Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Original Hockey Characters, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Secret Marriage, married for nebulous Visa Reasons, exploring canon events through an Okay But What If They Were Married lens, Mutual Pining, Pining While Fucking, Slow Burn, Like Emotionally, fast as fuck for everything else, hockey as foreplay, everybody wants to fuck shane hollander, lowkey even the homophobes, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Marriage of Convenience, BAMF Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of the further adventures of married hollanov

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-06 Completed: 2026-08-25 Words: 157,099 Chapters: 23/23

there is no heart for me like yours

Summary

Ilya Rozanov has been drafted by Boston, the number one pick overall, but his father doesn't want him moving to America and so takes steps to block his visa. He's going to have to go back to Russia and stay there forever and that, thinks Shane Hollander, is wrong.

It's so wrong that Shane can't stop himself from doing something about it. Even though that something is the most reckless, the only reckless thing he's ever done in his life. He marries Rozanov in secret, to keep him out of Russia and put him on a path to Canadian citizenship.

Shane's got a five-year plan to get him there and when you have a plan nothing can go wrong. Right? Right. When you have a solid plan and a marriage that's on paper only there's no risk of feelings getting involved. Not on Rozanov's part and certainly not on Shane's.

Right???

(or, the story of how Shane Hollander fell in love with his own husband)

Notes

a few notes, before we get started:
- these are show characters only
- i wanted them to get married in Las Vegas for reasons that are many and varied, but same-sex marriage wasn't legal in Nevada in 2010. Rather than change the timeline of the fic, i shall change Nevada history greatly for the better and pretend that they never had a ban on same-sex marriage at all, so we all are happy and everything is golden
- i want to follow more or less the canon timeline but i'm not really interested in doing a beat-by-beat retelling of the story. It's more about how canon events would be different if they were secretly married, starting with what changes from the very beginning in this chapter. If any lovely readers have anything they'd like to see in future chapters, please do say so, either here in the comments or on tumblr. i am very much taking suggestions
- please enjoy!

• Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: 我心归处（授翻） by SLoan_1007

Chapter 1

Ottawa, Ontario, December 2009

The day before Shane's second Prospect Cup final was a typical one for an Ottawa winter: icy cold, with a knife-edged wind. He stood with his mom by their car in the parking lot across from the ice rink, waiting for his dad to finish work so the three of them could go for lunch. 

His mom was talking and Shane was listening, mostly. She was chasing some endorsement deal for him and he was grateful, honestly, but he had a cup final to play and he couldn't help feeling like it was more important to be thinking about that. 

It would be a rematch, this final. Canada versus Russia, round two. Shane was determined not to let him—no, them, not to let them—win. Not this time. 

No way was he letting Ilya Rozanov (okay, so maybe it was a him) get the edge on him again. Not after last year's final. Not after Rozanov had been selected as the number one draft pick to Shane's number two. Not after the hotel gym on draft night, a night Shane 100% never, ever thought about and definitely not as he lay alone in his bed, nearly every night of the six months that had passed since. 

Fuck Rozanov. He was not going to win tomorrow, not here in Shane’s hometown. Nope. Not gonna happen. 

“Oh, did you hear about Rozanov?”

His mom's question snapped Shane’s attention back to her. “No,” he said. “What about him?”

“The word is he might not be going to Boston after all.”

“What?" Shane was fully on alert now. "Why not? Is he going to another team?”

“No, apparently there’s some sort of problem with his visa. He may end up back in Russia.”

“Oh.” Shane was quiet for a minute as he processed this. He felt… bad about it. Wrong. Rozanov may be an asshole, he may be arrogant and cocky and maybe proximity to him made Shane’s body do things he wasn’t entirely comfortable with but the idea of him just… not being there, being thousands of miles away instead on another continent entirely was wrong. Shane didn’t like it.

From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of movement, someone heading around the corner to the back of the rink. He turned his head in time to register a black cap with dark-gold curls peeking out from beneath it and his breath caught. Rozanov was probably sneaking off for a smoke.

“Hey,” he said, “can I meet you guys at the restaurant? There’s something I forgot to do.”

“Oh. Sure.” His mother gave him her concerned frown. “Is anything wrong?”

Everything is wrong. “No, nothing, don’t worry. There’s just something I’ve got to do.”

“Okay,” she said. “Don’t be too long. Dad just texted, he's two minutes away.”

“I'll be there soon. Order for me if you want,” called Shane over his shoulder as he hurried off.

He found Rozanov as expected leaning against the back wall of the rink with a cigarette hanging between his lips. He drew in a deep breath when he saw Shane, then slowly let it out. The smoke he exhaled wreathed his face in curls, like his hair.

“That’s so gross,” Shane said. “Why do you still do it?”

Rozanov shrugged. “Life is short. And sucks. What does it matter?”

“Yeah, uh. I heard. About your visa. That does suck, I’m sorry.”

Rozanov’s lip twitched up, just at one corner. “You are sorry,” he repeated. “Really.”

“Yes, really!” Shane protested. “You’re a good player. A great one. Could be great. Would be, I mean, if—yeah.” He shuffled his feet and rubbed the back of his neck, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “What’s the problem anyway? With the visa?”

Rozanov took the cigarette from his mouth and released another cloud of smoke. “Problem is my father,” he replied. “He doesn’t want me to play in America. So he, um.” He made a gesture with his hands, like tugging on something. “English expression is, I think, ‘pulled strings’. With Russian government and embassy.” He took another drag on his cigarette. “He is powerful man, my father. He gets what he wants.” The bitterness in his voice was audible.

“Wow.” This was so far outside Shane’s experience of parents and how they behaved with regard to hockey careers that he didn’t know how to react to it. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”

Rozanov shrugged again. “I am eighteen now. I could marry an American, if I could find someone. That is maybe the only way.”

“But you don’t have anyone?”

“Who do I know in America? There is only one, my friend Svetlana. She would do this for me if I asked her.”

“Will you? Ask her?”

Rozanov shook his head. “Svetlana is American citizen, but her father, he is Russian and if she did this for me then what my father would do to hers…” he trailed off with another gesture followed by a shrug.

“Yeah,” said Shane, “I get it.”

“So there is no one,” Rozanov concluded. He took a final drag on his cigarette and dropped the butt on the ground. His heel made a grinding noise against the pavement as he stomped it out. “I go back to Russia next week and I will stay there. Maybe I will play hockey. Who knows.”

Something about the way he stood, shoulders hunched, something about the tone of his voice made Shane feel itchy under his skin. Wrong, his brain screamed, wrong wrong wrong. Ilya Rozanov shouldn’t be looking defeated, he shouldn’t be sounding like deep down he wanted to cry. It was all fucking wrong.

“You know me,” Shane said. The words were out of his mouth before he’d fully processed them, but he didn’t give himself the chance to take them back. “You could marry me.”

Rozanov snorted. “Sure, Hollander. I could marry you. Canada allows this, I think.”

“Yeah. It does.”

Rozanov looked at him sharply. Whatever he saw on Shane’s face had his eyes widening. “You would do this?” he asked. “Really?”

Yeah, Shane, would you? Really?

“I would,” Shane replied. “Really.”

Rozanov stared at him, his mouth slightly open.

“I mean, just for the visa,” said Shane. He could feel his cheeks begin to flush. “So you can still sign with Boston and play there. Just until you get citizenship. Canadian citizenship but that should be okay too, right?"

Time seemed to stretch as Rozanov stared silently and Shane held his breath, and then, “Yes,” Rozanov said. “Canadian citizenship would be okay." Shane released his breath in a puff that was visible in the frigid air. 

"So, yeah,” he said. “Okay. That's all it would be.”

Rozanov stared at him a beat or two longer, then he shook his head. His mouth closed, lips pressed together and Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “Okay,” he said. “Fuck it. Why not. I take your deal.”

He offered Shane his hand this time.

Shane clasped it in his own. They shook.

The deal was done.

Shane had to sneak out of the house very early the next morning to meet with Rozanov before practice, before his parents woke up and asked questions. He’d barely slept, so when he arrived at the small diner to find Rozanov already there with a cup of black coffee in front of him, Shane ordered the same for himself. When the waitress delivered it he took a sip and grimaced.

“You don’t drink coffee,” Rozanov observed. “Normally.”

“No.”

“Why this morning, then? They have milk.”

“I don’t drink milk either, asshole.”

“I meant to put in your coffee, Hollander. Fuck.”

“Sorry.” Shane rubbed his temples. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t sleep that much last night.”

“Mmm.” Rozanov nodded, but the look on his face was weird. “You have changed your mind?” he said.

“No.”

“You were thinking of how to…” he paused, hunting for the expression. “To break it to me gently.”

“No. I haven’t changed my mind. I was up all night researching Canada’s marriage and citizenship laws.”

Rozanov stared at him, with the same expression he’d worn in the parking lot the day before. Wide-eyed, with a curl at the corners of his lips. Like he found Shane funny, only Shane didn’t feel laughed at. “You were researching,” he repeated. “All night?”

“Fuck you,” Shane muttered. He noticed that behind the teasing grin Rozanov looked tired too. “I don’t need to ask what you were doing.”

“No.” Rozanov smirked. “Probably best not.”

“You’re such an asshole.” Shane took a notebook out of his pocket and shoved it across the table. “This is what I learned.”

Rozanov sipped his coffee as he read Shane’s pages on pages of scrawled notes. Shane took a gulp of his. It burned his tongue, which he thought might actually be a good thing. That way he was less able to taste it.

“Says here we have to live together,” Rozanov said after several minutes’ silence. “This will not be impossible?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Shane was prepared for this and many other questions. “We don’t have to be there all the time especially since we’re required to travel a lot for our jobs. We just need to share a residence and be able to show that we spend enough time there together to be considered a legit couple.”

Rozanov nodded. “So where will we live?”

Shane fiddled nervously with the napkin under his coffee cup. “Somewhere in Canada.”

“Canada is very big place. Not as big as Russia of course, but—”

“Ottawa,” said Shane, because he was not getting into an argument with Rozanov about whose country—whose anything—was bigger. “Here. My parents have a cottage nearby, on a lake. I’ve always wanted to build one of my own there too.”

“Build? This will take time.”

“In the meantime we can rent a place somewhere, or buy an investment property maybe. Look, we just need something that has both our names on it, where we can live in the off-season. When we’re playing we can stay at each other’s places sometimes too, just. Quietly. This has to stay a secret.”

“I know.”

Rozanov’s fingers tapped on the side of his coffee cup. Shane suspected he was wishing for a cigarette. “I spoke to my father,” he said. “Last night.”

“Oh. Okay?”

“I told him that to break my contract with Boston would look weak to American people. Like running away. Like I could not—” he hesitated. “‘Cut it’, is expression, yes? I could not cut it in MLH.”

“Oh,” said Shane again. “That was smart.”

“Yes. Also successful. He agreed to one season in Boston and after that I must go home. So there is time to think of another way. If you don’t want to do this.”

Shane hesitated. Here was an out, a way to back off from this insane idea without going back on his word. But there was something in Rozanov's demeanour that made him say, “Do you not want to do it? Because a season is good but that’s really not a long time. Getting married, applying for permanent residence, that all takes time. Even if we start now.”

Rozanov’s fingers continued to tap on his cup. He looked up at Shane, probingly, then back down again. “You really haven’t changed your mind?”

“No." This was the truth, Shane realised. He hadn't. If anything, he was more determined than ever to see this through to the end. It was a goal for him now, and once Shane had set a goal for himself, he never wavered. He was going to win the Prospect Cup, he was going to be a superstar in the MLH. He was going to marry Ilya Rozanov and keep him from being forced back to Russia. That was all there was to it. "Have you?”

The briefest pause, then, “No.”

Shane nodded. “Okay then. Let’s make a plan.”

Shane would never be certain what made it happen. The coffee maybe, or the adrenaline compensating for lack of sleep. The exhilaration, at doing something truly daring, reckless even, for the first time in his life. Or maybe it was just the simple will to win. Whatever the motivation, Shane played the best game of his life that night in the final. Rozanov played well too, brilliantly even, but Shane was unstoppable. 

And when, during the post-game handshakes, Shane’s fingers closed on Rozanov’s, when he gave them a squeeze and muttered, “See you soon,” they both knew fully what he meant. 

Rozanov returned the squeeze along with a smile Shane had never seen on his face before. Conspiratorial, that was the word for it. The smile of a shared secret. 

Shane carried that smile with him for the next six months. 

June 2010

Ilya sat in the lobby of the hotel, waiting. His leg was bouncing, his fingers toying with his phone. He felt knotted up with nerves and tension and one single, overriding thought.

What if he doesn’t show up?

Maybe it was a mistake, to rely too heavily on Hollander for his future in North America and in hockey both. No, it was definitely a mistake. Hollander was beautiful, he was annoyingly good at hockey, he was far too fuckable for Ilya’s personal comfort but he was also a good boy. A rule-follower. Someone who did not defraud the government of his own country by marrying a foreigner just so that man could get Canadian citizenship and freedom from his father’s influence.

Hollander was definitely going to chicken out. Ilya’s leg bounced faster.

The hotel’s main doors slid open and Ilya looked up. Hollander was there, framed in the doorway, gripping the handle of his suitcase so hard his knuckles were white. Ilya’s breath left his lungs in an audible whoosh.

He’s here, he thought. Fuck. He’s actually here.

We’re going to do this.

Hollander came over to where Ilya was sitting and Ilya rose to meet him. “Hey,” he said. His eyes darted around the lobby, like he expected government agents to jump out from behind the potted plants and denounce them. “Um. Everything go okay?”

“Yes.” Ilya watched as Hollander continued to scan the room. “Hollander, relax,” he said, though he himself was far from relaxed. “This is Las Vegas. You are not famous here yet.”

Hollander shot him a smirk. “Not yet.”

“So there is no one to recognise you or care if you get married. Everyone gets married here. That is what you said, yes?”

“Yeah.” Hollander nodded. “Easiest place in the world to get married. No blood test, no residency requirement, no waiting period. Doesn’t matter where you’re from. Just fill out a few forms, go to a chapel and it’s done.”

“Good. Then we are ready.”

“Yeah. We’re ready. You check in yet?”

“I waited for you.”

“Okay. We check in, we go get the license, then we go to the chapel. Appointment at four p.m.”

“Yes,” said Ilya drily, “I remember the plan.”

“Fuck you,” muttered Hollander, but the words had no bite.

Later, Ilya thought. He couldn’t help thinking it. I hope.

They checked in using their real names. The desk clerk didn’t even blink at them. They went up to their room long enough to drop their bags and change into suits then headed out again, to a taxi and then the Clark County Marriage License Bureau where they took a few minutes to fill in the required forms, waited in line for several more minutes, then after a brief conversation with the least interested public servant Ilya had ever seen—and he grew up in Russia—they had their marriage license.

Another taxi, this one just a short ride to a wedding chapel far nicer than what Ilya had been expecting. Vegas he'd thought was all neon lights and people dressed as Elvis but this place Hollander had chosen for them was quiet, set back from the road, with a garden and a gazebo and an arched bridge over a stream, both painted in soft neutral shades of cream and brown. The chapel itself was white and made of wood, with a single steeple topped by a rounded roof that almost, Ilya thought, if he squinted, resembled the onion domes atop St Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow.

Almost.

He followed Hollander into a low outbuilding where they were greeted by a very friendly woman. Friendly in the American way, thought Ilya, all wide smiles and a cheery voice but with a hardness behind it all. In Russia the people wore their hardness on their faces for everyone to see and honestly Ilya preferred it this way. It was more honest. Hollander of course was Canadian and they were hard-wired for politeness so he returned the woman’s smile and said all the right things but he was also vibrating with a tension that Ilya himself could feel. He thought about putting a hand on Hollander’s shoulder, for reassurance, but decided that would only make things worse.

It struck him then that he’d barely even touched this man he was about to marry. Only his hand, five times to shake it and twice when passing the water bottle in the gym on that night Ilya could not forget. The sheer absurdity of the situation had a manic laugh bubbling in his chest. He suppressed it, barely, and tuned back into the conversation in time to hear the friendly-hard American woman ask Hollander about the rings.

“Um,” he replied, “well.”

“We have some for sale here if you haven’t got any,” said the woman, with a genuine light in her eyes for the first time.

“No, uh…” Hollander paused and for a minute Ilya thought he was going to say that they’d go without rings. “I mean, I—” he glanced back at Ilya. His cheeks were pink, his freckles dark against this rosy background. Ilya was so caught by his beauty he almost didn’t hear Hollander say, “I have one, actually.”

He fished in his pocket and pulled out a small black box. “I guess I just thought… I don’t know what I thought.” His cheeks flushed deeper. “It’s probably dumb.”

“Is not dumb.” Ilya felt a flash of something that was almost anger, that Hollander would think such a thing about himself. “Or maybe you think I too am dumb.” He reached into his own pocket and pulled out a similar box, this one red. “I have a ring also.”

“You do?” Hollander stared at him in surprise. His lips were slightly parted, pink like his cheeks. Ilya wanted to kiss him. He always fucking wanted to kiss Hollander and it occurred to him that very soon he would not only be able but expected to do this. American wedding ceremonies ended with a kiss. His heartbeat picked up speed.

“Yes, of course Ho—of course,” he said, hiding his rising excitement behind a scoff. “Is wedding. Rings are necessary, yes?”

“Yeah. I just didn’t think—never mind.” Hollander turned back to the woman. “I guess we’ve got rings.”

“Looks like you do.” Her smile never wavered but the hardness was back behind it. “You’re all set. Follow me.”

She led them back out to the pretty yard then into the chapel itself. There they were greeted by a tall man with a wide smile far more genuine than the woman’s, who introduced himself as Pastor Dave, took their rings, briefly explained what to expect from the ceremony, then ushered them over to the door of a room made to look like an American church, with a wide aisle and wooden pews and an altar at the back. Very plain, Ilya thought, no gold, no colours. Neutral, like the outside. But—nice somehow. Simple. Peaceful.

“You two want to walk down the aisle together?” the pastor asked.

“Yeah,” Hollander replied. “Sure.”

The pastor smiled and went to stand behind the altar. Music began to play. Hollander hooked his arm through Ilya’s. When Ilya looked at him in surprise, he hissed, “It has to look real.”

Ilya tightened his arm to pull Hollander close against his side. If he wanted real, or the appearance of it, then real he would fucking get.

They began to walk down the aisle together, awkwardly at first. It took a few paces for them to figure each other out but by the time they reached the altar they were perfectly in sync.

It was like on the ice, Ilya thought, the way they moved with each other so smoothly and naturally it felt like it shouldn’t be possible. It would be the same, he knew, if he ever managed to get Hollander into bed.

The pastor began to speak but Ilya wasn’t listening. He was watching Hollander, drinking his fill of that pretty face, safe in the knowledge that no one knew them here or gave a fuck about hockey, and that Hollander would soon be his husband. Husbands were supposed to look at each other. It would be weird if they didn’t.

Hollander kept his own eyes fixed on Ilya’s chin until the pastor said his name. Then he blinked and looked up, and Ilya was able to catch his gaze.

Hollander didn’t look away.

“Do you take this man to be your husband?” Pastor Dave intoned. Hollander’s gaze didn’t waver.

“I do,” he said.

The pastor said Ilya’s name then, with a decent attempt at Russian pronunciation, then repeated his words. When he got to the question, Ilya was ready.

“Do you take this man to be your husband?”

Hollander appeared to be holding his breath. “I do,” Ilya said. Hollander exhaled slowly through pursed lips.

The rings they had chosen for each other lay on a white satin pillow in front of the altar. They were plain gold bands both, simple and serviceable. Ilya swallowed hard as Hollander slipped one onto his finger—the wrong finger; in Russia wedding rings went on the right hand—then forced himself to breathe normally as he did the same, holding Hollander’s hand more lightly than he wished he could and slipping the ring onto the wrong-hand finger where it fit perfectly. He repeated the words the pastor instructed him to say without really understanding them. His attention was all on Hollander’s hand, still clasped in his.

“…power vested in me…” he vaguely heard the pastor say, and “…I now pronounce you…” then finally came the words he had been waiting for. “…seal your vows with a kiss.”

Hollander had stopped breathing again. He looked a bit like a baby deer caught in headlights, all pink cheeks and wide eyes and palpable terror. Ilya, by contrast, felt calmer than he had in months. He reached up to lay his hand on Hollander’s cheek and brush his thumb across the freckles whose pattern he was certain at this point he could draw from memory. Then with a slight tug he pulled Hollander in and finally—fucking finally—kissed the mouth he’d been thinking about kissing for a year and a half.

At the first touch of their lips, Hollander seemed to melt. The tension drained from him and he leaned into Ilya, his free hand slipping beneath Ilya’s jacket to lie heavy and warm on his back, separated from his skin only by the thin fabric of his shirt. His mouth opened just enough for Ilya to taste him and when their tongues brushed, briefly, Ilya in a surge of dizzying want ended the kiss, to preserve the decency of the ceremony and his own fucking sanity.

Hollander made a soft sound of protest and looked up with dark, hazy eyes that set something wild and fierce to howling in Ilya’s chest. Fuck, he thought. If I can’t fuck him soon I may not survive it.

The pastor was speaking again and Hollander, though still flushed, appeared to be making all the correct replies. He kept his hand in Ilya’s as they walked back down the aisle—the ring felt heavy and strange on his finger, Ilya thought, and wondered if for Hollander it was the same—then over to a small table where they signed the wedding certificate. The woman, who had sat in a back pew during their ceremony, signed it as well, as a witness.

When she set her pen down she turned her hard smile on them once again. “You’ll want a picture,” she said.

“Yes,” Ilya replied before Hollander had the chance. If there was no visual evidence of this he wasn’t sure he would believe it had happened, heavy ring on his finger or no. He felt Hollander glance at him, then he too said, “Yeah, one picture.”

There was a camera on a tripod already set up. The woman instructed them how to stand, where to put their hands, and then said, “Smile!”

Ilya hoped his face did everything it ought to. He was good at smiling but the surreality of the day was beginning to get the better of him. The camera flashed a few times and then the woman said, “Stop back tomorrow and we’ll have the photo ready.”

And that was that. “Congratulations,” the pastor said and shook their hands and then they were on their way, out of the chapel just in time for the arrival of the next couple on the schedule.

Their taxi was waiting and they stumbled into it. Ilya felt overwhelmed and he sensed Hollander did too. His tension was back and stringing him tight once again, though it felt different this time, sort of manic.

“Holy shit,” Hollander whispered. He leaned back in his seat and ran his hands over his face. The gold ring on his finger glinted even in the dim light through the cab’s tinted windows. “Holy fucking shit. Did we actually just do that?”

“I think so. Yes.” This time when he felt the urge to comfort Hollander, Ilya didn’t resist it. He took Hollander’s hand and folded it in his own, and when Hollander looked at him with a mixture of alarm and the same softness he’d shown after their kiss, Ilya gave his hand a squeeze.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Um.” Hollander closed his eyes and gave his head a little shake. “Yeah. I think so.” He opened his eyes again. “You?”

“Yes. It is a lot, but… yes. Thank you.”

Hollander’s lips formed a soft smile that Ilya wanted to kiss right off his face. “For what?”

“This. Everything. You did not have to do all this.”

“Yeah, I did.” Hollander’s voice dropped lower. “I can’t explain it, but—it was wrong. You being forced back to Russia forever. It would’ve been so wrong, I couldn’t let it happen.”

“I will go back, tomorrow night,” Ilya said. “There are things in Moscow I must do. But when I move to Boston for start of hockey season, it will be for good.”

Hollander nodded. The cab pulled up at their hotel and Ilya realised he was still holding Hollander’s hand. He released it with a reluctance that felt curiously wrenching and they got out of the cab. Hollander thanked the driver then looked at Ilya, who looked back. The pair of them then turned together in wordless agreement and headed up to their room.

The closing of their door behind them enfolded them into a silence that Shane found hard to breathe in. He was hyper-aware of Rozanov’s presence beside him, of the lingering feel of their clasped hands, of his taste still on Shane’s lips. Shane licked them, just to be sure, and fuck yes there it was. Nothing that tasted of cigarettes should be so good but the faint trace of smoke on his tongue just made him want more.

“What do you want to do?” he asked. It was only six o’clock and they were in fucking Vegas. He figured a guy like Rozanov would want to go out, find a nightclub, then do—whatever it was people like him did in places like this. That was their deal, after all, meticulously worked out via text and email over the six months since they’d shaken hands on it behind the rink in Ottawa. They were married now but there were no ties between them. No commitment. Nothing but a piece of paper that five years down the road would make Rozanov a citizen of Canada. He could do what he liked in the meantime.

Shane knew what he wanted to do tonight. The knowledge of it pressed insistently in his brain and refused to be ignored or locked away, as Shane had done his best to lock away every thought and feeling he had about Rozanov, particularly the ones from that night in the hotel gym. His skin felt hot and too tight, uncomfortable. He risked a glance at Rozanov and found him staring intently, eyes half-lidded and lips parted. The look on his face was the same as when he’d watched Shane drink from his water bottle. Shane caught his breath.

Rozanov’s hand curled around Shane’s waist as he walked him back into the wall, pressed him against it with his body that felt so big even though he was only an inch or two taller. There was a question in his eyes and Shane nodded in answer to it.

Yes, he thought. Fucking please.

Rozanov smiled as he gripped Shane’s face again, harder than he had in the chapel. His fingers dug into Shane’s cheek a bit but he didn’t mind. He wanted to feel this, to feel all of it. Rozanov’s fingers and his lips as he kissed Shane again, feathery-soft kisses that deepened as Shane pulled him closer, his tongue in Shane’s mouth, his cock, hard and fucking huge and pressed against Shane’s hip in a way he couldn’t ignore. Didn’t want to ignore.

Rozanov’s lips were wet, his breath hot on Shane’s cheek when he said, “Tonight, I think we should consummate our marriage.”

Shane smiled at his careful pronunciation. “Did you look that up?”

“Yes. Is right word?”

“Yeah.”

Rozanov managed to look both cocky and hesitant at once as he asked, “And you want?”

Shane nodded again. “Yeah. I want.”

The hesitancy vanished and Rozanov was all confidence again, grinning as they fell into each other, as they kissed hungrily and tugged at each other’s clothes, as Rozanov pushed them away from the wall and they stumbled together to the bed. Rozanov sat on the end of it and stripped down completely but Shane, despite the pounding of his blood and the lust that made him dizzy, hesitated.

Rozanov looked up with that smile of his, warmer than it had sometimes been but still presenting a challenge Shane knew he could never resist. “Is your first time with a man?” he asked.

Shane nodded. “You?”

“No.” Rozanov shook his head. Shane couldn’t hold back a small, disbelieving laugh.

“Really? With who? A teammate?”

“No. My coach’s son, back in Russia.”

Fuck, this guy has steel-lined balls, Shane thought, and Rozanov’s smile widened as though reading his mind.

“I like danger,” he said, and Shane laughed again.

“Am I dangerous?”

“Yes.” Rozanov laughed too. “You, boring Canadian good boy Shane Hollander, are the most dangerous thing I have ever done. And I want to do more to you. Come here. Clothes off first.”

Shane began to undo his pants even as his mind snagged on Rozanov’s words. “What do you want to do to me?” he asked.

“Everything. Everything you will allow.”

Shane suspected he’d allow pretty much anything Rozanov asked for and that frankly fucking scared him. He wasn’t, he thought frantically, prepared for this. He pulled his pants off, folded them neatly and draped them over a chair, then stepped closer, hesitantly, still with his boxers on.

“I don’t have any—” he stumbled briefly on the word “—um. Condoms.”

Rozanov waved this away. “Is no problem. There are some in vending machine in lobby.”

“There—what?”

“Also lube.”

“What?”

Rozanov shrugged. “Is Vegas, yes? People fuck here.”

Shane processed this for a moment then made a vague gesture towards the door. “So, should I go—”

“Ugghhh, Hollanderrrr!” Rozanov collapsed back onto the bed, hands flung dramatically over his head to land on the pillows. Spread out like that, lit by golden evening sunlight through the hotel window, he was absolutely glorious, all fascinating dips and bulges of muscle and a cock so long and thick and hard that Shane couldn’t take his eyes off it. “Don’t be so boring,” Rozanov said. “Listen.” He leaned up on his elbows and caught Shane in the act of ogling him. He blinked for a beat, then grinned.

“You want to suck my cock,” he observed.

“Yeah.” Shane couldn’t have denied it, even had he not been caught staring.

“I want to suck yours too. So we do this first. To…” he paused to arrange the words. “To take the edge off, yes? Then condoms.”

Fuck. “Really? Um, both things?”

“We have all night, Hollander. You would rather watch a movie? Pay-per-view?”

“No, Jesus. Fine.” Shane stripped off his boxers to let his own aching cock free. He turned away to fold them and put them over the chair. When he turned back Rozanov was watching him with a strange, soft look that quickly vanished as he eyed Shane’s cock appreciatively. He slid up the bed to lay back against the pillows and patted the space beside him. 

“Come here,” he said again. Shane went, and laid back as well. He tried to feel comfortable but the heat of Rozanov’s body in the cool of the air-conditioned room was disorienting, and when he rolled onto his side to lean over Shane and take hold of his cock Shane once again felt enveloped.

“Is this okay?” he asked. Shane nodded. Rozanov stroked him for a moment, his touch firm and confident, then he said, “You want to suck me now?”

Shane didn’t need to be asked twice. He pushed Rozanov’s shoulders until he fell back onto the bed then crawled down his body and got comfortable between his legs. Rozanov sucked in a breath as Shane’s mouth closed over him, with tremendous eagerness and absolutely no idea what he was doing. 

Though no, not absolutely no idea. Shane was aware of the basic principles of cocksucking, obviously. He’d had it done to him before and knew what he liked and also he had low-key been thinking about this for longer than he felt comfortable admitting. Whatever it was about Rozanov that got under his skin got all the way under it, to the point where Shane worried he was maybe a little bit obsessed. 

The guy’s dick was not helping to ease that obsession, either. It was beautiful—an insane word to apply here, Shane thought, but fuck if it wasn’t deserved. Hot and heavy and slightly salty against his tongue, too long to fit fully in his mouth. He lost himself in licking and sucking on it, seeing how far down he could go, then Rozanov moaned and tightened the fingers he’d buried in Shane’s hair. 

“Hollander, quick, I’m going to—” he said, and pulled Shane off of him just in time to grab his dick and come into his hand. With his other hand he tugged Shane back up the bed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Fuck, Hollander,” he said, then kissed him hard, and Shane felt ridiculously pleased with himself. 

“Was that all right?” he asked. 

“All right?” Rozanov snorted. “Yes, Hollander, was all right. Okay. I mean, I will take it, if I have no other option.” 

“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Shane retorted, but he was grinning and Rozanov was too as they kissed again. Rozanov reached behind him for a tissue to wipe his hand, then when he’d finished rolled fully on top of Shane and leered down at him. 

“I will teach you technique now, yes?” he said. Shane sputtered in protest as Rozanov kissed down his chest but then he swallowed Shane’s dick all the way to the back of his throat and wiped every coherent thought from Shane’s mind. 

“Holy—holy shit, Rozanov,” he moaned as he writhed beneath the onslaught of Rozanov’s mouth and tongue and teeth. “Fuck, I—oh fuck. Oh shit. Oh God.” 

He held out for as long as he could manage but still in what felt like no time at all he was pulling frantically at Rozanov’s hair. “I can’t stop,” he gasped, but Rozanov kept right on going until Shane bucked beneath him and spilled helplessly into his mouth. With one final suck and lick he detached himself and collapsed back into the pillows, where Shane stared at him like he’d never seen him before. 

“That was—you didn’t have to do that,” he said. 

“I don’t mind.” Rozanov turned to face him. “How do you feel?” he asked. 

Fine, Shane started to say, an automatic response, but then he stopped to think. 

How did he feel? 

Amazing, for a start. He’d never come so hard or so well before in his life. Insane, because this whole situation was insane, this whole day, the fact that he was in bed with Ilya Rozanov, that they were married. It was so crazy Shane knew he hadn’t fully processed the insanity and would probably need to have a breakdown about it in a day or two. 

Mostly, though, he felt good. Just simply really fucking good, and realising that scared him. Should he be feeling good about fucking Rozanov, wedding night or no, should he be almost sick with excitement and anticipation of what they would do next? Was that okay? 

“I don’t know,” was the answer he settled on. 

He expected Rozanov to laugh at this but he did not. He looked—sympathetic, almost, and brushed the backs of his fingers across Shane’s cheek. 

“Is a lot for you,” he said. “We can stop, if you want.” 

“No.” Shane didn’t have to think about that answer. “I don’t want to stop.” 

Rozanov raised his eyebrows. “You want I should go get condoms?” 

Shane swallowed. “Yes.” 

“Lube too?” 

“Yes.” 

Rozanov kissed him hard, hand gripping the back of Shane’s head, then released him with a smacking noise and rolled off the bed. He pulled on his suit trousers with no underwear and grabbed one of the room keys. 

“I will be right back,” he said. 

“Okay.” 

As the door shut behind Rozanov, Shane blew out a breath and ran his hands over his face. 

“Holy shit,” he said again, this time to no one but himself.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

just a little note before we dig in here, which i will put under spoiler tags so it doesn't take up too much space:

i am not an expert in Canadian immigration and i do not intend to become one.

i actually don't think it's possible to become one just by reading what's available on the internet. Based on my own spousal immigration experience (to a different country) you really can't fully understand it until you experience it firsthand and that is a bit too much research to do for a fic. i'm fond of the husband i have and while i'm sure Canadian men are lovely i don't want one of my own at present.

what this means practically for the fic is that there are going to be errors in it, some because i'm taking deliberate liberties for the sake of the plot and some because i just haven't done what i'm writing about. i do understand that for some people even little inaccuracies take them out of the fic experience too much for it to be enjoyable and i respect that. i ask only that if this is the case for you, that you simply click the back button and find another fic that better suits your tastes. Please don't come into the comments to argue nuances of immigration law. This is not a how-to guide on moving your gay situationship to your country, it's a piece of fan fiction whose primary goal is to put cute boys in situations and have them yearn and fuck about it.

that said, i will do my best to be as accurate as possible based on the information available on the official Canadian government website and only that website. Thank you. Now back to our regularly scheduled yearning and fucking.

Ilya took the stairs down to the lobby because he was too impatient for the elevator. He was afraid if he took too long then by the time he got back to the room Hollander would have vanished and Ilya would have lost his chance to fuck him. And then Ilya would probably die. So, no time to waste.

He burst from the stairwell and into the lobby with such energy that a middle-aged couple in matching khaki shorts, Hawaiian shirts, and coloured plastic visors jumped in alarm when he appeared. The woman pressed a hand to her bosom and said, “Goodness, you startled me!” 

Her accent was one he wasn’t familiar with, and thick enough that it took him a minute to understand her. But Ilya had learned very early on that if he smiled a certain smile and said, “I’m so sorry,” in the right tone of voice then older women would be putty in his hands. He applied the technique to this case and it worked a charm. 

“Oh bless your heart, honey, it’s fine.” The woman smiled at him. Her eyes lingered on his bare chest and Ilya knew he had her. “You in a rush to get somewhere?” she asked. 

He held up his hand, the wrong wedding hand, where the ring Hollander had put on it caught the light. “I just got married,” he said. 

“Well, congratulations!” said the woman. 

He offered his most charming smile. “Thank you.” 

“She waiting for you upstairs?” 

“Yes.” Ilya could see the vending machine mere metres away, yet still so far out of reach. “I am,” he said, carefully keeping his voice polite, “in a little hurry.” 

“Oh! Oh, of course. Well, you have fun sweetie and congrats again.” 

“Yes. Thank you.” Ilya darted past them and over to the machine. His hands trembled as he fed dollar bills into its slot then carefully selected the correct numbers for his items. From the corner of his eye he could see the woman still lingering, though her husband was urging her to come on, Maisie, his face like a thundercloud. 

Ilya kept his wallet in one hand as he reached into the machine so that when he tucked it back into his pocket the small bottle of lube went with it. The condoms he held in his other hand, plain for all to see. As he approached the couple again, the woman looked about to speak but he, with another of his older-lady-catnip smiles and a friendly nod, swept right past her and back into the stairwell, where he launched himself up the stairs, three at a time. 

He arrived back at the room slightly out of breath to find Hollander still in the bed, right where Ilya had left him. His chest flooded with relief and he smiled, a far more natural smile than the one he’d wielded on the woman downstairs. Hollander was looking terrified but resolved, a combination that should probably not be as adorable as it was. The thought drifted through Ilya’s mind that he found basically everything Hollander did or said adorable and maybe that might be a problem? But he had no time for such thoughts and dismissed it from his mind before it had the chance to properly settle. 

He tossed his purchases on the bed and his smile widened as Hollander eyed them with obvious trepidation. Like they were venomous snakes, thought Ilya, as he removed his trousers and crawled back onto the bed. Like they might bite him if he wasn’t careful. 

Condoms and lube wouldn’t bite him, obviously. But Ilya might. He was very biteable. So possibly Hollander was right to fear being bitten. 

“This still okay?” Ilya asked him, because he genuinely had no wish to pressure Hollander into anything he didn’t want to do but also, just a little bit, to give himself the pleasure of watching determination settle over those pretty features. He looked the way he did on the ice, the way he had at the diner when they’d begun making their plan. It was the look he got when he had a goal fixed in his mind and wouldn’t stop until he’d achieved it. It was, Ilya thought, outrageously sexy of him. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I want this.” 

Ilya kissed him then, gently at first until he felt Hollander begin to melt then deeper, licking into his mouth until he was pliant and whimpering. Ilya loved kissing generally and, as he had discovered that very afternoon, loved kissing Hollander in particular. There was a sort of wonder in his eager responsiveness, like he couldn’t believe how good this felt or how much he was enjoying it. Ilya wondered when he’d last done something for pure enjoyment. If he ever had. 

“On your stomach,” he said, nudging Hollander over before he had the chance to tense back up. Ilya could both hear and feel him attempting to breathe through his nerves, so pressed a series of soft kisses behind his ear and down his neck and shoulder, then decided fuck it and nipped his shoulder blade. 

“Hey!” Hollander yelped. 

“What?” Ilya produced his best I-am-innocent-of-all-wrongdoing look. 

“You bit me!” 

“Yes.” Ilya agreed. “You are very observant, Hollander.” He took advantage of Hollander’s distraction to stroke a hand down his back and over the cleft of his ass. 

“Fuck you,” Hollander muttered. 

“No, I fuck you,” Ilya replied, “and very soon.” With that he slipped his fingers between Hollander’s cheeks and over his hole. He gasped and his muscles tightened and Ilya nipped at his shoulder again to distract him. 

“It’s okay,” Hollander said. “I’m okay. I want more.” 

Ilya doused his fingers in the lube and dove back in, massaging gently then slipping his fingers in, first one then two and then, when Hollander had fully relaxed around them, a third. 

“Fuck, Rozanov,” Hollander moaned. “Holy fucking shit.” 

His face was pressed into the pillow, his voice muffled by it. His ass was in the air, perfectly presented. Ilya could fuck him just like this right now and fuck he wanted to. But there was something he realised he wanted even more. 

“Turn over,” he said, patting Hollander’s hip.

“What?” 

“Over.” Ilya gave him a little shove until he toppled onto his back, then leaned in to kiss him. Hollander moaned into the kiss as Ilya arranged his legs and himself between them, then reached blindly for the condoms. Hollander watched him through hazy eyes as he put one on, slicked it up, and positioned them both. Ilya met his eyes to check in one final time and he gave a little nod, then, when Ilya pushed inside him, his head fell back and he moaned with his whole chest. 

“God,” he whimpered as Ilya slowly sank in and in and in all the way, all of him in Hollander’s ass like it was nothing, “Jesus, Rozanov.” 

This, thought Ilya, as he braced a hand against the headboard and began to move, this was what he’d wanted. To see Hollander’s face as they fucked, to hear up close the noises he made and feel the heat of his breath. He felt nearly as dazed as Hollander looked, caught up in the tight squeeze on his cock and the little gasps Hollander was making, the way his eyelashes fluttered, the way his freckles stood out on his flushed cheeks. Ilya leaned down to kiss him and he arched into it, kissing back. His hand gripped the back of Ilya’s neck to hold him close and they moaned together. 

Ilya shifted the angle of Hollander’s leg so that he could press in closer, drive harder. Hollander’s fists clenched, one in the pillow and the other in Ilya’s hair. 

“Fuck, Rozanov, I’m so close,” he groaned. “I can’t—I need—” 

“Touch yourself,” Ilya ordered, because he was close too. He gripped the headboard for leverage and thrust as hard as he could. Hollander keened and clenched around him and Ilya said desperately, “Hollander, touch—” 

Before he could finish the thought Hollander arched again and his breath caught and you are fucking kidding me, Ilya thought. That is the hottest fucking thing I have ever seen. 

Watching Hollander come tipped him over too, so hard the world blurred around him. He let himself collapse—Hollander could support his weight—and tucked his face into the curve of Hollander’s neck. He was vaguely aware of fingers sifting through his hair, nails scraping lightly over his scalp. Ilya closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift in the sensation, just for a moment. 

When he rolled away, their stomachs made a squelching sound. 

“Ugh,” Hollander said. “Now we’re both all sticky.”

“What? Shut up.” Ilya was as unbothered about being covered in cum as he was about swallowing it. It would wash off. He kissed Hollander and, to annoy him, rubbed his sticky belly all along his side. Hollander returned the kiss but shoved him away when he realised what else Ilya was up to. 

“You’re gross, get off,” he said. 

Ilya grinned and rolled off the bed. He removed the condom, tied it off and threw it away, then turned back to where Hollander still lay looking completely fucked out. “I’m going to shower now,” he said. 

Hollander nodded. 

“Want to come too? So you will not be gross and sticky anymore?” 

Hollander considered this. Ilya could almost hear him thinking, see the gears and cogs in his head turning, weighing up the pros and cons. Finally he said, “Okay. Fuck it. It’s not like this day could get any weirder.” 

With this, Ilya wholeheartedly agreed. 

In the shower, they lathered each other thoroughly. Ilya took shameless advantage of the opportunity to explore Hollander’s body in minute detail and he, after the third time Ilya innocently said, “Oh, Hollander, you missed a spot, let me,” caught on to the game as well and took the same advantage. By the time they were ready to rinse off both were hard and panting and when Hollander dropped to his knees unprompted Ilya let his head fall back against the shower tiles and closed his eyes. 

Hollander was a quick study, thought Ilya, because of course he fucking was. The second blow job of his life and already he’d picked up nearly all of Ilya’s techniques. Including—it transpired when Ilya tugged on his hair to indicate he was about to come and Hollander merely sucked harder—swallowing. 

“Fuck,” Ilya groaned, and when he had recovered from the sensation of Hollander’s throat working around his cock and his tongue licking it clean, opened his eyes to find Hollander stood watching him. He looked about 30% grossed out and 70% deeply pleased with himself and Ilya had to laugh. 

“You are incredible,” he said in Russian, “and you are stupid hot. I wonder if you will let me fuck you again tonight.”

“I don’t know what any of that means,” Hollander said. 

“Means you are still wanting something, yes?” Ilya brushed the backs of his fingers up Hollander’s hard cock. He sucked in a breath and his eyes glazed. Ilya turned off the shower. 

“Come,” he said, “grab towels.” 

“Hmmm?” Hollander hummed, but Ilya simply pushed him out of the shower, dropped a pile of towels in his arms, and herded him back to the bed. He flung the towels over it—he knew Hollander would have opinions about them getting the bed wet, and did not want to hear them—then pushed him back onto the towel pile and crawled over him. 

“I am going to suck you now,” he said, “but if you want to come you have to ask me nicely.” 

“Fuck you, Rozanov,” 

“Yes, I would like that too. But later. Blow job first.” 

Hollander was about to make another retort but Ilya shimmied down his body and swallowed his cock before he had the chance and all he was able to produce was another of his gasping moans. Ilya thrilled at the sound and applied himself to his task. Within minutes he felt Hollander’s body draw taut and that was when he took his mouth away. 

“No,” Hollander whined, “Rozanov—” 

“Yes?” Ilya rested his chin in the crease between Hollander’s hip and thigh and looked up with polite interest. “You have something to ask me?” 

“You are such an asshole,” Hollander groaned. “Unbelievable.” 

“Yes, maybe. But if you want this asshole to keep sucking your dick, then—” 

“Please.” Ilya broke off at the sound of the whispered word. “Please, Rozanov. I need—” 

“Yes?” said Ilya breathlessly, “what do you need?” 

“I need to come. Please. I need you to suck my dick.” 

Fuck, he’s perfect, Ilya thought as he closed his mouth around Hollander again and finished him off. He was still gasping when Ilya settled down on the bed beside him with a satisfied sigh, feeling sated and content and— 

“I’m hungry,” he said. 

“You literally just ate.” 

Ilya turned his head slowly to look at Hollander. “This is joke?” he said incredulously as Hollander’s face broke into a grin. “You are making actual joke? I did not think this was something you could do.” 

“Fuck off. I make jokes.” 

“No.” Ilya shook his head. “Impossible. You are much too boring. This is obviously accident.” He patted Hollander’s thigh. “Never mind. Help me find the room service menu. We will eat something, watch a movie, then I will fuck you again. Yes?” 

He held his breath as Hollander went through his mental-cogs-and-gears routine. 

“Okay,” he said, “I guess I could eat.” 

Ilya grinned and went to hunt for the menu. 

The first thing Shane registered when he woke the next morning was hot. He was way too warm, though he could hear the whirr of the air conditioner and feel cool air rustling his hair. The second thing he registered was sore. He ached in ways he never had before, despite years of hockey injuries. What the fuck had he done last night? He struggled with his groggy brain to think. 

To ease the ache in his thighs he shifted, and something else shifted behind him. Someone else. 

Oh, right, Shane thought, remembering. That’s what I did last night. Fuck. He turned his head and met the eyes of the man responsible both for his overheated skin and sore muscles. 

“Good morning,” Rozanov said. 

Is it? Shane thought. 

“Morning,” was what he said, and shifted again in an attempt to detach himself from Rozanov. Their legs were tangled up together and Rozanov’s arm slung around Shane’s torso, with Shane’s head tucked into the curve of his shoulder. And they were naked. 

By the time they had unravelled themselves and Shane was able to sit up he was feeling decidedly disgruntled. “What time is it?” he asked. 

Rozanov rubbed his eyes then blinked at the clock by the bed. “Nine forty-three,” he said. 

“Fuck. We have to be at the rink at eleven.” Shane leapt to his feet. “I’ll shower first.” 

“I will get coffee,” he heard Rozanov say before he darted into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. 

In the shower, Shane leaned his head against the wall as the hot water soothed away some of his soreness and thought about what he’d done. Married Rozanov, which was insane of course but was also the plan and the whole reason they’d come here. Fucked Rozanov, though… that was a different story. 

He’d come four times last night, he thought with a groan. And honestly, if they didn’t have to spend today filming the commercial that had provided the excuse for both of them to come to Vegas, he wouldn’t mind staying in bed a bit longer and coming again. Or again and again, if last night was anything to go by. 

After today, he wouldn’t see Rozanov again until October. Four months. 

One for each time Rozanov had made him come. 

“Jesus,” he muttered, and shook his head. He was being an idiot. 

He washed off quickly and got out of the shower, then realised there were no towels in the bathroom. All of them now lay in a heap on the floor next to the bed. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, and opened the door a crack. “Roza-oh.” Rozanov appeared in front of him with a towel in one hand and a mug in the other. 

“I thought you might need this,” he said, offering the towel. 

“Yeah, uh. Thanks.” Shane took it and ran it quickly over himself, then tied it around his waist and accepted the mug. 

“Coffee,” Rozanov said. “From room service. With milk.” 

Shane sipped it as they both stood there, watching each other. “Was, um. Was there something else?” Shane asked. 

“No. Can I use the shower now?” 

“Oh, yeah, uh. Sure.” Shane moved aside so Rozanov could get into the bathroom. “Hey, listen. I’m going to get dressed and head out. We should take separate cabs to the rink.” 

“Of course.” Rozanov was already closing the door behind him. “See you there, Hollander.” 

They were, according to the commercial’s director, supposed to be intense, focused, serious, facing off as newly-minted rookies and rivals in their branded hockey gear. They succeeded at this, mostly, aided by the tension that had built between them as they’d silently suited up in the locker room, carefully not looking at each other. Until somewhere around what felt like the fiftieth take of them skating up to each other and slamming their sticks down, when Rozanov instead of glowering intensely as instructed, stuck out his tongue and made a face that had Shane bursting into laughter. 

“Sorry,” he said, and Rozanov echoed the apology though he didn’t sound sorry at all. In the next take he didn’t make a face but Shane laughed anyway and Rozanov after a beat of surprised silence, joined in. The tension dissolved away as they dissolved into shared mirth, to their relief and the director’s annoyance. 

“Okay, guys, looks like we’ve got what we’re going to get,” he said, with irritation plain in his tone. “Thanks.” 

They skated around for a bit after that, passing the puck and doing tricks as the cameras followed them. It was fun playing with Rozanov, Shane thought. Nobody on any of the teams he’d played for had ever been as good as him, nowhere even close. Rozanov was a challenge he’d never encountered before and matching up against him was exhilarating. He forgot about the cameras, about what they were meant to be doing and lost himself in the thrill of competition against a worthy opponent. When the director called out that they had everything they needed and that he and Rozanov were free to go, Shane jolted back to reality and was hit with an odd sense of loss. 

Back in the locker room, he stripped off his gear and tried to ignore Rozanov on the other side of the room doing the same. The atmosphere was tense between them again but in a different way than before. Electric, with a buzz of potential that he had no idea how to fulfil. Shane escaped to the showers as soon as he could and closed his eyes under the warm spray. 

He opened them again when he sensed Rozanov’s presence beside him. Wordlessly, he stepped beneath the shower head and ran his knuckles up Shane’s spine. Despite the heat of the water, Shane shivered. 

“Not here,” he said lowly. 

“Where, then?” Rozanov asked, and it was a genuine question. From the rink they’d be heading almost straight to the airport. Rozanov’s knuckles trailed up Shane’s neck and over his cheek and Shane felt himself begin to melt. God, he was pathetic, he thought, but when Rozanov was close like this, touching him like this, he really didn’t care. 

“Quickly,” he said, and when Rozanov gripped his face and kissed him he leaned in. 

They were hard already, the water over their bodies warm and wet and the soap slick. Their dicks rubbed together and Rozanov closed a soapy fist around both of them, squeezing as he kissed Shane like he was trying to swallow him whole. Shane loved the way that felt. He loved how Rozanov seemed to surround him, though he was not that much taller, with his broad shoulders and the way he curled them inwards slightly, as though orienting himself around Shane’s body. He loved all of it. 

He closed a hand over Rozanov’s, who shifted his so that their fingers linked. They began to stroke each other and themselves, kissing as they did, free hands gripping the other’s hair and tracing the contours of lean lines of muscle. Briefly, Shane wondered if Rozanov was trying to memorise him too. 

When they came, within seconds of each other, Rozanov stepped back just enough to let the water flow between them and wash away the evidence. He leaned his forehead against Shane’s until their breathing evened out. 

“You looked pretty in your makeup,” Rozanov said. “Is too bad to wash it off.” 

“You had makeup on too.” 

“Yes, but I did not look pretty.” 

No, Shane thought, he looked fucking hot. He always looks fucking hot. What he said was, “We should get dressed. We have to stop by the chapel before the airport.” 

Rozanov nodded and kissed him again. “Meet you at the hotel,” he said. 

They took separate cabs back to the hotel, where they collected their luggage then went in the same cab to the chapel. There they collected an envelope which they were told contained two certified copies of their marriage certificate plus the photo. Shane tucked it away in his bag without opening it, then they were back in the cab and heading for the airport. 

“I’ll hold on to the documents,” Shane said to the back of Rozanov’s head. He was staring out the window with an atmosphere around him that Shane didn’t know how to interpret. Obviously, Rozanov wasn’t going to take any documentation of a same-sex marriage back to Russia with him, but Shane felt the need to reiterate the plan. “And I’ll get us a place to stay together in Montreal. You should do the same in Boston.” 

“In Boston you can stay at my apartment, when I get it,” Rozanov said to the window-glass. “I will make sure no one is there to notice, except the cameras.” 

That was the plan. To keep their marriage secret but still have evidence of an ongoing relationship, they would tell no one but privately keep cameras outside their doors, to record them going in and out of each other’s places on a regular basis. Shane hoped the Canadian government would understand why they couldn’t be more public than that. They were hockey players after all, and if Canada understood one thing, it was hockey. He also planned to contact an immigration lawyer as soon as possible to make sure all their bases were covered, though he didn’t mention that to Rozanov. 

He glanced at Rozanov’s hand where it lay on his leg. He still wore his wedding ring, as did Shane. They’d needed to wear them to the chapel of course, but Shane had kept his on all afternoon, even under his gloves when they shot the commercial. He suspected Rozanov had too. He’d definitely had his on in the shower; Shane could still feel, almost, the smooth slide of the metal over his skin when Rozanov touched him. 

He’d take his off on the plane, Shane thought. Before he got home. He just didn’t want to now, that was all. They were still in Vegas. There was still no one to recognise them here, or care that they were married. 

In the airport they checked in separately, went through security together, then stopped and stood at the point where they would have to head in different directions to their different gates. 

“Well,” Shane said. “I guess I’ll see you in October.” 

“Yes.” Rozanov’s voice was flat, his face grim. Shane felt a momentary wrench of missing the laughing, teasing man the last twenty-four hours had shown him. Would he ever see that man again, he wondered? Was that who Rozanov really was or was he more often like this, tight-lipped and standoffish and cold? It was impossible to say. Despite everything, Shane really didn’t know Rozanov very well at all. 

“Okay, then,” he said. Rozanov’s posture was rigid, his fingers tight around the handle of his suitcase. His eyes fixed on Shane’s face, intently, for so long Shane had to fight not to squirm. 

Then he turned and walked away without a backwards glance. 

When Shane arrived home late that evening, his mother was sitting on the sofa scrolling through her phone. He tried to slip past the living room door but she called out, “Shane! Don’t run away.” 

He sighed, and came to stand in the doorway.

“How was it?” she asked. 

“Fine.” Shane was exhausted and there was a funny, heavy feeling in his chest. He wanted to go to his room and unpack; the envelope in his bag and the ring in his pocket felt like they were screaming at him so loudly that his mother wouldn’t be able to help but hear them too. “I’m really beat, so—” 

“No, come and sit. Tell me about it.” 

“Mom, I’m really tired. Everything was fine. The director said they got what they needed.” 

“And there weren’t any problems with Rozanov?” 

“No.” Shane’s belly fluttered at the sound of his name. “Why would there be?” 

“You said yourself he’s kind of a dick, Shane.” 

“Yeah, he is, but he was fine. He wanted the shoot to go well too.” 

“I really think I should have gone along with you. I’d like to know if they have any more opportunities they might be able to offer in the future. Oh, and speaking of, the Reebok deal is signed. You have to be sure to wear only their shoes, any time you go out.” 

“Okay.” 

“I’m being serious, Shane! This is important.” 

“I know, Mom. I’m just always wearing skates, anyway.” 

“Yes, but whenever you’re not, Reebok. Okay?” 

“Yes, fine. Can I go to bed now?” 

“Of course, honey.” She smiled at him. “Practice is early tomorrow.” 

“I know.” 

“Then next week we can go to Montreal and start looking at apartments. You don’t mind if I come along with you to do that, do you?” 

“Of course not,” Shane replied. He had to force the words through the thick mire of guilt that rose from his chest and tried to choke him. Normally he wouldn’t have minded his mom coming with him to a shoot like he’d had today. He’d have preferred it, even. But obviously for the plan to work he’d had to tell her no, that he didn’t want to take the promotional opportunity in Toronto that she’d suggested. He wanted to take the one in Vegas, with Rozanov, and he wanted to go there by himself.

“I’m going to be doing a lot of travelling by myself now,” he’d said when she protested. “I have to get used to it.” In the end she had agreed, but Shane still felt shitty about it. And now the extra layer of guilt. It was a bit fucking much. 

“Maybe you can show me some more listings at breakfast,” he said, and was relieved when her smile softened into something that felt more normal. 

“Of course, sweetie,” she said. “Go get some rest now.” 

Shane nodded and retreated to the safety of his room. 

