Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais & Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov & Shane Hollander

Characters:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Magical Realism, team as family (boston), unhealthy team dynamics (montreal), POV Multiple, Supportive Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, uh oh! something's awakening, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Omens & Portents, shane's unending worry over his continually perplexing rookies, the mundanity of the world is only worsened by the use of magic, asking the question: when does a crown become a cage, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais is trying his best but he's also dealing with a lot [homoerotic thoughts] so he's pretty bad at it, Ilya Rozanov loves the Boston Bears, the Boston Bears love Ilya Rozanov, Love Confessions, (round two because i can't help myself), the slow bleed of a man who has only just realized he's been injured all along, hypercompetent shane hollander, Hollanov Timeline Reveal, cursed shane hollander

Language:

English

Series:

Part 27 of heated rivalry masterlist, Part 5 of ghostly ghouls get game

Collections:

how dare you make me feel emotions (/pos)

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-10 Completed: 2026-07-09 Words: 59,551 Chapters: 4/4

as i was, how you were, what was there before me

Summary

It's kind of hilarious and tooth-rottingly sweet that the rookies are all so anxious over meeting Roz's girl. Or, wait, should it be his boy? Fuck, his Jane? Shit, Cliff doesn't fucking know. He probably should, though, but that's something to think about another day. He'll just stick with Roz's Jane for now—makes it easier for everyone, probably. Jane's been haunting Boston for for-fucking-ever, which, shit—he's definitely curious about how long their whole thing has been going on.

He glances over his shoulder, catching sight of Breezy's tense mouth, their nerves apparent as Los knocks his shoulder into Ovi's; all three are muttering together, clearly anxious for tonight to go well.

Still, how they're standing itches at him. There’s something… off about the rookies.

OR: Boston welcomes Montreal on their home turf. Movie night beckons in the aftermath. The rookies' questions aren't the only wheel of fortune that's turning.

Chapter 1: put in love, put in hours, put in ceremony

Chapter Notes

There’s something… off about the rookies. 

Cliff clocks it as soon as he enters the locker room, the fading notes of Panda welcoming him in before Carmie's pick of fucking When I Grow Up starts blasting through the speakers. Someone whoops excitedly, the noise echoing off the walls, and Cliff's absolutely not going to ask about the almost-erotic hip swiveling that the entire third line is doing in the name of warm-ups. Duzek, in particular, is really getting into it. 

Across the room, under the Boston Bears banner, Con grins from his usual place before his stall, his head tilted in to mutter to Sainty, but the typical gaggle of babies is huddled in a corner, far from their normal position of harassing the vets. 

He squints at the duo, who shrug, before Sainty mouths nervous at him, the corner of his mouth kicking up, clear fondness sweeping through his expression. In support, Con wiggles his eyebrows, grinning broadly, and then presses a hand to his forehead and pretends to swoon. Cliff rolls his eyes even as he nods, understanding rushing through as he turns back to his stall to hide the smirk that appears on his face. 

It's kind of hilarious and tooth-rottingly sweet that the rookies are all so anxious over meeting Roz's girl. Or, wait, should it be his boy? Fuck, his Jane? Shit, he doesn't fucking know. He probably should, though, but that's something to think about another day. He'll just stick with Roz's Jane for now—makes it easier for everyone, probably. Jane's been haunting Boston for for-fucking-ever, which, shit—he's definitely curious about how long their whole thing has been going on. 

He glances over his shoulder, catching sight of Breezy's tense mouth, their nerves apparent as Los knocks his shoulder into Ovi's; all three are muttering together, clearly anxious for tonight to go well. 

It's almost stupid how glad he is that they're here. That these three rooks in particular are the ones who've gotten to learn this earth-shattering secret. He thinks it probably boils down to how the babies’ earnestness and genuine delight make him especially glad they've got them in the room, rather than some of the assholes who've been on the team before. He doesn't particularly like punching his teammates in the face, but he likes homophobes even less than that; it's no skin off his back to see a little in-house justice doled out, despite how annoyed it would make their coach. More so because the assholes wouldn't just shut the fuck up, but also because Cliff wouldn't ever let it fucking go. It definitely doesn't help that Roz doesn't let it go either—Boston's definitely gained a reputation for trading out their shittier people these past few years. But, even with that, it’s always a gamble with the rooks, so he’s glad to have these three. 

Fuck. He should’ve listened when Svetlana told him he was getting mushy in his old age. 

“Dude,” Smithy says, yanking him from his meandering thoughts as he tosses his bag down. He appears behind him like he's been fucking lurking in the eaves for his arrival, the goddamn weirdo. “Kayla's been complaining to Shan about your fucking tweets, so I think I'm supposed to tell you to take ‘em down.” 

Cliff doesn't really try to hide his laugh, glancing over his shoulder to meet Smithy's eyes. “Now, why the fuck do I think you're not gonna do that?” 

“Because I wanna see you follow through, jackass,” Smithy says, mirth clear in his voice. “And no one in admin knows what to do with you. Kayla said that someone started getting fuckin’ weird about it, so she straight up asked him if he was a homophobe, and glared him down until he shut up.” 

Cliff laughs, shaking his head. “Kayla's gonna have this place by the balls before she finishes her year out,” he says, and raises a brow when Smithy's grin gets even wider, his gaze darting away before returning. “What?” 

Smithy tips his head towards Roz, who's leaning against the wall, a familiar smirk on his face as he texts, and Cliff swallows down the urge to heckle him for grinning like a dumbass. He squints at him, considering it, before deciding that, nah, he’ll let him live. Though it's just for tonight, since it’s such a big one—he's absolutely giving him shit for it later. He just definitely doesn't want to meet Roz's Jane with a black fucking eye from chirping. At least not from Roz. If a Metro punches him, he'll wear it like a badge of honor.

“Svetlana's apparently gonna take the girls out on Saturday as some favor for Cap, and somehow Kayla got invited, so god knows what the fuck the PR department is going to have to deal with on Monday,” Smithy says, dragging his attention back. “I wouldn't want to be the person facing down Kayla after she's through with her. Svetlana could tell me to step in front of a bus, and I'd do it—do you think it's like some Russian trait that they all have to be deeply charming and persuasive assholes?” 

Cliff shrugs. “I think it's the Boston air making ‘em that way,” he says, with a grin. “God knows that I was an angel before this city corrupted me and turned me into a dickhead. Hey, watch the fucking goods—” He catches the mitten someone lobs at his head with a laugh and tosses it across the room, ignoring Vostel’s annoyed grumbling as it lands on his shit, before he turns back to look at Smithy. “And why the fuck is Kayla going? Doesn't she already have enough terrorizing capabilities in her heart? Svetlana's just gonna make her fucking scarier.” 

“Svetlana and Kayla are fucking,” Carmie says, appearing out of nowhere. He's got an odd drawing of a half-rainbow, half-smudge streaked over his heart, something that Cliff pokes at, only to huff when his hand's slapped away. “Do you even pay attention to the newsletter she sends out?”

Cliff blinks, vaguely surprised. He figured Svetlana wasn't the type—although if she could make fun of Roz, she'd definitely do it. “Svetlana sends out a newsletter?” 

Carmie arches a brow at him and shakes his head, wordless disappointment clear on his face. “You know, I got permission from Jenine to ask if you wanted to make out at center ice for Pride Night, but never fucking mind. ‘Does Svetlana send out a newsletter?’—of fucking course she doesn't. Kayla does; she sends one out every month. They're official somehow, but she only sends ‘em to the WAGs and us. Haven't you been paying attention to those fuckin’ emails? They're pretty funny.” 

“That's only because you're not getting called out in it,” Vostel mutters as he brushes past them, heading out into the hallway as Feller shuffles in, a rainbow on his chest too. Smithy snorts when Cliff frowns, vaguely confused. He thought that newsletters were like fun, friendly things. What the hell is Vos getting called out for?

“No one emails these days,” Roz says from across the room, his eyes still on his phone, before Cliff can figure out how to reply. He's not exactly sure if admitting that he's been avoiding all of Kayla's emails since she started in on his ass at the end of last season will win him any favors. Probably not, given the looks already being slid his way. “Snapchat is the way to communicate.” 

“Roz, Snapchat is for, like, hook-ups and the shitty dog filters and flower crowns,” Sebbin says, tossing an arm over Carmie's bare shoulders. He also has a smudged little rainbow over his heart, and fuck, Cliff definitely should have read his emails. This absolutely wasn’t in a group chat; the last thing they’d talked about was ranking the team’s Dunks orders. Mamrie from their fourth line had come in last place for his befuddling order of lemonade and cold brew—mixed together, which Cliff is still gagging over—and like six orders of their eggs on the side. He apparently eats them cold, the fucking freak. “Management sort of reaches out through email, you know? It's important.” 

Cliff ignores the looks the three of them are leveling at him and nods at the rainbows. He just needs to get through this game and avoid Kayla, and then it'll be fucking fine. It'll all be fucking fine. Who cares if he's threatened like twenty-seven men online with kisses? Who cares if he told some asshole from Nowheresville, USA that he was gonna kiss him sloppy-style on the mouth? He doesn't even know what sloppy-style is, but the first guy he'd said it to had been so fucking pissed about it that he's been using it ever since. And, besides, no one from management has spoken to him about it. And he has an ace in his pocket: if they tell him to stop, he’ll call discrimination. They can’t make him stop if they think he’s maybe gay, or bisexual, or whatever. He’s got this in the fuckin’ bag; he can absolutely be gay online, and who knows? He's never kissed a dude. Maybe he would like it. If he hadn't known about Jane, he'd ask Roz to show him the ropes—objectively, the man's hot as fuck. Shit, he'd ask Jane for help too, if he didn't know that Roz would kill him for real about it. They haven't even really met him, and Cap's already territorial as hell about him, bragging about perfect Hollander in their team chat and bullying anyone who so much as mentions finding him attractive because he's a goddamn terror. 

He shakes his head, dragging his attention back to the locker room and gestures a hand at the rainbows he can see, arching brow. “Showing support tonight?” 

“It was Con's idea,” Smithy says, tugging up his shirt to show a rainbow. Somehow it's pristine, and Cliff can just tell he's smug as hell about it. “Said something about how even though it's hidden, support is still support for Cap and Jane.”

He nods and yanks his shirt off, glancing around for whoever's drawing the little rainbows—he can't wait to kick Montreal's ass with a little bit of gay. “Who the fuck—oh shit.” 

“Hi, Cliff,” Kayla says, her lips curving into a satisfied grin as she wiggles her fingers at him from the doorway, ten little markers clenched in her other hand. Vos edges back into the room, a rainbow over his heart, clearly trying his best to keep a wide berth around Kayla as she smirks menacingly at Cliff. 

She's dressed like she's going to kill him—sleek, fitted black slacks on, a deep golden satin shirt, her sky-high heels, blood-red lipstick slashed across her mouth—and then go to work; able to easily explain why he's a liability and it's good that he's gone and buried. Fuck, he always forgets how lethal she gets on game days—he's such an idiot for posting earlier today. “Get your ass over here.” 

“No?” he says, glancing around for help, only to groan when everyone pointedly steps back, clearing his way towards her. “Fucking—fuck me, fine.” 

Kayla smirks at him as he stomps his way over to her, shivering at the dark look in her eyes. 

“So,” she says, as he follows her out into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind them. She gestures for him to step into better lighting, and he listens, standing still underneath the bright glow, waiting as she carefully uncaps the first of her markers. Her voice is half-searching, half-tease, and not for the first time, Cliff's struck by how goddamn glad he is to be on this team, to have this city as his home. As scared of Kayla as he is, it's only because she's probably gonna ream him out, not because she's a bad person. “You bisexual now?” 

“Uh,” Cliff says, staring at the top of her head as she drags the first smear of purple over his skin. He has no idea how to actually answer that—it's not like he's done any self-reflecting in the last few weeks. Shit, maybe he should've thought about it outside of using it as an excuse to ragebait homophobic fans. Is he being a fucking homophobe if he calls out someone for being homophobic to him if he's maybe talking about kissing men, but he's not sure if he wants to? Like, he'd absolutely follow through for the bit, but does that actually make him bi? Fuck, maybe he's erasing bisexuals like Svetlana's talked about. Goddammit, being supportive is harder than he thought; every time he thinks he has it down, there goes his understanding, sending his ass flying. “Maybe? Or, well, uh, I dunno? What makes someone bi?” 

Kayla glances up at him, an unimpressed look on her face. “Do you want to make out with men? Sleep with ‘em? Touch a dick or two?” 

Cliff hums, tipping his head back against the wall. “I can think of worse things,” he says, paying only half-hearted attention to what he's saying as he tries to untangle his thoughts. He clenches his hand around his shirt, rubbing his fingers over the fabric. “I mean, like, hello, have you seen Roz? Who wouldn't want to kiss him?” 

“Me,” Kayla mutters dryly, winking when he rolls his eyes at her. “Since I sort of only want to kiss girls.” She clicks her tongue as she swipes another color across his chest. “You don't have to have an answer, Marleau. I just want to know how truthful your intentions are with those guys online. Because right now it almost seems like you soft-launched being bisexual via fucking kissing threats on goddamn Twitter. And no one is really treating them seriously, but it also could make you seem homophobic as hell, like you're just doing it for the bit.” She hums, shaking her head. “Even with your past contributions to clearly pro-LGBTQ+ organizations. The judgment of the internet is forever, and often incredibly idiotic—I'm just annoyed that some people are acting like you killed someone and boasted about it in the office when you're just talking about kissing a dude.” She's quiet for a second, another color swiping over his skin, before she sighs, loud and annoyed, “Fucking Brent.”

She lifts her head, meeting his eyes. “And if you do need the support because you're coming out, I'm here. I'm not gonna let the Bears sideline your experiences even if you didn't come to the PR team and instead openly spoke about them in the most insane way possible because you live for messy, messy drama.” 

“Right,” Cliff manages, even though he has no idea what she's really saying, before he brightens. “Dude, you and Svetlana? Hell fucking yeah.” 

Kayla snorts, and he shakes his head. “I’m being fuckin’ for real,” he says, grinning at her when she rolls her eyes, dragging the fourth color over his chest. “She’s a fuckin’ catch.” 

“What am I, chopped liver?” she snarks back, even as she bites down her broad grin. “And we’re just hooking up—neither of us wants a relationship with the other, so it’s all just for,”—she gestures, almost dragging a streak of orange across his entire chest—“you know, fun.” 

“Sure,” he says agreeably, even though he sort of wants to pry. The two of them together sound hot as fuck—not that he wants to like, objectify either of them. He just can't help thinking about it—they're both hot, it's the literal truth. Sue him for noticing. “She's fun as hell.”

She smirks at him, smugness radiating from her. “Oh, I've heard about the shit you two have gotten up to,” she says, tilting her head. “And Svetlana is for the girls, so you'd better watch it, or I will blackmail you with her.” 

Cliff snorts, grinning at her. “Damn, and I already thought you were fuckin’ lethal without.” He eyes her for another beat, hesitating as she pauses, her brows drawing up. 

“You okay?” she asks, tilting her head. “Cause I won't actually blackmail you with your sexual deviancy, if you're worried about that.” She crosses her heart with a quick flick of her fingers; clearly practiced at swearing oaths. “And if you're into freaky shit, I promise I'll be chill. No rumors shall leave my mouth, Marleau—unless you're cool with it.”

He laughs, shaking his head, touched at the thought of her protecting him. “No, it's—I have a stupidly personal question.” She points at herself, narrowly missing smearing red across her chin, and Cliff sighs, shrugging. “It's for anyone who's uh, gay. Lesbian.” He wiggles a hand. “Not straight, you know?” 

“Sure,” she says agreeably, whipping a tissue out from her pockets and blotting the ink on his chest dry before Cliff can even blink. “You gonna ask or are you just gonna waste my time?” 

“Are you sure—” 

“Cliff,” she says, capping her markers and stepping back, her heels clicking in the empty hallway, the low murmur of the locker room spilling out from under the closed doors beside them. She tucks a lock of her smooth brown hair behind her ear, her mouth curled into a soft half-smile, her eyes kind above her full cheeks. “Ask. The worst thing I'll say is I don't want to answer it.” 

Cliff exhales, his head knocking back against the wall. “Right,” he says, and moves his gaze away from her face. He's pretty sure it'll only make him more self-conscious to see her watch him fumble with stupidity. “Uh. So. Hypothetically. Like—okay. Say you have someone who was maybe recently outed,” he starts, pitching his voice low. The last thing in the world he wants is to be caught sort of but not really spilling the beans. “And then you’re getting to meet their uh, partner soon. Is it—like is it kosher to apologize for being present in the forced outing that outed both of ‘em? Like I didn't out them, but I was there for it, and I feel kinda really bad about knowin’, even though I also think that it's sick as hell that—hm. That they can be themselves around me? I dunno if I'm explaining this right. I just—I wanna be supportive in the aftermath ‘cause I am supportive but also because being outed was real, uh, shitty. Cause, you know, they were outed.” 

He sighs, letting his gaze slide from the painted Bears logo on the opposite wall back to Kayla's face. She's watching him with her arms crossed, a serious expression on her face. 

“I dunno,” Cliff says, gesturing. “It's just sort of like—what can I do besides be there? It feels like I should be doing way more, you know? Like, it was a violation that they got outed even though everything went well.”

She steps forward, reaching out to touch his elbow, the pressure of her fingertips light and careful, as if he's breakable. 

“All you can do,” she says, her whole face solemn, “is be there for them. You can't take away the fear they had—and you shouldn't try to. It's a lot of people's worst nightmare to be outed, and even when it ends happily, the burden of having the choice taken from you can fucking stick with you for a really long time—for forever, because it happened. As a friend—hell, even as an acquaintance—all you can do is linger in the eaves and listen and be there for them until they're ready to share with the world as a whole, if they ever are.” She shrugs, the right corner of her mouth quirking up. “It's sort of just like anything else bad that happens to a friend. I know it can feel more fraught because it's something that was shared without consent, but it doesn't change that you're their friend and you love them.” 

“But,” Cliff starts and then pauses. He really doesn't have anything else to add, aside from his already stated want to fucking help. It's just so fucking shitty, and Roz hasn't—he's open enough for Cliff to know that he appreciates the support, but Cliff's not sure that he's aware of how much support he's got. If Roz asked, the whole team would do just about anything. 

Kayla hums, tilting her head. “You're a good friend,” she says, patting his arm. “I think it's more likely that you'll drown ‘em in support than leave them feeling abandoned.” She meets his gaze. “And if they're on the Bears, then they've always got back up from me.” 

“Thanks,” Cliff says, after a beat, before he frowns. “Now I feel even more shitty for dodging your emails.” 

She laughs, bright and loud, the sound echoing down the hall. “I'll take it,” she says easily, her hand sliding off his arm as she steps back, narrowing her eyes at him. “But, for real—stop avoiding my fucking emails. I send them for a reason—even the sillier and more vulgar ones—and it's to foster a culture of inclusion and support.” 

Cliff blinks at her before he tugs his shirt back on. “How much arguing did it take for you to get approved for the newsletter?” 

“Dude, so fuckin’ much,” she says, grinning at him. She’s so smugly pleased that Cliff almost feels bad for the PR office, before common sense returns. “Good thing I spent so much time in debate society at BU, you know? They weren't fuckin’ prepared.” 

“I bet,” he mutters, warmed through by the tendrils of care she shows. “Thanks for not killing me,” he says, meeting her eyes. “And for, uh, answering my questions.” 

“Anytime,” she says, smiling at him. “And you know, your little rainbows? They're very cute.” A faint smirk plays around the corners of her mouth. “Very, uh, supportive,” she says. “Since you were the last to need them, aside from Cap, who seems not to be paying attention to this very clearly organized—” 

The doors fly open, cutting her off as Roz steps out into the hallway, his shirt off and dangling from his fingers. 

“Kayla,” he says, a broad grin on his face. He looks genuinely delighted, unable to suppress any of the glee shining through. “Light of my life.” 

“Whoever taught you that stupid phrase that owes me a million dollars,” she mutters, and Cliff can only watch as Roz's mouth softens into a more genuine smile before she shakes her head. “Let me guess, you want a rainbow too, Cap?” 

“Yes,” he says eagerly. “Yes, please. One bigger and better than these fakers.” 

“As payment, will you please stop taunting fans of other teams by finding and posting edits of them getting their shit demolished by us to We Are Number One?” she asks, already uncapping her markers, as Cliff snorts, pushing off the wall. 

“I make them too,” Roz says proudly, as if that makes it better, and grins even brighter when he and Kayla groan in unified, horrified tandem. 

“I'm gonna do my usual lap,” Cliff mutters, rolling his eyes when they both wave him off as Roz immediately starts to try to negotiate about being allowed to post at least one a week—specifically the one he’s created, which, now that Cliff’s thinking about it, some of them are way more technical about the other teams on-ice failures and rudely accurate than others. The one Roz reposted of Hunter hitting the boards only to be intercut with genuinely good critique of the Admirals' passing and dinosaur facts had to have been made by him. He kinda feels like an idiot for not realizing sooner. 

The fading echo of their voices—both clearly having the time of their life, since nine times out of ten Kayla does think that their shitposting is funny, even as it drives her crazy and makes the PR department spiral—follows him down the hallway until he takes a sharp right and heads for the quieter parts of the Garden. 

He almost always takes a lap before their home games, just needing a moment to steady himself in the rush of anticipation. He mulls over everything that’s bubbling in his stomach, trying to pack most of his thoughts and worries away until there’s just the rush of hockey, hockey, hockey. 

He sighs, coming to a slow stop, and leans back, his head knocking against the cement wall. Goddamn it’s cold down here—he should’ve grabbed a sweatshirt, rather than just his compression shirt, but that would’ve involved going back inside the locker room, and he knows he would’ve been sucked into another gossip session. 

He almost wishes he had done it anyway. He just—shit. He has so much to think about, and Con and Sainty have that weird dance that they’re doing, so he thinks that maybe they’d be down to answer some of his questions about how to best support Roz. He should be better about it anyway, since his niece, Leigh-Ann, is always on his ass about being curating a more supportive workplace despite his claims that no one on his team is gay. Shit, he was totally wrong. He should’ve listened to her. Because she somehow knew, he guesses? Or, maybe she was just doing that thing she does when she just wants everyone to be gay? Shit, he doesn’t know. 

Fuck, he’s really awful at shoving all his shit away today; something that’s unsurprising, but still unwelcome. He's gotta bottle it down. Roz will never let him forget it if he fucks up because he's thinking about—

His thoughts stutter out. 

There’s a man at the end of the hall, staring at him. 

It's not the first time he's stumbled over an odd soul in his walks, but this is the first person who's stopped to just stare at him. 

Cliff straightens up, his brow furrowing as he gets a better look at the guy. In the shitty overhead light, it almost looks like his eyes are an odd, filmy grey, the lines of his face creased with age. He definitely doesn't look like any of the usual staff he sees down here—it doesn't even look like he's got a lanyard or an ID dangling from his waist. 

“Uh,” Cliff says, blinking at him. “Hey, man. What—are you lost?” The guy shakes his head, which, okay—at least he seems lucid? He has no idea how to talk to old people. They always make him nervous, as if he's gonna somehow offend them simply by existing and then be lectured about the ye proper olden days like his grandma used to when he was a kid. “You supposed to be down here, then?” Cliff asks, frowning when the guy shrugs, before he rocks back on his heels and ambles around the corner. 

For a moment, Cliff doesn't move, still staring at the space the stranger had been in, before he darts forward, glancing down the hallway the man had headed down. 

It's empty, the long stretch of concrete hollow of any other people. None of the doors dotting the hall are so much as drifting shut, and there's no echoing click of a latch. There aren't even any indents for the guy to have ducked into to hide, though Cliff's not sure why he would need to. 

Instead, it's just him, staring down the sterile white hallway, listening to the buzz of the lights. 

He blinks at the emptiness. 

That’s—hm. 

He doesn’t like that one bit. Hates it, actually, if he’s being honest about it. Hates it enough to not call out, just listening to his quiet breathing. It's almost like how the air feels right before a lightning strike—static electricity filling the dead air.

He lingers for longer than he needs to, scanning top to bottom slowly, as if the guy is going to drop down from behind the pipes he can see lining the ceiling, as if there’s another answer aside from some random fucking man disappearing into the goddamn walls of TD Garden. 

But no, the hallway stays still and empty, completely devoid of movement. 

He gives it a beat, and then another just to be sure, before he turns on his heel and heads back for the locker room, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder and see if someone’s watching him go. He doesn’t feel like there are eyes on him, something that makes his skin crawl a little. 

He refuses to run on sheer principle alone, but man, he hates whatever the fuck just happened. 

As soon as he gets back to their hallway, he glances at the humming voltage box that sits outside the locker room, halfway down the hall—the one that tracks the fluctuations in the magical reverb—just to see if it's pinged any higher than usual, only to groan at the bright red light. He almost forgot they were playing fucking Montreal—the fucking second Hollander steps into any arena, all flux reverb trackers max out. 

It's crazy how much of Montreal's arcane thread is stitched into the man. The reverb always jumps when Pike and Boiziau enter, drifting up into yellows from the standard green that it sits at unless someone's casting something huge at them, which he's never seen. 

It's weird as fuck too, because Hunter and Johannesburg don't spike the reverb tracker like Hollander does; all of New York or Toronto's first and second lines have to be here for it to climb into the red.

Truly, Cliff has no idea how the man plays such good fucking hockey when he apparently has to carry around so much goddamn weight. He sort of gets it, in the way that the rinks lock down all magic at the games, so Hollander’s unburdened for about two hours, but still. He can't even imagine how insane practices must be. 

Fuck, but he's glad Boston drafted him. He'd go a little crazy if he had to worry about goddamn arcane weights tugging at his skates. 

“Marley,” Roz calls as soon as he steps back into the locker room. “How was your walk?” 

“Good,” he answers absentmindedly, before he remembers that—no, it really wasn't. He opens his mouth to fill Roz in, only to catch sight of his poorly suppressed excitement glittering in his eyes. 

Shit, he can always fill him in later. 

“Good,” Roz echoes, sharp-toothed happiness spilling across his face, before he turns to face the rest of the team. “Boston,” he says, his voice carrying just enough to grab the entire team’s attention in the easy way he’s always done. 

The room settles, everyone turning to watch as Roz straightens up, predatory, lethal intent in his entire body. 

“We are going to win tonight,” he says, slow and certain. “Montreal will be dust beneath our feet, yes? Shavings beneath our blades. We are going to ruin every single one of their lives.” 

“Even Hollander’s?” someone asks, a waver in their voice. 

Roz smirks, fanged and dangerous. “Especially Hollander,” he murmurs, like it’s a gift. He rolls his shoulders back, the familiar pride of wearing Boston’s colors, of being a Bear, thrumming through the room. “You want to win?” he says, gritty amusement in his voice. “It’s not just me you need to impress anymore, boys. It’s Jane.” 

The room stills, everyone pausing for a beat, before Cliff groans and throws himself at his stall. “Shit, Cap,” he says. “Now everyone’s gonna skate like they’re drunk.” 

Roz laughs, bright and joyful, more genuine than Cliff has ever heard. 

“Well,” he says, tilting his head, when Cliff glances over his shoulder as he pulls his pads on, rolling his eyes at the smarmy grin playing around Roz’s mouth. “If we lose, no one can come over for movie night.” 

“Oh fuck you,” Carmie shouts, and pandemonium breaks loose as everyone starts to boo, arguing and annoyed, but above it all, Roz’s laugh rises again, loud and boisterous and happy, like all his dreams have just come true. 

Chapter End Notes

hello and welcome everyone to the movie night fic! so delighted to share this with you :)

some people have asked if this will be a happy ending for this verse and the answer is yes, ofc! i totally get the urge for hurt/no comfort sometimes, but it's not something i can stomach writing with these two. also! some lovely commenters have asked if i plan on writing a primer for the world's magic. the short answer is no, sorry! the longer answer is that the murkiness is deliberate - sometimes people say things in this series and they might be wrong about it, because it's fun to write people who think they know what they're talking about. also, it's because all of this is written straight off the dome and then i go back through and read what i've already posted to make sure it all connects. sorry. my plotting of the series is verrrryyyy vague, though writing this fic gave me LOTS of thoughts. i do have plans for how this au would go through the end of the 2017 season at least, but again - that's all if my muse cooperates. which, prior to even really writing this chapter, i did make an especially stupid canva graphic of kayla's newsletter. i'm debating making a fic where i can dump nonsense in this verse that are just little drabbles that are fun to mess around with/the canva pic.

i hope people enjoyed a glimpse into cliff's pov. jj is next, and then ilya, and then shane. boston is sooooo endearing to write, and the locker room vibes are SO different from montreal. let me tell you, the third line is NOT dancing in montreal. they are doing... other things. less fun things.

next chapter is already written out and will be posted soon (weds at the latest!)! jj will be ruminating on jealousy, the arcane structure of montreal, and the way everyone (even [maybe especially] him!) is #obsessed with shane hollander.

as always, feel free to find me on twit and tumblr!

Chapter 2: when it's too soon to quit thinking, too late to change anything

Chapter Notes

The thing about the Boston visitors' locker room is that it's stupidly nice to be in, unlike the majority of other teams in the league.

The room itself is fairly typical: a locker room stuffed full of bodies, wooden benches scattered around the edges, a sound system blasting Andropov's pump up playlist, the slightly too small stalls, the tinge of sweat and rubber and ice that never seems to get filtered out of the air. The black and gold walls are annoying, but he feels that way about all visitors' locker rooms they're shunted into; nothing will ever be as sweet as Montreal's Bell Centre. 

JJ would never say that Boston's comfortable, but he knows just how much of a difference the tiny things can make. How much better it feels to start in a room that's cleansed of the bullshit weight that can come from too many layered wards—which Tampa, their next stop, is notorious for—and how easier it is to skate out without the formidable pressure of pointed anti-cheating wards that get anchored over visitor locker rooms—Los Angeles is smothered in them, which Shane always complains about, despite the standard NHL anti-cheating wards. Not only that, but he knows how easy it can be for the facilities manager to have the visitor rooms “slip” their minds in just a general way. God knows it's what their facilities guy, Geoffrey, always says when rumors swirl about how shitty the Bell Centre ones are. 

But, in Boston, the best part is that there’s none of the sodden, latent press of discomfort that emerges when they're in New York or Toronto. No sigils are built in around the weight of a team's magic or the force of withholding every possibility ever; no, in Boston, it's just the usual guard rails of very simple protection in place. 

He can only imagine how imposing the Bell Centre feels when it's an opposing team. Considering it's their magic, even to him, the wards feel like dry ice sometimes; burningly chilled against the skin. He has no idea how Shane can stand the weight on his shoulders, not when it stings so much. 

The trickle down to his shoulders is more than enough—especially since he's well fucking aware that Shane's trying to keep a fuckin’ lid on the leak through. Most Captains, he assumes—though really he has no idea because Vaughn has always been tight-lipped about New York, the fucking weirdo, and he doesn't fuck around with anyone from Toronto—use their alternates to lighten their load. 

Not Shane. 

Shane treats every bleedthrough that starts from him like a personal moral failing, though he never says a word when he gets his or Hayden's bleedthroughs. 

For all JJ knows, all of Shane's dreams could be echoes of the visions JJ's already seen—but it's not like Shane lets them know about his dreams. He hardly even lets them in on his visions, absolutely silent about any that involve him, and only sometimes does he share ones about their teammates. 

JJ can count on one hand the number of times Shane's ever willingly come to him with a request for help dealing with the dangling sword of prophecy. 

Last night had made it four. 

But charmbags are serious enough for Shane to need more eyes, and he also likes to think that he and Hayden have made some sort of headway with the sharing of the load conversation, so maybe this is a step in the right direction. 

For someone so deeply tangled in prophetic strings, sometimes JJ feels bad for also having no idea what the fuck he's doing. He’s pretty sure that the only person who’s ever read through the full depth of their paperwork is Shane, and even then, there have to be bits and pieces that have fallen through. Even Shane cannot hold the entirety of the Metros’ contract with the NHL and then their contracts with their players in his head, despite his attempts to. 

And JJ’s tried to keep up. It’s just that one thing slips, and then another, and then suddenly the boundaries of their magic are changing in these tiny, important ways as shit gets revised internally, and every time he thinks about bringing it up to Shane, he thinks about how much he doesn’t get, and it’s—it doesn’t feel fucking good to have that gap. But when he tries to figure it out by himself, it’s still basically useless—like why the fuck would he care about the exact diameters of both the Bell Centre and their practice rink? The only reason that would ever matter would be if he tried to curse the fucking place, and he’s sure as hell not going to. 

Or, he guesses, if someone wanted to know the best places to charmbag shit, the exact warding dimensions are something to pay attention to. 

He bites back a curse and glances around the room, taking in the sprawl of players against the black and yellow, but everything seems business as usual. Even without Shane in the room yet, there’s a familiar sliver of tension at the growing divide through the core of the team. The cracks had started years ago, but only recently have they really come to light; the crumbling canyon of those who think of themselves as untouchable, and everyone else who’s in tune with reality. 

Shane, he knows, is aware of it, but JJ doesn’t think he knows that people outside of him and Hayden do actually support him. The younger crew—Laine, Taylor, and Berkes, and the rookies, at least—all seem to be growing more and more tired of the odd faction that circles Comeau, Drapeau, and Cardot. 

He’s not even really sure what the fuck the three of them are doing, with their stupidly loud slurs and their inflated egos, but he knows it hasn’t been good for ages; he's, in fact, too ashamed to examine when exactly the divide started happening because he’s fairly certain it’s been happening for way longer than he wants to acknowledge. 

Because confronting that means that no one on the team had had Shane’s back for far too long—himself included. Hayd doesn't count, but it's only because the whole team knows that he's Shane's. He's been Shane's since he convinced Shane to go out exactly once their first year on the team together and met Jackie that night, and then he’d promptly become entangled in a shared custody agreement between Cap and her. 

Whipped, the guys like to say when Shane makes Hayden stay late and help clean up, like it isn't a totally normal thing for captains and alternates to do. He assumes they’re saying it about him when he stays late to help, too, but it always irks him to hear the shit they say about Hayd. Even when he’s muttered for them to knock it off a few times, watching the way Shane’s shoulders get tighter when he overhears them, they just snap back with stupider shit; Hollywood doesn't need a girlfriend when he's got Pike panting at his feet. 

And, if he's being honest with himself, JJ's never really tried all that hard to argue with them about it. For too long, he thought it was a genuine joke—because everyone can see that Hayden's fucking gone on Jackie, and really, if Shane were to want a boyfriend, JJ hopes he'd pick someone better than Hayden fucking Pike, like maybe someone who's actually been invited to the All Star games in the past—and then, by the time JJ realized it wasn't being said in jest, it'd become an ingrained habit of the worst offenders. 

Really, at this point, JJ’s paying penance for his sins of being silent in the face of the crueler jokes that started back when Shane was still finding his footing on the team, when he knew they were sharper than they should be. Hazing, he’d been told the single time he’d mentioned any sort of discomfort to a vet who was on his way out, was a useful tool to see who broke under it. 

Fuck them, though. Shane has never broken. Not even when the team had set a grudge-ghost on Hayden, just to see what he’d do. They hadn’t wanted to risk damaging Shane, for all their shitty takes on ‘testing him’, so Hayden had been picked as Shane’s clear friend. 

JJ’s pretty sure Shane won’t fucking forgive him if he ever finds out, even though he’d only been told in the aftermath, when Drapeau was drunk as shit, so it’s another secret between them. Hayden, he’s pretty sure, suspects, but JJ knows him well enough to know that he won’t risk asking—he can’t lie to Shane, not like JJ can. 

Maybe Hollywood actually will save his boyfriend, was actually what had been said, according to Drapeau's slurred retelling two seasons ago, as the bar had spun woozily around JJ, his whole body breaking out into a cold sweat at the darkly amused look on Drapeau's face. Maybe he'll get emotional when true love is on the line. 

People had laughed, according to the story. The joke had been a real fucking hit in the locker room. JJ hadn't felt anything other than slow-growing horror hearing about the plan second hand, and a burning anger at the thought of it being encouraged. 

Oh, Theriault called it a training exercise when we brought up the idea of just, I dunno, figuring out what makes Hollywood tick, Drapeau had muttered, when JJ had carefully danced along outright asking. He’d watched the way Drapeau swayed drunkenly, his eyes clenched shut, leaning haphazardly on the bar, mouth still curved into the shitty, little smile. He just wanted plausible deniability but agreed that it was, you know, a good idea to test it and see if Hollywood actually had what it takes. Can't have our rebuild be led by someone who can't take hits, you know? We don't want fucking pansies on our team. He'd laughed, a dark, bruised-ego rumble of a sound. And shit, did it light a fire under Hollywood’s ass. 

