Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Character:

Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Demon AU, Demon Shane Hollander, how is that not a tag yet??!!!, Slow Burn, we will be working for this one, mostly ilya pov, probably, author knows a lot about hockey, and also is insane, Touch-Starved, this is an understatement!, Hurt/Comfort, Angst

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-27 Completed: 2026-10-22 Words: 40,764 Chapters: 15/15

flaming rivalry (flaming, like the fires of hell)

Summary

Ilya essentially sells his soul to a demon so he can get out of Russia, away from his father, and make it to the NHL.
The demon’s name? Shane Hollander.

(think damn yankees but with hockey, with addie larue vibes, sprinkled with a bit of pushing daisies)

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

“Not good enough.” 

Ilya’s father liked to watch his practices sometimes. He couldn’t always wait for a game day to find something to criticize about the way Ilya was playing. 

“You are still skating with bad form.” 

“You are not strong enough on your stick.” 

“Why are you the only player who cannot land every hit?” 

It was always something. And the practices were already intense enough without Ilya’s father lurking on the other side of the glass. Every player knew that if they made one mistake they could get benched, and if they got benched enough times they’d get kicked off the team. 

It was why Ilya’s father had insisted he play for this hockey club, with this coach. He always maintained that no son of his had the time for coddling on the ice. If he was bad, he needed to be told. 

All of that would’ve been okay. Ilya was used to criticism, from both his coaches and his father. He’d gotten into arguments with his father before he’d even taken all his gear off as a kid, back when he hadn’t yet learned to shut his mouth. Over time, he’d learned to filter out all the yelling and focus on just getting better at hockey. 

But that wasn’t all. Ilya had recently moved up to the U18 team, making him the youngest player on the team at age 16. It was a notable move from a club that didn’t typically let their best players leave their age group, and Ilya had been immensely proud that all the hard work he’d been putting in had paid off. 

However, that wasn’t how his father saw it. Now that Ilya was on the older team, he was surrounded by players that were bigger, stronger, and faster than he was. No matter that he was younger and was still able to keep up. He had new weaknesses that exposed themselves in every game and practice, and he was getting punished for it. 

It was anger at Ilya’s poor performance in a 1v1 drill that led his father to drawing his hand back and slapping Ilya across the face as they walked to the car in the dark parking lot outside the rink, the area around them thankfully empty. 

But Ilya knew, it didn’t matter who saw him get slapped, if there was no way to hide the mark that would inevitably still be on his face tomorrow. His teammates, who already seemed to resent him, would see that he couldn’t even defend himself from his own family and point and laugh. 

They would never respect him, and he would never gel quite right with the team. And then he’d never make it anywhere close to the NHL, and he’d have to play in Russia forever, with his father always watching. 

It was a sense of dread that filled him in that moment- the knowledge that his father would hit him again, the worry that he wasn’t good enough at the sport he’d dedicated all his time to.  

The night was dark and heavy, but he could see the stars twinkling through at the late hour. His friends would be asleep by the time he got home- once again, he’d go to bed having spoken to no one but his own father and his older teammates he didn’t know that well. 

His mom had always said that if he wished on a shooting star his wish would come true. He’d found the sentiment silly and childish at the time, despite being only a child a himself. But he couldn’t help tilting his head to the sky in this moment, letting the cool air soothe his stinging cheek. As his father turned away he saw it- there. A red streak in the sky, manifesting as soon as Ilya looked hard enough. 

Please, he asked the brief light above him, make me good enough at hockey that I get out of here. He watched it disappear. I’ll do anything in return. 

Then, he got in the car with his father. 

By the time Ilya made it to his room, he was practically falling over. He’d had to endure even more lecturing, even more reminders that he would never be good enough. He was ready to collapse into his bed. 

So ready, in fact, that he completely missed the dark haired boy already sitting on it. 

“Ilya Rozanov?” 

Ilya startled so badly he almost pulled a muscle. He opened his mouth to shout something before snapping it shut again. He’d had enough of his father for one night. He’d get this guy out of here himself. 

However, the boy on his bed didn’t seem like he had any intention of leaving. He leaned back, making himself comfortable. “These pillows suck.” He was speaking English.

Ilya tried to stay calm. The boy couldn’t have been older than he was, and Ilya definitely had a few pounds on him. “Who are you?”

“Did you really mean that? When you said you’d do anything?” 

“Do not make me fucking ask you again.” Ilya’s voice was almost a growl. 

The boy barely even reacted. “Okay, okay.” He smirked at Ilya. “You can call me Puck.” 

“Please leave.” 

Puck didn’t move, and Ilya sighed. It was worth a try. He tried to stay focused. “What do you want?” 

Puck’s smile grew. “I don’t think it’s about what I want, Ilya. It’s about what you want.” 

A breeze rushed through the room, though Ilya didn’t think he’d left any windows open. Ilya shivered. “What I want?” 

“Your wish.” 

Ilya’s blood ran cold at that. He’d only made one wish. Something in him wanted to run, but he remained where he was. Who would he even run to? Who would believe him? He stared at Puck, and Puck stared back. 

“I can help you get your wish.” Puck spoke slowly as he looked Ilya up and down with an approving eye. “Being the best at hockey, going to the NHL. All of it. It’s easy stuff, for me.” 

Ilya squinted. How the hell did Puck know? “What?” 

“I heard you. When you- before.” 

“Are you an angel?” 

At that, Puck burst into laughter, clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound, though he was doing a bad job of it. 

Ilya just stood and watched him awkwardly. What the hell was supposed to say? “Um. Sorry?” 

Puck shook his head. “It’s just- the opposite, actually.” 

Ilya’s eyes widened. “You’re a devil?” 

“Well, not the devil, obviously. I mean, look at me.” 

It was true- he didn’t look all that scary. At least he’s self aware.

“I’m more of a- to put it in your terms, a minor league player.” He gestured to Ilya. “Beelzebub doesn’t really concern himself with hockey players. But he doesn’t need to- it’s the kind of thing that I handle.” 

“You… handle?” Ilya was trying really hard to concentrate on what Puck was saying, rather than the fact that he was referring to Beelzebub as if he was some kind of a boss. 

“I do contracts.” Puck sat up a little. “I give you what you want, for a price. You sign the contract, and it all happens. Easy.” 

I give you what you want. It was the phrase keeping Ilya from throwing Puck out of his room. If it was true… he’d have to find a way to pay. “I don’t have money, but-” 

“The price isn’t money.” Puck’s eyes flashed. “It’s-” he studied Ilya again. “Do you think you want to do it? The contract?”

Ilya swallowed. “Maybe.” 

“It’s very doable.” Puck pushed himself off the bed and walked over to Ilya. “I get energy from you. I can do it like this,” he grazed his hand over Ilya’s arm, leaving Ilya’s skin strangely cold. “Or I can do it like this.” This time, he didn’t touch Ilya at all, but a small headache pricked behind Ilya’s eyes. When Ilya blinked, it went away.

Ilya stared as Puck seemed to glow for a brief moment, and he got the feeling that if he’d blinked he would have missed it. “What… did you do?” 

Puck shrugged. “It’s how I get the power to do anything- for you, for anyone else. I kind of draw it out of you. I never take too much, though. You barely feel it.” 

“You suck it out?” Ilya racked his brains for the English word. “You’re a- a vampire?” 

Puck snorted. “I’m pretty sure vampires have to use their mouths.” 

Maybe that was true. But it was the closest thing to what Puck seemed to be proposing to Ilya now. 

He continued, “I do it every so often, you go back to your life, you get your wish.” 

“Will I feel it?” It seemed like a small price to pay, and Ilya was more than willing to pay it. 

“Maybe a little, every now and then.” Puck put a hand on his heart. “But it won’t affect your hockey. I swear.” 

“And you can make me good enough to go to the NHL?” 

“Ilya.” Puck leaned forward. “I can make you more than good enough. I can make you the best player in the fucking league.” 

The thought made Ilya’s mouth go dry. Everything he’d been working for, far away from his father and anyone else that wasn’t happy with the way he was playing now. Becoming the star his mother always said he would be. And all he had to do was let Puck siphon off of him a little? Get some of his energy, or whatever weird, demonic term he probably had for it?

It seemed more than fair. It seemed almost like a bargain. 

“I’m in.” 

Puck’s face dropped in what looked like surprise. “You are?” 

Ilya nodded eagerly. “Give me the contract.” He could already hear the crowds cheering as he lifted the Stanley Cup, while everyone back in Russia kicked themselves for doubting him. He’d have enough money to never have to worry about it, even if he never saw his father again. He only wished he was old enough to be draft eligible sooner. 

Puck pulled a contract from behind his back, though Ilya was sure he’d conjured it out of thin air. 

He didn’t care. 

There was a lot of text that Ilya didn’t really want to read. He was better at speaking and listening to English than reading it. He tried to skim it all, but the words swam together, reminding him that he’d been incredibly tired before he’d encountered Puck. Eventually, he gave up and looked around for a pen. Puck held one out, as if he’d read Ilya’s mind. 

The pen was mere inches away from the empty line on the contract when Puck said, “Ilya, wait.” 

Ilya stopped. 

“There’s, um, one more thing.” Puck exhaled sharply. 

Ilya stared in confusion. Puck at seemed so at ease, so in control. Suddenly, he looked almost… stressed? 

“About the price.” Puck was speaking his words to the ground.

Ilya felt a weight drop in his stomach. He knew it had sounded too good to be true. “What is it?” 

“I don’t just feed off of you.” 

“Okay?” It made sense that Puck would have multiple contracts. 

Puck screwed up his face. “I feed off of… whoever you touch.” 

Ilya frowned, his dread building enough to make his skin feel like it was buzzing. “What do you mean?” 

“Once you sign the contract, you become a conduit -a connection- straight to me. I can decide how much to take from you. I can ration that. But when you touch someone else, you automatically open the channel from that person to me. I can’t ration it. I just take.” 

This was starting to sound less appealing. “What happens?” 

“If you just touch someone once- maybe you shake their hand, kiss their cheek, that kind of thing- they feel tired after.” Puck swallowed. “Touch them twice in a row, or for longer, they feel really sick, like they can’t sit up or wouldn’t be able to get out of bed. Touch them three times in a row, or keep touching them…” Puck looked back up at Ilya, “They die.” 

The pen slipped out of Ilya’s hand. “I could kill someone just by touching them?” 

Puck just nodded. 

Ilya narrowed his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I just told you.” At Ilya’s glare, Puck added, “We’re not really supposed to tell people that until after they signed.” 

It was a strange rush of gratitude that went through Ilya then. Puck was standing before him, shifting his weight from foot to foot and looking over his shoulder, like he was worried someone was watching. 

And maybe someone was. Maybe Puck had broken the rule to warn Ilya and was worried he’d be punished. 

When Ilya looked back on this moment, he wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint what exactly did it. Maybe it was Puck’s pinched and worried expression, the conflict dancing clear across his face. Maybe it was the memory of his father’s slap, or the incessant yelling. Maybe it was the promise of something greater than the life he feared he might have if he told Puck to get lost. 

Whatever it was, Ilya signed the contract. 

“Okay, Ilya Rozanov.” Puck tucked the contract into his pocket once Ilya was done. “I’m going to make you the best hockey player the world has ever seen.” 

He started to walk towards the door, before turning back. “Oh, and Ilya?” He brushed his hand over Ilya’s arm, making goosebumps appear where their skin touched. “You’re mine.” 

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Puck made good on his promise, and Ilya was drafted first overall. He could feel the jealous eyes of his draft class as he made his way to the stage to collect his Bruins jersey, though they’d already given him plenty of spoked-B branded athletic clothing when they informed him they’d had the easiest decision of all time when it came to drafting him first. 

His father had stood proudly next to Ilya, though he made sure to (loudly) mention that Ilya had to make sure his discipline never wavered despite moving to America. Ilya had just smiled in response- he didn’t care anymore. He was out of there. 

Unfortunately for him, an NHL lockout delayed his entire rookie season, forcing him to sign with a KHL team for a year and start his hockey career in Russia, something he’d been hoping to avoid entirely. 

“I didn’t do it!” Puck dropped into Ilya’s temporary apartment every so often, having the good sense to knock on Ilya’s door despite likely knowing no one would ever be there aside from Ilya. “I can’t control that kind of thing.” 

“I thought contracts were all you could do,” retorted Ilya, bothered that though he was playing well for his new team, he was widely hated by fans who thought he was a traitor by planning to leave the KHL in favor of Boston. 

“Obviously not the player negotiation type of contract.” Puck rolled his eyes as he let his hand rest on Ilya’s shoulder. 

Ilya felt the energy drain out of him before it came surging back, as Puck had promised it always would. This part of the deal, at least, wasn’t so bad. 

The other part, however…

Ilya hadn’t thought about how much people touched each other without even realizing. Even in a culture where people valued personal space, it was nearly impossible not to bump into someone on the train, or squeeze past several people in a grocery store. 

Luckily, Ilya had figured out that nothing would happen if he touched anyone over clothes- if he found himself unavoidably close to someone, he could make sure they’d only come up against the fabric of his shirt or pants rather than his bare hands. 

But there were other things that were off the table, seemingly forever. Days after Ilya signed the contract, he realized his days of having sex of any kind were over- and he’d really only had clumsy, clueless experiences up to that point. 

At first, he’d resolved that it wouldn’t bother him. If he was playing hockey full time, maybe he wouldn’t have had much time for that kind of thing anyways. But as he got better and better, and his time with the KHL wore on, he noticed gazes of desire directed at him, masked with flimsy efforts at best, almost everywhere he went. 
Not to mention the jolts of desire that coursed down his own spine when he made eye contact with an attractive person from across the room, knowing that what they wanted in that moment was mutual. 

But he couldn’t have it. He would never have it again. Not sex, not a kiss, not a reassuring touch when he most needed one. The only touches he could even remember well, aside from Puck siphoning his energy, were the slaps from his father. They hadn’t stopped after Ilya signed the contract, but Ilya always shied away when they did happen, knowing his father would be feeling suddenly too tired to do anything more. 

He wished he could’ve somehow recorded every past moment someone touched him with a gentleness he may never feel again. 

Halfway through the KHL season it got to be too much. The mental toll was wearing him down, leaving him exhausted after a day of avoiding contact with everyone. And he was slipping up more and more. 

One day, while walking near the rink before a game, Ilya thoughtlessly stopped to help an old woman step over a frost heave in the sidewalk before letting her grasp his hand in thanks- only to stare on in horror as she stumbled and fell, suddenly realizing that trying to help her up would only hurt her worse. 

He ran away, and played so poorly in his game that his teammates started grumbling that he shouldn’t even be in the KHL, let alone going to America. 

It had been all his fault, too. Puck had given him the skill, but it was still up to Ilya to use it correctly. 

He wondered if it was all really worth it. Maybe he didn’t need to be an NHL star. Maybe he didn’t need to be a hockey player at all. He could just disappear instead, fade into a remote part of Russia and become someone that everybody forgot. 

The fantasy seemed all the more attractive with every passing day. 

So, when Puck showed up the next time, Ilya tried to back out of the contract. 

“You can’t.” Puck’s answer was blunt. “That’s not how it works.” 

Ilya wanted to scream. “So how does it work?” 

“I can’t tell you.”

But Ilya wasn’t ready to give up that easily. “I won’t let you take energy from me anymore. I’ll starve you.” 

Puck sighed. “I can do it without getting that close to you. I only- it’s easier when you’re close by, and it’s good for you to have a warning, but it’s not required.” 

Did Puck look almost… sorry for him? It was hard to tell- sometimes Puck showed up with a playful air about him, cracking jokes as he asked Ilya about how hockey had been going for him recently, or asking if he did an okay job with Ilya’s skillset. He even loved to call back to the time Ilya thought he was an angel. 

But every so often, the mask would slip and Puck would lapse into a more quiet, contemplative state, startling out of it when he realized Ilya had noticed. It made Ilya wonder who Puck actually was, beneath whatever persona he was clearly putting on for Ilya’s benefit. 

However, no amount of empathy for Puck would deter Ilya from getting what he wanted. And Puck had no idea just how far Ilya was willing to go. 

“I will kill myself.” 

Puck’s eyes snapped to Ilya.

“You will lose the contract. You will lose your… power, that you get from me. You will lose it all.” 

For a moment, Puck looked hesitant. “You would never actually kill yourself.” 

Ilya leveled a stare. “I would.” 

They just looked at each other, neither wanting to break the eye contact. But Ilya could see in the way that Puck’s eyes shifted, that he believed Ilya. 

He couldn’t tell how old Puck really was, but Puck did seem to be aging alongside Ilya. Was it some kind of magic trick on Puck’s part? Or were demons like him still vulnerable to aging like a human?

At the very least, Puck did seem to act the age that he looked. And what Ilya saw in his face was a mix of youthful disbelief that anyone could take such extreme measures, alongside the knowledge that it was very, very possible. 

Finally, Puck closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths. “There is one thing we can do.” 

Triumph bloomed in Ilya’s chest. “Yes?” 

“We can’t end the contract. But we can put in an amendment.” 

Ilya frowned. “A what?” 

Puck’s teeth tore at his own lip. “Beelzebub is… strict about this kind of thing. But we can put a time limit on the contract. A deadline that you have to meet, and if you do, you’ll be free.” 

Ilya was starting to get a bad feeling about this. “A deadline? To do what?” 

Puck rubbed at his chin, looking above Ilya’s head as he thought. Then, he snapped his fingers. “The Stanley Cup. If you win the Stanley Cup with the Bruins within five seasons, I’ll release you from the contract.” 

Five seasons. Plenty of people won a cup within five seasons. Hell, some people did it in their very first one. Although… Ilya remembered that getting picked first in the draft usually meant going to one of the worst teams in the league. But if winning would mean he wouldn’t have to deal with Puck’s curse on him ever again, that he might actually feel the touch of another person in his lifetime… he would do it. He would make sure it happened. 

“Deal.” Should he have tried to negotiate? He was too nervous Puck would change his mind and tell Ilya there was nothing to be done. 

The contract was suddenly in Puck’s hands again, with the amendment attached. Ilya signed. 

Now, all he had to do was go win a cup. 

Easy enough, right?

“Why do you only have one contract?” 

“This one’s a good one. I don’t need-” 

“So why are you letting him go?” 

“I don’t think he’s gonna win a cup. Did you see the Bruins last season?”

“…No. But you need another contract. If he wins, and you don’t have anything else… you are too old to help anymore.” 

“I know. I’ll get one.” 

“...And?” 

“And what?” 

“How else are you going to make sure he doesn’t win a cup?” 

“What else can I- oh my god. Are you serious?” 

“Do what you need to do.” 

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

do me a favor and suspend disbelief when it comes to "this is how the nhl would work in this scenario" ... I am aware that this is not the most highly realistic fic when it comes to that, LOL. But also, it's a demon au so like, work with me.

The NHL contracts were settled, and it was finally time for Ilya to begin his rookie season in Boston. 

Leaving was an unceremonious affair, though Ilya was tense as he packed the last of his things, ready to jump out of the way if his father tried to hug him goodbye. Luckily for both of them, that didn’t happen. 

Boston hadn’t been a good team even before the lockout, but the lost season had been particularly cruel to them. Injuries, early retirements, and trade requests had left the team decimated. It was clear as soon as Ilya arrived that he would be expected to not only play well, but to be the number one producer of points. 

Travie Albin, a veteran player and team captain, gave Ilya what looked like a helpless look during their first team meeting. “Hope to see you on the first line soon,” he muttered, sizing up Ilya and taking a glum look around the room at the rest of the players. 

Ilya followed Travie’s gaze. The team was full of rookies called up from the AHL, older players likely to retire in the next year or two, and a few unremarkable third liners. The goalie, Charlie Riverton, sat in the corner with hunched shoulders. Ilya had seen clips of him from the previous season, and wondered whether he was only still with the Bruins because of his name. All in all, it was an uninspiring group. 

“Everyone’s talking about you,” said Travie as he turned his attention back to Ilya, “You and the Hollander kid. We’re gonna have a lot of new fans this year.” 

Ilya shrugged. That wasn’t the first time he’d heard the name Hollander come up- the lockout meant that two highly regarded number one draft picks would be having their rookie seasons at the same time, and Hollander had been the most recent draftee. 

Ilya hadn’t been following anything about Hollander or any other player much, because he didn’t really care about how he measured up as an individual to any of them just yet. Puck had promised he’d be a standout if he executed well- the real problem was going to be turning the Bruins into a Stanley Cup contender. 

He had no choice but to rise to the challenge. 

Their preseason games were disasters, and their opening games of the season were even worse. Though Ilya was doing the best he could, his wingers didn’t have the speed or chemistry he was looking for in order to move the puck through the neutral zone with speed and get a good chance whenever they got over the blue line. 

Plus, the pace of the games was a huge adjustment, though he was getting better at that with every passing week. 

The biggest problem, as Ilya had suspected, was Charlie Riverton. He was easily frazzled, and though he was often able to make the first save he let up easy rebounds. He wasn’t disciplined with the puck, taking too long to cover it or shooting it up the boards on a breakout when there was no one there to collect it.

It was the kind of play that would’ve gotten a goalie benched on Ilya’s team back in Russia, and he couldn’t understand why Boston was allowing Riverton to get away with it. Then, he saw the backup goalie play a few periods and understood. 

They were well and truly fucked. 

It almost didn’t matter who they were playing against, and Ilya didn’t pay much attention to any given opponent, but he did notice that players and coaches alike were buzzing with energy as they neared their game against Montreal. 

“We’ll need you to neutralize Hollander,” Ilya’s coach had said to him during a passing drill the day before. 

You’re gonna need more than that, thought Ilya, but he nodded and said, “No problem, coach.”

Despite how terrible the Bruins were, fans showed up in droves to every game. Ilya suspected some of them were really there to get drunk on a weeknight away from their families, but still- they made themselves known, even if the likelihood the Bruins would do anything remarkable was low. 

The game against Montreal was no different, with fans stomping and yelling the moment the teams all skated out. As Ilya stretched near the red line, he tried to get a proper look at Shane Hollander among the Canadiens skating in circles on the other side of the ice, but gave up when he realized the camera connected to the Jumbotron was zooming in on him. 

He went through the rest of the motions- getting as many touches on the puck as he could, making sure Charlie saw some shots, and stopping over for some water- before he had to line up with the rest of his team for the national anthems and starting line up announcements.

He was starting the game, and the crowd roared when his name was called. He could see the naked hope on every face in the crowd as they looked at him, representing the future of Bruins hockey and the only sign that maybe every season in the next decade wouldn’t be as bad as this one. 

They called Shane Hollander’s name too, but the Canadiens were already facing the opposite direction, preventing Ilya from seeing more than the number 24 on Hollander’s back. 

It was only when they were lining up for the opening face-off that Ilya really got a good look at Hollander, and when he did he almost dropped his stick. 

“Puck?”

Puck’s eyes met Ilya’s as he smiled past his mouthguard. “Oh, hey Ilya.” 

“What the fuck are you doing?” 

Puck shrugged. “Playing hockey. Same as you.” He edged a little closer to Ilya on the face-off dot. “You didn’t think I was going to make it easy for you, did you?” 

He backed up so the ref could drop the puck. 

For the rest of the game, Ilya’s stomach may as well have been made of lead. Puck- no, Shane- was good. Really good. And why wouldn’t he be? Why couldn’t he do whatever he’d done to Ilya on himself as well? He probably wasn’t operating under any kind of ethical code. 

 As Ilya spent the game trying to catch a single fucking pass with Shane on him lifting his stick with iron strength, or covering two people at once in front of the net, the dread only built. Even if the Bruins got better, they’d have to be better than Montreal if they wanted any hope of making it to the Stanley Cup finals ever- they would likely meet Montreal in the playoffs if they managed to qualify. 

