Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Character:

Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, and they were ROOMMATES, (but only on road trips), Closeted Character, Coming Out, Blackmail, Violence, Homophobia, Stalking, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Happy Ending, I promise, The tags make it sound darker than it is, POV Alternating, i used the archive warning to be safe but i don't think it will be that bad, we will see, Original Character(s), (the stalker and some other people)

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-14 Completed: 2026-03-05 Words: 24,880 Chapters: 6/6

good evening, baltimore

Summary

“Yes. In recent games-” Ilya paused. Hollander didn’t interrupt him. “Have you read what they said about you?”
“Who’s they?”
“People. Hockey people.”
Hollander stared Ilya down. “Is this supposed to motivate me?”
“No, um, I-”
“You should see the shit they say about *you*.”
Ilya most definitely did see it.

 

The NHL adds another team, resulting in an expansion draft. Shane and Ilya, both nearing the end of their careers at age 35, find themselves on the new team. Can they both prove that they’re not “too old” to lead a team to victory? And can they be honest with each other in the process?

Notes

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

“Rozanov. Why have you been ignoring my calls?” 

Ilya rolled his eyes. “You have me now. What do you want?” His agent, Carl, was unfazed by Ilya’s clipped response. He’d been dealing with Ilya for seventeen years at this point. 

“There’s- well, Rozanov, there’s a problem.” 

Half listening, Ilya flipped the chicken he was cooking. “What is that?” 

“The expansion draft.” 

That made Ilya pause. He was well aware that the NHL was adding a new team in Baltimore, Maryland. He’d been looking over the Bruins’ roster the past few days, wondering which players were most likely to get drafted for it. 

Whenever a new team was added to the NHL, the coaching and management leaders would draft players from all the existing teams to create the new roster. To prepare, each existing team would submit a list of eight “protected” skaters and a goalie- people the new team would not be able to take. 

Rosters changed every season, but the Bruins definitely had more than eight players Ilya wanted to play with next year. He was hoping for minimal damage.

“What about the draft?” 

“I’ve seen the protection list.” Carl took a breath so loudly that Ilya heard it over the phone. “Rozanov, you’re not on it.” 

What? 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” In his haste to take the chicken off the stove, Ilya touched the hot part of the pan.

“Fuck! Did they say why?” 

Carl started to answer just as Ilya realized he didn’t actually want to know why. “They didn’t. But I think I can guess-” 

“Do not say it is because I’m too old.” 

Silence. 

“Carl-”

“There’s nothing wrong with that, Rozanov. Lots of players would kill to be playing at such a high level at thirty-five.” 

“I scored thirty fucking goals last year, Carl.” 

“You used to score fifty.” 

“I do not need to score fifty anymore. Lots of Boston players are big scorers now. They would put me on the protection list if I was more selfish?” 

Carl sighed. “Look, Rozanov. Maybe this is a good opportunity. If Baltimore drafts you, they’ll probably make you their captain.”

Ilya scoffed. “That means nothing. I am captain here.” 

Carl ignored him. “You would be the first ever captain of a new team. You’ve been a franchise player in Boston, and now you can be one for Baltimore. And that label is important, when you’re thinking about what you wanna do when you re-”

“Carl,” Ilya hissed, “I am not done. I will tell you when I am done. Then we can talk about it.” 

“There’s no harm in thinking about-”

“Carl.” 

“Okay, okay. I know it sucks. You’re not the only guy I had to deliver bad news to today. No one likes to hear it. I get it. If it makes you feel any better, another captain got left off his team’s protection list too.”

Ilya was ready to be done with this conversation. “It does not make me feel better. Can I hang up now?” 

“Don’t you wanna know who it is?” 

“I don’t care.” 

“Yes you do. It’s Shane Hollander.” 

-------------------------------

The Baltimore Bells were more than happy to take advantage of Ilya’s availability on the expansion draft, and over the course of the summer Ilya found a row house in Charles Village, told Svetlana that if she didn’t visit him he would hunt her down, and took his gear to the newly refurbished CFG Bank Arena in Baltimore. 

He’d already signed a deal with Under Armour by the time he moved in. They didn’t seem to think he was too old to play hockey. They were thrilled to have a “hockey legend” in the very city where they were headquartered. 

But he wasn’t the only one. Unsurprisingly, Baltimore had drafted Shane Hollander as well. Despite the articles written by overzealous Montreal fans with Substacks claiming Hollander was “losing his touch,” Ilya couldn’t see how that was true. Hollander definitely didn’t have the speed he’d had at twenty-five, but he’d adapted his style of play. His work in the defensive zone made him, in Ilya’s opinion, an even better all-around player than he had been a decade ago. And Ilya would know. He was the one always trying to score on Hollander. 

To Ilya’s delight, Baltimore made him captain over Hollander. He thought he was going to have to fight for it more, maybe even call in some references from Boston to wax poetic about how good of a leader he was. He had even worried for a moment that the Bells wouldn’t want to “feed the rivalry” and would choose someone else over both of them. 

He assumed Hollander was pissed about it. At their first team meeting, Hollander barely looked at him outside of shaking his hand hello and acknowledging to the rest of the team that he was excited to play with Ilya. After almost twenty years of playing against each other, Ilya was surprised that was all Hollander had to say. 

He’d been wondering what Hollander was actually like, beyond the face-off dot and away from the interviews or all-star circuses they’d both been a part of for years. He would have to work a little harder to find out. 

“Rozanov? You in here?” Hollander’s head poked through the doorway of Ilya’s sparsely furnished office. The Bells had insisted that Ilya needed his own office as captain, though Ilya already knew he would almost never use it. However, he figured he could at least make a show of effort in their first month as a team. 

Preseason had started, and the Bells weren’t clicking just yet. Hollander wasn’t playing badly, but he wasn’t resembling the typically formidable opponent Ilya was used to seeing on the ice. The rookies were trying to get their legs under them. Things would evolve, Ilya knew, but he wanted to speed up the process. 

That was why he’d asked Hollander if they could meet, captain to assistant captain. Hollander’s mouth had tightened at Ilya’s wording, which made Ilya laugh internally. 

Hollander’s gray t-shirt was spotted with sweat stains. Ilya decided not to acknowledge that as Hollander took the chair across from him. 

“Working out already this morning? You are going to be dead after today’s practice, Hollander.” 

Oops, he acknowledged it.

Hollander gave him a dead-eyed look. “No. It’s just too fucking hot out there, man. It’s September. I can’t even walk to the waterfront without sweating through my clothes. What the fuck is wrong with this place?” 

Some part of Ilya wanted to commiserate with Hollander. He was suffering in the heat too. He’d always wondered how those guys who played in Florida tolerated day-to-day life there when they weren’t at the beach, and he decided they must be miserable all the time. But he wasn’t going to let Hollander know that. 

“Ah, you have to let the sun soak into your skin. Then it won’t bother you so much.” 

Hollander narrowed his eyes. “I think you’re full of shit, but okay.” 

Ilya shrugged. “As long as you are not too hot to play hockey.” 

“Was there a reason you wanted to have this meeting?’ Hollander was already sitting with his arms crossed and jaw clenched. This didn’t bode well for Ilya’s plan to have a productive conversation, but he forged ahead anyway. 

“I am your captain.” 

Hollander’s shoulders tensed even more. So he was pissed. Good to know. “And?”

“I should tell you when I notice something, yes?” 

“About me?” Now Hollander looked concerned. 

“Yes. In recent games-” Ilya paused. Hollander didn’t interrupt him. “Have you read what they said about you?”

“Who’s they?”

“People. Hockey people.” 

Hollander stared Ilya down. “Is this supposed to motivate me?” 

“No, um, I-”

“You should see the shit they say about you.” 

Ilya most definitely did see it. Rozanov is too slow. Rozanov got lucky with that goal. Rozanov should just retire already. Would Rozanov even be able to last in a long playoff run anymore? But he hadn’t gotten to that yet. He was trying to figure out how Hollander felt, not him. It wasn’t going well. 

“Yes. They say a lot of shit. About both of us.” It was hard to remember what he was even trying to accomplish, looking at Hollander hunched up in anger across from him. He’d been trying to find some common ground, trying to think of what he’d want to hear if Baltimore had not made him captain. “But I do not believe it.” 

“No?” 

“No. Do you?” 

This seemed to make Hollander angrier. “Of course not. And you’re a pretty shitty captain if you think I would.” He was standing now, shoving his chair back into its place.

“No, Hollander-” Ilya’s mind was racing. Why was Hollander taking everything he said as some kind of attack? They were on the same team now. “That is not what I-”

“I’m aware that I’m not playing well. I’m aware that people notice. I will handle it. You can focus on getting everyone else to work together.” He walked to the door. “And when you have something to tell me that might make this team better, other than telling me how fucking underwhelming I am to everyone, I’ll be happy to help.” And with that, he was gone. 

Ilya scrubbed a hand over his eyes. He supposed it could’ve gone worse. He couldn’t think of how, but surely it could’ve. 

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

It was the first road trip in Baltimore Bells history, and instead of doing yoga in his hotel room Shane was in some bar in Buffalo pretending he wanted to be at the “group bonding” event Rozanov insisted on having. 

It was infuriating how good Rozanov was at getting the team talking and working together. He did it on the ice by using his signature over-the-top commentary to light a fire under the asses of wingers not passing well to each other, or a defensive pair that couldn’t seem to to line up one-timers correctly. One teasing brag from Rozanov about how he was going to have to suit up their kids instead and suddenly everyone’s passes were connecting. 

It was because Rozanov kept things light hearted with exaggerations and dramatics, but he never lost the current of intensity running through his words. He joked around sometimes, but Shane only had to look at his eyes to know he was deadly serious. 

Shane had never managed that balance as a captain in Montreal, always preferring to give straightforward feedback or helpful advice when he could, but never managing to make light of the game that he and his team had dedicated their lives to playing. He’d often caught himself glaring at Hayden on the bench when he overheard him singing along to the music between whistles, not understanding how Hayden could be so relaxed when he’d have to snap back into focus on the ice. 

Maybe that was why Baltimore went with Rozanov as captain over Shane. 

If Shane had been captain, he certainly wouldn’t have dragged the whole team out when they could’ve been getting ready for the next game. He’d brought up his concern to Rozanov, who’d laughed in his face.

“Hollander, this is getting ready for the game. A very important part. I will see you there,” he’d said. 

Now, Rozanov was making the rounds, using his same abrasive style to get his fellow Bells chatting with each other around the bar. Shane had to admit, he really was good at it. But that didn’t mean Shane had to participate. He didn’t need any more new friends. Rozanov could do this type of captaining on his own. 

He found a seat at the end of the bar, next to Daniel Bradley, a defenseman drafted from New Jersey. Bradley was a quiet guy and seemingly comfortable with sitting in silence, and Shane smiled to himself as Bradley simply raised his beer in greeting when Shane sat down.

The bar area took up the central part of the dining space, with three sides to sit at and tables spread out along the edges of the room. It was Shane’s least favorite type of bar, because everywhere he looked he risked making eye contact with someone across from him. God forbid he just wanted to train his gaze on an open patch of wall without the mortifying realization that he was accidentally looking directly at someone. 

It also meant that more people could ogle him without him noticing. They could look at Shane Hollander, leading NHL goal scorer for ten seasons, apparently too washed up to be able to finish his career in Montreal. They could see that he wasn’t even having any fun right now, and wonder what the hell was wrong with him. And he didn’t have the reputation of Ilya Rozanov, so he couldn’t tell those people to fuck off and mind their own business without getting some form of blowback.

Shane focused on his beer until the feeling of someone’s eyes on him became too much to handle. But when he looked up, he was surprised. 

A man- possibly a local, not associated with the Bells- across the bar was staring at him. He had a red and black flannel shirt that he’d rolled up to his forearms, showing off serpentine tattoos that snaked down to his wrists. He was looking at Shane in a way that felt familiar, yet foreign to the current setting. Shane felt a pit of dread form in his stomach. Could he…? 

The man raised his eyebrows ever so slightly and then tilted his chin up, maintaining eye contact with Shane as he took a sip of his drink. 

Fuck. 

Shane had seen that look many times, in places he went without his hockey team. If he had been out alone on a night he’d chosen for himself, he might have even returned the nod, and then followed the guy to wherever he wanted to go. But on those nights, he’d been far away, somewhere no one cared about hockey players. He’d been in places where he hadn’t cared about what certain others could evidently immediately see in him. 

Years ago, when Scott Hunter had kissed his boyfriend on live television and in front of thousands of fans, Shane had finally been honest with himself. He’d suspected he was gay before that, having “experimented” with men via several hurried and anonymous hookups, but he hadn’t truly been willing to admit it until he saw Scott and his boyfriend (Kip, he later learned) on the ice and felt a sharp hook of want dig into his stomach, more than he’d ever felt seeing Hayden with his wife or other players with their families. He really did want, and he wanted more than a few experimental fucks four time zones away. 

However, he was not Scott Hunter. He had no intention of being an openly gay NHL player, even if he wouldn’t be the first. He could not imagine being involved in a public kiss dramatic enough to roll credits over. He couldn’t even imagine being so in love that he’d forget to care who knew. 

He had eventually spoken to Scott at his retirement party. Scott had barely reacted, and Shane had wondered how many of these conversations he’d had since coming out. He’d been worried that Scott would tell him to come out, to be the next player to show that queer people were, and had always been, among hockey’s finest. 

But Scott had supported Shane’s decision to stay closeted. 

“Look, Hollander,” he’d said, “I know better than anyone how hard it is. And you’ve got a lot of good years left in this league.” He’d paused to smile across the room at Kip, who had given a toast that made everyone cry. “I’m grateful for what I could have by coming out. But this league has a long way to go.” 

Then, he’d offered to set Shane up on some dates. Shane had agreed, as long as Scott promised not to put him in contact with any other hockey players. Scott had laughed at that. 

“I could set you up with other players. But you have the right idea. Better not to get caught up in all that. Just imagine if the league found out. Good god.” 

He did date a bit. So far, nothing had lasted. People always claimed they could handle dating someone who operated on an NHL schedule, but had quickly discovered they hadn’t anticipated just how much time and commitment it demanded. 

He’d even come out to the people he cared about- his parents, and friends like Hayden and Rose Landry, a local actress with whom he’d had a mortifying misunderstanding when they met, but was now a close friend. 

All in all, it was more than he thought would’ve been possible. 

But he wasn’t out to anyone on the Baltimore Bells, nor did he intend to be. And even if he did, he definitely wouldn’t consider leaving Rozanov’s team bonding event for a hookup, regardless of how stupid he thought it all was. 

He wondered why the guy was even looking at him anyhow. Sure, he was good looking. He even still had some of his original teeth. But…

He watched Rozanov make his way down the line of players at the bar, the playful expression never leaving his face. He’d put something in his hair that slicked back his curls just a bit, though he’d missed a few spots in the back. He’d always been such a nightmare to play against. And so willing to mock or challenge Shane at every opportunity. And he’d taken away the chance for Shane to paint his move to the Baltimore Bells with the silver lining of another captaincy. But damn. Something about his face, his demeanor, his ability to hit the top left corner with a slapshot every time… it made Shane wonder why the guy in the flannel wasn’t looking at Rozanov instead. 