Russia was home for Ilya, of course it was, and he knew that in some ways at least it always would be. But time spent in the United States and Canada had changed the way it felt to be here. Had the atmosphere always been this oppressive, he wondered? Had he always felt so weighed down just by existing? Had he changed, or had Russia? Or maybe they were both the same as they had ever been and he just noticed different things now. 

He’d only been back for four days and already finished all his packing. There wasn’t that much he wanted to take with him, in the end. Most of what he needed he’d prefer to buy in Boston, if Alexei could manage not to snort all his salary along with his signing bonus. If his father didn’t go back on his word at the last minute and prevent him from leaving. Ilya felt like he was walking on eggshells constantly at home, always anticipating an attack from two fronts. It made him anxious and irritable and he took every opportunity he could find to escape. To a club, to the bottom of a bottle. To bed with women who were beautiful and sexy in the moment but who vacated his consciousness completely once he was done with them. 

His only other reprieve was exercise, running and the gym, and then, on his fifth day back in Moscow, his mother’s grave. 

He didn’t visit her often. He was afraid that if he did then that single, delicate thread that tethered him to this place would become too strong to snap. He had to snap it, he knew, for his own sake. For his future. But it broke his heart to do so all the same. 

“Hello, Mama,” he said as he crouched beside the gravestone and laid twelve deep red roses on it. “I came to say goodbye. I’m moving to America soon and I won’t be back.” 

He debated with himself for a minute then gave in and sat down on the ground, legs crossed. “Well, maybe I will be back someday. But not often and not for long. I won’t live here anymore. I don’t want to. I’m sorry.” 

His mother made no reply, and so Ilya continued. “I got married,” he heard himself say. He hadn’t intended to say it but he realised now that it was all he wanted to talk about. “I married a man. He’s from Canada, where it’s legal for men to be married to each other. But it’s not—” he paused and sucked in a breath. “It’s not… not romantic, though. It’s so I can stay in North America and be free from Papa’s influence. Honestly, I don’t know if it’s necessary. Once I’m a famous hockey star in Boston Papa’s pride won’t let him force me back. But Hollander offered and he had a whole detailed plan worked out and I couldn’t refuse him. No one has ever—” Ilya broke off. His fingers toyed with the rose stems as he tried to arrange his thoughts. “No one has ever made such an effort for me before. And I know it means nothing. Hollander is too serious, perfectionist, overachiever, it’s just what he’s like. He decided to help me and he put everything he has into it because he doesn’t know any other way to be. It isn’t personal to him.” 

It’s personal to me. 

But there were some things Ilya couldn’t voice aloud. Not even to his mother. 

“It’s dangerous for him,” he continued, “what we’re doing. For me too, but he chose the danger. He could have said ‘oh well, sorry Rozanov, sucks to be you, enjoy Russia forever’, but he did not. And I don’t know how to feel about that. How can I feel about this man who is risking so much to make it possible for me to beat him at the only thing he cares about? And I will beat him, whenever I can. As he will beat me. Oh, Mama.” Ilya smiled softly as he dug his thumbnail into the end of the rose stem. “You should see him on the ice. He’s like a butterfly the way he moves, quick-flitting and graceful, and also a bit like a hawk, fast and focused. I could watch him play forever. And now I can, because of him. I—fuck.” He dropped the rose stem to run a hand over his face, dropped his voice low so only his mother’s ears would hear. “I slept with him. It was only one night, our wedding night. But I want to again. If he let me, I would fuck him every time we see each other, and we will have to see each other as often as possible so Canadian government officials will think our marriage is real and give me citizenship of their country. I don’t know if he wants the same. I remind myself every day that this is all an illusion. Finite, with an end date I could write on a calendar. Five years until I can apply for citizenship and Hollander will make that happen right on schedule. I know he will.” 

Ilya’s hand found the golden cross he always wore, the one thing he never took off. “Mama,” he whispered, in a voice that cracked. “I know you’re gone, but—” 

Ilyusha. His mother’s voice whispered through his mind. He closed his eyes so he could see her as she was in his memory, beautiful and laughing. You should not be so afraid. 

Ilya wanted to protest that he was afraid of nothing, not danger, not pain. He was an aggressive player of an aggressive sport, he hurt others and got hurt himself, that was the nature of the game. He went looking for danger, called it to him, danced with it every chance he got. He was tough, impenetrable. He made other people feel afraid. 

But that wasn’t what his mother meant and they both knew it. 

Ilya still shook his head, denied it. With his eyes closed and a soft summer breeze through he cemetery he could almost believe he felt the touch of his mother’s hand on his cheek. 

Go, she told him. Go, and don’t look back. Wherever you are I am with you. 

The edges of the cross dug into Ilya’s flesh as he held it tightly, too tightly by far for such a delicate object. He opened his hand and let it fall to rest on his chest. 

“Goodbye, Mama,” he said. 

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

against my better judgement this fic appears to be shaping itself into a verrry slow burn fucking-while-pining sort of a ride. i'm so grateful for every one of you who's aboard it with me. i genuinely have no idea how long it's going to last.

Ilya knew by the third day of training camp that he was going to do well in the MLH. He’d always known he would play well, that was never a question. But now he knew he would do well too, that his brand of aggressive play was exactly what his team was looking for and that his skill with ragebait translated surprisingly easily into English. He’d learned all the phrases he needed within a week or two and by the time they played their first preseason game he was owning the shit-talk as well as the ice. 

The angrier he made the opposing teams the more his own teammates loved him, aided of course by the fact that he could put his money where his mouth was (one of his new English expressions) on the ice. A few of the veterans took issue with his arrogance but he could tell that when they looked at him they saw their best chance to win a cup before they got too old to hope anymore and he was not above exploiting their desperate need to finally win something to keep them in line. Boston had been a shitty team for years; they were hungry for victories and everyone in the organisation, from its president to the guy who cleaned the locker room, knew that Ilya was their best hope of that. It felt fucking good. 

Just before the regular season began, Ilya moved into the apartment he’d bought in downtown Boston and got himself a new phone with an American number. The afternoon before his first regular-season professional game he stood at his new window looking out at his new city, with his new phone in one hand and his old one in the other, open to his text thread with Hollander, the last message between them now four months old. 

New number, he texted from his old phone. Use this in future. You are in my new phone as Jane. 

A few minutes later, his new phone dinged. 

Jane, huh? 

Yes. Put me in yours as Lily. 

Lily and Jane. Ilya watched as the three dots bounced. Clever. 

Yes, Ilya replied. Also have new address. He typed it out and sent it. 

The reply came quickly. Here’s mine, and the code to the door. Just come right over after the game. 

Okay. Ilya saved the address and code, then stared at his phone for long enough that its failure to do anything new began to make him uncomfortable. He felt like he ought to say more, rather than wait in the hope that Hollander might initiate. He wanted to say more, for reasons he couldn’t fully get a handle on. He wanted to ask Hollander how his camp had gone, if he felt as good with the Metros as Ilya did with the Raiders. He wanted at least to shit talk a bit about their upcoming game but it felt a bit too early to get into that. In the end he settled for See you in two weeks, then waited as the dots bounced. 

See you then.

Roughly 409 kilometres away as a crow might fly, Shane stared at his own phone until he realised what he was doing then tossed it onto the sofa next to him. 

See you in two weeks. 

He wasn’t sure he was ready. 

He was ready, he told himself firmly. He had his apartment, in a nice but quiet part of Montreal, not too far from the rink but not so close that any of his teammates would be likely to spot Rozanov on his way there. He had the camera all set up, and now Rozanov had the address and the door code. So why did he still feel like there was something he was neglecting to do, something he hadn’t thought of? 

He picked up the letter from the immigration lawyer and read over it again, though he had it basically memorised. Their situation had its challenges, the letter acknowledged, but they would not be impossible to overcome. The fact that Rozanov was employed in the USA and would have to live there a good portion of the time was the biggest hurdle, but when Shane had hesitantly explained their situation to her at their meeting two days earlier, the expression on her stern face had softened and she’d looked at him with genuine sympathy. 

“Leave it in my hands, Mr Hollander,” she’d said, with the kind of smooth authority that made Shane both eager and relieved to do just that. “I’ll figure it out.” 

Her letter recapped what had been said in their meeting, and came accompanied by all the paperwork and documentation they’d need to provide to make an application for permanent residence. That was the first step. He and Rozanov would have to sit down and go through it sometime after their game, but that was not the reason Shane was buzzing with anticipation, why his mind went fuzzy and his skin hot whenever he thought about that game and the night that would follow it. About Rozanov being here. With him, alone. Together. 

He picked up his phone again and looked at the messages. 

See you in two weeks. 

See you then. 

On the road in Toronto, Boston won their first game. Ilya scored two goals and had an assist on the third and when, in his very first professional post-game interview he was asked about a boast he’d made before the season had even begun, that he intended to score forty goals in his rookie year, Ilya, riding a high such as he had never known before, replied with perfect honesty. 

“I never said forty. Is lie. Liar told you that.” He paused as cameras flashed and reporters leaned in, and thought about how Hollander would definitely be watching this. “I said fifty.” Then he gave the camera a wink. 

That should rile him up. 

He swaggered back to the locker room, his mind pleasantly occupied by thoughts of what Hollander’s face would do when he watched that interview. Go pink, probably, beneath his freckles. His eyes would narrow in a way that would look dangerous on anyone else and he’d huff adorably, like an irritated kitten. No doubt he’d call Ilya an asshole. Ilya could all but hear him saying it. 

He took out his phone to check for any messages from Jane, but his phone screen was stubbornly empty of notifications. Was Montreal playing tonight? Probably they were. Likely Hollander just hadn’t had the chance to see the interview yet. 

“Hey, Roz.” A large hand landed on his shoulder and gave it a robust squeeze. Ilya looked up to see Marleau grinning down at him. “A win like that demands a celebration,” he said. “Come on. I’m gonna buy you a fucking drink.” 

“Fuck yeah,” Ilya replied, and tossed his phone into his locker. Hollander and his face could wait. This was Ilya’s night. 

They started their night at a bar downtown then moved on, to another bar and finally, once the Americans and Canadians were tipsy enough, to a club. Exactly the sort of club Ilya liked best—dark and pulsing with music that you felt down to your bones, heaving with women whose tits were big and their inhibitions nonexistent. The vodka was shit, but Ilya honestly expected that from North America and it was a small price to pay, all things considered. 

He did shots with Marleau and the others who had made it out that late, once, twice, three times in quick succession and when, as the fourth was being poured, a woman with dark hair and eyes slipped in beside him and gave him a look he could not mistake, Ilya looked back. There was something not quite right with her face, he thought hazily, though she was beautiful. It was missing something just across the cheekbones—but then he downed the fourth shot and let her pull him out onto the dance floor and thought no more about it. 

They danced close together, grinding against each other, her arms around his neck as he kissed hers. Her hair was soft and smelled nice, she felt good against him, and he’d been with no one since he left Russia. He would take her somewhere quiet, he thought, her place or a hotel room (not his!) and he would fuck her. Sink into her and lose himself for a while, celebrate his night and—

Wait, a small voice whispered in his mind. Think about this. 

Ilya didn’t want to think about anything. Nothing beyond the woman in his arms and what he’d like to do with her. What else was there to think about? 

Why can’t you take her to your room? whispered the voice. Ilya shook his head to chase it away, but the persistent little voice would not go. Why? 

Abruptly, he realised what the woman’s face was missing. Freckles. She didn’t have any fucking freckles. 

And that was why Ilya couldn’t fuck her, or anyone else. Maybe he could get away with it this once, or even a second time, or a third. Fuck, he might even be able to get away with it hundreds of times but people always talked eventually and how would that fucking look when he was supposed to be married? 

Fucking Hollander, he thought, though he knew that wasn’t fair. He was in this situation because Hollander was helping him. It was for him, all of this, and Ilya could not in good conscience do something that could so easily jeopardise everything Hollander had already done for him, just for the sake of getting his dick wet. 

However much that dick was currently protesting its sad, dry state. 

He curled his fingers into the woman’s hair and kissed her. Her response was smooth and practiced, as was the way her body curled into his. She would be a good lay, thought Ilya mournfully. Possibly a great one. 

He ended the kiss and looked down at her with genuine regret. “Not tonight,” he murmured, just loudly enough for her to hear him over the music. “Though you are truly very beautiful.” 

Her brow wrinkled in confusion and so he kissed her again, quick and soft. “I’m sorry,” he said against her mouth, then turned and walked away before he lost his resolve. 

He slipped out of the club without a word to his teammates and took a minute to breathe in the cool night air. With fresh oxygen came clarity, with clarity the realisation that it would be five years until he qualified for Canadian citizenship. 

Five. Fucking. Years. 

His right hand was going to be getting a hell of a workout, he thought grimly, as he hailed himself a cab and headed back to the team's hotel. 

At practice the next day, Ilya discovered that Marleau and the others thought he and the woman had left the club together. She must have gone just after he did, Ilya deduced, and part of him was pleased that she couldn’t be bothered to go for someone else once he’d turned her down. 

“Nice pull,” said Marleau approvingly and with a thumping pat on his back, just between his shoulder blades. Ilya opened his mouth to reply, but found he simply did not have the wherewithal to correct this misapprehension. Or maybe he just didn’t want to. 

Let them think what they liked. His conscience was clear. 

His phone buzzed and he snatched it up. No one had his new number except the team and—

Hollander. I saw ur interview. 50 goals asshole? Keep dreaming. 

Despite himself, Ilya grinned. 

He waited until after practice to reply. Wait and see. 

Hollander’s response came minutes later, sent, he imagined, from the Metros’ locker room post-practice. He could picture Hollander there, rosy-cheeked and damp with sweat, smirking at his phone. Ten days. 

Ten days, Ilya thought. Ten more fucking days. 

Ten days that passed with practices and more games, about half of which the Raiders won. Considering how badly they’d performed the past three seasons, this was a great start and everyone was pleased, Ilya included. Even though some small part of his mind was always counting down to Montreal. 

When the day finally arrived, Ilya was on edge and wound tightly enough that everyone noticed. Nobody but Marleau was bold enough to mention it but Ilya snarled even him away and focused on gearing up, both physically and mentally. He needed his head in the fucking game as Hollander’s would surely be. No way was he letting Hollander beat him. Not tonight. 

And if, when they finally got on the ice and he caught sight of Hollander with his game face on, Ilya’s heart skipped a beat, well. He was far too focused on winning to pay it any mind. 

And then. Late in the third period after a hard-fought battle, the score stood 3-3 with seconds remaining on the clock. Ilya had scored two of Boston’s goals, Hollander one of Montreal’s. The crowd was cheering and chanting their names and of course their coaches heard it, and gave the people what they wanted. Hollander vs Rozanov, for the final face-off. 

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya taunted as they leaned in, both in case anyone was listening and to get under Hollander’s skin. “Will you disappoint them?” 

Hollander was chewing on his mouth guard. “Nope,” he said, with cool confidence and a smile so small it was nearly undetectable. But Ilya saw it. Saw it and remembered it, the same small smile he’d worn when on his knees, gazing up with his brown eyes soft and Ilya’s dick just millimetres from his mouth, waiting to slip in. 

In the split-second it took for that memory to flash through his mind, Hollander won the face-off. 

He won the face-off and flew down the rink too fast to be caught, scored a goal as easy as breathing and won the entire fucking game. And as he skated past where Ilya stood in outraged disbelief, off to be engulfed by his cheering teammates, he muttered, “Tonight.”  

Ilya was pissed. Raging, seething, mad as hell. Fucking furious. 

So turned on he could barely see straight. 

“Hey, Rozy,” said Marleau when Ilya threw his helmet into his locker with vicious force. “Tough luck, man, but don’t worry. We’ll get them next time.” 

Ilya intended to get at least one of them that very fucking night. 

“Sure,” he said, “next time,” then stalked away to the showers. 

He arrived at Hollander’s apartment with anger and lust still waging war within him. He entered the code for the outside door, made sure to look up so the camera could catch his face, then took the elevator to the top floor. When Hollander greeted him at the door of the apartment with that same small smile on his face, lust won. 

Ilya stepped inside, into Hollander’s space, and even before the door clicked shut behind him, gripped Hollander hard by the chin and kissed him. He responded instantly, hands in Ilya’s hair and a low, whimpering noise in his throat, soft and wanting and fuck, Ilya thought, he was not made to endure long stretches of celibacy. He wanted to swallow Hollander whole, absorb him into his skin, fuck him until neither of them could remember their names. 

He went in for a deeper kiss, slipped his hand beneath the hem of Hollander’s hoodie, but Hollander made a small sound of protest and pulled back. 

“Wait,” he said, though his fingers remained buried in Ilya’s curls. “Hold on.” 

“What?” Ilya hissed. 

“We need to talk.” 

“Talk?” 

“Yeah,” said Hollander’s voice, even as his eyes pleaded with Ilya to fuck me now. “About the, um. Paperwork and stuff.” 

Frustration had Ilya near to snarling. “Months without sex and you want to talk first?” he spat. 

Hollander snorted. “Sure. Like you’ve gone months without sex.” 

Ilya said nothing, just glared at him, until the smile slid from his face and his mouth dropped open in astonishment. Then he had to look away because Hollander with his mouth open but not about to swallow Ilya’s cock was not a sight he could bear just then.

“But—” Hollander sounded confused. “You know you can fuck other people. This, us, isn’t real.” 

“Yes, I know, Hollander,” Ilya snapped. “In Russia I did but here I am—” he broke off to hunt for the words. “People watch me now,” he said. “They recognise me. If I get reputation for going out, fucking women every night, who will believe I am truly married to you?” 

He risked a glance at Hollander and watched as his face changed, to the expression it wore when he was working his way through a problem. Ilya fidgeted impatiently, hands flexing where they rested on Hollander’s hips. He was so close, close enough that Ilya’s eyes could trace the familiar pattern of his freckles, somehow even more beautiful than he remembered. 

“We could say we have an open marriage,” Hollander said after a pause of about a day and a half, or, in reality, closer to thirty seconds. Ilya released his breath in a huff of annoyance. 

“Open marriage? What the fuck is this?” 

“It’s like when you’re married but you both agree you can have sex with other people.” 

Ilya stared at him. “And this is something people do?” 

“Yeah, um. I think so. I read an article about it.” 

“You read an article.” 

“Yeah.” 

“About married people fucking other people.” 

“Yes, Rozanov, fuck.” Hollander’s cheeks flushed a dull red. “I’ve been reading a lot about marriage since we—you know. I wanted to be prepared.” 

Shane fucking Hollander was too adorable to be tolerated, and Ilya was rapidly approaching the limits of his tolerance. Fucking Hollander should not be allowed, he thought. He was a menace to local wildlife. “I don’t think I would like this,” he said. “If I were to go to trouble of being really married. I would want my spouse to be the only person I was interested in fucking.” 

“Spouse,” echoed Hollander, with a return of his soft smile. 

“Yes, is right word,” Ilya said shortly. “Maybe man, maybe woman, could be either for me. So, spouse.” 

“Makes sense.” Hollander’s smile faded as he began visibly thinking again. “Isn’t there anyone you could trust to keep it quiet?” 

“For what reason?” 

“I don’t know. Tell them you’re famous and don’t want your personal life everywhere.” 

“Maybe.” Ilya made a dismissive gesture with a hand he quickly returned to Hollander’s hip. “Svetlana, of course. We have fucked in the past and she is moving to Boston. But women in clubs, no, of course I cannot trust them.” 

He watched as Hollander absorbed this idea, considered it, then said, “Yeah, I guess not.” He shuffled his feet and didn’t meet Ilya’s gaze. “But you can’t, like, rely on me or anything. We won’t see each other more than a few times in the season.” 

“Yes, I know this. I will not rely.” Ilya tugged him closer. “But tonight, Hollander. It has been months.” 

Please, just touch my dick, he wanted to beg. One touch is all it would take and I need it to be from someone who is not me. 

His feet propelled him forward and before he fully realised what he was doing he had walked Hollander back against the edge of the kitchen island. He wasn’t avoiding eye contact now, but drinking in Ilya’s face with a look in his dark eyes that made Ilya feel insane. He released his breath on a soft sigh and rolled his hips so Ilya could feel him, hard as well, the brush of their cocks together too much to bear. 

“Hollander.” Ilya had lost nearly all of his English. It was a struggle to recall any of the words he knew in any language. “Does this mean yes?” Please, fuck, please say it means yes. 

Hollander nodded. “Yes,” he said. 

Ilya kissed him so hard it hurt, a sharp clash of lips and teeth he then angled his head and took deep. Hollander’s fingers sank into his hair again as Ilya’s raked up his back beneath his hoodie, across smooth, heated skin that had lust clawing hard at his insides. He tore the hoodie off and tossed it away; Hollander seized on this as an opportunity and dropped to his knees. Ilya moaned and fell back against the island, his own knees gone weak as Hollander’s mouth worked his cock eagerly, greedily, as though he too had thought about this every fucking day they’d spent apart. 

“Fuck, Hollander, yes,” Ilya groaned. “Like that. Fuck.” 

He came much too quickly, unable to hold out after so long without though he hated to lose the warmth of Hollander’s mouth so soon. Hollander swallowed his cum with a little hum that sounded like enjoyment, licked the tip of his cock, then returned to his feet. Ilya grabbed him and kissed him, sucked his own spend off Hollander’s tongue then kissed him and kissed him until he was liquid-soft in Ilya’s arms, until he could no longer stand upright. Ilya lifted him and carried him over to the sofa. 

He set Hollander down on the arm and murmured low in his ear, “You want me to suck your dick?” 

“Mmmm,” Hollander said. 

Ilya gripped his chin. “You want me to fuck you?” 

“Yes, Rozanov.” His voice was as soft as he was. “Fuck me.” 

“You don’t want to talk about paperwork first?” 

Hollander blinked at him with hazy eyes. “What?” 

Ilya laughed and pushed him down on the sofa, tugged off the rest of both of their clothes, then knelt beside the sofa and set to sucking his dick with the frantic hunger of a starving man. He had been starving, he thought, and Hollander and his cock were so very delicious. Ilya edged him for as long as he could stand to, to keep the taste in his mouth and to torture him, to take some small measure of revenge for Hollander being the only person he was allowed to fuck for the next five years. 

Hollander was moaning and clutching at Ilya’s hair, fuck and please and Jesus Christ, Rozanov falling from his lips like drops of honey. Ilya lapped them up for a few minutes more before letting him come and lapping that up too, then he laid his head on Hollander’s chest to feel the rapid rise and fall of his ribcage and hear the thunder of his heartbeat. 

“God,” Hollander said, in such a quiet voice that Ilya got the sense he was talking to himself. “Oh, my God.” 

Ilya waited until the heartbeat beneath his ear had slowed and the breathing evened out, and then he said, “Let’s go to bed. I want to fuck you, all night. We will do your paperwork in the morning.” 

“Mmm.” Hollander’s fingers sifted through Ilya’s curls. “I have practice in the morning.” 

“And I have early flight. We will do it before.” He turned his head so his chin rested on Hollander’s sternum and pouted up at him. “Come onnn, Hollanderrr,” he wheedled. “You have bed, yes? I do not have to fuck you on the floor? The floor is cold, Hollander. Bad for your back. Worse for your knees.” 

“Of course I have a bed.” 

“I will believe this only when you show me. Until then, bed does not exist.”

Hollander’s lips twitched. “Like that guy with the box of cats,” he said, and Ilya’s pout became a grin. 

“Yes. Just like this. Bed is only real when I observe it.” 

“‘Observe,’” echoed Hollander. 

“Yes, is good word, maybe you know it. Means ‘fuck husband in’.” 

Hollander laughed. The sound rumbled through his chest and made Ilya feel warm in his. “Okay, fine,” he said. “But you can’t leave until you’ve at least looked at the application.” 

“Of course.” Ilya rose to his feet and pulled Hollander to his. “Fuck now, do boring paperwork in the morning. Let’s go.” 

Hollander tugged him by their joined hands up a glass-walled staircase and into a room with a generously-sized bed smothered in pillows. 

“See?” said Hollander. “Bed.” 

“Mmm. And where do you sleep?” Ilya inquired. 

“Um.” Hollander looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “On the bed?” 

“Yes, but where? At the bottom? All your pillows take the top?” 

“I put most of the pillows on the floor when I sleep.” 

“Then back on the bed again the next morning?” 

“Yes! What’s your problem with my pillows, Rozanov?” 

“Only that there are very many of them. You think there are enough? You don’t want maybe five or six hundred more?” 

“Shut up. They’re—I had the room done, okay? By a designer.” 

Of course he did, Ilya thought. “Next time, choose designer who knows colours other than blue and brown,” is what he said.  

“Navy and taupe,” Hollander muttered. “That’s what she called them.” 

“Blue and brown, Hollander. Most boring of all colours.” 

“If you’re just going to make fun of me you can go sleep on the fucking sofa.” 

“No.” Ilya caught him by the waist and leaned in to kiss his neck. “I am going to make you come. Again and again and again. Fun for both of us, yes?” 

Hollander’s eyes fluttered shut and he leaned against Ilya with a soft sigh, in sharp contrast to his dick which Ilya could feel stiffening against his hip. Ilya ran his tongue up Hollander’s neck, nipped at his jaw, kissed him until the dick was fully hard and the man melty-soft, then he said, “Lie down on the bed.” 

Hollander nodded and reached for a pillow. 

Ilya caught his hand. “Leave it,” he said. “I want to fuck you on them.” 

“But—” 

“Just lie down, Hollander. Get comfortable. Your pillows are soft, yes?” 

Hollander settled back into the taupe-and-navy pile and nodded again. He was so fucking beautiful, Ilya thought, hard muscle flexing beneath smooth skin, soft lips made pink by Ilya’s kisses and his cock. Hollander’s own cock standing proud between his legs as he stretched out on the bed. Ilya crawled in over him and kissed him softly, first his upper lip and then his lower. 

“I’m going to fuck you so good you will never look at these pillows again without thinking of me,” he murmured. Hollander gave a low moan. “Every time you take them off your bed at night and every time you put them on again you will remember me and how I fucked you.” 

Hollander’s eyes were locked on Ilya’s face, his lips parted. He reached over to the table beside the bed and without looking pulled open its small drawer. In it, Ilya could see a strip of condoms and a bottle of lube. 

“So prepared, Hollander,” he purred. “Did you buy these yourself or hire someone?” 

“Shut up.” Hollander’s voice was pitched lower than usual, soft and breathy nonetheless. “I thought you were going to fuck me.” 

Ilya already had the lube open and his fingers drenched. He caught Hollander’s mouth with his and pushed him deeper into the pillows as his fingers found his ass. Hollander moaned into Ilya’s mouth and clutched at him, nails digging into his shoulders, so eager for it, begging with every part of his body. He was gorgeous and perfect and Ilya was going to fucking devour him. 

He kissed Hollander as he fingered him open, kissed him as he put on the condom, kissed him some more as he thrust in hard. He kissed the freckles on Hollander’s cheekbones and kissed down his neck, kissed his lips again as Hollander arched his back and took Ilya’s cock balls deep. 

“Fuck,” Ilya breathed as his vision blurred at the edges. “Fuck, Hollander.” 

“I need more, Rozanov,” Hollander whined. “You said you’d fuck me so I’d never forget it. You said—” His words choked off as Ilya slammed into him, drove him back so hard into the pile of pillows that several of them went tumbling to the floor. Ilya’s hand found Hollander’s and gripped it, fingers linked, pressed into the pillow above his head. Hollander’s arm flexed and pushed back, holding Ilya up as they fell together into a merciless rhythm. The look on his face was so blissed out Ilya had to shut his eyes or he would come too soon. 

Something about this, about him, about them, the way they fucked each other—it was like nothing Ilya had ever done before. He loved fucking women but they were different. Sasha even had been different, and the other men he’d risked stealing moments in dark corners with. Hollander was as tall as he was and just as strong, the muscles in his arms like iron, abs rippling beneath his skin as he met Ilya thrust for thrust. They were equals in every way, on ice and off. Ilya could imagine nothing hotter, surely there could be nothing hotter than fucking the only man on Earth able both to beat him at hockey and make him want so intensely he felt crazy with it. 

Hollander’s fingers tightened their grip and Ilya knew he was close. He shifted the angle of their bodies so Hollander’s dick was trapped between them, pressed between their abdomens, and then he fucked hard into Hollander, whose head fell back as he moaned. “Jesus—fuck—Rozanov—fuck, I’m—” 

Ilya squeezed his hand, dug desperate fingers into his thigh, drove mercilessly into him until he choked on a gasp and came, spilling into the narrow space between them. Ilya kept going for another few thrusts then he came too, face buried in the curve of Hollander’s neck and shoulder. He was aware of Hollander’s skin and his scent and the salty tang of his sweat, of his fingers sifting through Ilya’s hair, but the rest of the world was a hazy blur and Ilya, there in that moment, was content to allow it to remain so. He should probably move, some vague part of his mind insisted, but he was far too fucked-out to listen. 

Some time later, and he could not for the life of him say how long, he mustered the strength to roll off Hollander and onto what remained of the pile of pillows. “So,” he said, as Hollander gazed at him with a smile as soft and satisfied as Ilya felt. “Will you remember?” 

“Oh yeah.” Hollander’s smile widened. “For now.” 

“For now?” 

The smile became a full-on grin. “I may need a reminder. Later. To really drive it home.” 

Ilya was sure there was a joke to be made there somewhere but he simply could not English well enough in his current state to find it. He settled for giving Hollander’s thigh a pat and saying, “Once I come back to life. You killed me, Hollander. I am dead.” 

Hollander chuckled. “Want some dinner to resurrect you?” 

“Yes,” said Ilya. He sat up and turned on Hollander with pleading eyes. “Food. Food and vodka.” 

“I don’t have any vodka.” 

“I will get you some to keep here,” Ilya promised. “In freezer, though, yes? Not cupboard. Freezer only.” 

“Got it.” 

Ilya sensed he was not being taken seriously. “Is important, Hollander!” 

“Vodka in freezer only. I’ll remember. What do you want to eat?” 

“Grilled cheese,” said Ilya after barely a second’s pause for thought. He felt like he could eat ten of them.  

Hollander laughed. “What?” 

“Grilled cheese, Hollander. Is American food.” 

“I know what it is, asshole.” 

“Then why do you sound surprised? I thought maybe there was no grilled cheese in Canada.” 

Hollander took a moment to reply and when he did there was an odd, almost wistful note in his voice. “I don’t know. I guess I forgot you live in America now. Of course you know what grilled cheese is.” 

“Yes,” said Ilya. “And Dunkin’ Donuts. They tell me these are the best donuts and the best coffee in the world and I should be certain to say so to every Canadian I meet.” 

“Who is telling you this stuff?” 

“Fans,” Ilya said, with a wave of his hand. “American teammates. Many people.” 

“I don’t eat donuts,” said Hollander, surprising no one, “or drink coffee, really. But if I did it’d be Tim fucking Horton’s all the way and you can tell those assholes I said so.” 

Ilya knew he didn’t mean that literally but the strange note was gone from his voice and so, Ilya thought, mission accomplished. 

“Grilled cheese then, Hollander,” he said, with a little whine of his own. “I need fuel.” 

Hollander shook his head. “Fine. I think I’ve got all the ingredients. You know how to make them?” 

“Oh yes.” Ilya hopped off the bed, genuinely excited by the prospect of buttery bread and melted cheese. “I will take care of everything.” 

They demolished a pile of grilled cheese sandwiches sitting at the kitchen island in their underwear. When he’d eaten his fill, Ilya drew a line with a buttery fingertip down Hollander’s neck and when he complained about it licked him clean. Hollander moaned and Ilya purred and then they stumbled back up the stairs and into the bed to fuck again, after which they fell asleep together without even showering. 

Ilya drifted off with his nose buried in Hollander’s sweaty hair, their skin sticky with various fluids, and even if he’d had the energy or the inclination to examine what he felt in that moment, he likely would not have been able to identify it as contentment. 

Nonetheless, that’s what it was. 

When the shrill sound of his alarm woke Shane far too early the next morning, he felt hot and sore and knew without even opening his eyes that Rozanov was asleep at his back, wrapped around him like a koala. He tried to move but from over his shoulder came a noise halfway between a grumble and a whine and the arms around him tightened their grip. 

He drove his elbow hard into Rozanov’s ribs, which resulted in nothing more than a grunt and a stream of grumpy-sounding Russian muttered into the back of his neck. Well, Shane thought, at least now he’s awake. 

“Let me go,” he said, “you have an early flight.” 

“Not this early.” 

“Paperwork, remember?” 

“Ugh. So boring, Hollander.” 

“Listen buddy, you want to be Canadian, this is what you’ve got to do.” 

“Learn to be boring?” 

“Yep.” Shane elbowed him again and kicked his shin, which successfully loosened Rozanov’s grip enough for him to extract himself and get out of bed. “I’m going for a quick shower now,” he said, “and no, you can’t come too.” 

Rozanov huffed. Lying there in the disarray of the bed with dawn just beginning to lighten the bedroom window, he looked like something ancient and decadent and carved from marble. “Fine. I will make coffee. You have coffee machine, yes?” 

“Yeah.” Shane still didn’t much like coffee but he knew Rozanov did and so he’d bought a machine. “It’s in the kitchen.” 

“Oh, good. Makes more sense than in the bathroom.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“I would but you said I can’t go in the shower with you.” 

Shane sighed and shook his head. “I won’t be long,” he said. He tore his gaze from the man in his bed and forced his legs to take him to the en-suite, the door of which he closed firmly behind him, then leaned back against it with a heavy sigh. 

When he came downstairs a few minutes later dressed for practice with his hair still damp, Rozanov was leaning against the kitchen island scrolling through his phone, wearing only a pair of black sweatpants that sat much too low on his hips for Shane’s comfort. Two steaming mugs lay on the countertop in front of him. 

He pushed one of them towards Shane. “You don’t have milk.” 

“No. I don’t normally drink it.” 

“You also don’t normally drink coffee but you have machine.” 

“That’s for you.” Shane took a sip from his mug and missed the odd look Rozanov gave him. “Whoa,” he said, then sipped again. “Why doesn’t that taste awful?” 

“Is good machine you bought,” Rozanov said. “Makes good coffee.” 

“Oh. That’s good, I guess. I don’t know anything about coffee so I just got the one that was highest rated.” 

“Mmm.” Rozanov took a drink from his own cup. “So. Where is paperwork?” 

“Right here.” Shane grabbed a manila envelope and pulled a packet of papers from it. “The lawyer did everything she could—” 

“Lawyer?” 

“Oh yeah, I forgot to mention. I hired an immigration lawyer to help us.” 

Rozanov looked at him sharply. “And you told her…” He made a circular motion with his hand.

“No, I didn’t tell her everything. Just that we’re married and we want citizenship for you but we’re hockey players so we can’t be public about it. And that you play for an American team so you’re based in the States. She said it’s a tricky situation but she thinks she can help us.” He laid the papers down in front of Rozanov and tapped the top one with his finger. “See, she’s filled out some of this herself and I put in my details. The things you need to fill out are marked with these little arrows, see? And then here’s the list of documents you need to provide.”

He pulled a paper from the bottom of the pile and handed it to Rozanov, who took it with his left hand and frowned as he read it. Dawn light glinted off his wedding ring and Shane realised with a start that he hadn’t noticed last night that Rozanov was even wearing the ring. He looked down at his own hand, where his own ring sat. Whatever had compelled him to put it on after leaving it hidden in his sock drawer for the past four months had apparently compelled his husband too. 

The thought of that sat heavy on his chest, with such pressure Shane began to find it hard to breathe. What was he doing, he thought, what were they doing? This was all so much, too much maybe, more than he and Rozanov could handle. They were nineteen years old, fucking rookie hockey players, what did they think they were doing here? 

Rozanov laid the list down on top of the other papers with a decisive motion that snapped Shane out of the nascent spiral in his head. “I can get all of these,” he said. His voice was calm and confident. Some of the pressure on Shane’s chest lifted. 

“How soon?” he asked. 

“Soon. I can take?” Rozanov indicated the stack of papers and the envelope. 

“Yeah. Can you, um, have it done by our next game?” 

“Yes, I think so. I will try.” Rozanov drained his mug as Shane drew a deep breath.

We can do this, he thought. We can. 

“I need a shower before my flight,” Rozanov said.  

Shane nodded. “Okay. I have to get to practice but you can let yourself out. Which reminds me.” He turned the manila envelope upside down and a key fell out. “That’s for you. Key to the apartment door. Lock up before you go, okay?” 

Rozanov stared at the key for a minute, like it was a strange species of creature he’d never encountered before. Then he picked it up and said, “Okay,” and tucked it into his pocket. 

Shane felt that feeling again, that there was something missing, something he’d forgotten to do. “Well, I guess that’s it,” he said, to convince himself as much as Rozanov. “See you in Boston.” 

“Yes.” Rozanov was staring again, this time at the pile of papers. Shane began to move past him but halted when Rozanov grabbed his arm. He used it to tug Shane towards him into a brief, hard kiss. 

“Have good practice,” he said. “You will need it.” 

He released Shane and headed up the stairs to the bathroom. 

When Shane got home that afternoon the coffee cups and grilled cheese pan had been washed and put away and when he went upstairs the bed was made with fresh sheets and every single pillow lined up at the top, as straight as soldiers. Last night’s sheets he found in the washing machine, its cycle already completed. Rozanov had clearly poked around the apartment to find both the linen closet and the laundry room. Before Shane could fully work out what he thought or felt about any of this, his phone buzzed with a text. 

It was a picture of the apartment key, hanging from a Boston Raiders keychain. Shane snorted. 

Asshole, he texted back. 

Rozanov replied seconds later with a kissy-face emoji and at that Shane had to laugh. 

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

hello hello, please accept this goliath of a chapter as thanks for all the lovely comments you have all been leaving. i appreciate you and them enormously.

the good news is that i have finally sat down and plotted out this fic. The bad news is the outline alone was two thousand words. i will almost certainly not be able to maintain this pace of updating on a fic as long as this one is shaping up to be but i will do my very best not to leave you hanging too long.

CW for brief mentions of child abuse, nothing detailed but be aware.

enjoy ❤️

The Metros’ locker room was no different to any of the others Shane had spent the majority of his life in, with one or two exceptions. That he was the youngest there by several years was most noticeable, the only draft pick to make it onto a team heavy with the weight of older players nearing the end of their contracts, possibly their careers. The other was that the expectations laid on him were insanely high. 

Shane was no stranger to high expectations, obviously. He placed them on himself and always had, from the very first time he’d strapped on a pair of skates. But now it seemed like the entire future of the Montreal Metros, one of the most storied teams in all of sports, rested entirely on his shoulders. And the eyes of at least half the team, when they looked at him, told him that as good as he might be they did not think he could handle it. 

Shane squared his shoulders, gritted his teeth, and decided he would fucking show them. 

By late November, when they were set to play their first game in Boston, he had. 

Rookie phenom Shane Hollander, the press named him, every time they wrote or spoke of his achievements. And, of course, whenever they mentioned him they nearly always followed it up in the same breath with Rozanov. The other rookie phenom, neck-and-neck with Shane in every stat. Impossible, or so it seemed, to speak of one without the other. 

It should annoy him, Shane thought, and it did, genuinely. Rozanov pissed him off constantly without even being there. He was so fucking good and in such a different way from Shane that contrasts and comparisons between them seemed inevitable. 

They were inevitable, Shane knew. This was how it was always meant to be. This was why he’d made his crazy offer back in Ottawa, nearly a year ago now. Rozanov was not meant to be stuck in Russia, he was meant to be here, exactly where he was, at the top of the MLH pissing Shane off and driving him to work harder, be better. To beat him any time and any way he could. 

And if Rozanov wanted to fuck him about it afterwards, well. Shane was down for that too. 

Sometimes he thought about what the press, the fans, the other players, everyone buying into the rivals narrative that was being woven around them, would say if they knew the truth. That he and Rozanov were married, that they’d had each others’ dicks in their mouths, that Rozanov’s had been in Shane’s ass. The thought was terrifying but something deep in Shane, in a place he barely knew existed, thrilled at it. Every time someone called Rozanov a cocksucker that tiny part of Shane thought fuck yeah he is, and he’s damned good at it, too. And a little smile he wasn’t even aware of would creep across his face. 

When they landed in Boston the morning of the game, Shane switched his phone out of airplane mode and immediately had a text from Lily. 

I have all the documents. But we will not talk about them until morning. 

As Shane smiled down at the screen, it lit up again. 

I am going to take you apart tonight, Hollander. First on ice, then off. 

Shane’s smile widened and he shook his head. Dream on, asshole, he sent, then tucked his phone into his pocket. When he took it out again at the hotel, two more messages were waiting.  

😜 💭 

I do dream of asshole, yes. Yours. 

Fuck you, Shane replied.  

Rozanov’s response came instantly. Later 😘 

He was trying to get under Shane’s skin, Shane knew this and he was having fucking none of it. More than anything, Rozanov would not want to lose to Montreal a second time. And that was why Shane was determined to annihilate him. Antsy excitement danced in his belly all afternoon, but when they got on the ice and Rozanov shot him a cocky smirk, he felt like his entire body and his mind snapped together into sharp focus. 

Game on, asshole, he thought. 

Shane, of course, was not the only one who’d come to play. Early in the first period, Rozanov checked him hard into the boards and taunted, “Did you miss me?” in the split second between the body slam and him skating away, smirking. 

He had, Shane knew, in that small, hidden part of him, but Rozanov would know it over Shane’s dead body. 

Minutes later, Shane wove through Boston’s defenders, took a pass from Hayden Pike to the goal and scored. “I missed you there,” he said to Rozanov as he went past, “or more like you missed me.”  

They didn’t face off until the third period—keeping it until late in the game for maximum impact, Shane figured. The crowd was chanting both their names as they leaned in, Rozanov’s more than his, but still Rozanov looked pissed as fuck and had a dangerous glint in his eye. Boston was down 4 to 2, and though he had scored both those goals Shane knew that would mean nothing to him if his team lost. 

When they lost. Because they were going to fucking lose. 

“Thought you were gonna take me apart,” he chirped. “I’m still in one piece and beating your ass.” 

“You will be in pieces later,” Rozanov said, too low for anyone else to hear and with a dark promise in his voice that made Shane’s skin feel on fire. His tongue traced the curve of his bottom lip and then he said, “Screaming my name as I lick your ass.” 

Shane’s brain short-circuited. The referee dropped the puck. Rozanov took it and scored the game’s final goal. 

Montreal had won, but Shane knew that the real victory had gone to Rozanov. Rozanov knew it too.  

Hat trick and rim job in one night. I think I am winning, yes? was the text that awaited Shane when he got back to the locker room. 

Shane burned to reply that there was no fucking way Rozanov was getting near his ass that night, that he would stay at his hotel, fuck their fake marriage, fuck the paperwork, and most particularly fuck him, and not in the way he wanted. But he burned even hotter at the thought of letting Rozanov do what he offered. Would he really? Part of Shane could hardly believe it but then if there was one thing he’d learned it was never to underestimate Ilya Rozanov. 

You lost the game asshole, was what he eventually sent. 

“Hey,” said a voice, “do you need help hiding the body?” 

“What?” Shane looked up to find Hayden Pike grinning down at him. Hayden had so far been the friendliest of all the Metros and Shane liked him. But he had no idea what he meant. 

Hayden nodded at Shane’s phone. “The way you’re glaring at that, makes it look like you might want to kill someone. Do you need help hiding the body? Cause I’m here for you man, if you do.” 

“Oh.” Shane shook his head and set his phone on the bench beside him, face-down. “No, it’s nothing. Sorry.” 

“Don’t apologise, I’m sure they’d deserve it anyway.” Hayden’s eyes followed Shane as he stood up and started to get dressed. “So, um, you got any plans for tonight? I thought I might go for drink, if you wanted to come along. I know you don’t go out much but there are a few quiet places near here where we could just get a beer.” 

“Oh, uh, yeah. Maybe another time, okay?” Shane knew what his decision was even before his mouth produced the words. Of course he was going to see Rozanov. There had never really been a chance he wouldn’t. “I’m meeting someone.” 

“No kidding?” Hayden looked impressed. “You’ve got a girl lined up already when you’ve never been here before?” 

“No, it’s nothing like that. Just someone I met a few years ago who lives here now and thought it might be nice to meet up.” Shane’s heart pounded and his head felt light. He had no idea if his lie sounded plausible. Though it wasn’t a lie, was it, not really. Just not the entire truth. Lying by omission was fine, he told himself, when the truth would be impossible to tell. When the truth was actually I’m going to Ilya Rozanov’s place so he can put his tongue up my ass then fuck me until I black out. And oh, have I mentioned that he’s my husband? The small, hidden part of Shane imagined saying that to Hayden, to the entire locker room, and cackled a little in glee. The rest of Shane only hoped he wasn’t sweating visibly. 

“It’ll have to be another time, then,” said Hayden, and Shane nodded. 

“Sure, yeah, definitely,” he said, then finished dressing as quickly as he could and fled the locker room before anyone else could talk to him. 

He was in the taxi when he received Rozanov’s reply to his text. 

Did I, though? I am not so sure. 

Shane gripped his phone so hard the wedding ring he’d slipped on as soon as he left the rink dug into his skin. 

The taxi dropped him off a block from Rozanov’s place. Shane checked his phone to be sure he had the right address then quickly walked the rest of the way. He let the camera outside catch his face, entered the door code, then went up in the elevator. Rozanov was in the penthouse, like him. As the door to the apartment opened, Shane surged in and slammed Rozanov back into the wall. 

“Why the fuck would you think it’s okay to say shit like that to me on the ice?” he spat. “In the middle of a fucking game?” 

“Is best time to say it, I think.” Rozanov’s smirk made Shane want to slap him. “Then I can watch your eyes get big.” 

“My eyes?” 

“Yes. The black parts of them.” 

“My pupils.” 

“Pupils?” Rozanov echoed, then huffed in irritation. “Like schoolchildren?” 

Shane frowned for a beat until the connection clicked. “Um, yeah, it’s the same word.” 

Rozanov shook his head. “English is insane fucking language. The schoolchildren of your eyes went as big as the puck. Which I took from you to complete hat trick. Is excellent timing I think.” 

Shane’s inability to stay mad at Rozanov even at his most obnoxious made him almost mad enough to be mad again. “The only way you can score off me is to distract me with sex,” he said, in an attempt to get the anger back. Rozanov’s gaze sharpened and he gripped Shane by the chin. Shane caught the scent of cigarettes on Rozanov’s breath and expensive cologne on his skin and his mind began to blur. 

“Is because you look so pretty when you think about me fucking you,” Rozanov said. His thumb stroked across Shane’s lower lip and Shane leaned helplessly into the touch. “Like now. The pupils in your eyes are so big I could climb inside them.” He replaced his thumb with his mouth in a kiss as soft as a whisper. Shane’s eyes fluttered shut and he heard himself moan. “There are other parts of you I would rather be inside,” Rozanov continued, his voice itself like a caress. “In here.” His thumb returned to Shane’s lip then pushed into his mouth. Shane closed his lips around it, ran his tongue over its ridged surface until Rozanov withdrew it and dragged it, spit-dampened, over Shane’s lip and down his chin. “You have a good mouth,” he said, “I like to kiss it.” He leaned in until his lips brushed Shane’s ear. “You have a better ass. I think I will kiss that until you beg me to fuck you.” 

Shane had just enough presence of mind remaining to mutter, “Never.”

Rozanov’s low chuckle shot sparks across his skin. “We will see,” he murmured, then kissed Shane hard. Shane’s fingers sank into Rozanov’s hair, gripped it as he kissed back. Rozanov’s hands slid beneath Shane’s hoodie, pulled it off and tossed it aside, followed immediately by his own t-shirt. 

“Shoes,” he said, then kissed him as Shane kicked them off. His hands moved to Shane’s ass, kneading and then gripping it as he lifted him and carried him into the apartment. 

He tossed Shane down onto a bed and tugged off the rest of both their clothes, then crawled over him, pushed him back against the pillows and kissed him until his body was loose and his mind a soothing buzz of static. He felt Rozanov’s mouth leave his and trail down his neck, over his chest and down his abs where the muscles leapt to meet him. He kissed the tip of Shane’s dick then nuzzled over his balls and down to his asshole. Shane could feel breath on it when Rozanov said, “This okay?” 

He nodded, then when he realised Rozanov couldn’t see him managed a breathy, “Yes.”  

Rozanov patted his thigh. “Roll over.” 

Shane did, and let Rozanov arrange him on his knees with his face pressed against the pillows. Strong arms wrapped around his thighs and pulled him in and then Rozanov’s tongue touched his rim and Shane’s mind went white with pleasure. He gripped the pillow with clawing fingers and with teeth as Rozanov’s tongue danced around his hole for an agonising length of time before dipping in, pressing inside him, warm and wet and soft and fuck, Shane thought, he could probably come just from this. He was vaguely aware that sounds of some sort were coming from his mouth, aware he was pressing his ass hard against Rozanov’s face. He was aware that this was a kind of pleasure he’d never felt before. Beyond that, his consciousness did not extend. 

When he came it felt like an explosion, white-hot behind his eyes and in his belly. He heard Rozanov swear, in English and in Russian, felt as he leaned over Shane’s back. 

“Hollander, I need to fuck you.” There was a rough, desperate note in his voice. “I need to—” 

“Do it.” Shane wanted to be fucked. He wouldn’t come again so soon but he wanted it anyway, to be filled and stretched and feel Rozanov come inside him. 

“Are you—” 

“Do it, Rozanov. Fuck me.” 

“Fuck.” Shane felt him shift, heard him fumbling with something, felt the cool press of lubed fingers inside him followed a bit too soon by Rozanov’s dick, but Shane let the mild discomfort ground him and tilted his ass so Rozanov could sink in deeper. 

“God, Hollander,” he heard, in that same rough voice, as Rozanov fucked him hard and frantic. “I cannot—you are so—fuck.” 

He came with a deep groan, his forehead pressed into the back of Shane’s neck. After a minute, he shifted to lie on the bed and pull Shane into his arms, Shane’s back to his chest. 

“That was okay?” he asked, and for the first time ever Shane heard uncertainty in his voice. “You liked it?” 

“It was—intense,” Shane replied. “But yeah. I liked it.” He paused for a beat before asking, “Did you?” 

Rozanov’s laugh was slightly high-pitched. “Yes,” he said. “I liked. Fuck.” 

Shane wasn’t sure how to interpret his mood so he said nothing, and after a minute Rozanov said, “I have never done that before.” 

“Really?” Shane turned his head to look at him. “Never?” 

“No.” 

Wow, Shane thought. Of course he knew Rozanov had a lot more experience with sex than he did and while he didn’t mind that at all it did feel kind of nice to have something with him that no one else shared. 

“So why did you now? With me?” 

“I made you promise. Promises made in the face-off circle must be kept or hockey gods become very angry.” 

Shane laughed and after a beat Rozanov did too. Shane suspected this weird mood he was in wouldn’t last long and so he asked a question that had been playing on his mind for a while. 

“When did you, um. Have sex. The first time?” he asked. 

“I was fourteen.” A dark note crept into Rozanov’s tone. “Was my brother’s girlfriend.” 

“Shit.” 

“Yes. She was mad at him and so she—” He waved his hand. “I do not know English phrase.” 

Came on to you, Shane thought. Took advantage of you when you were a fucking child. He thought about what he’d been like at fourteen and felt a stab of deep anger for the boy Rozanov had been. 

“When my brother found out he tried to beat me.” 

Shane’s breath caught. “Tried?” 

Rozanov shrugged. “Even then I was strong. And he is drug addict. Poor coordination.” 

“Fuck, Rozanov, I’m so sorry.” 

Rozanov shrugged again and Shane felt him retreating. Not physically but in the way his voice changed once more, back to the familiar cool detachment. Shane hadn’t realised it was detachment until he heard the difference. “Was a long time ago,” he said. “She is his wife now and they are very unhappy together.” 

Shane felt like he shouldn’t let the subject drop like this, that he should say more or do something. Rozanov groaned and pressed his face into Shane’s neck. “Hollanderrr,” he said, “I can hear you thinking. Stop. If you feel bad for me you can suck my cock later, hmm? Blow job will make everything better.” 

There are some things even cocksucking can’t fix, Shane thought. What he said was, “I will. I promise.” 

Rozanov was silent for a while, his arms tight around Shane, face still pressed into the curve of his neck and shoulder. His chest rose and fell a bit too fast, a bit too harsh, then Shane felt him swallow. 

A minute later, he pressed a kiss just beneath Shane’s ear and let him go. 

“You want to eat something?” he asked. 

“Grilled cheese?” Shane asked, rolling over to look at him, and Rozanov grinned. 

“Hollander, is like you read my mind,” he said. 

The documents Rozanov produced early the next morning all looked to be in order, from what Shane could tell. He had provided everything on the checklist and filled in his details on the application form. Shane tucked the fat manila envelope deep into his bag, to be sent on to the lawyer when he got back to Montreal. 

When he straightened up again, Rozanov was holding out his hand. A key on a chain dangled from his finger. “For the apartment door,” he said. 

Shane took it. “Thanks,” he said, then looked down at what he held. “What the fuck is this?” 

“What?” Rozanov gave him a look of wide-eyed innocence. “Is a keychain.” 

“A fucking Dunkin Donuts keychain! Where did you even get this?” 

“Is Boston, Hollander. Dunkin Donuts is like religion here. Do not disrespect religion of my new homeland by changing keychain. Very bad luck.” 

“Canada is your new homeland,” Shane retorted. “Or it will be soon.” He thrust the key and its chain into his pocket. “I’ll keep you up to date on the application.” 

Rozanov nodded. “Okay.” 

They stood awkwardly for a minute, then Rozanov rolled his eyes and pulled Shane in for a kiss. “Have a good flight,” he said. 

Shane smiled all the way to the airport. 

When he got back to Montreal, he couriered the envelope to the lawyer, who emailed him the next day to say that everything looked fine at first glance and that she would submit their application as soon as she had a chance to give it a thorough going-over. Some deep tension in Shane that he’d barely been aware of relaxed. He texted Rozanov with the news and received a thumbs-up emoji in return. Life went on. 

A few days later, Rozanov texted him a picture of one of his Rolex ads on a billboard in Times Square, then a message. 

You have broken America

It’s an international campaign, Shane texted back. It was always going to be there.

Rozanov’s reply came a few minutes later. Is nice watch. Did you keep it? 

Yes. You’ve seen it

Have I?

I wear it all the time

When we are together is not your watch I look at, Hollander.

What do you look at then? Shane’s fingers typed before his brain caught up to them. He deleted the message and sent instead, What are you doing? 

Out with team. Celebrating. 

Oh yeah, I saw you beat the Admirals, nice. 

Was not hard. Scott Hunter is only good player they have and he is prehistoric man. 

He’s not that old. 

He is 100 000 years old. He remembers when humans discovered fire. 

Shane laughed and closed the chat to google “humans discover fire.” A few minutes later, he sent, He’d have to be 400,000 years old

What?

Scott Hunter. He’d have to be 400,000 years old to remember when humans discovered fire

Oh my god Hollander you are so fucking boring. Did you google? 

Yep

Leave me alone. Am too drunk for this. 

Already? 

Will be soon. So I can forget Scott Hunter and fire and your Rolex watches.

Good luck with that

Rozanov left him on read until two days later, when Shane was in bed with a book and his phone buzzed. 

Bored 

Shane stared at the message for a minute before replying. Did you mean boring? 

No. Bored. Talking to you not about you.

Ha ha.

I am bored. Stuck at airport. Tell me interesting thing. 

I don’t know anything interesting. I’m boring, remember? 

Yes, true. Tell me boring thing, then. 

Shane thought for a bit, then sent, Sharks are older than the North Star. 450 million years old to 70 million years. 

Rozanov took so long to reply that Shane suspected he was googling. How did you know this? he finally sent

I read an article. 

All these articles, Hollander. 

You asked for boring. 

If I asked for something else, would you give it? 

Shane’s breath caught and he hesitated before replying. Like what? 

Tell me something hot. 

Shane released his breath slowly. I don’t know anything hot

Yes you do. You are very hot

What are you doing right now

Reading

Where? 

In bed

What are you wearing? 

T-shirt and boxers

White shirt? 

Yes

Of course

What does that mean? 

Nothing. Take it off

What? 

Your shirt. Take it off

Shane almost did before he fully realised what the fuck was happening. No, he replied. 

Come onnn Hollander. I am so bored

You’re in the middle of a fucking airport. Your teammates are there

To them you are Jane

Rozanov. No. 

