star Break and Shane's earnest face:

"Marry me, then," Shane said. "Come home."

At the time, Ilya didn’t believe Shane. Not really. It was an easy statement to make in desperation, borne from an unwillingness to lose one another.

Ilya's known Hollander 'the hockey star' for almost nine years: exacting, demanding, allergic to failure, quick to anger in the face of perceived slights. He's known Hollander 'the fling' for practically as long: beautifully reactive, an eager study, always up for a challenge, ready to please and be pleased in return.

Ilya is still learning about what it means to be truly, deeply loved by Shane 'the partner.' That includes being exposed to scorching honesty like Ilya's never experienced. It's easier for him to talk in riddles, to skirt carefully around the point, to avoid revealing your weak spots.

Shane can do all those things. He knows how to survive in a world that is hostile to their existence. But with Ilya? He asks for what he wants. He cuts through the noise and gets at the heart of the matter.

Even if the comment was made in haste, Shane meant it. He actually, fucking meant it.

Ilya lets his head drift down, burying his nose into his boyfriend's shaggy black hair. He loves him so much, it hurts. Shane who would jump off a cliff if he determined it was the quickest way to reach the ground. How someone can have equal amounts of anxiety and conviction paired in one body is beyond Ilya.

Marry me.

Not now. Possibly not next year. Or even the year after. Ilya can both believe he wants Shane forever and know that decision needs more time. Shane needs to get settled in Boston. Understand who he is on the team without Ilya.

Assuming Ilya comes back at all, the team is going to face a cap issue from hell. One of them is definitely getting traded and it won't be Shane. Ilya already knows that. Shane is generational. The team Ilya built will fit him like a glove. Ilya will be the odd one out.

Stop it, Ilya scolds himself. There's no use worrying about distant possibilities. First, he has to call Sveta and offer her his second-born child for getting Shane's trade offer in front of Bears management. He'd offer his first, but she'd already claimed that one in the wake of Sochi and his subsequent cup win.  

Shane

Viktor St-Simon is short for a defenseman. Shane knew that, theoretically, from all the years he's played against him, but he'd never really internalized it. He's of a height with Shane, maybe an inch shorter, though that doesn't stop him from hitting like a truck. He has a subtle lilt of a Québecois accent, and Shane considers responding to his introduction in French, then worries it might be presumptuous.

"Typically, Roz would be the one showing you around, but he has PT at the same time as our morning skates," St-Simon explains as he gives Shane the perfunctory overview of the practice facility.

I know, Shane doesn't say. He nods. "Thank you, for taking the time."

St-Simon shrugs. "It's my job. Locker room is next. Pretty sure we'll have a full house today. Everyone is curious. Sorry in advance."

Up to now, St-Simon has been pretty closed-off. Definitely wary. But when apologizing for his team, Shane gets a peek at the good-natured Alternate Captain he's heard about from Ilya over the years.

Shane cracks a smile. "Are they harmless?" A thin olive branch.

At this, St-Simon sighs. "Depends on your definition."

Shane doesn't have time to ask for clarification before St-Simon pushes through the doors and they're overwhelmed by the crush of sound and smell that is a men's locker room. All around him, people are shucking off hats, gloves, winter jackets and changing into practice gear. 

"Jesus Christ, Migs. You're such a wimp."

"Fuck off," Migs (#16, Álvarez, forward, not sure of his first name) flips the speaker off. "My car is a piece of shit and if I don't layer, I will freeze on the drive."

"Then buy a new car?"

"Not a chance. It's my piece of shit. Plus, I only have another 40,000 miles to hit 200."

"Did you dump your signing bonus in the harbor or something?"

"It's the principle."

"Drive with Whit! You're coming from the same place."

"I'm sorry to inform you that we all carpool with him," Andrew Whitcomb (#95… how does Shane know him? A news story? Something Ilya mentioned about volunteering in Boston? Oh, yeah, he's the local one) responds while lacing his skates. "Zai and I just don't care if it's cold."

"You have your own cars!"

"I'm keeping him honest," Zaitsev (#18, Russian, but no accent that Shane can hear) pulls his practice jersey over his pads. "If it breaks down before 175, he owes me money."

That's when the room finally notices Shane trailing behind St-Simon. 

St-Simon takes the sudden silence as his opportunity. "Everyone, meet Hollander. Hollander, meet, well, mostly everyone. I added him to the group chat, so drop your intros in there sometime today."

"We just did that two weeks ago for O'Rourke."

"Okay, let me try that again: everyone WILL put their introductions in the group chat before game time. Got it, Mickey?"

"Aye aye."

With that, the room gets back to business, with only a handful of curious glances thrown in Shane's direction.

"That's it? I expected worse," Shane admits, finding his gear miraculously laid out for him in a stall (he should write a thank you note for Voyageurs support staff. See if Hayden can deliver it.)

"Roz read everyone the riot act when we heard the news. They're on their best behavior," St-Simon scoffs. "It won't last."

"Hollander."

Leo Poletti (#91. He was in the same draft class as Shane and Ilya. Second rounder to… Phoenix? Somewhere out West) holds out his hand to shake. If St-Simon was wary, the look in Poletti's eyes is downright icy. Whatever grudge he holds against Shane doesn't supersede his professionalism, clipped though it may be. "We'll run the powerplay sequence a few times, get you used to the flow. Then just regular morning skate. We'll figure out the rest as it comes. Any questions?"

Only about a million. Winging it is not Shane's strong suit.

His expression startles a laugh out of St-Simon. "Christ, that's the same face Rozanov makes before he calls someone a dumbass."

"I don't think you're stupid. I just have a lot of questions," he deadpans.

Poletti raises an eyebrow. "Pass. Shoot. Score. See you on the ice."

With that, he strides towards the tunnel.

Rude.

"Polly's a good dude," St-Simon says as they watch the winger exit the room. "He's been under a lot of pressure since Roz's injury. He'll warm up."

Shane doesn't particularly care if he warms up or not. Poletti is right. The reason he's here is to play hockey. He doesn't need to make friends. This is Ilya's team, after all. As soon as Ilya is healthy and back on the ice, the Bears will re-sign him and Shane will get traded to whatever contender needs more goals.

Ilya

Ilya had looked up the definition of self-incrimination after Marlow mentioned it. At first, he just wanted to understand the joke, but after reading it several times he is grateful to his friend for bringing it up.

Ilya is not religious, but he prays his expression stays neutral as he watches Shane skate out with the opening line up. He knows every camera from every news station in the country, plus thousands of cellphones, are pointed directly at his face, cataloguing every reaction. He's nervous to even speak to the couple of other people in the press-box with him, having been the constant subject of fan lip-reading over his career.

He should've skipped the game. Fuck, no, that would've been the worst possible option. But theoretical headlines are nothing compared to the intensity of watching his partner eat the St. Louis team alive. It's not the cleanest win. There's missed shots, dropped passes, and a general disconnect across all parts of the ice, but it's not enough to stop Shane from making an immediate impact.

The Bears don't know him, but they trust Shane's skill. The first period is slow and sloppy, St. Louis getting one in the net in the first 10 minutes, but by end of the second period, things start to click. The other players on the ice stop handling Shane with kid gloves and start treating him like a superstar.

Jono is tripped by a St. Louis winger, so Ilya gets a birds-eye view as Shane goes on the powerplay, maneuvering across the ice with incomparable grace. He's like a dancer, light on his feet, cutting around the defensemen and putting the puck right on Marly's stick. It goes in. Of course it does. Marly knows how to play fast hockey and there's no one faster than Shane.

1-1.

That's the last time it's close.

Jono scores next off a sniper pass from their rookie d-man, Mickey. 2-1.

Migs, Whit, and Zai use their roommate hivemind to hammer in a filthy rebound at the top of the 3rd. 3-1.

And Shane, glorious, gorgeous, god-like Shane Hollander, catches a dropped puck and beelines to the goal. There's no chance of catching him on a breakaway. The puck sails into the upper-right corner, beating the goalie by a mile. 4-1.  

The other team pulls their goalie with three minutes left and manage to eke one past Louie, 4-2, but Boo never lets an empty net go to waste. The puck slides from the neutral zone into the goal. 5-2. Final. The Garden is electric, the dominant win going straight into their veins.

From one of the nearby sections, Ilya hears a group of young people cheering and hollering. "We're so back, baby! Hell yeah!"

Ilya wishes he was down there. Maybe it's better he isn't. He barely suppresses the urge to grin like a madman whenever Shane has the puck. It'd be impossible to keep his hands off him; he'd make the helmet kiss during the All-Star game look PG.

"Come on, Cap," Louis-Philippe Keita, who is recovering from a sprained wrist and should be back in the lineup by end of the week, stands Ilya's crutches up for him. "Age before beauty."

"Respect your elders," Ilya plays along, despite Keiter being three years older than him. Together, they make it down to the locker rooms. It's not the same ebullient energy as upstairs with the fans, but the joy is still present. A win is a win. And a good win deserves praise.

"Congratulations, boys!" Ilya roars as Keiter opens the doors for them. "At first, I thought I was at Russian Ballet watching Sleeping Beauty. But no! You have found prince to kiss you awake. Was it good?"

"Fuck off, Rozy," Vik responds, half dressed in his stall, while the rest of the team laughs and yells similar sentiments.

 "And where is Hollander?" Ilya glances at Shane's empty stall.

 "Stolen by the media team," Polly towels his hair off. "Surprised you haven't been called in yet."

"Red cannot do interview if she cannot find me."

Polly snorts. There's still tension hovering around him, an awkwardness he hasn't shaken off since yesterday.

"You did good, Polly," Ilya says, quieter. This is just for his A.

Poletti stares into his stall, hand hovering over his t-shirt. "Thanks. But I didn't do anything special."

Ilya rocks his head from side to side, a nonverbal disagreement. "Not how I see it. Team follows you."

"They follow Vik."

"Vik is not playing with brand new center."

"Sure, Roz."

"Mhm. Okay. If you do not want credit, I will take. You're welcome. I worked very hard out there. Found back of net several times."

That finally makes Polly loosen his stance, shoulders falling to their proper place. He cracks a smile at Ilya. "You're such a jackass."

It's at that moment, Shane comes into the room, body still damp and glistening from the showers, a towel tied tightly at his waist. No. Hollander. He has to be Hollander while they share a locker room, because otherwise Ilya is going to incriminate himself immediately.

Hollander doesn't notice Ilya at first. He accepts the friendly congratulations from his new team members as he crosses the room to his locker by St-Simon. Ilya should let him get dressed, be in a better position for their first public interaction since becoming a Bear. It would be the respectful thing. Smarter than startling his partner their new player by calling him out while undressed and still in the post-game headspace.

Unfortunately, as determined by many different people, Ilya is an asshole.

"Ah! Here comes new prince of Boston!" Ilya crows, loud enough to be heard over the noise of the locker room. Shane Hollander nearly jumps out of his skin, whirling around clutching his folded pants to his chest.

My god, he's precious. Ilya wants to eat him. 

"Tell me. Was it everything you ever dreamed of?"

"Rozanov," Hollander says, impressively quick to collect himself. He levels Ilya with an annoyed stare. "You’re finally done hiding from me?"

"Hiding? No, never, Hollander. I would not deprive you of my beauty." Oh, this could be fun, openly flirting under the guise of pissing each other off. Though from the long-suffering glare Marly is giving him, he may want to dial it back one notch. "Hmm… you are not as bad as reporters say. My team almost makes you look like decent player."

"Piss off, Rozanov."

"Oh, no. No fighting. You and me, we must get along in front of the children. Kiss and make up, yes?"

There. Finally. A blush rises from beneath Shane's skin, already pink from the hot water of the shower. Luckily, it's the same color Hollander turns when he's angry.

Oh shit. On second glance, he might actually be angry.

"Piss. Off." Hollander repeats, slower, with a dangerous undertone. Ilya wonders what's wrong with him, that this, Shane practically naked, glaring daggers at him in a room full of other people, is exactly the kind of excitement he's been missing.

The room sits on the edge of a knife, all other conversations halted while the Captain and his replacement square off.

"Alright," Marly announces, slapping his thighs and throwing on his sweatshirt. "That's enough exposure therapy for today. Roz. Behave. Hollander. Good game. We'll try this," he waves between the two, "again on Friday."

Ilya smirks. "Bye bye, Hollander. See you soon."

Shane rolls his eyes and turns around.

Marly leads Ilya by the elbow and as soon as they're in the empty hallway, smacks him in the back of the head. "Seriously?"

"Sorry."

"No you're not."

"No. I am not."

 "As punishment for that stunt, I texted Red and she's on her way with cameras. You better have decent answers ready."

"Yes, is exciting to have Hollander on team. Yes, we are rivals, but have played together before at All-Star Game. Was good experience, excited to see what he can do for team. No, no tension. Anything that can help team win Cup is good. Played good game tonight. Happy for him. Happy for you. Happy for everyone. Does that cover it?"

"You're going to turn me gray before 30, man."

"You are already going gray."

"And every single one is from you. Just… keep the blatant foreplay out of the locker room. It's disgusting."

"Because it is with a man?"

"Oh for Christ sake - because it's Hollander! Now, fucking lock in and go talk to the media."

With that, Ilya knocks Marly in the shins with his crutch and hops down the tunnel to torture the social media team.