He’d been fucking right, but JJ had also never seen Shane play as angry that season as he had. There had been a seething edge to every single play, a sharp undercurrent of displeasure; as much as Shane allowed to show, so JJ had to imagine that it had been roiling violently underneath. JJ had also known, then and there, standing in the bar, looking at Drapeau’s smug little rat-bastard face, that he wasn’t trusting any of the fuckers with his personal safety ever again. 

It wasn’t enough that it was just the players—they could (arguably, though JJ was not feeling it) be forgiven for their whole territorial shit. At least, for them, it made—limited, but still a bit of—sense. Of course, they wanted to test the generational player who was joining their team. Of course, there was a churning whirlpool of malice under Shane’s skates because no one on the Metros could keep up with him. 

He’s just too fucking good. 

But it’s the Theriault piece of it all that really turns JJ’s stomach. 

Coaches aren’t supposed to target players. Sure, JJ had run up against a few coaches who couldn’t stand him, but they still never knowingly allowed his teammates to throw him off the deep end. They’d begrudgingly even helped him when he was floundering at times; no one wants a goddamn hockey team full of people who can’t play the best hockey they possibly can. 

Except, Theriault runs the Metros like he’s Cerberus at the gates of hell. He cherrypicks favorites, he runs them all ragged, and he doesn’t fucking believe in Shane—not in a substantial way outside of him being fiendishly good at the game. Everyone knows Shane’s good at hockey; it’d be impossible not to. But JJ can’t believe how many people think that he’s not good at dealing with the arcane, how many people think he isn't a fucking leader. 

Theriault, especially; for a man who grew up in the circles of occultism, he’s sternly hands off with all their divination, and clearly disparaging of all of Shane’s firm handling. JJ can hardly deal with the shit that just barely settles on his shoulders; he can’t imagine having the full force of prognostication cinched in tight to his soul. 

He's heard the way Theriault shit-talks about all forms of magic, and it doesn't take a genius to know that he's just barely holding back from adding Shane's name to the long list of issues he has. 

It just makes everything all the more impossible to understand; JJ knows how much Shane carries, knows how much just having the A meant to him when he was a goddamn rookie, even as he was held up to such impossible standards. 

No one in charge has ever asked Shane what he wants; no one outside of Hayd and him has listened to the familiar sounds of Shane pacing in circles as he works through how to handle some of the worst bits that the visions have thrown at him. 

So, listening to Drapeau all those nights ago had grown roots of brambled aversion into his dealings with a lot of the old guard of the team. 

Because he'd been there. The people who are still so set on talking shit had also been there when the Bell Centre wards had dropped just enough—the flicker of coverage easily able to be written off as the hex team's idiotic fumbling—and the ouija board had been deliberately tampered with. 

They'd been there when that fucking thing had crawled out of the shadows and gone straight for Hayd's body, locked in on the rune someone had slipped into his shirt at some point over the day. 

It’s a good thing for the idiots who planned it that it's a well-known fact that ghosts and spectres go after the younger people in a room first; otherwise, its feral intensity would have given the whole stupid fucking plan away. For as long as JJ lives, he won't be able to forget the sharp, discordant crash of the wailing noise that the mass of shadows had made as the wraith slid out into the frozen players' lounge. That was almost the worst part, the way it had just suddenly been there, as if it was waiting on the edges, hungry for opportunity. Sometimes, even now, when he sleeps, he dreams of the way its crooked fingers had unfurled, the sharp-toothed maleficence that bubbled in its dead-eyed stare. It had sucked all the air out of the room as it rose onto too tall legs and towered over them, the pressure from its summoning through the board shattering a panel of windows as it had lunged straight for Hayden.

And Shane had—he’d fucking handled it. He hadn’t even been Captain, but Svetge had been fucking useless, so Shane had done the salt circle and said all the right words, and it had been—it had been fine. And no one had bothered him for the rest of the season—not just because his ire was fucking terrifying but also, because he’d been so fucking competent it’d almost been embarrassing to have not known what to do. 

It’s a common feeling around Shane Hollander, JJ has found over these years. He just doesn’t take it personally like so many of their teammates do.

He glances up when Shane enters, none of the conversations in the room petering off for once, and hides a grin beneath his hand when both of the rookies immediately sidle up to him, their faces creased in worry. 

He probably shouldn’t be so fucking glad that they’re bothering their Captain before a game, but it’s also sort of adorable to watch the kind yet utterly stern way that Shane manages them, as if they’re tiny fox kits rambling around his feet. 

Normally, at this point in the season, the newbies and the rookies would have drifted away from Shane and into the mess of the others, but the two rookies haven’t shown much want to turn away, and JJ knows for sure that the charmbag has freaked them both out.

Lugs had confessed, only to JJ—though JJ had promptly texted his group chat with Shane and Hayden—that he’d known about the charmbag too, because Winnie couldn’t keep his mouth shut. JJ hadn’t bothered reaming him out, especially since they both live together, and he’d instead just made sure that nothing weird had happened while the bag had been in their apartment. 

According to them, the only strange thing had been a strong craving for frozen strawberry margaritas and a seventeen-minute argument over who on the team is the worst dad. 

Don't worry, Lugs had texted when he'd asked for further clarification about the whole dad argument. We agreed you'd be a good dad. And everyone seems to hate how good of a dad Pike is. It's lowkey fucking hilarious and also super fucking sad. And we both know that Cap is like the Ultimate Dad. So. The bottom of the pack is the usual set of dickheads. Sorry. That's not professional. Can you please ignore that? If Winnie finds out I said that to an authority figure on the team, he's gonna take my head off. I'm supposed to be “setting an example” and “not starting shit” until we have a better lay of the land. Though, who the fuck am I setting an example for? Like, the rest of the team? We’re the goddamn newbies. These incompetent fuckers should be setting an example for us. Wait. Fuck, I wasn't supposed to imply that either of us has any issues with the team or that we've had any trouble settling in. We don't. To be clear. Uh. Yeah. We’re both fine. Thanks for checking in, JJ. We're totally good over here. A-okay. Please don’t tell Coach. We don’t want to bother him. Or Cap. He seems like he’s got a lot on his plate. Not that it’s noticeable! I’ll just—fuck. Ignore literally everything I’ve said. We’re fine. Everything is fine. 

JJ had not kept his mouth shut about that but had compromised by only sending the screenshot to Hayd this morning, who'd replied with six exclamation points, three laughing faces, a voice note from Jackie about how cute it is when Shane takes care of the rookies, and then a carefully written out, wonder who the dickbags are, like they aren't fully aware. 

Neither of them so much as touched the end piece of Lugs' text, both well aware of how attuned Shane is to his own strings of the future being tugged. 

We should start hanging out with the rookies more often, JJ had sent back, bolstered by the laughing emoji Hayden had reacted with, since we apparently aren't the dickbags they're worried about. 

If you tell Shane he's their new mama duck, please get a picture of his face 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻, Hayden had sent back, because he was an asshole above all else. I’ll name you godfather for my next kid. 

No, you won’t, JJ had thought, but hadn’t sent, unwilling to tangle the odd strings of jealousy that still burn between them on occasion. At this point, both of them are accustomed to the fight for Shane’s attention, the start of which had been back when they were both named alternates to his captaincy. They try to deal with it as best as they can without fracturing their support for him or showing discord to the team. Which means that it appears pretty infrequently in between them, but still—they both know it’s there, always wanting the most Shane can possibly give.

It’s easier for JJ to relinquish now, too, knowing everything he knows. Jealousy, more than most things, seems to be the impetus for most of the Metros’ worst ideas, a rotten poison slinking through the veins of the team. 

It's one he truly has no interest in tangling with. 

He sighs, pushing himself up and trying to turn his mind back to things that aren’t as heavy. 

It makes it easier that they’re playing Boston this afternoon, too. It’s far harder for JJ to be so worked up about the unfairness that soaks through everything when he’s busy trying to kick their rivals' ass. Rozanov, Marleau, fucking Connors—he’s sure they’re all to be in fine form tonight, eager to make them work for every inch. 

He's sure that Rozanov is going to say something to Shane that makes him flushed and irritated, even as his eyes burn with a faint sort of dark glee. It's almost terrifying how sharper Shane gets in Boston, as if he's suddenly come into focus, all his polished edges on display. 

It always makes JJ wonder if the mythical Boston Lily is making an appearance. He steals a glance at Shane's face, watching the set of his shoulders, the soft curve of his mouth as he nods at Winnie. He looks settled, for once, the whole of his body loose and easy, the firmness of his muscles clear as he shifts on his feet and his pants twist ever so slightly, tightening around his thighs.

Shit, JJ can't think about this either. 

He tries to turn his mind back to hockey, back to the game, and while he succeeds in mostly not thinking about Shane again, the other part fails—despite his best efforts, the question of who’s charmbag and what purpose it has, lingers. 

He shifts on his feet, eyeing the team, searching for any flicker of weirdness in the room, but it's just the usual suspects being buffoons, talking shit like they have any right to it—dude, I’m gonna kick Rozanov’s ass tonight, Wilson says to the delight of most of the team, as if he’s going to get any ice time with Rozanov—and the younger crew clustered around Shane. He hadn't held out hope that someone was going to stand up and say oopsie, someone found my charmbag, can you please give it back, but still—it would've been really fucking nice if they had. 

His eyes snag on the two rookies, huddled together, completely unsubtle with the narrow-eyed looks they're tossing around the room as they linger next to Shane. Winnie, he's unsurprised to see, sticks close to Hayden too, though he's fairly certain that if a throwdown between their teammates erupts, he's going to want to cling to Cap. God knows that Hayden doesn't always clock the shifting tides in the room. It doesn't help that they're all accustomed to the wards protecting them for the most part—here, they're all opened up to their own shit.

JJ is, silently—though he has a feeling Shane knows, because Shane always knows—grateful that they're playing outside of the Bell Centre tonight, though. The static fuzz of visions of the future gets crushed down to nothing in other arenas for him, just the occasional hum in his ears, before the game starts and the standard warding of all sports games locks in, shuttering every bit of magic on the rink. 

It just makes everything fucking easier, which sucks when it's their own shit that's supposed to be bolstering them. 

His eyes drift back to Shane, watching his face as he casts a careful gaze around the room, before he returns to his quiet conversation with the rookies.

Miitka hums from beside him, nudging his arm when JJ drags his gaze over to arch a brow at him. “You ready to crush the Bears?” he asks, as JJ blinks at him, feeling like a fucking idiot as he tries to get his thoughts in order. “I think we can get a shutout.” 

“Well, but of course,” JJ responds, after a beat of recalibration, trying hard not to startle Miity off. He clocks Shane's furrowed brow over Miity's shoulder before he drops his gaze. “But you are sure you want to talk to me?” 

Miity shrugs, as if he isn't a deeply superstitious person, who once almost took Cardot's head off for rearranging his tape rolls before a game. He has a routine that typically involves speaking only to specific people, even when he sits wherever he wants, and it's never been JJ. Normally, he hangs out and chats with Drapeau, Andropov, and Comeau, none of whom are being very subtle about how they're staring. 

“Sometimes I need a switch up,” Miity continues, like a fucking liar. “It’s good for the brain, you know?” 

JJ bobs his head, even though he doesn't know.

Underneath his words, though, are the crackling sounds of a river in rough, fierce motion; a change brewing within. 

Shane gets the real flashy shit as Captain: the visions, the edge of madness in his gaze, the truthrot taste, the eerie way he sometimes stills, hearing thousands of potentials—he bears it all easily, the unrelenting ripride of portent that shatters over him—at least that's what JJ assumes. Even within their group chat, JJ is pretty sure Shane's holding back a huge part of himself. 

Hayden gets the visions, the truthrot, and on very special occasions, the echo of what will come whispered through the sounds of a goal in practice. 

But JJ gets this, outside of the smattering of slowing visions and the truthrot; he gets to know that things are changing.

It's so fucking useless he could cry from relief. 

Everything is always changing, so he hears it nearly constantly around the team—though, he has, over the years, figured out that the louder the sounds are, the more important the change is—but there's never any confirmation about just what the changes are. 

But this—the crack of ice over a rushing river under Miity's words—this is big. If Miity is switching up, something's changed that the three of them missed. 

JJ meets Shane's eyes over Miity's shoulders and sees the same realization in his, before he turns away to answer a question from Lugs, his hands flashing through the air as he explains. 

“What is the—” JJ starts, before he realizes how fucking dumb a question that would be. “You’re starting today?” 

Miity hums, his mouth quirking up. “I didn’t expect you, of all people, to forget that Drapeau sprained his wrist—it’s his last game out.” He snorts, twisting to meet JJ’s eyes, which—fair. JJ had dropped gloves when some idiot from Chicago had tried to tangle with Drapeau three weeks ago. “Dude, you’re acting like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s with you?” 

“I wasn’t expecting you to talk to me,” JJ says, before his brain catches up to his mouth. He pauses and then leans into it, deciding that he’s already said the most embarrassing thing he could. “Since the last time I tried to talk to you pre-game was last season, and you tried to kill me with your eyes.”

“Yeah, well, we won the Cup, didn’t we?” Mitty mutters, and the rushing sound of water gets louder and louder, ice cracking under every word, sharp echoes of change, change, change. “I just—I’m feeling something different this year, man. You don’t need to get so fuckin’ worked up about it, Jesus.” 

JJ holds his hands up, shaking his head. “No judgment,” he says easily. “I was surprised, Miity. I didn’t want to accidentally jinx you or some shit.” 

Miity snorts, like he’s being ridiculous, as Hayden clears his throat from across the room. “Wait, does this mean you’ll talk to me too, now?” he asks, sounding half-enthused, half-terrified. Miity stays silent, turning to meet JJ’s eyes before he rolls his, and JJ grins, vaguely amused as he glances over at Hayden. 

“No,” he says, watching as Hayd deflates. “You do not make the cut, Pike.” 

“Story of his life,” Cardot mutters, and a low, mean laugh rings under the chatter of the room. 

Hayden rolls his eyes so hard JJ thinks it has to hurt and ignores Cardot, turning back to Laine when he nudges his arm and asks a question that JJ can't catch. 

“I think you can do it,” JJ says, turning back to Miity. “Boston will not know a goal tonight.” 

Miity grins, sharp-toothed and hungry. “Now you're just flattering me,” he says, as the room slowly starts to quiet, Shane stepping into the center of the locker room. 

He looks as he always does, unyielding and vicious, expectation slashed across his face, his eyes dark with avidity. It always makes JJ feel a bit insane to watch Shane do his pre-game speech, if only because it becomes so clear to see the keenness of Shane's attention, how even the men—who don't fucking like him—heel at his command. 

On the ice, during a game, everyone trusts Shane; to not is to prove yourself lower than low. 

It's the whole piece of everywhere else that's a problem.

“Gentlemen,” Shane says, flat and firm as the final conversations peter out. He glances around the room, meeting people's eyes, and JJ hopes that his eagerness to be looked at is not painted across his face. “We have one thing to do today.” 

His eyes meet JJ's and hold for a breathless moment before they move on. 

“Jesus,” Miity whispers, so quietly that JJ almost can't hear him. “I always forget what Boston does to him.” 

Shane rolls his shoulders back and fixes them all with a dark-eyed stare. “We are going to win,” he says, confidence infused in every word, as if he has seen the future and knows the true outcome of this game. JJ knows it's not how it works, and yet, looking at Shane, it's hard to imagine otherwise. Shane says they will win, and Montreal will answer the call, or they will suffer. “We are going to win in Boston's own barn, and we are going to do it easily.” 

His mouth tips up into an assured smile, and JJ can hardly breathe as his gaze flits over him again. “Alright,” Shane says, tilting his head towards the doors that lead out to the rink. “Let's show Boston what good hockey looks like.” 

“You heard him,” Hayden says, grabbing his helmet, stepping up beside him. “Let's go, fuckers.” 

The tension shatters at his voice, the team roaring in vague agreement, and JJ grins when Shane looks at him, as unwittingly enamored as always, when Shane wields his Captaincy like that. 

“Ready?” Miity asks, underneath the loud chatter, and JJ nods, watching Shane's smile widen as if he knows just what JJ is thinking about. 

“To win against Boston?” JJ says, and follows as Shane gestures the team towards the tunnel. “Always.”

Chapter End Notes

so i thought i was gonna post this tues, and then i wrote like 700ish more words. oops.

incapable of writing men not a little in love with shane hollander at all times. that's my bad, ig. the jj v. ilya beef is way more fun when it's tangled up in actual want that jj is unaware of but ilya is So Aware Of. it's a dif shade of hayden, bc with hayden, ilya (in all my verses at least, idk about canon) knows that hayden has shane's back frfr. jj less so, altho in this one... we'll see what happens.

i need to write more jj tbh. he's also so fun to think about bc he cares about winning in a way that's more aligned with shane, i think. hayden likes to win (bc who doesn't) but jj and shane want it in a hungrier way (which is absolutely partially bc of race, bc hayden can be a mediocre white man and no one cares but the second either jj or shane slip, it's an ordeal. (also i just think they're both competitive as hell))

men getting turned on when shane gets snippy with them? more likely thank you think!! that's my scrumptious bitch wife who i (& ilya) fucking ADORE. and, to add to that shane being territorial as HELL about his friends on accident: IKTR!!! jj is also unaware that shane is territorial about him. poor jj.

it is critical to me that all metros are both obsessed with shane and also somehow convinced that they're better than him while knowing that truthfully they are not. i'm putting that toxic workplace bar in the lowest circle of hell. shane being the axis on which montreal spins is soooooooo fun to write.

sorry for devolving into abstract vague character work in the notes lol. i just have THOUGHTS. the next two chapters are actively being worked on (& i don't want to jinx myself) but I'm pretty sure they're going to be a lil.... long. no idea when it's going to be out - i have the bare bones started and a lot of linking to get done.

ilya is up next! he's thinking about home, acts of love, and that little, teeny-tiny, itty-bitty curse that shane's under. good thing that's easily solvable, right? haha, right?????

as always, you can find me on twit and tumblr!

Chapter 3: sleepin' in a bed half empty, daydreamin'

Chapter Notes

Ilya knows he's grinning like a fool by the time they make it off the ice after the end of the third, even after their last-minute loss. He can't quite help it, doesn't want to tamp it down, not when the real treat of the evening is yet to come. 

“Alright,” he yells over the general clamor of the team as he follows the last of them in. Fuck, but it had been a hard-fought game, despite the lack of goals between the two teams—Montreal had scored once in the second, and Boston hadn't tied it up until four minutes left in the third. Shane had answered that with a beautiful goal, and—even as it burned to lose—Ilya's whole body had gone hot with anticipation at the darkly smug grin that had unfurled across his face before Shane had neatly packed it away into his golden boy persona, polite to a fault, despite the jeers from Boston’s supporters that nearly brought the walls down. “My house. Seven pm. Do not be early.” 

“We know,” Carmie calls, rolling his eyes when Ilya glances at him, even as he clocks the rookies deflating with relief out of the corner of his eye. He forgets how wound up they are sometimes; how easily they believe his little jokes. He would never take away their stepmother from them—not when he's especially eager to see them interact with Shane. “Marley and I will pick up the food, don't worry. And Sainty and Con will pick up the babies—”

“We're not babies!”

“—rest assured,” Carmie continues, grinning, slouching against the edge of his stall. “None of us wants to get there too early.” 

Ilya grins back, broad and wide and fucking filthy, and doesn’t even try to hide the way his smirk gets bigger with every loud boo sent his way. He can’t help that they’re all sick with jealousy at the thought; even if none of them have said it, he knows it must linger in their minds. 

“Rozanov,” Drew, their usual post-game PR person, calls from the doorway. He's fairly sure that Kayla tipped off the rest of her team that they're limiting press in the locker rooms for home games, at least for this one. Despite not knowing the specifics, she's always been quick on the uptake, and none of the team had been especially subtle about their rainbows or their nerves before the game; none of them wants to explain why the fuck they’re all decorated with smudged rainbows as they strip down. Somehow, Ilya doesn’t think that inside joke would go over well with the public. “Press wants you. Sebbin, you too, please.” 

Ilya huffs, but listens, yanking off his jersey and pads, accepting the towel Marley throws at his head to wipe off his sweat, before he falls in step with Sebbin, tossing an arm over his shoulders. 

“We’ll make this quick, Cap,” Seb mutters out of the corner of his mouth, the two of them following after Drew as he guides them through the hallways despite both of them knowing the pathway to their media room in their sleep. “I’m absolutely not going to stall, not when I know that—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, but Ilya can hear the fondness in his voice. “Well, you know.” 

“Oh, I know,” Ilya says, licking his lips exaggeratedly, and laughs at the vague expression of disgust that floats across his face, the same one he has whenever anyone gets vaguely too explicit. It’s bewildering how easy it is—in all of the futures he has hoped for, he had never imagined one that sings as sweetly as this one. He never let himself hope for such support, too aware of how much it would hurt to have it pulled away. “Believe me, Seb, I have not forgotten.” 

“Yeah, well, I think we all know that, given how insane you were on the ice today,” Sebbin says, as they pause outside of the press room, the chatter of the room's buzzing occupants slipping out from under the door. Drew slides away, flashing them one finger as he gives them a moment to gather themselves, as if anticipating that they'll go in and chat with the press despondently, wrung out from the loss.

It's vaguely hilarious; even in the worst of his losses, even in fucking Sochi, Ilya has always done his best to just be fucking normal around the press. Cocky and self-assured, sometimes heavy with failure, yes, but it's all smoke and mirrors. They don't get to have his true anger or his true joy. Those he saves for the people who actually mean something to him.  

Though Ilya can’t imagine being more thrilled with an outcome, aside from when they won the fucking Cup. As much as he always wants to win, he knows it will ease Shane to have proven himself, which will make the whole night smoother. Despite easily being the most accomplished on-ice player in the NHL, Shane constantly finds spots to pick at, impossible ways to improve. He's a menace like that; Ilya wouldn't have him any other way.

Of course, that’s not to say Ilya didn’t try to win; something he knows the entire team is aware of, given the way they screamed themselves hoarse at his singular goal, off of Marley's assist. He’d been… enthusiastic on the ice, doing his goddamn best to incur penalties—which Montreal had not taken for once—and rushing to crush Shane into the boards. When he’d finally scored, the sheer roar of delight from his team had almost been startling, as if they’d been playing in the Stanley Cup finals rather than an early-season game. 

No, everyone on the Bears had played a fantastic game—no one had even thrown a punch, though Ilya had been deeply fucking tempted to at times. Sometimes, he has to wonder at how Shane—so polite, so kind in his soul, so earnest about playing a good fucking game of hockey—has ended up on one of the nastier teams in the Eastern Conference. Sure, they don't brawl like Boston likes to, but Montreal never shuts the fuck up. He can't even imagine what the fuck their locker room is like, aside from the general themes of shitty and cruel. 

In the end, though, while the thought of black eyes at their team dinner had been hilarious to consider, it was wretched in reality. Shane would have given him so much shit if he'd taken any of Cardot or Comeau's shitty chirps to heart. 

It doesn't change the end score, but still. 

Sometimes, Shane is just better; though, he's certainly not telling the press that. No, he'll tell them what he always says after Montreal games, some nonsense that mostly amuses him and will probably annoy the PR team. 

“Hey,” Sebbin mutters, the tone serious enough that Ilya stills, glancing at him. 

Sebbin isn't looking back at him; he's staring down at the mural of the Boston teams that's painted on the wall across from them. The black and gold of the Bears meshes with the vibrant green of the Celtics, the dark red of the Red Sox, the blue of the Patriots, and the giant R of the Revolutions etched into the background. It’s a little silly to see them all lumped together, especially the ones from Foxborough, even as it warms a deep part of him. 

This is his home. This is his team. He sort of never wants to leave, especially now that Shane's closer than ever, the lure of Boston’s kindness a bright flash among the muck of everything else. He doesn't let himself think too hard about what he wants, about his other, most secret desire, but it's hard when reality is so close to it. 

“Proud of you, Cap,” he finally says, as Drew pointedly clears his throat from down the hall. “I wouldn't want anyone else to lead us, you know?” 

“Seb,” Ilya says, oddly touched, and reels him in to plant a sloppy kiss against his cheek, ignoring the way he wriggles in an attempt to get free. “You are the best teammates I can dream of,” he says, grinning when Sebbin makes an annoyed noise and wipes at his face. “I will tell the press this, yes? I will say, Henrick Sebbin has professed his undying love—” 

“Oh, you're the worst. I’m never saying anything nice again.” 

“—and I fear I must hang up my skates and become his most beguiling WAG—” 

“What the fuck, who the hell is teaching you the word beguiling—” 

“—and I will swoon in your arms, yes? We will make cover page for the Globe. The New York Times, probably. Become Skittles ambassadors, the works.” 

Drew coughs again, louder, and Ilya beams at him, winking when he rolls his eyes, before glancing back at Sebbin, who's still not looking at him, a vaguely embarrassed expression on his face. 

“So is it a no to Skittles?”

Seb purses his lips, meeting his eyes. “They are my favorite candy,” he starts, and Ilya laughs, loud and echoing, as they step over to Drew and get ushered through the double doors. 

The sharp shutter click of cameras immediately fills the air, and Ilya can already imagine the headlines: Rozanov Laughs Off 2-1 Defeat; Captain's Got Laughs: No Answer on Defensive Failure; Scared? No Way! Rozanov Smirks in the Face of Hollander's Last-Minute Win. 

He keeps his grin up and settles into his chair, sprawling carelessly as Sebbin sits primly in the one next to him. 

“Ten minutes, but I’m pulling the plug if they get too pushy with it,” Drew mutters as he brushes past them to turn the microphones on. He sends a sharp glance Ilya’s way. “Don't piss off the press.” 

“I would never,” Ilya says, smirking even wider when Drew sighs. He turns his grin out onto the press corps, fluttering his lashes coyly. “Questions, yes?” 

For a moment, there’s a lull before they all begin talking, hands raising, fingers wiggling eagerly in the air. It’s not unexpected, not after a Montreal game, but it’s always an adjustment to listen to the chatter rise as they situate themselves, the tidal wave of nonsensical English, before Ilya points at a familiar face. 

The reporter, whose name Ilya can never remember, though he knows the name of the paper, The Herald, grins at him as the rest of the room quiets down. “Rozanov, how do you feel about losing to the reigning Cup champions?” 

Ilya scrunches his face up and wiggles his head side to side, the best approximation of his thrilled state that he can comfortably share. “Montreal is defending for a reason, yes?” he says. “There is no true shame in a loss when you have played your hardest. We were good, parts of the Metros were better.” He leans back in his chair, shrugging, swallowing down the part of him that wants to talk about Shane. He'll blow the whole secrecy part to smithereens if he opens his mouth about him now; he just knows it. “We cannot win them all, even when we should, no?” 

A low laugh rushes through the room, and he keeps his grin up, glancing around to point at another reporter, Marco, if he remembers correctly. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs as he sits up straighter. “A question for Sebbin—when Hollander stole the puck from you, and scored in the third, can you walk us through your thoughts?” 

Ilya presses his mouth together, hiding the broad grin as best he can, and instead turns to look at Seb, propping his chin on his hand. He can’t wait to hear how Seb spins this one—what a ridiculous question. 

“Sure,” Sebbin says gamely. “I was thinking, oh, shit.” Another rumble of laughter bounces through the room, and Ilya lets himself smile out at the reporters, quick and fast, before he returns to watching Sebbin. “No, I mean, I was thinking that it was a rough play—it was lucky I’d even gotten the puck in the cradle of my stick, off that board rebound, you know? And Hollander—” He shakes his head, his whole face serious for a beat. “He’s just a world-class player, you know? I like to think I’d hold my own, but if someone had to steal it from me, it makes sense it’d be him.” He shrugs, looking fairly bashful as Ilya holds back laughter at the thought of Shane seeing this bizarre compliment later. None of the Bears have ever shied away from saying how well he plays—it’s impossible not to admit to—but none of them have ever been so effusive before. Generally, it's just Ilya talking about him to the press, if only to needle him. “He’s a fantastic player. But, really. I just think that it was a messy play, and he was in the right place at the right time, and yeah. I wasn’t joking about the oh, shit, comment either.” He jerks a thumb at Ilya, who smirks at him. “And you’d better believe that I know I’m gonna hear it from Cap, and he’s gonna work us til we’re all locked in.” 

Ilya nods, looking back out over the press. “We will practice until cows come home,” he says as seriously as he can. “Hollander will be stolen from next.” 

A louder wave of murmurs rises at his words, but he doesn't let them stop him as he gestures at another familiar face, Marissa from the Boston Globe. 

“For all that you didn't win tonight,” she starts, her head tipping to the side. “It was clear that the lines were strong and the effort was there. Rozanov, people have been asking if you think this team can make it to the Cup this year—do you have a comment?” 

Ilya hums, straightening up. “I will not jinx us,” he says, waggling his finger at Marissa, smiling as she rolls her eyes, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “But do I think we have a chance? Yes, of course. We have a strong team, a good core. I think it is always easier to win as a team if there is trust, yes? You cannot win with a broken chain.” He pauses, raking a hand through his hair, and lets his smirk grow wider. “Montreal should watch out,” he adds. “It’s only fun to win if it's a fight.” 

“Does that mean you're challenging Montreal already for the Eastern Conference?” Someone calls from the back, over the rustle of clothes, the faint whisper of voices; Ilya wishes whoever is murmuring would shut the fuck up; it’s already hard enough to translate without other noise sliding over the words. “You're already that confident?” 

Ilya sighs, loud and low, shaking his head. “I just said I would not jinx us,” he says, before the corner of his mouth tugs up. “But it is always a treat to kick Montreal's ass. I would never deny this.” 

“You're saying that, despite losing the game,” another voice calls, their tone pointed. “Would you call, to paraphrase and use your language, your ass kicked tonight?" 

Ilya presses a hand against his heart. “Wow,” he says as Drew starts to shift from his lean against the wall, his face set into a placid warning. Ilya doesn't have to look to know that he's mouthing do not feed the sharks. Ilya’s not stupid enough to shove his hand in their mouth, but he’s never seen an issue with flirting with a little bit of danger. “How cruel!” He lets the faint chuckles die down before he continues, “We are at the beginning of the season, which of course matters, but, hm.” He pauses, shrugs, debating how best to say what he means. “We would rather get shakiness out now, yes? Bring our game of A to the ice in the later months.” 

“Sebbin?” the same voice asks. “Are you aligned with that statement as well?” 

Ilya glances back at Sebbin, vaguely startled to see a blatantly fond smile on his face. It’s an oddly sincere expression for such a baiting question, but Ilya doesn’t hesitate to smile back. He knows it’ll probably be gif’d a million times, the hashtag Rozabin kicking off again. He can’t help it if his team is exceptionally demonstrative with their celebrations and joy—it’s always fun to watch the expressions on the other teams as Marley smacks kisses across everyone’s cheeks easily, as the rest of them pat each other’s asses, especially because it’s really nothing all that special. At this point, they’ve all been shipped together; Connors keeps a tally going on his phone of the lewdest artwork of each other that they can stumble over in the wild, which Ilya is currently winning at, though St. Simon is always close behind. 

“Yeah,” Seb says easily. He raps his knuckles on the table, not looking away from Ilya, and he can see the twinkle of joy in his eyes, the curve of his mouth easy and happy. “We’re with Cap, all the way.” 

“Thank you,” Drew says pointedly, trying to usher them up and away from the microphones. “That’s all the time we have now—” 

Ilya doesn't bother waiting for him any further, pushing himself back and away from the press table, gesturing for Sebbin to go first with a smirk that only grows as the other man rolls his eyes. He ignores the calls from the press, the snap of the cameras, keeping his smirk up until they’re back through the double doors and in the hallway. 

Sebbin shudders, as if shaking off cobwebs. “Worst part of the job,” he mutters, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m gonna have nightmares tonight about the look on Hollander’s face as he was rushing me.” Ilya snorts, fitting a hand around his arm to tug him back down the hall, well accustomed to how Sebbin forgets to function and move after press, and doesn’t try to hide how amused he is as Seb glares at him through his fingers as he scrubs his face. “Dude, you’re the only one who can fucking keep up with him, so don’t even give me that.” 

Ilya shrugs. “I am just thinking of how best to tell him that you are having night terrors of him,” he says blithely, swallowing down his laughter at the noise Sebbin makes, some horrified shout from low in his throat. “I think it will make him laugh.” 

Sebbin stops in the hall, and Ilya pauses with him, his hand still clasped around his arm, as he turns his dark glare on him. “Do not tell Shane fucking Hollander that I’m having nightmares about him,” he hisses, and Ilya can’t stop the laughter this time, watching the horrified and annoyed expression deepen on Seb’s face. The sound bounces down the hall, full and rich, echoing back to them. “I’m serious, Roz. Hollander can know my fucking blood type, the breakfast I eat every day, my shitty little dance that I do in practice after I score, but he cannot know that I dream about him.” 

Ilya grins and pats him on the shoulder roughly, dropping his hand. “Sebbin, I promise you this—I will not tell him,” he pauses, and watches as Sebbin’s eyes narrow, suspicion clear, before he drops his voice to a loud whisper. “He already knows.” 

Sebbin groans, whirling around and stomping down the hall. “What?” Ilya says, still laughing. “All of the league dreams of him, no? And if not him, me—Seb, is this your confession to dreaming of me too?” 

“Shut up, Cap,” Sebbin hollers over his shoulder, his pace picking up. “You’re the worst!” 

“I am not hearing a no,” Ilya calls back, delighted. Sebbin throws his hands up and rounds the corner, leaving Ilya alone in the hallways, grinning stupidly at nothing in particular. 

He sighs, his heart full, but falters as the quiet of the emptiness tips into a palpable uncanniness. The muffled noise of distant others fades into nothing, a prickle creeping down his spine as he glances over his shoulder, half-expecting to find Drew watching him from the end of the hall. 

There’s no one behind him, but the feeling of eyes on him only grows as he twists, turning back to face the other end. For a moment, it looks like the end of the hall is slowly darkening, a low cloud of shadow creeping forward, the familiar concrete walls of the Garden blotting out. Dizziness twists in his chest, a low thrum of warning as the feeling of cold winds through his veins. 

He blinks, reaching up to rub a hand across the back of his neck, and exhales as the feeling slowly recedes, the lines of the walls returning to their expected dimensions. He inhales shallowly, trying to calm his racing heart, and steps forward, relieved when everything snaps back into normalcy, all of the expected sound abruptly rushing back in. 

He rubs a hand over his face, shaking out the fuzzy feeling in his hands, before he strides forward, following after Sebbin.  

He's more tired than he thought, if he's jumping at nonsense like that.

He ignores the part of him that thrums with warning, running a finger down the chain of his necklace, before sighing again. He’s tired. It was a long game. There’s nothing else to it. There can’t be anything else to it; otherwise, he’s going to lose his mind completely. 

Jesus, he needs to get it together, although maybe he can use this to nap with Shane? He thinks they would both enjoy it—he knows they both probably need it, given the insanity that's been running through both their teams. Shane's been tight-lipped, but he can read his stress even through text. 

“Cap?” Breezy murmurs as soon as he steps back into the locker room, vaguely unsurprised to find everyone still there. Los and Ovi hover at his shoulders, trying their hardest not to look too attentive; something that immediately fails. “Can I ask a maybe stupid question?” 

“There are no stupid questions,” Smithy says, grinning when Ilya rolls his eyes. “Or maybe there are?” 

“We have been over this before,” Ilya says, before glancing at the trio of rookies. He ignores the way the rest of the room quiets ever so slightly. “What is it?” 

Breezy shuffles awkwardly and sighs, looking sheepish. “I know I'm going to sound like a seven-year-old girl—” 

“Whimsy is good,” Con hollers, laughing when Los flips him off in solidarity. “That was genuine, dickhead!” 

“—but, uh, is there a dress code? For tonight?” 

For a moment, Ilya waits, wondering if this will be the line that makes the older crew tease the rookies mercilessly with judgment, but instead Sainty tips his head and murmurs, “Oh shit, that's a good question.” 

Ilya blinks, but it's as if a bomb has detonated, as people jump in with their assumed dress codes, all of which do not match. Ovi suggests jeans on jeans as a way of honoring Canada. Cadyn, their third line defensemen, asks if it’s rude to show up in Bears merch. Someone from the showers yells about needing to know scent profiles that are known not to offend; evidently, there’s a rumor floating around the league that Shane has a delicate nose. 

He lets them chatter at him as he slowly strips down, only to clap his hands together sharply, as Mamrie asks about the possibility of needing a tux. 

A tux. 

Ilya's not fond of these idiots. He isn't, even as a broad grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. 