Ilya would have to beat out the very person who held his contract if he wanted to win within five years. 

He was so angry by the end of the game that he suspected his ears were bright red. He was ashamed of himself, for thinking that getting the cup win might actually be a possibility. And he wanted nothing more than to wipe that smug look off Shane’s face. 

Towards the end, after Montreal had scored on the Bruins’ empty net, Ilya felt the familiar prickle along his skin- Shane was taking energy from him. He skated past Shane on his way to the bench, and muttered, “It does not matter how good you make yourself. We will beat you.” 

Shane only winked at him. “I’d like to see you try.” 

You have no fucking idea how hard I’ll try, asshole. 

Ilya exited the ice that night with gritted teeth. He was going to make this team good, whether they liked it or not. 

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

It wasn’t like Ilya had any control over the team roster, but he could try and figure out how to make the current players better. 

The first order of business, obviously, was Charlie. Ilya wondered whether the Bruins were trying to trade for another goalie, but they had so many roster needs that it was possible Charlie would be sticking around for a while yet. 

For better or worse, Charlie wasn’t suffering from any kind of delusion that there was nothing wrong with the way he was playing, or that he wasn’t getting a fair shot at showcasing what he could do. He knew he was struggling. 

And while Charlie had goalie coaches and special workouts that catered to his specific skill and health needs, Ilya figured there was nothing wrong with a little bit of extra practice, just the two of them. 

“Will you help me with my shootout moves?” He approached Charlie after a team practice, ignoring how Charlie was practically folding himself in half with how hunched over he sat in his stall. He carried himself as if he knew he was going to be terrible. 

This loser will not be the one that traps me in my contract. So help me. 

Luckily, Charlie didn’t notice Ilya’s irritation. “Sure. It’ll be nice to get some practice against someone with hands like yours.” At least he wasn’t dismissing Ilya as a stupid young rookie. 

They arranged to meet for an extra hour, three times a week, though they wouldn’t force it if the team was traveling. 

Their sessions were run-of-the-mill shooter and goalie work. Ilya did shootouts, shots from the slot, and one-timers whenever he could nab another rookie or Travie to join him on the ice. Charlie squared up to every shot, challenging Ilya with aggressive saves when he got too fancy with his stick handling. In these practices, he looked like the elite goaltender that the Bruins needed. 

But when game time rolled around, the composure Charlie exhibited when it was just him and Ilya disintegrated, resulting in consistently sloppy save attempts followed by an inability to shake off rough goals. 

It was after a particularly disappointing loss that Ilya heard the mutters of his teammates. They’d been so close to ending the game with at least a point- they’d been tied going into the final minute. But Charlie had moved too late when an opposing player veered around the net with the puck, and had failed to get his pad down in time when the player stuffed the puck into the inside post. 

“Can’t wait til we get a new guy.” 

“Fucker is losing us all our games.” 

No one was bothering to be quiet anymore. In some ways, they were right to be frustrated. And emotions ran higher when everyone felt like they’d had their chance to go to overtime taken away. But, Ilya thought, they’re forgetting how sloppy we were, letting that play even happen. Why were we so undisciplined in our defensive zone? They were using Charlie as the punching bag because he’d made the most obvious mistake. But he hadn’t made the only one. 

Travie finally yelled at everyone to shut the fuck up, but the damage had been done. Charlie was staring straight ahead, not even bothering to defend himself. 

The sight of Charlie’s defeated look both in the locker room and directly after he let in that last goal kept Ilya up at night even days later. He looked perfectly capable in their private sessions. What the fuck was keeping him from delivering in games? 

On a night home in his apartment, Ilya found an old game of Charlie’s from his days at the University of Michigan, where he’d been a standout prospect. He watched a game winning goalie full of confidence and poise handle tense overtimes and shoddy defense from his own team like it was nothing. 

He was wondering where that player had possibly gone when there was a knock on his door. 

It could only be one person. Ilya answered with a grimace. “Just get it over with.” 

Shane gasped in mock outrage. “That’s no way to treat a fellow player.” 

“How did you-” Ilya started to ask, but he cut himself off. Magic. Or something. That was how. The same magic that made Ilya good enough to be where he was. He wasn’t really in a position to dispute what Shane had done. 

Shane let himself in, though Ilya was pretty sure he could’ve just siphoned his energy at the door and then disappeared. Ilya supposed he should be grateful that Shane had even bothered knocking, though his sense of gratitude was running on empty. 

“Hmm,” Shane peered at Ilya’s laptop on the counter, “Doing some research on Riverton?” 

Ilya felt that familiar minor headache rear up behind his eyes before it faded away. “Does anyone on your team know what you are?” 

“Of course not,” Shane scoffed. “They think I’m human.” 

“You don’t have a, uh, contract, with any of them?” 

Shane caught Ilya’s eye. “If I did, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.” 

Maybe Ilya was imagining it, but he swore there was a note of regret in Shane’s voice. But he wasn’t interested in wasting valuable time thinking about anything other than beating him. “Please leave.” 

“But we always talk about hockey.” Shane didn’t move towards the door.

“I don’t want to anymore. Get what you need and go.” 

When Shane still didn’t move, Ilya just turned away from him. If he was going to be obnoxious, Ilya would sit in silence. 

“How’re you liking Boston?” 

Ilya kept his mouth pressed shut. 

“You looked good. On the ice.” 

So did you. Asshole.

Shane didn’t get the message. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you about a former contract. If you’re interested. And I think you are.” He paused.

Ilya couldn’t help it. He turned around, and Shane nodded at the video of Charlie.

Ilya just stared in confusion at first, until it hit him. He bit back a gasp. “Charlie?” 

Shane shook his head. “No. The backup goalie that he was better than. At Michigan.” 

“Was it with you?” 

Shane shook his head again. “Not me.”

“Are you allowed to tell me how many-”

“No.” 

The thought that the hockey world was full of players bargaining with demons in order to get better made Ilya’s stomach turn. He’d naively thought he’d be the only one. 

“It’s not as many as you think.” Shane seemed to read his mind. “You have to ask for it, specifically. And you have to really be willing to do anything to get it. It doesn’t work otherwise.” 

It still didn’t make Ilya feel much better. “So what happened with this guy?”

“He was frustrated that Riverton was so much better.” Shane leaned heavily on the counter, which made Ilya want to push him off, though he didn’t do anything. He wanted to know what happened.

Shane continued, “He was working just as hard, but he just didn’t have the natural eye that Riverton did. No matter how much you practice, some things just can’t be taught.” 

It was true. Ilya had seen it time and time again in Russia, and he suspected it happened throughout the hockey world. Thousands of players dreaming of being the best, and putting in the work to make it happen, but eventually realizing that it simply would not be possible. 

“So the backup goalie made a deal. I guess he was willing to do anything. I don’t know exactly what his deal was- they look a little different, depending on-” He cleared his throat. The room felt a little chilly all of a sudden. But Shane kept going. “Riverton became the backup goalie. It was too late to transfer to another school. One of the best in college hockey at the time, and riding the bench.” 

Charlie had spent the end of his college career chasing the impossible, and he was eternally struggling to let go of that helplessness. He had a mental block that only got worse when he played just as badly as he thought he would.

Ilya gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t be like that. And he was going to get Charlie back to where he needed to be. He was good. Despite his struggles, he’d been good enough to get drafted, even if he’d essentially failed upwards with a team that lost all its depth. And he was going to have to be even better, if the Bruins ever wanted a chance at a Stanley Cup. 

“Why are you telling me this?” 

“So you don’t ignore me.” A crease appeared between Shane’s eyes, but it did little to make Ilya feel bad for him at all. The contract wasn’t forcing him to talk to Shane- he could go talk to people he didn’t have a contract with if he wanted to make friends. 

“You said you can get what you need from far away.” 

Shane blinked. “I did.” But he didn’t leave. Though his insight about Charlie was genuinely helpful, it was hard to forget that he didn’t actually care. Ilya’s life was just a game to him- a source of entertainment. The amendment had been a chance to offer a way out of the isolating life Ilya led while standing in the way of it ever actually happening. He may not be Beelzebub himself, but he was having enough fun playing with the rules. “Listen, Ilya, I was just-” 

“Do not come near me, then.” Ilya turned and shoved Shane, hard enough to make him stumble back. His shoulders, warm under Ilya’s palms for even the brief moment of contact, felt so solid, so human. It was the first time in years that Ilya had put his hands on someone else like that. Blood rushed in his ears. It felt so fucking good. 

All he wanted was to shove Shane again. But something stopped Ilya in his tracks- maybe it was the look on Shane’s face, or the reminder that this wouldn’t ultimately change anything. It might even make it worse.

 He exhaled through his nose instead, trying to let his sudden dizziness clear. “You own me. For now.”

“I-”

“You are here because I do not have a choice.” Ilya hoped his voice sounded as venomous as he felt. “Do not get it wrong.” He swallowed. “I would rather be alone.” And I’m always alone.

Shane drew himself up to face Ilya. “You wanted this. You wanted it so badly I could feel it. It was like you were calling me. Just because you couldn’t handle the terms-” 

“You have no fucking idea what it’s like.” Maybe that was a lie. He had no clue what Shane did or did not know. But he knew Shane had never lived like… this. Afraid to even brush against anyone. Nervous to get too close to a new friend in case they started asking questions. Closed off to every possible human connection. 

But Shane didn’t seem chagrined at all. “Do you really need someone to touch you that bad? What’s the big deal?” 

Ilya really, really wanted to hit him. 

“I made you this good. I can’t let you waltz to the cup just because you can’t handle the price.” The corner of his mouth turned up. “I told you, I couldn’t let you do it that easily.” 

Ilya turned away, but Shane kept talking. 

“I thought- I thought it might be fun, playing against each other.” 

Maybe it was fun. For Shane. In another life it might even be fun for Ilya. If there was less on the line. 

He turned back to the video of Charlie. He pretended Shane wasn’t there. Shane kept prattling on- about his own team, about the elaborate planning he’d done to get drafted in the first place- and Ilya ignored him. He talked about how he had a good hockey IQ from watching Ilya, and Ilya ignored him some more. 

Eventually, Shane trailed off and sauntered over to Ilya’s door, the sense of hesitation in the back of his eyes that Ilya had been wondering if he’d imagined long gone.

The door closed, and Ilya exhaled. Finally. Good fucking riddance. 

He skated right up to Charlie during their next practice together. “There is something you need to know.” 

Charlie narrowed his eyes at Ilya as he lifted his helmet to get a sip of water. “Am I getting traded?” 

Ilya frowned. “How would I know that?” 

Charlie shrugged. “You seem like you’re the kind of kid who can find things out.” 

Ilya leaned closer. “Not like that. But I think you would want to know…” 

Charlie’s eyes widened when Ilya mentioned Michigan. His face slid into even deeper surprise when Ilya started explaining what he thought happened to Charlie- that he lost his confidence after getting demoted despite the fact that he’d been drafted. That he never really got it back because he’d ended up in a city where his name was extremely close to its most famous river. That he was only a starter now due to process of elimination, rather than beating a stronger goalie out. 

“But Charlie…” Ilya shifted his weight on his skates and leaned on his edges. “Your friend. He was on drugs.” 

Charlie drew back in a sudden movement that made Ilya jump. “Drugs? What, you mean like,” 

“Steroids. En-hance-ments.” They were the closest things Ilya could think of. He’d considered waiting until he could ask Shane to give him a more plausible lie, until he’d remembered he didn’t plan to talk to Shane anymore. Plus, Shane might have stopped him from saying anything to Charlie. 

“Impossible.” Charlie shook his head. “We got tested for that.” 

“He got away with it.” 

“But-” 

“He was not so good, and then he was better.” That, at least, was not a lie. 

“Yes.” 

“You were good. You did not need the extra help. You… he was never better than you.” 

Charlie was starting to skate away from the net now, but Ilya followed. “I don’t know where you heard any of this, but-”

“A friend. He is very-” Ilya coughed, “reliable.” 

“But it doesn’t matter.” Charlie took another sip of water. “It matters what I’m doing, how I’m playing now.”

 “Maybe to some people.” Ilya leveled a hard stare at Charlie again. “But I think it does matter to you.” 

Charlie only stared back before giving a small laugh. “You’re kind of smart, for your age.” He paused. “And for a hockey player.” 

“I did not go to college.” 

“Not the kind of smart I meant.” 

They drifted back by the net to do some more actual practice, but Ilya lifted his stick for a slap shot and froze. “Charlie.” 

Charlie sighed loud enough for Ilya to hear it. “Now what?” 

“Those goals were not your fault. They were ours.” 

Charlie snorted. “They were a little bit my fault.” 

“We will do better, from now on.” 

Even through the mask, Ilya could see that Charlie was smiling. “Thanks, Rozanov.” 

Ilya kept his word. The next time his teammates started ragging Charlie about a bad goal, he leapt up and pointed the finger at the players who had allowed the shot to happen. Then, he’d turned to the players that had gotten stuck on the ice for over a minute and a half and forced everyone else to take disjointed shifts to let them recover. 

The room had been too stunned to argue, and Travie had only given Ilya a thoughtful look, waving off other players when they insinuated he should punish Ilya in some way. 

Little by little, people eased off Charlie and took more responsibility for what they’d done or failed to do on the ice. In return, Charlie admitted when he made mistakes, but he stood by the way he’d played if the team turned to placing the blame unfairly. 

Some rough goals still went in, because it was hockey. But as the weeks passed, Charlie began to keep Boston in more games. He even got a few shut outs. It was a cyclical cause and effect- Charlie knew the team respected him, and he wanted to play well for him. In return, the team tried new approaches to minimizing dangerous shots so that Charlie would have an easier time saving them. 

Plus, Ilya could tell that he really did believe he was good. Even if he played badly, it was an off night, rather than a downward spiral. 

Meanwhile, Shane showed up at Ilya’s door every few weeks, and Ilya ignored him. He let the quick dip and minor headache roll away, and he pretended Shane wasn’t there. 

“Riverton’s looking better.” 

“Not bad, for a rookie season.” 

“You know, you can’t hope for a miracle like Riverton for all your teammates. You’re gonna have to hope they get some better players if they want a chance.” 

Nothing made Ilya break. He told himself that Shane was background noise, even when he detected another note in Shane’s voice- one that suggested Shane was actually bothered that his contract wouldn’t talk to him. 

The only place Ilya didn’t ignore Shane was on the ice, when he studied the way Shane played, resolving that he would make sure he knew every last one of Shane’s tells- like how though his hands were fast and his dekes were lethal, he couldn’t help but flashing his eyes over to the side he was actually going to. Or how he didn’t like to shoot from the point on the power play unless he had a perfectly open lane. 

Other than that, he resolved to pretend Shane didn’t exist. He kept to himself, avoiding crowds when he could and looking wistfully away any time someone caught his eye. He worked on making sure he was on track to get even better with every game, and he took advantage of every optional practice. He kept up his shooting practice with Charlie. 

He would do this, he promised himself, for five seasons if he had to, to get that cup. He would know almost nothing outside of hockey. He would pay no attention when Shane showed up. 

Although… he would never admit it, but one thing Shane had said did stick with him. You’re gonna have to hope they get better players. After the season ended with the Bruins missing the playoffs, Ilya marched into the Bruins offices and negotiated a contract well under what he was worth, before begging the managers to use the cap space wisely. 

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

note: lots of hockey! and also other stuff!
Also we’re gonna pretend that every club and bar in Boston doesn’t start making people leave around midnight LOL

Luckily for everyone, it was a productive summer. The Bruins acquired two new wingers to play on the first line with Ilya: Eliot Barnier from the San Jose Sharks, and Bela Kmoch from the Winnipeg Jets. Finally, Ilya had line mates who he could trust to execute a consistent breakout, carry the puck into the offensive zone with control, and get the puck on the net almost every shift. 

Barnier was taller than Ilya and had the muscle to match, making him lethal in front of the net and intimidating to hit. Kmoch was smaller and more lithe, with hands even better than Shane’s. 

And that was saying something. Shane was all over the NHL summer highlights. Ilya was too, but he couldn’t enjoy watching his own best plays without having to suffer through watching Shane’s as well. 

Shane continued to drop in on Ilya over the summer, and Ilya continued to ignore him. He wondered how many other contracts Shane had now, and whether they had been shocked to see the demon that held their lives in his hands suddenly playing in the NHL. He hoped they were all ignoring Shane too. He hoped Shane had been unable to find anyone else like Ilya.

Every so often, Shane would mention something about Montreal and how good their team was shaping up to be. Ilya still wouldn’t entertain a conversation, but he’d seethe quietly, looking forward to the day when he could rip away the facade of Shane’s bravado once and for all. 

He just had to keep working hard with the Bruins to make it happen. 

Training camp was still intense, but the sense of doom in the air was noticeably less than it had been in Ilya’s first season. Charlie was in top form after a summer of working on the weaknesses he’d started to overcome by the end of the season, and the new wingers injected much needed optimism into the entire team. 

For his part, Ilya was emerging as a vocal team member, unafraid to speak his mind. He was the first to chirp his teammates when they fucked up a drill, but he was also known to loudly praise other players when they did something well. Now that he wasn’t a rookie, it was becoming evident that most of his team was intimidated by him. 

The Bruins still lacked strong defensemen and overall depth, but they were looking better. They were ready to turn things around for both the fans and for themselves. They were eager to prove that they were far from down and out. 

And no one was more eager than Ilya. 

Their first game against Montreal came early in the season. The Canadiens were missing some strong players due to summer surgeries and early injuries, but Shane was there, looking as in top form as ever. 

Ilya bit back a snarl when they met on the face-off dot. He was ready to match Shane shift for shift. When he looked up, Shane was already looking at him with dark eyes and his mouth set in a line. 

He can’t intimidate me. And he didn’t. Neither went for the puck on the first face-off, instead opting to tie up the other and trying to kick the puck out with their skates. Kmoch fished the puck out from where it was stuck on Ilya’s inside edge, and they were off. 

The game was fast, and evenly matched. Ilya chipped the puck past a defenseman on the point and took off, only for Shane to track him down and eliminate the chance of a breakaway. Shane ripped a shot from the slot, but Ilya blocked it. Every face-off was sloppily won or tied up in between them. 

Meanwhile, Montreal had the advantage when it came to the match ups of the second and third lines, but Charlie was making excellent saves, keeping the game 0-0. His glove, often a beat behind last season, flashed out and snagged the puck from several almost certain goals. 

The first chance came when Montreal was on the power play. Ilya, who had been working on his play in the defensive end and being more of a well-rounded center, had been put on the first penalty kill unit. Before Montreal could properly set up, he used his long reach to deflect the puck away and chase it down. He cursed out loud when the goalie flashed a pad a robbed him of a short handed goal. 

Shane’s brow was furrowed on the next face-off as he spoke rapidly into the ears of the others on the power play. Montreal regrouped and entered the zone without Ilya stopping them, before zipping the puck to one another in quick succession as players traded between the point, the side boards, or even alternating in and out of the bumper position. 

Ilya had a feeling that Shane had somehow orchestrated this. He was laser focused, with a clear knowledge of where his teammates were sending the puck next. Sure enough, he fed a one-timer across the slot, threading the needle through sticks and pucks alike and presenting his winger with a goal on a silver platter. Charlie couldn’t do anything about it, and the crowd groaned. 

But Ilya was far from giving up. The game was only halfway through, and all the Bruins needed was one good bounce to get back into it. 

They continued to play each other closely. Ilya laughed to himself as he picked Shane’s pocket in the neutral zone, wishing he could see Shane’s face but logically knowing that if he turned his head to look behind him he’d get blasted off his feet. He had some very good reasons to avoid injury at all costs. 

He took a rocket of a slap shot at the top of the circles, only to get turned away by the goalie. He had another chance a shift later, trying to go bar down with his backhand. It didn’t work. 

Finally, halfway through the third period, the defense managed to clear it out to him, and he hit Kmoch streaking up the ice. Barnier crashed the net and Ilya lingered behind, off at the angle the goalie had been kicking it to all night. Sure enough, Kmoch’s shot resulted in a rebound, which Barnier tried to stuff in but was tied up by Shane coming back. While the two of them were battling, Ilya surged in and buried it. 

The crowd went wild, shouts and yells audible even over the goal horn. Everyone had been on the edge of their seat, knowing that Montreal had been ahead handily by this point of every single game last season. There were chants of “Roz-an-ov! Roz-an-ov!” 

The Bruins were all grinning at each other, except for Ilya and Travie, who both barked at everyone else to stay focused. Ilya could tell that Charlie felt the same, based on his posture in the net. 

The clock ticked down, and they were still tied. The game was getting scrappier, though the refs didn’t call any other penalties. 

Or, they didn’t call any minor penalties. With about a minute left in the game, two defensemen dropped the gloves in the middle of a scrum and the game came to a halt. Other players paired off, either shit talking and threatening to drop the gloves themselves, or just simply standing there, making sure the player closest to them didn’t jump into the fight and give anyone an advantage. 

Ilya looked around for a Montreal player to (tactfully, and with no skin contact) grab, but quickly felt an arm slide around his lower back. 

“Nice goal.” 

Ilya kept his face stony. “Nice assist.” 

“Thanks. I was working with them on that one.” 

“I can tell.” 

“Been practicing your shootout moves?”

Ilya was sure Shane knew he worked on shootouts with Charlie. But he just shrugged. “Maybe I will score before that.” 

Shane grinned. “Or maybe I will. I haven’t scored tonight.” His grip tightened on Ilya, and Ilya’s stomach suddenly felt a little off. A sudden change like that usually had only one explanation if Shane was around, but he’d never done anything during the actual game- it defeated the point of the contract.

“Really? Now?” He scowled. 

But Shane only met him with a look of confusion. “What?” His face broke in understanding when he looked harder at Ilya. “Wait, no. I didn’t. I swear.” 

He looked earnest, though it wasn’t like he was an overly trustworthy being. So why did Ilya feel so weird? 

The fight ended, and they skated away from each other. Whatever had been bothering Ilya went away. 

No one scored, and the game went into overtime. The coach looked meaningfully at Ilya, and he immediately knew his assignment: get on the ice when Hollander gets on the ice, and stay on the ice until he gets off. It was three on three for five minutes, and Shane would be able to make the defense look like fools if Ilya wasn’t there to stop him. 

Shane rolled his eyes when he realized what Ilya was doing, and Ilya gave an exaggerated wave when he got off the ice. On their next shift, Shane tried to pretend to skate to the bench before turning back to stay on for longer in the hopes of shaking Ilya, but Ilya caught the ruse coming from a mile away. 

They both made brief eye contact every time the ref dropped the puck, seeing only intensity mirrored in the eyes of the other. Ilya suspected that Shane had been told to neutralize Ilya too. 

Due to their even play, the game went into a shootout. 

Charlie, coming to the bench to get water before facing Montreal’s first shooter, gave Ilya an approving thumbs up. No matter what happened, Boston would get a point since they ended the game tied in regulation. But Ilya wanted this win, and he knew Charlie did too. 

Both Boston and Montreal had chosen to send out rookies with decent hands as their first shooters. Both players had strong moves, but both were stopped. 
Shane was the second shooter for Montreal. His eyes flicked to the side, and Ilya knew immediately which move he was going to do. He could only hope that Charlie had seen it too. 

Shane skated in a wide half circle to the right, as if lining up a shot on his forehand. He feinted the shot, then drew the puck across his body to his backhand, before pulling it back one more time so quickly his hands blurred in order to go top corner on both his forehand and on a less protected area of the net as Charlie moved across. 

Unfortunately for Shane, Ilya had done that move on Charlie about a thousand times. Charlie moved as Shane deked, and gloved the puck down. The crowd roared its approval. 