Maybe he just thought Rozanov would kick his ass. 

“Hollander!” 

Shane had been spared for too long. Rozanov came up behind Bradley and Shane, swaying a bit as if he was drunk. Shane noticed the beer in his hand was the same one he’d been drinking before, and it was only half gone. Maybe he was just drunk on companionship. Or the thrill of being in a city that wasn’t still hot enough to require wearing shorts in October. 

Rozanov put his hand on the back of Shane’s chair. “Everyone, this guy is my roommate.” It was true. Rozanov had insisted that he and Shane room together. He’d claimed that since they were the two oldest players, one of them would get the first offer if there were any single rooms available. They’d both score their own room if they were already paired together in that scenario. Unfortunately, there were no single rooms on this road trip. 

Bradley played right into the trap, laughing at Rozanov’s declaration. “I’m impressed you guys can get along. After how many years at each others’ throats?” 

Shane gave a hollow chuckle. 

Rozanov patted Bradley on the shoulder. “We will strategize at night. No time for fighting. Right, Hollander?” 

Shane could only lift his drink in response. “Right. No fighting. Gotta save it for the ice.” 

Rozanov laughed. “When is the last time you got into a fight?” 

“You don’t fight either.” Shane tried to make his annoyance clear in his tone, but Rozanov ignored it.

“Not full fights, but more than you, Hollander.” He gestured down the table. “Should I ask them what movie we should watch tonight? I want something bloody.” He flicked the back of Shane’s chair, but didn’t touch Shane at all. 

Shane found himself wishing he did. Even just on the shoulder, like he’d done with Bradley. What is wrong with me? Maybe I should go find that guy in the flannel after all. 

“Just watch the Fast and Furious movies like the rest of us,” Bradley suggested. Shane could almost see Rozanov’s eyes light up. 

“The rest of you? You all watch the same movies?” 

“Rozanov, I have to sleep tonight.” The thought of fifteen other players piling into the hotel room to watch a movie they’d all already seen filled Shane with enough fear that he couldn’t help but squash the idea before it formed. 

Rozanov gave an exaggerated fake pout. “You’re no fun.” He sauntered away, leaving Shane to finally exhale. 

Bradley turned to Shane. “Roz is a great captain, but I could never share a room with him. Good luck with that.” 

By the time people started making their way to their hotel rooms, all Shane wanted to do was sleep. He waited for two teammates to leave before he did, telling himself no one would claim he was bailing on them if he wasn’t the first to go back. 

By the time Rozanov opened the hotel room door, Shane was in the bed and starting to fall asleep. He didn’t normally sleep with an eye mask or ear plugs, but he’d set both out on the nightstand just in case Rozanov made too much noise. 

“Hey, Hollander? Are you awake?” Surprisingly, Rozanov’s voice was low, like he actually cared about not waking Shane up. That consideration made Shane crack an eye open, admitting to himself he wasn’t going to be able to fall asleep anyway without finding out what Rozanov wanted. 

“Yea. Kind of. Enough. What?” 

“I wanted to talk to you.” 

That was never a good sentence to hear. Shane couldn’t help but jump to the worst conclusions immediately. Did Rozanov have some kind of new problem with him? Had Rozanov heard something from the coaching staff that Shane wouldn’t like? Fucking hell, did Rozanov know he was gay? Shane sat up in the bed and propped a pillow behind his back. He flicked his hand out in a go forth motion, not wanting Rozanov to hear the nerves in his voice. 

“The meeting we had before.” 

Oh. Just shitting on Shane’s playing as usual? He could work with that.

“Have I improved enough for you, Rozanov?” He didn’t necessarily mean to sound like an enormous dickhead, but he was in a weird mood, and he didn’t like how sincerely Rozanov was looking at him. 

Rozanov scoffed. “I did not say you needed to improve. I was going to say sorry. I know I upset you-” 

“You didn’t upset me.” 

“You are a bad liar.” 

Shane blinked. “I’m going to sleep.” 

“Wait.” Rozanov still hadn’t moved from in front of the door, as if he didn’t think he could come all the way in the room without finishing the conversation. The way he was standing with his arms crossed sent a wave of annoyance through Shane. “I do not think you are worse. I was going to tell you I think everyone else is stupid for saying that. I am glad you are on my team, for once.” 

Shane was completely confused. He and Rozanov had done nothing but rib each other, mutter obscenities across the face-off dot, and tell interviewers that there was no competition on who the better player was for years. The fact that he wasn’t being an asshole in this moment felt almost against nature. 

“Why are you trying so hard to get everyone to be friends?” Shane blamed his question on  the fact that Rozanov was acting so weirdly nice. It was too suspicious. “You don’t have to. We can just be, well, teammates.” 

Rozanov narrowed his eyes at him. “Some people play better when they like their team. When they do not feel so lonely on a new team that they hate coming to work.” 

Shane looked down in guilt. He’d been too busy feeling sorry for himself to remember that most of the players on the team had been uprooted in the expansion draft, including Rozanov. 

“I guess that’s true,” he started, “I never thought of it that way. I’m just surprised, that when we’re both getting close to retirement, you-” 

Suddenly, Rozanov was standing at the foot of Shane’s bed, looking murderous. “We are not talking about retirement, Hollander.” 

There was a vein in Rozanov’s neck that Shane couldn’t stop looking at. “I know, obviously we both want to play for a little while longer, I just-” 

“No.” Now, Rozanov was next to him, inches away from Shane’s face. “I will play until they kick me out of the league. They call me old now? They will have to put me on waivers before I stop playing. There will be no retirement.” Shane could only stare in frozen shock, willing himself not to look at Rozanov’s mouth while also distantly wondering if Rozanov was going to actually slap him. He paused, brows drawn together, eyes boring into Shane’s. 

“Rozanov,” Shane finally spit out, “get the fuck away from me.” Rozanov stiffened and stood upright. 

“Okay. You want to be a teammate? I will be your teammate,” Rozanov said, backing away from Shane’s bed. “Not your friend. But your captain.” 

Shane wiped his face with the edge of his t-shirt. “Sounds good to me.” 

“I still think you are a good player. Not as good as me, but good.” 

Shane really didn’t feel like responding. He faced away from Rozanov and went to sleep, trying to forget how badly he’d wanted to pull Rozanov down on top of him. 

The next two nights of the road trip were uneventful. The Bells were winning about half their games, which was a far cry from what Shane wanted but was a perfectly fine place to be in to start the season. 

In their shared hotel room, Rozanov treated Shane with polite disinterest. When he talked to Shane about the lines and how well they were working together, he only did it while they were still in the rink. In the hotel, he only ever asked Shane if he was done with the bathroom or if they could adjust the temperature in the room. Shane was happy to go along with this approach, telling himself it would be useless to try and buddy up with Rozanov at this point. Not that he even wanted to. 

The game in Toronto had ended in an overtime loss. Shane was always disappointed with those- he knew the Bells weren’t strong in three-on-three play, but if they could last the five minutes of overtime they’d stand a decent chance in the shootout. Shane had always considered himself to have better hands than Rozanov, but Rozanov always managed to send the goalie lunging out of the crease whenever he practiced his penalty shots. Between the two of them and some other strong shooters, the Bells would have a decent shootout record. 

It was business as usual in the hotel room, with Shane trying to settle himself to try and get a decent night’s sleep. Rozanov had come in and set his bags down before immediately leaving again. Shane decided that as two people who were not friends, it was none of his business where Rozanov went. 

An hour later, the hotel room door slammed open and Rozanov stumbled in. 

Shane jolted up, not having been asleep but also not appreciative of the sudden loud noise. “Rozanov, what the-” he trailed off as Rozanov sank to the floor. Was that blood down the front of his shirt? Shit. “Hey. Rozanov.” Shane scrambled to Rozanov’s side, hesitant to touch him and hurt him worse. “Talk to me. Do you need a doctor?” 

“No doctor. Please.” Rozanov’s voice was faint. 

“What happened?” 

Rozanov didn’t answer. Shane decided not to push it. 

“Where are you hurt? Your head?” That was definitely blood in his hair too. “Can you look at me?”

Rozanov shook his head. 

“If you don’t let me see I’m calling the team doctor, at least.” 

At that, Rozanov raised his head from off the floor. Shane bit back a gasp. His whole face was smeared with blood, likely coming from his nose. His left eye was swollen shut and already purpling, and his top lip was split open. Jesus. Twenty years in the NHL meant that Shane had seen his fair share of injuries. Hell, he had even seen Rozanov himself get banged up pretty bad now and again. But this was worse than a bad hit or a fight in a game. 

Maybe they weren’t friends. But they were teammates. And Shane was not one to back down when his teammate needed help. That had been one of his strengths as a captain in Montreal. 

“Can you sit up?” Rozanov was on all fours on the ground, what Shane could see of his face contorted in pain. He started to shake his head, but paused. 

“I will try.” He gingerly pushed himself into a sitting position, leaning against the wall. He clutched at his side as he breathed. 

“Is it your ribs too?” 

Rozanov nodded. 

Shane thought for a moment. He didn’t want to pull Rozanov’s shirt over his head and hurt the injuries on his face. But he needed to see how bad his ribs looked. 

A thought came to him. His grooming kit! It had a pair of mini scissors, meant to cut stray hairs or tags off the back of a shirt. They would have to do. 

“Don’t move.” 

Rozanov’s one good eye stared at him with a judgmental look. “Where would I go?” 

Shane reminded himself he had to be nice to Rozanov right now. When he finally dug the scissors out of his suitcase, Rozanov laughed. 

“You are kidding me, Hollander. Those are baby scissors.” 

Shane knelt beside Rozanov. “I’m going to cut your shirt off to get a look at your ribs.” 

Rozanov made an alarmed noise. “No. This shirt was expensive.” 

“It’s covered in blood. And you’re a millionaire. No, you know what, I will buy you a new shirt. Stay still while I do this.” 

Miraculously, Rozanov didn’t complain while Shane cut his shirt off with the laborious method of snipping bit by bit with the tiny scissors. He realized he was cutting towards Rozanov’s face as he made progress, and switched to cutting down the shirt instead of up. He was forced to lean right over Rozanov, finding himself inches away from his face yet again. He only wished he couldn’t smell the blood. 

He’d prepared himself for a bad scene as he got the shirt off, so he didn’t react to the bruises along Rozanov’s torso. “Can I touch your ribs?” 

Rozanov nodded. He hissed as Shane pressed on his side, and Shane drew his hand away. 

“I am fine,” he gritted out, “your hands are cold.” 

Shane huffed out a laugh. “I’ll run them under the sink to warm them up. Do you think anything’s broken?” 

Rozanov shook his head. “Nothing is ever broken.” 

This made Shane stop in his tracks. “Nothing- has this happened before?” 

“Does it matter?” 

It kind of did. But right now, Shane supposed he needed to stay on task. 

“This shirt is pretty soft. It might work better than toilet paper to clean the blood off your face-” 

Rozanov shook his head. “No need. First aid kit in my bag.” 

Shane hadn’t thought Rozanov was the type of person to carry a first aid kit around on road trips, but he’d clearly been mistaken. Unless, a voice in his head chimed in, it’s because he thought this might happen. He shook the thought off. He wouldn’t assume anything until Rozanov told him what happened. 

The first aid kit had some antiseptic wipes that Shane held up to Rozanov’s face. “This might hurt, okay? I’ll try and be gentle.” 

“Okay.” Rozanov let Shane approach him with the wipes, any bit of fight or adrenaline that he’d had before seemingly gone from his body now. 

Shane started on the parts of Rozanov’s face that seemed the least bad, and worked his way to the swollen, purple flesh. He felt Rozanov wince every time he swiped over a rougher looking spot, and kept murmuring “sorry, I’m sorry,” as if that would help. 

As he worked on the ridge of Rozanov’s eyebrow, he brought his other hand up to hold Rozanov’s face still. Rozanov flinched at the hand coming towards him. 

“Hey. I can stop.” 

“No.” Rozanov reached out and found Shane’s hand, bringing up to his own face. “My fault. Keep going.” 

Shane did. 

“If I tell you what happened, do you promise to keep it a secret?” 

Shane frowned. “If you need a doctor-”

“Hollander. Please.” Rozanov looked so defeated, slumped against the wall. This NHL all-star, Stanley Cup champion, all-around pain in Shane’s ass, was more than just physically beat up. 

Shane sighed. “Okay.” 

“I know the man who hurt me. His name is Anatoly. There is nothing I can do about it. No, let me finish,” he said as Shane opened his mouth to argue. “He is a friend of my father and brother.” 

“But why-” 

“Before I came to Boston, before the draft, my father caught me doing something. I was-” he paused, exhaling, and muttered something in Russian. “I was with a man. In bed.” 

Shane tried to hide his shock. Rozanov? With a man? He realized Rozanov was searching his face, waiting for him react. Maybe he was waiting for Shane to call him a slur. Shane tried to focus on the point. Rozanov had been in Russia before the draft. Shane suddenly felt a little nauseous. 

“Fuck, Rozanov. I’m sorry. That must’ve been- god.” 

Rozanov cleared his throat. “Yes.” 

“What- what happened?” 

“He said I was a disgrace. I was disgusting. I had mental problems. He said I could only go to America if he sent someone to watch over me, to make sure I did not…” He trailed off. Shane’s nausea was extremely present. Had Rozanov been under some kind of fucked up surveillance the entire time Shane had known him? 

Rozanov continued. “I thought it would stop when my father died.” Shane remembered that, Rozanov’s father had died right after they’d played a game against each other. “But my brother found out. If I do not send him enough money he sends Anatoly after me. Sometimes I can talk to him. Sometimes- he likes to hurt people. He likes to hurt me.” 

“Rozanov. Jesus. No. You can get help. I can help-” 

“You cannot help. If I avoid Anatoly my brother will tell everyone at home what I am. I will never be able to go back to Russia. And if I do, I-” he swallowed. “It is better this way.” 

“This guy has been coming after you for almost twenty years?” 

Rozanov nodded. “He was there at the draft. The night of my first Stanley Cup. He was in the bar, watching what I drank, who I talked to. He always finds me. Easier if I just let him do it.”

Shane remembered how disappointed he’d been to be the second overall draft pick. Rozanov had been standing next to him so many times that day, and Shane had ignored him out of pure annoyance. He was so sure Rozanov could’ve only felt a smug victory after how neck and neck they’d been in the world junior championships. To think someone was watching Rozanov even then. To think Rozanov had seemed so relaxed earlier. 

He felt the sudden urge to hug Rozanov, to cradle his head into his chest and tell him he’d figure out how to fix it. He obviously couldn’t do that. 

There was one thing he could do, though. 

“Rozanov,” he started. “I- um. I won’t tell anyone.” He took a breath. He’d done this before, he could do it again. Did he think he’d ever have this conversation with Ilya Rozanov? Absolutely not. “There’s something you should know. About me.” 

Rozanov lifted the corner of his swollen lip. “I fucking knew it. Hollander. Thank fuck.” 

“What? You knew?” 

“I guessed. I am a good guesser.” 

“Jesus christ.” 

Shane had more questions. Questions like, at what point did you guess, or did you insist on rooming with me in case this happened? But Rozanov was starting to look cold without his shirt.