There was no reply for several minutes, then. Am in toilets now. Take off your shirt. Send me pic. 

Fuck, Shane thought. Fuck fuck fuck it. He was going to do this. Delete it right away, he sent. 

Okay 

Shane pulled his shirt off then opened his phone’s camera and held it up. He never took selfies so needed a minute to find a good angle. He snapped the picture then sent it to Rozanov before he could think better of it. 

The reply came seconds later. You look very serious. Also sexy. 

If I were there I would bite your nose

What? Why?

To make you laugh. So you are not so serious. 

There’s nothing wrong with serious

Sometimes there is. 

I am thinking about biting you now Hollander

Where should I bite

Shane’s breathing quickened and his eyelids fluttered as he fought back the images that threatened to flood his brain. Nowhere? he managed to type. 

Impossible. Not option.

Thinking about this is making me hard

God, thought Shane. He was too. 

You want to see? 

Yes. Shane’s fingers wrote the word and sent it this time before his brain had the chance to stop them.  

A moment later Rozanov’s dick was on his screen. Shane ignored the dim lighting and obvious airport-bathroom background and focused on the shape of it. The length and girth and the way it curved. He could feel it in his mouth, fucking taste it. 

Tell me what you want to do to it 

Suck it. 

And? 

Lick just under the head. That always makes you moan

I can feel it. Then what? 

Swallow it. Until it chokes me

You make sexy noises when I fuck your throat

Shane’s breath was coming in short pants, his dick rock hard. He rubbed it through his boxers and typed with one hand

I’m so hard right now

Take it out. Show me

God. His fingers trembled as he pulled his boxers off and took his dick in hand, snapped the pic and sent it. 

You r jerking off thinking abt sucking me

Yes

Me too. Thinking abt ur mouth. 

Fuck

Make urself cum. Then send me pic 

Jesus, Shane thought. Fuck fuck, Christ. His hand was already tight on his dick, moving fast. He thought about Rozanov’s dick in his mouth, the ache in his jaw when he took it deep, about Rozanov coming in his mouth and the taste on the back of his tongue before he swallowed. 

He came hard over his hand. With the last of his energy he snapped a picture and sent it, then collapsed panting onto his pillows. 

Rozanov fucked you on those pillows, his brain supplied, as it did every time, just as Rozanov had predicted. That asshole. 

His phone buzzed with a picture of Rozanov’s dick and his hand and his cum that had Shane’s breath catching. Then, a minute later, Am not bored anymore. 

Good? 

Yes, very good. You are very good. 

Something inside Shane quivered at this. 

Going to catch flight now, Rozanov sent. Sleep well. 

Delete the photos first

Yes. Have done. 

Good. Have a safe flight. 

Slowly, message by message, Shane deleted the pictures Rozanov had sent, then the rest of the conversation. Then he went to clean himself up. 

The next couple of weeks passed with practices and games and the occasional text from Rozanov, which Shane always answered with a bit of a quiver in his belly. None of them ever led to a repeat of what he was now calling in his mind The Airport Incident. He wasn’t sure whether he felt disappointed by this or relieved. 

He let Hayden coax him into drinks then to dinner at his house with his wife Jackie and their twin baby daughters. Hayden was trying so hard to be his friend and Shane realised he was grateful for it. The other guys on the team were civil, some friendly enough, but Shane had always found it difficult to make real friends and didn’t know how to bridge the gap between locker room banter and real connection. Once he started hanging out with Hayden, some of the ice melted away and the rest of the team warmed up to him too. 

For that, Shane knew, he would always owe Hayden a debt. For pushing past Shane’s barriers, for making the first move when he couldn’t. And it was, he soon discovered, really fucking nice to have a friend. 

He and Hayden were out having a beer one Saturday night in mid-December when his phone buzzed with a text from Rozanov. 

What are you doing now? 

Out for a drink with a friend.

What friend?

Hayden.

Hayden Pike? Third line wing Hayden Pike? 

You know he’s top line with me

Is he? I guess I never noticed. Or he is easy to forget.

You’re such an asshole. What do you want? 

Nothing. Have fun with what’s-his-name

Shane rolled his eyes. 

Text me later if you are bored 

Shane’s heartbeat immediately quickened. Was Rozanov ‘bored’? Was that why he texted? 

He finished his drink as quickly as he could without being obvious about rushing and declined a second one, got a cab home and grabbed his mail on the way in. He tossed it on the kitchen counter and was about to take out his phone when one of the letters caught his eye. It was from the immigration lawyer. 

Shane quickly opened it and read it, first once and then a second time as a weight as heavy as lead formed in his chest then sank into his belly. He took out his phone and texted Rozanov. 

Go someplace private and call me ASAP

He then proceeded to pace up and down the length of his apartment until his phone rang, about fifteen minutes later. 

“Hey,” he said.  

“Hollander?” Rozanov sounded concerned. “Is something wrong?” 

“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” Shane’s voice rose as panic bloomed in his chest. “Oh my God.” 

“Shhh, calm down,” Rozanov said. “What happened?” 

“I got a letter from the immigration lawyer. She wants to meet with us. Both of us.” 

“Did she say why?” 

“No.” 

“May be nothing then.” 

“Of course it’s not nothing!” Shane couldn’t believe that Rozanov was being so calm about this. “Why would she want to meet us if it were nothing!” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Oh my God.” Shane started to feel dizzy. “Oh my God. Something’s wrong, Rozanov. We’ve fucked something up.” 

“Hollander, be calm. We don’t know what it’s about. Don’t panic until we know.” 

“Okay,” Shane said, but he made no progress in not panicking. “Okay.”  

“You have to breathe.” Rozanov’s voice was low and soothing. “Breathe, Hollander.” 

Shane forced himself to focus, to breathe deeply, in then out, on a measured rhythm. The steady sound of Rozanov’s breaths through the phone helped him pace himself. “Okay,” he said, when he felt grounded again. “I’m okay now.” 

“Good. What does the letter say?” 

“Just that she wants to meet with us. She’s asked me to make an appointment with her. When can we go?” 

“We have a game in Montreal next week. How about before?” 

“Before the game?” 

“Yes. We arrive three hours early. I can go straight from the hotel.” 

“Okay. Okay. That’ll be fine. This will all be fine.” 

“Of course it will.” A pause, then Rozanov said, “Will you be all right?” 

“Yeah.” Shane’s heartbeat was normal and his breathing even. For whatever reason, talking to Rozanov calmed him. “I’m all right. I think I might go to sleep.” 

“Hollander. Is eight o’clock.” 

“So?” 

“You cannot go to sleep now, I will be embarrassed to call you my husband.” A brief pause, then, “The Admirals play tonight. Let’s watch the game.” 

Shane needed a moment to understand what he was saying. “What, together?” 

“Yes. Get in bed, put on your TV. I will do same. Then we watch Scott Hunter overcome arthritis in every joint only to lose to Ottawa in overtime. Yes?” 

Shane laughed. “He’s really not that old.” 

“He is petrified corpse. Before every game the Admirals revive him from dead with dark magic rituals. Trust me on this, I am Russian.” 

“Like that guy, who was it? With the beard and the crazy eyes.” 

“This does not narrow things down, Hollander, but I think you mean Rasputin.” 

“Yeah, him.” 

“Yes. Every game the Admirals use Rasputin magic so Scott Hunter can play. Let’s watch it.” 

“Okay.” Shane was already up in the bedroom, stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers. He got under the covers and turned the TV on. 

“I’m ready,” he said. 

“I need one minute.” 

Shane put the game on and settled in. Rozanov fucked you on these pillows whispered through his mind, but that evening he found the thought comforting. Through the phone he could hear the sound of clothing being removed and a mattress shifting and he pictured Rozanov in his room and his bed settling in as Shane was. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t have plans tonight,” he said. 

“I did.” 

“What?” 

“Is not important, Hollander.” Rozanov’s voice made it clear that the topic was not open to discussion. “Just watch the game.” 

On their screens Scott Hunter’s goal attempt was blocked easily by Ottawa’s goalie. “See?” Rozanov said. “So old. So slow. Actual mummy could do better.” 

Shane smiled as he tucked his phone closer to his ear. “Maybe you have a point.” 

Shane arrived at the offices of Halstock and Leclair twenty minutes early. He’d been too antsy to stay in his apartment any longer, and with Rozanov on the plane there’d been no one to talk to. So he went to the lawyer’s office where he sat in the waiting room tapping his fingers on the arm of the sofa and growing increasingly anxious. 

“Shane Hollander?” the receptionist had squealed when he’d given her his name. “Oh my God, I am such a big fan. You’re having the greatest season. I haven’t been this excited for hockey in years. Do you think you’ll make the playoffs?” 

“Maybe.” Shane had done his best to smile at her. “I hope so.” 

She’d glanced down at her computer screen. “I see you’re meeting with Ms Halstock and, um.” Her eyes got wide and Shane braced himself for impact. “Ilya Rozanov? Is that—am I reading that right?” 

“Yeah.” Shane had to grip the edge of her desk to keep from running right out of the room. “You’re uh, not allowed to say anything about what happens here, right? Attorney-client privilege? That covers you too?” 

It didn’t, but the young receptionist was not about to do anything that might jeopardise her chance to get Shane Hollander’s autograph. “Oh sure. Of course it does. I can’t say a word.” 

At that, Shane had visibly relaxed, and when the receptionist dug out an old Metros ticket stub from the bottom of her bag, he’d signed it gladly. 

Now he sat tapping his fingers and compulsively checking his phone as the appointment time drew nearer and there was still no sign of Rozanov. Three minutes after their appointment was supposed to start, Emily Halstock poked her head out of her office and said, “Do you have any idea how much longer Mr Rozanov will be?” 

“No.” Shane checked his phone again. “I sent him a message when his plane landed but—” He broke off as his phone buzzed, then whipped it up to his face so fast he nearly dropped it. 

“He’s on his way,” he said, relief in his voice. “He had to get a taxi from his team’s hotel but he’ll be here soon.” 

“Okay, good. Would you prefer to wait in my office?” 

Shane shook his head. “No, I’ll stay out here, if that’s okay. Until he gets here.” 

“Sure.” 

The lawyer retreated and a few minutes later, the elevator doors opened and Rozanov appeared, dressed in black with a Raiders cap and sunglasses and a bag slung over his shoulder. He bypassed the receptionist altogether and went straight to Shane, who leapt to his feet and moved forward to meet him. 

“Are you okay?” Rozanov asked. He took off his sunglasses and frowned at Shane. “Your eyes are very big.” 

“My schoolchildren?” Shane attempted to joke. 

“No, whole eye. You are forgetting not to panic.” 

“Maybe a little,” Shane said, then the door to Ms Halstock’s office opened again. 

Shane didn’t realise that as the two of them stood there in the waiting room he was holding tight to Rozanov’s arm, or that Rozanov’s hand was curled around his hip. He felt the energy between them—that was always present—but he couldn’t see the way it softened their body language or made it obvious in everything from the looks on their faces to the way they stood how badly they wanted to kiss. 

Shane drank in the sight of Rozanov’s face but he couldn’t see that. 

Emily Halstock could. 

“Mr Hollander, Mr Rozanov, whenever you’re ready,” she said, then watched as they tore their eyes away from each other and took an—extremely reluctant—step back, hands lingering on one another for as long as they possibly could. She had already felt comfortable with her decision to help the anxious, clearly lying Shane Hollander get citizenship for the husband he cared about more than he realised, but now she was certain it was not just the right but the only thing to do. 

Those poor boys, she thought, as she stepped back to allow them into her office. They don’t even know it themselves. 

Just as she was about to close her door, she caught sight of Beka at reception, all but vibrating out of her skin. Emily, despite being a Montreal native, had never cared for hockey, but Beka very much did. 

“Give me a moment,” she said to her clients, and stepped into the waiting room, shutting the office door behind her. 

“Beka,” she said, not unkindly but with a firmness in her tone that the younger woman could not fail to recognise, “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that while privilege does not apply to you, the privacy of our clients is paramount. Mr Hollander has taken great steps to protect that privacy, not the least of which was hiring me, so if any hint of why he is here or even that he has retained my services were to become public knowledge, I would deduce by a very rapid process of elimination who was responsible for that leak and consider such conduct grounds for immediate dismissal. Is that understood?” 

Beka’s eyes were as wide as Shane’s had been. “Yes, Ms Halstock,” she said. “I won’t say a word. I would never.” 

“See that you don’t,” said Emily, and returned to her office. 

She took a seat at her desk, facing the chairs where Mr Hollander and Mr Rozanov sat. Shane and Ilya, she couldn’t help calling them in her head. They were so young, heartbreakingly so, and the effort they both were clearly putting into looking calm and grown-up only served to highlight that youth. 

Which, in its turn, only strengthened her resolve to help them.

“Before we get into the details of why I’ve asked you here, let me assure you that you haven’t made any mistakes,” she said. You’ve both filled in the application form correctly and supplied all the required documents in support of it.” Shane let out a heavy breath and Ilya’s shoulders became less rigid. “However,” she went on, “it is my professional opinion that your application would benefit from some additional evidence to support the authenticity of your relationship, given the relatively short time you knew one another before your marriage and the, er. Complications that Mr Rozanov’s nationality brings to his involvement in a same-sex relationship.” 

“Complications,” Ilya said quietly. “Is that the word for it?”

“It’s one word,” Emily replied. “There are others.” 

Shane looked at Ilya, then back at her. “What does that mean for him?” 

“The danger is that should this application fail, if the Russian authorities became aware of it or of your marriage, then Mr Rozanov’s safety when returning to his home country would be jeopardised and he would not have legal standing in Canada to fall back on.” 

“He has a visa for the US.” 

“And that’s good for now. But it’s not forever.” 

Shane’s jaw set itself into an expression of pure determination. Emily’s wife Manon, another massive hockey fan, had told her that Shane Hollander was the most disciplined player the league had seen in years. That much, Emily thought looking at him now, could not be more plain to see. “So what do we have to do?” he asked. 

“We’ll have the evidence from your door cameras that you meet whenever you are in the same town but it would help if you could show regular communication at other times as well. Do you call each other? Text?” 

“Text.” 

“We could screenshot your text threads and—” 

“Screenshot?” Shane’s posture went rigid and all the blood drained from his face. Emily noticed Ilya glance at him sharply. “Our texts are, um. They’re. Ah.” 

His hands clenched on the arms of his chair. He looked on the verge of a panic attack. Emily was about to offer him a glass of water—she had no idea what else to do—when Ilya reached over and laid a hand on the back of his neck. 

“The texts are private,” he said. His voice was calm and firm. His fingers massaged Shane’s neck gently. Shane’s breathing slowed and deepened and his face regained some colour. 

“Of course they are,” said Emily, somewhat wryly. Between two teenage boys with this kind of chemistry she could only imagine. “Any details you don’t want shared can be blacked out. What’s important is to show regularity of contact. How often do you text?” 

Shane glanced at Ilya. “Every day?” he said, and Ilya nodded. 

“Mostly every day.” 

“Well, that’s good. I can work with that.” 

Shane took a deep breath. Ilya’s hand squeezed his neck once more then stroked his head and down his back. “When Ro-uh, Ilya was in Russia after the wedding we couldn’t text it was, um—” 

“Was too expensive,” Ilya said. “Also dangerous.” 

“Yeah. But once he got his American phone we’ve been texting regularly.”  

“The transition period can be tricky and stressful,” Emily said. “I’m sure you had other things on your minds.” 

 “Yeah, but, uh.” Shane glanced at Ilya again. “We also deleted a lot of them.” 

“Most of them,” said Ilya.

“Yeah, most of them. For privacy.” 

“I see,” said Emily, who did. “And do you call each other?” 

“Of course.” Shane seemed relieved to have an opportunity to tell the actual truth. “We watched a hockey game on the phone together just last week.” 

“That’s good,” Emily said. “Call logs can also be proof of ongoing contact.” She leaned back in her chair and regarded them silently for a moment, as Shane avoided her eyes and Ilya boldly stared her down. What a study in contrasts they were, she thought. Manon, a Metros fan to her core, hated Ilya Rozanov. Emily wondered what she’d think if she could see him now. Shane Hollander’s personal guard dog, prepared to rip apart anyone who threatened him, including his own innocent and very much here-to-help-them-both lawyer. 

“Here’s what I propose,” she said. “Forget about proving contact up to this point. You didn’t know you had to, and protecting your privacy has been your primary concern. But moving forward, you need to make an effort to gather evidence. Screenshots of your texts with the time and date stamps but sensitive details blacked out would be good. Call logs showing regular conversations would be better. Both together plus the video footage will, in my opinion, be enough to quieten any doubts about the authenticity of your relationship. In the meantime, I’ll submit the application and hope it’s approved without any additional supporting evidence required. Okay?” 

They both nodded. “Um, so, how long will it take to get a decision?” Shane asked. 

“This time of year, probably a couple of months,” said Emily. “By February, I hope.” Emily was by nature and profession a stern woman, and her face reflected that. She attempted to soften it as she said, “I’m on your side, Mr Hollander, Mr Rozanov. Let me handle things from here.” 

Both boys nodded and all three of them stood. Emily shook both of their hands. “I’ll be in touch,” she said, and watched as they quickly left her office. 

Shane managed to hold himself together until the doors of the elevator closed behind them. Then he collapsed back against the wall and put his hands over his face. “Holy shit,” he said. “We just lied. We lied so fucking much.” 

“Yes,” Rozanov agreed. “You are very bad at it.” 

“Shit,” said Shane again. “Shit shit shit. Do you think she knows?” 

“Shane.” 

“She does, doesn’t she? She can see right fucking through us.” 

“Shane.” 

“She—” 

“Shhh.” Shane vaguely registered that the elevator had stopped moving. Rozanov must have pushed the emergency stop button. He was about to protest against the necessity of this when Rozanov’s arms closed around him and pulled him in, tucked Shane’s face into the crook of his neck. A firm hand curled around the back of his head. Shane sighed and relaxed into the embrace with a small, contented hum. 

A thought occurred to him. “You called me Shane.” 

“Yes. You nearly slipped up in there. This is new expression I have learned, ‘to slip up’. I like it, it is like when stupid hockey players fall on the ice. Hayden Pike for example. He would slip up.” 

“Leave Hayden alone.” 

“No.” Rozanov’s fingers sifted through Shane’s hair and he nuzzled deeper into Rozanov’s neck. “If you don’t want to lie so much we have to make some things true. Call and text every day. Use first names. If we don’t, you will slip up again or maybe die from being forced to be not-boring liar. And if you die then I cannot stay in Canada.” 

A slightly manic laugh bubbled out of Shane. “Okay, Ilya,” he said. “I still think you’re an asshole.” 

“Yes. And I still think you are boring. But I will fuck you anyway when we get home. As favour.” 

“So nice of you.” 

“Yes. I am nice asshole.” 

Shane laughed again, just as a voice sounded from the intercom. “Everything okay in there?” it asked. “You hit the emergency stop.” 

Ilya released Shane just enough to press the intercom button. “Yes, was small emergency,” he said. “Over now. We will start the elevator again.” 

“Okay,” said the voice, and Ilya pressed the button to restart the elevator’s descent. As they began to move down again, he turned and stroked Shane’s cheek. “Better?” he asked. 

Shane nodded. “Yeah.” 

Ilya kissed him, a brief, warm press of their lips, then released him as the elevator arrived at the ground floor. He stepped back, slipped on his sunglasses and took out his phone, just in time to appear perfectly disinterested to the two men in suits who were there waiting as the doors opened. Their eyes widened when they saw Shane, but Ilya in his baseball cap and sunglasses slipped away without them noticing. 

“That was Shane Hollander,” Shane heard one of them them scream-whisper but he too was hurrying away, to the small, un-monitored parking lot behind the building where his car and Ilya would be waiting to head home. 

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

to every genius who mentioned polaroids in the comments, i have taken your suggestion to heart, and thank you for it.

December 21, 2010

It was Ilya’s day to call and he preferred to do so early, because he had morning practice and a game that evening and he didn’t want it hanging over his head. The Raiders were in Toronto, where the winter air was crisply icy in a way that recalled Moscow in his mind, though it smelled different here and felt different too—how precisely he couldn’t quite define. His lungs welcomed the air regardless, the sharp bite as he drew it in, the visible exhale as he breathed it out during the run he’d set out on before the sun had crested the horizon, sleeveless even in the cold and music from his phone blaring in his ears. When he found himself in a quiet part of a still-sleeping neighbourhood, he turned his music off and pressed the button on his phone to call Shane. 

He answered on the third ring, with a soft and sleepy voice that had Ilya’s eyes falling shut, though the images behind his eyelids were a kind of torture. For Shane to sound like this it meant he’d just woken up and would be still in bed, in one of those plain white t-shirts he wore because he was boring and Canadian but which clung to his shoulders and his chest and made Ilya think of fresh, glazed donuts, as sweet and warm as Shane was waking up.  

The tug of longing in his gut had grown so familiar now he barely registered it. Even if he had he couldn’t have put a name to it, or to the accompanying ever-present, low-level desire to just be wherever Shane was, all the time. Ilya didn’t dare apply conscious thought to any of these feelings; however good he was at compartmentalising them—and that was his second greatest skill after hockey—thinking too much about Shane tilted the axis of his world so precipitously that the doors of his compartments fell wide open and messy things spilled out of them, then before Ilya knew what hit him he was letting himself want what he knew he could never have.  

Soon it would be a year to the day since Shane had found him behind the rink in Ottawa and changed the course of his life. Sometimes Ilya imagined himself going back in time to live that moment over again. Would he give the same answer, knowing what he knew now? He genuinely couldn’t say. 

“Hey,” said Shane’s soft-sleepy voice. “Morning.” 

“Good morning. I thought you would be awake by now.” 

“I should be. Late flight, though, and no practice until ten so I didn’t set an alarm.” 

“Sorry.” 

“No, don’t be. It’s fine.” 

Shane had just returned from Florida, where Ilya would be after Christmas. Always they were in the same places but never at the same times. Something about that made Ilya feel slightly off-kilter, a little bit insane. He could hear rustling as Shane got out of bed and pictured him in his bedroom, rubbing his eyes before heading downstairs to make something in his blender that if it existed in the context of a sci-fi horror rather than his boring Canadian kitchen, would be studied by scientists in a lab before oozing out of its container in the night, to attack and infect one of them and turn them evil. Yet Shane still preferred to drink it every morning, instead of perfectly good coffee. 

“Where are you?” Shane asked. 

“Toronto.”

“I know, but where?” 

“Not sure. Somewhere quiet. I went for a run.” 

“How’s your shoulder?” 

“Better. Still a bit sore but I’m fine to play tonight.” 

“Did you try those exercises I sent you?” 

Ilya resisted the urge to roll his eyes, then remembered Shane couldn’t see him and rolled them extra hard, just because. “Yes, I did your boring exercises.” 

He could hear the smug smile in Shane’s voice. “They helped, didn’t they?” 

“Yes. They helped. Do not say—” 

“I told you they would.” 

“—I told you so.”

“Ha. Too late.” 

These conversations they had now, every day by order of their lawyer, were excruciating. Ilya hated every second of them. The mundane intimacy of knowing the things they now knew about each other, boring everyday things like breakfast preferences and injuries and how they sounded when they first woke up, made him feel feral. Guilty, like he was witnessing what he shouldn’t. What wasn’t meant for him to see, and yet he couldn’t stop himself from looking. If only he didn’t want so badly to look. 

His father often called him weak and there were times when Ilya found that difficult to refute. 

“Have you decided about Christmas?” Shane asked. 

Ilya closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. “You are sure your parents won’t mind if you don’t go home?” 

“They’ll be disappointed, probably. But they’ll understand. I’ll tell them I’m training or staying with Hayden or something.” 

“Yes, because you are so good at lying.” 

Shane ignored the dig. “I really think it’s better if we just stay at my place. It wouldn’t look great if I went to my parents’ and you didn’t. We’ll stay home, just us.” 

Just us. Ilya breathed through the squeezing pressure in his chest. Home. 

“Okay,” he said. 

“Cool.” He could hear the smile in Shane’s voice again, this one small and happy. “So is there anything you do at Christmas? Russian traditions?” 

“No. Was not important celebration for my family.” Not since his mother’s death, but Ilya’s throat closed up every time he thought of telling Shane about his mother. “Also the Orthodox calendar is different.” 

“Oh yeah?” said Shane, over the sound of the blender. “Different how?” 

“Christmas is the 7^th of January,” Ilya said. “That is main one.” 

“Really?” Shane would be filing that fact away, he knew. Probably he would read articles about it later. By the time they saw each other for the brief Christmas break he would know more about Orthodox traditions than Ilya did. 

“My mom always makes a big deal about Christmas,” Shane said, as in the background a smoothie, in an unnatural shade of green no doubt, glooped into a glass. Ilya could picture it far too clearly in his mind. “Her family’s from Japan and it’s not a thing there so almost all of our traditions come from my dad’s side. But she really gets into it.” He paused while Ilya searched for the words to tell him he didn’t need to be missing his family’s celebration, not for Ilya’s sake. Not when he’d already done so much for him, more, Ilya knew, than he could ever hope to deserve. “It’s kind of a lot, actually. It’ll be nice to have a break from it and just hang with you instead.” 

Ilya clenched his jaw on a frustrated sigh. Shane was always fucking doing this, making space for him in places he had no right to be, acting like he couldn’t see how Ilya did not belong there. And every time he did Ilya would find himself doing the same, letting Shane in and in and in, much, much too far in. Every time he would hear his own voice saying some asinine thing like, “We have home game on the 23^rd. I will fly out right after.” 

Every. Fucking. Time. 

“Okay.” He could hear Shane finishing his sci-fi ooze smoothie and knew that this would be followed by him rinsing the glass and putting it in the dishwasher. “I should go,” Shane said. “I want to get a workout in before practice.” 

“Yes, me too.” 

“Talk to you tomorrow, then.” Tomorrow was Shane’s day to call which meant Ilya would be on edge as soon as he woke up. Waiting for it, with heady anticipation and with dread. “Bye, Ilya.” 

“Goodbye, Shane.” 

The phone beeped as Shane disconnected but Ilya kept it pressed to his ear a moment longer. Then he put his music on again, as loud as he could stand it, and ran back the way he’d come.

Down the street from his hotel a Tim Horton’s beckoned, glossy pastries in its windows and sweet smells emanating from within.  

Ilya did not stop. 

The Raiders won in Toronto and then again in Boston. They were really coming together as a team, behind Ilya and the path he was on to make good his boast about scoring fifty goals that season. There was a real chance they could make the playoffs and if he were instrumental in that then Ilya, young as he was, would be the frontrunner to become team captain once their current one—older and slower even than Scott Hunter—finally retired. Sooner than Ilya had imagined it might happen, but the progression felt natural. Already many of his teammates looked to him for leadership and he was more than happy to provide it. 

He had just finished dressing after the home game, checking his bag to make sure he had packed everything he wanted to take to Shane’s, when Marleau nudged him. 

“Hey,” he said, “you want to go out tonight?” 

“Can’t,” said Ilya.

Marleau looked down at his bag. “You going somewh—” he started but couldn’t finish, interrupted by a scuffle breaking out behind him. Jonsson and Hendricks—great teammates on the ice, petty shits to each other off it—had started another of their bickering arguments. Jonsson gave Hendricks a shove, Hendricks stumbled backwards into Marleau, Marleau stumbled forwards into Ilya and in doing so knocked his bag off the bench and onto the floor. 

“Goddamn it you idiots, break it up!” Banks, the captain, went charging over to get between the two defensemen while Marleau crouched down to help Ilya repack his bag. 

“Sorry, man,” he said, but before Ilya could point out that it wasn’t his fault, Marleau had scooped up one of Ilya’s shirts and along with it a small item that had fallen out of the side pocket where Ilya had tucked it away for safekeeping. Ilya saw the shirt rise up, saw the item fall. Saw Marleau catch it before it hit the ground. Felt his heart fucking. Stop. 

“What the—” Marleau stared down at the object he now held in his hand. “Roz, ah. This looks like a wedding ring.” 

“Probably because it is one.” Ilya was thinking fast. He knew there was no point in denials. Maybe he could make something up about how the ring had been his mother’s, something something to remember her by, but it was a bit too big for that and also in that brief moment between Marleau’s first Roz and his second, Ilya hit upon a far better idea.  

“Roz.” Marleau was still catching up. “Is this—are you—are you married?” 

“Yes,” Ilya replied, clearly and with no hesitation. 

By that point, the full attention of the locker room was on them. Even Jonsson and Hendricks had forgotten their fight in the wake of this shocking revelation.

“But—” Marleau continued to process. “Since fucking when?” 

“June.” 

“What?” Murmurations rumbled through the assembled crowd of baffled hockey players. “But.” Marleau tried hard to catch up. “I. You.” 

“You pull.” Jonsson distilled the matter down to its simplest form. “We’ve all seen you.” 

“No,” said Ilya, “you have seen nothing. What have you seen?” 

“You,” said Banks. “With women. Tons of them.”

“Yes.” Ilya acknowledged this. “I go out often. I dance with women. I make out with them a bit maybe. I do not fuck them. I could, Jane would not mind. Maybe I will if I find one I know will not go straight to Instagram and embarrass Jane. We have open marriage.” He waved his hand. “Sort of.”  

“Open marriage,” Banks echoed. “The fuck is that?” 

“What kind of wife doesn’t care if you make out with other women?” Hendricks asked. 

“And where can I find one for myself?” called Jenkins, the goalie, from across the room. 

“Jane,” Marleau mused. “I’ve seen you text a Jane.” 

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “We text frequently.” 

“So why doesn’t Jane just go out with you?” Hendricks asked. “Or at least be at home so you can fuck her?” 

“Jane travels a lot. For work. Is home only sometimes.” 

“Those nights you won’t come out with us.” Marleau, it seemed, had finally connected the dots. “You’re with her. Your fucking wife.” 

“Yes. Our time is short but we make the most of it.” 

“Fucking hell, Rozy.” Marleau shook his head. “That’s. Well. Not what I expected.” 

“No,” Ilya replied. That made two of them.  

“Can I meet her?” Marleau asked. 

“Definitely no.” 

A chorus of protesting voices rose up. Cries of “Come on, man,” and “You’ve met our wives,” was capped by Jenkins shouting, “You can’t keep her all to yourself, Roz.” 

“I can.” Ilya rounded on him, fuelled by a surge of genuine anger. “Jane is mine and very beautiful. Not for any of you assholes.” 

“Fuck, dude.” Jenkins looked taken aback. “It’s not like we’d try to steal her off you.” 

“You could try.” Ilya scanned the locker room through narrowed eyes. “You would not succeed.” 

“Okay, man. Jesus.” Marleau returned Ilya his ring then held up his hands and took a step back. “Go spend Christmas with your wife. We’ll have fun without you.” 

“Maybe.” Ilya allowed his face to soften into what was almost a smile, to show his teammates they were forgiven but the warning still stood. He thought of Shane naked in his bed in Montreal, surrounded by soft pillows in boring colours, his face slack and his eyes hazy as he pleaded with Ilya to fuck him. “But not as much fun as I will have.” 

He grinned at Marleau as he slipped on his ring, then clapped his friend on the shoulder, hoisted his bag, and sauntered from the locker room. He could hear the place explode with voices before the door had even shut behind him. 

It was past midnight when Ilya let himself into Shane’s apartment with his key. He kicked off his shoes at the door then padded in his stocking feet up to the bedroom where Shane was, of course, already asleep. Ilya watched him for a minute, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way the white t-shirt stretched across it. His left hand was tucked under his cheek, the ring on the third finger just visible. Ilya ruthlessly quashed the surge of fierce possessiveness he felt at the sight of that fucking ring. 

He tossed his bag, still packed, into the closet then went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth with the toothbrush he’d left there after his last visit, splashed water on his face, took off his shirt and pants and socks and left them in the hamper, so Shane wouldn’t have an aneurysm upon finding them the next morning on the bathroom floor. 

Back in the bedroom, he plugged in his phone then slid beneath the blankets where he lay on his back with a good six inches of space between his body and Shane’s, for all of ten, possibly twelve seconds. Then he rolled over and slipped his arms around Shane’s waist, pressed his nose against Shane’s neck and breathed in deeply. Shane hummed in his sleep and snuggled closer and Ilya despaired. 

Weak, he could hear his father’s voice thunder in his head. Soft. Just like your mother. 

Ilya squeezed his eyes shut and held Shane tighter. He filled his mind with thoughts of smooth skin and hard muscle and freckles across cheekbones until all traces of his father were wiped from it completely. Minutes later, he was asleep. 

When he woke, his arms were empty and sunlight was streaming in through the windows at an angle that suggested mid-morning. He must have been more tired than he realised, Ilya thought, not to have noticed when Shane got up. He yawned, stretched, retrieved his phone and a pair of pants from his bag, brushed his teeth again then headed down to the kitchen. 

He found Shane sitting at the kitchen island scrolling on his phone while a smoothie seethed malevolently from a glass in front of him. Ilya cast it a wary glance as Shane turned to him with a smile. 

“If I kiss you, your smoothie will try to murder me,” Ilya said. 

Shane’s smile widened. “I’m sure you can fight it off.” 

They kissed lightly, with warmth rather than heat, and Ilya thought about how this was their first morning together when they hadn’t had sex the night before and neither of them had to run off to go be somewhere else. They had nowhere else to be, not for four whole days. He had a brief, frantic moment of wondering if they could somehow find a way to fuck for that entire time when Shane said, “Do you want to go for a workout? I was thinking I would.” 

Ilya could definitely use some way to burn both time and energy. “Sure,” he said. “Where?” 

“There’s a gym in the basement. It’s not as good as the team’s one but it’ll do us for a few days.” 

Ilya had moved to the coffee machine and was brewing a cup. “What if someone else shows up while we are there?” 

“Honestly, I don’t think anyone else uses it. It’s mostly older people in this building. And not really hockey people anyway, even if they did see us.” 

“Not hockey people? In Montreal?” 

“They do exist.” 

“Mmm,” said Ilya skeptically. “Sounds mythical. Like Bigfoot, or Hayden Pike’s hockey skills.” 

Shane huffed. “Lay off Hayden, okay?” 

“No.” Ilya leaned against the counter and sipped his coffee. “I have to tell you something,” he said. “You will want to panic but you should not. It sounds much worse than it is.” 

“Shit,” said Shane. Ilya could sense him tensing up already. He moved around the island and laid a soothing hand on the back of Shane’s neck. Then he ripped off the bandage. 

“My teammates know.” 

“What?” 

“Shhh.” Ilya gently massaged Shane’s nape. “I mean they know I am married. To Jane. They have no idea Jane is you. Jane is a woman, obviously. My wife. They will not question this.” 

“You sound awfully fucking sure about that.” 

“Yes. They have seen me with women when we go out. I told them Jane and I have a sort-of open marriage, that I dance with and sometimes kiss these women but I do not fuck them. This is true. I said Jane travels for work and when we are in same city we want to be alone because our time together is short. This is also true. Everything I told them was true and what I did not tell them they will never guess. They will think I am an asshole maybe, or bad husband. But they will not think I am married to a man. Why would they?”  

Shane’s face wore its baby-deer-in-headlights expression. Ilya slid his hand from Shane’s neck to his chin and kissed him until he refocused. “Is better this way,” he said lowly. “Less to hide. I tell them most of the truth and let them assume the rest. This is called—wait, I looked up the English term. Plausible deniability, yes? They are hockey players. They will assume I am fucking a Martian before they ever think I am fucking a man. Especially not you.” 

“Okay.” Shane took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Okay. Plausible deniability. Yeah. Maybe you’re right.” He tilted his head and gave Ilya one of his almost-smiles. “Your asshole teammates would probably find it pretty hot if you were fucking a Martian. Jenkins especially. That dude is psycho.” 

“Goalies.” Ilya shrugged. “What can you do?” 

Shane snorted and Ilya kissed him again, slow and deep until he felt the last of the tension leave his body. “You should do the same, maybe. With your team.” 

“No.” Shane shook his head. “I don’t think I could pull that off.” He started to look stressed again just thinking about it so Ilya kissed him some more. 

“Is okay,” he said, as he stroked the back of Shane’s head. “Secret wife is hard to fake for good boy boring nice person like you. But if your teammates see you text Lily and make conclusions, let them. They too will assume alien fucking before fucking me.” 

Shane laughed and let his head fall to rest against Ilya’s chest. Ilya’s fingers sifted through his silky hair. “Will be okay, Shane,” he said. 

“Yeah.” Shane nestled his face between Ilya’s pecs like he planned to build a home there. “It’ll be okay.” 

They had their workout in the basement gym, entirely alone there as Shane had predicted. Afterwards they showered together, for the first time since the day of their wedding. Because this was the first day since that day when they had enough time, Ilya reflected from where he knelt on beige tile, moaning as Shane came down his throat, his fingers tight in Ilya’s hair as warm water washed over them both. What a luxury it was to have time, one they too rarely appreciated. 

When Shane had gone to his knees in return, when they had towelled off and put on comfy sweats, they whiled away the afternoon lounging on the sofa with video games and then a movie, as outside their windows pale December sunshine slowly dwindled and faded away into early winter dark. At just past six p.m., Shane announced it was time for dinner. 

“Mmm, okay.” Ilya could nearly always eat, and he’d had only a sandwich for lunch. “What will we have?” 

“Fried chicken,” Shane said, and Ilya turned his head to stare at him. 

“What?” 

“KFC,” Shane specified, and Ilya blinked hard.

“What?” 

“Then cake with strawberries.” 

“What?!?” Ilya wondered if he was having a stroke. “This is evil smoothie talking, yes? Trying to trick me.” He narrowed his eyes. “Who are you and what have you done with Shane Hollander?” 

Shane laughed. “It’s what they eat at Christmas in Japan. I told you my mom’s family’s from there?” 

“Yes. And that Christmas is not a thing.” 

“It isn’t, not really. But they have one tradition, which is KFC and strawberry cake. Don’t ask me why, and my mom doesn’t know either. But that’s what we always have on Christmas Eve. Except you can’t get good strawberries in Ottawa in fucking December so she picks them in June and freezes them. She sent me some when I told her I was staying here for Christmas and I bought a cake to go with them yesterday. It’s not the same as the Japanese kind but it’s close enough.” 

Everything all planned out, Ilya thought. So typical of him. “And the chicken?” he asked. 

“KFC I can run out to get. It’ll take twenty minutes.” 

Ilya stared at him some more, then shook his head. “Okay,” he said. “I think I am hallucinating but I am okay with this. Fried chicken is good, cake is good. Strawberries are good. Watching you eat all these things will be maybe better than sex.” 

Shane grinned. “We can do both. For the comparison. For science.” 

“Science,” Ilya repeated. “Of course.” 

Shane went out and returned as promised twenty minutes later, laden with buckets of chicken and sides. He spread it all out on the coffee table and they ate with a movie on low volume in the background, talking aimlessly about hockey and other teams and where they liked best to play. They were just finishing up the last of the chicken when Shane’s phone rang. He glanced at it and made a face, which is to say his eyelid twitched and the corners of his mouth moved slightly downwards. But Ilya by that time was sufficiently acquainted with Shane’s small expressions that he could read annoyance there as clear as day.  

“I should take this,” Shane said. “It’s my mom. If I don’t answer she’ll just keep calling.” 

“Is no problem,” said Ilya. 

“Hi, Mom,” Shane said, phone to his ear. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just resting up… uh huh… yeah, I did this morning… mmhmm… I’ll probably go to Hayden’s tomorrow… yeah… I did, Mom… I sent it to you… so we can do that this summer… uh huh… sure… yeah, I got them, and a cake too… not yet, but later… it’s a big cake yeah but Hayden and Jackie can have some… I don’t think their kids eat solid food yet… Mom I do not know anything about child development, you tell me… I don’t know, maybe three months? They seemed pretty brand new the first time I saw them… I’m sure they’ve got plenty of baby stuff they have parents of their own… Hayden’s dad built the cribs himself… yeah I guess it’s a hobby, Hayden says… okay… yeah, I’ll tell them… bye, Mom.” 

He hung up the phone and rolled his eyes. “Checking up on me,” he said. “She doesn’t trust me to do Christmas by myself.” 

A dark, insidious feeling had crept into Ilya’s chest as he listened and it sat there now, heavily. He examined it with caution and from a distance, like a child poking a dead animal with a stick. Shane was saying something about nagging and a new ad campaign when Ilya’s mental stick succeeded in upturning the dead animal in his head to expose its underbelly, and he realised what was wrong. 

“I don’t like you lying for me,” he said. 

“What?” Shane looked taken aback, then he laughed. “Ilya, all we do is lie.” 

Ilya shook his head. “No, I mean—I don’t like you to lie when is important. To your parents—” 

“It’s fine.” 

“Is not.” Ilya groped for the English words he needed but they danced away from him, just beyond his reach, as they always seemed to do whenever he most wanted to be clear and precise. “Your parents are good with you,” he said. “You have good relationship. Do not ruin this because of me.” 

Shane frowned in genuine confusion. “Why would it be ruined because of you?” 

“You should be there.” Ilya waved a hand. “With them. Not here, lying on the phone to your mother. Making her sad.” 

“She’s not sad,” Shane said. He still looked confused but there was concern mixed into it now. “She’s not thrilled that I didn’t go home but she won’t, like. Stop talking to me or anything. I’ll call her next week and she’ll have forgotten all about it.” He looked at Ilya’s face and his concern grew more pronounced. “She’s not sad,” he said again. “She sent strawberries. Ilya. It’s really okay.” 

Ilya nodded. His throat felt tight, as did his chest and his shoulders and the back of his neck. Part of him longed to tell Shane about his own mother and how much he would love to be able to dismiss her as casually as Shane did his. To have her so present in his life that he could take for granted that she would just be there when he needed her or even when he didn’t, even after he had pushed her away. What Ilya would give to have that for himself, he did not have the tools to measure. He wished he could tell Shane this and more but the words he needed were locked away deep within him in a place he couldn’t access, and so he said nothing. 

“Hey,” said Shane. He reached out and curled a hand around Ilya’s neck, just as Ilya so often did to him. Mirroring him. To Ilya the gesture had been instinctive the first time, a reflex, but it had worked so well he’d stuck with it. He realised now the reason why. It was ridiculously comforting. 

“Listen.” Shane’s eyes darted around the room for a minute before settling onto Ilya’s face. “This thing. What we’re doing. It’s not just for you. I mean—sorry, that sounds terrible. I mean of course it’s mostly for you. But it’s for me too. Because I can’t imagine trying to do all this—hockey, all my sponsorships, all the pressure from fucking everyone, all the time—without you. You are the only other person on the fucking planet who knows what it’s like to be me and the only one who can challenge me enough to make me better and I think—when I heard that your dad was going to take all that away from me, from us, I think—fuck. I don’t know how to say this.”

Ilya didn’t either, but he understood. The endless comparisons drawn between them, the historic rivalry of their teams, their names always spoken on the same breath and the fact that they stood alone at the top and no one else could fucking touch them—even before they’d met they had been pulled inevitably, inescapably into each other’s orbit. And maybe that should have made them hate each other the way everyone seemed to think they ought to, yet Ilya knew there had never been any real chance of that. Their shared talent, the weight of the expectations on their shoulders, their own fierce drive to succeed, these things bonded them in a way that only they could truly understand. Ilya would be a superstar without that bond and Shane would be too, but he understood now that neither of them wished to be. The bond made them better. 

“Yes,” he said. “I know what you mean.” 

With that acknowledgement Ilya’s perception shifted. He stopped thinking about their plan as a sacrifice Shane was making for him, one that he had to earn even though he had no hope of doing so, and understood it instead as something they were doing together, by mutual agreement. For themselves and for each other and by both of their independent choice. 

“No matter what, we’re in this together,” Shane said, unconsciously emphasising what was already in Ilya’s head. “It’s not me doing you some big favour, we’re both doing what we have to do. I mean maybe we could’ve found a way to manage on our own, maybe if your dad had just let you play it would be different, but we didn’t and it isn’t and I don’t want it to be. I like knowing that wherever I am you’re there too.” His mouth quirked up at one side, one of Ilya’s favourite of his smiles. “Probably trying to piss me off.” 

“Definitely succeeding at that, is too easy,” Ilya replied with a brief grin of his own before he grew sober again. “Me too,” he said quietly. A truth that for once did not catch in his throat. “I am glad we are both here.” 

Shane’s smile bloomed, into the soft, quietly happy one that sent Ilya’s heart into orbit every time. He slid across the sofa where Ilya caught him by the waist and pulled him into his lap. There Shane settled, knees on either side of Ilya’s hips, their hardening cocks pressed flush. He traced the shape of Ilya’s cheekbones with the tips of his fingers then sank them into his hair as their mouths came together in a heady kiss. Ilya’s hands roamed the bare skin of Shane’s back beneath his hoodie, then slipped under his sweats to grope his ass. 

“We should go upstairs,” Shane panted against his mouth.  

“No.” Ilya shook his head. “Here.” 

“Ilya—” But whatever he was going to say was lost as Ilya kissed him some more. Deep, probing kisses because Ilya loved to kiss him, loved his mouth and the way he moaned and clutched at Ilya’s hair in a grip so tight it hurt. He loved all of it. 

Shane tugged at his hoodie so Ilya let him take it off, followed by his own, then pulled him back down to kiss again, his bare skin warm under Ilya’s hands when they returned to Shane’s ass to hold him steady as Ilya thrust up, grinding their dicks together through their clothes. 

Shane’s moan had the edge of a whine but Ilya held on to him, held him fast as they rutted together until he could feel from the tension in Shane’s body and the hitch in his breaths that he was fighting his impending orgasm and about to lose. Ilya grabbed Shane’s hand in his and spit on both. He plunged his hand into Shane’s pants and took hold of his dick, hard and weeping, and Shane, with a grateful moan, did the same to him. They came in moments and within a breath of each other, spilling over their hands and their clothes in a way Ilya knew he’d be hearing about once Shane’s afterglow faded. He didn’t care, though. It had been worth it. 

Shane, still flushed and panting, kissed him hard then rested his forehead against Ilya’s. A new smile hovered at the corners of his mouth, one Ilya hadn’t seen before. He’d almost be tempted to call it mischievous. 

“I know what we should do,” Shane said. 

“What?” 

Shane grabbed the pile of napkins that had come with their dinner, tossed a handful at Ilya then used the rest to clean himself up. “Wait here,” he said, and leapt off the sofa. 

Where else, Ilya wondered, did Shane imagine he might go? He wiped himself off, tossed the soiled napkins in the empty takeout bag, then Shane reappeared, holding a small object. 

“Polaroid,” he said, holding it up. “Christmas present from Hayden. He gave one to everyone on the team.” 

“Yes, yes, Hayden Pike is great guy. Too bad about his shit hockey.” Ilya frowned at the object as Shane settled back down next to him. “Is a camera?” he asked. It looked like one, sort of. 

“Yep,” Shane replied. “An instant one.” 

“Instant?” 

“Look.” Shane held the camera up like he would his phone, to take a selfie. He pressed the large button on the front of it and the camera flashed. Then a small, grey slip of plastic slid out of it. This Shane took carefully by the corner and waved through the air. 

“This does nothing,” he said, “but my mom says it’s tradition. We had an old Polaroid from like the 80s or something, when I was a kid. You gotta wave the pictures or they don’t turn out right. Look.” 

He held the plastic steady so Ilya could watch with him as the image of their faces slowly became clear. They looked—Ilya grinned. They looked like they’d just finished fucking. Half-naked, flushed and content. 

“Um,” said Shane. “Maybe we won’t share this one with anyone.” 

“You were thinking to show this to people?” 

“Not any people,” Shane clarified. “Ms Halstock. You know how we’re supposed to be collecting evidence?” 

“Mmhm.” 

“Well, these pictures are totally safe. They’re not digital so there’s no computer file to hack, they’re instant so no creepy dude at the development place making copies for himself. There’s only one, ever.” His eyes roamed Ilya’s face and torso. “We should try taking one that’s, um—” 

“That doesn’t look like we just came thirty seconds ago.” 

“Yeah, that. Then we can put it in the application with the call logs and stuff.” 

“Okay,” said Ilya. It wasn’t a bad idea actually. 

They put their hoodies back on and sat back together on the sofa, arranging themselves in a pose that felt intimate without being overtly we-just-fucked-and-soon-will-again. Stretched out with Ilya’s arm around Shane’s shoulders, Shane’s head tucked just beneath his chin. Shane held the camera up and snapped another picture. As it was developing, Ilya took the camera from him and looked around for something he could photograph. 

His attention was caught by their legs, tangled together on the sofa. Shane’s white socks and Ilya’s bare feet, Shane’s light grey sweats and Ilya’s black ones. Without thinking too much about it, he snapped a picture. 

“What was that?” Shane asked, as Ilya took the plastic square and waved it, as instructed. 

“Maybe nothing,” Ilya said, though as the picture developed he knew it wasn’t. It was something, something real that he could have and keep. He snapped another and let Shane take it from the camera’s slot. 

“Just legs,” he said. “To other eyes, meaningless. But we know.” 

Shane watched the picture develop, then he smiled. “We know,” he repeated softly. 

He snuggled into Ilya’s side and Ilya tightened the arm slung around his shoulders, let his lips rest in Shane’s hair. 

We know.

Chapter End Notes

please come talk to me about this fic, it consumes my thoughts.

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

remember that i love you

All-Stars 2011, Nashville

Cameras clicked and flashed, microphones shrilled. Assistants flitted everywhere, adjusting this and tweaking that as reporters milled about, talking loudly over the sound of their own equipment. A jarring cacophony of noise and light and motion but amidst it all, Shane was focused only on one thing: Don’t Look At Ilya. 

A hard enough challenge in itself but after four long and lazy days of looking his fill over Christmas, he’d not seen Ilya at all since or heard his voice for more than the few minutes every day they spent on the phone, and Shane was feeling more than a little deprived. Yesterday, what with the travelling to Nashville then the team dinner and drinks after, they hadn’t even had a chance to call. Now they were sitting side by side at the press table, close enough to touch, yet Ilya still felt miles away.

Beneath the table, Shane felt the tap of Ilya’s foot on his. Reassurance, acknowledgement, in the only form available to them at the moment. He dipped his head to hide a smile and tapped back as some of the pressure in his chest eased away. An assistant came to fiddle with the cords attached to him, and the device tucked into his pocket. He leaned back to give her space and from the corner of his eye caught sight of Ilya typing on his phone. A moment later, Shane’s phone buzzed in his pocket. 

He took it out. Tonight? 

Yes, Shane typed back, as quickly as he could. The press conference would begin any minute now. Not my room though, my captain is next door. 

Okay. 1221. 

9 o’clock

👍 

Shane tucked the phone back in his pocket and risked a longer glance at Ilya. He frowned. Ilya looked tense and withdrawn, closed-off, not at all how he usually was in interviews. Was it the lights, Shane wondered, or the size of the crowd? The fact that this wasn’t the usual group of reporters who interviewed them after games? He scanned the room and didn’t recognise a single face. 

Beneath the table, he tapped Ilya’s foot again, hoping he would understand the subtle message: You okay? 

Ilya nodded, the tiniest possible inclination of his head, and tapped back: Yes. Okay. 

Shane gave a tiny nod of his own then focused his attention on the sea of reporters as the press conference began. 

Ilya handled the first question he was given, about his very real potential to have a fifty-goal season, though the tension in his shoulders as he delivered his “Yes,” in the most smartass, fuck-off tone he could manage, made Shane wish he could reach over and rub his neck, or at least remind the assholes in the crowd that Ilya’s English may be amazing and getting better all the time but they still didn’t need to be coming at him with questions that had lead-ups fifteen sentences long. 

The next one was even worse. “Boston is an Original Six legendary team that has struggled to get to the playoffs for the past three seasons,” blustered a man with brown hair and a blue tie, barely pausing for breath between his words. “How much pressure do you feel from the fans, from the hockey world in general, to restore Boston to its former glory and how much of that do you take on personally?” 

You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me, Shane thought as he sensed Ilya fidgeting, saw him tug at the collar of his shirt. Heard his series of ums as he tried to parse what the fuck the guy was getting at. No fucking way. 

“Sorry, not to jump the gun here,” Shane said, with a glare at the asshole who’d just asked the dumbest question in history, “but, um, with Rozanov’s permission—” He tapped Ilya’s foot and Ilya returned another tiny nod. “I know it’s only been two seasons since Montreal has made the playoffs,”he went on, with his game face aimed at the fuckass reporter, “but I think I get the idea.” He let his expression soften and his media training take over. “So look. My mom’s the world’s biggest Metros fan, she’s obsessed, and like all Metros fans she wants us to be back in the playoffs regularly and she wants us to win some Cups. And I want the same thing. I want to be in the playoffs and I want to win some Cups. I feel pretty aligned with the fans because we want the same thing, and at this point it’s my job to take that personally.”

When he’d finished, Ilya took his time, leaned in and then said simply, “What he said.” 

The room burst into laughter. Ilya pressed the side of his foot fully against Shane’s. Shane, smothering a smile, pressed back. 

After the presser they were pulled once again in different directions but later, after the shot accuracy competition, Ilya very deliberately leaned against the boards and said, “Did you have fun last night?”

Shane’s head turned as if on a swivel to stare at him. What the fuck? He tried to telepathically drive right into Ilya’s head. Through his thick fucking skull. 

“With your team,” Ilya specified. “Get dinner, get drunk.” His whole attitude was of someone making simple small talk with no care for who might be listening. Shane reminded himself that no one had any reason to suspect they were more than casual acquaintances but a small part of him wanted to strangle Ilya for talking to him at all. 

“Yeah,” he said stiffly, “I had fun but I didn’t get drunk.” 

Ilya made a face and blew a raspberry. Shane glared at him. 

“You?” he asked. 

“Yeah, was great. No boring Canadians, no stupid Americans, so…” 

“So, what, just a bunch of Finnish guys talking about the cousins they’re in love with?” Shane couldn’t help snarking, and when he saw answering humour light in Ilya’s eye he couldn’t hide his grin. 

“I think I’ll go to bed early tonight,” Ilya said with a smirk of his own. He climbed over the boards and onto the ice. “Unless someone keeps me up,” he said as he skated past Shane. 

Shane watched him go with a confusing mix of irritation and anticipation, then he turned his head and saw that Scott Hunter had taken the seat next to his. 

He looks good for his advanced age, was Shane’s first thought, before he realised that was Ilya talking and forced himself to focus. 

“Nice shooting, rook,” said Hunter. 

“Thanks.” 

“Glad to see Rozanov didn’t hold my record for more than a minute.” Hunter paused, then said, almost too casually, “What did he want, by the way?” 

Shane froze. “Oh, nothing, just shit talking,” he managed, and hoped like fuck it sounded casual. 

“He’s an asshole, right?” Hunter said. 

“I mean, yeah. Basically.” I tell him so all the time. 

“Lucky me, I’m in the room next door to him at the hotel.” 

Why the fuck would he be telling me that? Shane had a moment to wonder, then his name was called and he escaped onto the ice. 

He meant to text Ilya later that day, but by the time he had finished with all the All-Star events, shared dinner with his team, and had a semi-panicked debate with himself about whether it would be better in a hypothetical nightmare scenario to be caught with Ilya by the Metros’ captain or by Scott freaking Hunter, there wasn’t much time left before nine o’clock. To soothe his nerves, he flipped through his phone apps, then noticed he had a new email. 

From Emily Halstock, the immigration lawyer. His thumb trembled as he clicked to open it, his breath held as he read it. 

“Holy shit,” he said. 

When the knock came, Ilya was scrolling through his phone. It took him a minute to register the sound, set his phone down, get to the door, and check the peephole to be sure his visitor was the one he was expecting. As soon as he cracked the door open, Shane pushed his way into the room, grabbed Ilya by the waist, and manhandled him roughly into the wall. Oh my God, Ilya mouthed as his back hit the solid surface and his arms wrapped reflexively around Shane, who pressed his face into Ilya’s neck and breathed in deep. Ilya leaned his cheek on Shane’s head and they stood like that for a time, arms around each other and pressed close. 

“Was someone chasing you?” Ilya murmured into Shane’s hair. 

“Fuck off,” Shane grumbled. “You left me standing out there for ages. Maybe we should have met in my room.” 

“Next door to your team captain?” 

“Scott fucking Hunter is next door to you! Did you know that?” 

Ilya did. He’d chirped him a bit at check-in, just to keep his game sharp. “So what?” He shrugged. “He is too old to hear anything without hearing aid.” 