The second shooter for Boston was Barnier, but he lost the puck as he tried to make a last minute move. He grimaced in frustration. Luckily, his forehead smoothed out as the third Montreal shooter hit the outside of the post. 

Ilya was Boston’s third shooter, and he’d seen the moves that the goalie had stopped in previous attempts. They’d all been fancy and quick, trying to fake him out. So Ilya skated right down the middle, picked a corner, and fired. 

Goal. 

The team started to skate towards Ilya to congratulate him on the game winning goal, but he steered them over to Charlie. He fist bumped his wingers with his glove and waved at the crowd, signaling for them to get louder. They obliged, thrilled to see the kind of exciting win they’d been dreaming about all last season. 

The team still had a lot of adjustments to make, but they could relish this moment for right now. 

Ilya didn’t think about Shane as he followed his team down the tunnel, the sound of “Dirty Water” echoing all the way to the locker room. 

Ilya hesitated when he realized the team was going to a club to celebrate the win. First, because he didn’t want to treat a big win like an abnormal event, even when it was. Second, because he’d gone out of his way to avoid clubs and crowded bars. They were too dangerous, with all those bodies pressed together and little opportunity to separate himself quickly.

But he’d been so visibly excited about the win and so invested in the team’s success that him not going would raise more eyebrows than it was probably worth. He steeled himself for a night of discomfort and agreed to meet the team.

“Don’t tell anyone it was me.” Barnier winked at Ilya as he opened an emergency exit from the inside, sneaking Ilya in so he wouldn’t have to wear an “Under 21” wrist band. It wasn’t entirely worth the effort given how little Ilya planned to drink, but he appreciated how much his teammates cared about including the younger players. He’d be twenty-one soon enough anyhow- they were all basically just rounding up. 

Pretty much the whole team was there, yelling at each other over the music in often broken English and making pitiful attempts at dancing. As word started to get out around the rest of Boston, more people began to show up despite the late hour. 

Through the flashes of multi-colored lights, Ilya spotted Dana Golli, the trainer and team doctor, leaning against the back wall. He made his way over, hoping that talking with her would be a decent way to stay away from the throng in front of the bar or on the dance floor. 

Dana raised an eyebrow as Ilya leaned on the wall next to her. “Rozanov,” she started, “haven’t seen a lot of you lately.” 

It was true. Ilya could find no way to let Dana treat any injury of his that wouldn’t put her in danger. He’d taken care of all his bruises, sprains, and pulled muscles himself. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to deal with any injury worse than that before he got out of the contract. 

If he did get hurt, he would have to set aside his pride and ask Shane for help. The thought motivated him to make sure that would not fucking happen. 

Needless to say, he didn’t spend a lot of time with Dana. He suspected she thought he had problems with being touched- she was decently perceptive- but she never outright asked him about it. 

“Hey, Golli.” 

“Any injuries you’re not telling me about?” Yea, she definitely knew something was up with Ilya. 

“Nope.” He held out his arms as if to say, do you see any flaws? 

Dana just narrowed her eyes. “Not feeling like celebrating?” 

“I will celebrate when we win the cup.” 

“You might be waiting a while,” Dana snorted. 

Ilya only shrugged in response. He wouldn’t be waiting more than four seasons. 

Up close, Dana was pretty attractive. She had shoulder length hair that had been chopped in a rough and uneven fashion, giving her an edgy and more rugged look when she wore it down. She was wearing dark jeans and a button down shirt that brought out the muscles in her shoulders.

Ilya thought he’d been subtle, but Dana laughed at him fondly. “You’re not my type, Rozanov.” She gave Ilya a wink. “And even if you were, you’d be too young.” She shook the empty bottle in her hand. “I’m getting another beer. Wanna drink? I can grab you one while you find someone your own age to flirt with.” 

Ilya wondered if flipping off Dana would get him in trouble. He opted to shake his head at her instead. “Not tonight.” 

“The drinking, or the flirting?”

“Both.” 

“Boring.” She stuck out her tongue as she walked away. Ilya wished he could spend more time with her without accidentally putting her in mortal danger. He sighed. Just another friendship shot down before it could even start because of this fucking contract. He leaned heavily against the wall. 

A hand snuck around his waist from behind. “Having fun?” 

Ilya leapt away faster than he’d ever moved in his life until he realized that the voice in his ear had been disturbingly familiar. 

Of fucking course. 

“Why are you here?” 

“I wanted a drink.” Shane held up a beer with a smile. “And I was in town.” It was almost unnatural to see Shane in this type of a public setting- is this how he looked to everyone else? Like a  human with a touch of natural charm that pulled one in with a single glance?

“Can demons get drunk?” Ilya kicked himself as he asked the question. He’d broken his rule of ignoring Shane. Again.

“Not that I’ve found, but hey.” Shane raised his bottle even higher in a cheers to no one. “You never know.” 

The last thing Ilya wanted to do was listen to Shane- he was already focusing on avoiding being touched while not seeming like a complete bump on a log. He didn’t need everyone assuming he hung out with Shane in his down time.“Do you always go out after you lose?” 

“Only when the other team has me to thank.” He took another sip of his beer. “That shot was really something.” 

This guy was so incredibly annoying. “Just go away.” But something else was happening as he said the words- something that would’ve mortified Ilya in any other moment. Maybe it was the proximity of drunk people, even though Ilya wasn’t drinking. Maybe it was the hypnotic lighting or the pulsing music. Or maybe, in the earliest hours of the morning, when Ilya was only half awake and trying to remember the dream that was already fading from his mind, he had thought about what it might be like to talk to Shane in a place like this. 

“Are you sure?” Shane slid a little closer.

Yes, he thought, I’m sure. But he couldn’t say it. All he could think of was Shane’s hand on his waist, and how if he let it stay there nothing bad would happen. How fucking good that had felt. He drifted towards Shane, pretending he was only shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“We’re at a club,” Shane gestured behind his shoulder at the people dancing. “You should dance.” 

“I can’t. It would be impossible not to-” He was already reaching out to Shane as his sentence trailed off, brushing his fingers past the loose fabric of Shane’s t-shirt. He figured Shane had put together that there was only one person he could dance with. He let his hand linger for a moment before remembering where the fuck he was and letting it drop. It wasn’t just the existence of the contract that made reaching out to Shane like that a bad idea.. “My team, Hollander. They-” 

“They won’t see. Look.” 

Ilya scanned the room, taking in the people in his line of vision, and realized no one was meeting his eyes. It was more than that- their eyes were sliding past him entirely. As if they didn’t know him at all. Even Travie seemed to look straight through Ilya to someone on the dance floor. 

“It’s my new party trick. Like it?” 

It was disconcerting, is what it was. “What did you-” 

“I can’t do it for that long.” Shane pressed closer to Ilya, and this time Ilya pulled him in even more. “So act now.” He set his beer on a ledge that jutted out from the wall.

God fucking dammit. If only Ilya had the willpower to tell Shane he didn’t need anything else from him. If only Ilya, in this moment, could lie. 

He stepped away from the wall and let his body move along to the music. Shane, with a small smile, moved along with him. He exhaled slowly, trying to tamp down the anxious need to jump away. It was almost a reflex now, that he’d built for everyone else’s protection.

He traced the outer edge of his hand along Shane’s arm, and wanted to close his eyes so he could remember the feeling. 

Then, something occurred to him. “What should I call you?” 

Shane looked surprised at that. “What?” 

“Shane Hollander? Puck? What is-” 

What is your actual name? Did he have one? 

“Which name have you been calling me?” 

Ilya bit at the inside of his lip. He’d been calling Shane the name that made him seem more human. He shrugged instead of answering. 

“I think Shane Hollander fits. Don’t you?” Ilya shrugged again. 

“I can always change it-”

“Don’t.” Fuck. 

His response made Shane raise an eyebrow. “Okay, then. I won’t.” 

They were hardly even touching, yet Ilya’s skin was buzzing with electricity. He slid a hand around Shane’s waist, watching for a nod of approval as he kept moving to the beat, feeling the warmth of Shane’s skin when his shirt shifted with his movements. 

Though Shane was matching Ilya beat for beat, his hand was practically hovering over Ilya’s shoulder, barely making any contact. When Ilya danced closer, Shane finally moved to caress his neck, his hand slipping a little on the sweat that was already collecting under Ilya’s hair. 

The sensation just about made Ilya leave his body. It didn’t feel like this at all when he did it on himself. Shane was leaving a scorching trail wherever he touched, and Ilya wanted more, more, more. Even where they were both clothed- their hips, their legs, as they moved in tandem in a way Ilya would never allow himself to do with anyone else, he imagined ripping everything off. 

It would be so, so easy. Maybe Shane’s little magic trick would keep anyone from noticing if he shucked off his own shirt and just let his skin drink in the feeling of Shane’s next to him. He considered asking, shoving the voice that was insistently saying his contract is the reason you’ve never had this to the back of his head, no matter how many times it kept popping up. 

He tilted his head forward so their foreheads were pressed together. He could smell the beer Shane had been drinking, and the thought of Shane’s mouth right there sent chills along his spine that counteracted the heat that had been licking its way through his insides every time Shane so much as moved against him-

“Does this mean you’re gonna talk to me again?” 

Shane’s question made Ilya stop dancing, though he didn’t step back right away. He didn’t want Shane’s hand to move from where it had drifted to the top of his chest. But even as the warmth against his skin reverberated throughout Ilya’s entire body, a heaviness was beginning to descend in his mind as he studied the focus in Shane’s eyes. 

“You are dancing with me…” he spoke slowly, “so I do not ignore you?” Now, he stepped back. 

Shane frowned, and let his hand drop as Ilya backed away. “Kind of?” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s pretty hard to get you to say more than three words to me, and I-” 

At least the fact that he’d just been dancing gave Ilya an excuse for the heat rising in his cheeks and along his neck, creeping past where Shane had touched him. But it was more from shame than from anger. 

What the fuck had he expected? What had he thought was happening? 

He hadn’t been thinking at all. Only that he’d wanted Shane to put his hands on him from the moment he’d appeared in the bar, and maybe even before that, at the game. But Shane? Shane could get whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. 

And all he’d wanted from Ilya was his attention. He’d probably shown up at the bar knowing that Ilya was in a good mood from the game.

Ilya stumbled back another step. “You said- you don’t have to talk to me. It’s not part of the contract.” 

“I know, but…” Shane trailed off. Why was he looking at Ilya like that? “Whatever.” He chugged the rest of his beer in just a few sips. “I’m gonna go.” Then, he was gone. 

Ilya tried to have a few more conversations after that, but couldn’t get himself to follow the thread of topics beyond commentary on the game, or the weather in Boston. He felt as if everything was in slow motion or happening very far away- it was weird, because he’d never had any aftereffects from Shane before. 

He wouldn’t even entertain the idea that maybe Shane hadn’t taken any energy from him at all that night- at least, not in the way he usually did.

He went home earlier than the rest of his team after giving up on any kind of celebrating. Luckily, no one noticed except for Charlie and Travie, both of whom praised his dedication to living a healthy lifestyle. 

His apartment was empty when he walked in, and he chided himself at the sense of disappointment that reared with no warning at the sight of the unoccupied couch in his living room. What the fuck had he expected? 

And though a new wave of anger surged through him every time he remembered the way Shane had manipulated him into conversing, he couldn’t bring himself to forget how it had felt to dance up against the sturdiness of Shane’s body and the fluidity of his movements. The way his every touch had felt like the only sensation in the world in that moment. 

And as much as he hated himself for it, all Ilya wanted was to feel it again. 

It was a while before Shane returned- more weeks than Ilya could ever remember going without seeing him in all the years he’d had the contract. 

Ilya told himself that it was what he’d wanted- he was glad that Shane was staying away. He didn’t need Shane showing up to talk about his team, or, god forbid, to try and act like Ilya was his friend. 

But he did start to wonder when even more time passed and he felt not even so much as a slight unexplained headache. Was Shane taking any of his energy? How long could he refrain from doing that? 

When Shane eventually did show up looking like absolute hell, Ilya got his answers. Shane’s skin was pale with an almost gray tint, and his eyes were faded and dull. 
“What is wrong with you?” Ilya didn’t try to pretend to be polite- he figured they were past that. 

“I was trying to, uh, give you space.” Even Shane’s words were labored. “I’m sorry, about before.” 

Sorry for what? For making Ilya remember exactly what he was missing? For making Ilya actually worry, somehow, about him? Shane didn’t specify, and Ilya didn’t ask him to elaborate. 

“You didn’t…” Ilya tried to figure out how to word it, “Take from your other contracts?” 

“Eh,” Shane looked awfully casual for someone who also looked half dead, “it’s a good idea to get a sense of how long I can go.” 

“You don’t know?”

“It changes. Sometimes I can go for longer. But I like figuring out how to do other little tricks.” He looked at Ilya with what seemed like caution. “You never know when you might need it.” 

Please dance with me again. Please touch me like you did before. Ilya cleared his throat. “Well. Take what you need.” He willed everything else he wanted away. “I know you have to do it. Even if I, um,” Hate you. “Don’t like it.” 

He felt that familiar headache come back, and he watched as Shane regained his normal color, almost in an instant. He reprimanded himself for how much relief he felt at the sight. 

After Shane left, Ilya wondered whether if by ignoring him again this season he might get Shane to press up close against him like he’d done at the club. Preferably in a way that didn’t involve Ilya breaking and just begging him to do it. 

But in subsequent visits, something prevented Ilya from shutting Shane out completely. Maybe it was the flash of bewilderment that had crossed Shane’s face when Ilya pushed him away, or the expression of disappointment in Shane’s eyes when he’d left. 

Maybe it was because now that Ilya knew Shane had weak points, he could worry about what might become of him if anything bad ever did happen to Shane. Would he keep the skills he’d come to depend on? Or would he be stuck in his contract forever? 

That was definitely why he was concerned for Shane. Ilya had to make sure the amendment stayed put, no matter what. He would keep working on getting the Bruins closer and closer to winning. 

The Bruins won more games and kept pace with the other teams throughout the season, but ultimately couldn’t come out on top enough times. They missed the wildcard spot in the playoffs by two points. 

But they were much, much better than they had been before. 

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

Before Ilya’s third season in the NHL started, Travie Albin retired and passed the mantle of the captaincy to Ilya. It had been a surprising move, at least in Ilya’s eyes. Other players had been made captain at a younger age, but Ilya had assumed that the role would go to Charlie, given the way he’d stepped up massively in the past year and kept the team on track. 

When he’d mentioned this to Charlie, Charlie had paused, looked Ilya directly in the eye, and said, “Goalies should never be team captains.” His voice had been solemn and knowing, and Ilya decided not to push the topic. 

So now he had new captain-related responsibilities. He was the first to meet Matt Monahan, an exciting get of a defenseman who had won every award as a NCAA player before coming to the NHL and getting widespread attention for his quickness on the ice, his superb skating skill, and his record-setting slap shot from the point. 

Ilya asked Matt how he had gotten so good on his edges, and Matt had winked before explaining, “Figure skating classes. I took them in my hockey skates. Guys made fun of me, but now I’m better than them.” 

The answer had made Ilya beam. Someone who was willing to ignore other peoples’ opinions in order to better himself in the best way he knew how was exactly the kind of player Ilya wanted on his team.

Between Matt and a few other roster changes, Boston was shaping up to be a formidable opponent and a possible playoff contender, and the city knew it. In their opening games, the crowd grew quiet during play until their unison “Shoot!” “Pass it!” “He’s open!” cut through to the ice as if they’d been conducted as a choir. They knew that this year’s team was on a new level. 

Ilya was more focused than ever. He tried not to fantasize too much about what it might feel like when he finally lifted the Stanley Cup over his head, the weight heavy on his arms yet doing nothing to make him feel anything other than featherlight. He knew that if he imagined the moment too much he’d risk letting the fantasy usurp the way he would actually feel when it happened. And it would happen. 

He definitely tried not to think about how it had felt to dance with Shane, even all these months later and with the new perspective of another season. He’d think he’d managed to banish it from his mind once and for all, and then Shane would come barging in to see him again, and Ilya would realize he’d utterly failed at any attempt to eliminate those thoughts. 

They’d been cordial with one another during the rest of the season, though Shane often stayed for much longer than he could’ve possibly needed, and Ilya didn’t try to make him leave. Shane would talk about working on some kind of new skill, and Ilya would stand there and figure out whether Shane was talking about something to do with hockey, or if it was a more demon-related magic trick. 

Sometimes Ilya would realize Shane had just joined him to watch TV on the couch. It would feel… normal, for a while. Until the reality of what Shane actually was would come crashing back in, and Ilya would wonder what the hell was wrong with him for feeling so comfortable with Shane around. 

After Montreal had been eliminated from the playoffs, Ilya had asked Shane how he felt. 

Shane had shrugged, absentmindedly looking off in the distance. “Fine. It wasn’t our year.” 

That wasn’t really what Ilya was asking. “Is the cup- is it something you want?” 

“I don’t think it was, at first.” Shane had laughed to himself. “But now, I wouldn’t mind it. Might be nice.”

Might be nice. Ilya had fumed and walked away. 

Later, he asked Shane something else. “Will I be bad at hockey again after I win the cup?” 

Shane had just snorted. “I don’t think you were ever bad.” But he’d regarded Ilya with more concentration than Ilya had expected. “But I dunno. I guess we’ll see… maybe.” 

“We will.” 

And Ilya intended to make that come true, which was why he had been too busy with captain duties, designing workouts, and thinking about the key matchups he’d have this season to pay much attention to the gossip that was floating around the NHL and beyond. 

“Did you see that Shane Hollander is dating a movie star?” 

He’d almost dropped his water bottle when he heard his teammates talking about it at the gym. 

“What?” 

“Rose Landry. From those superhero movies?” 

Ilya had heard the name. He was pretty sure he knew what Rose Landry looked like. But that didn’t answer any questions. Did demons… date? Was Shane into this woman the way any human might be?

Or did he have another contract with her? It wasn’t like he’d ever specified he could only do hockey. He could probably do pretty much anything he wanted.

But Ilya didn’t appreciate the way that thinking about it made his cheeks flush and mess up his concentration while he was lifting weights. He wanted Shane to have more contracts, right? It meant Shane wouldn’t bother him as much. He could spend that time focusing on his team instead. 

And if it wasn’t a contract… maybe that was fine, too. Why would it matter to Ilya who Shane dated, or the fact that he dated at all? 

It was after a well fought game and gratifying win against Philadelphia that Ilya got the full story. 

“You have to help me.” It was the first time Ilya had seen Shane looking genuinely distressed. 

“I heard about your hot girlfriend.” The words felt hollow in Ilya’s mouth, but Shane didn’t seem to notice. 

“That’s the problem.” Shane plopped himself into a chair at Ilya’s counter with such force that the legs creaked a little. “It was an accident.” His mouth twisted as he bit his lip- not the kind of “dating a movie star” demeanor Ilya might have expected. 

Would it be rude if Ilya started making popcorn? He opted for a beer instead, sliding one to Shane on his way. “How did you get a girlfriend by accident?” 

“My friend invited me to a party and I sat at her table without noticing and we started talking and then I didn’t really see a way out of it without having to lie- will you stop laughing?” 

“Sorry.” He absolutely was not sorry. Something had loosened in him a little bit, seeing how little Shane seemed to actually want to be in the relationship. It was about time that Shane experienced some adversity in the life he’d manufactured specifically to keep Ilya from winning a cup. “So.” He took a sip of his beer while he let the pause hang in the air. “You want dating advice?”

“I’ll throw this bottle at you.” 

He knew Shane wouldn’t. 

“You don’t like her?” 

“I like her fine. She’s actually really nice.” Shane sighed. “We’re just not… compatible.” He gestured to himself in a way that was clearly meant to mean obviously, but Ilya was still extremely confused. 

“Are you…” Do you feel desire for humans? Can you even be with humans? Can you fall in love? How different are we, really?

“Gay, Ilya.” 

Ilya blinked in surprise. He supposed that did kind of answer at least some of his questions. “I did not know demons could be gay.” 

“Oh my god.” Shane clunked his head on the counter. “My contract is an idiot.” He looked back up at Ilya. “We’re a lot like humans, in some ways.” 

Ilya narrowed his eyes. “Which ways?” 

Shane looked unamused at the line of questioning. “I probably don’t know all-” he cut himself off and rubbed a hand over his face. “This is beside the point. I need you to help me figure out what to do about Rose.” 

What the hell did he need Ilya’s help for? “Just tell her you’re gay.” 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? What if she-”

“Shane.” Ilya ground the pads of his fingers into the cool surface of the counter. “It will be fine.” Because that wasn’t actually the thing about Shane that could ruin Rose’s life. “Does she know- about you?” 

“Were you not listening? Obviously she doesn’t-” Shane met Ilya’s exasperated look and took a breath. “Oh. No. She doesn’t.” 

But it wasn’t that simple. “You would not be able to tell me if she was a contract for you.” It didn’t even come out as a question. 

“Oh. Um, no.” 

“Either way,” Ilya was way too far out of his depth with this, but he figured he was probably as good as it was gonna get for someone like Shane. “Tell her you are gay and that you want to be friends instead.” 

“You make it sound so easy.”

 “It will be.” 

“Ugh.” 

Shane eventually left, moderately confident in his plan. Ilya thought back to the evening and tried to remember if he’d even gotten a telltale headache- he couldn’t recall one. Had Shane truly just shown up for advice? 

Weeks later, Shane turned back up, looking slightly more relaxed. “I did it.” He looked around Ilya’s apartment before sitting on the couch. 

Ilya joined him. “Was she… mad?” 

“No.” Shane shook his head. “She said she figured something was up. She was gonna talk to me about it soon anyway.”

 “Okay.” That sounded like it had all worked out. But Shane’s shoulders were slumped, like he was upset, somehow. 

Ilya supposed that if demons could date humans, anything was possible. Maybe Shane was upset about the breakup, even if it would never have worked out. For many, many reasons. “Are you, um, all right?” 

Shane looked over at him. “What do you mean?”

“You seem like you are-” What would offend Shane the least? “In a bad mood.” 

To Ilya’s shock, Shane hardly reacted. He just looked somewhere past Ilya’s left ear and rubbed at his own chin. “I guess I haven’t really broken up with anyone before. It just feels bad.” 

“It’s part of life,” Ilya was trying as hard as possible to make sure his incredulity wasn’t seeping into his words, but he wasn’t sure if he was successful. “For most people.” 

“I don’t know how you all do it.” Shane’s eyes found Ilya’s. “Just- agreeing to part ways like that. You might never see each other again.” 

“Sometimes it’s for the best.” And I don’t plan on seeing you ever again after I win that cup, so you better get used to it now. “But you are very… thoughtful.” 

Shane snorted. “Probably why Beelzebub hates me.” He looked up sharply at Ilya with wide eyes. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.” 

Ilya rolled his eyes. “I will tell my whole team.” 

Shane shifted on the couch and slid closer to Ilya. “Thank you.” 

He was close enough now that if Ilya leaned over just a little bit the outside of their arms would brush. What was Ilya supposed to do- not do it? “No one would believe me.” 

“I mean about Rose. Thank you for helping.” 

“I did not do anything.” And then they were sitting so close together that their thighs were touching, and their arms, and their shoulders. Ilya couldn’t remember who had moved. 

“You did.” Shane’s exhale was slow and controlled, and Ilya waited, despite the fire that was surging beneath his skin everywhere they were making contact. “I can add another year to the amendment, if you want.” 

Ilya’s jaw dropped. “What?” 

“As a thank you. For helping me. You didn’t have to.” 

Ilya was still trying to swallow his shock while making sure he didn’t move away- the last thing he wanted was to move from his spot next to Shane, maybe ever. “Wow.”

“So? That’s a yes to an extra year?” 