"Where do you get off?"

Ilya doesn't ever regret giving Shane his house key but being confronted by his partner while he's already in bed is a new experience. He's sure if he was more lucid, he'd remember what the idiom meant. He’s positive he's heard it in the locker room before, but he can only think of innuendo.

"Right here," he responds, blinking one eye open to see Shane outlined in the doorway of his bedroom. "Come in. I am cold and asleep."

"No, I need to know what gives you the right to fucking flirt with me in front of all your teammates."

"Is not flirting. Was trying to make you mad. It worked, yes?" He blames the melatonin he'd taken after arriving home for the delirious giggle that accompanies the words.

"Stop it. It's not funny."

"Mmm, is a little funny."

During their back and forth, Shane had turned off the lights and removed his street clothes, crawling into bed. The tension bleeds out of Shane's body as Ilya drops his head against Shane's shoulder.

"It wasn't," Shane holds his ground. "I've been here for 24 hours, Ilyusha. I know you trust your team, but I don't know them. I… please don't make this more difficult than it already is."

"Moy Sheynka, they will love you," Ilya mutters, letting the clean scent of Shane's skin lull him back into unconsciousness. "They already do. You are so beautiful when you play. Couldn't help myself. So pretty. All mine."

"Hey," Shane, puts a finger under Ilya's chin, looking carefully at his half-closed eyes. "Are you okay?"

"Am okay. Just tired. Is hard: standing, walking, sitting, sleeping. All make me tired." Shit, that was more honest than Ilya intended. He doesn't want Shane to worry, but his lack of sleep from the night before plus the sleep aide have loosened his tongue.

The stress line between Shane's eyebrows deepens. "Okay. But tell me if you need anything."

"You are here. I have all I need."

"Sap."

"From tree?"

That makes Shane huff out a laugh as he settles deeper into the covers, careful not to disturb the pillow architecture supporting Ilya's leg. "Yes, from tree."

"You will explain. Tomorrow. Today, no more English."

"Spokoynoy nochi," Shane says, lips against Ilya's forehead, "tebya lyublyu."

Ilya lets the gentle goodnight be the last thing he knows before he drifts away.

Chapter End Notes

Eh- I'm not super happy with this one, but I needed to wrap up the trade deadline period and was struuuuggggling. The pace will pick up from here, or at least have more time skips than 4 chapters for a 24 hour period. Thank you all again for your incredible comments, it gives me so much motivation to continue the story. The general outline is coming together and I am excited!!!

More Bears OCs: This time, The Kids™! (Ages 19-22)
#98 - Adam McMichael, aka Mickey. American second pair defenseman who idolizes Ilya. A little cocky, overly sure of himself, but only nineteen. He has time to learn better.
#16 - Miguel Álvarez, aka Migs. American third line winger from Southern California. Practical, charming, and constantly frozen experiencing his first New England winter.
#95 - Andrew Whitcomb, aka Whit. American third line center from Massachusetts. Hometown kid. Participates in lots of community events, and loves nothing more than dragging people out of the city to experience 'real life.'
#18 - Anton Zaitsev, aka Zai. Russian third line winger born in St. Petersburg, but who spent most of his life abroad.

Chapter 6: Shane: March 2018

Chapter Notes

So it's wild that this has almost 6k hits?? I am more often a rarepair/gen writer so this level of attention is unfathomable to me. Thank you all SO MUCH for joining me on this journey and for your outpouring of kudos and comments.

One quick new tag for 'homophobia' because it's significantly more overt in this one.

Boston

March, 2018

Ilya's home gym is smaller than Shane expects: nothing more than a stationary bike, a treadmill, and a few kettlebells. In some ways, he's not surprised. Ilya's never spent the off-season in Boston and during the year, players have access to every imaginable piece of equipment at the team facilities. After Ilya's injury, the sparse basement space is less utilized than ever. From the creak of the door hinge and the thin sheen of dust he's disturbing, Shane knows he's the first person to come down here in months.

He's just grateful for the chance to move his body. Between the narrow, icy streets and the risk of being recognized, there's nowhere to run outdoors in Ilya's neighborhood. He doesn't need much — maybe five, six miles for maintenance. More important is the chance to stare at a blank wall and process the events of the past week. 

First, he lets his body warm up, falling into routine. The rhythmic hits of his shoes against the treadmill. Beads of perspiration collecting at his hairline. Heart rate evening.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.

The things that have not changed:

His name is Shane Yoshida Hollander. He is 26 years old, turning 27 on May 10th… so a Taurus? Rose always brings that up when he's being stubborn, so it must mean something. His parents are Yuna Yoshida Hollander and David Bruce Hollander. He is an only child, and has never lived more than a few hundred kilometers away from the hospital he was born in. He's gay. The label is steadier now, fitting more comfortably than when he first admitted it a year ago. He loves Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov, the captain of the Boston Bears. He loves hockey. Loves the way that both things make his blood sing and his mind quiet.  

Now, for the things that have changed:

Everything else.

Nope. Too Big. Break it down.

He no longer lives in Canada. Boston seems like a nice enough place — not that he's spent a moment anywhere besides hotels, hockey rinks, and the airport. But a city is a city. He can learn to live here just as well as anywhere else.

He has new teammates. They're also nice enough, if a bit hesitant. This, he understands. There's a less fraught history with the younger players or with the guys who get traded around yearly and know how to compartmentalize, but it'll take some time for the core group to come around. If they ever do. But it's fine. It really is. Even if they remain distant, it's already a better environment than the one he left behind in Montreal. He didn't realize how toxic his old locker room had become until he was in one where people respect one another.

What he really misses are J.J., Hayden, Jackie, and the Pikelets. On Sunday, he'd paced circles in his hotel room when he realized he was missing their in-season weekly dinner for the first time in six years. Hayden had Skyped, propping his phone up to mimic Shane's presence at the table, but the angle was all wrong. He couldn't see anything past the sippy cups and plastic bowls. Eventually, the twins' rambunctious energy sent the phone clattering to the floor and the evening ended there. Shane loved it anyway.

Here in Boston, he has Ilya. Simultaneously, he doesn't really have Ilya at all. During practices and games, Rozanov is off doing his own PT, sitting and watching from the stands or box, or surrounded by his impenetrable inner circle of St-Simon, Nyström, Poletti, and Marlow. The clique is not malicious, like it was with Comeau's crew in Montreal, but this is the first time since 2012 that Shane hasn't been involved in the leadership of a team. He's on the outside looking in, in more ways than one.

Away from the rink, things are better. Shane visits his hotel room sparingly, making sure he's always seen leaving and returning from there before taking his rental car to Ilya's. Sneaking around is second nature to them, but unlike in previous years there's no countdown or emotional distance hanging over their interactions. They spend evenings on the couch reading, reviewing tape, awkwardly and enthusiastically working through the logistics of sex with only three working legs. It's good. They have time.

Not that much time, another part of Shane whispers. Fifteen Months. Shane speeds up the treadmill to quiet his anxiety. For the last two miles of his run, he doesn't think about anything at all.

Breathe out. Breathe in. Repeat.

His cool down and stretches are similarly mindless. He hadn't meant to go so hard, but the exertion prevented him from spiraling. On his way upstairs, he peels off his sweaty t-shirt and wipes his face only to jump out of his skin when he notices Vetrova perched on the kitchen island. She's dressed down, wearing an oversized Boston College sweater and yoga pants, curls held back by a giant silk scrunchie. It's as close to human as Shane's ever seen her and she still lands squarely in 'off-duty model.'

Across from her, Ilya pours batter one-handed into a cast iron skillet, filled with butter and fruit. Shane smells the caramelizing sugars, sticky and sweet against the roof of his mouth.

"He appears," Ilya teases. "You left without good morning kiss."  

"You were asleep," he defends, setting his earbuds gently on the counter. "Good morning, Svetlana. I didn't know you were coming over."

"No?" Her eyebrows raise in genuine surprise before launching into rapid Russian. Ilya responds with equal vehemence. Shane's 101 lessons have gotten him as far as school subjects, animals, and the weather — he has no hope of following along. Thankfully, it doesn't seem serious; more like scolding from Svetlana and defensiveness from Ilya.

"I'm sorry," Svetlana switches back to English. "He is not the best with dates."

"Okay! I forgot!" Ilya admits. "If we have rest day before road trip, I make breakfast. Sometimes is just with Sveta, sometimes a few others from team. Lucky for us, no one else is rude enough to show up unannounced."

Svetlana lightly kicks his hip. "No, only family. You go get cleaned up, we still have a bit until food is ready. Not that I'm complaining about the view," she winks at Shane, who had forgotten he was shirtless. Years in a locker room have stripped away any shyness he may have had as a kid, but he still flushes at the attention.

"Don't flirt with my boyfriend," Ilya threatens. Svetlana smirks and hops down from the counter to take over cooking, deftly maneuvering the hot pan into the oven with both hands.

"Date someone less attractive."

"Mmm. No."

"Then don't complain."

Shane makes a hasty exit towards the bathroom. By the time he's emerged showered and fully dressed, the others have migrated to the table. Steaming cups (two coffee, one tea) and a fully baked fluffy pancake of some variety wait for his arrival. Svetlana has her elbows on the table and scrolls through social media on her phone. Ilya, with his immobilized leg elevated on another chair, is trying to get the TV above the fireplace to work with voice commands.

It doesn't understand Russian accents; a diatribe Shane has heard more than once.

"Yes! Now we eat!" Ilya gives up on the TV, throwing the remote across the room. Shane flinches as it bounces off the sofa and hits the floor. 

"Breakfast looks… good." Incredibly outside my meal plan, he doesn't say.

Ilya clocks his hesitation. "No added sugar, just fruit. Butter, eggs, milk. I used whole wheat flour and added flax to batter."

Shane stares at it for a moment, before nodding. Ilya beams and hands him a plate. To his own portion, Ilya adds a frustrating amount of maple syrup and butter. Shane keeps his opinions on anti-inflammatory diets to himself. For now.

It's nice. Not incredibly sweet. Not too dense. Still, Shane's instinct is to pick rather than eat. They don't have a game today, so if he has a couple bites he should be fine calorie-wise with only his prepped lunch until dinner —

"Yogurt alright?"

Shane startles. He'd zoned out, digging through to the berries underneath the dough. Svetlana is reaching into the fridge as she speaks, but her sharp green eyes bore into Shane. She analyzes him with the same intensity she gives everything: a potential client, contract language, a bad powerplay, the stitching on a coat (all things Shane's seen directly in the nine months of their acquaintance.)    

When he doesn't respond, she continues. "Ilyusha has a sweet tooth a mile long, but I never have more than a bite. I'm making a bowl for myself and can easily put something together for you."

"That's okay I —"

"I'm offering." She hovers by the cupboard with the dishes. Her eyes have not left Shane's face.

"… Yes. Thank you," he relents after a moment. "With fruit and nuts if you find them."

"Done."

"I am surrounded by birds. Beautiful birds," Ilya sighs, defeated. He doesn't seem upset that Shane didn't eat the breakfast he prepared, but Ilya hides his emotions well. He'll have to check in later, thank him for trying something new. "Make sure you give him spoon from left drawer. Those are 'good spoons.' The ones in right drawer are 'bad.'"

Or maybe Shane will stab him instead.

"Your other utensils are objectively terrible," Shane defends. "They taste like metal and have a weird, raised edge."

"Yes, which is why we have 'Shane kitchen drawer,'" Ilya explains, between bites of the pancake. "And 'Shane bathroom drawer' and Shane 'bedroom drawer.'"

He flips Ilya off as Svetlana slides a small yogurt bowl across the table. They eat in companionable quiet, checking phones, occasionally chirping one another, letting the world wake up around them.

A little before ten, Svetlana makes her exit, pausing at the door to pull on an oversized puffer coat and fur hat. She accepts her purse from Ilya, lightly kissing his cheek before turning to Shane.

"As a friend, I am happy to see you are settling in nicely. As a Bears colleague who does not know anything about Shane Hollander outside what comes across my desk, I certainly hope he is actively looking for an apartment and not wasting team funds on a hotel room he may or may not be using."

"It's only been a week!" Shane objects indignantly. "I don't even know where to start."

One expertly shaped eyebrow raises. "Ah, and you know no one? No teammates? You don't have a terrifying mother manager who has a color-coded map and the name of five realtors on standby for when you ask? Or a partner with too much time on his hands?"

"Hey!" Ilya interjects.

Okay. She has a point, but Shane has been otherwise occupied enjoying his time with Ilya. He knows that he'll want his own space soon, so his extended sleepover can't last. Plus, their relationship is still a huge fucking secret in Boston for anyone not named Vetrova or Marlow. They need to be more careful. Svetlana showing up unannounced reminded him that Ilya has an entire life outside of him. Shane can't be getting too comfortable.

"As a colleague, I'll start looking after this road trip," he acquiesces. "And as a friend, thank you, Svetlana. Sincerely."

If Shane is honest, it's easy to feel threatened by Svetlana. She's brilliant, stunning, and knows parts of Ilya that Shane is only now discovering. When he met her briefly during the summer, he'd been a nervous wreck, questioning everything from the clothes he was wearing to what side of the table he should sit on at dinner (Next to or across from Ilya? Next to Svetlana, cattycorner from Ilya? What if it's a counter??). After January, he's had to shove all of that aside and trust her. She loves Ilya, there's no denying that. More incredibly, it seems her love of Ilya also extends to Shane, both protecting and encouraging their fledgling relationship. She's the entire reason he's here at all.