“This is movie night, no?” Ilya says, arching a brow as the group settles down, eagerly attentive even as he smirks at them. “What would you wear to a cozy movie night besides pajamas?” 

“Oh, thank god,” Ovi breathes out, even as someone scoffs distantly and mutters boring. “I was afraid we had to dress up.” 

Ilya snorts, rolling his eyes. “It’s just Jane,” he says, even as he knows that all he’s doing is stirring the pot. “I will put her in pajamas too, do not fear.” 

Breezy nods slowly, his brow furrowing. “Would it—” he pauses, a flush working its way across his cheeks. “We shouldn't—not that we do—but, hypothetically, if some people were to maybe have Hollander jerseys or shirts or uh, I dunno, like maybe a really poorly done set of matching pajamas that feature Hollander’s rookie headshot, we shouldn't… wear them, right?” 

It takes Ilya a moment to process just what the fuck Breezy's said, before he starts to laugh, loud and bellyaching, the kind that he can feel in his ribs as he tips backwards against the edge of his stall. Fuck, but he loves this team, and all of their ridiculousness. 

“I'm not saying I do,” Breezy yelps, as Ilya tries to get it together. “But I'm saying someone might.” 

“Right,” Marley says, tossing an arm over Breezy’s shoulders and shaking his head. “That wasn’t convincing when you tried it when we found your little pajamas during The Incident.” He rubs his knuckles across Breezy’s head, ignoring the way he yelps as Ilya turns back to his shit to tug a towel on, heading for the showers for a quick rinse. 

The chatter from the team echoes off the walls as he cranks the shower on, unsurprised to find himself alone as the last three who were lingering under the spray head back into the locker room. The hiss of the water and the gurgle of the drains only add to the general cacophony as he listens to the high-pitched noise of the rookies arguing on Breezy's behalf, the low rumble of Marley's laughter, followed by the loud snort of Sainty's that he always makes after an exceptionally devastating chirp. 

It's warm and humid in the showers, the white tiles damp with perspiration, towels haphazardly piled in the rolling bin at the end of the stalls. It’s a familiar scene, one that relaxes him to his bones as he closes his eyes and tips his head under the spray. 

Under the rush of water, the world blots out, rough heat pounding into his skin. He feels good, worn down with the hum of a well-played game in his veins, the same sweet siren song of Shane tugging at his heart. 

He ignores the faint muttering he can hear under the burble, scrubbing a hand through his hair just to wring the worst of the clinging sweat from him, and reaches out to tap the handle, the gush of water sputtering out. 

The rush of silence sends another buzz of warning down his spine, as he glances around the empty room with a narrowed gaze, a restless unease blooming. The steam drifts around the room, but for a second, out of the corner of his eye, it catches on something. 

Out in the locker room, something slams, the loud thunk of it startling Ilya from his stare as he whips his head around, and he blinks rapidly, scrubbing a hand over his face. 

There’s nothing there. There can’t be anything there, because if something’s there, that means that—something’s haunting him, and nothing can haunt him. Not after—not after what his Mama did. 

Not after what she gave him. 

He thumbs at the necklace, the metal cool under his fingertip, and shudders, shaking his head. 

He’s being ridiculous. He’s just wound up after the game, after the way he was up half the night, consumed with delight and nerves and the slow thrum of happiness that feels so foreign in his veins that it almost hurts. 

Nothing else is happening. 

He stumbles out of the showers, drying his skin off brusquely and just barely patting his hair dry. 

“Where’s the fire?” Zadonsky says, an egregious question that Ilya doesn’t even bother answering, as their lingering teammates boo the third-line center. He winks, though, when Ilya glances at him, an amused look on his face. “I’m just kidding around, Cap. God knows if I had Jane waiting at home for me, I’d rush home too.” 

“I did not realize you were bisexual, Zads,” Ilya says, a smirk tugging at his lips as Zadonsky blanches, his brow furrowing. “Or that you were in competition for Jane’s hand. I will be sure to let Jane know, yes?” 

“I’m not trying to steal Jane’s hand,” Zads yelps, holding his hands up, as if to prove his innocence. “Dude, I was just saying that, you know, it’s nice to see you excited to go home to someone. And that I got it? You know how much I love Melanie. I mean, like yes, is Sh—Jane incredibly attractive, yes—”

“Zads, shut up,” someone hisses, as everyone quiets down enough to hear as Ilya slings his bag over his shoulder and straightens up to his full height, crossing his arms. 

“—but, clearly monogamous, or that’s what I’m just picking up from your general aura, and Mel and I both agreed he was a joint hall pass—which now that I think about is a little dehumanizing—unless you’re into it? I mean, I don’t judge, you know—”

“Oh my god,” another person groans as Ilya’s mouth twitches. God, but he loves it when Zads gets on a tear, and no one can stop him. He always ends up crashing and burning. 

“—and I don’t know about being bi, but I’d try it out, you know? Get a little, uh, I can’t—or, hang on, that—hm,” he pauses, squinting at Ilya, who only arches a brow at him. “You know what? I’m just gonna quit, while I’m ahead.” 

“Dude,” Ovi says before the quiet can set in, sounding utterly appalled. “That wasn’t ahead.” 

Ilya snorts, shaking his head as the other few people in the locker room laugh. “You are very bad at talking,” he says, more amused than anything. The sentiment was nearly sweet before Zads got too caught up in his head about explaining. “Jane is off the market, yes?” 

“Yeah, of course, Cap,” Zads mutters, his cheeks pink. “But you got what I meant, right? About being happy for you?” 

“Yes,” Ilya says, patting him on the shoulder. “You are very sweet, Zads. Mel is lucky; we all know this, yes? It could make someone jealous, seeing you two.” Zads flushes even darker, averting his eyes, and Ilya winks at Marley when he rolls his eyes, clearly over Ilya’s gentle flirtations, even though he’s telling the truth. Zads and Mel are very cute together, though they have nothing on him and Shane. “But do not worry,” Ilya says, grinning. “It will be our little secret, yes?” 

Zads huffs at him, but Ilya pays him no mind, patting him once more on the shoulder and heading for the door. 

“See you assholes at seven,” he calls over his shoulder, smirking at the insults lobbed back, before he turns down the hall and heads for the player parking garage. 

He keeps his eyes on his phone, rereading the last thread that he and Shane had exchanged, his last text reading heading to yours thirty-six minutes ago. Ilya’s not even sure how the fuck Shane slid out of the Garden so fast, but he’s not going to complain. Odds are, he’ll be caught in traffic for too long for it to make all that much of a difference.

He hums under his breath and ignores the vague cold patches of air he wanders through, unimpressed with TD’s continual shitty heating. He tunes out any echoes of noise that filter back to him, firmly, pointedly not looking. 

By the time he spills out into the garage, he feels a little sick, a pulse of queasiness in his stomach from fixing his eyes on his bobbing phone, but it's nothing next to the crushing relief he feels to have made it out without anything else strange happening. 

He tosses his bag into the back of his sexy little car, briefly mourning the fact that he can't drive Shane back to his place in it, and throws himself in, more eager than he can express to get the fuck home. 

His headlights slide across the pavement as he smoothly exits the garage, unneeded in the dull late-autumn daylight, though he keeps them on, unwilling to disappoint Shane, even when he’s not in the car. He’d scolded him once for not having them on during the day, when they’d somehow managed to find time for Ilya to pick him up at Logan a season ago, and Ilya had kept them on ever since; another stupidly revealing way to keep Shane close. 

He revs his engine, flying out of the garage and merging into the heavy traffic on 93, before cutting across to Route One, well accustomed to the bewildering knot of roads that anchor the city. The weathered brick buildings of Boston fade out to the tangled mess of suburbs, Revere and Saugus flying by as he weaves up the cracked pavement, through the haze of late afternoon traffic, the bright blue of his car flashing in the watery sunshine.

His actual home is tucked away, out of the bustle of the city, northwest of the weeds of suburbia. He likes it more than he expected to, having assumed that his North End apartment would sustain him for his entire career in Boston. But he got older, and the world kept its slow march towards madness, and there were times he was just over it, fed up with the nonsense that clogged the city streets. 

He loves his apartment, loves the view, loves the presence, loves how it feels to toss his keys on the counter and know that he could basically have anything he desires with a swift request sent in to the front desk. 

But he also loves his actual home, settled out of the bounds of Boston, nestled in a winding drive that can hold all of his teammates' cars, set off from the road so that it feels like he has total privacy in the woods.

Shane's come over to his house only a few times; almost all have been in the off-season, in the aftermath of them ending a playoff run, or right before pre-season when he’s filmed advertisements in Boston. They've all been in those tiny hollow spaces of before or after Russia, the lingering shadow casting a faint haze across their time. The moments haven’t been stained, not really, but they haven’t been light and easy either; both of them often have more on their minds than the steady mindset of win, win, win that follows them during the season. 

Of course, it’s always been a fucking thrill, too, though, one that Ilya had tried to ignore for years, too unwilling to examine just why he was so eager to get Shane into his actual home. 

And now, today, it's such a fucking rush, knowing that he’s going to be hosting his—his Shane, and then his team. 

He'd be more concerned about the mess of it all if he wasn’t completely aware of how everyone will be on their best behavior—even the vets who've been playing against Hollander their entire careers. 

They’re idiots, the lot of them, blinded by Shane’s golden boy persona, too enamored with the story he’s cleverly built as a smokescreen to realize that they’re falling straight for his trap. Ilya can’t fucking wait to see their sturdy walls of assumptions crumble beneath the unrelenting crush of Shane Hollander. 

When will it happen, he wonders as he takes the final turn and begins to wind up his drive, the empty chittering trees welcoming him home. At the first chirp? In the face of Shane grinning smugly? Will their walls fall as easily as Ilya's did, caught on the lure of Shane's glinting teeth and narrow-eyed gaze? Will they understand just how much hockey lives and breathes through the spirit of Shane Hollander, how Ilya isn't fucking joking when he says that Shane has deconstructed all of them?

The feeling of bubbling delight only grows as he pulls into his garage and steps out of his car to find the lights on, Shane having somehow gotten home faster than he has. His thoughts stutter over home, a warmth growing in his stomach that he can feel crawling up his throat. 

They aren't even anything really—nothing plainly defined, at least—and yet, here he is, daydreaming about Shane Hollander and the meaning of home. He’s so fucking sick in the head, but he can’t help it, not when he’s almost getting everything he wants. 

It feels vaguely obscene to step in from his garage, the lights on at the end of the hall. He's come home a few times to Svetlana, but half the time she's over to complain and make his life worse; he loves her, but he's never felt all of him go soft and tender as she steps into the light. It's not at all like it feels as Shane appears at the end of the hall, all of him haloed in the warm light; everything inside of him dissolves into contentment and heat. 

Home, some aching part of him pulses. He hasn't felt such a deep welcome since he was twelve, a wreath of sloe on the door. Home, home, home. 

“Hi,” Shane says, a little shyness in his voice. His fingers are hooked into his pockets, his whole body awkward as he rocks on his feet. He’s still in his game day suit, vaguely rumpled and mussed. His shoes are off, Ilya notes, a grin unfurling across his face, and he can see the heels of them tucked in next to his slides. “I, uh, I was hoping it'd be cool if I stole a pair of your sweatpants—I hope that's—I'll wear jeans or something nicer if you think—” His voice cuts out as Ilya's bag drops with a muffled thump from his nerveless fingers, and he lurches down the hall, unable to stop himself from reaching out and reeling Shane in. 

“Oh,” Shane says, blinking at him, but whatever else he goes to say is lost as Ilya brushes his lips across Shane's mouth; soft butterfly kisses that shatter under a rush of pleasure as Shane groans and tugs him in even closer, his clever mouth parting as he does his best to swallow Ilya whole. 

They only stop kissing when Ilya wrenches his head back, eyeing Shane's heaving chest before he refocuses, even as most of him wants to pick back up as they were. He aches for the ease of sex, for the sweet slide of debauchery that clings to them. Everything is simpler when they’re submerged in pleasure, the sharpness of life sliding out to the tide of gratification. 

He knows, though, that they should be responsible and talk. Especially since Shane's been dodging all the more serious parts of explaining the whole cursed bit of things. 

Cursed. 

By his own fucking team. 

It's enraging enough that it wipes most of his budding arousal out of his system. Most.

He's pretty sure he's incapable by now of not being at least slightly turned on when Shane's around. Call it dickmatized, or the blush of first love, or whatever the newest term for it is; Shane's enticing enough to wipe all sense from his head. 

But the idea that the Montreal Metros somehow think that they're anything without Shane is doing a wretchedly good job of ruining any hope he has of seduction. He can't stop the scowl from emerging on his face, the spark of rage igniting in the pit of his stomach. The Metros are only anything because Shane made them so. 

Shane’s hands settle on his chest, dragging his attention back to him. “Hey,” he murmurs, looking vaguely concerned. “Where'd you go?” 

Ilya shakes his head, banishing his thoughts. “Nowhere, sweetheart,” he says, though he doesn’t think Shane really believes him, given the way his eyes narrow. “Are you hungry? I have food.” 

“Aren’t we having dinner with your team?” Shane asks, after a pause, his head tilting to the side. “And don’t you want to shower?” Ilya grins, his mouth curling up as Shane rolls his eyes. “Don’t even fucking start, Rozanov.” 

“You are the one starting, Hollander,” Ilya chirps, unable to stop himself from leaning forward to steal a kiss. He kicks off his shoes, using the motion to slink even closer somehow, curling his hands over the jut of Shane’s hips. “Shower? Sweats?” He wiggles his eyebrows, familiar with the way Shane needs to shower at home after the rink, even if he’s showered there. He’s just pleased that Shane’s waited for him, more excited than he should be to shower together. “The team will be so excited to see you in Bears merch—” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Shane says, even as he laughs softly, the soft, quiet joy warming Ilya all the way through. He pauses, eyeing Ilya for a beat, before he sighs, clear sunspots of affection in his beautiful brown eyes. “Yeah, okay, you fiend, let's go shower.” He slides his hand down, tangling their fingers together easily, and fizzy joy sparks up Ilya’s spine as he lets Shane tug them towards his bedroom, neither of them mentioning his bag still in the center of the hall. 

It's wildly different from the past times they've wandered into his room together; all their clothes are on for one, and for two, their mouths aren't fused together, though Ilya truly would have no problem if Shane wants to fix that. 

But it's heartstoppingly sweet to exist here, with no rush. Ilya can squeeze Shane's hand, can pull them to a stop and smatter kisses across Shane's pink cheeks, and he'll get scolded but only for a moment, before Shane kisses him back. It's an impossible delight to get to see Shane in his hallway, clothed and loose and content, to get to watch him nudge his door open and lead them in, with shy confidence in his gait. 

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya drawls as they cross into his bedroom, staring at the sight of Shane's somewhat familiar leather duffel bag on his bed. It's the one that GQ did a What's in my bag? profile on last season. He'd posted an edit where every time Shane pulled something out of his bag, it'd been a hockey stick, and it cut to him saying wait, what? from an old interview, before he was so deeply media-trained. It hadn't made anyone laugh, but him, and it'd annoyed the shit out of Shane, so he'd felt good about it. Seeing the infamous bag in person feels like a gift all by itself. “You brought all your clothes, and you still want mine?” 

Shane flushes, worrying at his bottom lip for a beat, before Ilya watches him forcibly shove his nerves back and shrug, awkward and brave, his fingers knotting into the hem of his shirt. 

“Is it weird?” he asks, genuine concern baked into his words. “I can wear my own shit, I just—” He shrugs again, avoiding looking at Ilya. “I thought it might be nice.” 

“It is,” Ilya says, without even thinking of hiding his true feelings. He holds Shane’s gaze when he darts a look at him. “I—it's nice to think of.” 

Shane's whole face cracks open with timid joy, and Ilya can't stop himself from scooping him back into his arms and peppering his mouth with kisses. 

“You are staying tonight, yes?” Ilya asks, pulling back and gently tipping Shane's head up with his fingers. “You have told your team not to expect you tonight?” 

Shane rolls his eyes. “Hayd knows not to expect me back,” he mutters, a pretty blush staining his cheekbones. “He told me congrats on getting laid and promised to cover if Coach comes looking for me—which he won't.” 

“Hm,” Ilya says, instead of they should worship at your feet for a mere glance from you, though he thinks Shane can tell the direction his thoughts have wandered in, given the unimpressed look he's leveling at him. 

Shane rolls his eyes again. “You’re impossible,” he says, smiling faintly. Ilya lets his eyes drift across his freckled cheeks, down the lines of his neck, across the smooth slate gray suit he’s in, the rumpled edges of his collared shirt that Shane must not be aware of, otherwise he’d be worrying at the fabric, trying fruitlessly to smooth it out. His eyes drift lower, to the buckle of his belt, only to be drawn upward as Shane pointedly clears his throat. “Are you done?” 

Ilya scoffs, wrinkling his nose. “Checking you out?” he asks, delighting in the pink that spreads across Shane’s face. “Never.” 

Shane ducks his head but doesn’t argue, his whole face warm and pleased, and Ilya gives himself another beat of just looking at him, soaking in the sight, before he clears his throat. “Come on, Hollander,” he murmurs. “Let’s shower.” 

Shane nods, unzipping his bag and yanking a smaller, matching one out. Ilya can see the SH stamped into the warm brown leather, and an appetency so strong it weakens his knees sweeps through him. He keeps his mouth shut, though, watching with eager eyes as Shane carefully steps into the bathroom, the quiet rattle of his many luxury bottles drifting through the doorway as he sets his bag down. 

“I can take the right?” Shane asks, glancing over his shoulder. “If that’s okay?”

Ilya nods, taking a moment to gather their pajamas and plug his phone in before he lets himself step in after him, sliding a possessive hand over the swell of his ass. 

He feels insane as he catches sight of Shane in his bathroom, his suit jacket carefully shrugged off, his face set in concentration.

The mirror is as wide as his bathroom counter, framed by bulbous vanity lights that are off—unsurprising, given how much Shane hates the sharp white glow of them. Before the two of them, the double-sink counter nearly takes up the entire right wall, Ilya's products carelessly scattered across the center, between the two sinks, his toothbrush charging in the corner. It’s always been too clear to Ilya how the space needs more than just his shit. He hasn’t gone a month without thinking about the emptiness since 2014. 

Behind them, the familiar spread of his massive glass shower sits, the sun bouncing off the stone tiles, gold and black accents glinting around the room. The skylight lets in the edges of the slowly fading light, while the frosted windows that sit above his massive corner tub glow with the faint rays of the winter sun. Ilya’s singular plant that’s only alive because of how hot he takes his many showers spills across the edges of its pot, its tendrils long enough to nearly crawl down the wall of the bath. 

Ilya’s had Shane in this bathroom, naked and wet and wanting, desperation spilling from his mouth, his hands wound through Ilya’s slick curls. He’s had him on his knees, in his arms, cornered against the back wall, flushed against the glass. He’s had him in the tub, half-submerged in water, Shane braced over the edge, both of them too slick to do much more than try to frantically hold onto each other; Shane had complained of the bruises on his hips for a week. 

He’s never had this, the slow seduction of Shane unbuttoning his white button-down, his tie unknotted and loose around his neck. He’s never had a real view of Shane undressing without the thrumming press of an impending orgasm. It’s a heady feeling, his eyes catching on Shane’s knuckles as he tugs his tie off, before he carefully aligns the edges of his tie, folding it up neatly. 

His brows are knit in concentration, his mouth pursed, a vague seriousness imbued in his face. The sight is so transcendently, agonizingly beautiful that Ilya could die. 

He feels stupid, the edges of his mouth pulled wide in a beam, unable to stop himself from blatantly staring at Shane's face in the mirror next to him, at the neat pile of clothes he stacked on top of the cupboard that holds his dirty towel basket, at his toiletries meticulously being placed on the wide marble counter. 

Wow, Ilya wants to say, but he thinks it will come out more mocking than he means, unable to regulate anything as he simmers in a roiling puddle of sheer delight. He wants to prod at each tube that Shane carefully reveals, wants to watch as Shane presses his calloused hockey fingers into the delicate cradle of his eye sockets, wants to watch him dab the lotion into his perfect, soft skin. He'll sit on the counter and just watch Shane run through his skincare routine, all for the chance of knowing him deeper, of understanding the vast network of nuances and neuroticism that makes him him. 

He is so strange, his Shane. He cares about things Ilya does not even know there are names for. Ilya adores him. 

“What?” Shane asks, peering at him through the mirror. “What's that face?” 

“Nothing,” Ilya says, doing nothing to hide how besotted he looks. He can see the delight smeared across his cheekbones, the soppy want in his eyes, the fond curve of his lip in the mirror, but he ignores it to stare at Shane. “Is just my face.” 

Shane wrinkles his nose, his brows drawing together. “It's not,” he says, leaning against the edge of the counter and glancing at him. Ilya drags his gaze away from the subtle flex of Shane's biceps in his reflection and meets his eyes. Fuck, but he looks like a dream, his slacks unbuttoned, the band of his white Calvin’s on paltry display. “That's your—that's not how you normally look.” 

“Wow,” Ilya says, pressing a hand against his chest. “I am the second most handsome man in the whole world, and you say this rude thing to me? I am offended, Hollander, truly.” 

“I didn't say it was a bad look, you asshole,” Shane mutters, before confusion screws up his face. “Hang on, second most handsome? Who the hell is first?” 

Ilya blinks at him. “You are,” he says, after a pause, as Shane looks more and more confused. “Sweetheart, who else could it be?” Shane peers at him, as if to gauge his sincerity, and Ilya lets his brow tick up the more and more flushed he gets. “Hollander,” he says, impossibly fond and amused. “This cannot be a surprise. You are regularly being awarded the hottest man in the NHL awards.” 

He squirms under Ilya’s eyes, pink flooding his chest. “I don’t pay attention to shit like that,” he says, waving a hand. “It's not like it means anything in reality. And people don't—I mean, handsome, isn't really the word that gets thrown around for me. For you? Of course, but—”

Ilya reaches out, curling his fingers around the heft of Shane's broad shoulder, spinning him carefully into the cradle of his arms. 

For a second, Shane tenses like he's going to break free, before he sighs under his breath and tips his temple against Ilya’s cheek as they both watch themselves in the mirror. 

Caught in Ilya’s arms, the edges of his shirt drawn away from his chest, Shane's on decadent display, the firm muscle of him evident as Ilya slowly drags a hand over his sternum, to cup over his pectoral, squeezing once as Shane groans, low in his throat. Every part of him is mouthwateringly strong, to say nothing of the sheer power he holds in his thighs; Ilya could wax sonnets about the might of him, but he knows it will devolve into fucking if he does, because he's incapable of not touching. 

He hopes Shane knows how good he's being, even as he thumbs across his nipple, as he presses kisses to the hinge of his jaw. 

“Look at you,” Ilya murmurs, skimming his nose over the curve of his ear. “My handsome, handsome boy.” 

Shane flushes, pink dappling across his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose. His lashes flutter as he scrunches his face up, shuddering as Ilya lets his hand skate down the side of him, his fingertips sliding ever so carefully under the band of his underwear. 

“You're ridiculous,” Shane mutters, squirming in his arms again, though this time, Ilya can tell that it's from the restless arousal that's breaking under his skin. “And—we need to shower, Rozanov. I'm not meeting your team still caked in the leftovers of game day sweat.” 

Ilya slides his hand further into his briefs, dragging a finger over his skin, a light tease—because he's nothing more than a bastard—and nips at Shane's ear before yanking his hand out. 

“If you say so, Hollander,” Ilya says, not bothering to hide the doubt in his voice. “I will be good. For you.” 

Shane smiles, bright quicksilver delight shivering across his face. 

“For me,” he repeats under his breath, as if it’s some new thing. Ilya rolls his eyes even as he detangles from Shane, letting him go back to his slow undressing. It's not too hard to let him go, not when Shane’s eyes dart to meet his gaze in the mirror as he arches a brow. “You gonna shower with me or not, Rozanov?” 

Ilya rolls his eyes again, but starts to strip, wandering over to turn his shower on as Shane picks up the pace, an unspoken challenge that Ilya’s more than happy to lose. His gaze keeps catching on him, drawn back into Shane's orbit with ease. 

As he finishes yanking off his underwear, he listens to the patter of water, the quiet hum of Shane as he tests the temperature, and is pleased at the heat of it. He can feel his hunger rising, the sharp brambles of thorny desire coiling in his stomach, ready to cinch around Shane's heart until neither can leave without piercing the other. 

It's a familiar greed, one that rises hot and fast in his throat; a different shade of the same aching pulse of ownership he feels about his captaincy, a darker shade of the pulse of love that encircles Sveta and him.

He wants, as the stories warn about, as if he's a king who will sink his whole kingdom to the ground simply for the touch of Shane's hand, for a whisper of his attention. In his darkest moments, he thinks, sometimes, that he was made for nothing more than the quicksand pull of hunger for Shane, that the greed that immolates in his stomach when he thinks of Shane is a black hole with gravity, sucking in everything else until Shane is all that is left. 

The sludge of worry that slinks through his veins—he cannot be enough for this perfect man—fades in the unrelenting Shaneness of Shane. He can’t imagine Shane ever willingly choosing to hang out and fuck around with him if he didn’t want to.

Even with his fear lingering, it's hard to think about anything other than pleasure around the sight of Shane naked and slick, his head tilted back under the waterfall showerhead Ilya has, his skin flushed from the heat and Ilya’s eyes.

“You coming?” he asks, without opening his eyes, and Ilya’s scrambling through the glass door before he can even pretend to hesitate, settling in next to Shane as if they do this all the time. For a moment, Ilya can’t even look at him, too overcome with the sheer riptide of longing; if he looks now, he knows he will never be able to look away. 

Shane sighs quietly, and Ilya catches sight of him out of the corner of his eye; his shoulders loosen under the heavy spray, the water pressure almost stinging as it beats against their skin. They move easily around each other, falling into familiar motions as they both scrub away the sweat from the game.  

The hushed silence of the room brings to mind the quietness of a chapel, the solemn weight of a prayer gone unheard by an unfeeling god. He can remember the press of reverential hymns against his ear, the spartan tension of the wooden bench under his legs, against his back. 

His mother loved church, if only for the songs, for the quiet joy she could find in the devout. 

Even now, all these years later, he sometimes finds himself hesitating on the sidewalk outside of the churches he stumbles across, his eyes lingering on the stained glass, the simple, ordered rows he can see when the doors are thrown open. He would never go back, not for real, but it doesn’t stop his heart from aching for it when he wants to be small and sheltered, hidden from the storm of life. 

Ilya startles at the gentle pressure against his side, blinking as Shane comes into view. For a moment, he studies him, his brown eyes dark with an understanding that Ilya’s vaguely fearful of, before his eyes drift down from his to settle on his chest. 

“Huh,” Shane says, reaching out to tap his necklace, instead of the flirtation Ilya half-expects. “You really never take it off, do you?” 

Ilya doesn't try to stifle a smile, enamored with the way Shane’s brain works; of course, now he would ask about jewelry and not be distracted by Ilya's very slick, very handsome torso. Though he's seen the looks from Shane that he’s been stealing in the quiet—there's a reason they're both politely ignoring that they're half-hard, and it's that neither of them is very good about timing, once things get going. Shane would kill him if they were halfway through fucking when the team arrived; he hopes he knows how very fucking good Ilya is being. 

“Yes,” he says, tipping his head back into the water. The heat and pressure are a relief against his skin. “It was a gift; I cannot take it off.” 

“Cannot?” Shane echoes, his damp fingers settling on his ribs. They drift over the bone as if they’ve always been holding him, and Ilya has to press his lips together to avoid saying something incredibly stupid like marry me, Shane Hollander, as Shane continues, “Like it's sealed?” 

“Old ritual,” Ilya murmurs, glancing down at him. “Bloodsealed for good, bound fast to my soul.” He can feel a flush rising up his skin, and averts his gaze from Shane's furrowed brow. “I can only take it off to give it to my child. If I were to have one, yes? It would be their permanent trinket, a gift from a long line of protectors.” 

Shane hums before he leans forward and very carefully presses a kiss against the golden cross. For a moment, the world freezes; the sounds of the shower fade out, the heavy steam disappearing as Ilya watches Shane’s lips press against the permanently cool metal. He blinks rapidly as his cheeks heat up, his eyes wide at the faint zap that runs down his body. 

“There,” Shane says, vaguely satisfied as he pulls away and the moment shatters, all the noise and weight of living rushing back in. “Now you have my protection, too.”

“Shanya,” Ilya says hopelessly, stepping forward until he’s crowding up against him, backing him into the sun-warmed stone of his shower. What the fuck is he supposed to do except for worship Shane, except for offer the whole of him, as best as he can, despite all his broken shards. “You are—” He cuts his words off, unable to find the right ones to encompass all he feels and unwilling to try; he will not dull the strength of his words if he doesn’t have the ones he needs. 

Shane blinks at him, damp and warm and beautiful in the steam of the shower, his lashes trembling faintly as he tips his head back, his whole body softening as Ilya leans into him. 

“We shouldn't,” Shane murmurs, even as his own hands slide lower, his mouth parting on a soft gasp. “We need to get ready.” 

“We have hours,” Ilya whispers, his voice almost lost beneath the rush of the water. He drops to his knees, pressing kisses down Shane’s chest, across his hips. “Let me have a taste, lyubimyj.” He grins up at him. “We both know you’ll be quick.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane hisses, before the rest of his words dissolve under the crush of pleasure as Ilya sets to work, dismantling Shane in precise, consistent motions, well-versed in just how to take him apart. 

By the time they’ve both been satiated—Shane twice, because Ilya is nothing if not persistent—the water has only just started to turn lukewarm, an ode to the giant heating tank in his basement. 

“Jesus, you're good at that,” Shane says dazedly, as Ilya tugs him under the spray for a final rinse. “They should classify your mouth as a weapon.” 

Ilya snorts, smug satisfaction kicking up in his chest. “I think they do, sweetheart,” he says, dropping a kiss against his shoulder as Shane slouches into him, tucking his face into Ilya’s neck. “Most of the league, in fact.” 

Shane waves a lazy hand, nuzzling in closer. “You better not be showing off those skills to anyone else in the league,” he warns, biting his shoulder gently. The dull pressure only adds to the feeling of warmth. “It should all be for me.” 

Ilya presses the fond grin he has into Shane's skin, terribly obvious with his delight at his words. “But, of course,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss into the hollow of his throat, laving his tongue over the pulse of his heartbeat as he blindly slaps a hand against the shower valve, turning off the water. “It's always been for you.” 

Shane hums, light and easy over the sound of the drain, and Ilya lets them have another moment of peace before he shifts back, carefully sliding the glass shower door open. “Come, lyubimyj, we both need to dry off, yes?” He sighs, low and heavy, a little bit of the lightness sliding out of his grasp. “I think there are some things we must talk about.” 

Shane grumbles but listens, letting Ilya tug him out onto the plush, black bath mat, and gingerly accepts the warm towel Ilya passes him. 

Ilya drifts a bit away, oscillating between the urge to stay as close to Shane as possible and the need to soak him in as he methodically dries his body. 

Normally, if they're taking a shower together, they either have no time to luxuriate or they're halfway through being dry before Ilya tugs them back into bed. He’s always ignored the mutters of Hollander’s worries, the quiet admonishments of catching a chill and getting sick; something that Ilya has always answered with an I know how to warm you up and a salacious grin. 

But now, he’s watching as Shane carefully unfolds the stack of sweats he’s retrieved. He gets to stare as Shane tugs on the faded t-shirt he’s had for over a decade, the Cyrillic lettering of a band from the nineties worn down to nothing more than faint imprints. His breath catches as Shane tugs his briefs up his thighs, smoothing the band over his hips. Even more endearing is how much of a show Shane isn’t putting on, instead eyeing him carefully as Ilya tugs on his own warm clothes, as if he’s just as entranced as Ilya is. 

Ilya snaps the band of his sweats against his hips and forgoes a shirt, smirking faintly at the flush that drifts across Shane's face as he chews his bottom lip. 

His gaze gets caught on the sweatpants Shane's tugging up, the hemline of the pants folding awkwardly from Ilya’s longer legs. 

Without even thinking about it, he steps closer and kneels, his hands reaching for the hem of Shane's borrowed sweatpants. Though they’re pants with the cinched ends, he's heard Shane complain about the way he hates the drag of fabric over his feet, even in socks. 

It's quick work to roll them up as Shane's hand lands on the crown of his head—three times, he thinks gleefully, already building chirp material about how fucking short and adorable Shane is—but when he pulls back and glances up at Shane, the expression on his face nearly takes him out. 

Shane's bottom lip is caught between his teeth, his wide eyes damp with emotion, his hand tangled gently in Ilya's hair. He looks warm and cozy and soft; Ilya’s sweats low on his hips, his shoulders broad but softened beneath the worn t-shirt, his muscles compact, and his face cracked open with desire, and Jesus Christ, having the team over later is such a mistake when it means he can't ravish Shane when he looks like this.

“What?” Ilya manages to ask, smiling up at him. The curve of his mouth is nearly fragile as it unfurls. “You are okay, yes?” 

Shane tugs on his hair, just once, as if he can't help it. “Yeah,” he rasps, as Ilya rises up, Shane's hand sliding out of his hair to settle on his chest, right over his heart. “You take such good care of me.” 

Ilya hopes that he can't feel the way his whole body jolts, but he’s pretty sure it’s a lost cause, given the way he tips into Shane for a beat before he catches himself. 

“I—” he starts, and then stops, locking all he longs to say behind his teeth. “Good,” he settles on instead. “You deserve to be taken care of.” 

Shane’s nails bite into the skin over his heart for a moment before he relaxes, an edge Ilya hadn't even realized was in his gaze, fading. 

“You'll let me, too,” Shane breathes out, watching him with the same intensity that he uses to dissect his own plays. For a moment, Ilya feels as if he's been caught alone on the ice, defenseless against Shane’s searing gaze. “It's only fair.” Ilya blinks at him, and Shane’s face spins into something wet with wanting. “Ilya,” he murmurs, his nails back into his skin, digging in. “Please let me take care of you, too.” 

The genuineness of the ask flays Ilya open, singeing his tender insides. 

He nods before he can think it through, the weight of Shane's careful words rattling his bones, leaving quiet devastation in its wake. He can't remember the last time he let himself admit to anyone that he needs care—let alone that he wants it. 

He leans in, careful and gentle, and nudges his forehead against Shane's, his eyes fluttering closed. 

“Okay,” he murmurs, and captures the quiet sigh Shane lets slip with his mouth, drinking down his murmured exhalation as if they have all the time in the world. 

They linger in the moment, kissing until Ilya’s lips are buzzing, for all that it goes nowhere, warmth shared between them. Shane pulls back, his hands sliding around Ilya’s torso until he's pulled him back into a hug. 

“I like this,” he murmurs, Ilya curling his arms around him even tighter; he knows how much Shane enjoys the squeeze. “I like you.” 

A wave of infatuation swamps Ilya, heavy enough that he can feel the syrupy blanket of warmth smothering all his other desires—he's fairly certain he's going to have a terrible time when Shane has to leave, and the real world rushes into those soft and defenseless gaps, the tender shadows he leaves open for all of Shane. 

“I like you, too,” he whispers back, and pulls away, ducking his head, overcome at the thought. “Kitchen, yes?” he asks, after a moment's pause, letting them both collect themselves. “Dinner is not for—” he steps away, pushing the door to the bedroom open and shivering at the cool rush of air. “A few hours,” he finishes, the time glowing from his old clock atop his dresser in the dimness of the rapidly darkening room. 

“Yeah, okay,” Shane says, pressing a kiss to the back of his shoulder blade as he moves past and heads for the stairs. 

“There’s ginger ale in the fridge,” Ilya calls after him, snagging his phone, peeking at the storm of nervous text messages sitting both in the group chat and in a flurry of personal chats. 

He rolls his eyes at the get wreckt Carmie sends in response to some nonsense in their Bears chat and shoves his phone into his pockets. No one's called him, which is the real flag for something going terribly wrong, and he doesn't really want to spend precious minutes reassuring everyone that Shane's not impossible to impress; not when Shane's with him, now. 

He pauses in the doorway, his eyes flicking across the room, only to linger on Shane's bag. First real sleepover, he thinks, like an idiot, and feels his face get hot with embarrassment and glee, even as he slips his phone out of his pocket and snaps a dim, blurry photo of his room. 

He knows he's going to want proof of it later, when it all feels like a dream, and Shane’s far away, when it feels like a lie he made up to make himself feel better. 

The wood is cool beneath his feet as he makes his way downstairs, detouring to grab his bag and toss it onto the stairs, and slip his usual sliders on. He can hear Shane in the kitchen, puttering about, and follows the noise of him snagging himself a ginger ale. 