But Ilya shook his head. Even while fixating on the way Shane’s shoulder was almost leaning against his own, Ilya knew that the contract couldn’t be like this- he couldn’t let the type of life he was living go beyond the deadline he’d already set. He couldn’t fathom letting this kind of thing go on: realizing he could do favors for Shane and get him to extend the contract, leading to an entire career isolated from the rest of humanity, and quite possibly no cup. 

No. It had to end sooner than that. 

“I do not need an extra year. We will win in five. Or less.” 

Shane shifted away from Ilya, and all Ilya wanted was for Shane to come back. But Shane just gave a low whistle. “Geez. You’re confident.” 

“We are good.” This time it wasn’t even an exaggeration. The Bruins were good. 

“Yea, but,” Shane grinned, “Did you forget that to win a Stanley Cup you’re probably going to have to go through me?”

The crowd was roaring, and Ilya was planning his next three shifts. He needed to score, and soon. That would give the Bruins the chance to score once more before the clock ran out, and get the win without having to go to overtime. 

But he would play another overtime if he had to, and this time he wouldn’t be letting Shane so much as touch the puck. 

They were in the first round of the playoffs, and Montreal had the home ice advantage for four of the seven games in the series. The Bruins were down three games to two, which meant they had the benefit of their home ice in this game six. 

It also meant that they had to win in order to force a game seven, which they would. They had to. That was how the story went. Everything always came down to a game seven. 

Two of the three Montreal wins had come about thanks to overtime game winners from Shane. He was absolutely ruthless when the game was on the line- where other players caved to the pressure, Shane almost rose above it. He was a more accurate shooter and a harder hitter in the biggest moments. 

But that was why Ilya wanted to end it now. They needed a quick goal, and then they needed to stuff in another while Montreal was back on their heels. They’d scored two goals in under forty-five seconds before. 

Another minute trickled away, and Ilya rang a shot off the crossbar. Montreal was frantically clearing the puck out to the side and blocking paths to the net whenever they could. The Bruins were getting chance after chance. Still, the puck wasn’t going in. 

The coach started signaling to Charlie, who was almost halfway to the bench anyhow. Ilya’s line went out for the man advantage as Charlie beelined the rest of the way to the bench. They’d run these plays hundreds of time every week. Kmoch fumbled the puck, and precious seconds disappeared. 

Ilya blocked Shane’s long shot on the empty net, and circled back into the offensive zone. The extra skater posted up in front of the net, screening the goalie. 

Under a minute to play. They would have to force an overtime. 

Barnier sent a rocket at the net, but it missed by several inches and the puck ricocheted off the end boards and zipped around to the stick of a Montreal defenseman, who iced it. 

One more chance at the face-off. Ilya won the draw, shoving Shane’s stick up and kicking the puck back to Monahan. The puck bounced to the net and the goalie kicked it off to the side. Every player dove into the corner, pushing, shoving, yelling as the puck stayed glued to where the boards met the ice. 

Finally, Barnier came up with it and Ilya leapt desperately at the net, praying that Barnier would hit his stick for a deflection. 

The puck did hit his stick, but it bounced right into the center of the goalie’s chest. 

The buzzer sounded. 

Ilya turned away as Montreal mobbed their goalie. He caught glimpses of disappointed fans making their way out of the garden, stunned that this was the end. It wasn’t how it was supposed to go. It wasn’t right. 

But it was what happened. 

He reached under his water bottle and pulled out the cloth glove he’d need to shake the hands of Montreal. It was the first time he’d ever had to think about what he’d have to do to not seem disrespectful at the end of a playoff series. He wondered if even bringing the glove to the bench for that game meant that he’d always believed that they would lose. 

Though the Bruins had shown immense improvement this season and had not even been favored to win the series, the disappointment in the room was palpable. Everyone had thought that if just a few things had bounced a different direction, they could’ve had a chance.

 And if Shane Hollander hadn’t become a juggernaut, surpassing even the expectations that he’d already set. 

People said that traditional gender roles meant that men couldn’t cry in the presence of others, but they often forgot that there was one exception to that rule- men could cry as much as they wanted when they got eliminated from the playoffs. In fact, some of the guys on Ilya’s team were probably crying about much more than the loss of the season. 

Ilya knew- that was what he was doing. 

For the first time, even though he’d shown up to his very first day with the Bruins to find a team in shambles and far off from even playoff hopes, Ilya truly began to doubt the possibility of winning a cup within the five season limit. 

But he had two seasons to go, and he didn’t plan to waste them. 

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

the season four chapter was turning into a behemoth so I split it up! Here is the first part of it!

The following summer saw multiple Bruins following Ilya’s example and signing contracts well under what they were worth. Ilya hadn’t asked them to, but word had gotten around surrounding what he’d done. He was captain for a reason- people followed his example. 

Plus, it made the team all the more beloved by the fans. They loved that shit. 

With those contracts signed, more vital players arrived in Boston. Brooks Helamy, the second strong center they’d needed for years, was approaching age thirty and looking to sign with a team where he’d have a good chance at a cup without diminishing his own role. He’d been a standout on a weaker team, but he was ready to play on the second line behind Ilya. 

On defense, the Bruins acquired Sam Adams, highly sought after both because of his skill and his name. They already had Charlie, after all. Why not keep it going? Ilya suspected the people in charge of selling merchandise had made a strong argument as well. 

With this added depth and tight battles for the last few spots on the roster among AHL players and new draft picks, Boston was shaping up to be better than ever.

As soon as the season started, Ilya hit the ground running. He’d wallowed a bit in the summer, letting despondence take over at the end of each day as he imagined his entire life passing him by the way it had thus far. 

He tried to be more social, though it made him more paranoid and cautious. He was trying to figure out how how he might actually live like this, if he couldn’t win a cup either this season or the next. 

All his efforts did was make him train even harder. It wasn’t a sustainable way to be, just as he’d told Shane all those years ago. He could never fully relax, not even for a second. And the more he spent time with others, the more attention he got from people who knew he was single. He’d been able to stave them all off, but he dreaded the day when he’d have to make an excuse so outlandish everyone would see through his lies immediately. 

However, he didn’t ask Shane to reconsider adding that extra year to his contract, even though Shane had left that door open when he’d visited Ilya after the playoffs. 

“Tough loss,” he’d said, frowning when Ilya failed to level back some chirp about Montreal’s embarrassing sweep from the playoffs one round later. 

Ilya had given one word answers until Shane got the hint and left. He’d pretty much done that with every visit from Shane since, though sometimes he elected to simply keep doing whatever he’d been doing when Shane showed up. He wanted to send a clear message: having to see Shane was an obligation, no matter how many times Shane tried to be all buddy-buddy with him. No matter that he’d been moderately entertained by their previous conversations.

A couple of months into what was shaping up to be an incredibly promising season, Barnier invited Ilya over for dinner. 

“My wife and kids are away right now. I am cooking for one.” He’d tried to nudge Ilya in the side before Ilya moved out of range. “Bela and Charlie are coming too.” 

It had immediately made Ilya suspicious, but he figured it was in line with his new plan to be more social. Maybe Barnier wanted their line (plus the goalie) to establish more of a bond. 

The dinner started out casual and friendly, with Kmoch complaining about a recent Chipotle menu change and Charlie laughing about all the Dunkin’ Donuts ads he’d done over the summer. 

But as soon as the dregs of Barnier’s surprisingly good chicken parmesan had been cleared away, every face at the table turned towards Ilya. 

Ah. So there had been an ulterior motive to this dinner. 

“Rozanov,” Barnier started, “We wanted to talk to you, because we’ve just noticed, uh,” 

Ilya tried to look normal despite the ice creeping through his veins. Did they know about Shane? Was it possible?

“It’s nothing bad, dude,” Charlie cut in. Clearly, Ilya wasn’t keeping a good poker face. “We just wanted to have a conversation with you. Just in case.” 

“Just in case of what?” Ilya’s words came out slowly. He racked his brains, trying to think of what else they could possibly think warranted a dinner intervention if it wasn’t his stupid demon contract. 

“We’ve noticed,” Barnier was back with his very obviously rehearsed statement, “You have been single as long as we’ve known you.” 

“Since your rookie season,” Charlie added. 

“And so many women have been, uh, interested,” Kmoch chimed in for the first time. 

Ilya’s confusion grew. Were they trying to set him up on a date? “Yes,” he started, ignoring the sharp look from Barnier that clearly said he’d interrupted the speech, “I am not dating. I am trying to win a cup.” 

“But Ilya,” argued Charlie, “you should still live your life.” 

“Yes.” Barnier’s face was smooth again, happy to be back on track. “We think dating would not distract you too much. Most players can date and win cups at the same time. And-” he paused, spreading his hands on the table in front of him and looking earnestly at Ilya. “All three of us think that you should date anyone you want.” 

“Okaaaay,” Ilya surveyed the table and found all of them almost studying him, as if they were waiting for something. “Maybe over the summer I will-” 

“It’s okay if you want to date a man!” Charlie’s words were almost a shout, said in a single breath before anyone could try to stop him. 

There was silence as Ilya tried to process what Charlie had just said. Once he did, it was all he could do to try and keep his face serious. “You made me dinner,” he hid his smile behind his hand, “To tell me I should date a man?” 

“It sounds weird when you say it like that.” Kmoch was practically muttering into his lap. 

That pushed Ilya over the edge as he burst into laughter. When he caught the offended looks of Barnier and Charlie, he tried to get a handle on himself. “No, no, it was nice.” He took a breath, figuring they deserved some of the truth. “I would date a man,” No one looked surprised, “Or a woman.” Still, no one seemed shocked. They must’ve really spent some time researching. The thought made laughter bubble up in Ilya’s throat again. 

“Can we set you up on dates?” Charlie looked way too eager at the idea.

“No! No. It’s okay.”

“But-“

“I really want to focus on the team. I want to win the cup. Maybe after, I will date.” You sound like some kind of self-sacrificing hero, the voice in his head sounded suspiciously like Shane for some reason, celibate forever until you can achieve eternal glory. But it was the best explanation he could come up with.

He turned to Kmoch. “You said you brought dessert?” 

Relieved to be free of the tension, Kmoch jumped up to get the cake he’d put in Barnier’s fridge. 

“It took him longer to come around.” Barnier’s voice was low, “But he is okay, now.”

“Um.” It was almost touching. He’d been so focused on the team that he hadn’t noticed that his own line mates were busy conquering their own bigotry. But when he thought about it, it was really very sweet of them. “Thank you.” 

Charlie grinned as Kmoch came back in with the cake. “We’ve got your back.” 

The night went by swiftly once that conversation was out of the way. The guys tried to bring up the concept of dating a few more times, but Ilya evaded the topic without fail. Eventually, they were back to joking around. 

By the time Ilya returned home, it was much later than he’d planned, which was why he was surprised to see Shane standing outside his building. 

“Ilya.” Did Shane look worried? “Is everything okay?” 

Maybe there was something weird in the air tonight. “…Yes?” 

Shane immediately relaxed, his shoulders dropping and his hands falling from where they’d been fidgeting with each other. “Okay. Good.” 

Ilya motioned with his head for Shane to follow him inside. 

“It felt like you were… calling for me or something.” Shane studied Ilya for a moment more. “I dunno. Maybe I imagined it.” 

Ilya was beginning to feel nauseous. Shane had said before that he felt that kind of pull only when- 

“Did you guys do a late practice?” 

Ilya’s heart rate settled- at least Shane didn’t suspect anything. “No. I was at dinner. With my line, and my goalie.” 

“Wow.” Shane looked impressed. “You guys really get along.” 

“Yea.” Ilya hesitated- should he tell Shane? Eh, what the hell. “They were suspicious, because I do not date. They were trying to tell me that… they did not care who I dated.” 

Shane picked up on what Ilya was saying immediately, and snorted. “Oh, god. What the fuck did you say?” 

“I told them I care more about hockey.” 

“Nice. You didn’t even have to lie.” 

“Well I-” But Ilya cut off his own argument. The very existence of the contract made that statement true. “I guess not.”

He poured a water both for himself and for Shane. “I was nervous when they started on their whole speech. I thought they figured something out about you.” 

Shane’s laugh was weaker this time. “That would’ve been a headache for me.” 

It was only because Shane’s face was pinched with stress that Ilya didn’t investigate further. What would happen if anyone somehow found out about what Shane was? Did he have some kind of extra magic trick that would fix it? Or would he have to go to Beelzebub?

“You gotta stop making such good friends with your team, dude.” Shane had half a smile on his face, “It’s too risky.” 

“I am captain.” Ilya pointed to the part of his chest that would have a “C” on it if he was wearing a jersey. “I have to.”

“I’m captain too.” Ilya had forgotten about that. Montreal had made Shane captain- he was far and away their best player. It made sense, aside from Shane not being an actual human.

“You want me to have no friends?” 

“No, I mean, it doesn’t-” Shane cut himself off as he refilled his water before leaning next to where Ilya was sitting at the counter. “I guess I didn’t think it was that important.” 

“Do… do you have friends?” Ilya wasn’t even sure what he was asking. Other demons? Human? He’d been with Rose Landry, at least for a little bit. He couldn’t be entirely antisocial. 

But Shane was ready with his answer. “No. Not really.” 

“That sounds really lonely.” Ilya didn’t mean to sound so solemn when he said that. Nor did he mean to be looking into Shane’s eyes, which weren’t too far away from his own. It had felt like a comfortable distance until this very moment. 

“It’s not so bad.” But Shane’s voice was little more than a whisper. His eyes dropped down to Ilya’s mouth and back so fast that Ilya wondered if he’d imagined it. 

Ilya stood up slowly, bringing himself even closer to Shane. And as he studied Shane’s face, he realized that there was something in Shane’s expression that had been there from the very start, but that he’d overlooked until now. A fracture in the back of Shane’s eyes that suggested that maybe Shane, somehow, was just as lonely as Ilya was. 

He didn’t really even have to take a step closer to Shane. All he had to do was lean forward, and admit to himself that the reason Shane had thought Ilya was trying to summon him earlier was because Ilya had spent the entire dinner with his line mates (and Charlie) thinking about him. 

How if things were fucking normal, and Ilya could’ve thought about what it might be like to date, that someone like Shane would be exactly his type. 

How the shape of Shane’s mouth haunted his dreams. 

And that Ilya had given up on longing for any kind of contact from anyone until he danced with Shane in the club two seasons ago, and he hadn’t been able to forget it since, as hard as he tried. 

Maybe his own deprivation had backed him into a corner, drawing him to the only person he could ever dream to have until he was free, and maybe that wasn’t how he’d feel in any other circumstance. 

But Ilya couldn’t be bothered with thinking about any of that. Not when Shane was leaning forward, and Ilya was leaning in, and Shane was threading a hand through the back of Ilya’s hair while Ilya was sliding his hands up the sides of Shane’s neck, cradling Shane’s jaw as he ran the edge of his thumb along the skin there, guessing correctly that it was more sensitive. 

Shane just about shuddered under his touch, and Ilya briefly considered leaning in and running his tongue along Shane’s neck, just to see how he would react. He wanted to make Shane fall apart as he sank his teeth into the spot under his ear. He wanted to do to Shane exactly what he wanted Shane to do to him, because now that Shane was here in front of him, he was shaking with a deep want he had truly never felt before. He’d never let himself feel it. 

But when Shane’s mouth was just inches away, Ilya’s priorities were clear. He could feel Shane’s breath tickling his bottom lip as he leaned in far enough that their noses brushed and their lips parted. 

Even that would’ve been enough to make Ilya lose control, but he didn’t. He wanted to savor every single second, every rush of heat against his hands on Shane and throughout his whole body, which was angling Shane back up against the counter. He leaned in a little more, tilted his head, and-

His hands were suddenly cold and empty, and Shane was standing at the other side of the room. 

“I can’t.” His eyes looked almost wet. “God, Ilya. I’m- I’m sorry. I- I wish I-”

“It’s okay.” Ilya’s voice was rough, as if he hadn’t spoken for days. “It was my fault.” He looked down. He’d been so sure. 

“No.” Shane turned away and headed towards the door, but Ilya still caught every word. “None of this is your fucking fault. I- please don’t think that-” He turned back to Ilya, his mouth still open and searching for the words. But the longer Ilya just looked at him, the more Shane seemed to struggle. “I have to go.” 

As Shane turned to leave, Ilya felt that minor headache appear before fading away, and he was left with a quiet apartment, just as it always was, yet in this moment feeling somehow emptier. 

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

it's still season four, for those keeping count!

This particular game against Montreal was brutal. Every single person on the ice and in the building wanted the win. The speed of the game paired with the intensity in every play made it feel like a playoff game, even though it was still the regular season. 

Ilya was trying to match the energy around him, but it was difficult to control the way his stomach squirmed every time he looked at Shane. His mind, typically entirely focused on letting his instinct lead him to success on the ice, kept drifting back to thoughts of Shane’s breath on his face, and the warm skin beneath his hands. 

A feeling he hadn’t had in years, and if the way Shane had jumped out of his grasp was any indication, a feeling he wouldn’t be having again until he won that damn cup. 

He expected to see a look of focus when he met Shane’s gaze, or even a studied indifference. But when their eyes locked, Ilya felt a flush run up his spine, noticeable despite his already high heart rate. 

Shane was far from fixated on the game. Instead, his eyes were full of… heat. Dark, and boring into the back of Ilya’s skull, with his mouth set in a line. Ilya could practically see into Shane’s mind, and what he saw made him want to pull Shane in right there. 

But Shane had ripped himself away from Ilya. What the hell was going on? 

Maybe it was the repetition of this question in Ilya’s mind that made him slow to react when a defenseman with a huge slap shot got the puck on the point. Maybe Ilya wasn’t quite firing on all cylinders, and he let his body twist to the side when blocking the shot. A natural reaction to someone dodging a blow outside of hockey, but a rookie mistake to make on the ice. Hockey equipment was designed to protect the front of the body more than anything else. 

So when Ilya did twist a little too much and the puck smashed into his largely unprotected rib, he fell to the ice immediately with a cry so piercing he shocked even himself. 

He couldn’t move. He could hardly get a breath. He turned his hips to try and get himself into a position that hurt less, but he only made the pain worse. He could already tell- it had to be broken. 

And through the haze of pain, he realized how much of a problem that was. 

No, no, no. He tried to get up, despite yells from his team telling him to stay down. 

Dana was almost already at his side, flanked by two players that had held her by the arms and skated her over to him. 

“Please, please no,” he was gasping, panic and pain combining to make breathing almost impossible. “You can’t touch me, please don’t touch me.” 

“You have to let me see it, Ilya.” Dana’s voice was as calm as ever. “I know this is hard, but I can help you. I can make it hurt less.” She was speaking slowly, with every word enunciated. 

Ilya kept shaking his head, and he heard a faint scuffling somewhere above him- there were skates all lined up in front of where the cameras were, blocking them from view. His teammates had his back. 

They’d probably have a different opinion if he killed the team doctor before the game was over, though. 

He flinched away when Dana reached out, though she was continuing to say what sounded like soothing words to him- he kept responding with “No, please, no. Stay away.” 

Then, there was a new commotion over by the rest of the players. 

“I’m his friend, okay? Let me through.” 

It was Shane. Fuck. 

“Back the fuck up, Hollander.” Barnier was standing his ground, and Ilya had never appreciated him more. 

“I know he doesn’t like it when people touch him. I can convince him to let the doctor look at him. I promise.” His voice was lower this time, though Ilya still heard it. 

That was apparently enough for Barnier to let Shane get to him. A part of Ilya had to wonder- how many people had noticed his little aversion? Had Kmoch picked up on it as well? Ilya supposed they’d been kind enough not to hold another intervention- one on his sexuality had been enough. 

“Ilya.” Shane’s voice was much closer now. Ilya squeezed his eyes shut, though it didn’t make his rib hurt any less. “It’s okay. You can let her touch you.” His voice dropped even more. “I’m handling it. I promise.” 

Ilya thought back to Shane and all his “party tricks,” and any of the things he’d said he’d been working on. Had this been one of them? Ilya hadn’t been paying attention.

Could he trust Shane in this moment? Was he fundamentally even trustworthy at all? Maybe Ilya could never truly know. He’d have to trust his own gut on this one. 

A tear trickled across his temple as he cracked an eye open and slowly nodded at Dana. 

Her hand was almost as warm as his own skin, though he was still sweating from the exertion of the game. She pressed on the place where the puck had hit, and he gritted his own teeth to keep from crying out, though a whine still leaked out of his mouth. 

“Can’t you give him something?” Oh, god. That was Shane’s voice, asking. To everyone else, he must’ve looked like he was intruding. He couldn’t very well say, I’m using my magical demon powers to make sure Dana doesn’t die. But he could at least try to be unobtrusive.

“Back up, Hollander.” Dana was on it. Her voice got closer to Ilya’s ear. “If you don’t think you can get up we can get the gurney. But if you can get down the tunnel, I can start working on you in the next five minutes. I don’t feel anything out of place, but the area is swelling.” 

Ilya nodded, eager to get whatever medical treatment he needed over with. He remembered that night at the club, and how Shane might have a time limit. “I can stand.” 

“Ilya-”

“Shut up, Hollander.” But he still made eye contact with Shane as he stood, waiting to see Shane’s nod of confirmation. He could let Dana touch him once he was down the tunnel. Pain shot through him again. How many weeks of recovery would this be? God fucking dammit.

The cheers got louder as Ilya skated himself off the ice. He could hear the hope in the voice of every fan- if he went off under his own power, maybe he would be back soon. 

They would probably be waiting a while. 

As soon as Ilya was settled on his couch, armed with pain medication, numbing cream, and strict instructions to make careful movements, he heard a knock at his door. 

He dragged himself over to open it, half wondering if some of his teammates were dropping by to check on him despite his assurances before he left that he was okay, he just planned on sleeping for the rest of the night. 

As always, it was only Shane. 

“Oh. Hi, Hollander.” His voice was flat, but he could feel his blush spreading across his cheeks. He hadn’t wanted to see Shane so soon after the incident. He was still embarrassed about the non-kiss between them, and he was even further mortified that he’d needed Shane to step in and help him during the game like that. He hadn’t intended for anyone (but especially Shane) to see him in such a position of weakness. 

“Should you be up and around already?” Shane was studying what felt like every inch of Ilya’s torso, and Ilya fought the urge to turn away from him. 

“I am fine.” But Ilya made his way back to the couch as he said it. “I just need rest.” 

“That’s it?” 

Ilya was shocked to see that Shane’s face was creased with worry, a sharp line going across his forehead that Ilya had never seen before. 

“That is the treatment. It did not puncture a lung.” And thank fucking god for that.

“It just-” Shane was speaking his words to the floor, though his eyes kept flying up to Ilya’s torso. “It looked like it really hurt.” 

Ilya started to laugh before wincing and gritting out, “It did.” 

“I thought it was gonna be worse.” 

“Sorry to disappoint.” 

“That’s not what-” Shane cut himself off with a sigh. “Never mind.” 

He stood in front of where Ilya was on the couch. “I think I can fix it.”

That made Ilya’s eyes lock onto Shane’s. He’d been wishing Shane would spare him what was likely to soon be increasing awkwardness and just leave, but if he could do something about Ilya’s rib… Ilya would be able to keep Dana safe. He would be able to play again soon. 

Ilya tried to seem casual. “Another party trick?” The waver in his voice wasn’t fooling Shane at all. 

“I’ve been working on it.” Shane eyed Ilya. “I think I told you about it, at some point.” 

“I was probably ignoring you.” 

Shane didn’t laugh. He knelt, bringing his face practically level with Ilya’s ribs. “Can I lift your shirt?” 

Ilya could only nod, his words stuck in his throat. 