Svetlana's tongue clicks. "Sveta. Please," she corrects, after a brief pause, "I keep thinking you're about to scold me."

The nickname seems too casual, but Shane can adjust. He had a quiet, familiar breakfast with her. Using a preferred name isn't that large a stretch.

 "Sveta," he corrects and her eyes crinkle with appreciation.

"You are welcome, Shane."

Detroit

March, 2018

Road trips are a whole different level of rapid learning for Shane. He's grateful the most recent CBA got rid of required roommates for veteran players, because he's not sure he could handle being paired with someone new after seven years of rooming with Hayden.

On the plane from Boston to Detroit, Shane sits by himself and gazes out the window. He has his earbuds in, but no music is playing. Instead, he adjusts to the sounds of the team plane. Up front, Coach LeClerc's laptop is out as he and the other coaches analyze videos of their upcoming opponents. Two rows ahead, Keita and Eklund play a low-stakes round of hold'em while in the way back, a heated game of In-Between has Marlow and most of the D-Core swearing colorfully each time the betting pool increases. Poletti and Kovář are both miraculously asleep, despite the noise of their seatmates. Several others read or scroll through their phones. Álvarez's Switch is propped up on a tray table, the other controller in McMichael's hands.

The names and faces are new, but travel is an equalizer. There's only so many ways to kill time on the road.

The game itself proves more difficult. Detroit is a competitive team, and Järvinen, the Bears starting goalie, is nursing a bruised wrist. He lets in two ugly shots in rapid succession. As a result, Shane and the offense play tight, frustrated hockey. Passes are short and sloppy. Disconnected. St-Simon and Nyström put up an obscene number of minutes while the other D pairs struggle. Their fourth liners are the only ones benefitting from the gritty play, leaning into physicality to make up for the top lines' deficiencies. Another goal sneaks past Louie and they're down 0-3. 

Detroit steps up their physicality, which finally benefits the Bears when Shane is tripped and they get the delayed penalty. Thirty seconds later, the play is blown dead.

On the way back to the bench, Shane crosses paths with the player that tripped him (#73, Roy. They'd been teammates the previous year before Roy got packaged off to Arizona then to Detroit.)

"You enjoying this, Hollander? Getting fucked?" The Canadian defenseman taunts in French.

Shane whirls around, shoulders drawn up. "Pardon?"

But Roy is already off and away, smirking as he's escorted into the box by a ref.

Shane's heart hammers. What the fuck was that? He thuds onto the bench and mindlessly reaches for his water bottle. No one else was close enough to hear. There wasn't anything to hear. It's the same casual homophobic bullshit that's second nature to most of the league.

It wasn't aimed at Shane… was it?

"Earth to Hollander," Marlow barks from his left.

Shane locks in, the crowd noise rushing back. "Yeah, yeah. Sorry."

The second power-play unit whirls on the ice, repeatedly shooting on the Detroit goalie with no luck.

"You good?"

"Yup. Let's go," he responds, vaulting over the boards to relieve Bouchard. It was a stupid taunt, nothing unique. There's no use letting it get to him. It never has before and at least this time it's not coming from his own teammates.

They end the game with a loss. 1-3. Too little, too late.

Media. Shower. Dress. Bus. Plane. Onto the next city sporting new bruises on both body and ego. Most others have their eyes closed, sleeping or doing their best approximation of it. Every minute counts when they'll be playing again tomorrow night.

Shane doesn't. Can't. Between the loss and Roy's taunting, he's on edge — completely keyed up. Even though the comment was generic, it felt weirdly targeted. That's just his anxiety talking. God, he wishes he'd had time for a cooldown workout before being shepherded onto the plane. He needs to dispel the vibrating energy under his skin.

His phone blinks. The wifi is too shitty to stream anything, but at least messages make it through alright.

Lily: stop fretting

Jane: I'm not.

Lily: it is midnight

Lily: you are not asleep

Lily: this is fretting

Jane: How do you know I wasn't asleep?

Lily: …

Lily: …

Jane: Tell Marlow to mind his own business.

Lily: Do not need him to snitch. I saw your face on tv

Lily: after Roy

Lily: what did he say

Jane: Nothing I haven't heard before.

Lily: …

Lily: …

Lily: you are okay?

Jane: Yes. I just fucking hate losing.

Lily: No.

Lily: I did not know this

Lily: tell me other new things

Jane: Shut up

Lily: so mean to me

Lily: but you smile, yes?

Damn it, Ilya's clocked him. It's incredible how quickly he’s able to break down Shane’s defenses. While he's still wired from the game, his anxiety has petered to regular levels of worrying.

And yes, he's smiling. Sue him.

Buffalo 

March, 2018

Their game against Buffalo is nothing like the previous night. The Bears are tired, but their back-up goalie Lavoie is in net and making save after beautiful save. Try as Buffalo might, they keep getting robbed. It's a goddamn masterclass. The rest of the team rallies, not wanting to leave him out to dry. Poletti nets one off an assist from Shane in the second. 1-0. Shane gets the next goal off a pass from Marlow. 2-0 going into the third.

Shane's skin buzzes with euphoria. He accepts the helmet-to-helmet headbutt from Marlow and excited side hug from Nyström. Even Poletti gives him a rare smile at the end of the period, tapping the back of Shane's calves with his stick as Shane exits the ice towards the tunnel.

LeClerc is predictably even keeled, drawing their peaky energy back down to a low hum. Two goals is not an insurmountable lead, he reminds them. Focus on connecting passes and playing fast hockey, faster than any other team in the league. Keep it clean, don't give Buffalo the benefit of a powerplay. 20 minutes left.

Go Bears go.

Back at center ice, Shane remains hyper-vigilant. He's hinged at the waist, poised to strike as soon as the puck comes into view. They will win this game. He'll give it his all.

"So pretty when you bend over, Hollander." The whispered chirp comes from centimeters away, the Buffalo center (#27 Martine, a previous trade-deadline rental with the Voyageurs back in 2015) too close as they prepare for the puck drop.

Shane's stomach rackets into his throat. His head tilts up, losing focus on the dot. Martine isn't even looking at him, but there's a cold-blooded smirk marring his handsome face.

The puck drops.

Shane loses the face-off. Swearing profusely, he jumps forward to challenge the winger who'd received the pass from Martine.

Shane is good at hockey. He's fucking spectacular at hockey. Placed head-to-head with any other individual in the league, Shane will always come out on top. Now that Ilya is out for the season, he stands alone on the mountaintop as challengers struggle to reach the same heights.

Skill is one thing. The mental game is another entirely. Shane has a reputation of being cold as ice and it's well earned. He's undoubtedly passionate about the sport, but the things that throw off other players — returning from injuries, poor team performances, insults and negative media attention — are road bumps to him. Obstacles to be overcome. His tolerance for pain, both physical and psychological, is astronomical, but he still has a tipping point: the moment that the noise outside becomes so overwhelming the only option is to turn it all off.

He knows the noise has been building, stressors piling onto one another long before Ilya's injury. The fear of hiding, the fear of coming out. The looming deadline of Ilya's visa expiration. Being traded away from his team, his home, his friends, his parents. The unfamiliar routines and spaces sitting like a physical weight on his chest.

One targeted crude remark aimed at him is routine. Two? In less than twenty-four hours? That's a pattern. It's too much. He can't listen to it, can't let himself ruminate on what it means.

Shane turns it all off.

Boston wins 5-0. Shane tallies three goals and two assists. His first hat trick as a Boston Bear.

There is nothing else he can tell you about the game. When Red and her team arrive to interview him in his stall, the answers are robotic even to his own ear: team effort, took advantage of opportunities, grateful for the experience.

He's unaware of showering and returning to the hotel. Friends and family reach out to congratulate him, setting his phone alight with notifications. Most are cleared without a second thought. There's a missed call from Ilya, but Shane can't summon the strength to pantomime a conversation. He sends a quick text instead.

Jane: Really tired. Talk tomorrow, okay?

Lily: Okay. Love you. Do not party too hard.

Jane: Ha. Love you too.

Only their game against Toronto stands between him and returning home. Not home; a hotel room that happens to have some of his stuff in it. At least in Boston, Ilya is never far.

He wishes Ilya were here. He'd thaw Shane's frozen extremities. Give him a safe landing place for the inevitable collapse.

The next morning, the energy on the plane is high. Victory and rest have revitalized the team and though Toronto won't go down without a fight, they're up to the challenge.

Or so Shane thinks. He's still experiencing everything through a layer of glass.

"Want one?"

In a baffling move, Elias Nyström chose to sit beside Shane on the hopper from Buffalo to Toronto. It's less a flight than an arc through the air, so it won't be long until they're landing again. The Swedish defenseman has been a respectful neighbor, not loud or physically overbearing despite his size. He holds out a packet of almonds, giving it a brief shake.

"No. Thank you," Shane declines.

"If you change your mind, let me know," Nyström shrugs, before popping a few in his mouth. The other man is usually attached at the hip to his D partner, St-Simon, or fellow countryman, Eklund. Shane has no idea why he's breaking his routine.

"Will do," Shane returns his gaze to the sprawling lake below. 

Twenty minutes elapsed. Twenty to go.

"You are a very clean player. I don't think I've ever seen you fight," Nyström says, offhanded. A book is open on his lap, but he hasn't yet turned a page.

The comment is out of left field, which draws Shane's attention back to the defenseman. "Yeah, not really my speed."

Nyström nods. "The Bears like to fight."

An emotion almost succeeds in breaking through Shane's blankness. Humor, perhaps, though more likely fond exasperation. He thinks about the far-too common videos of a helmetless Ilya being forcibly dragged to a penalty box while attempting to rejoin whatever scrum of the week he'd gotten himself into.

"I am not going to start, if that's what you're asking."

Nyström snorts lightly. "No. Coach would be very upset. You are too skilled to risk. But… if you need fighters, you have options."

"I don't need anyone to fight for me."

"Need? No, definitely not… but some things are worth fighting over," Nyström flips to the next page of his book. There's no uncomfortable eye contact or expectation, merely an offer on the table.

Like a single-serve packet of almonds.

Had Nyström overheard Roy and Martine? Shane didn't think the Swede spoke French, but the European players always have a language arsenal that put his bilingualism (not counting a paltry smattering of Japanese and elementary Russian) to shame. It's not out of the realm of possibility.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Good." Another page flip. "We're your team now. And Mickey has been itching to drop gloves against Toronto."

Toronto

March, 2018

1-0 to Boston. It’s a physically brutal game that has Shane checked into the boards more times in one period than in the past week combined. Coach LeClerc would have them drawn and quartered if they risked their tenuous lead by instigating fights, but Toronto is not making it easy to resist. Their callous chirps skirt the edge of acceptability. Their hits are a fraction too high, too late, too forceful. It's obvious they're being baited and Poletti and St-Simon are barely keeping control over the hotter heads on the team.

They miraculously make it out with two points and a shutout for Järvinen.

Shane needs to dunk his whole body in the ice bath for an hour. As Ilya would say: fucking fuck Toronto.

"Good game, Hollzy," Marlow bumps into him as they skate towards their bench at the end of the game. They're almost off the ice when one of the Toronto skaters (#89 Dubé, a bottom six Québécois player who Shane played with for two years early in his career) sneers maliciously and leans against the boards.

"Yes, good game, Hollzy," Dubé mocks in French. "Even better trade — cocksucker."

There's no pretending this one isn't directly targeting him. A culture fit, Theriault had said, when they asked him to wave his NMC.

Oh. The Voyageurs must've discovered Shane's plans to come out. And the news is spreading like a contagion, gossip passed through the ranks of people who were, or are, part of Comeau's circles. It's all his fears, realized. (Not even close to all of them. There's an encyclopedia of things he's afraid of, but this? This is at the very top. Pages one through a hundred.)

"What the fuck did you say?" Shane hisses, but the words aren't even out of his mouth before St-Simon is catapulting over the boards, a blur of motion launching himself at Dubé. The smaller defenseman is severely outclassed in weight, but Dubé falters long enough for St-Simon's momentum to slam him into the glass.

Pandemonium descends, the departing Toronto players drawn back to the ice by the sight of their teammate dropping the gloves. Poletti, Marlow, and Nyström are close behind, protecting their Alternate Captain from being swallowed up by the Guardians. Shane's blood is boiling, and despite the aching of his body, he throws himself headlong into the scrum. He grabs the neck of Dubé's jersey and pulls him off St-Simon. Dubé is still grinning wildly, obviously pleased with the result of his provocation.

"Cute. The queers defending each other," He continues, blood flowing from his nose into his teeth. "What? Think you'd gotten away? "

"Get fucked, Dubé," St-Simon snarls, but he's being dragged away by a ref.

"You don't know anything," Shane counters, trying to shake off another lineman while keeping hold of his opponent.  

"Say goodbye to your happy new team, Hollander. No one wants a faggot around."

Shane tears his jersey free from the ref's grasp and throws his body into the attack. Losing his footing, Dubé crashes to the ice, bringing Shane down with him.