The kitchen looks the same as always, for all that Ilya feels like he’s been irreparably changed. The only difference is seeing Shane in it, wet-haired and more at ease than Ilya had even expected, his hip propped against the counter, the click of the can as he sets it down on the granite. 

“Hungry?” Ilya asks as he slides past him, unable to resist the urge to cop a feel. He grins at Shane’s lackadaisical swat, his fingers just glancing off his shoulder. “If you wanted, sweetheart, I could eat you.” He snaps his teeth in Shane’s direction, delighting in his eyeroll. 

“I’m not that hungry,” Shane murmurs, ignoring his other suggestion. His knuckles are white, tense on the countertop, and Ilya ignores him, setting up his rice cooker in efficient motions—another piece of his pregame prep—before reaching into the fridge to grab the salmon. He wasn't exactly paying attention to the restaurant chosen, aside from making sure it also has food Shane will eat, but even with that, he knows that he can be extra particular when his nerves get involved.

“Let me cook for you,” Ilya says, instead of prodding at that soft spot. “I have a world-class salmon recipe, straight from a chef.” 

Shane arches a brow, his mouth curving into something soft and fond even as he chirps, a pale imitation of what’s said on the ice, a hint of jealousy in his tone. “Do I even want to know what straight from a chef entails, Rozanov?” 

Ilya smirks. “Connors likes to try things in a controlled space, and for whatever reason didn’t want to ask Sainty for help with cooking,” he says as he tugs his various pans needed out, preheating the oven. He tugs out the accoutrements from his early morning prep.  “He booked a couples cooking class for some fuckin’ reason, and asked if I wanted to go.” He shrugs, his mouth ticking up as Shane squints at him, his brow furrowed. “I’m not kidding about the couples class,” he says, amused at the thought. “Ask Connors when he gets here.” 

“I will,” Shane says, a mulish expression on his face, as if he thinks Ilya doesn’t believe him. He pauses for a moment, a strange expression on his face. “And it was fine? No one was weird?” 

Ilya shrugs, thinking back to it. “Mm, no,” he settles on. “Sainty was weird, but it was over the offense of not getting asked, though he also was over it sooner than I expected. Anyone who was weird has been traded at this point, and now we have the babies who try new things together all the time.” His mouth curls up. “Their last new thing was trying out tennis, though I think Los is dragging them to a paint and sip class with the WAGs in a few weeks.” 

The oven beeps, and he turns, sliding the tray onto the rack, the hiss from the rice cooker filling the air, before Ilya shuts the door and turns back to find Shane chewing on his bottom lip, his nerves readily apparent.

“Malysh,” Ilya starts, low and quiet, fumbling around as he tries to reassure him. “I don't want to spoil this—our time together, but there is—” he pauses, trying to figure out how best to phrase it, reaching out to cup a hand under the strong line of his jaw. “You are stressed, no? There is something lingering in your mind. Buzzing at the edges.” He smooths a thumb across his freckles and lets his heart ache with the force of a thousand bad hits as Shane’s lashes flutter, his cheeks flushing peach-pink. “What’s bothering you so much?” 

“I don't want to fuck this up,” Shane blurts out, a sour grimace smeared across his cheeks. His eyes are dark and knowing, as he tilts his head more firmly into the hand Ilya has cupped against his cheek. “And I don’t—this is your team, and they’re fucking important, and I don’t want to ruin this.”

Ilya blinks at him. 

“I don’t know how to be—how to relax,” Shane continues. “I keep thinking that I’ll chill the fuck out and be normal, but I just keep winding myself higher and higher, and I want—I don’t—” He blushes so deeply that Ilya can abruptly feel the heat his cheeks are throwing off. “I want to make a good impression,” he mutters, and all of Ilya goes hot and gooey in his chest, embarrassingly thrilled to hear such a thing. “And I know that they’re—I know that your team is good. So good. To both you and me, and they don’t even know me. But I just—” He shrugs, biting at his lip. “I want them to know that I’m not—that you’re not—that you mean more to me than I can figure out. That I don’t want to wake up and realize I’ve missed all this time with you, even if we aren’t defined.” 

“Wow,” Ilya says, his mouth curling into a smile that only Shane ever brings out, all soft and drippy with emotion; soppy, stupid, irresponsible love in the curl of his lip. He’s not even paying attention to what he’s saying as he smooths his thumb across Shane’s cheekbone again. “You are so in love with me.” 

Shane rolls his eyes, even as his shoulders drop, tension easing a bit. “Yeah, well. You’re in love with me, too, asshole.” 

Ilya grins wider, opening his mouth to counter Shane’s words, only to pause as he realizes just what they've both confessed to. 

Shane blinks at him, his brow wrinkling up, his mouth dropping open as if he has a question, before he freezes, joining Ilya into stunned silence. 

For a moment, neither of them so much as breathes, watching each other carefully, as if any wrong movement will shatter through the truth, revealing each other as some false prophet. 

Instead, the words knife through him with the same ferocity of a Northeastern wind. They pierce straight through, a sharp blade of unrelenting understanding making its way into his heart. 

How strange it is to know something so intimate and true and yet be unable to voice it himself; Ilya Rozanov loves Shane Hollander, and better yet, Shane Hollander loves Ilya Rozanov, despite neither of them really confessing. 

The words hang in the air for a long moment, not quite filling the space but shifting the edges, making both easier to understand and all the harder because well—now they both know. 

There’s a huge difference, Ilya knows, between suspecting and knowing, and neither of them is denying the whole in-love bit of things. 

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya hisses as Shane’s wide brown gaze grows damp with emotion, and then Shane’s mouth is on his, his tongue licking into his mouth, and Ilya’s hands slide to cradle his jaw, the tips of his fingers sliding into his hair. “You make me feel fucking crazy,” Ilya hisses into the spit-slick cavern of his mouth. “What the fuck—”

Shane laughs, the edges of it wobbly with hysteria. “I make you crazy?” he gasps, his nose nudging against Ilya’s as he draws back just enough to meet his eyes dead-on. “What the hell do you think you’re doing to me?” 

“Nothing you are not already doing to me,” Ilya promises, and loses himself back in the firm press of Shane’s mouth, the wet glide of his tongue. He tastes like victory, tart fizziness spilling into his mouth, offset by the sharp nip of Shane’s teeth to his lower lip. 

By the time Shane pulls away, Ilya is dizzy with want, greediness lining his veins. 

“We gotta stop,” Shane pants. “Your team—” 

“Fuck my team,” Ilya growls, trying to kiss Shane again. “Come back, lyubimyj.” 

“Ilya,” Shane says reprovingly, but he’s laughing, and all Ilya wants is to lick the sound straight from his mouth, to swallow down the buzz of his joy, the weight of his glee. He is gloriously handsome in the darkening kitchen, his whole face bright with joy. 

He listens, though, when Shane captures his hand and guides them to the seats in the kitchen, their knees knocking together as they settle onto the stools. 

“I don’t even know what to do,” Shane says, blinking at him. He’s flushing as Ilya watches, streaks of pink and red shimmering across his cheekbones. “I didn’t even—I hadn’t thought that you knew—but you do.” 

“Sweetheart,” Ilya murmurs, devotion burbling up from his center, thick and heady, sugarsweet and lemon-tart. “Of course I do.” 

Shane laughs, unabashed despite how quiet the sound is. “I don't know, sometimes,” he says, like this is news to Ilya, instead of one of the very first things he took in, all those years ago, when the ice had sung so sweetly under their skates, the weight of two countries' expectations on both of their shoulders. “I wanted to hope, and when your text about being outed came through, and you said your team knew—I just—it was like a dream that was scary but welcome. I'm not explaining this well. But it was—I was—am, maybe—so scared. But you… you make it worth it. You've always made it worth it.” 

Ilya can feel the impression of each of Shane's words as if they're stones cast across a serene lake, every glancing skip rippling outwards until everything has changed, the reflection of all he knows undone beneath his steady hand. 

The expression on his face doesn't help settle Ilya, an elated shade of captivation sweeping through him at the earnest look in Shane’s eyes, his mouth soft with wanting, his ears pink. 

“I know it'll be—I know it will change things, even if we can't do anything about it,” Shane murmurs. “And I know it can't—or maybe, shouldn't?—make us deviate from the plan—sorry, make us change the plan, but I still—” He pauses and shrugs. “It’s a little silly that we haven’t just… said it, isn’t it?” 

“No,” Ilya says, before he thinks it through, his mouth moving faster than he can keep up. “I don’t—I don’t want to say it and then have to share you with other people.” He meets Shane’s eyes, lets his go low-lidded with seduction, his mouth curling into something sweet and filthy. “The day we say it, we’re not leaving bed until you’re bruised under the force of it,” he murmurs, his heart skipping a beat at the mere thought. “Want it imprinted on you forever.” 

Shane smiles back at him, dark-eyed with hunger and dangerous as he always is. Ilya is continually unimpressed by the people who see Shane and think prey, when they don’t realize his softness is nothing more than a ghost, clinging to the bones of a man who can turn himself into a weapon at the drop of a hat. Just because he doesn’t fight doesn’t mean he can’t, and nothing lights Ilya up more than getting into bed with another apex predator, especially one as handsome and wild as Shane. 

“It’s only fair if I can do the same,” Shane murmurs, swaying forward to press a kiss against the corner of his mouth, before he pulls back, still smiling as Ilya nods eagerly, unashamed to be so plain with his wants. 

For a moment, they just stare at each other before the oven beeps softly, the timer going off. 

“I’m really not hungry,” Shane says, as Ilya pushes himself up. “You wanna just throw it in the warming drawer for now? Unless you’re hungry. I don’t want you to eat alone.” 

Ilya tosses a smile over his shoulder, shaking his head. “We can eat when the rice is done?” he asks, nodding at the twenty minutes still left on the cooker, though he knows it’ll be a little longer than that. “I know you’re a little hungry; you have to be, after all the hockey.” 

Shane snorts but doesn’t argue as Ilya sets the salmon into the warming tray and starts another timer for half an hour. He eyes Shane’s tapping fingers, the restless way he’s back to chewing his bottom lip, and reaches over, snagging a straw from the jar of them he keeps on his counter, and slides it into Shane’s ginger ale without a word. 

Shane’s eyes dart up to meet him, before they drift back down, a faint smile ghosting across his face before he takes a sip, chewing on the end of the straw immediately. 

Ilya squints at him as he rounds the counter, resettling back into his seat, before he comes to an unhappy conclusion.

“But you are not just worried about my team,” he says softly, hating himself a little bit for bursting their tiny, joyous bubble. He just—he needs to know. They’re a team now, and it’s the last time they’ll see each other for a few weeks; he can’t listen to Shane wane over the phone for that long without understanding why. “There is something else. Something to do with Montreal.” 

It’s like he’s slapped Shane across the face, watching the sudden drain of happiness from his face. He doesn’t flinch back, but it’s as if it’s only because he’s been trained out of it; taught that movement invites pain, that flinching only serves to be hit harder. 

“Ilya,” Shane breathes out, his mouth flattening as he pulls the straw out of his mouth. There's something cold and fathomless in his eyes, a reckoning unknown to anyone but him. “It’s—I don’t know. It’s a lot. Before, you know, seeing your team and all that.” 

Ilya hums, waiting, and the growing pool of nausea threatens to drown him as Shane crumples, just for a beat, under his steady gaze. 

“I can't really tell you,” Shane says, his eyes wide and pleading, as if Ilya is going to call him a liar. “I want to—I don't, I really—it's bad sometimes,” he manages to get out. “I don't like it.” 

“I did not think you did,” Ilya starts, only to pause as Shane starts to shake his head harder and harder. “Is it more than that?” 

Shane shrugs, a panicked look in his eyes. “It’s not like I can really tell you,” he manages, fumbling for his words. “And I don’t—everything is just how it’s always been, and there’s nothing more than what I fucking know. And like, there are other things happening, like this stupid thing with fucking—wait—” He pauses, inhaling and closes his eyes. “There is something else.” 

“Okay,” Ilya says slowly, trying to figure out what the fuck he could possibly mean. “Out of—different from what is happening with the lockjaw curse?” Shane bobs his head, his lashes still fanned across his freckled cheeks. “But still with your team?” 

Shane hesitates and then nods, before shrugging and shaking his head. 

“Something with someone you do not know who?” Ilya asks, before frowning at the mess of his words. “Or, you are not sure who? But there is something happening?” 

Shane nods, cracking his eyelids open. “Do you know anything about charmbags? Aside from what they do to a person?” 

Ilya hums. He knows what they are; he was made familiar with them when he was a child, the teeny tiny ones his mother put in her corner cabinet, the cupboard that everyone but her stayed away from. He knows now that her secrets saved in that tiny, warm space next to the oven helped kill her faster, helped poison the very walls of their home; her desperation to have anything for herself and herself alone only fed the malignancy that hovered over their heads. 

Of course, he cannot hold it against her, despite how badly it aches to know. 

He’s familiar with them as they’re used properly too; in the years before the NHL, overseas in Russia, it was customary to have bags checked before and after leaving the arenas, his closest companions and fiercest companions all set on his downfall, simply by virtue of being too good. 

He never breathed a word when he found them, never said a single thing about some of them sliding into his bag from Alexei. They were stupidly short-sighted, the originators; none of them realized the magic never stuck, that it slid from his shoulders as if it was never there. 

But he doesn't know them, doesn't reach for them, doesn't try to gain an edge with their arcane help. It would never occur to him to use it; he views it as worse than cheating to damage an opponent like that. It’s a stupid tactic to rely on finicky magic to help, instead of personal skill. 

“I know what they are supposed to do,” he settles on. “I have never used them personally, though people have slipped them into my bag before—before the NHL, I mean. No one on the Bears would use them, I don’t think.” 

Shane sinks his teeth into his bottom lip so hard that for a moment, Ilya thinks he draws blood. 

“You—I don’t think I know how to—but you know how they're not supposed to be put in places and left, right? That the compulsion is soured by too much area to charm,” Shane says slowly as Ilya nods. “That.” 

“That?” 

Shane jerks his head, and understanding washes through Ilya.

“At the rinks?” he asks, watching Shane's face as he nods. “At your home?”

“I don't know,” Shane mutters after a beat. He looks small, huddled back in his stool, his fingers spinning the straw. “But I don't think so.” 

“And you cannot tell me anything about the biggest problem, because it is about the team and you have been locked shut?” Ilya says, anger rising. “And these charmbags, they are team-related too, because you cannot say things. Because you have been bloodsworn to silence.” 

Shane swallows, his throat bobbing, before he nods, just once. 

“I don't understand,” Ilya confesses, the truth ashy across his tongue, anger fading fast under the weight of fear, because anyone forcibly sworn to silence is someone management is worried about. “I don't get the magic you have here. In North America.” He shrugs, trying to pull together what bothers him so much about it. “It is—it is treated like poison by everyone,” he settles on, because there is no kindness about the hearth. The wellwitches and hedgewitches and family magic are all stamped out, turned into flashy corporate greed. The magic of America is for sale, straight to the highest bidder, and there’s something unbelievably unseemly about the way most of the humble occult branches have been culled, as if they're rot. He’s taken trips out into the Appalachian mountains occasionally, when he’s had the time, and there’s something hauntingly eerie about the old forests that isn’t found elsewhere; as if the very land has a taste for blood, something sharp under the greenery. He can never tell if it's the bones of the earth laid bare or if it's a shade of anger that runs darker than should be fathomable, as if the earth has been tainted by insatiable greed. Even in Moscow, the jumble of witchery had mostly been run through with care. “Unless it is needed. And even then, it’s treated like it is worse than dirt. There's no respect for arcana. No carefulness in the dealings." Shane scowls at him, his mouth opening, and Ilya shakes his head. “You are not the contract holder,” he says, assured of this at least, because he knows Shane down to his bones. “You are the sacrifice.” 

For a moment, he thinks he has crossed the line, given the expression on Shane's face. He looks angry, in a way Ilya's never seen before, a thundercloud of ferocity drawn tight across his face. 

“They really don't like the s-word,” Shane finally says, after a weighty moment. “But I'd be lying if I said it wasn't true.” 

Ilya blinks as the anger slides away from Shane's expression, twisting into something almost sad. 

“I wanted to be enough,” he mutters, dragging a finger around the rim of the ginger ale can. “And I don’t—Svegte had always said that—fuck, I can’t say that, shit, okay—I had hoped that being the Captain would let me shift things, not, I don’t know. But it’s not—I don’t want it, the inheritance, and I think it can tell.” He lifts wet eyes up to Ilya, the sight of them piercing through him. “You know when you’ve been tethered—hooked, is maybe an easier word? When you can feel that stupid fucking band of iron thorns around the core of you? When there’s nothing that you can do to fight it, because the weight of it is nearly impossible to breathe around?” 

Ilya blinks at him, but doesn’t say a word as Shane continues, too wary of reminding him that Ilya doesn’t know, because most teams don’t have an arcane thread. 

“And I can’t say anything to anyone,” he says, exhaustion weighing down his words. “I didn’t know about the—the silencing part of things until I tried to talk to you.” He laughs, a sharp burst of sour sound. “And it, just,”—he gestures at his mouth, his jaw—“all locked up. Pulled me in tighter, I think.” The noise he makes is something low and incoherent aside from the shallow rage lingering in the divots of his voice. “It wasn’t even about fucking hockey. It—it never fucking is. And it’s like the less I want it, the more desperately I think that I need it, even though I don’t know what it wants from me, and the more it hurts.” 

“I’m sick of it, of wearing this crown,” Shane says, on an exhale, the words running into each other, almost slurred, as if he’s afraid he’ll be stopped in the middle of his sentence. 

For the first time, Ilya wonders at how truly invasive the stitched-in arcane thread is. The NHL boasts about its three arcana teams in shades that range from offensive to the supernatural and cloyingly overdone. They’ve always called it the Might of Montreal, while also talking down about how it’s unnecessary to play a game of hockey. 

Ilya just doesn’t understand why they let the teams have the enchanted stitches woven in. In the beginning of the league, yes, he understands that there were teams formed out of covens that turned into legitimate actors within the NHL, but he doesn’t get why the fuck they didn’t burn it out as soon as it became apparent that it was only a few teams who’d be able to sustain any magical pull. 

It only seems to make things worse for everyone involved, and yet, the NHL refuses to do anything about it. 

“Sometimes I think I'm going crazy,” Shane says, staring at the wall behind the oven. His gaze is so fixed that for a second, Ilya almost turns to look, to make sure that there isn't some mess splattered across the splashback. “I don't—how the fuck am I supposed to deal with this, if my own team—” He cuts himself off, but not before Ilya can hear the choked-up helplessness in his voice. 

He wishes he had more to say, more understanding of magic and teams and shit, but all he has are the bits and pieces from his Mama, his cross that he dutifully never takes off, and now Shane, and everything he can't say. 

It almost makes him want to cry, watching Shane's face as he sorts through his thoughts. 

Instead, he tightens his resolve and stares at Shane, waiting for a glint of acknowledgement in that dark-eyed gaze that he craves and wants to hide from his equal measure. 

“Ilya,” Shane says, helpless and wretched, and he doesn't say anything else as Ilya scoops his hand off the counter, pressing a kiss against the back of it. 

For a moment, they're quiet, the room settling into an odd sense of peace, despite the bombshell Shane's just dropped. 

“Can you write it?” Ilya asks, his mind racing. “If you—is that another way around? Or is it just as—is it impossible too?” 

Shane blinks at him, and for a moment, Ilya wishes he could hear his thoughts, wishes he could know the heart of Shane without worry about the mess of translation. It’s harder than Ilya thinks it should be, sometimes, when he has to translate the words people say into what they mean, and then again, into what Ilya thinks the person’s trying to say. He’s fucked it up more than once, with Shane, in both directions. For all that Ilya thinks that they try to listen, there have been moments they’ve both been fucking awful at it. 

“I don’t know,” Shane admits, and Ilya can see how much the uncertainty hurts him, how much the loss of control is costing him as he sits at the counter, his eyes dark with solemnness. “But, yeah, I mean, I can—I can try. Just don’t be angry if it’s—or, I know you won’t be angry, but just—never mind. I’m being stupid.” 

“It’s not stupid,” Ilya says, pressing another kiss across his knuckles before he pushes himself up, heading around the counter for his junk drawer. 

He yanks out the pad of paper, embossed with Svetlana's name and business for some fucking reason, and tears the bottom half of a page off, sliding it and a pen across the page. 

Shane accepts both easily, a wary expression on his face that doesn't change, even as Ilya nods at the paper. 

“Fuck,” Shane breathes out, and hunkers down, half-shielding the words, as if he's afraid Ilya’s going to peek. 

But Ilya doesn’t even try to look as Shane writes, hyperaware of the madness that can come when the transmundane is examined so closely. Smithy had once described the tangibility of magic as a wet drag of a too-sharp razor that burns from the cold, and they’d all agreed that it was the best way of describing it. To look too closely invites the feeling across the soft pulp of the brain; to study magic is to hollow oneself out for nothing more than arcana, and sometimes mere curiosity is enough for magic to core a person out. 

Magic is hungry in that way. 

Instead, Ilya watches the bob of Shane’s head, his crown topped with silky black hair, the strands mussed from him dragging his hands through them, from all the tugging he’d done in an effort to contain himself. 

“Fuck,” Shane says, lifting his head up and sliding the paper across the table. “What the actual hell? The words were all—I swear I could—” 

Ilya tugs the sheet over and glances down, frowning at the smear of words scrawled neatly across the blank white. 

laughter. listen to me. laughter. love. you are not listening. no good. turn back. do you know? duck. dodge. avoid. avoid. avoid—apologize. bag. skate. bag. home. did you know? hunger. hollow. bruise. how could this—stop. stop. stop. you’re hurting me. love. watch. burn. love. dark. dim. cold. no. cold. fake. what? liar. liar. liar. liar. liar. liar. liar. anger. your fault. liar. liar. liar. liar. liar. liar. fuck you. liar. liar. liar. liar. liar. liar. uh-oh. broken. no good. please. please. and then, and then, and then, and then—sorry. 

“Shane,” Ilya says carefully, reading the cloud of words again. He hates most of them instinctively; they sear his eyes with an aura that is almost painful. “What the fuck?”

Shane shrugs, glassy-eyed. “I tried to, you know,” he mutters, gesturing with the pen. “That's not—well, I can't even hint at it. But that's—wrong. Not what I wrote.” 

Ilya squints, something about the set of them itching at his skin. 

“Does it mean anything to you?” he asks solemnly. It's strange to be confronted with the sheer depth of his ignorance. Shane has a whole piece of hockey unknown to him, another filmy maze to wander through, one that Ilya prays that he doesn't run into any soft spots as he bumbles about in the dark. 

He watches as Shane stares at the words for a long, long time. “No idea,” he says slowly. “But they're—” his voice cuts out, and he scowls, pressing his lips together. “I can't say.”

Ilya hums, drumming his fingers against the marble. Fear is beginning to well within him, staticky shocks of vibrant worry building as his eyes linger on the scrawled words. 

“Shane,” he says, hating himself for even having the courage to voice this question, despite how badly he needs it answered. “Are you—are you safe in Montreal?” 

For a long, swollen moment, neither of them moves. The kitchen is silent beyond the hiss of steam from the rice, the hum from the fridge. The light has waned enough that the gray shadows of winter are clinging to both of them, draping them in a solemn, gauzy gloom. 

Shane drags his eyes up as Ilya waits, his tongue held fast in his mouth. Both of them know it should've been an immediate yes; that it's not, is more worrying than Ilya even knows what to do with. 

He presses his lips together, watching as Shane hesitates before shrugging, his eyes fluttering closed as if the honesty has cost him more than he can handle. 

“Don’t,” Shane murmurs as Ilya opens his mouth, despite his eyes still being closed. “There’s nothing I can do about it right now.” He cracks his lids open, unerringly finding and holding Ilya’s gaze. “Above all else, the contract holds, Ilya. Bloodsworn and bound. Unless something happens—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t want to invoke something that can’t be undone.” 

Ilya pauses, his mouth shutting. There’s something there, he knows, about the deliberate wording of invoke something that can’t be undone, but he also knows that if he pushes, it will be for naught; it’s not like Shane can confirm anything, not with his jaw stitched shut, with the terrible Might of Montreal burned into his soul. 

“So what do we do?” Ilya asks, keeping his gaze fixed on Shane’s. “We wait?” 

Shane presses his lips together, his mouth curving into a grimace. “What else can we do?” he asks, but Ilya knows the taste of those words, knows how keenly they bite. “Unless the contract snaps, I can’t—and I don’t even—imagining not—” He snaps his mouth shut before he can voice it, but Ilya can fill in the gaps. 

Shane is Montreal, for all that Montreal pretends otherwise. To imagine him elsewhere feels nearly blasphemous, even as the sparks of a terribly dangerous want begin to smolder in the pit of Ilya’s stomach. 

Ilya leans down, pressing the light switch that’s hidden in the side panel of the counter, and watching as Shane’s bathed in warm, amber light, his eyes glittering under his lashes. 

“Okay,” he says, and swallows down the rest of his words, the best he can give him in this precarious moment. He can be good and leave it, despite the howling of rage that he can feel rattling his bones. “And you are sure that tonight…?”

Shane nods, his mouth curling into something soft and fond, and Ilya can’t help himself as he leans over his counter to press a kiss to his lips, a gentle dash of affection. “Yeah,” Shane murmurs, pulling back. “I’m—it’s an adjustment, but I want to meet them. For real, you know? They’re, well, you know them best, but they fucking adore you.” He shrugs, looking almost bashful as Ilya examines him, searching for any hint of discomfort. “And I can’t let the rookies down, can I?” 

Ilya laughs and lets the bubbles of joy rise back up to the top; the fear and worry sink back into his depths, though he knows they won’t ever actually be gone tonight. In fact, he’s fairly certain that they won’t disappear until Montreal is a distant memory, but that’s too much to think about now, so he lets that thought drift away too. 

“Ah,” Ilya says, smirking at him. It would scare him how easy it is to slip back into joking with him, if it wasn’t such a relief. “You are here to steal my rookies away, are you?” 

Shane grins back, and Ilya can see the thankfulness in his gaze. “You caught me, Rozanov,” he says, as the timer on Ilya’s phone begins to chime. He props his chin on his hand and flutters his lashes. “I’m just hoping to convince them to jump ship, since you won’t be anywhere near the playoffs this year.” 

“Oh, he has jokes,” Ilya crows as he pops the lid on the rice steamer and tugs the salmon out of the warming drawer. “Cocky Hollander, hm?” 

Shane snorts, and Ilya glances over his shoulder to find his eyes crinkled up with joy, fondness evident in the lines of his face. “Well,” he says, winking, even as his cheeks pink up at the lewd hand gesture he flashes, as Ilya’s mouth drops open. “I think I’d hope so.” 

He bursts into delighted laughter that only grows as Shane joins in, and, for once, lets his hope for what will come drown out all of the many things that could possibly go wrong.

Chapter End Notes

this was so very long and self-indulgent, apologies for that :)

so many ppl were excited for the game, and im sorry to report that (i'm sure it's obvi) i know zilch about hockey. prior to hr, I'd seen one game at unh where they threw a fish on the ice. it was incredible. i LOVE fics where ppl KNOW hockey. they're always so fucking good.

if i make a sillies fic to dump nonsense in, i might try my hand at writing an actual game. i think it would be kinda cool to pull a transcript from an actual game and then fic-ify it. if i DO it will be this game for SURE.

shane wearing a tux for hookup #1 🤝🏻 boston trying to dress formal to impress miss jane

the suburbs of boston are NO JOKE to get through, hence the apt in the city and the house outside of it. i totally could have put him in a house on the west end, the cambridge area, but babes, i grew up on the nh seacoast. if i had to suffer thru route one to get in and out of boston, so does ilya.

if there's one thing I'm gonna do, it's work plant symbolism into a fic. sloe (blackthorn) is a plant that primarily means: fate, protection. does ilya know that? who's to say? but does it mean something that he feels the same way when he sees shane? maybe. did irina know what it meant? who's to say what the dead know. they're dead, right? it's not like anyone can talk to them. 😇

i am earnestly so charmed by people guessing at what comes next. some people have some solid thoughts, some people are wildly off base (but in a way that makes me want to write in those ideas bc they're so fun).

it's very fun to write montreal, the team that is deeply touched by magic and insidious rot at that, and then boston, the team that forgets magic exists on the reg, bc it's not like they deal with all that. but it's also so critical because shane is Magical in the eyes of montreal. he's the end all, be all of the team, and that comes with layers of things (good and bad). ilya literally being able to set the things he doesn't want to deal with aside whereas shane can—quite literally—not

for clarification: truthrot is a term i just made up for this verse, but it's the slimy feeling shane/hayd/jj get in their mouth when someone lies to them

shane and the pressure of getting everything just right is next! thank god that's an easy ask.

ALSO, ppl were curious about my recs - my general recs are always saved in my bookmarks (tho those are VERY shallow since I'd be hard pressed to think of a fic i've read in this fandom that i didn't enjoy) but for magical realism, i have to shout out cloche by the incredible thathastu and the mindbogglingly good series of singing the song of arenas by SafelyCapricious (who, fun fact! i've found in like so many of my fandoms. an utter icon) - you do need an account to read them, but ohmygod i love these fics.

Chapter 4: all love, must leave, oh, but search for it i will

Chapter Notes

this one is a doozy! please enjoy the circles of shane's mind.

By the time the doorbell rings, the only thing that Shane hasn't panicked about is his outfit. He's sure that if more time had unspooled between them, it would've happened, even though it's Ilya's clothes he's dressed in. 

It's just a habit, by now, to worry about everything. Even as the afternoon had worn on after their talk—though Shane still can't tell how much Ilya knows (he thinks it's somehow both more and less than what he expects), and every time he thinks about saying the word prophecy, his whole jaw locks up—he had felt the familiar buzz of nerves batter at his nervous system, until it became too much to hold. 

Now, he’s passed the point of no return, hollowed of most of the heaviness that had dragged at his body, even as he can feel the steady churn of anxiety building up slowly in his chest again. It's a more familiar burn—one of generalized don't fuck this up—in his sternum, though; not that it makes it all that much better. 

Truly, it doesn’t help that he can't even seem to figure out how to stand in the doorway, his whole body stiff and uncertain as Ilya steps over to the door, tugging a shirt over his head, before he pauses, glancing back at him. 

“Hollander,” he says, soft, and fond, and fuck, Shane's heard that tone before, echoing in his ears on the ice and rattling through his ribs in beds and behind closed doors. It never fails to warm him through, the gentle care soaked into the words, for all that they're oriented as taunting. Warm sunshine, revealed just for him. “You are having a panic attack.” 

Shane glares at him, even as the stiffness unwinds from his spine at the callback and he slouches against the door frame, his shoulder knocking into the lightly carved wood. Svetlana did it, Ilya had answered when Shane had caught sight of the Cyrillic carvings out of the corner of his eye and asked about them an hour ago. It is for hearth and home, but she knows more than I do. I just let her do whatever she wants and nod. It had prickled at the edges of Shane’s awareness, a weight to the name. He’s heard of Svetlana before: an imprint he’s sometimes worried he’s chasing after. 

Ilya had read the worry on his face somehow and had curled his fingers over Shane’s. Svetlana is not—she is a version of home, yes, but it is not a home I am—she knows of Jane, because I have told her of Jane. Because I want Jane, yes? I do not want Sveta. Not in the same way. 

A vision had throbbed in the corner of his left eye in the same moment, an echo of a transparent Ilya—days, weeks, months, hell, maybe years from now—his mouth crooked with glee, a glint to his eyes, as he murmured, the words barely distinguishable, “and aren’t you glad, Sveta was here to talk you down from—,” before it had faded out to nothing. 

Shane had nodded and let the tension in his shoulders go. Svetlana would wait, he knew, and he would only wind himself up even more if he let it simmer at his already exasperated nerves.

This, however, standing in the doorway, is decidedly less easy than that, for all that it should be. Meeting Ilya’s team, who he already knows on-ice, is a far cry from understanding the depths and layers of his relationship with his childhood friend turned fuck buddy, but here he is, still worrying about the Bears and if they’ll fucking like him. He shoves at the piece of him that murmurs about it making more sense since Boston descending upon them is imminent and returns his focus to Ilya’s smiling face. 

“Shut up,” Shane says, narrowing his eyes. He’s going to beat back all his worries, even if it kills him. He’s going to be so fucking normal and good at this that everyone is going to be impressed, and no one is going to look at them and wonder why the hell Ilya puts up with him. “No, I'm not.”

Ilya laughs, sweet and low, an unspoken challenge in the sound, and Shane can't help the way his mouth twitches in response, an answer to the pressure all the same, spoken in a language only they know.

Ilya regards him fondly for another beat, his eyes gentle, before he turns back to the door and swings it open. 

“Cap,” Marleau greets, his voice bouncing across the foyer floor. He sounds exactly the same as he does on the ice, assured and loud, and the knot of tension that Shane’s been unsuccessfully trying to hide all afternoon releases a little bit, the sharp pressure around his lungs relenting. 

He just—he wants this to be normal. As normal as it can be, despite this being the most abnormal thing he's done in years.

He knows who he is; he knows that the needle threaded with the Might of Montreal has only enabled more of his worst habits, that it has only fed that creature inside his chest that tries to control every last thing down to his heartbeat.

It's an impossible ask of himself, and still, he wanders the same worn paths of trying new things only to get the same result: there is nothing, really, that he can control, except for himself.

His iron grip on his emotions is now part of his legacy. His diet is regularly spoken about in a tone of bemused teasing and fragmented annoyance by his team. His media training is held up as an example against the world for exactly how athletes should behave. Any slip is another reason he's got to prove himself, anew again, as if he hadn't spent all of his formative years simply proving himself. 

More than anything, the craving that asserts itself as Ilya circles around him—as he has for years—makes it clear just how easy it is for him to falter. How the right pressure in the right places makes him want to drop to his knees and hand over the reins. 

And yet, despite Ilya being the whole of what should be his greatest downfall, he's found him to be more like his greatest triumph instead. An island of safety amongst the madness of the world, though, even three months ago, he would've been incredibly reluctant to be so transparent with even himself. 

And, to be fair, maybe it is a lot to put on their relationship, when he looks back at the stolen moments and lack of communication—even at their current configuration of whatever the fuck they're doing now—but it doesn't take away from the truth of the matter; Ilya is everything he wants in a partner, and the only person who knows the whole of him. 

Even more damning: he's the only person he trusts to hold the whole of him, for all that he is forced to hide. He would unveil his soul in a heartbeat if only Ilya would ask—though there is still that damned muzzle around the things he really wants to speak of.

“Hollander!” Hammersmith says cheerfully, as he follows Marleau in, a bright smile on his face, dragging Shane from his thoughts. “Good to see you—what a fuckin’ beaut of a goal that third period, huh?” He shakes his head, his grin unfaltering even as Shane stares at him as if he's a bedraggled, wet cat. He's pretty sure he's never made a more discomforted expression in his life. “Sometimes I think about what you and Roz could do on a line, and I weep.” 

Marleau snorts, nodding as he passes them by on quick, socked feet, his arms laden with four trays of food, bags hanging off his wrists. “You're gonna make Roz's head explode if you keep talking,” he says, grinning broadly at the annoyed noise Ilya makes, before he's distracted by greeting another car full of his teammates, all of them brightly animated as they spill into his foyer. “And then LeClaire is gonna have dreams about it tonight if you speak it into existence, and then we're all gonna suffer since none of us are Hollander.” 

Shane tries his best to smile, shifting on his feet uncomfortably at the mention of speaking things into the future. 

“It’d be pretty nice to try,” he says awkwardly, instead of Ilya and I on a line would be devastatingly beautiful, and all of you would suffer for it—everyone here knows hockey; they don't need the reminder, and he doesn't want to be a fucking dickhead. “We've never gotten the chance to, obviously.” 

“Now that's a shame,” Marley calls over his shoulder as he tromps into the kitchen, Shane floating after him just for something to do other than be stared at by the people coming in. Hammersmith makes a noise of agreement as he walks alongside Shane, and he glances over to find him nodding eagerly. 

“Next time, we should sneak you into a rink with all of us and let you two crazy kids go wild,” Hammersmith says as they enter the kitchen, before Shane darts forward to grab the stack of trays from Marleau and set them on the counter. 

He settles into the rhythm of unpacking the delicious smelling stack, clearly more aware of where everything is than either of them—which, embarrassingly, makes a kernel of warmth grow in his chest—and listening as Marleau and Hammersmith devolve into chirping each other before they agree that Ilya can never know that Hammersmith called the two of them crazy kids; neither of them clock that Shane hasn’t agreed to shit, and he tucks it into his back pocket for safekeeping, unsure just how kindly they'll take to his small chirping attempts.