Shane hissed as he surveyed the injury, before he set his hand right under the worst part of the bruise spreading across Ilya’s skin. His hand wasn’t as steady as Dana’s- Ilya swore Shane’s fingers were shaking. 

His rib still hurt like hell, even as Shane bit at his own lip and frowned in concentration, willing the break to fix faster. But as they sat there, lapsing into unified breaths that made their chests rise and fall as one, the pain started to recede, bit by bit.

Which meant that Ilya was able to let other thoughts take hold in his brain, like how good Shane’s hand felt on his side, or how despite the concern painted on Shane’s face, the heat in his eyes had never really left. Every so often, Shane bent his fingers a little, pulling the tips of his fingers along Ilya’s skin, which made Ilya bite back a moan. 

The feeling was intoxicating, amplified all the more by the fact that no one had touched him like this before. The way Shane was currently lingering, making the infinitesimal amount of friction seem like the only feeling in the universe, was entirely new territory.

He was relishing every moment of it, when a realization crashed over him like a bucket of icy water. 

“Shane.” His voice was threatening to shake again.

“Hang on. I’m almost-” 

“Shane!” Ilya’s voice was more urgent this time. He sat up a little more on his spot on the couch. 

This time, Shane took his hand away, and Ilya immediately missed it. “What? Is everything-” 

“You took away the curse. On the ice.” 

Shane nodded slowly, a trace of a frown still printed on his face. “Yes? It worked.” 

“How long-” Ilya rubbed at his eye, “have you known you could do that?” 

“At least a year, I guess. Maybe more.” Shane shrugged. “I told you, I was trying some things-” 

“Over a year?” Ilya was doing a bad job of keeping the anger out of his voice now, but he couldn’t help it. “A fucking year?” 

“What is your problem? You managed to go a while without an injury. It wasn’t necessary until-” 

“You could’ve given me a break. You could’ve used your little trick to let me-” Ilya’s voice was halting, “even for five minutes, you could’ve-” 

At last, Shane seemed to understand. “That’s not in the contract and you know it.” He gave Ilya a grim look. 

“But-” But you did it today. You know I’ve been desperate. You’ve seen it. His heart was pounding so hard he could practically see it moving the muscles through his shirt. 

“Can you let me finish with your rib before you pout and ignore me? It takes more effort than-”

Ilya didn’t wait for Shane to finish before he grabbed Shane’s wrist and pushed his hand against himself once again. “Do it, then.” 

The skin of Shane’s hand seemed hotter against Ilya’s body than it had been just before. And Ilya did a poorer job of hiding how it felt, now that the pain was mostly gone. He dug his elbows into the couch, angling himself forward so he’d be pressing back against the point where Shane’s hand met his rib. 

He could’ve floated in that feeling. He could’ve let it go on forever. Maybe that was all he really wanted. And as Shane drew his hand back, his work finally done, Ilya let out what he could only describe as a whimper. 

“Please. Please don’t.” His fingers closed back around Shane’s wrist.

Shane didn’t pull away. “Ilya-” his voice cracked on the first syllable, “Are you trying to punish me?” Now it was just a whisper. 

Punish him? Ilya wasn’t giving a single thought to what would or would not hurt Shane. “Keep touching me.” 

“Jesus christ.” But Shane did. He pressed his other hand to Ilya too. “Look. You’re not supposed to know- I mean, you already know too-” he only sighed when Ilya slid lower on the couch and shoved his hands past the edge of Shane’s shirt. “I would get in trouble if I lifted the curse.” 

“But you-” 

“I wasn’t supposed to do that, okay?” Shane’s jaw was clenched, but he caressed the skin of Ilya’s stomach before moving up to his chest, pushing Ilya’s shirt almost to his shoulders. “I’m gonna get in trouble. Massive trouble.” He let his nails dig in a little right below Ilya’s collar bone. “So maybe try being a little fucking grateful-” 

That was about all Ilya could take before he was surging up to crash Shane’s lips into his, one hand freeing itself from where it was beneath Shane’s shirt to cup the back of his neck. 

Shane responded, no longer trying to speak. He let Ilya reel him in more, bracketing Ilya’s hips with his knees and letting Ilya pull his head down to kiss him even deeper. 

The sense in the room was suddenly frantic, with both shirts flying behind the couch in record time and both pairs of pants sliding down only enough to be effective, as stopping to take them all the way off could’ve put a stop to the whole precarious thing. 

Predictably, Shane was the first to sit up a little, letting his lips get too far away for Ilya to chase. But to Ilya’s shock, he didn’t climb off from where Ilya was just about straining against him on the coach. Instead, he braced himself with one arm behind Ilya’s head and used the other to guide Ilya’s chin until they were looking each other in the eye. “Did you know that you drive me fucking crazy?” 

Ilya tried to smirk at him, though he suspected he looked too far gone for that to be effective at all. “In what way?” 

“Fucking- just-” Shane’s attempt at words were somewhere between moans and exasperated sighs, and Ilya bit at his lip to make him forget whatever he was trying to say. It worked. 

They shifted to a horizontal position on the couch, though Shane hesitated as he let most of his body weight press against the rib he’d just healed. “Does this feel okay? Maybe we should switch-” but Ilya pulled him in again before they could really strategize about it. The rib was a little sore, but it wasn’t taking up even an iota of space in Ilya’s brain at the moment. 

He was more focused on the muscles in Shane’s back, and the way they moved under his hands, or tensed up when he rolled his hips. Despite the urgency in their kisses, Ilya let his hands meander down to Shane’s waist, pressing a thumb on one of his hipbones and guiding him up a little until- there it was. Shane’s eyes, trained on the corner of Ilya’s mouth whenever he pulled away, seemed to go blank before he gasped and clawed at Ilya’s shoulder. 

“This is better than a thank you, yes?” The words were mostly just to keep Ilya grounded- Shane really didn’t seem to hear them. 

Or maybe he did- he adjusted the angle of his hips, and this time Ilya was the one gasping. Keep it together. To say he had no stamina when it came to sex was an understatement. But he wanted this to last as long as possible- he had no idea what Shane was really capable of, and he wanted to at least stay on par with other humans. 

Though he almost lost it altogether when Shane bit down on a spot beneath his jaw, where ill-fitting helmet straps in the past had rubbed raw before healing back over with a tougher layer of skin. It was an overload of the senses, with single points of pain and pleasure mixing to create a level of transcendence he’d never truly understood before. 

It’s going to be so much worse keeping to myself after this. He tried to shove the thought away as Shane moved faster above him. It was absolutely true, but all he wanted was to catalog every second into his memory, even as he recognized that some feelings could never be replicated. 

What if I never win a cup, and I never have this again? That particular thought sparked a uniquely hard thrust from Ilya, and a new sense of alertness washed through him. He could never ever let that happen. He’d only made it this far because… because it hadn’t been like this, before. As if to prove his point, Shane gripped the side of his face with one hand and steered him into another kiss that was mostly teeth and tongue, panting heavily as they both got closer and closer. 

One more thought occurred to Ilya as they both finished, and Shane ran his hand back over the sore section of his no longer broken rib. What if I do win a cup, and I do get free, and I still never have this again? 

That was the question that scared him more than anything. 

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

the conclusion of season four!

“You never said you were friends with Hollander.” 

Ilya half shrugged as he tied his skates, pretending Barnier wasn’t glowering at him. He was back at practice after the several week slog he’d been forced to take off so that he didn’t make Dana think he had super healing powers. At least he’d convinced her he was better without putting her in any danger- after what had happened on the ice, all he could do was admit to her that he’d really rather she (or anyone else) didn’t touch him. 

“It never came up.” 

“Oh, come on.” Barnier ripped a piece of tape with more force than necessary. “Did you think we were gonna be mad because he’s the enemy? It doesn’t work like that. We all have friends on other teams.” 

“That’s how we got Helamy.” Kmoch was slipping his chest protector over his head on the other side of Ilya. “I played with him a few years ago. Told him when we went out for a beer that we have the best gym and the best development program. Now, here he is.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling, thinking some more. “Maybe he wanted to get a house on Cape Cod.” 

“Or win a cup.” Ilya injected as much confidence into his words as he could. 

“Sure, of course.” Barnier waved it off as if to say, obviously. “Too bad you couldn’t convince Hollander to come here too.” 

The very idea of that made Ilya want to scream into his empty helmet. 

Things with Shane had been well… interesting, lately. Ilya had wondered if it might be awkward after that very first time, with both of them sleepy and blissed out on the couch. But Shane had eventually gotten up and cleaned them both off, and checked Ilya’s rib one last time before leaving. 

Ilya had been half asleep, though he’d felt the warmth of Shane’s hand on his cooling skin, and then he’d felt- he could’ve sworn he felt lips on his chest too, but it was equally likely he could’ve dreamt it. 

It wasn’t like he was dreaming about anything else, these days. 

He’d been nervous to see Shane again- coiled tightly like a spring in every interaction, petrified at the thought of hearing a knock on the door. He didn’t even really know what he wanted. Would it be better for Shane to remind him that they had far from that kind of relationship? Or for Ilya to decide for himself that anything apart from that one hiccup would compromise his efforts to win the cup and break free of the contract? Or would it be possible to mutually agree that a little fooling around in the meantime really wasn’t going to do any harm?

He was completely lying to himself. He knew exactly what he wanted. 

But when Shane showed up again, he’d looked even worse than he had that time he’d avoided visiting Ilya for weeks and weeks. He was hunched over, his skin almost translucent, and balancing as if a light shove could topple him over. 

Before he could even acknowledge what he was doing, Ilya had picked Shane up in a fireman’s carry and deposited him on the guest bed, even though there wasn’t a thing he could do for Shane aside from sit there and hope that Shane could take whatever energy he needed in order to fix what was wrong. 

He even urged Shane to take more when that familiar headache came and went. 

But Shane, looking a little better though not dramatically back to normal as he had the last time, had given Ilya a quizzical look. “Are you forgetting you need that?” 

Ilya had felt a blush on his cheeks once again. “I think maybe this is my fault,” he’d muttered, gesturing to Shane’s prone form in the bed. 

Shane had immediately disagreed. “No. It’s not. Ilya, you don’t know how- look at me.” And he’d  reached out to the side of Ilya’s face, to make Ilya look directly into his eyes. 

This move had made Ilya’s blood start to heat up again- it felt just as electric as Shane’s hand had felt on his healing ribs, though given Shane’s diminished state Ilya doubted they’d be able to do an exact reprise. 

No matter. If Shane wanted it, Ilya was willing to think of something. 

Ilya had let Shane’s thumb caress his cheek before reaching up and threading their fingers together, and when Shane didn’t oppose that, he kissed the inside of Shane’s wrist. He’d leaned down slowly, fitting his body gently around Shane’s before kissing the corner of his mouth and smiling to himself when the light pressure of Shane’s arm around him indicated that he really shouldn’t think about backing away. 

The kiss between them then had tasted even better than it had before, which puzzled Ilya. He figured that it wasn’t specifically about sex, so much as the novelty of having their bodies pressed together, in whatever circumstances that came about. He threaded their fingers together when Shane’s mouth moved beneath him, tender and curious, like he had in Ilya’s dreams ever since the last time. 

When Ilya separated their mouths by a mere inch to catch his breath, Shane murmured, “I don’t think this is a good idea,” but he didn’t let go of Ilya’s hand as he said it. 

“Is it not allowed?” Ilya had paused, frozen in the realization that Shane was in no condition for another round of whatever had made him this weak to begin with. 

Shane was slow to answer. “Technically, it’s allowed, but…” He trailed off, and looked past Ilya, somewhere at the ceiling. 

“But what?” Ilya hadn’t been able to help himself, and gave Shane another kiss on the cheek as he asked. 

“You know what, there’s no problem.” Shane’s face cleared. “Kiss me again?” 

An entirely new feeling surged through Ilya at the question. Warmth spread through his chest, all the way down to his toes as he leaned in with a little too much force, clinking their teeth together and laughing breathlessly before connecting their mouths for real. 

Shane kissed him back, freeing one hand to stroke Ilya’s cheek, and in that moment Ilya didn’t want to think about what they really were to each other. He just wanted this, as much as he could possibly have it.

“He’s good enough to beat you. His team is good enough to beat your team.” 

“I know.” 

“Idiot.” 

“I know.” 

“I will not help you.” 

“You mentioned that.” 

“You cannot sabotage him on the ice. It would break the contract. You have to find another way, if you don’t want to lose him.” 

“If I tell you I found a way, will you stop hating me?” 

“No. I will still hate you. Tell me what you will do.” 

“Distract him.” 

————————

They’d been so fucking close. 

Ilya could almost taste it. It had been in the air, from their intense and decisive victory against Toronto in round one, to their near sweep against Carolina in round two. The team had been skating together as well as they ever had. Charlie was in top form. Ilya’s line was scoring multiple points per game, with every player setting new standards of production. 

Ilya had been utilizing every last skill in his arsenal. He was unafraid to land big hits or take shots from a tough angle- he knew he was good enough to make it happen. He could feel the anticipation bloom around him whenever he got the puck, as everyone looked to see which exciting move he might do with it. 

It could’ve been possible for them to avoid Montreal altogether. Though Boston was the better team on paper, the previous year’s first round loss loomed large in the memory of many players. They’d hoped some other team would knock them out. 

Unfortunately, that hope grew smaller and smaller before it winked out altogether, as Montreal rolled through its first two rounds as well. 

They’d met in the conference finals. 

Shane had shown up at Ilya’s door at the conclusion of the other two playoff series. He’d start off by asking how Ilya was feeling, and take a little energy as Ilya steered him into the bedroom almost immediately. 

He didn’t give much care to the fact that he was probably supposed to be resting before the next round started. 

It was a push and a pull- the closer he got to the Stanley Cup, the more he wanted it. The desperation throbbed under his skin like a second heartbeat and threatened to overtake him in moments where he felt the team was performing particularly well- it took a nearly physical step back and slowing down to remember that if he didn’t stay focused on the current opponent, he was going to blow it for everyone. 

But the closer he got to the cup, the more he thought about Shane. How once he was free, their connection would be well and truly severed. 
For years, he’d fantasized about what it might be like to never see Shane again. To welcome other people into his life- for friendship, for sex, for anything, really. And to know that the life of isolation he’d led was over for good. 

And he still couldn’t wait to be able to live his life normally for the first time since his teen years. No more panic in public places. No more close calls. And certainly no more sidestepping of his own teammates. But lately, that anticipatory feeling was paired with a new level: dread. 

Where would Shane go at the end of the contract? Would he continue to play in the NHL, or was he ready to abandon that job as soon as he wasn’t preventing Ilya from winning? And if Shane did keep playing, there was no guarantee that Ilya would still be good enough to play against him. 

Sometimes, the dread built up so much that Ilya would become almost feral in bed with Shane, pinning him against the mattress and pounding into him at a bruising pace that Shane responded to with enthusiasm, if not a slight confusion at Ilya’s intensity. Then, Ilya would pretend he was simply too exhausted to move, and drape an arm across Shane’s back, an action just short of actual cuddling. He’d try to replay every last moment until they were burned into his memory. 

Once Shane left, Ilya would stare at the ceiling, oscillating between his favorite flavors of self-loathing: frustration at himself for not kissing Shane sooner, and unease for how this new development made him feel about the contract. 

If only he could switch off the urge to look at Shane’s mouth every time he visited, and if only he could ignore the fact that Shane couldn’t stop looking at him either. 

By the time they knew that it would be a Boston vs. Montreal conference final, Shane and Ilya had both agreed that they should keep their distance for the duration of the series- it just seemed like the right move. 

Or it would’ve been, had that little arrangement lasted for longer than two games. 

The series was tied 1-1, and Ilya was playing terribly. He was keeping up with his line, but he wasn’t showcasing his usual leadership by stepping up with clutch goals or staying disciplined when he was exhausted on the ice. 

He’d returned to his apartment, telling himself that he needed to pack for Montreal before he let himself stew in disappointment. But Shane was already waiting for him, sitting outside of his door despite his ability to get wherever he wanted regardless of distance or locks. 

“You can tell me to leave,” Shane had started, though Ilya was already pushing him inside, “I know we said we wouldn’t, but Ilya-” 

Ilya had cut him off with a kiss, letting his frustrations seep out as he kicked his door shut and backed Shane up against it. “I know.” He’d mumbled it against Shane’s mouth, not wanting to pull away for even a second. He was almost in awe of himself, at how relieved he’d been to see Shane there. At how though Shane was the one he needed to beat, the only feeling that made him motivated enough to have faith that he might play better in the next game was the pressure of Shane’s mouth on his. 

He hurriedly threw Shane’s shirt out of the way and gasped at the extra skin-to-skin contact.

“You know,” he started, massaging Shane’s shoulders before marking across the same areas with his mouth, “I do not need this. I made it years without.” His statement was slightly contradictory, given the way he was stroking the skin just below Shane’s waist and tugging at Shane’s pants as he said it. 

But Shane paused, and brought a hand up to Ilya’s chin, before running a finger along the edge of Ilya’s eyebrow. The action felt familiar, though Ilya couldn’t remember being touched in that particular way before. 

“You might not need it. But-” Was Shane blushing? Could he even do that? “Would it surprise you to know that I need it?” 

“You-”

“I’m not here because I’m nice.” Shane kissed Ilya fiercely, one hand clenched around a chunk of Ilya’s hair. “I’m here because I’m selfish.” 

That had punched the rest of the breath out of Ilya, and he didn’t say much else the rest of the night. 

They’d kept it up from that meeting, all the way to game seven. Ilya thought he’d been compartmentalizing enough- that by continuing to see Shane, he could free up the rest of his time to focus completely on the series. He didn’t think about the way Shane arched his back when he adjusted his angle just so. He didn’t look at Shane’s mouth when they lined up for the face-off. 

That’s what Ilya tried to remind himself when the Bruins lost game seven, falling short of their goal yet again. 

He hadn’t played well. That was the long and the short of it. He’d known he wasn’t meeting the standard he had set, and had tried to play better as the series progressed, and had failed. He’d let down his team, the fans, and the city. 

He remained stoic as he congratulated Montreal and made his way back to the locker room. He spit out canned responses when someone shoved a microphone in his face. For some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to show his own devastation the way he had last season. He couldn’t risk someone telling him that no, it hadn’t been his fault, and that teams didn’t win or lose on individuals. 

He couldn’t let any of his teammates or coaches lie to his face like that. 

He waited until he was home to break down. And once he really let loose, he couldn’t stop it. He’d been just a few wins short of freedom, and he’d blown it. Now, he had only one more chance left, and he had to suffer through another year of the contract. The realization unfolded over him as his vision of every coming day of the next year knocked up against his skull until he was curled up in a ball on the floor, gripping his head and shaking. 

How had he managed to fail, right at the finish line? 

It was all his fault. 

There was a knock at the door, and his blood ran cold. It could only be one person. And that person had played perfectly well. Better than Ilya. All while making sure Ilya got his fill of the feeling he’d been deprived of for years. At the exact time Ilya had needed to think about nothing but hockey. 

There was a period of about thirty seconds where Ilya considered opening the door. He could let Shane hold him, cradle his head to his chest and silently hold him for as long as Ilya wanted him to. He had a feeling Shane would do it. 

But Ilya didn’t move from his spot. If Shane really badly wanted to get past the door, he could. He could do anything he wanted. He could have anything he wanted, including Ilya. 

Eventually, the knocking stopped, and Shane never came in. 

Ilya fell asleep right there on the floor, in a puddle of his own self disgust. 

Chapter 10: Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

season five!

Montreal won the Stanley cup, and Ilya ignored Shane all summer. He even kept it up as the season started again. 

He knew Shane was around whenever he felt that quick headache come and go. He was more than used to it, but he resented it more than he ever had before. He let out slow breaths of anger every time he had to flinch away from someone in order to protect them. 

He should be done with this shit. He should be free. 

The worst part was that he couldn’t really blame Shane, at least not entirely. It had been his own decision making that had gotten him in this mess, and his own inability to execute under the high stakes of the playoffs. 

But if he did assign some blame to Shane, he could tell himself that he’d failed so thoroughly at the end of last season because he’d been too preoccupied with the thrill of Shane in his bed, against every inch of his body. Even the times Shane had touched him in a casual manner by tangling their fingers together or rubbing the edge of Ilya’s shoulder lingered in his mind well after Shane had left. 

He could blame Shane, instead of admitting to himself that the fact that he had choked on the ice may have had nothing to do with their hookups. He couldn’t let himself believe that wanting something too much had made him lose it, had locked up his body and took away the special qualities that had always made him a dangerous player. 

At least Shane stayed away. Ilya wondered if he’d come to boast at some point, but he never did. 

This season was do or die. Ilya knew it, and he wondered if his teammates somehow did too. He’d already decided, as he skated on for a preseason game. He’d already pushed himself far enough, living like this. If he couldn’t get free of the contract with his last chance, then… he couldn’t let Shane have him under his control forever. 

The Bruins, angry with the way last season had ended, though outwardly placing no blame on Ilya, responded to every call to ramp up their power play, or increase their off-ice workouts, or even add another shooting clinic. They’d all entered the season with one goal: to get even better. 

They would not be the underdogs. They would not be the favorites who blew it. They would be the best team both on paper and on the ice. They’d make every team that played them regret stepping out on the ice that day. 

As the season ramped up and Ilya shot to the top of the league ranking with the most points, highest plus/minus, and highest face-off win percentage, it was almost possible to forget that Shane existed. It was close to the way they had been at the beginning, when Ilya had warded off Shane’s attempts to chat. 

But it wasn’t quite the same, because Ilya couldn’t stop dreaming about Shane in his arms, or Shane biting at his bottom lip hard enough to draw a little blood, and he couldn’t stop thinking about Shane in the morning when he woke up, and sometimes he remembered that Shane could sense when Ilya was thinking about him.

And yet, he was too proud to talk to Shane again. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He knew that all Shane had to do was walk into his apartment and he would surrender immediately to the urge he was currently only letting himself experience in his subconscious. And he couldn’t let that happen.

He needed to dedicate every moment to getting that cup. And once he did that, he needed to be used to only seeing Shane on rare occasions, if at all. He needed to stop feeling nauseous every time he thought about the next chapter in his life and how he’d be free from Shane once and for all. 

He was staying on track with his plan, right up until the moment Brooks Helamy fell into a scoring slump. 

It was typical for point production to ebb and flow, and most people didn’t pay much attention to slumps unless they were happening to a team’s best player. But Helamy’s excellent play as the second line center had been what was tipping the Bruins across the threshold between a good team and a dominant team. When Helamy stopped scoring and started making mistakes, the impact revealed itself in games immediately. 

Of course, the obvious pressure to turn things around was not helping Helamy get any better. Instead, he was getting more penalties and throwing the puck away at stupid times. 

At first, Ilya waited it out without treating Helamy any differently. But when a few weeks passed and Helamy still hadn’t scored a single goal, Ilya tried to be a bit more encouraging. He invited Helamy to his and Charlie’s practices, which had evolved into both a practice and a kind of ritual, meant to both work on some skills and openly express frustration when something wasn’t going right. 

Even working with Helamy one on one, it was hard to get a read on what was going on. It was clear he was still working hard, and he had set high goals for himself. 

Maybe that’s the issue, thought Ilya, maybe he needs to lower his expectations. 

But if that was the problem, then Ilya was the last person who should’ve been having the conversation with Helamy. He’d leave that one for the alternate captains- Barnier and Monahan had taken on those roles with enthusiasm and gusto. 

So he watched things get worse for Helamy without being able to fix it, and he watched Helamy snap his stick in half out of anger between periods before looking guiltily at the splintered mess in his hands. 

Then, Boston played Montreal in their third matchup of the season, and Ilya spotted Helamy talking to Shane during warmups. 