Shane is not saying goodbye to anything. He will have hockey. He will have Ilya. And no one, especially not some washed up, B-tier homophobe, is going to frighten him. It's nobody's goddamn business, but if Dubé wants to sling mud, he has to expect a response.

"Hollander! Dubé! Enough!"

They're forcibly separated, the referees holding tight while guiding them toward their respective tunnels. Red and her media team are present at the mouth, but their cameras are blessedly off and away. Shane pushes past and skips the locker room, walking straight into the showers.

The air is heavy by the time Shane emerges. The rest of the team, minus those who were involved in the altercation, are already dressed. LeClerc and the Assistant Coaches wait with their arms crossed. Oh hell, this looks terrible.

"Coach," Shane starts apologizing, "It won't happen-"

"Quiet, Hollander," St-Simon barks.

Shane's mouth snaps shut.

LeClerc considers the room. The glint in his eyes is pure fire. "Poletti."

"Coach." The Swiss winger's acknowledgement is clipped, cold and professional.

"I am going to ask exactly one question. Your response determines our response."

"Yes, coach."

"Were St-Simon and Hollander's actions justified?"

Poletti stares unblinkingly at Shane. The question of whether Poletti had understood Dubé's attacks is answered when he responds.

"Without a doubt."

The tension in the room does not dissipate, but LeClerc nods, satisfied with the answer. "Good. Everyone on the bus. You two," he points at Shane and St-Simon, "with me."

It's tight in the side-room that operates as a private office for visiting coaches. St-Simon is still glowering. Shane feels the heat of anger rapidly pulling away, leaving him as numb as he was in Buffalo.

"The press will want to know what happened. No hot mics picked up what was said, but that doesn't mean things won't come out later. Is there anything I should know before I stick my neck out for you?"

St-Simon is first to respond. "Hollander has been targeted several times this week. We've been managing internally as a team, but Dubé's comments required immediate action. I have no interest in repeating any of what's been said and have no interest in explaining any of it to the press."

Shane should've guessed that Nyström and St-Simon had compared notes, given Nyström's out-of-the-blue conversation on the plane. He hadn’t grasped the extent.

"Hollander?"

He must've been quiet for too long. "I'm here to play," he starts, "I don't want anything to affect that."

LeClerc sighs, suddenly looking every one of his 60+ years. "Alright. Let me handle it. St-Simon, you're sitting out the next game for instigating, no matter what DOPS decides."

"Yes, Coach."

With that, both Shane and St-Simon are grabbing their duffel bags and striding towards the waiting team bus. Halfway there, the other man starts to laugh, manic energy wearing off.

"Shit, I have to call Anita. Otherwise, I'll get home to a pile of stress-baked pastries higher than our front door."

"Does… does she do that?" Shane asks, as St-Simon pauses to catch his breath.

"Only after a fight. Says I'm one lost tooth away from unfuckable."

That draws a snort from Shane. He's positive fighting makes him more fuckable to Ilya, but he also has 95% of his original teeth. So what does he know?

Oh no. Ilya. He's probably also flipping out.

"Hey Hollander?"

"Yeah?"

"We have your back. I mean, up to a limit, like please don't turn into a raging asshole à la Dubé or Kent, but otherwise, you're our teammate. No questions. No conditions."

"Even… even if?" He can't bring himself to say it yet, but he knows St-Simon will understand.

"Even if."

At the door to the bus, St-Simon lets Shane on first. Over his shoulder Shane says, "You can call me Hollzy. If you want."

The defenseman releases an exaggerated sigh. "Oh thank god. It's exhausting yelling Hollander all practice."

"It's three syllables."

"Too long."

"Sure, Vik."

Chapter End Notes

Edit 2/16: If you'd like to see the whole Bears lineup in one place, I've added a companion fic to this series.

More Bears!!

#28 - Elias Nyström, aka "Nyser." Swedish first pair defenseman. Blunt, and can come off as a bit stand-offish, but it's usually honesty that comes from a good place. Rounds out Ilya's core group of friends on the team. Late 20s.
#19 - Jonas Eklund, aka "Jono." Swedish winger. Been on the team for a year after spending most of his career between Carolina and Dallas. A bit of jokester. Early 30s.
#53 - Matt Lavoie, aka "Lavs." Canadian back-up goalie. Not to say that all goalies are weird, but... if the pads fit. A vet who's been on several teams over his career and has developed superstitions from each of them. Early 30s.
#42 - Louis-Philippe Keita, aka “Keiter." Ivorian-French fourth line winger. Originally undrafted, but played through college and the minors and eventually broke through to the NHL. Solid, dependable, always down for a good time. Late 20s.

Bonus: Peyton (Red) Johnson, Color Commentator & Analyst. Fifth year with the Bears Media team, but only her second as the rinkside reporter. Her public persona is stereotypically bubbly and personable, but she's much quieter when the cameras are off.

Chapter 7: Ilya: March 2018

Chapter Notes

I'm back! Kadri was traded back to the Avs and I am SO EXCITED that as a gift, you all get the chapter that's been fighting me for weeks. Last chapter you got anxiety, this chapter you get depression. Sorry?

One note. Assume Russian is being spoken wherever it makes sense.

Boston

March, 2018

Winter is an exercise in repetition. There's nothing to distinguish one dismal gray morning from the one that came before or the one that comes after. Ilya eats the same food. Completes the same exercises. Takes his medication at the same time. Sits at the edge of the ice and forgets who the Bears are playing because it doesn't even matter when Ilya isn't out there.

Enter Shane Hollander. A break in the clouds; a beam of light. 

Each time Ilya comes home to find the lamp in the kitchen on, Shane reading by its light, the blank sameness recedes. Sleet, rain, and snow don’t feel quite so daunting when he wakes up enveloped in the eucalyptus scent of Shane's shampoo. It lingers in the sheets long after he leaves, keeping Ilya company even on the nights Shane can't stay.

The proximity is thrilling. It fucks with Ilya's impulse control, makes him forget that they're supposed to be hiding.

They're trying to be careful. Honestly. Outside of games or training, they don’t overlap at work and Hollander keeps himself at a distance from the rest of the team. He's visibly discomforted by any type of attention, awkward and standoffish in the face of the Bears' frenetic energy. Even though Ilya's dialed back his teasing at Shane's Cliff's request, he's still… well… himself. That includes being a menace, poking and prodding at their newest team member. Hollander always breaks, giving as good as he gets. While their combativeness doesn't cross into hostility, it draws a metaphorical line between the old guard and the new.

What can he say? Ilya's only options are to ogle Hollander while picturing licking the salt of exertion off his skin or to chirp him within an inch of his life. ("Those are abso-fucking-lutely not the only two options," Marly bitches when Ilya defends himself. Marly is wrong, as usual.)  

At home, it's a different story. Ilya's life of endless repetition shifts two centimeters to the left, allowing room for tiny pieces of Shane to embed themselves on the fringes. Shane's secret corner of the closet expands. Separate drawers appear in each room of the house. A space for an extra pair of outdoor shoes remains open on the rack by the front door. A rice cooker manifests in Ilya's assortment of appliances. The contents of his fridge transform, commandeered by a rabbit with access to grocery delivery apps.

He almost forgets what is hovering just out of sight: the cold, the dark, the damp. But all three things are patient. They caress the back of his neck at night, send goosebumps down his spine. In the quiet moments between ecstasy and exhilaration, they whisper the truth. Enjoy it now. None of this will last.

Nothing ever lasts.

The Bears leave for a five-day, three game road trip.  

Ilya spends the one-year anniversary of his father's death in silence, the tv on mute, subtitles flashing into the dark house. He doesn't get up to eat. He doesn't turn the lights on.

He messages back and forth with Shane, but it's stilted. Shane is frazzled by their loss in Detroit. Ilya is agitated and sullen. The combination doesn't make for interesting conversation. 

It snows.

Later that night, he watches Shane embarrass Buffalo nearly singlehandedly. The overwhelming pride temporarily blocks out the yawning emptiness in his gut, but the blankness on Shane's face in the post-game interview and his curt dismissal of Ilya's call have it rushing back to swallow him whole. 

Nothing ever lasts. 

Ilya dreams of lips. Ginger and lemon blooming across his tongue. The dip of flesh, curving spines, scraping teeth.

He wakes up to cold sheets and not a trace of Shane to be found.   

It's not the first road trip he's missed since being injured, but it's the first since Shane arrived in Boston. It's an unwelcome plunge back to reality, with an added twist of envy: Shane is out there and Ilya is stuck here. Left behind.

Fucking hell, when did he become so maudlin? Ilya needs to escape this house with its empty corridors and darkened glass walls. If his friends were home, he'd call Marly for a pickup. Bribe him with visiting the seals or something equally mundane. Maybe he'd crash Vik and Anita's dinner plans, steal their wide-eyed toddler for an afternoon at the library. Or torture Polly until the winger begrudgingly let Ilya watch trash tv and pass out on his gigantic ass couch.

Shit, he can't even facetime Shane to pass the time because Shane is now with the Bears instead of on a different team's schedule. Not to mention, Shane's been quiet since the previous night, sending a quick heart and 'love you' in the morning, but nothing else. 

Could he call Sveta? Absolutely, but he’s seeing her tomorrow and she deserves her own space. He can't be so reliant on another person.

Like you've been with Shane? His subconscious mocks.

Marly made Ilya promise to call his wife if he needed anything, but that's even worse than bothering Sveta. Sydney's been a saint, sharing Cliff with Ilya the past couple months (more so than usual, given their tendency to be attached at the hip.) Still, it's not her job to take care of him. He doesn't need to be cared for.

But you want to be. Needy, clingy, desperate for people to love you.

Ilya groans and scrolls through his messages. He doesn't have nearly as many contacts as people would expect, if only because he doesn't give anyone a name in his phone until they earn one. Most of his texts are from ten-digit numbers that go unread for weeks before he deletes the thread in its entirety.

There are a few people: Ex-teammates (No. What would he even talk about? Hockey? He can’t even walk, nevermind skate. He has nothing to add in any conversation about the sport.) Friends from Russia (barely friends, just pretty people who run in the same circle as him, Sveta, and Sasha. Acquaintances to party with, but little more.)

They're all people he'd have to perform for, people who would question why he's reaching out at all. Most everyone who cares about him is dead or too far away to matter. 

Loney, sad man.  

He stops scrolling, fingers hovering just above the screen.

Dorzhieva-Salonen, Yelena.

Last message: a PR scripted message from three weeks ago after Salzy was traded to San Jose in the deal that brought Shane to Boston. The message before that is almost four years old. While this bridge isn't burned, it's been neglected— all but abandoned in the wake of Sochi and the Bears cup run in 2014.

Thankfully, Ilya is adored begrudgingly tolerated by the Boston WAGs. Two quick texts to Anita St-Simon and he has an address in hand.  

What's the worst that could happen?

He calls an Uber.

Equipped with a glass observation deck and padded seating, the ice rink on the edge of Brookline is swankier than most arenas Ilya played in as a child. His first instinct is to scoff at the luxe set up. His second is to be deeply grateful for the demographic of high-profile families who barely register Boston's own Ilya Rozanov adeptly navigating the stands on crutches. He keeps his sunglasses on anyway. He'll stop and say hello if any kids notice him but refuses to deal with a slew of presumptuous parents who'd ask him to evaluate their child's mediocre stick handling.

Maybe that makes him an asshole.

If the shoe fits…

He tucks himself into a far corner of the stands, far away from the other families hovering beside the glass. Arms crossed, he leans back and watches the elementary schoolers zip around the ice. Some of the kids have private coaches and a select few might even be talented (for marshmallows on skates.) The rest are grouped together, herded by teens and pre-teens running drills to varying degrees of success.

Ilya huffs in amusement, entertained by the long-suffering looks shared between the camp leaders. The teens are learning more about patience than the tykes are about hockey.

"Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov. I admit, you're not who I expected when Anita mentioned a friend dropping by."

Instinctually, Ilya hides behind his public mask, expression warping into a performative smirk. All he's missing is the wink to complete his media ready persona.

"We're not friends?" He coyly asks the woman towering over his seated form. Speaking Russian is satisfying, nothing can be lost in translation.

"No," she responds, with more gentleness than Ilya deserves, "Not for a long time."

Yelena Batorovna Dorzhieva-Salonen drops her overflowing, blacked-out Birkin into the seat between them before settling gracefully into her own padded chair, body angled towards Ilya. "Though for what it's worth," she continues, "I've missed you too."

Ilya didn't say that.

You don't have to. Heartsick orphan child.

Even at thirty-six years old and after three children, Yelena is undeniably a supermodel. She's long abandoned any attempts to blend in with the more mundane Bostonians, her striking features commanding attention long before anyone clocks her impeccable wardrobe of vintage designer fashion. It's a different beauty than Sveta's, who is gorgeous in a grounded way. Yelena is ethereal: a shallow, broad doe-like nose and wide-set eyes dominate her moon-shaped face. Moles dot her skin, framing the prominent rose of her lips. She's also Russian, but where Ilya is Muscovite through and through, Yelena's accent and central-Asian ethnicity indicate an upbringing from much further east.

How Antti Salonen convinced her to marry him is one of the eternal mysteries of the universe.

Ilya's mask slips. His fingers tighten on the armrests, and he refocuses on the hockey practice below. Yelena's attention burns against the side of his face. Deliberate. Patient. 