The mess with Hunter still stings all these years later, despite it being one of the only times Shane has ever been fully and completely respected in the locker room after a game. Everyone had wanted to know what had been said to get him to try to drop gloves; he still feels sick when he thinks about it.

The noise swells in the hall, voices overlapping, as more of the Bears spill in, and Shane tucks himself into a corner, watching the group grow rowdier and rowdier as more of them enter the kitchen, other bundles of food being unpacked, culminating with St. Simon's giant cardboard box of goodies unveiled to the loudest set of cheers. 

He greets all of the first line and most of the second line easily—some of them with more ease than others, given that St. Simon, Connors, and Marleau have all accompanied Ilya to the All Stars at one point or another, and he's met nearly all of the others at various award shows—and awkwardly waves at the few third liners who call out to him from across the room, but he doesn't know if he'll ever feel relaxed again as the trio he's been keeping an eye out for stumble over their feet as they careen into the kitchen. 

“Oh my god,” Ovi says, loud enough that Shane can hear him, even as he stands across the room, even over the layers of chatter of the rest of the Bears. “Oh, my god.” 

He turns away, trying his hardest to give the three of them a moment to work through their obvious nerves, even as his mouth twitches, and catches Carmichael's eyes as he wanders closer, dodging past Sebbin's gesturing hands as he talks about the latest piece of gossip about the San Francisco Mission team; evidently, one of their centers got caught in bed with two of the WAGs, who were already involved with each other, from the Los Angeles Queens. Ilya had dazzled him with the long story three days ago, somehow having already heard the whole of it. I keep my eyes out for other bi's, he'd said, a grin evident in his voice even as Shane had rolled his eyes, tucked into bed, and missing the weight of him. It's the only way to stay top dog. 

“Hi, Hollzy,” Carmichael murmurs, leaning against the counter. “I see you haven't been latched onto by the cubs yet.” He arches a brow, a flicker of a smirk flashing across his mouth. “No forced adoption of them either?” 

Shane blinks, his stomach churning, his semi-forced smile dropping from his face. “I wouldn't steal them from Boston,” he says, his brow furrowing, as he glances over at the three of them, watching as they wiggle into each other, all their limbs tangled together. They have their heads so close that their foreheads are almost knocking into one another as they set up a plan—or at least, that’s what he’s guessing as Breezy takes another look around the room, his eyes wide when he meets Shane’s curious gaze. Shane tears his eyes away to look back at Carmichael, his vague uncertainty lending itself to unfortunate honesty as he continues, “And I'm pretty sure Montreal would crush them.” 

Carmichael squints at him for a beat before he snorts, shaking his head, relief running through Shane as he doesn't ask what the hell he means by that. “Dude, they're going to adopt you,” he corrects carefully. “Roz has been talking up the stepmother bit like you wouldn't believe.” 

Shane groans, his cheeks heating up. “He’s an asshole,” he mutters, but it comes out too fondly for it to mean anything bad. It doesn't help that he knows his eyes go mushy with devotion; he caught sight of the way he was looking at Ilya in the mirror earlier, and it was so fucking embarrassing. He sort of never wants it to stop, though. “He loves his fucking bits.” 

Carmichael laughs, shaking his head. “And his fucking rooks—you don’t even know the half of it, Hollzy. I swear to God, he’s a man of international mystery, outside of his whole papa schtick, for no reason other than the—hang on.” Shane freezes, blinking at Carmichael as the man reaches out to set a hand on his shoulder. “You’re Montreal Jane.” 

“Yes?” Shane says after a beat. He has no idea where Carmichael is going with this. “Is that a problem?”

“Dude,” Carmichael says reprovingly. “In what world?” Shane shrugs, and Carmichael rolls his eyes, as if it should be just as easy as he thinks it is, and that Shane’s a weirdo for thinking otherwise. “Whatever. No, my point is—if you’re Montreal Jane, then you know most of his secrets. Like, where the hell was he going after games in Montreal?” 

Shane can feel his face growing bright red as he stares at Carmichael and tries to figure out if he’s being fucked with or if the man really hasn’t put it together. 

“Uh,” Shane says, and decides to bite the bullet and just get it over with as his gaze slides away from Carmichael's face. “My place? Or, uh, one of my places?” He can feel his cheeks flush even deeper and snaps his mouth shut before he can unwittingly blurt out the fact that he bought a sex condo for the two of them. 

Carmichael whistles, his mouth curling into a cat-that-caught-a-canary smile. “You're really treating Cap like he deserves, huh? What a precious little princess—we always knew he wanted to be a sugar baby.” Shane splutters at the words soaked with fondness but doesn't bother refuting them as Carmichael continues, “How does it feel to be the breadwinner in your relationship?” 

Despite his reticence—should he be joking about this? is there a line he can cross and abruptly become too much?—Shane snorts, half-smiling, a more genuine expression sliding onto his face. “I try to tell him that most of the money goes to the top scorer in the league, and he never seems to take it seriously,” he says, his smile fully forming when Carmichael laughs, tossing his head back. “It doesn’t help that all he wants to be the brand ambassador for is vodka, your little coffee shop chain, uh—Dunkin Donuts, and some car company.” He shakes his head, still grinning. “He's got no vision.”

Carmichael clutches his chest, shaking his head even as he beams. “You're breaking my heart, Shane Hollander. Some car company is one thing, I get it. Roz has like eight different cars that he loves like they're his kids, so it could be any of them. But, Hollzy, c’mon—little coffee shop chain?” He mimes fainting, the back of his hand coming up to slap against his forehead as he swoons against the counter’s edge. “Dude, America runs on Dunkin. That's literally their slogan. What the fuck?” 

“I'm Canadian,” Shane says dryly, vaguely delighted at how easy it is to talk to him. Normally people find him far more off-putting, though, he suspects that all of the Bears are far more eager to talk to him than any other hockey teams are. He'll take the grace given; any way to make this smoother is welcome. “Tim Hortons sort of clears.” 

Carmichael mimes being stabbed in the heart, and Shane can see why Ilya fondly calls his team drama queens. “Brutal,” Carmichael says, though he sounds amused more than hurt by it. Shane smiles back when he grins at him, before jolting under his touch as he leans in. “Hollzy,” he says, serious enough that it feels like the floor’s dropped out from beneath Shane's feet as he nods, waiting for Carmichael to continue. “I was gonna do this even without Roz getting on my case about it—which he did, mind you—but I'm super fuckin’ sorry if dropping you into that group chat made you panic. I was totally thinking about how much we all wanted to talk to you, because like, dude, you're Shane motherfuckin’ Hollander, but I wasn’t thinking about you sort of abruptly being outed.” Carmichael's hand squeezes where it's settled against his shoulder, warm and kind. “It was not cool of me, and my bad. I just wanted to say something before you get swept up into the madness.” 

Shane blinks at him before he smiles back tentatively. “You're good,” he says, hiding a laugh as Carmichael visibly brightens. “I appreciate the apology, but I wasn't holding anything against you.” Shane’s laugh slips free, his lips twitching as he thinks back. “To be honest, I had no idea who started the chat—there were too many numbers and greetings at the beginning for me to try to track it down once I'd sorted out who was who.” He shrugs, a little awkward, fighting the urge to duck his head. “I never would've known, so I really do appreciate the honesty.” 

Carmichael nods, a little bit of the humor leeching out of his face. “Roz is really big on accountability,” he murmurs, quiet enough that Shane leans in a tad as his hand slides off his shoulder. “It would've been shitty if I kept it quiet. Like I was befriending you with a mark against me, even if you didn't know.” 

Shane blinks at him again, vaguely dumbfounded. He hadn't realized this was about making friends. He'd thought this was mostly an interrogation, with dinner, to pick at their soft spots to see what makes them tick or to decide if he was worthy of Ilya Rozanov's attention. He isn't, and he knows that, but he's greedy enough to want it anyway, and, maybe even more embarrassingly, he was absolutely ready to brave an evening of ill intentions if it meant he could still stick close to Ilya.

He thinks he might do anything to stay in his orbit.

“Aw, shit,” Carmichael mutters, his brow furrowing. He looks upset, his mouth curving down. “I've said something wrong again, haven't I?” 

Shane shakes his head. “You're fine,” he says, trying his best to shove all his nerves back as they bubble up again. There's something both utterly comforting and completely distracting about knowing that the Bears mostly intend to befriend him. Carmichael narrows his eyes, and Shane shrugs, but lets some honesty rise to the forefront. “I didn't realize this was about friendship,” he finally says, as the noise from the rest of Ilya's team washes over their corner in bright, cheerful crashes. “I mean, I thought that some of it was, but,” he shrugs again, the tips of his ears turning faint, dusky pink. “I thought this was maybe about defending Ilya's honor more than anything.” 

For a quiet moment, Carmichael stares at him, his mouth dropping open for a beat, before he snaps it shut. “Dude,” he says, his slate-blue eyes twinkling. “You say shit like that, and of fucking course, we know we don't have to interrogate you about your intentions with Roz. Like, you know that he actually has honor and is like a crazy good person. What else would we want from you? You play the kind of hockey that Roz plays, too; the kind that's actually fucking beautiful to watch. You're like,”—his eyes grow big and wide— “his soulmate.”

Shane, very carefully, tries not to react. 

Which, of course, means that his eyes get big and damp, and his whole mouth curls into a worried sort of elated smile before he forces the corners of his mouth back into something neutral. He sighs at the growing glint in Carmichael's eyes and pointedly looks away, trying his hardest to convey nothing. He hasn’t even talked to Ilya about what he suspects, about how tightly cinched together they are, about how the magic seems to view them as a singular person sometimes, and how that can only mean one thing. 

“Dude,” Carmichael says, before he's beaming and tugging Shane in to press a fond kiss to his forehead, as if he's blessing him. Shane freezes in his grip for a beat before forcing himself to relax as Carmichael draws back. “You're gonna be the best stepmom Boston's ever fucking had, huh?” 

Shane flushes and tries to hide some of the pleasure at the thought, even as he hesitantly nods, after making sure Ilya isn't around to catch him. He's been talking too much shit about being a stepmom for Ilya to find him caving now. It's just that it's impossible not to feel the genuineness of Carmichael's words, not when he's grinning so wide it looks like it hurts. 

“He's—he's important to me,” he admits, his cheeks burning. It's almost humiliating how honest he's being, even as Carmichael's grin softens into a curl of fondness, a glitter of happiness bright in his eyes. “I don't want to fuck that up.” 

He shrugs, looking pleased and vaguely thrilled. “I think you're sort of already doing the damn thing. Cap's been—well. He's been sort of obnoxiously happy in a way we've pretty rarely seen before, so. Whatever you're doing, I dunno. Keep doing it?” 

Shane ducks his head, hiding his face, and nods. 

Knowing Carmichael—who is absolutely one of Boston's best, as in would be first line center if Ilya wasn't just so fucking good—approves, and is somehow pleased by it—

Well. Shane's not surprised that he feels a little bashful about it, even though he doesn't want to be. He'd never even imagined anything like this was possible even in all of his daydreams.

Carmichael bumps their shoulders together companionably. “I'll catch you later, Hollzy,” he says easily, laughter in his voice. “I think your step-kids wanna say hi.” 

Shane follows the line of his gaze, turning to find Los and Ovi very deliberately making their way across the room towards him. Breezy is caught up in conversation with St. Simon, his eyes still wide as he keeps stealing glances at them, though he flushes a hot pink when Shane offers him a little wave, fighting the crush of embarrassment at how dorky he's sure he looks. He looks thrilled at the attention, though, so Shane lets the emotion slide out of his head, glancing back at Los and Ovi, who have paused at the edges, looking uncertain of their welcome. 

Immediately, Shane straightens up, tucking away any sort of uncongenial aura as best he can. He hopes Boston will like him, wants them to approve of him even more than like, but he does, actually, wants these three to like him. 

Despite the reasons some people have thrown in his face—it's an ego boost, he's a megalomaniac, he's unable to make friends his own age—some of his favorite people he's met in the past few years have been rookies. He finds them refreshingly honest under their dazed veneer and widely kind, and the few he's met who have been utter assholes have been easy to ignore in the grand scheme of things. 

And while he isn't a fucking freak about wanting to befriend rookies—because really, he can count on one hand his genuine friends, or at least he could before the Bears got involved—he isn't a saint. It does make him feel like he's done something right when the newbies come up and are blown away just for a chance to talk to him. 

He just hopes that, even though he's about a thousand times more awkward, he makes them feel as kindly accepted as Hunter had for him, all those years ago, when he was fumbling around Las Vegas, quietly and desperately lonely for some kind of acknowledgement beyond the accolade of Rookie of the Year. 

By the time Ovi and Los settle in before him, Ovi is pink, bordering on bright red, and Los keeps opening his mouth only to shut it, as if he's overwhelmed by everything he could say. 

Shane takes it easy on them. 

“It’s nice to meet you in person, off the rink,” he says, his best attempt at a welcoming expression on his face. He offers his hand to shake, not even bothering to hide the fondness that somehow is already welling up as Ovi's whole face turns into something shocked and pleased. Did he think Shane was going to pretend he didn’t know him? He shoves the thought away, well accustomed to how easy it is to feel out of place, and keeps an easy expression on his face. “How're you doing?” 

“Good,” Ovlichein blurts out, taking his hand and shaking it once, twice, three times, before dropping it. Shane blinks as Ovi continues, his lips twitching. “So good, Miss Jane. Everything is good. Uh. Thank you for asking.”

Shane presses his mouth together as Ovi's cheeks burn an even brighter red and turns to Los, who's staring at him intently, his hands knotted together in front of his chest. 

“You okay?” Shane asks, fitfully worried that he's somehow broken one of Ilya's rookies. A faint curl of unease slides under his skin, a prickle of something not quite right as he studies the two of them. These aren't his rookies, not really, despite all the jokes, but there’s still something odd about the way they're staring at him. He can feel a coil of warning tighten in his gut, the salt of a future to come, and the cold press of a coin under his tongue as he watches them. “You're Los, right?” 

“I'm so fine,” Los says, his eyes wide. “You're really him. You're really Shane Hollander.” 

“I think so, yes,” Ilya says, appearing from behind him, as Shane tries not to laugh at the expressions on their faces. Even the third of their little trio, Breezy, is still blinking at him from across the room, as if Shane's going to disappear while he's talking to St. Simon, clearly tuned out of his own conversation. What the hell has Ilya been saying about him, he wonders, as he shifts on his feet, trying hard not to lean back into Ilya’s familiar warmth. Because clearly he’s said something. “Would be a terrible thing if he were not, and instead an equally mediocre hockey player were here, hm? Just ask the team—they all agree.” 

“Mediocre?” Shane says, arching an unimpressed brow, only to be cut off by the sudden inhale of Ovi. 

“Cap,” he hisses, his eyes flickering between the two of them. “You can't—that's—don't lie about that.” He turns to Shane, a sheepish expression on his face. “We don't think that at all, Miss Jane—fuck, I mean Mister Hollander.” 

“You can call me Shane or Jane,” Shane says, smiling even as he drives an elbow into Ilya's side at his snort of amusement. It's weirdly endearing to hear them stumble over his name, and well, he never promised not to be an asshole. Listening to them fumble for their words is kind of cute—not that he'd ever admit that. “Either works, I promise.” 

Ovi makes an odd sort of squeaking noise that Los echoes, before they both nod jerkily. 

“We made a list,” Ovi blurts out, as Los whines in embarrassment and covers his face. “Of questions to ask.” 

Ilya laughs again, this time the sound softened with genuine delight. “The babies have been busy,” he coos, reaching out to pinch Ovi's cheeks, only to laugh louder when he slaps his hand away. “So busy preparing to meet their stepmother.” 

Shane rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “Don’t be a fucking dick,” he says, even as his cheeks heat up at the thankful looks both rookies nail him with. “Like you weren't a bundle of nerves meeting Hunter the first time.” 

Ilya scoffs, loud enough to pull everyone's gaze, the other conversations dipping low. “I invite you to my home, Hollander, and you spread lies?” He throws his hands up, a drama queen to the end, as Shane fights the rush of fondness that swamps him. He can't even be bothered by the attention settling on them, not when Ilya's being such a fucking clown. “What happened to the sweet Canadian good boy I used to know? He was so cute and precious, like a tiny little kotenok—claws like one, too.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Shane snaps, glaring at him as his cheeks burn at the quiet rumble of laughter that rises. He feels oddly comfortable as Ilya curls a finger around the waistband of his sweats and tugs, an unspoken I'm here. He doesn't know why the fuck it feels like they're all actually his friends instead of mostly acquaintances at best, but he doesn't want to flinch from it. “You're such a fucking dick, Rozanov. And, just for that—” He turns, meeting Marleau's eyes, a broad smirk spreading across his face. “Ilya broke his arm two summers ago by going down that—that stupid fucking cop slide, and he lied and told you it was from a fight in Russia.” 

“Shane,” Ilya whines under the sudden explosion of noise from the Bears. “You're the fucking worst.” 

“Dude,” Connors says, his eyes wide, loud enough to be heard over everyone else. “You said you fought off the mafia. I signed your cast and said, hope you don't get dead by Tony Soprano.”

“Get dead?” someone mutters, their voice nearly swallowed by the jeering, and Ilya's muttering of getting him back. “Not killed?” 

“You believed him?” Sebbin says, sounding utterly done. “What the fuck is your problem?”

Connors gestures at Ilya before he throws his hands up. “What, like I was gonna say, oh, I think you’re lying, Cap? What the hell was that going to do aside from get my ass when the full force of his whole schtick came down like a hammer?” 

“You have a schtick?” Shane murmurs to Ilya, grinning when Ilya rolls his eyes. 

“They are just babies who do not want to practice,” Ilya answers, tugging at his pants again until Shane steps back, still grinning at him. “You know this, Shane. They are ridiculous; I tell you this all the time.” 

“Yeah, but knowing that and seeing it play out are two different things,” Shane says, as he lets Ilya guide the two of them through the mess of noise and out into the living room. “They really listen to you, huh?” 

Despite his best efforts, he can’t really keep the jealousy out of his tone; the shades of greed he finds himself continually doused in when he sees the easy way Boston interacts. 

Ilya blinks at him, a soft curve of understanding shaping the bow of his lips, but it's too much for Shane to handle. He can't let himself spin on these useless thoughts; no one would get anything done. 

“Yes,” Ilya answers, his voice less gentle than he expects; it’s a relief to hear amidst everything. He never understands how Ilya almost always knows exactly what he needs. He knows he can't be transparent about what he wants, because no one else has ever understood him. “It is simple here,” he says. “They are good—good people, listeners. I do not have to—” He falters, shaking his head. “They are good.” 

“Yeah,” Shane says, and lets the truth of the matter curl up in his bones. “I'm beginning to see that.” 

Ilya hums and settles the two of them onto his couch, tucking Shane into a corner, the pillow he usually finds himself lounging on in the aftermath of them fucking in this room already set to the side for him to use. It's a tiny miracle, Shane's finding, to be known so well; to be accepted so easily. He doesn't have to crack his brain open and say, please let me fiddle with the tassels; I need something to do with my hands, please give me a weight in my lap; it's the only way I'll feel safe, because Ilya is already setting him up for comfort. 

He's been anticipated. He's pretty sure it shouldn't sting as much as it does, but he shoves back the ugly emotions that rise in his chest, reaching down to immediately tug the pillow into his lap, and hides a smile at the way Ilya beams at him. 

A new can of ginger ale sweats on the slate coaster, a plate of food next to it on the sturdy side table, the ceramic dish full of foods that Shane can—and, more importantly, will (if he can find the nerve)—eat. 

“It is loud in the kitchen,” Ilya says, a little bashfully, as other people begin to follow them out with paper plates of food, drinks in hand, clearly having preferred spots in the living room. For a moment, Shane wonders if he's displaced someone from their favorite spot before he lets it go. Ilya knows him; he wouldn't let him suffer the indignity of annoyance right now, even if it was fake. “Dinner is easy enough to get for you, no? Rice and beans, a little salad, and the salmon that Smithy swears by.” 

Shane nods, and Ilya pats his knee. “Everyone knows I will sit next to you,” he says. “Be right back, Shanya.”

Shane flushes at the nickname, but lets himself sink back against the firm couch cushions. 

The room feels almost small, cozy, with all the Bears crammed in, sprawling out across chairs, which Ilya moved into the room earlier in the afternoon, and the other end of the couch. The rookies end up around a coffee table that's been shoved into the center of the room, their folded up legs brushing against each other as they all try to cram in on one side together. The other one Ilya owns sits close to the couch, Sebbin already propping his feet up on it as he leans back to laugh at a joke from Connors. 

The dusk of winter has faded into a peaceful black, the shades open enough that the light of the moon glitters through the panes, though the gleaming silver light is swallowed up by the flickers of the fire that's roaring in the grate, and the dimly glowing amber floor lights that are scattered across the room. 

The mantle is covered in pictures of the team, when Shane glances at it, Svetlana's familiar face popping up every so often. For once, the sight of her doesn't fill Shane with dread, as his eyes drag over the wide beams on everyone's faces. He lingers on the photo of just her and Ilya, their eyes crinkled up with joy, and desperately wants to be added in; a photo of him and Ilya tucked in amidst the rest.

Loud laughter breaks out, dragging Shane from his perusal, and he shifts even further back into the corner of the couch, a vague sense of unease, as if he's been too open with his wants, spilling down his spine. He fidgets for a beat, before he tugs his legs up, feeling oddly exposed with his socked feet in view, and settles back into stillness, letting the swell of noise wash over him as people begin to sit and eat. 

Watching the Bears interact feels like watching a bizarre nature documentary about a pack of wolves all turned into house pets. Their snarling teeth are all kept firmly in their mouths, with no blood splattered across the living room floor, no fights for getting in the last barb. He keeps thinking he understands how chirps and jokes are going to go, but none of them take on the sharp edge of ‘teasing’ that he's accustomed to. 

Frankly, it makes him feel like a shit Captain, watching the way Ilya corrals them, even from out of sight, and how Marleau and St. Simon keep the peace. Even when he was a rookie, the air was never this easy; all of Montreal balanced on a bladed edge.

He doesn't want it to look like he's staring, or taking notes, or being a fucking weirdo, so he fiddles with his can as he waits for Ilya to return, spinning the tab around the top, listening as the Bears settle in around him, none of them demanding his participation. 

Still, though, unease continues to prickle across his skin. 

He tries not to pay attention to the looks he's still getting, the half-turned heads that leave him at the edges of people's vision, on display despite being in Ilya's home. 

“Hold this,” Ilya murmurs, startling him out of his perusal of the room, and he instinctively takes the full plate Ilya passes him. The paper is warm under his palm, a nice weight for him to hold. It abruptly reminds him of visiting his grandmother's, holding their old cat—the one he always called Smokey, though he doesn't think it was his actual name—in his arms, the way his head would stop spinning in circles the second the warm weight of Smokey would settle in on his chest. 

On particularly bad nights as a little kid, when Shane would be caught in repetition, or curled in a ball, hands folded over his ears, Smokey would miraculously appear, warm and welcome, purring up a storm as he nosed his way into whatever tight spring Shane had worked himself into. 

Nowadays, he has the specialty charmed headphones that his grandfather got him in 2008, as a consolation prize for silver at World Juniors, and no Smokey. He forgets, sometimes, how much he misses that old cat and the rumbling purr that always put him at ease. 

He inhales, his hands curling under the plate, before he exhales, forcibly tossing that train of thought out of his brain. He has enough to think about without the added reminder that he probably should call his grandparents soon. He, more than anyone, knows how swiftly time passes. 

“Thank you, Shanya,” Ilya says, rounding the corner of the couch and stepping past the sprawl of legs. Ilya sits down next to him, the line of his thigh pressed in tight against his. “You are an excellent guard dog.” 

Shane rolls his eyes to hide how pleased he feels about being called excellent and picks up his ginger ale can, the condensation cool under his fingertips. 

Ilya eats steadily beside him, shifting only to inch a little bit closer to him, and doesn't say anything about the untouched plate of food sitting on the side table that Shane's trying hard not to think about. 

He just—his stomach already is queasy, and if he eats, he won't be able to think about anything other than something being stuck in his teeth, and he's pretty sure he'll die if he has to get up and go brush his teeth before everyone can interrogate him, and even though Ilya really thought of everything—a ceramic plate because he doesn't like how paper plates feel against his fork, the food all on his approved diet plan, a plastic fork, nothing touching—he can't. It feels like he's giving up something if he does. 

Ilya doesn't press, wordlessly scooping up the plate when he goes back to the kitchen for seconds, and returning with his own plate refilled and a protein Lära bar that he sets down as a replacement for Shane, a package of wet wipes underneath it, because Ilya knows how badly he hates the sticky residue that clings to the whorls of his fingers.

For a moment, Shane thinks he's going to cry.

But as Ilya resettles back into his spot on his right, somehow impossibly closer than before, the urge to sob dries up, replaced by a fierce unrelenting hunger to prove to Ilya that he's been paying attention too. 

“Alright, fuckers,” Marleau says, interrupting Shane's thoughts and dragging everyone's attention to him as he sets his empty plate aside. “I want it known that I convinced the babies not to put on a highlight reel of Hollander and Roz’s best plays against each other—”

“That's not what we suggested,” Ovi mutters, fiddling with his fork and flushing at the amused looks everyone sends his way. Shane glances at him too, hiding a smile when Ovi realizes Shane’s looked in his direction and his cheeks light up, a bright, feverish red. “We suggested Brother Bear, and then Mulan, and then Pocahontas, and then Los thought that it might be better if we push movie night back for next time, or start it really, really late so that people don't get sucked into the movie once we start asking questions and get confused.” 

There’s a clear snicker that runs through the crowd, some joke that Shane's not privy to, and Zadonsky groans from his place sprawled across the floor. He stretches out, groaning for a beat before relaxing back into a slump. “It was one time,” he mutters as the laughter grows more prominent. “Give me a fucking break.” 

“The Zac Efron Hairspray movie is a cultural classic, and you should be ashamed of yourself,” Hammersmith says primly from his seat on the couch beside Sebbin. “You knew all the words to (The Legend Of) Miss Baltimore Crabs, but you didn't know the fucking story behind it?” 

“We can't get into this again,” St. Simon says from his spot on the loveseat he's sharing with Connors, and Shane's brain shorts out as the other man sets his hand up high on his thigh. He tunes out the argument that springs up to glance at Ilya, who catches his gaze and shrugs, clearly clocking the same thing he did. 

“They are less subtle than they were originally,” he murmurs in Shane's ear as the Bears continue arguing. He leans back, his empty plate set on the coffee table and his shoulder warm as it settles over Shane's, caging him in ever so slightly. “But I do not know what they are to each other. Ingrid knows too, but I—” He shrugs again, as if it makes sense, as if it's that easy. Shane tries to imagine anyone on the Metros being even slightly okay with it and burns with the thought of how they already treat him and Hayd. How sometimes even after all these years Cardot and Drapeau snicker about the way JJ settles easily at his left side, their words unsubtly laced with racist undertones. About how Theriault only cares when someone's lagging on the ice, and even then, he only uses it to deride them more; there has never been any sort of safe recourse on the Metros. “They are happy, and things are good. I trust them. When they want to tell me, they will.”

Shane nods, but turns back to watch as St. Simon tangles his hand with Connors', their ease apparent as no one but Shane looks twice. 

He just—he can't stop looking. He doesn't know if he's ever seen two men so casually intimate—which sounds fucking stupid and terribly sad when he thinks about it too long. But all the guys on the Metros will toss arms around each other for a brief moment—though, seemingly, some indeterminate amount of time passing makes an easy touch fucking gay fairy shit, and Shane's never been able to figure it out—or punch each other in the arm, or hell, sometimes they'll get wild and clasp one another on the shoulder and shake each other. There isn't anything that could be misconstrued as gentle, though, in their motions. 

He's pretty sure that if there were, they'd be snapping no homo at one another for so much as looking in their direction. 

He pauses, his nose crinkling. Well—that's not entirely true. JJ, Hayd, and the younger crew have all blossomed under a gentler touch. Shane's been careful this year, to try not to come off as too gay—though, he suspects that any gay, really any friendliness, is too much for some of them—but the rooks and Laine, Hayd, and JJ have all looked stupidly upset when he hasn't patted them on their shoulders and murmured good job at them after practice and on the ice after games.

Jackie's taken to singing, a single mom who works two jobs, who loves her kids and never stops, when he instinctively reacts to Hayd's annoyed sighs at something the twins do and pats him on the back. He's been somehow pavloved into touching the sweeter members of his team, and it sort of feels like he's been swindled of his dignity. 

But even those touches are rougher, brusquer. He'd never linger in the contact. Even if he wanted to, there are too many eyes looking to ruin him, too many people who want to tear him down. 

He doesn't understand—outside of the whole optics of it, outside of him absolutely being the best on the team—why he's the captain sometimes. Not when it feels like the whole administration of the Metros is slavering at the mouth, ready for him to falter. 

It's a shame for them that Shane has never done anything halfway. They should have known that any concession of his leadership was not, and has never been, an option; he'd rather die than cede ground, especially with his team.

They made him Captain for a reason; now they have to deal with it. 

He just hopes it’s not actually as bad this season as it already feels. He doesn't want to break; not for this team. 

“Shanya,” Ilya murmurs, quiet enough that Shane knows it's just for him. His nickname melts through his defenses like a hot knife through butter. “Where did you go?”

Shane blinks, tearing his gaze away from where he's been staring off at nothing, and shakes his head to try to clear the cobwebs from his mind. Now is not the time to contemplate the indignity of being disliked by a majority of his own team and most of the decision makers on the Metros.

“Montreal,” he answers Ilya truthfully and shakes his head again at the immediate scowl that forms on Ilya's brow. “We can talk about it later.” 

It's a little funny how much the word later makes Ilya brighten despite his scowl. He keeps his mouth shut, though, not arguing, and Shane is so full of gratitude for him that he almost leans over and kisses him square on the mouth before he remembers where he is and who he’s in front of. By the look on Ilya’s face, he’s well aware of what’s running through his head, and Shane shakes his head when Ilya’s gaze drops down to his lips, his cheeks turning pink at the glance of heat he nails him with. 

He rips his attention off of Ilya, returning his focus to the living room, watching the tight clean-up the team's employing as they form a sort of odd line of garbage disposal. It’s another thing that’s easily spotted as a major difference; in Montreal, the host is always expected to clean up, which usually means the WAGs are quietly taking care of the mess. Even when it was ostensibly just the team gathering together, if the hosting house had a WAG, a majority of the old guard would leave their shit everywhere. 

Here it might be a little different, since Shane would be the WAG of Ilya’s house—and wow does that leave a topsy-turvy feeling spiraling in his stomach, sort of like the one he gets when Ilya’s teeth glint as he snarls good boy—but he thinks that Boston treats the WAGs with respect. He’s certainly never heard otherwise from Jackie, and she almost always has the lowdown on which teams are shit to their wives. 

“Can I?” Los asks, startling Shane from his watching of the rest of the team. He’s peering at Ilya, gesturing towards the TV, and beams when Ilya nods, an indulgent look on his face that he quickly wipes off when he catches Shane’s side-eye. “Thanks, Cap!” 

“Do not,” Ilya hisses as Shane blinks at him, Los knee-walking away to confer with the other two. “Was I supposed to say no, for no reason?” 

Shane shakes his head, tipping into him a little bit heavier. “You’re good with them,” he says, watching the compliment settle on him, the way his eyes widen ever so slightly. “That’s all I was thinking.” 

He watches Los effortlessly turn on the TV, and maneuver his way through screens to Spotify. He's pretty sure both his rookies would die before assuming they could do anything like this—though, he has to remind himself, Ilya’s team already knows about Shane. Maybe it makes it easier for Ilya to relinquish control, but he suspects that it's more so just who Ilya is. 

“New playlist?” Oregan asks, sounding thrilled as Los clicks on boston <3’s jane; the playlists cover art is a picture of Boston's skyline blurred through a rain splattered window. “Nice!”

“We got nervous,” Ovi admits to a rumble of warm laughter that drifts easily through the room. The simplicity of it curls around his ribs, how accepted their feelings are, and weight in his stomach shifts, just enough to make him realize he is actually hungry. He reaches out, unwrapping his bar, listening as Ovi continues, “So we made a playlist to back up our questions.” 

Breezy nods eagerly from his spot on the ground, a serious look on his face. “We took the favorites you all mentioned in the social media video Kayla did like two weeks ago, and then added in some others that are classic crowd favorites, and then a bunch of Aphex Twin.” He glances at Shane, who arches a brow. “Cap said, Jane is a psychopath who only listens to white noise, and, well, we figured you’d be chill if we made your songs, like, kind of ambient noise soundtrack things? To be honest, we could’ve done white noise, but I was afraid it’d make me sleepy.” He flushes at the louder outbreak of laughter, but doesn’t duck his head. “I hope that’s okay?” 

“Also, Hollzy, what the fuck,” Carmichael says before Shane can nod in agreement, grinning from across the room. “Is Roz bullshitting, or do you really only listen to white noise when you work out?” 

Shane ignores the mutter of my honor is besmirched from Ilya beside him and shrugs. “I mean, I don’t listen to music when I work out. Or podcasts, or anything really. I think white noise might fit the best because I’m just—I don’t know—I just work out? I don’t like earbuds in or on my ears while I sweat.” He tilts his head, considering. “White noise is maybe the best thing for it? Outside of general gym noises. And I mean, I like music, to be clear, so whatever was chosen is great. I just don’t like earbuds, and it’s never a thought to turn music on when I work out at home.” 

“What the fuck,” someone hisses, as another person asks, “Wait, but what if the gym noises are annoying?” 

Shane thumbs at the buttons sewn into the pillow and shrugs. “I just tune them out?” 

The room is quiet for another beat before the sea of heads nods. 

“Of course you do,” Sebbin mutters, looking almost dazed. “What kind of fuckery are we running on? No, just tune out the loud ass grunting. Why didn’t I think of that?” 

Shane shrugs again. “I don’t know,” he says, grinning at him as Ilya squirms an arm around his back, his hand settling on his hip, the warm pads of his fingers slipping under the edge of his t-shirt to settle against his skin. “Why didn’t you?” 

A low chorus of oooooh’s starts up as Sebbin rolls his eyes but smirks back. 

“Do not disparage my Jane for having focus,” Ilya orders imperiously, elbowing Shane lightly when Shane whispers disparage to himself, his eyes catching on a stack of The New Yorker that sits on the lower shelf of the coffee table. Shane’s cheeks heat up at the snorts the rest of the Bears let out, evidently familiar with the tone Ilya’s adopted. “He is the most perfect person in the whole world, aside from me, obviously.” 

“Nice vocab, Cap,” Vostel calls, grinning widely at him when Shane glances at him. There’s no tease in the words, just genuine appreciation, the kind that makes Shane’s throat a little tight. He’s so fucking glad Ilya has this team. It batters at his insides, seeing Boston’s love. “We should add that to the Scrabble tracker.” 

“Scrabble tracker?” Shane asks, beneath the roar of agreement, before he bites off a corner of the bar. 

Ilya hums, shrugging, a pleased look in his eyes. He waits until Shane's swallowed to answer, a smirk playing around the corners of his mouth. “A game from my second year,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate on the details. “Boston was very helpful with vocabulary, even if I only learned the insults first.” He blinks at Shane, his eyes wide and guileless. “They took advantage of me and my innocence, Hollander.” 

Shane snorts, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re so full of shit.” 

Ilya wiggles his eyebrows at him, smirking slightly. “I am innocent,” he says. “You cannot be mean to poor little Ilya.” 

Shane rolls his eyes, fondness welling up in him. “I can and I will,” he says, as Ilya's face shifts into faux outrage. “Don't even start.” 

Ilya opens his mouth, only to snap it shut when Marleau clears his throat in warning. Shane thinks about hiding his grin, but doesn’t bother, glancing over to smirk at Marleau, who winks back at him. “Cap, you think you can stop lying to your boy for long enough so that the babies can actually do their shit?” 

“I am not lying to Shane,” Ilya says indignantly, straightening up to face him head on. “You are the one who taught me the best string of swears for Boston!” 

“Sure,” Marleau says easily. “And you really didn’t care about when Cardoc tried to teach you how to conjugate verbs. So, I’m not really sure how hard you were trying to learn English.” 

Ilya crosses his arms, a scowl on his face. “Asshole,” he mutters, but subsides when Ovi hesitantly clears his throat.

“We have a list,” he says again, flushing at the faint laughter. “But our first one—well, Breezy?” 

Breezy shoves at his shoulder, looking embarrassed, but gamely nods, leaning forward to look at Shane, before he drops his eyes. 