They were both lingering at the red center line and working on their stick handling, doing quick dekes and toe-drags around invisible opponents. They weren’t looking at the pucks either- they were looking at each other, their brows creased as they spoke. 

It took everything Ilya had to not sprint over and shove Helamy away. He couldn’t hear what they were saying from across the ice, but he let his worst fears run wild as he considered just how desperate Helamy might be to get out of his slump. Maybe he thought his job was on the line, or that he’d never be able to reach the level he’d reached in the past.

Or maybe Helamy and Shane were just chatting. But Ilya couldn’t help but presume the worst. Though it had been years since he’d walked into his room to find Shane sitting on his bed, he could still remember the fear and desperation born out of a naive perspective on his problems, and thinking there was simply no other way out. 

What was Shane telling Helamy now? Was he proposing something that would be too tempting for Helamy to refuse? 

It was the only game all season where Ilya didn’t care about the score. He watched Helamy’s every move, and the hunched posture of a defeated man that he exhibited on the bench. He nodded absently as he rewatched the mistake he’d just made on the tablet at the end of the bench. It was as if he didn’t think he’d be able to pull himself out of it. 

Ilya couldn’t let Helamy fall into the same trap he had. 

After the game, he tried to be casual. 

“I saw you were talking to Hollander.” 

Helamy’s eyes snapped over to Ilya from where they’d been staring at the frayed end of his skate lace. “Oh, yea. I forgot you guys were friends.” 

Ilya had forgotten that too. He tried to roll with it. “Yes.” He waited for Helamy to say something, but he didn’t. “Are… you friends with him too?” He bit back saying something like he’s never mentioned you, lest he sound like an incurable asshole. 

“I mean,” Helamy just shrugged, “You play against guys enough times and you get to know ‘em, right?” 

Ilya studied him. Helamy had always tended to be one of the more social Bruins. It was possible that he was asking other guys around the league for advice, given the severity of his slump. But it was hard to tell what might really be going on in Helamy’s head. And Ilya couldn’t exactly come right out and say, Did Shane tell you he’s a demon? 

So he backed off, though he shot a warning look at Helamy as he went. “This will go away, and we will win a cup.” He let the timbre of leadership leak into his voice, making heads near him turn. “Do not do anything stupid.” 

Helamy looked entirely confused, and Ilya prayed that he really didn’t know what the hell Ilya was talking about. 

He turned away from Helamy before another question in his mind made him lurch to a stop. What if Helamy already had a contract with Shane? What if Ilya was too late? 

There was only one way to find out, and Ilya had zero intention of taking no for an answer. 

He flung his door open as soon as he felt the headache come and go, hoping that Shane was somewhere in the vicinity and wouldn’t disappear immediately, and- Shane was right there, outside his apartment. 

“What the hell?” He stood in his doorway looking down at where Shane was sitting on the floor. 

They blinked at each other in silence for a moment, Shane craning his neck to look back at Ilya. He was fully cross-legged on the floor, like he’d been there for a while. Or, at least he’d planned to be. He looked… good. Ilya hadn’t really let himself look too intently at Shane on the ice, but he let himself look now. 

Before Ilya could say anything else, Shane jumped to his feet in a single motion. “Ilya.” He opened his mouth like he was about to say something else, then closed it. 

Ilya jerked his head towards the interior of his apartment, and ushered Shane in. Shane didn’t hesitate to follow, but the expression on his face looked warier than Ilya was used to seeing. 

“Why-” Shane started before Ilya glared at him. “Um,” he cleared his throat, trying again, “Why now?” 

Ilya studied the way Shane was standing, like he was ready to turn around and run out. “Helamy.” 

Shane frowned as Ilya still didn’t look away from him. “What about him?” 

“I saw you talking.” 

“Yea, well,” Shane crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Sometimes I talk to other players.”

“Not players on my team.”

“Helamy wasn’t always a Bruin, you know.” Shane raised an eyebrow. “Why do you care?” 

Ilya took a step towards Shane, and Shane immediately stepped backwards, letting his back push up against the door. It was almost gratifying to know that while Shane had powers that Ilya could hardly fathom, somewhere in there was a base instinct to find Ilya somewhat intimidating. At least… that’s what Ilya assumed. Maybe Shane had stepped back to keep a healthy distance between them. Maybe Shane had a good idea of what would happen if they got any closer, and was trying to prevent it. 

Ilya took another step, and Shane had run out of room to go anywhere else. There were more freckles on Shane’s cheeks than Ilya had ever noticed before. “You know what I’m going to ask.” 

“And you know I can’t answer.” There was no waver to Shane’s voice, no willingness to bargain. 

Challenge accepted. “Do you have a contract with Helamy?” 

“I can’t tell you.” 

“Can you tell me if you’re planning to write a contract for him?” 

“No.” 

With a couple more steps, Ilya’s face was just inches from Shane’s. “Don’t fucking touch him. Do not go near him.” 

“Funny.” Did Shane rock forward a little? It felt like their faces were even closer. “You have no idea if I already did.” But his voice faltered as he said it. 

Ilya pressed in more, letting his fingertips graze Shane’s waist before settling his hand on Shane’s hip. “But if he is better,” he leaned in so that his lips were touching the soft skin behind Shane’s ear, “then I will win,” he saw goosebumps on Shane’s arm, “and you will lose.” 

“I told you,” Ilya could see through Shane’s fake bravado for what it really was, “It’s not that easy.” He was angling his head, chasing Ilya’s lips. 

Huh. Ilya knew Shane had wanted him last season. But his response now… surely he wouldn’t be feeling the same desperation that Ilya was trying to eradicate from his mind. Surely he, a being who could touch whoever he wanted without killing them, had found a partner other than Ilya. 

But here he was, nearly shaking in Ilya’s arms as Ilya let their lips get close, close, closer, but not quite touching. Not until Shane told him what he wanted to hear. 

“Tell me,” he breathed, one hand stroking along the top of Shane’s rib cage, before dipping down below the waistline of his pants. 

“I can’t.” 

Ilya slid his hand down lower. “You can.” Their lips brushed. He pulled back, just a little. 

Shane’s grip tightened on Ilya’s arm. “Fine.” His voice was softer than a whisper. Ilya felt it, more than heard it, when Shane’s lips formed the words, “He doesn’t have a contract,” against his own. 

Relief flooded through Ilya, in a feeling almost as present as the arousal that was threatening to shut down the other, more rational areas of his brain. It had all gone according to plan, but now he was at the part where he needed to back up and tell Shane to leave. He needed to show Shane that he really didn’t still want this. That a repeat of last season wasn’t possible. 

But his body was not following the script. He let his tongue meet Shane’s as they kissed, their hands both coming up to grasp at each others’ faces in mutual attempts to deepen the kiss even further as fast as possible. Shane’s head hit the back of the door with a dull thud as Ilya slotted their legs together and separated their mouths for just long enough to kiss along Shane’s neck. 

They were both already panting, and every nerve in Ilya’s body was a live wire, burning where they touched. He wanted to forget everything- hockey, the contract, his lonely fucking life. None of that mattered here, with Shane tugging at his shirt while simultaneously taking his own clothes off. It was an uncoordinated effort, and Shane rushed to hold Ilya steady before Ilya tripped over his pant leg. But they didn’t move past their spot against the door- the sense of urgency was too strong. 

I think I will always want him. The unavoidable truth couldn’t help but reveal itself to Ilya as he and Shane wrapped their hands around each other without letting their mouths separate. When this is over I’m going to miss you. I’m going to miss you so fucking much. 

The realization was enough to make Ilya freeze, but he didn’t have to- Shane had frozen first. “What?” 

He’d said that last part out loud, directly into Shane’s mouth. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. “Um. I didn’t mean it like-” 

“You really think you’re gonna win.” Shane was looking Ilya up and down, but there was less hunger in his eyes. 

The tone of Shane’s voice made Ilya go crashing back into the reality he never should’ve let himself leave. “You still do not think I can beat you?” 

Shane’s brow pinched. “Ilya. There’s something I-”

“It doesn’t matter what you think.” Ilya didn’t want to hear it. “I will win.” 

“There’s only one more chance.” Shane’s voice was smaller than it had been just minutes before, but he still reached for Ilya, possibly to tuck a stray hair back into place. This time, Ilya took a step back. 

“This is our year.” 

“And if it’s not,” Shane let his hand fall, “then it will always be like this.” He gestured between the two of them. 

“No.” Ilya was shaking his head before Shane could finish his sentence. “It will not.” He looked Shane in the eye. “I would rather die.” As he spoke the words, he remembered what he’d threatened all those years ago. How the five year limit had arisen in the first place. 

By the look on Shane’s face, he remembered too. Something in his eyes shuttered as he leaned down to get his clothes. 

“What?” Ilya’s heart fluttered all way up to his throat, seeing that Shane was leaving like he’d wanted, but realizing that he’d been hoping Shane might stay anyways. Even if Ilya had given him no reason to. “You have no other offer?”

“I gave you another offer,” Shane muttered, pulling on his shirt, “and you refused it.” 

“Yes.” Ilya willed Shane not to turn around and open the door just yet. “If I took it, what would you do? Add another year every season? Find an excuse to keep me hooked?” 

The corner of Shane’s mouth turned down, and Ilya knew he was right. 

“What difference does it make to you?” Shane’s face morphed in to a sneer. “You would get more time to win. If you don’t win, you’re mine. Forever. Remember? Why don’t you want as many chances as you can get?” 

Ilya shoved his own hands in the pockets of the pants he’d put back on so Shane wouldn’t see that they were shaking. “I can only live like this because I know it will end.” He swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady. “I cannot spend every season hoping you will give me another chance.” 

“You’re taking a stupid risk. I can’t change anything once the deadline passes, even if I wanted to. I don’t have control over every fucking thing.” Shane’s nostrils were practically flaring as his gaze stayed on one point of the ceiling. 

“What do you fucking care?” Ilya wondered how loud he could yell before someone overheard him. “You have other contracts. You are-” he looked Shane up and down, “not human.” 

But though he’d seen Shane do actual magic in front of him, the man standing in his apartment seemed as human as anyone else. His cheeks were flushed in anger, his breathing faster than normal, and his clothes were wrinkled from the hasty way he’d thrown them back on. He looked… upset. He looked vulnerable. And a thought occurred to Ilya. 

“You know what I think?” He stepped back towards Shane. “I think you do need me. I think your other contracts aren’t giving you what I can. Maybe-” he gestured behind himself as if to point to the rink, somewhere out in the city beyond the building, “I’m the reason you get to be an NHL star. Maybe you like it more than you say you do. Or maybe,” he shifted even closer to Shane, eyes skimming past the corner of Shane’s mouth, “your other contracts do not do this. I am the only stupid and pathetic fucker that let you take everyone else away. I am the only one who can’t fuck anyone but you.” 

Shane’s eyes were wide as he looked back at Ilya. He didn’t interrupt- he didn’t even try. 

Ilya kept going. “And you don’t like that as soon as I win that cup, I am going to fuck the first attractive warm body that wants me, and they won’t be you. They will never be you again.” 

“That’s not it.” Ilya had to strain to hear Shane’s voice. 

“Then what the fuck is it?” 

But Shane didn’t answer. He just kept looking at Ilya, and his eyes dropped down to Ilya’s mouth again, and Ilya willed himself not to move even though he wanted to crush Shane’s lips against him more than anything, despite it all- 

He turned his back to Shane. “Go.” 

“Did you mean it? When you said you’re going to miss me?” 

Ilya didn’t turn around. He couldn’t let himself see the expression on Shane’s face that was probably accompanying the edge he could hear in Shane’s voice. “Get the fuck out.” 

He kept his back turned until he heard the door shut. 

“Does he know?” 

“No.” 

“Are you going to tell him?” 

“No. I almost did, but-”

“Coward.”

“I know.” 

“I can’t save you. Only you can protect yourself. And you know what you have to do.” 

“I do know.” 

“Will you do it?” 

Chapter 11: Chapter 11

It lasted a few more weeks, but Helamy eventually got past his slump. Once he broke the seal, he exploded in a flurry of goals, adding to the already prolific Bruins’ offense. The Bruins made the playoffs easily and sailed through the first two rounds. The city buzzed with both excitement and trepidation, remembering how excited they’d been the year before and how heartbroken that final loss had made them. 

Ilya didn’t see Shane again, apart from games against each other. Shane hadn’t even dressed for the next game against Montreal following their fight. Ilya had started to worry, before he remembered that Shane was perfectly capable of dealing with his own problems. 

Part of him wondered if Shane had just chickened out. Another more sinister voice in his head reminded him of how bad Shane had looked when he’d broken Beelzebub’s rules. He’d willed himself not to care, though he internally sighed in relief when he saw that Shane had rejoined the team, looking just as normal as he had in Ilya’s apartment.

In fact, Shane was performing better than he had in his entire career. He was getting hat tricks every third game, and getting four point games at least once a week. While he’d always been known for his speed and stick handling skills, he was digging deep in the corners and delivering big hits behind the net. Fans were screaming his name loud enough for the broadcast mics to pick them up. 

With the help of Shane’s dominant play and several extended winning streaks, Montreal met Boston in the conference finals once again. 

Tensions were getting thick, both on the ice and in the city streets. Though coaches tended to frown upon excessive hitting after the whistle or outright fighting so late in the season with very little time to recover from potential injury, players couldn’t stop their rage from boiling over when an opponent skated into the goalie or cross-checked someone in the back. 

 It was nearly impossible to control, as much as Ilya and the rest of his team tried. He even almost threw a few punches himself, at a defenseman who kept slashing him in the wrists when the referee wasn’t looking. There were years’ worth of bad blood between the teams, and emotions were hard to reign back in.

He didn’t go near Shane in between whistles. He didn’t try to find Shane after games. He watched game film every day, analyzing what he could do better, what quick fixes might benefit him within the next forty-eight hours. He remained composed, even when he wanted to start yelling at everyone around him.

He’d cried when Shane had left, knowing that they’d kissed for the last time. He let shame flood his system as he acknowledged how badly he still wanted Shane, and how important it was that he didn’t give into that want. He let himself mourn the undeniable fire that had flared between them, and he let himself wonder for the hundredth time if he’d ever manage to have that feeling again. 

Once he gave himself time to wallow, he picked himself back up, wiped his face in the mirror, and imagined what it would be like to live a normal life for the first time ever. It would be worth the years of misery, the loss of Shane, and potentially even the loss of hockey to simply be able to let his guard down. Maybe one day he’d forget how Shane had felt beneath him. How their lips had been hot against each other as they’d both gone back in for another kiss, unable to resist.

But he was more determined than ever to stay focused on the next game. One at a time, was what he told the rest of the Bruins when they walked into the locker room every day. Focus on your job right now. Forget about the bigger picture, the end goal. 

Montreal and Boston traded wins back and forth. The first three games went into overtime, with game two even going into double overtime before Ilya tipped in a shot from the point to tie the series. Boston won game four in regulation, weathering a barrage of chances from Shane and the rest of his line in the final two minutes with a pulled goalie. But they’d managed to make it out alive, winning by one goal. 

Montreal pulled ahead again in game five. Boston had gotten too many penalties and had ultimately given up two power play goals. They hadn’t been able to sustain a strong offense when player after player was getting sent to the box. Ilya had shown remarkable restraint afterwards by biting his own tongue rather than calling out every player whose penalties had cost them the game- he’d backed off after seeing the looks on everyone’s faces. They already knew. 

Boston got even in game six by shutting out Montreal 2-0. The second goal had been on the empty net- the attack from Shane’s line with the extra skater hadn’t been as dangerous as it had been earlier in the series. They were getting tired and worn down- both teams were- as they pushed their bodies past the breaking point. 

But everyone was ready for game seven. 

It was a home game for the Bruins, and Ilya could almost feel the nervous footsteps of the fans streaming into the TD Garden. He could feel his teammates nearly vibrating in their stalls next to him in the locker room as they taped their sticks and checked their skate blades. 

He spared one glance at Shane as they took the ice for warm ups. Was this it? If they eliminated Montreal tonight they were headed to the Stanley Cup finals. All they needed were five wins and then… he and Shane might never be in the same room again. 

He snapped out of it and told himself his eyes were only a little wet because of how fast he’d been skating. He never wore a visor during warmups anyhow. 

Both teams kept the game simple in the first period. It was clear everyone was nervous, despite the high percentage of players on the ice who already had playoff experience. This one felt different, even for playoffs. Ilya didn’t hold onto the puck longer than he had to, opting to fire off a pass or dump it in rather than mishandle it. There were several chances, but the score remained tied at zero. 

Montreal struck first after a frenzied scrum in front of the net. Boston tied it shortly after with a pass from Ilya to Kmoch on the back door. On the following face-off, Ilya lifted Shane’s stick and bodied him out of the way before he could even try to go for the puck. Everyone was locked in a tight battle. It stayed that way through the second period as both teams got back into running the plays they’d drilled over and over in practice. 

Ilya was drenched in sweat as he returned to the locker room during the second intermission, but he didn’t dare remove any of his gear or loosen his skates. He couldn’t interrupt the flow he had going- he could feel it moving his blood at a quicker pace and thrumming beneath his skin. He nodded at Charlie, who nodded back. Barnier and Kmoch looked over at him too, and he knew. They’d all been preparing for this moment the entire season. 

The noise in the Garden was loud enough to hear all the way in the locker room. The pounding of the stamping feet matched the rhythm of Ilya’s heart as he patted every one of his teammates on the back before they took the ice. Each of them had a new fire in their eyes as they sprinted out. 

The noise swelled again when Ilya stepped out onto the ice, the last to enter before the coaches filed on. From the moment the puck dropped, Ilya was in control, with Barnier and Kmoch reading his mind with the kind of fluid efficiency cultivated from hours and hours of running drills together. There was no dumping the puck in anymore- every entry into the offensive zone meant a chance on the net. Every pass in front meant a shot. Ilya scored once, and then again. He and his line were practically unstoppable. 

There was only one problem. Montreal had switched its matchup approach, and Boston was getting fooled by every line change. Now, Shane was going out against Brooks Helamy and the second line rather than Ilya. As good as Helamy was, he couldn’t keep up with Shane. For every goal Ilya’s line scored, Shane’s line answered almost immediately. Whenever Ilya tried to match up against Shane again, he got stuck out on the ice for too long and wound up exhausted. 

And he had to conserve his energy as much as he could, because clock was ticking down. 

They were headed to overtime. 

“You’re on the ice when Hollander is on the ice.” 

His coach had given him one job. Ilya, after his pair of goals, had scored enough. It was going to be on him to make sure Shane didn’t get a single look at the net. 

“We got it.” Barnier’s mouth was in a line as he looked at Ilya. “Take care of Hollander. We’ll take care of scoring.” 

This is it. One weird bounce or broken play, and it was all over. One well-timed shot, and the Bruins were headed to the finals. 

Everyone was depleted. Everyone was going to fight with absolutely everything they had. 

Shane didn’t skate out for the opening face-off of overtime, so neither did Ilya. When he quickly hopped on twenty seconds in, Ilya called Helamy off and shot on after Shane. Instead of anticipating where the puck would go, he tried to anticipate where Shane might try to get open. He’d been playing against Shane for five years now- he knew the most likely spots. 

The game went back and forth. Barnier rang a shot off the post, and a Montreal player fanned on a two-on-one. Charlie made a stunning glove save, diving across the net to keep Boston alive. Neither team kept hold of the momentum for more than a minute at a time. 

Ilya stayed focused on Shane. Let him out of my sight for one minute, and he’ll score. He could feel the truth of that every time Shane did manage to get the puck and make a pass directly to someone skating to the net with speed before Ilya could even try to stop it. He was absolutely lethal. 

But so was Ilya. 

With about six minutes left in overtime, Ilya’s line got stuck in the defensive end. All of a sudden, no one could clear it out. Even in the adrenaline of the moment, panic seized Ilya’s chest. This couldn’t be it. It can’t be.

Realizing what was happening, Shane shifted to the point in a pseudo-power play formation, spreading out the Canadiens across their offensive zone to force the Bruins to chase the puck a farther distance and tire out even quicker. 

Ilya moved up to cover Shane on the point, and Kmoch filled in to tie up the player in front of the net. They made themselves as big as they could, reaching their sticks out to get in the way of every pass. They just had to get out of it. That was all they had to do. 

The puck circled the perimeter of the zone and wound up back with Shane on the point. He faked a shot, which Ilya prepared to block, then looked for the pass. Ilya couldn’t see what was going on behind him, but he guessed his line was blocking off the passing lanes. Shane faked the pass and wound up to shoot, clearly hoping to thread the needle through the traffic in front of the net and into the bottom left corner. 

Except, he didn’t do that. As he fired the puck, it rolled off his stick at a weird angle, making it veer off its intended path. It ricocheted off Ilya’s shin pad and out of the zone. 

Though Ilya’s legs were screaming at him- he’d been out on the ice for almost two minutes- all he saw was the puck skidding across the ice and all the open space between it and the goaltender. He took off, at the same time that Shane turned to track down the puck himself. Though Ilya had been a stride or so farther away from the puck than Shane, he hadn’t needed to reorient his body or change the direction of his momentum like Shane did. 

He got the jump on Shane and tried to angle his body so Shane couldn’t easily push him off the puck if he caught up. He held onto his stick with one hand, pushing the puck in front of him so as not to slow himself down by stick handling. He was getting closer as he crossed the blue line, and he saw the goalie crouch in his net, tracking the puck. 

If Ilya hadn’t just spent the entire extended shift playing in his defensive end, Shane never would’ve caught him. But despite Ilya’s singular focus on getting to the net and getting off a shot, he couldn’t put any distance between himself and Shane. In fact, Shane was using his comparatively fresher legs to catch up. 

Ilya closed his right hand back around his stick as he picked out a corner of the net. He felt Shane’s pressure and started to shift his weight, and- 

He felt a sharp whack across his gloves. Shane had caught up to him and had desperately done anything he could to hinder Ilya’s shot, and it worked. Rather than sailing to the corner Ilya was aiming for, the puck skittered off to the side. 

But Ilya turned in disbelief. Shane had slashed his hands on a breakaway in order to stop him from shooting, which meant… he looked over at the officials. Sure enough, the referee had his hands crossed above his head. The noise in the Garden went from thunderous to outright deafening. A few fans behind the net clasped their hands together in front of the bridge of their nose, as if in prayer. 

In the game seven overtime, Ilya had a penalty shot. 

He tried to look at Shane, but Shane was already skating away. The Montreal goalie was nodding at something the referee was saying while getting a mouthful of water. Ilya skated out to center ice, not wanting to look over at his team. He steadied his breath, trying to get his heart rate slightly lower before he went out to center ice. 

You’ve done this a million times. He’d practiced his penalty shots almost weekly with Charlie. He’d  scored in shootouts before. If he spared any thought to what this shot meant for this own future, he was going to miss. 

He leaned his weight on his stick to test for any micro cracks, did a tight turn to the right, then the left. His edges were strong. He eyed the goalie. Montreal had probably studied his go-to shootout moves in preparation for the series- he was going to have to depart from his usual. 

No matter. He skated out to the blue line opposite the Montreal goaltender to give himself momentum to collect the puck while moving. The crowd got even louder, threatening to take over every thought in his head, and then- 

Silence. He knew nothing but the ice creaking under his skates when he dug in an edge, and the sturdy feeling of his stick in his hands. The exhilaration when he touched the puck, knowing that he was in complete control of what he could do with it. 

This, right here, was what he’d always loved about hockey. What had entranced him from childhood, before he’d been hit by his father or screamed at by his coach. At its core, hockey was about the creativity required to make old moves new again, with the courage to leave your whole heart out on the ice when you played, regardless of the outcome. It was about failure. It was about disappointment. And it was about putting your skates back on and trying again. 