She was already like this during his rookie season. Too calm, too forgiving. Offering space for Ilya to just exist when the rest of the world asked too much. She seemed so much older than him at the time, especially with a baby strapped to her back and a decade of magazine and runway spreads flooding the bookshelves of the Salonen home.

Yelena hadn't asked for a problem nineteen-year-old with a self-destructive streak larger than Siberia, but management had taken one look at his broken English and bad behavior and told her 'catch.'

She had. Salzy too. It's Ilya who'd cut them out of anything resembling a personal relationship. Business only. 

"How is Nikita?" Ilya asks. There's a kid working 1:1 with a private coach in the back corner that looks like Salonen's, but he can't read the name on the jersey.

Yelena follows his gaze and laughs. "That's Sonja."

No, that can’t be right. Sofiya is a baby, maybe the tiniest baby Ilya'd ever seen.

"Children grow quickly," Yelena clocks his disbelief. "Nikita is over there. He's a junior councilor for the camp."

"No. He's…"

"Ten."

Fuck. That really puts in perspective just how long it's been since he spent any time with the Salonens. Ilya doesn’t make a habit of attending family skates, for obvious reasons, so he only ever saw Antti at the rink or at media events.

"Damn," he swears, "and Alina?"

Yelena shrugs. "Somewhere. Nikitka convinced her there's a fairy ring below the rink, so she's been building fairy houses and hiding them in the stands."

Ilya's mask dissolves entirely, a surprised laugh punching from his lungs.

"I was warned about middle children,” Yelena continues, “but Alinka still manages to surprise me."

"You are creative and Salzy is a passable artist. It does not come from nowhere."

"No, I suppose not. But compared to the other two who live and breathe sports? She stands out."

They fall back into quiet observation, broken only by the shouts and scraping of skates echoing from the ice below.

The question is inevitable, which is why Ilya is not surprised when Yelena asks, "why are you here, Ilya?"

Because I didn't know where else to go but couldn’t stomach being alone. Because I feel responsible for your husband being traded. Because my parents are dead and I spent too long hating you myself for missing my mother.

He keeps his eyes on the ice as he answers, "I wanted to check in. See if everything is alright with Salzy in San Jose."

Yelena hums, drawn expression revealing the whisper thin lines around the corners of her eyes. "He's lucky. Eleven seasons with Boston, sixteen in the MLH… he thought about retiring after his concussion in 2016, but he told me he has one more Cup in him. So, we said we'd give it another year. Then last year you came so close and what is the harm in just one more?” she pauses, checking her cuticles. They're perfect, of course. "He's not unhappy in California. San Jose has a decent chance of going all the way, though I know he wanted to win for Boston."

You fucked it up. If you hadn't gotten hurt, then Salonen would still be home, and you'd be the one traded. Boston is fine without you. He could've stayed, could've won here.

"I'm sorry," the apology tumbles from his lips.

Her eyebrows fall further together. "Whatever for?"

More than I can explain.

He waits too long to respond. Yelena releases a deep sigh, sinking further into her chair. "I don't need sympathy. Hockey offers us significant privileges; it is only fair that it takes things in return."

"I have other things to apologize for."

"As do I. We will be here forever, groveling and trading apologies, until I am old and gray."

"So, a thousand years."

"Eh, make it two."

When Ilya glances over, Lena's dark brown eyes are sparkling with mirth. Her smile is careful, but genuine. He hazards one in return.

"Why are you here?" she asks again. This time the question is imbued with warmth, as if she's already figured out the answer.

Ilya could lie. He could surrender to the impulse to run at the first sign of emotional vulnerability. Shut up, he tells the voice that's been haunting him since the morning Shane left. I am here, that was the hard part.

"This is the longest I have ever been away from Russia," he says, crossing his arms tight over his chest.

"You didn't go last summer?"

"No. I would never go back if I had my way."

It feels good to confess it to someone other than Shane. Someone who completely understands that, like hockey, their homeland takes as frequently as it gives. "I hate that I miss it. I especially hate that I don’t get a choice anymore.”

For the first time since sitting down, Lena looks directly at his injured leg. Calculating. "Russia is a very large place. Going back doesn't have to mean returning home."

"Home?" Ilya scoffs, "there is no home for me there."

Her head tilts, jet black hair cascading over her shoulder. "And there is a home for you here?"

"Yes," he answers, without hesitation.

Her hand rises to cover her mouth, pointer finger tapping a rhythm on her nose. Ilya can't read her expression. Pensive, but not concerned or confused. She almost looks… pleased?

"You've finally grown up, my Ilyushka," Lena grins, "Antti told me it was happening, but I didn't believe him. In my head you are still my scrawny rookie."

Russians do not blush, which is why Ilya does not blush at the teasing affection.

"It had to happen eventually," he deflects, willing his ears to stop burning. Thank goodness they're hidden under his beanie.

They refocus on the rink, conversation casual for several long minutes as Lena catches him up on the mundanities: their most recent vacation to Monaco, Nikita's AAA team, Sofiya's obsession with Frozen, Anita's piano lessons. Ilya offers very little about himself, but he doesn't have much to share anyway. It feels good to talk to Lena, even if it is occasionally awkward, each of them trying to find their footing after several years apart.

"Tell me,” Lena begins, “is he good to you?"

Huh?

"Salzy?" Ilya asks, confused.

Lena rolls her eyes. "Of course not. Your home." 

Ilya freezes. His breath rushes out of his lungs, "I don't know what you mean."

"Oy, you act like you did not haunt my house for years," she mutters, annoyed. "I am neither going blind, nor senile, and do not appreciate being treated like I am. So, I'll ask again: is he good to you?"

His mouth hovers open, eyes wide, blinking slowly.

"Yes," Ilya says, after controlling his racing pulse, "they are."

If Lena is annoyed by his purposefully vague pronoun choice, she doesn't show it. Nodding once and crossing one long leg over the other, she pulls herself up to her full, seated height. "Good. And if there is a time they," she drawls pointedly, "are not? I am close by."

"Are you seriously threatening my partner?" Ilya is baffled by the drastic left turn of the conversation.

"Not at all. I am threatening you, Ilyusha. If you forget your worth, I'll be forced to remind you."

Ilya snorts.

"You haven't changed at all," he accuses but there is no heat to it, only fondness, "still meddling."

"No meddling," she promises, "but my door is always open for you and whoever else might drop by. Now! Nikitka was very excited to have you watch him skate…"

This motherfucking interminable road trip needs to be over.

Three games watching from afar, each increasingly more stressful than the one before. Ilya’s heart rate has been elevated since the first ten minutes of the Toronto/Boston matchup, ever since it became clear the Guardians were targeting Shane. He's been the focus of several nasty hits and not one solitary whistle's been blown.

God, if Ilya was on the ice he'd level the entire Toronto first line. Dallas Kent doesn't wear a visor; his nose is fucking asking to be broken.

"Ilyusha?"

Sveta's voice rings across the room, a sharp note of concern raising the final syllable of his name.

"Shto?" What, Ilya calls in response, focused on the never-ending hop between couch and fridge that used to be much fucking closer. He has one hand on the wall and can put extremely light weight on his leg, so thought he'd be able to make it without his crutch across the damn room. Fuck this fucking shit ass knee —

"Come back."

He swears under his breath. He's almost at the kitchen island. Once there, he can pull himself to the fridge at twice the speed. "One minute."

"Ilya, now."

His head whips around. Sveta's eyes are locked on the TV, obscured from this angle by the column separating the two halves of his open-concept living area. Turning on his good heel, he hobbles as quickly as his body is able towards the couch.

A line brawl? Fucking right! No one messes with his team!

Pride fills his chest at the sight of the Bears standing on business, players paired off across the ice or jumping over the boards to join the altercation. Between the two teams there's ten or twelve players involved, with a tight melee against the boards. From the wide camera angle, he can't tell who's hidden in the middle, obscured by teammates and refs.

Nyser is being corralled by Marly, shouting at the top of his lungs, teeth gnashing, desperate to go a few more rounds. Polly is at the edge of the scrum, hands vise-like on Dallas Kent's jersey, daring him to join the action. Finally, the camera angle changes, cutting closer to the origin point of the fight. 

Holy shit, that's Vik.

St-Simon looks murderous, lips curled up in a snarl. He lands a couple decent punches on the Toronto skater, but it's a poor match-up. The tide rapidly shifts in favor of his opponent, until another Bear arrives, dragging Dubé back by his collar and -

Shane. It's Shane.

"What the hell happened?"

On the screen, Shane struggles against the ref clutching his jersey, face contorted with fury. Shane never hides his emotions as well as he thinks, but Ilya rarely sees him this openly hostile. Opposed to his typical cold glare, the camera reveals Shane's spitting hot anger. He rips free from the ref's grasp and tackles Dubé to the ice.

It's worrying how turned on Ilya is watching it happen.

Sveta shakes her head, chewing her bottom lip. "I don't know. They were leaving the ice when St-Simon targeted Dubé."

"Vikky instigated? There's no fucking way," Ilya defends his Assistant Captain. Vik will happily lay someone out during play, but he's not the type to throw gloves. "What did Dubé do?"

"I don't know!" she repeats, louder, more frustrated. "The cameras picked up nothing!"

Before long, Shane is separated from Dubé. He drags an arm over his mouth, smearing blood from a small cut on his upper lip, but he's in much better shape than Dubé who had taken the brunt of the fall. All remaining players are rapidly ushered down their respective tunnels.

The national broadcast flips to the studio, but Ilya's faster with the mute button. If he wanted to hear what the 'unbiased' pundits thought about the 'Dirty Bears corrupting two-time Lady Byng winner Shane Hollander', he'd engage with social media (which he doesn't for that exact reason.)

Instead, Ilya rewinds the stream, going back to the moment that Shane drags Dubé to the ice.

"Should I leave you alone?" Sveta deadpans. Her face is the dictionary definition of unamused.

"Hah," he fakes a laugh (but… Jesus Christ, Shane looks sexy like that, maybe she's not far off). "I am trying to read their lips.”

"Or, here's an idea, you could text him? Call him? DM him?"

"Shane's mom runs his Instagram account."

"Even better. She will know what happened faster than you if you try to lip read instead of asking directly."

"Ugh, fine! Give," he makes a grabbing motion with his open hand.

Sveta tosses him the phone in a gentle arc, and he fires off a series of question marks to both Shane and Marly.

Polly's face appears on the broadcast and Ilya rushes to get the volume back up.

"—there at the end?"

Ilya missed most of the reporter's question but can fill in the blanks. They won't want to know anything about the game, only about the fight that broke out with the league's top player.

"Yeah, tough game. Physical. Emotions are high and that spills over," Poletti starts. He's in full media mode. "Their team got a little too mouthy and well, we're the Bears," he grins sharply at the cameras, as if sharing an inside joke. It works, as muffled chuckles can be heard from the gathered reporters.

No one diffuses tension as well as Polly. What would've been a viral clip for days (weeks) if Ilya had answered becomes another vague hockey response. Of course there was a fight, they're the Bears! Nothing to see here, move on, find a new topic.

And fuck Ilya, they do. The next questions are all about Álvarez' goal and the general success of the Álvarez - Whitcomb - Zaitsev line. Polly's a fucking beauty.

Marly is the first to text back but has no useful information. 'Talk to Jane,' it reads, with no context. Unhelpful. Why bother responding at all?

Sveta is long gone and Ilya is climbing into bed by the time his phone rings.

"Kotik," he answers, tone lilting, "you had an exciting day."

On the other end of the line, Shane breathes steadily. He doesn't respond to Ilya's teasing, which sets off Ilya's alarm bells immediately. He expected that whatever started the fight would've been more than the typical trash-talk, given the ferocity roiling off both Vik and Shane in the scrum, but Shane's more shaken than usual.

"Shane? What's wrong?"

"I think…" the words come out shaky, and Ilya wishes he could transport himself through the airwaves to hold Shane's face in his hands, keep his eyes looking up and off the floor, ground him in the here and now.

"I think I was outed."

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Chapter 8: Shane & Ilya: March 2018

Chapter Notes

Thank you all for your kudos and comments on previous chapters! I promise I will make my way through and answer them soon. I'm still writing as I go, but I have a fairly good idea of the major story beats I'd like to hit. In classic fashion, though, the story keeps expanding. I hope you're enjoying the ride 🌠

Shane

March 2018

Toronto

Shane's oldest friend is fear. From the time he was a small child he's carried it with him like a stuffed animal or favorite blanket. He thinks about the stories his parents casually tell, little moments of history from a time he doesn't remember well. Two-year-old Shane screaming inconsolably while drawing because red marker stained his hands and he thought it was blood. His nightly routine of checking every light switch in the house to ensure they'd turn on. The divot in his parents' mattress made by him hiding between them every night from ages three to seven. The instinct to check around every doorframe, every shower curtain, every blind corner just in case.

"In case of what?" One of his middle school teammates had teased. "What would you do if someone was actually there?"

Shane couldn't answer back then. 

Over the years, he's learned that that fear has a name, anxiety, and structures his life around managing it. Schedules keep him in the right place at the right time, meal plans maintain his peak performance, breathing exercises and yoga stop his racing thoughts before he spirals. He'd tried medication in his teens, several types at several doses. Everything he took made him feel like he was hit by a fucking eighteen-wheeler. Lucky him. Sluggish and tired were two things he couldn't afford to be as a high-performance athlete. So, he stuck to lifestyle changes.