“I mean,” Breezy says slowly, his gaze darting around the room. “I think the first thing is—well, uh, how long have you been together?” He grins, a timid shy thing that only blooms brighter when Ovi and Los start snapping in agreement. “Oh, right! And we figured we could do like poetry slam rules? If you like a question and want to express it, snap?” 

“When the fuck are you guys going to poetry slams?” Zadonsky says, for a second, Shane thinks he's found the edge that the Bears teeter on—although out of everything whatever the fuck poetry slams are sounds like a bizarre line to draw—before he realizes that Zadonsky looks betrayed as snapping starts up. Everyone immediately participates, a wave of grins making their way around the room. The snaps are startling enough, too, that Shane imagines trying to introduce snapping as an agreement in Montreal and wants to break out into hysterical laughter at the thought; Theriault would kill them. It, unfortunately, sort of only makes him want to do it more. “And why the fuck didn’t you invite Mel and me?” 

“Dude,” Los says, incredibly solemn, his fingers frozen. Shane swallows back the flood of questions as he realizes that apparently Boston does attend slam poetry events together. He’s not even sure he knows what the fuck that even is, but going by the reactions in the room, it seems like it's something sacred for sure. “We went last week. Mel was the one who invited us.”

“Oh shit,” someone hisses, all of the snapping coming to an immediate stop. “Zads, you pissed her off again?”

Zadonsky exhales, slumping low on his seat. “Yeah,” he says glumly. “She asked me to pick up some locally grown organic honey for her hair masks, and I went to a Stop and Shop.” 

“Not even Demoulas?” Sebbin says, looking completely appalled, when Shane glances at him. He'd be convinced they were speaking another language if everyone wasn't nodding along in sympathy. “You deserve it, then.” 

“I hate to break up us listening to your woes,” Marleau says, sounding genuinely earnest, even as Ilya muffles a snort. “But we should get back on track. Rooks?” 

“Don’t worry,” Los says, loud enough to call everyone’s attention back to him. “We have a plan.” He reaches into his pocket, tugging out a pair of glasses and settling them on his nose. Beside him, Ilya stills for a beat before a wide grin splits his face. 

“You have glasses,” he says, delight strung through every word. “You are just like your stepmother.” 

As one, nearly all of the Bears turn to glance at Shane, who squirms under the sudden rush of attention, his skin prickling at their candid perusal of his face. 

Connors squints at him, as if trying to imagine it, and Marleau groans. Shane clocks Ovi squeaking and burying his face in his hands as Los tugs his pair off to stare at them for a beat, before putting them back on and beaming.

“And you wear glasses, Hollzy?” Feller says, his gaze wide-eyed as he sets his chin on his palm to stare at him more intently. “Dude, you're like the ultimate package.” 

Shane flushes as Ilya huffs. “You are banned from speaking about Hollander's glasses, Feller,” he says, turning his nose up as Feller startles at the call-out, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Shane in glasses is only for me.” 

“This is the greed they talk about in the bible, by the way,” someone mutters, none too quietly, as Shane flushes even redder. “You already have him, Cap. Let the rest of us dream.” 

“Oh, so you are gay now, Cadyn?” Ilya shoots back. “You dream about Hollander in glasses, hm?”

“Dude,” Cadyn says, shaking his head and grinning. “It's not gay if it's Shane Hollander.” 

Shane stills, blinking at the sea of heads nodding, as Ilya smirks and sprawls out, his arms uncrossing as one of them slides to the back of the couch to settle on the nape of Shane's neck. He, for some godforsaken reason, looks eminently pleased. 

“What?” Shane manages when no one says anything in disagreement. “What?” 

The Bears shuffle in front of him, as best they can while still sitting. Ilya tugs on his hair, and Shane realizes he's been leaning forward, staring at them, and slumps back against the couch, his cheeks bright pink. 

“I am ignoring that,” he announces after a beat, because, quite frankly, he has no idea what to even say in response. “Please, Los, continue.” 

“You never answered the first question,” Connors says, before Los can open his mouth. “How long have you and Roz been together?” 

Shane opens his mouth to answer, only to shut it after a moment, twisting in his corner to look at Ilya, who’s watching him serenely. 

“Showers?” he asks, very conscious of how everyone’s leaning in to listen to his quiet words. He instinctively flips off Marleau when the man hoots in delight, flushing at his knee-jerk reaction, and forces back a shiver as Ilya’s eyes grow low-lidded, the blue of his eyes dark with delight. “Now?” 

“Now?” Half the Bears chorus, sounding confused as hell. 

“We are not even official now, Hollander,” Ilya reminds him, as St. Simon makes a noise akin to a dying whale and Kohn drops his mostly empty can of coke all over himself. Both of them ignore the muffled fuss that kicks up about the mess, even as most of the team is eerily quiet. “But it was before showers, hm? Handshakes, maybe.” 

“Handshakes?” Shane repeats, and he can feel the stupidest smile in the world breaking out over his face. Ilya looks like the sun is rising in his pupils, gleaming with satisfaction as he smugly regards Shane. “Ilya Rozanov, you cannot say we’ve been something since 2008.” 

“Two thousand and eight?” someone shrieks, and then the living room is an implosion of noise, everyone shouting over each other, Kohn still splattered with coke as he stares off into the middle distance, ignoring all of Sebbin's mediocre attempts to clean him up. 

Ilya beams at him, his eyes alight with the pleased glow he gets from well-executed mischief, and Shane can’t help himself as he leans forward to brush his mouth against his. 

“You’re so fucking impossible,” he says, pulling back as Ilya’s cheekbones tint pink, the curve of his lips turning soft and fond. “2008, really?” 

Ilya shrugs, his eyes searching. “I saw your—” he lifts a hand up, brushing across the smattering of freckles that dust his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, looking extremely satisfied when Shane flushes. “It was easy to want, immediately.” 

“Well, yeah,” Shane agrees unthinkingly and blushes a hot, furious red at the delighted look Ilya sends him. “Oh, fuck off, Rozanov, you already knew that.” 

Ilya hums, shrugging his shoulders. “But now you have said it in front of witnesses, Hollander,” he teases, and Shane swallows down a strangled gasp as he twists, his whole face on fire, to find all of Boston watching them, caught in a frozen tableau. 

Sebbin has a fistful of damp napkins balled up in one hand as Carmichael stands, his hand half extended as an offer to toss them in the garbage. The rookies are tangled together, their expressions so excited that Shane thinks they’re going to break out into screams. He's pretty sure they're fucking trembling. Everyone else has shellshocked expressions on their faces, hands clutching at each other. 

“Oh my god,” Marleau says, sounding just like Jackie when Shane’s relayed an egregious piece of gossip that Ilya’s told him; excitement and whiplash and an edge of bitchiness that Shane hadn’t known straight men were capable of carrying in their tone. “Oh, my god.” 

“I feel like that should be my line,” Shane says, slinking back against the couch and covering his face. “Jesus Christ, this is such a fucking setup.” 

Ilya snorts, but lets him hide, reaching out to curve a hand around his nape. “Just like meeting the in-laws, no?” 

“Worse,” Shane mutters, on autopilot. “The fucking Bears roster cannot be my in-laws and my kids.” 

“So you are their stepmother,” Ilya crows, tightening his grip. “I knew I would wear you down.” 

Shane swats at him and tries his best to ignore the way it feels like his whole face is on fire. He can't believe this is happening right now. He can't believe he's even able to say any of this shit, but something about being around Ilya makes him want to be brave. “Summer before?” he says, meeting Ilya's gaze. “CCM?” 

Ilya rolls his eyes, blowing a raspberry. “You are so boring, Hollander,” he says before he nods and turns to look at the rest of the room. “Summer before rookie season,” he says, grinning widely, smugness evident. “I, as Americans say, locked that shit down.” 

“If you're not official, you haven't actually, Cap,” Carmichael says. He sounds dazed as he straightens up, his eyes darting between the two of them. "Jenine's made that really clear.” He pauses for a beat before he adds, “And, uh, Jenine's my fiancée, Hollzy.” 

“I know,” Shane says, arching a brow at him. “We've met.” 

Carmichael blinks at him. “You have?” 

Shane stares at him for a beat. “I had a whole conversation with both of you about two years ago,” he says, utterly baffled. “We talked about yoga.” 

Carmichael shrugs, looking unsurprised. “She's always talking about yoga,” he says, as if that's the reason he should remember their conversation. “I don't know, dude.” 

“It was the one where you agreed to do yoga for four weeks,” Shane says, watching the realization bloom on his face. “The bet was five hundred dollars.” 

Carmichael stabs a finger at him. “You're the reason she thinks I should be flexible,” he says. He looks more pleased than anything, which is bizarre, but Shane will take it if it means he isn't annoyed at him. “You can pretzel yourself up.” 

Shane shrugs. He wouldn’t exactly call it that, but Carmichael’s not wrong. 

“Yes,” Ilya says from beside him, smugly pleased. “He can pretzel himself up, Carmie.” 

Shane elbows him, as the room fills with groans and more contemplative looks than Shane was expecting, though he supposes the stated not gay if it’s Shane Hollander should’ve tipped him off. 

“Hang on,” Breezy says weakly, sounding utterly shattered. “Can we rewind to the whole before you started in the NHL thing?” 

“Yeah, no offense, Carm but I can't give a shit about your yoga failures or whatever given the atomic bomb these two just set off,” Marleau says. “The fuck you mean, before your rookie season?” 

Ilya's eyes glint, and Shane reacts without even thinking, his hand slamming over his mouth, gently shoving him backwards into the couch. 

He clears his throat, ignoring the way Ilya immediately licks his palm and shrugs, trying hard not to burst into flames. “We did our CCM shoot that year, and after—” He flushes even deeper. “Well, you know. Uh. That's when it—stuff started.” 

Ilya peels his hand off of his mouth, grinning widely at everyone. “So romantic, my Shane,” he coos, holding Shane's wrist and shaking it. Shane rolls his eyes but doesn't bother going for his mouth again; he knows how much Ilya likes to bite and if he starts getting hard in front of the Bears he's going to do something drastic. “Stuff started—yes, he is not wrong, but it still it is impossible to place a start on it.” 

"Well, not impossible," Shane says, meeting his eyes, everyone else fading to the background. He thinks he could look at Ilya and have him eclipse anyone else in the room, no matter who they are. There's something about the sheer amount of want that pools in his stomach, an inexplicable gravity of Ilya's body, of his mind. "We did meet in 2008. I mean I had some knowledge of you beforehand, but like, I didn't know you. Not like now."

Ilya softens, his whole body shifting into something gentler, something that's always scared Shane in the past, because it meant things were too real.

"But now you know," Ilya says, and lets go of his wrist to tangle their fingers together. "And it is much better now, since you know personally just how good I am at winning—how much better I am than you."

Shane rolls his eyes, even as the familiar banter settles some of the queasiness in his stomach. "Tell that to my two Cups, asshole."

"You guys are so sweet it makes my stomach hurt," Hammersmith blurts out, startling Shane. "Man, what the fuck."

Shane flushes but clings tighter to Ilya's hand, unwilling to let him go. Others chime in with agreement, until Ilya rolls his eyes, slashing his free hand through the air.

"Jealousy is a poor look on you all," he says, but the smugness is clear in his tone enough that Shane knocks his elbow into his side. "Ah, sorry, my Shane thinks I am being too mean."

Shane rolls his eyes, shoving down the way his skin prickles at the repeat of the words my Shane. "I just think you're being an asshole, but since that's your default state, I'm sure your team is used to it."

Laughter rolls through the room as Shane grins at Ilya, who's eyes sparkle back at him. Neither of them say anything for a moment, the air humming with the same sort of tension Shane associates with their first face off, or right on the cusp of Ilya throwing him into bed, before Marleau coughs pointedly, dragging their attention back to the team.

"So," Shane says, when no one else says anything, all of them staring. He feels an odd kinship with zoo animals for a beat as Ilya pulses the grip his hand twice, a flash of support just for the two of them. "Uh, any other questions?"

"I just—and sorry if this is stupid—the whole time?" St. Simon asks, meeting Shane's gaze head on when he glances at him. Shane nods, and he curses, his face screwing up into an expression that Shane can't read. "That is—the sneaking around must be hard."

"Good thing you won't have to in Boston or Montreal," Zadonsky offers. "Or are you not telling the Metros…?"

Shane's shaking his head before he can even think about it. "The Metros do not know," he says, and he doesn't mean to pull out his Captain voice, but it's there suddenly, infusing the words with extra weight. "And I—we—need to keep it that way, okay?"

"'Course," Ovi says immediately, a wave of agreement crashing through the room. Shane has no doubt that half of the agreement is rising from the fact that they know something that the Metros don't, but whatever, he'll take it.

"Okay," Los says, glancing around the room. "We ready for the rest?" No one—not even Shane, despite the churning in his stomach—objects. "Cool," Los says happily. "Alright, let's do this."

He drums the fingers of his free hand against his thigh, resisting the urge to bite them. He wishes he had his sweatshirt so he could chew on the ends of the hoodie strings, feel the comforting click of the plastic aglet in his mouth.

"Is yoga really the secret to being so flexible?" Los asks, after a quiet conference between the other two rookies, his brow wrinkled.

Breezy snaps, only to groan when he's the only one who does so, glaring at Ovi. "I hate it when you fuckers set me up," he mutters, only to be hushed by both of them, grins playing around the corners of their mouths as the rest of the Bears snort, clearly having expected the snapping to be some sort of joke.

"Oh," Shane says, before a wave of tension unwinds from his spine. If these are the kinds of questions they're all going to be like, this is going to be way easier than he expects. "Yeah, it is." He glances around, relaxing even more as he realizes that only like half of Boston is paying attention, the rest wrapped up into quieter conversations with each other. A weight shifts in his stomach, a modicum of relief emerging. "I could totally show you guys—"

"No!"

"—next time I'm in town," Shane finishes, twisting to find Ilya shaking his head.

"They will be ogling," Ilya whines, when Shane stares at him, vaguely stunned at how loud his No! was. "That is not fair, Shanya."

Shane frowns. "If I'm leading, they're supposed to watch me demonstrate," he points out. "And don't, just assign them to ogling. Maybe some of them like yoga!"

"None of us like yoga, bro," Marleau says. He's the only one brave enough to meet Shane’s glance when he sweeps it across the room. "Carm lost a 500 dollar bet for his girl—"

"Fiancée!"

"—Fiancée," Marleau corrects easily. "Well, actually, hang on—Con, do you like yoga?"

"I think I'd like it even more with Hollzy," Connors says breezily, ignoring the low growl rising from Ilya. He winks at Shane, who blinks at him, stunned anew at how easily the Bears interact. He's pretty sure that if one of his teammates winked at him—outside of JJ—he'd think they were having a stroke. "He looks like he'd be an excellent teacher."

"I mean, he is Captain for a reason," Duzek points out, the first words he's said in Shane's vicinity all night. He's been Vostel's silent shadow the rest of the time. "He's got to be good at directions."

"I'm good at hockey directions," Shane points out weakly as Ilya starts to nod vigorously besides him. "I don't know how well that translates to yoga."

"It is moot point," Ilya announces. "Your Captain has said no, and anyone who disagrees will be doing bag skates until their feet fall off, yes?"

"Yes, Captain," rises sullenly from the mass of them, and Shane's hit again, by how fucking good of a captain Ilya is.

Breezy clears his throat, dragging Shane's attention back to the rookies.

"Will you—and by you, I mean Miss Jane, because we all already know Cap's answer for this one—get mad if one of us drops gloves with Comeau?" Los asks, peering at him over the edges of his glasses.

The rookies look exceptionally eager for his answer, as he stares down at the three of them gathered together on the floor.

"Wait," Mamrison says as Shane thinks about how best to answer. "Are we included in that? Because I think that I've proved I can drop gloves and be fucking fine. Kane—don't even fucking start with me."

Someone snorts, and then half the room is taken over by arguing over what exactly 'fucking fine' means. Shane ignores the loud disagreement and slowly raises an eyebrow, biting back a smile when the three of them shrink into each other.

"I mean, Comeau has a nasty right hook," Sebbin mutters from his sprawl across the other end of the couch. He doesn't sound particularly fussed by it, despite having gotten into it with him multiple times. "I don't think anyone should want to get hit by it."

"Yeah, but he's a dick and sometimes he takes things way too fucking far," Breezy mutters, ducking his head and flushing. "Sorry, Miss Jane."

The instinctive urge to defend his team rises, but Shane bites it back; out of all of his teammates, Comeau is one of the worst to him, and they're on the same fucking team. He's heard the shit Comeau's said on the ice, has reprimanded him, multiple times privately and once publicly, and nothing's changed. Theriault refuses to get involved since the game's heated, Hollander, the fuck you want me to do? and Comeau has run with that.

He's not just an asshole; he's an asshole with their Head Coach behind him.

"I'm not going to say anything either way," Shane finally settles on. Ilya makes a noise of amusement beside him; he knows better than anyone how sometimes Shane wants Comeau knocked the fuck out. "If he says something that you think is worth dropping gloves over, I'm not going to argue. He's been—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. He doesn't need to drag their own personal shit out into the light, and he suspects that the saw trap of prophecy is going to cut him off sooner rather than later. "Sebbin is right, though. He does have power behind his swing. And he likes the fight; it makes him sharper on the ice."

"Ugh," Ovi says, wrinkling his nose. "Fuck. I hate that guy."

Shane just barely stops himself from saying, yeah, me too, biting down on his bottom lip. Unease writhes in his chest; the intoxicating urge to split his ribs open and let Ilya see the whole of him has only spilled out to his team, the once-clear boundaries dissolving under their welcoming comradery.

"Well, it's not outright disapproval," Los mutters, staring down at his phone. "So I'll take it. And, last question about Montreal, what's the deal with the Bell Centre's wet spot in the visitors' locker room? Why is it always there?"

Shane blinks at them, vaguely confused. "There's a wet spot in the visitors' locker room?" he asks, frowning at them. "Has it always been there?"

"Dude, always," Carmichael says, twisting around from where he was arguing with Mamrison. "It's like an urban legend; there's just always some damp, dark wet spot on the floor somewhere. It's normally not a big deal, but sometimes, it'll be right in front of a stall, and it will just suck so fucking bad."

"Wet socks into skates is the worst," someone mutters. "Only people who are really superstitious do that shit."

"No clue," Shane says. He makes a note to talk to Geoffrey about it the next time they have a home game. "I didn't even know about it."

The rookies look disappointed enough that Ilya leans forward next to him, a ghost of a laugh in his voice. "Did you want it to be explainable?"

"We thought maybe the Bell Centre was cursed," Breezy says, after being elbowed by Los. He slaps at his hands, Ovi sighing besides the two of them. "We wanted a story."

Ilya clicks his tongue, settling back in next to Shane. "Story time with stepmother," he says sagely, nodding. "I see."

Shane snorts, but doesn't even try to argue. Ilya looks far too pleased by his silence though, his smile not even dropping when Shane pinches the back of his hand, his mouth opening to—Shane's sure—make another joke.

"Cap, this one's for you—" Los starts, interrupting Ilya's response. "How did you convince Miss Jane to date—wait, hang on, you're not serious enough to date each other?" Los asks, frowning at them both. He looks exceptionally distraught at the idea. "Because I don't want to sound too arrogant—"

"Who are you, Ovi?" someone mutters to a wave of muffled laughter that Shane ignores, nodding at Los to continue.

"—but I feel like meeting us is something that only gets done when you're really serious." Los pauses and flicks his eyes between Shane and Ilya. "And I feel like you are really serious."

"If it's too personal, you can say that too," Ovi interjects immediately, wringing his hands together. "We don't want to pressure you to, like, answer our questions."

Ilya's eyes are bright when Shane glances at him, his shoulders relaxed. Only the firm squeeze of his hand belies any nervousness about the question.

"I do not think it will be fair of me to give a whole answer to you, when Hollander and I have not figured out the details, exactly," Ilya starts, glancing around the room once, before returning his gaze to Shane. "But I can say—there are more difficulties than just us, yes? The NHL, Russia, both of us being Captains; to say nothing of the rivalry. It is complicated, yes, but I do not think it—it has been worth it, all these years, to find and seek and keep. Hard, of course, and confusing. But still good." He shrugs, an easy, simple motion. "I cannot tell you how I kept Hollander coming back, aside from the fact that we are not just excellent on the ice."

Shane flushes, a deep, cherry red, but doesn't bother to refute it; he just knows it'll give Ilya more opportunities to embarrass him, and—despite his unfortunate phrasing—it's not like he's wrong. They're more than compatible off-ice, a sizzling ember turned into an inferno with little to no effort.

"Anything you want to add to that, Miss Jane?" Breezy asks, a softer expression on his face than Shane expects to see. "Or did Cap say all that needed to be said?"

"Yes, Jane," Ilya murmurs. "Anything to add?"

Shane knocks their shoulders together. "I think Ilya said it best," he says, and avoids looking at the man. "We have stuff to figure out, but I don't—it was worth it all, in the end, despite the, uh, rocky way we got here specifically."

"Dude, my fucking bad for instigating," Marleau says, looking guilty. "Who knew there were ghosts listening?"

"Oh, shit," Connors says, blinking rapidly and twisting to send a narrow-eyed glance sweeping across the room. "Do you think ghosts are listening right now?"

Out of the corner of Shane's eye, he catches the three rookies flinch, but by the time he turns to them, their faces are smoothed out, plastered with semi-serious faces, their mouths curved into a parodies of a smile.

"Now why the fuck would you ask this?" Ilya says, loudly, but something about the tone makes Shane think that he caught the same animal flinch. He's pretty sure, at this point, neither of them can help it; trained to hunt for any flash of movement, whether it be the puck flying around the rink or the shift of someone's skates. They're both predators, despite their best attempts to be palatable. "We are not—no bad vibes, I thought we had agreed."

He squints at them, pinching off another bite of the Lära bar and chewing, ignoring the way all of the vets have erupted into an argument about hauntings and vibes—though, he does shake his head once as Zadonsky boldly proclaims all ghosts as good ghosts—and keeps an eye on the rookies.

None of them participate in the conversation, a departure from how they were earlier; though, they've all been quieter than Shane expected. Ovi, in particular, looks almost ill, his face a pale, grayish color, one that only starts to dissipate when Breezy reaches out and tangles their fingers together.

Shane doesn't want to pry, but he's pretty sure that there's something else happening underneath their silence. The taste of metal, the edge of a coin pressed under his tongue, returns for half a heartbeat, and Shane sighs, wiping his fingers off.

He'll have to remember to talk to Ilya about it—he's pretty sure that asking now would just make all of them clam up. And he doesn't really want to start something insane. Not tonight.

"Enough, enough," Ilya finally says, after Shane's made it through half of the bar. "Babies, this has been a mess of nonsense. Please, guide us back to reason." He gestures at them, when they all blink uncertainly at him. "More questions, yes? Unless that is it?"

"Oh!" Ovi says, shaking his head as Los brandishes his phone. "No, we have at least a couple more."

"Good," Ilya says decisively. He waves a hand. "Go on, then."

The three of them confer for a moment, their heads all knocking into one another and they bend over Los' phone, before they pull back, satisfied looks on their faces.

"Okay! Uh, Miss Jane, do you have any advice for us finding a, oh my god, this is so cheesy—Breezy, why did you write it like this—a, uh, love like yours and Caps?" Los asks, his cheeks turning a dusky pink beneath his glasses.

Breezy throws his hands up before Shane can even begin to pierce together a response to that question. "What, you're gonna look at them and tell me I'm wrong, bro?" He stabs a finger towards the two of them, and Shane fights a smile at how earnest he is. "Look at them. They're the fucking—that's, like, the golden goal of coupledom."

There's a beat of silence, before Breezy seems to realize what he's said and buries his face into his hands, muffling a faint scream into his palms.

"Golden goal?" Sebbin repeats, to a poorly stifled wave of laughter.

"Coupledom?" Marleau echoes, his mouth twitching. "We all thought Ovi was going to be the one freaking out, but it's you, bud."

"I'm being normal," Ovi protests immediately, before he seems to realize what Marleau said and snaps his mouth shut, his cheeks pink.

"We did a bunch of conversation run-throughs at home," Los admits, grinning at Ovi's rapidly deteriorating demeanor, to the hoots of the Bears as Ovi follows Breezy's example and doubles over. "Ovi only panicked a few times."

"I'm gonna die," Ovi mutters. "And stop embarrassing me in front of Miss Jane!" He groans, the sound loud despite his hands. "I was doing so well."

"Yeah, by being completely fucking silent," Carmichael points out. "C'mon, kid, let your freak flag fly."

Ilya snorts, shaking his head. "Carmie, that is not what you mean to say." He holds up a hand and leans in towards the babies again. "What he means is that it is okay to be overcome with awe because your captain has locked down the second most impressive hockey player in the world. It is also okay to be nervous because of that, but, and this is a secret,"—the room hushes even more, all of the Bears leaning in—"Shane Hollander is a big nerd." Ilya nods solemnly, ignoring the muffled laughter that rises from the vets as Shane fights the urge to grin.

It's stupidly endearing to see Ilya reassuring the rookies. He's such a soft touch that it's at complete odds with his on-ice persona, with the Russian Terror moniker he's been bestowed. Shane's fairly certain that most of the public wouldn't recognize this man, clad in soft sweat pants, earnestly reassuring his rookies.

But all that means, is that they aren't paying attention. Shane's pretty sure Ilya's incapable of not being a little soft with all the kids and teenagers he comes in contact with, even the ones he's playing against. He's seen it with his rookies, with how they startled at Ilya's quiet words this afternoon, both of them starstruck after the game.

"I don't want to be an idiot in front of Shane Hollander," Ovi says into the meat of his palms. The tips of his ears are bright red through his tousled curls. "And I definitely don't want to be an idiot in front of Miss Jane."

Ilya clicks his tongue. "When I met Shane Hollander, as a dorky seventeen year old, he shook my hand twice and scolded me for smoking," he murmurs, twisting to meet Shane's eyes, their long years of history welling between them. "What makes you an idiot in front of Shane Hollander is nothing that happens off the ice, yes? Judgment only comes if you make a fool of yourself in the rink, and really, that is only after you are done being an itty, bitty rookie."

"If it helps, I don't think you're an idiot," Shane says before he clears his throat. "And being a rookie is all about figuring shit out. I'd be an asshole if I pretended I knew everything my rookie year, and, despite what Rozanov might proclaim, he knows that he also didn't know everything rookie year. And, besides, I think all three of you have had strong starts to the season, really." He flushes when Ilya rolls his eyes. "You're the one who said I make hockey judgments!"

"You are so bad at comforting the babies," Ilya mutters fondly, before turning back to the rookies. "But he is not wrong—you are fine. And none of you could ever do anything so wrong that it hurts either of us, or our relationship."

Shane startles. "Oh my god, of course not," he says, his mouth dropping open. He snaps his mouth shut and leans in, heat prickling across his skin as he lowers his voice. "And I was nervous to meet all of you off the ice, too." He shrugs at their shellshocked looks, shoving down the embarrassment that licks down his spine. "I mean, you aren't wrong—this is a big deal, for both of us." He meets each of their eyes, hoping that they can see the sincerity in his gaze. "But also, it's okay to be a little bit of a mess, I think. Neither of us will take it personally."

"Okay," Ilya murmurs into his ear. "Maybe you are not so bad at comforting the babies."

Shane shoves at him, rolling his eyes, and returns his focus to the three of them. Both Ovi and Breezy are peeking up at him from behind their fingers, their faces set into a desperation that's oddly reassuring. "You're all fine," he says, smiling. "I promise."

"And Hollander does not break promises," Ilya says, nodding along. "Even when the promises see him in a Boston jersey—"

"I'm going to fucking kill you," Shane says, as his face dissolves into flames at the good-natured jeering from the Bears. Someone hollers about needing to see the pictures and Shane shoves at Ilya even harder when he wiggles his eyebrows. "Rozanov!"

Ilya smirks at him, smug and cocky, before he darts in to bus a kiss across his cheek. "I am helping," he says, gesturing at the rookies who are no longer curled into balls, their eyes bright with interest. "See?"

"You're being a fucking menace," Shane corrects. He doesn't bother saying anything else, wrinkling his nose when Ilya winks at him. He'll gladly take some of the attention off the rooks, even as it curdles in his stomach a bit. He can remember the long, biting days of his rookie year, how it felt like he was always a beat behind, always the last one in on the joke, especially when he was the butt of it.

He knows how Ilya runs his locker room, but still. It never hurts to help out. And just like with his rookies, he wants these three to have a good start to their NHL careers. He hopes they're long and storied. Hell, he can be gracious and even root for them to break one of his records, or two.

"You didn't answer," Ovi says, dragging Shane's attention back to him. "If you—if you could maybe answer, we would appreciate it. You don't have to! I don't—if I'm pressuring you—"

"Ovi, baby, please," Los mutters, dragging a hand over his face. "You were doing so well."

"We will make you more confident this year," Ilya promises, shaking his head. "One day, you will be able to ask all the questions your little heart desires, without the—" He gestures at his heart and then drops Shane's hand to claw at the air in front of his body. Shane opens his mouth to ask, only to snap it shut at Ovi's earnest nod. "Brave like a bear," Ilya murmurs, before he clears his throat, narrowing his eyes as Shane pushes himself out of the slump he'd slipped into in an attempt to hide. "And I think it is a question for both of us."

"Roz, I think the cubs want to ask Hollzy since you haven't shut the fuck up about true love in the last three weeks," Marleau says, grinning so wide that Shane's pretty sure he can see his molars when he glances over at him. "You told Carm he didn't understand true love because he wasn't in love with Hollzy."

"And that's unfair," Carmichael says. "I could be! You don't know!"

Ilya sniffs, crossing his arms, looking utterly unimpressed. "None of you understand true romance," he proclaims, to the widespread booing of his team. "And it is impossible to explain how to have a love like Hollander and I—we are simply the best."

Shane can feel his skin burning. To have Ilya proclaiming their love—which is true, even if it's only been fully realized today—feels like a fucking miracle.

How far they've come, from that parking lot in Saskatchewan. But, god, how far Shane hopes they'll go.

He shrugs when the rookies glance at him. "Honestly, and this is terrible advice, but it just sort of, uh, happened?"

"What," Ovi says flatly.

He shrugs again, an awkward, jerky motion. "I don't know, I just sort of woke up one day and realized that I'd been half in love with Ilya my whole adult life and we just, uhm, sort of dealt with that. Poorly, until, well—it doesn't matter, since I guess now we're here?"

"What?" a bunch of voices chorus, disbelief saturating in all of them.

"It is true," Ilya says. "Despite what you all think, we did not do much more than be idiots about this very clear truth until recently." He gestures at himself. "It is, of course, no surprise that Jane has fallen for me."

Shane huffs and ignores him. "I think the root of it all is that despite all the not talking about anything all that serious until this year we did, I still trusted him all the way from the start. It's, for me at least, a really important piece of the whole," he gestures, trying to encompass it all, "mess? Everything?"

There's a beat as they absorb that, before Breezy clears his throat. "But, hang on, so you didn't even know if either of you liked the other seriously and you were just okay with that?"

Shane shrugs, honesty spilling from his mouth before he can think it through. "I mean, I spent half of it trying to convince myself it was the only thing I could do—of course I wanted more, but it felt like an impossible ask. It still feels like an impossible ask. But that's just how it is, given the givens." He wrinkles his nose, thinking. "I guess, really the one thing that you can, and should, do if you ever find yourself in a closeted sort of hook up situation for almost a decade with your very public archrival is have better communication?"

There's a pause, before Ilya laughs. "When you put it like that, Shanya, we sound ridiculous."

Shane smiles at him. "I sort of think we are ridiculous, just a little bit."

"Jesus Christ," Hammersmith mutters. "I think we're all idiots for not seeing it before."

Shane shrugs again, glancing at Breezy. "Did that answer your question?"

He nods, a faint frown on his face, knotting and unknotting his fingers together. "I just wish it had been easier for you two," he says, his green eyes soft with an odd amount of sorrow, as Ovi and Los both nod alongside him. "Sucks that you had to hide for so long."

"It is enough of a gift to not have to hide with you," Ilya says, smiling at them. "You are very cute for worrying."

All three of them flush under Ilya's attention, before Los clears his throat and glances back down at his phone. "Can you—okay, this is a weirder one, and I want it known that I do want the answer, but this also did come from Ovi—can you explain what it's like on the ice?"

Shane pauses, glancing between them. "Sorry?"

Los shakes his head, frowning, glancing between his phone screen and Ovi. "No, I mean, it's a little bit of an awkward question, but it's just like, uh, like—"

"When you're on the ice you look like you're never supposed to be anywhere else," Ovi blurts out, his cheeks bright red. His gaze is trained on the ground, refusing to look up even as Los pats his thigh in support. "And I just—I don't know if it's too personal, but I was curious." He clears his throat. "And a follow up question for that is—has it always been hockey? Like have you just always known?"

Oh.

Shane's pretty sure he's never been asked such an interesting question before. If the press had these kind of questions for him, instead of the ones that feel like they're trying to trip him up, or get a stupid soundbite out of him, he thinks he'd like answering them way more. Well. Except for how very fucking public his inner mind would become, so maybe not.

"You don't have to answer," Ovi starts again, but Shane shakes his head, cutting him off.

"I'm just thinking about how to explain it," he murmurs, turning the question over in his mind. How can he capture what it's like to step out onto the rink? How can he piece together the shattered bits that make up the love that he has for hockey, for skating? Distantly, he can tell the room is getting quieter, even the background conversations settling into an anticipatory hum.

"I think it's always been a part of me," he starts, his brows furrowing together. He barely feels Ilya twine their hands back together, too focused on making sure his words are right. "My earliest memories are in skates. Even when I was in school, I was always thinking, when's the next time I'm on the ice, which, to be clear, none of my teachers appreciated. But getting on the ice? It's a whole other world." He glances up, faintly disconcerted. "I'm going to say something, and it's going to sound incredibly pretentious," he mutters, gratefully squeezing Ilya's fingers when he rubs his thumb across the back of his hand. He stares down at the bit of pilling on his stolen sweatpants, focusing on that rather than literally anything else. If he has to make eye contact with anyone, he's going to chicken out entirely. "But skating to me is like—and I wasn't kidding about this being, well, pretentious—but to me, it's like the art of kintsugi. It's that glimmering bit of gold that connects everything else, that shimmering glue that holds it all together. Everything would be wrong, broken, without it. I can't—to not have it, is an impossibility. I wouldn't be anything without it because it's letting me, I don't know—find my place? Stepping out into the rink isn't like me coming home, but more like suddenly knowing I'm complete. Suddenly understanding my place in the world with full confidence." He flushes, abruptly self-conscious. He should probably never speak again. "So. Uh. Yeah. Sorry for—sorry for making it weird."

"Holy shit," Zadonsky says, staring at him when Shane glances up from his knees. "Shane Hollander, you fucking poet. You have to go out to slam poetry with us."

"I don't—"

"Dude, how the fuck are you literally showing us up everywhere?" Carmichael says, flopping backwards across the ground. "I'm so over being shown up by hot, secure, bendable men."

"Don't forget the motherfucking glasses," someone says, exasperation in their voice, and the rest of them erupt, extolling his virtues as Shane tries to disappear into the couch.

Ilya looms into his vision, his eyes soft and searching. "You are—" He tsks, dissolving into rapid Russian that happens too fast for Shane to track. "Shanya, it is a treasure to share the ice with you."

Shane blinks at him, his cheeks hot. "Yeah?"

Ilya nods decisively. "Yes," he murmurs. "My favorite thing, I think, besides bed, to be with you." Shane's eyes drop, instinctively, to the soft curve of Ilya's mouth, before he drags his gaze back up, unsurprised to find a hungry look on Ilya's face.

His breathing picks up, ever so slightly as Ilya leans in, the jolt of want unsurprising. He's pretty sure he'll be dead when he doesn't crave Ilya.

"Babies," Ilya says, instead of kissing him. Shane startles at the reminder that they're not alone as Ilya draws back to clap his hands together. He slides a look at Shane and grins, clearly pleased by the dumbfounded expression Shane's sure is plastered across his face. "More questions?"

“Uh,” Ovi says, glancing up from where he’s intently staring at Los’ phone, though his cheeks are red enough that Shane suspects he was listening in. He can't really complain, despite the nerves that squirm in the pit of his stomach; he's already thrown his lot in with the Bears. “We have a few final sillier questions too.” 

“Not sillier,” Breezy chimes in, looking pleased as he kicks his feet through the air, lying on his stomach. Abruptly, Shane is hit with the image of this being a sleepover, all of these grown men eagerly awaiting the hottest gossip he can provide, and he has to swallow back a sharp bark of laughter, even as he grins down at the trio of rookies, who all light up under his attention. “They’re less pressure. Like, more about getting to know you as a person. Less about you and Cap.” He shrugs, an awkward motion. “Like icebreakers, almost.” 