Ilya had known this love before he’d signed the contract with Shane. He remembered how excited he’d been to score his first ever goal with his youth club team, and how he’d been eager to get back out on the ice when he made a mistake. He’d made so many mistakes, both on the ice and off. 

And he’d learned from each and every one of them. 

He collected the puck from center ice, and curved to the left as he entered the zone. 

He angled in towards the goal. He dropped his shoulder a little, stick handled once. He held onto the puck for an extra second as he crossed in front, waiting for the goalie to flinch, and then- there. 

And Ilya buried the shot just inside the right post. 

The goal horn went off, and all the noise he’d been blocking out flooded into his system once again. The Garden erupted. Popcorn, towels, hats - had he just scored a hat trick? - rained down around Ilya as he sidestepped where Montreal’s goalie appeared to be keeled over and turned to face his team. 

Barnier and Kmoch were the first to reach him, and they pulled up short before jumping all over him, likely remembering at the last minute that he’d flinch away. Ilya grinned at them as they couldn’t quite stop the momentum of the rest of the guys behind them, resulting in at least five people going sprawling across the ice. 

Ilya saw Charlie coming towards him and tapped their helmets together. 

“Thank fuck.” Charlie was still out of breath. “Jesus fucking christ.” 

Ilya could only laugh. “Yes.” 

Across the ice, Montreal was lingering to shake hands. Shane was in the front, his face unreadable. Maybe he’d been imagining it, but Ilya had felt almost panic in that slash as Shane had tracked him down. But now, Shane was waiting to shake his hand for possibly the last time. 

Ilya dashed over to the bench to slip on his cloth glove, though he found himself wishing more than anything he could let the bare skin of his hand touch Shane one more time. 

He shook the feeling away. He couldn’t let any of those thoughts creep up on him now. They had one more series- his first ever Stanley Cup Final. 

He would not be taking his eye off the prize. 

He led the Bruins over to Montreal, and looked Shane in the eye. 

Shane squeezed his hand tightly. “Good luck, Ilya.” And he moved to the next player. 

Ilya continued down the line, telling the rest of his opponents how well fought the series had been. But internally, he was frowning. In all the years of his contract, he’d never heard Shane sound so sad. 

Chapter 12: Chapter 12

They were facing the Winnipeg Jets in the Stanley Cup Final. 

Winnipeg was ranked higher, so they would have more home games if the series went to seven. It also meant that the Bruins would travel for the opening two games of the series. 

They’d taken a brief moment to celebrate the conference win, but the mood throughout the team was subdued quickly. Of course, it was exciting to have gotten this far. But they weren’t done, and any sense of relaxation to appreciate what they’d already won was far in the future. 

For Ilya, that meant making sure everyone was ready to jump right into the series. It had been a hard road against Montreal, always fighting to get a win back, rather than trying to extend their lead. Winning the first game would play a big role in eliminating a constant need to come from behind. 

But as they flew out to Winnipeg, had a practice, adjusted to the different time zone, Ilya started to see a change in Charlie. 

At first, he thought it was nothing. Goalies were weird, and Charlie was no exception. So what if he was a little quieter than usual? He had the pressure of knowing that teams didn’t win cups unless their goalie played well. 

But Charlie continued to retreat into his shell, and by the time they all skated out for the morning practice on game day, his face was as white as the ice beneath him. 

And as Ilya took a proper look at the actual names on Winnipeg’s roster, he realized why. 

He’d walked down the hallway to the locker rooms before the game, flashing a smile at the cameras. The sports networks loved the shots of him in his game day suit looking ready as ever to take on the most important series of his life, and he couldn’t deprive them. But as soon as he got to his stall in the locker room, he whipped off the suit and threw on his athletic clothes before sidling up to Charlie, who was already sitting alone and chanting something to himself under his breath.

“Chris Shannon,” he started, and Charlie stiffened next to him. “He was the other goalie at Michigan, right?” He waited as Charlie nodded. Shannon was Winnipeg’s goalie.

“I didn’t realize.” He hadn’t needed to, once Charlie had started playing well. Maybe the association had crossed his mind before, and then quickly left it. They’d only played Winnipeg twice a season, anyhow. 

Charlie had come a long way in the time Ilya had known him, and Ilya was eternally grateful that he hadn’t simply given up on Charlie and waited for the Bruins to sacrifice valuable players in order to trade for another goalie. Charlie had made it through Boston’s period of weak defense, and he’d come up big for them time and time again. He had more than proven that he was NHL standout material, and that he would continue to be for years to come. 

But it was hard to forget how easily his mental fortitude could shatter. How getting passed over at such an important point in his career had reconfigured his outlook on hockey, and how he needed to work at remembering what he was capable of. 

The Stanley Cup Finals were not the best place to work through this kind of thing. 

“Riverton,” Ilya started, “You are better. We are better.”

“I know.” 

“You do?” 

Charlie nodded. If he was lying, if he didn’t really believe he could perform at the level the Bruins needed him to, he was excellent at faking it. 

Ilya had to wonder whether Shane had gotten punished for telling him about the Chris Shannon contract. Shane had said it wasn’t one of his own, but Ilya hadn’t properly observed the wrath of Beelzebub by that point. He still didn’t really know which specific parameters would result in Shane’s punishment- and, he figured, if they could win the next four games, he wouldn’t ever need to.

He wondered whether Shannon had anything hinging on this game as well, before deciding that he couldn’t worry about it.

He kept an eye on Charlie as they moved through their warmups.

 Please, he thought, please do this. Please don’t let someone’s contract ruin it for the both of us.

Luckily for Ilya and the rest of the Bruins, Charlie came through. They won the first two games in Winnipeg, giving themselves a solid lead.

But when they returned back to Boston for game three, they lost. 

Ilya tried not to panic, though with every game in the series he was getting closer and closer to losing his grip on the cool and collected demeanor he was trying to maintain. He was dizzyingly close. He’d wake with a jolt in the middle of the night and find his heart racing. When he wasn’t at practice or a game, he was watching game film. He suddenly knew the Jets almost as well as he knew the Bruins. 

And he knew that the path to victory would depend on staying out of the penalty box, crashing the net for rebounds, and neutralizing Winnipeg’s best players. 

Oh, and scoring on the goalie. 

When the team regrouped for game four and won handily, Ilya had to stay on the bench for an extra second while the rest of the team celebrated. 

One more game. 

He’d been wondering if Shane would visit or try to talk to him. He’d decided he’d ignore Shane if that were to happen, but he kept catching himself looking around whenever he approached the door to his apartment. 

It’s because it’s instinct, not because I want to see him. He repeated that to himself until he almost believed it. 

But Shane never showed up. 

Back in Winnipeg for game five, they had the chance to win it all. Ilya had thrown up in the locker room toilet before the game. He’d planned out what he wanted to happen in every period, every play. 

But that was the other thing about hockey that he loved, though it was working against him right now. You couldn’t plan out anything, even if you were the best of the best. 

Nothing bounced in the right direction. Ilya had a goal that got called back because of a missed offsides call. Kmoch took a stick to the face and had to leave the game to go get stitches. 

They lost by two, and the deficit had been too much to make up against a team that knew they had to win. The crowd had known it as well. They’d been booing Ilya and several other players whenever they touched the puck. It had been the toughest game of the series, and Boston just hadn’t been able to come out on top.

That meant they were headed back to Boston for game six, with another chance to win it. 

As soon as he realized that they could not only win the cup, but lift it on their home ice, Ilya knew. This had to be the game it happened. 

There were no nerves this time, just a knowledge that this team had what it took. They’d transformed from the uncoordinated and unconfident last place team they’d been when Ilya had first arrived, evolving into a star studded and hardworking group that put the team first at every turn. 

Charlie had taken the extra time to get back to the level he needed to be. Monahan had stepped up as an alternate captain. Barnier and Kmoch had all but eliminated any personal prejudices they had about the possibility of Ilya dating men, and had in turn built the trust among their line needed to achieve the legendary chemistry they showcased on the ice. Helamy had stayed persistent with his play and been rewarded.

Every player had done their job, and more. Some of them had even done it for less money than they were worth, knowing that they could play a part in bringing more talent to Boston. 

It was time to get their names on the damn cup. 

“Everyone listen.” 

The room fell silent as Ilya stood up. 

“It is not a mistake that we are here.” He made eye contact with every player as he looked around the room. “We are here, tonight, one win away from the cup, because we earned it.” He looked directly at Charlie. “One game.” He looked over at Barnier. “It does not matter what you did in the other games. Maybe you scored. Maybe you did not play your best. But tonight?” He nodded to himself. “Tonight will be what you remember.” 

The noise from the arena echoed down the hall, building as the lights went down in preparation for the hype videos and highlight reels. 

“We are better skaters.” He counted off on his fingers. “We are better defenders. We have a goalie that is a fucking wall. We will stop all of their momentum, because we can.” 

Hums of agreement rose up around him. 

“We are the greatest team in the league.” He grinned. “In the world.” He could see the faces around him starting to smile back. “All of you, whatever made you want to play hockey, were meant to play in this game. The moment you put on your first pair of skates. The second you fell in love with the sport. You were destined to raise the cup tonight.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Kmoch biting at his lip like he was about to cry. 

“They may think they can beat us. They are wrong. Other teams thought they could beat us, and look where they are.” 

An image of Shane popped into his mind, and he tried to shove it away. He couldn’t think about Shane, not right now.

“This is your time. This is your night.” He took a breath. “Show them that tonight, you will do whatever it takes.” That last sentence was for himself. 

Cheers and shouts circulated the room as everyone leapt to their feet alongside Ilya, bouncing in their skates to the beat of the music playing in the arena. 

“Play your game,” Ilya shouted as they walked out. “Play your fucking game.” 

And play their game they did.  

When the buzzer sounded, Ilya was numb. He’d finished the game on the ice, fending off one final push from Winnipeg. He’d blocked five shots in the final minute alone. He’d scored a goal in the second period. 

He’d helped the Bruins win the goddamn cup. 

There were shouts from the bench as Dirty Water blared through the speakers. Gloves and helmets went everywhere as his team dove on top of Charlie, who was already crying. Though Ilya was standing next to them, he felt about a million miles away. There was a rushing in his ears and his vision blurred, and when he touched his fingers to his cheek he realized he was crying too. 

Barnier was the first to skate up to him and stick out his elbow, their routine that helped Ilya avoid shaking hands. Ilya started to lift his own arm to tap Barnier, when he remembered. 

Should he try it? 

Even now, even after he’d seen the contract, after everything, part of him wondered whether the amendment would hold up- whether it was even real. Could he actually touch Barnier now? Could he touch anyone? Did he trust Shane enough to have told him the truth about how the contract would work? 

He pulled his glove off and stuck out his hand. Barnier’s eyes widened, but he followed Ilya’s lead and gave Ilya a congratulatory handshake. And… nothing happened. Barnier was fine. His smile grew wider, even as Ilya’s face crumpled, and he pulled his hand away so he could cover his face as he sobbed. 

“Hey, let it out, Roz. We did it.” Barnier, bless him, wasn’t asking questions. 

Someone skated up on his other side, and without looking he could tell it was Kmoch. “Thank you, Cap.” Kmoch sounded a little choked up too. 

“Are you gonna be good in time to lift the cup?” 

“We can stall.” 

“No.” Ilya shook his head. “I am good.” But he kept wiping at his eyes as he said it. 

Ilya was the first to lift the cup over his head, cheering both at the accomplishment he’d just achieved and at his newfound freedom.

Chapter 13: Chapter 13

Ilya had heard all about what players typically did after they won the cup. One long party, going and going until it was time for the parade through the streets of Boston. He knew what he’d told Shane he would do, as soon as he was free of his contract. 

But after spraying the whole room with champagne and a few hours of locker room festivities, jubilant interviews, and blurry one-handed pictures with whoever’s phone was closest, all Ilya really wanted to do was go home. 

He still really couldn’t believe it. He’d fought back the urge to stay on the crowd’s perimeter, and had instead thrown himself into the throng. It hadn’t mattered one bit, though Barnier and Kmoch had kept shooting him weird looks in between their own celebrations. 

He let his teammates hug him, or jump on his back, or in one interesting encounter with Monahan, kiss him on the cheek. It was hard to get used to, but he figured he had the rest of his life to adjust. 

He eventually managed to slip away and make his way home. In the quiet of the late night, the realization hit him again. He caught the tears collecting under his eyes with his fingers. 

As soon as he shut the door behind him, he leaned against it, sinking down to the ground. How many nights had he spent wishing for this? How could he comprehend that he was finally free? 

He was ready to stay there all night and let every moment of the past season play through his mind. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, and that’s when he heard a noise- it sounded like a whimper, and labored breathing. 

His eyes snapped back open instantly. He wasn’t alone. 

Fear lanced through his heart as he got back up, hoping he was wrong. But as he rushed over to his couch, that tiny question that he’d been ignoring in the back of his mind got louder and louder, until it was screaming at him: What will Shane do, now that it’s all over? 

He’d imagined all kinds of scenarios. He’d thought of Shane spending more time with his other contracts, maybe getting a new one to replace Ilya. He’d thought of ways he’d try and avoid Shane if they crossed paths again. In one fantasy, he’d thought of Shane showing up at his door again, just like old times- though nothing would be tying them together anymore.

But he hadn’t imagined anything like what he was seeing in front of him now. 

Shane was there, lying on his couch.

He looked worse than Ilya had ever seen him. His skin was a pallid gray, and his breathing was too slow, like he had to remember to do it. He was half on his side, his arms crunched underneath him in a position that couldn’t be comfortable, though he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes opened halfway as he looked at Ilya, and it was enough to see that even his eyes looked faded. 

He looked like he was… but he couldn’t, right? Demons couldn’t die, could they? 

Ilya realized that he didn’t actually know. He dropped to his knees next to Shane, reaching out to hold onto Shane’s hand. It was way too cold- Ilya tried to breathe on it to warm it up. 

“Ilya?” Shane’s voice was far too quiet. “You’re here.” 

“Yes.” Ilya let the word hang in the air. What is happening to you?

“I’m sorry Ilya,” Shane struggled to open his eyes more to look at Ilya, “I’m so so sorry.” 

“What-”

“I ruined your life.” 

“Shane-”

“You were already good enough.” Shane coughed, trying to catch his breath. “You would’ve made it without me.” 

Ilya reeled back. That couldn’t be true. All he’d heard before the contract was feedback about how terrible he’d been. That it was hopeless to even dream.

“They all lied to you. Your dad, your coaches, even me. I lied to you.” The last part came out as more of a wheeze. “I made you think you needed me.” 

Now Ilya’s heart was racing. Why was Shane here, why was Shane saying this, all while lying before him too weak to even properly look at Ilya? It was like he knew he- no. 

“You were my first contract, and-” Shane coughed again, “when I saw what I did to you I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it to anyone else. I tried, but I just-” 

Ilya gripped Shane’s hand tighter. “You don’t have another contract?” 

“No. I was new, before you- Beelzebub gave me power to live on. But he doesn’t do it after-” A smile played at the corner of Shane’s mouth as he realized that Ilya was finally getting it. 

And Ilya was. If Shane had been getting power from Ilya’s contract alone, now that it was over that meant- no, no, no. In all his fantasies, in all his versions of freedom, he’d always assumed Shane would be out there, somewhere in the world. 

“Did you know. Beelzebub gave me permission to tell you a month ago. He thought if you knew that you might- you might feel-” Shane broke off to catch his breath again.

Ilya could feel wetness on his face again, and he marveled at how many tears his body was capable of producing in a single night.

 “I couldn’t risk-” Shane breathed through his teeth, clearly trying to keep it together. “If something got in your way again I-” he faltered, opening his eyes a little more. “I was trying to distract you on purpose last year, but I- fuck.” His cheeks lost what little suggestion of color they’d had. “I fell for you. And I made your life miserable. And I-” he tried to lift his arm to wipe away Ilya’s tears, but failed. “I’m happy you’re free.” 

Beelzebub was right. The thought crashed into Ilya’s mind like a tidal wave. He couldn’t let Shane go. Not when he could do something about it. “I can do another contract, Shane. Now. Please.” His voice broke as he freely offered what he’d just fought so hard to get out of. 

“It’s too late.” Shane’s voice, though weak, was final. “And I would never let you. Not now. I was so scared before. That’s why I tried to extend it. That’s why I tried to beat you. But-” He gave Ilya’s hand as much of a squeeze as he could, “This isn’t so bad.” 

No. Please, no. Ilya gently collected the stray tears on Shane’s cheeks and caressed the side of his jaw, before pulling himself up onto the couch to cradle Shane’s head against his chest. Shane was light enough that Ilya could’ve picked him up with his arm strength alone. “Shane, I-” There was a giant lump in his throat that prevented him from saying more. There was too much to say, jamming up all this thoughts, all overshadowed by the anguish threatening to overtake him. He could only hope that Shane had seen it all in his face. 

Shane’s eyes were almost closed again. “Please don’t be sad.” He gave a small smile. “I- I’m happy, Ilya. I got to see you one last time.” He tried to raise his arm again, and this time he succeeded. He traced a thumb across Ilya’s cheek. “I hope that wherever I go next, if there’s anywhere to go,” he coughed out a laugh, “that I remember you.”

There was a faint pressure where Shane’s fingers were on Ilya’s face, and Ilya realized what Shane was trying to do. He dipped his head down, carding a soft hand through Shane’s hair. He tried to blink away his tears, though one dripped onto Shane’s chin. Suddenly, he did know exactly what to say. “I meant it,” he murmured inches away from Shane’s lips, “when I said I was going to miss you.” He let their lips touch lightly. “And I forgive you. I forgive you, Shane.” He meant that, too. 

He properly kissed Shane then, pushing their lips together, trying to ignore that Shane’s mouth was as cold as his hands. Shane kissed back for a moment, then he went slack in Ilya’s arms. As Ilya pulled back, Shane’s hand fell away from his face. His eyes were closed again, and he breathed once, twice, and then not at all. 

There was silence in the room as Ilya held Shane close, feeling the final measly amounts of life that had still been in Shane’s body drain out for the last time. Some part of his mind was panicking, begging the rest of him to do something, to reverse this, to do anything. 

But he knew that it was no use. 

When he could feel that Shane was completely gone, Ilya clutched Shane tight to his body and wailed, the kind of sound he hadn’t made since he was young. 

He thought of how Shane had broken the rules, first so that Ilya could let someone treat his broken rib, and then again so he could heal it himself. He thought of Shane sitting on the floor outside his apartment, and how though Shane had claimed to be playing hockey only to beat Ilya, he had been fiercely competitive and passionate in a way that Ilya knew had to have come from Shane himself. 

He thought about how there hadn’t been two lonelier people in the world. 

He couldn’t bring himself to let go of Shane- though Shane wasn’t really there anymore. But he didn’t know what happened to demons when they died- did they disappear in a cloud of smoke? Did they simply fade away? Or were they just a corpse, like everyone else? 

The thought of looking away from Shane’s body only to find that it had disappeared made Ilya hold Shane even closer. He kissed Shane’s closed eyes, and his nose, and his cheeks. For some reason, that helped. 

He might’ve stayed there for days, if he could. He had no intention of going to the parade, though he knew Charlie and his line, at the very least, would break down his door if he didn’t show up. 

But through the tears that just kept coming, Ilya noticed that there was something filling the room, some kind of new energy that was making Ilya nauseous. He held Shane in a protective grasp. 

What a waste. 

The voice seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere. But as Ilya watched the space in front of him turned a shade darker, and then darker still, until he was looking at a writhing mass before him. 

There was really only one explanation. “Beelzebub?” 

Beelzebub didn’t dignify the question with an answer. I will take- what do you call him? Shane? A thorn in my side. A scourge on the profession. He had his instructions. He had his warnings. He did not listen. 

The lights flashed, and Ilya’s hands started to shake. But he couldn’t let go of Shane. 

Give him here.

“No.” Ilya’s voice wasn’t nearly as loud as Beelzebub, but it was strong. He’d made up his mind- he wasn’t letting Beelzebub take Shane away. 

Stupid boy. So gullible, from the start. To think you needed us to leave Russia. The mass grew closer. To think that- what? Did he say he loved you? 

Ilya’s heart started to ache. 

Did you really believe it?

He threaded his fingers through Shane’s lifeless hand, remembering how Shane had touched him with so much tenderness, that some part of Ilya must have known, even then. “Yes.” 

Beelzebub gave a hollow laugh. You are just as he said. Naive. Callow. Heedless. Ilya got the sense that if the mass could shake its head in disappointment, it would. To think, you have a lifetime of power in you, that you cannot use. Power that we have to negotiate before we take it. And he let you get away. A true failure.

The mass shifted again.

What would you do, Ilya Rozanov, if I told you we could make a little deal?

A ringing in Ilya’s ears started, with the kind of hope he tended to feel when he scored a goal to get within a point in the final minute of a game- when he could sense that maybe it wasn’t over just yet. 

“What kind of deal?”

A tendril from the mass reached out towards Shane, and Ilya curled around him in an attempt to make some kind of shield. He took more resources than he gave. He did not do his job. I need something to, well, even the score. In return, I can make him a human. I think you might want that, yes?

Ilya gulped. He had a feeling he knew where this was going. “How much?” 

Let’s say, about, oh, twenty years? 

Ilya realized he hadn’t let go of Shane’s hand. Twenty years. If humans lived to eighty on average, that meant Ilya could live until sixty. It was less than the people around him tended to hope for. 

But it was more than he would’ve made it had he not gotten out of the contract. It was more than his mother got. It was enough. 

He had to try twice to speak the word. “Done.” 

The tendril wrapped around Ilya’s head, and though Ilya couldn’t feel it, he wanted to recoil from its touch. 

You humans. So eager to give away your precious life. And you. So willing to give it away twice.

Ilya’s vision grew darker as the mass descended. “Just do it.” 

With a flash, Ilya was on the floor, and Shane’s weight was gone from his arms. He was pinned to the ground, his arms and legs out the sides and a heaviness pressing down on every inch of his body. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t even open his mouth. 

Then, he felt something creeping its way up his body, starting in his toes and all the way to his head, resembling the headaches he used to get from Shane dialed up to about a thousand. This was his life getting stripped away, those twenty years he was giving up, for the chance to undo the grief that had exploded in him maybe even less than an hour ago. For a chance to wake up and know that maybe, just maybe, Shane was alive.

There was laughter above him as his vision faded, and his consciousness ebbed until all he could think was, Is this is it? Did he lie? Did he always mean to kill me? But he couldn’t imagine a version of himself that would’ve refused or resisted once he knew he might see Shane again. 

After about another minute, he couldn’t think about anything anymore. 

Chapter 14: Chapter 14

“Ilya.” 

Someone far above him was calling Ilya’s name, but there was nothing he could do to respond. He was swimming through darkness, no sense of up or down, and no idea which direction would get him closer to the voice. 

“Fuck. Fuck. What did you do, Ilya? What the fuck did you do?”

Maybe the voice was getting closer- maybe Ilya was supposed to stop moving in this place with no directions, and let it come to him. But he could hear desperation and panic, even from where he was. It’s okay, he thought, I’m okay, though he didn’t actually know if that was true. 

“Please, please, if you can hear me, just- oh, god.” Then there was something softer that Ilya couldn’t hear, and then the voice got loud again. “Can you- can you squeeze my hand? Even just a little. I’ll feel it. I just have to know, I have to know if you’re-” The voice choked off. 

How can I squeeze your hand? I don’t think I have a body. At least, it didn’t feel like he had a body.

But as soon as the thought occurred to him, his consciousness was suddenly slammed into a physical being, and he could feel arms, and legs, and - yep, this was a body. His body. 

There was some kind of air circulation- maybe the air conditioner- cooling off one side of his arm. There was an itch somewhere on his shoulder. And someone else was there, calling his name. He tried to respond, but everything was too heavy. Even his eyelids refused to budge. 