It works, for the most part. The fear is still present, but he understands it better; how to steady it, to keep it at a dull roar rather than controlling his every waking moment.

Part of Shane thinks he should feel more afraid right now. He's surrounded by an unfamiliar team in an enclosed bus, heading towards a sterile Toronto hotel room. His breath fogs against the window, the glass cold against his shoulder.

Dubé's words ring in his ears. Three comments in three games is a pattern. All the players being ex-Voyageurs is a pattern.

The MLH is a tiny league. Rumors spread like wildfire. Everyone knows who cheats on their spouse on the road, who has addiction issues, who has debts, family concerns, open relationships, etc. Those with secrets, real life or death reputational secrets, don't share them with anyone. The moment he and Ilya opened up to even a tiny group of people, they ran the risk of information spreading beyond their control.

Until nine months ago, Shane's greatest fear was his parents finding out he's gay by walking in on him and Ilya. And it happened. It happened and his entire reality collapsed beneath his feet. He thought his heart was breaking from the immensity of his panic. The curtain was pulled back to reveal the monster, and Shane didn't know if he should fight, run, or hide.

But he'd had Ilya. And despite everything, goddammit, Shane survived.

This doesn't feel like that. Maybe it's a scale thing. It's easier to fixate on something tangible, something that can be lost, like a parent's love.

Or maybe it's because he's his mother's son. What's more powerful than fear? The single-minded compulsion to discover the root of a problem and mercilessly rip it out.

Yes, Shane is scared, but he's been preparing for this on his own timeline for months. The thought of yet another thing being taken away from him, endangering his future and the future of the person he loves? That keeps his anger boiling hot, stoking the lingering adrenaline from his fight and postponing the inevitable breakdown.

Shane is blind to the watchful gaze of his teammates as he exits the bus and beelines for his hotel room. He's consumed by the patterns coalescing in his mind, the fingerprints of responsibility left all over this mess of a week.

It's time to call Hayden. Whenever something happens in the Montreal locker room, Hayden is the first one to hear about it. As an obligate extrovert with a chameleon-like ability to fit into just about any group, Piker earned his A by holding an umbrella over Montreal's fractured team culture. He's always the first with a joke, a smile, and most importantly, a de-escalation.

His power's waned somewhat, after Dillon and Comeau's leadership coup last offseason. Hayden was always too close to Shane and JJ for some people's liking. Still, he benefits from being a straight, white male, and even Comeau's clique is less careful around him than any of the non-white players.

The bedside clock reads 11:15 PM. Shane swears under his breath. With four kids, Hayden has the earliest bedtime on the team. While his number can bypass the Pikes’ ‘Do Not Disturb’ settings, Shane is hesitant to wake them for this... this... As in, being outed.

The nausea sits at the back of his throat, waiting. Shane forces it down. Tomorrow, once he's home with Ilya, he will let panic drive him to his knees, but he will not succumb to it here.

Fuck it. If this isn't an emergency, what is? He starts the call.

The phone rings one, two, three times, then goes to voicemail. Shane's barely hung up before Hayden calls him back.

"Shane?" His voice has the rough timbre of someone pulled from restless sleep.

"I'm sorry," Shane starts, keeping his volume low. "I know it's late."

"One second." Rustling comes through the other side of the line, as Hayden whispers away from the phone and Jackie's responds, audible but indistinct. A door clicks.

"Hey, sorry about that," Hayden says after another moment. "What's up? Everything okay?"

No.

"I'm fine," Shane lies. "I… I needed to know, have you… talked to anyone?"

"About what?"

"Me."

"I mean, yeah," Hayden chuckles, "Most of the questions I get at pressers are about you. I try not to be too glum—"

"No, Hayden," Shane cuts him off, "about my sexuality."

A beat. He can picture Hayden's offended face, scrunched nose and raised brows.

 "Seriously, man? You think I'd do that? Fu—Flip no."

"I'm being so deadly serious, Hayd. Not even with J.J.?"

"Sure, but in private. Not anywhere people can hear. The last time we even talked about it at the rink was with you, before the deadline. Why? What's going on?"

With you, before the deadline.

A nervous laugh bubbles free. Of course it had been before the deadline. There's no other reason that management would've rushed to get rid of him. If they'd waited until he came out to the organization, it'd be much harder to pass off as a business decision and not outright discrimination. Fuck. Fucking hell. Of course.

"Someone must've overheard us and told management," Shane laughs again, pacing back and forth across the tiny hotel room. "I don't know who, but I have a pretty good guess based on the people who've been harassing me this past week."

"It's that motherfucker Comeau, isn't it?" Hayden's voice has gone ice cold.

There's no point in lying. "I think so."

"I… I'm so sorry, Shane. Last week, he was grandstanding after a win, going off on how our team is better off without you. I didn't want to fucking hear it, so I just left. I left and he must've said something else—"

"It's not your fault."

"Like hell it's not! I could've shut him up!"

"By doing what? Lying and telling them I'm not gay?"

"For now? Yes! I don't care if you come out next week or ten years from now, until then it's nobody's fucking business but yours."

Shane feels his anger slip, caught off guard by Hayden's vehemence.

"Well, it's apparently everybody's business now," Shane sighs, finally collapsing into the armchair by the window. "Shit. And we don't have solid proof it was him. Plenty of people couldn't stand me."

"Ok. Maybe he's not the one who overheard us, but he's definitely the one who squealed. That makes him guilty in my book."

Shane brings his hand to the bridge of his nose and massages the space between his eyebrows. "He's also a dumbass. Management wouldn't want anything to slip that could lead to an internal investigation. Whoever’s the person that talked, they couldn't keep things under wraps for more than a few weeks."

Hayden barks an angry laugh. "Yeah, that's Comeau alright. Never passes on an opportunity to punch down. I'm going to kill him."

"Hayd," Shane warns. "Don't be stupid."

"Ffffffffuuuuuuuuuuck," Hayden groans. "Please?"

"And get suspended? Or worse? Don't even think about it."

"I will think about it. Every time I'm forced to look at him, I'll be imagining the sensation of caving his fucking face in. Actually, I'm surprised your dickhead boyfriend isn't halfway here to do that himself."

"I haven't called Ilya yet."

"Seriously? Why are you even talking to me!"

"I needed to be sure I wasn't imagining things."

Hayden sighs, long and defeated. "No. You're not. And Shane?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry. Whatever you decide to do, I've got you," Hayden promises. "J.J. too, I'm sure of it. Maybe even some of the other guys who are sick of Comeau's clique constantly spouting bullshit ."

"Thanks, man," Shane says, and he is thankful for Hayden, even if he secretly thinks it's far too late for any sort of damage control. "Please don't do anything stupid. Give my love to Jackie and the kids."

"Yeah, I will. We miss you."

"Miss you too."

Their goodbyes are quick, but Shane hadn't noticed how much time was passing while they spoke. The clock inches towards 11:40. There's a good chance Ilya's already asleep, especially if he'd taken pain meds earlier in the evening.

No. That's an excuse to delay the inevitable. He'd rather be with Ilya, have his broad hands gripping his chin, holding him upright through sheer force of will. Or even better, never have the conversation at all. Then he'd never have to admit that he's the one who messed up.

It's only a matter of time before the whispers reach Ilya and it'll be better to hear it directly from Shane. He has to talk to him. 

Cottage rules. He steadies his shaking hands and calls.

Ilya

March, 2018

Boston

"I think… I think I was outed."

Ilya is empty. Maybe in another world, at another time he would've been consumed with anger. He'd combust with burning ferocity to protect what is his and only his. 

But Ilya is empty. He sinks deeper into his perpetually cold sheets and listens as his brave Shane gives a shaky, halting recap of the Bears' road trip, from the first words exchanged in Detroit, to the fight with Dubé, and finally his conversation with Pike.

This time last year, Ilya attacked his own brother at a funeral. He longs for the heat of that same rage, wishes he felt anything but bottomless emptiness with an adage of my fault my fault my fault pulsing repeatedly in his ribcage.

Shane's voice cracks as he pours out his heart to Ilya, nonsensically blaming himself for the cruelty of others.

Ilya is not religious in the traditional sense. He certainly doesn't believe in 'God' the way his mother had. The Orthodox cross hanging around his neck is worn in memory of her, not out of concern for his immortal soul. Ilya does believe in hockey gods: those nebulous deities who give and take on a whim. Fickle tricksters who demand a sacrifice for every success.

Ilya doesn't have anything left to offer them.

For his skill, he'd lost his mother, touched her beautiful, slackened face and wept. For his discipline, he'd lost his brother's love, their kinship replaced by resentment as Ilya strove to exceed his father's expectations. For his money, he'd lost his father, year over year, and watched helplessly from afar as Alexei and Polina neglected the cruel old man. For his career, he'd lost years he could've spent loving Shane, burying his emotions to protect his status and reputation.

Then the last two switched in an even trade. Shane for hockey; hockey for Shane.

Ilya is empty. He has nothing left to bargain with. Nothing that can protect Shane from the curse of loving Ilya.

He listens, not interrupting, until Shane begins to peter off and circle his own thoughts.

"Solnyshko," Ilya breaks Shane's spiral. "I'm sorry."

His face is damp against the pillow. He's grateful his boyfriend can't see.

"You don't owe me an apology. It was my choice, my mistake," Shane responds with vehemence. "I told J.J. and Hayden that I was going to come out to the team, and some bastard leaked the information and got me traded. I'm just grateful the rumors only implicate me. No one's said anything about you."

"What do you want to do?"     

"I don't know," Shane's breathing hitches, "The Bears are stuck with me for the rest of this season. After that, who knows where I'll be. I still have three years left on my contract; they'll have interested teams."

Humor blooms in Ilya's chest. He snorts at the thought of the Bears giving up their new star. 

"Bears will not trade you," he asserts, with a tiny, wet laugh, "they would be stupid."

"I thought that in Montreal too."

The words are bitter. Shane is still deeply hurt by Montreal's betrayal and this new information has made it exponentially worse. He doesn't understand how much he is wanted.

"Come home," Ilya mutters twice, first in Russian then in English. "We will figure it out together."

"How?"

"Together, Sheynka. Not tonight." Ilya asserts with a strength he does not feel.

On the other end of the line, Shane takes several deep yoga breaths. "Okay. Together. Plane leaves first thing, so we'll be back in the morning. I'll be over late afternoon. Earlier if I can get away."

"I have PT until—"

"Two, I know. How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," Ilya answers honestly. "They have me walking back and forth in pool until I look like shriveled old man."

Shane huffs a laugh. "The sexiest old man alive."

"Ha! You will not think so, when I get home gross and wrinkled. But is good practice for the future, yes?"

Shane doesn't answer right away. Ilya only knows the call hasn't dropped because of Shane's soft exhale close to the receiver.

"You really think that far ahead, Rozanov?" He finally asks, and Ilya is sent back in time to a warm bed, shaded yellow with the glow of Shane's favorite lamp waking him from the safest sleep he's ever had. Back then, at the cottage, the question had been Ilya's as Shane outlined plans for a future together. He knows how to respond.

"About this, I do," he makes Shane's words his own.

Ilya Rozanov has nothing else to give, nothing else to lose. He is empty and alone and so cold that he is surprised his lips are not blue. But he has Shane. And if that is the last gift the hockey gods ever give him, it is enough.

Shane

March, 2018

Boston

Shane's stick breaks against the wall of the tunnel. Their 7-1 loss to top ranked Carolina shouldn't come as a surprise, but there's a world of difference between a regular loss and a humiliation ritual. This game was the latter.

The ring of puck off post was the refrain of the night. Energy from Boston fans dipped lower and lower until the arena had practically emptied out with five minutes left in the game. Shane doesn't blame them; he would've left too.

The division is too tight to be losing like this. Less than five points separates the middle of the pack, and the Bears were finally climbing out of the quagmire towards a solid third place in the Atlantic.

Their lead won't hold, not if they play like that again. Their injury list reads like a rap sheet: Rozanov, out for the season. Zieliński, one to two weeks. Baumgartner and Kovář, day to day. Keita had been a game-time yes but only played two periods before rushing into medical. Benching St-Simon for his actions during the Toronto game was the cherry on top of their roster nightmare. 

Shane should be better. This is why the Bears traded for him. With so many people out, he should be stepping up and filling the gaps. Instead, he got bounce after bad bounce and missed nets galore.

Down the tunnel, Peyton "Red" Johnson is exchanging notes with the team videographer. She jumps when the snap of the stick reverberates down the hall but rapidly collects herself.

"Hollander," her gaze is flat, unshaken by his outburst. "You're up."

"Talk to Marlow," he snaps.

"Nope," she squares her shoulders, standing her ground. "It's got to be you. We'll make it painless."

"I don't see how that's possible."

"Two questions."

"One."

Peyton purses her lips. “Deal.”  

"Alright, let’s get it over with," Shane relents. It's easier to let it happen than try to fight the media team.

He shifts from foot to foot as the camera begins broadcasting. Immediately, Peyton's unamused glare morphs into a practiced expression of empathy, not bubbly or over excited like after a win, but serious and straightforward. Appropriate for a funeral or the aftermath of an absolute beatdown.