“They’re my cubs,” Ilya breathes into Shane's ear and laughs when Shane swats at him before he recaptures his hand easily. Shane sinks into the warmth that spills into his palm, the gentle fondness coiling through his veins. Ilya just makes everything so easy; it’d be unbearable if he didn’t love it so much. “Touchy, touchy, Hollander.” 

“What are the questions?” he asks, ignoring Ilya, even as he squeezes his hand and steels himself for the no-holds-barred questions that people always seem to think are easier. He hates icebreakers. Who cares what he’d bring on a deserted island? He simply wouldn’t be there in the first place. And if he were, he’s pretty sure he’d just have whatever he could scavenge from the wreck. It's not like he's going to get the option to crash land with exactly what he wants. “You’ll get my total honesty for one night. All my fiercest opinions.” 

“What’s your favorite book?” Ovi blurts out. “And our final question—arguably the most important—do you have a favorite color?” 

Shane pauses for a beat, before he grins, relief washing through him, even as Ilya mock groans next to him. “I like Legend #17, if we’re talking hockey books,” Shane says, elbowing Ilya when he mutters boring Jane under his breath, before he pauses again, and flushes. “And it’s a little embarrassing, but growing up I was a huge fan of the Eragon series.” He shrugs awkwardly. “It came out just before things really started to blow up for me, so. I mean, I don't reread it every year, but I try to every couple, even if it's, well, not really adult.” 

“Miss Jane,” Breezy says, delight clear in his voice. “You have good fucking taste in YA.” He pauses, squinting. “But the movie’s really fucking bad, so don’t even bother. They butchered that shit.” 

“I'll keep that in mind,” Shane says. "And my favorite color is blue." For a second, he thinks he's going to get away with it—thinks that he can pass it off as Montreal blue and not the color of Ilya's eyes—but his cheeks heat and he ducks his head, avoiding the babies' knowing gazes.

"Wait, why is that embarrassing?" Marleau asks, far too loudly for his liking. He prays for death but only the muffled sound of whispering from the others around Marleau answers before Marleau makes a long drawn out oh of understanding and continues, "I get it, I get it. Fuck, that's so cute."

Hammersmith laughs, twisting to mock him for being clueless, and the rest of the room falls back into a chatter as Ilya squeezes his hand again.

"My favorite color is brown and gold," he murmurs, warmth in his words. It burrow in, next to Shane's awareness of how kind the Bears are being, to let him recover from all of his stupid humiliation. "When the sun hits your face just right—" He shakes his head as Shane glances at him from under his eyelashes. "I had never known there were so many beautiful shades of brown."

"You suck," Shane complains under his breath, as his cheeks flare bright pink. "Who let you be so stupidly romantic at a team get together?"

Ilya shrugs, looking pleased. "It is easy, around you, I think. And easier for you—yes?"

Shane inhales, chewing on his bottom lip, before he nods. It's more than just a confession, at least in his eyes, because it's something that he would be raked over the coals for voicing anywhere but here.

"Your team is very kind," Shane admits in a low voice, unwilling to broadcast it. "I get it, okay?" It comes out tighter than he means for it, and he shakes his head when Ilya frowns. "Later," he says. "It's—we said we'd answer their other questions."

"I think they have mostly finished the interrogation," Ilya says, his eyes darting across his face as Shane tries not to squirm under his attention. He lowers his voice, a faint smirk appearing. "You have been very brave, yes?"

Shane shoves at him, but doesn't try to hide the way he's pleased. Ilya grins at him, before he tosses an arm around his shoulders and lets Shane settle into the warmth of him, the rest of the Bears dissolving into something a little less anticipatory.

"Thank you for answering," Ovi says, rising up from his spot on the ground, his back cracking as he twists. "We appreciate it a ton, Miss Jane."

Breezy bobs his head in agreement. "It fucking rocks that you'd answer them," he says, accepting Los' extended hand and grinning at he's heaved up. "No wonder Cap likes you so much."

"Of course," Shane says, dizzy with the implications that Ilya likes him enough to talk about him. It's stupid to be bowled over by such an innocuous statement, but it's the first time it's been said so plainly. It feels different to have the rookies say it, rather than the established team, too. "Anytime."

Ilya muffles a noise of amusement in his throat, and shakes his head when Shane glances at him. "You have opened a can of beetles, I hope you know."

"Can of worms," three people call from across the room, before Connors tsks.

"Stop trying to make can of beetles happen, Cap," he says, grinning from where he's tucked in under St. Simon's arm. "It's like fetch; it's just not happening."

Ilya huffs, rolling his eyes. "Can of worms makes no sense! They are slow and do nothing—now, a can of beetles? That's a real surprise."

"Can of worms isn't about surprise," Feller chimes in, and Shane tunes out the argument, leaning into Ilya and soaking it all in.

It feels impossible to compare, as he sits, swallowed up by the cheerful, ragged edges of the Bears. He loves Montreal, loves the fans, loves the Bell Centre—sometimes, he even lets himself admit that he loves the blades of prophecy, if only for what they mean, for the crown that they bestow upon his head. 

But this has the wavering impression of a dream which feels nearly unreal, as he sits and listens to the gentle banter, the teasing that never turns cruel. Montreal picks and drills and doesn't let go of anything that could hurt, relentlessly driving into the soft spots of everyone on the team, if only to convince each other that it makes them better, hardier players. 

He can't count the number of times someone's muttered kindness is weakness on the ice, as the coaching staff does their best to set everyone at each other's throats. 

It's extra stupid, too, because everyone knows that he and Hayd fly together on the ice, especially when JJ is out there with them, and they've never been anything other than good fucking friends. 

Thinking about that drags him back to his thoughts about how friendship is best expressed, which, in turn, just makes him think about his team again. He can’t ever escape the tinge of Montreal—not even in his own mind. 

The shoulder pats have only been allowed because they make the team seem more approachable, more human, after the games—and Shane had only really stuck with them, despite his usual discomfort with touch, because it had pissed Theriault off so much, and he had been utterly fed up one day after practice. 

And now, it's a fully realized part of his routine.

One that he evidently cannot leave behind, given the whining of the younger set of his team. And secretly, he doesn't think he wants to; he never knows how much he misses being touched until he's left the warm palms of Ilya. 

He huffs at himself, pushing up from his spot as the rest of the team breaks up, people disappearing to get more food or raid Ilya's very well-stocked bar. 

“I'm just going to stretch my legs,” Shane murmurs, when Ilya glances up at him, a clear question in his brow. “Do you want anything from the kitchen?” 

Ilya shakes his head, his eyes full of warmth. “You should find a room to be alone in,” he says. “Take a moment. The babies tend to disappear for a little and so do Sainty and Con. Take your time, yes? I do not want you to be overwhelmed.” 

“I'll be back,” Shane says, and has to force himself away at the gleefully happy look Ilya gives him. He thinks if he sits with him on the couch, he'll sink into delirium, and he'll wake up tomorrow believing this has all been a dream.

He wanders through the kitchen, pausing for a moment to finish the end of his Lära bar, depositing the wrapper in the trash. Marleau companionably bumps up against him as he passes and Shane offers him a weak smile, before he ducks out into the hallway, and slips up the stairs to Ilya's bedroom. 

He pauses in the dim, quiet gloom of the room, pulling out his phone to set a timer for five minutes. He can freak out for five and then go back down and be personable and friendly and social. Or, he can at least try to. 

He's fine, he reminds himself, as he tosses his phone at Ilya's bed and doubles over at his waist, curling his arms around himself. It's as if all of his panic has surged to the front, the steadiness that has guided him the whole evening deserting him in one fell swoop.

He can hear his breathing, loud and ragged, accented by the rapid thump of his heart.

"You're fine," he tells himself, the words muffled into his body as he curls into a ball and drops down onto the floor, tight enough to bury his head in his knees. "Ilya's fine. You're fine. The Bears are fine. The Metros are—oh, God."

The Metros are not fine, and this evening has made that abundantly clear.

The bitter rot that builds between them, the odd cliques that have sprung up despite Shane's best attempts to keep the peace; it's as if he's been trying to build a home on a fault line, the ground always unsteady beneath his feet.

He wishes he could rewind the hours. Wishes he could unknow everything that he now does. Wishes Ilya as a Captain had remained an ephemeral idea. Wishes that he didn't know just how sweet he was with his team.

It burns to know how his own shortcomings have spilled out into this terrible conundrum; that even if he pushes himself, he won't ever be the Captain that Ilya is.

Here is where he will always fall short.

He hunches over, shoving his face even further into his knees, groaning. He wishes he was better, could do more, and he's so fucking annoyed for not having the support he, at least sometimes, thinks he deserves.

He didn't sign up to be the fucking wonder-kid of hockey. He just is. It's not his fault that Montreal was sitting at the bottom of the barrel before he was drafted.

But he doesn't know what to do with it now, the jealousy that's coiling around his heart. In all other aspects that he and Ilya have been well-matched, he's been able to rely on himself to get to where he needs to go. This needs his team to get onboard, and that's never going to happen. Not with how it stands now.

He rubs the edge of his eyebrow ridge into the soft pilling of Ilya's sweatpants and breathes in the faint scent of Ilya that suffuses the room, the soft smell of clean laundry, the body wash he'd stolen from the bathroom earlier.

He has Hayd and JJ. He has the rookies and Laine and maybe some others, which isn't even half the room.

He laughs, a soft incredulous sound. People call him Captain Canada, and he doesn't even have half of his own fucking locker room. What a fucking joke. God, if people really knew how much of a disappointment he fucking is—

Fuck.

The thoughts burn in his mind, that unwavering feeling of no one can know sitting sour in his stomach. It's been easy in the past, to lean into it, to quietly convince himself that no one would ever even think to look for the cracks in Montreal, for the rot that lives in the shadows. Not when their media team was relentless about the bonds of brotherhood and their unsubtle remarks about magic on the ice.

But now he has Ilya.

Now, he wants to sit down and spill everything to him. He feels like a child, wanting someone to swoop in and save him. He's a Captain of an NHL team, for fucks sake. He should be more capable than this.

He grinds his face into his knees, relishing in the dull ache, and breathes, trying his hardest to empty out his mind.

He survived the hardest part of the evening, he reminds himself. All the big questions have been answered, and no one even made fun of either of them. There'd just been staunch support, a few leers that Shane is still unsure of how to take, and Ilya had been at his side the whole time. It had been far easier than he'd imagined, though, most of his thoughts had been absolutely catastrophizing the situation.

On the bed, his phone begins to chime, soft and insistent, and Shane gives himself ten more seconds of freakout time, before he unfurls from his ball and pushes himself up.

He reaches over and shuts the timer off, letting the quiet of the room swallow him back up. Downstairs, he can hear the laughter of Ilya's teammates, the din of people who actually get along off the ice.

He grinds his teeth together for a beat before shoving his phone in his pocket. He'll just—he'll take a lap around the house and then find Ilya, and just let himself drift alongside him. He doesn't care if it makes him seem like an asshole; he's stretched thin enough to know he's probably going to snap at someone if he's forced to socialize, and he'd rather shut down than get annoyed.

It's fine, he reminds himself as he creeps out of Ilya's bedroom and quietly shuts the door behind him. Everyone really already had a first impression of him from games before, and tonight was just a little peek behind the curtain. And no one had seemed mad at him, which he is thankful for, even though he's not really sure why he ever imagined they would be in the first place.

The hallways and stairs are clear of people as Shane heads down them, peeking his head into the kitchen and waving when Connors wiggles his fingers at him from where he's sitting on the counter, chatting with Hammersmith and Sebbin.

He ducks through the doorway, spilling into a different quiet hallway and exhales shakily, feeling worn and raw as he leans against the edge of the wall for a beat before forcing everything back. He has no fucking idea why the hell he feels so tender, why suddenly it's as if he's touched a hot pan and can't put it down.

“Do you think they’re all connected?” someone mutters, their voice low and hushed like they’re trying to avoid attention despite their words being clear as hell, and Shane stills, his bullshit meter tingling. He’s heard voices like this before, the quiet uncertainty of men who never know how far to take something, be it good or bad. Though he thinks that the bullshit that Boston gets up to is far less cruel than the shit that Montreal can sometimes pull. 

He peeks around the edge of the door frame and finds the three rookies huddled together, squeezed into one couch corner, their knees overlapping underneath a worn-down blanket. They're tucked into Ilya's sitting room, the smaller room at the end of the hallway that's only accessible from his kitchen. It's not somewhere Shane has found himself often, but he’s always admired the glimpses of the room he's seen, in between their furious and heated hookups. His slow perusal drags across the low, squashed couch, the warm brown paint on the walls, the fire roaring behind its grate, before stopping back on the three rookies tucked in together. It’s almost nauseatingly sweet how linked they are—Ilya hadn’t been wrong when he’d called them a pile of kittens the other day. 

“I mean,” Breezy says slowly, his shoulders curving in. “It feels like they can’t not be, you know? Like with the disappearing and the voices and the freaky shit.” He shrugs, and Shane feels dread pool at the base of his spine at the way the other two nod, relieved expressions on their faces. “But I don’t—how do we explain it, you know? How do we get people to believe us?” 

Ovi sighs, tipping into Los ever so slightly before pulling back. “I mean, we could do a polygraph test?” 

“Dude,” Los says, shaking his head. “You need to stop trying to get us to do polygraph tests with you. I don’t want to be fucking interrogated by the team, which we would be if they found out we were gonna do it. Could you imagine Cap asking the questions?” 

There’s a pause as all three of them think about it before Ovi shakes his head, his cheeks bright red. “Yeah, no, that’s a terrible idea,” he mutters, as Shane suppresses a faint smile at the thought of how much of a menace Ilya would be with that sort of power, before all the humor slides out of his body as Ovi continues. “I just don’t know how to tell the team we’re seeing fucking ghosts.” 

The word hits the air, and Shane’s stepping out of his tucked-away corner without a thought, uncaring about the way Breezy yelps at his sudden appearance. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, blinking at them. Because there’s dangerous and there’s stupid and then there’s both, which if the rookies are tangling with corporeal ghosts, shit’s about to hit the fucking fan. “Did you just say you’re seeing ghosts?” 

“No?” Ovi says, and sour truthrot pools in Shane’s mouth immediately, the quickest a lie has ever been clocked. Normally, he has to be out of a conversation for the rot to pool, and then he has to spend ages untangling what exactly he thinks the lie is, and even then, he's never really sure. It’s never been so fucking obvious, which absolutely cannot be good. 

He slowly arches a brow, watching as all three shrink back. 

“Uh,” Los says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “If we admit to it, are you gonna yell?” 

“I don’t yell,” Shane says, watching them closely. For a moment, the room they’re in is entirely silent, before loud laughter rises from Ilya’s main living room, echoing down the hall. 

“Somehow that’s not comforting,” Breezy mutters, snagging the blanket that they’ve been huddled under and tugging it up higher, as if it can protect him. “Are you going to say that you’re not mad, just disappointed?” 

“Is there something that I should be disappointed about?” Shane asks and fights the urge to cross his arms. He almost wants to call for Ilya, but he doesn’t want to drag him into something that’s so fucking hazy—not when he has a feeling that with Ilya, the entire team will arrive too—as he waits for one of them to answer. 

“Uh,” Los says, flushing. “Maybe?”

Shane exhales slowly and settles onto the edge of the couch, watching them closely. “Okay,” he says, squinting at them. The taste of metal begins to bloom in his mouth, pennies and copper and a sour must coating his tongue. “Want to start from the beginning?” 

The three of them exchange a look before Ovi sighs and averts his gaze, staring at the far wall. He seems far more relaxed than Shane expects, but he's almost certain, given the expression on his face, that it's because Ovi's felt too much tonight to be able to handle anything more—another small thing that connects the two of them. He's starting to get why Ilya is so insistent that they're similar.

“We’ve been sort of… seeing ghosts for a little bit,” Ovi finally says. “And I think hearing them? But it’s weird, like not really? Last night, one of them was in my room, and it was super fucking scary, and she tried to talk, but there were like, not real words?” 

“It was like a bunch of noise all at once,” Los says, picking at his fingernails. “But it wasn’t—it wasn’t words in the noise, just like a lot of it.” 

“Like a waterfall, kind of, where there’s just a bunch of sound,” Breezy adds. “Los told her to go, and she sort of just opened her mouth and wailed, but like, not really in a mean way? But also in a scary way? I mean, I think most of the scare was that there was a fucking ghost in Ovi’s bedroom, but I dunno.” 

“Hang on,” Shane says slowly, trying to piece it together as he stares at the three of them, huddled in the corner, the expressions on their faces all pale with fear. “Are you saying—is your—when the fuck did all this start happening?” 

Ovi shrugs, his eyes darting away and up towards the ceiling, as if he’s praying for an escape. Breezy sighs, the noise thick in his throat, and chews on his bottom lip as Los scrubs a hand over his face. 

“Like… the last few weeks,” he mutters eventually, but Shane’s mind is spinning. 

“Like, since the ouija board?” he asks, because surely, if that’s true, then they have to know what the fuck is happening, right? Or, is Shane the only one who pays attention to the fucking nonstop DOMU videos they’re all required to watch? 

The three of them exchange a look and shrug, and Shane can feel the dizzying pool of sourness spill down his throat to grow in the pit of his stomach. 

“Please tell me you’ve told someone about this,” he says, staring at them. “Please, please, tell me you’ve told Ilya, or hell, even Marleau? A coach? I’d take a fucking PR person.” 

Los shakes his head. “We stayed with Cap when we had that weird break-in, but I mean—we didn’t, not about last night. We didn’t want to distract the team. Or, uh, cause a problem before meeting, uh, you.” 

Shane laughs, sharp and caught out, and shakes his head. “Uh,” he says, because this cannot be real. “This isn’t—this is—hang on—you know what this is, right? You’ve sat through DOMU videos, right?” 

“No?” Ovi says, and Shane blinks at him, his whole world rearranging. “I don’t think we do any video review outside of game prep.” 

“What the fuck,” Shane says, dead-eyed with disbelief. “Literally what the fuck.” He scrubs a hand over his face and tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Okay,” he says slowly, his thoughts whirling. “So, hang on—if you don’t, then that means—”

“Shane?” Ilya calls, his voice drifting down the hall, the sound of his feet following after. 

“Please,” Breezy whispers, his eyes big and wide. “You can't tell Cap.”

Shane can feel the expression emerging on his face, and just knows he probably looks exactly like his mother when he tried to convince her that he should be allowed to skip a week of school the first time winter had frozen the neighborhood pond—all arched brows and thin lips and the unforgettable yet unspoken are you really trying this one, that had always cut him off at his knees. 

“Shit,” Los says, scrubbing a hand over his face. He looks younger without his glasses, his eyes wild, a faint, disbelieving laugh slipping from his tongue. “Well, good knowing you, boys.” 

“Miss Jane has that disapproving look down,” Ovi mutters, ducking his head like Shane can't see him. “I haven't been so scolded since I was like seven.” 

“Shane?” Ilya says, with faint amusement in his voice that disappears as soon as Shane glances at him. “What is—”

“I think,” Shane says, as ice drips down his spine. He thinks, abruptly, that he would do anything for a vision now, would race back to the Garden and demand skates if he thought it would give him anything. “That your rookies need to tell your team something.” He blinks, fragments of other visions collapsing in on themselves as he realizes just how many scattered fuzzy moments of portent have been echoed throughout this night; fuck, this can't be good, not if the transmundane has been infused throughout everything. “Your whole team,” he repeats, his eyes darting between the four of them. “Not to derail the evening.” 

Ilya meets his eyes steadily, his gaze dark and searching, before he bobs his head once. 

The burn of relief is like a wildfire to his nerves, a flare of gratefulness so potent he can taste it as he rises up and lets Ilya sweep him under his arm. 

The three rookies hustle out of the room—he suspects they were encouraged to by a look from Ilya—but he lingers, watching Ilya as he steps even closer.

“You are okay?” Ilya asks, peering intently at him. “Have you been scared off by the amount of mothering the rookies need?” 

Shane rolls his eyes and slides a step closer, neatly slipping into Ilya's arms as he curves them around his waist. He drops his head down to rest against Ilya's collarbone, sighing just once: a burst of damp, mumbled exhalation against Ilya’s skin. 

“You are good, yes, Shane?” Ilya asks, squeezing him tight with one arm and dragging his other hand up to tuck his fingers under Shane’s chin, tipping his face back so that he can peer into Ilya’s eyes. “No freaking out, yes? I am here, you are here, we are in Boston—we will handle it.” His eyes crinkle up, fondness welling in his gaze. “It cannot be worse than a ghost, can it?” 

Shane groans, ducking his head back down into the crook of his neck and shaking his head, quick enough that Ilya’s fingers drop to his shoulder. 

Ilya immediately understands exactly what Shane's implying, thick Russian spilling off his tongue, sharp enough that Shane's fairly certain he gets the intentions behind the words.

“More ghosts?” Ilya says, outraged, when his English has returned. “The babies have been hiding more ghosts?” Shane nods, still tucked in against Ilya's collarbone, and lets the second wave of indignant Russian sink into him. “I am too young and beautiful to be so worried about teenagers,” he finally spits out, throaty with annoyed anger. “I have been a good papa, have I not? Salt around my house, letting the stupid board into my house, hosting tonight—and this is how they repay me? More ghosts?” 

“I don't think it was intentional,” Shane says weakly, his hands settling on Ilya's hips. “And they're scared, Rozanov, even if they're pretending otherwise.” 

Ilya scoffs. “Of course they are scared,” he says. “They are smart idiots—they know that ghosts are not—” He pauses, shaking his head. “I do not want to do this again, solnyshko. No more possessions. No more ghosts. No more ouija boards.” 

Shane snorts. “I don’t know if you’re going to get a choice,” he says, pulling back to meet his eyes. The blue of them gleams like ice, equally as sharp. “I think—well. I don’t know if they did it, but something kickstarted your arcane thread, and given what they’ve told me… I mean, I could be completely off-base with it—”

Ilya shakes his head. “No,” he murmurs. “You are not off-base. I have felt it—” He grabs Shane’s wrist, dragging his hand up to settle at the top of his spine. “There is something here,” he says, as Shane lets his fingers press in, searching aimlessly for something that manifests internally. “A tether, maybe. A hook.” He wrinkles his nose. “I thought it had been—I don’t know. An ache from something. Not a real problem. I was going to give it until Wednesday, and then see the team doctor.” 

“I don’t think a doctor can help you now,” Shane says, his stomach churning. “But—Jesus Christ, this is—I don’t—what are you going to do?” 

“Well,” Ilya says slowly. “There is no contract, yes? This is a gift, or at least that is how the administration framed it for me, that the potential bloom of an arcane thread would be something given, not something bound.” Shane blinks at him, a little bit of his unease lightening. No contract, he would assume, can only be a good thing. God knows that his makes things incredibly complicated with all the arcane shit in it; he's pretty sure there's clauses about him interacting with New York and Toronto off the ice in it. “But still—this is not—I do not think that this will be kind to us, the, uh, narrative.” 

“It never is,” Shane mutters, too honest by half. He wants to swallow the words back up as Ilya’s mouth tightens, his brow furrowing. The room is quiet between them as Ilya searches his face, the fire crackling, the distant sounds of the Bears echoing down the hall. 

Shane doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but he doesn’t try to hide for once, letting the other man look his fill. 

"Will you help me?" Ilya eventually asks. "If I cannot—things are extra complicated in English. Everything has stupid layers and extra meanings and magic fucks it all up even more." He groans. "Intent this, intent that—I cannot even fumble with words without danger now."

"'Course I will," Shane says, scratching his nails over the back of Ilya's neck. He fits his thumb into the hinge of Ilya's jaw when he shudders under the touch. "I don't think I could, uh, not."

When Ilya smiles, it's like the sun breaking free from the clouds, the moon rising from behind the trees on a cold, clear night. Shane can feel the glow of his relief licking up his spine, and can't stop himself from smiling back, despite the worry that's building up in his stomach. He's pretty sure this is the most happy anyone has ever been to have him talk.

Ilya leans in, slow and tentative, but Shane doesn't shift away, letting him nudge his nose against his, his lashes fluttering shut at the touch of his breath against his lips, before Ilya slowly captures his mouth.

For a moment, the world dissolves around them, all of Shane's worries dissipating under the gentle, warm pressure of Ilya's lips. His hand slides into Ilya's hair and his grip tightens, desire welling up between them, thick and smooth.

Ilya pulls back enough to drop a kiss on the tip of his nose, and Shane's lashes flutter open to find him smiling.

"Even though it is bad," Ilya says slowly. "I would not want to do this without you."

Shane can hear the unspoken we have already done enough apart, and tugs him back down, bussing another kiss across his mouth. It's a novelty, almost, to have the time to do so, even as it ticks down in the background, their real world needs pressing in.

"We need to go talk to your team," Shane mutters into the cavern of his mouth, even though all he wants to do is make out with Ilya for forever, lost to the noise of their mouths, the wet touch. He forces his mind back to the situation with a hefty amount of effort. "C'mon, Ilya."

Ilya shivers, his blonde eyelashes trembling, before they part again. "You drive a hard bargain, Shane Hollander," Ilya says. "What if I think my team should wait?"

Shane huffs, poorly hiding a smile. "If we get distracted here, and someone comes looking for us, I'm going to lose my mind," he admits, half-joking. He knows Ilya understands how truthful he's also being when he stills, watching Shane intently. "And you're not going to leave them to flounder, I know."

"Flounder," Ilya repeats, before he adds, almost under his breath, "Scrabble tracker."

Shane snorts, shaking his head and pulls back, untangling them fully. "Alright, Captain," he says, and shivers at the look in Ilya's eyes. "What's the game plan?"

Ilya rolls his shoulders back, and Shane watches as he seamlessly tugs the persona of Captain of the Boston Bears on. "Babies," Ilya says as Shane nods along. "Then—and I will kill them, if they have been keeping ghosts from me—we see if anyone else has noticed a ghost. What anyone else has noticed at all, maybe? I am not—" He wrinkles his nose, the sterner demeanor fracturing for a moment. "The Garden has been odd, recently. I thought it was faulty heating, yes? My eyes playing tricks. I haven't seen any people, no ghosts, but there have been things that have, hm, unsettled me."

He meets Shane's eyes, and Shane watches his mouth crumple into a frown. "I thought magic cannot be happening here, I am here to play hockey." He shrugs, looking apologetic. "I should have known better."

"I don't think anyone expects arcana," Shane says. "I do because I've been trained to think that way. I have to notice any shifts or else…" He trails off, unwilling to finish his sentence. "I mean your rookies did outright say they were seeing ghosts, but even before that, it was a little ominous." His gaze darts up to meet Ilya's. "If they hadn't been as blatant, I would've just mentioned it to you—I didn't mean to fucking involve myself like this."

Ilya waves him off, his brow smoothing out. "I would have involved you anyways," he says, before a bit of mischief glimmers into view on his face, in the glint of his teeth. "You are stepmother, properly now. It's only right you help with family matters."

Shane groans, shoving at him. "Alright, that's it, go," he orders, forcing back the smile that wants to break out by sheer force of will. They shouldn't be laughing; there's nothing good about what's happening, but Shane is helpless in the face of Ilya as always. "Let's move it, Rozanov."

Ilya leads the way down the hall, after flipping a series of switches and killing all the light in the room, the fire guttering instantly as well. There's predatory grace in every motion as he stalks towards his team's loud voices, and Shane pauses a moment to take him in.

The hallway is dim, only the lights from the kitchen bouncing down the narrow hall, gently catching in Ilya's curls. He's as broad as ever, but the gray shadows both soften and bolster his figure, catching on the heft of his arm and the shift of his thighs. He looks as if he's coated in gossamer, a quiet crown settling on his head.

Shane doesn't need the NHL to confirm: there is something transcendent about Ilya Rozanov, and the theurgical weight will only make it more apparent for everyone else.

"Shane?" Ilya murmurs at the edge of the hallway. He's turned, so his right cheekbone is dusted in amber, the glitter of his eyes a beacon in the nebulous murk. The orphic ball of tension in Shane's left eye throbs, and he clenches his eyes tight for a beat, refusing to see whatever it wants him to see. "Are you coming?"

"Yeah," Shane answers, blinking his eyes open as the pain subsides. "Sorry."

Ilya waits until he's caught up to him on quiet, socked feet. "No more sorry," he says, and loops their dangling pinkies together. "You have said enough today, I think, and I am asking for me."

"I'm offering," Shane says, because it's fucking important to him that Ilya knows he hasn't—this isn't an imposition, he's offering, he wants to—and just the simple acknowledgment of how hard today has been for him is something else entirely. "And this is—this is bigger than hockey, too, for all that it's using hockey as its fucking, I don't know, medium?"

Ilya inhales, and for a second Shane thinks he's said something wrong. "Wow," he murmurs, a ghost of a tease in his voice. "Bigger than hockey, huh?"

There's a moment where Shane's almost angry at him, for turning the seriousness into a joke, for not recognizing how fucking big of a deal it is for him to recognize that, but it fizzles out as soon as he tilts his eyes up and catches sight of Ilya's face.

He looks thunderstruck, wonder shimmering in the corners of his eyes, in the soft curve of his mouth. Silken awe spills into Shane's veins at the openness of Ilya's expression, the sheer amount of emotion unveiled.

"Yeah," he manages shakily, clumsy with affection. "I mean, some things are. Some things really are."

He hopes that Ilya gets what he means, and given the way his eyes grow bright and low-lidded, it seems like he picking up exactly what Shane's putting down. Shane's a breath away from doing something fucking stupid, like dropping down to his knees, overcome at the thought of much he fucking likes Ilya.

"The whole team's in the living room," Marleau shouts, shattering through their bubble. "Just waiting on you and your boy now, Cap."

"We will be right there," Ilya calls, without looking away from Shane. His pinky squeezes a quick two-pulse pump, before he drops a quick peck against Shane’s mouth, darting back before either of them can get sucked in.

"Ready?" he double checks, and Shane nods, following after him as he leads them back into the living room.

It's a semi-panicked mess when they arrive, the rookies back to being huddled up on the floor, forlorn expressions on their faces, Marleau pacing by the corner of the couch that's clearly been held open for the two of them.

"Cap said—"

"—true? I mean it can't—"

"No! No! Just because you think that—"

"—and I'm crazy for thinking this is—"

"Shut the fuck up, Carm—"

Ilya drops his pinky, and claps his hands three times; by the time the noisy slap of the third is done ricocheting across the space, the entire room is silent. Shane shoves the tendril of heat that rises at the sight of Ilya taking charge back into the pit of his stomach. He can never let Ilya know how hot he finds his easy control of his team.

"Okay, yes, I get it, there are big things happening, yes?" Ilya nudges him in the arm, and Shane glances up to see him tipping his head towards the couch. It's an easy order to follow as he gingerly settles in, Ilya remaining standing for another beat as he looks around the room. "Now, I cannot tell you what I know, because I do not know anything, okay? The babies have to tell us, and then—"

Shane can't see the expression on his face, but he can guess, given the way people are recoiling, that it's his game day glare, the one the media's nicknamed Rozanov's Rage every time they get a shot of it as he walks into TD Garden with his sunglasses perched low.

It's one Shane's been on the other end of countless times, though, he doesn't think it affects him in the same way as all the others.

"Then," Ilya continues, stressing the word. "We will find out if anyone else is keeping little secrets that I need to know from me. The babies—bah, they are babies, they have an excuse. You?" He does another slow look around. "Well, that depends on just how big the secret is."

"What—what kind of secret?" Vostel squeaks out, his face slowly turning pink. "Because, Cap, I gotta be honest—I have no fucking clue what the hell is happening here."

Shane's eyes linger on Ilya's shoulders as he sighs, watching the supple flex of his biceps as he gestures towards the trio of rookies. "Well?"

"We're seeing ghosts," Breezy blurts out, nearly before Ilya can finish his word. "Uh. Or, well, we have been, like for a while? But none of us realized until last night, because there was a woman in Ovi's bedroom who kind of screeched at us? She was friendly enough, we just couldn't understand her."

"If I had maybe been expecting it, I wouldn't have freaked out as much," Ovi mutters as Ilya steps over Shane's legs to sit down next to him on the couch, thigh to thigh, pressed in tight. "But, she just appeared, like—" He snaps, the click of his fingers loud in the room. "And then she was just floating, looking at me and then out the window and then back at me."

For all that Shane expects the room to explode into noise, it stays quiet, the team clearly processing.

Shane wonders if they can feel it, the slow pressure of magic sliding into their veins. When he'd signed with Montreal, they'd warned him that it wasn't exactly a pleasant experience, and had let him know that the it'd be worse if he ever accepted the A or the C.

They'd been telling the truth.

The arcane has slid into his bloodstream like dry ice, searing the edges of his nerves until he could taste blood in the back of his throat as it burnt through him. He'd gotten an hour to recover in a dark room, before they'd been ushering him back up onto his feet, sending him out to tour the facilities again, like he hadn't before. When he'd made Alternate, it'd put him down for three hours; he'd thanked god that he'd signed the official paperwork after their evening home game. Becoming Captain had knocked him out for six.

The pain had only gotten worse each time, new pieces of him stinging under the onslaught of being remade, stitched through with the full power of Montreal.

He hopes, for their sakes, that this is nothing like that. None of them are wincing at least, aside from the rookies, but that seems to be more of a bracing themselves for judgment thing than anything else.

"Hang on," Hammersmith says slowly. "You three have been seeing ghosts?"

Marleau makes a soft sound of realization, that Shane's pretty sure he can only hear because he's so close. "Me too," he admits, his eyes fixed on some distant point when Shane glances up at him. "I think I saw one today. At the Garden. An old guy, I dunno."

Ilya makes a noise of disgust in the back of his throat over the rumble of mutters that swell at his words. "Marley, what the fuck?"

"And you're just realizing this now," Connors says, sounding hysterical. He bats St. Simon's hand away from his shoulder and points at Marleau, who's still hovering beside the edge of the couch. "Now?"

Marleau shrugs, looking vaguely apologetic. "We had to deal with this guy," he says, and Shane abruptly realizes he's gesturing at him. "I was a little distracted. Also, Kayla had answered some questions I had so I was thinking about that, too, and—" He shrugs again, seemingly uncaring of the reveal. "You know how it goes."

Ilya's living room falls silent, all of the Bears digesting the news, before Ilya clears his throat.

"This is—we will need to get it confirmed by admin, but I think we all know—it is not us who is haunted. It is the team," he says slowly. Heads bob around the room as he talks, faces creased in consternation. "I do not know how this will change things, what this will do. But I do know—we cannot let them know that Shane was here for it; for many reasons, of course, but also because he is bound to Montreal. He cannot also be bound to us."

Shane startles. He, for some godforsaken reason, hadn't even realized the implications of what would happen if his presence at Ilya's got out after this. They would absolutely bind him to some MNDA, which would take forever, given the way his Contract operates, and the pins Montreal has in him. He knows that it's possible, of course, given that people trade in and out of arcane teams with relative ease, but he's positive there's never been a rival Captain at an awakening; mainly, because there's never been an actual awakening of magic on an NHL team. It's always been stamped out before it could settle, since the NHL hates dealing with it nowadays.

Complicates the ice, the NHL press releases always mention whenever they flag a tamping of the transmundane for the public. It nearly always results in the stricken team playing either some of the best hockey in their history, or some of the worse. Best of luck to the team as they continue on as they have.

Shane's mouth twitches, amused despite the seriousness of the situation. Of fucking course, Boston would defy all expectations. Why the hell wouldn't they?

“Wait,” Carmichael says slowly, squinting at the rookies as Marleau finally sits down, the edge of his shoulder gently pressing in against the line of Shane's leg. “But, sorry, I'm fucking confused? Isn't team magic supposed to help the team? How the hell does seeing ghosts help us? I mean, like—what the fuck does it even do besides making us all terrified?” 

Shane snorts before he can help it, a dry, sour amusement welling up. Is this what arcane-less teams tell themselves to make it easier to bear the losses? Do they comfort themselves every time they lose to Montreal, or Toronto, or New York by saying it's okay, the magic helps them? What a fucking joke. 

“Hollander?” Marleau says, twisting to look at him, his brows furrowing. “Are you sayin’ that's not what team magic is? Like, it's not helpful and shit?” 

“No,” Shane says, his mouth thinning out. “There’s a reason that Montreal cycled Captains before Svegte and me, and it's not because the team magic was helpful.”

There’s a moment of stillness before Ilya sighs, scrubbing his hand down his face. 

“You can say the truth,” he says. “Team magic is more like a curse, no?” 