“Why didn’t you just let me go? I told you it was okay. I fucking told you. Whatever he offered you, you should’ve said no, asshole.” 

There were hands on his shoulders, shaking him. They moved up to either side of his face. Then there was a wetness on his neck. 

“I’m gonna fix this, Ilya. Okay? If you can hear me, I’m gonna fix it. I’m gonna get back whatever he- I don’t care what I have to do.” 

The voice was so resolute, so determined. And through the haze of his brain and the heaviness of his body, Ilya could tell that the voice was familiar. There was something about it that brought him great relief, and he strained at the edges of his wakening memory to figure out why- 

The voice was Shane. Shane was there. Shane was next to Ilya, stroking his arm, putting what felt like a soft blanket under Ilya’s head, panicking because he thought Ilya was-

I’m here. Shane, I’m here. I’m trying. And now, Ilya really was. Fighting through the thorny brambles of unconsciousness, desperately concentrating on anything he could try to move, before narrowing his focus to just one finger. Let me just do this. Let me just fucking do this. If he had been awake all the way, he would’ve been screaming from the effort. 

But he did it. With one final push, his pointer finger twitched, and he collapsed back down within himself, praying that Shane saw. 

He heard a gasp. Success. 

“Ilya!” A hand grabbed his own, and though he was far away again, he could still feel the warmth. “I have you, okay? It’s gonna be okay.” 

Ilya would’ve smiled if he could, and then he passed out again. 

The second time he woke up was a lot easier. He was in his bed this time, and he could feel where his blanket touched his knees, where it dipped to cover his arms. When his eyes fluttered open, the rest of his body started to wake up too. There was a soreness in his legs, the kind he got when he hadn’t skated in a while. 

He started slow, pointing his toes and wiggling his fingers. He bent one arm, then the other. 

That’s when he realized that someone else was in his bed. 

It should’ve made him happy, but terror flooded his heart once again. What if it had all been a dream, before? What if Beelzebub really had just taken what he wanted from Ilya and left without fulfilling his end of the bargain? 

“…ne?” His mouth was too dry- he needed water before he could really try to speak. There was a water bottle in his line of vision, but it was next to the sleeping body on the other side of his bed, where he’d have to move to reach it. He stretched his arm out towards the figure next to him- he could see dark hair and broad shoulders. Please be Shane. He pressed his palm to the person’s back. 

Shane leapt up as if someone had set him on fire. He looked around wildly until his gaze landed on Ilya. 

“Holy shit. Ilya. I-” he followed where Ilya was looking at the water bottle next to him, and quickly brought it to Ilya’s lips. “Tilt your head back. Just a small sip, okay? Just wet your mouth.” His hand guided the back of Ilya’s head with a sturdy, careful touch. 

Ilya started tearing up again. He couldn’t fucking help it. “Shane.” 

Shane was capping the water bottle and propping it up on the pillow he’d been using. But he bent over Ilya, studying his face. “What’s wrong? Tell me where it hurts.” 

“No, no.” It was still a lot of effort for Ilya to shake his head, but he tried. “You- You’re alive.” 

The tears started coming faster. He’d held Shane while he died. He’d placed his trust in the fucking devil to bring Shane back. And yet, Shane was here. And if Beelzebub had been right, Shane was human now. 

Shane’s face was soft as he caressed the side of Ilya’s cheek, but his eyes narrowed. “How much did that bastard take from you?” 

“Twenty years, I think.” 

“Twenty fucking years?”

 “What?” 

Shane covered his face with his hands and practically moaned as he leaned away from Ilya. 

Ilya frowned as he reached for the water again and dropped it. “I didn’t think that was very much.”

Shane rushed to help him take another sip. “He wouldn’t have used anywhere close to that. He took more than double what I cost him.” 

“Oh.” Now Ilya felt kind of stupid. But looking at Shane in front of him, he couldn’t bring himself to regret anything. “It’s okay.” 

Shane just stared at him. “It’s okay?” 

“Shane.” With every minute, Ilya’s voice was getting stronger. He could feel energy starting to move back into his limbs as well. He was able to shift in the bed, just a little. “You died. I couldn’t- I had to. When he said it was possible, I had to.” 

“No.” Shane’s eyes were dark. “You didn’t. You never owed me anything.” 

Ilya tilted his head in confusion. Did Shane really think Ilya had only been trying to make up for winning the cup and getting out of the contract? After all the time Shane had spent in Ilya’s own bed? The amount of times Shane had probably even sensed how much Ilya had been thinking about him? Ilya’s words were slow. “It is not about owing.” 

“So what is it, then?” 

Wow. Shane really didn’t know.

Nor did he pause for Ilya to actually answer. “Because that was a fucking dumb decision. He could’ve just killed you.” He leaned in closer. “I thought he did. When I woke up, and you were lying there- I couldn’t find a fucking pulse, Ilya.” His voice was breaking on every third word. “I thought you were gone, and that it was all pointless, because the only good thing about dying was knowing you were gonna be okay, but you weren’t waking up, and-” 

Ilya couldn’t take it anymore, and he had finally had enough strength in his arms to pull Shane in by the back of the neck and crush their lips together.

Shane steadied himself on the bed, kissing Ilya back but evidently hesitating to press in any more until Ilya started to lie all the way down, pulling Shane on top of him. 

“I- could not- let you- go,” Ilya tried to form his gasps into words in between kisses. “I never wanted you to go. Shane-” Shane was kissing along his collar bone, and down his chest. “I want-” He paused, trying to find the words. What exactly did he want with Shane? 

Everything. He wanted everything. 

But as he tried to say it, Shane pulled away and sat up. “Wait.” 

Ilya’s heart burned as he was taken right back to that first almost kiss, how Shane had ripped himself away. “Come back.” 

But Shane stayed put. “This is wrong.” His voice was somber as he wiped away the last of his tears that had still been falling, even while he’d kissed Ilya. “You- you can have anyone now. Touch anyone. Remember?” 

Ilya gave an exaggerated eye roll. “No. I forgot.” 

“I’m serious.”

 And I want you. All I want is you. But Ilya winced as he remembered what he’d said to Shane during Helamy’s slump. He couldn’t blame Shane for getting off the bed and walking around to Ilya’s side, crouching down so they were seeing eye to eye again. 

“I can’t be sure that you actually want this.” Shane looked so torn, so hesitant, that Ilya refrained from kissing him again to send the message. He already knew that it wasn’t going to work. “It might just be- instinct, I guess.” 

“Does it matter?” Heat spread across Ilya’s cheeks as he realized what he was asking. Does it matter that I choose you when I have the freedom to choose anyone? Of course it mattered. If Shane had been telling the truth as he’d slipped away in Ilya’s arms, it mattered more than anything. He tried to rephrase. “You want me to… fuck some other people? Before I decide I want to fuck you again?” 

There was a pained look on Shane’s face. “No. I don’t know. I guess.” 

Ilya held back a bitter laugh. “I won the cup. I will have the chance with others, I think.” 

“Okay, then. Have fun.” But Shane’s face was still so, so close. “We just need some time. Just to be sure.” 

Ilya sighed. Shane was probably right, even though he kept drifting closer to Ilya on the bed, and threaded their fingers together the moment Ilya reached his hand out. It was clear what they both wanted, and it was clear that neither was going to get it. 

They might’ve still kissed, just one more time, if there hadn’t been a knock on the door. 

“Rozanov! Get your ass out here.” It was Charlie. 

Ilya grimaced. He couldn’t tell exactly how much time had passed since he’d made the deal with Beelzebub, but it had to have been over a day since any Bruin had seen him. 

Shane was looking around wildly. “Should I hide? Where should I go?” He was about to clamber into Ilya’s closet before Ilya stopped him.

“You do not have to.” He heaved his own legs out of the bed. He heard Charlie knock again.

 “What?” Shane abandoned his quest to hide in favor of helping Ilya stand up. “You… don’t care if he sees I’m here?” 

“He was at the dinner. When-”

“Oh, right.” 

They both paused, remembering, before another knock made them jump. “Rozanov!” 

Ilya stumbled at first before Shane caught him and kept a hand on his shoulder. But Ilya glanced at Shane and shook his head. “Let go. He cannot think I’m hurt.” 

“But-“ 

“He will only think I was drunk if I fall.” 

Ilya grew more confident with every step, though Shane still hovered behind him as he reached his door and threw it open. 

“If you don’t fucking join the party after all that work to win a - oh, hi Hollander.” The angry glare on Charlie’s face immediately melted away the moment he saw Shane. 

“Hey, Riverton.” Shane gave a tiny wave. He sounded so fucking awkward, Ilya almost burst out laughing. 

But he looked right at Charlie. “Can you wait another minute?” 

Charlie’s eyes widened, but he nodded. “I can go outside-”

“Wait here. I will be right there.” 

“Seriously, I can go and-"

“No. Wait here.” He needed to leave the apartment before he threw himself at Shane. He needed to distract himself from the fact that Shane was alive, and a human, and was still in Ilya’s life without the contract. 

He needed to stop thinking about everything he wanted with Shane, because he would never get to the end of the list. 

As soon as he shut the door he turned back to Shane, who was clearly still watching Ilya carefully to make sure he wasn’t about to tip over. 

“Why are you making him wait outside? He already saw me.” 

“Because.” Ilya left it at that. He stepped a little closer to Shane, and Shane let him. “You are human now.” 

Shane visibly gulped. “Yea.” 

“So it is… different, for you too.” 

“I guess.” Shane gave a nervous shrug. 

“So we will both… take time.” 

They drifted even closer. 

“Maybe I can call you?” Ilya was pressing his palms to the tops of his thighs to keep himself from reaching out for Shane. 

“Good idea.” Shane looked just as strained. 

“I will call you. After.” 

“Yea.” Why did Shane sound so out of breath?

Fuck. Ilya leaned forward and brushed their lips together, savoring their closeness for one more second. He suspected Shane would still kiss him back if he wrapped his arms around Shane the way he really wanted to, but he stayed right on the edge, letting their noses skim against each other before pressing his lips to Shane’s cheek. 

“Okay. Goodbye, Shane.”

“Bye, Ilya.” 

Shane slipped out the door then, while Ilya found some new clothes to put on and a granola bar to scarf down. He tried not to laugh as he thought of what Shane might’ve said to Charlie on his way out. 

When Ilya finally emerged, Charlie regarded him with raised eyebrows. “You could’ve told me.” 

Ilya tried to look casual. “It’s not really like that.” 

“No?” Charlie snorted. “You didn’t run home as soon as you could to spend an entire day locked away with Hollander while the rest of us got shitfaced?” 

What was Ilya supposed to say? No, I got home just in time to hold Shane as he died before I made a deal with Beelzebub to bring him back. I gave away twenty years of my life, and I would’ve let him take even more. “We are not, um, together.”

Charlie’s face softened at that, though he still seemed somewhat disbelieving. “Well, if you ever are, feel free to let me know.” 

Ilya elbowed him in the side. “Are you still drunk?” 

“Maybe a little.” 

“I thought so.” 

They both stumbled into each other on their way out of the building. 

God fucking dammit. I miss Shane already. 

Chapter 15: Chapter 15

Chapter Notes

After the Stanley Cup celebrations were over, the first thing Ilya actually did was see how well he could still play hockey. He booked a rink early in the morning, and showed up with his gear and own bag of pucks.

He was prepared for the worst. He’d been thinking about it for years now, when he’d let himself imagine a life without the contract. What would he do when he lost the skill the contract had given him? 

He’d never really gotten to an answer.

But to his astonishment, he quickly realized it wasn’t going to be much of a problem. 

Shane had been right. He had always been good enough.

There were a few signature moves that were a little more difficult now, and he wasn’t hitting the exact corners he aimed at when he shot the puck. But those were skills he could work on over the summer and into the next season. He’d still be able to make a difference without them. 

His body felt just as capable sprinting up and down the ice, trusting his edges, and stick handling through the mass of pucks he’d scattered across the neutral zone to give himself obstacles. 

It was both a relief and an exciting challenge, that though he’d lost a few skills, he was very much still NHL material. 

He wondered if Shane would be happy to hear that he was still good, or if that would only rehash the guilt that Shane had clearly never let go of. 

All those years. Shane had never gotten another contract. The thought still struck Ilya sometimes, when he let his mind wander back to Shane. Ilya had really been the only one.

Over the summer, Shane announced his retirement from the NHL. Where Ilya’s contract had given him skill that had built on what he already had, the skill that Shane had given himself had been built on absolutely nothing. Now that he was human, he was back to square one. 

The statement he’d given to the public had been full of vague allusions to underlying illness and injury. Ilya wondered if he’d come up with a more comprehensive story for the Canadiens- he’d have to ask, when he spoke with Shane. 

He still hadn’t done that. 

As he threw himself back into the world, he realized that Shane had a point about spending some time living normally, for once. He needed to acclimate to a new lifestyle- one where he could go anywhere he wanted without putting anyone in danger, whether that was a grocery store, or a bar, or among a crowd of tourists at Faneuil Hall. 

He had sex with other people too, which was fun. It was more than fun, actually, it was great. He was attracted to plenty of people, and many of those people were also attracted to him. He even met up with some choice people multiple times. 

Sometimes it was good. Sometimes it was bad. And sometimes, it was even better than good. Mind-blowing, maybe. 

It was never as good as it was with Shane. 

Something was missing with the others. And Ilya had an inkling of what that might be.

Which was why he eventually texted Shane and asked him to come over- he opted not to call, in case Shane could hear his nerves in his voice. 

His phone buzzed almost immediately.

From: Shane Hollander
I’ll book a flight.

Oh, right. Shane couldn’t just appear outside Ilya’s home anymore. He was a human. But Ilya supposed it was good to have some time before Shane showed up to think about what he really wanted to say. While sex was admittedly the first thing on his mind in the moment, he had to face the truth that it was far from the only thing. 

But was it worth even thinking about anymore? Shane was living an entirely different life as a human now, one less preoccupied with hockey. Maybe he’d moved on from Ilya. Maybe he wanted to turn the page to something completely new. 

The thought made Ilya’s stomach hurt, but he had no choice but to consider it. 

He tried to keep living normally in the two weeks before Shane showed up, wondering whether the buffer of time Shane had put between Ilya’s text and the actual flight was really to stall, if Shane had to tell Ilya something he didn’t want to hear. 

But the passage of time didn’t seem to want to slow down, and before Ilya knew it he was somewhat frantically surveying his apartment, cleaning everything in sight as if Shane had never been to his home ever before. 

When he heard the knock, he swung his door open so fast that Shane’s hand was still raised, his hand in a loose fist. He had a suitcase at his side, and a backpack slung over his shoulder. Ilya kept his eyes down as he opened his door wider, not wanting Shane to see everything in his expression right away. 

Another part of him wanted to burst out laughing. It was all so different from the way they’d been before.

Shane was the first to speak. “Um.” 

Ilya looked up at him. 

“I never really said congratulations, before.” 

No. He’d been busy dying. Ilya held back a smile. “Thank you.” 

“It must’ve been fun, with all that celebrating.”

“You did it last year, no?” 

“Sure.” Shane shrugged. “I didn’t really do much with-” he cut himself off as he set his backpack on Ilya’s table and opened the top zipper. “It was fine. But I hope you did more.” 

Ilya wondered how many of his exploits had been photographed or put on a social media site somewhere- he hadn’t really kept track of it or cared. “Yes.” 

Shane’s arm was in his backpack, and he didn’t pull it out. “I- I was thinking. About what we said last time.” 

Ilya’s stomach clenched. Here it comes. 

“I- it’s different now. Our lives are not-” 

You are not trapped. He didn’t have to say it. 

“I know I told you to go live your life for a while. I should’ve ignored your text. I wanted to wait longer. But-” Shane suddenly looked so distressed that Ilya wanted to pull him into a hug and cradle Shane’s cheek with his fingers. But he stayed where he was. 

“I miss you.” Shane was clearly trying not to rush the words he spoke, taking a breath to slow down. “I know it’s not fair of me, and if you would rather move on from… me, I understand.” 

Like hell I would. Now, Ilya did step closer to Shane. 

“But, um.” Shane finally pulled his arm out of his backpack. He was holding flowers, wrapped in a neat bouquet. They looked fresh- Shane had to have bought them here in Boston. “If you still, uh, want maybe-”

“I want.” Ilya pried the bouquet from Shane’s hand, heart practically leaping out of his chest. “You.” He reached out to push a strand of hair away from Shane’s face, eyes on Shane’s mouth as he got even closer. 

“Wait, wait.” To Ilya’s surprise, Shane leaned away. “We shouldn’t just- I mean,” he gestured to the flowers. “I think we should maybe- uh, date?” 

Ilya paused, caught somewhat off guard. “What?” 

Shane’s shoulders seemed to drop a full inch as he took a breath. “What we- it wasn’t exactly a normal relationship, right?” 

Ilya felt his own mouth press into a line. “Of course not.”

“Maybe now that we’re human,” Shane rubbed his hand over his eye, “we can… have one? If you want?” He backed away from Ilya another step with a nervous look.
“You want to be my boyfriend?” The question was really just to clarify, but the word tasted sweet in Ilya’s mouth, and he wanted to say it again. 

Instead, he just waited for Shane to give a hesitant nod. “If you give me a chance to um, woo you first.” 

Ilya held back a laugh. “Woo me?” 

“You know.” Shane was blushing hard now. “Prove to you why, um, it should be me, and not anyone else. Now that you can-”

Ilya couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He was impressed he’d even lasted as long as he had, even as Shane had brandished flowers and space and the idea of being boyfriends between them. In a single motion, he set the flowers aside and took a long stride to end up inches away from Shane, where he cupped the back of Shane’s neck and tried to blink back the tears that were threatening to spill out of the corners of his eyes. 

For his part, Shane didn’t step back like he had before. Instead, he clutched at Ilya like he’d been holding back himself. 

Ilya pushed his forehead against Shane’s and let his eyes flutter closed for a beat, and then two. The warmth of Shane against his hands and even through his clothes spread throughout his entire body, followed immediately by chills of confirmation- that the deprivation hadn’t tricked his brain, and that Shane really was the person he wanted by his side, that he wanted like this. 

“Consider me wooed.” 

Even as Shane’s breaths were coming faster he still tried to argue. “No, I really want to do this-” 

Ilya cut him off with a kiss, and Shane kissed him back. 

It was almost painful, with how desperate they were and how they were nearly climbing into one another’s skin, pressing into old scratches from past hookups that might as well have happened a hundred years ago given how much they occurred to Ilya or Shane in the moment. 

At first, Ilya wanted to rip off Shane’s clothes right there and press him against the wall. They’d never even make it to the bedroom, and they didn’t need to. They were caught in a searing need, in a mutual understanding that the time apart had done little to change what they’d both wanted all along. 

Shane, for all his hesitation, seemed right on board now that they’d let their inhibitions fall. He moaned into Ilya’s mouth, letting his jaw move in the direction Ilya guided it before doing something with his tongue that felt familiar enough for Ilya to shift in anticipation. 

But as they kept kissing, shoving their clothes aside but never all the way off, something made Ilya slow down- it was a weird ache in his chest, the kind he got when he thought of Shane beyond what they’d already been. He still wanted Shane like this, the way he wanted no one else. But… maybe Shane had been right. They were on equal footing now, operating under transparent feelings and no looming threat. They weren’t even playing against each other anymore. 

Ilya started to halt his movements, and he felt, rather than heard, Shane groan with want- he must’ve really been holding back before. 

“Shane-“

“Now you want to talk?”

“You really want to be-” he licked his lips, where he could still taste Shane’s mouth on his, “my boyfriend?” The word tasted even sweeter the second time. 

“Yes.” Neither had let go of each other. 

“You live in Montreal.” 

“I’ll move.” 

“We might have to, um,”

“Hide? We’ll figure it out.” 

Not that Ilya could really give a shit about it right now. If it was up to him in the moment, he’d bring Shane up to the roof of his building and kiss him in front of anyone who was looking. But he figured he’d want to give it a little more thought once his head wasn’t full of cottony arousal and a swelling of some emotion he could barely even name, though its very existence scared him worse than the contract ever had.

 “You would do that?” 

“Yes.” Shane’s answer had no trace of hesitation, and Ilya’s heart sped up. But he still didn’t lean in and kiss Shane again. “You would do it because… you want to?” 

“Ilya.” A crease in Shane’s forehead deepened. “This has nothing to do with-” he sighed, probably hearing the inaccuracy of his words. He was going to say it had nothing to do with the contract, but that could never be true. All they could do was keep going, knowing the contract was behind them. “I think I would want you if I just met you in the world. Without the contract, without hockey, without anything. I want you so much it terrifies me.”

Ilya could sense a bruise forming on his arm where Shane was gripping, but he could hardly feel the pain. Blood was rushing in his ears, his heart speeding impossibly faster. 

He made himself step back. “Where are the-” the flowers were behind him, and he turned to pick them back up as he made his way to the kitchen. “I should put these in water.” 

Shane made some kind of strangled noise behind him, but made his way over to the backpack he’d set down and rummaged through it. “I have that powder you’re supposed to put in the water, the guy said it’s supposed to make them last longer and look more colorful- what?” 

Ilya was just staring at him. He kept his mouth clamped shut, not trusting what might come out of it if he let himself say anything. He took a breath in, let it out. He set the flowers on the counter. They could wait for their water. Ilya, on the other hand… 

“I’m kind of getting mixed signals.” Shane laughed against Ilya’s mouth, kissing him back. What was the fucking use in trying to resist anymore? What were either of them trying to prove? 

“Just kiss me.” 

“But-”

“Shane.” 

They stopped talking after that. They actually threw their clothes aside too, whenever the edge of a shirt or the zipper of the pants got in the way. Ilya held Shane against him, feeling the human heart beating in Shane’s chest and feeling the way Shane’s entire body reacted when he dug his teeth into the sensitive skin on his stomach. 

Shane threaded his fingers through Ilya’s hair and held on as if for dear life, and Ilya kissed a path lower and lower until he was letting his lips, his tongue, even the side of his cheek, say everything that his voice didn’t. Shane seemed too lost in himself above him to really get the message, although he hauled Ilya back up for a hungry kiss soon enough. 

And somehow, despite the fact that Shane was here, asking to remain in Ilya’s life beyond what Ilya could’ve hoped for, Ilya had never been quite as desperate for Shane as he was now. He could have anyone, and all he wanted was the man he could’ve had all along. He’d truly chosen Shane this time, in a way neither could shrug off or forget.

The clarity of the moment struck him so deeply that he carried Shane to the bed before he could lose his resolve. There would be time later to take Shane on the floor, or in the hallway, or… anywhere. He wanted to remember this one from his bed, where he’d be lying later reliving every second when Shane had to go back to Montreal and start the moving process. He wanted to still feel the bruises on his waist from Shane squeezing his knees as he rode Ilya with an agonizing pace, precise enough to send Ilya’s eyes rolling back in his head. 

He wanted to remember the sweetest moment of all, when Shane collapsed next to him, stopping Ilya with a heavy arm around his waist when he tried to get up to clean them both off. 

“Give it a minute.” Shane’s voice was faint, but he hung on. “Stay.” 

Ilya would’ve stayed a century. 

He thought Shane had fallen asleep until he heard a soft groan, and turned so that their noses brushed. 

“I might have failed at wooing you.” 

Ilya snorted in laughter. “You are wrong.” 

“I still wanna woo you again. For real, on a date. With dinner, maybe, and-” 

“Okay.” 

There would be time for that. There would be as much time as Ilya possibly had to give. 

Chapter End Notes

thank you for your patience on this one- I've been so very busy.

but maybe one day I'll write the sequel: Shane's quest to get Ilya those twenty years back!