"I'm here with Shane Hollander, who scored the Bears' sole goal this evening."

Shane knows the script, has recited it countless times in his years as a player and Captain. Awkwardly, he pushes his helmet back and swipes at his forehead, hoping the camera doesn't pick up his agitation.

"Shane, tough night. What went wrong out there?"

"Yeah, we were on our back foot the whole game. It's tough there's several key players out of the lineup. We're for sure feeling the gaps. "

Shane clocks the moment she decides to go for the follow up. One question, my ass.   

"There were an equal number of shots in the first ten minutes as there were in the last fifty. How do you account for that?"

And ouch, but he can't blame Peyton for trying to get a soundbite for the at home audience. It's nothing compared to the grilling Poletti and LeClerc will get in the full post-game media scrum.

"Miscommunication and missed opportunities. Hard to find the net when we can't find the puck."

"Thank you, Shane. Better luck next time."

"Thank you, Peyton."

"Back to you, Peters."

The recording light goes dark. Camera and microphone drop. Peyton's expression neutralizes, and she leans back against the wall with a sigh. "Sorry about that."

"No, you're not."

"Not a bit. Everything alright out there? On the ice?"

Shane freezes. It's as close as anyone's come to addressing the elephant in the room and he doesn't expect it from the media team, of all people. Even if she's trying to be genuinely friendly, and Shane's only experienced pure professionalism from Peyton, alarm swoops through his gut.

He opens his mouth to respond, but no words emerge.

"You found him, thanks Red!" Before Shane fully comprehends what's happening, he's flanked by Álvarez and Zaitsev and ushered towards the locker room.

"What a shit ass game," Álvarez groans, loosening his grip on Shane’s elbow as soon as they’ve escaped the busiest part of the hallway. "Can't believe they make anyone do interviews after that."

Shane collects himself and shrugs. "It's part of the job."

"Rule number one," Zaitsev butts in. "No media responses to honest questions."

Rule number one? Of what? What on earth are they talking about?

"Careful Zai, you don't want to be responsible for breaking Hollander's brain," Álvarez warns. "No stress if you're not interested, but after especially shitty losses, we keep an open-door policy for anyone who'd be going back to an empty house."

"And since you're still in a hotel room, we thought we'd extend the invite," Zaitsev continues. "It's chill. Just the three of us who live together, plus a rotating assortment of the single guys with nowhere better to be. No pressure. Game. Read. Get drunk. Talk. Don't talk. It's all better than not sleeping and ruminating over our shit gameplay."

"That might be his thing."

"Unless that's your thing," Zaitsev amends.

Shane is planning on doing exactly that. Only difference is he'll be next to his secret boyfriend in his secret boyfriend's house. Either way, it's a considerate offer, and Shane remembers Hayden doing something similar when they were rookies.

"I'm not great company after a loss," Shane brushes the invitation off. "Maybe another time."

"Yeah, no problem, man. Come over anytime," Álvarez doubles down, stressing the last word before he and Zaitsev sidle into the locker room.

"You are extrovert magnet, Hollander."

Like a persistent apparition, Ilya emerges from the adjoining hallway. He's unfairly handsome in his custom gameday suit, a purple so deep it appears black in most lights. A few stray curls have escaped the slicked back style, giving him a purposely disheveled look that absolutely does it for Shane. There's a bead of sweat dripping down his temple, and he's leaning heavily on his single crutch.     

The universe must be testing him. Does he need to defeat the twelve labors of Heracles or some shit to get a shower and go home?

"Rozanov," Shane grits out.

"You should accept. They are nice boys. Like puppies."

Though both young forwards are several inches taller and broader than Shane, the description is apt. Shane raises one eyebrow, skeptical. "What? Are you a regular?" 

"I don't sleep alone, Hollander," Rozanov drawls. He has the audacity to fucking wink. "Especially after shit game."

Jesus Christ, Ilya.  

"Don't listen to this jackass," St-Simon arrives, shoving Ilya's shoulder. It's firm enough to be punitive, but not enough to make Ilya lose his balance. "He doesn't sleep alone because he's a notorious couch stealer."

"Eh? You lie," Rozanov glowers at the shorter man.

St-Simon's moustache curves as he smirks and ignores Ilya's outburst. He strides towards the locker room door, pausing briefly to pat Shane's shoulder. "You good?"

Shane knows what he's asking. Anyone else hurl homophobic slurs at you today? Was the reason for your abysmal game justified or did you play terribly for the thrill of it?

He's not going to give real answer in the open like this. "I will be once I get out of here."

"Amen to that."

And he's gone, leaving Ilya and Shane alone in the hallway. Not alone. If there's anything the past week's taught him, it's walls have ears.

Shane decides to ignore the thrum of warring irritation and arousal and attempts to be a good teammate. "Here," he says, holding the door for Ilya.

Big mistake. Rozanov's face lights up like Shane offered him the keys to a new Ferrari.

"Wow! Mr. Hollander is a real gentleman," Ilya's eyes sparkle, grinning wolfishly. A peek of pink tongue between rows of white teeth. "Opening doors for poor, injured players. Where will we find him next? Saving ducks on roadside? Curing cancer? Kissing little babies?"

"Go fuck yourself, Rozanov."

"I can't leave you two for ten fucking seconds!" Vik reappears in the open doorway, swearing in French. "Hollzy, shower. Go home. Roz, come on. I still need to grab my shit before we rescue Polly from the presser."

Ilya pushes past Shane without looking back. Hidden by the movement, a hand brushes Shane's and tugs on the sleeve of his jersey. A silent check-in and reminder.

Together.   

When Shane arrived at Ilya's after the roadtrip, he'd spent half an hour just in the shower, scrubbing the stress from his pores before crashing into bed — all before Ilya returned from physical therapy. He slept through the afternoon, dinner, and into the early evening without interruption. Only when Ilya shifted the covers to join him in bed did he stir. Like magnets, they fell together, skin to skin. Desperate to be held.

"You're safe now, lyubimyi," Ilya whispered into Shane's hair.

"There's nothing safe about this," Shane responded, lips dragging along Ilya's collarbone.

"Do you want to talk now? Or—"

 "Or."

They did talk, eventually, once the sun rose and turned the day a misty grey. Underneath the covers, like teenagers sharing secrets, they talked until their stomachs forced them to rise.

"I feel caught," Shane whispered. "It's only a matter of time before everyone hears."

"Farrah is ready for this. Ask her for a statement."

"I don't want to make a statement… and I don't want to outright deny anything either. That'll make everything so much worse when I do come out."

"Oh?"

"What."

"Say it again."

"When I do come out." For the first time ever, Shane wasn't hit with lightheadedness or nausea. Oh. It felt real. Like something inevitable, instead of another fear to run from. "Not now. Not when we still have to hide this… us."

Ilya ran one finger over Shane's cheekbone, the touch light and reassuring. "Then say nothing. Let people think what they want."

"It's that easy for you?"

"No." Ilya responded. There was vulnerability in the directness of his gaze, honesty in the heaviness of the dark circles below his eyes. "It only needs to look easy to others."

Shane turned his head to kiss the hand stroking his cheek. "I don't know if I can do that."

"Ah, I have discovered Hollander's one weakness. You can only act with no clothes on, yes?"

"Go to hell."

"You love me."

"I do… but what do we do about Comeau?"

"You are not allowed to say that name in our bed."

"Ilya, I'm serious."

"I am too. Do not worry about that man. Not about any of them. They are ugly people and worse players. He will get what's coming to him."

"If Hayden doesn't get him first…" Shane muttered.

"Hmm, first time I agree with Pike." Ilya was uncowed by Shane's withing glare.

"And the Bears? They have to be drawing their own conclusions."

"Eh? You are worried about my Bears? No. They are professionals. They will stand up for you."

"Vik said as much."  

"Yes, Vikky and others already had rules before me. They protected stupid, careless Ilyushenka."

"Don't call yourself that."

"It's the truth. I did many dumb things trying to forget about pretty Canadian boy with perfect body." Shane playfully pushed at Ilya's shoulder. "But they all looked out for me then like they will for you now. Terrible people do not last here."

Shane remembers this as he watches Ilya follow Vik deeper into the locker room. Even after a mortifying loss, the players aren't at each other's throats, playing the blame game. They're tired, despondent, angry, and every other negative emotion that comes with a complete on-ice collapse, but there's no sign of the fractures that Shane had to battle in Montreal. A team loses together as often as they win together.

They're still a team.    

Chapter End Notes

You may have noticed I also cleaned up the tags on this fic. Right now, we're keeping the story at a T rating, but it might (very, very loose on the might) go up to M because these two keep trying to take each other's clothes off??? Why would they do that to me??? I have no desire to write smut, only sadness, but let me know if you have strong opinions either way hahaha.

Chapter 9: Ilya: March, 2018

Chapter Summary

The charity gala, part 1

Chapter Notes

I really wish I lived in a world where I could spend all day writing, but alas. I have made myself important at work.

Was this supposed to be one large chapter with the next one? Yes. Was the gala itself being FUSSY? Also yes. So here's something small to tide you over.

Ilya

March, 2018

Boston

The sterile office at MassGeneral looks no different than it had six weeks ago. The same ugly cabinets hang over the same uncomfortable chair/bed combo with its crackly white paper cover.  Cliff waits beside him, uncomfortably jammed into the same cheap plastic chairs that adorn every medical office Ilya's ever visited.

Measured against the vast scope of a lifetime, six weeks is hardly a blip. Unremarkable. Ilya feels like an entirely different person. 

"Reynolds is impressed with your progress," the middle-aged surgeon nods, scanning through the documents on his laptop before turning back to Ilya. "He says you've gone down to one crutch for small intervals of the day."

Ilya has. It's awful. For all the time he's spent on strength training, pool work, and the god-forsaken mobility stretches to keep his ligaments loose, nothing prepared him for the exhaustion of trying to walk with even the smallest amount of weight on his healing knee.

He doesn't say any of that out loud. Everything in his body hurts, but not in a way that concerns a doctor. Nothing feels wrong or out of place, no sharpness, burning, or jabbing pain. Only the jarring disconnection between his brain giving instructions and his body refusing to comply.  

Ilya's stoic nod is acknowledgement enough for the surgeon, who spends the next couple minutes rattling off a series of medical terms that Ilya only recognizes because they appear in Shane's startlingly comprehensive shared google drive. 

"One of Rose's friends is a rehab specialist in LA," Shane had explained, when Ilya'd questioned him about the (frankly ridiculous) dossier. "She asked for his opinions on complex knee injuries. And no, she didn't mention who it was for," he continued with a pointed look.

"And this doctor friend is one of her many, many gay ex-boyfriends?"

"… I will not dignify that with an answer."

"So, yes."

"Be nice. She also offered her Sedona house if you wanted a private place to rehab in the offseason."

"What the fuck is Sedona house?"

"Sedona is a city in Arizona. There's a Mayo Clinic less than two hours away, for check ins as needed."

"Oh, so she is Elsa? Can make ice rink in desert?"

"Ilya."

Maybe Ilya had been too harsh. He can't help it when it comes to Rose. He doesn't fear losing Shane to her, but he's jealous of their friendship; how seamless it is for them to go from lovers to exes to friends in the public eye while he’s forced to keep a careful distance even while playing for the same team.

Right now, the desert doesn’t sound too bad. It may be the only place warm enough to permanently chase away the chill in his bones.

"Rozy."

Marly's voice brings Ilya back to the conversation at hand. "Will you repeat that?" Ilya asks. 

The surgeon smiles, assuming his eyes must've glazed over from the terminology and not the memory of Shane's kissable pout.

"You're doing everything right, Mr. Rozanov. I have no concerns based off your scans and the surrounding musculature will come back in time. I know it may not seem like it, but you are on the mend."

There's an indelible spark of hope in Cliff's eyes. "Does that mean he can start skating sooner than planned?"

"Unfortunately, no. It's only been six weeks. For skating we're looking at no sooner than six months and only if healing continues at this rate," the doctor responds with professional certainty. "Patience, Mr. Marlow. I know you and the rest of New England are eager to get your Captain back on the ice, but this is a long process." He lands a friendly hand on Ilya's shoulder before leaving the room with a few final pleasantries.

The routine is always the same. Change clothes. Make a few minutes of small talk with the nurses and admins who keep the entire operation afloat: Sandry in phlebotomy, who takes every opportunity to share pictures of her dogs. Mrs. Lopes in accounts payable, who asks hockey questions to better understand the sport her American grandchildren are obsessed with. Katya, the Ukrainian medical translator with a second-generation accent, and Andres, the Spanish interpreter, who take time out of their day to facilitate said hockey conversations. They're comfortable acquaintances to Ilya and distract from the less familiar faces peeking around corners attempting to catch glimpses of the hockey stars roaming the medical center’s halls.

Still, even the blushing strangers have jobs to do, and outside one embarrassed autograph request and three strands of hair tucked behind ears, Ilya and Marly make it to the parking garage in one piece.  

Sydney waits outside the car; cell phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. As the men approach, she holds out a small bag to Ilya and offers a one-armed hug. "Hey, Robert. I've got to go, but if the hotel gives you any more trouble, text me. No, I have no idea why they changed your room type, but it's fixed. Alright. Yes. Yes. I resent the booking info. Yes. Amazing. Talk later."