“Do you want to try and get on the bed? I think I got most of the blood off you.” 

Rozanov nodded. “I should sleep.” He started to push himself up, using Shane’s shoulder to stand before shuffling over to the bed. 

“Do you want a painkiller?” 

“If you have some.” Like that was ever a question. Shane was always more than prepared with every over-the-counter painkiller brand he had found in the last seventeen years. He dug a pill bottle out of his bag and handed it to Rozanov along with a water bottle from the mini fridge. Once Rozanov looked comfortable enough, Shane went back to his own bed. 

“Hey, Rozanov?” 

“Mmm.” 

“I think my coach left me off the protection list because he found out I’m gay.” Shane hadn’t said this to anyone. Not even to Rose, who thought the expansion draft rules were stupid. He heard Rozanov shift across the room. 

“What? He found out?” 

“A year ago. I wasn’t- I stopped being so careful.” He tried to keep his voice from breaking as he thought of how much he’d risked, all for a stupid date. “I went on a few dates in Montreal. I’d found some places that were- that didn’t have people who knew who I was. But I thought I could go out to dinner, maybe. With a nice guy. Feel normal for once.” He hadn’t contacted the guy after that night. “My coach walked into the restaurant. He was with some woman. He saw me right away. The look on his face- he was disgusted. He didn’t even ask me to explain what I was doing or wait to hear some excuse. It was like he knew immediately. Maybe he’d already guessed too.” 

Rozanov muttered something in Russian. Shane kept talking. “He never talked to me about it. I kept waiting for him to call me into his office, to, I don’t know, confront me or something. I would’ve come up with some story. But there was nothing. And then the expansion draft happened and-” he blinked back the tears in his eyes. “I guess that was as good an excuse as any to get rid of me.” 

“Fuck them. Their loss, Hollander.” Shane turned away from him, unable to handle how genuine Rozanov sounded. 

Rozanov spoke to Shane’s back. “There was a player on my team last year. Karpov. He spoke Russian. Anatoly was in the parking lot one night. He was telling me all about what my brother would say about me if I did not send more money. He was very detailed. I saw someone walking to his car just after Anatoly left. It could’ve been Karpov. If he overheard and told the coach…” he coughed. “My agent said it was because I am too old. But I wonder if maybe… it was that.” 

Now, Shane had to laugh. It was all too unfair, and he was afraid for what Rozanov had to deal with. But the situation was also kind of funny. “Everyone thinks we’re too old. But I guess it turns out- we’re just too gay.” 

Rozanov barked out a laugh too. He raised his non-swollen eyebrow as Shane turned back around to look at him. “Too gay for one more Stanley Cup, do you think?"

Shane took in Rozanov’s bruised body, and thought of the creepy Russian stalker following Rozanov all over North America. He thought of his own sore knees, and his perfectly curated workout routines that kept him able to compete with guys fifteen years younger than him. He thought of their new home that neither of them had chosen, in a city that was slightly too hot but still had some of the most enthusiastic fans he’d ever seen. He thought of how he wanted to look back on this season knowing he’d done absolutely everything he could. 

“Hey, Rozanov?” 

“Yes, Hollander?” 

“We’re going to kick their fucking asses.” 

Chapter End Notes

in this universe rose Landry is not that famous because I think her fame and money would’ve solved several problems, and I want there to be problems.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Their first home game against Boston was just hours away, and Ilya was already at CFG Bank Arena. He hadn’t had to miss a game yet, not even after the disaster in Toronto. He’d gotten some weird looks at his bruises, but he’d learned how to cover up the worst of them over the years.

Hollander had tried to talk him out of playing against Detroit two days after the incident. Ilya had ignored his warnings as he’d slathered numbing cream all over his ribs. 

“Don’t worry, Hollander,” he’d said, though it was clear Hollander was already worrying. “I have scored against you with worse.” It had only made Hollander’s frown deepen. 

Part of Ilya regretted telling Hollander everything. He constantly noticed Hollander scrutinizing him, eyes raking over his face and body as if he was looking for more injuries. He couldn’t help but see Hollander relax when they greeted each other at the rink each day, as if he was doubting whether Ilya would show up in one piece. As if Ilya hadn’t been dealing with this for years.

However, another part of Ilya was relieved. He’d taken a huge risk by telling Hollander the truth, rather than using his typical past excuses like a bar fight, a jilted ex of a woman he was fucking, or even a stick to the face in a game that everyone had missed. But something had told him it would be okay. Even if Hollander hadn’t turned out to be gay like he thought, he’d predicted that Hollander had enough respect for the rivalry they’d been a part of to keep his secret. 

Plus, it felt good to have someone else know. Someone who didn’t think being attracted to men was such a bad thing. Someone who couldn’t help- because no one could- but who could at least be angry it was happening. It was extremely validating to remember that it was, in fact, fucked up. 

And Hollander was showing fierce determination to live up to the promise he’d made to Ilya that night in Toronto. He was playing some of the best hockey Ilya had ever seen. They both played center, so they didn’t typically play on the same line unless they were on the power play or had pulled the goalie- which meant Ilya could watch Hollander from the bench, finding a new appreciation for his skill with every game. 

Hollander was truly always open. And he always knew how to find the open player if he had the puck. He kept his feet moving in every zone, often drawing penalties when he caught the defensemen flat footed. When they were on the power play together, the passes he sent to Ilya for one-timers were gifts on silver platters that made Ilya feel like he had to apologize if he didn’t score (but he usually did). 

Whenever he came to the bench after a goal, he’d smile at Ilya with a wicked glint in his eye. It galvanized Ilya in a way that felt almost new. They weren’t just doing their jobs anymore- they were sending a message, even if the message was only between the two of them. 

Tonight, however, Ilya wanted to send an extremely loud message to Boston. 

He wasn’t leaving anything to chance. He re-taped his stick, and taped it again when it wasn’t perfect. He checked his skate laces for any weak points. He finally fixed the broken strap on his left elbow pad. He jogged on the treadmill to get out some nervous energy before everyone else showed up. 

Hollander was the first among the rest of the team to arrive, as expected. He joined Ilya on the wide space in the gym meant for stretching and cardio, where Ilya was going through the pre-game exercises his trainer had recommended. Gone were the days of his youth when he could half-ass the warm up and still never pull a muscle. Hollander had a similar routine, and they moved together in focused silence. 

In the mirror, Ilya could see Hollander looking at him again. He’d be annoyed, if he didn’t find it kind of sweet that Hollander cared so much whether or not Ilya had been beaten up recently. This time, he decided to have a little fun. 

“Like what you see, Hollander?” He schooled his face into an exaggerated model pose, pursing his lips like he was doing some kind of risqué photoshoot. It worked well with the particularly unsexy hamstring stretch he was also doing. 

To his surprise, Hollander blushed and ducked his head. “Fuck off, Rozanov.” 

Well. That was interesting. He was definitely not going to be thinking about that later. 

“Let’s make a deal.” He could see Hollander roll his eyes in the mirror. What could he say? He loved making deals. It was his favorite form of communication.

“Whatever I do to Boston tonight, you have to do to Montreal next week.”

Hollander’s head shot up at this. His eyes were fiery, like they were when he and Ilya were trying to score at the end of a game. It was the kind of look that told Ilya he was about to get anything he wanted. 

“Only if you score a hat trick.” 

“Deal.” 

Ilya’s first goal against Boston was a scrappy one. It was the kind that came about by being in the right place at the right time, and by not letting the defensemen push him out from in front of the net. Rimer, a Baltimore defenseman with a lethal and low to the ground slapshot, rocketed the puck towards Ilya. All he had to do was stand his ground, get the rebound, and bury it. Cue Turnstile’s “Blackout.” 

His second goal, if he did say so himself, was highlight reel worthy. He knew the puck was coming up the boards. He knew Copper, his winger, was crashing in on the forecheck. He collected the puck from the boards, deked around Boston’s center, and blasted the puck over the goalie’s blocker. That one got the crowd screaming. 

But it was his third goal that he was going to remember. They were on the power play because Hollander had taken a cross check after outmuscling a Boston player in the corner. He and Hollander were across from each other, moving up and down with the formation as they passed the puck around, trying to set up the perfect shot. Somehow, Hollander made a pass that went under sticks, through legs, and directly onto Ilya’s tape. Bam. Ilya made no mistake. 

The fans erupted. Hats flew to the ice, sending waves of Baltimore Bells green and gold across the arena. Ilya’s line mates mobbed him. Hollander essentially jumped into his arms. 

“Fuck yes. Fucking hell, Rozanov.” He punched Ilya in the shoulder. “Fuck, that was good.” 

Ilya leaned down to Hollander’s ear amidst the celebration. “Great fucking pass, Hollander.” 

He couldn’t tell if Hollander was blushing again or if it was just from the game. He really hoped it was Hollander blushing. 

He noticed the camera was on him as he skated back to the bench and blew a kiss to the Boston side on his way, flinging his arm out and waving. Any fans who had sat down after celebrating the goal were back on their feet in an instant. 

He was mobbed again at the end of the game. His team knew just how much this meant to him, and he found sudden tears in his eyes as he took in just how much they had all wanted to win this one. 

It was when he saw Hollander that he almost broke- Hollander looked ecstatic. As he skated up to Ilya to congratulate him, Ilya couldn’t stop looking at the smile that was splitting his face. And how had he not noticed Hollander’s freckles before? 

Before he realized what he was doing, he’d grabbed the front of Hollander’s jersey and pulled him closer. Hollander’s eyes were wide, and now he was definitely blushing. And he wasn’t pushing Ilya away. 

They both looked at each other for half a second before Ilya froze, and Hollander froze along with him. What the hell was he doing? 

But it only took a moment to recover. “You promised, Hollander. Montreal, next week.” 

Hollander grinned back, though his cheeks were still red. “You fucking bet.” 

It could not have been a better night. And as pretty much happened on all the best nights of his life, there were new messages on his phone from Anatoly when he went back to the locker room. His heart sank. 

When he put his phone back on the shelf to finish getting undressed, he saw Hollander looking at him. He didn’t look as happy anymore. Ilya shook his head, willing Hollander to keep his mouth shut. 

He ended up having to stay late at the rink giving interviews. It was inevitable, given that he’d had one of the best games he’d ever played against the team that had given him up. 

When he returned to the locker room to get the rest of his stuff, everyone had already left except for Hollander, who was sitting in his cubby on his phone, fully showered and wearing his street clothes. He jumped up when Ilya walked in. 

“Hey.” 

Ilya didn’t answer. He didn’t think any words would come out if he opened his mouth. 

“Are you- going home?” 

He knew what Hollander was asking. But what could he do about it?

“I will be fine, Hollander.” 

Hollander was already shaking his head. “No. Even if nothing- just don’t. Please.” 

Maybe telling Hollander really had been a mistake. Had he really expected him to sit idly by while Anatoly followed him around? 

He tried to soften his voice, to sound sincere. “I promise. It will be okay.” 

“You can stay with me.” 

“What-”

“I live in the Four Seasons. In Harbor East. There’s security. It’s safe. There’s plenty of room. He wouldn’t look there, would he?” 

Ilya wanted to say yes to Hollander’s offer. He wanted to say yes so badly. But not because he thought Anatoly wouldn’t find him. 

And if Anatoly found him with Hollander… 

“He will find me no matter what.” 

“Roz-”

“I know what I am talking about. This has been my life for a long time. Please. I will be okay.” 

Hollander pulled at his own hair. “God fucking dammit Rozanov, what can I-” 

“You cannot do anything. I told you.” He had an idea. “Look. He does not always- hurt me.” He pulled out his phone and handed it to Hollander. “Put your number in. I will text you tonight. After. So you know I am fine.” 

“And if you need-”

“I will call you.” 

Hollander just looked at him as he slowly put his number in Ilya’s phone. “I’ll be able to see tomorrow if you’re lying.” 

“I will not lie.” 

They walked out to their cars in silence. Ilya’s head was on a swivel, praying that Anatoly was waiting for him somewhere in Charles Village instead. Luckily, the coast was clear. When they finally had to split apart, Hollander looked pained. 

“Just go,” Ilya whispered. “I will text.” 

“I’ll wait up.” 

“Okay.”

To: Shane Hollander
I am not dead. Go to sleep. 

From: Shane Hollander
See you tomorrow. 

----------------------------------

Ilya hoped that every team lined up for the Bells on this next road trip was scared. The Bells had been terrorizing every team that came through Baltimore, the most recent of which had been the Montreal Canadiens. Hollander had more than delivered on Ilya’s deal. Not only had he scored a hat trick, but he’d assisted Ilya on another power play goal as well. 

He hoped the Montreal coach was embarrassed.

The Bells were working together incredibly well, thanks in part to Ilya’s ability to sense problems early and quash them before they truly started. It also helped that many of the players seemed to really trust him, and dialed in when he wanted everyone to step up their game. 

Hollander, who had initially opted to do his own thing as an assistant captain, was now helping Ilya out. He always kept a close eye on the defense and suggested adjustments if their shots weren’t going through. And he was usually the person to hold a teammate back from a fight when tempers flared (Ilya was more likely to let people have it out). 

He felt a little bad at how anxious Hollander seemed about his situation. They texted every night now, even if they had just seen each other at a game or practice. Hollander was never explicit about why he was texting- he’d send a picture of his dinner, or the view from the roof of the Four Seasons at sunset. But Ilya always answered, aware that Hollander really just wanted to make sure he was okay. 

And he was, for the most part. 

Anatoly hadn’t left terrible bruises on him since Toronto. In the midst of the move and adjusting to the new team, Ilya had gotten lax about sending money to Alexei and had gotten punished for it. Now, he was on top of things. It wouldn’t make Anatoly stop completely, but it definitely increased Ilya’s chances of injury-free interactions. 

Hollander had pushed again for Ilya to stay in one of the higher-security Harbor East buildings, but Ilya had refused. He knew Anatoly would just threaten him some other way. Besides, Charles Village was a much cheaper place to live, and he could discreetly save some money that Alexei would have to try way harder to find out about.

At least Hollander would worry less on this road trip, since he would see Ilya in their shared hotel room every night. Ilya would just have to make sure Hollander didn’t do anything stupid.

Ilya had barely put his bags down in the hotel room before Hollander said, “I have a plan.” Ilya glanced at the closed door. He realized that the hotel room was possibly the safest place to talk with Hollander about Anatoly- they wouldn’t have to sneak away somewhere together to talk, and it was unlikely that anyone would overhear them. That didn’t mean Ilya wanted to talk about it, though. 

“Hollander,” he began, “please. Just leave it alone.” He didn’t think Hollander’s ears even registered what that phrase meant, but it was worth a try. 

“No.” 

“Holl-”

“What if I come out to the Bells?” 

Ilya couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you fucking crazy?” 

“Look, I know how it sounds. But I obviously wouldn’t be the first one to do it.” 

“You will be the first one in Baltimore.” 

“So what? We- um, I am just a few years away from retirement, probably. If it doesn’t go well then I can go play somewhere else and then call it quits.” 

The thought of Hollander leaving Baltimore filled Ilya with a strange sense of panic. “How would that help anything? Do you want to come out? Now?” 

“If I come out, and it goes well-”

“You don’t know if-”

“I think it will.” Hollander pulled up something on his phone, and Ilya felt his own phone buzz in his pocket. 