“This is too fucking stressful,” said Shane. “People fucking everywhere. I tried three times to leave my room before the coast was clear.” 

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. He did not mention that the danger kind of got him going. That, and the fact that he hadn’t been near Shane in weeks. He trailed a hand up Shane’s spine and smiled when he shivered. 

“Wait.” Shane’s face was still buried in his neck and shoulder, his arms still holding Ilya tightly. “I have to tell you something first.” 

“What is it?” 

“I got an email from Ms Halstock about an hour ago.” Shane pulled back to smile at him. “Your permanent residence application was approved. I can stop by her office next week to pick up the card.” 

“Fuck,” Ilya breathed. 

“Right?” Shane nestled into him again. “That’s step one done. I’m so fucking relieved.” 

Relief wasn’t what Ilya was feeling. He couldn’t tell precisely what his feelings were, they were so jumbled up inside him, like someone had spilled paint on the floor in a swirling kaleidoscope of colours. His arms around Shane tightened and he took a shuddering breath. 

I don’t have to go back, was the thought that pressed itself most insistently into his mind. I don’t have to go. 

He turned his head so his lips brushed Shane’s temple, then his cheek, then his mouth. Shane moaned and sank his fingers into Ilya’s hair; Ilya allowed them both a moment of just kissing, to say hello after their long separation. Then he pulled Shane’s hoodie over his head and let Shane do the same with his shirt, before lifting him up and carrying him to the bed. He tossed Shane down on the mattress and tugged off the rest of his clothes while he kicked off his shoes, then Ilya stripped off himself and crawled over him to kiss him deeply and stroke his cock for a bit before moving downwards. Shane stiffened, and Ilya pulled back in surprise. 

“What?” he said. 

“You really… with Scott Hunter in the next room?” 

Ilya huffed and rolled his eyes. “Yes, I really and I do not care about palaeolithic wonder man Scott Hunter. Let him go back to his cave and carve his own tools. I will not be cockblocked by an early hominid.”

Shane looked torn between laughter and indignation. “Early hominid?” he sputtered. 

“Yes. People who lived four hundred thousand years ago. I read about them in National Geographic.” 

“You read a fucking National Geographic?” 

Ilya opted not to be insulted by his tone. “Was our team trainer’s. He is very boring man like you. Good with his hands though. Also like you.” 

“Jesus,” muttered Shane under his breath. 

“Mmm, thank you. But you can call me Ilya,” said Ilya, and Shane finally broke. 

“You are impossible,” he groaned through his laughter. 

“Not true. I am very easy. Yours for nothing.” He kissed Shane again then murmured lowly, right into his ear, “I need to fuck you, and I think you need that too. Yes?” Another kiss, this time with a hint of tongue. Shane chased his mouth when it ended and Ilya knew he had him. “If you are worried that Scott Hunter might hear you will just have to be very—” he kissed Shane again “—very—” another kiss “—quiet. Can you do that?” 

Shane nodded and Ilya kissed him deeper, pressed him into the pillows until he was gasping. “Shhh,” he said, as he tapped Shane’s thigh to urge him onto his stomach. “Here.” He thrust a pillow into Shane’s arms before reaching for the lube he’d stashed beside the bed. “Bite on this.” 

Shane looked dubious at that suggestion right up until Ilya’s slick fingers sank into him and then he buried his face in the pillow and moaned. 

“Shhh,” said Ilya again, leaning over him to speak into his ear. “What if Scott Hunter hears you and thinks, ‘This is Shane Hollander’s moan. I would know it anywhere’ like ancient pervert he is, hmm?”

Shane choked back a laugh that became a groan as Ilya stroked his prostate. He bit down hard on the pillow to muffle the sound and arched his back to take Ilya’s fingers deeper. 

Another time, Ilya would have been content to finger him far longer, to tease and edge him until he was quivering and incoherent, but it had been six long weeks since Christmas and Ilya was mildly concerned that if his dick didn’t get some attention soon it might abandon him entirely and go attach itself to the body of someone with a chance of getting laid more than five times between the months of October and June. 

He pulled his fingers out, ignoring Shane’s whimper of protest, and replaced them moments later with his cock. 

“Hrrrnnnggg,” said Shane, into his mouthful of pillow. Ilya groaned out a laugh and kissed his shoulder, his neck, just behind his ear. He took a firm hold of Shane’s hip and drove hard into him, watching from just over his shoulder as his cheeks flushed and his mouth fell open before he snapped it shut again. 

“Oh, fuck,” he gasped. “Fuck, Ilya—” 

“Shhh,” Ilya warned him again. “Scott Hunter is listening.” He paused long enough for a thrust or two then said, “Imagine if he were watching.” 

Shane made a noise Ilya didn’t think he’d ever heard from him before. “You would like that?” he said. “Scott Hunter in cuck chair watching me fuck you?” 

“Oh God,” Shane moaned. 

“You would.” Ilya filed this fascinating discovery away for later. “Only Hunter, or others too? Hayden Pike maybe?” 

“No,” groaned Shane. 

“I bet Hunter would like it.” Ilya felt his control begin to slip as the scenario he’d meant to torture Shane with took over his mind as well. “He would touch himself, watching us.” He leaned his forehead against Shane’s shoulder, eyes falling shut as he imagined it. “We must look so fucking hot.” He wanted mirrors now, wanted to fuck Shane somewhere he could see every angle of it. He could feel his orgasm pressing against his spine, gripping his chest. “Touch yourself,” he ordered Shane. “Like Hunter would do when we fuck for him.” 

Shane’s face was fully buried in the pillow, his breath coming in short, harsh gasps. He shifted just enough to take hold of his dick and squeeze and then he was groaning, spilling over his hand and the hotel duvet. Ilya, with a gasp of relief, let himself follow right behind. 

He collapsed onto Shane, heedless of the mess on the duvet though he knew he’d hear about it later, and just let himself sink into the bliss of this, of Shane’s  sweaty skin flush against his, the rhythm of their breathing, his cock still in Shane’s ass as it softened. 

“You are,” Shane muttered into the pillow, “such an asshole. Fuck.” He rolled over and Ilya shifted to let him, tucking his head beneath Shane’s arm and into his shoulder as Shane’s fingers found his hair. His face was flushed and his eyes soft. He was, Ilya thought, so fucking beautiful his chest ached to look at him. 

“Was hot, though, yes?” he said, and Shane gave a helpless laugh. 

“Yeah. Yeah I think we can say it was really fucking hot.” 

Ilya kissed him somewhere between his pec and his armpit, then let the weight of his head rest on the curve of his arm and shoulder. 

“I should go,” Shane said, but Ilya knew his tones of voice well enough by now to understand what that really meant. 

“Don’t,” he said. “Too many people still awake. Go later, when they are asleep.” 

“Good idea.” Absolved from his responsibility to pretend he wanted to leave, Shane relaxed into the pillows. His fingers toyed with Ilya’s hair in gentle, soothing motions. Ilya closed his eyes and drifted into that nebulous space between asleep and awake, content as he only ever was when he lay with Shane like this. 

And he could keep it, he thought, in the quiet little corner of his mind where, fully awake, he’d never dare go. He could have this. Permanent residence in Canada. One foot on the path to citizenship. And for the next five years, by authority of the Canadian government itself, Shane Hollander was his. 

After the All-Star game, they settled back into their routine. Daily calls, frequent texts, and one final matchup before the end of the regular season, when Montreal travelled to Boston.

“I’ll bring the card then,” Shane told Ilya after he had collected it from the lawyer’s office. “Ms Halstock says to qualify you for citizenship we just have to keep doing what we’re doing. Also we’ll need to find a place to live this summer. Probably not Montreal, people would definitely notice you there.”

“They will notice me anywhere,” Ilya replied. Shane rolled his eyes at that but he couldn’t deny the truth behind the boast. Ilya was pretty fucking noticeable and that was going to be a problem. He had to stay in Canada the whole summer, to build up enough days of residency to qualify for citizenship. The only question was, where could the Boston Raiders’ ragebaiting star centre both plausibly and safely reside in a country where he’d made enemies of the hockey fans in nearly every major city? 

Canada may be a big country but whether it was big enough to contain Ilya Rozanov remained to be seen. 

“Ottawa’s best probably,” Shane said. 

“Ottawa your hometown? Where your parents live?” 

“They do, yeah, but in the suburbs. We could get a place in the city. People mind their own business in cities.”

There was a pause as Ilya considered this. “Okay,” he said. “Canadian cities are much the same for me, Ottawa as good as any. But what will you tell your parents? They are expecting you home, yes?” 

“Yeah.” Shane forced himself to keep his breathing steady. “Mom’s already got a bunch of sponsorship work lined up. I don’t know, I’ll think of something. Maybe I’ll just tell them I need some space.” 

“I also have new sponsorship,” Ilya said. 

“Really?” 

“Yes. Nike.” 

“What? You know I do Reebok, right?” 

“Yes, obviously I know this. Nike does too. I think this is why they asked me.” 

“They asked you?” 

“Mmm.” 

“Well. Okay. Is that, um, going to be a problem? If you’re living in Canada?” 

“No. I told them already is where I would be. Maybe I will have to go to Toronto for a few days but this is not a problem.” 

“That’s like a five hour drive.” 

“You have forgotten airplanes exist?” 

“No, I—shut up!” Shane said, when Ilya started to laugh. “We could just live in Toronto, you know.” 

“No, Ottawa is fine. Is really not important to me so you can choose.” 

“Okay, well, is it important to you where or what the place is like?” 

Ilya was silent for a moment. “Near a park to go running in,” he said at last. “Has a good gym or is close to one. For everything else is fine what you choose.” 

“Okay,” Shane said again. “I’ll take care of it.” 

Boston won their game 5-2 behind Ilya’s two goals and two assists. Ilya was on an absolute tear the whole night, chirping at everyone within hearing distance, aggressively checking Shane at every opportunity, and making Montreal’s defence look like Swiss cheese. Shane’s frustration with his team, himself, and his stupid asshole husband grew so great that he checked Ilya back in the second period, into the boards hard enough to bruise, and when, during their now-customary late-game face-off, Ilya leaned in with his most obnoxious smirk and said, “I missed you today, Hollander. Where have you been all game?” Shane came as close as he ever had to dropping his gloves. 

“I’m right here, asshole,” he said. “I scored both our goals.” 

“Ah, I see. Hollander is here but his team is not. They are napping, maybe. Resting up for playoffs you will not be in.” 

We’re three points up on you, Shane wanted to say, with a far easier schedule. If anyone’s missing the playoffs it’s you. But the puck dropped before he could and Ilya’s chirping accomplished its goal—he won the face-off and the Raiders won the game. 

“Fucking Rozanov,” Shane snarled to Hayden as he stripped off his gear in the locker room after.  

Hayden looked alarmed. “What did he say to you?” 

“Nothing. Just his usual fucking bullshit ragebait crap. Smug motherfucker.” Shane slammed his shoulder pads down hard. “We had better make the fucking playoffs is all I’m saying. If that asshole gets a Cup before I do I might kill him myself.” 

“Damn, Hollander,” said a voice from behind him, and Shane looked around to find the entire locker room staring at him.

“What?” he said. 

“We’ve just never heard you talk like that before,” explained Candelot, one of the defensemen and the one who’d spoken earlier. “You and Rozanov are supposed to be these big fucking, generational rivals or whatever but he’s up in your face all the time and you never even seem mad at him.” 

“I’m not mad at him,” Shane said. “He’s just playing his game. I’m mad because his game got through our fucking defence four times tonight. What the fuck was that about?” 

Some of his teammates continued to stare at him, others couldn’t meet his eyes. A few shuffled their feet. Looking around him, Shane realised that Ilya had been right. No way would his teammates ever guess that they were fucking. They’d have to actually see Ilya’s dick go into Shane’s ass and even then they might struggle with the concept. Shane had been so reluctant to mention Ilya at all, even to acknowledge his existence in front of his team in case they caught on somehow to what the two of them were doing. He saw now that this had been the wrong move. 

Plausible deniability, he thought. Well, why the fuck not. 

“Rozanov’s a dick, he always has been and that’s not gonna change,” said Shane. “I played him twice at World Juniors so I know. But there’s no point getting mad at him about it. What we’ve gotta do is beat his ass so that he’s got less to be a dick about. Shut his fucking mouth for him because he’ll never shut it himself.” He scanned the room, catching as many eyes as he could. “We’re three and one against Boston this year. That’s a good start. I’d like to meet them in the playoffs and shut Rozanov’s shit down for good. Then I’d like to win a goddamn Cup. That’s if we can keep the rest of the fucking league from getting through our defence the way he did tonight. Think we can manage that?” 

Without waiting for a response, he dropped his remaining gear into his locker and stalked off to the showers, leaving a bemused silence behind him. 

“Hey, so,” said Candelot to no one in particular. “Maybe Hollander has what it takes to be captain after all.” 

“Hey, asshole, I’m not dead yet,” retorted Palmer, the captain. 

“Only a matter of time, grandpa,” Candelot shot back. “We need to be thinking ahead.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Not tonight, bro, I’ll be too busy with your mom.” 

This classic witticism was met with all the appropriate derisive laughter and by the time Shane returned from his shower the atmosphere in the locker room was fully back to normal. 

Shane’s frustration was still simmering when he let himself into Ilya’s apartment that night. He found his husband stretched out on the sofa, scrolling on his phone as a movie played at low-volume on the TV. Shane threw the envelope with the PR card down on his coffee table and glared at him. Ilya looked up with wide, innocent eyes. 

“Something on your mind?” he asked. 

Shane seethed. “I wish I knew why I was signing myself up for an entire career’s worth of your shit,” he said. “I must be out of my fucking mind.” 

“Probably,” Ilya agreed. “Do you want to be in it?” 

Shane considered this for a solid half-second, long enough to feel the weight of the ring on his finger and note the gleam of Ilya’s on his. “Of course I fucking don’t,” he said, and then he was on Ilya, pressing him back against the sofa cushions and kissing him with all the frustration of the night’s loss channeled into lust. 

“Mmm,” Ilya said against his lips. “If this is what you are like when you lose I will have to beat you more often.” 

“In your fucking dreams,” Shane snarled. 

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “In my dreams I do many things to you.” 

“Oh yeah? Show me.” 

Ilya did an exaggerated, dramatic pause, lips pursed. “No,” he said. 

“What?” 

“Tonight was my win. Now is for you to do to me.” 

Part of Shane would rather chew glass. The other part… “What do you want?” he asked. 

“Fuck yourself on my cock,” Ilya said, so quickly that Shane knew he must have been thinking about this for a while. “I want you to ride me.” 

“Fuck.” Now Shane wanted that too, more than anything. “Here?” 

“Bed.” Ilya kissed him hard then smacked his ass. “Go.” 

Shane scrambled off of him and made for the bedroom, with Ilya close on his heels. They paused at the foot to kiss some more and strip the clothing from each other’s bodies. Then Ilya pushed Shane down and said, “Open yourself up.” 

Shane’s breath caught and his brain began to hum. He settled back against the pillows, reached for the lube from the drawer beside the bed and forced himself to go slowly, drizzling it onto his fingers as Ilya stood watching. Shane looked up and caught his eyes, held them as he lifted his knees and leaned back so Ilya could see everything. As his cool, slick fingers met his skin he gasped and Ilya swallowed hard, chest heaving. 

Shane ran his finger around his rim then pushed it in, deep as he could get it. He let his head fall back as he moaned; he couldn’t see Ilya anymore but the weight of his gaze felt like a blanket, heavy and safe. He pressed a second finger in and then a third, working himself open as Ilya always did, and then the bed dipped and Ilya was there, grabbing his chin to kiss him then rolling them both over until Shane was straddling him. 

“Now,” he panted, “Shane—” 

But Shane was already reaching for the condoms. He threw one at Ilya as he lubed his fingers again; once it was on he pumped Ilya’s cock twice with his slick hand then hovered over it, positioning himself. Ilya’s hands were on his hips, his mouth slack and eyes glazed. He nodded and Shane sank down onto him, as far as he could go. 

“Oh, fuck,” they moaned in unison, as Ilya’s fingers flexed and Shane gripped the headboard to find his balance. Slowly he began to move, until he found his rhythm then he went faster, drove harder, until he was fucking himself as well as Ilya ever had. 

“Shane, fuck,” Ilya moaned, “fuck, fuck, fuck.” It was like a chant, like a hymn. Shane leaned down to kiss him and to breathe with him, to share his air. Ilya rose up to catch his lips as his hands roamed Shane’s back, clenched on his ass. Shane heard the catch in his breath that meant he was close and he rode harder still, mercilessly, until Ilya gasped and groaned and his eyes fell shut. Only then did Shane grab his dick and let his own orgasm crash over him. 

He leaned his forehead against Ilya’s as they panted together, then Ilya’s arms closed around him and pulled him down; Shane made a weak sound of protest as his cum squished between them but Ilya held him close nonetheless, his face in the crook of Shane’s neck. 

He was murmuring in Russian. Shane tugged at his hair. “What are you saying?” 

“That my husband is hot, and talented,” Ilya said. Shane didn’t quite believe him but the praise seemed to sink into his skin and light it up. “And that now I have even more reason to make him angry on the ice.” 

Shane choked on a laugh and slapped the side of Ilya’s head, which made him laugh. He rolled them over until Shane was on his back. “How long can you stay?” he asked. 

“I should be gone by five,” Shane replied. “Flight’s at eight.” 

“Okay.” It was nearly one a.m. Ilya kissed him then said, “You shower first. Want a sandwich?” 

“Yeah. Not—” 

“I know, I know. I have boring turkey for you.” 

Shane smiled and Ilya kissed him again. “Go. Will be ready when you are done.” 

In the end, both the Raiders and the Metros made the playoffs. Both were eliminated in the first round, by the first and second seeds respectively. Frustrating, but Shane reminded himself that even a first-round loss was progress compared to the past few years. Next year, they’d do even better. 

Next season, Ilya texted him after the Metros’ hard-fought Game Six loss. 

Yeah, Shane texted back. The Raiders had gone out in five. Next season. 

See you in Vegas then. 

Vegas in June once again, this year for the MLH Awards, where they both were nominated for Rookie of the Year. Almost a year completely since they’d last been there together, for a very different reason. Shane knew Ilya must be thinking about that, as he was. How much had changed since then. Neither of them said anything about it. 

Shane was excited about the awards, regardless. The ROTY would go to one or the other of them, the third nominee was only there to make up the numbers. Their stats were close, nearly identical. Stats that would have easily won them the award in any other year; only the fact that they had to face each other made it any kind of competition. 

Just, thought Shane, as it was fucking meant to be.

When he won he was proud, not only for the win but for the win over Ilya specifically, all the sweeter because the opponent was so tough. He looked forward to ragging on Ilya about it later, though. He was only human. 

But there was no sign of Ilya at the reception after the ceremony, though Shane had seen him in his seat in the auditorium. He’d tried to catch his eye, but every time he looked over, Ilya had been glaring at his phone. 

Shane shook many hands, accepted congratulations, did shots with Scott Hunter, despite not being able to meet his eyes. Ilya persisted in being nowhere to be found, and Shane began to worry. Even his heart stopping momentarily when Hunter called Ilya ‘your boy’, couldn’t overcome the concern and the increasingly pressing need to locate his husband and find out what the fuck was going on.

But first, he thought, as the room wove hazily around him, he could do with a bit of air. 

Up on the rooftop balcony he found Ilya, leaning against the railing and looking out over the city. 

“Hey,” Shane said, as he slumped on the railing himself. “Here you are.” 

Ilya turned to look at him, with a closed, cold expression, an expression Shane hadn’t seen on his face since the airport, not quite one year ago. His going-back-to-Russia-face, a voice in his mind supplied, but that made no sense. Ilya wasn’t going back to Russia. 

“Here I am,” Ilya agreed. His hand moved and Shane noticed it held a cigarette. 

“You’re smoking,” he said. 

“Yes, Hollander, I am smoking.” He shot another brief glance in Shane’s direction, then looked away again. ”And you are drunk.” 

“I’m not,” Shane protested instinctively, but it was almost true. The use of his surname and the harsh tone of Ilya’s voice was like a dagger, tearing a hole through the haze of Shane’s intoxication. Ilya snorted. 

“Good for you,” he said. “Big night for you.”  

 Shane blinked and focused his gaze on Ilya’s face—the hard jaw, the corners of his mouth drawn in. Everything about him seemed tense and miserable. Wrong. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked. 

“Nothing.” 

“You’re lying.” 

“So what if I am?” returned Ilya sharply. “Take the hint.” 

Shane drew in a sharp breath as the dagger pierced his chest this time. Ilya glanced at him, at his face, then quickly looked away. “My brother called,” he said. The words seemed torn from him. “To ask when I would come home.” 

“What did you say?” 

“I said I was not coming. I will stay here.” His mouth twisted. “He said my father will be disappointed.” He sucked in a long drag from the cigarette. “Then my father called to say he is disappointed. He did not raise his son to be so disrespectful. Then my brother called again to say if I would not be home I should at least send money as that is all I am good for.” 

“Fuck.” This was the most Ilya had ever said about his family, and now Shane cold understand why. “That’s—” 

“Please, Hollander.” Ilya waved his hand sharply, like he was swatting a fly. “Don’t.” 

“Don’t what?” 

“Just—” Ilya seemed to be struggling to find the words. “You cannot understand.” 

"Understand what?" Shane spit out, on a burst of frustration. “How would you know when you never give me a chance?” Ilya made no response and so he pressed on. “This is the first fucking thing you’ve said about your dad since the diner in Ottawa. All you’ve said about your brother is he’s a drug addict who tried to beat you up. How can I possibly understand any more than that when you tell me fucking nothing?” 

“Is because—I can’t—I don’t fucking want to talk about it, Hollander, okay?” 

“What do you want then?” 

“To be left alone.” The answer came so quickly, so sharply, that Shane recoiled from it. 

“Fine,” he said. He wanted to help, to fix this, with a fierceness that nearly overwhelmed him but Ilya’s coldness hurt so badly and the distance between them felt like a wall of ice, insurmountable. “I’ll fucking go, I guess.” 

He turned away and stumbled down the steps then paused and turned back. “You’re still coming, to the place in Ottawa, right? You’ll need as much time—” 

“I know.” Ilya drew in another drag then flicked his cigarette over the balcony. The silence between them stretched and drew taut and then he said, “I will be there.” 

“Okay.” Shane hovered awkwardly at the foot of the steps. “I guess I’ll see you, then. Oh, and um. Here's your key.” He took a key from his pocket and held it out. Ilya came down the steps to take it and took Shane's hand as well, steered him backwards into the wall. Their eyes met for the briefest heartbeat before they fell into each other, kissing hungrily and with an edge of desperation, until Shane realised where they were and shoved Ilya away. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” he snapped. “Anyone could see!” 

“There’s no one here.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“Shane—“ 

“Oh, now you call me by my name.” Shane grabbed him and spun them around until Ilya was against the wall. Confusing, conflicting emotions, worry, anger, hurt, frustration, all bubbled up within him, pushing against the back of his throat and out of him through his words. “You want to be left alone?” he spat. “Fine. I’m going to stay with my parents for a while. Let me know when you’re done with whatever the fuck this is.” He shoved away from the wall and from Ilya and ignored the ache in his chest that begged him not to go. “Happy fucking anniversary.”  

As he was walking away he heard Ilya’s voice. 

“Shane. Shane. I will call you soon.” 

Shane did not look back.

Chapter End Notes

no really. i love you all very much

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

i'm so pleased that you all seem to have survived the soft launch of the angst. Surely this means you are inoculated for what's to come. Surely.

it won't come in this chapter though, this one is soft and yearny. Yearny is a word. Trust me, i'm a writer.

gushing thoughts below the arrow

writing this fic is the most fun i've had in fandom in a long time and that is due in massive part to all the wonderfully and beautifully unhinged comments you've been leaving. Please continue, i eat them up like candy. i want to hear what makes you feel crazy and what you want to see and all about how these boys are so twisted up by each other and the mad situation they've got themselves into that they've accidentally fallen into a really healthy relationship dynamic, if you ignore the fact that it's a deep dark secret that could end their careers and that they both are convinced it's a finite arrangement the other will definitely walk away from just as soon as it ends. Those comments are like crack to me because this is precisely what i wanted to achieve with this fic and i'm just so happy you see it too.

❤️

Ilya had nearly forgotten how shitty his father could make him feel. Useless, like nothing he did could ever be good enough, and guilty because he wasn’t able to be better. No matter where he chose to spend his summer he would be disappointing someone and Ilya, accustomed as he was to crumbling in the face of his father’s harsh criticism and his demands, had been on the verge of giving in and going back to Russia, fuck Canada and the MLH and all the rest of it. Until he’d stood, bruised and bleeding in his soul on that Vegas rooftop, and let himself look at Shane’s face. 

Between disappointing his father and disappointing Shane it turned out, there was no competition. And so Ilya went to Canada and Grigori fumed from afar, called him daily with harangues and insults until Svetlana plucked the phone from Ilya’s hand and expertly dismantled his father in her very sweetest tone, a tone that had destroyed men made of sterner stuff than Grigori Rozanov, insidious and deadly as poison delivered directly into the veins. 

Ilya loved her so fucking much. 

She handed the phone back to him with a flash of her gorgeous smile, the one that took no prisoners, and when he cautiously greeted his father again Grigori almost apologised. 

“I do not like these American teams,” he said. “They have no discipline. You are too weak as it is, you will be ruined if you stay there. But if this is your choice, I wash my hands of it.” 

Then he hung up, leaving Ilya drowning in a confusing mix of relief and guilt and self-loathing, and the love he couldn’t help but feel for his father, despite it all. 

“Here,” Sveta said, as she took his phone away again, pulled him down onto the sofa and cradled his head against her breasts. “Whatever you are feeling, stop. He’s not worth it.” 

“He’s my father.” 

“That’s just biology. When has he ever been your papa?” 

Ilya had no answer for this. 

Sveta held him and kissed him and let him fuck her because that was their established pattern and a comfort to them both, but they knew even before they began that this would be the last time. Someone else had crept into Ilya’s life when Svetlana wasn’t looking, and shifted its very foundations. 

Svetlana allowed herself to be persuaded to come to Ottawa with Ilya because of the distinct lack of effort he put into convincing her. The more deeply he wanted something the more casual he was about asking for it, if he asked for it at all, and as he packed his things in Boston his unhappiness and desperation not to be alone had all but bled from his pores. People frequently found Ilya mercurial and hard to read, so Svetlana had been given to understand, but to her he was an open book and always had been.

So when he carelessly dropped a, “You could come with me to Ottawa,” Svetlana shrugged and replied in the same offhand tone. 

“If I must,” she said, and sighed. 

“You don’t have to.” 

“No, I will,” she insisted, because he needed her to insist. “I want to see what it is about Canada that makes you wish to stay there forever.” 

Ilya’s expression shuttered entirely at that but Svetlana had known him all his life and she was, of course, nobody’s fool. She’d seen him on his phone with the text exchange with Jane open, scrolling through the messages with a look on his face that even she, who knew him better than anyone, was hesitant to believe  could be what it so obviously was. 

She sensed that Ilya was teetering just on the edge of it and only still on that edge because he was so terrified of falling off. In this she suspected he was fighting a losing battle. Ilya’s heart was so soft; though he kept it buried as deeply as he could if someone had managed to excavate their way to it then he would have no defences against them. And every time Svetlana saw him jump eagerly at his phone when it buzzed only to look even more miserable when the notification was not from Jane, she wondered a bit more if he had not already tumbled from that perilous edge and only thought he was still clinging to it because he didn’t dare contemplate the alternative. 

So she went to Ottawa with him, to a city-centre penthouse professionally styled and fully equipped and void of any personality, and stayed there for a week and a half as Ilya moped and brooded and clung to his phone. She tried to nudge him out of his funk with every trick that had ever worked on him in the past but this, she was finally forced to conclude, was something new. Something that couldn’t be put right by a wild night out or good vodka or a joyride in a fast car on an empty highway. This was something—someone—whose absence was a pain too deep for surface-level pleasures to soothe away. 

Who was this Jane, she wondered, and why was Ilya so protective of her that he kept her secret even from Svetlana, who knew about every person he had ever slept with, save this one. 

When at last she hit upon the only possible explanation to fit all the facts, her heart broke for him.

On the day she was scheduled to fly back to Boston, she curled up with Ilya on the bland and tasteful sofa in the bland and tasteful living room with an action movie on the television that neither of them was really watching. Ilya’s head rested in her lap and she sifted her fingers gently through his curls. 

“Ilyusha,” she said softly, and Ilya shivered. No one ever called him that. Not to use diminutives was strange in Russian but his family—his father, Alexei—never did. Only his mother, and only with him. That was her name for him, Sveta knew this and respected it. Normally. 

“Ilyusha,” she said again. “I have to leave but I don’t want to leave you here alone. When you are alone you go too deep into your head. I know there is someone, the reason you’ve come to Canada. Jane, isn’t it?” 

“Yes.” Ilya drew in and then released a steadying breath. 

“And is Jane someone you can call? To be here with you?” 

“Yes,” he said again. His voice was so, so carefully controlled. “I will call when you go.” 

“Call now.” She tapped her fingernail on his phone, clutched in his hand. “I won’t listen.” 

Ilya dragged himself up off her lap and turned a wounded expression on her. She laughed and kicked him lightly. “Nice try, no dice. Go.” 

He pouted, lip stuck out like a child, but took his phone into his bedroom and shut the door behind him.

Can I call you?

Ilya held his breath, half-expecting Shane not to reply at all. But the answer came quickly. Yes. 

His heart pounded as he pressed the button and listened to the blare of the ringtones. Shane answered after less than two. 

“Hey,” he said. 

His voice was soft and warm and such a far cry from the icy reserve Ilya’s mind had convinced him to expect that he choked up for a moment and couldn’t reply. Until that point he’d had no idea what he could even say to Shane now, after Vegas, so he blurted out the only thing he truly needed him to understand. “I’m sorry.” 

“I’m sorry too.”

For what? Ilya wanted to ask him. Shane had done nothing. It was Ilya who’d pushed him away, all Shane had done was go. Instead he said, “My family, they bring out the worst in me. I don’t—I don’t know why I—” 

“It’s okay,” Shane said. “What they said to you was awful. It’s no wonder you were upset. You don’t deserve that.” 

Ilya closed his eyes. “I—” 

“Ilya,” said Shane, more firmly. “You don’t deserve it.”

“I am not there. I should be.” 

“Do you want to be?” 

Ilya didn’t have to think about that answer, still he hesitated to give it. “No. I don’t.” 

“Then I think you’re exactly where you should be.” 

“I miss you,” Ilya said, because it was the thought uppermost in his mind and that mind had apparently decided to employ no filters at all. He grimaced and pressed his fingers to his eyes as the brief beat of time between his statement and Shane’s response dragged out like a lifetime. 

“I miss you too,” Shane said. “Are you at the apartment?” 

“Yes.” 

“I can be there in an hour.” 

Ilya thought about how badly he wanted that, of how there was nothing he wanted more, then he considered the mess of the place and of himself and also Svetlana, whose flight was not until that evening. “Give me two.”

“Okay,” said Shane. “Two hours.” 

“Okay,” Ilya said. “See you then.” 

“See you soon.” 

Soon.

When they hung up, Ilya held his phone close to his chest as a feeling he couldn’t identify spread through him, over all the sharp, prickly thorns that had been poking him from the inside ever since he’d answered Alexei’s call, then grew longer and even more vicious after his fight with Shane. The feeling dissolved the thorns away like they were nothing, and Ilya drew the first painless breath he’d taken in weeks. 

The soothing feeling in his chest was forgiveness, but Ilya had no way of knowing that. Not yet. All he knew was that the world seemed manageable again, brighter and free of the weight that had felt like it was pinning him to the floor every time he tried to move. He breathed in deeply again just to enjoy the sensation, then tucked his phone into his pocket and went back out to face Svetlana. 

Svetlana, who was waiting for him on the sofa, just as he had left her. “You called?” she asked, and Ilya nodded. He looked like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how or where to begin so Sveta, as she always did, took pity on him. “He will be here soon?” she prompted, then watched carefully as Ilya registered the choice of pronoun. 

“In two hours.” He paused, then said, “Sveta. I don’t like to keep secrets from you.” 

“Everyone keeps secrets,” she said. “Just promise that the next time yours becomes too much you will actually talk to me about it.” She stood and walked over to him, took his face in her hands and held it until he looked at her. “Promise, Ilya.” 

He swallowed, then nodded. “I promise.” 

“Good.” She kissed him softly, a farewell in more ways than one, and then she said, “Be a darling now and call me a taxi while I pack.” 

Ilya saw Svetlana off in the taxi then spent the next hour channeling his nervous energy into restoring the apartment to a cleanliness level that would meet Shane’s standards, or as near as he could manage it. He changed the bed sheets, loaded the dishwasher, ran the vacuum, wiped down every kitchen surface, and took out the garbage before turning his attention to himself. He took a shower, put on clean clothes and his wedding ring, and then, when he heard Shane’s key in the lock, realised he had no idea what to do with his body and floundered about for a bit before ending up just standing in the entryway, waiting, like some sort of supplicant. 

Shane had a large suitcase that he left at the door along with his shoes. He took a few steps in then stood with his thumbs in the pockets of his shorts, in a posture as awkward as Ilya’s felt. His eyes lit on the floor, on the wall, on a point just above Ilya’s left shoulder before alighting finally on his face. There they remained for a drawn-out beat and then Shane, with a whispered “Fuck,” launched himself into Ilya’s arms. 

Ilya caught him and held him close, sighed into his hair as Shane breathed against his neck. He hadn’t realised until that moment just how terrified he’d been that his actions had ruined everything between them and he would never get to hold or kiss or fuck Shane ever again. The relief of having that fear dispelled was so intense he felt close to tears. 

“Shane,” he said, “my father, he—I mean, I—” 

Shane pulled back just far enough to rest his forehead against Ilya’s. “We don’t have to talk about it unless you want to,” he said. “I’m sorry I pushed you in Vegas. I shouldn’t have.”  

Ilya drew in then released a shaky breath. “Okay. Is okay,” he said, glad for—and the tiniest bit disappointed by—this reprieve. 

It lasted for the best part of an hour. 

Ilya stroked Shane’s face, took gentle hold of his chin and kissed him, softly first and then with helpless passion as Shane’s fingers sank into his hair and he kissed back. Together they stumbled into the bedroom, still kissing, separating only long enough to shed their clothing as they went. On the wide bed with dark green sheets and a normal amount of pillows, Ilya kissed Shane’s neck, his chest, his stomach, the tip of his cock, as Shane hummed and sighed in pleasure; he groped Shane’s chest and sucked his dick until he came then ate his ass until he was hard again, desperate and pleading with Ilya to fuck him. Which Ilya did gladly, devotedly, with the dedication and singular focus of a man who thought he’d lost the right to perform this precious task forever. 

He drove Shane hard into the mattress, lips and teeth on his neck, their bodies pressed together and Shane’s heels digging into his ass, fingernails raking his back. Ilya fucked Shane like he wanted to meld their two bodies together, inseparably and forever—because he did want that, though he couldn’t admit to it or face what it meant. He couldn’t even fully think it. He only knew that he never wanted to feel again as he had the past two weeks, both full of thorns and hollow; empty because something vital to his life was missing, thorny because he was responsible for its absence.   

It was as they lay together in the aftermath, blissed out and tangled up as their breathing slowed and the sweat cooled on their skin, that the state of quiet contentment he found only in Shane’s arms settled on Ilya and at last he was able to find the words he needed. 

“My father is a hard man,” he said. He waited for Shane to protest they didn’t need to talk about it but Shane’s arms tightened around him and Ilya realised he too must understand that now was the time. “He is police, high-ranking. Very powerful, influential in government. Ministers listen to him, everyone, Putin himself even, I don’t know. For him, his family is reflection of himself. What I do is what he does so I must do as he would. This is how he thinks.” 

“And if you don’t do as he would?” 

“This is first time I have not. In his eyes, this reflects badly on him and could damage his power. He is—very angry with me.” 

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane breathed. “That must be so hard.” 

“Yes.” 

They lay in silence for a bit then Shane said, “Do you regret this? Us? It would’ve been so much easier for you if I’d just let you go back to Russia—” 

“No.” Ilya cut him off. “I do not regret. I don’t want to live in Russia or have my father control my life. I just wish…” He trailed off and Shane brushed a gentle stroke of fingertips across his cheek. 

“What do you wish?” he asked softly. 

Ilya had never had the words to express this before in any language. But lying there with Shane warm and solid against him and soft, summer evening light pouring through the windows of a place where he felt safe, they came with an ease that surprised him. 

“I wish I did not have to choose between my family and the life I want. Or between living in my country and living as myself.” He paused, then continued in a rougher voice. “I wish my father could know me. As I am, not as he wants me to be. I wish he could love me. As I am.” 

“You think he doesn’t?” 

“I think he cannot. He loves to boast about me. His son, the hockey star. When I fail he loves to say how he told me this or that but I did not listen. If I’d listened to him I would not have failed. When I win is because I did as he instructed.” 

“So when you lose it’s your fault but when you win it’s because of him. That’s bullshit, Ilya.” 

“Yes.” Ilya smiled at the indignant anger in Shane’s voice. “Is bullshit. But he is my father.”  

“Yeah,” Shane sighed. “I get that.” 

Ilya couldn’t help his small, derisive snort. Shane bristled at the sound. “I do! Why do you think I can’t understand this? You think I don’t have parents?” 

“Parents who love you. I saw them, at the draft.” He swallowed, but that couldn’t wash the bitter edge from his voice. “So proud.” 

“Even though I was number two, you mean.” 

“Shane—” 

“No! Listen.” Shane’s face was so serious, earnest and intent. “Your dad sucks on like, another level and my parents do love me but that doesn’t mean they know me. Not all of me. They don’t know—” he gestured at Ilya. 

“That you fuck men?” 

“A man,” Shane muttered, as though the quantity of men were the crucial factor. “They don’t know I married you or why I basically ran out of their house this afternoon. I’m pulling away from them and they don’t know the reason and I feel really fucking shitty about that sometimes. And my mom—” He broke off with a shake of his head. 

“What?” Ilya pressed gently after a moment. “Your mom what?” 

“She’s an Asian mom in a white country,” said Shane flatly. “She feels like she’s got a lot to prove and she proves it through me. She’s my manager so when I win she wins and if I fuck up I disappoint her and the entire Asian population of Canada. So yeah. I get parents laying on guilt and pressure and living through you and feeling like everything you achieve is theirs too. You don’t have to hide this stuff from me, Ilya. You don’t have to tell me every detail but something this big that hurts you this much? You shouldn’t have to deal with that on your own.” 

Something settled in Ilya’s chest at these words, the last of the hollowness filled, the thorns eradicated down to their roots. He made a production of sighing and rolling his eyes but his soft, pleased smile was genuine. 

“Fine,” he said. “In future, I will not hide.” 

“Good.” 

“But only if you don’t either, yes? Is not fair, to have not hiding go only one way.” 

Shane sighed but his smile was wide and soft and pleased. “Yes. I won’t hide either.” 

“We have a deal,” said Ilya, then in an airily casual tone continued, “Svetlana was right.” 

Shane’s eyebrows drew together. “Svetlana?” 

“Yes. What you said is also what she said. Not in words so much but with her face. Svetlana says a lot with just her face.” 

“Well.” Shane’s face did a bit of talking then, as he tried to figure out how to react to this. Eventually, he settled on, “Svetlana sounds very smart.” 

“She is,” Ilya agreed. “You would like her, I think.” He paused, watching Shane closely. “She already likes you.” 

Shane frowned. “She hasn’t met me.” 

“As hockey player,” Ilya clarified. “She knows everything about hockey. Her father is Sergei Vetrov, he was famous goalie for the Soviet team.” He grabbed hold of Shane’s hip and said, “She thinks you are hot, which is true. She thinks also you are second best player in the MLH. Which is true.” 

Shane shoved his shoulder. “Fuck you.” He tried to wriggle free but Ilya held him fast. 

“Is not my opinion,” he protested, “is Svetlana’s.” 

“‘Which is true’,” Shane said, in a terrible parody of Ilya’s accent. Ilya started laughing. “You agree with her so it’s your opinion too. Fuck off,” he said, when Ilya just laughed harder. “God, you’re an asshole.” 

“I think you like it,” said Ilya, through his laughter. “I think asshole is your type.” 

“You’re the one who’s always putting parts of yourself up mine,” Shane pointed out. “Maybe asshole is your type.” 

“Mmm, I cannot deny,” Ilya said. He rolled them over so Shane was beneath him. “I like your asshole and that you are asshole.” 

“I’m not an asshole!” 

“Mmm…” 

“I’m not,” Shane huffed, but the rest of his protests were swallowed by Ilya’s mouth. 

“Hey, um,” Shane said a few days later as they were lounging on the sofa playing video games, “you remember when we first started planning this and I said I’d like to build a house on a lake like my parents have?”

 It took Ilya a moment to sort through the question and his memory to locate Shane and himself in the small diner on that very early winter morning a year and a half ago. Shane so tense but so determined, he remembered, with his little notebook full of plans. Was that diner still here, Ilya wondered vaguely. He’d had so little sense of Ottawa geography back then he doubted he could find it again. He hoped it was still here. The coffee had been good. 

“Yes,” he said, “I remember.” 

“I think I’m gonna do it.” 

Ilya looked at him in surprise. “Build a house?” 

“Yeah.” 

Huh. “Okay.” 

“I found an architect and talked to them about it and they’ve sent over some plans,” Shane said. “That’s what was in the big envelope that came in the mail.” 

Ilya had to admit that he’d wondered about that. “Okay,” he said again.  

Shane glanced over at him, then quickly returned his attention to the screen. “Want to see them?” 

“Plans for your house?” 

“Well. You’d stay there too. I thought it’d be someplace we could go in the summers instead of renting. So I’d like to know what you think.” 

“Oh.” 

“I mean,” Shane hedged, with another quick glance at him, “it’d be out in the country and pretty quiet, it’s okay if that’s not your thing.” 

Ilya thought about a quiet house on a lake with no one in it but him and Shane, no other people around for miles. It would be the most boring thing ever. It sounded wonderful. 

“No, is fine. Would be fine,” he said. 

“You wouldn’t be bored?” 

“Mmmm, probably.” He caught Shane’s eye and gave him a smirk. “But you have ways of entertaining me.” 

“Fuck off,” Shane grumbled. They played in silence for a minute, then he said, “You know you can like, go out and stuff. While we’re here. You don’t have to stay in because I do.” 

Ilya shrugged. “I know.” 

“I’m serious, Ilya.” 

“I know, Shane.” 

He’d thought about it once or twice, even looked up a few clubs, but when faced with the prospect of actually going out, of leaving Shane at home so he could spend an evening on his own drinking shit vodka surrounded by people he couldn’t fuck, he realised that the idea was not appealing in the slightest. In their apartment he had good vodka in the freezer and Shane in his bed and even though Ilya was honestly surprised to discover that his restless brain wasn’t demanding more stimulation than that it did make a kind of sense. His head was quieter, when Shane was near. He didn’t need noise from the outside to drown out what was within. Which, it occurred to him now, had always been true. Even as far back as that morning in the diner. 

“You really aren’t bored here?” Shane asked. 

“No.” 

“Because if—” 

“Ugh, now you are boring me. I am fine, Shane. If I want to go out, I will.” 

“You promise?” 

“Yes.” Ilya paused the game and raised his eyebrows at his husband. “You want to get rid of me? This is reason for these questions?” 

“No, I don’t want to get rid of you,” Shane said, then paused to think. “I mean, maybe a little sometimes. When you’re an asshole.” 

“Ah, but you think I am asshole all the time.” 

“True.” Shane made a show of considering this. “Okay, maybe I do want to get rid of you.” 

“Aha!” shouted Ilya triumphantly, and tossed the game controller aside to pounce on him. Shane tumbled backwards into the sofa cushions with Ilya hovering above him. “Finally, we have the truth.” 

Shane laughed as his hands came to rest on Ilya’s upper arms, fingers curling around his biceps. “You dragged it out of me. I’m a generous guy though so I guess you can stay a bit longer.” His smile and voice softened. “If you promise to look at the plans for the cottage. Tell me what you think.” 

Ilya nodded and answered in a similar tone. “Okay.” 

And so the summer passed. Every morning, Ilya went for a run along sleepy Ottawa streets and through a little park near their apartment. When he came home Shane, who also ran each morning but along a different route, would blend him up a smoothie, set it firmly on the kitchen counter in front of him and glare at him like a grumpy kitten until he drank it. Not smoothies of the green sci-fi ooze variety—Ilya had put his foot down about that—but ones made with fruit and nut milk and protein powder. Ilya would have died before admitting it, but they were good. Really good. Not quite good enough to get him to abandon his coffee entirely but certainly not nearly so bad as to warrant the continuous grief he gave Shane about having to drink them.

That was just for fun. Grumpy kitten Shane was very cute. 

Mid-morning, when their apartment building’s other residents had left home for their offices, they would work out together in the building’s gym. In the afternoons they made food and played games, talked about the plans for the enormous glass-and-wood lakeside structure Shane still insisted on calling a cottage, or just sat with books or magazines or on their phones, quietly existing together. Ilya spent a week in Toronto doing promotion for Nike and Shane was off some days dealing with his own commitments but aside from that the summer was entirely theirs. 

Ilya refused to let himself think about how it was the best summer he’d ever had in his life. 

Nights they went to bed early and spent hours taking each other apart, because they could, because they had hours, because those two months felt like all the time in the world. And when he had Shane laid out beneath him, flushed and gorgeous, when he begged so prettily and when he came moaning Ilya’s name, when they were locked so tight together they felt like one being Ilya did not let himself think that he could be happy with this, with just Shane, for the rest of his life. 

Then the calendar turned from August to September and abruptly their time together was nearly over. Camps would be starting soon and while Ilya was looking forward to getting out on a rink again, he didn’t let himself think about the distances and lengths of time that the hockey season would force between himself and Shane. He didn’t let himself think about going back to phone calls and texts and infrequent, time-constrained hookups after two months of being nearly constantly together. 

He didn’t let himself think about a lot of things. 

It would be good preparation, Ilya told himself, in the moments when his not-thinking-about-it strategy failed him, for when all of this was over. When he had his citizenship and he and Shane didn’t have to pretend anymore. He wondered if they’d still hook up from time to time, if Shane would still want to once the legal obligation to be together was gone. Ilya’s chest ached whenever his treacherous, restless mind darted in that direction, taunting him with the prospect of a life with just no Shane in it at all, and so this he put at the very top of his list of Things He Definitely Was Not Thinking About. It was years down the line anyway. By then for all he knew, he and Shane both would have met other people. Maybe when the time came for their marriage to end they wouldn’t need each other anymore at all. 

On their last night in Ottawa they fucked as slowly as they could bear to. In ebbs and flows they edged each other, right up to the brink of orgasm then retreating, to the brink again and then retreating, just long enough each time to breathe before building each other up again. When finally Shane, the freckles on his flushed cheeks to Ilya’s eyes like stars across the midnight sky, turned to him and said, “Fuck me now. Please,” Ilya was so lost in bliss as he brought them both to completion that he was barely aware of himself or of the words that tumbled from his lips. 

“What did you call me?” Shane asked him, after.  

“Hmm?” Ilya’s mind was still hazy, half-drunk from his orgasm. 

“Just now, you called me something in Russian. What was it?” 

“Moya lyubov,” Ilya murmured without thinking, then froze when he realised what he’d said. 

Oh fuck. 

“What does that mean?” Shane asked. 

Ilya scrambled to make his brain work. “Is, um, just a term. Like ‘baby’ in English.” 

“An endearment.” 

Endearment, Ilya thought. That sounded sickly sweet and entirely accurate. 

“Mmm, kind of. Probably.” 

Shane considered this as his fingertips traced absent patterns among the moles on Ilya’s chest. “Maybe I should have one for you,” he said. “It’d be convincing, for your citizenship.”  

Ilya closed his eyes. He did not want to go down this path, especially not just to be ‘convincing’ for ‘citizenship’. “Like what?” he heard himself say. 

“I don’t know.” Shane’s voice was thoughtful. “Nothing in English really seems right for you.” 

“Ilyusha,” said Ilya’s mouth, acting entirely without permission from his head. Before he could somehow snatch the syllables back out of the air to prevent them reaching Shane’s ears, Shane replied. 

“What’s that?” he asked. 

“Is, ah. Small name. In Russian.” 

“Like a nickname?” 

“Yes, that is it. Nickname.” 

“Say it again?” 

This Ilya absolutely did not want to do. “Ilyusha,” he repeated softly, because he was weak. 

“Ilyusha,” Shane pronounced, carefully and near-perfectly because of course he did. Ilya’s chest compressed and he struggled to breathe. 

“Is that a common thing to call people? These nicknames?” 

“For most, yes. In my family, no.” 

“So no one calls you it?” 

“No,” Ilya said. Not anymore. 

“Ilyusha,” said Shane again. “I like it.” 

“Is not for always,” Ilya warned him. He wouldn’t survive Shane calling him that all the time. “Just sometimes.” 

“Okay.” Shane snuggled closer, tucked his head beneath Ilya’s chin. His voice was low, half-asleep when he murmured, “Say the thing you called me again.” 

Ilya stroked his hair and softly breathed, “Moya lyubov.” 

“Mmm,” Shane hummed as he drifted off, “I like that too.” 

It took Ilya far longer to fall asleep. 

The next afternoon they were packed and ready to go, Ilya in a taxi to the airport for his flight to Boston and Shane in his car to drive to Montreal. Ilya’s cab was waiting downstairs and had been for some time but he still stood in the doorway wrapped around Shane, resolutely Not Thinking About how long it would be until they saw each other again. 

“I’ll call first,” Shane muttered into the curve of his neck and shoulder. “Tomorrow. I’ll call you tomorrow.” 

“Okay.” 

“Text me when your plane lands. So I know you’re there.” 

“I will.” 

“I’ll text you when I’m back in Montreal. You’ll probably get it when you land.” 

“Yes, okay. Please do.” 

Shane detached himself slowly, dropping kisses on Ilya’s shoulder and neck and brushing Ilya’s nose with his. His fingers flexed on Ilya’s arms. “Kiss me before you go,” he said.  

Ilya leaned in and kissed him softly, once, twice, then forced himself to stop while he was still able to. “I will see you in November,” he said. 

“Yeah.” Shane swallowed then forced a smile. “November.” He stepped back and pushed Ilya away. “Your cab is definitely here.” 

“For probably ten minutes,” Ilya agreed. 

“Go, then,” said Shane. “Talk to you tomorrow. Bye, Ilyusha.” 

Moya lyubov, Ilya thought. Aloud, he said, “Goodbye Shane,” then took his suitcase and left the apartment, went downstairs and into the cab to the airport then onto the plane that carried him away, hundreds of kilometres away from where he wanted most to be. 

And when he arrived back to his apartment, his alone, in Boston, when the emptiness of the place echoed in his brain and amplified the noise inside it, he did not drink or go out looking for trouble or even let himself cry. He called Svetlana. 

“Sveta,” he said, “I’m back in Boston.” 

“Okay,” she replied. 

“And.” Ilya leaned against the wall and pressed his fingers to his eyes. “My secret is too much for me.” 

“I’ll be right over,” Svetlana said. 

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

consider this chapter the equivalent of one of the show's montages, and also me indulging my love of outsider POVs. i'm sorry for the jump but we are at 50k and must move the plot forward for my health and sanity. All of your thoughts about what might happen next in a more strict chronology are beautiful and perfect and true ❤️. We've just gotta glide lightly over a few years is all.

IMPORTANT NOTE: i have employed a workskin to render the text messages that Hayden reads, please be sure you don't have "Hide Creator's Style" selected or they will show up weirdly

as ever, your comments are life-giving, balm-to-the-soul treasures. Keep them coming

November 2011

Svetlana lounged on Ilya’s couch with the Montreal-Buffalo game on the television and Ilya beside her, intent on the screen. Watching hockey games together was a thing they’d done since childhood but it was only when Montreal played that Ilya became so focused on the game that she almost felt like she was watching by herself. 

This fact Svetlana filed away in her mental folder marked Why Ilya Is A Mystery To Me Now in the hope that someday it might find some other facts there to connect with. 

“My secret is too much for me.” 

“I’ll be right there.” 

Two months since she’d sat here on this very couch and held him while he haltingly told her what he could. He was married, he’d explained, and his spouse was Canadian. That explained the summer in Ottawa. A man, he’d said, so it had to be secret. It was just for citizenship, he’d confessed quietly, but…

But what he hadn’t said. He hadn’t needed to. Svetlana could read between the lines of Ilya even when those lines were just one word. It was just for citizenship but his feelings had spun out of his control. It was just for citizenship but Ilya had been yearning for a real home since he was twelve years old and had apparently found it with this man. It was just for citizenship but he had fallen in love with his husband. 

“I can’t tell you who he is,” Ilya said. “It’s not safe for him.” 

“It’s not safe for you.” As glad as she was to hear he had a plan for escaping his father and Russia, the danger of it could not be denied. 

“I trust you with my secrets but his belong to him.” 

That was fair, Svetlana supposed. “Tell me about him, then.” 

This Ilya did, eagerly. The lovesick needed very little prompting. 

“He is serious,” Ilya said with a small, soft smile. “Focused, determined. He likes facts and he reads too many boring articles. He remembers everything and he learns so quickly. Show him something once and the second time he can do it perfectly and the third time he does it better than you do. Everything he does he does well and if he doesn’t know how to do something he hires a professional. He finds competence reassuring. He takes things so literally that he is very fun to tease but also he is funny and usually when you don’t expect it. We laugh so much together.” 

He paused and his already-soft expression grew so painfully yearning that Svetlana felt her own chest constrict. “He is so beautiful,” he said. “Every part of him. His face, his mouth, his—” he swallowed the word he was about to say with a sideways glance at her. “His body is perfect. Tall, strong. Everything. He can take anything I give him. He’s so fastidious, fussy even, but he loves it when I wreck him in bed. He wrecks me without even trying.” 

His voice dropped lower, with a rasp in it now. “I can’t believe sometimes how much I want him. More now than the first time we fucked.” He splayed a hand on his chest, fingers bent inwards like a claw. “It just keeps growing and growing, and growing,” he said, voice rising, “where will it stop?” 

“Do you want it to stop?” Svetlana asked him gently. 

“It has to,” Ilya replied. His hand flattened and slid down his chest. “Everything ends.” 

That was the last he said on the subject. Svetlana stayed with him that night and the next morning when he left for camp they made no mention of their conversation. They still hadn’t. Svetlana would be tempted to think he didn’t even remember it except she could see how the confession had lightened the load he’d been carrying. He may never acknowledge again what he’d said that night but he didn’t need to. The saying it was all that mattered. 

On the television screen Shane Hollander sliced through Buffalo’s defence with footwork so sharp and nimble his blades were like a surgeon’s scalpel. He passed the puck to Hayden Pike, who then passed it back to him for a goal beautiful enough to hang in a gallery. 

“Hollander is playing well today,” Svetlana remarked, an uncontroversial statement on nearly any day and certainly for one on which he had two goals and an assist, but Ilya replied with a scoff. 

“He is too slow through the neutral zone and favouring his left side,” he said. “He is still feeling the hit he took in Toronto last week. Pike should not have passed to his left. Hollander will strain his ribs again.” 

Svetlana turned to stare at him. “The injury reports say—” 

“Fuck the injury reports,” sneered Ilya. “Anyone with eyes can see Hollander is not at his best. I don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling.” 

As one who had apparently been fooled, Svetlana wasn’t sure how insulted to be by this remark. She was still formulating her response when Ilya threw up his hands at the television and grabbed his phone. He was texting Jane, she observed, and while she couldn’t read the messages themselves she noticed the screen was full of ones from Ilya with no response. Jane was clearly busy doing something else. 

On the television now was a close-up of Hollander, off the ice and drinking from a water bottle. Svetlana sighed a little. He was unfairly beautiful, she thought, that face, that mouth—these words in her mind connected to a memory and she glanced sharply at Ilya. Whose eyes were glued to the screen, his lips curled in the softest smile. 

A smile she’d seen on his face before. Two months ago. 

No, Svetlana thought. It can’t be. 

Ilya took up his phone and began texting again, biting his lip as he did. 

“How do you know Hollander is hurt?” she asked him. 

“I told you.” His eyes didn’t leave his phone screen. “It’s obvious.” 