She ends the call with a heavy breath, head thunking against the glass of the SUV's rear windshield. "So sorry I left the waiting area. But I swung by the pharmacy on my way out and refilled your meds."  

"Did you-"

"Already done," Syd confirms, opening her purse for Ilya to see the nearly full bottle at the bottom. In the paper bag, she'd handed him exactly seven pills. Enough to last the week. Not enough to trigger his anxiety.

It's probably (definitely) overkill. Why can’t he keep a bottle of legally prescribed painkillers in his house without his stomach turning?

It's the sound, he thinks. He hates that plasticky rattle when shaking a single pill free. The one that's accompanied by a genetic impulse to lift the entire thing to his lips. Not because he wants to die, but because he's dying to understand. Will it free him? Did it free her?

The Marlows' don't know the full story. At least, Ilya hasn't offered it, but his friends are not dumb. Dead mom plus paralyzing fear of pills? Solve for X.

Despite Sydney’s gentleness in all else, she handles Ilya's medications and appointments with the methodical efficiency of a person who's made a career of bullying multimillionaires. Her manner is not doting, overbearing, or sweet. Certainly not parental. It makes it easier to accept help when she manages these peculiarities with professional distance.

He’s glad she hasn’t met Shane outside of editing notes in Ilya's shared Google Calendar. Ilya loves Shane’s boring hobbies, but he does not want to be stuck between them in a conversation about pivot tables. He knows people joke about him and Cliff ‘sharing a type,’ but he never expected it to include nerdy brunettes with resting bitch face.  

"Spasibo," he thanks her, kissing both cheeks while she shoos him towards the front seat.

"I'm going to be late tonight," she announces, laptop open in the back seat.

Cliff meets her gaze in the rearview. "Robert?"

"Robert," she confirms. "I’ll make it in time for the program, but I really needed an open bar."

"Shitty wine and shittier vodka. You will really miss out."

"Oh, is it a crime to enjoy dressing up and drinking Roche Bro’s finest room temperature Chardonnay?"

Cliff snorts. He's more focused on sending heart eyes to his wife through the mirror than the road and nearly misses a stop sign. When he slams the breaks, they all jolt forward, purse, laptop, and other miscellaneous items sliding to the floor.

"Road is other way, shit for brains,” Ilya scolds.

Taking one hand gingerly off the wheel, Cliff flips him off.

In theory, the drive from the Marlows' condo in the South End to the St-Simons' single family in Cambridge only takes 15 minutes.

By the time Cliff parallel parks in front of the two-story Queen Anne, they've spent exactly 37 minutes sitting in inexplicable traffic. No accident, no construction, nothing. Only society’s mystifying inability to move more than a car-length at a time across the BU bridge.

They're not running late, thank God. Having two of three team leaders show up more than 10 minutes behind schedule for a charity gala is a terrible look.

Make that three of three. Poletti's Audi is parked across the street.

Most of the drive was spent bickering over Ilya carrying his own suit bag to the car and who will take it into Vik’s house when they get there. In the end, Cliff is triumphant (because he is a cheating cheater who cheats by running around the car before Ilya can even get his feet under him), so Ilya responds appropriately by attempting to trip Cliff with his crutch.

Vik waits on the porch, arms crossed. "Are you done?"

Ilya doesn't respond. His attention is on the four previously unremarkable stone steps that connect walkway and covered porch. Shit. How had he forgotten these were here? He's been in and out of the St-Simons' house a thousand times. As a young player he'd tripped over them in various states of inebriation, but he's never paid attention to how narrow and steep they run.

Worse, Ilya hasn't learned how to use stairs with the single crutch, only the double. His vanity demanded he show up to the charity event with as low-profile supports as possible, but he's regretting it now. He can't remember if the social club has an accessible entrance. Let’s be real… he wouldn't use it even if offered.

He's Ilya Rozanov! Blinding smile for the flashing cameras. Look how unfazed he is at all life's challenges! An inspiration!

It's four steps. Get over yourself.

"Do you-"

"I've got it," he snipes at Cliff. Alright. One arm on the railing, frigid iron against his palm as he wraps his fingers around the rough metal. Good leg, first. Then crutch and injured leg. Wait. Is the sheen on the next step ice or just the stone itself?

No way to know until he tries.

Okay. Not ice.

"Good?" Vik asks when he reaches the top.

"Your stupid fucking old house is trying to kill me. Should be, eh…"

"Condemned?" Cliff supplies, from just behind him, a suit bag casually slung over each shoulder.

Traitor. Ilya isn’t an invalid. He can carry his own bag.

"No, not that,” he says, “Like, knocked over."

"Demolished," Vik offers, tone caustic. Damn, Ilya’s known his friend has a good 'dad glare,' but it's become deadlier while raising an actual child. "Get in already."

"You asked us here," Ilya shrugs off his coat and shoes in the entryway. "It is too late to take back invitation."

Warm is the best word to describe the St-Simons' home. Painted walls, tasteful wood accents, mirrors and artwork balanced across the open spaces. Ilya remembers a time when the tables and floors had been dotted with trinkets from all over the world. It's the home of someone with rock solid confidence in their place on the team.

Vik has that. He's been here for all ten years of his MLH career and is unlikely to be moved in the future. A franchise defenseman is hard to replace.

Since having Margot, most of the fragile items have been relegated to storage, but the space isn’t empty. Just different. A neat pile of board books is stacked on the entry-table. A pair of tiny socks lie unceremoniously discarded on the floor. The yeasty, crackling scent of warm bread lingers in the air.

Sometimes, Ilya hates Vik. It's unfair, but the green vines of jealousy continue to wind their way around his heart and constrict. He will never have this. Has never had it. He's learned to live with that selfish envy, even when it takes his breath away.

From around the corner, a shock of curly, white-blonde hair peeks into the entryway. Vik barely manages to stop the almost three-year old girl from crashing face-first into Ilya's legs. Margot St-Simon swings through the air as she's snatched from the ground, giggling despite what Ilya can only assume is a rapid string of admonishments.

"Moy sovyónok!" Ilya beams and Margot reaches wordlessly for him. All the jealousy in the world wilts in the face of his little owl.

Unfortunately, Vik holds her back. "Not now, sweetheart. Perraine is busy."

That earns a sharp fuss from Margot and a childish pout from Ilya. He’s about to speak up, but Vik shakes his head. Oh. Ok. Conversation first, then casual gala prep.

"Are you ready for tonight?" Ilya asks, following St-Simon's cue. She clearly isn't, in her messy pigtails and paint-stained paints. "Where is Mama?"

Margot points upstairs, where Ilya hears female voices chatting back and forth underneath the plucking of an acoustic guitar. McMichael must be home as well. He won't be attending the event this evening, but that never bothers Mickey. He's a good kid, more interested in his music than other people. He could use a little trouble, in Ilya's opinion. What good is money and access if you don’t take advantage of it?

"Go, find her and put on your special dress!" He tells Margot, "Your Papa told us you were giving a fashion show."

She nods rapidly and fights against Vik's grip. This time he releases her, and she toddles up the stairs with roughly the same tempo and grace as Ilya had the front steps.

"Thank you," Vik says, moving deeper into the house.  

In the kitchen, Nyström perches on the counter with a half-empty beer bottle resting on his thigh. He watches the branches of the giant, leafless willow tree out back sway in the icy March wind. Poletti sits on a barstool, scrolling through his phone with furrowed brows. It'd been a shitshow of a presser after the Bears' loss to Carolina, but he's going to have to lose the dour expression before parading around for tonight's donors.

It's not unusual for all five of them to hang out. They're not co-dependent (outside him and Cliff), but they’re eternally tethered: the last players who won the Cup together in 2013. Despite this, tension thrums through their normally easy-going, fun-loving group. Something is off. Vik hasn't even cracked a smile since letting them in.

"Fucking finally," Nyser mutters, hopping down from the counter. "If you two make us late—"

"We won't be late," Cliff cuts him off. "Vik, go ahead."

Ah. Of course.

Though he still wears the C, Ilya is no longer in the circle. He's a step removed, outside the glass, left in the dark. It's not the loss haunting them, but Ilya himself.

"What is this?" He asks, voice tight. Fuck this. If they want to conspire behind his back, then—

"Breathe, Roz," Polly catches Ilya's defenses going up. "Not an intervention."

Ilya swears he hears Marly whisper 'yet' behind his back, but it's garbled enough for deniability. "Then it is what? Friendly chat?"

Nyser rolls his eyes. "I told you he would flip if we didn't clue him in."

"Fine! You were right! Please be quiet and listen," Vik moans, hand covering his eyes. "God, I'm not old enough to be dealing with this."

"Aren't you thirty-one?"

"Crisse de câlisse, sit down!" St-Simon barks, too loud.

Ilya is the only one who does not comply, even when confronted with St-Simon's withering glare. He shifts his weight entirely to his good leg and defiantly crosses his arms. Upstairs, the guitar has quieted, as have the duo of women's voices.

"We're not hiding anything," he continues after a deep breath. "But I'm never sure how to mention Hollander around you and needed to be away from the rink when we did."

Ilya has never been so thankful to be already pissed off. It’s much easier to hide his reaction behind a mask of irritation. "What about Hollander? He spooked himself with little kitten spat in Toronto, yes?"

Marlow looks disappointed in him. What does he expect? Ilya to offer his heart on a silver platter to his teammates? He's been playing this game for too long and too well to know any other way.

"See, that’s exactly it. All of this," St-Simon waves his hand in a vague circle around Ilya, "has to stop. I don't care what your history is. Like it or not, Hollander is a Bear and you know better than anyone how we protect our own. This is a delicate fucking situation, Roz."

"What situation?" As if Ilya doesn't know. As if he hadn’t held his partner tightly in the safety of their bed, skin to skin, keeping the panic at bay. As if he hadn't kept vigil at Shane’s side on the couch while he dissociated, irises black and dull even in the light of the fire.

"Hollander is gay," Poletti answers.

"Allegedly," Marlow quickly adds. Ilya softens a little at his friend's loyalty, protecting him and Shane even when he's known the truth for months.

"Allegedly," St-Simon acknowledges, "but we have to operate as if it is true, because every bigot in the league already is."

"And how do you know this?" Ilya probes.

"First, because he's been getting his ass handed to him all week, in case you missed that. And second, because I was in the Q with Gilbert Comeau and two weeks ago, he started a group chat with all our former teammates. No matter that we hated each other’s guts. His only goal was to put Hollander’s business on blast and spread the rumor as fast as possible." 

From the blank stares of the men present, that information is not just news to Ilya. St-Simon's known for two weeks. What the fu—

"You didn't mention anything until Detroit," Nyström says.

"Why would I?" St-Simon defends himself, accent strengthening as emotions run high. "It's not my business. It's certainly none of yours."

"We could've done something sooner," Nyström responds, but it's a weak argument and he knows it.

"Yes, like go to him and say: 'Oh, hello Hollander. Welcome to the team. I know you jump any time someone speaks to you, but in case you’re curious, there's at least one other skater of unsubstantiated sexuality among us and it's your bloodsworn rival. Congrats.'" Poletti deadpans into the silent kitchen.

For several long moments, the table remains quiet. Until Cliff snorts, covering his mouth with a hand to hide his grin. It dispels the worst of the tension. Vik's shoulders, which had crawled towards his ears, drop to their normal place. 

"Yeah. Maybe not that," Nyser relents. "It seems it’s only being spread amongst players so far, but that can change fast. Plus, Vik's point still stands, Roz. The way you move is how the team moves."

Ilya doubts that's true anymore, not with the way Vik and Polly have taken charge in his absence.

"So you want me to nicely play with Hollander?" He drawls.

Oops, Marly's disappointed face is back. Apparently, that's too much innuendo for his sheltered American mind. It’s Nyser's turn to laugh, a short staccato bursting across the tiles. Vik's weary expression returns as fast as it’d left. Polly's lips flatten, attempting to suppress a smile.

It's not often Ilya appreciates the English language and it's stupid, easily broken rules.

"Eh. Close enough," Vikky sighs. "Play nice. We know you aren't targeting him for that reason, but others won’t."

"Yes, yes. Okay," Ilya groans, finally letting himself slump into one of the kitchen chairs. Shit. He's drained and they still have a long night of smiling and kissing ass ahead of them. "I promise to be nice, at least in front of team."

"Oh, God no," Cliff interjects, "No one is asking you to be nice. That would look much weirder."

Now Ilya's lost. "You just said—"

"Play nice. Don't go out of your way to pick on him. Just be yourself… but less… towards him… specifically."

"This makes no sense. Polly, tell Cliff this makes no sense."

"That makes no sense."

Vik unceremoniously pours himself a drink. "I am so glad we're good at hockey.”

Chapter End Notes

Vik: We need to let Ilya know what's going on
Ilya: I know more than you

I adore an OC (or a minor character that I steal and say 'this is my toy now.') Reminder that if you need to keep an eye on the hockey boy flow chart, that's in the series' companion piece. Maybe I need to start adding WAGs/Better Halves in there as well...

I may go back and make a few edits (nothing plot-wise, just general cleaning up) before next chapter since I know there's a few things I missed. Thank you all as always <3 Until next time!!!