“Look. The Orioles have an openly gay executive. And the city does all kinds of pride stuff. It would look pretty bad for everyone if the Bells had a problem with me, right?” 

“But-”

“It wouldn’t have to be to the entire NHL. Just this organization, to see if they support me.” 

Ilya was beginning to get a bad feeling about where Hollander was going with this. “And if they do?” 

“Then I think you should talk to them too.” 

There it was. “I can’t.” 

“You could. You could just talk to one manager. If you tell them you’re being blackmailed, they might be able to help you. They could help you get citizenship here, or assign you some protection, so you wouldn’t-” he faltered, picking at the comforter on the bed. “So you wouldn’t have to deal with this anymore. So you could just live your life.” 

Ilya had to admit, a plan like that could possibly work. But so much had to go right. He could never let himself hope like that. And there was one other thing. 

“I can’t let you come out like this, Hollander.”

“Why not?” 

Ilya threw up his hands. “Because if you wanted to, you would have come out already. You would have been the next Scott Hunter. You-” he swallowed. “You would be risking a lot.” 

Hollander was getting agitated now. “And I’m telling you I’m willing to risk it.” 

“Why, Hollander? Why the fuck are you willing to risk it? I am fine. I told you I am fine, and you don’t want to listen.” 

“Are you?” Hollander was standing now, face to face with Ilya. “You can’t talk about the future. Why is that? Other guys start fantasizing about the businesses they’ll start when they’re done with hockey before they even turn thirty. You can’t even hear the word ‘retirement’ without freaking out.” 

“I am not-”

“Do you really think you can play hockey forever?” Hollander held up a hand to Ilya, as if to stop him before he even started speaking. “No, I know you think you can. But you can’t. What are you gonna do when it’s all over? Go back to Russia?” 

This was why Ilya hadn’t thought that far ahead. 

Hollander wasn’t done. “Where there’s no chance of protection? And what about the money? You won’t have NHL money anymore, Ilya. How are you gonna pay off your brother then? What’s going to keep him quiet?” 

“Shut UP, Hollander. Fuck.” Ilya sank to his knees. He couldn’t even find it within himself to be embarrassed. “You are scaring me, okay?” He hated the way his voice broke. He hid his face in the crook of his elbow. “Stop.” 

He heard Hollander crouch down next to him, and he felt tentative hands on his shoulders. “I’m not trying to scare you. I’m sorry.” 

Ilya kept his face hidden. 

“I’m the one who’s scared. I’m fucking scared for you, okay? I can’t- I can’t handle thinking something might happen to you every night. And-” Hollander’s grip on his shoulders tightened. “I can’t handle thinking about what might happen when you’re not here. When you’re in Russia.” 

Ilya lifted his head from his elbow. Hollander’s face was closer than he thought. 

“Please. Think of it- like you’re doing me a favor, okay? You really would be doing me a favor.” 

Ilya reached out a hand ever so slowly, so Hollander could back away. He cradled Hollander’s face with his palm and ran his fingertips along Hollander’s jaw. Hollander closed his eyes. Ilya shifted, bringing their bodies closer together. When Hollander opened his eyes, they focused on Ilya’s mouth before darting up to Ilya’s eyes. 

“Is that what this is? You like a damsel in distress, yes? You like to be the big hero?” He tried to inject a sense of bravado into his words, but it all just came out as a whisper. 

Hollander sighed, his hands finding their way to Ilya’s neck. “No. It would be easier to ignore if it was that. But no.” 

Ilya leaned in even closer. His pulse was thundering in his ears, and he heard the chorus of voices in his head, the people he’d heard all his life saying no, wrong, this is not okay. Looking at Hollander in front of him, he had never been more sure that those people were idiots. 

He let his lips find the corner of Hollander’s mouth. “Tell me if I should stop, Shane.” 

“Never.”

It was the first time he’d kissed a man since he was a teenager. And for all the havoc that had caused in his life, he really hadn’t cared about who he’d been kissing back then. Now, with Shane Hollander licking at his lips and deepening the kiss, he didn’t see how he’d ever be able to stop. He pulled Hollander closer to him, snaking his hands under his shirt to rub at the skin beneath it. Hollander moaned into his mouth. 

Suddenly, he felt a hand at his chest pushing him away. He pulled back and studied Hollander’s face. 

Hollander used Ilya’s shoulders to stand up. “I think I’m getting too old to do this on the floor.”

Ilya laughed and jumped up to his feet much quicker than he normally did outside of hockey games. He pulled Hollander back in, but paused when Hollander stopped him again. 

“Rozanov.” 

Ilya frowned. “Now what?” 

“I was thinking maybe… the bed?” Hollander tugged him over to his bed, glancing at the overabundance of pillows. 

Ilya pressed a kiss to Hollander’s cheek. “I like the way you think.”

-----------------------------------

So, this was a thing now. The Bells could terrorize teams on the road just as well as they did at home. And when they were on the road, Ilya found himself looking forward to more than just their games. 

No matter how hard he and Hollander had played, or how beaten down they may have felt about a (rare) loss, they always found the energy to do something after. Some of Ilya’s favorite nights were when they were both too exhausted to do anything more than trade blowjobs while the other lay back and tried to stay awake. Those nights, Ilya could really take his time, lazily kissing Hollander’s hips and the creases of his legs, trailing his tongue over every inch of Hollander’s skin. 

When Hollander wasn’t so exhausted, he only tolerated a few minutes of this before telling Ilya to hurry the fuck up. 

Location-wise, it was the most convenient hook-up Ilya had ever had. If they ended up in Hollander’s bed, all he had to do was climb across the room and under his own covers. Sometimes, if the sheets were too dirty, Hollander would follow him. They’d wake up face to face, and it was always too good an opportunity to pass up. 

The only problem now was that the Bells had a several week long string of home games coming up. 

It was fine. Really, it was fine. Ilya had gone his entire life to this point without Hollander’s mouth. He had played seventeen seasons of NHL hockey without knowing what Hollander sounded like when he came. He had managed perfectly well in that time. 

He was fine, and he was behaving like a totally normal person that didn’t lose his mind whenever Hollander so much as looked at him. 

He was especially fine when Hollander sent him selfies. He could definitely handle all the shirtless selfies really well. It didn’t even matter to him that Hollander was definitely only doing it to get Ilya to send one back. And he was doing that to make sure Ilya didn’t have any new injuries. 

What made Ilya lose his mind more than anything else was when he caught Hollander standing alone in the middle of the locker room, slowly turning as he surveyed everyone’s cubbies. 

Ilya leaned against the door and cleared his throat, making Hollander jump. He just raised an eyebrow and waited. 

“I was thinking-”

“Yes?” 

“Should I pull a prank?” 

Ilya burst out laughing while Hollander scowled. 

“Fuck you. I thought you were all about that camaraderie shit.” 

Ilya tried to contain himself, but he kept imagining Hollander trying to sew the sleeves of someone’s jersey together or putting tape on someone’s blades and burst out laughing again. “I am. But-” that was as far as he got before he started wheezing. 

“You are such a fucking asshole. I’m trying to help you!” 

“Help me? How?” 

“By bringing people together or whatever. By making the team laugh.” 

Ilya wiped the tears from his eyes. “Well, you made someone laugh, Hollander.” He steered Hollander back to his cubby. “You are very good at what you do. Leave the camaraderie to me.” 

He headed over to his cubby, pulling one of the stray socks that had been hanging from the top shelf aside. He was instantly doused with water from a bowl that had been sitting on top of the sock where he couldn’t see it. 

He turned around slowly as Hollander tried to cover his laughter with his hand. 

“You are a motherfucking-” 

“Don’t!” 

Ilya was already holding the water bottle he hadn’t emptied yesterday. “You think I will just let you-”

“Ahhhhhh!” 

Ilya dumped the water bottle directly on Hollander’s head. 

“Fuck you, Rozanov.” 

Ilya shook the water in his hair into Hollander’s face for good measure. “You will not even have to change. Everyone will think you are sweating too much again.” 

“You are such an asshole, oh my god-” 

“Oh I’m an asshole? You put a prank in my cubby and I’m the asshole?”

Hollander only laughed in response. “I’ve never done that before. I always thought it would be rude for the captain to prank anyone.” 

“And now that you are not captain, we can see you are not mature at all. The media lied. Don’t worry, I will tell them the truth.” 

“Go for it. Not the worst they could say about me, right?” 

Ilya paused. “Hollander-”

“Not here.” 

They hadn’t talked about Hollander coming out since they started hooking up. Ilya wondered if Hollander was just too nervous to go through with it. He wouldn’t blame him. 

A stray drop of water found its way to the end of one of Ilya’s curls and dripped onto his cheek. Hollander reached out a finger and collected it, tracing a line up Ilya’s face. God, he needed this man in his bed yesterday. 

“I was thinking,” Ilya started, as Hollander’s eyes widened, “we could meet for a drink. There is a bar in the Four Seasons, where you live, yes?” 

Hollander nodded. “Yes.” It came out only a little louder than a whisper. 

“Do you want to? Tonight?” Please say yes.

Hollander nodded again. “I’ll text you.” 

I will only stay for an hour, Ilya told himself. 

It was way more than an hour. 

Hollander immediately directed Ilya to the separate resident entrance, bypassing the bar entirely. He did have plenty of liquor in his condo, all unopened bottles in a variety of brands Ilya doubted he even drank. He’d managed to acquire vodka nice enough to appease Ilya. 

But Ilya wasn’t there for the alcohol. 

They’d only just poured their drinks before Ilya was crossing the couch over to Hollander and pushing him into the ridiculously comfortable cushions. 

“Can’t keep my hands off you,” he whispered in Russian before pulling off Hollander’s shirt and throwing it behind the couch. Hollander tugged Ilya’s shirt off too, as Ilya scraped his teeth over Hollander’s nipple. 

Even as Hollander’s back arched beneath him, Ilya felt hands at his ribs, kneading at them like he had that very first time. He pulled back. “Hollander, please,” he whispered, “please forget it for right now.” 

Hollander threaded a hand through Ilya’s hair. “I wish I could, Ilya.” 

Ilya swore he felt his heart stop. He trailed his tongue down Hollander’s chest. “I will make you forget. I will make you forget everything tonight. I will make you forget your own name.” 

“Deal?”

As Hollander knew, Ilya loved making deals.

He found his way out of the Four Seasons much later than he’d anticipated, running his tongue along the bite Shane had left on his lower lip. His hair was sticking out in every direction, which had made Shane laugh as he'd put his shirt back on.

“Can I at least fix it?” 

“What, do I not look good like this?” 

Shane had brushed a curl out of Ilya’s face that had immediately bounced back to where it was. “You look more than good.” 

That was Ilya’s cue to leave before he accidentally stayed until morning. 

The entrance to the Four Seasons had several doors, clearly set up to unload large limos or buses. No one was pulling up at this hour, though. Ilya pulled out his phone to call a car. 

He almost missed the figure leaning against the wall down past the curved entrance. 

His stomach dropped. 

“So,” Anatoly approached, smacking something into his palm. Ilya couldn’t tell what it was in the dark. A crow bar, maybe? A tire iron? “The Four Seasons, huh?” 

Ilya steadied himself with a breath, thanking the gods above he hadn’t indulged in too much vodka. “There is a nice bar. I was meeting a friend for a drink.” 

“And where is this friend of yours?” 

Ilya tried to think quickly. “She left already.” 

“Don’t bullshit me.” 

For the first time in a long time, Ilya felt himself trembling with rage. “What does it fucking matter, Anatoly? You ask for money. I send the money. Alexei is happy. Why do you care who I get a drink with?” 

Before he could register the movement, Anatoly jabbed him in the ribs. “You think this is just about money?” Anatoly was sneering, brandishing whatever that was in his hands. “Your father was a great man. Honorable. Respected. And when he found out his son-” 

Ilya could hardly even hear Anatoly anymore through the ringing in his ears. He’d been wrong. Anatoly was much more than the hired muscle for his family. Anatoly was the manifestation of his father’s rage, still alive. He knew what Ilya could do to the Rozanov name, to his father’s legacy. And he would do anything to protect it. 

Suddenly, Ilya was more afraid than he had ever been. 

Please, don’t say his name. Please let me be wrong. Please, please, please. 

“And to find out, you’ve been spending all this time with Shane Hollander, right under my nose. Does he know you’re a-” 

“Stay the fuck away from him.” 

It was the wrong thing to say. A smile spread across Anatoly’s face. “Oh I will. Maybe. If you do. If not, well.” He twirled the stick in his hands. 

A car pulled up, and Anatoly got in. “See you later.” 

Ilya wanted to be sick. He sank to the ground and pulled out his phone with shaking hands. He could only hope Shane was already asleep and wouldn’t see his messages until tomorrow. 

To: Shane Hollander. 
We can’t see each other anymore. I’m sorry. 

From: Shane Hollander
What? Are you okay? 

To: Shane Hollander
Yes. But it’s not worth it. We're not serious anyway. 

From: Shane Hollander
Can we at least talk? Tomorrow? 

To: Shane Hollander
No. I don’t want to talk to you. Please leave me alone. 

And Shane did leave him alone. For an entire week, Shane completely ignored Ilya. In front of the team, he gave the bare minimum. He didn’t even tap Ilya’s glove when Ilya scored in their game. Ilya spent the week waking up in a cold sweat every night, realizing he had no idea if Anatoly really would go after Shane, and now that they weren’t talking he had no way to find out if Shane was okay outside of work. But every time he thought about trying to pull Shane aside and apologize, he imagined Anatoly’s face. 

It was a week of silence. And then, Shane came out to the entire Baltimore Bells team and organization. 

Chapter End Notes

Baltimore's goal horn is Blackout by Turnstile! Says me!

Also just to clarify, the Four Seasons has full-time residences, and they're super nice- Shane is not living out of a hotel room.

And I'm not sure whether the last chapter will be split up or not, we'll just see where the wind blows.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Coming out had gone well, as Shane had predicted. It went even better than he’d thought. He’d been very clear when he spoke with the Bells management: he wanted to come out so that he wouldn’t have to worry about being closeted at work, but he didn’t want to release a statement to the entire NHL. They had been agreeable to that, and had told him they’d support him whatever he decided moving forward. 

Talking to the team was similar. He’d emphasized that this was their workplace, and he didn’t want to have to hide his personal life in casual conversation when other players could speak freely. He’d even complimented the team’s chemistry, saying he thought this group was special, that they got along better than other teams he’d played with. He implied that it was because of this chemistry that he’d chosen to come out now. 

He didn’t look at Ilya until he was done talking. He didn’t want to see Ilya’s reaction. And he generally found it hard to look at Ilya at all without losing his train of thought. 

Part of him wished that he hadn’t roomed with Ilya. That he hadn’t discovered anything about Anatoly, and had spent the entire season keeping Ilya at a distance out of a mild jealousy over Ilya’s position as captain. 

But he couldn’t lie to himself and say that he would’ve never noticed that there was something wrong with Ilya. He’d always watched Ilya more closely than he watched other players. Playing on the same team had just amplified what he had to admit might have always been there. Of course he would’ve eventually realized Ilya was getting hurt outside of hockey. Of course he would’ve tried to fix it. Of course he would’ve fallen for Ilya amidst all of this. 