It wasn’t obvious, though. Svetlana knew hockey as well as he did. If Hollander was injured he was hiding it perfectly and playing the same smart, precise game he always played. The only way anyone might pick up on the effects of a hidden injury is if they knew what to look for. If, for example, they were intimately familiar with Hollander’s body and how it functioned. If they knew somehow that the hit last week was worse than Hollander let on. 

Oh, Ilya, she thought, what have you done?

Christmas Eve 2011 

“Should we have a practice rink?” Shane asked. 

Ilya lay sprawled out on the sofa in their Montreal apartment. The remains of a KFC dinner lay beside him on the floor, while in the kitchen a cake sat waiting to be adorned with strawberries and on the television a puppet frog sang about one more sleep till Christmas. Shane had the plans for the lakeside cottage spread out on the coffee table and was poring over them, wearing the reading glasses he had recently started to need. Ilya definitely had some thoughts and also feelings about those glasses. 

“No,” he replied firmly. If Shane built a rink at the cottage, Ilya would have to practice hockey all summer or else never see him. “Summer is not for hockey.” 

“But—“ 

“No. Leave hockey out of this.” 

“Leave hockey… out?” Shane looked so baffled by the very concept that Ilya had to laugh. 

“Yes. No practice rink. Hot tub, naturally. Gym definitely. But no rink.” 

“But Ilya—” 

Ilya laid his foot on Shane’s chest and pushed him back away from the plans. “No. Rink.” 

Shane pouted. “Fine. Just don’t blame me if you get bored.” 

Ilya removed his foot and replaced it with himself, leaning over Shane as he blinked up through his glasses. “You will be there, yes?” 

“Obviously.” 

“And you will wear these glasses?” 

Shane’s lips twitched. “When I need them.” 

“Then how can I be bored?” 

Shane’s smile bloomed and Ilya’s heart ached. “So you approve the final plans for the outside?” 

“Hot tub and no rink?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Yes. Approve.” 

“I’ll email the architect tomorrow,” Shane said, addressing Ilya as a whole but looking only at his mouth. “Do you, um. Want cake now?” 

Ilya did, if not the kind with strawberries. “Yes,” he said, as Shane’s eyes fluttered shut and Ilya took his mouth. 

February 2012

Cliff had been selected for the All-Star Game that year and he had to admit, he was kind of pumped about it. The older guys said it was boring and they’d rather have the time off, but most of them had never made the cut so Cliff figured at least some of that attitude was down to sour grapes. Roz of course had been the year before and was going again, by popular vote, and he seemed pretty psyched about it. 

“Is mostly a fun time,” he said, “though the game itself is stupid, of course. This year like last they tie themselves in knots to make sure Hollander and I are not on the same team. They believe maybe we would both combust if forced to set aside so-called rivalry.” 

“So-called?” Cliff echoed with a laugh. “Rozy you chirp him every chance you get.” 

“Yes, obviously. But I do this to everyone. Hollander is not special.” 

Privately, Cliff thought actually there was something special about Roz and Hollander. Though only in their second season they were arguably the two strongest players in the league. The fact of them getting drafted in the same year to play the same position, by teams that were historic enemies, well. It made for a hell of a story. And for all the shit he talked, Cliff knew for a fact that Roz didn’t hate Hollander as a person. When Roz hated a guy he didn’t fuck around. He definitely didn’t do commercials with them (CCM still aired the one they’d made before they even started playing) or let them answer for him in press conferences (Cliff too had clocked Roz’s discomfort with the question, and he was glad Hollander had been there to lend a hand). And Rozy absolutely did not chirp them with the particular smirk he always wore whenever he was on the ice with Hollander. 

Cliff reckoned he knew Rozanov pretty well. He knew Roz had a secret. And he knew what that secret was. 

Roz and Hollander were friends. 

They’d played each other in the Juniors when they were kids, they’d shot a commercial together. They knew each other well enough to give and accept help in press conferences and their chirping, mad as it often made them, still felt more like friendly ragging than the kind of vicious ragebait Cliff had seen Roz go after other players with. The conclusion was obvious. They were pals. 

Some people, he knew, would have a problem with that. What with the whole rivalry thing and all. But Cliff was an open-minded kind of guy. If Rozy wanted to hang with a dude who happened to play for the other team, he would get no grief about it from Cliff Marleau. 

Which is why, when Cliff saw what he saw at that All-Star Game in 2012, he didn’t breathe a word of it to Roz or anyone else. 

At just past nine p.m. on the night before the game, Cliff opened the door to his hotel room. He didn’t pull it open all the way, as halfway through the manoeuvre he realised he wasn’t sure where his phone was and so he stuck his toe between the door and the jamb to free up both hands for patting down his pockets in search of it. 

Through the resulting narrow gap he could just see Roz’s door across the hall. Which meant of course that he could also see Hollander, when he appeared in front of that door and quietly knocked. He hovered there for what seemed like a very long time as pressure from his own door made Cliff’s toes go numb, until finally it opened and Hollander shoved Roz by the shoulder to get inside. 

“Goddammit, Ilya!” Cliff heard Hollander say, and caught a snatch of Roz’s laughter before the door shut behind them. 

Good old Roz, a dick even to his bros, Cliff thought fondly. Sometimes he wondered what it was that the mysterious Jane saw in him. 

Roz was fucking gone over Jane. Always texting her and grinning at the replies. Blushing, however vehemently he denied it. Fleeing the locker room like there was fire at his heels every time they were in the same town. It was adorable, really. Cliff loved love. 

He thought about this as he, phone safely located in his right jacket pocket, left his room and headed for the elevator. He loved love and he loved Roz and Roz loved Jane and liked Shane Hollander. Jane, Shane, Cliff mused as the elevator appeared and its doors opened. That was weird, huh? Roz’s secret wife and his secret buddy with names that rhymed. 

Not once did it occur to him that Jane and Shane, secret wife and secret friend, might be the same secret. And if anyone had suggested to him that they were, Cliff would’ve had a good laugh. 

After all, friends though they may be, Roz would fuck a Martian before he ever fucked Shane Hollander. 

June 2012 

The cottage was everything Shane had hoped it would be. Clean and crisp and sharply architectural, with airy spaces that were full of light. Views of the lake from every room. A large gym, a hot tub, and a Russian-style sauna per Ilya’s request. A video game setup and a large kitchen and a well for fresh water. He’d thought of everything. 

Possibly he would also have included a practice rink had Ilya not vetoed it so emphatically, but it occurred to him that this was more something he felt he ought to to have than actually needed. It could be that Ilya was right. Maybe not absolutely everything in their lives needed to be about hockey all the time. Maybe it would be nice to have a real break. 

When Ilya came through the door for the first time, Shane held his breath and fidgeted anxiously. He wanted Ilya to like it here so badly, this place Shane already loved, that he didn’t know what he’d do if Ilya hated it. If he got bored out here in the country for weeks, with no one else around. Shane had no plan and no tools for how to handle that, if it happened. He only knew that thinking about the possibility that it might made him feel Not Good. 

“Well?” he asked as Ilya looked around. “What do you think?” 

“Very nice. You have a knack for real estate. If the whole hockey thing does not work out, you have alternative career to fall back on. Nice for you.” 

“Shut up,” Shane muttered.

Ilya turned to shoot him a grin. “You asked.” 

Shane felt himself smiling as Ilya drew close, in relief and in anticipation. “You want a tour?” he asked. 

“Mmm. Later.” Ilya stopped in front of him, their bodies inches apart. Bright sunlight gilded his curls and lit the planes of his face. 

“What do you want to do then?” Shane asked breathlessly. 

They’d slipped away from the MLH Awards while the other attendees were still out celebrating and flown to Ottawa on a red-eye that arrived so early the small airport had been all but empty when they landed. Shane had retrieved his car from the long-stay parking and they’d driven through the early-morning hours to the cottage, arriving just as the sun began to crest over the lake. Shane felt grimy and exhausted but until last night he’d not seen Ilya for over two months and his body hummed with exhilaration and with aching need at having him so close. Shane wanted him closer. 

He wondered sometimes, often actually, far too often if he was being really honest about it, if Ilya felt anything like what he did. If he thought about Shane when they were apart the way Shane thought about him, if being together was a catharsis he too had come to crave. Ilya always seemed eager to see Shane, definitely eager to fuck him, but the more time they spent together, the closer they grew, the more the terms of their deal plagued Shane’s mind, like a sharp pebble he just couldn’t quite shake out of his shoe. 

They were free to fuck other people. Ilya had said he wasn’t, once, over a year ago, but what if that changed? What if Ilya found someone he could trust to be discreet, who was nearer to Boston, in Boston even, who was less complicated and difficult than Shane was? There was nothing to stop Ilya from fucking such a person, multiple such people, anyone he liked. Not even Shane would stop him, not even if he could. Though it made him feel awful to think about it, sort of feverish and queasy, he would never try to prevent Ilya from living as he wanted. 

That was their deal, after all.  

For his part, he wanted no one else. He couldn’t even imagine it. 

Who else could possibly make him feel as he did with Ilya, he thought as they stood there together in the morning sunlight and Ilya reached up to stroke his cheek, as Shane’s body and his mind relaxed into the touch. Nobody could, not now, not ever. And he didn’t care, he wouldn’t care, he fiercely refused to care if Ilya was fucking other people. So long as he continued to fuck Shane, for as long as Shane could have him. 

“You want a shower,” Ilya observed. 

Shane couldn’t deny it. “I really do.” 

“Okay. Me too.” 

Shane smiled and nuzzled his cheek into Ilya’s hand. “Together?” 

“How else?” 

March 2013

The Metros were having a solid season, their best yet since Hayden had joined the team. They’d been improving steadily year-by-year ever since Shane’s arrival, to the point where at last they were really in the conversation, not just as playoff hopefuls but as potential Cup contenders. If it didn’t happen this year, Hayden thought, then it would the next. With Shane on the team, victory felt inevitable. 

Which was why it was such a devastating blow to them all when Shane came down with flu late in March, just as the regular season was winding down. 

He attempted to play through it of course. None of them would expect anything less from him, their youngest alternate captain and the favourite to wear the C once Palmer retired at the end of this year. But he was too weak to hold his stick, almost too weak to stand, shivering and feverish at once and their coach had no choice but to send him home. 

Hayden went with him to make sure he was okay and get him settled in at his place. Where, he realised when they got in his car and needed the half-delirious Shane to give him directions, he’d never actually been before. Shane had been to his house countless times over the past three years but not once had he invited Hayden in return. 

Hayden didn’t feel offended by this. It wasn’t easy for him to get away; he was gone so much as it was that he felt like whenever he was home he should be home home, to give Jackie a break and actually be around to watch his children grow up. And Shane seemed to like coming to theirs and entertaining the girls with him. So there was no particular reason for him to go to Shane’s instead. 

But now, as he manoeuvred Shane into the apartment then up to the bedroom and got him settled into bed, it occurred to him there may be another reason at play. This wasn’t a difficult conclusion to reach. The clues were fucking everywhere. 

The first clue was the not one but two pairs of Nikes by the door. Yuna Hollander had not allowed her son out in public wearing anything but Reeboks—also lined up neatly by the door—since age 18. There was simply no way Shane could own even one pair of Nikes and remain on speaking terms with his mother. Or remain a spokesperson for Reebok. 

The second clue came when Hayden helped Shane out of his sweatpants and hoodie and he rolled into bed. Across the bed, where he settled into one side. Like that was his side, and he expected someone else to occupy the other. Hayden watched as Shane’s hand blindly groped that other side until it found the pillow, reached beneath it, and closed over something tucked away there. 

Hayden’s phone pinged then with a message from Jackie, to tell him she’d made Shane some of her grandma’s special soup. 

“Hey, buddy, I’m gonna run to my house to pick up some soup for you, you okay until I get back?”

“Mmm,” muttered Shane. His phone buzzed and he lifted it to peer at the screen. “Sure, ‘m fine.”  

“Okay,” said Hayden, “I won’t be long.” 

He went to his house, grabbed the soup, kissed his wife, and returned to Shane’s in less than half an hour. He left the soup in the kitchen and while there decided to grab a glass of water for Shane. When he opened the freezer in search of ice cubes he found clue number three. 

A bottle of vodka. In Shane’s freezer. Shane fucking Hollander, who had to be  talked into drinking a single beer during the season, had vodka in his freezer. 

Hayden reeled. 

He took the glass of water upstairs and set it next to Shane’s bed, where the man himself was currently dozing. Following Jackie’s firm instruction, he went into the en-suite to find a cool cloth to put on Shane’s head. In the en-suite he was slapped upside his own head by clues number four through six. 

Two toothbrushes in the holder. A bottle of expensive cologne Hayden was sure Shane would never wear. And the most damning thing of all. Two razors by the sink. Different brands. 

No single man would have two fucking razors. 

Mechanically, Hayden found a cloth, dampened it in cool water, wrung it out, and brought it back into the bedroom. Shane was well asleep now, his phone still in his hand, and as Hayden watched it buzzed and lit up with a text and he caught sight of his own name. 

Fuck this, he thought. It wasn’t cool to snoop in a friend’s phone but if his name was being brought into something—into whatever the fuck was going on with Shane—he had the right to know about it. He eased the phone from Shane’s hand and clicked on the message. 

It was from Lily. Boston Lily, Shane’s not-girlfriend he would never quite admit to having, despite texting her constantly with a dopey look on his face and running off to see her every chance he got. He didn’t deny their involvement exactly, just seemed uncomfortable talking about it, and whenever the team ragged him his cheeks would go pink and his jaw oddly tight.

Hayden’s own jaw felt tight as he looked at the most recent messages. 

And then the final message, the one Hayden had witnessed lighting up the screen. 

Hayden set Shane’s phone on the bedside table and looked down at his friend. Shane was sound asleep, with his arms wrapped around a pillow and his face pressed into whatever had been hidden beneath it. A t-shirt, Hayden could see now. Plain black and bearing no logo, but with the way Shane was breathing into it and the look on his face, Hayden was prepared to bet that it hadn’t been washed since its owner had worn it last and that said owner was probably also responsible for the extra razor by the sink and the Nikes by the door. All of which led Hayden to two inescapable conclusions: Boston Lily was not a Lily, and Shane had been keeping a huge fucking secret. 

Hayden had no idea what to make of either one. 

Shane woke when he felt the bed dip beside him and familiar, strong arms gathered him close. 

“Ilya?” he murmured. 

“Yes, lyubimyy, I am here.” 

“Mmm.” Shane snuggled into him. “Thought you might be Hayden.” 

Ilya huffed in genuine irritation. “You think you’re funny.” 

“I know I’m funny. Did you bring soup?” 

“The best soup. You want it now?” 

“No.” Shane closed his fist on Ilya’s shirt. “I need you more than soup.” 

He was sick, Ilya reminded the heart that leapt into his throat at those words. He wasn’t paying attention to what he was saying. 

“Hayden’s soup was really good,” Shane said. 

Ilya wrapped his arms more firmly around his husband and laid a cool cheek on his feverish one. He murmured lowly and softly in Shane’s ear. 

“The next game we play I am going to check Hayden fucking Pike into next year.” Shane started to laugh. “Check him so hard his grandchildren will feel it.” 

Shane curled into Ilya’s body and laughed so much he exhausted his already low reserves of energy. Within minutes he was asleep again, soothed by Ilya’s presence and the steady rhythm of the heartbeat beneath his palm. 

Ilya held him until he woke up. 

May 2013 

It wasn’t that Yuna worried about Shane, exactly. No more than any loving parent worried about their child. She had, she knew, far less to worry about than most. Shane had always been a good kid, responsible, focused, hard-working. Never got into any trouble. She almost—almost—wished that he had, at least once. So she would know what that looked like on him and have some experience in dealing with it. As it was she had no idea what to watch out for, what signs might indicate that there was something wrong. 

She watched him carefully, nevertheless. As carefully, that is, as he allowed her to. Somewhere in between his getting drafted and starting his pro hockey career, Shane had begun to withdraw from her. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly when the shift had occurred; it seemed that almost overnight he’d gone from listening attentively to everything she said and being happy to let her manage things for him to doing commercials on his own, spending Christmas by himself, building a whole house by a lake—not her and David’s lake—that they were barely even allowed to see. 

“He’s asserting his independence,” David said, and Yuna could recognise the truth and the sense in that.  But still it was an anomaly, a change in the Shane she’d thought she knew, and Yuna, never having had to deal with real problems caused by Shane before, had no idea what to do about it.

“You could just let it be,” David had suggested gently. “See how things play out.” But Yuna couldn’t let go of the sense that something was… not wrong exactly but far from right. And she couldn’t stop herself from poking, prodding, trying to coax whatever-it-was out of him so she could help. Fix it, the way he’d used to let her fix things. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t put in a practice rink,” she’d said, on the lone occasion Shane had invited them out to his cottage, the previous spring just after its completion. “That space in the clearing would’ve been perfect—” 

“I don’t need a practice rink,” Shane had replied, more sharply than she’d ever heard him speak. “Not everything has to be—I don’t need to be thinking about hockey all the time.” 

Even David had looked concerned about that. 

“Well, at least you have a hot tub,” Yuna had said, with shade of dry irony, and failed to notice when Shane’s posture stiffened in response. 

At least his career was going well. The Metros had made the playoffs for the third year running, though they’d lost in round two, and Shane was nominated for MVP at the MLH Awards next month. Awards that, he’d already told them, they did not need to attend with him. For the second year running. 

He’d agreed to have lunch with them, though, when they came to Montreal, and he appeared to be himself, arriving on time and happy to see them, smiling and hugging them both. 

“Any plans for the summer?” David asked him, once they’d settled in and placed their orders. 

Shane’s face hardened, almost imperceptibly. “Not really,” he said. “Just going to hang at the cottage.” 

“By yourself?” Yuna heard herself say. 

“Yes. Is that a problem?” 

“No, of course not, just—” From the corner of her eye, Yuna could see the subtle shake of David’s head, but she was committed now and couldn’t stop. “Isn’t there anyone, Shane? Anyone you might like to have there with you? A girlfriend, or, just someone?” 

This was her root concern, her biggest fear. If Shane didn’t have them anymore then he had no one. No girlfriend, no close friends but Hayden. No one to love him or look after him the way he no longer let her do. 

“No,” Shane replied flatly, “there’s no one. I’m fine there by myself.”

“But—” 

“Mom, it’s fine. I like going there alone, it’s peaceful. Everywhere I go in the season I’m surrounded by people, what’s wrong with wanting to have a little solitude in the summer?” 

Well, when he put it that way, it was hard to refute. 

“I just worry about you, that’s all,” she said. “Mom’s prerogative.” 

Shane softened a bit at that. “I’m really okay,” he said, “and I promise to tell you if I’m not. Can we talk about something else now, please?” 

That evening, David let her have her space. Until they went to bed, when he reached out and gently stroked her arm. “Honey,” he said, “I know you don’t want to, but we really need to consider the possibility that he may be gay. And if he is, then nagging him to get a girlfriend is only going to push him further away.” 

“I just want him to have someone,” Yuna replied stubbornly, and David said nothing more. He knew what that meant. If Shane was gay then he could have no one. Not if he wanted to have hockey too. 

June 2013 

Shane heard the approach over the sound of the coffee machine. Moments later, he was enveloped by a sleepy Russian attack blanket that wrapped itself around him and sighed into his hair. 

“Morning,” he greeted it, and the blanket responded with a grunt. Shane waved a filled coffee cup in its direction. The blanket stirred but did not reach out. “If you want it, you’ll have to let me go,” Shane said. 

“Don’t want it then,” retorted the blanket, in Ilya’s voice. “Let’s go back to bed.” 

“It’s already ten o’clock,” Shane pointed out. “And we’ve been in bed for the past two days.” 

“Still not long enough.” 

“We said we’d get out today. Go for a run. Remember?” 

Grunt. 

“Come on, Ilya, you know you want to get out. You go stir-crazy if you’re inside too long.” 

Ilya’s deeply-heaved, long-suffering sigh acknowledged this, and he relented enough to take the cup. “Inside is okay when you are there,” he said, with a kiss on Shane’s neck just below his ear. He released his hold and leaned back against the kitchen counter to drink his coffee. 

Shane regarded him with a small smirk. “I was there last Christmas when it snowed for five days straight and you nearly wore a hole in the floor with your pacing.” 

“Yes, and if you had not been there I would have worn a hole in the floor,” Ilya shot back. 

“Hell of a surprise for Mr Montclerc, you falling through his ceiling the day after Christmas.” 

“Heart attack for him, probably. He is young only by comparison to Scott Hunter.” 

Shane snorted a laugh as Ilya drained his cup. “You want to run now?” he asked as he moved to the sink to rinse it.

“Yeah.” 

Ilya put the cup in the dishwasher then caught Shane’s lips in a kiss. Shane tasted coffee on his tongue and wondered why it was delicious only there. “I will go get dressed,” Ilya said. 

“Okay.” 

The path they ran on wove around the lake through the woods that surrounded it, cool and shaded and well clear of all three of the other houses that existed within a fifteen-kilometre radius. They had yet to encounter anyone else there. This solitude meant that they could go running together, side by side and at pace with each other, and that when they got back from their run Ilya could shed his clothes and jump naked into the lake and Shane could roll his eyes then do the same without any hesitation. 

When he surfaced Ilya pounced on him and kissed him with cold lips that tasted of lake water and even that, marvelled Shane, was delicious on him. He wrapped his arms around Ilya’s shoulders and they made out leisurely, both half-hard in the cold water but with no pressing need to pursue that any further. No pressing need to do anything at all except exist together in this tranquil place. 

Eventually one need did make its presence felt, the one for sustenance, so they went in to shower and make lunch. They returned outside to eat it though, on the wide patio shaded by trees from the bright summer sun. Ilya lifted his face to catch what rays were able to filter through the foliage and Shane made a mental note to make sure he still had enough sunscreen, especially if he planned on being in the lake a lot. He burned too easily to be as careless as he was about sun protection, last summer had been the proof of that. Sunburnt-and-dramatic-about-it Ilya was an experience Shane did not care to repeat. 

Aloud, he said, “I wish I had the camera right now.” 

The walls of the cottage were either bare or featured original artwork, carefully selected by Shane’s decorator. Nothing less formal or more personal featured anywhere, save on a plain corkboard that hung on the door of their bedroom closet. Scattered across this was a series of polaroids, snapped at random times over the past two and a half years. Their legs on the sofa on their first Christmas together, hands from the second Christmas, feet from the third. Random shots of each other cooking, sleeping, laughing. Ilya fresh from the shower, Shane stretched out on a rock by the lake. Shane on his knees with Ilya’s dick in his mouth, Ilya’s face as he came down Shane’s throat. Captured moments, the only visual evidence of what was now officially three years of marriage. 

“You brought it, yes?” Ilya asked. 

“Mmhm,” said Shane, then caught the glint in his eye. “Why, what did you have in mind?” 

The promise in Ilya’s voice made his blood hum. “I will show you.”  

Shane let himself be tugged by the hand back into the house and to the bedroom, where he stood looking at the collection of photographs while Ilya retrieved the camera. 

“Three years,” he said softly. 

“Hmm?” Ilya tossed the camera on the bed and came up behind him, hugged him round the waist and kissed his neck. Shane tilted his head to allow greater access as his eyes fluttered shut. 

“We’ve been married three years,” he said. “That’s more than halfway.” 

Ilya’s lips left his neck. “What?” 

Shane opened his eyes and frowned at the expression on his face. “Three years,” he said again. “That’s more than halfway until you can apply for citizenship.” 

Two more years until Ilya could be free. Thinking too hard about that made Shane hurt in ways he wasn’t ready to examine but he kept reminding himself that this was not about him. This was about getting Ilya away from Russia and from his father. It was about making sure he was safe and able to make his own decisions about his life. The time it would take to achieve that goal had seemed almost insurmountable when they’d started all this but now the end was nearly in sight. Just two more years. 

Ilya continued to stare at him with an unreadable expression and Shane’s frown deepened. “This is a good thing, Ilya,” he said. “We’ve passed a milestone.” 

“Of course.” Ilya’s voice was as strange as his face. “Is a very good thing.” 

His fingers sank into Shane’s hair with force behind the grip and tugged him in for a kiss. Shane went willingly, gladly, melting into Ilya as he navigated them the few steps to the bed then pushed Shane down onto it. 

“Take off your clothes,” Ilya said lowly, as he stripped off his own. Shane did as instructed, then lay back humming in pleasure as Ilya crawled over him, trailing kisses down his neck, over his chest, across his belly, then sucked his cock beautifully and deliciously and for not nearly long enough. When he took his mouth away, Shane whined in protest. 

Ilya leaned over him again, nose-to-nose, face flushed and eyes dark but with a spark of something in them that lit an answering one in Shane. It felt exciting, that spark, and a little bit scary. “I am going to fuck you,” Ilya told him, “but you are not allowed to come until I say you can. Do you understand?” 

Shane nodded.

“Words, Shane.” 

“Yes. I understand.” 

“Good.” 

Ilya kissed him, demanding and slightly rough, then moved down his body again to his ass. Shane let his mind go and just drifted on sensation, on the warmth of Ilya’s mouth and his hands and him, and how safe Shane felt like this. How free. 

Ilya eased him onto his side and pressed his body against Shane's back, held him by the thigh to steady them both as he thrust in, deep and immediate, as ready as Shane was for him. 

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned. “Fuck, Ilya. Oh God.” 

“You love this,” Ilya murmured, rocking back then in again, harder than before. “Don’t you.” 

Shane nodded.

“No. Tell me.” 

“Yes.” 

“Yes what?” 

“I love this.” Shane arched his back, begging for more. “You, fucking me.” 

Ilya drove in harder still, right at the angle he knew Shane loved. 

“Ilya,” Shane gasped, “that’s too—I can’t—” 

“No.” Ilya’s hand closed over his cock, squeezed around the base of it with his thumb and forefinger. “Not until I say you can.” 

Shane nodded. He could barely breathe but he managed a faint, “Yes.” 

Ilya thrust in hard. “When will you come, Shane?” 

Shane sucked in a breath. “When you—say I can.” 

“Yes. Good.” 

Shane whined and Ilya’s grip tightened, on his cock, on the shoulder where he’d braced himself.  

“You are mine,” Ilya growled, low in his ear. “You belong to me. Say it.” 

Something jangled in Shane’s mind—these were words they had never said before—but he was too far gone to disobey. “I’m—yours,” he gasped, and was rewarded with a thrust. “Belong to you.” 

“No one else sees you like this. No one else can do what I do to you.” 

“No one… only you.” Those words came easily; they were the simple truth. “Only you, Ilyusha. It’s only ever you.” 

Ilya made a helpless noise and buried his face in Shane’s neck, fucked him at a frantic pace until the desperate thought formed in Shane’s mind that if he couldn’t come soon he would simply burst into flames. 

“Please,” he whimpered, the only word he could muster. “Please.” 

“Yes.” Ilya released his hold on Shane’s cock and stroked his fingers up it, drove hard into his ass. “Come for me now, Shane.” 

Shane’s orgasm crashed over him, overwhelmed him with its force, blacked out his vision. He was vaguely aware of Ilya’s rough moan as he came too, and of the click and flash of the camera. Beyond that, there was nothing. 

When he came back to himself, Ilya was curled around him, one arm around his waist and the hand of the other holding his, fingers linked. Shane shifted and Ilya’s hand tightened. He could feel both their wedding rings pressed into his skin. 

He shifted again and something slid down the pillow to bump against his nose. Ilya released his hand and Shane sensed the object moving; when he opened his eyes he saw Ilya holding a polaroid he must have taken right after they came. It showed just their faces, flushed and sweaty and looking absolutely blissed to fuck. 

“Jesus,” Shane muttered. That may be too hot for the board, he thought.   

“Is not for the board,” Ilya said, reading his mind so astutely Shane wondered for a moment if he’d spoken out loud. “Is for you. To remind you of what only I can do to you.” 

This is new, right? whispered a small voice in Shane’s head. This is a little weird? But he couldn’t think about it now—he really didn’t want to think about anything—and by the time his brain was back to full working order there was dinner to make and video games to play and a movie to watch while curled up with Ilya on the sofa and so he didn’t think about it any more at all. 

Chapter End Notes

ilya: *calls shane ‘my love’ in russian, gushes about him to svetlana, is world-champion, gold-medal-winning Yearner, tells shane in a million different little ways that he just wants to be with him*
shane: i wonder if he even likes me 😔

lol. they are so dumb i love them so much
(love you guys too)

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

i meant to post this last night as in, i clicked Post just as ao3 went down. So some of you will wake up to it instead. Good morning!

ahem. Yes. Now.

alert readers will recall that several chapters ago i mentioned the Angst That Was To Come. It is Here. i have thoughts about it and also feelings, so please let me know how it lands with you.

and as always remember that i love you ❤️

2013

The calls started coming in the summer. 

Ilya ignored them at first, declined them and tried to forget about them until the profusion of +7 country codes in his call history unnerved him to the point where he was gripped by the wild spirit of fuck this and answered one. Just to settle his mind about what the fuck was going on. 

“I am not in Russia right now,” he informed the caller. “I will not be back. No. I have plans I cannot change. Yes. I am sorry to disappoint you.” 

He ended the call with shaking hands then surged across the sofa to bury his face in Shane’s neck until the blood stopped pounding in his head and he felt like he could breathe again. 

“Ilya? What’s wrong?” Shane asked, but Ilya didn’t want to talk about it and Shane didn’t push. 

He ignored all the calls after that. He blocked numbers with extreme prejudice. Until the season had begun and Shane was far away, and a call came from a number he couldn’t block. 

Ilya was on the road in LA when it woke him up, too early, the sky outside his window barely lightened by the dawn. He stared at the number on the screen until the phone’s insistent buzz began to feel electric on his skin, like touching a live wire. He swallowed hard, braced himself, and answered the call. 

“Hello, Papa,” he said. 

“Ilya,” said his father’s voice, unchanged in the two years since he’d heard it last. “Will you never be done shaming me?” 

Ilya swallowed again, around the stabbing pain in his chest. “Papa, I—” 

“No,” thundered Grigori, “I will not stand for it. I put up with your disobedience over playing in America but this is a matter of our family’s pride. Our country’s honour. This is a matter of patriotism. Will you disrespect Mother Russia the way you have disrespected your father?” 

Ilya squeezed his eyes shut as the door of a cage he thought he’d escaped closed with an ominous clang. “Of course not,” he said. “I am sorry, Father.” 

When he hung up, he pressed his fingers hard against his eyes, until the tears he couldn’t allow himself to shed retreated from behind them. Then he picked up his phone again

Can we call? he sent to Shane, then waited, staring fixedly at the screen. There was no response. Ilya counted the hours in his head and realised that Shane would be at practice now, in Montreal, while here in LA it was just about the time he would normally wake up for his run. When Shane’s morning practice finished, Ilya’s would be just beginning. There would be no time they both were free to talk until much, much later. 

The distance between them had never felt so great. 

Call me after your game, was the response that awaited him when he looked at his phone after practice. Is everything okay? 

Yes, fine, Ilya replied. I just need to hear your voice, he typed, then deleted without sending. Talk to you soon, he sent instead. 

Shane sent him a thumbs-up emoji in return. 

The Raiders beat LA easily for their eighth win in a row to start the season, and the locker room was jubilant after the game. “This is our yeeeearrrr,” Marleau crowed as he threw an arm around Ilya’s shoulders and gave him a bone-rattling shake. “I’m telling you Rozy, this is it. This is the magic, my man. Let’s go out. Get drunk, get laid. Well. I’ll get laid, you be my wingman. Let’s goooo!” 

“Sure.” Ilya forced a smile. “Text me where and I will meet you. I need to talk to Jane first.” 

“Yeah, man, no problem. Go talk to your wife. Then come out and help me find my own girl just like her.” 

Ilya couldn’t help the grin that spread over his face, a relief after the unnatural thing his smile had been. “There is no girl in the world like my Jane,” he said. “But we will find you someone almost as good. Give me one hour.” 

“Sure thing,” said Marleau, then went off to roister someone else. 

Ilya dressed as quickly as he could then escaped to his hotel room, where he curled up on the bed and called his husband. Shane’s voice was sleepy when he answered; Ilya realised that it was two in the morning in Montreal. Had Shane stayed up just to talk to him? 

“Hey,” said the sleepy voice in Ilya’s ear, “you okay?” 

Ilya closed his eyes and tried to pretend that he and Shane were in the same bed, right beside each other and not over four thousand kilometres apart. “Yes, fine.” 

“Seemed like maybe you weren’t. This morning.” 

Ilya could feel his face go soft. “You know what I seemed like from one text message?” 

“Yep,” Shane replied. “It’s my Ilya-senses. Like Spidey-senses only for you.” 

He must truly be tired, Ilya thought, to to be talking nonsense like this. “Did you win your game tonight?” he asked. Stalling, but Shane didn’t call him on it. 

“Three to two,” he replied. “You?” 

“Five to one.” 

“Nice.” 

“Yes.” Ilya paused and Shane waited. The silence sat comfortably between them. It always did, even over the phone. Finally, Ilya said, “Is your Olympic team finalised?” 

“Pretty much, I think. Looks like JJ and Hayden will both be coming, which is cool. Your guy Marleau too. I heard he did the camp this summer.” 

“Yes, he told me this. But he does not know yet if he has been selected.” 

“I guess he’ll find out soon.” 

“Yes.” 

“I know it’s not for months yet but I’m excited,” Shane said. “I’ve been dreaming about it my whole life.” 

“Dreaming of what,” Ilya couldn’t resist teasing him, “bronze medal?” 

The smile was audible in Shane’s voice when he shot back, “With this team? No fucking chance.” 

“Oh, so no medal at all? Sad.” 

“Fuck you.” Shane paused, then said, “It’s a bummer you can’t play this year. Next time.” 

Ilya heaved a steadying breath. “For Canada?” he said. “We would be on same team.” 

“I know, can you imagine?” 

He could, so clearly. “Press would have a field day.” 

“They’d bust a nut,” Shane said. “It’d almost be funny.” 

“Too bad you would have to play wing. Not your best position.” 

“That would never happen. You’d just move to second line.” 

“You would banish me to second line?” cried Ilya in genuine indignation. “Me? Your own husband?” 

“In a heartbeat.” 

“This is marital cruelty,” Ilya declared. “This is grounds for divorce.” 

Never had they skirted so close to this subject, even jokingly, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Pushing on their nebulous boundaries as he’d been doing since the calls started coming, half-involuntarily but only half. Testing them, hunting for a weakness. And what would he do when he found it? How hard would he push then? 

He heard Shane’s sharp inhale and wondered if this was it, if this time he’d gone too far. “Guess it’s a good thing you’re not playing, then,” Shane said, with an attempt to keep his voice light that wasn’t entirely successful. 

“Shane—” Ilya began. He couldn’t finish. Here was the opening he’d been fishing for but now the words he needed would not come. They felt too heavy for the telephone, for four thousand kilometres apart. “I should go,” he said instead. “I’m meeting Marleau at a club.” 

“Okay.” Ilya could tell from Shane’s tone that he knew this wasn’t what he’d meant to say but he didn’t push the matter. As always, he was so fucking careful not to push. “I should get to sleep anyway. Have fun.” 

“Of course,” Ilya replied, “I always do.”  

He kept his phone pressed to his ear long after Shane had hung up. Then slowly, one by one, he unblocked all the +7 numbers he had blocked before. 

The next time a call came from one of them, he answered it. 

The issue didn’t arise again until Christmas, when the Raiders played in Montreal just before the break so they got an extra two days to spend together. Ilya always felt a bit delicate this time of year. Four years had passed now since the Ottawa parking lot that had changed his life, though he couldn’t help wondering if, essentially, anything had really changed at all. 

A ridiculous thing to wonder, he told himself, when he was waking up with his husband of three-and-a-half years, when soon they would be marking the anniversary that would lead him into a new stage of his life. All he had to do was get through this stage of it first. 

The issue weighed on his mind from the very beginning of their break, but he didn’t mention it then and kept on Not Mentioning It throughout the week, on increasingly flimsy pretexts. He didn’t want to ruin their reunion, ruin the chicken and strawberry night, ruin Christmas itself. He didn’t want to put a dampener on the few days they had left when they wouldn’t play each other again until March. 

In the end, Shane brought it up himself. “Do you think you’ll stay here or at the cottage while I’m at the Olympics?” he asked, from where he sat on the bed watching Ilya pack to return to Boston.

Ilya’s chest tightened. “Neither.” 

“Oh.” Shane looked surprised. “Well, I guess it makes sense you’d rather be in Boston by yourself but for your residency—” 

“I am not staying in Boston either.” Ilya did his best to keep his tone casual. “I am playing in the Olympics.” 

“What? For who?” 

“Russia. Of course.” 

Shane stared at him. “There’s no ‘of course’, Ilya. Why the fuck are you playing for Russia?” 

“They asked me to.” 

“Who asked you?” 

“National team coach. Players I knew in juniors league.” He paused, then said, “My father.” 

He could feel Shane’s eyes boring into him, and concentrated on his packing. “Is this a fucking joke?” Shane demanded. 

“No. No joke.” 

“It sure sounds like a joke, though it’s not very fucking funny. Why didn’t you just say no?” 

“I could not.” 

“Of course you could, you do all the time!” 

“This is different.” 

“How?” 

“They want me me to be captain of the team.” 

“Well, of course they fucking do. You’d be the best player on that team by like fifty orders of magnitude. But you don’t have to do it just because they want you to.” 

“I do.” 

“No,” said Shane in exasperation, “you don’t.” 

Ilya set his jaw. “I do.” 

When he finally looked over, Shane’s face was tight with genuine anger. “Then why are we even doing this?” he spat. “The whole fucking point of this whole fucking thing was to stop you having to go back to Russia. And now you want to throw that away when we’re so close, Ilya. For the fucking Olympics?” 

“My father—” 

“Fuck your father! I mean—sorry. I didn’t mean that. But you don’t have to listen to him. You’re a grown man.” 

“That is fucking hilarious coming from you.” Ilya was beginning to feel genuine anger of his own. “Your mother is your manager. Every year she puts you on more fucking billboards all across the world, though you hate every second of doing promotions, yet you do not tell her no. I will stop listening to my father when you stop listening to your mother. Is only fair.” 

“You know that’s different. My mom cares about my career. Your dad cares about himself. And don’t even pretend to tell me that isn’t true.” 

Ilya couldn’t, however much he wished he could. “Fine. But I care about the Olympics. I care, Shane. I am still Russian. Is fine for you, you have your country and your team and the world knows it. I have my country and my team too as far as they know. No one knows we are doing this. How would it look if I refused offer to be captain of the Russian team, when so many people have asked me? How can I say no? For what reason?” 

“Your citizenship application—” 

“Will not be affected. You know this. I am not required to stay out of Russia and I am not Canadian yet. Is more than a year before we can even apply.” 

Shane said nothing for a long while, and when he spoke again his voice was quiet. “It feels dangerous,” he said. “We’ve been as careful as we can be but there’s so much risk in everything we’ve done. You know what Emily said, if the Russian authorities find out about us—” 

“They will not.” 

“You don’t know that.” Shane looked up at him. “I don’t think you should go.” 

I don’t want you to go, was what he meant but very deliberately did not say. I want you to stay, to be safe. I need you to be safe because if I lost you I don’t think I could stand it. 

He said none of this. If he had, Ilya would have folded like a bad poker hand. But Shane was determined never to manipulate or try to control him, the way his fucking father and everyone else in his life always did. “I don’t think you should go,” he said again, “but it’s your choice.” 

 It’s your choice, meaning I respect you and your autonomy but all Ilya heard was his father’s words after a similar declaration. If this is your choice, then I wash my hands of it, meaning I don’t care enough to work harder to stop you. I don’t want you enough to really try to make you stay.

“I’m going, then,” he said. 

“Okay.” Shane breathed in deeply then let it out shakily. “Okay.” 

He got up slowly and left the bedroom. Ilya did not follow. Mechanically, he finished packing and took his suitcase downstairs, where he found Shane sitting on the sofa staring at nothing. 

“I have to go,” he said. “Flight is in two hours.” 

“Okay,” Shane said. “I can call you a cab—” 

“Already done. Will be here in five minutes.” 

Shane nodded. He didn’t look up or move and Ilya, chest aching, was at a loss for what to do. He didn’t want to leave Shane like this—he never wanted to leave Shane at all but definitely not when he was too upset even to look at him. But there was no comfort he could give, nothing he could say or do to change anything. He took his suitcase and headed for the door.  

He had his hand on the knob when he froze, mind snagging on the thought that this was the last time he would be close to Shane for three whole months. No All-Star Game hookup for them this year, only the long Olympic break when they would have to pretend they were nothing to each other if their paths crossed in Sochi. He dropped his bag, turned and marched back to Shane, who was already up off the sofa and coming towards him, to meet him halfway in a fierce and clinging kiss. 

“I will see you after,” Ilya promised him against his lips. Shane nodded and held tight to him as they kissed again, one hand gripping his shirt and another in his hair. Ilya’s arms were fully wrapped around him, his own hands flexing on Shane’s waist and on his shoulder. 

“Be careful,” Shane said. 

“I will.” 

They kissed once more then roughly released each other and turned away, Ilya to propel himself through the door while he still possessed the will to do so and Shane to turn his back to it, so that he didn’t have to watch him go. 

February 2014, Sochi, Russia

The Russian team did not vibe. They did not gel. Many of them Ilya knew from their days in the Juniors but they were different now, himself included. His American stardom was a wall between him and all the rest of them. Even the other MLH players who had come back for the Olympics were not at his level and Ilya felt that disparity more than he ever had before. 

He did his best to bring them together but his leadership style—brash, confident, funny, encouraging—failed to resonate. He found he missed giving speeches in English; Russian didn’t feel right anymore. He tried to get to know them, to make jokes and to connect with them, but his efforts were met with shrugs. Vadilevich, the goalie, was hurt but denied it, refused to listen when Ilya encouraged him to see the doctor. 

He went into the game against Latvia with less confidence than anyone facing Latvia should ever feel, and the result justified his trepidation. A humiliating defeat. Out in the first round. Ilya could already hear what he knew his father would say. 

Shane didn’t text.

He knew why Shane didn’t text. He shouldn’t text and they both knew it. But Ilya couldn’t help feeling neglected. He felt so fucking lost without Shane; he hadn’t realised just how much he relied on their daily communication and support of each other until it was gone. He looked at his phone compulsively, a hundred times a day, and when its screen remained relentlessly free of notifications from Jane his feelings of abandonment hardened into something darker and more reckless over which he had far less control. 

He was out in the Olympic Village several days after their loss, keeping his head down and energetically Not Thinking About the gala his father had ordered him to attend the following night. He could conceive of very little he wanted less than to endure an evening of being repeatedly raked over coals by men in suits or empty military uniforms who couldn’t tell which end of a hockey stick was up but somehow all knew far better than he did precisely what he should have done to win. And yet his presence was required, his father told him. Non-negotiable. 

He was walking briskly with his hood up and his shoulders hunched, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, and then he caught sight of something across the street that stopped him mid-stride, that made the smug suits and the rakes over coals feel like a child’s birthday party by comparison. The Canadian men’s hockey team, fresh off an easy quarterfinal victory over the very Latvian team that had taken Russia out, all crowded together in a cosy little herd, laughing and joking with each other. 

Ilya shouldn’t look. He knew he shouldn’t. He should keep his eyes averted and fucking move along, but his feet wouldn’t go and his eyes refused to obey. They sought out Shane in the crowd and found him easily, right there at the centre of it all, a captain who was winning because his team respected him. They liked him. Of course they fucking did, Ilya thought. Who could possibly not like Shane?

Those fleece jackets they were wearing were fucking criminal, in Ilya’s opinion. Actual fuzzy fleeces, like they were fucking sheep. Shane looked so soft in his, so snuggly and huggable and warm. Ilya had never wanted so desperately to hold him, to be held by him, insane given his baseline level of wanting Shane, which was as close to me as possible and always. 

As he stood watching them, JJ Boiziau threw an arm around Shane and another around Hayden Pike and the three of them laughed together. Ilya felt fury begin to simmer inside him. He knew it was irrational, unhinged even, but he’d been on the edge of something dangerous for days and he couldn’t stop himself now from tumbling over. That was his husband Boiziau was touching, was all he could think. His man. Ilya wanted to storm over there and drag Shane away, curl up in his arms until the warmth and comfort of his presence soothed away the hollow ache of loneliness Ilya felt—had always fucking felt—in this place. 

Home, his heart cried, and Ilya could not refute it. Shane was home. Not Russia, not his father or Alexei, not even his mother’s final resting place. Only Shane, and Ilya was so homesick he couldn’t fucking handle it. 

Marleau was over there too, in the mix with the others. He caught sight of Ilya and waved, then indicated with a gesture that he should join them. Ilya shook his head. He couldn’t, absolutely could not go over there and perform hockey banter, listen to ragging about his team’s loss, all while being both too near Shane and much, much too far away. 

Shane noticed Marleau’s wave and he turned his head to follow it. His eyes landed on Ilya with the weight of a blow but immediately looked away again, his expression blank and impassive, not acknowledging Ilya at all. 

Ilya knew why. He knew this was how it had to be. That did not make it hurt less or feel any less like rejection. 

Shane nudged Pike who nudged Boiziau in turn. The three of them muttered to each other for a minute then detached themselves from the group with waves and shouts of encouragement for the game they would play later that day. The rest of the team scattered after that, breaking into twos and threes and heading off in various directions. 

Ilya remained where he stood, unnoticed by them all, gaze fixed on the back of Shane’s head until he was gone. 

“You need a haircut.” 

Not the worst thing his father could say after seeing him for the first time in years, but Ilya knew there would be more to come. His hands itched to smooth down his hair, tug at his collar, but he kept them firmly at his sides. Controlled. Like he was in control. 

“Yes, Father,” he agreed. 

“The minister still wants to meet you tonight, despite everything.” 

“It will be my honour.” 

“You should be honoured. After last week. You lose to…” He trailed off, to force Ilya to say it. 

“Latvia,” supplied Ilya, dutifully.  

“Latvia,” scoffed Grigori. “How could you let that happen? Are you not ashamed?” 

“I am ashamed, Father.” What else could he be? 

“Not nearly enough,” his father retorted. “I told you how it would be. You already had no discipline and years in America have only made you worse. Your play is sloppy. Lazy. Such promise you had as a boy but that is all squandered now. You have ruined yourself with your poor choices.” 

Ilya knew he should let that slide. He knew there was no point in arguing. “I am a better player now than I have ever been,” he protested anyway, despite himself. “Our goalie was injured, the team didn’t click—” 

“Click?” Grigori sneered. “What the fuck is click? More American nonsense. You are the captain. It’s your responsibility to make them ‘click’. To make them win. If you cannot, what use are you?” He shook his head, and the look he gave Ilya made him feel twelve years old again. The first time he had truly felt the weight of his father’s disappointment. “Always you have looked for someone else to blame,” Grigori said scornfully. “Since you were a boy.” 

He frowned then, as something new seemed to catch his attention and he reached up to adjust Ilya’s bow tie. “Who tied this for you?” he demanded. “Your mother? She doesn’t know how to do this properly.” 

Ilya looked at his father’s face, at the curious lack of focus that softened his expression. “No, Father,” he said. “Mama is dead. You remember?” 

Grigori blinked and the focus re-shifted. “I meant your stepmother,” he said. 

“And where is Polina?” Ilya asked. Where was she, where was Alexei? Where were the people who were meant to be looking after him? What happened, he wondered and not for the first time, to all the money he sent regularly for his father’s care? “In Moscow?” 

“Of course,” Grigori replied, as though this should be obvious, but his focus, Ilya noticed, still had not fully returned. 

“We should go,” Ilya told him gently. Carefully. “To the gala. So I can meet the minister.” 

“Yes,” Grigori agreed. He pulled himself up to his full height and squared his shoulders. “Ready? Let’s go.”  

The gala was worse even than Ilya had feared. The palpable disappointment from everyone and their eagerness to share it with him, the hints, both subtle and overt, that they had expected far better from one of the American hockey league’s biggest stars. The plain belief that they had the right to expect it, that victory was the duty Ilya owed them for the privilege of his foreign success. Perhaps, the implication was, America wasn’t so great after all. Perhaps Ilya only played there because Russian hockey—real hockey—would be too much for him. And underlying all of this was the smug satisfaction, what the Germans would call schadenfreude, of being able to look down on the great Ilya Rozanov. Of having that right as they so claimed it. 

Ilya had always liked that word, schadenfreude. He liked it far less when its pointy end was aimed at him. 

You deserve this, though, don’t you? an insidious little voice whispered through his mind. Everything they say is true. You are arrogant. Overconfident. Lazy. Your own father thinks you’re useless. Your own brother despises you. Your niece no longer recognises you. Shane doesn’t lo— 

“Too much talking, Mr Minister, probably.” 

The sound of Svetlana’s voice cut through the drone of the mens’ and jolted Ilya free, momentarily, from the grim depths of his mind. 

“But you love talking about hockey, my angel,” her father said indulgently. 

“Only when we’re winning, Papa.” Ilya knew that unlike when others said it, this was not a dig at him. He felt the sting of the words all the same. But then Svetlana said, “I’m taking Ilya with me to the bar. He clearly needs another drink,” then took his hand and led him away, and Ilya was too full of relief and gratitude to hold them or anything else against her. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

“I’m an angel,” she replied lightly. “It would be great if you could remember that.” 

Ilya would never dream of forgetting it. “I need a drink,” he said. 

Svetlana paused at the foot of the stairs and gave him a shrewdly assessing look. “Sasha is here,” she said. “Back from Paris. I’m guessing you don’t want to see him.” 

“No.” Ilya’s whole consciousness recoiled from the thought. “I’m sorry, I know he’s your friend.” 

“He was yours too, once.” 

“Not really.” Whatever he and Sasha may have shared, friends they had never been. 

“He’s in the bathroom doing coke,” Svetlana informed him. “You don’t want any of that either?” 

“No,” said Ilya at once, then, “Sorry, I’m bad company for you tonight.” 

“Yes, for yourself too I think.” Svetlana tugged on his hand, still clasped in hers. “Come on. Let’s go out.” 

“Out? Where?” 

“Anywhere. A club. Somewhere we can dance.” 

“Okay.” Somewhere loud and pulsing where Ilya could get out of his own fucking head. “Yes. Anywhere you want.” 

“I don’t know Sochi any better than you do. But there must be somewhere. It’s a resort town.” 

“Wait.” Ilya took out his phone and scrolled through the messages until he found the one he wanted. “Marleau mentioned this place.” He handed the phone to Svetlana so she could read the name. 

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll get Papa’s driver to take us. We’ll be comically overdressed, though. You want to change first?” 

“No.” Ilya pulled off his bow tie and stuffed it in his pocket. “Fuck it. Let’s just go.” 

JJ alone, Shane could have resisted. Even the combined efforts of JJ and Hayden, even with Hayden turning pleading eyes on him and reminding him that it wasn’t every day a man with two kids and trying for a third even had the chance to go to a club. The last place Shane wanted to be was anywhere near anything that could be described as nightlife and he’d never really understood peer pressure as a concept. All you had to do was say no enough times and eventually people stopped asking. 

Hayden and even JJ would eventually have stopped. But Marleau was the driving force behind the push to go out and he didn’t know Shane, not really. Shane knew only that he was Ilya’s best friend, which made him Shane’s best friend-in-law, the closest he could get to his husband until they were home again. Shane missed Ilya so much he’d do anything to feel closer to him, and if anything took the shape of going out to a fucking nightclub with Marleau, well. At least he wouldn’t be in his musty-smelling room alone, thinking about Ilya and worrying about Ilya and letting himself spiral into nightmare scenarios involving Russian police and dark jail cells and disappearing. Shane had read one solitary article about Russia’s anti-LGBT law and it had made him so sick with fear he’d gone to the practice rink and run drills to near-exhaustion just to stop himself from calling Ilya, to hear his voice and know that he was safe. 

So yeah. He should probably get out. 

“Hell yeah, man!” Marleau said when he agreed, accompanied by a bruising slap on his back. He turned to the others with a broad grin and arms spread wide. “No Metros or Raiders tonight boys, just Team Canada, out on the fucking town. Let’s fucking go!” 

Marleau’s club was exactly what Ilya needed. Music he could feel in the marrow of his bones, people whose eyes were drawn to him the minute he walked in. People who looked at him and wanted him, simple, uncomplicated desire with none of the mess that made Shane such an open wound in his chest. Shane, who was here somewhere in this city sparing not a single thought for him. Ilya knew he wasn’t. The Canadian team had won their semifinal game, they’d be up against the USA in the final the day after tomorrow. Shane would have only hockey on his mind right now, no room for Ilya there at all. 

Ilya needed to stop fucking thinking about him. He did three shots in a row with Svetlana then went out to dance with her and with the pleasant vodka buzz warming his skin and dulling his mind. She twirled in his arms for a bit but then her attention was caught by another man and she shimmied away. Ilya turned to find a woman just behind him in the crush, dancing close, a short and curvy one with thick, long hair he could sink his hands into. The smile she gave him was an invitation he did not refuse. 

It wasn’t as if Shane would care, the insidious voice whispered to him as he took the woman in his arms. Shane was counting the days until their marriage could end and he wouldn’t have to bother with Ilya anymore. He may like the way Ilya fucked him but that was only because he hadn’t been with anyone else. Once Ilya was out of the way they’d be lining up for Shane, men and women both. Shane was the hottest, the sexiest, the most beautiful man alive; Ilya couldn’t fathom anyone not wanting to fuck him. 

The thought of Shane fucking another person, of him flushed and wanting and moaning a name that was not his, made Ilya want to howl and tear himself apart but he forced his mind to think it. It was his future, his present soon enough. He forced himself to pull the woman close and fist a hand into her hair, though its texture was too rough, not silky like Shane’s, and he forced himself to kiss her though her lips were wrong. Too thin, too dry. She tasted wrong, like the vodka Shane tried hard to pretend he liked, like the cigarettes he loudly despised. Ilya made himself kiss her deeper, pull her closer. He could fuck her, he thought, Shane would not care, and with that act he could finally hate himself as much as everyone else fucking hated him. 

The woman’s fingers sank into his hair, tugged at it like Shane did. Ilya’s stomach turned and his arms went rigid, unmoving, holding her close instead of flinging her away. He pulled his mouth from hers to look down at her, her beautiful face and the lust in her eyes. 

She wants you, the voice whispered. She wants you and he doesn’t. He— 

The thought stalled in his mind as some sixth sense caught hold of his awareness and made him look up, over the woman’s head and into the very last pair of eyes he could ever have imagined meeting in a place like this. His breath caught and his heart stopped, his mind and his mouth could produce nothing save for one thought expressed by a single word. 

“Shane.” 

Marleau was pretty fun company, as it turned out. Shane could see why Ilya liked him so much. He had an infectious energy, like a dog whose tail was always wagging, and he seemed particularly interested in getting to know Shane. They managed a halfway decent conversation over a couple of drinks at the bar, even with the pounding beat of the music in their ears, then Marleau leaned back with an assessing look at Shane and a little shake of his head. 

“Huh,” he said, like he’d just unlocked the answer to a riddle. “I actually get it now.” 

“Get what?” Shane asked, but Marleau just shook his head again. “Nothing.” He polished off his drink and signalled the bartender for another, then said, “Let’s go find some chicks, man. Let’s dance.” 

“Um.” Shane was not a dancer and the last thing he wanted to find was a chick. “You go. I’m okay here.” 

“Nah, come on. Your boys are already out there.” This was true. Even Hayden was dancing. Hayden, the most married person Shane had ever met. He hesitated. 

“You got a girl at home, huh?” Marleau guessed. 

“Kind of.” 

Marleau nodded sympathetically. “Would she mind you being out like this?” 

Shane tried to imagine how Ilya would react to the idea of him in a nightclub. He’d probably love it. “No,” he said. 

“So no worries, then. Come on, Hollander! Let loose for once, my man. Give me something I can take home with me. Something no one will fuckin’ believe.” 

“Fine.” Shane downed the last of his drink. “But I suck at dancing, so you know.” 

“So there is something Hollzy’s bad at.” Marleau waved the bartender down and ordered Shane another drink. “Knew there had to be at least one. Don’t worry about it, man, failure’s good for the soul.” 

“I trust a Boston player to know all about failure,” Shane sniped, and Marleau crowed in delight. He scooped Shane’s drink up from the bar and handed it to him. “I definitely see it now,” he said. “Fuck. Amazing.” 