Shane shrugs. “It's not regular magic,” he settles on, avoiding the c-word. “It's sharper. Crueler than the usual shit that passes through.” He pauses, chewing on his lip. “It's—for Montreal, at least—because I have no fucking clue what Toronto or New York are up to—it's a little… smothering. We haven't exactly gotten along with it.” 

“We?” Marleau says, arching a brow. “Hollander, we all know you're the person who carries the fucking weight of it.” 

Shane presses his lips together, shoving back the urge to flinch at the sting. Marleau doesn't mean anything by it; he knows, but it still hurts to hear how stark and obvious the distance is between him and his teammates.

He shrugs, fighting the urge to duck his head and hide. 

“Montreal plays… differently than quite a few other teams,” he settles on, instead of everyone knows that our whole deal is just to find smart ways to pass to me. He doesn't like to think about how it reduces the team to nothing more than satellites circling a star, how they pluck people from the draft who know how to do nothing more than pass, even on their first line. The dynasty that Montreal is so desperate to build rests solely on his shoulders; Theriault isn't wrong when he says everything's on him—it just burns to know how much more they could be. 

But asking for more support has always been spun back to him—what, you think you can't do it, Hollander?—and in the end, nothing has changed. 

Other people exist as nothing more than their purported use, and Shane is the one who has to bring it all together. 

For all that it works, there are plenty of days when Shane hates it. It makes things that much worse, when he has to drag his teammates over the line of winning, when a single off day makes the whole team implode. He can't even imagine having more support than Hayd on his wing, and it makes the entire cycle of games vicious and exhausting in a way he never expected before signing on.

"So, okay," Sebbin says, dragging his attention back to the bigger issue. "We somehow got haunted, and now we're magic?"

"Well, when you put it like that it sounds stupid," someone mutters.

"That's how it is," Sebbin says, dogged persistence clear in his voice. "We're magic now. But not like—well, okay, is it the team is magical, or the people?"

Carmichael scoffs. "Magic runs through the teams, doesn't it? And didn't you hear Cap? There's nothing else to make us magical—it's all through what the team does."

"But I don't get how the magic works? Like what made it decide now was the time?" someone else says, loud enough to catch Shane's attention. "We're the same as we've always been."

Shane blinks at them. “I’m sorry,” he says, as pleasantly as he possibly can, attention resettling on his shoulders. “And maybe this is a stupid question, but I think at this point it needs to be asked. Did you close the summoning from the ouija board three weeks ago?” His gaze drags along the rapidly paling faces of the Bears, as all of them turn to look at each other. The non-answer is enough of an answer that he sighs, pressing his lips together. “Well.” 

“I thought you closed it,” someone hisses as heads swivel until Connors is pinned under the weight of the team’s gazes. 

“I normally do,” Connors says weakly. “But with the Montreal Jane reveal—” 

“Oh, so now it is my fault?” Ilya says, scowling, crossing his arms. “I am the one who always says, do not summon ghosts, and now it is my fault?” 

“—I might’ve forgotten,” Connors finishes, grimacing. “And Cap, it’s not your fault; I’m just saying that I was a little more shocked than I would’ve been if there were just normal ghost shit happening.” He rolls his shoulders back and glances at Shane. “I’m assuming closing it now wouldn’t do all that good?” 

Shane shakes his head. “Did you—do you know how and why teams have magic?” he asks instead, and wow, he had forgotten that he’d foreseen snippets of this conversation his second year on the Metros. He'd been fascinated by what he'd said, and gone looking to make sure he was right about it, giving him his current absolute confidence in what he knows; an odd self-fulfilling prophecy. It had helped that even though the room had been blurry, he had seen Ilya, and he’d known, even then, all those years ago, that he’d be safe next to him. “Because if you do, then it’s fairly obvious that you’ve awoken up your—well. The arcane has bled into your team.” 

There’s a moment of quiet before Vostel clears his throat, looking vaguely sheepish. “And if we don’t know?” 

“Coven bonds,” Ilya says, his voice shifting into something heavier. “You are saying this, yes?” 

Shane presses his lips together and nods, watching the news sink through the team. None of them seems to really get what Ilya means, so he clears his throat and tries to ignore the way it feels to have everyone's attention snap back to him. “The Original Six were made up of a clan, three covens, and two neutrals, though the neutral teams—Chicago and Detroit—had some major heavy hitters for spellcasters on their initial teams. It's why their arenas are so well-insulated; they've had some of those wards up from the beginning and have kept their upkeep in-house. The three covens—Montreal, New York, and Toronto—all stuck with whatever their biggest arcane thread was and stitched it into the fabric of the team.” He pauses, tapping his finger against his thigh, before sighing. “I don't want to, uh, explain Boston to you if you all know—” 

“Please,” St. Simon and Hammersmith say in tandem, as the rest of them chime in with vague agreements. Shane sneaks a look at Ilya, only to find him nodding along, his eyes dark and serious, his fingers gently touching the edge of his cross. 

“Boston,” Shane starts, his gaze drifting up to the fire, the room hushed and focused. “It's—well. A clan is something less formal than a coven, less rule-bound and absolutely not contract-bound, but I don't really know what it meant back then. All I know is that they had the option to bind a piece of magic to their team, and they chose not to. The actual reasoning behind it has never been revealed—some people say that it was dirty magic, some people say that it was weak, some people say that it was nothing more than private, like Toronto and Montreal and New York. Regardless, the Boston team was formed around the deliberate absence of magic, but with the knowledge that it could one day be slotted into place.” He taps his finger against his thigh harder. “Most teams in all sports these days do it like that, because even if they don't want the transmundane infecting them, they still want the option in case it comes along and sings sweetly. And any magic can slip into a clanspot. Covens have deliberately chosen a thread; they've made a contract with the heft of a branch, and they've signed a deal in—” His voice cuts out, even though everyone knows just how deals are made. 

“Blood,” Ilya says, his voice low and angry. Shane's eyes snap from the fireplace to find him, his gaze darting across the heavy set of his jaw, the tension wound into his shoulders. “You signed a deal in blood at newly eighteen, Hollander? This is the weight of Montreal?” 

Shane shrugs helplessly. “You know I can't answer that,” he says. “I can't—they have taken my tongue as my oath,” he recites, referencing an old spellbinder's warning. It's one that's rung true every time he's heard it, enough so that he plays a filmy, scratched-up recording of it from some speech from ages ago before every other game. It makes him feel less alone. “My days of freedom have closed tight as merciless as a spear biting through ribs. Silence is my only friend.” 

Ilya's mouth flattens out as Shane watches him. 

“There’s a reason the NHL seals the documents,” Shane says, as gently as he can, hyperaware of everyone's eyes on them. “And it's so that leaks can't get out. I'm sure that if you knew—” His voice crackles over the words, an embarrassing reveal of his distress. “It—it sounds incredibly unfair for me to have it,” he says carefully. He can't—he doesn't want to fuck this up. Not here. Not now. 

“I don't—I want to be able to tell you. I want to be able to say Montreal has never tri—” His jaw locks up, truthrot filling his mouth, as the lie of tried to harm me is silenced uselessly across his tongue by his own realization. 

“Oh my god,” he says, blinking at Ilya, who's frowning at him. Distantly, in the back of his mind, something shivers, a metallic ping, not unlike the noise of a steel cable snapping under too much weight. 

He hadn’t realized it was deliberate. He had thought it was shitty coaching, bad ideas brought to light by sour administrators, and teammates who were too angry, or too stupid, to think straight. 

He shoves his hand in his pocket, ignoring the outburst of noise from the Bears, and yanks his phone out. He'd never paid too much attention to what Montreal had agreed to for him; he'd been far more focused on his own sacrifices. 

But why had they shifted from a rotating Captaincy to only having one person shoulder it? Svetge had held the position for three years in total, before it had been handed off to him; had Montreal known that they were going to try to—

His thoughts cut out as his phone finally loads what he's been trying to see: his original contract, saved into one of the many folders his mom had put together all those years ago. 

He's not interested in his newest contract; if this has been set up this whole time, he knows the real details will be set at the origin point. All other magically enforced contracts rely on the baseline of agreement, and if he's agreed to what he suddenly suspects he was trapped into—

He skims the first part, skating over the standard agreements, the usual language. He knows this piece; he researched it when he first got the papers, along with Farah at his side. Dread buzzes in his veins as he hits the section about the arcane thread, and he pulls his phone closer to his face, wishing, for a second, that he had his glasses. 

Words fill his screen, every new sentence only growing his dread. Sacrifice, focal point, in the untimely event, bloodsworn to carry, by the weight of magic gifted, if, and only if, all of it is tangled up in legal jargon that takes Shane a minute to parse. 

But when he does, everything hurts. Fuck, if he had known—but the Metros had insisted he come to his secondary blood signing alone, had promised he'd be protected by the Might of Montreal. 

If only he had the A back then, he wonders if truthrot would have pooled, slimy and terrible, coating the inside of his mouth. 

“Shane?” Ilya says, careful and delicate, as his hand wraps around his wrist. 

Distantly, Shane can tell that the room has settled back into a quiet sort of waiting, an edge of anticipation coiling in the room. 

He lifts his gaze up from the phone, his jaw clenched. “Ilya,” he says, and he can feel the rumble of worry, the curl of love tucked in his tongue. He braces himself, meeting Ilya's worried gaze. This changes everything, unwinds every thought he's ever had. He can feel the strain of the words in his throat, the way they’re going to hurt to say. “I need to leave Montreal.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then the room explodes back into incomprehensible noise as Ilya stares at him, his hand tight on his wrist. 

His thoughts start whirring immediately. He has, at minimum, four years left on his signed contract. He refuses to waive his No Trade Clause, if only because he needs the time to figure this out, and he refuses to teeter into anything that might read as breaking the contract; he's seen the list of potential posted repercussions that lives online at the DOMU's website. He's not tempting fate when the possibility of major injury, and/or, death could await him. 

“What?” Ilya snaps, dragging him out of the quicksand of his mind, but Shane can hear the fear embedded in the sharp tone. It’s a far cry from what he had been saying earlier in the afternoon, but this—this is bigger than Shane’s own wants and needs, which he has always shoved to the side for the team. This is Montreal gambling with his fucking life, this is Montreal promising a future and driving a dagger into his heart to pin him to the boards. “But you have always said you—you want to retire as a—a Metro?” 

Shane nods, his mouth twisting. “Yeah,” he says, soft and honest, trying his best not to flinch. “But if I stay it will—” This time, his jaw locks up as the might of prophecy descends, kill me caged in by his teeth, shattering across the backs of his molars, the swell of his tongue. His gaze darts up to meet Ilya's, watching as comprehension settles in. “Oh my god,” he says, again, as full understanding sings in his veins. “Oh my god.” 

His phone buzzes, some text from Hayd appearing across the top, the notification neatly obscuring the header, but leaving the rest open and available for reading. 

His eyes skim the end paragraphs again, the weight of his agreement soaking in. 

The designated Signee, S.Hollander , has agreed to be bound by the laws of magic and blood; hockey will be his main focus, with no distractions permitted. All ward slats will be attuned to his aura, his blood, and his signature; attunement will take place over the months of July and August, 2010. Monitoring of potential backlash repercussions is at the request of the Signee and/or Head Coach; the Metros are not required to provide, unless ordered by a signed note from a Witchdoctor authorized by the NHL. All other notes, per the Magical Sports Authority Act, (R.S.C. 1952 c.A. 16 / 6a USC § 1013), are unactionable by demand, but will be noted and kept in the Signee's medical folder. 

Per his resealment of signatory authority pending the offer of Captain and/or Alternate of the Montreal Metros, the Signee, S.Hollander , will assume the helm of authority, the veil and weight of orphic knowledge, and be tethered to the rink. 

The Signee, S.Hollander , agrees that he will be unable to appeal to a resigning, per terms laid out above in Section A.13b. The Might of Montreal will become his primary actionable piece of authority and his singular wellpoint. The transmundane layer of the Metros is pinned to the Captain and the Alternate positions, and as such, will be assumed by the Signee, pending the offer of either position. 

The Contract is only broken upon death, trade, retirement, or deliberate maleficence. The agreed-upon definition of deliberate maleficence by all parties can be found in Section F.12. All other definitions can be found in the glossary provided at the end of the contract, “Exhibit C”—

Ilya gently takes his phone from him, sets it to the side, and locks it, all without even trying to read it. 

The simplicity of it burns beneath his panic, a jolt of warm embers straight into the pit of his stomach. How many times have people tried to pry, tried to glance at his phone? Hayd and JJ have done their best to curb the worst of the teammates who always want to know what he's up to, even as they've stolen glances at his screen, and he knows that privacy in a locker room is an ill-fitting ideal, but still. 

Here, where his secrets are ripe for the plucking, and Ilya knows he trusts him with all he has, still, he doesn't take. 

It's a cold comfort, but one to which Shane clings as heavy grief rises through his body. He never wanted this. 

He just wanted to play fucking hockey, and instead, somehow, he's signed his own gravestone. 

If he—if he hadn't looked, if Ilya hadn't been such a persistent person, if—he cuts his thoughts off, bile welling up in the back of his throat. 

Montreal needs good fucking hockey, he can remember someone saying jovially the day he stepped into the offices to sign. Good thing we've got Hollander on the come up, huh? 

Theriault had hummed in agreement, he thinks. His eyes had been dark, with deep satisfaction in the set of his mouth. 

He'd been proud, he knows. Proud that they'd thought so highly of him, proud to bear the burden of bringing the Metros back to new heights; he hadn’t double-checked the paperwork. Hadn't even thought to. Already the trust in his team had been there, and the first action they’d taken had been to ask him to sign himself away to become nothing more than cursed. 

They wanted to take everything but hockey away from him; no wonder Theriault hates his friendship with Hayden and JJ so much—it proves he’s more than just an unfeeling hockey peon. 

Abruptly, everything shifts into place. 

He's been seeing snippets of this conversation for years, carefully unwound before his eyes, which means—

He rises abruptly, staggering to his feet and ignoring the touch of Ilya to stride into the kitchen, darting for the salt and a knife, before spinning to rifle through Ilya's tea shelf, snagging the bag of lavender chamomile he spotted earlier in the evening. The lighter is an easy find, tucked into the junk drawer. 

He hasn't done one of these in years, but he knows the steps by heart, as Ilya steps into the kitchen and catches his eye. 

“I need a bowl,” Shane murmurs, as he sets the knife down with a click. He doesn't look away as one of Ilya's eyebrows slowly arches. “One that you don't mind getting blood in.” 

“You are giving thanks,” Ilya says, as more Bears begin to appear in the doorway behind him. “This is—to who, Hollander?” 

“I can't—or, just, later,” Shane answers, tapping his throat when Ilya narrows his eyes. “Please, Ilya—I wouldn't—it's important.” 

“What the fuck is even happening here?” Hammersmith asks, following Ilya as the rest of the first line crowds the hallway. The rookies wiggle through the wall of bodies, only for Los to make a noise, vaguely high-pitched and knowing. 

“You're—wait—so it's been protecting you?” Los says, sounding befuddled, as he ignores the rest of the team, turning to look at him, and instead meeting Shane's eyes. “And still, hurting, my guess is. Oh, holy fucking shit, Miss Jane. And you're still—Jesus Christ.” 

“Explain,” Ilya snaps as he steps around the counter and snags a bowl. 

Los shrugs, looking vaguely discomforted. “I mean, given what Jane's yanked out of your cupboard, it's a modified thankfulness and deliberate cleanse of the bond between a contract holder and the higher power sworn to it; the salt is the main thing of the connection, because that acts as a direct channel once the blood is sprinkled over it and set on fire. The tea bag is chamomile for thanking.” He shifts on his feet. “My mom has to do these like makeshift ones when she's called in to consult for the nastier cases, and my other mom does it whenever she has to bind with the heuristic branch—whenever she needs magic to find someone,” he amends at the blank looks. “It's a thank you, and sort of like cleansing upkeep, to declutter the mind? I don't know, it's hard to explain. People who are falling into curses do it a lot of the time. Kind of like a last resort, sort of.” He exhales, looking stressed as Ilya slides the bowl down the counter to Shane. “I'm not explaining this well.” 

Ilya stills, and Shane can read the abrupt understanding in his eyes. He’s been throwing around the word cursed all afternoon; Shane has decidedly not. 

A curse is a very real thing, in Shane’s mind. Something that was pointedly done, or at the very least, created through a series of very unfortunate events. But this; the weight of Montreal pinning him down and hollowing him out, or at least trying to, and the orphic visions of this conversation shattered down to small moments and spoonfed to him for years—all of this is clear. 

Montreal only wants him for his hockey. He’s been obliviously getting smaller warnings from the magic, which, for all that it’s warned him, clearly still hungers for him. 

He’s not safe. He’s never been safe. And still, he can’t tell Ilya any of it, not with Montreal's muzzle tight across his jaw. Instead, he can only pray that the other man lets him do what needs to be done. 

And this—a small moment of gratefulness amidst the storm of realizations that has swamped him in the past three hours—this he can do. 

This, even if it’s not true, he feels he owes the transmundane. Just for the attempt at honesty, even as it tried to core him out. He can feel the thread of prophecy tight around his throat, the chains that have bolted him to the rink lashed to his joints. 

What an oddly comforting weight to cling to; he has a sudden appreciation for the teams who flinch when he steps onto the ice but still play on. 

His need to try to give back only grows as his mind circles back to his team, an alien edge to the thoughts. How easy it would be to fall under the compulsion. His job already is thinking about the Metros nearly nonstop—he hadn’t even realized he was resisting a lure until now. He'd thought he was protected. 

“I thought it was against the law to bind people to harmful Contracts,” Breezy says, sounding impossibly young as Ilya silently hands over a bowl, his eyes dark. “Can't Jane just break free of it? Like sue, or something?” 

“Not if it's signed in blood,” St. Simon answers as Shane carefully draws a line across his palm, the shallow cut oozing blood immediately. He dumps the packet of chamomile into the bowl and taps the salt shaker three times above the cut, refusing to wince at the pain. “It's why it's so fucking illegal, but once it's been started, the Contract holds both tight.” 

“But,” Breezy starts, only to fall quiet as Ilya shifts forward, all of Boston edging in to ring the kitchen. 

For a moment, soaked through with the sort of hysteria he only ever feels when things are really, really bad, Shane wonders if this is how covens felt, all those ages ago, before they were stamped out by the government, all for the sin of having power. It's a dark secret in the NHL that Shane's only privy to because of his Captaincy; he knows just how eager both of the governments were to leash the all three of the teams' magic, to make it nothing more than a flashy bit of nonsense.

“You are cursed,” Ilya says, solemn and scored through with a painful ache of a secret revealed. Ilya reaches into his pocket and tugs out the page from earlier, his messy scrawl visible even from six paces away. 

Shane closes his eyes, presses his lips together, and tips his palmful of bloodied salt into the bowl, before setting it alight. He can't look at Ilya right now, or he's going to do something stupid like open his mouth and try to talk. All he wanted was to play hockey and live his life and stumble through the rest of it with Ilya at his side. And now—now he has this; the ashes of a spell to thank the occult for not eating him sooner and a contract that has tried to unmake him. 

“Laughter,” Ilya says. “Listen to me.” 

“Ilya.” 

“Laughter, love. You are not listening. No good. Turn back—Shane.” 

“I didn’t want it,” Shane snaps, uncaring of the fact that Boston is watching the two of them. He wonders what they look like, if their on-ice personas are as compelling as their off-ice fuckups. What a mess tonight has turned into. “You’re—I wanted to play hockey, and they signed me—and okay, yes, there are—I have—” He shakes his head, flipping his hand back up, the silver of a healed scar scored across his calloused palm, the smudge of blood the only evidence it had ever been sliced open. “I can’t talk about this. Literally, Ilya. You know that. I know that. Hell, now your whole team knows that.” 

Ilya startles at the mention of his team, glancing around the kitchen. “Out,” he says, after a beat of contemplation. “Living room. Go.” 

No one argues. 

Shane keeps his eyes on Ilya as Boston silently files out, not even Marleau lingering. 

“Shane,” Ilya says, once a rumble of noise has emerged from the living room. Shane has no doubt that they’re talking about his fucking freak out—which great, there goes his opportunity to be seen as fucking normal—and tries hard not to have a meltdown. “If you need to leave Montreal, you need to do it soon.” 

“Can’t,” Shane says before his mouth snaps shut. He’s fairly certain he was only able to refute Ilya’s words because his Contract length is public knowledge. “Ilya.” 

Ilya inhales, looking pained.

“What will break it, then?” he asks. “What will make you free?” 

“Time,” Shane says promptly, and deliberately doesn't think about the other option, shoving all notions of it back in his head. If he doesn't acknowledge it, it can never exist. “I have four years left—and I'm including this one since it's barely started, so I have three years once we're through the 16-17 season.” 

“Shane,” Ilya repeats, agony soaked through his name. He sounds so plaintive that it hurts. “But you are cursed.” 

Shane manages a shrug, meeting Ilya's gaze, and hopes that he can see the truth of it in his face. 

It doesn't matter, he wishes he could say, despite it being a lie. All that this changes is that now I know I need to leave Montreal, which makes me want to throw up for both cursed and non-cursed reasons.

Ilya searches his eyes for a long, swollen moment, and abruptly strides even closer, his hands coming up to settle on Shane's jaw. “The whole time?” he breathes, looking dismayed. “You have been sworn to silence and alone and cursed since rookie season? I thought, maybe, you had signed the contract in blood, but I did not realize the full weight—” He cuts himself off, stroking his thumbs under Shane’s eyes. 

Shane blinks at him, unsure of what to say, or how to say it. His soul is the most bared it's ever been, though the worst of his chains linger in the depths of shadow. 

“Shane,” Ilya says slowly, faint hope in his tone. “If I am right about you being cursed this whole time, blink twice.” 

Shane's mouth curves into a thin smile under Ilya's hands, amused at the thought of the sealing letting him—only for all amusement to drop out of him when he is able to blink twice. 

“Fuck,” Ilya says as Shane's stomach starts to twist, saliva pooling under his tongue. “Okay, so I will just ask you yes or no—” 

Shane wrenches away from him, spinning on his heel, to vomit bile into his sink. It's a relatively quiet affair—no retching—but the force of it makes his shoulders shake, and he feels exhausted as soon as he's done. 

Ilya's hand settles on his back, his eyes slipping shut in embarrassment, rubbing warm circles, as Ilya's other arm reaches over and pulls the sink nozzle out, washing the sour yellow down the drain. 

“Please don't ask me questions about my Contract,” Shane manages, after a long silence when the only noises are the patter of water against the basin and the murmurs of the Bears down the hall. “It—” he gestures at the sink, his head hanging low. “It has consequences.”

“I will not, sweetheart,” Ilya says quietly. “I will ask this though, and if you cannot answer it, or do not want to—do not, yes?” Shane manages a nod, bracing himself for another question that will hurt. “The ritual, with the bowl, was that thanking Montreal? Or the magic?” 

Shane relaxes, sinking back down against the sink. “It was for the magic,” he answers easily, relief almost slurring his words; he can't remember why he hadn't said that earlier. “I think—I think it's been trying to help me." He hunches over and spits into the sink again, exhaustion tugging at his bones. "And can I have—could I get a cup of water, please?” 

Ilya turns the sink off, slotting the nozzle back in place, as his other hand presses firmly between Shane's shoulder blades. 

“Here, lyubimyj,” Ilya murmurs, a crinkle of plastic following his words as he sets the water down at the edge of the sink. “I am thinking this, yes? I kick my team out. I will not answer any questions they have. You stay here, or with me, or go up to bed, and then we both go to bed, or pretend to, but at least we will keep—” He pauses, and Shane lifts his head up to find Ilya staring at him.

“What?” 

“I don't want to let you go,” Ilya says slowly, Shane turning to brace his back against the edge of the counter, the bottle of water cool in his hand. He twists the cap uselessly into the meat of his palm, letting the friction burn ground him. “It hurts. To think of all the empty space between us.” 

Abruptly, tears well up in Shane's eyes, the honesty of Ilya's statement almost too much to bear. He pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off the tidal wave of fear and relief and love that swamps him, to no avail as Ilya makes a low, pained noise and tugs him into a hug.

"We will figure it out, Shanya," he murmurs, sweeping a hand up and down his spine. "You have me, yes, and I think my team will go to war in your name—" Shane makes a muffled, choked laugh of agreement, and sinks deeper into Ilya's hold when he presses a kiss to the top of his head. "It is scary, and I do not need you to tell me you are not—I know you are. I am, too." He presses another kiss to the crown of Shane's head, and Shane closes his eyes, tucking his face into the crook of Ilya's throat. "This is a lot of change; too much for one night."

Shane manages an exhausted nod of agreement as Ilya sweeps a hand up and down his spine.

"Sorry," he offers, nose still tucked into the soft hollow of Ilya's neck. "I didn't mean to…" He trails off, uncertain of how to encapsulate the whole of the fuck up. "Sorry."

"No apologies," Ilya says. "This is not something you own. Not entirely. I know I do not know the whole of it, but the bits and pieces I have put together—sweetheart, you have been taken advantage of."

Shane squirms in his arms. It feels extra fucking shitty to frame it that way, but even as much as he wants to deny it, he knows he can't. He's not in the habit of lying to himself; especially not about or to Ilya. Not anymore at least.

God, he's so fucking exhausted. He doesn't even know what to do with himself, how to be a real person. Everything's turned on its head now, fragmented and terrible, and all he wants to do is curl up in Ilya's arms and pass the fuck out.

"You don't have to kick them out," he mutters, after a beat. "Your team, I mean. I can just crawl into bed, and you don't have to get rid of them."

A hum vibrates up Ilya's spine, spilling into his body. "You like them, then?" Ilya says, sounding almost shy. "No, uh, bad vibes, as the babies say?"

"Yeah," Shane admits. "They're terrors on ice, but they're nice enough off it to make up for it."

"Good," Ilya says, and squeezes him tight. "But fine, I will not kick them out, but I'm not—I will not leave you. That is—no negotiation. A fact of life, instead."

Shane blinks slowly. "Nonnegotiable," he murmurs. "Cannot be altered."

"Da, yes, this," Ilya says. He pauses, and Shane can tell that there's something he wants to ask. He gives it another ten seconds of waiting, before he gently knocks his head into Ilya's jaw.

"What?"

The warmth of Ilya's breath hit the top of his head as he curls in tighter somehow. "We could also go back to the living room, and put a movie on," he offers tentatively. Fingers dig into the edges of his ribs as he grips him tighter. "You can fall asleep, no one will care."

The kneejerk rejection sits on Shane's tongue before he forces it down. It feels inherently wrong to even entertain the idea of falling asleep near the Bears. Some barbed net tightens over his lungs, dragging him further and further into echoes of not a good idea, not a good idea, not a good idea.

But he's already spent so much of today leaning into instincts that have apparently been trying to kill him that he's feeling needy and rebellious enough to follow Ilya's lead.

"…Okay," he settles on, ignoring the way it almost feels hard to breathe. The pressure continues for another beat, before dissipating as if it was never there, and he's fairly certain that it's another piece of the puzzle, but he's too worn down to try to entertain the idea of figuring it out. "Is your team going to spend the night?"

Ilya shrugs, jostling them. "Not my decision," he answers, despite it very clearly being his decision. The joy in his voice makes up for the way he's not answering the question, and Shane—not for the first time—wants to meld their bodies together, keep their hearts tangled until neither one of them can tell whose veins belong to who. "Come, sweetheart. We can put on the babies first pick."

"Brother Bear," Shane murmurs, lazily rubbing his cheek against the curve of Ilya's shoulder, the smooth drag of cotton feeling nice against his skin. "You're gonna love that movie. It's also going to emotionally destroy you."

"Second pick, then," Ilya says, fond amusement welling up. "Mulan, I think."

Shane nods, and lets him slowly detangle the two of them, until it's just his hands clinging, unwilling to let go of Ilya. Ilya meets his gaze steadily, unflinching. Shane's sure that he looks vaguely insane, ruined from everything that's happened today, but he doesn't try to hide.

"I like Mulan," he says. "It's got a good soundtrack."

Ilya hums, but doesn't take the bait of him admitting he likes the music the most. "I like Mulan, too. Shang is a bisexual icon, as Sveta says."

Shane snorts, but doesn't bother disagreeing as Ilya tweaks the water bottle from his hand and cracks it open, offering it to him. Shane takes a sip, only to realize how fucking thirsty he is, and downs half the bottle.

"Better?" Ilya asks, half-smiling. "You want to—" He leans back, yanking open a drawer Shane hasn't explored yet, and tugs out a packet of single use toothbrushes. Clearly, someone's been making their way through it steadily since it's more than half empty, and Shane doesn't fight the vaguely disapproving nose wrinkle at the thought.

"They are for guests who do not remember their tooth health," Ilya says, despite Shane knowing that he also forgets about his tooth health, given the way he loves to bait people into punching his face. "And it benefits you now, lyubimyj. What is the saying? Beggars cannot choose?"

"Beggars can't be choosers," Shane mutters, snagging a brush and turning back towards the sink. "Nice one."

"Thank you," Ilya says, sounding genuinely pleased by the recognition. "You will brush, yes? Let me go inform the team."

"Thank you," Shane manages, and with another brief kiss to the side of his head, Ilya disappears back down the hall, heading for the living room.

He sets the water bottle down and turns on the sink. Water rains down for a good ten seconds, Shane staring at the sink basin, before he hears the lilt of Ilya's voice from the other room and jolts back into action.

It's strange, brushing his teeth in a kitchen. The food from earlier has been all packed up, only the ravages of St. Simon's pastries left strewn across a platter. He cracks open the fridge, and feels like his heart is going to explode in his chest at the sight of his ceramic plate from earlier set atop the highest shelf. All the other leftovers are neatly labeled, someone's near-perfect handwriting scrawled across the top of them, before he realizes that there are little asterisks on three trays.

He squints, leaning closer, and stills when he realizes that next to all the asterisks are a little J. He glances at the labels again, and wants to cry when he realizes it's all food that he's deemed okay for him to eat.

He shuts the door with a trembling hand and vigorously brushes his teeth to knock aside the bubble of emotional mess he has writhing in his gut.

He keeps waiting for the surge of love to end, for the ways in which Ilya takes care of him, the daydreams he has about taking care of Ilya, to end. Instead, they just keep growing. Already, it feels nearly impossible to keep it in his chest, to cull the sheer amount of want that he feels for Ilya into manageable moments.

And he doesn't even know what Ilya really wants—aside from him. But they need to make plans, and write down some semblance of an idea to appease the churning anxiety that's following after him.

There's always the cottage, he reminds himself, and tries not to flush at the memory of his vision.

He sighs around the toothbrush, before catching sight of himself in the kitchen window. He looks fucking wrecked, just utterly ruined. His eyes are red and puffy, his hair is mangled from all the times he's run a hand through it; though he doesn't even remember doing that. He knows it happens—he just tends to realize in the aftermath of him tugging at the ends. The toothbrush dangles from the corner of his mouth, but it's the flicker of movement at the edge of it that catches his attention, as if the air is wavering beside it.

He leans closer to the window, narrowing his eyes, only to jump when Ilya clears his throat at the entrance of the kitchen.

"Sweetheart, I promise I did clean, even if I did not deep clean the windowsills," Ilya says, before he gets a good look at Shane's startled face and squints suspiciously at him. "Or is that not what you are looking at?"

Shane's eyes dart back to his reflection, but the odd mirage effect is gone from that area, and he shakes his head, making his way back over to the sink to spit.

"I thought I saw something," he says, as casually as he can, over the water spilling down the drain as he washes his spittle away. "I think it was just the glass warping or something."

Ilya silently saunters over, peering intently at the window as Shane quietly finishes up, tossing the toothbrush when he's done.

"I don't like that," Ilya announces blithely, before whirling around and snagging his hand. He starts towing them out of the kitchen, giving Shane no option but to follow him. "But I will pretend everything is normal. Okay, yes, come on, the team has started the movie."

"What—" Shane slams his mouth shut as they enter the living room, the flickers of Mulan's opening sequence bathing the room in dull light. Only the fire and a singular night light that Shane hadn't noticed before are still on, the rest of the room quiet aside from a few murmuring at the other end of the room.

Ilya guides them back to their spot, which Shane notices is absolutely more empty than it was earlier in the evening and sits down, kicking his legs up across the cushions, and tugging Shane down without a word.

For all that Shane turns a bright, furious red, he keeps quiet, weak for the smell of Ilya and the warm drum of his heartbeat against his ear as he settles in against his chest. Something soft hits his hips and before he can look, Ilya is spreading his favorite blanket across the two of them.

One of Ilya's hands comes up to cradle Shane's head, smoothing over the edges of his ear, and then scratching across his scalp. He blinks, the exhaustion that he had been holding at bay by the skin of his teeth barrelling back into him with the force of a thousand dirty checks.

"Go to sleep," Ilya rumbles. "Everything you need to say will still be here in the morning."

I just need you, Shane tries to say, but between one heartbeat and the next, he's asleep.

Chapter End Notes

ngl i'm #nervous about the chapter reception, mainly because this all makes sense to me, but it's also all in my brain, yk? some of it is intentionally shrouded in mystery/deliberately not explained, but also, i hope this is the clearest it is? listen, words are hard.

sidenote: i should have known this chapter was going to be massive. shane is just The Character of all time.

we're circling like sharks in this chapter, baby! everyone get confused and then less confused and then MORE confused and then BOOM, some of the truth.

also baby!shane feeling the best when there's a giant cat laying down on his chest and purring? IKTR! a little bit of pressure and a rumble? i just know baby!shane (and adult!shane, who am i kidding) love to be SQUEEZED!

i was SO tempted to cut it off at shane announcing he had to leave montreal but i thought that would be too mean. i do love an evil cliffhanger, but i'd feel terrible if i wrote one and then didn't have the next chapter ready. also, writing shane and the thankfulness spell is so fun. who taught it to him? why is it familiar? who-or what-did he thank before? who's to say? i also do acknowledge that this is a *little* bit of a cliffhanger, since it ends with the question of: what the fuck happens now? but, fun fact! it was always gonna end like that, because i mean like, what the fuck does shane do now?

shane going in circles about montreal is deliberate - he's on their fucking hook. he is sooo chosenboy and sooo cursed. i love him. i love making his life worse. i love putting layers and layers and layers of filmy contracts that he has to peel away one by one to be a realboy and not just be hockeyboy one day.

i think also shane teeters on the edge of knowing he's the Very Best at hockey and also dealing with the very real repercussions of montreal hanging him out to dry, so there's a tangled vibe to knowing he's the best. that soft space of being so Very Good and then so Very Bad at the same time is hard for him to deal with, especially since i think he deals best in resolute answers. that tediousness of figuring out how to be human, combined with the curse, has left him in an odd headspace. and the vibe of boston cannot be meshed with the vibe on montreal on a base level, hence the extra confusion.

not to get NSFW, but to get NSFW: the implications of ilya literally fucking the thoughts out of shane's head being a piece of this puzzle... giving shane a reprieve from the haunting of montreal... making him quite literally no thoughts, head empty... i have a LOT of thoughts about how their personal sexual dynamic has helped shane against the curse, especially since they've been something since pre-draft. magic, as always, is about intent, shaped under the hands of those who wield it, even if they're doing so unintentionally. shane's infatuation is something that's been there since day one, (along with ilya's, and i WILL die on that hill) and i think the immediacy of shane getting relief (both literally and figuratively) under ilya's hands is incredibly important. not to get sappy on the NSFW paragraph, but love literally changes us as people, for all the good and bad that it means. that is SO important. shane is shane because he's had ilya for so long. the reverse is true as well. anyways. sorry for rambling.

i have a very quick and dirty rose one-shot for this verse that will be out probably in the next few days (it is very short (barely 2k), because it's just an introduction to her), but she has been so fun to figure out. do not worry (in case you are) shrose(?)/rane(?) WILL NOT HAPPEN. shane knows his future, baby! it's with ilya! and it's not going to be difficult to achieve at all! 😇😈

i have bits and pieces written out for the next few other fics in this verse but i have no idea when they will come out. i need to get back into take it slow (which I have been working on in between working on this one and writing other HR nonsense!) and i have a lot of thoughts about my vague omegaverse, and i FOR REAL need to finish my HR rewrite that is a soulbond retelling of the whole book. i'm 20k in and not even halfway thru part 1 😭

there's so much to write and so much to consume and i moved all my docs into ellipsus and using that has taken a beat since i'm used to my tidy gdocs app and not writing on my phone in my browser. c'est la vie, though, amirite?

anyways, i hope you enjoyed the final chapter of this part of ghostly ghouls - it was an insanely fun lore drop to write, and i adore the bears. also marley and connors are gossip FIENDS. both of them and ilya and jackie and rose and sveta WILL be getting wine drunk and gossiping

much love to all of you, and as always you can find me on twit and tumblr!