The team’s reaction to his announcement had been pretty positive. Most guys said something along the lines of “That’s great,” or “Congrats, man.” Some just shrugged, and some didn’t say anything. Shane figured that spectrum of response was a win. 

Ilya’s reaction, however… 

He hadn’t said anything at first. Shane hadn’t looked over until Bradley had prompted Ilya with a subtle “Cap? We’ve got his back, right?” 

Ilya had looked paler than the white jersey hanging in the cubby behind him. He was staring at Shane with an unfocused glaze to his eyes, as if he was trying to be anywhere but there in that locker room. A couple guys started muttering to each other. Shane realized with a pang that they probably thought Ilya was homophobic. 

Luckily, Ilya had pulled himself together. “If anyone has a problem with Hollander, talk to me,” he’d said, making eye contact with every single player. “I will hit you.” They’d all laughed at that. 

And that had been the end of it. Kind of. 

Shane hadn’t known what to do when he’d gotten Ilya’s texts. He knew Ilya was worrying about way more than simply hiding a secret string of hookups with Shane. But Shane had wanted Ilya too badly to risk stopping and asking Ilya if this was really a good idea.  

Which was why his heart had crumpled at what Ilya had sent. It’s not worth it. We're not serious anyway. Sure, Ilya was attracted to him. And they had been getting along well. 

But what Shane felt was well beyond just getting along. 

He couldn’t expect that Ilya would feel the same way. It would’ve been too much to hope. But before Ilya had left the Four Seasons, after they had both managed to come twice, Ilya had lingered. He’d cuddled up next to Shane, tucking his face into Shane’s neck, and ran his hand up and down Shane’s stomach as he talked about the things he loved about Baltimore, the things he missed about Boston, and how happy he’d been to see the angry look on the Montreal coach’s face when Shane scored all those goals. 

He had no reason to stay- he wasn’t sharing a hotel room on a road trip that they were both supposed to sleep in. He had his own house twenty minutes away. But he stayed until Shane was about to fall asleep for the night.

Shane had felt covered in a warm glow as Ilya left, giving him one more kiss on the way out. He’d wondered if maybe this was the feeling he’d been missing all these years. If this was how Scott Hunter had felt before he called Kip down to the ice. 

And then he’d been shattered when Ilya’s texts came through. 

He knew Ilya’s life was, well, complicated. But he wondered if there was any universe where Ilya could’ve decided that what was happening between them was worth it, that he could’ve let Shane help him get rid of Anatoly and lift the immense burden he’d been carrying his entire adult life. But it seemed that ultimately Ilya didn’t feel that way. 

For one week, Shane had pretended Ilya didn’t exist, to the best of his ability. He pretended there was some faceless, nameless captain yelling at his teammates and telling them he was going to let the coach skate them if they didn’t get the breakout drill right. He didn’t talk to Ilya unless it would’ve made the rest of the team wonder what was going on. 

He gave himself one week of self pity, and then he got his head out of his ass and remembered that regardless of how Ilya felt about him, they were teammates. They were the captain and assistant captain of this surprisingly good new hockey team. As annoyed as he’d been at the start of the season, the reality was that Ilya was a good captain. Shane’s captain. And when the captain was in trouble and Shane could do something about it, he would do it. 

He thought he’d be able to talk to Ilya on the next road trip. Even if this thing between them was over, Ilya had to hear from Shane how much the Bells organization had supported him. And Shane knew he wouldn’t be able to sit in silence with Ilya in the next bed over all night. They would have to talk.

Instead he had to hide his stricken expression as he was informed that the hotel room pairs had been switched, and he was rooming with Bradley from now on. 

He hardly had the energy to hide his heartbreak as he shoved his bags to the floor and curled up in the bed. For a while, Bradley tip toed around him, quietly going about his night and clearly deciding to leave Shane alone. 

Right before he turned the lights out, however, Bradley broke the silence. “Hey, Hollander?”

Shane, who had barely moved from his spot the entire night, held back a groan of exasperation. “Yes?” 

“You, know, I said it before, but I support you.” 

“Uh, thanks. I appreciate it.” 

“Just- if Rozanov really does have a problem with you, I’ll be on your side. He’s been a great captain but-” 

“Did he ask you to switch?” Shane kind of already knew the answer, even though he didn’t want to. 

“Yea.” Bradley seemed afraid. “And, I don’t know. Maybe it’s none of my business, but something is different with you guys. Most of us can tell. If he’s giving you any issues-”

“Rozanov isn’t homophobic, okay?” 

“But-” 

“I promise. If he has an issue with me it’s not because of that.” 

Bradley sighed. “Okay. If you’re sure. But we all have your back, if you need.”

“Thanks, Bradley.” 

Shane supposed that at least one good thing to come of this was that the fear he’d had of coming out had proved to be somewhat anticlimactic. Compared to figuring out how to talk to Ilya, coming out had been a fucking piece of cake. 

They were playing soccer as a warmup when Shane saw Ilya wince as he trapped the ball just below his chest. It was his ribs again. And on top of that, Shane couldn’t help but notice that Ilya just looked tired. He hid it well on the ice, but without the layer of equipment and the practiced ease that only a longtime NHL player could exhibit game after game, Ilya just looked like a normal human who was pushing himself too far. 

Shane felt a hot balloon of anger swell in his chest. He wondered if maybe Ilya just didn’t think he was worth the trouble of helping. That he didn’t see how Shane’s plan could really work. That he had already given up on any kind of future for himself. 

Fuck that. 

--------------------------

Shane was already on his way to Charles Village before he realized he didn’t actually know where Ilya’s house was. It wasn’t a huge area, but he couldn’t just blindly knock on doors. 

Luckily, he didn’t have to. Back when they’d been texting every day, Shane had sent Ilya a picture of the sunset from the top of the Four Seasons. He’d wondered whether Ilya could sense that he’d really meant to say wish you were here, watching this sunset with me. Ilya had sent back a picture of the view from his window- a street with brightly colored row homes and cars covered with stickers parked on the street. 

Shane zoomed in on the picture, grateful that he’d been too pathetic to delete all of Ilya’s previous texts to him. There- as he suspected. There were street signs in the picture, showing that Ilya was about two streets over from where Shane had parked. 

Ilya was going to hate him for this. He was going to hate him so bad. He’d told Shane to leave him alone. But if Shane could convince Ilya that he could be safe, that the Bells could make it so he wouldn’t have to worry anymore, he didn’t care if Ilya hated him forever. He would deal with it. 

He looked at Ilya’s picture again- he was pretty sure he’d found Ilya’s house. It was an unassuming structure, with a small porch and dark windows. He took a deep breath, and knocked. 

At first, he thought he’d been mistaken. A man answered the door, but it wasn’t Ilya. Did he get the angle of the picture wrong? But when the man looked at Shane with a knowing smile, Shane felt the blood freeze in his veins. 

“Shane Hollander.” His Russian accent was much heavier than Ilya’s. This had to be Anatoly. And if Anatoly was in Ilya’s house, answering Ilya’s door, that meant Ilya was…

Shane practically dove at Anatoly. Anatoly was older than he was, and likely physically weaker. And he didn’t have the hold on Shane that he had on Ilya- the kind of hold one could only have by stalking and hurting someone for almost twenty years. The kind of hold that made someone think they could never win. He kicked the door shut behind him with a force he’d never exhibited in all his years in the NHL. He didn’t want someone walking by to interrupt. 

He knocked Anatoly down, taking satisfaction from the way Anatoly’s head bounced off the wooden floor. Anatoly tried to get up, but Shane punched him in the face, feeling his nose break under his fist. Shane wound up to punch him again, but froze as he saw the blood spurt from Anatoly’s nose. Was Ilya bleeding like this somewhere? Was Ilya in the house? Shane tried to look past Anatoly, farther into the house for any sign of Ilya, but didn’t see any. 

A quiet click brought his attention back to Anatoly, and he realized he’d hesitated for just a second too long. 

Anatoly had pulled out a gun, and was pointing it at Shane. Shane cursed himself for not considering that Anatoly could’ve been armed. 

“I know all about you, Shane Hollander,” Anatoly said. His voice was pinched and muffled from all the blood coming out of his nose. “The best. Such a star. And a team player. Do your teammates know you’re here?”

Shane didn’t answer. 

“Would you do anything for your captain? Like a good assistant should?” 

Shane tried not to shake. The gun was pointed right at his heart. Did Anatoly want money? Did he want to blackmail Shane too? Or did he just want to shoot Shane right there? Shane closed his eyes, and tried to think of everything he loved. If this was the end, he wanted to die with thoughts of his parents cheering him on at games, or how it had felt to lift the Stanley Cup. Or Ilya pulling him in after beating Boston. Or Ilya’s lips on his. 

He heard a thud and opened his eyes. 

Ilya was standing behind Anatoly’s unconscious body holding what looked like a frying pan. He must’ve been behind the wall ahead where Shane and Anatoly had been fighting, where Shane couldn’t see him. He emptied the gun and pocketed the ammo. 

Shane was lightheaded with relief, even though Ilya looked… rough. Dried blood was matting his hair on the right side, and bruises were blooming under both of his eyes. But he was alive. 

Shane took a step toward Ilya before pausing. He wanted to collapse into Ilya and tell him he’d never been so happy to see Ilya alive. He wanted to run his lips over Ilya’s bruised cheeks. He wanted to tell him he deserved so much better. 

But Ilya had made it clear he didn’t want that. 

“Are you hurt?” His voice cut through Shane’s thoughts as his eyes searched Shane’s face. 

“No.” His knuckles hurt a little. But he knew that wasn’t what Ilya meant. 

“Then go out the back. You should not be here when I call the police.” 

Calling the police?

“You’re-” 

“My neighbors have seen him outside. The gun is his. It’s time-” he paused to wipe a trickle of blood from his forehead. “It’s time to end this. It’s over.” 

“Ilya.” Shane suspected he’d be crying if adrenaline wasn’t still pumping through his body. 

Ilya pointed his chin at the back door. “Go.” 

Shane made his feet move him past Ilya. But he couldn’t help but reach his hand out and trace his finger’s over Ilya’s arm on his way. He had to touch Ilya, to make sure he was really there. Ilya let him. 

“Can you call me? After?” 

Ilya just looked at him with a heavy stare. “I will call.” 

Shane left, finally letting his tears of relief fall. 

Ilya called a few hours later. “He is gone.” 

“Ilya.” Shane hadn’t been relaxed enough to even sit down since he’d left Ilya’s house. “Are you okay?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“He will use how I… like men to excuse what he did. It works in Russia.” 

“It doesn’t work here.” 

“No. But everyone will know. And Alexei…” 

Shane exhaled. He hadn’t initially planned to ever come out to his team, but at least he’d been able to make his own choice when he did. Ilya was about to lose that same option, after everything.

“Is there anything I can do?” 

Ilya paused on the other end, then said, “Would you come with me when I speak with the managers?” 

“Of course.” 

“I am going to ask them for help getting citizenship.” 

Shane let himself finally sit down. “Do you need anything else? Like, a doctor?” 

“No.” 

“Ilya-”

“Please trust me.” 

“Fine.” Shane sighed. “Do you think we can talk? Later?” 

“Yes.”

Chapter End Notes

There will be another chapter... or maybe two if I split it up. they still have a cup to win!

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

He’d decided to go through with it. After Shane had come out with great success, Ilya had thought about how he might get rid of Anatoly once and for all. How he could stay somewhere in North America after he was done in the NHL and not have to worry about Alexei. How maybe Shane had been right- there really was a way to solve what he’d resigned himself to suffering through for the rest of his career and beyond. 

It was with this thought in his mind that he’d told Anatoly to fuck off and leave him alone forever. Part of him hoped he wouldn’t have to involve the Bells at all- that Anatoly, and by extension, Alexei, would realize that they didn’t have all the power anymore, and that they’d fade out of Ilya’s life knowing he would defend himself with resources beyond what they could match. That part of Ilya no longer wondered whether he actually deserved this- both for his stupidity as a teenager and for his lack of courage that stopped him from acting earlier. 

Anatoly, however, had not accepted Ilya’s order. He’d ambushed Ilya in his house, taking him by surprise and beating him so badly Ilya knew he’d have to take a trip to the pharmacy later. If there was a later. Anatoly had kept going, shouting the same obscenities he’d heard from his father so many years ago. Ilya had finally just curled up and prayed that something, anything, would pull Anatoly away from him. 

To his absolute horror, Shane Hollander had answered that prayer. 

He almost hadn’t even investigated, too grateful for a respite from Anatoly’s attack. He’d almost let whoever was at the door face Anatoly alone while he dragged himself out of the house. He’d been in too much pain to think about how a better person wouldn’t let anyone else encounter Anatoly the way he had.  

Then, he’d heard the fight downstairs, and realized who it was. In that moment, he was more afraid for Shane than he’d ever been for himself. It was no longer just his fight- like it or not, he’d involved Shane. And he couldn’t bear to put Shane in this kind of danger. He knew right then that he would end this war that day, even before he’d made it to the front entrance in time to see Anatoly’s gun pointed at Shane’s chest. 

It had taken everything in him to not run to Shane’s condo the minute the police had taken Anatoly away. He’d imagined Shane cleaning up his cuts and bruises like he had back in Toronto, and then just pulling him in close, so that he could feel Shane’s heart beating against his own chest. So that he could remind himself that he hadn’t let Anatoly do anything that couldn’t be undone. 

But he didn’t do that. He’d already pushed Shane away. And whatever had made Shane come to his house- whether he’d wanted closure, or to talk about coming out, or to tell Ilya he was an asshole- had nearly killed him. 

So he simply asked Shane if he would come to his meeting with the Bells organization, and left it at that. 

The Bells were shocked. Not by Ilya’s coming out, which they didn’t care about. Ilya figured they might even be happy to reuse some of the assurances they’d likely said to Shane. He wondered if they’d made a saved folder of talking points just in case someone came out to them again.

No, they were shocked by Ilya’s stories of Anatoly, and his admission that he’d been dealing with a violent stalker throughout his time in the NHL. They’d scrambled to help him, offering legal options, counseling, and personal protection. As promised, Shane stayed beside him the whole time, remaining mostly quiet aside from suggesting a Russian translator for any meetings with a lawyer and cutting the meeting short when he saw that Ilya had had enough. 

The team didn’t get the details on Anatoly, but were as supportive of Ilya as they were of Shane. Ilya laughed as the rookies all just shrugged- he wondered if they thought every team had coming out conversations that everyone just agreed to keep between themselves. 

It was Copper who voiced what several others had clearly been thinking. “So,” he’d started, staring at Ilya, “if you’re gay like Hollander-” 

“I like both.”

“Okay, so you like dudes-”

“Yes?” 

“And so does Hollander, right?” 

“Did you forget his whole speech already, Copper?” 

“No. I’m just-” 

Ilya kept staring at Copper, daring him to ask. 

“Are you guys, like, a thing?” 

Ilya saw Shane freeze across the locker room. He willed Shane to stay quiet.

“No.” 

“But-” 

“You think just because we both like men we should be together?” 

“No, I-” 

“That two men who like men cannot be friends?” 