“What do you see?” Shane asked, but Marleau didn’t hear him. He was too busy dragging Shane out into the crowd on the dance floor, where he was immediately enveloped by Hayden and JJ. 

“Capitaine!” JJ yelled in his ear as Hayden laughed and drunkenly draped himself over Shane’s shoulder. 

“You’ll never guess who else is here,” he slurred, then seemed to consider that statement. “Although maybe you would. You know him better than we do.” 

Shane’s stomach lurched and he felt suddenly cold, despite the hot press of people all around him. “Know who?” he asked. 

“Probably trying to forget that shitshow of a game,” JJ said. 

“Drowning his shorrow—his sworrom—his sorrows,” Hayden agreed.  

There was only one person Shane could think of who had a shitshow of a game to forget, who both Hayden and JJ would recognise and consider it worthwhile, entertaining even, to mention. 

“Who?” he asked again, in a voice that didn’t sound like his at all. 

“Rozanov!” JJ said and pointed. Shane followed the trajectory of his finger through the crowd to Ilya, dressed in a tuxedo with the jacket open and the shirt half-unbuttoned, plastered against a woman with long, pale hair. Holding her. Dancing with her. Kissing her. 

A tidal wave of emotions hit Shane all at once. He felt sick. Crushed. Betrayed. Angry with himself because he should not be feeling those things. He knew their deal. Ilya was doing nothing wrong. 

He had to get out of here, was his singular thought. Out and far away before Ilya saw him. Ilya could never, ever know that Shane had witnessed this and Shane wanted more than anything to not be witnessing it anymore. He had to get out, get away, find someplace quiet where his brain didn’t rattle inside his skull and his skin didn’t feel like it belonged on another person. Where he might even let himself shed the tears that were welling up uncontrollably in his eyes. 

Anywhere but fucking here. 

He shoved his drink into Hayden’s hand and shook himself free from both of them, ignoring their surprised protests. Blindly, he tried to push his way through the crowd but it was so thick, so many fucking people, and then he sensed, with complete and utter certainty and heavy dread, Ilya’s eyes on him. 

As though his body were controlled by someone else, Shane stopped and turned to look at Ilya, who was standing stock-still now, his face cold and hard, his fingers still tangled in the woman’s hair. He looked like a stranger, Shane thought, not his husband at all, and that more than anything fuelled his need to get the fuck away. If only he could move. 

As he stood frozen Ilya’s face changed, softened, turned back into the man Shane knew so well, and somehow, impossibly, that was worse. Ilya’s lips formed a word that looked like Shane’s name; he began to move towards him as tears made Shane’s vision blur and he found his will to go. He dove into the crowd again, shoved his way through it with broad hockey shoulders and with elbows and then at last he was out the door, gasping for breath and sobbing in the cold, dark Russian night. 

Chapter End Notes

❤️

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

Icy wind swirled around him as Ilya made his way through the cemetery. It slipped through the gaps in his coat, buttonholes and cuffs and collar, to raise goose pimples on his neck and arms. 

Ilya hoped to fuck that wasn’t a metaphor for anything. 

It was far more bitter here in Moscow than in Sochi, yet even there the night air had struck him like a slap across the face, a much needed one, as he had raced from the nightclub and looked around desperately for any sign of Shane. He’d found none. He had been too slow in pushing his way through the crowd, too fucking slow and also fucking stupid. 

The look on Shane’s face he feared he’d carry with him until his dying day. 

He didn’t sit on the ground this time. It was too icy and he too formally dressed. And he was not a child anymore. Not quite four years older but very, very different. 

He still brought the roses. 

“Hello, Mama,” he said, as he laid them on the grave. The words caught in his throat as he said them; he knew that this would actually be the final time. He sat with that for a minute, unsure of how to proceed. 

The wind whispered around him, teased through his hair. Ilya smiled. 

“I love you too,” he said. “But Mama. I fucked up. I fucked things up so bad this time I don’t know if I can fix them.” 

He breathed through the pain of that admission, the tightness in his chest that hadn’t eased a bit since that night. Shane’s face flashed through his mind again and he whispered for his mother’s ears alone his deepest fear. 

“What if I’ve lost him?” 

 He could admit to himself now, in the cold light of this frosty morning, as he had even admitted it outside the club in Sochi, that perhaps, possibly, maybe, his thoughts and his actions had been the tiniest bit irrational. His father and the Olympic loss and the suits at the gala had wormed their way too deep into his head, where all his old feelings of inadequacy lay buried, and brought them roaring back when Ilya was at his most vulnerable and no longer accustomed to feeling them. 

Another slap in the face, that. The realisation that he hadn’t felt useless for a very long time. And that this was down almost entirely to Shane. 

God, his face. The hurt on it, the betrayal. Ilya had been so, so fucking stupid. Of course what he did mattered to Shane, he’d seen four fucking years’ worth of proof of that. His feelings may not run as deep as Ilya’s did but there could be no doubt that Shane cared about him. 

Cared. Possibly past tense. And what, Ilya thought, would he do if it was? 

His flight to Montreal was leaving in a few hours. He had business to conclude in Moscow, financial provisions to make and accommodation to arrange, and then he would board that plane and his feet would never touch Russian soil again. There would be consequences to that, he knew. Painful ones.  But Ilya had decided that he would deal with them when they arose. He couldn’t bear to be the person he became when he was in this country and that had to outweigh all other considerations. 

“I’m leaving for good,” he said. “I will see that Papa is taken care of, and Alexei’s family, but I will not come back here again. I cannot. I will not.” He paused, then spoke a truth that hurt him even as he said it. “The only thing I regret leaving behind is you.” 

Ilyusha. His mother’s voice shivered through the frigid air. Do you not remember me saying I will always be with you?

“I don’t feel you though, Mama,” Ilya said, in a voice like a child’s. “And I can’t hear you when I’m in America. Only here.” 

You must learn how to listen. 

“That’s very cryptic. Is it because you are dead that you speak in riddles?” 

Bright laughter danced around his collar with the breeze. Ilya smiled at it, then sighed. 

“I will try to learn to listen.” 

And to tell. 

“What?” 

Tell him. All those things you do not say. Tell him. 

This Ilya knew he could not do. Shane didn’t need to be subjected to every crazy thought in his head or feeling in his chest. But… maybe… there were some things he could be more open about. 

His stomach clenched in fear even thinking about it. 

“I will try,” he said, the sole truth he could offer. “I promise to try.” 

The sound of the final buzzer rang in Shane’s ears, loud but not nearly enough to drown out the cheers of a stadium full of Americans who had just watched their Olympic hockey team win gold. 

Hayden nudged him with his shoulder. “Don’t look like that,” he said. 

“Like what?” 

“Like we’ve lost.” 

Shane scowled at him. “We did lose.” 

“We won silver. I know you’re not used to being second best, but that’s not anything to sneeze at. And anyway, I don’t think there was anything even you could’ve done. Hunter was on a fucking tear. I’ve never seen him like that before.” 

Shane hadn’t either. Scott Hunter was always a tough opponent but today he’d been unbeatable. Something had lit a fire under his ass. 

Another caveman, probably. Fire they have just discovered.  

Shane winced at the sound of Ilya’s voice in his head and shoved it away, banished it to the box in the corner of his mind where, curled up alone and sobbing in his cold bed after the club, he had buried every thought and feeling he had about his husband. Not here, he thought at the box. Not fucking now. 

If he let himself think about Ilya he would break down and he could not break down. Not now. Not here. Not again. 

There would be time and space for that later. 

“Good game,” Hunter said as they shook hands before the medal ceremony. 

“Thanks,” Shane replied. “Yours was better.” 

“Fuck yeah, it was.” Hunter grinned at him, and it occurred to Shane that he looked happy. Really happy, for the first time since they’d been in Russia. And that this happiness served to highlight a sadness that only became apparent by contrast. 

“Hey, man,” he said, on a burst of misery-loves-camaraderie, “is everything okay?”

Hunter laughed. “I just won a fucking gold medal, Hollander. I think I’m a lot better than okay.” 

“I didn’t mean—I meant you. How are you doing?” 

Something flashed in Hunter’s eyes, so briefly Shane would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching for that very thing. Sadness, loss. Anger, at himself. 

Shane knew exactly how he felt. 

But the expression was gone, as quickly as it had come, and Hunter smirked at him. “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fucking golden.” 

“Oh, a pun,” Shane shot back, “the lowest form of wit.” 

“Fuck you, Hollander.” 

Shane bit back half a dozen comebacks that the Ilya-voice in his head suggested, something about old bones not being enough to meet his needs or preferring men who had evolved the ability to walk upright. Instead, he said, “You know what, Hunter, I’m glad you won. I feel like you need it more than I do. I’ll be able to try again in four years while you’re icing your knees in a retirement home in fucking Florida.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Hunter muttered. “You sound like—” 

But what he sounded like Shane would never know, as the organisers came to hustle them back to their teams so the ceremony could begin. 

Ilya got to Montreal before Shane did. In the echoing loneliness of their apartment he lay on the sofa and let his mind race, frantically and on an endless loop, through the full range of possible ways Shane might react to seeing him again. There was no way to stop its racing and he lacked the wherewithal for anything but the path of least resistance. 

He watched the news coverage of the Canadian team returning home to the cheers of the crowd at the arrivals gate in Toronto. Shane smiled and waved and answered flawlessly when interviewed. He did everything expected of him and did it perfectly because he was Shane Fucking Hollander, but Ilya could see the strain behind every look and word and action and it made him want to punch something. Preferably himself.  

Several hours later he heard the sound of Shane’s key in the lock and went into the entryway to meet him. He looked so tired as he came through the door, worn absolutely threadbare, and then he caught sight sight of Ilya and all expression vanished. 

“Did you fuck her?” he asked, with no inflection in his voice. “I don’t care if you did, I know I have no right to care but I have to know. Ilya, I have to—” 

“No.” Ilya was at his side in two steps, gathering him up and pulling him in. Shane resisted, just for a beat, then he went pliant and Ilya cradled him close, lips in his hair. “No,” he said again, “I didn’t.” 

“You didn’t.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Okay,” Shane said. Ilya felt him nod. “Okay.” 

His arms came around Ilya’s waist and squeezed. Ilya tightened his own hold in response. His whole body seemed to sigh into the embrace, to sing at this closeness after so long without but it wasn’t enough. He needed Shane’s bare skin against his, needed their bodies joined. 

As if in answer to his call, Shane’s hands slipped beneath his shirt and splayed wide on his back. Ilya made a noise that sounded embarrassingly like a whimper, then some invisible thread of tension between them seemed to snap. Shane tugged at Ilya’s shirt, pulled it over his head as Ilya wrestled him from his, then Shane dove into him, pushed him back into the wall with heated kisses as Ilya’s hands roamed his back and beneath his pants to squeeze his ass. 

“I want your dick in my mouth,” Shane said roughly. “I need it, Ilya. I—” 

“Yes,” Ilya groaned as Shane dropped to his knees. “Yes, Shane, fuck.” 

Shane wrapped an arm around each of Ilya’s thighs and held on tight as he took Ilya’s cock to the back of his throat. He held it there for a minute, humming around it, as Ilya’s eyes fell shut and his head fell back against the wall. His fingers sifted through Shane’s hair (silky, perfect) as Shane’s equally perfect mouth sucked hard up his cock then licked just beneath the head, right on the spot he knew drove Ilya wild. 

He moaned with his whole chest as Shane took him deep again, the wet, obscene noises loud in the echoey stillness of the entryway. Ilya fought his orgasm for as long as he could but he felt too raw, too flayed bare, and Shane’s mouth a balm he was too weak to resist. 

Shane swallowed around him then held him in his mouth as he softened, nose pressed to the trail of hair down Ilya’s abdomen, until Ilya pulled him to his feet and said, “My turn.” 

He kicked away the pants and boxers around his ankles then hoisted Shane up and carried him over to the sofa, laid him on it then followed him down, pressing him back into the cushions to kiss him. Kissed his mouth and his neck, down his chest and his abdomen to his dick, hard and weeping and gorgeous, and he kissed this too. Shane moaned and his fingers clenched in Ilya’s hair, held on as Ilya sucked him down, savoured him and fucking worshipped him until he came, nearly as quickly as Ilya had. 

He too remained with Shane in his mouth after, breathing his scent and listening to the sound of his breathing as it evened out. Shane gave his hair a tug and reluctantly Ilya released him, crawled back up to collapse beside him and lay his head on his chest. Shane wrapped him in his arms without hesitation. 

“Have you?” he asked in a small voice, after they had lain in silence for a while. “Since we…” 

Ilya knew what he was asking. “Once. Svetlana. Years ago.” 

“How many years?” 

“Three. Nearly.” 

“Would you have?” Shane’s voice was somehow smaller still. “If you hadn’t seen me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Probably. And he would have hated himself beyond hope of forgiveness. 

“It would have been okay. If you had. It wouldn’t have been wrong. Our deal—”

“Fuck our deal,” spat Ilya viciously. “It would have felt wrong. It did feel wrong. Everything there felt wrong. You were right, Shane. I shouldn’t have gone.” 

“If it felt so wrong then why did you do it?” 

Ilya gave himself a minute to arrange his thoughts before he answered. “I hate myself when I’m there,” he said, a confession that felt carved from his ribs. “I’d forgotten how bad it is, with my father and all the pressure to be a certain way. It makes me terrible and I want to do terrible things. To justify that I feel so—” Hopeless. But that word still terrified Ilya. Hopeless, like his mother had felt. “All I wanted was to see you but I couldn’t because what’s between us is wrong there. We are wrong there. And so I did the most wrong thing I knew how to do. Which there would be seen as more right than what I do with you.” He laughed bitterly. “This is making no sense, I think.” 

“It does,” said Shane. “I get it.” 

“Do you?” asked Ilya tiredly. “I don’t.” 

Shane’s fingers sifted through his hair, stroked across his scalp. He tugged Ilya’s head back to look at him. The empty expression had gone from his face and he was Ilya’s Shane again, freckled and flushed and beautiful. 

“You forgive me,” Ilya said. It was a statement not a question, and the astonished disbelief he felt he didn’t think was evident in his voice. “How?” 

Shane thought about this for a minute. “I felt like I was going crazy there,” he said. “I’m always scared of doing something that might give us away but there it was a thousand times worse. And it was so fucking hard not talking to you. I guess… I felt so insane there that it was a relief to do something wild—” 

“You went to a club.” 

“I know! Fuck. I guess—I understand why you felt that you needed to, like. Push at something. Punch back. I just—” 

“What? What do you just?”

“I just wish I hadn’t seen it.” 

Ilya swallowed hard. “I will never not be sorry that you did.” 

Shane kissed his forehead and Ilya pressed a cheek into his chest again, as though if he pressed hard enough he could hold back the tears that wanted to flood over it. 

“Can you promise me something?” Shane asked, after a pause. 

“Anything.” 

“You haven’t heard what it is yet!” 

Ilya could think of nothing he wouldn’t promise this man, but was willing to hear him out. “What is it?” 

“Can we promise that it’ll just be us, until this is done?” Shane asked quietly. “It’s only another year and—” 

“Yes, of course.” Ilya shimmied up until their faces were level and brushed the dark hair back from Shane’s face. “Of course.” He had to bite back the urge to tell Shane that it would only be him forever. “I promise.” 

“You do? Really?” 

“Really.” 

“Really?” 

“Shane,” said Ilya, with a smile. “If I have to have only one person to fuck for a year I could do worse than Olympic silver medallist and very hot if boring person Shane Hollander, yes?” 

“Well, when you put it like that.” 

Ilya’s smile widened. “Silver medal only, though, hmm?” 

“Shut up.” Shane smacked him on the shoulder. “I was distracted.” 

“I am sorry for that too,” Ilya told him softly.  

“I honestly wish I could blame you,” Shane retorted. “But it was Hunter’s fault. He was fucking unstoppable. Especially for someone his age.”

Ilya started to laugh. 

Shane’s grin was as evil as it was possible for him to look. “I told him I was glad he won, because I can come back next time but he’ll be icing his knees in a retirement home in Florida.” 

Ilya laughed harder. “You did not.” 

“I did! Right before the medal ceremony.” 

“Oh, my God. You are chirping people who are not me. I am so proud.” 

“Too bad you weren’t there. You’d look good in bronze.” 

“Ha ha, very funny. You are expert chirper now, like a brave baby bird.” Shane snorted and shoved his shoulder again. “Well, enjoy while you can,” Ilya said loftily. “I am winning the Cup this year.” 

“Oh, are you.” 

“Mmm. I have decided.” 

“You’ve decided.” 

“And Svetlana. She has laid out whole path for me.” He blinked innocently at Shane. “Tell me, how is Miitka’s foot?” 

Shane opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again. “I am not giving you insider information on my team!” 

Ilya waived an airy hand. “No need anyway. Sveta sees all.” 

Shane narrowed his eyes. “What makes Svetlana think there’s something wrong with Miitka’s foot?” 

Ilya was about to tell him the story of Sveta on the plane to Moscow, distracting him with a detailed rundown of how he could take home the Cup this year, then he snapped his own mouth shut and narrowed his eyes. “I am not giving you insider information on my insider information!” he sputtered, as Shane dissolved into laughter. 

They ordered takeout and ate it naked on the sofa then went upstairs to bed where they fucked slowly, face-to-face and wrapped around each other, breathing the same air. Ilya had an early flight to catch but he stayed awake for as long as he could after, holding Shane and listening to his heartbeat. 

When he realised Shane was still awake too, he said, “I went to see my mother.” 

Shane’s breath stuttered, then he said carefully, “Your mother?” 

“Mmm. Her grave.” 

“Oh. Oh, Ilya, I—” 

“No, please.” Ilya shook his head. “Was a long time ago. Fine now. I went to tell her that I would not be coming back. I am done with Russia. I left money for my father and an apartment for my brother’s family and I told them both never to call me again. I am done with all of it. I never want to feel again the way I felt there.”

“Still,” said Shane, “that must've been hard. Even if your family sucks you’ll still miss them.” 

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “I will miss them. I will miss Russia. I will miss talking to my mama. But I like myself better here. In Canada, in America. I am better person. More me. Even though we have to hide, with you I am better. The most myself.”

He listened carefully then, and with intent. In the stillness of their bedroom he just caught the faint echo of his mother’s laughter. 

“I like yourself too,” Shane said. “The way you are here.” 

Ilya sniffed and held him tighter, and they drifted off to sleep together. 

The playoffs unfolded exactly as Svetlana had predicted. The Admirals fell to New Jersey then New Jersey to the Metros, leaving them to face the Raiders in a conference final that lasted seven hard-fought games. 

Shane had a hat trick in that Game 7 but he was the only Metro able to make the smallest dent in the Raiders’ defence and Miitka was visibly off his game. Shane knew, though, that even with a healthy goalie, knew even as he shoulder-checked Ilya and took the puck from him to score late in the third period, that there was something about the Raiders this season that just seemed inevitable. Ilya’s determination, maybe. The way he played like he had a point to prove. The way he kind of did. 

Blood oozed from Ilya’s lip as he faced off with Shane for the final time in the series. The Metros were still down by two with seconds left; Shane knew there was basically nothing he could do at this point to win. He also knew that whatever Ilya took at his expense he was going to have to fucking earn. 

He could see the triumph already in Ilya’s eyes, hear it in his voice as he said,“Ah, Hollander. Good news. Soon your pretty face will be free again.” 

“What?” Shane snapped. 

“Free of this silly, scraggly attempt at a beard.” Ilya gestured at his face. “Almost as sad as your attempt at beating me.” 

Shane’s eyebrows drew together. He had one last card to play, one he’d been holding until this very fucking minute. “How’s that playoffs sex ban treating you, Rozanov?” he taunted. “Heard you’re not even allowed to jerk it.” 

The smirk slid satisfyingly from Ilya’s face. “Where did you hear this?” he demanded. 

JJ’d had it off one of the Raiders’ defensemen at a club two nights ago, but Shane was not telling Ilya that. Instead he smiled and watched Ilya’s eyes track the movement of his tongue as he licked across his bottom lip, then dropped his voice low and said, “Guess it’ll just be me and the contents of my bedside drawer tonight.” 

The eyes of the only other person in the world who knew what that bedside drawer contained widened then narrowed sharply. Shane smirked at him as the puck dropped one last time. 

Dirty move, Hollander, was the text that awaited him when he came out of the shower. 

You’re one to talk about playing dirty, Shane shot back. Serves you fucking right. 

Your schoolchildren were like dinner plates, he sent, when Ilya did not reply, and was rewarded with a 🤬 emoji. 

😜 he sent back. 

He didn’t expect to hear from Ilya again—the Raiders would surely be out all night celebrating, and, sex ban or no, he and Ilya never stayed together or even called each other during the playoffs—but just as he was drifting off to sleep his phone began to buzz. 

you are so mean

hate you 

is my night 

so why

why

why

The messages paused there. Shane waited for a minute then sent, Why what? 

Immediately his phone began to ring. He didn’t even have time to say hello when Ilya slurred, “Can think of nothing but your stupid drawer. So mean. Why.” 

“How much have you had to drink?” 

“Not enough. Too much. Need more.” 

“I think you should drink some water then go to bed.” 

Ilya groaned. “Do not say bed. You are there now, yes?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Fuck. Want to be home with you. Hotel room too empty. Cannot come there or anywhere. Shaaaane.” He drew out the name on a whine. “Do you come without me?” 

Shane hadn’t. The Metros didn’t have a playoffs sex ban but Shane rarely got himself off without thinking of Ilya, and he’d wanted to stay focused. He wasn’t sure Ilya needed to know this, though. 

“Not yet,” he said. 

“Don’t,” Ilya ordered. “Not until playoffs are over.” 

“You want me to follow your team’s sex ban?” 

“Yes.” Ilya’s stubborn tone said he knew he was being ridiculous but wasn’t about to back down. It made Shane smile. 

“You’d better fucking win, then,” he said. 

A pause, then, “You want me to win?” 

“Of course I do.” 

“Shane…” 

“If I have to go out I want to go out to the fucking champions, not some losers who can’t even close the deal.” 

Ilya’s laugh was low and delighted. “And you say I am asshole.”

“You are.” 

“Hmm. What is English expression. Takes one to know one?” 

“Maybe.” 

“Definitely.” 

“Tell you what,” Shane said. “I won’t come for the rest of the playoffs and if you win the Cup we’ll stay the whole night in Vegas after the awards. Get a fucking penthouse suite and you can do anything you want to me there.” 

“I do this always,” Ilya scoffed. “Is just a Tuesday.” 

“Well you’ll just have to think of something we haven’t done yet. Motivation for you to win.” 

“I do not need motivation to win. I win because I am the best.” 

Shane snorted. 

“But this is challenge and I accept. No cheating, though. No sneaking into drawer just because I am not there.” 

“I’m not going to fucking cheat. You don’t cheat. No jerking off in the shower because you think Marleau can’t hear you. I promise he can. You are not quiet.” 

Ilya scoffed. “I would never do this. Shameful.” 

“We have a deal, then.” 

“Yes. Deal.” 

The silence stretched a bit, then, “Shane,” Ilya said, and Shane smiled again. 

“Ilya.” 

“Do you really want me to win?” 

“Yeah,” said Shane softly. “I really do. I’m proud of you.” 

Ilya made a small, soft noise. 

“A loss like that at the Olympics would have broken anyone else,” Shane went on, “but it only made you stronger. You’re a force of fucking nature and San Francisco isn’t going to know what hit them.” 

Ilya was silent for a long moment then he whispered something, almost too low to hear and in Russian. Shane thought, not for the first time, that he should really try to learn a bit of Ilya’s language. 

“What was that?” he asked. 

“Nothing. I should go. Team is waiting.” 

“Of course.” 

“I will call you after I win.” 

“I’ll be watching every game.” 

“Okay. Goodbye, Shane.” 

“Bye, Ilya.” 

I’m proud of you. 

Shane thought about this as he sat with the rest of the team at Hayden’s, watching the last minutes of the Cup finals Game 6 tick away. 

“I can’t believe that asshole’s about to win the Cup,” Hayden grumbled. “Didn’t you promise to kill him yourself if he got one before you did?” 

“I still might,” said Shane. “Murder is never off the table when it comes to Rozanov.” 

His teammates cheered at this, and threw around a few insults about Ilya’s background and cocksucking proclivities, which still made Shane smile to himself even after four years of hearing it. On the television, the game wound to its conclusion and the Raiders threw their gloves and helmets into the air before colliding with each other into a mass hug on centre ice. 

Hayden made a sound of disgust and said something about starting up the grill but Shane wasn’t listening. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen as the Cup was presented, as Ilya hoisted it above his head, grinning ear to ear. He tuned out every other person and all background noise, lost in the sight of his husband’s triumph and his joy. 

I’m proud of you. 

It was true, despite the fact that Shane was also fiercely, gnawingly jealous. Jealousy and pride could coexist within one person he discovered, and not cancel each other out. It was inevitable, probably, this bizarre mix of emotions. He knew Ilya felt the same about his Olympic medal. They couldn’t both win, one or the other of them would always come out on top, that was simply how it was and how it had to be, so long as their lives remained entwined. 

His phone rang late that night, with a call from an Ilya probably even drunker than he had been the last time. 

“I won,” he said. 

“I saw.” 

“Oh, you saw, but you do not congratulate me?” 

“Congratulations.” 

“Thank you.” 

“But if you start to gloat I’m hanging up.” 

“No, no. Gloating is for later,” Ilya informed him. “Gloating is for Vegas.” His voice dropped lower. “I have been thinking about what we will do. Or what you will do for me.” 

“You have an idea, then?” 

“I have many ideas. Sooo many. Too many, probably. But is okay. We have entire summer.” 

“I am not spending my summer rewarding you for winning the fucking Cup.” 

“Mmm. We will see.” 

“Yeah,” said Shane, “we fucking will.” 

Ilya chuckled lowly. “Call me tomorrow, we will make plans.” 

“I will. And Ilya? I really am happy for you.” 

“I know,” said Ilya, in a softer voice. “Thank you. Goodbye, Shane.” 

“Bye, Ilya.” 

Las Vegas, June 2014

They were supposed to be onstage in thirty seconds, Shane thought. He barely resisted the urge to check his watch, again. Where the fuck was Ilya? 

“You’re late,” he couldn’t help snapping when Ilya did appear, moments later. 

“I am the Cup winner, Hollander,” Ilya said loudly, for the benefit of any nearby ears, “everyone wants a piece of me.” With one hand he made a show of adjusting his tie while the other slipped a hotel room key into Shane’s pocket. 

Shane glanced at him briefly to acknowledge it was there, then said sharply, “We’re on in five seconds.” 

“Eh,” said Ilya, “twenty-five seconds,” and Shane reflected that under different circumstances he would spend quite a lot of his time in Ilya’s presence trying not to strangle him. 

But his awareness of the key made it feel heavy in his pocket and his awareness of Ilya close beside him made his head feel light. He made it through their awkward, scripted dialogue without stumbling too badly but when Ilya’s hand curled around his neck then trailed down his spine his head began to spin and he fled to the bathrooms as soon as they were offstage. 

Once there, he checked to make sure he was alone. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be for long. 

Sure enough, Ilya appeared seconds behind him. Shane turned as he entered. 

“Does that door lock?” he asked. 

“I don’t think so.” 

They stared at each other for a beat, then two. Then Shane muttered, “Fuck it,” and walked into his husband’s arms. 

Three months’ separation he could handle. They’d been apart that long before, dozens of times. But three months’ separation followed by a long playoff series where they saw each other on the ice for seven games in a row but didn’t fuck or kiss or even call for that entire time, followed by Ilya beside him onstage, under hot lights and the eyes of hundreds of people who could never know what they were to each other—that was too much. 

He nuzzled into Ilya’s neck as Ilya held him tightly and stroked his hair. The steady rhythm of his breath against Shane’s temple was ridiculously soothing. “We can’t stay here long,” Shane said.

“No.” 

“It’s gross in here anyway.” 

“Yes. Very gross.” 

“I suppose we can’t—” 

“Shane.” There was amusement in Ilya’s voice. “If you want me to get on my knees on this filthy bathroom floor and suck your dick, I think I want at least that we could lock the door.” 

“So that’s a no, then.” 

“It’s a later.” 

Shane nodded, but didn’t let Ilya go. “We’ll have to stick around at least for the ceremony.” 

“Mmm. And for boring party after.” 

“The whole thing?” 

“One of us is winning MVP tonight,” Ilya reminded him. “Probably me, maybe you.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Eh, there is still a small chance for you. I am nothing if not fair and generous.” 

“Ha ha.” 

“So we, by which I mean I, will have to stay to enjoy many congratulations. I owe the people that much.” 

“What ‘people?’” Shane demanded, but he was grinning too hard to make it bite. 

“I will text you when I am ready to leave,” Ilya continued, as though he hadn’t spoken. “Wait ten minutes then follow.” 

“Okay.” Shane took a deep breath then stepped back and stayed there, though the sight of Ilya in his tuxedo with his hair all curly and that stupid little smirk made his insides twist with yearning. 

Ilya stared back at him for a moment, then gripped him by the chin and kissed him, with heat and with a promise that had Shane’s blood humming. “See you later,” he murmured, then he was gone. 

Shane’s blood was still humming hours later when his phone buzzed with a message from Ilya. 

Now, was all it said.

He swallowed hard as he checked the time then slipped the phone back into his pocket. Nerves leapt in his belly as he waited the requisite ten minutes then boarded and elevator to the top floor. Once inside, he took off his jacket and untied his bow tie, then leaned back against the wall and thought about what he was doing here. 

“What if my father hadn’t interfered after the draft?” Ilya asked, during their phone call the day after his Cup victory. “Do you ever think about this?” 

“Yeah.” A lot, actually. It was kind of his nightmare. If Ilya’s father hadn’t interfered, then Ilya would just have… played. Just gone to Boston and played there, without Shane in his life at all. “We wouldn’t be married. We’d barely even know each other.” 

“I think we’d still be fucking.” 

This caught Shane off guard. “Really?” 

“Yes. I wanted you.” 

“You did? When?” 

“Draft night for sure.” 

“Well, yeah.” Shane had wanted him that night too. “But, um. Before that?” 

“I think so,” Ilya admitted. “When I saw you skate.” 

“Yeah. Same.” 

“Maybe from when I saw your freckles.” 

“What—in Regina? That first—” 

“Mmhmm.” 

Shane thought back to that cold afternoon behind the rink in Saskatchewan. The confusion on Ilya’s face when Shane had spoken to him, his smile when they shook hands a second time. The cigarette hanging between his lips. Shane had felt… something that afternoon. Nerves, he’d attributed it to, especially after Ilya’s chirp about beating them. But now, looking back, he wondered. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I think maybe same. But there’s no way we’d be fucking in this scenario. How could we? We’d never see each other.” 

“I would have found a way.” 

Shane grinned at that. “Oh, would you.” 

“Yes. I am wily.” 

“Wily?” 

“Like the coyote.” 

“I regret introducing you to Looney Tunes,” Shane sighed. “And anyway, the coyote’s plans always failed.” 

“My plans would not fail because I would not use Acme products.” 

“Okay, fair enough. So you would have what? Chased me? Seduced me?” 

“You assume I would have had to?” said Ilya indignantly. “That you wouldn’t just have fallen into my arms the first time I smiled at you?” 

“I fucking wouldn’t have.” 

“Mmm. This is debatable.” 

“You’re debatable.”  

Ilya huffed. “That makes no sense.” 

“Why are you asking me this?” Shane demanded through his laughter. “It didn’t happen, so…” 

“So let’s pretend it did.” 

“What?” 

“In Vegas. After the awards.” 

“You want to pretend—what, exactly? We’re fucking but not married?” 

“Yes. Rivalry is real but we fuck in secret.” 

Shane’s belly jumped with excitement at that thought. “We’d still use last names,” he said. 

“Yes. And sex would be competitive.” 

“It kind of is now.” 

“More so. Like fighting for who has control.” 

Shane swallowed, and when he spoke next the question came out breathy. “And who has control?” he asked. “In Vegas?” 

“Whoever wins MVP.” 

The elevator dinged and its doors opened. Shane heaved himself off the wall and into the corridor. Penthouse 1 was at the far end of it. Shane opened the door to the suite with the key that was still in his pocket and went inside. 

Ilya was standing by the open French door leading out to the balcony, his shirt untucked and unbuttoned, a tumbler of what Shane assumed must be vodka held loosely in his hand. He looked deadly, just insanely hot, but also—scary? A bit like he’d looked in the club in Sochi, detached and hard, when Shane was used to softness in his expressions. 

He realised this was also how Ilya had looked early on, when they’d met and at the very beginning of their marriage. He’d forgotten how that used to be. 

Ilya held his arms out wide, expectantly.

Shane acknowledged him with a nod. “Congratulations,” he said. 

“Thank you.” Ilya lifted the vodka to his lips. “Now take off your clothes.” 

His tone was flat and cool and it affected Shane oddly. Excitement and fear twisted together within him until he couldn’t tell which one was which or if both were even real. He wasn’t actually afraid of Ilya, was he? 

“Why do you want to do this?” Shane asked. 

“Is exciting, no?” 

“Well, yeah, it is but. Also kind of scary?” Ilya still under his father’s influence, still with the spectre of Russia looming behind him. No way out in the form of Canadian citizenship. No Shane in his corner. Alone. 

Shane would be alone too. He’d still have his parents of course, and Hayden. But the things he couldn’t tell them about himself would weigh so much heavier without Ilya to help lighten the load. 

“Very scary,” Ilya agreed. “I think this is why I want to do it.” 

Shane considered this for a minute, then said, “Okay. Let’s do it.” 

So no, it wasn’t Ilya Shane was afraid of. He was afraid of this, this situation. One where Ilya felt he needed to be cool and detached, to hold himself apart from Shane because they didn’t have each other, not really. He was afraid because they were roleplaying a world where they were both alone. 

Lean into it, he told himself. 

“You’re such an asshole,” he said, and came into the room. He folded the jacket he was carrying, laid it over the back of the sofa followed by his shirt and pants. He hesitated over his boxers, with a nervous glance at Ilya and the expanse of glass behind him. 

“What?” Ilya asked. 

“It’s a lot of windows.” 

Ilya gave a sharp nod to his right then slouched down the steps from the balcony level and grabbed the back of a chair. This he dragged, loudly, across the suite and into the bedroom where he positioned it just at the end of the bed. 

Shane followed. 

Ilya watched him until he was close, then said, “Good. Now get on the bed.” 

God he was being an asshole. The fear-excitement simmered in Shane’s belly as he did what he was told. 

“This is a good hotel,” said Ilya, almost conversationally as he sat himself in the chair like a king on his throne, legs spread wide and the vodka glass cupped in his hand. “Really nice vodka. Is hard to find in America.” He took a sip then said, still so casually, like it was nothing to him, “Touch yourself.” 

“What?” 

“Show off for me,” Ilya said. “I want to watch you.” 

“You what?” Shane had fingered himself open while Ilya watched many times, had jerked off alongside him on video calls, but this—this sounded like he wanted some sort of performance. 

“Is my special day, Hollander.” Ilya drawled the words. The use of his surname jangled in Shane’s head and in his gut. “I want to watch.” 

This would be new for him, in their alternate universe, Shane thought. No way would he be comfortable enough to touch himself in front of Ilya if they were just meeting up to fuck a couple of times a year, nothing else between them. 

His voice was breathless when he replied, “I’ve never—” 

Ilya’s composure broke, just briefly, then he pulled it back and retorted, “No shit.” 

“Fuck you,” said Shane, barely acting now. “Give me some vodka at least.” He still could barely stand the stuff but it would be something to level the field a bit. 

“Mmm, no no no. Vodka is for after, as your reward.” 

Fine, Shane thought. He wanted a show? He’d fucking get one. 

 He leaned his head against the cushioned headboard of the bed, relaxed his body into the pillows. Slowly, he uncrossed his legs and thought about how Ilya liked to touch him, and where. 

His neck, where Ilya would kiss him, would hold him sometimes as they kissed. Shane started there with a hand curled around it then let it slide down his chest. Ilya kissed him there too, caressed his pecs while he sucked Shane’s dick. Shane’s breathing roughened as he slid his hand down, down his belly to where that dick was already hardening. He held Ilya’s gaze as he lifted his knees, spread his legs so that path of his hand was visible. 

“Do you want to know how it feels?” Ilya’s voice was low, almost dark. 

Shane’s was breathless. “How what feels?” 

“Holding the Cup.” He popped the ‘p’ at the end and for a second Shane was truly, honestly pissed at him. 

“You fucking asshole,” he said, voice rising, as Ilya let his head fall back. 

“I can barely describe it, oh my God, Hollander.” 

Shane couldn’t hold back a grin as he pulled his boxers off and threw them at Ilya. He was fully hard now and when Ilya caught the boxers and tossed them aside, Shane was ready to play. 

He took his dick in his hand and stroked it as Ilya watched, then let his fingers drift down to his hole, teasing just at the edges of it. 

“Fuck,” said Ilya. 

Shane allowed another beat to pass, teasing and stroking himself, and then he said, “You gonna fuck me?” 

“We will see,” Ilya replied.

Yeah we fucking will, thought Shane. Aloud he breathed, “I need…” 

“What?” 

“You know.” 

“Tell me.” 

Shane did know what he needed, what any Shane in any universe would need, and the surest way to get Ilya over here and ensure he got fucked well tonight. But would he say it? In this situation? Was that something a Shane who got Ilya only for a few rushed hookups a year would feel able to say? 

Honestly, probably yes. Shane couldn’t imagine any version of himself fucking Ilya in any capacity and not feeling insane about him. 

“You,” he said, then paused as Ilya sucked his breath in sharply, as their gazes held. “I need you.” 

Ilya made a rough sound in his throat and downed the rest of his vodka in one gulp. He set the glass down on the floor, eyes never leaving Shane’s, then stood and approached the bed, peeling his shirt off as he went. 

Shane crawled across the mattress to meet him, pressed his face into Ilya’s hardening cock as Ilya’s fingers slid through his hair. 

“Suck my cock,” he said. 

Shane tugged Ilya’s pants and boxers down and took his cock in as deep as he could manage. It was an awkward angle with him on his belly but Shane relaxed his throat as much as he could manage and did his best. 

He didn’t realise he was rutting into the bed as well until Ilya said sharply, “No getting off by yourself, Hollander.” 

Shane detached himself from Ilya’s dick with a slurping noise and gasped, “You’d better fuck me, then.” 

Ilya grabbed his chin and tilted his head up. His face was still hard but his eyes were hot and Shane no longer felt in any way afraid. There was no Ilya in any form who could refuse him for long when he asked to be fucked. Shane was certain of this now and the realisation comforted him. 

They were still roleplaying, though. “There is lube in the drawer,” Ilya said harshly. 

Shane tilted his chin slightly higher. “Get it for me?” 

Ilya was moving towards the drawer before he could even have had the chance to think about what he was doing. A bottle landed at Shane’s elbow and he took it, still on his belly, and doused his fingers. Then he slid his knees up under himself, reached between his legs and stroked his hole, slid two fingers in at once because he knew he could take it and the objective here was to blow Ilya’s mind. 

The sharp gasp from behind him told him he was well on the way. “Mmmm,” he moaned as he pushed a third finger in, “Rozanov—” 

Another gasp and then a groan, then Ilya’s hands were on his hips, pulling him to the edge of the bed. Shane heard the sound of the condom wrapper tearing then Ilya was inside him, so much better than his fingers, pushing in deep and filling him up as nothing else could. 

Shane moaned and gave himself over to it as Ilya set a bruising pace, his hand sliding up Shane’s back to press him into the mattress and tilt his hips so Ilya’s cock could go deeper. It was the most incredible feeling he'd ever felt, and Shane knew that no matter the circumstances, married or not, rivals or not, he would keep coming back for this again and again and again. He could no more refuse Ilya than Ilya could refuse him. Just another way in which they were perfect equals. 

Ilya’s rhythm began to falter, as it did when he got close. He leaned over Shane and closed a fist around his dick. “Come now, Hollander,” he ordered and Shane did, spilling over his fist as Ilya came deep in his ass. Shane pressed his face into the duvet as Ilya’s forehead nestled into the space between his shoulder blades and they sucked in gasping breaths in unison. 

After a minute or two, Ilya stood up and pulled out and Shane collapsed onto his side, eyes falling shut. He listened as Ilya disposed of the condom and wiped his hand, then got into bed beside him. 

Shane opened his eyes and looked over. Ilya’s face was flushed and glistening still but the hard mask was gone. He smiled and Shane shuffled over to curl into his arms. 

“That was insanely fucking hot,” he said. 

“Yes.” 

“I never want to do it again.” 

Ilya huffed a laugh. “Me neither.” 

“I’m glad we did this time, though.” 

“Yes. Also me.” 

“Do you think that’s really what it would’ve been like?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.” 

“Probably.” They were silent for several minutes, then Shane said, “We didn’t even kiss.” 

Ilya curled a hand around his jaw and kissed him, deeply and thoroughly until Shane was humming and contented, all the jangly, discordant feelings within him quieted. “I would have hated not kissing you,” Ilya murmured against his lips. “Kissing you is my favourite thing.” 

“Your favourite thing?” 

“One of my favourites. Everything is favourite with you.” 

Shane doubted he meant that the way it sounded but he let it make him happy anyway. “I never thought I’d say this but thank fuck your father’s such a dick. Like, not in general, but for this. If he’d been nicer we wouldn’t have this.” 

“And you are glad?” Ilya asked, with just the faintest tinge of hesitation in his tone. “That we have it?” 

“Yeah, I really am. Aren’t you?” 

“I am. Very glad.” 

They were silent for a minute, then Ilya said, “You still want vodka?” 

“No. Vodka’s gross. I want to sleep.” 

Ilya chuckled. “Okay.” He pulled the duvet out from under them then over them again and they curled up together with the lights of Vegas twinkling beyond their windows. 

“Ilyusha?” murmured Shane, just as they were drifting off. 

“Hmm?” 

“Happy anniversary.” 

Chapter End Notes

i HOPE THIS HAS HEALED YOU

every choice i make for this fic i think hard about and i debated about including vegas for quite a while so please indulge me while i babble about that choice, under the arrow.

ilya by this chapter is deep in what he's convinced is unrequited love. He cherishes it but it also hurts him and he can’t help wondering what if. What if his father hadn’t interfered and he’d been able to play without shane. He could be living it up, sleeping around, only hooking up with shane whenever they’re in the same city. It’s a tempting but also scary thought because he can’t bear thinking about losing shane but wonders how differently he might feel if he’d never really had him. If that might have been better. So he suggests roleplaying this and shane agrees because as we see from his POV, this prospect scares him too. They’re both facing their fears and in the end ilya realises that as difficult as his feelings are he’d rather have this closeness with shane and lose it than never have it at all, so from this point he’s all in until the divorce. Just gonna love that man with his whole heart right up until the point where shane breaks it.

what he’ll do then he doesn’t know but he decides that will be a problem for Future Ilya.

SPOILER ALERT: it will

anyway, i hesitated and seesawed over this decision for a good while but i think the scene turned out okay in the end. Let me know what you think ❤️. And thank you all as always for your insanity support.

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

another montage chapter, alexa play my moon my man.

hayden POV dedicated to the commenter who wondered how he was getting on. It was already planned but thank you for checking in on him ❤️

August 2014

Ilya awoke to the sound of rain pattering against the windows. A heavy, steady, drenching sort of rain that in the past would have sent him into a funk, bored and moping at being stuck indoors. On this particular morning, he rolled over and snuggled up to Shane, who wrapped him in his arms, kissed his forehead, and muttered sleepily, “Raining.” 

“Yes.” Ilya smiled to himself. “Raining.” 

Most summer days they would go for a run in the mornings, work out, drink smoothies. But rainy days were different. There was a particular kind of rain, the heavy, steady kind, that acted on Shane like a sort of magic. The rhythmless drumbeat of it maybe, Ilya thought, soothing noise that cut him off from the outside and left him quiet, mellow and loose almost to the point of lethargy. On rainy mornings only Shane would lounge in bed until late without being coaxed to do so, would let Ilya make him breakfast then spend the day in cozy clothes on the sofa, doing nothing. 

Ilya loved the rain, now. 

He drifted in a doze with his head on Shane’s chest until the rumbling of his stomach became too much to ignore, then he said, “You want breakfast?” 

“Mmm.” 

Ilya kissed his pec then rolled out of bed and pulled on some pants. He glanced back at the bed to see that Shane had pulled the duvet up over his head so only his face was visible. He smiled.  

“Come out when you are hungry,” he said. 

In the kitchen he made himself coffee and sipped it as he poached some eggs, toasted bread, and warmed up some lecsó, a Hungarian pepper-and-tomato stew his mother had liked. Shane liked it too; though Ilya was not entirely satisfied with the recipe he’d cobbled together from what information the internet was able to provide, he enjoyed watching Shane enjoy it. 

By the time he was removing eggs from water with a slotted spoon, Shane had roused himself and come into the kitchen. He was dressed in an oversized hoodie, despite the warmth of the day, with the hood pulled up. He plastered himself to Ilya’s back, arms around his waist and cheek pressed to his shoulder.  

“Do you want tea?” Ilya asked him. Hibiscus tea, only for rainy-day moods. 

“Mmm.” 

“I will make it. Go sit down.” 

“Mmhmm.” 

Shane kissed his shoulder blade then moved away, not to sit at the kitchen island but over to the sofa, where he curled up with his knees to his chest and the hoodie tucked over them. 

It was then Ilya noticed that the hoodie Shane was wearing belonged to him. 

He rolled his eyes as he heated water for the tea. Shane stealing his clothes would be a lot more annoying if he didn’t look so cute in them and if it didn’t make Ilya feel so warm inside. Warm like the small collection of flannel shirts that had found their way via some mysterious means from Shane’s side of the closet to his. 

He brewed the tea in Shane’s favourite mug and took it over. Shane accepted it with a smile, cradled it between both hands and closed his eyes as he breathed in the steam. Ilya returned to the kitchen to plate up their breakfast. Toast, eggs, salt and pepper. Lecsó on the side. Knife and fork. Napkins. Another cup of coffee for him. 

He set a place on the island in front of Shane’s chair. “You want to eat on the sofa?” he asked, though he knew the answer. 

“Huh uh.” Shane unfolded himself and came over. He took a sip of tea, set the cup down before seating himself in the chair. 

“Mmm,” he hummed, which Ilya knew meant This looks great, thanks for making it. 

“Tell me if you want fresh tea,” he said. 

They ate in pleasant silence, no sound but the rain drumming on the windows. When Shane finished he stood up, stretched, hugged Ilya hard around the shoulders and kissed his cheek, then returned to the sofa. Ilya quickly tidied the kitchen, brewed another cup of tea, and brought it over to him. 

“You want to watch something?” 

“Hmm.” 

Ilya put on the first movie that appealed to him on Netflix then when Shane finished his tea, took the mug from him and set it aside. They settled down together on the sofa with Ilya the big spoon and Shane nestled snugly into his chest. He slid a hand beneath the hoodie and splayed it wide on Shane’s belly, for the warmth of skin-to-skin touch and to anchor them together. 

“Mmm,” Shane murmured, “nice.” 

It was nice, Ilya thought. The nicest. 

All his life, Ilya had struggled with solitude, and with silence. Alone with his thoughts had never been a good place for him and so he fled from it whenever possible, to the gym and the rink when he could, to parties or clubs when he could not. To any place where there were people and substances and activities that might distract him and keep him from thinking. 

Except when he was with Shane. 

Shane wasn’t a distraction but he was a barrier. A buffer. Like one of those walls they built next to highways, Ilya thought, to absorb the noise of the traffic so the people who lived on the other side of them could have peace. That was what being with Shane was like, and especially at the cottage. The noise of his brain was muted, Ilya able at last to exist peacefully in silence. 

They half-watched the movie together, enrobed in that silence, and when it finished Ilya put on another one. Shane hummed to acknowledge his choice and nestled closer, his eyes half-lidded and fixed on the screen. 

Mid-way through the second movie, Shane’s phone buzzed from the pocket of Ilya’s hoodie. For a minute Ilya thought he would ignore it, but then he pulled it out and from over his shoulder Ilya could see Hayden Pike’s name on the screen. 

“You don’t have to answer him,” he said. 

“No.” Ilya watched as Shane struggled to pull his words back from wherever they went when he was in a rainy-day mood. “Should. Haven’t all summer.” 

“You will see him next month at camp,” Ilya reminded him, but it was too late. Shane had answered the call. 

“‘Lo,” he said. 

Ilya bit back a grumble of annoyance. Hayden fucking Pike got Shane every day during the hockey season. He got to play with him, be in the locker room with him, be seen in fucking public with him. Have Shane publicly acknowledge that they were close. He got Shane in the times when Ilya was missing him so badly he felt like there wasn’t enough air for him to breathe. Ilya got him only in snatches of stolen time for most of the year, in summer Shane was supposed to be solely his. 

“Hey, buddy.” Ilya muted the movie so he could hear Pike’s voice clearly through the speaker of Shane’s phone. “How are you?” 

“Fine.” 

“You sound a bit tired.” 

“No. ’S rainy.” 

“Oh yeah, I forgot you get weird when it rains.” 

Ilya did grumble that time. Shane did not ‘get weird when it rains,’ he thought. This wasn’t being weird. It was just a part of who Shane was. 

“Mmm,” said Shane. 

“Okay, well I won’t take too much of your time then, but I wanted to share our news. We found out yesterday that Jackie’s pregnant.” 

“Heyyy.” Shane sounded genuinely pleased. “‘C’ngrat’lat’ns.” 

“Thanks, man. We’re really excited. At least partly because it’s been so long since the twins we’ve forgotten how insane newborns are. But Jackie wants a big family, so. Gonna have to have at least a couple more newborns.” 

“Mmm.” 

“I really hope it’s a boy this time. Not in a bad way, like obviously if it’s a girl I’ll love her just as much. But it’d be nice to be a bit less outnumbered, you know?” 

Ilya snorted. 

“What was that?” 

“N’thing.” Shane dug an elbow into Ilya’s ribs. Ilya made no attempt to stifle his huffed exhale. 

“Okay, well. That’s all I called to say. Everything okay with you?” 

“Mmhmm.” 

There was a pause, then, “Ooh-kay, I guess I’ll let you go then. See you next month?” 

“Mm. Bye, Hayd.” 

When he ended the call, Ilya took the phone from his hand and set it on the side table. 

“Mean,” Shane said. 

“I am not mean,” protested Ilya. “Is Hayden Pike who is mean. Calling you on rainy summer day. Calling you weird.” 

Shane sighed and resettled himself. Ilya pulled him as close as he could. “I hope Hayden Pike has many daughters,” he said. “Triplets this time. I hope—” 

Shane reached for the strings on the hoodie and pulled them taut until only a small circle of his face was visible.  

“No, don’t go away.” Ilya placed a gentle hand on the fist Shane had clenched around the hoodie strings. “I’m sorry. I will stop. Let’s watch the movie, yes?” 

Shane nodded and let Ilya pry his hand open. He loosened the strings so all of Shane’s face could be seen, feathered light kisses over his freckles until he was laughing. Then he put the sound back on. 

When movie number two finished, Ilya thought to search for number three but as he lifted the remote, Shane took his hand. 

“What is it?” Ilya asked. 

Shane wiggled his butt where it was nestled against Ilya’s hips and hummed when Ilya’s cock stirred in response. 

“Hmm, what could that mean?” Ilya teased him. “Very mysterious, this action you do. I am not sure I understood the first time.” 

Shane sighed to make it clear he knew Ilya’s game, and wiggled his butt harder, with a little determined frown between his eyebrows. Ilya laughed. 

“I think I see now,” he said. “You want me to take you to the bedroom and make you come very hard. Yes?” 

“Mmm.” 

“Will you take the hoodie off? My hoodie?” 

Shane shook his head. 

Something deeply possessive thrummed in Ilya’s chest at the thought of fucking Shane dressed in his hoodie. He eased himself up from behind Shane then crouched down and scooped him up off the sofa, bridal-style. 

Shane made a noise like a purr and wrapped his arms around Ilya’s neck. He nuzzled his nose in Ilya’s hair and kissed his nape just behind his ear. He cupped Ilya’s jaw in one hand and kissed along the other side of it. Kissed the mole in the centre of his cheek. 

By the time Ilya got them to the bedroom he was fully hard and breathing shallowly. He laid Shane on the bed as gently as he could then tugged off his shorts and practically dove between his legs to nuzzle just below his belly button and make him laugh. 

“What do you want?” Ilya asked him. Shane tugged on his hair in response, then tapped a finger on his temple. “You want me to decide?” 

“Mmm.” 

“I want to eat you out until you are as wet and soft as the rain outside,” Ilya told him. “Then I want to fuck you, so slowly. Until you cannot take anymore and feel you will die unless you come. You will tell me when this is, yes?” 

“Mmm.” 

“As long as you can take it, remember. No cheating.” 

Shane huffed. Ilya grinned. From the drawer by the bed he took the lube that smelled like fresh green apples and tasted slightly sweet, then reached for the condoms. 

“Hm mmm.” Shane put his hand over Ilya’s and shook his head. 

Ilya looked at him in surprise. “You want to go without?” 

“Mmm.” 

“Shane,” Ilya managed, through the heartbeat now thundering in his ears. “This is the rain talking, I think.” 

Shane shook his head harder. “Please,” he said. 

Fuck. Ilya could not resist please, not in that voice. Not when it was something he wanted so fucking badly to do. 

“If you are sure, moya lyubov,” he said. “Tell me you are sure.” 

Shane nodded. “Sure.” 

“Okay. Fuck. Okay.” Ilya dropped the condoms back into the drawer and kissed him, slow and deep until he was purring again. The soft sound melded with the patter of the rain outside as Ilya moved back down between his legs, as he flattened his tongue over Shane’s asshole and turned his purrs into moans. He moved with deliberation and with care, despite the antsy anticipation dancing in his belly, slowly savouring with tongue and lips and fingers doused in sweet, silky lube until Shane was soft and whimpering and ready. 

When he moved up again Shane stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and lifted the hem of the hoodie. 

“Lyubimyy, I don’t think we’ll both fit.” 

“Mmmm,” Shane insisted. 

Ilya slipped the hem over his head and wiggled beneath it. There wasn’t room for both their heads through the top opening so Ilya nestled his in the curve of Shane’s neck and slipped both hands beneath his shoulders. Shane tilted his hips until the head of Ilya’s cock nestled against his hole and with a groan Ilya pushed in. 

He groaned again at the sensation, soft and wet and dizzyingly intimate. His head spun as he attached his lips to Shane’s neck and Shane’s arms, still in the sleeves of the hoodie, wrapped tight around him. His range of movement in this position was limited but perfect for what he wanted, which was Shane as close as it was possible for him to be, no barriers between them and surrounded by softness, shielded from the world. 

In this way they rocked together with just enough friction to build their pleasure, slowly, layer upon layer. Shane’s head fell back and Ilya moved to kiss under his jaw before returning to his neck. He was going to leave a mark there he knew, but it was the off-season still and marks had time to fade. 

“Impossible that anyone could be so perfect and yet you are.” Ilya murmured in Russian what he barely dared to think in English. “You are the best thing ever to happen to me. This time with you is worth what will come after.” 

He lost all sense of time in their gentle movements and the sounds of the rain and of Shane’s breathing and his own, loud within the confines of their hoodie. The sensations built and built, so gradually that he was on the brink of orgasm before he realised he was close, too soon he thought but Shane was right there too. 

“Now,” he whispered and Ilya thrust as hard as he was able, just enough to tip them both over, Shane into the narrow space between their bodies and Ilya deep inside him. His mind went white with it, a soft, fuzzy white like cotton wool, warm and safe. He slid his arms down to wrap around Shane’s waist and hold him close while Shane’s tightened around his shoulders. Ilya pressed his lips to the red mark he’d left on Shane’s neck and let himself drift. 

When consciousness encroached again the rain had stopped and late afternoon sun was peeking through the clouds. Shane was awake. 

“Thank you,” he said softly. 

“For what?” Ilya was still buried in the hoodie and could only see part of his face. 

“For hearing me when I don’t talk. You always hear me.” 

“Do you want to talk now?” Ilya sensed he did. 

“Kind of?” 

“Okay. Maybe let me out first.” 

They grappled for a moment to unravel themselves and fight their way free of the hoodie, to unstick their torsos where the cum had dried between them, and for Ilya to pull out leaving a wet trail behind. Shane winced. “Messy,” he said. 