Copper had backed off after that. Ilya felt a little bad for embarrassing him, but only because he’d wanted nothing more than to kiss the anxious wide-eyed look off Shane’s face the entire time. 

Ilya didn’t have to be a mind reader to know that Shane would rather die than let the team find out they’d ever even kissed. Ilya didn’t really want anyone knowing about him and Shane either. Mostly because he didn’t even know what he would say. 

He’d gone through something so emotionally and physically taxing that he didn’t know how to go back to being normal with Shane, even though Shane had made him feel more normal than anyone else. And despite Shane’s claim that he had simply wanted Ilya, rather than mistaking want for an urge to help a colleague in need, Ilya was afraid to find out if Shane had really meant it. 

So now it was awkward. Which sucked. Ilya was thrilled he didn’t have to worry about whether Anatoly was following Shane or putting him in danger, but he was still miserable that he wasn’t dropping by the Four Seasons every night for a “drink.” Or even an actual drink. With Shane.

Shane was keeping things professional, checking in on Ilya when updates on Anatoly arose, or reminding Ilya to connect with Scott Hunter about American citizenship requirements. Neither Anatoly nor Alexei had said anything that had caused major headlines on Ilya yet, but Ilya assumed it would only be a matter of time. Whenever he felt himself spiraling about it all, there’d be a matter-of-fact text from Shane on his screen, ready to bring him back to earth. 

But they hadn’t addressed anything else. 

All Ilya could do was play hard and keep captaining the team to victory night after night, like he’d always been. And whenever the game got tough, or he got stuck out on the ice for a long shift, he just thought about how Shane looked when they played Montreal or Boston, and how badly he wanted to prove both teams wrong. As they rose in the standings, Ilya wanted those wins for Shane, just as badly as he wanted them for himself. 

The night after the Bells clinched the playoffs, Ilya kicked his feet up in his hotel room outside Miami. He’d made the team go out for just an hour to celebrate before calling an early night and reminding everyone not to lose focus as they entered the postseason. He would never admit it to anyone else, but he was beginning to sound like Shane. 

His phone buzzed next to him as he watched whatever stupid romance reality show was on in the room while Rimer, the roommate he’d wound up with after Shane, Facetimed his wife. 

From: Shane Hollander
I guess Bradley has a standing hookup here. 

To: Shane Hollander
???

From: Shane Hollander
He’s out for the night. 

To: Shane Hollander
He’s an adult. I don’t care what he does as long as he’s back tomorrow. 

From: Shane Hollander
I meant that you should drop by. I have snacks. 

Since when did Shane have snacks in his hotel room? 

To: Shane Hollander
What is your room number? 

Shane’s version of “snacks” turned out to be banana chips and unsalted almonds, but Ilya appreciated the thought. Especially since he spotted the receipt in the trash that showed Shane had purchased them minutes before texting Ilya. 

Ilya stood awkwardly in the room, not wanting to settle on Bradley’s bed, while wondering if it was at all okay to join Shane on his. Shane quickly solved the problem by laying a hand towel across his bed, placing the snack bags on the towel, and patting the space on the bed next to him, inviting Ilya to sit. 

Ilya bit back his laughter. “Fancy.” 

“Shut up.” Shane’s cheeks were already a little pink, and Ilya felt his heart start to pick up. He sat, making a banana chip slide toward the edge of the towel. 

“So.” He felt Shane go still beside him. “We did it.” 

Shane turned to look him in the eye. “No. Not yet.” 

Ilya popped an almond in his mouth. “I did not thank you enough, Hollander. I don’t… I can’t-” 

Shane was already shaking his head. “You don’t have to. It turned out well, I think. For me, and for you. So far.” Shane was probably watching the headlines too, waiting for the day Ilya’s name would show up. “I just wish-” he cut himself off.

“What?” 

Shane cleared his throat and looked away. Ilya inched closer to him, wondering if he could still reach out and touch him, or if Shane would tell him to leave. “I wish you’d known you could’ve gotten rid of him sooner.” 

Was Shane… guilty? After someone in Ilya’s house had pulled a gun on him? “It was not possible sooner.” 

“It was. If, um, more people had made it easier. To come out. Or if there had been a policy-” 

“Hollander, no.” Ilya couldn’t help himself and reached for Shane’s shoulder. Shane didn’t shake him off. 

“You feel bad you did not, what? Change the league? Even Scott Hunter did not change the league.” 

“But-” 

“You are the reason I am free now.” Ilya let his thumb slide up and down in what he hoped was a soothing motion. “You were right. I am sorry you had to-” he couldn’t finish the sentence and let it hang in the air, gripping Shane’s shoulder instead. “Just, thank you.” 

Shane let out a breath. “No problem.” 

“I’m sorry I did not thank you sooner.” 

“It’s okay.” 

“I will score some playoff goals as more thanks.” 

“I know you will, Ilya.” 

Shane’s hand came up to Ilya’s, and Ilya started to pull his hand away before he realized Shane was resting his hand on top, stroking Ilya’s fingers. 

Ilya moved closer to Shane, until there was no space between them. He leaned his head onto Shane’s, breathing in the scent of hotel room soap on his skin. 

“Rozanov. I-” 

Ilya pulled back. There was tension in Shane’s voice, in his jaw. He tried to move away from Shane, but Shane wouldn’t let his hand go. “I’m sorry. I should-” 

“I know you told me we were done.” 

Ilya tried to put what he hoped was a neutral look on his face. “Yes.” 

“And it’s been, well, hard to talk without everyone-” 

“Asking if we fuck?”

“Yea.” 

Shane still didn’t let go of his hand. His voice came out in a whisper. “I just feel like I might die if I don’t kiss you right now.” 

Thank fucking god. 

Ilya saw no reason to make Shane wait another minute. His other hand tilted Shane’s jaw and guided their mouths together in a kiss that was sweet for exactly two seconds. He pressed Shane back onto the bed as he let himself do what he’d been thinking about for weeks, while Shane clearly did the same.

Ilya was leaving a hickey just below Shane’s ear and grinding down as if he wanted to press Shane through the mattress when Shane paused. 

“What?” He’s going to kick me out. We shouldn’t be doing this anyway. At least it was fun. 

“I need to move the snacks.” 

Ilya grabbed Shane’s wrists and pinned them to the bed. “I will move your fucking snacks.” He glanced over his shoulder and swept his foot out, sending the snacks flying to the floor. 

“But you just-” 

“Is that what you are thinking about right now? Snacks? Nothing more important?” He bit at Shane’s collar bone while Shane sighed. 

“Fine. You owe me some banana-”

Ilya swallowed the rest of his words. 

They were sprawled on the bed, their bodies separated to let the sweat cool, but their hands reaching for one another, unable to resist touching after holding back for so long. 

Shane broke the comfortable silence first. “Do you think this is a good idea?” 

Ilya scoffed. “Does it matter?”

“No. I guess not.” Shane paused, rubbing a hand over his chest. “I was really jealous of you when we got here.” 

“Uh, yea Hollander, I could tell.” 

“Fuck you. I was. I was frustrated Montreal didn’t want to keep me until retirement, and I was angry I couldn’t even be captain here.” 

“Did you ever ask the coaches why they didn’t choose you?” 

“No. But I guessed why. You’re a really good leader. Anyone can see it.”

Ilya tried to ignore the heat that built in his chest at Shane’s words. “So are you, Hollander.” 

“In a different way. I lead by example. But you- you just get everyone to listen to you. You’d probably get everyone to do what you said even if you were the worst player in the league. How you inspire the team like that is-” 

“Did I inspire you?” Ilya shifted closer to Shane until their bodies were pressed together again.

“Now you’re fishing for compliments.” 

“Maybe.” Ilya combed his fingers through Shane’s hair and kissed just under his right eye, then the corner of his mouth. 

“You know I can’t go again yet.” 

“I know.” Ilya pressed a kiss to Shane’s mouth, softly biting Shane’s lower lip as he pulled back. “I just wanted to kiss you.” The words had barely left his mouth before Shane was grabbing his face and bringing him back in. It was an unfamiliar way to kiss Shane- relaxed, knowing they weren’t going to do anything else, yet with an intensity that scorched Ilya’s skin everywhere Shane touched him. He never wanted to stop. 

Shane, however, seemed to have other ideas. “Listen,” he said, leaning back to look at Ilya. “I have an idea. We’re starting playoffs soon.” 

“And?” 

“And we should keep our focus on winning the cup. Don’t-” he cut off Ilya before he could come up with any kind of response. “Don’t say we can have this and win the cup at the same time. I don’t want to have to figure out how to hide this from the guys while trying to get them to play the best they’ve ever played as a team. And I don’t think…” he trailed off, and Ilya felt his eyes take in every inch of his body. 

“You don’t think what?” 

“I don’t think I can just hook up with you anymore. Not like this. I- fuck. I can’t stop thinking about you, okay?” 

Ilya felt something in him shift then, as if something had clicked into place. He tried to blink the dizziness away. 

Shane wasn’t done. “And I need to think about the cup. I think we can do it. I know we can do it. I think I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything.” 

Ilya nodded. He didn’t care how many cups he’d won before. If they could win this year, his name would be on that cup forever despite everything. If they won this year, his name would be on the cup next to Shane’s. And he wasn’t going to say it, but he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about Shane either- especially if he’d be preoccupied with figuring out where they were going to meet every night. Not when his skin burned wherever Shane touched him. 

He lifted the corner of his mouth. “You think you can keep your hands off me for that long, Hollander?” 

Shane coughed. “I don’t think I’m the one who needs to worry about self control.” 

“You texted me tonight.” 

“You came over.” 

Ilya sat up, feeling a couple sore muscles protest at the movement. “Okay. No more sex. For now. We will win the cup. And then…” He just looked at Shane. They let their eyes lock, acknowledging that there were some things neither could say out loud. 

Shane practically leapt at him, pinning him back to the bed as he slotted his leg in between Ilya’s. “But we can start the plan tomorrow.” 

Chapter End Notes

okay NEXT chapter is playoff time!

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

Chapter Summary

I’m going to preface this by saying I was not fucking messing around, and this is literally an entire playoff run.

Chapter Notes

Conference First Round

Of fucking course they would get Montreal in the first round. And despite the way the fans showed up in droves to CFG Bank Arena or the determination Shane saw in Ilya’s eyes as they took the ice for the first game of the series, the Baltimore Bells found themselves down two games to none as they headed off to Montreal for the games three and four. 

But Shane wasn’t giving up. Not so soon. And if the Canadiens could quiet the Baltimore crowd, the Bells could certainly do the same in Montreal. 

His former teammates were hitting him hard. If they’d thought his age had kept him off the protection list, they’d forgotten that they’d ever underestimated him. But as a seasoned player, Shane could hit back. And he could pull more people toward him to leave the ice open for others. As he came off the ice in game three, Ilya caught his eye. Shane pointed to the Montreal bench and drew his hand across his neck before glancing at the scoreboard. Ilya winked, and proceeded to score what would eventually be the game winner in a 4-2 victory. 

Game four went into overtime. Overtime in the playoffs could go as long as necessary until a team scored, and it remained 5v5 the entire time, unlike the regular season 3v3 five minute period followed by a shootout format. Shane had gone into multiple rounds of overtime before, playing what essentially amounted to an entire second game in the same night, both teams falling over from fatigue by the time anyone scored. It was especially tragic to lose those- all that work, all that pain, amounting to nothing. 

That would not happen in this game. 

Just three minutes into overtime, Rimer broke up a play and quickly passed it off to Shane as he was backchecking. Shane kicked the pass out of his skates without looking and fired the puck up to his wingers, who were just ahead of him in the neutral zone. The speed of the redirect caught a Montreal defenseman off guard, and suddenly they had a three on one. One of the wingers shot and missed the net, but Shane stayed in front just left of the slot, every inch of his hockey IQ telling him this was where he had to be. Sure enough, the other winger got to the puck behind the net first and threw it in front, where Shane had enough time to bury the puck before the goalie could slide over to stop it. 

The chorus of groans from the Montreal fans was music to his ears. It was maybe his favorite sound in the world, if only second to how Ilya sounded when he moaned Shane’s name. But since Shane wasn’t thinking about that kind of thing right now, miserable Montreal fans were his number one.

As the guys on the ice tackled Shane, Ilya was the first one off the bench to join the pile. 

Game five was a whirlwind. It went back and forth, a duel of goalies and defensive plays as much as it was a game of scoring chances. Early in the game, Baltimore’s goalie got caught far out of the crease, and Shane watched in awe as Ilya dove in front of the net himself, knocking the puck over the net with his glove. 

But Ilya wouldn’t hear any praises until the game was over. “Was luck,” he said as Shane skated by him. “I would rather score a goal than save one.” 

But he didn’t score a goal until the second overtime, when he stuffed in a rebound after a cycling play that he’d made everyone go over again and again the day before. As Baltimore fans went into a frenzy, Shane let his knees sink to the ice before skating over to celebrate. He’d played almost forty minutes, double his usual ice time. When he gathered himself and finally skated over to Ilya, he could see the exhaustion mirrored in Ilya’s face behind his wide smile. Sweat had plastered his hair to his head, yet the only word that came into Shane’s mind was beautiful. 

Ilya mouthed something to Shane that he couldn’t quite make out, but it might’ve been “we need another one.” Because they did. They needed one more win to get out of the round. 

Unfortunately, Montreal fought back and beat them 2-1 in game six.

Game seven was win or go home, and they all knew it. Every player knew that their actions counted. That if they did something right they would remember the moment forever. And if they did something wrong, well. They’d have to answer for it. To themselves, to their new city, to the rest of their team.

Everyone knew it, which was why shock rippled around the arena when Ilya got a high sticking penalty with two minutes left in the game and a one goal lead. Twenty seconds later, Montreal showed that they wouldn’t ignore a gift of a power play like that and tied it. 

For the third time in the series, they were going into overtime. And the next goal would take it all. 

Morale was low in the locker room as the seconds of the intermission ticked by. Shane looked around in a panic. Why was everyone acting like they’d already lost? If they scored the next goal, anything that came before would be forgotten. 

His eyes strayed over to Ilya, who was sitting with his head in his hands. He clearly blamed himself for being the reason they weren’t celebrating right now. Shane knew he would feel the exact same way if he’d been the one to get a penalty, but there was no time for angst in a game seven overtime. 

He marched over to Ilya and stood in front of him, clearing his throat. Ilya looked up. 

“Can I talk to you for a second?” 

Ilya put out his hand, as if to say, go ahead. 

Shane jerked his head at the door. “Can I talk to you outside?” 

Ilya stood with a frown, but followed Shane out the door. 

Shane kept walking until he found an empty hallway, cursing whoever designed Ilya’s office for not putting skate-friendly rubber floors in it. At least there was no one around- all the cameras and coach huddles were on the other side of the locker rooms. 

Shane pushed Ilya against the wall. “What the fuck is your problem, Rozanov? We’ve all made hundreds of mistakes. It’s hockey. And you want to have a pity party now?”

Ilya wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I think maybe I let you-” 

“Do not fucking say you let me down.” 

“But-” 

“We wouldn’t have a game seven if it wasn’t for you. We might not even be in the playoffs.” 

Ilya still wasn’t looking at him. Shane pressed against him, bringing his face even closer. “I don’t fucking care what you did. I wouldn’t care if you scored on your own goal. I care about the next goal. I care about sending those motherfuckers home. So I want you to be fucking ready when we get back out on that ice. Fuck the mistakes.” 

Their faces were even closer now. Shane could feel Ilya’s huffs of air across his cheeks as their eyes finally met. Shane leaned in, knowing he could break every rule he’d set just by rocking forward just a little more. He wondered if that was what Ilya needed. But as they stared at each other, something flashed in Ilya’s eyes. 

“I will be ready.” His voice was measured, even though he was breathing hard. “I will help send them home. But I will not score tonight.” He leaned down to Shane’s ear, brushing his chin on Shane’s shoulder pad. “You will.” His lips formed the words on Shane’s skin, and Shane felt a jolt through his body. 

Shane stepped back, and nodded at Ilya, suddenly finding himself at a loss for words in the quiet hallway. He thundered back into the room, spiked the nearest water bottle to the ground, and yelled “LET’S FUCKING GO.” Energy thrummed through the locker room as the Bells stood to take the ice, led by their captain and assistant captain. 

The six minutes of overtime had felt hours long when Shane called for a one timer just below the point. While he wasn’t as well known for his slapshot as he was for other parts of his game, he saw an opening, felt his stick solid in his hand, and heard the echoes of Ilya’s voice as he’d said you will, reverberating through Shane’s head every time he took a shift. He let stick connect with puck, shifting his body weight through the stick at just the right moment. 

Goal horn. 

He wasn’t shocked that he’d scored, but he was overwhelmed. His goal had knocked Montreal out. The team he thought he’d stay with his entire career was going home after one round this season. And he was moving on, with Baltimore. And with Ilya. 

Ilya’s eyes were dark as he met Shane’s gaze while the other players jumped on each other around them. It was as if he was holding back, as if he thought he couldn’t touch Shane without losing control entirely. 

Shane could relate. He felt the same. 

He thought about throwing their plan out the window, at least for the night. 

But the playoffs were far from done. 

Conference Second Round

They got Philadelphia for the second round. Thankfully, Shane knew Baltimore was better. All they had to do was play their game and stay out of the box, and they would win. The Flyers could get scrappy- they did their absolute best to rile up whoever they could, trying to draw as many Baltimore penalties as possible.

Unfortunately for them, Ilya had practically written the textbook on riling up the opposition. And he didn’t stop there- he’d spent all season chirping the hell out of every Baltimore player, training the Bells to remain unaffected by anything Philadelphia said or did in a tense moment of a game. 

Only game two was close, requiring almost fifteen minutes of overtime. The Bells had been a little slower all game, getting bailed out by the goal post several times and by the strongest Philadelphia players making poorly timed mistakes. But it all ended up okay in the end, when Ilya fired a puck into the net so fast that it bounced back out before anyone noticed. The play continued to the next whistle, when the refs reviewed the shot and informed Ilya, who had already gone to the bench for a change, that he had scored. 

It was an anticlimactic celebration, especially in front of the angry Philadelphia crowd that felt they’d been cheated, but a win was a win. 

Luckily, Baltimore beat Philadelphia handily in games three and four, sweeping the series and allowing themselves to have a few days of rest before the conference finals. 

Conference Finals 

From the moment the final buzzer of round two sounded, Shane was certain they would be playing Boston next. Boston was down by two games in their series, and he was still sure they would wind up in the conference finals. And he was right. 

He tried to talk to Ilya the day before the first game of the series as they wrapped up practice, but Ilya shook his head when Shane approached. He figured he didn’t have anything to say that Ilya didn’t already know. 

Boston took the first game 5-2. They were neutralizing Baltimore’s goal scorers, including Shane and Ilya. Near the end of the game, Ilya missed an open shot and slammed his stick against the bench so hard it broke. Shane glared at him, willing him to remember what he was capable of. 

In game two, the rookies stepped up. Shane hadn’t said anything to them, but he wondered if they’d all noticed Ilya struggling and collectively took their game to another gear. Evan Drew, a number two draft pick that year who had incredible skill but struggled with discipline and positioning, stepped in with a four point second period after being a healthy scratch for the first two rounds. 

With the pressure off Ilya to score, he was shining in the defensive zone, shutting down scoring chances before they started, and firing the puck up to his wingers during breakouts. Shane managed to put in one rebound to seal the deal, helping Baltimore take the win 6-5. 

By game three, it was clear the two teams were neck and neck. They were matched completely evenly, with Baltimore having found the right chemistry across all four lines of forwards, and Boston having acquired several hard hitting defensemen at the trade deadline.

Just a minute in, Shane found himself with the puck in front of the net, and deked to his backhand before firing it bar down. But the game went back and forth from there, with breakaways, open shots, and power plays that all failed to produce a goal for either team. 

At the start of the third period, a Boston player jumped off the bench and into Ilya’s blind spot as he streaked up the ice, slamming him down. Shane gripped the edge of the bench as Ilya staggered back to his feet, the wind knocked out of him but otherwise okay. Ilya finally managed to score his first goal of the series, one-timing a slapshot from the point through a screen of three players. The puck eked through the goalie’s pads and slowly trickled across the goal line. It wasn’t pretty, but it was a goal. 

They won, 2-0. When Shane tried to catch Ilya’s eye at the end of the game, Ilya ignored him. 

Game four was another nail biter. They were down 4-3 with two minutes left, and Ilya skated on as the extra player on Shane’s line as they pulled the goalie to try and tie it. Unfortunately, Ilya’s shot ricocheted off a Boston player’s knee pad, resulting in an empty net goal. 

But Baltimore answered in game five. With a goal off the face-off and a clutch defensive pinch, Shane was able to put the game to bed with an empty net goal of his own. The series was getting scrappy. Boston was punching and shoving anyone they could in front of the net, and were delivering hard hits at the blue line. Despite their excitement at the win, all of the Bells lined up for the ice baths afterwards, fatigue showing on all their faces. 

Shane couldn’t help but notice Ilya wincing as he sank into his own bath- he’d been hit hard again several times throughout the game. Weirdly, he looked to be in more pain than he’d been after getting ambushed by Anatoly. Shane tried to pull him aside, to ask if he was really okay, but Ilya ignored him again, making only a vague hand gesture that might have meant there were people who could overhear them. 

As had happened in Montreal, game six could’ve been the end of it. Should’ve been the end. They scored enough goals to make it happen. But they broke down in the defensive end too many times. They got too many stupid penalties. Even Shane took a penalty, slashing a Boston player as he weaved his way around a winger who got caught flat-footed. Ilya couldn’t get out from under the pressure Boston was putting on him, until he got frustrated and cross checked someone, sending him to the box too. 

They lost game six 5-4, and were headed to game seven for the second time in the playoff run. 

Shane paced in his room before the game, wondering how he could get Ilya to snap out of whatever rut he was in. He wasn’t playing poorly, he was just having to play against a team who knew his playing style well enough to get in his way. And in a playoff series, intimate knowledge of a top player could count for a lot. 

But Ilya could overcome it. He’d already overcome more than that already. 

Shane thought back to the beginning of the season, when Ilya had made everyone get to know each other right away so players who had been uprooted wouldn’t feel isolated in a new city. He thought of how Ilya had made himself look ridiculous or even villainous, making the team shape up at just the right moment. He thought of how when he had played against Ilya in Boston, Ilya always managed to score goals just when the team needed him. 

And he thought about how Ilya had looked when he’d knocked out Anatoly, just seconds after Shane had wondered whether he was about to get shot. 

And Shane knew. Ilya had roadblocks. He didn’t always fight for himself. But he always fought for someone else- for his team, for his city, for Shane. 

Shane headed to the team gym, knowing Ilya would be there. He was right. 

“Rozanov.” Ilya wasn’t stretching. He was sitting on a box, staring at the ground. His head rose when he heard Shane. 

“Go away, Hollander.” 

“No.” Shane ignored Ilya’s glowering stare. “I’m gonna give a speech to the team tonight.” 

Ilya only stared at him harder. “You are?”

“Yea. They’re too in their heads. They’re gonna let Boston beat them up all game if I don’t say something.” 

Shane tried to keep his face composed as a took a folded up piece of paper out of his pocket. This, right here, was his acting role of a lifetime. “I have some stats to give them. How if someone tells you you’re bad enough times, even if you don’t actually believe it, it makes you start to-” 

“Hollander, no.” Ilya was standing now. “You are going to give them a game seven psychology lesson? Is that how you won cups in Montreal?” 

“It works sometimes-” 

“It will not work tonight.” Ilya snatched the paper out of Shane’s hands and tore it up. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot, staring at a fixed point behind Shane. “I will give the speech.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” 

They stared at each other then, as if betting on who would move first. Shane was almost in disbelief at himself, that despite the tension of preparing for another game seven, he still wanted to jump on Ilya right in the middle of the gym. He knew his idea to avoid sex with Ilya had been helpful in getting this far. It didn’t make Ilya any less hot, though. 

Ilya licked his lips, which definitely did not aid Shane’s train of thought. Shane lowered himself to the ground, hoping to start on his stretches, but Ilya just kept staring at him. He elected to just leave before he completely lost it. 

He needed to bring it for this game. And it would be easier to get ready now that he didn’t have to plan a speech- the sheet Ilya had torn up had been full of useless information Shane wouldn’t have dreamed of using. He, as Ilya had obviously noticed, was not the speech-giving type. He had been completely bluffing. But hey, whatever worked to get Ilya going. 

“Okay, listen the fuck up.” Ilya strode into the middle of the locker room, deftly avoiding the logo on the floor while making eye contact with every player in the room. The guys who were fiddling with their skate laces or taping their sticks stopped in their tracks. 

“I haven’t been the best this series. Boston is tough. They know my tricks. Tricks that still get some of you.” There was a small hum in the room, as if no one knew whether they could laugh or not. “But we are tougher. They shoot hard. We shoot harder. They crash the net. We fucking ruin them.” He turned to the side of the room where Shane was sitting. “Guess what? They think they have the momentum. They think they’re better, that they’re the better team and we got lucky for three wins. But guess what else? They’re fucking wrong. They think they can come in here on OUR turf and send US home? They think they can get anything past OUR goalie, past OUR defense, stop our fucking breakouts?” 

Ilya’s face was red now, as his voice got louder and louder. “They are FUCKING idiots. The closest we will let them get to that cup is seeing it through their fucking phones when they’re golfing in three weeks.” A cheer went around the room. 

“Are we going to fuck them up?” 

“YES!” Everyone was standing, including Shane. 

“Are we going to make them cry?”

“YES!” 

“Are we going to fucking send them home?” 

“FUCK YES!” 

“Then let’s fucking GO!” 

And with that, the Baltimore Bells took the ice, ready to fight. 

It was the third period, and it was still 0-0. Every loose puck was a battle. Every shot was a chance. No one was making mistakes tonight, no one was getting penalties. In fleeting moments that came through Shane’s mind before he snapped right back into the game, he speculated that this must be the best playoff game Baltimore fans (and maybe even others) had ever watched. He doubted any fan took their eyes off the game to even get a beer or use the bathroom. 

Early in the period, Ilya had another highlight reel-worthy shot block, flinging his whole body across the net as the goalie found himself out of position. The crowd erupted as Ilya merely kept playing, clearing the puck out of the defensive zone. A minute later, Shane fired the puck on what looked like an empty net during a scrum in front, only for the Boston goalie to rob him with a desperate glove save. 

The period kept going like that, with heart pounding scoring chances almost every play, but with no one able to break the tie. Ilya fired a feed from a weird angle just past the post, beating the goalie but missing the net. Shane did a toe drag around a worn down defenseman, but couldn’t get a good enough shot off. 

With seven minutes left in the game, Ilya drove towards the net on a two on one, crashing just in front of the crease as the Boston players all hustled back to catch him. He put his stick out for the pass, and finally tapped the puck in. 

The place exploded, with fans having been on the edge of their seats all game. But seven minutes was a lot of time left. Shane could see from the bench that Ilya was thinking the same thing, as he only hugged his line mates in brief celebration before setting his face to take on the rest of the game. 

Shane skated out for the next face-off, knowing that it would be a long fucking seven minutes. 

Boston peppered them with shots, as the Bells did everything they could to block, clear the puck out, and redirect as much as they could. They didn’t care about tape-to-tape passes. They deflected the puck off the glass and skated for it. They stayed to the outside, never cutting up the middle. They played every player’s body. 

They managed to keep Boston from pulling the goalie until there was under a minute left by preventing any opportunity to set up a play. Ilya and Shane took the ice together for a final shift, with Ilya shifting to wing in order to block shots from the point. Shane cleared the puck out from in front as fast as he could. 

The crowd was quiet, holding their breath as Ilya streaked down the ice to clear the puck and keep the pressure on with an aggressive forecheck. But Shane could feel the moment the seconds started ticking down- noise rose from every corner of the arena, and even the ice vibrated with the stamping of feet. 

Boston didn’t get a single shot off with their goalie pulled. 

Baltimore won the game, 1-0. 

Popcorn and towels rained down on the ice as the bench emptied. They were going to the finals. 

Amidst the hugging and cheering, Shane looked for Ilya, not spotting him until he looked over to the bench, where Ilya was watching Boston shake their heads in disappointment. When Ilya turned and looked at Shane, his eyes were sparkling. 

Shane slid up next to him and snuck an arm around Ilya’s waist. It didn’t even matter that there were probably cameras on them- he could probably even get away with kissing Ilya on the cheek without drawing suspicion. Almost anything was on the table when celebrating a win. 

“Are you gonna tell them to go fuck themselves instead of shaking hands?”

Ilya laughed. “No. I don’t have to.” He didn’t push Shane away. 

“You just played a good fucking game.”

“So did you.” 

“Ilya,” Shane started. “Whatever happens next,” he took a breath, still steadying himself in the wake of the game and also wondering whether he was about to put too many cards on the table. “I’m gonna remember this one forever.” 

Ilya turned toward him, and Shane realized that even with the cover of celebration, they were very, very, close. 

“AYYYYYYYY,” it was Bradley, coming to tackle them from behind. “FUCK YEA.” 

Shane and Ilya broke their eye contact as they let Bradley jump on them and wave some others over. Shane could see Boston starting to line up for a handshake, and he wondered if he should tell everyone around him to do the same. But as he glanced at Ilya’s smile and the way something in the corners of his eyes looked like they’d let go of something they’d been holding onto all season, he decided Boston could wait another minute or two. 

Stanley Cup Finals 

They had conquered the eastern conference, but now it was time to head west to play Vancouver. Practices at this point in the season became less about building skills or strength, and more about running plays that could beat specific lines. And, it was about nursing injuries that literally every player was dealing with, unwilling to sit a vital game out. 

Shane’s foot wasn’t broken, but he had a bone bruise right under his toe that throbbed with pain every time he stepped on it wrong. Based on the slow way Ilya jogged in warm ups, Shane guessed his knee was bothering him. Bradley had lost a tooth in the last game. There were pulled muscles, cuts, bruises, and a few broken bones. It all called for a lot of numbing cream and ice baths. 

It wouldn’t stop any of them from playing their best hockey.