“Was it okay, though?” 

“Oh, yeah.” Shane’s expression softened. “Better than okay. Fucking incredible.” 

“Worth the mess?” 

“Definitely.”

Ilya curled beside him, one leg over his and a hand on his chest. “So, um. You want to do like that all the time? No condom?” 

Shane bit his lip. “I think—yeah. I do. If that’s okay.” 

“Fuck, Shane. Of course is okay. If you are comfortable?” 

“Yeah, I mean. We said we weren’t going to—that it’d only be us. Right?” 

“Yes, solnyshko,” Ilya told him softly. “Has been just us for many years.” 

“I’m comfortable, then.” Shane smiled and Ilya did too as they both leaned in to kiss. “Sun’s out,” Shane said.  

“Yes.” 

“Let’s grill something for dinner.” 

“Okay. There are steaks but will need to defrost.” 

“We should have a fire tonight too.” 

“I would like that.” 

“Oh, and I should probably call Hayden back, now that I feel like talking.” 

“No.” Ilya couldn’t, couldn’t let that go. “Please. You will see Hayden Pike next month. For now, just be here with me.” 

Shane looked at him for a long moment, then kissed him again. “Okay,” he whispered. “Just here with you.” 

November 2014

The Metros’ locker room had a different energy that season. A determined energy, razor-sharp and coldly focused. The result perhaps of coming so close to the Cup final last year only to lose to their biggest rival team. Or possibly it was the new faces, brought in by strategic trades made in the off-season to shore up their few weaknesses. The new guys were tough and experienced and they were there to win. 

Shane was always there to win. But for the first time in his career he felt like he had a team behind him that could come close to matching his level. Like he wouldn’t have to be carrying them all on his shoulders quite so much anymore. It was an exciting prospect. 

It almost made up for the shift in the atmosphere. 

Shane Hollander was a name that was respected, almost revered throughout the MLH. Second overall draft pick, Rookie of the year, 2013’s MVP. Always at or near the top in points, lightning-fast on the ice, quick and smart and unbelievably talented. He’d pulled the Metros from a multi-year slump and back into playoff contention in one season, near-singlehandedly. He was the team captain because obviously he was. Who else could be? 

Shane got the sense that a few of the new guys felt like maybe it could be them. 

Shane Hollander the name they respected. Shane Hollander the person, not so much. 

Shane couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d come as a disappointment to several of them. A few from Western Division teams who he’d never spoken to before they showed up at camp seemed to have expected something different from him. A more bombastic leadership style maybe, or a guy who took the team out to bars and strip clubs. All his old teammates laughed a bit when that came up—this was Montreal, they pointed out, not Vegas or LA. Bars and strip clubs were pretty great here actually, JJ said in an attempt to lighten the mood, but not really a team bonding activity. It may be helpful, he suggested, to manage their expectations. 

The expectations surrounding Shane remained unmanaged. 

Shane didn’t let this bother him much. He was a good captain and he knew it. Nobody understood hockey better than he did; he was great with strategy and with coaching, able to pinpoint both the flaws in his opponents’ games and where his own players were going wrong when they lost their edge. He had the numbers to back up his talk as well, years of rising success that were about to culminate in the ultimate prize. 

The Montreal Metros were winning the MLH Cup this year. They all knew it. They felt it in every game they played. Shane kept himself focused on that, laser-focused with no space for distractions, not even from his own teammates. They’d come around, and if they didn’t he could handle it. He wasn’t here to win a popularity contest. He was here to win a goddamn Cup.  

February 2015

Hayden was feeling good. The girls were in bed, the All-Star Game was on the TV. His beer was cold and Jackie warm against his side, her head on his shoulder and his hand resting on the swell of her belly. 

On the screen Shane hip-checked Rozanov and skated for the goal, only for Rozanov to recover quicker than anyone should be able to and surge ahead to steal the puck away from him. Hayden huffed. Fucking Rozanov. 

“So you know my friend Becca?” Jackie said, apropos of nothing in particular. 

“Yeah,” replied Hayden vaguely, still distracted by the game.  

“She has a cousin from Vancouver who’s coming to stay with her for a few weeks and I was thinking maybe we could introduce her to Shane.” 

“Ah.” Jackie had all his attention now. “Uh, I—” 

“She’s a big hockey fan apparently and has already mentioned she’d love to meet him.” 

“I’m not sure that’s such a great idea.”

“What? Why not? She’s a great girl, Becca says. Athletic and pretty. I think that’d be Shane’s type, don’t you?” 

“I’ve never really thought about it, but—” 

“And you know how worried I’ve been about him. It’s not healthy for him to be alone as much as he is. H—”

“He has a boyfriend,” Hayden blurted out. 

Jackie paused mid-syllable and turned to blink blankly at him. “He has a—” 

“Boyfriend,” Hayden supplied. “Yeah.” 

“What the—did he tell you this?” 

“Well, ah. No. Actually.” 

“Then how do you know?” 

“I shouldn’t,” Hayden admitted. “But a couple of years ago he was sick, you remember when you made soup for him?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Well, when I got back to his place with it a message came up on his phone that had my name and, well. I read it. Read several of them.” 

“Hayden Robert Pike!” 

“I know, I know, I shouldn’t have. But Jacks, there’s a guy living in that apartment who wears Nikes and cologne and drinks vodka and has his own razor. It’s so obvious. I think that’s why Shane never invites anyone over.” 

“And the messages were from him?” 

“Yeah. I mean, they were from Lily.” 

“Lily? Isn’t that the girl in Boston—” 

“Not a girl,” said Hayden firmly. “Gotta be a man. And Shane still texts her—him. All the time. They’re still together. They’ve been together for… fuck. Years. I think he might’ve been who Shane met up with after the first game he played in Boston. Jesus.” He shook his head. “That was over four years ago.” 

“Four years,” Jackie mused. “And he’s been hiding this guy the whole time?” 

“Well, it’s not like he could come out, is it? You know what hockey players are like.” 

“I know what some of them are like,” said Jackie staunchly. “You can’t be the only one who would stand by Shane if he came out. You would stand by him, wouldn’t you?” 

“Of course I would. But some of the other guys, the new ones especially…” 

“Not great, huh?” 

“Drapeau’s a fucking piece of work.” Hayden’s face and voice were so grim Jackie didn’t even remind him about the swear jar. “He may be a good goalie but I miss Miitka. I don’t think Shane likes him either. Drapeau. He’s always professional, Shane I mean, but I can tell.” He thought for a minute, then said, “The feeling in the locker room’s different this season. Like, we’re gonna win. That’s the feeling. The guys are sharp and they’re focused and they’re good. But they’re not cohesive. They work together on the ice because it’s their job, not because they enjoy it. There’s no…” 

“Camaraderie.” 

“Yeah. No camaraderie. If Shane came out now some of the guys would have his back but he wouldn’t have the team. You know?” 

“Yeah.” Jackie turned back to the TV, where Shane was now facing off against Rozanov as the crowd cheered and chanted their names. “God, that sucks.” 

“It does.” 

“Poor Shane.” 

“I wish he’d come out to me though,” Hayden said, voicing a frustration he’d kept buried for nearly two years now. “I’m his best friend. He’s got to know he can trust me, right?” 

“He does trust you,” Jackie soothed, “I’m sure he does. But this is a big deal. He probably feels like the fewer people who know the better.” 

“Yeah. I guess.” 

“And there’s the boyfriend to consider,” Jackie went on. “We don’t know anything about his circumstances. Maybe he can’t be out either.” 

“Maybe. I never really thought of that. I guess it’s not just Shane’s secret, is it?” 

“Nope. And if you had to keep something from Shane to protect me, you’d do it, wouldn’t you?” 

“In a heartbeat.” 

“Shane probably feels the same about his guy. They’ve been together nearly as long as we have. They must really love each other.” 

Hayden considered this for a moment as on the screen Rozanov checked Shane hard into the boards. Unnecessarily hard for an All-Star Game in Hayden’s opinion, but that was Rozanov for you. Asshole.

“So what should I do?” he asked.  

“Nothing.” Jackie settled in beside him again and patted his thigh. “I kind of feel like you’ve done too much already.” 

“No, that’s fair.” 

“Just be Shane’s friend,” Jackie said. “That’s what he needs most.” 

Hayden sighed, but he nodded too. “That I can do.”

June 2015

Svetlana had invited him to her place for a watch party but Ilya declined. He preferred to witness Shane’s Cup victory by himself, to avoid the necessity of policing his expressions or listening to even good-natured ribbing about how it should have been him when he was so, so proud of Shane. 

The Metros had dominated all season, and while Shane would be the first to say that it had been a team effort, Ilya was not a reporter in need of a soundbite or some starry-eyed fan who could be charmed by a humble-sounding cliché. He knew hockey and he knew Shane and he could easily see the dynamics at play during every single one of the games that had brought them to this point, poised to take it all in five. 

The team followed Shane’s lead, fed off his talent; even when he wasn’t on the ice, Ilya’s keen eye spotted Shane’s playmaking in action. He briefed his team daily on what he’d observed about their opponents and they listened to him. They took the knowledge Shane had studied and sweated for and they turned it to their advantage. The Cup victory would be for all the Metros, but there could be no question that Shane was the one who’d made it happen. 

Ilya wondered if this was how Shane had felt watching him win a year ago. This odd concoction of pride tinged with envy and, yes, also arousal. Obviously arousal. Watching his husband lift the Cup was so erotic Ilya was especially glad not to be surrounded by Sveta and her friends. He did not want to have to hide how he felt in that moment, not even a little bit.  

When Shane called him late that night he sounded smug and happy and much too sober. 

“Why are you not drunker?” Ilya demanded. “You are Cup champion. Have a fucking beer.” 

“I did. I had three, actually.” 

“Hmph,” Ilya scoffed. “You do not sound like a lightweight should after three beers.” 

“Maybe because I’m not a lightweight, asshole. I weigh two ten.” 

“You know this is not what lightweight means.” 

“I’m just saying my body can absorb three beers over three hours without making me staggering drunk,” Shane said in irritation. “Not all of us do twelve shots in a row like you do.” 

“Twelve would kill even me. Four, maybe. Twelve is a death wish.” 

Shane sighed. “I think you should stop stalling and trying to distract me by berating me for not being drunker.” 

“Hmmm, what? What do you mean?” 

“Ilya.” 

“Fine.” Ilya’s voice softened with his smile. “Congratulations. You were amazing. Made me hard watching you.” 

“Jesus.” 

“No, I have told you before, is just Ilya.” 

“Fuck you. And thank you.” 

“You have never played better,” Ilya told him truthfully. “And that is saying something.” 

“It all just felt right this year. The whole season. Was it like that for you?” 

“Not the whole season. Just the end of it. But yes, felt like—meant to be.” 

“Yeah.” 

“But you made it be. Fate can go only so far.” 

“That doesn’t sound like a very Russian thing to say,” Shane teased.  

“Maybe I am becoming Canadian already. Very practical, very boring.” 

“You can only hope.” 

A gentle silence, then Shane said, “How’s the cottage?” 

“Fine. Quiet without you.” Ilya needed as much time in Canada as possible to meet the residency requirement for his citizenship application, but Montreal was out while Shane remained in the playoffs so he’d gone to the cottage alone. 

“I’d say I’m sorry about that but I’m really not.” 

“Obviously.” 

“I had a Cup to win, you see.” 

“Yes, yes, you are very good hockey player. I have already said this.” 

“And you’re almost there for residency. I made an appointment for us for August, with Emily, to finalise the details of the application. I think we should drive.” 

“That’s fine.” 

“You sure? It’s a long way. Four hours at least.” 

“Will be like American road trip Marly wants to do. Route 66 and roadside attractions, he keeps telling me about.”

“Between the cottage and Montreal it’s mostly just forest. Some lakes.” 

“From Canada I would expect nothing else,” observed Ilya drily.  

“I don’t even know what an American roadside attraction would look like,” Shane said. In the background Ilya could hear fabric rustling and water running and he did his best to focus on his words.  

“According to Marleau they are mostly normal things that are very big, like bottles and spacemen—” 

“Spacemen?” 

“—or they are twentieth-century things like diners and hotels. I don’t know why this is interesting but Marly gets ideas in his head and does not drop them. He said his cousin did this road trip and it took two weeks.” 

“Wow. I like Marleau but I don’t think I’d want to be in a car with him for two weeks.” 

Ilya wasn’t sure he would either, but he said nothing out of loyalty to his friend. 

“Ilya.” The water had stopped running which meant Shane was clean and polished. The rustling had stopped too, which meant he was in bed. His voice when he said Ilya’s name was pitched low. Ilya’s heartbeat quickened.

“Shane,” he replied. 

“Playoffs are over.” 

“Yes. Did you shave?” 

“Too tired tonight. Tomorrow.” 

“So you still have sad, scratchy attempt at a beard?” 

“Mmhmm. Very rough on the skin.” 

“I can imagine.” 

“Can you?” 

Ilya was already on his way to the bedroom. “Switch to video,” he said. “Clothes off.” 

“They already are.” 

August 2015

It was decidedly not Emily Halstock’s habit to form close attachments with her clients. Or indeed to form any attachments with them at all beyond the professional. Of course it also wasn’t her habit to take on clients she knew were lying to her. So really, Shane Hollander had always been the exception and not the rule. 

She wasn’t certain what it was about him that made her feel so protective. Latent maternal instincts perhaps, she’d thought once, briefly, though she had never wanted any children of her own or even pets. She could barely keep a houseplant alive. There was just something about Shane—his big eyes perhaps or his anxious concern, or the way he, like herself, was detail-oriented, focused, and driven to succeed. The way he was so smart but barely knew his own mind, as she once had struggled to know hers—that made her care more deeply than she ought, professionally speaking at least, about his well-being. 

It was for this reason that she had kept diligently in touch with Shane over the years, ostensibly to ensure that the preparations for Ilya’s citizenship remained on track but really to reassure herself that he was doing okay. That the stress of covert planning and a secret marriage as his and Ilya’s fame increased didn’t become too much for him. 

It did not. 

Instead, Emily had witnessed every lie Shane had told her at their first meeting slowly become true as his and Ilya’s marriage bloomed over half a decade into something extraordinary. Something rare and beautifully precious and nurturing for both of them. It made her so happy to see it. She only wished that they were able to see it too. 

“So here we are,” she said as she welcomed them into her office one late August afternoon and sat them down, around a table this time rather than at her desk. “The endgame. Are you ready?” 

“I don’t think we could be any more prepared,” Shane said. “We’ve probably sent way too much stuff.” 

They had, but Emily opted not to tell them that. She could sort through it and find what was actually needed for the application. 

“Do you have any questions about the process?” she asked. 

Shane shook his head. “I don’t think so. Ilya?” 

“No, I have it memorised I think. You submit the application, we wait. They invite me to do the citizenship test. I do the test, then we wait more. A decision is reached, they contact us. If successful, we wait some more until I am invited to citizenship ceremony. Then we wait more more until the ceremony itself, where I take an oath then it is official.” 

“Yes, that’s about the size of it.” Emily exchanged a wry look with him. “It’s quite a lot of hurry-up-and-wait. The entire process could take up to thirteen months.” 

“Thirteen?” echoed Shane. 

“In total, yes. That’s from receipt of the application until the ceremony is complete,” Emily clarified. “You won’t wait that long to get the decision. Also, there’s a slim chance they might want to investigate the application further, in which case you might be called in for interviews. But don’t worry,” she said as she noticed Shane tense up. Ilya’s hand found his, covered it then slid into it and linked their fingers. Emily suppressed a smile. “There is genuinely nothing to worry about. Not that anything in life is ever certain of course, but your application is solid. You meet all the requirements. I see no reason for it to be refused, and if it is we have the right of appeal.” 

She watched as Shane and Ilya looked at each other, as a silent conversation passed between them. Such a married thing to do, she thought fondly; she and Manon were the same. Such a distinct contrast to their first visit to this office, the pair of them barely able to look at each other as tension and attraction sparked sharp and volatile between them. It was calmer now, that attraction, but still very much present. Palpable. Stronger, like they were. Those two scared boys from five years ago would hardly recognise themselves in these men and Emily took an odd but profound pride in that. She could not be more pleased she had gone with her gut and decided to help Shane. 

The silent conversation ended and they both turned to look at her. 

“We trust you,” Shane said. 

“We really do,” Ilya emphasised.  

“But, you know our situation with hockey. We can’t be out to anyone who isn’t absolutely necessary. None of our friends have any clue about us. Ilya hasn’t even met my parents. We’re aware of how suspicious that looks, and—” 

“Shane.” Emily interrupted him before he could get a head of steam up on his anxiety spiral. “One thing I have learned in this job is that no two marriages are exactly the same. No two people are the same so of course their relationships cannot be. That includes family relationships, which are notoriously complicated even at their best. Ilya not knowing your parents isn’t suspicious on its face, plenty of people maintain low or even no contact with their families. And given your jobs, the secrecy with your friends is perfectly understandable. I’ve seen the evidence you submitted. You speak every day, you spend every minute you can together. Of course your being famous hockey players makes things challenging but we knew that going in. We’re well prepared.”

“Okay.” Shane looked at Ilya, who smiled and squeezed his hand. “I guess—submit it then? Yes?” 

“Yesss,” Ilya said, his smile widening into a grin which Shane matched. 

“Yes?” Emily echoed, beaming at them both. 

“Yes,” Ilya said again. “Submit.” 

“All right, then,” said Emily. “I’ll send it in by the end of the week and keep you posted on the progress. And I’ll say good luck, though I don’t think you need it. Just general good luck, for you both.” 

“Thanks, Emily,” Shane said as she shook hands with each of them. “We’re really grateful to you.” 

“We are,” Ilya agreed. 

“It is my pleasure,” said Emily, and she meant it. 

November 2015

Jenny St Clair had worked for Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada since she graduated from college, which was almost fifteen years ago now. It was a good job, steady and reliable, and Jenny enjoyed it. She prided herself on not letting it turn her cynical, as it had done to so many of her colleagues. Yeah, sure, there were people who tried to cheat the system, but who could blame them, Jenny argued, when Canada was such an amazing place to live? And no, she would snap back sharply—one of the few times she ever showed real temper—she didn’t think every person trying to immigrate to Canada was doing so for nefarious reasons, to take advantage of hardworking Canadians or similar nonsense. 

She firmly believed that most people did things with good intentions.

However. When case number 24601 landed on her desk, it gave even her sunny optimism a moment of pause. 

“Shane… Hollander?” she said, in a whisper because screaming would draw attention. She was screaming on the inside. “Ilya Rozanov?” 

That just couldn’t be real. Could it?

Their application had been submitted on their behalf by Emily Halstock, one of the most highly respected immigration attorneys in Canada. It was immaculately thorough, every i dotted and every t crossed, all documents and evidence present and accounted for, not a single misstep or weak spot to be found. 

Still. Jenny had met Emily Halstock personally on a number of occasions and was aware she was not a hockey fan. Maybe she just didn’t know what she had taken on with this case. It seemed highly improbable that Emily could have been tricked into submitting a fraudulent application by two hockey players with multiple concussions between them but still. 

Shane Hollander. And Ilya Rozanov. 

Impossible.  

Jenny St Clair believed in the innate goodness of human beings. But this case she was going to investigate. 

Chapter End Notes

eagle eyed readers will observe that shane and ilya’s case number is also jean valjean’s prisoner number. No reason for that, i just thought it would be funny. It’s also one number off from the zip code i grew up in which is also funny.

the citizenship procedure depicted here is as accurate as i can make it based on the information available from canada.ca with a tiny bit of authorial licence. i don't believe that interviews are routinely required and certainly not the way they end up happening in the next chapter. Mea culpa, etc, please go easy on me.

Chapter 12

Christmas Eve, 2015

Jenny wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing. She wasn’t even entirely sure where she was. In Quebec probably or possibly Ontario, or in some hazy netherworld between. She could just as easily be on Mars for all the sense she had of her surroundings. All she knew for certain was that she’d been driving through forest for an improbable amount of time even considering the size of rural Canada, headed for the secondary address listed on Ilya Rozanov’s citizenship application after she’d had no luck locating him at the primary one in Montreal. 

Which was, objectively speaking, insane. To say nothing of unprofessional. Jenny remained acutely aware of both those facts, even as she kept on driving. The professional protocol, when misrepresentation on an application for citizenship was considered a genuine possibility, was to cite the evidence of it in accordance with established guidelines, then contact the applicant and sponsor to arrange a formal interview. Jenny had done neither. She had done neither because technically speaking there was no reason to suspect misrepresentation on Ilya Rozanov’s application. It was flawless. Some of Emily Halstock’s finest work. 

But that perfection, compelling as it was, just failed so comprehensively to account for the Shane Hollander of it all that Jenny had not been able to let it go. Had they been any two other people, even any two other hockey players, she could have passed their application along and moved on with her life. People contained multitudes, and she’d learned long ago that there was no point in trying to understand from the outside what made other folks’ relationships tick. But these two, though. These two. She just couldn’t. 

Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander. The two best players in all of Major League Hockey. Not just great players either but rare generational talents who had begun their careers at the exact same time and at nearly the exact same age. History-making rivals from the very beginning, who over the past five years had grown into such superstars of the sport that they were household names even outside hockey circles. For them to be married—and not just married but married for years, since before their careers had even begun, and for no one to know. That was … phenomenal if true. Paradigm-shifting. 

Impossible. 

Jenny needed the story behind it. Concern would eat her alive until she knew. Concern that was misplaced, maybe—definitely, absolutely, Shane Hollander's life was not her business—but concern that she could not let go. She simply was not able in good conscience to move their application forward until she understood how it had come to be that her favourite hockey player was even in a position to sponsor his hated rival for Canadian citizenship. Was it blackmail? Brainwashing? Alien mind probe? Until she could be certain no coercion was involved, she couldn't do it. She'd tried, for weeks now, and she just Could Not.

Hence her rash and unauthorised venture into the Canadian wilderness on the day before Christmas, in search of a lakeside cottage that had Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov’s names on the deed and somehow no one had noticed. 

She must be getting close to it by now. Surely. She thought she was, but had no real way of telling. Her old clunker of a car had no GPS and Google Maps had all but drained her phone battery and still all she saw everywhere she looked was trees and trees and then more trees. Jenny attempted to peer through the dense aggregation of them in the slim hope that she might catch a glimpse of something, anything to indicate where she was, without luck, and then—as though to emphasise the pointed lack of fortune that had plagued her since she’d set out from Ottawa early that morning—her engine coughed and began to sputter. 

“Nooo,” she groaned. “No no no no, not now, whyyy?” as the engine, with a few final, exhausted huffs, died. 

With the last of her momentum, she manoeuvred the car to the side of the road and turned off the ignition. Then she banged her head against the steering wheel. Her car had been overdue for a tuneup and she could acknowledge that neglecting it had perhaps not been the wisest of moves, but she’d thought the old girl had a bit more go left in her. Apparently not. Though to be fair the car was twenty years old and she had been driving it for the best part of a day. 

She sighed, sat up straight, and took stock of her situation. Her car was dead. She had no idea where she was. And she had—she held up her phone—no signal. Ten percent battery left. 

Jenny St Clair rarely cursed. But this particular set of circumstances did seem to call for a resounding fuck. 

What were the odds, she wondered, once she’d indulged in a good, loud, foul-mouthed scream, of anyone happening along this particular stretch of narrow road deep in the Canadian forest on Christmas Eve, with heavy snowfall forecasted for overnight? Zero, that’s what. No chance at all. She’d have to set out on foot to have any hope of finding help, back to the last house she’d spotted through the trees, probably six or seven miles behind her now. 

Or, she supposed, she could go on ahead in the hopes that Hockey Megastar Cottage was in fact as near as she thought it must be. And arrive there on foot in desperate need of help, thereby killing stone dead whatever authority she had ever delusionally imagined she might present to the two of them which might compel them to open up to her. 

Before she could reach a decision on which of these two objectively bad options was worse, a miracle occurred. An actual Christmas miracle, marvelled Jenny. Another car appeared and, because this was Canada, the most civilised country in the world, actually pulled over in response to her honk and frantic wave. It was a black SUV—a Land Rover, Jenny saw as it came nearer. Great choice, she thought. So practical. So good in the snow. 

Its door opened and out stepped—cripes! 

Shane Hollander. 

Wow, was the sole thought Jenny’s mind could form as he approached. He’s even better looking in person. Who knew that was possible? 

“Hi,” he said. His tone was friendly but there was a tension in his body, like expectation of something he wasn’t looking forward to. “What’s the problem?” 

“I’m not sure,” Jenny replied. She was impressed that her voice was steady. “The engine sputtered then quit. I wish I knew enough to be able to look at it and see what’s gone wrong, but I don’t.” 

“I can take a look, if you like,” said Shane freaking Hollander. “I’m not an expert but I know my way around the basics of an engine.” 

“That’d be great, yeah. Thanks.” With hands that barely even trembled, Jenny opened the hood of her car so the reigning MLH Cup champion and league MVP could get a look under it. If only that were a metaphor. 

“Yeah, so,” said Shane—if she could call him Shane, and she was confident that she could—after a moment’s perusal. “Like I said, I’m not an expert but, um.” 

“What?” 

“I believe the technical term for this is fucked.” 

Jenny was so startled she spit out a laugh. “That’s the technical term?” 

“That’s it. Your electrics are fried. Nothing I can do, sorry,” said Shane motherflipping Hollander, who did in fact appear genuinely sorry. “Did you call for a tow?” 

Jenny held up her phone. “No signal.” 

“Oh, yeah.” Shane looked around. “There’s a sort of dip here, messes with the reception.” 

“Also the battery’s nearly dead.” 

“Man, it’s really not your day, is it?” He hesitated, and the tension in his body ramped up again. “So, um. I’m uh, Shane. By the way.” He held out his hand. “Shane Hollander.” 

To the end of her days, Jenny thought, if she lived to be a hundred and five, she would never know what possessed her in that moment to coolly shake the hand of a hockey legend in the making and say, “Nice to meet you, Shane,” like she had no idea who he was at all. 

“I’m Jenny St Clair,” she told him, and she smiled. 

Shane’s eyes searched her face for a minute, anxiously, but whatever he saw there seemed to calm him. His tension visibly drained away and he returned her smile with his own, warm and genuine. Jenny blinked. She had to physically resist the urge to fan herself. Was it legal, she wondered faintly, for any human to be this attractive? It had to be in violation of something. Some obscure statute laid out for the protection of the general populace. If there wasn’t such a thing then there freaking well ought to be.  

“Nice to meet you,” he said, apparently oblivious to her distress. “So, um, I’ve got a place not too far from here, if you’re okay getting in a car with a strange man there’s a land line you can use to call for a tow, and you can wait there too until it comes. It’ll probably be a while and it’s pretty cold out.” 

“It is a mite brisk,” Jenny agreed. The temperature gauge on her dash before it died had read minus fifteen. “I have to ask, though. Are you a serial killer, Shane Hollander?” 

His smile widened. “Nope. My murders are random and unconnected.” 

Jenny stared at him in astonishment for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Oh, well,” she said. “That’s okay then.” 

Shane chuckled and indicated with a nod that she should get in the passenger side of his car. This Jenny did, on shaky legs that actually held her up, almost miraculously. That made at least three miracles in the space of five minutes. What was happening. 

Shane’s car was newish and comfortable, with a faint smell of chicken, which Jenny attributed to the KFC bag on the back seat. At any other time she would have wondered about that. Shane Hollander was known for his strict health regimen; there was a whole subgenre of sports magazine articles about it. But then again, Shane Hollander was also known to be single, straight, and not even a little bit funny so who even cared? KFC what? 

“So,” she heard herself say to the man whose posters lined the walls of her kids’ bedroom, “what do you do for a living? If not serial killing.” 

“I play hockey,” he said. “For the Montreal Metros?” 

“Oh.” She managed, she thought, quite a convincing look of blank incomprehension and accompanying apologetic shrug. “Sorry, I’m not much of a hockey person. Not very Canadian of me I know but I just never got into it.”

“Don’t sweat it,” said Shane. “It kind of stresses me out when I’m recognised, which is all the time now. It’s nice to meet someone who doesn’t immediately want to ask me about my stats or our odds for the Cup this year.” 

Jenny desperately wanted to ask him about both of those things but she’d painted herself into a corner now so she had to stay there. 

“What do you do?” Shane asked her. 

“Um, I work for the government.” 

“Oh yeah? So does my dad. He works for the Treasury Board. Which department are you in?” 

Jenny thought fast. “Customs and excise tax,” she said. Something few people cared about and nobody understood. Perfect. 

“Oh, um. I don’t know anything about that,” said Shane, and Jenny released a slow, relieved breath. “Nobody does,” she said cheerfully. “Don’t worry, I won’t bore you with the details.” 

“I appreciate it.” 

They were silent for a minute, then Jenny asked, “Any plans for Christmas?” 

“Just to relax, really. We get a few days off from the season, which we usually spend in Montreal but with all the snow predicted this year we decided to come here instead.” He shot a sideways glance at her with a slight return of tension. “My husband gets a bit stir-crazy when he has to be inside too much and here at least we’ve got our gym and more space to move around.”

The word husband thrown down almost like a gauntlet and the multiple, much more casual uses of the pronoun we did not escape Jenny’s notice. Nor had the plain gold band on his wedding finger. She smiled and gave him an encouraging nod and he relaxed again. 

“The only problem is that on Christmas Eve we always have KFC. It’s a Japanese tradition that we’ve sort of adopted. Which is fine in Montreal but here means I have to go to Ottawa to get it and Ilya—that’s my husband—was complaining how that means it’s going to be cold. Like we don’t have a perfectly good oven to heat it up in. Anyway, that’s why I was driving past when I saw you. On my way home with cold chicken.” 

“I’m very grateful for cold chicken then,” Jenny said. “Though Ottawa’s a long way to go to get it.” 

“I had to be there anyway, for a meeting.” 

“On Christmas Eve?”

“Only time I was available. Hockey schedules are weird.”

“I was supposed to have a meeting too,” Jenny told him. She opted not to mention that the meeting was a) unscheduled and b) unsanctioned and c) with him. “It ended up getting rescheduled.” 

“Oh, that sucks. Did you come from Ottawa?” 

“Yeah,” she said, because that was slightly less insane than admitting she’d gone first to Montreal. “I’ve got family up here.” 

“Oh. Sorry you can’t be with them.” 

“They’ll still be there tomorrow. I will miss the Christmas Eve ham we always have, though.” 

“You’re welcome to have chicken with us tonight. It’s not ham but it’s not nothing either.” 

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” demurred Jenny, in accordance with the strict terms of the Canadian Politeness Protocol.  

“You wouldn’t be,” Shane assured her, to complete the ceremonial exchange. “I always get more than enough.” 

“Thank you, then, I’d like that.” 

“Cool. We’re nearly there.” 

Just as he said this a cottage became visible through the trees, though cottage, she thought, was very much not the word. Great expanses of wood and glass rose up from among tall and frosty firs, with a frozen lake shimmering just behind it. “Wow,” Jenny breathed “This is beautiful.” 

“Thanks.” Shane flushed at her reaction. “We love it here.” 

He pulled his car up to the side of the house then reached back for the KFC bag before getting out of the car. Jenny followed him, up to the front door, which was unlocked, and inside. Shane immediately took off his shoes and lined them up neatly alongside several other pairs. Jenny followed his lead. 

“Ilya?” he called, but there was no answer. “He’s probably in the banya,” said Shane, as he headed for the kitchen.

“In the… what?” 

“Banya.” Shane set the KFC bag on the kitchen island. “It’s a Russian style sauna.”

“And you have one here?” 

“Well, yeah.” He looked surprised at her surprise, as though a Russian sauna were a perfectly normal thing to find attached to a Canadian cottage. “We had the place built and it was something Ilya really wanted. We’re mostly here in summer but he says the banya’s best in winter because he can alternate hot and cold like they do in Russia, so he’s been out there a lot.” 

“Your husband’s Russian, I take it?” 

“Mmhmm. Though we hope not for much longer. He’s got an application in for Canadian citizenship.” 

That was the opening Jenny had been hoping for, but before she could think of how to press the point without clueing Shane in, the door to the patio opened and Ilya Rozanov appeared, dressed in swim trunks and slides and nothing else, despite the frosty temperatures. He was rubbing a towel on his head and didn’t see Jenny. He saw Shane, though, and his face lit up. 

“You are back,” he said. “How is the chicken?” 

“Cold. Fortunately there’s an oven for that.” 

“Hm. You will not be so smug when the chicken comes out dry, but at least then I can gloat.” Rozanov tossed his towel over a chair, backed Shane up to the edge of the island and kissed him. Shane made a little noise in his throat as his eyes fluttered shut and his hands came to rest on Rozanov’s hips and oh, this was—not what Jenny had expected. Rozanov moved closer. 

This was the point at which, Jenny knew, she really ought to look away. It was basic politeness, simple common decency, but she didn’t even try. She was far too busy gaping at them like a particularly dumbstruck fish as the gears in her mind clashed and ground together in their attempt to process whatever the flipping heck was happening here.

With a start, Shane seemed to remember where he was, or rather where she was, and he pulled back. 

“Ilya,” he said, “we have company.” 

“What?” Ilya freaking Rozanov frowned at him. “Where?” 

“There.” Shane nodded at Jenny, who attempted a smile that froze on her face when she found herself pinned beneath the piercing blue stare of the man she had enthusiastically loathed for the past five years. 

“Who are you?” he said. 

Shane slapped him lightly on his side. “Don’t be rude,” he admonished. “This is Jenny St Clair. Her car broke down about ten minutes down the road, right in that dip where there’s no cell reception. I offered to let her hang here while she waits for the tow truck. Jenny, this is my husband Ilya, you’re going to have to ignore almost everything he says. He’s sort of like, congenitally full of shit. It’s a problem.” 

Rozanov was still frowning. “Um, lyubimyy, are you sure—” 

“So fun fact about Jenny,” said Shane. “She’s not a hockey person.” 

“Isn’t she?” 

“Nope,” Jenny lied. She was relieved to note her vocal cords at least still appeared to be functional. “Sorry. Just not my thing.” On attempt number two, she successfully produced a smile for MLH Cup champion, 2014 MVP, number one overall draft pick Ilya Rozanov and said, “Do you play hockey too?” 

Rozanov’s eyes narrowed assessingly. “Yes, I do. For Boston. Much better team than Shane’s. They won the Cup last year through dumb luck and opposing teams’ injuries, this year will be us again due to much stronger team with better talent as well as general superiority of Boston and its hockey fans. Of course.” 

He was testing her, Jenny realised, as her blood began to simmer. No Canadian who’d even heard rumours about this thing they call hockey would be able to let such outrageous slander slide. With a force of effort of which she’d never have imagined herself capable, she held her polite, neutral expression on her face and said, “Won’t that be nice for you?”  

Shane shook his head. “You’re such an asshole,” he informed his husband, in a tone far too fond for the words. “Go get dressed while Jenny calls the tow truck and I heat up this chicken.” 

He pointed her in the direction of his landline, just around the corner from the kitchen. Jenny dug her Canadian Tire Roadside Assistance card our of her bag and made the call. 

A few minutes later she found herself on hold, tinny covers of Christmas carols in one ear and voices drifting over from the kitchen just audible in the other. 

“…our house,” she heard as she tuned the carols out and the voices in. “She saw us kissing.” 

“It was a calculated risk.” Shane’s voice, touched with uncertainty. 

“More risk than calculation, I think.” Rozanov’s. Confident, concerned. 

“What was I supposed to do? She had no car and no phone and it’s freezing out. I couldn’t leave her.” 

“You could have called me and I would have stayed in the bedroom.” 

“That would just create more problems. How would I explain a huge KFC order only for myself? That I would then sit around not eating for hours? While you hide out in your own home like a criminal? When there are signs that you live here all over the place.” 

“Signs someone lives here. Not me specifically.” 

“I had like three seconds to decide what to do. She says she’s not into hockey and I believe her. She didn’t act like she recognised me at all.” 

They didn’t really believe she was going to out them, did they? Jenny thought indignantly. She was a bureaucrat, not a homophobe. Here to check they weren’t misrepresenting their relationship for immigration purposes, not to ruin their actual lives. 

Not that they had any way of knowing that. To be fair. She had lied on basically every breath since Shane Hollander got out of his car. 

“Anyway, the neighbours in Montreal know we live together,” Shane went on. “They’ve never said anything.” 

“They have a collective age of eight hundred and three. They would not know how to tell on us.” 

“And Jenny does?” 

“Tell me that woman does not have an Instagram full of pictures of her children, with captions like ‘Family Fun on Canada Day!!’ I will give you ten thousand dollars if you can.” 

Jenny’s jaw dropped. She did in fact have just such an Instagram, and now she also had the hazy notion that it probably ought to be insulting the way Rozanov had clocked her with devastating accuracy after approximately five seconds’ acquaintance. Instead, she was reluctantly impressed. He’d taken his keen observational skills and turned them to evil. As a skilled observer herself, Jenny found it hard not to respect that level of game. 

“Fuck off. That doesn’t mean she’d post about us,” Shane said. “And even if she did, who’d believe it? It’s an objectively insane thing for one person to claim, without any proof. Like you said about your team, plausible deniability.” 

“Hm. Maybe.” 

Shane sighed. “I don’t know, Ilya. Sometimes I get so tired of hiding all the time. Maybe I thought we could have one night of feeling a bit more normal. Dinner with someone who doesn’t know or care who the fuck we are. Doesn’t that sound nice?” 

“Ma’am, you still there?” The voice of the tow truck guy in her ear prevented Jenny from hearing Rozanov’s response. 

It took another ten minutes to sort out the tow. Jenny hung up the phone, heaved a sigh, and headed back towards the kitchen. She hadn’t fully rounded the corner when she spotted Rozanov, dressed now in loose pants slung low  and a tight henley with the sleeves pushed up and every button undone, kissing Shane. Again. 

He held Shane’s jaw lightly in his hand while Shane’s fingers played just beneath the hem of his shirt. Their lips met and parted and met again in a teasing sort of flirty dance. Rozanov shifted the angle of his head and Shane hummed. Jenny caught a flash of tongue. 

She stood frozen just outside their field of vision balanced precariously on one foot, uncertain where to place the other. Forward would be intruding so back seemed wiser, but she was going to have to come forward eventually. It all came down to the timing. 

As if on cue the oven timer began to beep. Shane ended the kiss but dropped his forehead to rest against Rozanov’s. “Chicken’s warm,” he murmured. 

Rozanov smirked. “Sahara Desert Chicken.” 

“It cannot possibly be that dry,” Shane said, pushing Rozanov away so he could open the oven door. “I wrapped it in foil.” 

Sure enough, the tray he removed from the oven was covered in foil, neatly tucked and folded around each corner. 

“You think tin foil keeps moisture in chicken like it keeps dangerous waves out of your brain,” Rozanov said.  

“I don’t think it keeps any waves out of my brain, I’m not a fucking conspiracy theorist or a lunatic.”  

Shane turned the oven off with a smart twist of his wrist as Rozanov hovered over his shoulder. “You in this case is general you, for people who think tin foil protects against all harm,” he said. Shane rolled his eyes.  

“There’s a pretty sizeable difference between thinking it protects from all harm and thinking it’s going to keep the chicken from drying out. You know, like it’s fucking supposed to do.” 

Both of Jenny’s feet were on the floor now, fixing her in place. No way was she intruding on this scene, this wildly impossible scene of Major League Hockey’s two biggest stars—yes those ones, the ones who famously hated each other—making out and flirting in the kitchen of their shared cottage over reheated KFC. No way was she retreating from it either because, quite frankly: what. What. What. 

What was happening. 

She felt sure somehow that they were flirting, however much it appeared to be arguing. It was arguing but also that was flirting? She got the impression that neither of them cared about the argument as such they just enjoyed the act of bickering with each other. The way they touched as they did, little soft brushes of hands, bumping hips and shoulders because they stood so close together, the small kiss Ilya dropped on Shane’s neck as he pulled the foil off the chicken watched a cloud of steam rise up, was almost unbearably sweet. 

“There,” Shane said, sounding smug. “Kept the moisture in.” 

“And now you have let it all out with the steam.” 

“Fuck off.” Shane elbowed him in the ribs. “Go set the table.” 

“Oh, we are at the table today?” 

“We have a guest.” 

“Yes, and where is our Jenny?” 

“I’m here.” Seizing her moment, Jenny stepped forward and gave a little awkward wave. “Sorry, it took a while to get the tow sorted out.” 

“Are they coming?” Shane asked. 

“Yeah, they said it’d be about two hours. They’ll call your number when they’re on their way.” 

“Great.” Shane smiled at her. “You hungry?” 

“Starving, actually. You need help with the table?”  

“No, that’s—” Shane began, but Rozanov interrupted. 

“Sure,” he said. “Come on.” 

He herded Jenny away before Shane could protest, into the dining area and over to a china cabinet in which plates and glasses were neatly stacked. Rozanov removed three of each and handed them to her, plus three placemats. “Shane will have minor cardiac incident if we don’t put these down,” he said, solemnly. “The table is oak, as he will tell you in detail, so best to just use placements. Go. I will get silverware.” 

“For fried chicken?” 

“And sides.” 

Jenny got the feeling that he was poking fun at the whole procedure, though  not, perhaps surprisingly, in a mean way. She’d always thought of Ilya Rozanov as one mean son of a gun with the way he chirped the other players but here—in his home—his mockery just came off as gentle teasing. Fond, charming even, like the way he’d needled Shane in the kitchen. She found herself having to put some actual effort into maintaining her dislike of him. 

She laid the placemats carefully, followed by plates and glasses, then Rozanov finished the setting with knives, forks, and spoons. He glanced towards the kitchen, where Shane was laying chicken on a platter with a pair of tongs and then, with the speed of a viper, he turned and leaned over her, pressing her back over the edge of the table. 

His shoulders are actually insane, thought Jenny, as the table dug into her spine and blood pounded in her temples. They should probably be illegal too. She felt entirely enclosed, hemmed in by a wall of muscle. Rozanov’s eyes glinted dangerously. 

“Tell me, Jenny St Clair,” he said, in a voice soft as a purr. “What do you think about human nature? Good or bad?” 

“Uh—what?” 

“You are Canadian, like my Shane. He always looks for the best in people. Me, I am Russian. More cynical. Too cynical, for example, to believe anyone in Canada has never heard of Shane Hollander. Or of me. We are very famous. And you are an excellent liar. But not quite good enough to hide how much you hate me.” 

“Um. I, uh—” 

“But,” Rozanov pressed on, “if you tell me you believe in innate goodness of humanity as Shane does, then I might believe you will not leave here then immediately post on every social media outlet how famous hockey players are gay and married. I want to believe that, Jenny.” His lip curled with the menace he was famous for. “I really want to believe it.” 

Jenny swallowed hard. Her throat felt bone dry. “You can believe it,” she croaked. 

Rozanov’s smile was slow. Predatory. “Good. Because if such a story did appear, anywhere, even anonymously, well. I would know where it came from. And I have no problem with squashing one sweet Canadian person to protect the one that is mine.” 

“Shane doesn’t need protection from me,” Jenny hissed. Even the suggestion that she might do anything to harm Shane or the Metros was enough to overcome her fear. “He’s winning us the Cup again this year. I would never jeopardise that.” 

Rozanov’s smile shifted, the glint in his eye turned playful. “I think I like you,” he said. “Even if you have terrible taste in hockey teams. You are Canadian, I suppose you cannot help it.” He winked at her as he stood back, body language loose and relaxed. “Here comes Shane with the chicken. We will keep up your charade, yes? For him.” 

Jenny gave a short, brisk nod. “For him.” 

“Oh, and you must stop calling me Rozanov in your head,” said Roz—Ilya, with a twinkly smirk. “Remember that Shane never told you my full name.” 

“Good gosh darn it,” Jenny muttered under her breath. Ilya burst into laughter, just as Shane entered the room. 

“What’s going on in here?” he asked, setting the chicken down on the table. Ilya dropped a smacking kiss onto his cheek. 

“Nothing,” he said. “I just love Canadians. I cannot wait to be one of you.” 

Shane smiled at him. “Soon.”

Soon. 

He was, thought Jenny despairingly, may God and Gretzky preserve them, absolutely right about that. 

The chicken was, if she was honest, a little bit dry. 

Jenny said nothing though, just poured herself some extra gravy and ate every last morsel. And she found, once her heart stopped pounding and she no longer felt compelled to cast nervous glances at Ilya every few seconds, that she was enjoying herself. Very much, actually. 

Shane and Ilya were funny. They were adorable. They were so deeply in love that watching them felt a bit voyeuristic at times. It was clear they were accustomed to being fully open and all over each other in their home. Probably to make up for how thoroughly they had to hide everywhere else. 

It broke her heart a little to think about that.

Jenny no longer entertained the smallest doubt about the authenticity of their marriage. Which did nothing at all to assuage her curiosity about it. If anything, their ease with and comfort around and thorough adoration of each other made that curiosity worse. Because, and Jenny really could not emphasise this enough, what. Also relevant: how. Everyone, absolutely everyone who knew anything about hockey was familiar with the Hollander-Rozanov rivalry. It was widely known how much they hated each other. Except they obviously didn’t and, given the timeline of their marriage, almost certainly never had. 

How was any of this even possible? 

“So,” she asked, in the most carefully casual tone she could muster, “how did you two meet?” 

“Shane came on to me in a parking lot,” Ilya said. 

“I came up to you in a parking lot,” Shane corrected. “Not on to you. Jesus, Ilya.” 

Ilya shrugged. “English is not my first language,” he informed Jenny, as though he hadn’t threatened her in subtle, fluent, flawless English not fifteen minutes earlier. 

“Your English is perfect when you want it to be,” Shane shot back. “But it’s true we met in a parking lot. Just before the World Juniors final in 2008. I introduced myself to him.” 

“He yelled at me for smoking.” 

“Yeah, because you shouldn’t smoke.” 

Ilya waved a hand. “I have stopped, mostly.” 

“Mostly!” 

“Yes, most of the time.” 

They glowered at each other for a minute, then Jenny said, “2008, that’s a while ago, huh? And then you played against each other?” 

“Yes,” said Ilya. “I won.” 

Shane glared at him. “Then the next year I won.” 

“Always you are second, even at winning.” Ilya shook his head in mock sadness. “I won the Cup first too.” 

“I’ll win it more.” 

“That we will see.” 

“Yeah, we fucking will.” 

Ooooh-kay, Jenny thought. That explained the bickering. Competition obviously got them going and she did not want them going much further, at least until she’d finished her dinner. 

“When did you get married?” she interrupted loudly. Both of them turned to her in mild surprise, like they’d almost forgotten she was there. 

“2010. In June, just before our rookie year.” Shane flushed a soft pink. “You’re probably thinking we were really young, and we were. But we had to do it.” He looked at Ilya, who smiled at him. 

“We had to,” he agreed. 

Jenny remembered the photo they had included in their application, the two of them on their wedding day. They had been young, and stiff, a little bit scared but so determined, all dressed up in their suits. There had been another picture as well, a polaroid taken, she would guess, just before their application was submitted, on the deck of this very house. Ilya with his arms wrapped around Shane’s shoulders, their cheeks pressed together and both of them grinning as Shane snapped the photo. She should have seen it then. She had seen it, she just hadn’t been able to believe her eyes. 

“Age doesn’t matter when you know,” she said softly. 

“We certainly did know something,” Shane said. Which was—definitely one way to turn a phrase. Jenny frowned and was about to press on that a bit more firmly when Ilya jumped in. 

“What about you?” he asked. “Are you married?” 

“Oh! Yes, I am. Fourteen years now. Peter is his name. I met him on our first day of college and that was it for me. Never even looked at anyone else.” 

“My parents were the same,” Shane said. 

His parents, Jenny thought. Not him? 

“And do you have children, Jenny?” Ilya asked. Loudly. 

“We do. We’ve got two boys, one twelve and one ten.” 

“Two Canadian boys that age who are not hockey fans?” Ilya’s tone mocked her as she turned to glare at him. 

“I never said they weren’t. But it’s—” she forced the words out though they threatened to choke her—“more something they share with my husband.” Images of Tom, her firstborn, days old and dressed in the Metros onesie she herself had bought him, turned the remnants of that lie bitter on her tongue.

“Of course,” said Ilya blandly, though his eyes danced. The message in them was clear: Stay out of my business and I’ll stay out of yours. “More potatoes?” he inquired.

“No,” Jenny replied, through clenched teeth. “Thank you.” 

Shane seemed oblivious to the undercurrents swirling madly through the air. “If you’re finished, we should have cake,” he said. “Do you like strawberries?” 

“Of course she does,” said Ilya. “Who doesn’t like strawberries?”

“Jenny?”

Jenny looked from Shane’s face to Ilya’s, then back again. Strawberries in December seemed problematic but she did not think this was the moment to bring that up. “Love strawberries,” she said. “Yum. Sounds great.” 

Two approving smiles shone back at her. 

“Thanks so much, for everything,” Jenny said to Shane an hour later, as she was preparing to leave. “You really saved my bacon.” 

“My pleasure,” Shane replied. “It was nice having you here.” His smile was genuine. Ilya’s from over his shoulder, was like if the Joker were a terrifyingly muscular Russian man without makeup. Jenny shivered. 

“The tow truck guys said they’ll be ready to leave by the time we get you back, so that’s good,” Shane told her. “If you head out now I think you’ll beat the worst of the snow. Let me grab the emergency kit though, just in case.” 

Through the windows, Jenny could see light flakes drifting. Soon they would be falling heavily enough to accumulate overnight, but Shane was right. She’d be back in Ottawa well before that became a problem. 

“So nice to meet you, Jenny,” said Ilya, as Shane went to get whatever an emergency kit was. “I hope you will not forget anything we have talked about today.” 

“I wouldn’t dare,” Jenny muttered. 

“Good. This is good. I was not kidding when I said I liked you.” 

“I don’t like you.” 

“Ah, you are lying again.” His smile taunted her as his voice dropped low. “You will never be able to watch me play in future and feel the same hatred as before. Is natural consequence of meeting me, unfortunately. Has happened to many people.” 

“Not to me.” 

“We will see.” He smirked and backed away just as Shane reappeared, then turned and swept him up into a kiss. “Drive safely.” 

“Of course,” Shane said, like this was obvious. Ilya’s expression softened into one of immeasurable fondness and he kissed his husband again. Jenny fought the urge to scowl. Ilya freaking Rozanov, she thought, was almost certainly correct. She wouldn’t be able to hate him anymore, not the way she used to. There was simply no way she could hate anyone who loved Shane Hollander as much as he did. 

Jenny knew there was more to the story behind their marriage than they had shared with her and honestly, fair enough. She was a stranger to them and a risk for them to trust at all. She also decided she didn’t care anymore. However they had come to be, for whatever reason, they loved each other now and that was enough. It was all that mattered, really. 

She was quiet on the drive back to her car, deep in thought. About the nature of love and where it sprang and how it grew. About the complicated intersections of career and family. About whether the great nation of Canada would survive Ilya Rozanov becoming one of her citizens, as he absolutely would do. Jenny intended to make certain of it. 

Though she would never, she silently promised Shane and Ilya and Canada and herself, breathe a word of what had happened here today. 

The headlights of the tow truck shone through the snowflakes as they approached. Shane pulled his car to the side of the road. 

“Um, if it’s okay I won’t get out,” he said. 

“Oh, sure.” Jenny smiled reassuringly. “You don’t want to be recognised.” 

He squirmed a little. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate my fans, it’s just—it can be a lot.” 

“I get that. It’s Christmas Eve and you’d rather be at home.” 

“Yeah.” A hint of discomfort crept into his voice. “And um, if you wouldn’t mind not telling anyone you met us? It’d make our lives a lot easier.” 

“Of course. It’s the least I can do.” 

Shane’s smile bloomed at her for a final time. Jenny took a moment to memorise it. “Thanks,” he said. “Merry Christmas, Jenny.” 

“Merry Christmas to you too.” 

She got out of the car, waved, then stood watching as he executed a textbook perfect three-point turn and headed back the way he came. 

Chapter 13

Chapter Notes

ilya's russian translated at the end (eventually i will put it in hover quotes, just not immediately)

remember that i love you ❤️

May 2016 

The letter was in his mailbox when Shane returned from practice. 

An innocuous white envelope with the red Canadian Immigration and Citizenship services logo in the upper left. Addressed to Ilya Rozanov. Shane’s hands trembled as he picked it up. 

Game five of the conference championship series was scheduled for that evening. Boston at Montreal, with the Metros up three games to one. Ilya was at that very moment in a hotel downtown in accordance with their no-contact-during-playoffs agreement. Shane hesitated with the envelope laid carefully on the kitchen island. This sort of distraction was the last thing either of them needed right now—avoiding distraction was the whole fucking reason why they stayed apart during the playoffs—but he knew he couldn’t wait until the end of their series to know. And that would be too unfair to Ilya. 

 He took out his phone. 

“Shane?” Ilya’s voice when he answered was low and concerned. “What—” 

“You have to come over,” Shane said. 

“What?” said Ilya again. 

“Come over. Now.” 

“Did you forget the very important playoff game we have tonight?” 

“No, of course not.” 

“Then—”

“Ilya,” said Shane, in a tone of voice that shut his husband up immediately. “I have a letter. With your name on it. That I think you should come over here right fucking now and open.” 

Ilya exhaled a long, slow breath. “But what if it’s bad—” 

“It won’t be. And come on, can you play not knowing?” 

“Of course I can and so can you. But okay. I am on my way.” 

Ilya walked through the door twenty minutes later, straight into Shane’s arms. They kissed heatedly and a bit frantically, as they always did after a long separation. Then Ilya leaned his forehead against Shane’s, eyes closed, and drew a steadying breath. 

“Okay,” he said. “I am ready.” 

Shane handed him the envelope and watched as he opened it, watched with his heart in his throat as Ilya took out the letter and read it over once, then a second time. His body language gave nothing away. 

“It says,” said Ilya slowly, “that they are pleased to approve my application for Canadian citizenship—” Shane heaved a breath as tears flooded his eyes. “—and that they will be in touch soon to schedule a ceremony. Fuck. Shane.” 

“We did it.” 

“We did it.” 

“Holy shit.” Shane took the letter from Ilya and read it himself. “Holy shit,” he said again. “Oh my God.” He reached for Ilya just as Ilya reached for him, folded him into the tightest hug as he pressed his face into Shane’s neck. From the damp feeling on that neck Shane deduced that he was crying too and that made him cry harder. They clung to each other as sobs wracked them both. 

“I don’t know why we’re crying,” Shane said. “This is good news.” 

“Emotional release.” Ilya sniffed against his neck. “I have been holding a lot in. More than I thought.” 

“Me too, apparently.” 

He must have been; all the feelings he’d resolutely been ignoring were present now, vivid and insistent in his chest. There was relief of course, and happiness. Fierce, intense pride. Sadness—that one was surprising. Shane prodded at it and a thought appeared. 

He doesn’t need me anymore. 

Shane staggered. Ilya looked up, alarmed. “Lyubimyy, are you all right?” 

“Fine.” Shane pulled him in again, more roughly than was warranted, and hugged him as hard as he was able. If he could just squeeze hard enough, he thought on a wildly uncharacteristic burst of whimsy, maybe he could absorb Ilya into himself and never have to be apart from him again. 

“I want you to fuck me,” he heard himself say.  

“We are still in the playoffs—” 

“I know. I don’t care.” 

“You don’t—what?” 

“Are you really going to fucking tell me no right now?” Shane burst out, fully aware of how unfair he was being but unable to stop himself.

Ilya stared at him. “No contact during playoffs is your rule!” 

“That just means I can break it.” 

“Who are you?” Ilya attempted to joke, but there was concern behind it. “Solnyshko, are you sure you’re okay?” 

Shane wasn’t okay, not even a little. He needed Ilya close to him, inside him, and he needed that now. “I’m fine,” he said roughly. “I just want you to fuck me. Is there a problem with that?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Ilya, just—please.” Panic licked at the edges of Shane’s consciousness. “Please don’t make me talk. Please just fuck me now, please. I need you to—I need—” 

“Shhh, moya lyubov, shhh. Of course, if that is what you need. Come here, shh.” Ilya gathered him in, wrapped him up in the arms whose strength always made Shane feel so safe. He thought about never being held like this again and his breaths grew short and harsh as his heartbeat picked up speed.  

“Shane.” Ilya’s voice sounded so concerned. Shane shook his head in advance of what he knew was coming. “Lyubimyy are you sure—” 

“Yes. I’m fine. I’m happy. This is what we’ve worked for for years.” All true. Not the whole truth. “I just—need to be close to you. Please.” 

Gently, Ilya extracted himself from their embrace to cradle Shane’s face between his hands and look at him. “Breathe for me first,” he said. Shane did, slowly and deliberately. 

“Please,” he said again. 

Ilya’s face did something he’d never seen before, something soft and pained at once. He stroked his thumbs across Shane’s cheekbones and murmured in Russian, words that felt gentle on Shane’s skin, as soothing as the touch of Ilya’s thumbs. His heartbeat slowed and his breathing eased; his eyes fell shut. Ilya kissed him lightly then murmured some more. Shane melted into him. 

“More,” he pleaded. “Talk to me in Russian. Fuck me in your language.” 

Ilya made a choked noise in his throat and kissed him again. Shane could feel the restraint in the kiss, the way Ilya was fighting to keep it soft. He pressed himself closer as Ilya’s hands slid beneath his shirt to stroke across his skin. Cool relief followed by the familiar heat of desire calmed his mind and Shane sighed. 

“More,” he said again. “Ilyusha. More.” 

“Come upstairs.” 

Ilya took his hand and led him up the staircase to their bedroom. At the foot of their bed he kissed Shane again, still gently, still with so much restraint. With that same restraint he removed their clothing piece by piece, Shane’s and his own, kissing his lips and nose and freckles, one kiss for each garment tossed aside. Divested, Shane lay back on the bed and Ilya followed, trailing kisses up his body at a glacial pace with whispered words between. 

“Я тебя люблю,” he breathed into the quivering muscles of Shane’s belly. “Я так сильно тебя люблю. Я не могу выразить, насколько сильно,” sighed across his breastbone. “Я вообще не могу это описать. Но я это чувствую, и это убивает меня.”

He kissed Shane’s neck, silken, sucking kisses just shy of hard enough to leave a mark. Shane keened as he arched into them, into the words that fell like spring raindrops on his skin. “Это всегда ты.” Ilya’s voice was soft but choked, the delicacy of his touch like lace restraining a landslide. “Уже много лет в моей жизни есть только ты.” Slicked-up fingers eased Shane open as Ilya’s tongue traced the dip in his throat. 

“Скоро я тебя потеряю.” His voice broke on the words. The lace strained, began to tear. “Ты разобьешь мне сердце.” He pressed his face into Shane’s neck; Shane’s hips rose to meet him. “Мне всё равно,” Ilya whispered as he filled Shane up. “Это того стоит. То, что ты сейчас со мной, дороже всего на свете.” 

Shane’s fingers dug into the muscles of Ilya’s back. His hips canted. “Ilyusha,” he breathed, and the lace tore open. 

Ilya groaned as he rocked hard into Shane and Shane clung to him, grip tight on his curls and on his back. The words Ilya murmured now were ones he knew. He’d heard them before, many times. Countless times throughout the years they’d spent together. 

“моя любовь,” Ilya said, over and over, like a chant. Like a hymn. “моя любовь, моя любовь, моя любовь,” until Shane came with a heaviness in his chest and stars behind his eyes. Ilya collapsed atop him; the weight of his body pressed Shane deep into the mattress the way he loved. 

“Я так тебя люблю,” Ilya said. He sounded exhausted. “Fuck. Я ненавижу это. Хотел бы, чтобы это никогда не заканчивалось.”

Shane felt blissed out and boneless, and so fucking safe. The distant awareness that his panic from before hadn’t gone away, just been assuaged temporarily, he opted to ignore. There was no room for that in a mind and body that were still so full of Ilya. “Don’t go yet, please,” he whispered, nuzzling at Ilya’s jaw. “We have some time.” 

“Okay.” 

Sleep was lapping at him now, pulling him under. It was pregame naptime, but—“I left my phone downstairs. Do you have yours?” 

“Yes.” 

“Would you set an alarm?” 

“Of course.” Ilya’s voice was still so tired. He must need a nap too, thought Shane vaguely, that was good. They could nap together. 

He was asleep before he heard the whispered promise that came after. 

“Shane. I would do anything for you.” 

Shane played the best game of his life that night. So did Ilya. It was a legendary matchup, one that would be talked about, so said JJ, until the eventual heat death of the universe. The lead swung back and forth between the two teams like a pendulum then finally, in the thirty-seventh minute of overtime, Shane broke through the smallest chink in Boston’s exhausted defence to score the winning goal.

The Metros were going to the Cup final, for the second year running. And Shane intended to ride Ilya about it until both of them passed out. He was done with playoff no-contact, with any no-contact until the contact between them ended completely. 

He was, he thought grimly, not fucking wasting a single minute of the time that they had left. 

July 2016 

The ceremony took place on a Thursday, at nine forty-five a.m. They’d chosen that time in the hopes that it would be less crowded than the afternoon slot, at the smallest venue available in Montreal. As he watched Shane slip quietly into the room and the empty seat next to Emily Halstock, Ilya reflected that this had probably been the correct decision. The only other occupants of the rows of chairs reserved for visitors were a late-middle-aged couple and a woman with her four young children, all, Ilya guessed, under the age of five. 

Beside him sat a tall and slender man, black-haired and dark-skinned, and to that man’s other side a young girl of probably about fifteen, blonde and pale. They all sat without speaking or looking at each other in the formal hush of the room. 

It was a plain room, with no decoration save for the parade of country flags that lined one wall and the Canadian maple leaf in pride of place above a dais at the front. Ilya imagined that when the ceremonies were bigger things would be more lively, but right now the atmosphere had all the lighthearted joie de vivre of a funeral. 

Which didn’t help to ease his nerves or the muddle of his feelings. He felt happy, of course he did, to finally become Canadian, a thing he had worked towards and wanted for so long. He was happy and he was strangely proud, but mixed in with that happiness and pride was sadness, deep and laced with darker emotions that Ilya hadn’t found the wherewithal to examine. He felt sad that this was necessary, that he had needed to cross an ocean, adopt an entirely new country just to live safely as himself. He was, he realised then, angry about that too. Angry in a way that sat in a tight, hot ball in his chest, tainting all his other emotions and burning him whenever he tried to approach it in his mind. 

He was probably, eventually, going to need to do something about that anger. 

One of the children began to cry, a high-pitched, drawn-out wail that broke the heavy stillness and sent a rippling wave of noise and motion through every person in the room. The man beside Ilya stiffened. 

“Is your baby?” Ilya asked him, and the man nodded. 

“I am sorry for the noise,” he said. His accent had a cadence Ilya thought he recognised from at least one film. Indian, maybe. Like the boy on the millionaire show. He and Shane had watched that movie one Christmas, with about half an eye’s worth of attention between them.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “Is difficult for babies, to sit still for long in the quiet. How old is he? She?” 

“She. She is four months.” 

“And your others?” 

“The eldest is four. The twins are two. We looked for a babysitter, but we could not—” 

Ilya waved this away. “I said, do not apologise. There is no need.” He checked his watch. “Is early yet, fifteen minutes before the ceremony starts. Can we do anything to help your wife?” 

The baby chose that moment to redouble her efforts. The man cast an anxious glance at his family. His wife was attempting to soothe the baby and placate the clearly bored and whining twins at the same time, without success. 

“Go,” Ilya urged the man. “There is time.” 

The man went. He took the baby and rocked her in his arms while his wife dug colouring books and crayons from the huge bag beside her chair. The twins perked up and settled into their colouring as the baby quieted and began to drowse. 

After a minute, Ilya went over himself. Heedless of his very expensive suit, he crouched in front of the oldest child, who was obviously trying his best to be good while casting envious glances at his siblings’ colouring books. “Hello,” he said, “I’m Ilya.” 

The boy stared at him for a minute, then looked up at his father, who gave an encouraging nod. “I’m Rupjit,” the boy said. 

“Is a pleasure to meet you, Rupjit,” said Ilya. “Do you have a favourite toy?” 

Rupjit nodded. 

“What is it?” 

“It’s a Lego car.” 

“This is an excellent choice. I love Lego and cars. Does your mom have Lego in her bag for you?” 

Rupjit looked over at his mother, who nodded. 

“I thought so. Will you show me what you make with it?” 

Rupjit nodded eagerly. His mother, with a grateful smile, withdrew a Tupperware container full of Lego and handed it to Ilya. 

By the time the officiants arrived to start the ceremony, Ilya was fully sat on the floor with Rupjit and the new Lego car they’d built together. The twins—Sai and Samir, as their father, Dipak, introduced them—were colouring scenes of knights and castles with Svenja, the blonde girl, while the baby Mahika slept peacefully in the crook of her father’s arm. 

Shane watched this scene unfold with pressure in his chest and throat and behind his eyes. 

“Ilya—really likes kids,” he managed to say. 

“He’s very good with them,” Emily observed. “Do you plan to have any of your own?” 

“We’ve never talked about it.” The words were out of his mouth before he’d vetted them, or considered how this topic was something a real couple would already have discussed. As that realisation dawned, his eyes flew to Emily, whose expression confirmed what he had suspected for some time. 

“You know, don’t you?” he said. “You always have.” 

A smile played just at the corners of her mouth. “You are excellent at many things, Shane, but you’re a terrible liar.” 

“Ilya says that all the time.”  

“He’s right.” 

Shane watched her for several quiet beats as he processed this, then asked, “Why did you take our case, then? If you knew?” 

“Because you needed me to.” 

“But—” 

Emily interrupted him. “Have I ever told you about my wife?” 

Shane paused with his mouth still open on a protest, closed it, and frowned. “No,” he said. Emily rarely spoke at all about herself. 

“Manon,” said Emily, as her voice and face softened. “Love of my life. She’s from Senegal.” 

“Oh. Um. Wow.” 

“She came here as a student not intending to stay but then we fell in love. It was a battle to keep her here, let me tell you. We started trying in 2003 before same-sex marriage was legalised and the options to remain for her back then were bleak. So many times I cried myself to sleep because I thought I was going to lose her. But we kept at it and then the marriage ruling came through and for once we cried happy tears. We got married the very first day we could and she became Canadian in 2010.” Emily smiled at the memory. “She’s a huge hockey fan, by the way. She always says watching hockey makes her feel Canadian.” 

“My mom says the same thing. She was born here but her parents were Japanese.” 

“How interesting. I suppose there’s something to be said for the unifying power of a national sport.” Her hand reached out, hovered for a moment, then settled onto Shane’s and gave it a squeeze. “My point is, Shane, sometimes things feel impossible. And sometimes they are, I won’t lie. Sometimes the worst happens and good people lose and that’s just—the unfairness of life on this planet. But losing is never guaranteed, no matter how bleak the outlook. I believe Manon would say that you of all people could understand that. She says you’re one of the best players to come into the league in a generation. She says Ilya’s the other. It pains her to say that but she does.” 

“She’s right. Ilya and I are the best at hockey.” Shane watched his husband show Rupjit how to snap the wheels into his Lego car and the pressure in his chest increased. He drew a careful breath. “Off the ice, though…” he began, but couldn’t find a way to finish. 

“Off the ice you’re just people trying to live your life,” Emily said gently. “I imagine out here things are a lot harder to control.” 

“That’s for fucking sure.” 

The door at the front of the room opened and the officiants came in. They appeared surprised at the scene that greeted them, but as Ilya, Dipak, and Svenja returned to their seats Shane saw them all exchange a smile.  

The ceremony began. Tears sat thickly in Shane’s throat and dampened his eyes as he watched; when Ilya solemnly recited the oath of citizenship he had to fight not to let them fall. 

“This never gets old,” Emily said. Her hand was still on his, firm and grounding. “No matter how many times I witness it. It’s not just about Canada, you know. Canada may actually be the least of it. It’s about honouring the human right to live and love and choose. People who love each other should be able to be together, no matter where they’re from or how they love. I believe that, more strongly than I believe anything else in this or any other world.” 

“I believe it too,” Shane said. 

After the ceremony a reception was held in a small lounge just off the main room, with coffee and juice and cookies. Shane and Emily went but stood to one side, to draw as little attention as possible. Not that there was much attention left for them to draw, once Ilya was done with it. He had thoroughly broken the ice and now all of them were eating out of his hand, Shane thought. The kids were laughing and playing as their parents mingled. The officiants had shed their formal demeanour and were chatting easily to everyone. Even shy Svenja had come out of her shell and was talking animatedly with Hanna, Dipak’s wife, and with the older woman, who Shane had deduced was her adoptive grandmother. 

Shane nursed a glass of apple juice as he took it all in. 

“More than seven years I’ve known him and I’ve never seen him just be a person,” he said, low enough that only Emily might hear. “I’ve only seen him be a hockey player or my secret husband. It’s so fucking unfair.” 

“Yes it is,” Emily agreed. 

“I think I’m gay,” Shane said, because he couldn’t not say it another minute longer. He glanced around but no one was watching them. The only eyes on him were Emily’s, accepting and non-judgemental as they had always been. “That probably sounds like a weird thing to say considering I’ve been married to a man for six years but. Ilya’s not, you know. He’s bisexual and I always just sort of assumed? That I was too. I had a girlfriend in high school and then there was Ilya and I never actually thought about me or what I wanted until Ilya’s letter came, and then—” He broke off to swallow hard and breathe in deep. “Then I had to think about it.” 

“That’s a difficult conversation to have, even when it’s only with yourself.” 

“Yeah.” Shane’s voice took on a bitter edge. “Especially since I can’t play hockey if I openly fuck men.” He took a sip of juice as one of the officiants broke into bright laughter at something Ilya had said. “Being gay means I will always have to hide and I will always have to lie, which we all know I’m shit at. It’s a dangerous way to live and it fucking scares me. But that’s my problem that I have to deal with. Ilya doesn’t have to deal with it. He has a choice. That’s what this has always been about, making sure that he has the freedom to choose his life. It’s just like you said earlier. Ilya has the right to fucking choose.” 

How could it be possible, Emily wondered, for two people to be each other’s entire world yet both wholly unable to see it? Men, was the only explanation she could produce. She did her best, always, to give them grace and the benefit of the doubt but there were times when she felt almost desperately grateful to be a lesbian. 

“Thank you for telling me this,” she said. “I know it’s not easy to talk about.” 

“There’s an understatement,” Shane observed drily. 

Emily considered the things she wished she could say to him. That Ilya had chosen, long ago, and he had chosen Shane. That he would choose Shane again and again. Every time. But all she said was, “You should tell Ilya too.” Of all the words that she could say, those were the most important. 

Shane shook his head. “I can’t. I can’t lay that on him.” 

Emily suppressed a sigh. “It’s not controlling or manipulative to tell people how you feel, Shane. You have a right to your feelings and the right to take up space with them. The person you belong with will have enough room for everything you feel.” 

“I’ll remember that,” said Shane gruffly. “If I ever meet him.” 

Emily was excellent with the law. Facts and dates and data, arguments and stratagems came as second nature to her. Understanding of softer, more delicate emotions, as Manon had told her on more than one occasion, was not her forte. She and Shane were frustratingly similar in that regard. 

She was definitely going home tonight with flowers for her wife. 

“Giving Ilya a choice means letting him see all the options available, you know,” she said, and watched Shane’s expression flicker as he absorbed the implications of this. “Ask him what he wants, Shane. Tell him what you want.” 

Shane blinked, then swallowed, then shook his head. “What I want is hockey, and Ilya’s freedom,” he said. “We’ve got one, now I can focus on the other. That’s all I want. There can’t be anything else.” 

Emily let the sigh go this time. 

August 2016

They didn’t talk about it. They spent the entire summer Not Talking About It. It was there in every conversation they had and everything they did but they firmly and resolutely Did Not Talk About It. 

Ilya’s expedited Canadian passport arrived in the mail. They celebrated with vodka and sex in the hot tub but they Did Not Talk About It. The next day, Ilya began the process of renouncing his Russian citizenship, with the help of a lawyer Emily referred him to. It was a complicated process that could take a long time but in Ilya’s case it did not. Due, the lawyer informed him as diplomatically as possible, to wheels greased by his father and brother, to hurry things along. 

This knowledge sat painfully in Ilya’s chest alongside his tight ball of anger, and when Alexei’s name appeared on his phone screen he answered the call. 

“You are a traitor,” Alexei hissed, the first words he had spoken to Ilya in over two years. “Unworthy to call yourself Russian.” 

“I’m not Russian,” Ilya snapped back. “Not anymore.” 

This was a lie, he knew. Citizenship, renunciation, it was all legal bullshit. The essence of him would always be Russian. This, perhaps, made him the angriest of all. 

“You think you are too good for us,” Alexei spat, “with your money and your fancy life in America.” 

“Money I still send to you, made possible by that life.” 

“Pah. You are not here, you don’t know. Papa is—” He broke off and Ilya’s blood ran cold. 

“Papa is what?” 

“Nothing. It is none of your business. Not anymore.” 

Ilya knew what his father was, though. It was plain in his voice, when he phoned in his turn. It was plain the small, lost sound of it when Grigori had never been anything but strength and power. It was in the words he spoke. “Bring bread when you come home,” he told Ilya. “Your mama forgot to buy any.” 

“I will, Papa,” Ilya said, and then he hung up the phone, knowing they were the last words he would speak to his father. 

Here they were then, he thought, the painful consequences he’d known were coming when he chose Canada over Russia. When he chose himself over his family. It had been the right decision, he knew, the only decision he could have made but the sadness and the guilt and the vicious, burning anger tore him apart all the same. 

Ilya hung up the phone, went over to where Shane was reading on the sofa, dove into his husband’s chest and sobbed. 

“What the—Ilya?” Shane said, startled and alarmed. “What happened? Ilyusha? Baby, what is it?” 

(He didn’t hear the baby come out of his mouth, didn’t connect it to Ilya curling in closer or crying harder. He knew only that everything in him ached to give comfort and he didn’t know how. 

So he fell back on what Ilya did to comfort him. Holding him tightly, fingers gentle in his hair, stroking along his scalp. Just holding, letting Ilya feel his feelings.)

Eventually, his tears dried up and Shane ventured, “Do you want to talk?” 

“Not really.” 

“I kind of think you should.” 

Ilya felt too exhausted, too drained for this.“I am not Russian anymore,” he said. “Legally. It’s all done now.”  

“Oh. Really? That was… fast?” 

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “Very fast. My father and brother, they pushed it along. ’Greased the wheels’ in the lawyer’s words. This is a disgusting idiom, I hate it.” 

“Shit.” There was more venom in that single word than Ilya had heard in Shane’s voice, ever. Including on the ice. “Fuck. That is so fucking shitty. I mean—I know this is what we wanted but fuck them, for real. They don’t deserve you. That entire fucking country doesn’t deserve you.” He held Ilya’s face gently as he pulled back so they could look at each other. “What can I do?” he asked. 

“Nothing. This, now, is enough.” 

“Really?” 

“No,” Ilya admitted, too worn out to lie. “Nothing is enough. But there is nothing more that you can do.” 

“Fuck. Come here.” Shane pulled him in again, hugged him as tightly as he could. “I’m sorry your family sucks,” he said softly. “No one’s should but especially not yours. I wish I could—I don’t know. Make it different for you.” 

“My mother didn’t suck,” Ilya said, another frank admission he could no longer hold back. He felt Shane tense beneath him. “She was great.” 

Shane’s response was painstakingly careful. “What happened to her?” he asked. 

“An accident,” said Ilya, with a bitterness in his voice he could not conceal. “She accidentally swallowed an entire bottle of pills.” 

(Holy shit, Shane thought.) 

“I don’t want you to think she was weak,” Ilya said. 

“I don’t.” (This thought had never crossed Shane’s mind.) 

“She wasn’t,” Ilya continued, firmly. “She was so funny and beautiful.” 

(Like you.)

“And my dad was so hard on her.” 

(Like he is on you.) 

“How old were you?” Shane asked, still so carefully. 

“Twelve. I found her.” 

“Fuck.” (Shane had never hated anyone, hadn’t known he was capable of hating anyone as much as he hated Ilya’s father in that moment. If Grigori Rozanov were standing in front of him right now, Shane honestly didn’t know what he might do.) “Ilyusha…” he began. But he didn’t know what to say. 

“She was the only person who ever called me that.” 

(Shane still remembered what he’d said once, years ago now. Diminutives were common in Russian but not in his family. Only his mother had ever called him by a name that should be in the mouth of every fucking person who cared about him. The fact that for so much of his life it had been in no one’s made Shane furious.) 

He kept his voice carefully neutral when he asked, “Do you want to tell me about her?” 

Ilya hesitated, then nodded. He began to speak, slowly and carefully at first, then more freely as he forgot to worry about what he was saying and just let himself be swept away by his memories. He talked for over an hour as Shane listened and held him and stroked his hair, talked until he was empty of everything, until his chest felt light and his voice hoarse. 

“The worst thing about leaving Russia is that I can never go to see her again,” he concluded. “She told me when I went the last time that she would always be with me but the only place I can really feel her is here.” 

“Here?” 

“The cottage. Maybe because is quiet, I don’t know. But I can hear her here, like I can by her grave.” He paused, then said, because he’d said every other fucking painful thing today, what was one more gash across his heart, “I suppose we will have to sell it, when we—” But some words even he couldn’t speak. “When we are done.” 

(Shane felt like he’d been punched in the throat. A whole summer of Not Saying It, and then—) “I guess,” he said, his voice as rough as Ilya’s. “We can work something out, I don’t know. There’s no rush, though. Right? Like, it would look suspicious if we, er. Immediately after your citizenship I mean. They probably don’t care anymore but—” 

“No, you are right.” Ilya allowed the lie to placate him. “Should be cautious for a bit. Doesn’t hurt.” 

Shane’s breathing was steady and measured beneath Ilya’s ear, though his heart was pounding. “Yeah,” he said. “Doesn’t hurt.” 

Ilya shifted until he could get his arms around Shane and held him just as tightly as Shane was holding him. They clung to each other in silence for a long time, both thinking thoughts they couldn’t say. Didn’t know how to say. 

(They should talk about it, was what Shane thought. Like Emily had advised him to do. They should make plans, move things forward. Nothing would be gained by delaying the inevitable. But he couldn’t. Every time he thought about actually voicing what needed to be said his throat closed up and his chest tightened and he had to fight for air. He very literally couldn’t do it.)

Ilya couldn’t either. The anger in his chest was gone, soothed away by finally releasing the memories of his mother, but the sadness remained. The sadness was worse now, because he had nothing else there to distract him from it. Once Shane was gone from his life, Ilya did not know what that sadness might become. 

Better then, on the whole, Not To Talk About It. 

November 2016

“Hollander!!” crowed JJ, the minute Shane answered the phone. “What the fuck are you doing right now?” 

Shit. JJ was in recruiting mode. Shane scrambled to come up with an excuse. “I was about to—” 

“Bullshit!” interrupted JJ, who knew him far too well. “Get your ass to the Mile End, baby. My buddy François, the chef, you remember him?” 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“He’s having an after hours thing at his restaurant and get this—” 

“JJ—” 

“The cast of the X-Squad movie they’re filming in town is here.” 

Shane’s protests died on his tongue. “All of them?” 

“I don’t fucking know, get down here! You remember the restaurant, right, Le Tambour?” 

“I don’t know—” Shane made one last-ditch attempt to protest, but JJ was having none of it. 

“I know,” he said. “You’re coming down here, right fucking now, and put on some decent clothes before you do.” 

Before Shane had a chance to protest further or ask what the fuck decent clothes was meant to mean, JJ had hung up. 

He surrendered to the inevitable, and went to dig in his closet. 

 The restaurant was loud and it was crowded and the bartender gave Shane a weird smile but wouldn’t give him ginger ale. “Shane Hollander can have anything he wants,” so he said, but that was clearly a lie since it was a beer Shane found in his hand and not the soft drink he’d asked for. 

Fuck it, though, he thought as he drank the beer and then another. For months now he’d been feeling like his life was teetering on the knife’s edge of complete destruction, maybe it’d do him good to let loose a bit. 

Which he tried to do, he really did. But the noise and the people and the heat and the alcohol quickly became too much for him, and so with a muttered excuse to JJ, Shane retreated into a corner where it was dark and cooler, collapsed into a booth he thought was empty. 

“Are you here to help me finish these fries?” 

Startled, Shane looked up to see the booth he’d chosen was not in fact empty. It was very much occupied, by a woman whose face he’d seen only on screens. 

“The chef gave them to me,” said Rose Landry with a smile, “and they are really good. But I am not going to fit in my costume if I eat them all. I’m Rose, by the way.” She held out her hand. 

Shane took it. “I’m Shane, I’m, wow. I’m a big fan.” 

Rose’s smile shifted into one that told him he was far from the first to react this way. But before that could embarrass him, it shifted again. “Would you be surprised to know that I’m a fan of yours?” she asked. 

Shane felt his cheeks go hot. “Really?” 

“Mmhmm. I’m a Michigan girl with three brothers.” Her eyebrow quirked at him, in challenge. “Have a fry, Shane Hollander. Detroit’s not going to go easy on you tomorrow night.” 

Fuck, Shane thought, then fuck it. Why the fuck not. He took a fry and slowly ate it as Rose launched into animated conversation.

It was, as it turned out, incredibly easy to talk to her. Easier than any other girl or woman in Shane’s experience, including the one he’d dated. He supposed it helped that she knew hockey, had three brothers who were or had been players and remained big fans. It helped also that Shane spent a lot of time on planes and watched a lot of movies, including the very bad ones where pretty redheads got kidnapped for murky Plot Reasons. 

Rose was so easy, so comfortable, that Shane came as close as he could to forgetting all about the painful mess that was currently his life and just let himself be. Let himself talk freely as he’d done with no one else but Ilya, to be open, to smile warmly. To let her see him. 

It felt good. So good. Like relief. 

Until Rose reached across the table and laid her hand on his. 

Shane snatched his away like her touch had burned him. “I’m married,” he blurted without thinking, then his eyes went wide. 

“Oh!” Rose’s eyes were as wide as his, surprised and a bit confused. 

“Oh my God,” Shane said. “Oh shit. Forget I said that. I’m—ohhhh fuck.” He dropped his head down to the table and banged it lightly there. 

“Do you really want me to forget you said it?” Rose asked. 

“Yes. Please. You have to. No one can know. No fans. No teammates. Not even friends. Nobody.” 

“Shane, I understand fame and I understand hockey and I’m pretty sure you’d still be okay with both if people knew you had a wife.” 

Shane raised his head and the look on his face spoke louder than any words could. 

“You… have a husband,” Rose concluded. Slowly, Shane nodded. 

“Please, please don’t say anything,” he said. “I know we’ve only just met but you seem really cool. Please be cool about this.” 

“I’ll certainly be a lot cooler than you are about it.” 

“Oh God,” Shane groaned again. “I know. I’m sorry. I just—I didn’t expect you to—ughhh.” 

Gentle laughter tinged Rose’s voice as she replied, “I wish that were the worst reaction I’ve ever had to—wait.” She paused to stare at him. “Fucking wait. Is this the first time—are you seriously sitting there and telling me that you’ve been the biggest star in the MLH for years and you look like that and no one has come on to you? Not even a little bit?” 

“I don’t go out much.” 

“Well, you have a husband at home. Apparently.” 

“Yeah, but he’s—” Shane attempted. “I mean we’re—” 

“Jesus, Shane.” Rose looked almost alarmed. “What is it?” 

Shane looked at her, her lovely face and the genuine concern in her eyes and thought about how nice she was and how easily he was able to talk to her. “Can I be honest with you?” he asked. “I shouldn’t, obviously, I don’t know you but sometimes I feel like… like if I can’t tell someone the whole truth about this it might get so big it cracks me open from inside. Does that sound crazy?” 

“I—haven’t decided yet,” said Rose wryly. “Tell me more and then I’ll let you know.” 

“And you promise this won’t go any further than this table?” 

“I promise.” She held up her hand. “On the box office receipts of my next movie.” 

“Good enough.” Shane glanced around but the few other patrons near them were all chatting quietly to themselves. “Okay,” he said. “Fuck. Okay. So, um. I’m guessing you’ve heard of Ilya Rozanov?” 

Forty-five minutes later, Rose wasn’t sure if she’d just listened to the most romantic story ever or the most insane one. Possibly both. 

“So now we have to get divorced,” Shane concluded, in a tone of the most abject misery she’d ever heard. “And I know it should probably be me who files but I just can’t do it. Every time I think about it I get so stressed I can’t breathe. So I’m waiting for him to do it and that also sucks because it’s like, every time we talk, and we talk every fucking day, the whole time I’m just waiting for him to bring it up. And every time he doesn’t I feel relieved but then I feel anxious again because that just means that maybe tomorrow he’ll say it.” Shane dashed tears from his eyes with his thumb in a move so practiced Rose felt sure he’d done it many, many times before. “I wish he’d just fucking do it and get it over with so we can—so I can try to move on.” 

Rose sat silently for a moment, absorbing everything he’d said, then, “Why do you have to get divorced?” she asked. 

Shane frowned. He looked confused, like he didn’t understand the question. “That was what we agreed. Marriage was just for his citizenship. He’s got that now so there’s no reason to stay married.” 

Rose almost laughed in his face. “No reason except that you two are like, insanely in love.” 

“What? No, I—I’m not, I—I mean. He’s definitely not.” 

She blinked at him, disbelieving. “Are you kidding?” 

“No?” 

“Shane.” 

“What?” He was genuinely, truly baffled, she realised. “I like him, obviously. I like fucking him—” 

“Wow.” 

“Sorry! Jesus. Sorry,” he said as his cheeks flushed pink. “But I don’t—I can’t. That’s not what we agreed.” 

“Oh, my God.” Rose threw up her hands then let them fall dramatically to the table. She was only exaggerating a little bit. “Shane. Tell me you haven’t been so fixated on this agreement for years that you didn’t notice you fell in love.” 

Shane opened his mouth but no words came and he raised his hand to cover it. His body froze and his gaze seemed to turn inwards. Rose wasn’t sure he even saw her anymore. 

“Tell me,” she said again, gently now, “when you’re with him, do you feel happy?” 

Slowly, Shane nodded. 

“Do you feel comfortable?” Another nod. “Is he the best part of your day?” Another nod. “Do you feel like the best version of yourself when you’re with him?” 

“Yeah,” Shane said quietly. “I do.” 

“And do you think it’s the same for him?” 

“I know it is. He’s—he’s basically said so.” 

Jesus, Rose thought, that poor guy. Not a thing she ever imagined thinking about Ilya Rozanov but there they were, she guessed. She wondered how long he’d been trying to show—to fucking tell Shane in all but actual words that he loved him, without success.

“How does it make you feel, to think about divorcing him?” 

She watched as comprehension dawned in Shane’s eyes. “It feels like I’m being asked to cut something out of me.” He laid a hand on his chest. “Right out of here.” 

“You are. Sweetie. That’s love.” 

Rose reached out to take his hand again, and this time he let her. “Shane,” she said, still gently but with an implacable firmness in her voice. “You are in love with your husband. And he loves you too. That is why neither of you will start divorce proceedings. You don’t want to. And you don’t have to.”

“We don’t have to get divorced,” Shane repeated, like the words were a brand new language he’d never encountered before. “We can… stay married? Just… forever?” 

“God, you are so adorable,” Rose said, as she gave his hand a squeeze. “Really, just the cutest thing. Also I kind of want to hit you over the head with something.” 

Shane laughed, a small burst of it that he released in surprise. Rose was glad to see any kind of laughter from him. “You know what, that’s fair. Oh, wow. Fuck. I need to think about this for a bit.” He grinned at Rose, who smiled back. “Do you really think he wants to stay together?” 

“I think that’s something you need to ask him. But from what you’ve said, yeah, I do. A guy like Ilya Rozanov doesn’t dick around, right? If he wanted to divorce you, he would.”

Shane laughed again, this time with a slightly manic edge. “This is a lot,” he said. “I need some time to sort through it all, I think.” 

“Of course.” 

“But while you’re here, since you already know all my secrets…” 

Rose raised an eyebrow. “All of them?” 

“All the important ones.” 

“Well, that’s okay, then.” 

He smiled at her. “Can I tell you about Ilya some more? Sorry, I know I’ve been talking a lot but I never get the chance to talk about him.” 

“Of course,” said Rose, as her heart melted. “Tell me everything you love about your husband.” 

Shane’s face lit with warmth and softness. He began to talk. 

Their fingers linked together as they gave each other’s hands a final squeeze. 

Outside the window that framed them, lights flashed. 

Neither of them noticed. 

Chapter End Notes

sorry for leaving you hanging from this cliff's edge by your fingertips (lying) but can we pour one out for shane in this chapter?
rose: um, you’re obviously in love, maybe just stay married?
shane, having a category 5 autism event: that would be in violation of the Agreement

i love him your honour

ilya's russian (translated via DeepL, the best i can do)
I love you
I love you so much
I can’t tell you how much.
I can’t tell you anything.
But I feel it, and it’s killing me.
It’s always you.
For years it's been only you.
Soon I’ll lose you.
You’ll break my heart.
I don’t care.
It’s worth it.
Being with you right now means more to me than anything else in the world.
I hate this.
I wish it never had to end.

Chapter 14

Chapter Notes

The story broke the next day. 

“Roz, come here, you’ve got to see this,” Marleau called out, beckoning Ilya over to where he and Connors were sat on the stationary bikes in the visitors’ workout room in Toronto, poring over his phone. Ilya thought nothing of it; Marly was always wanting to show him some dumb thing or other he’d found on the internet. He went over. 

“What is it?” he asked as he took the phone from Connors. He glanced at the screen and his world. Shattered. 

“Fucking Hollander was out with Rose Landry last night. Can you believe that?” Marleau’s words echoed through the hollow cavern Ilya’s body had become. He barely heard them. He didn’t have to. The images on the screen told him everything he needed to know. 

I am in love with him, Ilya had thought at himself, over and over ever since he had accepted how deeply true it was. I am in love with him but he is not in love with me. I am in love with him and he is going to break my heart. 

It was meant to be an inoculation against the inevitable future, something to toughen him up and prepare him for what he could not prevent. But in that moment as he stared at a grainy photo of his husband in the cosy corner booth of a Montreal restaurant with a woman almost as beautiful as he was, with a fucking movie star—holding her hand, smiling a smile that Ilya recognised, one he’d let himself believe was reserved only for him—he realised that his efforts had all been for nothing. 

As if anything in the world could have prepared him for this. 

That was it, then. Their marriage was over. Shane had met someone who he could be with for real, the perfect fucking woman. It was time. 

Ilya loved him too much to do anything but let him go. 

Six and a half years he’d had of Shane’s life, and he would be grateful for them, Ilya told himself. That was far more of it than Shane had needed to give him. It wasn’t his fault that Ilya was a greedy, selfish being who wanted all of it and all of him. He would take his memories of those years and he would tuck them safely away in some private, precious place within him and look at them only rarely. Only when he needed them the most. 

Meanwhile, he would move the fuck on. When the divorce papers came, he would sign them without objection. He’d sell his half of the cottage to Shane and build one of his own, somewhere else in Canada. He’d fuck other people, many people, all the people. All the ones he’d turned away over the years he would welcome now. He’d make such a reputation for himself that Shane would know for certain he was fine with this. That Ilya was happy for him. And he was, honestly. Deep, deep down in some place he couldn’t quite reach just yet, Ilya was happy that Shane would be happy. 

He was, because he had to be. This had always been the plan. 

He went through the rest of his day on autopilot. He handed the phone back to Connors, said all the right things to him and to Marleau, finished his workout. He went back to the hotel, slept. Returned to the rink, suited up, gave a speech. Everything he always did, no hesitation no deviation. He felt all the while like he was moving through fog, through quicksand. Everything hazy and slow and harder than it should be. But he did what was required of him because he was Ilya fucking Rozanov and there was no other choice. 

Then he stepped onto the ice and all the haze and the torpor vanished as though they had never been and the world resolved itself with a single, jarring shudder into crystalline clarity. A clarity so sharp it sliced through Ilya like a blade. 

He would still see Shane. Every fucking time they played the Metros. He’d see him on the ice, in face-offs, scoring his breathtaking, beautiful goals. He’d see him at press conferences. At All-Star games. Be asked about him in interviews. Shane would still be everywhere, all the time and Ilya would have to be normal about that. Would have to pretend that Shane was not the absolute love of his life. That he hadn’t been so deep in that man’s body it felt like nothing could separate them. 

And yet, something had. 

It was one thing to keep a secret that was shared, a link that tethered him to Shane even when they were apart. But now, Ilya would have to carry his secrets alone. The burden of that weighed on him, pressed on his chest, cracked his ribs. Broke his heart. 

Ilya could feel it breaking. 

He braced himself against the boards and forced himself to breathe. He forced himself to stand upright and skate out to centre ice. He forced himself to do the only thing he could possibly do just then—play fucking hockey. Because he was Ilya Rozanov and that was what he did. 

The game was messy, dirty. The filthiest game of his career because Ilya had no control over himself or his actions. He checked people with the intent to hurt them, chirped them viciously because he wanted them to hurt him. But he was Ilya Rozanov and his reputation preceded him. There were no takers. 

There was a Dallas Kent

Dallas Kent had three inches and a good ten kilos of muscle on Ilya and he was a piece of shit. There was a viciousness to him, a rottenness at his core that Ilya had clocked at first glance and tonight at least he was grateful for it. Tonight he wanted to be hit with blunt brutality by someone who could put some fucking force behind it. 

If his body broke, then maybe his heart wouldn’t feel so alone. 

“How’s your mama, Kent?” Ilya taunted, because the worst ones were the easiest. He didn’t even have to get creative. “Can she walk after how hard I fucked her last night? If so I will have to go back tonight, finish the job.” 

Kent’s scowl was pretty much the same one his ugly face always wore, but for the twitch of his jaw that told Ilya he’d hit the bullseye in one. 

“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Kent snarled.  

“Fuck me, Rozanov, yes,” Ilya agreed, as he skated a circle around the other man. “That is what your mama said. Like mother like son, hmm? You want me to fuck you too?” He stopped right in front of Kent and made an filthy, obscenely leering kissy face. “You would love it.” 

Kent didn’t drop his gloves. He didn’t bother. He swung forward on the edge of his blade and grabbed Ilya by the arm with a wrenching grip then in the same powerful motion flung him, with all the force of his enormous body and his mean and tiny soul, hard into the boards. Ilya felt something tear in his shoulder, felt his head hit the plexiglass at a terrible angle, and then the world went. Black. 

 Something was up with Shane. 

Hayden would be the first to admit that he wasn’t the most observant man alive but when a guy’s best friend showed up for practice walking like his feet no longer touched the ground, face all dreamy and eyes unfocused, smiling randomly at nothing and obviously just going through the motions of preparing for the game, well. It didn’t take a genius to work out that something was most definitely Up. Hayden would attribute it to the fact that Shane had apparently spent last night having dinner with Rose fucking Landry—he could tell from the muttering and the elbowing-each-other and the passing around of phones with the paparazzi shots open on them that the rest of the team believed exactly that—except that Hayden was privy to certain crucial facts about Shane that none of the rest of them knew. Namely, that he was in a relationship with a man and had been for years and there was no way—this Hayden felt in his bones—that Shane would ever drop Boston Lily, whoever he was. Not even for a movie star. 

There had to be some other explanation. 

When they came off the ice and back into the locker room, Hayden watched Shane, with the air of a child who couldn’t wait a minute longer to unwrap a Christmas present, pull a small book out of his jacket pocket and sit down on the bench with it. It was—Hayden craned his neck to see—a mini Russian-English dictionary. Shane spent several minutes intently flipping through it and when he set it aside his face wore an expression Hayden had never seen on it before. An expression of—oh! Hayden thought, as Shane tucked the dictionary in his pocket again. Oh. Oh fuck. 

Shane was in love love. His Russian dictionary had somehow confirmed that for him. And Rose Landry wasn’t Russian. 

But Boston Lily… possibly… was?

Shane played distracted that night. He wasn’t bad—it was basically impossible for Shane to play badly—but he wasn’t on his game. The Metros still won, which Hayden knew meant that none of them would call Shane out on the obvious absence of his usual focus. No one in the locker room postgame seemed inclined to talk to Shane at all, beyond the standard “Good game, Cap,” and promises to see him later. Hayden wasn’t sure whether this was a good thing or not. He wasn’t sure what he himself should say, if anything at all. 

Not your business, Jackie would surely advise him. Let Shane come to you. 

But what, Hayden would absolutely say to his wife if she were standing in front of him now, if Shane doesn’t ever come to me? What then? 

He was still fighting a silent battle with the Jackie in his head when Shane’s phone rang. He picked it up with an eager expression that faded into a frown when he saw the number. “Hello?” he said. “Yes, speaking.” 

Then the colour drained entirely from his face. 

“Yes,” he said again, this time in a voice that didn’t sound like his at all. He turned to see Hayden watching him, put a hand over his mouth and leaned in so that Hayden’s body blocked him from the view of the few of their teammates who remained. Hayden shifted subtly to provide better cover. Then Shane uttered a phrase that hit him like a blow. 

“I’m his husband.” 

What?! Hayden’s mind screamed. 

Because it was one thing for Shane to have a boyfriend he kept secret but an entire fucking marriage? The implications of that were—well. They were. Hayden could feel the force of his blood as it pumped through his temples. He gave his thigh a hard pinch to ground himself.  

“What’s happened to him?” Shane asked, still in that unfamiliar voice, then, “Okay. Yes, I understand. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Not for a few hours, I’m in Montreal. Yes, I will. Thank you.” 

He hung up the phone, glanced at Hayden. Then, stiffly, like he was inhabiting a body that wasn’t fully his own, he stood and walked out of the room. 

Hayden hesitated, torn between Jackie’s diktat of non-interference and the very reasonable concern he felt, given the fucking circumstances. Something bad had happened to Lily, that much was obvious. And Shane had let Hayden hear his side of that conversation. He’d leaned in, used Hayden for protection. Surely that was an indication that Shane would trust him with more? 

“Oh my God!” JJ’s voice rang through the room. Hayden nearly leapt from his skin at the sound. “Fuckkk. Have you guys seen what happened to Rozanov?” 

“That motherfucker,” Drapeau’s voice now. “Someone finally kill him?” 

“Almost. Look.” JJ held out his phone and everyone left in the locker room save for Hayden gathered round to see whatever was on it. They stood suspended in anticipation for a moment as they watched, then exploded in a collective WHOA followed by a tangle of exclamations.  

“Fuck!” 

“Goddamn! That’s what I call a hit.” 

“More of a throw.” 

“One of Kent’s finest.” 

“What did Rozanov say to him?” 

“Hard to lip read from this angle. Something about his mother?” 

“Asking for it, then. Asshole got what was coming.” 

“He’s in the hospital, apparently,” said JJ. “He got knocked out. No word on his condition.” 

“Good,” said Drapeau. “Maybe this will be the last we see of him.” 

The team dispersed then leaving Hayden alone, head spinning with the same words on repeat, over and over and over.  

Rozanov. Russian. Boston. Hurt. Hospital. Boston. Russian. Rozanov. 

Fuck. 

Hayden leapt to his feet and raced from the room in search of Shane. 

He found him on the floor in a dark corner outside the equipment room with his head in one hand while the other scrolled his phone, or tried to. That hand was shaking. Not just trembling but shaking, so hard he could barely keep his grip. 

Hayden sat beside him. “I heard about Rozanov,” he said. 

Shane lifted his head to look at him. His face was stark, his eyes wide and terrified. “He’s hurt, Hayden,” he said, in that terrible voice. “Badly. He’s in the hospital and they don’t know if he’ll be okay. He’s in pain and he’s alone and—fuck. Fuck. I need to see him. I have to go there now, right now but there are no flights. I’ll have to drive. If I leave now, I can—” 

“Wait.” Hayden caught Shane’s arm as he tried to stand. “Just—fucking wait. So we’re clear. You’re talking about Rozanov.” 

“Yes.” 

“Ilya fucking Rozanov. He’s your Boston Lily.” 

“Yes,” said Shane again. He was, Hayden realised, too caught up in his fear to even think about lying. 

“And Lily is your—” 

“My husband. We’ve been married six years. More than.” 

“Okay.” Hayden gave himself one single beat, one blink of an eye to process this, then he stood and held out his hand to Shane. “Okay. Fuck. Okay. I’m driving.”

“What?” 

“You’re too upset to drive. I’ll fucking drive. To the fucking hospital in Toronto so you can see your husband. Who is Ilya fucking Rozanov. Fuck.” Shane took his hand and allowed Hayden to pull him to his feet. Hayden squeezed his hand, though he could barely stand to look at him. “Go grab whatever you need and let’s get a fucking move on.” 

Shane went. 

“Hayd,” he said a few minutes later as they got into the car. “You’re a really good friend.” 

“You’re damn right I am.” Hayden yanked the gearshift so hard he nearly lost the whole transmission then peeled the car out of the lot and into the street. They were out of Montreal before he spoke again. 

“Jackie and I’ve been married for six years,” he said. 

“Yeah,” Shane replied, “I know.” 

“Fuck you,” said Hayden softly. “Fuck you, Shane.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Save it.” They drove in silence for another few miles then Hayden said, “We’ll talk after.” 

“Okay,” said Shane. 

It was four in the morning when they got to the hospital. Shane had spent the first two of their five-hour drive on his phone, watching the video of Rozanov’s hit again and again until Hayden snapped. 

“Stop fucking watching it,” he said. “You’ll drive yourself crazy. Watch some puppy videos or something. There is nothing you can fucking do until we get there.” 

“I know,” Shane said, though his eyes never left the screen. “I just don’t understand why he—why would he bait Dallas Kent of all fucking people? What was he trying to do?” 

Hayden had no answer for this. 

At the hospital, Shane gave his name and Rozanov’s and was immediately directed to his room and informed his doctor would be there shortly. Because he was Rozanov’s emergency contact. Of course he was. They were married. It was why the hospital had called him in the first place. 

Something about seeing that exist in real, practical terms though, hit Hayden hard. This was Shane’s life. A whole, huge part of it he had never shared with Hayden. With anyone, probably. Hayden wondered if his parents even knew. 

The waiting room was sparsely populated at that hour but a few people were there. Some eyes widened when Shane Hollander arrived, some eyebrows rose when he asked about Ilya Rozanov. Hayden made eye contact with every last one of them, and when Shane left to go to Rozanov’s room he hung back. 

“If anyone breathes a single fucking word of this anywhere, you will answer to me,” he said, loudly enough for them all to hear. 

“And who the fuck are you?” one of them demanded. 

“I’m Shane’s best friend and someone with enough pull to make your lives miserable,” Hayden said. This was maybe true. If necessary, Hayden would make it true. He lifted his phone and before they could react, snapped a picture. “And now I’ve got your faces. Keep Shane’s name out of your mouths and off your social media, if you know what’s good for you.” 

He turned and retreated through the door Shane had taken, hustling to catch up. He arrived outside Rozanov’s room just in time to hear a startled voice form inside say, “Hollander?” then Shane’s reply of, “Fuck off, Marleau,” and he concluded that remaining outside was probably the wisest course of action. 

A second later the door opened again and Cliff Marleau appeared, looking confused. Not exactly an unusual expression for him, but… Hayden sighed. He really didn’t enjoy threatening all these people. He grabbed Marleau by the arm and steered him over to one of the chairs along the wall. 

“Don’t you say a fucking thing about this, Marleau,” he hissed, as he shoved the other man down onto the seat. “I will fucking end you.” 

“Calm down Pike.” Marleau yanked his arm free. “I know they’re friends.”

“They’re not friends. They’re fucking married.” 

Marleau gaped at him. “They’re what?” 

“Married. For fucking years now, I guess.” Belatedly, it occurred to Hayden that maybe? he could have gotten away with keeping his mouth shut about that particular detail, as Marleau already knew that Shane and Rozanov were closer than they let on. Would that be enough to explain why Hayden and Shane had driven five hours through the night, though, to be at Rozanov's bedside?

He watched as Marleau’s face went on a journey, through several stages of confusion and bafflement until at last comprehension broke like the dawn over a dark horizon. That would be a no, then. Marleau may be a bit slow to catch on sometimes but he wasn’t stupid. 

“Jane, Shane,” he muttered now, and then he laughed. “Damn, I even thought that was funny once. Jane is Shane Hollander. Well, fuck me sideways. Ho-ly shit.” 

“Who the fuck is Jane?” Hayden snapped. 

“Roz’s wife. Or husband, I guess. He never said it was a wife, just that he was married to someone called Jane. Shane. Fuck.” He shook his head fondly. “That fucking asshole. Absolute legend. He never lied once. I’m gonna kill him.” 

“No, what you’re going to do is protect this fucking secret with your life or I swear to you I will end it.” 

Marleau cast him a scornful look. “I’m not going to out them, Pike, fuck. I’m not an asshole. Well, maybe a little. But not like that.” 

Hayden felt something in him relax. “All right, then,” he said. “So long as we’re clear.” He stood awkwardly for a beat, then sat in the chair next to Marleau’s. “How is he?” he asked. 

All the humour drained from Marleau’s face and his shoulders slumped. “Bad,” he said. “Really bad. Concussion, whiplash, dislocated shoulder. Half his face is one big bruise from where Kent fucking punched him. When he was already down.” Anger made Marleau’s voice thick and tight. “He was unconscious and that piece of shit beat on him.” 

“Rozanov baited him, though. I saw the video. He said something to make Kent attack him like that. What was it?” 

“I don’t know. I was too far away to hear.” Marleau’s brow furrowed as he thought. “He’d been weird all day, ever since—” His eyes widened. “Fuck.” 

“What?” 

“Ever since I showed him those pictures of Hollander and Rose Landry.” Marleau’s face was stark with horror, his eyes huge. “Fuck. Fuck. I didn’t know. I thought they were friends. I thought he’d be happy for his buddy. Jesus, what the fuck have I done?” 

He dropped his head into his hands and groaned. Hayden, at an absolute loss for what to do, reached up slowly and gave his shoulder an awkward pat. 

“You couldn’t have known,” he said. “I don’t think anyone did. Shane never told me either, not until last night.” 

He stopped patting but kept his hand on Marleau’s shoulder. That tiny point of connection felt weirdly comforting, grounding in this insane new world they both inhabited. 

After a while, Marleau lifted his head, though he kept his elbows resting on his knees. “I can’t believe they kept this hidden for so long,” he said. It’s been years. Roz has been with Jane—uh, Shane since, fuck. As long as I’ve known him.” 

“More than six years, Shane said.” 

“Their whole careers.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Fuck.” 

And if that didn’t just say it all, Hayden thought. 

Ilya was floating. Whatever drugs the IV was pumping into his system, they had released him from the prison of his body and now he was floating above it like a cloud, like a bird, like a butterfly, light and free. Ilya liked it up here. He would stay here forever, he decided, and that way everything would always be okay. 

The door opened. Shane came in. Ilya felt a burst of pure joy. 

Then he remembered. 

He crashed back into his body, still unable to feel the pain in it but no longer floating. Anchored there by the pain in his heart, which no drug could treat. 

He watched as Shane told Marleau to fuck off, as he approached the bed with a look on his face Ilya couldn’t identify. He tried to frown but his face wasn’t working so he frowned on the inside instead. Whatever this was, he didn’t like it. He knew all of Shane’s looks. How was this one new?

“Ilyusha,” Shane whispered, and Ilya’s poor, broken heart cried out for him. “What the fuck did you do?” 

“Why are you here?” Ilya said. His voice sounded wrong. 

Shane must think it sounded wrong too, because he frowned. “What do you mean? The hospital called me. I got here as soon as I could.” 

“That is how, not why.” 

Shane’s brow furrowed deeper. “It’s not visiting hours but I guess they let me in because I’m your emergency contact. That’s why they called me.” 

Of course, Ilya thought. Shane was here because the hospital had called him. “I will change that as soon as I can,” he said.  

“What? Why would you change it?” 

Ilya tried to shrug, but half his body couldn’t move. “So you can go.” 

“Go fucking where?” 

“Shane, please.” Ilya couldn’t take much more of this. “Don’t make me say it.” 

“Say what? Ilya, I’ve got no fucking idea what you’re talking about.” 

“I saw the pictures,” Ilya said. The words felt hewn from his chest. “You and—and her.” 

“Her who?”

“Stop pretending.” Ilya tried to yell but it came out sounding like a plea. “You were holding her fucking hand. Smiling at her like—” Like you only smile at me.  

Shane’s gaze turned inwards, as it did when he was running a new idea through his mind. “Do you mean Rose?” he demanded. "Were there pictures of us?" 

“Rose,” Ilya spat. 

“Yes, Rose,” echoed Shane. “Who I met for the first time the other night.” His frown turned disbelieving. “You didn’t really think that I—is that why you—fucking hell, Ilya, I’m married to you.” 

“Only until my citizenship, which I have now,” Ilya reminded him. “Deal is complete.” 

“But I didn’t—I’ve never—Jesus fucking Christ you thought I’d leave you for a woman?” 

“Movie star,” said Ilya stubbornly.  

“Still a woman.” Shane looked genuinely angry now. “And you know what, Ilya, I’m pretty sure I’m gay.” 

Well, that was just—“You have never said this,” Ilya rasped. What was he, a fucking mind reader? 

Shane shoved his hands into his pockets and made fleeting eye contact with the bedframe above Ilya's head. “I know, but I just never really thought about it in those terms, until... well. The point is, I know now that that’s what I am. I don’t want to be with a woman. Which I can say for an absolute fucking fact because I met the perfect one the other night and I spent the whole time with her talking about you.”  

The ragged shards of Ilya’s heart made a weak but valiant attempt to go thump. “You told her about me?” he croaked. 

“She tried to, I don’t know.” Shane shrugged uncomfortably. “Hit on me or something. I said I was married and the rest just sort of happened.”

“We are only married for the citizenship,” said Ilya again, cautiously this time. He couldn’t allow himself to hope in vain.  

“We were,” Shane agreed. “But Rose said it doesn’t have to be only that. If we don’t want it to.” 

“Oh, well if Rose said.” 

Irritation flashed across Shane’s face and oh, yes, that expression Ilya knew well. “Yeah, she did and I’m glad she did,” he said sharply. “She helped me understand some things that I’d really rather not talk about here when you’re like this. But Ilya—fuck. I was never leaving you. I’ve been waiting for you to leave me!” 

Ilya wanted to throw up his hands, roll his eyes; at the very least he’d like to sigh dramatically. He was forced to settle for saying, too openly and too raw, in that same, fucking little broken voice, “Why would I leave you when you are everything to me?” 

“Well, you’re everything to me,” Shane shot back. “Why would I leave you?” 

“I have citizenship now.” Ilya pressed on the wound one final time, just to be absolutely sure. “There is no need for us to stay married.” 

“I know.” Shane’s face crumpled and he looked away; Ilya cursed himself for pushing, always pushing and this time maybe too far. “But I can’t divorce you. I’ll sign the papers if that’s what you want but—” 

“Is not what I want,” Ilya said, so vehemently that Shane looked at him again, a spark of hope glimmering through the tears that stood in his eyes. 

His voice wavered as he said, “It’s not what I want, either.” 

They stared at each other, suspended together on the edge of a terrifying precipice. Then the door opened and the doctor appeared. 

Hayden and Marleau sat without speaking as muffled voices rose and fell from within the room. A doctor arrived, paused outside the door to read through some papers attached to a clipboard, then went in. More voices, three this time, then the doctor came out again. Quiet murmurs followed her departure, then silence. Finally, the door opened to reveal Shane. 

“He’s asleep,” Shane said. “Will you come in? You too, Marleau, I guess.” He held the door as Hayden came through it, trailed by Marleau. Rozanov was indeed asleep, mouth open, bruises standing out livid on his face. Shane sat down heavily in a chair next to the bed and took Rozanov’s limp hand.  

“I’m going to stay here with him,” he said. “When he’s discharged I’ll rent a car and drive him home to our cottage. I’ll probably miss the next couple of games. He’ll need help for a while. And there’s a lot we need to talk about.” 

Miss a couple of games, Hayden thought. Not just one which would be weird enough, but several. Our cottage, when Shane had always called it his. More evidence, as though he needed any, that this was real. It was real and had been for a long time. 

Shane looked exhausted, in mind and in body, about as far from his usual, tightly contained and controlled self as it was possible to be. It felt to Hayden like he’d only ever seen Shane through a filter before and now that filter was gone completely, leaving only the true, unguarded man beneath. 

“You probably have a lot of questions,” Shane said. “Go ahead and ask them. Whatever you want to know.”