Vancouver came to fight. Baltimore lost the first game 1-0, in another tense matchup. Ultimately, none of the Bells could manage to put the puck in the net. It was frustrating, but Shane knew the finals would be tough. Vancouver had fought through just as much as Baltimore had. 

He tried to stay positive, but game two was devastating. They had been so close, but had been dealt their first overtime playoff loss in the season. The overtime goal had been just seconds after Shane had failed to score on a chance of his own. Vancouver fans had gone crazy, certain the cup would be coming to them soon. Shane had skated off the ice with his head hanging, grateful that he’d at least get to play in Baltimore next. He didn’t even care that it was getting too hot to enjoy the outdoors there. He knew he’d be able to step it up on his home ice. 

They had one day between games two and three to travel back to Baltimore and gather themselves. Shane gazed at the Domino Sugar sign across the harbor that he could see from his window, remembering when he used to resent it. He’d resented himself for being too comfortable in Montreal, too careless. He’d resented Baltimore for being the reason for the expansion draft. And he’d resented Ilya. 

His phone buzzed, as if Ilya had heard his thoughts from across the city.  

From: Ilya Rozanov
I’m coming over. Are you home? 

From: Ilya Rozanov
Just to talk. 

To: Ilya Rozanov
I’m home. 

Minutes later, Ilya was standing in Shane’s living room. Shane gestured for him to sit. They sat a full arm’s length away from one another. 

Ilya leaned forward. “How do you feel?” 

Shane’s head spun. He’d thought Ilya was on board with waiting until the playoffs were over to talk. He didn’t want to ask Ilya to leave (he’d rather have another gun pointed at him than ask Ilya to fucking leave), but he hadn’t thought about what he truly wanted to say to Ilya yet. He hadn’t let himself really think about it. 

Ilya must have seen Shane’s face change, because he clarified, “About the cup. How do you feel about the cup?”

Shane exhaled, and was grateful Ilya didn’t laugh at him. Maybe Ilya had panicked too. “I dunno. Not so good right now, I guess.” 

“We were down by two games in the first round. We won that.” 

“But that was weeks ago.” 

Ilya shifted to face Shane properly. “Do you think we can beat them in one game this series?” 

Shane shrugged. “Yea, sure. Of course.” 

“Then we can beat them four times.” 

Shane knew he’d been playing with Ilya for too long at this point- the logic was starting to make sense to him. He closed his eyes, thinking about what he was going to do in the next game. It was possible. If the final buzzer hadn’t sounded, it was always possible. 

“Hey, Hollander.” 

Shane opened his eyes. 

“What will you do after this?”

“After the series?” 

“After you’re done.” Ilya meant with hockey, with the NHL. He was stretching out the edge of his t-shirt with his fingers, as if it had made him uncomfortable to ask. But still, he’d asked. 

“I haven’t planned too much for that yet. I know the options. I could be an agent, a coach… maybe not a tv analyst, though. I think my modeling days are over too. Or maybe I’ll do something else.” He didn’t want to ask Ilya the same question, thinking about how Ilya had dropped to the floor, terrified that his future was closed off to him. It was different now that Anatoly had been arrested, but he couldn’t imagine Ilya had started planning far in the future since it had all happened. 

“You are still a sexy model, Hollander.” 

Shane scoffed. “I think you’re a little biased.” 

“Will you come out? After?” 

It had been scary enough coming out to the team, but Shane remembered when just coming out to his parents had felt like an insurmountable task. Maybe it would always be terrifying. Maybe he would still do it. “I guess it depends.” 

“On what?” 

Shane shrugged again. “I dunno. It just depends.” On you. On how you feel about me. Because whatever I do after hockey, I think I’ll want you there. He looked away, afraid Ilya could see the feelings written across his face. 

“Hey, Hollander.” 

“What? 

“I wanted to kiss you.” 

Shane’s heart lurched. “What? Today?”

“When you came out. When you went with me to the meeting. When I switched the rooms. I wanted to kiss you.” 

Shane didn’t think he could look Ilya in the eye. “I wanted to kiss you, too,” he whispered. “The whole time.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, gazes trained on anything but each other. Finally, Ilya stood up and knelt in front of where Shane was sitting on the couch.

 “Let’s win this,” he said, “so I can kiss you again.” He stroked his thumb across Shane’s cheek, making goosebumps pop up on the back of Shane’s neck. He looked so determined, so far from giving up, so intense, that Shane couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across his face. 

“You’ll be able to taste the Stanley Cup on my lips when you do.” 

Ilya’s eyes darkened. “I can’t wait.”

The next night, Baltimore annihilated Vancouver, winning the game 8-1. Shane and Ilya both had hat tricks. 

Baltimore kept the momentum going for game four, winning 4-0. Ilya opened the scoring by picking up a chipped pass at the blue line and ripping it through the goalie’s five hole. Shane closed it out with a snipe from the slot. A Vancouver defenseman tried to knock Shane out with a late hit that would’ve given him a concussion if he hadn’t dodged it at the last second. Ilya proceeded to flatten that same defenseman in the next shift, sending him off the ice. The arena thundered with appreciation. 

They headed back to Vancouver with the series tied. 

But Vancouver shut down Baltimore’s scoring back on their home ice, getting game five with a 1-0 win. 

This time, however, Shane didn’t think the series was so out of reach. As Ilya had said, if they could win one game against Vancouver, they could win four. And they’d already won two. If they won the next two, the cup was theirs. 

Back in Baltimore for game six, Shane let himself stare across the locker room at Ilya. He had no excuse. But his entire body was sore, and his mind was brimming with ideas after rewatching tape of Vancouver’s goalie. He just needed to see Ilya getting ready too, tossing his helmet in his hands as he surveyed the team. When their eyes finally met, Shane ignored the way his cheeks flushed. 

“Hey, Hollander?” Bradley nudged him, snapping him away from Ilya’s stare. “I don’t wanna distract you or anything but-” he squinted at Shane, as if sizing him up. “Don’t be offended okay? But you and Rozanov- are you sure you’re not…?” 

Shane tried to adopt a casual look on his face. “I’m sure. Can you focus on the fucking game, Bradley?” 

Bradley tried to back off. “Yea, yea. Of course. I’m ready. We’re gonna fucking end them. But I just wanted to say, if you were, well, anything-”

“Fucking come on.”

“No, I know. I’m just saying we wouldn’t care. If you were.” 

That was new. Shane had expected at least a level of tolerance from his team, but telling him it would be fine if he slept with another team member was something else. He wondered if anyone was saying something similar to Ilya. They could laugh about it later, after they… talked. 

The cup was in the building, but Baltimore’s electric first period gave Vancouver no chance. Within the first few minutes, Ilya picked the puck up along the wall and sent it sailing over the goalie’s shoulder. Shane followed up by assisting his winger with a no-look backwards pass in their triangle formation, giving the Bells a 2-0 lead. 

The play started to even out, until a Vancouver defenseman hit Ilya into the boards head first. Ilya popped up, ready to fight until he saw Vancouver had gotten a penalty. He set up a one-timer for Copper, and the puck was in the back of the net within thirty seconds. Towards the end of the first period, Shane tipped in a shot from the point himself. 

Vancouver tried to fight back, but the game ended 5-2 for Baltimore, sending them back to Canada for the final game of the playoffs. 

Baltimore had won all of their home games in the series. So had Vancouver. Game seven would be in Vancouver, in front of almost no one on Baltimore’s side. But as the Bells had gathered their bags and filed onto the bus to the airport, they were greeted by a roar. 

Hundreds of fans had gathered to send them off. Fans of all ages cheered and pointed at the t-shirts and jerseys they were wearing, many of which had Shane’s own number on them. He spotted Ilya fist bumping every small child within reach. 

The fans, in their first year of having a hockey team in their city, had showed up. They wanted it just as much as the hundred year old man Shane had met in Montreal who had owned season tickets for over seventy years did. They knew how special their team was. Shane even spotted one fan showing off a Bells tattoo on her bicep. Another fan had made a Stanley Cup out of empty Old Bay containers. 

Shane felt himself tearing up at the sendoff. We are not going to fucking lose this game. He took a deep breath before getting on the bus, and felt a steadying hand brush his back. He didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. 

As the team prepared to take the ice, Shane noticed Ilya wasn’t in his spot in the locker room. He wasn’t in the locker room at all. 

Bradley noticed him looking around. “Rozanov went out to the bench with a water bottle. If you’re looking for him.” Shane was too tense to tell Bradley to stop focusing on him and Ilya, but he did go out to the bench just to check. 

Sure enough, Ilya was there, kneeling over the ice. 

“Uh, Rozanov?” Ilya’s head snapped up at Shane’s voice. “You good?”

Ilya shook the water bottle in his hand so Shane could hear a faint sloshing inside. “It has melted ice from Baltimore. I asked the Zamboni guy for it before we left.” He poured another stream of water out, letting it spread out along the Vancouver ice. “Now it is our home ice. We are unbeatable.” 

Shane let another wave of feelings wash over him. Part of him was angry he hadn’t thought of that. Another part of him was making a herculean effort to block out considering what would happen if he stuck his tongue in Ilya’s mouth right that second. 

Ilya poured out the rest of the water. “Ready to win?”

Shane could only nod. 

Halfway through the first period, Shane won the face-off and beelined to the front of the net, just in time to redirect a pass from the boards along the inside of the post and in. 

1-0. 

Ilya blocked yet another shot when the goalie slid out of position, this time with his knee pad. Then, he scored on a wraparound goal, stuffing the puck in past a blockade of pads and skates. 

2-0.

In the second period, Shane plucked the puck off the goal line to rob Vancouver, and Baltimore got a penalty when another player desperately slashed at anyone he could to stop them from getting to the puck first. 

But Shane, on the penalty kill, picked off a D-to-D pass and shot off toward the other end of the ice, sliding the puck through the goalie’s five-hole. 

3-0. 

No one relaxed during the second intermission. They didn’t care what the score was- to them, the third period would be a new hockey game. Not one player would get complacent. Ilya stood to the side, slapping every player on the shoulder as they stepped out on the ice for the last third period of the season. When it was Shane’s turn to take the ice, they just nodded at each other. 

It was a close period, with back and forth chances. With every minute that ticked by, Vancouver got more and more desperate. Shane yelled up and down the bench, reminding the Bells to play their game and stay level headed. 

Vancouver pulled their goalie with three minutes left. As had happened against Boston, Ilya and Shane went out on a shift together to defend against the extra attacker. They didn’t defend, so much as attacked themselves. They didn’t give a single Vancouver player any room to maneuver, forcing them to make quick passes or risk making a mistake. And eventually, Shane pushed a Vancouver player off the puck and passed it to Ilya, who had that puck in the empty net before Shane could think about anything else. 

They’d done it. 

Ilya knocked his helmet against Shane’s, and Shane felt his breath leave his body. He barely even felt the other line mates surrounding them, jumping up and down and starting to let themselves celebrate. 

They finished the game on the bench, letting the rookies take the final shift. As the seconds ticked down, Shane and Ilya stood shoulder to shoulder, both realizing that no matter what city or who they played next to, this feeling would never get old. 

They piled onto the ice, people screaming and crying amongst the quiet atmosphere of disappointed Vancouver fans. Shane appreciated that none of the fans left, staying long enough to dutifully boo the NHL commissioner as he came out to present the cup. 

Ilya got the cup first, yelling in Russian as he hoisted it above his head. The only English words Shane could make out were, “and thank you, Boston!” 

He was still smiling when Ilya handed the cup to him, his eyes full as Shane took it in his own hands. Sure, his name was already on there. But not like this. He raised the cup over his head, still looking at Ilya. God, he loved him. 

Fuck. He nearly dropped the cup, recovering quickly before the camera on him could catch the way his face changed. But it was true. He wasn’t trying to protect Ilya from Anatoly anymore. He wasn’t helping Ilya come out to the team. When it came to winning a cup with Ilya at his side and telling both Boston and Montreal to shove it, Shane’s job was done there too. He and Ilya had made each other better, as they did every season, but this time from the same team. But the season was over, and the intensity that came over Shane when he looked at Ilya was still there. 

It was more than wanting Ilya around him all the time, and it was much more than wanting to devour Ilya every time Shane saw him. It was love. 

Shane handed off the cup to Copper. He’d probably have to do some interviews soon. He took deep breaths, wondering if he should go find his gloves somewhere in the debris on the ice and put them back on so no one would see his hands shaking. 

Someone skated up next to him. “Hollander.” 

Please, if you feel this way. “Rozanov.” 

“Congratulations.” 

Is it just me? “You too.” 

“So, you kissed the cup.” 

I just want you. Only you. “Best lover in the world.” 

“But kind of a slut, no?” 

I want to kiss you and never stop. “The biggest slut in hockey.” 

Ilya laughed, but his mouth was tense. “There is something I want to tell you.”

If Shane’s heart wasn’t pounding already, it was now. “You can tell me.”

“I don’t know if I can, not right now.” 

Shane grabbed Ilya’s arms and turned him so they were face to face, and just a little too close. “You can.” 

“But I don’t think you-” 

“I don’t give a fuck. We just won a cup. Ilya, I-” he blinked slowly, breathing as Ilya waited, “I want everything with you. Anything you want. I don’t care who sees. Not if you don’t.” 

Ilya didn’t take his eyes off Shane’s as he cradled Shane’s cheeks in his hands. And as a tear slipped out of the corner of Ilya’s eye, Shane knew what Ilya was going to say. 

“I love you, Shane Hollander, I fucking love you.” 

“Kiss me right now.” 

Their mouths crashed together as Shane’s hand grabbed a fist full of hair on the back of Ilya’s head. There was a roaring in Shane’s ears that blocked out the gasps from what was left of the crowd, or what could’ve been cheering from their teammates. 

Shane tasted something metallic on Ilya’s lips as he licked into his mouth. He pulled back, not letting go of Ilya’s head. “I actually can taste can taste the cup on you.”

 Ilya ran his tongue across his own teeth. “You too.” He leaned down to Shane’s ear. “It’s fucking hot.” 

“Jesus, finally!” Bradley was skating by after his turn with the cup. “You could cut the tension in the room with a knife, my god.” Other guys were hitting Bradley in the shoulder, telling him to shut the fuck up. “What? You all agreed with me. I know you motherfuckers saw it.” 

Shane was much too happy to be annoyed with his stupidly awesome team. He turned back to Ilya. “You realize you beat Anatoly to it, right?” 

Ilya shrugged. “He can rot in hell. But yes. This way is better.” 

Shane was only half listening, looking at Ilya’s mouth again. Ilya indulged him. 

“You are going to have to stop so we can do interviews. There are twenty reporters over there.” 

Shane waved him off. “They can fucking wait.” 

Ilya smiled, wiping away another tear as he leaned in to kiss Shane again. “Shane Hollander, telling media to fuck off.” He bit at Shane’s lip. “You are perfect.” 

Tears were welling in Shane’s eyes too. “I love you so fucking much.” 

And when he watched the video replay later with the volume low so as not to wake up Ilya sleeping next to him, all he could think was, Scott Hunter, eat your heart out.

Chapter End Notes

If you’re a bruins fan and these games all sound familiar it’s because I literally used their 2011 Stanley cup run with a few changes lololololol.
Also if you’re somehow not a hockey person and you just read all of this you are a warrior.